“So which car is it?” Blaine asked, crossing the dark street with full strides, his gang following closely behind him. The smell of leather and cigarettes trailed after them like a shadow.

“That one,” Tina said, pointing to a red Hummer parked haphazardly under a broken streetlamp.

“Wow,” Santana smirked. “I haven’t even seen this guy and I already know he’s a grade A douche bag just looking at the car he drives.” A few of the Pistols laughed, making sounds of agreement.

“I told him to leave me alone,” Tina said. “He fucking harasses me on my way to work at least three times a week. I told him I’d rip his balls off if he ever laid a hand on me, but it didn’t seem to scare him.”

“Well,” Blaine replied, kneeling down beside the car, patting it absentmindedly as if calming a frightened animal. “Let’s see if this knocks him down a few pegs.” He pulled out his switchblade, puncturing the tire and dragging his hand down to create a jagged opening. He could hear the audible hiss as the air rushed out.

Blaine stood up, dusting off his knees and straightening his jacket. He nodded at the gang, gesturing at the remaining three tires. “Well, have at it,” he said.

The others turned to the car, scratching into the delicate paint job with their blades and sinking them into the tires. Wes, Blaine’s second in command, looked at him questioningly.

“Where’s Sebastian?” he asked. He looked concerned. Sebastian had a tendency to piss people off and get himself into trouble with his lack of filter and endlessly rude thoughts.

“Fuck,” Blaine said. “He’s like a little kid. Somehow, I didn’t relate leading a gang to babysitting.” He shook his head, thrusting a piece of paper and a pen at Wes. “Here, write something down for Douche Bag Extraordinaire and make it sound threatening, will you?”

Blaine turned, fumbling in his pockets to retrieve his phone. He quickly scrolled down to Sebastian and hit ‘call’. He realized the whole gang was now watching him fume as he tapped his foot and waited for Sebastian to pick up. The voicemail took over.

“Hey, you’ve reached Sebastian Smithe. Leave your name and number if you want to fuck.”

“Get your ass down to headquarters before I rip you a new one, Sebastian. You better hope you haven’t done anything incredibly stupid tonight.” Blaine ended the call with a forceful press of his thumb. This wasn’t the first time he had to do this. Sebastian would always slip away for hours on end, claiming to only be gone for an hour or so. Then he’d reappear, mayhem following. Blaine pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. That’s it. He was going to have to handcuff himself to the bastard. He felt a headache coming on.

The Pistols looked at him worryingly. Mike looked like he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

“Back to headquarters,” Blaine barked. He strode off ahead of them, not having any idea what he’d find when he reached his destination.

His bar was on fire. His fucking bar was on fire! These were the only thoughts that rushed through his head as he approached Gunslingers. The bar he had built from nothing, that he had invested so much money in, was up in flames, fire greedily licking up the sides of the building. And he knew exactly who had done it.

“Where the FUCK is Sebastian?” Blaine growled.

As if on cue, Sebastian drove around the corner and stopped the car abruptly when he caught sight of the building aflame. Blaine strode over to the car and ripped him out of the seat and onto the ground.

“What did you do?” Blaine asked, voice low and filled with venom.

Sebastian looked momentarily taken aback. “That wasn’t me.”

“No,” Blaine pointed back at the burning building, one hand still forcefully gripping Sebastian’s collar. “That, is the work of the Sparrows, of Kurt Hummel specifically. What in the hell did you do to piss him off?” The Pistols and the Sparrows had been at a fragile cease-fire for two years. This was the first sign of the pact being broken. And Blaine knew once you pissed off Kurt Hummel, there was no coming back from that.

A look of comprehension dawned on the bastard’s face, quickly replaced with the sneer that Blaine hated. “He had it coming,” was all he said. Blaine’s stomach dropped.

“Tell me,” he asked, voice dangerous. He felt his hand tighten around the fabric of Sebastian’s button-up.

“Blaine,” Sam said warningly, ever the peace keeper. Blaine held his hand out towards Sam, keeping his eyes determinedly on Sebastian.

“The Sparrows are scum,” Sebastian spat. “Hummel, he’s a bitch. And here we are, just letting him and his stupid little club of adorable misfits run around New York City like they own it. Well, fuck that. So when I saw him and that giant idiot that follows him around like a puppy, I took matters into my own hands. After all, someone’s got to, since our own precious leader won't do anything about it.”

The Pistols held their breath, wary of Blaine’s reaction, but he paid no mind to the insult. “You went after them,” he said, guessing.

“I shot the tall one in the chest at least once; think I caught Hummel a few times too.” He was so nonchalant about it, shrugging with a self-satisfied smirk.

The smirk vanished as Blaine’s fist slammed into his cheek. He fell into the dirt, catching himself on his hands and staring up at Blaine’s face, which was contorted in anger. Blaine stood above him, his eyes glowing with the reflection of the fire.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you idiot? Do you even use your brain? You just broke our peace treaty with the Sparrows. This,” he gestured towards the flames, “is a sign. You’ve evoked a war with them, and now they won’t stop until we’re all dead.”

Sebastian rubbed his sore cheek. “We can take them! We’ll eliminate them all and take back the streets, don’t you see Blaine? I’m doing you a favor, something you never dared to do yourself!” Sebastian looked manic.

Blaine scoffed. “And get ourselves killed in the process? They’ll be looking for blood, and the first person Hummel will go after will be you.”

“Good. Then I can finally kill him and be done with it.” Sebastian smiled confidently, pushing himself up and brushing dirt off his hands.

Looking incredulously at the man, Blaine said, “You really think you know something about Kurt Hummel? You’ve been in this gang for a year. You’ve never seen what the Sparrows are like at war. We managed to survive them for four months before we realized that if we kept it up, we’d all be dead. Never underestimate your enemy, because it will get you killed. Kurt Hummel is a vicious, cunning opponent. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

Blaine finally turned from Sebastian, staring at the fiery wreckage of his bar and gang headquarters. He could hear sirens in the distance, feel the heat of the fire sinking into his skin. This was an act of rage, that much Blaine could tell. Kurt Hummel enjoyed his games, but he enjoyed revenge even more so. This was only the beginning. He was going to go after with Sebastian with all that he had. Blaine had half a mind to just throw the bastard out onto the unprotected streets and wait for Hummel to collect his prize. Unfortunately, Blaine too, had his own set of skewed morals and that included not handing a member of the Pistols, no matter how annoying, to the blood-thirsty leader of the Sparrows. That and refusing to put bullet holes in a nice leather jacket.

So Sebastian would have to stay. Blaine would have to risk his and his gang’s lives to prevent Hummel from tearing apart that idiot limb from limb.
As Blaine stared down the wreckage of his bar, something caught his eye through the shattered window. On the floor, stretching almost wall to wall, lay the burning symbol of a sparrow in flight, engulfed in flames.

Well, he certainly didn’t do anything half-assed.

Kurt Hummel had always prided himself in being calm, cool, and collected. He was organized; he planned heists and blackmailed the rich with the clear mind of a man who held no remorse. He fought and killed with steady, strong limbs. Kurt Hummel was composed.

He was nothing of the sort right now.

The tension in the back room of the car shop was palpable as the Sparrows watched Kurt and Rachel scream at each other, tears streaming down the latter’s face.

“He’s dead, Kurt! He’s never coming back and I can’t, I just can’t stay here and be reminded of that every day for the rest of my life! Don’t you get it? I need to leave!” Rachel’s voice cracked half way through, her voice trailing off hopelessly.

“You are not the only one who cares about Finn, Rachel! We’re a family, and a member of our family has been murdered. Now is not the time to turn us away, we can’t lose you too!” Kurt took an intimidating step forward into Rachel’s space. Better be angry than full of grief. He was the leader of the Sparrows for a reason. “Don’t forget what you signed up for, Rachel Berry. You knew that this was for life.”

“Don’t you care at all, Kurt? You’re standing there and telling me that I have no right to leave! And I haven’t seen you shed a tear since he died last night! What kind of loyalty is that, huh? Why are you here, telling me what to feel, when clearly you can’t feel anything!” Rachel broke off with a sob, burying her face in her hands.

That was a low blow and she knew it. It was said in anger, but it stabbed deep. Because Kurt hadn’t shed a tear. He didn’t know if he even could, or if he simply didn’t allow himself to. The reality hadn’t quite set in yet. Kurt just couldn’t believe that the man he had met five years ago, freakishly tall and pointing to the ‘help wanted’ sign with fresh enthusiasm, was dead.

But when was life ever fair?

Kurt let the comment sink in deep, let it fester and burn at his heart. He supposed he deserved this. After all, he was supposed to keep his gang safe. And what did he do? He got one of them killed instead.

“Rachel,” he said quietly, his anger abating in favor of sadness. “I’ll give you a week to reconsider. Just remember that this isn’t just hurting you; it’s hurting all of us.” Kurt gestured to the Sparrows sitting around in the garage, looking equal amounts of sad and angry. Kurt cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Now get out. I don’t want to see you back at the shop until you realize what you still have here waiting for you.”

Rachel nodded, eyes downcast, and hurried out the door, leaving no trace that she had been there at all.

Kurt’s shoulders finally dropped and he heaved a great sigh. He knew the Sparrows were watching him intently.

“I need a cigarette,” he announced to the silent room. Puck slipped off the hood of a white Cadillac and handed one to Kurt, patting him on the back in comfort and jolting his wounded shoulder. Kurt swore in pain and Puck gave him an apologetic look.

“Puck,” Quinn scolded, rushing over to Kurt. “You okay?” she asked in concern.

“Fine, Quinn. I’m fine,” Kurt answered, lighting up and taking a drag.

“No, you’re not,” she said softly. “None of us are.”

Kurt looked up at the Sparrows around the room. Karofsky and Puck were silent, heads down with equally blank expressions. Mercedes and Artie were holding hands and Mercedes looked like she was holding back tears. Brittany didn’t look confused for once, upset and biting her lip in thought.

“C’mon,” Quinn said, “let’s get your bandage changed.” She sat him down in a metal folding chair she had dragged away from the wall, letting him sink into his own thoughts as she un-wrapped the gauze and checked on his wound. For the first time since Finn’s death, Kurt let himself reminisce.

The first time Kurt met Finn was about a month after he’d opened his car shop.

He had been working underneath a silver Jetta when he heard the awkward clearing of someone’s throat. He had raised an eyebrow to himself, rolling out from underneath the car to see a gawky, monster of a twenty year old.

“Can I help you?” he asked abruptly. The boy looked slightly taken aback by his voice and Kurt found himself flinching inwardly. He pushed himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders and looking the stranger in the eye.

The boy looked flustered, his hands fluttering about awkwardly in the air. “Yes, um, well,” he looked back towards the front of the shop, pointing at the help wanted with a slightly more confident smile. “Hi, I’m, uh, Finn Hudson. I’d like to apply for a job, please.” His smile widened a little too much, Kurt had thought.

“You know anything about cars?” Kurt grunted in response.

Finn’s face fell. “Um, well, a little but, like, I’m a fast learner and stuff and I could totally help you out, ‘cause it looks like you need a bit of um, help,” he finished lamely.

“Tell you what,” Kurt said. “You do everything I tell you to in the next hour that I’m working on this car and you get the job.”

Finn’s face had lit up and he immediately jumped in, handling tools and listening to Kurt walk him through what he was fixing underneath the car. Once or twice he messed up, confusing the combination wrench with the box-end wrench, misunderstanding Kurt’s instructions. When Kurt had finished the job and toweled all the grease and oil off his hands, Finn had done the same, looking apprehensively at his potential boss.

“Well,” he had asked. “How did I do?”

“I guess,” Kurt began. “I could use some help around here.”

In his excitement, Finn had jumped up and squeezed Kurt tight around the shoulders.“Thank you, man! You won’t regret it, I swear!” He lurched forward for a hug again, but Kurt batted him off.

“Yeah, you can have the job, but no more hugging.”

“Right. Um, what’s your name?”

Kurt had laughed for the first time since stepping foot into New York City.

After that, they became co-workers and eventually, once Kurt had finally let his guard down, they became close friends. Finn had been the first one to join the Sparrows. Now Kurt wished he had never asked him to.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a stabbing pain in his shoulder.

“Watch what you’re doing, Quinn!” he hissed, his hand falling halfway to his shoulder where he’d moved it on reflex.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, Kurt,” she replied. “It’s just, you ran out of the hospital last night to god knows where, so now it’s my job to keep you from getting an infection.”

“We can always steal some meds if need be.” Kurt said. Quinn nodded absentmindedly, wrapping some fresh gauze around the bullet wound.

“Alright, looks like we’re done,” Quinn said. Kurt stood up and stretched carefully, not wanting to upset his shoulder. He looked around and realized that most of the crew was gone, most likely working on any leftover cars. It was a slow day at the garage.

As Kurt made his way out to the front, he heard the little bell at the counter ring three times in quick succession. He rounded the corner briskly to see the leader of the Pistols sitting on the counter, swinging his black combat boots and puffing on a cigarette. The Sparrows had already surrounded him, guns and knifes pointing with deadly purpose. They looked murderous, grips tight on their weapons.

Anderson exhaled casually, blowing smoke into the air with swirling patterns. “Hey, Pretty Boy,” he said.