blackfoxreddog

[blackfoxreddog]

Court 3

To @amtrak12 , who obviously has the patience of a saint, I offer the next part of this @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift. As begun in part 1 and part 2, it’s a vaguely in-universe story in which Myka and Helena are in some fashion being pitted against each other in court.... but that scenario, and everything surrounding it, is of somewhat unclear definition. Why might that be? All will be revealed eventually, I promise, and there are a few hints here in this part. Overall, I hope there’s at least a little enjoyment in the excruciatingly slow ride.

Court 3

Now Artie is waving folders around: “Legal!” he says, flourishing one in his right hand, and then, as if to distinguish by name the one in his next-raised left, “briefs!”

With a little look-at-me shimmy, Pete says, “But what about legal boxers?” Like he’s the first person ever to make such a joke.

“Fisticuffs?” Helena asks, a little plaintive.

So, okay, maybe he’s the first ever to make such a joke in front of Helena. who deserves not to be left in the dark, even by a joke that only Pete thinks is funny. “He means—” Myka starts, but it occurs to her, just in time, before she fully embarks, that she does not want to talk about distinctions between types of underwear with Helena Wells. Or with H.G. Wells. Or with anybody, really, but in particular not with either of those eminences.

But she likes “fisticuffs.” As a word. So: “Never mind,” she says, following up with, “I like ‘fisticuffs.’” To the four surprise-widened pairs of eyes that slew her way—hallelujah, the distraction worked—she finishes, “As a word.”

Artie’s eyes narrow. “Here’s a word: unforgettable. Be that, both of you. On both sides. So nobody questions anybody’s legitimacy when it’s time to take possession.”

Take possession. Why does everything he says make Myka think inappropriate thoughts?

But also: being unforgettable certainly won’t be a problem for Helena.

“How could anyone forget Agent Bering?” Helena asks, in unknowing yet ringing counterpoint, with a tone that Myka desperately wants to be correct in hearing as unironic. (Which may or may not stretch fully to “sincere.”)

“You got that backwards,” Pete tells her. “It’s ‘how could Agent Bering forget anyone.’ Or anything. And the answer is, she couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t she,” Helena says, looking at Myka. Looking intently, like Myka’s leapt a quantum of consequence, and is that good or bad?

Myka doesn’t want to find out. Not now. “We don’t need to get into that,” she says.

Helena blinks at her. “What do we need to get into?”

It sounds suggestive only because, Myka assures herself, everything Helena says sounds suggestive.

No, wait, that’s terrible. Try again: only because Helena can make anything sound suggestive.

No, that’s bad too: it puts the blame on Helena, whose intent can’t be assumed.

So, back to the first: everything Helena says sounds suggestive... to Myka. That’s at least accurate. Accurate and damning.

And speaking of damning, she’s let Helena’s question sit unanswered too long... but, for good or ill, Artie steps into the breach.

“Working the case,” Artie says, stepping into the breach, and is he saving Myka or damning her further? “That’s what—that’s all—you need to get into.”

“All...” Helena echoes, drawing the word out, sinuous syrup in Myka’s ear. Damning, damning, damning.

“Also court,” Claudia says, the “t” an obstructive retort, as if to stop any such flow. “You need to get into that.” Another shot, for emphasis.

But Claudia’s plosives won’t be putting up barriers once Myka and Helena do.

****

Steve likes to wander the aisles of the Warehouse. If he’s being honest with himself (although sometimes he’s not honest with himself, if only because he can in fact lie to himself without pain; it gives him a little zing of illicit pleasure, like not quite triggering an allergy) he feels more at home here in this building that should be overwhelming than he does in the B&B. In this building, he’s anonymous; at the B&B, everyone wants to, or feels that they already, know him too well—too well too soon. He hadn’t signed up for that.

Not that he’d known in any way whatsoever what he was signing up for.

Not that he’d even affirmatively “signed up” for anything.

Should he have seen this life-wrench coming?

On his first day of fifth grade, the teacher, working her way through the alphabet of last names, had asked each student if they had thought about what they wanted to be when they grew up, working her way through the alphabet of last names. After praising the ambition of Tony Gentry, who wanted to be the President of the United States and also a rock star, she’d moved on to Steve. “Steve Jinks? Ideas?”

“An advice columnist,” he’d answered promptly, with certainty.

His teacher had raised her eyebrows at that and pronounced it “very interesting,” but she didn’t press the point, instead moving on to the next name. “Jennifer Josten? Your thoughts?” Jennifer had declared an interest in lepidoptery, which then had to be defined for the class, thus fully washing away Steve’s answer... probably for the best, as he’d thought even in the moment.

When his mother asked how that first day went, he told her what he’d said. Unlike his teacher, she followed up: “Why an advice columnist?”

So he had to give reasons. His first one: he liked the words. Advice columnist. They were full and fun to say, and they made the job sound full too.

Then he worried that he was being presumptuous (a word he’d recently learned, though less recently than “lepidoptery”), making like he had some innate (ditto) ability to do such a full job. So he explained that it wasn’t that he thought he knew so much about people and their problems. But he liked the idea of having answers, ones that went beyond “lie” and “truth.”

His mother agreed that answers—nuanced ones—were good. And thus Steve also learned the word “nuanced.”

In retrospect, he suspects he’d been hoping that becoming an advice columnist meant being gifted with answers (other than “lie” and “truth”), wisdom from some advice-ether to which only such columnists had access.

His eventual Buddhism had, and has, served as the real version of that imagined advice-ether, offering him glimpses, even occasional grasps, of more-nuanced answers.

It’s possible, though, and maybe even likely, that answers of similarly greater nuance are to be glimpsed, and even occasionally grasped, here in this Warehouse. Steve’s found moments of unexpected peace in its immensity, and unexpected power in the peace.

But today, even more unexpected, he finds, or rather nears, un-peace, an aural variety, its location and source taking a moment to clarify: the container aisle, from which blares Pete’s voice, angry, demanding, and in response, a woman—but not Myka, not Leena, not Claudia. Not even Mrs. Frederic. An unknown woman in the Warehouse? Arguing with Pete?

Steve is not an advice columnist, which he’s had cause to semi-regret during his brief Warehouse tenure: all these misfit toys (a category from which he doesn’t exclude himself) need advice, and he’s totally unqualified to give it. So he does for a moment entertain the idea of turning away from Pete’s ire, avoiding whatever today’s kerfuffle is.

But he has a job, and while it’s not “advice columnist,” it often seems to lean toward something like “kerfuffle-handler.”

So he turns in the direction of the noise.

****

Layers, Myka thinks. Helpful in South Dakota. The winters, anyway.

Layers. This over that. This, then that. Again?

Pete sits her down and cues up Witness for the Prosecution.

You made me watch this already. Myka doesn’t say this aloud, but it’s... true? He did. Before. Before what? “Why are you doing this?” is what she does say.

“To getcha ready,” he enthuses. “For court. See, what’s a big deal here is Dietrich.”

“Well, sure,” Myka says, because when wouldn’t Dietrich be a big deal?

“Not because of that. I mean, sure, always because of that,” and he is looking at her like he might have just decoded some undercurrenty dit-dot-dash of what she never says aloud, “but. For right now: her testimony. Unreliable.”

“You mean like Rashomon.” Which he has also made her watch. Already. Before.

“Nope. That’s different versions. Everybody’s got different versions. This is about who to trust.”

He must mean Helena... he must be pushing her to not trust. Must mean, must be. Must must must.

But even as she resists that pressure to not, she can’t deny that Helena has an appeal that is by a certain measure Dietrich-esque, and thus what she can’t resist a quick riffle-shuffle, just for the thrill... Morocco (white tie and tailcoat...), Shanghai Express (chiaroscuro with Anna May Wong her mirror...), even Touch of Evil (into every life a little Well[e]s must fall...)...

“Are you showing movies to Helena too?” she asks, as much to talk herself down as to really find out. Helena, Pete, movies... would there really be time for that?

But how is there time for this?

“Why would I?” Pete asks.

“To get her ready? Too?”

“But I want you to win,” he says. “Whatever’s happening.”

Whatever’s happening. “Who’s unreliable?” Myka asks. She wants to know. Whatever’s happening.

She doesn’t really expect an answer, and Pete lives down to that: “Don’t ask me,” he says, busying himself with the DVD remote.

But whom should Myka ask?

Herself?

****

When Steve rounds the corner, both Pete and the woman—she’s beautiful, her face a pale marvel, but it’s her hair, a wash of darkest ink, that strikes him—look his way and immediately clam up.

The sudden silence spooks him. As does the fact that at their feet lies Myka, and she’s... taking a nap? She’s on her side, her head pillowed on her arms, like she’s illustrating “sleep” in the dictionary. It’s more than odd, but then again this is the Warehouse, where stranger naps have no doubt been been taken.

Steve certainly isn’t one to begrudge Myka, or anybody else, the rest they need, but...

...the silence continues, as if enforced.

Steve is patient, but uncanniness makes him antsy. So to the woman, who seems nonthreatening (she’s just standing there, arms crossed), Steve ventures, “Hi?”

“Hello,” she responds. Her voice, now not angry, is low. Rich.

“Right,” Pete says, a put-upon pout. “I always think everybody knows everything. Steve, H.G. H.G., Steve.”

“Delighted,” says the newly identified H.G. to Steve. “Who are you?”

“Same,” Steve responds. “And same?” There’s surely something he should be getting, but—

Pete sighs, still put-upon. “I always think.” To the woman, he says, “He’s the new guy they brought in to replace Myka, after you made her leave.” Then he turns to Steve. “H.G. Think about it.” Like Steve is a complete idiot.

And he is: immediately, realization. The embarrassment burns him, heating his gut, blooming on his face. “H.G. Wells,” he says, and tries to cover at least a bit of his flush by understating, “Claudia mentioned.”

Claudia has in fact woven tale after tale, all in the service of illustrating what she initially described as “H.G.’s good-guy-to-bad-guy-to-goodish-guy-to-who-knows-what status, with Myka all-in then crushed then mostly just sad and Pete really pissed off about all of it, but anyway we got you out of the deal, Jinksy, and maybe someday we’ll get H.G. back for real too, because honestly I miss her basically like I’d miss air.”

Steve adds to his understatement with, “She reveres you, by the way.”

“And I her,” says H.G., with a weirdly formal head-bow. “Not at all by the way.”

“Good choices all around, it seems like,” Steve says.

H.G. smiles, and he is rewarded.

“Meanwhile, Myka was unconscious!” Pete informs the world, full up again with all that anger Steve had wanted to turn away from.

“I don’t think that’s quite right,” H.G. says, quiet.

The way she talks... not trying to compete, but secure in her ability to. Steve feels himself proving his kinship with Claudia. More so than with Pete

“Who cares what you think?” Pete fumes, confirming Steve’s sense. “And you’ll say anything anyway.”

“She’s telling the truth though,” Steve says, because she is. “To me, Myka looks... asleep. Comfortable, even?”

H.G. nods. “That was my thought when—”

Pete breaks in, loudly, “Asleep?!? But I’m yelling!”

“We know,” Steve says, and he hears H.G. say the same, right in tune, and what is he to do with this instant accord? Is it disturbing? Or... flattering?

“She never sleeps through me yelling!” Pete yells on.

Myka, for her part, sleeps on.

Steve finds himself hoping that when the yelling stops—as eventually it must, even with Pete—H.G. will be able to express the as-yet-unarticulated when of her thought about Myka asleep.

He additionally hopes that builds to something like advice.

****

Who’s unreliable?

Myka, that’s who. Why else would Artie have sent Pete along with her and Helena on this retrieval, when he has no role to play in court?

Obviously she requires a chaperone.

Tamalpais was so different. Claudia is a lot of things, but “chaperone” isn’t among them, and anyway she was preoccupied with confronting her own insecurities, leaving Myka generally free to...

... well, to confront her own. While pretending not to, because of the incessant pressured wish to be present for every moment with Helena, whether collegial or clashy or both.

Paradoxically, looking is what Myka’s viscera remember of all that shared presence: for while their physical interactions made serious impressions, the gazes meant. They signified. They offered up the why of the physical.

And that why is obviously the reason for Pete’s presence. Myka supposes “backup” must have been, must be, the ostensible rationale for it, but that’s almost as troubling. Why wouldn’t she and Helena be each other’s backup? Why would they need more? It’s not like this is even a conventional, and thus possibly dangerous, retrieval.

She’s reminded of that as she stands before the bathroom mirror in a hotel room, dressing for court: buttoning up, smoothing down. This suit has always been what she would wear for such an occasion, this eyeliner and blush always what she would apply. As evidence. Of preparation.

Pete gapes at her when she emerges. “Are you wearing makeup?”

Why is he in her room? “I’m going to court,” Myka says. Did he forget?

“Who? The judge?”

Dangerous, dangerous... she knows who. So she says “What?” Playing as dumb as she can.

“And you’re supposedly the word nerd...” He shakes his head. Has he bought it? Surely even word nerds are allowed to plead (to feign) ignorance on occasion. “But seriously, do they judge on hotness now?”

Of course: at that moment, Helena sweeps in, as if doors and locks and privacy are nothing but easily disproved hypotheses. “I certainly hope so,” she says, and she too is buttoned up, smoothed down, yet perfectly so, the strictures fitting simple... also evidence, but of a dream Myka has been waiting till this very moment to dream. She looks Myka over... also not unrelated to several dreams Myka has been waiting, or in fact not waiting, to dream. “At the very least, I relish the competition.”

“I guess it’s time,” Myka says, hoping to send the idea of that sort of competition on its way. (Not that she knows where “on its way” would be. Probably some sort of boomerang trajectory, given everything.) “Time,” she repeats. “For court.”

“Court-ing!” Pete yelps, and Myka wants to sink into the hotel-room carpet, never mind what else those abused fibers have absorbed.

Helena takes it in her stride, not even raising an eyebrow. As she would. “Yes, it is,” she says, an affirmation of its being time, and/or actual courting being involved, and/or every possible jot of meaning in between.

Affirmation... why not affirm it all? All, all, legal boxers and all, because this is about (a bout?) competition, which Helena has said she relishes. Which Myka is ready—absolutely ready—to relish too.

Fisticuffs.

TBC

[blackfoxreddog]

Court 2

Hi @amtrak12 —here, on the occasion of the B&W-meeting anniversary, I have the next part of your @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift, which is turning out overall to be a slower-than-slow unspooling that has something to do with lawyers and arguments and ownership. Herein, the plot thickens. Or maybe just clots, or perhaps congeals. Anyway, events—or “events”?—occur. Following, sort of, what happened in part 1. (Contributing to my usual sluggish pace is the fact that it’s been a rough several months, for me at least. I hope everyone’s holding tight to whatever helps...)

Court 2

Leena stumbles. She is sitting in Artie’s Warehouse office, waiting for Claudia to finish some database update or other, and yet her entire being manages to lose its footing. To stumble.

“Are you okay?”

The question from Claudia startles Leena out of her first response to the lurching sensation: trying to ascertain whether she should have been more attentive, all day, to the background hum of artifactual grumbling. They always want attention, artifacts do, but has today been—and is this moment in particular—about attention? Or has some hapless item found itself in genuine distress?

“Seriously, are you okay?” Claudia asks again, again startling Leena, enough that instead of what would usually be a measured “yes,” she voices an awkward “huh?”

“You look like somebody kicked your puppy. Or wait...” Claudia squints. “More like your puppy did a thing and you don’t know if you should give it a treat or say ‘bad dog.’”

“You do cut right to it,” Leena says, because Claudia has.

“I’m discerning.” She squints again. “Is that what I mean? Myka would know.”

“Even if it isn’t, you are. And yes, she would.”

Claudia beams, likely on both accounts. “Thanks! Probably. So what’s up with your puppy?”

“I can’t tell,” Leena admits. “Something dramatic. And the real question is, which puppy?”

“I can’t help here. First, because I don’t know what we’re talking about, and B, because I was never one of those kids who wanted a puppy. But mostly because my helping skills are pretty much always under construction.”

Don’t run yourself down, Leena would admonish, but whatever those artifacts are up to is the more pressing issue, and anyway Claudia generally shrugs off explicit direction to acknowledge her value... unless, interestingly, it’s Myka who delivers it. So she goes slightly more opaque and functional: “Come with me. We can both figure out what we’re talking about, and maybe you can hammer at those skills.”

“Where are we going?”

Leena closes her eyes and concentrates on the disquiet, trying to orient. “Container aisle,” she determines. “Can’t narrow it down more than that.”

They reach the floor and walk for a bit. Then Claudia says, like she’s been thinking about it, “Container aisle? I’d rather go to the Container Store.”

“Need more organization in your life?”

“In Pete’s life.”

Leena waits for it.

Claudia delivers, “Because when I go to steal DVDs and games from his room I’d like to able to find them.”

It’s not the best. Leena waits again. This time, Claudia doesn’t deliver, instead saying, with a little mournful pout, “What’s the container aisle for, anyway? Boxes? Bottles? Tupperware?”

“Some of all of those. Generally, artifacts that hold. Catch and hold, or just accept to hold.”

“Hold. Hold... stuff?”

“Yes?” Leena isn’t sure what Claudia means by “stuff.” She’s often a little unsure about what Claudia intends words to mean, and she suspects she’s not the only one. Except for, perhaps, Myka? And possibly Steve? Still, Claudia does flummox Steve...

“But everything holds stuff,” Claudia says. “It’s what makes a thing a thing. A thing is just a stuff container.”

“Philosophy. Impressive.” Leena says it quietly, so as to keep Claudia’s ego in check, yet she’s delighted. However: “Things are stuff containers mostly by an accident of metaphysics. The aisle stores things designed for holding.”

“So this is the aisle we’d put the Warehouse itself in. If we could do that kind of freaky recursion function... or does that only work the other way, where it’d be recursion for the Warehouse to hold the containers?”

“The aisle’s already itself holding more than one Joseph Cornell box. That’s enough recursion for me.” Leena keeps her tone casual, but she’s further delighted that Claudia is so obviously thinking. Seeing connections and associations: it’s what she’ll need. For the future... Leena stops herself; she doesn’t want to be disturbed, today, by the future. There’s enough to puzzle out in the present, given her stumble, given what now seems to be an increasing disgruntlement in the artifacts’ hum.

And given the fact that the container aisle always gives her pause, for she does have particular friendships here. Certainly those Cornell boxes; artifacts that have true auras thrill her, especially when said auras have been so meticulously constructed. Leena wishes she could have met Cornell, could have sat him down so as to parse his ability to engineer these compact works of acquisition, accumulation: little Warehouses, all of them. Only a few are actual artifacts, but that’s more than most artists could dream of generating. If they ever did so dream... but it’s better that they don’t.

She also casts a regularly kind eye (and ear) on the Wurlitzer 1015 jukebox, because it’s a favorite of Mrs. Frederic from her past, and any window into Mrs. Frederic’s (relative) youth is inherently interesting; this jukebox likes to play the Marcels’ 1961 “Blue Moon” unprompted, and Leena has never gathered sufficient nerve to ask if it might have been a tendency of Mrs. Frederic herself to select the platter that catapulted the constellation of record and container-player to artifact status.

And then there’s the—

“Oh my god,” Claudia says, loudly but more deadpan than seems warranted, given the... unexpected situation? absurdist tableau? catastrophic scene? that now confronts them, and Leena blames her rumination on her aisle-friends for having distracted her from the sensory tsunami of auras that threatens, in this overpowering instant, to drown her.

****

“The artifact currently belongs to a... let’s call it a museum,” Artie is saying. “Well. ‘Belongs.’ I suppose we should say, ‘resides in.’ Hence the case. The argument.”

“Is this about repatriation?” Myka asks. It’s what she associates with museum objects and court fights—but in the next instant she sees she’s let slip from her grasp the idea that she’s supposed to be waiting, inferring. She seizes, freezes. Can everyone see the “oh no!” thought bubble above her head?

Luckily, no one seems to notice, so she forges on: “If so, I think I’d be more convincing making the case for it. Than Helena, I mean.”

“Why?” Helena asks.

“Because you’re British,” Myka says, but she can’t stop there; a babble is building, and with no dam in sight, she burbles on, “so no offense, but there was a lot of honestly indefensible taking and holding of other cultures’ stuff. And you’d be likely to bring that whole thing to mind... so, really, it’s because you sound British.”

“English,” Helena corrects.

“A distinction without a difference,” Myka says, and this time she achieves a levee; she congratulates herself on for once being succinct. Clichéd, but succinct.

“Now I’m offended.”

Oh god. “All I meant was—”

“I’m teasing.”

Her smile fills Myka’s vision. And the prickly pleasure Myka finds in being teased, in being the object of Helena’s smooth humor, fills her soul.

Artie’s voice breaks in, a buoyancy-deflating puncture: “It’s possible she’d be more effective. Implicitly acknowledging the error—no, the criminality—of colonial ways.” He gives Helena another pointed look.

This one’s nationalized, generalized, and Myka tries to dispute it that way: “Americans aren’t angels.” She realizes—too late?— that she’s undercutting her own initial reasoning. No saving that now. “But also, arguing that whatever museum I’m pretending to represent should keep it? I’m not comfortable with that.” As the words leave her, a that’s right shiver—unexpected, unusual—ripples her spine.

Artie says, “And the Warehouse cares intensely about your comfort level, so... oh wait. No. It doesn’t.”

Pete glances at Myka, then says, “Let her off the hook, man. I’ll do it.”

It’s sweet.

But she wants to strangle him for it—because adversaries. She should have kept her mouth shut. A good rule to live by, as she thinks about it. Wait, but is saying she should have done something actually a rule? She can’t live by something she should have done, can she?

“You’ll lose,” Artie says... answering her thought? No, reproving—informing—Pete.

“So what?” Pete says. “Then H.G. wins and we all come home.”

“Let me rephrase: you’ll look like you intended to lose. Judges get tetchy about tanking.”

Claudia mock-gasps. “Oooh, might get disbarred.”

“And then I’d be crying.” Pete says, brushing away imaginary tears. “If I was barred in the first place.”

Artie says, “Your tears won’t move a judge, who might throw the case out entirely, and then where would we be?” He doesn’t wait for an answer: “Without the artifact.”

“If nobody wins, everybody loses,” Claudia intones, sounding like the Delphic oracle. Or Socrates? Something classical, obfuscatory. Obstructionary?

“Not the Elgin Marbles,” Myka says next. “Please, no.” Other than their classicality, she isn’t sure why she’s brought the  into the discussion... is it simply that it’s the biggest repatriation case she knows of—maybe even literally? Now as she thinks about it, though, surely it’s too big. Artie wouldn’t want to generate that kind of publicity, would he? She and Helena wouldn’t be able to fake their way into a case like that, would they? Then again, the two of them in the news... what news they would be...

“Agreed,” Helena says. “Please.”

Myka hadn’t expected the immediate backup—though she’s unsurprised to learn that Helena knows of those disputed rocks—but she’ll take it. She wishes she could reach out a hand and... what? Stroke Helena’s arm in thanks?

Well, why can’t she? Nothing classically obstructionary stands in her way.

So she does.

Helena slides a look her way, not with surprise (of course not); rather, with some cognate of the that’s right ripple.

Which in turn produces a recursive ripple, a catch-hold-echo of right... right... right...

“Artifactually inert,” Artie says as it fades. “As far as we know.”

“Better safe, though,” Claudia enthuses, “so let’s bring those babies in! Pete can carry ’em.”

Pete snorts. “Not even with these guns. Big rocks carved pretty are still big rocks.”

Since when does Pete know anything about the Elgin Marbles? But Myka is being uncharitable. Probably. And besides, she would rather let them have the dispute, for it lulls her back into her earlier reverie, that compelling scenario of she a judge and Helena an advocate... no: a supplicant.

Her reverie... but that not-really (if-only) supplicant interrupts it, saying, “So, not the marbles.” This makes it clear that Myka’s continued expressions of ignorance about “it” have not mattered in the slightest... apparently “it” was never identified? Neither Artie nor anyone else is holding a file, which Myka chooses to interpret as positive, for who could, in such absence, have read anything about whatever’s at stake?

Myka is safe.

And yet she’s not safe at all, for Helena chooses that moment to reach out a reciprocal hand toward Myka. It finds her right biceps, setting off electrical sparks and short-outs and terror—Artie will see! Pete will see! Claudia will see! and as the worst disaster: even Helena will see!—then trailing down to her elbow, fortunately a less sparkily reactive location.

Still. she is not safe at all. Because, among other potential catastrophes: what if Helena tries something like that in court?

****

Pete’s stalking the Warehouse aisles, looking for Myka; she’s been down lately, and he hates it when she takes off like this, like she needs to hide in a cave and lick some wounds she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t have.

But also: he has a vibe.

Sometimes, if a vibe isn’t too insistent, he can shove it onto the Vibe Bench. When he was a kid, he used to talk them away like that, saying it out loud: “Ride the pine, vibe!”

This one he can’t make sit down, and honestly? It comes down to how Myka-vibes sometimes remind him of Mom-vibes, the way they scream IMPORTANT!

Which is why he doesn’t really grok where he’s finding his way to, and that’s why he’s genuinely shocked, practically out of the vibe, by what he sees when he takes a hard turn into the aisle that’s clearly today’s Vibe Hub: it’s H.G., standing there like she belongs or something, like she’s never been gone, like she can just hang out and it’s no big deal.

But it’s definitely some kind of deal. “What are you doing here?” he demands.

She looks like she wants to bite him in half, but she wraps her arms around herself like she’s keeping that in check, like otherwise she’d actually do it. “Conducting a symphony,” she spits. “Weaving a tapestry. Piloting a dirigible. As if any answer could satisfy you.”

She’s totally not wrong. It’s almost funny how totally not wrong she is.

But then he notices that she’s unfolded her arms, that she’s gesturing at the floor. He looks down, down at that cold concrete Warehouse floor, and nothing nothing nothing is funny or even almost, because there, lying there out cold, is Myka. His vibe charges back into the game, and rage takes over: “What did you do?”

TBC

[blackfoxreddog]

Briar-Rose

Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange, @madronash! I was so excited when I got your name, and writing a story without telling you all about it has been a great exercise.

I hope you like this story - I'm hoping to do your love of symbolism, drama, and hard-earned not-quite deliriously happy endings justice. We talked about the basic idea when I had it a year ago, but it's changed quite a bit since then, as stories are of course prone to doing. (I may have been forced to rewrite nearly the entire first chapter this evening due to to some helpful 4 AM brillance the night prior, for example.)

I'll be posting this story in chapters over the next however many weeks... there should be six in all if the story stays put!

Chapter 1: Prologue

Helena crests the final hill and gasps, alone in her car. Gasps, and lets her suspicions about the stakes of why she is here blossom in her mind.

Why, for instance, Pete had called on Myka’s behalf, with no explanation at all despite Helena’s increasingly pointed and frantic questions. “Just get here, as soon as you can,” he’d said, and practically hung up on Helena without a goodbye. This event was in itself alarming enough for Helena to get into her car and drive from Wisconsin with a scribbled note stuck on the fridge and an overnight bag that she couldn’t help but imagine that Myka would have been horrified by, such was the disarray and haphazard contents. 

She’d only remembered to call her job and feign illness halfway across Minnesota. She’d done a twelve hour drive in nine. She’d called Myka ten, twenty times and hung up before she’d need to leave a message, but after hearing Myka’s cheerful, businesslike request for her to do so. She couldn’t stop catastrophizing as she sailed along the roads so straight and dull she normally had to fight torpor. She imagined a thousand maladies, hundreds of reasons why Pete might call instead of Myka, but beneath them all, like a bass line counterpoint, was the continual thought, why isn’t Myka tired of all of this yet?

And now she is here, and she gets her second visual confirmation that things are very wrong even by the Warehouse’s standards. Because even with the Warehouse… indisposed… she’d expected a crowd there. To join a circle among the people she had hoped largely to avoid, with whom she shares a complex past, to be trying fruitlessly to keep herself from staring hopelessly and awkwardly at one person in that crowd… 

But instead, there is only Pete, leaning on his car, staring at her, waiting for her to emerge. 

Helena steps out of her car smoothly, because she cannot be seen to be hesitating, steps past him with a nod of acknowledgment, and stares at the place where she’d last seen the Warehouse. She wants to fold her arms over herself, and since she can’t, ends up twisting them behind her back, hoping he will not see.

Thorns sprawl from the ground. They spread to the sky, a forest of wicked sharpness, fifty, a hundred, two hundred feet high. They cascade, tumble, multiply - Helena fancies she can actually see the wretched things growing. New shoots springing from the parched ground, fully grown brambles deepening, darkening, ossifying. Even if they were not ludicrously oversized, even were it not for the location, she imagines she would be able to tell this was artifact magic. She can almost smell it, at this point. It is a sixth sense she wishes she had no need to hone.

She is not surprised. She is, underneath a layer of stubborn refusal to engage with the Warehouse any more than is strictly necessary, grudgingly intrigued in spite of herself. But most of what she feels is profound irritation. Irritation, and fear, but she is good at ignoring that. She puts that practice to bear. 

Irritation then, that she is once again ensnared. What else can she possibly be expected to do to free herself?

Besides forget Myka’s phone number, of course. Or Pete’s.

Helena stands in front of what she assumes is still, underneath the cacophony of vegetation, the Warehouse, and she does not sigh, because that would require a level of comfort around her companion she does not possess. Her body feels tight, like an overwound guitar string. Her fingers fold into each other again and again. She has to remind herself not to hold her breath. To look her companion in the eye, steadily. She has always had excellent control over herself. 

Pete looks tired. Very tired. He’s paler than Helena has ever seen him, and his eyes are red. He also looks angry, and he’s not working very hard to hide it. Angry with her, surely. Helena can’t blame him, after the last time she saw him. After any of the times she’s seen him. 

He must hate her. But she will not let him know how much this bothers her.

Instead, she lifts her chin slightly. “Alright, now that I’m here,” she says crisply, “can we please stop with the mysterious messages, as though I’m not even more well-versed in the Warehouse’s quirks than you and everyone else who works here? What is going on? Where is everyone?” 

“She’s in there,” Pete answers, hearing what Helena doesn’t ask, gesturing vaguely at the thorn forest. “Or, I think she’s in there. Maybe. I don’t really know, not for sure…” He frowns, at the Warehouse instead of Helena this time. “I have to assume she’s in there. She’s not answering her phone. But damnit, we bagged it!” he mutters to himself.

“Bagged what?” Helena asks impatiently. 

“The…” He looks at Helena as if he is suddenly re-evaluating the wisdom of calling her.

She sighs exasperatedly, despite herself, and runs her fingers briefly though her hair. “Yes, I know. Enemy of the Warehouse, or friend, or savior, nobody seems to be able to decide quite which. Can we please assume for the moment that I’m trustworthy, even if the Regents don’t? You must have thought so when you called. Or perhaps Artie did. Where is Artie?” Not that Helena wants to see him. She would be quite happy never to see Artie again.

“In there too. I think. And Claudia. I went for doughnuts. I…” he looks chagrined. “Myka was sad. Doughnuts make her happy even though…” He shakes his head. “I should have been there.”

Helena does not point out the obvious, that it is good that someone was on the outside. She is not Myka. It is not her job to reassure him. “What did you bag?” she asks again, with as much patience as she can manage.

“Last week. This lady’s house went just like… well, like this.” He gestures at the Warehouse and the forest of thorns covering it. “It got flagged because she’s a scholar on fairy tales and this is just like in -”

“In Briar-Rose?” Not Grimms, she thinks, please no. Myka asleep for a hundred years? What if she dreams? What if -

“Sleeping Beauty, yeah,” he nods. “Um. I tried to go in after her, and so did Mykes, but it didn’t like that, so Claud got online and -”

“It didn’t like that? What didn’t like it?” 

Pete rolls up his left sleeve and shows Helena an angry red cut with half a dozen stitches. “Fairy tales have rules.”

“Did Myka -?” Helena cannot help the alarm in her voice, but Pete shakes his head. 

“No, not a scratch on Mykes, so you’d think if anybody’d have gotten whammied, right? But anyways Claud looked up the lady and it turns out she had like a whole lifelong thing for this guy in the history department, and we brought him over, he was like eighty or something and he just walked right in and we waited around and after a while they both came out and everybody was fine. They were just fine! They were happy, even, they thanked me and Mykes for helping them find each other and… we bagged the book, it’s been in the stacks for like five days, I have no idea why it went off again.”

Helena hears that Pete is dancing around something. “You don’t know why it went off again. Did you ever find out what caused the artifact to activate in the first place?”

“Not for sure,” Pete says carefully. “Myka had a theory.”

“I’m certain she was right. She’s very clever.” Helena has no right to be proud of how clever Myka is, and wishes she hadn’t said that last bit. 

Pete doesn’t notice. “I hope she wasn’t,” he says bitterly.

“Why?”

“Well. The old lady was obsessed with that story, for starters, but she, um, she’d been taking a copy of Grimms’ with her to the, um, to the hospital, to read while she had… chemo, and Myka thought that maybe the thorns in the book were like, a metaphor, right, for overgrowth? So maybe because the old lady had cancer, the book like, read it in her, and made… cancer vines? I didn’t really get it honestly but Artie got super excited and he’s really smart too and maybe…”

Helena’s throat is bone dry. She waits for a long time before speaking. “So you think Myka has…” Helena swallows hard. “Cancer. And that’s why she’s been whammied.”

“No!” Pete explodes. “I don’t! I mean, she’s been gone more than usual lately, yeah, and she doesn’t wanna talk about it, and she put that thing with the lady and the book together really fast even for her, but that doesn’t mean, I mean it could be a hundred other things, it’s the Warehouse we’re talking about here, right, I mean it could be because she had blackberry tea at breakfast for all we know, and we don’t even know for sure it’s Myka who got whammied, it could be Artie or Claudia or Steve or -”

If Helena thinks about Myka being trapped in a state of slumber or having cancer for another moment, she will lose all semblance of composure. “And so your grand plan,” she says nastily, “is to see if I can waltz in there, and not be torn to pieces?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not her Knight in Shining Armor.”

“I believe it’s a prince, actually. And neither am I.”

“No friggin’ kidding,” he shoots back. “Knights and princes don’t hide in Wisconsin and let their ladies cry in the car all the way home.”

Helena blinks determinedly, and closes her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” You have no idea what it cost me to stand in that driveway and let her drive away. None.

“Look, whatever the hell you’ve gotten into, whatever possessed you to ditch her like that…I don’t care. You gotta sort that out right now. Man up or, you know, the lady man up. She might not be my princess, but… she’s my best friend. And I can’t fix it, and you can.” 

He swallows, and blinks himself a couple of times, reaches in his pocket, and holds out a piece of paper. “I made you a list.”

Maybe he did see. See her perfectly for he coward she is. “Noble Steed,” she reads. “Shining Armor. Bright Sword. Ah. The consummate Gallant Knight. How do you know I need these things?”

“The first old man told us. He had on like, an old cardigan for armor, so I think it’s pretty loose. And Myka says there isn’t a dragon, and it’s only in the Disney version. Because I was waiting for green fire and it never happened. But it’s the Warehouse, who knows. Maybe you’ll find a dragon.” He sounds equally scared and eager at the prospect.  Probably, he would like her to be roasted by a dragon, but that would deny him Myka back. 

There’s a last direction scrawled at the bottom of Pete’s list. “I may have trouble with this last.” 

Pete rolls his eyes. “It definitely won’t work without it. True love’s first kiss,” he sing-songs, and this might be the first time she’s heard that particular phrase spoken bitterly, “is the only way you wake up the princess. That’s how you bust her out. After the dragon. Everybody knows that.”

“Surely not,” Helena replies. “And if Myka heard you calling her a princess, she’d…”

Pete stares at her. “She’d kick my ass, right. But why not? Way you two look at each other, I figure… I mean, I called because…”

“Well, in that sense you’re…” Saying it aloud goes against everything in Helena. “You’re not wrong. But firstly,” she modifies, “that is not the way princesses are typically awakened in fairy tales, not historically. Nothing so… Victorian, dare I say. And secondly, I don’t qualify. For the task.”

“What, because you don’t believe in true love? Pretty modern of you, for an eighteenth century lady. Or because you don’t love Myka? Because that’s crap, anyone can see -”

“Nineteenth century, thank you very much,” Helena interrupts coolly. “And it is, frankly, none of your business, but even if I did believe in such foolishness… true love’s first kiss?” 

Pete grunts, and pauses for a moment. Then he shrugs. “Look, all I know is, Myka is only gonna let one person rescue her, and it sure as hell isn’t me.  So figure it out. You’re the genius. What I do know is, there’s rules to fairy tales, and if you don’t follow them, everyone loses.”

And point to Warehouse, there’s the match gone, Helena thinks. Helena can live with Myka crying all the way home, barely. She cannot live with Myka lost forever, even she is almost certainly the wrong person in every regard to do the finding. “Fine. I’m your man. But I hope you have equal confidence and better luck in Artie, Steve and Claudia’s true loves, if this maelstrom won’t admit me.” 

She turns and stares at the tangle before her. Damn you, Warehouse. Helena has a thousand questions, but evidently all of the answers are to be found inside. If Myka has cancer, why is Helena is finding out about it only now? Why is Pete only finding out about it now? Does Myka herself know? 

And the question she dared not ask herself before. What if Myka dreams for a century? What if she comes out like Helena?

And the one she barely dares ask herself. Surely Myka does not believe in true love of the first sight, fairy tale or any other variety, any more than Helena does. What on earth will happen when and if Helena succeeds in making it to her side? Whether she is awake or asleep seems trivial. Helena is reasonably certain Myka will not be interested in any aid Helena has to offer, either way. Not after the way Helena left things.

But Pete is right. Helena’s feelings aren’t important in this moment. Myka is the only thing that matters now. 

Pete gives her a single nod. 

She nods back, takes a deep breath, and strides forward with far more confidence than she feels. 

She feels equal parts relieved and terrified when the vines peel back to admit her, then close behind her with a noise like a thousand snakes slithering in the grass. Gathering. Waiting to strike.

She avoids the Umbilicus. Bombs make her nervous enough without sharp things growing all around and potentially into them, and a cane as wide as a subway tunnel has conveniently cracked the wall open near enough to the ground to scramble in. The area inside is a jungle gym, and Helena scrambles over and under, and finally scales a vine up into Artie’s office. She squeezes through a hole in the floor, gathers herself and her breath, and finally makes her way to the balcony outside.

The Warehouse is always a strange, undeniably alien world. Now it resembles a landscape both more terrestrial and also more out of scale than ever more. Some shelves have already buckled under the weight of the brambles growing on top of them, and the pyramid has disappeared entirely, now an extremely large thicket. A river seems to have sprung up somewhere nearby, and flows most of the way down the center aisle, until it disappears in the far distance. Helena can see - of course, what else - a castle, far more beautifully and elegantly mossy and decrepit than any real castle, beckoning in the distance. Well, at least her path is clear enough. 

“So it’s just you and me, then,” Helena says aloud. She knows it can hear her. No reason to pretend otherwise.

Her words seem to echo, even more cavernously than usual for the place - though surely it should be muffled by the forest of vines. Canes as wide as redwood trees split the concrete. She can hear leaves whispering as they unfurl along shelves.

“And don’t think you can confuse me with talk of dragons,” Helena says, louder, to steady herself. “I know my adversary.”

She almost swears she sees something large shift by a collapsed shelf, move deeper into the shadows, though it could be just a trick of the light.

And so Helena begins to traverse the Warehouse, alone and unarmed.

[blackfoxreddog]

Court

Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange , @amtrak12 ! What I have for you is the start of a story—it would have been a more lengthy start, but work and other concerns perfect-stormed me into an unanticipated time crunch. Excuses, excuses... I know, and I regret it. However! What I don’t regret at all is how your many great ideas inspired me; you’ll see which of those I began with (tweaked a bit!), and as this gift keeps on giving, you’ll find I worked in several other possibilities as well. Here’s hoping they combine into a whole that—over time—brings you some moments of enjoyment. (Many thanks to @kla1991 , of course, for the continued heroic herding of the fandom cats.)

Court

Breakfast, Myka has lately decided, or determined, or realized, is her favorite meal of the day. The reason is not that there is lately a new person at the breakfast table, but rather...

Okay. Yes. That is the reason.

Every morning, she waits for the reason to appear, here at breakfast, to remind her: of importance, of why it (she) is her favorite. Today begins the second week of this lovely new ritual—an anniversary of sorts, one she would like to be cherishing (H.G. Wells, Agent Wells, Helena Wells, at the breakfast table every morning for two weeks!)—but instead, she is being assailed by Pete’s distracting habit of pawing through the box of Lucky Charms, extracting the marshmallows, tossing them into the air (up through which they ascend, and down through which they tumble, in seeming slow motion), and catching them on his tongue like purposeless candy snowflakes. Or not catching them, at which point he scrabbles for them on the floor.

It’s viscerally offensive. Why doesn’t Leena tell him to stop it?

Oh. Leena isn’t here. Why isn’t—

But then Myka is again distracted, and even more viscerally offended, when Artie huffs in and declares, “I need lawyers.”

“You’re being sued for excessive curmudgeonation,” Claudia says with a sigh. “Had to happen someday.”

“I’m surprised we don’t have any,” Myka says, pretending that she can ignore what she’s waiting for.

Pete misses another marshmallow. “We’ve got a doctor but no lawyers?” he asks from under the table.

Claudia raps on it, right above his head. “We’ve got no accountants either, big guy, but I never saw anybody get surprised about that.”

“A blue moon!” he exclaims as he emerges, popping it into his mouth. “Because Artie’s worse than any accountant. Plus everybody thinks we’re accountants on account of being IRS.”

“I heard what you did there,” Claudia says.

Artie snorts. “Everyone did, unfortunately. But you’ve managed to bring me to my point.”

“Score!” Pete enthuses. “Maybe.”

“Thinking,” Artie says.

Pete deflates. “Aaaand I’m out. I don’t really do that.”

“Noted,” Artie says, looking over his glasses. “And you are out. This assignment requires making people think you’re a lawyer.”

“Mykes, I bet you’re up,” Pete says.

“I was pre-law,” Myka says, but with an internal I say things like this too often twinge.

“Two lawyers,” Artie continues.

Pete deflates again. “Aaaand you’re down. Even you can’t be two lawyers.”

“Agent Wells,” Artie then says. Music, that title and name are, which is certainly more than Myka would normally think of any words Artie utters.

Pete, however, gapes: “She can?”

With exquisite, yet hardly surprising, timing, Helena sweeps in. “Of course I can.” To Claudia, she asides, “What am I claiming the ability to do?”

Myka wishes she were the one Helena would so casually tap on the shoulder for a sidebar. Speaking of lawyers.

“Be two lawyers at once,” Claudia says.

Helena shrugs. “Haven’t tried. Certainly willing to.”

“Maybe you can be yourself and your evil twin,” Claudia proposes, which wins her an interested blink, plus raise of chin, from Helena.

Artie harrumphs at Claudia. “Don’t give her ideas.” Then he makes the same noise in Helena’s direction. “Though I don’t see how we’d tell one from the other.”

Helena’s face takes on an aspect with which Myka is thrillingly familiar, a “try me” challenge; it is the expression she wore—the memory flashes to life in Myka’s head—as she stepped close, closer, closest to Myka in that office in Tamalpais, and for the briefest instant, re-breathing Helena’s breath as her own, Myka loses the present plot...

...which she knows because when her hearing retunes, Pete is saying, “Aha. How do you gay-run-tee a win?”

Helena says, “Play both sides.”

They nod knowingly at each other. Myka seethes with jealousy at their consonance.

“Nevertheless,” Helena says, “couldn’t we simply steal it?”

Myka doesn’t know what “it” is, but she’ll infer, she’ll get back on board; she just needs to make sure she doesn’t blink out into some Helena-inspired reverie again.

“That’s the evil twin talking,” Claudia says, “because you’d end up in court for a whole different reason than ‘I’ve got the legal right to this artifact!’ Myka versus ‘No, I do!’ H.G.”

“We do try to avoid running afoul of the law,” Artie mumbles.

“That’s new,” Helena says.

“To you,” Artie snarks.

Myka always wants to step in; never knows how. Everything with Artie and Helena, speaking of sides, is double-dutch... which, honestly, Myka knows nothing about except as metaphor. She tries, “But we aren’t actually lawyers. And I’m pretty sure that runs afoul of the law.”

“Save your objections for court,” Artie says, ignoring the contradiction.

It’s what Myka would have wished him to say, so she admonishes herself about gift horses, trying to push the concern from her mind.

And then she forgets to try, for Helena catches her gaze, assessing then smiling, sly, then saying a single, satiny word: “Adversaries...”

The syllables envelop Myka as if embroiling her, paradoxically, in a conspiracy.

She hadn’t thought of the situation that way, but suddenly she sees it sees it sees it—then she sees it further, sees herself and Helena free of the Warehouse, if only for the length of a trial, if only in the space of a court, existing as adversaries with stakes high but not mortal... it’s an arena in which she might fight Helena and win... or at least play to a draw, for Myka knows she is good with precedent, with bringing the previous to bear on the present... then again, applying the volumes of information always available to her can be laborious—and Helena is, among other things, quick. Objection! Myka can hear her saying, feel her leaping to say, in response to some carefully crafted question from Myka. And the judge, any judge, would be captivated, would ignore Myka’s ensuing sputter entirely, would sigh “sustained,” chin in hand, gazing.

Myka considers casting herself as the judge, rather than as the now-hapless adversary. “In my chambers, Miss Wells,” she could order. Order! (In the court!)

She clicks back in as Claudia looks from Helena to her, back to Helena, back to her, tennis match–style. “Sparks are gonna fly,” Claudia pronounces, like it’s Solomonic wisdom... and maybe it is.

This, Myka thinks—printed in words, a silent-film intertitle in her head, each word appearing as she ideates it—is going to be fantastic.

TBC

Preview of coming attractions:

Pete to Myka: Are you wearing makeup?

Myka, exasperated: I’m going to court.

Pete: Who? The judge?

Myka: What?

Pete: And you’re the word nerd... but seriously, do they judge on hotness now?

Helena, who walks in looking like a dream: I certainly hope so. [She looks Myka over.] At the very least, I relish the competition.

[blackfoxreddog]

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC

[blackfoxreddog]

what if i lost the person i loved most in this world and i realized i could never get her back so i shut myself off from the world and went into suspended animation for a hundred years in the hopes that i would awaken in a time where senseless violence and bigotry are things of the past, but then i found that for all the ways humanity has progressed, the 21st century is still much the same as the 19th, and so i vow that there is nothing left for me or anyone else in this world and if i were to destroy it it would simply be a mercy killing. but then i met you. and i held the power to end the world in my hands but you looked me in the eyes and made me realize that if i were to destroy this world i would also be destroying you. you, who showed me forgiveness that i know i don't deserve, who trusted me only for me to stab you in the back, who loved me even though i know i am unloveable. and so i abandoned my plan, my scheme that i have been dreaming up for a century, because if this world was truly beyond saving and had no redeeming qualities, it wouldn't have you in it. and also we were both girls

[blackfoxreddog]

“For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.”

[blackfoxreddog]

I couldn't resist joining in on the adorable Korrasami Secret Cupid event hosted by @thewillowtree3!

And guess what? Today's the big reveal! Hey there, @creepy-scrawl, surprise! I'm your Secret Cupid!

Your request for "an excuse for a tender kiss" and "a pinning loving goodbye kiss... fluff fluff fluff" got me all excited. I poured my heart into making something special, and I hope it brings you as much joy as I had creating it! 💕

Thank you @thewillowtree3 for the invitation!

[blackfoxreddog]

A day in a life of a superhero.

[blackfoxreddog]

Happy Bering and Wells Day! This year, @apparitionism gave me a wild set of prompts to play with, so here's what I ended up with.

@b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange

[blackfoxreddog]

Kissing Booth

[blackfoxreddog]

Warehouse 13 - New Year’s Eve

Couldn’t get Christmas art done on time, but I had the time for New Years!

[blackfoxreddog]

[blackfoxreddog]

Happy Holidays nerdsbians! And an early Happy New Year, too!

I had a short story idea for this image a la the "Adventures of Bering & Wells" series (the one I was chipping away at a few years ago), but just didn't have the time or focus to flesh it out. So, for now, I hope it's enough just to see these two shuffling along in Midtown New York mid-conversation (or argument? Who knows..). I guess I should thank that W train that turned into a Q mid journey, forcing me to walk across 57th street to catch the bus home. I wouldn't have experienced any of the holiday decorations otherwise, and the snaps I took of this plaza gave me ideas.

[blackfoxreddog]

Bonus

Happy particular Monday! Here’s a story for it, which came about mostly because I wanted to put a couple of people into a clichéd situation, and then I had to do leadup and aftermath... anyway, it’s intended to be a two-parter (yes, I know; aspirations) set in a not-entirely-canonical season 4, in which the Warehouse did get brought back and Helena did leave without explanation, BUT Artie doesn’t go full Father Data and Leena doesn’t suffer the consequences—mostly because Mrs. Frederic has sensed some badness to come and thus sent Artie and Leena away. Because why not? Also I have Claudia jumping into Caretakering, and even a bit of Artieing, with some enthusiasm.

P.S. I know I haven’t yet finished last year’s Christmas story—that’s a pain point—but I genuinely am working to get back on various horses, including that one. Weather (in all senses) permitting.

Bonus

“I genuinely cannot believe we’re stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. It may be the most true statement to which she’s ever given voice.

****

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER...

Myka’s reasonably pleasant thought, burring along as background to her monotonous tasks, is I don’t mind this. She and Steve are in the Warehouse office early in the morning, doing file inventory, and it’s true: she doesn’t mind it. It’s a little lacking as a holiday activity, but with Artie, Leena, and Pete all away, “lacking” is pretty much the flavor of the moment.

Claudia pokes her head in and says, “Ping.” She’s unenthusiastic, speaking of lacking. Where’s the usual revving about what it might be this time? “At some midwestern accounting firm, because it’s important to have a boring Christmas.”

Ah. “An accounting artifact?” Myka asks. Speaking further of lacking: here, it’s artifacty zing. Then again, artifacty zing got Myka trapped in Alice’s mirror, among other catastrophes, so maybe boring isn’t so bad. “Balance sheets?” she ventures. “Pluses and minuses?”

“Some people at this pingy company just got extremely large Christmas bonuses,” Claudia says, “and some got their pay extremely docked. So yeah, ‘balance sheets, pluses and minuses’ just about covers it. Probably. I mean, I might be trying to manage expectations here.”

Claudia’s certainly right, in that getting one’s hopes up—about anything (or anyone)—is a fool’s game.

But still, there’s something to be said for boring-but-remunerative, even only for some people... what a nice idea. “I’d like a Christmas bonus someday,” Myka says, “instead of a Christmas penalty. Which I think pretty accurately describes the Pete-plus-artifacts situation.”

“It’s two days before Christmas, and he hasn’t done anything yet,” Claudia says. “That you know of,” she amends.

“Because he’s been with his family in Ohio for the past week,” Myka points out, and she’s gratified when Claudia rolls her eyes. It’s practically a concession.

Steve says, “It’s inappropriate to say ‘Christmas’ bonus these days. It’s ‘end-of-year.’” The contribution suggests he’s listening with only one ear.

“I wish appropriateness mattered here,” Myka says, not really to him but in general. Who knows how a Warehouse HR department would make heads or tails of the application of employment laws—much less employment niceties? “Not that it makes a difference. Christmas, end-of-year... call it Fred, and we still wouldn’t get one.”

“If I ever do get a bonus, I’m absolutely naming it Fred,” Claudia declares.

Myka shakes her head. “Poor Fred. Doomed to be injected right back into the discretionary economy.”

“Inject-o-what are you even talking about?”

“Just a guess, but: you’d spend it on things you don’t need.”

Claudia harrumphs. “Thanks for lumping me in with the avocado-toast-and-Starbucks crowd. My fiscaling is way more responsible.”

“Really? What would you use Fred for?”

“Asus VG278HE gaming monitor. Plus a graphics card, maybe the Nvidia GTX 690, depending on how hefty Fred is.” At Myka’s snort, Claudia challenges, “Fine, where would you inject it?”

“My Roth IRA,” Myka says immediately. She’s not sure what assets her evil, crazy, or dead self will need in retirement, but given the many and varied forms each of those, or combinations thereof, could take, it seems like a good idea to have a financial plan in place. That’s another thing a Warehouse HR department might be useful for...

“You’re the actual human manifestation of an accounting artifact,” Claudia accuses. “Speaking of which, here’s the deal. I gotta stay here—some Mrs.-F homeworky stuff—and Steve’s busy reassuring all the misfit toys in the building that Leena hasn’t deserted them forever. And I’d say ignore the ping entirely, but your never know what’ll go viral, and I bet Artie’d say the last thing we need is another financial crisis. Or maybe you’d say it. Anyway, you’re it. And for your backup, when you get to Cleveland—”

Myka groans. “Cleveland? Seriously? Pete’s going to be so mad about you pulling him away from the family.”

“I’m not pulling him away,” Claudia says, blinking like she’s some innocent little lamb.

Myka groans again. “You’re making me do it?”

Claudia shrugs. “Sure. Why not. You’re partners, right? But here’s some advice: wait till you get there to call him. You know, put off the misery, if that’s what it is, as long as possible. Besides—more advice—I really think you should spend your travel time thinking about bonuses. Who gets ’em and why. Because what’s a bonus, really?”

“An economic stimulus whose nametag reads ‘Fred,’ if I’m understanding things correctly.”

“We’ll see what you think about that when you get to Cleveland.”

“On the day before Christmas eve,” Myka grouses. “By the way, that’s a whole lot of ‘advice,’ coming from somebody who’s over a decade younger than I am and not technically my boss.”

“By the way,” Claudia mimics, archly mocking, “we’ll see what you think about that too.”

“When I get to Cleveland?”

“When you get to Cleveland. On the day before Christmas eve.”

“Sounds like the title of a lesser Christmas carol,” Steve says—he’s tuned back in to the conversation. He then says, with his grin that curves so impish, “Think we could get Mariah Carey to sing it? It’s a hit if we get her, right, no matter how lesser?”

“‘When You Get to Cleveland on the Day Before Christmas Eve?’” Claudia skeptics. “Hit-wise, that’s gonna need a lot more power: Mariah dueting with Darlene Love at the very least. Plus we’ll need a Destiny’s Child reunion for at least one chorus.”

“Thanks for reinforcing my sense of how awful this is likely to be,” Myka tells them both, and Steve’s grin turns apologetic.

Claudia, however, shrugs. “Maybe you’ll sing it different.”

Myka is now the one to roll her eyes. “I won’t sing it at all.”

Surprisingly, Claudia doesn’t go with another eyeroll. “We’ll see,” she says, and Myka is struck by the Mrs.-Frederic resonance in her words. Does the homework include practicing the enigmatic tone?

Steve looks up and catches Myka’s eye. He winks. Myka would wink back, but he would probably interpret that as her saying she understands what’s happening. And that would be a lie: serious enough, probably, to make him wince and massage his temples.

So Myka just blinks—not Morse or any other code, just basic eye-moistening blinks. Then she goes upstairs to collect her always-packed travel bag for her trip to Cleveland.

****

Her flight departs late, of course; it’s December in South Dakota. But that’s this-time fine, because it allows Myka a necessary excess of opportunity to prep her Pete-placation. Under her breath, she practices the delivery of such words as “shorthanded” and “necessary,” aiming for maximum sincerity.

When she at last emerges from her Cleveland Hopkins jetway, that extensive prep deserts her entirely, for what awaits her is the manifestation of a Christmas wish she has worked overtime to convince herself would not, could not possibly be granted:

Helena.

Whose arms are crossed, and whose posture betrays that her foot might recently have been tapping out impatience with the plane’s tardy arrival. The attitude is so normal, so entirely of-the-world (rather than of-its-imminent-end), that Myka wants to reverse course, get back on the plane and redisembark, just so she might meet it again, meet it and refeel this wash of absolute relief at seeing Helena impatient in an airport.

Devious, Claudia, Myka thinks. Outstandingly devious. “Hello, Fred,” she murmurs, then tries, in the ten seconds she has before she and Helena are in proximity to speak, to engage in a far more consequential prep.

For Helena has been gone—has been, as Myka put it to Steve not so long ago, “god knows where”—since shortly after the Warehouse did not explode. She was there, in the Warehouse, but then she was gone, and Myka was told only that Helena had “matters to attend to.” God presumably also knew what those matters were, but Myka hadn’t, in the wake of that first moment of absence, and hasn’t since, been able to pry any information about matters or their whereabouts out of anyone, divine or otherwise.

And through the seemingly endless wondering, Myka’s mind and heart have gnawed themselves ragged.

Until this moment, when the wondering and gnawing end: now her blood speeds, coursing with urgency even as everything else seems to slow.... her movements, her reactions, her thinking, all are sluggish, unresponsive; only her blood matters. This blood knowledge. For all her wondering, she’s been avoiding gnawing her way to that answer.

“Claudia said you needed backup” are Helena’s words when they meet.

Myka’s attempt at prep has fallen grievously short—not that she could have risen to such an occasion, not when hearing that voice for the first time in some time, and certainly not when faced with what her blood’s embarrassing insistence has forced her to confront anew. “I... assumed I’d be calling Pete,” she says, to at least go with truth.

“Interesting assumption. Perhaps necessary, if you believe I’ll be insufficient.”

Myka’s impulse is to reassure: “More than sufficient—you’re necessary,” she would shout, or better yet, whisper. Instead, because Helena’s tone is neutral—is she in actuality indifferent?—she falls into a defensive, businesslike crouch, offering only implicit denial of the premise of Helena’s statement. “Let’s head for the accounting firm,” she says, internally cursing herself.

Cursing, but also justifying: Helena is here as backup, thanks to Claudia’s cleverness, and Myka should not assume (speaking of assumptions) that she even wants to be here. All focus should be on retrieving the artifact. Certainly on that and not on Myka’s (honestly) predictably overexcited blood.

She tries to concentrate on Claudia’s advice (while at the same time trying not to resent her success at being cryptic about it): what’s a bonus, really? Helena’s presence, the sight of her, the apprehending of her impatience, the experience of blood: whatever else may happen, these have been—must be—are!—the bonus.

****

The cab ride is quiet. Myka’s resolve to think only of backup and bonus is dissolving by the second, and she lets words reach her tongue that might start a conversation with Helena about things... but those words don’t escape her lips, for a strand of formality seems to be stiffening Helena’s spine. Does she know how Myka cherished her impatience? Is she attempting to discourage such adoration?

Myka, in regret and relief, follows that more-strict lead.

That’s a bonus too, though, for it turns the ride into unpressured, liminal time, perfect for simply basking in presence. It’s best, Myka is now thinking, to treat this reunion as something that was of course going to have happened. For backup or other professional purposes. Despite the fact that it’s the thank-god fulfillment of recurring, desperate dreams.

However: at one point in the traffic-backed silence, Helena, completely unprompted, turns and smiles at Myka.

Myka smiles back.

It’s a previously missing puzzle-piece slotting into place... yet in its aftermath, Myka finds herself having to push with force against a will to worry over other missing pieces; in particular, she must fight the fret-intensive futility of trying to count them.

****

They find the accounting firm’s lobby spacious but quiet—holiday-low staffing, presumably. Myka asks the receptionist, “Is there someone we can talk to about end-of-year bonuses? Also penalties?”

“I’m a temp,” says the young man. His tone suggests it’s his answer to every query... but then he adds, very quietly, “Unofficially, there’s this one guy...”

That has the ring of “artifact,” so Myka nods, encouraging him.

“Super-vocal about his paycheck the other day. How tiny it was. I mean, he’s the kind of guy you might have theories about what else is tiny, but I—”

“Who was that?” Myka interrupts, even as she feels Helena’s readiness to laugh. Mr. Super-vocal is thus probably not a wielder of an artifact; more likely, one of that wielder’s... victims?

“Bob,” the temp says. “I’m sure he’s got a last name, and I’m sure he thinks everybody should call him ‘Mr. Lastname,’ but my care level? Anyway he’s down the hall—one of the only ones in the farm today. Spite-working. Maybe on his anti-everything-manifesto.”

“Down the hall” turns out to be a vast expanse of cubicles: definitely a farm.

Myka says to Helena, “Follow my lead?”

“Always,” Helena says.

It’s a tonally sincere utterance—and in that, admirable—but it’s also manifestly untrue; nevertheless, Myka’s blood decides to believe it, to recognize it as another puzzle-piece. I really need to function, Myka tries to explain to her interior. So if we could climb down just a couple rungs. Like to the cab-ride level, maybe?

Her body refuses the agreement.

Of course.

The occupant of the first inhabited cubicle they find is an over-coiffed middle-aged man who clearly spends far too much time in tanning booths. He’s typing aggressively, as if the force of his keystrokes will power his message. His manifesto?

“Are you Bob?” Myka asks him.

“You better be here about my money,” obviously-Bob says, clearly spoiling for a fight.

Myka finds his demand incongruous—his job has to do with other people’s money, and Myka and Helena are manifestly other people. Who could have money. Fred or otherwise.

“In a way,” she says. She follows up with “We’re from the IRS,” and it’s never not funny for that to be useful. “We’ve noted some suspicious discrepancies in end-of-year reporting.”

“You have?” Bob asks. Now he’s avid rather than confrontational.

“Looks like some overreporting. Also underreporting. So you see our concern, particularly about effects on withholding.” She is making this up, as she generally does whenever she has to go actual IRS on someone. Read up on tax law, she reminds herself, as she generally does every time. Not that she’ll ever have the leisure to do that... “What we need to find out is whether it was in error, or if it warrants a full investigation.”

“Nancy Sullivan,” he says, with contempt, the name itself a curse. “She’s the one you should investigate, and then send straight to jail. She’s always been a witch about year-end, but now?  On steroids. Talking about making her list, threatening to mark down people she doesn’t like, including yours truly, as naughty... and then we got our paychecks, and somehow she did it! No idea how she managed to push that garbage through, but I swear you better get her up on some kind of charges!”

He rises abruptly, clutching a slip of paper; his chair topples over behind him. He shoves the paper in Myka’s direction, his knuckles nearing her astonished nose—but in the instant before contact, Helena intervenes, her arm blocking his, stopping his forward motion.

Backup.

Helena plucks the paper from his pushy hand. “And what’s this?” she asks.

A pretty minimal manifesto, Myka thinks initially. But then she replays his screed in her head, and his babbling about Nancy Sullivan resolves into meaningful references; struck by the realization, she very nearly misses his next statement: “My pay stub. She can’t just do this.”

Helena says, “Of course not.” She’s soothing him, her voice a faux-caress. It’s enough to tempt Myka to act out, just to hear it directed her way, but Helena continues, “But we understand some of your colleagues, to the contrary, received large bonuses.”

His “tanned” skin darkens further. “Guess she thought they were nice. To her. Suck-ups.”

Mya looks a Find out anything else that’s relevant at Helena, who nods. Retreating back to the pre-cubicle hallway—relieved that her nose is intact—she Farnsworths Claudia. She skips the pleasantries, starting with, “A very disgruntled employee says the woman who signs off on bonuses was making a list.”

Claudia chortles. “You’re hilarious. Was she checking it twice?”

“This is my point. We don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with, not yet, but I bet that’s the crux.”

“I should’ve known you weren’t aiming for hilarity. So you really think this is some Santa thing?”

“No. I’m saying words about lists because I think it’s a grocery thing.” Myka wants to shake her fist at the heavens and every deity who occupies it. Occupies them. All the heavens. “Of course I think it’s a Santa thing! I also think it’s Pete’s fault somehow.”

“Just because it’s Christmas? C’mon.”

“Christmas and Ohio?” Myka snorts. “You c’mon. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Maybe you should though. For peace of mind?”

“That’s another thing I don’t believe in. Just see if you can find anything about a Santa’s-list artifact, would you?”

“Roger. By the way, how do you like your backup?” She chortles again and disconnects.

“I like my backup like I like the sunrise,” Myka tells the blank Farnsworth screen.

“What about the sunrise?” Helena asks from directly behind her.

Myka wishes the sound of her voice were either more or less startling. She wishes also that she knew exactly how much overhearing had occurred.

“It’s inevitable,” she sighs.

In response, Helena blinks.

They take the elevator to Nancy Sullivan’s office.

In that elevator, which is aggressively mirrored, Myka can’t help but glance repeatedly at herself. So many reflections. You called this into being, thinking about Alice’s mirror before, she accuses. She tries not to focus on how her hair could really stand to be more controlled... she’d focus on Helena instead, but who knows how that would be received? Instead she allows herself one glance, then looks down.

She likes being on the elevator with Helena, though; it’s a space of relative privacy, like the cab. Have they ever before been on an elevator together? Alone or otherwise? She runs through their interactions, fast-forwarding from the Wells house to D.C., Tamalpais to Moscow, Yellowstone, Colorado Springs, Ohio (here Myka trips over the fact that Helena’ s now been to Ohio twice, if only once in physical form), Pittsburgh, Hong Kong...

The review—the speed with which she can conduct it—reminds her of how limited that time has been, so: an elevator ride. Yet another bonus.

“That fellow,” Helena remarks, and Myka looks up again; their eyes meet in the mirror of the elevator’s doors. It’s uncanny, as if they’re both holograms, so Myka turns her body toward Helena, who meets Myka’s actual eyes and continues, “He attempted to make a lewd joke about his willingness and ability to be naughty when it’s called for. I pretended not to understand.”

Myka can’t help it: she snorts. “I bet he didn’t buy that for a second.”

“I have the ability to perform ‘prim’ when it’s called for,” Helena says, and Myka has to acknowledge that statement as good evidence of itself. Then Helena’s face reshapes into a devilish grin as she says, “In a slightly different vein, his quailing at those three letters with which you assailed him? Hilarious.”

“Letters?” A little perverse-quirk makes Myka want to hear Helena say them, though she’s probably not pulling off “disingenuous” in making the request.

Helena seems fine with the perversity, for she obliges: “I,” she begins, then draws out “Aaaaare.” Then, after a beat: “Esssss.”

Myka now herself feels assailed—by how right Helena’s reading her. She tries to step it down with, “I wasn’t aiming for hilarity. I never do. Claudia can vouch.” But she does spend a little moment thinking about the context of that previous assailing: we’re from the IRS. We are here, together, from an agency. We, together, represent. It isn’t by any means everything Myka would have wanted... but it’s something: part of this bonus. “Fred,” she says, sotto voce.

The office they’re seeking is on the building’s highest floor, suggestive of Nancy Sullivan’s bonus-approving rank; it features several large windows, one of which affords the office a view of the hallway, and vice versa. Through it, Myka and Helena watch a woman, presumably that powerful Nancy Sullivan, writing with a quill-esque pen.

“It’s the pen,” Myka says, because it has to be. “It’s always the stupid pen.”

“Always?” That’s unusually tentative, like Helena’s trying not to step.

“Okay, once,” Myka concedes. “My dad and Poe and a pen, and as a result I’ve developed a severe aversion to those quill things.”

Helena takes a beat. Then: “I never liked feather pens.”

“Are you just saying that,” Myka says, because she might be, and she might admit it, and that might be good or bad or something else Myka has no way of evaluating. Why does Helena say words like this? And for that matter, why does Myka keep spending her limited time on this planet trying to parse them?

“Yes? In that I’ve... said it?”

That really didn’t help with any of the whys. “I mean, just to make me feel better?”

Helena shrugs. “The fact is, today’s ballpoints et cetera are far more reliable. Does that make you feel better?”

She’s playing at being obtuse—surely that’s for a reason? But Myka has no time to wonder further, for Helena is knocking on the office door and opening it without waiting for an invitation, and the real retrieval is underway.

Myka flashes her badge. “I’m Agent Myka Bering, and this is Helena Wells. We’re from the IRS.” She glances at Helena—all these glances!—and gets a small smirk in response.

Rather than introducing herself, the woman says, “Really? I bet that’s not true.”

“Why?” Myka asks. Have she and Helena, over the course of the elevator ride, lost their ability to perform “official” correctly?

“I have a feeling you’re here for this,” Nancy Sulllivan says, and she lofts the pen, waving it like a wand. “Mostly because I also have a feeling that I want to close my fist around it, punch my way past both of you, and make my escape.”

Well. “That’s self-aware,” Myka says. “Unusually so.”

“Thank you? Although it’s less self-awareness than kind of a... sixth sense.”

Helena raises an eyebrow at Myka. “Sixth sense aside, we appreciate your good sense to refrain from attempting to punch your way past us. That would have ended poorly.”

“I wish I’d had the good sense not to use this pen,” Nancy Sullivan says.

“Is there a reason for your wish?” Helena asks. She sounds, to Myka’s ears at least, like a recently summoned, slightly flummoxed genie.

“Because of how much I liked using it—particularly when I realized nobody was going to question anything. I signed off on all these orders, and it was like...” she trails off. Then she concludes, “Magic.”

To keep her talking, Myka prompts, “Was it?”

“Having the power to reward good people has been fantastic,” Nancy Sullivan continues, “but penalizing the awful ones? I mean I’ve sort of resented feeling compelled to use the word ‘naughty’ about them, because that’s way out of character for me. But other than that? Utterly spectacular.”

“Bob,” Helena suggests.

“Oh, god, you met him?”

Helena offers a dry “Alas.”

Nancy Sullivan’s smile is as dry as Helena’s tone, astringently vindictive. “I could not have been more thrilled to hit him and everybody like him where it hurt... I admit I’ve always been kind of judgmental, but wielding this pen? Intensified. Like, the hates are more. In particular, the hates are more. I’m not saying the Bobs of this company didn’t deserve what I did, but I feel it more. Punishment. It’s satisfying, but also weirdly costly. Grinch-in-reverse costly.”

That’s a little on the nose. Myka glances at Helena again, because the satisfactions of punishment, of judgment, even of hate, are among the things they will need to talk about. Maybe. Someday. If they are to have a someday that is theirs... if that is even possible after so much time and tribulation... Myka lets the glance grow into a gaze, a resting regard, and it stays that way until Helena, too, glances, with the result then that their eyes meet and lock... such a clasp, Myka feels, could ground that potential, and potentially necessary, talk of things, if only they were not in the middle of a retrieval...

...which makes Myka think. Why are they in the middle of a retrieval?

“I wish I didn’t feel like I need to articulate this, but where did you get the pen?” she asks. Because she has a niggling sense of something larger happening, something beyond her grasp. Nevertheless, it is not—repeat, not—a vibe.

Fine. It might be a vibe.

“My cousin gave it to me,” says Nancy Sullivan.

“Your cousin,” Myka says. “Whose name is?” Now she’s knows what’s coming, and that has nothing to do with a vibe: no, it is entirely deduction based on experience.

“Pete Lattimer.”

TBC

[blackfoxreddog]

[blackfoxreddog]

Kara Leaned In chibified!