Chapter Text
H. G. Wells tried her very best to run, struggling to keep the skirts of her gown up to her knees, cursing both the social custom for women to have to wear such ridiculous garments, and herself for not having changed earlier.
She’d ditched her heels the second she knew she had to run, but her feet had stepped onto countless pebbles, and she knew they would bruise in the morning. But that certainly wouldn’t matter if she failed to get away from... Whatever it was chasing her.
It was large. It was terrifying. But most importantly, it wouldn’t have been there if not for her idiotic friend. The one and only, Nikola Tesla.
That bloody fool! H. G. thought to herself. I swear on my long line of dead relatives, I will kill you with my bare hands! Then a thought worried her. If you’re still alive, that is.
*
Alex Cabot wakes up with a start, breathless as the remnants of her dream start to dissipate into the holes of her mind, until it is a blur. It left something in its wake, however; a pain in her shoulder from a wound that is not there anymore.
For a second, she forgets where she currently is– the bed is warm and comfortable, but unfamiliar. The walls are painted with the wrong color, and in the darkness she can make out square shapes on the bedside table– framed photographs, too many for them to be hers. Ever since she came back, her apartment is barren– she sees no point in seeing parts of her that aren’t her anymore.
Something stirs beside her on the bed. Someone, she corrects herself, and she can’t help but let out a sigh of relief at the sight of red hair emerging from beneath the covers.
“Alex?” Casey Novak– her lover, acquaintance, and somewhere in-between– calls out to her, her voice raspier than usual from the sleep. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Alex reaches out to brush messy locks of hair out of the redhead’s face, fondness mixed with guilt blooming in her chest. “Go back to sleep.”
Casey takes the hand on her face and brings it to her lips, kissing the back of it tenderly. “Are you sure?”
Alex, with all her might, defeats the urge to burst in tears. “Yes.”
*
Helena should be used to it by now, but she still can’t help the quiet, startled gasp when she realizes that someone is behind her, watching intently. An old woman in a suit and skirt in bright colors appearing out of nowhere would always be strange, she supposes, but as she starts to relax, her anxiety is now related to the fact that she’s here. Which means Helena’s needed on a mission. Which means the possibility of seeing Myka once more.
She appreciates Mrs. Frederic’s patience, keeping the silence while Helena turns off the faucet and wipes her hands with a towel.
“Mrs. Frederic,” she eventually turns around and greets her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Mrs. Frederic cuts to the case– a trait of hers that Myka has always liked about her, she once told Helena. “There is a new case that needs your assistance, Agent Wells,” she said. “A flight which leaves this afternoon has been arranged.”
Helena raises her eyebrows. This is different, she concludes– usually, Mrs. Frederic, while rigid, still offers a subtle but polite smile in their conversations. And the missions are not presented as mandatory– even when they are– for Mrs. Frederic always offers her involvement as a question, rather than a demand.
“I assume I have no say in this?” Helena asks, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You assume correctly.”
Helena waits for the explanation which never comes, and she sighs. “Why?”
The older woman shifts slightly, a gesture of discomfort done so gracefully it’s barely noticeable. “Because it involves an artifact you are partly responsible for.”
“I–” Helena’s heartbeat suddenly picks up. It can’t be. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about–”
“We know everything, Helena,” Mrs. Frederic lowers her face slightly to stare from above her glasses. “The Goblet, The Five, The Matriarch– we have been notified of these things, by your friend Dr. Magnus.”
Helena feels like the air has been ripped out of her lungs. She quickly extends her arm to lean on the wall, supporting her shaky legs. “Helen’s alive?”
Something flickers in Mrs. Frederic’s eyes– either worry, or pity. “Yes, but she is currently missing. We suspect she has been taken as well.”
Helena tries to control her breathing, knowing if she thinks about it too much, if she swims in her guilt, she might drown– and that won’t help Helen Magnus, or anyone. She owes it to her to be strong and save her, after all she knows the woman would do the same thing in a heartbeat, if the positions were reversed. Instead, she decides to put the blame on the man who was truly responsible– no matter her fondness for him in the past– and considers, for a moment, to use her time machine, go back in time, and kill Nikola Tesla.
She sighs, pushing herself off the wall to stand upright, a determined look on her face. “Alright,” she says. “Give me a moment to pack my clothes– where am I going, exactly?”
Strangely, Mrs. Frederic finally smiles, as if she was worried Helena would still say no. “To New York.”