Looking back, Myka almost wouldn't believe how it had all happened. That wasn't saying much, her entire week consisted of things like "Thursday—possessed Joss Whedon autograph that makes the reader want to kill the first happy couple he sees." But the threads connecting her to H.G. were so tenuous that she could almost chalk it up to fate. Or maybe that was just how Helena made her feel.

If Claudia hadn't found the ledger propping up one leg of a coffee table in the abandoned break room… if she hadn't recognized the name H.G. Wells and mentioned it to Myka… if Myka hadn't brought the fact that they had a woman in the Bronze Sector who had done nothing wrong to Artie… and most importantly, if some fiber of her being hadn't drawn a connection even then, even when all she knew was a name, that she kept harping on it long after Artie considered the matter closed. And then, if the goo hadn't stopped working…

"I bet H.G. could fix it," Myka said at the panic meeting, while Artie and Claudia were still playing technobabble Mad Libs. She had read what was left of H.G.'s case files extensively, and it left her with the childlike hero worship that a good book should.

Artie was sniffing over a dismissive line when Pete said "Myka's right." That got the death glare redirected his way. "I mean, Myka's always right. She's Myka. And it's not like we can't put this H.G. back in if she turns out to be Jack the Ripper or something."

"Jack the Ripper was a dude," Claudia groused.

"So was H.G. Wells!"

Artie held up his hands, sighing. "As much as I hate to admit it, we really don't have time to argue and… Bering actually brings up a good point." The last part was said very quickly. "But I want you watching her every waking moment and some of the sleeping ones too. Just because her file says she isn't dangerous doesn't mean she's not."

"—Jack the Ripper, lady version," Pete finished.

"She's your responsibility," Artie thundered in conclusion, gesturing for Myka to follow him as he set out for the Bronze Section. "So there are a few simple rules I'd like to go over weeeell before she wakes up."

Myka nodded and tried her best to listen as she followed, with the undignified certainty that she looked as eager as a puppy following its owner. She'd actually get to meet the father… no, mother… of science fiction, her childhood idol, the owner of the most incredible imagination in literature. Myka just hoped she wouldn't be too stuffy.

They dimmed the lights in the Bronze Section first. As Artie explained, the process would leave H.G. sensitive to light. Myka nodded tersely. For some reason, she felt nervous about meeting her idol. What if H.G. started going off about racial minorities or, worse yet, 'sexual deviants'? Myka had gotten enough of that at the academy, just for not having a boyfriend. It seemed a shame to imagine such a visionary as being, well, Victorian.

"We're not cuffing her ASAP?" Claudia asked. She'd bought into Artie's paranoia. "I mean, what if she goes all Jason Bourne on us?"

"She's been in there for over a hundred years," Artie replied, running through the debronzing process. "Her animus is all screwed up. It'll take her hours to recover."

The bronzing chamber hummed ominously. Myka took a half-step forward, as if she could see into it. The statue they'd loaded inside had been slender and well-formed, but it'd told her nothing of the person underneath. The expression had been carefully blank, like a partisan facing a firing squad. It made Myka wonder how voluntary the process had really been, despite the report. Well, she'd find out.

With a sudden rush, the chamber lurched open. Inside, she caught a glimpse of pale skin and frantically searching eyes in the semi-darkness before the figure collapsed, down on all fours, Myka moving instinctively to her side—"Careful!" Artie cried—and helped to support her. H.G.'s skin was almost as cool as the metal that had covered it for so long, but it was rapidly warming. Myka resisted the urge to rub warmth back into them, instead helping H.G. make the trip to the chairs beside the console.

"Back up," she called out to her friends. "Give her some space."

As she helped H.G. into the chair, her hair brushed against Myka's face. It even smelled of bronze—harsh, metallic. Myka backed away. A corner of H.G.'s face had caught some light, revealing a glimmering trail of liquid. Sweat or tears? Myka wiped it away and felt H.G. burning up.

"Easy," Myka said, patting at her face with a tissue. "Just… stay calm, okay? Do you need anything?"

"My—eyes—" the woman worked out fitfully, shivering now.

"Still too much light," Myka muttered, now pulling off Pete's coat ("Hey!") and throwing it over H.G. She shrunk into its voluminous fit. "Is that better?"

"Yes," H.G. replied at length. "Bearable. What year…?"

"2010. You're in Warehouse 13. In America."

"Ah," H.G. said gently, her voice a faint croon. "So you haven't blown yourselves up yet. That's heartening. You do have nuclear weapons by now, I should think?"

"Uh, yeah," Pete confirmed, leaning over to Claudia. "That's super-reassuring."

"Would you like some water?" Myka asked, finding it difficult not to comfort the obviously stricken woman. She wanted to look under that coat and make damn sure she was okay, but she could also understand how wounded H.G. obviously felt. Myka wouldn't have wanted to be seen in that state either. "I mean, your throat sounds a little…"

"A fag," H.G. replied, "would be nice."

"Ummmm…" Pete trailed off. "I might've experimented in college, if that would help? I love the ladies, though… but big on showtunes, that's a different thing."

"She means a cigarette," Myka said, not quite able to keep her disbelief at Pete's antics out of her voice, even in front of a guest. "Are you sure, H.G.? You know, we found out they cause cancer. It's a filthy habit."

"It has a lot of company," H.G. retorted. "The hefty one, he has some. Left jacket pocket."

"I am not hefty!" Artie was saying, even as Claudia fished a pack of Marlboros out of his jacket. "Hey!"

"Artie," Claudia tsked.

"I'm down to one a day, alright? I've had that pack for a month."

Claudia tossed the cigarettes to Myka, who popped one out and offered it to H.G. H.G. didn't take it, instead leaning forward to clasp it between her teeth. Her lips, to Myka's surprise, weren't set in a scowl, but instead a sort of chronic smirk, momentarily dialed down as she got her bearings. "And a light?" H.G. offered around the cigarette.

Myka'd never had so much as a bubble pipe, but she kept a lighter at the ready, along with a pocket knife, a length of cord, and a few other useful Bat-items. All part of being a Warehouse agent, where you never knew when bubble gum and spray-paint could come in handy.

She hunched down in front of H.G., offering up the lighter and flicking the wheel when it became obvious H.G. wouldn't take it. Maybe her hands weren't working. Maybe they were just shaking. Myka remembered being the new girl at school. She wouldn't let the bastards see her bleed either.

The flint took a while to catch—Myka hadn't checked the fuel since the episode with the haunted fireworks. Finally, she got a good flame going—and caught a look at H.G.'s face. In the slow moment that followed, H.G. leaning forward to bury the tip of the cigarette in Myka's flame, she had ample opportunity to study it. It was something to be thankful for. H.G. was the most beautiful woman Myka had ever seen. Her eyes shone with clear intelligence, while her high cheekbones put Myka's sister to shame. And the confidence made Myka think of looking in a mirror after being trusted to protect the President, seeing the unabashed certainty, almost arrogance, that had swallowed up all feelings of doubt and anxiety. This woman, who'd been asleep for a hundred years, was that sure of herself, all the time.

And yet, as Myka kept looking, as the tip of the cigarette turned into an ember and H.G. stared right back, she detected something more. A pain that lurked in the corner of H.G.'s eye, on one side of her smile. Like the string on a mask, it hinted at something more underneath. Something Myka was suddenly breathless to uncover.

H.G. moved back, blowing out the lighter flame with the corner of her mouth. The sudden plunge into darkness left only the cherry end of her cigarette as light, reflected in her eyes like pinpricks in whatever curtain was between the face H.G. presented to the world and her inner fire.

Myka blushed and moved away herself, wondering just how much poetry was too much, because she was clearly on the wrong side of that.

Stiffly, H.G. moved her hand up to her face—the fingers were long and uncalloused, the nails short and red, as if she'd beautified herself before going under. Without a single tremor, she clinched the cigarette between two slender fingers and dragged it off her lips, then took the time to blow out an elegant stream of smoke before asking "What's the problem? Or have you woken me up to bask in the socialist utopia along with the rest of you?"

"Nobody let her watch Rocky IV," Pete stage-whispered.

H.G.'s eyes sidled over to Myka. She took another drag from her cigarette, savoring it before exhaling through her nostrils. "Perhaps you're just looking for some intelligent conversation?"

"The neutralizer goo isn't working," Artie said.

"You mean the Psychic Impediment Liquid?" H.G. took in their blank stares. "It's purple…? Oh dear god, please tell me 'goo' is an acronym of some sort."

"We… may have called it purple goo as a sort of nickname," Claudia said.

"Sometimes I think I judged Crowley too harshly… I did study the PIL quite extensively, even managed to condition it into a kind of bag. Before that, we had to use radioactive oilcloth. Yes, I'd be happy to restore your goo to working order, so long as you don't intend to put me back in the bronze. If that's the case, you'll understand if I reply to your offer with a cheerful 'bugger off,' no hard feelings." H.G. gave them a blinding smile before returning the cigarette to her mouth.

"For a nicotine addict, she has great teeth," Pete muttered.

"Quiet!" Myka blurted, finding it hard enough to dismiss the thought of those teeth around the lobe of an ear, or a nipple… "We won't put you back in the bronze if you don't want to go."

"Wait a minute, what does she care?" Pete insisted, advancing on the seated H.G. like a detective catching a suspect in a lie. "For all you know, if we put you under again, you'll wake up in your precious socialist utopia. (Which reminds me, she can't watch Red Dawn either.)"

"Take your partner's suggestion. Be quiet," H.G. said, a hint of a threat entering her voice. She worked the cigarette around with her teeth, smoke seeping off it angrily. "And don't move. But first, go someplace where no one will ever see you or talk to you or so much as think of you. Then try that for a hundred years. Maybe you'll wake up in a world without your hated Red Socks." She took a deep, calming suck on the cigarette. "By the way, thin walls here. Voices tend to carry from Aisle 87J…"

"People aren't awake in bronze," Artie insisted.

"I'm sure that's what the Regents told you. They told me that too. But then, it's not as if they'd bronze someone for a hundred years to test that. An hour in bronze is nothing, a blip. But a year… a decade… a century." She blew smoke out her nose like a bull about to charge. "It's 2010, you say? Then I'd put the rate at five conscious hours for every year spent in bronze."

"Oh God," Myka said, soft enough to not even realize she'd spoken.

"But you aren't putting me back," H.G. said, as if she were the one comforting Myka instead of the other way around. "So there's no need to worry. Could you help me to my feet, Agent…?"

"Bering," Myka said quickly, giving H.G. her arm. H.G. took it not so much with strength as tenacity, pulling herself up to a teetering stand. Even when she let go of Myka's arm, Myka stayed nearby in case she stumbled, her fingers itching to catch her.

H.G. seemed to laser in on that thought, offering Myka a wan smile as she stubbed out her cigarette. "Myka Bering," she said, tasting the name. Then, off Myka's surprised look. "Voices carry, remember? It's nice to finally put a face to the name." Killing the smile as if it had just been for Myka, H.G. faced Artie, pulling the coat tighter around herself in preparation for a trip into the light. "Well then, show me to the Impediment Production Apparatus. I'll want to check for any impurities at the source."

"We call it the gooery."

H.G. suppressed her sigh just enough so that only Myka heard it.