It is truly a suburban ambiance here in Lima, Ohio. There are little children playing in the streets, white picket fences that perimeter the humble houses that are of different colours as it goes further down the street. A parallel universe from New York City where the only sounds audible are police sirens and obnoxious chats, and the now and then obscenities. Over here, it is more tranquil and more civilised as Blaine stares out the window from the ground floor of the house the CIA has set the team and him into.

It is a house that blends in with the other houses- humble, with a upside down V shaped roof, picket white fences. Inside, however, is a completely different feel. There are computers set up everywhere on the ground floor, blueprints hung up that draws the entire map of Lima, Ohio right down to the T, upstairs is the same except for the one room that has three beds where they are suppose to share amongst a group of fifteen people.

It is night time here, not late into the night yet but night time nonetheless. You know it is a safe environment when children are still allowed be outside into the night. Some are riding bicycles while others are outside playing soccer with their fathers. It is a calming sight to watch- and a litte sad of a memory for Blaine as he reminiscence on his own childhood- playing football with his father while his mother is inside, cooking dinner.

"Blaine," calls Carl as he halts a few feet away from him. "You okay?"

"Fine," says Blaine because as much as it is fun to let himself wander into his childhood memories- ones before he was introduced to the world of the CIA- he chose this line of career, and to go forward in his life he must not look back.

"Okay," says Carl, though Blaine knows Carl understands when he gets like this sometimes.

"I have your new identity," tells Carl- a normality when going into missions.

"Lets hear it," says Blaine.

"Your new name will be Lance Jackson."

"What kind of horrendous name is that?" says Blaine.

"One that wont get you tormented with," shrugs Carl.

"I beg to differ," says Blaine.

"Too late. Ive already made your ID with that name so youre gonna have to live with it- at least until the mission is over."

"I wished you would consider my input before you went ahead and chose a new name for me."

"Temporary name," corrects Carl. "Now, you understand how its going to unravel tomorrow, right? Youre going to report to McKinley High, present your transcripts to principal Sue Sylvester. They already know youre coming- but they think youre coming from one Dalton Academy."

"Got it," says Blaine, absorbing the information like a sponge because that is just how he is. "Befriend Kurt Hummel, find out the whereabouts of the Elizabeth Discovery, retrieve and get out as fast as possible."

"Yes," says Carl. "It really is imperative you do so as quickly as possible. We dont know who are after the discovery or whether if theyre on their way or not, so its best you just close this mission quickly- and discreetly."

"Dear God, Carl. This is not my first conquest, you know," says Blaine, agitated by Carls lack of confidence in him.

"I know that," says Carl, rolling his dark eyes. "Now get to bed so youll be well rested for high school tomorrow. Oh, and when youre there- remember to keep a low key and be unnoticed, even though teenagers these days die for attention. Do the opposite-"

"I dont know how Im suppose to keep a low key when my pants are visible from Mars, but Ill try," says Blaine as he waves a bidding goodbye to Carl before disappearing upstairs to where the two bunk beds are. Nobody else is in here, which makes sense because even though there are beds here, it is rare that anybody sleeps while on a missions- except for Blaine of course, because even in his sleep he guards himself.

He shuts the door behind him and jumps on one of the top bunks. Maybe it is the whole environment being so family friendly, or maybe it was the boy and the father he saw playing football on the front lawn earlier, but somehow Blaine starts to miss his own parents. He takes his wallet out and pulls out an old photograph, allowing himself to sink into his memories for just that few seconds. His mother is a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and eyes like yellow sapphires. The older man in the picture is his father, with similar features as Blaine but with eyes a shade of darker brown. He smiles at the picture of himself as a young boy, smiling so wide. How he wished he could go back, but he cant. This was the path he chose, he has to live it now.

------------

Next morning arises so quickly it was as if night never came at all. Carl has assigned Blaine the outfit he chose the first time- baby pink Capri pants, a white polo and loafers that do not complement the entire outfit. Honestly, what are teenagers even thinking these days if its not booze or sex. He descends down to get one final briefing from Carl, whom is substituting as assistant to the director as the director does not come along on missions.

"So," he says, looking a little unsure of himself. He is, after all, still so very young to be in this kind of profession. "Blaine, as I have brief you earlier- report to the main office, give them your transcripts, get your schedule and then find Kurt Hummel. I have logged into the schools security files and found out that the boy has Chemistry class for the first period, so I changed your schedule to chemistry as well. Youll have most of your classes with him, giving you ample opportunities to interact. There will be two other agents in the school as well, to keep an eye on you and the boy as well. Seeing as you dont have any lethal weapons, the button on your watch is your only weapon. Press it when in distress, got it?"

"Yes, dad," says Blaine, a few snickers behind him is heard.

"This is not a joking matter-"

"I know, Carl. I know what Im suppose to do. Ive been briefed for at least four times. Get the discovery, get out. Sounds simple enough."

"And number one rule when going into missions. Who can tell me-"

"This isnt a classroom, deweb," says one of those less prominent agents.

"Do not get attached to the subject," says Carl, ignoring the rude interruption. "Understand?"

"Yes, Carl. I wont get attached to the subject," says Blaine, rolling his eyes because he has heard that warning countless of times and has grown to find it so redundant.

------------

"Are you there yet?" ask Carl as his face suddenly pops out on the small screen that is fixated on where the stereo is suppose to be in the car given to Blaine for use during the mission by the CIA.

"Jesus, Carl. You scared the shit out of me," says Blaine, heart still hammering from the sudden voice that broke the silence in the car.

"Sorry," he says. "Forgot to mention Ill be popping in and out of this screen."

"Youre like a little weasel, arent you," says Blaine. "Im pulling into the parking lot right now."

"Good. Inform me when youve gotten your schedule-"

"I dont recall having to do hourly reports being in the briefing," sarcastically tells Blaine.

"Just a formality, Blaine," says Carl, before his face disappears and a black screen replaces his place.

The parking lot is already full of cars by the time Blaine arrives. It is ten minutes past seven and according to Carl, he has to report before seven thrity to get all the paperwork done with the principal. Evidently from the impossibility to find an empty parking space, the students of McKinley High report before seven thrity as well. He finally finds an empty space and leaves his car there, making his way to the entrance of the school premises- bracing himself for whatever awaits behind these doors.

As he enters, the first thing that overwhelms Blaine is the loud murmuring of small grouped chatters down the long hallway, filled with metallic lockers by the side. There are small groups of students are pressed against corners of the hallway, lost in their own worlds of conversations. It looks impossible to serpent pass the crowd of students. He grasps on tight to his brown satchel and begins to make his way down to corridor, only stopping by a cheerleader who looks of Latin ethnicity.

"Hi, could you tell me how to find the main office?" he ask politely, in which the girl who has dark eyes, a long weave tied in a ponytail studies him with eyes full of judgement.

"Get away from me," she says with disinterest, resuming to buffer her nails.

"Im sorry?" ask Blaine, confused.

"Tell me something, did your mother take you to a GAP store for children below twelve years old, handed you a twenty dollar vouncer and asked you to go nuts? Because you look like a man child and I dont associate myself with manchilds. Get the fuck away, thank you very much," rudely responds the cheerleader, much to Blaines surprise.

"Did I do something to offend you-"

"Oh my god," she exclaims with wide eyes. "Do you have hearing impairment or something? Or are you generally illiterate that you cant understand simple, straight forward American? Get the fuck away," she says in coherency.

Confounded by that entire interaction, Blaine leaves the girl to buffer her nails. He has met a couple of rude people in his life, none however could hold a candle to how the girl just responded to him. It was as if she was irritated by his mere presence, which frankly she was. He continues his journey down the hallway, determined to find the main office himself after that rude interaction with the cheerleader.

He notices then that he got a few weird stares as he walks down the hallway, as if he was from a different planet or something. He has never felt so self-conscious in his life, because only teenagers can make someone feel to self- conscious by their mere looks. He continues down the hallway nonetheless, trying to ignore the stares in his way.

He realizes that the students are mostly with their own kinds. There is a group of boys adorned in letterman jackets- probably from an athletic team or something- all hurdled in one corner, laughing and talking obnoxiously loud. The cheerleaders are in the own clique as well, in one corner. There are students of species Blaine has never seen before- like a group of Chinese looking girls dressed like Japanese animation characters, students with round spectacles with appalling outfits talking timidly amongst themselves- they resemble Carl a lot. Everybody looks categorized, which frankly is a sad matter.

Finally, Blaine finds himself standing right in front a room, with the sign up above reading Main Office. He heaves a sigh of relief to himself and walts in where a woman with short brown hair, in her probably late thirties, sitting behind the front desk. He walks up to her and presses on the ball that sits on the counter. The woman looks up to him and raises an eyebrow.

"Hi. My name is-- Lance Jackson," tells Blaine, almost forgetting that he has a different identity after having to shamefully walk down that hallway, with hounded with judgemental eyes.

"Oh, yeah. They told me you were coming," she says with displease. "Have your transcripts with you?"

"Yes," says Blaine, pulling a folder out from his satchel- the folder Carl had personally left inside his bag.

The woman takes it lazily, opens it before putting on her spectacles to read what is inside. Mostly, Blaine is hoping the paperwork inside are legitimate enough, though given Carl was behind it, it probably could have passed for nuclear codes or something. The woman punches something into her computer before printing out a consent form.

"Sign here please," she instructs and Blaine does so willingly. "The principal will see you now," she says, gesturing Blaine the way. He mutters a thank you to her before heading to the timber brown door and carefully knocking it, waiting for a grant.

"Come in," the woman inside says. Blaine pushes the door open to find himself in a small room that was a huge mahogany desk seated in the middle, the walls covered with trophies and medals sitting on shelves, and a woman dressed in a purple track suit sitting behind the desk, eyeing him with intense blue eyes. She has wrinkles in her face an a short blond hair.

"Im Lance Jackson-"

"Have a seat," she tells. "So, Im curious. Why is it that you decided to transfer into my school on the last few months of senior year, hm?"

Slightly overwhelmed because the question was asked even before Blaine has settled himself into the seat. He gathers himself and mentally accelerated a rich background story.

"My father decided to move to Lima, Ohio despite how much i begged him to let me complete my senior year at my old school, but he wouldnt hear a word of it so here I am."

"Is that so," she says, eyes still intently staring at Blaine. It is rather intimidating to be watched the way she is watching him, almost as if she was dismantling him part by part to understand what lies beneath.

"Yes," smiles Blaine.

"It says on your transcripts that you are a straight A student."

"I am," says Blaine.

"What is does one plus one equals to?"

"Um- two?" frowns Blaine at the sudden, illogical and frankly ridiculous question.

"A smart person with a vast and limitless range of knowledge would know it equals to a window," she says and Blaine had to fight back the urge to say that only a stupid person would think that. "Any hobbies?"

"I like bike riding a lot, I guess," says Blaine.

"You certainly have a physique for that," she says. "Drugs?"

"What? Of course not," says Blaine, astounded by the sudden change in topic. What is wrong with this woman. She studies Blaine again with those scrutinizing eyes.

"Im assuming youre gay."

"I rather not put labels on myself," tells Blaine because discretion is after all the safest way to be during missions.

"Gay then," she says. Her eyes glares at Blaine again before she continues. "Ill be frank here, this whole year Ive managed to keep my senior students at bay. Only two of them got pregnant that derailed my road to success but Im back on track, and then you come waltzing into my school with pink trousers on the final few laps of my race. I dont know you, so it makes me nervous that youre going to cause some trouble and destroy my status and the reputation Im trying to build here."

"I wont cause any trouble-"

"I have no reason to trust you," she wavers. "But let met give you a piece of warning- if you even remotely step outside the lines in my school, I will kick your ass out so fast you would think lightning took a longer time to strike. Got it?"

This woman truly is intimidating- and a good fit for a principal as well. She is tall and dominant, and really stringent with eyes that could have been daggers to kill. Blaine swallows hard, realizing he has shrunken into his seat.

"Yes, Maam," says Blaine.

"Youll have to do detention tomorrow," she says.

"What? Why?" says Blaine, confused.

"Because youre late for class," tells the principal. It was so unreasonable but Blaine bites his tongue to not argue, reminding himself to not stick out like a sore thumb. She signs his consent and hands it back to him.

"Get your schedule from the front desk, remember my warning, rush to class. Oh, and welcome to McKinley," she smiles a satanic smile.

----------

After that really weird and threatening meeting with the principal, Blaine walks to find his locker with an absolutely absent mind. Were principals always like that? He didnt know. His last school principal was when he was in preschool probably. His childhood, though very vividly centric on CIA training, lacked a regular childhood.

The hallway that was busy and bustling, much like New York, just a few minutes ago is now deserted. The students probably have rushed to their classes- probably out of fear of their dominatrix principal as well. Blaine searches for the number he has been given- locker 298.

He spots it then, which is so unfortunately opposite the boys bathroom. God only knows how smelly a boys bathroom could get. He basically had to wrestle with the dial to get it open before punching the lock so hard it practically bounced open. Was this a high school effect? Aggravating people just so suddenly.

The phone he keeps in his back pocket starts to vibrate. He pulls it out and an unknown number flashes across the screen.

"Hello?" says Blaine.

"Your locker is a few lockers away from the subject. Have you found him yet?" ask the familiar voice of one Carl Harold.

"Not yet. Ive been battling social judgement plus a really, really odd principal," tells Blaine. "Seriously what kind of school is this?"

"Your average high school?" says Carl. "Did a cheerleader tell you off?"

"How did you know?"

"Because that is what cheerleaders do. Tell, and blow people off," chuckles Carl, much to Blaines confusion. Only he understands the dynamic of a high school in this conversation, because Blaine clearly did not. "We need you to get a move on. Find the subject and infiltrate."

"I dont even know where to start. In case you didnt realize, this school probably has a population of a thousand students- or more," says Blaine but in that moment, a sound that broke the silence of the quiet hallway pulls him from his reverie.

There is a soft conversation coming from the end of the hallway, far in the distance from where Blaine is. He turns to the direction of the two people who are standing across from each other, a woman and a teenage boy.

The woman has fiery red hair that is neatly combed downwards. Her plaid skirt complements her green cardigan and a white blouse. She looks very well put together- neat and preppy, but definitely not a student. A teacher, probably. Standing across from her is a young boy, who looks rather dejected.

His shoulders are hunched and his back is slouched. He wears a black round neck long sleeve that fits him perfectly, tight denim jeans that coil around his eternity-long legs immaculately with brown loafers to finish the look. He stands there, facing the ground as the woman talks to him in a gentle manner.

He watches the scene before him, not because it was remotely interesting whatsoever, but because he finds himself waiting for the teenage boy to look up. Something told him it was the subject- Kurt Hummel. That nagging voice in his head every time he has a stern instinct about something.

"Blaine?" says Carl.

"Hush," dead pans Blaine, and the man on the other end of the line does as he is told.

A few minutes later, the woman wraps the teenage boy in a warm hug before he gestures for him to go. The boy walks, in a glaciers speed practically dragging his feet, from the woman. His eyes fixated on the ground as if there was an interesting message encrypted on the gravel. Blaine waits anyway, sneaking glances at the boy as he draws to his proximity.

He could feel it. This was the boy, the subject- his mission. Finally, his head looks up in a slow, steady fashion and those eyes, those very unique pair of eyes, lock gazes with Blaine. It was a very subtle contact, but those blue-green eyes were so intense it was as if the boy could look past Blaines soul, making him gulp for some reason. He does not smile, he does not acknowledge but he looks down again and continues down the hallway until he disappears a corner.

"Blaine?" says Carl very timidly, probably in fear of being told to hush again.

"Huh?" says Blaine, for a moment losing his sense of articulation. Truly, those pair of eyes were like nothing he has seen before.

"Well?" presses Carl.

"I just saw the kid," tells Blaine.

------

It took an eternity for Blaine to find the AP Chemistry class room. When he finally did, he was at least fifteen minutes late. Clearly not off to a good start here as a pretend student. He inhales deeply and pushes the door open. The classroom is already filled with students. When the door creaked open, all eyes fell upon him- including the teacher, who is a short man with a receding hairline, adult acne and round spectacles that look like magnifying glasses to be frank.

"May I help you?" says the teacher, eyeing him with displease, clearly irritated that his lesson was interrupted.

"My name is Lance Jackson?" says Blaine, walking towards the teacher and handing him the small consent form principal wacky had given him earlier.

"The transfer student?" spits the teacher, in which Blaine nods in response. "Well, youre fifteen minutes late for my class, but since youre new I am willing to look past this."

"Thank you, sir," says Blaine.

"Class, we have a new student. He goes by the name of Lance Jackson," says the teacher to a group of unresponsive students. "Take a seat."

The classroom is arranged with long benches that are filled with two students at either side of each bench. There are a few situated from the front, all the way to the back but most of them are filled. Blaine searches for an empty, and for awhile he fears there isnt one, until he notices the boy- Kurt Hummel, seated at the bench at the far back of his bench- with an empty seat across from him.

Blaine strides down the aisle, ignoring the dirty looks he gets from the students and plants himself immediately in that seat. The teacher resumes talking again, going on about some form of chemical reactions and what it produces but Blaine is more centred on his mission right now. He glances at the boy whom is sitting there, his chin rested on one of his palms, his other hand scribbling something in his notebook- not too sure if it has any relevance to the subject, but he seems as if hes in a different place, far from here, his eyes though fixated on the notebook in front of him.

He glances away then, but finds his eyes drawn back to the boy sitting across from him. He was not doing anything of any interest at all, simply sitting there completely resigned from this classroom, but there was something in the way he breathed every now and then- his shoulders rising and falling repetitively- that Blaine could tell that he was handsome, but was completely oblivious of that.

"Who can tell me what does potassium hydroxide and calcium carbonate give you?" ask the teacher, because even though Blaine has his sights focused on something else- being trained as a CIA agent, his other senses are just as focused. "Kurt?"

The boy looks up then, completely startled and dropping his pencil that rolled off the table and fell to the ground. You could tell by the way his eyes are wide and his jaw is hanging that he wasnt listening, much less know the answer to the teachers question- which frankly, is a very simple question.

"Im sorry, what?" asked the boy, Kurt.

"Can you tell me what does potassium hydroxide and calcium carbonate form when reacted together?" ask the teacher, rephrasing his question. The boy looks confused, clearly he has no knowledge of this question, or that he really was not paying attention, not even remotely, but Blaine sees an opportunity now- to interact with the boy.

"Potassium carbonate, and carbon dioxide," whispers Blaine so quietly only the boy could hear. He snaps his neck to Blaines direction and stares at him with wide beautiful eyes- because beautiful was truly the only fair description for those set of eyes.

"Um- potassium carbonate, and carbon dioxide?" tries the boy.

The teacher glares at him with eyes made of daggers. "Correct," he says, riddled with disappointment. Are teachers not suppose to be thrilled when their students have answers to their questions, or is asking questions their tactic to issue punishment with pleasure?

"Pay attention," he warns the boy, whose head falls in embarrassment.

He is a skinny boy, his cheeks are shrunken in, his hair though still very brown, is lifeless in comparison with the family portrait Blaine had seen back in the briefing room. There was no wide smile, but a tight grim line. Understandable, of course, considering what has happened. What is wrong with the teacher anyway? Did he not know what this boy went through? You would think when you had a tragic loss, people would be more compassionate.

"Thank you," says the boy in an exhausted tone. Blaine notices then that his under eyes are dark. He looks postively zombie-like with those horrible bags underneath those very pretty eyes.

"No problem" smiles Blaine. "Chemistry is nobodys forte after all. I just took a shot at the answer and prayed you wouldnt punch me should the answer have been wrong."

A small smile pulls across the boys face, and though it was nothing in comparison with his wide, comical smile in that family picture, it was still better than the grim expression he wore just minutes ago. Focus, Blaine, he tells himself. Get it together, befriend him, now- thought Blaine to himself.

"Im Lance, by the way," says Blaine, smiling at the boy whom is momentarily startled as if introduction is a foreign concept to him. He looks at the hand Blaine had outstretched to him as if it had sharp teeth set to kill.

"Kurt- Kurt Hummel," he says, taking the formal handshake.

"Nice to meet you," says Blaine.

"You too," he says, though he sounds disinterested.

He needs to play this cool. This boy went through something traumatic, losing his mother like that, he is in a fragile state right now and clearly does not want to be befriending new people. He needs time to warm up to this boy and gain his trust. He needs to act like a friend- be a friend, something he never has done before in his previous missions. It was always either kill or protect. This time, it is to gain a trust, which is not as easy as it sounds.

"I take it youre not the biggest fan of chemistry?" ask Blaine.

"Not my best subject," shrugs the boy, his eyes still on the notebook in front of him drawing or writing, whatever it is that seems so time consuming.

"Whats your favourite then?" asked Blaine, deeming it an innocent question but the boy glances over at Blaine and frowns as if it was weird to ask.

"English literature is pretty okay I guess," tells the boy.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow," says Blaine, in which the boy raises his eyebrows. "That is as much Shakespeare as I know, thanks to the movie."

The boy smiles again, a small but lively smile. "I take it youre not the biggest fan of English literature then?" says the boy.

"Not my best subject," shrugs Blaine.

He did not know of the dynamic teenagers have these days between one another- how they converse and all of their other pets, but in the real world- one outside the double doors of high school, this would have been called flirting. Was he flirting? He did not realize it, and it is weird that he did not.

"Quiet back there," tells the teacher.

"Sorry," responds Blaine, but that smile on the boys face is still intact. It looks good on him- a smile. He looked sullen back in that hallway, and again just a few minutes ago, but now that he is smiling, it truly fits him.

This whole new concept was new to Blaine- having to befriend someone, but a good or bad concept, he did not know because he found himself smiling too at the small conversation between the boy and him, but he reminds himself to stay focus, no matter how pretty that smile look.

----------

The class ends soon after, with the dismissal bell signalling them for their next lesson. The boy is still on his notebook and they had not spoken since the teacher so rudely told them to be quiet. The other students begin to pour out, but because his main objective here is to gain this boys trust, and not to rush for lessons, Blaine stays behind and pretends to be copying down the last few notes while the boy packs away his things in his small Cambridge satchel.

He stands up then, and without so much as a nice talking to you, he leaves the classroom and Blaine scurries after him, keeping a safe distance of course. Carl had mentioned that their schedules were identical, so wherever this boy was going was clearly his next destination as well.

He seems to shrink in the traffic of students hastily proceeding on to their next class. Shoulders slouched and eyes fixated on the ground. He stands out in the crowd, but blends in as well. As Blaine shadows him, he notices the length of the boys legs- very long. The boy is slightly taller then him, maybe by an inch but then again everybody towers over Blaine. He wants to intervene, maybe talk to the boy but just as he quickens his pace to catch up, a sudden shrill echoes the hallway.

The boy, Kurt, who was walking so innocently just a few minutes ago is pushed so hard against the wall of lockers he crumbles to ground with a loud cry of pain and sits there in a puddle. The culprit is a large jock, adorned in a letterman jacket who smiles and laughs like a villain at the boys pain.

"Thats for being in my way, fucking homo," spits the jock at the shrunken boy on the ground.

He did not understand why, but a surge of anger rises up inside of Blaine as he watches the scene before him. He could not stop himself, maybe because he is a CIA operative and his job is to keep the innocent people of America safe- from any form of harm- but soon he finds himself running in between the jock and the boy, Kurt, who is gathering the papers that had scattered everywhere when he fell.

"What the hell is your problem?" ask Blaine through gritted teeth. The boy behind him looks up then and is a little surprised to find somebody sticking up for him.

"Who are you? His knight and shining fag armor?" says the jock, also a little stunned that he was confronted. Things like these rarely happen in McKinley. Everybody sort of falls to the superiority of the jocks.

"Homophobia really does not suit anyone, much less you with excess fat hanging off your jeans. Arent jocks suppose to be well physique? Pick on someone your own size, alright?," says Blaine.

"And if I dont?" ask the jock, in which Blaine shrugs indifferently.

He knows it then- a punch or a shove is coming. The instincts that has kept him alert and alive throughout his career is ringing like crazy. He waits for it, timing himself. There is a fury in the eyes of the jock. It is as if this whole being challenged thing is new to him. His lips quiver a little and then it comes. He is about to shove Blaine just like he did with the boy. His arms rises, slowly in Blaines mind, and as it comes towards him, Blaine grabs the part in between his thumb and his index finger, pressing it with strength. The jock crumbles to the ground and yelps in pain.

"Painful?" ask Blaine in sarcasm, oblivious to the fact that there are students whom have gathered around the small altercation.

"Let go of me- fuck!" exclaims the jock, whimpering in pain and on his knees.

"Hurts like a bitch, doesnt it?" ask Blaine, in which the jock screams more obscenities. "Do me a favor, would ya? How about you apologize to Kurt over here," says Blaine, stepping aside so the jock and Kurt are facing each other.

"No fucking way! Let go-" begs the jock but Blaine presses harder on that sensitive part he knows hurts a lot when a magnitude of strength is applied onto it.

"Apologize first, and then Ill let go," says Blaine.

Kurt stands there, holding his papers to his chest and watching his attacker being physically tormented. He did not know what exactly to feel, but a part of him wants to laugh.

"Apologize?" presses Blaine.

"Fuck no-" says the jock, fuelling the burning rage inside of Blaine. He smiles then, and grabs the jocks wrist, dragging his arm to his back and forces him down to the ground pressing his knee into the boys spine. The jock yelps louder now.

"How about now?" ask Blaine, pressing his knee so hard into the jocks spine he was practically whimpering in pain. He did not know what washed over him- a natural instinct to protect or just angry that a big, strong jock just random decide to hurt an innocent boy like Kurt Hummel.

"Im sorry!" the jock finally yells.

"I didnt quite hear that," says Blaine.

"Im sorry!" yells the jock in a hoarse tone. "Im sorry, alright? Now get the fuck off me!"

"Is that good with you?" ask Blaine, looking at Kurt whom is stunned. He nods hastily, his back pressed against the lockers and papers clutched hard onto his chest.

"Good," says Blaine. He stands then and helps the jock boy to his feet, dusting the letterman jacket for him. "You better get going," tells Blaine to the jock.

"Youre gonna fucking pay for this," exclaims the jock in rage as he storms away, no doubt in complete humiliation.

"You okay?" ask Blaine, turning around to face the teen boy.

"F-fine," stammers Kurt, still a little stunned.

"Good then," smiles Blaine. "I will see you later," he says before he makes his way to his next class, dozens of eyes watching him as he strides away as if nothing had transpired.

That was a friendly act for the teen boy, Kurt, dont you think?

--------

His first day as a pretend student soon comes to a close. Blaine has decided to let the boy befriend him himself seeing as clearly the boy is in no state to bother with befriending anyone right now- obviously, especially considering having loss his mother.

Since that little altercation earlier in the day, Blaine has not approached the boy in their classes together, but he has noticed the boy glancing over at him every now and then. He knows the boy is grateful for what he did, and for that he knows the boy will come to him if he wants. This is a rather tricky mission- he has to play it smart and not make the boy feel uncomfortable.

As he makes his way to his locker, the hallway is littered with students all drained from a boring class. Blaine had never been to classes like these before- he could not deny it, it was boring but informative as well. He frankly did not quite get why students hate going to classes because they were actually pretty interesting.

Coming to his locker, his phone vibrates in that moment and he picks it up immediately, while dumping his books into the small compartment.

"What the hell did I tell you about keeping low key?" yells Carl on the phone.

"What do you mean?" ask Blaine, slightly annoyed at the call, especially how it started.

"The whole school is talking about that new kid who beat up the school jock? Blaine what the hell-"

"He attacked our subject!" argues Blaine. "From what I understood from the briefing, I am also suppose to make sure no harm ever comes to the kid-"

"Harm from the attackers after the discovery! Not petty little high school fights-"

"I did what I thought was right, okay? I need to build a bridge here between that kid and I otherwise how the hell am I suppose to gain his trust!"

"You cannot afford for people to be suspicious of you! What if they Google your name and realize your name and back story is non existent? Now I have to start building up facts on the Internet about Lance Jackson just to be safe!"

"Then do that," tells Blaine. He glances over to his right to find the boy, Kurt, walking towards him, blue eyes set straight for the course towards Blaine. "I have to go," hastily says Blaine before he dumps his phone into the locker and slams it shut just in time for the boy to come to a halt.

"Hi," he says shyly, gripping on his books as tight as possible.

"Hey," Blaine responds casually.

"I just- wanted to thank you for what you did earlier," he says.

"Oh, no problem. He was a jerk after all and I dont fancy jerks," tells Blaine.

"One of the jerks in this school actually. As the weeks go by youll find this school is infected with jerkaphobia," tells the teen boy.

"Thats not an actual word, is it?" smiles Blaine, in which the boy drops his face and giggles quietly.

"No, its not. But thank you nonetheless," he smiles.

"No problem," says Blaine.

"Lance, right? Your name is Lance?"

"One and only," says Blaine.

"We have all the same classes," says Kurt.

"We do?" nonchalantly tells Blaine. "I didnt realize."

A dejected look seems to fall upon the boys face. His smile becomes dimmer, almost as if a little hurt by his words. Blaine did not quite understand but just as he is good with instincts, he could also read peoples facial expression.

"Well, again, thank you. Ill see you around," says the boy, flashing another small, polite smile before continuing down the hallway and disappearing in the flow of students.

As the boy walks away, Blaine couldnt help but to feel disappointed the conversation was short lived. He sighs heavily and opens his locker to get back to that call with Carl, though he feels comforted to know that at least the boy did approach him first. He knows the he needs to do more to gain his trust, and subconscious- thought very enigmatically- he was excited to get to know the boy a little more.

----------