Chapter Seven

Blaine,

Do you remember our last night? I do.

You came inside me and I came inside you. We let ourselves in.

Our bodies must have moved together a thousand times or more before that night, and our lips met another thousand times besides. But right there, everything felt new.

Everything felt like the first time.

It was new and strong and so undeniably right.

I know it's uncommon to do what we did, especially after so little time on this earth. But there is no knowing how long or short we have left. Still isn't. But I fear it's the latter.

Kurt.

-

Santana's heart shuddered and the air caught in her breath. 'I'm - I'm,' she began, trying to formulate something, anything, that was even vaguely coherent. For once in her life, she was lost for words; her quick tongue paralysed and her sharp lips unable to utter even the most measly of reasons. The Nazi was unperturbed by this because he knew nothing of her. He jerked his hand, motioning for her for to stand. As she did so, she felt the water moving inside her otherwise empty body. An ocean of shame slopping through her stomach, the ripples of regret following her every move. Santana hastily wiped all trace of it from her face and stared at the man, taking a little longer than usual to muster her steady, fearless gaze. She was genuinely petrified. There was no way that she could talk her way out of this; her words were useless now - not that she could actually produce any - and Santana had led herself into a hideous trap.

'Come with me,' he said, quiet, but firm. She did so, soon noticing that he walked alongside her rather than in the standard Nazi manner of the officer leading terrified prisoners who stumbled cluelessly behind. She didn't dare speak, though. Santana didn't look at him, but could feel his gaze slip on and off of her as he turned his head periodically. She didn't mimic the action.

-

Jesse headed towards the ice cream parlour. He hadn't been here in so long that he didn't even know if there was a meeting tonight, but he knocked three times regardless. A nervous Quinn opened the door, her eyes widening when she saw that it was him, and then stood aside, allowing him to enter.

'Jesse?' she whispered, astounded.

'I'm sorry for not coming by in so long,' he began, but Quinn cut him off by pulling him into a fierce hug.

'You don't need to explain yourself to me. I've been so worried. We all have. Some people have been speculating that you'd betrayed us,' she said.

'Oh God. No. God. It's nothing like that. Nothing like that,' he reassured her, worried.

'Most of them will believe you, don't worry. But I can't believe them for being suspicious. You never know who's really on your side,' she explained.

'It's completely understandable, given the circumstances,' Jesse said.

'Let's sit down,' she suggested, walking towards a table that was out of view of the door. 'Do you want to tell me what happened?' she prompted once they were seated. He nodded after a moment.

'All my fault. I upset Blaine. I don't really want to relive it, but I was being insensitive and, frankly, an idiot,' he explained.

Quinn nodded. 'You do seem - well, you look like a mess,' she said. Jesse shook his head.

'No, I'm fine. Obviously I'm sad because Rachel's gone and Santana's gone and Blaine isn't really my friend anymore, but I'm fine. Quinn, you've lost a child, your own daughter, and you appear to keep yourself together better than I do,' he told her. Quinn stopped him.

'Jesse, I fall apart every single night. When there's people around, I paint on a smile and build a confident wall of optimism. But it's all for show. When I'm alone, the lipstick comes off and my bricks, they crumble. And I lose myself,' she told him softly.

Jesse lightly placed his hand over Quinn's. 'You don't have to hide in front of me. If you need to cry, you can cry. I'll never judge,' he told her fervently.

She nodded, the ghost of relief fluttering over her features. 'Thank you,' she whispered tightly, pulling him into a hug. He held her for a moment. She had more curves than Rachel, he noted as his hands slipped over her soft waist. She smelled different, too. Peaches, Raspberries. Her breasts pressed unashamedly into his chest, making Jesse startlingly aware of the female form in a way he'd never been before. Quinn turned her head into the crook of his neck, breathing tearfully. He felt her warm breath smoking over his skin, and her arms gripping and wrapping around his shoulders as if she needed him. His own head was resting on her shoulder, chin perched over her back. His eyes travelled south as if independent from the compass of his mind, observing the way her back twisted inwards slightly before flaring out into bold hips. His own arms breathed her very being, his senses engulfed with her very presence. He'd never known peace like this.

'Jesse?' she said, still in his arms.

'Yes?'

'Everything you feel is valid. There's someone worse off than all of us, but that does not render our pain moot. We can't help but let them get to us. We can help showing them that they do. But if you have sadness, that's alright, and you shouldn't try to trivialise it or diminish it. The moment you start doing that is the moment you start to trivialise and diminish everything terrible that they're doing,' she whispered. 'And too many people have done that. And it only makes them stronger. The deniers, the willfully ignorant, the accepting; all of them, in their thousands, have made the Nazis so strong and powerful and dangerous. Because if you can make people fear you so intensely that they are willing to resign themselves to oppression, to abuse, and then lay themselves down to be walked all over, God, you'll become dangerously powerful,' she said darkly. 'We are not going to let them crush us. We can't, Jesse, we just can't,' she finished.

He nodded. Quinn's words had given him goosebumps, and he shivered slightly. He didn't even need to see her face - her voice was enough. 'Thank you,' Jesse murmured. She softly moved herself out of his grasp and kissed his lips, lightly and briefly; just brushing them together, really; lipstick onto a canvas, before moving back towards the cabinet.

Jesse sat still, shocked. 'What was that?' he gasped.

'It was nothing,' Quinn said brightly, unlocking the door. 'Are you coming?' she asked. Jesse nodded, standing abruptly and walking to the door.

'Quinn, you kissed me. That was not nothing,' he hissed furiously, worried that someone downstairs would hear them. Quinn turned to him.

'I wanted to kiss you. In the moment. So I did,' she explained simply.

'You - you just go around kissing people - whenever you feel like it?' he asked incredulously.

'Yes. Why not?'

'But what about - Puck? And - and the people you kiss, do you consider them? Do you consider anyone but yourself in these - moments?' he asked in disbelief. 'What about me? And - Rachel,' he realised, his heart sinking. Was this unfaithfulness? Was this an affair? 'Oh God,' he muttered, his head spinning to quickly for his mind to keep up with.

'Calm down. Puck does not care in the least. And...I kissed you. And nothing further happened. You didn't initiate it, or, it seems, didn't even want to kiss me at all, so there's really no need for Rachel to know, is there?' she explained, selectively emphasising certain words.

'How can you suggest, so casually, that I should keep secrets from the one I love? It's practically lying,' he said.

'Well you kept all of this a secret, didn't you? The Swing Youth, I mean. She doesn't know you've been coming here. She doesn't even know I exist. If you told her that I kissed you, you'd have to tell her everything,' Quinn pointed out.

Jesse saw sense in what she was saying. But he still felt uneasy and decidedly uneasy about the situation. She noticed this, and rolled her eyes.

'Jesse. It's nothing remarkable. It's nothing, it's no big deal. Stop getting yourself worried about what Rachel might say and focus on keeping Rachel alive,' she said firmly.

He sighed. 'You're right,' he said heavily.

'Of course I'm right,' she echoed back. There was a pause. 'If the worst comes to the worst...just say some desperate, pathetic whore kissed you,' she said flatly. Jesse didn't say anything, stunned that she could assign such terms to herself so lightly.

-

They hadn't been walking for very long when they came to a stop outside one of the tin cabins where they - the Nazis - had set up offices and living space. She'd never been here before and neither had any of the other prisoners, as far as she knew. He unlocked the door and ushered her inside. Santana stepped in hesitantly. She didn't know what was happening. He locked the door behind her and moved to sit in a chair behind the desk, removing his khaki jacket and then pouring two glasses of water from the jug beside him. He pushed one towards Santana.

'Drink,' he said, doing so himself. She moved forwards steadily, watching him carefully. 'It's water. I promise,' he said, continuing to drink. Now that he wasn't speaking one word sentences, Santana could actually hear his tone. It wasn't like anything she'd ever heard from a Nazi before. It was calm, pleasant. Friendly, almost. But she wasn't deceived easily, and thus was wary as she took a sip. To her surprise, he'd been telling the truth. Just water.

She drained the glass after a moment and then froze just as quickly, petrified that he'd drugged her, poisoned her in some way. He must have noticed her breath hitching sharply and her hand, which had begun to visibly shake slightly. He sighed. 'I understand, completely, that you can't trust me, and I don't blame you. You have no reason to trust any of us, and rightly so. But - please. I am not trying to hurt you. I'm - I'm not like the others,' he whispered. Santana stayed silently still, waiting for him to continue. But she could not deny her curiosity and the small relief that had begun to permeate her being. He looked at her, radiating honesty.

'I want to say sorry for what's been done to you, and to your family, friends. At first I was blindly following orders but now that I actually know what is happening, I can see that it's all just...it's so, so wrong. And that's an understatement, I know. I cannot find the words to explain to you how wrong this is. It makes me sick. And that I'm a part of it,' he shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. 'I'm so ashamed. I'm going to be haunted forever that I was a part of this. My ignorance was no excuse,' he sobbed. 'I don't - I don't hate you, at all. I don't even know you. I certainly don't think that you or any of those poor others deserve this. Not in the least. For fucks sake I went to school with travellers, I know there's nothing abhorrent or punishable about you. The suggestion that there is...ridiculous. God I'm - I'm so sorry. Please believe me,' he said, walking around to clasp her hands, his face streaked with tears, his voice earnest and his hands desperate. And in that moment, as she looked into his eyes, for some reason, she believed him.

'Why me?' she asked. 'Why - out of the hundreds of us here - why me?' Before he could answer, she swayed on the spot a little, suddenly dizzy; her legs felt lightheaded and weaker than church wine. 'I have to sit down,' she stated, dropping to the floor and crossing her legs so as to conceal her grimy, filthy feet.

He nodded. 'Of course,' he said, moving to the desk to retrieve a packet of crackers from a drawer, and pouring more water. 'Here. Eat something, please,' he said. Santana didn't need telling twice and she ripped the paper and crammed two crackers into her mouth, muttering her thanks unintelligibly through her full mouth. God, it hadn't been full like this in so long. He nodded and patiently waited a minute until she'd finished - she managed to devour almost half the pack in mere minutes.

'Sorry,' she said, passing the half empty crackers back to him.

'No, don't, you have nothing to be sorry for,' he told her firmly. 'I'm just glad I can give you some food. God knows you need it,' he explained, sitting down too. 'Let's be on the same level,' he said as he did so, offering a tentative smile. Santana could not quite return it just yet, but she nodded to show her gratitude and understanding, and she knew her eyes were not as stony as before.

'Why you? I saw you this morning. At the - you know,' he shuddered. 'And I was struck by how fearless you were. You were so bold and strong, the way you held yourself, the way you just drank it all at once not faltering for a moment. The way you stared death in the face and carried on, not letting them get to you. Because that's what makes them mad, when they don't think they've destroyed your spirit. You have the highest, sturdiest walls I've ever seen, not letting any parasites in. I've never seen anything like it. Everyone else here seems so broken, but not you. And I thought maybe you were the right one. The one to help me,' he explained.

'Help you how?' she asked.

'I want to get out of here and I want to go to the opposition - if that's even what they are - and tell them everything. I know so much. Too much. I think I could help them. I want to - I want to help end all of this. I need to, I can't help it. I think I have an obligation as a human being to do something about this,' he explained.

'And why do you need me specifically?' she asked, still unclear.

'Like I said, your strength, your character. And you're not broken yet, are you? I can see it in your eyes. Your remarkable defences have saved you. You've not reached that stage of resignation and listlessness like so many of the others. That's why I need you. You also everything to lose if you refuse me, but everything to gain if you say yes. I can get you out of here,' he promised her.

Santana's heart jolted. She'd do anything to get out of here. She nodded. She barely had to even consider. Saying no was not an option. He smiled, a huge grin of relief spreading over his face. She managed a smile now. Then she remembered. Rachel.

'On one condition. We get my friend out too,' she insisted. He thought for a moment.

'I'll have to determine the logistics of it, but I'm sure we can do it. But no more. I can't get everyone out,' he said regretfully.

'I understand. But she's coming. She won't survive if she stays here. She's not - she's not like me,' Santana told him.

-

'Is it even possible to change? To be cured?' Kurt considered, somewhat hopeful.

Sebastian shook his head. 'If it was, do you think I'd still be here?' he asked, smirking a little through his bitterness.

'Would you want to, though?' he asked. 'I mean, when I think about girls - in that way - I don't feel much. I don't feel anything really. Only repulsion,' he shuddered, 'and believe me, I've been trying for years to see something there. I've been searching for so long in their empty eyes, looking for something that I just can't find there. It's not their fault but it's not mine either. It's not my fault because I can't feel it. I can't help my heart,' he explained.

'Or can you?' Sebastian countered cynically. 'Maybe you're just not trying hard enough,' he muttered.

Kurt turned, looking at him in disbelief. What had happened to this boy who was once so calm and confident, cocky, even? The last month had seen Sebastian transform into a miserable shadow of that person. There was fear, which hadn't been there a few weeks ago, and there was sadness in his eyes now - the despair had gone, replaced with resignation. Above all else, he looked defeated. The Nazis had succeeded, for they had erased all the bravado and the invincible spirit which Sebastian used to exalt.

'They've stolen you, haven't they?' Kurt said softly. Sebastian didn't look at him.

'They take everything,' he replied flatly.

'You can't let them win,' Kurt told him, but there was little conviction behind the words.

Sebastian glanced up at him, his dark eyes lacklove and emotionless. 'They already have,' he whispered.

Kurt clasped Sebastian's shoulders, feeling that he was beginning to lose something of himself. He couldn't let that happen. 'You have to believe, Sebastian, you just have to,' he spluttered urgently. He couldn't become Sebastian.

He shook himself free of Kurt's unsteady grip as he spoke; 'Believe? Believe in what? In the people and things that are supposed to protect us? How can I possibly believe in them when they don't believe I should exist?' he spoke so passively it was unnerving.

‘I feel the same. But just think. Not everyone agrees with what's happening. And yes, the average German is powerless. But think about the rest of the world. Sebastian, there's a whole war being fought out there because people don't agree with what Hitler is doing. Thousands of people are risking their lives and taking a stand - and it's all to destroy Hitler and bring down all of this, the arrests, the torture, the inequality, all of it. The opposition is not the opposition. Are you not humbled and honoured that some man out there is staring down the barrel of a gun just so that we won't have to do so anymore? If I ever lose faith in humanity - which is often - I just remember that one day, the entire world rose up against the most evil man who ever lived. I remember that there are people who don't even know me, who've never even set foot in this country, dying for me. Dying so that I won't.'

They were quiet for a moment.

‘And what are we in all of this, Kurt? Collateral damage? Let's see where we are when this is all over,' Sebastian posed slowly.

‘Free,' Kurt said simply.

Sebastian sighed. ‘We'll never be free, Kurt.' There was a pause as he looked over at the other boy. ‘Your precious heroes would shoot us in a second if they knew we were faggots,' he whispered, before turning away from Kurt and lying down, facing the wall.

They didn't say anything else. Neither could see, but both were crying in silence.

-

Jesse walked into the school building, same as usual. If usual even existed anymore. He kept his head down, mostly, not attracting any attention towards himself. Blending in. He'd become an expert. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he noticed Ryder coming towards him. Jesse quickly forced a smile. Ryder was dangerous, and Jesse often found himself taking more care around him than he did with almost anyone else. 

'Jesse,' Ryder nodded, offering a smile in return just as phoney as Jesse's. Even his simple greeting was laced with deceit and was practically an accusation in itself, Jesse thought cynically. 

'Hello,' he replied, the false cheer sour in his mouth. There was a brief pause as the former friends took each other in, both in sad distaste.

'You weren't there last night,' Ryder said. He spoke almost scoldingly. 

'Where?' Jesse asked, keeping his voice calm and steady. The same could not be said of his heart as Ryder looked at him, surprised and smarmy; he had the upper hand.

'Hitler Youth meeting, of course,' he answered, causing Jesse's cheeks to redden slightly as he grew more nervous. He talked slowly, letting the words slide out of his mouth and linger. Like cryptic slugs. 'I'd be careful, if I were you. It'll be compulsory soon. And then you'll have worse than me to explain yourself to. If you don't show,' he warned threateningly.

'Right. Sorry,' he reluctantly muttered. Ryder watched him for a moment, suspicious. 

'What were you doing, last night, Jesse? Had somewhere else to be?' He asked.

'I felt ill,' Jesse replied reflexively.

'Ill? I thought you just...forgot,' Ryder challenged, toxically playful. Jesse swore internally.

'Well yes, I forgot, but I also felt ill. At the same time. Still do,' he said stiltedly. Ryder raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. 

'Are we done here?' Jesse asked, trying so hard to keep his tone crisp and even. The other boy shrugged. 'I'll see you later,' he said quickly, before Ryder could twist anything else, then swiftly turned and left, heading for the nearest bathroom. 

Locking himself in a stall at the far end of the room, Jesse closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, pressing his hands to the rough wooden walls of the cubicle to steady himself. He exhaled heavily, his breaths becoming faster and more erratic, to the point that he could no longer control it. Struggling to catch his breath, he banged his head on the door several times, a few tears beginning to flow without his consent. How much danger had he just put himself in? Shit. Shit shit shit. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't keep coming, every day, to this building. Nowhere was safe anymore, nowhere. Nor could he live in that empty apartment, the one that was haunted by the ghosts of his friends and of his former self. This city was reaching a destructive climax and the country was finally fucked. It was slowly choking him, along with all those around him, as if they were all dominoes falling into helpless submission, and he couldn't - wouldn't - endure it, not for much longer. 

Jesse remembered the look on Ryder's face. That clean cut, cocksure, conniving bastard, with his slimy grin and the murderous words that danced on his lips. The chilling charisma that made Jesse's stomach churn. He was suddenly overcome with fearful nausea, and spun around to promptly vomit into the toilet. Jesse stayed on his knees for a moment, clutching the toilet bowl. He'd managed to calm down a little, and stood to flush the chain. Exiting the cubicle, he walked shakily to the sink to splash water over his face, before leaving the small sanctuary of the bathroom. The hallway was now empty - everyone had gone to lessons. He made his way to room twelve, where he had a biology class. He debated whether he should leave or attempt to stay in school. 

When he opened the door and saw a projection of the sideways profiles of some people, captioned 'Jewish' and 'Non-Jewish', he knew he would not be staying.

'Jesse,' Mr Schuester, the teacher, greeted him. He seemed weary and downcast, clearly unhappy with what he was being made to teach. He did a double take when he saw Jesse, akin to the one Jesse given to the projection. 'I was going to ask why you're so late, but you look unwell,' he said, concerned. 'Are you alright?'

Jesse shook his head weakly. 'No. No I'm not alright,' he answered truthfully. 'I'm ill. I - I think I'm going to go home,' he said. Mr Schuester nodded.

'Of course. Take the rest of the week off if you need to,' he said kindly.

'Thank you, sir,' Jesse said, truly grateful. He left the classroom, the condemned projections burning in the back of his mind.

He left the building and began making his way home. 'Ill again?' came a voice. Jesse flinched. Ryder. 

'I think it hasn't really worn off,' he explained.

'Interesting,' Ryder commented.

'What is? Why?'

'It just is,' he said unhelpfully. There was a pause as they stared at one another.

'Goodbye, Ryder,' Jesse said softly. He turned smoothly and walked away.

'You watch out, St James,' he shouted after him, sickeningly gleeful.

Jesse kept going, not even so much as glancing back.

-

He was sitting on his kitchen floor, a forgotten apple by his side and one of Rachel's old hair ribbons clutched in his hand. He'd been staring at the same patch of linoleum for over an hour. His mind had wandered deeper and deeper, his thoughts becoming darker as the minutes ticked on. Loneliness was the most dangerous thing. He became numb and cloudy, and he couldn't care. Couldn't. 

A sudden knock on his door jerked his senses, the shock freezing him for a moment. Then he realised that not answering would be worse than facing whatever waited on the other side of the door. He stumbled towards it, his legs a little cramped, then pausing. 'One moment,' he called, leaning on the door and taking a deep breath. Then he turned the lock. The first thing he saw was the swastika, making him utter a sort of choked gulp in horror.

'Jesse?'

He looked up. 'Sam. Oh God, it's you,' he gasped, laughing and throwing himself onto the taller boy in relief. 

'Sorry, I'll call out next time. I didn't mean to frighten you,' he apologised as he gently steered Jesse back into his apartment and closed the door behind them. They headed for the dining area and Jesse gestured for Sam to sit, before following suit. They made small talk - small being the operative word in Jesse's case - and he faded in and out of the uneven conversation.

Seeing that uniform and everything that it stood for in his own home made Jesse want to vomit. It didn't matter that Sam didn't believe in it, that Sam only wore his out of necessity, not choice; it was for safety, to keep up appearances and ensure the secrecy of his true intentions. To Jesse, it didn't matter that it was a charade because that symbol stood for something enormous. To Jesse, none of this brutal reality was a charade. Death was no game. It was a hideous atrocity. All caused by that symbol.

That symbol, wrapped around Sam's arm, and the smaller but by no means less sinister on pinned onto his chest. The little bar of gold that was somehow worth more than human life. There was even one on the hat, which Sam had removed upon entry. All the Nazis had impeccable manners until it came to Jews, homosexuals, gypsies and so many others, thought Jesse cynically. No extra courtesies - or even the most basic - were ever extended to them.

-

Nothing in Brittany's life felt fair. No-one's life was fair, and she knew that. But hers felt sixteen times worse. Each year it got worse - next year would be seventeen times worse, then eighteen times, then nineteen, twenty and so on. Santana was seventeen. She didn't want to calculate how much worse Santana's life was, though. Her system didn't do justice to something that was not just at all. Besides which, she had no idea. Jesse told her that he wanted to know how bad it was for Rachel, even if at the same time he really didn't want to know. Brittany thought that was pathetic, that he should just admit he wanted to know. Honesty. Something she had never found and seldom was. She wouldn't hide about this, though. She wanted to know everything. She wanted every detail about Santana, no matter how terrible, not caring if it might hurt. She had to know. If Brittany knew, she'd know that Santana was alive.

She was so tired of being alone. Blaine was never there, he was always out, always away, and when he was there he wasn't ever present. He wouldn't talk to her; she had to initiate. And even then, he was moody and just plain rude to her, when she'd done nothing. The other day he'd sworn at her because she ate a pear. He stormed into her room with the crumpled paper bag that he'd dug out of the rubbish bin, clutching it in his fist and waving it at her, right in her face, as if it was something of importance, and he shouted at her. Blaine yelled at her and swore at her because she ate the pear he'd specifically bought for himself, as if Brittany was somehow supposed to just know these things. Then he slammed the door but it didn't shut; it swung back and forth, still open. She hated that. She had to go over and close it, then slid down the wall, curling into a foetal mess. Then she just sobbed. It had felt like an attack, over nothing. God forbid she were to commit a real offence; what would his reaction be? She was optimistic enough to think that he'd bought that pear for her. She thought he'd gone to the market and bought it for her, as he'd done a dozen times before because he knew that she liked them. She thought there was one nice thing going for her, a chink of silver on her cloudy life. Stupid, stupid Brittany, she mumbled.

She wasn't sure how long her tears lasted, but they flowed all through the sky growing navy, the streetlights glowing orange in preparation, the streetlights suddenly snapping off, leaving a residual red whisper, and then the familiar siren and the distant crashes of the most unnatural thunderstorm. This part of the city was never really hit, though. The pilots had to know it wasn't worth it. That nothing could really get worse here and any damage done in this place would be ignored by their real targets. Nobody cared about the people here. And as the night silenced and snuck back into day, her body was stiff and her face shiny, encrusted with dried streaks and sadness. She'd sat through it all. And the worst part was that she'd heard him, Blaine, walking up the stone steps, opening the door, walking around the hardwood kitchen. And he'd walked right past her room, stood on the other side of the door, mere feet away from where she sat, crying and crying. He'd heard her, she knew he had. And he'd left her. He'd left her sobbing alone in the darkness.

Everything good vanished from this city the moment Santana did. It used to mean so much to her, but without Santana it might as well have been that tiny, stinking orphanage in the filthy small town she'd left years ago. She wanted to know what was happening to Santana, she wanted every last word on the matter. She'd spent so many years in ignorance, so many years deprived. She couldn't go back to that, especially not where Santana was concerned. Brittany had never had much, and she hadn't minded. Honestly, she'd liked it. But her life was too empty, now.

Every day she felt like bursting into tears and every night she'd give in and let them explode. Nothing changed, though; she extinguished no fires. She often couldn't bear to leave the house, sometimes not even her bedroom. Beyond the walls and the little red door bolted in four places lurked reality. And she didn't want that, couldn't handle that. Once, twice, she tried. She awoke at a reasonable time, washed and dressed, drank hot weak tea from a teabag in its third life, put on her coat and stood by the door. She buttoned up her coat and even gripped the latches and handles. She began to twist the top one. But her fingers were frozen and she whimpered, the mechanisms twisting slower than snails. When it finally clicked, releasing, she stifled a scream. Brittany hurriedly spun it back into place and checked every lock again twice over and twice again. Then she dropped to the floor with an apathetic thump. She couldn't cry. Her eyes ached with tears and her heart felt like a rock; dry and heavy, bloodlessly bruising her insides.

She stared across the little room, eyes lingering on her bedroom door. She remembered when Santana would pull her towards the door and they'd kiss, Brittany with one eye open, worried that someone was there. Santana would laugh and shake her head in bemusement, making her giggle. Sometimes Blaine would see them and he'd just smile. He was happy, then. As was she. They all were. He'd tactfully turn his back, busying himself with something or other, giving them privacy, and they'd fall onto Brittany's lumpy little bed and make long love. They would go on for hours, sometimes. She'd been with men before but none of them felt like Santana did, and they in turn couldn't make her feel the way Santana made her. They didn't smile like she smiled, they didn't talk like she talked, they didn't kiss like she kissed and they didn't fuck like she fucked. No connection she'd ever made was remotely comparable to that which she and Santana had created together.

That night, the tears had come. She hadn't been kissed in so long and hadn't been touched in so long, either. All she wanted was someone to hold her that she could hold in return. It had been too long that she'd slept alone with nobody to wake up for.

-

‘So I've decided how we'll be able to do this,' he said as soon as the door was locked.

Santana's heart leapt into her mouth, it's fierce, hopeful beating causing her voice to shake with excitement when she spoke. ‘When? How? What is - just tell me everything,' she urged. He smiled at her.

‘You're still very much on board then?' he asked her. She nodded and grinned back in confirmation, the days of feeling fearful in his presence long gone - and yet it was in fact only a short while ago that they had begun talking, Santana considered. How strange that she'd become so safe and comfortable around someone so soon, someone who had been ready to kill her (so she'd thought) until recently.

He paused for a moment before starting to speak. ‘We'll start by pretending that you and Rachel are dead,' he began bluntly. ‘That oughtn't to be particularly difficult. There are literally dozens dying here every day,' he said bitterly. ‘I propose finding two - bodies,' he uttered uncomfortably, ‘and switching their shirts with yours,' he explained.

Santana nodded eagerly. ‘Of course...that's brilliant! They'll think that we're dead and the others are alive when in reality...we're alive and they were dead all along!' She was enthused at how damn genius it was. ‘Sorry. I obviously don't need to explain your own plan to you,' she apologised.

‘No, it's good to see you approve,' he countered, before continuing , ‘after that, we can't wait very long. Sooner or later, someone will realise what we've done. That initial stage is simply a bandage, not a cure,' he told her.

‘Absolutely,' she said quickly. ‘I understand.' After a pause, he carried on.

‘I'm responsible for transporting something. I'm not sure what, precisely. Probably the materials that you've - been making,' he said. Santana nodded darkly. It had been several weeks since she'd been in the factory - thanks to the experiment - but she could still remember it all too well. The atrocities at this camp were not something she could ever really forget.

Santana nodded uncomfortably. 'They're going to use it to kill, aren't they?' she stated.

'Yes. Yes, they are,' he murmured sadly. ‘It's me and another officer, we're under orders to pack it up and transport it north. It goes without saying that he has no idea of our little plan.' She nodded.

‘Where do Rachel and I fit into this? We can't travel with you if there's going to be a Nazi there,' Santana pointed out.

‘I'm going to hide you both. Inside the truck. Leave it to me,' he firmly assured her.

‘You'll have to be prepared - I'm going to hide you during the night, and you'll have to stay hidden for several hours until the morning. When we can leave,' he finished, smiling again. She breathed a sigh of relief, feeling incredibly hopeful. ‘It won't be comfortable,' he began warning her, but Santana interrupted.

‘It's more than alright. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, and besides, I haven't been comfortable in a long time. A few hours won't make any difference. I'm willing to do anything,' she explained in earnest.

‘I know you are.'

There was a pause. Santana sipped her water, with which he always provided her.

‘You're so strong, Santana,' he whispered, staring at her with a contortion of wonder and sadness. ‘You're the bravest person I've ever known,' he told her.

Santana didn't know how to respond. ‘Thank you,' she murmured awkwardly.

He scooted closer to her. Brill cream and brandy permeated her nostrils. He radiated cleanliness unrelentingly, and she cringed inwardly at how terrible she smelled. Their legs brushed together, almost touching one another but not quite. A wide, meaty thigh, protected with green and pulsing hot blood, alongside all but a twiggy branch, wrapped in a foul rag and trembling. She felt some of his heat pass through her. She wasn't cold by any means - his office was cosily heated - but he had a certain kind of warmth that came with being safe, and having always been safe. He didn't say anything but he leaned towards her, closer still; his fiery breath playfully musky on her skin. Santana wasn't sure what was happening, though she had an idea lurking in the back of her mind that she failed to ignore. She didn't indicate how uneasy she felt, and stayed very still in her discomfort. He reeked of man. Something beyond the tobacco and the cologne. Something so overtly male that she almost cringed.

That's when he smiled slightly, before destroying what was between them with a kiss. Santana fixed her eyes straight ahead, focusing on the flag she knew by heart. It was nailed into the wall. As her pupils bore into its jagged outline, her eyes began to water and she wasn't sure why anymore. All she knew was that she had to kiss him too. So she did. She moved her lips over his, supposing she should let him lead. Her vision flawed as she thought about Brittany, and as he began kissing her neck, she almost sobbed. A warm hand came up to her chest, blue veins protruding from the pink flesh. A goddamn landscape on the back of his hand; hard blue ridge mountains sinking into supple rosy valleys, peach rivers coursing all over him and now onto her. So foreign. These cavernous hands slid her shirt right off her shoulders, effortlessly, and held her breasts. Her papery skin was littered with small bruises, scatterings of brief rashes and a few scars artfully placed here and there. How she could possibly seem anything that resembled appealing was beyond her.

His impulsive mouth sighed into her, and as he kissed the crook between her breasts, Santana clenched her fists to prevent a shudder. She felt his grip leave her, but her short respite was broken as she heard the efficient clinks of belt buckle and the urgent drawing of breath. She knew exactly what would proceed. It was so very far from her first time. Santana did not want to see this happen to her again, and not like this. So she just parted her legs with the obedience of a dog, heard the spit and felt the rip. As he thrust into her, again and again, the back of his throat uttering the opposite of her feelings, tears coursed down her face. She had rivers too. With streaming eyes, Santana stared at the flag, the ugly flag with its nails resolute. And in that moment she understood what it was to be crucified.

-

Jesse was walking the city streets, as usual. It was a Tuesday evening, 6pm. He wanted to leave soon. It was getting colder and darker. Jesse's mind wandered to Rachel, as it often did. In the past, if they had been parted, he'd think about where she was and imagine what she might be doing at that moment. But now, he didn't want to consider what she was doing, and yet he couldn't help but be desperate to know, out of concern more than anything. A desire of denial. He hoped she was getting enough to eat. And had a warm bed. He knew nothing about the camps because none of them - the Swing Youth - had seen them. Those that had were unreachable.

His mind crossed over to Santana, now. They didn't even know where she was. This uncertainty worried Jesse, and even more so Brittany. Granted, he hadn't been to a meeting in about two weeks but he doubted she would have cheered up much. How could she? He certainly hadn't, nor had Blaine. Kurt's situation was different but Jesse doubted that he was any better off. Of everyone Jesse knew, Brittany had probably the biggest heart. She did not feel anything lightly.

Jesse was jerked out of his thoughts by a loud crack from somewhere around his feet. He noticed that he'd stepped on something and broken it - a pocket mirror, he saw, upon glancing down. Someone had presumably dropped it; a woman, if the engraved silver flowers were anything to go by. Jesse tucked the ruined mirror inside his jacket, not wanting its owner to find it destroyed. Any pain that he could possibly minimise, he'd do so.

He looked over his surroundings and realised uneasily that he didn't recognise the street he was on. He'd gotten not only mentally lost, but physically too. There were some people about - mostly men - but not many. They lingered in doorways, leant on the wall. Jesse wasn't threatened by them; they weren't Nazis or police. They were mostly in casual dress. A few men in suits. As he walked past, the men looked at him, nodded to him, a courtesy he returned. They tapped their feet on the pavement, their tired soles beating on the cobbles, the hard rhythm of a silent tune. He wasn't sure why. Jesse kept walking casual-like, not too quickly - nothing suspicious.

'Jesse,' came a voice from his left. He stopped to look and saw a disheveled and worn Blaine.

The two boys stared at each other for a long moment. 'Hi,' Jesse said eventually.

'Hi,' Blaine repeated.

Jesse walked to sit beside Blaine on the stoop. It was cold and the stiff brick meshed uncomfortably with his backside. 'Why are you here?' Blaine asked.

'For the atmosphere,' Jesse said flatly. Blaine frowned. 'That was a joke,' he added awkwardly. Blaine nodded and Jesse sighed. 'I got lost. I've never been here before,' he explained.

'Figures,' Blaine murmured.

'What does that mean?' he asked.

Blaine shook his head. 'Nothing,' and Jesse didn't persue it.

'Why are you here?' Jesse echoed Blaine's own statement back to him.

'Because I have nowhere else. And this is the only place left,' he stated bluntly, turning to look at Jesse. The look in his eyes provoked a surge of guilt in Jesse. It was because of him, entirely, that Blaine had nowhere - and no-one - left.

'Blaine I'm sorry,' he blurted, knowing the pathetically short statement was empty, meaningless, to his friend. If he could still call Blaine his friend, Jesse mentally amended. 'I - I'm sorry,' he repeated, unable to come up with anything else to add, much to his infuriation. He'd considered this conversation so many times but every preplanned word escaped him now.

'You're sorry. Right. Thanks,' Blaine muttered cynically. Jesse tentatively reached out, placing his hand on Blaine's shoulder. The bones shivered beneath thin and frightened skin.

'Please. You were completely right. Please come back. You can't stay here. It's not safe,' he insisted.

Blaine shook his head. 'I can't Jesse. I know, now, that I can't depend on anyone but me. That's the way it is. The way it has to be,' he said.

'No, it doesn't,' Jesse began, exasperated. 'You have put your life in danger - you could die, Blaine, just because of some - some sort of stupid pride you have!' he said.

Blaine let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. 'This is not stupid pride. This is me taking control and no longer being reliant and dependent on people who don't understand me, who don't truly respect me. I humbly decline any offer of help you have, because it will not help me at all. And this way, if something goes wrong, it's my fault and all the blame will lie with me. I'm accountable for me,' he told Jesse.

Jesse sighed and ran a hand through his thick curls. It needed washing, he thought absently. As he stared at the cobbles before him and began wondering aloud. 'What made me so lucky? And why is anyone lucky? My parents are rich and white, so I am rich and white. I'm not remotely religious - and I know that's much more of a choice, but surely whether you believe or not, or what it is that you do believe in - that shouldn't bring good or bad luck. It shouldn't - it shouldn't even matter,' he said, releasing the words in an impulsive rush. ‘I'm German, my parents are German, my entire family is German, I've had little exposure to anyone non-German. Was that by chance or has it been planned? Has it always been the intention for me to end up this way?'

Blaine wasn't sure if Jesse was expecting an answer; he didn't even know if Jesse was speaking to him particularly. He remained carefully silent.

‘I happen to prefer women over men when choosing sexual partners. No,' he corrected slowly, beginning to understand. ‘It's not even a choice, it's not even a conscious decision that I make. I simply can't help it. Nobody can. Who we love, it's not a choice. It's how you're born and you can't help it. It's like your hair colour, eye colour. Skin colour,' he realised, half shocked and half daunted. ‘And it's as if you're simply unlucky if you're born into the minority,' he whispered, now turning to look at Blaine, who was staring at Jesse, somewhat awestruck. ‘People shouldn't be punished at all for these attributes, but why punish the minority? Is it because there's fewer of them, so it's easier? Is it because we're so afraid of anything that is even a little, remotely different or unusual?' he laughed bitterly. ‘We don't see it every day so therefore we shouldn't have to see it at all? No,' he said angrily, clapping his hands onto Blaine's shoulders, every word pulsating with hot, raging fire through Blaine's frozen veins. ‘No. Difference and diversity is what we ought to celebrate because it is the very essence of humankind. And when they silence the minorities and erase them, they are destroying something that is so natural and so necessary and so damn beautiful. Any God would accuse you of destroying his natural order, his creation. No God hates his own creation. No God would destroy his own creation. It isn't logical or rational, not in the least. And who do mere humans, who are tiny and utterly worthless in the grand scheme of things, who do they think they are to tamper with this? To take it upon themselves to radically change the world, and not for the better?'

Jesse spoke almost feverishly, and Blaine, transfixed, couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend. He couldn't interrupt; he had no words that could go alongside Jesse's.

‘When man makes himself a God and when man chooses to play God, he no longer deserves to be a man. When man decides who is lucky and who is not, when man assigns unchangeable attributes to 'good' and 'bad', when man sorts people into classes and categories to determine who somehow deserves punishment - that man does not deserve to live. And when man completely destroys any sense of natural order by taking the lives of other men, of those who ought to be his equals, in some deluded attempt to improve the quality of his own life, that man is no longer a man. He has become something truly despicable.'

Now, Jesse somehow moved even closer to Blaine and took his firm, chiseled face in his thick, warm hands. They could feel each other's breath as Jesse continued. ‘He is an abomination, not you. He is a degenerate, not you. There is more filth and sin on him than there could ever be on you. He has no soul. Luck? It's a ridiculous concept, really, because it's not coincidental or spontaneous. It is planned, it is very specifically determined so that those who receive it are the powerful and those who have none are the marginalised. Isn't it an intelligent construct, this hierarchy, don't you think? So careful, so precise. So much effort to ensure that they won't have to make any again. Oh, the brilliant injustice of it all.' He sighed, his eyes closing, a little worn out by the words he'd just spoken.

Blaine, meanwhile, had tears in his eyes by the end of Jesse's tirade. His arms reached out to hug Jesse and as he sobbed into Jesse's neck, he felt the boy's arms hold him tightly in return. They stayed like that for a moment. ‘I really am sorry,' Jesse murmured, his voice thick with tears.

‘I know. I know,' he nodded and wiped his eyes. They were silent for a moment before Blaine spoke again. 'Alright. Alright. Thank you, that was...thank you. You're getting it,' he said.

'So you'll come back?' Jesse asked hopefully, lowering his voice and moving away from Blaine as he saw a man approaching them. He wasn't a Nazi or policeman or anything, but still, Jesse knew they couldn't risk people overhearing anything that was said, much less witnessing such a display of affection.

Blaine closed his eyes, signing heavily. 'No,' he whispered firmly. ‘I can't.' He looked at the man, who had stopped infront of the two of them. The man wasn't looking at Blaine, though; he was staring into the distance, in another direction. He tapped his foot a few times on the pavement and Blaine rose, almost as if he was following a command. Jesse watched him, perplexed. The two men standing before him looked at one another, communicating something silently. Then they swiftly turned and walked away together into the night.

'Blaine,' Jesse called after him, but he did not respond.

-

It was almost time. Almost time to get out. She'd been waiting for today for so long that it didn't seem real. Santana rolled towards the wall to surreptitiously check the watch that she'd snuck in last night. He'd given it to her. At three o'clock - ten minutes - she was meant to wake up Rachel and then leave together, careful and quiet, ready to begin the next stage of their escape. 

She shifted to lie on her back. The sounds of breathing all around her would be gone forever in a few short minutes. It wasn't quite something she'd ever have been able to imagine before coming here; the sound of a hundred others sleeping under the same roof. The breathing was heavy, lungs laden with dust and thick disease, littered with coughs and sobs. Most everyone was shivering, which seemed to make the whole tin barrack shake along with them. No more, she thought elatedly. No more. The impending guilt she had at leaving all these others behind, suffering, was something she wasn't thinking about. She'd never been selfish, exactly, but she certainly wasn't selfless. Her life had been stuffed with a harsh ragu of situations and circumstances that had not allowed her to consider much else beyond herself. No one would care if she let herself die, and it wouldn't make a scrap of difference to the overall situation*

She checked the watch again. One minute. Fifty nine, fifty eight, fifty seven. She sat up and tugged her thin, tatty sleeves over her wrists and hands, preparing herself for the frozen night. Forty two, forty one, forty. She scrunched the watch into her fist, hiding it. Not that anyone else would be around to see, but still. Thirty, twenty nine, twenty eight. She drew her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes, taking a few deep breaths of the putrid air. Twenty two, twenty one, twenty. Her heart was fluttering and she felt like she was going throw up her empty stomach. Thirteen, twelve, eleven. This was almost it. She began lightly shaking Rachel's shoulder. Five, four, three, two, one. Rachel's eyes snapped open.

Santana put a finger to her lips, hoping Rachel could see in the slither of pale moonlight, and leaned in to whisper, 'I'm going outside, wait one minute, then follow. I promise it'll all be clear in a moment,' she breathed into her lobe, so soft and close that no one else could have possibly heard. Rachel frowned but nodded. Santana stepped over Rachel and scampered silently across the narrow stretch of floor and leaving the barrack, a whoosh of cold piercing the room as the door closed behind her.

Santana waited outside and wrapped her arms around herself. November. Or was it December? She didn't even know anymore, she realised sadly. After another moment, Rachel appeared, and Santana smiled at her. Rachel was confused and tired. Rubbing her eyes, she approached Santana.

'What's going on?' she hissed. Santana pulled her around to the side, removing them from plain view, and spoke softly too.

'I can't say much. They might hear,' she glanced around yet again, and then whispered ,'Rachel, we're getting out of here.' Rachel didn't make a sound, merely stared at her, stunned. 'I'm not lying, I promise,' Santana murmured in the absence of Rachel saying anything.

After another moment of silence, Rachel's forlorn face morphed into a smile. 'What?' she asked, having overcome her initial shock and disbelief, and she clapped her hands to her mouth as Santana just nodded, nodded her head again and again. Then they heard footsteps, just around the corner, and both their heads jerked upwards, not unlike cats. It was only him, though, Santana realised, as he emerged. Rachel, meanwhile, uttered a strangled little gasp, and clutched at Santana. 

'It's alright. He's here to help us,' she hurriedly reassured the frightened girl beside her. He came up to them and grinned, kissing Santana's forehead, and nodding warmly to Rachel, who looked thoroughly confused by his show of affection towards Santana, who shook her head slightly by way of telling her friend not to say anything.

'Is everything ready?' she asked, stopping any diversions before they happened.

'Yes. All of it,' he answered. 'Let's go,' he said, and they made to set off. 'Wait - walk behind me?' he asked, and they complied, Santana glad to be rid of his touch.

They walked for about fifteen minutes or so, heading towards the entrance of the camp. This wasn't the way had arrived - they didn't have to walk over those treacherous fields again, and there wasn't a train line in sight. There was a small, shed-like building, similar to his office, just ahead of them, with a light on. He gestured for them to stop. 'The night warden is in there. He's usually asleep...but I'll check anyway,' he whispered, leaving them briefly as he jogged towards the square of gold that cut through the purple night. He carefully maneuverered so as to peep inside. His posture relaxed a little, seemingly in relief, and he ran back. 'Completely out. Probably helped by the drug I slipped into his flask earlier,' she said, eyes glinting, somewhat wickedly, as he flashed them a wide smile. 

'Brilliant,' Rachel whispered, her speech taking shape upon the night air in little plumes.

He cast an appreciative glance her way, to which she ducked her head, eyes widening. Santana sighed. The last thing she needed was for Rachel to start developing feelings for someone else. It would just destroy Jesse. Perhaps reminding Rachel that she had a boyfriend would - well, remind her that she had a boyfriend. 'Just think, you'll see Jesse again soon,' she murmured. When Rachel's face lit up, her eyes beaming, with the accompanying short intake of breath, Santana could have slapped herself for ever thinking that Rachel's heart lay anywhere but, resolutely, with Jesse.

'What now?' Rachel asked him, clearly invigorated.

'Follow me,' he said, turning and heading towards a row of vehicles. He'd described a van, but the constructions looming over them were practically trucks. He arrived at one, third in on the left, and unlocked the bolts. The rear doors opening creakily, and the girls gasped at the unwelcome noise - and at the consequential prospect of being discovered. He didn't seem fazed, though, and merely gestured for them to enter as he unhooked a torch from his belt. They saw a large space, about two thirds filled with crates, trunks, cases and the like, lit by the shaky white bulb. 

'Are we - are we supposed to go in there?' Rachel asked, a little fearfully.

'It's going to be fine,' Santana said, not betraying her own hesitation. They all stepped inside, and he led them to the very back - or front - of the space. They were met with a wooden wall. But he carefully lifted the apparent dead end away to reveal a small area.

'You'll be able to hide in here. I'll replace the false wood and then barricade you in with the boxes. They're never going to know.'

'How did you do this?' Santana asked, in awe.

'My father worked with a lot of construction materials. Wood, metals and such,' he explained.

'No - how did you even come up with this idea?' she amended.

He shrugged. 'I just - did, I suppose,' he said sheepishly, looking at his feet, embarrassed. 

'Well it's amazing. Thank you, thank you so much!' Rachel said, moving into the little secret space.

Santana nodded. 'Thank you,' she added softly, turning to him, her face earnest. She truly was thankful for all that he'd done for her. 

He just shook his head. 'No need to thank me. I did this for us,' he whispered, leaning in to kiss her. She complied uncomfortably before moving away to join Rachel.

'So,' she said, prompting him to continue explaining the plan of action.

'So, yes, you'll have to stay here for the rest of the night. We'll be leaving at about eight o'clock tomorrow morning. This morning, I mean. About four hours. I can't leave you my torch, that's too risky. They might see the light shining through, or notice that I no longer have it. But I poked some holes up there,' - he pointed to the ceiling - 'so you'll have some light when the sun rises. And,' - he shrugged his bag off his shoulders - 'a blanket. And food, water. I hope this is alright?' he asked. They both nodded, eagerly sliding together on the floor and huddling under the warm blanket. It was softer and more comforting that anything they'd felt in months. 

'Yes, God, yes. Thank you,' Santana assured him, Rachel nodding in agreement. 

'Thank you - sorry, what was your name?' Rachel asked as she took a sip of water from the metal canister. Santana realised with a jolt that she didn't know the man's name.

'Oh I've never told you, have I?' he said, bemusedly, 'it's Anderson. Cooper Anderson.'

Santana's mouth dropped open.

-

He knew the moment he walked in that something was wrong. A hush fell over the room - not that there had been much chatter to begin with. Some people were looking at him, others were looking at him but pretending not to, and some were looking at the floor out of sheer awkwardness. Jesse walked forwards warily towards the bar. He'd chosen the bar because there he could turn his back to the rest of the room. As he sat atop a rickety wooden stool, he came face to face with Quinn, whose eyes were heavy with tears. Before he could say a word, she moved away, into the room behind. He considered following her, but something kept him rooted firmly in place. His mind flickered automatically to Rachel, but only fleetingly - he deduced that Sam would have come to see him if it were anything of her - and instead wondered about their own safety; the Swing Youth's. They can't have been discovered, or else they wouldn't all be here right now. Suspected, perhaps? But in the Nazi's mind, suspicion was paramount to guilt.

He had no clue, and was about to scan the room for Puck or maybe Blaine, when Brittany entered. She began fretting instantly. 'What's happened?' she demanded of the room. Nobody answered her. 'What's happened?' she repeated, her voice a little more shrill as she became more panicked. 'Quinn? Puck?' she shouted.

'Quinn's in the back,' Jesse told her. Brittany barely glanced at him as she stomped across the room and climbed haphazardly over the bar, practically falling over to the other side. Before Jesse had time to check that she was unharmed, she was up again and barging into the back room. She had guts, Jesse would give her that. Or, more accurately, she didn't have ridiculous social decorums practically engraved into her blood as he did, and she had the confidence, nay, lack of imposed personal, fearful restriction that Jesse just couldn't seem to shake. 

He couldn't hear much from behind the door, just muffled voices. One seemed to be male. His ears strained, and then registered the tone as Sam's. He frowned. Why was Sam back there? He sat still a short while longer, growing increasingly nervous. He heard some dull sobs and that's when he became worried. But still didn't move. Until it came.

'Jesse. Jesse!' Brittany's hysterical, petrified scream rang out through the room. She'd never needed him before, never wanted him around. So something had to be deeply wrong. He left the chair now. He vaulted over the bar, more graceful than Brittany, and lurched into the back room.

Brittany was sitting on the floor, legs askew beneath her as if she'd fallen to the floor very suddenly.

'Britt?' he asked, voice quavering. She shook her head, the motion sending tears skating down her face. 'Brit!' he prompted, this time more urgently. She uttered a loud sob, almost a scream, and fell to the side a little, as if she couldn't hold herself up anymore. As if she'd lost her centre of balance, of gravity. 

Sam, whom Jesse hadn't seen until now, picked her up and gently placed her on one of the beds. Normally she'd have protested such contact and assistance, Jesse knew, having been personally subjected to it on several occasions, but now she just clung to Sam and then rolled over, facing the wall. Her scrunched up form shook with silent, wracking sobs. Jesse turned away from the sight and looked to Sam, whose face was grave.

'Tell me, Sam,' Jesse said numbly. Sam stayed still for a moment.

'Do it. He should know,' Quinn choked out. Jesse hadn't seen her either; she was on a chair by the door, one leg jogging up and down nervously. Sam passed him a sheet of paper. All Jesse saw were names, symbols and numbers, slotted into grids and tables and columns, uniform and utterly alien to his desperately curious eyes. He focused, beginning to read. Santana's name stood out, it was so unique to the list, and he followed it across the page. There was a red X, and then ‘deceased' typed out very simply.

 Chapter Seven

‘Oh my God. No. No...Brit are you - oh my god.' He didn't know what to say. ‘She's - she's gone. They got her,' he whispered.

‘It's Santana as well,' Quinn told him. He frowned.

‘Yes I know, that's what I'm saying - wait, what do you mean as well? As well as who?' he asked. Quinn's watery red eyes widened. And Jesse realised exactly what was going on. ‘No,' he whispered, casting his eyes back to the page. Then he saw it. Rachel's name. And sure enough, a red X. Deceased. He dropped the paper and looked to Sam, wishing that it he was playing a sick practical joke on Jesse. But he wasn't. He wasn't. ‘No,' Jesse repeated, shaking his head and feeling tears run helplessly down his face. ‘She's gone. They've both gone.'