A/N: Enjoy! (Oops – just spotted a mistake so I'm reposting this chapter a second time. Hopefully I caught it before all of you did!)

Again, muchos gracias' go to: IcantthinkofaFnick, Zeria, fanastygirl721, Sparkling Cherries, Shadow Dark Night, misscharmed, chattypandagurl, Charmed Ravenclaw, girl-with-the-green-eyes.

Providence

Chapter 7

So much death. So much destruction. How could this be the fate of mankind? Better to think that destiny had been derailed, and that the nightmare in which I spent all my waking moments was never meant to be.

from the journals of Chris Halliwell


Against her resolve, Bianca had begun to feel the strain of living a lie amongst the Resistance. Everywhere she went, every person she met…they were all so damn…friendly.

Take Theresa for instance. A few days ago Theresa had stopped by to take Bianca to 'get some new clothes.' The cheerful, friendly, loud woman had dragged her from store to store (another advantage of taking over the shopping concourse as a base – plenty of clothes to chose from).

Initially taken aback from this overly friendly, but well meaning woman, Bianca had reluctantly allowed herself to be badgered into looking for clothes. However, Bianca had quickly found herself reluctantly having fun; they tried on clothes, some suitable and others clearly not as Theresa decided they should play dress up. They had laughed at each other, dressed to the nines in stiletto heels and silky tops. After collapsing from the giggles, they had finally calmed themselves down enough to pick out some more serious clothing. Cotton was the watchword and anything that would be easy to mend, Theresa had cautioned. Four hours later, Bianca and Theresa had hauled her new wardrobe back to Bianca's room. Theresa had left her to organize her new clothes herself, with a word of warning that she would be back later to drag her to the mess hall for dinner.

Which quickly turned into every meal thereafter.

Apparently Theresa had taken it upon herself to help Bianca 'fit' in, as she called it. Meal times were full of meeting people Theresa introduced her to, the number of people she knew made Bianca's head spin. And these friends of Theresa? They quickly made room for her at their tables and consciously worked at incorporating her into their conversations. At first, Bianca hadn't wanted to meet other people. After all, she had a job to do. But then she justified that it would be easier to gather information on her target, subtly questioning those around her for any and all details so that she could start looking for weaknesses in Chris' routine.

At least, that's what she told herself whenever she found herself laughing at someone's joke.

And so, Bianca had made a new friend in Theresa, however reluctantly.

The problem was she found herself actually caring about these people. Cared about their lives, their future…when it had never mattered before.

Why?

She reviewed her actions over the last few days.

Never before had she gotten to know her target. Always – it had been identify the target and take he or she out as quickly and as cleanly as possible. Five minutes, in and out. Twenty, if things were going badly. And now suddenly, she was spending days on end with these people…getting to know them…getting to know Chris.

The target, she reminded herself firmly.

It didn't bode well.

One of the fundamental rules of being a successful assassin was the necessary detachment. No feelings, her mother had lectured. Detachment from emotions, detachment from people and most important, detachment from the target.

So far, she was zero for three.

She fingered the teardrop pendant. I just need to remember why I'm here. Why I had to come here in the first place.

It was midday – or at least, that was what the clocks indicated. It was hard to tell, buried beneath dirt and concrete deep in the earth, no sunlight available to tell you if it was indeed daylight or nighttime. She wandered the halls, still trying to get her bearings. The tunnels within the base were incredibly complex. She was amazed that anyone could find his or her way around. Every day she seemed to discover a new path, a new tunnel. And every night she would dutifully record it in a notebook she kept hidden in her dresser. Soon she would be able to plot out the entire base.

The only one area that she hadn't really been able to explore was the area around command central. It seemed that even though there was a general atmosphere of trust, there was still a limit to how far that trust went. That particular area was blocked off to the general public. She had tried to get past the guards the other day who were posted at the entrances into the area. No such luck. She had found three different ways leading into the quarantined area – and three sets of guards. Frustrating to say the least, as her target seemed to spend most of his waking hours there, the one place she couldn't infiltrate with ease.

Even the area where his quarters were located was too risky. Housed with the rest of the Resistance fighters, those corridors were busy no matter what time of day. Unlike the general public dormitory area where her own room was located, there was no 'night' time when everyone was asleep. Probably because they work in shifts, she mused. There was definitely no way that she could sneak into that area without being seen. And she liked her own skin a little too much to risk being caught.

She turned another corner and entered a rotunda packed with people boxing supplies. The atmosphere in the room echoed the bleak feeling everywhere on base – one of rage and raw grief. News of the tragedy had quickly spread through the shocked population and many were still reeling with disbelief. Sheila's position as a teacher had put her in contact with the majority of the population. More than that, those who knew her, however briefly, revered her. She was, Bianca had swiftly discovered, one of the most loved individuals in the Resistance. Her constant championing of the children and her motherly manner had made her incredibly popular amongst all. Her loss, and the loss of the eight other members of her team, was felt deeply in the hearts of every person on base.

Skirting around the edges, she tried to unobtrusively cross the area to get to the hall on the other side. About to slip into the tunnel, a slight movement in her peripheral vision caused her to look up. Most normal people wouldn't have noticed, but as an assassin, observation skills were critical to survival and Bianca was trained to notice everything and everyone in a room.

It was Chris. He was sitting on the catwalk overlooking the rotunda. Alone, yet clearly not. His arms were draped around the guardrails as he swung his feet back and forth as they dangled in the air as he took in the scene below him. Against her better judgment, Bianca disappeared into the alcove to her left, taking the staircase that would lead her to the catwalk above. She tried to rationalize her actions. This is a perfect opportunity for me to get him to trust me.

He turned as he heard someone approach him, a little resentful; he had come to the catwalk because he wanted to be alone. His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized Bianca. Nodding a greeting, he returned to studying the scene below him.

Cautiously taking a seat beside him, Bianca crossed her legs beneath her rather than let them dangle over the edge like Chris'. She said nothing, sitting in companionable silence with him for a few minutes, listening to the noises from below as it drifted up towards them.

"I heard about your friend…Sheila…and the others," Bianca finally broke the silence between them. It had been all over the mess hall the other day. The attack, the losses.

Silence.

For a moment, Bianca didn't think Chris was going to respond. When his voice broke the silence, she jumped involuntarily – startled.

"You know…you're the first person who didn't say immediately to me that they were sorry," Chris said, conversationally.

Bianca reflected on that statement for a moment, recalling her own feelings when she had learned her mother had been killed, "Sorry doesn't quite cover it, does it?"

Chris laughed harshly – an unpleasant sound. "No, no it doesn't."

"How is her husband doing? Darryl?" Bianca ventured.

He rubbed his face wearily. "I guess as good as he can, under the circumstances. Thank God he wasn't there when she died…couldn't see what they'd done to her…"

"What about you?"

"What about me?" Chris mimicked, a little bitter.

"Look – if you want to be alone…fine. Just say so. There's no reason to take that tone with me," Bianca got to her feet. "I just thought you might want someone to talk to. I know I sure did when I found out my mother was killed."

Chris' hand shot out, wrapping around Bianca's wrist, "You're right. I had no right to speak to you that way."

"Well, maybe a little," Bianca allowed. "You obviously came up here to be alone." She paused before continuing, "Would you like me to leave?"

Letting go of her wrist, Chris shook his head hesitantly. "No. No…I think…I think I'd like the company."

Sitting back down, Bianca glanced over at Chris, his face carefully averted away from her. She caught a glimpse of his profile as he turned his head slightly before returning his gaze to the scene below them. In that glimpse, she recognized the same anguish and grief written all over his face that she had felt at her mother's passing.

"You were there. I heard…you were there as she breathed in her last moments," Bianca said, not really knowing what else to say.

"She was…Every time I close my eyes, I see her face….the way she was when I found her. She…she was in such pain…" Chris' fists tightened around the guardrails. "And there wasn't anything that I could do…nothing that I could say…to take the pain away."

Bianca remained silent. How had her mother died? Alone? Scared?

"It's not fair. This war…so many lives lost – and for what? So that Wyatt can be 'all powerful'?" Chris asked, rhetorically. "She was…why did she have to die that way? Damn it!"

"I don't know," Bianca replied sympathetically. She heard the grief and rage in his voice, so similar to her own feelings that she could not be sympathetic, even as she struggled to hold onto her anger at him.

"She didn't deserve to die that way…she didn't…" Chris shook his head.

"No one does."

Chris fell silent again.

"Even though I only met her for that one brief moment, I could tell that she was…important to you," Bianca spoke hesitantly.

Chris nodded. "She was…my friend. Family."

She prompted, "Tell me more about her."

"She wanted to celebrate my birthday, can you believe it?" Chris shook his head, sadly. "Wouldn't let me talk her out of it…she was that stubborn."

"Or maybe she just knew you needed something to celebrate?"

"Maybe…" Chris thought, unconvinced. "I think…I think she was aware how little time we spend with each other anymore. We're all so busy with running the Resistance that we forget about family. Sheila was the glue that held us together, you know?"

"My mother was like that, for me…" Bianca offered, her voice distant. Focus, she shook herself inwardly. He's the enemy, she reminded herself, trying to dampen the emotions of sympathy and the connection she was beginning to feel for him. Suppressing the niggling of her conscience in the back of her mind, she said aloud, "What else?"

"She was…amazing. Not only did she organize all the classes for the children, she brow beat anyone who thought it was a waste of time," Chris chuckled, remembering. "I remember this one time –,"

He continued on and on with a string of reminiscences, giving Bianca a brief but insightful look into this 'leader' of the Resistance. These past few days she had been learning as much about him as best she could under the circumstances. She had been amazed at the number of people who claimed to know Chris. Everyone she asked clearly held him in high esteem. It had quickly become apparent to her that he put others first and himself last.

Her subtle questioning of some of the residents that she had met in the mess hall quickly led her to conclude that while Darryl might run the day-to-day operations, ultimately the Resistance looked to its young leader for guidance. Chris' familiarity with his brother helped them to exploit Wyatt's weaknesses and his knowledge of spells from being the son of the Charmed One only strengthened his value to the cause. More than that, they trusted him. They trusted him to take care of them, to protect them and to save them. And he worked hard to not betray that trust.

He was kind, loyal, incredibly intelligent and truly cared for people.

He was, in fact, the exact opposite of his brother.

People needed him.

So what? Bianca argued with herself, as she questioned what would happen to the Resistance if Chris was no longer there to lead. He still killed mom.

He only stopped when he suddenly realized that his throat was dry and that he'd been talking for a good forty five minutes. He blinked in surprise, stuttering, "Good God! I'm sorry – I didn't mean to go on and on like that."

Bianca shrugged a shoulder negligently. "It's okay. It's better now, though, isn't it? Better that you remember your friend the way she lived instead of the way she died. Isn't that a better memorial?"

"Yes," Chris said, faintly. "Yes, it is." He turned to look at the girl sitting next to him, her profile fixed on the scene unfolding beneath them. "Thank you."

She glanced at him in surprise, "For what?"

"For listening…for helping me remember Sheila the way she was…and not the way she died."

Touched in spite of herself, Bianca stood up. It was time for her to leave before her already tangled emotions become even more so. "I'm glad I could help. And Chris? Everything will be okay."

Taking her leave, she walked away slowly from the young man. She forced herself to not turn around, to see if he was looking at her.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He was looking at her.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She turned away and hurried back to her room.

Everything will be okay…
The two men eyed their target. In the sewers of L.A., Darryl's sons DJ and Michael were hock deep in shit.

Literally.

"Please…please…," Phinks blubbered. "What did I ever do to you guys? Don't I always come through? Haven't I always been straight with you guys?"

Michael casually tossed the crystal in the air, the lassiez-faire attitude more menacing than if he had been using it to actually shock the demon.

DJ and his brother circled their sometime informant as he cringed and cowered in the crystal cage. DJ stopped to ask without inflection, "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Meeting Michael's eyes, DJ nodded once. Phinks' eyes widened in terror as Michael reached down with the crystal in his right hand, delivering an electric shock to the demon inside the cage.

"All right, all right!" Phinks' whimpered. "What do you want? What do you want?"

DJ crouched down so that his face was on level with the trembling demon, "Word on the street is that Marcus was killed by an assassin. You remember Marcus, don't you Phinks? Tall, fair haired whitelighter." A pause. "One of your main contacts?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Phinks sniveled. "Honest I don't. Never heard the name before in my life. You sure you got the right demon?"

Sighing, DJ straightened, nodding at Michael again. Michael leaned down, delivering another electric shock to the demon.

The scent of burnt flesh filled the air.

Curling himself into a fetal position, Phinks half-sobbed, "Okay! Okay! I knew him…I knew him, all right? He and I…we had a deal going. I gave him some info on Wyatt and he'd pay me for it…But that's it! I swear! I don't know nothing about him being killed!"

Shaking his head, DJ circled the crystal cage. DJ gestured at his brother, "Why are you lying to me, Phinks? Do I look like I was born yesterday? Give him another shock…"

"Wait! Wait a sec! Maybe…maybe I might know something…" Phinks protested, eyeing the crystal in Michael's hand fearfully. "Yeah…yeah…it's coming back to me…"

Rolling his eyes, DJ stood impassively in front of Phinks, "It'd better come back to you fast or my brother here will give you another shock to help your memory along…"

"I remember now! I do! It's just you holding that thing, waving it in my face and all is making me forget," Phinks sniffled, a little resentfully. "Maybe I'd remember faster if you put that thing away for a minute."

DJ narrowed his eyes at the flinching demon, debating whether or not to cut Phinks some slack. After a few minutes, he came to a decision and nodded at Michael, "All right. Put it away for now." Glaring at the demon, DJ ordered, "You better start talking fast or you'll be wishing for that crystal in a couple of minutes."

Phinks nodded empathically, his head bobbing up and down in his haste to agree, "Thank you. Oh thank you. I knew you were a kind soul when I first saw you. I said to myself, that man looks like a nice –,"

"Enough!" DJ growled. "Who killed Marcus?"

"You have to understand, I ain't got nothing to do with it, you know?" Phinks protested. "I just heard about it, is all."

"Fine," DJ bit out. "You didn't have anything to do with it. Now who killed Marcus?"

"I don't know their names," Phinks started.

"Oh for Pete's sake," DJ bit out angrily. "You're wasting my time. Michael – he's all yours!"

"No! Wait! No!" Phinks shrieked. "I didn't know their names but I know how you can identify them!"

Tapping his foot impatiently, DJ quirked his eyebrow at the demon, "Well?"

Phinks wiped his running nose with the back of his hand, "They were a mother-daughter team, I think. You know – the big time. The real deal."

"Phinks…" DJ said warningly.

"They were a couple of Phoenixes," Phinks replied hastily. "You know – an elite coven of witch assassins?"

Trading looks with his brother, Michael prompted, "Phoenixes?"

"Yeah, Wyatt's got a bunch of them at the stronghold," Phinks explained. "They're top of the food chain or pretty much. They're a family of assassins – they've been killing for hire for centuries. Kind of a family business, you know?"

"What else do you know about them?" DJ demanded.

Phinks shrugged. "They're real powerful and real elite. Best of the best, they say. Rumour has it that once they go after a bounty, they don't stop till they succeed."

"You said you knew how to i.d. them?" DJ reminded their prisoner. "How do we know if we've caught one?"

"First off – you wouldn't catch one. Like I said, they're better than best," Phinks rubbed his nose, scratching it. "But I've heard they all were born with a distinct birthmark."

"And what does the birthmark look like?" Michael demanded, exasperated.

"Maybe I could remember if you took this cage down," Phinks said slyly. "All this electricity is making my brain hum…"

"In your dreams, you piece of sh –," Michael started.

"Michael!" DJ cut him off, shooting him a glare. Reaching into his pocket, DJ pulled out a vial. "See this Phinks? It's a vanquishing potion. Cage comes down and if you make one wrong move – I'll hit you with this before you can say 'poof.'"

"Fine!" Phinks grumbled, eying the vial a little resentfully. "And I think I'm having memory problems again!"

Nodding at Michael, who then kicked the crystals that formed the cage around Phinks away, DJ merely lifted his right eyebrow, holding the vial aloft, "You sure you don't remember?"

"All right, all right! No need to be hasty!" Phinks put up his hands in front of him, backing away slowly. He came up short as he felt himself back into Michael. "The birthmark looks like a bird arising from flames."

"A Phoenix!" DJ mused.

"Well, d'uh!" Phinks snickered. He began to protest as Michael picked him up by the collar, "Hey! Hey! I told you what you wanted to know! Let me go!"

"You wouldn't be lying to us now, would you Phinks?" DJ asked, menacingly. "Because if you are…"

"No, no! I told you straight. I'll even throw in a freebie," Phinks protested hastily. "Something I heard from a friend of a friend…."

"Demons don't have friends, Phinks," DJ snorted disbelievingly.

Phinks shrugged. "Okay, fine. Whatever. The point is, I heard something real good. Real important to you, I'd guess."

"Well?" Michael asked impatiently.

"The thing is…" Phinks trailed off, "I'm kind of low on –,"

"You little piece of –," Michael moved to grab at Phinks again.

"Michael!" DJ held him back. Meeting his brother's eyes, DJ reached into his jacket, pulling forth a small cloth sack. Tossing it at the demon, "Well?"

Phinks eagerly loosed the strings and peered inside the sack. Grinning gleefully, he nodded his thanks at DJ, "Just what I wanted. I've been looking for them for –,"

"Phinks!" DJ roared. "I'm losing my patience!"

Rubbing his head, Phinks eyed DJ warily, "Keep your top on! Phinks always keeps his word. I heard that one of them assassins has snuck into your base on orders straight from the lord himself. The bugger is going to take out lord Wyatt's brother…your leader!"

Enraged, Michael stormed over to the demon, grabbing his collar with both hands, shaking the demon hard, "You lying shi-,"

"Michael!" DJ warned again. Pulling Michael off the now cowering demon, he eyed the demon in disgust, "If you're lying…."

"I ain't lying! I just told you what I heard down there. Maybes' I got it wrong. Maybes' I got it right," Phinks sniffled. "Ain't my job to find out. I just tell it like it is."

DJ spat on the ground, making a slashing movement across his throat, "Get out of here, Phinks. And if I find out that you told anyone about this encounter… ffftttt."

Phinks' eyes widened in horror, "I won't tell no one! No way! You can trust your friend Phinks. Yes, you can."

"Get out of here. Now," DJ grimaced.

Nodding, Phinks scampered off a few feet away before shimmering out. Left alone, the two Resistance fighters stared at each other.

"Well?" DJ asked the question they were both thinking.

"Well – I think he's a lying piece of shit, that's what I think," Michael snorted. "You can't trust a word that pathetic demon says."

"But what if there's a chance it is true? I think we need to get back to base. Let Les know what's going on," DJ offered. "We have no idea how long or who this assassin could be. I think we tell Dad and Les and let them figure out the next steps."

"Damn, I wish we hadn't sent Slick back early," Michael grumbled, referring to their telepath.

DJ shrugged. "He was needed elsewhere. We thought we could get by." Looking at his brother, "I think we need to boogie home ASAP. If we drive all night, we could be back at base by tomorrow night."

"Agreed," Michael nodded. "No use crying over split milk. Let's just hope we make it back in time before the assassin gets a chance to strike."


Les eyed his friend doubtfully. Chris hadn't spoken a word to him since they'd come back from the train station. Well – not a word outside of anything that didn't directly have to do with the Resistance's operations.

Chris and Les were pouring over the maps in command central. Darryl had been given 'leave' from his duties for the foreseeable future – so that he could deal with his grief in privacy. But time marched on and Chris knew they were holding down their side of the ridge just barely and needed to strategize their next move.

"We'll have to retake the train station first this time. Then rebuild the bridge," Chris mused aloud, intently studying the markings on the map. He made a couple of notes to himself on a notepad he kept next to him for just that purpose.

"Didn't we try just that? And got our asses kicked?" Les asked, bluntly. He fidgeted in his seat, loosing the buttons on the collar of his shirt. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he glanced over at Chris whose entire focus was on the map in front of him.

Chris ignored him, circling some points on the map before flipping the pages in his notebook. "Yes…yes…we could get the sections built here first then ship them over…"

Les waited as Chris continued to murmur to himself. Giving up on trying to contribute (it wasn't like Chris needed his help anyways), he decided to bring up a topic that Chris had been avoiding mentioning the last few days.

"The memorial service is in two days," Les said hesitantly.

"I know," Chris said quietly, eyes still on the notepad.

"They'll be expecting you to say something," Les ventured.

"I know."

"What are you going to say?" Les wanted to know.

"I don't know."

"I had communications break protocol a couple of nights ago and get in touch with Darryl's kids. I told them to get their asses back here but they said they were on to something. Something big," Les said wearily. "And because I couldn't tell them why they had to come back immediately, they said they'd be back in a couple of days. Once they figured out what it is they've stumbled on."

Chris continued to study the map in front of him, "It's Darryl's decision. He wants to be the one to tell them. We need to respect that."

"They'll miss the memorial service, Chris!" Les protested. "If they knew…they'd be back in a flash. I know they would!"

Chris made a couple of notations on the pad next to him, "It's not our call, Les."

Frustrated, Les slammed his hand down on top of the writing pad, preventing Chris from making further notes, "Wouldn't you want to know?"

Pulling on the pad, Chris slid the paper out from under Les' hand and replied coolly, "It doesn't matter what I want. It's what Darryl wants."

"Then why can't we hold off on the service? Until the kids get back?" Les asked urgently.

"Because Darryl and the families of the other team members wanted it then. They need closure, Les. And without a grave…" Chris trailed off, not wanting to add and no bodies to bury...

"It's not right, Chris. It's not fair," Les said, frustrated – no longer speaking about the service.

"Life isn't fair. You should know that by now."

Disgusted, Les let Chris pull the pad from his grip, "How can you be like this? How can you just keep going like nothing happened? How can you be so cold?"

Silence.

Knowing he had gone too far, Les attempted to retract his statement, "Chris – I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I know you're hurting too. I…I just…"

"I think you need to take some time off, Les," Chris said evenly, his eyes still focused on the maps lying on the desk in front of him. "I've got things under control here."

"Chris –," Les tried to apologize for his outburst. "I just…I'm just so angry…Sheila…I loved her…she…she was my family…"

"I know," Chris replied, still not meeting his friend's eyes. "Go. Check on Darryl and the families of the others. Come back when you're ready and not before."

Acknowledging the dismissal, Les left the small meeting room, shutting the door behind him softly.

Alone, Chris finally put his pencil down, tearing his gaze away from the maps in front of him. His eyes lingered on the door. How he longed to get away from the daily grind of it all, to run back to his quarters and lie in his bed with the covers pulled over his head like when he was little.

Chris, his mother would say, thoroughly exasperated. You stop that right now! You can't hide in bed all day. The world doesn't stop just because you might want it to.

How right she had been. With Darryl grieving, the day-to-day operations fell squarely in Chris' lap. There was no one else but him to pick up the slack. Les was too angry and their other friends…Zach, Duncan, Ben, Slick…they had their own duties to attend to and teams they were responsible for.

Somewhere inside him, Chris could feel the grief was slowly eating away at his soul. He had learned to stop thinking of their tally losses as people and merely as numbers. Suppressing his emotions had been automatic. Sheila's death had changed that back with a vengeance. These weren't numbers, he thought savagely. They were people. Somebody's friend, son, father, daughter, mother...

More casualties of this useless and stupid war.

He withdrew his wallet, carefully unfolding the faded photograph of his family from happier times. He reverently traced the faces of his family with his index finger.

Mom…tell me what to do…

He had never been able to reconcile the image of the older brother he had grown up with to this ruthless, power-hungry, evil man that wore the face of his brother. Somewhere, somehow along the way…something had turned Wyatt away from the good side.

Right?

And yet…

That same man was sending demons to rampage and murder innocent people – just so that he could call himself the 'most powerful' being in the world.

Why?

Why all this killing, Wy? Why the murder of so many innocents? So many people…our own family, goddamnit!…And now…aunt Sheila…

How many more? How many more have to die just so you can be the 'all powerful' one?

It was sick.

Sheila was gone. So were thousands of others. Including his parents…

All gone before their time.

Leaving him…alone.

And at that moment, he hated. He hated with a pure, blinding rage. He hated his life, he hated this war…but most of all, he hated his brother.

Guilt quickly followed on the heels of anger.

He could practically hear his mother's voice ringing in his ears…Don't give up on him, Chris. He's family. He's your brother.

When Chris had first formed the Resistance alongside Darryl, he had secretly harboured the hope that his brother wasn't lost to them. In his heart of hearts, he had wished that everything that had happened since that day had all been a mistake. A misunderstanding on Chris' part and everyone else's. That Wyatt wasn't ruler of all evil. That…that somehow, some way…there was a reason behind everything that his brother was doing. And maybe…maybe they just couldn't see it.

Chris folded the photograph, the well-worn creases easily bending under his care. He tucked the photograph back into its proper place in his wallet.

When Chris had closed Sheila's eyes for the last time, when he'd looked into Darryl's grief stricken face after telling him the news, Chris finally let himself see what that reason was.

Wyatt was evil.

He felt his resolve settle, pushing all else, emptying all emotions…all his pain…away.

Wyatt had to be stopped.

Chris felt a hardening in his centre…in his heart…that nothing much could reach anymore, let alone affect.

And that moment, he made his decision. He cut all ties, emotional or otherwise, to his brother…no, no more. He would no longer recognize any familial ties to that…man…anymore.

He was the enemy. Pure and simple.

The die had been cast.

The lines were drawn.

There was no going back now. That was clear.

It was time to accept the inevitable.

It was time to kill Wyatt.

Mom, can you ever forgive me?

To be continued….