The Writer is young: smooth skin untouched by fear, worry, or gravity, wide eyes, short hair. She- or maybe he; the hair so short and the body so slim could belong to either sex- carries a tiny device that looks rather like an early 21st-century Blackberry, and seems to be wearing a headset of some sort, muttering into it. As the Writer's voice gets louder, it becomes apparent that either the Writer is male or has an unusually low voice for a female.

The Café is full of Fictives, famous characters from the holo shows and 'net comics of the day mixing in ways their Creators never imagined. He waves at a few of them. They raise glasses of Guinness to him- almost none of them are familiar with the beverage, but it's an ancient tradition of the Subreality Café. They consider him a good Writer- willing to take risks with the characters he loves, but always able to extricate them from their difficulties; he almost never saddles them with wildly out-of-character personalities or permanent disabilities, nor does he believe that they need such radical changes. They know their canon, and know the additions he's been making since the first time his imagination took flight, and they think it all works.

The Writer takes a Scotch from the Bartender and sips it, looking for a place to sit down. Before it occurs to him that he could have Written himself a table and chair, he finds an empty space at one round table and heads for it.

There is already someone at the table, a woman in her thirties, olive-skinned, big brown eyes, a prominent nose, and a tightly coiled bun of silky light brown hair at the back of her skull. She has a broad smile that she turns on the Writer like a searchlight. What's immediately odd about her is her solidity- she doesn't have the aura of a Writer or the glow of a Mainstream, but somehow she seems more vivid, more in color, more *there* than anything else in the Café. She stands out, to say the least.

The third thing he notices, after her brilliant smile and her abundance of presence, is the pain in her eyes. Those eyes are far older than her appearance would suggest, and looking in them, the Writer knows that she has seen more than she ought. He watches her carefully, waiting for her to make some comment as to why he's taken a seat at her table without bothering to ask permission first. While scrutinizing her, he notices the fourth thing that's odd about her, and that she isn't unusual at all. Fictives who hang out in the Subreality Café have a tendency to come from science fiction and fantasy fandoms, since those Writers tend to wonder more about the nature of reality and impart that sense of wonder to the Fictives they create. Mutants, space travelers, supernatural monsters, multi-colored and multi-everythinged aliens, all those were normal and to be expected at the Café, but not thirty-something women with no unusual features.

She laughs, a restrained chuckle that sounds like it's usually a lot louder. "You're looking at me like you think I'm gonna set fire to you or sprout wings or speak in tongues or something like that," she says, and her deep voice has a surprisingly uncultured accent that clashes with her aura of respectability. "I'm not that kind of Fictive."

And that's the fifth thing that surprises him, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that he's never been surprised that many times in such a short period in his life. Fictives who hang out in Subreality tend to be self-aware enough to understand their place in the multiverse, but they still don't tend to actually *refer* to themselves as Fictives. They might know that they're characters in someone else's fantasies, but they don't talk like they're aware of that. It's part of what keeps them able to function.

In the silence that somehow overpowers all sound, she inserts words. "I'm not surprised that you're surprised, though. My kind of Fictive- we never did come by the Café real often. Felt weirded out by all the comic goings-on. I'm a RPFictive, sportsslash to be specific."

Surprise number six. Real Person Fictives- fictional versions of real people, Written into existence for only the gods knew what purpose- were always a rarity in Subreality, or so he'd been told by the older Writers, who'd heard it from the Writers who were dinos when they were n00bs, and so on and so forth. Those that there had been were usually musicians, and they kept to themselves. The rules had changed, the laws had hardened, and those fandoms had either dwindled out of existence or gone so far underground that they were too afraid to socialize with other Writers, even in the safe haven of Subreality. The Writer who had mentored him hadn't seen one in all her years as a Subrealizen. "Wow. That's… wow. It's nice to meet you."

She looks at him, her head tilted. "One for your side. You don't seem surprised that a sportsslash RPFictive is female. Reality must have changed more than I thought in the last few decades."

Her reaction is surprise number seven. For as long as he can recall, it's been taken for granted that women could do most things that men could, the only difference being those things that required genitalia. His first girlfriend was a defensive lineman; his sister is a trained commando. "How… how old are you?"

"Kid, I don't think your parents were born yet when I was last Written." She sips her beer, seeming pleased with his stunned reaction. He's lost count of how many times she's turned his world upside down, and she takes full advantage of his confusion to continue her story.

"My Writer's name was Robyn. Rob, really. I don't know if I was her first or not. I mean, she probably had an imagination as a kid, came up with characters or at least avatars for stuff. But me and Suzie… we were the first in our fandom. I still remember the fic. "Sunset". So very fluffy. She brought me a blanket and our rosy lips met. I swear, the disclaimer was longer than the story, but Rob was always one to cover all the bases. Take notes, kid, you're lookin' at the closest thing to a Mainstream you'll ever see. I'm a nice, default characterization, true to as much of Reality as Rob could cram into me. She used me for years in a whole bunch of scenarios. Nothin' too weird, nothing too much in continuity but nothing that would break your brain, either. She used to loan me out to other Writers, 'cause they didn't have characterizations of me yet, but then they spun off their own versions. I tell you, it weirded me out the first time I saw myself kissin' Ann- oh, she was an old teammate of mine, cute kid, always did like her but not nearly as much as she liked me.

"I guess you want my name. You're looking at me funny. Some called me Diana, some called me D. That's my real name, in any case. Most of my… damn, I never could come up with a good word to describe them… y'know, other versions of me? Yeah, they're Diana, too, some of them more D than others. Most of them, I can get along with. Most of them are pretty much me, they just had different Writers or different taste in women. Some of them hooked up with Suzie, of course, since we had that OTP vibe going on. A couple of them hooked up with Ann, which I can understand, since apparently my Mainstream decided she was going to kiss the kid on camera, and even if it's on the cheek, slashers will run with that like they were in a marathon. At least they did when I was being Written. Lessee, who else was there… Alana a couple of times- she was my big friendly rival, the one who won all the awards I didn't get. There was an AU didn't get real far that paired me off with my coach- easy, it put him at my age. I hear it was gonna turn out fluffy, but the Writer never got around to finishing it. Good thing, honestly. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Oh, there was that one Writer who kept pairing me with Caron- he was on the men's team at my college, a nice guy I used to hang out with every so often. I'm a friendly person, and you know slashers, they'll interpret anything to mean that their 'ship is destiny." She rolls her eyes. "Write me another beer? I don't feel like gettin' up and I'm workin' up a thirst."

He nods assent and murmurs into his headset. After a moment, a frosty mug appears in front of the Fictive, foaming and just a little sweaty from condensation. She salutes him with it, takes a swig, and continues. "'Course, Diana wasn't the only name they answered to. One of them was an Angelina for some reason- her Writer was afraid of using real names. Then there was Dayanasa- she was from an AU that became original fiction, so she stopped coming around Subreality. Didn't see her that often, anyway, 'cause she was a fantasy Fictive, she tended to hang out at Crystallis more than at the bar, and she got pissy 'cause they wouldn't serve her mead. Chiara… man, she was bad news. Depending on when her Writer was working, she was either an uptight nun or a rapist. Batshit crazy the whole time, of course. That whole universe was fucked up, you ask me. Good thing her Writer killed her off, creepy as that is to say about… eh, myself, I guess you could describe it. This meta shit is harder than I thought."

Before he can say anything, she continues, "And there were the AUs. Oh, were there ever the AUs. You would be surprised- or maybe you wouldn't, I don't know what people do to themselves back in Reality, but it's pretty strange to me, judging from the Fictives who appear- what people can do to a RPFictive. I told you about Dayanasa, the high fantasy chick. Well, there was a low fantasy one, too, had a bad habit of swearin in Italian and setting fire to things, and occasionally people. Then there was the high school AU Diana, wearing her leather jacket like she was the Fonz or something- ask your grandma to explain that when you get home. She kept getting kicked out for being underage. Oh, and there was the demoness. Sold her soul to be a star, got a kickin' pair of wings in return. Think she and Seraph might've had a wingspan competition one night. Yeah, a lot of the RPWriters were fantasy fen in their spare time. We got a lot of weird-ass shit." She takes another sip of her beer and stares into the mug pensively, her expression becoming closed off. "I never used to be this philosophical before, you know. It's weird for me. My Mainstream wasn't nearly so introspective, but I haven't had to be In Character for… shit, fifty years now in Reality, I think? You spend enough time in Subreality and you start becomin' a little Subreal yourself."

"Fifty years?" It boggles his mind. Most fandoms don't last more than ten years after their original run. Subreality is a place very much of the Real present, formed by Writers working in things of the "now". The oldest fandom he's ever seen represented at the Café is of his father's generation, and they were fading fast because no one was Writing them anymore. "You haven't been Written in fifty years? How can you- how are you-"

She unfolds her hands and spreads her long, broad fingers. "RPFictives have a longer… well, you might call it shelf life. You guys, the Writers, you've got Reality keeping you in form and giving you power. We're not real, but we have a tie to Reality 'cause we're based on real people. That's just enough. I still exist 'cause I've been Written… and more important, I've been read. I don't even know if the words still exist on paper or online anymore- things change, data changes, you know how it is. Couldn't stick a punch card in a CD drive and get the data off it, I don't expect you guys to be able to stick a CD into whatever it is you're usin' these days and get the data off it. But I still exist in a couple of people's heads. Hell, I outlived my Writer- she died last year." Her smile melts a little, becomes more wistful and less jolly. "She lived to a good old age, don't worry. It felt like it was peaceful. It felt like she was loved. Can't ask for much more.

"You're probably wonderin' just why I'm runnin' off at the mouth to some stranger I only just met. Or maybe you're not. Maybe people do that in your society. How should I know? But here's the reason why, and it's the reason I look so much more Real than I usually do."

She drains her mug, and it's then that he notices that her hands are trembling ever so slightly. "See," she says, drawling the word out like she doesn't actually want to tell him what she has to say. "See, my Mainstream, for lack of a better word- the Real Diana, the one back in Reality everyone based their Fictives off of? She… she died last night in her sleep. It wasn't unexpected, you know. She was getting on in years, she had bad knees, her cholesterol was startin' to catch up to her. It was time. So… when she died… I guess I got some of her Reality. It won't last long. She'll get a couple of lines in the papers, and they'll have a funeral, and then she goes into the ground. After that, I'm left to rely on the kindness of strangers. I'll only have as long left as the people who Read me. Once they're gone, I'll fade away." There are tears on her face, and both the Writer and the Fictive ignore them. "I don't know that I'll mind so much. It's better than Shantytown, and I kinda miss my Suzie."

"She's not here?" the Writer asks. "I would've thought if you were Written together and Read together, that you'd *be* together. It doesn't make sense."

"I'm a lot more interesting than she is… was. Than she was. I got more personality. I'm the one people remember. I'm the one people Wrote self-inserts for. And her Mainstream died a while back- bad heart. She just… let herself fade. She didn't like it here. It was too weird for her. She spent most of her time in the Clubhouse with the other sport Fictives. She didn't see any reason to stay. She didn't think I was a reason to stay." She sighs. "They never said Subreality would be a rose garden. They never said it was all going to be silliness or meta. Should've known that from Shantytown and the PD, but you'd be surprised how quick people forget or how much they just don't think."

"I could Write you. This… this could be a Subreality story, this could be our story, and then you'd be my Fictive, wouldn't you? And you'd survive as long as I Wrote you, and you wouldn't have to fade away, right?"

She looks him square in the eyes, and her smile is completely gone. "If you do that, I don't care if you're a Writer and I don't care if the Bouncer throws me so hard the first bounce is at the House of Strange Dimensions, I'll kick the everloving shit out of you. I told you I'll be glad to fade. Maybe they'll put a monument up at the cemetery for me. No, I didn't tell you this because I wanted your pity or for you to extend my existence. I don't need any of that. I just want someone to remember me, even if it's just as 'that kooky chick who started yakking at me in the Café one night,' or whatever slang terms you kids use these days to describe strangers you don't think are in possession of all their faculties."

"I wouldn't worry about that," he says, pushing his chair away from the table and rising to leave. Before he exits the Café, turning up the collar of a jacket he wasn't wearing ten seconds ago, he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She looks at him in stunned, silent surprise as he says his farewells to the rest of the Café and vanishes into the Subreal night, enwrapped by the fog that settled in so many years ago. She looks a lot less weary than she did at the beginning of the night, although her eyes are as old as ever.

"Son of a bitch," she breathes in awe- no rancor behind the words, just warmth and amazement. "I sure as hell have no reason to worry, kid." She takes the last sip of her beer and thinks of the last words he said to her.

"Somehow I don't think I'll ever be able to forget you, Diana."

El Fin.

Kielle built the sandbox. I just play in it like the five-and-a-half-year-old I emotionally am. No one was hurt in the making of this piece.

The Real Diana (Diana Taurasi, guard, Phoenix Mercury, WNBA) belongs to herself and is very much not dead. The Fictive Diana speaking here belongs to Rob, birdtaurasilove on LiveJournal, who is also very much not dead. Most of the alternate selves she describes are my alternate universes, except for the one with wings, who belongs to bluefragment and sexonastick's "Irish Angels, Devil Dogs" AU.

Shantytown and Seraph both belong to Seraph. There's a shocker. Chandri McLeod brought Crystallis to Subreality, and I believe Rossi created the House of Strange Dimensions.