Curves and Cuts
Title: Curves and Cuts.
Fandom: Glee; Quinn & Rachel.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee.
A/N: So this isn’t fluff. I know, it’s freaky coming from me right? What we have here is a sort of AU with zombies. If that doesn’t turn you off right away, then continue on. Not really planning on continuing on but I left it open if I (or anyone else wanted me to) wanted to continue. Unbeta'd.
Declare this an emergency.
Come on and spread a sense of urgency.
And pull us through it all.
And pull us through it all.
Apocalypse Please by Muse.
//
Quinn
The sweltering force flooding every inch of space around her was beyond the commonplace terms for temperature. This warmth that coated everything in a profuse and sticky film was immerse; It had transgressed past heat into a whole separate influence and second by second, minute by minute, eternity by eternity it was melting what was left of Quinn's reason into nothing more than a thin liquid that would soon be dissolved into nonbeing. Seemingly out of nowhere, Lima, and all of Ohio had been overtaken by this freak, brutal heat-wave and there was no shelter from it.
Sure, the warehouse had air conditioning units, large ones in fact but they were to remain dominant and unused. Seven AC units running would tip off the zombie community of Lima that maybe this warehouse they thought to be abandoned (not that they were genius` per say, they were hyper aware of loud noises) wasn't as derelict it appeared to be.
They would all probably die of heat exhaustion in the next week but the silver lining would be that there is no silver lining. If anything, their bodies would be cooked to a medium rare and would probably taste just fucking fantastic to the brainless.
Sweat surges across her skin, holding to the surface until gravity establishes it's dominance and forces the liquid to free fall to the floor. Her body maintains a constant motion, shifting from foot to foot as she circles the aged punching bag, hanging by what seemed to be a thread. The blonde lets a hook fly into the bag, then another before returning her hands to in front of her face in a guard. Her punches are muted and her breathing is steady, she has perfected the art of training in silence and it earned her the element of surprise in many instances. Another punch, she keeps circling.
Her attire is straightforward; a white tank top made of a thin material clings to her chest but allows the skin to breathe. She wears a faded pair of blue jeans with a belt wrapped around the waist. Golden strands are contained in a messy bun. Her fist connects with the bag again and forces it backwards in the impact, her other hand grabbing onto the side to secure the bag to stillness while she continues to move around it as a predator.
Quinn’s metamorphosis from vain head cheerleader to efficient zombie killing machine wasn't a quick nor smooth one. They say you are composed of everyone you've ever met as well as the events that transpire accordingly and as a whole, it's true. In Quinn’s case, she's been fashioned by one fucked up event after the other leading her to the hollow, still stylish but overly iconoclastic shell laying into this punching bag right now. You can't get up until you've hit rock bottom but that doesn't mean you'll rise the same person you were falling. You are actually guaranteed to change before the process is over; mentally and physically, you get all kinds of souvenirs. The vigorous blonde unleashes into the punching bag, blow after blow cascading into the surface of the object, reeling it backwards, shaking the bar it's mounted too.
Aggression and frustration fuel the assault.
It takes a while before her fury relents and the swings dawdle; their force less harsh. All at once her arms drop down to her side and she takes a step away from the punching bag. Her breathing is deep, sweat gleaming on her shoulders while she takes in large amounts of air. She looks disoriented or hesitant for only a moment, jade eyes moving around the area and then over to the door to take notice if anyone is around. It only lasts a flash before her wall comes back up and she makes her way over to the bench where a burgundy towel is hanging inertly, waiting for her. Calloused hands pick up the cloth and bring it up to her forehead, wiping away any substance that could be found there. As she stands there, wiping at her skin, she takes the time to look around her confines again.
The training room is in the basement, not far enough from the warmth. Sizeable; wide open space with cement floors that were meant to be gray but turned other hues with different material staining it like a canvas. The room is sectioned by beams bolted into the floor which shoot up to the ceiling and connect to the pipes that run along the structure of the building. They’re painted an ugly sea foam green, because apparently the guy who picked the color was blind or hadn't gotten enough oxygen at birth. It totally contrasted to the bleak elements of the building, very out of sync.
Quinn knew this room, knew it like the cuts tattooing the back of her hands. She spent a lot of her time down here, alone, just pounding away at the bag. She would go until the brink of fatigue and then recover before going out on patrol that night. It was a grueling routine that she created to keep herself moving forward. She could only assume she looked insane to the others, not that it mattered though. They had all modified themselves to keep existing. Some had company to hold onto at night. Others didn't.
Bringing the towel down, her eyes catch a glimpse of the old watch wrapped around her wrist. It was swiftly approaching the time to go out for the night. Quinn tosses the cloth back onto the bench as she turns away and starts to head over to the stairs, stride eager. Nothing was more of a release than taking out a few zombies. They would split off into pairs, usually chosen by preference every night. Nowadays, mostly she got paired with Finn but sometimes she would go with Mike or Puck depending. Finn and her worked well off one and other, surprisingly. Quinn contributed it to the fading memory of their dead relationship slash friendship. When the zombie outbreak happened and most of their love ones had become food for the undead, the emotional ties were severed with a starkly sharp blade. Now the only thing they had left was trying to put a dent into Lima’s zombie population.
She moves step by step up the stairs, pushing the steel door open and moving past it into the heat. Her eyes didn't take the time to look for others as she moves with purpose towards her area which at the speed she is moving at only takes the span of a minute more or less to reach. There wasn't much she needed, only two things she wanted to grab. Quinn stops over by the crate she uses as a dresser and reaches down, first taking hold a leather hoister and strap. She puts it on and then grabs her lucky shotgun, shoving it into the hoister on her back. After that, she grabs the chain which a golden star dangles from.
The symbol itself had no real meaning but it use to belong to someone very important to her and it gave her an inner fire. The smallest things can give you an edge against giants. This was just more insurance that she could keep fighting until the next day. With that, she makes her way over to the table where they laid out the weapons every night so people could pick and choose.
Walking up, she notices three people. Near the middle of the table, you had Finn, the usual solemn expression touching his features. Not that Quinn could make fun of him for that, most of the time she shared the same sentiment. To the tall male's side were Tina and Artie, both looking worse for the wear but not any worse than anyone else in the warehouse had been at one point. Not enough to keep them out of commission anyway, both looked ready to go back out there. They seemed to be trying to talk to Finn about something, Quinn picks up the word worried at a distance.
They were probably worried about the ex-quarterback's detachment. His behavior mirrored Quinn's. You could tell when Artie was upset or concerned by the way his hands fidgeted in his lap, a look in his eye usually accompanied it. They should fret about themselves, not Finn, in all honesty. They, like the rest of the group, were stuck in this grisly situation, or rather existence when it lasts for years. They were in a relationship, something the blonde considered a fatal mistake. Look at the damage done to them already, how long would it be until one of them doesn't come back the next morning.
She knows that pain, she doesn’t want that for them.
They stop talking when Quinn gets to the table, coming to a halt on the other side of Finn, looking over the weapons. Her hands are quick to reach out and grab the short sword. "I call sword, tired of you almost stabbing yourself every night." She lifts it off the table and lets it swing at her side as she starts off towards the doors. "Let's go, only ten hours of dark."
People did that a lot when she walked up. Just stop talking.
All the words they had ready to gush out suffered a prompt death, smashing against the barricade of teeth that wasn't there a second ago but clamped down at the mere sight of her, sending the immediate area into a tense hush. Whenever she made eye contact with anyone, there was always two sentiments swirling in their pupils with the exception of Finn. The first was pity which Quinn neither needed nor wanted. It was a wasted emotion on her and well, in general. They were all in the same situation. Sure, there was different circumstances depending on the person but at the core of things, everyone was basically screwed. The second thing she saw was uncertainty; fear. The latter might be too strong of a word choice but that's what it felt like to the blonde girl. They were hesitant around her as if a sudden move or word would set her off like a loose cannon. The town was in the marring grasp of anarchy imposed by zombies, she was really the least of their worries.
When she truly thought about it, she supposed it was a wolf among sheep syndrome.
You contain the threat that knows where you sleep.
Quinn's form comes to a halt near the steel door, turning to an angle to look back over at the tall brunette who had finally picked up his weapon of choice, double barrel shotgun. Artie and Tina walk off discontent to their quarters as Finn tosses a hefty flashlight over to the blonde before making his way over, both exiting the warehouse. They move in proficient routine for two people so far removed from what they had once been to each other, personas merging into a morbid harmony. Holding a flashlight in one hand and the short sword firmly gripped in the other, they push through the door, motoring out past the splintered wooden boards placed over the exit, out into the concentrated warmth. Both are dressed accordingly to the heat, thin shirts; light colors. Quinn had played with the idea of putting on her duster which offered more protection from the undead but would only intensify the feeling of being burned alive.
Her pace dwindles for a moment when they get to the fence, watching as Finn pushes himself through wound in the steel screen and continues walking at a steady speed. After a second, she follows in fashion, coming out on the other side with a force gracing her gait to catch up. Quinn never mentions her underlining intention for patrolling every night but she was almost certain Finn knew anyway. That barely breathing possibility that Rachel was still alive and the duo would somehow stumble upon her, rescue her from whatever atrocious condition she was ensnared in. It was going on a year and some change now with no sight of the brunette beauty, not even a minor indication that she was still going; living. Everything pointed to her being dead, but that was something Quinn couldn't accept. Not without proof. If you don't fight for something, you're a goner.
A person's will to survive reflects heavily on state of mind.
"Puck thinks it's time to move our location, burn the warehouse down. Thinks him and Mike were followed the other night, might have made our position compromised."
Quinn is drawn out of her introspection by the sound of Finn's voice hitting the thick air around them. A rasp, staid chuckle only just emits from the back of her throat in response. She answers with her gaze off into the distance. "If that was the case, they would have attacked and half of us would be dead, the other half running by now." She tosses the sleek sword in the air in front of her for a second, readjusting her grip by catching it higher up on the hilt before finally looking over to Finn.
"Yeah, that's what I said. He says they were able to lose them a few blocks from the warehouse but wanted to let me know, never be too safe with life and death." Finn looks tired, actually beyond tired. He was at the edge of dead, the only way to distinguish him from the zombies was he had better dinner conversation-- only barely though.
"Which is smart but until an attack happens, we should stand still. It took awhile to find the warehouse, starting over isn't something we can go about lightly." Quinn lets her stare move from her one time boyfriend, never able to hold contact for too long. After a moment or two, she decisively flips on the flashlight in her left hand and points it towards the path in front of them as they start to reach depth in the town.
The ring of light moves over the austere landscape, searching for something, for anything but par for course, finding nothing. Silence reigns over them once again as they turn a street corner, boots pushing off against the cement of the road and propelling them forward on their indefinite destination. They usually just took streets arbitrary but memorized them as they passed, making sure they covered the whole area. Depending on how much action they had that night, they would double check roads to make sure.
A good amount of time later, a noise sounds out towards their right, off in the darkness that the light the device in her hand shed couldn't quite reach and fend off. Quinn fights the urge to rush in, fist tightening around the sword‘s handle, ready to drop it and reach for her shotgun as she turns towards Finn, words hush and whispered. "I think we got a walking target off to the right."
She waits anxiously for an answer, light sweat coating her forehead and shoulders. She’s hoping for the go ahead, itching for a fight. The taller brunette gives the nod of approval and the two shift against the shadows into the wall, turning the corner quietly, light on their feet; fighting stance easily broken into. They both halt slightly in their advance, shock staggering and seizing their features. Words mutter out both of their mouths at the same time.
"Holy shit."
The severe steel composed in the shape of a blade rests inertly against the pant of her leg, mostly idle except a slight erratic motion as result of the tick of her hand. Ten zombies seemingly birthed from the shadows of the alleyway, jaws fallen then closed in a groaning visor, are speeding their way, instantly locking on to the scent of flesh. Three zombies moving together was a rare and dangerous occurrence but fucking ten of them lurching forward as a drove was down right bloodcurdling; bleak. Finn didn't hesitant a second longer than it took to mutter, cocking his shotgun, taking aim with lethal precision and blasting right through the head of the nearest undead, sending it's brain plasma against the chipped brick walls.
This might be a good time to let you in on the condition of zombies that have taken over Lima and the world by extension. Forget everything you know from every bullshit Hollywood movie you've ever seen. They are smart. Well, they aren't super smart or anything but they kept the intelligence they had when they were twisted into being undead (you have to be bitten; their saliva mixed into your bloodstream. How fast you turn depends where you are bit. I.E being bitten on the base of the spine almost instantly shifts you into being one of the undead). They are basically mirrors of their former selves but… dead and a fuck of a lot stronger. That being said, let's get back to the action.
"Hey, that guy just blew John's head off!" One of the zombies, badly dressed in a flannel jacket yells.
It’s soon followed by cries of 'let's get him'. The fact that they hadn't noticed Quinn becomes apparent at that point, so she shifts herself even more into the shadows. Finn starts to take a few steps back, voice low and harsh. "I'm going to get as many as I can to follow me. Try to split up the numbers so we have a fucking chance in hell of surviving this." The tall brunette pauses, eyes holding tight to Quinn. "I come back looking a little less than alive, you know what to do."
Quinn nods and Finn turns around, his legs speeding him into a sprint. About five of the zombies instantaneously take off after him.
That left her with odds of five on one.
Quinn's gaze follows Finn's form until it fads into the black. She is just about to turn around when a hand grabs onto her collar and yanks her forward, tossing her into the other brick wall. Her body cracks in impact and drops to the cement below. A groan escapes her as she slowly gets to her knees, then feet. She takes a step or two into the middle of the alley, not wanting to be boxed in with a wall right behind her.
"Looks like we caught a feisty one, boys. Real hot." The zombie pauses for a moment, throwing a mock look back at his friends before continuing with his little act. "You'll be happy to know that your little boyfriend who decided to shoot John is going to be taken care of. I wouldn't want you to worry while we tear your insides out." He looks like he’s about to say more when one of the other zombies to Quinn's left interrupts.
"But the boss said to bring her and anyone of their fighting crew alive for all the trouble they've been causing."
"Well, the boss isn't here now is he, Joey." The lead zombie looks annoyed; aspirated that he’s being questioned in front of their victim. "We'll just say she killed herself trying to not become apart of our ranks. What were we going to do? Leave her body to rot? I don't think so, food is pretty scarce as it is, we needed to feed." He looks proud of the excuse he has just crafted at that moment, insisting to himself and the others that it would work. Joey looks unconvinced but says nothing more. The zombies are closing in on her now, forming a circle with no way out.
Everywhere she looks is full of scarred flesh and bloodshot eyes.
Quinn acts with no warning at that point, thrusting the sword in her hand backwards and ripping into the upper chest of a zombie. She quickly turns around and adds another slash into the zombies neck, tearing off it's head and sending it's body limp to the ground. The fallen corpse's nearest brethren promptly grabs onto the blonde's weapon and tears it from her, flinging it into the wall. They close the gap formed by the loss of their crew.
The leader invades her personal space in the next moment, face sneering towards Quinn’s - breath hot and smelling like death against her lips. "You think you're hot shit don't you. Well, you know I wonder, being able to live forever myself, how does it feel to know you are about to die?"
Fear wages war inside of Quinn's chest but her façade speaks only of indifference and blasé, standing there. Her tongue darts out and grazes over her bottom lip which is starkly chapped. "You should of asked your friend there…" The blonde lets the last word drawl for a second into a pause. "though it's apparent he wasn't expecting it huh."
The deadpan at the end seems to enthuse ire in the zombie, the emotion clouding his face. The creature's fist comes fast, the impact against Quinn’s jaw is jarring and it sends her backwards into the zombie behind her, who catches her by the arms and now holds her prisoner in a mock Jesus pose; crucified. The leader closes the distance in between them, speaking as he does so.
"We'll see how smart you get when I rip the tongue straight from your mouth. Let her go, boys."
The zombie holding her releases their grip and Quinn pushes off from it’s laughing face; leering at her with a macabre mirth. Blood swirls in her mouth, under the tongue and when it gets to a certain point, she spits it to the ground, staining the pavement below. Quinn and the leader stand toe to toe, rage carved into the ex-cheerleader’s face while light heartedness reigns supreme on the zombie's.
After a few seconds, the zombie speaks. "Go ahead, babe. Give it your best shot."
Quinn Fabray was never one to back down from a challenge.
She breaks the stare and looks around her, shrugging her shoulders before throwing out a haymaker against the zombie's face, actually taking him by surprise at the timing and force of influence behind the punch. The blonde girl doesn't falter for a second but instead begins an assault on all the undead surrounding her. Swiftly with strict precision, she pulls the shotgun from her back and fires a round into the head of a zombie. She cocks the gun and takes aim again but the numbers game is in full force and soon she’s overtaken like a fortress under siege. She is bought to the ground with massive amounts of punches to the face and stomach. When she’s low enough, they start to kick brutally into her sides.
This might truly be the end. She’s felt like she’s reached her end many times in the last year but this one felt like it could be the end. A real ending.
The blows continue and it feels as if they are just going to keep on perpetually - never ending, just slamming into her body - but all at once, they stop and relief enters her. Quinn just can't really feel it considering the damage done to her. She hears noises all around her, fighting is going on, maybe Finn had made it back to her. Gradually; painfully, she gets to her knees, holding herself up on all fours. Blood pours from her mouth and cuts on her face to the ground beneath her.
Her breathing is ragged, deep breaths every once and awhile but the pain is so much she tries to stick with short intakes of air. Her eyes feel weighed down to the point that she can't open them but when she hears voices yelling out into the air, voices that didn't belong to Finn, Quinn uses the last of her willpower mixed with adrenaline to open her eyes and look over towards where two familiar girls stand, an offensive of more zombies coming at them.
She fights gravity to get to her feet, crawling over to the nearest brick wall and using it as support to inch herself up to a standing height. Arms wrap taut over her midsection as she leans there, using all her strength just to get back to that position, eyes holding to the hardened shells of Santana and Brittany, who are looking wryly and dangerous. Quinn wants to say something before they start fighting again, Finn coming into view from around a corner, looking slightly damaged but all that came out was a gush of blood, dripping down. Maybe it was for the best she didn't speak, she'd only end up being a distraction.
It's a bizarre affection that takes you over, seeping into your bones and adding anxiety there - making you feel vaguely uncomfortable in your own skin - when you get something you've worked towards, or you find an resolution to a problem you assumed unsolvable but continued to rack your wits over for eternity. Rest was the answer yet a cop out at the same time. Death wouldn't really bring her rest, not when she's hinged her entire existence on one objective; finding Rachel. She couldn't go out like this.
Quinn readjusts herself against the rigid brick wall, positioning her left foot at an angle against the pavement as a shoddy version of a splint to keep herself vertical. Cherry stained hands hold taught against her stomach, pushing against the flesh in efforts to put an end to the acute cramps and pains shooting to and fro through her insides.
This was one of those intermittent times where she feels as bad as she looks, which if a mirror had been conveniently near, she would see how much of a muddle of blood and bruises she really was. By this point, the juggernaut of weight pushing against her eyelids not only wins the battle but supremely triumphs over her resolve and her eyes close while she hunches in place. Now only the sounds of fighting break through the fuzz protruding around her ears and inside of her head. In this sightless state, she can't tell who is winning, can only implore to a God she has given up on a long time ago that it’s her friends who end up the victors.
Her thoughts are starting to become erratic and distinctively eerie as they appear out of nowhere, rage on like a flash flood and vanish seconds later. Quinn can't keep focus on anything now, her senses being over stimulated by the amount of injuries she now sustains. She had trained her body to take a beating over time but it had never been put through this amount of trauma, the fact she is still alive let alone standing is a testament to her preparation and training method. She is shaken back into some sense of reality when she feels her arms being lifted into the air and a body forcing itself in the space next to her.
She is incapable; powerless in this current feeble state to stop whoever is next to her but the instilling fear is smothered out when she hears Finn’s familiar voice rapture into the static wrapping around her brain. Calling out 'let's get out of here quick.' On the minimal level Quinn’s mind is operating on, she makes the connection that if Finn is here and at her side, then the girls have managed to help him and everything might be alright riding on the fact that she doesn't bleed to death.
Quinn feels like screaming out when her body is removed from it's supported position against the wall but instead she bites her lip, causing more blood to pour into the thick substance filled cavern. The world is spinning behind her eyelids, she knows it; she can feel it. She wants to ask Finn to slow it down but that doesn’t sound like it’s an option. Apparently they had only won a skirmish, the attack wasn't over. The four of them move out of the alleyway and start off down the street towards the warehouse, Quinn hobbles as best as she can but it’s mostly Finn pulling the blonde along.
After a while, the pain starts to edge away into a welcome lack of sensation - a deadness taking over for agony. She can feel her grasp on consciousness weakening too, despite her desperate desire to remain in the land of the awake. The threat had not been dealt with completely and if she becomes dead weight, she doesn't want to slow the other’s down, hinder their escape. Yet the darkness is creeping into her head second by second. She hears what sounds like Santana’s voice float around her. "We almost here?"
"Yeah, just around this cor-" the word and Finn's voice die in the air. Quinn tries to say something but only the blood that had been pooling up, not words, dispenses past her lips before it all becomes too much to take.
Before it all fades to black.
//
She can't open her eyes, she can't do anything. Move anything. Quinn is in a place between worlds where worlds are worlds apart. She can hear things though, see flashes. She hears voices above her, all around her. They sound familiar, yet not at all. She wants to answer them but her voice never emits. She is sinking away from the flashes and voices, they’re becoming indistinct and weak. She submits back to the darkness.
"Whose going to tell her that Rachel is alive?"
//
Finn
When Finn wakes up, it’s the twilight hours of the morning where nether night nor day are dominant and a dull blue awashes everything. The delicate space of time where dawn rages towards them but no trace of ginger burn was evident in the sky, not yet. His eyelids lift gradually, taking a second to adjust to the in pour of muted light and colors from the high rise windows. Things hold in a state of ambiguity before finally coming into focus. The room is essentially barren, just a cot against the wall and a crate where he keeps his clothes. The only item of comfort is a blanket to fight off the cold which has been murdered by the heat wave, basically leaving said item worthless.
It’s a quiet testament to how he lives his life nowadays, taking nothing for granted or in excess. Movements are based in sluggish approach, he rises to a sitting position, tossing the blanket off the lower portion of his legs where he kicked it during sleep and let his bare feet touch the warmed surface of the floor. Clad in a pair of faded jeans, a drowsy yawn expels past his chapped lips and into the silence of the room, effectively breaking it. A glance to the watch on his wrist tells him that it’s seven in the morning.
Four hours of sleep, a personal best.
Few more moments of serene, what's the word for it? Well, it borders on contemplation but it isn't quite that level of thinking. Could call it musing or whatever. Yeah, let's go with musing, less complex the better. So, few more moments of that and he finally pushes up into a standing position. Composed steps take him over to the crate where he pulls out a plain white tee shirt, slipping it over his head with little effort before moving towards the second floor bathroom, intent on doing his usual morning routine. He hits the light switch, watches the bulb flicker on and off for a bit before deciding to stay on. The cold (sheltered from the conditions outside) tile sends a tingling awareness through his legs as he walks into the room's confines, stopping in front of the filthy and aged sink and mirror. The tall brunette hadn't recognized the reflection looking back at him in months. The image staring back at him was a new guy, different in every way possible.
Some for the better, some of the whatever else.
His eyes hold steady to the scar edged into the flesh of his cheek. Given to him for forever and a day, it's apart of him now, the new him. A physical imbuement to this loss of identity. He shakes his head dismissively at the thought, letting it merge into oblivion as he turns on the sink. Finn watches the water spit out a few times before finally flowing out smoothly. He dips his hands under the lucid stream, cupping; collecting the water to bring it back up towards his face which he leans over the sink, splashing the substance over his features.
The tall male pulls out the red toothbrush from it's holder and drenches the head in Colgate. Scrub from top to bottom, top to bottom. There was this faint enjoyment he got from brushing his teeth, an accomplished feeling of being able to combat germs and gingivitis with a tiny brush and paste. If only zombies could be vanquished so easily. He pours some water in a tiny glass and knocks it back, swishing it around before spitting it back in the sink.
One final look at the mirror, mixture of forlorn and understanding and he leaves the bathroom, hand smacking out blindly but somehow still managing to flip the switch down. Walking back into his 'bedroom', he’s awake but still overly lethargic. Finn moves over to the corner and takes a seat there, on the floor.
There is a crack in the wall. Technically, every decrepit wall sustaining this building has a crack in it but in the wall in front of him, there is a crack, a particular one in the lower section, foot from the floor, maybe. It's just about even with his line of sight when he sits in the corner on the ground. Finn could describe it from memory he's been staring at it so long. Could tell you every distinct line that shoots off from the black chasm in the middle, what escape paths they take away from the void. It's how he keeps his mind fro wandering into the past, a place you can't ever live in. Russet eyes hold tight to the fracture, thoughts focused on it. Steadily his eyes, they would move from the middle and follow the curves and cuts of a line until it reached it's ending, a dead end into solid matter.
Then they'd begin another one.
It was just a coping mechanism. A way to avoid regression yet dealing with the issues he had. He had several different ways to deal with things. His favorite, or the one that seemed to work the best was the emotional cut off from everything and everyone which yeah, was a regression in itself but left him functional. Maybe not in a social sense but in regards to how many zombies he could take out in a night, he was more than efficient for being just being this dude from Lima. He had gained a lot of experience in the last year, more than training in a gym could teach someone about hand to hand combat, weapons training. He's learned that lessons stick better when you bleed which has never been a problem for him.
Odds have never been stacked in his favor.
Or his friends… or ex-lovers, or whatever the fuck they were right now. Quinn is downstairs unconscious with Rachel at her side, guarding over her like she hasn't been missing for the last year or so. She hasn't given an explanation but no one really asks for one. They've all just let her watch over Quinn. God, she looked like shit in the aftermath of last night. Drenched in blood when they got her back to the warehouse, fading in and out. If it wasn't for Santana and Brittany coming back into town that night, both Quinn and himself would have been dead right now.
Or even worse, the walking dead.
Callous fingertips reach up and graze along the upward turned flesh of the scar marking his face. Who he was, something to learn from; a reminder. The lesson always sticks better when you bleed. He shifts slightly to gain some comfort as he continues to sit there, gaze steady on the crack, watching the lines that were a lot like the scar on his face.
Curves and cuts.
End.
Fandom: Glee; Quinn & Rachel.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee.
A/N: So this isn’t fluff. I know, it’s freaky coming from me right? What we have here is a sort of AU with zombies. If that doesn’t turn you off right away, then continue on. Not really planning on continuing on but I left it open if I (or anyone else wanted me to) wanted to continue. Unbeta'd.
Declare this an emergency.
Come on and spread a sense of urgency.
And pull us through it all.
And pull us through it all.
Apocalypse Please by Muse.
//
Quinn
The sweltering force flooding every inch of space around her was beyond the commonplace terms for temperature. This warmth that coated everything in a profuse and sticky film was immerse; It had transgressed past heat into a whole separate influence and second by second, minute by minute, eternity by eternity it was melting what was left of Quinn's reason into nothing more than a thin liquid that would soon be dissolved into nonbeing. Seemingly out of nowhere, Lima, and all of Ohio had been overtaken by this freak, brutal heat-wave and there was no shelter from it.
Sure, the warehouse had air conditioning units, large ones in fact but they were to remain dominant and unused. Seven AC units running would tip off the zombie community of Lima that maybe this warehouse they thought to be abandoned (not that they were genius` per say, they were hyper aware of loud noises) wasn't as derelict it appeared to be.
They would all probably die of heat exhaustion in the next week but the silver lining would be that there is no silver lining. If anything, their bodies would be cooked to a medium rare and would probably taste just fucking fantastic to the brainless.
Sweat surges across her skin, holding to the surface until gravity establishes it's dominance and forces the liquid to free fall to the floor. Her body maintains a constant motion, shifting from foot to foot as she circles the aged punching bag, hanging by what seemed to be a thread. The blonde lets a hook fly into the bag, then another before returning her hands to in front of her face in a guard. Her punches are muted and her breathing is steady, she has perfected the art of training in silence and it earned her the element of surprise in many instances. Another punch, she keeps circling.
Her attire is straightforward; a white tank top made of a thin material clings to her chest but allows the skin to breathe. She wears a faded pair of blue jeans with a belt wrapped around the waist. Golden strands are contained in a messy bun. Her fist connects with the bag again and forces it backwards in the impact, her other hand grabbing onto the side to secure the bag to stillness while she continues to move around it as a predator.
Quinn’s metamorphosis from vain head cheerleader to efficient zombie killing machine wasn't a quick nor smooth one. They say you are composed of everyone you've ever met as well as the events that transpire accordingly and as a whole, it's true. In Quinn’s case, she's been fashioned by one fucked up event after the other leading her to the hollow, still stylish but overly iconoclastic shell laying into this punching bag right now. You can't get up until you've hit rock bottom but that doesn't mean you'll rise the same person you were falling. You are actually guaranteed to change before the process is over; mentally and physically, you get all kinds of souvenirs. The vigorous blonde unleashes into the punching bag, blow after blow cascading into the surface of the object, reeling it backwards, shaking the bar it's mounted too.
Aggression and frustration fuel the assault.
It takes a while before her fury relents and the swings dawdle; their force less harsh. All at once her arms drop down to her side and she takes a step away from the punching bag. Her breathing is deep, sweat gleaming on her shoulders while she takes in large amounts of air. She looks disoriented or hesitant for only a moment, jade eyes moving around the area and then over to the door to take notice if anyone is around. It only lasts a flash before her wall comes back up and she makes her way over to the bench where a burgundy towel is hanging inertly, waiting for her. Calloused hands pick up the cloth and bring it up to her forehead, wiping away any substance that could be found there. As she stands there, wiping at her skin, she takes the time to look around her confines again.
The training room is in the basement, not far enough from the warmth. Sizeable; wide open space with cement floors that were meant to be gray but turned other hues with different material staining it like a canvas. The room is sectioned by beams bolted into the floor which shoot up to the ceiling and connect to the pipes that run along the structure of the building. They’re painted an ugly sea foam green, because apparently the guy who picked the color was blind or hadn't gotten enough oxygen at birth. It totally contrasted to the bleak elements of the building, very out of sync.
Quinn knew this room, knew it like the cuts tattooing the back of her hands. She spent a lot of her time down here, alone, just pounding away at the bag. She would go until the brink of fatigue and then recover before going out on patrol that night. It was a grueling routine that she created to keep herself moving forward. She could only assume she looked insane to the others, not that it mattered though. They had all modified themselves to keep existing. Some had company to hold onto at night. Others didn't.
Bringing the towel down, her eyes catch a glimpse of the old watch wrapped around her wrist. It was swiftly approaching the time to go out for the night. Quinn tosses the cloth back onto the bench as she turns away and starts to head over to the stairs, stride eager. Nothing was more of a release than taking out a few zombies. They would split off into pairs, usually chosen by preference every night. Nowadays, mostly she got paired with Finn but sometimes she would go with Mike or Puck depending. Finn and her worked well off one and other, surprisingly. Quinn contributed it to the fading memory of their dead relationship slash friendship. When the zombie outbreak happened and most of their love ones had become food for the undead, the emotional ties were severed with a starkly sharp blade. Now the only thing they had left was trying to put a dent into Lima’s zombie population.
She moves step by step up the stairs, pushing the steel door open and moving past it into the heat. Her eyes didn't take the time to look for others as she moves with purpose towards her area which at the speed she is moving at only takes the span of a minute more or less to reach. There wasn't much she needed, only two things she wanted to grab. Quinn stops over by the crate she uses as a dresser and reaches down, first taking hold a leather hoister and strap. She puts it on and then grabs her lucky shotgun, shoving it into the hoister on her back. After that, she grabs the chain which a golden star dangles from.
The symbol itself had no real meaning but it use to belong to someone very important to her and it gave her an inner fire. The smallest things can give you an edge against giants. This was just more insurance that she could keep fighting until the next day. With that, she makes her way over to the table where they laid out the weapons every night so people could pick and choose.
Walking up, she notices three people. Near the middle of the table, you had Finn, the usual solemn expression touching his features. Not that Quinn could make fun of him for that, most of the time she shared the same sentiment. To the tall male's side were Tina and Artie, both looking worse for the wear but not any worse than anyone else in the warehouse had been at one point. Not enough to keep them out of commission anyway, both looked ready to go back out there. They seemed to be trying to talk to Finn about something, Quinn picks up the word worried at a distance.
They were probably worried about the ex-quarterback's detachment. His behavior mirrored Quinn's. You could tell when Artie was upset or concerned by the way his hands fidgeted in his lap, a look in his eye usually accompanied it. They should fret about themselves, not Finn, in all honesty. They, like the rest of the group, were stuck in this grisly situation, or rather existence when it lasts for years. They were in a relationship, something the blonde considered a fatal mistake. Look at the damage done to them already, how long would it be until one of them doesn't come back the next morning.
She knows that pain, she doesn’t want that for them.
They stop talking when Quinn gets to the table, coming to a halt on the other side of Finn, looking over the weapons. Her hands are quick to reach out and grab the short sword. "I call sword, tired of you almost stabbing yourself every night." She lifts it off the table and lets it swing at her side as she starts off towards the doors. "Let's go, only ten hours of dark."
People did that a lot when she walked up. Just stop talking.
All the words they had ready to gush out suffered a prompt death, smashing against the barricade of teeth that wasn't there a second ago but clamped down at the mere sight of her, sending the immediate area into a tense hush. Whenever she made eye contact with anyone, there was always two sentiments swirling in their pupils with the exception of Finn. The first was pity which Quinn neither needed nor wanted. It was a wasted emotion on her and well, in general. They were all in the same situation. Sure, there was different circumstances depending on the person but at the core of things, everyone was basically screwed. The second thing she saw was uncertainty; fear. The latter might be too strong of a word choice but that's what it felt like to the blonde girl. They were hesitant around her as if a sudden move or word would set her off like a loose cannon. The town was in the marring grasp of anarchy imposed by zombies, she was really the least of their worries.
When she truly thought about it, she supposed it was a wolf among sheep syndrome.
You contain the threat that knows where you sleep.
Quinn's form comes to a halt near the steel door, turning to an angle to look back over at the tall brunette who had finally picked up his weapon of choice, double barrel shotgun. Artie and Tina walk off discontent to their quarters as Finn tosses a hefty flashlight over to the blonde before making his way over, both exiting the warehouse. They move in proficient routine for two people so far removed from what they had once been to each other, personas merging into a morbid harmony. Holding a flashlight in one hand and the short sword firmly gripped in the other, they push through the door, motoring out past the splintered wooden boards placed over the exit, out into the concentrated warmth. Both are dressed accordingly to the heat, thin shirts; light colors. Quinn had played with the idea of putting on her duster which offered more protection from the undead but would only intensify the feeling of being burned alive.
Her pace dwindles for a moment when they get to the fence, watching as Finn pushes himself through wound in the steel screen and continues walking at a steady speed. After a second, she follows in fashion, coming out on the other side with a force gracing her gait to catch up. Quinn never mentions her underlining intention for patrolling every night but she was almost certain Finn knew anyway. That barely breathing possibility that Rachel was still alive and the duo would somehow stumble upon her, rescue her from whatever atrocious condition she was ensnared in. It was going on a year and some change now with no sight of the brunette beauty, not even a minor indication that she was still going; living. Everything pointed to her being dead, but that was something Quinn couldn't accept. Not without proof. If you don't fight for something, you're a goner.
A person's will to survive reflects heavily on state of mind.
"Puck thinks it's time to move our location, burn the warehouse down. Thinks him and Mike were followed the other night, might have made our position compromised."
Quinn is drawn out of her introspection by the sound of Finn's voice hitting the thick air around them. A rasp, staid chuckle only just emits from the back of her throat in response. She answers with her gaze off into the distance. "If that was the case, they would have attacked and half of us would be dead, the other half running by now." She tosses the sleek sword in the air in front of her for a second, readjusting her grip by catching it higher up on the hilt before finally looking over to Finn.
"Yeah, that's what I said. He says they were able to lose them a few blocks from the warehouse but wanted to let me know, never be too safe with life and death." Finn looks tired, actually beyond tired. He was at the edge of dead, the only way to distinguish him from the zombies was he had better dinner conversation-- only barely though.
"Which is smart but until an attack happens, we should stand still. It took awhile to find the warehouse, starting over isn't something we can go about lightly." Quinn lets her stare move from her one time boyfriend, never able to hold contact for too long. After a moment or two, she decisively flips on the flashlight in her left hand and points it towards the path in front of them as they start to reach depth in the town.
The ring of light moves over the austere landscape, searching for something, for anything but par for course, finding nothing. Silence reigns over them once again as they turn a street corner, boots pushing off against the cement of the road and propelling them forward on their indefinite destination. They usually just took streets arbitrary but memorized them as they passed, making sure they covered the whole area. Depending on how much action they had that night, they would double check roads to make sure.
A good amount of time later, a noise sounds out towards their right, off in the darkness that the light the device in her hand shed couldn't quite reach and fend off. Quinn fights the urge to rush in, fist tightening around the sword‘s handle, ready to drop it and reach for her shotgun as she turns towards Finn, words hush and whispered. "I think we got a walking target off to the right."
She waits anxiously for an answer, light sweat coating her forehead and shoulders. She’s hoping for the go ahead, itching for a fight. The taller brunette gives the nod of approval and the two shift against the shadows into the wall, turning the corner quietly, light on their feet; fighting stance easily broken into. They both halt slightly in their advance, shock staggering and seizing their features. Words mutter out both of their mouths at the same time.
"Holy shit."
The severe steel composed in the shape of a blade rests inertly against the pant of her leg, mostly idle except a slight erratic motion as result of the tick of her hand. Ten zombies seemingly birthed from the shadows of the alleyway, jaws fallen then closed in a groaning visor, are speeding their way, instantly locking on to the scent of flesh. Three zombies moving together was a rare and dangerous occurrence but fucking ten of them lurching forward as a drove was down right bloodcurdling; bleak. Finn didn't hesitant a second longer than it took to mutter, cocking his shotgun, taking aim with lethal precision and blasting right through the head of the nearest undead, sending it's brain plasma against the chipped brick walls.
This might be a good time to let you in on the condition of zombies that have taken over Lima and the world by extension. Forget everything you know from every bullshit Hollywood movie you've ever seen. They are smart. Well, they aren't super smart or anything but they kept the intelligence they had when they were twisted into being undead (you have to be bitten; their saliva mixed into your bloodstream. How fast you turn depends where you are bit. I.E being bitten on the base of the spine almost instantly shifts you into being one of the undead). They are basically mirrors of their former selves but… dead and a fuck of a lot stronger. That being said, let's get back to the action.
"Hey, that guy just blew John's head off!" One of the zombies, badly dressed in a flannel jacket yells.
It’s soon followed by cries of 'let's get him'. The fact that they hadn't noticed Quinn becomes apparent at that point, so she shifts herself even more into the shadows. Finn starts to take a few steps back, voice low and harsh. "I'm going to get as many as I can to follow me. Try to split up the numbers so we have a fucking chance in hell of surviving this." The tall brunette pauses, eyes holding tight to Quinn. "I come back looking a little less than alive, you know what to do."
Quinn nods and Finn turns around, his legs speeding him into a sprint. About five of the zombies instantaneously take off after him.
That left her with odds of five on one.
Quinn's gaze follows Finn's form until it fads into the black. She is just about to turn around when a hand grabs onto her collar and yanks her forward, tossing her into the other brick wall. Her body cracks in impact and drops to the cement below. A groan escapes her as she slowly gets to her knees, then feet. She takes a step or two into the middle of the alley, not wanting to be boxed in with a wall right behind her.
"Looks like we caught a feisty one, boys. Real hot." The zombie pauses for a moment, throwing a mock look back at his friends before continuing with his little act. "You'll be happy to know that your little boyfriend who decided to shoot John is going to be taken care of. I wouldn't want you to worry while we tear your insides out." He looks like he’s about to say more when one of the other zombies to Quinn's left interrupts.
"But the boss said to bring her and anyone of their fighting crew alive for all the trouble they've been causing."
"Well, the boss isn't here now is he, Joey." The lead zombie looks annoyed; aspirated that he’s being questioned in front of their victim. "We'll just say she killed herself trying to not become apart of our ranks. What were we going to do? Leave her body to rot? I don't think so, food is pretty scarce as it is, we needed to feed." He looks proud of the excuse he has just crafted at that moment, insisting to himself and the others that it would work. Joey looks unconvinced but says nothing more. The zombies are closing in on her now, forming a circle with no way out.
Everywhere she looks is full of scarred flesh and bloodshot eyes.
Quinn acts with no warning at that point, thrusting the sword in her hand backwards and ripping into the upper chest of a zombie. She quickly turns around and adds another slash into the zombies neck, tearing off it's head and sending it's body limp to the ground. The fallen corpse's nearest brethren promptly grabs onto the blonde's weapon and tears it from her, flinging it into the wall. They close the gap formed by the loss of their crew.
The leader invades her personal space in the next moment, face sneering towards Quinn’s - breath hot and smelling like death against her lips. "You think you're hot shit don't you. Well, you know I wonder, being able to live forever myself, how does it feel to know you are about to die?"
Fear wages war inside of Quinn's chest but her façade speaks only of indifference and blasé, standing there. Her tongue darts out and grazes over her bottom lip which is starkly chapped. "You should of asked your friend there…" The blonde lets the last word drawl for a second into a pause. "though it's apparent he wasn't expecting it huh."
The deadpan at the end seems to enthuse ire in the zombie, the emotion clouding his face. The creature's fist comes fast, the impact against Quinn’s jaw is jarring and it sends her backwards into the zombie behind her, who catches her by the arms and now holds her prisoner in a mock Jesus pose; crucified. The leader closes the distance in between them, speaking as he does so.
"We'll see how smart you get when I rip the tongue straight from your mouth. Let her go, boys."
The zombie holding her releases their grip and Quinn pushes off from it’s laughing face; leering at her with a macabre mirth. Blood swirls in her mouth, under the tongue and when it gets to a certain point, she spits it to the ground, staining the pavement below. Quinn and the leader stand toe to toe, rage carved into the ex-cheerleader’s face while light heartedness reigns supreme on the zombie's.
After a few seconds, the zombie speaks. "Go ahead, babe. Give it your best shot."
Quinn Fabray was never one to back down from a challenge.
She breaks the stare and looks around her, shrugging her shoulders before throwing out a haymaker against the zombie's face, actually taking him by surprise at the timing and force of influence behind the punch. The blonde girl doesn't falter for a second but instead begins an assault on all the undead surrounding her. Swiftly with strict precision, she pulls the shotgun from her back and fires a round into the head of a zombie. She cocks the gun and takes aim again but the numbers game is in full force and soon she’s overtaken like a fortress under siege. She is bought to the ground with massive amounts of punches to the face and stomach. When she’s low enough, they start to kick brutally into her sides.
This might truly be the end. She’s felt like she’s reached her end many times in the last year but this one felt like it could be the end. A real ending.
The blows continue and it feels as if they are just going to keep on perpetually - never ending, just slamming into her body - but all at once, they stop and relief enters her. Quinn just can't really feel it considering the damage done to her. She hears noises all around her, fighting is going on, maybe Finn had made it back to her. Gradually; painfully, she gets to her knees, holding herself up on all fours. Blood pours from her mouth and cuts on her face to the ground beneath her.
Her breathing is ragged, deep breaths every once and awhile but the pain is so much she tries to stick with short intakes of air. Her eyes feel weighed down to the point that she can't open them but when she hears voices yelling out into the air, voices that didn't belong to Finn, Quinn uses the last of her willpower mixed with adrenaline to open her eyes and look over towards where two familiar girls stand, an offensive of more zombies coming at them.
She fights gravity to get to her feet, crawling over to the nearest brick wall and using it as support to inch herself up to a standing height. Arms wrap taut over her midsection as she leans there, using all her strength just to get back to that position, eyes holding to the hardened shells of Santana and Brittany, who are looking wryly and dangerous. Quinn wants to say something before they start fighting again, Finn coming into view from around a corner, looking slightly damaged but all that came out was a gush of blood, dripping down. Maybe it was for the best she didn't speak, she'd only end up being a distraction.
It's a bizarre affection that takes you over, seeping into your bones and adding anxiety there - making you feel vaguely uncomfortable in your own skin - when you get something you've worked towards, or you find an resolution to a problem you assumed unsolvable but continued to rack your wits over for eternity. Rest was the answer yet a cop out at the same time. Death wouldn't really bring her rest, not when she's hinged her entire existence on one objective; finding Rachel. She couldn't go out like this.
Quinn readjusts herself against the rigid brick wall, positioning her left foot at an angle against the pavement as a shoddy version of a splint to keep herself vertical. Cherry stained hands hold taught against her stomach, pushing against the flesh in efforts to put an end to the acute cramps and pains shooting to and fro through her insides.
This was one of those intermittent times where she feels as bad as she looks, which if a mirror had been conveniently near, she would see how much of a muddle of blood and bruises she really was. By this point, the juggernaut of weight pushing against her eyelids not only wins the battle but supremely triumphs over her resolve and her eyes close while she hunches in place. Now only the sounds of fighting break through the fuzz protruding around her ears and inside of her head. In this sightless state, she can't tell who is winning, can only implore to a God she has given up on a long time ago that it’s her friends who end up the victors.
Her thoughts are starting to become erratic and distinctively eerie as they appear out of nowhere, rage on like a flash flood and vanish seconds later. Quinn can't keep focus on anything now, her senses being over stimulated by the amount of injuries she now sustains. She had trained her body to take a beating over time but it had never been put through this amount of trauma, the fact she is still alive let alone standing is a testament to her preparation and training method. She is shaken back into some sense of reality when she feels her arms being lifted into the air and a body forcing itself in the space next to her.
She is incapable; powerless in this current feeble state to stop whoever is next to her but the instilling fear is smothered out when she hears Finn’s familiar voice rapture into the static wrapping around her brain. Calling out 'let's get out of here quick.' On the minimal level Quinn’s mind is operating on, she makes the connection that if Finn is here and at her side, then the girls have managed to help him and everything might be alright riding on the fact that she doesn't bleed to death.
Quinn feels like screaming out when her body is removed from it's supported position against the wall but instead she bites her lip, causing more blood to pour into the thick substance filled cavern. The world is spinning behind her eyelids, she knows it; she can feel it. She wants to ask Finn to slow it down but that doesn’t sound like it’s an option. Apparently they had only won a skirmish, the attack wasn't over. The four of them move out of the alleyway and start off down the street towards the warehouse, Quinn hobbles as best as she can but it’s mostly Finn pulling the blonde along.
After a while, the pain starts to edge away into a welcome lack of sensation - a deadness taking over for agony. She can feel her grasp on consciousness weakening too, despite her desperate desire to remain in the land of the awake. The threat had not been dealt with completely and if she becomes dead weight, she doesn't want to slow the other’s down, hinder their escape. Yet the darkness is creeping into her head second by second. She hears what sounds like Santana’s voice float around her. "We almost here?"
"Yeah, just around this cor-" the word and Finn's voice die in the air. Quinn tries to say something but only the blood that had been pooling up, not words, dispenses past her lips before it all becomes too much to take.
Before it all fades to black.
//
She can't open her eyes, she can't do anything. Move anything. Quinn is in a place between worlds where worlds are worlds apart. She can hear things though, see flashes. She hears voices above her, all around her. They sound familiar, yet not at all. She wants to answer them but her voice never emits. She is sinking away from the flashes and voices, they’re becoming indistinct and weak. She submits back to the darkness.
"Whose going to tell her that Rachel is alive?"
//
Finn
When Finn wakes up, it’s the twilight hours of the morning where nether night nor day are dominant and a dull blue awashes everything. The delicate space of time where dawn rages towards them but no trace of ginger burn was evident in the sky, not yet. His eyelids lift gradually, taking a second to adjust to the in pour of muted light and colors from the high rise windows. Things hold in a state of ambiguity before finally coming into focus. The room is essentially barren, just a cot against the wall and a crate where he keeps his clothes. The only item of comfort is a blanket to fight off the cold which has been murdered by the heat wave, basically leaving said item worthless.
It’s a quiet testament to how he lives his life nowadays, taking nothing for granted or in excess. Movements are based in sluggish approach, he rises to a sitting position, tossing the blanket off the lower portion of his legs where he kicked it during sleep and let his bare feet touch the warmed surface of the floor. Clad in a pair of faded jeans, a drowsy yawn expels past his chapped lips and into the silence of the room, effectively breaking it. A glance to the watch on his wrist tells him that it’s seven in the morning.
Four hours of sleep, a personal best.
Few more moments of serene, what's the word for it? Well, it borders on contemplation but it isn't quite that level of thinking. Could call it musing or whatever. Yeah, let's go with musing, less complex the better. So, few more moments of that and he finally pushes up into a standing position. Composed steps take him over to the crate where he pulls out a plain white tee shirt, slipping it over his head with little effort before moving towards the second floor bathroom, intent on doing his usual morning routine. He hits the light switch, watches the bulb flicker on and off for a bit before deciding to stay on. The cold (sheltered from the conditions outside) tile sends a tingling awareness through his legs as he walks into the room's confines, stopping in front of the filthy and aged sink and mirror. The tall brunette hadn't recognized the reflection looking back at him in months. The image staring back at him was a new guy, different in every way possible.
Some for the better, some of the whatever else.
His eyes hold steady to the scar edged into the flesh of his cheek. Given to him for forever and a day, it's apart of him now, the new him. A physical imbuement to this loss of identity. He shakes his head dismissively at the thought, letting it merge into oblivion as he turns on the sink. Finn watches the water spit out a few times before finally flowing out smoothly. He dips his hands under the lucid stream, cupping; collecting the water to bring it back up towards his face which he leans over the sink, splashing the substance over his features.
The tall male pulls out the red toothbrush from it's holder and drenches the head in Colgate. Scrub from top to bottom, top to bottom. There was this faint enjoyment he got from brushing his teeth, an accomplished feeling of being able to combat germs and gingivitis with a tiny brush and paste. If only zombies could be vanquished so easily. He pours some water in a tiny glass and knocks it back, swishing it around before spitting it back in the sink.
One final look at the mirror, mixture of forlorn and understanding and he leaves the bathroom, hand smacking out blindly but somehow still managing to flip the switch down. Walking back into his 'bedroom', he’s awake but still overly lethargic. Finn moves over to the corner and takes a seat there, on the floor.
There is a crack in the wall. Technically, every decrepit wall sustaining this building has a crack in it but in the wall in front of him, there is a crack, a particular one in the lower section, foot from the floor, maybe. It's just about even with his line of sight when he sits in the corner on the ground. Finn could describe it from memory he's been staring at it so long. Could tell you every distinct line that shoots off from the black chasm in the middle, what escape paths they take away from the void. It's how he keeps his mind fro wandering into the past, a place you can't ever live in. Russet eyes hold tight to the fracture, thoughts focused on it. Steadily his eyes, they would move from the middle and follow the curves and cuts of a line until it reached it's ending, a dead end into solid matter.
Then they'd begin another one.
It was just a coping mechanism. A way to avoid regression yet dealing with the issues he had. He had several different ways to deal with things. His favorite, or the one that seemed to work the best was the emotional cut off from everything and everyone which yeah, was a regression in itself but left him functional. Maybe not in a social sense but in regards to how many zombies he could take out in a night, he was more than efficient for being just being this dude from Lima. He had gained a lot of experience in the last year, more than training in a gym could teach someone about hand to hand combat, weapons training. He's learned that lessons stick better when you bleed which has never been a problem for him.
Odds have never been stacked in his favor.
Or his friends… or ex-lovers, or whatever the fuck they were right now. Quinn is downstairs unconscious with Rachel at her side, guarding over her like she hasn't been missing for the last year or so. She hasn't given an explanation but no one really asks for one. They've all just let her watch over Quinn. God, she looked like shit in the aftermath of last night. Drenched in blood when they got her back to the warehouse, fading in and out. If it wasn't for Santana and Brittany coming back into town that night, both Quinn and himself would have been dead right now.
Or even worse, the walking dead.
Callous fingertips reach up and graze along the upward turned flesh of the scar marking his face. Who he was, something to learn from; a reminder. The lesson always sticks better when you bleed. He shifts slightly to gain some comfort as he continues to sit there, gaze steady on the crack, watching the lines that were a lot like the scar on his face.
Curves and cuts.
End.