"His name is Sebastian Smythe."
Dr. Jesse St. James places a blue manila folder on the table in front of Kurt. Kurt should be impressed. A blue folder project. The division of the United States Federal Government that Kurt contracts with uses blue folders to distinguish extremely classified information from regular, not-as-classified but still secret information. Kurt finds that funny. Why bother with the difference? Why put sensitive material in an alternate color folder? Doesn't that announce the fact that it's classified? Doesn't that defeat the purpose? And why blue? If they don't care who knows that the information inside the file is classified, why not make it pink then? Or neon green?
Kurt is tempted to make a comment, but he's not sure other participants in this briefing would find it as amusing as he does. Besides him and Dr. St. James, the one other person in the room, sitting a few rows behind him and a level above him, has already scowled at him twice, and they've only been seated for five minutes. Kurt's not sure who she is exactly, just that she has a vested interest in their research. She didn't bother introducing herself, but he heard Jesse address her as Sue. Whoever she is, she doesn't look like she has a sense of humor.
Kurt, likewise, has little humor or patience for government funded projects, and yet he always seems to find himself hip-deep in them. If he didn't believe in his work so profoundly, he'd walk away and get a regular teaching job at a normal university.
Of course, as the cliché goes, he's already seen too much. In lieu of his 401K, the government might send a sniper to assassinate him. One day, he could be walking out of Starbucks with his venti non-fat mocha, and the next, he's a smudge on the pavement. Maybe he's overreacting, but he's always gotten an uneasy feeling getting involved in government projects, things with names like Silent Sparrow or Juggernaut, like they're paying him to fight super villains instead of conducting studies on the correlation between PTSD related sleep disorders and depression, specifically in American soldiers. This study might advance new, more effective types of therapy that soldiers suffering from PTSD could receive, thus helping them overcome the harrowing effects of war while they readjust to civilian life.
Kurt wishes it didn't require getting into bed with the military, so to speak.
He opens the folder, which is full to bursting, and scans quickly through the contents. Pictures, reports, physical exam results, test scores, each topped with the exact same name - Sebastian Smythe. Kurt looks from one photo – a picture of a boy about ten-years-old, wearing a green soccer jersey, white shorts, and knee-high socks, one cleated foot resting on a soccer ball in a generic sports-related pose as he smiles exuberantly for the camera – to the image that fills the flat screen. It's the same boy, but in the video he's a teenager. It looks like he's wearing some kind of prep school uniform - blue blazer, a calligraphy letter D embroidered on the breast pocket, red-and-blue striped necktie knotted beneath the collar of a crisp, white button down shirt. Meticulously swept coffee-colored hair falls over his forehead, stopping right above his eyebrows. Piercing green eyes peer down at a silver ball sitting in the center of a map of concentric circles. Kurt watches the silver ball wiggle, then roll without Sebastian touching it. Sebastian's eyes flick up to the camera, the slyest hint of a smile curling his lips. He gazes out from the television screen straight at Kurt, and Kurt shifts in his seat uncomfortably, as if this recorded image from the past can see him.
The term "life ruiner" finally makes sense to Kurt. This young man about has that covered in his roguish smirk alone. It's almost ridiculous how attractive this kid is, and he probably knows it, too.
Kurt scolds himself for leering like a dirty old man, even if he is only twenty-six.
"This video was taken when we first found Sebastian," Dr. St. James explains. "I worked with him personally for about two years. We stumbled across him while a couple of our researchers were overseeing Mensa testing at a private school in Westerville, Ohio - Dalton Academy." Jesse glances back at the screen, at the protégé he once thought would become his claim to fame, maybe even help win him a Nobel Prize. Jesse had been right. Sebastian Smythe did get him noticed - but not for the reason he'd intended.
Sebastian became Jesse's ticket to infamy.
Because of Sebastian Smythe, everybody in the scientific community knows the cautionary tale of the once great Dr. Jesse St. James, leading researcher in the field of parapsychology, a specialty that had originally been considered junk science but was well on its way to being the next great discovery. Jesse touted the potential of the human brain with regard to psychic abilities – abilities, Jesse claimed, every human possessed in varying degrees - with Sebastian as his flesh and blood indicator of success…until Jesse's big screw up. He lost everything, became a pariah, even in the field of clinical psychology. The story of his epic failure blew up on social media overnight, and he was shamed into resigning.
Of all his former colleagues, associates, and students, Kurt Hummel is the only one among them who still gives Jesse the time of day - and doesn't act conceited about it. Jesse owes Kurt more than he can ever repay. He helped Jesse get back some of his credibility. Without Kurt's pull, Jesse wouldn't even be present at this meeting.
"Sebastian is an authentic genius," Jesse continues. "Incredibly crude, but exceptionally gifted. Telekinesis is but one of his talents."
Kurt smiles, wondering if Jesse meant to make that sound as suggestive as he did, and if so, for whose benefit?
Kurt leans forward, narrowing his eyes at the man grinning smugly as the silver ball continues to follow the lines of the circles printed on the page without him having to look down to track it.
"I remember hearing about him," Kurt says, pressing a button on the remote in front of him and freezing the image, that smirk permanently plastered in his brain. "This ability that he has, it caused quite a controversy. Everybody wanted him. You guys got offers from think tanks, the military, even from foreign governments."
"We did," Jesse says, prouder than he deserves to be.
Kurt flips through the reports, searching out one in specific. "It says here that some unnamed terrorist organization tried to kidnap him?"
"Yeah." Jesse laughs. "They didn't get close to him, thank God, but three different groups took credit for the attempt. That made matters worse."
"Because you needed to place him in a more secure facility?" Kurt guesses, skimming through the report.
"Because knowing that someone wanted him so badly that they would risk breaking into one of our maximum security facilities to snag him gave him a huge head, and he was already a tremendous pain in the ass." Jesse sifts through the stack of reports in Kurt's folder and pulls one out. He sets it on top, tapping the cover page to bring it to Kurt's attention. "This is his psychological evaluation. Snarky, conceited, utterly self-important, constantly throwing the weight of his father's job around, which was actually really sad considering his father up and left him. Disowned him."
"Why?" Kurt asks, going back through the reports and stopping on another picture – a family portrait, taken when Sebastian was younger than the soccer photo, maybe five or six. Sebastian with his mother and father, sitting on a red velvet upholstered sofa in front of a lavish fireplace, an extravagantly decorated Christmas tree beside them to their right. Sebastian sits between them, grinning with pearly baby teeth showing, so wide that the apples of his cheeks push his eyelids closed, reducing his glittering green eyes to slits. His mother glows in her red Dolce and Gabbana lace dress, her hands resting lightly on her son's shoulders. His father, wearing an exquisitely tailored Armani suit, sits an appropriate distance apart from his wife and son, his expression stern but with an otherwise kind face. Sebastian seemed to inherit his overall facial structure – his cheekbones, his nose, his prominent brow – from his father, but his moss-colored eyes and wavy brown hair are definitely his mother's. They look like the American dream – a loving, happy, affluent family.
At least, that's the impression that Kurt gets. At the time this photo was taken, it might have been true.
"His father's a state attorney," Jesse says. "Said he didn't want his son if he was a freak, didn't need that ruining his career."
"Is that why Sebastian disappeared? Up and left you guys right in the middle of it?" Kurt asks, disheartened on Sebastian's behalf. Kurt might not have had the cheeriest upbringing, and his family definitely didn't have anything close to the Smythe family's obvious wealth, but Kurt had the benefit of a father who never gave up on him - not when he discovered his son was an empath, and not when Kurt came out to him as gay.
"Some people thought so," Jesse says, "but I didn't. Sebastian longed to have his dad's approval, for sure, but there was really no love lost between them. No, Sebastian wanted his freedom. He didn't like being locked away, poked and prodded."
"Yeah," Kurt says in a sympathetic tone, rubbing his left hand over his right, subconsciously covering the pinprick scars on the back of his hand. "I know how he feels."
"A shame, too." Jesse's eyes move back to the face on the screen. "Months of study and parapsychological testing went down the tubes when he left." He sighs, the sound falling somewhere between frustration and regret. "We were really getting somewhere, too."
"Oh, can we quit it with the whining and the tragic backstory, and get down to business?" their silent observer, Sue Sylvester, butts in. "You're making my teeth hurt."
Jesse's gaze follows the voice, his eyes falling on the conceited face of the older blonde woman wearing a black Nike track suit, one leg crossed with her right ankle resting on her left knee, looking simultaneously eager to continue and bored out of her mind.
"He'd be about twenty-five now," Jesse says, his voice tight. "He's insanely smart. He speaks multiple languages fluently, picks them up at the drop of a hat, but he's particular to French. He's also musically adept, plays the piano like a virtuoso." Rifling through more photographs, Kurt sees Sebastian at the age of twelve, dressed in a black tuxedo, standing beside a grand piano; at the age of fifteen, performing on stage in what looks like a rendition of West Side Story; at the age of sixteen, standing on stage again, this time with a group of high school age boys, all wearing that prep school uniform from the video. Embossed white script at the bottom right corner of the photo reads, "Dalton Academy Warblers – Eastern Regionals". Kurt smiles. Kurt had sang in show choir and performed in school musicals before he was "discovered", too. "He's a consummate thrill seeker. When he's not bending spoons or blowing things up with his mind, he's jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks. Even though his father disowned him, he managed to liberate his trust fund. He has more money than Midas and doesn't believe in American financial institutions, which is one of the reasons it's so hard to find him. He's not going to be working the day shift at the supermarket or pumping gas at the 7-11, and we can't exactly track his ATM history."
"His profile says that he has a propensity for medicine," Kurt reads.
"Yes, but you won't find him playing doctor, either. That's a bit too, shall we say, humanitarian for him."
"He's perfect," Sue says, closing her file and dropping it on her desk loudly for dramatic effect, but also to squash any other comment Jesse might have that could be seen as an argument against her plan. "I want him."
Kurt turns and stares with irritation at the woman making demands in regards to his study. It's one thing for the government to constantly look over his shoulder, asking him the same questions over and over, forcing him to justify his process. But to try and control how he conducts his research, that's another thing altogether.
"We'll invite him to participate like everyone else," Kurt says, speaking slowly to make himself understood. "If he agrees, we'll test him, evaluate him to see if he's a good fit…"
"I don't think you get it," Sue says, uncrossing her legs and glaring at Kurt contemptuously. "I'm not giving him a choice."
"What do you intend to do?" Kurt demands. "Kidnap him? Blackmail him? Our test subjects are volunteers. They go through extensive testing to ensure that they're a match for our study – mentally, psychologically, physically…" He counts these off on his fingers to emphasize his point. "And to be quite frank, from the look of Sebastian's profile, I don't think he's going to qualify. He's not exactly what you'd call a team player."
It disappoints Kurt to admit it, but as intrigued as he is by this man and as much as he would love to meet him, Kurt has to be practical. The integrity of the work they're doing must come first…no matter what else Kurt might want.
"Quite frankly, Dr. Hummel, I don't care what you think."
Kurt grinds his teeth, stopping himself before he says something he might regret. "Look, I don't know who you are or what your agenda is…"
"You're right," she says, shutting Kurt's protest down. "You don't, and you don't need to know."
"I won't allow it," Kurt argues, raising his voice unintentionally. Kurt prides himself on his patience. Working with military and bureaucratic ignoramuses has made him an expert in dumbing down when necessary. But something about this woman – this egregious woman - riles him to no end. "I won't have you interfering in my study."
"You seem to forget that it's not your study, Dr. Hummel," she retorts coolly. "Not while the U. S. Government is footing the bill." Sue pointedly stares at Jesse, relaying a silent warning, unvoiced but clearly understood. "I want Sebastian Smythe to be part of this study."
Dr. St. James looks at Kurt. Kurt is sitting at the edge of his seat, his hands balled into fists, ready to rail against this, Sue Sylvester and whatever authority she has be damned. Then Jesse looks at Sue – calm, unconcerned, with a confidence that comes from knowing that she has the power to get her way. A wash of immense guilt fills Jesse head to toe because he knows he has to side with her. Yes, Jesse owes his appointment entirely to Kurt, but Kurt has plateaued. With all his experience, he's still a lab rat. His devotion to the project, though admirable, won't get him any recognition. Choosing battles carefully and siding with the right people are key to winning awards.
And there's one on the horizon that Jesse wants more than anything. He swore to himself he was going to get, and he's not about to let anything stand in his way.
Aside from that, Kurt can be a little naïve. Ironically, it's his own psychic ability, lesser developed than Sebastian's, that probably makes him this way. Kurt fights hard not to read other people's emotions. Whereas people like Sebastian use theirs to gain an upper-hand, Kurt has always seen it as an unfair advantage. He has become more skilled at blocking his natural abilities than using them, and tends to take everyone he meets at face value. He categorizes people in neatly ordered columns of good or bad, with only a thin grey line in between.
But Jesse has worked with people like Sue Sylvester far longer than Kurt. He knows there's something going on, something they're not being told.
Something that would make the talents of an empath very useful right about now, but there's no way Jesse can think to tell Kurt that while underneath the eye of Sue Sylvester.
"Yes, you're right," Jesse admits, swallowing hard to keep down the last vestiges of his lunch. "Sebastian would be perfect. If we could find him."
"And if we can control him," Kurt adds with unchecked spite. He doesn't take politely to being told off, but he also knows from the notes Jesse showed him prior to this meeting how volatile a creature Sebastian Smythe is. They'd be setting themselves up for failure by involving him; Kurt is sure of that.
"Well, that's why you're here, princess," Sue condescends, looking down her nose at Kurt, her vicious smile belittling him without a word needed. "If he's alive, my people will find him. And then you, Dr. Hummel, get the super-fun task of keeping him in line."
"How exactly do you recommend I do that?" Kurt snaps, bristling at being called princess. It hits too close to home for his taste. He's a grown adult – a doctor, for fuck's sake. It offends him on multiple levels that he's being bullied like a high school freshman.
"That's not my problem," she says, standing from her seat and gathering up the documents in her file. "Buy him a collar and a leash. I have you figured for the kind of guy who enjoys that type of thing."
"Excuse me?"
"And with my connections, I can find out." She tucks the file underneath her arm. "Anyway, I can't waste any more time discussing this. You have your orders, gentlemen, and I have a hycolonic at four." She nods at them. "Dr. St. James. Dr. Hummel."
She turns before any other arguments can be raised, walks up the stairs of the conference room, and out the door. Both men wait to hear the door click shut before they move or breathe or say anything at all. Then they wait a few seconds more.
Kurt turns on Jesse with disbelief and disgust, shaking his head. Jesse shrugs in a defeated there's-nothing-we-can-do sort of way.
Kurt scoffs at his friend's reluctance, at how easily he intends to fold. "I really don't like that woman," he says, bolting from his chair and packing up his things.
"I don't like her either," Jesse agrees, "but I don't think we have a choice. If we want to keep our funding, we'll have to play her game."
"I don't like playing games," Kurt growls, shoving his file back together, documents and pictures sticking out every which way. "I didn't study science to play games. I do what I do to help people. That's what this project is about."
"This project is still about that," Jesse says, putting his hands on Kurt's shoulders, massaging gently, employing his fail-safe tactic to get Kurt to calm down. "That's not going to change. But with Sebastian on board, we might get some attention, get more funding, maybe even enough to extend your research for the next five to seven years."
Kurt stops fumbling with the file and lets it drop back down to the desk.
"Five to seven years?" Kurt hadn't considered that, hadn't even thought about the possible positives of bringing Sebastian into their fold while he was defending his project and nursing his wounded pride.
"Yup," Jesse whispers behind Kurt's ear, placing a kiss where his word absorbs into Kurt's skin. "Five to seven years. Think of it. Think of the outreach, the possibility of bringing our services to V.A. hospitals across the continent."
"Five to seven years," Kurt repeats, unable to comprehend how aligning themselves with that boorish woman might bring about something so tremendous. Kurt's project is slated to continue for the next two years maximum. Five to seven years – that could make a significant difference in the lives of thousands as opposed to the mere hundreds they are currently working to help. "What do I do? I don't think I can work with Sue Sylvester. The next time I see her, I might drop a house on her head."
"Just let me handle her," Jesse says, running a hand down the length of Kurt's arm, wrapping another around his waist, closing in on his neck, on that one spot that makes Kurt agree to anything. "I'll deal with Sue, and you train Sebastian."
"If she finds him."
"Oh, she will," Jesse laughs, breathing Kurt in before he makes his move. "I have no doubt that Sue Sylvester will find Sebastian. You'll tame him, make him a part of the project, then presto." Jesse's breath brushes Kurt's neck, and Kurt moves, knocked out of his daydream of making their services available to American soldiers deployed across the globe by the anticipation of Jesse's lips on his skin.
Kurt shoves his file folder into his messenger bag and slips the strap onto his shoulder, pulling out of Jesse's embrace.
"I appreciate everything you're doing," Kurt says. He leans in close, eyes firmly locked on Jesse's, leaving room for no misunderstandings. "But I'm not going to sleep with you."