AU after Journey. No Sunshine, Finn and Rachel broke up. Quinn/Rachel, Sam/Kurt, Brittany/Santana. Might be a little dark, inspired by "With Tired Eyes, Tired Minds, Tired Souls, We Slept" of One Tree Hill's third season, combined with my new love of Faberry. My first Glee fic, so, enjoy!
Quinn Fabray, recently reestablished Head Cheerio, walks slowly through the hallway, reluctantly appreciative of her status. In fear of her ire, students part like the Red Sea in her presence, allowing her a clear path, ensuring her advantage as HBIC of McKinley High—she is never late to class.
Quinn tosses her Algebra textbook in her locker and sighs. Junior year was...lonely.
In hindsight, Quinn decides that telling Coach Sylvester of Santana's summer surgery—if you could call it that—was probably not the wisest idea. All she gained was the old title, a strained relationship with her former best friend, and a clueless Brittany (or, more clueless than usual). Quinn regrets her decision. Being on top didn't magically create friends. Just enemies. And followers. Lots and lots of followers. All terrified, yet awed, followers. No friends.
Well, she has glee. It makes the loneliness lessen somewhat.
Quinn pauses, letting her gaze fix on Rachel Berry, who chats with a slightly bored Tina Cohen-Chang. Quinn frowns. Rachel has acquaintances, not friends. Fellow teammates, apathetic, easily irritable, impatient teammates that only put up with her for her voice. A voice absolutely destined for Broadway, Quinn thinks with a small, internal smile. Rachel knows it. Everyone does.
Quinn watches closely as Karofsky, chuckling, tosses a green slushie in Rachel's face. Again.
Her stomach twists in sympathy as Rachel dashes to the bathroom, determined not to break her 'showface' while Tina looks pitying but doesn't follow. Instead, Tina allows her attention to pass to a passing Mike Chang, happily departing together in the opposite direction. Quinn scoffs. She liked Tina better with Artie, but Tina unceremoniously dumped him over the summer for Mike.
Rachel reappears in English, offering Quinn a rigid smile as she sits, which Quinn returns.
The blonde didn't know exactly what to make of Rachel anymore. The diva had told Finn her secret last year, destroying Puck and Finn's friendship, Quinn's reputation, her relationship with Finn, and nearly costing them Sectionals. But Rachel apologized, many times over in fact, and Quinn had forgiven her. Her pregnancy—(Beth, how she missed her)—had opened Quinn's eyes to the torment and insults she had once bestowed, and it felt wrong to repeat them this year.
She was a better person now. Or, she hoped she was. Gradually, the insults didn't immediately pop into her head. Rachel, instead of Manhands. Nothing else. Just the name. Which was a start. Sure, she and Rachel weren't exactly close, but they never were; Quinn doubts they could be. Quinn theorizes their relationship fluctuates between friendship, enmity, and something...else. Undefined, almost.
She was scared of that one. It was just protectiveness...like a concern, she assumes. She didn't want Rachel to be bullied anymore. But...she didn't want Rachel with Finn anymore either, and certainly not Puck. Luckily, Rachel and Finn had broken up recently, due to Finn's obsession with popularity (again) and Puck busy making eyes with Santana and any other Cheerio that paid him the time of day. Quinn wasn't hurt. They were friends, nothing romantic. Maybe that's how it always was, Quinn muses. Just a drunken mistake, an infatuation on his side, an emotional connection for life, and an adorable baby girl, living only several hours away with Rachel's biological mother.
Quinn sighs. She avoids anything Rachel related until free period, where Mr. Schue holds court.
Amazingly, all the members of glee managed to get the same study hall. Quinn suspects it was Ms. Pillsbury's doing. Until she started dating Carl the dentist. Quinn recalls in amusement and disdain at how much Mr. Schue acts like a teenager, Ms. Pillsbury with him. Must be the job.
"How are we all today?" Mr. Schue asks, smiling, when they've all wandered to the choir room.
"Lousy," Rachel mumbles, too low for anyone but Quinn, sitting surreptitiously beside her, to hear.
"Great," Kurt answers enthusiastically. "My new jacket is being shipped today."
Mercedes laughs.
"My day would get better if I had a slushie," Santana snickers. "Any takers? Berry?"
Rachel frowns and Quinn resists the insane urge to pat her arm. Instead, she scowls at Santana.
"They have a berry flavor?" Finn questions, and Quinn rolls her eyes.
Often, Quinn sincerely doubts her sanity for even dating Finn Hudson. Sure, he was cute and sweet, offering that dopey smile that would make any girl swoon. But, on the flip side, he was as dim as Brittany sometimes and had a manipulative streak. Quinn remembers with shame at Finn's attempt to get Rachel to rejoin glee, one of the days when she quit. In addition to Finn's lack of brains, he somehow managed to break Rachel's heart, probably the best girl at McKinley. Puck once admitted that Rachel understood him completely, just after spending only two hours with him. Rachel, forgiving as any priest, already letting her guard down around Quinn, who she seems to trust.
Rachel, who had began to plague her thoughts since early summer. Oi.
"—need to start brainstorming song ideas for Sectionals," Mr. Schue was saying. Quinn wonders if that's all he thinks of.
"A duet," Rachel suggests, her mood brightening. "We should definitely have—"
"Auditions for them, at least," Kurt interjects coolly. "To be fair."
Rachel nods, looking a little hurt. "That's what I was saying, Kurt."
Kurt says nothing, instead exchanging a superior glance with Mercedes, a fellow diva, and Sam, his boyfriend and a new student this year. Kurt had spotted him (in more ways than one) and persuaded the blond boy to join glee. Sam did, and is also on the football team without any protests. Go figure, they must approve of him. Sam doesn't know Rachel very much, so he just listens usually. Quinn likes him. He's goofy.
Kurt approves of their friendship. Mercedes does too, joking of how they look like perfect, stereotypical blonde siblings.
"Why are we talking about blankets?" Brittany wonders into the awkward silence.
"No, a duet, not a duvet," Santana explains kindly. Brittany still looks confused until Santana clarifies.
"A song for two, Britt. Not a blanket." Brittany eventually nods in understanding.
Quinn wishes uselessly that Santana could spare the same kindness to Rachel. It's unlikely.
Rachel looks withdrawn. Less enthusiastic, but still bossy, cheerful, and determined to succeed, just subdued. She has for awhile now, Quinn notices. Finn hurt Rachel, once again (how many times has it been?) and Rachel has no one else to talk to about it. Quinn can't pluck up the courage to voice the odd settling of protectiveness and affection for the girl in her head, so she holds her tongue until she's ready. Rachel doesn't have anyone to share her troubles with, and it's never bothered Quinn before.
Rachel's alone. She only has her dads to confide in, and that bothers Quinn. A lot.
"Any takers?" Mr. Schue asks.
The bell rings, effectively saving Quinn any more internal anger and frustration. Quinn keeps her apathetic expression, having mastered the quirk since freshman year. She can brew irritably over her own issues without it showing in her face. An ice queen, Santana had sneered. Exactly.
Quinn heads off to Chemistry, struggling to ignore questionable thoughts about brunette divas.
Jacob Ben Israel stands tall at the front of the school, inhaling a breath. This was it. His revenge.
Jacob had, as any other bottom feeder of the food chain would, secretly wondered what he would do to all of his bullies and adversaries, if given the chance. Hurt, maim...kill. Jacob bares his teeth. These people tortured him every day since he could remember. His hair, his religion, his appearance. Just being different brought ridicule.
Jacob hated school. He was an outcast. (It's always the outcasts. He's that student.) He had all the signs, it was obvious—depression, lack of friends, constantly mocked. Combined with his ability to hold a grudge simply spelled out warnings, but nobody cared enough to notice.
His blog was his only outlet to express his anger, but gradually, it failed to appease him.
His insults were virtual, not tangible. They caused emotional devastation, not physical. Jacob wants his bullies to feel pain, like he had. Slushies, dumpster dives...it wasn't enough. They deserve more pain, he decides. They symbolize everything wrong with high school. Best years of your life, Jacob sneers. Right. Your life must be worse later if you get tormented as a teenager.
Jacob stares at the entrance, distantly seeing flashes of red and black. Cheerios and jocks.
They were his main targets. Next, glee club. If possible, of course. He has a lot to do.
Jacob didn't have a specific reason to hurt the kids in glee, but they should be on his side. They should be his friends, standing together as a collective force and protecting each other against Karofsky and the like. No, instead, they believed themselves to be noteworthy, of a higher degree than him. Some were even friends with idiots like Noah Puckerman or sluts like Santana Lopez.
Jacob glowers scornfully. This was his chance to stand out. His chance to make a mark.
And if it was a mark in infamy and despair and death? So be it. He would be remembered.
McKinley High has never had a school shooting. Jacob will change that.
As anger and loathing roars in his ears, his shoes scuff against the cement in his march.
Adjusting his backpack stockpiled with stolen firearms, Jacob takes another breath.
Showtime.
Quinn is walking to her class when she hears the first shot. Blind panic clouds her normally level head as students begin to scream in absolute mayhem, the sounds reverberating off the walls. Quinn can't move—she doesn't register everything immediately, what was going on—and she hears more shots. CRACK. CRACK. She blinks. A disgruntled, furious Santana locks the door to a teacher bathroom, locking the two of them away from the hysteria.
"Try not to stand there like an idiot next time," Santana fumes. "Could have gotten killed, Q!"
"I—I'm...sorry," she chokes out, and Santana sighs, crossing her arms tightly.
"Pay attention, Quinn. You're the only one I could find in thirty seconds," Santana explains.
Quinn realizes the hint in Santana's voice. Quinn is the only available friend in the vicinity. Even if they were at odds, Santana still needs to secure her safety. Quinn feels her earlier annoyance with Santana fly out the window and camaraderie return(this was a life-or-death situation, after all).
"It's further away," she breathes. Quinn copies the movement, pressing her ear to the wood.
"Where's Brittany?" Quinn asks, and sees Santana wince miserably.
"I don't know," Santana whispers, looking more vulnerable than Quinn has ever seen. The Latina's dark eyes brim with tears, and Quinn pulls her instinctively into a hug, muttering words of comfort. Santana allows herself a few moments to really cry and let go, before she replaces the walls and coldness around her heart. Quinn realizes only now how much Santana truly cares for Brittany. Genuine love. The blonde is probably lost and confused, Quinn thinks, horrified.
"I don't have my phone. What, what if she—I don't know, Brittany's just—oh my god, Quinn, she might be dead. Brittany can't die, I won't be able to...I need to go find her, I have to," Santana gasps. Quinn holds her tighter.
"No."
"Quinn, please—"
Quinn's arms aren't comfort anymore; a cage locks Santana in place.
"You aren't leaving anytime soon. If I stay, so do you," Quinn growls, and the two fall silent.
Rachel shoved her textbooks into her locker, trying to fight the constant melancholy she was experiencing. Summer had been fun, spending her days with her fathers, practicing, and lounging in the sun. Rachel's eyes admire her new haircut (bangs, how nineties, she thinks fondly) when she hears a smattering of loud cracks, and her heart climbs into her throat. Jacob Ben Israel is yelling, brandishing a gun in the air and firing randomly. Students scream.
Lockdown, lockdown, Figgins is bellowing into the loudspeaker.
Already, several motionless bodies litter the floor, oozing pools of blood. Rachel's mouth parts in surprise and terror while she stands, frozen, as Jacob turns his attention to her end of the hallway, takes aim, and fires his gun. A yelp of pain escapes her lips as she stumbles to the floor, her hands flailing to her jean-clad leg as a burn flares up, spreading a shockwave up her body. Rachel squeaks in distress as Jacob stands near her, an odd, contemplative look adorning his face. Rachel tries to focus as her mind shrieks, this shouldn't happen, I was shot. Rachel can't help but compile statistics about recovery.
"I hope it's quick for you, Rachel," he declares uncaringly. "I'm sorry about all this."
"You should be," she blurts out, gritting her teeth as another flash of pain burns her limbs.
"I should be?" Jacob repeats, furious. "These jocks should be! They should be sorry for hurting me for years! They brought this on themselves, Rachel, you know it. Jocks and Cheerios tortured me, and today, I get to return the favor...and to their parents, for bringing up kids like that."
"Y-you could have transferred," Rachel wheezes. Jacob shakes his head.
"No. It would be exactly the same. I thought you were different, I thought you were just like me. Until you started becoming friends with Puck and Brittany. Even Santana accepts you."
"Santana hates me," Rachel argues uselessly.
"She doesn't," Jacob spat. "She won't slushie you anymore. You just haven't noticed."
"Jacob—"
"And don't get me started on Quinn Fabray," Jacob barks. "She likes you too, even though she tortured you for years, don't you remember?"
"Quinn's a good person," Rachel croaks.
"Sure, she had excellent intentions when she slushied you," Jacob snaps.
"Stop this," Rachel begs. "Stop it all...just don't hurt anyone else."
"No one asked to stop the bullying on me, did they?" Jacob asks rhetorically, cold as ice.
Rachel simply stares at the boy she's known her entire life, one of the few in Lima with her religion, wondering if Jacob knew he would do this at five years old, ten years old, or even before high school. Did he decide this ages ago, or was in a spur of the moment decision?
"I'm done with it," Jacob adds.
Jacob steps away, and Rachel closes her eyes, but a shot doesn't come. Jacob had left.
Rachel blinks rapidly and forces herself to a sit up. Her shoes and left leg are drenched in blood, and a blindly staring victim sits close by, his glassy eyes boring into the floor. Rachel feels the urge to vomit as she realizes her problem—Jacob could come back at any time and decide to finish the job. Her gaze finds the library door, and slowly drags herself toward the double doors.
"It's been awhile," Santana mumbles.
"I know."
"I want to leave."
"I know," Quinn murmurs, sliding to the floor. Santana sits down beside her.
"I miss her," Santana whispers. Quinn nods sympathetically.
"You really love her, don't you?"
Santana was silent for a few moments, her eyes imploring and sad.
"Yes," she admits uncomfortably.
"I'm sure she knows that," Quinn assures gently, but Santana shakes her head in despair.
"No, I've told her...I've said that sex isn't dating, and she seemed to get it. But sometimes, you know, I've seen these sad faces she gets when we can't hangout, when I'm going to meet up with Puck...I didn't want to face it, my feelings, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell her."
Quinn wraps a soothing arm around Santana's waist, letting her friend cry.
She saw how true Santana's words are—how the two Cheerios acted so much like a couple it surprised others at school to hear that they weren't together, especially with the not-so-secret hooking up and even the pinkie holding. All that held Brittany and Santana apart was Santana's reluctance, and all it took was a disaster like this for Santana to face the truth. There wasn't Brittany without Santana, and vice-versa. When Santana finally surrendered to the idea that she and Brittany should have been together all this time, she couldn't find the blonde and tell her so.
"She'll be okay, I know it," Quinn offers. "She's too friendly and cheerful to die. She's got half the school pulling for her, don't forget that," Quinn adds and Santana chokes a watery laugh.
Santana is calmer, but her eyes stray longingly to the door.
"Just a little longer," Quinn beseeches, ignoring the safer choice in favor of Santana's desperation. Screw lockdown codes, Quinn adds silently.
Santana brightens gratefully.
"You're looking for someone too," Santana guesses. "Who?"
Quinn doesn't answer.
Finn leaps for the floor when the sounds reach his ears, trained and hardwired by endless hours of Halo. Puck had done the same on his right, and his Algebra class was currently huddled on the far wall, all sitting Indian-style, out of sight of the doorway, as they had learned every single year with the same lockdown drill. The room was mostly quiet, a few whispers here and there.
A lockdown, Finn thinks uneasily. And it's real.
"I wonder who did it," Puck whispers. Finn shrugs.
"I think it was JewFro," Mercedes mutters on Puck's left, showing a text from Tina.
JBI went kamikaze. Artie and I (awkward) are in Sylvester's office with her, Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury—some lecture she was saying about irritating sexual tension at the workplace. Whatever. Mr. Schue called 911 just a little while ago. Where are you? — T
"She's stuck with Sylvester?" Puck hisses. "That sucks."
"Kurt, Sam, and Mike are in the boys locker room, with everyone who has gym," Mercedes reads off the screen, her voice hushed. "Brittany is with Becky, they managed to get out," she cheers quietly. Puck and Finn grin with her in relief, until they count up the ones missing.
"Where's Quinn?" Puck wonders, stone-faced.
"Or Rachel?" Finn questions.
"I haven't heard from any of them," Mercedes admits regretfully. "Sorry."
"How many is that?"
"Rachel, Quinn, and Santana haven't replied, so three are MIA. I'm scared," Mercedes mumbles.
"I have to find Rachel," Finn says. "Even if we aren't together anymore."
"You aren't leaving," Puck snaps. "No one's playing hero. Besides," he offers bravely to Mercedes, "if something epic happens, I've got your back, Jones."
Mercedes returns a quivering, grateful smile.
"What's happening, Brittany?"
Becky breaks Brittany out of her daze, and Brittany peers down at the pint-sized cheerleader.
"I don't know," she answers honestly, and Becky sighs in exasperation. The parking lot was filled to capacity with police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and SWAT mobiles, and distressed parents, huddled in groups. Brittany watches as a mother mouths prayers, crossing herself repeatedly. A police officer had already tried questioning Brittany, who failed to understand the inquiry. Tina's text had confused her—why would it matter if she was outside? What was happening inside?
"God zij dank, Brittany!" A voice cries, and Brittany whirls around into her father's arms.
"Daddy," she greets, who regards her carefully, and finally exhales in relief.
"How are you? I just heard about the shooting," Mr. Pierce says.
"Shooting?"
"Yes, Brittany, the shooting, the reason you're standing the parking lot," Mr. Pierce answers, familiar with Brittany's tendency to be slow on the uptake.
"Where's Santana?"
Mr. Pierce looks sad. "I don't know. She hasn't been checked off on the list..."
Brittany falls silent, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Santana had to be okay, she always is.
"I'll always take care of you, Britt, you know that?" Santana had said, smiling indulgently.
"I have to find Santana," Brittany mumbles, but Mr. Pierce catches her arm.
"Brittany, it's too dangerous. You stay here," her father orders, and softens his tone at her rapidly tearing eyes. "Sweetie, you're not allowed to walk into the school. Someone has a gun, and they could seriously hurt you. It's just not safe. Santana will—"
"I love her, Daddy, I don't want to just stand here!"
"You aren't leaving, Brittany Susan."
Brittany recognizes the warning in his words, and grudgingly surrenders. "I hate you."
"At least you're hating me alive, sweetie," Mr. Pierce remarks as Brittany grimaces.
"Buffy's better," Quinn protests lamely. Santana huffs.
"No way. Buffy's an uptight snob. Faith had a tough life and worked through it admirably."
"Yeah, after killing somebody. Besides, Buffy is blonde. I think I know what I'm talking about."
"Right, she's stupid. Like dating Riley," Santana counters irritably.
"He was supportive!"
"This game is stupid!" Santana snaps back. "I'm done stalling, I want to find Brittany now."
"I won't stop you, S," Quinn sighs, as her mind screams obstinacies. Foolish, reckless, unsafe!
Santana looks surprised at the lack of argument until Quinn elaborates.
"I'm terrified, S. I'm terrified that as soon as you walk out that door, you'll get shot, just like the others. You're one of my best friends," Quinn chokes, "and I feel like I'm condemning you to death if I just let you go past me. You don't even know if she made it out yet."
"She's worth it," Santana retorts gruffly. "If you don't let me go, I'll punch your lights out."
"Then I guess I'll have to go with you," Quinn challenges. Santana stares blankly.
"I know you care about me and Britt, but—"
"Yeah, I do. You guys aren't getting yourselves killed...er, alone. I'm going," Quinn barks.
Santana grins, unlocking the catch. "Okay, okay. You can be the martyr, I'll be the heroine."
"Out the door, bitch," Quinn grumbles, shoving her friend forward through the door.
Emma hears Jacob faintly, searching for David Karofsky, one of his antagonizers. She holds her breath for awhile, her face paling until she's certain the boy is gone. Behind her, Will paces anxiously, Sue eyes the windows, Tina sits near Artie, texting, and Artie speaks quietly with her.
Will catches Artie's worry. "What's up?"
"We've located nearly all of glee club, Mr. Schue," Artie explains, adjusting his glasses.
Will winces at nearly.
Tina gestures to her cell phone. "Everyone except Quinn, Rachel, and Santana, are safe."
Will's heart sinks, and Emma tosses a sympathetic glance over her shoulder.
"Buck up, William," Sue chastises, frowning. "Stay focused."
"Three of my kids are missing, Sue," Will glares. "I'm allowed to be a little upset."
"There are dead students, Will," Sue sneers. "Stop gravitating around your select few."
"What about your select few, Sue? This is all your fault!"
"My fault?" Sue storms, her eyes flashing angrily. "A boy who decides to kill others is my fault?"
"The precious hierarchy you encouraged, over and over again," Will fumes, ignoring Emma's frown. "It started this whole thing. The Cheerios and jocks on the penthouse, right? You said it yourself! They rule the roost, while Jacob and kids like him are on the ground floor—did you seriously not suspect something this to happen? Jacob is just like the other shooters in the United States. A social pariah, an outcast, all because your cheerleaders and football players made him that way. And now, he's snapped. I hope you're happy, Sue. Your hierarchy really, really works."
Sue grimaces with something akin to guilt, and doesn't reply.
"I'm sure Jacob's gone by now," Emma murmurs.
"I suggest the windows," Artie proposes, Tina nods in agreement. Sue huffs.
"That draws attention, Wheels. Do you want Jacob to come back?"
"We're staying here," Will interjects firmly. "The police will sort it out."
"Brittany?" Santana whisper-shouts. "Brittany?"
"Be quiet," Quinn mouths frantically, flailing her arms. Santana nods, but her foot slips across the floor with a loud squeak, sending the cheerleader sprawling. Quinn seizes Santana's shoulder, keeping her upright and preventing her fall. Quinn sees the dark smear of blood staining the floor and Santana's sneakers and her stomach churns with disgust and horror. Santana stands motionless in Quinn's arms, her eyes fixed on a blonde girl, still and dressed in a Cheerio uniform, slumped against a locker and her face turned away from them. Quinn literally feels Santana's heart pick up and forcefully keeps her in place.
"You'll stay," Quinn hisses harshly. "I'll check."
"But—Quinn—please—"
"No."
Quinn restrains a thrashing Santana until a pitiful, despaired squeak escapes Santana's mouth. "Fine," she murmurs slowly, defeated and mournful. "You...you do it."
Quinn loosens her grip, and Santana softly begs for her not to lie about the answer, because she has to know. Quinn nods and checks around them, and hesitantly shuffles to the inanimate girl. Quinn kneels, inspecting the body. A murky stain coats the uniform at the chest, too dark to match the red polyester. Quinn swallows her bile as she lays a hand on icy flesh, and after ten seconds, no pulse appears. Quinn shakes her head, and brushes the girl's hair from her face.
Santana inhales a nervous, anticipating breath...three beats pass.
It's Abby McDonald—not Brittany, Quinn thinks selfishly—a jumper on the Cheerios.
"Not her," Quinn declares quietly. Santana collapses against the wall in near-paralyzing relief.
Quinn reaches to the eyes, and gently closes them with her fingers.
"It's Abby," Quinn mutters.
"She was good," Santana remarks. "I just...I spoke with her yesterday..."
This death and ones around her in the hallway slowly sink in, and Quinn just wants to escape from this nightmare. How could this happen? This morning she was worried about pulling her ponytail too tight. Now, past one-o'clock, she's afraid for her own life and those of her friends. Shouldn't this happen somewhere else? Quinn wonders.
"She's got two twin brothers," Santana informs Quinn sadly. "They're only eight years old."
"Let's look elsewhere," Quinn decides shortly, taking Santana's wrist and tugging her away.
Hiram Berry paces in quick, hasty strides, a stoic and silent Leroy two feet away, leaning against their car. Hiram had always been the nervous one, fearing a day like this would come when Rachel entered school. His day had been uneventful, simply waiting on his expected promotion at the hospital (due any day now) and during his lunch hour, he received a call from Leroy. Leroy, a psychologist, works closer to McKinley and called Hiram as soon as the news broke.
"A boy has taken McKinley hostage," Leroy had stammered. "It's a lockdown."
The parking lot is a swarm of police officers, a scarce few of school personnel, and dozens upon dozens of frightened parents, conversing with each other and throwing furtive glances at the doors, as if their child will run out unscathed and safe. The Chief of Police had complied a list of students to review, a secretary having drawn up the records from a laptop provided by an officer. Seven students were absent, either sick, skipping, or on vacation.
One hundred and twenty four students managed to flee at the first shot.
Eight hundred and sixty nine kids remained inside.
Hiram lost count at the amount of times he looked to the front doors.
"It was that pale Jewish kid," a hockey player gasps at a scowling officer. "Jacob...something."
Jacob Ben Israel, Hiram remembers. His family frequented the synagogue.
Hiram's eyes track a woman—probably a parent just arriving—striding purposefully from her SUV, right up to the barricades. Her hair flies unchecked in the wind, and her steps are confident and furious. Hiram is reminded wistfully of Rachel and he hears the woman start yelling.
"My daughter's in there, you slack jawed idiot!"
The guard fumes. "Listen, lady, tons of kids are in there—"
"I want to know where she is, moron, and I want to know now!"
"Honestly, ma'am, all these parents feel exactly the—"
"How on earth did you become a police officer? Did you even graduate?"
"That's enough," the guard roars. "Step back or I'll have you restrained."
The woman turns her head sideways in her rage, and Hiram freezes. No, it couldn't...Shelby Corcoran? Rachel's surrogate mother? Shouldn't she still be in New York City?
"Shelby?" Leroy calls, having recognized her too. Shelby stiffens, and steps in their direction.
Her posture changes immediately, to guilty and nervous, and Hiram eyes her closely.
"Hiram, Leroy...it's good to see you," she mumbles, turning red.
"How did you know Rachel was here?" Leroy asks bluntly.
Shelby flinches regretfully. "I'm sorry...I broke the contract."
"How so?" Leroy demands.
"I figured out who Rachel was...I saw her at Sectionals. I used to coach Vocal Adrenaline at Carmel High. I wanted to meet her so badly, but I couldn't legally...I didn't actually break the contract myself," she adds quickly, "she learned who I was, and she sought me out with some pushing from a student. I missed her all these years, and I wanted—want to be part of her life. I'm sorry, I just don't want to lose her, especially now. Don't take her away after today, I—"
"Shelby!" Leroy cuts her off, and the ex-coach quiets obediently.
"Although you manipulated the agreement to your own ends, it's okay. She came to you, in the end. You didn't do anything illegal."
Shelby stares, hope blossoming in her gaze. Leroy glances at Hiram, who dutifully nods.
"We'll let Rachel know you exactly the way you want. But you can't have custody of her."
Shelby is undeterred. "She can visit me?"
"Yes," Hiram sighs. "She has a right to."
Shelby smiles her appreciation, and both men smile wearily back before all three sober.
"She's still inside, along with most of her glee club," Leroy mutters.
"Have their parents spoken with you?" Shelby inquires. Hiram nods.
"Yes. Judy Fabray is over there," he says quietly, pointing to a group of three adults, "with Carole Hudson and Burt Hummel. Further down is Nicholas Pierce and his daughter, Brittany, the only one in glee to get out immediately. Next to her is Cristina Lopez."
"Quinn's still inside," Shelby reaffirms, looking troubled, her mind switching to the blonde baby with a sitter at home. "I should talk to Judy."
"Santana," Quinn urges. "We need to find cover now. This guy could be anywhere."
"I know. All these classrooms are locked from the inside...what does Brittany have this period? I think History...near Sylvester's office...think she's still kicking?"
"Don't joke about that, S," Quinn admonishes. "And yes, probably."
"I have to go look," Santana says uncomfortably. It's a draw—Santana will continue to look for Brittany until she succeeds, while Quinn wants shelter. Quinn falters.
"Okay," Quinn murmurs. Santana sees the desperate, conflicted emotion in Quinn's features. Santana yanks Quinn into a suffocating, anxious hug, and both don't know if this is really the last time. Santana smirks for good measure, hiding her worry and apprehension behind a cool mask.
"Try to be a worthy HBIC if I don't make it, will you?"
"You too," Quinn retorts, and both offer a nod and head in opposite directions.
Quinn finds herself on the second floor, and several bodies lie in odd positions against lockers, some on their stomachs, and others lying face up, frozen and immobile. Quinn's absently reminded too much of horror movie and averts her eyes, spotting a familiar locker. Rachel's.
Her mouth drops open as she sees Rachel's open locker, books tossed to the ground, and a pool of blood near her feet, where a large smear traces from the lockers to the library doors. Quinn doesn't see Rachel anywhere, and with some trepidation, decides to follow the trail. She inches enough space in the door to slid through, and pulls it shut behind her. The library is empty. Quinn's eyes find the stain, and her feet step beside it, as if following a breadcrumb trail.
She's about to inspect the floor where it stops when a hand flies out, seizing her leg and with surprising agility, tugging her to her knees and a tight grip blocks any scream she could emit. She blinks, and wants to throw up at the sight before her. A terrified, weeping Rachel Berry releases her hands from Quinn, drawing her knees to her chest. Quinn examines Rachel, seeing pale skin against a normally tan complexion, red rimmed eyes, and further down, a bloodstained leg. Rachel's hands aren't still; they shake and constantly dart to her wound, as if to suppress pain. Rachel had been shot, Quinn realizes in shock. And she dragged herself from her locker.
Rachel's eyes, once bright, are dim and hidden behind her (admittedly adorable) bangs. Quinn observes in silence as Rachel grits her teeth and exhales deeply.
"Rachel," Quinn whispers, struggling to comprehend that Rachel was hurt. Rachel was shot, someone she knew could die today, right in front of her.
"Hi, Quinn."