Kurt Hummel pulls into the driveway of his small humble abode with a nice picket fence and a little lounge area in the front porch, though despite the happy ambiance the decoration of the house gives, inside is the opposite of that- which explains why he dreads going inside.

The engine dies down as he switches the ignition off and simply takes a minute to himself in the sanctuary of his car to just let his thoughts calm. Going into a house that holds memories of someone you loved so much who has passed, really is a hard thing to do. Kurt allows his thoughts to wander back to his past- the vivid image of his mother smiling at him, a warm motherly smile that could obliterate every worry. It still is surreal that she is gone and though he wishes to accept things as they are, he couldnt help but to question those plans people proclaim God has for taking his mother away.

As he enters the front door, the house is eerie and quite. He knows his father, Burt Hummel, is still at the garage working. His father has been doing that a lot lately- drowning himself in work. Kurt could not blame him. He wanted to drown himself in something too, so hell be too busy to even think of anything. It is going to be dinner time pretty soon, which means his father shouldnt be far from home now.

The pictures of his mother still serve as a both happy and painful memory hanging in frames on the walls. He dares not look at them, but keeps his head down and makes his way to his bedroom at the basement. His bedroom is his only safe place these days with the comfort of his mattress, an old DVD player for watching old movies, a functional stereo and his very own personal bathroom. This is the place hes been mourning in for the past few days.

Thorwing his satchel to the corner of his bedroom, he practically jumps onto his bed and allows his back to sink into the thick mattress, taking a much needed relaxation after a long, rather weird day in school. Recalling back the events that transpired earlier in the day, he couldnt help but to be curious of that new boy - Lance Jackson.

The boy had a handsome face, though he looks older- maybe some people just age faster. He has dark brunette hair slicked back neatly, eyebrows thick but naturally shaped, tan skin with a clear complextion, his wardrobe was could have been malfunction, but somehow he pulled it off. His eyes were bright, the colour of a setting sun.

He knew this because Kurt had all the same classes with the new boy, in which he chooses to believe is a fair coincidence. He had spent most of the lessons looking at the boy and studying him instead of the actual subjects, wondering curiously why did the boy stand up for him earlier when big old Karofsky had given him his daily dose of physical abuse. Nobody had done that before. Everybody just turns the other cheek when the Neanderthals of the school pick their victims of the week, which in most cases is Kurt, because he is the weakest boy in the school basically, that and also because he is gay and you know how big straight jocks feel about skinny gay students.

Still, he wondered why the boy was interested to befriend him. In chemistry class as well when everybody avoided the bench Kurt was seated at, the boy did not- granted, he is new- but he still did not act as if Kurt had a dark, thundery cloud over his head like how everybody acted with him. Nobody had ever introduced themselves to Kurt in the way that boy had because frankly, nobody ever bothered to want him as a friend. It felt nice to have someone introduce themselves to him, and then initiated a conversation afterwards. It felt nice talking to someone who was friendly to him.

In that moment, he hears the front door upstairs creak open, and then slammed shut. The familiar sound of his fathers Timberland boots, the one his mother had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago, echoes in the silent house. Kurt heaves a sigh of relief because even though the dynamic in the house has not been the same since, he still sometimes could not bear being home alone. He climbs up the stairs, up to the kitchen to find his father pulling out their takeaway lunch from a brown paper bag.

"Hi dad," greets Kurt.

"Hey kid," say Burt Hummel as he unpacks the dinner he had bought for the two of them from the local deli.

"Whats for dinner tonight?"

"Pasta," says his father.

Kurt fights the urge to remark that they had that last night too, from the same deli, but he bites his tongue because in the past, it was always his mother that cooked dinner and the two man simply ate whatever she cooked, but since she passed, neither knew how to cook so theyve been surviving on takeouts and though Kurt wished his father had bought something else, he appreciates the fact that he is trying his best to now have to fill both parenting roles.

"How was school?" asked Burt, wanting to keep a small conversation going because silence is unbearable.

"Pretty okay," tells Kurt, choosing to be quiet of the events that transpired today.

"Got any homework?" asked Burt.

"Just a few," shrugs Kurt.

"You better get them done- go to Columbia like your mother did," says Burt.

They try to avoid talking about Elizabeth as much as possible because it is a little too soon, but sometime there are a few slips here and there. Burt stops unpacking the contents in the brown paper bag and takes a second to simply breathe. Talking about his wife is just as painful as it is for Kurt hearing about his later mother.

"I hope so, dad," says Kurt timidly.

After dinner, Kurt retreats into his bedroom again, leaving his father alone in the family room to watch football. He would join for the sake of being with his father, but he really was not in the mood to watch something he did not enjoy. Rather, Kurt spends his night in his bedroom listening to the soothing tune of Mariah Carey.

He lays on his bed and allows his thoughts to wander again- something he has been doing a lot of. He thinks about his mother, and what could have possibly happened to her. They were told from the police officers that she was mugged and killed in an alley in New York City. The simple vision of his skinny and fragile mother being stabbed by a man who simply wanted to rob some money to buy drugs probably sends chills up his arm. He could not grasp the fact that she was gone, but he feels angry. Angry that he was not there to protect his mother. Angry that a man attacked his mother and he was not that to defend her. Angry that she was in New York City that weekend and promised to be back on Monday- but she never came back. Angry that he couldnt defend her even if he was there because his mother was his defender.

Everything has just been a blur since her passing. It is as if Kurt was in a trance, living every day of his life with absolutely no direction. He wanted to snap out of this, to focus on something to keep his kind preoccupied, but he did not know what. Nothing mattered and nothing could matter any more.

--------

"Do you hear me Blaine Anderson?" exclaims Carl that night after he had returned from McKinley high school. "Youre not allowed to beat up kids!"

"I was following specific orders-"

"You were following a technicality!"

"You told me to build a friendship with the boy, and I did. I defended him which to me is pretty friendly, so if you dont mind I have to get this history homework done otherwise Im gonna get kicked out and this whole operation would be over," argues Blaine, feeling so annoyed at getting nagged.

"I mean it Blaine. I cannot have the students be suspicious of you," tells Carl in a stringent tone.

"They wont be," says Blaine. "What you can do now is send a few agents down to the Hummels residence to make sure theyre safe, and also start doing background checks on the teachers. We dont know if somebody who is after that discovery is going undercover as a teacher or not, so do that, will you?"

"I already did. Im not an idiot you know."

"Then stop acting like one, Carl," tiredly says Blaine. "I dont mean to sound cocky, but I am actually good at what I do. I know what my objective is and I know my moves, so if you dont mind- unless I report to you with updates, leave me alone."

"Youre starting to act like a real teenager," teases Carl as he exits the room, in which Blaine yells out a vulgarity to him.

He knew he had to go undercover as a teenager, he did not know that the baggage came with a nagging father. He sighs heavily then and dumps the homework away. At times when his career feels like a heavy weight on him, he thinks of his parents and how he is doing this for them- for their safety. He pulls his phone out and access the function of checking public cameras- because being a CIA agent has many perks.

He types in the familiar address and an image of a suburban house pops up. It is a warm looking house with a marble chimney and a driveway with a basketball hoop fixed on top of the big garage door. He remembers that driveway very clearly- lots of memories there. The garage door is still the same- a bright blue paint. He knows the mustang probably still is inside. Looking at the house, he wonders what the residents are doing at this second, and whether he is still remembered or not.

"We have a lead," says Carl abruptly as he burst into the room. "We think we know who killed Elizabeth Hummel."

Blaine jumps off the top bunk, storing his phone away into his back pocket as he follows Carl to the big projection screen in the living room. Carl goes to the keyboard and types something in an accelerated velocity and a picture of a man wearing a pair of really cheap looking sunglasses pops on the screen. He has a thick beard and a long scar that travels down the side of his face. His hair is really untidy, his whole appearance simply radiating evil.

"They finally processed the security tapes, and it showed this man leaving Columbia University around the time of death," tells Carl. He types something into the keyboard again and a video now shows up on the screen.

The footage is on night vision, and of poor quality even, but Blaine recognizes the long steps that is one of Columbia Universitys trademark facilities. There is a man walking up the steps, adorned in a heavy trench coat. His hands are deep inside his pockets but he keeps his head low, as if in full knowledge of the camera. It shows him ascending up the many steps until he disappears into the door. The video fast forwards then, and shows the same man leaving the premises, pulling his trench coat over himself. His face is hidden, but that scar is unmistakable.

"Whats his name?" ask Blaine.

"Lucius Dame," tells Carl. "He has plenty of criminal records, though he was never really convicted of anything."

"Why not?" frowns Blaine. You would think somebody who has many records would at least be jailed once.

"Dont know. His files dont show the reason why, nor do they show why he was arrested in the first place. Thats rather odd," says Carl, a frown on his geeky face.

"Do we know where he is now?"

"Were tracking his moves, but he does not have a credit card and he lives off prepaid phone lines that are untraceable because he keeps changing them. He was last seen on fifth avenue of New York City," tells Carl.

"Nobody has seen him since?"

"No. Im sending a team to invade his apartment. If I could just get his address- got it!" exclaims Carl in victory. He truly is efficient in his craft. It almost makes Blaine feel bad for calling him an idiot just a few minutes ago. "Im sending in a team right now."

"Tell them to be cautious. If the man is smart, he would know were on to him. He would have probably vacated by now, and left a time bomb or something."

"Youre right," tells Carl. He presses on a button and grabs a handset. "I need you guys to cover all areas of entrance- windows, fire escapes as well. Make sure you dont go in by the obvious route."

It feels like forever before the team in New York City reported back to them, but after an hour of waiting, a phone call reaches them. Carl rushes to it and grabs his handset, quickly pressing on the button and telling the team to give him a summary.

"He vacated the apartment, leaving nothing behind," tells Carl.

"Have they checked everything? In the basins, behind the toilet, under the tiles?"

"They tore the apartment down to the T and found anything," says Carl.

"Shit. He knows," tells Blaine. "He knows weve caught on to him."

"Or maybe he took a precaution?"

"No," says Blaine. "A precaution would be to grab his necessities. He would not have emptied out the apartment, leaving us with no trail. No, he knows were catching up to him. That should mean he hasnt realize what he stole was a fraud copy. We need to move fast and retrieve the original one before he comes looking in the family."

"I agree," tells Carl.

"Until then, we need to deploy night watchers at the Hummels residence. Get as many cameras watching that house as possible, from every exit, and check the airport, train and ferry terminals for that face. Send out copies of that mans face to the officers at the terminals and tell them to keep a look out for the man, the people who check passports as well."

"On it," tells Carl as he instructs the others as well.

A surge of protective nature rises inside of Blaine. He did not know what it was. This felt different from all his other missions where protecting came naturally- this time, he feels it in his bones, in his guts. Maybe it was seeing the boy, and seeing how fragile he is as a person that made this new sensation rise from within, but one thing is for sure- he needs to make sure Kurt Hummel would not have the same fate as Elizabeth Hummel.

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

The dreadful hallway of McKinley welcomes Kurt again as he steps through the threshold. He almost wished a great big explosion would occur in the basement that would bring the whole building crumbling down to ashes. Sighing as he clutches his books tight onto his chest, he walks to his locker, the whole time waiting to be shoved onto lockers again. A normalcy after years of torment.

As he reaches his locker, he heaves a sigh of relief. That saves him one bruise. After yesterdays daily dose of Karofsky abuse, it left a huge and ugly bruise on his right bicep. It usually takes a few days before those bruises slowly fades away, but for right now it still hurt like the bitch that it is. He checks his schedule and sighs heavier to know that AP Chemistry was his first subject.

He really was not fond of chemistry because he hated mixing chemicals that most of the time would explode in his face, or gives off a rather odd product after mixing that will cause the class to have to evacuate. It is odd though, seeing as how his late mother was a lead scientist in one of Americas most prestigious universities but he cant determined whether an acid contains hydrogen or not. He hates participating in something that makes him feel stupid. Kurt makes his way to the classroom anyway after taking the books that he needs from his locker.

When he arrives, knowing that he is early, he is surprised to find one Lance Jackson seated on the bench that usually consist of Kurt himself. He usually was the earliest for class, despite how much he despised the class. The boy, who is dressed in a black polo t-shirt and a red tie with his hair slicked back in the same way that it was yesterday, looks up when Kurt pushes the door open and flashes him a bright, toothy grin that he couldnt help but to smile at.

"Hello," the boy greets cheerily.

"Hi," says Kurt rather timidly. He really was not the kind who could spark up a conversation like that. Talking to anyone in this school was a foreign concept to him.

"I hope you dont mind me taking your bench again," says the boy.

"Oh- of course not," says Kurt, still a little surprised this new boy is talking to him.

"So, how was your night?" ask the new boy, placing his elbow on the table top and resting his chin onto his palm. "Did anything fun?"

Kurt spun so quickly at the new boy he might as very well snapped his neck. It was rather an odd question to be asked to him because frankly, nobody ever bothered to ask about his life aside from his loving father of course, but also because he never had any social plans before.

"Did homework a lot," shurgs Kurt. He was still new to this whole conversing dynamic. Talking to someone just did not feel comfortable, after years of being ignored in this hell hole.

"Sounds mundane. I only managed history before I decided I rather be a janitor than do all these irrelevant crap," tells the new boy, and a natural smile forms on Kurts lips. He didnt not realize it though- that he was naturally smiling from a joke.

"Janitors require at least the qualifications to understand English," says Kurt, though to his surprise. He rarely knows what to say in a conversation, but did he really just pull a sarcastic joke with the new boy?

"Youre so right," laughs the boy. A soft and soothing laughter.

Kurt did not know what it was, but somehow maybe because this new boy clearly did not found him appalling and insignificant like the rest of the school did, he felt sort of confident to converse with him- which is a definite first in his life time.

"Where are you from?"

The boy looks up and an amused smile forms across his lips. Kurt could not help but to blush at that smile- it really was an adorable smile.

"Westerville. Transferred from Dalton Academy," he tells.

"Dalton Academy? Never heard of it," says Kurt.

"Its a- very private, all boys school that wins no substantial awards whatsoever," tells the new boy.

"Why did you transfer out?" asked Kurt, immediately regretting. "Im sorry if Im prying."

"The school was pretty shit to be honest. Plus my parents couldnt afford the tuition any more so we moved," shrugs the new boy. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," says Kurt, though slightly feeling nervous. Never in his whole life time being in this school has anyone wanted to know about him at all.

"Why did that jock attack you yesterday?" ask the new boy, eyes riddled with concern. It was definitely one of many firsts today- nobody has ever looked at him with that amount of concern except for his father, and his late mother.

"Well, I choose to believe Karofsky has some suppressed anger or that his father gives him a beating every now and then which in turns he takes it out on me, or the other weaker students, but hes mostly a homophobic jerk which explains why he attacks me the most," tells Kurt. The new boy frowns as if he did not quite understood what Kurt meant. "Because Im gay?" says Kurt, pointing it out to the clueless the boy.

He was definitely an introvert- at least thats what he chooses to believe he is when fact of the matter is he has never had anyone to be an extrovert with- but the one thing he has never been apologetic about was his sexual orientation, nor was he ever ashamed of it.

"Oh, okay," says the boy. You can read the surprise in his face, but did Kurts entire persona not give that away already?

"Can I ask you something then?" presses Kurt. The boy looks up and a smile is on his face. Yet another first- whenever he came out to people whom he did not know, they would run for the hills. This boy stays put.

"Shoot," he says.

"Why did you stick up for me? Nobody has ever done that."

"Because- I like to protect people," says the boy, with a mysterious gleam in those honey-coated optics.

"Thats very noble," says Kurt. "Even people you dont know?"

The boy takes a second or two, contemplating the question. He bites his lower lip, making it swollen read as compared to its healthy pink, before he smiles.

"Especially people I dont know," he says.

In that moment, the door pushes open and a river stream of students come flooding in, filling the benches, the last person being Mister Montgomery who wears a deep and angry frown on his face as he slams the door shut and drops his books with a loud thud onto the table top.

As the lesson begins, Kurt could not help but to glance over at the new boy whom has his eyes focused on the black board as mister Montgomery goes on and on about chemistry. This new boy was different from the walking idiots in this school. He had a certain flair about him, something Kurt found very-- attractive.

-----------

The entire school day Blaine had found trouble coming up with topics to talk to that boy Kurt about, though he did discover something new about the boy- something the mission briefing did not include. The boy was gay. He did not know how he did not see it before- those tight pants, hair styled to perfection with features so feminine. He had amazing instincts all the time, which explains the enigma as to why he did not catch on sooner. He chose to not have told the boy of his own sexual orientation, given missions required discretion about oneself.

Did that change the mission? In a way it did. Seeing as he was a gay man himself, he could relate to the boy, but he could see the restraint in those blue eyes every time a conversation was initiated to him. It was as if he was never approached or conversed to before. It felt odd, and definitely an obstacle standing in the way of Blaine bridging the gap between him and the boy. He needs to corner the boy somewhere- in a social event of some sort. Somewhere definitely out of the perimeter of this school. He needed to show that he was not simply just a school mate, but a genuine friend as well. That was tricky when the boy looked so guarded. He saw the smile, the walls coming down every now and then, but as soon as he notices it, the boy does too and his walls are back up.

The dismissal bells goes off then and Blaine has a plan in mind. He is going to ask the boy if he wanted to study in the library together- it was definitely a friendly thing to do, right? As the students pour out, Blaine clings on his satchel and tries to catch up to the boy but just as he is close, a blond girl steps in front of him. She is a stunning young girl with blond hair tied up in a high pony tail, eyes blue like the ocean and a well structured face, also donned in a cheer-leading uniform with its hem line flaring practically below her ovaries.

"Hi there," the girl smiles broadly. "My name is Quinn Fabray."

"Hi," says Blaine, frowning a little.

"Youre Lance Jackson, right? The new transferred kid?"

"Yeah, I am," says Blaine. The girl is almost as tall as him. There is a certain glow about her, a devilish glow rather. You just know she sits on a throne and watch the other, less stunning girls in disgust.

"The whole school is talking about you," she says, batting her eyelashes as she does.

"Only the good stuff, I hope."

"Everybody is talking about how you kicked Karofskys ass yesterday," she says. "Nobody has done that before- beat up a jock- and I just find that to be really..hot."

"Oh," says Blaine, a little startled by her words. He has never experienced this before, but he realizes it then, the way shes puffing out her chest, the slight biting of her lower lip, the batting of the eyelashes, the way her hands are pressed on the side of her hips to emphasize her small waist line. Shes flirting with him.

"Listen, I dont want to sound too forward," says the girl, taking a step forward and filling the small space in between them. "There is a Friday night party going on tonight, at Puckermans house. How about you meet me there, and well get together," the girl says, with her last syllable hanging with a more profound meaning to it. "Everyone will be there."

"Everyone?" says Blaine, his brows rising. The boy, Kurt, would be there too no doubt, and he had just thought about how he needed to corner the boy in a social event, make him see that he wasnt just a school mate but a real friend.

"Everyone," says the girl with a salacious smile on her pretty face. "How about Ill give you the address, and my phone number as well, and you can- drop by any time."

"Cool. Thanks," says Blaine as he takes the small piece of paper the girl had written the details on.

"Oh, and by the way," says the girl as she leans closer, over Blaines shoulder, her moist lips right by his ear. "I get super dirty in bed when Im drunk, and I plan to get wasted tonight."

Blaine gulps hard. This girl really was what she seemed- a sultry vixen.

"See you tonight, sexy," she whispers again with a wink.

That was rather awkward. Guys rarely flirted with him if he ever did go down to bars, much less a girl. He did not realize his cheeks were burning crimson, but he is glad that he did find a way to bridge a friendship with the boy. A party definitely was what he was thinking, silently praying the heavens up above as he makes his way out of the school premises.

-----------

After much deliberation with one Carl Harold, Blaine had finally convinced him that this was his strategy and he would have to deal with it. He still believes the director made a mistake putting Carl in charge of the operation, though decisions would be in discussion, Carl was still a stubborn prick. He takes after one very demanding Cruella de Vil.

He did not bother to argue his point though because his decision was final and seeing as he had seniority as compared to Carl, the researcher had to swallow his arguments and went with Blaines tactic. It was a risky one, being surrounded with drunk teenagers and a possibly criminal party that would be infiltrated by the local officers which might jeopardize the operation, but ultimately he knew this would be the perfect social event to corner the boy.

Blaine arrives at the address given to him by the cheerleader, Quinn Fabray and is momentarily overwhelmed at the sight before him. It is a small house, which looks poorly taken care of but aside from that, the house is basically exploding through its seams with the amount of people inside. Loud music is blasting, making Blaines own car window shield to vibrate. There are a few other people on the front porch, laughing amongst groups of friends holding beer bottles, couples showing public displays of affection. The sight truly embodied rowdy, wild teenagers.

He steps out of his car and into the crisp cold outside. The streets are littered with big, black guys dressed in jerseys and holding cans of beer. The street lamps flicker every now and then, the entire neighbourhood looks dangerous- clearly this was not the best neighbourhoods in this town as compared to the house the CIA had settled them with. That neighbourhood at least looked safe to stroll down.

The music is so loud Blaine could barely hear himself think and he climbs up the front porch and enters the house. It is just as chaotic as the outside promised. There are girls whom he recognizes a few from school, dressed in skimpy outfits and dancing with each other on table tops and kitchen counters. Guys doing keg stands, some making out with girls in the corners or on the couches. A very appalling sight to be honest. He wonders why the police hasnt arrived yet to tame this party, but looking at the neighbourhood, police officers probably feared coming into this part of town anyway.

Keeping his head focused, he searches for the boy, Kurt Hummel. Bright, unique set of eyes is his give away. He would recognize those eyes, those eye he has grown admirable of but he was not on the ground floor. He decides on the second and climbs the stairs, taking him to a second landing where there is a boy passed out on the ground. He rushes to him, out of fear, and checks for pulse, heaving a sigh of relief that hes alive and probably just passed out from being drunk. He opens one of the bedroom doors and immediately regrets it because he had walked in on a rather weird looking intimacy session between two very carnally hungry teenagers.

"Shut the fucking door man!" yells a boy with a Mohawk, shirtless and on top of a girl who has her head shielded with her hands.

"Sorry!" apologized Blaine as he slams the door shut, marking to never open that one again. He returns to the ground floor and searches for the boy but to no avail, choosing now to ask around.

"Have you seen Kurt Hummel?" ask Blaine to a certain brunette girl who frowns at him with big brown eyes.

"Who?" she says.

"Kurt Hummel? Im sorry, are you from McKinley?"

"Yeah, but Ive never heard of a Kurt Hummel," she shrugs before waltzing away with a red plastic cup. That was odd. How can someone not know who Kurt is if they came from the same school.

"Lance!" exclaims a high pitched females voice. Blaine turns around, almost having to remind himself that was his name here, to find a blond girl breaking through the crowd to get to him. "I am so glad you made it!" she says, batting her lashes again.

She is wearing a red dress that wraps around her toned body so immaculately, blond hair in a mess, her make up running and heels to kill. You could almost taste the alcohol on her as she speaks. The only thing remotely attractive on her right now is that dress, otherwise she simply looks like a stranded hooker.

"Glad I could be here," smiles Blaine. "Question, have you seen Kurt Hummel?"

"That loser?" laughs Quinn. "Why would you be looking for him? Im here, and I am all sorts of horny."

Another gulp Blaine has to swallow. The girl is pressing her chest onto his biceps, hands travelling up and down his body making him feel exploited. He grasp her words and a surge of anger boils inside of him. He did not understand it, but hearing how somebody called that boy a loser made him angry.

"Listen, its important that I talk to him. If you see him, could you let me know?"

"Hes not here," grumbles the girl. "Nobody invites him to parties. Why would we. Only anybody who is anybody is here."

Blaine was about to respond, but in that moment a loud, deep males voice yells from across the room. "There he is!"

The conversations and laughter dies down, the music is tuned down and the crowd splits into two like Moses with the Red Sea. A group of tall, buffed looking guys strides down the man-made path, one of them Blaine recognizes as the guy who shoved Kurt Hummel the other day, and though he only caught a glimpse of the other guy with the Mohawk, he was pretty sure that was the guy up in the bedroom just a few minutes ago. He notices the Quinn girl smiling, as if pleased with herself, before she slips away and goes into the arms of the Mohawk guy.

"Nice job, babe," says the Mohawk, giving her a spank on her butt, earning a playful cry from the girl.

"I heard you messed with our boy Karofsky the other day," says Mohawk douche.

"I wouldnt say mess with exactly," shrugs Blaine. He realizes then that he is standing by himself, with all the other people looking at him, some wearing dark smiles holding red plastic cups in their grasp.

"We heard differently," says the same guy.

"Yeah well, no doubt your boy altered the story to make him look like the victim," tells Blaine. He did not know what was going, but it did not look good considering he is standing across from four well-bodied boys who all wear the same obnoxious smirk.

"Let me break it down for you, new kid," tells the Mohawk, taking a step forward with his bravado still intact. His herd of wolves standing behind all at the ready. "There is a certain hierarchy in McKinley that you ought to stick by. It is a tedious list, so let me just tell you what you need to know. We rule the school. Us, the jocks. Everybody else falls below us but the lowest ranking loser, are the newbies," says the Mohawk guy and a variation of laughter erupts behind him.

"And I mean like really low. Like- below the chess club kind of low. Seeing us we are the kings and youre the peasant," says the guy as he takes a step forward again, practically just a few inches away from Blaine.

His eyes are dark, his skin is puffy and he reeks of nicotine and alcohol. Silence falls over everybody else as if this was the statement theyve been waiting for him to say. Blaine stays rooted in his spot, waiting for the guy to go on.

"You do not defy us," he says with a stringent intonation. "You do not talk back to us, you do not counter our words, you do not break the system of this school. There is an order in McKinley, and the one thing I wont tolerate is a faggot looking loser to come in and mess everything up, otherwise were going to have to-- take care of it," he says with a devilish smirk, a few snickers behind him.

"You know, Ive met people like you. People worst than you even, who do worst things than shove people onto lockers to exhibit your strength. Youre big and strong, really intimidating when you walk down those hallowed halls, but do you know where you rank in the list of bad guys outside the gates of high school?" ask Blaine, as he takes a step forward, in which the jock boy takes a step back. "You rank in the bottom- barely threatening."

The jock smirks then, a self-indulgent smirk on his face as he does a slow spin, laughing with the rest of the crowd. He turns to face Blaine and, without so much as a hesitation, throws his arm and tries to hit Blaine, but he anticipates it faster. He ducks in time for the punch, quickly scrambling to force his own knee hard into the boys groin. He yelps in pain and crumbles to the ground. The crowd of drunk looking teenagers falls into a silence as they watch their proclaimed leader rolling on the floor, crying out in pain.

The herd of wolves watch as their alpha dog falls, eyes riddled with both horror and anger. Karofsky, the guy whom Blaine had an altercation with prior to this, raises his head and looks straight into his eyes. He knows what entailed next- the herd was going to attack him, with no mercy, in honour of their alpha. Typical characteristics of loyal minions.

Karofsky charges forward, advancing with a quicken pace, his fist at the ready, but Blaine stays rooted, watching the gullible boy in amusement. The fist raises as he draws closer and is about to hit the same way the previous guy was about to hit, but Blaine is faster. He throws his own fist in lightning speed at the boys nose and he falls backwards, also growling in pain.

The two other who are part of the pack look in complete disbelief. They probably had not expected their top males to be beaten down so quickly, evident from the baffled horror in their eyes. The crowd is cheering on the two, yelling at them to, "Get him!"

"I strongly advise you against that," says Blaine to one of the boys, who is a big, bulky black guy.

He looks crossed within himself, wanting to show the crowd how much of a bad ass he is, but at the same time fearing of his life. It was almost laughable to Blaine. The two boys he had out down are still groaning in pain at their wounds. He waits for the other two to choose their path- to advance, or to withdraw.

"Get him Azimo!" yells the Quinn girl, whom at this point looks in disbelief at her adulterous boyfriend who is rolling on the ground, clutching onto his groin to remedy the pain.

The black guy takes a step forward, wearing a face that is plastered with an astronomical size of fear. Blaine smiles at him, both in amusement and in question. He made the wrong decision. He charges forward, with a slight grunting emitting from those burnt-from-cigarettes lips of his. Blaine had almost wanted to mutter something to him, but he sighs.

Drawing closer, he attempts to tackle Blaine to the ground as if tackling an adversary in the football field, but Blaine steps aside at the right second and trips the charging bull with his feet, who stumbles hard and crashes into a bookcase that collapses on top of him. A feminine shrill emits from the jock.

"How about you?" ask Blaine to the last guy, whom has red hair and a well physique body. His eyes swim with the fear he probably feels at the pit of his stomach. He is about to advance towards Blaine, but instead he turns around and dashes for the hills, as expected.

The crowd of drunken teenagers are speechless, watching Blaine with eyes filled with surprise. They clearly had not expected what just transpired. The Quinn girl wears the most embarrassed expression ever. Clearly humiliated that her boyfriend barely lasted two seconds in a fight he initiated.

It was truly laughable how these pubescent boys thought they could take him on. Maybe if they had known just how well trained he in his profession, they would have thought twice.

-------

The weekend had flew by with the CIA team practically trying every thing they could to track down Lucius Dame, but unfortunately to no avail. They had tried all the public CCTV cameras, checked with immigrations to find out if he had flown out of the country, but that led to no leads either. It was as if this guy had dropped out of the face of the Earth after his alleged murder, but it also seemed as if somebody was covering his tracks for him. It was a confusing ordeal, one that got both Carl and Blaine absolutely at a dead end, but for right now- he had to focus on his main objective.

Blaine had not told Carl of the events that transpired in that house party on Friday. He just knew Carl would have flipped should he have told him. He would have gone on about how Blaine was drawing attention to himself, but he could not help it. It was in his nature to put down the bad guys, just like how it was his nature to defend himself when somebody came to attack him. Nonetheless, it was safer to keep it out of sight and out of mind from Carl.

As Blaine pulls into McKinley Highs carpark, he inhales deeply. He needs to move fast- times are wasting. He needs to get closer with the boy, he needs to gain his trust, and retrieve the discovery now- both for the safety of the boy, and to bring justice to the family.

Stepping into the school premises, he expects it to be another day- one where nobody would pay attention to him as they are too invested in their own cliques, but he was so, very wrong. The second he set foot into that long hallway with the lockers fixed by the sides, all eyes are on him and all soft chatters form as he begins his journey to his first class. He could feel the stares burning into his skin, his name being mentioned in a few conversations he had strode past. What was everyone going on about, he did not know.

Maybe Carls choice of outfit- turquoise trousers, a vintage brown sweater with wooden buttons on the shoulders, and dark blue loafers with tie- is attracting more attention than he had anticipated.

Choosing to ignore it, he continues down the hall as if he was not being noticed. He walks pass the ground of jocks, and the same thing happens- though maybe that is understandable considering he did beat down three of their guys- but that happened in the confinement of a small party. Everyone cannot possibly be talking about that. He quickly takes refuge when he finds his first periods classroom- Home-room.

"Hi," says a newly familiar voice. Blaine turns to find the boy, Kurt Hummel, seated at one of the tables, his books laid out in front of him, but alone in this small classroom.

"Oh- Kurt, hey," says Blaine, a little breathlessly.

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed," asked the boy.

"I do?" says Blaine. "I just- do you know what is everyone talking about out there?"

"Im not one who keeps track of latest gossips in this school, but I reckon something about a video of a fight that went down at Puckermans party," tells the boy.

"You call that not keeping track?" says Blaine with a smirk, in which the boy smiles shyly.

"Well, when they post it up on YouTube and share it onto their Twitter accounts, it pretty much becomes public knowledge," tells the boy. "You sort of kicked all their asses."

"You saw it?" says Blaine with eyes wide.

"It was on my computer screen," shrugs the boy.

He feels lighter somehow, the boy. His smile, though still not as bright as the one in the picture from the briefing, was still substantially a smile. He is adorned in black and white long sleeve, his hair in a perfect coiffed. What struck Blaine most about today- was that he initiated a conversation as compared to the few times before this where he was the one who started it out.

"Can I asked what happened?" the boy ask with a slight timid tone, almost as if it was his first time asking somebody a question.

Blaine walks forward and plants himself on the seat across the boy, the big brown table placed her for studying separating them. He throws his satchel onto the table and sighs. He needs to play this cool- play this casual. The boy had opened himself up to a conversation with him, he must not rush too fast otherwise he will only shield himself up again.

Take it slow, Anderson, tells Blaine to himself.

"Well, they pretty much offended me in more ways than one. Oh yeah, and tried to punch me. I wasnt going to just stand there and let them," tells Blaine.

"That makes one of us," says the boy, though it is more quiet- as if hes saying that himself.

"I was hoping to find a familiar face in that stupid party. Why werent you there?" ask Blaine, in which the boy looks up and laughs a little.

"Very funny," he says.

"What?" asked Blaine, genuinely confused.

"I dont- go to those sort of social gatherings," tells Kurt.

"I dont blame you. Pretty rowdy to be frank, and a lot of alcohol. Still, I wished you were there. It could have been better if I at least had known one person at that party- you know, being new and all."

"I just- dont get invited to those sort of things, much less a big, Puckerman bash."

"Why is that?" ask Blaine.

"There is just some things you need to understand about this school," tells the boy, placing his pen down and looking straight into Blaines eyes with those hypnotic cyan optics. "It is infested with homophobes- and I am not talking about homophobes who simply do not accept the gay community. They are homophobic activist. They sometimes parade around how its an abomination to be different or whatever, so naturally when they found out I was gay, they could not accept it, hence the abuse."

"And you just let them do that to you?" ask Blaine, a deep frown on his face and in such disbelief at the information he was told.

"Not all of us are strong enough to stick up for ourselves," tells the boy.

"So naturally the alternative is to just let them shove you onto lockers? Call you vile, hateful names? They cannot do that to you, Kurt. That is a hate crime and frankly I do not understand why the teachers hasnt done anything about it. You have every right to stick up for yourself, and this is just in high school. If you cant even stick up for yourself in high school, how are you ever going to survive once you walk through those thresholds and into the real world? It is different out there. There are worse things people can do to you out there if you dont fight back. You cannot be weak-"

"Weak?" exclaims the boy. You can see the infuriation in his eyes when those words slipped out of Blaines mouth. "You know what, not all of us know how to fight back, not all of us have fighting skills like you or are as brave to stick up for ourselves. You dont know me, you dont know the things Ive had to put up with simply to survive, you dont know the things Ive been through so dont you dare sit there and claim me to be something when you know absolutely nothing about me," says the boy, with an infuriated tone.

The bell goes off in that moment and a pool of students start to pour in. The boy, however, leaps off his seat and in of swift movement, gathers his things and is out the door in seconds. Blaine grabs his satchel and chases after the boy whom at this point is already at the far end of the deserted hallway.

"Kurt- wait!" attempts Blaine.

Just as he is about to run after the boy however, six hands grab him by his arm out of nowhere, a hand is pressed over his mouth to silence him and a blindfold is covered over his eyes, blinding him. He thrashes to be free but is restricted by the many pair of hands that is taking him away. He feels himself being dragged somewhere, into a room, before the door shuts closed.

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