Another translation ! I don't know if this one will please you, to be honest it's quite dark and a bit angsty and... well, you'll see. A Faberry story far, far away from the show. I was inspired by Martyrs, the french movie. I was very moved by it, I can say without a doubt that it's one of my favorite movie, even if I don't particularly want to watch it again. Ha. Well, I wish you a good read, and I hope you will enjoy it !

"Rachel, it's me."

"Quinn, is everything alright ? What's happening ?"

"I'm OK. You have to come, as soon as possible."

"But for God's sake, where are you ? What happened to you ? Are you safe ?"

For an instant, only a slow, spasmodic breathing could be heard through the receiver. She waited for the words to come, unbearably.

"Rachel... I found them."

Rachel had met Quinn for the first time fifteen years ago. They were only seven years old.

Quinn was her only friend. One could say that she was, too, without any doubt, Quinn's only friend.

It didn't really matter for any one of them, actually ; Rachel didn't care about knowing half of the town or having connections in every domain. The blonde was more than enough for her. She only needed her.

Quinn had just called her, at four in the morning, after four days without hearing from her.

She had never let a single day pass without talking to her before.

Rachel knew that something important, something grave had happened. She had felt it, since the day before, when she tried to call Quinn on her cellphone but could only reach her voicemail.

The blonde never turned off her cell phone.

Her doubts were confirmed when she received this phone call, in the middle of the night, when she heard her dull, lifeless voice, her erratic breathing, breaking the deathly silence hovering over their skulls.

She still didn't know where Quinn was, and it scared her more than anything.

She couldn't stand that somebody would pick on Quinn again. She had sworn to protect her until the end of her life, and she would continue to do so. Only, not knowing where she was, with whom, or even if she was safe was making her physically sick.

Nobody would ever harm a hair on Quinn's head, Rachel said to herself. Never.

The young brunette took her car keys and locked the door of the apartment behind her. She didn't know when she would come back, or if she would come back at all, but it didn't really matter.

She and Quinn had lived in so many different places that they had forgotten what it was like to leave a home forever.

But they were only houses, impersonal places. It had never been their home, their place of rest and peace. Their safe place.

Rachel looked at the bunch of keys in one of her hands, her backpack in the other. She had put some clothes and a first-aid kit in it, nothing more. She hoped in spite of herself that what Quinn had found didn't require more than a couple of days in the unknown.

Before starting her car, Rachel sent a text to Quinn, asking her where she was exactly, if she needed anything, if she had to ask for help. She wasn't hoping for an immediate answer, so that's why she turned the ignition key and began to drive aimlessly, following the road uncoiling before her eyes, leaving an umpteenth house behind her.

She had a feeling that she would probably never come back here again.

Quinn was already gone for four days, leaving Rachel alone to worry behind her. But she had a specific objective in mind when she had jumped into the first train with her backpack as her only luggage.

She had searched for so long, and she was finally nearing her goal, after sixteen years of waiting.

The first day, the blonde woman had wanted to send a message to Rachel, telling her not to worry (Rachel was always worrying for her, for any reason, and Quinn hated that she fretted so much). But she had changed her mind, and almost immediately turned off her cell phone.

Because Rachel could ask her where she was, and the blonde couldn't lie to her, and Rachel would want to come straight away.

It was out of the question. She didn't want to lead the young woman into this sordid story.

The train stopped several times, crossing Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, and Quinn went out after ten hours spent on the railroad.

She was coming closer to her destination.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a cheap and good-looking hotel, in which she stayed for two nights. The third day, she was back on the road with a car that she had rented, then drove again for hours.

The fourth day, at around three in the morning, she arrived in front of a two-story house, surrounded by blue and green forests and covered with a nocturnal mist not really reassuring.

Quinn cut the engine, waited for a few instants in the misty automobile. She didn't know exactly how she was feeling at this moment, but she didn't wait to find out. She put on her coat and came out, observing the house curiously, without moving a muscle for one minute or two. Then, slowly, she began to walk around the habitation, being careful of where she was putting her feet — the ground was in places covered with mud, twigs were scattered across the damp soil, a few holes had been dug into the earth, probably by moles or a bad gardener.

Quinn walked slowly through the half darkness, never taking her eyes off the house.

A quarter of an hour passed, and she turned her phone on and dialed the only number she knew by heart.

Despite the comfort that Rachel's voice gave her through the phone, after three hours of interminable waiting in her rented car, Quinn couldn't stand to stay idle anymore and looked at the structure with a steel gaze.

Again, Quinn went out of the car, put her sweatshirt on to protect herself from the cold and pulled the hood over her head. She didn't bother closing the door.

She opened the trunk, took her backpack which hadn't left her since her departure from Ohio, and spilled its insides.

There was no reaction marbling her face. She stayed calm, impassive like she had been since the beginning of her journey.

Before her eyes were a shotgun and a box of cartridges.

Quinn rang the doorbell on the front door. It was almost eight in the morning.

A woman of around forty years old opened the door and smiled shyly at her. With a questioning voice, she asked:

"Yes ? Can I do something for you ?"

Quinn's face stayed expressionless. "Are you Patricia Kane ?"

The woman nodded, unsure. "What are you..."

Quinn didn't give her the time to answer, raised the gun she held behind her back and shot.

Rachel drove for almost four hours, without making more than a twenty-minute break.

She hoped that Quinn was alright, that she was not in danger. If she had really found the ones whom she had been looking for fifteen years, she might be able to do something reckless, something thoughtless, despite the stillness of her voice when she had talked to her on the phone earlier.

The young blonde had been patient, trying to find this family by any means for so many years. She shouldn't let herself get caught by her feelings now.

Rachel gritted her teeth, stepped a little more on the accelerator. She was anxiously waiting for a sign from Quinn.

It only came after two and a half hours of strolling at the wheel of her car, when her phone vibrated, informing her of a new message. Quinn had sent her an address where she had to go.

The little brown-haired girl quickly turned around and drove toward her new destination, going well above the authorized speed.

She must absolutely arrive before Quinn did something irredeemable. Who knew how she would behave before the people who had been her torturers, who haunted her endlessly day and night ?

She sighed. Quinn had suffered too much, too long. It had to stop.

Rachel saw the sign telling that she was leaving Ohio.

This time, she was almost certain that she wouldn't come back.

At around noon, Rachel had reached the address. She saw a black car parked next to a huge house, and she knew right away that she was in the right place. She parked beside the other vehicle and waited patiently before coming out.

The air was cold, stinging for the month of March. The ground was still wet because of the rain which had fallen early this morning.

Around her, there was nothing but silence. Rachel took a few instants to observe this landscape, as if it was frozen in time; the trees barely moved despite the breeze, the pine trees of eternal green were standing, threatening, everywhere she looked. Some birds cried, announcing rain or the sunshine, she couldn't tell. Only the immense structure told her that there was life around her. Its light colors and its brick covered roof clashed in their setting, and it comforted her a little.

The young woman came closer to the vehicle of her friend, carefully — at least, she thought it was hers. She had probably rented it, which had made it possible for her to get there. Her backpack was still in the front seat, as well as her coat.

She looked at the house. The door was closed, and there was nothing to prove that something unusual had happened.

She hoped that she wasn't too late.

Only the steam coming out of her mouth reminded her that she was still alive, that what she was seeing was real.

Thinking about it, she wondered if she wouldn't rather be dead at this instant.

Rachel had pushed the huge front door, which was only ajar, and discovered hell.

She pressed a hand against her mouth, restraining herself from throwing up, from screaming, from weeping.

Blood. Blood everywhere, on the walls, on the carpets, on the parquet, even on the ceiling.

Splashes on every side, in the vast living room, like a war scene.

Broken crockery, knocked over furniture, ornaments littering the floor.

Rachel stifled a cry. She couldn't see anyone, not even Quinn. She walked slowly, avoiding to look at those purple and scarlet heaps, staining the wallpaper and the furniture.

She had to know where Quinn was. She called her name, several times, her voice shaking with fear, going carefully from one room to another.

She hoped that there was nobody here with her, hidden behind a wall, ready to knock her out or to kill her in cold blood.

"Rachel..."

She started upon hearing a tired voice, monotonic, coming from the kitchen. She went there, feverish; she could see nothing but this red everywhere, so bright and fresh that it was burning her retina.

Quinn didn't even look surprised to see her. She was sitting against the wall, a rifle three feet from her, a few droplets of blood on her clothes and on her face. The young woman ran to her, kneeled down next to her and held her breath, her tears, her rage.

She hoped that the one who had touched Quinn was still alive so that she could kill them herself.

The small brunette moved the firearm aside as a precaution. Quinn didn't seem wounded, at least not grievously, and she was immensely relieved by this observation. Carefully, Rachel drew the girl against her, squeezing her shoulders.

"It was them, Rachel," Quinn said in a cold tone, closing her eyes. "It was them."

Rachel moved blonde strands away from her face, noticing a cut above her right eye. She thought she knew the answer — she was sure, even — but she preferred asking her, "Who, honey ?"

Quinn looked at her. Her eyes were sad but peaceful, and her bottom lip began to shake when she pronounced those words.

"The ones I was looking for fifteen years. They're the ones who had abducted me, Rachel."

And Rachel began to cry.

She had met Quinn when she was seven years old. At this moment, Quinn didn't talk. She couldn't, not anymore.

She had needed six months before she could articulate words. Since then, Rachel had cherished every single word coming out of her mouth.

They had met in an orphanage for kids who had gone through difficult times. Rachel had ended up there because her parents had just died in an accident, and she was the only survivor. However, Quinn had never expressly told her why she had suddenly found herself at the same place.

But two months ago, she had revealed her everything.

How she had been kidnapped, when she was only six and a half years old.

Withdrawn from her family, which had then been found dead, dreadfully tortured.

Quinn herself didn't know about this before she was ten.

Since then, she had wanted to discover who were the authors of the odious crime from which her parents and her sisters had been the victims. What Rachel didn't know until then, it was that Quinn had decided to find them for the sole purpose of avenging herself.

"Quinn... is that you who... did you do that ?"

The poor woman seemed exhausted. On her forehead, the sweat was mixing with the blood and was beginning to roll down her temples.

Rachel felt like she wanted to cry again, but she had to be strong. To show that she was strong, at least on the outside, if only to help Quinn. Fifteen minutes had already passed, during which they snuggled up together without looking around them, not willing to see the massacre that had happened, the dark stains adorning the walls and the carpets.

The little dark-haired girl was still holding her friend against her chest, murmuring her from time to time sweet, insignificant words to take her away from the horror surrounding them.

Quinn shrugged when she heard the question.

"It seems so."

Rachel kept silent. She glanced around her — even though she would have given anything to not see again a crime scene of such an atrocity — and she couldn't see a single body. Only blood, everywhere. The kitchen seemed rather spared by this carnage, but the living room that she could see through the half-open door was in a poor state.

She closed her eyelids.

She probably began to shudder, because Quinn put a hand on her face and asked her if she was alright, if she was going to cope.

Rachel nodded, opened her eyes again. "Yes. Of course. Just tell me... tell me what you need. Tell me what should I do," she finished, looking in Quinn's green eyes, worried and tranquil at the same time.

They weren't the eyes of a killer. They weren't the eyes of someone who had just committed something unnameable, slaughtered in cold blood a whole family, took the life of human beings.

They were the eyes of a little girl, a woman to which one had stolen her childhood and her innocence.

The blonde kept on watching Rachel for a long time, ten minutes or one hour, she couldn't have told. Then, slowly, she articulated, with a voice eaten away by the tears and shaking in the deathly silence :

"You have to help me hide."

Rachel nodded. "I will."

"And we have..." Quinn swallowed, searching the right words, the ones which would hurt less. "You have to help me hide the bodies."

Rachel felt nauseous. But she had to be strong, for Quinn.

"I'll do whatever you want."