Chapter Three: Born Free
A/N: Thanks for all of the follows and messages. I didn't realize folks could be so vocal. Thank you so much for reading, because I've never done this before. Also, please note that none of these one-shots are related to each other unless specifically stated. Like the show itself, I'm too lazy to care about story continuity.
And since you guys seemed to really like "Sign Here," I'm making it a full story. So look for the second chapter of that to be posted shortly.
He didn't know her when the sacks were thrown over their heads. But by the time they got into the van, they were each other's life source. Sam's heart pounded like a jackrabbit in his chest, unsure of what was happening. Oddly enough, he was grateful for the cloth bag over his head, masking his trembling features.
He was signing a voter up for an election mailing list outside of the Hummel campaign headquarters, and the next thing he knew, he and the girl were tackled from behind. What was her name again?
"Mercedes?" He called. He heard a soft whimper in response.
He turned his head to the sound. "Don't cry, Mercedes. Don't cry. It'll be all-" WHACK! A swift anonymous jab to the gut shut him up.
Sam's mind raced when the van stopped, and he heard the door slide open. He questioned his fate beyond that door, panicked at the sound of a gun cocking. He felt Mercedes tense up beside him. With his hands tied behind his back, Sam sought to comfort her by rubbing his knee against hers. Her hushed sob was her thank you.
He thought to speak to her. Abductors or not, with the sack over his head, Sam could pretend it was only him and her in the world. He barely uttered "Mer-" before he felt them take her away.
She cried out for him, "Help me! Please! Don't make me go! I don't wanna go!" He knew they hit her the same as they hit him, and he was livid.
The men stepped on his heels as they led him to the next location. Sam saw this as his chance. Perhaps appeal to their better nature. "Look, you can have anything you want. My wallet, whatever. Just please, let us go. Let her go."
He was met with an abrasive shove, and crashed into the cold hard concrete. They had made it inside. The sack was ripped off of him and he found darkness. His eyes tried to adjust to no avail, as he heard feet scamper up a flight of stairs.
"Mer—Mercedes?" He flinched, expecting a jab. Nothing.
"Sam?" She called, her voice babied by fear.
Sam rolled onto his knees, trying to get his bearings with his hands still tied. "Mercedes? Where are you?"
"Sam?" Her voice strengthened. Sam crawled towards it, only to crash into a warm body.
"I'm sorry," Sam humbled.
His eyes shut tight when the bright, fluorescent lights turned on overhead. He blinked furiously and warmed at the sight of the dark-skinned girl resting against the wall, who didn't share his smile. He soon looked down at the body in front of him. Petite, pale and lifeless.
"Kurt! Oh god!" Sam used his chin to nudge him. "Kurt, wake up, buddy."
Mercedes' doe eyes welled with tears. She kneeled into the wall, clearly shaken.
Sam shouted towards the wooden staircase. "We need help, you assholes! He's dying here! Get help!"
He was stunned when the door actually opened. Two men in black turtlenecks and plastic U.S. president masks clobbered down the stairs—the tall one was George W. Bush and the olive-skinned one was Bill Clinton. Neither acknowledged Sam, as the tall one went to Kurt. The other's eyes widened inside of the Clinton mask and got in Sam's face. From the inside of his boot, Clinton pulled out a retractable knife. The blade sprung up in front of him, causing the blond to jerk. Clinton's eyes smiled beneath the mask. Sam blinked his way into composure. Clinton rose up and walked towards Mercedes with his knife gripped hungrily.
"Please…" Sam pleaded lowly.
Clinton grabbed Mercedes by the plastic ties around her wrists and cut them off. She immediately held herself in the fetal position. Rocking herself back and forth. As Clinton made his way over to Sam, Bush stood with his gun pointed at the three hostages. His hands large and unsteady. Sam felt the cuffs get cut off, and rubbed his redden wrists to ease the pain of their once tight grip. Clinton lifted Kurt's body and headed towards the stairs, as Bush backed away slowly, eyeing the two on the floor.
Sam waited for the door to close before he leapt for Mercedes. He held her and she gladly accepted. He would rock back and forth for the both of them.
"What do they want? Who was the guy on the floor? Where are we? What's happening?" Mercedes rambled out her questions through each snivel, and Sam tried desperately to answer each one of them.
"Um, I don't know what they want. That guy was Kurt Hummel."
"Burt's son?"
Sam nodded, "I think they wanted him. Maybe we were just… there. I'm so sorry."
"What for?"
"For making you listen to my speechifying. If I hadn't stopped you-"
"I liked your speechifying."
Sam chuckled, which he soon regretted with the sudden pain in his ribs.
"Are you alright?" Mercedes inquired.
Sam smiled through the pain, and pledged his wellness. He spied the room. The concrete walls and boarded up corner windows out of reach. They were in a basement. And possibly a Lifetime movie. The room was sparse and desolate, save for a dry-rotted mattress. It was a room under construction with paneling and wooden beams everywhere. Thank god for the toilet in the corner.
Worrying had tired them both out, as they nodded off in each other's arms on the concrete floor. Sam's eyes flew open at the deafening sound of the door being unlocked. Down the stairs came two women in masks—one Ronald Reagan and the other was Richard Nixon. The blonde was Nixon. She didn't seem to care about the mystique, allowing her hair to peak under the mask. However, Reagan was committed, almost like she was playing a role that she needed to get just right. Same black turtlenecks and boots. Reagan gracefully lowered a tray of food in front of the weary guests. Tomato soup, and from what Sam could smell, week-old breadsticks.
Mercedes gave them a grateful "Thank you."
What was more shocking was Nixon's "You're welcome." Even Reagan turned to her in disbelief. Her voice was soft and thoughtful beneath the mask.
They didn't see Nixon anymore after that.
In fact, they didn't see anyone much after that. Sam could not tell you what day it was, or what time. In fact, he missed the sun. But every once in a while, some would throw down food. No longer soup and breadsticks, but chips, Doritos and candy bars.
After a while, Mercedes convinced Sam to sleep on the mattress with her. He had taken the floor. She grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the cushion. With their backs facing each other, he heard her weeping again, and his instinct was to hold her, but thought she'd want that time to herself.
Sam woke up to Clinton in his face with a gun in his hand. Sam sprung up, waking Mercedes up in the process, who grabbed his arm in fear.
Clinton shoved a notepad and a mark at Sam. The blond's eyes focused on the words. "Write down your bank account number."
Sam looked up. "Where's Kurt?" Sam demanded.
Clinton cocked the gun, but Sam didn't flinch. He asked again, "Where's Kurt?"
The flustered assailant took the mark and the bottom of the notepad wrote, "ALIVE."
Sam thought he'd try his luck, "Where?"
This time, Clinton shook his head and pointed to the words on the page again. Sam relented and took the marker. His hand shook as the tip of the marker traced the page. His eyes squinted. He tried to focus, but his nerves got the best of him. He was comforted by the small, brown hand that wrapped around his. Mercedes took the marker from him, along with the pad.
"Why don't you whisper it in my ear, okay? And I'll write it down." She offered. The first sentences she'd uttered without a lump in her throat since they'd arrived. Sam hesitantly nodded.
"Good." Mercedes said in a calm, meditative fashion. She leaned her ear towards him. Sam looked back at the Clinton mask, who nodded him to go on. Sam bent towards Mercedes' war and whispered, as she diligently wrote down the numbers. She handed Clinton the marker and pad, which snatched from her, stood down and went back up the stairs.
Sam let out the breath he didn't know he was holding in. "God, I'm sorry."
Mercedes shushed him, rubbing slow circles on his back. "It's fine, Sam."
"It's just—I'm dyslexic, and I've been able to handle it since I was a kid. But right then, with him and the gun…"
"You were scared." Mercedes empathized.
Sam collapsed his head into his hands, in tears. He nodded, but too abashed to look at her.
"We're supposed to be scared. We're human."
"I don't wanna be human." Sam muttered. He faltered into Mercedes' arms, sobbing for the first time.
Main Street, days earlier
Sam saw her walking down the street in jeans and a t-shirt with the Captain America shield like his mom had bough him. He stood there in his nicest suit from his closet, with his clipboard in tow and a "Hummel/Evans" sticker for anyone who wanted one.
He blocked her path with two steps and a charming smile. "Excuse me, miss. I'd like to talk to you about freedom."
"What?"
"Freedom. Our liberties on this spinning orb. And how Burt Hummel and my dad Dwight Evans will greatly change the course of Ohio with Burt in the governor's house. Can I just have a moment of your time?"
Mercedes huffed, "Look, my parents are already gonna vote from Sylvester and Schuester. So, I'm just gonna follow their lead on that one." She began to walk away.
"Wait, please. The Sue/ Schue ticket is promising more chain stores in small towns like Lima, to supposedly up employment and consumer spending in the state. But they're neglecting small businesses elsewhere. Great, independently owned stores like Crosstown Comics over there on Magnolia."
Mercedes smiled, "What makes you think I go to Crosstown Comics?"
Sam glanced at the shield across Mercedes' chest.
She asked self-consciously, "My—my boobs?"
Sam looked horrified. "God, no. Not—I mean, not to say people with boobs can't like comics. My Uncle Spike buys comics all of the time. It's just—I assumed…"
Mercedes laughed through the whole thing, "I'm just messing with you, Sam."
Sam looked confused.
"I know you from Burt and your dad's ads on tv. He's super hot, by the way."
"Thank you?" Sam didn't know how to respond.
She leaned in, like she was sharing a secret. "I'm voting Burt. I planned on it anyway." She shrugged.
Sam beamed, and handed her the clipboard. "Well here. We can put you on the mailing list. E-mail you any news or fundraisers. Only important stuff, I promise."
Mercedes took the clipboard from him and wrote fastidiously. "Would you like my phone number too?" She asked with a coquettish smirk.
"Um… that would be very nice, as well." A shy grin belied his handsome features.
She handed him back the clipboard, to which Sam scanned the information. "Mercedes Jones."
"That's my name."
"Well Mercedes, I'm Sam Evans and I would like to take you to dinner."
"As long as it's not Breadstix, I'd love to."
"Then it's a date."
Their hands met in an affirming handshake when they were blindsided by the two men with sacks.
Sam laid on his back, consuming his share of Cool Ranch Doritos, as Mercedes tried to figure out if she liked salt and vinegar potato chips. She didn't.
"You think anyone's looking for us?" Mercedes pondered.
"I know my dad is. And I'm sure your dad is."
Mercedes unleashed a bemused chuckle. "Yeah, that's a nice thought."
Sam lean up, "You don't think your dad's looking for you?"
"I'm not the bottom of a beer bottle, so I doubt it." From that answer, he could tell she wanted to change the subject.
Mercedes jumped up. A bit perky. "How about we play a game?"
"What kind of game?"
"How about two lies, one truth? I tell you three facts about myself, and you guess the truth."
Sam gushed, "I know how it works."
"Well excuse me. Then you go first." The way she smiled at him, he would have done anything she wanted.
"Um… my middle name's Paul. My hair's actually red. And… I've never gone trick-or-treating." He was amused when she tried to read his face, as bruised as it must have been, and spot the truth.
"Let's see. Your middle name can't be Paul, because that would be just disappointing."
"Hey!"
Mercedes shrugged.
"And your hair…"
Sam became self-conscious and touched a few of his blond tresses. "What about my hair?"
"It's gorgeous. But those roots aren't capable of the majestic wonder that is red hair. So… oh my god, you've never gone trick or treating?"
Sam sucked in his embarrassment. "No, I haven't."
"Are your parents mountain folk?"
"No, no. When I was a kid, we couldn't afford costumes, and I was always too embarrassed to have my mom make me one. So I just never did it. My parents started making money when it was my siblings' turn. Once they were old enough to do it, I was too old, and then my parents took 'em."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard. When we get out of here, I'm taking you trick or treating. I'll be… Storm. And you can be Wolverine."
Sam liked this kind of talk. Hew knew what she was doing—getting their minds off of their current situation, and for a moment, it was working. "Your turn," he instructed.
"Let's see… my favorite color is sea foam green. I'm not a registered voter. And… I once went on a date with Cooper Anderson." She smiled brightly.
Sam attempted to mimic her guessing face, scanning her body for clues. "Well… your toes are painted purple."
"Violet crush, thank you very much."
"Violet crush." He corrected himself. "I say the lie is Cooper Anderson."
Mercedes shook her head. "When I was 16, I won a radio contest. He took me to the Sugar Shack. Kissed me right here." She proudly pointed to her button nose.
Sam's amusement soon morphed into puzzlement. "Wait, so you're not a registered voter?"
Mercedes innocently bit her the inside of her lip. "You were cute. And you kept talking so… I'm sorry, Sam."
"I do tend to talk a lot."
"That, you do."
"Even now, I'm just blabbing on and on. It's just, I can't stand the quiet, Mercy." He paused. He didn't men to give her a nickname. But they were already friendly, and who know how long they would be down there. A nickname didn't hurt anyone. So, Mercy, it was.
Mercedes smirked, noticing it too. "I like hearing you talk, Sam. You can say whatever you want whenever you want."
That time, she slept in his arms. Her head nuzzled against his chest. Her arm draped across his stomach. Sam got so bold as to rest his hand on top of here before drifting off to sleep.
When Sam awoke, he was different. Motivated. He eyed the nailed windows that were cruelly out of reach, and was determined to come up with a plan. He climbed up the bathroom paneling until he could reach the wood, gripping at the edges to rip at it. One hard tug, and Sam lost his balance. He fell from the great height onto the cement floor. His head bounced with a smack, and then… darkness.
His eyes opened to her angelic face in tears. His head throbbed. His eyes burned and adjusted, soon noticing the sight of the man in the Clinton mask.
"Mercedes?" Sam croaked out.
Clinton leapt at him, grabbing Sam by his shirt and lifting him off of the ground.
"Do you think this is a fucking game?" Clinton gruffed. Sam's eyes widened at the first sound of his voice. "The fuck to you think you're doing, bro? You get out of here when I damn well please. And if that's in a body bag, well then so fucking be it." He punctuated the last few words with punches to Sam's already tender face and abdomen.
Mercedes reached out for him, only to be met with her own swift backhanded slap to the face. Clinton returned to his assault of Sam, lifting the blond's aching body and dropping him back down on the floor. Sam, resilient, tried to get up, but the masked man shoved him back down.
"Stay. The. Fuck. Down." Clinton stomped back up the stairs.
Sam slid down the wall. Coughing. He was spent and defeated. Mercedes rushed to his side. The blood on his face began to cloud his vision, but he could have swoon she had taken off her t-shirt and there was an adorable polka-dotted bra before him. Mercedes dragged him to the mattress, resting her shirt as a pillow beneath his head.
"You're gonna be just fine, Sam Evans."
Mercedes went to get up, but he instinctually reached for her, not wanting her to go. Where would she go anyway? It's not like she could leave. But she stayed and laid with him, caressing his face. She wiped away the blood and kissed his cheeks. A soft prayer of "We'll be okay" murmured repeatedly under her breath.
He palmed her cheek through the haze and brushed it fondly. Mercedes smoothed her hand and leaned into his touch. The simple, sweet action had him at half-mast. Mortified, he closed his eyes and counted to ten, wanting to will it away. That's when he felt her kiss. Her full, plump lips attached themselves to his pink pout, cracked and marred. His immediate shock made way for need. He needed to feast upon her bottom lip. He needed her chubby thighs to straddle his waist. He needed to feel her. All of her. They were in this together. Completely. His hands roamed her back until he reached the clasp of her bra. He didn't want to go too far, but his fingers were itching for her skin.
"Free me, Sammy." She whispered in his ear. And with that, Mercedes was dissolved of her bra. Her chocolate peaks there for his consumption. He latched on to a nipple with such yearning and dedication, that he had to apologize for the grim teeth marks.
She giggled and helped him remove his clothes, dirty from constant wear in the dusty basement. To Sam it was funny, being completely exposed in front of Mercedes was the most he felt protected. And there she was above him, the fluorescent light hung overhead like a halo. She played with his stiff manhood, allowing it to tease her warm, wet entrance. His tip so close to the promised land that he almost couldn't take it. That was when she sat on his erection, filling herself to the hilt and gasping in her fullness. He watched in astonishment as she palmed her breasts with her eyes closed. Slowly rocking her hips back and forth. She was beautiful. He grabbed her exquisite ass, and lifted her slowly up and down his thick shaft.
If the knot on his head made him black out, then the clench of her walls would put him in a coma. But all that would mean is never-ending dreams of her. Thrusting up towards his bliss, he let out a booming groan, which Mercedes kissed to absorb.
"We have to be quiet," she breathed against his lips, immediately breaking her own rule when he thumbed her clit. He shushed her proudly.
Sam needed her to come first, realizing they didn't have protection. He needed to be soaked in her cream before he pulled out, which had to be soon. Mercedes' mouth never left him as she continued to ride him. Faster. And faster. And faster. Her soft moans became smothered howls that he greedily accepted with his tongue until she cried his name. Her soft body shook above him in violent elation. He got his cream.
He hated having to move her, but he need to come. She lifted herself just in time for him to explode on his stomach. Sam leaned to crawl off the mattress and clean himself off, but she grabbed his waist and tongued down his tan abs until they were no longer sticky. He took face again for a bruising a kiss.
Sam awoke with indescribable pain. His head throbbed and his eyes saw static. But she was still there in his arms, and he wanted her more than anything in the world. They needed to get out of there. He stood below the boarded up window. It mocked him. He started to kick the wooden beams encasing the half-bath. Kick for kick, they started to loosen. He pulled and leveraged and used all of his strength until the first beam came down. He was ecstatic.
"What are you doing?" Sam turned to see his lover in his dress shirt, leaning against the sink. He grabbed her in an embrace and kissed her madly.
He smiled like a man with hope, "I'm getting us out of here. I can make it to the window. The edge of the broken beam can pry the nailed-down wood. You and me, we can get out of here. We can go on that date. We can play skeeball, whatever. You don't have to worry anymore, Mercy."
Mercedes fretted with her bottom lip. "Are you sure, Sammy?"
He could tell she was nervous. "Do you trust me?"
She nodded emphatically.
"Alright. I'm gonna climb to the top, and when I do, I need you the hand me the beam. Got it?"
"Okay." She kissed him one last time.
He stretched and laughed to himself.
"What?" She asked.
"When we met, you said you knew me from my dad's campaign ad. But when you saw Kurt, you didn't know him and he was in the same ad."
"That is weird." Mercedes replied.
Sam started up the paneling.
"Hey, Sam?"
He turned towards his girl and found a beam to the face instead.
Sam opened his eyes, after god knows how long, to her face. It was propped in a black turtleneck. Bush and Clinton were behind her.
Mercedes winced, "It's complicated, Sammy."
"Don't call me that." He was dazed, but he wasn't stupid.
"You're right. I'm sorry. About your head more than anything."
"What about my heart?" He thought.
"This is a last resort, really. You see, campaigns cost money. Kurt didn't perform well under pressure, so we had to… dispose of him. Now poor Burt is a mess. Wants to end the campaign with a few dollars in his pocket. Which, I personally think is the noble thing to do. However, his running mate thinks they should 'persevere.' Whatever the hell that means.
It finally clicked for him, "You work for Sue."
"The great state of Ohio stamps my paycheck," Mercedes replied.
"You're a lackey."
Mercedes shook her head and pointed to the two men behind her. "These are lackeys. I'm a… mediator. "
"What do you want? Money? You can have money?"
"There's money. And then there's a lot of money. You're gonna help us get the latter."
"Are you gonna kill me?" Sam wondered aloud, though inside he was already dead.
"No one wants that, Sam." She said sincerely. Mercedes took a deep breath. "We've been talking to your father, and apparently he has a backbone. Doesn't bend to threats. But, he'll listen to you. Talk him down. Make him listen. Get them to drop out, and you, Sam, will be free. Does that sound good? Hmm?" Her voice was so sweet and melodious, that he was almost swayed by the bile.
His thick lips framed a thin line, as he sat and pondered. A slow nod appeared.
"Is that a yes? You'll do it?" Mercedes asked.
He simply nodded again.
She smiled softly, "This is good, Sam. Trust me."
"I did." He said mournfully to himself. He knew she heard him.
Mercedes motioned for Bush to get the phone.
Sam thought for a moment, "If I do this, and you let me go, do I still get that date?"
"What?" Mercedes choked in amusement. "Why would you even want to?"
"After what you've put me through, you could at least buy me a meal."
"Sam-"
"I'll do it. I'll talk to my dad. Get his to bend to your threats. Whatever. I want dinner."
Mercedes looked to Clinton who seemed to have a pained look in his eyes. "Look-"
"Was everything you say, everything did, this whole time, was it a lie?" He wanted the truth.
"Fine, Sam. One dinner."
Bush returned with the phone, and placed it in front of Mercedes. She picked up the receiver and handed it to Sam.
"Just me and her." He said to the lackeys.
"No-" Mercedes protested.
"Just me and you. Please?"
Mercedes huffed and waived the men upstairs. They were alone.
"Are my brother and sister okay?"
"They're just fine. We never touched them."
"Where am I?"
"You'll find out soon enough. Now make the call."
"Did you ever want me?"
"Make the call, Sam."
Sam took the receiver and meditated to the dial tone. His hand shook as he spun the numbers, each one closer to his freedom. But with the slightest of hesitations, Sam took the base of the phone and hit Mercedes in the back of the head. He hauled ass up the stairs. The door was unlocked and with the single turn of the knob he was in a kitchen.
He knew exactly where he was, but the picture of the bald, affable man and his dapper son under a tire magnet on the fridge confirmed it. He saw the stacks of hundred dollar bills on the kitchen counter, along with copies of the same ransom note over and over again. Then Sam remembered, "Campaigns cost a lot of money."
It was then; he felt the phone cord around his neck and her small, brown hands pulling it harder and harder. Clinton grabbed his legs so he couldn't fight back, but that didn't stop Sam from flailing. They dragged him down the stairs. Bush followed behind them with his gun cocked and ready. The door slammed before the shot went off.
A/N: Don't forget to vote! :P I think I seem to like Psycho!Mercedes, I don't know what that says about me. To the person who PM'd me an election prompt, this is me doing the ABSOLUTE most. It's like Tom Clancy meets V.C. Andrews or something. I dunno. I hope everyone could guess who was under each mask; I tried to have each president match his or her personality. Anyways…
Please review, if you wanna.
