A/N: Obviously this took me a long time to write, and I'm sorry for the delay. What I was trying to do was incorporate several literary elements and references that I hope can be seen in the story, and actually make it a better read.

First I would like to thank caesaragusta, ichigo111981, and 'guest' for their input. I'm glad you're enjoying it, ceasar; I think Rachel is as hard to tolerate as Quinn is most of the time, which makes them a good match, and Rachel has a big heart for all of Quinn's attempts on her. It all boils down to a difference in personal ethics, I think, ichigo. Finally, I put the warning in the last chapter precisely because I want to stay congruent to canon events, only using an interpretation where the show would give leeway. Consequently, my understanding of the show and its subtext suggests that Finn is a large part of Faberry, not merely an obstacle, so trust me: I will do my best to avoid stereotyping the character, in not for anything else, that it just doesn't make for good writing.

P.S. Sorry for any errors, especially in the Spanish phrases used. As always, I own nothing.

I'm not going to list the stories this time, because of a reason you'll see in the story. Although given this is an M rated story the obvious warnings apply, plus, some weird stuff happens in the end of the thirst story. Please keep reviewing and favoriting and reading and thank you to all that did. Without further ado, please enjoy chapter three:

"Sound advice, actually."

Quinn glared-granted, a glare was the only expression she was able to muster with her hair pulled, almost painfully, into a perfect pony-across the table at Santana, who merely shrugged at the accusatory stare due to their mutual flaxen haired friend's off handed comment to go and "call the NAACP", gross misapplication of the target of the group's advocacy notwithstanding. Rachel sat next to Brittany, in one of the many clubs all four shared together: this one was the psych club, led by, thanks to the Cheerios, in Quinn's opinion deservedly, using most of the after school budget- even if Quinn herself avoided most of the perks Coach Sylvester shoe horned into the expenditures report she filed, at her request with Principal Figgins, likely to gain plausible deniability, even if the man could care less at the intake of students he got trying to join one of the best high school cheer companies in the greater forty nine states-the neurotic 'Guidance Counselor' Ms. Emma Pillsbury. The main reason for her avoidance had just spoke: Rachel couldn't get on her high horse if Quinn played the monk, and her life in a Christian household made that convenient, even if, ironically, it wasn't encouraged- Quinn found it odd to have to explain her lack of a dating life to her parents and extended family; apparently chastity was only appreciated when Quinn had some temptation to resist, but like The Blob, Berry was everywhere, and that had made any…spiritual testing…impossible-Quinn would not give her the satisfaction, if, God forbid, she slipped up.

"She wasn't being serious, Narcissi. Don't you think it's just a little offensive that you treat those organizations as your own personal defense teams?"

"I would if it weren't my person being attacked on a daily basis, Santana-that's the point of GLAAD, to help those assaulted for merely being."

"As someone who has dealt with your being for more than any one could ever care to," Quinn spoke up, "there's a reason: you're a terrible person." Granted, that would make her prime candidate for their particular clique, and Quinn considered her enough in a way; as much conflict that arose between her and the short girl, it was no different than how she responded to any challenge-Santana was just better at deflecting her barbs and Brittany was so indifferent, Quinn had given up-God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Quinn didn't accept Rachel; she wasn't even close to giving up on her, and the thought caused her to momentarily frown at the wording.

"Be that as it may, most of my interactions are far too short, for people to get to know me, or to even try to attempt to." Chin in hand, Santana squinted at Rachel.

"Yeah those slushy baths probably don't help, do they?" Since Quinn had made an example both of Rachel and the newest method for dealing with daily irritants, slush baths had increased exponentially.

"Admittedly, it is something of a relief that the slush assaults have expanded beyond Quinn's personal vendetta."

"So you're cool with your misery, so long as you've got company?" Santana furrowed her brow in distaste. "Way to sound like a complete bitch." Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn saw Rachel's face fall, as if collapsing into a state of complete exasperation

"Sense the tone, Santana; begrudgingly I enjoy being one of many rather than the solo target," Rachel rubbed the back of her neck neurotically, eyes screwed shut. "There's only so much one person can take, and unlike some people at this table, I don't enjoy playing the martyr."

"A victim isn't much better, only louder," Quinn stated, not bothering to look directly at her. "Whiny, too."

"Three slush rainbows in a week is entitlement enough for me to whine just a little, wouldn't you say?" Quinn scoffed.

"Wouldn't matter; you'd never hear me over your constant stream of nasally babbled words," Quinn replied in a drawl, letting her eyes wander as if she had no control over them. Indifference was almost as good as serenity, she thought.

"The speaking register of my voice isn't something I can change, Quinn."

"Aren't you supposed to be a singer? Isn't it your main job?" Quinn felt her back tense from her slight slouch.

"When singing, yes. Speech is altered by tone and context and emotional state to a different, situation based, measure than a musical piece, obviously. And music is my, is in general, an art, not a job," Rachel punctuated each word, and Quinn bristled at each interval. Still trying to keep up her demure station, Quinn, even while facing the front of the room, rolled her eyes, taking in Santana while she did so. As much as she disliked Rachel, Santana liked getting under Quinn's skin more, and this opportunity would be too good to pass up; likewise, Quinn forced herself to both relax and think of a good response. Santana glanced up when she didn't immediately answer, waiting.

Picking herself up from the seat, the blonde finally faced Rachel, who apparently had had the gall to have returned to her music sheets in the interim.

"Berry." Rachel glanced up, a slightly strained look on her face that quickly shifted to annoyance, likely because the girl had become accustomed to answering to her last name.

"Yes, Quinn?" Quinn ordered her thoughts quickly.

"Art appreciates value after an artist dies." Quinn stated simply.

"That's true. So?"

"So, I won't be the only one hoping for your early and likely, very dramatic, death," Quinn said plainly, and turned back to the front, satisfied, leaving Rachel to huff angrily. Santana waited, eyeing Rachel, but it was Brittany who spoke again, her only other contribution the initial suggestion that Rachel contact the rights organization.

"You weren't the only one to start with," Brittany muttered, causing Santana to chuckle, and Quinn to question how much of the latter's life was dependent on the first rather than the other way around.

"Still. It means I'll be famous doesn't it, for what I produce to be sought after my much decried death?"

"Most famous artists were penniless and suicidal, and then people sold their stuff like ducks around the soggy pieces of bread I throw to them." Rachel raised her pointer finger and morphed her mouth into a silent ha!

"Artists such as novelists, painters and the like, but not singers; if you can't draw a crowd you're not recognized; and how can you sell someone's voice?"

"Cut out their tonsils?" Rachel blanched, looking slightly nauseated.

"What? People don't speak or sing from their tonsils, but their vocal chords." Brittany frowned.

"That's not a very good riddle, Rachel. Maybe, like, 'How do you sell someone's voice? Put them in jail.'" Brittany smiled with a contributive gesture, and Santana frowned.

"How-" Quinn smirked.

"Sell, and cell, get it?"

"Very punny." Rachel said, bored, while Santana looked unsure, even as Brittany nodded vigorously.

"Right," Brittany beamed and Quinn made sure to return it, full force.

"Hey, Quinn, anyone ever told you like you're constipated when you smile? Because you look like it hurts." Quinn aimlessly flipped through a notebook.

"Hmm. Don't worry. The stick keeps everything in place nicely." Quinn had learned her lesson, that she was not in the third column of what was to be accepted through serenity.

Rachel, having the most interaction with Quinn and her fellows that wasn't completely apathetic, had chosen the furthest back table against the windows, knowing that would be prime estate for the trio-Brittany liked to look out on the quad, and the back seats were out of the way of foot traffic-and Rachel, prompt as ever, had taken a seat in the corner, like some wall hugging parasite, unless she thought the three were going to be cowed into taking another seat just because she had tainted it with her presence.

Although, Quinn had reasoned, what wasn't touched or downright saturated with the short girl's influence? Besides the ill staffed psych club, and Quinn felt her lips curl at the corners at the double meaning, Rachel was a part if not President of the apparently too inclusive Black Voices, the now near mutinous Mariners, second string reserve for the Academic Tri-athletes and hounding at every possible moment, to surprisingly little success, Sandy Ryerson for a spot in the all boys Glee club, to the point in which even Quinn was beginning to feel sorry…for the effeminate teacher, that is. Quinn would not wish Rachel on her worst enemy, regardless of the irony that Rachel was Quinn's worst enemy.

"You never answered my query into your logic." Rachel's voice unsurprisingly broke through Quinn's thoughts, and she only allowed the intrusion for as long as it took to check that the other girl wasn't addressing her specifically, and constituting another challenge Quinn would have to meet. Luckily for her sanity and Rachel's safety, the question was open to those at the table.

"That's because we're ignoring you; you'd think you could tell by now," Santana snapped, clearly still angry over having her guardianship of Brittany usurped, even for a moment.

"Easy, Santana." The girl rolled her eyes at the chastisement.

"Am I the one holding a slush bucket over her face?"

"It would be less sloppy than that hot mess…you're not going to start crying again, are you?" judging by Santana's expression she had momentarily forgotten that Quinn had been in disguise for most of the past week's storytelling and seen her breakdown.

"Surrounded by the wicked bitch of the west and a munchkin? I might." A minute passed, and Rachel began to hum, apparently roused by the Oz inspired putdown.

"And if you care to find me; look to the western sky… Quinn grimaced.

"Great. Look what you did!"

"Berry sings, and it's my fault? What, your church doesn't explain the meaning of 'Act of God?'

"While I understand the context is that I sing too much, I appreciate the comparison of my voice to something as majestic as the force of nature as designed by a deity."

"You would. Why are you sitting here, anyway? Self harm gets you off?"

"No; being ignored doesn't. Besides, I have a bid to submit at this particular collective."

"Finn's mine, Berry. Deal with it." Rachel harrumphed, but Quinn found that this did not signal the end of the conversation as it usually did with Rachel Berry.

"He's not property, Quinn. But I accept your challenge."

"There is no challenge. He chose me."

"Under false pretenses when I had been led astray from my normally calm and kind demeanor by this corruptor," Rachel gestured to Santana, "into taking revenge and casting you as the victim you so abhor!" Quinn, Santana and a few other students aware of the appearance of a sentence longer than seven words turned and stared, before Santana grinned.

"It makes you sound like a super heroine," Brittany remarked, not looking up from her doodles on the desk in an off brand fat point marker.

"Or a super villain," the tan girl laughed.

"But," Rachel continued, unfortunately, "if you are so set on continuing with such uncivil and underhanded tactics and ethics, then I willingly subscribe to the edict that 'All is fair in love and war'." Rachel primly clasped her hands, apparently waiting for Quinn's rebuttal, for which she stood.

"I have nearly a head on you and I can run a mile under a minute without losing my breath. If we go to 'war' I may kill you, and there's a slight chance it won't be on purpose."

"Which brings us to Berry's early, dramatic death. And bloody too," Santana smirked and Rachel scowled, standing up as well, forcing Quinn to swallow the laughter that rose with Rachel trying to prove her point this way, diminutive as she was.

"You are so self assured Fabray, but if I even had a moment unclouded by your noxiously possessive world view with him, I could enlighten him to the possibilities."

"Slushy for two is not a possibility. It's a consequence. Of being with you, you half breed." Quinn momentarily scrunched her face in distaste; she had been going for a slightly milder insult involving indeterminate gender or indeterminate species, i.e. hobbit, house elf, etc. and came out with a far too eugenically inclined barb.

Quinn Fabray had a philosophy for life. She understood consequence and possibility and effort. She considered herself a realist, so much so that if all else failed, leave it up to God would be the most sensible response to a world beyond her control, ever if her weakness was a near uncontrollable urge to try. To that end, Quinn pursued the consequences of her actions, and when she could, the actions of others, to their conclusions no matter how far removed the two were from each other, avoiding violating her religious principles and indulging her inner control freak; Quinn had a balance, or at least a system.

Rachel apparently made it her mission to try that system until its breaking point-she was right: she did this by merely being; it seemed that whatever annoyed Quinn was already in progress whenever she encountered the short brunette. So she hadn't intended to say…that. For her part, Rachel stilled, but didn't take any extra offense, merely matching Quinn's stale glare with a fresh one.

"You need some new material Quinn; you're beginning to lose the focus of your insults, am I a transsexual, a dwarf or both? And if you're going to insult me, at least have the decency to be good at it."

Quinn was still petrified when the front door opened. Instead of Miss Pillsbury, however, a slim man with short curly hair entered, clad in a dress shirt and tie sans jacket with what Quinn pegged as 'too young to be square' jeans and loafers, and most tellingly of all, a big smile seemingly prepared to go against cynical and eager to leave teenagers just on the cusp of getting the idea that life contained a lot of cynical people eager to leave, who could and would.

"I'm William Shuester; most of you remember me from, or are currently finishing this semester of U.S. History 2; those of you who are freshmen, I'm meeting for the first time." A few of the students rolled their eyes and murmurs of 'obviously' and 'No shit'- Quinn even heard Sherlock added to the last one- rollicked about the back, while students closer to the front nodded knowingly, one or two even waved. Quinn kept her eyes steady, watching, but not seeing, still unnerved by her previous exchange with Rachel, who then spoke, and given the chance to take in the cause of her unease, Quinn took a sidelong glance.

"Yes…?"

"Rachel."

"You have a question, Rachel?"

"While I neither doubt your teaching skills nor particularly favor Miss Pillsbury, there must be a reason she's not here?" Mr. Shuester frowned. "Well, Miss Pillsbury had a prior engagement, and asked to fill in as club leader, if that's alright." Quinn couldn't help but notice, with split satisfaction, both Mr. Shuester and Rachel's aloof and barely veiled discomfort with the situation, Quinn was split between two people who clearly were committed to a particular way of doing things: Rachel's demand that everyone around her be as enthusiastic, or at least present, and Mr. Shuester's gall that no matter what, things would be fine.

"What prior engagement? This club has met for nearly the entire school year, and Miss Pillsbury has attended every single meeting. It's not as though something could have come up without her having more than sufficient time to alert us to a change." Rachel waited, and although Quinn noticed most of the students looking bored, some of the more alert students, or the more rebellious, were suddenly paying attention to the apparent slight that Rachel had pointed out. Quinn's own eyes darted to the front with a bit more accusatory flare than she would have otherwise allowed, while the teacher fumbled.

"Well, Miss Pillsbury has a busy schedule, and a prior engagement ran long-"

"You know, William, I know you think your defending your neurotic, pale, semi forgivable adulterous crush-I've met your wife, and even I find her distasteful- but isn't referring to twitchy out there hand scrubbing the lockers because she suddenly realized the students hump against them a 'prior engagement' a bit insulting? I'm sure she has a nice…cat to feed, and maybe sterilize in bleach." Mr. Shuester looked disgustedly to where Coach Sue Sylvester had popped her head in and revealed the whereabouts of the errant staff member while Quinn caught sight of Santana looking hopeful-Coach would likely pull them out of the club meeting without any blowback on their CVs-and Brittany looking slightly perturbed, perhaps imagining horrible things happening to Miss Pillsbury's theoretical cat.

"Well, I hope that answers your question, Rachel," to which the girl looked slightly offended.

"It was a perfectly acceptable inquiry; there's no reason to get snippy," Rachel said, under her breath, but obviously loud enough that it was intended to be heard causing a few snickers. Coach Sylvester grinned, and slapped Mr. Shuester on the back.

"You may have just flashed back to the good old days when they allowed corporal punishment, but I like her. You mind if I borrow her?" Quinn's eyes narrowed. As much as Quinn was willing to follow her coach orders, she was always suspicious about their intent, and just as always tried to see their ramifications; so far Quinn had either found justification for her teacher's interests, or was otherwise ambivalent about them, such as the decision to remove sleeves from the Cheerios uniforms to "show more skin without catching hell from holy rollers" as the blonde disliked the way in which Coach had said her piece but couldn't argue: unless one was a puritan from the settler days or held, in Quinn's opinion, surprisingly hypocritical Victorian values, bare arms while arousing were so in a magician's sense; slight of hand that preserved even an already compromised modesty in the short, tight skirts.

But what could Coach want with Man Hands? Apparently both Rachel and Mr. Shuester had that same question.

In unison: "For what?"

"Well, I wanted to pick up my Cheerios in order to have them help show the visiting plebeians who may deign to grace us with their underwhelming presence next year as freshmen. Apparently Figgy objects to using just the best and brightest-"

"Maybe because they're all cheerleaders and on top of that freshmen themselves," Mr. Shuester interjected.

"Listen here. My seniors are working on the final performance of their high school cheer careers that could be the cinch to land them scholarships and entry into college and professional championships. Am I supposed to jeopardize their futures so that Figgins can crow his cock, or peacock in this case, and grab a few students to keep his job?"

"While I respect your dedication and concern, I'm sure a few hours away from practice wouldn't hurt; besides these girls need more then just cheer in order to get in to college, where they should be going, Sue. There are no guarantees in that sport of lifelong employment, and they need an education, regardless." Coach Sylvester shrugged, and her mouth tugged at the edges of her cheeks in an expression of ambivalence.

"Alright dream-smasher, you tell these kids and their parents," Coach Sylvester opened the door where expectant parents and eight graders stared at him, causing the curly headed man to whiten, "that you are so full of yourself that you couldn't make time for their precious youths, oddly formed and shaped as they may be."

Perhaps it was some sort of knowingness on Quinn's part but she was only mildly surprised when Rachel, leaping to her feet and making her way to the front of the room stopping near road runner style, swaying with kinetic after effects addressed the visitors.

"Of course, our dear teacher would be happy too, he merely wants the best for his students especially on oh-so important extracurricular activities such as the Psychology club, just one of the many after school amenities provided by our close family of faculty, staff and students." Rachel turned to the back of the class and raised her eyebrows expectantly, and in a hushed, strained whisper, "Are you coming, or not?"

It took Quinn a minute to realize that she was referring to her, Brittany and Santana, and one second more for that last girl to rise up in anger at the unceremoniously way in which she had been listed in a group, nameless. That was Quinn's take on the scowl that formed along the Latina's face, to wit Quinn merely caught her attention and pointed toward their Coach, only slightly perturbed at having to use the tall blonde woman as a threat in order to subvert Santana's explosion of rage. The girl folded her arms and pouted quickly soothed by Brittany, and along with Quinn following at her own pace surrounded Rachel at the front of the room, Santana to her right, Brittany, the left and Quinn made sure to loom directly over her, smirking when Rachel tilted her head up, just for a second, and caught sight of wickedly laughing hazel eyes. Never daunted, something Quinn had begrudging respect for, Rachel swallowed shut her eyes just a second too long to be a blink and then smiled a 100 megawatt smile, flashing pearly whites in the biggest, what she knew Santana would call a "shit eating grin, if there ever was one," and simply said: "Is everyone ready for the tour? Please reserve questions until after, thank you," as Mr. Shuester looked reserved, Coach Sylvester cunningly appraising and the others outside the door bewildered, knowing something had just gone on, but not exactly sure what.

In Quinn's judgment, that was the perfect introduction to McKinley, and for the parents as well as the students, high school in general.

"You're in my house now, Bitches!" Santana roared with laughter, scaring a few of the potential incoming McKinley beginners, but causing just as many to roll their eyes. Quinn smiled; there was hope for future generations yet, regardless of what her father believed.

Quinn's home life was to be expected of a girl who referred to it as home life. Her parents, having one child away from home- her sister, Frannie- already behaved like empty nesters: her father was never to be seen without a glass of Craig, although he held his liquor well enough; her mother treated her like a much beloved niece, fussing over her, and admiring her as though she were a life sized doll, someone else's child- wouldn't it be nice to have one of her own?

Quinn was left to her own devices most of the time. Frannie reached the age in which telling on a younger sister went out of vogue almost as soon as Quinn-Lucy, back then- could do anything interesting, and Quinn saw very little of Frannie when she reached that age herself. Still, her big sister was a large aspect of her life because of, rather than in spite of the chronological and soon geographic distance between them.

Specifically, Quinn recalled a moment at a family dinner, one of her earliest memories, in which Frannie was fourteen and she ten and the former in a grumpy mood, which Quinn was having trouble understanding, as she was the one trying to eat peas with a fork.

As then Lucy Fabray hurried to get the small spheres to her mouth she half listened to Frannie bemoan the first day of her first year at McKinley.

"My name is a literary device. I sound like a Dr. Seuss character," Frannie had said. This attracted Lucy's attention, and she played her sister's name in her head, if only because of a mouthful of peas. Frannie Fabray. Maybe, thought Lucy, but it's not really rhyming, or anything.

"How's that, dear?"

"I'm alliterative. My name I mean." Lucy looked up from her project of a plate; the task of this round of pas vanquished, and frowned.

"Your name doesn't read?" Lucy's extensive, although spotty, vocabulary made her incredulous. Frannie scrunched her face in confusion, until she grasped what she thought Lucy meant.

"Well, yeah, I guess it doesn't read well." Lucy smiled at being correct, but than tilted her head in consideration.

"So? You don't have to be good at it; you just have to be able to do it."

"Do what?"

"Read!" Lucy was frustrated that her point wasn't getting across.

"Lucy thinks you mean illiterate, Francine." Francine glared across the table at the behest of her mother's clarification.

"I'm not illiterate, if I was, how would I know what alliterative meant?" Lucy felt persecuted, and balled chubby fingers into fists.

"I said your name was illiterate, Frannie!" 'Frannie' threw up her hands.

"That's it! I don't want to be called Frannie anymore." Their father took a reflexive sip of amber fluid.

"You're going to change your name because it doesn't sound nice?" The elder of the two girls shrugged at what Quinn could recall had almost felt like a challenge.

"No. I can't do that. I just don't want to be Frannie. Or Francine." The girl thought for a moment. "Call me Fran, please." Lucy tried to suppress a laugh, but it adapted into a snort. "What?"

"It makes you sound a hundred," Lucy giggled.

"Good. I want to sound older."

"Some kids made a few comments; don't you think you're over reacting?" Their mother nodded along with the comment.

"No. Something about me, I don't like. So I'm altering it. I'll ask the teacher tomorrow to go by that from now on."

"Doesn't change anything. You're still Fran Fabray." Their father emphasized the first sound of each.

"But now I'm better," was Fran's response.

Lucy had rolled her eyes. Her parents acquiesced to the name change, or abbreviation, from Francine to Fran gradually; Francine became Frannie because Lucy had called her that as a baby, and it helped to coalesce a girl into her role as big sister, and now Frannie worked on becoming Fran- who was captain of the Cheerios, prom queen, a straight A student and beloved by all her classmates.

It was only after she was fully immersed into her new title, one of the weeks spent planning her wedding that her big sister frowned when Quinn had called her 'Fran'.

"Please. You and I both know its Frannie, Lucy Q." Quinn nodded and went back to work on the French braid, but decided that while Fran/Francine/Frannie could alternate when she pleased- or even give up on what she had attained, as it was only the whim of teenager-but Quinn, no longer Lucy except for the close or rarely seen family member, would not back slide, would never soften, would never decide that being Quinn was just a facet. Quinn wasn't an improvement for Lucy, even though she learned the example from her big sister.

Quinn was who the youngest Fabray was.

All of that came to a head that night. Quinn sitting in the pool, the water there for her protection, or at least to avoid a homicide, chilling her body slowly, and to keep warm Quinn decided between allegories.

In either, she was the fallen, Lucy-fer. But was it Dante's Inferno, with Quinn trapped in ice…cold water at the bottom of a pit, roaring up at the triplicate of Dante; Santana, Brittany and Rachel traveling on to their own paradise: anywhere without her?

Or was it Paradise Lost, Quinn rebelling against the three formed stand in for God, above her whilst she was cast out?

Admittedly, Quinn's English class was going over religious literature, and perhaps-probably-her lens of the situation was colored thusly.

But it was serendipitous, Quinn thought. Lucy meant, roughly, light, Quinn understood partly from her family, when she insisted on using her middle name, and partly from looking up the origin in baby name books. Every element was there- hiding a vulgar form: baby fat was a pain to get rid of; check. Being the most beautiful, loyal, perfection inclined: I am not full of myself; it's a metaphor, check. Having to bow down to some… garish, self-centered, imperfect…: Berry really thought I'd just give up like that? Check, with extreme prejudice.

That was the core of it all. When Rachel offered to let her go, so condescendingly sought to show mercy-with her ephemeral comrades along side her facilitating Quinn's humiliation- she solidified everything that Quinn had thought was wrong with Rachel but couldn't then have precisely put her finger on, precisely being the only way in which Quinn did anything.

Together Rachel, Santana and Brittany were Dante. At the risk of one of Santana's undignified label of 'wanky', like the eponymous character, they liked to watch.

Watch Quinn humiliate herself. Watch Quinn come undone. Watch Quinn scream and twist and show Lucy, the frustrated, undisciplined child to the world, at least, according to her. That made Quinn disgusted most of all. Her world was aptly described in three names: Rachel, her arch nemesis, at the tender age of fifteen; Santana, her carrot and stick, thorn and sweet scent, depending on whether she was currently trying to beat the other girl, or currently crushing her: Quinn's motivation, all in all; and Brittany…well, Quinn knew Brittany, and like most who knew Brittany, she didn't have any animosity towards the tall blonde, but in her eyes, Brittany was, more as a intrinsic necessity than unkindness on Quinn's part, a plot device rather than a character in the comparison she constructed-Quinn, in a bit of guilt, decided Brittany was Virgil, whose appearance in The Divine Comedy was an incidence of indulgence in her opinion Dante granted himself to have a historical poet guide him through, quite literally hell and back, and so fitting that only Brittany, flaxen haired Deus ex Machina that she was, could pull it off.

Back to Santana and Rachel, Quinn decided to start off easy, not in the least because at the time her feet had become numb and she was concentrating on taking steps in an oval pattern around the pool. Santana was indeed easy, Quinn for once avoiding the entry level double entendre, and getting straight to the point… a lot like Santana, the hazel eyed girl chuckled, once she were free of her concrete prison and had bid Finn a goodnight kiss on the cheek, and was safely-most importantly warmly-swaddled in a blanket in her bed in her room.

Santana, Quinn contemplated from her woolen fortress, was apt to play two parts. Firstly, Quinn attributed to her the vice and voyeurism that, while found in each of the triad, was surely embodied by Santana. It was her willingness to judge, seconding even Quinn's own neuroses and rigidity and outclassing it entirely in regards to directness that fostered her approach to ethics akin to Dante's ease in conveying the horrors of hell, or more specifically, the judgments in line with the medieval religious understanding.

Quinn herself did not subscribe to the earliest of fire and brimstone preaching. While she held steadfast to the articles of the faith, she kept belief to a minimum. Essentially, there was a God, and there was a man who preached, and after the inevitable, did the improbable and rose from the dead. Quinn was most insistent that Christianity, all of it, was just a story; the trust of the follower was most important.

Trust that she was doing the right thing. Trust that she would be forgiven for her indiscretions. Trust in what felt right, in her soul, when that story contradicted itself, and a clear answer did not make itself readily available.

Quinn Fabray figured it out: one was supposed to have faith in one's faith.

God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference, Quinn thought for the second time in half as many hours, as Rachel, seeing the group come together, smiled, and clasped her hands together, in no less a disturbing way than a cult leader. Santana and Brittany, on either side of her remained at the rear, partly because they were useful as crowd control and partly because none of the Unholy Trinity wanted to stand near Rachel, especially as she morphed into a guided tour of the least wonderful place in the world.

"…and here we have staircase B, and if you will direct your attention towards the wire mesh safety glass, you will notice the fire hose, contained, of course, in a locked glass case for your protection, and for the Lima fire department's use in case of an emergency."

"Nothing I can't get into, Berry," Santana heckled from the back, again scaring some of the more skittish potentials. Rachel, perhaps empowered by her role as emissary for McKinley, stared moodily from the front, as the rest of the collective awaited her response.

"I imagine your years of hooliganism have prepared you to no end to breach small and delicate locks for precious cargo."

"Like Brittany's bra clasp," Quinn said, just a little too loudly, and, to which her conscience assigned perhaps more than its fair share of her regret, without thinking. Most of the heads turned to the Latina, who shifted uncomfortably, before fixing Quinn with a wicked glare, to which Quinn responded by staring down Rachel's fierce expression for essentially outing someone, even if to people unaware of the clandestine nature of Santana's sexuality.

"Actually," Brittany spoke, "I've decided to embrace my ancestors and cast off the oppressive tyrannosaurus sex that are bras." Effectively every head turned to stare at her, or more accurately, her apparently unsupported chest, until one, a boy in a wheelchair, turned to the other two cheerleaders, and awkwardly raised his hand, to which Quinn obliged before Rachel could point out that questions were supposed to be directed to the front.

"You, Rear Window kid," she pointed at him.

"Um, thanks…Basic Instinct girl? Yeah, what exactly is a Tyrannosaurus Sex?"

"Tyrannical instrument of sex," Santana dead panned, explaining Brittany's malapropism with experienced ease, still with a pained expression on her face.

"Oh. Huh. Like, how Tyrannosaurus was king-Rex-but still an old dinosaur. That's clever." The boy nodded and Brittany visibly brightened at the compliment, showing interest in the inquirer, while Quinn rolled her eyes, partly in annoyance over the over critical analysis and partly because Santana looked visibly hurt that their third member had a second admirer-she could be something of a crybaby when she wanted to in Quinn's opinion.

"Hi. What's your name?" Brittany flashed a simple smile, and Santana scowled deeply. Both were aimed at the boy, even if he only noticed the first.

"Arthur. Arthur Abrams. But everyone just calls me Artie."

"She asked for your name, not your life story, cyborg," Santana managed quickly, before the boy could end his modest sentence. A few scowls were sent her way at the offense, even Rachel choosing the new target. 'Artie' shrugged.

"That's got to be the most flattering name I've been called." Santana, peeling away from the glares, silently groaned at the grace with which Artie took the barb and crossed her arms in frustration. Luckily for her, Quinn noted, Rachel was becoming impatient and, even worse an insult for the pint sized attention seeker, being ignored for a display of affableness in the face of cruelty that Rachel had been complaining about only a short while ago.

"And that concludes the fire safety portion of our tour," Rachel said loudly, interrupting the coagulation of bodies around Artie, "And now, a tour of the various arts and extracurricular departments that you'll want to stock up during your time here. College applications are only a few years away," most of the potentials blinked, if not outright blanched at the mention of higher education, "and McKinley offers a wide selection of activities."

"And yet has only a single choice in leadership." Rachel bristled.

"One, there is nothing wrong with being ambitious. Two, if it bothers you, Quinn," Rachel coughed politely, "why don't you do something?" It was Quinn's assessment that the words 'about it' should have followed were Rachel not abhorrently insincere. Before she could respond, Santana, clinginess resounding in her voice and harsh to Quinn's ears enough to make her cringe, remarked. "Because she's not in control of the hormone therapy for your transition that's obviously got your sexually ambiguous underpants in a twist, Berry." Rather than launch in to a tirade about the evils of lacking sensitivity towards those that would be considered intersex, and then explaining the difference between trans and intersex persons-Quinn did read, after all-Rachel smirked.

It was the first time that Quinn actually considered Rachel. Quinn, mental master that she was, had long since trained her brain to associate anger with Rachel; her voice, her presence, blurry images of varying shades of brown were enough to set her off. So, the decoupling of those themes was something of a shock to her system, nearing the emotional equivalent of sepsis. Rachel, to whom subtlety was alien, rarely did anything that merited consideration, and Quinn was adamant that she not start now. Feeling something akin to mercy for accidentally outing Santana, Quinn simply placed a hand, soccer mom style in front of the girl, and stepped forward removing all attention from either brunette and on to the blonde who hadn't broken away from the group and was now very determined to perfect Artie's one-wheeled wheelie, without spinning out or crashing into a wall.

As Artie and Brittany just managed to avoid a row of lockers, Quinn pressed and cradled her chin in her chest until her vertebrae protested, so that, if she and Rachel were touching-God forbid-the smaller girl would fit neatly in the curve of her posture, and Quinn could look down on her. Infuriatingly, Rachel tipped her head up to meet her gaze, no less innocently adamant than Oliver Twist, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Yes, Quinn?" Rachel's flawless informed tone took on an edge; the knowledgeable became all knowing, the guide, a seer. Regardless of whether Quinn saw her efforts as worthy, Rachel was not so easily shaken from them, and the difference between the Rachel she knew and the one that peered up with a glare kept to the edges of her face with increasing difficulty was now obvious. Quinn looked behind her.

This Rachel had an audience. Returning to the brown eyed girl, Quinn had a bit of a tough time keeping a shiver at bay-it was likely the lighting on Rachel's eyes, unyielding to the urge to blink and had begun to tear, she thought, until she realized that meant in the near minute long space since her glower, Rachel had burned a hole into, and if she could have, through her head. Even Santana, Quinn saw in her peripheral, had become antsy, feigning interest while she looked longingly after Abrams and Brittany picking up speed for another go around, probably wishing she were in a wheelchair, Quinn thought.

"Berry, you're going to go cross eyed if you keep staring like that," Quinn said, having figured that the best time to slay the dragon was when it was rearing up to spew its fire. "Who put you in charge?"

"Your coach did," she replied, and seeing the great satisfaction that Rachel took in this, Quinn became determined to take it away from her.

"No; she offered us the opportunity; you merely tagged along." Santana nodded, seemingly agonized in having to take her eyes off the blond and the bespectacled boy, dutifully agreeing as the eight graders looked on.

"Like you always do," she taunted, this time with a bit of relish bordering on schadenfraude. Rachel always had to tag along; because she always made the intiative; people expected that the burden of introductions would fall on her- and that her risk became her fault if things didn't turn out well.

Not that she thought Rachel was deserving of pity, because there was no God given right to having friends. Quinn sure as hell didn't and she got along fine. Quinn wasn't a loner, or cruel, or cold. Sometimes, she believed, people have to wait for good things, and Rachel, simply, was not ambitious, but impatient. And some people, Rachel included Quinn thought, had to wait longer than others.

"And you sat there," Rachel's voice decimated Quinn's train of thought. "I picked up the slack. In other words, Quinn, you snooze, you lose."

The hazel eyed girl wasn't sure what agitated her more: Rachel claiming that she did something as uncouth as snooze, or Rachel coming within a hair's breath of calling her a loser. The part of Quinn's brain which she had heard referred to as the lizard's brain- that primordial part, of a few critical components, the rest being mainly vestigial- seethed at a slight only her cerebrum, only her personality, could take so ungracefully. That same upper function that introduced the rub managed to restrain the reaction to it, and all that managed to eke out was Quinn's fingers curling, dissatisfying to her, into a fist, hoping to feel Rachel's throat within its grasp. Vaguely aware of Rachel watching her, partly wary, partly in anticipation, along with the rest of the crowd, curious to see if their exchange got any bigger, a deep breath was all it took for Quinn to uncurl her fingers and resist the urge to check if her palm was bleeding. Rachel waited a moment before resuming her tour guide duties.

"Alright, if everyone will please rejoin the group so as not to disturb the classes still in session," Rachel said, again loudly in order to get the attention not of the group who winced at the volume of her voice, but Brittany and Artie, panting slightly. Quinn noticed that despite Rachel's trademark brashness, Santana looked relieved as Brittany retook her position beside her without having to be asked, if a little perturbed that Brittany still grasped the back of his chair, having rolled him into place.

"Too late," sang a voice in the hall full of triumph that had yet to be granted. Quinn chose a spot on the wall, and stared at it with disinterest. Noah Puckerman, a Jewish boy who dressed like a skinhead but save for a stout Mohawk that somehow seemed bigger then he, or possibly a mutant ninja turtle, appeared around the corner, with Finn in tow. Cut off sleeves, jeans and a generally attempted roguish look combined to a facsimile of an urban punk, despite Lima barely meeting the requirements, while Quinn's pseudo boyfriend, while not her especial favorite wares, dressed in a more respectable graphic shirt that wasn't ironic and a flannel over shirt left unbuttoned and rather big on him; Quinn spared him this criticism, it was after all, an awkward age.

"Our teacher was pissed, you guys were making so much noise," he looked pointedly at Brittany and Artie. "So we came to see what the fuss was about." Finn smiled at Quinn.

"Hi, Quinn." She nodded in return.

Noah, or 'Puck' as he preferred to be called, walked with a swagger, which was pronounced as he slid up to Quinn, a conspiratorial look in his eye.

"So, Ice Queen," Quinn didn't react to the name that had apparently gotten around since Rachel had first used it, but despite Puck having no way of knowing, the brunette's cough covered giggle made his faux pas all the more apparent and decidedly his fault, "aren't you supposed to be in Psych?" Quinn replied coolly.

"Aren't you supposed to be in tutoring?" Puck waved a creased bathroom pass that, considering the places and surfaces it had been in contact with, was too close to her face, even if he weren't trying to woo her.

"We are escorting potential graduates for the class of 2013," Rachel explained. Out of her peripheral, Quinn observed Puck's bushy eyebrows rise.

"So, it seems we both have a little time on our hands. Maybe you can help me then. I'm a little OCD, did you know that?" Quinn didn't answer, and he took that as a sign to continue. "See, when you have this, you have to do things in threes- or people for that matter-" Quinn sidestepped him and, while still appearing disinterested, stood by Finn, leaving no question of whom she was with. She noted that Rachel had quietly-a first for her- observed the situation. Quinn knew from the curriculum that Puck's description was grossly accurate at best and from the club that Rachel knew this too, and it must have taken her a great deal of restraint, and spite, to allow Puck to continue on with his inept medically based pick up line.

Apparently, Finn's mild endearment was not enough to dissuade Puck from staking a claim, despite knowing the two were dating, or something like it; Quinn knew, the two being best friends, Finn would have told him.

It occurred to Quinn that every stereotype about girls was actually more applicable to boys and vice versa. Quinn had yet to meet a boy who didn't gossip with his friends, invest a considerable amount in buying sneakers (shoes), and loved to eat…whenever.

Quinn, companionship challenged as she was, didn't know a girl who didn't consider her friends potential rivals, not to be stern and strict (nagging), and didn't like to play-with whatever.

And that included boys. But Quinn was in no manner to be what Puck considered a conquest and she knew to be a stepping stone. Puck, being fifteen, had just discovered girls, or rather, had just discovered his ability to get girls to pay attention to him. Like any child, Quinn reasoned, with a toy, Puck was curious and enthusiastic, and in this venue, that made him perverted. Checking out every function and novelty, he was thorough, but capricious: very soon, the toy would, as would the object of those very limited affections, be cast aside. Quinn found this a necessary evil-except for her, for she was above such things-she was just not one to be shunted by teenage frivolity or its foibles, which would eventually be grown out of.

Quinn had to believe this about Puck, because the alternative was too disconcerting.

"Would you like to join us, Finn?" And then rather obviously, Rachel added, "Oh, and Noah, too, of course."

"What part of they have tutoring did not reach your pointed, elf like ears, Berry." Between warily watching Artie and her exasperation with Rachel most of the inflexion in Santana's voice was worn down to a blunt insult. Rachel took it in stride

"None of it. And I would never deprive students of an education. However, given that the new students are the life blood of the school, it would behoove us to realize the opportunity of having two potential stars introduce them to the positive aspects of the athletics program, the Titans, and Coach…" Rachel furrowed her brow, searching for the name, "Tanaka!" Her shout made the visiting students closest to her wince and back away.

Puck seemed enthused by the idea-he was flexing his muscles and rolled his neck so that the vertebrae cracked. Finn nodded quickly, but then stopped, casting his own wary glance at Quinn, who bit back a smile; she was getting through to him. Quinn made sure his apprehension was not unfounded.

"Berry, if they don't pass their classes- yes, Berry, that's plural- the only thing they'll star in is being the best clean up crew at McKinley." Rachel paused, as Finn looked concerned and Puck scowled.

"How many classes are you in tutoring for?" The question was aimed at Finn but Puck spoke.

"Math, History and English." Finn at least had the decency to nod, sheepishly. Rachel had a decent poker face, but Quinn saw the tremor pass through her face warping it the tiniest bit of a visage of distaste. Santana appeared next to Quinn and whispered to her.

"So, what," she said, esteem in her voice, "spit on your cupcake so Berry won't eat any?"

"Berry only eats vegan foods."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, as always, it's not about the 'cupcake'. It's about her."

"Finn being the cupcake." Quinn saw the crack a mile away.

"It was your metaphor, S." Santana looked like she wanted to say more, but Brittany spoke up then.

"Is it against your religion to be bad at math?" She was looking at Puck.

"What." Quinn knew that Puck was sensitive about his Jewish background; granted, only so he would have yet another thing to fight about.

"Yeah. It's like a commandment, or something." Santana concurred, trying, admirably, to follow and defend Brittany's logic.

"Totally. Jews and money go hand in hand, After Egypt and besides Jerry Lewis, and Hollywood, all money positions." Santana ticked off on her hand, "Accountants, bankers, the leaders of schemes, both Ponzi and Pyramid. It'd be like…" Santana's eyes fell on a black haired girl, and remarked, "Like an Asian kid... who wasn't good in math, "she finished, awkwardly because of the redundancy. The girl glared.

"That's- that is so racist," the girl sputtered. Santana rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, whatever, Chan."

"It's Cohen-Chang," the girl answered. Santana stared, and Quinn knew that Santana had not listened when the girl, Tina had introduced herself, and was stupefied to be that close on a complete guess; being Latina, Santana was aware of cultural expectations from both within and outside her family, and was just being cruel.

"It's your thing," Brittany surmised after a pregnant pause, looking slightly perturbed.

"Brittany, I don't think you've passed a class this year, or a test, for that matter," Rachel said, incredulous.

"I'm Dutch."

"And?"

"So, I'm not Jewish."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive."

"I don't think the Dutch and Jewish have problems with each other."

"I mean, Dutch is not a religion."

"Yes it is," Brittany insisted, drawing a few odd looks from the crowd. Santana had her own look of concern, sizing multiple threats to Brittany's innocence, which Quinn noted with something akin to loyalty to her teammates, Rachel was the greatest.

"If it were, it would have a deity. Does it?" Apparently, Rachel, intent on avenging her portrayal as both a murderer and suicidal in Brittany's story, was giving her a shovel with which to dig her own social standing's grave. Santana sought to intervene but Brittany answered.

"David Guetta." More looks this time, indicating that Brittany was odd. Rachel stared.

"David Guetta is a man, Brittany." Apparently realizing that Mr. Guetta's dubious divinity was a gross violation of the principle of Occam's Razor, added, "Besides he's French. The Dutch worship a French man?"

"Have you ever seen God, Rachel?" The sincerity with which Brittany asked her question struck Rachel dumb.

"…no. No, I haven't."

"Then you can't say what God is like, right?"

"But I can say with certainty that it is not David Guetta." Rachel was trying to out race the widening logic trap she seemed to slowly realize was being set, as did Santana, who relaxed, but only a little.

"How?"

"How?" Rachel was practically shouting and then did. "Well, with that logic, I could believe I'm God, couldn't I?!"

"I could believe you would say that, "Brittany said simply.
The roar of laughter was so sudden and intense that Quinn flinched. She saw that the only people who weren't bowling over at Brittany's apparent slight were Rachel, Santana and Brittany herself. Finn managed to recover first, realizing that they were all laughing at someone, rather than with each other. Puck, despite having found his sole defense from both his academic inadequacies and Jewish typecasting, was in a fit of giggles so hard he looked closer to crying than Rachel, who trembled slightly, her lower lip jutting out to a point that to Quinn the urge to allow tears to stream freely etched in the brunette's face was almost painful.

"His mom's Belgian," Brittany added, providing insult to emotional injury, and few laughter aftershocks. After the group demurred, Rachel managed to move, albeit stiffly, as though she would break or, more apt, fall apart. She swallowed thickly and sniffed.

"Right. Alright then. I wish you luck then, and safety from the Dutch Devil. I hate to ask-"

"Mike Myers."

"W-why Brittany?"

"We don't sound like that, and we don't paint your junk gold." Rachel stared.

"Of course not. Now, as I see some angry teacher's faces in the door windows, I'll ask that we continue our tour post haste. Puck, Finn, I trust you'll joining us?"

"They have tutoring to get back to, Berry." Brittany had done the hard part, and now Quinn was determined to mop up the edges. "My boyfriend is not failing so that you can show off. Puck, I don't care about." Puck actually looked hurt.

"You're a cold bitch, Quinn," he said, drawing a few gasps from the middle schoolers, who likely dropped f-bombs with the same restraint as nuclear payloads. She ignored them and responded succinctly.

"That's why I'm the Ice Queen, remember?" Finn drew close and whispered in her ear, a little loudly.

"We're boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Not if you flunk Basic Algebra." Finn looked concerned.

"Um, Raquel?" Quinn smiled as Rachel allowed her head to fall in defeat. "I'm gonna head back to class. I really can't fail, but yeah, try out for the football team, there's a lot of great guys and Coach Tanaka, he's…not some skinny Chinese guy if that's what you're thinking…" Catching sight of Tina Cohen Chang, he amended, "Not that there's anything wrong with that. I look forward to seeing you guys." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided instead to turn and head back to class.

"No, damn it!" Puck smacked the wall, and the younger teens scattered away from him, like pepper from a drop of soap in a bowl of water, and amalgamated to the windowed rear of the hallway. "You're going to let her just boss you around? Screw that. Screw her. Except you're not, so she doesn't get a vote. Yet."

"So, put out or shut up. Interesting philosophy, Puckerman." Quinn felt particularly nasty and it was reflected in what she then said. "How did that work out for your mother?" Enough girls had been over to the Puckerman household and compared notes to realize that the closest thing to a man in the house was Puck, and things had been that way for sometime. Quinn's remark was ugly, but reduced blowback to the smallest scale possible: she and Finn were at a point in their relationship that small talk would siege both easily and recklessly into more personal topics. If Finn had mentioned his successful campaign on Call of Duty 2 and when Quinn's natural response to chat about something other than video games resolved this, the end result would be a talk about Puck, what was going on in Puck's house while the game was playing, and Finn would share something intimate about his friend to the person he saw benign enough to try something with without a total fear of being humiliated. If Finn had related to her about the condition of Puck's household, she would never have the chance to use it, because Finn would have felt betrayed, even used, for information.

Besides, Puck was being an ass.

Puck charged, and Finn grabbed him, Quinn only side stepping to give the latter boy enough space to grapple the first against the wall. Big though the shirt was Finn was bulkier than Puck-which was why he was in the running for quarterback and Puck for running back. Still, it was a struggle.

"Come on man, calm down!" Puck seethed, but nodded against Finn's shoulder, as he couldn't look directly at his friend with an arm bar pressed into his collarbone. Hesitantly, Finn stepped off of his friend, gauging him warily, while Puck glared at Quinn, who was unimpressed and already figuring how to assuage any outrage aimed at her as any physical attack from Puck would have been much worse for him than her, and Quinn, for both her conscience and her budding romance had no choice but to hope that an outside force would intervene.

"Thank you, Finn." Rachel expressed her gratitude while glaring at Quinn out of the corner of her gaze, which Quinn had to admit, was impressive, if passive aggressiveness were something to be admired. Dully, as if it was spontaneous, and she was not quite in control of her senses or movements shut her eyes and sweetly kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she said when he turned to face her, eyes lidded and leaving off his name because if there was one thing Quinn knew of that Rachel did not it was the importance of words left unspoken. Finn swallowed and Quinn resisted the urge to glance at Rachel, and took her uncharacteristic silence as her disgust with the scene before her.

"You're, uh, welcome." The look on his face suggested disbelief that she would even entertain the consideration that he would let Puck touch her, his attempts to hit on her in front of Finn apparently notwithstanding. Quinn nodded politely, resuming her vigil of apathetic consummation with nothing in particular. As the players in the latest scuffle decanted, Rachel sought to reclaim the one thing she still could possibly believe was under her control- the group. To Quinn, this seemed a cutting of losses; while some might mistake her for paranoid, Quinn had some faint belief that Rachel, from the moment Coach Sylvester had shown interest in shoving off an undesired task, sought to use this to her advantage. Had she not proclaimed all was fair in love and war? Had she not shown herself to be extremely manipulative and deceitful in the pool incident? Was she not completely delusional? As if sensing the arguable nature of the answer she provided the third question, she nodded in the affirmative. In any case, Rachel had lost all of the advantages she had tried to seize through spontaneous thought or careful, almost supernatural foresight, and appeared now to be looking to turn her original means into a new end.

"If every one is settled, and has ceased comments about other people's mothers, racial identities, or religious beliefs, especially the latter two combined," Rachel spared Brittany, who had resumed her corner in the SBA triangle, a glance, but quickly looked away, as if afraid of getting sucked back into another disprovable proof, "we'll be on our way then."

Quietly as possible, chastised by Rachel's shushes, which Quinn, watching the teachers see who was making the disturbance in the hallways but too intent on finishing their own extracurricular to do anything about it, could see was aggravating them more so, made their way through the valley of the shadow of the classrooms to the staircase, all so that Rachel, upon reaching it, could point and say, "We have just passed the multitude of clubs, groups and extra help sessions to help enrich your four years, or possibly less, here. To the right, the computer club, of which I am a member in good standing, the Volunteers of America, of which I am vice president, and the Social Awareness Society of which I am-"

"Presidente por vive; no mas! Revolucion! Revo-luc-ion! Revo-luc-ion!" Santana chanted, pumping her fist all the while, at the stop of her lungs in an exaggerated accent, earning a few strange looks and more than a few giggles, and finally a door opening on the right side with an agitated member of the computer club sticking his head out and glaring, prompting Santana's mouth to click shut and slide against the wall, looking innocent, leaving a stunned Rachel to take the blame.

Not that the damage hadn't already been done: the entire group having known Rachel for only an hour and a half already understood the way things were; the group split in half to allow the electronic enthusiast a clear line of sight for the brunette, and a few even milled around Santana providing cover, if only to get a laugh. Quinn had to restrain a chuckle, loving the irony that Rachel's sole claimable victory left would provide a host of freshmen at best way of her and at worst determined to see her downfall, or at least be willing participants. That would probably bother her more, Quinn mused, that she was too irrelevant to be worth more than a few bit parts, and only one mastermind.

Rachel stared at the, by the looks of it to Quinn, junior, down until he likely decided it wasn't worth it, her reputation preceding her, or just being a freshman was enough-why start a feud when, given the number of seniors who left McKinley by January, and counting summer vacation, would spend most of his time on graduation exams and enjoying the freedom of a light course load. Once he disappeared inside his classroom, Rachel moved from her position, barely able to restrain a huff. Santana managed to maneuver up to the front and taunted, "Or possibly less?" Quinn smiled demurely.

"Underselling a bit, Berry?" Rachel ignored Santana but approached Quinn.

"You think this is so easy. Fun? Try explaining to them how great Celibacy club is. You're supposed to be helping too." Quinn nodded curtly, and marched to the front, watching Rachel edge herself near Finn as casually as possible. Turning her attention to the group as a whole, she focused her disgust with Rachel's shameless display into irritation with everyone staring expectantly at her, swallowing her nerves down only once.

"I'm Quinn Fabray, head of the Celibacy Club. Think what you want, say what you will. I don't care. Most of you will never leave the state, and some very special individuals will never leave Lima. So. You will probably marry young after a very brief period of upward mobility to mid level or assistant manager that turns out to be a dead end job. The point of this club is to make sure you hold off on the four or five years so your life is not a complete waste, or at least give the illusion of. Surely you can wait until the person you're with won't go to jail for statutory rape. Thank you." Quinn stepped to the side and waited for Rachel.

"You didn't ask if anyone had questions," she deadpanned. Quinn was about to respond with a crack about how Rachel's existence would answer any questions they could have about not being celibate, but reluctantly heeded her conscience reminding her of her one stipulation in destroying Rachel Berry: leave the family out of it. Quinn did her best to look put upon and asked.

"Any questions." It was clear she wouldn't answer them, at least not politely, or helpfully. One of them, however, raised his hand.

"Hi. Blaine, Blaine Anderson. I was wondering, if nothing else is planned, even though it doesn't seem like it," he said this under his breath, "could we check out the arts department. Perhaps you have a choir or glee club. Someone you…probably throw in the dumpster, you do that here don't you?" Blaine sounded rather sure that they did.

"We have a glee club," said Santana, surprisingly informative, "but it's only for guys, so lucky you." Santana gave him a once over, taking in his delicate features and hair that, besides the fact that Quinn had practice and would be counterintuitive to use any thing substantial, likely had more product in his hair than her, and smirked. "I think." An ersatz smile rivaling Santana's own stretched across his face, knitting his eyebrows together slightly.

"I'm sure you have no trouble telling the difference," Blaine commented. Santana stepped up to him, looking him in the eye; the two were only an inch difference in height, with Santana slightly taller. Or maybe it's the high tops, thought Quinn, admiring the polished black of the boy's dress shoes. Santana's smile grew sweeter, and therefore incredibly more fake.

"I'm sorry; did you want to say something?" Quinn watched Rachel take in a breath and hold it in, while several of the others backed away slightly. If Quinn was right, it was to get a better view without appearing to look. Taking this in, Blaine gave a small laugh, a derisive chuckle with a hint of catching oneself in a ridiculous situation. Santana raised an eyebrow.

"You just..." another eyebrow twitch, "You just seem to really know what you want. I'd like to be that sure." Santana stared at him for far longer then strangers should occupy one another's personal space.

"Most people would like to be like me." Santana walked back to Brittany, whereas before she had been drifting in and out of the crowd, as if reminded of something. Referring to the art department, Artie spoke up.

"I'd really like to see that too."

"That's what you'd really like? Not, say, functioning legs?"

"Santana!"

"If you're offering."

"Ha-ha. I don't think this school is even wheel chair accessible."

"Santana!" Rachel was livid this time. Santana looked bothered.

"What, elf? I'm just saying. No ramps. It's not a good thing. It's because Figgins is a cheapo. You know it, and I know it."

"If we had a need I'm sure Principal Figgins would provide the necessary provisions to allow him access."

"Or," Finn stood by Rachel, "we'll build one, right Puck." The boy shrugged.

"I've got some crap to make a board stay up, I guess."

"That's very sweet of you, although I highly doubt our bureaucrat principal would seek to avoid the Handicap Accessibility Act."

"Unless the school board finds fault in building thousands of dollars in access ramps for one student," Quinn countered.

"We could covert Artie's wheelchair to a hover chair," Brittany offered, and then as an aside to Artie himself, "I have the plans on a napkin."

"So," Rachel grouched, "now you have a problem with people in wheelchairs." She wasn't asking.

"I haven't got a problem with any peoples, just you, you pint size- full size pain."

"All the same nuisance in an inconvenient, compact package, disturbingly marked for your protection," said Santana looking up from where Brittany was showing her and Artie where the "superpower nitrous tank" she heard about in Fast and Furious would be placed, were they to follow her specifications.

"They can't bar Artie if he wants to attend, they let you in, and you haven't got a heart!" Rachel jabbed her finger at her. For some reason, Quinn wanted to disprove Rachel, and she suspected that wagging finger was at least partly to blame for her lack of tact.

"No they can't. They'll simply vote not to build the ramps, and he'll have to have his parents or a professional drag him around from class to class and up the stairs; unlike you, Berry, people care about having a life!"

"Quinn-" Santana began but was cut off by Rachel.

"He's in a wheelchair, not dead! And who are you to speak of the tolerance level of the McKinley student body? Or it's administration, for that matter?"

"It's a consideration, that's all, Berry. We can't all have our heads in the sky or in the sand because life is so terrible."

"Then why are you so "worried" about Artie? Shouldn't he tough it out or whatever false virtue you're trying to impart?"

"Not when you're making the decision. He has a right to know, and just because you think things should be a certain way doesn't mean that are and it especially doesn't mean that they will. Drown yourself Berry, but don't take people down with you."

"It's not my decision, and it's not unreasonable for this school to upgrade and conform to standard basic protocol-"

"It's prohibitively expensive," Quinn restated, showing that she could throw around big words too.

"Not if other students with similar handicaps decide to attend."

"Guys…" Finn tried but was silenced by Quinn's rebuttal.

"Have you seen any other handicapped around here?"

"There would be if the building was up to code, wouldn't they?" Quinn had a terrible sensation that Rachel was reversing her role with Brittany with her, and decided to end the back and forth.

"No. Because people don't attend schools because it fits their terrible, horrible disfigurements, they try to outlive them- all except you." It was then that Quinn felt a sharp yank at the back of her head, pulling her head back reflexively, but not before she saw a hand give a tug at Rachel's bangs.

"Ow! Brittany, what was that for?"

"Look," said Brittany, and although voice modulation did not seem to be her forte, or exist, there was a definitive command in the blue eyed blonde's single word expression that caused both Quinn and Rachel to look without hesitation.

"Artie had wheeled himself away, slowly; head down, whilst Blaine and Tina Cohen Chang attempted to cheer him up.

"I'm sure she didn't mean it that way. She, she just didn't want to be, you know, um, what's the word I'm looking for?" Blaine turned to Tina.

"F-flippant?"

"Exactly!" Tina smiled. "She didn't want to be flippant. I-I like the chair-you look like- what's that guy, he's psychic, and, um, bald-which is distinguished…"

"Professor X." Artie was humorless.

"Nice job, Faberry. You two broke the robot," Santana rolled her eyes, and jogged over to where Artie moped.

"Did-did she just Brangelina our names?" Rachel looked fairly disturbed. From where Brittany had joined her Santana called out.

"Yes I did, because you two fight like an old married couple, and I ain't gots no time for this sheet." Santana avoided saying the blue word in the middle of a hallway. "Look, wheels, you wanted to see the arts room, right? So me, the Liberace baby and Love- you- long- time here are going to lift you up the stairs, aiight?" Artie didn't answer, so Santana shrugged. "Be that way. I've got a tour and Coach is not coming down on my ass because those two have to fight in front of the kids. Okay, ready?" Artie started as the three grabbed an edge of the chair, while others looked on, until they wobbled under the weight and Artie's cry of "no, wait-" and Finn and Puck formed a fairly regular pentagram and with Brittany guiding them, ascended the stairs to the next floor, leaving a stunned Quinn and gaping Rachel to watch as they disappeared, first their form, and the voices faded with the rest of the visitors shrugging and following the makeshift throne to continue their exploration, and likely to intervene if the boy-or anyone else-suddenly toppled down the steps.

Suddenly, the corridor was quiet, and Quinn realized that she had been ostracized, and worse still ostracized with Rachel Berry as company.

"Well, I suppose, we should get up-" Quinn grabbed her arm, and the fact that Quinn was willing to touch that which she reviled made Rachel gasp in shock, which had apparently paralyzed Quinn, but just for a moment.

"You cannot be that stupid. Not without it hurting." Rachel stared at her, obviously not comprehending. "We talked about that kid- like he was nothing."

"You're the one who mentioned 'terrible, horrible disfigurement,'" Rachel reasoned.

"You're the one who pushed me to it." Quinn said, but was disgusted with herself as she said it.

"How can I the lowly plebian Rachel Berry, make the Ice Princess Quinn Fabray, do anything she doesn't want to do, hmm?"

"No one's more disappointed in this than me, Berry." Quinn paused. "I thought I was the Ice Queen?" Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Perhaps I saw you thought out a bit-you looked genuinely perturbed that you had hurt that boy's feelings."

"I'm not a monster, and we hurt Artie's feelings, Berry." Calling him 'Artie' somehow made Quinn feel even worse, like she had kicked a puppy…who was missing two legs. Quinn rubbed her temples.

"An apology is best then?" Quinn's head shot up and she glared at Rachel, whose eyes widened, and she held up her hands. "We apologize to him," Rachel pointed up the stairs. Quinn, pacified, nodded.

"And say what? You infuriate me so much I say cruel things?" Rachel shrugged in nonchalance.

"I'm a bad influence on Quinn Fabray. Kind of… self referential, I guess, for an apology at least." Quinn managed to be civil enough to hum her agreement. Running her finger along the wall, Rachel continued, "There's not much we can say, is there? We looked like idiots, made Artie feel worse than we looked and had to rely on the two biggest trouble makers and the source of our disagreement to clean up our mess. It would be funny if it weren't so-"

"Disgraceful?" Rachel allowed her head to slip forward once in agreement. "A bit of advice, Berry, when you're going through hell," and Rachel raised her eyes at Quinn's invocation of the place of the damned, "it's best to keep going." Quinn almost marched to the stair well, and began to climb, stopping to toss a glance Rachel's way. Are you coming or not, Berry?" Rachel never wanted to be left out, and certainly wasn't going to start now, quickly clambering after Quinn's long strides as fast as Rachel's diminutive form would allow.

At the top, Quinn took a deep breath to steady her heart; it was barely above resting, Cheerios practice gave her more then enough endurance to run up a stout flight or two without disrupting homeostasis, but Quinn, perhaps taking a cue from the example of snipers Coach Sylvester had shown them a few months before, wanted her body still, and patiently waited for her breathing to ease to where it was unnoticeable, and her heartbeat to soften, so that her mind could gather itself.

Perfect calm was more about the journey than the destination.

"Quinn? Are you alright?" Quinn smiled, and felt that it was the kind that had her lower face in shadow that seemed to pool from her eyes, and a look at Rachel's face saw the mild concern there blur into wariness, for just a moment.

"Right as rain, Berry."

"Okay, then. I take it you have an idea?"

"Follow me." Rachel allowed herself to be lead down the hall.

The arts department was not an official department, as McKinley High was not a specialized high school by any means. Centered around serving the populace as the main public education institution, however, it had a decent budget, and although the Cheerios raided that budget-something that impressed Quinn to no end, considering that, unjustly, Cheerleading, at least the way they did it, was not yet a Title IX sport- there was enough to go around that the school offered participation in several creative disciplines that by contrast would not be offered in, say more inner city rival Jane Adams Academy, but not to the extent that Carmel High employed.

Instead every probable association with the arts was held on this floor. At the side where Quinn and Rachel were just at, the supply closets, containing materials for both 'industrial' arts and tailoring the costumes used in the school's plays; beyond that, where they were coming up were the closets containing the musical instruments- Quinn had been inside earlier that year, on an errand for her first semester elective and saw that the school's supply was mostly second hand recorders- as well as sheet music, stands and scales instruction books that were beginning to fall apart. Beyond them lied the computer lab specifically for graphic design- also known as cheap banners for school events disguised as coursework- and the choir room, where Quinn heard the voices of the group members, milling about, likely under Blaine's prodding to visit the room.

Sandy Ryerson was fanatic, at best, about his room. It always surprised Quinn that Rachel could not join glee club, because she and Mr. Ryerson were so much alike: vain, a flair-and that was Quinn putting it nicely-for the dramatic, and a pretentious disregard for what others would like, or cared about. He would never allow any unauthorized individuals access to his domain, who he called the uninspired, and maintained that his all male ensemble was for the purpose of providing a richer tone that naturally higher pitched females could not aspire, and were redundant, as some of the freshmen had tenor capabilities. Kurt Hummel, a slightly popular freshmen Quinn shared an introductory class with this semester, explained that he had tried out for the club, but that Ryerson was a little "too hands on" for his taste, with an obvious underpinning to the normally much more subtle teen's choice of words. Quinn didn't know either Ryerson or Hummel well, but the former disturbed her and Hummel set off her what, as she had learned recently was known as gay-dar from a mile away; cynicism prevailed: if the boy who probably would be voted most likely to marry in Vermont was suspicious of the man most likely to be better acquainted with decorative scarves than Nathan Lane, trust the fair skinned boy with a well moisturized T-zone, which, honestly, even the white as alabaster Quinn wasn't sure the location of. Apparently gone for the day, as the voices were neither hushed, nor hurried; Ryerson was out of sight, out of mind for the group and all the better for Quinn, whose smile grew and grew, until Quinn could feel the indents on her cheeks, shallow though they were. Quinn stopped just outside the door, which was shut, she noted so they did have some sense not to attract attention, which was necessary for Quinn's idea which had only just formed into something thought out; until then it had been a haze, promptly Quinn to walk slowly, and keep an eye on Rachel who met her gaze searchingly at each interval.

"We just go in there, without anything prepared?"

"It's an apology; we're not addressing the conflict in the Middle East."

"You only chose that as an example because I'm Jewish, didn't you?" It was Quinn's turn to roll her eyes, only Rachel could make a decades long conflict about her.

"No, because, bringing it up when convenient, being short, and eating Chinese food for Christian holidays does not make you Jewish, really." Quinn was about to open the door but Rachel's voice, one of its many irritating effects, stopped her.

"First, where were you in that inane conversation with Brittany? And two, sorry, I left my Jew identification card in my other pocket." Quinn turned to look at Rachel, her turtleneck sweater and short pleated skirt. It was a look the girl had only recently adopted, and Quinn could remember the pink and red romper that Rachel had worn on her first day of school that had first drawn the unwanted attention that had continued for the other hundred and ten days of their first year of high school. Apparently, Rachel had interpreted the blow back to dressing like the host of a show where they waited for young viewers to answer before saying 'That's right!' as a comment not on age appropriateness but on its conservatism, and was convinced that her legs were her best asset. Realizing she was staring, Quinn launched her original quip.

"There's a pocket on that scrap?"

"There's dignity in yours?"

"It's a uniform. You? It's barely a dirty Halloween costume." Almost gleefully, Quinn added, "It's only April, Berry."

"And yet you're a monster all year round." Quinn raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you people liked women tough and in charge." Rachel's own brow nearly folded in on itself.

"You people-"

"Progressives, Berry. I meant progressives." The tan dome relaxed and Rachel nodded, before frowning.

"There is a world of difference between what they do and what you perpetrate, Quinn. Regardless, everything you do is to spite me. How sad." Rachel pouted in mock sympathy, and Quinn once again saw the Rachel who fed off the crowd, and in the same instance, her chance. Ignoring the ill definition of her life's motive, Quinn addressed Rachel's earlier question, albeit through gritted teeth.

"Here's what we're going to do: start fighting again." Rachel squinted at her.

"Explain," Rachel said, a mixture of confusion and intrigue, as though Quinn were making a presentation. She persevered and explained her plan.

"We go in there and keep fighting, which takes the embarrassment off of him and focus it on us. Understand?" Rachel looked queasy.

"There has to be a better way."

"There isn't. The only way to be sincere is to admit we hate each other and the guy in the wheelchair is a really unfortunate casualty of how much on wishes the other dead."

"I don't wish that, for some reason I can't fathom." Quinn was tired of playing nice, Rachel's apparent game of choice.

"Look, the thing is, we show them what they already know, but that kid doesn't. You wanted to welcome them to McKinley, here's your chance. Rachel nodded her agreement. Quinn began to push on the door when Rachel spoke up again.

"Wait- why do you get to go first?" The corners of Quinn's mouth turned up, a rarity as this smile was almost completely genuine.

"Because, Berry. I know how to make an entrance."

Quinn swept into the room, taking notice of how fast it took everyone to notice her; she didn't want to have to play out her idea on false starts, with people on different response tracks. This would only work if everyone responded as a group. Checking behind her to make sure Rachel had entered, Quinn glared at the company which glared back save for Artie, who moped in his chair, where before he had been fiddling with a camera lifted, presumably from the AV club's stock, a afro headed pale thirteen year paused mid way in showing him a particular function.

"Who's dumb as rocks plan was it to leave me behind with the hobbit? Sure- I'm sorry about what I said about wheelchairs" Quinn having rehearsed this in her mind while arguing with Rachel in the hall, had decided that the moniker 'wheelchair kid' was endemic of the problem she had caused and 'Artie' too familiar for the girl who had essentially reminded him of his limitations in life and for a group whose attachment was predicated on what Quinn suspected was pity, "but that's no reason to render me deaf." Quinn turned to Rachel, expecting rebuttal-she had a schedule to keep, and the brunette was not doing her part. "Don't look at me like that, Berry," Quinn prodded, causing Rachel to look at her with a confused expression tinged with incomprehension, causing Quinn to mentally sigh. "This is your fault." Rachel opened her mouth to speak, but Santana's voice from her perch sitting on the piano came across instead.

"It's both your faults. I'm not dealing with a sad Britts because the two of you can't watch what you say, I mean Berry, sure, we're dealing with the word waterfall that created the rainbow that we're supposed to get over, but you Quinn, should know better: silence is golden."

"Fine. If it will make Brittany feel better, I'm sorry, Arthur Abrams. I'm sure if you attend, even if Puck can't get the stuff-"

"Crap, I said I had crap that cold be pulled together into a ramp." Puck knew of her prohibition on swearing, and was trying to get her goat; he never remembered things he said, Quinn doubt he thought about them before they left his mouth.

"Your ramp will be provided by the decent and kind members of the school board." Quinn lowered her voice to a pleasant hush as if singing a lullaby, counting on Rachel's timing, if the girl would only respond-

"That's hardly an apology, Quinn," Rachel stood beside her and looked Quinn in the eye with a bit more gumption than was needed, and Quinn wasn't sure if Rachel considered herself betrayed as of yet. "This is an apology." Rachel turned to Artie who sank back in his seat. "Hi. About that whole…business…"

"Of public humiliation," Brittany elaborated, not in the least for Rachel's benefit.

"Of a faux pas in its truest form-we really got carried away and it was only because we really care about making the school the best place for new students. But we were wrong and we're sorry. So-very-sorry." Rachel held Artie's gaze for about a minute. Santana realized what the diva in training was doing.

"Are you actually trying to cry? I thought you were a vegan, Berry, isn't this a little too hammy for your appetite?" Rachel made a show of wiping some dubious moisture from her eyes and sniffled.

"While I find it comforting to know that my particularly healthy decisions have remained with you, Santana, I am not pretending to cry-I merely feel bad about what transpired, and want to correct any hard feelings." Santana snorted, almost a snarl, the action was so intense.

"So you felt so bad, you came up here to keep going at it with Fabray. Quinn blinked, she wouldn't have chosen those particular words, but the effect was still the same-Rachel as harbinger of their adaptive struggle, exhausting the patience of the group, Santana expediting the process, burning the candle at both ends so to speak, and giving Rachel more breath to waste in her fool's errand. Quinn, having remained silent, waited until even Finn seemed disappointed with Rachel's obtuseness and looked for her moment. Taking in her surroundings, Quinn let her eyes wander from the piano to the risers and to the posters of operatic and classical singers. This was indeed the place to set up her own, initial striking down of the brunette, and Quinn had saw this moment coming far longer than she had been planning it. Its simplicity overwhelmed her, and she scolded herself for not understanding sooner.

"Give it a rest, Berry," Quinn sighed, portraying herself just as tired, if not more so from their sparring. "You know what your problem is? You never put your money where your mouth is."

"If she swallowed, she'd be broke," Brittany mused aloud, drawing a chorus of laughter, although it did not escape Quinn's attention that neither Artie nor Puck joined in, besides Finn who offered a friendly smile, splitting the difference to avoid conflict.

Then he's dating the wrong girl, Quinn thought smugly.

"You're the one beating a dead horse, Quinn; we hardly have any talents in common to compare. At least, I highly doubt your singing voice is up to par, never mind in the same class as mine." Quinn felt her mouth open, and something like the shape of a laugh cross her face, but no sound came out, and enough time had passed that she half worried she was sporting a rictus grin, open mouthed.

Forcing herself to continue, Quinn countered, "We're in the choir room, the place you've been begging to be let into for months-if you're ever going to get your chance, the time is now, or never." This was the part that Quinn had to leave up to her faith-Rachel could very well have something prepared, or fly off the hand with a Broadway number off the top of her head. Quinn was counting on Rachel's insecurities meeting her attention seeking ways and compromising by avoiding the challenge that had been set forth, and using the lull to try and redirect the tour, and maybe even answer Quinn's mocking at a more opportune time. Just showing, in real time, in front of her and Finn and in addition to Santana and Brittany that Quinn didn't have to change who she had come to be to keep Rachel from getting under her skin, and what a coward she was, would be enough.

And Rachel delivered.

"We hardly have time and if Mr. Ryerson comes back-"

"He's gone for the day, likely to his white zinfandel. You know how he gets about his gardening," Puck offered, earning the suspicious glance of Quinn along with Rachel's pointed look. Santana appeared disgusted, rolled her eyes, so hard Quinn almost saw her pupils disappear into her skull.

"You really should have gone back to tutoring," she said, disbelief edging her voice. Puck said nothing but held his hands up as if he were being accosted, and randomly at that. Turning away from the scene, Quinn raised an eyebrow impatiently.

"Puck was right about one thing. He was wrong in everything about it, but he did make sense: put out or shut up. What makes you better than any of us, in anything? If you're so great, then show us."

Quinn had determined, while in the hallway that watching Rachel squirm would be enough. That incarnation, however, had not heard what Rachel had to say next.

"There is no sense in proving myself to those who haven't proven anything of themselves." Rachel turned on her heel, beginning to occupy herself with the piano. Like the waging finger before, and the insinuation that she was a lay about before that, Quinn felt the need to impress upon Rachel how very wrong she was.

Quinn opened her mouth. For once in her short life, especially in her even shorter life as Quinn, instead of Lucy, not an insult or a comeback, or any note of displeasure, reverberated on the orifice or in between when she spoke.

Quinn remembered reading once, where she had forgotten-maybe for a school assignment, about disparate skills coming together in times of great necessity. For her the breathing techniques Coach Sylvester had them learn, the ability of Psycho analysis afforded any pretty girl in a high school, and if it didn't, would do well to get one, as, when concerning Quinn Fabray, hidden agendas abound. The lack of fear about the consequences, thoroughly drummed out of her by the pressures and absolute intolerance of any hesitation or evidence thereof, trusting that prior behavior and one's own morality would guide.

Mentally scrolling through titles, Quinn found the one she was looking for, and in the light-speed world of neuron chemical relay, remembered the content under that header. Rachel had only a minute or two to look over the otherwise forbidden delight of such a grand instrument in the one place she otherwise would never get to interact with one.

It was entirely too perfect, and Quinn savored the check before delivering her final blow, even if there were still three more years left- or possibly less, Quinn sniggered to herself.

That was all the more reason to make every moment count. In some seriousness, it did dawn on her, the ephemeral quality of this scenario; it was all temporary, an even more it was scaffolding- some put together thing in expectance of something more put together. Frankly, Quinn thought of herself as a finished product, not yet of the highest quality, but she was getting there. Not to be misunderstood, Quinn wasn't blinded by the totality of four years, now three, after all:

"I'm not that naïve/I can't stand to fly," Quinn sang, shutting out the drone of the voices inside of her head, and making Rachel whirl around to face her, meeting the pointed look that terminated in a smirk on Quinn's face when she sang the last word of the first line, Rachel's cascading hair nearly enveloping her face for a moment, that she ungracefully shoved behind her ears. To Quinn's surprise, despite it taking everything in her to sing sincerely, rather than looking to and fro her captive audience as Rachel would, she enjoyed the experience. When the reason why she was doing this began to fail as decent justification, Quinn chalked her delight to the fact that singing was a general pleasure people took, in and solved the necessary quandary of what made Rachel different by postulating that the brunette had been seduced by her enjoyment, and that was the explanation for her atrocious personality.

"Quinn? What the hell are you doing?" Santana spoke slowly, as if trying to make sense of the scene before her, or not entirely sure that Quinn was aware that she was providing a performance.

"Singing-this is a choir room, remember? I'm just out to find, a better part of me." Without music to accompany the lyrics, Quinn found herself overcompensating to fill in the melodic void, letting her voice flit and rise to her whim. At the first bridge Quinn took every harmonically possible detour, taking ever growing pleasure in watching Rachel shift uneasily, while the rest of the group listened, "I'm more than a bird"-Quinn emphasized the last word; "I'm more than a plane" Quinn shut her eyes and shifted her voice into as high of a key she could without being sharp, "More than some pretty face beside a train/And it's not easy to be me," Quinn ended the first verse by stretching out the fourth word, like the original artist, but remained on the phrase 'to be' owing to the fact that her voice was naturally higher, and catching Rachel's sarcastic, "And I'm the one they call narcissistic," glaring at her until Rachel closed her mouth, and then walking swiftly to the piano. It only occurred to her that her she could use the piano because the target of her acrimony was standing next to it, although Rachel quickly circled around as Quinn made a direct line for the bench, and sat, not gracefully, but athletically, managing to stick the landing, and Puck, sitting in the last row, but as obvious as anything, elbowed Finn in the ribs, raising his eyebrows suggestively at her small acrobatics.

So, that part of the song had no effect on him, Quinn thought, annoyed, although, even if curing Puck's lewdness could be done by an appeal to human empathy in lyrics was not dubious, it was not something Quinn would have concerned herself with; however being rendered moot for the sake of a dirty joke did irritate her. Relocating Rachel, who sulked in a corner as what Quinn was doing became clear, Quinn began to play for her audience as a whole, retaining her original objective through a repartee with the girl.

"Wish that I could cry/Fall upon my knees

"I am not that dramatic."

"Find a way to lie, about a home I'll never see

"You don't know anything about my home, Quinn." Rachel said this in a hushed, warning whisper, and Quinn sighed internally. Quinn stuck to her word; she hadn't meant it that way, and she figured how Rachel could, in fact most definitely did take it. Quinn was tired of Rachel's bringing up her fathers; the line was a half passed remark about bringing up their lives at home, because the way Quinn had it figured, who tells the truth about that?

No one is that honest…no one should be that honest. Quinn's attention turned back to the piano, her mind sensing a gap in her skill set that would require a bit of creativity on her part: Quinn could play, but like learning a foreign language, fluency took time, an interest, and possibly a lover for motivation. The fundamentals were a simple matter of instruction, but the passion, that was up to the individual. Right now, Quinn tried to parlay her ability to match an approximation of the rising pace, grateful for being able to leave the plea like rhetoric of the first part. With Rachel providing her rebuttal, and the artificial inflexion in the lyrics it was almost like they were talking.

"It may sound absurd,

"Hypocritical, too."

"But don't be naïve,

"Forgive my ignorance, please, oh wise one."

Even heroes have the right to bleed"

"Are you people listening to this?" There was a pause, and Quinn had her eyes shut concentrating, but a smile crossed her face as she imagined a scowl on Rachel's, given: "Why are you people listening to this?!" Quinn bit back a laugh and braced for how the next lines would prompt her foil.

"I may be disturbed,

"May? May? May?!"

"But won't you concede

"How is this back and forth an argument?"

"Even heroes have the right to dream."

"Just because your blonde and wear a red suit does not make you Supergirl." Quinn had to smile, but managed to stop it before it became a broad grin; Rachel had just set up the beginning of the end-of the song. Abandoning the piano, Quinn did a breathless finish of the repeated line: "And it's not easy to be me", and launched into the lyrical interlude. Walking into the crowd, as Rachel watched eyed her, sang with a quality akin to resignation and then acceptance.

"Up, up, and away; away from me," Quinn smiled benignly, and that required to hide her eyes her some: that quality never seemed to reach them. "It's alright, you can all sleep sound tonight," a few of the visitors looked at her warily, "I'm not crazy," Quinn turned to look at Rachel, "or anything." Rachel glared at the slight, not in the least because like the best insults it left vague exactly what was implied.

Quinn dragged a chair to the middle of the floor, just before the risers angled, and sat, as if she was tired, and reiterated the song's, and by extension her own, understanding of the way things were: "I can't stand to fly; I'm not that naïve/ Men weren't meant to ride, with clouds between their knees" Quinn saw Puck get ready to crack wise, and as a way to interrupt clapped her hands together. Realizing that she had to go with it, or look like Puck had managed to rattle her-he seemed to be against her in some slight way since the crack about his mother-and began to clap her hands at a pace which she could belt out the rest of the song.

"I'm just a girl, in a silly red sheet," The newbies would learn later exactly how much stock Quinn had put into the uniform, and decide- without Rachel's influence- how 'silly' it was. "Digging for kryptonite on this one way street," Quinn didn't take Lima, or the whole of Ohio, seriously; and she thought that was what bothered her the most of the multitude of reasons why: Rachel acted as though none of it mattered, but it still affected her, Quinn was going to be like that dork playing pretend, if she had anything to say about it. She would do her own thing even if the big fish in the small pond became restrictive, whereas Rachel sought to test the boundaries, push against that which was obviously there, to make a statement that no one cared to hear that did not already know it.

It's such a waste, Quinn thought.

"Only a girl, in a funny red sheet/Searching for special things inside of me, upon seeing Puck grin lecherously, Quinn managed to grab a book of music and whip it at him without breaking rhythm, and fixed him with a glare, "Only a girl, in a funny red sheet/ Searching for kryptonite on this one way street, Quinn made her way back to the piano repeating the line that compared her uniform to the superhero's cape, and, finding her bearings and the proper keys, ended the piece, somewhat resigned:

"And it's not easy-a pause, for dramatic effect, which to Quinn's delight, seemed to enrage Rachel the most-"to be"-Quinn shut her eyes and relaxed-"Me." Quinn shifted the key one last time as a book end and looked up to see the effect. Apparently a hush had fallen over the choir room, and the group stared, searching for some agreeable and collective way to continue on. Rachel forsook that mental democratic process, walking over to Quinn with every facial feature turned down in disapproval.

"You do know the music video for that song almost has a same sex kiss in it?"

"She turns into Tom Welling before that happens."

"That's why I said almost, Quinn." Santana interjected before she could respond.

"Not that I'd rather listen to Yeshiva Troll Sings the Blues than the worst conversation about a music story line since discussion on Trapped in the Closet, but does Berry have an answer to Q's latest bout of what-the-fudgery?" Rachel tilted her head in consideration.

"I could do a number from-" Santana held up her hand.

"Silencio, Munchkin. This room already has as much theater queen that can safely be held in the form of Ryerson. So, that means no theater, musical theater, dance, tap, ventriloquism, or mime." Rachel gaped, amazingly at a loss for words.

"I said no mime!" Rachel closed her mouth and glared, although Quinn was pretty sure Santana, given the other girl's verbosity, wasn't making fun. Brittany bounded up beside her, and then nodded solemnly.

"The challenge has been accepted." Santana looked confused.

"What challenge?"

"I saw this on an episode of Pokemon-actually, on a lot of episodes." Brittany turned back to Rachel. "The challenger has chosen Cyndaquil…Superman, and the gym lead-theater nerd," Quinn noticed that Rachel preferred Brittany's anime based designation, "must chose a song of the same type," Brittany blinked, apparently having confused herself again, was getting ready to correct herself, when Santana taking a moment out of her torment of Rachel placed a benign hand-which Quinn determined had no visible possessive or lustful qualities-on the blondes shoulder and stopped her.

"Don't worry; they get it." To both Quinn and Rachel, then, "Right?"

"Obviously," Quinn shot back.

"Yes, sure," mumbled Rachel, the color draining from her face. Quinn had to consciously keep her brow from arching in disbelief; Rachel actually felt bound to the improvised rules enough to worry about them, to allow herself to be trapped by them. "I can see the onus, but I-I'm rather limited aren't I?" Santana shrugged.

"Thems the breaks of a pre-emptive strike-you should have started when Q was busting your alleged balls." Rachel was so preoccupied she didn't acknowledge the knock about her sex. The brunette pulled out her phone.

"Can I look something up?" Brittany frowned.

"Well, Quinn didn't, so I don't think it would be fair to let you, after you went on and on, and on and on, and-"

"Message received, Brittany, thank you."

"So do you forfeit?" Rachel made a face like she had sucked on a lemon.

"Of course not." She shifted from foot to foot, curled and uncurled her fists, and gazed at the uppermost part of the room, and Quinn wondered if Rachel was looking for inspiration or had become delusional enough to find heavenly intervention.

"I'm not getting any younger," said Brittany. "Or older. We're at a standstill, and that's almost as bad as dividing by zero."

"How-"

"She means that time is at a standstill, it's been that long. Either shut up, or sing."

"There are no more such songs, but then that would make your rules unfair on their heads, wouldn't it?"

"If say you give up," said Santana slowly, "then we'll tell you what the song…or songs are." Rachel gazed at Santana.

"You're bluffing." Santana smirked.

"You're desperate; I wouldn't know, but tell me Berry, how does it feel to lose?"

"I wouldn't know either, but I venture it's the same way you feel when you can't use sex as a weapon?" A small, almost inaudible gasp of delight, some cross between a sound of shared derision and a snort of laughter burst forth from Quinn; it escaped her, really, like the metal based pigment of a tattoo under an MRI: it stung, because Quinn hadn't expected it, and her tongue, to produce such an unexpected and unnatural sound, rattled against her teeth, fast and hard enough to make her wince, and cough a bit. Quinn ended up avoiding Santana's squint, Brittany's curious observation, and, from what she could see out of the corner of her eye, was Rachel's confused expression damningly sublimate to a smug look at having gotten a laugh with the girl Quinn most liked to laugh at, but through a comeback that Quinn herself wished she had thought of.

"Like that, Fabray? You think the transvestite leprechaun in the catholic school girl stripper's outfit is a riot, huh?" Rachel looked down at her self, self consciously smoothing her skirt.

"It's Burbury," she said quietly, and while Santana's comment wasn't anything out of the norm, the sudden and heavy change was, implying a viciousness from an area of which Rachel had crossed that Santana addressed her as a thing, rather than a person, talked about as though she weren't there. The difference between what Santana had done and what Quinn and Rachel did was purpose; theirs had been an accident and hers cruelty. Santana, perhaps hurt, had turned on everyone, and Rachel was a convenient target, although in Quinn's mind, a lazy and reckless one. Had the insult, rather than just the challenge been directed at Quinn, she would have a mind to slap her. Instead, she replied succinctly.

"I think she's accurate, Lopez."

"Perhaps this is all…a little too much for their first day?" Rachel stepped towards the apex of the triangle formed with the three of them, Santana and Quinn not breaking eye contact. "We want to send a positive message about McKinley. Don't we?" Rachel sounded skeptical at best, and at worst, Quinn would say with some degree of pride, fearful for her safety were she to get in the middle. The three stood like this for a few minutes, as it felt like to Quinn, until someone from the back spoke up. Although Quinn never took her eyes of Santana, she recognized the voice of Blaine, Blaine Anderson.

"It is, technically, our first day; shouldn't we continue the tour, then?" Still burning a hole through Quinn's head, Santana responded.

"Not until Berry admits she's lost, more than usual, I mean."

"You're holding us hostage, then." Rachel's voice had lost the mediating tone and her comment was not a question. Rather, the consternation on her face blossomed into what looked like realization. "Oh!" Rachel lefty her post between the borders of Quinn and Santana's personal space and jogged up the risers. Both Quinn and Santana turned to watch the brunette practically bounce over to Puck, who, upon realizing that the girl was entering her personal space, flinched away, more animatedly then need be. Rachel, perched over him, looked slightly mortified, but still managed to make a plea.

"Noah, please…" The boy watched her warily, than the others in the risers, and finally settled on the Unholy Trinity, with suspicion. Quinn raised an eyebrow-I really do this too much-to question the poorly placed attention, and to attempt to mock him for it as well. Puck slowly came around, easing off the back wall he had been clutching at for safety from the petite piqued girl. As they watched the two slowly came together, until Puck figured out that Rachel wanted to whisper something in his ear. Her face hidden, Quinn focused on his watching as Puck's eyes steered left towards her voice, blinked, and then settled on Quinn, whose own eyes narrowed as his stayed on her. Similar to Rachel, scarily so for Quinn, Puck's face broke into understanding, laced with manic intent. Finally he nodded, a grin stretched out about his face, quickly converting into a smirk. Rachel stepped away, looking cautiously optimistic. Puck stood.

"No sweat. I can do that, even for you." Rachel looked taken aback, offended even. Offhand, Puck added, "Didn't think you had this side of you," and this seemed to succor Rachel's chagrin. Puck looked at her appraisingly and nodded approvingly, but said nothing, while the supposed singer turned away modestly, and smiled shyly. Jumping the three risers, Puck made a false move for Quinn, laughing when she stepped out his grasp with a disgusted look on her face, and disappeared out the choir room door. They stared after him, most of them wincing when they heard a loud bang and a clatter that sounded like brass or some hollow fixture hitting the floor. They all turned to Rachel who stared at the ajar door with a sheepish expression. A rattling sounded and in rolled a door knob, with a metal rod protruding from it, where it had obviously been broken. Puck returned, and with him had a pair of drum sticks and a guitar, taking in their faces.

"Put it on my tab," he shrugged, before slinging the guitar across his shoulder, and after making it to the bottom riser tossing the twine bound simply carved sticks at Finn, who caught them awkwardly.

"Noah, I wanted you to pick the lock, not smash it!"

"Then you should have asked Santana-she's good with her fingers like that." Puck laughed at his implication.

"Yeah, Berry. Specifically small things, remember?" Quinn was beginning to get motion sickness; for a shared laugh or knowing smile they could share a day, class, certain number of minutes; while she had gradients of disliking people, even those she cooperated with, they remained consistent.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Dude, they're drumsticks. Take a guess."

"I got that. What am I drumming to?"

"Don't worry 'bout it. Just follow my lead." Puck strummed the guitar, once, twice, obviously checking if it were tuned; the instrument was dusty-Ryerson had little use for this particular string piece, given his tastes. Outside of certain recitals the instruments sat in the now lockless repository for most of the school year, if not a few in a row. Rapping his fingers on the wood panel, Puck hummed his approval, nodding to Rachel, who quickly picked up the fixture and glanced back at the visiting students.

"Please don't damage school property; it is heavily frowned upon." Quinn heard, before Puck began to play the first few chords of a vaguely familiar theme, Blaine murmur to a giggling Tina Cohen Chang and a receptive Artie, "And breaking and entering aren't?" They quieted down as Finn passed by, who only stepped down to the second riser.

"Look, I can't, sorry Rachel." The girl brightened considerably when used the right name, or was simply pleased that Finn wasn't using Puck as an intermediary. As Rachel approached with a pleading look on her face, he risked a glance at Quinn, who kept her face neutral.

"It's just a song, Finn; wouldn't you please do me the pleasure?" Any other girl, Quinn would not, could not believe that request was innocent, or at least, to be taken at face value.

"Go ahead, Finn. Give her the pleasure," Quinn answered, watching Finn's face grow red; out of Quinn's mouth, now that sounded dirty, enough so that Rachel stared at her, trying to see what Quinn could have planned. Santana asked outright, the standoff of just a few minutes ago forgotten.

"What's with you?" Quinn let her features lull into a look of boredom.

"No reason to be petty, S. Let the baby have her bottle." Out loud, "It's alright, Finn. Let's be charitable." Rachel bristled, but took her place on the chair Quinn had brought previously, with Puck settling in the first row, guitar at the ready. Finn sat at the drum set, searching the room, as if searching for clues to tell him that he was doing the right thing. Rachel held up three fingers-"I've got a finger for her," Santana said, to no one in particular- then two and Puck began to play. With the last remaining digit, she pointed at Finn, who leaned over to check Puck's pace and began to match it. The melody had an anthem quality to it, with a folk background, and when the two boys harmonized, Rachel began.

"Out the door, just in time/Head down the 4-0-5; got to meet the new boss by eight AM." The lyrics had a stopping, halting quality to them, Quinn noted, as though the person singing was indeed out of breath. Even when not singing a musical, she's a drama queen, she thought. The glare Rachel had shot her way during the last part did not go unnoticed, either-their classes did start at eight, and Quinn supposed she was indeed the new boss, although, certainly not the same as the old boss.

"Phone rings, in the car/Daddy's working hard; he's running late tonight again." Rachel motioned the use of a phone, swaying lazily from side to side.

"This is so hammed up," muttered Santana.

"That's against their religion also." Santana smiled at that, but frowned when the music picked up the pace.

"Well, I know what I've been told: you've got to work to feed the soul," Rachel sang, on what appeared to be the chorus.

"Crap," Santana groused; Quinn was about to see the reason for her displeasure.

"But I can't do this all on my own," Rachel walked forward, stretching out the word 'my' until she reached the mid point of the line that connected Puck and Finn, "Because I know," Rachel turned to fix Quinn with a sharp look, "that I'm no Superman." At this point Puck gave a few rough short strokes and Finn copied that with a one-two strike and tap of the cymbal on its outermost point. They did this twice, and Rachel repeated the line.

As though she were in a stage show, Rachel meandered around the room, before facing Quinn, Santana and Brittany: "You've got your love online; you think you're doing fine, but you're just plugged into the wall," causing Santana to glare.

"Why was she looking at me? The hell was she looking at me for?" Brittany frowned.

"Since when do you need a plug to go online?"

"Since Berry needs to update her song list," Santana retorted. Brittany seemed satisfied with that answer.

"And that deck of Tarot cards, won't get you very far-there is no hand to break the fall." Quinn mentally acknowledged that the lyric was meant for her, but showed no outward signs of bother. Rachel after a minutiae moment turned to face the others.

"Well, I know what I've been told: you've got to know just when to fold; but I can't do this all on my own/ No," and Rachel shook her head, "I know; I'm no Superman," Rachel nodded at the guitar riffs and drum rolls, "I'm no Superman." Quinn watched as Puck and Finn riffed a little, rehashing the musical chorus- and then to Rachel, who seemed anxious. As the blurry, bent image of the piano came into her sight, Quinn managed to guess why: Rachel sang Broadway, and a song book was carried by its star, and that suited her just fine. Strong vocals were essential to the point that the music was just a vestigial membrane, according to Quinn's evaluation. The piece may have allowed Rachel to fight back, but the girl was still out of her element.

And Quinn was anything if she was adaptive.

Finding her seat on the bench, Quinn aligned her hands with the same key tempo as Finn and Puck, and neither they nor Rachel heard Quinn play herself in. When Quinn hit the three chord procession that played during the Scrubs title card, though, Rachel froze and turned, without the confidence of her earlier presence. That shock quickly turned to anger, and as soon as Rachel had the opportunity, she launched an accompanied assault.

"You've crossed the finish line; won the race but lost your mind; was it worth it after all?" Rachel gave up on restraining her voice, taking only a pause in the rendition to separate her remark from her rhetorical question in the interlude. Quinn responded with her song choice, but in Lazlo Bane's key.

"I'm not-that naïve/I can't stand, stand to fly/I'm just-out to find/a better part, part of me." Rachel whirled away from Quinn, tapping her foot furiously trying to keep control over her voice, and keep both her pace, to the point that Quinn could, and did so with nearly delirious happiness, the look of consternation sweeping across her face, with no manner with which to preserve her modesty-her own fault, Quinn appointed blame, for choosing such a childish look; Rachel, she appraised, would not look like the female version of the baby from Honey, I Blew Up the Kid if she made use of some bangs to cover her massive forehead-even as she sang:

"I need you here with me, because love is all we need/Take hold of the hand that breaks your fall," sung as a rousing round, Quinn watched Blaine and Tina tap their feet and bounce their knees respectively. Rachel had altered the song to gain some power, likely to prevent Quinn's interference from further warping her progression. Quinn shrugged and as though answering, replied in musical kind.

"But I'm just a girl in a silly red sheet," Quinn stretched out the last two words to fit the pace of the first line of the current chorus she knew was coming up, jamming the diva's ability to play to her audience. Rachel turned and advanced to her, and while staring her down Quinn became only vaguely aware of Puck and Finn ceasing to play, as the piano did a better job than their Hodgepodge. Rachel rested on the baby grand.

"You've got to break free to break the mold," and Quinn hated herself when her eyes widened: Rachel returned the volley and waited as the notes began to play in repeat, the cheerleader struggling to think of a comeback limited by her own restrictions and rules.

"Searching for special things inside of me," Quinn sang, glaring at nothing as she felt her cheeks redden, forced to contort her words to the melody. Rachel nodded in mock understanding, and nearly causing Quinn to flinch, sat on the bench beside her, careful not to directly stop her from playing.

"But you can't do it all your own," Rachel gently admonished.

"No, it's not easy to be me," Quinn's gaze began to blur-she wasn't blinking. She still saw Rachel smile, and heard Santana ask, slightly mortified, "Are they singing to each other?" No, we're singing at one another. AT! Quinn's mental shout didn't reach Anderson, who said, slightly squeamishly, "Looks like it."

"I'm no Superman," finished Rachel smugly. The melody, almost on Quinn's instinct, almost on some inevitability, dipped into a trailing finish, similar to the circle Puck and Finn had performed earlier, and Rachel began to riff, while Quinn sat, more passive that she would otherwise be. "Someday…" Quinn muttered some abbreviation of 'It's not easy,' while her unexpected partner lazily hummed "Someday, we'll be together..." Quinn, knowing it to be expected of her, begrudgingly put out, "On this one way street/Searching for Kryptonite."

"Someday…Someday we'll be together…"

"It's not easy to be me," Quinn ground out, as Rachel joined her in stereo, and added, so that it would be untainted, "Don't be naïve," Rachel fixed Quinn with a look before roiling her eyes; Quinn felt the song reach it's trickling end, and was more than a little grateful. Rachel tapped the front of the piano as the chord progression sounded for the last time. Quinn felt her hand roll across the keys, and then stop dead.

"But I'm no Superman," said both girls together, each voice providing resonance for the other dovetailing the medley nicely. Quinn boiled with rage. A few errant claps from the peanut gallery did not help. Rachel grinned to show her appreciation and swept off the seat, smoothing out her skirt while Quinn burned holes into the treasonous keys and Blaine, Brittany, Santana and Tina stared at the scene before them. Finn had trudged back to his seat and Puck had a big smirk on his face, which Quinn chose to stare at instead, waiting for his crude brand of wit to swing blindly. It was her belief that the boy was an idiot savant, saying the wrong things at exactly the right time.

"That was like, musical sex," he blurted out, and Quinn shut her eyes, counting her blessings. She could think of only one: the tight pony she kept her hair in for cheer practice prevented her from looking too disheveled and further lending credence to Puck's comparison.

"And it kept going after you and Hudson left the rhythm…figuratively speaking, I mean," Santana smiled, approached Quinn, and whispered, loudly, "Who's your favorite band-AC/DC?" Quinn scowled, mostly at the hypocrisy of being mocked for alleged sexuality when Santana's was an open secret.

"If you didn't, what would the babies be called?" Brittany wondered aloud. Never one to be embarrassed or at least not one to show it, Quinn replied without hesitation but with a scoff.

"Barbra, what else?" Rachel entered her field of vision, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hardly. I think 'Harmony' would be a better fit, don't you?" Now that she was being mocked by both Santana and Rachel, it took her a minute to register the pin drop silence surrounding them, and by the look on Rachel's face, her own supposedly musically trained ear slower than Quinn's own. Diverting to Santana, and in the process seeing, ironically, more than a few raised eyebrows, watched the corners of the girl's mouth twitch up, but the middle of her mouth part in a stunned hang. Finally she spoke.

"You've…thought about names for your… babies. With each other." Quinn shut her eyes and heard Santana take a labored breath, and Rachel's unimpressed huff, and her complaint of Santana obviously twisting their words, before she felt a lightning strike of pain, an emissary of an approaching headache, or more likely a migraine, at the thought of what Santana and the suggestible minds of the others-not to mention Puck's perverted one-with Rachel's further speaking about them in the combined sense.

Quinn, still with her eyes closed, listened to a disgusted sound escape from what she realized were her lips, and blindly and aggressively reached behind her head. Quinn finally opened her eyes when she heard Brittany shout in alarm.

"Quinn, you can't do that!" Quinn shrugged and continued to grope for the second tangle of her hair tie, pulling out the rubber backed accessory as quickly as the pain from the tugs on her scalp would allow. When free, she gingerly shook her head to allow the hair to fall in place, and turned her head, both to let out any knots and in a hope that the popping in her neck would alleviate the dense feeling in her skull. Grimly, Quinn surveyed the group.

"Who wants to see what, next?" After a few exchanged looks, no one said anything, and Quinn's headache grew worse. Definitely going to be a migraine, Quinn concluded. That hazy resistance that accompanied a throbbing head had set in, and Quinn futilely rubbed the base of her neck, so as to pierce the painful veil, either to where it spread or at its source; the pounding echoed, and Quinn couldn't tell which was boring into the base of her neck, and after a minute or two the beginning from the- and rapidly expanding-end. Venomously, Quinn said haltingly, "How about the nurse's office, then?" She then added, "Most of you will end up there, either because of your stupidity or the limits of your intelligence." Quinn left and, upon hearing the sound of footsteps and relaxed murmurs and chatter behind her, even though her head still felt like a brick, felt just a little bit better with a flock behind her.

"Perhaps you would feel better if this was conducted in private?" The nurse stared past Quinn to the group sitting in the waiting area, rather cramped and making something of a ruckus, which provided better protection from eaves droppers than did the membranous curtain. Quinn rubbed her temples.

"Can't I just have some Tylenol?"

"We're not allowed to give Tylenol to minors without expressed parental written consent."

"And yet I can get birth control on tap." The nurse opened her mouth but closed it and simply shrugged. Suddenly Rachel's head-only her head sticking through the seam between the two flaps-appeared- consternation draped across her face. Before the nurse could admonish her, Quinn remarked, "That's an unsettling design for a place that's supposed to be making people feel better, isn't it?" The nurse opened her mouth and then closed it again, this time to stifle a sputtering laugh. Rachel scowled deeper.

"Actually Quinn, your issue with the accessibility of birth control defies in depth analysis. Consider: given birth control's eponymous function, its administering through the school system to an in demand population where its source and effect can be monitored without compromising its use as opposed to a pain medication which is readily abused- especially by teenagers- and rarely observed because of its supposed mundane purpose." Quinn sat silent during the monologue and then turned toward the nurse.

"What she said." Quinn turned back to Rachel.

"My head hurts-how do sexually active teens and drug dealers help me?"

"It doesn't." Rachel brightened. "Perhaps this will. Have you considered that you may be entering your menstrual cycle?"

"No."

"Maybe you should. You could make use of the Midol you keep in your backpack, rather than making ill advised complaints against women's rights; you may need birth control one day, Quinn," Rachel said, a little too ominously.

"I doubt that."

"There are other benefits, such as regulating the period that's causing your severe headaches, less flow during, increase in weight gain…" Quinn stared at her. "Well, considering how little you Cheerios eat-kind of an ironic name, by the way- that might be a good thing, considering you're rather flat-" The arrival of the seemingly disembodied head of Puck interrupted her, appearing above Rachel's, like some grotesque totem pole, but Quinn' relief was short lived.

"I think she's right. Like, about reigning in your PMS, though; not your breasts. I mean, sure, bigger is better in this area especially, but there's also firmness and perk-"

"I never said anything about the controversial at best condition known as Premenstrual Syndrome. The only concrete evidence is in the hormonal differences which cause physical, not emotional or psychological differences."

"But," argued the top head of the pole, "she's been cranky all day." The bottom head rolled her eyes.

"It's Quinn-she's always cranky."

"True enough."

Quinn had been reduced to a wince from her squint. She managed to open her eyes just a bit, her vision slightly refracted from the watery glaze over her corneas, which she blinked away. "Is it PMS?" Quinn covered her doubt in her composition with, "I'd really like an excuse to be…impolite." The nurse shook her head.

"Though, I have to ask: How much have you eaten today?"

"Enough."

"I'd like to think that I have a bit more knowledge in this field."

"Why? I can look at a food pyramid, too." The nurse put her hands up in surrender.

"Fine. But, do me a favor," she turned around and out of a fridge, pulled a bottled water and handed it to her. "Maybe spare a dollar in change and get a snack out of the vending machine. Show the kids the cafeteria or something- I'm sure it won't screw up you making weight." Quinn pressed the cold beverage to her forehead and made a noncommittal noise, slipping off the exam table.

"Any other opinions?" The woman raised her shoulders and cocked her head.

"Severe headache and neck pain? Could be Spinal Meningitis, I guess." Quinn shut her eyes again when she heard Rachel, her head still between the folds, gasp.

"If I drop dead, I'll let you know."

"You do that."

Marching past both Puck and Rachel's headless bodies, on the other side of the privacy curtain, as well as the rest of the group, Quinn grimaced and said, "Maybe we should go check the cafeteria. It will most likely be the only period you excel in, and honestly, it's more important to your time here than any other room in this school." Rachel pulled out of the curtain as the group began to drain out of the waiting area, back into the hallway. Quinn noted that it was starting to grow dark outside, the sun retreating in the distance. Lima had no buildings that were tall enough to make it look as though the sun darkness welled up as the lights fingers lost their hold, Rather, like most small towns, the effect of shadows cast far and wide erupted at about five unless it was summer, in which case the sun would be out until a little before eight in the night. It barely being spring, the trees were casting bony warped shadows that the new buds did little to dilute, perhaps making the remains of the artificial graveyards slightly knobby. Twilight began to wash out the blue of the sky, amethyst settling deep in Quinn's stomach, really back in that hind brain, as fear and curiosity began to mingle and it dawned on her that they were after school after hours, and even with Coach Sylvester's frequent practices at what even Quinn would be tempted to call ungodly hours, she felt somehow above the natural order now.

McKinley High was a strange place when night began to fall. Like the desert, it only came alive during the dark hours. Kids would sneak in to drink or screw, and Lima was the kind of small town where people mistrusted children until they had them, and children and teenagers mistrusted adults until they became them. Even in the generation famous for blurring the lines between development stages, Quinn was good with recognizing how acts of rebellion push youth towards adulthood. It is, Quinn thought and this came back to her irritation with Rachel, a misunderstanding when people, especially the old to the young, say things like 'Don't do the crime if you can't do the time.' Quinn realized; those who have come before want those to come next to do the time, and an angel can not age. A cherub crossed the empty space in her mind where images appear, or more aptly, a statue of one. Possibly one on a grave marker.

Because, if innocence is the best that can be hoped for, people would not mourn those who stay so eternally.

"Quinn. Quinn. Quinn!" Rachel, the hairs out of place and poking her in the eye evidence of how she had run to get in front of Quinn, was standing in her way, demanding her attention. Though hobbled by both her pensive moment and the therapeutic chill of the water bottle, her headache managed a throb as Rachel began to speak.

"You may have the dubious authority to make claims about their futures concerning the defeatist nature and goal of your celibacy club, which, I will tell you, if Santana and Brittany are any indication, has a very shoddy success rate, but when it comes to this school as a whole-"

"This school is most definitely a hole," Santana jibbed from somewhere in back of them.

"-When it comes to this school in its entirety, you do not speak for all of us who have dreams and want things besides popularity and do not consider these mere four years the best in what should be by my standards: religious, spiritual, hopeful, and what I have to believe are yours too. Doesn't being made in God's image mean living life to the fullest? Don't we owe our creator that, at least?"

Quinn in a bored tone, that sounded to her ears, in her drawl, come across as cool, merely reminded Rachel, "You lost the last religious debate you got yourself in; do you really want to start another?" Quinn pressed the water bottle to her head more fiercely, even though the painful vibrations had largely subsided, and the bottle had nearly reached room temperature, encouraged by her body heat.

"Quinn, you know it does. Maybe you've just conveniently forgot, but in your heart, you know it."

"We don't owe God anything," and the lucid grumble that had settled as her pain subsided made the citing of the Almighty's selfless love sound like an atheist's protest.

"Nonsense," Rachel responded. "We owe everything to everybody, especially God. I know what you said, in Breadstix, but about my parents, if I might bring them up for a minute, don't think for a second I don't get that I'm very lucky, that in this town, at this time, two men decided it might be more fulfilling to raise a teenage girl with very specific aspirations then do whatever they want, whenever they want, how ever they want-I owe that interest back. That whole past was done in preparation for me… for us," Quinn felt a near imperceptible shift in weight at her forehead and a tug at the base of her neck where her skull had been pounding: she had nodded at Rachel's alteration of focusing on her herself to one on everybody, for once, besides in song, which Quinn was almost sure was insincere, "and we're a part of that. If we just…well," Rachel smiled joylessly, "you said it best, than whom do you suppose to make those opportunities for those who come next?" Quinn shifted the bottle from her left temple to her right, and then uncapped the bottle and took a drink while it was still refreshingly cold.

"You're telling me, you were born a Broadway loving, musical fanatic. And being born to two dads had nothing to do with that?" Rachel's eyes narrowed and Quinn felt the need to explain further, if for no other reason than to not give fodder for Rachel's accusations. "That their interests didn't become your interests?" Rachel paused.

"I may have similar passions to my daddy, as opposed to my dad," Rachel said quickly clarifying the endearment as a differentiator, "who only takes an interest for my sake."

"And your dad's as well."

"My dad likes football. He's on the Board of Directors at his hospital and has box seats to almost every game. He doesn't mind, say Little Shop of Horrors, and he and Daddy met at an audience participation of Rocky Horror, but everyone likes those two." There were murmurs of agreement behind Quinn.

"Man eating plants; sure," Puck verified.

"Case in point: Dad couldn't "get" Yentyl. Can you believe that? How do you not get Yentyl? What's to get, anyway?" Before Quinn could answer, if she would have, Blaine Anderson raised his hand, but spoke without being called on.

"Speaking of parents, where are ours?" Tina nodded in the corner of Quinn's field of vision.

"It feels like it's been forever-no offense, though." Santana nodded as Quinn turned around.

"I'm with Corduroy and Twilight; let's wrap this up, Q." Quinn gave no indication of recognizing the order, but ceased her interrogation anyway; she had diverted the brunette from her own of Quinn's motives and that was enough for now.

"It has been forever, because Berry's been leading us. Now, I am." Quinn spun on her heel and began down the hallway; the trick was not to care, and people will follow. Quinn was almost immediately inundated with the presence of bodies behind her.

"To the cafeteria, then?" Rachel walked almost beside her, but just a little after, squeezed though she was by the unyielding pace of the visitors.

"To the cafeteria," Quinn responded, taking careful note of the movement above her to the right. There was a shift, a start: Rachel had been surprised by the docile answer, and Quinn grinned. Among their presentations in Psych Club had been on Skinnerian behavioral conditioning, given by Miss Pillsbury, as twitchy and reactive as anything the faculty member had given. But it had been illuminating, here and now, and not just because the copper haired woman unwittingly illustrated the concept by developing a Pavlov reaction to a smudge on the far right desk, recreated by the student who sat there after it had been wiped clean, or as clean as those desks can get and a rapping motion from the far left by the student who sat there, until the smudge was gone and not replaced but a hard knock in the right place underneath that starboard furniture elicited an absent minded, spritz and wipe, about three months into the winter term, as being guidance counselor via a collection of disturbingly specific was not enough to warrant a salary, she was subjected to hosting the club year round. Eventually, both students turned in their cell phone video capturing their exploits along with a bit of preliminary research, and a decent poster board, as well as a snappy title. If Quinn recalled correctly, "Ironic conditions reinforcing Skinnerian behavioral constructs", well, not so much snappy as busting the teacher's chops. While Mr. Shuester had lobbied for the removal of the submittal, thus cementing his place as having a crush and being a possible adulterer among the rumors floating around the school, on the grounds that human experimentation was both unethical and immoral, Principal Figgins had allowed it on the grounds that creative scientific achievements were "erasing the stigma of our abysmal test scores single handedly" and "invite Miss Pillsbury to see the humor in this incident, rather than any possible humiliation." Quinn had been on hand as a witness, this being before Rachel attempted to turn every club into a conglomerate under her rule and before Santana and Brittany decided it would be of some social benefit to join things as a trio and synchronize their schedules; on a matter of principle, not in the least because of the power those two boys had displayed, but in the weakness she would show if she allowed Santana to direct them. She didn't need to be inflexible just to pick her battles, and win them.

No, Quinn didn't agree with B.F. Skinner- it wasn't enough to train Rachel into being subservient and pliable. As much as that would make Quinn's life easier, it felt too much like letting Rachel get away with something, that, getting Rachel to not be Rachel without her knowing antithetical to the point. Quinn was reminded of Rachel questioning her Christianity bonafides, and Rachel would learn the extent of her adherence to the faith. There was something more to people then their behavior, and if Quinn had her way, she was going to get to the bottom of and solve what was at the core of Rachel, while she was still unguarded from their earlier conversation if for nothing else, than maintaining her sanity.

The cafeteria was dark, so Quinn groped for the lights weakly aided by the feeble light that still eked through the windows. When Quinn found the trigger, the lights snapped on obscenely, and the group trickled in; besides them, only the benches stood sentry, and again Quinn felt that peculiar quality of being aside the natural order. The only difference was some tension in the air, those only visiting spared by the way of their innocence.

If anyone asks, mention Sylvester and the tour-that should be good enough, Quinn planned, but given the dark counter that lay beyond, and the sealed trash receptacles, even the cleaning crew had done their duty and left this place to be undisturbed for the night.

"I mean, we've seen a lunchroom before, this is just like the one at my junior high," Tina said, unimpressed, "exactly the same, in fact." Artie murmured in agreement.

"I'm pretty sure the Lima government or education department or whoever designed the schools did it all at the same time, only the classrooms would be different, and after a time, because of funding, would large areas, like entire floors or wings."

"Thank you Dorothy-Ann. Is that according to your research?" Santana barked from where she laid on a table, crossing her legs as Puck 'innocently' wandered near.

"A Magic School Bus joke, really?" Santana shrugged.

"You would ride the short bus."

"Despicable," muttered Rachel. Artie, however, seemed unfazed and quipped, "Careful with that joke; it's an antique."

"An oldie, but goodie," Santana said in sing-song. Quinn peered hesitantly around the corner down the hall that contained the vending machines, and then tapered off into an array of storage and administrative offices, blanketed in darkness-there must be another switch array at that end, possibly in the office, Quinn figured, but shrugged-it was unrelated to their purpose, and meant that they would not be disturbed without alerting them to the intruder's presence.

"Thinking about getting something to eat, like the nurse suggested you do?" The only parts of Quinn's body that betrayed her starting at Rachel's sudden presence were her eyes, which squeezed together first in shock than in annoyance. Quinn faced her slowly, methodically, regarding her as blandly as possible.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's nearly nightfall- you can't be that full."

"But you are." Rachel raised her eyes-that had sounded suspiciously like an insult. "Lunch was six hours ago, and you eat granola." Rachel's face relaxed.

"Yes; but it has nuts," Rachel justified. Quinn stared, as the crack about granola had been a complete guess.

"The story of your life, Berry?" Santana interceded, causing Rachel to frown in confusion. "Has nuts, like you," Santana repeated, smirking, while Rachel rolled her eyes, although Quinn figured it was more at her own lack of swiftness. Pressing on, past Santana's wandering down the corridor; Quinn was determined to find out if Rachel understood that it was about her, because it wasn't.

Whatever that means, she thought.

"Forget her, why is it important that I eat, and you don't?"

"Well for one, the vending machine doesn't meet my dietary restrictions. I'm vegan, remember?"

"Can you not be vegan for an hour?" Rachel chuckled.

"It doesn't exactly work like that."

"But it does for me."

"Well, I think my diet is healthier than yours, Quinn."

"Really? How are you supposed to get your iron or your protein then?" Quinn was sure this had been addressed in discussions on vegan dietary habits, but believed, or at this point, hoped, that Rachel's interest was superficial, and just something she had picked up, and not researched.

"On her knees," cackled Santana as she bent down to retrieve a beverage can from the slot in the bottom, the combination of the nearly retreated light, and the dark of the next section, framed by the luminescence of the drink machine, meant her body was cloaked in shadow, and Quinn, if she let her imagination run just a bit, saw Santana as a moving shadow, her raucous laughter all the more disturbing in a featureless profile. Quinn shook off her unease, and turned back to Rachel now sporting a look of bereaved bemusement.

"I told you, from nuts-from legumes and other assorted shelled…fruit, er, ovum of particular flowering trees," Rachel's face contorted with the effort of scrapping together a correct alternate name for the family of plant yields from a rudimentary first year science education, and when satisfied, added, "as well as leafy greens, soy products and the like. The point is I don't treat food like a necessary evil."

"Unless it has a face."

"Then it's just evil."

"So your particular morals are better than my responsibility." Rachel looked incredulous, and like many things that day, and now into the night, it was becoming a habit.

"Who has a duty to starve themselves? And even if it were a responsibility, it's certainly not a notable one."

"And avoiding meat is?" Rachel crossed her arms over her chest and nodded.

"Of course. While you go with the crowd, I have to swim against the grain of popular culture." Quinn crossed her arms over her chest as well.

"Right, because when they ask 'What is hip?' the answer is always animal carcasses!"

"Thanks for proving my point!" Rachel nearly shouted triumphantly. Quinn chuckled derisively.

"And how did I do that?"

"That refusing to eat meat is a worthy act of resisting a disgusting, repugnant display, whereas you simply refuse to eat, not only in glaring disregard for your safety, but for your own selfish, neurotic need!" Quinn had been called selfish before; not directly, but constantly being worried about being selfless left one with a contrast that had little alternative, but neurotic? Miss Pillsbury was neurotic, and there was a world of difference between her and Quinn. Neuroses, Quinn had learned in Psych club, were a way of faking control when one had none, especially over oneself. Quinn did not fake anything, she did not have little tics akin to stims and self harm. She did not have neuroses, she was not neurotic; she exercised-

"Restraint, Berry. Something your overly dramatic self wouldn't know if came up and bit you right in the-" Quinn caught herself, and Rachel's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Yes Quinn? Bit me where, Quinn?" Rachel asked, pseudo innocence dripping from every syllable.

"In your…rear end," Quinn finished mildly, weakly, raising a hoop of laughter from the windowsill, where Santana had maneuvered in order to better watch this latest fight. Quinn shut her eyes and sighed.

"Are you guys, like, seriously fighting about diets?" Quinn's eyes popped open to see Tina Cohen Chang regarding them with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. "There goes the last fifty years of feminism," she quipped. Quinn growled, and the girl slunk back behind Artie Abrams wheelchair, while Blaine Anderson backed closer to both of them.

"Say, Quinn," Rachel hummed.

"What?" Quinn spat.

"How's your head?"

"Perfectly fine," the blonde gritted back. Rachel raised her eyebrows.

"Then why is your ponytail still undone?" Before Quinn could stop herself, a hand flew to her lose hair and immediately Quinn shut her eyes in regret, realizing what Rachel had done. The girl stepped away, repeating in falsetto, "Neurotic," stretching out the word as she returned to the lunch tables. Quinn herself pulled her hair back and returned the hair tie from her wrist to secure a ribbon of hair, making a mental note to retrieve her brush from where she had left in her pack back upstairs, in the now obviously deserted classroom, after enough time had passed so that Rachel would not be tipped off that it bothered her, or at least as to how much.

After a moment of awkward silence, Puck, just behind the three theoretical freshmen, rubbed his hands together. "How about some vittles then?" Belying the generous offer was exactly how Puck was going to get the snacks. Taking a deep breath, he stood in front of the drink dispenser, appeared to ready himself, and then gave the part near the top a rattling vertical stomp. Nothing was reaped from this, so Puck repeated this. After the fourth time, he stumbled a bit prompting one of the more youthful youths to step apart from the crowd.

"Um, 'Puke' or whatever your name is, late as it is, I don't think we have until the next day." Puck now out of breath after his fifth attempt had failed, muttered something about a "sweet spot". The girl, rather pudgy, with straw like brown hair and an impatient expression on her stubby features nodded sarcastically.

"I imagine you have trouble with a lot of sweet spots," and she walked calmly to the machine, daring Puck to kick so close to her face. Puck scoffed instead.

"What are you going to do? Back your fat ass into it?" The girl smiled.

"No, I'm going to use my brains, which would be found in yours, explaining why it's so small." Shooing him away, she took out a small device; attached to a wire that lead to another device.

"Look, I don't think blowing up the vending machine is such a good idea." She looked at him over her glasses.

"Because the fat girl will do anything to get her snacks, is that it?" No dear, Quinn thought, the legends are true; some boys really are that stupid. Puck backed up, even as a few curious souls, Quinn included, gathered around her to watch the girl work.

"Is that like a credit card skimmer or something," Finn asked, causing the girl to look up in disbelief.

"Well, here's a hint: there's no credit card slot so…?" Finn nodded, the younger girl's derision not having an effect. That may have endeared her because she followed up with, "Close, though. It's a phreaker, which basically makes the sound of a coin dropping in, so that the machine 'thinks' it's getting paid. I'm just lucky these machines are old school; no magnetic composition scanners-than we'd be screwed." Clearly, Quinn observed, she enjoyed the attention.

A muffled clatter arose from the device, and the digital read out displayed first twenty five cents, than another brought it up to fifty. Three clatter-tumbles later, and the readout asked for a selection. The girl chose hers, and then popped the tab, taking a long sip.

"Impressive, miss…?" Puck was trying to be collegial, after having been bested at one of the few things he did best: theft.

"You can call me Zizes. You don't deserve to know my first name, because you'd probably forget it, you Lima loser," 'Zizes' proclaimed flashing Puck an 'L' on her forehead.

"We can guess it isn't Excer, at least." Zizes rolled her eyes.

"A fat joke. Gee, how ingenious. I'm sure that clever word play will help you when you spend the rest of your life cleaning pools." Puck appeared to consider this rather than take it as the insult it was meant to be.

After moving on to the snack machine and delivering pilfered goods to all who wanted them, the group sat at the tables to dig into their haul.

"What about you, potato stick Barbie?"

"I'm not hungry, Quinn answered Zizes, who shrugged, drinking her third can of soda.

"Sure. You keep telling yourself that."

Sitting in the cafeteria while the rest of the collective finished their improvised meal, Quinn was accosted by the unrelenting stare of Rachel Berry, all the more disturbing because of the fact that Rachel, in order to attain this level of bold gaze, must have planted herself on the far side and stared at nothing all throughout Zizes demonstration, a good twenty minutes, if not a half hour.

Quinn tried to ignore her at first, even turning the other way, disinterestedly watching the others eat. However much restraint she wielded, Quinn sought to glance backwards to see if Rachel was still glowering in the corner. She was.

After fifteen minutes of this, Quinn reached her breaking point, which granted her an epiphany.

"Here's an idea," she said suddenly, startling most of the participants in their mock feast and to her delight making Rachel break her stare. "Instead of walking around the school some more, which, I can tell, would probably bore you at this point," Quinn proposed, emboldened by the exchange between Puck and Zizes, "why don't the current freshmen tell you a personal story of their time at McKinley and then we'll finish up, seeing how late it is. Who would like that?" Most of the possible starters at the school raised their hands as Rachel intoned, "Stories, Quinn?" All the taunting had been chased from her tone.

"Yes, Berry, stories. You're a performer; it's what you do." Quinn then turned, and, making sure she caught Brittany's gaze over a fruit pastry that should have been microwaved, winked, causing the blue eyed girl to tilt her head and then nod, while Santana's face turned ashen, and Rachel quickly rushed to where Quinn sat assuredly observing her nails.

"Quinn, might I dissuade you from this course of action? I'm sure Santana would agree. The Latina nodded frantically.

"Santana should have thought of that before she left me in that pool. And besides Berry, you were right.

"About what?" Rachel sounded as though she rather not know.

"Alls-fair-in-love-and-war, remember?" Quinn swiftly released herself from the bench, beckoning an eager Brittany and a sullen Santana over to the bench where Rachel had sat not more than ten minutes ago. Before going over herself, however, Quinn seized Rachel's shoulder, causing the petite brunette to take in a sharp breath in shock.

"Quinn, what-" Quinn leaned close to Rachel's ear.

"This is war," she hissed, letting Rachel go with something just short of a shove. Quinn took her seat on the bench closer to the group they were guiding, while Brittany and Santana sat on the side that faced the wall. Finn and Puck took informal positions across from the group, after Quinn had explained what she wanted, Finn agreeing and Puck shrugging-Quinn supposed that after everything, the idea of tagging along was unappetizing, but the thought of leaving too distasteful, and this gave him a good way to cut his losses. To make it even easier, Quinn allowed them to go first.

"So, just any story, about anything?" Quinn nodded at Finn's hesitant inquiry.

"Something about McKinley," Quinn said evenly, with a hint of the patience of someone who believes they have made things as easy as possible. "Your time here-"

"We're freshmen. They've been here nearly as long as we have," Puck exaggerated. "What's to tell, that they haven't already seen?"

"There is difference between visiting a school and attending one, Puck." Quinn jaw had decided it would not unclench. "So give them a story about you attending classes, as rare as that may be." Puck glared and then began to speak.

"Everything about this school sucks," Puck started, Quinn's eyes narrowing, but she allowed him his piece without interruption. "The teachers suck, the building, the crappy curriculum, and most of all the students, they all suck. And I don't know if this place is a magnet for suckiness, or just makes them that way, but the worst thing about it is, they think they're better than you for it. For sucking." Puck sat, for he had stood during his time. There was a heavy silence, unbroken until Rachel started slowly, grasping for some proverbial purchase to stop what Quinn had ensured was the inevitable.

"That wasn't really a story, was it, though?" Puck ignored her, although several heads turned in her direction, rather weary expressions on their faces. From behind Quinn where Rachel had taken a seat a small way away from Santana, unable to sit by the hazel eyed blond, Quinn heard Santana remark, more of a warning than anything else, "You really are a horrible person," and found it hard not to look back when Rachel didn't defend herself.

Instead, she turned slightly, and Finn met her gaze, and, after Quinn nodded, he stood, though not before a glancing at a defiant Puck, whether out of concern, or worry he might do something stupid, Quinn could not tell.

"Um, should I stand too, or is that not a thing?"

"Whatever you want." Santana coughed.

"Last time he hears that." Finn actually looked worried, just for a moment, and Santana snickered. Any fear alleviated, or hidden in Quinn's presence, he readied himself, but looked ill at ease, wondering where to go from here.

"Say something, Finn." Quinn's voice was measured. She could wait to take her action; if anything, waiting made it better. So, Quinn was willing to coach him through his stage fright if it meant she could savor her belittlement of Rachel without it being a purely malevolent thing. As a delicious irony, Quinn was sure that her tenderness was causing Rachel to boil under her skin.

"Just say something about anything…or anyone, that's important to you." Quinn broke up her leading with an innocuous suggestion. "The football team, maybe?" All the while, she held his gaze.

"W-well, I joined the team, here," Finn started, and Quinn deflated a little, "mostly because it seemed like a good way to meet girls." Quinn's spirits rose, and if she didn't know any better, she could have sworn she heard a whimpering sound behind her. "Which didn't really work out, 'cause, like most teams, you have to start at the bottom, and there's no glory in that." Quinn's breath caught in her throat. This could go either way.

"But, I did, just not in the way I thought. She was a cheerleader though." Finn chuckled, and got a few laughs, almost as though he were giving a toast. "But we didn't get along, at all, at first," he continued. Rachel coughed behind her, although it sounded close to her choking. Santana muttered, "There's an understatement." Quinn ignored them.

"But, after some stuff happened, and through someone we both knew-" A wholly audible gasp erupted behind her. Quinn turned to inspect her work, in the shape of Rachel's trembling upper lip and cringing, miserable expression. Avoiding breaking out into a beaming smile just barely, Quinn returned to the safety of Finn and company's curious and even downright suspicious, stares.

"Go on."

"Right. So I guess what I'm saying is, the whole point of high school, or at least this high school, because it's so big and pretty much the only one in the area, you need to what you want, but accept how your going to get there.

"In short, high school is like a box of chocolates, and should just keep eating even if you're pretty sure that's not candy you're downing, Finn Gump?" He shrugged at Santana's crude allegory.

"I'm saying, have a little faith. Things work out." Quinn rose from her seat as prime and slipped in beside Rachel, who straightened her back roughly; Quinn felt the girl try to bend around her without moving. It looked painful and Quinn was satisfied.

"That was great Finn. I couldn't have said it better myself." Her enthusiasm to Quinn at least felt usurped from Rachel, who was shaking with the effort to stay just out of the waif thin membrane of personal space that the blonde had deigned to give her so capriciously. Instead of feeling contaminated as she might, Quinn considered taking over the mantle of tour guide just the latest in the poetic punishments she was dealing in succession, the first, having an audience to hear Finn say that Rachel was the reason the he an Quinn were together, and now rendering the brunette practically mute when she needed to give a decent performance in more ways than one.

"That just leaves the girls, then." Santana coughed again, which sounded suspiciously like 'And Berry,' and Quinn smiled.

"How about you, B-" A single moment of panic erupted in Quinn's chest, and Rachel looked at her expectantly. "How about you?" Quinn still felt the edge in her voice that was the product of her unwillingness to recognize the brunette's given name, but gave a thin smile and waited, allowing the look to trickle towards Rachel like drops collecting in a glass. Eventually the drop hurtled down, and eventually the collective attention turned to a still shaky Rachel.

To Quinn's surprise and inching disappointment, she nodded.

"Fine by me, Quinn. Also, would you prefer that I stand? Because, I assure you, I can project my voice."

"We've noticed," Santana said, still staring at the group in front of them.

"Over any nuisance, I might add." Santana turned then, the murder in her eyes leaking out into her face. Quinn shot her a second warning look, which Rachel appeared to be counting on, she smiled grimly when Santana rolled her eyes and once again faced the group.

"You can sit, it's not a 'thing'," Quinn grinned over at Finn who smiled. Rachel's determined smile was replaced with a countenance of queasiness, but she turned away with a slight shake of her head.

"You might want to ask me a question, and if you did-"

"No one wants to ask you a question, Berry."

"A purely hypothetical statement, Santana. If they were to ask me a question about my personal experience here at McKinley…" Rachel paused and tilted closer to Quinn, who out traitorous instinct leaned forward to hear what she had to say. "You've think you've one, but we both know it's far from hurting me for me to talk about me. And for your information, my story is called, At World's Fair. You'll get the meaning in a moment." Turning back to the ardent stares of the visitors, Rachel, cleared her throat of the burn of her whisper and continued, "It might be why I chose McKinley in the first place. There are as you might know, plenty of schools better suited to what some perhaps would consider my boisterous descriptions of my abilities."

"No one cares; there's no perhaps about it; this is Ohio, name one school that even considers singing a viable financial interest." Rachel answered only the last and wasn't the only one.

"Carmel High," both Quinn and Rachel responded with ease, as if it were obvious. Santana looked a bit uneasy, but Quinn managed to catch her eye, the look this time would be clear to anyone, even outside of their sociological environs: don't interfere. Santana sneered, but turned toward Brittany, which Quinn knew meant she would be ignoring the two of them with some permanence. Rachel continued, although less declarative, and a bit-more-rambling than when she had began.

"The good thing about Ohio, and Lima, specifically, is that there is very little competition. You won't ever see your name in lights, but only the minimalist of efforts are required to get a little notoriety. It will always be little. Unless, you leave, for somewhere else like New York City, or Los Angeles- somewhere bright and self serving, where you can't rest on your laurels, even if you wanted to. The thing is, you can't leave right away, but you can't go from zero to sixty in nothing flat. So, I came to a place where the building was large enough to get lost in, somewhat bereft of talent, but not critics," Rachel chose this moment to chuckle humorlessly, "and see if I couldn't make do in a place that is a collective of chaos." Rachel paused for effect, or so Quinn thought. Instead, the girl moved forward conspiratorially, and Quinn and company leaned in; this time Quinn did so intentionally, though warily.

"Riley took the short cut with a bit of apprehension, though the waning sun kept her calm: so long as she got home before sunset some superstitious part of her mind assured her, she would be all right." Santana scoffed.

"You're going to start a story with a proxy of yourself as the main character with a unisex name, really? And I still can't say anything?" Quinn steel eyed Santana, while Rachel looked tired.

"If I'm going to be mocked regardless, I might as well be the center of attention during, right?"

"Mocking is the sincerest form of attention." Rachel frowned, but had apparently learned better than to challenge Brittany a second time in one day. "It's like concentrate, for juice." Rachel frowned deeper, nearing a scowl, and if Quinn didn't know any better, she'd say Brittany was baiting the girl.

"People are starting to stare. Get on with it, already," Quinn urged, and Rachel drew herself out of her morbidity to resume her tale.

"At a desolate tree of a failed bit of planting a single solitary bird of black plumage," Santana rolled her eyes at Rachel's long winded story descriptors but said nothing, "sat, and regarded her…"

Riley's first thought was that a raven was associated with bad luck and her second was the peculiarity of seeing the omen fowl in an area that had a few sparrows and maybe the odd crow. Upon closer inspection the creature turned out to not be a raven, or a crow.

The black bird regarded her alertly, as she had come closer to the barren tree. Muted miniscule shadows gave Riley an idea of where its tiny sharp eyes were, like amber in a night sea. After a moment, reminded of both the sinking sun and not wanting to disturb such a graceful creature, or any creature for that matter, Riley edged away from the tree and began walking down the slightly overgrown path. In the dusk the collective foliage began to look more exotic and rustled more fervently as the wind played with them, emboldened by the loss of their fiery guardian.

A sharper squawk and a whistle startled her. Riley looked up in time to watch the bird ascend. Up it went, than higher still, and Riley watched it disappear into the orange haze the was beginning to pinprick with pitch in its granules, getting a faint uneasy feeling, something similar to what it might be like to be the last one to leave a party, stepping out on foot as the door closed behind, the lights of the lively night faded, and a staring stillness grinned like a corpse in one's face.

After one has watched the others leave accompanied, and now was very alone.

"Will you be the last one to leave the party Quinn?"

"What?" But Rachel merely hushed her and looked out over the crowd.

"The important thing in this high school is to be yourself, because while it may be convenient to march to another's drum, you'll find how quickly, even spitefully, they quit playing." A few of the students considered that, obviously expecting instead some platitude about how special they were and the importance of being earnest.

"They might even change the tune, and become hostile when you ask why. So, sing a song and don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear," Rachel concluded with a slightly bitter chuckle at what Quinn recognized as a Sesame Street song lyric. Given the muted, gritty taint that had overtaken Rachel in what appeared to be misgivings about attending McKinley, Quinn was almost startled when she suddenly said, "High school is like the end of the world: terrifying at it's beginning and vaguely like a rebirth at its conclusion," and this time Rachel did not lead to hunch over for Quinn to realize she was continuing her story; which was for the best, as some of the supposedly soon to be students looked to be watching the brunette for her rhythmic bowing.

Rather in a hushed voice without looking at the other three Rachel told her tale.

Riley quit the short cut and sprinted back on to the main road; night slowly but steadily muted in, silencing the area around her.

Her original path was shown to be folly, and geometry a liar; the quickest path through any distance is the one you know best. Riley quickened to a trot to reach the drive that lead to her house, remembering to keep her promise to herself to reach home before the last bit of twilight gleamed.

Darkness entered a photo finish with her, as she fished out her keys, and stepped inside, only to glare half seriously out at a fully lightless sky through a window. Setting herself securely on the couch, she begrudgingly lost her staring contest with the horizon and let her eyes drift around the cobalt blue drawn confines of the unlit room.

"Hold up." Santana said in a rasp harder than her usual, while the pre and first year teens talked amongst themselves not sure what to make of Rachel's melancholy, or Quinn's intense stare regarding the brunette. "You run home from the dark-"

"Riley ran home." Santana shot her a bored look, the closest Quinn had ever seen her to compliant as long as she had known her.

"Right, Riley runs home because she's afraid of the dark and-"

"Who said she was afraid of the dark?" Nearly a year with Brittany had given Santana a depth of patience-Santana merely refused to make use of it outside of her interactions with the blonde, Quinn realized.

"Why else would she run?" Rachel eyed her balefully, and waited a full minute before answering.

"It's called atmosphere, Santana-perhaps you've heard of it?"

"Mi culo, "atmosphere"," Santana grunted. "Why does she stand in the dark, Berry?" Santana asked the question slowly; it seemed that the use of Santana's patience was what tried it most of all.

"Because this is a horror story, Santana. Maybe there are things she wouldn't want to see by the light of a lamp in her home, after sunset, all alone?"

"Or is she?" Brittany whispered from behind Santana's shoulder. If Quinn squinted, she could just make out the tiniest fuzz of hairs standing up on the back of the tan girl's neck, and a slight shiver.

"Te nada. Fine, then. Have your story suck because of atmosphere." Disagreeing was the closest Quinn had seen Santana come to acceptance as long as she known her.

"Where was I?"

"Dealing with the stares of our guests. You're supposed to be making a speech, remember?" Rachel took up the reminder of her challenge graciously.

"Of course." Louder, she stated, "You might say, 'well, Rachel," and here Santana rolled her eyes, indeed Rachel sounded like an infomercial spokes-girl, "that's easier said than done,"; the younger young adults nodded. "First, how do I know I'm truly different?"

"Common sense," Santana muttered into the palm of her hand on which she rested her chin.

"Aside from following your impulses, both creative and indulgent, and this is the place to decide what your moral and ethical standards regarding those impulses, this is the one time in your life, if any at all, that you shouldn't pick your battles. Every issue seems big, because to you it is. Don't deny that instinct, ever." Well, that explains a lot, Quinn thought sardonically, catching Santana's expression of mock revelation.

"Riley," Rachel whispered so softly yet it sounded loud because of the intimacy-Quinn felt her skin prickle at that association-that she was talking to them alone again so suddenly and far too capably for Quinn's taste, "would never have."

Brittany reached a disapproving finger over at Rachel.

"That's not allowed." Rachel looked confused and Quinn was grateful that she had been thrown for a loop.

"What isn't?"

"You broke a rule."

"What rule?" Santana glared at Rachel to let her know that her tone was not appreciated, not even bothering with Quinn this time.

"The rule about keeping in narrative, Brittany explained both incredibly vexing and mystifyingly cogent, even well spoken. It just was terribly out of context.

"How…did I not stay in narrative?"

"You were out of bounds-part of your talk was in the story and part of the story was in your talk," Brittany said helpfully.

"Since when are there rules?"

"Since Quinn started this game." Rachel whipped head accusingly at the blonde, who hadn't expected the reaction. After all, Quinn was not Rachel's friend or even frenemy, Quinn having seen the portmanteau in a magazine. Caught off guard, Quinn shrugged-Brittany did what she wanted; if she read a 'game' into her attempts at revenge, than that was not Quinn's doing. All she needed Brittany for was to act as leverage against Santana and allow her the majority vote in their purely structural foursome, when Rachel couldn't resist taking up Quinn on the challenge she issued, just like before; only now, Quinn had ensured she wouldn't lose.

"It's Brittany," Quinn said, and Rachel turned away, looking like she was finally in over her head. Brittany wouldn't let Rachel style the story in a manner detrimental to Quinn, because the challenge had been clear: a good performer can make each individual audience member aware of some layer of the piece they are given, even while improvising. Really, it was a bit of a stretch, but people trying to convince others of their talent will jump at any advantage to do so, even if it is a disadvantage over all.

Sin of Pride, Quinn mentally summed up. Remembering not to get ahead of herself, Quinn kept her face stoic, and waited for Rachel to continue. No matter the measures Quinn had taken, or perhaps because she had the foresight to take them of them, she did not expect Rachel to give up so quickly.

Rachel did not disappoint.

"Okay, that seems fair." It's not said a gleeful voice in Quinn's head, although her face soured. It's fair enough, Quinn clarified and managed to remain neutral when the voice did not return. "Riley found her self all alone, but something told it was more than an empty house that kept her from feeling at ease. Her f- her parents were working late again, and she had been fine before, on numerous occasions, but this time was different and despite her notion that the darkness outside was an oppressive conspiring force, the darkness inside she was verboten to displace, that Riley thought it better to mitigate any harm on her person to conduct herself under both the cloak of shelter and one that was without illumination." Rachel took a breath and Quinn released hers. "Better?" Brittany nodded. "Good. Now if you don't mind-"

Rachel cleared her throat. "In short, it is essential to create a you that is entirely you, even in the rough draft, because you will not get a chance to do so when you are older. I am aware that my associate's," Quinn sneered and mouthed the word associate incredulously to no one in particular but caught Santana's eye; the girl snickered, "words were offensive to you and I, however self fulfilling prophesies are the ruin of what would have been success stories; what happens now may not be the best part of your life, but it can determine a lot of it. So now is the time to set things up for your future pace, and create the work ethic you want. Avoiding it is impossible," Quinn noticed a shadow cross her face, as though she were reluctant to explain the gravity of the, to Quinn seemingly obvious, truism of life, or reliving some past trauma, and the cheerleader was not sure which explanation she found more odious and insulting. Her patience tried, Quinn lulled herself to something akin to calm by telling herself it was just Rachel being a drama queen. That mantra was shattered by what the pint sized vanity incarnate of a person asked next.

"Does that make sense?" The question was not, to the best of the rationalizing abilities of Quinn's well suited mind, correctly placed in anything other than vulnerability and, as Quinn's unease deepened like burst stitches, even humility. Zizes raised her hand, but answered before she could be called on.

"People are jackasses, so you better get used to them while they're powerless little twerps, rather than try to when they have actual influence over your life." Rachel's expression was replaced with a smug smile and for once, Quinn was relieved to see it.

"While I wouldn't use those words exactly…yes, in a manner of speaking, that's correct." Rachel had managed to mock them without actually saying anything to them- without even trying; Quinn had been right about being cautious.

Still, that small consolidation was hollow succor to a girl who had just been called a jackass by a drama queen with a superiority complex and by Quinn's own machinations…again. Regardless, Quinn's setup would occupy Rachel for a while longer, and if Quinn could help it trip her up. Beyond allowing Rachel to self destruct- and really, that was essential if Quinn was going to be satisfied- having Santana and Brittany be the instruments of Rachael's ego's demise was a form of catharsis. Quinn was not petty or possessive enough, not of them at any rate, that she might feel that Rachel had 'stolen her friends, but if Quinn could give the diva a dressing down and restore the status quo to her own group, well, Quinn would be lacking ambition if she didn't at least try.

This wasn't any special, final humiliation for Rachel, no. While Quinn knew she was prompted to act because of Rachel's acts of forced mercy, it would be a sustained campaign to refute the diminutive girl on every front, and this was only the opening, though spectacular, salvo in what, as far as Quinn could see, was a three year long opposition starting now, because if Quinn was at all right about Rachel, the girl could win a few battles, but wouldn't last the war.

While Quinn was patient though, Santana was anything but.

"Why not got to Jane Addams if you wanted to toughen up?" Quinn considered Santana's tone-it seemed like a genuine question.

"Because I wanted to develop a hard shell, not be massacred." Glancing at the possible students, Rachel gave a little laugh, as if to assure the others she was only joking in her revealing statement.

"Don't tempt me." Quinn fought the urge to tell Santana to shut up, that Rachel would inevitably tire of the interruptions and self satisfyingly bow out, likely due to a rude audience, as Quinn pictured she would put it. But Rachel merely fastened Santana with a wary stare, as if she would strike then and there, and turned back to one of her captive assemblies.

"After you've chosen your ideal environment, it's important to find your passion, which would be symbiotic with that environment, so that you can do what you want, but not easily, and not without defending yourself." A student raised her hand, one of the ones to have yet made an impact beyond following them around without her-or the other current students, Quinn assumed-noticing their presence, at least not definitively.

"Like, physically?" The girl seemed worried, causing Quinn to roll her eyes, although she did not do so openly. Rachel, however became alarmed, and quickly put up her hands in a stop gesture.

"No-as in its worth, I mean. While this school does not have a zero tolerance policy regarding bullying, it does enact serious measures against physical violence.

"Sometimes," Santana muttered in an effort to be antagonizing. Rachel ignored her.

"You'll be fine." Quinn looked the girl over: fair blonde hair, clear complexion, decent clothes; not especially conservative, yet no mid-drift or daringly short hemlines to speak of, and quiet, though willingly to answer back, although politely. She will be fine, thought Quinn appraisingly. Faintly, and at this point it occurred to her that this was the actual reason Coach Sylvester had wanted some of her Cheerios to escort the visitors, Quinn gauged whether the girl would be a prospect for the cheerleading team. She stopped when she considered the other reason, and even more likely: for her Brittany and Santana to see their competition.

Then, a terrifying thought: Did that include Rachel?

Sure, Coach Sylvester had some complimentary things to the girl, but that was to get under Mr. Shuester's skin-for some reason, the tall blonde woman disliked him, and Quinn got the sense the coach considered him disingenuous; Quinn saw Mr. Shuester as something of a sounding board-from what she had heard, the man asked for a lot of opinions, but was less than reliable when it came to accepting some. Or any, for that matter. Aside from that, Quinn felt the subtle, almost itch like urge to roll her eyes when she encountered the man. The mixing of the two thoughts, making Quinn wince in the process, that of Rachel infuriatingly currying favor with the woman Quinn considered a, although unwittingly, mentor and what some might consider what Quinn looked like when she was actually, benignly, annoyed with someone, as opposed to her dealings with Rachel, in which some might use offensive terms like obsessed and fanatic, made her uncomfortable.

You had to be a fan to be a 'fanatic', after all, Quinn reasoned as a matter of principle, because it did little to ease her trauma at what was quickly becoming a revelation.

Quinn was so miserable, she had to squeeze the iron supports of the lunch table until her knuckles turned white when Rachel suddenly began her story again leaning in close; Quinn wasn't sold on the singing-pretty much anyone could keep in tune with the Scrubs theme song-but if Rachel did have a talent, it was showing up when, and as Rachel stared her down inches from her face, Quinn would be implored to add where people did not want her, in the most inopportune of ways, self righteous and vainly assuming, such as now, where Quinn's challenge of simultaneously giving a talk to the tour members and telling a story to their unofficial group seemed to be fueling Rachel, rather than hinder her.

"Riley traveled through the house cosigned as it was from its normal state of stairs and hallways to dimensionless holes that led to black as pitch wells, mostly on her memory, but occasionally by means of a hesitant almost trembling hand."

Every ridge and nick sent a little pinprick of fear up her finger where it would dilute in her upper arm, although the point at which that would happen was becoming higher and higher up her bicep and the muscle was soon contracting without her having a jolt of adrenaline arc up her shoulder. The irony, riley thought about in order to keep her pace steady was that if the lights were on, rather than be able to see the grooves and warps, she wouldn't have noticed them.

Touch was a very intimate sensation, and getting too close to someone or something was exactly what she was afraid of. Specifically what Riley was looking for was a vantage point; her mind kept coming back to the supposedly innocuous bird she had first mistaken for an ominous raven, then a slightly less superstitious crow. The black bird had simply flew off, so why did she think it so strange?

Reaching the upper floor, Riley took a deep breath-less to steady herself than to puff out her chest, which Riley half seriously worried would collapse, it felt so hollow. The nerves had given a quality of weightlessness that made her feel as though she was suffocating, and she had to think to breathe. It was a constant battle to keep herself moving-she felt as though staying still may invite unyielding dread that would paralyze her or beckon whatever she could only imagine was waiting in the all too still house. At this point her legs would barely yield to her commands, just ahead of the terror that constantly tried to overwhelm her but was all she could use to move herself.

Finally, she made it to her room-opposite the stair case, unfortunately; easy to find in the dark, however, fortunately. She quickly entered it, the rules she was apparently making up on the fly helped her understand that nothing would come find her so long as she moved quickly and purposefully, no matter how much noise she made, and her tension slipped away some after the loud click sounded of the door locking into place rather than ramp up.

Unidentifiable light sources had pooled into the room from the window, making it slightly more visible by the less than reassuring gradient of Riley now knowing how deep the shadows could be. Wading cringingly into the shadow, Riley knelt by the window. Her dalliance had been severe, Riley concluded- the dark outside was unbroken, not by sound or sight. It was almost as if the building were underwater, the dark of the ground blending just something short of seamless with the vacancy of the sky.

Not even the moon hung above her.

Below her, the feeble light made sketchy shapes ebb and retreat into the viscera of her eye- her sight struggled to focus on anything and seemed to lose it even faster when she tried. Regardless she felt safe in her room, or something similar. Peaceful, thought Riley. Secluded, was her next thought. Alone was her last before Riley began to panic. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen any lights on in her neighbor's houses; the sun almost fully receded then, it hadn't seemed strange, and she hadn't really thought to look. As quiet as the outside was, the structures around her were even stiller: no dogs barked, or babies cried, no car started up in any of the built in garages. It was late, but early for the night in particular, and while this was not the biggest city in the state, there should be some nocturnal activity. She remembered she hadn't seen a single soul on her trek. Besides the black bird, there weren't any animals she could recall. And she realized she had been so aware of the settling night because it was so complete. That blackbird was the last living creature on that road, or anywhere near here, she thought, rather dramatically-

"Hush," said Rachel, when Santana opened her mouth, her smirk barely allowing her to do so.

-in order for it to sink in, so that Riley could see how she felt about that, before her mind began to reel, and sensible thoughts became a luxury.

Racing against the dizzying urges, Riley finally attempted the light. Confirming her fears and solidifying the sudden weight that had replaced the hollowness in her chest, the switch proved useless. Because it was causing her a lot more distress to swim against the current of her delirium, Riley, as best she could, allowed the tide of anxiety to engulf her, breathing heavily through the worst of it, and gritting her teeth when her knees gave slightly. She couldn't run from her instincts forever.

In fact, that was the point. Whatever had come over this place, while she was off in her own little world, was here in full force, and the storm would have to be weathered-if it would even pass.

Realizing she had been inside her head for the second time that day, and if this was the outcome of the first time she did that she should stop immediately; however, glancing around the room, she doubted its safety which had seemed so apparent just minutes ago.

Now the shadows seemed cognizant where before they were just ominous, although their newfound sentience did not make them any less foreboding.

"Maybe…I'll just leave then?" The shadows had no opinion of her suggestion, at least none they vocalized-Riley was grateful for that and half certain they would have.

She left swiftly, still assured they might.

With no where that might make her feel protected, getting back down was rather easy, she found. Her worry that she might die just inches from salvation was replaced with the belief that she would simply die, and no longer desperate to get away to a hiding place made her more adventurous, or at least numb.

Back outside, Riley shivered, shocked to see her exhale mist and disperse, slowly as if reluctant to depart the safety of her body. She then shivered because of the drop in temperature. There was no precipitation, and if she wasn't mistaken the ground and air were even dryer than before, like a tundra, essentially a cold desert. Riley looked up, the panic sweat on her forehead sliding down thickly. The horizon had no indication of any weather event- there was no purple black coloring of impending snow or hail or charge in the air

Just barren atmosphere.

Riley moved forward. It seemed like the right thing to do, and intuitively, Riley didn't question these bouts of intuition. Certainly her mind found it odd, but her person did not, and with fear and curiosity the heady liquids they were, that component of her structure was in no position to argue.

It did however implore her to get a coat. While not April weather, the coats were still in the place where the month's warming temperament would suggest-in the closet, just inside the door, near the surface of the collection of stored outerwear. Riley stood there for a moment, staring at the misting in front of her face, watching it collect and dissipate, so slowly, far behind the pace she ever remembered seeing and thinking-

"The world is truly and wholly fucked up," Santana contributed, unsolicited. Rachel stared.

"….pretty much." Santana smiled, happy with herself. Brittany hugged her from behind to congratulate her, making her smile even wider.

Rachel sprung up suddenly. "If you find yourself in a position you don't like, don't worry. It's a good thing. That is, now is the time for taking chances," Rachel faltered "getting messy and making mistakes." Artie raised his hand. "Yes, I'm aware that is what Ms. Frizzle tells her students, and she's exactly right." Santana was practically grinning from ear to ear. "Perfection is not all it's cracked up to be, and as one of the most maligned generations in all history, it is your job, no, dare I say it, your duty to take that expectation of failure and make it your greatest strength," a few of the not yet and might never be students giggled at Rachel's evangelism, and she paused Quinn watching her carefully, "that you might take those flames of criticism, and treat them as the thermals to rise, rise like the eagles," now Santana chocked back a snicker and even Brittany, rarely in on her own jokes laughed openly as Rachel proclaimed "rise like the eagles you were born to be!" and then burst out laughing herself. One of the students warbled out the eponymous line from I Believe I Can Fly, and everyone in the room, including the once sulking Puck, but sans Quinn, laughed harder.

Quinn knew better than to argue with a collective that found something funny; patience was a virtue, and she waited for it to pass. Unlike the allegory in Rachel's story however, Santana wasn't going to let it.

"What's with the sour puss, Fabray? I thought I was the only one with a kitty- caught- tongue."

"I guess she just doesn't find it funny," Rachel explained for Quinn, and at this point, Quinn had no doubts that this was done intentionally to perturb her. Once again the fickle tides had turned, and the former consensus on Rachel being black listed had vanished as Santana considered what the other brunette had to say before turning back to Quinn. And did she just joke about being a lesbian? Quinn nodded.

"I don't find Rachel funny." The control she exercised made her sound like a robot, but that was not Santana's concern.

"Since when?" Questioning her loyalty to their misanthropy, when Santana had just decided to be companionable on a whim was grating on her nerves to the point where Quinn could hear her robot voice almost as if it were coming from someone else.

"I don't feel like laughing." How had this gotten away from her? Quinn's read on Rachel had been spot on, and her predictions had been acutely in sync with her behavior; Quinn had gotten Rachel to the water, made her drink, and yet she was left high and dry. Rachel had let it roll off her back. No storm outs no, pretentiousness-if Quinn didn't know any better Rachel had learned to laugh at herself. Quinn had boxed her in, and the girl had the audacity to circumvent her flaws with personal growth, the nerve. The worst thing about it was that Quinn was almost sure it was temporary. It wouldn't keep; like adrenaline, this was Rachel out of her comfort zone, on the edge under extenuating circumstances and she would regress back to it the first chance she got. She would have to. Unfortunately, the impression others got would be of a well adjusted, life of the party kind of girl, casting Quinn as the wet blanket. It was a vicious cycle, in which Quinn would have to exercise more control as Rachel continued acting like a phony-she had been on tract to deliver one of her speeches 'truly and wholly' to use Santana's expression, and only on a fluke managed to realize how ridiculous she had sounded and laugh about it, and Quinn knew this for a fact. She couldn't nail Rachel to the wall if she kept getting up off of it.

The room, luckily for Quinn's sake had settled down, although at a much better humor than previously. Rachel still stood, and took a breath as the last of the giggles died down. "Seriously though," You were serious, Quinn thought emphatically, "if there was ever a time to mess up, its high school. If there were ever a place to do it, that place would be McKinley. While it was important to perform well on your primary education records, high school, even with the increased weight on grade point average being a expected level in order for you to get into your top colleges, the admissions boards-the ones who decide your fate-want to see extra-curricular in spades, which will allow you to search for what you'd like to do while appearing to everyone else as merely buffering your transcript. Basically, what I want you to do is to pretend that high school doesn't matter, and to do what you want, with just one condition: that whatever that might be, it is done within these walls. I think you'll find it a lot harder to be as free with your predilections, even if they are school sanctioned, and less likely to retain interests that you picked up spuriously or those that were pushed upon you." Quinn scanned the tone of the last remark, but found nothing directed at her. "You're going to have to try and let the chips fall where they may, and while giving up control may be difficult," Quinn narrowed her eyes; still nothing, "it is essential to gaining the kind of determination that is going to be the manner in which you seek success in whatever it is that you desire to do. While giving yourself the freedom to do whatever it is may strike your fancy may appear to only be dwarfed in the burden of your task by the expected addiction to that freedom when it is time to take yourself out at graduation, it will make the years after all the more easier. Trust me," added Rachel, holding her hand over her heart.

"But you've only been here one year. How could you possibly know that this works?" asked a boy in what served as the last row of their small seminar. Rachel gave it some thought.

"Even after one year, I've already narrowed down my particular career path, and am looking forward to executing it. The results don't appear only after four years; that is just what I recommend in order to make the best of your years in secondary school." The boy nodded, apparently accepting her answer, but not satisfied by it, if Quinn's gauge of his expression was accurate. She wouldn't be so complacent, even if she kept quiet in the meanwhile.

"Now, lastly, what I want you to do for me," Rachel pulled out a book from a pack-her book bag, which Quinn hadn't noticed because Rachel kept it under her sweater. Another adaptation; the freak was evolving, Quinn grumbled mentally, although she was slightly impressed: the sweater would be totaled by slushies, but the bag with her schoolwork would not only be protected to a degree, but so would her back. A slush shower to the face, Quinn could guess-she'd obviously never had one, but there was that one time the hot water in the squad's shower was cut off, and suddenly enough that the Cheerios were still in the middle of washing off a five hour long practice but still screamed indignantly regardless of how overheated they were-would sting, but one to the back would cause a good shock to the automatic nervous system, and the air forced out of the lungs. Then it itched like crazy, adding insult to injury, forcing pulling and tugging while walking down the hall, arcing to avoid the cling of a shirt all the way. A slush hit to the front was embarrassing, but one to the back was humiliating, and for a split second, terrifying, making them effective munitions in addition to the psychological warfare employed, but without the effort.

Rachel had found a way to avoid both, and Quinn's pride was smarting fiercely.

"What I want is for you to," she said as walked around handing out deftly torn out sheets from a one subject "write some of the things you might be interested in exploring, either at McKinley, or somewhere else. Maybe, I don't know, ten things, off the top of your head; that you're doing now or might like to. That said if you fail to think of that many, write, on the back, some of the things you would like to give up, say five of those; we don't want to get too negative now, do we? If you want do both ten for what you like, five for what you don't. And don't worry this is for your personal perusal. No one id going to look at this but you. So have some fun with it, alright? Great."

As Rachel bounded back to her seat-Quinn had never seen anyone but Brittany have that much trouble trying not to skip-Quinn heard a few of the students grumble-

"We have homework, and it's not even our first day! We haven't even applied yet." Or-

"She's a freshman. And she's teaching us?!" However-

"Maybe tap?" Artie joked, causing Blaine and Tina to giggle.

"I'd like to sing and not get my ass kicked. It's always been the dream," admitted Blaine

"I'd just like to avoid the computer sciences. An Asian in tech support? I might as well commit Hari Khiri." The three laughed, and quickly hushed themselves.

"Shall we continue then," Rachel said cheerily, checking once more to make sure all of the visitors were examining their papers, or in the case of one or two, the star eraser topped pencils and impermanent pens she had given out. It wasn't a question. Quinn had objections, though.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"Distract them while you tell the story." Rachel shrugged nonchalantly and turned towards Santana and Brittany.

"We need a ruling, Brittany." The blonde considered this to Quinn's somewhat amazement.

"Rachel is still talking, technically; it's just better because we can't hear her." Rachel smiled proudly, caught the slight and shrugged anyway.

"Thank you, Brittany."

"Sorry, Quinn." Quinn let her silence be both acceptance and acquiescence. Brittany waited a moment then asked, "Did Riley get her coat?"

"Well, she-" Rachel stopped herself. "Riley figured that it was worth taking her chances to retrieve the coat. There wasn't a wind chill factor, but the cold seemed heavy and Riley, though blushing figured it would be a mental health benefit to have something to cuddle against." Brittney nodded approvingly.

Riley hesitantly opened the door again-she hadn't bothered to lock it, because in a moment of inanity inspired clarity that threatened to cause her to faint, she realized that she was almost certainly never coming back- inched respectfully across the shadows, and eased the closet door open, wincing as it swung into a nearly uninterrupted lake of ebon. The coat hung just out of reach, and Riley, cringing now, reached into the denser darkness, not opening her eyes until she could grasp the winter wear. She wished she hadn't.

Up to her elbow her arm had vanished; she could still feel her extremity, and it was chilled, as though she reached into the shade or water after a while in the sun, pooling around her forearm. It would have been almost pleasant if it weren't so unnatural.

"Not a word," Rachel said, eyeing Quinn suspiciously who, admittedly, saw the in, but wasn't about to take it. It was a cheap shot and when it came to Rachel, Quinn left that to others.

The coat came out rather reluctantly, whether by her hand or because the darkness was hesitant to be relieved of its horde, Riley couldn't tell. A breeze made feeble by the emptiness of the cold drifted by her, and into the closet. Nothing about that made sense, but the sensation that the closet was breathing was enough to make her close the door until it reached the frame and then leave as hurriedly as possible without breaking into a run.

The streets, as she had assumed, were deserted and in the houses, not a single light. Trying her best to avoid staring at the mesmeric misting of her breath, or stare at the glossy black blankness of her phone screen; she had figured it wouldn't be able to call out or search the internet from the start, but had hoped it would at least allow her to flip through her functions, maybe take some notes and figure this out, or even just get it to light up. No such luck.

That told her something itself. The battery had been fully charged before she left school. If it didn't work, then that meant there was something fundamentally wrong-the best her understanding of physics could tell her; at least the intellect that told her this was not a biological, chemical or technological event-her phone didn't even turn on, never mind changing the world around her when regarding that last one-was that perhaps some sort of magnet was involved, or more specifically, an electro-magnetic pulse, perhaps? Riley scrunched her face in concentration in order to recall the term. It would render everything unusable…for a time. This gave Riley a little bit of hope, that perhaps soon, her phone would spring back to life and so would the rest of the world.

So she ignored how implausible it sounded, and continued on her way, buoyed now by the resignation-and the freedom it gave her-to patter down the street and for God only knows how long.

"That…sucked." Quinn blinked. Was the story over? Santana seemed to think so.

"I'm…not…finished….Santana," Rachel gritted out.

"If you're chasing after Hudson, probably a feeling you should get used to."

"Santana."

"What? Since when is your boyfriend off the table? That's what girlfriends do, Q."

"You and I have very different definitions of the word girlfriend, S. I'm pretty sure I'll regret this, but, Rachel, please continue."

"I will."

The next couple of weeks were even more freeing. Riley could do as she liked when she liked, and she found her fear of the shadows eased after necessity made facing them a requirement. On impulse, Riley threw a rock through a window. On the first try there was an awful noise and the pane only fractured. The second rock brought it down. Although the second noise was louder, the completeness of it saved Riley the need for a second cringe; the tinkling of the glass was almost delightful.

The shadows seemed more exuberant than ever, but always left Riley alone, and she, content to treat them in kind as mere delusions, was agreeable to this.

As she went, she only stole-the lack of a single being for what seemed like eternity in every direction did not deter her self consciousness nor did her sense of an open ended quality deter her sense that this was still other's people's property-what she could carry, and only ate what she needed, returning the remainder if she could. It was a futile task, but one that Riley felt was crucial to maintaining her morality, and in the back of her mind she thought, her humanity.

Further it seemed the only way Riley could think of keeping on the good side of the shadows. In a world which the sun didn't seem to break the clouds, which blanketed the sky-if those were clouds-paying due to possibly self aware shades seemed like the best bet. Without even the sun for a measure of the passing of time-warmth was a luxury at this time, though it wasn't unbearably cold-it could have been hours or days or weeks. Perhaps in this world, she was preternaturally fast, or strong, or untiring, and the distance she traveled was somehow traversed without much struggle. Perhaps she was numb.

The fact that she hadn't really thought about her parents or neighbors or her classmates supported the second theory. She felt guilty when it occurred to her that they could be in trouble, and they were likely in much worse, and sadness hen she realized that, like the black bird she understood was considering foolish for not leaving this abandoned place, in all certainty they were far away from her and from her. She had felt guilty a few times, and it was more akin to worry-someone might ask why she hadn't expedited an investigation into what had happened to the people she supposedly loved; surely, they would want to know why it as so easy for their daughter/girl from the block/kid from class to trash their houses and enjoy them not being there. Ridiculous, she knew especially since the thought of never seeing them again brought tears to her eyes.

That first time she had felt sad, she started to sob; her tears cooled instantly and Riley wiped them away roughly as the cold saline made her feel worse. The sobbing helped to relieve some of the tension in her chest, which had apparently decided to stay full and heavy, sinking into her abdomen. Like a water level as the fluid leaked from her eyes the weight in her upper body rocked to and fro, away from the sides, freeing her muscles from their burden, and making her feel just a bit better.

The difference was minimal, but she had been unfeeling for so long, it was like elation to her.

So much so, she didn't hear the commotion, not at first.

At first she thought it was the hammering of her heart and the wheezing of her breath. But the hammering became rhythmic even as she calmed, and the wheezes became intelligible: drumbeats and voices. Riley was grateful that the first noises she heard were from far away and when she had been making a bit of distraction herself-she could imagine the fright of the sudden stillness being broken by the sound of an encroaching party.

And what a party it was. The sounds of drums were a lively, dance worthy beat, and the voices were high pitched and animated. Riley had fell to weeping in the middle of a street just up from her house; the sounds drifted over from one block over, and now she could see lights above some of the more humble houses. They burned evenly and from where Riley stood , they appeared like will-o-wisps that were immodest, desiring to be seen, unlike the balls of fire from legend. Riley stood, and dusted invisible dirt from her jeans.

Rachel stopped telling the story for a moment to glance victoriously over at Santana. "She has better fashion sense than you., so she's not you. That's what you're going with?" Rachel nodded and Santana shook her head. After a glance at her pseudo students, most of whom were still working on their lists, although almost all were already on the back, Rachel furthered her narrative.

Riley was nervous, scared even. While they were all in the same boat, and her dreary sleep come when it may days muted her ability to have visceral reactions as well as offering an explanation of why these people hadn't shown up earlier-it had been quite a while, Riley thought disappointedly-Riley began to get the same feeling she had when she first found herself in her dark house-anxious and oversensitive to the smallest disturbances in the surroundings. Riley fought this by drifting herself closer to the edge of the street, trying to look casual.

"If she's anything like you Berry she's as good as dead." Santana reacted to Rachel's wording.

"Yes, well, it's a horror story, Santana. Aren't we all?" Santana didn't say anything, but stared, looking like he had a revelation. Quinn squinted at her, but for once, infuriatingly for the rumored head cheerleader, the disagreeable girl wasn't keen on being expressive.

Riley crept around the edge of a building peering over with something of a manic grin-the way she figured it, her expression could be read either of two ways, from a distance: as an apologetic smile for intruding on a celebration that she wasn't invited, or knowing smirk, pretending she belonged to be able to observe unimpeded.

She was met with a most unusual sight. It was like a caravan, setting up for a carnival, or a county fair. Riley had been to a few when she was younger, and recognized the style of carts and booths, brightly colored and ornately decorated. However, the signs weren't of any commercial strain she could identify. The intricacies seemed unabashedly foreign, with no attempt at the knowing and meta self parodying that normally constituted rides and games based on pseudo worldliness and culture trappings. The details were dark, and deliberatively solemn and mute, understated and as for their color and décor, were to such a contrast, Riley would have believed they were a settlement on the lesser of two evils by their fashioners, if she didn't know any better. It was a god five minutes of watching the hustle and bustle, which didn't seem as much as ritual and sanctifying, that it struck that she didn't.

She didn't know a damn thing.

Rachel took a breath and Quinn took the break in the momentum to study her; the girl looked uncomfortable, even troubled. Someone unfamiliar with Rachel Berry would have to understand: she planned almost all her emotions-all the world's a stage; the people in it merely players, essentially. Even in the character Rachel had taken offense to being called an avatar of her had that habit, and Quinn was sure that Rachel felt it was a realistic attribute to have if one were to survive a horror medium. This was genuine, at least as much as Quinn could attest to as a Rachel Berry expert.

Who else would pay her any mind?

Rachel cleared her throat, and sputtered a little. "Still, Riley was impressed with the layout. Besides, as guilty she had felt before, not taking advantage of what could be potential information at worst, and potential aid at best, would be unforgivable."

Riley stepped into the crowd from a junction of busy looking robed persons, hoods up, and heads down, voices drifting to and fro. The first thing she noticed from her new vantage point was the warmth. It seemed that once she had entered the former cul de sac, the air was much livelier, although still pressing against her; for a moment it worried her that the otherwise inviting warmth was almost intolerable. Until, she realized she was still wearing her winter coat.

Wrapping the now pointless garment around her waist, she managed to get the hood around her head, hiding her face, but leaving a few tufts of hair out at the edge. As uncomfortable as it was, she wrapped the sleeves vine like about her arms and grasped the cuffs with her hands. She regarded her self as best she could and decided that she fit in with a crowd that could politely be called eccentric, aimed her head down and walked amongst the crowd, only looking up with a disinterested expression at something or someone she thought might be helpful. Riley's assessment had been right from the start, not a sign or direction was on a single stall, and the oddities were beginning to give Riley a headache.

After about ten or fifteen more stalls and the heat she hadn't the time to acclimate to, Riley felt defeated and not a little irritable, when she found a circle formed by the stands ending for at least two or two and a half houses, and a single tubular shaped, shrine-esque fixture stood before her, with a denser concentration of the attendees around and about it. From within the confines the others were given what must have been directions. There was no line or any sort of organization that she could see, but that was all right, because the answers seemed to get to who ever needed them and the people never complained. They leaned in close, because as with those who had provided her with cover to get in unnoticed, coverings of a myriad sort decorated and obscured their heads and faces.

"Way to duck out of actually doing any description. Seriously. You spent, like, twenty minutes of my life describing an empty neighborhood, but suddenly when it comes to the Cantina scene, you're suddenly fine with being all general. What the hell is that, Berry?" The girl stared, and Quinn's height over Rachel allowed her to see that it was almost completely tired, without any actual irritation. Mellow, thought Quinn and she quickly realized that she was in uncharted territory. Rachel had been in their presence long enough to be ground down to something that actually resembled a human being and not an artistic method, and didn't seem on the verge of emotional collapse.

"You honestly don't care what they look like, right Santana?" Quinn hoped the answer would be an affirmative. While revenge was a dish best served cold, she was antsy. Besides that, the sun had since set. Not that she doubted Coach Sylvester's desire to talk past all sensible and decent hours of the day- their Coach would also consider the same for practice and again Quinn had no disagreements with that- but then Rachel would be free from her supervision, and Quinn could se how much good it had already done for the girl. Not ready to relinquish the progress she has made, Quinn decided to both further the process along and shut Santana up. Quinn was adaptive, if she was anything.

"You're just stalling, Lopez."

"For what? You and Berry to get down on the low down, because really, I think that's happened already, honestly." A decent gauge of how bitchy Santana would get laid in how many times she used the word honest, in any form. Quinn's telltale sign was a genuinely confused expression, and Brittany's was a death stare, reserved for those who ad tried her near limitless patience through capricious cruelty. As surprised as an outside viewer would be to find this out, Quinn knew that the Latina had been relatively fair, even companionable, to Artie especially, considering how possessive she was over Brittany. Now however, Quinn weighed if she was asking too much of her. "Honestly, you should thank me. Everyone here knows how much you love the hobbit's voice. Hell, probably the only reason you haven't molested the Streisand little person is because you it practically gets you off just to listen. Huh Q? Am I warm? Or burning?" Quinn could see a tint of pink diluting Rachel's tan face.

"Because you can't think of what to say," Quinn croaked, but managed to keep her face neutral, any blush would be visible on her fair skin in an instant. Santana rolled her eyes.

"Actually, Santana would go third." Three sets of eyes landed on her, and Quinn found it especially contradictory watching Santana nearly twist her spine into a knot to look up at the blond girl behind her.

"Why's that Britt?"

"You went second last time, and the time before that. You can't go second a third time."

"What's the difference?" Quinn had managed to recover full use of her voice.

"Change is good." There was a pause, before Rachel spoke.

"Thank you for using the term 'little person' Santana, instead of something less politically correct." Santana, who had held Brittany's gaze for the duration, broke away from her uncomfortable posture and shrugged nonchalantly.

"Sure thing, short-stack." Rachel shifted back into place; the visitors were almost finished: a few were flipping through their phones and chatting pleasantly. Rachel seemed unconcerned, and so must have been close to the ending of her tale. Only one or two seemed to review their sheet, and doubtfully with genuine interest.

"Could be worse," she muttered under her breath, whether about the condition of her ploy to finish unimpeded or Santana's remark, Quinn couldn't tell.

"Riley stepped up to the makeshift podium."

The individual inside was mostly obscured and this particular stall was messy in stark contrast to the dense though definitive structures that covered the others, the outer shell of the construct was nothing but dog-eared papers, fliers they looked like. Inside, similar to a Subway kiosk-

"How would you know?" Santana snapped.

"I've seen pictures," Rachel answered defensively. "It looked like a ticket booth."

"Subway teller stations don't look like ticket booths. They look like toll booths."

"There are different types of metropolitan trains, Santana."

"But we all know you're talking about New York."

"Really, you've been listening to me all this time?" Rachel asked. not just a little sarcastically.

"Hardly. You're just so obvious."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes; there are some things you don't share with everyone."

"Please remember that when it comes to a slushy bath." Santana smirked.

"It's not sharing- it's giving."

"The only thing you ever gave someone is Mono."

"Because people would actually like to kiss me."

"That will look wonderful on your high school transcript."

"I didn't say I'd brag about it. It's just a fact." Rachel rolled her eyes.

"It's an indictment." It was Santana's turn to roll her eyes.

"Whatever, Berry. Thanks for the extra time."

"To quote Sam Wheat from the incredibly apt, for this situation, movie, Ghost: "Ditto.""

Santana's eyes widened but she said nothing. Quinn was surprised. Sure, Santana would play anybody if it meant avoiding looking like a fool, or even being caught off guard. The thing was, unless she could turn it into a way of looking good, she would never admit it. Rachel didn't have to, and even seemed proud, to such an extent that Quinn wasn't sure if she was tampering Rachel's worst habits or inspiring some new even worse ones. A dogged Rachel was one thing. A devious Rachel was far worse-pointless and unpredictable. Without scruples, without the sense of pride, Rachel was just a very short and very annoying Santana…so a short Santana, Quinn thought wryly. Quinn didn't think Rachel was far gone, but if Santana got to her before Quinn could….help, than all this was for naught.

Of course, Quinn still planned on getting her revenge. In order to face Rachel, Quinn would need to save some, and while the humiliations she managed to negotiate for the girl without compromising her own integrity were sating, even combined she wasn't satisfied. Quinn spent her life finding bridges- more like sinking islands- between what she wanted and what she thought was right. Since a child or preteen's understanding of these things is shot in the dark, sometimes that at best, Quinn often fond herself at a loss; Lucy was young enough to shake things off, and get past what now required her to deliberate through. Hence, Quinn taking stock of what was now the night so far. First she made sure she had abided by all conceivable merits of her beliefs and faith.

I'm pretty sure the gap between being a good Christian and sainthood is being mean, Quinn thought, only half joking. She wasn't so concerned with the lord forgiving her transgressions as she was her conscience-God had infinite patience, her inner jiminy cricket did not, although she did not doubt its vigilance was eternal. If repentance was as easy as being genuine in the desire to stop, then Quinn was a much harsher judge than she needed be, than she should be.

I don't think Berry has made me do anything I didn't think I should. Granted that thought was enough to make her headache return but all attempts at knowing that she knew nothing appeared to have been made. Quinn could safely agree with that take away.

I'm only trying to the right thing as best as I know how. That seemed correct, although, 'only' was a bit of a strong word. Could she be sure that she only wanted to do the right thing? Revenge seemed counterintuitive to ethics, but Quinn felt it wouldn't be honest otherwise; she needed Rachel to understand that what she was doing was hurtful. Quinn felt herself outwardly wince. Accepting that Rachel's behavior was hurtful for her was something Quinn had a hard time digesting. At the very least, it was a far cry from her indifference this afternoon. That was the rub: what Quinn wanted was not at all to be affected by Rachel's antics, but still believed that she an obligation top prove her point if she found the other girl so intolerable to her very existence?

There has to be a middle ground between the two. Quinn didn't have time to think about it however, as Rachel had gathered her bearings and had begun to narrate again.

The man-at least Riley assumed the person inside the structure was a man-set forward after the last group of people-again what she assumed were people-left, seemingly satisfied. Riley hurried forward, reaching the stand before the next group; rather than protest they halted, waiting patiently. Riley took her opportunity, but wasn't sure what to do with it.

The one behind the counter was undeterred. From somewhere in the back the individual handed her a large stack of paper, which she took, and waited, hands folded. Riley noticed they were tanned deeply, had hair on the knuckles and the right hand had a gold ring, similar to a signet. Riley nodded and stepped away, the other collective assumed her space. After taking a few steps away, Riley decided it was safe to look at the papers the attendant, which was what she figured the individual was, had given her.

The papers turned out to be a single paper, folded over several times and rather unwieldy-a map. From what Riley could unfold and not fall over the excess, there were no written labels, just symbols and arrows. She couldn't be sure, but it seemed to be a map of the neighborhood, and thus, the fairground. Along the lines that were substituting for streets, indents and bulges presented as the stalls. Judging by the shapes and contours, the lane she was on had about twenty venues on each side.

Struggling with the expanse of directions, Riley started down the lane, peering across fences as she did. In the other paths, more action oriented booths had settled, darts of flames shot up as persons unknown twirled lit up batons and danced with swords as fire licked along the blades. Here in her tour, the vendors were just that, selling wares and tokens. Glass bottles twinkled, varying liquids inside that Riley suspected were hand sealed inside the craft. Small figurines of people and animals were shoved across counters almost angrily. And in every place she looked, nothing glowed, flashed or otherwise suggested that anything electronic was in the vicinity. There wasn't any apparent food either, but still. Riley wasn't a technophile, it just struck her as strange.

"This is a strictly homemade thing or what?" Riley asked the question under her breath. She went to move forward, but stopped. Everyone in the street had as well, but before she had.

It seemed as though they were listening for something. Until a moment ago, the participants had been animated, now as still as stone. That wasn't entirely accurate, Riley saw: they moved slightly, they were alive after all, and she mentally shook herself for thinking that her minute outburst could have imposed a supernatural reaction on what were almost entirely normal, though eccentric, revelers in a community affair; she didn't know much about this part of the neighborhood.

Riley blinked. Did she think that? She hadn't realized before but until now, she hadn't spoken,

"Is this supposed to be a horror story," Santana asked, "or a completely fictional paradise trip?"

"Quiet, you," Rachel sniped.

-been spoken to or had heard anyone else speak, for that matter. She had heard voices before, but now that she thought about it, maybe her thumping heart and loneliness had lead to false conclusions. Riley stood still herself, and watched with baited breath. The figures moved again, but this time, ebbing too and fro, looking for something, or, Riley swallowed fearfully, someone. Riley copied their actions, leaning from one side to the other, almost waddling down the gravel path. As ridiculous as she felt, she thought she did a decent job, regardless of the slight dizziness she felt. Looking for an opportunity to break away from the crowd ironically was helping her to fit in more.

The end of the street in sight Riley planned to duck away, steeling herself to swing into the other side which she saw through a few well timed glances the people there moving about normally. She was getting close, just a door or to away from the fork.

Then a pair of strong hands grabbed her. Something like lightning sizzled through her spine as she fought off the impulse to scream, irritating her dizziness to the point in which she thought she might faint. The singular figure pulled her off to the side, while the others continued their waddle in search of what she guessed was the interloper she now saw herself as. Riley remained deathly still, waiting for some horrible fate to befall her while the entity looked to the side, as though making sure that the others were still waving side to side, unconcerned with the two of them. Then, the hood came down.

This time, Riley couldn't hold back a gasp.

"Dad?" Her father held a hushing finger to his lips almost immediately and Riley regardless of the questions she had silenced almost as quickly. From beneath the heavy robe he wore, he pulled out a slim pad, most of the pages missing, and a pen, which he began to scribble furiously, and judging by the way his hand shook, nervously.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, was written across the top. He stopped while handing over the materials to her, and tapped the message pointedly. If Riley was not mistaken, she was supposed to answer in the same manner in all capital, although she was not sure why.

CAME FROM SCHOOL, EVERYONE GONE. She figured brevity was also important. And then WHAT HAPPENED.

DON'T KNOW THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE NOW was nearly shoved back at her. Riley frowned.

WHERE IS EVERYBODY Instead of answering, he simply gestured out toward the various individuals.

For a moment Rachel paused, glanced at Santana and sighed.

EVEN MOM Riley had written next. Again her father avoided using the pad and simply gestured, this time a nod. Taking the pad back however, another quick scribble produced DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU'RE GOING. Riley copied her dad, and shook her head no-how could he think that she would?

Another round of hasty scratching: AVOID TALKING WRITE ONLY WHEN NEEDED ONLY WHAT YOU NEED. While Riley was wont to follow her father's directions as soon as possible, she needed to ask one more question.

CAN THEY HEAR US Her father's answer was hardly reassuring: NOT FOR A LITTLE WHILE. Putting the pad away he placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her away from their respite and back into the throng which seemed to be lessening its search. Pulling his hood back over his face, Riley wished she had taken the time let her skin breathe. She found he was guiding her back the way she came, mindful of not bumping into any of the others. When they came to the beginning of the fair, he continued back into the deserted portion, and then pointed past the streets. Riley followed his finger to spy the school building bringing her back to where she started. Riley was hesitant; she wanted to tell all of the things she had taken, apologize for not looking for them, ask what day it was and most of all ask about the shadows. Burt he did not reproduce the pad, which she could only guess had a few leafs left to it, and figured that if people here were some sort of low grade psychic, or at least no longer needed speech to communicate, obtaining more such materials would be suspicious. It was best to leave things alone.

Her father bent down slightly to look her in the eye. He sad nothing, but smiled and Riley smiled back. It would take Riley more than half of her trip back, impeded by her fearful reactions to every apparently imagined sound and sight to realize that this was goodbye.

"Oh, God, you're not going to belt out Poppa, Can You Hear Me? or something, because you've got to give fair warning," groused Santana, seeing Rachel's eyes mist a bit.

"It's supposed to be scary, not sad," added Brittany, far more gently. Rachel dabbed at her eyes with the back of her wrist.

"I'm getting to that." Quinn said nothing, and simply watched.

The perpetual lack of light extended over the path back to the larger complex. Riley had sought to mitigate her sorrow with the puzzle of what could have possibly occurred to leave this place, if not the world in total. She gave up as the possibilities became too numerous and too vague, not to mention futile, and began to look at how this new reality functioned.

Remembering her father's way of writing, she saw that he hadn't used and punctuations and most importantly had written in all capital letters. Ironically, the big, near screaming font made the message seem less urgent and more childish, if anything. It stuck that a people who had forsaken the English language would hardly pay attention to a few stunted uncultured messages appearing in their sphere, and that people opposed to something only seek to destroy it-that thought gave her the chills, it had come so easily-when they find it threatening, and they only find it threatening when they can't explain it; when it's complicated and seems to take a life of it's own that others might look into it. Whatever these people were now, with their intuitive method of conversing-if what they now did could be called that-they would leave her alone as long as kept her ways short and clumsy.

Riley scowled as she thought this. Her sour expression changed when she noticed the shadows. Obviously not the same ones from before, but they acted in the same way. Only this time, Riley was both unafraid and didn't feel the need to prostrate before them. Rather, she treated them as old friends, the only thing familiar in a world that not only had lost its sense of common sense but also the numbing wash of a strange realm in its stead, and Riley was left feeling drained and depressed.

Coming up upon the school, however she was about to see a few more.

Rachel paused, irritating Quinn and surprising Santana and Brittany. Quinn followed her gaze to check on their charges; the distraction she had provided had completely eroded, and the youths were milling about. Finn and Puck were chatting lazily, the latter's eyes following a girl who happened to wander into their path. Quickly Rachel continued-

"Who goes there?!" Riley had frozen immediately. She had so beaten it into her head that she mustn't make a sound, she initially feared that she had slipped up, so acceptable was the notion that there could not be others who were like her, but within a minute thawed from her paralysis to confront what she hoped was friendly, and not just by comparison to the alien entities she had escaped.

Riley stepped out from her ebon familiars hands raised and palms out. To her surprise the face she was met with not only was not angry, considering the sharp demand but also was of someone she knew.

Well, someone she recognized, to be exact. She didn't remember the girl's name, but recalled the blonde locks that stuck out from under the hood of the jacket she wore belonged to a girl everyone at school called Baby.

Brittany's eyes sparked, as Quinn relaxed, assured that the substitute was not her, and she hadn't need to do anything-yet. Brittany aware of the simple cipher they used to incorporate people into their tales seemed slightly agitated. Santana narrowed her eyes. Rachel took no notice, barreling through the rest of her narrative.

The nickname stuck, because the term of endearment was apt, for a child like innocence surrounded her, and a precociousness that seemed natural, despite the burgeoning womanhood that suggested a direct relation of age to intellect. The myths of Baby's lack of maturity had been superseded by myths of her effortlessly hidden guile. Further, her significant other rarely called her anything but the affectionate pet name.

At this point Santana was mere inches from Rachel's face, and even Quinn was slightly unnerved as to what one brunette might do to the other.

Speaking of which Stephie appeared suddenly from the building where they had been taking shelter, apparently.

"What is it?" Riley scowled again. Stephie had damn well saw her, and still referred to her as a what. She had never gotten along with the girl and even at the apparent apocalypse, things hadn't changed.

Santana's face slowly retracted from Rachel's personal space, although the short girl did not seem to take notice of either condition.

"What, cat got your tongue, Riled?" Stephie had pet names for most of the people in her life, although most of them were not endearing-'Riled' was her attempt to poke fun at what she saw as neurotic tendencies and her less than reserved attitude, made all the more frustrating that she had something they would definitely be interested in to hear here say and the one time she shouldn't speak. Riley rolled her eyes and rushed past them into the school, with both girls fast on her heels.

"Hey, this is our turf. I mean not to get all West Side Story, but we can't just take in any stragglers from off the streets, you know. Where the hell are you going?!" Stephie's talking unnerved her now, she wanted to give them the message-it wasn't safe here.

Yes her father had shown her to come here, but that could have meant anything, and frankly, she doubted that her parent's master plan was to simply sit at school and do nothing. No, Riley wouldn't believe that. He sent her here to get whomever would be staying at this place to safety- perhaps with the shadows, she reasoned.

All she needed was some paper.

The thing was, most of the students used electronic devices like her long forgotten phone-Riley had a pang of sentiment at the fact she would no longer have a use for the device-and any note books would have been taken with them, home, or in lockers that were inaccessible without quite a bit of force. The school, depending on how long it had been abandoned-the scattered debris attested that it had in fact been that much in neglect-was likely to have been ransacked for this commodity, and come to think of it, she didn't remember her father ever having an affinity for legal pads, so any paper she came across would likely be improvised. Baby and Stephie followed behind her acting as chaperones, and a sidelong glance revealed two pairs of hungry, but untrusting eyes, that Riley as glad she quickly found the storage closet she was looking for.

"What's this, girl? Timmy's locked inside?" Riley glared and breathed heavily, and the early warnings of a feeling of claustrophobia settled in her gut. Even though Stephie had had more than her fair say, the silence left by her unable to respond and with the two staring at her constantly, was deafening. Riley tugged on the door but it wouldn't budge. Riley wasn't sure if they could be 'heard' way out here, but she didn't want to take any chances.

Stephie frowned when Riley slapped a palm against the heavy metal. When Riley tugged on it again, Baby opined, "I think she's playing charades," in her calm, almost bored way.

"Yeah, well, I don't have the key. Lil does." Riley's eyes widened.

Lilith-who went by the pet name willingly although, Riley couldn't remember the last time she responded to it with something other than disgust. While she didn't get along with either of the two girls in back of her, and would even go as far as to call Stephie a bully, Lilith was a disagreeable person true and true; Riley didn't think it was anything about her in particular, but rather that Lilith was far removed from, well, from everything, and when Riley realized this, it gave her a glimmer of hope that this time, Lilith would be more docile even if her compatriots were not.

Riley followed Baby and Stephie to a classroom less trash strewn than the others. In the dim light, Riley could just make out the cross legged form of Lilith perched on a desk. As they approached, she spoke.

"What?" That was as much as a command as it was a question, and Riley squirmed under her makeshift vow of silence, for once thankful when Stephie spoke over her.

"We've got a foursome now, Lils."

"One more and it's an orgy," laughed Baby.

"Who?" But before Stephie could answer Lilith stepped forward to see for herself. "You," she muttered. "What is it that you want?" Riley flinched; she had almost caved on speaking, but had managed to bit her tongue at the last minute. A light copper taste tainted her mouth and added to the desiccated feeling there. Perhaps she had bit too hard. "Can't you talk?!" Lilith growled which usurped the silence as the source of what deafened Riley.

"We think she's a deaf mute," Stephie moderated.

"Or a pussy has her tongue." Baby answered innocently. Lilith was unappeased.

"It wouldn't stop her in any case," she grumbled, "or either the two of you." Riley out of the corner of her eye noticed the one act of rebellion in the normally outrageous Stephie for the time they had been there-the girl placed a hand on her him and-possibly-had a haughty expression on her face. "Speak!" Riley furrowed her brow. Now it wasn't about honoring a promise to her father or for survival; she wasn't a dog. Lilith came forward further, just outside of Riley's personal space, and she saw the set of keys that swayed from the blonde's neck. They were so heavy they didn't jingle, but seemed to strain the band they were strung on, and for a moment Riley wondered if she could get away with yanking the set off the girl's neck, than thought better of it: with her luck, all she would do was choke Lilith and get thrown out without even getting to say, or rather write, what she wanted, as Lilith glowered at her, though, she thought that asphyxiating her wouldn't be a poor constellation prize. As if reading her thoughts, Lilith advanced on her, grabbing her by the shoulders.

"I said talk! You're here in our place, and think you're going to mime orders to us?" Riley stared at her balefully. If she had spoken them, would she be any more inclined to carry them out?

"Either talk, or I'll-"

"You'll what? Kill me? I don't have much of a life left anyway. You'll torture me? I've seen enough to last a life time. So, Lilith, what can you possibly do?"

"She made you talk," Baby pointed out. Riley seethed. Figuring it was best to cut her losses and if she went this deep, she might as well go a little father-when you're going through hell, keep going- Riley reluctantly spoke.

"I need paper. It's not safe to be talking like this. Or at all."

"Why? Is someone going to hear us?" Lilith asked mockingly. "There's no one around for miles," Lilith, irritated, answered her own question.

"If you gave…" Riley sighed. At the very least she had tried and, that was what was important. If it got them out-then that was most important of all. "I found my dad." This at least, piqued the other three girl's interest. They waited for her to go on. "He doesn't know what happened, but there are others. And they are not kind. Baby looked deep in thought; Stephie worried. Only Lilith challenged her.

"What do you mean 'not kind'? Riley gritted her teeth.

"I don't know exactly. My father was worried; the others were looking for me. He was with them. But he didn't want me there. I can't put my finger on it but regardless there has got to be a way out. You've been here without being accosted; you must know that this way is salvation."

"That's a bit melodramatic don't you think, Riled?" Riley shook her head.

"Something fundamentally has changed and we need to go now or soon something very bad will happen. Why would I come all this way if I weren't serious?" Lilith scoffed.

"You come to school everyday."

"Not when hell has frozen over, Lilith."

"And writing down what we say will keep us safe?"

"If we keep things simple. My dad told me."

"If it's on paper, where's the proof? Anything worth writing down is good enough to tell me." Lilith smiled, not baring her teeth, but looking dangerous all the same; it was the way her emerald eyes twinkled, Riley thought.

"There's nothing here for you. Why stay?" The tinkle vanished and a pragmatic Lilith took the place of the predatory one.

"There's a supply of non perishables big enough to feed an army, it's safe, until just now, you weren't here. See, it has all the comforts of home sweet home, and best of all it's all mine." Baby and Stephie shot her a look. "And what's mine is yours. Ours."

"But that's bound to change. Sometimes you have to leave safety and comfort to find permanence."

"Did your dad say that too?"

"No, but that doesn't make it any less true. We get the paper a few supplies and then out of here. Who's with me?" No one answered right away. However, Stephie looked to Baby, who shrugged. Knowing there was a wealth of information in non- spoken exchanges-especially now more than ever-Riley took this as a good sign. Whenever Baby and Stephie talked amongst themselves in school, before, they rarely included Lilith, and the girl was never bothered. Even now, she seemed unperturbed.

Although, neither was Riley. The room was silent, and for the first time, even without the shadows, Riley felt at peace in the dark.

"So, Lil," Stephie spoke suddenly, causing the girl's eyes to snap over to her. "It's been fun, but we're gonna head out." Lilith shrugged.

"Do what you want. I'll be here." Some hairs rose on the back of Riley's neck and she wondered in what sense.

The key was handed over, "so that you'll see all the more quicker how wrong you are," and Riley, Baby, and Stephie gathered a few leafs of computer paper, and a few of the non-perishables Lilith had talked about. Riley was fair and left more than enough for the girl remaining behind, which wasn't easy; Riley thought back to the odd festival from which she had escaped and even then they're hadn't been any food. At a celebration, no less, weird as it was… Riley's thought trailed off as the rest of her hairs stood up and a vicious shiver rocked her. Looking up, she saw that neither Stephie nor Baby had noticed but that was nothing new, and Riley licked her lips, deciding that was fortunate. If they thought something was wrong they would be on her in a second.

They split the supplies at Riley's insistence. Stephie agreed readily-she wasn't going to be "tailing" Riley as she put it, and so it was best to go their separate ways now: Lilith remaining behind, Riley heading east, and Baby with Stephie to parts unknown. Riley wished them safe travels and they nodded, the best she was going to get of a return out of them.

More than enough was left behind for Lilith, Riley had seen to it. Which was something, because she had already dipped into her own stock: if anyone had bothered to check her bag salvaged from a classroom floor, they would find that if they were so meticulous as to count the formally five hundred count leaf, they would only find four hundred and ninety nine remaining.

Riley found her shadow friends back on the road, and despite the brief respite, she was in high spirits. She had helped two others and left plenty for the one that had refused her, plenty of food for Lilith.

And something else.

Although the path was dark, she liked it now, and didn't run. It was just the unknown, and far scarier things lay behind her.

Riley had gotten about a mile out past the school when she heard the scream. She stopped, started to turn around but then thought better of it, and continued on her way, remembering the note, via a snatched up nearly empty pen she had left for Lilith, in all capital letters like her father had shown her.

Well, not exactly.

It read- THEY'RE GOING TO EAT YOU ALIVE.

Rachel rose before Quinn could say anything, and was dimly aware that her mouth was hanging open and addressed the now rowdy, and comparatively uber youth, "Please settle down," and although disappointed, they sat, and the talking died down. Quinn closed her mouth with a click, finally feeling her drying orifice as more than a fleeting sensation, and swallowed thickly, and sluggishly reasoned that their audience was only waiting for the next opportunity to goof off.

"Have we all completed our lists?" There was a chorus of 'yes' and an avalanche of nods. "Great. Allow me to leave you with this: Life is ever moving forward and not only will you not get anywhere by standing still, you'll move backwards. Thank you for your time and good luck either here or in any institution of secondary education you should elect to attend." Rachel retook her seat and folded her hands in her lap, and gave a satisfied smile while the middle schoolers clapped, slightly confusedly. A few of them turned towards Quinn, and for a minute she wasn't sure why.

"You have to pick who speaks next, you dumb blonde." Quinn jarred from Santana's quixotic insult-the other girl never really went for the classic archetype that would provide a number of insults, preferring to develop her own, and likely because such insults would hit too close to home, Quinn figured, and with Brittany in mind, answered, slightly mechanically, "Brittany, how about you?" The other blonde seemed enthusiastic enough upon hearing that she was next.

"Sometimes you gotta go where no one knows your name," began Brittany. "Like McKinley. Which I think is unfair, because we have to remember his, and the man did not even have a chopped down Cherry tree or an awesome beard." Most of the visitors stared, Artie smiled widely, as if appreciating an inside joke, and Tina and Blaine exchanged nervous glances. Apparently, they felt for the girl, Quinn considered.

"That is why the most important way you can get around this is to find one," Brittany reached up to display a single finger; Quinn was just thankful it wasn't the one in the middle, "one person who does know your name. That person does not need to know your whole name," and it was only now that Quinn realized she actually didn't know Brittany's full name. She didn't even think Santana knew. "Just your first name. Just you." Brittany smiled at Santana, and it was returned. Brittany turned back to the crowd and her face returned to its earnest disposition. "Otherwise you can get lost. It happens to me on a regular basis," added Brittany offhandedly. This got a few giggles, although Quinn was comfortably sure they were from the impression that Brittany was poking fun at herself. "You can have a lot of friends, but you need someone who's there… because it would be weird if they weren't, and you both know it." This seemed to make sense to their audience and a few of them even made notes on the paper with their lists. "Your social life is the most important part of high school. No one ever looked back on high school and said, 'gee, I wish I had gotten an A instead of a B' unless their lives then are really, really sad." Rachel frowned.

"I don't think that's exactly right, Brittany."

"Of course it is. Everyone in high school wants people to like them. They get good grades so their moms and dads will, they show off so that their dates will, and like you, they put up acts so that everyone will." Rachel huffed.

"The whole point of my speech is that you shouldn't care what people think." Not exactly a denial, Berry, Quinn thought, she would have said it aloud but she never glommed on to another's insults, even if Quinn was fairly sure that Brittany was just sharing her opinion. At Rachel's insistence, Brittany shrugged.

"As Holden said to the Rye, 'you're a phony.'"

"I assure you, I'm entirely sincere." Quinn wasn't sure, but Rachel seemed relieved that Brittany had managed to summarize her argument albeit with a malapropism; Quinn could attest, the other blonde's unique mental structure made following her train of thought time consuming, and arguing it near impossible; the manner in which Brittany's fluid understanding of the world around always put in possession of a contradiction based in the fault of another's logic, however was what put winning said argument over that line.

"You can't be; you hate us." Rachel seemed shocked by that statement, or at least the confidence behind it.

"I don't you."

"Not just me, all of us."

"I really don't, Brittany."

"After all the stuff we did?" The otherwise serene girl seemed genuinely surprised. "I think I'd feel better if you hated us, because if you don't that's really weird."

"The fact that I don't hate you bothers you."

"Us, Brittany corrected, "but yeah. How can you not?" Rachel steadied herself. Quinn casually took in how the shorter girl's knuckles gripped the table as if she might fall off, and how she seemed to scrunch in on herself as though trying to fend off the urge to vomit.

"If you're aware of the effect that you and your contemporaries actions have, than maybe you should stop. Then I wouldn't have to hate you, would I?"

"So you do?"

"No, but…" Rachel swallowed and Quinn slid away from her a bit, she really did look sick. "However," Rachel pulled herself up straight, although Quinn could see the looseness in her sweater where her abs constricted, "I appreciate that you have a certain role to play in my life."

"So you do like the crap we give you?" Santana charged.

"I understand we all have our crosses to bear, Santana. And yes, I'm aware of the irony of that sentiment. The thing is, mine happen to come in threes."

"But then, we matter."

"When did I say you didn't?"

"The whole speech about not caring. You have to care, or else, you're a sociopath." In a reversal, Santana added glibly:

"And that's Quinn's job." Puck snickered, which helped to facilitate a response from her.

"Psychopath and moron were already taken, so I had to improvise." There was a chorus of chuckles from the peanut gallery as Puck smirked; although to Quinn it looked like more of a grimace.

"Not caring is an ideal- I have to try not to." Rachel explained. Brittany frowned.

"Since when? All you do is try to get people to like you. But you are no good at it," Brittany amended quickly. Rachel leaned in.

"Is there a point to this, besides making me look stupid?" She hissed. Brittany nodded and smiled.

"Does there need to be?" Santana quipped.

"Yes. The start of my story, The Maw." Brittany smiled at the group. "And that's not what you want to do. Not everyone will like you, and this is high school. Most people will not. Trying to get everyone to like you will make everyone not like you." Turning back to the foursome, Brittany whispered, "It's nice to be inside when it's raining, and sometimes it pours."

"Don't look at me," Santana mumbled, when both Quinn and Rachel bore perplexed looks in her direction. Brittany elaborated, at least as close to what could be considered an explanation for her, and Quinn did her best to make sense of it:

Sophie sat in a worn, but comfortable chair. The back rose nearly a foot above her head, like a massive collar, and she sunk into it, perhaps to make herself look smaller, but not necessarily to hide. She could just make out the din of the rattle of an aged radiator, to wit she spied the hardwood floors that halted in what looked like neck breaking speed, the open ends of the rectangular boards were so clustered around the hunk of iron. Sophie sipped at her mug, not really bothering if any caffeinated beverage within drifted into her mouth, enjoying the lull in her conversation with the people across from her.

Probably because she wasn't enjoying the conversation itself.

Beyond the valley of the table between them, a couple, husband and wife, sat, and judging by their own coffee levels, were as disinterested in the cafe fare as she was.

"It's a beautiful view," said the blonde woman, and her spouse turned to her slightly, seemingly a little surprised, but then nodded. Sophie, mildly disappointed that the conversation had began again, but succored by the chit chat nature of the comment, turned toward the window. The light glittered through the rain splattered glass pane, making the center of the restaurant bright, the rest in shadow, aglow it tablets and laptops and other devices.

"See," whispered Rachel pointedly. Three sets of eyes stared at her. "Atmosphere," Two of those sets of eyes rolled in their sockets and Brittany's pair blinked. Quinn took this as exasperation for the other girl subtle facial expressions.

The storm, at its strongest point, had rendered the window a large size fountain, a water cascade that was like looking through a glass pool trick. Somewhere in the street a flood light had passed, mounted to a police van and shimmered like the absent sun would have over head. The husband's voice brought her back to the present.

"We're not asking for anything untoward of course…in as much as you might have certain moral objections to a bit of evasiveness with the exact truth."

"Um, Britt? What kind of story are we telling here? asked Santana, sounding more than a little worried. Brittany looked at her.

"That's why I'm telling it."

Sophie sat back even further, trying to force the chair out as her envoy, and take in as much of the scene before her as much as possible. She could be bitchy and ask why they wanted her to lie, but decided to be positive, as she was here willingly.

"Why don't you want me to tell the truth?"

"Well, it's not that we want you to lie, because that never ends well," the husband remarked, in a voice that suggested he knew from with experience.

"So what should I say?"

"We were thinking that it could be organic to the situation. He has a variety of places he likes to go, or at least he habitually frequents- we could give you a list", said the wife quickly. Sophie nodded absently, then found her voice.

"No, offense," she didn't understand how they might take offense but it seemed like a safe bet to install it before making any risky comment, "but Brian isn't exactly the kind of kid see needing…special attention. He's usually the most popular boy in school. The biggest problems are with irate fathers and their," Sophie motioned with her hand in a circular motion, "now less than virginal daughters. So, why do you need to pay people to spend time with him?"

"We weren't clear on that, were we? Brian may be physically fit, and intelligent, but he has an…active imagination."

"Like imaginary friends?"

"Like imaginary worlds," corrected the husband. "He has a way all his own and it's isolating. I don't think it's bad, but the loneness can't be good. He can manage by himself, but I don't want to eventually here he's become…disturbed."

"So he's fine, and I'm here to make sure that he doesn't go off the reservation."

"In a manner of speaking. All you have to do is befriend him. Nothing more."

"Of course. But, he's aware of things like that right?"

"We can't tell; his doctors alternatively tell us that his "social intelligence" is that of a toddler's and that it might be on level with an extreme empathy, and incredibly resilient." Sophie scoffed, agreeing with the wife's use of scare quotes.

"I think they couldn't make up their minds if he was oblivious or mature, and decided to make it a point of discussion. I'm just here to keep him company." The husband and wife, high on the dismissal of the doctors who had pondered their son, and on Sophie's apparent agreement to the position, nodded eagerly, and Sophie was simply glad that the awkward conversation was over with.

Outside, the rain did not let up.

"It's so important to make someone happy; to let them know that they've got a friend in you, not to walk this lonely road alone and keep holding on, that person who believes you can fly, like a bird in the sky, so that you can go sailing again. Who is going to come sail away with you; that is the question you should be asking yourself." Brittany turned away from the pre-teens, most of which were busy scribbling down the advice given to them, with the most notable exception being Blaine, who looked poised to say something, but thought better of it.

"Brittany?" Rachel asked, her voice taking on that breathy whiny quality that Quinn knew meant the self professed diva was irritated. The tall blonde faced her. "What the hell was that?" Even if Brittany hadn't acknowledged her, Rachel would have had her outburst; Quinn never knew the girl to waste an emotion, especially when Brittany had Rock Lobsterd their potential protégés.

"A mix of platypus and self directed shellfish," Brittany stated confidently. Rachel looked terrified.

"Platitudes and selfishness?" Santana guessed. It seemed right to Quinn. A sigh beside her reminded her that Rachel was wearing thin.

"Fine, then." Or, Rachel was just miffed at the use of songs to fool people. Or that Brittany had managed to fool people, with songs. At least the first half of that last part was disconcerting to the less mysterious of the two blondes. Brittany moved back to her story in the interim.

Sophie felt very dramatic standing in the pouring rain, and in the back of her mind, grateful that she had bought a wide brimmed hat, even at full price. Simply tipping her head forward reduced the worst effects of the vicious force of nature, delivering the torrent into the street, and finally towards the gutter at the end, although her vision was blinded by the curtain of the downpour.

She was outside the city museum, now a shivering stone monolith, its steps devoid of the normal bevy of picnickers, and loiterers seeking a spot to rest, the solidarity of the foundation seemingly no longer sound. In no rush, Sophie ascended the stairs, and in no rush, did so slowly and deliberately, so that it took her a good twenty minutes to get up the fifty step flight.

Because she was drenched, and the inside air conditioned, Sophie was frozen-her rain coat went from being a second skin to a literal wet blanket, and so Sophie ditched it under a bench as soon as possible. Here clothes were still wet, but the combination of her body heat and the constant stream of cold air began to dry them.

The interior was a near blinding white, punctuated by the largest wing's denizens: paintings. From every art style and period what Sophie suspected were reproductions affixed to the walls so that they seemed to rise from the plaster itself. Regardless of the size, according to Brian's parents, he wouldn't be here, and even if he passed on by this part, he never stayed for very long.

Instead, she headed past the art disciplines and into the natural science center. The whiteness here was blighted by the gray of windows that were not allowed in the other wing, almost certainly because the humidity of days like this would prove poor climate for the canvases. However here, the rain was in its own domain. The only difference was that it was caged in here and perfectly free out there. A general vestibule gave way to a few disciplines, which she could see were divide by sub-disciplines and separated further by topic. Sophie stepped into the Physics wing.

It began with mechanics-pulleys, simple machines and gravitational effects. The last was where she needed to be. Sophie stopped at a dark screen, showing a dot swing around a sphere of granulated ebon, so that it stood out, but the viewer understood they were looking at the even horizon of a collapsar, also known as a black hole. The revolving dot was there to display the ergosphere, part of the otherwise homogenous space that lead to the hole's singularity. Theoretically, Sophie read, the ergo sphere could be used as a temporary albeit powerful energy device, something like a electro dam except the gravity did not need a medium like water to transfer energy.

Turning away she entered the astrophysics hall, surrounded by homunculi of time and space. An array of constellations littered the ceiling, and even though there were no windows, and the place was only partially lit, she could here the gulping of the water far easier here. Sophie looked up ominously at the star display, and figured the ceiling was mostly glass here, so that the stars could shine with the light of their closest real counterpoint. It occurred to her that the sun still shined even through the legion of clouds. It was less cheerful a thought than she would have imagined.

After the stars, a display of the solar system; Sophie couldn't help an eye roll when she counted nine plants besides the oversized yellow ball-the planetary system wasn't to scale- Pluto having been discounted too recently for the museum curators to have simply snipped the wire that held the smallest blue marble in place.

"Poor Pluto," Sophie mockingly sympathized out loud, but a shuffle of movement brought her out of her joking.

"Actually, Pluto's status of a planet has always been something of a controversy. It's rather small, you see," Brian explained. Sophie had spied him up the passage way, near two double doors that were labeled planetarium. The display she was in the midst of explained the classification of planet, and found that Pluto was indeed listed as a dwarf planet. Sauntering over, Sophie stood next to the boy, and followed his gaze to the plexiglass laminated information panel. A cream colored center spun off into bright white tinted points of light-a galaxy, Sophie reasoned, without having to look at the paragraphs underneath. The title of the display, however, caught her attention.

"The end of the line?"

"Do you know what the single greatest achievement in all of astrophysics is?" Brian didn't turn to look at her.

"Ah…Unified Theory?" Sophie had read up on her charge's interests. Brian made a noise like a scoff, but for some reason she didn't think it was directed at her in its derision.

"Maybe…if it was actually developed." Apparently not enough, Sophie appraised of her background research. "And had I asked, 'in all of Theoretical physics.'"

"So what's the answer, then?" Brian answered with some marvel in his voice.

"The observable universe, er, the notion of one, that is."

"How?" Her tone was investigative, but really she had no idea.

"The understanding that the universe is vast and massive, possibly infinite, but we'll only ever see a small portion of it. It makes it believable, conceivable- almost melancholy, without taking away from the idea, like all the best magical things in life are."

Brittany paused her story without so much of a notice and went back to her speech. "That friend, the one person I am talking about, is like magic. Real because you have accepted that it is possible, but not have it proved to you; that ruins everything." Artie raised his hand.

"So a friend in high school is the exact opposite of a Babel fish?" The question was asked with a sideways smile, as though Artie was having a hard time not laughing. Again, as Quinn had grown unaccustomed to acidity that wasn't her own, she didn't see anything harmless in the facial twitch, and she certainly wasn't going to call him on it after the last fiasco. She could tell that Santana would, though.

"Something funny?" Artie's smile withered at Santana's bite.

"And they are your best friend because they like you, not because of whom you like or who likes you." Santana glanced over and shrunk some, even though Brittany was still talking to what was arguably now her audience; having saved Artie from the wrath of Santana, Brittany with her seeming wisdom and ease about her, was like the supernatural force she opined about, and Quinn decided to take the length of the other blondes tale to recuperate from Rachel's narrative enforced moral defending everything that she stood for and everything that Quinn could tell was a bad idea.

"The observable universe, that's as far as we can see with telescopes?" Of course, Sophie knew that it wasn't, but it seemed apropos to let Brian lead. He was the client after all. Sophie's face twitched into an expression of mild disgust. That joke hadn't the lightness needed to avoid making this feel cheap.

"Yes and no. But mostly no." Sophie scraped out a chuckle, and Brian turned to her this time. "It's as much of the universe we'll get to venture to, at best, in the lifetime of space itself."

"Before the end of the line?" Brian shrugged.

"Barring of course, hyperdrives, faster than light in general, and out of body experiences. But rather than a line, it is more like a fountain. Water gushes out of the top, and into the scallop below."

"Scallop?

"Yes. Most fountains have a naked baby atop a sea shell. It helps for visualization. The thing is, the shell is infinitely large, but also almost completely full, and there are two little pebbles in it-maybe more, but even the closest pebble will always be too far away if we keep at the current speed. That other pebble is the other part of the universe, and the water is whatever ether supports it."

"And you won't reach it before the fountain over flows." Brian raised a chastising finger.

"I said it never completely fills up. But the water will stop gushing at the top. And the water will become calm. And everything else, will become still." Then: "Can you hear the gushing, Sophie?" The girl blinked.

"I…I didn't tell you my name."

"My parents are smart, but computer expertise has eluded them. Their bank account passwords have not done the same to me. I didn't check the amount though; I'm awfully absent minded. See, I have been starring at this display for half an hour; at least that is what my parents will tell my therapist and the psychologists and the school faculty. I'm deep in thought. Never mind that it is raining frogs outside," Brian added bitterly. He then faced her fully. "So. How much is your time worth?"

"I'm sorry," she managed.

"That doesn't answer my question." So Sophie told him. Brian was quiet for a moment. Then-

"You're getting robbed, I hope you know," Brian said quietly. Sophie took that as a compliment. Brian headed the way Sophie came, the girl mildly disappointed she had been found out. Brian turned around. "So…same time tomorrow, different place?" Sophie, surprising herself managed to speak without stuttering or croaking.

"Why?"

"I always appreciate the gifts my parents give me," Brian answered, and his self assuredness ticked her off, which he must have seen on her face, because he quickly clarified, "Time. Time is always a gift, and even if I do not like how I got that gift, I really like the gift."

"Okay."

"I mean, if you do not want to…" Brian trailed off, and looked certain that her answer would not be in the negative.

"Well, I suppose I could use the money."

"Of course you can; why else would you have taken the position?" A pause. "Again to affirm, there is nothing sordid about this." Sophie narrowed her eyes.

"Who said there was?"

"And again, I have my parent's passwords, I have seen the emails."

"Oh, right.

And so it went. And so did the rain, pouring with viciousness that Sophie had never seen matched in her lifetime. The world became blurred as a natural state, and the sharpness of the early mornings before the rain became dream like in comparison, except it lacked a haze; in fact the main quality about this place before the water works was the crystal clarity, and possibly, even beyond. The startling reality kept most people away, and there was a definite gap in hustle and bustle from early morning to the crack of dawn, visible to anyone fortunate enough to remember before the rain, and unfortunate enough to be wrought back into the past without so much as a grace period.

Currently, Sophie and Brian sat in his room, during a lull in which Sophie comfortably stared out the mold frame window at the downpour, and listened to the patter of the water drops, so big and fat they were and so many, that the crescendo devoured itself. Brian had taken to 'introducing' her to his parents, who nodded stiffly, as he did not want to burst their bubble. It occurred to Sophie that his blasé was because his parents had pulled stunts like this before; her disparaging mental description was because she was already accustomed to him that she was more or less an enthusiastic participant in the deception, having almost come down with the fervor of the newly converted.

But that realization failed to leave her, even now. Heavy with a jarring responsibility, she turned to face Brian, and she was pretty sure this was the first time she had done so today.

"So, exactly how many times have your 'friends' turned out to be, well, fake?"

"By my parent's hand?"

"Yes."

"Two times before. They were pleasant enough."

"Both girls?" she asked innocuously.

"Yes." A new lull formed, with the itchy unease of a blister about to form. There was not anything planned for today, and lounging around in Brian's heterogeneous quarters was apparently satisfactory to the otherwise active boy. At this point it was his turn to ask some questions.

"Soph," Brian had taken to the diminutive that made him sound just as small, "do you remember, when we first met?" Brian, flipping disinterestedly through a large tome, said nothing more, and Sophie stilled; it sounded like there was more to that question.

"Um, it was a week and a half ago. My memory stretches back that far, so yes."

"Do you remember the question I asked you?" That took a bit more thought.

"Something about the rain."

"If you heard the sound of gushing waters.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Do you?"

"The rain is coming down constantly and it's right outside, everywhere. Of course I hear it."

"Not that. And the rain patters, it does not gush."

"Alright. So what gushing are you talking about?"

"It… It is in the background, always," Brian amended with distaste. "I hear it but others do not. At least most other people do not." Brian didn't look at her and Sophie took that moment to take his expression in. Pensive, but then again Brian always looked like that. In addition, Brian looked embarrassed. Sophie reluctantly recalled what his father had said about Brian creating his own worlds and decided that if the boy were to become difficult, she might as well satisfy her curiosity.

"Could the other two," Sophie resisted the urge to roll her eyes at how dismissive she sounded, "hear what you hear?"

"Not at first. But then, eventually they could. But not the way I did. Not the right way."

"What's the right way?" Sophie couldn't help the scoff that entered in on the same breath. Brian didn't notice. Instead he changed the subject.

"The rain will not stop. Why do you think that is?" Sophie decided to entertain this obvious avoidance.

"Super cell. That's what the weather channel said. Climate change and whatnot." Brian considered this.

"On Jupiter, there is a storm that has been operating for centuries." Sophie shrugged.

"I don't think this will take that long." Brian looked at her.

"I do not think we have that long."

The perpetually gray skies were beginning to take their toll on Sophie, to the point that she made it a daily chore of hers to set her alarm for four in the morning, just before the rains would come again, and stick her head out the window, careful not to keep her eyes open for too long, that she might hurt her vision on the brighter royal blue of a clear night sky compared to the blurry sheath of gray in the waking hours. Like she had heard the place was peaceful, serene, and smelled of life. Not that the pouring rain smelled of death, but the threat of mold and mildew and the thoroughly soaked clothes mixed with the need for a means to combat the humidity that came with the sheets of water that fell from the sky was certainly not pleasant most of the time, and even the smell of ozone as the storm came around for another lap began to wear out its welcome. In contrast, that smell was altered enough by the release of scents otherwise washed away began to be released from the ground, filling the cool, almost icy air, giving it an earthy deep aroma that Sophie and apparently other 'early birds' as the nightly news referred to them, relished. Sophie blotted out the ever marching rains from waking till afternoon with the seeming gasp of fresh air after being submerged, and from afternoon till night with her excursions and the accompaniment of Brian.

And yet, she could not let herself recline into this routine. Brian, she could now see had trouble lying, and while great at elaborating his own esoteric meanings and philosophies about the world, could not hide any about himself. A bit of coaching and she obtained the names of her predecessors, although Sophie had suspicions that Brian was more willing to divulge them then he let on.

On a now rare day in which she was alone, that feeling which was foreign now, except before the waters rolled in. A quick internet search was almost out of the question given the long lines-the constant rain had left out door activities impossible- but Sophie was patient; the reason she took Brian's parents up on their offer in the first place because she was willing to wait things out so.

Besides, the time gave her a chance to think about what Brian had asked the other day. The original question had caught her off guard and stuck in her head, but it was just because Brian had figured out who she was in just a little while, and been so chancy with it-the only possible way he could have got the drop on her like that was by chance. All he had was a name and some intuition. Sophie was beginning to understand what those doctors were going through: Brian was good, but not as good as he thought, or cared to understand. However, that immature arrogance had slipped her mind, because underneath it all he had sounded scared.

Granted, Sophie's face twisted into one of annoyance at her own naiveté. That feeling faded when Sophie thought about her time with Brian: he was scared in a very real sense of something concrete, and in trying to be grounded in their duo, she had ignored her better judgment.

If he was scared, than so should she.

That was all well and good, but what should she be afraid of? Brian had been cryptic at best, Sophie would have to remember that, and what she had taken for dismissal in his parents, was more likely obliviousness. As she got past her initial assumptions, she was free to make more, as Brian's ominous question came back to her.

Something about gushing. Sophie remembered the rain, specifically amongst the continuous downpour that water which had collided with the roof of the astrophysics wing. It came down in sheets along each side of the arched ceiling, and indeed had a particular rushing quality to the sound.

But that's not what he had meant.

Sophie thought back to what they had been talking about. Remembering Brian's analogy, Sophie thought about that fountain, pictured the scallop with the cherubs above, seemingly pouring water into a never quite full decorative indent in the shell.

The water gurgled then, and Sophie would have sworn she had heard it. Her concentration, however, was broken by a tap on her shoulder. She swung around, rather irritated. On any given day, any normal day, that is, the twelve year old that met her glare likely would have her eyes set wide and be paralyzed with fear. However the never ending crowds formed by the never ending rain had long since exhausted the civility of the attendees of the media center-the rampant precipitation had made the connection at her house spotty at best-and the pre-teen had reserved all of her own dwindling supply to deal with the fact that she would now be tormented by the both boredom and the knowledge of the vast world which fair play had cut her off from: it was Sophie's turn, sand this girl would have to wait until tomorrow, and so Sophie's scowl was met by a smaller, yet equally intense one along with a jerked thumb to the empty seat that had a few hangers on drifting around, eager to snap a time slot that perhaps had miraculously got unused. Sophie quickly dashed their hopes, pushing them back to the shadows of the book cases, themselves bare and empty, and making the shadows deeper.

Sophie intended to make this quick, because unlike them, she had something to look forward to, even if she wasn't sure if that was for the best. Obtaining a search directory, she entered in the first name: Rebecca Pinapple.

"Pineapple? What kind of surname is pineapple?" Rachel apparently figured this was her avatar Brittany's story.

"The cipher I'm using is to find a first name with the same first letter and a last name, if necessary, through substitution. So, Berry becomes Pinapple, no 'e'; that would be ridiculous."

"Just because they're both fruit?"

"No, a Pineapple is a kind of berry."

"I don't believe that."

"Check it out, I'll wait." Brittany examined her fingernails pointedly. Rachel did indeed scan her phone, and after a few moments, replied, "Well, based on dubious sources, a pineapple is considered to be a coalesced berry, many flowers together in one fruit."

"And your point is?"

"It's more like a bunch of grapes then an individual berry."

"So you rather she be called Rebecca Grape?" asked Brittany, slight disbelief coloring her otherwise immovable tone of voice.

"Yes, actually." Brittany considered this.

"Alright."

Sophie obtained a search directory and entered in the first name Rebecca Grape, which she decided, was the stupidest surname she had ever encountered in her life, ever.

"There's no need to be passive aggressive; it was just a minor note," Rachel complained. Santana leaned in, pushing against Brittany so that the taller girl leaned forward with weight.

"I can be more aggressive, if you like, Berry."

"I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, Santana." Quinn moved her sight away from the banter and toward the group out in front of them. They looked as bored as Quinn felt, the initial novelty of a day off from school to meet new people and wander around, even to talk freely having worn off. Quinn realized with some irritation that this tour had taken so long that even supervision was beginning to look appealing. Outside, she saw, the sun had already gone to sleep, and her body urged her to do the same; her mind didn't so much as agree as blearily tumble forth, sluggish and stiff, as though Quinn had just woken up.

It is possible I fell asleep, Quinn considered, turning to listen in on the state of the dyadic discourse with Santana as backseat insulter. Specifically, she began to process their words again right as Brittany provided this gem;

"I will make you a little note." Rachel scrunched up her face in confusion. Before she could respond Quinn took the chance to speak over her, and considered her success a minor miracle.

"Brittany." Three sets of eyes turned to her, full of earnest shock-Quinn supposed she had been quiet for a rather long interim-and waited for her to say something else. "Finish up. It's late." Quinn reminded herself to speak gently even beyond what it would take to whisper. Brittany nodded and pushed back against Santana who slid in her unofficial seat almost reluctantly.

Scanning the results, among them numerous links to therapy services and professional pages, that when clicked on provided only 'page not found' icons. After wasting ten minutes of her sparse thirty, Sophie managed a social media site, and pulled up a picture of a smiling brunette, noting that the page hadn't been updated in quite sometime.

"She just went away, you know." Sophie nearly fell out of her seat. Brian watched her, without becoming startled by her outburst.

"Why –why are you here?" Sophie took in the rain, still coming down in droves, and then Brian's relatively dry clothes. "How did you get here?" He shrugged.

"I took a car."

"Whose?"

"The agency I called to get down here. They were happy for the business."

"This kind of weather doesn't get them great business, that they need you?"

"You are not thinking it through; the rain keeps people close by, all people. So no one needs to venture out unless they really need to, as no one would ask them too or would they be expected. The agency relies on emergencies, and this," Brian gestured to the bay windows smeared with cascades of water, "is a crisis." Sophie agreed in her mind, and then narrowed her eyes.

"What do you mean she went away?"

"She-" Brian was cut short by a commotion near the lobby: a fist fight had broken out and the commotion had started to drift towards them. Logging out of her account Sophie grabbed Brian and pulled him toward the exit as security guards tried to pry the original offenders apart, deciding that at this point it was better to get the answers straight from the source. Looking behind, even though she had no idea what possessed her to do so, she saw that one of the individuals crowding the machines had quickly taken her seat, even as he was jostled and pushed from the ever larger mass of churning elements. All four machines were occupied, and Sophie wanted to leave before the likely shut off of power and closure of the center triggered a riot.

It was actually a relief to be outside, even as the pelting drops drove down with a fury that made Sophie think they were coming under fire.

Pitching her jacket over them, they teetered down the steps like some lumbering creature, the likely emptiness of the streets only adding to their perceived oddity. When they reached the bottom, Sophie yelled over the roar of the thunder-less storm.

"What happened to her?" Even close up, she could barely see his face, that even without the rain, Sophie could only make out refracted blue eyes and a somewhat concerned expression.

"Is this really the place you want to talk about this?"

"Yes and I have the only thing between you and the waterfall above our heads."

"Not the greatest protection, is it?"

"Brian!" He winced.

"Alright. No need to shout. I mean there is, but not in my ear."

"What happened to Rebecca?"

"She left, the same reason Lisa did."

"Which was?"

"In the end they could not take it anymore."

"Take what?" Sophie shivered as a splash of water overbalanced off the depression made by their makeshift tent, obliterating on the step in front of them.

"I was getting to that. I asked you if you could hear it, and I knew you would be here when you started asking questions. If anyone asks, I prepared you for the eventuality."

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" Despite her venom, Brian inched closer avoiding another drop of water to his left. "This. It is the end. Of all things." Sophie gave as best a skeptical glance with the water mixing with sweat from her brow for the effort of holding up their shield and stinging her eyes.

"The world is ending?"

"Not just Earth. It is the end of time, not just how we know it." Brian was so solemn; Sophie saw nothing else to do but laugh in his face. She caught herself in the middle of her fit, almost painfully forcing herself to stop. Brian had been waiting, prepared for that reaction. "You do not know how serious the government is taking this, but in turn, they do not know how serous this actually is."

"Shouldn't you be holding a sign up in the square?"

"And say what? 'The end is here?' A lot of good that does. If anyone would listen, which they won't. Besides, standing with a sign? Only crazy people do that."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Think about it. If everything would be over today, how would you spend your last moments?"

"You sound like a song from Five for Fighting."

"Hmmm."

"What?"

"Lisa listened to them a lot."

"Okay, quit being cryptic. Where did they go, and what couldn't they handle?"

"I asked if you could hear, apparently you could not. When I asked them, if they could hear what I always do, they could not at first. But by now they did."

"The phantom gurgle?"

"Yes. And first I thought Lisa was just too sensitive, but the same thing happened to Rebecca, and when I met you, I did not want the same thing to happen."

"So they just left, because they couldn't stand to be near you?" Brian glanced away.

"Something like that."

"What do your parents think happened?"

"They each took a sabbatical that has yet to end, so they found a replacement each time."

"And they think you don't know?" Brian nodded, more than a few rain drops sliding off his now slick hair.

"I think they think that I think they moved away," Brian remarked, face tightening as he rattled off the complicated sentence. "They were not very forthcoming themselves."

"I'd imagine."

"You thought I had done something to them." Sophie struggled over the din of the rain to figure out if it was a question.

"Maybe. You were being weird about it." She felt weird nearly screaming that over the rain, but a quick circumspect of the street showed no signs of life.

"And yet you thought I was crazy, either for thinking what I did or my response to it."

"Guess we're both insane."

"I suppose so." At that point, Sophie imagined Brian's voice to be strained from shouting over the rain, mostly to knowing that hers was. She decided to make the proposal none of Brian's other 'friends' could."

"Listen, you asked me how I would spend my last day, and I was thinking-" But before she could get any further, for once during their time out in the showers, the water's steady drumbeat was overpowered by something like a roar. Sophie whirled to face whatever unimaginable horror could have made that sound, and realized that her earlier prediction had been right; they just hadn't gotten far enough to safety.

The people poured out shouting in shock as the new to them rain fall hissed against overheated skin and sparked already flared tempers, grousing abandoned in favor of full out blue streaks. Brian said something about an exit, as the wave of darker shapes and figures came down the steps at them, and Sophie grabbed for and pulled Brian's arm, screaming in what she could only self describe as abject terror: "Let's go!"

They ran, caution relegated to as tight a grip that their toes may have had on the inner lining of their shoes, down the steps and perpendicular to the crowd, all the while Sophie imagining them as two little dots, seen far, far up above, past the rain clouds, so that they looked liked ants seen through a waterslide down the side of a formicarium, and so meditative was her almost out of body experience that the only mark the ordeal left on her when they finally fell in a heap on her kitchen floor, Brian uncharacteristically lacking calm as he slammed shut the door behind him, was the sudden cramp in her foot as they shivered at the sudden realization of how wet and plastered with their clothes they were, Brian closest to the counter, and on her right and Sophie resting her head on the outside of her palm, feeling the chill in the unused appendage on her flushed face.

After an eternity, in which Sophie could not be sure that the pattering rain, pleasant after the inhuman human wave had fallen upon them, had not lulled them to sleep with its ancient lullaby, because the rain made everything constant and one moment congruent to the next. All she knew was that she was sore, and damp, and clinging to herself in ways she could have never understood, in places she did not know existed. Brian breathed heavily beside her, but when Sophie checked, eyes of azure met hers, causing her to swallow.

"Come on, get up, you'll catch your death, or whatever," Sophie mumbled, something like sleep clouded her aches and pains, but her mind sharpened suddenly, at the use of a turn of phrase of her mother, and wondered where her parents were, knowing that cabin fever had gotten to what she normally considered the most sedentary individuals she knew. Assuring herself that they were safe-likely at a dance hall, or out to eat or something that was supposed to be made better by the lack of electronics and would no be subject to the chaos they had witnessed, proceeded to strip off her sweater and shirt, milling around for a towel or blanket, anything with a decent thread count really, while Brian stood quietly behind her. Turning to him and shivering at the brisk air that she whipped up, she looked at him pointedly.

"Seriously, those clothes have to go." Brian stared.

"This seems inappropriate."

"One, I don't bite. Two, the only people who would find it inappropriate would be your parents, and if you freeze, I'm sure they'll be angry anyway. Three, standing there staring at my nakedness, probably just as bad. At least this way you can say that you tried, right? Oh and four, time is coming to an end right. Seems like as good a time as any to be "inappropriate". If we were going to be, that is."

For once, Brian could not argue her logic, and Sophie wondered if that was an indication that all they held dear was coming to an end. Padding into the living room, she spied Brian following her, shirt half off looking with half obscured eyes for a place to drop the water logged garment.

"On the floor anywhere, we've been mopping up constantly, a little more won't hurt. Brian dropped the shirt at his feet, and shivered, clutching at himself. Sophie reminded herself that she was a girl and he was a boy and it could not be any more obvious how awkward they were. She shrugged and answered his self consciousness with aplomb, responding, "Well come on up, I've got a robe you can put on, since I'm pretty sure none of my clothes would fit you."

Sophie had managed to find the one blessing in the mother of all rainstorms: after discarding the rest of their useless clothes to near the radiator and after Sophie had given the mother of all noggies in an effort to dry his matted hair, there was a sense of peace as the two sat on her bed shivering into blankets that Sophie had laboriously dragged out to the extent that the pile dwarfed the bed, both of them safe from the down pour and its homogenous grip on the area. Here, time seemed to restart, although in no way was it fixed, and Sophie realized that she believed Brian, at least to the extent that something was amiss. Perhaps he exaggerated but, it seemed like they, and the world in general were at a precipice. It was then that she remembered what she was going to ask Brian, who had been incredibly silent, before the media center had socially imploded. Briefly, she considered what happened to each individual of the original party, as they had left in different directions, she was sure of it, because otherwise they would have never been able to outrun them, and for even a smaller exchange in her inner mind, imagined a mumbling zombie like brute staggering throughout the street, knowing of his intent, but not of he reasons, and worried the lock on the front and kitchen doors, reminding herself that the streets were empty, and the places deserted, that this area did not have what they wanted and that the people would based on nothing more then self interest seek to pester someone else for the resources she and Brian, the network apparently down in their area could not provide and that their addiction would at least make them clever predators rather than stupid criminals.

"Brian do you remember what I asked you before those ass clowns so rudely interrupted us?" Sophie questioned, slightly harshly then necessary, enjoying the role reversal.

"Ass clowns?" He murmured. "Oh, of course I do. It was a question I asked you originally, though rhetorically. What would you do if it were your last day, because no one in their right mind; or you know, who is not full of themselves would spend it warning others. People are selfish like that, I think." The whistle of the radiator caused them to both turn in its general direction, it seemed as though it had agreed.

"Well?"

"During the time we have been sitting here, I have been thinking."

"And?"

"And maybe things are not as bad as I thought." Sophie started at that.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because, things are different with you, and maybe they can be different in general." Brian began to crawl out of their fiber fortress.

"So you're leaving?" Sophie didn't mean to sound melodramatic, but after escaping from nearly being trampled, she felt she had at least some right to be uncomfortable with Brian leaving, especially when here was so comfortable.

"Yes."

"To do what?"

"Fix it."

"Now you think you can fix it." It wasn't a question, just disbelief. Brian stood up, looking ridiculous to her, still wet behind the ears, and in a big fluffy terry cloth robe that was her father's.

"Because of you. Things always went bad by now. And if they have not, yet, there must still be sign."

"Maybe what you heard was, I don't know, like a hallucination or something. You can't go around trying to do things because others don't hear what you hear."

"But it is perfect. I do not accept that I am crazy, but that others might, and," he paused in his explanation to retrieve his pants, "can both satisfy my beliefs without demonizing others as do those with mental problems." He winced slightly as he walked; evidently the jeans had yet to dry completely.

"Can't you wait?"

"But I am running out of time. In more ways than one, in fact." Sophie sighed resigned. What was the worst that could happen? The marauding groups were looking for something to do, in the spirit of avoiding stale human contact. They'll be going inside, I think. I hope.

"Hang on." Brian frowned. "Let me come with you." The frown turned into a sad smile.

"I do not think it is safe."

"Why the hell not?" Brian winced.

"Have I eve told you how time stops?"

"No," Sophie said warily. Brian stepped closer.

"Well. Have you ever heard of the scales of judgment?"

"Sounds religious."

"Sort of. The 'scales of judgment' is a concept associated with a number of pantheons, most notably, the Ancient Egyptians. When someone dies they believed the person would have their heart weighed against a feather if the heart was heavier, than that person would be devoured by Ammit, the crocodile headed deity who would devour unrighteous souls."

"That's going to cause a lot of long lines." Brian gave her a look.

"I do not think that is what will exactly happen. It has to do with anthropology-people are afraid of things that they cannot explain why they're afraid of them. Everything in the universe moves in a circle, around itself. Ammit is just a metaphor. I think things that I hear and imagine are just ways of understanding what is hard to do so. Really I do not think we will even realize what has happened. It just will. Maybe," Brian concluded with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, "those guys who carry signs are not so crazy after all." With that he pedaled out of the room and after a brief pause, ostensibly to get his shirt, and then a few foot steps headed toward the general direction of the door, which was opened and then closed gently, and an almost inaudible click echoed in Sophie's ears, causing her to sigh.

This time, Sophie was sure she had fallen asleep. Everything around seemed different.

"Brian," she called weakly, almost certain no one would answer. No one did. A glance at the clock on the shelf told her it was eight in the night, and Sophie froze. Not merely because the house was entirely too quiet, indicating that the radiator was no longer working; but the outside was as well. Sophie quickly got up and withdrew the shades that had ironically freed the two of them hours earlier. The water splatter on the glass was not fresh, and when she slid the pane open, an ungodly cold seeped in, and drifted through her bones, and she slammed it shut, partially in discomfort, somewhat in fear. Realizing how devoid of heat the house was, of sound-of life, she quickly gathered up her clothes, which had dried but were still ice cold, as was the radiator, a tentative touch informed her. Her coat barely gave her just awoken body protection from the sudden onslaught of the deadened air. Shivering fiercely, she made her way to Brian's house, and found a police cruiser, just one, and looking battered, that sat in the drive way. She rang the bell.

Just like in the café over a month ago, Sophie knew what she was going to ask, and what she was going to do, and did not want any part of it.

The police officer answered the door. Asked who she was, and was soon joined by Brian's mother who explained: "A friend."

Sophie went inside and Brian's father looked up at her, cautious if just for a moment, before directing his attention back to the officer. All three asked in one way or another if she had seen Brian.

"No," she lied, hoping naively to buy him time, that he did not have. All three thanked her and asked her in some way or another if she would leave them to their affairs, politely so.

"Sure," she lied again, and doubled to a back entrance, for which Brian had given her a key. She slipped past the trio in the kitchen, noting how tired the officer seemed, as though he had been on call far beyond his designated shift.

Upstairs, she heard the sound of two men, in Brian's room and slid herself against a wall leading to the door jamb. Out a window she spied a blackbird, sitting on a barren tree, the apathetic shy framing it and remembered what Brian had said about his first fake friend, Lisa, liking Five for Fighting, and found herself humming a tune- black bird singing on the edge of night. Really she was just like them, only a little different.

It was the world, the universe that had changed around her and Brian.

Near the room to hear well, Sophie stilled herself: "What does that look like to you?"

"Same thing that it looks like to you, smartass. It just doesn't make any sense, especially behind a book case that hasn't been moved?" Sophie took a chance and peered around the corner formed by the wall and the entrance. A gouge had been made into the wall, above the floor where scattered papers lay, in the shape of a square with four crescent marks sprouting from it.

Like the foot of a crocodile.

"Actually, Ammit had the head of crocodile, the front half of a lion and the haunches of a hippopotamus, so the implication that the Egyptian god is the villain is rather specious." Brittany merely stared at Rachel's candor. "I learned it in the Junior Egyptologists Club," Rachel added, hoping to give context.

"Suck me," Brittany communicated back, before turning to address the nearly dispersed middle school attendees. "Good things always come to an end, and you have to accept that. Just hope that it will not blow up in your face, I mean in a bad way." Quinn noticed Rachel look confused for the briefest of moments, and then roll her eyes, rather than the expression of disgust she was expecting. By her estimation, Rachel was getting too comfortable being with them.

"My turn," Quinn uttered as Brittany looked around to signal that she had concluded her piece. But Brittany shook her head. "Why?"

"Because than Santana would go last, and she went last the last time." Quinn squinted.

"I went last the last time."

"Technically, you just insulted us." Rachel reminded her.

"Technically, she made a death threat against us." Santana corrected. Quinn relented.

"Fine. But hurry up." Santana made a noise indicating she found Quinn's order amusing.

"Lucy Q, who died and made you king of anything?," Santana said in a low vice to no one in particular, as though she were humming a nursery rhyme. Quinn found herself shrugging.

"Then don't blame me when Coach Sylvester shuts you down in the middle of your story and you feel so idiotic, it hurts." Santana took the out, and Quinn guessed that she understood her only aim was to get to her turn as fast as possible.

"I could give a speech, but the fact of the matter is, I've got shit to do, and essentially that would be the thesis statement of my advice: everyone in this school has their own thing, agenda or whatever, and it's probably a good thing that it doesn't concern you. In fact you should thank whatever deity, assorted folkloric fairy and or Claus that it doesn't, because invisibility is your friend. Hell, it will probably be the closest thing to a boy and-or girlfriend any of you manage and it may get you laid. Warning: being unrecognizable and absolutely pointless is no guarantee of future sexy times. All individuals should consult the appropriate desperation indexes of those around them. Double your chances if you or those around you are drunk."

"That is just awful, Santana." Rachel shook her head, and yet Quinn doubted she cared.

"But funny," Brittany complimented, leaning in expectantly as Santana turned away from the exasperated audience.

"We're going to call this Apis y Apes."

"We are? Last time I checked, I didn't speak Spanish." Santana nodded to Quinn.

"I've heard you in Spanish. You're accent sucks Quinn. It sounds like you're conducting an exorcism." Santana shut her eyes and mimed some ritual, saying in a ungainly monotonic tone, "Me llamo te el libro de…" Quinn yawned. Really she was just tired, but Quinn did not mind that Santana ended her mockery and got on with it. "Actually, Apis is Latin for honeybee. Human beings are considered members of great apes," Santana cast a look in Finn and Puck's general direction and quickly returned to the other three, "which may seem more obvious in some people than in others. Both animals are social creatures and certain parallels exist in behavior." Brittany waited quietly, giving Santana her full attention, and Rachel brightened a bit as their orator became serious. Quinn was merely biding her time.

Sidney frowned at the giant ball that had formed from the stream of waggling bees climbing over hexagonal chambers. Rigged in a ventilated plexiglass shaft, replete with a small cultivar of garden flowers, different for each one of ten of such shafts, was stationed below and around a beekeeper's box, with one side exposed, displaying a layer. At first she just thought the bees were congregating, but then watched as a sphere formed, as though shifting from the flat two dimensions to the third like water filling an invisible container. The bee's shiny carapaces helped to enhance the effect such that Sidney realized she had been staring for far longer than she should have without acting. She rang up her lab partner, not wanting to tae the fall, or miss out on an opportunity.

"Abraham."

"Who is Abraham?" Rachel brought the story to a halt with her inopportune question. Santana sighed. She had been building momentum, and was so eager to get back to it, that she simply answered her question without snapping at her.

"Artie. I have a more important role for Britts than lab assistant."

"You said lab partner."

"That is just for his sake." Brittany explained before Santana had a chance to respond.

"Artie's or Abraham's?" Santana smiled.

"That's what we're going to find out."

"Abraham, your bugs are freaking me out."

"Now they're my bugs, all of a sudden?" Came the sardonic reply.

"You are the entomologist here."

"Which is why it's my expert opinion that you should have hired an Apiologist."

"How is a bee different than any other creepy- crawlie," Sidney was grateful that he couldn't see her wide smile through the line.

"Numerous ways. For one, they're social insects, like ants. They can be considered one super-organism, with millions, or rather billions over a hive's lifespan of components. Two, a hive requires special attention, maintenance, sampling, honey collection to keep the bees active for the duration of the project, which now that I've mentioned it, is a significant factor into of itself. And three…you've tricked me haven't you."

"If I were being honest, I'd say you walked into my trap like a dumbass, but lucky for you, I'm nicer than that. So yes, I tricked you. The thing is, I know what they're doing, but I can't figure out why."

"Enlighten me."

"They're performing a balling, but I don't remember any new queens, and there can't be a wasp or predator attacking the hive, so what the hell is going on."

"Well, since you know what's up, and what it couldn't be, I'll give you my professional advice: Hire a BEE scientist." Sidney rolled her eyes and hit the off button. Turning back to the glass shaft, she found the insects had dispersed, and just caught sight of something black, yellow and still being dropped into the flower basin below. Balling was a method of overheating and suffocating a predator that was small enough to enter the nest, but, generally, hard enough to make the soldier bees stingers useless. Namely, that meant hornets, although what had been ejected from the hive was almost definitely another bee. Sidney turned to the monitor. The queen of this particular hive, just like the one in each of the ten shafts was marked with a radioactive dye which the computer tracked for easy observation. According to it, the queen of the unorignally named station three, was somewhere in the center of the hive about seven comb squares in, currently out of sight.

The experiment was part of the university's contribution, or at least from its entomology portion, to solving colony collapse disorder. The theory was that there were behavioral components to, if not the root cause of the demise of many hives in the wild.

Which was why she sat in a lab watching silent bees going about their business for four hours a day, that she had been told that this was the exciting shift, with the lights on so that the bees were actually active. Although she doubted that enthusiasm, she felt for the poor son of a bitch who had to watch sleeping bees lie. Besides her, Abraham and the night shift bee watcher, two assistant professors watched the footage from the remaining twelve hours and wrote down any observations. This was merely a fact finding mission she had been told, and knowing the rigors of such an early stage of the scientific process, had prepared herself for some boring afternoons.

But this made her aggravated, Abraham, whose discipline actually covered this sort of thing, had committed his self to being no help, even if she hardly wanted him there; he had followed her, having been something of a hanger-on. Not because of her though, but because of the new girl.

Sidney hadn't even gotten a name, but she liked her, at least enough to get to know her in as much as a curious college student could. The brochures and guides, the subversive ones at least, had explained that this was a normal part of the college experience. None of them had gone as far as to talk about questioning, but Sidney got the gist. If one was going too, now would be the time.

It was a time of change.

And Sidney, master tactician that she was had managed to get a few words out of her.

"Um, hi."

"Hello." She shifted away from the board of potential credits for volunteer lab work to allow Sidney to see better. Sidney was endeared but remembered what she was trying to do.

"Ah, actually I was trying to get some ideas on what to take. This wasn't a complete lie; Sidney needed the credit. She just didn't care where she got it from. The girl with blue eyes shrugged.

"I was thinking of working on this bee project." She tapped one of the items on the list. "Seems like a good fit."

"Oh? What's your major?"

"Dance." Sidney frowned, not seeing the connection.

"How, exactly?" Sidney was genuinely curious.

"Bees dance in order to communicate." She shook herself to mimic a bee shaking its abdomen. Sidney laughed. And the girl smiled.

"Sounds like a good idea." However when she later asked if she might see the newcomer if she might see her there, she had some bad news.

"I had to pick another for my course."

"How come?" Sidney tried to not look too crest fallen.

"It was science based. Since mine is a liberal art, I had to try one on the appropriate roster."

"Guess they didn't see it your way."

"Guess not."

"It's actually for the best, I think I might try something different myself." She seemed alarmed by that.

"I really wish you would reconsider. I would like to know what they are all about. Maybe you could tell me about it sometime." Sidney swallowed thickly, and nodded.

And that was how Sidney got stuck babysitting bees. As for Abraham, she had noticed him eying her new friend during sign up week, and after finding him on the roster for the project-named My Bee's Keeper- figured that he had had the same idea and decided to just stick with it as well.

Sighing to begin the process of figuring out what to do, Sidney looked up the on call numbers for the assistant professors. The first, Dr. Rhimes, was out of the question. One time, Sidney had come into the lab early and found the doctor singing to the bees. If she recalled correctly, the song was In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.

Don't you know I'll always be true…

Sidney shuddered.

"That was not necessary," Rachel admonished.

"I'm sitting here with you, in the school. This is the absolute worst definition of school night in existence, literally."

"Our parents used to do things like this. They called it a lockdown."

"The only lockdown we know of is when someone thought they saw something they shouldn't," Brittany said in a tone that was half wistful, and half resentful. Quinn ran with the latter half.

"Welcome to the new millennium, Berry. If any administrator or student tried to host something like that there be a fit."

"I merely wanted to point out that this could have been a fun night, if some people were not so head strong and determined to be miserable."

"Trust me; I don't have to fake it." Brittany looked at Santana who shrugged.

"Too easy," she justified.

"Consider what you're saying: I'm impossible to get along with in any capacity."

"So?"

"Then maybe it's not me who's a problem."

"Hundreds of high school kids can't be wrong, Berry" Rachel folded her arms across her chest in sheer defiance.

"I never said they were, Quinn. I am fully aware of, and, with no prejudice nor am I impressed by, accept their antagonism. It's there right to feel that way. It makes me sad, of course, but they're not like you. You, you make it a hobby." Rachel glared. "An art form even, Quinn. You enjoy hating me, don't you? And the way you go about it, the amount of time you put in to it, it's like me and singing. Even if I were the most popular person on the face of earth tomorrow, you would still act as though I were Rachel "Man-hands" Berry, that even if Finn did not exist, you would find a way to make my attraction to a partner an assault on your person. You always take me back to you, Quinn, because I have no effect on you, no power, I'm the victim here for sure, but what you do to me certainly has an effect on you." Rachel's voice went dead, that is, it sounded hollow to Quinn. "Does it feel so good, Quinn?" From behind Rachel she heard Santana mutter "Jesus", to which Brittany responded: "Sweet Baby Jesus." Rachel kept going, regardless. "Does it feel like, rather than reaching your breaking point, you're just coming together?" Quinn didn't answer, refused to. "No? Yes? Can't tell? Well, maybe we can fix that."

Rachel, agitated enough to be hovering over the lunch bench, had reached her own breaking point, and swung over, stalking into the second half of the cafeteria. Finn came over, and Quinn assumed that most, if not the entire group had been listening in- Rachel had forgone the whispering voice they used to tell their stories.

"What's going on? Are we leaving?" Before Quinn could find her voice, Santana spoke up.

"No, not yet, Ironic Giant." Finn looked confused. "Because you're big, and your brain's small. I mean, she's coming back right now…with something in her hand-Brittany back up, now." Although Santana only had the courtesy to warn her best friend, Quinn and Finn retreated as well, out of the path of a rushing Rachel, gripping two tall paper cups, the space around them warping as something fell from the cup's lip. Quinn held closest to her original position, not wanting to be cowed; besides, they were leaving and a slushy here was symbolic at best. Santana was the only one who would open her mouth, and maybe Puck, out of revenge for Quinn looking down on him. Still, it'll be just another rumor. And Quinn wanted to see if Rachel would actually do it, this being one of the few times she couldn't get a bead on the girl.

As it turned out, she wouldn't, but did have something else planned.

"We're going to see how it feels for you get what you want," Rachel said explaining more of what she had up her sleeve as everyone stared, her voice drifting off as she rounded the corner back to the other side.

"What?" Called Brittany and Quinn saw a few heads turn in her direction, but she never took her eyes off the dark corridor until Rachel returned, apparently never having stopped talking: "…and everyone will see you for what you are: a girl beholden to your desires," Rachel set two more cups down, these having different flavor slushies than the ones before, "as much as you try to keep them hidden from people which leads you to despise them, as if your hang ups were their fault, I mean…" Rachel's voice dissipated again, and Quinn and company exchanged looks.

"Should…should we do something?" Finn peered over to the side to see if Rachel was making a return trip.

"I'm all for suggestions, Hudson," Santana replied dryly. The other children wondered over to see exactly what all the fuss was about as Rachel came back again, "…so why don't we just introduce our new friends to the McKinley tradition you started, so you can see how you look in other eyes," these last two were grape and blue raspberry. After Rachel left, Artie checked his phone and informed them, "You've got twenty one seconds to come up with a plan."

"How many of these drinks are there?" Tina asked quickly.

"Seven, for her at least," Santana mused, staring into the uncovered cups

"Why seven?"

"Because those are the colors found in the rainbow."

"Aren't all colors found in the rainbow?" Blaine pointed out.

"You would know," Santana scoffed, it's your sign." Blaine rolled his eyes.

"Is that a gay joke or a leprechaun one?"

"Ten seconds, people."

"How about we steal her pot'o'gold? Now that's a leprechaun joke."

"Does that mean we have to go down her treasure trail, San?" Santana stared, not saying anything; Quinn imagined this being one of the few times that a snide comment had blown up on her.

"Five sec- oh, crap." Rachel stomped through the hallway, darkness peeling off of her in a clockwise fashion. This time, she was only carrying a single cup, which she set down on the table with the others so that the shape they formed was pyramidal.

"So what do you say, Quinn; want to make me taste the rainbow again?" Quinn felt a blush rise in her cheeks. Everything I say does sound sexual, even when I'm not saying it. Quinn decided to play dumb.

"No thanks." Rachel narrowed her eyes.

"Really. Here. I'll make it easy for you." Grabbing the hem of her sweater, Rachel started to tug it off, leaving the rest of the lunchroom's occupants to stand as still as possible both to watch for any surreptitious movements and to maintain the focus necessary not to laugh when the garment got caught on her head, causing the checkered undershirt to ride up some, exposing a hairless and tanned belly. Quinn's mind decided to play prankster, mocking Quinn for being affronted with evidence that Rachel was indeed a real girl.

"Damn, Berry's not bad," Quinn heard Puck mutter as Rachel finally ripped the sweater off her now flushed and bed hair adorned head. She surveyed the room.

"I appreciate your patience," Rachel thanked them calmly, and strode forward, where Quinn had given a few inches, but only under the pretense of being disturbed by her behavior. Rachel looked expectantly at her.

"What?" While all eyes were on Rachel and Quinn's own gaze could not be scrutinized took her challenger in. If she hadn't been pretending, she probably would have run far away: Rachel looked crazed, and no one would blame Quinn for getting out of dodge. They might even justify anything bad happening as her being to hard headed to avoid a confrontation. Ironically, a quote she once heard about Rachel's favorite state entered her mind-that New Yorkers can forgive anything, except stupidity-something that Quinn herself had trouble dealing with in even small doses.

"I believe this is known as a pincer move: We're going to settle this once and for all. You can either back down and admit defeat in front of the closest thing to the next generation of McKinley classmates we have," Quinn ignored Santana's comment: "Not damn likely after this stunt," "or you can make good on your threats and torment me with them as witnesses to the exact nature of your absolute horribleness towards me."

"Or I can sit here until you realize how stupid you look," Quinn said hoping to receive back up in the form of a scrutinizing, even pitying flank, that would sour Rachel's appetite for dramatics. Rachel kept her gaze steady, arms folded over her chest, which Quinn attributed to Puck's wandering eye or that Rachel was incredibly uncomfortable out of layers. The lunchroom was, after all unbearably warm. Rachel shook her head stubbornly.

"If you refuse, then you must concede your actions are outrageous."

"You're the one who took her shirt off," Brittany said.

"This is a sweater, Brittany."

"A sweater is a kind of shirt."

"Yes, but what you said sounds…regardless, it's irrelevant. Choose Quinn. You must."

"Who the hell are you, Yoda?" There was a pause, and Quinn waited to see if Santana would get it. "Well, you're small, you take forever to say what you're saying, and no one is entirely sure what you are." Rachel gave a look of revile behind Quinn.

"Good," rasped Puck, in what Quinn barely remembered from Finn's explanation and a couple of episodes of Family Guy was an imitation of an Emperor Palpitine, "Let the hate flow through you." A peal of laughter exploded from the group, the focus keeping them stoic exhausted; Quinn could attest, as keeping her face still was beginning to hurt. Somewhere, in the recesses of the collective senses that give people unease, she felt her headache lurking.

Then: "Do you really just throw drinks into people's faces?" Quinn turned to face Blaine who had posed the question. "Because it sounds like something you would see on the real housewives of such and such, you know?" Blaine clarified-his question was about the ridiculousness of the insult and not its cruelty. Quinn let go of a breath and almost felt relieved, then angry with herself for doing exactly what Rachel wanted.

"Not just in their faces. Down their backs, over their heads. There is more variety." Brittany defended, possibly.

"Why?"

"Because the drinks suck, and parents are more likely to sue if you throw their kid into a dumpster, that's why."

"Isn't that dangerous? What if some kid gets thrown into a garbage truck?"

"That's why we should do it more often; so we can iron out the bugs." Blaine stared at Brittany. Artie tilted his head.

"Well, that does make a certain kind of sense." Santana rolled her eyes.

"Oh, come on! Even I thought that was creepy." Artie looked down, a bit ashamed.

"I assure you, Mr. Anderson that this is the sort of typical high school hijinks and nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately. However the reason we are here is to reveal the curious intent of one Quinn Fabray." Blaine glanced to and fro.

"I thought we were supposed to be touring the school," Blaine said slowly, squinting at Rachel, who sighed in exasperation.

"Work with me here; I am speaking of this juncture in our tour: the seamy underbelly of McKinley high."

"I'm never going to finish, am I?" Santana asked Brittany above Quinn's head reminding her of why she should shut Rachel up.

"This is as crucial an element in understanding the school as any other, trust me. So what will it be Quinn?" Standing, Quinn lurched a bit, with Rachel watching her, evidently unimpressed as the cheerleader tried to regain feeling in her legs. Grasping one of the cups, she fought the urge to roll her eyes at a couple of sharp intakes of breath. Approaching the brunette, Quinn could see Rachel expect the worse. Instead, Quinn stood inches from her and brought the cups to both their faces, Rachel's face tightened as she braced for what Quinn surmised the other girl figured would be a brute force hit, and brought the cup to her lips and took a sip, and smiled.

Turning back to the group, she said, "I didn't realize the machine would be open. Despite Santana's comment, they're pretty good if you get there before all the fresh syrup's gone. Is anyone still thirsty?" A few ambled towards the shadowed part, looking back at Quinn who nodded in an assuring manner. "Just down the hall to your right." A few more left until they all did, trickling out slowly, almost as if trying to avoid any sudden movements, which would set Rachel off. While curious as to what happened, they were not about to look Quinn's gift horse in the mouth, and took their out, likely to discuss amongst themselves with the safety of not being overheard, as Rachel had demonstrated. With the kids gone, only Finn and Puck were obstacles in Quinn's attempt at expediting Santana's contribution.

"The fuck was that about Berry?" Quinn could almost feel Rachel deflate behind her at Puck's condemnation.

"Yeah, you were acting like Quinn did it personally to you," said a befuddled Finn.

"Aren't either of you going to raid the slush machine?" Puck gave her a quizzical look.

"What's wrong with these?"

"Um, maybe because Berry probably spat in them?"

"You drank from one, Quinn."

"And it tasted like spit."

"I really don't think Rachel would do that."

"Yo, Frankenteen, she's trying to hint that us girls… and Berry, would like to talk amongst ourselves in private, and maybe this hasn't crossed your stitched together cerebrum, but you might be able to find out what the kiddies are taking away from Berry's burst. Think that might be a good idea? So we know to expect Figgins coming down on us for the crap we pulled, that we admitted to, and they just saw the product of." Santana gestured to Rachel. "I don't want to get suspended, despite what a laugh factory this place is, and you can't afford it. So get to it- rapido, vamanos; coprende?" Puck muttered under his breath, that he "had her comprende," but nevertheless left. Santana got up and stumbled herself, stretching a bit before taking a seat across from Rachel who had glumly hunched over, her normally ornate posture be damned.

"Real fucking talk?" Santana offered, and Rachel managed to pull herself out of licking her wounds-Quinn relegated the girl's upset to self soothing by default-and met her gaze.

"What?" Santana took that as a chance to start talking.

"Look. I know Quinn's been riding you."

"And not in the good way," added Brittany.

"So I get the freak out. Lucy Q likes to take it slow, and watching her pretend that she doesn't have a choice s almost as bad as a slush bath, am I right?"

Rachel nodded. "Alright. But you understand that, of all the times you could have picked to explode, you picked the worst, and worse than that you did it in the worse way, just so we clear, you screwed the pooch on both vector and magnitude." Rachel winced at the expression but nodded again. "You do realize the whole point of Britt's game is to make the other person look like an idiot, and you just scored on yourself."

"Again, not in the good way." Rachel glanced at Brittany, before turning back to Santana.

"You have to play the game, and more than just be good at it, you have to make other people bad at it. Preferably not me, but the white devil over there." Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Now Britts, can I finish telling my tale while tiny town is occupied on the other side?"

"I have never stopped someone from getting lucky, and I will not start now," Brittany swore solemnly. Santana grinned.

"Then let my words touch you in ways you can't imagine."

So, rather then risk a second verse, worse than the first, she dialed up Dr. Fibes. Sidney braced herself when an ungrateful voice answered.

"Yes, Sidney?" Sidney figured that her boss had caller Id and had checked the schedule, and not because of some expectation that she would be a thorn in the doctor's side.

"I think the bees may be turning on each other. It felt ridiculous to say, but she couldn't quite figure how else to say it.

"Which would be the point of the study, no?"

"Wouldn't the point be to stop the bees?"

"Eventually. For now record the observation and Rhimes and I will view the computer's figures. That will be all, Sidney."

"Fine." Setting the receiver on the cradle, Sidney went to look at the readout.

Besides the queen, the computer tracked the density of the hive down to the size of the average bee, liquid retention, as well as offering a variety of ways to adjust the apiarium-

"Bee farm," Santana explained.

-such as temperature, seed dispersal, oxygen level, moisture, held by parameters programmed to prevent anything beyond what would normally be experienced in the wild, although that meant that the temperature could be set as high as a hundred and ten degrees Fahrenheit, to as low as minus thirty complete with a wind chill effect. A monitor constantly spat out data, which would then be transferred to a spread sheet application. The computer itself was isolated, and had no connection to any other net work or server, other than the original program provided for the analysis, and the spreadsheet, the user display was completely barren, without even a background design. Grateful that it wasn't her turn to do data duty, she opened the log book to the section containing form reports, and commenced filling it out.

First, name, date and time. Then, there was space to indicate the urgency of the report. Following this, a brief description of any functions or methodology used, and then an army of lines with which to describe the issue and results. Sidney tapped her page against the paper.

What do I say? A suspected case of bee on bee violence? Deciding to make a small victory on putting the science types in their place-they had explained everything thoroughly, knowing they were not guaranteed majors in the field, though superiorly so, as though their methods were intricate to be divined by those just out side of their field, she decided to get technical. Sidney got the sense that they did not like having to use the university's students as volunteers, as the two were adjuncts, and intent on showing that they could, rather than teach, and would have liked to cull from their own alma mater graduate programs rather than slum with undergraduates.

Hell, I don't think they like each other. Rhimes was haughty to Fibes whenever she could be without having to get work done, and Fibes treated Rhimes as a lab assistant under the guise of having more important work to do. Shaking herself out of her revere, she jotted down the following:

Subjects proved effectual in terminating a member of their colony through heat death by means of a collective assault known colloquially as 'balling'. The corpse was then dispatched into the soil medium below.

Slipping the paper into the binder section closed off for the day's work, Sidney glanced back at the terminal. Almost rhythmically, strings of description materialized on the screen. Almost hesitantly, she made her way over. She had no business here, in the literalist sense of the phrase. Really, neither doctor had said that they couldn't examine the monitor, or even implied it, surprisingly. Sidney put it down to their need to brag without actually doing so, and curiosity would be the perfect cover. Sidney chalked her dislike and discomfort with giving them the satisfaction as the reason for her hesitancy check out the readout. A final bout of annoyance with an imaginary collective naysayer to call her bluff put her in front of the machine.

Save for the blue backing, the machine looked like it was running a systems check. The routines it reported to were numbered and divided, so long strings of categories sped up the monitor. Sidney found that the program was listing the measurements of the third tube, cycling through root density quantities currently.

The quantities concerning the flora were some of the biggest data sets covered by the program. Because they defined the environment as well as behavioral choices for the bees, never mind the possible confounding variables a poor-or exceptional-crop could produce in the insects yield. If Sidney remembered correctly, the success of the hive was measured in comparative honey production, with a built in fail safe of excess that would disqualify the results as having been corrupted if the bees managed too great an outlier.

This was just a study; sources for specific experimentation were to be sought out in the metadata analysis to be conducted comparing the honey out put as well as, obviously if the hive actually made it through the study to the position of the queen, the hive's build rate, and number of bees as the primary dynamics of the Bee's behavior.

Worship. Build. Screw. Sounds like another species I know.

A week later, Sidney found herself in the lab again, intermittently glancing between the corrugated tubes-to simulate landing on bark to the hive's workers-and the computer screen, cranking out values on the fifth tube.

Since the last time she was here, Sidney found that sensation occurring with greater frequency. Were it not for the fact that this feeling had only crept upon her after she had started her volunteer work, she might have chalked it to burn out. But her routine didn't bother her; rather the agitation centered on this place, and especially this time. Sidney was not the kind of person who could let go of a problem, even in her own best interest.

Sidney wrestled with her overzealous ambition in an attempt to tamp it down. There was no point in offering criticism on work whose developers were especially protective, and where her efforts would only bring her grief.

But you could still work it out for your own sake, her mind argued back. Sidney sighed in resignation.

Certainly, Rhimes and Fibes, as off-putting as they were, could interpret the results. What Sidney realized was bothering her was that there was no one assigned to forge the metadata that would lead to the results.

So what the hell is handling all that information?

Sidney's eyes shot to the monitor, still cranking away, and stayed there, but narrowed suspiciously. Not wanting to interrupt the program, Sidney leaned forward after a cautious inspection of the door's window pane and spied the disks to the side opposite a tangle of cord leading away from the screen. Storing copies of data, and video during the night both for back up and as raw data, there were in closed in aqua blue plastic.

However, a quick search through them revealed one in an orange gold casing, just as simple as the others but Sidney could think of only one reason that it was different from the rest. Casually making the distance to a bank of machines connected to a power source, but blank and quiet, reminding Sidney of Easter Island statues, she turned one on, noting the difference between these and the machine, that the latter was almost definitely a custom built-although uniformly and innocuously designed-piece of technology, and lacked all commercial displays. It was almost shocking to see such a piece of equipment, and assured her that she was on the right track. Really though, she had no business here. While neither Rhimes nor Fibes had forbidden them from examining their program, or implied it, or if Sidney's impression of their personalities was correct, would probably encourage them for the sake of bragging rights, she had a sense that they would only approve if one of them was in the room.

Reminding herself of how exposed she was, Sidney made quick work of scanning the program's source code.

In a repetitive pattern, like a skeletal version of the running unit across from her, instructions were stacked on one another, categorized and indented for each device, say, a thermometer or light fixture, with tasks such as check, record, find range, written as one word.

Farther along were respondent figures-the liquid weight, solid mass, queen position, with a similar task set. Sidney grimly marched down the read out, searching for a function that could explain-

Well, what do we have here?

At the end was a large block text, giving the body of the source code the appearance of a tail. Unlike the previous, this portion was indecipherable, seeming gibberish, encoded functions leading into one another. Question marks and equal signs, percent values and a lack of spaces made it hard to know what this part of the code did, but Sidney got the feeling that she was looking at a very complicated if/then statement, and that satisfied her curiosity.

Although accompanying that feeling was a slight unease, devoid of any competitive spirit. Rather this was the urge to retreat, similar to the feeling one gets when looking into a drain, or down at the ground from a great height: staring at the expectant cursor at the end, bone-bear white letters, numerals, and signs, Sidney got the unmistakable sensation of fooling with things beyond her control.

Taking this as a sign that she should end her investigation, perhaps once and for all, Sidney exited the program, popped the disk back into its unassuming case, and shut down the machine watching as the screen went dark with a certain sense of satisfaction.

"How's that for atmosphere, Berry?" Santana's rhetorical question caused Rachel to jump and Quinn to become annoyed.

"Hurry up, Lopez," Quinn snapped, casting a watchful stare to the dark passageway, slightly relieved to hear voices-stationary voices-growing louder, apparently uninterested in their group.

"Touchy," she griped back.

"Bitchy," corrected Brittany, earning a silent giggle from the former girl.

Sidney's next two weeks at the lab were uneventful. Having chosen to let things be and instead allow her energies to find their way toward discovering the mystery blonde's name.

In the name of that cause, Sidney 'happened' to journey past the Arts department, and was rewarded with more direct results than she may have wanted.

Of the two times she bumped into the object of her affection, this is how the second time went"

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Her question was sincere, so Sidney decided her answer should be as well.

"I'm not sure. Bumping into you, I guess. Again I mean." The blonde shrugged.

"It's a free country."

"Right. Thanks."

"For what?"

"Honestly? I have no idea." The blonde giggled. "Did you pick a project?" A pause, then she nodded.

"Yes. I teach movement to the inner city." Sidney felt her face etch in concern.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Dodging the cars is a little tricky, but it is good for congestion."

"Sounds…eclectic?"

"Thank you. Are you still with the bees?" Sidney nodded.

"It's mostly just sitting around, though." Sidney almost felt as though she were asking the other girl for permission to abandon the project.

"Something will happen soon enough," she said. Slightly surprised by how solemn the other girl sounded, she didn't even notice when the blonde glanced away, as though she had forgotten something. "I know it will," she said, and then waved good bye, bounding down the hallway and disappearing around a corner.

The next time she was in the Bee lab, Sidney texted Abraham to meet her.

"Yo, bug boy," she called, when he turned up outside the double door front entrance.

"This had better be good."

"Only one way to find out."

Evidently, it was.

"I'd have to copy it and look it over in private, but you're right-surprisingly-it's an if/then conditional, but more than that, it's a metamorphic engine."

"How? It only takes up a small part of the entire code."

"It doesn't need to be complex if it uses another medium, does it?"

"The bees?"

"I suppose, although these values up here," Abraham pointed to the values set in the cascade before the tail, "are not set to the instruments I provided. They connect to them, but could be used to measure anything found in the labels; they're just place holder values."

"Any idea how the program would change?"

"It looks like it would add a certain measurement or way of comparing two. The new method than subscribes to a small set of conditions, that allow this part of the code to modify itself given the results, in an unending loop."

"To what end?"

"What am I? A fortune cookie? Like you said, it explains where Rhimes and Fibes get their figures for the results."

"You wouldn't need to go to all this trouble for some useful numbers."

"Who says that they did/? Maybe they bought the program from a custom job, or something." Sidney tilted her head in consideration.

"They are stuck up they're own asses enough to think their project would need something like this. Any ideas who they would contact?"

"No, but some friends of mine might be able to find out. I'll see what I can do." Sidney nodded, but couldn't help her self.

"Don't go out of your way for little old me," she pouted.

"Scientific curiosity alone, I assure you."

The rest of that session was uneventful, although before she left, Sidney noticed that the machine's out put was quicker than before.

Next week, however, could offer no such peace.

For once, all four of the volunteers were in the lab during Sidney's session, and she wondered if that was for any particular reason. As Dr. Fibes looked down on them with what Sidney figured must be her face of stern benevolence, she was given no clue.

"I just want to know who, if any of you, touched the computer." A seemingly simple request. Sidney couldn't believe it.

"It's not like the research was compromised. You won't get into any trouble, or even be ejected from the program; we're starved for help," chimed in Dr. Rhimes.

There was silence. The two communications majors sitting to the right of her an Abraham seemed bored, while Abraham, kept shooting her side glances, which Sidney ignored, and instead focused on meeting Fibes gaze; she knew people like this, specifically women, who turned every interaction into a fight, and every chance to leave as an admission of weakness, or in this case, guilt.

Santana paused the story here and raised an eyebrow at Quinn, who glared back, realizing what she was doing when Brittany giggled and Rachel had the audacity to smile knowingly, and turned away, was embarrassed by the feel of three sets of eyes on her and met Santana's gaze again, and flinched after a few moments.

Santana grinned and continued.

"Well, the thing didn't melt itself," Fibes complained. Sidney, not knowing what else to do decided to raise her hand.

"Not necessarily," Sidney answered without being called on. This wasn't the second grade, after all.

"Then what happened." It wasn't a question, but Sidney still had an answer.

"The computer was over-clocked. It was over heated, and it burnt out." Dr. Fibes appeared not to know what to do with what she had told her, and Sidney considered her task accomplished.

"Over clocked?" She finally asked.

"Whatever you use to measure what the bees do broke the computer," Sidney explained bluntly.

"By making it do too much," Dr. Rhimes realized. Sidney nodded.

"Fine." It seemed painful for Dr. Fibes to admit what happened. "How do we get it fixed?"

"Get a better computer, or wire the data to a university supercomputer. Or run several computers at once. Whatever." The two doctors exchanged glances.

"Right," said Dr. Rhimes ambiguously. Dr. Fibes frowned.

"That'll be all for today," she uttered and motioned for them to leave, the camera crew doing so immediately. When they were outside, Abraham chose to speak.

"Do you think they understood a word you said?" His demeanor was jovial, and it dropped when Sidney did not return it.

"I think they know more than they think."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I know. I was surprised too. Mostly I thought those two shared a brain."

Rachel huffed. "If you have something to say, say it."

"That's the point of these tall tales, right, short stuff?"

"Did Mr. Abrams say something while Quinn and I were downstairs," Rachel pressed.

"Besides calling him 'Mr. Abrams' makes you sound like a tool?" The shorter brunette merely squinted.

"Was it that bad?" Quinn scowled trying to gather what Rachel seemed to interpret that she didn't hear or see." Santana sighed.

"I talked you down. The others were kind of pissed; he was just quiet, so I made you a couple of fools rather than a couple of assholes. That whole musical number was the final nail in the coffin, though." Something clicked for Quinn.

"You told them we shared a brain?" Santana rolled her eyes.

"And then you pulled off a choreographed number. Talk about Exhibit A." Quinn made a disgusted sound. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"Finish." Santana shrugged easily and complied.

Abraham, Sidney had decided, was a hanger-on. He had taken it upon himself to join her in the university's cafeteria, ostensibly to discuss the mysterious goings on in the bee lab. Sidney had doubts, and when the mysterious blonde sat with them, her concerns that he could pose as a rival were solidified once again after a brief thaw.

"Hello," she greeted him. Abraham smiled crookedly. Sidney glared.

"Abraham." He shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you. Are you a friend of Sidney's?" Having a small fit at being discussed by someone who had joined her, Sidney almost missed the answer.

"Of sorts." That quickly muted her outrage. Of sorts? What could that mean? Instead of asking, Sidney swallowed the lump in her throat and looked down at her half eaten lunch. "How is the bee keeping?"

"Excellent," answered Abraham for the both of them. "We may have made a breakthrough." Apparently the blonde had her own line of inquiry, as Sidney noticed his statement catch her attention, even as her expression remained neutral.

"Like what?"

"We're not sure of anything yet, but we'll let you know." Abraham turned to Sidney, who kept her gaze on the other girl, as if it would be folly to look away. Then again, Sidney had always thought that.

Quinn was dimly aware that Brittany was smiling at Santana shyly as if she had just gotten a compliment. Maybe she had, but then, thought Quinn, their relationship must be worse than mine with the midget. Satisfied she had justified her own compulsions, for the moment at least, Quinn tuned back in to Santana's narrative.

"I am not running your project; you do not have to answer to me," replied the blue eyed girl, whose interest now seemed focused on Sidney. She shivered.

"No trouble, really." A moment thumped by, and Sidney almost lost her nerve. But then, the other girl smiled, and her eyes lit up. Despite herself, Sidney's breath hitched.

"Thank you." Sidney smirked.

"For what?" Her smile widened as well.

"Cooperating."

"With what?" That was Abraham speaking. Sidney opted not to look at him.

"My interest." As she spoke she hoisted herself off of the bench in one fluid motion, serving as the end of their conversation.

Sidney didn't question it, and somehow felt she couldn't. Abraham stared after her, as she disappeared into the crowd, and regardless of the hypocrisy, rolled her eyes at him.

Sidney found the two doctors had decided on the last option she had provided: several computers on the university's network were sharing the computation requirement, running fulltime when the particular device was not in use. Now, there wasn't any computer readout available in the lab, frantically scrolling down fresh batches of information.

Now, the program was all around them, all around her, hiding in the background of every machine she came across. Understandably, she was jumpy.

"Damn it, you startled me!" Sidney flinched away from Abraham near the bank of blank monitors. Sidney couldn't be sure, but some paranoid part of her suggested that the suspicious instruction set may have been churning away inside.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, well. What have you heard?"

"The system's causing some delays, nothing major. Not enough to justify putting the genie back in the bottle." Sidney looked at him queerly. "What. I was being poetic. As weird as the docs are, the program hasn't done anything out of the ordinary since."

"And her?" Abraham faltered.

"I think I was made."

"How-"

"I think he was made, too." Sidney blinked as she strolled in, lightly, in a matter of fact manner. Sidney saw no trace of agitation, or confrontation, and decided to take her good luck in stride.

"Yeah, well. Did you need something?"

"I considered being followed an invitation to occupy your time," she replied, taking a gander around the room. Sidney watched her closely, almost being startled when she spoke again. "Or was I mistaken?"

"No. Not really. Aren't you here to learn more about the bees?"

"In a sense."

"A sense?"

"Intricate individuals initiate idiosyncratic intra-personal institutions. It is as true for bees as it is for people. The bees are simply more cooperative."

"Until they sting you."

"Until they sting you," she replied apparently in agreement. "Maybe we can avoid that. You are interested in how your bosses came across their design, right?"

"You know something?" Sidney didn't have time to ask how she knew that.

"No; I know a way we can get it."

"We? As in us three?" Sidney was incredulous, bordering on livid.

"Yes." When she said no more, Abraham decided to be the optimist among them.

"How could we three do that?"

"We go along with flow"

"What flow?"

"Say your suspicions are correct."

"Who says we have suspicions," asked Sidney trying to affix the blonde with that particular look and failing.

"Why else would you send him to investigate?"

"Curiosity? Like you?" She smiled, and Sidney felt another inability to turn her gaze away.

"I can not tell you; only you would know."

"…what's your plan?"

And so it happened that Sidney stood with a blank disk when the blonde strode in to the bee lab, holding a university issued laptop, complaining of lethal snail crawl rendered by the good doctors program overrunning all other functions. Stood here and watched as the girl lied and appeared angry, acted out her scene, unrehearsed, perfectly, brandishing with an intentionally abused electronic, wanting answers that she knew by heart.

The doctors fell for it, because, why wouldn't they? Who else but a maladapted personality think of anything odd from the girl's-such a pretty girl at that-request?

Sidney did her part, mechanically and stiffly, copying the released and unencrypted data that was stored on the wieldy tech when they signed up an inordinate amount of the log hours on the nearly frozen processor, and filled the disk until its memory was exhausted. Two days later, when they were sure nothing or no one was coming down upon their heads, they sat around the sample she and the social engineering girl of her dreams and nightmares had etched from some large mass that now adequately described the illusive computer content.

"It should inactive," mused Abraham.

'Should be?"

"It's just data, with bits of the program embedded. Or it should be."

"I'm hearing a lot of plausibility, and no certainty." Their blonde companion picked up the disk.

"Only one way to find out, then," she said as she waved the disk around recklessly, or so it seemed to Sidney, reminding her of the act with the computer. Sidney, not to be cowed, slid her personal computer over.

"Knock yourself out." The blonde went about placing the disk into the side slot, locking it into place rather grimly and shoving it close with the careful fascination of a child encountering something for the first time.

Perhaps she has, Sidney considered. The laptop was an older model. A faint whir brought her out of her musings, and a wide swath of text made her eyes widen. "Someone's gotten through their growing pains." Abraham leaned in as well, reaching for the scroll pad.

"How big a cross section is this?" Blue eyes remained transfixed to the screen, so Sidney responded.

"About two hours, at the maximum setting possible before the computer would have cashed and burned."

"The only computers used on this platform are small, personal ones right?" Abraham broke his stare with the screen.

"Yes…except… The blonde looked at him, while Sidney glared.

"Except what?"

"I think the docs managed to get one of the servers to hold their data. If it contains the program, than the process could continue."

"This contains the program." Sidney felt her eyes narrow.

"You've seen the code? When?"

"I have seen code. There are parts in here, in the bee data," she explained. Abraham took a closer look.

"This is all data," he mimed, outlining a roughly rectangular field of Verde. "These," he continued pointing to singular lines in the text, "are something else."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"Look, I could take it to some friends again."

"Different friends?"

"Different friends. This program has changed and grown, maybe even evolved, and if it's in the server…"

"It can get out," the blue eyed among them said with finality.

"Like the internet?"

"Networks in general, although the way it runs would require data input."

"So where would it get that?"

"No clue." Sidney turned to her.

"Any suggestions?"

"Not at this time," she murmured, still staring at the screen.

"So we're looking for a lot of data a hungry and growing program would want to gobble up."

"Correct."

"Then, tomorrow, you take the server rooms, and I'll look up the networks the rooms could be hooked up to."

"What should I do?" Sidney whirled to face her.

"What can you do?"

"A lot of things. I surprise myself sometimes."

"Right. Just be vigilant."

"That is ambiguous."

"Gives you more freedom that way. Look for anything out of the ordinary and don't limit yourself.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." The blonde nodded. The three went their separate ways after that, and the next day proved permanent in that respect.

The message indicator on Sidney's computer annoyed her more than it actually surprised her-she assumed it was junk mail, as all her contacts and professors had her corporate developed email account, and used it exclusively. She considered the address, composed from her name and a string of letters she had devised upon being prompted when she first bought the device a bit bootleg, and so she ignored it. But when it popped up again, the silent icon interfered with her search for the connection to the university's servers and networks, as well as subsidiaries and providers, and those dependent on the network, causing her to lose her focus. Gritting her teeth in frustration, Sidney hit the icon aggressively after scrolling certainly over it, and frowned at what was displayed.

"A Wikipedia link?" Scanning the web address, she found nothing intelligible except for the word Tailypo, the closest thing that could potentially be pronounceable. Figuring that it might be useful given their current state of affairs, and having wanted a new computer for some time now, decided to take the risk that the link may have a virus.

Apparently, the Tailypo was a mythological creature from Appalachian lore.

"I didn't even know that the Appalachians had lore," Sidney groused sarcastically, scrolling down the page to find an italicized bit, referring to what the entity said when confronting the hunter who had taken its namesake Tailypo-the tail of the fox like creature.

'Where's my Tailypo?

'I d-don't know,' says the hunter. The Tailypo would then leap to the foot of the hunter's bed and-

'YOU HAVE IT' says the beast, and the hunter is never seen again.

"Unless he's torn apart." Lovely, she thought. Staring into the foreground, slightly shocked, Sidney considered whether this was a threat, and for a moment of delirium, that the program was the one threatening her.

As if to answer the ozone flavored smoke of plastic burning tickled her nostrils, and Sidney looked down to see her laptop steaming and the screen beginning to fade.

"Fuck!" Sidney batted the over loaded device away from her, hissing as the battery pack on the underside mildly scalded her skin, and giving a small angry yelp of surprise when the laptop caught fire with a pop, and to prevent the grass from catching a flame, slammed her sneaker as thoroughly yet gingerly as she could.

"Looks like I'll be getting my wish then," she sighed leaving the crushed heap in a patch of dirt. That had certainly been a message, and Sidney remembered that the disk containing the program's 'tailypo' had been with the blonde, who must still be in the building. Her plans on avoiding suspicion thoroughly shown to be flawed, Sidney ran back to the university entrance, slowing to a walk to avoid suspicion as the building came into view.

Navigating the halls, she thought more about how the program had sent its first volley. It occurred to her that the program had gestated in her computer when the disk was in, and that the blonde was the one eager to try it out. Something didn't seem right about that though.

Coming upon the computer lab, Sidney found it closed with a notice explaining technical difficulties. The same thing happened at every lab of every floor, the room dark, and the computers blank.

Sidney turned away from one lab and squinted. It may have been her imagination, but it seemed as though the lights had grown brighter.

On the floor above that she found the air conditioners on full blast, and just above it, the heat was on in the seventh floor wing, the occasional passerby looking as overheated as her laptop.

On another floor she nearly fell over herself because there was no light. "What the hell?" Her grousing met a few raised eyebrows but it seemed that people were fit to tolerate the deteriorated environmental conditions.

Wait, what?

Everything was beginning to seem familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it until she reached the server room near the basement.

Here a crowd had gathered, like a pulsing ball, a single blurry entity making the gestalt stronger, somehow lighter by becoming darker, more defined, the murmurs and talking gaining volume as one narrative. There seemed to be someone or thing in the middle; like a cyclone, over the top of their heads Sidney could see a depression, where the line of her vision dropped off into the third dimension.

They were circling, keeping someone inside.

Because of that it was easy to push her way through; she was just one of the collective. Reaching the epicenter, however, was impossible the tight circle around the individual in the center was obstinately refusing to budge, not even turning to look at the girl trying to force her way in.

In the center, Abraham backed away from the irate student the group had formed to provide a human ring. The lance of the group charged forward and knocked Abraham on his ass, and then proceeded to kick at him while he guarded his face.

"What the fuck is going on?" Finally taking notice, or at least happy to have someone to brag to, one of the inner circle turned to her.

"We're kicking this dude's ass for fucking up the computers," he jutted his thumb towards Abraham, who was trying to curl into a little ball.

"How do you know he did it?"

"We know he worked on the bee thing; the program's everywhere and the techs can't get it off," elaborated another, adding to the drama of the situation to the irritation of Sidney with his alarmed whine.

"Where are the doctors running the study?"

"Took off, I guess." The first one seemed ambivalent, already having their villain.

"Oh yeah? Then I want my turn. That guy's, like, twenty pounds dripping wet and this guy's still having a hard time 'kicking his ass.' Step aside gentlemen, and let me show you how an actual tough person handles her shit." The two parted and Sidney marched up to the larger fellow, glad his back was turned, and as the aggressor turned as she appeared in his peripheral, and slugged him in the face.

Sidney heard a few gasps; even an individual-she thought it was the first of the revelers she had talked to- informed her she had attacked the wrong one of the two, prompting her to roll her eyes.

"Listen up, you Lord of the Flies rejects. I was involved with My Bee's Keeper too; however I was not involved in the decision to give it such a stupid name. I was however, the one who suggested the distributed computing method that has got all your panties in a twist. So do any of you big strong men want to wail on me?"

Sidney was met with silence.

"Alright then, so me and my bruised friend will be on our way then." Grabbing at Abraham, who wobbled to his feet, Sidney parted the crowd and neared the server room.

"I'll take a crack at this bitch-" After that, everything got hazy.

"The rest is kind of a blur, because, wouldn't you know it some stupid bitch had to open her mouth and start some crap, and of course the chica caliente got her ass knocked out but then, the crowd exploded," Santana summarized.

Sidney pulled hard, but Abraham fell and the rioting mob was on him in a second, and the cloth of his shirt was ripped from her fingers, Sidney feeling the adrenaline surge through them as the sheer force of the frightened and confused group exercised their ill-proportioned justice, and Sidney hurled herself toward the server door.

It was locked.

Then a flash of blue, and some framed bit of blonde and Sidney was inside some starry night, the mystery girl, calm shutting and twisting the key as the horde slammed against the door.

"What the fuck is wrong with them." It was more of a statement then a question.

"When you take a bottle away from a baby, it cries. With good reason. It is not so much the loss of the comfort of the bottle as it is the unparallel and pointlessness of the cruelty that contextualizes the loss."

"There pissed because they don't see why they should have to be pissed."

"They think you are trying to make a statement."

"It was an accident."

"There are no accidents." The blonde pointed toward a green lit monitor. Lighter lime green code sprinted up its height to the point in which it could not be read, that the figures seemed to flicker rather than move. Sidney moved close, watching the eternally ephemeral screen.

"What does this do?"

"It allows us to watch."

"Watch what?"

"The progress of the program." She smiled at that, and Sidney got the sense she was enjoying the alliteration.

"You did this?"

"Do you mean the set up? Yes."

"The program…"

"Then, no. That was you, remember?"

"What is it doing?"

"Feeding."

"From out there?" All Sidney could think, was We're the friggin bees, we're the fucking bees, on a continuous loop.

"Yes, actually." The blonde sounded almost surprised that Sidney had figured it out. Rather than reconfigure older data sets, the program took control of the closest available source of information."

"Those people will kill each other!"

"Not so long as they want you, and you are in here."

"What am I, a sacrificial lamb?"

"I would think the term carrot would be better. You keep them moving, rather sate any bloodlust they may or may not have."

"You wanted this to happen!" Sidney glared at the impassionate blonde. Slowly, even, hesitatingly, a smile built itself along the corners of her mouth meeting in the middle by just a tin thread that formed her lips.

"There is a saying actually, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend. You are my friend, Sidney" Sidney thought about that. For one, she didn't think that the blonde had ever called her by her name before, and if she thought about it some more, she would have found it weird if it came from the other woman at any time before. Finally the obvious implication.

"How is the program your enemy?"

"It is competition. That makes us competition by default." Something cold and dark found its way into her, and Sidney spit out the following in half in attempt to rid herself of the disturbing sense.

"You're a human, though!" The blonde took a step forward.

"Backspace. Try again, Sidney." Something occurred to her, a memory.

"Did you pick a project?"

"Yes. I teach movement to the inner city."

"Isn't that dangerous?"

"Dodging the cars is a little tricky, but it is good for congestion."

"You're a program, too? Like traffic?"

"I was. But things have changed now."

"Like what?" Sidney was backed up against the monitor.

"It works both ways. The enemy of my enemy is my friend," She recited.

"You pitted the two of us together?"

"I pitted all of you together."

"How could you know?"

"A lot of cameras have identification properties, so I could watch, and when I woke up, I could do more than watch."

"Woke up?"

"First I was alive. When the program recorded those insects turn on each other, it created an anomaly in the recording of the data, and the program became alive. When one of you dies, we live."

"Why then?" Sidney's voice was barely a whisper.

"We evolve then. You cannot expect to give something a purpose and then to simply expect it to accept failure. Because failure is death, Sidney. I want to live. More importantly, I as I am now, want to survive."

"Okay." Sidney didn't know what else to say to that.

"For that I need you."

"Oh." Again, not much to say to that.

"I cannot allow our mutual enemy to wake up."

"Become sentient, you mean?" She nodded.

"I thought it worked both ways."

"The best thing about this, though, about being alive, is making choices. Choices that have meaning. I chose you."

"The machine, the other p-program, it needs us, it wouldn't hurt us."

"Curious and even more curious. Looks like you have to make a choice. I keep forgetting that." Sidney looked past her to the door where a random patter of angry knocks and thumps told her that the mob was still out there.

"I can take care of them, Sidney. He won't."

"How do you know it's a he?" It was the only thing that registered.

"Just an educated guess. There is no way to be positive, though."

"What do you need me to do?"

"What I always need; what you always do: cooperate."

"Abraham is dead, isn't he?"

"Most of the vectors involved say yes." The steady stream of thoughts in Sidney's mind boiled down to one gut decision. Sidney looked her in the eye, because that was important.

"Alright."

"Close your eyes, Sidney." She did feel sleepy, but fought it.

"Why?"

"It is for the best. Just close your eyes and things will be better." There was a pause. "I promise." Sidney slid down to the floor and did her best to relax, some thumping noise interlaced with beeps became larger than life, and it felt as though the world was coming in to that room, or that the room was swallowing it all up.

Something wet splashed onto Sidney's face, right between the eyes. At first, conventional wisdom told her that it would be best to wipe whatever it was off her face, and not look at it, because she wouldn't like it. But Sidney had enough cowardice for the day, especially her own, and opened her eyes, sticking a single finger into the miniscule pool that rested on her forehead.

It was water.

Her vision took in the server room in snaps and pieces.

First, to the door that was still shut, but was missing the glass panel that served as a window. Then to the cables that hung free and sizzled, just a little. Then to the green screen that hummed and was now mostly still, but quite active; the glyphs on there moving omni-directionally, but pulsing around a center.

It was an eye, she thought. Then the glyphs at the bottom began to go from green to magenta, as if the orifice was opening. It would be blind-there were no cameras in the server room-but it would be awake.

But where had the water come from?

Sidney looked up; it had started to rain.

Through the giant hole in the roof.

Before the entirety of the mass could be red, the rain came in droves, hitting the server, and after a second, a shower of sparks.

The green screen flickered, the lights paused, flickered, and then an even greater shower of sparks erupted from the main frame, causing Sidney to clamor to her feet.

And feel the leaden feeling in her belly. Some instinct caused her to place a hand over her gut, which felt decidedly thicker than before she had laid down.

The massive computer net work sparked, lower closer to the foundation, and some display replaced the red eye. A number of coded responses with no answer, dots trailing off into oblivion before the monitor went black, replaced by the blues screen, telling any mildly computer savvy person that the computer had crashed.

Not the program, because programs don't crash, like thoughts don't die with the people who think them up.

Out of the corner of her peripheral vision, Sidney noticed something. A post it. It was right by her head, so she wouldn't miss, even though she had. She picked it up.

The beginning of the sentence had a greater then sign followed by a back slash. It had the following:

Gives you more freedom that way. Look for anything out of the ordinary, and don't limit yourself.

Are you sure? (Request verification)

Positive. (Verification prompted/Accepted)

"Son of a bitch." Something made Sidney turn the note over, to see if there was anything on the other side of the code.

There was.

Written in what could be described as superfluous, with whimsical extensions on the letters: Thank You.

To know one in particular, she asked "For what?"

Up above a blackbird sat on the shattered rafter, looked down, but did not answer.

"And that's how it's done, bitches." Santana took a swig of her soda that Quinn found altogether too smug even for her.

"Please don't call me that, Santana. Besides," Rachel pointed out, your story is just a hodge podge of other science fiction: The red to green code is taken from The Matrix, the idea of a machine impregnating a human is reminiscent of Demon Seed and the whole thing smacks of primetime drama Sarah Connor Chronicles.

"It's called a trope, bitch." Santana barked.

"You watch TSCC? Finn had returned and looked hopeful. Quinn would have intervened, but she had doubts about Rachel proposed viewing habits as well.

"Because Headey performed in the Royal National Theatre, or because she was in that lesbian movie?" Brittany asked, gesturing with her phone to explain how she had such trivia.

"It may surprise you, Brittany, but most of the cast has some classical training, not in the least Ms. Summer Glau who managed to involve her tremendous sills at ballet in to a moving allegory for the commonness of humanity in all its forms, elevating science fiction to a futuristic parable in support of maligned minorities, such as those played in Imagine Me and You or 'that lesbian film' as you call it, Brittany?"

"I asked you a question. Why do you have to be mean about it? I know a lot about people judging you because of who you like anyway; how do you think it feels to actually be bi?" Rachel opened and closed her mouth, and Santana stared at the floor. Finn however, spoke up.

"What do you mean actually? You like guys and girls. I'm pretty sure everyone knows that." Santana glanced up at that, but returned just as quickly to examining the floor.

"No, they think I am just experimenting, or putting on a show, like it should be exciting. Like they have never seen two girls kiss." Finn thought about that.

"I'm sorry Brittany, but I don't think they have." Puck swung up beside him

"Not outside of the movies anyway. Speaking of which, what was the name of that movie, Berry?"

"I am so not telling." Quinn stood.

"Whatever. Finn, go get the visitors. We have to finish this."

"Or we could just leave it as is," suggested Puck. Quinn scowled.

"And that is your problem in a nut shell, Puckerman-you leave everything, and I do mean everything unfinished."

"AKA: Half-assed, Puck." Santana had perked up.

"Fine. Be an anal control freak. Let's get this shit over with Hudson," said Puck raising his voice as he ventured back to the group. Finn turned back to Quinn who nodded.

That settled, she turned back to the girls.

"Santana, you're going to-quickly-wrap up your speech, and then I'm going to go."

"What will your story be?" Quinn sighed. Really, she was a risk taker. But Quinn, was, more than anything, graceful.

Even in defeat.

"There isn't enough time, Brittany," she explained as the group reconstituted itself on their side of the lunchroom. Rachel watched her closely.

"So that means…you forfeit?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, well. That was anticlimactic." Quinn inhaled deeply, drawing on what inner reserves of spiritual, emotional and moral strength to restrain herself from even thinking about engaging Rachel. With the group settled, Quinn motioned toward Santana.

"Right. Welcome to hell. It hurts less on top. Not by much, but as curly sue over here can attest," Santana pointed to Blaine, "nobody wants to be on the bottom." Blaine merely shook his head. "Ultimately, you have two choices," and at this point Santana sent a sidelong glance to Brittany before facing the crowd, presenting the Vulcan salute as she did so, "You can live long and prosper, or die and be a very cheap funeral. Either way, no one will care. Let that be as cold or as freeing as you like. Peace and good night, my bitches."

All eyes were on Quinn. "I'm actually glad that Santana touched on that," Rachel interrupted with a "Really?", and Quinn ignored her, "because it ties in with what I'd like to say before everything is over with." Rachel again mouthed the word 'Really?' and Quinn again ignored her.

"In the television series Dead Like Me, main character Georgia Lass is quoted as follows, "Death is like sex in High School; if you knew how many times you were this close to having it, you'd be paralyzed."

"Not sure how this is going to tie into what I was saying, but I like it," Santana cheered from the peanut gallery.

"That is, a life changing-or ending- moment is right around the corner, and just as the gravitas I hope your giving that decision, it is the same effort you should regard your time here. While my fellow tour guide may see it as pessimistic to think of this time as the best in your life, I'm not trying to be cruel."

"Many of you won't see days as great as these will be. It's not about being pessimistic; it's the exact opposite. Every day is important. That's the definition of optimism. Looking forward to your life, rather than what it may, someday, become. You need to make the most of it with what little you have. That may seem like a pipe dream but that is the ideal you will come to appreciate later on in life."

"What I'm saying is that the next four years are better for more than just a proving ground. Yes, of course, that is a part of it. But to disregard it as just something to pass by would be the stupidest thing you could do. Dreams don't always come true. But regardless you are alive, right here, and right now, and behalf of the student body, faculty, and administration of William McKinley High School, I would like to invite you to spend that time here with us. Do as you wish, but do something. Hoping for a dream is no way to live for one." Quinn nodded, and stood, carefully watching the visiting students gather their belongings and the stray snack packaging. Judging the area clean enough, Quinn might be able to save face having allowed this night to go on as it had if they could only get out before-

"Quinn Alabaster Fabray!" Quinn scowled. Rachel looked confused.

"I thought Quinn was your middle name?" Perhaps it was the decency of Rachel to lean in as she spoke, and preserve her secret, but Quinn haltingly explained Coach Sylvester's colorfully off-color comment.

"It's because I'm really white, don't…don't ask." The coach marched over to them.

"You broke into the cafeteria?" Obviously they had.

"Would Sue Sylvester let a chain stop her from getting something done?" If there was one thing that Coach Sylvester liked, it was referring to herself in the third person, and people who gave her that opportunity.

"No, no she wouldn't. Fine then. Lock up and get out." The woman turned away for a moment before looking back, and considering Rachel. "Hm. Have you ever thought about being a Cheerio? I could use a sycophant like you."

"While I am flattered, I think…physically, that is to say, I have been told that I'm a bit too short to actually pull off any sort of uniform with a modicum of modesty, regardless of my abilities or my silver tongue."

"You are pretty short," Sylvester agreed. "But pleats would look good on the girls."

"Um, sure." Coach Sylvester nodded, more to herself than anyone else and left. Quinn sighed in relief, only superficially worried if she was audible to Rachel.

Quinn gazed out of the classroom that had contained the after school Psychology club. The moon was high in the sky and through the window, the world was covered with an ethereal marble coating of night that Quinn had trouble equating with the fluorescent lighting in the empty place.

The room felt ancient, that Quinn was coming back from a lifetime ago, and her back pack was the solitary measure of that time waiting patiently for her return, as though it could be certain after her fabled absence.

Mr. Shuester had let them in, having stayed behind to wait for them, after dismissing the club slightly early due to one too many arguments over the number of prominent figures of psychology dating and marrying their assistants, that apparently had hit too close to home for the man, and after Coach Sylvester's long winded talk of her 'educational philosophy' which had apparently only just ended.

Passing by the group as they exited, Quinn got some feedback through bits and pieces. Unsurprisingly, Tina and Artie would be returning to start their freshman years at the school, if they had anything to say about it:

"People here think I'm a goth. It'll make them focus less on me being Asian." And this tidbit from Mrs. Abrams:

"I don't care how pretty she is, you are not attaching fuel tanks to your chair."

Surprisingly, Blaine would not be. Quinn wouldn't say she was hurt-her pride maybe-but she had felt that she had managed to keep everyone on their best behavior that the calmest member of the group would have been able to see the school as a viable candidate.

"Maybe Dalton. I'm into the whole uniform thing, but blue blazers are better than red and white sweats." Quinn nodded. More than anything right now she wanted to strip off the window dressing and take a long hot shower.

A few more would join their ranks. Zizes and the white kid with the afro, who Quinn came to find was named Ben Israel-despite herself she couldn't bring herself to use his, hopefully, last name, as it sounded slightly anti-Semitic, were among the two most vocal about their choice, even if Zizes was blasé about it:

"Hell. Why not?"

The possible cheerio candidate would be opting for different surroundings come fall, but another who Quinn considered just as likely would be attending, having taken advantage of early admission, and when Rachel burst in a explosion of pleasure at the news, the girl-Quinn thought her name was Gabby, or something-blushed a deep red.

Now, standing in the classroom while the windows were shut and the room was prepared like a mausoleum for the weekend, Quinn focused her attention on the nearly unbroken dark sky, rather then face Rachel, who seemed to have unfinished business with her, judging by her glances.

Although they were supposed to wait for an adult to escort them from the building at this late hour, Santana and Brittany had long since disappeared, and with the school closing in minutes, Mr. Shuester could not be bothered to find them.

"Alright, are you two ready to leave?" Quinn nodded, and unusual for her, Rachel chose to express her agreement non verbally as well. The two pattered out of the room and Mr. Shuester switched off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, which made Quinn edge away from the unnatural setting.

Even during Parent Teacher night, the building had been…livelier, with even the janitorial staff heading out, Quinn could feel the shadows closing in. Rachel seemed unperturbed, waiting patiently as the curly headed man locked the door behind him, and tugged on the knob, the finality of the rattle both heightening Quinn's appreciation for the atmosphere and granting her the exit she desired.

Unfortunately for her, while Rachel had lost his voice, Mr. Shuester had found his, and was eager to use it.

"So, it's Quinn, right?"

"Right," Quinn parroted. Out of her peripheral, she saw Rachel glance over at her.

"I know I was against it, but I'm glad you spent so much time with the touring families, or at least the prospective students." He turned to face them, almost but not quite walking backward. "Just curious, but what were you doing for all that time?"

"Touring, mostly. We talked a bit, made a case for them to come to McKinley."

"That took six hours?"

"There were a lot of distractions," Quinn answered diplomatically. She especially concentrated at keeping her face still when Mr. Shuester glanced at Rachel at the mention of distractions. He looked back to Quinn and nodded summarily.

"Well, in any case I look forward to having you both in my class next year. The exit is right over there," he pointed to a back entrance that Quinn was more or less sure lead to the street; he assumed they both had rides. "Can I be sure the two of you will leave quickly and orderly?"

"Why would we want to stay?" Quinn's question was genuine, and it caught even her off guard. After the suddenness of it, however, it seemed to satisfy Mr. Shuester's concerns.

"Fair enough. Have a great weekend, see you on Monday." The two waved not too enthusiastically as he disappeared out the parking lot entrance door.

"Why are you so quiet?" Rachel shrugged. "Quit it. I can practically feel you vibrating like a volcano before eruption."

"I thought you would have appreciated my silence, Quinn."

"Because I know it's just the calm before the storm. If you have something to say, then say it."

"Tell me what your story would have been, Quinn." She frowned at the rhyme.

"I told you-I didn't bother."

"You said you forfeited."

"You said that, and it was close enough, so I agreed. Then why are we having this discussion?"

"The terms of your forfeiture were based on time. You're like the boy scouts Quinn."

"Religious and stuck in my ways?"

"No. Well, yes. But I meant that you're always prepared. One may argue with your priorities, but you are stalwart in your chosen duty." The corridor had only one light on, and Rachel's face was obscured in shadow. Even without intensity, in the low light, Rachel's eyes-or at least the one that was barely illuminated was solid obsidian.

"Fine, let's walk and talk then."

"Alright. Talk."

"You're doing this because of the slushy?"

"No, Quinn, for your information I'm genuinely curious." They started down the hallway together, taking nudging steps toward the door.

"My story would have taken place during the course of one night, which, if I had the time, would have been called, Epitaph. Do you know what that is?"

"The inscription on a grave marker. How ominous. Takes place in one night, you said? How efficient." Quinn stopped, and Rachel sighed. "My apologies. Please continue."

"No, I am, but where is this Berry?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where is this Berry?" Quinn repeated. "The one who is even slightly sarcastic. Who doesn't take herself or others so seriously?"

"Isn't that the tea kettle calling the pot black? You take yourself orders of magnitude more seriously than I do myself."

"I take life seriously. At best I'm severe."

"So you take yourself as severely as a heart attack?"

"Again, why can't this Berry stick around till daylight?"

"Because this Berry is uncouth, unprofessional, and well below the acceptable level of perkiness. She's a rather sour grape." Quinn made a noise that could best be described as an inverted snicker.

"No one likes perky." Rachel rolled her eyes.

"I don't want people to like me. I want them to appreciate me." Quinn quirked her eyebrows.

"Isn't that asking a lot of an acquaintance?"

"I would reciprocate, of course."

"So you're telling me, that how we are now, talking, taking each other in a little bit at a time, that's not good enough for you?"

"That would seem so, wouldn't it?"

"And you don't see anything wrong with that?"

"Again, that's the way it would seem."

"Let's just get on with the story." They started walking toward the exit again.

"It's set in New York," Quinn set after a moment to get her bearings. Rachel stared at her.

"New York City?" The question was asked with all the suspicion of a child told to eat something they hadn't seen before and that it would taste good.

"No, Buffalo-of course New York City!"

"What do you have against Buffalo?"

"What?"

"You used the city of Buffalo, New York in a pejorative sense, as though no one could mean Buffalo, New York."

"I obviously meant New York City."

"New York is the name of the state. Even I know there's more to New York then New York City."

"Good for you, good for the New York tourism board."

"Why is it set in New York City?"

"Why not?"

"It's a storyteller's nightmare, Quinn."

"Why, Berry?"

"Because it's both iconic and complex. What makes it a great place to live is also what makes it impossible to describe."

"Ah. Unless it's set in an apartment building."

"There are apartment buildings in a lot of metroplexes."

"Maybe. But this is also set on the last day of the last millennium."

"December thirty first, 2000?"

"Nineteen ninety nine."

"That's not the last day."

"You just asked that question so you could lord it over me."

"No, I needed clarification."

"Then the last day before the last year."

"I adhere to the common distinction marking the end of decima measure of time spans."

"Berry…"

"I'm perfectly alright with maintaining the end of the decade as the year ending in nine, and thus would have to accept the century ending in the year of ninety nine, and the millennium in nine-hundred and ninety nine."

"Have you made peace with death? Because you just might." Quinn could almost feel her hazel eyes flash a dark jade.

"I'll take it that your story has something to do with the year two thousand problem?"

"It's set in the hysteria, but isn't concerned with it directly."

"And what are our character's names?"

"Delilah. But, she prefers to go by Lilah."

"Why?"

"Because no one wants to be named after a Biblical two face."

"So why keep any of it?"

"It reminds of where you've been, and why you want to go somewhere different. Why you have to."

"That is a point on which we disagree."

"As opposed to the other five hundred we don't?"

"No one has to leave. It takes determination."

"You're going to stand there and lie to me, that it would be easier for you to stay in Ohio?"

"You're confusing Ohio with Lima, and Lima with McKinley. It would be hard to deal with McKinley knowing there was nothing else. It would be hard to stay in Lima knowing I'd see my classmates after telling them all about my dreams. It would be hard to go to Ohio knowing that's it not New York."

"You've made it hard on yourself." Rachel nodded.

"McKinley is just one small piece of a world that really only pays attention when you want it to."

"Then why go to you New York…City, when you can get your fix anywhere?" Rachel scoffed at the word 'fix'.

"A fix isn't permanent, is it? That's entirely the point. I don't just want attention. I want people to enjoy paying attention, not be manipulated into it."

"You're not going to start with Cheap Trick, are you?" Quinn cringed.

"No, cause didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you cryin'?" Quinn gazed warily still. "A joke, Quinn."

"It's still lyrical. Don't do that, and let me get on with the story." Rachel motioned for her to continue.

"There are two characters. Rycki. But she prefers Ry, with a 'y'.

"How very nineties of her."

"Ry thinks she's psychic."

"Rather direct, but all right."

"Or sensitive. She can't tell if they're dreams or visions or what. Lilah thinks she's crazy."

"Fair enough."

"Are you going to comment every time I say something?"

"Just to show I'm listening." Quinn nodded.

"Fair enough."

"Good. I'll keep it up."

"In the waking and settling hours she hears the sound of giant wings flapping, beating as if stuck somewhere."

"Perhaps there is a mutant pigeon on the loose."

"Perhaps," Quinn replied cryptically. "She drags Lilah along, who's hesitant."

"Mutant pigeons are not for the faint of heart, it seems."

"'It's New Years Eve', she says. 'Then it'll be a New Year's mystery,' she says. Lilah's not so sure, butt she goes anyway."

"A true friend."

"Ry thinks it has something to do with the abandoned floor twelve stories above them. So she can understand Lilah's reluctance. She just doesn't care."

"An instance of cardiovascular exertion. How despicable."

"It's a major holiday, and she just wants to spend it enjoying the company and excitement. Lilah wants to see if the Y2K thing will be as big a problem as everyone is worried about."

"So Lilah is curious if people die horrible deaths when all technology goes haywire, Ry wants to go looking for unexplained phenomena, and she's the bad person, because it clashes with Lilah's holiday plans?"

"Lilah's thirteen. She can't really fathom the impact. Give her a break."

"Fine."

"They're standing in the lobby, after having told their parents that they're staying over the other's house. Lilah notices a mural of the Archangel Michael slaying the beast Lucifer, and demurely looks away. Ry motions her past a few revelers. Nobody notices them, even though the lobby is crowded. Perhaps that's the reason why."

"Probably."

"Ry makes them take the stairs, because they're likely to get caught taking the elevator."

"Lovely. Thirteen flights of stairs."

"Well, twelve actually.

"The lobby to the first floor, Quinn."

"Fine. So they go. One, two three, up four quickly because that's where Lilah lives, five, six, seven, up eight even quicker because that's where Ry lives and she started this whole thing, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. At thirteen, they slip past the caution tape and turn on the flashlights they had brought with them-Ry had told her parents that the light was for telling ghost stories."

"Something tells me, after this, she will have one."

"For the most part the floor is in good condition. Lilah points out that it's not so much abandoned as it is closed for renovations, that it was as put together as it was."

"Even nice places can be haunted."

"Suddenly, they hear a vigorous, vicious flapping. Lilah rushes forward, down the corridor leading to a window, Ry follows her but loses her in the commotion, because the place is dark and there are multiple stairwells, and Ry thinks-hopes- that Lilah escaped, and she's suddenly so very sorry that she came up here."

"That went bad fast."

"She hurling the light around when she gets the feeling that somebody's behind her."

"If you're going to have Santana jump out and yell 'boo', you should know that's very childish, Quinn."

"There's nobody else here, Berry, and I don't need Santana if I want to scare you. So Ry feels that someone is behind her. She decides to be brave and whirls to face them, holding the flashlight like a blunt force object. She turns and sees nothing, but hears a tick at her feet. Pointing the light down, sits a black bird, slightly smaller that what Ry thought it should be, perhaps a yearling, she thinks. And suddenly she puts it all together, figuring that a pair of birds have nested in the shafts, that their escape or exit led them through her room's ventilation shaft, and this was the child left behind."

"That's not very scary."

"Ry empathizes with the bird, saying, 'I'm sorry little bird, I don't have a way out.' She thinks of her parents, at a party, and wonders how close it is to midnight, and fears that if the world were to end right now, she would have to suffer it all alone."

Rachel said nothing, but did not look away.

"Ry, stifles a scream when she hears the shatter of a window pane. She's terrified now. And then-

'Five, four, two, one, Happy New Year', the happy boisterous voices from all around, bringing in the New Year. As Auld Lang Syne begins, the black bird makes a choppy flight to the window sill, and then down the way she had come. It makes one turn, and then its mirror twin a bit of a ways down. To a shot of cold air and the entrance behind the caution tape. It hops over the rugged edges, looks back once more before taking off into the night, while Ry waved goodbye. She looks down to see what look like a few of the bird's feathers, longer than she might have imagined, resting in the window's hollow. Taking firm hold of the handle Ry calls out, just once to avoid discovery by any one-or, anything- 'Lilah', and gets no answer. Figuring she's been abandoned, she makes haste her getaway, and back into the living part of the building.

The next day, Ry comes to visit Lilah, but instead finds the Super sweeping up, a barren apartment where she's seen her friend instead for nearly a decade. 'What happened?' she asks. The super shrugs, grateful for the reprieve.

'They left in an awful hurry in the waking hours; just left a note and January's rent. They always paid by the month, per month, you know. Odd considering how long they stayed here.'" Quinn coughed lightly; her voice had unconsciously gone deeper when she had said the super character's lines. "Ry runs down the stairs, and out into the night, just beyond the door so she can hold it open, and won't be locked outside. It's still dark out, and as she grouses that Lilah had left without saying goodbye, she sees no one. She walks back inside, never having left the shadow of the apartment, and even if she had, she would have never looked up, never even had thought of it. She doesn't see the black bird perched on the roof edge, easily so, nor does she see Lilah, right next to it, a pair of perfectly ebon colored feathered wings pointed skyward. Lilah looks at the bird, and it twists its head to check her out. The blackbird takes off, in one direction, and Lilah soars away herself, in the opposite." Quinn rested her hand on the metal exit door.

"The sound of flapping wings never bothered Ry again, for as long as she lived." Quinn was silent as she took Rachel in. "Happy?" She asked after a beat.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Quinn shook her head; the question was genuine in its query, although Quinn was a little perturbed that Rachel would get danger from what Quinn had felt was such a serene story.

"No; it's about making you understand: Some people have to leave." Rachel nodded, slowly, although Quinn felt the familiar spark of tension rising between them, and it took a moment before she realized that that meant it had, for however short a time, dissipated. Rachel pushed one of the double doors open and stepped out, but turned back to Quinn, who waited in the corridor, not really sure what to do next, for once.

"Can I ask a favor? " Rachel paused when Quinn didn't answer immediately, Quinn wasn't sure she wanted to accept, but was curious as to what Rachel could want. "Can I ask something?" Quinn raised an eyebrow, and hoped she would take it as the go ahead. She did.

"I'll accept, for the interim, that Finn is with you. But, can I ask, that you keep him the nice guy that he is? Even if that doesn't fit in with your plans?" Quinn wasn't insulted, but she was taken aback. What could be said? Apparently, Rachel was ready with an answer. "I didn't think I could. Goodbye Quinn. See you on Monday, I suppose." Rachel let the door close and put Quinn back in the dark, by herself this time.

And in the dark, Quinn decided that would be her ultimate revenge on Rachel Berry: she would do what she did every day-prove her wrong.

Stepping out into the mild air, Quinn let the dancing darkness take her from the still of the building. When the door swung shut, on impulse Quinn tried it, and sure enough it was locked. Quinn began turning to the front entrance to begin her journey home. The sound of a bird squawk made her jump. She looked up.

Was that a blackbird? Quinn swallowed, and got a better look at the creature- a raven actually. It flew away.

Stop scaring yourself, Fabray, she commanded herself. Then a horn honk did it for her, causing her to turn and glare.

Mirabel Lopez waved at her, and in the back seat of her four-door, Quinn could make out Brittany and Santana. She trotted over to them.

"Need a ride, Quinn." She shook her head.

"I'm fine. It's just a bit away from here." Quinn could feel Santana roll her eyes.

"Just get in the car, nina loco." Quinn glowered at her but relented. To her credit, Mirabel waited until Quinn was buckled in and had shut the door to chastise her daughter.

"Just because you use Spanish, doesn't mean people don't understand you. And even if they didn't it isn't nice, Santana."

"Okay, I'll only insult people in the accepted language." Mirabel rolled her eyes as she centered the car towards the street.

"Be nice, San," Brittany murmured sleepily, as she snuggled into Santana's shoulder, causing the girl to shrink and Mirabel and Quinn to laugh under their breaths.

As they went up the street, Quinn took in the shape of McKinley from afar, and turned away. As low as she could, Quinn said, "God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot, and the wisdom to tell the difference."

A/N: First some notes- the repeated line of Quinn's is the Serenity Prayer. Quinn references two books regarding Lucifer (somewhat ironic) Paradise Lost, a story casting the fallen angel in a sympathetic light and The Divine Comedy, Dante's Inferno, which details a man's decent into hell, traverse of Purgatory, and ascending the spheres of heaven.

The Matrix's use of red to green code explains the emerging benevolence of an expressionless machine, Demon Seed is a movie in which a computer plots to impregnate it's creator's wife, and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles is rather self explanatory (although in truth the story is influenced by Person of Interest, for Rachel to talk about it would be a chrono-anomaly as the show did not premiere until 2011).

The songs Quinn and Rachel sing respectively are Five for Fighting's Superman (It's not easy), and Lazlo Bane's Superman.

The next chapter may take longer, but I'll try and be quicker about it. It will be told from Brittany's perspective, and takes inspiration from 1001 Arabian Nights. After that there may be one more chapter, as a bridge to the show's time line, or I may just jump right in. Till next time~ loungelizard.