Part Two – Well It's Too Late To Say You're Sorry
"The Fabray murder case deepens with confirmed sightings of the vehicle belonging to Rachel Berry – one of four suspects in an horrific double homicide, followed by a triple homicide just one week later – outside of Crawfordsville, Indiana. Chuck Baker, an employee of McDonald's, called police after he claimed to have served the girls. The call was dismissed as police stations all over the country were bombarded with similar witness accounts. However, footage from the highway-side restaurant has been released to the media this morning with clear images of the four girls buying breakfast goods through the drive-through window. Sheriff William Brewster had this to say:"
Cut to the Sheriff, who gazes gravely into the camera. As he talks, his mustache twitches over his top lip.
"These are not usual teenage girls. They appear completely remorseless. Footage provided by the McDonald's store shows the girls smiling and laughing as they purchase their breakfast just hours after committing murder. They will not evade capture for long. We urge citizens to remain vigilant, and above all, to not approach them under any circumstances."
Jessalyn Briggs' brow furrows as her face appears once more.
"Following the murders in Beavercreek, Ohio, concerned citizens are enacting a neighborhood watch scheme. The three men killed just yesterday have been identified, and their families today grieve their senseless loss. Once again we here at Channel 43 urge viewers to be careful. These girls appear untamed, and extremely dangerous. Reverend Holt Granger joins us in the studio, welcome Reverend."
Reverend Holt Granger has sandy blonde hair, and kind eyes.
"Thank you, Miss Briggs."
"You were close to the Fabrays, is that right?"
"Yes, they never missed a Sunday sermon. Judy Fabray in particular – a fine and upstanding woman. Her loss is greatly grieved by the congregation."
"And it's true that you also had contact with Quinn Fabray?"
Reverend Holt Granger shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
"Yes, ma'am, I did. We lost her shortly after it became, uh, apparent that she was pregnant."
"The congregation abandoned her?"
"Absolutely not, we have a firm system of support in place for those who, uh, fall victim to sin. As it were."
"So she chose to leave the church?"
"I believe she turned away from God, yes. After we heard about Judy, and Russell, especially – well, it was clear that God had left her."
Jessalyn leans forward, clasping her hands together.
"Reverend, do you believe in evil?"
"I believe that we are all capable of evil, yes. God gives us the strength to fight against it, to overcome it. These girls have committed unspeakable crimes – crimes I wouldn't even expect from grown men. Now, as I understand it, the Devil isn't talked about much these days, not where it counts. Not in schools, or in the media. But I stand firmly by what I am about to say – what I came here to say – and that is: evil walks among us. The Devil has manifested himself in these girls. There is no other explanation for what they've done. To kill your parents, to kill strangers sitting down for a quiet meal? It is the Devil, Miss Briggs. Why else would these young women – these once sweet young ladies – do this? I challenge you to answer that question, and not come to the conclusion that somehow, somewhere along the way, they have succumbed to evil."
"A compelling argument, Reverend. We thank you for your time."
Jessalyn turns back to camera 2 as Reverend Holt Granger nods his head towards her.
"We invite viewers to call the number on your screen with opinions on the Reverend's words, and this ongoing tragic saga."
O-O
"In a twist to the Fabray case, new evidence has come forward in relation to the three men murdered in Beavercreek, Ohio, one week after Judith and Russell Fabray were killed violently by their own daughter and her friends. Jacob McArthur – stabbed brutally to death in the truck stop bathroom – was fighting sexual assault charges in Houston, Texas. A young woman whose identity we cannot reveal claimed McArthur sexually assaulted her during his employment as a courier, and had skipped town before the trial commenced."
Jessalyn shifts in her chair.
"A second victim in the Beavercreek murders, Jed Holsworthy, was out on bail for manslaughter following a DUI charge."
O-O
"A group calling themselves 'Triple F' have today stepped forward in defense of the four teenage girls wanted for five homicides committed in Ohio in the past two weeks. They claim the girls are 'rebelling against a society designed to subjugate them'. While the girls' location remains a mystery, new evidence has come to light in the wake of the identities of the truck stop victims being released. Francine Ferber, cousin to Quinn Fabray, released a statement earlier this morning claiming Russell and Judith Fabray were abusive parents. She is quoted as saying, 'My uncle had a temper. A very bad one. When Quinn was eight years old, she overheard my brother saying a swear word and repeated it in the presence of her father. His punishment was severe, and physically harming. Extremely so. We didn't see that side of the family again.' The statement goes on to allege that added to Russell Fabray's temper, Judith Fabray was an alcoholic. Police have yet to comment on this statement, however, if you have an opinion call the number on your screen."
O-O
Sue Sylvester stares cockily into the camera in a blue tracksuit top. She is seated in Jessalyn Briggs' chair.
"Good evening, America. I'm Sue Sylvester. You may remember me from the sensationally popular Sue's Corner, as well as recognize me as a nationally ranked cheerleading coach with seven consecutive national titles. More recently I was interviewed in relation to three cheerleaders I once coached and their connection to a heinous murder of two beloved citizens of Lima. Now, my first port of business in this sea of sheer ridiculousness is to state the following: I did not train these girls to become killers. Hell, I didn't even train them how to maim people. They've done this all on their own. But," she holds up a finger. "They still hold a special place in my heart. Because they're survivors."
A shot of Quinn, Santana and Brittany in matching Cheerios uniforms appears behind Sue.
"The lovely Jessalyn Briggs' did a tremendous job of bastardizing the facts of this case, so I took it upon myself to say hey, studio news, do you want an uneducated toddler feeding viewers a mixture of repetitive horse hooey, or do you want Sue Sylvester," she jerks her thumbs toward her chest. "A woman with a mission for the truth; a woman who knows these girls; a woman with an inside eye into the minds of these teenagers gone wild? And here I am. You're welcome, America."
She smiles charmingly and turns to camera 3.
"Now what I'm here tonight to tell you is that new evidence has come – who wrote this? I'm not reading this. Sue Sylvester doesn't need placards."
She squares her shoulders, before again pointing at the camera.
"This 'Triple F' group is, frankly, nuts. I'm not afraid to say it. I can't even tell you what their name means, and I doubt those hairy braless – please, for the love of God, pick those puppies off the floor ladies and have some decency – even know themselves. But I'll tell you this: they have a point. Now I'm the last person to defend people who break the law, but this case is becoming a hot topic, America. And I'll be here to guide you through it."
The picture behind Sue changes to a smiling picture of Russell and Judith Fabray.
"Aren't they a sweet looking couple? I had the pleasure – and displeasure – of meeting Russ and Judes back when I coached their daughter. Now this Francine Ferber – who looks like she hasn't seen a day of hard work in her life – says ol' Russ had a temper. Well, Francine, let me ask you this – who doesn't? And give the guy a break – his daughter gets knocked up and then kills him! Who wouldn't be a little hotheaded? Look, I'm not here to hold your hand and tell you what to believe. I'm here to tell you the facts: sure, Russ had a temper and Judes was a drunk, but you show me parents who are neither of those things and I'll eat every trophy in my showcase."
The picture changes to one of the four girls, cut from a Glee Club yearbook photo.
"Now these 'Triple F' people – I'll hazard a guess: Frighteningly Filthy Feminists? – say that the girls aren't to be feared; they're to be praised! That women have, through out history, been the victims of overbearing violent men, and these teenagers are standing up for feminism and women's liberation and other excuses for avoiding personal hygiene."
Sue shrugs.
"What say you, my fellow Americans? Actually, who cares what you think? I retract my previous statement!I will tell you what to think! Why else are you watching? Let me put it simply: here are some facts. Did their continued disregard for my nationally ranked cheerleading squad contribute to their downfall from society? Of course it did. Are they somehow being inhabited by the Devil? Of course not. That interview was insulting. Will I rest while the truth remains out there – while these juvenile delinquents continue to evade capture by the country's finest officials – and waste your time with useless information?"
The camera zooms in on Sue's face.
"No."
She brings her hand up, curling her fingers into an arch over her thumb.
"And that's how Sue sees it."
O-O
"Welcome back to Sue's Corner! The newly instigated, adults only, hard-hitting news spectacular hosted by yours truly – Sue Sylvester. Now, I'm not one to waste time so let's get to it – I've finally figured out what 'Triple F' stands for. 'Faberrittana Freedom Fighters.' Now, I bet you're asking yourself the same question I did when I first heard this ridiculous name – what in the heck is a Faberrittana? Well, ladies and gentleman, those smart people on the internet backing up murderers and calling them heroes have coined this word from joining the names of the four girls and making them into one simple label. Efficient? Ludicrous. But there you have it."
Sue shakes her head.
"You know, viewers, when a young Sue Sylvester contemplated how she could get away with murder – really get away with it – she figured her back up plan, should she have to go on the run from the law, would involve laying low and keeping her cool. It was a good plan, and if certain individuals hadn't bowed to my will, who knows? I could still be on the lam today. But the same cannot be said for Quinn Fabray, Rachel Berry, Santana – oh you know their names by now. Thanks to their apparent inability to stay under the radar, they can now add armed robbery to their list of felonies. I have just one thing to say: subtly is an art. Keep going at this rate, ladies, and I'll be seeing you in a jail cell by the end of the week."
O-O
"Good evening America! I'm Sue Sylvester. Joining me in the studio today are two colorful characters from William McKinley High School – the same school that fostered the growth of four killers currently roaming free somewhere in the country."
Sue smiles.
"First up, the guidance counselor with questionable credentials, Emma Pillsbury."
Emma sighs, attempting to smile.
"Sue."
"Tell me, and the nation, how you guided these four into becoming killers?"
"Now Sue, that is an unfair question. However, I will answer what I think you're asking, and no, I wasn't aware that Rachel, Quinn, Santana and Brittany were troubled enough to do what they've done."
"Of course you didn't, I doubt you see anything past William Shuester's offensive fashion choices. I mean the man wears a different vest everyday. I'm appalled he owns so many – hell, I'm appalled he hasn't been arrested for crimes against my eyesight!"
"I don't see what that has –"
"Next question! Did you even attend college?"
"Sue, please be professional about this. This is a tragic –"
"Onto our next guest! With a name more ridiculous than that Hummel kid's boyfriend – Holly Holiday."
"Susan."
Holly smirks at Sue, the corner of her mouth up and her eyes half lidded.
"You encouraged the girls to express themselves, is that correct?"
"Absolutely! Especially that Santana kid – totally repressed. I had to tell her, man, let it out! Be gay! It's awesome."
"And this encouragement of a deviant lifestyle led to them committing murder. Yet, you continue to teach. Explain!"
"Whoa, whoa. I didn't encourage them to do that. I just sang a song about love and growing up and – look, I'm with 'Triple F' on this one. They killed a rapist. Kudos!"
Holly Holiday sits back with her arms crossed, as Emma turns to her in shock.
"You can not condone their actions! Murder is a very serious offense, and those poor girls face only a future of imprisonment. They all had bright futures. Santana had an aptitude for politics; Rachel's voice could bring tears to your eyes; Quinn adored literature, she was always reading! And Brittany, she – she was really good at – well it doesn't matter, because it's ruined now! And you sit there all cavalier –"
"Whoa! What's with the anger, dude? That's what I'm saying: it doesn't have to be all doom and gloom. They're heroes!"
"Heroes? Excuse me, I understand you're a simple substitute, but heroes don't murder their parents –"
"If I had a dime for every moment I wanted to kill my parents –"
"Oh please, there is a difference between teenage frustration and actually committing murder –"
"Yeah, and you know what I witnessed in my role as a 'simple' substitute? Azimio Adams cowering from Tina Cohen-Chang. It was – it was a thing of beauty."
"How is that –"
"You don't get it, man. Suddenly, thanks to these four, girls are people to fear. They've done more for feminism than Gloria Steinem, and Virginia Woolf, and Alice B Toklas –"
"This isn't about feminism! It's about the lives that have been ruined by this horrible sequence of events! But of course you don't see that, you're so stoned I doubt you even know you're on television right now."
The camera quickly returns to Sue.
"Our station manager, Bill, appears to be having some kind of mental fit so, ladies and gentlemen, I have to cut this short. Final thought: do you know who's teaching your children?"
O-O
"I'm skipping the pleasantries tonight, ladies and gentlemen. A sixth murder took place yesterday in the aptly named, Camp Crook, South Dakota. Two police officers were injured in a shoot out during a botched robbery featuring the nation's favorite teenagers. Footage from the store speaks for itself."
A grainy shot of a small store, taken from a corner of the ceiling, shows three figures huddled together behind a shelf of goods. One leans around and shoots blindly with a pistol. On the other side of the store, two police officers take shelter behind a shelf close to the entrance.
The three figures huddle together for a few moments, one gesturing emphatically until the others nod. The gesturer moves as far back as she can, while the other two seem to grasp each other's wrists. With a running leap, the gesturer jumps onto the other figures' joined wrists. Quickly, the gesturer is bounced high into the air by the other two. She flies over the shelves, extending her arms and legs into a star shape, before curling into a ball and landing in a roll behind the police officers. She stands quickly, spins around, and slams her hands into the officer's heads, knocking them forwards into the shelves. She grabs a baton from one of their belts, and hits them again – once each – before grabbing their guns and running outside as the other two follow.
"In all my years as a cheerleading coach – all the awards, competition, thirst for talent; even training Brittany, who was born with only half the normal amount of bones in the human body – it's why she's so flexible – I have never seen a more perfect star basket toss."
Sue looks deeply disturbed.
"The tragedy of losing such a cheerleader to a life of crime this close to Nationals breaks my heart. It truly does."
O-O O-O O-O O-O
They drove as far from Beavercreek as they could while it was still nighttime. They stopped only once – so Rachel could use the last of the bottled water to rinse the blood from her hands and face. The clothes she discarded, and she was thankful her outfit caught most of the sticky red liquid that had erupted from the men she'd murdered.
But she couldn't sleep. Or talk. Or do much of anything, even with Quinn fussing around her and trying to feed her. Even with Santana making idle threats if she didn't open her mouth and tell her what happened.
Quinn was her saving grace, that first day, acting as a very concerned buffer.
While the blonde slept next to her, Rachel kept her eyes focused on the sunlight leaking in through the tent zipper and tried to just stop thinking. Over and over the previous night replayed itself.
So she thought of something else. In agonizing detail, she told herself the story of her and Finn. Every glance, every gesture and song they sang together.
It wasn't comforting. But it was completely distracting.
As they drove back across Kentucky that night, in complete silence – Santana was biting her tongue, waiting until the mute freak spoke up and then she was going to let her have it – Rachel started to scratch idly at her chest. It was just a small itch, nothing major.
Until she started to imagine that she still had blood all over her. Not on her clothes, but her skin.
Quinn kept her hand on the seat between them, not quite touching, but enough to let her know she was there. Besides, Rachel had let her deal with it all quietly after her parents were killed. It was enough to repay the favor.
But when the girl started scratching, and then fretting, she instantly knew what they had to do. It wasn't just for Rachel, either. It would be good for all of them.
For just one night.
O-O
Santana took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and placing a hand on the back of her hip. She stuck her stomach out, blowing a strand of hair off of her forehead. It suited her character, or whatever the fuck she was, but having her hair this messy did not gel with keeping her temper in check.
This was ridiculous. She should be kicking Rachel's ass right now, and pointing out, again, that if anyone was their leader it sure as hell wasn't the midget.
She needed to have words with Quinn. What the fuck was the blonde even thinking? Suddenly it was Rachel needs this, and yeah sure, let's totally go to a motel and risk everything so the diva can have a shower. Where was her fucking shower after she'd helped kill Quinn's parents, huh?
Bullshit. Total fucking bullshit.
The door made a little tinkling noise as Santana pushed through it, pouting her lips and rubbing the bulge under her dress. No way in hell would she ever actually get pregnant. Ever. If she ended up with someone who wanted demon spawn, bitch could ruin their figure for the joys of motherhood.
She paused, one foot inside the motel reception – what in the good goddamned hell was she thinking? No way she was shacking up with a lady who wanted a baby. Even if she was the hottest woman alive. Even if she were Olivia Wilde she wouldn't – well, maybe for Olivia Wilde –
"Can I help you, Miss?"
She snapped out of her reverie and sighed. Here went nothing.
"Necesito un cuarto. Yo estoy muy embarazada. Un cuarto grande. Ahora."
She batted her eyes, emphatically rubbed her stomach again, as the male clerk blinked at her. He looked her up and down nervously while rubbing the back of his head.
"Uh, I don't speak no Mexican so, uh – listen, you speak American? Uh, hablo no, uh – aw hell! Marjory!"
It was the worst physical pain she had ever experienced; the sheer force of will it took not to roll her eyes made them begin to water.
"Don't cry! Aw, Jesus H. Christ, Marjory!"
The guy called out again, glancing over his shoulder at the beaded curtain hanging over an archway. Santana couldn't see a thing beyond it, except the faint flickering of lights. There was no sign of whoever Marjory was.
He seemed so nervous, and suddenly, Santana was having fun. She stepped forward, and then pretended like she was in pain.
"¡Voy a dar a luz al hijo de perra aquí mismo!" She gasped, clutching the bulge and beginning to pant slightly.
"Listen darlin', what do you want?" He looked like he was starting to sweat, and it was all she could do not to laugh.
"Room! Big!" She groaned, reaching the counter and gripping it with one hand. After a beat, she stopped the pain act, and offered him a weak smile. "Por favor."
He seemed almost relieved.
"Room! Big!" He echoed, and hurriedly reached behind him for a key.
As he did so, she reached into the pocket of the cardigan she had over her ugly dress – she made a vow to set fire to it after this stupid shit was over – hell, she was setting fire to all of Rachel's clothes – and slapped a fifty-dollar bill onto the counter.
"Er, what name should I put –" the clerk started, taking a deep breath. "What name you have?" He shouted, and Santana did her best not to glare at him.
"Tú pareces como un hombre que tiene sexo con animales." She murmured, batting her eyelashes.
His head did a weird kind of shaking thing in response as he handed the key over and took the crumpled note.
"Jane Doe it is." He mumbled, turning around and fishing in the cash drawer for change.
There was a tinkling sound, and when he turned back, the strange pregnant Mexican woman was gone.
He blew out a breath, and frowned at the sign out sheet he'd been told to fill in as vigilantly as possible.
Fuck it. He wrote down a few quick made up details, stuffed it into the filing cabinet, and prayed there'd be no more check ins. He hated the midnight shift.
O-O
Rachel had the shower pressure turned to full.
The blast of hot water was welcoming. It scalded her skin, and washed it clean.
There was a strange emptiness in her mind – as if her thoughts had gone quiet for the first time in her short life.
It was just water, and getting clean, and her skin getting pinker the longer she stood under the spray.
It was all she needed.
Brittany's eyes were glued to the television screen. She had missed it so, so much.
Santana sat by the window, peering through the teeniest of cracks between the curtain and the wall. She glared at what she could see – an empty dark highway; broken and blinking 'Vacancy' sign; a drink machine under a fluorescent light that made her feel epileptic.
Quinn sat on the single mattress pushed against the far wall, staring at the bathroom door and chewing her lip. Her hands squeezed the duvet she sat on as she listened to the running water from the other side of the bathroom door.
"Boring." Brittany mumbled, clicking the channel over on the television as a show with lawyers doing law things came on. "So boring." She clicked it over again and landed on an infomercial. "Most boring ever." She hit a news station, clicking it again.
"Britts, turn it back." Santana's attention was finally drawn from the window. So a S.W.A.T. team could be helicoptering over them right now with it's lights off and some super secret Government silent engine thing or something – she knew they existed, as if they didn't – but they'd hidden the car behind the motel and she was fairly certain it couldn't be seen from the highway.
Not that it was really a highway. More a long stretch of barely maintained road.
"But San, it's boring." Brittany replied, anxious to get as many fun shows in as she could. They'd go back to camping after this, probably. And sure, the stars were totally awesome – especially with Santana pointing out the constellations that looked like boobs – but it wasn't Spongebob: Squarepants.
"Sweetie, we're on the run, remember? We need to know what they know to stay ahead." Santana stood and stretched, aching for a shower of her own. How long did it take to wash a midget?
Brittany kicked her feet a little, then turned the television back to the news. The picture was a little fuzzy, but she could make out the lady host talking to a guy dressed like a priest.
Santana settled on the other bed in the room – a double – and folded her hands behind her head, squinting at the television.
"... kill your parents, to kill strangers sitting down for a quiet meal? It is the Devil, Miss Briggs. Why else would these young women – these once sweet young ladies – do this? I challenge you to answer that question, and not come to the conclusion that somehow, somewhere along the way, they have succumbed to evil..."
Quinn's head snapped to the screen and she frowned.
"... a controversial interview earlier this evening between Reverend Holt Granger and Jessalyn Briggs..."
"Hold up, was that about us?" Santana asked, frowning in confusion.
"Are we evil?" Brittany nervously played with the ends of her hair, glancing between the other girls and the television screen.
"No, Britts, we're not evil. I told you – just 'cause it's on the news doesn't mean it's true." Santana turned her head to Quinn. "But seriously, did a priest just blame the devil? For real?"
Quinn shook her head slightly. God, it had been a long week.
"I – I think so. But I know him. He blames everything on the Devil. After I – with Beth – look, any little thing he doesn't understand is the Devil's work and –" She leant forwards, putting her face in her hands. "And some idiot put him on television."
There was a cranking sound from the bathroom, and the noise of the water stopped.
A few moments later, Rachel walked out with a towel wrapped around her and a determined look on her face. Her voice, though, was shaking and despite the pink hue to her shoulders and flushed cheeks, she was trembling.
"Firstly, I wish to apologize for my actions. It was my full intention to see the plan to it's fruition – and I understand if you feel upset with the course of events that transpired – however, I ask you to listen to the following as it proves, beyond a doubt, that I should stay with you from now on."
She took a deep breath, preparing to launch into the speech that had slowly come to her in the shower but was cut off as Quinn stood up and grabbed her by the shoulders.
"Are you okay? What happened? Rachel?"
It was odd to have those eyes – once staring at her with contempt – now filled with worry. Further, to have the same hands that once threw slushies in her face, and drove a knife into Russell Fabray, grip her bare shoulders.
"Is your throat okay?" Brittany asked, turning the television down, and gazing at them worriedly.
"What the fuck even happened in there, Berry?" Santana joined in, perturbed by how small the girl looked just standing there in a towel. Like, she knew she was a midget, but this freaked her out – Rachel looking all fragile and shit. She couldn't even appreciate the gap in the towel as it hung over the girl's thighs.
Not that she would, anyway.
"Surface wounds." Rachel muttered, running her fingers over her throat. It stung, a little, but the cut wasn't too deep. "I – are you still kicking me out?"
"Rachel," Quinn sighed. "We weren't kicking you –"
"Hells yes, you just fucked the plan royally –"
"Kicking is mean."
"He was going to rape me!" Rachel said suddenly, loudly, and everybody went quiet.
"What?" Santana shot off the bed and marched towards Rachel, pushing Quinn away from her. "Who raped you?"
Rachel nearly dropped her towel in fright.
"He didn't – I elbowed him in the – then I stabbed –" Rachel's hand flew to her mouth, and she turned around and ran back into the bathroom.
Santana and Quinn ignored the sounds of the diva vomiting.
"When I went in there she was – I don't know what happened, I just knew something went wrong and I – God, S, she was stabbing this guy and –" Quinn fell heavily onto the bed behind her as Santana's jaw dropped.
"Okay, you need to start making sense right the fuck now."
Brittany's brow furrowed as she thought about Rachel vomiting in the bathroom. The diva's hair was loose, so it would be in her face, and that was gross. She should go in and hold it back. She nodded to herself and stood, moving to kneel beside the brunette.
"Hey Rachel, don't worry," she said softly, gently pulling a handful of the girl's hair back. "I wanted to vomit too. But I didn't 'cause I don't like it, plus it seemed mean to get sick all over your car after I totally puked on your face."
Rachel heaved again.
"I'm glad you didn't get raped."
Brittany stroked Rachel's back, because when she was younger her mom used to do it when she felt sick and it always made her feel better. She started to hum, too, figuring it was soothing.
And it was. Rachel felt herself calming down, her mind losing the images of bloody bodies and the feeling of a knife sliding into skin, and instead struggle to identify the song coming from Brittany's mouth. It was a nice distraction.
"Get up, come on, get down with the sickness," Brittany sang softly, smiling brightly when Rachel looked at her weakly. "Here it comes, get ready to die!"
Quinn sighed. She couldn't sleep. Her body felt exhausted, and the shower had done wonders to her muscles, but she couldn't keep her eyes from the small figure sleeping in the single bed. She had thought Rachel would appreciate the space – and squeezing in with Santana and Brittany didn't exactly spell comfortable – but the diva had watched them get into bed together with an expression that seemed, well, jealous? Left out? She couldn't pinpoint it, and she didn't know why it bothered her.
The plan had been such a good one. Even better, now it could never work. Rachel was going to go back to a normal life and things would –
She groaned, forcing her mind to be quiet. It was no use lingering on what could have been. Especially when there was so much to linger on.
Her mind replayed the expressions on the other girl's face as she'd told them the details of what had happened. Of how the guy had smelt, and what he'd said.
Santana had thrown a Finn and kicked the small arm chair in the corner as Rachel spoke. Quinn reminded herself to tease her about it later, and then mentally slapped herself because that wasn't the point.
Her eyes traced the outline of the body in the single bed.
Maybe Reverend Holt was right? Maybe the Devil was out there screwing around with their lives. A year ago they'd been fighting over a boy, and singing every week about feelings and the future. And now?
She'd tried to do the right thing, and Rachel had been attacked. It made her feel sick, because everything she touched really did turn to shit.
She threw the covers off her legs, and stumbled toward the bathroom, shutting the door softly and sitting on the toilet.
She started to cry, muffling the sounds in her hands as best she could.
It was like she could feel it all inside her – everything that had happened and all of the feelings attached – pressing against the edges of her skin. Her face scrunched up, and she tried so hard to contain it. And so hard to just get it out of her.
The door opened slowly, and before she could compose herself, arms wrapped around her and squeezed.
She squeezed back, unable to determine between her own sobs and the other girl's.
"San?" Brittany whispered, snaking an arm over the Latina's waist and stretching out since Quinn had gotten up.
"Mmm?" Santana murmured, pretending to be sleepier than she felt.
"Can we ever go back to Lima?" Brittany bit her lip, anticipating and dreading the answer. She'd been so excited about their plan.
"No." Santana replied, and rolled over to face the blonde. "But it's a good thing, and you know why?"
Brittany let the sound of the other girl's voice wash over her, allowing it's warmth to drown out everything in her head.
"Why?"
"Because Lima sucks, and people in Lima suck. We're free of them." She shrugged, sliding her hand over the blonde's hip and tugging her closer.
"But where are we going?"
Brittany felt Santana go still.
"Anywhere we want." Santana answered finally. "Everywhere we want."
O-O
"Jesus, Berry, how much shit do you have in your car?" Santana pushed against a bag, pulling wigs and tent pegs out of the way before spying what she was looking for.
"I have only what is necessary for –"
"Can it, small fry."
"What do you think you're doing?"
Rachel watched as Santana squatted at the rear of her car, a smug look on her face.
"Being awesome. What are you doing? Wait – let me guess – being a massive troll." With a flourish, Santana waved the rear license plate of Rachel's car around.
"That's just wonderful, really, good job! If we don't get pulled over for homicide we'll be stopped for driving an unregistered vehicle. Well done, Santana, you're ability to make even –" Rachel huffed as Santana walked further and further away from her. "Where are you going?"
Quinn rummaged through the remainder of their food supply with a frown on her face. They hadn't risked getting food at the motel, sleeping for a few hours and leaving the room before the sun rose. They had crept back to the car one by one; Santana going straight for the trunk as the other three checked their supplies. Well, Quinn and Rachel checked while Brittany called shotgun and tried to decide which of the five nineties CD's they should play first.
"We're going to have to go shopping again. Somehow." Quinn muttered, despondently fingering one of the last three soup can labels.
"Santana just ran off after removing my license plate." Rachel replied, arms crossed and looking highly unimpressed.
"Great." Quinn sighed, leaning back into her car seat and avoiding making eye contact with the brunette, who was now looking at her expectantly from outside the car.
"Is no one else concerned that Santana just ran off after taking off my license plate?" Rachel reiterated, annoyed that the blondes seemed to be completely ignoring her.
Quinn just couldn't look at her, not after she'd spent a good portion of the night sobbing into the girl's arms like a baby. Sure, she had a good reason – so many good reasons – to be an emotional mess, but with Rachel? She wanted to shudder. Emotional vulnerability wasn't even okay with her friends let alone her once enemy now accomplice thing whatever she was.
Brittany wasn't ignoring Rachel. She just knew why Santana had run off, and since it made sense, there was no reason to get all flustered like the diva was getting.
"First I'm nearly raped, then! Then I kill two people which is so against what I stand for morally that I'm tempted to write the whole event off as a fugue like episode – which would explain why my memories are a little hazy – also the extreme strength and agility I exhibited – and now my car is defaced by someone who hates me but who I'm stuck with –"
"San doesn't hate you." Brittany took CD four out of its case. "And she's being awesome. She said so."
"That still doesn't –"
"Rachel, just get in the damn car."
Rachel was adverse to orders on principle, but the tone of Quinn's voice reminded her of how the blonde used to speak to her – exasperated, annoyed, as if everything about her irritated Quinn. So she obeyed, because it was this tone that hurt most of all. Even Quinn's angry voice was more welcome than this one.
She shut her car door, and swallowed her huff.
The three of them sat in the dark – the sun not far from rising – and waited for the Latina to return in silence.
After a few minutes, Santana appeared at the driver's door, hopping in and grinning at them all wildly.
Well, Rachel thought a little later as they set up camp for the day and she admired the back of her car, it was a good idea. Her rear GLDSTR plate had been replaced with one from Florida.
Whoever had the station wagon four doors down from theirs at the motel would likely be fined for having only one plate now, but at least they didn't kill them.
Rachel took the screwdriver from Santana and detached the front plate herself. She laid it carefully in the trunk, next to the other, and kissed her fingertips before touching them reverently to the treasured letters.
They would leave the new plate on the back for now – they figured no one would notice the absence of a front plate because who even looked at those – until another opportunity arose to switch them. They'd keep driving at night, so the color of the car wasn't such an issue. And if they changed the plates once a week, no one could say for sure they'd seen them.
Now that was a perfect plan, Santana thought smugly.
O-O
"And that, my illustrious associates, is why my plans are off the hook." Santana dusted her hands off on her pants, and smirked triumphantly. She was born to lead.
"I agree that it's good," Quinn started, chewing slowly. "For the short term."
Santana pursed her lips, reaching for a Twizzler.
"It's awesome for the short term." Brittany agreed, beaming at the Latina.
Rachel looked up at the sky – still darkening as the sun slipped away completely – and breathed deeply through her nostrils.
"But we need to figure out what we're going to do later. Where we'll go, how we'll survive. We're running out of food, and we," Quinn swallowed. "We can't run forever."
"So we stay off the radar with my amazing plan, and head to Mexico or whatever once they've given up looking for us." Santana shrugged, as if the whole thing wasn't blaringly obvious.
"Right, S, and they're really going to stop after –" Quinn winced as her eyes darted to Rachel, unsure how the diva would react to bringing the roadhouse up.
But Rachel was eerily silent, keeping her gaze toward the stars. Brittany followed suit, leaving the other two to duke it out between them.
"Yeah so we stay on the run for a little more. The dude was a rapist, Q, Berry should get a medal or whatever."
"And the other two? How about the cook you ran over twice, S?"
"Well I wouldn't have had to if you hadn't brained him with my softball bat!"
"He had a knife and – and you're the one who drove –"
"So I reacted! So what! You should be thanking me for having the balls to finish the job you –"
"Neither of you would've had to do anything if I'd been able to control myself." Rachel said calmly, her eyes not once leaving the sky.
Santana crossed her arms, her mouth snapping shut because it was true.
Quinn gently placed her bowl on the grass, and turned toward the shorter girl.
"None of you would be here at all if I had been able to control myself."
No one had a response for that. It wasn't entirely true – Quinn hadn't started things, that day, and it wasn't as if they blamed her for what was going on. But it was kind of true that if Quinn had just stayed at McKinley instead of insisting –
"The Chained Princess." Rachel intoned, lifting an arm to point at the sky. "Andromeda – so beautiful that her mother, the Queen, boasted her daughter put all else to shame. Even the Gods. The nymphs of the sea – jealous and spiteful – demanded retribution for the arrogance of the woman from Neptune, God of all the oceans, and so he sent a great sea monster after the girl and her mother."
Quinn found her gaze turning up to the stars, struggling to see what Rachel was looking at.
"The King – learning the reason as to why his lands were being ravished by a monstrous beast – had no choice but to offer his only daughter in defense of his land. He had her chained to a rock, completely naked and helpless."
Brittany had her eyes scrunched up, looking for anything that looked like a princess. It was only when Rachel said she was naked that she relaxed. All the boobs in the sky must be her, she reasoned, and let the story overtake her.
"The monster bore down on the frightened girl, whose only crime was that of her mother's arrogance, and she prepared to meet her death. But then!" Rachel felt the thrill of having the other girls interest completely wrapped around her. "Perseus, fresh from his battle with the snake-headed Medusa, flew in on Pegasus, a horse with wings!"
Brittany's jaw dropped.
Santana rolled her eyes.
"And using the head of the she-beast he had just slaughtered, turned the oncoming beast into stone, saving the beautiful princess and falling hopelessly in love with her."
Rachel sighed dramatically, her fevered imagination always placing herself in Andromeda's shoes, imagining Finn on a flying horse rescuing her from –
Her eyes fell to Quinn's face, seated beside her and gazing with interest at the night sky. It stopped Rachel's thoughts, even her words, as she saw the look on the girl's face. Her mind's eye turned Andromeda into a hazel-eyed blonde, and Finn disappeared entirely. It was just Quinn, chained to a rock, awaiting something horrifying.
She cleared her throat.
"They were married, and cast into the stars as a reminder to all who gazed upon them the dangers of – of arrogance –"
"What bullshit." Santana spat, and Rachel winced, preparing herself to be completely torn apart by the Latina again. "That bitch Queen should've been tied to the rock or whatever, for starters. So her kid was hot, so what? Neptune should've kicked those nymphs aside and taken the girl for his own. Made the monster eat the Queen and King for being douche-bags, and rocked Andromeda's world. Made her Queen of the sea. Now that would've been a story."
"When I was four I totally wanted to marry a horse." Brittany said lightly, smiling at Rachel. "If he had wings it would've been even awesomer."
"The moral was arrogance?" Santana continued, working herself into a rant. "Hell to the no! Moral of that story is pretty girls should be punished and only saved by dudes who marry them. Did she fall in love with him? I bet she was so relieved not to have a monster chewing on her hot ass that she was like, whatev's, let's get married in case you turn me into stone."
By now, Santana was gesturing angrily at the sky, and Brittany was nodding along with everything the Latina was saying.
Rachel would've defended her story – one she had romanticized since she had first heard it as a child – but felt too much like smiling, instead. She could concede that Santana had a point – though she didn't have to admit it out loud.
She caught Quinn's eye as Santana kept on – berating the myth further by insinuating that the sea nymphs had self esteem issues and if they really felt threatened by some human chick with a pretty face, they didn't deserve to be immortal anyway – and couldn't contain the smile of amusement as Quinn rolled her eyes a little, shaking her head. The blonde lifted one hand, making her fingers stretch out over her thumb, and moving them towards and away from each other in a 'Blah blah blah' motion. Rachel couldn't stop her smile from turning into a grin.
It was nice, Quinn thought, to have someone else with them who understood where she was coming from. Usually Brittany would be rapt in whatever Santana was ranting about, and Quinn could either choose to keep her eye-rolls to herself or challenge the Latina, which always resulted in a yelling match and everyone ending the night sulking.
It didn't surprise her nearly as much as it would have, a week ago, to realize she was thankful Rachel was still with them, after all.
O-O
The finally agreed on a few things. The first was that, until they found somewhere they felt completely safe, they would keep moving. Camping in the wilderness was fine for a night or two, but the need to restock their supplies meant they couldn't stay in one place for too long.
The second was that their destination was yet to be determined. Maybe they could sneak into South America after a couple of months of hiding. Maybe they would find a tiny town they could somehow build a temporary life in.
Santana, straight away, demanded that if she was going to live in a town smaller than Lima it would have to have either cowgirls, a girl gang, or a lesbian commune. It would also need a department store, a Breadstix, and no police stations.
Until they found the mystical lawless lesbian cowgirls who spent their nights owning and operating a family restaurant, however, they would just keep driving. Every one hundred miles or so they would change direction – after heading South, they started West again. They figured that this way, if anyone thought they saw them, their destination was harder to determine.
Above all, they agreed, they would have to stay as invisible as possible.
Which meant no more killing.
O-O
"Slow down, Santana! The faster you drive the more chance there is of injury befalling my car, and if it breaks down out here, in the middle of nowhere, we will have to walk which will heighten our chances of being arrested –"
"Stop being so paranoid, tiny dancer! The faster we go, the sooner we hit Vegas!"
"Vegas?"
Quinn sat in the back of the car, listening to her oldest best friend – and her newest – bickering in the front. It had been enough for Rachel to acquiesce to Santana driving again, but the short girl kept stubbornly attempting to try and drive the car from the passenger seat.
Beside her, Brittany stared out of the window and wondered what the countryside they were driving past looked like. When she was little and her parents took her on road trips, she loved watching the way the hills turned into valleys, and forests, and towns. Driving at night, however, meant everything just looked dark. She kept one hand on the seat in front of her, her fingertips idly playing with Santana's hair as she fought with the diva.
"Yes, Vegas. You bitches have been talking about driving around forfuckingever until we can finally go to Mexico or whatever, and look – if I'm going to spend my life over the border, I needs to gets my Vegas on first."
"I just – I don't understand you, Santana. Are you even taking this seriously? People have died; we could end up in jail for the rest of our lives if we don't get the death penalty. And you want to go to an overpopulated city –"
"Exactly that – overpopulated city, Lullaby League! Listen, we wear those ridiculous wigs in the back, paint ourselves up like trash – but hot – and disappear in a city for a night! Why not? You know why Where's Waldo is so hard to find? Because there's so many people that look like him!"
"We're seventeen, Santana! What are we going to do exactly – go to an all-you-can-eat buffet and then stay in the children's daycare center of some hotel?"
"No, you'll be in the daycare center while my ass is looking twenty-one and gambling. And drinking. And sticking dollar bills in stripper's g-strings –"
"If you refuse to stop in a town that doesn't have a Breadstix, than I reserve the right to refuse going to Las Vegas."
"Guys?" Quinn asked softly, frowning as she turned in her seat and looked through the back window.
"You are the most boring troll on the planet you –"
"I just don't want to get us caught –"
"Guys!" Quinn said, firmly.
"What?" Santana glanced at her in the rearview mirror, and Rachel turned around.
A lone headlight followed them about fifty yards from their car. Santana gunned the accelerator a little, her heart rate picking up, and suddenly red and blue lights started flashing as the headlight got closer to them.
"Fuck!" Santana hissed, preparing herself to floor it.
"Oh my God!" Rachel echoed, shrinking in her seat.
Brittany moaned, her lower lip quivering.
Quinn took a deep breath and fought against the adrenalin coursing through her veins and tried to think rationally.
"It's – it's a motorcycle – there's only one – he must be highway patrol or –" Quinn was babbling, her hand encircling the slightly dented softball bat she hadn't been able to put back in the trunk of the car and kept in the backseat now at all times.
"What do we do? Fuck it – fuck it let's just –" Santana pressed down on the accelerator a little more. The lone headlight got closer to them.
"No, S, slow down. Just pull over, okay?"
"The fuck –" Santana started, but Quinn cut her off.
"It's one guy, okay? You take off and he'll call for back up and then we're really screwed."
Santana gripped the steering wheel, grit her teeth, and against her better judgment, started slowing the car down.
They could barely breathe as the car pulled over, and the siren grew louder. Quinn slunk down as low as she could in her seat, and unlocked her door.
The police officer took his time approaching the driver's window, and as he passed, Quinn opened her door as quietly as was possible and slipped through the smallest opening she could get through.
"You know why I pulled you over?"
She heard the cop say, gruffly, but not as if he thought they were wanted for murder.
"Oh hi, Officer! I'm so sorry; I must've been going a little fast –" Santana started in a high pitched voice as Quinn crept around the back of the car, softball bat gripped tightly in her hands.
"You call seventy-eight miles per hour going a little fast? License and registration please, Ma'am."
Rachel tried to keep her face hidden as the officer bent down to look into the car. He eyed the paint job for a moment, before his eyes darted to Santana's face and then his mouth dropped open.
Before he could speak, Rachel heard an all too familiar cracking sound and the cop fell sideways.
Quinn winced as the man fell onto the road, and Rachel hurriedly opened her door and ran around the front. She reached down towards the man's neck, and then breathed a sigh of relief.
"He's alive!" She said, checking the back of his head and grimacing at the blood on her fingers.
"Hit him again!" Santana yelled, unable to get out of the car since the man's body was resting against her door.
"Wait!" Rachel threw her hands up as if to protect the guy, and Quinn shook her head.
"We'll just tie him up," she breathed, lowering the bat. "That's all."
Rachel nodded, hands shaking.
Santana lifted herself over the gear stick and climbed through the passenger door as Brittany also got out of the car.
The four of them stood over him, his headlight illuminating his prone body.
They lifted him off the road and laid him down in front of a bush so in the daylight he was easily seen from the road. Brittany hopped on his motorcycle and rode it until it was next to him – thanks to her motocross days she was the only one who knew how to ride a motorcycle – and they handcuffed him to it.
Rachel tore a strip of his shirt off and wrapped it carefully around his head.
Before they got back in the car, Santana and Quinn agreed they should take his gun.
Just in case.
O-O
"Hit me baby one more time!" Brittany sang happily, her feet resting on the dashboard as her hands clapped along.
Rachel drove at a considerably lower speed than Santana, her eyes darting between her rearview and side mirrors, and the road, periodically in case any other headlights appeared. She had turned them North as soon as she could.
In the back, Quinn and Santana had their heads together, the gun resting between them on the seat.
"I say we use it to get supplies." Santana said lowly, staring at the weapon.
Quinn nodded.
"But we don't shoot anyone. We just use it to scare them."
Santana reached her hand to Quinn's, and squeezed it.
"Exactly. We get gas, and food, and be on our way. No harm, no foul."
"Rachel won't go for it."
Santana squeezed Quinn's hand tighter, bringing it into her lap.
"So we dress up like cowgirls and let her stay in the car. She'll be none-the-wiser."
Quinn glanced at the back of Rachel's head, watching the paranoid girl go almost cross-eyed as she tried to keep her eyes on all of the mirrors.
Then the blonde nodded, and tightened her own hand over the Latina's.
"Remember to keep your accents as consistent as possible! And your back-stories! When all else fails, Santana, start rapidly speaking Spanish and exit the establishment as quickly as you can. If you get into trouble, Quinn, wave your hat in the air and Brittany and I will pick you up!" Rachel was fretting, straightening Quinn's cowboy hat and looking worriedly over Santana's red wig. "I apologize, Santana, a deep auburn actually suits your –"
Santana gruffly yanked Quinn's arm and they began walking away from the still rambling diva and towards the lights of the gas station.
Quinn kept her eyes trained forwards, gas canister in hand, as Santana patted the lump in the small of her back where she'd hidden the gun.
"No one gets shot." Quinn muttered, and Santana nodded her head.
They filled the canister as much as they could, Quinn trying to stop her hands from shaking as she put the gas pump back in it's holder.
With a final nod to each other, they strode toward the store.
"All right motherfucker, put your hands up!" Santana yelled at the middle-aged clerk eating Cheetos behind the cash register.
Quinn moved quickly around the store, gathering food.
The clerk had his hands up, eyes wide as he watched the cowgirl strippers rob his store.
"I need a bag!" Quinn yelled, fumbling with soup cans.
"Give us a bag!" Santana barked, keeping the gun trained on the guy.
The clerk started to sweat, wondering how he would give them a bag with his hands up. Santana seemed to realize at the same time, and leant over the counter and grabbed a handful of plastic bags. She thrust them at Quinn, who ran back to the shelves and started filling them.
"Please don't hurt me." The clerk mumbled, and Santana glared at him ferociously.
"Did I tell you to speak?" She jabbed the gun in his direction. "No! Now open the cash register and give me all your money!"
Quinn had so much adrenalin running through her veins she didn't know what she was grabbing, but it was becoming apparent that there was no way they could run back to the car with that many shopping bags.
"We need help! I'm waving the hat!" She called breathlessly, running out of the store and waving her hat with the same level of enthusiasm she once waved pom-poms.
"Jesus fucking Christ. Here we go." Santana mumbled, cocking the gun and trying not to look surprised when it actually worked. She'd never used a gun before.
The gold VW screamed into the station, Brittany jumping out and running towards the store when Quinn ran back inside.
"Take these to the car! Fill it up with gas!" Quinn gasped, waving at the shopping bags already filled and running to the fridges to fill more.
"And hurry it up!" Santana grit out as the clerk shoved cash into her hands and then lifted them back up in surrender.
Brittany opened the trunk and threw the shopping bags inside, then started pumping gas into the car.
"What's going on?" Rachel asked, eerily calm.
"Santana's pointing a gun at the guy and Quinn's stealing all the food. And I'm stealing gas!" Brittany replied, watching the numbers click over as she depressed the gas pump.
"Huh." Rachel felt a wave of annoyance wash over her. They could've told her they were just going to hold the place up. She had wasted precious time concocting stories for their characters; choosing their wigs and outfits; being proud that they had finally come to her way of being on the run.
It was just rude.
Quinn flew out of the store clutching the shopping bags, her hat flying off her head as she got to the car and threw the bags inside. Brittany put the pump back in place, and lifted the canister into the trunk before slamming it shut, and getting back in the passenger seat. She had called shotgun, after all.
Santana backed out of the store; gun still raised at the clerk.
"You even think about calling the cops before our asses are out of here and I'll come back and shoot you a new asshole!" She yelled, having the absolute time of her life. She was so badass right now.
She leapt into the back seat of the car, eyes bright and feeling like she wanted to laugh.
But the car didn't move.
"Is everyone wearing their seatbelts?" Rachel asked them calmly, and Brittany dutifully pulled hers across her chest.
"I am!" The blue-eyed blonde crowed happily.
"What the fuck – Berry drive the fucking car!" Santana cried, her buzz dying as panic set in.
"I will, Santana, once everyone is safely strapped into the vehicle." Rachel's voice had an edge to it, and Quinn obeyed without comment.
"You fucking –" Santana started.
"Just do it." Quinn mumbled, as Rachel stared resolutely ahead of her. Yes, car safety was important to her, but perhaps the Latina would think twice about keeping her in the dark next time.
"Fucking crazy bitch," Santana grumbled, buckling herself in. "I'm going to shoot you a new asshole you ridiculous excuse for a –"
As Rachel heard the click of Santana's seatbelt, she gunned the engine and drove away from the gas station.
She ignored Santana's bitching as she turned up the song coming from one of Brittany's CDs and sang along at the top of her voice.
"I'm a bitch, I'm a tease, I'm a Goddess on my knees, when you're hurt, when you suffer, I'm your angel undercover!"
O-O
