"You do know that, if any of this were real, you'd be dismissed immediately."
/
There is a weak-willed attack happening beneath her bones – constricting her heart to the point of pain – and that's how she wakes up again.
She tries to move first, tries to get her muscles to work like they should, but her arms just shake violently when she attempts to use them. And her legs feel like lead, so useless against this mattress, but she forces frozen knees to bend – agonizing inch by agonizing inch – until they do not ache so much as they just endlessly burn.
And there, at the edge of her hazy sleep-stare, is a flash of red.
And it hurts a lot to move; it hurts a lot to push the air into her lungs and it hurts a lot to shift stiff fingers into the purple gloves she left on this hotel bed – resting on a pillow like a silent lover.
It hurts a lot to shove those ruby-red slippers off of her cramping feet.
All of this hurts a whole damn lot, though.
And suddenly the room around her starts to melt.
The colors were already unclear due to her reawakened vision being so blurry, but now the beiges and the off-whites are running down into the floor – like an abstract painting or like fresh ink caught in a thunderstorm – and this is reality as it turns into a terrible sort of art form.
This is what a hotel room in the middle of nowhere looks like as Myka's tears fall from her eyes.
/
"I know. I know that, if you were really here… I could lose everything."
/
The clock tells her that is has been a little more than a day.
It has been a day and four hours and forty-three minutes, to be exact.
And it feels strange to walk again, with booted feet so heavy against the carpeted hallway; it feels strange to look around and to see everything in such a 'regular' light - no longer a soft hue around the edges, no longer a gorgeous gauze over the faces.
The hotel clerk nods his head at her as she signs her receipt and then eyes her closely when she pays in cash. But he does not ask questions as he hands over the envelope, a cry for help that never needed to be opened, and he'll forget about this name on the registry – even if that name is 'Harry M. Smith'* and it belongs to a woman.
The hotel clerk will forget about all of this.
Myka is the only one who will actually remember.
/
"Was it worth it, Agent Bering?"
/
The window is open and, this time, she can feel the air slide across her face – so cool without the sun to warm it, carrying the phantoms of diesel trucks with each caress. She can hear the engine as it runs and she can hear the press of tires to the highway. She can feel the way her fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, white-knuckled hold onto reality as she breaks speed limits.
And there are seconds where she feels like she will faint; where she feels like she will just fall back against this leather seat and shut her eyes as this automobile careens from blacktop to dirt.
But she continues to hold tightly onto the steering wheel as she forces herself to breathe in the reality of this world once again.
This world, returned to her with a gasping breath and a crushing weight upon her chest.
This world, where there is never enough time and where there are no guarantees.
/
"Yes. I believe it was."
/
And it feels a little bit like flying low to the ground, this driving at impossible speeds down some pre-dawn highway in the middle of nowhere.
It feels a little bit like being yanked up into the heavens by nothing more than some wire and a strong arm about the waist.
It feels a little bit like a first kiss; it feels a little bit like being in love while perched on top of the universe.
It feels a little bit like the best dream in the world – right before it ends.
/
"…Then I can only hope that you are correct, Agent Bering, and that the ends truly do justify the means."
/
Mrs. Frederic never showed her impassive face within that artifact-dream, remaining conveniently absent from Myka's gaze. Like Steve and his ability to tell fact from fiction, Mrs. Frederic presented an ever-present danger inside of Myka's active mind – like an internal warden always just around the corner.
And so Myka must have chosen to keep the woman away from this bout of secret slumbering.
But the conversation is happening anyway.
And Myka tells herself that it could be a side-effect to using an artifact. Myka tells herself that it could just be the very familiar beginnings of guilt, easily manifesting itself in the voice of Mrs. Frederic.
Myka tells herself that she might still be asleep after-all and that maybe Mrs. Frederic is the last person she will ever interact with; it will just be the two of them talking about cause and effect as Myka's body begins to waste away.
But the conversation is still happening.
And even though Myka knows that this is what she had to do – she had to change the rules, just like a very wise woman once said – her response is still colored with doubt.
/
"That's what I am hoping for, too."
/ /
TBC
*= from 'The Dream' by H.G. Wells