At 36,000 feet in the air and traveling at 600 miles per hour H.G. was having a most extraordinary moment of stupefaction. In the event of such an oddity, no word in the English language could suffice what one wanted to describe, for only the object of one's attentions could say for itself. Closer, that was the solution. Better to see with one's eyes, so that perhaps the visual could transform to more acceptable words of praise than "uhm."

But when Pete was a gossiping ear away and rules of friendship must be headed the option of closer could not be considered. Instead, a lazy eye had to be cast to the passing flight attendant (attractive, yet substandard to the object of a woman's real affection) and rules of chess had to be abided.

It wasn't uncommon for H.G. to be struck into a daze, but the occurrence happened less and less as her imagination grew. Complexities in nature ceased to thrill her like they used to and the limit to human achievement rarely reached the stars. Her job as a high school physics teacher was just as limiting. There was no challenge in teaching adolescents, no opportunity to explore beyond the curriculum. H.G. had so many ideas. Her head was filled to the brim with them – questions, arguments, propositions, and loads of opinions and quantified facts based on her own research. She felt ahead of her time, passing human norm for the unobserved minutes, hours, years. To society, with their mini computers and smart cars, the future was theirs already. To H.G., they had yet to scratch the surface of the future and all the milestones it still had to offer.

Possessed of a muddled mind and a dry mouth, H.G. prayed and dreaded for the moment to pass. When something managed to stupefy the inventive H.G. Wells it restarted her heart like a jolt of electricity. A thrilling experience, no doubt about it, but lack of words could make a mind like hers go spinning into oblivion. H.G. always liked to think she was more proficient in ideas than words, yet the desired verse was dancing on the tip of her tongue.

It suddenly occurred to H.G. the probability of a beautiful woman reading classic literature in its original language sitting next to her on a plane headed for London. What on earth had she done to deserve such a gift? As Fortune smiles on the worthy, H.G. was receiving a wicked, beaming smirk from the Lady herself.

Rules. Friendship. Bloody boundaries for heaven's sake!

But as that movie Christina liked so much said, rules are more like guidelines anyway.

"Your hair," H.G. mused with an air of fascination as if the Northern Lights alone couldn't compete with such curiosity, "it's changed."

Marking her place in Aeneid, Myka turned in her seat. "Huh? My hair?" Shaking her head uncertainly, attention was stripped from the desecration of Aeneas' fleet in the Mediterranean to the focus of her seatmate's eye. "Oh, this…" She smiled shyly, fingering glossy corkscrews of russet and flicking it away with a manner of apathy. "My hair just takes too long to straighten. Is it distracting? It is, isn't it? I should really change it back tomorrow."

"No," H.G. pleaded loud enough for Pete to stir in his sleep. She winced. Tipping her head she lent her approval in a half grin. "These curls suit you."

A fire rose to Myka's cheeks and became more visible as a strand of unruly twists was pushed behind an ear. "Um, it's not really a new look." Myka's hand stayed tangled at the ends, and abruptly she cursed herself for making the change.

"Restored to its natural magnificence," H.G. murmured. Something most strange – and when thought on later, absurd – came over her. Breath fixed between parted lips, she searched Myka's pulsating emerald eyes. She stared until a moment of discomposure pulled her from the contact, too novel to decipher. Shaking her head with upmost sincerity, H.G. hurried, "Not that it was not magnificent before."

Myka looked away again, this time biding with the bottom of a lip between her teeth.

From her prized window seat, H.G. reached out towards her rook and made her move. Myka closed her book completely and returned her attention to the small scale chess board resting between them. Her sparring partner had a tendency to make longwinded calculations of her next mode of attack. However, it would appear that her concentration had strayed to more… corporeal interests.

Rules, Bering. Just because Claudia saw this as some epic romance does not make it okay to interpret everything H.G. says and does as a come on. Rules!

The black piece made a tapping sound as it arrived on f5, subsequently claiming a white bishop prisoner. Myka gave an irate sigh, head falling back to her seat.

"Concentration is a forte," H.G. advised with a haughty grin, "best applied in circumstances without diversion."

Myka threw the so-called offensive book to the side. "Well, I could concentrate better if you wouldn't take a century to make a move."

"Heeey!" Pete moaned groggily. He lifted the heavy tome from where it had landed on his crotch. "Watch where you're throwing… what is this?"

"The Aeneid. It's a classic."

"Two thousand pages of whatever. Keep it from my private regions." He thrust the book at Myka and turned over.

Scowling momentarily at Pete's slight to one of her favorites, Myka let it go with an eye roll.

"What do you think of this Warehouse business?" she asked H.G. "Do you really believe that these artifacts have the power to influence in supernatural ways?"

"Well, you saw for yourself with the spectrometer. There is no possible way to create a three dimensional recording device of that kind. The only conclusion could be that of its paranormal effects. I inspected it for myself, there was no trick. Even the Warehouse itself; how can one be fooled by those numerous aisles and monumental artifacts rising to the ceiling?"

"You seem pretty sold on the idea."

"It is not a mere idea, Myka, but a reality. A skeptic such as yourself should be completely satisfied with what you can see with your own eyes and touch with your hands."

"It's just a lot to take in. It seems like something out of an Indiana Jones movie; a building filled with objects capable of god knows what and hidden in an undisclosed location from the public. If you asked my ten-year-old self I would have believed it in a second. I was a sucker for untold adventures and legends of pyramid builders from outer space."

H.G. allowed the image of a curly haired little girl in overalls to enter her mind. She crawled through a stronghold of couch cushions by the beam of her flashlight, grinning like she was on the verge of discovering Atlantis. It warmed H.G.'s heart and brought a smile to her own face.

"And now?" she asked.

"I think my years of study," Myka cast a sidelong glance with a smirk, "have devastated the theory of extraterrestrial gods and their architectural gifts to the Earth. However, I still get excited by even the suggestion of adventure. You don't know how many times the department chair has yanked me back and forth about signing off on a travel study course to Egypt. It's not going to happen with our budget, but I can't help that small spark of hope."

If there was anything H.G. adored about Myka it was her expression when she talked about her thirst for adventure. There was nothing like unbridled passion in the form of fiery eyes and gesturing hands. No matter how much she would disagree, Myka became that ten-year-old girl. It was an image that harkened back to her cushion fort days and it was the closest H.G. would come to knowing that enterprising young thing.

"Dr. Bering," she cooed, "and her child-like delights." A deep scowl brought out the line between the professor's eyes as H.G. went on teasing. "It is rather adorable."

"Please stop, H.G."

The chuckle resonated behind a pale, skinny hand.

"You seem to have no problem accepting the bizarre. What pray tell does the writer have to say about that?"

H.G. went silent for a moment, turning over the past few hours for purposes of scrutiny and fond tribute. When she was satisfied with an answer her eyes drew up to Myka's and with all the honesty she could muster began, "I used to think my imagination knew no bounds. Take it as vainglory, but my stories come from a place outside the normal range of inspiration. I pride myself on conceiving the impossible – stuff no one could dream of – and putting it to paper. But the Warehouse… amid all that wonderment… it brought me to pause. I feel as if every fantasy penned before I set eyes on that place was a product of blind ambition."

Myka's hand inched towards the one nearest. It was stone cold and bloodlessly rigid. "But that sounds so sad."

"I feel like an insignificant trinket among thousands of significant gems," H.G. groused lightly. "But it is enchanting to witness such tangible castles in the air. I have never imagined the look and feel and smell of one of my stories, yet it is conceivable to do so." Struck by further amazement, H.G. leaned forward, grasping her friend's arm with a gasp. "Imagine, Myka, one of those artifacts being the focus of one of my novels!"

Warmed in the light of a spellbound expression, Myka shared the smile. "And you call my delights childlike."

"Oh, pish posh. Innocence is a virtue."

"Yeah, one you frequently exercise when stealing my lemon meringue."

H.G. rolled her eyes and smirked like the unremorseful criminal she was. "You are not still going on about that."

Myka submitted a severe look that indicated she was, and proceeded to move her chess piece. With the capture of her last knight, H.G. drew a perplexed look and quickly hid the tell by cradling her chin between thumb and forefinger. Myka shook her head, grinning towards her studious chess partner – correction: losing, studious chess partner.

Myka shifted in her seat and reached towards the gun secured to her hip. Their cover identities being secret service agents, Myka and Pete were allowed to board the plane with their concealed weapons. H.G., still averse to the idea, traveled weaponless. 'My sharp mind and quick wit are a sufficient enough defense,' she had assured.

All through the flight, Myka had been checking and rechecking that the safety was engaged. H.G. looked on with a raised brow as the woman fiddled with the thing from its holster.

"Have I missed something here? Are we going into battle?"

"There's nothing wrong with being prepared. Anyway," Myka shrugged, "it's regulation for Warehouse agents to carry a firearm."

"Fully instated Warehouse agents." H.G. scrutinized Myka with a wary eye. "Don't you think you're taking this a bit too seriously?"

"That's right. I forgot. This is coming from the woman who gets a thrill out of the precarious," Myka said, remembering the time they almost got detained by authorities after H.G. decided it was a-okay to sneak into the restricted section of a museum. Myka chuckled at the memory of H.G.'s flirtatious means of averting arrest. Shaking her scorched cheeks, she gestured to the gun. "It's for protection, not to start a war."

"Darling, not all wars began with good intentions."

"Are you inferring that I'm going to spark World War Three?"

"Or launch a thousand ships," H.G. mused with a nearly lustful grin.

Myka touched her curls absently.

You are a rule follower, not a rule breaker.

"But I can say in all honesty that the world is in good hands. It would be frightening to think what would transpire were it in mine."

"I hardly think you would be capable of mass destruction, H.G. More like…" with a tip of the head, Myka studied the author and imagined what would come from that beautiful brain, "… more like utopian societies and machines that can propel people through time and space."

With a snort and a wave of her hand H.G. turned back to the chessboard. She focused on tweaking her strategy, but was soon taken hostage by diversion. Visions of an ideal world filled with soaring skyscrapers, accessible transportation, equality, freedom, and social and technological advancements took over. Horseless chariots rocketed through H.G.'s mind; in the background a clock ticked forward to an unforeseeable future. A woman was at the epicenter of those visions, and, like Atlas shrugging the weight of the world, she was shouldering faith in a writer of little to no reputation. And what a steadfast faith it was; stubborn, reverent, and incandescently flawless.

H.G. looked back to Myka who was already nose deep in her book. There were no words to express what was taking hold of her. Instead, she closed parted lips, sat back, and let distraction have its foolish way with her.

Perhaps one day the rules could be broken.

Myka and Pete got off to a rocky start. It was safe to say they had butted heads ever since Pete was declined a high five upon their first meeting. From then on Myka had been labeled a "party pooper" and became the butt of frequent jokes regarding her professor title. It didn't help that Pete annoyed the hell out of his new, temporary partner. It was a job he took on with pride and self-professed swagger. Agent Latimer was an intuitive investigator, making decisions based on instinct and his trusty "vibes." When asked if he was considered an artifact due to this superpower and when the suggestion of bagging and tagging himself presented Pete got authoritative (adorably authoritative for a man of so little stature, H.G. would describe). Pete was point, as he so often declared. Pete was the supreme master and architect of this mission… "but don't tell Artie I said that."

Myka didn't take too well to this display of power, and the stalemate continued. Though Pete would not admit it in a million years, the professor acclimated quickly to the position. She had an attention for detail (a skill neither Pete nor Artie excelled at), and was a thorough sleuth who didn't miss a single thing. What was not appreciated was her approach. Myka was by-the-book and motivated by intellect over emotion. All angles were analyzed before diving head first into a situation. There was always a plan A, B, C, and D when Myka was in charge. One could see from miles away just how compatible Bering and Lattimer were.

Right.

Just as perceptive as Myka, H.G. saw underneath the sibling rivalry where two quite possibly well-matched minds could work well together. Myka and Pete each had their prescribed methods and there was plenty of room for them to learn from each other (if they managed to unstick their heels from the ground). There was great potential there for two completely opposite fools to become an effective team. It seemed an unfair advantage to disrupt that dynamic, leaving H.G. to take on the mantle of odd man out. The rank made sense, of course. She had always been too much of a free spirit to work well with others. Though it wasn't spoken of, H.G. became the solo agent of the mission, conducting her own research and following up on leads when it suited her. Using the creative mind she was born with, H.G. always thought outside the box and came up with solutions Myka and Pete hadn't even considered. She was not afraid to get her hands dirty and acted with more reckless abandon. She would do what her other teammates failed to do; she would do what was absolutely necessary even if it meant sacrificing her principles. H.G. had a personal connection to the case and therefore knew of its traps and shadowed dangers. She knew what her husband was capable of, which made her an asset in hunting down Lewis Webb.

Their first strategy in finding prime suspect number one was checking nearby hotels. They could essentially get anything with the flash of their secret service badges, though not evading the occasional raise of the brow. Just why three U.S. secret service agents had business in the U.K. was left up to the imagination.

With H.G.'s help they searched guest records under various aliases Lewis had used over the years. Only the most high-brow lodgings were considered because Lewis was too proud of his currency to skimp on accommodations. It was all for naught. Just hours after landing in London and the team had gotten nowhere. If Webb was in London he was the Invisible Man for he didn't leave a single footprint to the keen eyes of the three Warehouse agents.

By the seventh hotel Pete and H.G. were all for dropping their current plan of attack, but Myka was insistent on one last attempt. While she was convincing the manager of her credentials, Pete and H.G. bided their time in the lobby.

Leaning back and propping his elbows on table, Pete's neck craned towards the ceiling. Though not possessing a thoughtful eye for architecture, Pete could acknowledge great art when the time called for it. His eyes glazed over at an extravagant chandelier probably made of gold and the white marble engravings as majestic as the Taj Mahal. After 30 seconds of appreciated staring, he looked around for further entertainment.

"So what can we expect from your husband when we have him cornered?"

H.G. threw Pete an insufferable look and corrected, "Ex-husband. And I should think he would not take too well to seeing me again, let alone two American government agents. He probably would think I snitched on him again," her head tipped and a cheery smile brightened her face, "which is a wonderfully precise accusation."

"When was the last time you two talked?"

"The day Christina and I were relocated to the United States. Eight years ago."

Pete whistled lowly. "Man, we should start a club. Estranged divorcés unite."

"You are a casualty of dissolution?"

"Amanda," Pete answered, nodding sadly. "We were young. She knew exactly what she wanted and I… didn't. There were other reasons for the split, many of which were my fault. Who took the blame in yours?"

"Oh," H.G. smiled without regret, "Lewis carried that weight all on his own. I happily left him to it."

"Hence his imprisonment."

"Precisely, yes. He deserved what he got. For the sake of myself and my daughter I could never regret walking out of that sham marriage."

"Where's the champagne?" With a friendly smile plastered on his face Pete looked about for the imperceptible bottle. "I feel like we should toast to that. Rain check?"

H.G.'s chin dipped, allowing for an indulgent grin. "Perhaps."

"Alright," Pete droned, triumphantly. He nodded to himself, brainstorming all the stops he would have to pull out for this woman; five star hotel, of course, and that suit and tie would have to be dusted off, three hundred crunches in advance, and he'd be golden. Then again, he had a gut feeling his space would be swapped out for another more fitting player. "I'll hold it to you."

H.G. narrowed her eyes like anyone could doubt her oaths, and snickered to herself at the agent's lack of insight. According to her calculations, Pete was probably thinking up the time, place, and vintage bubbly for their rendezvous.

What an adorable simpleton.

Or she could have perceived it all wrong, and he was the one playing her. That would be a first.

"Well, don' keep me waitin', kid," Pete crooned in his own Bogart impression. "I don' make plans that far ahead."

"Plans for what?"

Myka's question cut in like a shard of glass, its tone more eager than necessary.

H.G.'s posture straightened, but no other reaction ensued.

"It's a private club," Pete replied curtly. He rocked his head left and then right in a manner of haughty righteousness. "Unless you've been divorced…"

"Not likely, however, the man we are tracking down is, so how about we focus on him?"

"Did the manager say anything that would point to Lewis' whereabouts?" H.G. inquired.

"I'm afraid not. According to the records no one under that name or any of the other aliases has checked into this hotel the last four months." Myka folded her arms, face scrunching into a frown. "I can't help but think I missed something. Am I doing something wrong? Or am I just looking too hard into this?"

Shifting anxiously, Myka's hand slipped into the pocket of her trousers. Her fingers encapsulated what was inside, turning it over like a dream. Soon an easy breath came, her anxiety quelled by some unknowable force.

"God damn it, you're a doctor not a super secret spy!"

"Star Trek," Myka submitted flatly.

Pete gleefully fist pumped the air. "There is hope for you yet, my young padawan."

There was a deadpan response.

"What? You've seen Star Trek but not Star Wars? We cannot be friends. No, no, no."

"I didn't know I was signing up for that position."

Pete drew a hurt frown. "Well, if you were… friend request de-nied." He snapped his finger, waving it back in forth as he did. "H.G., tell me you've got some good common sense and have seen Star Wars."

"Of course."

"Yes!"

When Pete was out of earshot Myka leaned in to whisper, "Liar. You've never seen Star Wars."

"I've read a few expanded universe novels," defended H.G. with a shrug. She followed Pete leaving the brunette to shout after her.

"That SO does not count!"

Plan B, as Myka so affectionately called it, entailed the investigation of surrounding pawnshops, antique dealers, thrift stores, and what Pete adoringly named "ye olde junk shops." As a lawyer who dealt in black market antiquities, Lewis would have frequented those places. They were bound to find someone who knew the Webb name in the antiquities circle and that much closer to finding their suspect and the artifact in question.

On the second stop on their list H.G. pulled the solo card and insisted there was a particular lead she wanted to scout out – on her own. Myka offered to assist, but was turned down with the assertion that an author of "such little prominence yet stalwart endeavors" needed no support in a quick jaunt through the library archives. Just what basis there was for a searching the library was not given. The downcast expression caused H.G. to feel a stab of remorse for leaving her to the agent man child, but the lead H.G. was to follow up on was something she had to do on her own and it was essential that it be on her terms. Myka could never be involved.

One cab ride later the heels of her boots clunked down bustling High Street in a town on the fringes of London – Bromley, to be exact. The village was speckled with brick villas and double-fronted stuccoed inns. On the one side where H.G. walked was a tailoring business, a fishmongery, butchery, and a rag-and-bone merchandiser. Established on a corner across the way was Market Square. There were little to no children on this side of town, yet there was no shortage of automobiles, buses, cyclists, and pedestrians.

H.G. came to a halt before a three-story residence above a dusty old shop. The sign above the merchandise window read, China Glass and Staffordshire Warehouse. Under the guise of a midday sun, she could hardly color herself surprised that the store lights were off and the door locked to customers. The place couldn't have received much traffic in modern, high-tech times such as these.

H.G. shut her eyes, breathed once, then again. With considerable effort, she raised her deadweight arm to cast the end of a fist against the reddish brown heartwood. Three knocks. Nothing. She opened her eyes and searched the cracks in the 30 year old door. The finish was cracked and chipping in random places. The door showed signs of wear and little care. She struck it an additional three times, louder.

At the exact moment she decided to turn away the lock clicked soundly. The mahogany door that had shined and welcomed those of years past opened. A man of equal height, but considerably greyer with age stared back into the eyes of his caller.

H.G. was startled at the view, but there was something to be said for the eyes; dark, unyielding, and oddly youthful as eight years ago. Her throat went dry suddenly for fear of stumbling. More surprising than the sight of the old man was how stripped of confidence her voice uttered greeting.

"Hello, Father."