AN: For the purposes of this story, Myka was born in 1978. Pete in 1974.
Eight years have passed. The year is 1994.
"This is the worst week of my life!" Myka yells, slamming her door shut to drown out Warren Bering's shouts.
She was sixteen now, and her father couldn't control her life. She wanted to get out of this dusty little store, and live like a real teen.
The cutest boy at her school, Nigel Martin, had asked her out. Her! The geek of Colorado Springs High. Not of her own choosing, of course. She had her father to thank for that.
And, she was grounded. Because she said yes to Nigel, without asking her parents. Mainly, her father.
Lying down on her bed, she opened her book. It was a journal, that came to 'Bering and Sons Bookstore' in her father's latest shipment of antique books.
She'd never met Arthur, but her mother said that he loved history. To Myka, that made him an okay person.
She opened the book, running her fingers over the faded writing. The woman who wrote it never signed her name. Instead, she wrote 'F' in a curly doodle.
The entries of the journals were unbelievable. They told of gathering different items that held magical powers, which the mysterious author called Artifacts.
Myka scoffed at the idea, but found herself entranced by the stories. Once upon time, she was even imagining herself in "F's" place.
However, according to her father, that would never happen. She'd be stuck in her father's business the rest of her life. She wasn't even a son. Apparently, 'Bering and Daughter' wouldn't have sounded good.
She rolls her eyes, closing the book. She was angry, and she never enjoyed the book when she was mad. It made her think of everything she could have if only Warren Bering wasn't her father.
Myka screeched angrily. There was nothing she could do about it. "I'm going to town," she whispers to her mother.
Jean looks at her daughter, worried. "Myka, honey. Your dad didn't mean it. I'm sure, once we meet this boy, he will be perfectly respectable."
"Mom. I'm going to town. Mark's at the studio, and I need to blow off some steam," the girl answers.
"Honey, martial arts aren't the answer to everything."
"I know that. But, at the moment, I don't have any other way to cope with Dad," Myka growls. "I'm never going to be good enough for him, am I, Mom?"
"Myka, you know that's not true. Your father loves you."
"Mom, I'm not a baby anymore. No matter how much money Dad makes off fairy tales, our life definitely isn't one. Stop trying to tell me that it is."
Myka slams the door as she headed to her mother's old car. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen, but it had wheels and it was pretty good on gas. With her father being the way he was, Myka would take what she could get.
She heads towards the Double M, as she called the studio. Mark's Martial Arts was the true name. She befriended Mark's son, who was about ten months younger than her, over the summer when she was ten. Since then, she hung out at the Double M whenever her father was being over-bearing, pardon the pun.
"Myka," Mark waves as he instructs his youngest son, age nine, how to perform a sweep kick. "What's up?"
"Finish practice with Mattie, and then we'll talk," Myka smiles, waving at the man's beach-blond boy.
He grins, and attempts to take down his father. As he fails, Mark picks up his son and spins him around.
Myka laughs, heading towards the girl's bathroom. She always left a bag in her car with her work-out clothes. She never knew when her father was going to blow up in her face.
She headed over to one of the hanging punching bags, grabbed a pair of gloves from a nearby chair and started working out her frustrations on it.
"What did Warren do today?" her friend, Monty, asks. He was the eldest of Mark's sons, and was her first friend at the studio. He was actually the reason she even discovered the Double M.
"I don't want to talk about it," Myka mutters, hitting the bag with more frequent punches.
"Coward."
She stops and swings towards him, her curly hair already escaping the ponytail she had put it in. "What did you call me, short-stuff?"
Monty rolls his eyes. "I'm taller than you, Miss Smarty Pants."
His friend smiles, but turns back to the punching bag.
"I'm going to get it out of you eventually," the almost-sixteen year old says.
"Monty, I'm still mad. Give me an hour, and then we might talk."
The senior high student shakes his head, not intimidated by the seething sophomore. "I have an idea. You, me, fight. Now. If you win, we talk about it if or when you want. If I win, we talk now."
"Now?" she asks. "Monty. Not now. Later."
"You are a coward!" he proclaims.
"I am not! Fine!" she crosses her arms. "Traditional?"
"Yeah. Dad's done on the mats with Mattie," Monty answers. "I'm gonna whip your sorry butt."
"Stop admiring my sorry butt, and get yours moving, Thompson," Myka sasses.
Monty shoves her lightly, redness spreading over his cheeks.
"Not until we're on the mat," she answers seriously.
For a moment there, Monty was actually scared. Myka would never hurt him on purpose, but she was mad. Like, so mad that she couldn't see straight.
Of course, Monty thought to himself, I could always use that to my advantage.
He braced himself as Myka came at him. His father always taught him to up his defense when his opponent was angry.
As she flew towards him, in perfect form of course, he stopped thinking about the girl constantly on his mind and started thinking about how he'd take her down.
Myka's eyes moved rapidly, showing him that she was contemplating possible targets. She lunged towards him.
Anticipating the fact that he was about to be run over, he side-stepped and let her tumble past him. Once she gained her footing, she charged at him again.
Monty smiles. Had she learned nothing? Blocking and barely moving is easier than playing offense.
As his friend comes towards him once again, he sticks out his arm. He grabs her left arm, the one furthest from him, and tugs her around.
Myka doesn't jolt to a stop like he expected, instead using his momentum to merely change directions. She stops moving. Standing, she sizes him up, breathing heavily.
"C'mon, Myka. I've been doing this longer than you," Monty points out.
She says nothing, her chest heaving in her green tank top. Gritting her teeth, she steps forward once again.
Hands up by his face, he stuck out a foot, and latched it around Myka's. "Gotcha," he whispers as she trips, falling to the ground.
He grabs her arms just before she hits the mats, holding her an inch above the floor.
"You win," she mutters. "Let go; I'm lying down. If I stand up, I'm going to punch something."
"As long as it's not me," Monty laughs, moving away from her as he sat Indian-style on the mat, "that's okay."
Myka smiles. "Nigel asked me on a date."
Monty chokes on his breath. "Nigel… Martin?"
"Mm-hmm. Unbelievable, huh?" she grins. "Who'd have thought?"
"Yeah," Monty mutters. Who'd have thought that anyone would ask her out before he could himself? Dang, Monty thought.
"Thanks for that self-confidence boost," she mutters, elbowing him in the side. "Anyways, my father threw a fit because I didn't ask him first. Stupid. I shouldn't have to ask him… it's stupid!"
"Myka," he says. "I need to tell you something."
Bracing herself on her elbows, she looks up at him. "What?"
"I… um… I…"
The curly haired brunette rolls her eyes. "Spit it out already!"
"I like you."
There, he said it. There was no taking it back now.
Myka stares at him, and laughs in his face. "Monty, I know that. But, Nigel likes me. There's a big difference."
"Myka," he grabs her hand and interlaces their fingers. "I know the difference, and we passed that last year. I like-like you. Don't you get it?"
Boldly, he leans down towards her. He brushes his lips against hers.
"Didn't that prove it?" Monty smirks. Personally, he thought the use of 'like-like' was a little childish, but it worked for him.
Myka pushes him away and sits up. "I need to go punch something again."
The boy laughs, and stands. Reaching down, he pulls his crush from the floor. "Come on. My mom made dinner. You're welcome to come. Maria wants to see you."
"I've never asked, but what is it with your parents and names that start with the letter 'M?'" she asks, following him next door.
"I don't know. I mean, my mom is Marcy, my dad is Mark. I guess that they decided 'M's' were good."
"So, they ended up with Monty, Mandy, Mattie, and Maria?" Myka asks.
"Yeah," Monty grins. "It's a family thing."
"I guess," she laughs.
As the pair enters the house, Marcy greets Myka. "How are you today, Myka?"
"As okay as ever," the teen smiles. "Monty's offered to let me stay for dinner. Is that okay with you?"
"Of course it is. Have a seat."
Myka smiles, and follows Monty to the family room.
A little five-year-old comes rushing towards her. "Myka!" she shouts in glee.
"Hi, Maria," Myka picks up the little girl.
"You look pretty."
For the first time, Myka notices that she is still in her tank-top and sweats. The teenager laughs. "Sure."
"I like it. It's pretty," Maria says obstinately. "Tell her, Monty."
"It's pretty," he waggles his eyebrows sarcastically.
Myka rolls her eyes. "Monty doesn't know what he's talking about."
"Monty always thinks you look pretty," the little girl babbles. "Look what I found. It was at a 'tique store."
"She means antique," Monty smiles.
His littlest sister holds out her hand, a pendant hanging off a piece of yarn. It was a bead, unlike Myka had ever seen. Yet, it seemed familiar.
It had a bird etched inside the amber stone. A red bird.
"Is that a phoenix?" she asks, studying it.
Monty nods. "Yeah, I think so."
"Ah!" Myka exclaims, dropping the necklace. "It's hot!"
Monty's brow furrows, and he bends to pick up the pendant. "Myka's right. Maria, I'll buy you a new necklace. This one isn't safe."
"Alright," the little girl nods, excited at the promise of new jewelry.
Monty and Myka walk outside, through the Thompsons' backyard.
"Monty, can I have it? I've read a book about it," Myka mentions. In 'F's' journal, there was something written about a firefighter saving someone's life after a similar pendant lit on fire.
"Uh, sure," he hands her the necklace carefully. "Must've been a good book."
"It was," she smiles. "I'd love to stay for dinner, but I think I should head home."
"Okay. Um, Myka?" he questions, puzzled by her sudden want to return home.
"Yeah?" she asks as he walks her towards her car.
"Is everything going to be weird?" Monty asks.
"No," the curly-haired teenager shakes her head. "We'll just forget it ever happened. How 'bout that?"
"Uh. Sure, if you want," the blonde boy nods.
Myka leans over and kisses her friend's cheek softly. "I'll always love you, Monty. Just…"
"Not like that," he finishes slowly.
"I'm sorry," she says, getting into her car. "Goodbye, Monty."
"Bye. See you at school tomorrow."
As she drives home, Myka thinks about the pendant in her pocket. It seemed familiar.
Pulling into her driveway, she parks the car and heads upstairs. She sits down and opens the journal.
"F, what's happening?" she whispers to the book. She flips it open and opens it to an entry eight years ago. She began muttering as she read the words.
Artifact: Pendant, Fire of the Phoenix
Not acquired.
Location: Washington, D.C.
Summary of Events: Lattimer, D.C. Fire Squad, entered the fire-ridden building at 10 a.m. Located girl, age 8, and her mother. Mother was in possession of Artifact. Building exploded, as result of mother's prolonged exposure to pendant. Lattimer died, child survived. Girl will later become agent, as planned in Part 3 of the Future of the Warehouse Presentation by A. Partner, as suggested, is the son of Lattimer, Pete. Girl's memory was erased, and she was moved to Colorado with former agents, W.B. and J.B.
W.B. and J.B. Those were her parents' initials.
Myka inhales quickly and pulls out the necklace. It swings like a pendulum. Entranced by its movements, a memory comes to Myka…
(Flashback)
"My mommy was the fire. She got this really pretty necklace, with a birdie on it. She called it a phoenix."
(End Flashback)
That was her. As a child. And, she somehow, she knew. She knew that she was the little girl. She had to find F. Or A, whoever that was. Perhaps her parents, if they were really even related to her, would know.
She comes running down the stairs. "Mom!"
Jean turns to her daughter. "What dear?"
"I was wondering…" Myka trails off. She would sound like she was crazy, nuts, bonkers… there had to be a logical way to figure this out. "I was wondering about the guy who sends Dad all the antique books. His name is Arthur. He sounds interesting. We're supposed to interview someone, non-related, for our history class. It's due in a month or so. Can I write to him?"
The lie came effortlessly and it gave her a thrill. It was like she was undercover.
"Of course. The newest box is right over there," Jean pointed, turning back to the stove. "Dinner will be ready in a minute."
"I'm not hungry," Myka says, kneeling next to the cardboard box. "There's no return address."
"Is that so?" her mother asks. "Go get my address book. I'm sure Artie's in there, just in case."
"Artie?" the teen raises an eyebrow.
"That's what we used to call him," Jean Bering confides. "We met him, when we were in South Dakota."
"Did you live there?" Myka asks as she opens her mother's address book.
"Oh yes. We used to work with him," Jean says, stirring the tomato sauce on the stove. "We quit and moved here when I learned I was pregnant."
"Oh," her daughter answers. "Arthur Nielson?"
"Yes, dear. That's him. I think that he'd be delighted to talk to you. You can go upstairs and pen him a letter if you'd like, instead of staying down here for dinner."
"Yeah. Thanks Mom."
Myka walks up the stairs slowly. She grabs a blank piece of paper, writing her letter to Artie.
The next morning, it's sitting in the mailbox. Myka closes the box and walks to her car, heading to school.
Arthur 'Artie' Nielson sits at the B&B, owned by a local family. The mail sent to the Warehouse sits in front of him on the table. He sips his coffee, and reaches for the first letter.
It was addressed to him personally. There was no name, merely an address from Colorado Springs. He opens the envelope, unfolding the paper inside.
Dear Mr. Nielson,
You do not know who I am, I would assume, but I am the daughter of one of your friends, Warren Bering. I recently read a diary from your latest shipment of antique books to my father's store. It was written by a woman who referred to herself as 'F.'
In one entry, F wrote about a pendant, called the Fire of the Phoenix. I have found this pendant.
It's not the first time I've seen such a piece of jewelry. It has come to my attention that I am the girl in F's entry; my true mother was the woman in possession of this Artifact.
I need to find F. I need to find out about my true identity. Please, help me.
Myka Bering
Artie spits out the latest sip he took of his coffee. Reaching into his pocket, he slams the mug down when he is unable to find what he was looking for.
"Where is it? My Farnsworth," he mutters, looking next to him in a briefcase. "Ah, there it is."
He presses the red button. "Mrs. Fredric."
"Yes, Arthur?"
"We have a problem, with Myka Bering."
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