TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
PART SIX
Interchanging mind control, come let the
Revolution take its toll, if you could
Flick a switch and open your third eye, you'd see that
We should never be afraid to die, so come on
-'Uprising', Muse
"You don't know anything about the Intersect, do you, Brittany? Other than what you get from your head, I mean."
Brittany shook her head mutely.
The plastic ties that bound Brittany's wrists bit into her skin, making her squirm. She found herself in a curious state of numbness, half twisted in her seat as Laura Andrews, the head of one of the most active Fulcrum cells, scribbled into her note pad, taking notes in that detached, passive way that reminded Brittany of the sinister Count Rugen from The Princess Bride.
Through Brittany sometimes found herself too confounded to even remember the meaning of words that sounded too alike, since she was a child, she had been able to quote the movie from beginning to end.
Countless hours had been spent with Santana, sighing over the sweetness of Westley, commenting on the supposed hotness of Buttercup, and arguing about whether or not the Rodents of Unusual Size actually existed. There had also been the incident where Brittany discovered that the charming and gorgeous Westley was also in Saw, and Netflixed it.
... that had been a mistake. Of massive, nightmarish proportions.
Those moments had taken place first in her childhood bedroom, on her frilly pink bed, and then, as the years passed and Santana and Brittany grew from best friends to girlfriends, on their Ikea couch.
When Santana came home from training, dressed impeccably in her uniform, Brittany had considered her lover her own Dread Pirate Roberts, and the memory now was a bittersweet one.
I told you I would come, Westley would say, the moment he was unmasked, to his true love, Buttercup. Why didn't you wait for me?
Well, Buttercup would reply, always. You were dead.
Death cannot stop true love, Westley answered, with his charming smile and glorious cheekbones. All it can do is delay it for a while.
Brittany would clutch onto Santana's thigh, enraptured by the moment.
"I will never doubt again," Brittany whispered, echoing Buttercup's words. Her heart heard her, thumping inside her with her faith.
"Excuse me?"
Her eyes lifted, brought out of the moment by Dr. Laura Andrews. "Do you like The Princess Bride?" she asked.
Dr. Andrews blinked, and suddenly glanced down, scribbling quickly. "Brittany," she said after a moment, removing her glasses and regarding her soberly. "You need to listen to me. What you have in your head isn't just a database. It's a tool. A very powerful tool. If you learned to use it correctly, it's limits would be inconceivable."
You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means.
"Brittany?"
"It's a computer," she rasped, licking her lips and resuming her stare outside of the window. "And there are programs that you can run." Hear this now. I will always come for you.
"That's right," Dr. Andrews said, sounding surprised and pleased. "Do you understand what would happen if you learned to access the right program at precisely the right moment?"
"Yes," she breathed, and remembered the day Santana left for the mission she would never come back from. This is true love. Do you think this happens every day?
"Brittany, I don't want you to feel like you have anything to worry about. I'm not going to hurt you. Truthfully, I would rather the Intersect had been downloaded into someone with a little more training, but that doesn't mean you're completely useless. If you work with us, if you cooperate, both you and your girlfriend will live."
We are men of action. Lies do not become us.
"Brittany." Dr. Andrews sounded annoyed now. Brittany felt the touch of a hand pressed to her shoulder. "Are you listening?"
"Yes," she said, distant, eyes closing as she mentally probed her mind, inched toward the computer that had taken over her brain. "I'm a weapon."
My Westley will come for me, Buttercup would state, with all the faith in the world.
Brittany had always equated herself with Buttercup.
Maybe that was her problem.
Maybe she wasn't Buttercup.
Maybe, instead of sitting at home and letting Santana be the hero, Brittany was supposed to have been Westley.
As you wish,she thought, and smiled at Dr. Andrews.
When Quinn's lips descended and proceeded to rob Rachel of any common sense, Rachel's first instinct was to simply kiss her back.
In her own defense, she had been expecting to be executed at point-blank range by the woman with whom she had fallen in love, and that kind of emotional whiplash lent itself to moments of mental combustion. Rachel lost herself to muscle memory, and the quivering whisper of her heart.
It was only when, somewhere beyond her muddled mind, she felt a gasp against her mouth, and the strong sweep of a tongue against hers, did Rachel's mind catch up with her, and ask her quite ardently, what the hell she was doing.
By then, Quinn's palms had trailed along her back, drawing up and underneath her shirt with calloused fingers.
Quinn, who only seconds ago had seemed an angry, bitter stranger, was kissing her like she was starved for it. Any excitement, any hope, any affection that lingered within Rachel shriveled instantly.
She reacted with a surge of anger, shoving at Quinn's chest and delivering a stinging slap across the other woman's cheek.
"What the hell are you doing?" she panted, because it was ridiculous. Even for someone with her dramatic notions, it was ridiculous. "Is this some sort of game? Are you like a cat—do you toy with your victims before you kill them?"
Rachel's fingers were imprinted on Quinn's skin, and it was satisfying. Almost as satisfying as the dumbfounded expression that came over Quinn's face.
"Rachel," Quinn's voice was thick, scratchy. "That's not-"
"Why on earth would you think it was okay to kiss me?"
Quinn's expression quickly turned incredulous. "Would you prefer I kill you instead?"
The question, posed in that way, hardly seemed fair. "That's besides the point," she offered lamely.
"That's exactly the point," Quinn breathed, and although her gun was no longer pointing directly at Rachel's head, Rachel's furiously beating heart had a hard time recovering from the experience.
She could only watch in bewildered confusion when Quinn swiveled away from her, jerking open drawers and rummaging through Santana's things.
"You..." Swallowing, Rachel crossed her arms, afraid to even voice the question. "What are you doing?"
"This is a safe house, isn't it? Santana was planning to leave tonight. She has to have made plans. We can use them."
Quinn might as well have spoken Sanskrit. "Come again?"
"Fulcrum wants you dead. If they find out you're not, we're both dead. We need to go." Quinn seemed to find what she was looking for, because soon she was grabbing hold of a backpack that had been left near the door. Settling next to the bed, she began to stuff it with things that looked like passports and papers.
"Pardon?"
"If we leave now, we have a chance of getting on a flight—"
Rachel could only blame her near death experience, the trauma that had been inflicted on her by this exact person, for her inability to come to the right conclusions before this.
When it did come together, it happened very quickly, like points on a dry erase board. One, Quinn had experienced some sort of odd Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde transformation and as a result had decided not to kill her. Two, somehow, in the wake of this, Quinn had concluded that the next logical step would be to flee the country with her.
With the very things that Santana had been gathering to flee with Brittany.
It was all so surreal and confusing and simply abhorrent, Rachel forgot her anger and reverted to her own self-righteous indignation, because Quinn was absolutely insane.
"Have you lost your mind?" she burst, infuriated. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
Quinn paused, looked at her with these wide, insecure eyes, like she was suddenly afraid. "Rachel, I realize right now you sort of hate me, but you need to trust me."
"No," she snapped, head shaking fervently, trembling in her emotion. "No, I'm not going to trust you, Quinn."
"Rachel..."
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, once again desperate to understand, even as her heart hammered with conflict, unsure what to think, what to believe.
Quinn let the backpack go in a harsh jerk. "Because I don't hate you," she rasped, an annoyed tint in her voice. "My feelings for you are actually very conflicted at the moment. And even though there were times in high school when I wanted badly to be able to kill you, I can't actually bring myself to do it. And I can't let anyone else do it either."
Rachel had long considered herself an expert in reading the human body. But what Quinn was implying, what she was saying, both with her words and the way she seemed to stare at her, she couldn't quite believe.
"Did you just admit to being in love with me?"
Had this been any other circumstance, Quinn's horribly flushed face might have actually been amusing. "I didn't say that."
"So what? You just feel guilty?"
Quinn literally twitched. Red-faced, she went back to filling the pack. "We need to go, Rachel."
"What about Brittany?" Rachel's eyes went wildly to the closed door. "And Santana?"
In the midst of pulling on the pack, Quinn faltered. "We can't help them now," she said, low and flat.
"Because shit happens?" she asked cruelly.
"Because Fulcrum has them," Quinn snapped. "And they're as good as dead. And so are we if we don't get out of here. Now."
The hypocrisy was astounding. "Then you might as well kill me, Quinn, because I'm never going to go anywhere with you. Not when you just signed Santana and Brittany's death sentence." Misery overwhelmed her. Because of this woman, because of an email and a phone call and some deep issues inside of Quinn, Brittany and Santana—
"Rachel, I'm not saying I don't care, okay? I'm just saying..."
Not, not because of Quinn. Because of her. Because once again, Rachel had believed a lie. Sucking in a choked breath, Rachel spied the Beretta that Quinn had so casually kicked at.
"What are you doing?"Quinn asked sharply.
Rachel handled the gun, tested the weight of it. "I played a cop once," she said matter-of-factly. "The show wasn't ever picked up, but I learned how to shoot a gun."
"Rachel, stop it-"Rising off the bed, Quinn walked quickly in her direction. Even though she trembled, even though Rachel couldn't see straight, she knew enough to unlock the safety, and pointed it in her direction.
Without hesitation, Quinn grabbed hold of the barrel, wrenching it out of her hands. "Are you crazy?" she hissed.
Strong fingers wrapped around her wrists, keeping Rachel from trying to reach for the gun. "Give it back," she demanded, but Quinn only held her tighter, maneuvering her so that Rachel was suddenly pressed back against her, trapped tight in Quinn's strong hold.
"Stop it," Quinn rasped, hand pressed against her shoulder, mouth brushing hotly against Rachel's ear. "Calm down."
Quinn was too strong. She held her tightly, in this cruel mocking embrace. Rachel jerked, huffing in frustration. "If you won't save them, I will."
"You will," Quinn repeated, incredulous and almost bemused. "You. Really? How. You don't know where they're going. You can't even sight a gun properly. You'll be dead before you even leave the building."
"I don't care!" she insisted, and she didn't. Not anymore. The fear had faded away rapidly, and in its place was just sheer desperation to make things right, or die trying. "You said I'm as good as dead anyway."
The gun clattered to the floor. Quinn wouldn't let her go. She held onto her, so tightly, keeping Rachel from moving. Rachel could feel the thumping beat of her heartbeat, pounding into her back.
"Not if I tranq you and smuggle you out of the country."
A wave of fresh emotion beat into her, and Rachel found herself more furious than before. "Why?" she snapped, eyes flashing, twisting in Quinn's embrace to glare at the other woman. "Why do you care so much?" Quinn's mouth pressed flat. She didn't say a word. "If you love me," Rachel whispered furiously, "If you even think you love me, then you should know something, Quinn. If Brittany and Santana die, I won't ever forgive you. I've never hated anyone in my life, but I'll hate you." Behind her, she felt and heard a ragged gasp, Quinn's only indication that she heard her. "We caused this," Rachel demanded. "You and me."
She felt the warmth of Quinn. The soft flutter of breath that slipped past her ear. The way Quinn tilted her forehead against Rachel's hair, as if Quinn was breathing her in.
Rachel's heart seized, trembled, and she closed her eyes against it, because this was a killer.
And this was Quinn.
And somehow it was just so hard and so easy to believe they were the exact same person.
"Are you emotionally blackmailing me?"
Quinn's question was breathless with disbelief, but there was something else in there too, some sort of hope, that made Rachel take in a ragged, soldiering breath.
"Are you saying you're actually in love with me?"
Quinn's hands, braced against her biceps, smoothed against her. "Are you saying you actually believe me?"
"Are you willing to prove it?"
The wait was agonizing. One second. Then two.
"You're going to get us killed."
Rachel was suddenly set free. Behind her, Quinn bent, grabbing hold of Santana's backpack and heading for the door.
"Let's go."
Had Rachel been handed this twist in a script, she would understand it. Life was meant to be dramatic, at least on television.
But this was real life, and never would Rachel have ever imagined being able to accept the idea that Quinn really, truly had fallen for her. Not after what she had been proven capable of.
It was sappy and schlocky, and maybe a younger, more naïve Rachel would believe that her love had reminded Quinn of who she truly wanted to be, that she had tamed a killer, and that was why Quinn was ready and willing to fight to give Brittany and Santana the same chance she had wanted to give Rachel and herself.
But this Rachel was still stinging in the face of her own guilt, the reminder that her own naïve willingness to believe had painted a death sentence on Santana and Brittany's head, and Quinn and every one of her beautiful lies had been the reason for it.
"I don't believe you," she tossed out. Quinn's steps faltered to a stop. Blonde hair whirled as she glanced back at Rachel, and in that beautiful, devastating look, Rachel found her true heartbreak.
Between them both was a chasm of mistrust and lies.
"I know," Quinn said, after a moment. "That's okay." The grimace that formed was a very accurate mimic of the girl she had been in high school. "I can hardly believe it myself."
That, at least, sounded like Quinn.
"Can you believe this shit?"
The pain that exploded when something smacked hard against her kidney brought Santana out of her drug-induced stupor immediately. Face down against the sweaty interior of the leather backseat, she cried out, but the sound was muffled by the leather.
It was a rude awakening, and Santana could focus on nothing else but breathing in and out, riding out the spasm and the nausea that came from the drug, building in her stomach and threatening to project.
"Andrews wants to turn her? She killed Fuller!"
"In her defense, Fuller was an ass."
Voices floated around her like fog, and as awareness came, so did the rest of the discomfort. Her muscles cramped, her body stiffened, and her mind began to scream for Brittany.
"Did the asshole deserve to die?"
"Don't we all?"
"What are you now, a philosopher?"
"I'm just saying, Andrews says she was in the program. If Andrews can turn the Intersect, this one might fall in line. And that's good for us."
Training battled against instinct and her heart. Though the words were being said, they took time to be absorbed, and it was only after Santana's eyes opened, then closed again, that she realized that the conversation between the two guns meant that Brittany was very much alive.
The relief faded quickly as she was reminded of the hopelessness of their plight.
She was sprawled against the seat, hogtied like an animal. With her legs and arms bound tight and her face sticky with the drool that had collected on the seat, Santana had to battle the urge to try and stretch her cramping muscles.
To move even slightly would alert the goons that she was awake, and she needed them to talk.
A heavy hand landed suddenly on her ass, palming liberally.
Gritting her teeth, Santana didn't move.
"What'd they have over there, a hot lesbian breeding program?"
"You don't see me complaining."
"There's something wrong with the world when Quinn and this chick get better tail than I do."
"They're hotter than you, Ramos."
"You don't gotta rub it in."
They were driving at a steady pace, at a high speed, which indicated that wherever they were going, they had reached a highway.
She wanted badly to try and break the fingers of the one who was still appreciating her ass in the rudest way possible.
She didn't. She listened instead, placing each agent—the one beside her, the one in front, and the silent driver, who gave himself away with a cough and a sniffle.
So much of Santana's training had been on how to disassociate—how to withstand torture without giving information, how to lose yourself to another world no matter what the present was beating into you.
To do that now was impossible. The image of Brittany burned into her skull, and it meant living in the present, getting through this, getting out alive.
Santana had already died for Brittany once. She had been resurrected, reborn in Brittany's arms, and in that moment, she had made Brittany another promise: that she would not leave her.
Santana wasn't an immortal, but she was a damn stubborn bitch, and that was one promise she fully intended to keep.
Muscles tensed, she waited, pulling in her knees, feigning sleep, ready for her attack, until the distraction of another engine, loud and getting closer, caught her focus.
"What the hell? Do you see that?"
"What?"
"Coming up behind us! Holy fuc-"
Santana had no time to brace for it when it happened.
The crash was a cacophony of over-stimulation—the scream and crunch of metal, the surge of force that crumpled her against the door, the screech of tires.
Santana grabbed hold of the belt behind her, head ducking as the shots came after, shattering glass.
Another crash. The car jerked, skidded, and then it tipped, shoving the agent next to her hard against her back, smashing her fingers against the gun he carried.
Blindly, she grabbed hold of it, fumbled, and pulled the trigger.
He slumped against her, seeping warm sticky blood onto her, but Santana didn't waste time. Using him as a shield from the other distracted agents, she kicked at the door, snaking out of the opening.
Two shots came blasting, and then no one followed her out.
With scrapes and cuts spread across her body, and ties that cut into her circulation, Santana could only flop on the ground like a snake, losing her gun in the process.
"Santana!" Her unseen savior fell down beside her, poking at her back. "Oh, God. I think she's been shot."
It was a voice that she would know anywhere, but never had she expected to hear it here. "Rachel?" she breathed, head jerking back to see that it truly was Rachel fucking Berry, ready to sob over her like she were auditioning for some Southern war movie. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Santana, I'm so sorry!" Rachel whispered, tears in her eyes and a trembling frown on her face. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe you. And I'm sorry that I caused this. I'm going to make this right. I promise."
Winded and in a mild sort of shock, Santana wasn't sure what to make of it at all. "Can you start by cutting these fucking ties off of me?"
"Okay, now this is just pathetic." Shoes kicked dust into her face, making her choke. "Bad Ass Santana Lopez, flopping on the ground like a fish."
Quinn. Santana's eyes narrowed in fury, neck straining as she craned her head up to regard the other woman. "You fucking bitch," she whispered, jerking hard against the ground. "I should have shot you when I had the chance."
Quinn's smug smirk faltered. "Look, I'm here to help you."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Quinn, just help me!" Rachel's hands were still all over her, tugging at the ties, inadvertently cutting them deeper into her skin. "She's been shot!"
"I'm not shot," she managed, gritting her teeth as her muscles cramped. "That's another guy's blood."
A knee dug into the small of her back, pinning her down. The blade of a knife slipped between her hands, jerking sharply, springing them free.
Santana's palms flattened against the dirt, as she closed her eyes in relief, letting them work on her feet.
"We don't have much time," she heard dimly, above the pounding and ringing in her head.
The moment the ties that bound her legs were severed, Santana kicked hard, digging her boot into Quinn's gut.
She rolled up, slamming her elbow hard into the face of the other woman, and pinned Quinn hard on the ground with a forearm crushing into her esophagus.
"Santana!"
It was too much. Too much anger, too much rage, too much blame to be placed on this one woman, who struggled underneath her, hips rising and face turning red with the effort.
"Santana!" She could dimly feel Rachel clawing at her, trying to pull her away. "Santana, stop!"
"I'll stop when she's dead!" she snapped, shoving Rachel away with a well-timed push.
Below her, Quinn struggled for breath. Her legs flailed ineffectually. "Kill me then," she eeked out. "You think you're so much better than me?"
Santana pushed harder, causing Quinn to gurgle and wheeze.
"Santana, we're here to help you!"
"HOW?" Santana snapped, head jerking to glare at Rachel. "How the hell did either of you help me? By sending Brittany the Intersect? By trying to kidnap her? By fucking her over completely?"
In her emotion, she made a crucial mistake. She gave Quinn half a second.
That was all Quinn needed to wrench away her thumb and smash a fist hard into the bridge of her nose.
It blinded her, causing her eyes to tear and her hands to loosen, giving Quinn enough time to manipulate a leg between them and buck up, rolling them over.
Santana landed hard on her back, and Quinn followed, straddling her and pressing the barrel of a gun underneath her chin.
Breathing hard, Santana didn't move.
"Quinn!"
"Shut up, Rachel!" Quinn snapped, but her eyes stayed locked on Santana's. "Look," she whispered, voice raspy from the abuse Santana had inflicted on her throat. "Hate me, kill me, whatever. I know I fucked you over. I know it makes me an ass. You have every right to want me dead, but you and I both know that if you want half a chance in hell of getting Brittany away from that Fulcrum cell, you'll need me to do it."
It was logic, and not logic that Santana wanted to accept, not when every part of her shook with absolute hate.
"Santana, please." Rachel stood beside them and wrung her hands helplessly like some damsel. "I'm so sorry for what happened. I am. But we want to help you save Brittany."
The heavy weight of Quinn bore down on her. The muzzle of a gun, burning hot against her skin, was proof that Quinn had used it, not against her but against the men who had kept Santana captive.
"Why would you help me?" she asked, careful and quiet, ever conscious of the steel pressed warningly, poised to fire.
An odd expression floated over Quinn's face. "You don't want to know," she rasped.
"Actually," she hissed. "I do."
"Santana, we don't have time-"
"Make the fucking time."
Quinn literally twitched in her frustration, shoulders rising and falling, looking like some disgruntled fembot. "Brittany doesn't deserve this," she said finally, grinding her teeth with the admission. "And neither does Rachel."
It was the way she said Rachel's name that struck Santana, brought her out of the fog of mistrust. "Don't tell me she neutered you."
The hand underneath her chin shifted, shoving the metal deeper against her skin. "Do you want me to use this?" Quinn hissed. The annoyance was palpable, and it was damning.
God, Santana would have had such a field day with this in high school.
Quinn Fabray, brought to her knees by Rachel fucking Berry.
The suspicion, the hate, it was all still there, but the flash of what she had seen in Quinn's eyes was something that was hauntingly familiar.
"Fine," she breathed. She let her body relax, no longer fighting Quinn.
Quinn stared at her, tested her resolve. Santana let her.
After a moment, Quinn slowly removed the gun from its kill position against her throat, and lifted off of her.
The mood inside Quinn's car was stifling and tense, and with good reason.
Rachel and Brittany had never been close in high school. Despite Glee Club, the cliques that ruled McKinley High had put them in different worlds, and although there were moments of friendliness, Brittany had more often than not followed Santana and Quinn's lead when it came to the easy game of bullying Rachel Berry.
To think they had come from that to where they were now, the three of them in Quinn's sports car, heading to an undisclosed Fulcrum cell hideout to save Brittany's life and in the process quite possibly lose their own, was sobering.
Rachel's heart thumped with the uncertainty of it, fear making her skin prickle and guilt constricting her breath.
Quinn's eyes caught her own in the rearview mirror. With no energy to process the complication of whatever it was that fell between them, Rachel looked away.
In the passenger seat, Santana shifted, a grimace of pain etched on her face and nothing else.
Even now, it seemed surreal, to look at her and not think of her as a ghost.
Rachel spoke before she could stop herself. "Santana." Fingers smoothing against her seatbelt, Rachel regarded the other woman. "Why did you do it?" Quinn's fingers tightened against the steering wheel, squeaking against the leather.
Santana didn't move, gave no indication she heard her.
"It's not that I'm judging you," Rachel continued softly, carefully. "It's just that... It's hard to imagine ..."
"Rachel." Quinn's tone was deep with warning.
"I'm just trying to-"
"Shut up, Rachel!" The outburst came from Santana, who shifted in her seat and shot her such a look of rage that Rachel was struck speechless. "Just shut up. Just keep your traitor mouth shut."
"Santana-"
"No," Santana snapped, shooting Quinn a stormy, withering glance before glaring back at Rachel. "You know what? Her, I can understand. Quinn's always been a bitch. But you... why the hell are you such a gullible idiot?"
In the face of Santana's anger, Rachel felt small and stupid. There was not one thing she could say in her own defense. "Santana," she began thickly, eyes pleading in supplication. "I'm sorry."
"I don't care." Santana's loss and grief was painted on her face. She looked suddenly exhausted. "Saying 'I'm sorry' doesn't fucking turn back time."
"Santana, shut the hell up!"
"No, Quinn..." Rachel couldn't bear to be defended. Not in this. "She's absolutely right." Exhaling unsteadily, she nodded to Santana, moist eyes meeting hers in quiet understanding. "There's just some things you can't apologize for. There are things you can't take back, no matter what."
Like faking a death, no matter what the intentions. Like betraying a friend's trust, wanting to believe in a story instead of the truth.
Like seducing a friend with every intention of breaking their heart.
In this car, there were no heroes.
At this point, simple apologies or explanations would never be enough. To expect forgiveness was beyond any of them at the moment.
And there wasn't time for it, either.
Santana must have understood that, because there was no response to Rachel's declaration.
The car sped down the highway, to Brittany, and their mutual salvation.
Sometime after they pulled into the warehouse, Brittany, who had been running The Princess Bride in her head and playing images of Santana in Buttercup's white, flowy princess gown, stopped being afraid.
The hysteria had oddly settled, and in it's place was a curious sort of determination, as she sifted and sorted in her brain, picking at bits and parts of the new invasion called the Intersect like she would poke through a malfunctioning hard drive.
"Do you think I can get these to come off?" Brittany asked, when Dr. Andrews entered the room she had been brought into. Her voice was soft, without inflection. "They're cutting my circulation." Dr. Andrews, who wore and an odd, closed expression, considered the question, and after a moment, nodded.
"Of course, Brittany." The man behind her stepped forward, and closed his hands around her wrists, scraping her skin with a pocket knife, cutting her free from the punishing plastic ties.
Brittany hissed, rubbing at her raw wrists thankfully.
"Brittany?" Dr. Andrews settled into the chair across from her, crossing her feet at her ankles, looking like some sort of shrink. "What are you thinking about?"
"What do you mean?" she asked. She traced her fingertip across the countertop of the table she had been made to sit at, forming letters and symbols that she wasn't sure made any sense.
"You're obviously not paying attention to me."
She offered an apologetic smile. "What you were saying was kind of confusing," she admitted, and glanced toward the door. "When can I see Santana?"
Dr. Andrews's lips pressed firmly together. "When I say so," she said, quietly and softly. "Did you know that I recruited your friend Quinn?"
The pain caused by the name was still fresh. It reminded Brittany of a Quinn that no longer existed, who wore a red and white Cheerios uniform and not a gun. "She's not my friend," she said pointedly. "Not anymore."
Dr. Andrews nodded her assent. "I guess under the circumstances she wouldn't be." She watched quietly as Brittany continued to draw her imaginary lines. "I told her when I first picked her that she had a chance to make a difference, be a hero."
Brittany paused. "But you're the bad guys."
The smile became strained. "That depends on how you look at it, Brittany. I told her that too."
"I guess." Brittany sighed restlessly and massaged at the pulsing, sore skin around her wrist. "Like in the movie The Princess Bride. The dread Pirate Roberts is a bad guy, you think, but it turns out Prince Humperdink is the real bad guy."
Dr. Andrews smiled, pleased. "Exactly, Brittany. This government is Prince Humperdink, and we're just like the pirate Roberts. Trying to right some wrongs."
"Like Robin Hood."
Once again, the smile shifted, like Dr. Andrews didn't quite know what to do with that. "In a manner of speaking," she allowed. "That's why you're so important. If we can use what we have in your head, study it, then Prince Humperdink wouldn't stand a chance."
Brittany stared at the tabletop. She imagined the symbols and shapes from earlier, saw them written in her own mind, neon and clear as day. "Did you know that when Santana was recruited into the army, she didn't want to go?" Dr. Andrews bit in a sigh, but Brittany simply shrugged. "She did it because I wanted her to. She was my hero," she confessed, and smiled bitterly at the memory. "I thought maybe it would be awesome if she could be everyone else's hero too."
"Santana is a hero, Brittany. She's just been working for the wrong team, that's all." Dr. Andrew's pen ticked on the notepad. "Maybe you could change her mind."
The sound of the doorknob turning caught her attention.
Let into the room by another man in a dark suit, with blood crusted on her cheek and dirty, ruined clothes, was Santana.
Brittany reacted immediately, jerking up in her chair. A heavy hand slammed on her shoulder, and immediately shoved her back down.
"Brittany-"
When Santana moved, the man who brought her in jabbed his fist hard into the small of her back, causing a hiss of pain and an expression of anguish, as Santana's knees buckled.
Brittany's hands fisted hard against the tabletop.
"Brittany," Santana wheezed. "You don't have to listen to her, okay?"
Dr. Andrews' expression did not change at all. "Your Santana hasn't been very cooperative, Brittany. She caused a wreck that killed three of my agents. If it wasn't for Quinn catching up with her, we might have lost her completely. That would have been very bad for both of you."
Very bad. Brittany wasn't sure what could be worse than the situation they were in now, with this dirty, bloody, captive Santana, who stared at her with every apology in the world unspoken.
"Brittany, understand something. I'm being nicer than I need to be. Not everyone in my group shares my patience for these sort of things, but I find that results are generally easier to attain if I don't have to torture them out of you."
Santana looked absolutely haunted; just like she did that day in the Volkswagon, when she spread a green folder over her lap and admitted to Brittany that she was scared.
Brittany had gotten that look to go away. She was a master at it, and the urge to do so now, to assure them both that it was all going to be okay, caused her to paste a trembling smile on her face for her resurrected lover, who died for her once and probably thought she was going to have to do it again.
"Brittany?" Dr. Andrews broke into her thoughts. "What are you thinking?"
Brittany's head lifted, but her eyes were only for Santana.
"I'm thinking," she began, slowly and carefully, "that I lost you once and it nearly killed me. I could not bear it if it happened again. Not if I can save you."
And maybe they really were the lucky ones, she and Santana, who had grown up together, learned what it meant to love each other, what it meant to not be afraid.
Because it meant she could quote something as simple and sincere as The Princess Bride and immediately see the recognition in Santana's slow, stunned smile.
"As you wish," Santana replied, tone thick and full of meaning. She made Brittany's heart sing.
She was going to marry her.
"Brittany." Dr. Andrews sounded annoyed. Disturbed.
Quietly, Brittany straightened in her chair and turned her attention to Dr. Andrews, who had recruited Quinn and taught her that there was no such thing as good and evil, love and loyalty. "One time, Santana and I went to the dentist and had a hallucination. Together."
Dr. Andrew's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"
"It didn't really make sense," Brittany admitted, shrugging in defeat. "But it was kind of awesome, because I got to be Britney Spears and she got to be Madonna, and we got to dance together, even in our dreams."
Dr. Andrew's dropped her pen. "Brittany-"
"When she died, I stopped dancing." She could hear an audible sigh, ragged and pained, coming from Santana. Brittany didn't look. She kept her focus on Dr. Andrews, who looked confused and intrigued.
Brittany bet she had never met an Intersect like her before.
It was just what Brittany wanted.
"Were you good at it?" Dr. Andrews asked, apparently deciding it was best to simply indulge her.
"I was amazing," she admitted, a proud grin floating onto her mouth. "A lot of things confuse me, but that never did. I could move, you know, no matter what the music, and when I think about it, life is a lot like dancing."
Andrews considered that. Her smile was profound. "You're absolutely right, Brittany. Just like dancing, you make a choice to move through life like you would flow through a beat."
Brittany nodded. "I think that's why I stopped." She placed her palm against the table, and felt the smooth, cool surface underneath it. Behind her, an agent snickered. Out of the corner of her eye, Brittany could see Santana's immediate glare, ready and waiting to deck him for daring to make fun of her. It warmed her, even in this cold room. "Because dancing is all about moving forward with the rhythm, going with the flow. I didn't want to move forward. Not without Santana."
"Brittany," Dr. Andrews placed the note pad on the table, losing patience. "What are you trying to tell me?"
To Santana, she smiled, nodding as she replied, "I'm telling you, that I think I might be ready to dance again."
And she did. Her eyes closed, and she flowed through the symbols she had worked out so carefully on the tabletop, until the programs in her brain whizzed by and she had executed the correct one.
Instinct took over. Her hand jerked out, smashed a fist into the snickering agent's groin. As he doubled over, she grabbed hold of his tie, dragging him against her, feeling the bullets of the other agent pound into him, as she slid her hand around the handle of the gun in his holster and pulled it out, double tapping and downing the other agent who had just shot at her.
She stood and swiveled, a perfect pirouette that leveled the gun at Dr. Laura Andrews.
The older woman looked absolutely stunned, because while she had done that, Santana had been a bad ass. The agent that had held her so brutally was unconscious on the ground, and Santana held his own gun to Dr. Andrew's temple, keeping her still.
The look Santana was giving her was absolutely astounded, and kind of turned on.
It was... kind of awesome.
"I know that people don't think much of me," Brittany explained, breathing hard, in and out, as the Intersect whirred within her, her own personal database. "But I know how to dance. I know how to love. And I know the difference between right and wrong. You're under arrest. And stuff," she added, frowning as she realized she didn't quite know how the rest of it went.
"We'll save all that for later," was Santana's sweet assurance, as she produced a pair of handcuffs and bound Dr. Andrews. Brittany waited until she heard the snap of the metal before she placed the gun on the table.
This was real life. Brittany wasn't dreaming. In this reality, Santana was a secret agent, and she had gone through heaven and hell to be with her now, standing in a room with Dr. Laura Andrews, the head of one of Fulcrum's most dangerous and active terrorist cells.
A silly, ridiculous smile grew on her face, as the adrenaline caught up with her, watching as Santana rounded the table, coming straight for her, and into her arms.
And this was real life too, the feel of Santana, her best friend, her lover, and maybe even her soulmate, clinging tightly to her, touching her everywhere, like Santana couldn't get enough.
Brittany kissed her, plundered her lips in grateful celebration, winding fingers through dirty, sweaty hair and rubbing crusted blood off Santana's cheek.
"Holy fuck, baby," Santana breathed, pulling back to stare at her like Brittany was amazing. "What the fuck was that?"
"The Intersect," Brittany answered. She considered what had just happened, and found herself shrugging, as she confessed, "I think I'm good at it."
Brittany knew that sometimes she said things that confused a lot of people, but the look on Santana's face wasn't like the expressions she had always seen. Santana looked astounded, but with it was some beautiful kind of excitement, like she was seeing Brittany for the first time, and falling more in love with her than ever before.
When Santana kissed her, it felt like they were back in high school, sneaking under Mr. Schue's window for a quick, passionate hook up before class.
"I'll totally be your hot army wife," Santana whispered against her lips. "If you want me to be."
Heart singing with the music only they could hear, Brittany found herself laughing. "Bitch," she hissed right back. "You better be."
In a room with an unconscious agent and Rachel Berry, Quinn Fabray wanted to feel detached as she watched the events unfold through a one way mirror. Santana and Brittany frenched like teenagers, high on life and the joy of surviving, forgetting in the process that they were still in the presence of a bunch of bleeding and unconscious Fulcrum agents, and Dr. Andrews herself, who appeared to be in a mild form of shock.
She didn't feel detached. What filled her now was anything but detachment. She was genuinely relieved, to the point of trembling with it.
It unnerved her. "Well," she managed. "It's nice to see they're still willing to do it everywhere."
Beside her, Rachel was all shining eyes and sincere smiles. "I think it's beautiful," she declared, and it was so open and honest, Quinn felt suddenly breathless.
The sheer hatred that had been so prevalent in Rachel ever since she had discovered Quinn's true allegiances, the disgust that had stung so much, had faded immeasurably. In its place was a grown Rachel Berry, with that same joy, that same heart.
Quinn wanted so badly to hope it meant forgiveness. "God," she sighed, tamping down the embarrassing, lovesick feelings, and focused instead on the reality of the situation. "Rachel, nothing's changed. Brittany still has the Intersect in her head. And what's worse, she knows how to use it."
"But you said that the secret was contained. It was just this cell that had the information."
Her answering smile was grim. "And what about the NSA?" she asked. Brittany and Santana continued their highly inappropriate make-out session in the middle of a Fulcrum interrogation room, forgetting them, forgetting the world. "They know it was stolen." There wasn't a point in mentioning who it was who had stolen it to begin with. "They're looking for Santana. And if she runs, it'll be with Brittany. The NSA isn't just going to let them go."
There was no easy solution. No happily ever after.
Brittany had never read the book the movie The Princess Bride was based on. The movie was portrayed as a romantic fable, perpetuating the belief that true love reigned above all.
The book itself was a political commentary that ended ambiguously, in which Westley and Buttercup were on the run, and Prince Humperdink's men edged ever closer.
There were no happy endings, just the universal control of the establishment.
Fabric shifted against her. Quinn's quiet awareness of Rachel was intimidating in its power. "What about you?"
"What about me?" she whispered, eyes deliberately locked on her own star-crossed lover.
"You betrayed Fulcrum to save them."
The urge to laugh morbidly was almost overpowering. "Yeah," she breathed, and considered the situation she found herself in. "That was kind of stupid."
Rachel Berry always had inspired her to levels of stupidity previously unknown to mankind.
"Are you going to run?"
Quinn crossed her arms, considering her options. A crazy, inconceivable choice lay before her.
Beside her there was Rachel; beautiful, insane Rachel who kissed her like there was no one else in the world, who stood with her in this lonely room and looked at her like she knew her.
The thought of running anywhere without her seemed suddenly unbearable.
Taking a breath, Quinn did not wait to think about the madness of the situation. "If I do," she began lighter and more casual than she felt. "Would you come with me?"
Quinn had never been a talker. When she spoke, even in high school, she had been to the point. Maybe that was why Rachel didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on hers, searching Quinn's face, as if she had misinterpreted the question and was waiting for the punchline.
There was none.
Rachel broke the gaze with a ragged sigh, and turned beside her, attention back on Brittany and Santana.
"It's been a very long day," she breathed, sounding exhausted.
Quinn felt the ache down to her bones.
"Yeah," she agreed, her heart in an odd, scary place. "It has."
Though Santana knew that Major Matthews dealt with modern bioweapons and as a result, had a PHD in all things unexpected and weird, she had a grim feeling that what she related to the Major was probably one of the oddest debriefings that the Major had ever heard.
It showed in the Major's face, from the tick of her jaw, to the way she stared at Santana like she was looking at the world's most confusing Sudoku puzzle.
"Okay," she said finally, a full minute after Santana had finished speaking. "Let me see if I can clearly summarize what you've just told me. You did indeed track down the intersect. However, although it was sent to the soap actress, it was actually downloaded into a woman named Brittany S. Pierce, who is a Buy More employee, working in the Nerd Herd division, and coincidentally, your ex-fiance."
She waited for confirmation. Santana felt as timid as she felt in high school, when she was forced to sit across the desk from Sue Sylvester, and listen to her abusive and frightening diatribes. She nodded.
"In the meantime, Quinn Fabray, who you beat out for cheerleading captain and soloist in Glee Club," she drawled, not bothering to hide her sarcasm, "had a sudden change of heart, and not only helped you to reaquire the Asset, but also to bring down the very Fulcrum cell she belonged to, in the process apprehending Laura Andrews."
Santana crossed her arms, and said with as much of a straight face as she could muster, "She'd like to defect, Major."
"Of course she would," Major Matthews said dismissively. "On top of all this, you somehow thought it would be a brilliant idea to not only reveal your true identity to your little Glee Club, but also marry the Asset, who is now the Intersect."
Santana wondered if it would be at all inappropriate to offer the Major a drink. "Yes, Major."
Major Matthews opened her mouth, and, when she could think of nothing to say, closed it again.
Common sense told Santana that she should have been scared. She should have been terrified, because this was the NSA, not high school, and there were things worse than death when it came to consequences if one stepped out of line.
But she wouldn't regret her actions. Not now.
Her marriage to Brittany had not been perfect. Far from it. It hadn't taken place on a little island in Greece, but in a dingy wedding chapel near LAX. Instead of Brittany's dream officiator (P!NK), Elvis had presided over the ceremony, and Santana's best man had been a woman who had most recently tried to kill her, kidnapped her fiancé, and who clearly did not want to be there.
The only reason Santana had even agreed to that was because of the sheer look of panic on Quinn's face when Rachel had suggested it.
The joy of torture was in the little things.
There was so much in Santana's life that had been put in control of others, but there was a promise that Santana had made that she would keep, even if it meant treason.
She married Brittany because she could. Because Brittany wanted to marry her. Because since she was a child she had wanted to be Brittany's boyfriend, and had spent eight years trying to become the person that she thought Brittany deserved.
That person was a stranger named Molly Chambers, who had left Brittany behind in order to save her life.
That wasn't an option anymore.
"I considered running," she said, speaking into the silence, catching hold of Major Matthew's tired gaze. "Disappearing with Brittany when I realized what had happened."
Matthews quietly took that in. "And why didn't you?"
"Because the world still needs to be saved. Brittany may be safe from Fulcrum for now, but if I took her away, that would mean the government would have lost the Intersect, and we need her now, more than ever. I'm still a soldier, Major Matthews, and I believe Brittany has the character and attitude to take the great responsibility she has been given and excel at it."
"Your new wife is a Nerd Herder."
Santana pressed her lips together in a grim smile. "Not anymore."
The Major settled against her chair, drumming her fingers pointedly against the leather arms against her chair, creating a static beat of little thumps. "Tell me, Lieutenant. What would you do in my situation? Given the information you have just given me?"
Santana considered the odds, the ramifications of her actions. "I would probably have me arrested for treason," she admitted. "And lock my wife into a lab somewhere, to be studied and quarantined like an animal."
Matthew's raised a brow. "But you don't think I should do that."
"I think it would insanely stupid to do so."
The thumping stopped. "Why?" she asked, a harsh snap in her voice. "Because there's only one stupid person in this room and I'm pretty damn sure that it's not me."
There had been so many times when Santana considered herself weak, and although there were many things she still did not know about herself, she knew for a fact that Brittany herself had always been her greatest strength, and her greatest vulnerability.
It was this vulnerability, she decided, that had kept her from turning out just like Quinn, who had been as ruthless and callous to friends as she had been to enemies.
Brittany was her heart. In that, Santana found her hope.
She could have tried to explain all that to Major Matthews.
But she knew the Army wasn't interested.
In lieu of Santana's mushy diatribes, she simply sat back and crossed her legs, every inch the agent that was trained to protect the nation at all costs. "I know from experience, we make a pretty bad ass team," she explained, with all the certainty in the world. "The world won't see us coming."
Stripped of her power, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Dr. Andrews looked nothing like the feared, wanted woman who had headed one of the most active Fulcrum cells in the country.
She just looked old.
The sight was sobering to Quinn, who had both feared and respected this woman as her own personal mentor, since her freshman year in college.
When she opened the door and stepped inside the interrogation room, Dr. Andrews lifted her head and smirked, a remnant of that pride that had been so intimidating before.
"There better be a good reason for this," Andrews said, speaking first, as usual, sharp eyes watching as Quinn settled across the table. "Because I can't imagine you would strip Fulcrum of its greatest asset and most promising cell over a misplaced loyalty."
Quinn took her time with her response. "If I told you the reason, you wouldn't understand it," she said finally. "There's no point in trying to explain it to you."
Andrews' glare narrowed. She tangled wrinkled hands haughtily in front of her.
Quinn's look was frank. "All you need to know is that I've brokered a deal for immunity."
Thin lips pressed together in disgust. "You've become a traitor," she surmised. "You'll be dead in a week."
"Actually, I was the traitor before," Quinn corrected softly. "And the person who will be dead in a week is you. The NSA is seeking an execution, and no one is contesting them." She let the information settle, waited for Laura Andrews to come to terms with her own mortality. "Unless you agree to work with us. Provide us with information, I may be able to overturn your sentence. You can do the right thing."
Laura's fingers twitched, a tick Quinn knew well. She was disgusted. "You're a disappointment, Quinn. When I recruited you, I thought I had found a kindred spirit. Someone who understood that ethics lie in the action, not morality."
And there it was, Quinn's fabulous mantra. What had emotionally stunted her, a lust for power, and a twisted mentality that as long as she got what wanted, the consequences meant nothing.
"The ends justify the means?" she asked, mouth quirking in a cruel grimace. "Then let me tell you what my ends are, Dr. Andrews." Leaning forward, she lost her smirk, and offered instead a dangerous, furious glare. "The end I want doesn't involve sitting alone in a cell on death row, with no one to stand up for me but an emotionally stunted Fulcrum Agent who really doesn't care. The end I want involves a woman. Actually three of them, unique and special and who make this world a much better place than anything Fulcrum could manage. The end I want involves love, and I may die for it in a week, or three, or forty years, but at least this way, when I do, I know there will be someone there - to miss me, to die for me, to love me." Overwhelmed, Quinn paused, taking a moment to let the heat burn off her face, her heart to stop aching. When she turned back to Andrews, she saw a blank face, with nothing there for her to mourn. "For all your theories, and your lust for power, your ethics and your morality mean nothing." Getting to her feet, Quinn looked down on her former mentor.
For an instant, all she felt, was pity. "This is your end, Dr. Andrews," she said, as coldly as the woman she learned from. "Enjoy it while you can."