Quinn Fabray poofed into existence. No, poofed isn't the right word. Hell, according to Spellcheck, it isn't even a word. Plus, poofing (also not a word according to Spellcheck) implies she appeared in a puff of smoke. So, no, not the right word. Popped? No, that implies sound. Quinn Fabray blinked into existence? That's closer. There was simply an infinite white void one moment, and the next there was a Quinn Fabray in that void.

Quinn opened her eyes and looked around, expecting to see… something. Anything, really. Every other time she had ever opened her eyes and looked around, there had been something. Never an infinite field of white nothingness.

Like a blank page, she thought to herself. Or maybe like that scene from Harry Potter. Oh, God! Am I dead? Is this Heaven? Or Hell? Maybe I'm in between, like in Purgatory. Or waiting to be judged. She went on in this manner for quite a while. Or what she assumed was quite a while. It was hard to tell when there were no clocks or any other way to mark the passage of time.

Eventually Quinn got tired of freaking out and decided not to do that anymore. It wasn't really helping and she was growing annoyed with being panicked over nothing. Well, not nothing. Except the absence of anything by its very definition was nothing, so only technically nothing. Though to her, this nothing was definitely something.

And there wasn't just her. She was clothed, so that was a nice touch. She had on a reasonably covering bikini for some reason, Cheerios uniform, socks, shoes, and ponytail holder. That was more than Harry Potter got. In the book, at least. And, really, the book was always more right than the movie.

Quinn decided to take a walk. Might as well when there's nothing else to do. She took a few steps, not sure what to expect. There wasn't really a floor to speak of. Just white all around. Yet when she took a step, she met resistance. So she decided not to worry about it too much and kept taking steps. She was either outside reality or dreaming, and either way it was out of her hands what the laws of physics decided to do. So she took a few more steps. A few more. Then a few more and she was walking, moving… forward? Did directions still apply? Quinn decided whatever she was facing was forward and went that way.

She turned her walk into a brisk walk, a trot, a jog, a run, a flat-out mad dash, a sprint. Deciding rather abruptly to go uphill, she inclined and was moving upwards. Then downwards. She spun around and went forward in a different direction. Turning again, she went upwards at a ninety degree angle for a little while. She thought she might get disoriented, but every move she made was flat and level. The distinct lack of disorientation disoriented her and she decided to stop running.

Spinning around, Quinn looked in all directions, huffed, and sat down rather hard on her butt. This was stupid. And boring. If it was a dream, she wanted to wake up. If she was waiting for Dumbledore to come along and teach her a life lesson, she wanted it to happen. If she was dead, she wanted whoever was going to judge her to go ahead and do it. She was a decent person. She was a God-loving, God-fearing Christian. Sure, she'd done some bad things in her life, but overall she was okay. Probably. More than anything, though, she just didn't want to be alone anymore. She'd been through enough of that.

"I just wish I had someone here," Quinn muttered, thinking no one would hear her. And no one did.

'Who would you like to have?' I ask.

"Who?" Quinn stood suddenly, pushing off the white and looking around, everywhere, at all the nothingness. "Who said that?"

'I did,' I say. Well, I type it, anyway. Let's just pretend I say it.

"And who are you?" Quinn asked, still looking around. "I can't see anyone."

'I'm not really a person to be seen,' I answer her. 'I'm like… your creator. Kind of.'

"God?"

'God?' I chuckle. 'No, no, nothing like that. I'm a writer. I'm sick, and I thought I would write something to take my mind off of the fact that I can't take my medicine for another…' I pause to look at the clock. Oh! Apparently I could take my medicine fifteen minutes ago. 'I'll be right back.'

'I'm back and happily medicated,' I say once I've taken my medicine and returned to my desk.

"That was quick," Quinn said. "Like, instant, actually. Oh, God! Did I stop existing when you weren't here writing me!?"

'I… I guess?' I say nervously. This is a little too existential for a Saturday night. Hell, it might be a little too existential for any night at home and sick. 'I'm not sure. Did you feel like you stopped existing?'

"…no," she said unsurely. "What does that mean?"

'Well,' I ponder the thought for a moment. 'Maybe we just experience time differently. Like, I'm writing you in third person past tense but writing me in first person present tense.'

"Isn't that going to make the story a little irritating to read?" she asked, a legitimate question I'm considering myself.

'Probably,' I respond. 'I'm also typing my words in single quotation marks. AND going back and bolding and italicizing them. This isn't the normal story for me, I guess.'

"I would hope not," Quinn said snarkily. And fuck you, Spellcheck. I say 'snarkily' is so a word. "So you really are a writer then?"

'An amateur one,' I respond.

"Oh, God," she muttered, putting her head in her hands. "I'm not even being written by a good writer, am I? Just some amateur? Please tell me at least that you're being original. That this isn't some fan fiction thing or something."

I'm abnormally quiet. Well, not really abnormally. I almost never talk to characters in stories I write. So I guess I could say I'm normally quiet. But still, I don't think Quinn is buying it.

"Fan fiction?" she asked, wishing she had a face to talk to. Yell at. Whatever. "FAN FICTION! I'M FAN FICTION?!"

'…yes?' I say quietly. Even as a fictional character, scary-Quinn is scary.

"Oh, God," she said, admitting defeat and slumping to the ground. "Jesus fucking Christ, I just don't even…"

'Wow, naughty language, Quinn,' I admonish her, mostly out of shock. I shouldn't be shocked by it since I wrote it, but sometimes writing is like that, I guess.

"Stop putting words in my mouth then," Quinn said. She seemed to be getting her brain wrapped around this awfully quickly for someone who had just been told they're a fictional character. Good for me, she thought bitterly.

'You're the one that chose to say them,' I say to her.

"No." She stood again, putting her hands on her hips. "You wrote the words. I'm just a puppet on a string for you."

I'm silent for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to explain this to her. I start with a random question, or, I guess it would probably seem random to anyone else. To me, it seems like a perfectly logical starting place. 'Do you believe in God?' I ask her.

"Of course," she said. Thinking about it, though, thinking about the last few minutes of her life, she wasn't so sure anymore. She didn't feel like the person she was talking to was what she considered 'God-like', but they did claim to be her creator. "I mean, probably. Everything in here has kind of made me question it."

'I believe in God, too,' I say. 'And forget about here. Just think about everything you believed about God before this for the purpose of this conversation.' I take a sip of my water and realize the part I cut about what medicines I took I never worked back into the story. Oh, editing. 'And do you believe God is omnipotent?'

"Of course," Quinn said.

'And He knows everything that's happened, everything that's happening, and everything that's going to happen?'

"Yes."

'So everything that's going to happen, He already knows it?'

"…yes." Her voice was cautious now, like I'm trying to trick her.

'So if He already knows everything that's going to happen, how can we have free will?'

"Because…," she started but stopped, unsure. She opened her mouth and closed it a couple more times, finally deciding on, "Maybe… maybe time works differently to God. Maybe He already knows what we're going to decide because we've… already decided it?"

I chuckle at her cuteness because, come on. Confused Quinn is adorable.

Quinn looked around, irritated at the laughter.

'Sorry,' I say. 'You're just so freaking cute.'

"I'm not cute," Quinn said, though why she was angry about the compliment, she wasn't sure.

'No, you totally are,' I reason with her. 'I mean, you're a lot more than that, too. You're beautiful, smart, confidant, amazing, such a talented singer and dancer. You're awesome. It's why I'm a fan.'

"Um… thanks," she said, blushing a little, suddenly shyer. She was quiet for a moment, looking down at her shoes.

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I didn't mean to embarrass you.'

"No, it's okay," she said. "I'm just not used to having… fans… I guess."

'Well you have a ton of them.'

"We were talking about free will," Quinn said, abruptly changing the subject. She didn't want to talk about her 'fans'. This was still very weird for her.

'Right, right,' I say. 'So… you read a lot, right?'

"I do."

'And the characters in your books, they all have free will,' I say. 'I mean, from their point of view, they can choose any way, any path to follow. And yet, no matter how many times you read the book, they'll still make the same choices. They'll still start out the same, end the same, and take the same paths, make the same mistakes. Their lives will always be the same.'

"So you're saying, what?" Quinn asked.

'I'm saying, from God's point of view, we're ALL like that,' I want to slam my fist down on my desk, but it's not like she would see or hear it anyway. Besides, I don't want to knock over my water bottle or cough drops. 'I'm saying we all have free will, but God still knows everything that's going to happen. And yet people live their whole lives unaffected by this information. Most don't even realize it. Those that do, well, we're still in the world. You can't change reality.'

"So I should just, what?" Quinn asked. "Deal with it?"

'Basically, yeah.'

Quinn sighed, slumping back down to the ground. "So what? Why are you telling me all this?"

'Well, to begin with, I was just typing to pass the time,' I say. 'Now I kind of feel like I'm invested in you a little. It's amazing what can happen in just…" I look over at the word count on the screen, 'one thousand, eight hundred, and seventy words.'

"God, that many already?" Quinn asked. "And nothing's even happened in this 'story'," she made finger quotes around the word, "yet."

'Hey!' I exclaim, a little hurt. 'We've discussed God and the nature of reality. That's something.'

"Oh, no, yeah," Quinn said sarcastically, channeling her best Santana impression in an effort to hurt. "Super exciting stuff. All of it, really. I'm sure the readers are just hanging off the edge of their seats."

'Hey, little missy,' I say. 'Don't make me Daffy Duck you here. I could put you in the middle of a war or turn you into a half-flower monster or whatever the hell I wanted to do. I may not be God, but I am the one at the keyboard.'

"Yeah, whatever," Quinn said. She wasn't sure if she was testing this person's patience or if she just didn't care about whatever happened now that she knew nothing mattered.

From out of nowhere, rain started falling down. Big fat drops of rain, and the temperature plummeted until Quinn was shivering. The rain also gave her a direction to things, and she realized she had been sitting at a right angle about five feet in the air. The sudden realization caused her to fall to the ground with an "oomph".

"Was that really necessary?" she shouted at the air.

Looking around, the whiteness started to change into… not-whiteness. The ground was suddenly concrete. Or, at least the little piece of it she was on. The sidewalk. She was flat on her back on the sidewalk. The road was to her left, the grass to her right. Above her, the whiteness was turning into a grey morning.

Quinn recognized this place. It was on the way to her old bus stop from when she was little girl. She was still a teenager, though. She still had her teenage body and she still wore her Cheerios uniform (though she was now wishing she had on something a little warmer). Everything else looked the same.

Standing, she looked around. She wasn't far from where she used to wait for the bus. Deciding that she had nothing better to do, she walked that way. It didn't take long, and within a few minutes, it came into view. From far away she could see little kids standing around where the bus used to pick her up. She had a bad feeling in her stomach.

Quinn broke into a run to hurry herself along, but already she could hear the sing-song chants of "Lucy Caboosey, Lucy Caboosey, Lucy Caboosey." She ran as fast as she could, slowing only as she neared the children.

It was just as she remembered it. Joey Britton standing there, the little ringleader of all the other children, laughing at her, chanting the loudest. He had just ripped up her poem for English class and thrown her backpack into a mud puddle. Samantha Parrish had pushed her down. Then the two had gotten the rest of the kids at the bus stop to chant that name at her.

Lucy sat in the middle of the children, arms wrapped around her knees as she cried.

Quinn ran and swung at Joey but he disappeared into nothingness. All of them did. Everything did. Except for Lucy. Lucy sat there crying. Quinn bent down, knelt down, sat down beside her, and wrapped her arms around the little girl, holding her as she cried.

'I'm sorry,' I say, suddenly feeling like a cruel person. 'I honestly didn't know it would turn into that when I started typing it.'

"That was the last time I took the bus," Quinn said, tears running down her cheeks as she held Lucy who continued crying. "After that, I made my parents take me to school every day. I want to say that it made a difference, and I guess it did, a little. School was just as hard, but at least I had a few minutes less every day to deal with the bullies."

'I'm sorry,' I say again. 'Do you want me to change it?'

Quinn sniffled, looking up into the nothingness. "What?"

'I could make you an alternate you,' I try to explain but fail miserably. I spend a minute or two thinking about this. 'Like, some people that write you make drastic changes to your character. And that little scene that I came up with that I forced you to relive- again, so SO sorry- never actually happened on the show so technically you're already an alternate universe- or AU- version of yourself. So, since I can basically remake you however I want to, do you want me to rewrite that scene so it didn't happen? Hell, I could even rewrite your entire character if you want. Make you happier or something.' To prove my point, I make Lucy disappear, and it's only Quinn sitting there.

Quinn was quiet for a few minutes, considering it. She had a miserable childhood. She'd grown up fat and nerdy and unhappy with acne and glasses. It was only in high school where she'd become a different person. Nose job, contacts, Proactiv, moving away from her past. How much of it had this person come up with? Was it their fault that she was like this? But they were offering to change it all. To make her whatever she wanted.

Finally, she shook her head. "No. I've made mistakes along the way, but I like who I am, who I've become. …Mostly. I think having you change it would be like cheating, and I've done that too much, too." She tapped her foot on the whiteness, thinking. "I am curious, though."

'Yes?'

"How much of my personality and my past are real?" Quinn asked. "You said you made up that scene of me crying at the bus stop, but to me it was real. Yet you also say I'm fan fiction, so there has to be some other me. A base me that people write fan fiction from, right? So how much of that is here, and how much of you is here?"

I gulp a little because that's kind of a huge question. 'Well, in my other stories I've tried to stay true to character, so there's a lot of the original Quinn Fabray in you, I hope. I guess that's for my readers to decide. But I think every writer kind of throws themselves into their characters, so there's going to be some of me in there, too.' I throw my hands up because I'm bad at knowing what gestures to use sometimes. 'Does that make sense?'

"Kind of," she said. "I don't know. Can you like, tell me what you know about Quinn Fabray without making anything up so I can at least know what to blame you for?"

'Sure?' I make it a question because that's kind of a weird thing to ask. I also follow up with a question of my own. 'Just for reference, though, how old are you? Like, what grade are you in, and what's the last thing you remember?'

"Why?"

'Because that'll give me an idea of what episode I pulled you from, and I won't tell you anything that has happened beyond that. I don't know where this story's going to go, if anywhere, and if you go back to wherever you came from with knowledge of the future, space-time might implode.'

"Really?" Quinn asked, eyes wide.

'Nah, probably not.'

"You suck." Quinn sighed, frustrated. "And shouldn't you know this stuff, anyway?"

'I haven't really given it any thought,' I lie. I already know she's going to be from just after the Christmas episode of season two, but I don't want to tell her that. This is fun. I kind of like irritating Quinn.

"You are just the worst writer ever," Quinn said through gritted teeth. She really couldn't do much more than play along, though, so she thought about the last thing she could remember. They had surprised Mr. Schuester at his apartment with Christmas decorations at Coach Sue's behest. "Surprising Mr. Schue at his apartment so he wouldn't be all alone and depressed at Christmas."

'Okay, cool,' I say. I also let the insult slide off my back. I don't want to tell her that the writers of Glee are way worse than I am. Or that she's been written off the show. That can't be a happy thought for a fictional character. 'So you're about a third of the way through season two.'

"Is that good?" she asked.

'Season two was my favorite season,' I reply. 'Probably why I pulled you from there.'

Quinn nodded. "So… will you tell me about me?"

This time it's my turn to sigh. Quinn's had a hard life. I don't want to inform her how much shit that the show actually did to her. They should be the people that care about her, but instead it's the fans. Why do I even watch this show?

'Okay,' I finally say. 'So, here's what I know JUST from the show. Growing up, you were named Lucy Quinn Fabray. You went by Lucy. At some point you had brown hair, glasses, a… different nose.' I don't want to call it ugly because she was just a little girl, but I feel like she knows what I'm not saying. 'You were… heavier. You didn't have a lot of friends. The other kids called you a mean nickname. Lucy Caboosey.' I feel really bad saying it, but she just nods in recognition. 'At some point you started doing gymnastics and lost some weight. Joined cheerleading and lost some more. It's implied you dyed your hair and got contacts. You got Proactiv for your acne. When your dad got transferred to where you live now, you asked him if you could get a nose job and he said yes. And then you asked your parents to start calling you Quinn.'

Quinn took a shuddering breath. It was almost like she was reliving it as this person said it. "All true so far."

I sigh. How could her parents let her get a nose job? She was a fourteen year old child. As much shit as Sue gave Santana for having breast augmentation surgery before she fully developed, that came from the writers. Why was it not okay for her but for Quinn's nose it was fine? Where was the outrage over that? I decide not to share this with Quinn. I don't want her to think her parents wanted her to look perfect more than they wanted her to be happy with who she was. Though I think that, so I'm not sure if she thinks it or not. This is a weird story.

'Okay, so you started high school at William McKinley and somehow became Head Cheerio your freshman year,' I continue. 'Which, let me just say, that's so stupidly unrealistic. I don't even know how that would be possible. All they say on the show is that you reminded Sue of a young her.'

"I'm…" Quinn started, but stopped. "I'm not sure how that happened." She looked a little scared at the realization that she couldn't remember. "What does that mean?"

'That the show never gave a way that it happened,' I inform her. 'And I haven't thought up one.'

It suddenly hit her, and Quinn fell to the ground. In a small voice she asked, "I… really am just a figment, aren't I?"

I sigh. I'm starting to feel really bad for her, for even starting this story, and I kind of don't want to continue writing it, but I know if I give it up right now that she'll cease to exist, and I just can't have that. Holy run-on sentence, Batman. I'm also slightly concerned my cold meds are affecting me. Again, this is a pretty weird story, even for me.

'It's okay, Quinn,' I say. I want to hug her and make her feel better, but I can't. 'It's not so bad being fictitious. Out here in the real world, life often just really sucks for no reason. There are no real happy endings because nothing ever really ends. There are just happy moments you have to cling to. In worlds like yours, there are always endings, most often happy. Think about all those Disney movies. They always end happily even though they go through a lot of crap. And if it makes you feel any better, in the other story I'm writing you never know you're a fictional character. You have other things that make you unhappy, but you are going to get your happy ending, I promise.'

Quinn sniffed, trying not to cry. "Can you just go on?" she asked. "Finish telling me about my life."

'Okay,' I say reluctantly. 'So there's not a whole lot about your freshman year I know besides you probably picked on Rachel Berry a lot. And you started dating Finn Hudson near the end of it or over the summer. The show starts near the beginning of your sophomore year.'

"Rachel Berry," Quinn said, staring at the ground she was currently sitting on. She had her arms wrapped around her knees, ankles crossed. "She's the main character of the show, isn't she?"

'Yeah,' I say, answering her question. 'How did you know?'

"She's the person I have the most memories of," Quinn said, eyes unfocused as the memories passed through her mind. "Since you're not making stuff up, I'm guessing I only have access to memories of things I've witnessed on the show. Or things they've said about my character's past. And she's the person that shows up in most of my memories. Her and Finn. A lot of Kurt for some reason. A lot of Mr. Schue. A lot of Sue. Some Puck. And then kind of everyone else. Which is weird. I lived with Mercedes. You'd think I'd have memories of that, or of living with Puck. Or even of living with Finn. Or my parents." A realization hit her, and she gasped. "I'm not even a main character, am I?"

'Not… in the strictest sense, no,' I say. 'They tried to say that the show was an ensemble show, but the ones you named are kind of the main characters. You were, like, kind of the villain for a little bit. Ryan Murphy, the show's creator, said your actress kind of ruined your part by humanizing you.'

"How is me being more human a bad thing?" Quinn asked. "Shouldn't that be a good thing? What did he want, some kind of two-dimensional Mean Girls rip-off?"

'Something like that, I think,' I say. 'Personally, what Dianna Agron- your actress- brought to the part made me like you more, not less. Fuck Ryan Murphy. He's a bald idiot that couldn't write his way out a basket in three tries.'

Quinn laughed at that for a minute before sobering up. "But he created me," she said. "Kind of. So… isn't that good?"

'Accidentally doing good things for bad reasons is still bad,' I tell her. 'And he might have come up with the character, but it was Dianna Agron that gave it- that gave YOU- life.'

"She's the real life version of me, then?" Quinn asked. "Do you know anything about her?"

'Not really,' I say. 'I mean, she's incredibly beautiful,' I notice that Quinn blushes at this, 'but I don't really care about celebrities' personal lives. She seems to be a really good actress, though. She's gone on to be in a couple of movies.'

Quinn nodded a couple of times. This person kept complimenting her, but she wasn't even sure who they were, or, really, even what they were. And they hadn't finished telling her about herself, though now that she thought about it, they didn't really need to. Somewhere along the way Quinn had realized that the bus stop scene was the only thing they had made up, and the rest of it- the rest of her history, her memories- were coming from somewhere else. She guessed that this was from what the writer knew about the show. Her attitude/personality/whatever might be coming from the writer, but her history and memories weren't.

'Do you want me to continue telling you about yourself?' I ask, knowing the answer already (obviously).

"You don't need to," Quinn said. "It doesn't really make me seem that great anyway. I cheated on my boyfriend, I got pregnant, I gave the baby to Rachel's mom. I suck. I get that."

'Yeah, a little,' I say. I grin when she looks annoyed by that response. 'But, to paraphrase Jessica Rabbit, you're not a bad person. You're just written that way.'

"I guess," Quinn said grumpily. She sat there for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, she looked up at the… well, upness and said, "So what happens now?"

'I don't know,' I say. 'I haven't really thought about this in terms of a story. I just thought it would be a neat conversation. And it has been. You're interesting to talk to. I am sorry, though. I'm charmed by you, but I also recognize that you've had a shitty life AND I've basically made you reexamine everything you know to be true. While it's been a kind of writing exercise for me, it's probably sucked for you.'

"It's not in my top ten list of days, no," Quinn said. She stood from the… down… again and started looking around. "Can you make this place, this nothingness, be anything you want it to be?"

'Sure.'

"Can I maybe get some directions, then?" Quinn asked. "I really don't like that there's nothing here. It's… unsettling."

'Okay,' I say, thinking about it. 'What would you like?'

Quinn was also contemplative about that. "I don't know." After another moment, she asked, "What's your favorite place?"

'The beach,' I say automatically. I love the beach. It's serene. I know immediately that Quinn will like it for the same reasons, so I create it for her. Sand spouts under her shoes. Ten feet away from her, water spouts from the whiteness, cresting on the new shore, going out into the horizon as far as the eye can see. Behind her, shops spring up, little arcades and restaurants. In the background, there are hotels with balconies. A hundred yards down the beach there is a pier that goes out into the ocean. The sky above is a bold blue, a few fluffy clouds. It's not too hot, and a nice breeze blows her ponytail and the pleats of her skirt around a little.

I'm suddenly shy sharing this place from my childhood with her. 'Is this… is this okay?' I ask.

"It's perfect," Quinn said, smiling.

Dropping into the sand, she untied her white sneakers, pulling them off and setting them to the side. Her socks followed, and she lay them on top of her shoes. Barefoot, she stuck her toes in the sand. It wasn't hot like she would have thought it would be. Just mildly warm. Perfect.

"So, you're a writer, huh?" Quinn asked, though it wasn't really a question. "And I'm a character you've put down on paper. Or, no… probably monitor, right?"

'Yep.'

"Hmm…" She thought about this for a while. How long, she wasn't sure as the sun never moved. It was at that perfect angle behind her, but it did tell her a couple of things. She knew it wasn't morning because… actually she had no idea how she knew that. She just did. But the sun was behind her, so she had to be facing east. And the way the writer talked, they were probably from the United States. So, east coast of the United States. Atlantic Ocean. Interesting… kind of. It was new information, at least.

"Tell me about yourself," Quinn said suddenly, curious to know more about this person.

'Well…' I start cautiously. I don't really talk about myself much, and giving out personal information on the internet (where this story will probably be posted eventually) is never a wise idea. What can I give her and keep vague at the same time…?

'Well, like I said, I'm a writer,' I say eventually. 'Amateur writer. And as you've figured out already, I'm from the United States. And yes, I live on the east coast. North Carolina in fact.'

"But you don't have a southern accent… to your… words," Quinn finished lamely. She hadn't really thought about it, but she couldn't hear an actual voice from this person. It was just words that appeared in her head. Still, she tried to defend herself. "You don't use words like 'y'all' or 'ain't' or anything. Isn't that what all southerners do?"

'I do sometimes when I talk,' I explain. 'But never when I type. They make me seem… I don't know. Uneducated. I have some, well… what you'd call 'redneck' family members, but I'm not one of them. They tend to be racist and homophobic and bigoted, so I try to be nothing like them.'

"Oh," Quinn said. "Well that's good." A moment passed before she added, "So tell me something else about you."

I tap my fingers on the keyboard thinking about what else I can share with her… and the readers, I guess. (I promise, this isn't any kind of extended profile, I say to the readers.) 'Okay… stuff about me… Well, I work at a grocery store full-time while going to school almost full-time. I'm going to be video game designer. Specifically, I'd like to write the stories and dialogue to the games.'

"That's… interesting," Quinn said politely. It sounded kind of nerdy to her, but she wasn't really into video games. She could appreciate good stories, though. "Why not just be a full-time writer?"

'I don't know,' I say. 'The stuff I've read about writing made it seem like it was a difficult industry to be really successful at. That you would still need to work a day job while you wrote. I just thought it'd be cool to have a good day job where I could write instead.'

"I can understand that, I guess," Quinn said. She stood from the sand, brushing the back of her skirt off. She looked longingly at the ocean waves. "If I were to take off my Cheerios uniform, would it be possible to have a swimsuit on under it rather than just a bra and panties?"

'If you'd like,' I say. There are so many options of things I'd really love to do right now (strip tease, lap dance, skinny dipping just to name a few), but getting to know this Quinn, they all seem too pervy to mention. (Again, pervy should so be a word, Spellcheck.) So instead, I decide to be nice, and go back and change the words I wrote earlier to swimsuit rather than bra and panties. 'Done.'

"Thanks," Quinn said, removing her Cheerios top, skirt, and spankies. Underneath she had on a white bikini. Checking the bikini out, she noticed the top barely covered her breasts, while the bottom was a thong. It was way too revealing, something she would never wear, and she covered herself with her arms. "Uh…" She looked down at herself again. "Not that I don't appreciate the vote of confidence, but I'm not a big fan of showing off everything I have."

'But you're like crazy attractive,' I tell her. 'And the readers would love to picture you in something so revealing.'

"Yeah, okay, but I'm still not wearing this," Quinn said. "Can I please get something that will reasonably cover me, and not this barely there string thing? I am still underage, you know."

'Fine, fine,' I say- grumble, really- going back up again and changing the wording. I even bold and italicize them so she'll be happy. I also leave her a towel there on the beach beside her socks and shoes. The things I'm doing for this girl. 'And to be fair, you may be underage, but the actress that plays you was like twenty-five when she was playing you in season two. So I'm not going to feel pervy about it. But whatever.'

"Whatever," Quinn agreed, admiring her new swimsuit. "And thank you." When the writer didn't say anything else, she sighed and added, "If it makes you feel any better, you can imagine me wearing the other swimsuit even if you're not writing about it. Deal?"

'Deal,' I tell her happily, because… come on. Dianna Agron is a goddess.

Shaking her head, but with a smile, Quinn walked into the water until it was up to her thighs. "Do I even know how to swim?" she asked.

'Uh… I'm going to say yes,' I tell her. 'In season three when Mr. Schuester finally asks Emma to marry him, the Glee club does this whole synchronized swimming thing. So I'm going to just assume that everyone in Glee knows how to swim. If it helps, though, let's say you took swimming lessons when you were younger at the same pool Frannie was a lifeguard at.'

"I remember that!" Quinn exclaimed, eyes lighting up. "That was the year that… wait. Did you just give me a memory?"

'…yes?' I say, again a little nervous. 'I made it a happy one, though. You and your sister bonded that summer.'

"We did," Quinn said, reliving the memory. "This is too weird. You can just make me whoever you want me to be."

'I can,' I say cautiously. 'I won't, though. I like to keep characters as close to canon as possible. Like you bonded that summer. Hell, let's even say that she taught the class because… I don't really know the age difference here between you two, but I'm going to say eight years. You were ten, she was eighteen. You were a chubby little girl and didn't want to be seen in your swimsuit, but she made sure everyone got along and that no one made fun of you. You loved her for that. So, yes, you two bonded a lot that summer. Which is one of the reasons it hurt so much when she didn't support you when you got pregnant. And that lack of support is the reason she was never mentioned on the show again. See, backstory matches canon, and now you have a new memory that doesn't change who your character is on the show.'

"You suck," Quinn said, wiping a tear away from her eyes. "Couldn't you have made her a better person rather than someone that wouldn't support me?"

'I could have,' I explain, 'but then that would have changed who you were and what happened. Do you really think that you would have lived with Finn or Puck or Mercedes if you had someone else in your life- a family member- that supported you and would let you live with them? You had no one on the show because your parents- and I'm guessing the rest of your family- abandoned you. That's the only thing that makes sense. I can reconcile you two in a story, if you'd like.'

"I… no," Quinn said. "It's fine. Maybe she was always a bitch. Or maybe daddy brainwashed her or… something. I don't know." Quinn shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts away. Her head was starting to hurt from thinking so much. "I'm going for a swim."

'Cool,' I say. 'While you do that, I'm going to go take some more medicine.'

Quinn surfaced for a moment. "Has it been long enough already?" she asked.

'Oh, I took a break while ago,' I explain. 'My brother got home from work and we talked for a while.'

"Oh." Again, no time had passed for her. Quinn shook her head. She was having a weird day.

Time passes this time for Quinn because I want it to. She needs time to process this anyway. I imagine anyone would if they found out they weren't real. She swims while I go play around on Tumblr. After a while, I come back to her. She's lying on the beach again on a towel I left there for her. I actually haven't done that yet, though. Let me go back. (Some small amount of time passes while I edit.) Done.

'Hi,' I say, startling her. 'Sorry. Just wanted to let you know I was back.'

"Time passed that time," Quinn said, looking up at the sky. "I mean, not here on the beach. It's still stuck at… 2:30 in the afternoon, I'm guessing? I thought maybe you were ignoring me."

'No, no,' I assure her. 'Tumblr. It's a time sink.'

"I guess," Quinn said, shrugging. "I've never used it. So, anyway, are you all medicated now?"

'Yep,' I reply. 'Much better.'

"What's wrong with you, anyway?"

'I'm sick right now,' I tell her. 'Bad head cold. That's why I'm wasting time with this and not working on my main story. I want whatever I write for that to be really good. I don't want to do poor work on that because I'm not feeling well.'

"So I'm the crappy story you don't care about?" Quinn asked, looking a little upset. "I'm the Danny Devito to your other story's Arnold Schwarzenegger?" Quinn paused. "And there's no way you spelled that right on the first try, is there?"

'No,' I say, smiling. 'Totally had to Google it. And no, you're not Danny Devito. You're special and a little weird- your story, not you specifically- but I'm still totally going to post this. I may even make it into something just for you.'

"Well that's something, I guess," Quinn said, lying back and stretching on the towel. "What's your other story about, anyway?"

'Oh, it's a Faberry story,' I tell her.

Quinn twisted her mouth, scrunched up her eyebrows, trying to figure out the word. After a minute, she finally asked, "What the hell's a Faberry?"

Author's Note: I hope you liked this… whatever it is. Drop a review if you'd like.

"What did you just write there?" Quinn asked.

'It's just an author's note,' I tell her. 'Something for the readers, telling them that I hope they liked this and to leave a review if they want to.'

"What does that even mean?" Quinn angrily sat up and crossed her arms. "And why didn't you answer my question? What's a Faberry?"

'Quinn, Quinn, calm down,' I tell her. 'Save something for chapter two.'