Those Who Lift Each Other, Chapter 8, part 1
Title: Those Who Lift Each Other, Chapter 8: Only Shooting Stars Break the Mold
Author: lls_mutant
Fandom: Glee/Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: R, for adult themes and violence
Pairing(s): BSG: canon pairings, plus Gaeta/Baltar. Glee: Burt/Carole and Tina/Mike. Cross-fandom: Puck/Ellen, Kurt/Baltar, Santana/various pilots, Sam/Rya Kibby.
Warning(s): War-related violence, abortion issues, BSG-canon suicide, torture, PTSD, character deaths. (Character deaths are both canon BSG deaths and Glee deaths.)
Fic Summary: When the Cylons attacked, the kids of New Directions were on board the Cybele, on their way to the All-Colony Show Choir Competition. Now they're members of the Fleet, being chased by the Cylons and trying to deal with the day-to-day aspects of a life after the worlds end.
Chapter Summary: Breaking into the press corps is hard, but Rachel's already lost one dream. She's not going to give up on this one, especially when the Presidential elections offer her the perfect opportunity for a good story.
Notes: This is a 17 part story. Each chapter is from the POV of a Glee character, working through the BSG canon. BSG canon does not change; this ends up being a "average people in the Fleet" story. More information can be found here. Also, huge thanks to kappamaki33, who is betaing this monster.
Chapter Notes: The BSG characters that are featured in Chapter 8 can be found here if you'd like an introduction/refresher.
Also, the timeline is a little wonky here at the beginning of the chapter- it starts twelve days or so before the end of Chapter 7.
Info Post | Chapter 1 (Will) | Chapter 2 (Brittany) | Chapter 3 (Puck) | Chapter 4 (Artie) | Chapter 5 (Santana) | Chapter 6 (Tina) | Chapter 7 (Beiste, Blaine, and Lauren)
Rachel sat in the shuttle on the way over to the second Presidential debate, clutching her notebook in her lap. Her heart was pounding hard with excitement. "I've never been over to the Galactica before," she confided.
D'Anna Biers arched an eyebrow in wry amusement. "You'll get over it," she predicted. "And fast. Believe me, the Galactica isn't anything like what you're imagining."
"What do you mean?"
"It's dark, dull, and looks more like a cheap motel combined with a factory. If Adama was smart, he would have these debates on the Pegasus."
"The Pegasus," Playa Palacios said, breaking into their conversation. "Imagine. A press room with personal keyboards in the desks and cushions on the seats that aren't torn."
"Microphones that always work," D'Anna said.
"Decent telescreens behind the speakers."
"Legroom in the seats."
Both women sighed longingly. Rachel looked back and forth between them. "Is the Pegasus really that much nicer than the Galactica?" she asked uncertainly.
"It was built thirty years later. What do you think?" D'Anna said.
Rachel wanted to respond, but D'Anna started up a conversation with Playa, turning her body in such a way that it was clear that Rachel was not welcome to participate. It didn't matter anyway, because they were landing. Rachel straightened up, eager to look around and see this place that Finn was living. Where he was still living, she told herself firmly. Finn had come over to say goodbye before a mission the other night, and even though he couldn't tell them what the mission was fore, Rachel knew it was something big.
To her delight, the crewman who met their shuttle was Mercedes. She looked good, wearing an olive green uniform with her hair sternly pinned up. Rachel gave her a tentative grin, relieved when Mercedes smiled back much larger.
"Any word from Finn?" Rachel asked as Mercedes started to lead the reporters to the conference room.
"No, but no one expects it right now. Don't worry so much, Rachel," Mercedes said, patting her shoulder. "Worry about the debate. President Roslin is going to crush Baltar," she added with a great deal of satisfaction. "But this is big, right? Them letting you cover this?"
"Well, that's the thing," Rachel said, hesitating.
Mercedes stopped in her tracks. "Wait. What's the thing?"
Rachel grabbed Mercedes' arm and pulled her out of the way. "You've got to help me," she whispered as the other reporters filed into the conference room. "I've been trying and trying to break into the bigger stories, but Mr. Ishinhall won't recognize my obvious talent. He keeps sticking me on pieces of no importance when clearly, I can do much better and much more important work."
"So how am I supposed to help you?" Mercedes asked.
"I have my press credentials, but I'm not on the list of reporters allowed in," Rachel explained. "I just need to get in. Once I get in, I can ask the kind of sharp and incisive questions that will bring Roslin and Baltar to their knees and surely get me noticed as a reporter of note. That's all I need, Mercedes. Just to get into the room.. Please."
Mercedes hesitated, and Rachel held her breath. To her relief, a huge grin spread across Mercedes' face. "I didn't help you with this," she warned Rachel.
"Oh, thank you, Mercedes. Thank you thank you thank you. When I win the Colonial Press Award, you will be the first person I think in my acceptance speech."
"I'd better be," Mercedes said with a laugh. "Come on. Let's go this way."
The conference room was small and crowded with cameras and reporters. Here and there Rachel caught people eyeing her skeptically, but no one said anything, especially with Mercedes at her side. There were no seats left up front, though, and that was going to make getting noticed harder. Rachel slipped into a seat near the back, grateful that it was at least on an aisle. She opened her notebook nervously, pulled out a pen, and waited. She wished her dads could see her now. They'd be so- no. She cut that line of thought off sharply.
President Roslin entered the room first. She looked completely calm and unruffled, the Admiral beside her. It was brilliant, Rachel had to admit, having the Admiral escort her. It made it perfectly clear where the military stood. Roslin took her seat and a small, dark woman with her hair in an elegant twist bent to whisper something in her ear.
Rachel was so busy watching them that she almost missed Vice President Baltar's entrance. He didn't cut nearly as impressive a figure, Rachel privately thought, although he looked a lot more confident than he should after Roslin's resounding victory at the first debate. Tom Zarek stood next to Baltar, his hands folded in front of him as he half-studied, half-glared at the press, at their opponents, at anything in the room. It said something about the two of them that Rachel only noticed Kurt third. He wasn't wearing bright colors today, which helped explain it, although his bowtie was made of safety pins and his vest appeared to be missing a back. Zarek leaned over and said something to him and Kurt nodded and made some sort of notations on his clipboard, but eventually he looked up. Rachel waved. He took the stairs up to where she was sitting two at a time.
"I didn't know you were here now!" he whispered enthusiastically, crouching down beside her. "Big break?"
"Making one," Rachel whispered back. She looked at the candidates again. "The Vice President looks calm."
"Well, he has a reason to be," Kurt said, smiling enigmatically. "There's a little bombshell… oops. Can't say too much." He winked, and then looked back down. "I'd better get down there," he said apologetically.
"Is there any chance you can direct a question my way?" Rachel asked anxiously.
Kurt gave her one of those wide-eyed, incredulous looks and somehow, Rachel knew she'd asked the wrong thing. "There's no questions," he said. "Just the debate. It's not a press conference, Rachel."
"No questions? But Kurt, I-" She needed to be able to ask questions- that was how she was going to get noticed.
"Don't worry," he said, patting her hand. "There will be a story for you. Trust me." He grinned evilly, and then hurried down the stairs again. Rachel stared after him, feeling like all of her plans were in ruin.
***
Presidential debates were boring. Well, not boring, Rachel amended, staring at Roslin, who was talking in a measured, confident voice. Just… hard to understand. They'd discussed economic policy and defense, and frankly, Rachel just didn't fully understand the layers and the fine points. She felt a little better when she saw Kurt stifling a yawn and noticed that two seats down, Sekou Hamilton was doodling a rather entertaining drawing of Baltar.
Roslin had just finished talking about the search for Earth.
"Yes, the search for Earth." Baltar gripped both sides of the podium, his smirk widening. "I have no doubt that President Roslin believes that she has a cunning and scientific plan, but the end result is that we are simply left with the navigational equivalent of throwing darts at a target in terms of deciding where to go. If President Roslin and Admiral Adama knew where Earth was, we would be there by now, or at the very least have an estimation of arrival.
"We, as a Fleet, have not had cause to question this policy until now. How could we? We have nowhere else to go. Even if we found a habitable planet, the Cylons would surely find us and attack, and that would be the end of humanity as we know it. So even if President Roslin is following a will'o'wisp to a mythical haven, her plan has kept us on the move, and therefore safe from the Cylons. But now the game has changed."
There was a slight buzz as Baltar paused for effect, smirking at Roslin. Roslin had her arms crossed and a haughty but interested expression on her face. Baltar's smirk widened to a diabolical grin, and then he turned back to the audience and leaned to the microphone.
"The planet that was discovered is not only habitable, but is hidden in a nebula and therefore concealed from Cylon detection. If elected President, the search for the possibly mythical Earth will be abandoned, and this planet will be settled. Permanently."
Debates weren't the place to ask questions, but every reporter was on their feet. Rachel jumped up as well, her hand in the air, even though she didn't have a question fully formed. But the moderator immediately squashed the press response, and Rachel took her seat reluctantly. Baltar was radiating smugness, and Kurt and Zarek were like a pair of cats who'd gotten to the cream. But the most interesting expression in the entire room was the one on Roslin's face. She was frozen with her eyes opened wide, and Rachel was sure that was an expression of fear.
***
"I'm serious. It's the moment that the election turned," Rachel said to Mr. Ishinhall. "You have to let me cover it."
"Are you insane?" Mr. Ishinhall asked, running a hand through his graying hair, which had thinned out considerably in the eight months that Rachel had known him.
"Not at all. The planet offers people a completely different-"
"I know that," he said, cutting her off. "Everyone knows that. Which is why I'm giving the story to Playa. It's the biggest story in the Fleet right now."
"But-"
"But what? What can you give this story that Playa Palacios can't? You're doing a good enough job with what I give you, Rachel, but the fact is, you're still a kid, and your interviews show it. Your questions are shallow and juvenile, your delivery is too earnest, and you lack the empathy and experience needed to understand what the average person in the Fleet is interested in. People don't care about show tunes and how culture is developing anymore. They only care about staying alive."
"But Mr. Ishinhall-"
"No buts, Rachel. This is a story that can affect the future of the Fleet. Playa is covering it."
Defeated, Rachel did the only thing she knew how to do. She nodded once, very tightly, and stormed out.
***
"Shallow and juvenile! My questions are not shallow and juvenile. They are incisive and cutting, and bringing the focus back to the artistic heart of the people. People need culture! They need music and art and theater! It's what we work to stay alive for!"
"You watched Death to the Poetry Society right before we left Gemenon, didn't you?" Artie asked, looking up from his work and giving Rachel a long, level look. They were sitting in the Cybele's nearly-deserted passenger cabin. Artie had what looked like a sheaf of papers spread out on the table, covered in diagrams and charts. "I'm pretty sure that's a direct quote."
"It was playing over on Cloud 9," Rachel said dismissively. "That's not the point. Or it is the point. People need things in their lives other than the daily drudgery of manufacturing lines and training drills! They need escape! Romance! Drama! They need something to stimulate their hearts and their minds."
Artie shrugged. "I don't disagree, but you do realize these things are a lower priority than safety right now, right? Besides, there are a few shows being put on. Why don't you audition for one?"
"They all have my audition tapes, but they're venues that are incapable of properly showcasing my talent," Rachel said.
"Really?" Artie asked. His voice was sarcastic, but his eyes were sympathetic. Rachel sighed and thudded down in a chair at the table he was working at.
"No," Rachel said, crossing her arms. "But the shows that have been on have been put on by troupes. I've tried to get in, but…."
"I know." Artie dropped the sarcasm. "I put in a good word for you with Days of Our Battleship, and they said they liked your tape, but they just don't have a part right now for a girl your age."
"It's not fair," Rachel complained. "I'd work so hard. My dads always said that was something that… never mind. I'd work hard. You know that."
"That's what I told them. But the part just isn't there." Artie shrugged. "Rachel… do you think maybe that Ishinhall has a point?"
"What do you mean?" Rachel asked sharply.
Artie shrugged again. "Baltar just announced that if he's elected, we'll be settling permanently on a planet. You haven't even mentioned that."
"So?" Rachel asked, baffled. "You know about it!"
"I'm just sayin'," Artie said. "That's what most people are going to want to know about. What's the planet like? What kind of resources does it have? What sort of temperatures and climate? That’s what people want to hear, not if there are plans to build a theater."
Rachel sighed angrily and crossed her arms, looking away. Artie didn't bother to argue with her, but went back to his own work. From where she was sitting, Rachel could see the Fleet out the window, against the constant backdrop of space.
"It has been a long time since we've seen sunlight," she said.
"Mmm."
"I guess I see your point. There is a certain provincial desire to know what sort of surface is down there. But I have no idea where I can…" she trailed off, the idea coming to her.
"Rachel?" Artie looked up, and then groaned. "I have no idea what you're thinking, but I'm not sure I want to know."
"I know what I can do," Rachel said excitedly. "I know how I can get a story in there before Playa does. Will you help me?"
"With what?"
"Just taping. Directing. If I can get an interview subject, would you tape it?"
Artie shrugged. "Sure," he said. "But who would you possibly interview that Playa couldn't interview on her own?"
Rachel just grinned.
***
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" Rachel chased after Kurt into the New Directions room. "You're the aide to a vice presidential candidate!"
"First of all, I'm the aide to a Quorum representative and a campaign manager," Kurt corrected her.
Rachel waved that off. "Everyone knows that Baltar will pick Zarek if he's elected."
"Second," Kurt said, ignoring Rachel's protestation, "I've been told not to talk to the press without clearance. I could get fired over this, Rachel."
"Mr. Zarek wouldn't fire you," Rachel said.
Kurt crossed his arms and glared. "You want to bet?"
Rachel sighed. "Come on. Can't you come up with something? I know! We could do a shadow interview, like they do with witnesses of crimes!"
"And you don't think Zarek would recognize my voice?" But Kurt frowned. "Look, the best I can do is ask for the clearance. Okay? I'll ask him." Rachel squealed and lunged forward to hug Kurt. He stiffened in her embrace like he always did when she caught him off guard, but he patted her back. "I can't promise anything," he warned her.
"It's okay," Rachel said, feeling far more hopeful than she had in a while. "I'm sure he'll say yes."
***
Some nights the New Directions barely saw each other, but on that night they somehow seemed to manage to gather in the room. Santana and Mercedes made it over from the Galactica, and Sam came over from the Daru Mozu, although his wife Rya was stuck working another shift. All of them were there except for Finn and Puck, who were off on that classified mission.
"I don't get it," Santana said that night, putting her stocking feet up on the table. "What's the big deal about a supernova?"
"Nebula, Santana," Quinn said, nudging her feet off the table. "There's a huge difference."
"Whatever. What's the big deal about a nebula?"
"In a word, interference," Artie explained. "The nebula hinders DRADIS triangulation. It's practically useless."
"Which means the Cylons won't be able to find us," Kurt said firmly.
"No," Artie said, side-eyeing Kurt. "It means the Cylons won't be able to use DRADIS to find us. If they're really determined to do it, there are other ways they could find us."
"But the odds of them finding us by a manual search are really low," Sam said.
"And yet, they somehow keep doing it," Quinn said, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah. With a DRADIS." Sam glared at Quinn.
"That's what we assume. We have no idea what other technology they might be hiding."
Rachel listened to the argument, watching each person speak in turn. The planet was all anyone could talk about since it had been discovered. And it was lovely, Rachel was sure of that, but right now she had other things on her mind.
"They really went on a mission?" she asked Santana yet again. Everyone else at the table groaned, and Santana sighed and dropped her head back.
"Yes," she said. "It was a volunteer-only mission, and both Finn and Puck volunteered, okay? I've told you that, like, four times. They're insane." She leaned her head on Brittany's shoulder. "Asking another million times isn't going to change the fact that they're both morons. And Finn came over and said goodbye to you, so don't get so start with the wounded widow nonsense."
"Where did they go, anyway?" Mike asked. "Are they taking on the Cylons?"
Mercedes and Santana exchanged uneasy glances, and Rachel was sure they knew exactly where Puck and Finn were. It was too bad they couldn't tell her- it would be an exclusive that would surely blow Playa Palacois out of the water and land Rachel a spot on the news during a time when people were actually awake enough to watch. Something real, not just little fluff pieces. She could just see herself interviewing Santana, getting Santana to explain that Finn and Puck and the others went to the Cylon home world to blast them to pieces, or were on a top-secret, highly dangerous mission to… to… Rachel really wasn't sure. What would they be doing that would be so dangerous and yet Santana would refuse to go? It was a mystery.
She was so distracted by her own thoughts that she hadn't realized that the conversation had shifted back to the planet and the upcoming election. "I can't believe you'd even think of voting for Roslin!" Tina was saying to Artie. "You know she'll continue to outlaw abortion, and I'd think that you, an agnostic-"
"Just because I'm voting for her doesn't mean I agree with everything she does," Artie told Tina. "But I just don't believe the Cylons aren't going to find this planet if they decide to look for it."
"But Gaius Baltar is a scientist," Tina said. "He designed the Colonial Defense System. He would know if the Cylons were really likely to be a threat! And I just want off this ship! I don't want to have a baby on a spaceship!" Mike squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.
"You'd have more medical resources on a spaceship than an uninhabited planet," Quinn said coolly.
"Only if you think the first thing built wouldn't be a hospital," Kurt put in. "Which, if elected, is exactly what Baltar would do."
"Then he's an idiot," Artie said. "The first thing you need on any new colony is potable water. The first thing built should be a water treatment plant."
"Oh. Well. Good thing I'm not the one planning the city," Kurt said. He laughed airily, and Artie made a face. Kurt caught Rachel looking at him and scooted over, patting the bunk beside him. Rachel took the seat beside him as the conversation veered into the others arguing about how a settlement should develop.
"I talked to Tom," Kurt said.
"And?" Rachel moved to the edge of the seat. "When can we start?"
"He wants to talk to you."
That took Rachel by surprise. "For an interview? I would be absolutely honored, but-"
"No. It's not an interview," Kurt said. "He just wants to talk to you."
"About what?" Rachel asked as the conversation ramped into an argument over sewers and if creatures found their own way in or if that story about the alligator in the Lima sewer was just a myth. "If he doesn't want to do an interview-"
"I didn't say that," Kurt said enigmatically. "Just… tomorrow, first thing. Come over to the Astral Queen with me."
The Astral Queen. Rachel shivered with a pleasurable sort of fear and naughtiness that the name evoked. "All right," she said. "Tomorrow morning, then." She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."
Kurt shrugged. "You're welcome."
***
The Astral Queen wasn't quite what Rachel pictured. For the most part, the cells no longer looked like cells, but almost like small apartments. But what really struck Rachel was the optimistic, excited feeling among the ships' residents. The wirelesses and televisions were all tuned to election coverage, and there were even campaign posters hanging, the majority of which were for Baltar.
Kurt led her to a conference room. The room was rather stark, but there was a pitcher of water on the table, two glasses, and a small plate of artistically arranged crackers and cheese. Tom Zarek rose when Rachel walked into the room, smiling genially. "Thank you, Kurt."
Kurt nodded. "Mr. Zarek. Rachel." He left the room, shutting the door behind him. Rachel watched him go, panicked. No one had said this meeting was just her and Zarek.
"Miss Berry," he said, smiling at her. "Please. Have a seat."
Rachel took a deep breath. Kurt had been working for Zarek for months and had only seemed to be getting happier. Zarek wasn't going to stab her and hide the body somewhere on the Astral Queen, she told herself firmly. "Thank you for meeting with me," she began. "I know that your time is very valuable, but I think that this arrangement could benefit the both of us."
The corners of Zarek's eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. "Slow down, Rachel," he said, sounding like a kind old uncle, and pouring her a glass of water. "Please. Help yourself."
Rachel took a cracker to be polite, but didn't eat it. "Thank you."
"I really enjoy your work, you know."
"You've seen it?" Rachel asked skeptically. "It's on in the middle of the night."
"I've seen it. You're actually quite popular on the Astral Queen." Rachel looked down at her skirt and wondered exactly why she might be popular on a ship of male prisoners.
"I'm surprised," she said primly. "All the stories I'm given are fluff pieces."
"And that's exactly why you're popular here," Zarek said smoothly. "These men have not had much to smile about in the past decade or two, or even longer. Your stories offer light and hope. I suspect they do to others in the Fleet as well, especially since you sing with your group."
"Which is why I'm always on during the dead times," Rachel said bitterly.
"But you've been moving closer to better time slots. And with the right story, you could find yourself rocketed into a much better position."
"Right. The right story." Rachel straightened up. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I know that you yourself will be interviewing with the Colonial Gang and Ms. Biers and some of the others, but I wanted to ask permission to interview Kurt. I know he's just an aide but-"
"But no one should underestimate just how much aides know," Zarek finished for her. "I agree completely. I also think that an interview between you two would appeal to the younger population of the Fleet. Couple that with the light and hope aspect that I mentioned, and between the two of you, you could paint a very, very positive picture of the future of the Baltar administration."
"But I-"
"Here." Zarek handed her a packet of papers.
"What's this?" Rachel scanned the first page.
"A list of questions for the interview, as well as an idea of what Kurt's answers will be like."
"I… No, Mr. Zarek, you misunderstand me. I wanted to interview Kurt."
"And I'm giving my clearance, as long as you stick to these questions."
"But that's not an interview! That's a propaganda piece!"
"It's an election, Rachel. What do you think I'm looking for?"
"But the people need incisive and candid questions that allow them to make an informed decision! Not just some regurgitated campaign promises!"
Zarek looked amused. "I take it you've never watched a campaign before. This will give voters our side, Rachel. No matter what you ask, Kurt is going to be answering as a representative of the Baltar campaign. That's why you're interviewing him."
"No, I'm interviewing him in order to show Mr. Ishinhall what I can do! That I can be a serious journalist! This is my chance to move up from fluff pieces to real stories, and I can't compromise that by using pre-written questions and not asking the hard ones!"
"I see." Zarek sat back, templing his fingers and looking over the tips at her, studying her.
"D'Anna Biers told me that when a subject can't answer the question, that's just as telling as when they can," Rachel continued. "So I can't just ask Kurt a bunch of questions that you put together. That doesn't prove that I can do anything!"
"You do realize this is a fairly standard practice, and that even if Ishinhall realizes that the questions are pre-arranged, he won't be objecting to it?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Zarek, you're wrong," Rachel said flatly. She pushed the packet back to him. "I'm sorry. I can't do this." Suddenly she remembered who she was talking to and cringed. "You're not going to kill me, are you?"
"No." Zarek looked very tired. "This was a mutual opportunity for us both, not a threat. But let me break it down for you, Rachel. If you say no, that's fine. You'll go back to the Cybele and your job and do the stories you do, and I'll find someone else to do this story. Because you are right- having a young face on this campaign will help us appeal to the younger population of the Fleet, and we're at the point where every little bit helps. So the story will be done, whether it's by you or someone else. You only have to deal with the knowledge that turning this down leads to an opportunity for someone else."
The idea of someone else getting the story would have killed her if Mr. Ishinhall hadn't accused her of asking questions that were too facile and juvenile. This was not a story that would impress him. Rachel stood up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zarek," she said stiffly, "but I just don't think this would showcase my talents."
"I'm sorry, too," Zarek said, standing and extending his hand to her. "It could have been a great opportunity for you."
As Rachel shook his hand, a thought occurred to her. "Would you have done it?" she asked. "After all, you refused to apologize for what you did on Sagittaron."
Instead of laughing, he considered her question seriously. "I never wanted to be a journalist," he finally said. "You do. You're making a mistake."
"I don't think so," Rachel said, feeling more confident. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Zarek, but I'll find my own story."
"Good luck with that."
***
"They gave the story to Amber Calhoun! Amber Calhoun!" Rachel repeated, as if that would help Mr. Schuester understand the gravity of the situation. "And do you know what happened next?
"No." Mr. Schuester looked down at the stack of papers he was grading and sighed. He looked tired and strained, but then, so did everybody. "What happened next?"
"She got the story on the next Presidential debate! Mr. Ishinhall wants her to cover the story on the general reaction to the candidates' stance on defense!"
Mr. Schuester blinked at her. "You don't know the first thing about defense."
"You don't have to in order to ask questions! That's the point! Making the issues accessible to the general public!"
"Which you can't do unless you understand what the issues are. Not that it seems to matter." He tossed his pen onto the stack of papers. "The public doesn't understand it either."
"What are those, anyway?" Rachel asked.
"Essays from my Colonial History class over on the Monarch," he explained. "It's amazing. Do you know just how many of them think that the Cimtar Peace Accord was signed to end battles with curved blades? It ended the Cylon War! You'd think that more kids would get that!"
"Well, you're an excellent teacher," Rachel said, because she supposed she should encourage him. She patted his hand. "I'm sure they'll understand after you explain it."
"No, what they understand is the world is ending, and it's just one more excuse not to do homework," Mr. Schuester sighed. "The worst part of it is, they need this knowledge more than ever. So many of these kids are voting age, and I'm afraid they don't understand the first thing about how our government works. What they need is someone to make it fun, to really make it exciting." He sighed. "If we were back on Gemenon, I'd say we should cover it in Glee club, but I'm afraid I don't know many songs about how the government works." He laughed a little, but Rachel straightened up.
"I have to go."
"Rachel?"
"It was wonderful talking with you, Mr. Schue, and I'm sure you'll be able to impart the gift of knowledge to a deserving younger generation. But you've just given me a brilliant idea."
"Ah, Rachel-"
But Rachel was off. This was the best idea ever.
***
"Wait, you want us to write and perform our own songs before Election Day?" Artie said. "That's crazy!"
"It's not," Rachel said excitedly. "We wrote 'Light Up the World' and 'Pretending' right before Nationals. We work best under pressure."
"Yeah, but there's working best under pressure and then there's pure insanity," Artie said. "There's no way you can get it all done before the elections happen."
"The elections are still seven days away," Rachel said. "And I'm not doing it alone."
***
Rachel couldn't get all of New Directions corralled into their room on the Cybele, but she corralled a lot of them and locked the door. Although there was grumbling about the idea of writing Presidential Elections- The Musical!, Rachel also noticed that songs were getting written. Rather than writing music, they opted to take popular songs and change the words, which might not have the artistic integrity that composing their own tunes would have, but was definitely a lot quicker. There were just… issues.
Sam strummed the guitar, playing the opening chords of "Baby," as Brittany took the floor to sing.
"We're on a spaceship, recycled air
We're chased by Cylons, death and despair
We have no sky, we have no sun,
The situation is anything except fun.
And now I'm pregnant, Boy, we can't deal
It's all too much, it can't be real.
But there's an answer and as hard as it is
It's what is best for us so we did this.
Cause I was like baby, baby, baby, no
Like baby, baby, baby, NO,
Like baby, baby, baby, no
The choice should always be mine."
Sam put the guitar down with a furious sort of expression. "Tina's working on the second verse."
"Oh, my Gods," Quinn said, cradling her forehead in her hands.
"You are not singing a song about abortion to 'Baby'," Mercedes added.
"No! It's perfect!" Rachel said. "Abortion is a hot issue in this election. It's where Baltar first opposed President Roslin, and it's one of the more divisive issues. Besides, Tina is writing and Sam is playing from the heart."
"Yeah, and can you stop saying that? It's not exactly something I want to be doing," Sam said crossly.
"So don't," Mercedes said. "It's like, way offensive, and not because I don't believe in abortion."
"We could work up a back-up dance," Brittany suggested.
"No." The answer was unanimous from everyone in the room.
"The thing is," Mike said, "there's really only three big issues. There's abortion, Roslin's religion, and the planet. Other than that, there aren't a lot of issues to talk about. Baltar doesn't differ from Roslin on much else."
"Yeah," Artie said. "It's not like there's much of an economy, and the Admiral decides what the military does."
"We ought to have a song about the Admiral," Quinn said. "Because a President that doesn't work well with the Admiral isn't going to be an effective President at all." She tapped her pen against her pursed lips.
"We could go musical with that one," Rachel said. "Maybe take 'You're the One That I Want'" and write it from Admiral Adama's point of view?"
"Only if you have a pro-Baltar song to balance it out," Sam put in quickly. "If you're using 'Life Is a Fertilized Egg' - which doesn't even fit with 'Life is a Highway', by the way- to go against 'Baby, No', then you've got to have a song about how Baltar would do with the military."
"Like what?" Santana asked sarcastically. "The Old Man can't stand Baltar."
"'I Hate Everything About You'," Artie suggested.
"'Give You Hell' could work," Mercedes said.
"My Imaginary Friend," Brittany piped up.
"Or…" Quinn's eyes lit up with a maniacal gleam as she ignored Brittany, "we need to think a little more… country." She looked at Sam. "'You Belong to Me.'"
Sam rolled his eyes, but obediently started playing the intro to the song.
"You're on the phone with Ms. Roslin, the President
She's going on about political precedent,
She doesn't get your weapons like I do.
I'm in the lab on the Galactica battlestar
I'm thinking about the how she pushes you oh-so-far
And she'll never give you 'freedom' like I do.
But she gives keynotes, I wear lab coats
She's the incumbent and I screwed her over
I'm dreamin' bout the day you all wake up and find
The way to screw us over was here all the time.
If you could see that I'm the one that'll patronize you
Dismiss, reject, and try to colonize you
You should vote for me,
You should vote for me
Sleeping here in my seat up in the Quorum
Bored to death in any political forum
You should-"
"Enough!" Sam shouted, pushing his guitar away. "That's not a pro-Baltar song!"
"Well, the Admiral has made his support for the President clear," Quinn said, "to the point where he escorts her to the debates!"
"Guys, chill," Mercedes put in. "Save it for the songs."
"Or not," Rachel said. "The whole point of this exercise is to explain the positions, not espouse them." She turned to Quinn. "As cutting and clever as your song is, it's not informative. The first rule of reporting is that you need to be distanced from your subject matter."
"Like you follow that," Quinn snapped. "You cried during your story on pets in the Fleet."
"That's not fair to Rachel," Mike said. "If you didn't cry looking at those kittens, you just don't have a heart." Artie nodded.
Quinn sighed impatiently. "My point is, this isn't reporting. This is, essentially, a musical debate. There's nothing wrong with presenting a candidate in a negative light. I know that at least two people have completely lost their senses," she glared at Sam and Tina, "but I think it's clear that President Roslin is the best leader for this Fleet."
"It's not clear," Tina said. "Especially with the planet involved. That's really the game changer, isn't it? Do we want to settle on the planet or continue looking for Earth?"
"Which is why," Rachel said, seizing the opportunity to get things back on track, "I think the planet should be the center of our debate with my song 'Damnit, Planet, What to Do?' It's a song that is perfectly balanced between both sides, delving into both reasons that we should settle on the planet and reasons that we should not." She began handing the lyrics out. "We should start rehearsing now."
Mercedes raised her eyebrows as she read the lyrics, and Sam immediately started working out the chords for "Damnit, Janet" on his guitar. Even Quinn sighed, muttering something about 'damn talent.' Rachel smiled. As much as they were bickering, this was all going to go perfectly.
***
"Well?" Rachel asked, as Mr. Ishinhall clicked off the video. "What do you think?"
"It's impressive," Mr. Ishinhall said, laughing. "You guys really did all of this in forty-eight hours?" Rachel nodded, and he let out a low whistle. "It really is a shame that we never got the whole group together for that show. I don't suppose there's any way you could convince them?"
Rachel's heart twisted, but she clamped down on her pain. "No," she said. "Four of them are in the military and Kurt is working for Zarek and Quinn is learning to be a doctor-"
"I figured. Well, we'll definitely be showing this, Rachel. Aside from doing a good job explaining the candidates' positions, it's really quite catchy and clever. I rather expect the adults of the Fleet will be entertained by it as well.
Rachel brightened. "So I can have some more serious stories now?" she asked, sitting up straighter.
The smile leeched off of Mr. Ishinhall's face. "Rachel," he said seriously, "you're a talented girl. Extremely talented. I knew about your singing, but I didn't know about the writing until just now. If the Cylons had never attacked the Colonies, I have no doubt that I would have been seeing you opening on stage at some point in my life."
Rachel brightened. This could only be good news.
"But reporting… reporting is different. It's not performing. The reporter is the vessel for the story, and the story needs to take the center stage. That's something you have yet to be able to do. Your personality is stamped on every story."
"But all the greatest reporters were like that!" Rachel protested.
"No, all the greatest news personalities were like that. There's a difference. And what I need is someone who can report the issues, who can uncover the truth and bring the people of the Fleet the story, not their version of the story, and how the story affects them."
"But-"
"Look. Rachel. Right now, we have the elections, and these elections have the potential to change everything. I can't tell you what the immediate future of television even is right now, because so much depends on whether or not we settle on this planet. You obviously have talent, but it's not a talent we can capitalize on right now."
"But-"
"I can still use you in the capacity I've been using you, and I will certainly run this segment. But until I see more serious, more impartial work from you, I'm sorry, but the big stories will keep going to those who can handle them."
"I see," Rachel said, trying to keep her dignity about her. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Well, then, Mr. Ishinhall, I think I shall take my leave."
Mr. Ishinhall remained sitting, looking up at her from under lowered brows. "Let me guess. You're storming out again?"
"Of course."
He handed her a stack of papers. "Take this to the editing room on your way, will you?"
Rachel snatched the papers from him, tossed her hair over her shoulder, put her nose in the air and turned on her heel, getting her skirt to flare out perfectly as she did so. Her storm-out was an absolute work of art, although even she had to admit it probably didn't make her top ten storm-outs ever.
The back halls of Cloud 9 were not a particularly good place for sulking. There were no convenient little cubbies or benches where you could be mostly hidden, but found if the right person wandered by. Not that the right person was around anyway. Any of the right people.
Rachel decided to take a detour and go to the gardens. It was the best part of being a reporter, getting to go in the synthetic garden under the lighted dome. Rachel had been in here enough that she could see the signs that this garden wasn't real- if you looked hard enough at the projected sky, you could see the seams, and there were cleverly concealed vents in the flower beds. But it was still better than anyplace else in the Fleet.
She wandered the paths, trying to pretend that Finn was with her. Things with Finn had been very… undefined since the attacks. Before the All-Colony Show Choir Championship, they'd known that their relationship was very likely on borrowed time since Rachel planned on trying to move to Caprica and Finn wanted to stay on Gemenon. Interplanetary relationships could work, of course, especially since Finn had been saving up the money Burt had been paying him from the garage for a holoband, which would make meeting up in a virtual sort of world a lot easier. But shortly after the attacks Finn had joined the military. They were still a couple- when Finn came over to the Cybele they held hands and kissed and all that- but they didn't kick everyone out of the room like Mike and Tina or Brittany and Santana did. Rachel had assumed a lot of that had to do with the fact that Finn still had parents, both of whom subscribed to traditional Gemenese parental mores when it came to premarital sex.
Her own parents hadn't been so prudish, she thought. She missed her dads so much. She would give anything to be back on Gemenon, nestled against Daddy's shoulder watching a movie as Papa ruffled their hair and worked on his computer from the armchair, pretending he wasn't enjoying the fifty-seventh viewing of whatever musical they were watching. She couldn't smell their cologne anymore or feel her cheek against their sweaters, and that almost hurt more than the fact that they were gone.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice that she was on a collision course until someone put out their hand to stop her, and she looked up to see Playa Palacios. "Oh. You. Wonderful." Rachel heaved a sigh.
Playa looked at her with confusion. "Rachel Derry, right?"
"Berry." Playa didn't even know her name?
"Oh. Right. What are you doing here, Rachel? I thought you'd be prepping for the debates."
"Why aren't you?" Rachel asked.
Playa shrugged. "I just finished interviewing Zarek. The gardens make such a nice backdrop for an interview. I think when I interview the Vice President we'll have to come here, instead of in his lab like he's been asking for. Don't you think?"
"Don't I think?" Rachel repeated incredulously. "Why would you care what I think?"
Playa peered more closely at Rachel's face. "Are you all right?"
"Why would you care? Not that it's any of your business," Rachel added hastily. "It's just been a very long day and I had a very disappointing meeting with Mr. Ishinhall, who still refuses to recognize my talent, and I just realized I have no idea if my boyfriend is still actually my boyfriend and-"
Playa put a hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Come have a drink with me," she said, and before Rachel could argue, Playa was steering her commandingly out of the gardens.
She didn't lead them to the Starlight Lounge, but rather to a place that Rachel had been once before. It was designed to look like an old-fashioned diner, with booths and a long bar. Playa steered her to the bar and caught the eye of the woman behind it. "Two hot chocolates," she said.
Rachel didn't protest. The vegan thing had had to go a long time ago. Playa waited until the hot chocolates- synthetic as they were- came before she spoke again. "I take it you've had a very bad day."
"I don't know why you care," Rachel said, trying not to sniffle. "After all, I'm your competition."
"Mmm." Playa took a sip of her hot chocolate. "I miss real milk," she said. "The dehydrated stuff just is not the same." Rachel just shrugged. "Were you going to study journalism in college?"
"No," Rachel said. "I was accepted in the CADA program."
"The Caprica Academy of Dramatic Arts? They only take about twenty students a year." Rachel nodded gloomily, and Playa let out a low whistle. "I had no idea."
"Well, I do sing and act."
"I knew that. But to get into CADA…. My first assignment was writing about the theater scene on Caprica," Playa explained. "I'm familiar with the program through that. Why aren't you with any of the shows on the networks?"
"I tried," Rachel said. "But there are only a few and I wasn't what they were looking for."
"Ah."
"I keep telling myself that someday there will be more of an opportunity. That there will be a better show or there will be theater on Earth or… or something. That this won't last forever, and I can take my proper place as a star."
"Why are you in journalism then?" Playa asked.
"It's the only way I can work on my presence," Rachel explained. "Granted, a camera is different- I would really prefer to perform in front of a live audience- but there aren't many options left. It's not that I don't want to work hard- I've been working hard for what I want since I was six months old. I will do anything it takes to make it, and if for the next few years that means doing news stories, that's what I'll do."
Playa took a long, thoughtful sip of her hot chocolate. "You might regret that. I wanted to reach the top, too, but not like this."
Rachel cocked her head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that before the attacks, I was doing your job- fluff pieces at two in the morning. I had my eye on this position, but I didn't really envision losing everything else to get it. If I could change it- even if it could just be that my family was in this Fleet- I would. But you were traveling with your parents, right?"
"I… er… no," Rachel said, staring down at the counter. "My dads were back on Gemenon."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Rachel shrugged, pushing the thought away. "No. I mean, losing my parents doesn't make me special. Everyone lost their parents, right? Well, most people- we have a whole family left in New Directions, but they're unusual. Everyone's going through that."
"That doesn't mean you don't have the right to feel anything about it," Playa said.
Rachel waved her off. "I feel. But I don't have an outlet to channel my pain. And it's too bad, really. This is exactly the kind of pain that makes divas great."
Playa choked on her hot chocolate. "Sorry," she said, once she'd finished coughing and wiped her mouth. "Did you just say…never mind. I don't want to know."
"I know it sounds shocking," Rachel admitted, "but that's what you need to do to make it in show business. Everything has to be utilized. And right now, pain and loss are the common denominators across the Fleet. They resonate with people. So if I could find the right platform, I'd be set. Journalism could be that platform, you know. I could… reach out to people in their pain." Rachel gestured expressively. "But I can't get anywhere."
"That's because you're treating journalism like show business, and it's not," Playa said. She took another sip of her drink. "There is a similarity in that you have to be ruthless. I won't even tell you some of the things I've done for a story. And presentation certainly matters. But content matters even more, and that's what you've been missing. It's also where I think you're expecting too much of yourself. You're eighteen, Rachel, and you've never studied journalism. You're not going to rocket to the top of the pack."
"I know," Rachel said, sighing. She finally picked up her own drink and sipped it, trying not to make a face at the synthetic taste.
"You'll get your chance someday, you know."
"At reporting?"
"At acting. If Baltar wins this election and we settle on this planet, a theater won't open right away, but eventually, it will open. People need their escapism."
"You really think so?" Rachel asked, her heart lifting.
"I really think so," Playa said.
That was something she hadn't considered, but suddenly, Rachel could see it in her mind. It wouldn't be the big, grand theaters of Caprica, or even the theaters of Illumini, but it would be a building and a stage and real productions. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. If Baltar won. But if Roslin won and the search for Earth continued, it was more of this life in spaceships, where entertainment and escapism were a low priority and all the glamour and camera time was dedicated to the news.
"We'll see," Rachel said, unwilling to hope.
"Well, I'd better get back to work," Playa said, pushing her mug back on the counter. "It was nice talking to you, Rachel."
"Yes. It was nice talking to you, too. Thank you for the hot chocolate." Playa smiled at her and patted her on the shoulder, and Rachel watched her leave. She might have a point about the planet, but Rachel was sure that she'd better keep all her options open. She didn't know if she could take another dream dying.
On to Part 2
Author: lls_mutant
Fandom: Glee/Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: R, for adult themes and violence
Pairing(s): BSG: canon pairings, plus Gaeta/Baltar. Glee: Burt/Carole and Tina/Mike. Cross-fandom: Puck/Ellen, Kurt/Baltar, Santana/various pilots, Sam/Rya Kibby.
Warning(s): War-related violence, abortion issues, BSG-canon suicide, torture, PTSD, character deaths. (Character deaths are both canon BSG deaths and Glee deaths.)
Fic Summary: When the Cylons attacked, the kids of New Directions were on board the Cybele, on their way to the All-Colony Show Choir Competition. Now they're members of the Fleet, being chased by the Cylons and trying to deal with the day-to-day aspects of a life after the worlds end.
Chapter Summary: Breaking into the press corps is hard, but Rachel's already lost one dream. She's not going to give up on this one, especially when the Presidential elections offer her the perfect opportunity for a good story.
Notes: This is a 17 part story. Each chapter is from the POV of a Glee character, working through the BSG canon. BSG canon does not change; this ends up being a "average people in the Fleet" story. More information can be found here. Also, huge thanks to kappamaki33, who is betaing this monster.
Chapter Notes: The BSG characters that are featured in Chapter 8 can be found here if you'd like an introduction/refresher.
Also, the timeline is a little wonky here at the beginning of the chapter- it starts twelve days or so before the end of Chapter 7.
Info Post | Chapter 1 (Will) | Chapter 2 (Brittany) | Chapter 3 (Puck) | Chapter 4 (Artie) | Chapter 5 (Santana) | Chapter 6 (Tina) | Chapter 7 (Beiste, Blaine, and Lauren)
Rachel sat in the shuttle on the way over to the second Presidential debate, clutching her notebook in her lap. Her heart was pounding hard with excitement. "I've never been over to the Galactica before," she confided.
D'Anna Biers arched an eyebrow in wry amusement. "You'll get over it," she predicted. "And fast. Believe me, the Galactica isn't anything like what you're imagining."
"What do you mean?"
"It's dark, dull, and looks more like a cheap motel combined with a factory. If Adama was smart, he would have these debates on the Pegasus."
"The Pegasus," Playa Palacios said, breaking into their conversation. "Imagine. A press room with personal keyboards in the desks and cushions on the seats that aren't torn."
"Microphones that always work," D'Anna said.
"Decent telescreens behind the speakers."
"Legroom in the seats."
Both women sighed longingly. Rachel looked back and forth between them. "Is the Pegasus really that much nicer than the Galactica?" she asked uncertainly.
"It was built thirty years later. What do you think?" D'Anna said.
Rachel wanted to respond, but D'Anna started up a conversation with Playa, turning her body in such a way that it was clear that Rachel was not welcome to participate. It didn't matter anyway, because they were landing. Rachel straightened up, eager to look around and see this place that Finn was living. Where he was still living, she told herself firmly. Finn had come over to say goodbye before a mission the other night, and even though he couldn't tell them what the mission was fore, Rachel knew it was something big.
To her delight, the crewman who met their shuttle was Mercedes. She looked good, wearing an olive green uniform with her hair sternly pinned up. Rachel gave her a tentative grin, relieved when Mercedes smiled back much larger.
"Any word from Finn?" Rachel asked as Mercedes started to lead the reporters to the conference room.
"No, but no one expects it right now. Don't worry so much, Rachel," Mercedes said, patting her shoulder. "Worry about the debate. President Roslin is going to crush Baltar," she added with a great deal of satisfaction. "But this is big, right? Them letting you cover this?"
"Well, that's the thing," Rachel said, hesitating.
Mercedes stopped in her tracks. "Wait. What's the thing?"
Rachel grabbed Mercedes' arm and pulled her out of the way. "You've got to help me," she whispered as the other reporters filed into the conference room. "I've been trying and trying to break into the bigger stories, but Mr. Ishinhall won't recognize my obvious talent. He keeps sticking me on pieces of no importance when clearly, I can do much better and much more important work."
"So how am I supposed to help you?" Mercedes asked.
"I have my press credentials, but I'm not on the list of reporters allowed in," Rachel explained. "I just need to get in. Once I get in, I can ask the kind of sharp and incisive questions that will bring Roslin and Baltar to their knees and surely get me noticed as a reporter of note. That's all I need, Mercedes. Just to get into the room.. Please."
Mercedes hesitated, and Rachel held her breath. To her relief, a huge grin spread across Mercedes' face. "I didn't help you with this," she warned Rachel.
"Oh, thank you, Mercedes. Thank you thank you thank you. When I win the Colonial Press Award, you will be the first person I think in my acceptance speech."
"I'd better be," Mercedes said with a laugh. "Come on. Let's go this way."
The conference room was small and crowded with cameras and reporters. Here and there Rachel caught people eyeing her skeptically, but no one said anything, especially with Mercedes at her side. There were no seats left up front, though, and that was going to make getting noticed harder. Rachel slipped into a seat near the back, grateful that it was at least on an aisle. She opened her notebook nervously, pulled out a pen, and waited. She wished her dads could see her now. They'd be so- no. She cut that line of thought off sharply.
President Roslin entered the room first. She looked completely calm and unruffled, the Admiral beside her. It was brilliant, Rachel had to admit, having the Admiral escort her. It made it perfectly clear where the military stood. Roslin took her seat and a small, dark woman with her hair in an elegant twist bent to whisper something in her ear.
Rachel was so busy watching them that she almost missed Vice President Baltar's entrance. He didn't cut nearly as impressive a figure, Rachel privately thought, although he looked a lot more confident than he should after Roslin's resounding victory at the first debate. Tom Zarek stood next to Baltar, his hands folded in front of him as he half-studied, half-glared at the press, at their opponents, at anything in the room. It said something about the two of them that Rachel only noticed Kurt third. He wasn't wearing bright colors today, which helped explain it, although his bowtie was made of safety pins and his vest appeared to be missing a back. Zarek leaned over and said something to him and Kurt nodded and made some sort of notations on his clipboard, but eventually he looked up. Rachel waved. He took the stairs up to where she was sitting two at a time.
"I didn't know you were here now!" he whispered enthusiastically, crouching down beside her. "Big break?"
"Making one," Rachel whispered back. She looked at the candidates again. "The Vice President looks calm."
"Well, he has a reason to be," Kurt said, smiling enigmatically. "There's a little bombshell… oops. Can't say too much." He winked, and then looked back down. "I'd better get down there," he said apologetically.
"Is there any chance you can direct a question my way?" Rachel asked anxiously.
Kurt gave her one of those wide-eyed, incredulous looks and somehow, Rachel knew she'd asked the wrong thing. "There's no questions," he said. "Just the debate. It's not a press conference, Rachel."
"No questions? But Kurt, I-" She needed to be able to ask questions- that was how she was going to get noticed.
"Don't worry," he said, patting her hand. "There will be a story for you. Trust me." He grinned evilly, and then hurried down the stairs again. Rachel stared after him, feeling like all of her plans were in ruin.
***
Presidential debates were boring. Well, not boring, Rachel amended, staring at Roslin, who was talking in a measured, confident voice. Just… hard to understand. They'd discussed economic policy and defense, and frankly, Rachel just didn't fully understand the layers and the fine points. She felt a little better when she saw Kurt stifling a yawn and noticed that two seats down, Sekou Hamilton was doodling a rather entertaining drawing of Baltar.
Roslin had just finished talking about the search for Earth.
"Yes, the search for Earth." Baltar gripped both sides of the podium, his smirk widening. "I have no doubt that President Roslin believes that she has a cunning and scientific plan, but the end result is that we are simply left with the navigational equivalent of throwing darts at a target in terms of deciding where to go. If President Roslin and Admiral Adama knew where Earth was, we would be there by now, or at the very least have an estimation of arrival.
"We, as a Fleet, have not had cause to question this policy until now. How could we? We have nowhere else to go. Even if we found a habitable planet, the Cylons would surely find us and attack, and that would be the end of humanity as we know it. So even if President Roslin is following a will'o'wisp to a mythical haven, her plan has kept us on the move, and therefore safe from the Cylons. But now the game has changed."
There was a slight buzz as Baltar paused for effect, smirking at Roslin. Roslin had her arms crossed and a haughty but interested expression on her face. Baltar's smirk widened to a diabolical grin, and then he turned back to the audience and leaned to the microphone.
"The planet that was discovered is not only habitable, but is hidden in a nebula and therefore concealed from Cylon detection. If elected President, the search for the possibly mythical Earth will be abandoned, and this planet will be settled. Permanently."
Debates weren't the place to ask questions, but every reporter was on their feet. Rachel jumped up as well, her hand in the air, even though she didn't have a question fully formed. But the moderator immediately squashed the press response, and Rachel took her seat reluctantly. Baltar was radiating smugness, and Kurt and Zarek were like a pair of cats who'd gotten to the cream. But the most interesting expression in the entire room was the one on Roslin's face. She was frozen with her eyes opened wide, and Rachel was sure that was an expression of fear.
***
"I'm serious. It's the moment that the election turned," Rachel said to Mr. Ishinhall. "You have to let me cover it."
"Are you insane?" Mr. Ishinhall asked, running a hand through his graying hair, which had thinned out considerably in the eight months that Rachel had known him.
"Not at all. The planet offers people a completely different-"
"I know that," he said, cutting her off. "Everyone knows that. Which is why I'm giving the story to Playa. It's the biggest story in the Fleet right now."
"But-"
"But what? What can you give this story that Playa Palacios can't? You're doing a good enough job with what I give you, Rachel, but the fact is, you're still a kid, and your interviews show it. Your questions are shallow and juvenile, your delivery is too earnest, and you lack the empathy and experience needed to understand what the average person in the Fleet is interested in. People don't care about show tunes and how culture is developing anymore. They only care about staying alive."
"But Mr. Ishinhall-"
"No buts, Rachel. This is a story that can affect the future of the Fleet. Playa is covering it."
Defeated, Rachel did the only thing she knew how to do. She nodded once, very tightly, and stormed out.
***
"Shallow and juvenile! My questions are not shallow and juvenile. They are incisive and cutting, and bringing the focus back to the artistic heart of the people. People need culture! They need music and art and theater! It's what we work to stay alive for!"
"You watched Death to the Poetry Society right before we left Gemenon, didn't you?" Artie asked, looking up from his work and giving Rachel a long, level look. They were sitting in the Cybele's nearly-deserted passenger cabin. Artie had what looked like a sheaf of papers spread out on the table, covered in diagrams and charts. "I'm pretty sure that's a direct quote."
"It was playing over on Cloud 9," Rachel said dismissively. "That's not the point. Or it is the point. People need things in their lives other than the daily drudgery of manufacturing lines and training drills! They need escape! Romance! Drama! They need something to stimulate their hearts and their minds."
Artie shrugged. "I don't disagree, but you do realize these things are a lower priority than safety right now, right? Besides, there are a few shows being put on. Why don't you audition for one?"
"They all have my audition tapes, but they're venues that are incapable of properly showcasing my talent," Rachel said.
"Really?" Artie asked. His voice was sarcastic, but his eyes were sympathetic. Rachel sighed and thudded down in a chair at the table he was working at.
"No," Rachel said, crossing her arms. "But the shows that have been on have been put on by troupes. I've tried to get in, but…."
"I know." Artie dropped the sarcasm. "I put in a good word for you with Days of Our Battleship, and they said they liked your tape, but they just don't have a part right now for a girl your age."
"It's not fair," Rachel complained. "I'd work so hard. My dads always said that was something that… never mind. I'd work hard. You know that."
"That's what I told them. But the part just isn't there." Artie shrugged. "Rachel… do you think maybe that Ishinhall has a point?"
"What do you mean?" Rachel asked sharply.
Artie shrugged again. "Baltar just announced that if he's elected, we'll be settling permanently on a planet. You haven't even mentioned that."
"So?" Rachel asked, baffled. "You know about it!"
"I'm just sayin'," Artie said. "That's what most people are going to want to know about. What's the planet like? What kind of resources does it have? What sort of temperatures and climate? That’s what people want to hear, not if there are plans to build a theater."
Rachel sighed angrily and crossed her arms, looking away. Artie didn't bother to argue with her, but went back to his own work. From where she was sitting, Rachel could see the Fleet out the window, against the constant backdrop of space.
"It has been a long time since we've seen sunlight," she said.
"Mmm."
"I guess I see your point. There is a certain provincial desire to know what sort of surface is down there. But I have no idea where I can…" she trailed off, the idea coming to her.
"Rachel?" Artie looked up, and then groaned. "I have no idea what you're thinking, but I'm not sure I want to know."
"I know what I can do," Rachel said excitedly. "I know how I can get a story in there before Playa does. Will you help me?"
"With what?"
"Just taping. Directing. If I can get an interview subject, would you tape it?"
Artie shrugged. "Sure," he said. "But who would you possibly interview that Playa couldn't interview on her own?"
Rachel just grinned.
***
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" Rachel chased after Kurt into the New Directions room. "You're the aide to a vice presidential candidate!"
"First of all, I'm the aide to a Quorum representative and a campaign manager," Kurt corrected her.
Rachel waved that off. "Everyone knows that Baltar will pick Zarek if he's elected."
"Second," Kurt said, ignoring Rachel's protestation, "I've been told not to talk to the press without clearance. I could get fired over this, Rachel."
"Mr. Zarek wouldn't fire you," Rachel said.
Kurt crossed his arms and glared. "You want to bet?"
Rachel sighed. "Come on. Can't you come up with something? I know! We could do a shadow interview, like they do with witnesses of crimes!"
"And you don't think Zarek would recognize my voice?" But Kurt frowned. "Look, the best I can do is ask for the clearance. Okay? I'll ask him." Rachel squealed and lunged forward to hug Kurt. He stiffened in her embrace like he always did when she caught him off guard, but he patted her back. "I can't promise anything," he warned her.
"It's okay," Rachel said, feeling far more hopeful than she had in a while. "I'm sure he'll say yes."
***
Some nights the New Directions barely saw each other, but on that night they somehow seemed to manage to gather in the room. Santana and Mercedes made it over from the Galactica, and Sam came over from the Daru Mozu, although his wife Rya was stuck working another shift. All of them were there except for Finn and Puck, who were off on that classified mission.
"I don't get it," Santana said that night, putting her stocking feet up on the table. "What's the big deal about a supernova?"
"Nebula, Santana," Quinn said, nudging her feet off the table. "There's a huge difference."
"Whatever. What's the big deal about a nebula?"
"In a word, interference," Artie explained. "The nebula hinders DRADIS triangulation. It's practically useless."
"Which means the Cylons won't be able to find us," Kurt said firmly.
"No," Artie said, side-eyeing Kurt. "It means the Cylons won't be able to use DRADIS to find us. If they're really determined to do it, there are other ways they could find us."
"But the odds of them finding us by a manual search are really low," Sam said.
"And yet, they somehow keep doing it," Quinn said, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah. With a DRADIS." Sam glared at Quinn.
"That's what we assume. We have no idea what other technology they might be hiding."
Rachel listened to the argument, watching each person speak in turn. The planet was all anyone could talk about since it had been discovered. And it was lovely, Rachel was sure of that, but right now she had other things on her mind.
"They really went on a mission?" she asked Santana yet again. Everyone else at the table groaned, and Santana sighed and dropped her head back.
"Yes," she said. "It was a volunteer-only mission, and both Finn and Puck volunteered, okay? I've told you that, like, four times. They're insane." She leaned her head on Brittany's shoulder. "Asking another million times isn't going to change the fact that they're both morons. And Finn came over and said goodbye to you, so don't get so start with the wounded widow nonsense."
"Where did they go, anyway?" Mike asked. "Are they taking on the Cylons?"
Mercedes and Santana exchanged uneasy glances, and Rachel was sure they knew exactly where Puck and Finn were. It was too bad they couldn't tell her- it would be an exclusive that would surely blow Playa Palacois out of the water and land Rachel a spot on the news during a time when people were actually awake enough to watch. Something real, not just little fluff pieces. She could just see herself interviewing Santana, getting Santana to explain that Finn and Puck and the others went to the Cylon home world to blast them to pieces, or were on a top-secret, highly dangerous mission to… to… Rachel really wasn't sure. What would they be doing that would be so dangerous and yet Santana would refuse to go? It was a mystery.
She was so distracted by her own thoughts that she hadn't realized that the conversation had shifted back to the planet and the upcoming election. "I can't believe you'd even think of voting for Roslin!" Tina was saying to Artie. "You know she'll continue to outlaw abortion, and I'd think that you, an agnostic-"
"Just because I'm voting for her doesn't mean I agree with everything she does," Artie told Tina. "But I just don't believe the Cylons aren't going to find this planet if they decide to look for it."
"But Gaius Baltar is a scientist," Tina said. "He designed the Colonial Defense System. He would know if the Cylons were really likely to be a threat! And I just want off this ship! I don't want to have a baby on a spaceship!" Mike squeezed her shoulder sympathetically.
"You'd have more medical resources on a spaceship than an uninhabited planet," Quinn said coolly.
"Only if you think the first thing built wouldn't be a hospital," Kurt put in. "Which, if elected, is exactly what Baltar would do."
"Then he's an idiot," Artie said. "The first thing you need on any new colony is potable water. The first thing built should be a water treatment plant."
"Oh. Well. Good thing I'm not the one planning the city," Kurt said. He laughed airily, and Artie made a face. Kurt caught Rachel looking at him and scooted over, patting the bunk beside him. Rachel took the seat beside him as the conversation veered into the others arguing about how a settlement should develop.
"I talked to Tom," Kurt said.
"And?" Rachel moved to the edge of the seat. "When can we start?"
"He wants to talk to you."
That took Rachel by surprise. "For an interview? I would be absolutely honored, but-"
"No. It's not an interview," Kurt said. "He just wants to talk to you."
"About what?" Rachel asked as the conversation ramped into an argument over sewers and if creatures found their own way in or if that story about the alligator in the Lima sewer was just a myth. "If he doesn't want to do an interview-"
"I didn't say that," Kurt said enigmatically. "Just… tomorrow, first thing. Come over to the Astral Queen with me."
The Astral Queen. Rachel shivered with a pleasurable sort of fear and naughtiness that the name evoked. "All right," she said. "Tomorrow morning, then." She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."
Kurt shrugged. "You're welcome."
***
The Astral Queen wasn't quite what Rachel pictured. For the most part, the cells no longer looked like cells, but almost like small apartments. But what really struck Rachel was the optimistic, excited feeling among the ships' residents. The wirelesses and televisions were all tuned to election coverage, and there were even campaign posters hanging, the majority of which were for Baltar.
Kurt led her to a conference room. The room was rather stark, but there was a pitcher of water on the table, two glasses, and a small plate of artistically arranged crackers and cheese. Tom Zarek rose when Rachel walked into the room, smiling genially. "Thank you, Kurt."
Kurt nodded. "Mr. Zarek. Rachel." He left the room, shutting the door behind him. Rachel watched him go, panicked. No one had said this meeting was just her and Zarek.
"Miss Berry," he said, smiling at her. "Please. Have a seat."
Rachel took a deep breath. Kurt had been working for Zarek for months and had only seemed to be getting happier. Zarek wasn't going to stab her and hide the body somewhere on the Astral Queen, she told herself firmly. "Thank you for meeting with me," she began. "I know that your time is very valuable, but I think that this arrangement could benefit the both of us."
The corners of Zarek's eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. "Slow down, Rachel," he said, sounding like a kind old uncle, and pouring her a glass of water. "Please. Help yourself."
Rachel took a cracker to be polite, but didn't eat it. "Thank you."
"I really enjoy your work, you know."
"You've seen it?" Rachel asked skeptically. "It's on in the middle of the night."
"I've seen it. You're actually quite popular on the Astral Queen." Rachel looked down at her skirt and wondered exactly why she might be popular on a ship of male prisoners.
"I'm surprised," she said primly. "All the stories I'm given are fluff pieces."
"And that's exactly why you're popular here," Zarek said smoothly. "These men have not had much to smile about in the past decade or two, or even longer. Your stories offer light and hope. I suspect they do to others in the Fleet as well, especially since you sing with your group."
"Which is why I'm always on during the dead times," Rachel said bitterly.
"But you've been moving closer to better time slots. And with the right story, you could find yourself rocketed into a much better position."
"Right. The right story." Rachel straightened up. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I know that you yourself will be interviewing with the Colonial Gang and Ms. Biers and some of the others, but I wanted to ask permission to interview Kurt. I know he's just an aide but-"
"But no one should underestimate just how much aides know," Zarek finished for her. "I agree completely. I also think that an interview between you two would appeal to the younger population of the Fleet. Couple that with the light and hope aspect that I mentioned, and between the two of you, you could paint a very, very positive picture of the future of the Baltar administration."
"But I-"
"Here." Zarek handed her a packet of papers.
"What's this?" Rachel scanned the first page.
"A list of questions for the interview, as well as an idea of what Kurt's answers will be like."
"I… No, Mr. Zarek, you misunderstand me. I wanted to interview Kurt."
"And I'm giving my clearance, as long as you stick to these questions."
"But that's not an interview! That's a propaganda piece!"
"It's an election, Rachel. What do you think I'm looking for?"
"But the people need incisive and candid questions that allow them to make an informed decision! Not just some regurgitated campaign promises!"
Zarek looked amused. "I take it you've never watched a campaign before. This will give voters our side, Rachel. No matter what you ask, Kurt is going to be answering as a representative of the Baltar campaign. That's why you're interviewing him."
"No, I'm interviewing him in order to show Mr. Ishinhall what I can do! That I can be a serious journalist! This is my chance to move up from fluff pieces to real stories, and I can't compromise that by using pre-written questions and not asking the hard ones!"
"I see." Zarek sat back, templing his fingers and looking over the tips at her, studying her.
"D'Anna Biers told me that when a subject can't answer the question, that's just as telling as when they can," Rachel continued. "So I can't just ask Kurt a bunch of questions that you put together. That doesn't prove that I can do anything!"
"You do realize this is a fairly standard practice, and that even if Ishinhall realizes that the questions are pre-arranged, he won't be objecting to it?"
"With all due respect, Mr. Zarek, you're wrong," Rachel said flatly. She pushed the packet back to him. "I'm sorry. I can't do this." Suddenly she remembered who she was talking to and cringed. "You're not going to kill me, are you?"
"No." Zarek looked very tired. "This was a mutual opportunity for us both, not a threat. But let me break it down for you, Rachel. If you say no, that's fine. You'll go back to the Cybele and your job and do the stories you do, and I'll find someone else to do this story. Because you are right- having a young face on this campaign will help us appeal to the younger population of the Fleet, and we're at the point where every little bit helps. So the story will be done, whether it's by you or someone else. You only have to deal with the knowledge that turning this down leads to an opportunity for someone else."
The idea of someone else getting the story would have killed her if Mr. Ishinhall hadn't accused her of asking questions that were too facile and juvenile. This was not a story that would impress him. Rachel stood up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zarek," she said stiffly, "but I just don't think this would showcase my talents."
"I'm sorry, too," Zarek said, standing and extending his hand to her. "It could have been a great opportunity for you."
As Rachel shook his hand, a thought occurred to her. "Would you have done it?" she asked. "After all, you refused to apologize for what you did on Sagittaron."
Instead of laughing, he considered her question seriously. "I never wanted to be a journalist," he finally said. "You do. You're making a mistake."
"I don't think so," Rachel said, feeling more confident. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Zarek, but I'll find my own story."
"Good luck with that."
***
"They gave the story to Amber Calhoun! Amber Calhoun!" Rachel repeated, as if that would help Mr. Schuester understand the gravity of the situation. "And do you know what happened next?
"No." Mr. Schuester looked down at the stack of papers he was grading and sighed. He looked tired and strained, but then, so did everybody. "What happened next?"
"She got the story on the next Presidential debate! Mr. Ishinhall wants her to cover the story on the general reaction to the candidates' stance on defense!"
Mr. Schuester blinked at her. "You don't know the first thing about defense."
"You don't have to in order to ask questions! That's the point! Making the issues accessible to the general public!"
"Which you can't do unless you understand what the issues are. Not that it seems to matter." He tossed his pen onto the stack of papers. "The public doesn't understand it either."
"What are those, anyway?" Rachel asked.
"Essays from my Colonial History class over on the Monarch," he explained. "It's amazing. Do you know just how many of them think that the Cimtar Peace Accord was signed to end battles with curved blades? It ended the Cylon War! You'd think that more kids would get that!"
"Well, you're an excellent teacher," Rachel said, because she supposed she should encourage him. She patted his hand. "I'm sure they'll understand after you explain it."
"No, what they understand is the world is ending, and it's just one more excuse not to do homework," Mr. Schuester sighed. "The worst part of it is, they need this knowledge more than ever. So many of these kids are voting age, and I'm afraid they don't understand the first thing about how our government works. What they need is someone to make it fun, to really make it exciting." He sighed. "If we were back on Gemenon, I'd say we should cover it in Glee club, but I'm afraid I don't know many songs about how the government works." He laughed a little, but Rachel straightened up.
"I have to go."
"Rachel?"
"It was wonderful talking with you, Mr. Schue, and I'm sure you'll be able to impart the gift of knowledge to a deserving younger generation. But you've just given me a brilliant idea."
"Ah, Rachel-"
But Rachel was off. This was the best idea ever.
***
"Wait, you want us to write and perform our own songs before Election Day?" Artie said. "That's crazy!"
"It's not," Rachel said excitedly. "We wrote 'Light Up the World' and 'Pretending' right before Nationals. We work best under pressure."
"Yeah, but there's working best under pressure and then there's pure insanity," Artie said. "There's no way you can get it all done before the elections happen."
"The elections are still seven days away," Rachel said. "And I'm not doing it alone."
***
Rachel couldn't get all of New Directions corralled into their room on the Cybele, but she corralled a lot of them and locked the door. Although there was grumbling about the idea of writing Presidential Elections- The Musical!, Rachel also noticed that songs were getting written. Rather than writing music, they opted to take popular songs and change the words, which might not have the artistic integrity that composing their own tunes would have, but was definitely a lot quicker. There were just… issues.
Sam strummed the guitar, playing the opening chords of "Baby," as Brittany took the floor to sing.
"We're on a spaceship, recycled air
We're chased by Cylons, death and despair
We have no sky, we have no sun,
The situation is anything except fun.
And now I'm pregnant, Boy, we can't deal
It's all too much, it can't be real.
But there's an answer and as hard as it is
It's what is best for us so we did this.
Cause I was like baby, baby, baby, no
Like baby, baby, baby, NO,
Like baby, baby, baby, no
The choice should always be mine."
Sam put the guitar down with a furious sort of expression. "Tina's working on the second verse."
"Oh, my Gods," Quinn said, cradling her forehead in her hands.
"You are not singing a song about abortion to 'Baby'," Mercedes added.
"No! It's perfect!" Rachel said. "Abortion is a hot issue in this election. It's where Baltar first opposed President Roslin, and it's one of the more divisive issues. Besides, Tina is writing and Sam is playing from the heart."
"Yeah, and can you stop saying that? It's not exactly something I want to be doing," Sam said crossly.
"So don't," Mercedes said. "It's like, way offensive, and not because I don't believe in abortion."
"We could work up a back-up dance," Brittany suggested.
"No." The answer was unanimous from everyone in the room.
"The thing is," Mike said, "there's really only three big issues. There's abortion, Roslin's religion, and the planet. Other than that, there aren't a lot of issues to talk about. Baltar doesn't differ from Roslin on much else."
"Yeah," Artie said. "It's not like there's much of an economy, and the Admiral decides what the military does."
"We ought to have a song about the Admiral," Quinn said. "Because a President that doesn't work well with the Admiral isn't going to be an effective President at all." She tapped her pen against her pursed lips.
"We could go musical with that one," Rachel said. "Maybe take 'You're the One That I Want'" and write it from Admiral Adama's point of view?"
"Only if you have a pro-Baltar song to balance it out," Sam put in quickly. "If you're using 'Life Is a Fertilized Egg' - which doesn't even fit with 'Life is a Highway', by the way- to go against 'Baby, No', then you've got to have a song about how Baltar would do with the military."
"Like what?" Santana asked sarcastically. "The Old Man can't stand Baltar."
"'I Hate Everything About You'," Artie suggested.
"'Give You Hell' could work," Mercedes said.
"My Imaginary Friend," Brittany piped up.
"Or…" Quinn's eyes lit up with a maniacal gleam as she ignored Brittany, "we need to think a little more… country." She looked at Sam. "'You Belong to Me.'"
Sam rolled his eyes, but obediently started playing the intro to the song.
"You're on the phone with Ms. Roslin, the President
She's going on about political precedent,
She doesn't get your weapons like I do.
I'm in the lab on the Galactica battlestar
I'm thinking about the how she pushes you oh-so-far
And she'll never give you 'freedom' like I do.
But she gives keynotes, I wear lab coats
She's the incumbent and I screwed her over
I'm dreamin' bout the day you all wake up and find
The way to screw us over was here all the time.
If you could see that I'm the one that'll patronize you
Dismiss, reject, and try to colonize you
You should vote for me,
You should vote for me
Sleeping here in my seat up in the Quorum
Bored to death in any political forum
You should-"
"Enough!" Sam shouted, pushing his guitar away. "That's not a pro-Baltar song!"
"Well, the Admiral has made his support for the President clear," Quinn said, "to the point where he escorts her to the debates!"
"Guys, chill," Mercedes put in. "Save it for the songs."
"Or not," Rachel said. "The whole point of this exercise is to explain the positions, not espouse them." She turned to Quinn. "As cutting and clever as your song is, it's not informative. The first rule of reporting is that you need to be distanced from your subject matter."
"Like you follow that," Quinn snapped. "You cried during your story on pets in the Fleet."
"That's not fair to Rachel," Mike said. "If you didn't cry looking at those kittens, you just don't have a heart." Artie nodded.
Quinn sighed impatiently. "My point is, this isn't reporting. This is, essentially, a musical debate. There's nothing wrong with presenting a candidate in a negative light. I know that at least two people have completely lost their senses," she glared at Sam and Tina, "but I think it's clear that President Roslin is the best leader for this Fleet."
"It's not clear," Tina said. "Especially with the planet involved. That's really the game changer, isn't it? Do we want to settle on the planet or continue looking for Earth?"
"Which is why," Rachel said, seizing the opportunity to get things back on track, "I think the planet should be the center of our debate with my song 'Damnit, Planet, What to Do?' It's a song that is perfectly balanced between both sides, delving into both reasons that we should settle on the planet and reasons that we should not." She began handing the lyrics out. "We should start rehearsing now."
Mercedes raised her eyebrows as she read the lyrics, and Sam immediately started working out the chords for "Damnit, Janet" on his guitar. Even Quinn sighed, muttering something about 'damn talent.' Rachel smiled. As much as they were bickering, this was all going to go perfectly.
***
"Well?" Rachel asked, as Mr. Ishinhall clicked off the video. "What do you think?"
"It's impressive," Mr. Ishinhall said, laughing. "You guys really did all of this in forty-eight hours?" Rachel nodded, and he let out a low whistle. "It really is a shame that we never got the whole group together for that show. I don't suppose there's any way you could convince them?"
Rachel's heart twisted, but she clamped down on her pain. "No," she said. "Four of them are in the military and Kurt is working for Zarek and Quinn is learning to be a doctor-"
"I figured. Well, we'll definitely be showing this, Rachel. Aside from doing a good job explaining the candidates' positions, it's really quite catchy and clever. I rather expect the adults of the Fleet will be entertained by it as well.
Rachel brightened. "So I can have some more serious stories now?" she asked, sitting up straighter.
The smile leeched off of Mr. Ishinhall's face. "Rachel," he said seriously, "you're a talented girl. Extremely talented. I knew about your singing, but I didn't know about the writing until just now. If the Cylons had never attacked the Colonies, I have no doubt that I would have been seeing you opening on stage at some point in my life."
Rachel brightened. This could only be good news.
"But reporting… reporting is different. It's not performing. The reporter is the vessel for the story, and the story needs to take the center stage. That's something you have yet to be able to do. Your personality is stamped on every story."
"But all the greatest reporters were like that!" Rachel protested.
"No, all the greatest news personalities were like that. There's a difference. And what I need is someone who can report the issues, who can uncover the truth and bring the people of the Fleet the story, not their version of the story, and how the story affects them."
"But-"
"Look. Rachel. Right now, we have the elections, and these elections have the potential to change everything. I can't tell you what the immediate future of television even is right now, because so much depends on whether or not we settle on this planet. You obviously have talent, but it's not a talent we can capitalize on right now."
"But-"
"I can still use you in the capacity I've been using you, and I will certainly run this segment. But until I see more serious, more impartial work from you, I'm sorry, but the big stories will keep going to those who can handle them."
"I see," Rachel said, trying to keep her dignity about her. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Well, then, Mr. Ishinhall, I think I shall take my leave."
Mr. Ishinhall remained sitting, looking up at her from under lowered brows. "Let me guess. You're storming out again?"
"Of course."
He handed her a stack of papers. "Take this to the editing room on your way, will you?"
Rachel snatched the papers from him, tossed her hair over her shoulder, put her nose in the air and turned on her heel, getting her skirt to flare out perfectly as she did so. Her storm-out was an absolute work of art, although even she had to admit it probably didn't make her top ten storm-outs ever.
The back halls of Cloud 9 were not a particularly good place for sulking. There were no convenient little cubbies or benches where you could be mostly hidden, but found if the right person wandered by. Not that the right person was around anyway. Any of the right people.
Rachel decided to take a detour and go to the gardens. It was the best part of being a reporter, getting to go in the synthetic garden under the lighted dome. Rachel had been in here enough that she could see the signs that this garden wasn't real- if you looked hard enough at the projected sky, you could see the seams, and there were cleverly concealed vents in the flower beds. But it was still better than anyplace else in the Fleet.
She wandered the paths, trying to pretend that Finn was with her. Things with Finn had been very… undefined since the attacks. Before the All-Colony Show Choir Championship, they'd known that their relationship was very likely on borrowed time since Rachel planned on trying to move to Caprica and Finn wanted to stay on Gemenon. Interplanetary relationships could work, of course, especially since Finn had been saving up the money Burt had been paying him from the garage for a holoband, which would make meeting up in a virtual sort of world a lot easier. But shortly after the attacks Finn had joined the military. They were still a couple- when Finn came over to the Cybele they held hands and kissed and all that- but they didn't kick everyone out of the room like Mike and Tina or Brittany and Santana did. Rachel had assumed a lot of that had to do with the fact that Finn still had parents, both of whom subscribed to traditional Gemenese parental mores when it came to premarital sex.
Her own parents hadn't been so prudish, she thought. She missed her dads so much. She would give anything to be back on Gemenon, nestled against Daddy's shoulder watching a movie as Papa ruffled their hair and worked on his computer from the armchair, pretending he wasn't enjoying the fifty-seventh viewing of whatever musical they were watching. She couldn't smell their cologne anymore or feel her cheek against their sweaters, and that almost hurt more than the fact that they were gone.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice that she was on a collision course until someone put out their hand to stop her, and she looked up to see Playa Palacios. "Oh. You. Wonderful." Rachel heaved a sigh.
Playa looked at her with confusion. "Rachel Derry, right?"
"Berry." Playa didn't even know her name?
"Oh. Right. What are you doing here, Rachel? I thought you'd be prepping for the debates."
"Why aren't you?" Rachel asked.
Playa shrugged. "I just finished interviewing Zarek. The gardens make such a nice backdrop for an interview. I think when I interview the Vice President we'll have to come here, instead of in his lab like he's been asking for. Don't you think?"
"Don't I think?" Rachel repeated incredulously. "Why would you care what I think?"
Playa peered more closely at Rachel's face. "Are you all right?"
"Why would you care? Not that it's any of your business," Rachel added hastily. "It's just been a very long day and I had a very disappointing meeting with Mr. Ishinhall, who still refuses to recognize my talent, and I just realized I have no idea if my boyfriend is still actually my boyfriend and-"
Playa put a hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Come have a drink with me," she said, and before Rachel could argue, Playa was steering her commandingly out of the gardens.
She didn't lead them to the Starlight Lounge, but rather to a place that Rachel had been once before. It was designed to look like an old-fashioned diner, with booths and a long bar. Playa steered her to the bar and caught the eye of the woman behind it. "Two hot chocolates," she said.
Rachel didn't protest. The vegan thing had had to go a long time ago. Playa waited until the hot chocolates- synthetic as they were- came before she spoke again. "I take it you've had a very bad day."
"I don't know why you care," Rachel said, trying not to sniffle. "After all, I'm your competition."
"Mmm." Playa took a sip of her hot chocolate. "I miss real milk," she said. "The dehydrated stuff just is not the same." Rachel just shrugged. "Were you going to study journalism in college?"
"No," Rachel said. "I was accepted in the CADA program."
"The Caprica Academy of Dramatic Arts? They only take about twenty students a year." Rachel nodded gloomily, and Playa let out a low whistle. "I had no idea."
"Well, I do sing and act."
"I knew that. But to get into CADA…. My first assignment was writing about the theater scene on Caprica," Playa explained. "I'm familiar with the program through that. Why aren't you with any of the shows on the networks?"
"I tried," Rachel said. "But there are only a few and I wasn't what they were looking for."
"Ah."
"I keep telling myself that someday there will be more of an opportunity. That there will be a better show or there will be theater on Earth or… or something. That this won't last forever, and I can take my proper place as a star."
"Why are you in journalism then?" Playa asked.
"It's the only way I can work on my presence," Rachel explained. "Granted, a camera is different- I would really prefer to perform in front of a live audience- but there aren't many options left. It's not that I don't want to work hard- I've been working hard for what I want since I was six months old. I will do anything it takes to make it, and if for the next few years that means doing news stories, that's what I'll do."
Playa took a long, thoughtful sip of her hot chocolate. "You might regret that. I wanted to reach the top, too, but not like this."
Rachel cocked her head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that before the attacks, I was doing your job- fluff pieces at two in the morning. I had my eye on this position, but I didn't really envision losing everything else to get it. If I could change it- even if it could just be that my family was in this Fleet- I would. But you were traveling with your parents, right?"
"I… er… no," Rachel said, staring down at the counter. "My dads were back on Gemenon."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Rachel shrugged, pushing the thought away. "No. I mean, losing my parents doesn't make me special. Everyone lost their parents, right? Well, most people- we have a whole family left in New Directions, but they're unusual. Everyone's going through that."
"That doesn't mean you don't have the right to feel anything about it," Playa said.
Rachel waved her off. "I feel. But I don't have an outlet to channel my pain. And it's too bad, really. This is exactly the kind of pain that makes divas great."
Playa choked on her hot chocolate. "Sorry," she said, once she'd finished coughing and wiped her mouth. "Did you just say…never mind. I don't want to know."
"I know it sounds shocking," Rachel admitted, "but that's what you need to do to make it in show business. Everything has to be utilized. And right now, pain and loss are the common denominators across the Fleet. They resonate with people. So if I could find the right platform, I'd be set. Journalism could be that platform, you know. I could… reach out to people in their pain." Rachel gestured expressively. "But I can't get anywhere."
"That's because you're treating journalism like show business, and it's not," Playa said. She took another sip of her drink. "There is a similarity in that you have to be ruthless. I won't even tell you some of the things I've done for a story. And presentation certainly matters. But content matters even more, and that's what you've been missing. It's also where I think you're expecting too much of yourself. You're eighteen, Rachel, and you've never studied journalism. You're not going to rocket to the top of the pack."
"I know," Rachel said, sighing. She finally picked up her own drink and sipped it, trying not to make a face at the synthetic taste.
"You'll get your chance someday, you know."
"At reporting?"
"At acting. If Baltar wins this election and we settle on this planet, a theater won't open right away, but eventually, it will open. People need their escapism."
"You really think so?" Rachel asked, her heart lifting.
"I really think so," Playa said.
That was something she hadn't considered, but suddenly, Rachel could see it in her mind. It wouldn't be the big, grand theaters of Caprica, or even the theaters of Illumini, but it would be a building and a stage and real productions. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. If Baltar won. But if Roslin won and the search for Earth continued, it was more of this life in spaceships, where entertainment and escapism were a low priority and all the glamour and camera time was dedicated to the news.
"We'll see," Rachel said, unwilling to hope.
"Well, I'd better get back to work," Playa said, pushing her mug back on the counter. "It was nice talking to you, Rachel."
"Yes. It was nice talking to you, too. Thank you for the hot chocolate." Playa smiled at her and patted her on the shoulder, and Rachel watched her leave. She might have a point about the planet, but Rachel was sure that she'd better keep all her options open. She didn't know if she could take another dream dying.
On to Part 2