Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

A/N: Flashbacks will be shown in italics throughout the story.

It didn't begin as revenge. It began as mourning, as loss. It began as the black that cloaks funerals, as the white that purifies memorials. It began as the terrified tears that followed the bang and the shaking ground. It began as the realization that this bang affected not someone who knows someone, but you.

They say that good revenge is emotionless.

Revenge, good or bad, is never emotionless.

It begins from those tears, that black and white, that mourning, that realization that craves retribution. Good or bad, it is nothing but emotion.

And Rachel Berry had more emotions bottled up than anyone knew.

Growing up under the name Berry had taught her one thing: how to act. It was the closest thing to control that she had.

So when they finally released her from the juvenile mental facility, she knew she'd have to change her name.

She just didn't know a roadmap for revenge would be waiting for her.

"This carpenter-gothic cottage has four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and, as you can see, a lovely farmer's porch that wraps around to give a priceless view of the Sound. The water is a little cold this time of year, but it shouldn't be long before the summer sun works with the Gulf Stream and warms it up."

Rachel nodded, running her hands along the porch swing and smiling. The house hadn't changed a bit; the bright blue shingles and yellow shutters still remained as vibrant as the day she had left them, the floorboards still creaked underfoot. She turned to the real estate agent, who was watching her intently. "What happened to the previous owner?"

"Oh, we're not supposed to say," she said, but lowered her voice and glanced around, even though they were the only ones on the property. "A middle-aged couple owned it, but they fell into a hostile divorce, and I suppose the house became collateral damage between them."

"So no ghosts?" Rachel teased.

The woman laughed. "Only of a dead marriage."

"Do you mind if I take a look around?"

"Of course," she said, "that's what we're here for."

The brunette walked around the corner to the end of the porch and leaned against the railing. From the house's perch on a sand dune, a large range of view was accessible. To her right, the waves from Nantucket Sound crashed onto the empty, private beach. To her left, past the beach plum brambles and swaying sea grass, the dunes gave way to a clearing. The cottage that had been there years ago had been replaced by a large house, which didn't surprise Rachel much. Many homes on the Vineyard faced this modern problem of mansionization.

The large, elegant Georgian Colonial style estate sprawled across acres, giving way to a green, trimmed lawn and an in-ground pool. Attached was a Jacuzzi that spilled into it, and not far away was a large fire pit. A patch of wild bushes gave the property its privacy from the beach, and a boardwalk cut through the shrubbery as a pathway.

As Rachel glanced over the mansion's grounds, she spotted a blonde woman, reclining in a pool chair, catching the rays of an early summer. She didn't need to be closer to recognize Quinn Fabray, the only child of the Fabrays, one of the most politically powerful families in the states.

As she watched, another blonde pulled himself out of the pool. Dripping wet, he bounded over to where Quinn lounged, and shook his hair out over her. She squealed and smacked his arm lightly. He pulled her into a soaking hug.

Sam Evans. The party boy from the west coast, who had been handed almost everything he wanted in life. He was kind hearted, but utterly oblivious.

He was her competition.

The corners of Rachel's mouth twitched, turning down when the young woman's father joined the two, offering the boyfriend a beer.

Russell Fabray was just as she remembered him, except with a few flecks of grey in his hair. The man still had a stiff stance, bushy eyebrows and set jaw, as if he were tensed for an attack coming his way.

The cameraman surveyed the scene, before focusing in on a man who stood on top of an overturned car, surrounded by a crowd of people. There were sirens wailing behind him, spinning colors against his sturdy frame. His suit jacket had been cast off, and his black pants were dusty, shirt sleeves sloppily rolled up.

"We will be the first responders!" the man crowed, throwing his fist in the air.

The crowd cheered.

"We will not give into terrorists," Russell continued, raising his voice over the clamor. "We will show them that America does not cower when it is kicked down. We will show them that America stands back on its feet, brushes off the dust, and surges onward. We take care of our own!"

He paused as the crowd grew too loud, too full of emotion. When the noise subsided, he pointed to a building that was still spewing ashes. "Now, good people of America, let's give a hand to the brave firemen and policemen. Let us be the first responders, in the most literal sense. Let us charge into that burning building, bravely and fiercely, and help out those unfortunate enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He leapt down from the car, and led his followers to the emergency vehicles at the building's entrance. The cameraman panned over the scene, and pulled back to angle the camera upwards. Smoke billowed out from the top floors, debris falling like black rain.

"I see you've caught sight of the Fabrays," the real estate agent said, pulling the brunette from her memory.

Rachel feigned surprise. "You mean those are the Fabrays?"

"The ones and only," she said. "Imagine them for neighbors, huh?"

"Imagine that," Rachel drawled.

"So, about the house…"

"I'll take it. Full price."

The woman's eyes widened as she grinned. "Oh, wow. Wonderful. I'll pull together the forms." She turned, heels sounding off the old porch wood. "Now, if you wouldn't mind following me into the kitchen, Ms. Corcoran."

Rachel surveyed the living room from the doorway; the few boxes she brought were piled by the staircase. The cottage was already furnished, rooms painted with pastels and matching cushions on white furniture. It was a typical Cape Cod-themed home, with beach décor tying it all together, but Rachel didn't mind. The colors were calming, for the most part. She had other priorities in mind, anyway.

She opened one of the boxes, pulling out a small wooden chest. Tracing over the carving on it, she walked a few steps into the living room, placing her weight carefully on each foot. She strained her ears for a light creak that would alert her to a secret cubby, and smiled softly when she heard it, throwing over the rug to reveal it.

Hooking her finger into a small indent in the wood, she pulled up and removed a chunk of the floorboard, peering into the manmade hole.

"What're you going to hide in it, princess?" Hiram asked, watching his daughter run to the cubby from the stairs.

She skidded to a halt before it, clutching a number of items. "Just the important things, Daddy."

"Am I allowed to know?" He put his mug on the table, and tried to peek at what she held.

Rachel giggled. "No! It's top secret, need-to-know." She gazed up at him, narrowing her eyes. Hiram guessed she was trying to be intimidating, but she wasn't succeeding in her bright pink pajamas and bunny slippers. He suppressed a smile as she continued, "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

He threw his hands in the air, surrendering. "Okay, okay. Need to know. I got it, princess."

"Good." She grinned at him, and bent down to begin placing items into it.

"Just remember, it's a secret hiding place, so be careful who you tell about it."

"Yes, Daddy. I know."

Though the items were dusty, they were still there. The toy microphone from her fifth birthday, the piggy bank that held three dollars in change, a drawing of her family at the beach, and, of course, the signed photograph of Barbara Streisand.

Rachel shook her head in amusement. When her fathers had shown her Funny Girl for her fourth birthday, she had refused to go by anything other than Barbara or Babs, wanting to live up to the full legend. Luckily for her, it was her middle name, so it wasn't a completely ridiculous demand. It wasn't difficult to get her Vineyard neighbors to call her by that name, as they hadn't known her when she was Rachel. But when she returned to school in the fall, she was even able to convince her teachers and classmates in New York to address her as Barbara.

It made it easy for her to change her name when she left the facility. She began to go by Rachel again, and adopted her biological mother's maiden name for her last.

She fingered the photo, blowing off dust, before placing it down beside the rest of the items. Rachel picked up the wooden box beside her and placed it into the cubby, sighing in relief when it fit.

A knock on the door startled her, and she quickly shut the trapdoor and smoothed the rug back over it, throwing the piggy bank, microphone, and papers into a cardboard box sitting nearby.

She skipped into the main hall, and saw a familiar brunette through the thin white curtains that covered the glass door. Slowing down as she neared the entryway, she exhaled, before flashing a smile as she let the fiery Latina in.

Santana grinned at her, holding up two champagne glasses and a bottle. "Hey, chica, I heard you bought this little place."

Rachel stepped aside to let her into the kitchen, shutting the door behind them. "Yeah, who told you?"

"Oh, it's Martha's Vineyard. Can't hide anything on this damn island." She looked up and handed Rachel a bubbly glass. "Cheers."

"Thanks," she said, taking a sip. "How is the job so far?"

Santana threw her a pained look. "Please. Three weeks in, and I already want to kill the woman with my bare hands. I'm having dreams about it, you know. Sometimes she chokes on her own insults. Sometimes she's run over by a motorboat and caught up in its propellers, and other times she's tied to a lighthouse beacon and everyone forgets she was put up there."

Rachel laughed. "She cannot be that bad, Santana."

"Wait until you meet her. You'll see."

"You hate everyone."

Santana shook her head, holding up a finger. "No, not true. Remember that guy from the equestrian event we fundraised at? Over spring, at Saratoga?"

"That really narrows it down, San," Rachel commented, quirking an eyebrow.

"Um, the one that landed a viral video on youtube that weekend."

"Oh, the guy whose horse bucked?"

"Yes!" Santana said, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "Him. I liked him."

Rachel chuckled. "He landed face-first into a pile of horse shit."

"Exactly," she said. "He was hilarious."

Rachel shook her head. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Yeah, but that's why I'm your best friend. You'd die of normalcy without me." Santana smirked, moving to lean towards Rachel. "Speaking of how much you love me…"

"No," Rachel said, groaning. "I already told you, you're not my type!"

"No, not that." Santana frowned. "And for the last time, I don't swing that way."

"Right," Rachel deadpanned.

"Ignoring that," she said, rolling her eyes. "Look, there's an event I've been planning for Judy since I started, and it's this weekend. It's some kick-off-the-summer bash and I don't want to go alone. There's going to be all these snobby, boring people getting drunk and wondering why the hell they're not home in their hermit caves of mansions."

"You're really selling this party, you know," Rachel said.

"Whatever. Say you'll come. Please?"

"Why would I come when you just said—"

"Rach," Santana said. "Please. You'll get to know the people here more. Plus the Fabrays and Evans will be here. Even Sam's cousin, Brittany, is stopping by from what I've heard. She RSVP'd, anyway."

"Fine, fine!" Rachel said, pushing at Santana when the Latina attacked her in a tight bear hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"You better introduce me to the dragon lady that's made your life hell, though. I've got to meet my new neighbor, after all."

Santana pulled back, shrugging. "Your death wish, Corcoran."

Rachel tugged the white beach robe around her tighter, letting the wind wrap its hem around her calves. The sun had dipped behind some clouds, and the breeze had grown stronger. She suspected a storm was on the way, as the air had shifted and the temperature dropped a few degrees.

Her feet sunk into the wet sand, waves lapping at her toes. Further out, there were large white caps of waves cresting over. The real estate agent hadn't been wrong when she said the waters were still a little cold, and the grey color reflected it.

A dog bark alerted her to a fellow beach-goer. She furrowed her brow when she saw a large German Shepherd galloping towards her, leash trailing behind him as he kicked up sand in his hurry to reach her. She turned to face him as he neared, and he skidded to a halt five feet away, dropping to a crouch as his body shook with a wagging tail. He was whining, and took a few steps closer before sitting back on his haunches, extending a paw to her as if to wave.

"Hey, buddy," she whispered, dropping to one knee.

The dog's ears perked up at the utterance, and he jumped up, paws hitting her shoulders and knocking her over into the sand. She threw her arms around him, giggling as he licked her face.

"Arnstein! No!Bad dog!" A voice called from a distance. Rachel lifted her head, and saw a figure scrambling to catch up to the dog.

It couldn't be the same dog, could it? It was probably just a coincidence. She glanced back at the dog, who was staring at her. He seemed to have the same big, brown eyes and even had white fur growing in, especially around the muzzle.

Rachel managed to slip out from under him, and scratched him behind the ears as the owner reached them, panting as much as the dog; both the shepherd and brunette took in the blonde before them.

Hazel eyes shone with excitement as the little girl scampered across the beach. "Babs! Look!"

The little brunette glanced up from her bucket to see what her friend found.

"Look, look at it!"

Her brow furrowed in confusion. In the blonde's palm there were a few small shells, a shade of light yellow. "Shells?" She laughed. "Quinn, those are everywhere!"

The blonde frowned. "No, these are special. Momma told me they're mermaid's toenails."

She peered at the shells again, tiny, thin circles. They could belong to a mystical creature, it wasn't a stretch. "But wait, mermaids don't have feet!"

Quinn gasped. "Maybe they're tail scales, then!"

The brunette laughed, shoving her friend playfully.

"I'm so sorry," the woman wheezed, interrupting her thoughts. "He just took off, I don't know what got into him. He's not usually this friendly."

Rachel smiled. "Oh, it's no problem. I love dogs. Arnstein is his name, I take it?"

"Yeah, although he doesn't seem to recognize it, today," the blonde chuckled.

Rachel laughed. "It's an unusual dog name."

"I know, right?" she said. "I didn't name him."

"Oh, was he from a shelter?"

"No, no. There was this girl that lived next door, and she had to move away or something, couldn't take the puppy with her. So she gave ole Arnie to me." She paused. "That was about, thirteen years ago, I think."

Rachel nodded, and stood, extending a hand. "Well, I'm Rachel Corcoran." She gestured to the cottage behind them. "I just moved there."

The blonde shook it, smiling softly. "That's where the girl used to live."

"Oh, wow."

"I'm Quinn, by the way," the woman continued, "your new neighbor, in the big, oversized mansion."

"It's not that big," Rachel teased. "I mean, you can't quite see it from space."

Quinn snorted, picking up Arnie's leash. "Oh, I wouldn't doubt it if you could. But, you know, parents. They always have to beat everyone out, whether it's the size of your bank account, house, or the success of your kids."

Rachel shrugged. "I wouldn't know, mine died in an accident years ago."

"Shit," Quinn said, frowning. "I'm so sorry, Rachel, I had no idea."

"No, no," Rachel said, reaching out to give the blonde a reassuring squeeze on the arm. "It was a while ago. I've moved past it."

Quinn sighed, shaking her head. "Well, I better go before I can say something worse and completely blow a first impression." She smiled at Rachel, giving her a little wave as she walked away. "Hope to see you around more."

Rachel nodded, watching her go back in the direction she came. She returned her gaze to the sea, and cast off her robe. It fluttered to the ground behind her as she ran a few paces into the churning water before diving into it. The cold numbed her a little, and she resurfaced after a moment, swimming furiously into the growing waves.

As she turned her head to the side for a breath, she caught sight of the blonde, standing on the shore watching her curiously. Rachel smirked, dipping her head back into the water as she swam further into the surf.

Maybe the woman wouldn't be as hard to get as she had imagined.

The vendetta was in reach now, everything was in place. She only had to bring it all together, and watch it destroy the family that had cost her everything.

After all, it wasn't over until the bang echoed.