Leaving England was much easier than H.G. thought. When she left the first time her homeland always stayed with her like a shadow, the sights and sounds dwelling in her memory. Fond times were had and she missed them like no other. Then she settled in America, raised her daughter, met and made a wonderful friend, and the memory of England shrunk to miniscule size.

But England and its memories would never leave her, not until her demons were put to rest. Seeing her parents again, arguing with them, talking with them, hugging and nodding goodbye to them… everything from the demons to the memories were now cast from her mind. No shadows lingered and few remembrances of a failed love affair stuck to her like gum on her shoe. H.G. could finally leave England with squared shoulders that bore no weight. She knew now it was not her home being left behind but her past. Home was with Christina. Home was Myka.

But presently they were fixed in Avignon, France and lightly perspiring to the subtropical climate. The sun beat down on them with such a vengeance they had to shield their eyes from the rays. What they could see under the cover of their palms was a quaint village with its umbrella-like stone pines and red roofed villas. Only five miles away lay some of the grandest tourist attractions along with a dozen small, unique museums. A northwest breeze carried the scent of gothic cathedrals, frankincense, and history. Just the antiquity of it filled the nostrils and invigorated the senses. It was the perfect getaway, at least for those with a reverence for restored churches.

"That officer had no right to detain us for that long!" Pete griped after they exited Caumont Airport. "The fact that we had to declare that Middle Age piece of crap…"

Myka slipped on her sunglasses and folded her arms, allowing their resident globetrotter to call a taxi. "Just an hour ago you were ranting about how cool it was," she said.

"And how awesome your 'guns' would look with it on," added Steve.

"Ganging up on the senior agent, now? Alright, have it your way. But remember who has the Tesla when you're in a jam." Pete raised his brow pointedly, hands on his hips.

"Allons-y!" cried H.G. waving from the taxi van she hailed.

They all piled in, taking places without argument. Myka and Pete shared the middle seats while H.G. and Steve took the back. The taxi driver, about mid-thirties, salt and pepper hair, and smelling of old cologne adjusted his newsboy cap and turned to his fare. To him, the foursome looked like one short of a Rat Pack.

"Where to?"

"McDonalds!" Bound up with enthusiasm, Pete gripped the back of the driver's seat giving the poor Frenchman a fright. "Or is it Le McDonalds? McDonalds-y? Whatever. Just drop us off at the nearest fast food joint, pour favor… senior." Pete nods and gives a drum of hands to the front headrest, satisfied by what he considered passable communication between him and an English-speaking Frenchman.

"You know," Myka considered seriously, "I think there's a psychiatric hospital around here. Isn't that right, monsieur?"

The taxi driver nodded happily. "Correct, ma chérie. Would you like to drop the monsieur off?"

"Oh, I would love to…" Myka dodged the slap from next to her before elbowing the solid body, "… but I'm afraid there's no time for that."

She then gave him very specific directions on where they would like to stop and which routes were best. The driver didn't have patience when one of his fares told him how to do his job. Shaking his head idly he waved a hand at the woman's strict instructions and spoke a line of French that successfully returned her back to her seat. Pete met the Frenchman's gaze in the rearview mirror mouthing, 'Now you know my pain.'

Myka's shoulder bumped sharply into Pete's as the van abruptly sped off. Before they got far their Farnsworth buzzed.

"Old fashioned ringtone," Pete elaborated to the driver who was sporting a frown.

From the swivel chair in his office, Artie jumped right into the essentials. "There are a few things you all should know before apprehending Lallement. While we don't know what will occur when the two halves of the stone are reunited, there is plenty of evidence to suggest either stone's ability to absorb and grant powers of language. Leena and I have been working effortlessly to track down all supernatural disturbances of this kind and merge them with my own research done over the years. Leena?"

The young woman slid into view on her own swivel chair and addressed the four agents and a thoroughly confused taxi driver. "In 1830 a Manchu fisherman living in what is modern day Liaoning, China was known to speak a variety of Middle Eastern dialects. You can see how an Old Nubian speaking peasant in the 19th century might attract a fair bit of attention."

Artie's head popped into view. "In 1945 a nine-month-old Canadian girl's first spoken words are Japanese."

"A young Turkish Private," Leena read on, "with no formal education has fluent knowledge of the extinct language of Meroitic in 1974."

"1989, France," Artie threw in faster, "a Rabbi conducts his whole sermon in Mishnaic Hebrew."

"And a quadriplegic artist who's never left Hungary uses visual language to paint works referencing Portuguese in 2002."

Leena and Artie held the files in their hands for a moment before silently looking up to the Farnsworth. Crickets could be heard within the cologne permeated taxi. After hearing the rundown of artifact disturbances by subject, year, and region the four agents could only react with blank expressions and blinking eyes. Eventually, the newest edition to the Rat Pack is the one that broke the stillness.

"Is that all?" Steve asked from behind Myka, quite unimpressed.

"Those were just the highlights," Artie replied. "You want to hear the long version?"

Pete spoke up quickly. "We'd rather not, boss."

"It is paramount that you not underestimate the effects of either stone. Touching its surface without gloves would result in a catastrophic downside."

"What downside, Artie?" Myka asked, frowning at the severity of her boss' warning.

"Certain dialects have the power to cause harm or control the physical body and mind…"

Steve nearly laughed. "Like witchcraft?"

"A witch in 16th century France cursed her entire village to death and you think this is a joke?"

Mutely, Pete, Myka, H.G., and the taxi driver raised a brow at the ex-FBI agent.

"Um… sorry. No."

"Don't underestimate the witches, Jinksy." Pete patted Steve's shoulder in brotherly affection. "They always have a score to settle. You see Black Sunday?"

Myka's neck extended to her exasperation. "Peeete."

"I'm making a connection to the case!"

H.G. shook her head, rolling her eyes. Since hearing of Pete's affinity for classic films, she played along with and humored him. Yet after the 100th or so movie reference she would admit to the obsession being a tad grating on her patience. Just how one filled their hours with endless marathons and still possessed skin that has felt the sunlight of day was beyond her. "You need a girlfriend," H.G. commented with pity in her eyes.

"You volunteering?"

Pete knew he'd get the elbow before it was even dealt it. Bracing his ribs couldn't even stem the warning from H.G.'s overprotective and overreacting 'friend.'

"Are you alright Agent Lattimer?"

Through watery eyes Pete glanced at Myka before smiling gingerly over to the concerned Englishwoman. "Bad tacos."

"I didn't think our in-flight meal included tacos."

"I must have cleaned them out," Pete grasped out of thin air. "With my stomach you never know what's going to be left over."

H.G. cast a suspicious look from Pete to a rather content Myka and back to the doubled over agent. "I see." And indeed she saw.

"If we can get back to business before the next millennium."

The four agents were drawn back to the Farnsworth and the glowering man staring over his spectacles.

"So in all these cases," Myka deduced and rattled off from memory, "the Manchu fisherman, the child, the Private, the Rabbi, the artist… they all touched the Rosetta Stone."

"Correct," Artie nodded. "And there's no way of explaining how it passed from one to the other. After years of research I have yet to uncover a pattern. The factors are unknowable, which explains why the stone has evaded public eye."

Artie paused to wet his lips and fiddle his fingers. "I – I cannot ask you Myka and you H.G. to go any further in this case…"

Myka glanced over at H.G. who shared her same budding disquiet.

"You have both lived up to our agreement and have lent your unique talents and knowledge to getting us to this point. I thank you for that. But for you two to go any further… I can't let either of you fall into danger. Your safety is my responsibility." Artie gave a quick nod, swallowing thickly, and made a grand effort to direct his attention away from the Farnsworth.

H.G. took a minute to give it serious consideration. For her, this was personal. Lewis and this Lallement were the reasons she and Christina had been in hiding for eight years. She lived in fear, not knowing where her ex-husband was or if his cheated benefactor still hunted her. For years she huddled in secret like a scared little bird. H.G. supremely hated vulnerability and the minute her feet left Chicago she swore to never again feel those effects. Now, H.G. could do something about it. She could get back at the people responsible for those eight years of solitude and being in service to fear. Vengeance could finally ensue if not for the purpose of her own protection then for her daughter's as well.

Myka weighed her options, too. For her it was a matter of protecting those she cared about: H.G., Christina, and maybe even Pete. Also important was upholding principles. She had a moral duty to stop Lallement and a work duty (even though she was not really a Warehouse agent) to complete the mission of returning the stone to the Warehouse. Over the years Myka never really had a job she was fond of or worked at with some measure of motivation. She never had a superior who had her best interests at heart or who cared about her wellbeing. But since that curtain drew back to reveal limitless wonder, since the impossible could be seen with her own eyes… Myka knew her decision before the request was ever put before her in a manner of mumbled, floundering authority. She was meant to be there, at the Warehouse, in the field, with Pete, Artie, even Steve. And always, always by the very side of H.G. Wells.

"… Pete and Steve are fully trained field agents," Artie babbled on, hands patting at his sweater constantly. "To call civilians to venture into unknown danger would be… well, it would be wrong. But sending four agents to apprehend Lallement would be ideal, yes. And I have a gut feeling neither of you two would take no for an answer. H.G., there is nothing that could stop me from you diving head first without a parachute but you would do it just to test me and you'd float gracefully to the ground with some hidden gravity mechanism. You're extremely gifted and a pain in my backside. Myka, I don't know what to say. You always have the answers and you're not shy when giving them. When you're rambling about your work you're oblivious of those around you, but what you say has meaning." A loud crackle came through the device as Artie cleared his throat. His eyes flickered between the screen and his desk as if apprehension had gotten the best of him. "And… well, I guess what I mean to say –"

"Artie." Myka paused so her voice could gain strength. "Stop talking, please. I am following this mission through till the end."

"I as well," H.G. said. "I would hate for your arse to go trouble-free."

"Oh," Artie breathed before sagging into his chair and the patting hand of Leena. "Oh, that's… that's good to hear."

H.G. and Myka smiled back.

"Don't worry, Artie." Pete spoke with a gravity that could have helped Atlas shoulder the Earth. "I'll make it my mission to protect these ladies."

Myka had to blink a few times to let the fact sink in that this Pete Lattimer whom she just met 48 hours ago was making her's and H.G.'s safety his priority. God, was he annoying and unprofessional to the point of incompetence, but she was becoming quite fond of him. More than that, she trusted him and that Tesla of his. Myka felt the hot track run down her cheek and she let it for a moment before quickly erasing its existence.

"Me too," Steve spoke up. "I think my training and instincts will be a good addition to this team. I want to lend a hand."

Artie made an intense study that made the ex-agent feel about as small as a cockroach. The wheels of the Warehouse custodian's mind turned before he answered, "I will allow it."

H.G. offered their new partner a heartening smile while Pete threw a high five.

"Alright, alright," grumbled Artie. "Don't you people have an artifact to snag?"

"We love you to, cuddly, wuddly bear."

The boss simply glared at Pete with the heat of a thousand suns before the Farnsworth went black.

Minutes later their taxi arrived at their destination, and the four Warehouse agents piled out. After Pete paid their driver he skipped off to give the newbie, ex-FBI agent a rite of passage noogie.

"Américains," the taxi driver grunted, shaking his head in disdain.

This earned a humph from H.G. who in her thick English accent sputtered a defense. "I will have you know…" She added a stern finger.

But Myka was already hauling H.G. out of the van before she could get her dig in. The Frenchman simply gave a sanctimonious tip of his hat and screeched off. Amid the exhaust fumes, H.G. stomped her boot, swearing to the fading taxi that, "It's chaps like you that give the French a bad name!"

Stealing past the gated entry, the team walked the gravel pathway for close to a mile before coming to a halt. There as a centerpiece to its surrounding gardens and structured landscaping stood a small chateau unlike any seen by a Warehouse agent, an ex-FBI agent, a professor, or a physicist.

Gaspar Lallement's manor house was the strictest example of country living. It was not magnificent in the royal sense, nor was it extravagant. For a man with deep pockets and limitless free time a few villas in Europe simply would not suffice. There was only so much extravagance an impresario could bide his or her time with. Comfort was a universal need amongst the rich and the poor. The difference is style. A man like Lallement never spared expense on style.

Its grey-brown stone dated to 16th century and covered every nook and cranny, sealing the interior in a cozy dungeon of luxury. Ivy crept up the foundation of the walls and curled like a cancer around the windows and ledges. The gardens were lush and at that perfect peak just before the sweep of an early winter air. Landscapes were well kept, the gravel driveway crunching underfoot and lawn freshly clipped. A greenhouse nurtured the likes of fruits and vegetables. Though partially fortified with a rolling ditch off its northeast side, there was no moat or drawbridge (to Pete's dismay).

It was exactly as H.G. had predicted: rustic, spacious, and charmingly archaic. From the chateau's gapping audience it was no wonder such architecture continued to enthrall the modern man.

Myka took the lead and laid it out for her team.

"We have to assume Lallement has the one of the stones," she said as they all gathered in a circle, as if it were natural, a result of working dozens of missions together. "I may not be a government agent or a spy, but I know it's good to be prepared for the worst possible situation. Lallement is bent on finding this artifact. It is a dangerous obsession and I have a feeling he will do anything to get his hands on it. He will thwart us at every turn and harm any innocent who stands in his way. Without the stone he is an unstable opportunist. With the stone he is a dangerous opponent."

Pete really, really couldn't help it. "What is he going to do, talk us to death in a foreign language?"

"Did you just blackout during Artie's lecture back there?" Myka shot back, squinting. "We have to prepare ourselves for a downside. Certain dialects have the power to cause harm…" she recited word-for-word.

Steve gave a half-shrug and facilitated. "And witches always have a score to settle."

H.G. cocked her head. "I highly doubt there are witches dwelling at this juncture." Though she proceeded to make an additional sweep of the architecture to rule out any symbols or iconography that were out of the ordinary. Just to be sure.

The team nodded to their plan and proceeded ahead. They overlooked Pete's sportsmanlike "hands in… and go Team Warehouse!"

The professor hung back, eyes painting over the manor's stone face, drawn to its repose like an unbreakable habit. She stayed, breathing for a moment and thinking of a life within a small piece of history.

Midnight walks in the garden…

The laughing and sneezing of flour in the kitchen…

Small feet padding across the parquetry…

"Are you alright?"

A restored Tudor bedchamber… bedposts and canopy…

Soft kisses…

"Myka?"

She jumped as if doused by cold water. Myka blinked and shook her head. H.G. was there, coming closer but no more than the professor had imagined. "What?"

"You look in a daze," H.G. put gently. Her eyes searched Myka's. Worry lines emphasized her suspicion. "Do you feel alright?"

The 'almost kiss' replayed over and over in Myka's mind. She fantasized of it, too. Missed opportunities bled into her subconscious, playing house in her dreams. It made her stomach do flip flops – or so she would imagine. The dreams were never remembered in fine detail. One thing that remained as Myka woke up was a light heart. Unburdened and optimistic, it was a measurable difference from how she went out before sleep. But the form and lines of a vision quickly dissipated, leaving the dreamer to blink herself into reality and experience this novel feeling of great loss. It always lasted a matter of seconds, that smile which greeted the sunrise and that god damn, "It's great to be alive" feeling.

A pale, fragile hand stretched out, perchance to check the professor's temperature. Myka eased back slightly with a chuckle. "I'm fine." She scratched her wrinkled forehead and diverted her gaze. "Really. It's nothing. Don't worry about me."

"That is one mandate I cannot seem to follow." H.G. tipped her head, almost shyly, and a grin slipped through. "Is it nothing?" she asked then, earnestly.

"You would be the first to know."

In that moment, H.G. was blessed to have this woman's friendship. A lifetime, it felt, was spent spinning lies no one cared to see through before a brave soul stepped forward offering her hand in companionship. It felt like faith and longing. Myka peeled back her layers, and H.G. her's. They shocked each assumption, cried for the other, and discovered together. H.G. could surround herself in this woman's words and feel as secure within them as a dame in a castle keep.

Myka smiled and H.G. beamed in its grandeur. All it took was this nonverbal sign of understanding to grasp the life threatening situation that followed. It was their last opportunity to exchange something meaningful in the privacy of a late spring air. H.G. already made her one last call to Christina after disembarking the plane. She sent her love (and Myka's), knowing it might be the last time they spoke. A similar occasion struck Myka, realizing it was as good a time as any to make her possibly last farewells. Fragile relationships may endure, but she would not go out a coward of her own reservations. All it took was a simple, 'Hi, Dad' into the phone to clear her conscience.

Bathed in silence, the professor and the scientist, friends and so much more, cherished the source of what made their hearts beat. A broad range of meaningful expressions and confessions could be chosen. For Myka and H.G. it was a smile and a trembling of hands.

Up close, Lallement's manor expressed similar historical renovation, but with a finer detail. Everything from the balconies to the columns and the French doors to the ironwork hailed from 16th century with only subtle references to its years of maintenance and renewal. In fact, the only piece of modern décor was an entry lock above the ornate door handle. The fact that there were no armed guards made the team nervous. A security lock system, simple and straightforward, did not ease their concern.

Pete inspected the keypad up close and shook his head. "State of the art security system. Why am I not surprised?"

"Allow me," drawled H.G. who glided past the puzzled agents. She knelt before the lock system, her cocked head blocking her audience's visual.

Steve cast a questioning look at the other two who simply shrugged like they were used to it. Since they set out on this mission, Pete and Myka felt taken for a ride at the range of talents of this Englishwoman. Yet looks could be deceiving. This was no ordinary physicist and part-time writer. This was an H.G. Wells with a head full of ideas both innocent and volatile, having a penchant for keeping even the sharpest minds on their toes. It seemed improbable that they could be surprised even after beating Myka at five straight games of chess, sweated out a difficult suspect during hotel rounds, rattled off a dozen of her favorite Star Wars books to a giddy Pete, and snagged an artifact from her own childhood home. There was much about H.G. that boggled the mind, but, thankfully, she was still the woman Myka had come to befriend and care for. Yet as the professor worried at her lip and scrutinized the back of a genius' head, she was curious to know how H.G. adopted the skill of breaking and entering.

"Pen," she ordered.

Pete snapped out of it and procured a pen from his pocket, laying it carefully into the eager hand flapping before him.

"Thank you, darling."

There were a few clicks, probably the pen attacking the integrity of Lallement's entry lock. Quite offended by something in the circuitry, there was a shake of the head followed by a series of incoherent mutterings. Myka broke into smile. She was completely taken with the mumbles and tinkering of an oblivious scientist.

She's so adorable.

Can I keep her?

"Ha! Like cracking an egg!" H.G. rose and returned Pete's pen. "Though not as messy."

"Remind me to never piss you off," Pete said, wide-eyed. "I've got valuable stuff in my room."

"Righty-ho." H.G. threw up her hands happily and they clapped to her sides. "Are we all arranged to storm the castle?" she quipped, a wide smile on her face and sparkle of adventure in her eyes. She winked at Myka, bringing a redder hue to the professor's cheeks.

The team split up to cover more ground. They agreed upon a strict 'No touchy' rule as they searched among some very old, shifty looking objects. After sweeping the ground floor, Pete and Steve came upon a door under the grand staircase.

After opening the creaking door Pete's shoulders sagged. "Why is it always the creepy basement?"

Steve gazed over his shoulder. Shelves and barrels outlined the darkness. "More like creepy cellar."

Pete turned around with a sour look on his face. "Not helping."

"Oh! A cellar! How I love a good cellar!"

H.G. joined the two, a weary Myka on her heels. Biting her lip H.G. rose up on her toes to get a better look at the dark stairway. "Are we going to investigate that?" she asked hopefully.

"You are enjoying this far too much," Myka mumbled. She had just searched the entire upper level of the manor, dragged by the hand of one adventurous H.G. Wells. Her enthusiasm knew no bounds in the four walls of a small castle that was packed with artifacts, supernatural or otherwise. They had already come across a collection of 17th century witch bottles, a priceless Francisco de Goya, sacred bones of Manchu Pichhu, and (to Myka's delight and H.G.'s disgust) a rotting mummy that was safely encased behind glass. "That's the Goucher mummy!" the professor cried, finger jabbing at the glass earnestly. "But I thought that was on loan to the John Hopkins Archaeological Museum." In her confusion, H.G. led her away with the discomforting words of "Apparently, money does buy everything."

With that one exception, it was the professor who had to keep the other in line. H.G.'s fascinations may be particular, but they were not limited to the scientific. She had a healthy obsession with rare books, silver tea sets, and (thanks to her father's favorite past time) the occasional croquet equipment. Since they had become friends H.G. never once made fun of Myka's historical disparagements and commendations. She delighted in the look of wonder on that expressive face. Myka returned the favor, exercising patience during the scientist's rants on NASA funding and giving her space when her research demanded it. Though presently, considering they were breaking and entering without a warrant or sound credentials Myka had to reign in both H.G.'s curiosity and her grabby hands. It was no easy feat.

Stumbling in the dark of the basement (cellar), the team finally switched on their flashlights. Like a subterranean vault, the place was immense. The room at the base of the stairway was a cool 55 degrees and damp, the perfect conditions for storing wine, "or averting suspicion" Steve suggested wisely. Once they passed the walls shelved with barrels they entered a passageway. The air became staler, drier. The tunnel opened to a gallery room and a sight to behold.

"Oh my god," gasped Myka.

"Bloody hell."

"It's Artie Heaven," Pete muttered.

The room was aglow by the dim lights overhead, but what really shined was the plethora of gold, silver, and diamond objects. Gilded pieces were stacked to the ceiling, gem studded crowns and goblets pooled around a Moroccan throne chair, several chests spilled over with pearls, gold coins, and precious stones. There were also some not-so-gleaming artifacts in the form of rusted armor and bronze weapons, clay pots, a life-size Terracotta horse, urns, vases, caskets, paintings, murals, stacks of books, rolls of parchment…

Nothing looked tagged or labeled. There was no rhyme or reason for each object's location. It was as if all those priceless objects were thrown together in one heap. It made Warehouse 13 look like a spread out of Martha Stewart Living.

Steve eyes glazed over. "It's a treasure room."

"This must be where Lallement keeps all his black market pieces."

"It's kind of small," Pete scoffed to Myka who developed a crease between her brows, "but I'm sure there's another one."

"This way." H.G. already found the next treasure room and was making a bee line for it. Never mind backup.

Already aware of her friend's carelessness in thrilling moments such as this, Myka sprinted after her. They got a few feet into the passageway when they heard an echo of voices. Grabbing H.G. by the arm, Myka pulled her back from entering the next treasure room. Breathing deeply, the two partners flattened their backs to the walls to limit any sign of their presence. From the shadows they could make out the faint glow of gold and silver in addition to the crackling radio. Myka couldn't make out the words, but she knew getting caught would not bode well for her upcoming tenure.

Because I probably won't live to see it.

H.G. clung to Myka's hand. She sensed the professor's tremor and gave it a squeeze which was instantly returned. With everything going on in that treasure room and the dark tunnel which they couldn't make a peep in, the gesture spoke what it needed to.

I'm here, love.

The other half of their team approached on shuffling feet.

"Huh, guess I was right about another treasure room."

Myka pressed a finger to her lips, shushing Pete. She jerked her head towards the opening of the passage then used two fingers to point from her eyes to the room echoing with radio crackles. Pete licked his lips, squinting at her sign language and shook his head, giving up. Myka's lips formed an angry thin line before she repeated the gesture. She then jabbed him in the chest (causing him to scowl like a four-year-old) and made a driving hand motion towards the treasure room.

"Can you just speak English?" Pete rushed out. "And stop poking me!"

"Myka and I will stay here and watch the passageway," H.G. interpreted, "while you and Steve distract Lallement's guard."

Pete's head jerked back. "You understood all that?"

H.G. shrugged, smirking.

"Right," he deduced. The blush Myka was sporting explained everything. "Let's go, Jinksy."

"I'm a trained FBI agent and even I didn't get that," Steve whispered to Pete as they crept ahead. "It's gotta be a woman thing."

Pete cocked his head as if it were plausible, then said rather surely, "Or a love connection thing."

"A what?"

"Dude, someone needs to tune their gaydar."

"My gaydar is working just fine, trust me."

"Not around those two it's not. My ping practically goes nuclear when Myka and H.G. are even in the same room. And those googly eyes Myka gives her? Freaking adorable. And I don't say 'adorable' often. And H.G.'s smoldering glances and innocent hand touches? Man, is it getting hot in here or is it just me?" Pete fanned his shirt, grinning like an adolescent boy. "You're up Jinksy boy!" Pete called as they made it to the entrance, slapping his partner on the back before a word in edgewise could be made.

One sole henchman stood at the center of the treasure room. He looked to be in his mid-forties, average height, and slim build. He wore plain clothing, though mostly in shades of black. His back was turned as Steve sneaked around him. At just the right moment he tapped the muscular shoulder.

"Who are you?" asked the henchman.

"I'm with the French Department of Health and Safety. These ceilings aren't standard regulation."

He gave pause, and then sneered, reaching for his sidearm. "You're not the authorities."

"No, I'm not," Steve agreed, rather at ease with the mounting situation. He pointed behind the henchman. "But he is."

Too late did Lallement's man see him for Pete's fist was in the way. He was down for the count.

"Yo, Adrian!" Pete hooted, fist churning the air in triumph.

"Will you keep it down?" Steve hissed. "There might be more of them! And I am not your Adrian," he added testily.

"Hey, everyone needs an Adrian," Pete said unapologetically. "Who's yours?"

Steve was looking into the next tunnel, his ear tuned for footsteps. "What? Huh?"

"You're Adrian, you're One, the cheese to your macaroni." Pete waited and got nothing. "Your Angelina Jolie to your Brad Pitt?"

A sheepish grin graced the ex-FBI agent's face. "No offense to Angelina, but if my Brad is out there I'm sure he's not in the basement of a black market dealing sociopath."

Pete stared for a moment, blankly, his rusty cogged wheels screeching with the turns. He then broke out into a wide smile, head bobbing. "Right on!"

"Right on what?" Myka came up behind them.

"Jinksy here was just telling me –"

"Right on schedule!" Steve answered. He smiled at his partner and clapped him on the back. "With the mission because who has time for anything else?"

The footsteps were soft and the team was distracted, so they didn't see it coming. A group of Lallement's men came lurking out of the shadows, one grabbing Steve from behind. Pete took on the other two, fists flying and head butting. After Steve successfully subdued his attacker with a choke hold he dove in to help his partner.

Myka stood a distance away, gun drawn and standing protectively in front of H.G. Though she had her fair share of fights in the past this situation did not play by the rules of Chicago's finest dojo. The attacks were dirty and unpredictable. These men were willing to kill and from the looks of it were frighteningly accommodating to incapacitate. Myka's pupils dilated as they memorized the choreography of the assaults. Midst the grunts, shouts, and clashing of priceless relics her heart pumped soundly in her ears. It was thrilling and dangerous, addicting and consequential. Fight or flight at its finest.

H.G. shouted irately from behind, "This is not what I signed up for! Guns and strangulation…"

Pete, pinned to the wall, clubbed his attacker in the back. "It's all a part of the job!"

H.G. gave him a curt nod. "Well, you can keep them. I, however, possess alternative means to incapacitate."

"Do I wanna know what that means?" Pete squinted, momentarily distracted from his predicament.

More men charged in from nowhere. H.G. stepped up to the first opponent and striked the side of his neck with her hand, kneed his stomach and used leverage of her right arm to flip him head over heels.

"When did you learn Kenpo?" Myka asked wide-eyed. She was familiar with the style but slightly jarred by not knowing such a detail about her friend.

H.G. sent a knuckle strike to the next man's sternum. "Did you think I spent all those years in witness protection and not learn a bit of self-defense?" She swept a leg from under him, sending him to the ground choking.

Aside from how beautiful H.G. looked with her floating black hair and agile limbs, such a conversational tone during a voracious fighting sequence had Myka all smiles. H.G., cheeks burning and lungs panting, shared it for a few intensely arousing seconds before the fighting resumed.

With Steve diving for cover from a round of bullets, Pete was in a more troubling situation. One of the henchmen had a good arm thrown about his neck. The pair of them were doubled over, Pete trying to flip his attacker, the attacker trying to steal the air from his very lungs.

"Peeete!" Myka's voice cracked as she focused her gun. "I don't want to kill anyone! Do I have to kill anyone?"

"Jusht…" Pete gasped around the rather hefty bicep, "schoot… footh… legh… anywhere!"

Myka exhaled and took the shot. The sound bounced off the gallery walls with a sharp, resonating crack. Pete's eyes widened. Myka waited, eyes searching.

"Peeete?"

The agent grunted and coughed. With considerable effort he let the henchman slide to the ground with a thump. Pete straightened, unscathed. "Nice shot, Doctor! I take back what I said about civilians packing heat."

Myka still had her SIG-Sauer on the enemy. Her green eyes were as wide as saucers. "D-did I kill him?"

Pete kicked the downed attacker whose chest was still rising and falling. "Just unconscious." If they weren't in the middle of a battle he would have eased her gun down and patted her on the shoulder with a comforting, "You did good, Myka" but there was no time for pleasantries or mentor pep talks.

Out of the corner of her eye, H.G. spotted movement. However, it was not the presence of the henchmen she had severely immobilized that she sensed. This shadow had a more menacing quality to it. The form reeked of death and secrets. She gave chase.

"Go after her!" Pete noticed Myka's worried glance and started clearing a path for her. If it were not for her cautious nature or recently proven skills with a gun he wouldn't let her take one more step. Then again, he was pretty damn sure there was no hope of dissuading her. Not even the vibe stirring within him could stop this woman from dashing after her friend. "Steve and I got this!"

Myka swallowed and raced after the ends of drifting black hair. H.G. never slowed. The pair of their boots clapped the stone as they chased down the shadow. Expectation was thrown to the wind. Not a single plan could have prepared them for what they would find. At the end of the tunnel and the last room of the basement, nothing could prove a single hypothesis of the scientific and inventive mind of H.G. Wells.

The voice of a stranger and a known adversary alike boomed in their ears.

"It was so good of you to follow."