(a/n: Thank you for the story alerts and favorites and most especially for the comments and PMs. They're much appreciated. Just a couple of things: for anyone interested, I've put info about the musical ruler referenced in the last chapter up on my tumblr (it's the same moniker, tinlizard20 tumblr com; my Glee essays can be found there as well). And to the person wanting me to add Blaine to the story: be careful what you wish for. :-)

Making a TV show is a lot like making sausages: it's messy, demoralizing, complicated and downright disgusting most of the time. The people who make sausages and the people who make television likewise have commonality: the weak scuttle away from the business entirely, hoping to never have to think about it ever again, and the strong stick around, relishing a sense of superiority, an unwitting Darwinism, perhaps, celebrating their ongoing survival, often at the expense of their humanity. Only the very strongest will survive either thing intact.

The preproduction phase of a show is where it all begins. If the preproduction goes well and the decisions that are made are the right decisions, the show has a much better chance of succeeding than not. But in the end, no one can know until the show actually airs, and sometimes not even then, whether the show will be a success or a failure, thanks in large part to the fickle whims of the viewing audience. In the TV industry the term "audience" is often preceded by vulgar words and followed by teeth-baring snarls. It's sort of a love-hate thing, though mostly the latter.

For Joy!, there were some extra complications in beginning "prepro," since it was a musical and since it had Dinky Littelmann's name all over it. Musicals have a larger off-camera staff and more off-camera work in general. And Dinky Littelmann, whatever his many faults, brings with him a certain cachet of interest and success based on his previous works, especially Slip and Tuck, which no one had really expected to be a hit. Defying expectations earns a producer a lot of leeway.

In a meeting room in the obie at Faux, executives and flunkies from DL's production company were meeting with executives and flunkies from Faux, most of whom were visibly nervous, since they knew DL of old. Of course, Aleska Janson wasn't nervous and even if she was, it would not show. Casting director Susan Schwartz was nervous – and it did show – but she was also thrilled to be involved with this project. It could mean big things for Susan Schwartz, after all. And best of all, from Susan's point of view, the great Head of Faux Programming, Stephen Hyde, was also in attendance. Susan had heard the rumors about how Aleska had gotten her job, of course, and watched Aleska and Stephen closely for clues to their real relationship and possible fodder for gossip and maybe even some mild professional blackmail.

The single most important prepro decision might well be selecting a decent Line Producer. If Executive Producers are the Gods of Television (and boy do they know it!), the Line Producer is at least a demi-god, the person directly responsible for the day-to-day machinations of a given show. (The directors are embittered journeymen, most of whom drink too much. The writers? Well, they're sort of like the grapes that get stomped on at a winery: sacrifices to the cause of making something of potential merit.) Names for Line Producer were being bandied about at the meeting, which was meant to decide the key early personnel now that Santana and Kurt had been officially signed for the show. That in itself had been an unusual way of doing things, but Aleska in particular thought it was important in this case. She really wanted to get the main casting right and she felt that had been accomplished.

"So, there's Rufus Smith, I know he's out of rehab," Dinky suggested, "he's a decent LP."

Aleska pretended to consider Dinky's words. She even unbent enough to put a finger to her chin. "That's a great idea, DL," she said agreeably, "but you know what? I think it might be best to have someone more ... forceful and together, for LP. Of course, you're the boss, but ..."

DL had initially scowled at Aleska's words, then preened and puffed out his chest a bit at the word "boss." The resultant mix of expressions made him look less than sane, which, truth be told, was what Aleska had been hoping for, so she wasted no time dropping her little bomb, in the form of:

"Quinn Fabray."

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

Tension was quickly dialed up to 13 on a scale of 10, everyone except DL and Aleska were darting their heads back and forth as if they were at Wimbledon. It was so awesome. Susan Schwartz was already thinking of the emails she was going to write about this ("...and then swear to fucking God I thought Aleska was gonna spit at him. Good thing I was there, you know?").

"She's pretty much the best LP in television," Aleska went on. "We'd be lucky to have her, but fortunately I know she's between jobs at the moment."

"She's a total bitch," Dinky whined.

"Yes, that's a great plus!" Aleska agreed and then smiled. A shiver went through the room.

With the issue of the LP now tacitly decided, they moved on quickly. The next item was show choreographer. It was known that Santana and Kurt could sing, but no one seemed especially clear as to whether they could dance, so early lessons would be necessary, just in case. Surprisingly, it was unanimously agreed that Mike Chang would be perfect to provide coaching and choreography. It was a rare occasion that Aleska and DL agreed on anything- there had been 47 emails between their assistants just to determine where to hold this meeting – and everyone was momentarily shocked and speechless. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was the fun in watching them agree?

The writing staff was the almost exclusive domain of DL, and he had already placed several of his team on payroll, since writers are grossly underpaid and also always have bills they cannot pay. Getting his favorites on payroll was a necessary thing, especially his most favorite of all, Matt Popkins. Matt owed his entire career to DL, and DL never let him forget it, having started off as the lowliest of all species, a personal assistant, and thanks to endless and truly shameless ass-kissing, Matt had been slowly elevated, over various Dinky Littelmann productions, to the slightly less lowly breed of staff writer. Of course, DL was still very unhappy with what he privately termed "that bitch's little stunt" in reference to the new writer hire, who was as yet unknown. He was really hoping the whole stunt would crash and burn and make Aleska look bad. That would be so great. Alas, that probably wouldn't happen, but DL would make sure that whomever it was, was a temporary hire. He was Dinky Littelmann, for fuck's sake, and he was the king of his writer's room. Some little girl wasn't going to change that. They moved on to other categories: hair, makeup, costumes, on-set union personnel. It was easily decided that runners would be loaned from both DL's company and from Faux. It was provisionally decided that they would shoot in a soundstage right on the Faux lot, since one was available. For financial reasons, most of the filming would occur in the soundstage, since filming outdoors or on location always cost more than filming on set. Financial reasons would also keep post-production effects at a minimum. Musicals are always extra pricey to begin with, no sense in hiking costs where they can be easily cut.

The question of directors was a bit tricky, since no one who ever directed one of Dinky's scripts ever wanted to work with him again. But then again, TV directors were more beggars than choosers, so ... they'd probably take the job anyway, and just spend a few weeks drinking heavily, cursing their fate and, more specifically, cursing Dinky.

"Who do we get for the pilot?" Aleska asked.

"We should get a big name," Susan gushed, "get some buzz from it."

Dinky looked like a monkey denied a special treat: completely outraged, curiously childish, and somewhat feral. "All the buzz this show needs comes from me," he said with an emphatic chest thump.

"Yes, of course," Susan immediately deflated, sure she would never work in this town again.

"Um." One of the co-producers on Dinky's team tentatively raised a finger in the air and started to speak, but Dinky interrupted.

"I can do it," Dinky said.

"No," everyone from the Faux table said together.

Dinky scowled once again, crossed his arms across his chest, and even stamped his foot beneath the table.

"How about April Rhodes?" Stephen Hyde suggested. It was beyond rare for someone of Mr Hyde's importance to be at a meeting of this sort, but he couldn't resist the opportunity of seeing Aleska and DL face off. He only missed the popcorn. It was also only someone of Mr Hyde's level of importance in the industry who could get away with saying that name in Dinky Littelmann's presence.

Everyone knew the story, and several people present had heard several colorful versions of it. April Rhodes was likable, if somewhat flaky. She was talented. She was a small woman physically but had immense on-set presence. She was an excellent director, coaxing the absolute best work from everyone from the stars on camera to the assistant electricians behind the scenes. She was also a total lush who, whatever her professional acumen and skill set, failed utterly to pick up accurately on the vibes other people sent her way. And one evening, it was actually at the series wrap party for Slip and Tuck, she viewed Dinky Littelmann with new eyes. Predatory eyes. She may have had, even for her, a bit too much to drink, but in that moment, she saw him across the crowded room and little cartoon hearts danced above her head. She was a smitten kitten. She had to have him. Sure, he was a little old for her, being more or less her own age, but he was so, so pretty. (That may have been the drink talking.) Now, when April Rhodes sets her mind to something, she gets it. It was only moments later that she had DL in an awkward embrace and every person in attendance stared in open-mouthed shock, followed quickly by several of them surreptitiously reaching for their phones to get photographic proof that this was actually happening and maybe make some serious money by selling it. April gave DL's butt a friendly squeeze and he screamed a particularly girly scream, then ran in sheer terror from the party. For the next two days, no one could locate him at all, until finally he was tracked down in Burbank, where his plane was kept in a small hanger at the Burbank Airport. He was lying on the floor of his plane, curled into a fetal-like ball, horror still visible on his face. Several versions of the story had him sucking his thumb.

So everyone gasped at Stephen's outrageous suggestion, while also clearly enjoying themselves immensely. At first there was a brief snorting half-swallowed scoff – was it the young man Dinky had earlier shushed? - which was quickly followed by other uncouth noises. It's unclear who laughed first, but that's all it took. Pretty soon the entire room was filled with hysterical laughter, including Dinky's, though his may have been less robust than the rest and presented insincerely through tightly clenched teeth. Once everyone calmed down, Aleska suggested the great and mighty Stella Scully, if she might be available. The money men demurred. Stella did not come cheap. But it was decided that there was no harm in asking, since she'd probably turn them down anyway. On that somewhat indifferent note, the meeting broke up.

A couple of weeks later, in a rehearsal room in Culver City, CA, Joy!'s choreographer, Mike Chang, was putting Kurt Hummel, Santana Lopez and a handful of other cast members and dancers through their paces. Everyone was working hard and making progress during this relatively low-stress prepro time. Though everyone knew this project would be a go, at least for thirteen episodes, a lot of key personnel were still being vetted and considered at this stage. For on-screen talent, everything was being built up around Santana and Kurt and both were over the moon about it and correspondingly, they were willing to work twice as hard as anybody else just to prove their worth. From Mike's perspective, this was great, because the rest of the talent took their behavioral cues from the stars. Mike had never had such an easy job, and though he expected it to get a lot harder when they moved to production, he couldn't be happier now. He stopped the routine and gave everybody time to catch their breath, with Kurt and Santana immediately reaching for water bottles and phones in perfect synchronization. Mike couldn't have choreographed it better himself and filed away the move in his head as something they might actually use on-screen one day.

Santana found herself in an interesting place. Despite a long and moderately successful career, this was the first time she was headlining something she was actually excited about. Exterior Santana maintained her cool demeanor, but internal Santana was giddy and overjoyed. Then an alert popped up on her phone telling her that Maribel Lopez had just used their joint BofA account to the tune of $8737.69 for what looked like some "emergency" retail therapy. Just like that Santana's good mood evaporated. She sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped a little. Kurt, standing next to her, had seen the alert and Santana's reaction, and wanted to say something comforting to her, but couldn't think of the right words – in all honesty he was a bit afraid to say anything anyway, since trying to talk to Santana could be a lot like trying to diffuse an unexploded bomb. It was Kurt's turn to sigh heavily, and consider once again the ongoing enigma of his talented and beautiful costar, a woman he was pretty sure was terribly unhappy much of the time, however professional she was to work with.

It wasn't until several hours later that Mike released the sweaty, smelly and exhausted group for the day. Santana mulled her options. Her preferred choice would be to go home and sleep, her second choice would be to take out her blondes and have some fun and way down the preference list was visiting her mother and asking her why the hell she'd just spent $8737.69 of Santana's money. With great reluctance, she headed home for a shower and then began the trip to Santa Monica, deliberately choosing congested and smoggy Route 2 to make the drive out. It was time to visit her mother.

Normally Santana avoided her mother. She wasn't even sure when that had started, it wasn't any one thing, but rather a growing realization over the years that, for all Maribel's somewhat meager good points, at the end of the day, with her own career pretty much in ruins, Santana became a meal ticket first and a daughter second. The pain this caused Santana was something she felt every day, and something she resolutely refused to acknowledge, even to herself. As she trudged into her mother's house, she was both angry and vulnerable.

"Ma!" Santana shouted as soon as let herself in. As always, she tried to avoid looking at the décor, which she called "Trashiest Kardashian." There were little gold tassels glued to the wainscoting, a truly bizarre effect that made the elaborate golden swirled pattern look like it was diseased and spontaneously sprouting tassels desperate to shed themselves from the wall. Santana shuddered, as she usually did upon entering her mother's home.

"In here, sweetheart!"

Santana paused mid-step. Sweetheart? The fuck? Then she was in the back living room, and her mother had jumped up to give her a hug. Santana was taken aback by this atypical behavior. Was her mother dying or something?

"Ma? You okay?"

Maribel just laughed and settled back down in the couch, patting the cushion next to her, "you know I wish you wouldn't call me 'Ma,' it's misleading and unfair to me."

"How is it misleading? Last I knew you are, in fact, my mother."

"Yes, but people don't have to know that, silly. It's best that people assume we're sisters."

"You do realize we don't have an audience right now?" Santana shook her head. "We're not talking about this, okay? Let's talk about how much of my money you spent today instead. That account is for emergencies only. What the fuck were you thinking? I'm not made of money. You're for fuck's sure not made of money."

"Santana, I don't know why you need to be so crass all the time. Those girls you hang around with, I don't think they're good for you. I ... was hurt, Santana. Deeply hurt." Maribel paused and dabbed at a dry eye. She waited a beat, but Santana did not pick up her cue. Maribel sighed. That girl. "Why am I the last one to know you've been signed as a lead on a new show? I'm your mother! I should be the first person you told!"

"So now you're my mother again, good to know." Santana suddenly felt very sad. "Leon and Danny told you?" Leon and Danny ostensibly worked as Santana's "management team" but she often wondered if they were simply spying for Maribel. Santana considered her response and opted for simple truth. "I didn't want to tell you until I signed, you know, I didn't want to jinx anything, and then after I signed I've just been so busy."

"Already? Wardrobe? They're moving that fast? Wow!"

Santana was reluctant to continue this conversation. "Um. No, not wardrobe. What have you heard from those assholes who theoretically work for me, anyway?"

Maribel frowned but immediately wiped it from her face. Frowns leave wrinkles. "I know you've signed as lead for a 13 at Faux! It's so thrilling, you know, that they're committing before the pilot!"

"That's it?"

"What else is there!?"

"Oh, it's no biggie, it's just, it's a show being put together by ... Dinky Littelmann."

Maribel screamed. "Oh my god! My precious baby!"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Christ, Ma, relax. It might not even go green."

"Is there a script yet?"

"Just pieces."

"Good? You have a lot of lines?"

Santana smiled in spite of herself. "Um, yeah," she said softly, "it's pretty good. So far." Then she took a breath, her mother would have to know sometime, better to get it out of the way now, she guessed. "It's a musical."

If Maribel was excited before, now she was in a whole other zone. She actually bounced up and down on the couch and then a bulb went on above her head and she said, "it's because of me! Have they mentioned wanting me on set yet?! Dinky knows of my talent as a singer and that's why you were offered a role ..." and once she got going on this train of thought, it was impossible to derail her. Though maybe a train isn't the best analogy, at least not for Santana's emotions, which were riding a familiar roller-coaster in her mother's presence. She left shortly afterwards, her mother still convinced that Santana was craftily being used as a mere conduit to get to Maribel, who'd been a one hit wonder decades ago and whose phone number was in the book. (And quite possibly on stall walls as well.) Santana's sadness grew until she couldn't stand it any longer, and she quickly called her blondes to hang out and, hopefully, forget.

Back in Boston, weeks had passed in a whirlwind of incessant activity. Brittany and Mercedes were both extremely busy with school and barely saw one another. Lord Tubbington, to his injured dismay, became nothing more than just another latchkey kitty. The only bright spot for him was that, since the two humans rarely overlapped, he occasionally managed to convince one human that the other human had not fed him. The ever-silent Anna of The Pocket Protectors, a German genius who wasn't quite in command of her English and therefore kept quiet most of the time, actually spoke. Siobhan at the Double O finally kicked her husband out of their home and their bar, which led to a night of riotous celebration. The Pocket Protectors with their special guest Mercedes Jones provided the entertainment and by the time the evening was over, all the women were more than a little tipsy. Brittany normally didn't drink to excess, since she had a tendency to lose both clothes and inhibitions which could very easily lead to embarrassing morning afters. But on the evening of Siobhan's Freedom Party, Brittany may have had a bit too much to drink. Mercedes noticed her, across the room, wearing a hat sideways and, apparently, practicing her gang signs. Mercedes sighed. Brittany did not look anything like a gangsta, however much she tried. In getting closer to Brittany, who was now doing a hip hop routine while still attempting gangsta poses, Mercedes was amused to see that the baseball cap she was wearing for "street cred" must have been appropriated from one of the MIT nerds. It had an elaborate formula on it, the meaning of which completely escaped Mercedes (and any normal person). Mercedes slipped out her phone and took a couple quick photos.

The following morning neither Brittany nor Mercedes were feeling their best. Breakfast was a muted, mostly nonexistent affair. Only Lord Tubbington was able to eat with his normal gusto. He was more than willing to help the humans with their breakfast, but was dissuaded from doing so by an uncaring and unsharing Mercedes. When someone knocked on their door, all three exchanged quick glances, wondering what was up.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Mercedes suggested half-heartedly from her perch next to the kitchen counter.

"Nah, I'll get it, no worries."

Brittany opened the door to an absolutely stunning woman and found herself feeling immensely better already.

"Hello," this beauty said, "I'm Al-"

"I don't care!" Brittany said with such fervor her hangover headache returned. She winced. A pretty woman shows up on her doorstep and it has to be on a morning like this one. Just her luck. "Come on in."

"Who is it?" Mercedes asked, walking slowly and carefully into the main living area of the apartment. She looked at the woman and was unimpressed. Beautiful women didn't mean the same thing to Mercedes as they meant to Brittany.

"Jaguar Smith, I presume?" Aleska Janson said, a small smirk playing on her lips.

"Say what?" Mercedes asked, waking up fast.

Brittany's jaw dropped and her face flushed. She looked equal parts shocked and guilty, so Mercedes transferred her attitude toward Brittany and scowled fiercely. Aleska, no slouch in the attitude department, was secretly impressed. "Oh ... my ... god ..." Brittany whispered.

By the time Aleska Janson left their apartment, the spinning heads they'd woken up with were much, much worse. Mercedes was undoubtedly the more shocked of the two, since she found herself provisionally hired for a television show – a musical! – that she hadn't even known she'd "auditioned" for! Stuff like that doesn't happen in real life. She gave herself a little pinch. It hurt. Okay then. Sure, Mercedes hadn't yet forgiven Brittany for apparently writing about her under the guise of "Jaguar Smith" (Gee, Brittany, how'd you come up with that one?) or for sending a cloud link to Aleska of one of Mercedes' impromptu performances with The Pocket Protectors that Siobhan had filmed for her. But on the whole, how could she be angry with Brittany for maybe possibly helping Mercedes make all her dreams come true?

Brittany was in something of a daze as well. She held two business cards in her hand and couldn't comprehend the writing on either one. She had written a couple of scenes featuring Jaguar Smith, someone who bore a somewhat extreme resemblance in many ways to Mercedes Jones, and Susanna Lopierto, who ... may also have been sort of based on someone. Maybe. And Aleska Janson, who was a really big deal judging by the card Brittany couldn't read right now, had loved it. Loved it so much that she flew across the freaking country to meet them both. Loved it so much she wanted to hire not just Brittany, but Mercedes as well. What the hell? Is this real life? She gave herself a little pinch. It hurt. Okay then.

It wasn't until the next day, when Mercedes pulled Brittany into a tight hug and whispered "thank you" that it started to seem a little bit real. Brittany hugged back just as tight and whispered "that's what friends are for." Lord Tubbington, unimpressed, took advantage of this touching scene by helping himself to their breakfast plates.

Fortunately for all, Aleska was still a functional human being. She and her assistant visited various universities, talked to several people, made provisional plans to uproot the lives of two young women – and one cat – and transplant them back where they'd started from, to Southern California. It wouldn't be until weeks later, when they were in their new apartment in West Hollywood, that they realized just how much trouble the Faux executive had gone to on their behalf. She had literally arranged everything, and then waited to see whether her offers to the women would be accepted or not. She did not push or pressure them. In fact, she'd quietly alerted a young, but very smart, entertainment attorney named Kevin Stefalnik that his services might possibly be needed by two new up-and-coming talents. Without help and people in their corner, those sweet kids would be eaten alive and spit out like stale gum. The industry she worked in – and loved – could be a cold, harsh place. She promised to text him their address and further suggested that he bring his wife along for the ride, since Karen Stefalnik was making a great name for herself as a talent agent, having just left a major agency and striking out on her own. Aleska knew she was the rarest of rarities amongst agents: someone who cared about her clients as actual human beings. Kevin had been taken aback when he found out the "ride" he would have to take included a cross-country trip, but Aleska had never steered him wrong.

Karen and Kevin made a great first impression on Mercedes and Brittany and helped them review all the paperwork and contracts, carefully explaining what the legalese actually meant. They explained that Aleska had gotten them permission from their schools for an open-ended leave of absence which had already been granted. There was a list of potential apartments in the LA area they could take immediate possession of – whether together or singly. Faux was willing to cover the costs and maintenance of the Back Bay apartment for up to a full year in case things didn't work out in CA. Even the transport of their belongings from one coast to the other would be handled seamlessly by Faux. All they had to do was say yes and sign the papers.

And break the news to Lord Tubbington, of course.

So it was that, in a little under 72 hours, they went from being college students in Boston to being employed in Hollywood and having a team in their corner to see they were being treated right. Little wonder their heads were still spinning.

Their apartment in West Hollywood wasn't as nice as the one they'd left behind in Boston but it was still pretty cool. They had been adamant about staying roommates. Most of their belongings had been shipped out to California and they had taken a few days to settle in, contact family and friends, buy groceries, unpack. They were due to start the next chapter of their lives the following day and both were nervous, doubly so when they learned that they wouldn't actually be in the same place, despite working on the same show. Mercedes would be, for now, splitting her time between rehearsal rooms and Faux studios for wardrobe fittings and publicity photos and other such things that are all part of the on-screen talent's job of getting a new project off the ground. Brittany would be in the obie at Faux, where the Joy! writers' room was located. Despite their nerves, they were both so happy and excited, and both, unbeknownst to the other, felt that maybe, just maybe, their dreams were coming true.

The following morning Brittany woke up to a hungry and grumpy Lord Tubbington. Like many cats, he didn't care for change and lately there had been far too much change for his liking. She lavished attention on him, needing both to comfort him and be comforted in return. Then her phone alert showed a new message from Mercedes, who was already hard at work: You'll never guess who's sitting next to me. Santana Lopez. Turns out you'll be writing for your old crush. Hahaha! serves you write for the Jaguar Smith :-p thing. everybody but me seems to love that damn name. Dammit. Brittany had barely begun breathing again – Santana Lopez! Oh my god! - and was mulling whether to tease her about homophones or not when another text arrived: Good luck today girl. You will slay. :-)

Brittany decided not to tease her about homophones.

One of Aleska's assistants was responsible for making sure Brittany arrived at the main office building at Faux at 11 am sharp for her initiation into the mysteries and secrets of the writers' room. Brittany was as ready as she would ever be. She knew she could write, she had so far been blessed with a lot of ideas, and like everybody else who had never met him, she admired Dinky Littelmann and couldn't wait to be part of his team. Her dream job on the first try! Full of win!

Her assumed confidence and fast beating heart carried her as far as the door when it burst open and an irate man stood on the threshold, then held up a hand in the universal stop gesture. His other hand held a phone and he seemed to be in mid-conversation: "What the fuck do I care about your troubles, you fucker? Just make sure she's sexed up... Well, how do I know? ... Tell Salama or Santa or whatever the fuck her name is she has to shake her booty, her titties, whatever... Get them to cut that cheerleading uniform to barely legal ... Work it out and don't bother me," he said, then abruptly terminated the call. Brittany only had a split second to process and adjust to what she had just heard. Anger flared and coursed through her body like a tactile thing. She could literally feel it. She normally liked to mull a new thing over time, and think about it from all angles, like a tricky math proof would have to be thought out to be properly understood. But in this second, she found that she could process very rapidly. The anger was carrying her and in this second, Brittany was very angry indeed, an emotion she immediately masked.

With a blank face, she looked at Dinky Littelmann as he stared down, in every sense of the word, at her.

"You the new writer? Aleska's little pet project?" He sneered, his words conveying both contempt and disinterest. "I'm Dinky Littelmann," he bragged, aiming to impress and discompose.

"I'm -"

He held up his hand in the stop gesture again. She would come to learn this was something he did often. "Save it. Come on in, I'll introduce you around, then you can get to work."

"Sure thing, Mr Little Man," Brittany said brightly and blankly.

DL looked at her with quick suspicion, "did you just call me 'little man'?"

"Wait, isn't that your name? Or are you an anagram?"

"What?" He asked, flummoxed.

"An anagram. Like ... you know ... HARRY MYPUN or ... MY RUN HARPY?"

They were off to a great start, with mutual disregard on both sides, maybe even hate at first sight.

The writers' room was not an impressive sight. Uneven, scarred, stained table tops bore mute testimony to the torture writers must endure to write television. A broken chair rested against one wall. There was also a funny smell. There were no women in the room except Brittany.

"So this is where the magic happens," Brittany half-muttered, half-whispered to herself, nonplussed.

"Okay, so, meet my bro Matt 'Pudgy' Popkins," DL pointed to an unappealing and nondescript man a few years older than herself before continuing, "and this is Noah 'Puck' Puckerman." He gestured to a good-looking man with very close-cropped hair. For each nickname he'd made little finger quotes.

Brittany looked even more blank and waited a couple of beats. Apparently introductions would be one way only. After a pause she said, "I'm Brittany 'Brittany' S. Pierce," making her own finger quotes to fit in.

"Well, helllloooo," Noah Puckerman said suggestively, canting his hips forward a little.

Brittany recoiled from the smarm heading her way and stared with open suspicion at his extended hand. "I don't want to touch you," she muttered, "I'm afraid I might catch something."

"Hey! Don't hate on the Puckster! I washed my hands aft- my hands are clean, babe!" After this exclamation, an uncertain expression crossed his face and he muttered "I think ..." and then with what he erroneously thought was discretion, he sniffed his fingers. Brittany looked even more repulsed and opened a wider No No Zone between them.

DL, not being the center of attention at the moment, wasn't really paying attention. "Okay, so, any questions before you get to work? The guys can fill you in, I guess."

Dinky left the room with one last glance at her that mingled suspicion and indifference, leaving her in the charge of the two clueless looking men.

Brittany had arrived.