Pete's life up to this point had taken some pretty weird turns, but this one took the cake. He gaped at his mother, unable to form words as he merely pointed, completely stunned.
"I know this might be a bit of a shock for you Peter." His mother said, consolingly. It was then he saw the pin on her lapel.
"Regent!" He finally yelled at her, still pointing. "How long—what- why Mom? Why didn't you tell me?"
Will looked acutely uncomfortable as he glanced between mother and son and decided to try to break the tension. "Hi." He said, offering his hand. "I'm Will Zimmerman, nice to meet you."
"Jane Lattimer." The woman responded, shaking his hand firmly.
"My mother!" Pete exclaimed once more, unable to move past his surprise, flailing with his arms, trying to convey the depth of her betrayal.
He had little time to process it further as the building beneath them began to shake, bucking and knocking everyone in the room to the ground as the roof caved in above them.
Steve was familiar with the dull nature of the stakeout, but it helped when your partner was a good conversationalist; he had been pleased to discover he and Henry had a mutual passion for Gears of War and filled the long minutes enthusiastically contrasting their play styles.
Their conversation had been cut off abruptly when Steve looked out the window and sworn. Henry peered across the SUV's center console, and echoed Steve's sentiment: "Holy shit."
A giant, blazing red anarchy sign that looked as if it had been spray-painted was glowing at the foundation of the building Pete and Will were in. The symbol pulsed and cracks shot up the side of the building, destabilizing the structure. Steve froze, his mind unable to process the size of the damage that would occur if the building came down.
He peered down the street instead, trying to spot any bystanders who had noticed the oddity. There was a single, nondescript man, walking briskly away about a block down. Steve almost let it go, but then the man turned back and glanced at his work—a clear give away to the artist behind the symbol.
"Henry!" Steve called, swinging out of the vehicle and running toward the man. At the sound of his footfalls, the man began to run as well, sprinting and making a sharp right into an alley.
Steve almost gave up the pursuit; the guy had too much of a lead on him, then something huge and furry blew past him, galloping towards the alley at unnatural speed. Steve ran after it—or rather him, as he realized it was Henry in his more wolfy form.
Henry had the guy pinned down with one paw and was growling when Steve rounded the corner. Seeing it was him, Henry ceased and let the suspect up, then ran back out the alley, trotting past Steve, turning onto the street and out of sight.
The guy lay on the ground, still, apparently too stunned to move and Steve unholstered his gun, calmly asking. "Did you spray paint that building?"
"No." The man lied.
"Try again, or I'll bring my friend back here."
The man's eyes widened with terror. "No, no, please, anything but that—"
"Tell me." Steve commanded, his eyes cold.
"Yes, okay, I did it, he paid me good money—"
"Who?"
The man opened his mouth to say a name, but he suddenly paled. He began to choke, foaming at the mouth as he gasped for air. Steve bent to help him, but it was already too late. The man clutched at Steve's jacket collar, pulling him closer with the last of his strength. With a wheezy sigh he breathed a single name: "Sykes." Then his grip relaxed and his eyes rolled up in his head as the man dropped to the pavement, stone cold dead.
Steve blinked in shock at the sudden turn of events and was still processing when Henry skidded back around the corner, fully human and thankfully fully clothed. "What happened?" He called, seeing the dead man and Steve beside him. "I didn't do that, did I?"
"I, I don't even—He just—he just died! Like some kind of poison!" Steve stuttered.
Henry looked down at the dead man and sniffed the air. "Some kind of toxin, I can't quite place it. Did you check his pockets?"
Steve quickly riffled through the man's pockets, finding nothing, then checked his jacket. He pulled out a spray paint can and wrinkled his nose. "I think I found our artifact."
The building stopped shaking for a moment and Pete sat up, dust scattering as the florescent lights flickered and sparked from above. "Mom?" he called, panicked.
"Here." His mother's deep voice was reassuring as she pulled herself up and dusted herself off.
"A little help?" Will was trapped, a large section of the ceiling pinning his legs to the ground. Pete and Jane immediately took action, each taking one end of the steel that held Will captive.
"One, two and three!" Jane called and with a moment of struggle, the beam shifted. Will pulled his legs free, looking relieved, the cuts bleeding, but not deep.
"Where is Philip?" Jane demanded, looking around her frantically. A low groan answered her and the three of them hurried to a pile of rubble that had buried the table where Philip and his bodyguard had been standing when the roof gave in. Jackson was no where to be seem, but Philip's torso was sticking out, crushed by the rubble.
"We have to get you out." Jane said, urgently.
"No time." Philip gasped. "You have to take it."
"No, I can't, there isn't anyway—"
"Take it!" Philip insisted, his color paling as his breath grew more labored. Jane pursed her lips and sighed, reaching into Philip's breast pocket and pulling out a tiny golden key. Then she seized his right hand and pulled it up, revealing an thick leather cuff clasped with a tiny lock on his wrist.
"On three Pete." She said, thrusting the key at her son and holding out her own wrist. "Unlock the shackle, and put it on my wrist."
The building gave an ominous shudder and the lights flickered once more. A pipe somewhere is the distance broke, adding the sound of rushing water to the tension.
"What?" Pete asked, throwing up his hands.
"I'll explain later." Jane hissed. "Now!"
Pete knew better than to question his superior officer—especially his mother. He grabbed the key and positioned himself.
"One, two, three!" Jane said tensely, bracing herself. Pete unlocked the cuff and it fell free. He picked it up quickly and placed it gently on his mother's wrist, clicking it shut. A golden light began to shine from the cuff, growing so bright for a moment it blinded them before it abruptly vanishing. When Pete blinked his eyes clear, he looked down at the trapped Regent, but the man was long gone, his eyes staring out in death.
His mother looked shaken, but resolved. "We have to get out of here. Now."
Will nodded. "There's a stairwell on the north side of the building, its closest to here."
Back in the SUV, Steve and Henry had the Farnsworth open and Artie was furiously typing, trying to discern the nature of the spray paint can.
"Did you bag it?" Artie asked, absently.
"Er, no." Steve said, embarrassed. "I wasn't sure if I should or not before checking with…" He trailed off as Artie gave him a look over the wire rims of his glasses. "I'll try it now."
He fished a grey static bag out of the back and handed it to Henry, who held it open as far in front of him as the confines of the front seat would allow. Steve held the can in his freshly gloved hand (another rookie mistake he'd made earlier, touching an artifact unprotected, he scolded himself. He was lucky he didn't die or turn blue). He dropped the can in the bag and closed his eyes as sparks flew. Steve looked at the now inert artifact, then the building outside. Nothing had changed; if anything the cracks were getting deeper.
"Well?" Artie demanded.
"Nothing" Steve reported.
Artie growled in something that sound like Russian. "Alright, alright. Now what symbol did you say?"
"Anarchy." Henry chimed in, leaning over to be in the view of the Farnsworth. Artie looked at his computer, musing to himself. "Anarchy in the UK, urban graffiti, protest art…" He looked up, inspired. "What language are the instructions on the can?"
Steve looked at it through the bag. "German, I think."
"Ah ha!" Artie said, reading from his computer screen. "The Berlin Wall Spray Paint. First noted by Warehouse agents in 1962, the can is imbibed with the desire of the artist to tear down the wall and so it corrodes everything it touches. There is only one known counter to its effect."
Steve held his breath.
Nigel smiled at the younger woman, currently slumped over her desk, snoring softly. It was two in the afternoon, but Agent Bering had had very little sleep over the last few days and it had finally taken its toll. While Helen and Helena continued their endless work, fine-tuning James's limbs, Nigel had slunk off in search of mischief or good company; either would do. "Agent Bering." He tried, shaking her shoulder gently.
The sleeping agent murmured in her sleep, "Go away Pete." She tried to shrug his hand off, batting at him. Nigel chuckled and tried once more.
"Agent Bering, do you not have a bed?"
She shot straight up, a bright red patch on her cheek indicating how hard she'd pressed her face into the surface of the desk. "Mr. Griffin!" she said shakily, trying to recover some of her dignity, reaching up self consciously to smooth her hair.
He grinned then, his round boyish face jovial. "Havin' a nice nap Agent?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Please, call me Myka."
"And you must call me Nigel." He took a seat next to her, the one Claudia usually occupied. "So Myka, how are you coping?"
"What do you mean?" She asked, blinking at him, still trying to clear the clouds from her mind. She really needed to get some real sleep.
"Well, with this." He gestured broadly. "Helena comin' back and changin' her mind about destroyn' the world and all." He shrugged. "She's always been a wee bit of a 'andful. Contrary as a cat, even when she was just a slip of a girl."
Myka put her hands on her chin, surveying Nigel's face carefully. "Can you tell me more about her? I mean, back then?"
Nigel hummed and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his hand as he smiled in recollection. "Well, it was a different time after all. I'll never forget the first night we met. It was at a Mr. Winthrop's townhouse, middle of London, 1879. Winter formal season after all, that's when all the moneybags would come back into London, 'twas a bloody thieves paradise it was. Anyway, she was escorted by her brother Charles, that right little arse. 'Course, she made me for a thief right off the mark. You shoulda seen her clever eyes light up when she watched me pluck the earrings right off the Duchess of Chelsea. "
Myka smiled, imagining it. A glamorous dinner party, the cream of society and Helena, young and right in the middle of it. No more than what, 17? 18?
"Anyway, it was only later she sorted out the whole invisibility thing. I thought fo' certain she was gonna turn me over to the coppers, but she always surprises me, our HG."
"How did she figure it out?" Myka asked, curious.
Nigel coughed delicately. "I'm not certain she'd want me to tell you…"
Myka rolled her eyes, "Don't tell me, not you too—"
"Oh nothing of the sort!" Nigel held up his hands, protesting his innocence. "But it was in the midst of one of her… indiscretions that we happened to become ensconced in the same coat closet. "
Myka groaned, placing her forehead back down onto the desk. "I'm don't even want to hear the rest."
"Oh no, now you're in it." Nigel murmured, cracking his knuckles. "When they were finished, Lady Edith slipped back out, but Helena knew I'd been there the entire time so then she turned and pinned me to the wall in the back by my bloody neck!"
Myka started to giggle uncontrollably, the vision of Helena and Nigel thus positioned combined with her exhaustion proving to be too much for her.
Nigel chuckled as well. "Like I said before, we came to certain terms. It amused Helena to a certain extent to 'elp me with my less than legal endeavors, while I of course was guaranteed access to only the finest 'ouses in London to relieve of their valuables. Then of course there was the book."
"Oh yes, her first work. " Myka sighed. "The Invisible Man."
"That was me!" Nigel said proudly. "She offered to split the royalties, but I wouldn't take it. By then, I was pretty well off as it was and she 'ad herself and her lazy brother to support."
Myka nodded. That was the Helena she knew—generous to her friends, vindictive to her foes. She had little to no doubt that if she cared to investigate it, she would find that all the houses Helena and Nigel had robbed in the 1800s had inhabitants that had slighted Helena in one way or the other over the course of years. The woman could hold a grudge.
Myka shouldn't have liked it, but she kinda did. Helena's passion was very, very attractive—and one of her greatest strengths.
Nigel's remembrances were cut off by the sound of the door swinging open. "Let's go." Tesla barked into the room. "James is going to try to walk."
Jane hurried along the corridor, leading Pete and Will as the floor beneath them rumbled. "Hurry up!" She called over her shoulder, barreling ahead.
"Mom, look out!." Pete shouted as the floor below her suddenly gave way. Lunging towards his mother, adrenaline pumping through his veins, he grabbed her, yanking her back from a three-story drop. They paused for a moment, both panting as they tried to regain their footing.
"Move!" Will suddenly yelled, as more of the floor began to give out beneath them. They ran then , returning the way they had come.
"There's no help for it." Pete puffed as he came to a stop in front of the elevator doors. "We're going to have to slide to make it."
Will nodded. "I have an idea, but I'm not sure…"
"Do it." Jane ordered.
A/N: Sorry about the delay in updates; real life has been a bit tricky lately. Hope you all enjoyed this!