Laundering Karma by RC McLachlan

Summary: There is a school shooting at PIFA.
Rating: PG-13

Categories: Mainstream Canon
Characters: Brian Kinney, Justin Taylor, Michael Novotny, Jennifer Taylor, Debbie Novotny
Genres: Mystery / Suspence, Drama, Timeline: Season 3
Warnings: Minor Character Death, Violence
Challenges: None
Series: None
Published: 15 July 2005
Updated: 20 July 2005

Index

Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:

Chapter 1:

It happens when they least expected it.

There had been no warning signs, no indications that anything of this nature would happen. No student had come forward to confess overhearing a conversation because there were no confessions to be heard. Nothing out of the ordinary had been noticed; no one suspected a thing.

When it does begin, Justin is in one of the studios, working on a painting. A portrait. Hundreds of pictures that were pressed together into little squares, a mosaic of memories and snapshots, to make up an unforgettable face. It's his greatest piece yet.

His hand falls to his side, fingers gripping the hilt of the paintbrush loosely, and he stares at the canvas, its once pristine white now destroyed with deliberate strokes of color. Regarding it, he thinks back to the day when he and Ethan parted forever… four days after the Rage party. What a terrible mistake, giving up love for words. Fucking words. That was all. His eyes close against the sting of impending tears, and he shudders. He would fix it. He would make it right.

Eyes opening, Justin lifts his hand, lifts the paintbrush, to the canvas once more and--

His phone rings. Huffing, he puts the brush down and fishes around in his pocket for the phone, flipping it over and bringing it to his ear when it's found. "Hello?"

"Hey, are you busy?" Michael. Coldly polite and straight to the fucking point. Justin sighs and shifts his weight to his right foot. They barely tolerate each other; not that he could blame Michael for that. He'd do the same if it had been Daphne who got… publicly humiliated.

"No," Justin says, almost regretting it as Michael begins relaying idea after idea for the newest storyline for Rage.

"No, I get it," he mutters, eyes rolling at earnest, tinny voice practically shouting at him. He holds the cell phone a little further away from his ear, allowing Michael to ramble on. Justin refrains from asking about J.T., who's still having a blast at college. When Michael's explanation of the impotence epidemic is finished, he decides to weigh some of his own ideas in. "Okay, what if Rage-- wait a second."

The paintbrush had fallen to the floor.

"Where are you?" Michael inquires, a hint of irritation seeping into his voice.

"I'm at PIFA," Justin says, bending over to pick it up. "I need to finish something for a class."

"Do you think you can concentrate on this, Justin? Christ."

"All I'm doing is finishing a painting. There's no crime in that, right?" Justin's starting to think that talking to Michael Novotny over the phone might be a bad idea. Talking to him in general isn't a good thing. Ever since…

No. Don't even think about it. Justin thinks. You'll only either get depressed or angry. Depressed for leaving that night and angry for Michael sticking his nose into your fucking business.

Fucking business.

I'm a regular comedian, he laughs silently.

He's waiting until Michael makes a crack about Ethan -- it's almost certainly going to go there. Justin let sarcasm invade his words; he's already sitting on a powder keg, just waiting now for a match to drop.

"Look, if you're not going to do this--"

"I never said I wasn't going to do this! What the hell, Michael?! I'm just trying to finish this! It's three-fucking-quarters of my first semester grade!" He pants a bit after that, fury building inside of him. The world doesn't revolve around Michael's precious comic… which he doesn't even really want Justin working on anyway.

"You ungrateful shit!" Justin winces and thrusts the phone about two feet away from him. Michael's voice carries the distance, though. "After your little public stunt when you left for your happily ever after with the fiddler--"

The 'fiddler'? … Well, yeah, okay.

"Listen to me," Justin snarls, voice menacingly soft. "I stayed with Ethan for four days before I realized what I'd done. I never loved Ethan. You got that? Never. But I couldn't stay with Brian and not know where I stood. Do you know what it's like, waking up everyday and wondering if he's with you out of guilt, or obligation, if today's going to be the day that he comes to his senses and kicks you out? I left before I could get hurt. And if you can't sympathize or even understand where I'm coming from, then fuck you!"

He hangs up, ready to throw the phone across the room in anger, when--

BANG. BANGBANGBANGBANG. RATTATTARATTA.

A series of thunder claps bursts through the air, echoing throughout the hallway outside, followed by screams. Justin automatically ducks behind a collection of easels, peering past them to look out the doorway into the hall.

"What time is it now, Mr. Wolf?" A soft baritone wafts to his ears, and Justin cringes. Creepy. "It's four o'clock."

A shot rings out, followed by a choked shriek. He doesn't hear that person scream a second time.

"What time is now, Mr. Wolf?"

Justin's heart squeezes in fear, eyes burning and spilling over his cheeks.

"It's five o'clock."

Another shot. This time, no one screams. His hands shakily grip his phone, fingers scrolling down the menu to a number. Instead of calling, they open a new text message. There's no way he can talk and not be heard, not with the gunfire getting so close.

I might die soon.

I want u to know that I love u. always. sorry for everything.

-- J

If his mind had been working, he would've told Brian to call the police.

If his mind had been working, he would've put the phone on silent.

It rings almost immediately, a soft rendition of some techno song streaming cheerfully from the phone. Justin's heart stops and he scrambles away from the easels to hide behind a desk, the legs two solid panels of blue wood. He sits with his back against it, hidden from sight, and takes the call.

"What the fuck does that mean, 'you're going to die soon'?"

Brian. Justin's heart stops beating so fast, muscles relaxing.

"Please, don't talk so loud," he whispers, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece. However relaxed his body is, the tears won't stop coming. "Brian…"

"Whatever the fuck else you have to say, I don't want to hear it. I'm at work. What happened, did Ethan leave you?"

A shot rings out through the room, and Justin goes still, pressing the speaker to his leg to stem the noise of Brian asking what the fuck was that. There are heavy footsteps near the door.

Justin stops breathing.

After what feels like an eternity, the footsteps leave and get further and further away. When he feels it's safe, he brings the phone back to his ear.

"JUSTIN!! JUSTIN, ARE YOU STILL THERE?! Christ, what-- Justin, fucking answer me!"

There is real fear in Brian's voice, but Justin doesn't take the time to feel the triumph.

"B-Brian…"

"Jesus, thank God. Justin, what the fuck was that?"

His hands won't stop shaking. God, why can't he just calm the fuck down?

"Brian… th-there's someone in the school with a gun. I-I think he's killed people."

"Jesus fuck, are you serious?! Where are you?!"

"H-Hiding," he murmurs, sniffing. "Brian, I'm so sorry… for everything. I never loved Ethan. And I broke up with him after four days, because I love y--"

"Not fucking now, Justin. Listen, I'm going to get off the phone and call the police--"

"No!" Justin hisses, choking on the words. More tears spill forth. "No, no, don't hang up, please."

"Justin--"

A shot is fired in the hallway again, far away… but close enough to start worrying again.

He takes a shuddering breath and removes his sneakers. "B-Brian, I've gotta leave here. He already knows where I am… if I move somewhere…"

"Don't you fucking dare! It's too risky. Fuck!" His voice gets far away for a second as he asks Cynthia to get the police on the phone, tell them there's a school shooting at PIFA. "Justin? Stay where you are."

"Brian… I can't. I have to get somewhere else. He's going to kill me if I stay."

"He's going to kill you if you run!"

"Then there's no reason why I shouldn't try." He keeps the phone open, stands up, and slips past the easels and out the door to the left, running as fast as he can. He hits another hallway, takes a right. The music room is down there.

A round of bullets is fired… and it sounds like they came from the studio.

Fuck.
----------------

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Chapter 2:

Author's Note: I must've consumed 23 Welsh's Fruit Popsicles while writing this.




There is more than one shooter, Justin realizes silently, as he tries to get to the music room. But his leg is bleeding profusely. He had been shot by a second gunman, unsure if the bullet went through the limb or is still in there… Justin was fortunate enough not to stumble when he had been hit, just slowed down… but determined enough to make it.

He throws the door open and shuts it behind him, limping over to shove a note stand under the doorknob. He notices an old key lock and turns it anyway, slumping against the door to the floor, pain finally winning over the adrenaline, flaring brightly. He sobs with it, clutching at his hamstring, keening and whimpering. It hurts like nothing he's ever felt, like something's clawing at him from the inside, breaking and bursting through the skin. His head drops to his knee and he bites his lip to keep the scream that's been building in his diaphragm from erupting.

God, this is really happening.

Justin exhales through his tears and remembers distantly that Brian is still on the line on his phone. He fumbles with his right hand to take it out of his pocket and brings it to his ear.

"B-Bri…an?" He's breathless, panting and sweating with the agony radiating from his leg.

"Oh my God, Justin," Brian sounds like he's at the end of his rope. "Are you okay? Jesus, what happened?"

He begins to tremble, shock setting in. "I… Bri… think I…"

"Take a deep breath, okay? Breathe, Justin."

"I… was h-hit…"

"FUCKING CHRIST, HOW BAD?!"

Justin shrugs, forgetting that Brian isn't there with him and can't see the gesture. "I… don't kn-know. It h-hurts so bad… Brian…"

"Justin, you need to fucking listen to me, okay? Listen to me. You need to tell me how bad it is. If… How bad is it bleeding?"

He feels a hole in his jeans, soaked with blood, and cringes, fingers shaking with cold and pain, exhaustion hitting him like a bus. His head lolls back against the door and he grits his teeth as he presses in to assess the damage. There's broken flesh, jagged and wet, but it's a small wound -- deep, but small. He lets out a choked scream as his fingers press in harder, searching for a bullet that isn't there.

His hand falls to the floor at his side and Justin breathes heavily. "T-There's… It's… j-just a… grazing."

Brian's sharp, relieved exhale is audible over the line. "Blood?"

The hand on the floor is covered in it. Justin shivers again and smacks his lips together. "L-Lots."

"Shit. Justin, I'm on my way to the school, okay? The cops are right around the corner; we're going to get you the fuck out of this, okay?"

Justin closes his eyes and a few tears leak out from between his lashes. The cold sweeps through him, replacing the blood in his veins with ice, freezing every working synapse and artery and organ. Shock is setting in, he thinks to himself, the fingers holding the phone falling lax, the device slipping a bit down his palm. Justin fixes his gaze on a random spot on the far wall, a poster advertising for Dostoyevsky, and lets himself slip away.

"Justin? Justin, okay? Are you still there? FUCK!!"

Justin sobs, and Brian hears it over the line.

"Justin, it's going to be okay."

No, Justin's mind whispers sadly. No, it won't. You left this. This concern, this love… You left him behind. How can you even expect him to come and save you?

"I left you," he breathes in shock, the words staccato and strangled. "My God, I left you."

"No fucking shit."

"My God. Brian…" He can't get the words out because the world is slowly closing in on him, narrowing and pulling all forms of matter into this one point. The pressure is unbearable, squeezing around him like a giant vice, forcing the air out of his lungs. Justin, vaguely, thinks of the Big Bang Theory, and how all types of energy and matter were brought to a single point before exploding. He wonders if he'll end up doing the same.

He snaps out of his daze as the glass window in the door above his head shatters with a bullet, showering him with shimmering shards.

"JUSTIN!!" His voice fades in and out, and Justin scrambles away from the door, gritting his teeth in pain, glancing down at the screen on his phone.

The battery's just about out.

"JUSTIN, WHAT THE F--"

He brings the phone to his mouth only, closing his eyes as more shots are fired above him.

"I love you, Brian."

The phone snaps shut and Justin clutches it close, breath coming faster, the tears starting up again. He shields his face with his arm from the horrible sound of gunfire against the lock on the door. When he lowers his arm, he sees the lock is nothing but a mangled strip of metal.

Justin throws the phone from him with as much force as he can muster, watching it shatter against a wall. He smiles grimly and turns his tear-stained face to the door as it's forced open.

"Well, well… a survivor."
--------------
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Chapter 3:

When Brian gets to the scene, it hits him how serious this whole thing is. He remembers watching the news stories on the Columbine shooting, shaking his head over the stupid fuckers who found the need to strike back at classmates through violence and death. Passed it off as another fuck-up of the juvenile delinquent.

But this time it's personal, because Justin's in there, hurt and scared and constantly seconds away from death.

Unless they already--

No. Brian refuses to think of that, pushes it to the far recesses of his mind as he pushes his way through the gathering crowd of onlookers and frightened parents and family members.

Family members. Fuck.

He flips his phone open and dials a number that may or may not be right; his mind isn't as lucid as he would like it to be. It rings twice before someone answers.

"Jennifer Tay--"

"Mrs. Taylor, it's Brian. Kinney." As if he needs to fucking clarify.

"Why, hello, Br--"

"I need you to come to the Institute. Right fucking now. I don't know if it's hit the news stations yet, but the Institute's being shot up."

"Oh my God, Justin! Oh, Jesus, I'm coming right down-- oh, God, please, not my baby--" Her voice is pitching, and Brian winces, ignoring the panic hers ignites in him, the wild beating of his heart in response to her words. Talking to her, hearing this, makes it real. It's real. It's happening.

"Mrs. Taylor, don't fucking flip out. I need you to hold it together, okay? Just fucking get here now. When you do, ask a cop for-- are you listening?"

"Brian, I can't lose him--"

"FUCKING CHRIST, LISTEN TO ME!!" He's going to completely lose his shit in a minute. His phone beeps with another call, but he ignores it. "Mrs. Taylor, when you get here, ask for Detective Carl Horvath. Can you remember that name? Carl Horvath."

Jennifer Taylor takes a deep, shuddering breath on the other line. "Y-Yes… Okay. Okay. Detective Horvath."

"I'm going to go find him, see what the situation is. We're going to get him out of this, Mrs. Taylor. He's going to come out of this -- alive."

Brian hangs up, only to have his phone ring immediately. He takes the call.

"WHAT!"

"Fuck, Brian, have you seen the news?!" Mikey. Brian feels a wave of exhaustion hit him.

"Mikey, I'm down at the school. I-- I have to find out what the fuck is going on."

"Bri… I talked to Justin when he was inside. I said some… I was a real shit. Did you know he and Ethan were only together for four days after the party?"

"So I've heard. Mikey, listen--"

"Is he there? I… I think I should apologize… Right? Yeah, I'll apologize, and--"

"Mikey." God, Brian realizes he sounds old. Old and tired and unable to deal with this without his huge stash of Beam at home. "Mikey, he's still inside."

"Holy shit, no! No, he's not! Brian, if he dies thinking I hate him--"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING START, MIKEY!! I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT!!" Spittle flies from Brian's mouth and his voice cracks on the word 'start'. He can feel the earth shifting under his feet, ready to toss him to the ground, leave him at the mercy of fate. "Get your mother and bring her the fuck down here. I refuse to listen to her bitch and moan later because she wasn't called." He hangs up the phone and shoves it into his jacket pocket, pushing through people to get to the line of police cars and ambulances that barricade the populace from entering the premises of the Hoyt Building… where Justin's studio is.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you--" A cop grabs Brian's arm, but Brian yanks it back, eyes blazing.

"Detective Horvath called me. So if you'll kindly let me the fuck go, I'll be on my merry way." He pushes past without waiting for an answer, spotting Carl among the sea of blue uniforms. "Horvath!"

Carl turns his head, face weary and worn. "Kinney. You've…" He looks away. "Your boy… Taylor--"

Brian lunges forward and takes both of his shoulder, gripping them tightly. "Is he all right? Is he fucking all right?!"

Carl closes his eyes. Brian's stomach drops.

"He's fine… for now."

Brian steps back, takes a wild look around, and breathes. Justin's okay. He's still alive. For now.

"Why the fuck aren't you storming the place?! What the fuck are you just standing here for? Get these kids out of there!"

Horvath exhales sharply, irritation written plainly on his face. "It's not so easy, Kinney. If we go in right away, the gunmen could kill everyone inside, then themselves, and then what? What the fuck does that solve?"

Hope begins to die in Brian… and he remembers vaguely why he usually doesn't believe in it. Hope always seems to be a huge let-down in the end.

"So what are we doing?"

Carl gestures away from himself, to a woman seated on the edge of a police van, typing rapidly away at a laptop, black headphones stark against her platinum blonde hair. "That's Laeney Bennington, our resident hacker. She's gotten into the school's P.A. system… one that goes both ways. The only problem is… she can't tap into the microphone. It runs on a different circuit or whatever. She's gotten into the speakers, though, and can listen in to each classroom."

Brian doesn't quite let go of Hope just yet. "And…?"

"They've got the… survivors holed up in a room together. The two gunmen just took a girl into another room… we're listening in."

Carl leads Brian over to the van, where several officers and who look to be SWAT team members crowd around, eavesdropping. The conversation playing out comes from a set of portable speakers connected to the laptop.

"… at do you hate?"

"N-Nothing. Please, do-don't kill me…"

It's a girl. A helpless, frightened girl who sounds ready to wet herself.

"Tell us what you hate, you stupid little bitch! Or I'll shoot you so you die slowly… you'll just bleed out…" Brian's nails dig into his palms, breaking skin and leaving bloody crescent moons in their wake.

"Hey, Nick, stop--"

"Shut the fuck up! Answer me, you whore! What do you hate?!"

"I-I don't hate--"

"Wrong answer. What time is it now, Mr. Wolf?"

The cocking of a gun.

"He's going to--" A cop shouts, and a shot rings out from the speakers. The people crowding outside the school fall silent, listening to the pained screams of the girl, growing fainter as she's taken out of that room--

"Switching rooms… now." Bennington hits a key on her laptop, bringing up another room, one without as good acoustics as the other one.

There are a few startled cries as the gunman enters.

"Poor thing. Little fucking hypocrite. She said she didn't hate anything. Now, that's the biggest pile of shit I've ever heard."

Sniffles from all the others. Justin's in there with them, somewhere.

"I'll be back in five minutes. You're next."

Someone -- not Justin, Brian thinks with relief -- begins to plead, choked and incoherent promises streaming from his lips. Swearing to not press charges if he's allowed to live. He vows to give him anything, anything he wants, because his father's rich and owns all this shit and--

"Five minutes, little piggy. Better think your answer over carefully, or else I'll huff… and puff… and blow you the fuck away."

There are footsteps and the slamming of a door, then the voices of the students rise up.

"Oh my God, she's bleeding--"

"Someone give me their shirt, we need to wrap this--"

"ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod…"

"Okay. Okay, you need to regulate your breathing. C-Can you do that for me? Deep breaths."

Brian gasps, surging forward. "Justin--"

"Squeeze my hand if you want. You n-need to stay awake. We're going t-to wrap your wound, okay? N-No! Don't struggle. They're w-wrapping your neck. That's it… We need to stop the b-bleeding…"

"Brian!"

He turns and finds Jennifer Taylor rushing to him, eyes shedding tears and abject horror. He grips her hands in his, bringing her to the van so she can listen in, hear her son's voice and find for herself that he's okay… for now.

"God, please…" Justin's crying now. "Please don't die. Please… God, you have to stay awake! S-Someone hold her other hand!"

"Oh my God, Jessica… Do you know me? My name's Morty… I'm in your Shakespeare class? Jesus, Jessica, I'm so sorry--"

"ohmygodohmygodohmygod…"

"Her name's Jessica? J-Jessica? I'm Justin…"

"That shirt's not enough! The blood's leaking through--"

"ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod…"

"Will someone shut him the fuck up?!"

"He's going to die in, like, two minutes! Cut the kid some slack!"

"D-Don't say that! What if--"

"What if what, blondie? If those two like his answer, they'll let him live? Get fucking real! We're all going to die!"

Brian can't think of a moment in his life more surreal than this. Jennifer Taylor's weeping into his side, the cops are discussing breaking in with the SWAT team, and Justin's in there, holding the hand of a girl that has been shot in the neck because she didn't hate anything.

"Hey!" Bennington shouts, eyes wide. "They're back in!"

"It's seven o'clock, now, Mr. Wolf. Step into my office, little piglet. Time's up."
------------
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Chapter 4:

Jennifer Taylor bursts into tears when the girl named Jessica dies from the wound in her neck. She grips Brian's arm tightly enough to bruise, even through his leather jacket, and covers her mouth with a trembling hand to stifle the scream that struggles to break free. Brian tentatively wraps an arm around her shoulders and allows her to cry into his chest, gives her this tiny sliver of solace, despite the fact that she despises him for what he's done to her son.

Jessica gurgles her last breath, wet and painful to hear over the shocked and stymied breaths of the other students in the room. Pandemonium soon breaks out.

"Oh shit. Oh my God, Jessica?!"

"Is she-- She's not…"

"She's dead. She's dead. Holy fuck."

"ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod…"

"FUCKING SHIT!! THIS IS SUCH FUCKIING SHIT!!"

The students fall silent and Brian stops breathing. The last one to speak was the gunman, the 'Mr. Wolf' kid, muffled by the door separating the two rooms but loud enough to be heard. Carl Horvath steels his shoulders and looks at Bennington, who looks older than she should behind her laptop.

"I want to hear what's going on in the next room, Bennington. Bring it up."

Bennington frowns and taps at her screen. Touch screen. The air, abuzz with murmurs and voiced worries from the bystanders, is suddenly filled with shouting, screamed insults and profanities.

"What the fuck, Farren?! You chickening out now? I thought you wanted to get back at those pretentious fuckers as much as I do. I thought you hated them as much as I do."

"Nick… I… Yeah, I did… But I think it's going too far--"

"THE FUCK IT IS!! YOU SAID YOU WERE IN THIS WITH ME!!"

"Nick, c'mon… I mean, shit, we have no right to play God."

"As far as they're concerned, I am God."

The gun goes off, followed by the thud of something -- a body -- and footsteps, then the door opening.

"Jesus," Brian whispers. Mr. Wolf just killed his pack mate. Bennington immediately taps the screen to hear--

"Let's get moving, piglet."

"ohmygodohmygodohmygod…!"

There are screams and the sounds of a struggle as the kid is being dragged away from his fellow peers. The door slams behind them, and Brian takes a deep breath, ignoring the fear growing in his heart, threatening to consume everything inside of him.

"I want my mom…" Morty sobs, and then breaks down. Jennifer Taylor cries harder at the kid's statement and Brian closes his eyes when no reply from Justin comes forth. A feeling of helplessness breaks over him… he can almost hear it, spilling inside of him like a tipped jar of marbles. Like the swing and hit of a baseball bat against bone and being too late to stop it.

"My baby's in there," Jennifer Taylor gasps out, releasing Brian and turning to look at Horvath and the gaggle of cops and SWAT team members around them. "What the fuck are you doing? Why aren't you in there?!"

Horvath opens his mouth to speak, but the SWAT team leader steps forward. "Ma'am, we're trying everything we can to--"

"The fuck you are!" Jennifer Taylor snarls, eyes wild. "You're standing around a computer, listening to kids getting killed off, one by one! You're the best at this kind of thing! You need to get them out of there!"

The team leader nods to another cop. "Get her out of here."

The cop nods back reluctantly and goes to take her arm, Brian moving to intercept. Jennifer Taylor starts after the SWAT leader, stopped by Brian's arm around her waist.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TURN AWAY FROM ME! MY SON IS IN THERE!!"

"YEAH!" Shouts a new voice, and all heads turn in the direction of it. Horvath's tense expression softens just a tad. Debbie Novotny stands two feet away from Jennifer Taylor and Brian, arms akimbo, a mutinous look in her eyes and a zebra-print parka zipped up to her chin. "What the fuck are you waiting for, a written invitation?! Put the doughnuts down, get off your asses, and get the fuck in that building! NOW!!"

"Excuse me, ma'am, but you have no authorization to be--"

"She's fine, Gowan. She's with me," Horvath snaps, flashing her a weary smile. Debbie nods gratefully and then moves to take Brian into a bone-crushing hug.

"I came down as soon as Michael called me. Jesus fuck! Is he… Is he okay?"

Debbie doesn't wait to hear the answer, can read it in Brian's face, and releases him to hold Jennifer Taylor in her arms, stroking her hair with mittens that match her parka. "Jennifer, sweetie…"

Brian can't help the relief that he feels as the burden of comforting Jennifer Taylor is taken from him. He's not good at offering solace, never was… He closes his eyes against an impending headache and rubs at his sinuses, stemming it, gathering his scattered thoughts and trying to focus on the… When did his mind decide to suddenly up and leave?

Oh, that's right. When Justin--

Shit. Justin.

He spins on his heel and moves closer to hear what's going on.

"Kinney." Brian turns his head slightly to the left to look at Horvath. "The SWAT team is ready to go i--"

A shot rings out from the laptop speakers, and Debbie shrieks in surprise.

"Was that a gunshot?! Christ Al-fucking-mighty!" She drags Jennifer Taylor over to stand next to Brian and points a claw directly in front of Bennington's right eye. "What the fuck is going on in there?"

Brian feels the air leave him again in one giant whoosh. The 'ohmyGod' kid is gone, leaving only three or so students in the other room… Shit. Bennington gives him a solemn look before tapping the screen again, going back to the students.

"Jesus…" Barely audible over the tears in the person's voice. Brian isn't sure who it is…

"That's it, then. We're all going to be killed, one by one."

"Shut up, okay? We don't need to hear this."

"OF COURSE YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS!! I DON'T THINK YOU REALIZE WHAT'S GOING ON!! WE'RE NOT GOING TO MAKE IT OUT OF HERE!!"

"I never should've come in today. I wasn't even supposed to. This is so fucked--"

"Why… did you come in?" Brian exhales a breathy "oh", one hand moving to grip the shoulder opposite to it.

"I had a fight with my mother. I came in to finish something for illustration class. What about you?"

"ARE YOU TWO EVEN FUCKING LISTENING TO ME?!"

"I… I was finishing something, too. A painting. It would've been my best work yet… when finished."

"What of? If you don't mind me asking…"

"… Someone I love… very much. I used hundreds of images to make up his face…"

"A mosaic. That's interesting. Did you name it?"

"'Kinnected'… K-I-N-N-E-C-T-E-D."

"You're both out of your fucking minds. How the fuck can you just sit there and discuss art when you're two seconds away from DEATH?!"

"That's really cool. Your boyfriend?"

Brian shuts his mind down so he doesn't hear the soft and bitter laughter that emits from Justin. "Kinnected". How fucking interesting. How really fucking cool. A mosaic! How nice. And once again, he's the reason for Justin getting hurt. If his mind was working, if it wasn't so fragmented, he knows he'd be berating himself for ever walking up to the gorgeous, young thing under that streetlight. For ever taking him home. For ever insinuating himself into his life.

'Boyfriend'? He'd eat glass before even hinting at us ever being in a relationship."

The world, in all its entirety and fragile beauty, comes crashing down around Brian. He gazes at the sky and is sure he can see it melting, blue running down some invisible wall like wet paint, at the trees, which he's positive are burning. At the ground, which is cracking and falling away.

"For what it's worth… if we get out of this… I hope you make up with your mom."

"Thanks. And… for what it's worth… if we get out of this… I hope your guy realizes what he has. That if you don't care for what you've got… it can disappear right from under you."

Brian waits patiently for the force that's destroying the world to finish him off.

Justin laughs again. "Thanks, but I doubt--"

The door to the room bursts open.

"What time is it now, Mr. Wolf?"

Brian holds his breath. Debbie grips Jennifer Taylor's hand.

Silence.

"ANSWER ME, YOU FUCKING SWINE!"

"… It's my time."

Brian closes his eyes, blocks out Jennifer Taylor's shrieks of denial, and waits to be destroyed.
---------------------
Stay tuned.

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Chapter 5:

"What do you hate?"

"…"

"ANSWER ME!! WHAT DO YOU HATE?! OR DO YOU WANT TO END UP LIKE THAT BITCH?! OR THAT FUCKING PUSSY?! ARE YOU GOING TO CRY FOR YOUR MOTHER, TOO?!"

"… Why are you doing this?"

"Answer. Me. Or you will die."

"You don't know a fucking thing about hate!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!"

"You want to know what hate looks like? Huh?! Take a fucking good look at this. See that scar? That's what hate looks like. Hate looks like a baseball bat that hits you right in the fucking head on prom night."

"… I remember that. It was on the news. That was you…"

"Y-Yeah…"

"You went to the prom with your boyfriend. And some kid bashed you in the head."

"… Yeah."

The gun cocks.
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"You still didn't answer my question. What do you hate?"

Heavy breathing… disbelief rattling in their lungs, fear in their faces.

"Four-by-Two formation! Now! Location: right wing, third room on the left!"

"Keep talking… Christ, please… Not him…"
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"Tell me… Do you feel this? The barrel? It's pointed right against that scar. You have three seconds to give me an answer… or you'll be reliving prom night. Only you won't live this time to tell people about it."

"…"

"Stop crying and fucking ANSWER ME."

"I… I h-hate… Knowing th-that I'm not g-going to make it through this… and that I w-won't get to tell Brian how s-sorry I am. He says that sorry's bullshit, b-but I truly regret what I did to him. And he'll n-never know how much… I love him."

"And the piglet's heart… is made of straw…"

"And…" Losing resolve. Losing hope. Losing sight. "A-And I don't want him to not kn-know that…"

Footsteps, soft but still audible, outside the door. Voices gentle and reassuring. The police had arrived.

"B-Because…"
-----------

A shot rings out, and Brian Kinney knows then… that there is no God.

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Chapter 6:

When the SWAT team emerges from the building, suited up like the finest warriors Pennsylvania has to offer, faces grim and shoulders tense, he doesn't see them. He doesn't see Morty run from the double doors, held open for him by two officers, to where his mother and father wait. He doesn't see the other student, the one that had been in a fight with her mother, being led down the stairs by another SWAT member, patting her back stiffly as she cries into his shoulder. He doesn't hear the death toll being reported. He doesn't hear a SWAT member announce that the gunman was taken out. He doesn't hear the president of the college, just arrived, speaking gravely with the head of the SWAT team. He doesn't hear Jennifer Taylor's raucous sobs, or Debbie's wheezing wails, or feel Michael's arms closing around him.

He doesn't hear because he's back there… back in the parking garage. In the place where shadows grow and every movement, every footstep and every breath and every word and every laugh… echoes. Where, in the dim lighting, blood looks like oil, staining the ground and shining… iridescent… an aurora borealis on the asphalt.

He turned and smiled at him… and fell like an angel, condemned to the worst of fates…

He whispered that he regretted walking away and leaving that night… that he still loved him… and closed his eyes, like a prisoner of war, against the bullet that ripped through his skull.

"… It was the best night of my life…" Crack.

"He'll never know how much I love him… and I don't want him to not know that… because…" Bang.

Every smile. Every laugh. Every tear. Every look that shot right through his dick, through his heart…

No more. Never again.

"Brian…" That beloved voice breaking through the haze, banishing that night away, wrapping him in heavy concern, brotherly love. Always dependable. Always was, always will be. Always have, always will. He closes his eyes, rests his eyes against those small, sloping shoulders, and lets the fabric of the tee-shirt soak up his tears, endless… "God, I'm so sorry…"

"He's dead…" The shocked laugh bubbles out of him like a curse. "He's gone… that's it. It's done. Crack, bang, and he's gone…" He chokes on the last word, gripping the tee-shirt under his palms tightly, grounding himself as he begins to tremble, as it really hits him.

"Brian, God, I don't--"

"He died… thinking that I hated him." And that's the worst of all.

The tee-shirt moves away from under his hands and he lifts his head blearily to see where his pillar of strength went. What he finds are glassy, red eyes, trembling lips, and a face stretched too-taut over high cheekbones. Her hands come to rest on his face, shaking hard, but managing to be gentle… maternal. More tears spill over his cheeks as she presses her forehead to his.

"Why don't you hate me?" He whispers brokenly, placing his hands over hers. "Why don't you hate me?"

"Because," she whimpers, eyes screwed tightly shut. "He loved you most of all."

She holds him close and strokes his hair, just like his mother never did, and bawls quietly in his ear. Even with this comfort, with a zebra-print mitten rubbing his back in soothing circles, he can't help but entertain thoughts of… how he can rid himself of this feeling. This sadness, bone-deep and wretched, weighing down on his body like lead weights. He could attempt to hang a scarf from the rafters in the loft… he could go out and buy an obscene amount of drugs and take them all at once… he could go out and buy a gun… no. No gun. Always beautiful.

And then… a sharp intake of breath off to the side. A soft, shocked prayer murmured against the side of his face.

"Sir, we need to take you to the hospital… Please, the ambulance is waiting…"

No. No no no. Hope never comes through. It always fails at the last possible moment…

He disentangles himself from the motherly embrace he's only gotten from one other woman in his life and turns.

And the world, destroyed, starts the chain of life again… and the first, tiny plant unfurls from the ground.

Justin stands before him with the help of an EMT. His face is white with pain and trauma, cheeks stained with tears and sweat, eyes exhausted and huge. Wearily, he stretches a hand out, silently begging for something… a nod… a smile…

Brian darts forward without preamble, taking him into his arms, clutching him tight enough to cut off oxygen. Justin grips him back just as hard, keening softly, grateful that it isn't too late… to apologize. He does so, half-coherent whispers and apologies into Brian's neck, stopped by trembling hands that remove his face from the tanned throat, forcing him to look into Brian's face, into his tear-filled eyes. Brian's fingers stroke over his cheeks, over his temples, over his nose and mouth and chin, searching for damage, reinforcing the fact that this is real. That this is solid. That this is life, right underneath his hands.

His mother rushes to hold her son, Debbie coming around from behind to do the same, Michael watching closely and smiling at his boy wonder through a sheen of tears. Justin hugs them all close, whispering that it's over, and the EMT breaks in, professing an urgency to get his leg tended to.

"Okay. Okay…" Justin mutters, tired and strained, and is led away by the EMT, barely able to walk. Jennifer Taylor takes a step forward to follow, then pauses and looks at Brian.

"You go with him."

His breath rattles noisily in his chest. "What about--"

"We'll follow. Go with him, Brian, please."

He nods and walks after them, hoisting himself into the back of the ambulance, trying not to think about the last time he rode in one.

But when Justin's hand slips quietly into his own, it feels like absolution. It feels like the world's rebirth.

It feels like laundered karma.




Fin.

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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.This story archived at http://www.bjfic.net/main/viewstory.php?sid=8189

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