"You don't see it," his mother's voice said. "It's not even on your, you know—your internal radar."

His father's voice. "It's not that I don't see it, Mina. I just honestly believe in what I'm doing. Why can't you believe in me? After all this time, surely . . ."

The sound of a glass being set on the counter. "How can you even say that? Of course I believe in you, Steven. But I believe in our work, too. You're crossing lines, and you're either unaware of what you're doing, or worse—you don't even care."

A chair scraping against the kitchen tile floor.

"So that's it, then. You're leaving. You're abandoning us. Abandoning your son."

"You've already abandoned me! You shut me out from the moment I questioned this idea of yours. I'm not . . . one of your models. It kills me to think of what I'm about to do. But you can't ask me to be party to this, no matter how much I do love you."

A gasp, then crying.

"Don't leave. Please—don't leave."

The memory was fresh in Blaine's mind the second he opened his eyes, but the more he tried to chase and keep it to make it more clear, the more the edges blurred. He sat up in bed, recalling how that argument between his parents had taken place the night before his mother disappeared. He could never make her leaving fit.

If only he could get his dad to speak on the matter in a way that would lay everything bare. Expose it. But during his dad's visit the night after the phone call, he'd been focused on investigating the students' bizarre behavior. Blaine had been lucky: Kurt didn't come to campus at all after catching some kind of virus, and Sebastian had been very cautious around his father, not saying a word about the competition. If Blaine had to bet on it, he suspected Sebastian's silence was some form of self-preservation—he wanted to win, after all. Meanwhile his father had created new code he thought might "keep everyone in line" as he put it, and while Blaine assisted with bringing many of the Warblers to the lab itself, he wasn't around when his father brought Sebastian there. Since his dad's visit, Dalton seemed more calm, but there was still something peculiar about the way students surveyed Blaine as he walked the halls. Something still seemed off—or maybe he was imagining things.

Blaine wiped the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the clock: 4:00 AM. Great. He was up three hours earlier than usual, and to top it off, they were to compete at regionals today.

He wished he were more excited about it.

Nothing felt right about the competition now, thanks to Sebastian's interference. Somehow, Blaine thought, he'd wormed his way into the group, directing the majority of the choreography, and arranging for "Candles," which wasn't difficult at all after he'd dangled the possibility of a duet to Kurt, who was eager to pull focus on stage. Not that Blaine was complaining about being able to sing with his boyfriend. But the song, to put it simply, made him sad. All he could think of while singing it was losing Kurt, and now that they were dating and Blaine had kept so many secrets, the inevitability of a break up weighed heavily on his mind. Even so, he couldn't help but be drawn into the performance whenever they rehearsed it—he delighted in the way his and Kurt's voices complemented one another, and he loved any opportunity to see Kurt shine and share that with the world. Well, with the competition audience, anyway. The world would have to wait.

So he ground his way through the morning hours, drinking more coffee than usual to keep himself alert. Edwards joined the group again on the much longer bus ride. On the way Blaine's coffee proved useless. He slouched against Kurt's shoulder, wondering drowsily what the group would do if they were lucky enough to make it to the next round, which would take place in New York. No—this is it, he thought. The end of the line. There was no way he could fly the group half-way across the country without his father knowing. Although maybe, if they won regionals, he'd be able to explain what had happened, show the results, and have his father approve the trip. It was wishful thinking, he knew. But surely, his father wouldn't keep him at Dalton forever. He would have to graduate, wouldn't he? He drifted off, trying to imagine a life where Dalton no longer existed.

By mid-afternoon, as the group of them stood on the auditorium stage and watched the New Directions jump with joy, it was clear that all of Blaine's thinking about New York was unnecessary: the Warblers had lost.

Blaine watched with disappointment as the McKinley team hugged each other—and their new trophy. He glanced at Kurt as if to say, "Oh, well," then walked forward to shake the hand of the New Directions' coach (Mr. Schuester, if he recalled correctly). And that was it.

He liked to think they performed admirably, if not perfectly. Perhaps too perfectly. The Pink song had been great fun, even if some of the more acrobatic leaps and flips Sebastian had choreographed—at times involving more than one student—seemed to defy what humans could even do. There had definitely been people in the audience whose expressions Blaine couldn't read after that, as if they were trying to account for what they'd witnessed on the stage. In the end, Blaine had to admit that the Warblers hadn't thought of everything. Sebastian had focused on choreography, and Blaine, the arrangements and vocals. Both boys had missed a potentially ugly truth: the audience's (and probably judges') wavering over the physical feats of the team had perhaps been trumped by their wavering over seeing two boys sing a sad but wholly romantic duet on stage.

When the team stepped outside the building, subdued after the loss, Blaine and the other Warblers watched the New Directions bound off gleefully toward their bus. Kurt gazed at them longingly, Blaine noticed, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. He knew Kurt missed his friends, and now, with a New York trip looming on the horizon for his old team, Blaine knew Kurt's mind, if not body and heart, would want to follow. Blaine glanced at the Warbler's own bus, and—

His father was standing by the vehicle's open door, waiting.

Every other concern vanished from Blaine's mind as he willed his feet to move forward. Of course he'd spent plenty of time imagining the moment his father would discover all the secrets Blaine had been keeping. He'd gone through so many permutations in his mind: a Warbler flubbing a conversation with his father or Blaine himself slipping up, some incriminating e-mail, Edwards finally having enough of what he'd started to call Blaine's "shenanigans."

But in none of his imaginings did his father look quite like this: absolutely shaken. Blaine's heart raced as he walked up to his dad, his mind reeling. As he closed the distance between them, he expected to see nothing but bitter disappointment in his father's eyes. How could you be so . . . irresponsible? Disrespectful? Reckless?

Instead he saw fear, and even the glint of tears, before his father pulled Blaine into a crushing hug.

"You're okay," he gasped.

"I'm fine, Dad," replied Blaine. His concern about what his father would think of him quickly shifted to concern about his father's state.

"Get on the bus," said his father slowly, right in Blaine's ear. "Help me get the others on the bus, Blaine."

Blaine's skin prickled with alarm. "Dad?" he asked, trying to pull away so he might look him in the eyes.

His father held him tight. "We can talk later, okay? I'll be following close behind, all the way back to campus." Then he stepped back from his son and exhaled loudly, brushing a thumb over Blaine's cheek. "I caught some of the performance," he said, more calmly. He raised an eyebrow and added, "Those were some daring dance moves. Very unusual."

Blaine scrunched his face. "Sorry," he said softly, studying his father's expression, which seemed slightly more normal.

His father clapped him on the back, nodded at the others, and walked to his car, which was parked right behind them.

Kurt sidled next to Blaine, hopping with excitement, and said, "Mystery Dad! Ooh—handsome! At least something good is happening today. I've been wanting to finally meet him. I will get to meet him, right?"

Blaine forced a smile, then placed a hand on the small of Kurt's back, guiding him onto the bus. He only wished he could share Kurt's enthusiasm.

Edwards and Blaine sat in chairs next to each other in the headmaster's office. Opposite them, behind the headmaster's desk, was Blaine's father, whose curls had become tousled from having run his fingers through them in frustration.

Despite his appearance, his voice was even as he spoke. "I just don't understand. How you thought, Blaine, that what you were doing was no different from some other teen's sneaking out of the house is beyond me. And you, Edwards. What happened to keeping me informed? How could you let my son bring the students out in public like that? And that dancing? As much as I was truly amazed at what our students were capable of, you had to have realized how dangerous it was to let them perform like that? To let the public see that? It's quite possible that they'll think the team was doping, do you understand? There's a high chance it will draw suspicion—"

"But we didn't even win, Dad," offered Blaine. "The judges picked the New Directions, remember?"

Edwards added, "Sir, young Mr. Anderson is right, I think. The team's . . . antics . . . will soon be forgotten. It is, after all, a small venue high school competition, not a national arena."

"Er, except," Blaine suggested, "for anyone who uploads videos to YouTube, I guess?" Why, Blaine wondered as he sat looking down at his hands, had he let Sebastian get so involved? Had he been that preoccupied with Kurt that he'd failed to see or think clearly?

"Still," said his father, rubbing his temples, "It's all a mess, you know."

Blaine contemplated his father for a moment, then said, "Dad, why were you even there? How did you find out?"

"Well, I . . ." began his father. "I came to Dalton this morning and none of you were here," he said. "It didn't take long to discover your whereabouts, once I knew to look for the signs. It was crucial that I knew where you were—where the others were. I hope you can understand that even now I can't tell you everything I know. But I can—try to piece some things together for you. You see, I've been looking for your mother."

"You what?" asked Blaine. "Dad, where is she? Do you know something? How could you not—"

"Blaine," interjected his father. "All these things you've been experiencing with the students. The behavior? That's . . . related to your mother's disappearance. I know that now." He glanced at Edwards, whose expression was impassive, then back to Blaine before adding, "I suspect even the changes in Edwards have something to do with her. I'll admit it's fascinating," he said, turning again toward the headmaster, who met Blaine's father's gaze. "The way he's looked out for you, the way he's cared for you. But not just that. It's the way he's rationalized supporting you; he's taken risks to do so."

"Dad." Blaine was simply trying to get his bearings now. "I think I deserve an explanation. It's Mom," he added, shakily. "Please."

Blaine's father got up from his chair and knelt before Blaine's. Grasping Blaine by the elbows he said, very quietly. "We both know that your mother didn't approve of our little project. And who knows? Maybe she would've left me. Left us. For a while that's what I'd thought. But later I found I was wrong—she was taken."

"But why?" Blaine asked, his heart pounding at the thought of his mother being captured by someone.

His father sighed. "I believe she was . . ." he said, pausing to look up at Edwards, whose expression was still oddly blank, "trying to set all our creations free." He looked back at Blaine. "I didn't even know about it," he said, clearly frustrated. "Otherwise I could have . . ." He paused, collecting himself. "When I was in the lab recently I'd discovered that the Warblers, and even Edwards here, were tampered with. It took me a long time to trace it back to her. She's very good," he said, fondly, before clearing his throat. "What I can't tell is why she did it. Whatever happened, she somehow escaped, but as for her whereabouts now . . ." He stood up suddenly, and glancing between Blaine and Edwards said, "That same person who took your mother, I surmised recently, knows our location here. That's why I was in a bit of a panic earlier."

Blaine still sat in his chair, mind racing after all that his father had told him. "So now what?" he asked his father.

"Indeed," was all the reply Blaine got, as his father paced the room, deep in thought.

After the exhausting meeting with his father and the headmaster, Blaine just needed some space. His father had continued pacing, eventually asking his son to allow him a word alone with Edwards. The privacy of the laboratory beckoned, but as Blaine turned toward the third floor stairwell, he practically crashed right into Kurt. With all the chaos of the day, he'd forgotten that Kurt was still here, waiting for him. Blaine's father hadn't even noticed Kurt at the bus earlier, and once they'd arrived at Dalton, Blaine had reported directly to the headmaster's office, where he had been holed up until now.

"What are you doing in this part of the building, Kurt? I, um, was looking for you," Blaine said nervously.

"I swear to God, Blaine," Kurt said, smiling mischievously. "I'm just going to check out this secret room of yours—I can deal with your . . ." (he cupped his hand around his mouth and whispered) "porn."

Blaine felt his cheeks heat up as he stammered, "What?" then, seeing Kurt about to enter the stairwell, rushed to block the way. "Wait," was all that he could think to say. "Look," he said, "I'm kind of the only student who has a key to that room. It's not a room others are allowed in." With the secrets that had already been exposed, Blaine didn't think he could reveal any more today—especially this one.

Kurt wrapped his arms in front of his chest. "You mean like the special key only you had to the clock tower? Why is this any different?"

Blaine pressed his fingers against his forehead. "It's not just a space that's off limits. It's like a storage room—there are sensitive documents and stuff."

"So why would the school only trust you to not ruin or steal those things? Seriously, Blaine."

"Because . . . my parents donated a lot of money to this place, okay? It's why I get treated the way I do here," he said, hands dropping to his side in embarrassment that he'd let this lie grow as much as he had.

Kurt rested his hands on his hips, frowning. "So what you're saying," he got out, very slowly, "is that you didn't actually earn any of the privileges you have here? You get them merely because your family has money."

That was the last thing he wanted Kurt to think about him. "I—"

"No, I get it," said Kurt, raising his hand in protest. "I'm not judging you—at least I'm trying not too. I've always been used to fighting for everything I have, that's all. And . . . I get that not everyone has to do that. It's frustrating, but I get it." Kurt looked down at his shoes. "I still don't see why you're being so secretive about this, though. Sebastian said—"

"Forget about Sebastian!" cried Blaine.

Kurt raised his palms to Blaine, affronted.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I—" but he didn't know what to say anymore.

"Just give me the key, Blaine," commanded Kurt, his hand outstretched.

Blaine sighed.

Just as Blaine was about to pass over the key in resignation, shouts erupted from the floor below. Both boys turned abruptly as they continued to listen. Blaine thought he heard furniture scraping the floor. Then there was a sound like a table being toppled, and immediately after, the crash of what was probably a lamp.

"What the hell is going on down there?" asked Kurt, alarmed.

Blaine swallowed. "I honestly don't know."

When the boys got downstairs, they followed the clamor to the senior commons, where they found Nick and Jeff punching each other.

Blaine had never before seen the machines engage in violence. He remembered his attempts, early in his life at Dalton, to start his own version of a fight club in response to how terribly he'd been bullied at his old school. Of course his club had been nothing like the cinematic one. His fight club had been very orderly, and really just involved them working out together or practicing self-defense—just not on each other. The club was short-lived, since the students he'd enrolled went through the punching bags so quickly; they'd simply torn them to shreds.

Watching Nick and Jeff right now, Blaine froze. It was horrifying to watch, not only for the power behind the blows they launched at each other, but for both students' ability to withstand them. And the sounds of the punches as they came . . . well, it made Blaine remember punches he'd received not so long ago, even though these sounds were wholly different. Hollower, somehow, like banging two metal pipes together.

Finally one of them dug his fingernails into the other's face and pulled off a chunk of skin. Neither machine cried out in pain, which made the entire act even more disturbing to witness. But the layer of skin was deep enough that it exposed some of the cyborg's underlying circuitry and structure.

Everyone simply stood still.

Except for Kurt, who screamed just as Blaine's father and Edwards ran into the room. The two men quickly got the cyborgs under control (Blaine saw his father lean in and utter something as he stepped close—as if some kind of password).

Then Blaine's father just stared at Kurt, then looked to Blaine, then back at Kurt, silently putting pieces together. Once again, Blaine was taken aback with his father's countenance, which wasn't awash with disappointment. This time, it felt more like a mixture of surprise . . . and sadness. But he didn't have time to contemplate it further. Beside him, Kurt began slowly to step back, eyes wide. Pressing his hand over his mouth, he turned and ran out the door, without so much as a glance at Blaine.

Blaine searched everywhere for Kurt, even the clock tower, before realizing that his boyfriend would probably want to know and see everything now.

He found him on the third floor, sitting with his back against the laboratory door. Without a word, Blaine unlocked the room, then reached out a hand to help Kurt up from the cool tile. He felt encouraged that his boyfriend took what he offered.

Kurt remained silent as he perused the room, examining its contents. He seemed to be sorting out his thoughts more than really studying the space. He ended up in front of the picture windows, where the sky was washed in pinks and oranges.

"But I don't understand," said Kurt. "It's like you just have a school full of toys, Blaine. And you lied to me. About all of it." Blaine could tell Kurt's mind was finally beginning to process everything. In fact he soon began pacing back and forth across the room, stopping periodically as each new thought occurred to him.

"You took my father's money, for a school that wasn't even real!

"You sat in pretend classes with me!

"You had me go on endlessly about homework. About our lives here. About fitting in here. I must have sounded like an idiot!

"No wonder I never fit in. How could I?

"How could you?" Kurt asked, finally stopping to look directly at Blaine, who'd been seated nervously on the edge of the desk.

Blaine was confused for a moment, as he tried to meet Kurt's intense gaze. "How could I . . . fit in?" he asked. "Or," he offered, breaking eye contact and looking at the floor, added more softly, "how could I lie to you?"

"Your words," Kurt replied.

"Kurt," Blaine started. "I—"

"No. I can't do this now," he said. "Because you know what this means, Blaine? It means I'm not safe. If I can't be here, then I guess I'm back at McKinley. Or maybe I'm nowhere! But I can't be here, because none of this," he gestured around the room, "is real. And right now, as far as I'm concerned, neither are you."

"If you just let me explain," Blaine pleaded. "I've wanted to tell you about this for so long, Kurt, you have no idea."

"What are you going to tell me, Blaine? How all your lies were meant to protect me? Or were they just part of a big joke? No thank you," he said, and then, "I've got to go now."

"I'm sorry," a voice said suddenly, "But no one's going anywhere at the moment."

Both boys turned toward the door. Standing there was a tall, blonde man. He was . . . rather young, Blaine thought, but carried himself in a way that suggested authority. Next to him stood Blaine's father, and the peculiar way he stood, his arms hanging loosely at his side, coupled with Blaine's observation that the other man's arm was positioned behind him made Blaine pretty sure his father was being held at gunpoint.

"I figured you were in your room, Blaine," his father said, a worried expression on his face.

"Perfect." The man steered Blaine's father past the desk. "Introduce me to your son, Anderson," the man said.

"Blaine, and Kurt, is it?" his father said. "This is Hunter Clarington. This man kidnapped your mother, Blaine," he said, before Hunter reached up and clocked his father in the head with what was indeed a weapon, causing his body to crumple to the floor.