Essential plot building ahead...
Chapter Three
It was Sunday morning, Myka discovered as she scrambled for her phone in the half light and read the display. Two days since she'd returned to her home and found that her life was nothing like she remembered it. She hoped that Sunday still meant that the shop would be closed. Other than needing to not see people who would constantly remind her that she was out of her depth, she wanted to explore the place that housed so many of her better childhood memories. Was it anything like she'd imagined from the rare occasion that she'd considered one day taking over from her dad?
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and searched blindly with her feet until they found her slippers and she toed them on. A chill in the air made it cold enough to want a dressing gown but since she hadn't considered packing one, she searched until she found an oversized pullover and wrestled it on. It wasn't until she was stood in front of the bathroom mirror that she noticed the lettering on the front and tugged at it to read it from upside-down. Oxford? Huh. It probably had significant meaning but since she couldn't remember buying it, she figured that there wasn't much point dwelling on it. It is comfy, she thought and then froze for a split second as an imagine of Helena in her Lara Croft outfit sprang to mind.
"Can't we go just one day without thinking about that?" she asked her brain testily. "Just one would be nice."
In the kitchen-diner, she fiddled with the percolator until it was chugging away, dripping liquid caffeine into the carafe, and waited until there was enough for a mug-full. Pete would be asleep for another hour or so, she assumed. Though who knew; as a father of two, perhaps he'd realised the benefits of a peaceful early morning. The Lattimer children, she had to admit, were lovely. She had been surprised, and then disturbed, by the story of his breakup with Kelly but Pete's partner, Lila, was much like she'd expected, leggy and blonde, and apparently similar in stature to his ex-wife. You were married!? she'd blurted after that statement, but where Amanda had been driven by career ambition, Lila was laid back and mostly enjoyed the chaos that was part of the Pete-parcel.
Since their two families were so close, there had been more than the odd image of Catherine, Fredrick and Christina mixed in with Sophie and Jake. The more time she spent looking at pictures of them, the easier it was to see herself with them – a mother of three. Even to the point that she almost ached to see them walk through the door so she could wrap her arms around them. It was easier to accept the pull she felt when she thought about the children. That was just instinct, wasn't it? A maternal, magnetic force that many creatures felt towards their young. She wondered whether it was supposed to feel so strong – like she could close her eyes if she wanted to and actually see them at will? But that was a ridiculous thought and she shoved it vehemently to the recesses of her mind. She was ready to accept that she had children, but not so ready to study their unusual origins or consider the fact that they linked her so solidly to her ex-lover.
After Pete's recount of the events leading up to HG's capture, Myka had refused to hear any more of the Brit's involvement in their lives. She needed a break. If she was capable of inviting the woman back into her life then it would be in her own time, on her own terms. The little tug in her gut would have to simmer down until she could process the inventor's actions properly. In the meantime, she decided that the photo albums around the apartment could provide her with some of the history that was missing. At a push, she might even venture down to the shop and snoop around while her employees were not around to watch her with overly pitying looks.
Dodge City
For years now, under Claudia's guidance, Meghan had been targeting and infiltrating extremist groups, looking for evidence that they were linked to Lloyd Spenser-Chapman's faction. She'd worked her way into this 'church' through an old friend of a distant cousin; someone who had a vague knowledge of her familial connections but wasn't aware of her recent activities, or the fact that her uncle had displeased their great and powerful leader. Once in the door, she'd made herself almost invisible, acting the meek, downtrodden mouse that most of the women in her family were trained to be. Two months gave her enough insight into her fellow parishioners to realise that their faith was more cultist than most. Lloyd Spenser-Chapman was their representative of God on Earth, their Christ, the second coming. They spoke about him and their elitist mission as their exclusive right to a paradise of his design. As she glanced around at the blissfully ignorant faces of those around her, she had to wonder what her life would be like had she not managed to persuade the caretaker that this was her calling…
Eleven years ago, freshly freed from medical restrictions and cleared by the doctor to return to the field, Meghan sat with the new Warehouse caretaker to discuss her involvement with the preparations to repel Heracles from the Warehouse. Though she had begun to develop a tentative relationship with her cousin Steve, in the time since her dismissal from official service to the Warehouse, the young ex-agent resisted any direction to return to working closely with the team. She'd chaffed under Artie's command and around her fellow agents, and though she wouldn't choose to be tortured again, she'd enjoyed working undercover and to her own timetable.
Facing the redhead, she argued to return to that post. "I'm not all like, into team work and that shit. I know I screwed up last time, but you need someone who can give you inside info. You've got your golden team and that's great and everything, but they don't know their asses from their elbows when it comes to the enemy's inner workings, and neither do you."
"Harsh," Claudia commented with a small smile. "I know you're right, but Meg, you were tortured not so long ago. Tortured!" she iterated when there was no change in the other woman's expression. "I don't know if I can send you out again with the risk of that hanging over you."
"So, what? You want me to sit in the sun and twiddle my thumbs?" Meghan argued. "It's not like I can just go back to a normal life. I'm useless sitting around here. I'm not a tech whizz, I'm not built for combat, not a genius who solves impossible puzzles, or a human lie detector. I feel artefacts and I'm pretty good at being invisible. My uncle is dead and as far as I know, only one other person knows of my connection to you guys. I can sneak into those extremist groups that've got you worried and check 'em out."
Having said her piece, the ex-agent slumped back in her chair and waited for the caretaker to give her an answer. Somehow, she knew that the next words out of Claudia's mouth were going to seal her fate, and not necessarily in a good way. Strangely enough, she was ok with that. She'd never been very good at waiting around for things to happen, despite outward appearances. The redhead would force her life to take direction no matter which way that was. One thing she knew for sure was that she couldn't remain on this island.
Claudia sighed heavily. She hated these kinds of decisions. At least inside Warehouse 14 she could leave most of the delegation to Artie's replacement, but on the island, she was in charge and it fell to her to make the tough decisions. "Fine," she eventually gave in. "I'll set you up with some supplies and we'll make a plan for where you can start." Noticing the satisfied excitement in usually morose eyes, she felt a mix of relief and apprehension. "You have to check in regularly with Jinksy though, and we need a contingency plan for if you think you're under threat," she insisted.
Meghan nodded and felt a foreign sensation of warmth pass through her. Was this what it felt like to have someone care about her wellbeing? She'd never really thought about it before. "It's not your fault, you know, if I get hurt. I'm a big girl; I know the risks. I'll be as careful as I can, but you can't control everything."
That was the last time they approached the subject of her throwing herself into known danger, but she had clearly seen the worry in the redhead's eyes.
Her time with the Warehouse had changed her view of the world. She'd forgotten the uncomfortable drilling feeling that accompanied indoctrination. Those early years in the 'real world' had spared her infant brain from the worst of it and she couldn't help but feel both disappointment and gratitude. Having watched the cultists for weeks, she understood the appeal of unquestioning devotion to an idea. There was a comfortable feeling of security in the absence of doubt. A belief that any hardship or sin was temporary, excusable and all part of a higher purpose. Belief like that absolves the believer and wraps them in a bubble of unaccountability. It was an attractive prospect.
But Meghan knew the consequences of blind faith. People who were willing to commit mass genocide because of their belief in their cause. She'd seen enough suffering – from the innocents caught in the cross-fire to those targeted by prejudice and bigotry.
Her thoughts turned to Helena Wells-Bering and she felt a familiar annoyance tug at her thoughts. Admittedly, the Brit had grown on her over the years. She was a lot less arrogant than the HG of the past and her willingness to admit her faults, to make an effort to change, it all went a long way towards making her likable in agent Coombs' mind. Still, whether the inventor could help it or not, she was intricately connected to their power-hungry adversary and, for whatever reason, it irritated Meghan.
After the disaster with her last undercover mission, she'd been so sure that she could do better and provide the team with vital information. Her Uncle Congrave was dead and she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Chapman, the man depicted in her vision.
After only two short weeks of attending the church, there was a special sermon, by the end of which, a ceremony was performed for the ascension of Jacob Murdoch. Like a baptism, the pastor immersed Mr. Murdoch in a bath of consecrated water before presenting him with robes of emerald-green and explaining that he would be leaving to serve the 'Great One' in some new capacity.
Creeptastic had been the word at the forefront of Meghan's mind as she witnessed this event, not least because so many of the people surrounding her were crying with joy or muttering about the possibility of them being next.
She wasn't sure what exactly had tipped her off that she was in trouble. It was a passing look her way, or perhaps a slight gesture between assessors, but when the topic of her ascension dropped into conversation between her and the pastor, her sixth sense screamed a warning. She tried to pass her momentary disquiet off as simple shock and disbelief, timidly asking if he was sure. "They want me?" she'd stammered. But he must have gleaned something from her eyes; a meaningful look travelled across the room and within seconds a man towered on either side of her before ushering her through a side door. Meghan made no effort to resist as she ignored the envious glances shooting her way. She found herself being led past an ominous, life-sized statue of Christ on his cross and into a narrow corridor. How had she gotten herself into this mess again?
A heavy door opened onto a blind alley, midday sun casting a spotlight on the plain van suddenly facing her. Fuck, I'm screwed, she thought, knowing that if she got in, she would be dead before the van reached its destination. A dense cloud passed overhead just as the passenger door opened to eject its occupant. Meghan froze. She knew that scar and those beautiful, deadly eyes…
As a teen, she once sneaked into her uncle's study, hoping to find the whiskey she knew he kept in there. It was a decent sized room with a whole wall consisting of cupboards with ornate, wooden doors. Knowing that her prize was probably under the desk, close to hand for anyone who might sit there for hours on end, she made a beeline for the room's most prominent feature.
She'd barely taken three steps from the door when she heard voices approaching. Panicking, she leapt as quietly as she could towards a cupboard, snatched the door open and climbed inside. There wasn't enough room to pull the door completely closed, but she found a niche for her fingers on the inside and held on for dear life.
She caught only glimpses of her uncle's grim, sweating face next to a woman who wore a sinister sneer, before the pair were gone again and she slipped from the cupboard with a relieved grunt.
Seeing that severe face again now, as she was being led to her death, just made her fate seem so much more inevitable.
Long legs brought the imposing woman right inside her comfort zone. It took all of her effort to look up and meet the commander's gaze and when she did, talon-tipped fingers grasped her jaw and forced her head towards the sky. Despite the cloud cover, the light shining though washed out her vision for a moment and she blinked rapidly.
"The redhead thinks she's being clever by sending you into our midst. Little lamb for the slaughter." Bruttius sighed, her eyes projecting the indifference she felt toward her captive's plight. "I hope you have enjoyed your time with us." She studied Meghan's features as if she were a particularly fascinating insect, turning the agent's face to different angles. "You are fortunate, young one. Our Great leader wishes for your end to be swift." She leant closer, casting her face further into shadow. The intensity was too much and Meghan was compelled to look away. "Given the option, I could have made your last hours very... interesting. There are many other fish in your pond though," she added and leant back a little, her expression bored once more. "Remember us to your uncle, won't you."
A shiver ran the length of the agent's spine. Adrenaline swam through her system now and her eyes searched frantically for an escape plan. There seemed to be little reason for hope; the van blocked much of the narrow space, there were heavy-set thugs half way along the alley to where it led out onto the street, and there were still the two guards stood either side of her. But then she glanced over a thin shadow on the left-hand wall, just beyond the vehicle's front bumper. Was that a narrow space between the buildings? She didn't have a figure like Bering or Wells (she was naturally stocky) but she was small compared to those around her. It might make all the difference.
As if triggered by this hint of hope, the light around them abruptly changed. Bruttius had released Meghan's face and taken several steps back towards the passenger door, while the man on the agent's right had moved to open the back of the van. Like flicking a switch in a dark room, sunlight poured into the narrow space between a gap in the clouds. Every reflective surface magnified the effect, causing a temporary white-out of everyone's vision. Everyone's except Meghan's.
Being forced to stare at the sky had been a blessing in disguise. Her pupils had already reacted, contracting to protect her retinas. Not wasting time to celebrate, she darted from within arms' reach of her blinded captors and sprinted with every ounce of effort that she could muster. The delay didn't last long and before she was even half way there, shouts erupted and echoed in the small space. She didn't bother to brace herself for the impact but pushed her body hard into the tight crevice. For a horrible second, she thought that she wasn't going to fit – her hips scraped against brick and her belt dug painfully into her skin. Trying not to panic, she kept pushing and wriggled to move past the obstruction. Relief hit her when the gap between the walls widened and she fell into the darkness.
She couldn't entirely recall the rest of her escape that day. The gap had lead into a tiny courtyard, from which she had found her way into a building and – after waiting a few hours – out onto the street. Realising that Chapman's people might have been watching her for some time, she avoided returning to her base and made her way carefully to the bus station. The day she'd arrived in the town, she'd stashed her Farnsworth and a bag of emergency supplies in a locker, ready for a day such as this. With ticket in hand and the miles rolling away beneath her seat, she let the adrenaline drain from her body and fell into a fitful sleep.
She'd used her Farnsworth once, to have a very brief conversation with Steve about helping her to safety, but within a couple of short hours of that call, she'd narrowly avoided capture again and now she was reluctant to use the device. She knew that the Farnsworth couldn't be hacked or traced but the coincidence struck her as odd and reminded her of the scene from the Deathly Hallows where Ron explained that the Death Eaters could track anyone who used Voldemort's name. Something just didn't feel right, so she decided to head to Denver to see the majority of the team in person. Now she was halfway across Kansas, trapped in Dodge City in an old factory.
Meghan Coombs sweated profusely; it was hot in her foxhole - unbearably so. In an effort to find her and force her out of hiding, someone had turned up the heating in the building. As the temperature continued to rise, she knew that she had a difficult decision to make. She might be well hidden, but she very much disliked the idea of being cooked alive. Somehow, her pursuers had tracked her down again and she knew that she would not escape if they caught her, not after the first time, which had been nothing short of a miracle. Now, they were trying to 'smoke' her out and she was fighting the need to seek a more hospitable hiding place. No doubt there would be someone on guard out there, waiting for her to crack.
Desperation forced her to resort to the Farnsworth again and now she was anxiously hoping that Jason had managed to pass her message along to Steve. Even if he had though, she soon decided that help was too far away to get her out of the frying pan and began to rethink her exit.
As it was his day off, Jason stood next to the washing machine, folding his and Steve's clothes into separate baskets ready to be put away. When he wasn't managing Bering and Wells Books and ensuring that his friends' livelihood ran smoothly, he enjoyed this sort of simple domesticity. Once upon a time, he'd envisioned himself being pressured into marriage with a woman of his parents' choosing, or else living a life of permanent bachelordom. Though he and his husband had their ups and downs, overall, they were very happy. He was grateful for his blessings.
Steve had popped out on a whim to pick up a few groceries and some wine for dinner. What with all the drama surrounding their friends at present, they'd been rather lax on the shopping front, and the fridge was looking woefully bare. Though they had both suggested picking up the phone and calling for a pizza, it was decided that neither wanted to fall into the fast-food trap. Liam might have complained about the ex-ATF agent's cooking, but between them, Jason and Steve had learned a few reasonable culinary skills.
Basket of his own clothes in hand and potential meals on his mind, Mr J. Jinks made his way to the bedroom and worked efficiently to put the clean laundry in its proper place. Once done, he wandered back through the kitchen for the second load. He barely took notice of the Farnsworth on the table or the clock on the wall as he passed, but suddenly found himself staring, frowning between the two, his basket abandoned on the floor…
With Steve's Farnsworth held in front of him, Jason listened attentively to the woman on the other end of the call and logged everything that he intended to report to his superior. His cousin by marriage called sporadically to talk to his husband, and he gleaned enough to keep the Commander content with his reports, but never before had he had an opportunity to speak to Meghan without Steve around.
"You'll tell Steve, right?" the woman checked for the third time. "I'm on the four-hundred. I made it past Greensberg, but I'm not sure if I'm gonna make it outta Dodge. Literally! I need backup."
"Don't worry, Coombs. We were partners, right?" he asked as he attempted to reassure her. "I know we didn't always manage to get along, but I have your back." He watched her eyes dart rapidly around and knew that his time was running out. "Where exactly are you?"
"I don't know… Some truck place off the main highway," Meghan responded in something of an annoyed panic.
He listened and responded in all the right places as she explained how she'd found her way into an abandoned factory and hidden in an obscure little room beside the boiler. His concern sounded sincere when she told him of her predicament with the heat.
When he hung up, his left hand reached automatically for his phone while the right placed the Farnsworth precisely back where he'd found it. The speed-dial read 'Sandra Olek' and within three rings, a voice answered with a hard, 'Speak.' "I know where she is and where she will be next," Jason told the Commander in an emotionless monotone.
"That is good," came the reply. "She is proving to be elusive. We will arrange to allow her to escape us once more. She will hesitate at a familiar face, I think. You will be able to get close to her where we have failed to do so."
"I will," Jason confirmed. "Do you want me to bring her in?"
"Not while her heart still beats," replied the commander.
Confirming his orders, the ex-agent hung up, deleted the notification from his call-history and slid the phone back into his pocket. For several seconds, he stood and stared across the kitchen, until something drew his attention and he blinked, as if waking from a dream.
The sound of the front door grabbed his attention and this time, he glanced between the clock and his watch. Is that really the time?
"Hey, babe," Steve greeted as he wrestled three full bags through the door and closed it behind him. He grinned, deliberately flexed as he lifted the bags onto the counter and leant in for a kiss. "Still on laundry?" he asked offhandedly.
"Mmm," Jason replied as if he couldn't believe it had taken him so long. "I've just got to put yours away."
"They folded?" Steve wondered as he began to remove food from bags and sort out which ones to put where.
"Yeah," the younger of the two answered, this time with a little more presence of mind. "I'll just go grab them," he added and moved to pick up the basket.
Steve reached out, wrapped his fingers around an extended arm and drew his husband into his arms. "Don't bother," he said with a smile. "I'll get to it later. Stay with me," he suggested and leaned in to capture pursed lips.
Jason smiled into the kiss and felt his worries melting away. Something must have shown in his body language because he felt Steve pull back. Glancing across into warm blue, he waited for his husband to speak.
"J, is everything ok?" Steve wondered.
The younger man shook his head and laughed softly at himself. "I'm fine, I just… I guess I just lost track of time. I was thinking about Myka… It's crazy how someone can go from being happy and in love one day, to losing years of their life." He shrugged sadly. "I wish there was something we could do to help…" He gazed at Steve at length. "I don't ever want to lose you."
Blue eyes softened further and hands came up to cradle worried features. "You won't lose me, babe," Steve insisted. "I love you and you love me. We'll fight for each other, just like Myka and HG will. Don't give up on them, ok?"
Wiping away a stray tear or two, Jason nodded and laughed at himself again. "I do love you," he confirmed and wrapped his arms tighter around his companion's waist. "After dinner and a glass of wine, I might even show you how much," he added suggestively and wiggled his eyebrows.
"Let's get this show on the road then!" Steve left another longing kiss before moving back to the groceries. He glanced at the Farnsworth on the table, his pleasant thoughts interrupted for a moment. He'd meant to take it with him but forgot it on his way out the door. "Hey, did Meghan call? She should have reached her next check point by now."
Jason frowned, his thoughts on pause for a second before he relaxed. "No." He watched disappointment and worry on his husband's face. "Hey, I'm sure she'll call in soon. She's too tenacious to give up now." He smiled and was gratified to find one in return. "Dinner?"
"Right!" Jinksy chuckled.
Salisbury, England
The journey from Paris had been free of trouble and Heracles had smiled to himself as he stepped from the airport with his precious cargo being carried behind him. Less than a week had passed since his strategic run-in with the Mrs's Wells-Bering and he silently congratulated himself on a plan well-executed. Helena and her misguided followers were far too occupied at present to keep tabs on something as intransigent as a mausoleum, and the ease of his necessary grave-robbing pleased him.
With a wealth of knowledge, both of centuries past and present, he felt grateful for the scepticism that filled most people (or at least, people of 'civilised' influence). A stone altar, a pile of bones and a sacrificial knife might appear as more of a re-enactment to anyone passing by, but as the sky had only just begun to lighten with the coming dawn, the chance of that happening was slim.
Cassandra stood close by, ever his shadow and protector. None but his most trusted companion could be allowed the privilege of witnessing these sacred moments. There was too much to lose.
Centuries ago he'd discovered her: tied to a stake, baking in the heat of an Italian sun, beaten, bloodied and bruised. At first glance, he hadn't thought much of her – a downtrodden slave was not an uncommon sight in 3rd century Rome – but a voice in the back of his head had made him take a second look. As he approached, defiant eyes glared back at him, daring him to try and hurt her. She was barely a woman, probably only a year or two into being able to bear children, but in spite of that and her injuries, a force of strength prevailed which Heracles found impressive. But like a wild animal, she would panic and lead herself further into danger if he released her too soon. Knowing that actions spoke louder than words, he left her a skein of wine and the dry fruit and bread he'd rationed for himself.
With his father and brother half a millennium dead, he'd become used to finding ways to be invisible and survive. After spending a couple of hundred years following hints of strange happenings and attempting to break into the Warehouse, he eventually realised that he needed to learn to be patient. Certain of his destiny, he set out to learn all he could about the changing world around him and to find others who could help him improve his lot. He'd failed, many times, often by choosing from familiar sources – wealthy, ambitious but undervalued younger sons. Finally realising that he couldn't trust allies who held their own agenda, he resigned himself to a solitary existence, focussing on honing his knowledge and physical presence through his sons. Until Cassandra.
Speaking not a word to her, he continued in the vein of the good Samaritan for a fortnight. While fresh bruises appeared on her flesh daily, he relied on her master knowing that his slave was too valuable to kill. By the end of the second week, he decided that it was time to risk releasing her. His own food supply was keeping them both alive, but if she was to gain enough strength to help him in the long run, she would need time to heal first. Her master was in the habit of throwing her outside close to midnight. Somewhere between that hour and dawn, Heracles appeared by her side, gave her the sustenance she'd come to expect and broke her chains.
They stayed close to her former tormenter for almost a year, merely a stone's throw from the brute who raged for days after discovering his toy missing. They watched as slave catchers arrived for a description and then took off on horseback to hunt the escapee. For the first few nights, Cassandra asked Heracles to explain his logic in staying and each time, he calmly iterated his belief that no one would think to search so close to her master. Slave runaways tried to flee as far and as fast as possible, so who would think to look across the street? She quickly came to trust his judgement and as a year passed and another slave took her place in the dirt, she stopped questioning.
When they finally moved on, they left behind the strangled corpse of her former master and another set of broken chains.
Unflinching, he drew the knife along his arm and held it over the bones of an eight-year-old, allowing his blood to drip along their length. This latest stage in his plan would bond him with his aunt's descendants and the path of the caretaker. When the time was right, he would be able to walk through the walls of the Warehouse unchallenged and trigger the final confrontation with his father. How the Wells-Bering family fitted into that end, he did not yet know, but he was confident that all would be revealed to him in time.
It was midweek and they were sat at Steve's cosy little table in his kitchen, drinking herbal tea. It was their regular, weekly get together and Claudia was more grateful than ever for her bestie's calming presence, and since his husband had taken a road trip to purchase some obscure books for the shop, she had her poopy-pants all to herself. Too many burdens weighted her shoulders and as her friend warmed his hands on his mug, the redhead slumped against the table, her voice muffled against the wooden surface.
"I failed them," Claudia groaned. "I'm the worst caretaker ever!" She huffed, waited a few seconds, and when there was no response, she chanced a glance at her friend's face. His raised eyebrow said it all.
"Aren't we being a tad overdramatic?" Steve ventured in his most no-nonsense tone. He wanted to roll his eyes but knew that his friend's extreme behaviour was a sign that she was overwhelmed by everything that was going on with the Warehouse.
"Mrs F…"
"Couldn't control everything, and neither can you sweetie." He reached over the table to rest a hand atop one of hers. "HG knows that you're doing everything you can to help. This attack came completely out of left field. Not even Pete felt it coming until it hit them."
Claudia pouted and slumped back into her chair. Being the caretaker had seemed so much easier when she was watching Mrs Fredrick do it. The woman almost never cracked an expression, so she'd naturally assumed that a caretaker had the power to be cool and collected under any circumstance. Over the years, she'd discovered that was not the case. "Poor Petie. He hates being impotent," she lamented. "I have to know who this guy was and why he attacked Freddy. I'm going crazy. All questions and no answers make Claudia a loony girl."
"You're doing everything you can," Steve iterated.
"I told them about the crashed satellite. It's my fault that Myka and HG weren't home." She couldn't leave it alone. For years, all of her extra-curricular pursuits had focussed on her surrogate nieces and nephews. Keeping them safe was her raison d'etre, from both her own perspective and that of the entity to which she was now bound. Is that why I'm feelin' all the cray-cray? her brain threw at her during a lull in the race of thoughts. "Maybe they should have had two teams."
"Maybe," her friend conceded. He took a sip of his tea, giving him a moment to think. He couldn't stop her from obsessing over the what ifs entirely, but he could try to help. "Two teams might have helped, but we can't know that. They asked you to let them know if you discovered anything that would make the teleporter work, and they made the decision to go." Jinksy sighed. "When was the last time you slept?"
The caretaker stared at him and blinked once, and then a second time. "Slee-eep? What is this thing of which you speak?" A half-smile accompanied her attempt to cover her stress with humour.
Steve was unimpressed, "Claude!"
"Yeah, yeah," the redhead grumbled and shrugged. "I sleep. I think. Time gets kinda weird when you're poofing all over the world. I don't actually know if I need sleep anymore or if it's just a habit." She scratched her chin and gazed off into a corner of the room, remembering far off places. "I don't think I ever slept in the nut-house either, but that was mostly cuz of my silly fear of being probed and electrocuted."
Rolling his eyes, Steve reached for the teapot and refilled their cups. "You're going to burn out if you don't slow down," he warned. "How will you be able to help anyone if that happens, hmm?"
Claudia waved her hand around to dismiss the concern. "I'm like the Duracell bunny, or maybe something not related to rabbits and batteries… Though sleep isn't the only need I've been neglecting," she added in an undertone. Seeing the embarrassment on her friend's face though, she coughed and changed the subject quickly. "Aaand moving swiftly onward… I will promise to recharge soon. When all this mess with Freddy's attacker is sorted out."
Another raised brow greeted this declaration. "Are you promising to recharge soon, or promising to promise soon?"
The caretaker chuckled sheepishly. "Damn your syntax-deducing skills!"
"Need I remind you that I am not above tattling on you?" he offering as he calmly drained his tea.
"Oh, yeah? To who?" Her arms crossed over her chest and she smirked. This was why she loved visiting her bestie so much; he didn't let her get away with much but he also didn't make her feel like she was a kid playing at being an adult. None of their friends meant to make her feel that way, but she had been little more than a kid when she'd first met them, and it was easy with them to let her insecurities get the better of her.
Steve returned the smirk with an exaggerated glare. "To whoever it takes. Caretaker, take care of thyself."
Holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender, Claudia managed a tired smile. "Okay, poopy-pants. You win. I still need to talk to HG and find out more about what happened down-under."
"You haven't found anything on the artefact that whammied Myka?" Steve guessed.
"There's nothing in the Warehouse. Anything in the memory-loss section doesn't have the same effects. I could give you the memory span of a gold-fish or make you think you were an Egyptian pharaoh. I could give you the memories of your past life or make it so that you lived in nothing but moments of déjà vu, but nothing that could erase everything to a specific event." There was clear frustration in her voice but also a hint of curiosity and determination. "Heracles is two millennia old. We might never have heard of any artefacts that he's got in his possession."
Steve frowned and gazed into his teacup as if he hoped it held all the answers. "You think he could have his own warehouse of artefacts?" He didn't know how he hadn't considered this before.
"No, I think he's too careful to risk that. Our Warehouse is protected by so many whacky, paranormal components, it'd be almost impossible to recreate that. He'd be stupid to try, and as much as I hate to admit it, he's not stupid." She paused for several seconds, as if lost in thought. "More likely, he has a select few that he's managed to control."
"I don't know, Claude. All of these 'big-bads' usually suffer from a severe case of over-confidence. Even HG, from what I read of her downfall. They begin to think they're invincible," Steve argued.
Claudia's head canted to one side and a pinched expression appeared at the mention of her friend's foray to the dark-side. It reminded her that she needed to check in on Myka too. The couple had fought their way through so many obstacles that it seemed like nothing could tear them apart, but everyone had their Achilles' heel and since she'd had a front-row seat to Myka's heart-break the first time, she knew that the brunette had to be struggling with her current reality.
Coming out of her reverie, the redhead shrugged. "Maybe at some point he did experiment with keeping more of them together. I'm willing to bet that he relies on a few that he keeps with him, and on borrowing from the Warehouse when he's desperate and prepared to risk sending someone in to sneak them to him."
"Ok, if you're sure." Knowing that she'd made her mind up, he decided to change the subject slightly. "Have you heard from Meghan lately?"
"Her last report was two months ago," she replied and winced. "Another thing that's bugging me. I know she's undercover but scary people lie under that duvet and any one of them might have been told to watch out for her." She sighed, appearing exhausted again. "I should not have agreed to let her go."
Steve smiled sadly. "I guess now you know how Artie felt every time he let you go out to chase artefacts with us," he thought aloud. "Did you ever regret asking for more responsibility?"
"Could I be lying on some beach now, strumming for the tourists and sipping Mai-Tais while ogling the local studs?" she joked.
"I think you know the answer to that," Steve chuckled.
"Yeah, I'd be back in the loony-bin."
"If we're lucky, we all make our own destiny. I think Meghan's made her peace with that. She finally feels useful and she's willing to pay the price. Think of how much we've learned." Finally, having had enough tea, Jinksy picked up his mug and the tea-pot and took both to the sink. No matter how philosophical he might be about his cousin's decisions though, after Meghan's last call, he was worried for her safety. "I know she has her wits about her and that she's content out in the field, but I hope she manages to check in soon."
"Yeah," she responded. She really couldn't refute the fact that the young agent's restless nature had provided them with valuable intel over the time she'd been working solo in the field. Apparently, she did her best work when she wasn't forced to interact too often with colleagues. Claudia chose to trust that Meghan knew her limits. "Me too. I wish I knew what she was up to right now."
Uh-oh!