Author's Note: Hey, everybody. This is a story that I wrote a little over a year ago. Since that time, the story has developed and evolved in my head, but I can't really move forward with it until I edit all of the chapters I've already written and posted on this website. Hopefully, this version is much more detailed. Enjoy it (please)!
Disclaimer: Don't sue me, Disney. I freely admit that I don't own W.i.t.c.h.
Chapter One
It was a Friday. Students and teachers alike scurried busily down the arched and aging hallways of Franklin Tech High School, rushing to head home, wishing it were summer.
In the school's nearly deserted chemistry lab, five freshman stared intently at a package neatly wrapped in black gift paper, a perfectly-square box that sat somehow pretentiously on a lab table. For them, the day was not yet over. In fact, things were just beginning.
Amaya approached the package, wielding a rather dingy pair of tweezers. With military precision, she took hold of the package's jovial red ribbon and lightly tugged. The other four freshmen watched with nervous anticipation as the crimson fabric bean to slowly unfurl under Amaya's patient gaze.
"Hey, Amaya," Gaby quipped squeakily from Amaya's left side. "It isn't rocket science. It's just a package."
"Everything's rocket science," Amaya answered flatly.
She removed the ribbon and peeled away the shiny, black wrapping. The other kids watched with anticipation as Amaya gripped the flaps of the box and ripped them open.
Nothing! Not just the bare inside of an empty package, but absolutely nothing. As the freshmen peered over the edges of the box, they saw no bottom, no sides, just total emptiness. They were staring into a black hole. Gabrielle was the first to speak.
"Well, that's interesting."
Boom!
A brilliant flash of hot white light exploded from inside the box, blinding the students and sending them into muddled panic. A crack of thunder rumbled in their ears and sent purple spots darting before their eyes. The blast threw the five students all across the room, knocking them into unconsciousness, swarming their minds instantly to black.
That previous night, a heavy rain had pounded nearby Rock Island Prison. The rain, of course, wasn't unusual. It always rained in Eden—a fine, sad, steady rain, dirty with the smoke of mills and the fumes from car exhaust. The rain was dirty with other things, too; hurting things. Old angers, unforgiving grievances, the ashen taste of death. And the rain never stopped.
"Lights out!" yelled prison guard Morgan McCook as he walked the halls of Cellblock Zenith. The staccato clicks of his polished black shoes echoed against the cement walls and flooring, nearly lost in the raging torrent outside.
He approached each cell door importantly, rapping on the metal doors and peering into the small plastic windows to witness inmates switching off their lights and crawling dejectedly into bed. McCook rattled off the names of the prisoners aloud to Thomas, the new guy.
"Gen'ral Nash," McCook drawled in his exaggerated Texan accent, pointing into a cell. "E's a rough one. And watch out for this 'un—that's Nuke Warren. Ne'er put your hands near 'is mouth…or any other part of 'is body, for that matter."
Thomas looked through the window and swallowed hard as Nuke graced him with a long, cold stare.
McCook seemed to take pleasure out of the young man's discomfort. "Yeah," he said, somewhat proudly, as he continued the tour, "these guys down 'ere are the worst of the worst. Criminally insane, some people call 'em. I just call 'em nuts!"
The two men stopped at the end of the hall and approached the final cell door. This one had two extra locks securing it. Thomas eyed the door apprehensively, and odd shiver ran up his spine. Idly, he wondered if it had been a smart idea to take this job.
This guy…" McCook rubbed his hands fondly over cell's door iron-casings, then grinned. "This guy 'ere was the worst—#90068. 'E's been in 'ere the longest. 'Is name is class-i-fied." Abruptly, he shouted through the window, "Ain't that right, 90068? You're ancient 'round 'ere."
There was no response. Thomas shivered again, but McCook shrugged dismissively. "Eh, he 'on't talk much."
"I'm afraid to ask what he did," Thomas gulped.
McCook grinned and pulled Thomas aside, then whispered: "They brought 'im in thirty years aho, so I warn't 'round. But the rumor is that he could you in yer tracks, just by lookin' at ya. No one's ever seen 'imm do it, but you never know…"
"That true?" Thomas asked, staring wide-eyed at McCook.
Wham! McCook slapped his nightstick hard against the cell door, making Thomas wince. The older guard giggled like a schoolgirl as lightning cracked through the air outside.
"Why 'on't you go an' find out?" he said slyly. "See 'is tray over there? You have to go in every night to git it."
Thomas peered into the cell. The lights were still on, and cast a urine-yellow glow on the cramped space within. On the floor, plastic tray lay empty. In front of it, chained to rickety iron bed, Prisoner 390068 sat motionless. His face was buried almost childishly into his pillow.
"Fine," Thomas said, sounding braver than he felt. "Open the door and let me get it over with."
There was no conspiratorial grin as McCook unlocked the door and stepped aside, and Thomas felt cowardly without it. He walked in, approaching the prisoner with his right hand hovering above his gun belt.
"Alright, #90068," he said. His voice trembled as he spoke, and he struggled to control it. "I may be the new guy around here, but don't give me any trouble, okay? I see you ate all your dinner—that's good. Now I'm just going to take it away, okay?"
The prisoner stayed silent.
Thomas averted his gaze from the prisoner and bent to pick up the tray. As he did, he felt a rush of uncomfortably hot air rush over his head and heard the baleful sound of howling wind fill the small room.
Thomas looked up quickly to check the window for a leak, then realized that there wasn't one. Nervously, he glanced over at McCook, who stood statue-still in the doorway.
"Boss?" There was no answer. Thomas stood up and stepped toward the door. "McCook?"
McCook, frozen indefinitely in place, had been transformed. He looked like a mannequin in a wax museum, an expression of horror molded into his caricature of a face.
"Unless you'd like me to do the same thing to you," the prisoner politely whispered into Thomas's ear, "I'd suggest you get me out of these." As though Thomas were daft, the prisoner jangled his shackles and mimed using a key to disengage an imaginary lock.
Thick with fear, Thomas obeyed. He yanked the ring of keys from McCook's still hand and quickly unlocked the shackles. The prisoner rubbed his wrists and ankles, finally free after all these years.
"Much better," he said pleasantly, and patted Thomas on the back. "Job well done."
"You promised to let me go," Thomas stuttered, sounding as petulant as a child.
"You really are the new guy, aren't you?" the prisoner said, amused, and a frighteningly charming smile spread across his lips.
Thomas swallowed a scream as Prisoner #90068's eyes became as wide as CDs, and a blast of howling wind paralyzed the guard, coating him with the same waxy glaze that covered McCook.
The prisoner hurried out the door. He rushed through the prison, cruelly inflicting his paralyzing punishment on anyone who got in his way. Guards ran at him from all over the cellblock, but within minutes, the prison was filled with human statues, and its most dangerous prisoner had escaped.
He stepped outside, looking off into the water that surrounded the island. Through the heavy rain he suddenly saw a small ball of fire coming toward him. As it got closer, it slowly descended, landing softly on the ground just in front of him.
It was a man strapped to a two-person jetpack.
"Hello, Leduc," the prisoner said, greeting his old henchman. Leduc, a small blonde man wearing an old Fench Legionnaires uniform, nodded silently, for he did not speak—neither in English or his native French.
The prisoner quickly harnessed himself into the jetpack. Leduc opened up a small monitor and brought up a map of the surrounding area. He typed in some coordinates and took control of the throttle, squeezing it gently as flames poured out of the bottom.
"Can you feel it, Leduc? It's time to get back to work!" the prisoner said, cackling happily as they blasted off into the night sky, leaving behind nothing but a trail of smoke and the prison number torn from his uniform.
As the two men flew away from the island, the nearby metropolitan sprawl of Cambridge was oblivious to what was happening. The Shadow of Evil—the powerful force that had given back the prisoner his powers after thirty years—was returning to the city. And now, he was too. The chain had been unleashed.