“Having the alarm isn't enough,” Dave said firmly. “We'll need weapons – and a strategy.”

“I told you I can get a laser tomorrow. Or maybe even something better,” Brittany piped up from the kitchen as she washed the dishes.

“Tomorrow may be too late,” Carson said grimly, barely glancing up from a book of crossword puzzles he had brought with him from the other apartment, still hurriedly filling out the answers in pen.

“I could go right now,” Brittany insisted, dropping the dishrag into the soapy water in her excitement. “I can help you – ”

“No,” Santana said sharply. “We need you here. We can't risk it.”

“Let her go if she wants,” Dave said, “It's not like she'll be much use to us here.”

“That's where you're wrong,” Santana said, standing with her hands on her hips right in front of Dave. “She's the only one of us that the bounty hunter isn't actually looking for and can't legally hurt. Whether you like it or not, she's going to be an integral part of our defense strategy.” Santana's voice climbed to a fevered pitch as she shook a finger inches from his face. “You lost the vote. Get over it.”

Brittany beamed. Feeling almost high with this new level of respect and importance, she said, “I've thought of something else.”

“See,” Santana said triumphantly.

Dave glowered at her and said nothing.

Carson rolled his eyes. “This ought to be interesting.”

“Brittany?” Santana gestured encouragingly. “You were saying?”

“We can go through the empty apartments to find weapons,” she said tentatively. “I mean, there probably won't be any laser tubes. The government is pretty strict about having those be registered so it can collect them when people move to Mars. But people left all kinds of stuff here. I'm sure we could find something…”

“Right. Because broken lamps and TV sets are going to help us against a bounty hunter with a laser gun,” Carson said sarcastically.

“But I'm sure there's something we could use,” Brittany said, desperately battling to come up with an example. “Like, uh, like – ”

“Baseball bats or knives or – I don't know – sling shots,” Santana cut in with a smile. “Brittany, you are a genius.”

She blushed a little and her gaze dropped to the floor. “I don't think anyone's ever called me that. Not even before I was classified as a – well, you know.” She didn't want to say it, that stupid word that had so reduced the boundaries of her world, her ability to have true friendships. At least until now. She looked up at Santana again and smiled shyly.

“Yeah, okay,” Dave said reluctantly. “That's not a bad idea. We can see what you're able to gather up and then we'll know what we're working with. We can make a plan.”

After a short silence, during which all three androids looked at her expectantly, Brittany said, “I d-don't really want to go alone.”

“You'll be fine,” said Carson immediately.

“We have plans to discuss,” agreed Dave.

“But the – the silence…” Brittany pleaded, lower lip starting to tremble as she fixed her eyes on Santana's impassive face.

“I thought you wanted to help,” Carson said.

“I do,” said Brittany. “Okay, fine. I'll go by myself.” She waited just a moment, but again no one volunteered to come with her. Walking with slow, plodding steps toward the door she had a fleeting thought that she was being used, but she realized that she didn't care. Her new friends were exciting and exotic and beautiful. And they voted for her to be part of their group. And they were giving her the opportunity to help. I just hope that I'm able to find something useful, she thought. But it wasn't just the deafening silence of the empty apartments that worried her. While it was her idea to look in the other apartments, she didn't really trust herself to be the best judge of what would make a passable weapon. I would hate to lose Santana's confidence in me so quickly by coming back empty handed, she thought morosely. Or worse, with a bunch of useless items.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she realized that she didn't have to go alone. “Lord Tubbington,” Brittany exclaimed out loud, turning to rush back to her bedroom, where she had lured the enormous cat and trapped him earlier, at Carson's request.

“What?” asked Santana, who blinked uncomprehendingly after Brittany.

Carson groaned into his hands. “She's getting her giant false cat.”

“Her what?” Santana asked incredulously, whipping her head around to stare at him.

“Santana and Dave,” Brittany said grandly, “I would like to introduce you to Lord Tubbington.” She stepped to the side, holding her arm out in a gesture of presentation. And standing in the hallway was indeed an enormous creature, close in size to an overfed golden retriever, but very clearly a cat, staring at the group with penetrating eyes. “He already met Carson,” Brittany adds as an after thought.

“What the hell!” Dave nearly shouted. “Why did you bring that thing out? Are we supposed to use it to terrify the bounty hunter?” Dave tilted his head, l watching as the enormous cat licked a paw nonchalantly. “Actually, maybe that would work.”

“No,” Brittany said solemnly. “I don't want him in danger. I just thought he could help me find good weapons. I think he was in a gang when he was at the false animal manufacturer's warehouse, before he lived with me.”

“Absolutely not,” Carson insisted. “We are not having that thing out there wandering the halls. We can't control it. It'll make too much noise. It could give us away. Plus, it's creepy.”

“I'll give you that,” Dave said, nodding.

“Put the – cat – back in your bedroom,” Santana said softly. “I'll go with you to the look for weapons.”

“Really? Because Lord Tubbington would be happy to help.” They all looked at the cat as it sat, a solid and imposing presence, in the hallway, tail twitching arrythmically from side to side.

“Come on, Brittany,” Santana said with a sigh, gesturing until Brittany pushed Lord Tubbington back into her room with a promise of a tasty treat in just a few minutes, shutting the door behind him. “Let's go find some weapons. We can use my flashlight. No need to draw attention to ourselves by turning the lights on.” Santana took Brittany's hand and squeezed it. They exchanged a quick smile before heading out the front door. “No need to make things so easy for our would-be killer,” Santana called over her shoulder before she flicked off the light switch, plunging them into darkness.

Grumbling, Dave fished out his own flashlight and set it on the table between them, casting a faint light onto the ceiling above. Carson hopped up and closed the blinds to the one window in the living room and returned to his seat.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Blaine steered his hovercar past the building that matched the address Jake Puckerman had given him. It looked completely dark. That makes sense. If the androids actually are still there, they would hardly telegraph their presence by turning on the lights. And out here in the suburbs, more buildings are completely abandoned than not. He found another building, two blocks down, with several glowing lights. He came to a gently landing on that roof, immediately covering his mouth as it opened up into a yawn.

Damn, I'm so tired, he thought. He rubbed both hands vigorously against his eyes, stifled another yawn and wondered how he was going to finish this job so he could earn the right to pass out on his own bed for a few hours.  

Now or never, he thought, and dragged his larger tool bag out of the back seat. Slinging it over his shoulder, he unfolded himself from the car and headed toward the elevator.

By the time Blaine walked the two blocks outside in the crisp air he felt much more alert. He eased himself carefully into the front door of the dark building with his infinity key and let the door shut silently behind him. He pulled his sealed-beam flashlight from his jacket pocket, twisted it on and held it in his mouth to illuminate his tool bag. He reached inside, fumbling for his nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter. As he struggled to snap the interlocking parts into place, he leaned his weight onto one knee and almost cried out in pain as he pressed into a stray nail on the floor. The flashlight dropped from his mouth into the bag with a clatter. Now fully awake from the shock of pain, Blaine cursed himself for not assembling the transmitter before walking into the building. He should have walked in with it already on, sending any android or human within into catalepsy and protecting himself while he searched methodically through the apartments, floor by floor.

As Blaine fished the flashlight out of the bag and illuminated his bag once more, he paused, ears straining for any sound in the silence. He could just barely make out a far off, steady tone. An alarm on a higher floor. Now on high alert, Blaine grabbed his laser tube and held it out before him, moving in a slow sweep around the foyer, pointing his weapon and the light in front of him up the stairs. Nothing.

Blaine hoisted the strap of his tool bag over his shoulder and ran lightly up the stairs, willing his footfalls to be silent. He was vulnerable on the stairwell, but he had to get up to a floor with apartments. He chanted silently to himself as he fled up the stairs: find an apartment door, let myself in, make sure it's safe, set up that damn Penfield transmitter. Eyes trained on the stairwell above him and ears straining for any sound, Blaine reached the second floor and headed down the hallway, reaching behind himself for the closest door. Locked, of course.

Blaine reached into his pocket for the infinity key and felt a rush of air just past his right ear. A second later, a small, sharp knife bounced off the wall beside his head and clattered to the ground at his feet. Without a thought, Blaine whipped around, laser beam firing directly into the head of a dark-haired, broad-bodied man.

“Nooooooo!,” a broken voice shrieked from the stairwell above. Blaine pointed his laser gun in the direction of the stairs, holding his fire.

Blaine froze momentarily when the owner of the voice came into view. He should have been expecting this, but it was still a shock to see his face. “Kurt?” he said uncertainly, taking in the familiar blue eyes, chestnut hair, and trim figure. But this man wore worn jeans and a pale blue hoodie, his skin just a shade to dark.

“Carson, look out!” came another shout from behind him.

Blaine spun around, laser tube pointing now at a tall, blonde girl. “Who are you? You don't look like Santana Lopez.”

“I'm Brittany Pierce. I live in this building. You killed one of my friends.” Blaine glanced down to her hand, fingers clasped tightly around a small porcelain statue. An innocuous object meant to sit on a shelf, but it would certainly pack a strong punch if hurled with enough force.

“You're not on my list,” Blaine said firmly, glancing back to see Kurt's look-a-like still frozen to the spot on the stairs, staring at Dave's body in horror.

“I protect my friends,” Brittany said, her grip tightening on the statue, the muscles in her forearm twitching with tension.

“Stay out of this or I'll shoot,” he warned, straightening his arm with the laser tube pointed at her.

“Like hell you will!” The woman's voice barely registered before he felt the pain from a blow to his arm and his gun clattered to the floor and a black-booted foot kicked it away from him as two hands gripped his injured arm in a rough, vice-like grip.

Blaine twisted in her grip, fist already swinging toward her, but a knee connected with his back, causing him to gasp in pain and stumble forward, as another set of hands grabbed his free arm forcefully.

“He got Dave,” said Kurt – or Carson, rather – into his ear. Blaine struggled to fight them off but they both twisted his arms sharply and his whole body spasms with the jolt of pain.

“Well now we've got him,” the woman twisting his other arm back behind him said thickly. “Brittany,” she called to the blonde woman. “Pick up his laser and point it at him.”

She took a step forward and bent down to place the statue on the floor and retrieve the laser, never taking her eyes off the other woman. “Santana,” she said as she straightened back up, holding the laser awkwardly out from her body. “Is this right?”

“No,” Santana said patiently. “You need to turn it the other way.”

“Oh,” Brittany said, fumbling, with the weapon for a moment before finding the correct hold. “You're right. This feels much better.”

“Point it at him,” Santana encouraged.

“I-I don't know if I can d-d-do it,” Brittany stammered, hand shaking with the laser pointed in Blaine's general direction.

“Yes you can,” Santana said firmly, gripping Blaine's arm tighter and twisting it even further into a painful, unnatural angle. Blaine gasped in pain, the blood pounding in his ears, breath coming out in jagged, too-rapid pants. “Just walk closer, carefully,” Santana coached Brittany. “Keep it pointed at him. I'll take it from you. But if he makes a move you have to shoot him, okay.”

“You won't get away with this,” Blaine said weakly. “They'll just send someone else after you, you know.”

“We got you,” said Carson, from behind his back. “I think we can take care of ourselves.”

“Do we have to shoot him?” Brittany asked uncertainly, taking a few steps closer. “Can't we just tie him up? Or I know,” she said brightly, “I could shoot him in the foot. Just to keep him from following us. You. For your getaway.”

“He killed Dave,” Carson said with finality.

“And he'll kill us too, if we give him a chance,” Santana agreed. “No, Brittany. There is no choice. We have to kill him.”

“Okay,” Brittany said shakily and took another step closer, aiming the laser at Blaine's head. Her finger moved closer toward the trigger.

“Drop it!” shouted a high, clear voice. “Drop it or I'll shoot!”

All four of them whipped their heads toward the direction of the voice. On the other side of the stairwell stood a tall, lithe figure, masked in shadow, a laser gun in each hand, one pointed at Santana and the other at Brittany.

Brittany hesitated, her hand visibly shaking. Blaine barely registered the blue laser beam cutting through the air before it hit the gun in Brittany's hand. Brittany yelped, dropping the gun and cradling her hand in the opposite arm. A curl of smoke rose up from the half-melted barrel of the gun lying on the floor.

“Release him, or it'll be your head next,” the man in shadows commanded. Santana and Carson loosened their hold Blaine's arms and he yanked himself free of their grip. “Go stand with your friend,” the man with the lasers barked sharply, gesturing with one of the guns.

“Who are you? Another bounty hunter?” Santana asked as she and Carson side-stepped toward Brittany, keeping the two lasers in view.

The man stepped forward into the dim light of one of the abandoned flashlights and Blaine gasped. “Kurt!”

Blaine wondered if he was hallucinating for a moment until Santana said snidely, “Oh, look. It's lady-face Hummel. What are you shooting at us for? Aren't you supposed to help us?”

Keeping one laser trained on her, Kurt shoved the other into the waistband of his pants and fished a set of handcuffs out of a utility belt slung low against his hips. He tossed the handcuffs at Blaine and said, “Can I get a little help here?”

“What are you doing here?” Blaine asked incredulously.

“Cuff them first,” Kurt said brusquely, tossing another pair of cuffs at Blaine, his eyes still trained on the trio huddled before him. “Then we'll talk.”