This is my first Child's Play fanfic, but I've loved the series for ages! Set about four or five years after the end of Seed of Chucky. I warn you, there's going to be language and it might get gory later on, so watch out!

The door to the terracotta Beverly Hills villa slammed, resounding through the quiet midnight, bouncing around the walls of the snooping suburb. Glenda knew as she stormed along the sidewalk, knew full well, that the neighbours would be spying on her from behind their two hundred and fifty dollar venetian blinds. Judging her. Because that's what they always did. "Fuck them", she thought, and then, turning on her heel, yelled back to the empty street.

"Fuck you!" Her cheeks flushed as red as the shock of ginger hair, which bobbed and frizzed around her head as she moved.

"Glenda!" Her mother was at the door, a cardigan wrapped around her arms, her long, dark hair, plastered to her cheeks. "Glenda, you get back here this instant!"

"No!" Glenda screamed back. "I hate you! I hate you, I hate Glen, and I hate your stupid boy-toy too!"

"Glenda!" Her mother snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "You get back in here and go to your room."

Glenda didn't move. She watched her mother carefully, like a stubborn puppy pushing their masters' limits. She knew her mother could be a scary force when pissed, but then she could be scary, too. After a long, silent pause, in which neither moved, Glenda eventually began to skulk back towards the house. It was cold, and she'd forgotten her coat. She pushed past her mother, not looking her in the eyes, and stomped up the stairs. She continued stomping, past Glen's room, past her room, and past her mothers' room, up to the attic.

"And I hate this fucking house, too!" she screamed back down, as an afterthought, before slamming the attic door behind her.

Her mother closed the door and exhaled, leaning back. Her hands shook.

"What am I going to do with that kid..." she mumbled, taking deep breaths. She looked around, to see Glen's mess of ginger curls, green blue eyes and upturned nose peeking over the back of the sofa.

"Mummy?"

"It's ok, Glen." She exhaled. "Your sister's calming herself down now. Why don't you say goodnight to Neil and go up to bed?"

"Ok, Mummy." Glen smiled. He rushed over, gave his mother a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and waved at the man on the couch, before clambering the stairs. The man on the couch smiled.

"Jennifer, I don't know how you deal with her." His brilliant white smile made his cheeks dimple, and his light blue eyes shine. His groomed-to-look-scruffy blonde hair made his jaw seem all the stronger, and contrasted with the deep grey of his suit. Jennifer's eyes lit up, as she sat next to him, wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you put up with us." She replied. "Not a lot of guys would want a woman with two kids..."

"I love you, Jen." Neil smiled, a warmth in his eyes that she had longed for, for the last nine years. "And I love your career, and I love your kids, and I want to be a part of your life. And eventually I will. I'm not going to leave you because you've got... lively children..."

"Neil, you're so good to me." She smiled, kissing him. He was. And how had she rewarded him? She hadn't told him about her life before she was Jennifer, that's for damn sure. He didn't know she'd ever been Tiffany. He didn't know anything about that part of her life, and as far as she was concerned, he wasn't going to find out. It was safer that way, for everyone. She was grateful that somehow, she and Glen had managed to move on, to keep that part of their lives secret. It seemed that Glenda had completely forgotten who her father was, and where she had come from, which suited her fine. But those violent tendencies... at nine years old, Glenda had been suspended from school seven times, given thirteen official warnings, and expelled twice. She swore like a sailor, had already been warned by neighbourhood police after she killed several strays and pets, and had been taken to a psychologist after she started stealing things. The psychologist later refused to take her for sessions, claiming she was too violent for constructive therapy. Jennifer, as she now called herself, loved her daughter, and she loved Glen. They were both the dearest, most important things to her life. But Glenda scared her, sometimes; she hated to imagine her children being anything like their father, but it was a constant, horrifying fear.

Meanwhile, in the attic, Glenda was throwing , kicking, screaming, and generally venting anger the only way she found satisfying; destruction. Hot, angry tears scorched down her cheeks, her pale skin flushed with fury, her red hair messy and wild, and her hands and face grubby with dust. She threw box after box at the walls, crunching and clattering as they went. She kicked suitcases and punched bin bags full of old clothes. Any thoughts or internal monologue were nothing but nonsensical ranting, obscenities and visions of blood. After a while, she cast around, looking for the next thing to throw, but found they had all bounced off the far wall, and left a two foot wide circle of bare space around her. She continued to cast around, the red mist subsiding as she had run out of fuel. Her face, at first screwed up and twisted in anger, began to uncurl and reset into something altogether sadder. She felt... lost.

She sat down on the floor, her skirt crumpling around her, the dust dancing around her knee-high white socks. She almost looked pitiful, her red hair falling still around her shoulders, her green cardigan catching the glow from a streetlamp outside, making the black of her dress deeper. Like a little doll. She wanted to be a doll, sometimes. She didn't know why. She found herself wanting to dress like one of those old-fashioned china dolls. Her psychologist had said it was a kind of security thing, like she wanted to distance herself from reality. She didn't understand that; she just thought they looked so pretty. Slowly, she reached up and wiped the tears from her eyes, before examining her hands. She hadn't realised she'd been crying. She glared up at the mountain she had made out of the boxes and bags that had been littering the attic. It was all her mother's and Glen's stuff, because they didn't like to throw anything away. She couldn't care less. Once she was done with something, it got binned, or, more usually, broken. Just thinking about this fact set her off again. She stood, and threw herself back into the pile, throwing it all back to the other side of the room. She felt like the odd one out. When it was her mother and Glen being best buddies, she couldn't care less if she wasn't like them, but whenever Neil... fancy-pants, stuck-up, fucking bloody bastard Neil was around, it just made it all the more clear that she wasn't one of them. The familiar crashing and banging sounds became like white noise to her as she tore through all the things, a blanket of destruction where no one would bother her. But, just as suddenly as she had started, she stopped.

She had found, underneath everything else, her mother's brushed steel trunk. She had loved this trunk, but a couple of years ago, her mother had told her it didn't go with the decor, and that she'd donated it to the Goodwill... Carefully, Glenda eased open the lid and looked inside.

There, sat on top of other boxes and bags, was a beautiful doll. Long, blonde hair and deep green eyes... Glenda picked her up, carefully, running her fingers over the silk wedding dress. There was a smudged red mark on the doll's chest, as though someone had drawn on it with felt pens, or... maybe lipstick? Glenda's brow furrowed. This doll was familiar... a memory stirred in the back of her brain. She'd seen the doll... the doll used to stand on the dresser, in their old home... the one they had before they moved to this street. She must have been about five, maybe six at the time... her mother had claimed the doll had gotten lost in the move... there was something else, though, something worse. She remembered being outside, at some sort of party, and walking back to the house. She remembered her mother, and another woman... a maid? And the doll was there too, although she couldn't remember why that was important...

Setting the doll aside, with the intention of taking her downstairs and freaking her mother out, Glenda continued to look through the box. There were lots of newspaper cuttings about some kid named Andy, who seemed to have gone nuts and killed a bunch of people. She didn't care about those. There were bunches more about someone called "The Lakeshore Strangler", a name which floated around her mind but didn't connect to anything. "Charles Lee Ray" was his real name, and that was very familiar... loads of memories were stirring, now, drifting around her brain like kites with tangled strings; no clear point where one ended and another began, and no ability to distinguish one from another. It all felt very significant, but she still couldn't tell why. She carried on looking through the trunk, trying to find some other clues... A necklace, with an inscription on the back, and a blue gem in the middle... she put it aside, and kept looking.

At the bottom of the box was a rectangular cardboard box, about a foot long in length, with a yellow base and a red lid. She suddenly felt an icy chill, and reached towards it very carefully. She picked it up and opened it slowly, wrinkling her nose at the smell of rotten plastic. There, in a dried pool of blood, were chunks of flesh and plastic, wrapped in once blue, now brown fabric. As soon as she had mentally reconstructed the chunks into the form of an arm, she dropped the box and stumbled away from it, her head spinning. She fell to her knees and clutched her chest, her heart suddenly rushing. The room swayed in and out of focus as memories came flooding back to her. Her fifth birthday... the things she'd heard her mother say before then... the meaningful looks between Glen and her mother... seeing her body being born... the hairspray... the acid...

For a very long time, Glenda didn't move. She sat there, breathing heavily, waiting for everything to calm down again. And then, very quietly, she stood up, walked through the attic door, closed it gently behind her, went to her room, and began packing a bag. She took a coat, and her mother's map of L.A, being sure not to disturb anyone. Then, with a level of stealth no one knew she had, she slipped through the door and into the night, clutching the necklace with the blue gem. She didn't know or care if she ever saw any of her family again. She needed to find Charles Lee Ray. The urban myth that surrounded the "killer Chucky doll" was convoluted and strange, but she knew he was real. She knew she had to find him. She remembered, now, and wondered how she had ever forgotten... she remembered that Chucky was her father.