Chapter 4 – Interviews and Loneliness
One of the many downsides of being the most famous person on the planet is most definitely the severe lack of a private life she has (although she does get free Netflix and knows Beyoncé personally, so she can't really complain). In the last month alone, she has been temporarily blinded by camera flashes getting out of her car, tripped over her shoelaces in front of a hundred paparazzi on her way to Whole Foods to buy 80 pounds of cat food and, most recently, been romantically linked to Ryan Gosling after they were spotted having dinner together at Chateau Marmont (she doesn't tell anyone that she was there helping him rid his house of a psychotic poltergeist).
She's currently seated in front of Unique Adams, writer extraordinaire for Superhero Weekly, who has a penchant for asking wildly inappropriate questions while simultaneously being fabulous and somehow respectful. Much to the general publics dismay, Brittany hasn't done an interview in a little over 2 years. She's still unsure how Unique managed to rope her into this one, considering she's never been a great liar and is currently harboring the world's second most famous person on the planet in the world's third most secret hideout (beat out only by Area 51 and the magic cupboard to Narnia [whose location Brittany promised Mr. Tumnus she would never reveal]).
"So, do you mind if we start?" Unique asks with a dramatic flourish of her wrist.
Brittany doesn't want to start. In fact, what she would like most in the world right now is to go back to Angel Cove (and make sure that Santana hasn't killed Rachel by poisoning her vegan hot dogs like she promised the previous night).
"I'd love that," she says instead.
Unique smiles and pulls out her tape recorder, obviously quite excited to start the interview that will no doubt change her career.
"Brittany…I'm sorry, I can call you Brittany right? Would you prefer The White Angel?" Unique asks.
"My friends all call me Brittany. So the White Angel it is," Brittany deadpans.
Unique looks taken aback, clearly unfamiliar with Brittany's sense of humor. Brittany thinks it's probably not a great start to the interview.
"Of course you can call me Brittany, Unique. It is my name. At least it is right now," she says smiling.
Unique laughs awkwardly and moves on.
"It's been almost five years since you took the mask off. What made you decide to reveal your true identity to the world?" she asks, writing furiously in a small pink notebook (Brittany finds it unsettling that she has already managed to fill an entire page).
"Right to the big questions then," Brittany laughs (quite unnaturally she thinks, but Unique doesn't seem to catch on) "Well, as The White Angel, I often preached about being true and proud of who, or what, you are. I figured I was being hypothetical when I was hiding behind a mask," she says, shrugging and taking a small sip of water.
Unique continues on, brushing aside the blatant misuse of the word hypothetical.
"How do you respond to the rumors that you actually took the mask off because of threats you received from the villainous female trio, The Dark Ladies?" Unique asks. She's clearly intrigued now, as she's finally set her pen down to look Brittany in the eye.
"I'm sorry, I don't know anything about those rumors," Brittany responds casually.
She is, of course, very familiar with said rumors.
"Well, rumor has it that The Dark Ladies forced your hand in the matter. The word on the street is that Mimic in particular was holding your then sidekick, Femme Fatale, hostage. In exchange for Femme Fatale, you were forced to reveal your identity. "
Brittany smiles cordially and crosses her legs.
"The stories people come up with these days are crazy. I've also heard that the mayor eats Cheetos in his underwear while watching Project Runway and crying. You can't believe everything you hear," Brittany says.
Unique laughs, but seems undeterred from obtaining the truth.
"So there is no truth to these rumors?"
"No. They're rumors for a reason. Look, can I be completely honest with you?" Brittany asks, leaning forward slightly as if to reveal a secret.
"Please."
"I wish there was a more interesting story as to why I revealed myself. But there isn't. The real truth of the matter is that I felt like I was keeping a part of myself hidden from everyone. With the amount of trust the public puts in me, I thought it was unfair of me to ask them to have faith in someone they didn't really know. That's all there is to it," she finishes, leaning back in her chair. She feels sad and guilty for having lied, but some things are better kept secret (and this is definitely one of those things). She knows it's not right, and that the people of the world deserve to know the truth, but it's not her secret to tell (and she would sooner die than reveal Santana's secret).
Unique seems disappointed in her answer and frankly Brittany doesn't really blame her. Her answer is textbook. Almost every active super hero on the planet has used the exact same reason as to why they revealed themselves. Very few heroes remain whose identity is still a secret. Brittany knows that for most of them, they took off the mask for fame. Celebrity is, for some, a seductive mistress. Rachel, Puck and Quinn are prime examples of that. Unfortunately for them, they've learned that fame is often a literal version of Pandora's box (filled with greed, envy and self-doubt). While her reasons may have been slightly more honorable, she still has to wear spanx to movie premiers, so really, everyone's a loser.
Unique has once again started writing, which Brittany thinks is useless considering her every answer is being recorded but whatever, she's no reporter.
"Many would argue that your greatest accomplishment was having Mimic put behind bars three years ago. Would you agree?" Unique asks, briefly looking up from her notebook.
"No, I'd say my greatest accomplishment is having finished an entire 18'' pizza by myself in a little under a minute. That or convincing my cat to bathe regularly."
"Your cat…to bathe?" Unique asks. She clearly doesn't like where this interview is going, but Brittany thinks that's what she gets for coaxing her into this.
"Ya. Have you ever tried to force a forty-pound tabby into a bucket of soapy water wearing nothing but a bathing suit?" Brittany asks seriously.
"I can't say that I have."
"Well I can tell you that it is a special kind of hell that I wouldn't wish on my greatest of enemies. My bathing suit was in pieces. Santana was sewing it for months," Brittany laughs, remembering poor Santana, with her needle and thread, desperately trying to sew the bunny patterned bathing suit back together.
"Santana?" Unique asks curiously.
Well shit.
…
Quinn is almost ready to jump into a pit of venomous cobras (no exaggeration). She thinks suicide would certainly be better than costume shopping with Rachel and Santana. There are exactly three people on the planet whose presence could make Quinn voluntarily stick needles into her eyes: Paris Hilton and, of course, her present company. She'd rather lick the bottom of Puck's feet after a night of barefoot dumpster diving then watch Rachel pick out hideous outfit after hideous outfit while Santana spews expletives at them. Not only is she miserable, she's downright mortified by Santana's choice of clothes. For the most recognizable super-villain on the planet (who, by all accounts, is supposed to still be in prison), she's certainly not making any effort to cover up her identity (or anything for that matter). Quinn has a reputation to uphold. She's not called Saint for nothing. If she were to be photographed with Santana wearing what she is, she'd be ridiculed by everyone. Of course then Santana would also be outed, which granted is probably not a good thing either, but her reputation is definitely more important than some ridiculous scheme Brittany concocted in a daze of dim-witted optimism. The whole idea of Santana helping The Order is undeniably the most foolish thing Brittany has ever thought up (which is saying something considering she once put $500,000 into an Ostrich breeding facility).
"What do you think of this one?" Rachel asks, holding up a repulsive brown onesie emblazoned with tiny orange music notes.
"I'd rather smear myself with gasoline and light myself on fire then wear that revolting puke colored monstrosity," Santana says, adding a few fake gags for good measure.
"Santana, you need a costume! How are you supposed to come on top secret crime fighting missions without one?" Rachel all but screams.
"This is so stupid. Why can't I wear my own clothes?"
Quinn rolls her eyes and slumps further into the changing room sofa, willing herself to simply melt into the fabric and disappear from earth forever.
"Because Santana, you look like a prostitute. I have actually seen prostitutes wearing your exact outfit. I swear, those shorts are so short every time you bend over, I feel like I should be throwing dollar bills at you," Rachel says, madly pointing to the barely there material of Santana's shorts.
"Ew, stop staring at my junk Berry. That is so creepy," Santana says, fingering a black leather suit.
"Santana, just pick an outfit. ANY outfit! Please," Quinn begs. "Look, that one's pretty. I caught you looking at it an hour ago," she adds, pointing to dark blue one from her perch on the couch.
"Please Quinn, it has a cape. Haven't you seen The Invincibles. God, you'd love it if I got sucked into an airplane engine, wouldn't you?" Santana snaps.
Before Quinn can fire back an insult, Rachel steps between them.
"Santana that is the most ridiculous thing you've said all day. You can't fly. How would you get your cape stuck in an airplane engine?" Rachel asks, both hands on her hips.
"That's easy. I'd be escorting you, by plane, back to Israel, I know a guy there that sells awesome Challah. Fifteen minutes into the flight, I would leap from the airplanes emergency exit to escape your incessant talking and, voila. Cape, engine, Chunks Lopez," Santana says with a sneer.
Rachel huffs and storms out of the room, beckoning Quinn to follow her. Quinn is actually surprised it has taken nearly two hours for such an exit. She's still unsure how she got stuck with Santana in the first place. Puck, Artie and Kurt had left this morning for Vegas, claiming a blackjack dealer from Caesar's Palace had tipped them off about an illegal gambling deal. She knows it's complete bull though. What they really were doing was escaping Angel Cove after Santana had "accidentally" scratched Puck's BMW, "accidentally" slashed one of Artie's wheelchair wheels and "accidentally" mixed pink dye into Kurt's shampoo. God only knows where Brittany is.
Quinn allows a couple more minutes to pass before following Rachel out, wanting her to stew in impatience for as long as possible. On her way, she can clearly see Santana making a whipping motion and laughing. Yes, venomous cobras would definitely be better than this.
…..
Quinn and Rachel are gone (no doubt cursing her name and sacrificing vegan dairy cows to have her sent back to prison) and for the first time in two weeks, she's alone. Completely, one hundred percent, alone. Sure she was given a room at Angel Cove, but she was forced to share it with Puck after he broke the toilet and flooded his own room. And now, here she is, with no one but her own company and she inexplicably wishes to be back in Rachel and Quinn's company. Staring at the full-length mirror in front of her, all she sees is an angry scared little girl who can't face the horror of being by herself. She resists the urge to run out of the changing room and berate Rachel about another costume choice or, more dangerously, call Brittany (she especially resists that urge).
Instead, she cries. She cries hard.
She slowly removes her top, dabbing at her eyes and nose with the material. She eyes the tight white leather costume (it's been six years since she's worn white) and decides she's not ready. She's not ready to squeeze her tiny worn out body into the outfit. She's not ready to leave behind her black and purple one she'd worn since the day she said goodbye to being good. She wraps her arms around herself and tells herself to be strong. To be moral and noble and worthy. To put her miserable past behind her. But she knows she's not strong. She's weak, unbearably weak, and always will be.
She remembers back to the Watchers prison. She remembers the small 6x4 room they'd put her in. For three years. 22 hours a day. She can still hear the other inmates screaming, begging the guards to kill them. She can still feel the hard blows she received from some of the more violently inclined guards, guards who were there to protect her. She can feel their breath on her neck as they whispered how worthless she was. How she would never amount to anything. How in six months, nobody would remember her name. She remembers it all and now, more than ever, she wishes she could forget.
She holds herself tighter. She can still feel the deep scar on her back from having been burned by one of the other inmates. She trails her hand up her body and, with the index finger of her left hand, feels a small outline of a scar on her right shoulder. She turns around, looking back into the mirror and, with a heavy heart, realizes what it is. Brittany's palm print, as white as the day she burned off her tattoo. She strokes the pale skin and smiles.
She puts the white suit on…
A/N - Im incredibly sorry for the long wait. I have a lot of reasons, none of which you're probably interested in. One of them being that I had all but given up on glee after Brittany and Santana were so poorly treated. But this story kept gnawing at me, and I just had to start writing it again. I can't promise quick updates in the future, but I hope you stick with it. This is also unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own (and i'm sorry if there are a lot). If anyone is interesting in betaing for me, send me a pm! I need someone who is not afraid to hound me for updates lol.