Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (who probably should have pulled the plug two seasons ago), and Orphan Black belongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who should totally keep doing what they're doing).
January 7, 2012 – Toronto, Canada
"Anyone want to tell me how the fuck we got jacked by the fucking POWDERPUFF GIRLS?!"
I'm standing in the kitchen of our safehouse, some pissy loft that Limey's foster brother left her when he went drinking, snorting, and fucking his way across the continental United States. The bag of frozen peas I have pressed to my busted lip probably makes me look like a pussy, but I'm livid enough to blow a Hot Brunette sized hole in the graffiti-covered drywall.
Rhesus just snorts at my question as she and Frenchie snuggle together on the couch. "You're just mad 'cause some munchkin cleaned your clock in front of the bank."
Her blonde girlfriend looks confused as hell, but she's able to dope out what Rhesus meant from the shit-eating grin she's wearing. "Be nice to your brother, chéri. He had a tough day."
I slam the peas down on the counter cluttered with dishes and take-out menus. "Who the fuck are they? How did they hit OUR mark before we did?"
Tippler takes a long pull from the bottle of tequila she's been nursing and shakes her head. "I had eyes on all the entrances. I didn't get any movement until they came out."
I grind my teeth together and move to throw myself down on the worn leather arm chair in the living room area. Leaning forward with my head in my hands, I count to ten slowly and steadily, 'cause I know I have to calm the fuck down if I'm ever going to figure this shit out.
Get your shit in a pile, Sawicki, I tell myself. Forget about the girl and focus.
"Oi, I think I got something here," Limey calls out from the bed, her laptop perched carefully on her knees. We all rise from our various seats and crowd around the mattress.
She turns the computer around to face us, and dammit if a picture of Hot Brunette isn't front and center on the screen. At least, a younger version of her, anyway. She's got on this killer black one shoulder dress that hugs her body like a second skin. Flawless makeup, heels high as skyscrapers, and hair hanging straight around her face.
The girl's fucking perfection… I almost have to wipe the drool off my chin.
"I used the security footage Alison pulled from the entrance cameras and Cosima's facial recognition software," Limey explains while scrolling down the webpage. "No IDs on the runners, but I got a hit on the girl who put her boot in your grill. Name's Rachel Barbara Berry, daughter of Hiram and Leroy Berry, owners of the Blackbox Theatre in New York City."
"An American?" Frenchie chimes in.
Limey's eyebrow arches up as she reads on. "Apparently she was supposed to be some kind of Broadway prodigy. Girl started acting when she was in diapers... She's got a killer set of pipes, too."
I tune out when she mentions Rachel's voice. God, what I wouldn't give to hear her sing my name for all our neighbors to hear. She'd be begging for me, all hot and wet… "Tony, oh Tony!" "Oh, Tony –"
"Tony?" British twang pulls me out of my short fantasy to find all of them staring at me.
"Shit, my bad," I fumble, clearing my throat. "Think I might have a concussion. Run that by me again."
Like I'm going to tell them I was daydreaming about Rachel's tight –
"I was saying that she had some kind of breakdown after her senior year of high school. Ran off with some boy she was dating and never looked back. Her dads haven't seen her since."
Rhesus puffs her cheeks out with a sigh. "Damn. How the hell did she go from showtunes and autographs to robbing banks and roundhousing T?"
"No fucking clue," I grimace as I tenderly press my finger against my lip. Thankfully the bleeding's stopped, otherwise Tippler's dumb ass would've gone all Mommie Dearest and dragged me to a hospital.
I plop down on the bed and scratch at the scruff on my chin. We need to get in front of this fast, or Berry and her team of cat-burglar supermodels are going to keep moving in on our jobs. And as hot as she is, the only thing I want that girl moving in on is me.
"Sarah, find out how the hell they knew we were hitting TD," I nod to her. "Berry said my codename before she put me down, so she knows who we are and what we do. Find the leak."
She gives me a military salute and gets to work, tuning out the world and tick-tacking away on her computer keyboard.
I then turn to Rhesus. "You hack their tech and figure out how they got in without Alison seeing them. If they used a route we didn't account for, I want to know about it."
"Gotcha. Let's go probe these bitches, Eskimo Pie," she cooes at Frenchie, kissing her cheek and tugging her back toward the couch.
Limey doesn't look up from the screen when she talks again. "What are you and Ali going to do?"
I glance over at the window sill Tippler had been leaning against and find her asleep, cradling her tequila like a teddy bear. I shake my head while letting out a sigh and running a hand through my hair.
"Fuck this, I'm running a bath. I need to think."
Limey hums in agreement as I make my way to the tub, grabbing my Belmonts and Zippo on the way.
This is going to be a long night.
Reviews are appreciated.
A. Tenmeadows, out.
