Disclaimer: Don't own. Just borrowing.

Author's Note: Hello. So, this is the continuation of the first part of the series, also entitled Scandalous, and it picks up exactly where the last series left off. You can catch up on it if you'd like at my tumblr. Rating may increase for future chapters. Trigger Warning: This story contains the characters of Sam Evans and Finn Hudson, so if those two are not for you then you might want to avoid. Also, this chapter includes character death.

Chapter One: Blurred Lines

"Stay tuned for our next segment on the Sandy Bill after these-" Kenny nearly jumps when his earpiece screeches dramatically – or rather the person on the other end of it does.

"I'm sorry," he says haltingly, still looking into the camera with a fixed smile that falls almost instantly when the sounds in his ear finally make sense. "I'm…what? Wow. Okay. I've…I've just been informed that there has been an explosion at the White House. Our field correspondent Marley Rose is live on location and –"

Kenny's panicked face is replaced by a windswept Marley Rose, microphone in hand as the White House – America's lasting visage of democracy and freedom – is blackened by fire in the background.

"I'm here at the White House Kenny," she announces, "As you can see, the fire still burns behind me and there are crews already in place to extinguish the flames. We don't have a lot of details at the moment as this just happened but again, just a few moments ago, at approximately 5:25 this evening, the ground shook with what I can only assume at this point was an explosion."

"Shut those cameras off!" a uniformed agent yells, approaching them and the video camera swings in his direction only catching a glimpse of his face before being covered by a heavy palm.

"Hey!" Marley yells, the sounds of a scuffle intercutting with the camera's jerky movements, "You can't do that! We're exercising our first amendment rights!"

"Yeah, well, take it up with SCOTUS. Now, off my goddamn lawn!"

The video feed cuts out.

"Any sign of 'em yet?"

Combing through the debris – the turned over table and chairs, the shattered dinnerware and tarnished cutlery – is an arduous task but one she's been assigned and Madison wants more than anything to do a good job.

If only just to show up her hotshot, biotech engineer twin brother, Mason.

"McCarthy," Dr. Washington asks, drawing the girl's attention again. "Earth to creepy always smiling white girl?"

"Yes Roz, I mean Dr. Roz, I mean," Madison shakes her head, "Dr. Washington?"

The doctor just stares at the younger woman, shifting to put her hands on both hips, "Have you found any dead white people yet?"

"There's nothing of substance over here," Madison answers, shaking her head. "I have found what appears to be a half-cooked portion of chicken breast," she adds, holding up her find with a lopsided smile.

Dr. Washington rolls her eyes. "Keep looking."

Turning back to the discolored, smoldering piles of char – she's still slightly in awe of how quickly they contained and extinguished the fire, almost as if it were planned – Madison digs her hands in again, carefully pulling back the soaked, fire-destroyed soot until her latex-covered fingers close on something that doesn't pull away quite so easily.

Frowning, Madison shifts her grip, wrapping her fingers around the oddly shaped object, and tugs a little harder, bringing whatever it is to the top of the pile.

She almost faints when she sees what it is.

She'd recognize the ring anywhere; after all, he liked to brag about that game a lot.

So, it's with sickening clarity that Madison realizes, in her grasp, is the charred lifeless hand of President Samuel Evans.

September 17, 2016

Sugar and Rachel are brushing down Sam's suit and carrying about the overall business of beautification when Santana strides back into the room, Blackberry in hand.

"Okay, everything's set up. You're going to walk into the room, shake a few hands and then beeline directly to table seventeen. She's wearing a blue dress and there's a white flower tucked behind her ear. You've seen pictures so you honestly shouldn't be able to miss her. She's somewhat shy, so that's something that you'll have to work around, but other than that…"

Santana trails off, her eyes scrutinizing the firm set of Sam's shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asks him.

"Tell me again why we're doing this," Sam says, after chewing on his lower lip, nervously twisting the college championship ring on his right fourth finger.

Silently, Santana waves off Rachel and Sugar who step away without a single word, though the looks they direct Santana's way say just about everything they might have vocalized anyway. Waiting until they're a safe distance away, Santana takes Sam by the shoulders and looks down at him, her face serious.

"We're doing this because you want to be senator. We're doing this because you won't be senator unless you're in a committed relationship. We're doing this because she comes from a conservative background so it'll be perceived as her having some influence over your extremely liberal stances," Santana says, matter-of-factly. She pauses here, the break enough to make Sam's eyes rise to meet her own. "But, mostly, we're doing this because you asked me to. …Say the word, Sam. Just let me know and this'll all be undone. It's your call."

The room feels unbearably silent, even though just down a short corridor there's a somewhat raucous fundraiser in full tilt.

She watches him closely; almost able to see the cogs turning in his head and, for a moment, she thinks he may be about to make a choice.

The right choice.

But then, Sam blinks, and the moment is lost.

"One last thing though," Sam asks, shaking his head in the negative as his eyes regain their steely focus. "Is she hot?" he asks, smirking playfully and she rolls her eyes, shoving him back gently.

"You're an ass," she chastises lightly, her eyes shining with mirth. "But, for the record, yes."

Santana motions for him to stand up before leading him over to the hotel ballroom's entrance. "Just be your charming self and you'll do fine."

Taking one last deep breath, Sam squares his shoulders and enters the room, a loud cheer sounding immediately after. She enters shortly after, and falls into a lightweight conversation about horseracing with some small-town mayor, but she can't really pay attention. Her eyes are too focused on tracking Sam's movements and when he finally makes it to table seventeen and Brittany's eyes light up, she loses track of the conversation altogether.

"Oh my God," Jake says, staring out of the front windshield at the billowing black smoke vanishing into the atmosphere.

Santana stares at her phone in shock. The line dead and Brittany…no, she won't go there.

"What the hell are you stopping for?" she yells at the agent who's charged with driving. "I didn't say stop."

"But Ma'am, protocol says," the agent says.

"Fuck protocol!" she snaps. "Protocol says that a bomb shouldn't fucking blow up in the White House, but, alas," she trails off, gesturing to the ruckus in the distance.

Santana taps her message icon, instantly opening the thread dedicated to her text conversations with Brittany.

I feel like you're making your 'extra-thinky' face right now. You are, aren't you?

Morning sleepyhead, hope you have a great day! What am I saying, of course you will You're coming to see me, lol.

The Ambassador to Switzerland just left me some chocolate and I don't think I've ever had anything better in my mouth.

I can literally hear your 'wanky'.

I miss you. You and your cocoa eyes.

She scrolls through her own sent messages:

I know I just left you but I already want to come back.

I just crossed paths with the most gigantic cat and instantly I thought of you and Lord Tubbington. Mostly you though.

I'm thinking I might cook you something for our next date but you can't make fun of it. Especially if it's Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Did I mention I can't really cook?

The words glowing back at her are almost enough to distract her from the seriousness of the current situation but then she sees…


Brittany, text me back right now

Brittany, come on, you're scaring me

And so on, and so forth, each message from Santana more frantic than the next because one minute she's asking Brittany to trust her and the next Brittany is-


She will not go there.

Closing her phone, Santana blinks back on her smooth demeanor, sliding the device into her jacket pocket.

"You should take the next left," she informs the driver. "We're not going to be able to get close enough by car."

"We're hoofing it?" Jake asks, still staring out of the window for what reason, Santana doesn't even know.

"Unless you have a more feasible mode of transportation," she says smoothly, folding her fingers together in her lap.

"I don't get how you're so calm about all of this," Jake says, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "The White House is on fire, your best guy has gone off the deep end, and we don't know where the President or the First Lady are and if they are okay or-"

"Brittany's fine," Santana interrupts him.

"How do you-" Jake starts, looking at her closely. "How do you know?"

Santana merely shrugs. "I'd feel it if she weren't," she says, almost to herself before she knees the back of the driver's seat. "You drive slower than my Abuela and she'd dead. Move it."

"Yes Ma'am," the agent murmurs, accelerating a bit more.

"This can't be happening," Jake murmurs, shaking his head. "It just can't."

"It is," she says to him, sitting back as coolly as she can manage when the car pulls forward again.

September 4, 2016

"This can't be happening," Mercedes murmurs, forearm covering up her eyes. "It just can't."

The couch they're sitting on seems to be swallowing her whole as she sinks further and further into it the more violently the sobs wrack her body.

Santana, relegated to the task of helpless bystander since she's under contract and they all knew that this was going to happen eventually, only swallows thickly before reaching out to the coffee table and grabbing both glasses of wine.

"It is," she assures Mercedes softly, with no intention of being callous and yet the finality of her statement sets her friend's anguished sobs anew.

"How could he just…" Mercedes trails off, shaking her head quickly as she drops her arm, her tear-soaked eyelids puffy. "I thought he loved me."

"He does love you, Mercedes," Santana says, handing the glass of wine to the woman and encouraging her to drink.

"Then how could he-"

"He loves himself more," Santana cuts her off, raising her shoulders in a gesture that implies the explanation is that simple.

Perhaps it is.

Mercedes takes a sip of the wine, and Santana watches her closely as she follows suit.

"Look, Mercedes," she says, squaring her shoulders so as to convey seriousness. Mercedes needs to get over this now. "You are fierce and phenomenal and if Sam is too selfish to come to that realization on his own, then that's his loss, okay? We're going to be the top bitches in D.C. and we don't need any pesky romantic entanglements getting in the way of our goals, right? Love is entirely overrated."

Mercedes just blinks, takes another sip of her wine. "I can't wait to see how you are the day that it happens."

Santana's brow furrows. "When what happens?"

"When you fall in love," the woman answers quietly, draining the wine in one go before shifting to lie down on the couch, her head pillowed in Santana's lap.

"Grilled Cheesus, man!" Finn yells, still unable to shake the feeling of the ground moving beneath him. "What the hell was that?!"

Senator Fabray looks just as shocked, her face literally going pale with fright. "I…I don't know."

"An earthquake in D.C.? But, no, there was that loud BOOM."

The alarm system is on blast, horns blaring and lights flashing, informing everyone to evacuate the building.

"Come on," Quinn says, panic forcing her into action as she grabs Finn's hand and stands, "We have to get out of here."

"We can't just leave, Quinn," Finn says, snatching his hand away. "There's protocol. For all we know, the nation's capital is under attack."

"Well we can't just stay here!" Quinn yells back, beyond scared.

She's full on panicked now.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

No sooner than she finishes yelling is Senator Fabray's door forced open, two hulking secret service agents pushing themselves inside.

"Mr. Vice President, we're going to need you to come with us."

Finn, shielding Senator Fabray behind him, eyes the secret service men warily. "I demand to know what's going on."

The agents glance at one another and then Senator Fabray. "That's classified, Sir."

"I'm the Vice President, goddamn it," Finn yells, the non-information causing him to segue into pure annoyance. "Un-classify it."

"It's above her pay grade," Agent number two says, pointing to the Senator.

"Look you overgrown, oily, overpaid pawns," Quinn snarls, "This is your Vice-President and when he asks questions, he gets answers. There is no hesitation."

"Yeah," Finn says, stepping in front of the woman again, "What she said. Now, what the hell is going on?"

Agent Number one steps forward, tugging the earpiece out of his ear reverently. "The President of the United States is dead."

Santana is starting to get annoyed.

She doesn't like not being in control and with everything that's happened, the evening's events clearly following some warped destined path, she is not in the mood for the frivolity of idiotic meatheads.

Currently, she's debating just how lethal a well-timed swing from her six-inch heel would be.

"Stand down, Agent," Jake commands again, his jaw set in a hardened line.

"Agent Puckerman, we've been given strict orders to-"

"By whom? I'm command," Jake hisses, hitting the man standing in front of their path squarely in the chest. "You take orders from me."

"Not anymore," a second agent says, never breaking from his stoic, determined demeanor.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jake yells but Santana's had enough, roughly squeezing past Jake and stepping up to the men who shift closer together, forming rank.

"The same thing goes for you, sweetheart," the second agent – the one with a bit of an attitude it seems – says and Santana just slowly takes off her sunglasses, a slow smirk forming on her lips as she tucks them away neatly in her blazer's pocket.

Then, quick as a shot, she reaches out with both hands and grabs both men's crotches and Jake can tell by the looks on their faces, she ain't being too gentle.

Both agents whimper pathetically as Santana squeezes, gritting her teeth with the effort of it.

"Agent Puckerman and I need to get into the Roosevelt room and you boys are going to very kindly escort us with no problem because I assume neither one of you want to end up being the most ridiculously over-sized, over-aged members of the Vienna Boys' Choir. Am I right?"

The men nod, hissing and shaking.

Jake winces in sympathy.

"Okay then," Santana says, promptly letting go and dusting her hands off. The agents literally slump over with relief. "We're all set, Jake."

Finn doesn't even feel like he's in his own body anymore.

Ever since the agents told him about…about Sam, it seems like he's barely capable of putting one foot in front of the other.

Politicians and their aides scramble about, emergency personnel litter nearly every corridor of the White House, and with all this chaos one would think Finn would be equally as flummoxed, equally prone to flit about directionless from one room to the next.

He's not though.

Instead, he floats by it all calmly, letting the two service agents who'd come to retrieve him in the first place direct him.

"Right through here, Mr. Vice President," the larger of the two men says, holding open the door to a darkened room and Finn enters stiltedly, barely noticing the other men gathered around the small conference table rise to salute him.

"Have a seat, Sir," one of the standing men says, closing the top button of his suit jacket as Finn sits down. He looks vaguely familiar but Finn's still so numb to everything that the name just won't come to the forefront of his mind.

"Sir, I'm sure you're aware of the situation," the man says, distributing four folders to all the people sitting around the table. "The intelligence we've gathered suggests that the bomb originated in southwest corner of the Roosevelt room. Preliminary reports show that the bomb was probably homegrown, though we're still investigating the materials used to create it. There were two sets of remains on site that we've identified as Melanie Brown – one of the sous chefs here at the White House – and Dorrie Cox, one of the newly hired aides."

Finn opens the file in his hands, his fingers trembling as he turns the page to review the photos and reports.

"Sir," the man – Finn squints to see his badge – or rather Director Porter prompts, noting Finn's hesitancy. "Shall I continue, Mr. Vice-President?"

"Of course," Finn nods, inhaling a sharp breath, not noticing the shared looks of the persons surrounding him.

"Paramedics were able to retrieve both Mrs. Evans and Service Agent Wilde and both women were taken to the hospital in critical condition. The early prognoses look positive. Lastly, Sir, code names Potus, Flotus, and C.O.S. are all unaccounted for at this present time."

"Wait, unaccounted for?" Finn says, his brow furrowing once that sentence cuts through the fog, "They're not dead?"

Secretary Porter looks at the people around him one more time before affirming. "There is no indication that those persons were in the room at the time of the explosion, Sir."

"Well, then," Finn asks, finally showing signs of life, "Where are they?"

"We think they've been kidnapped."

"And what do we have here?"

Jake narrows his eyes and Santana looks on as the man she's spent the majority of her day with hardens in a way she hasn't witnessed until this moment. His spine stiffens and his hands curl slowly into tight fists.

He looks ready to pounce.

"What are you doing here, Meeks?" he murmurs dangerously.

"My damn job."

"You don't work here," Jake dismisses easily, gesturing for Santana to follow him. "C'mon, Ms. Lopez. This guy's a waste of our time."

"You can't go in there Puckerman," Meeks says, smirking. "You don't have the clearance." At his words a whole mass of service agents form rank, blocking Jake and Santana's progress.

"I don't have the clearance?" Jake laughs, indignant. "I outrank you."

"Not as of an hour ago you don't. I've been appointed by the Secretary of Defense herself," Agent Meeks declares. "Seems like security was getting a little sloppy around here."

Jake starts at the man but Santana pulls him back, maintaining her composure. "I don't have time for this pissing contest. Now, listen you fortieth man in black extra I've seen today, are you going to let Agent Puckerman and I in or not?"

"Trust me," Meeks leers, his eyes dropping down to check her out, "I'd really like to help you out, babe, but my hands are totally tied."

"Puckerman, what is this jockstrap's name?" Santana asks, folding her arms across her chest.

"Meeks," Jake says, still looking none too pleased, "Roderick Meeks."

"It was an…experience meeting you, Agent Meeks," Santana says, pasting on a fake, pleasant smile, "And hopefully my smiling visage will stay with you because I promise you this'll be exactly what I look like the day I have your credentials. Let's go Agent Puckerman."

Jake grins at the completely gob-smacked look on Agent Meeks' face before following Santana.

"You know," he says, picking his way through the people rushing about, "you kind of scare me sometimes."

Santana smirks. "Good."

Something warm is trickling down the side of Sam's face.

That's the first thing he becomes aware of when he finally comes to. Forcing open his eyes, ignoring the searing pain from his right temple, Sam scours the darkness for something, anything that might be familiar and he jumps when the first face he sees is the man from before, staring right at him.

Frantic, he tries to move and shout but his arms and legs are immobilized, restrained somehow, and the gag in his mouth mutes any sound to the strength of a dull hum.

"That was a close call," Puck says, bringing up what looks like a tattered shirt to his mouth and biting, tearing the fabric more. "We barely made it out."

"MMMM," Sam starts to yell the best he can, wriggling about, "MMMMM!"

"You shouldn't do that," Puck warns, his voice eerily calm. Producing the radio he'd lifted from a downed agent, he slides it across the small space they're sitting in so that it's resting near Sam's hip. "Go ahead," Puck nods at it. "Have a listen."

"What do you mean you can't find the bodies? They were all in the dining room, weren't they? …Well keep looking and so help me God if you botch this thing, I'll have you all skewered and flambéed…goddamn, man I'm hungry."

Sam looks across the way to Puck, eyes questioning.

Puck just keeps tearing strips of cloth. "Somebody tried to kill you. And I don't know why or who it is. But, until I do, Mr. President. You're staying with me. All of you."

Sam tilts his head in question but Puck doesn't say anything more. He just crawls over the short distance to the left where Brittany and Mercedes are both propped up, neither woman appearing to be conscious.

"Yeah," Puck says, securing a tie more tightly around Mercedes's ankles, "Staying right here with me."

"Can you wait the hell up?" Jake asks, hurrying behind her while still trying to walk.

They've left the plaza after being stonewalled in every possible way – the nation's capital really grinds to a halt in the midst of crisis. "I thought we were trying to not look like we were fleeing the scene of a crime."

"I'm not rushing. This is how I usually walk."

"Why are we leaving anyway? You do realize that now we have even less answers than we started with. Not to mention that my security clearance is worth less than a-" Jake stops abruptly when Santana shoves a phone into his face – her phone.

"What…is that?" Jake says, peering at the odd combination of letters and numbers.

"It's a cypher, obviously," Santana says dryly, studying the message on the screen again and resuming her walk. "What the hell kind of secret agent are you?"

Jake just rolls his eyes. "Well, what does it say? Wait, who's it from?" the man asks, scrambling to catch up again.

But before he can get any answers, a white van screeches around the corner a block down, hurtling right in their direction.

"We're gonna die," Jake screeches, squeezing his eyes closed tightly and covering up his head with his arms when the van doesn't appear to be slowing down.

"Is he going to stay like that or-?" Sugar asks, leaning across Rachel to yell out of the window.

"What the-" Jake says, peeking open one eye.

"You guys couldn't find anything less conspicuous?" Santana asks them calmly she steps forward, hands on her hips.

"Hey," Artie says, sliding open the side door, "It was either this or an ice cream truck and an ice cream truck lurking around the White House right now would look pretty sketchy."

"And an unmarked white van doesn't?" Santana asks, climbing aboard when Artie offers her a hand up. Jake climbs in after her.

"Not when it's full of plumbing equipment," Sugar says from up front. "And plumbers," she adds, jerking her thumb to the uniform hanging in the cargo hold. "There's one there for you too, Agent Puckerman but it might be a size or two, too short. You're taller than you look. And act."

"Did you bring it?" Santana asks Sugar, sliding into the seat next to Artie.

"Yes," Sugar says, pulling the folded up napkin out of her bra, still mostly concentrating on driving. "I don't get what you want with a bunch of scrambled letters though."

"Santana," Rachel interrupts from the front passenger seat, her eyes intently focused on the other woman, "What is going on? Is the President…is Brittany…?"

All day she's been tiptoeing around the subject but now, now that she's not in the presence of some hotshot secret agent or surrounded by media personnel, now that she's ensconced within her inner circle, her team – no, her family looking at her intently, awaiting answers and trusting – always trusting – that she'll be able to provide them with them…

It's now that Santana finally falls apart, her eyes growing unfocused as they fill with tears.

"I don't know," she murmurs, the words squeezed out as if through a vice. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know," she repeats, again and again, sobbing harder with every newly uttered declaration.

"Shh," Artie soothes, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We'll figure this out, boss lady. We always do."

Santana, the woman who usually has all of the answers, can't do anything but hope he's right.

August 26, 2016

"Santana Lopez and associates, please hold," Rachel says into the phone's receiver, determined eyes set on the retreating form of her boss' back." Santana, may I talk to you for a moment?"

Slowly, Santana's steps peter out and she turns around, her eyes already filled with annoyance. "What do you want Rachel?"

Rachel swallows, always intimidated by the other woman – and honestly, who wouldn't be? It's Santana freaking Lopez. "When I took this job on I thought I'd be doing something. This is law firm yes, and I am a lawyer. Graduated top ten in my class. Surely, you don't want someone of my ilk and caliber relegated to the role of glorified receptionist."

Sugar, strolling by with a stack of files, whispers, "She totally does."

"Sugar…" Santana warns.

"That was my Asperger's."

"Look, Rachel," Santana starts, folding her fingers together in front of her primly, "I want you to think of this place as a well-oiled machine. Now, me? I'd consider myself the lubrication. I touch everything and without me, nothing works. That's pretty straightforward? Sugar, Artie, and Puck? They're big parts of the machine, too. The operating parts. And we've been functioning more than fine according to my estimation, wouldn't you say so?"

Rachel nods.

"Now, you, Rachel? You're a cog in this machine – an extra, spare cog. An insurance policy, if you will. Thusly, you'll only be called upon when needed. And if my previous statements haven't already made it abundantly clear," Santana says, raising an eyebrow, "You're not needed."

Rachel, flabbergasted, merely gulps.

"So," Santana says, preparing to leave again, "If that's all you had to say to m-"

"You're wrong."

Santana almost trips over her own feet. "Excuse me?" she asks, fixing Rachel with a look so pointed it should hurt.

"You're wrong," Rachel repeats, opening the desk drawer and pulling out a folder. "I know you're wrong because you guys haven't located a suitable match for Mr. Evans and the election is approaching quickly and if anything is to be believable at all, it needs to be happening now. So…" Rachel says, opening the portfolio, "…I've compiled a few candidates that would be perfect."

Reluctantly, almost against her will, Santana takes a slight step forward. "How did you-"

Rachel smiles now, feeling more at ease. "The best lawyers are incredibly nosey, Santana."

Santana huffs out a little laugh, stepping over to review the files, all neatly labeled, coordinated, and detailed.

"Tell me about…Brittany S. Pierce," she tells Rachel, slipping through the woman's section. She listens but she stops hearing Rachel after a while when she comes across the 8 by 10 inch photo of the woman in question.

Her mind only whispering a quiet, "She's the one."

"Sorry Boss," Puck mumbles, taking the blindfold off of her eyes gently, "I didn't want to put you out but I'm already risking too much as it is by bringing you here."

Santana feels groggy, her eyes heavy and unfocused as they try to remain open. "Wha…where?"

"It's a safe place, I promise," Puck whispers, scooting away from her after he props her up against one of the many crates littering the small clearing. "I'll be right back."

Santana's head lolls from one shoulder to the other; her limbs entirely useless as she peers through the dark, gaze still foggy as she tries to follow Puck's retreating form.

"Mrs. First Lady," she hears Puck ask, voice hesitant, "Will you come with me?"

"Fuck you," Santana hears next, and the sound of the voice sends her pulse fluttering but she still can't seem to wake herself up enough to even speak.

"Pu…Puck," she tries to call, her mouth feeling like it's been filled with sawdust.

A gasp.

The slits Santana is using to see through makes out something moving rapidly in the shadows, something that collapses to the floor beside her.

On an inhaled breath, she knows who it is immediately.

"Bri…" she tries to say, trying to move, to open her eyes, to do anything other than lie there like a sack of potatoes but it's to no avail.

"Yes, baby, it's me," Brittany whispers, shifting as close as she can without falling, a task made unbearably more difficult by her hands being tied behind her back. "It's me."

"Britt," Santana whispers out again, catching glimpses of the woman knelt before her.

"What have you done to her?" Brittany cries.

"She's fine," Puck says, hugging his arms to his body. "She'll be fine. Trust me."

"Trust you?!" Brittany yells, laughing darkly. "You kidnapped me. You've obviously drugged Santana. Why the hell would I trust you?"

"Because she's the only family I've got!" Puck explodes, chest heaving. "I will not let anything happen to her," he says, much quieter before stepping away, seeking to compose himself.

"Santana," Brittany whispers, turning back to the woman sitting in front of her. She leans down, close enough that her lips are right next to Santana's ear. "I don't know how much of what he's saying is true. He says that someone wants us dead; Sam, Mercedes, and myself. I don't know if he's crazy or not, but if he's not. If you come to and you remember this at all and he's right…. leave it alone, Santana." Brittany nuzzles Santana's cheek with her nose gently, her voice quieting even more, "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

Santana's head shifts, her cheek brushing against Brittany's lips. "No," she grunts out, still fighting the haze.

"Come on," Puck says, suddenly upon them again, Brittany didn't even hear him walk up. "We're out of time."

"Just one mo-"

"No, now come on," Puck snaps, snatching her up as gently as he can and shuffling her away again.

Santana, feeling tears stinging at the corner of her eyes, struggles against her toxic restraints again, managing to push herself forward an inch or so, but, no sooner than she's feeling a little less heavy is Puck back in front of her, brushing the hair off of her face gently.

"Sorry Boss, I gotta take you back," he says, voice as kind as she's ever heard it. "Don't worry. I'll fix everything."

And that's the last thing she hears before she slips into the darkness again.