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Helena George Wells watched as the current Warehouse 13 agents du jour raced away from her. It was a male/female pairing, as it almost always was in her experience. The woman was the ‘unexpected’ brains (and often a good distraction) and the man as the brawn with unexpected depths.
It was… disheartening… to the formerly bronzed scientist to see how little the world had changed in the century she had been out of touch. Oh, women definitely had more freedom than she’d ever had while growing up, but it was apparently a hardwon, steel-edged sword.
One of the first things she had access to, thanks to James MacPherson, had been an introduction to the internet. It had been enlightening and intoxicating, an entire world of knowledge available at a click of her fingertips against a modern typewriter.
Even Helena, with her agile mind years ahead of her peers, hadn’t imagined such a feat.
It wasn’t all wonders, of course. She’d discovered her brother was venerated as the so-called Father of Science Fiction. (If only they knew that the ideas had been hers; Charles had been little more than a socially correct megaphone.)
The fact she could no longer get a proper cup of tea was a moot point.
No, she had to work her way back into the Warehouse. She had nothing in this new, fast-paced world. No family. No home.
She had gifted her rappelling gun to the female agent, Myka Bering, as a show of good faith. Though the other woman seemed analytical, Helena could read beneath the surface. Myka was the key to the lock preventing her from returning home.
It was after her reinstatement as an agent, after months spent chasing down Warehouse 13 cases in an effort to show her good faith and (re)eligibility, that she was once again ensconced on the sofa at Leena’s Bed and Breakfast. Oh, it hadn’t been called that during her first tenure as an agent, but the building, the rooms, the very aura of the place was the same.
To her side, one leg raised as she sat sideways, Myka was sipping from a large mug of coffee. The woman’s eyes were wide, her curls flying as she gesticulated wildly.
Helena listened with rapt attention, sipping much more daintily from her cup of hot tea.
There was something about the secret service agent that commanded her attention. It has since the very beginning. Oh, she could have used Pete Lassiter as her way in. She was well-versed in charming males to do her bidding.
Something had stopped her.
The women’s talk was interrupted by Pete and Claudia racing into the room. Pete was ahead of the younger female, shouting as she attempted to catch him. Helena swore beneath her breath as the sofa was jostled, hot tea spilling onto the pale skin of her hand.
“Pete!” Myka exclaimed in exasperation.
“Oh, did we interrupt you?” Peter’s eyes met Claudia’s and the redhead snorted.
“You mean, did you burst in like a pack of children? Yes.”
“You know, if you don’t want any interruptions, you could always go out.”
Helena would have frowned at the pair had she not been too well trained to show a facade of stoicism.
Myka shook her head and stood up, reaching a hand down to her companion. “I don’t feel like fighting a losing battle. Want to hit the diner in town?”
Helena accepted the hand and gracefully stood up. “That would be acceptable,” she agreed. “Their tea is atrocious but I must admit that I’ve found french fries rather addictive.”
Myka grinned behind the other woman’s back, mouthing french fries at Pete and Claudia. Her inner booknerd was squealing, as it had been since she’d met the other woman. Oh, she was one of the few alive that knew the author was really Charles Wells, but she’d spent her entire life hearing the name HG instead.
As they women left first the room and then the bed and breakfast itself, they heard a faint tune being hummed at their backs.
Helena and Myka sittin’....