Seven miles from Univille, South Dakota in a lackluster desert and surrounded by a protective bluff wall stood the secret storage facility. The twelfth in a line of warehouses never seen by civilian eyes was home to thousands of supernatural relics from every corner of the world and time itself. It wasn't a home as much as a prison, a securely locked building that even the President of the United States did not have access to much less knew it existed.

One could imagine the sensitive nature of bringing two civilians beyond its sealed doors, through the florescent lit umbilical and around the steampunk office wares to arrive at the balcony to witness the wonder that few have seen.

"America's Attic" as Agent Arthur Nielson called it. His hand, stretching forth and presenting the scenery with a ta-da! wave, seemed insignificant at the forefront. What lay beyond was a never-ending expanse of wonder and impossibility.

H.G. thought Artie had given enough tours to know that a simple ta-da! wouldn't do, hence the affectionate and subjective title of "America's Attic."

It was strange that the quip, "I see London. I see France…" ran through her mind at a time like that. But when one was presented with an idea that sent you straight to the loony bin, asinine jokes had a tendency to ease one's impending future of insanity pleas and strait jackets. All H.G. could think as she gaped into the beyond was I see a pyramid. I see a zeppelin. I see myself presently losing my bloody mind! Because what else could make a person crazy? The enormous purple glowing tent probably had something to say about that.

But was it real or just a hoax or trick of the mind? An optical illusion meant to deceive the sharpest minds? A false visual impression and a bloody good one at that? Comprehending an answer could drive a person barking mad, which thanks to Artie was dodged with a demonstration.

"Is that Leena's place?" Myka asked, pointing to the telltale blue roof of a B&B.

"Mm, sort of." Artie waved them into his office, leaving a gaping Myka without further explanation. "Follow me. Please."

"Agent Nielsen," H.G. said in her melodic British diction as she gave a study of the office, "from the designs of this workplace a cultured eye could perceive its archaic design. Yet there are no technological hindrances in sight."

"Ah, yes. You would be referring to the combination of Victorian design and 21st century machinery. As I like to describe it: looks old but runs new. There's also another way of putting it…" Artie's scramble about the office went on recess for him to scratch his head, "… something called steampunk." He shook his head and waved it off as redundant. "Kids these days… always trying to date the likes of people like me."

"People like you?" H.G. inquired.

His rummaging in file cabinets halted. Artie did a double take at H.G.'s impish grin. "Just… people," he sputtered.

Myka's chuckle was drowned out by some banging of metal and a scraping of what perhaps was a file cabinet opening before Artie procured a hand-held camera-like object.

"Is that a weapon?" H.G. asserted herself between Myka and the man holding the contraption like a gun. It was pointed to the floor, but knowing close to nothing about the person holding it and considering they were in a highly top-secret facility where no one could hear you scream H.G. was not about to let her guard down.

"Is this a weapon," Artie repeated nonchalantly, chuckling. "No, this is not a weapon." He waved the non-weapon before them as proof. "This is a durational spectrometer – a security camera so to speak. When operated it displays holographic video of recent movement. Just point, and shoot. Like gun." Shaggy brows skyrocketed then as he waved his hand out in precaution. "But not a gun!"

Myka stared the man down before taking the proffered camera. Grasping the handle with one hand she fiddled a dial with the other. H.G. silently gazed over her shoulder at the device, making a clicking sound with her tongue (a quirk Myka recognized whenever the scientist could look but not touch the exceedingly beguiling).

"It's…" thick, chubby fingers went out and then snapped back at the glare from brown eyes, "… that one right there," he instructed verbally (borderline anxiously), tapping his digits against a scraggly chin.

The spectrometer was calibrated with a flip of a switch and from out the end sputtered a beam of red light. The red static flickered and developed into a full-size image, a moving representation of Artie walking from the umbilicus into the office with Myka and H.G. following. A frown rose to the brunette's face as it occurred to her that this event occurred just minutes earlier.

Though lacking audio, Myka read lips and was drawn to those belonging to one woman in particular. She discerned the ever knowledgeable physicist mouthing the words, Why are there bombs established at the entrance?

"It replays the past activity of wherever focused."

"Very good," Artie nodded to Myka.

"How far back does it go?"

"Five hours."

The three holographic figures moved out of sight, so Myka moved the camera and sure enough it followed the movements of Artie, H.G. and herself from the office out towards the balcony and the inevitable reveal of "America's Attic."

Myka looked up curiously. "Why five?"

"Why?" Artie snorted. He threw up his hands. "We are standing in a facility filled with objects that do impossible things. 'Why' is a superfluous question. When you've been here as long as I have it's best not to ask it too often."

"I make a living out of asking that question." H.G. crossed her arms defensively. "When it comes to relativity, electromagnetism, and quantum mechanics, superfluous questions are rather a theoretical possibility that in all likelihood could be proven with a whiteboard and a solid few years of funded research," she expounded, waving her hand.

"Which explains why you were not granted full-access to the Warehouse, nor a recruitment candidate as a Warehouse field agent."

"Excuse me?" She shifted to a semi-aggressive stance with hands on hips and a chin protruding forward. "I could not afford Oxford or Cambridge but I bloody well had a decent education. Do you have doctorate in physics? Have you studied string cosmology? Black hole physics? Gravitational waves?"

"Who, what, where now?"

Ambling into the office was Pete, upbeat and grinning like he interrupted some juicy gossip. Like all water cooler chatter broken up by the nosy, loud mouth co-worker the three scattered. Artie slide into his chair after a suitable eye roll and H.G. snagged hold of the spectrometer fully prepared to break the befuddling thing down piece by piece (unless Artie had something to say about that which he would).

Abandoned by her allies, Myka was left with the noble burden to fill Pete in. She explained that H.G. was proficient in astrophysics and general relativity. It was the usual gossip a macho toddler like Pete Lattimer foamed at the mouth for. Myka was humble for her friend's sake, but maintained a strong sense of self-worth. It was important to get the point across that the new temporary field agents were neither incompetent for the job they were brought there to do, nor embellishing know it all's. The sharp nod from Myka emphasized that they were the real deal, no buts about it.

"Psh," he puffed out his chest, scratching it with his fingertips and then giving it a good manly pat," like either one of you went to Cambridge."

"Oh?" Myka concealed her snobbery with a cocked head and a scrunch of her nose. "And where did you go to school?"

Not anticipating the sharp comeback, Pete froze, eyes panning up for a moment, mind racing, before meeting Myka's. "Uh, I went to Cleveland State. Obviously," he dragged out a bit too long to be authentic pride.

Myka went on to relay what H.G. had told her one fine afternoon in the park: that the woman attended University of Manchester, earning her PhD – with honors.

"So what does she do now? Teach pimply, hormonal teenagers a subject that is clearly on the top of their to-do list?"

Eyes narrowed threateningly. "She didn't have a lot of options. And unavailable opportunities do not equal a lack of ambition."

Utterly oblivious to the heated discussion over her own profession, H.G. continued to fiddle with the spectrometer, nose an inch from the muzzle and muttering curses in bafflement.

"What were your choices?" Myka prompted the young agent. "Movie drive-in operator and snack specialist? I can see why a career in a storeroom would appeal."

Pete felt the sting, but was more than experienced in defending his young adult job phase. "Hey, the drive-in is a legitimate business and honorable means to pay one's college tuition!" Not to mention the free popcorn and Raisinets.

"So is a high school educator! Her current place of work may not challenge her in the way she'd like, but H.G. is a fine physicist with a brilliant mind."

The expressive justification paired with Pete's whistle of 'back off sister' woke the bear from his hibernation.

"Alright! Enough squabbling!" Artie interjected, throwing armfuls of files at them as he passed by. "Time to get to work!"

Myka had to find the strength not to stamp her foot as Pete made a mocking face at her. It was best to be the adult in situations like that. As Leena promised, Pete was making an extraordinary impression. He was humorous, in an annoying way, and indeed had a sensitive side – one that placed him well below Christina's level of maturity.

With the younger folk convening at their rightful place before the mounds of books, maps, and photographs, Artie commenced with his lecture.

"I want to make – " Artie's speech got cut off by a series of alarming beeps. Glaring, he snatched the device away from a startled H.G. Her eyes angled away and the corner of her mouth turned up indignantly like a wunderkind who got a slap on the hand for exercising curiosity. "I want to make something absolutely clear," he resumed, eyeing Myka and H.G. equally. "You two are not under whatever circumstances qualified to handle this case or any other having to do with my warehouse. Ah, ah!" he exclaimed, a finger out to stop H.G. mid-word, "I don't care what schooling you had. You could have studied under the tutelage of Stephen Hawking and I still would consider you unqualified. I spent half my life hunting down artifacts and have not escaped without casualties to my team. I have seen the most prepared of field agents unable to outsmart their effects, so the last thing I need is an uptight professor, an egomaniac, and a child on my services."

H.G. who seemed to be fast on her way to making enemies with Artie brushed the jab off. Myka just scrunched her face at the 'uptight' remark and discerned a classic case of projection from her new boss.

"Wait, I thought the kid wasn't coming with?"

Myka chortled. She took pleasure in enlightening Pete. "I think he was talking about you, Lattimer."

The hurt face whipped to Artie. "Heeey!"

"Pete, I already gave your lecture yesterday. Would you like a repeat performance?"

"Thank you, no."

"The most crucial piece of information you must take away from this," Artie stared at the women from over his spectacles, "is that you are temporary agents of the Warehouse, which means you practice the same security measures as fully instated agents. The responsibility of secrecy isn't taken lightly. Not adhering to the rules will lead to a most severe detriment not only to the Warehouse and yourselves but to the entire planet. There is a reason civilians have never been asked to consult in Warehouse business. This is an unpredictable line of work and can be life threatening. Agents with more experience and brains than both of you and Nikola Tesla combined have been killed, gone missing, or lost their minds."

"Or lived long enough to see themselves become the villain," Pete added in his best Aaron Eckhart impression.

"Don't scare them."

"I thought that was the point?"

"Not at the expense of your impersonations."

Myka was nodding, clearly on Artie's side.

"Trust me, you both have more to fear than this child's anecdotes. If it were up to me you wouldn't have left Chicago."

H.G.'s feigned sincerity displayed with a tip of the head. "Do so appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Oh, you don't have to like it. But you made the decision to be here and assist in a miniscule way. I cannot help that, so are we all ready to proceed?"

Artie received two "yeahs" and one acrimonious huff.

"Two out of three," he mumbled, wishing for the day the case was solved, "great."

They discussed the preliminaries of the mission. Because the circumstances of the stone's disappearance and clues to where it went from there had to be uncovered, Artie would head to Moscow to seek out a contact. The agents of Warehouse 11 (then established in Russia) were sent to acquire the Rosetta Stone following its discovery. A very convincing copy was made and swapped with the original.

"Who did they find to construct this 'very convincing copy'?" H.G. asked.

A file opened to show the black and white portrait of a man in typical 18th century fashioned ruffled shirt and coat.

"François Joseph Bosio."

Myka took the portrait, studying it with a keen eye. "Bosio? But he's French."

"Huh, huh!" Pete quipped in his disastrously guttural French accent complete with a curled upper lip.

"And he had ties to Napoleon which made him excellent material for blackmail." Myka's and H.G.'s expressions were comical and he expanded, "Well, how would you go about commissioning a patriotic Frenchman?" Blank stares were returned. He shrugged like it was simple mathematics. "You empty his bank account. That and you tell him it's for the homeland."

"So Bosio, who made a living sculpting portraits of the imperial family, was convinced to act as an accomplice in stealing the most prized treasure in French history right from under Bonaparte's nose?"

Artie stared and then nodded. "Yeah."

Lips formed into a tight line, Myka gave a firm nod in return.

While Artie was in Russia Pete would be taking H.G. and Myka with him to London to hunt down a lead: Lewis Webb. Ever since his release from prison, there had been no sign of his whereabouts. One could assume he was hiding from the wealthy benefactor he cheated and moving from place to place, therefore, making his location difficult to pin down. Recently, Artie informed, he had left a trail that ended in London. If Lewis knew where the stone was hidden then they could find it and return it to the safety of the Warehouse before anyone else got their hands on it.

As if predestined to arrive at the most opportune moment, Mrs. Frederic came to the team just as their leader was wrapping up the briefing. Came was putting it lightly for there was no other way of putting it without sounding loony.

"She does that," Pete whispered to his new partners.

"And does she always look the same?" H.G. asked back, frowning. "She has hardly aged a day since I met her eight years ago."

"My money's on Botox."

If Mrs. Frederic overheard she did not show it.

"I assume Arthur briefed you on the nature of secrecy and the risks involved?"

"Yes," replied Myka.

"Exhaustively," drawled H.G.

Pete raised his hand like the good school boy he should have been when it counted 15 years ago. "I helped."

"Thank you, Agent Lattimer." Mrs. Frederic bowed her head. "You are on your way to filling your superior's shoes."

"Ah-um, well I sure hope not because I don't think I could fit into those…" Pete chose his words carefully, "… shoes." He clasped his hands and lowered his head. Attention was gratefully stemmed.

"Though I'm sure you have been extensively drilled I wish to convey my own cautions. You are both without field training and, therefore, will find yourselves in very high risk situations that you may not be able to get out of. Pete is an adequate field agent…"

"Aw, thanks Mrs. F."

"… but he cannot protect the both of you. How favorable are either of you to carrying a firearm?"

Myka and H.G. exchanged curious glances. Though their minds had not been changed, the mention of weapons was enough to take Artie's story of dead, missing, and insane former agents to heart.

H.G. was the first to speak up.

"I do not like guns," she stated. "I find them uncivilized. However, I can make do with other skills." The emphasis on 'other' paired with her signature smirk of confidence was enough to satisfy Mrs. Frederic.

"Packing is no problem for me," Myka said. "I have an adequate shot. And I brought my licensed SIG-Sauer."

"Whoa, hey now." Pete raised his hands. "Since when are we allowing the temporary civilian agents to pack heat? It's dangerous for them, not to mention for the person that's leading the team." He subtly rubbed his back at the idea of friendly fire.

"Correction," Artie interjected, "I will be leading the team."

"Well, I am senior field agent in London. The last thing I need is a bullet in the back or god forbid the more important areas." Pete cringed and absently clenched his thighs together at the thought.

Myka rolled her eyes. "I frequent the firing range three times a week. Your back and all other areas are safe from me. I can assure you."

Admittedly, Myka was a beautiful woman and he had thought about it once or twice, but she had a tendency to bring out the urge for Pete to give that hair a good tug when she was being overtly annoying. And when the line was drawn, the line was drawn. Even the proud grin from H.G. (subtly hidden from Myka) seemed to be a warning. Pete would have to follow up on that at a later date.

"Our last order of business has been completed," Mrs. Fredric declared, clasping strong hands in front of her body. "Miss Bering and Miss Wells, you have been briefed of your responsibilities and the consequences if not shouldered. I wish you luck on the case and hope for your safe return."

The next morning had the agents packing and prepping for the journey ahead. With half the team already practiced in the art of pre-mission preparedness, the other half was developing a slight case of the jitters, but not born of danger or the silly fear that they would never return, no. Adventure was the foundation for bundled nerves and the need to check and recheck one's carry on for all the essentials (passport, wallet, phone, Kleenex, Ibuprofen, notepad and pen, a well-thumbed copy of Aeneid [in its original Latin, of course] and a travel chess set). No matter the circumstances for venturing out in the first place, their quest brought on a heady surge of adrenaline. It was the rush Myka had fantasized about, and one that H.G. was aching to experience again.

"Myka?"

The tug at the end of her shirt drew the brunette from the rest of the crowd. "Christina, come to say goodbye?"

Myka's back stiffened, suddenly aware that she hated goodbyes and displays of them even more. The dilemma about farewells was that they never ceased to make a lasting impression. It solidified how two people felt towards one another and how they displayed it, if at all. It wasn't all about words as it was body language. It was a double-edged sword: show too much emotion and come across as a depreciated soul sucker or give off a vibe of misanthropic asshole-ry by not showing enough. There was so much to consider for such a thing as small as farewell. What was the proper decorum for saying goodbye to an eight-year-old child that was nothing more than a friend? Such a quandary could only trouble a person like Myka Bering.

Was hugging a bit much?

I would have to get on my knees. Would that look weird?

What about a shake of the hand?

Too corporate.

Kiss on the cheek?

I wouldn't want to make her feel uncomfortable. Hell, I wouldn't want to make ME uncomfortable.

Light punch on the shoulder and a "See ya 'round, kid?"

How could Lattimer be rubbing off on me already?

All the while Myka's mind was racing for an answer H.G. and Pete were half done with their arguing over who would get a window seat while Artie was giving the usual instructions to an already well informed Leena. Christina still had a handful of Myka's shirt and was tugging her back into the present.

"May we talk? Alone?"

It didn't sound good. Not at all. The girl had a pained look on her face that made Myka feel like she owed her something.

Christina had Myka's hand and was guiding her into the sun room before an uncertain, "A-alright," could be uttered. Brown, scuffed riding boots were by that time on the heels of child-sized slippers – the youngster towing the professor. There was obviously no way Christina would take "no" for an answer – a trait she had no doubt inherited from her charming mother.

"I didn't want you to leave until I've said something."

It occurred to Myka there have been very few instances of it just being the two of them. Whether they were sharing a meal, talking about their respective homework assignments, or any other activity their time together had usually been in the presence of H.G. or had taken place in a public setting. It wasn't unnerving before to be alone with the girl, yet somehow things felt different. Different territory, recent truths brought to light… Myka was leaving with the girl's mother on a very important trip (as it was explained to the child). Perhaps Christina was reverting back to her jealous streak. She could feel abandoned, or worse, betrayed. Myka experienced a shiver over the unknown. There was a reason why Myka didn't like children. They were unpredictable.

She looked down at Christina, forcing a smile to encourage her to continue. A tiny mouth twisted, creating wrinkles no child should carry. Every worry seemed to turn inside out, splattering over her face in expressions far out of her age range. Despite her maturity, consternation should not be a fashion worn by an eight-year-old.

"I realize I did not apologize for my inappropriate behavior. I treated you horribly and it is inexcusable."

"Christina, you don't –"

"Please let me finish," Christina cut in, brow raised. She was like an attorney struggling over the implications of her closing argument. "Even after the exhausting chastisement I suffered from Mummy I could not make an improvement. You have tried very hard to be my friend and I threw every nice gesture away like it was rubbish. I know you don't like children…"

Myka's gape was telling, though Christina was too caught up in her speech to pay any mind. Her mouth opened, ready to disagree, but nothing came.

"… but if that were true you wouldn't have done what you did when I had my asthma attack. Mummy says you were there because you care about me." Raven strands closed like twin curtains over the cherub face. Head bowed, Christina wrung her hands in front of her, mumbling, "I never used to think so, but I believe it now. Your intentions were noble, mine were intolerable."

The apology was barely audible and nearly didn't pass between trembling lips. Myka's hand went out and with index and middle finger took a piece of that noir curtain, pulling it back and over an ear. The spectacle unveiled could cut into the hardest of hearts. Christina Wells, so burdened and beautiful just like her mother.

She bent down so their heads were level, draping her arm over a knee and the other hand persisting in its stroking of a cheek. Suddenly, Myka was no longer stressing over body language or the proper way in which to express regard for a friend (a loved one). There was no right or wrong approach. There was no predetermined sequence of words, no strategized movement to ease either party's comfort. The most genuine display of emotion was one driven by the heart, not the head. As a leaf riding the wind to nowhere it was a whim. It was not careless; it was the product of inspiration.

Myka's hand moved of its own accord, fingering the wavy strands back with a passing brush to an ear.

"You are a very admirable young lady, you know that?" Her mouth stretched for a grin. "Your dawdling, as your mom would call it, in warming up to me… how resiliently you hung on during your asthma attack… apologizing to me now when all has already been forgiven… I wish I had your courage."

"Please do not take my apology lightly." Christina's frown deepened as she argued, "And my being mean to you was not courage."

"Charming stubbornness?" Myka supplied. The tiny giggle that slipped out let her know she had hit her mark. Searching the floor for words, Myka changed track. "When H.G. and I became friends we hung out a lot together. I enjoy her company, and she makes me feel… well, she makes me feel like you when she would rather tuck you in at night over grading papers. She chooses to spend time with you. That's a good feeling, right?"

Christina nodded.

"Right. And we always have a lot of fun with her. She makes us smile until our cheeks hurt and laugh like we never have before." Christina touched her face into the back of a finger touching her cheek. "I can understand how you might have felt a little left out. You were just scared of losing your mother. And being scared isn't anything to be ashamed of, but it's not necessary. She loves you more than anything and would never dream of abandoning you."

"I really didn't have anything against you," Christina insisted, sniffling. "Well, maybe there was a bit of cruel honesty behind the bottom feeder remark as Mummy likes to tease so often."

Myka turned away, concealing her smile.

"It is no excuse, though." The recognition of the girl's behavior seemed to hit full force and her little body looked absolutely weathered by it. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I do like you." The sincerity in her puffy, glistening eyes showed just how much.

Cooing softly, Myka dispensed with the tears with a feather light touch.

"As much as you like me it's not a fraction as much as I like your mom. She's impulsive, unconventional, and thinks way too highly of herself," the duet of laughter and giggles was like fine music, "but I wouldn't have her any other way."

"She is lucky to have you as a friend."

"I think at this point we are all lucky to have each other."

Myka was more surprised by how quickly she accepted the hug than by the head on ambush. Christina had thrown herself forward without warning, but with all the cause in the world. Myka felt every ounce of love press into her and wrap itself about her, locking behind her neck. She gasped, eyes obscured by something warm and watery. She watched through a watermark as her breath rustled dark strands of hair. As if in slow motion her fingers reached to conceal themselves in the softness.

The hug would end, but the feeling and memory would never fade. Christina's love would stay with her, perhaps indefinitely. Myka was okay with that. After years of stemming emotion like it was poison in her veins she could finally accept love because she knew Christina had hers forever.

If real life were a film then it would have an audience. Through gasps and applause the onlookers would give their critique of the characters and their performance. Some, though, choose not to reveal their praises. They would wait till the end of the act when the curtain closed and the players exeunt. Or they would just wait behind the spotlight, expressing themselves through their eyes. If the players were privy to faces just as painted as their own, they would see them splotched with awe, with tears, with fascination.

H.G. looked on from behind the glass doors. Her presence went unnoticed just as her face did, the tears and tender warmth canvasing her face.