Fic: Reverseverse Ep 1: 'Popular', Part 3
Title: Ep 1.1: Popular, Part 3
Fandom: Glee
'Verse: Reverseverse
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme .
Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb.
Word Count: (This part) 3203
Genre: AU
Copyright: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone . I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Summary: Part 3 of episode 1, Popular. In this world, there's no such thing as just a slushy.
Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal'before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
“Iced-drinks to the face.” Sue enunciates, pushing her fingertip down into Figgins’ desktop. “The international symbol of mockery and repulsion since Roman peacekeepers saw fit to soak a bath sponge in vinegar and feed it to Jesus.”
At the mention of his saviour’s name, Principal Figgins’ mouth settles into a tight line, and Sue resists the urge to pluck the industrial staple-gun from his desk drawer and make sure it stays that way.
“Principal Figgins,” she intones instead: “the students at McKinley High are clearly exercising their constitutional right to overthrow a corrupt, brutal and altogether tuneless regime. The people have spoken. The reputation of the Glee Club has hours left to live. Why prolong the inevitable? Be merciful: give my cheerios the booster money earmarked for those flabby sociopaths and let the Glee Club find the peace it deserves in a quiet, secluded, unmarked grave.”
Figgins crosses his arms across his chest.
“Sue: this was an isolated incident! Only one student was slushied, and the girl responsible has already been reprimanded--”
“-further proof that this school is in the practice of denying students free expression-!”
“-free expression is the entire point of Glee Club, Sue! Besides, this school has had fourteen students through to the televised audition stage of American Idol based solely on their association with such a highly achieving showchoir! Do you know what that level of popular celebrity does for the economy of an area like Lima?! I haven’t paid a janitor in over two years!”
Sue closes her eyes, takes a long deep inhale, and lets that breath out with all the threat and purpose of a Koga Ninja.
“One isolated incident Figgins.” She repeats, narrowing her eyes grimly: “...You just witnessed the assassination of an archduke.”
Before Figgins can form any kind of counterargument, Sue draws herself up to her full, majestic height, and stalks from the room.
(Like a lioness, baby zebra still hanging from its jaws, sponsored by Adidas.)
Against the wall, just beyond the glass exterior of Figgins’ office, Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez stand, their mildly flawed faces flushed with an excitement not dissimilar to that of Sue Sylvester when faced with a class of wheezing freshmen and a repossessed blowtorch.
“Babies.” Sue greets them, once more narrowing her eyes and staring them both down with equal amounts of steely resolve:
“Fantana. Outstanding work.”
Santana smiles, after frowning for just a second to process her name change.
“Q-tip-”
“-I-”
“-there’s no ‘I’ in ‘terror’, Q.”
The girl presses her pouty pink lips together, knowing better than to reply.
“And when I give you a clear, cherry-flavoured shot at the faces of your oppressors, I don’t expect you to turn chicken faster than some ethnic minority princess in an endearingly retro Disney cartoon.”
Quinn shuffles her feet a bit:
“It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t.” Sue grins, this time entirely cheerfully “Because this- ladies- is war.”
*
As Thursday draws to a close, Puck skips out of Math early, pleading another of his kinda-suspiciously-predictable migraines-but he wanders out to the parking lot to find Kurt’s parking space already deserted. He bites unhappily at the inside of his cheek, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his letterman. He never figured one slushy attack could freak someone out so bad.
Friday isn’t much better. He and Kurt have exactly zero classes together, and when he shows up at the glee club lockers in the morning there’s no-one there. He makes it to the choir-room just in time to meet them all exiting for first period, everyone wearing their custom printed New Directions hoodies with the hoods up. Kurt looks miserable at having his hair so distressed, and when he sees Puck lurking he just shoots him a look that’s half-steely-resolve, half-apology, and ducks away in the direction of History.
Im nt gona slushy u, Puck texts him from under the desk in Bio. Then, thinking that sounds too snarky he adds: did I do sumthin?
He never gets a reply.
So by the time Saturday-- and New Directions’ field trip to Vocal Adreneline’s invitational-- rolls around, it’s really the first chance Puck’s had to speak to his supposedly-boyfriend since Santana’s ice-cold sneak-attack.
Mr Schuester’s still glowering at him suspiciously at every opportunity, because his official audition isn’t until next week (oh god whole other world of pain he hasn’t even thought about yet fuck fuck fuck) but Puck decides to ignore him and just pay attention to Kurt, who managed to avoid him the whole bus journey by sitting next to Mercedes, but who now is standing alone in the queue for coffee at Carmel’s overcompensating snack-bar.
“Hey.” Puck says, sidling up.
Kurt glances at him. “Hello Noah.” He at last has the graciousness to look mildly embarrassed.
“So, you’ve been avoiding me--”
“-I’ve been avoiding you because New Directions’ continued cross-strata dalliances have begun an inter-student war which I have no desire to be caught up in.” Kurt explains curtly.
Puck feels his stomach swoop down to somewhere round about his knees.
“It was one slushy.” He retorts, louder then he meant to. Kurt’s head twists round, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. He glowers up at Puck’s face:
“Do you have any idea how delicate the balance of power is at McKinley? Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to be as popular as I am?” he hisses, and Puck is honestly kind of flabbergasted at his intensity. “One slushy could ruin everything. Look at Rachel:” they both turn to eye the satin-haired diva. “Her eyebrows are running rampant. That’s fear, Puckerman. Stress and fear.”
“Your eyebrows look fine.” Puck says, irritated.
“Exactly.” Kurt takes a defiant sip of his mocha.
The bell goes announcing the performance is about to start. Mr Schuester’s voice cuts through the hubbub:
“New Directions! Row G! If you want some confirmation of the kind of mocking, judgemental expressions I wanna see, just check out Mercedes’!”
“Damn straight, Mr Schue!”
They start shuffling towards the auditorium.
“So you’re dumping me?” Puck questions hollowly, guessing he should get it out in the open.
Kurt stares at him, long-suffering.
“Why is it always about you, Noah?”
Puck just blinks at him. Not for the first time, he remembers ice-bitch isn’t just Kurt’s snappy high-school nickname.
“I don’t get you.” He admits flatly, the hairs on the back of his neck still riled. “You’re happy to date me so long as no-one knows about it?”
“Bingo, Banjo.” Kurt deadpans back, pushing past a squalling family to get to his seat with the rest of New Directions, bang smack in the centre of the auditorium.
Mr Schue leans in, lowering his voice to conspiratorial tones:
“Now guys, let’s play good sports here. Just because we’re six-hundred to one favourites for Sectionals doesn’t mean we need to rub it in.” he grins smugly. “I have a feeling the quality of their performance will, um… speak for itself.”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Puck jumps a bit in his seat as the loudspeaker blasts its introduction “PLEASE GIVE A WARM, BUCKEYE STATE WELCOME TO YOUR SOON-TO-BE SHOWCHOIR CHAMPIONS- VOCAL ADRENALINE!!!!”
The audience stutters into polite applause, barely masking the sound of the curtain screeching as it’s retracted into the rafters. Puck risks a sideways glance down the row of New Directions: Artie and Tina are making out; Finn’s staring around to find where the voice came from; Rachel’s leaning against his arm with a look of bored superiority on her face; Mercedes is texting, and Kurt is slouched casually in his seat, propping his head up with two fingers like he might doze off any second.
On stage (Puck supposes) are Vocal Adreneline.
They’re dressed in freakily identical outfits, standing to attention in a cluster in the middle of the stage, waiting for their cue. There’s at least two dozen of them.
Puck bites his lip.
They look nowhere near as epic-faily as he expected.
Beside him, he feels Kurt sit up a little straighter, suddenly focusing.
“Ohio, Ohio, Ohi-i-ooohh…”
And then Puck almost covers his ears, because this total fuckin’ brick wall of sound is coming straight at him:
“They tried to make me go to rehab and I said ‘no, no no’…”
The dancers explode across the stage, spinning and twisting and ducking under each other’s arms as the Amy Winehouse classic blasts defiantly through the auditorium. The showchoir is a blur of blue and black, busting a routine that looks just the hell-side of impossible, hitting every beat of the music, never missing a step-never missing a note, ‘cos even with all the throwing each other about, their voices don’t waver.
“I’d rather be at home with Ray…”
The soloists weave seamlessly in and out of the group, smiles pasted across their faces. They’re a perfect, synchronised machine, and this is the definition of a group number. Puck’s never seen anything like it, even from New Directions. All they’re missing is a guy doing back-flips.
“Yes I’ve been black, but when I come back you’ll know know, know, know…”
Fuck. There’s the guy doing backflips.
The crowd screech their appreciation, scrambling to their feet to get a better view. All around Puck people are clapping, cheering, punching the air… It’s fuckin’ insane. The row in front are dancing, and ergo totally blocking his view; but Puck can’t go anywhere ‘cos Vocal Adrenaline have just sucker-punched him in the gut.
“He’s tried to make me go to rehab, but I won’t go go GO…!!”
The last note blasts triumphantly into the theatre, and the audience just go wild. Even from their eight rows back, Puck can see the looks of smug superiority on the faces of Vocal Adreneline’s members- even as they glisten with sweat, chests heaving-- and it looks like one perfect, synchronised Fuck You.
Mr Schue’s suggestions of good sportsmanship forgotten, New Directions just stare, gobsmacked, frozen in their seats. In his peripheral vision, Puck can see almost identical looks of horror repeated all down their row, and Mr Schue’s hair looks like it’s starting to uncurl at the ends.
Puck can relate. He’s honestly so unnerved that he barely notices Kurt’s fingers clenched desperately hard around his.
*
“William.” Sue Sylvester smiles like a particularly unhinged she-wolf.
Will glowers sulkily at Figgins. Monday mornings are not his favourite, and now he has to deal with her? “What the hell is she doing in here?” he snarls.
“William! Language!”
Will settles for lifting his chin and fixing Sylvester in a stare designed to puncture kidneys.
“William.” Figgins tries again, settling back into his chair. “I think it’s time we had a discussion about your tenure as director of the Glee Club.”
Will feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He’s getting a pretty bad feeling about this meeting.
“We’re d-d-doomed.” Tina pronounces from her perch cross-legged on top of the piano.
Puck can’t help how his head whips round to look at her: he’s never noticed her stuttering before. But then, Tina’s usually more a frosty silence type.
Artie glares at her. “Babe.” He says warningly- and that seems to be enough to persuade the Asian girl back into wordlessness, combing her fingers thoughtfully through her long hair.
Rachel barely grants either of them a glance. She and Finn are sitting side by side, front and centre on the risers, leaving the rest of the gleeks standing in awkward court around of them.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tina.” she dismisses smoothly “We’re not doomed. We’re New Directions-- Vocal Adrenaline pull off one above-deplorable performance and you’re all ready to break out the razor blades?” she gives a tiny shrug of epic blasé-ness: “I say this is simply a chance for us to enjoy the thrill of plausible competition.”
“And what exactly are we discussing?” Will snaps, leaning forward to get Sue out of his eye-line. Unfortunately, it doesn’t mute her voice:
“Your failure,” The cheerleading coach intones gleefully “as an educator and- I’m reliably informed by my posse of minimum-wage Taiwanese private investigators- as a man.”
“This is totally out of line.” Will objects, discreetly crossing his legs. “New Directions is the most successful extracurricular at this school.”
“Was.” Figgins corrects, not quite able to meet Will’s eyes.
“Rachel’s right.” Kurt interjects delicately. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging the rest of the room to disagree. “The shock was simply because we weren’t expecting it. There was nothing they did up there that we couldn’t do.” He flutters his fingers dismissively: “And with more flair.”
“Oh?” Artie looks unconvinced: “I didn’t realise advanced acrobatics was a substantial part of your oeuvre, Kurt.”
“Or yours, Artie.” Kurt retorts sweetly, eyes raking over Artie’s wheeled form.
“Babe, do you maybe wanna flirt on your own time?” Mercedes interrupts, pushing herself away from the piano and wandering to the centre of the room. “It don’t matter who’s the better showchoir.” She reminds them all sullenly: “That audience were practically stage-divin’, and when was the last time that happened to us, even at our own invitational?”
Rachel gives a knowing little huff of laughter: “The general public are notoriously deficient at recognising true talent-”
“-Yeah, but it’s the general public who get to vote for us at the end, isn’t it?” Mercedes counters. “I tell yah, did ya see that girl two rows back? Hyperventilating with so much joy she had to get carried out on a stretcher. Most popular wins. Every time.”
“But we are most popular.” Kurt reminds from behind her, voice dripping condescension. He glances around at the assembled group with narrowed eyes. “No-one’s seriously disputing that are they? Not after one performance.”
Mercedes continues to look unimpressed, and jerks her thumb in Rachel’s direction: “Yeah, well you might wanna check with the slush-magnet over there just how popular New Directions are at McKinley High.”
“-Oh my god, it was one slushy!” Will exclaims “Will everyone stop making such a-”
“-But that one slushy has had a knock-on effect William! I’ve had more and more reports of misconduct by your Glee club, from children who were, until now, too afraid of repercussions to speak out!”
Sue shakes her head: “Poor, victimised, children...”
“This is you, isn’t it?!” Will rounds on her, a curl coming free and falling across his forehead like an outward sign of his fury: “You’re jealous that my kids are getting the rewards they deserve!”
“But after all I’ve heard William, I’m not sure they do deserve them!” Figgins counters, eyes wide. Will turns back to scowl at him, but although Figgins wilts like a cabbage under his gaze, he holds his ground.
“Well I think we all realise that if you own a turquoise pant-suit at the age of sixteen, the least you can expect is some malicious confectionery being lobbed in your general direction.”
“Hey, uh, leave Rachel alone.” Finn protests- and then looks painfully sheepish as all the gleeks, including Rachel, just look at him.
Half to rescue Finn, and half to try and look like the way smarter member of the jock-patrol, Puck risks a deep breath and says:
“Hey look; I know my opinion probably doesn’t count or whatever-”
“-That’d be the correct answer.” Mercedes interrupts smoothly, granting him a patronising glance over her shoulder. Puck swallows and tries again:
“…But you guys can totally beat Vocal Adrenaline. I mean, they were tight, and everything… but they were like…” his mind goes entirely blank “…dead inside.”
Once more, the glee kids are staring at him like he just ate a puppy. Puck feels that familiar flush of shame and embarrassment creeping over his face… but he just shrugs hugely, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Whatever, ok? I just… When you guys perform it’s like, I can really feel it-”
“-In your pants?” Mercedes suggests archly and, to Puck’s huge surprise, Kurt digs her in the ribs with his elbow, lips pressing tight together.
Puck meets his eyes for just a second.
“Sure.” he admits, glancing back at Mercedes’ unmoved expression. “’Cos your bff’s a hottie.”
At least half the people in the room roll their eyes.
“But even when, like, Rachel sings… it sends a shiver right down my spine, man.”
“And what exactly do you mean by-?”
“-Yeah.” Finn interrupts his girlfriend, nodding encouragingly. “Yeah, what he said. Vocal Adrenaline were awesome, but they had nothing on you guys. They were like… Showchoir Barbies.”
“…Ok. Y’all comin’ up with some seriously whack metaphors right now.” Mercedes observes; but Finn’s harmless flailing has softened her scowl slightly. Inwardly, Puck feels a stupid tug of jealousy that he tries to ignore.
“They were trying to psych us out.” Tina offers in a quiet voice, looking at Artie but probably talking to everyone. Puck realises once more just how little he’s heard her speak. “I bet that’s the only number they’ve rehearsed this semester.”
Artie still looks cynical: “Even if it was, it was still some high-class dope. They only need two more numbers like that to wipe the floor with us at Sectionals.”
All of a sudden, Rachel stands, hands resting resolutely on her hips:
“But there’s only forty-four days left.” She reminds them brightly. “There’s no way Vocal Adrenaline can keep up that level of energy for a month and a half. We’ve watched them fail miserably for years; they just don’t have the discipline-”
“-Guys!” Mr Schuester’s voice cuts across Rachel’s self-assurance like a whip-crack. “What do you think you’re doing just standing around? Only forty-four days ‘till Sectionals… And now you know what you’re up against...”
“Mr Schuester.” Rachel immediately slips in front of Puck, dark eyes lit up with new determination. “We’ve been discussing Vocal Adrenaline’s performance, and we’ve realised that their showchoir is no real threat to the outstanding talent encased within New Directions. Namely, myself.”
“That’s great Rachel, I’m glad you’re feeling so confident.” Mr Schuester returns bluntly, and Puck feels yet another ripple of uncertainty pass through the group.
“Mr Schue?” Finn urges.
“I’m glad you’re feeling so confident,” The Spanish teacher continues wearily “because Principal Figgins has just thrown us down an ultimatum.”
From here Puck can see the tight clench to Mr Shuester’s jaw as he glances around at the seven suddenly taut faces arranged before him.
“Based on New Directions’ free-falling popularity as an extracurricular,” he intones darkly “not to mention Vocal Adrenaline’s sudden leapfrog in the competition odds… Next week’s auditions are open to anyone who wants to apply.” Here, he shoots Puck a poisonous glower. “Not only that-but anyone who auditions for Glee Club will get in to Glee Club. And not only that- if you guys don’t place at Regionals this year… Figgins is going to cut New Directions’ funding.”
There’s an audible gasp. Rachel’s hand flies to her mouth:
“…Cut?” she repeats in a horrified whisper.
Mr Schuester stares down his star pupil with eyes dead like a shark’s:
“Cut.”
Fandom: Glee
'Verse: Reverseverse
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Challenge/Prompt: The original ‘A Little Role Reversal’ fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme .
Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb.
Word Count: (This part) 3203
Genre: AU
Copyright: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone . I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Summary: Part 3 of episode 1, Popular. In this world, there's no such thing as just a slushy.
Author’s Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal'before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. Fics in this verse will be tagged 'reverseverse', 'cos it's an awesome word, alright?
“Iced-drinks to the face.” Sue enunciates, pushing her fingertip down into Figgins’ desktop. “The international symbol of mockery and repulsion since Roman peacekeepers saw fit to soak a bath sponge in vinegar and feed it to Jesus.”
At the mention of his saviour’s name, Principal Figgins’ mouth settles into a tight line, and Sue resists the urge to pluck the industrial staple-gun from his desk drawer and make sure it stays that way.
“Principal Figgins,” she intones instead: “the students at McKinley High are clearly exercising their constitutional right to overthrow a corrupt, brutal and altogether tuneless regime. The people have spoken. The reputation of the Glee Club has hours left to live. Why prolong the inevitable? Be merciful: give my cheerios the booster money earmarked for those flabby sociopaths and let the Glee Club find the peace it deserves in a quiet, secluded, unmarked grave.”
Figgins crosses his arms across his chest.
“Sue: this was an isolated incident! Only one student was slushied, and the girl responsible has already been reprimanded--”
“-further proof that this school is in the practice of denying students free expression-!”
“-free expression is the entire point of Glee Club, Sue! Besides, this school has had fourteen students through to the televised audition stage of American Idol based solely on their association with such a highly achieving showchoir! Do you know what that level of popular celebrity does for the economy of an area like Lima?! I haven’t paid a janitor in over two years!”
Sue closes her eyes, takes a long deep inhale, and lets that breath out with all the threat and purpose of a Koga Ninja.
“One isolated incident Figgins.” She repeats, narrowing her eyes grimly: “...You just witnessed the assassination of an archduke.”
Before Figgins can form any kind of counterargument, Sue draws herself up to her full, majestic height, and stalks from the room.
(Like a lioness, baby zebra still hanging from its jaws, sponsored by Adidas.)
Against the wall, just beyond the glass exterior of Figgins’ office, Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez stand, their mildly flawed faces flushed with an excitement not dissimilar to that of Sue Sylvester when faced with a class of wheezing freshmen and a repossessed blowtorch.
“Babies.” Sue greets them, once more narrowing her eyes and staring them both down with equal amounts of steely resolve:
“Fantana. Outstanding work.”
Santana smiles, after frowning for just a second to process her name change.
“Q-tip-”
“-I-”
“-there’s no ‘I’ in ‘terror’, Q.”
The girl presses her pouty pink lips together, knowing better than to reply.
“And when I give you a clear, cherry-flavoured shot at the faces of your oppressors, I don’t expect you to turn chicken faster than some ethnic minority princess in an endearingly retro Disney cartoon.”
Quinn shuffles her feet a bit:
“It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t.” Sue grins, this time entirely cheerfully “Because this- ladies- is war.”
*
As Thursday draws to a close, Puck skips out of Math early, pleading another of his kinda-suspiciously-predictable migraines-but he wanders out to the parking lot to find Kurt’s parking space already deserted. He bites unhappily at the inside of his cheek, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his letterman. He never figured one slushy attack could freak someone out so bad.
Friday isn’t much better. He and Kurt have exactly zero classes together, and when he shows up at the glee club lockers in the morning there’s no-one there. He makes it to the choir-room just in time to meet them all exiting for first period, everyone wearing their custom printed New Directions hoodies with the hoods up. Kurt looks miserable at having his hair so distressed, and when he sees Puck lurking he just shoots him a look that’s half-steely-resolve, half-apology, and ducks away in the direction of History.
Im nt gona slushy u, Puck texts him from under the desk in Bio. Then, thinking that sounds too snarky he adds: did I do sumthin?
He never gets a reply.
So by the time Saturday-- and New Directions’ field trip to Vocal Adreneline’s invitational-- rolls around, it’s really the first chance Puck’s had to speak to his supposedly-boyfriend since Santana’s ice-cold sneak-attack.
Mr Schuester’s still glowering at him suspiciously at every opportunity, because his official audition isn’t until next week (oh god whole other world of pain he hasn’t even thought about yet fuck fuck fuck) but Puck decides to ignore him and just pay attention to Kurt, who managed to avoid him the whole bus journey by sitting next to Mercedes, but who now is standing alone in the queue for coffee at Carmel’s overcompensating snack-bar.
“Hey.” Puck says, sidling up.
Kurt glances at him. “Hello Noah.” He at last has the graciousness to look mildly embarrassed.
“So, you’ve been avoiding me--”
“-I’ve been avoiding you because New Directions’ continued cross-strata dalliances have begun an inter-student war which I have no desire to be caught up in.” Kurt explains curtly.
Puck feels his stomach swoop down to somewhere round about his knees.
“It was one slushy.” He retorts, louder then he meant to. Kurt’s head twists round, as if afraid of eavesdroppers. He glowers up at Puck’s face:
“Do you have any idea how delicate the balance of power is at McKinley? Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to be as popular as I am?” he hisses, and Puck is honestly kind of flabbergasted at his intensity. “One slushy could ruin everything. Look at Rachel:” they both turn to eye the satin-haired diva. “Her eyebrows are running rampant. That’s fear, Puckerman. Stress and fear.”
“Your eyebrows look fine.” Puck says, irritated.
“Exactly.” Kurt takes a defiant sip of his mocha.
The bell goes announcing the performance is about to start. Mr Schuester’s voice cuts through the hubbub:
“New Directions! Row G! If you want some confirmation of the kind of mocking, judgemental expressions I wanna see, just check out Mercedes’!”
“Damn straight, Mr Schue!”
They start shuffling towards the auditorium.
“So you’re dumping me?” Puck questions hollowly, guessing he should get it out in the open.
Kurt stares at him, long-suffering.
“Why is it always about you, Noah?”
Puck just blinks at him. Not for the first time, he remembers ice-bitch isn’t just Kurt’s snappy high-school nickname.
“I don’t get you.” He admits flatly, the hairs on the back of his neck still riled. “You’re happy to date me so long as no-one knows about it?”
“Bingo, Banjo.” Kurt deadpans back, pushing past a squalling family to get to his seat with the rest of New Directions, bang smack in the centre of the auditorium.
Mr Schue leans in, lowering his voice to conspiratorial tones:
“Now guys, let’s play good sports here. Just because we’re six-hundred to one favourites for Sectionals doesn’t mean we need to rub it in.” he grins smugly. “I have a feeling the quality of their performance will, um… speak for itself.”
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Puck jumps a bit in his seat as the loudspeaker blasts its introduction “PLEASE GIVE A WARM, BUCKEYE STATE WELCOME TO YOUR SOON-TO-BE SHOWCHOIR CHAMPIONS- VOCAL ADRENALINE!!!!”
The audience stutters into polite applause, barely masking the sound of the curtain screeching as it’s retracted into the rafters. Puck risks a sideways glance down the row of New Directions: Artie and Tina are making out; Finn’s staring around to find where the voice came from; Rachel’s leaning against his arm with a look of bored superiority on her face; Mercedes is texting, and Kurt is slouched casually in his seat, propping his head up with two fingers like he might doze off any second.
On stage (Puck supposes) are Vocal Adreneline.
They’re dressed in freakily identical outfits, standing to attention in a cluster in the middle of the stage, waiting for their cue. There’s at least two dozen of them.
Puck bites his lip.
They look nowhere near as epic-faily as he expected.
Beside him, he feels Kurt sit up a little straighter, suddenly focusing.
“Ohio, Ohio, Ohi-i-ooohh…”
And then Puck almost covers his ears, because this total fuckin’ brick wall of sound is coming straight at him:
“They tried to make me go to rehab and I said ‘no, no no’…”
The dancers explode across the stage, spinning and twisting and ducking under each other’s arms as the Amy Winehouse classic blasts defiantly through the auditorium. The showchoir is a blur of blue and black, busting a routine that looks just the hell-side of impossible, hitting every beat of the music, never missing a step-never missing a note, ‘cos even with all the throwing each other about, their voices don’t waver.
“I’d rather be at home with Ray…”
The soloists weave seamlessly in and out of the group, smiles pasted across their faces. They’re a perfect, synchronised machine, and this is the definition of a group number. Puck’s never seen anything like it, even from New Directions. All they’re missing is a guy doing back-flips.
“Yes I’ve been black, but when I come back you’ll know know, know, know…”
Fuck. There’s the guy doing backflips.
The crowd screech their appreciation, scrambling to their feet to get a better view. All around Puck people are clapping, cheering, punching the air… It’s fuckin’ insane. The row in front are dancing, and ergo totally blocking his view; but Puck can’t go anywhere ‘cos Vocal Adrenaline have just sucker-punched him in the gut.
“He’s tried to make me go to rehab, but I won’t go go GO…!!”
The last note blasts triumphantly into the theatre, and the audience just go wild. Even from their eight rows back, Puck can see the looks of smug superiority on the faces of Vocal Adreneline’s members- even as they glisten with sweat, chests heaving-- and it looks like one perfect, synchronised Fuck You.
Mr Schue’s suggestions of good sportsmanship forgotten, New Directions just stare, gobsmacked, frozen in their seats. In his peripheral vision, Puck can see almost identical looks of horror repeated all down their row, and Mr Schue’s hair looks like it’s starting to uncurl at the ends.
Puck can relate. He’s honestly so unnerved that he barely notices Kurt’s fingers clenched desperately hard around his.
*
“William.” Sue Sylvester smiles like a particularly unhinged she-wolf.
Will glowers sulkily at Figgins. Monday mornings are not his favourite, and now he has to deal with her? “What the hell is she doing in here?” he snarls.
“William! Language!”
Will settles for lifting his chin and fixing Sylvester in a stare designed to puncture kidneys.
“William.” Figgins tries again, settling back into his chair. “I think it’s time we had a discussion about your tenure as director of the Glee Club.”
Will feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He’s getting a pretty bad feeling about this meeting.
“We’re d-d-doomed.” Tina pronounces from her perch cross-legged on top of the piano.
Puck can’t help how his head whips round to look at her: he’s never noticed her stuttering before. But then, Tina’s usually more a frosty silence type.
Artie glares at her. “Babe.” He says warningly- and that seems to be enough to persuade the Asian girl back into wordlessness, combing her fingers thoughtfully through her long hair.
Rachel barely grants either of them a glance. She and Finn are sitting side by side, front and centre on the risers, leaving the rest of the gleeks standing in awkward court around of them.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tina.” she dismisses smoothly “We’re not doomed. We’re New Directions-- Vocal Adrenaline pull off one above-deplorable performance and you’re all ready to break out the razor blades?” she gives a tiny shrug of epic blasé-ness: “I say this is simply a chance for us to enjoy the thrill of plausible competition.”
“And what exactly are we discussing?” Will snaps, leaning forward to get Sue out of his eye-line. Unfortunately, it doesn’t mute her voice:
“Your failure,” The cheerleading coach intones gleefully “as an educator and- I’m reliably informed by my posse of minimum-wage Taiwanese private investigators- as a man.”
“This is totally out of line.” Will objects, discreetly crossing his legs. “New Directions is the most successful extracurricular at this school.”
“Was.” Figgins corrects, not quite able to meet Will’s eyes.
“Rachel’s right.” Kurt interjects delicately. He raises an eyebrow, as if challenging the rest of the room to disagree. “The shock was simply because we weren’t expecting it. There was nothing they did up there that we couldn’t do.” He flutters his fingers dismissively: “And with more flair.”
“Oh?” Artie looks unconvinced: “I didn’t realise advanced acrobatics was a substantial part of your oeuvre, Kurt.”
“Or yours, Artie.” Kurt retorts sweetly, eyes raking over Artie’s wheeled form.
“Babe, do you maybe wanna flirt on your own time?” Mercedes interrupts, pushing herself away from the piano and wandering to the centre of the room. “It don’t matter who’s the better showchoir.” She reminds them all sullenly: “That audience were practically stage-divin’, and when was the last time that happened to us, even at our own invitational?”
Rachel gives a knowing little huff of laughter: “The general public are notoriously deficient at recognising true talent-”
“-Yeah, but it’s the general public who get to vote for us at the end, isn’t it?” Mercedes counters. “I tell yah, did ya see that girl two rows back? Hyperventilating with so much joy she had to get carried out on a stretcher. Most popular wins. Every time.”
“But we are most popular.” Kurt reminds from behind her, voice dripping condescension. He glances around at the assembled group with narrowed eyes. “No-one’s seriously disputing that are they? Not after one performance.”
Mercedes continues to look unimpressed, and jerks her thumb in Rachel’s direction: “Yeah, well you might wanna check with the slush-magnet over there just how popular New Directions are at McKinley High.”
“-Oh my god, it was one slushy!” Will exclaims “Will everyone stop making such a-”
“-But that one slushy has had a knock-on effect William! I’ve had more and more reports of misconduct by your Glee club, from children who were, until now, too afraid of repercussions to speak out!”
Sue shakes her head: “Poor, victimised, children...”
“This is you, isn’t it?!” Will rounds on her, a curl coming free and falling across his forehead like an outward sign of his fury: “You’re jealous that my kids are getting the rewards they deserve!”
“But after all I’ve heard William, I’m not sure they do deserve them!” Figgins counters, eyes wide. Will turns back to scowl at him, but although Figgins wilts like a cabbage under his gaze, he holds his ground.
“Well I think we all realise that if you own a turquoise pant-suit at the age of sixteen, the least you can expect is some malicious confectionery being lobbed in your general direction.”
“Hey, uh, leave Rachel alone.” Finn protests- and then looks painfully sheepish as all the gleeks, including Rachel, just look at him.
Half to rescue Finn, and half to try and look like the way smarter member of the jock-patrol, Puck risks a deep breath and says:
“Hey look; I know my opinion probably doesn’t count or whatever-”
“-That’d be the correct answer.” Mercedes interrupts smoothly, granting him a patronising glance over her shoulder. Puck swallows and tries again:
“…But you guys can totally beat Vocal Adrenaline. I mean, they were tight, and everything… but they were like…” his mind goes entirely blank “…dead inside.”
Once more, the glee kids are staring at him like he just ate a puppy. Puck feels that familiar flush of shame and embarrassment creeping over his face… but he just shrugs hugely, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Whatever, ok? I just… When you guys perform it’s like, I can really feel it-”
“-In your pants?” Mercedes suggests archly and, to Puck’s huge surprise, Kurt digs her in the ribs with his elbow, lips pressing tight together.
Puck meets his eyes for just a second.
“Sure.” he admits, glancing back at Mercedes’ unmoved expression. “’Cos your bff’s a hottie.”
At least half the people in the room roll their eyes.
“But even when, like, Rachel sings… it sends a shiver right down my spine, man.”
“And what exactly do you mean by-?”
“-Yeah.” Finn interrupts his girlfriend, nodding encouragingly. “Yeah, what he said. Vocal Adrenaline were awesome, but they had nothing on you guys. They were like… Showchoir Barbies.”
“…Ok. Y’all comin’ up with some seriously whack metaphors right now.” Mercedes observes; but Finn’s harmless flailing has softened her scowl slightly. Inwardly, Puck feels a stupid tug of jealousy that he tries to ignore.
“They were trying to psych us out.” Tina offers in a quiet voice, looking at Artie but probably talking to everyone. Puck realises once more just how little he’s heard her speak. “I bet that’s the only number they’ve rehearsed this semester.”
Artie still looks cynical: “Even if it was, it was still some high-class dope. They only need two more numbers like that to wipe the floor with us at Sectionals.”
All of a sudden, Rachel stands, hands resting resolutely on her hips:
“But there’s only forty-four days left.” She reminds them brightly. “There’s no way Vocal Adrenaline can keep up that level of energy for a month and a half. We’ve watched them fail miserably for years; they just don’t have the discipline-”
“-Guys!” Mr Schuester’s voice cuts across Rachel’s self-assurance like a whip-crack. “What do you think you’re doing just standing around? Only forty-four days ‘till Sectionals… And now you know what you’re up against...”
“Mr Schuester.” Rachel immediately slips in front of Puck, dark eyes lit up with new determination. “We’ve been discussing Vocal Adrenaline’s performance, and we’ve realised that their showchoir is no real threat to the outstanding talent encased within New Directions. Namely, myself.”
“That’s great Rachel, I’m glad you’re feeling so confident.” Mr Schuester returns bluntly, and Puck feels yet another ripple of uncertainty pass through the group.
“Mr Schue?” Finn urges.
“I’m glad you’re feeling so confident,” The Spanish teacher continues wearily “because Principal Figgins has just thrown us down an ultimatum.”
From here Puck can see the tight clench to Mr Shuester’s jaw as he glances around at the seven suddenly taut faces arranged before him.
“Based on New Directions’ free-falling popularity as an extracurricular,” he intones darkly “not to mention Vocal Adrenaline’s sudden leapfrog in the competition odds… Next week’s auditions are open to anyone who wants to apply.” Here, he shoots Puck a poisonous glower. “Not only that-but anyone who auditions for Glee Club will get in to Glee Club. And not only that- if you guys don’t place at Regionals this year… Figgins is going to cut New Directions’ funding.”
There’s an audible gasp. Rachel’s hand flies to her mouth:
“…Cut?” she repeats in a horrified whisper.
Mr Schuester stares down his star pupil with eyes dead like a shark’s:
“Cut.”