Please note that this chapter has a lot of important information that serves as a set up for many of the proceeding chapters. I hope you enjoy the world I am creating as well as the route I've decided to take with this story. I hope to gain even more readers as soon as possible, and I promise, this story is about to be bitchin!
Story Rating: M because it's awesome
Chapter Rating: T for language and mild inappropriate gestures (because let's face it, it's never any fun if they don't touch at least a little)
Disclaimer: Glee is not mine. The song, "Honey Let Me Sing You A Song" is not mine. So don't sue me for borrowing them!
To Hell with You and All Your Friends, It's on!
Girls are an easy thing to trip over if you aren't paying enough attention. There's really no good explanation as to why; mostly just a universal fact that's shaped the way the various worlds work today. Don't get me wrong, it's just as easy to fall in love with someone. However, it seems that more often we trip over all those people who fall. And since girls fall in love oh so easy, this is why it's easier to trip over one.
Now, my father's a complete ass. There isn't much I ever really learned from the guy about life, love, or personal relationships. I never even truly listened to anything he said. There are only two lessons he's taught me that I actually took into account. First off, he'd always say to me, "Quinn…you can't go shakin' the whore tree and expect an angel to fall out!" This has been proven to me several times over the course of my life in many of my varied relationships. I almost admire him for taking something so complex—that usually takes most people years to understand—and stating it so simply. It's one of the very few things he would ramble on about that ended up actually making some sense. So kudos to you, pops!
The second thing he used to tell me, that probably applies more to this situation, is, "Quinn! Don't EVER fall in love with a woman!" Now granted, when he said it he meant it in a more literal sense of the word than how I have come to apply it, but it's valid advice either way. Women are dangerous; far more complex than the male species, and almost impossible to entirely figure out. I guess that's why I have such a weakness for them. I'm attracted to the dangers my father promised they'd bring.
My pops has a really old-world religious view that gives him this conservative nature that's almost non-existent today. Christianity was practically wiped out completely during the second crusades almost two thousand years ago. It's a wonder people even preach the ancient word. Not to mention, how the bible even survived through that period is still a huge mystery. They were thought to have all been burned by government officials for all the chaos and corruption they expounded across the universe. But, for whatever reason, the word survived and found its way into the hands of a believer. That's what they're called these days. I think our ancestors used to call them Christians? Christianity maybe? Now, they are just believers; of believer faith.
Believers of what exactly? God, various kinds of afterlife, sin, commandments; you name it, it's probably in that book somewhere—I'm sure. The Coalition, as you can guess, are not big fans of any law that's not their own, and this being so, specifically target the faith as an act of heresy against their government. And the believers…well, they're still waiting on that faithful day that their God will come and take them away from this universe. They believe they are being punished for our ancestors' past, and that once they suffer enough, they will be taken away to the land they deserve. It's such a quixotic ideal frame when you think about it. It seems like a simple way to answer questions that don't have one.
Honestly, I don't even think the Coalition has as much an issue with the belief itself as much as they do the extremist actions the believers take in order to get what they want. According to the scripture, they're encouraged to spread the word of their sacred text and give all creatures of this universe an opportunity to have what they do. They constantly rally and have services to teach others about their gospel. The word would spread like wild fire if it could, because it's filled with such fanciful stories that easily tug at human emotion, captivating them to its hopeful spirit.
So, much like the blacklisted planets, the Coalition only allows a very small, controlled group of people to form on an "uninhabited planet" while they affectively turn a blind eye. But you better believe, as soon as someone steps out of line, the Coalition rips them to shreds, sending their entire operation to shambles! They don't want a repeat of the second crusades. They don't want anything brewing beneath the surface of the blanket they've coated across a universe that they rule.
It's been this way for a few good millenniums, and I don't think the Coalition has any intention of changing it now. They've proven this time and again, especially on planets like where I'm from. And while I don't necessarily agree with most things "my father", it doesn't mean that every believer was like him or deserved the harsh things people have done to them over time. Believers lead such shitty lives; shittier than merchants even. Everyone hates them; thinks they're weird for blindly choosing to follow something that may or may not exist, and hasn't proven otherwise. All believers really want is hope—ANY scrap of hope they can find in this messed up existence—so that they can get through another day. Plus they have to fight everyone off constantly just to hold onto it. I've never understood how wanting to share that hope with anyone who seeks it would be considered rebellious or fraudulent. I think we could all use a little more.
While my father has been unsupportive, demanding, and messed up beyond repair as a parent in my life, I still honor the man for fighting for what he believes. I understand why he pushed the faith so hard on my family and me. It was hard enough trying to preach the word of a loathed religion; add the difficulty of bringing up children in a world that has very little of the same to offer and you almost have no choice but to strongly enforce it in the home. His intentions were good, though his methods were ill-considered and sometimes shady. And it's for this very reason that I at least consider taking partial scraps of his advice, if they're applicable. I figure, he's taken enough crap in his life from everybody else, he doesn't need more from me; this being the biggest reason we don't talk anymore. I know I'd give him hell if we tried, so it's safer not to even attempt. Then again, that could just be the Believer values that have been engrained into my very being from childhood. Ah, the practice of temperance.
I'll admit, while I've successfully practiced this value with my father, it hasn't promised well for me since my arrival to the planet Lima. My practice of Temperament has been temporarily misplaced and filled with a much deeper sense of greedy lust; furthermore, and very much in contradiction to the religion I stem from, I'm enjoying every minute I spend in the haughty sin. It's why I never really worked out as a believer. I'm too broken to value anything morally correct in the eyes of my father and the word he follows.
How, exactly, I've managed to completely disregard what little advice I've vowed to follow continues to baffle me. It's very out of my character to blatantly ignore that which I value so highly. I'm shamed by my actions. And It's not necessarily even the sinning I'm ashamed of, it's the fact that I'm leering off track into a life direction I've never really considered before. I don't trust people enough to keep them in my life—aside from Brittany, Santana, and Puck. But, then again, they are more like business partners, and our relationship still maintains a more professional edge. I'm chasing after something so incredulously, and I don't know what I want to do with it once I have it. I feel out of control—both emotionally and physically.
How I find myself at that bar night after night for the past two weeks stumps me even more! I tell Santana and Puck I go for the amazing alcohol, and I suppose it's believable enough a story. The alcohol on this planet never fails to disappoint like the others. They never complain, for the most part, but I'm beginning to think Santana finds my behavior oddly suspicious.
She has every right to. I have been frequenting the place regularly enough for even the bartender to know my top five drink choices. And I have made an explicit point to talk to Rachel at least once each of these nights. Hell, I guess the bartender can even guess what I'm up to every time he slides me a drink and I almost miss it as I'm watching her raptly at the end of the bar.
She rarely ever talks back, but that has yet to stop me from trying. She could probably write a book about me had she been listening to my ramblings. Again, it's not like me to ramble; much less ramble about myself. I'm always very astute in my ability to remain a mystery. However, I've revealed more of myself to this stranger than Santana has managed to discover in the years' worth of working by my side.
Oddly enough, I feel safe telling Rachel these things about me. Maybe it's because she doesn't even acknowledge my existence as I ramble and this gives me the allusion that I'm talking to someone who won't ever analyze or judge. I do feel relieved after I talk, because I say things I didn't even realize have bugged me for years.
Or maybe I do it because I'm hoping to reveal something about myself that will shock her enough she'll have no choice but to respond. I'd like to think I'm not that desperate, but I have been surprising myself lately with how little I actually knew about myself; it really shouldn't surprise me any further if that is, indeed, the reason.
The only consistency she shows—aside from ignoring me—is the routine way in which every conversation ends. After about an hour of me rambling, she'll thank the bartender, gently cup a hand to close my jaw, and then walk away, quietly, not to be seen again until the next night. A lovely ritual between the two of us that always leaves me floundered and the bartender sorrowful. On a good note, I've gotten more free drinks than I can count now. He never fails to slip me something for my efforts, and compliment me on my progress. But, on the downside, I've only grown all the more persistent with every let down.
I refuse to answer any question as to what it is I'm feeling for her, aside from pure lust; just as I refuse to answer why I feel it so intensely. The only thing I'm sure of is that I will not be wholly satisfied until the itch that is Rachel Berry finally gets scratched. And that was no different this evening.
It had been another long, rather successful day spent tinkering with the engine. Such a successful day, in fact, we felt confident we'd be able to leave soon. This was an update that should have me leaping for joy; my golden ticket to the next flight out of here. This news only partially pleased me though. Only because a certain brunette plagued my mind with her cherry red finger nails and ridiculously short skirts.
Tonight I am on a particularly pursuant mission to gain her attention. Knowing that I may be leaving soon has made me more aggressive than any of the other nights. I fear that she senses it—mostly in the intense eye contact I trap her in while she performs—because afterwards she doesn't take her usual place at the bar. I don't want to ruin my chances, and I know with the intensity I've already laid on pretty thick, it's possible that I very well may do just that, but I can't help it.
I know she's still here! I can smell her in the air! I bought this high-tech black-market smell enhancer specifically for these purposes—for the thrill of the hunt. I know, it seems like a lame thing for a person like me to buy, but I assure you they are more useful than one would originally think. Enhanced vision or hearing is so overrated! In my experience, the first thing you notice about the enemy, anyone really, is their scent. It's almost always unique to the individual, as well as the easiest to differentiate and remember!
It gives a hunter senses like that of a bear or a shark, being able to identify things from miles away and use it to their advantage to track it—to capture it before it even knows you're on its trail. Mine is very much prosthetic, though; I control whether I want to use it in the moment or not. It's turned on now, and I've come to know her scent very well. I'm not sure of her exact location, but I know she's close by and most likely watching me from wherever she sits.
I know she knows I'm here. And I know she knows I'm here for her! I've been coming nightly for the past two weeks just for her. I've made a point to find a way to talk to her at least once at some point throughout the evening. Like I stated before, my intentions are quite obvious. I finally find her sitting in a booth by the stage. I don't think anything of her change in game plan and immediately make my way towards her table, turning up the charm as I approach.
With the most enchanting smile I can muster, I lean in close, "Go on, don't be shy princess. Ask me out."
"Okay, get out," she says sternly and without any hesitation.
"Finally! I got you to talk to me! For a minute there I was beginning to think you were mute."
"If I were mute, I wouldn't be able to sing you idiot," she responds coldly.
"Mind if I join this tea party?" I say casually, not bothering to wait for a reply before I plop down in the booth across from her.
She sneers in lieu of my forwardness.
"God I love it when you talk dirty to me," I say sarcastically to break the impending silence, resting my chin atop my propped up fists, "When are you gonna give up this charade and just go out with me already?"
"How about never? Is never good enough for you?"
"Look here princess!" I say, slamming my fists on the table in aggravation, "I don't know what your problem is, and I'll even bet it's probably hard to pronounce, but you seriously need to cut the bullshit!"
"What makes you so sure Captain Fabray? Where exactly are you pulling all this confidence from? Did you ever stop to think that maybe I'm just NOT into you!" she finally snaps, putting more fire behind her words than I knew she was capable of. I slink back into myself, suddenly very self-conscious. All that previously mislaid embarrassment suddenly catches up to me full speed.
"I-I... I honestly don't know."
"I mean seriously! What makes you think a person like you even has a shot with a girl like me anyways!" I feel the sting in her words. And judging by the self-satisfied grin slipping to her lips, I'd guess she'd intended it to affect me so. Aggravation rapidly seethes within me. My ears burn as a result of my temper, as if I were a volcano on the brink of spewing lava-like contents.
"How can you sit there and say something like that! What, do you think that I'm some kind of vulture or something, picking the flesh from any scrap I can find!"
"Oh don't be silly. I don't consider you a vulture… I consider you something a vulture would eat!"
"Seriously Rachel? After everything that I've told you about myself, every door that I've opened to you and you want to throw THAT in my face!"
"Your stories make you sound like a Heretic anyways...with your rebellious mannerisms, and scrappy clothes!"
All at once, the bickering stops, and I fall silent to her most recent accusation. I want to gather my thoughts enough to think of a good insult to throw back, yet my mind's void of a decent quip. I'm usually better when Santana and I play this game. I don't know why I'm losing so badly right now to Rachel. Her jaw falls open and a loud gasp draws me from my ponderings.
"Oh my god! You ARE a Heretic!" she screeches in a pitch I've never heard her reach before. And this is the first time I sense any type of sincerity from the girl.
She seems genuinely outraged by this fact. As if she had been confident that she did, in fact, know every little thing about me, and was just hit with something new that greatly repulses her. No doubt she has every right to be disgusted. Heretics are generally loathed people. They are just as dangerous as someone of my plight only they dedicate their lives and savaging to the overthrow of the Coalition. I've met a few in my day. I've even been offered a position on a few Heretic crews, but it's never really been the life for me. I don't care about government at all. Especially not enough to fight one anymore than I already have to.
Even if I were one, the fact that she's speaking so loudly and openly about Heretics is cause enough for trouble. The Coalition rightfully hates anyone partaking in Heretic revolt. They don't like people to say the name in public. They've made sure to pin those loyal to them against the self-righteous group. On the blacklisted planets, a bar fight usually starts as soon as the word is even uttered. By instinct, I look around casually to assess whether or not anyone heard the exclamation, now. Just because I'm safe and sound on the merchant planet of Lima, doesn't mean people here will take it any more lightly.
Most planets hand out an even worse punishment to those accused of Hereticy than piracy. That's how much hatred they have for the rebels. This planet would certainly take worse to my being a Heretic than the pirate that I am. I wouldn't put it past them to torture me near death before handing me over to the Coalition to finish me off even slower; whereas if they knew me to be a pirate instead, I would probably just be arrested. I can already see eyes around the bar staring me down after having heard her claim. It's wisest to not let this conversation go any further than it already has. I clap a hand to her mouth swiftly from across the table and she mumbles muffled curses incomprehensibly into it.
"Sadly, I am not... Though, I might seriously consider becoming one if it means I'll get this reaction from you every time!" My cockiness is not taken lightly. Though she finally relaxes enough for me to trust she won't say anything more, she is still visibly wary of my exuberances. I keep my hand over her mouth to finish speaking. "No, I'm much worse... And that, my lovely, is a promise."
I'm leaning across the table and my words break apart in my mouth as I speak them. I can't help it; because, amid Rachel's usual scent of vanilla and honey, there's a fragrant, more prominent smell lingering beneath. It's a bouquet of arousal. I've smelled it many times, and with these smell enhancers it's overwhelmingly sucking up all air in my lungs. This new scent is so heavenly in its aroma; I'm forced to turn off my smell sensors just to maintain any form of levelheadedness I may possess around this girl. But even when they are off, her scent is forever burned into my memory, haunting my every turn.
By this time, my reaction must be perceptibly written across my face—my eyes wide and dark with want; my muscles stiff and twitching beneath my skin; my nostrils flailing wildly to capture as much as possible of that glorious scent. She's looking at me in confusion; as if no one has ever looked at her with such animalistic want before and it fascinates her. I feel like I'm a science project on display for her to study and observe. It's making me all the more uncomfortable in her presence.
"You're making my tummy flutter again... and it's kinda uncomfortable," I sputter out awkwardly. I've lost my smooth edge and it's a matter of minutes before I start stumbling over more words.
I don't take the time to find out, however. I'm tired of her seeing me this way—a bumbling idiot, falling and gushing all over her. I'm tired of feeling this way. I stand up from the booth and look to her before I leave as if to say something.
Still, I'm at a loss for words. Instead I shift my feet awkwardly searching for my next move. The way I'm acting around her has me feeling vulnerable again. Her big doe eyes look right through me, penetrating my soul with their curious gaze. She's searching for something in me, and I can't figure out what. It only leaves me feeling stripped bare, like I'm naked before a crowd of prisoners. I fight the subconscious urge to raise my arms across my chest as a barrier to the penetrating exposure of her gaze.
Eventually it becomes too much for me. I feel crushed beneath her wandering eyes and no longer enjoy her excess attention. She was seeing things I never intended to show. I had to get away before I so willingly gave too much in offering to her. Because then, what would be left of me?
So, I turn around and walk off.
"Aw, do you have to leave so soon? I was just about to poison the tea."
I don't answer her; only will my legs to move faster towards the exit of the bar. I don't understand why, but her final words somehow leave my heart feeling heavy and tight in my chest. I have to visibly hold my hand there to sooth the dull ache of the pang. It's all I have left to hold onto as I leave her behind.
Minutes later I find myself in cargo bay 27, back at the Trinity. She's as empty as I believe my heart to be, and I remember it's because I left Santana, Puck, and Brittany at the bar. There's enough alcohol in my system to void out the needless worry though.
I jump down through the hull, into the engine bay, ensuring my feet hit hard against the metal floors beneath me. It always soothes my soul to hear the clang of metal reverberating through the ship's walls. It reminds me of the safety and security I have behind its barriers.
I shuffle restlessly over to the engine that has taken the past couple of weeks to fix. It's looking good. It's looking real good, actually, and I think about how easy it will be to add the finishing touches. It wouldn't surprise me if we were gone tomorrow.
My body involuntarily drops down next to the engine and I cradle my head in my hands in poor attempt to soothe the dizziness that is soon taking over. The slight buzz from the alcohol has finally taken its toll, and now I'm headed down the path of pure drowsiness.
I can feel the beat of my heart pulse rhythmically through my palms against my forehead. My foot subconsciously begins to tap in time. Then, shortly after, an old melody I used to know plays in my mind.
That's it! Straight away, I snap up in thought. My excitement sends me stumbling out the door, and I almost leave behind the most important device needed for my sudden idea... my guitar.
It's a warm yet dry night on the planet Lima, and the dehydration from my earlier drinking has me parched to no end. I won't stop walking though. Where exactly am I going? To be completely honest, I haven't a clue…as far as which direction I'm headed. I'm headed to wherever she may be.
I have my smell enhancers turned on though, and they easily pick up her scent. At first it is faint as it fluffs about the air, but the further I follow, the stronger it grows.
It's the oddest hunting excursion I've ever been on. Typically, a hunter would stalk prey with precision, using pure skill set as their guide. My hunt for Rachel is entirely driven by wantonness with unadulterated desire in control of my every step. This automatically makes what I'm doing extraordinarily dangerous. That only makes me want it all the more.
I stalk through the night, guitar on my back, and follow her heavenly sent until I come upon an old house. It slouches wearily into its foundation, showing its age. The decorations on the outside are delicately placed as if the owners were trying to make up for its homely state. Only one light is on in the upper right level of the home. It looks like it's winking at me, as if to say, "Go get em' tiger! You've got this!"
The only light shining is obviously coming from Rachel's room, or if not hers personally at least some room she is in. Her scent is very strong around me now, signifying she is close. Faint singing can be heard in the background, and the sound's recognizably hers. I only have to take a few steps closer to see her outline through the open window. She's pulling her hair down from the bun that neatly sat atop her head.
I flip my guitar over my shoulder and lightly strum a few strings to assure it's tuned. The notes ring out loud enough to stop her in her singing. Her shadow freezes up at the sound as if she were searching for device that made it. This is it. I think to myself, it's now, or never. My hand shakes non-stop as I strum the first few chords of the song.
Maybe I'm blind, maybe I'm blind
Oh I couldn't see you shine
And shimmer right in front of my eyes
Front of my eyes, oh no
She rushes to the window as soon as it's clear the noise she's heard is coming from outside. Her eyes are the first thing I see through the darkness of the night. The street lamp behind me lights them to the perfect shade of rich coffee brown, forming a twinkle down in my direction. Her posture is slightly rigid with confusion as she leans upon her windowsill, but the look showered upon me shows no signs of hostility, and so I feel okay about continuing.
Honey let me sing you a song
And listen to my words as they come out wrong
But don't run away, run away this time
My hands beat hard against the guitar. I want her to hear every word; to feel the hum of every chord as I play them harder with each progression. I fight the blackness of the night to be louder for her, worried that it's sucking away the powerful notes before they can reach her ears.
Honey let me look in your eyes
You open them one at a time
But don't look away, look away this time
Her eyes close, and it looks as if she's fighting the urge to turn her head away in any direction that is not directly facing me. There's a sense of hesitation in the way she crosses her arms across her chest, but a sense of peacefulness as she rests her head on the side of the window and she seems so conflicted in her emotions that I almost don't want to keep going. I am equally saddened by the way she looks right now. How it openly conveys her every feeling. Obligingly, my fingers begin to pick lightly at the strings, afraid to play with as much passion as before, as if her seemingly fragile state will effortlessly shatter at the intensity. The notes are so soft and delicately played that it's a wonder if she can even hear them anymore.
Open your mind, open your mind
And let your beauty flow like wine
But please don't leave me,
Don't leave me outside, leave me outside, oh no
She notices that I'm significantly holding back as I play to her. And she seems distressed by the loss of flowing melodies that once drowned her in life. A smile steals my lips as I watch her lean forward on her balcony, desperately seeking to feel those notes again as I pounded them out to her. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster of emotions with the biggest hills being between my confidence level and self-consciousness, sending me swirling out of control. But that power she seeks to hear once more boils within me, slowly growing in strength down the tips of my fingers and rumbling through the steel of the guitar strings.
And honey I'll try, honey I'll try
To hold you like the starriest skies
We lie beneath tonight
And you shine, you shine so much brighter, oh
The faintest smile I've ever seen ghosts her lips as a rosy, burning blush lights her face to a fiery glow. I feel myself stepping closer to where she rests at the window. My guitar is being nearly beaten to death in my arms. It whines and cries out pleasantly in tune with my voice. My nose becomes maddened with the scent of her arousal and a smell that is uniquely Rachel, stronger than I've ever sensed before, making my knees grow weak as I struggle to finish the song.
The last few chords echo into the night. My breaths come in rampant strides as my singing discontinues. But I know I'm not breathing this heavy for necessity. I'm desperate to breathe in as much of her lingering scent as physically possible. There is only the slightest moment in which I think I may need to lay off a bit and turn down my smell receptors, but that moment comes and goes as fleetingly as the rapid beats pounding in my chest. The sound of it grows so loud in my ears that I am now deaf to anything other than the beating of my heart.
I feel like we've stared at each other for hours with our equally flushed faces and glassy eyes. I want so much more than that right now—so much more of her right now—that I'm locked in a state of temporary paralysis.
She offers me no sign of approval—other than the overwhelming scent of her most sexual desires and, while they smell as heavenly as the sweetest flower, I cannot move. I wait firmly in my place until instructed further. All it would take is the batting of an eyelash; a convoluted smile; even the simplest of gestures would do, one where she slowly curls her index finger back and forth before her in a motion that will eventually pull me into her by the invisible string it produces around me.
But she does none of these things. She just stands there and stares, much like I'm doing to her. I stand here, facing my most primal pirating urges; to take what I feel is mine without regret and with extreme resolve. All while she stands in the window above me, emotionlessly, representing the one thing I cannot reach. She is the one thing I dare not selfishly plunder.
It scares me the longer I hesitate. Just the simple fact that she is still standing there, remaining open to me, emitting the most mouthwatering scent meant for my nose only, should be enough to send me scaling up that tree in time to leap at her through the open window.
Standing before her now, I am no longer a pirate. I am no longer a criminal. I am nothing more than a normal, everyday woman. Void of all my deceitful knowledge and coy words. Stripped bare of physical agility and strength; no longer accustomed to the feeling of bravery nor fortitude. Just a plain Jane girl. And this is all I have to offer her?
I turn away in shame; mostly shame in myself for being so sudden in my apprehension. For once in my life, I do not feel the need to take what I want the most. I don't want to take anything from this girl at all. She is too pure—too innocent by my standards, that it would be unfair if I did. Surely a pirate should not care about what is fair, but in the midst of self-loathing, the thought of deliberately ruining something as beautiful as she is, easily justify the means. I'm a pirate, not a psychopath. Natural beauty deserves to live peacefully more so than anything in this entire universe. And I would never be caught dead destroying what very little still exists today.
I allow myself one last glance back, before walking away. To capture her refined features in my mind's eye for the long trip ahead of me. Her face is unnerved. She leans forward hesitantly like she wants nothing more than to chase after me and wrap me in a tight hug. The last thing I see through the darkness are her eyes. They glisten with the promise of tears, calling out to me from their unwavering place behind a closing window.
The walk back to the ship seems longer than before. My feet shuffle sadly against the dirt road beneath them, swirling up copious amounts of dust in the process. And while it actively irritates me to no end, clogging my nose and scratching at my throat, I don't stop. I deserve this. What I'm feeling on the inside weighs so heavy on my heart that I wish to project it to the outside instead. I have been stabbed in as many body parts as you can name; I've braved through broken bones and dislocated joints. But this…this thing I feel growing inside me is far worse than I am able to take.
So I trudge about empty and defeated. All of a sudden, a strange odor brings my receptors to life. I stop in my tracks to get a better scent, but all I can gather is the very mild stench of fusty wet dog. Instinct tells me to remain very cautious the rest of the trip home and stay hidden from direct light. I slide my night vision goggles down from my head to cover my eyes, and then slip into the shadiest corridors offered by the night sky.
The scent is only vaguely familiar to me, but I'm sure I don't want to stick around to find out why and continue quickly on my way. It dissipates as I travel away from it, and any brief worry I felt stays behind along with it. It was probably just some stray pack of mutts searching the streets for scraps of thrown away chicken bone.
"Where the hell have you been!" Santana shrieks as I barely make it through into the cockpit of the Trinity.
"Nowhere San, I was just out okay?" She glares in a way that only Santana really could, not buying the diluted bullshit I had bothered to even try selling her. She doesn't even have to say anything to get me to see that. Her arms snap to her hips, and her foot begins tapping angrily against the floor. I cannot call the look that now overtakes the Latina's face a scowl, because that would be taking it too lightly. It was more of a full on death glare, and buddy, she had it aimed high my way. Looks like these easily crack me like an egg. I spill my guts across the floor before her wildly tapping foot.
"I went to Rachel's tonight to see her off before I go, and to maybe see if I could finally get her out of my system before we do!"
"Next time, warn a sister Q! You wanna play captain, then you can't just go and disappear whenever you damn well please and not tell your crew what's up!" She rants in her normal, temperamental style. It's expected of her. I could see this one coming from a mile away, but I still flinch as her finger pokes across my chest.
"I'm sorry San—guys…it won't happen again." It's a pathetic excuse for an apology, I admit, but I don't really have the emotional strength to give them any more than that right now.
"Yeah you're sorry! Ay dios mio! You know Quinn, had you not lolly-gagged about looking for some bimbo that doesn't even want to put out, you would have realized that we are in deep shit right now and need to get the fuck off this planet as soon as possible!" She starts pacing back and forth across the cockpit, pulling at her hair in frustration.
Brittany grabs her shoulders and eases her gently into one of the seats while puck watches indifferently from the corner. While I understand that Santana's frenzied state is due to boiling rage as opposed to anxiety, I can't help but be alarmed by the news and the manic way in which she delivers it. What exactly happened after I left? Why would we be in as much trouble as each one of them undoubtedly plays off?
"Do you remember the airman that granted us access the day we docked? Well, we ran into him tonight back at the bar. He seemed kinda angry and started talking about how he has us all figured out," Brittany answers as soothingly as possible to lessen the tension in the room. She has always had this amazing sense of intuition towards inner thoughts and feelings. It amazes me every time she answers the questions running wildly through my head. Once it's clear that Santana has settled down enough the blond continues speaking, "Well, long story short, he's very capricious of us and wants to conduct a second screening of the ship first thing tomorrow morning."
No one thinks to correct her error in word usage. The revelation that we may be found out and captured hasn't quite settled in, like it should. Regardless of whether or not he's suspicious, capricious, or any variation of words in-between, he's going to thoroughly rescreen the ship, and most likely won't miss anything this time around. Santana's right, we've got to get the hell out of here and fast!
I don't hesitate this time. I go into immediate captain mode and bark orders at my crew like no tomorrow. They scurry about pressing nobs and pulling levers, bringing the ship back to life from the deep sleep it's been immersed in for weeks now. And right before she is at full power I smell it again—that same wet dog smell from earlier on my walk home. Only this time it is more pungent and I get the biggest whiff as it rushes by.
"Wait…Santana, Puck….you smell that?" I ask curiously. They don't have special receptors like I do, and it's become a good way to test whether or not what I sense is of legitimate concern or not.
"No….but whatever it is…it wasn't me," Puck responds with a self-satisfied grin. Santana slaps him across the back of the head before shaking her head no as well.
Then it hits me like a brick shithouse. I know exactly what that smell is.
"Demagogues." I say out loud for everyone to hear.
They are the official army of the Coalition and so much more brutal than any criminal I've ever met. It's not unusual for them to drop by unannounced and pillage across whatever planet they so please. Actually, it's encouraged; especially to little merchant planets like Lima, that the Coalition wants under their thumb at all times. So what do they want?
"Damn! That punk-ass air control cunt must've called in back-up…how close are they?" Santana asks, jumping in place on the co-pilot seat beside me.
"I don't know…not too close though…I wanna say three, maybe four miles out," I answer instantly. I begin clicking away at the controls in front of me before what I've just said runs through my mind again. Something's not right about the distance I revealed and it gnaws at me to stop everything I'm doing until I figure out whatever it is. My heart feels heavy. Why does my heart feel—?
"Oh my God! Rachel!" I scream out at myself in apprehension. I briskly jump up from my seat and head back towards the door.
"What the fuck Q? Have you lost your Goddamn mind!" Santana yells after me. She turns around in her seat and watches in confusion.
"Earlier—the walk back—headed—towards her house—she's in trouble—have to go—no time to explain San, just wait up for a second!" I stutter as I struggle to put on my jacket and fidget with the straps to a dingy old helmet. I could barely make sense of everything myself; much less give an explanation to Santana. Right now I was acting on pure adrenaline, and instinct told me to jump on one of our hover-bikes and find Rachel.
"Hold up Fabray! We've gotta go! Like now! Find another girl-toy to get all romantic-novel cutesy with later…when we are safe and sound, far away from this hellhole!" She calls out to me angrily.
I don't stop to listen to her insulting rants. I, again, am short of time. Seriously, there has got to be a way to get some more of that somewhere, ugh!
I'm in the cargo bay, revving the engine on my hover-bike as Santana continues yelling at me from the doorway. I pull out loudly making sure to yell above the roar of the engine; "Just wait up for a minute San!" Then I race off into the night.
The ride is short and dusty as I push the bike to its highest mileage. I am going so fast, I could have easily zipped by you on the street and you'd have never have even known I was there. But I was on a mission, and couldn't so much as bring myself to enjoy the thrill speeding gave me.
I follow the smell—that fowl, musty dog smell—until it leads me right to the place I had suspected it would. I wince internally at being right. The one time I don't want to be, and of course, it would be true. I'm careful about being seen. I'm still determined to see what's left of Rachel, or if they've even got her, but my wariness about being captured leaves me as invisible as prey in the night.
I pull up and kill the engine behind a large tree near her house. I can see the light still shining, from what I assume is her bedroom. It illuminates the area around it, and I immediately throw it out as an entry option. I don't have much to work with, seeing as the whole house is practically covered by the light radiating from the street lamps. I settle on breaking in through a back window.
If I enter through the downstairs window, I would be easily wasting my time fumbling through the darkness of her house to find stairs, so I climb up the gutters of the house to a second floor window. A tree blocks me on either side and I am imperceptibly silent as I climb the building. The demagogue scent is still strong around me, but it doesn't seem as if they are inside the house yet. It almost feels like they are waiting—surrounding the house and watching for something to happen.
The concern doesn't stay with me for long, because soon I'm breaking the window and climbing into her house. It's still very dark, so I rely on both my night vision goggles and innate sense of smell to guide me to Rachel.
This is easy at first. I know her scent so well by now, it overpowers the stench of the demagogues. But then, an unusual scent hits the air that is neither Rachel nor Demagogue. Having been in a few tiffs with them before, I know they've probably just started gassing the place with some type of poisonous substance. Luckily for me, I have the ability to turn my nose receptors extremely low, to a state of almost not breathing. The perks of letting an unlicensed felon surgically implant smell enhancers into your nasal cavity.
I know Rachel won't be so lucky. And it's now become more difficult to find her with the loss of one of my best senses. The crash of a glass-like substance rings through the air, and sends me on my toes in the direction of light—the only light I remember being on in Rachel's house.
"Rachel? Are you in here?" I call inaudibly as I enter into the light-filled room. I hurry to find her.
While I'm not directly breathing in large amounts of the dangerous fumes floating throughout the air, there is no way to completely filter out small amounts from entering my shortened airways. I'm at just as much risk the longer I breathe in the toxins.
Suddenly there's a cough from the other side of the bed that startles me. It's small and dainty, sounding exactly like a cough I would expect the girl to make. So I rush to the other side to find her. She lays there helplessly. Her eyes fade in and out of consciousness. It's only a matter of minutes before that gas will knock her out completely.
"Rachel? Rachel can you hear me? Come on, stay with me beautiful," I chant repeatedly, grabbing her cheeks and moving her head with rapid little shakes. A few lazy blinks signal that she's fighting to adhere to my instructions. I look around me, sensing the demagogues approaching nearer. I have to get us out of here and fast, but I don't think the poor girl can hold herself up, much less walk.
"Okay sweetheart, I'm going to pick you up now and get you out of here. Nod once if that's okay? Can you do that for me princess?" She nods weakly. I bend forward and wrap my arms around her small frame. The very few breaths she has left come out softly against the nape of my neck. Then she abruptly takes a deep breath inwards.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm…."She moans out throatily, it seems a highly unusual action for someone being slowly choked to death by gas, "You smell like pineapples and sugar cookies." The rest is mumbled out quietly against her place at my neck.
She's still breathing me in, letting out silent whimpers of approval, and then I smell it. Her arousal building in the air once more. Even though my nose receptors have been turned very low, that wondrous smell lingers between us, and I think about just how turned on she would have to be for it to still be as strong in my limited sense of smell.
God, Rachel, this is no time to be sexually charged! This is no time to get ME turned on simply because you are! I think to myself as I lift her from the ground.
She lets out a guttural moan at the contact of my shoulder to her center, and it makes me slightly regret the decision to carry her out this way. I'm torn between my desire and my intuition.
I've never been turned on in the throes of danger like I am now. It's thrilling amongst the ambiguity of it all. At the same time, I am more scared than usual because I can't use my best sense to determine when a demagogue is approaching. I know they'll eventually infiltrate the home.
I press on, with Rachel thrown across my shoulder, to the window I came in through. I feel mild delirium settling in my mind, and I can't tell if it's because of how close Rachel is to my face or if the gas is finally beginning to have an effect on me. I hope it's neither. I don't like the feeling either way.
There are shadows fading in and out around us as I make my way to the window. I hate being down my best hunting tool. A low snarl passes by my left ear. The owner of that snarl lunges at me from the same side. However, he misjudges my reaction-time. Before he can even touch me, I pull my trusty field knife from a hidden jacket pocket and jab it straight through his jugular.
I can only rely on my horrible sense of hearing and the advantage I'm given with my night vision goggles. I pull the knife from the first demagogue's neck and spin the blade with my one free hand before sending it into the stomach of a second one behind me. Rachel laughs hysterically on my shoulder. Though I'm not quite sure what she finds so funny. I make no real effort to silence her, for they already know we're here.
I get to the window and set her on the sill so I can better plan how to get us both down safely. There are numerous loud crashes erupting behind me and Rachel only laughs harder at their sound. I make my decision hastily.
"Rachel, I'm going to carry you down now okay? Put your arms around my neck and hold on tight!" I say before turning my back to her and grabbing her arms up to wrap around my neck. She clings tightly, at least as tight as her drug-induced state will allow. I loop two bungee cords I find in my pack around her and clip them to my jacket for added safety. Then, I hop on the window sill and grab hold of the gutter.
The weight is too much for the flimsy pipe. It squeaks beneath me and threatens to collapse at any moment. With just me it could manage, but the added dead weight of Rachel makes it wobble uncontrollably in my grasp. I allow myself to partially slide down so I can reach the ground quicker. But before we can make it, the gutter pops off the side of the wall.
We both fall to the ground with a grunt. It wasn't too bad a fall, maybe three feet or so, but my body aches miserably with Rachel's body weight on top of mine. She looks into my eyes and bursts into laughter for the umpteenth time this night. I'm honestly starting to lose count now.
This is well and good and all, but we are still in present danger. The situation is becoming less and less funny with every minute we spend absent of movement. I have yet to find any humor in the situation at all. I roll her off me and once again sling her over my shoulder like a rag doll. A pain shoots throughout my ankle, and I'm sure at least one bone is fractured. This night just might be the final death of me.
The girl's antics are beginning to play on my nerves as I fight to keep us alive. She pokes and prods me with incomprehensible giggles in-between. I'm relieved when we finally get to my bike because that means I will soon be off my damaged leg.
I sit her down on the seat, and securely buckle her into my helmet, not even caring that it's the only one I have. I hop on in front of her and rev the engine, making more of a scene than perhaps I should; calling out to those monsters to try me now that I have the power of speed. The bike gives a slight jerk forward and she instinctively secures both arms around my waist. She isn't going anywhere though. We're still bungeed together. Well, that and one of my hands thoughtlessly locks around the two she holds at my chest. I take off leaving a cloud of dust and smoke in enemy faces.
Once again, I fly through the city at full speed. I know the demagogues will track me, but I'm hoping that at least I'll have a good enough head start. The fact that I can't even make out the shapes of the buildings as they pass us by gives me the feeling we do. Rachel's head rests on my back, and her arms cling tightly around my waist the whole way back to the ship.
So much so, I have trouble prying them off me when we finally pull back into the cargo bay. I never thought about the fact that she's probably never ridden on one of these before. At least the fresh air and adrenaline brought her back to a few of her senses.
She stumbles when I pull her off the bike and I swiftly catch her in my arms before she falls to the ground completely. While she may be feeling a little bit more like herself, she still has a few more hours before she'll be fully functional. I make to throw her over my shoulder again, but think better of it before I do. I don't think I can handle another situation like that again. Not without doing something about it at least.
So, leaving one hand at her back and slipping the other down behind her knees, I stand up straight, cradling her to the air in my arms.
"Weeeeeeee!" she chants, giggling like a little girl. I want to be agitated with her for acting so childishly, but I can't. Her arms are loosely draped about my neck and her feet dangle carelessly over my forearm. Not to mention she's grinning wildly, with those same droopy eyes as before. It's too adorable a moment to pass up. Besides, she probably won't even remember this when she wakes up. I should enjoy this side of her while I have it.
I walk her to my chambers and lay her on my bed. I don't really have anywhere else to put her otherwise. I figure she'll be fine here until she gets some rest. We can sort out the details later. The point is she's safe now. Well, safer. We still need to get the hell off this planet and as far into space as we possibly can. But I want just one last look at her angelic face before I go off into pilot mode again. Sleep overwhelms her tiny body. Drool trickles down her chin onto my pillow. This is insanely adorable. I tuck a stray hair behind her ear and she cuddles into my touch.
"What the fuck is that Fabray!" Santana screams from my doorway.
"Can it Santana, you'll wake her!" I holler back in a whispered tone.
I grab Santana by the jacket and pull her back to the cockpit. I push her down in her seat and take my place in the captain's chair beside her. She still stares me down in shock at what I'd done and what I'm not telling her. But I'm done with this charade. I pull the throttle and grab the wheel as the ship roars to life.
"What are we waiting for? Let's get this bird back in the air! Let's get the fuck off Lima!"
