“Where in the world are we?” Kurt asks, picking his way through shallow puddles of black standing water to avoid other, deeper-looking ones. There are practically no lights down the industrial hallway they're walking; only the fading reflection from the gibbous moon at their backs and the glow from their cell phone screens illuminates their way. Kurt steps on something that lets out a shrill squeak, and he jumps when what sounds like an angry rat scurries from underneath his thick-soled boot.

“We…are…in…the Thunderdome!” Puck roars, raising his arms over his head for dramatic effect.

Kurt rolls his eyes and turns to look at Mike.

“We're underneath the loading dock of an abandoned ALDI Foods,” Mike clarifies.

“Ah,” Kurt replies, less than impressed. “And we're here again why? Because, to be honest, I wasn't really listening the first time. My brain switches to hibernate when you talk for longer than a minute.”

They round a corner, which opens into a large storage area – old wood pallets piled high on both sides, showing signs of water damage from leaks in the roof; milk crates leaning, the plastic buckling with the weight piled on them and the passage of time. They hear a murmur of voices – screaming, cheering, laughing, booing – start to grow from off in the distance. Kurt sees a sliver of light, faint and tinged vaguely blue, where there hadn't been any before. As they move closer, the light becomes brighter, the voices louder. Above the raucous jeers, the applause, and the trash talk, a single word climbs above the din, a chant that catches like fire.

“War-bler! War-bler! War-bler! War-bler!”

“Do you hear that?” Puck asks, mostly rhetorically. “You, Kurt Hummel, are about to enter into the secret arena of the only Fight Club in Lima, Ohio!”

“Jesus Christ” - Kurt groans at the stupidity - “A Fight Club? You dragged me to a Fight Club?” Kurt sighs dramatically, grumbling, “Teaches me not to listen more carefully,” underneath his breath.

They walk towards the noise and the light, through a crack in a pair of sliding docking-bay doors and in to what was once a huge freezer. Almost three steps through the door, Kurt, Puck, and Mike are slowed by a throng of spectators nearly ten feet deep – high school aged boys and girls, with a few college kids in the mix – forming a circle around two boys. Kurt can't see much at his distance, and with the thicket of people between him and the action, but every so often a gap forms, and he catches a glimpse of an arm, a leg, a lock of hair, a grinning face, a scowl.

“Are we really doing this?” he complains. “I mean, this seems kind of idiotic, even for you, Puck.”

“Look,” Puck says, turning on Kurt, his expression agitated, far from what he was when they first arrived, “I know this isn't the smartest idea, alright? But I figure it's easy cash. And seeing as I'm going to be a dad soon, I'm gonna need some.”

Kurt wants to feel sympathetic, and a part of him does, but he can't get over the very real fact that he might end up dead in this building. They hear it all the time on the news – kids going to illegal fights, raves, etc., in abandoned buildings and warehouses, and the next day, someone is found brutally murdered, usually the one kid no one would ever believe would be there. Looking at this crowd fanatically screeching over the fight taking place, dressed in t-shirts, jeans, and various types of leather, compared to Kurt, decked out in his brand new Marc Jacobs jacket and Paul Smith trousers, searching for a way to escape, it's blaringly clear he's that kid.

That, for Kurt, overshadows everything else.

“Okay, well, we know why you're here,” he says. “Why are Mike and I here?”

“Mike's my muscle,” Puck says, clapping a proudly grinning Mike on the shoulder.

“And Kurt, you give us panache,” Mike explains. “People will look at you, at the way you're dressed, and think we actually have the money we're going to bet.”

“But you don't,” Kurt remarks, apprehension prickling the skin on his neck.

“Yeah, but we'll look like we do,” Puck emphasizes, “and that's all that matters.”

“Yeah,” Kurt chuckles, glancing at the zealous crowd, and then back at the three of them, “appearances are everything. But just out of curiosity, what happens when you lose, and we don't have the money to pay?”

“Well, then I hope you can run fast in those boots,” Puck says, knocking Kurt on the shoulder with his fist.

“Nice,” Kurt comments, his stomach tying in knots.

“Don't sweat it,” Mike says. “Technically, you just have to outrun Puck.”

It's not all that reassuring a comment, but it manages to get a laugh out of Kurt, even if it doesn't loosen the knots any.

“Besides” – Puck puts his hands on Kurt's shoulders and pushes him through the crowd – “I hear our main competition is a member of your team, if you know what I mean.”

“Handsome, charming, and fabulously well-dressed?” Kurt quips, trying to shrug Puck off as he gets unintentionally knocked left and right by overenthusiastic fans.

“More like ‘wears too much product and is way more into Broadway musicals than any teenaged boy should be.'”

Puck leads Kurt out to the edge of the ring for a better look at their opponent.

Two boys circle one another, weapons in hand. One boy is tall, lanky, not too much to look at, and obviously getting his ass handed to him, but the other boy…Goddamn. The way he holds himself, the way he moves, it tells Kurt everything. Self-assured, confident, cocky, and hot as hell. Kurt didn't even know that boys like him existed in real life, not to mention down here in the bowels of Lima, fighting for money. Past his opponent's shoulder, the boy looks up, and locks eyes with Kurt. Momentarily unconcerned with the battle he's currently winning, he gives Kurt a quick up and down with dark, hazel eyes, and smiles.

“This kid's a legend,” Puck says in Kurt's ear, uncomfortably close. “Nobody beats him. But if I can, it'll be a few thou, at least.”

“His name's Blaine,” Mike adds, “but they call him The Warbler.”

The chant from earlier, which seemed kind of silly to Kurt when he heard it, suddenly makes sense. This boy is definitely the crowd favorite…but the name makes Kurt snicker.

“The Warbler? What? Was Kitten Boy taken already?”

“So, what do you think?” Puck asks, anxiety shadowing his voice.

“What do you mean, what do I think?” Kurt snaps, equally anxious. Kurt knows what he thinks, but his first impression isn't the kind he wants to share out loud with his friends. This boy, in a heated battle (which, in itself, is kind of sexy) has an incredible head of hair, but Puck's right. He's wearing way too much gel. But as he moves, a few curls spring free, and Kurt can't help thinking that, with a little guidance, he could end up with a halfway decent coiffure. He's cut the sleeves off his tight, white t-shirt – a bit cliché for Kurt's taste, but with biceps like his, Kurt can let it slide. A brown belt with silver rivets embedded in the leather hugs his trim waist, complimenting a pair of dark wash designer jeans, the fit of which are positively indecent.

But Kurt has to remember that, according to Puck, this boy is the enemy. No drooling over the enemy, not if they're getting out of here with their limbs attached.

“Do you think you'll be able to distract him or what?” Puck asks, shaking him.

Kurt laughs. He didn't expect to, but he does. Is that why he's really here? Was that whole ‘panache' thing crap? Because if Puck was counting on Kurt being some sort of enticement, then he put his eggs in the wrong basket. The likelihood that this boy in particular would look at Kurt sideways is less likely than Puck winning this match.

“Well, I'm sure if I yell fire, or I fake a heart attack, I might get him to look the other way long enough for you to make a move.”

“Funny,” Puck says. “Real funny.”

“Who's next?” Blaine shouts out to the crowd. Kurt looks up and sees him, shaking the hand of his devastated opponent, but staring right at him. The lanky boy limps away, and Blaine raises a fist in triumph. The crowd is in an uproar, would-be opponents raising their hands, jumping up and down, vying for a chance to go toe-to-toe with Blaine, with The Warbler, in the hopes of winning big. Behind Kurt, Puck waves both arms in the air, trying to get Blaine's attention.

But Blaine isn't looking at any of them. He's only looking at Kurt. Kurt starts blushing, the heat in his cheeks boiling behind his eyes, and it hits him. What if Blaine thinks he's there for a fight, like everyone else? What if The Warbler thinks that Kurt's an easy win? Blaine's got to be exhausted by now. He's sweating, drops of it gathering at his brow, down his neck, around his collarbone…

Kurt mentally shakes his head to regain his focus.

Where was he? Oh, yeah…

Blaine would look to take on someone he wouldn't consider competition.

Blaine waves his hands to the crowd and the entire mass quiets in an instant, waiting for his ruling.

"I choose you." Blaine points right at Kurt. “I want to battle pretty boy over there.”

“Wait…what?” Puck and Kurt say at the same time, a sentiment that reverberates throughout the entire crowd.

Blaine ignores the crowd, ignores the shouts and the taunts, and prowls over to Kurt, stupefied, and slightly aroused.

“You, pretty boy,” Blaine says, turning his pointed finger and making a come here motion. “I want to battle you next.”

“Who are you calling pretty boy?” Kurt counters, offended on principle. Besides, swooning over such a despicable term should go against everything Kurt believes.

But it's not what Blaine says that make brain cells shut down in important decision making areas of Kurt's brain. It's how he says it, with a voice gravel rough, but sultry underneath.

“What?” Blaine coos. “You don't think you're pretty?”

“I” – Kurt stammers. This seems a little déjà Mean Girls. He doesn't know how he should answer to avoid getting backed in to the same corner Cady Heron did in the movie – “I'm…not saying that.”

“Oh” – Blaine's eyes shift to the audience for a reaction – “what are you saying, then? You don't think you can beat me?”

Kurt crosses his arms over his chest, subconsciously protecting himself, putting a needed barrier between him and Blaine, who keeps moving closer.

“Well, from a statistical stand point, it seems impossible.”

“There's a first time for everything,” Blaine argues. “Sure, I'm undefeated, but who knows? Today could be the day. You could be the person that brings me down.”

Blaine walks right up on him, nose to nose, smelling of cologne and exuding pheromones from hours of fighting. That has to be it, Kurt thinks. That has to be the reason why his brain's a useless jumble, because otherwise Kurt would take a step back and realize he's being baited.

“So,” Blaine says, softer now that they're at kissing distance, “you don't even want to give it a try?”

Kurt knows it's a trick. It has to be. This guy, in his snug blue jeans with his smirk and his swagger, wouldn't pick Kurt out of a crowd of adoring fans and would-be challengers to…was he flirting with him?

“Why would I want to enter a fight I can't win?” Kurt asks, hoping to sway the conversation, turn it towards the boy with him who came here to fight? The one gritting his teeth behind Kurt's right ear, desperate to jump in and start a beat down, win his cash, and go.

Blaine nods, stepping back, an agreeable yet condescending expression on his face.

“No, no, you're right,” Blaine says, loudly for the crowd's benefit. “You don't want to step into the ring with me. I wouldn't want you to break a nail.”

The audience hears that for sure, and the wave of laughter becomes deafening in a second.

Kurt's eyebrow kinks almost completely into his hairline.

“Mike” – Kurt summons his friend – “arm.” Mike steps up. Kurt sheds his jacket and neatly drapes it over Mike's outstretched arm.

“Puck” – Kurt turns to their ringleader, as disappointed and stunned as he is curious and excited to watch Kurt step into the ring with Blaine – “3DS.”

“Right away.” Puck pulls his gaming system out of his pocket and hands it over, already flipped open. Kurt takes it from Puck's hands and steps into the circle, pursuing Blaine towards the center, and Blaine grinning like the devil at church, walks backward and watches, leading Kurt into a trap that he's sure only he knows the way out of.

“What have you got, Puckerman?” Kurt asks, staring straight into the eyes of his adversary, who's beaming back at him over his 3DS, rolling his head on his neck, preparing for his next fight.

“I've got an Excadrill, a Tyranitar, a Salamence…”

“Regular or Mega?”

“Mega” - Puck says it with a scoff like Kurt should know better - “a Clefable, a Rotom Heat, and an Azumarill.”

“What d'ya think?” Mike asks, starting to catch the tension that's bouncing back and forth between Puck and Kurt, fueled by Blaine.

“It's not the best I've had to work with, but it'll do the job. I mean, he's rolling a Mr. Mime, right? Not like I can take him too seriously.”

“Are you ready over there?” Blaine calls. “Or do you need another minute?”

“You wish,” Kurt says, waving his friends away, sending them back to watch this take down from the audience. Blaine blows Kurt a subtle kiss and a wink, meant to trip him up, but Kurt knows better. He shakes his head. “No more games, Warbler. Let's do this.”