A/N: This chapter takes place about 4 months prior to chapter 1. I was gratified at the number of alerts and favorites that the story got. Feel free to review and let me know what you're thinking.

Code Name Porcelain

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Cities

KurtPOV

It wasn't bad for a boy out of Lima, Ohio to have made it to Paris, France. Even better, it wasn't bad for a boy out of Lima, Ohio to have made it to Paris for free, and for business. I was being paid to be here. I had completed my undergraduate studies at the New School in design, and 6 months ago, I completed my MFA there as well. While there, I did various internships, and even had a limited role as an assistant costume designer for a couple of off broadway musicals. It paid off with getting my proverbial foot in the door here at Marc Jacobs as a junior designer. Low man on the totem pole to be sure, but plenty of perks.

There would always be a part of me that was attached to Lima though. The bad part of me. The unhappy part of me. Once, awhile ago, ages ago it could seem, there was a 17 year old boy who went to his Senior prom, with a group of friends. He didn't have a date, because he was the only openly gay person at the school, but he had some friends that included him in their plans. He wouldn't get to dance with prince charming, but he'd get the chance to dance with some of his friends, and that was enough for him.

He had plenty of people who hated him for who he was that included him in their plans too. The votes were tallied for Prom King and Queen. Some random person who I can't remember for the life of me won King, and, with a large write in contingent, yours truly won Prom Queen. The principal was a fucking dumbass and decided to read off my name knowing full well that it was a malicious stunt pulled by some fuckers in this cow town of payday lenders, pawn shops and liquor stores.

I resolved to give them their comeuppance and actually be crowned. I strode up to the stage, had my crown placed on my head, and struck a pose. There were some catcalls, which I kind of reveled in for a moment, then the principal announced that the King and I would have our "traditional dance". The King flipped his shit, and decked me.

He got suspended after my dad threatened to sue. Even that was a grudging concession. It didn't change the fact that our house was routinely vandalized, my dad's garage got harassing phone calls on a regular basis by anonymous cowards. At school, I was thrown in dumpsters, had slushies thrown on me and in my eyes, and got beat up because in a moment of wit, my own personal demons realized that my last name, Hummel, rhymed with pummel. The town was infected with hatred. I don't understand it, and for the life of me I still don't. You would think with the problems that towns like Lima faced over the past 20 years with factories going out of business and the exposure of the utter illusion that was the American Dream that they would worry more about their lives and less about who was gay. I got the fuck out of there and went to New York.

Things were better. In the grown up world, people were too damn busy to give a shit about who I would care to sleep with. Not that I was sleeping with anyone. I could have, certainly. There weren't a lot of men to choose from. Plenty of boys, or bois if we're going to use that nonsense term. But, no one who I thought capable of being my knight in shining armor.

And, before you judge me as being hypocritical, yes, I would fall into that category. I was effeminate, certainly. I didn't want that in a person though. For my hypothetical boyfriend, I wanted someone who my father would approve of. Someone who would ride to my defense, and not be overly terrified of him.

Things were better. I would go back to Lima for holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas to spend them with my father. I was particularly pleased to see some of the people of William McKinley high bagging groceries, pumping gas, and the like. Living well is the best revenge. The only reason I could live well is because I used the anger, the bitterness within me as a power source. It drove me forward when lesser people might have fallen by the wayside. It kept me up nights.

The best, and worst part about it was that it was a renewable resource. I could be in a grocery store, or listening to the radio, or television, or even a movie and something would spark a memory of my Lima past. The way someone laughed, like they laughed when I was announced as the Prom Queen. Certain speech patterns could set my mind reeling back to Lima. I made it work damnit.

Which brings us full circle to Paris. It was the opening day for the Paris fashion week and our contingent was there looking over the rooms, placement of lighting, quality of the lighting, as well as work on the articles of clothing that our models would be wearing.

It was a somewhat hectic time at the venue and people were coming and going working on various things. I was busy situating one of the lights that would be on the stage when I overheard two of the stagehands discussing something in Arabic.

Having become fluent in both Spanish and French while in high school, I decided to take a year of Arabic at the New School as an elective. I wasn't entirely fluent, but I had a working knowledge of Arabic. Enough to know that the taller of the two was carrying a bomb packed in a duffel bag that he was going to hide under the stage that they were helping to construct for the event going on in a few hours. The bomb apparently would go off around 8pm.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Internally, I was enraged. How dare these bastards! They were planning to kill people who had never done anything against them, innocent people who had nothing to do with the conflicts that were occurring around the world. Along with that realization, came the personal knowledge that they were trying to kill me.

It took everything I had in me not to go off the edge and confront them. If I did that, they'd run, and they might get caught, but that wasn't a sure thing. There weren't people around the set who seemed capable of stopping them. So, they could possibly get away and pick another target. I couldn't have that on my conscience.

Going over to my valise, I pulled out my iPhone and took a picture of the two guys making sure to get their faces in the picture. Now what? Who should I go to? I could go to the Paris police, but I was uncertain how well they would take a complaint or report from an American citizen. Using my phone, I looked up the location of the American Embassy. I figured that they would be more inclined to take a claim from an American more seriously, and they probably had the proper contacts within the police to effectively act in time.

Fortunately, the embassy was only 3 blocks away from our venue. I told one of the production assistants that I forgot my iPad back at the hotel, and that it had some information on it that we needed. I gave him my number just in case and told him that I would be back shortly. I hurried out, and made my way to the embassy. I walked up to the security guard and showed him my passport. He signaled me forward to the metal detector and I took out my wallet and keys and placed them inside a bowl and set my valise on the rollers so that it would go through the x ray machine. I walked through the detector and it beeped so I went over to the side where another security guard wanded me down. It was my belt and tie clip that had set off the detector.

There were a few people waiting in a line to meet with embassy personnel about various requests, so I figured that was the place to go. A few minutes passed in line, long enough for me to start tapping my foot in irritation, but not long enough for me to start audibly sighing before it was my turn. I went to the open window, looking at the name badge in the window.

I spoke to the man at the window, "Good afternoon Mark, my name is Kurt Hummel, I'm an American citizen, and I believe I may have stumbled upon a planned terrorist attack occurring tonight."

Mark replied, "Good afternoon to you as well Mr. Hummel. This type of situation doesn't normally cross my desk. It would probably be best for you to relay the information you have to one of our Bureau of Diplomatic Security agents."

Mark looked down at his directory and smiled to himself, bringing out the dimples in his cheeks and dialed one of the extensions listed there.

"Noah, this is Mark. I've got a person who has some information for you. Yeah, I know that you've told me to use your nickname, but it seems rather unprofessional. . . Really? OK. . . Puck, this is Mark, I've got a person who has some information for you. . .That better? I'll bring him up for you."

Mark put the receiver down, and shrugged his shoulders, "Sorry about that Mr. Hummel, he's a bit insistent on going by his nickname."

"You can call me Kurt, Mr. Hummel's my father."

"Alright, Kurt it is. I'll take you up on the elevator to Puck's office."

"Lead the way."

Mark walked out from his window area to the lobby and we walked towards the elevator. He swiped his keycard through the reader to summon the elevator. It came down, we boarded, and Mark pressed the button for the third floor.

"If you haven't already figured it out, Puck's rather informal. So, no need to stand on ceremony. He'll see you out when you're done."

"Thanks Mark."

"You're welcome, Kurt."

We walked down the hallway to a door with a nameplate identifying the office as Diplomatic Security. Mark knocked.

"Come in Mark."

Mark opened the door, and we both walked in.

"Puck, this is Kurt Hummel, he has some information for you. I'm going back to my area now, you can see him out. Remember to get me that $50 before you leave Paris. Told you LeBron James didn't know that basketball has four quarters."

I was busy checking out the eye candy on display to even pay attention to what Mark was saying. Puck's sleeves on his dress shirt were rolled up, displaying some very impressive arms that I'd kill to have wrapped around me. The top button of his shirt was unbuttoned, letting me look at the column of his neck. He even had a mohawk! Oh my GaGa.

I fidgeted with my tie, and unbuttoned the top button on my own dress shirt to allow myself some circulation. I hadn't even seen his face yet. Please be a butterface.

Puck looked up at both of us.

"Well, Mark, we both know that the oddsmakers in Vegas got a ton of bets on the Heat to win, so of course they fixed it. So really, I probably shouldn't pay you since the Mavericks clearly didn't win the game, Vegas had the Heat lose. I, however, don't want you to have a bad impression of me, so I'll pay you, this time. According to the currency converter on Google, 35 euros is 50.1 dollars. Meaning you owe me a dime, you rat bastard."

His eyes were a deep brown that sparkled with amusement. No, he wasn't a butterface at all.

Puck fished out some Euros from his wallet and handed them over to Mark. Mark counted the money, probably to verify that it was all there.

"I'll write you a postdated check for the dime, Puck." He called out as he left the office.

The door clicked shut behind us.

"Well, it looks like security is a little lax around here. They shouldn't be letting a person with a concealed weapon get through. Doesn't look like a peashooter either. Normally I'd be flattered, but time's a wasting, so maybe later?"

Oh my.