[Kurt's looking a bit nervous and frazzled today--though honestly, it's hard for him to remember a time in which he hasn't been. When he speaks, his voice is hesitant and even more high-pitched than usual.]

Ah, hello. So-- [He clears his throat.] I-it's been almost a month now since my arrival, and as you might expect, I've learned quite a bit. For instance, of the, ah--the existence of demons, and werewolves, and--er, trolls. [He really doesn't know the proper terms to use, and he flushes a bit, hoping dearly he hasn't just offended anyone.]

I--I don't mean to single anyone out, but I'm just a bit curious-- What other sort of, um, people are here? You don't need to tell me if you don't want to, I just... I'd like to educate myself a little. In my world, there--well, people are quite limited. There isn't any magic or--or demonic possession, if you will. To meet humans who can do extraordinary things, or extraordinary non-human people... It's really rather fascinating, I think.

So... If anyone would like to share anything about themselves or their worlds, I'd really love to know.

[A pause, and he adds under his breath:] Um... There aren't...vampires here, are there?

[ quinn is looking directly into the camera. her short pink hair is pulled back into a rather messy ponytail and she looks serious - she also looks pale. her head is spinning, she's still trying to process what blaine told her - that the last thing he remembers with her was that she was hit by a truck and was in the hospital.

she thought she had it figured out. people arriving from different times, it explained why she and santana remembered different things. but now it seems so much more complicated, and it makes her head and her heart hurt. is that her future? is she going to go back home some day and get hit by a truck?

oh god, what if she's dead? or she's going to die? despite her emotions her voice is perfectly even when she speaks, and her face expressionless. there is no way she's going to let on what's going on in her head. no way. ]

I guess it's about time I posted, I'm Quinn I arrived here a month or so ago - and there is something I'd like clarified. People from the same worlds arrive here from different times, right? How exactly does that all work? [ beat. ] Is that future set in stone?

[ filtered to santana - 90% HACKABLE ]

[ this is the part where quinn's face crumples a little bit. because she can't hold it in anymore. this coupled with everything else, even things back home - it's all to much. ]

San? Can...can you come over? I...I'm in my room... Please?

[ don't cry quinn, come on. don't. cry. ]



{ ooc: backdated to an hour or so after this. and hackers go right ahead, quinn is an emotional teenager who can't be bothered with these sorts of things. }

Attention, attention, all Yodas and crackwhores.

[ Santana smiles, sickeningly sweetly - or venomously, it honestly is hard to tell on her - as she scoots down with the device in her lap. She's thankfully showered since the whole goo incident the other day, and so her hair hangs a bit loosely around her face. Not her usual degree of styling but, well, she's missing a few things. ]

I got the deal that you're all fetishy weirdos with nothing better to do than kidnap some high school girls and lock them in a Kool-Aid pit for a while until your strange sexual perversions have been attended to. That's totally fine. Everyone has something they don't wanna talk about. I listen to that Rebecca Black song when I'm upset about something, for example. It makes me feel better knowing with factual evidence that there is someone out in the world who legitimately sucks on such a level that words can't describe. In fact, it makes me laugh just thinking about it, sometimes. I also own a bra from a thrift store. It was super comfy and only cost me four bucks, and after I put it through the spin cycle ten times and it stopped smelling like old people and meth addicts, it was acceptable enough to wear. Those are my things.

But what I'm not gonna be cool with is chuckin' me in this no-class room without any of my necessary shit. Okay? Miss Lopez needs herself a hair straightener, and also her curling iron. She's gonna be running low on mascara in a couple of weeks, and that's so not gonna fly.

[ Santana leans forward, holding up a finger to the camera. ] For the record, whoever was the one who tailored that jumpsuit, you better not show your lily-white ass anywhere in my presence. I can practically feel your creepoid hands still measuring me out, and, no, they're still not in fashion. The eighties want their one-pieces back. Also, prison. Prison without me being some bull dyke with a shaved head's play thing.

Let's hook a sister up. She needs wardrobe and she needs beauty supplies. [ She tosses her hair, and her jumpsuit IS on, but it's been zipped low to show an ample amount of cleavage, and her collar bones. ] I'm sure we can find some way to make it worth your while.