AN: Here we are again. I'm glad that the Trident was something that people seemed to appreciate. I hadn't thought about it, ever, until I just did. It as a rather jarring thought when taken with the show. It was also handy in opening up possibilities for the characters later as well, so that was handy. Thanks again, everybody, for taking the time to read and review when the fancy strikes. I love reviews, I do, it's great to see what others think and hear how I could improve, but I love the read count more. I'm a horrible lurker; there are stories I literally read a dozen times over and just never take the time to write anything out, so I end up rather tickled by the read count, because it tells me people are enjoying it. Hopefully, even for just the ten minutes it takes to read the chapter, I made someone's day a little better. So, thanks for letting me do that.

It was regretfully similar to the crime-drama television program Claudia had forced her to watch. The table was steel, bolted to the floor, dull and dented rather ominously in places. There was a wall of one-way glass and a single bulb swung above her, casting a pale yellow light around her. Her wrists were beginning to itch inside the handcuffs, wrapped through the metal bar attached under the table. She would consider picking them, just to relieve the infernal itching, but they had bagged her hangs prior to cuffing her. Apparently, news of that particular talent had spread. Burlap had not improved in the past century.

It's not as if she expected any different, worse in fact. She was still breathing, and that was a definite improvement over what she had imagined. Though, every time her fingers twitched around the non-existent revolver, her wrists dipping under invisible weight and a pair of wild green eyes shocked her system, she almost wished she couldn't. No, she would be honest with herself, for once she would be honest. She would gladly fling herself into the beast's icy mouth if it would take that look from Myka's eyes. The air was dry and Helena sneezed, wrenching her elbow as her body jerked. A sharp pain jolted and lodged itself in the base of her skull.

It was the first real thing she had felt since being taken, being captured. Her head was full of wool, scratchy and muddled. All she knew was that she was alone, she had betrayed everything, betrayed Myka. There was a general numbness she couldn't shake, even as she tried. Helena was more than certain she deserved pain, not the solace of nothing. But, the human mind is a fragile thing, and, after a time, it will simply refuse. It will refuse to contemplate, refuse to process. It will refuse to accept even the most basic of inputs in favor of preservation. If it means survival, the sky will stop being blue, the square of two will cease to be four, and she could never have harmed Myka. She could see the Trident, smell the earth, hear the rumble of damnation, and she could see Myka lean into the barrel of her own gun. There was finally a flash of pain that stole her breath and singed her lungs.

Helena just stared at the door, heavy, re-enforced steel by the look of it, external hinges, electronic keypad entry and exit. It was a proper gate for a monster. She sat, still and silent, and waited. She had nothing to do, time no longer mattered. Helena restrained a laugh at that. If anything in her life had proved meaningless, it was time. She closed her eyes for just a moment and could see a head full of curls peaking around her door, glasses slipping down a slender nose, a bundle of restrained excitement and nervous uncertainty, one of her books clasped against a pair of wonderfully proportioned breasts. Eyes snapped back open as the door swept open. The faint smell of lavender still teased her memory. Time hadn't been meaningless after all. Time was everything.

Mr. Kosan sat across from her, eyes pinched around the edges. He was going to end up with early crows feet. The light from the pathetic bulb above reflected off his polished head, creating a glare almost brighter than the light itself. His suit was well made, Italian by the cut, and he smelled of sandalwood. There was none of the warmth from their last meeting, unsurprisingly. He was observing her, waiting her out, or for some signal Helena could barely begin to guess at. She was heavy, dull, the fire of rage, indignation, pain that had fueled her was gone. There was only the dull throb of remorse, guilt, heavily coated in disbelief, and he would know it. He but only had to look. She looked the man in the eye; she would take whatever they gave her gladly, she was guilty, but it was another pair of eyes for whom she would serve the sentence. This man was not the one she had wronged.

"We seem to be in a bit of a situation, Ms. Wells. What are we to do with you? Tell me, because nothing the Regents have tried has worked. They excused your behavior, overlooked it, allowed you to be bronzed, re-instated you on the word of another agent, and none of it was effective. We forgave your transgressions and you spat in our faces. So, tell me, Ms. Wells, what would be an appropriate punishment? Do we lock you in a box for the rest of your life, kill you, use you at the research facility?" His voice was oily, slick, slipping in her ears and seeping into her pores. She skin crawled.

"You're a useful asset to the Warehouse, Ms. Wells. Clever, cunning, brilliant, resourceful. You are everything a good agent should be. But, you've not been a good agent. You've lied, cheated, created chaos, and attempted to murder everyone, including those that depending on you for their own safety and friendship. You tried to kill Agent Bering, the one woman who believed in you." Kosan watched with satisfaction as a flit of pure agony slid across her face before she got herself back under control. He leaned back in his chair slightly, letting his hands lay flat against the cool metal. She may have controlled her features, but her shoulders remained slumped, curled in, her body following them into the slightest of hunches. This would almost be fun.

"I—I cannot ask for mercy, and I do not expect such, Mr. Kosan. If I could go back and stop myself, I would." Her lip quirked and she let out a mirthless snort. "However, if I have learned anything in my experiences, it is that one cannot alter the past. To say I am sorry is insufficient, inadequate. They are, however, the only words I have, and they are meant in ways language fails to express. Is Art—Agent Nielson healing well?"

"He will live, Ms. Wells. Lucky for you. And you are correct; your apologies are inadequate. That you are remorseful is clear, Ms. Wells. You've been under constant surveillance since you arrived, and you have an unfortunate habit of talking in your sleep. And for that reason, in conjunction with your special talents, lends itself to a unique proposition." He pressed his fingers together, tapping, staring at her from over their tips, gaze piercing, and a sense of dread washed over her. "If you could have anything, Ms. Wells, anything at all, what would it be?"

"Redemption." No hesitation. She would be redeemed and welcomed back into the warmth she so foolishly abandoned. The door opened again and a guard entered, unremarkable in every way but for his sheer size, came to a stop somewhere behind her. He needed a shower, but then again, so did she.

"That, Ms. Wells, is one thing you can have. With time. You will earn our forgiveness. You will redeem yourself. And, when the other Regents and I are satisfied that you have done so, you will be returned to the Warehouse and re-instated. You may return to doing what you do best, with our blessing." He waited just a moment, letting the silence work its way into her system. "You may return to Agent Bering, make amends. That is what you truly want, isn't it? Her forgiveness. Redemption in her eyes. You've been calling for her every time you fall asleep. You could try to earn her forgiveness, earn back her friendship."

Buzzing filled Helena's ears, and her mouth ran dry, tasting of rancid socks. Myka. Moments flashed through her mind, and her chest heaved as she tried to draw breath. Myka.

"What must I do?" The handcuffs rattled and she practically vibrated in her chair, and she failed to notice as the cuffs cut into her wrists. She didn't notice as the blood trickled down to her fingertips, making them twitch.

"You will be purified, cleansed. You need no other information. There is no negotiation. Agreed?"

"Agreed." She was practically vibrating with possibility. She would be better, saner, worthy. She would matter to Myka again if it killed her; she would do her daughter proud. "I only want to return home."

Kosan laughed. There was no kindness there. "And you will. But first, there is much to atone for. And, it begins now." Without another word, the guard stepped forward and slammed a leather sap across the back of her skull. She fell forward instantly, unconscious, a new dent found its way into the tabletop. "Take her to cell 16B. I want her on rotating schedule Alpha. You can remove the cuffs once she's in." The silent man simply nodded and undid the cuffs from the table, picking up Helena as if she were little more than a ragdoll and slung her over his shoulder, carrying her out of the room. They all ignored the smear of blood left in the new dent. Kosan reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a cellphone, the door barely missing Helena's head as it shut.

Twists and turns later there were no more sounds. There was no hum of a generator, no buzz from the overhead lights, only breathing. Recessed lighting along the walls provided a faint glow to light the way, the smell of burning wax and wick filling the air, and, with a tug on the cell door and a heave, Helena flew through the air to land on a stack of straw in a crumpled heap. Had anyone cared to notice, they would have heard a quiet crack on impact and an involuntary shudder. The door slammed shut behind her, and then there was nothing.

"After I discovered the information about the Trident, I decided I needed to gather more data, quietly. Something was off, out of balance, but I couldn't figure out just what. Like the with the Warehouse, there is a feeling within the Regents. It's a sort of underlying presence made up of that thing which makes us human. You may call it a soul, essence, electrical impulse, but it has a texture, a mass to it. And, there were rough spots when I stopped to truly probe that texture. Mr. Kosan was refusing to disclose any information related to Ms. Wells, to the other Regents or myself, and my usual channels were proving fruitless. This was unusual for several reasons, the most troubling being Mr. Kosan's position itself. He is there to decide, that's true, but he cannot act alone; he must seek counsel or face removal. The Warehouse does not tolerate despots. That he would take what was considered the greatest threat to mankind in centuries and hide it away it as close to scandalous as the Regents get. There were mutterings, openly. The only information given was that she would likely return to the Warehouse, but only after she had been cleansed. However, he failed to explain just what that would entail, and it was the only description given." Mrs. Frederick pressed her fingers into the knot developing at the base of her neck. The last 'cleansing' discussed in the Regent's files involved the rack, an unfortunate agent found dabbling in an odd form of artifact worship, and six months of leave for everyone involved. Agent Hoffsteadter had not survived. His partner was never the same. Fools, all of them. Irene left that out.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Kosan had his own network of informants throughout the Regents, and beyond, so I had to tread softly, slowly, to avoid arousing suspicion. Even I wouldn't be able to overtake Mr. Kosan on my own if he was acting inappropriately, and it could have greatly endangered Ms. Wells." She reached into her purse, flicking the snap with a twitch of her fingers and handed Claudia her handkerchief. The girl barely seemed to register taking it, scrubbing at her eyes fitfully before starting to wring it between her hands. It was a mangled mess in under a minute.

"There started to be —whispers coming from the facility near Sioux Falls. It's a bunker of sorts, used, theoretically, as a fall back shelter for agents and Regents. Most of it is below ground, so, in the event of nuclear fallout, man-made or artifact, there would be protection, and the system would hold. It would seem, over time however, it has slowly been morphing into a sort of detention facility as well. My driver was running an errand for me the first time he heard a couple of guards talking in Chicago at the field office there. Apparently, they kept talking about the prisoner on B-Wing. They had put the prisoner through a 'twelve-hour' and hadn't been able to walk back to her cell. The guards were taking bets on how long the prisoner would last. Mr. Daniels had the good sense to ante up, and a fresh flow of information fell in my lap. At the time, I did not understand the references; it took several conversations with certain individuals before the full implications made themselves known."

Mrs. Frederick held up her hand, cutting off the interruption she saw coming. None of them were in any state to indulge twenty questions. There would be no need by the end. Claudia looked put out, sliding back into her chair, further fussing with the handkerchief, but Pete was ghost white. Sweat broke out on his body, and he fought back a gag. He remembered the stories from basic training of men caught.

"From what I gathered, they presented her with an option of sorts. She could attempt rehabilitation, and the alternative was likely death. Only, I'm not certain she was aware there was a choice to be had, nor what her options would have been even if she had. In any event, she agreed readily, without much or any question on her part. It turns out they were rather quick to invoke Agent Bering in their dealings. Mr. Kosan was quite aware of just what sort of power she has over Ms. Wells, and the opportunity to return here, to see Myka again, was more than enough incentive. They knocked her unconscious prior to moving her to her cell."

Mrs. Frederick's nose twitched as Claudia sniffled, and her heart went out to the young woman. Helena was as close to a mother as the girl had had in years, even in such a short time. Pete didn't seem to be doing much better. His eyes were glazing slightly, fingers twitching around an invisible need. He was tense, coiled. She could still smell her coat burning and feel the scalding water of her shower afterward.

"They had transformed sections of the facility over the years. Where once everything was clean, even sterile, the wing where Helena was kept was intentional altered to resemble the dungeons she would have been more familiar with. Rough stone, almost non-existent lights, filth. She was thrown in a cell with an oak door, solid and banded, no windows, and a bucket. It was three days before anyone made further contact with her. No food, no water, no light. She made a deal with the devil, and, for once, Ms. Wells blinked. Better said, the devil blinded her. They waited for her to wake up on her own."

Myka smiled softly as Helena sighed, stretched, and burrowed further into her arms, trying to push off consciousness as best she could. Whatever Vanessa had given her for the pain made Helena practically boneless. Her breath tickled Myka's neck, and made her duck her head to relieve the sudden itch. Myka let her hand tip along the edge of the sheets, pulling them down slightly, resting low on their hips, relishing the feel of cool air across her skin. Fingers navigated the patchwork of gauze, stroking the available skin and nuzzled her hairline. Up and down, vertebrae by vertebrae, scars, moles, and the faint stretch marks that spoke of love and loss. Helena was due for another hair wash. Myka's face was beginning to itch where the tears had dried overnight, but she saw no reason to hide them, to risk waking the woman in her arms just to scrub away evidence she was unashamed of. Helena shifted again, pulling herself closer to the warmth, to her light and let her fingers bunch in a familiar set of curls. It was dark, inside and out, stars teasing them with light, always winning the game of hide and seek. All but Orion. He was there as ever, bright and steady.

Myka watched as her eyes fluttered open and took her in, tracing over her face. The eyes paused, pupils contracted, and a single finger reached up from between them to rest on Myka's cheek. Slowly, painfully so, the finger followed the trail, chipping away at the salt crystals clinging to her skin, rubbing the freckles she found along the way. Her breaths were deep, even. Myka could feel it; she could feel the heat coming from her, her heart thumping through the tip of the finger. Helena was alive, and she was in her arms, looking at her as if, as if she were everything.

"Hi." Helena leaned down, lips grazing a cheek.

"Hello." Her head falls back into the crook of Myka's shoulder. She felt so heavy. Everything just took so much energy. She was home. She curled her legs through Myka's, careful to avoid jarring her feet, wrapped and hot as they were. They still throbbed, but it was easily ignored for the first time in so long. She sat, relishing the soft skin, soft fingers. She could hear shuffling through the door. "It was worth it." Helena's voice is soft, almost as if she didn't want Myka to hear, but hear she did.

Myka rolled to her side, ducking her head to press their foreheads together. It was quickly becoming a touch point for them both, a soothing reminder. "What was?" Helena just continued to scrape away at the tears.

"Everything."

"Why?"

"I'm with you again."