Shattered Reality

By Trinity-Neo1818

Rated: PG-13

Summary: Takes place at the end of season three. Max is reunited with Zan, but all isn't as it seems. What is truly bothering the disturbed six-year-old, and what does it have to do with Antar and Kivar?

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Pairings: Max/Liz, Michael/Maria, Kyle/Isabel, Sean/Ava

Chapter 1

Mr Brownsworth sighed heavily as he heard the familiar crunch of the tires upon pulling up in the driveway. He gazed up at the large suburban house before him witheringly, secretly wishing that he could be anywhere else in the world but there. He remembered, in his younger years, how he would speed by the same house in his bomb car and pause to look at it, telling himself that someday, the place would be his. Ironically, he now would rather the life he owned to belong to somebody else.

He spied his reflection in the review mirror as he stepped out of the car and cringed. He was a stout, middle-aged man with sharp features and an air of eloquence about him, but lately he had been noticing a drastic change in his appearance. The usual glint in his dark eyes seemed to have died out, and his face was marked with stress and fatigue. Things had been so difficult at work, and this coupled with his family problems had resulted in this new change, or at least he believed.

For the past six years of his life, Mr Brownsworth had been struggling. Struggling to close a deal at work, struggling to deal with his seriously disturbed young son, and struggling to come to terms with the fact that he was no longer the dashing young collage student he had once been. Now, it seemed as though he was trapped in between his professional and home life, both of which were not running as smoothly as he would have liked.

Things hadn't been so good in his marriage as well recently, and although he didn't like to admit it, most of it was his fault. Often in the past year, he had actually considered just getting up in the dead of night, piling into the car and driving off, leaving his wife behind forever. He played with the idea in his head, considering all the different places where he could end up, and then immediately feeling guilty that he had ever considered such a possibility. He knew that Mrs Brownsworth was suffering as well, perhaps even more than he was.

He reached the front steps of the house, paused, then turned and made his way to the letterbox instead. It was rather childish, he thought, for him to be acting like this. It may have been a 'good day'. Although lately, they seemed to be having more bad days than good. Reaching down into the letterbox, he retrieved several bills and frowned, wishing he hadn't stopped to collect the mail in the first place.

It had been a cool, crisp winter day. The sun had shone diligently against the cold, although the weather remained bitter and frosty. Now, the sun was beginning to set beyond the house, the soft pink light casting shadows against the suburban rooftops. It was colder than it had been all day. Mr Brownsworth's hands had gone numb, and he could see a few purple blotches appearing against his white skin. Deciding that he had delayed entering the house long enough, he dug his hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his house key, making his way to the front door.

"Sarah!" He called out into the dimly lit hallway. Obviously, his wife hadn't finished turning on all the houselights yet. "Sarah, I'm home."

Mrs Brownsworth emerged from the kitchen, dressed in a floral apron and still wearing a pair of matching mitts. The room beyond smelt of Italian cooking. Mrs Brownsworth, a plump woman with a curtain of red hair and startlingly bright blue eyes, greeted her husband with a relieved smile. Like her husband, visible signs of tension and strain were showing on her aging face.

"Thank goodness you're home." Mrs Brownsworth hurried towards him and pecked him on the cheek. "It's been another bad day."

This hardly came as a surprise to Mr Brownsworth, but since he had been trying to convince himself that everything would be fine when he walked through the door, this piece of news made his already low mood sink significantly.

"Where is he?" He asked sharply. After six years of this, his tolerance for his son was slowly dwindling.

"Upstairs in his room. He hasn't moved all day." Mrs Brownsworth was close to tears. "Oh James, please don't be too harsh on him. He's just a boy."

Mr Brownsworth grunted, which seemed to satisfy his wife as an answer. She led him up the stairs and down the second floor corridor, towards a door that led to a room which looked over the backyard. She froze for a moment, as if partly afraid of opening the door, then knocked timidly before she pushed it open.

"Zan…" She said in the false, lighthearted voice she often used when she was addressing her son. "…Zan, your daddy just got home!"

She pushed the door open a little wider, so Mr Brownsworth could step into the room. It was a large bedroom, the second best in the house. The walls had been painted powder blue, and the large window at the other end of the room overlooked the enormous backyard. The wooden floor was mostly bare – most of the numerous toys and books had been stowed away, and the bed was pressed against the wall as if someone had wanted it as out of the way as possible. Again, this was not such a surprise to Mr Brownsworth. Zan was never the kind of boy to keep things messy. He liked having space.

The desk chair had been placed in the very center of the room, as far away from anything else as possible. Sitting there, and gripping onto the chair as if his life depended on it, was a small, six year old boy with a handsome face and a shock of unruly dark brown hair. The child was staring directly ahead of him at the far wall, a blank look in his icy blue eyes. It was as though he were in some kind of trance.

"Hey, Zan!" Mr Brownsworth exclaimed in a overly-cheery voice. "Have a good day, mate?"

The child didn't move, let alone speak. Mr Brownsworth nervously took a step towards him. He couldn't help noticing just how tense the boy looked. Forcing himself to smile, he continued to speak as though he and Zan were having an ordinary conversation.

"Work was good. You know that nice man Daddy works with? Mr Marx? He just got a new puppy for his daughter. He wanted to know if you wanted to come over to his place next weekend and see it!"

"That would be fun." Mrs Brownsworth called hopefully from the door. "Right, Zan?"

Still, the child was silent. It was as if no one else was in the room. As he came even closer, Mr Brownsworth noticed that the child was not just staring absently at the wall. His brows were furrowed in deep concentration.

"What are you staring at, Zan?" Mr Brownsworth knelt beside the chair, staring at the same spot Zan was as if expecting to get an answer. Golden light was seeping in through the window. It wouldn't be long before night set in. "That blank wall can't be terribly interesting, can it?"

It was hard for any man to admit that the thing they were most afraid of was their own child. But Zan was not like any boy Mr Brownsworth had known before. There was something unnatural about him…unnerving. Cautiously, he reached out and placed his hand on Zan's shoulder. He could instantly feel all the tension he carried in his tiny body.

Feeling the pressure on his shoulder, Zan turned his head so quickly that Mr Brownsworth barely had any time to react. He leapt back in surprise, getting to his feet and shifting away anxiously as he felt Zan's steady gaze lingering on him.

"Do not disturb me." He said with narrowed eyes.

Mr Brownsworth was a smart man, and he did not need to be told twice. He backed out of the room quickly, followed by his distressed wife, who closed the door gently behind them.

"He's getting worse." She whimpered once they were back in the kitchen again. "James, I'm really afraid for him. Maybe its time we tried to do something about it."

"Like what?" Mr Brownsworth replied angrily. "Sarah, we've tried everything we can think of. The boy's beyond hope. Perhaps it's time we put an end to all of this and just have him committed somewhere."

Mrs Brownsworth began to sob as she retrieved a plate of lasagna from the oven. "I can't let go of him. I love Zan like he was my own son."

"Don't take this as a sign that you've been a bad parent to him, darling." He said softly, feeling a jab of pity for her. At least he could escape to work whenever things became difficult at home. Mrs Brownsworth was stuck with Zan all the time. "It's not you, it's him. If you want to blame it on anybody, blame it on his real parents."

Mrs Brownsworth stopped sobbing immediately and looked up. "His real parents?"

"The ones who gave him away." He spat with contempt. "The ones who didn't want him. Maybe its something genetic."

Mrs Brownsworth grew tense. She knew that her husband always seemed to have something against Zan's 'real parents', whoever they might be. In Mr Brownsworth's opinion, anyone who gave away a child for any reason when he and his wife had so desperately wanted one for so many years was a horrible person who he did not want to associate with. For this reason, she had spent the whole day wondering if she should confront him about what was on her mind.

"Honey, there's something I've been meaning to ask you." She sniffed.

Mr Brownsworth sighed wearily, bracing himself for the worst. By this stage, he was fed up with the whole problem, and would like nothing better than for it to disappear. He often wondered why, out of all the orphans in the world, they had ended up with Zan.

"M-Maybe we should try to find Zan's real parents. They might be able to tell us why Zan acts the way he does, or more importantly, how he can do the things he can do."

"You think they'll believe us if we tell them?" Mr Brownsworth scoffed, clearly outraged that the woman would think to bring up such a preposterous idea. "Do you honestly think anyone would believe us if we told them our son can walk through walls?"

"Maybe they would if they were his parents!" She argued. "They might offer us some kind of explanation."

"There is no explanation, Sarah, other than admitting that our son is a freak of nature!" Mr Brownsworth harshly replied. "I have no desire to ever come into contact with Zan's parents. They're probably nutcases who scientists have been using for experimentation, which is why Zan is able to do such bizarre things. Not only that, but they gave away their son in the first place. They obviously don't want anything to do with him. Heck, we don't even know if they're still alive!"

"It's worth a try." Mrs Brownsworth snapped back. "I don't care what they're like, as long as they can help me to figure out what's wrong with my baby."

Mr Brownsworth fixed his wife with a long, hard stare. "I don't want you going near those people, Sarah. That is final."

Furious, Mrs Brownsworth slammed the plate of lasagna down on the kitchen counter. "You can serve yourself. I'm going to bed. Sleep on the couch tonight."

With that, she pulled of her mitts and apron, turned on her heel and stormed upstairs. Mr Brownsworth sat down on the kitchen school and put his head in his hands, wondering how his life could possibly get any worse.

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