Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (5/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please (I Don’t Want To Be Your Hero) (5/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
“A hero,” Quinn repeats dumbly. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’ve got something, Blondie,” Santana says, sounding a little less caustic than Quinn expects. “Something big. And the bad guys are going to want it.”
“Sometimes,” Rachel hurries to cut in, apparently seeing the look of abject disbelief on Quinn’s features, “people are born different from most. Not in a bad way, or evil or anything, just…different. They’re born with preternatural abilities-the crass among us call them powers, although that makes it sound like something out of a comic book. Which it’s not.”
“Except for the part where it kind of is,” Wheelchair Guy adds, smiling. Quinn shakes her head.
“Well…yes, I suppose,” Rachel says grudgingly. “Sort of. But that isn’t the point.”
“It isn’t?” Quinn asks shakily.
“The point is, people like us are not so hard to come by. We are everywhere. In your schools, in your restaurants, driving your taxicabs…”
“We’re the goddamn X-Men,” Noah says cheerfully, wiggling his eyebrows. Quinn scowls.
“We are people,” Rachel continues firmly, glaring at him. “Just people with special graces, nothing more. For many, these abilities never rise to the surface. Half of us don’t even realize what we’ve got to begin with. And so, for the most part, life goes on. We go to school, we go to work, we earn our keep, and we are left alone just as anyone else might be.
“But sometimes, this changes. Every once in a while, an individual comes along with certain…hungers. Urges. Plans. And we are forced to band together and fight for what is ours.”
She pauses. Quinn waits. This all sounds so twistedly commonplace, like something out of a late-night B-movie. She waits for the next line-something about black hats, or power stealing, or the desire to eradicate this strange minority in one swift genocidal blow.
I would’ve thought her smart enough to go with something a little less predictable.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Santana mutters, glaring fiercely at Rachel. “She’s trying to do the whole suspense thing again. Fucking idiot.”
“Hey!” Rachel cries indignantly. Santana rolls her eyes.
“The thing is, there’s this dude,” she says, ignoring Rachel’s mouth as it opens and shuts soundlessly. “A supposedly badass motherfucker named Rayne. He’s…kind of a massive bitch, actually, and I’d give just about anything to see him cry like a little baby. Anyway, he’s got it in his head that if he can kill a certain number of us, he’ll be able to tap into something big. Bigger than all of us put together. And then he’ll, I don’t know, take over the world or start a rodeo circus or something. Whatever. We’ve never really stopped to chat. Whatever it is, it’s bound to totally blow for the rest of us. Especially, y’know, the dead ones.”
“Let me guess,” Quinn grumbles. “He’s got powers-sorry, preternatural abilities-too?”
“Like a motherfucking beast,” Santana agrees, slinging an arm around her blonde friend’s shoulders. Quinn blanches.
“And all of this has what to do with me?”
She doesn’t like the way they’re looking at her, she decides. She doesn’t like it one damn bit. Rachel has an especially potent gleam going on, as if she’s currently staring down the Messiah or some such crap, and Quinn is so out of here.
“Forget it,” she says, resuming her backtrack towards the door. “I know it’s really cliché to do the whole ‘fuck you all, I don’t believe you, you’re a bunch of lying lunatics’ thing, but I am really tired right now. I just worked a damn double. I got my ass grabbed six times in half an hour. I dropped three plates and five glasses and I am just…too wiped out for your crazy. Thank you all for your hospitality. I hope to see you around never.”
She almost makes it to the door before Finn. Which makes sense, given that she’s got a twenty-foot lead, but before she can make it, there he is. Arms crossed over his broad chest, dark eyes serious and repentant.
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “Not the best option right now.”
She glances back at the room they’ve just left, eyes wide. “How the hell did you-“
“Teleportation,” he says, fumbling the word almost endearingly in his excitement. “I can toss myself around through space. Kind of handy.”
She cranes her neck back to look at his face, nervous. “By which you mean you can just run really, really fast. Right?”
He grins. “Nope. Slowest dude on the field in high school. But I had a bitchin’ throwing arm.”
“When you weren’t busy getting your fat ass sacked,” Noah taunts, sidling up behind them and resting an arm on Quinn’s shoulder. She shudders, not so much because he’s greasy and kind of hitting on her with his eyes (although this is true, from a too-obvious manwhore perspective), but rather because his skin is vibrantly cold.
“What the fuck?” she blurts, shouldering him away. Finn looks mighty pleased.
“Guess girls don’t appreciate being ice-shocked, huh, Puckerman?”
“Piss off, Hudson,” Noah growls. “I haven’t eaten anything all fucking day. Low carbs,” he adds when Quinn only stares. “The less my body has to burn, the colder I get. It’s a whole energy thing. When my strength’s up, I’m on fire, baby.”
“He means that literally,” Wheelchair Guy pipes up. “Puck’s got free reign over fire and ice. We call him the Element.”
“Oh goody,” Quinn jibes dryly. “You’ve given yourselves nicknames.”
Noah-Puck?-cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re gonna do the superpower thing, might as well go all out. Don’t go judging just yet, princess. Soon as we get you squared away, you’ll find yourself saddled with one too. Berry can’t help herself.”
‘Berry’ is apparently Rachel, who has gotten to her feet and is limping closer. “It's tradition, Noah,” she says haughtily. Quinn thinks, under different circumstances, she would find this Rachel chick pretty damn amusing. She’s all of five feet tall, but seems to believe she’s in charge of just about everyone she comes into contact with. She’s like a terrier with a god complex.
It would be hilarious, if she wasn’t completely insane to boot.
She decides it might be best, considering her escape route is currently being obstructed by the Jolly Green Idiot, to play along for now.
Jabbing a finger in Puck’s face, she closes one eye. “So you’re Iceman.”
“And Flame Man,” he adds, puffing out his chest with pride. She shrugs.
“And you-“ A finger in Finn’s chest, since there is no way in hell she’s reaching his face. “You can space-hop.”
“Teleport,” he corrects, like she cares. “Also astral project. They-well, Rachel, anyway-call me the Jumper.”
Of course she does. “So what does that make the rest of you?” she demands. Rachel smiles.
“Does this mean you believe us?”
“Not for one flaming second,” Quinn drawls, crossing her arms over her chest. She realizes the bundle of clothing is still clamped in her grasp and chooses to hug it closer. It’s the closest thing to a teddy bear she can find right now, and hell if she can’t use the comfort.
Rachel, unsurprised by the reply, stands a little taller. “Well, that’s to be expected.” When Quinn shoots her a bewildered glare, she adds, “It would be utterly insane of you to put faith in us right away. I understand completely. If not for my fathers and their impressively detailed teachings on genetics and the like, I'm not sure even I would believe so easily .”
Quinn was lost somewhere around ‘fathers.’ She mindlessly gapes at Rachel, who seems completely unperturbed.
“I suppose it’s best to start with introductions,” she continues briskly, shuffling to the side and turning on her heel to gesture at her merry gang of madmen. Quinn squares her shoulders, preparing herself for a barrage of names and fake-ass powers she likely won’t remember in the morning.
At least, she hopes she’ll make it to morning.
“This,” Rachel begins, waving in the direction of Babyface, “is Kurt Hummel. He’s our Seer, which is to say-“
“I get mind-numbing visions of the future,” Kurt cuts her off, looking bored as all get-out. “They feel something like dipping your brain in nitroglycerin and then slamming the whole thing on a metal table. I don’t recommend it.”
“Beside him is Artie Abrams,” Rachel continues, glaring at the young man before pointing to Wheelchair Guy. “The Duplicator. He has the ability to replicate his body-and any object close enough to him-at will.”
She’s not sure why a guy with such a critical handicap would want multiples of himself running around, but Quinn thinks it would probably be morbidly offensive to say so. She settles for nodding nervously when Artie turns a mega-watt grin on her over his black-framed glasses.
“His girlfriend,” Rachel says, jabbing a finger at Tough Asian Chick, “is Tina Cohen-Chang. The Spark.”
“The Spark?” Quinn parrots, disbelieving. Tina has the good grace to go a little pink under all that goth make-up.
“I control electrical currents,” she explains sheepishly. It was the best we could come up with.”
“Work on it,” Quinn advises. With every name spoken, she feels a little stronger, a little less petrified. It’s as though naming these people-assigning individualism rather than rough-around-the-edges attitude-is stripping them slowly of their power over her. It’s a small blessing.
“Those two in the corner-“ Rachel points to two young men, one African-American, the other Asian, reclining on the far sofa. They have yet to speak a word; Quinn actually kind of forgot they were present to begin with. “They are Matt Rutherford and Mike Chang, respectively. Mike’s our Reader-able to sense lies when they are told and truth when it has yet to be revealed. As for Matt, he’s what we call a Neutralizer; his power lies in the negation of others’. Sort of like a mystical manacle for abilities, if you will.”
Mike lifts two fingers in a half-hearted wave; Matt barely inclines his head. Quinn is beginning to think they might be the safest people in the room, since they aren’t actively participating in this over-wrought delusional episode. She makes a mental note to use their apparent apathy to her advantage.
“Mercedes Jones,” an oblivious Rachel charges on, gesturing to the soulful-eyed black woman beside Kurt, “is the Muscle. Super-strength.”
“Seriously?” Quinn asks. Mercedes arches a less-than-jaunty eyebrow.
“You got something to say, white girl?”
“No,” Quinn replies hurriedly, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand. “It’s just…super-strength? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Don’t make me show you what I got,” Mercedes threatens. Kurt rests a hand upon her arm, restricting her bluster before she can leap up and take Quinn down. The blonde raises a hand demurely, feigning apology.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
The other woman sits back, muttering under her breath. Rachel rolls her eyes.
“Children, be civil,” she instructs, which, given how purple Mercedes is turning, appears to be exactly the wrong thing to say. Kurt lets his hand drop, glowering with full hostility at the tiny brunette, who ignores them both.
“You’re slowing down at the best part,” the Latina observes with a cocky smirk. Quinn narrows her eyes.
“Santana Lopez,” she states coolly. The dark-haired young woman chuckles.
“Hey, look! Guess we can rule out Goldfish Memory as her power of choice.” Leaning forward, Santana hooks her hands behind her head. “Handle’s the Shifter. I do animals, mostly. People, when I’m at my best. I’m good.”
“Now, by ‘do’, you mean…” Quinn trails off, uncertain. Dark eyes give a magnificently annoyed roll.
“Shifter,” she repeats witheringly. “What the fuck do you think that means?”
“You think…you can turn into animals?” Quinn asks, bewildered. Santana bares her teeth.
“Thinking ain’t the half of it, Blondie. I don’t think. I do. End of fucking story.”
The tall blonde at her side places a hand upon the young woman’s knee. In the next heartbeat, Santana seems to lose a little of her aggression, though her eyes grow no softer.
“This is Brittany,” she says, jerking a thumb sideways. The blonde waves.
“Hi.”
“She’s our Healer,” Santana adds, covering the girl’s hand with her own. Watching them, Quinn has the distinct impression she’s missing something.
But that doesn’t seem nearly as important as she hole she’s found in their group-wide fantasy.
“If she’s a healer,” she notes slowly, turning her head to look Rachel in the eye, “why are you bothering with bandages? Shouldn’t she be doing her job?”
“It isn’t a job,” Santana snaps, spine straightening. Brittany’s arm winds around her waist, soothingly.
“I’m still tired,” the blonde explains. “From last time. It’s easy to heal little wounds-scrapes, scratches, bruises smaller than a nickel. But the big stuff takes a lot of energy. A lot of focus. I have to give a bit of myself to make it happen. It’s draining. Rachel will be all right with what she’s got, for now.”
Part of Quinn wants to ask when this alleged last time was, but one look at Santana’s pained expression says it all. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
“I see,” is all she can bring herself to say. Santana’s lips thin, her eyes daring Quinn to press further. The blonde looks away.
“And you?” she asks Rachel, challenge evident in her tone. “What is it you do?”
Brown eyes seem to burn a little brighter. “I exercise control over the actions and decisions of others. Mainly through eye contact, sometimes through physical touch.”
“Our little Manipulator,” Finn says. Quinn thinks it’s supposed to sound fond or something, but really, it just comes off creepy as all hell. Even Rachel flinches a bit.
“You control people’s minds?” Quinn asks, just to make sure she’s got this all right. “Like...actually control them?”
“I have it under control,” Rachel sniffs, like that was the thing on Quinn’s mind at all. “It’s admittedly a high-hazard ability, with much room for failure and destruction, but I am able to wield it without question. You don’t have to worry.”
Quinn’s worried, all right, but it has nothing to do Rachel’s so-called control issues. She licks her lips, feeling unsteady all over again.
“So…you all believe you’re super-heroes,” she sums up. “Real ones. With real powers. You believe this.”
“No point in shirking the truth, princess,” Puck comments from his place near the door. “Might as well embrace your inner badass.”
That, on top of the expectant way they all are looking at her, is enough to crack Quinn Fabray entirely.
“Maybe I don’t want to embrace my inner badass,” she seethes, catching Puck by the collar of his gray t-shirt and shaking him as hard as her slim body can manage. He’s three times bigger than she is, so the assault part of the plan isn’t particularly effective, but it doesn’t completely lack in satisfaction; he at least looks shocked as all hell that she’s touching him.
Shocked, and just a little bit turned on, and maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea after all.
“I’m sorry, Quinn, but you don’t have much of a choice,” Rachel says, not looking horribly sorry at all. Gritting her teeth, Quinn rounds on the injured girl.
“You have no right,” she breathes, nearly snarling with frustration, “to tell me what choice I have. You are a crazy person, all right? This whole thing, every single one of you-you’re out of your fucking minds. You’ve kidnapped me, and dragged me here against my will, and I have work tomorrow. I have rent to pay. I am done with this pathetic little mind game. I’m leaving.”
“I’m afraid we can’t allow that,” Rachel says softly, eyes darker than ever. Quinn rolls her eyes.
“What are you going to do? Stop me with your mind?”
“Yes,” the brunette replies. “If it comes to that. I’m hoping you’ll see reason first.”
Quinn snorts, spinning again for the door. “I’d like to see you try.”
She shoulders past Puck, who steps aside with a leer and a shrug. Finn isn’t so accommodating; his eyes flick over her head worriedly, clearly searching out Rachel for further instruction. If there’s one thing Quinn is really sick of, it’s how everyone keeps turning to the obnoxious little diva before they make a move.
“Quinn,” she hears Rachel snap. “Don’t do this. Believe me, it is so much easier when you don’t fight it.”
She opts not to dignify that with a response, since this Rachel character is unlikely to listen to sense in the first place. Instead, she batters her fists against every bit of Finn’s chest she can reach until he grudgingly moves away from the door.
“As lovely as this has been,” she throws back over her shoulder, “I hope never to do this again. Find yourselves another naïve Messiah figure.”
Something brushes the back of her neck, pressing firmly under her hair; she twitches, deciding to ignore it. Her hand on the doorknob, she twists her wrist and sets off through the entryway, down the hall and away from the whole bizarre situation.
She’s ten steps into the motion before she realizes she hasn’t moved an inch.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
“A hero,” Quinn repeats dumbly. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’ve got something, Blondie,” Santana says, sounding a little less caustic than Quinn expects. “Something big. And the bad guys are going to want it.”
“Sometimes,” Rachel hurries to cut in, apparently seeing the look of abject disbelief on Quinn’s features, “people are born different from most. Not in a bad way, or evil or anything, just…different. They’re born with preternatural abilities-the crass among us call them powers, although that makes it sound like something out of a comic book. Which it’s not.”
“Except for the part where it kind of is,” Wheelchair Guy adds, smiling. Quinn shakes her head.
“Well…yes, I suppose,” Rachel says grudgingly. “Sort of. But that isn’t the point.”
“It isn’t?” Quinn asks shakily.
“The point is, people like us are not so hard to come by. We are everywhere. In your schools, in your restaurants, driving your taxicabs…”
“We’re the goddamn X-Men,” Noah says cheerfully, wiggling his eyebrows. Quinn scowls.
“We are people,” Rachel continues firmly, glaring at him. “Just people with special graces, nothing more. For many, these abilities never rise to the surface. Half of us don’t even realize what we’ve got to begin with. And so, for the most part, life goes on. We go to school, we go to work, we earn our keep, and we are left alone just as anyone else might be.
“But sometimes, this changes. Every once in a while, an individual comes along with certain…hungers. Urges. Plans. And we are forced to band together and fight for what is ours.”
She pauses. Quinn waits. This all sounds so twistedly commonplace, like something out of a late-night B-movie. She waits for the next line-something about black hats, or power stealing, or the desire to eradicate this strange minority in one swift genocidal blow.
I would’ve thought her smart enough to go with something a little less predictable.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Santana mutters, glaring fiercely at Rachel. “She’s trying to do the whole suspense thing again. Fucking idiot.”
“Hey!” Rachel cries indignantly. Santana rolls her eyes.
“The thing is, there’s this dude,” she says, ignoring Rachel’s mouth as it opens and shuts soundlessly. “A supposedly badass motherfucker named Rayne. He’s…kind of a massive bitch, actually, and I’d give just about anything to see him cry like a little baby. Anyway, he’s got it in his head that if he can kill a certain number of us, he’ll be able to tap into something big. Bigger than all of us put together. And then he’ll, I don’t know, take over the world or start a rodeo circus or something. Whatever. We’ve never really stopped to chat. Whatever it is, it’s bound to totally blow for the rest of us. Especially, y’know, the dead ones.”
“Let me guess,” Quinn grumbles. “He’s got powers-sorry, preternatural abilities-too?”
“Like a motherfucking beast,” Santana agrees, slinging an arm around her blonde friend’s shoulders. Quinn blanches.
“And all of this has what to do with me?”
She doesn’t like the way they’re looking at her, she decides. She doesn’t like it one damn bit. Rachel has an especially potent gleam going on, as if she’s currently staring down the Messiah or some such crap, and Quinn is so out of here.
“Forget it,” she says, resuming her backtrack towards the door. “I know it’s really cliché to do the whole ‘fuck you all, I don’t believe you, you’re a bunch of lying lunatics’ thing, but I am really tired right now. I just worked a damn double. I got my ass grabbed six times in half an hour. I dropped three plates and five glasses and I am just…too wiped out for your crazy. Thank you all for your hospitality. I hope to see you around never.”
She almost makes it to the door before Finn. Which makes sense, given that she’s got a twenty-foot lead, but before she can make it, there he is. Arms crossed over his broad chest, dark eyes serious and repentant.
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “Not the best option right now.”
She glances back at the room they’ve just left, eyes wide. “How the hell did you-“
“Teleportation,” he says, fumbling the word almost endearingly in his excitement. “I can toss myself around through space. Kind of handy.”
She cranes her neck back to look at his face, nervous. “By which you mean you can just run really, really fast. Right?”
He grins. “Nope. Slowest dude on the field in high school. But I had a bitchin’ throwing arm.”
“When you weren’t busy getting your fat ass sacked,” Noah taunts, sidling up behind them and resting an arm on Quinn’s shoulder. She shudders, not so much because he’s greasy and kind of hitting on her with his eyes (although this is true, from a too-obvious manwhore perspective), but rather because his skin is vibrantly cold.
“What the fuck?” she blurts, shouldering him away. Finn looks mighty pleased.
“Guess girls don’t appreciate being ice-shocked, huh, Puckerman?”
“Piss off, Hudson,” Noah growls. “I haven’t eaten anything all fucking day. Low carbs,” he adds when Quinn only stares. “The less my body has to burn, the colder I get. It’s a whole energy thing. When my strength’s up, I’m on fire, baby.”
“He means that literally,” Wheelchair Guy pipes up. “Puck’s got free reign over fire and ice. We call him the Element.”
“Oh goody,” Quinn jibes dryly. “You’ve given yourselves nicknames.”
Noah-Puck?-cocks an eyebrow. “If you’re gonna do the superpower thing, might as well go all out. Don’t go judging just yet, princess. Soon as we get you squared away, you’ll find yourself saddled with one too. Berry can’t help herself.”
‘Berry’ is apparently Rachel, who has gotten to her feet and is limping closer. “It's tradition, Noah,” she says haughtily. Quinn thinks, under different circumstances, she would find this Rachel chick pretty damn amusing. She’s all of five feet tall, but seems to believe she’s in charge of just about everyone she comes into contact with. She’s like a terrier with a god complex.
It would be hilarious, if she wasn’t completely insane to boot.
She decides it might be best, considering her escape route is currently being obstructed by the Jolly Green Idiot, to play along for now.
Jabbing a finger in Puck’s face, she closes one eye. “So you’re Iceman.”
“And Flame Man,” he adds, puffing out his chest with pride. She shrugs.
“And you-“ A finger in Finn’s chest, since there is no way in hell she’s reaching his face. “You can space-hop.”
“Teleport,” he corrects, like she cares. “Also astral project. They-well, Rachel, anyway-call me the Jumper.”
Of course she does. “So what does that make the rest of you?” she demands. Rachel smiles.
“Does this mean you believe us?”
“Not for one flaming second,” Quinn drawls, crossing her arms over her chest. She realizes the bundle of clothing is still clamped in her grasp and chooses to hug it closer. It’s the closest thing to a teddy bear she can find right now, and hell if she can’t use the comfort.
Rachel, unsurprised by the reply, stands a little taller. “Well, that’s to be expected.” When Quinn shoots her a bewildered glare, she adds, “It would be utterly insane of you to put faith in us right away. I understand completely. If not for my fathers and their impressively detailed teachings on genetics and the like, I'm not sure even I would believe so easily .”
Quinn was lost somewhere around ‘fathers.’ She mindlessly gapes at Rachel, who seems completely unperturbed.
“I suppose it’s best to start with introductions,” she continues briskly, shuffling to the side and turning on her heel to gesture at her merry gang of madmen. Quinn squares her shoulders, preparing herself for a barrage of names and fake-ass powers she likely won’t remember in the morning.
At least, she hopes she’ll make it to morning.
“This,” Rachel begins, waving in the direction of Babyface, “is Kurt Hummel. He’s our Seer, which is to say-“
“I get mind-numbing visions of the future,” Kurt cuts her off, looking bored as all get-out. “They feel something like dipping your brain in nitroglycerin and then slamming the whole thing on a metal table. I don’t recommend it.”
“Beside him is Artie Abrams,” Rachel continues, glaring at the young man before pointing to Wheelchair Guy. “The Duplicator. He has the ability to replicate his body-and any object close enough to him-at will.”
She’s not sure why a guy with such a critical handicap would want multiples of himself running around, but Quinn thinks it would probably be morbidly offensive to say so. She settles for nodding nervously when Artie turns a mega-watt grin on her over his black-framed glasses.
“His girlfriend,” Rachel says, jabbing a finger at Tough Asian Chick, “is Tina Cohen-Chang. The Spark.”
“The Spark?” Quinn parrots, disbelieving. Tina has the good grace to go a little pink under all that goth make-up.
“I control electrical currents,” she explains sheepishly. It was the best we could come up with.”
“Work on it,” Quinn advises. With every name spoken, she feels a little stronger, a little less petrified. It’s as though naming these people-assigning individualism rather than rough-around-the-edges attitude-is stripping them slowly of their power over her. It’s a small blessing.
“Those two in the corner-“ Rachel points to two young men, one African-American, the other Asian, reclining on the far sofa. They have yet to speak a word; Quinn actually kind of forgot they were present to begin with. “They are Matt Rutherford and Mike Chang, respectively. Mike’s our Reader-able to sense lies when they are told and truth when it has yet to be revealed. As for Matt, he’s what we call a Neutralizer; his power lies in the negation of others’. Sort of like a mystical manacle for abilities, if you will.”
Mike lifts two fingers in a half-hearted wave; Matt barely inclines his head. Quinn is beginning to think they might be the safest people in the room, since they aren’t actively participating in this over-wrought delusional episode. She makes a mental note to use their apparent apathy to her advantage.
“Mercedes Jones,” an oblivious Rachel charges on, gesturing to the soulful-eyed black woman beside Kurt, “is the Muscle. Super-strength.”
“Seriously?” Quinn asks. Mercedes arches a less-than-jaunty eyebrow.
“You got something to say, white girl?”
“No,” Quinn replies hurriedly, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand. “It’s just…super-strength? That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Don’t make me show you what I got,” Mercedes threatens. Kurt rests a hand upon her arm, restricting her bluster before she can leap up and take Quinn down. The blonde raises a hand demurely, feigning apology.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
The other woman sits back, muttering under her breath. Rachel rolls her eyes.
“Children, be civil,” she instructs, which, given how purple Mercedes is turning, appears to be exactly the wrong thing to say. Kurt lets his hand drop, glowering with full hostility at the tiny brunette, who ignores them both.
“You’re slowing down at the best part,” the Latina observes with a cocky smirk. Quinn narrows her eyes.
“Santana Lopez,” she states coolly. The dark-haired young woman chuckles.
“Hey, look! Guess we can rule out Goldfish Memory as her power of choice.” Leaning forward, Santana hooks her hands behind her head. “Handle’s the Shifter. I do animals, mostly. People, when I’m at my best. I’m good.”
“Now, by ‘do’, you mean…” Quinn trails off, uncertain. Dark eyes give a magnificently annoyed roll.
“Shifter,” she repeats witheringly. “What the fuck do you think that means?”
“You think…you can turn into animals?” Quinn asks, bewildered. Santana bares her teeth.
“Thinking ain’t the half of it, Blondie. I don’t think. I do. End of fucking story.”
The tall blonde at her side places a hand upon the young woman’s knee. In the next heartbeat, Santana seems to lose a little of her aggression, though her eyes grow no softer.
“This is Brittany,” she says, jerking a thumb sideways. The blonde waves.
“Hi.”
“She’s our Healer,” Santana adds, covering the girl’s hand with her own. Watching them, Quinn has the distinct impression she’s missing something.
But that doesn’t seem nearly as important as she hole she’s found in their group-wide fantasy.
“If she’s a healer,” she notes slowly, turning her head to look Rachel in the eye, “why are you bothering with bandages? Shouldn’t she be doing her job?”
“It isn’t a job,” Santana snaps, spine straightening. Brittany’s arm winds around her waist, soothingly.
“I’m still tired,” the blonde explains. “From last time. It’s easy to heal little wounds-scrapes, scratches, bruises smaller than a nickel. But the big stuff takes a lot of energy. A lot of focus. I have to give a bit of myself to make it happen. It’s draining. Rachel will be all right with what she’s got, for now.”
Part of Quinn wants to ask when this alleged last time was, but one look at Santana’s pained expression says it all. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
“I see,” is all she can bring herself to say. Santana’s lips thin, her eyes daring Quinn to press further. The blonde looks away.
“And you?” she asks Rachel, challenge evident in her tone. “What is it you do?”
Brown eyes seem to burn a little brighter. “I exercise control over the actions and decisions of others. Mainly through eye contact, sometimes through physical touch.”
“Our little Manipulator,” Finn says. Quinn thinks it’s supposed to sound fond or something, but really, it just comes off creepy as all hell. Even Rachel flinches a bit.
“You control people’s minds?” Quinn asks, just to make sure she’s got this all right. “Like...actually control them?”
“I have it under control,” Rachel sniffs, like that was the thing on Quinn’s mind at all. “It’s admittedly a high-hazard ability, with much room for failure and destruction, but I am able to wield it without question. You don’t have to worry.”
Quinn’s worried, all right, but it has nothing to do Rachel’s so-called control issues. She licks her lips, feeling unsteady all over again.
“So…you all believe you’re super-heroes,” she sums up. “Real ones. With real powers. You believe this.”
“No point in shirking the truth, princess,” Puck comments from his place near the door. “Might as well embrace your inner badass.”
That, on top of the expectant way they all are looking at her, is enough to crack Quinn Fabray entirely.
“Maybe I don’t want to embrace my inner badass,” she seethes, catching Puck by the collar of his gray t-shirt and shaking him as hard as her slim body can manage. He’s three times bigger than she is, so the assault part of the plan isn’t particularly effective, but it doesn’t completely lack in satisfaction; he at least looks shocked as all hell that she’s touching him.
Shocked, and just a little bit turned on, and maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea after all.
“I’m sorry, Quinn, but you don’t have much of a choice,” Rachel says, not looking horribly sorry at all. Gritting her teeth, Quinn rounds on the injured girl.
“You have no right,” she breathes, nearly snarling with frustration, “to tell me what choice I have. You are a crazy person, all right? This whole thing, every single one of you-you’re out of your fucking minds. You’ve kidnapped me, and dragged me here against my will, and I have work tomorrow. I have rent to pay. I am done with this pathetic little mind game. I’m leaving.”
“I’m afraid we can’t allow that,” Rachel says softly, eyes darker than ever. Quinn rolls her eyes.
“What are you going to do? Stop me with your mind?”
“Yes,” the brunette replies. “If it comes to that. I’m hoping you’ll see reason first.”
Quinn snorts, spinning again for the door. “I’d like to see you try.”
She shoulders past Puck, who steps aside with a leer and a shrug. Finn isn’t so accommodating; his eyes flick over her head worriedly, clearly searching out Rachel for further instruction. If there’s one thing Quinn is really sick of, it’s how everyone keeps turning to the obnoxious little diva before they make a move.
“Quinn,” she hears Rachel snap. “Don’t do this. Believe me, it is so much easier when you don’t fight it.”
She opts not to dignify that with a response, since this Rachel character is unlikely to listen to sense in the first place. Instead, she batters her fists against every bit of Finn’s chest she can reach until he grudgingly moves away from the door.
“As lovely as this has been,” she throws back over her shoulder, “I hope never to do this again. Find yourselves another naïve Messiah figure.”
Something brushes the back of her neck, pressing firmly under her hair; she twitches, deciding to ignore it. Her hand on the doorknob, she twists her wrist and sets off through the entryway, down the hall and away from the whole bizarre situation.
She’s ten steps into the motion before she realizes she hasn’t moved an inch.