Hi there, I'm littlemusings, and this is my next major project. I would just like to say, before starting this tale, that I am taking creative liberties with this story (well, of course, this is FanFiction) - meaning that the New York City described in this tale, and the method of putting a family under the Witness Protection Program is purely AU and fictional, but based on true research. I'm not going to claim outwardly that this is the kind of situation a family can be put under, but for the sake of the story, this is the reason.

As for the rating, there will be scenes of violence, a healthy dose of profanity (how contradictory), and lots of sensual (though not graphic) references/situations. The rating is 'M' just to be safe. It might go down if it doesn't go ~in that direction~, but we'll see, shall we? I'm going to see how this all turns out-it'll be insane. It's badboy!douchebag!Blaine, after all ;) Who knows how his mind will work?

Anyway, I really do hope you enjoy my next story, and thank you for the support you all have given me for I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Glee. If I did, I'd be writing an episode in which Blaine introduces Kurt to his little sister Danielle, who doesn't exist in the Glee!Verse. My sad tears.


Witness Protection Problem
by littlemusings

Pilot: Edited Information


There were three things in the world Kurt Hummel hated, and these three things were bigots, Mellencamp and body odor. After that situation, though, he had another item to add to his incredibly short list, and that was being a witness.

He even narrowed down the vague term to mean three different things, and wrote them down in his little leather planner after it all happened:

a) Me, being a witness to a murder.

b) Witnessing a court case, and being the star witness of the aforementioned murder during said court case.

c) Being put in the goddamn Witness Protection Program by America's insane judicial system because I witnessed a goddamn murder. The murder mentioned in part A.

d) I hate playing "the witness" in court.

Rather, I just hate the judicial system in general. I hate court.

Court was where he found himself that day, August the sixteenth. His parents, his father, Burt, and stepmother, Carole, and his ridiculously tall stepbrother, Finn, were sitting with the general assembly, waiting anxiously while he, Kurt, sat in a separate section near the front of the court room specifically for witnesses.

Kurt wasn't just a witness—he was the star witness. Though he relished being a star on both the stage and one off, (he still considered being in the court room that day a silly little dream) he despised sitting behind a wooden lectern on a wobbly stool, a small microphone ridiculously close to his mouth. It just wasn't the star status he was looking for. Plus, he could smell the judge's foul-scented black robe, and the cologne he probably sprayed it with to muffle the detestable stench.

Honestly, the smell didn't work for the poor old man.

Neither did the dress code, for anyone: Kurt wanted to wear his normal outfit for 'formal' occasions, a pair of Doc Martens, tight jeans, and a tasteful-looking top to complete the ensemble. But, no, his father insisted that he be 'practical' and wear a simple black suit. Though it was Prada, Kurt wanted to feel comfortable, and the collar of the polo shirt underneath was choking him to death.

Kurt despised court cases. Though he did love the macabre and mysterious (he utilized both archetypes to design clothes for themed occasions), he just hated sitting and watching court proceedings with every fiber of his being, which was why he absolutely could not understand why Finn loved to watch Judge Judy. The only thing he liked about the proceedings was the arguments the lawyers on both sides had: they reminded him of the debate club he was a part of at the private school he attended, Brenton Preparatory School. Plus, the revelation of the evidence was a bit enthralling.

Well, he enjoyed the debates until the lawyers started getting too technical about the provided evidence. That was when he automatically tuned out. And he hated the sight of blood and death.

"Kurt, I was asking you a question," the murdered man's lawyer said sternly. Kurt whipped his mind out of his thoughts and gave the judge a frown.

"I'm sorry, can you please repeat it again?" he asked sarcastically. The prosecutor's lawyer face-palmed himself and cleared his throat. Kurt's eyes flitted towards his parents, who looked restless and panicky, and then to his stepbrother (though more 'brother'), Finn, who looked incredibly busy playing a game on his PSP. Kurt fervently wished he were in his stepbrother's position.

"Kurt Hummel, is it true that you did, indeed witness the murder of James Falconi two weeks ago, on August the first?"

Kurt sighed. He was asked this every single day, from the moment he was brought to NYPD headquarters for questioning. "Yes, I did. I didn't know his name until I went up to see if he were still breathing. I checked his wallet. The guys took everything but his I.D."

"And those guys you saw killing him—were they the men you see now, Ed and Rodrigo Lopez?" he said, gesturing towards the two, large and hulking men sitting in orange jumpsuits in the defendant's seats. Kurt shuddered inside, just looking at them. He remembered their cold eyes, their shouts and their violent movements in the alleyway.

Kurt nodded stiffly. "Yes. It was they who killed James Falconi. I recognize them. Clearly."

One of the men, who Kurt remembered whose name was Ed, was about to stand up and shout a retort, but his lawyer pushed him down by the shoulders. Kurt gulped.

"Can you please recall the day, Mr. Hummel?"

The seventeen year-old resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and sighed, taking a deep breath, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. He felt as if it were going to jump out of his ribcage. Thus, he began his tale, and to his annoyance, the court clerk was typing every single word he said.


School was out, and he was just on his way home. Heading home in his school blazer and slacks, the seventeen year-old walked down the borough of Queens, humming to himself. He took a bite of his glazed donut idly. Jumping over an open pothole, he ducked into the long alley he usually took as a shortcut on his way home, throwing his Krispy Kreme bag into the dumpster as he approached the middle of the alley.

And that was when he heard the gunshot. Panicking, he ducked behind the dumpster and heard an argument commencing from inside one of the buildings. A door opened, and several people stepped out – that was as much as the boy could discern from what he heard.

And then he realized what was going on.

He was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Obviously.

A gunshot.

A body.

A muffled cry, a heavy kick.

A flurry of muttered expletives.

Heaving, slowing breaths; the sound of bones breaking.

He saw it all; he heard it all. The boy lingered behind the large green dumpster he had thrown his Krispy Kreme bag in just ten minutes ago. He was shaking violently, beads of sweat dripping down his face; his hands were sticky and clammy. With difficulty, he managed to reach into his sweater pockets, rummaging around for his phone. Come on, he thought, his tears fighting to make release.

There was another gunshot, and he risked a peek. Two very well built men with crew cuts were holding a smaller man against the brick of the alley wall. The boy could see a pool of blood forming beneath the smaller man's already fragile frame. They were shouting words he couldn't understand – Goddamn it, why didn't I take Spanish? Their tone was demanding. He averted his gaze as quickly as possible and shakily dialed the police's number.

"¿Dónde estas nuestros dólares, ha?"

"No se, no se!" the smaller man said hoarsely. "Please, don't—please!" he shrieked.

Dólares, dólares, the boy thought madly. Money. They're demanding money from him. He quickly drowned out their voices and held his phone tight to his ear. He resisted the normal temptation to tap his foot impatiently, in fear of being found. He felt like running back down the alley, to the sunlight, but he just couldn't. His feet were heavy like lead, and he knew that if he were seen running down, he would be shot as well.

He was thankful the dumpster was a few good steps away from the commotion.

"NYPD," the operator said coolly.

"I believe there's been a murder in Queens," he breathed into the phone, eyes shut, tears falling down quickly. "Please, hurry. Kingston Street, an alley next to the florist and two blocks down from Krispy Kreme."

"Sir, please calm down and tell us your name."

The boy took a shuddering breath and mumbled as quietly as he could. "Kurt Hummel."

There was another loud gunshot, and the small man's whimpering cries seized immediately, and Kurt heard an echoing thump as the body crumpled to the ground.


When Kurt finished recounting his tale (shuddering at the images that continually plagued him),—he opted to just translate the Spanish, but left it in for good effect—the prosecution called him off the stand. Taking a deep breath, Kurt stepped down in his crisp black suit, hurrying back to where his parents sat. As he passed Ed and Rodrigo's table, he heard one of them—he wasn't sure which one—whisper to him menacingly:

"You're going to pay for that, Hummel."

Kurt froze for a second and looked at the two brothers, who were staring at him darkly. He regained his composure and continued to his parents and brother, who stood up and hurried with him out of the courtroom when the judge announced a quick recess so that the jury could come up with a verdict. But, he could still feel their eyes, and countless other pairs of eyes on his back. He shuddered.

"Dude, that wasn't like freaking Judge Judy," Finn said indignantly as they sat outside the justice building. Burt and Carole were buying them all coffee at the pretzel stand at the foot of the long, marble staircase. Kurt shot Finn an apathetic look, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

"I really expected something cool to happen, like a big shouting fight and stuff like that—"

"—Finn, you're not helping. And no, not every case features the incredibly irritating dramatics of the Judge Judy cases."

"Kurt, man, those are legit."

"They're just people who want money and five seconds of television fame," Kurt replied fiercely, his eyes glinting. Finn shut his mouth and proceeded to continue his PSP game. "What on earth are you playing?"

"Tekken, what does it look like?" Finn muttered, showing Kurt the screen, the words Tekken 5 flashing across the portable screen.

"You don't play Tekken in a fucking courtroom, Finn," Kurt snapped.

Finn looked up from his PSP and stared at Kurt. "What has gotten into you, dude?"

"Um, if you haven't noticed, I was a witness to a bloody, cruel murder and I actually had to look those two Neanderthals in the eye and say 'oh, yes, these guys killed so-and-so, you should put them in jail. Let them rot!' I don't think anyone and their mother would like to hear that, Finn," Kurt growled, burying his face in his hands. Finn bit his lip and went back to playing.

"Here you guys go, coffee," Carole said brightly. Kurt looked up and graciously accepted the Styrofoam cup. Finn tucked his PSP away and took one. Their parents sat one step below them.

"You alright, buddy?" Burt asked gruffly, turning to his son. Kurt nodded.

"A bit shaken, but I guess so," he said sheepishly.

"I saw one of those Lopez guys say something to you. What was it?" Burt asked seriously, moving up a step. Kurt shook his head.

"Nothing. Nothing at all, dad."

"I'm not going to stop asking you until you tell me the truth," his father said sternly, his eyes looking right into his son's. Kurt looked away quickly in embarrassment. "See, I knew you were lying to me, Kurt. What did he say?"

"'You're…you're going to pay for that, Hummel,'" Kurt repeated the words quietly. Carole looked up from her coffee, and Finn stopped playing. Burt looked livid.

"What?" she whispered. "Honey, they won't be able to do anything. The evidence is clear, and with your testament, they'll be locked up and you won't have to worry about a thing," she said, patting his knee gently. Kurt gave her a small smile.

"He's not going to get away with threatening you. Carole's right: they're going to lock them up, and we'll all be okay," Burt said fiercely. "Man, oh man, if I ever get to talk to those bozos—"

"Calm down, dad, your blood pressure."

"They won't hurt you, Kurt. They won't hurt any of us."

The family heard a loud voice call from the door: "Hudson-Hummels, court recess is over."

The family stood up, and Burt put a firm hand on his son's shoulder as they walked back into the justice building. As they entered the courtroom, the jury was finally settling back into their seats, and Rodrigo and Ed were already back in the front, and from behind, Kurt could tell that they were incredibly tense. They should feel that way, he thought, and then brushed it away from his mind. The four of them took their seats and waited as the judge took his position back on the high seat. A woman from the jury in a crisp white outfit—pencil skirt and white coat, walked over to the judge in her equally white heels, handing him a pink slip of paper.

The judge read over the verdict, and banged his gavel. "Order, order in the court."

The crowd in the courtroom settled down quickly, and silence fell over them. The judge cleared his throat. "The jury has spoken: Rodrigo and Edward Lopez, you are hereby pronounced guilty and the both of you will serve life in prison for the murder of James Falconi and Edward Lopez will serve ten years for the possession of marijuana."

The court clerk typed, and the tak-tak-tak of the keyboard was easily heard over the surprised murmurs of the court, and the screams of agony from an impeccably dressed woman sitting behind Edward and Rodrigo, who stood up, as they were lead out by the policemen. James Falconi's parents were hugging and crying tears of joy.

"You will not put my boys in jail! They are innocent!" the well-dressed woman shouted in a clearly Puerto Rican accent. Kurt couldn't meet the gaze of the brothers as they gave him steely, murderous looks when they passed by them. Burt tightened his grip on Kurt's shoulder. "You cannot put my sons in jail! Putas! All of you, putas!" The man standing next to her (also well-dressed, Kurt had to add) gripped her by the arms and whispered something in her ear. She stopped screaming and began sobbing into his shoulder. They rushed out of the courtroom behind the Lopez brothers and the policemen.

The Hudson-Hummels waited until the courtroom emptied. Kurt collapsed onto the wooden bench, breathing heavily. "Oh my god, that was horrible."

Finn slumped next to him as their parents talked to James' parents. "Feeling better?"

"Obviously not, that was terrifying," Kurt spat, leaning on his brother's shoulder. Finn ruffled Kurt's hair. "Remind me never to take the alleyway shortcut ever again."

"Never take the alleyway shortcut ever again," Finn repeated, smirking. Kurt sat up and whacked him on the shoulder gently. "Ow."

"Thank god I can go home and get out of this outfit."

"But I thought you liked Porda—Perda—Pra…"

"Prada," Kurt rolled his blue-green eyes. "I do, but the collar of my polo has been choking me to death. Don't you want to get out of your suit, too?"

"Yeah, I've got a date with Anna later; we're going to catch the concert dad's company's sponsoring at MSG, then head off to the after party."

"Oh, you mean the Nicki Minaj concert?" Kurt smirked. "Thought you didn't like her."

"Well, Anna does, and since we all have free tickets—"

"—I'm obviously not going, just give her our extra tickets so she can take her little friends and all that jazz."

"Anna Schoeller's really hot, Kurt."

"And I would know," the shorter boy said sarcastically, taking out a mini-mirror from his Marc Jacobs bag, checking his hair. "Sorry, but boobs aren't my thing."

"I know, just wanted to say," Finn shrugged.

"I've got a dinner date tonight, anyway."

Finn's eyes widened. "Oooh, with who?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Alan Jameson. He was in my AP English Language class last year, remember?"

"Can't you just go with Alan to the concert?"

"He's more of a classical guy. He's also a part of the school orchestra, a violin player, and made state three years in a row," Kurt said smugly, twiddling his thumbs.

"Kurt's going on a date, Kurt's going on a date," Finn laughed in a singsong voice. Kurt covered his ears in irritation.

"Please, don't sing. Well, at least not here. While I do enjoy it when you croon Journey and all of that in the shower because of the blackmail ideas your scrub-a-dub-dub shows bring about in my head, I suggest you leave it in the shower."

"You already have access to my…m-my Internet browser history, what else do you want Burt to know?" Finn immediately stopped singing and laughing. Kurt smiled haughtily. "Well, anyway, how are you going to tell dad about your dinner date?"

"Eh, I'll let him know…slowly," Kurt said uneasily.

Burt and Carole shook hands with the Falconi parents and gave them hugs and turned around to face their boys. "Well, boys, let's head home," Burt sighed, stretching. "You okay, Kurt?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kurt said, standing up. Burt gave him a fleeting, questioning look, then smiled again. "I'm starving, can we go somewhere to eat?"

"Sorry, buddy, but I've got a meeting back at the main office. The new 2012 Civic models are going to be released in about a month and we need to double-check the logistics and all that crazy public relations stuff, so it's off to home you go. Plus, ya'll have to get ready for that Nicki Mono…"

"…Minaj, Burt," Finn snorted.

"Okay, fine, Minaj concert tonight. I got you guys free tickets since Honda's sponsoring, right?"

"I don't really feel up for a concert tonight, dad," Kurt said off-handedly. "Finn can give my ticket to someone else."

Burt stared at him and asked skeptically, "You sure? These tickets are free, Kurt. I thought you liked her?"

"I have a date."

Finn let out a little chuckle, to Kurt's chagrin. Carole grinned, hugging Kurt.

"A date," Burt said bluntly, as if the word were foreign to him. "You have a date tonight?"

Kurt blushed furiously. "Yes, yes I do, dad, as strange as that sounds."

"With who?"

"Alan Jameson."

"Jameson, the violin prodigy kid?" Carole gasped. Kurt nodded eagerly.

"I thought you were more for the Broadway-loving kind of guy?" Burt asked confusedly.

Kurt rolled his eyes and laughed in embarrassment. "Dad, he likes Broadway. At least I think he does."

"Well, alright, just give me a call and tell me when you want Andrew to drive you there and pick you up, kiddo. And, uhm, introduce me to this Jameson kid later, okay?"

"If you get back home from work faster."

The family walked out of the courtroom. As they exited, Kurt took one last look at it, hoping it would be his last, though the words of the Lopez brothers rang in his head, like an everlasting, terrible mantra…

You're going to pay for that, Hummel.


Hours After the Trial

Before heading off to work, Burt made sure to remind Kurt to 'not do anything rash' and to 'keep it clean'. Rolling his eyes as he conducted his moisturizing routine early in the evening, he assured his dad that this date was a simple one, and that they would just talk over dinner and 'all that jazz'. Finn had already left the family condominium to pick up Anna Schoeller and their other friends after quickly changing out of his court attire, and Carole went to a friend's house on the Upper East Side two hours ago. Now, Kurt was alone to focus on preparing for his date.

He sat in front of his vanity mirror, fluffy white robe on, rubbing his face with organic creams, and began singing along to Defying Gravity playing on his speakers in the background. His heart was beating faster than usual: he was going on a fucking date with Alan Freaking Jameson, the most gorgeous—and one of the only gay guys—at Brenton Preparatory School. He looked at the clock: the hour hand moved: it was nearly seven, and he had to meet Alan at the Italian Bistro at seven-thirty. He walked over to his bathroom to rinse his face off, and as he put his hand on the faucet—

Crash.

The sound of a small crash reverberated in the large, high-ceilinged space of the condo. Kurt's hand lingered on the faucet, and he shook it off: Nah, maybe I'm just…

Another crash was heard. Kurt quickly rinsed and dried his face, and poked his head out of his bathroom door. No, the sound didn't come from his bedroom. It had to be from the living room, or one of the other bedrooms—again, he heard it. Kurt, his heart thumping ever so wildly, tiptoed towards his door and bent down to peek through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. What on earth-? That sounded a lot like Carole's china collection…The hallway was pitch-black dark, as Carole and Finn left it when they went to attend to their own personal matters.

Again, I think I am hearing things.

That was when he heard a small shout.

"Dude, the house is empty. None of them are here."

"Check the bedrooms!"

Panicking, Kurt stood up and switched his light off, and ran back to his bathroom, closing the door behind him quietly. He bit back a retort, knowing that his dad would get a heart attack if he found Kurt lying in a mess of china and broken glass. Ugh, fuck, I feel defenseless—he looked around the bathroom, and found nothing but his shaving razor. Goddamn it, I'm guessing that those guys are bigger than a buffed-up Finn, judging by how skilled they seem to be in knocking things down…

He heard the other bedroom doors open and slam shut with loud bams, and the loud crash of glass breaking. He jumped into the bathtub and slid the curtain shut.

"Yo, man, the door to this one is locked."

"Maybe that's his room, try to open it—"

There was a loud grunt and a kick, and a push, and Kurt heard his bedroom door open.

"No one's here, man," he heard a deep male voice say loudly. "Fucking a, I thought he would be here."

"Estupido, check the bathroom."

Kurt shrunk into the fetal position; tears falling down his face as he heard the loud clop-clop of boots approach the bathroom door. Shit. Fucking hell, shit, oh god—what the fuck is going on? He hoped and—he didn't believe it, but he really did—prayed to whatever deity would listen, and the door opened with a creak. He held his breath, shaking as he lay on the cold marble of the tub as a small beam of light entered the dark bathroom. He saw the outline of a large, hulking man.

"No one's here," he growled, and then walked straight out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Kurt didn't dare to breathe. Thank god he was stupid enough not to check the tub. When he finally heard his bedroom door shut, and the continuous, resounding crash of china and photo frames ceased to be audible, he shakily sat in the tub, eyes wide with fear. After what seemed like forever, he crawled out of the tub and peeked into his bedroom from the bathroom door.

It was trashed. The feathers from his pillows were strewn throughout the room, and by his window lay his torn Egyptian cotton bed sheets. His vanity mirror was cracked, and his stack of Vogue magazines were ripped and flung all over the place, and his entire wardrobe was basically all over his floor. He hurried over to inspect everyone else's bedrooms, and when he saw that their rooms were as trashed as his, he walked over to the living room, taking care not to step over Carole's broken chinaware and the glass from the frames of hung family portraits.

Over the television, in red spray paint read:

You're never going to be forgiven.

His heart dropped and he found himself reaching for his cell phone, and dialing 9-1-1.

Again.

For the second time in two weeks.


Instead of finding himself at the lovely Italian Bistro in SoHo with Alan Jameson, Kurt found himself outside a conference room at the NYPD headquarters with Finn, who the police had picked up from Madison Square Garden, to Finn's irritation. Their parents were inside, apparently arguing with Officer Larsen, the same man who had arrested Rodrigo and Ed those two weeks ago.

"What a clusterfuck I have gotten us into," Kurt growled under his breath. Luckily, he got to change out of his bathrobe and into his jeans, Doc Martens, and off-shoulder sweater.

Finn sighed deeply and patted his brother on the shoulder. "It's not your fault, you didn't kill the dude. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, me being in the wrong place at the wrong time has landed us in this situation!" Kurt retorted in a strangled voice.

"Man, Kurt, I don't know how you can be so ad…ado—adulating about this being your fault."

"The word is adamant, Finn, adamant—and that's besides the point: if I hadn't taken the alleyway shortcut home instead of the main road, and hid behind that stupid dumpster, I wouldn't have been a bloody witness this morning, and our house wouldn't have been trashed into oblivion."

He buried his face in his hands and Finn rubbed his back comfortingly. This was all in vain, because they heard the voices within the conference room escalate.

"Fuck the insurance, what about my son's safety? My family's safety?" Burt shouted. "What are we going to do? Live in fear? I don't want that happening to my family!"

"We'll tighten security around your home—"

"—Rather, what's left of it!"

"Burt—honey, please, calm down—"

"—Carole, this is about our sons and their safety. Now, I don't care about all of our stuff, because we can afford to get it all fixed and replaced. I want to know how you can protect my wife and my sons. Goddamn CCTV cameras and microphones all over our house aren't going to help, because those things can easily get rigged!"

Dad… Kurt thought glumly, shifting to lie down on the couch. Finn moved out of the way and sat on the floor next to him. Fucking hell, ugh.

"There is another solution—"

"Don't you dare tell me that it's got to do with technology!"

Kurt and Finn heard Officer Larsen come closer to the conference room door. "Partially. Though…I think Finn and Kurt should come into the room so that they can hear this, too."

Upon hearing this, they saw the door open, and Officer Larsen, a tall, mustached man, beckoned for the Hudson-Hummel brothers to come in. Finn and Kurt stood up and walked in quietly. Burt was standing with his back turned to the door, arms folded, Carole massaging his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down.

"Have a seat, boys," Officer Larsen said, patting the backs of two, large leather chairs at the table. Finn and Kurt obliged; Kurt's face pale and expression icy.

Burt and Carole sat next to them as Officer Larsen sat across from them.

"The only other solution would be to put your family under the Witness Protection Program."

"Like, in The Suite Life on Deck, like when they thought that one guy was in the program thing?" Finn blurted out. Kurt rolled his eyes and punched his shoulder. Finn shot him a dogged look and frowned to himself. "Sorry."

"Finn, we're not living in a Disney Channel special, so shut up," Kurt snapped.

"Boys, stop it," Carole countered, clearly distressed.

There was a moment of silence as Finn and Kurt looked away from one another and Officer Larsen took this time to stand up and pick up a folder from a side table. When he sat back down, he began to speak.

"As you know, the Witness Protection Program, also known as WitSec, is for the families who have assisted the government with gaining information about criminal activity. In your case, your son, Kurt here, witnessed a gang crime."

Kurt's jaw dropped. "Wait, gang?"

"Yes, the Lopez Family is very well-connected to major gangs here in New York City and have been involved with drug trade and contraband for years. Convicting Ed and Rodrigo was our first step to exposing them. Along with the murder of James Falconi, they were charged with possession of marijuana and other countless drugs. Falconi was a former drug user, according to his old documents and the autopsy conducted. Falconi was sent to rehab last year, and wasn't seen after getting out a few months ago, until the weekend you witnessed his murder, Kurt. He hadn't paid his old debts to the Lopez brothers."

"Are you saying that my family has become the target of the Lopez family's?" Burt asked gruffly.

"Unfortunately, we assume it to be so," Officer Larsen said grimly. "So, the perfect solution is to put the four of you under the WPP. You will have completely new identities: new names, new jobs, new home—"

"New home?" Kurt and Finn exclaimed at the same time. Burt squeezed Carole's hand.

"So…if we were to be a part of this program…"

"All of you would be safe. They wouldn't be able to find you, and you would be put under 24-hour U.S. Marshall security. We would relocate the four of you to a new state."

"A new state," Kurt deadpanned.

"Kurt, it's the only way," Carole said gently, trying to reassure herself more than anyone.

"What about school and stuff?" Finn asked nervously.

"You'll both be transferred to a new school."

Finn and Kurt could only stare at the officer.

A new school? Kurt thought in agony. He was this close to dating Alan Jameson (or so he thought), he was to be president of the Debate Club, and was going to have the solo for Defying Gravity that he had wanted since freshman year in advanced chorus. He was on the Principal's Honors List, and was going to take it easy his senior year. But to move now, when everything important to him was happening? And Finn, too, was going to be the captain of the Brenton Preparatory School varsity basketball team, and he finally got a date with that stupid bimbo Anna Schoeller after trying to date her for two years. Plus, he was actually doing well in terms of academics. Moving would ruin everything. He would carry around mace and a rape whistle everywhere he went in order to protect himself. He would.

"No."

Everyone turned to face Kurt, whose hands were gripping the sides of his chair tightly.

"Kurt, I am not going to live here in New York, worrying about you and your brother day in and day out. I'm not always here, and whatever security we had in our home just got breached!" Burt snapped. "Don't be selfish, Kurt, we're doing this for you and the rest of the family."

Kurt opened his mouth to say something, but he restrained himself. "Fine. This doesn't mean I love the idea."

Finn shifted uncomfortably in his chair and folded his arms, nodding curtly. "As long as we get to come back here."

"Only time will tell," Officer Larsen said, pursing his lips. "Well, we need to discuss living arrangements. Two weeks ago, when we first arrested the Lopez brothers, we already started planning your new living arrangements, just in case something like what happened earlier occurred."

He opened the blue folder in front of him, revealing documents with each of the Hudson-Hummel family members' faces on them. He passed them out one at a time. Kurt stared at his portrait photo, and there were two columns laid out beside it: one was labeled True Information, and the other was called Edited Information.

Kurt's eyes went straight for the Edited Information column.

Name: Henderson, Elijah Andrew

Date of Birth: May 1, 1994

Age: 17

He stopped reading. "Excuse me, will someone please explain to me why my name is Elijah Andrew?"

Burt shot his son an angry look, and Kurt quieted down immediately. Other information, such as his changed Social Security Number, place of birth (San Francisco, California), and school transcripts were completely changed. Luckily, they kept the fact that he was a four-point-oh student, and the fact that he was an involved young man. He nodded in slight approval, but once he finally reached the line that stated 'sexuality' (were they even allowed to disclose that?), that was where he put his foot down.

Sexual Orientation: Straight

Kurt cleared his throat. "Uhm, excuse me, Officer Larsen, but I'm clearly gay. 100-percent gay, if you haven't noticed."

Officer Larsen sighed and looked at Kurt sympathetically. "Kurt, the whole point of this is to give you all new identities."

"I'd rather keep that part of me, to be perfectly honest with you. Since when did the government say it mattered whether a witness was gay or not, rather, when did it matter to change a witness' sexuality along with everything else?"

"I'd rather our son to be who he likes," Carole tried to reason with the officer. Officer Larsen shook his head.

"Discreetly, he can be. Outwardly, no. The point of the program is to be—"

"-To protect the witnesses, and also, to satisfy them in a way that they feel comfortable in their new environments!" Kurt debated.

"—Kurt, listen to Officer Larsen," Burt said stiffly.

Finn, Carole, and Kurt stared at him, hard.

Kurt couldn't believe it: his dad, his number-one supporter, the man who allowed him to be whoever he wanted and drove him to Pride Parades every damn year from when he turned thirteen, was telling him that he had to comply with the government's bitchy life-meddling.

"Dad—"

"—Kurt, I'm not saying that you should…well…Kurt. I'm thinking that Officer Larsen means that you can't act as…outward as you do now wherever they move. It might stir the pot a little and draw you too much attention."

"So, you're telling me to go back into the closet," Kurt stated bluntly.

"We'll discuss this later," his father exclaimed back. "Kurt, you have to understand that we have to blend in."

Kurt bit back a retort and buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god, this is going to suck so bad."

Finn looked at his brother sympathetically. "So…um…where are we moving?"

"Lima, Ohio. The two of you will be attending William McKinley High School. It's a public school."

Kurt looked up and his eyes widened. "Public school? The two of us have been going to private school forever," he said, gesturing towards his brother and himself.

"We're sorry, Kurt, but the student population number of McKinley is large enough to hide the both of you."

Kurt had been attending Brenton Preparatory School since kindergarten. His father was one of the major men on the board of directors of Honda Motors (but before then, he was a car technician, then interned at Honda when he graduated from college), and his actual mother, Elizabeth, was a music teacher at Brenton. When she passed away when he was eight, Brenton gave him a discount for every year he attended, even though his family was very well off. Finn started going to Brenton in middle school (his dad died in the Persian Gulf War, and his very rich grandparents paid for him to attend the well-known school), and they were acquaintances until their parents met at a social on the Upper East Side and started dating in their sophomore year (Burt and Carole got married a year later).

"This can't be happening." Kurt muttered under his breath.

"I feel you, bro," Finn grumbled.

"So, your new names will be Michael Henderson," Officer Larsen said, gesturing towards Finn, "Elijah Henderson," he pointed to Kurt, "Mary Henderson," he said to Carole, "and Bradley Henderson," he nodded to Burt. The family nodded gloomily. "Kurt and Finn, the both of you will still be high school seniors. Burt, you will own a large car garage in Lima, which we will call our men there to start building, and since you are an expert with cars—"

"—I know them inside out," Burt nodded. "So I'll be working on them?"

"Yes."

Burt nodded in approval.

"For tonight, we will send people over to your house to collect your things: clothes, books, everything, and we have reserved two rooms for the four of you at the Marriott Hotel for the time being. We have scheduled your flight to Ohio for the eighteenth."

"That's two days from now!" Finn exclaimed. "How are we supposed to say goodbye to our friends?"

"There will be no time for that, unfortunately. Tomorrow, you will all be briefed properly on your new identities, and then you will be officially welcomed to the United States Witness Protection Program."


Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Feedback/reviews would be very much appreciated!

Love,
Sam / littlemusings