The city of Athens circa 480 B.C. is not quite as large as its own future proclaims. The main acropolis at the central hilltop is adorned with a single Doric Temple in honor of the Goddess Athena – the namesake of Athens, Greece herself. The agents find themselves in a time long before the creation of the Parthenon or the extended Acropolis and city walls – Athens is a trade route, yes – but in elements of size, it has yet to create the indelible marks that its future guarantees. Quinn and Rachel find themselves hidden behind a shallow ravine that leads down to the main fishing bank. Hoping now, that they aren't too late.
Quinn swallows thickly and pales when she notices a set of ships arriving off of the horizon. Their make and build are unfamiliar in comparison to the Greek ships presently at the small dock – and the blonde instantly realizes that this is not good. This isn't good at all. The fleet is grand, with hundreds of men pulling straining oars through rough waters. Quinn watches as the Athenians at the dock retreat hastily in fear as the ships make their arrival. Large ornate wooden panels and red sails adorn the boughs – beckoning towards her Goddess Athena in a malicious salute.
Rachel mutters quietly under her breath, her eyes wide with understanding. Her lips are parted and her fingers are fidgeting restlessly against the hem of her tunic. If anybody knows Rachel Berry it's Quinn – and this is Rachel's 'I didn't anticipate this happening, I don't have a plan' face – and now, the blonde is on edge, a little bit more adrenaline than she'd like pumping through her warm veins.
"Rachel, we need a plan – the situation has changed."
Rachel nods, grabbing for her GPS coordinate device, tracking their current whereabouts and sending a link to headquarters. It wouldn't do to have two of their best agents missing in action while stuck in such a far away time period. The farther the technology sent them in the past, the more energy it required to bring them back – and when/if something were to wrong, it would be almost unthinkable.
As Rachel scrambles with intra-time/space communications with headquarters, Quinn tracks the progress of the approaching Persian ships. They are almost at docking position now – she grabs a pair of retractable binoculars from her harness against her hip underneath her tunic, and scans the amplified horizon. The main ship – the primary one, holding the Persian fleet commander, is set in the lead, the masts large, and the oars tremulous against the water. Quinn focuses on the main deck, and sees him – in large colorful robes, and a prominent wiry beard – his left eye is covered with a small cloth and string – a scar stretching along the diagonal expanse of his olive toned weathered face.
And just as she's about to relay this information to the brunette agent beside her, she catches a swift motion in her periphery through the binoculars – and she gasps when she sees just who it is ambling up the deck to rest behind the Persian commander – his cane is dark mahogany with an eagle crest. And his glass bespectacles glint against the sun's reflection – he looks positively maniacal. His coat – large and silken, like a robe. A thin scar edging the corner of his thin mouth. Monsieur Emile Laurent Chevalier, has beat them here it seems – and he's dealing with the Persians. This is so, not good.
"Oh, fuck me."
"Quinn—this really isn't the time. Where's your professionalism? I mean granted, you do look rather appetizing in that tunic – but can't you keep it in your pants for five min- ?"
"Rachel, shut up!"
"Well, someone's in a foul mood for some reason—"
"Quinn, what— ?"
"I said, get the fuck down!"
And right as Rachel is about to raise her voice in protest of her girlfriend's less than acceptable tone of voice, a slender pale hand is wrapping around her face to cover her mouth and stifle her rant as she's pulled down further into the small ravine out of eyeshot. She opens her angry eyes at the warm blonde resting on top of her – not caring in the slightest that she could be suffocating her. Rachel is about to lick Quinn's warm hand to get her off of her, because Quinn hates when she does that. But then she finally just looks, and the blonde is panting. Her brow furrowed and a small bead of sweat travelling down from the nape of her neck. Her eyes are squinted and concentrated on the approaching fleet, and her demeanor is serious. Too serious for whatever this is to be a joke.
Quinn finally looks down at the anxious face of her fellow agent and swallows thickly, removing her hand and raising a thin finger to her own lips in a show of silence. Rachel nods and looks up from beneath the blonde – her face blanching as she watches the first Persian ship docking – her breath hitching when she finally sees the man exiting the boat – his cane clacking against the rocks on the shore ominously.
Oh, this was not good.
"Shit, why didn't you say Chevalier was here! Shit shit shit"
Rachel whisper rants into the empty air between them. Quinn moves to cover her mouth again, shushing her silently in the process. She leans up again watching for movement. She notices the Persian commander walking off in the direction of the Athens square, Chevalier travelling with him in step – side by side – Quinn waits a breath, finally confident that the two men are out of earshot before she lets go of Rachel.
"Quinn – he's getting away! – We can't let him get away, this –"
"Rachel, be quiet…I have a plan."
"You have a plan…"
And Quinn has the gall to smirk at her girlfriend cheekily before running off towards the boats under shadow of the ravine, Rachel hot on her heels. And dammit, she knows she's doing something right because Rachel's got that 'come hither, you just turned me on so much right now' look on her face – and if anything it just adds to their shared adrenaline as they finally reach the boats.
There are at least 200 oars men resting at the flanks, and Quinn smiles because this is going to be too easy. She hurries into the water, on the side by the rocks so as not to be seen. She pauses once she reaches the edge of the wooden ship, her tunic wrapping around her thighs and calves as she treads water, and then she's climbing up towards the flank, on the shadowed side, managing to get one leg over and then another until she's finally on the main deck.
She's in the rear, still having yet to be seen. And before a single move can be made, she's throwing a smoke hand grenade into the back quarters, startling the crew into madness and heat. The oars men ripple into chaos as she combat crawls her way to the lower deck crawl space – twisting and turning amidst the smoke and scattering of Persian feet. She makes it to the crawl space and descends the ladder without detection. Closing the hatch soundly behind her.
When she opens her hazel eyes, they settle on wide Persian tapestries garnering the wooden walls, and one ornate table center room. Atop it sits a battle strategy for the occupation of Greece, as executed by Xerxes the first – however above this parchment rests a secret one – one that Quinn is sure no other living person should be seeing at all. The letters are calligraphic in style, and the stationary crisp and modern. The cuneiform ink still fresh against the contract – a contract for Persian blood money it seems – a contract that is secretly funding the entire Persian conquest of Ancient Greece – signed by Xerxes himself and presided over by none other than Emile Laurent Chevalier.
The blonde agent snatches the paper before flicking her Zippo and watching the war expansion strategies soar up in flames. The smoke is thick, and Quinn coughs silently as she tucks the fresh contract into the inner waistband of her tunic. She lights a small explosive and pins it to a wooden rod, watching as it explodes the far wall into shards – leaving a gaping whole out to sea. She takes this route, sure to keep her waist as high above water as she can as she crawls her way back to shore. The men on the boat running like chickens with their heads cut off as their ship sinks soundly into the Mediterranean.
And there Rachel is, hidden behind a sand bank, radio-ing in to headquarters about their recent developments. Her Glock 22 .40 Caliber held sternly in her firm hands from the shadows. Quinn hurries over, careful to stay low as not to be seen. They hide behind a large column of sand and rocks and quickly file away the found cargo – scanning it quickly onto satellite manual compatibility systems for future use and reference. There are hundreds of people hurrying to the site – attempting to save the sinking ship. If they don't move soon – they will most definitely be found.
"Quinn, that was a beautifully executed plan, but honey we have to get out of here…now."
"Rach – we still have 32 minutes left on our clocks – we can still find hi—"
"We don't have time, we have to go."
Quinn grumbles as she complies, realizing now that Rachel's probably right, she coughs lightly and brushes a smudge away from her cheek – effectively smearing it further as she waits as smoke starts to fill the surrounding air. And suddenly, Rachel is running out from behind the rocks for a few covert picture photos for evidential use once we get back to headquarters – and Quinn just knows that something is off. But before she can call Rachel back to their enclosure, a tall thin man with spectacles and a mahogany eagle tipped cane is walking up behind her, and latching a cold hand onto her unseeing shoulder.
The blonde watches her partner flinch from the touch – her body tensing from all of their combat training, her arms are poised and she is quick to move, but Chevalier is quicker, and he suddenly has Rachel in a hold by the neck – his body rigid and outstretched behind her – his waist leveled away from her waiting knees, legs, and elbows. Her face is red from the exertion and her eyes are wide as he sneers into her hair.
"You zought I wouldn't find you two…hmm? How naïve ze young are."
He was laughing now as he held Rachel by the neck and hair. His eyes cold, and his gaze now settling on the large rock that Quinn was surely crouched behind.
"And where iz ze pretty blonde? Ze reckless one who caused zis beautiful scar on my face – I'd like to find her and repay ze favor."
"arrêter de se cacher, sortir magnifiques"
And Quinn can suddenly hear Rachel sputtering from her grasp within his arms, and she's livid. She's so mad that he has her – that they weren't as careful as need be. And when his laugh rings out through the smoke once more her gaze focuses and a calm settles over her being – the adrenaline in her veins fueling the growing fire – the butterfly knives at her thigh are cold and heavy in her hands, and she was never as precise as Rachel at these types of things – explosives always having been her weapon of choice. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and she feels the tendons in her arm flex with power as she launches a cool knife at Chevalier's thin leg.
Her aim doesn't miss, and the thin man crouches to the ground in screaming agony as his thigh bleeds from the deep slashing wound – and Rachel is free, and she's about to engage in further combat with the fallen man until she sees the throngs of the Persian fleet advancing from the shore – their commander in the lead, his eyes red with fury – his documents gone, and his ship halfway under sea. And she runs. Abandoning the effort – and saving it for a later day.
Quinn finds her, and clings to her tightly – no air between their bodies as Rachel finds and engages their return beacon. Her face warm against the blonde's neck as a sudden pull ignites from within their bellies – signaling a disappearance that is just on the horizon.