Who: Helena What: A dream that suddenly makes her think these aren't just dreams she's been having. When: Early morning January 8th Where: Her home Warnings: PG-ish despite Jack the Ripper being involved. Nothing bloody or gorey is happening here, just Helena being undercover as a Victorian-era prostitute and then kicking Jack's ass Status: Narrative; Complete
A woman's scream of terror pierced through the night. A blond woman, obviously a prostitute from the 1880s by her style of dress, half-collapses against a brick wall before turning and screaming again, then running some more. A man in a top hat and a Chesterfield-styled coat with a short shoulder cape was coming after her, brandishing a knife. The streets are foggy, and if one knew their architecture, the streets were recognizable as being London, specifically somewhere in or around Whitechapel.
The woman ran down an alleyway and came to a gate that has a chain wrapped around it with a lock affixed to it, thus barring her from running any further.
"Please! Help me! Someone help me!" She screamed as she shook the gate before she glanced over her shoulder to see the man closing in behind her. Looking back to the gate, she pulled a pair glasses out of her cleavage and slipped them on as the man pulled out a lantern and turned the light on her.
"'Allo, ducky," he greeted menacingly, the lantern's light looking somehow not quite right. The woman still kept her back to him, lifted her hands and pulled a thimble off of her left middle finger. Instantly, the woman's appearance changed completely, revealing Helena, her clothing style being that of the 1880s, her dark hair was curly and styled accordingly. She was not wearing a prostitute's clothing, but she was wearing an article of clothing just as scandalous for the time: pants. Her true appearance revealed, she turned to face him.
"Hello, Jack," she greeted, then promptly kicked the lantern out of his hand, knocking him over. "Big bad Jack the Ripper's not used to a woman putting up a fight, is he?" She taunted as she picked up the lantern, whose ominous yellow-orange light had gone out when Jack dropped it. Jack turned and was making his exit, and Helena followed. "Running away is no way to treat a lady!" She called after him.
The man stopped and turned around. "Let it be known that old Jack doesn't know how to treat a lady." He brandished his knife again and came at Helena. Instead of backing off, Helena pulled her Tesla from a hidden place in her long trenchcoat and shot Jack. However, instead of a bullet, a green stream of electricity came out of her gun, effectively rendering Jack unconscious. A huge grin crossed her face, as an older man came panting around the corner.
"Congratulations Agent Wells! Snagging the Ripper's Lantern in your first month! The older agents will become jealous." He chuckled as Helena handed him the lantern.
"They already are," she retorted as she put her Tesla back into its hiding place in her coat. "Mister Kipling has taken to writing rude verses on the walls."
"I must say my dear, you've taken to life in the Warehouse with great aplomb!" He said with approval.
"Indeed," she responded as she took the glasses off. "I finally found a place where my other talents can be used for the good of the Empire." She smiled.
"Oh, not just the Empire, the entire world! Great Britain is simply the Warehouse's current home."
"England did not house Warehouses One through Eleven?" She asked, great puzzlement on her face.
"Nor will it house Warehouse 13. That honor belongs to another nation when England's power wanes."
Helena made a noise that could only be described as "pfft" as she slipped the glasses into another pocket inside her coat. "Then there will never be a Warehouse 13 for the sun will never set on the British Empire!"
"Quite quite," he said with a smile and offered her his arm. "Tea?" He asked as she took his arm with a grin.
It was at that point that Helena woke up. The dream lingered in her mind as she rolled onto her back, opening her eyes and looked up at the ceiling of her room that showed signs that the sun was coming up. Though a puzzled expression was on her face. These dreams she'd been having suddenly started taking on a different meaning. Until now, she'd though they were simply an odd sequence of dreams that played off of her missing her family and London. But throwing Jack the Ripper into it all gave it a different spin.
Well alright, so that also drew into question the stuff about Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde. What exactly was going on with these dreams? Surely she wasn't the only one having these. Though the longer she laid there and woke up further, she remembered a conversation she'd had with Peter wherein he'd mentioned something about dreams. Perhaps it was worth investigating because suddenly details of these dreams were making her think.
If the dreams were real, it certainly changed a lot of what she thought about Victorian authors. Especially H.G. Wells.
But this informational quest would begin later on. Because it was far too early in the day to go about asking people about dreams. Besides, Helena was wanting to get a little more sleep before she had to get Christina up and ready for school. Though at this point with her mind going a billion miles a second, Helena would just take being able to lay there and have some time for herself while putting things from her dreams together.