The bell rang and Mr. Schue didn't have to say anything before everybody stood up and ran out the door. Mr. Schue was packing up sheet music into his satchel when he was confronted by a wheelchair.

"Mr. Schue?"

"Yes, Artie?"

"Um, I'm not very comfortable with the arrangement you made for Nationals."

"Okay, tell me Artie. What do you not like about it." Mr. Schue says after putting the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

"Well, this is a very couple, lovey dovey type of an assignment and you may not be aware, but I don't have any…significant other."

"Artie—this assignment isn't about having a significant other. It's about the experience of love and tragedy."

Artie looks at Mr. Schue in confusion.

"In your years in Glee club, you've experienced both of these things, right?"

"Yeah, fursure. Many times."

"See, our club is defined by these two words. If you aren't in love, you are in some sort of drama or vice versa. And usually it's in some sort of combination of both."

"But Mr. Schue—"

"Artie, don't worry about it. If you want a solo or something, I bet I can squeeze something for the singletons of the group."

Mr. Schue looked at the door.

"Artie, I really have to go now, we can talk about this later."

Mr. Schue walked out of the door with Artie by himself. Artie slowly rolled out of the room when his eye caught Santana by her locker. He rolled more quickly towards her before she could leave.

Santana closed the locker and she saw the wheel-chaired boy in front of her.

"What, cripple?"

"Santana. You fuckin think you own everything don't you?"

"Yeah, what's your point."

"Well I'm tired of all your shit. You take Brittany away from me and then you just steal the show for Nationals. It isn't fair. It isn't fuckin' fair."

"What, are you gonna start crying in front of me Abrams? Because I've got better things to do other than you retelling the story of my life."

And then Artie rolled closer into Santana, so close that his wheel touched the tip of Santana's toe. Santana jumped from the out-of-character move Artie just did.

"I am fuckin tired, Santana. Can't you see? My life is a frickin mess. I can't take this anymore. I am in a frickin wheelchair—"

"Don't pull the wheelchair card on me Abr—"

"—SANTANA. LISTEN TO ME. I don't care. I don't fucking care. You turned my girlfriend into a frickin lesbian. You took her away from me. And I can't just let you get away with that. I'm gonna make you're life a living. hell."

"oo. I'm soo scared." Santana says sarcastically.

"I'm not kidding, Lopez. Not until, you give up your duet with Brittany. Because she will be mine. You have to face it. In the end, Brittany will be mine."

Artie rolled passed Santana as she stood there frozen.

Was he serious?

Santana shrugged off the threat and met up with Brittany in the front of the school. She saw her girlfriend smile that smile that made her knees weak. As she held the hand of her one-and-only, she couldn't help but have that scared feeling in the back of her head.

The next day, Santana was at her house, searching for a perfect song she could sing with Brittany. She was actually excited for this duet with her hubby. She was sitting on the couch, one leg crossed underneath the other, with her laptop on her lap. She had a bowl of grapes next to her, which she was subconsciously munching on. On her computer screen, she was looking through her iTunes library as well as searching through the internet for "Romantic Duets for your Girlfriend." Those were the exact words she put into the search bar, but it wasn't very successful since none of the songs really spoke out to her. She didn't want a song that explicitly proclaimed her love with a side of cheese-filled fluff.

No, she wanted a song that told their story. She wanted a theatrical song. Maybe, I should get a song from a musical, she thought. When she put musical at the end of the search bar, the door bell rang. She didn't expect anybody at the house until later, when her parents would come home from work. She stood up in annoyance and the doorbell rang 20 million times after that. The beginning tune of the door bell kept on repeating and it pissed the hell off Santana. Who in the hell is the fuckard that's abusing my door bell.

She looked through the door bell and nobody was there. Oh hell no. Somebody did not just ding dong ditch me. She ran out of the house, hoping to catch the soon-to-be-dead bastard that made Santana stand up for nothing. But when she reached her front yard, nobody was there. And she looked down the street, hoping she would see some freshman boy running. But nobody. She sighed and turned around to face the front of her house in which she stood in shock. Her eyes started to fill with tears as she looked at the words tagged on the garage door.

Fuck the Starcrossed Lesbos. Fuck them to hell.

Santana stared at the words and fell to her knees from the weight of sadness, of anger, and of confusion. She sobbed in front of her house as she took the cell phone out of her pocket. She speed dialed number one as she heard the phone pick up.

"Hey you, what's up?"

"Brit—" Santana cried into the phone, "—Brit. Come here, Brittany. Please…"

Brittany didn't have to say anything back as she hung up and dashed out of the house and ran to her girlfriend's house.

The wheels of the wheelchair squeaked behind Santana as he held the can of spray paint in his hand. He had this feeling that was a mixture of guilt and satisfaction, but he was contemplating if this was too much. The plan sounded so good in his head when he asked– His thoughts were then interrupted from the sudden hand that was placed on his shoulder. Artie looked up to see a menacing smile look down on him.

"Part one of Mission: Take down the Gays is completed. You did good, Abrams. You did good."