The complex was dark and desolate this time of night. Nothing but rusty dumpsters and echoing warehouses. Corrugated metal tear-streaked with rust and cracked concrete emptiness. On the outskirts of Lima Heights Adjacent not a soul could be seen for miles around. Not in this hopeless place, not a soul except for –

"Hurry it up! We ain't got all night!"

Mongrel's whispered growl echoed through the dark warehouse. There was no light to work by than that of the moon; Mongrel's silhouette stood stark in the doorway, a hulking mass of shadow and muscle. They could see his eyes glinting dangerously. They could see the glinting metal of his gun.

At once, the members of his gang seemed to speed up. Even in the darkness it was clear what kinds of men they were: As members of Mongrel's team, they were surely the best in the business. Or the worst, depending on how you looked at it. Thick muscles rippled under scarred and tattooed skin. Like dark wraiths, the men flickered quietly round the floor. They heaved and carried the boxes methodically out of the warehouse. A truck rumbled before the door, the men flitting round it like bees to a hive.

Mongrel chewed on the end of his toothpick as he watched the operation unfold. It was running smoothly. This was the biggest smuggling job ever perpetrated in Ohio's history. Three hundred crates of weapons and ammunition were being loaded onto that truck, ready and waiting for the highest bidder. Months of planning and thousands of dollars that Mongrel could almost smell. It all came down to that precious cargo...

SLAM!

"You all know why we're here," Mr. Schuester paced around the lair, his expression dark, "You all saw the press conference – all of Ohio heard that press conference – and they liked what Mr. Anderson has to say. Since this morning Brom Anderson's approval ratings have been growing exponentially, all because of his cause against 'The Monster Problem'. He is talking and people are listening, and it is putting not only Burt's campaign, but us in danger. There is nothing stopping Brom Anderson for winning this election and there is nothing stopping him and the rest of Ohio from seeing us destroyed."

"But what are we supposed to do, Mr. Schue?" said Mercedes sadly, "it's not like people don't already want us dead – what's to stop them from jumping at the chance?"

"Yeah, Mr. Schue," said Rachel, her eyes wide with worry, "We're just monsters to them. We're nothing but evil monsters."

Mr. Schuester turned to her, a glint forming in his eyes. "That's true, Rachel," he said slowly, "In the eyes of the public, we're nothing but evil monsters."

He walked down to the front of the room, his back to them:

"But the eyes of the public can change."

"I-I don't know what happened, I swear-"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S IN THAT BOX, YOU MORON?" Mongrel roared, grabbing the gangster by the throat, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT COULD'VE HAPPENED IF YOU'D DROPPED IT?"

"I didn't drop it, I swear-"

But Mongrel wasn't listening. He raised his weapon in one swift movement. His finger tightened around the trigger and –

"ARGH!"

The boss roared in pain. The crate seemed to come flying out of nowhere. Lifted itself off the floor, slammed itself against Mongrel's outstretched arm. The gun flew out his hand. It clattered to the floor. With a howl, he whirled around in search of the culprit.

And came face to face with a small, masked girl.

"Hi!" said Rachel brightly. Mongrel's eyes widened:

"What the-"

"Jig is up, Mongrel."

Mongrel whirled around to where the second voice had come from. Deep within the warehouse, a pair of bright, unnatural eyes stared back at him. A boy materialised out of the shadows, dressed in black, face hidden and eyes burning. Burning like fire.

"When we started this group you guys said you wanted to become more than just the freaks the world saw you as. You wanted to utilise your powers into something more: a means to help people; to save lives. The world sees you as the villains; while unbeknownst to them you have been facing the real villainy of this world. You have taken down not only murderers, and criminals; you guys have had to fight hatred, and bigotry.

"You guys have saved so many lives over the years, and nobody even knows it. The world sees you as monsters. Brom Anderson sees you as monsters. But it's time to show the world, who you really are."

The gang members all scrambled for their guns, staring in horror as Kurt emerged from the shadows, body engulfed in flames and several things seemed to happen at once:

One man didn't even reach for his gun. He yelled and bolted instead, disappearing into the shadows – and straight into the waiting clutches of Finn Hudson.

A burly member raised his gun with grim certainty and aimed, but not before a pair of arms snaked around his torso and neck. With a strangled yell, he tried to beat them off, but the arms kept snaking. Stretching like rubber. Round and round his neck. Up his arms and about his gun. His eyes widened in panic as Mike Chang pulled him further into the shadows.

The man beside him had barely a chance to react. Focused on Kurt, he didn't notice the hulking form of Sam Evans until it had pounced: a ferocious, monstrous wolf. His gun clattered from his hands as he fell, screaming.

Another man was scrabbling for his weapon when he was doused with ice cold water. Coughing, he turned around to face a beautiful masked girl dressed in blue silk. Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, the girl – Quinn Fabray – smiled; and suddenly he couldn't move his legs. He looked down and screamed in horror as the ice made its way up his limbs and round his torso. He didn't stop screaming until at last, his face and mouth were covered, a frozen mask of fear.

Mongrel had lunged for his gun, but Rachel Berry was quicker: With a mere flick of her head, the gun went flying into the air. With a sudden bolt of green light, Mercedes shattered it into a thousand tiny pieces. Mongrel - a man who had seen and perpetrated countless crimes, a man who had orchestrated murders, tortured innocent people - stared in absolute horror. Rushing to his feet, he looked around him. Amidst the carnage stood ten masked figures, eyes burning with an unnatural intensity he'd never been cursed to see before.

"Who – who are you?" he stammered, eyes wide in terror.

A woman dressed entirely in red stepped forward.

"We're the New Directions." She smiled darkly -

Suddenly the world tilted as he looked into her eyes. Forming dark, looming tunnels they surrounded him, and with a gurgling noise he fell to the ground, face contorted in horror. Santana looked down at him.

"We're the New Directions," she repeated, "and we're your worst nightmare."

It was three o'clock in the morning by the time Kurt finally managed to fall into bed.

By the time Artie alerted them that the police had found the warehouse and its residents, they were all thoroughly exhausted. But they grudgingly made their way back to the base, where Mr. Schuester stood waiting for their debriefing. They were all so tired they didn't even yell at Finn when he slumped his feet upon the coffee table with enough force to send it splintering to the floor. It took them three hours to get through the entire mission, each of them recounting their own perspectives. It wasn't until then that Mr. Schuester concluded them safe and was certain that none of them were recognised.

"It was a great job you guys did tonight," Mr. Schuester said firmly, "you managed to take down every one of those gang members. By now they'll all be locked up and that warehouse will be a full-blown crime scene."

He turned to Artie and nodded. Artie turned to the projector and hit play.

"Needless to say, the police will be looking through any security cameras and visuals of the area to see what exactly happened tonight," Schuester continued. The screen came to life, and the warehouse blossomed onto the screen. There stood the truck and its owners, diligently loading it with cargo, unsuspecting of what was to happen. "We suspect that this 'Mongrel' and his gang would have wiped the footage once they were done; and under normal circumstances, so would we."

They watched for a moment as the figure of Rachel appeared onscreen, and the sudden commotion of the falling cargo.

"The police will finally have footage of you guys," said Mr. Schuester, "the police will question Mongrel on the attack, and he'll be able tell them all about New Directions. His entire gang will have clear memories of the attack, because Santana didn't wipe them. Within the next twenty-four hours, news of the New Directions will spread to the media. From now on, every mission we do will be public knowledge. We'll stand for every citizen, and we'll become the public's greatest heroes. We'll make them question everything they've ever thought about mutants, and every bit of mistruth and harsh judgement Brom Anderson has thrown at them."

They'd all grinned and cheered at that, despite their exhaustion. Later that night, when Kurt and Finn had finally gotten home, they'd bid each other goodnight with uncontainable grins on their faces. Kurt fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, with the promise of a good night's sleep and nothing to wake him until noon.

But while this seemed to him a good plan, the universe seemed to have other ideas.

Kurt was startled awake by the sudden ring of his cellphone.

Blearily raising his head, he pawed at his nightstand for the phone and pressed it tiredly to his ear: "'llo?" he said groggily, his head falling against his pillow. His brain seemed to be filled with fog, and everything was too bright.

"Hey Kurt!" Blaine Anderson's chirpy voice chimed on the other end of the line, then: "Oh, sorry, did I wake you?"

Kurt closed his eyes with a muffled sigh before opening them again. At the sound of Blaine's voice, his brain seemed to have boosted itself up out of sleep, with no promise of ever returning, "Uh, no," Kurt lied, sitting up and turning the heater on, "It's alright, I was about to get up anyway."

"Oh, okay," said Blaine brightly, although obviously aware of Kurt's lie. Kurt smiled and shivered slightly as he waited for the heater to work. It wasn't a particularly cold morning, but to him it felt like freezing. He curled up tightly in his comforter.

"Anyway," Blaine continued, "I know we only saw each other yesterday - and we said we'd be going out on Friday – but I was just kinda hoping that if it's not too much and if you don't have plans and aren't sick of me yet, maybe we could see each other again today, as well?" he tapered off a bit at the end, voice filling with uncertainty and falling into an awkward silence.

Kurt sprung into action, and filled it: "Oh, no. That sounds great," he said quickly, "yeah; I'd love to see you again today."

He smiled when he heard Blaine sigh in relief, "Oh, okay. Good." He said, "That's good. Maybe we can grab some brunch or something?"

Kurt grinned, "Brunch? Really?"

"Yeah," Blaine replied, "brunch: the mixture of breakfast and lunch. When it's too late for one and too early for the other. It's quite the phenomenon."

Kurt laughed, "I know what brunch is, Blaine, I'm not completely hopeless."

"Sure you're not, Kurt. Sure."

"But what teenager invites their friends to brunch? Would lunch interfere with the lawn bowls tournament?"

Blaine was silent for a moment, "maybe I just wanted to see you sooner." He said, suddenly shy.

Kurt paused in the middle of searching through his cupboard, stunned.

"Oh." He said dumbly, before mentally kicking himself, "I mean, wow. That's really..."

"Desperate?" Blaine offered.

"Sweet," Kurt continued firmly, "I think that's really sweet. And also flattering."

"Oh –"

"– and you made me blush, Blaine. I look awful when I blush."

"No you don't –"

"– and it's because I like you. And I want to see you soon as well."

At this Blaine was silent. Kurt could tell he was smiling. And probably blushing, too.

The opening titles rolled, opening onto the news anchors: "Hi, I'm Sue Sylvester," said the first.

"And I'm Rod Remington, reporting to you from WOHN News 8," said the anchorman, baring his pearly whites:

"In breaking news tonight, the shocking revelation that's left police baffled: When the local police force of Lima Heights Adjacent received a mysterious tip-off in the early hours of this morning, what they uncovered has left officers such as police chief Jim Brady shocked."

The screen changed to show a burly police officer sporting an impressive handlebar moustache: "We received a tip-off early this Saturday morning from an anonymous caller," he said in a strong southern drawl, "involving a smuggling operation just outside o' Lima Heights Adjacent. After an organised investigation, our officers stumbled upon a well-known and highly suspect crime syndicate operating in the area. All the members seemed to have already been neutralised by a force outside o' police control."

The camera cut back to a serious-looking Sue Sylvester: "according to police sources, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. In the past three years, an estimation of around ninety high profile police arrests have involved these anonymous tip-offs – with all the suspects already neutralised before police intervention.

"In fact, no effort was even made by the police force to discover who was responsible for these impressive crime-stopping arrests..."

"It has never been made clear before now as to who was responsible for these tip-offs," the camera returned to Chief Brady once more, who now looked petulant, "It has never been encouraged by the police for untrained citizens to take these matters into their own hands. While helpful, it's lucky these anonymous sources weren't killed for taking on what is supposed to be police business."

"But what police originally assumed to be a lone vigilante citizen, as they have now discovered, turns out to be so much more: in a thorough search of the area, police uncovered this shocking and exclusive CCTV footage that has to be seen to be believed..."

The screen cut to the silent footage: large figures working around a waiting truck; a girl suddenly appears, and suddenly everything turns to chaos. Masked figures materialising from shadows, morphing into wolves, or limbs stretching like rubber. Objects flying of their own accord, men thrown to the ground with impossible strength.

The screen cut back to Sue, how was now staring intently into the camera:

"Mutants have long been seen as mindlessly violent and uncontrollable dangers to society. It was only yesterday that political candidate Brom Anderson called for stricter guidelines and organisation of full mutant extermination, a view shared by voters everywhere. And yet, for three years police have been aided by a mysterious band of vigilante mutants."

"It has shocked not only me, but my colleagues and superiors as well," said Chief Brady, onscreen once more, "These mutants have formed a cohesive and organised group against criminals and wanted folk within Lima, Ohio. It's the kind of behaviour we ain't never seen nor suspected was possible – mutants capable of rational thought like that. It's definitely come as a shock to us; we been fighting mutants so long, and calling for their estermination and whatnot, it seems so impossible that this could even happen.

"We always assumed they were our enemies. Now I'm not quite sure what to think."

The TV flickered and turned blank.

Alone in his living room, Brom Anderson sat on his leather sofa, his fists clenched around the remote, and a look of pure rage etched upon his face.