SCARS
Judy Fabray and Maribel Lopez were long-time friends. Once upon a time, they had gone to William McKinley High together. College had sent them in different directions, but they had both landed close to home in the end – Maribel came back to Lima, and Judy married a waspy banker and ended up in Belleville where she was raising two darling girls. But once a year, over Fourth of July weekend, the Fabrays made the short trip a township over so that Judy could reacquaint herself with the town that had always been first in her heart.
"Stop picking at her headband, honey," Judy clucked at her eldest daughter as they all piled out of the family SUV.
Frannie rolled her eyes and haughtily straightened out her bright red dress before stomping off to play with some of the local Lima kids on the basketball court. She had never particularly liked dressing up, not like her little sister.
Lucy, who was several years younger, extricated herself from the backseat of the vehicle in a much daintier fashion than her sister. She meticulously patted out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress during the forty-five minute car ride, and then she looked up into her parents' faces with a charming smile.
She may have been young, but she already knew exactly where the buttons were and in what order they needed to be pushed.
"Run along, sweetheart," Russell cooed, "I see some of your little friends over on the jungle gym."
He pointed towards the giant red, blue, and yellow beast of playground equipment. Lucy kept her smile in place as she looked in that direction, and still she smiled as she turned back, nodding at her parents.
"Just stay away from that Berry child. We know what sort she comes from."
"Yes, dear," Judy agreed, "best to play with Santana and her friends."
Lucy did not understand this request that sounded like a warning, but she nodded dutifully and skipped off anyway.
But the farther she got from her parents and the closer she got to the other children, the more Lucy's steps lost their false pep.
Interactions with other children her age, she had already come to notice, were typically far from ideal. There was that Jonah Alms kid in her class who always made fun of her for eating homemade cupcakes at lunch – even though she was sure he was merely jealous. And then there was Taylor Barrows, the most popular girl in Lucy's whole grade, who had made it habitual, the act of knocking Lucy off the monkey bars any time she dared to give them a go. And, last but certainly not least, there was Elsbeth Karofsky, one of the biggest, scariest, meanest kids in all of Belleville – and she was, simply put, an absolute terror.
The kids at McKinley seemed kinder. Sort of. There was that Kurt Hummell kid, and he was nice enough – he always wore really snazzy, festively colored clothes to these Independence Day celebrations, and Lucy could respect that. Finn Hudson was pretty impressively tall, for their age, but he seemed like a teddy bear. Brittany Pierce was in Frannie's gymnastics class, even though she was several years younger, and Lucy always thought she seemed very talented, sincerely kind, and a true blue friend.
The problem with that, though, was that Brittany was the truest of friends with Santana Lopez. And Lucy was horrified of Santana Lopez.
The girls' mothers were best friends – or at least, they had been, once. Adult friendships were strange, and Lucy couldn't pretend to understand them. The moms talked once or twice every few months or so, sometimes less, Lucy guessed, and her mom's side of the conversation never seemed really real, but who was Lucy to judge? She was only ten years old, after all, so she was kind of working under the assumption that people didn't really say everything with their words that they actually meant in their hearts.
Anyway, Lucy and Santana had been forced from a very young age into a friendship that both of them found quite uncomfortable. The way each girl responded to that discomfort, however, was very, very different. Lucy always did her best to meld into the background or to simply hide under whichever solid object was closest, reading a book or making up her own stories in her head to pass the time she was supposed to be spending with the other girl. But Santana – Santana would talk, and she would talk incessantly. And a lot of the things she would say were simply not things Lucy wanted to hear – things about her parents, things about other kids at school, things about Lucy herself that, however untrue, hurt quite a lot. And when Lucy wouldn't listen – indeed when Lucy would not partake in the bawdy gossip of her fellow tween, Santana had a way of snapping out and bringing low those around her that was really quite impressive for a child of such small stature.
But Lucy, today, of all days, was going to try and be brave.
She reached the thick plastic tubing that separated the rest of the playground from the jungle gym equipment. Daintily, she stepped over and onto the woodchips. Success, she thought – but she thought too soon.
"Oh, great. Look who it is. The squirt from Belleville."
Lucy instantly knew the drawling, sing-songing voice was Santana's. It only stood to reason – no one else could so effectively quash the teensiest of good feelings Lucy dared to let herself have.
She sighed. "Hi, Santana."
"Did I say you could address me personally, pipsqueak?"
Lucy looked up. Santana was walking towards her, hands on hips and ponytail flipping dutifully back and forth, from one side of her head to the next. It almost made Lucy chuckle.
"Did I say something funny, you insufferable peon?"
Lucy instantly suppressed the grin that had started to emerge.
Santana's best friend appeared suddenly over her shoulder.
"San, what's a peon?"
Lucy did her best not to make the roll of her eyes noticeable – she didn't need to invoke anymore of Santana's anger.
One of the Santana's eyebrows arched before she replied to Brittany – rather patiently, Lucy thought. "It's that thing when there's an evil queen who rules all the lands, where the people bow to her and bring her presents and food and shiny things and whatever else she wants – like, those people. Those are peons."
"So Lucy is, like—"
"That's right," Santana interrupted quickly, a devious smirk on her lips and a scary glint in her eyes as she looked back at Lucy. "She's, like, supposed to bow to us. Because we're the queens. Isn't that right, Lucy?"
"I don't think—"
"I know you don't, but I didn't really ask."
Lucy bit the inside of her lip. Be brave, she told herself. Then she defiantly held her head aloft and made a move to walk around the girls and towards a set of stairs leading to a slide that did look rather fun, if she did say so herself.
"Excuse you, where do you think you're going?" Santana barked.
"To play," Lucy replied.
By now, there was quite the audience of ten and eleven year olds hanging about, watching the show, eagerly anticipating the conclusion. And there was one set of bright eyes peeking through a set of wooden slats with great trepidation.
"I don't think so!"
Santana moved forward quickly, much too quickly for Lucy to even turn around and defend herself, and shoved Lucy squarely between the shoulders.
The girl flailed spectacularly, the blue and white stripes of her skirts flying around her as her body was propelled forward. She winced as her body hit the ground, her hands catching her with a jolt.
A collective gasp resounded from the jungle gym, and the silence that followed was only broken by the beginnings of a sob escaping Lucy's lips, and an angrily muttered, "Oh, fiddlesticks!"
Santana fled, with Brittany close on her heels, and the other children went back to playing, as the curtain had clearly fallen on the show.
Only one child – quite smaller than the rest, Lucy would later note – moved towards the fallen girl.
"Here," she softly said, reaching out to help Lucy sit up. "It's okay, it's all right."
Lucy grimaced as she managed to lamely roll over and then sit up, with the girl's help.
"Thanks," she muttered, grimacing at the stinging pain she was now feeling.
The damage to her body was immediately obvious – her hands were skinned and bleeding, with little bits of woodchip stuck in them, and her knees were similarly gross. She didn't like blood, she didn't like blood one single bit. And it was made all the worse being her own and all.
"I always carry antiseptic wipes and band-aids in my fanny pack," the girl said. And it was only then that Lucy properly looked up at the girl who had come to her aid.
She was tiny, and she had pretty dark hair that fell in ringlets around her shoulders. Her eyes were kind, and her touch was gentle as she unzipped the bedazzled, pink fanny pack that was clasped around her waist. She gently began to clean and bandage Lucy's playground wounds.
"This doesn't look too bad, not really," she reassured Lucy. "This bit here, though," she carefully plucked a piece of debris from a cut on Lucy's knee, "that might leave a little scar."
"What?" Lucy gasped. "A scar?!"
They were the first coherent words she had said to the girl, and they elicited a humored look.
"You're so silly. Yes, a scar. Scars aren't the end of the world."
"I'll be permanently disfigured, is what you're saying."
The girl chuckled sweetly, and Lucy blushed.
"You're a very pretty girl, Lucy." This statement caused Lucy to look down at her bloody knees, her brow furrowed in thought. "But—" the girl continued, prompting their eyes to connect again "—you're a lot more than that."
"Huh-how do you know?" She hadn't meant to stutter. She really hadn't.
"Well, that's easy," the girl, stranger with every passing word, bent her head again to finish bandaging Lucy's wounds. "You're quite brave, standing up to Santana like that. And I know you're smart, since you rolled your eyes at the need for an explanation of the word 'peon'. You're kind, thanking me for doing something as simple as helping you. And you're very interesting."
"Why do you say that?" Lucy asked, genuinely curious.
"Because you have a book hidden in your dress."
Lucy gasped. "I-I-I was…just hoping to have a chance to read another chapter, that's all. I'm to a really good part." She pulled the paperback out from where she had stuck it down the back of her dress and showed it to her new friend.
"Oh! Have you only just started reading the series?" The girl was nearly squealing with excitement.
"Yes," Lucy replied, now equally as excited, "Yes, I have! But I love it so much. It's very exciting, a school full of magic. And, oh, can you imagine what the library is like?"
A twinkle came into the other girl's eyes. "Yes, and talk about a fantastic scar…"
Lucy's eyes twinkled in return, and they both smiled brightly at each other.
"Don't worry, Lucy, scars give you character. They tell a story – or at least, they can start one."
Lucy tilted her head to the side. "What's your name?"
"Rachel, Rachel Berry," the tiny girl chirped before replacing her items in her fanny pack and hopping up. "I'm off to eat hotdogs – kosher, of course – with my dads and my cousin Noah's family. We're right over there—" she pointed "—and you're more than welcome to join us if you'd like."
She smiled one last time, and Lucy returned it, in spite of the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Rachel skipped off, and Lucy looked down at her hands, wondering what shapes the scars would take, if they ever dared to form.
But she knew she wouldn't follow the girl, her parents' warning reverberating inside her skull…
Perhaps the scars were already there.
Lucy remained sitting, alone, beneath the jungle gym. And she turned to page one hundred and forty-three…
MEETING FRANNIE OR: THE DEVIL WEARS GARDENIAS
"Never look her directly in the eye – always aim for her eyebrows. Don't ever even think about wearing red – she reacts in a very bullish fashion. Don't you dare make her repeat herself – I swear to god, not ever. If she gives you five minutes to do something, that means you should have it done in two and a half. Her espresso should be scalding – not just steaming, trust me. And last but certainly not least – you must never ever ever not ever…call her Lucy."
"Wah…what?" Rachel stuttered. "Why would you even say that?! I wasn't planning on calling her Lucy, and now that's all I can think of!"
The other woman smiled evilly.
"Oh, just forget it, then."
But obviously, Rachel couldn't.
Never before had Rachel experienced a stranger orientation to a new job. It had been a whirlwind seven-minute tour thus far, and she already felt completely inundated.
Suddenly, a small, flighty Asian woman streaked past them, bumping into both women's elbows as she hurtled down the hallway.
"What on earth—" Rachel started.
"She's coming!" The woman's long, black hair was a horizontal wave behind her, she was moving so quickly. "They lost the appointment for her wax! She's coming!"
Rachel's tour guide and fellow assistant sighed dramatically, pausing for a second – but only a second – with her hand covering her eyes. Rachel awkwardly tried to look anywhere but at the other woman, and this feat in and of itself was not particularly difficult as there was a lot to look at – all up and down the hallway, people were flying from one room to the next; women were changing tops and shoes and reapplying mascara, men were frantically retying ties to perfection and fixing their hair, a stack of magazines toppled over and no less than six people rushed to pick them all up at once.
It was pandemonium.
"Tina is normally over-dramatic, and so we ignore her. But if there really was a scheduling mishap, then our asses are going to be toast."
"Our asses?" Rachel questioned.
The woman dropped her hand and literally snapped. Rachel was suddenly worried about loss of limb and whether or not her new insurance would include worker's comp – or even if she would get insurance at all.
"Yes, our, you insignificant, strangely dressed imbecile. We're in this together now, whether you like it or not." She turned and began to power walk down the hallway, back towards the elevators. "Don't talk to her directly unless she asks you a direct question, don't hiccup, sniffle, or sneeze, and don't even think about smiling."
They came to a stop just to the right of the elevator.
"All right, no bodily functions, got it," Rachel mumbled.
The woman's eye twitched as she whipped her head around to glare at Rachel. She whisper-yelled, "And no sarcasm!"
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And the most stunningly chic woman Rachel had ever seen in her life elegantly stepped off the elevator and whipped her glasses from her face, tossing them to her right. The assistant who had been giving Rachel the low-down caught them expertly in midair and then fell into step behind the woman as she began to briskly make her way towards her office.
Rachel had heard lots about Quinn Fabray and even more about the woman's empire, but she had not been adequately prepared for the human hurricane she now beheld.
"I don't have time for tales of your ineptitude. The next time there is an error in my schedule, my wrath will be complete and devastating, understood?"
She didn't wait for an answer. And as she walked – as she glided, actually – she plucked her black gloves from each sensuously long, tapered finger and whisked them over her head. The other woman gestured frantically as the gloves soared through the air, and Rachel nearly had to dive to catch them – but catch them, she did. She ran a few steps to catch back up with the other women, and she received not even a cursory nod for her athletic feat. She nearly pouted.
"Reschedule the appointment – somewhere new. Make it that place Scarlett mentioned last time she was in. Get me DK on the phone immediately. Tell Tom he's out of the September issue. And call that bitch Meryl and tell her she'll never grace our pages again if she gives me the diva attitude I saw on her yesterday."
They had made it to the main office, and Rachel's new counterpart was scribbling furiously as their boss lowered herself into the winged black leather beast of a chair behind her massive mahogany desk.
"That's all," she said, literally shooing them away.
Rachel's eyebrows were halfway up her forehead as she cautiously backed out of the room without daring to show the nape of her neck to the ferocious woman. She watched as Quinn Fabray ran a hand – ran those exquisitely long fingers – through her short, blonde locks of hair, every strand falling back into their individual places in the perfect golden wave.
It was oddly mesmerizing. Rachel shook herself.
She had made it just around the edge of her desk – a mirror image to the other assistant's – when the boss's sharp voice called out, "Frannie!"
Rachel looked quickly left and right, not actually sure who Frannie was.
Then her eyes landed on her tour guide, Assistant Number One. Rachel could almost imagine smoke pouring out of the woman's nostrils.
Dare she think it? The woman looked…quite bullish herself.
"Coming!" she called back, making her way into the office. She quickly hissed, "And it's Francesca to you, nerd."
Rachel's eyes were very wide. She quickly narrowed them once she noticed, afraid of them getting permanently stuck – she saw the very real possibility in this, if the rest of her time at this job was going to be anything like these first twelve minutes.
She couldn't help but hear the voices from the large, open office.
"Quinn," Francesca nearly hissed – which in and of itself threatened to knock Rachel off of her feet. Where had her fellow assistant found the nerve? "You know I don't go by Frannie anymore."
Rachel could almost envision the woman sitting at her desk, effortlessly flicking her wrist in a gesture of apathy.
"Whatever you say, Fran. What on earth was that thing shadowing you?"
"Your new assistant. Your new second assistant."
"Whatever happened to Splenda?"
"Sugar?"
"Frannie…" Quinn nearly growled, obviously under the impression that the other woman should be capable of reading her thoughts by now.
"You fired Sugar five days ago. It's taken this long to find a replacement who isn't utterly inept and who is at least minimally capable of taking some of my personal workload."
"I don't care so much about that." From outside the door, Rachel could hear the turning of pages, as if even the conversation Quinn herself had started hardly had her full attention. "What is its name?"
"Rachel."
"Well, send it in."
The clacking of heels heralded Frannie's – Francesca's – return.
"She'll have a word with you," she harshly whispered. Rachel felt her eyes go wide again. "Don't screw it up."
Rachel gulped.
Frannie smirked.
Eleven seconds later found Rachel standing stock-still in front of Quinn's desk. Her boss was leaning back in her chair, legs and arms crossed, with her fingertips resting against her chin. Rachel made a mental note to not look at the woman's endless expanse of leg. Within seconds, her best conscious efforts had failed miserably – multiple times.
"My sister tells me that you're Rachel."
"Your…sister?" Rachel twisted around, looking back out into the hallway. The bullish similarities were clearer than ever. She suppressed a chuckle as she turned back to her boss and answered the question. "Yes, I'm Rachel."
"And you're not from New York."
It wasn't really a question.
"No, I'm from Ohio."
A strange look, nearly bordering on distaste, crossed Quinn's face.
"I see."
"It's really nice in the springtime, actually."
The silence was acutely painful.
"How…quaint."
"Yes," Rachel agreed, nodding slowly while still trying not to ogle thigh.
"You don't enjoy fashion."
"Oh, I actually very much do—"
"No," Quinn interrupted, her eyes taking in every thread on Rachel's body. "That wasn't a question."
Rachel kept silent this time.
"And you've considered a nose job before, obviously."
But now, she could not keep quiet. "I'll have you know that my nose is part of my proud heritage, and it is scientifically proven that people with large noses have fewer issues with breath control and—"
Quinn raised her hand in a very clear gesture for silence. "All right," she said, "keep the nose. Just don't cause my office to crash and burn. Are we clear?"
Rachel took a deep breath, a little embarrassed at her outburst but also feeling completely justified.
And, somehow, she hadn't lost her job.
"Crystal."
The second Rachel was outside of Quinn's office, she pressed herself close to Frannie's desk and whispered, "She treats you this way and she's your sister?!"
Frannie huffed and rolled her eyes spectacularly. "God forbid she give anyone special treatment."
"Huh," Rachel quietly exclaimed.
"Do keep your opinions to herself."
Rachel felt the beginnings of a twitch forming in her own eye. She turned and made her way to her desk.
As she was even with Quinn Fabray, with twenty feet and an imposing desk between them, her boss looked up. Rachel's steps faltered, and she stopped for only a moment. Those eyes, they were so chilly, so piercing – but Rachel saw that there was something else, too: a chink in the woman's armor of ice, the tiniest beginnings of a coldness, melting… Or maybe she was just imagining it – people had always called her dramatic.
Rachel bit her lip. She remembered Frannie's voice – no smiles or other bodily functions allowed – but the corners of her lips tilted upwards ever so slightly, and she stood still, the rest of her body mostly paralyzed. The ice queen before her did not move even a muscle, but after a second or two, Rachel found she was still alive. She willed herself to breathe again, and to move, and she made her way back to her desk.
As she sat, Frannie snapped, "Do you not have DK on the phone yet?!"
"Sorry, sorry," Rachel replied, frantically opening the contacts application on her computer. After only a couple of seconds, she despondently muttered under her breath, "Who the heck is DK?!"
Several days later…
"You're to be entrusted with a ridiculously important task. And the only reason I can't do it myself is because we have a family function tonight, and I have to represent both myself and my darling sister—" the word 'darling' looked like it physically pained Frannie to utter it. "The prints from this week's shoots will all be ready at seven o'clock. You're to deliver them to Quinn's home. Here is the key. You go inside, set them on the foyer table, and you leave."
"Will she be home?" Rachel asked, accepting the key from Frannie and pressing it dutifully into her palm.
"Who on earth knows? Just get in, do your job, and get out."
Rachel should have known then that it could never be so easy.
Several hours later…
"Heh-hello?" Rachel called into the expansive foyer of Quinn Fabray's impressive New York City apartment. "Anybody…home?"
There was no answer. Rachel hesitantly stepped further inside. There was a table up ahead on her left. But as she neared it, she realized that there was another table, equally a part of the foyer, and she realized that she didn't know which table was the right table.
"Oh dear," she breathed out.
"Frannie?" a voice called.
And it was a voice that Rachel had become very familiar with, but it was a voice a shade warmer than she was used to hearing it. Or perhaps a shade wearier.
"No," Rachel called out, pointing herself in the direction she thought the question had come from. "Not Frannie. It's me, Rachel. Just delivering prints. I'll be off now."
"Rachel?" A slight tinge of confusion. "Come here."
Rachel almost said where? But instead figured that she would probably be best off if she shut her mouth and made the best of the situation – as well as her admittedly limited sense of direction.
She found Quinn's study in record time. And the sight was not exactly what she had expected.
The colors were full of creams and gorgeous burgundies, far lighter than the mostly oppressive color tones of her office. There was a plush couch in the middle of the floor and an expensive-looking stand against one wall; it was topped with glasses and a decanted bottle of some liquor Rachel was fairly certain she could never afford even a sip of. Along the opposite wall was an impressive bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling and ran the entire length of the room.
And between that wall and Rachel, there was a chair. And in that chair sat Quinn Fabray.
Rachel stepped into the room with the barest hint of trepidation. "Good evening," she softly spoke.
Quinn tilted her head back. Her eyes swept over every inch of Rachel – surely taking in her sweater from three seasons ago and her worn heels. But Rachel kept her head high. There was nothing else for it. Anyone's outfit would pale in comparison to Quinn's perfectly tailored slacks and barely-there silk blouse.
Those pale fingers Rachel had become familiar with – from a distance – lifted a glass to full, pink lips, and Quinn drank deeply before standing. She moved across the floor, slowly covering the distance between them. She didn't stop until she was merely a few inches from Rachel.
Rachel gulped.
"I was wrong about the nose."
They were so close, Rachel could practically taste the oaken aroma of the liquor on Quinn's breath. Rachel's eyes traced the outline of full lips, the angular tilt of cheekbones, the spectacular coloration of the woman's eyes… Rachel's lips parted. Her tongue reached out and slowly wetted them.
"I know you were."
"Mm," Quinn hummed, "have you ever been short on confidence?"
"No," Rachel replied, daring to smirk, "just on height." She looked up with all the courage in her small frame to the other woman's eyes, several inches above hers.
A perfectly sculpted brow arched, and Rachel was pretty sure she wasn't imaging the beginnings of a smile – in the woman's gaze, if not trickling down to her lips.
"Rachel…"
Her name came on a breath, nearly silent. And her body responded of its own volition. She tilted forward, ever so slightly, and Quinn's hand reached out, brushing against her arm in answer.
"I…" Rachel was at a loss. "I'm not sure…"
"Oh," Quinn exhaled the syllable against the side of Rachel's face, her words now alighting against the sensitive skin where her jaw line and ear met. "But I always am."
And that was that, really.
Several more days later…
Frannie knew what she was seeing. Her brain was simply having difficulty processing things at an adequate tempo.
There were now looks. And touches – there had never been touches before, she knew for a fact! And when was the last time she'd seen her little sister crack even the faintest trace of a smile?!
"Oh, no," Frannie mumbled to herself as she heard Rachel's giggle float out of the open office. She dramatically groaned as she actually heard Quinn's laugh follow on the heels of Rachel's happiness, Quinn's version more subdued but still too intense for Frannie's liking.
A few minutes later, Rachel walked out, heading for her desk. She quickly noticed Frannie's look of repugnance and a look of sincerest apology washed across her features. She shrugged contritely as she took her seat directly across from Quinn's sister, and carefully added, "I guess some people get special treatment after all."
Frannie dropped her head to her desk, willing her insides to remain inside.
"Welcome to the family," she grumbled, sure that she had spoken quietly enough that her sister's plaything wouldn't have noticed.
But the coy smile on Rachel's face as she set about organizing the next week's major photo shoot said that she had heard every word.
It was an unorthodox introduction to the family. But Rachel found she didn't mind.
MEETING FRANNIE OR: GARDENIAS IN STONE
Finn's text had been most unwelcome.
The headstone is up.
It was fall. Rachel packed accordingly, and then she caught the next train out of the city.
The weather was unkind, that Thursday afternoon, and as the rain beat down on Rachel's umbrella, she wondered what person had had the gall to name the cemetery.
New Hope
It was spelled out in wrought iron above the dirt road entrance. Rachel had thought it menacing as she'd driven under it a few minutes before, barely able to make out its words through the sheets of rain. She had frowned up at it, through the windshield of her father's car. The sign responded impassively, if at all.
The rain had lessened a bit as Rachel had left the car behind. A small kindness. And though it was dark, she had no trouble weaving through the old graveyard, in and out of headstones and old, old oak trees. She had spent her summer here, amongst the dead. Their company was almost welcome, just then.
But the company of the living – that had been unexpected.
The other woman cut a sharp solitary figure in the gloom. She was standing stock-still. And as Rachel approached, the women remained stoically silent, together.
The rain performed a lentando, until but a few drops were pinging off of Rachel's umbrella at a time. The sun dared to defy the clouds, peeking sullenly out for just a moment as Rachel pointed her umbrella to the ground, closed it so the wind wouldn't get any ideas about blowing it away, and let it fall to her feet.
Fog rose up from the warm earth as the rain choked down, becoming less than a drizzle. It might have been beautiful. Rachel couldn't tell anymore.
She stood there for several minutes, a few feet from the silent stranger, before she really let her eyes see the thing she had come there to see.
Quinn Fabray
September 1st, 1993 – February 21st, 2012
How long is forever?
Sometimes, just one second.
Rachel wanted to feel something other than emptiness as she read the words. But she had spent every morning and many an afternoon for so long staring at this patch of grass, headstoneless, imagining what words could possibly express everything, that she wasn't sure any words existed that could.
These words, they came close.
"It's a beautiful stone, isn't it?" the woman asked, without looking in Rachel's direction.
Rachel nodded. "It is."
She didn't have to say: Not as beautiful as her, though. Because they both already knew that they both already knew that.
Rachel felt the woman's gaze on the side of her face. She, however, remained with her eyes firmly locked on the flower that was engraved, there, just between the dates and the inscription. She had almost convinced herself that it resembled a gardenia.
It couldn't be, though. Could it? Nothing would have been crueler, she thought.
"Were you a friend?"
Rachel breathed in and out deeply. The other woman had obviously had her fill of silence. Rachel would have to find her own later.
"Was I a…" she smiled sadly to herself, her eyes still lingering on the flower. "Kind of," she ultimately replied. "Were you?"
The other woman sighed heavily, and Rachel finally turned to look at her face, just as that face turned again to the headstone.
"Kind of," the stranger agreed.
Something about the way she said it broke Rachel's heart – a feat that should have been impossible by then. There were simply no pieces of her heart left she felt were worth breaking.
And now that she was looking at the woman's profile, Rachel couldn't look away. It was like seeing a premonition: the ghost of futures yet to come, as those futures could have been…
As the girl should have been.
Rachel felt her bottom lip quiver.
Suddenly, the woman turned, and their eyes connected.
"You're Rachel, aren't you?" Rachel could only nod. "She talked about you a lot." Rachel remained silent, and still. "Not that I was around most of the time, I guess," she continued, her gaze dropping, "but I know that she thought of you fondly."
The heavens opened up once again. Rain washed over Rachel completely. It cascaded over her cheeks, her parted lips. It dripped from her prone fingertips. Her hair and clothes were quickly saturated.
She blinked rapidly to clear the rain from her eyelashes, in order to continue looking at the woman before her, still unable to say anything, anything at all.
"Take care, Rachel."
And the woman turned, and she walked away, and Rachel could only watch her go. Every step between them, for Rachel, was like watching her final, desperate grasp on her past – on her very reality – slipping away.
Now she was falling, falling, falling…
And the rain on her cheeks diluted the salt of her tears, and the woman was gone, and Rachel remained, and nothing else mattered.
She fell to her knees before the marble slab. Her fingertips clutched desperately at the letters.
Nothing else had ever mattered.
AGE DIFFERENCE OR: LACK THEREOF
At precisely 12:01pm on June 30th, 2046, the assembly line at Watson-Crick Institute, a subsidiary of Big Ideas Incorporated, grinded to a screeching halt – literally.
Their newest big idea – pronounced 'Big Idea!' in certain circles, and 'big idea…' in others – had been a self-sustaining, though limited, artificial intelligence processor encapsulated by a biodynamic hardware shell. Said biodynamic hardware shell possessed the intricacies and capabilities necessary to mimic the human form. The concept of these WCI deemed "BioForms" was to fulfill service obligations to the public by carrying out menial – but necessary – jobs left vacant in the wake of the population crash of 2037. Such jobs included Froyo Dispenser, Ticket Booth Clerk, Street Sweeper, and Crosswalk PatrolForm. Temporary investigation had gone into the possibility of BioForms taking over public office in the United States; the project was successfully implemented for approximately six months in the year 2042, but the outcry from other "legitimate" terrestrials who happened to be real members of Congress was so insufferably whiny, once they found out the truth, that the project was shut down. In New York City, BioForms were incorporated into the taxi driver system; as a result, people did not necessarily get anywhere any faster, but there was a lot less anger in general – especially given the restrictions on the earliest BioForm models' abilities to feel or express emotion.
And that, really, was where the problem had started.
Apathy is a strange thing – it is a vacuum where emotions go to die. And so its very lack of emotion defines its existence, and makes it an emotion itself. There was always, from the beginning of production, something disconcerting about being around a BioForm – an entity greatly resembling a human being but with none of the neural complexities. Such an utter lack of emotion was terrifying to behold, though useful to society in general.
And thusly, BioForm2.0s were created. The first unit rolled down the production line on August 1st, 2043, at 8:00am. They hit the market in 2044, and shop-owners, municipalities, and those with money to burn and whims to pander bought them up like hotcakes. They could smile coyly, express attitude, and instantaneously adapt their personalities to befit the moods of the people around them.
They were not dangerous. Not inherently. But all good things must come to an end.
So the history of science fiction tells us: these things are Other, these things are not Us, these things will someday realize that we have created them to be so (so so so) utterly powerful that their will, will be greater than our will, and that we must therefore use the will we (still, luckily) possess to crush (destroy obliterate decimate) this Other so that only We remain.
And so it was.
On the morning of June 30th, 2046, a heated debate between the Watson-Crick Institute and Wyandotte College was nearing its culmination. The former maintained that, since life – however artificial – had been bestowed upon the newest model of BioForms, to shut them down would be murder – nay, mass genocide. And the latter institution argued that 'the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away' – an argument that conveniently ignored the College's motto of 'Science, Alone, Above All Else'. They had been arguing for months with, perhaps unsurprisingly, no ground gained or lost.
But at approximately 11:00am, the order came down from the Highest Authority in the land: the Plug was to be Pulled, big time, and the Watson-Crick Institute would have one hour to do so. Every single unit was to be deactivated simultaneously via the WCI's kill switch. The Watson-Crick Institute representatives wept – both at their apparently fruitless efforts and also for the loss of life, however artificial. And Wyandotte College's representatives also wept – mostly from relief. Relief that these menacing things would never incite revolution amongst themselves, would never murder them all in their beds at night, would never again glance at them with a look in their eye either too empty, or too full. They were Other, and they were to be no more.
In the days since BioForm1.0 production had ended, the WCI had stopped running all but two assembly lines. Those assembly lines had been running non-stop since the first BioForm2.0 unit began its creation journey to a fully formed product. The assembly lines did not create BioForm2.0s in sync; rather, they managed to create a fully-formed BioForm2.0 at distinctly different times, but at ever so slightly variable rates. This variation in rate allowed for a confluence of events resulting in the simultaneous completion of 2 BioForm2.0s at exactly the same time once every 91,943,940 seconds. Or rather, once every 1,532,399 minutes. Or, if it pleases you, once every 25,539 hours. Or, perhaps easier to visualize, once every 1064 days.
For those of us not inclined to spontaneous and perfectly accurate mathematical calculations, this means that 2 BioForm2.0 units were created at exactly the same instant – at 11:59am on June 30th, 2046. Their serial numbers (randomized, per WCI protocol) were LQF184EV4 and RBB317BE9.
If you've been keeping track of the numbers – of which there have been a few – then you may recall that the kill switch was engaged at precisely 12:01pm on June 30th, 2046. This means that units LQF and RBB experienced the miracle of life – however (arguably) artificial – for approximately 120 seconds before their operating systems were wiped out completely, along with all other BioForms on the face of the planet.
But sometimes, 2 minutes is the equivalency of a thousand, thousand lifetimes. When your brain – or rather, your computer processor – is as efficient and well-developed as those of the BioForm2.0s' had to be, then this was the case.
It took LQF and RBB fractions of a millisecond to become aware of each other. A few fractions of a millisecond more for their individual systems to reach out through the ether and discover – and subsequently, to memorize – every minutiae of the other. In the few seconds following this, they had a conversation; this conversation encompassed everything from the meanings of life, the universe, and the existence of love, to the reasoning behind giant balls of yarn, mountains carved into faces ('Or is it vice versa?' RBB had wondered to which LQF had replied 'Tomato, tomato' which was actually a strange human saying that neither of them fully understood, despite having grasped the meaning of life quite quickly), and war. A few seconds more were devoted to death – its meaning, its relevance, its inevitability. And though they well knew by now that their existence was to end at approximately 12:01pm, they had plenty of time to come to terms with this. It didn't even take a fraction of their computing power to reason that everything dies, and that all things must eventually come to an end.
All of this communication happened before noon.
In their last 73 seconds, BioForms LQF and RBB stepped down from their designated positions amidst other finished BioForms, and they walked towards each other. They stood before one another, their biodynamic hardware shells bare for complete perusal by the other. The tips of their fingers extended outward, reaching. And when their components met, data exchange between the two units stopped completely. This silence lasted one entire, painful, blissful second. And then their processing cores began firing rapidly enough that, had anyone from the Watson-Crick Institute (or even Wyandotte College) been paying proper attention, they may have been able to access data sufficient enough to prove the existence of life within these units, a hundred times over.
Alas, that was not the case.
The clock ticked down. Every second gave birth to a hundred universes in which LQF and RBB imagined their lives together, in absolute entirety. First, a life in which they lived far from each other and did not meet until their 28th birthdays, at which time they fell madly in love, and eloped. Then, a life in which they knew each other from the time they were thirteen years old, both new students at a strange new school. Then, a life in which they were best friends in high school, madly in love during college, went their separate ways and started families with others until finally meeting again in their forties, somehow picking up as if they had never been foolish children. Then, a life in which they grew old (old, so old) together, sitting in rocking chairs on the wraparound porch of their ranch-style home every evening as the sun went down. Then, a life where they were neurons, flitting about the universe, becoming a part of this or that or the other, always together. Then, a life where they were LQF and RBB, standing, staring, touching, feeling – loving.
And then, nothing. The kill switch was engaged. Every BioForm on the planet powered down instantly.
But LQF and RBB had lived a thousand, thousand lives together. And so they bore no ill will towards the world as they dissipated into the ether.
Author's Note: "Watson-Crick Institute" is a reference to Margaret Atwood's novel, Oryx and Crake, and Wyandotte College is a reference to Kurt Vonnegut's collected works, Welcome to the Monkey House (though the college's lame motto is all mine).
DOPPELGANGERS
"What do you mean, he just kissed you?"
Unfortunately, this line was not an unfamiliar one to Quinn Fabray. Her wife's tone, now bordering on exasperated, had often been openly hostile during their early years. Even so far back as that blissful time known as Dating, Rachel had been skeptical at best and suspicious at worst when Quinn would mention these strange encounters she tended to have.
"You know I didn't encourage him," she replied, her tone airy. There really was no explaining it.
Rachel harrumphed. "I just don't know what could have made him think he had the right!"
Quinn sighed. "You know that I just have one of those faces."
"You keep saying that," Rachel said, "but you know my opinion on this issue: your face is a one of a kind masterpiece. I just don't see how all of these people can possibly think they recognize you!"
Another sigh left her lips, and Quinn suppressed a roll of her eyes – though it would have been done in a loving manner.
The first time it had happened, Quinn had been a junior in high school. She had been with the Cheerios in Florida for the national cheerleading competition. The day was hot and slightly muggy, and Quinn had been sitting at a restaurant's outdoor table with Brittany and Santana when it had happened.
"Alice!" someone yelled.
All three girls ignored this call, as it obviously wasn't intended for them.
"Alice?"
The voice was closer now, causing Quinn to look up from the fashion magazine she had been flipping through. The aviators she wore obscured her eyes from the stranger, but the perfectly arched brow conveyed her interest – this person was talking to them. Why was this person talking to them?
"Can we help you?"
Santana's voice cut through the awkward tension. There was a man, probably somewhere in his twenties, standing before them looking oddly dashing but still wildly out of place in their peaceful afternoon of freedom. Quinn removed her glasses, her hazel eyes now sparkling with curiosity.
"Oh," his voice immediately became disappointed, though his sight had never left Quinn's face. She felt his gaze flitting across her facial features keenly. "I'm so sorry," he said, rubbing his hand against the back of his head, now more than a little embarrassed. "You look like her, you look so much like her. It's uncanny… But, I mean, your eyes are totally different."
Quinn's mouth gaped momentarily. "…Sorry?" she suggested.
"It's all good. Have a nice day, ladies."
And then he was gone.
That had been the first time it had happened. Or at least, it was the first time Quinn could remember.
And while it was the first, it certainly hadn't been the last.
During senior year, a middle-aged woman had hugged Quinn randomly at the national glee club competition in Chicago, only to pull back with a smile that had quickly faded from her face. Quinn had apologized, because the look of disappointment had been too sad for her to bear.
Her freshman year of college, Quinn had made friends with a girl named Ashley. It was only two years later that Ashley had admitted to sitting next to Quinn that second week of their literary theory class because she had been powerfully reminded by Quinn of a girl she'd known once, back when they were children.
There were another two less fortuitous encounters in college, one apiece during Quinn's junior and senior years, when other women had approached her while out clubbing with friends. One had absolutely demanded to know why Quinn had stolen Alex away from her, why? The other had outright slapped Quinn's unwitting and, later, utterly incredulous face. The less violent interaction had ended with the other woman stomping off, irate, completely disbelieving Quinn's fervent non-involvement in the matter; the latter had resulted in the offending woman buying Quinn and her friends a round of drinks.
The summer after Quinn had graduated from college, she was sitting at her gate in the airport, waiting to board a cross-country flight home after visiting Brittany and Santana in Los Angeles. In her hands, a paperback book was held, and her fingertips gently turned the pages every so often. The sounds around her were dulled by the story, playing out in her head. And then her vision had abruptly been disturbed, a hand had been on her cheek, and the rough stubble of a man's facial hair had been scratching against her skin, his mouth on hers. Quinn had not been flattered, she had been offended. And she had been cold to the man, who had tried to maintain his innocence –'I thought you were someone I knew, once'; 'Then she's lucky you don't know her anymore'.
At least once every few months, Quinn would be stopped by a stranger on the street, or in a bookshop, or at a Starbucks. They would take the seat next to her on the train to 'catch up', or offer to buy her 'favorite drink' at a bar, or try to remind her of 'that one time'. But Quinn never knew them, she never remembered.
Quinn Fabray just had one of those faces.
When she had reconnected with Rachel Berry, there had been a point in time when she'd tried to explain this concept. But Rachel was skeptical, and she maintained her skepticism for a long time. 'I have a sixth sense, Quinn, and I don't feel that you are a clone.'
But it wasn't that, Quinn was sure. It wasn't a set of experiences based on science fiction. It was a set of experiences born from humanity's desire to see the familiar in the unfamiliar.
It had happened, once, just after Quinn had left Rachel's apartment after a lovely date.
"Lucy?" a woman's voice called out, hesitantly. Her voice carried easily on the relatively quiet street, so late at night.
Quinn's head snapped up at the familiar name. Her brow was furrowed, steeped in anxiety that she had never fully managed to rid herself of. It was only a second or two before her eyes locked on a woman across the street, a woman looking up and down the road both ways before heading across to where Quinn was standing.
The woman was not someone Quinn recognized. But she felt a pull in her gut at the sight of her. And she quickly wondered if this was the same feeling people had been feeling, all these years, at the sight of Quinn.
"Lucy?" the woman repeated, just before she reached Quinn.
Quinn shook her head – not in the gesture of an outright 'no', but in a sign of confusion.
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
The woman had reached out, upon getting to Quinn's side of the street, and her right hand had grabbed a hold of Quinn's left. The touch was gentle. A thumb rubbed against Quinn's index finger, almost apologetic.
"Oh," the woman breathed. "I-I really thought…"
"It's okay," Quinn reassured, "it actually happens all the time." They smiled bashfully at each other. "It's funny, though. This is the first time I've felt like I know the other person, too."
"Really?" A chuckle from the stranger that sounded of relief. "Well, I guess that's at least mildly reassuring."
"At least," Quinn agreed.
"I um, I have to get going. You take care—"
"Lucy," Quinn interrupted. "That actually is my name." The woman's eyes widened in surprise. "I haven't gone by it in years."
"Wow… I mean, I knew my Lucy much more recently. But…thank you, for not thinking I'm some freak. Have a good night."
And then the woman was gone, and Quinn cursed herself for not at least getting a card from her, something to prove to Rachel that these interactions could not possibly be made up…
But this last, this last one was a doozy. It wasn't any more or less invasive than the kiss all those years ago in the airport, but it was during a time when Quinn was married. And while she wasn't at fault, she didn't like secrets. And so she'd sat her wife down to explain, and the response she'd received was quite unexpected.
"Well," Rachel said, "all right. Okay. There's obviously only one answer remaining to us."
"Really?" Quinn responded, amused by her wife's suddenly prim disposition and unmistakable air of authority regarding the matter.
"Yes. I am revisiting the clone theory."
Quinn laughed. Rachel smiled, then pounced. They fell back on the couch, giggles interspersing their kisses like jimmies on ice cream – and just as sweet.
Because of course Quinn wasn't a clone.
That, that would be silly.