Santana Lopez Is a BAMF: Santana Lopez, R
Title: Santana Lopez Is a BAMF
Author: Kelsey / marliskelsey
Pairing,Character(s): Santana with appearances by Rachel and Brittany
Rating: R, because Santana swears like a sailor
Word Count: 1,395
Spoilers: Through 1x22, Journey
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I can only dream.
Summary: She's got a three step plan for humiliation and it's got Vocal Adrenaline's name all over it.
A/N: Because Santana is amazing, and because I love her with every fibre of my being. Takes place the year after Regionals. Enjoy!
The next year, when Vocal Adrenaline puts gallons of soap bubbles in the choir room, Santana is fucking ready.
She's been planning this day since she was forced to clean up the TP from last time, some way to show those pansy-ass Carmel High School losers that nobody messes with Santana Lopez. And by association, Santana Lopez's Glee Club.
She's got a three step plan for total humiliation, and it has Vocal Adrenaline's name all over it.
Santana Lopez is fucking ready.
* * *
"Santana Consuela Lopez. Why are there ten crates of packing peanuts in my garage?"
Santana gets up from her bed and stretches, yawning before strolling into the living room where her father is standing, staring at her like she's done something bad and he just doesn't know what.
Which she usually has, but Santana never really lets that slip.
"Jeez, Dad. Thanks for all the confidence in your firstborn. What makes you think that Diego didn't do it?"
Alberto rolls his eyes at his daughter.
"Because Diego is nine years old. It's not like he can stroll into a packaging plant and simply ask for ten crates of packing peanuts, not unless he's suddenly got all the persuasive powers of his older sister." He stares at his daughter knowingly.
"Please! All Diego to do is bat those eyelashes and say something with a Spanish accent and every middle-aged woman in the building is melting at his feet."
"Santana, he's nine!"
"Yeah, and middle-aged women are hard up for lovin'."
Alberto sighs and places a hand on his forehead, dropping into his well-worn dip in the sofa. "Will you please just tell me that whatever you are planning with those packing peanuts is not illegal and will not make your mother and I have to pick you up from Saturday detentions?"
Santana smirks. "Of course not, Daddy."
He nods and flips on the television.
"Would you mind asking your mother to bring me a beer? It's been a long day."
* * *
Vocal Adrenaline leaves rehearsal the next day, they are greeted by the sight of twenty pristine black Range Rovers filled to the brim with pink packing peanuts and a personalized sticky note on each windshield telling them to suck it and that this is only phase one.
* * *
There's a little shop on the corner of Elm and Birch that has no significant markings, only a plain black overhang and worn gold letters on the window that say "Marietti's Spy Shop" and the phone number.
Santana walks in with full disguise on, black sunglasses and a trench coat.
Brittany giggles as she walks in with Santana, dressed in a matching pair of sunglasses. "Oh, San, look! They've got cameras in the sunglasses!" She points to a row of glasses hung on the far wall. Several customers look up from their various gadgets to glare at the blonde and Santana grimaces.
"Britt, I told you not to wear your pink trench coat. Remember the beige one I gave you? We wear that one for our secret missions."
Brittany scoffs and shakes her head. "That coat is so boring."
With a calming breath, Santana threads her pinky through the other girl's and drags her further into the store, to the counter in the back. Brittany rings the bell.
A short, pudgy man emerges slowly from the back, eyes flitting around the store as if expecting SWAT to crash through the windows at any moment.
When he notices that it's Santana, he nods. "Santana, good to see you."
"You too, Marietti. We're in the market for some spy cameras, got anything new?"
The man, Marietti, grins like a little boy and nods excitedly. "Oh, yes, I've got several. One moment, they're in the back." He disappears into a back room for a moment while Brittany and Santana wait, Santana surveying the other customers coolly while Brittany bops her head and hums some bouncy tune.
When Marietti returns, he's holding what look like three tiny black squids.
"They look like octopus!"
Marietti smiles at Brittany and lays them on the table. "The Octo-cam Version Three. Extendo-legs with flex features, guaranteed suction to any surface. These suckers get the job done, all right."
Santana grins. "How much?"
Marietti waves a hand flippantly. "For my best customer? On the house."
Brittany eagerly scoops the three little cameras into her palm and closes the other hand over it while Santana shakes Marietti's hand.
The two girls link pinkies and walk out of the store.
"Santana, can I name them?"
"Sure, Britt."
* * *
The next morning, scattered across the halls of Carmel High School and in every store within walking distance, are stills from a camera of three well-known Vocal Adrenaline members picking their butts, picking their noses and, strangely enough, smelling a costume that isn't theirs.
* * *
Rachel corners her one day after Glee practice, and there's a stormy look in her eye. Santana leans back and crosses her arms, preparing for the onslaught of words that is bound to come. The shorter girl leans in and looks around warily.
"I heard about your revenge plans," she whispers.
Santana scrunches up her face. How the hell did Rachel Berry hear about her plans?
"Really? Are you going to report me to Schue, Manhands?"
Rachel rolls her eyes.
"Please, Santana. As I am sure you know, last year the leader of Vocal Adrenaline, Jesse St. James, captured my heart and proceeded to stomp on it with the grace of an elephant, then succeeded in beating us for first place at Regionals and consequentially almost destroying the Glee club. This year, although I am supremely confident in our abilities as a club, I would like to extract some revenge of my own on the club that almost destroyed my dreams."
Santana quirks an eyebrow.
"So, what you're saying is you're pissed and you want kick their asses."
Rachel shrugs. "However you want to put it, I am ready and willing to assist you in whatever ways you need. I'll have you know that I am an excellent hacker and am also highly skilled at stealth operations."
Santana snorts but uncrosses her arms.
"As much as I appreciate the offer and am slightly amused, I've got everything all locked up. But thanks."
As she turns to leave, Rachel reaches out and grabs her hand. Santana's automatic reaction is to bitchslap her verbally, but the devious look on Rachel's face makes her stop.
"What do you have in mind, Berry?"
"My uncle owns and runs a local bakery that specializes in breads and other pastries that require flour and I'm sure that he would be willing to provide me copious amounts of goods. I propose we let Vocal Adrenaline feel the cold, hard slap of our immense talent by dousing their show costumes in eggs, flour and powdered sugar."
Santana considers this for a moment. Juvenile, yes. Somewhat silly, maybe.
Effective? Hell to the yeah.
"Alright, Berry. I'm in. I'll be at your house on Friday night, seven o'clock sharp."
"Excellent."
* * *
To Santana's surprise and awe, Rachel isn't lying about her superior stealth skills, because the girl is wearing straight-up army camo and breaks into the Vocal Adrenaline rehearsal space in less than five minutes.
"Their costumes should be in this room here."
Also to Santana's surprise, she actually has a legitimate good time with Rachel-fucking-Berry. Some shit about bonding over other people's misfortune.
* * *
When Vocal Adrenaline practices the next day, they are wearing gym uniforms, and their costumes are lying in a sticky, greasy, eggy pile to the left of the stage.
* * *
They win Regionals that year, as if anyone expected differently. Rachel fucking belts the shit out of her number, Quinn and Puck sound shockingly good, and Mercedes rips the competition a new one.
Santana is pretty fucking awesome too, you know.
Vocal Adrenaline glare at her suspiciously, several of them whispering to each other in hushed voices. But Santana could really care less as she sidles over and gives an inconspicuous side-hug to Rachel before Brittany bounds into her arms.
Because Santana showed those bitches what happens when you mess with the people she cares about.
And she also proved that she's a bad-ass mother fucker.
But, really, who didn't know that?