Title: The Caged Bird's Song

Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry, Rachel Berry/Finn Hudson, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just having a little fun.

Summary: Hitting a dead end in her life, Rachel procures a job at a prison just outside of Lima, Ohio by way of prison guard, Finn Hudson. Dreams deferred, the last thing Rachel expected was to have her ambition restored by an infuriating inmate and her band of detainees.

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews! Just a quick heads up: I have never been in prison, nor have I ever worked at one. That being said, the information you find here won't be 100% accurate. Fair warning. Also, this fic is rated M for violence among other things, so keep that in mind if you choose to continue reading.


"Okay, I've heard enough."

Rachel could literally feel her vocal cords clench, for in the middle of her audition to hopefully get into one of the most prestigious performing arts schools in the country, she was told to stop. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered in panic. "I must not understand. You want me to stop?"

The one in question was esteemed NYADA alum and instructor, Carmen Tibideaux. She looked up from her notes at Rachel as if she was annoyed that her time was being wasted. "That's right."

Rachel tried her best to smile as she took a step forward on stage. "Then my performance went well?"

Carmen cleared her throat as she gathered her stack of papers. "I haven't seen a performance more boring since two-thousand-six when a flaming male thought When the Saints Go Marching In would actually wow me. Where's the pop? The pizazz? You can't get into NYADA by playing it safe."

She felt her heart constrict at the news. "What are you saying?"

Carmen leveled her eyes on Rachel from several feet away. "I'm saying that the answer is no. Based on your audition, you aren't what NYADA is looking for, I'm sorry."


Storming into her bedroom, Rachel flung her briefcase full of well-prepared lesson plans on the bed with a frustrated grunt. She straightened her blouse and kicked off her heels before storming into the kitchen to stare at Finn's long figure looming over the stove. He hadn't even bothered to take his work clothes off when he came home, only walked straight into the kitchen to make a bologna sandwich.

Rachel seethed with anger as she stared at his back. He was the reason she had this job in the first place, so it was his fault that she was stuck with an inmate Finn himself had called conniving.

"Tell me everything you know about Quinn Fabray, Finn Hudson, right now."

Finn grabbed his sandwich from the napkin it was placed on and swiveled around to face Rachel. He watched her chest rise and fall with deep, controlled—barely—breaths. "Okay," he said in a soothing voice, "you're turning into Scary Rachel."

"I didn't know I'd be teaching her, Finn!" she yelled. "You neglected to inform me of that!"

"I didn't know you'd care!" he argued with a mouth full of food. Crumbs flew out of his mouth and onto the ground, and Rachel closed her eyes to block out the mess he was creating on the floor.

When she spoke again, her voice was controlled. "She is an arsonist, Finn."

"Trust me, compared to other prisoners, her crime is one of the least threatening."

Rachel quieted at the sobering news.

Finn went to capitalize on her silence. "I mean, there are murderers in there, Rach!"

"I know!" she cried in fear. "I shouldn't have taken this job."

"Now hold on." Finn shoved the last third of the sandwich into his mouth, wiped his hands on his slacks and walked over to Rachel. He enveloped her in his arms and rested his chin atop her head. "We both know you needed this job," he needlessly informed her as he rocked them both back and forth. "It's just until you find another one, Rach. Look, if it makes you feel better, read her file. So you'll know what you're up against."

She nodded against his shoulder as tears welled in her eyes. She couldn't be further away from her dreams if she tried. "This isn't what I wanted, Finn," she confessed with a sniffle.

He sighed and kissed the top of her head. "I know. But at least we're together, right?" He didn't give her a chance to respond before he pulled back enough to lean down to kiss her on the lips.

Rachel stood in his embrace until she felt something press against her stomach, felt him grow a little eager, and she subtly gave a little shove. He sighed against her lips and eased back. She tried her best to smile. "It's just been a long day, Finn. I think what I really need right now after being in that prison is a hot shower."

He nodded as she pulled away and walked out of the kitchen.

"Yeah…okay."


After spending two hours surfing the web, Rachel had managed to find an online chat room for prison employees. She scrolled through the many topics ranging from Different Ways to Detain a Rowdy Inmate to So You Got Stabbed With that Shank, Huh? (A Guide to Ensuring it Doesn't Get Infected). She put a star by that particular thread for future reference just in case then continued to read through a thread on improving morale in the prison with mild interest. Suggestions ranged from having movie nights with the inmates to having a field day full of outdoor activities with carnival-like snacks.

Rachel slumped back in her seat with a sigh. She looked up to her framed NYADA theater degree hanging on the wall and wondered, not for the first time, how she got here. She had fallen so far from grace. But when she finally rose to the top again, if ever, her memoirs would be both heartbreaking and inspiring.

Deciding to make the best of her situation, Rachel sat up again and continued to read through the thread.


Quinn picked the top three cards off the deck in her hand and flipped them over. She eyed the seven piles of cards in front of her, each with one card turned up, then placed one of the three cards onto the pile and flipped three more again.

When she had moments of solitude, she tended to think of her past: the pink hair, the edgy clothing. And she wondered what single moment, if any, in her life ultimately led her here in prison. And if she had chosen differently, been at the right place at the right time instead of the wrong one, would she have been able to continue the life she had before prison.

Sometimes she wondered if prison was meant to put a halt to the fast life she had cultivated for herself, if it was put in place by divine intervention to ultimately save her life, and send her on a different path.

Whatever the case, the two years she had left couldn't go by fast enough.

"Fabray."

She looked up to find Officer Sylvester approaching her. Quinn placed her cards faced down on the table. She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms and legs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sue's expression was one of displeasure as she spoke. "I believe you have education from noon to one-thirty."

Surprise showed in the widening of Quinn's eyes. "I do," she responded to hide it. No one had told her she had gotten her privileges back.

"Then let's go."

Quinn gathered her cards and slipped the rubber band that had been on her wrist around the deck. She stood and allowed Sue to escort her to the education wing of the prison.

Santana did a double take on her way inside of a classroom when she saw Quinn. She pumped her hands in the air and sing-songed, "Fabray got her privileges back."

"In your classroom, Lopez!" Sue interrupted in a stern voice.

Santana waited until Sue and Quinn passed by to stick her middle finger up at Sue.

Quinn was directed into a small room with a table in the middle of it. She looked around in confusion then turned back to Sue. "No classroom?"

Sue smiled cruelly. "You want to act out like a child who needs 'special attention', you get treated like one."

Quinn's eyes narrowed into slits at the insult. "So, what—I get one-on-one attention?" She smirked and took a seat at the table, making a show of it. "I knew you all respected me."

The smile on Sue's face was wiped away immediately. She sneered at Quinn then walked out of the room, passing Rachel down the hallway and muttering, "She's all yours," in a crotchety tone of voice.

Rachel swiveled around to Finn with fear in her eyes. "I don't know if I can do this."

Finn placed large hands on Rachel's small shoulders. "You can. She's an arsonist, not a murderer. There aren't any matches or lighters inside. And it's not like she has secret powers or anything, so she's not gonna start a fire out of nowhere."

Despite her anxiety, Rachel laughed. "Finn, I'm not afraid she's going to set the room on fire. I'm afraid she's going to beat me up, or…do whatever she did that got her classroom privileges revoked."

"She's not," he assured. "Look, I know Quinn. She likes learning. The education department is probably the only thing in here she respects other than the art department. She won't do anything to jeopardize her chances of being in a classroom again."

The pout on Rachel's face hadn't lifted, but she mumbled, "Okay," anyway.

Finn reached for the walkie-talkie on his hip. "Here." He handed it to her. "If anything goes south, you press this button here, then yell Code 30. That means you need assistance with a prisoner immediately. We will all come running."

"You promise?" she asked as she held on to the walkie-talkie with dear life.

He smiled. "Promise."

Rachel nodded, feeling moderately better about the ordeal. She kissed Finn on the cheek for comfort then walked into the room. Inhaling a deep breath, Rachel took the inmate in. Quinn was staring directly at her from across the room at the table.

"Hello," Rachel greeted. She smiled kindly, and thought of this as nothing more than a role. Improvisation. She had to play the role of confident prison personnel, one who wouldn't take any junk from an inmate. But also a good cop, one who respected the inmate as a person. Once she had finalized the role she would play, she rolled her shoulders back and sauntered into the room. "You must be Quinn Fabray. I'm Rachel Berry."

"My reputation precedes me," Quinn purred in a way that made dread shoot down Rachel's spine. "I take it you're my tutor, Berry."

Rachel ignored the alluring cadence to Quinn's voice as she walked further into the room. "I read your file," she informed Quinn in an attempt to wipe the smug look off her face.

It didn't work. "So you did." Quinn folded her arms across her chest. "What'd you learn?"

Rachel soldiered on. "Well I learned that you're one of the few inmates who has to have one on one sessions because you were a bit, umm, disruptive—"

"I held a questionably acquired knife to Sullivan's neck and threatened to slit her throat during class. Bitch shouldn't have crossed me," Quinn confessed with a tilt of her head, gauging Rachel's reaction. She watched the subtle bob of Rachel's throat and reveled in victory at establishing herself as the dominant person in the room.

Rachel rubbed at her neck self-consciously. "Yes, well, hopefully our lessons won't be in the same vein," she attempted to joke with a shaky smile.

Quinn shrugged as if she had no say in whether or not Rachel would get shanked. "Play your cards right."

Rachel's steps stuttered as she thought twice about turning her back on Quinn. She inhaled a deep breath and tugged at her buttoned blazer. Decision made, she turned around and walked to the counter to grab the briefcase she had left when she previously visited the room to check to see if it was up to her standards.

It wasn't.

She hoped turning her back on Quinn would instill trust. After all lack of trust was one of the main reasons inmates acted out, Rachel had learned from one of the many documentaries she had watched before starting her job. If one treated an adult like a child who couldn't be trusted then it would only yield those exact results. Quinn wasn't a child, Rachel reasoned. And though an inmate, she deserved to be treated with decency and respect, not with mistrust and insolence.

Quinn tilted her head to watch Rachel saunter toward the counter, calves flexing as she walked in her kitten heels. She made quick work of assessing Rachel. She seemed to be someone who forced bravado for the confidence she lacked. Lips twitching, Quinn was simultaneously amused and—"You're hot," she decided with pursed lips. Her eyes raked up impossibly long tan legs to the hem of the ridiculously inappropriate and unfashionable short black and white checkered skirt Rachel was wearing.

A tiny squeak lodged in Rachel's throat as she snatched her briefcase off the counter and turned around, face reddening as she gawked at Quinn.

With a smile crawling across her face, Quinn leaned forward in her chair and steepled her fingers together on the table. "What's the matter; can't walk in real heels?"

"T-this is all wildly inappropriate!" Rachel stammered. Her hands clenched into fists at her side, eyes narrowing into an unimpressed glare.

Quinn licked her lips, enjoying her new toy far too much. "I could teach you," she hissed with a lazy grin. "At a price."

Rachel hurriedly stalked back over to the table. She slammed her briefcase down, and Quinn leaned back to keep from getting her fingers smashed. "That is enough, Miss Fabray," Rachel demanded.

Quinn pursed her lips, not appreciating the formality.

Rachel seemed to lose steam at her silence. She cleared her throat. "Now…we can either continue with your lesson, or I can be on my way and you can walk back to your cell. Your choice."

Quinn had been positive Rachel's type would have jumped at the chance learn how to walk in a taller pair of heels. She had seen plenty of girls who fit the bill in high school. Having spent her whole life effortlessly climbing to the top of the food chain by expertly reading people, Quinn felt both embarrassed and put-off by the fact that she had read Rachel so inaccurately. Crossing her arms, she sat back in her chair in silence.

Taking her silence as acquiescence, Rachel pulled out the chair across the table from Quinn and took a seat. "Now then. Let's get started, shall we?"

Quinn remained quiet as she recalibrated her preconceived notions of Rachel Berry. She operated under the assumption that Rachel's confidence wasn't false then she wondered why her fashion sense was so appalling. She snapped out of her reverie when she noticed Rachel pull a stack of papers out of her briefcase. "What is this?" Quinn asked in amusement.

"My lesson plans," Rachel answered eagerly. She handed Quinn a worksheet. "I figured we'd start with some basic addition and work from there."

Insulted, Quinn roughly slid the paper back across the table. "Are you fucking joking?"

Rachel's back went stiff at the swear. "I'm sorry, is something wrong?"

"Do I look like I rode the short bus in school?" Quinn growled. "I don't need a refresher course on fucking addition."

"Okay, if we could just cut down on the swearing," Rachel suggested, feeling her temple pound. Surely she had heard such colorful language in New York, but this was a workplace setting. Well, her workplace setting. Quinn's…living quarters. But this was a classroom setting, nonetheless.

"Makes you uncomfortable?" Quinn jeered.

Rachel tossed her hair over one shoulder and gave Quinn a look. "It does, actually."

Quinn's expression hardened. "Then how about you come over here and do something about it."

Suddenly it occurred to her that she was arguing with a criminal, and Rachel's blood ran cold.

Quinn sensed the fear in her immediately. "That's what I thought." She gestured toward Rachel's lesson plans. "Now come up with something better, because I assure you I'm not going to sit here for ninety minutes every day figuring out what two plus two equals."

Rachel licked her lips, feeling wholly overwhelmed. "I'll-I'll redraw my lesson plans and come up with something different," she conceded in a quiet voice.

Quinn lifted her chin. "That sounds better." She stood from her seat. "If you have nothing else to teach me I'll be on my way." When Rachel did nothing more than stare at the stack of papers she had worked so hard on but now felt stupid for, Quinn walked away from the table. "Later, Berry," she called over her shoulder.

Rachel listened to her footsteps until she could no longer hear them. When she was sure Quinn was long gone, she stood from her seat and frantically ran to the nearest bathroom. She locked herself in the handicap stall that afforded a little more breathing room and spent five minutes hyperventilating.

She just went toe to toe with a criminal. She wasn't cut out for this. This wasn't her life. Her life was stardom, singing and acting and Tony awards. Her life wasn't teaching ungrateful inmates who threw her hard work back in her face, no matter how unserviceable and kind of insulting the work had been.

Quinn Fabray was a spoiled little prick, Rachel decided.

But she was also an arsonist who had so far spent three years in prison, and could probably kill Rachel in various creative ways with little more than floss and a tub of Vaseline.

Rachel groaned in exasperation at her own thoughts as she sunk to the bathroom floor.


Her tray dropped to the table with a clang as Quinn plopped down in her chair beside Mack. Having arrived to lunch late, her friends were already there, caught in the middle of a conversation that she didn't care to catch up on at the moment.

"Hey."

Her shoulders shifted in her jumpsuit. "What?"

"At-ti-tude," Santana punctuated the syllables with a shake of her spoon in Quinn's direction. "What's crawled up your pussy and died?"

Quinn squinted. "Really, that's a little crude."

They all laughed. "Careful, Pyro, you're starting to sound like the prude you were when you first walked into this dump."

Santana's words were sobering, and seemed to snap Quinn out of her funk immediately. She dipped her head and forked through her potatoes. "You haven't called me Pyro in a while."

"Yeah, and you haven't acted like a tightwad in a while."

Mack and Brittany snickered, and Mack nudged Quinn goodnaturedly to let her know not to take any of this personally.

Quinn stretched her neck from side to side in an attempt to loosen the muscles and hopefully her personality. "I just got a lot on my mind is all."

Santana shrugged. "I told you we should've killed the bitch. Bet it'd take your stress away. Hey, by the way, you snag Berry yet?"

Santana received a bland look. "No."

"You had tutoring with her today, though, right?"

Quinn dropped her fork. "Yeah, I did. And you know what? The bitch brought worksheets with addition problems on them."

They all laughed. "No fucking way." Mack shook her head in disbelief.

"Even I know what two plus two is," Brittany assured with an eye roll.

Santana wiped away a tear of amusement. "Yeah, Britts, but there are some people in here who literally don't."

Positive that she had successfully distracted them all, Quinn sank back and allowed them to continue their conversation about which inmates were idiotic enough to need those worksheets.

"Oh, oh, Ronnie Hicks!"

Ronnie, who had been passing through, turned around at the sound of her name. Her eyes zeroed in on Santana as she doubled back to the table. She slammed her hands down on it, and Mack grimaced at her thick fingers. "What'd you say?" Ronnie growled.

Brittany frowned. Her legs shifted under the table as she prepared to stand up if need be.

Sensing her bunkmate's jumpiness, Santana reached under the table and placed her hand on Brittany's upper thigh. "Oh, nothing, Hicks. We were just discussing neighborhood prison idiots, and your name just happened to come up."

Ronnie stood to her full height. "Come say that to my face."

"With pleasure." Santana stood and walked around the table until she was in front of Ronnie. Quinn stood and Brittany and Mack followed suit.

She immediately looked around to find Terri, Sheila, and Kitty approaching from different angles. Quinn smiled. "Well then. It's yesterday all over again, I suppose."

"Not today it's not!"

They all turned to see Officer Sebastian Smythe heading toward them. Quinn eyed him reaching for his taser, and stepped back, motioning for Mack to follow. She made eye contact with Brittany and jerked her head to the right to indicate she needed to step back. Brittany grabbed Santana's arm and tugged, and Santana followed without question. Five years in prison had taught her two things: not everything needed to be questioned, and above anyone else, Brittany always had her best interest in mind.

Sebastian stood between all of them, looking around. "Is there a problem here?"

Ronnie gritted her teeth. "Yeah, this puta called me an idiot."

"Probably the only Spanish word you know," Santana shot back.

"How about I send you back to where you came from?" Ronnie threatened.

"What, Lima Heights Adjacent? I'll gladly go!"

Sheila snorted. "I've never seen you around the Heights."

"Then maybe you didn't know what you were looking for," Santana argued in a cold voice.

"That's enough! Sullivan, Hicks, Wilde, Johnson! Get back to your table." Sebastian walked up to Ronnie. "I'd hate to have to use this," he cautioned, reaching for the taser on his hip.

Ronnie glared at him for the threat, and Sebastian cowed back a step.

Kitty stepped forward to grab Ronnie's arm. "Let's go back and eat this oh, so delicious food they prepare daily for us," she cajoled sarcastically, cutting Sebastian a sharp look.

"I ain't afraid of that taser," Ronnie pointed out as she walked away.

Terri allowed her group to lead, turning to Quinn before she, too, left. "I'll see you real soon, Wasp."

Quinn felt her chest tighten. She turned to Sebastian who was just standing there. "She's not going to get in trouble for that?"

Sebastian looked her dead in the eye. "I didn't hear anything."

Quinn shot up from her seat. "That's bullshit!" she cried.

Mack stood, scowling at Sebastian, as she placed a calming hand on Quinn's shoulder. "Hey, chill. It's not the first time an officer here hasn't done their job. Won't be the last either."

Sebastian slowly backed away from the table then turned to walk back to his post.

Santana went back to her meal. "Don't you worry about him, Fabray. I'll get him."


Quinn put the finishing touches on her latest art piece. Using the black shaded pastel that had stained her fingertips, she traced the shading under her subject's bottom lip one last time. Her eyes grew misty as a small, watery smile touched her face.

"That looks pretty good, Fabray."

Startled, Quinn turned around to find Officer Schuester across the room against the wall. He was on duty today in the art room to ensure inmates didn't stab each other with paintbrushes. "Thank you, Officer Schue." Her voice was uncharacteristically soft, and she flashed him a small smile before turning back to her pastels.

"All right, everyone did really well today," the instructor assured. "Now if you would pack up your materials and put your work over in your portfolios—"

"Actually, Ms. Watson," Quinn interrupted. "May I take mine with me? It's…kind of important to me."

Ms. Watson smiled and nodded. "That'll be fine, Fabray."

Quinn smiled and finished packing up her materials. It was the one peaceful place in prison she had, the art room. For ninety minutes every other day, often it was the only thing that kept her sane, hopeful.

Folding up her newest artwork, Quinn placed it under her arm and walked out of the room.

There was something…off, Quinn noticed as she continued the walk to her quarters. Tension in the air she couldn't place. She halted in the middle of the hallway and clutched her drawing when two inmates ran toward her. Her eyes clenched shut.

When nothing happened, Quinn opened her eyes and looked over her left shoulder to find that they had passed her and kept down the hallway.

There was a growing buzz of multiple conversations in the hallways before someone finally yelled, "Riot!"

Quinn's eyes widened.

A swarm of inmates suddenly appeared in the halls, yelling, cursing, pulling hair, and fighting one another.

Quinn stayed close to the wall and rounded the corner. She was about to take off into a full sprint to her cell when she was seized by hands wrapping around both of her arms. "Get the fuck of me!" she growled as she instinctively twisted and jerked. She looked up to find Ronnie on her left and Sheila on her right. Her blood ran cold. She looked forward as a figure emerged in the midst of all the mêlée.

Terri.

Quinn felt her stomach bottom out.

Terri came to a stop inches in front of Quinn's struggling form. "I told you I'd see you real soon."

Kitty, too, emerged from all skirmish with a triumphant smile on her face when her eyes landed on Quinn. "Told you I could get a riot going."

Terri hummed. "A very smart idea, Wilde. Keep it going."

Kitty took off in the opposite direction, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Terri snapped her fingers, and Sheila and Ronnie hoisted Quinn off the ground as if she weighed nothing and carried her to a nearby cell where they wrestled her to her knees.

Quinn stared at the orange slip-ons approaching her. She winced, but wouldn't allow herself to cry out when fingers dug into her skull and yanked her head up by her hair until she was staring at Terri towering over her. "Little girl, I told you not to mess with me." There was a sharp object in her right hand.

Stricken with fear, Quinn schooled her features to impassivity. Fear was the one thing in prison that got people killed next to drug addiction and snitching.

"What do you want us to do with this?" Sheila asked.

Quinn heard the familiar scratch of construction paper and her eyes widened. She struggled in the sure hold she was in. "Give it back!" When had they gotten it, she wondered frantically.

Terri unfolded the paper to reveal the artwork inside. She walked back to stand in front of Quinn.

"Get the hell off of me!" Quinn yelled.

Terri cackled evilly. "Scream all you want. No one will be able to hear you with that mess going on outside." She stared down at the artwork in wonder with a tilt of her head. "Who is this blonde haired little girl? You?"

Quinn's lips were drawn up as she glared up at Terri.

"Nothing to say, Wasp? Pity. You typically have all the answers, don't you?" Terri swiftly walked back to her dresser. She grabbed a lighter and held the paper above a dancing flame as she walked back over to Quinn.

"No!" Quinn shouted, her voice pleading now.

Terri's red mouth twisted into a smirk. "But I thought you liked fire," she hissed with narrowed eyes as the flame finally made contact with paper. She allowed it to fall to the floor and with wide, grief-stricken eyes, Quinn watched it burn.

Swiftly moving behind her, Terri gathered Quinn's hair in her grasp to expose the back of her neck. The ice cold blade made contact with warm skin, and the hairs on the back of Quinn's neck stood on end. "One false move on my part, and I could completely paralyze you," Terri observed as she watched the blade reflect the overhead light in her cell. The blade began to cut into pale flesh while Terri sarcastically asked, "Tell me, Fabray, where's your little band of misfits now?" Just then alarm shot through her when an arm curled around her neck and constricted.

"Right here, bitch!" Santana yelled.

The blade fell to the ground and Sheila and Ronnie dropped Quinn to the floor immediately. Brittany ran into the cell and leapt through the air to land on Sheila's back. Sheila cried out in surprise and confusion before reaching back to grab a handful of blonde hair. Brittany grunted in pain, but kept a sure grip on Sheila.

Ronnie's fist came down hard, aiming for Mack's face who managed to duck in time. Mack swung a long metal pipe she had acquired during the riot. There was a loud clang then Ronnie cried out and crumpled to the floor, grasping her knee cap.

"How's that for a trick knee?" Mack asked.

"Mack, over here!"

She turned toward the garbled sound to find Brittany on the ground with Sheila's hands wrapped around her neck. Before Mack knew anything, the pipe was roughly being jerked from her hands. "Wha…" she said nothing more as Santana stalked across the room and cracked the pipe across Sheila's skull. There was a grunt then Sheila slumped and fell on her side.

Santana's voice was a grave, hoarse bark when she spoke. "Don't you ever fuck with my Brittany."

Brittany scrambled to stand then threw her arms around Santana's neck. "Thank you. It's okay. It's okay," she reassured through breathless wheezing.

"Mack."

Mack turned to find Quinn holding Terri in a full nelson. Understanding, she ran over to Quinn and took over.

Ronnie attempted to get to her feet as she watched Quinn grab the shank from the floor. She felt a shadow loom over her and looked up to find Santana with the pipe in her hand. "Don't make me use this," Santana warned.

Brittany ran to the door and poked her head outside. "Guys, things are dying down. And I hear the tear gas bombs, so make this quick."

Quinn grimaced at the blood she felt trickling down her neck. She stared down at Terri. "You're a piece of shit, Sullivan," she spat. She reached down and yanked her jumpsuit apart, buttons loudly smacking against the floor. Quinn stared at her breasts with a sick smile. "It would be a shame to see that boob job go to waste."

Before Terri could offer a retort, the blade was slowly slicing her skin open above her breast.

"Now I'm no doctor," Quinn hedged in a calm voice as she took a step back. "But I'm sure I could get it out."

Jaw clenched, Terri said nothing. Nothing about how expensive the surgery had been, how she had scraped together her last to get it, and how she would be nothing without it. Because from the way Quinn looked at her, she already knew.

"Schuester won't even touch you with a ten foot pole. You think he's gonna want to fuck you when you're all sliced up?"

"We gotta go!" Brittany yelled.

Quinn yanked on the now bloody tank top Terri was wearing and wiped her prints off the shank with the hem of the t-shirt. She stood to her full height and ran out of the cell behind her crew without a word.


"Did Sullivan do this?"

Quinn glared up at Officer Burt as best she could with her neck bowed. Behind her, Kurt pressed gauze after gauze to her wound in an attempt to clean up all the blood. After taking a screwdriver to his leg several months ago, Kurt had given up his position in the field to work in first aid. Less pay, but also much less life threatening.

Hazel eyes rolled around in Quinn's skull. "I didn't see who did it." The number one code between prison inmates was Don't Snitch. But Quinn wasn't withholding information to follow any code. She wanted revenge for a wound that would likely create ugly scar tissue. And she couldn't exact revenge if Terri would end up spending a month in solitary for attacking another inmate. At least the attack had been done in a place on her body she didn't have to look at. Unlike Terri's.

Burt growled lowly. "Look, we all know it was Sullivan, all right? She's in the room right next door getting bandaged, too."

"So you're working us both," Quinn responded right on the heels of his statement.

Burt scowled. "Just say her name and I'll get out of your hair."

Quinn hissed in pain at the antiseptic being sprayed on the open wound. "I said I. Don't. Know," she punctuated in impatience. "It was a damn riot; how am I supposed to know who had the balls to sneak attack me from behind?"

His lips firmed into a thin line. Burt knew she was lying. No inmate other than Terri had enough balls to go after Quinn. He looked over Quinn's head to make eye contact with Kurt. "Can you at least tell me what happened?"

Quinn licked her lips as Kurt placed a large bandage across the back of her neck. "Someone came up behind me and knocked me to the floor. Then they took what I would guess was a blade and cut me."

"Why?"

"To send a message? I don't know!"

"What kind of message?"

Quinn's expression blanked. "I don't know," she decided. "I don't know anything."

Burt shook his head in annoyance. "Fine. Then I can't offer my help."

"I never asked for it."

He walked toward the door. It was opened just before he reached it, and Officer Hudson poked his head in. His expression was grave as he motioned Burt closer.

Quinn watched the two of them whisper back and forth. Then Burt straightened. He walked back over to Quinn as Finn stepped away from the door to reveal Rachel standing there staring at her. Her eyes were wide in alarm, and Quinn stared at her as Burt quietly asked,

"Do you know anything about the murder of Warden Figgins during the riot?"


Carmen Tibideaux sighed as she looked at the seventeen year old crying on stage. Having gathered her things, she was on her way out of the auditorium and cursed herself for glancing back one last time. This Rachel Berry girl was a mess of sniffles and hiccupping sobs. And contrary to popular belief, Carmen didn't particularly like crushing the dreams of aspiring NYADA undergraduates. It was just a part of the job. And it wasn't as if Rachel lacked talent, quite the opposite. She just failed to wow Carmen. She played it too safe. But what was NYADA if not a place that taught its students how and when to take daring risks?

She sighed wearily and stepped back into the auditorium. "Okay, okay, okay, enough," she insisted. "Enough with the blubbering already!"

Misty eyed, Rachel could barely make out Carmen's figure. "Ms. Tibideaux?" she confirmed in a weak voice.

"You get one more chance, kid," was all she said. "And you'd better blow me away."