Sorry for the delay. Enjoy.

I don't own Warehouse 13.

1994-Myka

Well, this was fun, Myka thought to herself sarcastically.

"Come on, now, smile!" the diner owner urges them.

Myka tries to think up an excuse, but there was nothing coming to mind.

She and Pete are pushed towards a tiny photo booth, shoved in the corner of the Hollywood themed diner.

She trips over the lip of the booth, and lands against the wall, as Pete follows close behind, his arms caging her in.

"Oh, it'll be fine," Myka hisses. "You were hungry. Why the heck did we end up in the craziest diner in all of the Western continental U.S.?"

"Hey," Pete tilts his head, not bothering to move, as the over-enthusiastic owner of the diner giggled loudly behind them. "You wanted Twizzlers."

"Oh, please. Don't try and blame this on me," she retorts.

The owner's hand darts inside and presses a button. "Smile!" she crows, pulling the red curtain closed.

After a moment of maneuvering—which is more awkward than Myka would ever want to relive, she thinks as Pete attempts to sit on the bench without stepping on her feet and ends up with his face against her stomach as the camera flashes—they manage to pretend to smile for the remaining two photos.

"We're leaving now."

"I have to pay, but then, yeah. Get your Twizzlers," Pete says, his voice scratchy and dry.

Myka nods and exits the photo booth, gracefully avoiding tripping this time.

Ten minutes later, the two teens say nothing as their seatbelts click into place.

"Next time," Myka says slowly as Pete puts the key in the ignition, "we're eating at a McDonalds."

He can't help but nod in agreement.

"This can't be it," Pete comments, looking around at the sparse buildings that made up Univille, South Dakota.

"That was the address, I swear. Univille, in South Dakota. That's where the Warehouse should be."

"Myka, there's nothing here," Pete says, pulling into a parking space next to the hardware store. "Sure, there's a post office and a barbershop, but none of this screams weird, freaky diary from the past with random people bursting into flames."

"Things rarely shout Warehouse," a man says softly next to them.

Myka tries not to scream, clutching the door handle. "Who are you?" she snaps.

"Artie Nielson."

Pete snorts "What kind of name is 'Artie?'"

Myka glares at him before turning back to the Russian man in surprise. "So, you're Artie."

"And you're Myka. Quite an articulate letter writer, I understand," he says, walking to the barber pole mounted on the building across the street. He digs in his bag and pulls out a large bar-like object.

"What is—" Myka begins.

The object buzzes as the barber pole turns purple.

"Whoa," Pete says under his breath, staring at the object, reminiscent of a fluorescent light bulb.

Seconds later, Artie closes it. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?" Myka asks, as she gets out of the car.

Artie tosses a glance over his shoulder at her. "For ice cream."

"I'm in," Pete grins, shutting the door of the Corvette.

Myka huffs to herself, following them. "Don't you think they are more important things to do? Like, oh, I don't know, but talk about what my letter was about?"

"I have strict instructions that we should go out for ice cream. Then, we're to go to the B&B. The Dawsons are… familiar with artifacts."

"Instructions?" Pete asks.

Myka turns pale, catching a glimpse of a tall woman in an orange skirt suit. She swings around to look at Pete.

"I can't believe you did this. I believed you, that you weren't a part of this. I trusted you!" she snaps at him. The teenager lunges at him, and he dodges behind Artie.

"Children," Artie scolds as Myka circles around him. "Children!"

Pete takes one look at Myka's fuming eyes and runs for the ice cream shop. He trips on the sidewalk, and ends up landing in the flower bed of a very angry shop owner.

She goes to kick him in the stomach, and he reaches one arm out, wrapping it around the leg she was balancing on. Myka hits the grass next to him.

"What. The. Heck?" he asks, breathing heavily from the chase.

She crawls over and starts pummeling him. "How could you? How could you?!" she shrieks, crossing her arms and sitting back in the grass.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, perplexed.

"She's here. Mrs. Fredric. You're a piece of work, Lattimer," Myka accuses, wrapping her arms around her knees and curling up like a child. "I thought I could trust you. F's diary… what it said was true! I don't care what this plan is. I don't. I will never trust you again. Ever."

The bells above the door of the ice cream shop chime.

"Good work, Mr. Lattimer," Mrs. Fredric says, looking down at the two teenagers on the lawn.

Myka gives him a dirty look and accepts Artie's hand to stand up. "Thank you," she murmurs.

Pete rises and brushes off the legs of his jeans. "I wasn't a part of this," Pete assures Myka, but she won't even face him. "I wasn't!" he insists.

"Not directly," Mrs. Fredric agrees. "Arthur, please drive Ms. Bering to the Bed and Breakfast."

"This way, Ms. Bering," Artie directs, pointing towards a small red 1959 Jaguar that Myka knew Pete would comment on, had he been with them.

Myka crosses her arms, petulantly ignoring the Warehouse agent as he drives the seven miles from Univille to the B&B.

"Hi, Artie," a girl greets him, standing up on the porch.

Artie sends her a smile. "Leena."

Myka follows Artie to the front door, hands clasped.

"Hi. I'm Leena. You're… Myka, right?"

Myka studies the girl, who was slightly older than herself and Pete. "How could you possibly…" her question fades out as Artie ushers her inside.

"You can't scare them like that," Arthur Nielson says.

The nineteen-year old shrugs. "She's confused, and mad. She is searching for answers, and she'll do anything to get them."

He nods, and pats her shoulder awkwardly before entering her parents' Bed & Breakfast. Leena rolls her eyes at the man nearly twenty years her senior and follows him inside.

"Oatmeal scotchies?" the Jewish man asks.

Mrs. Dawson nods, handing a glass of lemonade to Myka with a small smile. "It's alright, dear. He's a teddy-bear."

Amusement dances in Myka's eyes. "He's not the one I'm worried about," she admits, hands shaking.

"Mrs. Fredric's not so bad either."

"If you say so," the teen mumbles into her lemonade as another car pulls up into the driveway.

Pete gets out, but no one was with him. Myka breathes a sigh of relief.

"Ms. Bering?"

Myka shrieks and drops her lemonade.

"Mrs. Fredric," Leena acknowledges with a nod, before picking up the shards of glass on the carpet.

The younger girl whispers, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Really," Leena tries to convince the sixteen year old.

Pete walks inside, making eyes at the younger girl as she retreats to the kitchen.

"Really, Pete?" Myka hisses as he sits down.

He grins, snatching a cookie from the plate on the table. "What?"

She glares at him as Artie carries on a whispered conversation with the imposing Mrs. Fredric. She can catch snippets of his worried chatter.

"…You sure? I mean… barely…each other. How…?" he mutters.

"Arthur. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary." Her orange dress-suit stood out against her skin, but she still made a commanding presence as she turned to Pete and Myka.

"We have a mission for you."