Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Glee. It belongs to it's... owners? This is just for entertainment purposes. I also don't own the completely wonderful character of Mollie Hummel. She belongs to Keitorin Asthore, who is letting me borrow her for a little while. She's so awesome.
"Mr. President?" The voice is far off, distant, and it does nothing to shake him from his haze. He registers the sound of a snap; Admiral Dylans is attempting to seize his attention again. He continues to stare blankly at the screen at the end of the table, where pictures of nuclear missiles and warheads slide across the screen.
"Sir," A sharp voice finally captures his attention, this time coming from Colonel Emerson. The President shakes his head, clearing his cloudy mind, and he finally realizes where he is and why he's here.
"Yes, sir, please continue," He doesn't sound like himself; his tone is too quiet and unfamiliar.
"The Soviet War Machine has mobilized tremendously in the past few months. We've been keeping track of them for a while now, and we've noticed some changes in the past few days." He gestures to the packet of information that everyone at the table is holding, and everyone turns to the page he's on. "As you can see, they're planning something."
We're on the edge of the point of no return, The President thinks, wiping his clammy forehead with the back of his sweaty hand.
"I don't want to be the one to start the end of the world. I don't want to start the war." The President speaks, surprising quite a few people at the table.
"The war's already started, sir," A young man, Samuelson, declares powerfully, raising his voice more than necessary. "The whole world's at war, and everyone's waiting on either Russia or us to deal the final punch. If we don't make a move now, we've got a mighty strong storm whipping at our windows."
"They'll back off," Dylans argues, pointedly staring at Samuelson and Emerson. "They've backed off before; they'll do it again."
"Dylans, you and I both know that's shit! We either sit and wait, or we show them what we've got!" The two men begin to argue, but the President isn't listening to either of them.
"Sir, the decision belongs to you now."
No! I don't want this! I need more time. I need to take another fishing trip where I can just sit and forget about all this. I need…
I need to make a decision. Now. Right now.
"Yes. We go to Defcon Three."
The decision is made. The President feels numb. The men in the room immediately get set to work, preparing for the war that they'd started. He stays sitting in his chair, wanting more than anything to be home. To kiss his wife on the cheek and clap his son on the back and not be the President anymore, because holy hell it's really getting to him.
"Sir, we need to talk about something." Dylans is standing over him, his glasses reflecting the President's hallow face back to him. "Talons."
"It's not time for that yet," His stomach twists in knots, his mouth growing dry as cotton. "Not nearly time for that yet."
"It is time for that, sir. You're going to be much more safe at the Airborne Command Center. The first target is going to be the roof of the White House, and we've already relocated your wife and son to the Basement."
"Why can't I join them?" The President challenges, but he knows the reason. The Russians probably know where it is, and he's much more important than his family. Dylans dismisses the question anyway, choosing to continue to elaborate on Talons.
"There will be an Air force officer with a briefcase hand-cuffed to his wrist. Do you know your codes?"
"Yes, I know them." They were the first things he'd learned after taking office. "I won't have to use them, will I?"
"We hope not. But if you do, just remember that, by that time, the America we love is gone." He squeezes the President's shoulder, probably in an attempt to make him feel better.
"The point of no return."
They're fighting again.
The little boy covers his ears and curls into a fetal position, surrounded by blankets on the bottom bunk of his bunk bed. Their words, distorted and muffled by the closed door and her hands, are scathing and mean. His mother is angry about something; she's always angry about something.
"Tom, I can't deal with this anymore!" His mother screams, and the boy hears a crash, most likely from something she's thrown at his father.
"What can't you deal with, Jamie? You can't deal with being a mother? You can't deal with helping me take care of our son?" The boy takes his pillow and puts it over his head. He doesn't want to hear them fight anymore.
"Tom, it's not my fault!" His mother screams, and instead of a crash, there's a loud crack as the mirror in the hallway breaks.
"Yes, it is!" His father says forcefully. "You are the one who goes out drinking half the time, while I'm the one who has to take care of him!" There's a silence, and the little boy can tell that both of his parents are trying to think of what to say next, thinking what would hurt the other worst. His mother speaks first.
"He's a freak!"
The silence is deafening. The boy's eyes grow hot with tears, but he doesn't let them fall. Only babies cry. Suddenly the door to his bedroom flies open. There's a soft light behind the boy's still-closed eyelids. Heavy footsteps creak across the floor, stopping in front of his bed. The boy keeps his eyes shut tight, wishing it all was just a dream.
"C'mon, kiddo," His father speaks, shaking him out of sleep. The boy sits up, looking at his father silently. "We're going to get out of here. Grab a bag with some clothes and things."
His father waits at the door while the boy hurriedly stuffs shorts and shirts into a little blue backpack. He stops to grab his teddy bear, hoping his father doesn't scold him for wanting it even though he's almost eight and a half years old.
"Where the hell do you think you're going to go?" His mother's voice sounds from the hall outside his bedroom.
"Away from here. If you ever get your shit together, maybe we'll come back." The boy finishes packing his things, and his father holds out a hand for him to take. His little sock-covered feet pad across the floor to his father, grabbing onto his hand as tight as he can.
His mother is silent as they walk through the house to the garage. The boy looks around and sees the smashed mirror and the other things his mother had thrown at his father. They get to the garage and his father picks him up, balancing him on his hip as he walks through the cold room to their old, green car. His father sets him in the backseat, laying a blanket over him and buckling his seat belt. He sees his mother standing in the doorway, her dark eyes angry, yet sad at the same time.
"Mama," He says in his sweet, little-boy voice, looking at her with eyes that are way too old for his age. "I forgive you."
They drive away into the night, the streets empty and cold.
"Daddy, where are we going?" He asks his father, who is gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled fingers.
"Far away from here, kid." His father's voice is tired and weary, and the little boy doesn't blame him; it's been a long night.
"Is mama right about me? Am I really a freak?" His voice is tiny, and his father whips around to look at him faster than should be safe when going at this speed down the street.
"No, Blaine. You are not a freak. No matter what anyone says, you are completely normal." Blaine hugs his bear tighter to his chest, nodding his curly head at his father's words. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Kill him, Bobby! Tear him to pieces!"
"Pull his arm off and beat him with the bloody stump!"
"Get him, Bobby!"
The entire gym is hot and humid from the amount of people that are shoved in there to watch the boxing final. It's loud, and the two boys who are fighting barely hear a word the crowd calls out.
Bobby Earles, a local boy, is seventeen years old and built like a horse. He's stocky, his arms the size of a normal boy's thighs, and short. He's best a jabbing and punching, but he isn't very nimble on his feet. The boy he's fighting is a whole different story.
Finn Hudson is six-foot-four and eighteen years old. He's gangly and slightly awkward, and he knows that he's better suited for basketball or football than boxing, but it's easy money for him to send to his mother back in Ohio. The crowd calls him Frankenteen. He likes it; he thinks it suits him.
Bobby lunges at Finn, jabbing him in the ribs with the force of a truck. Finn doubles over for a moment, making Bobby think he's more hurt than he actually is. As soon as Bobby turns around to face the crowd, Finn kicks his legs out from under him. The boy lands with a hard smack that reverberates throughout the entire gym. Finn flashes a quick lop-sided grin before kicking him in the ribs. Bobby cowers on the ground for a moment before struggling to his feet and hitting Finn right in the face.
Finn falls to his knees, touching what feels like a broken nose. Bobby lands a kick right in his mid-section, expelling all the air from Finn's lungs. Bobby Earles crouches, picking up Finn's body into an airplane spin. Finn stays still, knowing that Bobby will get tired soon enough and Finn will be able to make his move.
There's a sound like a gunshot that echoes through the entire gym, rendering the crowd silent except for a select few men who holler and shout as Bobby collapses to the man. Finn drops to the ground hard, knowing the sound of a popped bone.
Bobby lies on the ground, clutching at his knee and screaming. The referee is dormant, not knowing what to do as Finn lays silent next to the very injured boy. Finn struggles to his feet, dodging the buckets of popcorn and drinks that are being flung at him from the crowd.
"Disqualify me!" He shouts to the ref over the noise, and the man looks at him with a gob-smacked look on his face.
"What?"
"Get that kid to a doctor!" Finn roars over the crowd, and the exclamation pushes the referee into action. He makes a crisscross hand gesture that means that Finn is disqualified, and calls for the medic to come over and help Bobby. Finn jumps down off the mat and is escorted to his dressing room by a flank of policemen.
In his 'dressing room', which consists of a locker and a bench, he cleans up the blood from his nose and then sets it, crying out even though he's done it a hundred times before. He changes out of his boxing shorts, instead choosing to put on a pair of ratty old sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He hoists his duffel over his shoulder, wincing as his body protests.
He leaves the high school, pulling on a hat and sunglasses as he lumbers to his old pick-up truck, hoping none of the fucking hicks that live in this town recognize his face and attack him like they did back in South Carolina. He'd hoped that the people in Iowa would be nice. He was wrong. He's pretty sure he still has popcorn and Coca Cola stuck in his close-cropped hair.
As soon as he pulls out of the parking lot, he's already checking his cell-phone to see if his mother had called. The last time he talked to her was a week ago, and the conversation consisted of yes, I'm taking care of myself and no, I haven't found a girlfriend yet. It's getting exhausting.
As he drives down the lonely Iowa road he thinks. He thinks about how he skipped supper, how much his nose hurts, how delicious a grilled cheese sandwich sounds right now, and why the hell are those shooting stars red, and HOLY SHIT WAS THAT A MUSHROOM CLOUD!
He slams on the brakes of the dusty old truck, and he screeches to a stop just as the fire engulfs him.
"Are we there yet?" A high-pitched voice questions and Burt Hummel glances into his rearview mirror to look at his son in the backseat.
"Almost, baby, it's just a little farther." Burt's wife answers kindly, smiling at the small eight-year-old with bright teeth. The little boy crosses his arms, squeezing his Ariel plush doll and sticking out his lower lip.
"I'm bored." He declares, staring out the window moodily. He watches as the endless cornfields whizz by.
"Do you want to listen to some music, baby?" Mollie Hummel questions, and Kurt's eyes snap to hers quickly, his entire head nodding furiously.
"Mommy, play the Beatsles!" He commands.
"It's the Beatles, honey." Mollie corrects kindly, and he waves his hand in a fashion that Burt thinks seems way too old for an eight-year-old. Mollie cracks a smile and pops the old, worn, CD in the player. Burt smiles as his beautiful wife and little boy both automatically start singing along with identical voices. Granted, Mollie's is a little more developed, but Kurt's is just as sweet.
They continue down Highway 27, driving to Burt's family's house for the weekend. It's nearly nine o' clock, and Burt hopes they get there soon. Kurt's pretty cranky when he's tired.
A small beep sounds from the dashboard, and Burt notices that the gas tank is nearly empty.
"Shoot," He says to himself, trying to think if he'd seen a sign for a gas station anywhere near by. Just as the thought crosses his mind, they pass a sign that declares
"Gas! Food! Drinks! One quarter mile, Shuester's Station"
He silently thanks God. He can't imagine running out of gas in the middle of nowhere like this.
"We're gonna stop for gas in a little bit, Kurt. Do you need to go to the bathroom?" Burt looks at his son in the rearview mirror, shaking his head adamantly. "Well, you're gonna try anyway. I don't know when we'll see another station." He pulls the old station wagon into the drive, stopping at the gas pump.
"I'll fill up, you go take Kurt inside." Molly tells Burt, unbuckling Kurt from the backseat. He clutches the Ariel doll to his chest, taking his daddy's big hand and following him into the large gas station. There's a man behind the counter with gelled hair and a hideous vest. Burt smiles at him politely, leading his son to the back.
When they exit the bathroom, Mollie is still outside pumping gas. Burt goes to the coolers and grabs two bottles of water and a carton of juice for Kurt. He goes to the counter, pulling out his wallet.
"Can I get you anything else?" The man asks, and Burt shakes his head.
"Are you the owner?" Burt asks, curious. The man nods, smiling and holding his hand out for Burt to shake.
"Will Shuester." He introduces.
"I'm Burt, this is my son Kurt, and that's my wife Mollie." He points out the window to his wife, who is sitting in the front seat, fiddling with the radio. She sees him and waves, smiling. The bell above the door dings, and a tired looking teenage boy stumbles inside. He, too, goes to the bathroom in the back.
"Daddy, I'm tired," Kurt whines, staring up at his father with those big, bright, eyes.
"I know, Scooter. We'll be there soon." Burt assures his son.
"Where are ya'll headed?" Will asks.
"We're headed to my sister's house in Mount Pleasant." Wills nods.
"I see. Well, drive safe." William smiles again, and Burt begins walking to the door, Kurt trailing behind. The boy from earlier exits the bathroom, grabbing a Gatorade and making his way to the counter.
Burt and Kurt get half-way to the exit when the first loud boom is heard. The entire ground shakes, a crack forming out on the concrete beside the gas pumps.
"Mollie!" Burt yells, his terrified wife jumping out of the car and running across the drive as fast as she can. There's another boom and Burt sees what looks like missiles streak across the sky. There's a loud crack as the entire road separates. The corn stalks on the other side of the road are on fire, and it's spreading quickly to the exposed gas barrels.
"Mommy, run!" Kurt screams, and everything slows. The entire world is in slow motion. Mollie takes a look behind her shoulder, seeing the flames ignite the gas. She turns and locks eyes with Burt.
He'll never forget that look. The fear in her eyes; those eyes that have always been so expressive. Burt hears the teenage boy yelling, tugging on his arm. William has Kurt thrown over his shoulder and is opening a door in the floor, coaxing the screaming boy down the stairs. The teenager yells at Burt follow, but he's already running out the door to help his wife. He doesn't notice the teenager and Will running into the basement, closing the door and locking themselves and Burt's son inside.
He reaches Mollie and they grab each other's arms, stumbling back towards the gas station.
They don't make it. The gas barrels explode, and Kurt Hummel is officially an orphan.
A/N: So. This is the beginning of an AU story that I've been working on for a LONG-ASS time. It's pretty dark, as you can tell, but I'm really excited for this one. Like, legit. I hope you enjoyed this little 'prologue' and I'm looking forward to writing more for you guys. :D
Seriously, though. I plan on really cranking this one out and being good about updating and stuff. I'm pretty excited (as I've mentioned), so I hope you guys are too! Yaaaaay!
lessthanthree,
Max
ccnyde (.) tumblr (.) com
