A Treasure of the Past
He walked through the halls like a ghost, which was all well and good for him as in some regards he could be a ghost, dead and gone and buried. Except that he wasn't, technically, but he preferred not to dwell upon technicalities. Not here, not in their sacred place, not ever really.
He let out a sigh and trailed his fingers along dusty, old shelves. This was his heaven, his haven, and everything that he found right in the world. Old, seemingly innocent and innocuous creations of the past sitting, sleeping even, on shelves covered in a light layer of dust. They'd get cranky if it were any thicker, after all.
His lips twitched as he stepped past shelves and rows until he reached his destination, abandoned just as he knew it would be. It was late, after all. Even the most studious and hardworking had drifted off into the land of sleep. That was fine by him; he wanted this to be alone and private after all. There was no need to drag them into things when he'd have it all well in hand.
He stepped past monitors that beeped lightly—a ping they called it these days—but other than that and the faint hum of electricity no sound could be heard aside from the soft tap of his shoes. He came to a rest just a little ways off the edge of the desk and looked down, past the clutter and paper and notes and whatever else was built up in piles from half-finished projects. There, nestled away and in the corner was a simple, round ball. A special ball.
Carefully, gently, he wrapped a hand about the ball and lifted it up. His ghost of a smile turned sad as he twisted lightly at the top and the ball glowed brightly. Before him she appeared, shimmering into existence and just a bit confused.
“What?” she said, turning about. “Has something else happened involving my past--” the rest of her sentence caught in her throat as she saw him, there, holding the ball with her consciousness inside.
He said, “Hello, Helena.”
She replied, “Wooly?”
It certainly had been a while since he'd heard that nickname. Wooly—William Wolcott, Agent of Warehouse 12. Well, former agent. It had been a hundred or so years since then.
“After a fashion,” he nodded. “It is...good to see you again, H.G.”
“William Wolcott,” Helena said. “How in heavens name are you still alive? Were you Bronzed?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No I wasn't. I did visit, though. Every ten years or so, after...after you requested to be Bronzed.” There was a beat, a pause between them. Then he bowed his head. “I am sorry...that I was not there for you when you were awakened. I should have known—I should have been aware...of the pain you were in.”
“You couldn't have known,” Helena said. She bit her lip. “I made sure nobody would know. I...made a lot of mistakes, and I am paying for them now.”
“I know,” he replied. “I would have been here if I could, to help you adjust—to help you deal with the pain. I unfortunately was not available.”
Helena frowned. “Unavailable how? For that matter how are you here? It's been a hundred years, Wolcott. You should be dead and buried.”
He smiled. “It's Jones, now. Or was. I suppose that life is behind me. I should think you'd like the hear the story; you always did like a good tale when there was time.”
“I have all the time in the world now.” She rolled her eyes lightly, a self-depreciating smile on her lips. “Not much else to do, is there, trapped in my inescapable prison.”
He nodded once, and smiled again. “I should think not,” he said.
In the morning Artie wandered blearily into the main office. At first he noticed the ping, and raced immediately toward the computer. Then he noticed the orb with H.G.'s consciousness had been moved. Artie ignored the ping for a moment to carefully inspect his desk, but there was nothing off about it except the placement of the orb. He was carefully inspecting the orb itself when Myka came racing in.
“Artie someone got into my room last night!” Myka said quickly, a note clutched in her hands. “They left this note.”
Artie turned away from the orb and stared down at the note in Myka's hands. “Did you read it?” he asked, and then snatched it from her grip.
“Well yes but it doesn't make any sense!” Myka replied.
Artie quickly unfolded the note. “Doesn't make sense how?” he asked, and then started to read the note itself. “Oh. Oh.”
Myka,
I thank you for all that you have done to get Helena through her grief. She needed someone like you to show her the truth, and I am pleased that you have not let her actions dictate your life forever. You have done what I could not, and for that I am in your debt.
Sincerely,
Willaim Wolcott
“William Wolcott was a member of Warehouse 12...” Artie said slowly. “That was over a hundred years ago. He should be dead.”
“But he obviously isn't,” said Myka. “He left me this note!”
“Wooly isn't dead.” Both turned to see Helena step through a wall with a fond smile. “He and I had a long chat last night. I suppose he is very grateful to you Myka, otherwise he wouldn't risk revealing himself like that.”
“How can he still be alive?” Artie demanded and grabbed the orb that held her consciousness again. Helena shrugged.
“I have no idea,” she replied. “It happened after I was Bronzed, I suppose. Or even before I knew him. Wooly didn't tell me how he was still here. Only that he was.”