It was late. Too late, she was sure, although she had lost track of time much earlier. Myka knew she should be back at the Bed and Breakfast, getting prepared to go to sleep, not wandering alone through the Warehouse. There wasn't a single logical reason for her to be letting her night slip away as she drifted down this aisle.

And yet here she was.

Ever since she'd seen H.G. Wells with a Tesla to Pete's head, eyes an empty black but voice sweet and composed, Myka had been drawn to her. If she was being reasonable, she knew it was insane to feel an instant connection to a woman with a gun pressed to your partner—a woman who later robbed the Warehouse and killed a man with no remorse right in front of them. But it was hard to feel reasonable when she closed her eyes and saw Wells' smirk dancing behind the lids. Myka Bering had great faith in her senses. She might not have vibes like Pete, but she wasn't an illogical or foolish person. She'd proven that to herself and others countless times in the field. Why would she suddenly be so irrational now? The thought puzzled her and planted a seed of doubt deep in the recesses of her mind. The thoughts of "I'm just being childish" and "maybe Wells really is innocent like she claims" seemed equally absurd to her. Of course, the doubting voice in the back of her head reminded her, what reason would she have to keep lying about being innocent? Wouldn't she just confess? She had nothing to lose.

So Myka found herself wandering the H.G. Wells aisle. What she expected to find was a mystery to her. Perhaps it was what she was hoping not to find: some sort of weapon or terrible device, something too wicked to ever be used that might have been a reason for Wells' bronzing. Myka was an avid reader of Wells, and she had been since she'd read The War of the Worlds under the blankets with a flashlight as a child, shivering with excitement and fear but unable to set the book down. She knew that Wells had a masterful imagination that often veered into dark creations. The idea that one might not be fictional seemed to Myka a reasonable explanation. So far, though, nothing seemed plausible. Nothing bad enough to imprison a woman for a hundred years.

Something caught her eye and Myka felt a small smile of discovery creep onto her face. An exquisitely carved wooden box sat on the corner of a shelf, the edge hanging off slightly. It was beautiful. Myka made her way towards it, brushing her fingers across the lid. Pristine condition. Years ago, she'd often found solace in antique stores, and while she had limited herself to browsing for the most part, this was exactly the sort of item she would have purchased without a second thought. Now, here, she felt drawn to it beyond simple appreciation, in the same mysterious way she was drawn to Wells herself.

"Well," she sighed, "She certainly had nice taste." She hesitated for a moment longer, index finger running along the lines in the wood, and then, with a deep breath, she opened the clasp and lifted the lid.

It was empty. Myka bit her lip. This was why Pete was the one whose gut they usually went with and not her, she supposed. She shut it, frustrated, and turned away. Suddenly she felt very silly standing there. Thinking about Wells was a waste of her time. It was simply a desperate, childish inability to connect a literary hero with this strange woman, and she had to put that behind her. The woman was a cold-blooded killer who wouldn't hesitate to hurt the Warehouse—or her, or her friends—and Myka walked back down the aisle as quickly as she could, flush with embarrassment about her lack of judgment.

Though it was long after her late night in the Warehouse, the moment Myka held the grappler in her hands, she began to understand where it had to be.

The note told her to keep it, but that seemed impossible. After today, Myka knew she was weaker than she had ever realized. Somehow she'd found herself befriending the woman Artie had declared was dangerous and had to be stopped. That was unacceptable. Even now, standing there and staring at the gun, Myka felt an affection for H.G. blossoming that shouldn't exist. Every second she thought of Helena made her a liability. A bittersweet smile flickered on her face as she stared at the Post-It note and remembered H.G.'s delight upon discovering them. Her finger brushed across the words and she drew a shaky breath. No, even on top of that, it wouldn't be right to use this. It was H.G.'s, almost sacred with the sheer force of her that it carried with it. It could never be hers.

When the realization of where she had to place it hit her, Myka's fingers shook and she almost dropped the grappler. A sharp gasp escaped her lips. Of course.

"What is it?" Claudia asked, but Myka tucked the grappler into her coat before she turned around to smile at her friend, reassuring her that it was nothing before changing the subject.

Later, after they'd arrived back at the Warehouse and reported on everything to the others, including Helena's help, which earned Artie's ire, Myka set off. The pressing sense of guilt made her head pound as she walked through the Warehouse, grappler tucked away out of sight to avoid any interference. She knew she should give it to Artie, and she knew he would be upset at her if he ever found out, but that seemed as wrong as keeping it a secret. It felt uncomfortable for her to hold it; it felt like a crime to set it in Artie's hands. The grappler belonged to one person and one person alone. Myka might have been coveting it before, something she admitted to herself with a wistful smile, but—

Her mouth was suddenly very dry. A thought had flashed across her mind that she absolutely did not want to think: "Why would I need it if H.G. could be there to use it again?" Helena couldn't return to the Warehouse. It would never be allowed. Besides, dwelling on Helena's arm so tight around her, Helena's delighted smile so close to her own face, Helena's gentle ring of laughter, the way Myka's heart had raced from more than just fear…that was a recipe for disaster. This situation was exasperating enough without going to that part of her mind. That wasn't a bridge she expected to come to. She pushed the thought far from her mind and resolutely continued through the Warehouse, pace picking up. It was only a fleeting image. Easy enough for Myka to suppress. It wouldn't cross her mind again for a long time.

Finally, there was the box. Admiration colored Myka's face as she stared at it, running her thumb across the front edge. And a pang shot through her. This box didn't belong here. It shouldn't have been here. In a brief second, the box went from a lovely piece of woodwork to something beyond that, and it broke Myka's heart. All of H.G.'s belongings were here on a shelf, isolated from her reach. Everything H.G. had ever had was gone. Her home was a tourist attraction; she'd had to watch a group of people traipse through the halls as if they owned it. Her family was long gone; her brother, her daughter—Myka was sure there were others—were part of another century. And here, even her most mundane possessions were lined up on a shelf in a storage facility, no longer a part of the real world. Even a simple wooden box was ripped from the world because of its connection to her. H.G. had nothing, and she had no one to help her navigate that loss and this new world. Myka couldn't imagine it. Hot tears filled her eyes. She tried to brush them away but more appeared, and then she let them come.

Eyes still brimming with tears, Myka lifted the clasp. She withdrew the grappler, turning it over in her hands. For a moment she was reluctant to set it in the box, but after several long seconds of silently gazing at it, she set it in, as tenderly as if it were made of glass. The action felt right, and relief tinged Myka's sigh. But again she hesitated. A barrage of emotions crashed into her, and a sob ripped its way out of her chest. "Oh, God," she gasped, wiping away a new round of tears. "Oh, God, Helena, I am so sorry." She sat down beneath the shelf, unable to stand a moment longer. Her eyes closed and her mind began to drift.

Perhaps Artie would come around. Perhaps the Regents would understand Helena's true value to the Warehouse. Helena wouldn't have lied to her, she had no reason to be dishonest. Surely her bronzing must have been for a false reason like she claimed. Perhaps, soon—please, soon—Helena would rejoin the Warehouse like she wished and become a part of their team.

Myka pictured that glowing smile that had been stuck to Helena's face for so much of their day on campus, the one that had lit up those dark eyes, and Myka imagined seeing it again. She would be there when Helena walked into the Warehouse as an agent, and she would watch that smile dawn and linger. Surely everyone would see Helena the same way Myka did before long, and they would all be smiling too as they shook her hand and welcomed her. She would be part of their family. Myka imagined Helena realizing she wasn't alone any longer, and her heart ached with happiness at the idea. No longer would Helena wander through an unfamiliar century by herself.

There would be protocol to follow, of course, probably a need to reacquaint Helena with their regulations, but soon Helena would be free and Myka would come up and catch her arm, whispering, "I have to show you something." Helena would laugh that lovely laugh and acquiesce, following Myka down through the Warehouse, leaving the others behind.

When they would near the H.G. Wells aisle, Myka would sneak glances at Helena, searching to see if she'd figured it out yet, who would always catch them and smile, bemused. "Here we are," she would announce as they reached their destination, and she saw the sudden shock cross Helena's face. Helena might lift a hand towards a shelf before lowering it without making contact. She might wander a few steps ahead as if she was in a dream. But finally she would turn back to Myka, questioning, and Myka would draw her ahead to where the box rested.

Myka would lift the box and set it in Helena's outstretched arms. "I saved it for you," she imagined whispering, "I knew you would be back." She would bite her lip, a nervous delight filling her chest as she watched Helena.

Helena would open the box, gaze at the grappler, and then look up at Myka, shaking her head silently. She would hardly be able to believe it, that Myka had somehow found the box and placed the grappler there for it, that Myka had even held on to the device. Almost reverently, she would set the box back on the shelf. With great deliberation, she would reach out and take Myka's hands in hers, squeezing them like Myka was the only thing keeping her afloat in an endless sea, and, that stunning smile starting to return, she would speak.

"Thank you," Helena would say, and Myka would—

Myka stood up, blinking away the last tears and shoving her daydream away from her. She was moving quickly now, turning to shut the box and seal it.

Without a second look, she began to stride away from the H.G. Wells aisle. She couldn't look back. Looking would only make her start to hope again, and she couldn't dare to hope. If she spent another second hoping for that reality, eventually she would have to consider the alternative ones, and she knew she didn't have that in her. Not now.

She was terrified of what might end up happening, but she couldn't be. It wasn't right. She couldn't feel so deeply for this woman, for this enemy of the Warehouse.

She shouldn't.