Disclaimer: These characters definitely don't belong to me.

Warning: This chapter contains violence, character-death and some profanity.

A/N: I see that some people are saving or following this story. I really appreciate that, but I really love to read comments, too. Please tell me what you think! One more part to go after this.

IV: So Long

It's quiet, but there's a tension in the hush that Artie can feel. It's like when the headphones are plugged in, not in your ears yet but you know the music's playing. It's third period and the hallway is empty for once. No one is pushing them.

Ten minutes ago, there was an announcement over the PA system. Principal Figgins didn't spell out exactly what's happening, but the tone of panic in his voice was enough to get everyone to listen to him. All the classroom doors in all the hallways are closing and locking and being barricaded from the inside.

Kurt looks into some of the windows they pass. "They're hiding under desks," he reports. The rectangles of wire-embedded glass are set too high in the doors for Artie, but it doesn't matter. He's not sure he wants to see them, these kids who have bullied or ignored him since elementary. Would they look scared now? Would that stop him? He doesn't want to know.

They have a plan.

Kurt is dressed all in black, but Artie isn't wearing anything special except for the Kevlar vest he ordered online. There's no point in trying to disguise himself. The backpack on his chair is full of ammunition which, realistically speaking, he doesn't think they'll get to use. The Glock and the TEC-9 are in his lap because he needs both hands to move. Someone is going to try to stop them soon, and Artie thinks he knows how that will probably go. He's always been a pragmatist. They have to be quick to get it done, the important part.

They have a map. Kurt drew it in his basement, freehand, no ruler. He's good at things like that. Who knew?

They don't need to take it out. They turn into the Foreign Languages corridor. "Ready?"

Artie nods. From his low angle, he has an unobstructed view of the acoustic ceiling tiles in Room 212. No one has piled furniture in front of this door yet.

Kurt kicks it open. "Everybody get down and put your hands on your heads," he says in his clear, loud performer's voice, and walks in. His dad's hunting rifle is slung easily over his shoulder. He thinks he's invincible. It's something Artie's always admired about him.

Artie follows, heart beating hard. He pivots in the doorway to face the rows of desks and locks his wheels. It won't be like the woods behind Kurt's house where they practiced. There, the ground is a bed of soft pine needles. On this smooth floor, the kickback might actually roll him a significant distance.

"All right?" Kurt asks without turning.

"Yeah."

Señora Donnelly is hugging herself. She is at the front of the room under the American flag, her back pressed to the blackboard. On a normal day, she would be writing conjugations on the board and Artie would be in the front row, right in front of Mike Chang. This used to be Mr. Schuster's class, before he left Lima for parts unknown.

The kids get down on the floor. Señora Donnelly's eyes flick toward the door, to Artie. She doesn't know Kurt, who takes French.

"Noah."

A lot of the kids are out of their seats, some behind the bulky filing cabinet, others frozen around the heating vents that line the far wall, but Puck is where he usually is, in the back of the room. His feet are planted far apart, his big hands in fists on the flimsy desk surface of the desk-chair combo.

"Noah," Kurt says again. "Get the fuck up here." The order is calm and precise; Artie thinks the obscenity sounds out of place.

They have a list. The list has a number one.

Mentally, Artie does a count of the others in the room -- four boys and seven girls, plus Señora D. Where are the others? Did they run out into the hall when they had the chance?

"Everyone get up and sit on the radiator," Artie says. He wants them all in the same place, where he can keep an eye on them. His voice shakes, but they do it.

Puck stands and walks up the aisle toward them, deliberate and slow. If he's frightened, it's not obvious. "Hummel," he says, noncommittally, like this is nothing out of the ordinary. "What are you doing?"

Kurt smiles. The rifle is leveled at Puck's chest. "I didn't know you knew my name," Kurt says. "That's not what you usually call me, is it?"

"I know your name." Puck stops at the front row, maybe five feet away -- point-blank range. Artie wonders what will happen next. Will Kurt make him repeat all the slurs they used against him? Does he want an apology?

"Good," Kurt says simply. "Kneel."

The other boy obeys, folding his body gracefully, like it's a football drill or he's about to propose. Artie wants Puck to ask why they're doing this. He wants Puck to say please. He wants to hear what Kurt would say to that.

"It's just high school, Hummel." Puck tilts his chin up. "Everyone knows you'll get out. I always thought you knew, too."

That's when Mike Chang throws the desk-chair. He's got good aim for a McKinley football player; one of the metal legs catches Artie in the chest and takes away his breath for a second, but he's still holding onto the guns, he squeezes a round from the Glock without aiming and there's a terrific noise as the blackboard comes apart. Mike is vaulting over the last obstacles that separate him from the door, hurling himself at Artie's chair. Big hero, Artie thinks, firing again blindly from the floor. Mike is on top of him, maybe even kicking him, he can't tell.

"Let go!" Mike screams. "I don't want to hurt you, man!" Artie feels a strong grip on his right wrist. "Let go!" he yells again as Artie lifts the second gun, the TEC-9, and shoots him in the face.

Mike's body is heavy, but neither still nor limp. His lower jaw is not really there anymore; he is making noises that cannot be deciphered. He is not trying to say Artie's name, but he probably knows it. They are so close in the alphabet. Artie wrenches free his dominant hand and shoots again.

Gradually, he becomes aware of the noise in the room, like a radio station broadcast from Cleveland, fading in as the car moves north on the highway. On the heating ducts, Amy Markowitz has her arms around Mackenzie St. Clair, who is making huge, gulping sounds. Jacob Ben Israel is crying. There is a lot of blood.

His chair is tipped over and out of reach. He props himself on his elbows. The floor is slippery. His weapons and Mike's body make it difficult to move. "Kurt," he says. "A little help?"

Kurt and Puck are still at the front of the room, Puck still on his knees, the rifle pointed at his head now.

"I'll cover him. Just come over here for a second." Artie hates this. He knew something like this would happen.

They both grew up playing video games, but they took away different lessons.

Señora Donnelly is sitting on her butt, her skirt hiked up, pieces of blackboard in her hair. "Oh Jesus Christ," she says.

Dios Mio.

Kurt backs away from Puck and comes over. He flips the wheelchair upright and nudges it over, sweeping his gun along the row of scared students on the radiators. "None of you move, or you'll get what he got." He glances down. "God. That sounded so cliche, didn't it?"

"Why?" It's Puck. His face, turned toward them, is pale with distress but his neck is flushed. "Why did you shoot him?"

Why. Artie can remember years of reasons, all the incidents they talked about in Kurt's basement room. But those aren't the important things right now.

Artie adjusts his legs, positions his feet in the rests, picks up the guns again. "Because he went for me." He's looking at Puck, but he's talking to everyone in the room. "Don't you make that mistake."

Puck's eyes meet his. "I'm really sorry. We were shitty to you. We were jerks."

Artie knows why he's saying it, why he saved it to say to him. Because Kurt was going to escape to New York City and everything would have been different, but this is Artie's life, and he's stuck with it. In school, he used to have show choir, before Figgins cut it, and now he's left with jazz band and Tina, and more recently, Kurt and his maps and lists. After graduation, Artie will still have the guitar and his stupid family and a web design job or something if he's lucky, Social Security Disability to fall back on if he's not.

Would have. That's what he would have had, and people think it's not enough. Noah Puckerman, with two handguns and a rifle pointed at him, says that he's sorry. Artie believes him. He does.

They have a plan. Jacob is crying. Señora Donnelly's face is covered by her hands.
"Do you want me to?" Kurt says.

Artie can't remember what he answers, but the noise of the shot is loud.