Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don't Want To Be Your Hero) (25/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (25/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
They’ve lain him out with all the reverence of an esteemed funeral parlor. Arms folded over his still chest, glasses adjusted on his nose, it is the best they can do.
It is nowhere near comfort enough.
Tina is curled on the floor beside the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders. Every few minutes, she reaches up and smooths his hair, hands trembling too hard to do any real good. Beside her, Mike keeps sliding uneasy, tear-stained glances between the floor and the body.
It’s making Quinn a little crazy to watch them, but she can’t see anything else. Behind her, several sets of feet pound against the floor, relentless and fervent.
“I can’t believe this,” she hears Kurt hiss. “I can’t believe-how did this happen?”
“No shit. What the fuck was he thinking-“
“Don’t,” Tina snaps hoarsely, glaring over Quinn’s head until Puck throws his shoulders forward in a defensive gesture. “Don’t you dare blame him.”
“I’m not blaming anyone except the son of a bitch who snapped his spine like uncooked spaghetti, babe,” he assures her as gently as Quinn figures he knows how. Still, Tina flinches.
“You sound like-just…fucking don’t, okay?”
She hasn’t heard Tina swear like that before. It should make an impact, but honestly, she feels too unsteady to care. Words don’t matter right now the way the echo of splintering bone in her ears does.
“He should never have gone out,” Kurt states in a cold, flat voice. Tina’s mouth jerks open to reprimand him, and he shakes his head. “Don’t tell me not to say it, Tina, there’s no point in denying facts. Things have been bad, he knew better than to risk it like that.”
“My fault,” Quinn murmurs. “I ran. He followed. Someone had to, and he-“
“Shouldn’t have been him,” Kurt disagrees, head still turning slowly from side to side. “Artie was perfectly aware that his was a passive power. It wasn’t his responsibility to tail you.”
“Shouldn’t have been anyone,” she replies numbly. “I shouldn’t have gone. If I had just come back upstairs and bitched Rachel out like a normal person, none of this would-“
“Well, you didn’t,” Santana interrupts, not quite unkindly. Her hand drops on Quinn’s shoulder and squeezes once before releasing. “You ran like a little bitch, and that was dumb as hell of you.”
“Thanks, Santana,” Quinn mumbles, staring at a hole in Tina’s pants. The Latina smacks her shoulder again.
“The point is, you did it, and that’s done. We don’t have a time traveler here, and if we did, life would be a damn sight messier than it already is. So man the fuck up and focus. What happened out there?”
She’s already told the story three times. It isn’t getting any easier.
“There is no need to go through it again,” Rachel says shortly before she can begin, standing stone-faced at the kitchen’s mouth with her arms crossed over her chest. “The facts haven’t altered in the last hour. My interest lies in what happens next.”
“You still feel like dicking around?” Santana demands. “Still thinking that’s the best course of action, Captain?”
“The last thing I need right now is you crawling up my butt, Lopez,” Rachel returns with unexpected venom. “Do not test me.”
“This isn’t a test,” Santana fires back before anyone else can cut in. “I told you-Kurt and I both told you we don’t have time to play any more of your ‘slow and steady wins it all’ games. Mercedes is dead. Artie is dead. Rayne knows exactly what Quinn looks like, and who to find her with-“
“He’s known that last part a while,” Finn mumbles halfheartedly. Her head whips from side to side.
“He suspected. For sure now, he knows. Worse, he knows he has us hiding like scared little kids from the monster under the bed. We step foot outside this apartment, and we put ourselves in full fucking danger. We cannot afford this. How many people are you willing to lose before you decide it’s time, Berry?”
“Enough!” Quinn cries. “Stop attacking her.”
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em,” Santana snips, and for a second, Quinn sees red. Sometimes, she thinks, it is so easy to forget why she likes this woman.
Luckily for them both, before she can remember how to work her legs well enough to lunge, Brittany mumbles, “Fighting makes it hurt. No more fighting.”
They turn at once to face her, slumped in her armchair with her arms around her knees. The color drains from Santana’s cheeks.
“Baby, I-“
“Shh.” Brittany waves weakly, then presses that hand against her head. “Tryin’ to focus.”
Quinn bites her lip, watching the indecision locking Santana’s features. Brittany has looked exactly like this-pale, sweaty, broken-for close to an hour now. Quinn expected it to fade a little, wear off after a couple of minutes, but Brittany actually seems to be getting worse. She wonders if this is common, or if the rising body count is what’s doing the damage; either way, the taller blonde seems seconds from giving in to a combination of vomit, tears, and low blood sugar.
And it’s clear that Santana’s nerve is dropping with every ounce of energy Brittany loses.
Truth be told, the nerve of the whole gang is straining, including even the unflappable lunatic that is Rachel Berry. Mercedes’ death was bad; Artie’s is like punching that pre-existing bruise with a wrecking ball. Quinn isn’t sure how much worse it can get.
But, given the circumstances these people tend to get into-
Not these people, she reminds herself. Us. She has been trying for days to build a wall between the so-called New Directions and her own existence, but the time for that is long past. This isn’t an us-vs.-them situation anymore.
She takes a deep breath to steady herself, searching the faces before her. Puck and Santana wear identical expressions of rage; Mike and Matt look grim; Kurt, desperate. It’s a drag race between Brittany and Tina for who will break first, and Finn keeps clenching his fists like he can’t figure out where to aim.
And Rachel…Rachel is a wall.
How would she look under other circumstances, without all the running and hiding and self-preservation? How would this look in a slightly altered scenario-if Artie’s mortal injury had come from a car accident, or falling down a flight of stairs...if this had been an accident? Would that somber face with those grief-stricken eyes change? Would she weep? Would she have another song prepared?
It doesn’t matter. That isn’t how life is, not this time around. Tina is not the typical mourning girlfriend. These are not the typical grave-faced friends. Quinn is not the typical barely-related neighbor figure.
This was her fault, no matter what they say.
Puck seems to be on a similar, though slightly less guilt-inducing, wavelength. “Why are you still alive?” he demands of Quinn, curious rather than accusatory. “You’re the one he wants, we all know that. Why go after the cheese and crackers when the main hunk of steak was dangling right under his nose?”
“Because he knows we’re running out of options,” Rachel answers softly. “He doesn’t think we’ve got a prayer in hell up against him.”
“Yeah, well, at this point, I’m not really inclined to disagree,” Santana mutters. “In only a few days, he’s taken out two of our people, and we’ve barely dented his army of mindless assholes. What does he have to be afraid of?”
“It’s all gone fuckin’ Empire Strikes Back up in this shit,” Puck tacks on miserably, patting his mohawk down with one trembling palm. “We’re toast.”
“We’re not toast,” Rachel snaps. “We can’t let this crush us. Positive thinking is everything.”
“I’m thinking we’re positively about to get our nuts roasted,” he grumbles. “Who knows how he even found Artie in the first place. If he was tailed, for all we know, Rayne could be busting down our front door before the night is up. The home court advantage isn’t gonna be much up against a bastard who has stolen Yahweh knows how many people’s powers.”
“About that,” Quinn says suddenly, eyebrows knitted. “I don’t fully understand some of what went on back there in the first place. You said he murders people for their powers, which I get. But the theft wasn’t what killed Artie.”
“He’s what we call a Puppeteer,” Mike says quietly, placing a hand over Tina’s the next time she reaches to adjust Artie’s hair. She jumps and pulls away, looking immediately regretful when he interlocks his own fingers uneasily. “He manipulates the internal forces that make us human-the energy that makes us move, or, in our case, the energy of our specific powers.”
“It’s all in the hands,” Puck monotones, jazz-handing spectacularly to make sure the point goes through.
“And he doesn’t need to kill in order to steal, for the record,” Kurt adds. “That is solely for his benefit. It’s also why he’s been able to keep followers.”
Confused, Quinn glances at Rachel, whose grim smile resembles no expression of mirth she’s ever seen before.
“Possessing gifts such as ours is still looked upon with derision,” the brunette says simply. “He has amassed a cult-like following because he is able to remove the energy responsible for abilities. When he takes them into his own self, those they were biologically intended for…”
“No longer have to worry about bein’ freaks,” Santana drawls.
“So…he has them fighting for him on the understanding that, when he’s through, they’ll be returned to normal,” Quinn guesses. “No pain inflicted, no questions asked.”
“Give the girl a toaster oven,” Puck affirms tiredly. “I think she’s got it.”
She sinks back against the wall, hands in her pockets. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in at least an hour.”
“That’s your average psychopath with cronies,” Santana corrects, standing behind Brittany’s chair and stroking her hair lightly. “Crack open a history book sometime. Ridiculous shit like that is how genocides go unchecked.”
“That’s the world,” Rachel agrees. “People get desperate, and then they get stupid. The point is, those people will do an astounding variety of terrible things for that man, and that might easily include staking out our apartment.”
“Or blowing holes in it from the outside,” Puck grunts. “We’re sitting ducks here. I’m with Hummel and Lopez. It’s time to suit up and move out.”
“Are you serious?” Tina sniffles, wiping her eyes and glaring up at him. “You want to go straight to him?”
“It’s a fuck of a lot better than this bullshit,” he argues. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn sees Santana nod and Brittany grimace. Too quickly, Tina pushes herself to her feet, grasping for Mike’s shoulder when she stumbles.
“Artie is dead,” she grinds out through clenched teeth. “Mercedes is dead, Karofsky and Azimo are dead. If we give him what he wants, more of us are going to follow, and he will grow stronger. He will get Quinn. He will take out everyone who even thinks about standing in his way, powers or civilian, and this will be over.” Desperately, she turns to Rachel. “You can’t let this happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel replies, more tenderly than Quinn is prepared to hear. “I know it isn’t ideal, but nothing about this ever has been. We have been fighting this war for too long now. As much as it pains me to admit it, I have to agree with Noah.”
“Fuckin’ right, she agrees with me,” he growls. “It’s time to end this. Time to go to work, bitches.”
“It’s too soon!” Tina cries. Santana snorts.
“It’s not fucking soon enough, Morticia. Under all the blubbering, you know that.”
“Don’t push me, Santana,” Tina snaps. “I am not in the mood for your bitch routine-“
“Stop.” Pushing off from the wall, Quinn shakes her head. “I said it before, and I mean it now: enough. Turning on one another will just make us weak, and right now, that is playing exactly into where he wants us.”
“Look at Blondie, growin’ herself a steel pair,” Santana observes, sounding-if Quinn’s ears aren’t deceiving her-rather proud. “Ready to call the shots, Killer?”
“I’m not ready for anything,” Quinn replies evenly. Rachel meets her gaze, steady and concerned. She draws in a breath. “But hiding hasn’t solved anything for you guys yet, and running away only seems to get more people killed. From where I’m standing, the only option left is to stand and fight.”
“And what happens if he sees it coming?” Tina demands. Quinn frowns thoughtfully.
“He won’t. The guy is a textbook psychopath, and from the way he was talking in the park, I’d be willing to put money on an ego the size of this city. He thinks he’s got us on the run, and he definitely seems to be working on his own schedule. If we blow in now, so soon after that attack, at least we’ll have surprise working in our favor.”
“You’re really willing to put yourself on the line for this, Quinn?” Rachel asks carefully, sounding rather like she isn’t sure what answer she’s hoping for. Quinn flashes a strained smile.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t say I’m jumping for it. But it’s me he wants, and as long as I’m stashed away like this, people are going to keep dying. I can’t have that on my conscience, not after watching-just, not anymore.”
Besides, she continues silently, gut twisting with a perfect blend of terror and a sick adrenaline, there’s something bigger than me at work here. It wants to move; it wants to prove to that disgusting bastard that he isn’t the biggest dog on the playground.
It knows it can take him, if only she lets go of the wheel.
With the memory of Artie’s eyes so hideously burned into her brain, she’s not sure that’s such a bad idea anymore.
“You’re sure about this?” Rachel presses one last time. Behind them, Santana scoffs.
“It’s as close to a yes as you’re getting from her, Babs. Let’s get this fuckin’ show on the fuckin’ road before they really do start throwing rocks through our windows.”
Rachel’s face clouds. Quinn grasps her arm.
“I’m sure. I’m fine. He needs to pay for what he’s done, and-and I want to help. I have to.”
“This is insane,” Tina murmurs, resignation evident in her tone even as she shifts to stare again at the prone form on the couch. “You all know that, right?”
“You’re still coming, though,” Puck observes with a ghost of his usual smirk. She heaves a sigh.
“And lose the chance to fry that fucker on the end of one of my bolts? Fat damn chance.”
“All right, then.” Clapping her hands together smartly, Santana steps away from Brittany at last and forces a brave attempt at a smile. “I say we go big or go weeping on home. Weapons for everyone-we are staging a full assault here, people. Warm up, get dressed, and let’s get gone.”
“Weapons,” Quinn repeats, flushing with sudden anxiety. “I’m not so good with-“
“You’ll wing it,” Santana interrupts brusquely. “Although, truth be told, you’re probably weapon enough on your lonesome. I wouldn’t stress my hot little head over it too much.”
“What about the other side?” Quinn asks. “I’ve never done this before. What do they have?”
“Powers,” Rachel replies calmly. “Of varying degrees, but usually along the lines of energy or motion based. Speed, strength, fire-that sort of thing.”
“Also, guns,” Puck adds like he’s brazenly mentioning tomorrow night’s dinner. Quinn feels her eyes widen to the point of pain.
“Okay, that probably should have come up sooner.”
“They’re for show, mostly,” Santana dismisses, grasping Brittany by the arm and hoisting her gently up. “You, of all people, shouldn’t even bother blinking at ‘em.”
“At guns,” Quinn repeats dumbly. “Big, scary killing machines. And why shouldn’t I be worried, again?”
“Because,” Santana replies, flashing her teeth in a grimace that is probably meant to be reassuring. “Big, scary killing machines do exactly that. And, strong as our dear friend Rayne is, even he can’t steal from the dead. Trust me, Fabray, if they’re gonna go for the kill shot, it’s not gonna be with a fuckin’ gun-and it definitely won’t be your precious ass they aim for.”
“Lovely,” Quinn mumbles. “You always know just what to say.”
“Doesn’t she?” Brittany says, as brightly as she is able to. For a second, Quinn only stares at the other woman, genuinely concerned that this string of brutal events has taken Brittany’s tenuous sanity straight to its knees.
One deep blue eye closes and opens again in a lazy, knowing wink. Quinn grins.
“We’re all insane. For the record.”
“Told you,” Tina deadpans, eyes hollow and smile thin. It’s probably too over the top to grab for her hand, but Quinn does it anyway, relieved when the Asian girl squeezes back.
“I’ll get the goods,” Finn announces gruffly in a voice that sounds terribly unused, vanishing from the room a second later. Rachel steps into his place, arms laden with rolls of papers Quinn remembers from several days before. Maps, if she recalls correctly.
Catching her gaze, Rachel gives the rolls a little shake, very nearly dislodging one in the process. “These canvas the areas around Rayne’s location. If you will all be so good as to circle up, I’d be happy to point out the entrance that should keep us as not-dead as humanly possible.”
“Which is that?” Brittany asks. Rachel raises her eyes, lips curving.
“The one they’ll least suspect.”
A crash heralds Finn’s return, burdened with more gleaming, blade-bearing danger than one bumbling young man should be legally equipped with. Sheepishly, he holds out his over-laden arms.
Santana smirks. “Hudson, you know what would really help this plan? Not gutting yourself in the living room. That would be just super.”
It’s not funny, but Quinn releases a nervous giggle all the same, and when Finn tosses a bowstaff her way, she manages to catch it. Deep within her gut, the beast gives a luxuriant howl of excitement.
Revenge may not be the healthiest motivator, she thinks as she watches Puck lather a sword-blade with what smells overwhelmingly like gasoline, but it’s better than cowering in the corner.
And if she’s going to risk her life facing down a lunatic with the power to jerk her body on invisible strings, well-
There are probably worse people to go down with.
Especially considering Tina’s fingertips are bleeding electricity, Rachel’s eyes are utterly unmerciful, and Santana-well, Santana just raked the air with a hand shaped frighteningly like a lion’s paw.
Yep. Could totally be worse.
Puck touches a finger to his sword, instantly sparking a blaze upon the blade, and arches an eyebrow. “All right, losers. Let’s do this shit.”
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
They’ve lain him out with all the reverence of an esteemed funeral parlor. Arms folded over his still chest, glasses adjusted on his nose, it is the best they can do.
It is nowhere near comfort enough.
Tina is curled on the floor beside the couch, a blanket draped around her shoulders. Every few minutes, she reaches up and smooths his hair, hands trembling too hard to do any real good. Beside her, Mike keeps sliding uneasy, tear-stained glances between the floor and the body.
It’s making Quinn a little crazy to watch them, but she can’t see anything else. Behind her, several sets of feet pound against the floor, relentless and fervent.
“I can’t believe this,” she hears Kurt hiss. “I can’t believe-how did this happen?”
“No shit. What the fuck was he thinking-“
“Don’t,” Tina snaps hoarsely, glaring over Quinn’s head until Puck throws his shoulders forward in a defensive gesture. “Don’t you dare blame him.”
“I’m not blaming anyone except the son of a bitch who snapped his spine like uncooked spaghetti, babe,” he assures her as gently as Quinn figures he knows how. Still, Tina flinches.
“You sound like-just…fucking don’t, okay?”
She hasn’t heard Tina swear like that before. It should make an impact, but honestly, she feels too unsteady to care. Words don’t matter right now the way the echo of splintering bone in her ears does.
“He should never have gone out,” Kurt states in a cold, flat voice. Tina’s mouth jerks open to reprimand him, and he shakes his head. “Don’t tell me not to say it, Tina, there’s no point in denying facts. Things have been bad, he knew better than to risk it like that.”
“My fault,” Quinn murmurs. “I ran. He followed. Someone had to, and he-“
“Shouldn’t have been him,” Kurt disagrees, head still turning slowly from side to side. “Artie was perfectly aware that his was a passive power. It wasn’t his responsibility to tail you.”
“Shouldn’t have been anyone,” she replies numbly. “I shouldn’t have gone. If I had just come back upstairs and bitched Rachel out like a normal person, none of this would-“
“Well, you didn’t,” Santana interrupts, not quite unkindly. Her hand drops on Quinn’s shoulder and squeezes once before releasing. “You ran like a little bitch, and that was dumb as hell of you.”
“Thanks, Santana,” Quinn mumbles, staring at a hole in Tina’s pants. The Latina smacks her shoulder again.
“The point is, you did it, and that’s done. We don’t have a time traveler here, and if we did, life would be a damn sight messier than it already is. So man the fuck up and focus. What happened out there?”
She’s already told the story three times. It isn’t getting any easier.
“There is no need to go through it again,” Rachel says shortly before she can begin, standing stone-faced at the kitchen’s mouth with her arms crossed over her chest. “The facts haven’t altered in the last hour. My interest lies in what happens next.”
“You still feel like dicking around?” Santana demands. “Still thinking that’s the best course of action, Captain?”
“The last thing I need right now is you crawling up my butt, Lopez,” Rachel returns with unexpected venom. “Do not test me.”
“This isn’t a test,” Santana fires back before anyone else can cut in. “I told you-Kurt and I both told you we don’t have time to play any more of your ‘slow and steady wins it all’ games. Mercedes is dead. Artie is dead. Rayne knows exactly what Quinn looks like, and who to find her with-“
“He’s known that last part a while,” Finn mumbles halfheartedly. Her head whips from side to side.
“He suspected. For sure now, he knows. Worse, he knows he has us hiding like scared little kids from the monster under the bed. We step foot outside this apartment, and we put ourselves in full fucking danger. We cannot afford this. How many people are you willing to lose before you decide it’s time, Berry?”
“Enough!” Quinn cries. “Stop attacking her.”
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em,” Santana snips, and for a second, Quinn sees red. Sometimes, she thinks, it is so easy to forget why she likes this woman.
Luckily for them both, before she can remember how to work her legs well enough to lunge, Brittany mumbles, “Fighting makes it hurt. No more fighting.”
They turn at once to face her, slumped in her armchair with her arms around her knees. The color drains from Santana’s cheeks.
“Baby, I-“
“Shh.” Brittany waves weakly, then presses that hand against her head. “Tryin’ to focus.”
Quinn bites her lip, watching the indecision locking Santana’s features. Brittany has looked exactly like this-pale, sweaty, broken-for close to an hour now. Quinn expected it to fade a little, wear off after a couple of minutes, but Brittany actually seems to be getting worse. She wonders if this is common, or if the rising body count is what’s doing the damage; either way, the taller blonde seems seconds from giving in to a combination of vomit, tears, and low blood sugar.
And it’s clear that Santana’s nerve is dropping with every ounce of energy Brittany loses.
Truth be told, the nerve of the whole gang is straining, including even the unflappable lunatic that is Rachel Berry. Mercedes’ death was bad; Artie’s is like punching that pre-existing bruise with a wrecking ball. Quinn isn’t sure how much worse it can get.
But, given the circumstances these people tend to get into-
Not these people, she reminds herself. Us. She has been trying for days to build a wall between the so-called New Directions and her own existence, but the time for that is long past. This isn’t an us-vs.-them situation anymore.
She takes a deep breath to steady herself, searching the faces before her. Puck and Santana wear identical expressions of rage; Mike and Matt look grim; Kurt, desperate. It’s a drag race between Brittany and Tina for who will break first, and Finn keeps clenching his fists like he can’t figure out where to aim.
And Rachel…Rachel is a wall.
How would she look under other circumstances, without all the running and hiding and self-preservation? How would this look in a slightly altered scenario-if Artie’s mortal injury had come from a car accident, or falling down a flight of stairs...if this had been an accident? Would that somber face with those grief-stricken eyes change? Would she weep? Would she have another song prepared?
It doesn’t matter. That isn’t how life is, not this time around. Tina is not the typical mourning girlfriend. These are not the typical grave-faced friends. Quinn is not the typical barely-related neighbor figure.
This was her fault, no matter what they say.
Puck seems to be on a similar, though slightly less guilt-inducing, wavelength. “Why are you still alive?” he demands of Quinn, curious rather than accusatory. “You’re the one he wants, we all know that. Why go after the cheese and crackers when the main hunk of steak was dangling right under his nose?”
“Because he knows we’re running out of options,” Rachel answers softly. “He doesn’t think we’ve got a prayer in hell up against him.”
“Yeah, well, at this point, I’m not really inclined to disagree,” Santana mutters. “In only a few days, he’s taken out two of our people, and we’ve barely dented his army of mindless assholes. What does he have to be afraid of?”
“It’s all gone fuckin’ Empire Strikes Back up in this shit,” Puck tacks on miserably, patting his mohawk down with one trembling palm. “We’re toast.”
“We’re not toast,” Rachel snaps. “We can’t let this crush us. Positive thinking is everything.”
“I’m thinking we’re positively about to get our nuts roasted,” he grumbles. “Who knows how he even found Artie in the first place. If he was tailed, for all we know, Rayne could be busting down our front door before the night is up. The home court advantage isn’t gonna be much up against a bastard who has stolen Yahweh knows how many people’s powers.”
“About that,” Quinn says suddenly, eyebrows knitted. “I don’t fully understand some of what went on back there in the first place. You said he murders people for their powers, which I get. But the theft wasn’t what killed Artie.”
“He’s what we call a Puppeteer,” Mike says quietly, placing a hand over Tina’s the next time she reaches to adjust Artie’s hair. She jumps and pulls away, looking immediately regretful when he interlocks his own fingers uneasily. “He manipulates the internal forces that make us human-the energy that makes us move, or, in our case, the energy of our specific powers.”
“It’s all in the hands,” Puck monotones, jazz-handing spectacularly to make sure the point goes through.
“And he doesn’t need to kill in order to steal, for the record,” Kurt adds. “That is solely for his benefit. It’s also why he’s been able to keep followers.”
Confused, Quinn glances at Rachel, whose grim smile resembles no expression of mirth she’s ever seen before.
“Possessing gifts such as ours is still looked upon with derision,” the brunette says simply. “He has amassed a cult-like following because he is able to remove the energy responsible for abilities. When he takes them into his own self, those they were biologically intended for…”
“No longer have to worry about bein’ freaks,” Santana drawls.
“So…he has them fighting for him on the understanding that, when he’s through, they’ll be returned to normal,” Quinn guesses. “No pain inflicted, no questions asked.”
“Give the girl a toaster oven,” Puck affirms tiredly. “I think she’s got it.”
She sinks back against the wall, hands in her pockets. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in at least an hour.”
“That’s your average psychopath with cronies,” Santana corrects, standing behind Brittany’s chair and stroking her hair lightly. “Crack open a history book sometime. Ridiculous shit like that is how genocides go unchecked.”
“That’s the world,” Rachel agrees. “People get desperate, and then they get stupid. The point is, those people will do an astounding variety of terrible things for that man, and that might easily include staking out our apartment.”
“Or blowing holes in it from the outside,” Puck grunts. “We’re sitting ducks here. I’m with Hummel and Lopez. It’s time to suit up and move out.”
“Are you serious?” Tina sniffles, wiping her eyes and glaring up at him. “You want to go straight to him?”
“It’s a fuck of a lot better than this bullshit,” he argues. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn sees Santana nod and Brittany grimace. Too quickly, Tina pushes herself to her feet, grasping for Mike’s shoulder when she stumbles.
“Artie is dead,” she grinds out through clenched teeth. “Mercedes is dead, Karofsky and Azimo are dead. If we give him what he wants, more of us are going to follow, and he will grow stronger. He will get Quinn. He will take out everyone who even thinks about standing in his way, powers or civilian, and this will be over.” Desperately, she turns to Rachel. “You can’t let this happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel replies, more tenderly than Quinn is prepared to hear. “I know it isn’t ideal, but nothing about this ever has been. We have been fighting this war for too long now. As much as it pains me to admit it, I have to agree with Noah.”
“Fuckin’ right, she agrees with me,” he growls. “It’s time to end this. Time to go to work, bitches.”
“It’s too soon!” Tina cries. Santana snorts.
“It’s not fucking soon enough, Morticia. Under all the blubbering, you know that.”
“Don’t push me, Santana,” Tina snaps. “I am not in the mood for your bitch routine-“
“Stop.” Pushing off from the wall, Quinn shakes her head. “I said it before, and I mean it now: enough. Turning on one another will just make us weak, and right now, that is playing exactly into where he wants us.”
“Look at Blondie, growin’ herself a steel pair,” Santana observes, sounding-if Quinn’s ears aren’t deceiving her-rather proud. “Ready to call the shots, Killer?”
“I’m not ready for anything,” Quinn replies evenly. Rachel meets her gaze, steady and concerned. She draws in a breath. “But hiding hasn’t solved anything for you guys yet, and running away only seems to get more people killed. From where I’m standing, the only option left is to stand and fight.”
“And what happens if he sees it coming?” Tina demands. Quinn frowns thoughtfully.
“He won’t. The guy is a textbook psychopath, and from the way he was talking in the park, I’d be willing to put money on an ego the size of this city. He thinks he’s got us on the run, and he definitely seems to be working on his own schedule. If we blow in now, so soon after that attack, at least we’ll have surprise working in our favor.”
“You’re really willing to put yourself on the line for this, Quinn?” Rachel asks carefully, sounding rather like she isn’t sure what answer she’s hoping for. Quinn flashes a strained smile.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t say I’m jumping for it. But it’s me he wants, and as long as I’m stashed away like this, people are going to keep dying. I can’t have that on my conscience, not after watching-just, not anymore.”
Besides, she continues silently, gut twisting with a perfect blend of terror and a sick adrenaline, there’s something bigger than me at work here. It wants to move; it wants to prove to that disgusting bastard that he isn’t the biggest dog on the playground.
It knows it can take him, if only she lets go of the wheel.
With the memory of Artie’s eyes so hideously burned into her brain, she’s not sure that’s such a bad idea anymore.
“You’re sure about this?” Rachel presses one last time. Behind them, Santana scoffs.
“It’s as close to a yes as you’re getting from her, Babs. Let’s get this fuckin’ show on the fuckin’ road before they really do start throwing rocks through our windows.”
Rachel’s face clouds. Quinn grasps her arm.
“I’m sure. I’m fine. He needs to pay for what he’s done, and-and I want to help. I have to.”
“This is insane,” Tina murmurs, resignation evident in her tone even as she shifts to stare again at the prone form on the couch. “You all know that, right?”
“You’re still coming, though,” Puck observes with a ghost of his usual smirk. She heaves a sigh.
“And lose the chance to fry that fucker on the end of one of my bolts? Fat damn chance.”
“All right, then.” Clapping her hands together smartly, Santana steps away from Brittany at last and forces a brave attempt at a smile. “I say we go big or go weeping on home. Weapons for everyone-we are staging a full assault here, people. Warm up, get dressed, and let’s get gone.”
“Weapons,” Quinn repeats, flushing with sudden anxiety. “I’m not so good with-“
“You’ll wing it,” Santana interrupts brusquely. “Although, truth be told, you’re probably weapon enough on your lonesome. I wouldn’t stress my hot little head over it too much.”
“What about the other side?” Quinn asks. “I’ve never done this before. What do they have?”
“Powers,” Rachel replies calmly. “Of varying degrees, but usually along the lines of energy or motion based. Speed, strength, fire-that sort of thing.”
“Also, guns,” Puck adds like he’s brazenly mentioning tomorrow night’s dinner. Quinn feels her eyes widen to the point of pain.
“Okay, that probably should have come up sooner.”
“They’re for show, mostly,” Santana dismisses, grasping Brittany by the arm and hoisting her gently up. “You, of all people, shouldn’t even bother blinking at ‘em.”
“At guns,” Quinn repeats dumbly. “Big, scary killing machines. And why shouldn’t I be worried, again?”
“Because,” Santana replies, flashing her teeth in a grimace that is probably meant to be reassuring. “Big, scary killing machines do exactly that. And, strong as our dear friend Rayne is, even he can’t steal from the dead. Trust me, Fabray, if they’re gonna go for the kill shot, it’s not gonna be with a fuckin’ gun-and it definitely won’t be your precious ass they aim for.”
“Lovely,” Quinn mumbles. “You always know just what to say.”
“Doesn’t she?” Brittany says, as brightly as she is able to. For a second, Quinn only stares at the other woman, genuinely concerned that this string of brutal events has taken Brittany’s tenuous sanity straight to its knees.
One deep blue eye closes and opens again in a lazy, knowing wink. Quinn grins.
“We’re all insane. For the record.”
“Told you,” Tina deadpans, eyes hollow and smile thin. It’s probably too over the top to grab for her hand, but Quinn does it anyway, relieved when the Asian girl squeezes back.
“I’ll get the goods,” Finn announces gruffly in a voice that sounds terribly unused, vanishing from the room a second later. Rachel steps into his place, arms laden with rolls of papers Quinn remembers from several days before. Maps, if she recalls correctly.
Catching her gaze, Rachel gives the rolls a little shake, very nearly dislodging one in the process. “These canvas the areas around Rayne’s location. If you will all be so good as to circle up, I’d be happy to point out the entrance that should keep us as not-dead as humanly possible.”
“Which is that?” Brittany asks. Rachel raises her eyes, lips curving.
“The one they’ll least suspect.”
A crash heralds Finn’s return, burdened with more gleaming, blade-bearing danger than one bumbling young man should be legally equipped with. Sheepishly, he holds out his over-laden arms.
Santana smirks. “Hudson, you know what would really help this plan? Not gutting yourself in the living room. That would be just super.”
It’s not funny, but Quinn releases a nervous giggle all the same, and when Finn tosses a bowstaff her way, she manages to catch it. Deep within her gut, the beast gives a luxuriant howl of excitement.
Revenge may not be the healthiest motivator, she thinks as she watches Puck lather a sword-blade with what smells overwhelmingly like gasoline, but it’s better than cowering in the corner.
And if she’s going to risk her life facing down a lunatic with the power to jerk her body on invisible strings, well-
There are probably worse people to go down with.
Especially considering Tina’s fingertips are bleeding electricity, Rachel’s eyes are utterly unmerciful, and Santana-well, Santana just raked the air with a hand shaped frighteningly like a lion’s paw.
Yep. Could totally be worse.
Puck touches a finger to his sword, instantly sparking a blaze upon the blade, and arches an eyebrow. “All right, losers. Let’s do this shit.”