[Blaine] built robots, just really handsome guys to surround himself with that believe in his ideals, that sang the songs that he wanted, sang in perfect harmony, did everything that he said, and so he runs the entire school. He is the principal, creator and master of all that is Dalton. And he just programs them to do his every will. The reason why he falls in love with Kurt is that he's a human being.

—Darren Criss

I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.

—Richard Brautigan, "All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace"

As he sat at the headmaster's desk and keyed in the necessary details registering the Warblers for their very first show choir competition, Blaine Anderson couldn't have known that selecting "Submit" would be the start of his world unraveling.

He'd hovered over the button momentarily, sensing the weight of his decision—he'd felt doubt crackling to life inside him, the tiny, familiar spark forming in his mind. But then a gust of wind outside sent amber and garnet leaves fluttering past the second-story office window, and an impulsive mouse click later, he was done.

And he thought, smiling wildly, that it was the best decision he'd made in a long while.

Blaine happily retrieved his messenger bag from the chair opposite the desk and made for the door. On his way out he passed the headmaster, who nodded at him solemnly before glancing toward the now vacant office. Blaine nodded back, still giddy, and headed for the atrium. He'd explain later. Right now he was nearly bursting with energy, and he needed to get to Warblers' practice fast to share the news.

When Blaine stepped into the atrium with its glass and wrought iron dome, he halted and blinked. It was such a bright day. He walked to the railing and took in the bustle of activity around him as students wove through the space below, a few carrying lacrosse sticks on their shoulders as they moved into the corridor beyond. He noticed some of the students stealing furtive glances at him, which he tried to ignore. Whatever they wanted could wait. Blaine was happier today than he'd been in ages, and he wasn't going to let anything chip away at it. Letting go of the railing, he started down the flight of stairs.

"Blaine? Blaine," said a voice, and Blaine looked down and spotted Trent, who seemed to be waiting for him. Trent looked . . . concerned.

"Morning, Trent," Blaine said. "Walk with me?" Trent nodded in reply, and they fell into an easy pace together as they made their way through the halls.

"What's going on?" Blaine asked. "Is everything okay?" Usually Trent was eager and compliant. Although really, all of the Warblers and pretty much everyone populating the school were identical in that regard, Blaine reminded himself.

"Yeah. Yes. Of course!" said Trent. "We just—"

"Trent," Blaine stopped, reaching out for the fellow Warbler's arm. "I can tell something's not right. What's this all about?" Blaine noticed Trent was avoiding his gaze, so he said more firmly, "I really need you to talk." Now more than ever, came the unbidden thought and a return flicker of doubt regarding that competition entry form he'd just submitted. "I can't help if you don't. That goes for all the guys, right?"

Trent looked at him uncertainly. "Right. Okay." He shook his head. "It's Wes," he said finally, in a huff.

"What about Wes?" asked Blaine.

"Just don't be mad," said Trent, grimacing.

Blaine gave his most reassuring smile, even though a sigh escaped his lips as he did so. "But why would I be, Trent?" What now? he thought.

"Uh, well remember how you asked us all to—how did you put it?—'stop being such automatons'?" Trent asked. Blaine could swear that Trent's voice carried just a hint of something, and that same something had flickered in his eyes as he spoke. Was it resentment? Indignation? Blaine brushed the thought away as soon as it came, it seemed so impossible. Probably Blaine was just projecting his own guilt at how rude he'd been.

"Er, sorry about that," Blaine replied, as he rubbed his hand behind his neck, embarrassed by his words from the other day. It was that outburst that had caused him to finally register them for sectionals. He wanted—check that. He needed so desperately to connect with new people. Different people.

"No, don't be," said Trent, who was looking at him anxiously now. "But Wes, he took it all very seriously, as he does, and he's been assigning, um, personality quirks to all of us, I guess? Do you want to know what mine is, Blaine?" he asked, eyebrows raised. Blaine nodded. "I'm supposed to, apparently, fold my hands together and beg for things once in a while. Like this," he said, his hands pressed together, a pleading look in his eyes. "Please tell Wes that this is ridiculous, Blaine? Please?"

Blaine sighed more loudly now. The news about the competition would have to wait. In fact, Blaine wondered if he would ever be able to tell them at all. What if they could never be truly ready to compete? Blaine's heart clenched at the thought, he wanted so badly to go—so badly to see something, anything outside of the Dalton campus. These days, the grounds of Dalton were all he knew.

But what was he so worried about, anyway? he wondered, as he and Trent walked with a greater sense of urgency toward the senior commons. Certainly not the Warblers' singing abilities, because they were perfect. He'd made them that way.

And yet, as he and Trent entered the room where Warblers were scattered about busily practicing their assigned "quirks" and looking utterly alien, Blaine realized just how difficult it was going to be to for them to compete.

Because none of them were real.