7pm-8pm

It should figure that the night before the world was to end there would be limitless opportunities. Drugs, sex, rock and roll – those were the obvious choice of youth. There were the underground hideaways where four years of collective work resulted in stockpiles of survival items stowed in a cavernous structure below the ground. One option was always to join the cults committing to an early death with cyanide and control. There were the Bible thumpers preaching rapture and collecting in churches across the world to pray for forgiveness. Most people wouldn't think about it, but there were also the countless run-of-the-mill folks, with families and kids - maybe a pet - who were eating their last meals together, tucking their kids in for a sleep from which they wouldn't wake. Tears had run dry months earlier, after hearing the final, devastating news.

It had all boiled down to three philosophical camps - the Realists, the Believers, and the Fatalists. Four years ago, when The Prediction was confirmed with a 78% accuracy rating, the camps had formed. Each had its own subsets, cults, and extremists. Each saw transience from one camp to another and back again. Each had dealt with its own devastating blows to credence, only to make the slow journey to acceptance once again. One day, the Realists were media darlings, the next day, the Believers. (The Fatalists, though, well they got their own network, so they could spin the media whichever way they chose.) In the end - which is to say now- these were the big three. These were the only camps that remained.

New York City was a city of Realists. It was tradition, really, more than anything else. Sure, it had its share of Believers and its share of Fatalists, but Santana estimated that what put New York City on the map was a realism that dated back to the Revolutionary War, when George Washington and his soldiers recognized the strength of the British Army and retreated, living to fight another day.

These days, being a Realist didn't mean living to fight another day. That philosophy was for Believers. Realists had recognized months ago, when the President broadcasted The Announcement across every television screen in the nation, that there would be no hope for salvation, no chance to fight nature. Unlike the Fatalists, who believed that the human race was finally getting the predicted punishment for its sins, the Realists accepted the terms of scientific discovery. If science said there was no hope for survival, then there was no hope for survival.

Ages ago, before the official philosophy of Realism, a realist would have recognized that global warming really did exist. A realist would have worked to alleviate the conditions of global warming - researching and adapting alternate fuel sources, reducing energy use, and recycling materials. Just like the realists of yore, today's Realists had made those same life-saving attempts. Fruitlessly. A realist believed until only a sliver of hope remained. A realist recognized that a sliver of hope really meant no hope at all.

Santana began her graduate courses in history at Columbia just as the three camps were coming to fruition. She'd left her specialization in the Studies of Women and Gender to immerse herself in the history of the now. She'd presented her first graduate research paper on comparative philosophical movements in Contemporary and Colonial Ages. It bored most people, and aside from Quinn, the peons from high school would never believe that the Santana Lopez was such a brain, but she'd finally found something she loved.

She'd received a grant for her research - from the Believers. She'd been torn that day. She wasn't a Believer. But the Realists had begun to divide their camp more sharply from the Believers, and that meant halting the funding of any research. According to the Realists, what good was research if the world was certainly ending? Santana didn't care what the Realists thought when it came to her work. It was her only love. She'd side with the Believers for the moment if it meant getting paid an extra few bucks to buy groceries and partially enjoy the days leading to the end.

Believers, naturally, were another story. They grasped to the ever-diminishing number of The Prediction. It had begun at 22%, and then shifted a year later to 15%. Now it weighed in at a meager 9%. Believers always looked at the numbers in terms of survival. Fruitless meant nothing to a Believer's vocabulary. Hope survived, like the Believers knew the human race would. Believers, of course, were the last to stop working. Even when the bus routes stopped, Believers walked to work. Only when office buildings had closed, dust collecting on computers and swivel chairs, did the Believers stop their daily routines. Yet, with the end of one daily routine came the beginning of another. For the last months, Believers operated most of the hospitals, care homes, and small stores. They catered to the needs of the community. One day, Believers were sure, their labors would be commended as they kept a despairing civilization alive.

Aside from pocketing their generous donation, Santana had never once considered the Believers' philosophies. How could someone argue with hard data? That, and the idea of being so completely selfless, baffled her. She couldn't think of a single instance in her life when she'd been so selfless. Maybe when her brow furrowed and her tongue worked against the heat between a girl's thighs? Certainly not. She'd always expected something in return. Maybe when she'd agreed to split the rent 60-40 with Quinn Fabray four years ago? No, Fabray was her oldest and sometimes, she thought, only friend. That extra 10% wasn't selflessness; it was a guarantee. They were the kind of friends who told secrets to one another when they were drunk and alone, and the kind of friends who told each other's secrets when drunk and en masse. In their junior year of high school, Santana had slapped Quinn in the hallway for divulging the secret she'd assumed Quinn would be smarter than to reveal. It took a few months, but a mutual Rachel Berry insult had brought them back together. That extra 10% in rent forced apologies within 24 hours, rather than two months. It guaranteed the transplant family they'd come to appreciate in the top floor of their brownstone.

Her relationship with Quinn had only strengthened in the years since she'd moved to New York City. When she was accepted into Columbia's Ph.D. program, Quinn was her first phone call. Family was out at that point. Quinn had dropped out of Yale at The Prediction and lived hand to mouth in the city since then, usually working a few jobs at once before breaking down and starting all over again. Santana didn't want to lord academics over Quinn too heavily, so they talked mostly about Quinn's life in the city. When she slipped in that she'd been accepted, she was met with silence. After about a minute, she proposed that they move in together.

It was easy enough. Quinn arranged a weekend's worth of apartment showings and Santana slipped away from Ann Arbor for a weekend to prepare for grad school. They hugged for a second too long in the terminal at Penn Station. Quinn pulled away first and pushed a strand of blue hair behind her ear. Santana had been tempted to fall into her old routine of high school insults, but she'd learned through their time apart that Quinn had to be her exception. Somewhere between leaving prank calls about consignment maternity clothes in her freshman year of college and commiserating about the loss of family in their sophomore year, Santana had realized that she was Quinn's only support system. And as a support system (even from hundreds of miles away), she would be the reason for the final crack if she didn't stop.

Living together, it was natural that a few slip-ups would happen. But, Santana couldn't stop the train of insults the morning after a mohawked boy emerged from Quinn's room. It had just been so easy. Quinn smiled at first, laughed with her. Until, "Pregnant again, huh? That's a pretty bad move when the world's ending, Q." Truth was, she was still drunk from the night before. Truth was, she was jealous at Quinn's ease in allowing someone to slip into her bed – into her life. Truth was, she wasn't acutely aware until that exact moment how Quinn's pregnancy haunted her. The conversation etched in her memory:

Green streaks tussled with blonde and wisped against Quinn's forehead. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Santana remembered feeling like she was going to vomit at any moment.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

Santana closed her eyes, willing the nausea to disappear. Quinn's fingers clasped against her arm and shook her.

"Look at me, Santana. Look at me." Her fingers burned into Santana's clammy skin.

"Do you know what I did to her? Look at me!" Santana hadn't seen Quinn purge her emotions like this since high school when her world collided with her ideals and her brain had gone haywire. "I brought a child into a world that's ending. She's innocent and she doesn't deserve this life. And then I let her go. And then I just gave up on her completely, because I can't explain how imperfect this world is to something so perfect. I haven't written her since Yale, Santana. She called me and I never answered."

Santana's eyes tore away as they filled with tears. The nausea grew stronger. She slid in her gym socks as she ran toward the bathroom. Her hair fell in her face as she threw up. Quinn's hands were pulling her hair back.

"I feel like that every day," Quinn sighed. Santana rested her cheek against the toilet seat.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn. I'm so sorry," Santana had choked between sobs.

They hadn't spoken of Beth since then. That was when Santana realized that Quinn skirted the Fatalist philosophy – Quinn so thoroughly blamed herself for her own demise.

…..

"Dinner time?" Santana's esophagus twisted. Tonight, dinner wouldn't make it out of the pot and onto the table. It would sit on the stovetop, stewing into a block of beans and whatever else was in their cabinet. Looking at Quinn's forlorn expression, she had recognized the same.

"Yeah."

Santana climbed the counter and pulled the remaining cans out of the cupboard while Quinn filled the pot with half a container of bottled water. It had been about two weeks since the days of running water in their neighborhood. Other neighborhoods still enjoyed the luxury, but when a nearby pipe burst, there were no crews available to fix the mess. The night it turned off, she and Quinn had quenched their thirst with a ten-dollar bottle of tequila. When they'd heard the first crash of a window at the mostly boarded-up drugstore across the street, their moral compasses had already taken the turn far enough south to join in and swipe four cases of bottled water. Carrying four cases of bottled water to the top of a walk-up apartment while drunk on ten-dollar tequila provided plenty of excitement in itself that night, as well.

They'd made it a habit about once a week to make a "family dinner." Usually, that meant Quinn, Santana, and a few friends cooking, drinking wine, and playing a board game. Tonight, most of their New York City transplant friends had traveled back to their hometowns to spend the evening with family. Tonight, they'd retreat to their nuclear New York family - their only family.

Thanks to Sapphic Charmer