A/N: I'm ridiculous, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up continuing this one. The coming chapters will be longer.

Disclaimer: Do not own.

—

It's never a good idea for innocent, sweet-looking girls to wander New York City alone when the sun was rapidly setting in the distance; she should know that better than anyone.

However, cheerleading practice had gone on longer than usual, and it was not only now dark—but also looking like it was going to rain at any moment. So, despite her better judgement, she'd opted to take a shortcut through an alley near her father's apartment to avoid the coming downpour. It was something she didn't typically do, knowing that with her physical appearance, she was the perfect prey for the bottom feeding scum that lingered around these parts of her neighbourhood.

She'd only managed to get halfway through, before one jumped her.

"Don't move," she could feel the warm breath against her ear as the words were hissed. Something metal and cold was being pressed into her neck. She was momentarily surprised that the assailant had managed to get a hold of a weapon. "If you do, you'll have a bullet through your throat before you know it."

The girl grit her teeth, she tried to avoid encounters like this at all costs—for her sake and theirs. "You've made a mistake. Walk away now, while you have the chance, and I'll pretend this never happened."

"Mistake?" the voice laughed, and the gun pressed into her spine with more force, "I haven't made a mistake, bitch. Now hand over your fucking purse or wallet or whatever the fuck you keep your rich-girl money in before I decide to just blow your head off and take it from your dead body."

"No," she sighed, and within seconds, her attacker is lying dazed, winded and gun-less on the ground in front of her, "You really have."

The boy—looking terrified, filthy and no older than nineteen—didn't even have the chance to inhale the air it would take for him to be able to scream before a loud, cracking shot echoed off the grungy stonewalls of the alleyway. There's scuffling and swearing, as two other men who had been hiding behind dumpsters scramble away from the scene.

"Let that be a lesson to you," she calls out needlessly to their retreating forms, before pocketing the revolver and continuing to make her way home.

—

When she finally arrives home, she immediately unloads the gun and tosses it, along with its bullets, onto the kitchen table—right in front of her newspaper-reading father.

There's the sound of clattering metal, crinkling paper and a long, drawn out sigh before he acknowledges her presence. Folding his paper, he flickers a glance at the revolver and its ammunition on the table, before levelling her with a steady, questioning gaze. "What happened?"

"I took the pathway route instead of my normal one," She starts, taking a seat. She wonders absentmindedly how a normal high school cheerleader would react to a situation such as this. She doesn't dwell on the thought long. "A mugger pulled this one me," she gestured to the gun, "He's taken care of, but there were witnesses. Accomplices, I'm sure."

Russel nods, forming a steeple with his hands on the table. "Were they homeless?"

"Yes," she leans back in her chair, remembering the clothes the other men had been wearing—practically rags. And they'd smelt horrendous. "Definitely."

"Good," he picks up the unloaded gun and fiddles with it for a moment, "They won't go to the police then. After all, who would believe a bunch of beggars saying a small, white, teenage girl managed to unarm a full-grown man." he pauses, looking at her, "How old was he, did you say?"

"He looked around nineteen."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he hesitated," she says, "If I didn't kill him, eventually someone else would have, and it's likely they wouldn't have granted him such an easy death."

"What have you learned from this?"

She smirks, "Never hesitate and it's best not to enter alleyways after dark."

—

It's two days later, after the matter is long forgotten by both she and Russel, that a CCTV video of a blonde girl in a green and white cheerleading uniform—shooting a mugger (the narrator notes how disconcerting it is to see such a pretty girl look so calm and collected while doing something so horrible), is featured on every local New York City news channel known to man.

—

Its four days later that Lucy Quinn Fabray finds herself standing on her estranged-mothers doorstep in Lima, Ohio.

"Lucy," Judy Fabray gives her daughter a strained, astonished smile. "What are you doing here?"

Lucy's answering smile is equally as strained, and her voice carries a sharp, sardonic edge. "Hello mother, it's lovely to see you too."

Judy doesn't budge from her position in the doorway, essentially blocking her from being able to enter or even see inside.

Relenting, the younger of the two lowers her suitcase to the ground. "Something came up with daddy. I need a place to stay."

"What about your Aunt Gloria?" the older blonde woman says uncomfortably, the desperate look in her eyes conveying exactly how much she would rather be anywhere else than speaking with her daughter, who she hadn't seen or heard from in more than two years

"She's dead." Lucy says blandly, lips quirking minutely when her mother blanches. "Didn't manage to get past her last targets security detail."

"Oh," Judy says faintly, swaying a little. She moves to the side, finally freeing up the doorway. "I guess you better come in then."

Eyeing her, Lucy gives a slow nod before picking up her luggage one again. "Where do I put this?"

"In your old room, if you want." Judy waves her hand vaguely, before walking off in (if Lucy remembers correctly) the direction of the kitchen. Most likely to go and fix herself a nice glass of scotch, she scoffs internally.

Rolling her eyes, Lucy climbs the stairs, avoiding looking at the various pictures of Frannie, Frannie's husband, their kids and her mother on the walls (it's almost as if she and her father don't exist, she doesn't like to admit it, but that does kind of hurt). She is silent and light on her feet, so much so, there isn't one creak from the wooden floorboards as she walks along. It's a force of habit, for her to put her training into action whenever she is in a new or unfamiliar place—even if this had been her home, once upon a time.

Entering her old room, she feels an odd sensation of relief when she sees it hasn't changed a bit since her departure. The walls are still a soft beige, her old vanity has been left in the corner, gathering dust—her bed is a large single, still made in the same light blue sheets it had been when she left. The room looks untouched, and it probably has been.

Shaking her head to clear it of her nostalgia, Lucy throws her suitcase onto her bed, drops her backpack to the floor and starts unpacking—her weapons being the first items to be hid away in the back of her empty closet.

—

"Do you want me to enrol you at McKinley this week?"

Judy and Lucy were sitting across from each other at the dining table that was much too large for just two people, both picking uselessly at their meals.

"No," Lucy finally says, after a long pause, "Can you do it next Monday?"

Judy looks like she wants to argue, but with a chilling glance from her daughter, she ends up merely nodding. "Okay."

"Put me down as Quinn," Lucy adds, after another few moments of silence. "I want to be known as that from now on."

"Why?" her mother questions, furrowing her brow and lowering the fork she was raising to her mouth with a quiet 'clink'.

"Do you really want to know?" the teen frowns, expression dark as she swirls her rapidly cooling pasta.

Judy shakes her head quickly, realising it most likely has something to do with Russel and his 'family business'. "No, I suppose I don't."

"Good choice." Quinn brings a mouthful of her dinner to her mouth and decides it would be a good idea for her to stay silent for the rest of the night. She didn't want to let anything too incriminating slip. After all, her mother wasn't one to be trusted any more.

Not with that aspect of her life, anyway.

Judy, silent now, swallows as she stares at her daughter, caught off guard at how much Lucy—no, Quinn reminds her of Russel, from the scowl on her face to the hardened hazel-eyes... even the set of her shoulders is reminiscent of him.

It sends a shiver of anger and disgust down her spine; anger at her ex-husband for making their little girl this way, and disgust at herself for letting him.

—

Tell me what you think.