Saving: Protecting: One Direction *UNDER MASSIVE EDITING*

ONE

*IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE--AKA THE LAST 'CHAPTER'--PLEASE DO SO NOW. IT'S EXTREMELY IMPORTANT, ESPECIALLY IF YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE THIS STORY :)*

ONE

After several attempts on One Direction's life, things were getting serious.

The fandom was in an uproar, other celebrities fearing for their lives, the management and families were panicking. The boys were terrified for each other, for themselves, for their fans they feared would be targeted next. "We are already on the case to find out who exactly is doing this, why, and how. We feel we are having tremendous success with this already, and feel confident we will catch the person soon," A spokesman released to the public. This, of course, was nothing but a lie.

No one had the slightest clue who was doing this, didn't even know if it was one person, a gang, or related at all. They were closer to trying to cure world hunger than to figure out who was trying to hurt One Direction. That was... until they found Jack Warner.

Five solemn faced boys filed into a small meeting room with no windows. The walls were a bare, plain gray. The room lit only by harsh florescent lights. A man with thick black hair, neatly styled, and wearing a suit sat at the head of a small table. The five boys sat down around him, all arranged in a circle. They all showed signs of obvious stress: deep shadows and bags under their normally gleaming eyes, usually well-kept hair lank and dead-looking, eyes that constantly scanned the room as though they expected a murderer to jump out from behind the neatly-kept desk. "Boys, I'm not going to lie to you, things aren't looking too good," The severe-looking man said in a thick British accent. "I suppose we're not here for lunch, then, Simon?" One of the boys said-the one with blonde hair-dryly, in a thick Irish accent.

The boy on his immediate left gave a forced chuckle, that rather looked like it caused him pain. "Of course, you would think of food at a time like this, Niall." The boy murmured, pushing his tick curly hair out of his eyes. "Hey, there's always time to think of food," The blonde, Niall, replied. "We've been talking to the MI5-" Simon continued, ignoring the boys' short conversation. "The government?" A boy with lighter brown hair, cut shorter than the others, piped up. His thick eyebrows contacted in worry, his fears confirmed about just how serious this was getting.

"Yes, and the FBI and CIA," Simon replied to the boy. The lads all shared shocked glances, exhausted eyes widening. "We've decided to hire a...well...someone like a specially trained body guard," Simon continued. "Another one?" A boy with a darker complexion and jet black hair asked. "This person won't be a normal bodyguard. This is an FBI agent. I've talked personally with some of the top agents of the FBI, and they personally advised this agent. Apparently, he is the youngest the FBI has ever seen, but already one of the best," Simon cleared up.

"How old is he?" The last of the five boys asked, ruffling his already wind-swept hair. "Eighteen." An impressed air touched each of the boy's faces. "We're meaning to keep this agent a secret. Hopefully the public won't notice him at all, but if they do, then we'll pose him as a friend staying with you boys for a while. He not only will be protecting you, but will be trying to figure out who is trying to take out you lads."

"When will he be coming?" Niall asked. "Within a few days." The boys all nodded, seeming to be okay with the idea of the new agent. After all, they were desperate. If this eighteen-year-old kid was already one of the best, who were they to put up a fight? "I'll have more things to go over with you one he arrives, but for now, that's all," Simon said, getting to his feet. The boys followed his motion, and got up to leave. No one spoke as the band shook hands with Simon and filed sullenly out the door, all except- "Wait, Simon what's his name?" The boy with the short brunette hair asked, in the doorframe. Simon took his time answering. First picking up his jacket, then a pair of glasses and perching them on his nose. "Jack Warner."