A/N: The closer we get to the end, the more I want to write! At least summer is good for updating. Thanks as usual to my beta, LeMasquerade, as we enter the final few (and more batshit than usual) chapters. I don't know if you like what we'll have in store, but it's going to be one hell of a wild ride.

Chapter 19

4 days since last feed

You make a face as Dr. Boroyan leaves. His steps slink like a panther and you hold in a small shudder, twisting the bedsheets between your toes. Another day, another argument, another frustrated scientist.

The cranking handle on your yellow radio is a familiar sound now, comforting. It only takes the space of a breath for the crackle of static to clear and Santana's voice to come through the tinny speakers.

"You okay?"

She's been asking this a lot recently, like she's making up for lost time. You appreciate the sentiment even if it's not worth the effort.

"Yeah. Just that white-coat guy again."

The button isn't pressed but you can hear her suck at her teeth in your head.

"You should tell him to fuck right off, B. Or get me to do it."

"I try not to talk to him if Sue's not around. She makes them get all red-faced and stuttery and it's really satisfying."

Santana chuckles. "I get that, Coach was a monster back at McKinley. She's been making catty high school girls cry as a career for years now."

There's a pause, an uncomfortable beat of silence.

"What do they want?"

"Bone marrow," you answer blandly. "I might give David a tiny bit but he won't give any to them. It's a lot of big needles."

David actually talks to you about his discoveries – he weaves intricate, fascinating stories of a body you thought long abandoned you; a liver that has swelled in your abdomen to build itself new lobes, muscles withered but somehow still powerful, eyes that see things others can't. Your head still hurts from seeing that strange pastel purple light.

"Jesus," she mutters, "is it... are you okay? Why do they want it?"

"I don't know, they won't tell me. It's why I don't want to give it to them."

Footsteps on the floor. The handle crank is hurried.

"Someone's coming. I'll talk to you in a minute."

You manage to stuff the radio underneath your pillow just before your father walks in. All of a sudden your muscles feel like they droop, aging twenty years. His face is tentative and hopeful, but you have no expectations. Something is tucked under his arm.

He pads lightly into your space like a footstep too loud could make you lunge. You're a trapped animal in a glass cage, given only the illusions of freedom; sunlight pours in through your open window despite the chill and you long to walk outside, to roll in the snowbanks you never had in sunny California. But the men with the weapons stand guard and every attempt to walk outside these four walls is met with a withering stare and a pointed touch of the trigger.

"I have something for you," he says softly, drawing up a chair. You eye him warily. When you sleep you can still smell the scent of the newborn child on the man you slaughtered.

One of the rails on your bed drops. He gently lays a checkerboard on the sheets.

"I'll even let you be black," he smiles, "you never liked red because-"

"It's the colour that clowns wear, and clowns are loud and mean," you finish without thought, rubbing your finger along the faded edge of the board. "I remember."

(There was an unfortunate incident in second grade. Up until you were fourteen, a mere glimpse of them made you cry.)

"Do they still scare you?"

"No. I know what real monsters are now."

He finishes setting up the checkers, and you can feel his stare, stolen glimpses from below his brows. You sigh.

"This doesn't change anything."

"I know. I just wanted to be with you for once without everyone else getting in the way."

Sue left this morning on some sort of important mission – the men outside your door, soldiers of hers (and by extension yours) were given strict orders to not let anyone take you outside your room. I'll make you eat each other's hats and shit the remains into your boots, she threatened, and at least one of them shook a little.

Your bony fingers hesitate before moving the first piece.

Despite being soft and tentative and quiet he doesn't hold back and beats you soundly the first two times. Strategy makes your head fuzz – even without the hunger hissing from your belly it's difficult to think ahead, losing strands of thought the further ahead of you they reach. Frustration bites at the corners of your mouth.

"Just concentrate, Brittany," he says as he crowns another one of his pieces. You scowl.

"Easy for you to say," you mutter as you manage to eat one of his single pieces. There's still far more red on the board. "You're smart."

"So are you."

"Don't lie," you say sourly, "you promised not to do that. Not like it really matters to you."

It's a low blow. You don't care.

His fingers tremble just a tad as he eats the rest of your pieces. An agitated breath huffs out of your nose.

"I know you can do it," he says evenly, putting them all back in order. "You used to beat me all the time."

"That was before all of this," you grit out, "before you put a hole in my head. I can't think properly anymore."

He taps one of his pieces against the board. "You can't blame it as a reason for all of your problems, you know."

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure it is."

You sit in stony silence for a minute. His peace offering, the checkerboard with all your eaten pieces, sits between you like no-man's land.

"I don't want to play anymore."

Your father sighs and takes off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose.

"Britt, please. You have to-"

The checkerboard goes flying across the room with one swipe of your arm. Red and black pieces scatter into every corner, skittering out of sight like cockroaches.

"I said I don't want to play."

Irritation tightens the sides of his jaw. He picks the rogue pieces off his pants and clutches them in his closed fist like one might a rosary before war.

"I'm trying to help you."

"I don't want to keep fighting," you say, though your scowl says differently, "but you need to stop pretending you're doing this for me. I stopped a long time ago."

He kneads his palms against his thighs anxiously, glancing to the door. Eye contact with one of the soldiers has it promptly shut.

"Fine," his hands fling up in the air before landing with heavy thuds on his thighs. "Fine. You're right. I'm doing this for me. I'm trying to get back even an ounce of love from you because I feel guilty."

Between his fingers twirl his glasses, winking in the fluorescent light overhead. "When you died the first time... I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. I thought about you all the time, even when I was trying not to. I had dreams of you as a child, as the adult you were supposed to be, as a zombie coming to take revenge. It ate at me like I had a zombie of my own inside of me. We finally escaped that hellhole to come here, but it felt like my soul stayed with you in that place."

Your fingers trace the pink scars on your torso. "Did you do this to me?"

His flesh turns sallow, aging in an instant. "God no, I couldn't... there's no way I could. Boroyan did it. He was going to," his face flickers, uncomfortable, "dissect you, study your organs further, but he was interrupted. He put you back together with intent to return but he never did. We left in a hurry."

"There are... a lot of terrible things I've done since this started, Brittany. I'm not going to pretend like I haven't tried to play God and lost. When I told your mom that you died, it broke her. I've only talked to her a few times since then to make sure her and Sophie are okay."

He senses your inquisitive stare. "They're fine. Probably doing better than we are."

"I don't," he falters, licks his lips, "I've lost faith. In God, certainly, but in this, too. I don't believe we'll find a cure. Not anymore. I've seen – done – too many things for that."

Maybe for the first time, you really see your father. Those shoulders that carried you during your childhood are hunched, broken by the weight of a billion gravestones, and his eyes are dull. They remind you of your own.

You hesitantly touch his hand.

"I don't hate you," you start, but frown. "No, that's wrong. I do. I hate you a lot for what you've done to me, and to my friends, and to everyone that I hurt. But I still love you."

He looks up hopefully, and you take a steadying breath.

"I forgot my family for a long time. Now I remember, but just because I remember you, doesn't mean I forget what you did. I can't. You need to stop pretending that I might, okay? You can't make it better. But you can stop it getting worse."

His fingers wrap around your own. They're rough, dry, but familiar. Your body buzzes.

"You need to keep researching. You were always smarter than me, smarter than the doctors, even when they told you my brain wasn't like yours. You owe it to everyone you hurt to find that cure. Maybe then your guilt will let you sleep."

Your father is quiet for a moment, but eventually he smiles. You can see the tears clinging to his lashes.

"How do you manage?" he asks. "You should have given up a long time ago but you keep going."

"I wanted to die for a long time," you say quietly, "but I found something to live for."

"What?"

Dark eyes fill your head.

"My secret."

You settle back into your bed, stiffly curling up on your side.

"Talking makes me tired."

He nods, but it holds almost none of the previous tentativeness that it used to. "I'll go." As he makes to open the door, you mumble for him to leave the checkerboard. Depositing it by your bedside, he hovers indecisively for a moment before pressing a kiss to your wounded temple before slipping out of the room. His footsteps receding down the hall lull you into a calm, heavy sleep you haven't felt in a long time.

You dream of darkness and silence and hands touching at your wrists.

You mutter your discontent into the quiet but there's something itchy over your mouth that muffles it. Inhaling makes your nose burn and your chest fill with something thick and sweet. One hand goes to brush it away but it stops its journey half-way, coming to rest somehow on the softness beside you. Maybe you're on a bed?

Distant voices rush past your ears like a plane soaring overhead. More hands, hands everywhere, gripping at your tricep and your hips and your ankles, pinning you. Something cold presses against your back.

The soupy air in your chest has begun to go rancid. You cough, and the cold thing on your back jumps, pain shooting up your spine. The sparks it produces begins to bring light into your world, but the rag at your mouth presses and the sweetness comes back, sending you spiraling back down into darkness.

When you awaken the rear of your head throbs and your back aches with memory. You frown, gingerly rubbing at your temple, and roll over to fish out the radio. The crank turns and you don't even wait for confirmation before asking for Santana.

It takes a few moments and you hear a muttered argument in the background before her voice comes through to you. "Hey Britt, you okay? You didn't come back after you left yesterday."

"Is it tomorrow?" You glance out your window, sun streaming through the cheap blinds. It's probably late morning.

She chuckles, low and deep. "Yeah. It's tomorrow."

"Oh. I fell asleep after my dad visited."

Her frown travels. "What happened? Did he do something stupid? Do I have to punch him?"

"No, we talked. He cried. I think he's going to stop being so mean now."

"I hope so. I wouldn't want to give him a taste of Lima Heights hospitality."

You smile, spending a few moments listening to her breathe. Her sigh is wistful.

"Can you leave your room yet? We didn't get to talk much before you had to leave."

(You haven't told her what happened yet. You aren't sure if you ever will.)

Your eyes travel to the checkerboard, still set on your bedside table. "You should come visit."

"Am I allowed?"

"Probably not, but Sue isn't here to complain. Right guys?" You raise your voice at the last part pointedly, waiting for confirmation. The two soldiers shift anxiously on their feet – you know they heard you. "And if Santana were to come play checkers, you totally wouldn't mind. Right?"

More silence. You shrug.

"They're totally on board with it," you say, "I'll come meet you at the door."

There's some shuffling on her end, and someone that sounds like Quinn laughing. You smile. There wasn't much laughter when you were around.

"Okay," she says breathlessly a moment later, the sound of her thumping around in her boots filtering in through the speakers, "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"You might have to wait more than that," you grunt when you get up, wincing as your back protests, "I'm slow now."

"That's fine," she teases, "I'm sure you're still faster than Finn."

"If I'm not I'll shoot myself this time."

The stuttering silence transmits her wince.

"Too soon, Britt," she mutters, and you stumble over an apology. It's awkward when you mumble that you'll wait for her and shove your radio into your jacket pocket. Sue always says you should learn how to be something other than deadpan or "batshit crazy".

Halfway out the door, the barrel of a gun blocks your path. Inquisitive green eyes stare you down.

"I'm going to pick up Santana," you say, "I promise I won't fall down the stairs."

The soldier guarding your door huffs. "Master Sergeant's orders say to stay in your room."

"Only if someone is trying to take me."

To your right, you hear a faint chuckle; the other gun draws back.

"She's got you there," he grins, readjusting his weapon. The first soldier shuffles anxiously on his feet for a moment before reluctantly letting you pass, if only to fall in slow step with you as you move down the hallway. He feels your question through his helmet.

"I'm half-expecting one of the scientists to kidnap you. I'll make sure you meet your friend." He glances around the empty hallway, leaning in slightly. "Just... don't tell Master Sergeant Sylvester, okay? She makes me want to shit myself."

"She has that effect," you agree, making your ambling way through the hospital. All the doctors give you a quick glance as you pass without trying to be too obvious. They fail.

It takes a few stops before you make it to the bottom of the stairs, and it's only then that the soldier (Corporal Motta, by his nametag) informs you there's an elevator. Though winded, your glare is still strong enough to chisel stone. He visibly wilts.

The front entry is buzzing with activity; men and women bustle back and forth in a variety of clothing, commands are issued left and right, weapons strapped to hips or carried in hand. White-coats mutter to each other as they swiftly cross from one hallway to the next, heads bent. The front door is open, gusting icy wind into the small space. You see a black boot and a flash of darker hair arguing with the guards outside.

"...and I'm tellin' you, you camo wearing assholes need to learn to be more discrete when you size a girl up like a piece of livestock! Have one fucking ounce of chill, Jesus, no wonder this world's gone to absolute shit."

"Actually, I think that would be the zombies."

Her head snaps up at your voice and any previous anger drains away to be replaced with a grin. She makes to go to you, but is pushed back by the guards.

"I told you, this zone is off-limits," one of them snarls, "go be a bitch somewhere else."

"Let her come through," you tell them, and he rolls his eyes.

"Strict orders, chickie. No one without proper clearance." Still, he runs his eyes curiously over Corporal Motta by your side, looking a little meaner now that he's recovered from your ire. Your hand brushes by your mangled forearm, tilting it enough that he can clearly see the puckered scar. He blanches.

"Do I have to get mean?"

Santana's victory sneer brings a smile to your face as she brushes past the guards, but it melts into a sheepish grin as you grab her hand.

"That was badass," she approves, squeezing just a little.

"I learned from the best," you say, watching out of the corner of your eye as she swells with pride. "Sue, obviously."

She deflates almost as quickly and your laughter is cut-off by the closing elevator doors.

Your trip back to your room is slowed by her trying to peer into every single doorway. Most of them are closed nearly on her nose, but she seems unperturbed.

"This place is like the hospital my dad used to work in, just... less friendly, if that's even possible. You live here?"

"I guess it's more like exist, but yeah. I don't get to see much of it."

Eventually you arrive, and Corporal Motta takes back his post. He closes the door to your room with a wink, leaving you alone.

The silence is deafening. You clear your throat and tug her to face you, sucking at your lower lip.

"Hi," she says, suddenly shy. She ducks her eyes even as her fingers twine further into yours.

"Hi," you say back, smiling from ear to ear. You pull her closer, earning a nervous huff from her mouth. Your other arm wraps around her waist.

"What are you afraid of?" you breathe, your breath blanketing her face. Santana's eyes dart to your mouth.

"I just... I can't believe you're here," she whispers, and both of you hear her voice crack, "after I thought-"

You cut off her next words with a kiss and she melts into you, wrapping her free arm around your shoulders. There's none of the frenzy like there was a few days ago, none of the urgency. For the first time in six months it's just you and her and nothing in between. The beat of her heart falls soundly between your ribcage.

She sways a little and steps back, her heel landing with a crunch on the floor. Santana frowns and pulls back, lifting her foot.

"Why are there checker pieces everywhere?"

The daze she cast over you gone, you send her a bright smile. "Dad wanted to play checkers, but he was being stupid so I threw them everywhere. Do you want to play?"

She scans the room a moment before a mischievous smile curls at her lips. Something in your chest ignites. "Maybe in a bit," she almost purrs, her hips nudging yours until you're moving back to your bed, "but first..."

Her mouth takes yours this time and there's a bit more heat to it, a bit more anticipation. Her hands are firm but gentle as she runs her touch down your angles, the winged spread of your ribs and the protrusion of your collar and the knife-fine jut of your hips. In turn, you marvel at how she's gotten just a tiny bit softer since you last saw her, how now she's more than just wiry muscle. Both your hands cup her jaw and this time, when her hand runs over your scar, she doesn't jerk away.

Your tilt your neck to the side and grunt when her teeth find your jaw, balling the back of her shirt into a fist. She's so warm and the thing in your chest gets hotter. It warms the depths of you still frozen by those months in the mud, still wasted and hidden away. You sneak your hands underneath her shirt to draw patterns on her skin.

When she tries to push you further your grunt is of discomfort. Your back twinges, still irritated, and the rails of your bed dig into your spine. Her hand finds the source of the interruption and shakes it in an attempt to make it collapse, but it doesn't budge. A great sigh leaves her body, and she presses her forehead to your collar.

"The universe is against me getting my mack on," she grumbles, and you laugh as you wind your skeleton arms around her. Despite her pout you feel against your chest it doesn't stay – the warmth of her cheeks betrays her blush as she peeks up through her lashes at you.

"It's okay," you promise, grinning, "we have plenty of time for that."

Surprise flashes across her face as she considers it. Somewhere that both of you are safe, when you'd spent so long running from the world together. It's a good feeling.

"So... about that checkers game."

The two of you scour the room for the scattered pieces, piling them all on your bedsheets. You're missing two – one is swapped out with Santana's earring, and the other, John's necklace that you've never taken off. You sigh a little as you run your thumb across the smooth surface.

"He's the reason I'm alive," you say quietly as you clamber over the side to set up your board. Santana sees you aren't ready to talk about it, and lets it go.

Soon the board is ready. You sit opposite each other, your foot pressing solidly against her outer thigh. Your whole body is itching to have her near, like a second without her touching you is a second wasted.

She moves a piece into position. "I haven't played this in years."

"Good. Maybe I'll win for once."

There's nothing except the scratch of wood on wood for a few more moves. Her nails tap on the board.

"I almost couldn't come visit," she says eventually, hopping over two of your pieces. You take hers in retaliation. "I was at church. With Quinn."

"There's a church here?"

"Yeah. I guess people need something to believe in these days."

Her dark eyes scan the board before pushing her earring forward.

"That was the first time I'd done something with Quinn in forever. When you... after Puck shot you, I thought she'd finished you. I hadn't talked to her in months."

Santana realizes you haven't moved your pieces in a while. She glances up to your gaze, meeting your eyes for a moment before looking away. Her nails click out another rhythm as she gathers her thoughts.

"When she got back in the car and we drove off, I screamed at her until I couldn't. How could she do that? I trusted her. You trusted her. We had to pull over for a bit because Mike couldn't drive with me lunging across the back to hit her."

You crown a checker. She blows air out from her nose, debating her next move.

"She never told me that she let you live, not until you came back. I know now it was to protect you, to keep Puck in the dark, but for six months she just shouldered through her best friend abandoning her. Everyone else did, too. Tina, Mike, Artie, even Kurt and Rachel."

"Is she not your leader anymore?"

"She still is. There was a rough time for a few weeks, but once Mr. Schue got taken it was obvious we couldn't function without her. Still, it wasn't the same."

She beats you by a slim margin. You reset, and your hand squeezes at her foot. She gives a watery smile.

"I guess this is my way of saying sorry that I was such a dumb bitch, you know? I didn't even stop to ask if she did it or not. I just guessed."

"Quinn's a really good actor," you shrug. "I saw the ax and I closed my eyes and waited for it, but it didn't happen. She left me there in the mud and drove off. For a long time I really wished she did."

The clicking of checkers on board is the only thing for a long while. A thought occurs to you.

"I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not, at least not anymore. I gave up on that after I realized I was... you know," she clears her throat, scratching at the base of her skull, "and my grandmother showed no signs of thinking we were anything other than a sin. But Quinn's always been really religious. I called her the Holy Roller in high school."

She waves off your puzzled expression.

"Point is, she lost it for a while, just like everyone else. But I think being here, seeing that there can be more than running and hiding and surviving, it's bringing something back in her. We've got six months to make up for so I agreed to go, even though the priest is a total television preacher. What a whackjob."

You leave her five pieces shorter in one move and she clicks her tongue in annoyance.

"I guess everyone finds their place in the end of the world," you say, crowning your final piece. Santana knows she's lost and tries to run her foot along the inside of your thigh to throw you off, but you simply give her an arched brow. She huffs, moving her earring in vain. You destroy it with tangible triumph.

Her red pieces make clacking noises as you rub them together.

"Is there..." you bite your lip, glancing at the bedsheets, "is there a place for us too?"

Santana's eyes widen only minutely before going soft. This is the first time you can really see her without the hunger crowding your thoughts, making her angles sharper than they actually are. She's even more beautiful than your broken brain remembers.

"I think there is," she smiles, running her thumb across your bony fingers. "It won't ever be normal, not by a long shot, but those six months thinking you were dead made me realize a lot of things."

She keeps her secrets close to her heart but you can see them anyway. You've always been able to see right through her ribcage everyone says is made of thorns.

"That's okay. I don't think I know how to be normal."

"I don't think I'd like you if you did."

She settles against your front and the two of you trade stories until the sky begins to darken; you tell her of Helga, the General with a pig-face, of Sue and how she's a lot kinder if you know how to deal with her prickles. In turn she tells you of the six months you were absent; the awkward tension for the first few weeks after they left you, Mr. Schue's euthanasia (you notice a certain sadness about her, a sort of could have been), flitting through ghost town after ghost town in search of demons. Eventually, she reaches Mercedes.

"Wheezy and I didn't see eye-to-eye, especially towards the end, but we were still friends, you know? It still hurt to see her slip away." She wrings her hands together until you worm your way between them, soothing her chapped knuckles.

"Puck influenced her," you agree. "I still liked her, even after she started yelling. She was the first one to be nice to me."

Santana bares her teeth. "What a piece of shit. He got even worse after he shot you, if it's possible."

"Why hasn't someone killed him yet?"

"Believe me, I tried. Tina or Mike sat with me almost constantly to make sure I didn't swing a hammer into his smug face." He's trying to be a soldier now, always hanging around the military uniforms with guns too big for their bodies. "He tried to elect himself as leader, but Quinn shut that one down pretty quickly."

The group is divided now, a separation in all but name that was months in the making.

"It's a good thing we're not out in the wild anymore," Santana grumbles, "we'd never survive."

"You're safe now," you say, but you aren't sure how much of that you believe.

Santana doesn't seem too convinced, either.

"I dunno, Britt. There's some weird shit going on here."

"Like what?"

"We haven't been here long, so we're kinda in the dark. The people next to us, a couple with their kid, say there's been some shady business. You should meet them. Haven't seen the dad in a while, though."

"The scientists are trying to make another cure here," you muse. "I don't think it's working yet."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

(They're taking pieces of me.)

"My dad told me," you lie, averting your eyes.

She hums in her chest, listening to the beat of your heart. It's calmer than it's been in a long time.

"Just keep your eyes open," she says eventually, "just in case. I don't want to run again, but Wheels always had an awful gut feeling about this place."

"I didn't know he could even feel his gut."

"Cold," she snickers, but stutters halfway on a yawn.

"You should probably go," you sigh, playing with a strand of her hair. "It's late."

"Yeah, I guess."

No-one moves for a few moments until she groans, rolling onto her stomach and stretching backwards like a dog. You hear a series of sharp clicks as her spine pulls itself back into place. "I'm really jealous of your bed, Britt. We don't get mattresses."

Her foot bumps the guard rail and it jingles. Santana glances back at what she hit; leather restraints, wrapped loosely around the rails. She frowns.

"Do they actually use those on you?"

You shrug. "They used to, back when Sue first found me. Not recently."

"That's inhumane," she says, eyeing how thin they are, how they used to cut into your wrists until they bled.

"It's what you do to rabid animals."

Santana worms her way forward until she crouches over your extended legs; her hands cup your face and her brows are drawn into a stony furrow. You see something as hot and furious as exploding stars in her eyes.

"You aren't an animal," she says firmly, shaking you a little, "you're a person. You're my person. Okay?"

You kiss her wrist, relishing the feather-light heartbeat you feel.

"Okay," you whisper back.

(When Santana says it, you actually believe it.)

She strokes your too-sharp cheekbones and kisses your too-thin lips. You wonder what she sees in you.

"I'll see you later," she smiles, almost shyly, clambering out of the bed. The task of lacing up her boots is slow and painful, the zip of her coat reluctant. When the door swings open both guards look over.

"Can you walk her home?" you ask Motta, who smiles and nods. The clink of his weapon against his vest is comforting. Santana waves as the two of them disappear down the hall.

The thick air is back.

Your body accepts it less than last time, restlessly shifting in an attempt to expel it from your chest. Sheets whisper against your feet and cold air rustles the hairs on your arms. Things that sound like jet engines drone in your ears, blocking your thoughts in a haze of static. Is this a memory?

The scratchy thing makes your nostrils burn. Again, you try and swipe at it, but your arm falls limply to your side instead. There's coldness on your side, on your back, wrapping around your hip and your thighs. You mumble incoherencies, things that could be construed as prayer in another lifetime. Something tells you there's an audience.

Hands brush your hair back from your temple, press against your healed wound, peer into your ear with things that ache. Your next mutter turns into a sharp cry as the cold thing turns biting, its teeth sinking into your spine. The hands on you cease, the world holding its breath. Light begins to seep in through your opening eyelids and the air moves, formless, an exhaled breath of a god. The pain in your back lessens but the light is taking shape, things swimming in and out of frame. It's unsure how long you spend suspended, sleeping and awake, or if you're dreaming at all.

When you awaken it's with a fury, your arms flying about you, feet kicking the sheets from your legs.

"Aliens," you mumble wildly, pressing up on your shoulder. Your back aches with renewed vigour, your headache too strong to speak, "alien... alien invasion."

Nothing but the darkness of your room greets you. You rub at your gritty eyes, squinting at the sole sliver of light that seeps in through the door to the hallway. There are voices in front of it, snapping at each other, a verbal duel. Sue's is easily recognizable.

"... you're fucking insane, all of you!" It's so faint that you stiffly roll out of bed, nearly falling over the side of your rail. It clangs and you hold your breath as you cling onto it, inches from the floor, your lower back screaming fire. They keep arguing, and you let yourself fall with a muted thump.

"When will you understand that you aren't in control, Sylvester?" Boroyan. You creep to the door, your knees digging into the tile. The door shakes with their anger. "Just give us what we want and we'll leave you alone!"

"What you want? What you want is a living human being, and I won't toss her into the deal like some high-priced bargaining chip! You disgusting wastes of human life have already brought about the end of this shit-stained world, why would we trust you with so much as a butter knife after that?"

"Please," comes a third voice, female, "you'll wake her."

"She is property of this experiment," hisses Boroyan, "you have no claim."

Property. When a body dies, is it no longer a person? A husk? Your name-tag sits on your bedside table, barely visible in the darkness. You suddenly want to burn it.

"The fact that you view her as property in the first place just reinforces my view that you should be waterboarded for human rights violations."

"Don't you realize she's the key? The only successful return from infection? This is bigger than your rescuing complex, Master Sergeant."

"I've seen what you're doing in the basements of this place, Four-Eyes. If you think I'll really let you do that to her, you should shoot yourself and save the agonizing."

There's a moment of tense silence. You see the shuffling of boots from beneath the crack in the door.

"You know this is going to get messy, Sylvester."

"Then kiss my vampirically white ass and cry to HQ about it. Sue Sylvester does not abandon one of her own, and that's final. Go torture some children and make more corpses – god knows you must have half the world weighing on your conscience. What's a few more?"

(You don't think he does. Your father balances it all on his back, a modern-day Atlas.)

One set of feet storm away. Someone releases a loud sigh.

"I'm sorry, Master Sergeant. He didn't used to be like this."

Sue clicks her tongue. "Power corrupts everyone eventually. People who deny it are probably hiding a small island worth of skeletons."

"Or are wearing their skins."

Another pause. You grimace, rocking back onto your feet. Everything aches.

"Look, Syu. Unless you can neuter him or put a bullet between his eyes, you're useless to me. I don't need another scientist simpering about how things used to be better."

"I'll try my best, but... I'm being watched. So are you."

"By who, those two dimwits in black who tail me? They aren't what you'd call covert-ops. The forces have really let their standards slip since my day."

"Well..." there's a hint of a smile in her voice, "be careful, Master Sergeant. I would hate to lose such a powerful piece."

"Trust me, doc. We all know who the king is."

Another set of footsteps begin to depart and the door swings open, sending you sprawling on your rear. You look up at Sue, her tall silhouette shadowed from the bright lights pouring into your room. After a second of thought she flicks on your lights – you flinch back.

"How much of it did you hear?"

"HQ is going to be mad."

Her previously unreadable face turns into a sneer. If you were outside, she'd probably spit onto the ground.

"Fuck 'em. Sue Sylvester is done taking orders from fat cats."

"They have cats in command?"

She sighs, her shoulders sagging a little.

"It's been ages and I still can't tell if you're bullshitting me or not."

"It's the deadpan. I'm better at it than you are."

Sue disengages one of the rails from your bed, sitting heavily on the thin mattress. You clamber to your feet and follow – her sharp eyes notice the stiffness with which you walk but declines to say much at all.

"Pierce, I'm not going to lie to you. You have enough people doing that already." She sighs, sucking a slow breath in from between her teeth. "Things aren't looking great."

"Is HQ coming to take you away?"

"No, not yet. But everyone else is trying."

You duck your head, your brow resting for a moment on her shoulder.

"You... you could just give me to them. Stop fighting."

Sue looks up sharply, and you glance away, cheeks burning. A knot forms at the hollow of your throat.

"It's like Boroyan said, right? Things are going to get messy. I'm smart enough to know that means people are probably going to start dying. I've had too many people die for me already."

You'll miss Santana, just barely reunited with her; you'll miss Tina and Quinn and Mike, even Artie and Kurt. And definitely Sue, who tried so hard but still ended up being more of a parent than yours ever hoped to be. But if they need you to stop the rest of the world from collapsing, well... you were part of the reason this begun. Why not be a part that ends it?

But Sue grips your shoulder, her fingers so long they brush your collar. "What did I tell you, Pierce? I don't leave one of my own behind."

"Why?"

She jerks back a little, brows raising. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing this for me? Why risk it?"

Sue debates for a moment, glancing out of the window. Stars wink overhead, almost drowned out by the great floodlights that shine upwards into the sky. They feel colder than ever.

"My girls saw something special in you," she says eventually, quietly, "and that means I do, too."

You put her hand over hers, and for the first time you see the age in the lines of her face.

"If things go wrong, I want you to promise that you'll leave."

"You know I won't."

"I know, but it'll make me hurt less."

"... I promise."

It rings hollow, but you cling onto it anyway.