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everyone deserves the flames but it's such a shame, such a shame

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You stare at the name on the screen.

It isn't possible.

It just isn't.

They wouldn't do this to you.

The Warehouse wouldn't do this to you.

"We should go see if Leena can find anything about this," Pete said.

You nod. You follow him back, barely responding to his confused comments about the turn of events.

He doesn't seem to notice your distraction.

Or, maybe he does. You can feel Leena's concern at your state when you enter the office, but Pete cuts in.

"She's processing. Not every day you learn your hero has been bronzed."

But H.G. Wells isn't your hero.

H.G. Wells is so much more.

You should tell them, tell them everything you know.

It's important information.

It could be vital to finding MacPherson.

You can’t even put the words together in your head.

Instead, you retreat to the library, to the first editions of the stories you know so well.

They have been your closest comfort the past century.

Your only comfort, really.

The library settles you.

It is your place.

The way the Warehouse itself is Irene.

The way the B&B is Leena.

This library is you.

The words swirl around you and the smell of centuries settle into your nerves. 

You have a plan.

When you return to the office, carrying a pile of books as a vaguely weak, but very Myka reason to have been away, Pete finds the news of the break in at the H.G. Wells house.

You should tell them.

You don't.

You have a plan.

You sleep over the Atlantic and dream of dark eyes and soft touches and stolen moments.

The H.G. Wells house is almost exactly as you remember.

The London street around it has changed with the times, but the house itself is the same.

You almost expect to hear small feet running upstairs, almost expect to smell that specific blend of tea, almost expect to turn a corner and see…


You grab her hand - for the first time in one hundred and eleven years your hand feels right - and pull her through another room and into one blocked off by a rope.

The sitting room.

You flash back to you and her and Charles and Christina and so many others.

“Myka?” she says again.

“Hi, Helena,” you say.

It is a bit anticlimactic, after how long it had been, after how angry your last words to her were, that all you can say is ‘hi’.

“How are you…” She raises one hand to touch your cheek, but curls her fingers into a fist and pulls away. “You’re alive.”

You nod. “I can explain later, I promise, but I need you to come with us.”

She stares at you, inspecting your face. “You’re still with the Warehouse.”

Of course you are. You can never leave the Warehouse. You are a part of it.

She doesn’t know that.

You never had a chance to tell her.

Her face goes blank in the way that you know means she is furious. She steps towards you.

“You’re still with the Warehouse and you never bothered to…”

You have always been able to know what she’s thinking, just as she has always known the same for you.

You never bothered to unbronze her.

But you didn’t know she was there.

“They told me you died,” you say.

She softens.

“Myka! What’re you doing?”



“Pete,” you say. “Meet Helena George Wells.”

“Helena George… as in H.G.? H.G. Wells? I may not have read his books, but I'm pretty sure H.G. Wells is a man.”

You ignore him.

“Come with us,” you say to Helena. “Please. We can figure it out, but MacPherson is not a good person.”

“Yeah,” Pete jumps in. “He’s already tried to kill me and Myka.”

Anger flashes across Helena’s face and you know she’ll come with you. You know she won’t work with anybody who put you in danger.

You’ll have to explain to Pete and Claudia how you know her.

You’ll have to explain to her how you’re alive.

You’ll have to come to terms that she didn’t die. She didn’t die and has been in the Warehouse for the past century.

And you didn’t know.