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“Keep your splendid, silent sun; Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods; […] Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs! Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!”
Walt Whitman
[...]
The dripping snow banks form small rivers amongst the peeking yellowed grass, so that Abigail’s running shoes stick to the mushy ground with every footstep, the swishing sounds echoing throughout the silent forest. A soft, cold wind blows through seemingly dead branches and pine needles, the tiny specks of green joining the little black rocks onto shiny white snow. Amidst the landscape surrounding Leena’s Bed and Breakfast, spring settles, in all its lazy glory.
A greyish blue welcomes the start of the day; the sun is barely up yet, and the cold of the night still lingers, especially around Abigail’s gloveless hands. She feels the sting on her skin and buries her fists into her pockets. She knows her cheeks must be bright red, even though the walk itself is effortless. Following the discrete trail she has found the previous fall, the therapist gladly disappears into the small woods. Snow and branches now somewhat disturb the path, carelessly obstructing; it’s messy, as if someone hadn’t had time to clean it up yet.
Abigail stops for a minute, closing her eyes and breathing down deeply before she starts again.
A smile finds its way to her lips as she remembers the last time she upheld this foolish but comforting tradition. It has been years since then; all those former walks she took, at the break of dawn, through countless landscapes. Always alone; never having to worry about waking anybody up. At the time, she thought it was better not to share her daily life with anyone; cohabiting with others had seemed frightening, terrified as she was of losing herself into them.
Now, it seems, the Warehouse compels her to stay, even though her first reflex is to leave. She knows very well why she loved travelling, observing others and keeping away from forming bonds with anyone.
Abigail cannot bear the thought of losing someone again.
Her boots slide on a patch of ice and breath escapes her lungs before she catches herself on the closest tree trunk. For a second, she wonders on the irrationality of what she is doing. She could be in the warmth of her bed, enjoying her day off, instead of here, walking alone in the cold, down a dirtied path. Traditions are traditions, though, and she is resolved. Every small comfort matters, so she continues to trek forward.
It takes only a few more minutes before she reaches a small body of water peacefully running through ice and rocks. She kneels, carefully balancing her weight on her ankles so that she doesn’t fall forward when she leans down. From her vest’s pocket, she pulls out a small, empty vial, opens it and lowers it into the stream. Her fingertips create waves in the current and the icy water is too cold to be comfortable, but the feeling makes her smile nonetheless. When the glass is filled, she closes the lid and her eyes, breathing deeply while she silently prays to an unknown deity.
Finally, she stands again, vial in hand. It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.
[…]
Watermelon juice drips from Myka’s knife. “Pete, are you eating chocolate?”
She stands alone in the Bed & Breakfast’s kitchen, one hand on her thigh and one wrist leaning on the counter, her entire body screaming with disapproval. Unaware of her current state, the Farnsworth casually rests open against the toaster oven. Beside it, the coffee machine has done its work and filled the air with its magical scent, reminding the brunette that she has yet to pour herself a cup.
“It’s Easter Mikes!”
Pete sounds slightly foreign, twisted by the radio waves of the communication device and she wonders if she’ll ever get used to hearing his voice this way. She’s grown accustomed – no, fond – of her partner: knowing that he’s working with someone else triggers the slightest pinch of jealousy, but Myka brushes it away as she wipes her hands on a clean towel.
Half an hour earlier, she did exactly the same by investing herself in the preparation of a fruit salad. One pineapple, thirty strawberries, three mangos, four oranges and one watermelon later, and she has not yet succeeded in completely pushing aside the thought that she should be in Quebec with Pete, instead of Steve. That she should be healthy, or at least, have treatments that wouldn’t interfere with artifact hunting.
“It’s eight in the morning”, she complains, finding comfort in the usual banter. Quarrelling with Pete is a habit more than anything else, now. She knows how badly he eats – more than she’d ever want to – and isn’t really surprised by his choice of breakfast. She’s actually seen far worse.
“Well here it’s ten, so…”, he lets the vowel extend, as if more oh’s could prove his point. It isn’t a valid argument, and Myka is helpless to fight her urge to argue with him.
“That doesn’t make it right”, she answers while she grabs three cups from the cabinet, and places two of them face down by the coffee machine before she fills the other with steaming caffeine.
“Ugh, guys?” Steve’s face pops into the screen, one eye comically bigger, deformed by the edge of the monitor.
“What?”, Pete and Myka reply at the same time.
The former ATF agent points to something off camera and, seemingly on cue, the gesture is followed by a very loud fit of coughing.
“Oh yeah”, Pete remembers, snapping his fingers before returning his attention to Myka. “Hey, so we need intel about anything that would make you cough your lungs out.” He seems to address someone behind him when he adds, “which, I’m really hoping you won’t, because, gross.”
Steve shakes his head which only makes Myka smiles. She forgets her earlier jealousy, thoroughly erased with his kind eyes as he gently asks; “so, could Claud work her magic?”
“I’ll ask her”, Myka promises. “How’s the girl?”
“Still impossible to kill”, Pete keenly replies before realising what he hinted at. “Not that we’ve tried… you know… offing her.”
He drags two fingers under his neck, as if the words weren’t enough.
“Good, yeah, I think it’s better not to attempt killing your only witness”, Myka adds with a short laugh. She doesn’t know if it’s the coffee, or the conversation with her two friends, but suddenly the day seems a bit brighter.
“Well, the truck hit her at sixty miles an hour and she doesn’t have a broken bone; I’d say she could survive us if we tried”, Steve suggests.
“Speak for you man; I know ways” Pete competitively replies.
“Guys? Maybe, not joke about assassinating someone when you’re in the same room as them?”
“Right, gotcha”, Lattimer agrees.
A soft sigh emerges from behind Myka.
“Ugh, Farnsworth emergency, already?”, Claudia whines as she enters, startling the agent even though the sound of her crutches hitting every step down the staircase should’ve warned her of her arrival. The redhead flops down on a stool by the counter, wincing in pain even though she is comfortably wrapped in a black sweater and blue pyjamas.
“Apparently”, Myka answers with a slight frown before she returns her attention to the communication device. “Listen guys, we’ll see what we can find and we’ll call you back, okay?”
The brunette doesn’t wait for an answer and closes the Farnsworth. In seemingly the same motion, she grabs one of the empty cups she had set aside and pours in coffee before offering it to Claudia.
“So, on a scale of one to ten, how screwed are they without us?”
“Eleven”, Myka winks. Her playful attitude quickly turns serious as she leans in on the counter. “You’re up early. Problem with the pain?”
“Abigail woke me up.” The redhead stretches an arm to grab two sugar cubes and then stares at her mug as she stirs the coffee, seemingly lost in thought. When she finally takes notice of the heavy silence surrounding her, Claudia looks up to find Myka’s frown. “Well, not on purpose. It’s her post-jog morning shower’s fault; this building’s dear ol’ plumbing isn’t that quiet.”
Still, the brunette isn’t convinced; if Claudia can sleep through Pete’s loud rendering of his favorite movie scenes down the staircase, it doesn’t make sense that her rest would be disturbed by water running through old drain pipes. She insists; “… and?”
The redhead rolls her eyes and sighs before she answers in one breath; “and I was kind of awake anyway because I forgot my magic pills downstairs and I was too lazy to come here to get them. Happy?”
Myka smiles knowingly and takes the vial of painkillers before she passes them along. “Very.”
Before Claudia has time to thank her, Abigail joins them in the kitchen, hair still slightly wet from the shower. “Good morning ladies”, she starts joyfully, but stops when she notices what Myka had been doing. “Boy that’s a lot of fruits.”
Embarrassed, the brunette agent looks at the counter, where she has created a landscape of small mountains of fruits, squashed into little cubes.
“Yeah I uh… I was kind of on a roll”, she realises, glad that the Farnsworth has interrupted her before she could get her hands on the apples.
“Oh you know what would be awesome sauce?” the redhead claps her hands in excitement. “Chocolate fondue for breakfast!”
Myka looks horrified. “Claud, it’s eight in the morning”
“It’s Easter”, Abigail and Claudia protest in unison.
[…]
The strong sunlight peaks through the window and dances on the screen of her laptop, forming bars of blinding light that annoy Claudia as she tries to work. She sighs and shifts on her seat, changing the angle and the position of her computer to avoid the phenomenon, unsuccessfully. Finally, she opens her mouth to say something, but before any words can cross the barrier of her lips, already Abigail is closing the boudoir’s curtains so that the room itself remains sunny, but the light rays aren’t as glaring as before.
“Better?”
“I could get used to this”, the redhead simply answers with a cocky smile. “Go, fetch me more coffee”, she orders jokingly, holding out her cup. Abigail blinks a few times before she chooses to ignore the younger woman and returns to her seat, focusing her attention on her own laptop.
“You know, we’re not your personal slaves” Myka argues, eyes barely lifting from the book she’s been skimming through for the last few minutes.
“Well, I always wanted an army of robots, but yeah, sure, slaves will do”, Donovan replies as she playfully shoves her empty mug in front of Myka.
“Wait ‘til your broken ankle heals…”, the brunette agent threatens, “you’ll do chores for a month.”
Claudia snorts. “You owe respect to your caretaker”, she jokes, returning the cup to the side of her computer and her eyes back to her research.
“And you owe respect to your fellow agents”, Myka retorts with a wink.
“She’s not an agent”, Claudia points out to Abigail, although her stare remains locked onto her laptop.
“Don’t I have special Keeper status or something?”
The redhead raises her head to look at her and frowns as if in deep, almost existential questioning before she reluctantly answers: “… yes.”
“Ah!”, Myka triumphantly speaks again. “So, chores for a month; end of discussion.”
Claudia pulls out her tongue to mock her fellow agent’s threat before she cracks her fingers and returns them to her keyboard. She types in the parameters for a third sweep of Warehouse archives – the first centers on general history of the area, the second, on similar occurrences in recent history. Finally, her latest search focuses on significant events and persons that could be linked to their unknown artifact; the whole process is second nature now, and so she speaks as she continues to work.
“For one thing, there are tons of mines over there, so, maybe it’s something from one of the miners?”
“They’re gold mines though”, Myka opposes. “Probably hell on eardrums and yeah, damaging health in general, but nothing that would cause violent coughing… or complete invincibility, for that matter.”
“Hm, hate to be obvious here but… why aren’t we just checking up for fires?”, Abigail asks.
“Lots and lots forests in Quebec. Deadly wildfires every year”, the redhead starts. “Could def’ be artifact material.”
Claudia expertly opens the results of her previous searches and adds some parameters, but the shifting on her seat brings her a searing pain through her leg and up her back. She winces although she manages to focus on the task at hand, pressing Enter almost victoriously.
“I’m on it”, the redhead confirms.
They work in silence for a while, until Claudia notices the presence of a hand on the back of her seat. She barely needs to lift her head to know that Myka is standing right behind her, eyes probably roaming the screen of her laptop. Throwing one look to the side, the redhead sees that the agent is holding onto a bottle of pills. Claudia’s heart squeezes painfully, as it does every time she is reminded of the battle that goes on inside the brunette’s body. She hopes Myka hasn’t noticed the change in her breathing pattern, but seeing as the older agent is now taking a slight step back, she very well might.
“One every six hours Claud.”
The redhead frowns before she recognizes her painkillers. Thanking Myka in one awkward blurb, she’s silently grateful that her fellow agent cannot read thoughts.
“What’s that?”
Abigail raises her eyes from her computer, waiting for Claudia’s answer to the brunette’s question.
“Oh, an article about a wildfire that happened in July 1944”, the redhead explains. “I was just about to put it through the translator.”
“No need”, Myka tries to focus on her reading but stops when she feels the curious eyes of her colleagues on her. “Yes, I read French, how are you guys not used to this yet?”
“I’m new”, Abigail protests under her breath.
“Pff, that excuse is soooo five months ago, Doc”, Claudia argues.
“Guys, that’s it”, Myka almost glows. As the brunette narrates what she has just found out, Claudia copy pastes the article into the translator anyway; force of habit. “That fire, in July ‘44, it destroyed the entire village. Everybody had to move out one night because the flames spread so suddenly… In the chaos that followed, families were separated; some went for one village, the others, for another. The closest places were hours away.”
“Hours of trekking through the woods, in the middle of the night, and with every one of your possessions burning away… it’s awful”, the therapist adds, shaking her head sadly.
“Yeah, it is, but that’s not what this is really about”, Claudia interrupts, pointing at the screen. While Myka was speaking, Claudia had peeked at the freshly translated text and had reached the ending paragraphs. “It’s about a girl who got left behind. A teenager. Says here she hid in a gas station booth and survived there. They found her two days later, when they finally managed to control the flames.”
“How did she survive?”, Abigail asks.
“The booth she was in, it was made of cement, kind of like a bunker, so the fire couldn’t go through”, Myka explains, but then frowns. “The poor kid must have choked to death…”
“And yet she survived; sounds artifact-y to me”, Claudia replies as she types in her email address, eager to send the article to her partner. “Slave”, she then addresses Myka ceremoniously, “bring me the Farnsworth.”
Myka grimaces, stretching to grab the communication device. While she dials and waits for an answer, she battles Claudia with one hand, trying to keep her from stealing the Farnsworth away. Finally, she manoeuvers quickly enough to encircle both wrists and trap them under her arm.
“You’re evil”, the redhead complains.
“Says the tyrant”, Myka replies with a glare.
“Whose rent?” Pete asks.
“Forget it”, the brunette simply states, eager to get to the point. “Pete, does…” she leans towards Claudia to see the name of the village on the laptop, but by doing so, loses the strong hold she had on the redhead’s limbs. “Does the name Pascalis ring any bells to you?”
Pete’s face disappears from the screen, followed by the sky and tree branches before Steve’s face appears. The brunette opens her mouth to add something when Claudia successfully grabs the Farnsworth, gleaming with victory although she defensively pulls her chair away from Myka.
“Hey Claud”, her partner welcomes her with a smile. “Just got your email. We actually just learned where the kids went camping the day of the accident, and it’s the same place, so, definitely worth a look.”
“Alright, I’ll send you GPS coordinates”, she offers.
“No need; the girl’s father has drawn us a map”, Jinks continues, slightly interrupted by the closing of two car doors. “We’re on our way; we’ll call if we find anything.”
Claudia doesn’t answer; she’s too busy cursing her broken ankle to add anything. It’s been only two days and already, she misses the field. Sending one look towards Myka, her annoyance turns into guilt. Bering hasn’t been on a mission in weeks.
“Oh, and Claud?”, Steve pulls her out of her thoughts. “Be nice to your slaves.”
[…]
When the Farnsworth rings again, Myka doesn’t need a sixth sense to know that something is wrong. She stops in her track, standing in the middle of the corridor with worry sketched on her face.
“Ugh, we got a problem”, Steve’s voice emerges from the device even as he throws one look over his shoulder. In the background, the brunette hears the sound of loud, violent coughs.
“Pete?” she asks, nervously. Her partner appears on the round screen, awkwardly smiling and showing her the thumbs up, but suddenly breaks into another fit. “What did you touch?”
In the living room, Claudia struggles with her crutches but finally manages to lift herself up the couch and joins Myka in time to hear the agent’s answer;
“He says he hasn’t touched anything”, Steve translates the nonsensical words that emerge from Pete, in between coughs. It seems his work isn’t done because the older agent continues to speak, even though his speech is unintelligible. Finally, Lattimer shoves his hand into his co-worker’s face, and Steve realises what he means to say; “and he’s wearing his gloves.”
“Well it sounds like he just smoked three packs of cigarettes simultaneously, so I’d say that’s not exactly true”, Myka argues.
Abigail emerges from the kitchen, “Pete touched an artifact again?”
“Yeah”, both Myka and Claudia turn around to answer, even though a loud cough that strangely sounds like a strong “no” comes through the Farnsworth.
“Well I peeked inside and there’s nothing in that booth but rusting nails and old planks of wood”, Steve replies. “And Pete already tried bagging everything he could get his hands on.” He gets a bit paler when he adds; “even stuff no one should ever, ever try to snag bag and tag.”
The girls frown, but refuse to ask for more details.
“Okay, it has to be something else then, something you crossed when you were into town earlier?” Myka inquires.
“Town? I wouldn’t use the word town to describe this place”, Steve complains.
“Hey, Poopypants? Focus”, Claudia orders.
“The kids said the girl started coughing like crazy in the woods too, which is why they rushed to the road and how she got hit by the truck…”, the agent explains, trying to retrace his steps, but coming up empty. “I really think we’re at the right place.”
“And you didn’t come across anything else?”, the brunette challenges again, staring at the screen as if it could materialize her there.
“The booth”, Claudia whispers, sending an uncertain look to Myka. “Is that even possible?”
“We’ve seen stranger things”, the brunette answers with a hopeful half-smile.
The redhead blinks a few times before she grabs the Farnsworth from her fellow agent. “Jinksy, whatever you do, don’t go into that booth.”
“Okay”, the agent agrees, only hesitating slightly in front of the younger agent’s resolve.
Eyes locked into Myka’s, Donovan concentrates on the next course of action. “Can’t bag it.”
“Can’t destroy it”, the brunette adds.
“Can we just… I don’t know… throw lots and lots of goo on it?”, Abigail suggests.
“No, we need it to stick to the surface…”, Claudia starts but interrupts herself, a smirk coming up on her face. “Oh. Yes. Oh, but Artie will be pissed that we tried this without him.”
“Hm, what?”, the other agents ask, some with more worry than others.
“Hey, Jinksy”, Claudia gleams at the Farnsworth. “Do a girl a favor and open your emergency kit.”
Recognizing his partner’s confidence, he doesn’t question her and goes straight to the car. Over the device, the three women hear some rustling but can’t really distinguish anything of what is going on until Jinks reappears, kit in hand.
“Okay, now what?”
“Check the third left pocket; there should be a bag of crystallized minerals.”
“I don’t see it”, the agent complains while he tosses around in the emergency kit. “Are you sure you put it in here?”
“Hey, don’t mess up my system!”, Donovan whines.
“What system? This is a mess-”, Steve interrupts himself. “Oh wait, okay, okay, found it.”
“Now, add the powder to the bucket of goo and stir”, Claudia rolls her eyes. “Aaand now I’m hosting a cooking show.”
She glances at Myka, who shares a short smile before they both return their attention onto the Farnsworth.
“Done, and done”, Steve answers after sixty-five painful seconds – not that Claudia was counting.
“Now, look in the bag; you should find a paintbrush”, she instructs.
“Are you kidding me?” Steve asks but searches the bag nonetheless and finds it almost instantly. “You really turned this into Artie’s bag, huh?”
“I got mad skills”, the redhead smiles. “And now Jinksy, make me proud, and paint it goo!”
The agent grimaces. “This paint smells like a dead rat, Claud”
“Yes, yes, it kind of needs tweaking”, she replies with a shrug. “Still, who’s the Goo Queen?”
“You are”, Jinks replies with a wink and the communication ends.
[…]
Claudia enters the kitchen at the exact moment when Abigail pours a small vial of liquid on the kettle before placing it onto the heated stove.
“Hm, I’ll take my tea without the drugs, thank you”, the redhead speaks as she takes her usual place at the counter.
The therapist jumps, startled, but quickly answers that it’s only water.
“And you’re what? Pimpin’ my tea, putting water in my water?” She frowns. “Yeah, I’m never doing that impression again.”
Abigail smiles before she leans onto the counter. “Ever been to Quebec?”
“No”, the redhead replies, confused by the sudden change of subject. “I’m guessing you have?”
The therapist hesitates only a moment. “There’s this… old tradition, there. It says that the water that runs in a stream, on the dawn of an Easter morning, is blessed.”
“Blessed?”, Claudia repeats.
“Well, I guess for some people it’s got this whole religious meaning, but what I retained from it is that it’s… kind of magical.”
“So, you poured magic water in our tea”, the redhead translates, suddenly wondering about proverbial shoemakers, and if it can be applied to therapists as well.
“Its virtues are supposed to be able to cure any disease”, Abigail speaks again, eyes flicking down and back up, embarrassed. “Of course it’s just a story”, she continues, “but I think it’s nice.”
“Yeah, it is”, Claudia replies with a kind smile.
When Myka walks in, seconds later, both women stare in surprise. “What?”
“Nothing”, the redhead quickly answers. “Tea?”