Kurt stopped the car on the corner of Blaine's street, where his neighbours wouldn't see them should they peer out the window. It was almost eleven at night, and Kurt knew he had to be home in half an hour to meet his curfew. Yet saying goodbye to Blaine was turning out to be a lot harder than he'd thought.

"Blaine, someone is going to see us," he said, breaking their kiss.

"At eleven at night? Nobody's going to see anything." And then they were kissing again, which made it very difficult for Kurt to argue, because not only was his mouth thoroughly preoccupied, but it also became impossible for him to rationalise why they should ever have to stop. Because if he had his way, they'd be doing this forever and damn, why did Blaine have to taste so good? He tasted like coffee and marshmallows. And – oh, okay – now Blaine was pressing kisses to his cheek, and now his neck and holy hell that was good, that was really quite pleasant.

"Blaine," Kurt said, in a last-ditch effort to maintain responsibility, "Blaine I need to get home soon..."

Reluctantly, Blaine finally kissed him one last time and pulled back. Leaving Kurt desperately wishing he hadn't. He wished Blaine had ignored him and kept going, curfew and parents be damned.

"I think I like kissing you too much." Blaine said after a while, looking slightly dazed.

"I think I like you kissing me too much." Kurt muttered. They both looked at each other and burst out giggling.

"I guess I should get out of your car now." Blaine said sadly, once their laughter had died down. Kurt watched him with a thoroughly forlorn expression as he opened the passenger side door and stepped out into the cool night air. He waved slightly and blew Blaine a kiss, which Blaine caught and stowed in his pocket with a smile. It was impossible for Kurt not to grin with him at that, and it was with this grin that he watched Blaine's retreating figure, before turning on the engine once more and heading home.

Cameras flashed from the reporters in the audience. A thousand eyes stood trained on the two men before tem, wrapped in heated political debate and argument. Behind them on a screen, flanked by two large American flags, the ten masked faces of the New Directions stared out over the crowd.

Burt Hummel stood at the podium, staring out over the sea of faces, speaking as though to every single one individually: "In light of recent events, our administration has certainly been forced to reconsider the stance on the mutant issue facing our community." He began, "Now, I think it would be wise of the leadership to not make any premature decisions with this, and certainly not rash ones. I think what we've learned more than anything this week is that these mutants are also human beings.

"Time and again in history, we've seen how the prejudice and ignorance of many has clouded the truths of the few. We've seen people murdered for their beliefs, and for the ways they were born. We've seen the effects of genocide over and over.

"Long has it been government policy to have mutant children found, and killed."

He paused to glance at his opponent. "Brom Anderson argues that this policy is flawed." He said, voice booming for all to hear, "And he is right."

The audience tittered slightly, but Burt continued:

"We made the choice to murder, before we made the choice to listen. We believed that mutants were no more than monsters. And now, we've stumbled upon a video that suggests we were wrong in this reaction. See, I don't know about the voters, but I for one certainly don't want to support a policy that calls for the deaths of thousands of potentially innocent people. I don't want to destroy people based on hasty decisions. I believe every life deserves more than that, and I believe that if our leaders before us had believed as such, many of our darkest moments in history could have been avoided. We have the power to do what is right. And we have the rights to exercise that power."

The audience erupted with murmurs. Someone began to clap. Applause erupted quickly round the room, drowning almost everything else.

"That's all very sentimental." Brom Anderson cut in. He to, was standing behind a podium, on the opposite side of the stage. The cheers died down, and all eyes turned to him. "We do indeed seek to make the right choices and give one another security and freedom. We give people the rights to live as they choose. But are you suggesting we give these mutants the rights to live and to murder us? Because while you seem to be referring to some sort of endangered race or ethnicity, you are in truth referring to the very monsters that not days ago murdered dozens of people, and that murder hundreds of people annually! We are not dealing with coherent human beings, Mr. Hummel. We are dealing with violent and highly threatening monsters!"

"While that may have been true two weeks ago, Mr. Anderson, I think recent events have proven otherwise."

"Proven otherwise?" Brom scoffed, "Mr. Hummel, we have been afflicted by the mutant problem for too long. Our people have suffered, and you want to brush it all aside based on this so-called 'recent information' that proves nothing about mutants as a whole?"

"Oh, it proves something, Brom. Can I call you Brom?" - A nod - "It proves that these mutants are capable of more than just senseless violence. Look at the people on that screen, Brom. Look at those people fighting for our lives. Where you or current policy to have its way, those brave people would be murdered. Those brave people, who are just as innocent as any citizen of Ohio. You say you don't want innocent lives lost, and neither do I, Mr. Anderson. On either side of the argument."

The audience erupted, reporters shouting their questions eagerly as the debate came to an end. Burt Hummel rose to his feet with a wave and a smile, exiting the stage. Brom Anderson stood too, ignoring the reporter's questions as he too walked offstage, waiting until he was out of sight before allowing a scowl to cloud his face.

On the far edge of the crowd, a scowling man with white hair watched closely, staring daggers into the man's back. But nobody noticed, and nobody saw, and next second the man was gone. It was like he'd never been there.

The Anderson Estate in Westerville, Ohio was without a doubt an impressive building. Thoroughly surrounded by sweeping lawns and forestry, not many caught sight of the home unless invited. The prominent gothic architecture and interior was the admiration of many of the Anderson's friends, particularly during dinner parties, when the lawns were dark and the chandeliers lit.

Yet today, for its owner it was neither a comfort nor a source of inspiration.

"He cannot possibly succeed!" Brom Anderson stormed into the parlour and threw his tie onto the table in frustration. "This cannot be happening!"

"Calm yourself, Anderson." Said Richard Smythe boredly, from where he sat, "You are getting yourself worked up over nothing."

Brom turned from where he was standing by the fireplace and shot a glare at his campaign manager. The hand he had been resting upon the impressive stone mantelpiece was now clenched into a fist. His wife hurried unnoticed into the room, picking up his tie and smoothing it over her arm. Her eyes flitted back and forth between Brom and Richard in fascination, absently stroking the silk.

"Nothing?" Brom said dangerously. "You think I'm getting worked up over nothing? Our entire scheme so far has proved fruitless! We'll have to rearrange my entire campaign and find new support because of this! It is NOT NOTHING!"

"We are not rearranging the campaign, Brom!" Richard snapped, "this isn't over yet and you know it!"

Brom gave Smythe a calculating look, "You know what, Richard?" he said slowly, "I'm not sure what planet you've been living on, but here in the real world we have things called problems, and my problems are those videos. You know another one came out last night? Those 'superheroes' saved a three year old from a burning building, Smythe! How do we argue against that? We need to cut our losses, admit we were wrong and move on to something else..."

"Those mutants killed your father, Anderson!" Smythe bellowed. He was on his feet now, fists clenched. Mrs. Anderson gasped at the sudden movement. "They killed your father, and now you're just going to let them walk all over OUR campaign! I will NOT let us LOSE, Anderson! I won't! I will prove these mutants evil if it is the last thing I do!"

Brom's eyes narrowed, watching carefully as Smythe paced around the room. "There is a difference between losing, and admitting to our wrongs, Richard." He said, "even as lawyers we must know that."

Richard opened his mouth to snap out a retort when the sound of the phone echoed through the house.

"If you'll excuse me," Brom said coldly. He strode out of the room. Mrs. Anderson shot Richard Smythe an anxious look before scurrying out after her husband.

She found Brom Anderson in the front hall by the phone table, receiver pressed to his ear. She needed only to glance at his expression before knowing something was wrong.

"Who is this?" he was demanding, his voice harsh. She could see it in his eyes: Fear.

A voice, like nails against a chalkboard, slithered through the speakers, "I go by many names." It hissed, sending shivers down his spine, "You may know me as Hunter."

"I know no Hunter." Brom snapped, trying to keep the trembling from his voice. "Now what do you want?"

"I have warned you before, Brom Anderson that your campaign will not to do you any good. You call for the death of my kind and you threaten me personally."

"W-warned me before?" Brom stuttered, "I've never heard of you in my life!"

The voice ignored him: "Tell me, Brom Anderson. Is your son at home?"

The effect was instantaneous. It was like he'd just been doused with ice water, he froze so suddenly. He spun to face his wife, and she started at the sight of his pale face and wide eyes.

"Where is Blaine, Marci?" He said, and she couldn't give him an answer. She couldn't move she was so scared.

"Marci!" Her husband shouted, shocking her from her stupor, "WHERE IS BLAINE?"

"I-I don't know," she gasped, her hands beginning to shake, "I don't know he was going out with a friend, I-"

But Brom wasn't listening. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" He was yelling now, hand clenched around the telephone, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

"Dad?"

Brom stopped, staring at the phone in disbelief. "Blaine?" he stuttered, "Blaine, is that you?"

"You have twenty-four hours, Brom Anderson." The hissing voice had returned.

"Twenty-four hours, or your son will die."

Earlier that day:

"Turn it up, Kurt!" Blaine laughed, reaching for the radio dial. Kurt slapped his hand away and threw him a mock-glare.

"No," he said firmly, "you're driving. You need to concentrate."

"But Kuuuurt..." Blaine whined. He flashed his boyfriend an impressive puppy dog expression. They were driving along the highway between Westerville and Lima, on their way to see Rent at the local theatre. The empty forest flashed past the windows, a blur of dark green, and the aside from them, the road was completely empty.

"No!" said Kurt, but his glare faltered.

"But Kuuuurt," Blaine said again, already smiling his victory, "It's Pink! I love this song."

"So do I."

"Then why aren't you playing it! It needs to be sung with, Kurt! It's the rules!"

Kurt just narrowed his eyes. "It is," Blaine insisted.

Kurt sighed and turned up the volume, his boyfriend whooping with joy. "You are impossible," he said.

"Yeah," Blaine winked, "But you love me."

Kurt froze. They'd never used the L-word before. It was implied, but...

He was about to stutter a response when suddenly, everything turned upside down.

Blaine's smiling face has disappeared. Sound and colour were pinning all at once as the car pitched abruptly sideways with the screech of crushing metal. A scream, unclear from whom. Glass shattered around them and Kurt was jerked forward. The crunch of wood and glass and rubber - the car was rolling, hitting the kerb, slamming onto its side, its roof, its side. The roof caved in with a bang. Pain. Rolling. Slowing to a stop.

With a dying hiss the car came to a halt, pitched on its side against the trunk of a tree. Kurt gasped for air in the silence, head ringing, unsure. It was quiet for a sinister moment before Kurt remembered why it shouldn't be.

"Blaine?" he called.

SLAM.

A large, giant-sized, groping fist burst its way through the shattered windscreen, and Kurt was sure he'd screamed. Dirty fingers fierce as talons scrabbled for a moment, clawing through the wreckage. Thoughtlessly, Kurt tried to beat it off, but he was pinned by his seatbelt.

The fist swatted at him, hitting him in the chest and knocking what little air he'd regained out of him. Then it spun away, grabbing at something next to him with a ripping noise. Kurt's eyed widened as Blaine was dragged bodily from the vehicle, eyes closed and arms limp. He didn't pause for thought as his eyes glowed orange, and a ball of fire shot from the windscreen and into the fist. His own seatbelt disintegrated in a burst of flame as he scrabbled after it, crawling from the wreckage.

He was fighting blindly, panicking. He shot another tongue of flame at the figure, willing it to stop its decent through the trees. It was unnaturally tall and fearsomely large.

Monster, he thought, his heart plummeting as he shot at it again. The trees around the figure burst into flame, speeding across his path like a wall, but the monster was too fast.

At the last moment it turned, catching Kurt in a cold, penetrating stare. It was ferocious. It was calculating. And mixed with that - much to Kurt's dismay - was steely recognition.

We are the same, it seemed to say.

And with that, the monster fled once more, leaving Kurt alone in the ruins.