Faulty Preconceptions
Christopher Halliwell is defiant, rebellious, and significantly different. When the past threatens to return with a vengeance, he is confronted with a destiny he is reluctant to accept and the Halliwells learn that sometimes blood just isn't enough.
"You can't go home again" – Thomas Wolfe
Chapter One
The man leaned over a chipped sink in the dilapidated bathroom of his cramped, cluttered, and dingy excuse for an apartment. The room was dark, dank, and illuminated by the single, filthy light bulb that hung from the water-stained ceiling, offering only the slightest rays of light. Drawing a wet cloth over the various wounds that riddled his body, he neither flinched nor faltered, and stared down into the basin of water that was coloured by the remnants of his now-drying blood. He dropped the bloodstained washcloth into the basin and took one last glance at the circular burn on his shoulder. He could hear his friend pattering around his small apartment and coldly narrowed his eyes as he entered his water-stained, paint-peeled bedroom.
"Don't get any ideas," the man warned, throwing his friend a hostile look. "You're not a permanent fixture."
The friend raked his fingers through his dirty-blond hair and gave a toothy grin. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled. "Is that your way of telling me to piss off?" The friend paused and threw a look over at the rumpled, half-made double bed. "I was wondering about that fancy sword of yours."
The man's gaze followed and eventually settled on the jewel- encrusted hilt of a silver sword that was nestled amongst the brown bed sheets. He scowled at his friend and snatched the weapon off the sheets, moving to sheath the sword in its bronze, embossed scabbard.
The friend's eyes widened, grabbing hold of the man's hand, mid-air. "Holy fuck!" he exclaimed, eyes bulging like bowling balls. His head tipped to the side, and he read, stutteringly, "Take me up." There was silence as he glanced up to meet the man's agitated stare.
"Holy fuck!" the friend reiterated. "Tell me that's a fake!"
"Okay," said the man flatly. "It's a fake."
The man snatched his hand away and quickly sheathed the sword, his every movement tracked by his friend's wandering watch.
"That – that's Excalibur!" the friend exclaimed. "Holy hell, how did you manage to get your paws on Excalibur?" When the man didn't say anything, the friend shook his head, repeatedly. "Tell me you're not going to…you are! I guess this is farewell, then. If you're going to take the Halliwell's, head on, you're going to have to be ready."
The man's gaze darkened, an aimless stare. The magnificent sword rested, glinting, against his back. "Oh, I'm ready," he said distantly. "Is there any other way to take them on?"
(November, 2019)
Christopher had been sitting in the passenger seat of the family car for twenty minutes; twenty minutes of silence, twenty minutes of watching his mother's expression change twenty shades of red and blue.
The silence continued as he climbed out of the car and onto the driveway, school bag hauled over his shoulder; continued as he made his way up to the front porch and into the house; as he tossed his bag into hallway and pulled off his school blazer, discarding that, too. The precarious stillness stretched on as his mother followed him in and shut the door behind her, and broke only as she turned to face him.
If there was one thing that Chris had learned in his time as a Halliwell it was that, when angered, his mother was a force to be reckoned with. Then again, what he did and what he knew were two very different concepts, and were never all that congruent.
Piper Halliwell's anger erupted like a nuclear warhead. With an expression of utter fury, she strode forwards in a manner that would have made the former Source-Of-All-Evil quail in fear. Chris neither quailed nor relented. He stood his ground with a firmness that only a teenager could maintain.
When Piper parted her lips and spoke, he was positive that every living creature in the general vicinity of Prescott Street had instantaneously fled.
"What the hell is your problem, Christopher?" she bellowed, an expression of intense wrath across her features.
Chris barely managed to refrain from responding with, 'many problems, many levels'. He simply gritted his teeth and stared at her with a sense of determined resolution. He tipped his chin up and maintained an expression of utter indifference, projecting the impression that her words rolled off him like water.
"Can you not go a single week without me receiving a call from your school? In fact, I would settle for a single day! Wyatt and Casey never get into trouble like you do! Why is it always you, Christopher?"she spat, wild infuriated gestures giving just the right amount of emphasis to her livid words.
And there it was. She hadn't even waited until later to pull the 'Perfect Wyatt' card. Chris continued to grit and grind his teeth, patiently waiting for the right moment to present itself.
"Do you have any understanding of what just happened?" Piper shrieked, throwing her keys aside so they fell to the floor with a loud metallic clatter.
Chris upheld his unconcerned appearance, further fuelling her rage. His mother drew in a deep breath, brown eyes burning ferociously into his own. He sniffed indifferently, crossed his arms over his chest and assumed a 'do I honestly care' expression.
"Every single tennis ball in your school is missing!" she roared. "Every – Single – Tennis ball!" She drew in a sharp breath. "Every week its just another stunt for you, isn't it? What was your great need for tennis balls that you had to steal THREE HUNDREDof them?"
Chris shifted on the spot, unable to prevent his expression from seeping amusement. His lips curled up in a barely restrained triumphant smirk.
His mother's voice lowered and suddenly grew steady. "Oh, you think it's funny, do you? You skip school, you don't go to your classes," she said. Each step she was taking brought her closer and closer to her insistently defiant son. "You don't do your homework…you don't hand in your assignments." Piper drew in a sharp and perilous breath, her entire being bubbling with freshly brewed rage. "You've gone from the top of your year to barely scraping through!" she hissed.
Chris reined in a slow breath and fought to maintain an expression of nonchalance. He folded his arms and glowered at his mother, unconcerned by her ever-growing fury.
"This is the last straw, Christopher," she hissed in a low, dangerous voice. "This is the last straw. You're going to find all three hundred of those tennis balls and return them to your school. If you can't find all three hundred of them, you're going to buy them with your own money, and you're going to write a letter of apology."
Chris assumed his apathetic expression and said offhandedly, "They have no incriminating evidence against me and yet you still believe them? If they could prove it, they would have actually expelled me."
"No, they've only asked you to leave." Piper's eyes narrowed furiously. "And seeing as I'm talking to the boy who managed to, completely unnoticed, help disassemble and reassemble a car in the middle of the school gymnasium, yes I do believe them."
"Unnoticed," Chris returned in a calm voice. "They have no incriminating evidence against me for that either. If they did, I would have been suspended. They can't prove anything, Mother, and yet you still believe them. What happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"
Piper set her jaw and folded her arms over her chest, a dark storm dawning across her features. "You're an incredibly smart boy, Christopher," she said. "You were getting perfect grades at school, and now you have all these marks against you. Your father, grandfather and I had all these big dreams of you headed off to an Ivy League University. How do you plan on doing that now? You have no idea how much trouble you're in…"
Chris gave a derisive snort and smirked back at his mother. "What are you going to do? Bind my powers like you always threaten to bind Wyatt's? Well news flash, mother, I don't have any powers for you to bind…" he challenged in a bold tone, leaning forwards.
With one last smirk, he grabbed the jacket he had discarded on the floor and pivoted on his heels, striding down the hall way and towards the kitchen.
"Christopher, don't you walk away from me!" his mother yelled, storming after him. "Christopher! CHRISTOPHER!"
Chris pushed his way through the kitchen and down into the basement, slamming the door shut. Heavy fists thudded against the wood as his mother's protests seeped between the cracks, bellowing threatening to blow the door to pieces.
He smirked with a sense of satisfaction, well aware that her threats were as empty as the proverbial void, and made his way down the rickety staircase.
In the darkness, Chris leaned back against the basement wall, loosening his tie as he stared into the shadows that surrounded him. He frowned when his mother stopped thumping on the door, vaguely suspicious of her sudden retreat. A second later a recognisable voice spoke up moments before the room was filled with dozens of bright blue and white orb. The bright spherical lights swirled down from the ceiling and materialised into the outline of two shadowed figures.
"Well hey there, Papa Bear," said Chris with a lazy smirk.
Leo sighed and let go of his twelve-year-old son's hand. "Chris," he said curtly. He shook his head and momentarily felt around for the light switch before flicking it on.
Chris shot him a cold glare through the newly illuminated basement. "I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to Casey," he sniped.
Beside their father, Casey stuffed his hands in the pocket of his jeans. When Leo nodded towards the basement door, Casey quickly mouthed 'good luck' at Chris before dissipating in a shower of bright blue and white lights.
Chris crossed his arms over his chest and assumed the most apathetic demeanour he could conjure.
Leo sighed and shook his head once more, running his hand through his hair. "How long are you going to keep playing the 'high-school delinquent', Chris?" he asked tiredly.
Chris rolled his eyes. "Professional delinquent," he corrected, "and that's Mr. Professional delinquent, thank you."
"I haven't seen your mother this angry since you painted the word 'Misanthrope' on the side of your school Assembly Hall," said Leo, his voice somewhat accusatory.
"Mural," corrected Chris with a bright and somewhat devious grin. "It was a mural and a -" he stifled a fits of mirth that displayed how ridiculous he found his words, "-an expression of self and a form of protest," he managed to finish before breaking down into snickers.
There was a short pause from Leo before he concluded, "That's not the point, Christopher. Did you really steal three hundred tennis balls from your school?"
Chris didn't reply. Once again, he merely leaned back against the wall with a badly concealed smirk. Leo appeared to take this as a sign and continued. "How long is this behaviour of yours going to continue?" he asked. "I want you to think about this really well, because it costs twenty thousand dollars a year to send you to a private school, and that doesn't even include the price of your uniform, textbooks, or school excursions. You're smart, Christopher. You're very smart, but apparently not that bright if you're going to continue jeopardising your academic career and stifling your chance of getting into an Ivy League university which, might I add, is the reason you're attending…"
Chris laughed and rolled his eyes, much to his father's apparent annoyance. "Oh, don't give me that. I only go to Excelsior Prep because you and Mum are falling over yourselves with pity. Wyatt and Casey, get powers and magic – I get an expensive education," he said snidely. "It's the only thing that I have that they don't, so if I want to self-depreciatingly jeopardise my expensive education, then that's my prerogative."
He fell silent, meeting his father's dark green eyes with his own identical ones. At length, Leo finally spoke in a slow, paced manner. "If that's what you believe, Christopher, then you're going to have to explain to Grandpa why you've been asked to leave Excelsior, since he's the main source of funding for your expensive education."
Chris bristled when his father's expression melted into one of partial sadness.
"Your brothers may have powers, but that doesn't mean that…" began Leo.
Chris interjected with a scoff. "…It doesn't mean that I'm any less Halliwell, I'm still part of the family. I've heard it all," he said spitefully. "As much as everyone will keep saying that, it's hardly true. Magic defines this family. It's all anyone has. As much as Mum keeps going on about how she envies my ability to 'lead a normal life', it's not true. If demons didn't come crashing through the front door every second day, she wouldn't know what to do with herself.
Magic is the only thing keeping you guys together which, truthfully, is quite pathetic. I'm glad that I don't have powers, that I can't cast spells. I'm glad I'm not part of all of this self-destructive insanity. Unlike them, I don't have to martyr myself for selfish, unappreciative people."
Chris gave his father a smug smirk, arms crossed over his school uniform-clad chest.
"Magic isn't the only thing keeping this family together, Chris, and not being magical doesn't make you any different," said Leo gently. "I'm not magical and I'm still…"
Chris shook his head, saying, "Oh, but you used to be magical. You were a whitelighter when you met Mum and you may be mortal now, but you still teach at Magic School. That hardly counts."
"And you believe that?" asked his father.
Chris leaned back against the concrete basement wall, further loosening his tie. "Yes, I do," he said. "What I want to know is what this family would do if no-one had magic, or powers, or evil to fight. This family would have fallen apart years ago. Can you say 'dysfunctional'?"
"What I want to know," said Leo, "is how you managed to get three hundred tennis balls out of your school."
Chris shrugged. "With a lot of effort…" he said without thinking. He suddenly glanced up, eyes widening in shock at the realisation of what he had just admitted. "You tricked me!" he accused. "I can't believe you tricked me!"
Leo replicated Chris' previous smirk. "I can't believe you fell for it," he returned.
Chris' brilliant green eyes narrowed into a dark glare. "It's the innocent looking ones you have to watch out for," he muttered in a low voice.
"Now, your mother isn't blind. She does know that you did it. That stunt of yours has 'Christopher Halliwell' written all over it. I think a punishment is in order. We'll discuss that with her later tonight." After a short pause, Leo's smirk quickly evaporated into an expression of intent seriousness. "Just tell me, what on earth do you need three hundred tennis balls for?" he demanded.
Chris thought for a moment before replying. "Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. It was a lesson," he said, as if this was a completely plausible explanation for his actions. There was a short pause. "And it was a form of protest," he said offhandedly.
The ex-Elder frowned disbelievingly. "A protest against what exactly?"
Chris smirked and raised a hand to nonchalantly toy with the protective silver Triquetra pendant that hung around his neck. He watched his father's expression carefully, attempting to fight the desire to break down into laughter. "It was a protest against the fact that far too much emphasis is placed on athletics, in proportion the lack of emphasis placed on academia," he said lazily. "After all, Excelsior is a prep school. Weren't they supposed to be 'prepping' us for something or other?"
"You were protesting against the lack of focus on academia despite the fact that you are constantly skipping school," noted Leo. "I highly doubt that, Christopher."
Leo sighed. "You're really lucky they didn't expel you, you know. You have enough black marks next to your name, you don't need 'expulsion' written on your permanent record in big, bold letters." He regarded Chris with a sad, disappointed gaze.
Chris swallowed down his guilt and shrugged, forcing a façade of indifference with a scuff of his shoe. "I'll go to Prescott Academy, then," he said. "It's closer than Excelsior was, and a couple of my friends go there."
Leo chuckled quietly, shaking his head."Do you really think it's that easy? What are the other schools going to think when they find out why you were left; the truancy, the bad grades, the car in the middle of the gymnasium, the graffiti on the assembly hall…and now this?"
"They never proved that was me!" protested Chris. "What, is that listed under 'suspicions' in my file, or something?"
The only response he received from his father was a wry smile.
"I'm going to speak to your mother about what to do with you. You, on the other hand, have two choices. You can stay down here all afternoon or you can come up and eventually face the music," said Leo.
With that, Chris watched his father retreat up the rickety stairs and wrench the door open, vanishing into the kitchen. When the door finally slammed shut, Chris sighed and leaned back against the wall, once more.
He was different. He had learnt that the moment he had learnt how to talk. He – was – different. He couldn't cast spells or magically teleport himself from place A to place B. He couldn't move objects with his mind, immobilise molecules to mimic the effect to impeding time, or see the future.
The only thing 'out of the ordinary' that ever occurred to him were his dreams, or more specifically, nightmares; what his best friend, James, liked to call 'visions of fighting demons in his sleep'.
----
Three Months Later
----
(February, 2020)
"Chris, you're going to be late!"
It was six-fifty a.m. Fifteen-year-old Christopher Halliwell was hung over and had spent the entire morning finishing an assignment that wasn't even his own. Yes, it a wonderful start to the day.
He took the stairs two-by-two, stumbling and falling flat on his face when he reached the last step. Feeling incredibly inane, he grabbed his satchel bag that now lay askew on the tiles and threw it over his shoulder, bursting into the dining room. His mother, father and brother sat at the table, talking over large mugs of coffee and newspapers.
The moment Wyatt spotted him he rolled his eyes and irritably said, "Took your time." After a moments silence, he asked, "Whose jacket are you wearing?" as he eyed the black and red Letterman Jacket that Chris had on.
Chris ignored his brother, stuffed a bagel into his mouth and mumbled incoherently.
Piper narrowed her eyes at this and said in a dangerously low voice, "Don't talk with your mouth full. Now hurry up, you're going to be late. Wyatt's waiting for you."
Chris merely gave a muffled chuckle before pulling the bagel out of his mouth. "Why?" he scoffed. "I have a lift." He hefted his bag over his shoulder once more and hurried from the dining room.
"You could have at least told me!" Wyatt's angry voice called after him, closely followed by his mother's, 'And come straight home after school. Remember that you're grounded!"
Chris threw the front door open and ran down the stairs, heading for a shiny black convertible that was parked in the driveway. He tossed his bag into the back seat, climbing into the car and sitting himself next to an older teen with light brown hair.
The teen was wearing a pair of black sunglasses and said in a rather bored voice, "Took your time, Halliwell." There was a short pause as he examined the younger youth. "So you're the one who has my jacket. I thought that I'd lost that, arsehole."
Chris glowered in response. "James," he returned, torn between annoyance and fatigue.
James smirked. Turning to the younger teen he asked with his eyebrows raised, "Do you have my essay?"
Chris gave a sardonic laugh. "Do you have my coffee?"
His friend rolled his eyes behind his dark shades and grabbed a take-away coffee cup from the holder, handing it to him. "Black, no sugar, right?"
Chris didn't reply. He shoved a thin-stapled booklet of paper into the older youth's waiting hands and raised the coffee cup to his lips, taking a small sip of the hot liquid.
James pulled off his sunglasses and frowned as he examined the essay. "The fuck is an exegesis?"
Tiredly, Chris yawned before taking another sip of the hot coffee. "An exposition. An explanation," he amended at James' lost expression.
"Am I supposed to understand half the shit that you've written? Nerd."
Chris snorted and leaned back in the comfortable seat as James finally reversed out of the driveway. "You could always return the essay," he snapped.
Stopping at a traffic light, James seized the chance to turn to Chris and almost whine, "What, no-fucking-way! Coach threatened to throw me off the team if my grades didn't pick up."
Chris snickered and took another swig of his coffee. "I'm hardly surprised. Jocks aren't exactly known for their intelligence. I'll tell you what – next time you ask me to do your assignment, I'll use small words that your inferior brain can handle. It's kind of sad that I'm the one writing your essays since I'm – what – two years younger than you…"
James turned the corner so sharply and at such a speed that Chris had to grab hold of his seat and his coffee. "You'll want to watch yourself kid," the elder teen said in a pseudo-threatening voice. "I could completely ruin your social status if I wanted too; and you should be flattered. Your last work got me an A plus."
"Oh yes," said Chris dryly as they came to a screeching stop at yet another set of traffic lights, "I've never been so grateful in my life. My work getting you praise; wonderful"
When the car finally came to a sharp halt in their school car park, James turned to his younger friend and asked dryly, "Why do you have my jacket, again?"
Chris shrugged, grabbed his bag from the back seat and hauled himself out of the car. "Because you were wasted last night." …And almost threw up on it…
"How about returning it?" James proposed almost angrily.
Chris merely smirked and leisurely leaned against the expensive black vehicle. "How about returning my essay?" With a delightedly wicked grin, he spun on his heels and swiftly headed towards the school as James locked the car.
"Halliwell, you arsehole – come back with my fucking jacket!" James bellowed after the fifteen-year-old youth.
----
Piper sat down in the chair opposite her eldest son, hands interlaced on top of the table. For a long moment, she remained completely silent, as if she was attempting to carefully phrase her next words.
Wyatt bristled visibly, nervousness and agitation coursing through him. He wasn't sure if it was from his two coffees before seven a.m. or his mother's entirely 'business' posture. "Who were you talking to?" he began slowly, simply to break the tension looming over the dining room.
"Your Aunt Phoebe," said Piper hastily. She gave a fatigued sigh. "That's what I want to talk to you about, Wyatt; I think you're old enough now…" she drew in a deep breath, busying herself by pouring a glass of juice. "There's a dangerous demon on the loose."
Wyatt barely managed to conceal his reflexive snort. "I'm seventeen, Mum," he laughed. "I've been 'old enough' for how many years?"
"Wyatt, I'm being serious here," admonished Piper, failing to perceive the humour Wyatt was clearly seeing in the situation. "Your aunt has already been attacked by one of his followers." She sighed. "Look, we'll go over this when you get home from school, but I really need you to warn Chris and pick up Casey from school." She slid a small soft leather pouch towards him. "Give Chris these potions and make sure he stays safe, understand?"
Wyatt's mirthful grin rapidly dissipated from his expression. He pushed the leather pouch of potions back towards her. "No way! You know what Chris is like. He hates me!" he bit back.
"Chris doesn't hate you, Wyatt," said Piper. "And considering the fact that you're seventeen, I'd think you wouldn't let your personal feelings get in the way of your own brother's safety."
"Chris isn't in danger, Mum. Demons don't give a crap about him." Wyatt steadied his heaving breath and pressed the palms of his hands against the dining table, leaning forwards for effect. "And Chris hates everyone, most of all - me. He broke my leg in three places just two weeks ago!"
Piper's features darkened considerably. "You spiked his food with peanuts and sesame!" she said almost defensively.
There was a short pause on Wyatt's part before he settled back into his chair and inquired, "So?" in a nonchalant voice. A small part inside Wyatt's chest took offence that she had chosen to defend Chris as opposed to him.
"Chris is deathly allergic to peanuts and sesame. You could have killed him!" exclaimed Piper, her voice now laced with shock and horror. She met her son's apathetic gaze with an expression of deep concern.
Wyatt interlaced his fingers and set his clasped hands on the table, dampening his dry, cracked lips. "Chris has ambushed me with vanquishing potions, shot me with darklighter arrows, and sold me out to demons. I doubt that spiking his food with peanuts is on par with all the shit he tries to pull," said Wyatt. "Do you have any idea what crap he and his cronies put me through every single day? Did you know that Chris is chummy with the entire football team? Did you know that Chris and those stupid Jocks have practically built a career out of making my life a complete misery ever since you made him go to my school?"
Piper considered her son closely. "Alright, I'll talk to Chris," she began in a drawn voice, "but as long as you promise to look out for him."
Wyatt laughed bitterly. "I doubt that simply talking to Chris will make him lighten up on me…and I'd never let you embarrass me like that. I'm the older brother. I'm supposed to me the one picking on him. Chris blames me for the fact that he can't use magic, did you know that? He acts like it's my fault that he's a powerless little freak!"
Piper's expression darkened. She narrowed her eyes, leaning forwards with a demeanour that dared him to continue. "Chris isn't a freak, Wyatt. You try bordering two worlds, never truly fitting into either one. This life is hard on him considering the fact that he isn't part of the magical world. You have your world and Chris has his. Don't ruin it for him, understand? Now, I need to you to promise me that you'll make sure Chris gets home in one piece, okay?" She raised her eyebrows threateningly and Wyatt could see promises of severe punishment looming behind his mother's chocolate brown eyes.
"I've seen Chris successfully defend himself with a butter knife. He's in no imminent danger."
"No negative feelings," warned Piper. "One. Piece."
"Two pieces, maximum." Wyatt flashed his mother a grin when she set her jaw and glared at him. "Well, I've officially missed my bus," he declared, checking his watch.
Piper handed him a thermos mug and pressed a set of keys into his hand. "You can take the car on the condition that you bring Chris home in one piece – not a single body part missing, demonic or brother-related reasons."
"Sure, no pressure, right?" muttered Wyatt resentfully. He snatched the coffee and keys from her and loudly stalked out of the dining room. "No pressure at all…and then when Chris ignores me…may as well dig my own damn grave…"
----
Chris pulled a thick exercise book from his locker and tucked it under his arm. He visibly grimaced as the student to his left slammed her locker, causing a dull pain to pulsate through his temples. "Do. You. Mind," he snapped at the unsuspecting young girl. "I have a bad enough headache without you clambering around like an idiot! Beat it!"
As the girl scampered off with the expression of a wounded freshman, a voice laughed from behind him. "Well, if it isn't Bayview's favourite little Halliwell."
Christopher narrowed his eyes as he turned around to face James Teague. "Is there something you need?"
James smirked and folded his arms over his chest. "Well, fine then, little-twat."
"Die, Teague," Chris sneered.
James eyed him and shook his head. "You know, you really have to take off my jacket. People are going to start thinking I'm doing you, or something."
Chris snickered and yanked a couple of books from his locker, mimicking in a high-pitched voice, "Oh, take me, Jamie, I'm yours!"
"Uh, right…." James leaned forwards as if to speak discretely. "I'm in need of your…services," he said in a low voice, flashing a twenty dollar bill.
Christopher rolled his eyes and tugged another book from his locker. "My 'services' aren't for sale, and especially not for twenty dollars."
"Aw, come on, man! Coach is threatening to kick me off the team if my grades don't pick up and you can get me an A plus!"
Christopher scoffed. "As if they'll kick you off the team; you're the captain and their star quarterback. They're not going to boot you because of bad grades." He closed his locker carefully, wary of making any noise that may reinstate the already throbbing headache he was currently in the midst of. "And what about that other essay I just wrote for you?"
James narrowed his eyes, considering this. "Thirty," he said, pulling out a ten dollar note.
"One hundred, no less," said Chris nonchalantly. "And you're going to spend the rest of 'indefinitely' being my personal taxi-cab."
"No way, man!" exclaimed James.
Chris shrugged. "Your loss," he said, heaving his books under his arm once more. "Find someone else to do your homework."
"Well," began James, "I guess there's that guy with the hair and the glasses who sits at the back of my lit class…."
Chris cocked an eyebrow. "Really? I wouldn't go near him with a ten-foot pole."
Before either youth could say any more, a third voice intruded on the conversation. Wyatt Halliwell approached the two friends boldly, thrusting a small leather pouch against Chris' chest.
"Well, well, well," drawled Chris, leaning against the row of metallic locker, "if it isn't Golden-Boy Halliwell."
Wyatt bristled, shoving the pouch against his younger brother's chest one last time. "Well, if it isn't the Family Delinquent," he snarled back. "Break any law's lately?"
Chris shoved the pouch back towards Wyatt and smirked. "No, but I'm considering looking into murder." He pointedly eyed his brother up and down.
Wyatt gritted his teeth. "Look, I promised Mum that I'd warn you so," he jangled the leather pouch that gave of a clinking sound of glass colliding with glass, "I'm warning you. Now, it's up to you whether or not you want to go and get yourself killed. I really couldn't give a damn either way."
"Fine," said James to Chris' left. "You've warned him. Now beat it, Freak."
Chris laughed airily. "Oh, we live in the same bedroom. He does," he snickered, "whilst thinking about your girlfriend, actually." To his left, James tensed and clenched his fists until his knuckles grew a pasty white. Wyatt reflexively stiffened before the three friends.
"Oh, does he?" began James in a slow voice. His eyes narrowed dangerously, an almost murderous glint reflecting in his hazel brown orbs.
As Chris smirked, Wyatt took an angry step forwards, rage brewing across his features. "When we get home, twerp, you're dead." When he made to step forwards again, James threw his hands out. Slamming his palms against Wyatt's shoulders, he sent his classmate reeling to the ground. Wyatt's textbooks scattered across the linoleum floor, gaining the attention of the surrounding students.
"You think about my girlfriend again and I'll castrate you," spat James, his domineering figure looming over Wyatt's fallen body. "Now beat it. I'll see you in Homeroom, Freak."
A silence cut through the crowd of adolescents as Wyatt gathered his book, shot one last deadly glare in Chris' direction, and retreated down the hall. Chris grimaced when a student slammed his locker, the sound reverberating through his mind like church bells clamouring against his eardrums.
James slipped a folded piece of paper between the pages of Chris' textbook and slapped a hundred dollar bill into his friend's hand. "The essay's due at the end of the week," he said.
Chris turned his head slightly to peer at James through bleary eyes. "You do realise you're a year ahead of me, don't you?" he said.
"Whatever," said the young captain dismissively. "If your freak brother lays a finger on you, tell me. I'll have him hanging off the flagpole by his tighty-whities."
Chris snickered quietly as he stuffed the fifty dollar note into his pocket. "Aw, and I thought that the hazing ended years ago."
James grinned. "This isn't hazing, Man. Humiliating Wyatt is a sport!" He turned and began to make his way down the hall. "Make sure you're ready. I'll pick you up tonight."
"Why?" called Chris after him.
James grinned again and spun around, backing his way down the hall. "They're trading powers in the Underworld Market, tonight. Maybe we can pick you up something fun!"
Post script: Hey. If you've reached this point, thank you for reading. Remember, reviews are gold and so is constructive criticism, so I would be eternally grateful if you dropped some on your way out. (:
