Aswan was located along the upper reaches of the Nile River. It was once a stone quarry in ancient times and produced red, grey, and black granite. All materials mined from this site were used to create a variety of structures including the three obelisks (known as "Cleopatra's Needles") found in London, Paris, and New York, and many burial chambers, sarcophagi, and columns in the pyramids of Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure at Giza.

The team stood in a line on a hill ridge overlooking the temple. It had been an arduous ride from Alexandria, hot and bumpy. And it only got hotter. Their t-shirts and blouses stuck uncomfortably to their skin, their feet ached, eyes became sore through squinting into blazing light, and their hope was slowly dwindling with the setting sun.

Without a word they trudged down the stony ridge, dust swirling in their wake. The temple came further into view. The structure was carved directly into the rocky hill with its doorless entrance facing the west bank of the Nile as if welcoming a nomadic party. It didn't take an Egyptologist to conclude that the site had already been upset by tomb robbers, sandstorms, floods, and the inevitability of time. There was no evidence of footprints or previous tenants. It had been abandoned from recorded history and human intervention only to stand as a home for scavengers.

"Okay," Pete sighed, hands on his hips, "you guys ready to prove the Great Arthur Nielsen wrong? Because it will not be a pretty sight. Not that I've had the pleasure of proving him wrong. His hunches are usually right."

"Ten bucks says it's not here," Steve said.

The professor, "Excuse me?"

"Are you betting against, Myka?

Steve's eyes widened at H.G. who looked like she was about to snap his neck. "I was joking?" He smiled meekly to Myka.

"Twenty dollars says it is here. And another twenty if it is as intact as Dr. Bering claims."

"Helena…"

"What?" H.G. raised a brow, boldly testing her friend. "Betting against intuition now, are you?"

"Looks like we got ourselves a wager," Pete called as he saw Steve and H.G. shake hands cordially to their contract. "Nothing like a little friendly competition to keep the mosquitos at bay." He swiped in front of his face. The buzzing continued.

They switched on their flashlights and proceeded to the entrance.

"Wait," Pete's barricaded the dark entryway before Myka could get far, "let me go first."

She gave him a look.

"There could be a cave in or something. And I've got a lot of upper body strength to prevent any incoming collapse… or something." He shrugged and glanced elsewhere.

Myka smiled shyly as he took the lead, looking all broad shouldered and big brotherly (even if she refused to admit it out loud).

The team made their way through the narrow entrance which led down a staircase. The stairs ended into darkness, so they leveled the beams of their flashlights. It was another narrow corridor with low, arched ceilings and decaying walls. The stone under their feet was ground into a thin powder and smelled of stale granite. The team followed the corridor which only went deeper into the hill. The further they traveled the less sense they made of time and direction. It was darker and cooler down there, but also remote and eerily silent.

They walked single file, Pete first followed by Myka, Steve, and H.G. in the rear. To make up for the quiet and the fear it encouraged, Myka educated her team on Aswan and Ancient Egyptian building materials. Others would beg to differ on one detail: Myka did not educate. She babbled endlessly.

"Aswan was a quarry site," the professor said cheerily, "that produced 80% of the building materials used for obelisks and sculptures in Ancient Egypt. Their stone was a notable resource. Ptolemy V's decree had the Rosetta stele carved from granodiorite which is an intrusive igneous rock."

Pete's flashlight rotated and blinded Myka. "Carved from what of the what now?"

"It's like granite."

Pete drew out a long "Ahhh."

"So, uhh," Steve started, "you like learning about this stuff, Myka?"

"Mm," she hummed, seriously contemplating before a nod, "yeah I do. You see, it's not just about what is being transported from quarry to port, but how materials are transported across a whole desert – could be 500 miles. And keep in mind, these stones weighed up to 175,000 pounds! I mean, take Stonehenge for example. Bluestone rock originated mostly in Wales but ended up 250 miles away in Wiltshire, England. You look at those 25 ton monuments and can't help but wonder how on earth they got there. If you take these extraordinary feats into consideration you start to realize how superior –"

"Doctor," groaned Pete, "can we take an intermission? At least to get some popcorn or a soda or even a mallet."

Myka stopped in her tracks. She positioned the brightest spot of her flashlight on Pete's face as if he were under interrogation. "You said quarries were 'awesome.'"

"Yeah, that was, like, ten minutes ago."

There was a loud, harassed exhale of air from Myka.

H.G.'s laugh echoed all the way through the corridor and up to the exit. She was enjoying this far too much.

Myka pointed the beam, in turn, at the giggling woman. "What are you laughing at?"

H.G. stifled the chuckle with her fingers. "Don't mind me," she recovered. "I'm just the reflective student at the back of the room. Carry on."

Pete grunted with amusement. "Or the student with the crush on the teacher. So cliché," he said under his breath. "Onwards?"

The team resumed their search and bypassed the split corridors that were caved in for the long, lonely middle one. Myka continued her lecture on Egyptian stone quarries – just to aggravate Pete.

When the corridor finally widened into an open chamber the team split up. They searched high and low through the circular chamber, behind pillars, underneath broken terra cotta pottery, and even between the cracks in the walls.

"Maybe there's a hidden door someplace?" Steve suggested.

"Oh, yeah!" cried Pete. "Like in National Treasure! We should see if there are any familiar markings around here that might be the key to opening a door."

The place was deserted, scavenged down to every last insignificant piece of stoneware. It was just as frustrating when they found that the chamber had not a single glyph etched into its walls. It was as much alike a nameless, forgotten temple as it was a construction hazard.

"There is nothing of value here," murmured H.G. She kicked at shard of clay in what could only be described as melancholy.

Myka stared helpless at a wall. It was a blank template for all her hopes and dreams, kind of like the one she had crayoned on in childhood. After growing out of that phase she meant to learn everything there was to learn about forgotten moments in time and the figures that made history happen. She was supposed to uncover something miraculous and bring it back into the world not for wealth or prestige, but to fulfill her imaginings. But the template was blank and terribly empty. It was failure personified.

"I thought…"

"It's okay, Mykes." Pete scratched his chin, having a hard time looking at the professor. To see her go from enthusiastic to semi-unresponsive was devastating. The hope just drained from her face. He was hurting for her. "At least we gave it a shot."

Steve, the agent who always ended a mission, regardless of its outcome, with some sense of accomplishment and serenity, bit his lip and shifted on his feet anxiously. "So that's it? We came here for nothing?"

"No, not for nothing," H.G. snapped, glaring a fire into Steve. "Even an unexpected outcome results in some form of enlightenment." H.G. learned something, at least. And from the downcast eyes and fidgeting of the ring on her finger she wasn't about to broadcast it in front of the whole team. "Mistakes are the portals to discovery."

"I was so sure."

Everyone heard Myka's whisper and knew it wasn't intended for their ears. The break in her voice wasn't meant to be heard, either.

"I think we should leave this place," Steve remarked suddenly. "It's starting to creep me out – and I usually like the quiet."

Steve turned and before he even took two strides for the exit his shoe caught on the ground. His arms flailed as he tripped to an easy, sandy landing.

Pete asked, "You okay, Jinksy?"

"Didn't I tell you to stop calling me that?" Steve winced and rose to his elbows. "I think I just tripped. Must have been some broken pottery or something."

A pair of brown eyes never looking so optimistic widened. "Or… something," gasped H.G. making a beeline for the area at Steve's feet.

She fell to her knees and made no pause to slip her hands into the ground, fingers wiggling between the millions of miniscule grains. The culprit of Steve's fall was submerged in a sea of it. Her hands fished around, getting a feel for the edges while scooping out handfuls of sand to create a dry moat around it.

"I could do with some assistance," sang H.G. She was made beautiful by the smile and sparkling eyes on the object in her grasp.

The team formed a circle around the site and started digging frantically, hearts beating faster, eyes growing to astonishment. Before long the mystery was unearthed.

Myka shot up, mouth hung open and her entire self completely frozen. To anyone who didn't know her she would have appeared mortified. But her team knew her better. Her friends knew her better and it wasn't mortification carved into her features. It was pure, untainted admiration. Myka was admiring the true, the one and the only Rosetta Stone.

Myka wasn't thinking about much in that moment. Really, it didn't matter what she thought. Written history didn't matter and neither did human testimony. None of it mattered because there at her feet was something that turned every textbook and account on its head. She was speechless. She was honored. She felt at peace.

The tranquility was interrupted gently. Myka looked down at the hand resting on her thigh and met H.G.'s gaze. The Englishwoman seemed just as speechless, honored, and at peace looking up at the professor.

"This place truly is a temple."

Myka broke out into a smile and soon a laugh. She couldn't say, but she knew.

A large portion of the near ton stone was still buried. Its whole lower half was stuck and immovable by human hands.

"The flooding of the Nile must have sunk the stone so deep below the sand it got trapped in the clay underneath." Myka's head tilted. "It would have taken years for something this big to get encased in that level of clay, silt, and gravel."

"It's been here this whole time," gasped Pete. He whipped a hand over his face, not believing it.

"The whole time," Myka agreed.

"Hang on," Steve raised a hand. "You're saying that the Rosetta Stone never left Egypt in the first place? That's what you're saying, right?"

H.G. turned to Myka with similar concern.

"General Menou was still governor at the time of the stone's supposed transfer to Great Britain. The war was still raging in 1801 until British and Ottoman forces pushed through French lines, finally ending the conflict. By all accounts, Menou was still in possession of the stone – which was, by rights, his property. And with France's defeat he had a choice to make. According to your average textbooks, he surrendered the stone to the British. That explains why millions of tourists pilgrimage to the British Museum and pay homage to a fake spectacle.

"He couldn't take it with him back to France; the Rosetta Stone had already gained widespread attention in academia and its disappearance would have sparked suspicion." Myka bit her lip, trying to put herself in the general's position. What would she do with a priceless artifact in the midst of conflict? "Menou would have either had to leave it behind for the British to find or return it back to its place of origin – hiding it, essentially."

"One man deciding the fate of such historical importance," H.G. mulled over. Her brow rose. "Resonates a sort of injustice, if you were to ask me."

"Who makes sound decisions during war?" Myka argued. "But no," she murmured, blinking faintly, "I think Menou knew exactly what he had to do. The tests and copies Napoleon ordered made it ideal for a fake to be swapped in and left to British hands. And there was so much chaos during the invasion of Alexandria that it was the perfect moment to perform the trick. Returning the stone to its home was the right course of action."

"Really?" Pete's tone peaked incredulously. "But aren't scholars all about preserving historical documents and mummies? You know, carbon dating and lasers and second opinions? I thought as a professor you would want to deck this Menou guy for keeping the Rosetta Stone from the public."

"It's not like it belongs to me," Myka responded with a one shoulder shrug. "Technically it doesn't belong to the world, either. It originated and was discovered in Egypt, so the stone is the rightful property of the Egyptian people."

"Not Menou and his family line?" Steve inquired. "What happened to 'finder's keepers?'"

A dark cloud passed over H.G.'s face. Her mouth was a grim line. "I don't think Lallement is in a capacity to accept any temporal possession."

"But this changes things, doesn't it?" asked Pete. He rose to his feet with purpose, squaring his shoulders with a sense of justice rising from within. "Don't forget, Artie's research goes back all the way to when it was discovered. This thing is an artifact. If it belongs anywhere it is in the Warehouse."

"Now wait just a minute," H.G. challenged, her shoulders thrown back as Pete had done. "This artifact is more than a mere treasure; it is a superior teaching device. Do you know how many would benefit from this? The sheer number of languages and dialects it possesses could open the minds of the most enlightened. If it belongs to anyone it belongs to the academic community, not a motley crew of agents from Area 51!"

"Okay, first of all, the Warehouse is in no way associated with that hoax of a place. Second, this artifact may help you teachers but it can also kill. Have you learned nothing from this case? You and Myka could have died down there in Lallement's evil lair."

Indeed, she did remember. How could she forget Myka's screams? Somehow, unfortunately, the image of her clutching her head in excruciating pain would stay with H.G. till the end of time.

"Pete has a point." The knuckles of Steve's hand scratched at his chin. H.G. threw a murderous look at him. "Well, he does."

"You guys forget that this is a national treasure," Myka jumped in. "Question ownership all you want, Egypt is, by all truths, the sole owner of the Rosetta Stone. It was constructed in this very chamber, made from the rocks beneath our very feet, and discovered in the sands of this country. The stone's power, intellectual and supernatural, rests in the hands of this nation's people. It may be pertinent to world history, but it is a history that originated within these borders. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for Menou to leave this behind. He would rather leave it buried in the sands than in the hands of the British." Myka jerked her head in her friend's direction, muttering, "No offense."

The Englishwoman smirked, chin dipping. "None taken."

"In the end, his choice was a valiant one," continued the professor. "The artifact is made entirely from basalt; what better home for it than the earth it was cast from?"

"The Rosetta Stone returned to whence it came." H.G. considered it for a moment before shrugging. "There is poetry in that."

Pete groaned, clutching the sides of his head in frustration. "Guys, I can't believe I'm being the adult here. Like I said: This. Is. An. Artifact. It can destroy lives. It can make you insane. It even corrupts the strongest of wills. Trust me, I've seen it happen plenty." He sighed, shaking his head sadly. His eyes met the subject of their debate and gestured towards it with his hands. "Agents have died protecting the world from artifacts just like this one. We can't begin to understand the downside of one this big. Who knows, it could be more powerful than the Warehouse can handle. But in my experience, and based on my gut, I'm telling you it's the safest place. No museums, no schools, and no abandoned temples. It has to stay with the Warehouse."

"So the world can never know?" Steve asked. "The one on display at the British Museum will always be considered the real thing?"

"It's best for everyone."

The chamber went silent. They all stared down at the Rosetta Stone, each with their own opinion, each with a proposed future for it.

"So?" Pete prodded.

There was an uncomfortable silence, but the agents nodded in accord. It was inevitable, really. It was always going to be the Warehouse. They just couldn't see behind their own personal affinity for the treasure. When one discovered such an impossible thing, something that could change history, it made one ponder the ramifications of the self. Money, education, power, patriotism. Discovery always came with a sense of privilege. Lallement had indeed been a deeply fanatical soul, but his madness did not revoke his birthright. Discovery also came with responsibility and that was, in the end, motivation for the team's shared agreement.

H.G. sighed. "I suppose it was always destined to end up on a shelf in the middle of a geographical nowhere."

"Better collecting dust on a shelf than in the hands of the next military dictator," Pete pointed out. From his back pocket he procured the Farnsworth. "I think it's time to fill the boss in. Better tell him to sit down first," he cracked with a chuckle.

There was no signal there, of course, so he retreated out of the depths of the temple. The rest of the agents smiled to the faint echo of his preparation speech which included the excerpt, "I told you so!" and something along the lines of opening a falafel joint in Univille.

H.G. folded her arms, index finger tapping in time with a cheery tone only her ears could detect.

"I am quite positive that someone owes me forty dollars."

Steve rolled his eyes as her smile grew mischievous. With a great exhale he dug deep into his pockets. He even had to count every bill before the brown, prideful eyes of a champion gambler. It was too bad, really. Those twenty dollars would have been put to better use towards a hostel shower.

"Don't forget the extra twenty," H.G. added happily and making a careful count of the bills, "for it being in adequate condition, understandably."

Correction, forty dollars would have been more worthy of a shower.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Agent Jinks."

Steve's chin met his shoulder as he muttered to Myka, "That is the first and last time I bet against you."

H.G. picked up on that, but after settling their little business transaction she was left smiling like a winner who was forty dollars richer.

It was the little things.

With his tail set firmly between legs, Steve caught up to Pete, leaving Myka to shout after him to tell Artie something for her. Her words were lost in the temple's confines, and so it turned out that they became its only inhabitants, the professor a surly sight and the Englishwoman in a frightfully amused state of mind.

"It's only fair I get half the winnings."

"Oh, is it now?"

H.G. retreated back a step as Myka seized one forward.

"Yes," the professor replied. Her eyes were daggers but the teasing grin demolished any hope of putting on a strong front.

"I never did share well with others." H.G. clamped down on the grin, thinning her lips into a strict line.

"Try."

Another step forward, another back. Myka was so cute when she asserted authority. It would be scary if it weren't so cute, if the eyes weren't narrowed quite so much or her mouth wasn't twitching so laterally. H.G. could only imagine how feeble those undergrads looked under grim effort.

"I was the mastermind of this operation. Those twenty dollars are mine."

"But if it were not for me you and our friends would be riding camels till you hit the Red Sea," H.G. pointed out with a smug tongue.

Myka bit her lower lip, but the chuckle was inevitable. She couldn't help it in the presence of that wicked, cocksure smile. God, did it drive her mad.

Myka advanced slowly, H.G. retreated even slower. Soon there would be no escape. H.G. was okay with that. In fact, she was counting on it.

Arriving in H.G.'s personal space, Myka tipped her head and closed her eyes for a minute. She breathed in the scent of their sweat, the salt of the Nile, and the faint undertones of marmalade. She breathed deeply, peacefully, and then sighed. It was so pleasant, it took seconds. Myka's eyes opened. "We found it."

"Yes," H.G.'s eyes agreed with every curve of Myka's face, the crinkle to her nose, her mouth, and the verses that poured from it, "we did, didn't we?"

The temple was balmy despite the lack of sun and creepy undertones. Crypts weren't romantic, not a bit, but then Myka and H.G. were not your typical pair. They were dog tired and dingy. Instead of desiring a shower or a bite to eat the first thing on their minds was staring. Staring and breathing the same 100 year old dust particles. Myka looked at the beautiful curves and notes of H.G.'s face, looking and breathing. H.G. was doing the same and she knew.

H.G. took hold of Myka's arms and leaned in. Myka saw the look in her eyes and knew before it even happened that she intended to kiss her. Finally.

Myka blinked suddenly, not a flutter but a rapid blinking that verged on clarity. Her head turned to the side just as it was about to happen.

H.G.'s advance was terminated. The breath in her lungs was suspended. Just what she was waiting for was not known. Maybe it would never come to pass. The very misfortune clamped around H.G.'s heart, sucking every last passion, hope, every last crooked smile into a melting pot of oblivion.

Myka's heart was racing. Her palms were damp. She felt boxed in. She was experiencing all the classic signs of panic, so the practical part of her spurred a retreat to turn her back.

H.G. fought the urge to call her name. It died in her throat, perhaps because something else had closed it to convulsing limits. Instead, H.G. stared at her back and swallowed over the lump repeatedly. She knew all too well why Myka pulled away. Understanding why was almost as painful as not kissing her.

Myka liked questions. As a scientist, H.G. thrived on them. It was one of the quirks that made them so compatible. What was confusing for the both of them were the questions Myka was asking herself as her back was turned. She was at a loss for understanding the thing between them and why it was happening. Why now? Why her? Why me? Why us?

H.G. had made it worse. The attempt to broach a new level of affection was premature. For as bright a thinker as H.G., she never thought to offer Myka the answers she needed, the assurance that this thing between them was real and lasting and not just a product of excitement and historical discovery. In order for Myka to let her in, H.G. needed to talk to her. Myka was in need of words unfolded, not physical contact. The feelings that had been growing between them were awe inspiring and ignited a pleasant aching in their hearts, but without words all the feelings had accomplished was a hole burning through their patience. Myka was so smart and so fragile. She deserved nothing less than an explanation.

Myka's back was only turned for a few seconds, the time it took for H.G. to mentally berate her actions (those alike to teenage boy). But when a curly head of hair rose from its bow it faced the Englishwoman without doubt or fear, and soon H.G.'s inner battle slipped. The eyes were different, they were still their stunning forest green, but with an added spirit of… something.

A single brow of H.G.'s furrowed at the puzzle. Her lips parted a touch. It was now her turn for a heart race. Every conscientious thought slipped through her grasp. That scolding she gave herself just seconds ago didn't seem to matter much when Myka was looking at her… like that. She failed to recall the 'explanation plan.' She forgot… she forgot…

Bollocks.

"I should have done this a long time ago."

Breathless, body humming, Myka asked, "Done what?"

H.G. was already moving. Arms outstretched, hands forming a gentle cup like they were about to cradle the face of an angel, she moved. "This."

Myka felt the hands on her face and the mouth on her lips. The force of the kiss was desperate and loving, passionate and tender. The kiss was aggressive as it was gentle. Two sides of the same coin, H.G. put everything into it. She could be vicious and placid all at the same time, all in one kiss. Sting of teeth then a soothing tongue, jaw and lips working together slow then fast. They were different modes of device but equal in concept. The concept, in this case, just took Myka's breath away in one fell swoop and a brush of lips.

They're arms wrapped around each other as the professor returned the contact. It was so mutually accepted that it lasted longer than time would care to admit.

"I love you," murmured H.G., inches from Myka's astonished, yet serene face. "I should have told you…" her head turned from side to side, "I was a complete prat, but then you have a tendency to leave me quite absurd. I wouldn't allow anyone else to do that. I wouldn't want to feel so smitten that I lose my bearings. Not with anyone else but you. You keep me interesting, Myka, and I don't want to feel that with anyone else. As long as I draw breath I will always love you."

"Yes," Myka sighed, letting her cheek fall into a stroking hand, "you are interesting." Smiling, she tilted her head and buried her face in the woman's neck, her scent, her love. "And absurd." Her hands clutched at H.G.'s shoulders as they jumped to a chortle. "And the best friend I could ever ask for," she whispered under H.G.'s ear. There was no room or right for pause, so she held on and let it go finally. "It's why I love you so much."

There was a gasp and a hitch in breath. Myka felt all ten fingertips press into her back, the hands splayed and driving them closer, impossibly closer for more.

Note: "Mistakes are the portals of discovery" is a quote I borrowed from James Joyce. Thanks JJ!

Also, it is truly an ongoing debate over who should hold ownership over the Rosetta Stone: Britain or Egypt. Many consider the Stone to be "stolen goods" due to little record of the Egyptians being consulted on its seizure. Essentially, that is a matter of colonial dispute. To others the Stone is considered a shared piece of human history that should stay where it has been on display in the British Museum for over 200 years.