This story is a completely Alternate Universe version of Season 2, infused and tweaked and written to include characters from the first season. It is completely independent and isn't intended to coexist with anything you know of the original Season 1, Season 2, or my own Season 1.5. It's a huge what-if that is set a few years ahead of Season 2's timeline and will mostly disregard what happened in Season 2. If you've read my Season 1.5 then you already know what kind of abuse I'm likely to heap on you. If you haven't read my stuff before, please see my Profile before reading so you get the full Warning before you see something that might traumatize you.

Aug. 1, 1968

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange

The song by The Doors floated from a small radio perched on a planter outside of the school. Tate hummed absently along with the tune as he passed by. He trotted up the wide stairs to the central building, moving with a purpose. The gym bag on his shoulder was heavy; its woven straps cut into his shoulder despite the thick wool coat between them and his skin. The coat was an old Civil War frock coat, something that had been in his family since long before Tate was born. It was too big for him but he liked it none the less.

He was still humming as he ducked inside the building and headed for the elevator, politely thanking the woman who powered it up for him. Once the elevator reached the highest floor it could access, he exited and began to climb the winding stairs that led up the interior guts of the tower. As he hurried up the steep steps he was distantly amazed that he didn't feel winded at all. The potent drugs in his system had given him energy to spare and had temporarily alleviated the headache that had been pounding in his skull for the past couple of weeks.

The reception area was empty when he entered but when he went to barricade the door to the stairs he saw a pair of red-headed boys coming up the steps. The twins were wearing similar striped Polo shirts and looked at him curiously. Irrationally he believed they knew what he was up to and, without thinking further than that, he reached in the gym bag and pulled out his sawed-off shotgun.

Thanks to the adrenaline and drugs, it played out in slow motion for the lone gunman. He blasted one boy, then the other, each taking severe damage to the head and neck before tumbling down the stairs and out of sight. Blood arced in a glistening rainbow of red, suspended midair briefly before splattering across the white wall.

Tate stowed the weapon in the bag once more and shut the door. He quickly shoved a heavy brown couch in front of the door and crossed the room to the far exit where he stepped out onto the observation deck, into the shadows of the huge clock above. The air was cold up in the balcony-like enclosure. The tower offered an amazing view of the campus below.

Tate set the gym bag down at his feet, distantly noting a scuff on the toe of his otherwise pristine combat boots. Military-style, they complimented the black BDU pants he wore and were chosen for that reason. He fished out a pair of binoculars, knocking a small can of Spam aside. He had brought it in case he got hungry but he knew now that wouldn't be an issue. He felt nothing: No hunger, no fear, no anger; just a blank sort of calm.

He lifted the binoculars and looked out at the autumn world below. Though the device brought the people into sharply detailed focus, Tate had never felt more separated from them than he did just then. They were like ants. Phantoms.

He dropped the binoculars back into the bag and drew out the carbine rifle he'd brought with him. The scope on it afforded him the same close-up view the binoculars had. He took aim. A gentle squeeze of the trigger and the young woman in his scope dropped. The man beside her crouched down to see what was wrong with her. She was pregnant and he thought perhaps she had swooned on account of some baby-related activity. Tate shot him next.

He took aim on two more people-a man and a woman who dropped instantly-then he tried to shoot another woman who ran to try to help them. He missed her due to her movement and the young lady, alerted by the bullet strikes on the pavement near her, ducked behind a large flagpole base. When she didn't emerge Tate moved on to the next target.

He continued to fire on every moving person he found with the scope and, when he ran out of targets on the college campus, he shifted his firing line to the street beyond the school. Systematically the blond 19-year-old picked off pedestrians on that street and, since the impressive scope and range of the weapon allowed him to, he targeted the next block over.

He felt like God.

When that street was clear of moving targets he swapped his weapon for the next fully-loaded rifle and moved to the other side of the observation deck.

"Second verse," Tate mumbled to himself as he lined up the sight. "Same as the first."

It was harder to hit people on that side. They had heard the shots and were already trying to hide from him. But the scope of the weapon allowed him to gun down even those who had ducked behind cars and, in one instance, a man who thought he was safe behind a low wall.

The teenager had no sense of time but it was roughly 20 minutes later when return fire came from below in the form of police officers who had moved in on his blind side. Tate had to duck down to avoid being shot himself, an action that kept him safe but limited his range drastically.

He began to fire on those he could find that were shooting up at the clock tower but he couldn't see how many there were-or that some of them had made it into the central building where he was. The door to the observation deck slammed open behind him and he turned to face a hail of gunfire. He was shot several times by determined cops and then the world went black.

The next thing he knew, Tate was on his back, strapped to a gurney that was being rolled roughly across the aged concrete commons of school. The wheeled stretcher rushed past the same planter Tate had passed earlier when he entered the clock tower. The radio was still there, only now it was blaring out the Beatles' hit 'Helter Skelter'.

Tate smiled at the perfect irony, blood drying on his lips. Then he lost consciousness again.

...

Author's Note:

I know it's been a while since I worked on this. I got hit with some amazing RL but I'm itching to get this story told so... stay tuned. The wheels are starting to turn again.

Okay. Where to start? First: As you may have noticed, this is set in 1968. I'm ditching AHS' original timeline so forget all you think you know about that. It just won't apply here. Also, I know 'Helter Skelter' didn't come out until November of that year but I very much wanted it in my AU because the Manson Family used it as a basis for their Tate-La Bianca murders and it's Tate's vignette here (the character actually was named after said murders). Also, I know the Charles Whitman clock tower murders were in Texas, not Massachusetts, and they happened in 1966, not '68, but again: artistic license here. Like Season 1 assigned the Columbine shooting to Westfield, I'm assigning that tragedy to Mass. Oddly enough though, the clock tower shootings did occur on August 1 - the same day I happened to write this. That was not planned.