Chapter 1
Simple beginnings


Hope you enjoy my first attempt at fanfiction. Any support is appreciated.


"Quinn Fabray?"

I look up from my test, utterly confused as to why my name has been spoken. I forget everything about the essay I'm supposed to be writing and it's pedantic topic, as I focus on my theology professor.

For a split second I worry he thought I was cheating. "Yeah?"

"Can I speak with you for a moment after class?"

Someone in the back of the class oohs like I'm in trouble, and I really hope like hell I'm not. I've never cheated in my life.

"Sure." I force, and look back over my shoulder after answering, but I can't identify the person who jeered me. Everyone has their head down, so I focus once again on the photocopied lines in front of me. I know I'm supposed to fill them up, I'm supposed to explain the great mysteries of God and the Devil. Something as important as that, deserves better words than from someone like me, but I try anyway.

I find it funny I can articulate anything to be honest. I don't even know how to explain the conflict within myself half the time. So how I'm supposed to run commentary on the greatest ideological conflict ever held is beyond me. I sigh, getting back to it.

Twenty minutes and one meager attempt later, I'm outside the classroom door in a bustling hallway. I go to Yale, it's an Ivy League school, which basically means if I pass my classes I'm assured a decent football game and a high power job on the other side. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm blessed to be here, that I'm lucky to be stacking myself in student loan debt to subsidize my scholarships. It just leaves me hollow. I'm conflicted because I only had one goal in coming here really - to escape my provincial existence in Lima.

Now, that thought leaves me empty as i learn more about life and my role in it. My education is doing exactly what is supposed to do, broadening my horizons and giving me more to think about than I ever thought possible.

When the last student filters out of Theology 102, the teacher closes the door and then looks at me. I mean, he just looks at me like he is trying to read into the thoughts I was just having. I don't understand it in the slightest. "I need to pick your brain for a moment, Miss Fabray. Follow me."

When he starts off in the direction of what I assume is his office, it takes me a minute to catch up. It isn't because I'm short, I'm average in height, it is because he is just that fast. I didn't expect that kind of speed from a man older than dirt.

When I had first heard of Doctor Richard Schweiger, I had naturally assumed he would be a jerk. I have found that most people with a doctor in front of their name - are. Not to say that all people are, just most. I was pleasantly surprised that he wasn't. He was old, older than the old testament we talked about in my first class with him. He had bushy white hair that seemed to always be combed haphazardly and big white eyebrows that waved when he spoke. I liked him well enough, but when he opened his mouth - I fell in love.

Not in a romantic way, but in an emotional twisting of beauty and majesty. It's very rare that the things people say move me.

He brought to life ideas and stories long dead, and I loved him for it. Perhaps I didn't love him for the conflict it created in me, but i loved the challenge of twisting my mind around the world's great mysteries.

Hence I just completed my midterm in Theology 103. Which obviously means I took not one, but three semesters with this masterful storyteller.

At Dr. Schweiger's office I drop lightly into one of his worn leather chairs as he racks his desk seat across from me. His fingers steepled, he looks at me again. I'm about to ask him for an explanation, when he cuts me off with his own words. "Class anytime soon?"

"No."

"Good." he smiles then between his fingers before dropping a hand and nudging something toward me, I don't know what it is as it slides over the other papers on his desk. I pick it up.

I'm holding the image and I still don't know what it is. It's a picture of - something. An engraved stone maybe. I roll my eyes over the image again and again. "I don't know what this is."

"Myself either."

I glance up at him, at his expectant gaze. "What did you want to pick my brain about?"

He shrugs, his old brows knitting together until it looks like a halo of clouds hovering above blue eyes. "You're very introspective. I wanted your take on this."

I look back down, confused. "I have no idea what it is."

"But what do you think it could be?"

I blink a few times. I don't have a clue. It could be a two million year old tablet that says aliens came to earth before man was ever here, or a ten day old clay casting of the local movie theater's listing of shows for all I know. I let my eyes scroll over the symbols. Snake looking things, cuneiform looking things, Hebrew looking things - wait. "The shorter rows indent to the right."

No. I turn it upside down and then rotate it back because it feels wrong.

"Go on."

"It's written like Hebrew I think, read right to left instead of left to right."

It's funny how when I think of Hebrew text, I think of her. My old friend Rachel. I think she might have been the first Jew I ever met. I haven't seen her in a long time.

I glance up and the firm lipped gaze across from me. I hope he isn't reading into my thoughts on the subject of her. It takes conflict to a new and grandiose level.

"Go on." he urges yet again, but there is no smile in his excessively animated face. It is the most serene I have ever seen him. It bothers me, and I don't know why.

When I lower my eyes to the image again, I swear it feels like its moving, like the letters and symbols are writhing. I hold the paper more steady. "It feels like it is some hybrid of languages, maybe ancient ones. I don't know, it's all very confusing. What can I tell you that you don't already know?" I chuckle dryly to ease the tension. "You're the teacher, you know?"

I set the page down.

When I do, the afternoon sunlight hits it, masking most of the inked image. I see something though, two symbols that just about make my heart stop. "Doctor Schweiger?"

"Hmm?" he is looking at me as I lean closer to the image and put my fingers just below the two symbols.

"Mal'ach. It says Mal'ach - sort of." it says Angel in Hebrew. It's crude but it's there.

"Angels." he says the word so close to me I feel his breath travel through my loose strands of hair. "It looks very much like the Hebrew word for Angels, yes."

I nod my head. I learned that from Rachel too, Hebrew. Little words here and there when we spoke. She had once told me about Angels in the Jewish faith, and that they were messengers from God. I puzzle at the inscriptions before me. When she had wrote it, the word Mal'ach - it had been different.

"Dr. Schweiger, it's different though, than the regular word. More simple, maybe?"

"Yes, more simplistic, perhaps this writing predates Hebrew?"

I don't understand what he means until I realize he means that this language gave birth to Hebrew because it is less complex. "Wait, what?"

He narrows his mirthless eyes at me. "I want to tell you a story."

I sober, because though I normally love his stories, I'm worried about this one.


I lay in my bathtub as the night stretches on. Knees out because I'm too tall for the tiny tub in my studio apartment, I submerge enough of my head to plug my ears. I float, letting the tension drain from me as I recount Dr. Schweiger's story.

He told me there is a society of Theologists that believe all religions stem from one. It is the unified theory, similar to the unified theory of everything that physicists have attempted to prove for the last twenty years. From one God, everything has come to all of us. This theory is based off the recurring themes spread throughout all religious practice.

To state it simply, various religious dogma is more like parts of the same song, and less like different pieces of music. What we believe is the same and interconnected, not disjointed.

At the musical simile, I think of Rachel again. Her image burns on the inside of my mind. It's happens a lot. More than I'm comfortable with to be honest. We graduated, went our own ways - me to Yale, her to NYADA. Always with the promise to see one another. Promises that never come to fruition because she is too busy following her dreams of Broadway stardom and I'm too busy listing through life trying to figure out what to do.

And trying to figure out how to feel about the brown haired and chestnut eyed siren.

I slosh the water around, unable to hear anything other than the dull thud of my head against the faux ceramic basin. I wish I could just knock her out of my mind.

Getting back to Dr. Schweiger though, he believes the picture of the tablet, sent by a friend, is undeniable proof of a unified religion. A codex that speaks to all people and sects of beliefs. It is the filter through which all truth can be seen and a path to peace for the world.

I sit up, hearing the great whoosh of water as my ears clear. I shiver, cold. It's always cold here. It's psychological no doubt because I keep the thermostat quite high. Just another remnant of loneliness and confusion as I stumble my way through a life I don't understand.

I close my eyes and remember the tablet, remember the symbols. It both bothers and elates me that he picked me to share something that monumental with. I don't feel worthy of such a gift because I'm just me. Maybe at one time in my life when I was beautiful and popular and new, then I would have been worthy of such a gift. But I'm not holy anymore, not righteous, I'm a dirty little secret hoarder.

I'm half dried when my phone rings. I don't know why I answer it, whoever it is can wait for me to get dressed . I pick it up just the same though, "hello?"

"Hello Quinn."

I recognize the voice instantly, and my breath falters. "Rachel, how are you?" I hurriedly smooth my hair around, like she can see me.

"I'm well, how are you?"

I wrap my towel around me, unable to move from where I am. "I'm fine, tired." I am suddenly exhausted, as if just saying so tore all the will right out of me.

"I'm sorry to hear that." the line is silent for long enough to make me uncomfortable.

"So," I prompt words out of her mouth.

"Did everything end amicable between us?" it's a question shot out of the dark and I have no idea how to respond. I think it did. We were friends, we had bus passes to visit one another. It is rather uncanny that she asks that question on the back of a day where my thoughts couldn't stop drifting to her.

"Why do you ask?"

"I wanted to come see you. And I wanted to be certain you would be happy to see me."

I swallow brokenly. "Did you think that because we never visited I was mad at you?" She doesn't answer. "I was never mad at you, we were just busy."

"Okay. I look forward to seeing you soon."

I stare at the phone long after she disconnects the line. It rattles in my hand as I squeeze it over and over, feeling it but not really seeing it. Its been nearly a year since we have seen one another, and she sounds completely different. I wonder who I will open the door to when she arrives.

I hang on thoughts of Rachel as I get dressed in the dark and fumble for the latch on my balcony door. I snap it in my fingers and slide it open. It's cold outside, and it feels good against my skin as I sit on my cheap stool. I stare across the parking lot of my apartment complex, stare at the dark shadows until I reach down and fumble for a cigarette.

I light it, blowing a plume of gray smoke out into the air. I watch it churn and swirl, waft and drift until it vanishes. I know I shouldn't be smoking again, but there isn't anything that calms me as much as this. I tried Yoga, tried massages, tried breathing techniques. I tried sex too, but yeah - well, that just made me want to smoke more.

So I smoke, because it's probably healthier than fooling around with random people.

I flick ash beside me, as Rachel once again superimposes on my mind. It is a tortuous attraction I have for her. One that I didn't realize existed until she was so far out of my life that I couldn't see her anymore. It is part of what makes seeing her bittersweet like a glass of wine. I know she doesn't feel the same, but it doesn't stop me from wishing she did, yearning for her to. It doesn't stop me from wanting to see her and pretend just for a moment that she does care for me.

I sigh and ruffle the wet strands of my hair. I'll see her again soon and we will run around and play as friends. And a visit will pass where she won't know how I feel.

I flick my cigarette off the balcony into the planter below. I watch it arc, watch it fall, until my eyes land of a figure watching me. I lick my lips, unmoving in the darkness. The light in the parking lot flickers and then goes out. I don't take my eyes off him, he isn't close, just far enough away that I can't make out the detail of his face. It unsettles me. I can tell he is looking at me though, his head is tilted just enough that I know he is looking right at me.

I swallow, "freak."

I force it out, loud enough that I know he heard. It takes everything I have to get up and go inside. I hurriedly lock the sliding glass door behind me, and through the slats in the blinds I can see he hasn't moved. He is still looking up at me.

When I hurry into bed I turn out all the lights and put my back toward the balcony. I pull the blankets up, when I swear I can hear footsteps on the wood outside. There is no way anyone could get up there, but I hear it anyway. I pretend it doesn't scare me, that if I don't turn around nothing can hurt me. I focus on that, on my invulnerability under the blankets, until I no longer hear the tapping of shoes outside, and sleep claims me.


I'm tucked into my desk in Theology 103 when I get the news. I'm staring at the clock, at the minute hand well past my ten o'clock start time. When the door opens, I'm expecting to see Doctor Schweiger, but instead a TA bustles in and takes center stage. The class falls silent one voice at a time.

"Good morning class. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that Theology has been suspended because Doctor Schweiger passed away last night."

"Whoa, was he sick?" Someone yells out, and the murmur around the room unsettles me even more as I grip the edge of my desk.

"I can't go into details, but we ask that you pray for his family and their healing. It is all so sudden and tragic."

I lick my lips of the dryness as they crack. When the door opens again, and light blinds me, the uniformed officers make everyone fall silent. "Detectives Casey and Moran would like to ask a few questions of you. Thank you for your cooperation during this very difficult time."

I glance around, and the guy in the desk next to me catches my eyes. He leans toward me. "You were close to him, did you know he was sick?"

I shake my head. "No, we were looking over stuff in his office on Tuesday and he seemed fine."

Another student leans down and into our conversation, "you guys, there are cops here. Which means either he was killed or he killed himself."

A chill runs up my spine as I remember the tapping on my balcony the night before and the faceless man that stared at me.

"Tony Brandenson and Quinn Fabray?" I swallow as the officer gestures for me. "You two first and then you are free to go. It will only to a minute to get this wrapped up."

In deference to the words, I can't help but feel that this is just the beginning.