"Do we go now or...?"
"Yeah, dude, just- on the count of three. Okay, one, two-."
"Wait, is it 'one, two, go' or is it 'one, two, three, go'?"
"'One, two, three, go.'"
"Okay, let's try this again."
"One, two, three- we are-!"
"Wait, what the fuck are we?"
"The twin battalion?"
"That sounds so lame, though. Let's think of something different. Why do we even need a code name?"
"Stiles."
"Okay, fine."
May 1st, 2014
Scott adjusts the camera on its tripod. It's a cheap video camera, with a flip out view screen on the side. Scott bought it from a pawn shop with the money from his job at the local vet clinic.
He hits the record button and sits down in a bean bag chair, on the floor, next to his best friend, Stiles.
"I'm Scott McCall."
"I'm Stiles Stilinski."
"We are juniors at Beacon Hills high school. The purpose of this whole video is to help you understand why we've done what we've done."
Stiles shifts restlessly in his bean bag chair, "We don't intend on seeing the end of this thing. So, most likely, by the time you watch this, we're probably already dead."
There is a pause, an uncertain one, in which they both think of how to phrase what they're going to say next.
"We don't-." Stiles says at the same time that Scott says, "It's just that-."
They stop simultaneously, little spurts of laughter coming from both boys, and they look at each other unsteadily.
"You go."
"Nah, man, say what you were gonna say."
Scott laughs again, and this time, it is clear how on edge they both seem. He begins, "It's just that we... it's not that we hate anyone. It's not that we think anyone deserves to die. It's that we're so tired of all of the shit we're put through on a daily basis. We want to show people that- that-." Scott purses his lips and ducks his head in frustration.
Stiles picks up for Scott, "We want to show people that, if you don't listen to someone when they tell you something important, they're going to start a riot, they're going to rebel. Well, this is us rebelling. We spoke up and no one but our parents listened. We've been planning since before the beginning of this school year. We didn't document the whole process, but we think we should show you- whoever's watching- what's going to happen. This is kind of like our mission statement." Stiles looks straight at the camera, face somber, eyes dark.
"This is also, sort of our foreword. We're going to document our last few days- the last few days until we- until we shoot up Beacon Hills high. And we want you to know that this whole thing, this whole thing, is our idea. Not the media, not books, or video games, or CDs, and it's especially not our parents' fault. I love my mom more than anything in the world and she's tried so hard to raise me on her own. She's done a damn good job of taking care of me."
"Same with my dad. He's the best dad anyone could ask for and he doesn't have any clue what we're planning to do."
There is a long moment of silence. Stiles presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, as if trying to push the tears back into their ducts. Next to him, Scott takes a shuddering breath.
In the background, there are faint footsteps. There is a light knock on the door and Scott's mom's voice comes through the wood, "Scott, honey, do you and Stiles need anything before I go to work? I can order a pizza real quick."
"Um, sure. Supreme?" Scott directs this last part to Stiles, who nods.
More softly, he adds, "we can just edit this out."
"Okay, I'll call. Money for the pizza will be downstairs on the coffee table."
"Thanks mom."
Scott gets up and reaches up to turn off the camera, the last thing recorded being the palm of his hand against the lens.
They don't get the chance to edit anything out.
May 2nd, 2014
This recording begins with Scott's face at an extreme close-up. The camera moves and jerks as he adjusts it where it lies between both front seats in Stiles's jeep, the view limited to just the boys's shoulders and the dashboard. The music in the car is loud enough to affect the sound on the camera. Scott's lips move but nothing but booming static is picked up.
He turns around in his seat, his arms moving in the motions of putting on his seatbelt. Once Scott is buckled in, he swats Stiles's shoulder, leans forward and turns down the volume.
"The camera isn't professional grade, dude. It's not gonna get what we're saying with the music so loud."
"Whatever, man. You just don't like my music."
The camera rattles as Stiles takes off from the curb. He doesn't put his seatbelt on.
"You know what I don't get?" He says, arms disappearing out of frame as he turns the wheel.
"What?"
"How people can blame music for kids going and shooting up their schools. Like, this song," Stiles picks up his iPod from the seat next to his thigh, where it is hooked up to his stereo system with a cassette tape adapter, and selects a song.
Through the speakers comes the first tinny notes of Marilyn Manson's "The Nobodies".
"This is about those kids at Columbine- Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. It's about how the media totally blamed him for what Harris and Klebold did. Which is completely ridiculous. Harris was into German bands and Klebold usually followed his lead. They didn't even listen to Marilyn Manson. If I'm gonna shoot up a high school, it's not because Marilyn Manson told me to, okay?"
"Right? If I'm gonna kill some kids, it's not because of metal music. It's because I've got a good reason."
The car comes to a halt, Stiles puts it in park, disconnects his iPod, and shuts off his jeep.
"We're here."
"Ugh, I hate this fucking place."
"Not much longer, Scotty."
"Yeah."
The camera shakes as it is disrupted from its spot, and Scott's voice is muffled when he speaks next, "Do I keep this thing rolling all day?"
"Nah, close it for now and we'll just-."
The video cuts off as Scott closes the side view screen causing the camera to go into standby. When it starts up next, they are in class, part of the image blocked by the inside of Scott's backpack. The camera is pointed at Stiles, who sits one desk over from him.
Behind Stiles, someone begins flicking the shell of his ear. He swats his hand back, narrowly missing the other person's fingers. This goes on for a few moments- Stiles getting flicked in the ear, and then swatting at the offending hand- before he turns around and hisses through clenched teeth, brows scrunched low in a glare, "Fucking. Stop it."
"Stilinski! Detention, 30 minutes after school."
Stiles faces forward in his seat, suddenly, color high in his cheeks and expression mutinous.
"I hope that's not a cell phone you're messing with in your backpack, McCall. Otherwise, you can join Mr. Stilinski in detention, tonight."
"No, Mr. Harris, I'm just looking for my eraser."
The camera mic picks up the loud rustling of paper, and the video cuts off again, only to suddenly alight on a different scene.
The camera begins recording midair as it is flung from Scott's backpack, landing in the grass a few feet away from the backpack and most of its contents.
The blades of grass invade the bottom of the frame but not enough to obscure the view of Scott being slammed into the grass by a muscular boy, while a girl nearby texts on her phone, looking up every once in a while with acclimated disinterest.
Scott whines in pain as the boy punches him in the gut three times rapid fire, and then hits him in the mouth hard enough to split his lip on the first try. Scott catches a few more hits to the torso before the boy pounding on him seems to get bored and parts with a last hook to Scott's face. He walks away with his arm around the girl's waist.
The camera continues to film, undisturbed, while Scott lays there curled up on the ground, wheezing and coughing. He slowly gets up and begins to pick his way over to the camera, grabbing his bag, and then his things, shoving them into the bag as he goes.
When he finally gets to the camera, he pauses, realizing it is still filming and puts it on standby.
The next time the camera starts up, it is in Stiles's bedroom, the darkened window in the background a clue to the time.
Scott has a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face and he isn't looking at Stiles or the camera.
Stiles is slightly out of frame, but his voice is clear and soft, "Do you want to run through the plan again?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, so we're agreed on the day?"
"Yeah, May 5th."
"May 5th. The 5th because the 3rd, Allison goes out of town with her family, so on the 4th we know they're not going to come back suddenly and we can break in and steal their guns. We've gone shooting with Allison before so we know it's all in the garage."
"Mhm. And that night I spend the night at your house. The next morning, we wait till your dad's asleep, get ready, grab the guns from your closet and head to the school.
We load up in the car and go in. Plan A is to start in the cafeteria when lunch is on. Plan B is to go classroom to classroom. And plan C is to start in the library and fan out from there."
"The endgame is to not get caught. We're not TJ Lane, we don't want to turn a trial into a joke, we just want to kill a lot of people."
Scott nods, pulling the peas away from his face with a grimace.
"Jackson Whittemore is the douchiest douche to ever grace the face of the planet."
"So poetic, Scotty. Think I might shed a tear." Stiles snarks, voice warbling with fake tears.
Scott breaks into a smile for the first time since the camera started rolling, and beans Stiles playfully in the arm, "Whatever man. No one's gonna cry for Jackson Whittemore."
May 3rd, 2014
There is a large time skip before the next recording picks up and this time, Stiles has the camera.
He points it at Scott and Allison who are hugging. The angle is weird and lopsided because Stiles is holding it crooked.
"Awwww. Babiiiieees. So sweet! When's the wedding? What are you going to name your kids? Can I be their godfather?" Stiles's impression of Marlon Brando is so terrible that Allison starts cackling against Scott's shoulder. She pulls back to give Scott a chaste kiss to the lips, her thumb stroking his cheekbone and her palm cupping his jaw.
"I don't get any kisses? Unfair. That is- that's Stilesphobic. That is discrimination."
Allison and Scott both laugh this time, and they hold out their arms, gesturing for Stiles who is enveloped into an awkward group hug. The camera shakes and is still uneven when he turns it around. Both Scott and Allison are giving Stiles sloppy kisses on the cheek, from either side. In the middle, Stiles wears a big dopey grin, his eyes closed, and looking, for all the world, completely content. His friends pull away with exaggerated smacking sounds.
"Come on, Alli, we're gonna be late if we don't head out soon!" Allison's aunt Kate calls from off-screen, laughter apparent in her voice.
Allison sighs and smiles at the two boys, "I'll see you guys Wednesday, right?"
"Yes ma'am!" Says Stiles, and they both salute, elbows out of frame and camera wiggling. Allison laughs and walks away. The camera follows her sideways walk she uses to keep them both in sight.
"Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone!" She says, pointing at them and raising her eyebrows, mock threatening. Just before she climbs into the back of her family's SUV, Scott runs up and grabs her wrist. The camera can't catch what he says to her, but her face softens and she pulls him into another long hug.
Scott joins Stiles on the sidewalk next to the Argent's driveway and they watch the SUV pull away in silence.
When it disappears around a corner at the end of the street, Stiles asks, "What did you say to her?"
"I told her I loved her. She's not coming back until Wednesday, so I wanted her to know it before... before we left."
"Good idea. Allison Argent is good people. I'm glad she'll be in San Fran when this all goes down."
"Yeah."
The camera hasn't left its view of the street outside the Argent's. Scott sounds sad and Stiles is silent as the grave.
It is night again when the camera is turned on. It is Scott sitting alone in his room, the lights dim, and the bruises on his face dark.
He opens his mouth, takes a breath as if to speak, and then doesn't. He closes his mouth, looks down and away from the camera. A minute or two goes by before Scott tries to speak again.
"Allison Argent and her family have no idea what Stiles and I are doing. Not a clue. I just wanted to put that out there. The only reason we're taking her dad's guns is because we know how to get to them. And Stiles refused to steal his dad's guns. Which, I mean, is totally okay. His dad is the sheriff. It's not an unprecedented fear. I'm actually really surprised Mr. Stilinski hasn't figured anything out yet. He's a smart guy. But I guess, he's trusted Stiles a lot. He's trusted me a lot." Scott shrugs.
"My mom... just... obviously neither of our parents knows what's going to happen. Obviously. I don't regret anything that's gonna happen except for leaving my mom alone, and leaving what we've done for Allison to come home to." He shifts, tucking his legs under himself.
"Today was my last day working at the vet clinic with Dr. Deaton. I quit because what's the point? Y'know? Dr. Deaton, though, he's a great guy. Totally unflappable. He's so calm, it makes me wonder how he's going to react to all of this. Sometimes, the idea of... of being able to watch the fall out of what we're going to do is almost enough to make me want to stay. Almost."
He breathes in deeply through his nose, bringing a hand up to rub away a tear that managed to travel halfway down his cheek. The weight of what he and Stiles will do in just two day's time does not escape him.
He laughs uncomfortably, "Sorry. I'm fine with it until I talk about my mom or Allison."
Another few seconds pass in which Scott appears to be lost in thought, staring at his bedspread.
"I'm... gonna go to bed." Scott reaches out to the camera and the video cuts.
May 4th, 2014
Recording begins the next day at lunch. Scott has the camera and is filming around the cafeteria, all the white noise of chattering teenagers, and their day to day lives. He does a 360ยบ view of the room, and then comes back around to Stiles across from him, messing with his phone. The talking is so loud in the cafeteria that the camera almost doesn't catch Scott asking, "You sure we want to start in here? Firing in here is gonna cause total chaos, a lot of moving targets. How are we going to hit anyone if they're all over the place?"
"I dunno, man. Maybe we should start somewhere quieter? Maybe go the library route instead?" He spins his phone around on the table top.
"Sounds better, I think. Easier." Scott suddenly switches gears, "We are so lucky everyone is so loud otherwise we'd be in big trouble." They both laugh and the bell rings.
"I'll take the camera, you go throw away your trash. Wouldn't want Harris getting pissed cause we're late."
Stiles holds out his hand and takes the camera, putting it on standby.
This next time the footage picks up, school has let out for the day, rain clouds hang heavy in the sky, pregnant with the promise of a storm. Stiles is holding the camera, zooming in and out on Scott, while making high pitched sounds.
"C'mon, Stiles, quit messing with the camera. We need that for prosperity." Scott smiles crookedly at the camera, and glances forward to watch where he's going. He does a small double-take, smile dropping off his face.
"Jesus Christ, Stiles, your car!"
"What?" The camera remains trained on Scott, and Stiles's shout of, "God fucking dammit!" comes in loud and clear. The image goes sideways and there is a good view of trees and other students, pointing at something out of frame, as Stiles shoves the camera into Scott's hands.
He rights it quickly and points it at the jeep, which now bears a long white scratch along the hood, and is covered liberally in smashed raw eggs. There is no telling how long the eggs have been sitting on the paint. Stiles's back is to Scott and his hands are in his hair.
"Let's just go. Let's go." Scott drops the camera to his side and films a few feet of concrete before setting the device on the roof of Stiles's jeep. He leaves the frame and there are cars, and laughing teenagers, and the sound of thunder. It begins to sprinkle.
The jeep shakes with the force of the driver's side door being slammed. Scott comes back into frame, and puts the camera on standby.
Scott looks like a ghost under the night vision on the camera. They are walking through a darkened backyard.
"You know the codes to the security system, right?"
"Yeah." He replies, climbing the steps to the Argent's backdoor, and lifting the plastic lid to the security keypad. He types in the numbers quickly, pumping a fist in triumph when a low beep sounds. He opens the door and goes in.
"Allison gave me the codes so I could get in whenever I wanted. Comes in handy. Her dad keeps almost all his stuff in the garage. So it'll be like taking candy from a baby."
"Or, like stealing guns from an empty house at 11 o'clock at night."
Inside the garage, there is a locked wall-mounted mesh metal gun locker on the wall farthest from the door. It's locked with a combination lock, to which Scott puts in the combination and opens.
Underneath where the guns hang, there is a narrow drawer filled with several boxes of ammo and four smaller handguns. They check the size of the bullets and take six boxes, along with all four handguns. They grab two rifles and two shotguns, with sawed-down muzzles. Most of what they take can be fit into the backpack they've brought.
They lock everything back up, reset the security system, and head back to Stiles's car via a convoluted route from the backyard.
"If some assholes hadn't decided to egg my fucking car and scratch up the fucking paint job, we wouldn't have had to park so far away. But no, they had to go and make it more recognizable than it already is. Gotta walk through wet trees and mud." Stiles gripes softly.
"Hey, at least we got what we came for. Dude, just pocket the camera so you don't hurt yourself trying to carry this shit."
May 5th, 2014
"...Hey! Yeah, hi. Mom. Mom? Hi. I know it's kind of... I didn't mean to wake you, I know you work nights and sleep when you can but I- I want you to know I love you. What? No! I didn't do anything wrong. I just, I love you, okay? Okay. Bye."
The camera is once again aimed at the dashboard, resting between the front seats of the now worse for wear jeep. Scott sighs.
"It's done. Done. Done. Done." He sets his phone on the dashboard.
The car is silent, the iPod left at home, the cassette adapter stashed in the glove compartment- no use for either of them, anymore. The turn signal clicks faintly.
"I'm sorry you had to do that."
Scott does not respond. The camera jerks as they come to a stop. Stiles turns around in his seat, chest blocking the camera as he grabs the bags from the back. From long, narrow bags, they pull out the rifles and shotguns. They stow the guns down low, load them and cock them.
"Scott," Stiles begins, pulling the pin on the rifle, "I, uh, I couldn't do this with anyone else. You're my best friend and I love you."
"I love you too."
They stretch across the center console, mindful of their guns and the camera, and they hug tightly. They let go, Stiles nods, almost to himself. Scott fidgets. There are a handful of pre-loaded clips for the handguns sitting on the dashboard; he grabs them and divides them evenly between two small canvas backpacks, along with the leftover ammo he grabs from the back. They put the rifles and shotguns back into the long, narrow bags.
"I'm gonna leave the camera in here, have it pointing at the school. So it can catch all the people running out. I dunno what happens when a memory card runs out of space, but I think it should be fine. Everything's on the card that we've filmed so far, so they should find it when they search your car." Scott breaks the silence, grabbing the camera and sitting it on the dash next to his phone, pointing it slightly to the right.
"Yeah, okay. Jesus, I'm nervous."
"Me too. Let's just... go have some fun."
They get out of the car, pulling backpacks on, stowing handguns carefully in pockets and covering them with t-shirts. They toss the long bags over their shoulders, tucking them against the backpacks.
The doors close, shaking the car a little, and thunder breaks out overhead. The day is grey and wet already. As they walk into the school, Stiles turns the baseball cap he has on backwards, the Mets logo facing behind him.
The camera films for five minutes before the rain comes down and covers the windshield, disrupting the view of everything that happens.
May 5th, 2014, 11:35 AM
"911, What is your emergency?"
"I- I think some kids are going to shoot up the high school."
"What is your name? Your location?"
"My name is Isaac Lahey, and I'm- I'm parked on the road leading up to the high school."
"Can you describe the potential shooters, Isaac?"
"Uh. Um. Two guys, one taller than the other, both dressed in all black, one wearing a black beanie, the other wearing a Mets baseball cap on backwards. They were carrying long bags. I'm pretty sure those were guns."
"Is there anything else you can tell me, Isaac?"
"They go to my school their names are Scott- Scott McCall and, uh, Stiles Stilinski. They, uh, when they were on their way in, I was headed out to my car, and Stiles stopped me and he told me to leave and, uh, stay gone. That some heavy shit was about to go down. He said they liked me."
11:55 AM
"911, What is your emergency?"
"There are boys with guns in my school. They've been shooting people."
"I'm sorry, what is your emergency? I can't hear you."
"I said there's been a shooting in my school!"
"Are you hurt?"
"No, no, I'm fine. I'm hiding in the library. My classmate's been shot, he's hurt and I don't know what to do."
"Is your classmate with you?"
"Yes. I pulled him behind the bookshelves with me. I think he was hit in the spine, or something, because he can't move his legs. God, there's blood everywhere."
"Have you seen the shooters, are they nearby?"
"Oh, God, um... yes. They haven't noticed me yet. They're on the other side of the room."
"Is your classmate still breathing?"
"Yes. He's passed out, though."
"What are your names?"
"Erica. My name is Erica, and my classmate's name is Greenberg. I don't know his first name."
"Erica, I need you to stay where you are. Don't try to run. You'll draw attention to yourself. Stay on the line with me."
"Okay. I can-."
"What do we have here? Hi Erica!"
"Oh, Scott, please don't-."
"Are you calling the cops? Aww, look Stiles, she's calling the cops. THEY CAN'T HELP YOU!"
"Shots fired. At least three shots fired."
12:09 PM
"Melissa, I know this is really short notice, and all. But we need you to come in ASAP. There's been a situation up at the school and we're getting a lot of people in."
"A situation? What's going on?"
"There's been a shooting. Can you help?"
"Yeah. Yes- of course. I'll be right there."
1:15 PM
Somehow, she knew Scott was involved. Somehow she knew. Call it mother's intuition. Call it spidey senses. Call it what you like.
But Melissa couldn't say she was particularly surprised to see the covered bodies being wheeled through the ER to the morgue. She knew, but how it was that she knew, Melissa could not say.
Her baby boy, the little one she'd protected from all types of harm, is gone. She couldn't protect him from this.
After her supervisor had pulled her aside with eyes solemn and wide, she walked slowly down the busy hallway to the waiting room.
Now, she sits beside Stilinski, whose face is pale and drawn, his eyes unfocused, lost in thought. His hand grips the arm of the chair, knuckles white. Melissa lays her own over his gently, and squeezes. He turns his hand over, palm up, lacing their fingers together.
They are all they have left, now.
7:00 PM
Sheriff Stilinski enters his home, dead quiet and smelling a bit stuffy. Stiles is not home to open any windows, he is not playing video games with Scott in the living room, he is not making obnoxiously healthy food in the kitchen. He is not here.
Stilinski walks up the stairs to his son's room, footsteps heavy and low. He sits on his son's neatly made bed, and looks around. He picks a discarded red flannel shirt up off the floor, fingers curling and uncurling in the soft material. He clenches his hands into fists and fights to keep his composure.
His only son is gone. He is not okay.
10:00 PM
"In today's top news: a deadly school shooting in Beacon Hills, California, claimed the lives of 22 students and teachers, and injured almost as many. The perpetrators? Two juniors, Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski. Information is still scarce and the police department of the town in chaos."
Scott and Stiles's school pictures appear on the side of the screen, the newscaster's face is grim and appropriately saddened.
"We were unable to interview any of the survivors of this tragedy. But our thoughts and prayers are with them. Beacon Hills' own Sheriff Stilinski could not be reached for comment regarding his son's involvement..."
May 15th, 2014
Allison has been to more funerals in the last week and a half than she has ever been to in the entire rest of her life.
Lydia, Jackson, Erica, Boyd... some she didn't go to because she didn't know them personally. She'd read about Mr. Harris's in the paper, watched footage of Matt Daehler's on the news.
Danny was in physical therapy and was lucky only to have lost half the function in his hands. Greenberg was not so lucky, and would likely never walk again.
Allison is still trying to come to terms with the fact that Scott and Stiles (Scott. And. Stiles.) had done so much damage. Caused so much pain and suffering, and yet- had left her completely alone. They could have waited for her to come back and taken her with the rest of her friends and classmates. Allison may never fully understand it. She can't ask them why they did it, why they left her behind, what they were thinking.
She lies prone on her bed, still wearing the clothes from Scott's funeral, staring at the ceiling.
It was a media circus and thankfully, Sheriff Stilinski had put up barricades around the gravesite and assigned his men to keep the paparazzi and news crews back.
There were only a handful of people in attendance and Allison doesn't blame anyone that hadn't come. She wouldn't have if she hadn't needed to. No one wants to be caught in the middle of this storm. She sighs, and looks over out the window, the sky appropriately grey and rainy. She clutches the lily Melissa had given her against her chest and squashes her eyes closed. She's already tired of crying.
She'd bought some stupid little carousel shaped music box in San Francisco, and planned to give it to Scott. It was an ultimately forgettable souvenir, but she thought he would like it. Childish as Allison felt it was, she stuck the thing in the grave with him. Briefly, Allison wonders whether or not she should change into something different for Stiles's funeral tonight. She decides that Stiles probably wouldn't have cared what she wore anyhow, and doesn't change.
She keeps telling herself that when she wakes up, it'll be okay. There was no shooting, Scott and Stiles aren't dead, Mr. Stilinski isn't resigning his post because of what happened, and that her friends are okay. She closes her eyes. She waits to wake up.
There are several scenes and motifs I have taken from popular media about school shootings.
Two movies:
Zero Day, which you can watch here (by removing the spaces from the url, of course): www. firedrive / file/ 04DEC36129067F1C
Elephant, which you can watch here: www. firedrive / file/ DC85BE94F5B364EF
And a bit inspired by an excerpt from Brooks Brown's book, No Easy Answers. Information on Brooks Brown can be found here: www. acolumbinesite brooks. html
Title comes from Fuma's first album Feed the Color to the Kids, which can be purchased from their bandcamp here: fumaband. bandcamp. com
I tried to be as vague as possible about a shooting scene. I didn't want to go into too much detail about it. Because movies and books and news stations focus so much on the violence of the shooting and the event itself, I didn't want to follow suit.
This work is the first part of a two part series called Boys with Guns on Archive of Our Own: archiveofourown series / 108470
Also, if you're wanting to know more about Brooks Brown, his experiences with the Columbine Massacre, and his life since then, you can find his Q&A session on Reddit here: www. reddit comments / gulaf / iama _columbine _survivor _named _brooks _ brown _i _was /
Every link has an assload of spaces because, for some reason, hates URLs.