The Notre Dame Cathedral, scene of so many films and TV shows, would have unrecognizable if a tourist wandered in. The austere heights had been packed to the brim with decorations befitting a high school prom. Streamers and balloons covered the famous arches like fungus, while confetti swirled in the air like an indoor snowstorm. The votive candles were cold, their light replaced by a disco ball, and the usual parishioners weren't praying, but swaying to the music that had replaced choir and organ: Lady Gaga.

And on the nave, the priest's place had been taken by the man once known as Kurt Hummel. After he'd been diagnosed 'too gay to function,' he'd had an operation to regulate his homosexuality. But the experiment had gone wrong, like eighty percent of science experiments in New York City, transforming Kurt into the sinister Prom Queen. He cackled triumphantly at the milling crowd. "Yes, dance, my pretties! Dance for your king!"

"Stop making people dance!" Finn yelled. He was tied to the altar and shirtless, naturally. "It's not like you're the lord of the dance or something!"

Kurt resisted the urge to grumble about Michael Flatley. "Silence, my sweet. Soon, my men will return with the Pope and I'll force him to marry us. And for our dowry, a dollar from every Catholic in the world. Otherwise, the world's most famous hat will be smashed through his head!"

Finn thudded the back of his head against the altar. "Damnit, I'm just not that into you!"

"You sent all the signals! You like Top Gun!"

"It's a good movie! If I were gay, wouldn't I like Batman & Robin?"

"That's hate speech!" The Prom Queen hung his head. "You'd go gay for Ryan Reynolds, but not for me?"

"…have you seen Ryan Reynolds' abs?"

"Get away from him, Prom Queen, before you turn gay rights into gay wrong!"

Prom Queen swung around, twirling three times before coming to a stop facing the voice. There, in the rafters…! "Only one person would dare wear red and white with that complexion!"

The Golden-haired Goddess, more commonly known as the Cheerio, or Sunny and Cheer in her rap duet for charity, hovered down from the roof access, using her magic cheer ribbons like two bungee cords. Her cape and skirt billowed in the special indoor wind, while light from the stained glass window shone through her hair. Finn sighed adoringly, knowing that the Cheerio was really his girlfriend, Quinn Fabray, gal reporter, who the blogosphere called the Superhero Cheerleader for the editorials she wrote praising superheroes. Technically, it was a breach of ethics, but everyone got their news from Jon Stewart anyway, so who cared?

"My boots tie the outfit together!" Quinn shot back, touching down on red boots that were remarkably un-hooker-ish.

"True. You're not fashion victim… so you'll just have to be a regular victim!" Prom Queen grabbed his corsage, which shot a blast of acid at her. She dodged out of the way.

"Watch out!" Finn yelled.

"I got it, hon."

"Curse you, Finn Hummel!" Prom Queen flailed. "Cold feet is no excuse for helping my arch-nemesis."

"I had it covered," the Cheerio said.

Kurt had run out of patience. He pointed his finger at the Cheerio like he'd just seen Taye Diggs. "Get her, girls!"

Quinn unfurled her ribbons to face Prom Queen's five 'chaperones'. "Let me guess. 1-800-MINION?"

They grumbled assent as they brandished spiked punch (bats with nails in them).

"Did the temp agency tell you you'd be wearing skirts?"

"They're kilts!" one said defensively.

"No, they're questioning gendonormative fashion!" Kurt barked. "Men can wear skirts! Women can wear pantsuits!"

"You're insane!" Quinn cried. Using her ribbons like chain-whips or non-actionable Spider-Man webbing, she dropped Kurt's henchmen like panties at a Justin Timberlake show. "The Pope sent me to RSVP with my fists. He's too busy to officiate a glitter-gun wedding."

"Doing what? Looking like Emperor Palpatine?"

"Yes. There's a Star Wars convention in town. He wants to show he has a sense of humor."

"Camp humor? That's ours, just like Hugh Jackman!"

Stowing her ribbons in her belt like a gunslinger's… guns, the Cheerio walked up the stairs. She felt a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. Soon, she'd be walking up those stairs with her dad. Finn would be there, but wearing a tux and not tied up, preferably.

She refocused on Kurt. Superheroing was a lot like cheerleading: not because there were underage girls in sexualized uniforms, but because you had to keep your eye on the prize in both. Through her domino mask, she gave Prom Queen her deadliest death-glare. "Where you're going, there'll be a lot of gay sex. San Francisco! Where you have an outstanding warrant!"

"What? All I said there was that bisexuals were a myth, like the Easter Bunny and women who enjoy sex!"

"That's hate speech, bitch. And you're going down for it. Otherwise, we'd live in a world where people were free to say whatever they wanted, like America before the 90s, when it sucked!"

The Prom Queen dramatically looked away from her. He spent seventy percent of conversations dramatically not making eye contact. "Then it appears you've outmaneuvered me again. If only I had one last trick up my sleeve… a-ha!" With a triumphant high note, Kurt pulled a gun from the elastic waistband of his underwear visible over his pants and shot Finn in the head.

Quinn froze. "What the fuck?" Kurt tried to aim at her, but she slapped the gun away. "You said you loved him!"

"If I can't have him, no one—"

With a roar, Quinn backhanded him through age-old stained glass and ran to Finn's side. There was no exit wound, which meant it was lodged in his brain, and for a wild moment all she could think of was getting it out. She refocused, her training kicking in a moment late. Blood was leaking, unspooling, from his head, and she had to stop it. Ripping a strip of cloth from her cape, she bandaged his head. She petted his cheeks and kissed his face until her lips tasted of gunpowder. She knew there'd be cops and paramedics already on the way in. But even as they took him away, Finn didn't move.

Over the next few months, New York noticed a change in its hometown hero. The Cheerio no longer put in appearances at exhibitions or fought MMA fighters for charity. She didn't even sing the National Anthem at baseball games, or lead the choir at church meetings. All she did was find criminals and punish them.

The alarm clock showed 5:57. Quinn's hand hovered over it. The fingers, nails mangy, hung in limp curls. Last night, Quinn had had a bad dream. She supposed it was a nice change-up from the insomnia.

Her name was Quinn Nancy Fabray. People called her the Cheerio, but it was bullshit. The Cheerio was a myth. She didn't exist. That was why none of her enemies could hurt her. They were aiming at a mask. Except for Kurt, aiming at her heart.

Quinn looked at the picture she'd framed on her bedside. Her and Finn. High school sweethearts. She couldn't save him.

Kurt she'd saved. She'd wanted to kill him, but she hadn't. That was what mattered.

5:59 AM now.

Today was another bad day.

The digits changed, the alarm sounded. Quinn pressed Snooze. It was time to get up. And as much as cliché insisted she should stay in bed all day, it offered her no more comfort than the outside world. She had to be out there. The only thing that made her feel was the knowledge that other people weren't as numb as this. She wanted to keep them that way.

Finn was so tall and sturdy. Quinn had always liked that about him. Even though she could throw him a mile up, the appearance was that she was his little lady. And she liked appearances. She liked nobody suspecting she was a superhero, she was so petite compared to him.

Seeing him locked up in bedsheets and IV tubes, as substantial as the shadow of his former self, made Quinn hurt in ways she didn't think were possible. The only reason she continued visiting him was God and appearances. She owed it to Finn to keep playing the grieving widow, even if her tears were for herself. And some part of her believed that her pain was so special, God would notice and wake Finn up.

She played the dutiful girlfriend for the receptionist and nurses. Quinn smiled just enough, a smile but still sad but still a smile. She wasn't going through the motions. She was just doing her job.

The elevator took her up, playing the same boring muzak, hitting the same boring bump. But when the doors opened, her life changed.

Someone was singing. It was soft enough to be a love song, but too soft to make out the words. Quinn was outraged. How could someone sing in the coma ward? Her heels clicking like war drums against the tile floor, she went to Finn's room. Unbelievably, the music was coming from inside. Quinn turned the knob and pushed the door open.

There was a slight, dark-haired girl at Finn's bedside. Unlike Quinn, who was only less than statuesque in comparison to bruisers like Finn, the girl was in genuine danger of being stumpy. She needed to be wearing pumps, not… oh God… Keds. At least she had a nice singing voice. "Who are you supposed to be?"

The other woman stopped midverse, looking at Quinn like the blonde was in her costume and she'd been caught cracking a safe. "I'm—oh, you're Quinn—I'm Rachel Berry, Finn's friend from Glee club. Maybe you recognize me from some of the plays I've been in? They were off-Broadway, but almost all of them were in English! And I was in a Friday the 13th movie. I didn't have any lines, but I did get a nude scene."

Quinn felt an overwhelming need to contradict Rachel. "Finn's not in Glee club."

Rachel blinked like Quinn had just presented her with a logic puzzle. "Yes, he's been a Gleek for half a year."

"Don't call him that."

"It's an affectionate nickname."

"I don't care if it's his slave name. Stop talking like you know him. And who said you could sing to my comatose boyfriend anyway?"

"The hospital." The barb landed and for a moment Rachel looked ashamed of herself, staring at her shoes instead of Quinn's eyes. "I'm gonna go now."

Rachel hurdled past her. Quinn didn't feel any relief at having her gone. She looked at Finn and thought of another hour of holding his hand and praying he would squeeze back, of wondering if one little word of hers would be heard by God or man. She thought of ending so wound up that she'd spent the rest of the night taking out her frustration on whoever she caught breaking the law.

What Would Jesus Do?

Sighing, Quinn turned to pursue Rachel. She caught her at the elevator. The tiny singer had regained her equilibrium, standing in front of the elevator doors with her posture in perfect alignment, arms folded in a huff. "Hey," Quinn called.

Rachel looked over her shoulder. Seeing Quinn, her whole body seemed to cringe away in potent embarrassment, but she stood her ground. "Look, I'm sorry. Whatever I did to offend you, you have my sincerest apologies. I was just visiting a friend."

"I know, I'm sorry. He just never mentioned you, so it was a bit of a shock seeing you there."

Rachel turned around, her thick eyebrows furrowed. "He never mentioned me? He talked about you all the time."

Quinn nodded, almost pleased with herself. "We've been going out since high school."

Rachel almost seemed hungry for a connection. "Finn said you were a cheerleader? That's kinda like being in Glee."

"Not really."

Quick as a punch-card, Rachel shot her hand out. "Rachel Berry, triple threat. Not that anyone seems to care since Autotune was invented. I'm currently starring in Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark… if one or two people get sick. I guess you could call me a starving artist, but with society-mandated standards of beauty being what they are, I'm one of the few actresses who isn't starving herself."

Quinn took her hand before she could get into act two of her life story. "Quinn Fabray. Single threat. And any friend of Finn's is a friend of mine."

Rachel pumped Quinn's hand enthusiastically. "Really? You're a lot less bitchy than I thought you were a few minutes ago. I mean—"

"Don't apologize, I get that a lot."

Rachel let go of Quinn's hand and parked her hands under her arms, smiling oddly. Quinn guessed she was relieved to have one less person thinking of her as a freak, if that wasn't too cruel an assumption.

"So you sing to him," Quinn said, her voice still coming out suspicious.

"Yeah, he always liked my singing voice. He always said that if I were on the radio, people would think I was really sexy."

Quinn smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. "I read him verses from the Bible. You've probably heard about it, it's the backbone of American morality."

"Oh, I didn't know he was that religious."

"He is," Quinn said certainly.

"I'm Jewish," Rachel said with a bop of her head. "We're like OG Christians. We were getting persecuted by the Romans before it was cool. So, hey, you should come to my show. Well, I say my show… really it's Julie's show. Julie Taymor… we work together. I work under her. I can get you a free pass to the show. We've mostly fixed the electrocution problems."

"Maybe later. I keep pretty busy."

"Yeah, Finn said you were a workaholic. He never said what you did, though…"

"I'm a counselor for at-risk youths."

She broke up a gang rumble, or whatever they were called these days. Twenty unconscious gang members later, she could breathe without wanting to scream. The vibrant colors of her costume went to waste as she lurked in the shadows of a fire escape, watching the cops handcuff and process.

She'd been like them once. Running off at a moment's notice to save the lives of people she hardly ever knew, never once thinking whether or nor she'd come back. Always pushing forward, never pausing, never appreciating what she had. How many times did she told Finn she loved him?

Not nearly enough, she was sure. And now he couldn't hear a word she said.

Santana woke up with warmth all along her left side. Hair tickled at her throat, fingers absently stretched along her ribs, a leg was thrown over her waist. She'd done it again. Sam never cuddled with her.

She pulled away so fast she woke Brittany. The blonde blinked awake, reaching automatically for Santana before remembering to keep her hands on her side of the bed.

Santana had fallen asleep in the nude, something else she never did with Sam. She pulled the sheets over her breasts. "You seduced me again."

Brittany didn't bother to cover herself. "I'm sorry. I tried to have an ugly haircut and wear men's clothes, but I guess lesbians like that."

"Don't call me that." Santana reached over and pulled Brittany's sheets up for her. "Do you know what people would think if they saw us like this?"

"'That's hot.'"

"If they thought we were gay for each other?"

"I think they'd be happy for me."

"Grow a brain. And don't look at me, I need to get dressed for the walk of shame." Brittany turned away. Santana tried not to look at the perfect musculature of her back. She'd kept herself in such good shape. "We have to stop doing this."

Brittany shook her head. "I'm not the one doing it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Santana asked, finding her panties.

Brittany turned her head. In profile she was classical, a goddess. "I never could say no to you, San."

Santana violently pulled on her clothes. "You're right. It's in me. It's something I have to get rid of."

Brittany stood and stared into Santana. Just meeting her eyes made Santana relive every memory of last night, made her want to make new memories. "I'm confused again."

"Don't be. I only mean we're not going to wake up like this anymore."

"I like waking up to you, first thing in the morning." Santana threw Brittany's leftover clothes to her. "You're not going to another gay cure camp, are you? I still get texts from the friends you made last time. I don't know what to tell them when they ask what I think of their breasts. All I can tell them is that they have nice nipples. I've never seen a bad nipple."

Santana pulled her shoelaces taut in their knot. "Look, don't worry about it, okay? We're going to be friends again. That's all we were ever meant to be."