[AN: The penultimate part of my Discworld AU. Set during the events of Going Postal. I've compressed the timeline to suit my purposes so this takes place several months after the last chapter. Obligatory disclaimer about how I don't own anything Warehouse or Discworld related etc. etc. etc.]

"Ook?" the Librarian asked as Myka handed him the book. It was a large volume, leather bound and heavy, with the title embossed in gold on the cover: An Esoteric History of Überwald.

"Yes, it was very helpful. Thank you for the suggestion." When she had first started visiting the library at Unseen University she had felt silly talking to the large Orangutan who was in charge, but he had been a wizard once, and he turned out to be very useful when it came to locating volumes in the near infinite L-space expanse of UU's library. And there were times that even Claudia's prodigious ability to locate information couldn't match a library book.

"Ook, ook ook? Ook." The Librarian considered the book in his hands and then looked at Myka questioningly.

"No, we didn't notice any insanity, but I'll let you know if we do." The Librarian had warned her when she asked for the book that the author had gone nastily insane while writing it, and he had been curious if that would affect the readers as well. Myka hadn't been too pleased about that possibility, but such was the job.

Most of the books in UU's library could be considered artifacts to one degree or another, but when Myka had said as much to Artie, he had just muttered something about the ineptitude of wizards and told her not to worry about it. The more time she spent there, however, the more it seemed as if the library at UU was as good a place as the Warehouse to keep people from touching most of the books.

"And could you see if there's anything about the second Warehouse? The one in Djelibeybi?" Myka asked. Being the curator of a library that contained every book that had ever or would ever exist meant that the Librarian knew about the Warehouse, but he could be trusted to be discrete.

"Helena," Myka called the other agent over from where she had been inspecting a large atlas. "The banana?"

"I'll stop back later for the book, if you can find one," Myka told the Librarian. She was acutely aware of how close to her Helena was standing as Helena rooted around in her bag for the offending fruit, finally pulling it out and handing it to the Librarian. "Thanks so much for the help."

"Ook."

"I wasn't aware that you spoke Orangutan," Helena said playfully as they left the library.

"I don't. But it's not that difficult to understand him," Myka replied. She had never had difficulty understanding the Librarian, despite the fact that his vocabulary only consisted of one word.

"Well I suppose it is if you spend all your free time there," Helena said, a smile playing at her lips.

"I do not spend all of my free time there, I just like books," Myka rubbed her neck, suddenly self conscious. "I'm surprised you haven't been there before, given your book collection." Helena was the only person Myka had ever met with more books than her. The few times she had been in Helena's room at the boarding house her bookshelf had been piled high with old and rare volumes from all over the Disc.

"In my time in Ankh-Morpork I always made a point to avoid the University. I could never stand wizards, all pomp and no sense." Helena replied. "I know some witches up in Lancre that are better magic users than any wizard from UU could ever hope to be."

The walked the rest of the way back to the Warehouse in a comfortable silence. They had fallen into an easy routine since Helena had been reinstated of missions and patrols through the city looking for artifact activity and late nights spent reading each others' books. They had grown close, or as close as they could, but sometimes, when Myka saw flashes of darkness and anger in Helena's eyes, she still wondered about Helena's intentions. About why she had shown up out of no where after the better part of ten years away from Ankh-Morpork and the Warehouse asking to come back. She trusted Helena with her life, and Helena had made good on that trust every time they went out on a mission, but Myka knew that Artie still didn't trust her, and Pete had only recently come around.

Truthfully, Myka wanted to trust Helena, so she gave her the benefit of the doubt, because Helena understood her better than anyone had in a very long time. Pete was like a brother to her, but he didn't get the way she felt about the Warehouse, how it was her happiest place. He was always looking for a way out, for a way not to end up crazy, evil, or dead, as he was fond of saying. And Artie, she respected Artie, and she could easily see herself dedicating her life to the Warehouse like he had, but she was afraid that she had destroyed that relationship when she had backed Helena's return.

But Helena understood all of that and more, without her ever having to say it. She knew what it was like to hide scars by pushing people away, to be strong so that she didn't fall apart, to be so afraid of losing people that she didn't let anyone in.

Although she hadn't known Helena for very long, Myka could already feel that the bond they shared ran deep, and she could feel that it could easily become something more if she let it, and that terrified Myka. Because she did see the flashes of anger in Helena's eyes and the pain that sometimes seemed to consume her, and Myka knew that Helena was far from healed and far from whole.

"The Patrician is planning on reopening the Post Office," Artie said, passing out case files to the collected agents.

"A: Isn't the Patrician always planning on reopening the Post Office?" Pete asked. "And B: What does that have to do with us?"

"If you had read the file before you started asking questions you would know that the last several Post Masters have died under mysterious circumstances," Artie explained. "And there have been reports that the Post Office is haunted ever since it closed. The five of you will go investigate and see if there is any artifact activity."

"The circumstances of the deaths don't seem very mysterious," Steve said, flipping though his file. "Two falls, natural causes, and a run in with a BS Johnson mail sorter. They were all ruled accidents. It doesn't seem like artifact activity, especially considering that it's an old building."

"Exactly!" Artie replied, obvious exasperated by how slow they all were on the uptake. "Four accidental deaths in five weeks in an old building full of mail? That can't be a coincidence. Well, except for Mr. Whobblebury. That mail sorter really belongs in the Warehouse, but it can't be removed from the Post Office without threatening the very fabric of reality."

"What does the mail have to do with it? Outside of being an outdated form of communication now that we have the clacks?" Claudia asked.

"Words have power," Myka put in. She had spend enough time in the UU Library to know that much. "That high of a concentration of writing in one place, combined with some sort of artifact? that's got to be doing something."

"Precisely!" Artie continued. "That combined with the fact that the Post Office seems to act as a sort of magnet for letters suggest artifact activity. Even now, decades since it's been operational, any letter you write and fail to deliver has a tendency to end up in the Post Office, which suggests an artifact is amplifying the mail already there and attracting new mail. Needless to say this is all very bad, and it is your jobs to find whatever is causing it, if indeed there is an artifact. And while you're at it, try and make sure that the new Post Master survives."

"What's Glom of Nit?" Pete asked.

"Gloom of Night," Myka explained. "See, the letters are missing. It's the motto of the Post Office: 'Neither Rain Nor Snow Nor Gloom of Night Can Stay These Messengers About Their Duty.' Someone must have taken those letters."

They were standing outside of the Post Office looking up at imposing stone building. To say that it had once been an impressive building would have been an understatement. The marble façade looked as if it had sparkled in the sun when it was polished, but now it was covered in decades worth of grime and graffiti, with a handful of letters missing from the motto and large chunks of marble missing from several spots.

"Alright, but who's Mrs. Cake?" Pete asked, pointing towards the notice tacked up underneath the motto that listed the things that should not be asked about.

"A nice old lady," Helena replied when the rest of them failed to provide an answer. "She owns a boarding house down in the Shades. She's a bit odd, but not in a stop the post sort of way."

"Of course you would know her," Pete grumbled as they made their way into the Post Office. The interior was much like the façade: faded remnants of former greatness. The hall had obvious once been a grand vision in polished marble and shining brass, but most of that was now covered bat guano, and those parts the bats had spared were piled high with letters.

They were greeted by a shriveled looking man dressed in what once looked to have been a Postman's uniform. "Who are you?" he asked, eyeing their Watch uniforms suspiciously.

"We're from the Watch. We're here to look through the old letters for any evidence pertaining to old crimes," Myka explained. The cover story was weak she knew, and the old postman didn't look satisfied by it.

"The mail's been here for decades, why's the Watch interested in it all of a sudden?" He asked, attempting to put himself between the agents and the piles of mail, an effort that proved futile due to the sheer amount of the stuff.

"Well, Mr…?" Myka tried again.

"Groat. Junior Postman Groat."

"Junior Postman? But he's older than Artie." Claudia muttered. Myka heard Claudia's grunt of pain when Steve elbowed her, but it was too late, Groat had obvious heard and looked hurt.

"Well, Junior Postman Groat," Myka continued in an attempt to distract the postman from Claudia's comment. "With the Post Office opening again soon, Commander Vimes thinks that now is a good time to sort through the old mail. So, if you'll please allow us access to the building, we should only be here for a couple of days."

"Yes, fine, although it's going to take the five of you more than a couple of days to go through all the letters." With that, Groat turned and left them standing in the middle of the hall amidst the mail.

"It's been a week Artie, and we still haven't found anything," Myka said into her Farnsworth. Technically they were called Devices for Talking to People a Long Ways Away, another one of Leonard Da Quirm's inventions, but they had taken to calling them Farnsworths after Da Quirm's dog instead. "Are you sure this is the best use of our time?"

Groat had been right. The better part of a week had passed and they had barely made a dent in the mass of mail that filled every nook and cranny of the Post Office, unable to uncover any artifact. They had found, however, that the mail talked. Particularly at night, if one of them opened a letter, it would read itself aloud, the words tracing themselves in the air.

"Keep looking." Artie replied, his voice tinny. "Open all the letters in you have to. We can't have the Post Office reopening with a potentially dangerous artifact inside. Other than the mail sorter."

"What if there isn't an artifact? What if it's just the build up of letters that's causing this, as if there is so much writing in one place that it's become an artifact in and of itself?" The more mail they worked through the less convinced Myka was that there was actually an artifact at work.

"Possible but unlikely. The reported effect is stronger than the mail could account for," Artie replied.

"I don't know Artie. There's a lot of mail here." Myka was unconvinced.

"Yeah," Pete put in. "There's mail everywhere, going back sixty years. I didn't know so many letters had even been written."

"Just keep looking for the artifact. There haven't been any other pings that need dealing with, so stay there and keep looking." With that, Artie closed his Farnsworth, ending the transmission.

"Well, I guess we're stuck here, reading dead people's letters. Fun." Pete said, turning back to the large pile of mail he had been working on. Claudia and Steve were working in the Post Master's office, in an attempt to keep Post Master Lipwig alive, which was a harder task than it seemed, given Lipwig's knack at upsetting important people. That left Pete, Myka, and Helena working in the sorting room, where the largest density of letters was. They had found that they could make fairly quick progress if they gave the mail sorter a wide berth.

"So, how are things with Kelly?" Myka asked Pete as they returned to work. She hadn't heard Pete gushing about his girlfriend lately, which was concerning, because Pete wasn't one to hide his feelings.

"She dumped me," Pete answered, obviously trying to keep the hurt from his voice. "Apparently disappearing without explanation for two months to chase werewolves in Überwald is not conducive to a relationship."

"I'm so sorry Pete. I know you really cared for her." Myka's heart hurt for Pete. She knew he struggled with the life of a Warehouse agent. He wanted a family, to settle down without the ever present threat of being killed by an artifact, and Kelly seemed like she might have been a real shot at that for him.

"Yeah. I thought she was going to be my one, you know?" Pete turned away, mindlessly picking up letters in an effort to hide his face from her.

"If you love her that much you should fight for her," Myka told him. Unbidden, her thoughts went to Helena, and she rubbed the back of her neck self consciously.

"That's the thing, though, I don't know if I love her," Pete turned back to her, a plaintive look on his face. "Never mind. I don't want to bother you guys with this, it's not like you can help."

"Why not?" Myka asked. She couldn't help but smile at how he was acting like a love-sick puppy.

"Yes, Peter, why not?" Helena put in from behind Myka where she had been working. "I'll have you know that I do know a thing or two about opposite sex. Many of my lovers were men."

Pete dropped the letters he was holding in surprise. Despite her lack of surprise, Myka felt herself turn red and was glad that Pete was distracted.

"We will come back to that comment later," Pete said, once he had regained himself enough to pick up the letters he had dropped. "Hey, this one's addressed to you." Pete picked a letter up off the floor.

"What?" Helena asked, obviously confused.

"'HG Wells, Leena's Boarding house, Scoon Avenue, Ankh-Morpork,'" Pete read. The envelope was dusty, but not as old as many of the others. "It's dated nearly twelve years ago. Weird."

"It must be the effects of the mail sorter." Myka said, trying to explain the insane coincidence. "It warps space to attract otherwise lost letters, even once the Post Office stopped operating."

"Well, give it here then," Helena said, making a grab at the letter, but Pete pulled it out of her reach.

"Let's see what it says." Pete tore open the envelope before Helena could take it from him, and the letter fell open onto the piles of mail. The words started to trace themselves in the air, and a voice filled the room. A voice that seemed familiar to Myka, although she couldn't place it.

"Old Friend,

The preparations have been made and everything is in place. Now all we must do is wait for the island to rise again to find the key. If I am right, that should occur sometime in the next several years. Patience is all that is required now.

Yours,

James"

As the voice read out the final words, Myka knew where she had heard it before. It had belonged to a shadowy figure in the Pork Future's Warehouse. She didn't know why MacPherson had sent Helena a letter twelve years ago, but she was sure there was a reasonable explanation. There had to be.

"Forgive me." Helena had turned away from them, her voice thick with something that sounded an awful lot like regret.

"For what?" Myka asked.

Helena turned around. She was holding something that looked a lot like the Leonard. The last thing Myka remembered was the hard, cold look in Helena's eyes as she pulled the trigger.