It was a grim and rainy day in New York City. The streets are littered with people sheltered under colorful umbrellas. The skyscrapers gives out a mundane aura, but the buildings are of course the essence of the city. The sound of police sirens and honks are deafening, but this is its natural habitat.

A man is walking down the long street of fifth avenue, where the Empire State Building towers like a glorious, shining beacon on the right. The man is adorned with a leather jacket that is zipped up in the cold, his dark jeans coil around his toned legs with dark combat boots to pair. You might think he blends with the crowd of equally layered people, but his bright yellow eyes stand out like polished gold coins. His hair is a tamed dark cloud that sits on his head with a few locks falling over his forehead.

He walks in a steady fashion, following the stream of people all rushing to get to their destinations. There really is no such thing as a specific rush hour anymore. Every hour seems like rush hour in this speedy generation. The man, however, could not help but to smile at how clueless these people are about the things that has, is or about to happen, much to their knowledge though. He could not help but to find it humorous how these people think the world is at peace, that their lives are in no great risk whatsoever, but they are so very wrong because this man knows.

This man knows of the evil that lurks in the shadows, and the bad that happens behind the curtains of this seemingly orthodox city- world even. He knows of the threats, the close calls, the plots against these innocent people. These walking oblivions have no idea that a hero walk amongst them- a hero that keeps them safe, that keep their children safe, that keep their jobs safe, that keeps this world safe, but expects no recognition.

As the man comes to a tight corner of the street, he is faced with a panel of frosted glass door. Above, it holds the sign Carls Inviolable Athletic facility. The small private gym seems normal from the outside, but the man knows of the truth that lies in its foundation. He smiles to himself because sometimes he finds his life humorous.

As he pushes the frosted glass door open, leaving behind the mindless zombies of New Yorks population, he is greeted with a small gymnasium. A front desk sits in the front center, in front of a small separation wall. A young girl, in her twenties with sandy blond hair looks up from that desk, eyeing the man in a sharp, protective manner- because it is her job to always be on alert.

The man walks forward and produces a card- an ordinary card, only not so ordinary. She takes it and scans the barcode that is written beneath the picture of the man. She looks up and smiles in relief.

"This way, mister Anderson," tells the girl.

She gestures for the man to follow her and they venture through the people who are on treadmills and fixed bicycle equipments and weight lifting benches. A door sits in seclusion in the back. It is a simple silver door, nothing special, with the words VIP written across it. The girl pulls out her own identity card and slides it across the scanner that is screwed on the left side of the door. The little light ball illuminates green, granting access to them.

The girl steps aside and allows the man through the door, flashing him another smile before she shuts it. The man is now in another room, a small one that is bare with no furniture. At the far end of the room, however, stands an elevator door with the previously similar card reader machine screwed on the left hand side of the elevator.

The man strides forward in a confident manner, because this is routined, before he takes his card the woman had returned to him and slides it across the reader. It takes a few long seconds before the light ball illuminates green.

The machine then produces a thumb reader. It is such a hassle, but the man knows why is it so. He places his thumb on the reader and waits for another long few seconds. The light illuminates green again, and the layers of doors begin to slide away.

The first layer of door is a solid titanium steel. It slides open and hides in the sides. The second layer is a gate that is made of something much stronger. It pulls up and hides in the gaps. The third and final door is a wall of brass. It has no median separation in between, but it falls into the gaps in between the platform of the elevator, and solid ground. It disappears and the man steps into the platform. As the doors begun to take its security positions, the small speaker on the right hand side of the elevator where the buttons are welcomes the man in its usual robotic intonation.

"Welcome, Agent Anderson."

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The elevator descends down to a great depth, before it slides open- three layers again- and beholds a sight that still gives agent Blaine Anderson a great deal of satisfaction, but also surrealism.

The words Central Intelligence Agency is written in bolds and sits grand on the wall behind where the front desks are. The formal logo practically sits on a throne above the name, shining and gleaming in the form of glory that it is. It still is surreal to Blaine Anderson that he is here- an employee, an agent.

It still only felt like just a few days ago when he was a little kid being offered a spot to join a summer camp, gullibly thinking it was a sing-song like camp to learn basic camping skills and forming friendships with people. He soon found out, on the second day of that summer camp, that it was a training ground for potential CIA agents. Kids from a range of six to twelve years old who possessed special, and natural skills from all over America were recruited into the camp.

From an outsiders point of view, it looked like a camp where joy was its middle name, but for the people inside that camp- it was hell. The instructors did not take pity at their youth, or their innocence. They educated the children on intense material about war, terrorism, the dangers that are constantly sprouting out- and that was how Blaine Anderson became influenced, and soon aspired to become a CIA agent. He was the best trainee the instructors and the other, older agents had ever seen at such a young age-- or so they claim. He excelled in said camp because, like a sponge, he was eager to absorb every bit of information, but little did he know then that, being a CIA agent came with a cost.

"Good morning, agent Anderson," says Jubilee, a woman who works at the front desk who handles mostly access passes.

"Its raining up there. Nothing good about it," responds Blaine as he makes his way to his desk.

The CIA had decided to start an office here in New York City because its real headquaters lives above ground, which makes it vulnurable to attacks. This office, the one that lies underneath the busy streets of New York City- the subway even- this is its back up, its refuge should anything happen to the bigger, more substantial headquaters. However, this office is just as substantial as the official one. It is a large, grey room, with corridors that seem to go on forever, and a couple of storeys rich. The CIA has a lot of sectors, each with its own profession, but Blaine Anderson files under the Agents sector- rightly so considering he is one of the best agents the CIA has ever recruited.

As Blaine Anderson takes a seat in his cubicle, amongst other CIA agents, he heaves a sigh of relief after another successful mission. Reminscing back on how the president had thanked him for saving his life- the third time. He simply had the best instincts- he could not explain it, but when he suspects something, most of the time his predictions have proven to be right.

"Heard you nailed yet another," says a familiar voice, drawing closer. Blaine spins his swirly chair around to find his best mate in the agency, Sebastian Smythe, striding towards him, holding what looks like a folder- probably one of his own missions folder brief.

"Yup," smiles Blaine.

"What is this- like the second time you saved him?" asked Sebastian.

"Third, actually. But whos counting," says Blaine, though he knows Sebastian is. He does not admit it, but Sebastian feels envious of Blaines constant achievements in the agency. Most of the other agents feel the same way about Blaine too, but that is what you get when you excel in something- jealousy amongst your colleagues.

"Did the president offer you a spot as part of his security team again?" asked Sebastian.

"Head of security, this time," nonchalantly tells Blaine, because it really is not the first time.

"Maybe hell give you your own day or something, as recognition or manipulation to get you to be a part of his security."

"My own day sounds fucking awesome," says Blaine, visualizing how that would be like for a second.

"Or maybe equal rights to your people," laughs Sebastian, pulling a joke about Blaines sexual orientation.

It is no secret that Blaine Anderson is a gay man- he never had to worry about getting bullied in high school because he didnt go to one. After the training camp, he enrolled into an official CIA Agents in Training school established by the CIA, which is of course on the down low. It was only known to the students who went to it, and they had to sign a legal document to keep it a secret.

In that school, the students- agents in training, rather- were too matured to bother with normal high school shenanigans, so nobody actually bothered about who was gay or who was not. When Blaine finally came out, he was in his twenties and by then he was maybe a little too intimidating for people to pick on his orientation, despite how hes not that tall.

"Im not big on matrimony, but equal rights would be nice," tells Blaine. "For right now though, I really just want to kick back and take a long, long, well needed rest."

Just as he sings his last syllable, a loud stomping of footsteps come striding his way. It is an unmistakable, and very well recognizable sound. Only one person can instill fear simply by the sound of their footsteps. The man who posses those loud, authoritative footsteps comes treading down the aisle, where cubicles are situated both left and right.

It is rather unorthodox to find the man, of such high rank, to be walking here- but when he does, it is probably because he has something really important to address. The other agents shrink into their seats as Director Johnson passes them.

He is a tall, African-American man with dark eyes that has seen more nightmares than is possible to count, eyebrows set in a furrow, lips sealed in a tight line, face stern and vehement. He does not look like one who cracks a joke every now and then, especially with his moustache that factors into how intimidating he looks. He holds a substantial reputation, but nobody knows exactly what is true and what is not about him. He has one destination in mind, and as he advance towards the man resting in his swirly chair, the other agents cannot help but to be curious.

"Blaine," says the man in a voice to sharp. The man in the chair swirls around and quickly gets to his feet, out of respect.

"Director," greets Blaine Anderson, shifting slightly in his feet.

"Come with me," tells the director, in a voice that is unchallenged.

The man does so diligently, following in the shadow of director Johnson. The other agents watch him in wonderment as he follows the man. Sebastian gesturally questions him, but Blaine shrugs indifferently. The two man walk into the elevator of three layers again, and ascends to the higher floors of the underground establishment. Neither utters a word, which probably means that whatever the director has called on Blaine upon- is astronomically pivotal.

As they arrive on the floor intended, to storey where mostly the people who holds higher ranks are situated in, they walk towards the briefing room where the director leads Blaine in and gestures him to take a seat. Nobody else is here besides the two man.

"A job well done on the previous mission," congratulates the director, though he does not say it in a cheery tone.

"Thank you, sir," tells Blaine.

The director falls into a seat across from Blaine. Only then does he realize that the director is holding on to a folder, a similar folder like the one Sebastian was holding. He waits patiently for whatever is to come- though he silently prays it is not another mission. Blaine usually gets a month or two off before he embarks on a six month, or sometimes a year long mission.

"You might be wondering why I called you in here," says the director.

"Frankly, yeah sir," says Blaine.

"Well, I need you to go back into the field," says the director. A little part of Blaine dies a little- that little part where he thought he could catch a break after saving the president. "I know its a little too soon as compared to all the time spans between your previous missions, but this one is of the utmost importance."

Blaine sighs heavily. It is true that he loves his career. He loves being a part of an organization that helps sustain peace in the country, even if they hardly get recognition for it. He also loves his job in general because being a CIA agent is such a rush sometimes, but getting back into the field right after just coming out of it-- is a lot to ask.

"Do you accept?" presses the director, eyes fixated on Blaine.

"Yes," sighs Blaine, reluctantly accepting the mission even though hed much rather kick back on his beat up old couch in front of the television catching up on some bad comedic drama.

"Good," the director says before he slides the folder towards Blaine.

He takes it and opens the cover to find a gruesome picture of a woman in a white laboratory coat sprawled on the ground, with shattered glass surrounding her. Underneath the cuts and bruises and lots and lots of blood, Blaine was pretty she was a beautiful woman once. Her eyes are wide open, blue but vacant. Her once clean white coat is stained with blood stains and muddy foot sprints.

"Her name is Elizabeth Hummel," tells the director. "She was the lead research scientist at Columbia University."

"What happened to her?" asked Blaine as he studies the lifeless brunette woman in the picture.

"She was killed, and we have reason to believe that the people who killed her were after a discovery she made."

"What discovery?" asked Blaine, curious as to how threatening, or valuable the discovery could have been to the extent that people had to kill her to get it.

"She found a way to clear oil spills on the sea with the use of liquid molecules."

"Thats it? They killed her for that?" frowns Blaine.

"The estimated worth of her discovery is five hundred billion dollars," tells the director.

"God," says Blaine. How could a discovery that sounds so simple be worth so much. "So Im assuming you need me to retrieve the discovery?"

"Not exactly," tells the director. "What her attackers stole from her was a decoy, a tampered copy of the methods used to get to what she invented. The whereabouts of the real invention is unknown for right now, but we have reason to believe she hid it in her family."

"Why do you say that?" asked Blaine.

"The lead source is on the next page," tells the director. Blaine flips the page, this time it is a picture of what looks to be words scribbled onto a wrist- the womans wrist, probably. Her handwriting is hardly legible because she probably wrote it in a panic, but Blaine could roughly make out the words

My greatest discovery lies within my greatest birth

"We think she hid it with her son," tells the director. "Greatest birth and all."

"Make sense, I guess," tells Blaine.

"Its only going to be a matter of time before her attackers found out that what they stole was a fraud, and then we fear they might be after her family next."

"So what exactly am I suppose to do here?" asked Blaine.

"We need you to go undercover," tells the director. "As a student, and befriend her son."

Those dark eyebrows of Blaine Andersons rose so high it probably could have touched the heavens if it wanted to. He has been undercover, sure, but never as a student.

"A senior in high school, to be precise, because that is what her son is."

"High school?" exclaims Blaine. "How the heck am I suppose to pass for a high school student? Im twenty six, in case you havent realized."

"I took that into consideration of course, but you are our youngest looking agent amongst the rest. You will look a little older, sure, but I am confident youll be able to blend."

"Okay, that aside, infiltrate a high school, befriend her son and then what? Manipulate the whereabouts of the discovery out of him?"

"Basically, yes," tells the director. "Look, it is crucial we extract it out of the family so they wont be in greater harm. Once it is retrieve, we plan on making it public news of the discovery so the attackers will withdraw. You will also have to keep an eye on her son and make sure he doesnt get harmed."

"Why cant you just ask the family now, and then put a security detail on them?" ask Blaine.

"Because we dont want to cause a panic. That family has been through enough having a wife and a mother murdered so brutally. We will of course send a team along with you, but ultimately your job is to extract the main objective- the Elizabeth discovery."

Blaine finds himself contemplating the mission. It sounds easy enough- befriend a teenager, retrieve the Elizabeth discovery while keeping an eye on the family, but going undercover as a high school student is something he has never done before and frankly speaking, it was unnerving to Blaine.

"So?" nudges the director.

"Yeah, Ill do," says Blaine, though that nagging little voice at the back of his head is telling him to otherwise. "Do we know who murderer her?"

"Not yet," tells the director. "But well find out."

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"Back into the field?" exclaims Sebastian when Blaine fills him in on why the director had personally approached him earlier. "But you just got back!"

"They need me," shrugs Blaine.

"And as a high school student? No offence man, but you dont look that young."

"Tell me about it," says Blaine. "Anyway, I have to go. They want me on this mission right away."

"See you when you get back," says Sebastian and you can almost hear the jealously riddled all over his tone. God knows how long he has sat in the office and watched Blaine take all the missions.

As Blaine makes his way to the briefing room again, where this time he would he properly briefed before embarking on the mission, he could not help but to think about that woman he saw in the picture- Elizabeth Hummel- a woman who was killed so mercilessly. She was a mother, and a wife- both important roles. He couldnt help but to think of his own mother-- and what could she possibly be doing right now, but that was one of the cost of being a CIA agent.

"Blaine," greets the director as Blaine enters the room. There are a few other lower ranked agents in the room whose role is usually to give support to the head agent, which in this case- and many other cases, frankly- is Blaine. "Have a seat," instructs the director.

Blaine does so obediently and awaits for the briefing to commence. He glances over to the other, less prominent agents. He recognizes a few of them from his previous conquests. It is a modicum of solace to see them because when youve been to so many missions as Blaine, it is comforting to sometimes find familiar faces in a usual team of new people.

"Her name is Elizabeth Hummel," begins the director as the gruesome picture of the brunette woman flashes onto the screen. "She was found murdered in the Science laboratory of Columbia University four days ago. She has been working on a project, which shall be called the Elizabeth Discovery, for months, so we have reason to believe that the people who killed her were after her very valuable invention. Her computers have been raided, so has her office and science lab, but to no avail. We now think that she hid it somewhere safe, and we think it is with her family."

The picture on the projection screen changes to one of a family picture- three people happily smiling, dressed in knitted sweaters of the same kind, but different colours. The only woman in the picture is hardly recognizable in comparison with the gruesome picture of her cold and dead on the floor, but those blue eyes are unmistakable. Her smile is wide and happy. She has wrinkled lines at the corners of her eyes, but she definitely is beautiful with long brunette hair parted in the middle.

The older man in the picture, who probably is the husband of the woman, is wearing a baseball hat- a beaten up, ratty old one with its navy color already fading. He has bright green eyes and an old fatherly smile- just as wide and happy as the womans. He has wrinkles too that probably is a testament to all the stress he has gone through in his life, being the man of the house and all.

There is another male in the picture. A young boy probably in his adolescence. He has pale, fair skin and a smile so childish and infectious it could have cured cancer. His hair is set in a perfect coiffed that probably took hours to style given how it stood so perfectly up. He wears a baby blue knitted sweater that fits him like a glove, but aside from his obvious good and youthful looks, his eyes are his most interesting trait.

Those eyes are big and round, sitting in a socket that is sized so perfectly for his saucers with eye lashes that are thick and full and are visible despite how the picture is taken from quite a distant. The colour, however, is really an enigma. It is blue on the outskirts of the outer rings of his eyes, but drawing closer to the black pupil are freckles of green that stands out so prominently. Very unique set of eyes, Blaine thought to himself.

"The man is Burt Hummel, husband to Elizabeth Hummel. The boy is their son and their only child, Kurt Hummel," informs the director. "They are residing in a suburban home in Lima, Ohio. The man owns his own garage, and the boy is a senior in one William McKinley High School. We are not sure if the family even knows that such a discovery exist, and wed like to keep that uncertainty intact."

The picture was probably taken during Christmas, and probably a few years back considering the boy looks too young to be a senior. Its saddening to watch their smiles so wide, comforted by each others presence, only to have a member torn away so violently. It somehow makes Blaine miss his own parents-- but he cannot afford to think like that, otherwise he would not be able to move forward.

"This is how the mission will go," tells the director. "Agent Anderson will be going undercover as a student in William McKinley High School. His objective will be to befriend the son, Kurt Hummel, and find out if he knows anything of the whereabouts of the discovery. Gain his trust and find out. For right now, the family will he under the watchful eye of the CIA as we have reason to believe the attackers of Elizabeth Hummel might come after the family next. The team will be situated in a house not too far away from the Hummels, but ultimately the objective is to get in, retrieve and get out- for the sake and safety of the family. Any questions?"

"How is this Elizabeth Discovery of any importance to the government?" ask one of the less prominent CIA agents. It is a valid question considering all their other missions are usually beneficial to the government.

"We are afraid that if it falls into the wrong hands, it might be used against America, so it is better that we retrieve it and surrender it to the government- for safe keeping."

Or for revenue, Blaine thought because how reliable can the government be.

"Look, Ill be frank- this woman worked her butt off to invent something that could benefit the environment. If it goes to somebody with the wrong intentions, she would not have died in vain and her intelligence would not be recognized. In honor of this woman, we have to retrieve it- and as fast as possible."

It is rather honorable of the director. She truly was brilliant and looking at the picture of the family again, it would absolutely be unfair for this family if the womans brilliance was never told to the world.

"Any more questions? Otherwise we will start preparation," ask the director.

Blaine racks his brain as he processes the information. It is always good to slip in last minute questions, but given the briefing was pretty detailed, he really only has one.

"Where the heck is Lima, Ohio?" asked Blaine.

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"What the heck am I wearing?" exclaims Blaine as he stares in horror at the reflection of himself dressed in skin tight, bright pink Capri pants with a white polo t-shirt that makes his nipples visible, dark blue loafers with a bright orange sole is the finishing touch to his already bright outfit.

"This is what the kids wear these days," tells Carl Harold, a young fellow with frizzy red hair and spectacles that sit on his nose bridge.

Despite his age, he is actually one of the best in his profession. He holds the statistical researchers post in the CIA where he documents the day to day trends in the life of teenagers- or any subject matter of the mission for that matter. His job is to form disguises and find out ways for the agent to blend in with the crowd so his research mostly depends on the mission at hand.

"So the trend is to wear circus clothes?" ask Blaine, baffled by the outfit choices of teenagers these days.

"I went with a more preppy look," shrugs Carl.

"A little exaggerated, to be honest," tells Blaine. "I cant wear this. I wont. I look stupid and I hate looking stupid."

"Well what do you expect? Sometimes you have to don something you hate to fit in," profoundly tells Carl. "Besides, from both first hand experiences and the things Ive read, high school is pretty much a circus."

"Ive never been to one," shrugs Blaine. "But I am most definitely sure people dont walk around wearing pink pants!"

"Trust me on this, alright?" says Carl and even though Blaine resents having to dress like this, Carl is after all the expert in this sector so whatever he says probably is the truth.

"Fine," groans Blaine with so much reluctance.

"Okay, gadget time. Follow me," tells Carl as he gesture for Blaine to follow in the shadow on his footsteps. He also is one of the inventors of CIAs high tech gadgets- because he is that much of a genius.

They walk towards a smaller room within the researches computer laboratory, where the door slides open when Carl punches his key code. The silver door slides so effortlessly as they are welcome into a relatively smaller room, with different and interesting looking devices all stacked on either side of the walls.

"Ive took the liberty of meticulously picking out what youll need," he tells.

"After that outfit you picked, I dont know if I should be nervous or not," tells Blaine because he and Carl are quite close buddies as well, though Blaine sees him more of a geeky little brother.

Carl walks over to a silver briefcase, picks it up and lays it onto the steel table that separates the two man. He unbuckles the hook and presents four, pocket-sized gadgets. Carl takes the first one from the far right- a transparent tiny box that holds about four circular objects.

"These are sticky cameras," tells Carl as he pulls the top off the small box. "They are of your use or course- however, and wherever you choose to stick them to. You can view them through your iPhone, which I have took the initiative to store the function."

Carl takes another object out of the silver briefcase- simple pen, that looks expensive as well. It looks like one of those pens big cooperate people will have in their square pockets simply for the purpose of looking professional.

"You have to be careful with this one," tells Carl. "This is a tranquillizing pen. It instantly shoots out small needles filled with tranquillizing fluid at one click. It will temporarily put your target into a state of unconsciousness, but for only an hour at least."

"Sounds good," says Blaine as he picks the pen up and studies it. It is black with a shiny silver surface on the clicking part of the pen.

"Really be careful with it though," tells Carl.

"Im not a child-" says Blaine but in that instant, he accidentally clicks on the surface and a small needle shoots out from the tip of the pen in lightning speed and hits an agent whom Blaine did not realize was standing at the far corner of the room. He falls to the ground and stays that way.

"Hell be fine," wavers Carl, though frankly after hitting his head so hard on the corner of the rack he was standing by, Blaine wasnt so sure.

"Moving on," says Carl. He takes the other object and hands it to Blaine. It is a small tiny charm with a pin at its back. "Its a tracking device. We thought itd be more concealable if it wasnt your average black tracking device, so we made it into a charm of the sun."

"Crafty," says Blaine. "Whats the use again?"

"For anybody you need to track?" shrugs Carl. "I dont know, Blaine. I just issue them out, how you use them is solely up to you."

There is a final object in the briefcase. It is a watch. A simple watch with black straps and a blue face. It shows the right time but anybody who is anybody in the entire CIA operative knows the importance of this watch. Carl takes it out and hands it to Blaine.

"Only because it is a formality, a tracking device watch with a distress button when you press on the silver button. Remember, you need to press it when youre in distress and not think you can handle something by yourself-"

"Carl," warns Blaine. "Ive been to more missions than Mother Theresa. I think I know when I need to call back up or not."

"Youll never know. Ive seen agents get full of themselves only to have themselves killed."

"Thats not going to be me. Ive survived worst missions than going undercover as a high school student."

"Okay then," shrugs Carl. "Well thats it. Well be heading out to Lima, Ohio later in the evening."

"Wait," says Blaine, realizing something. "I dont get a gun?"

"Yeah, the director and I talked about that and seeing as how youre going undercover as a seventeen year old- giving you possession of a gun might not be the best move-"

"Youre kidding," says Blaine, hoping Carl might just be, but he looks dead serious. "Youre not? Are you guys nuts? A gun is essential in any mission-"

"You wont need a gun! There will be a team of other CIA agents. Should you be in distress, press the button!"

"This is complete bullsh-"

"What is?" ask a familiar voice when the door slides open. The director stands in the threshold, watching the two man bickering.

"The no gun rule-"

"Yes. That was a bit of a deliberation but the verdict is final. But dont worry. In what situation would you be needing a gun in high school? We have the team for support. Focus on your objective- the discovery."

After much resistance, Blaine surrenders. He always had a gun with him whenever he went into the field because a gun is the most essential gadget for a CIA operative but he could not argue with the director even if he wanted to. He sighs heavily and decides to just suffice with the tranquillizing pen to put people down if he needed to.

"All set then?" ask the director.

"Yes, sir," responds Carl in the obedience of a fearful son to a father.

"And youre sure thats what teenagers are wearing these days, Carl?" frowns the director as he studies Blaines heinous get up. The pants he has on are tight in so many uncomfortable areas. He wonders how do teenagers even walk in these.

"I am confident, sir," says Carl.

"Im not," says Blaine under his breath, which earns a blazing glare from Carl.

"Alright then," concludes the director. "Head for Lima, Ohio. Now."

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