A/N: Uhh, well, yeah…saying that it's been a while is an understatement so I'm not even going to try but, well, I was just blown away by all the reviews, and they just kept on coming even a year after my first update so I decided, what the hell, I'm going to continue this story.
Needless to say, that didn't happen for a looooong time, even though I spent many an hour pondering over what I should write. Finally, I made a breakthrough and got about three pages down before I trashed it (I was watching the season finale of Whistler, again, and I thought about my story and how much it sucked so I just deleted it) and rewrote the whole thing, and this is what came out.
Now I have a whole new angle for this story and hopefully, I will be updating soon. Also, I made it my New Year's resolution to update at least once a week, so yeah…I hope that this can meet your expectations at least half way, and I would once again like to thank you all for the reviews. That has got to be the most reviews I've ever gotten for just one chapter, and I made this chapter extra long to thank you for it.
Also, one reviewer pointed out the fact that Leo did not seem too concerned over the fact that Chris had just disappeared. I'm sorry if it seemed that way but that was just because Leo did not know what was going on, so he was a little slow on the uptake, lol. So, on with the story then, I guess. I hope you like.
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14 years later…
A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead as he paused for a moment and adjusted his bulky helmet, ruffling the soaked strands that lay hidden underneath. The cheers and the cries all faded in to the background in favour of the racing beat of his heart as it thumped against his chest; though truth be told it felt more like his heart was hammering away at his sternum with a lung that it had grabbed somewhere along the way. He would need to check later to make sure that there weren't any bruises.
He quickly adjusted his helmet before once again setting off after the puck, time seemingly slowing down with every stride. His team was down, 4-3 with five minutes left in the game, and he'd be damned if they were leaving without that darned cup. After all the hard work, and the endless practices ending with the shrill cries of their over excited coach piercing through their own scattered conversations, he was not giving up now, not after all he'd been through.
Cheers filled the arena as the opposing forward neared the net, bypassing all of their defensemen. He could distinctly hear the voices of several people desperately calling out his name, hoping against hope that he would be able to stop the goal from ever happening. He would not disappoint.
Sparks flew as he raced across the ice, target in sight. He nimbly dodged another forward in his pursuit of the puck, and got his stick ready for a check as he neared his target. Cheers rang throughout the arena as he managed to wrestle the puck away and skate down the ice on a breakaway.
He felt a smirk pull at the edges of his lips as suddenly he was in front of the other team's goaltender, stick raised high in the air for a quick snap shot. Oh, how the tables have turned. He was not known as one of the greatest players alive for nothing. And to top it all off, their goalie wasn't exactly known for his goaltending; in fact it was quite the opposite. He didn't know how the other team had made it this far, but it was nothing that couldn't be fixed with a quick shot to the net. Oh, if he only knew.
As his stick neared the ice, the goaltender suddenly dropped his stick and reared up his head. Thin lips cracked as they stretched past their limit, a shrill cry escaping the vast cavern that was spread out before him. The glass surrounding the rink shattered, showering the ice with an everlasting flow of sparkling diamonds. An innocence that was seldom seen nowadays glistened from their very depths as they mocked the poor boy, cutting into his skin and caressing the tiny rivulets of crimson red that sprung up in their wake.
His stick was promptly dropped and the puck carelessly kicked into a corner as he dropped to his knees, hands covering his ears in a futile attempt to escape the horrible screeching emanating from the growing goalie.
The other players suddenly started to melt away as harsh laughter rang from their rapidly disintegrating mouths, melted pools bubbling from the stands until only a putrid stench remained of the once blazing crowd that had oh so vehemently cheered his name only moments ago. He might've heard one of them mumble his name before the last one disappeared behind the stands. The only one not affected was the goalie, who instead seemed to be growing larger and more disfigured by the minute, until finally a large, green monster was standing in front of him, the sickening screech forever emanating from the horribly disfigured lips.
He desperately clawed at his ears, hoping against all hope to stop this agonizing torture, but the excruciating shrieks only continued. He could feel blood start to sluggishly pump out of his delicate ears, his helmet having been knocked off sometime during his struggle to end the pain, as it had just became too much. He crumpled into a foetal position, legs pumping from side to side in sheer agony, but the screeching did not end. If nothing else, it seemed to grow louder by the second.
One of his legs caught the side end of his stick by accident, sending it ricocheting off the mutated goaltender. Piercing, red eyes abruptly locked on to the baby blue of his own, and the pain intensified. Desperate screams rang throughout the arena, cutting through that of the goalie's. He suddenly realised that that was him, he was the one screaming in unrivalled pain. Tears streamed down his face, and it did not seem as if he would be able to survive the immeasurable pain.
He curled up even tighter, but it did not end there. It did not seem possible, but the piercing shrieks went up an octave, bringing with them a whole new level of pain. He cried out once more, begging for mercy from the transformed goalie. His cries were accompanied by a telekinetic wave as he desperately tried to send the monster flying into a far off wall, but it was useless, the monster was just too strong. His cries also went unanswered as the horrible screeching continued, amplified in the empty arena. It almost seemed as if the thing was trying to defy him, its evil, red eyes glinting in the dim lights.
He finally produced an energy ball with his last ounce of strength, which he promptly launched at his sadistic assailant, hoping with every fibre of his very being that the thing would stop for a second, just one second, to acknowledge its rapidly accumulating wounds. Maybe…maybe then he would be able to die in peace. The ungodly racket continued as the goalie seemed to get closer and closer when suddenly
CRASH
…and all was silent.
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"Wyatt Mathew Halliwell! That had better not be your alarm clock that I just heard smash to the ground or there will be hell to pay, buster. That was the third one this week!"
Wyatt jolted up at the sound of his name, his limbs a few seconds late on the uptake, him still being half-asleep and all, and he somehow ended up hopelessly tangled in the many comforters that littered his bed. Blue orbs blinked drowsily as they scrutinized the place that he dared call his room, searching for the cause of his rather abrupt awakening.
They flickered over the rapidly emptying, walk-in closet that dominated the right half of his room, its contents collecting in ever growing heaps of clothes that littered the perimeter of the room. Wandering over to the left, they zeroed in on the wardrobe nestled into the far corner, stripped wide open for all the world to see and contents drooping slightly as they hung over the edge. To his side his computer hummed in acknowledgement of his ever roaming gaze, tucked into the cover of the large, mahogany desk with which it had come as a lavish gift from his doting and rather affluent aunt. His gaze wandered closer still until they caught sight of the bedside table looming uncomfortably close to the right side of the captain's bed upon which he currently lay captive, the surface strangely bare.
An errant hand found its way up to his ear, searching for the blood that he had felt there moments ago. Nothing; that was odd. Eyes narrowed in disdain as he finally found the root of his problem.
A smoking, innocent-looking alarm clock lay crumpled on its side in the middle of the room. To all others it looked normal enough, but he knew the truth. Yes, that little thing had been tormenting him since the day he got it, which inconsequentially had been yesterday, but that was not the point. The point being that that…thing, for lack of a better term, had gotten what it justly deserved.
No, if he had wanted to punish it properly, it would've been systematically diced into many individual cubes…after he had broken every single bo--wire that the thing had. Then he would've blended it up in his mom's extra strength blender, set it on fire and then orbed it to the Underworld where some demon would undoubtedly vanquish it, as it was even too evil for them, and then it would spend the rest of its days hanging off a cliff in Purgatory. But no, he was far too nice to inflict such torture upon even the most evil of all things in the whole universe (he was sure that it could give the Source a run for his money), so a simple vanquish would have to do.
Giving his ruthless torturer one last glare, Wyatt quickly untangled himself from the mess of limbs and comforters, years of practice aiding him throughout the process. As he got out of his bed to head to the bathroom, he circled the room and accidentally kicked the alarm clock that he had gone out of his way to pass by, sparks flying from the machine that was already broken beyond repair, sizzling under the heat of the long passed energy ball that had knocked it from its resting place by the side of the young, witchlighter's bed.
After Wyatt had half-heartedly brushed his teeth and taken a nice, long shower, he grudgingly assessed the situation. Long curls hung in a tangled mess, weighted down by a sheet of water that clung to his strands like crazy glue. He pulled out his trusty comb and sighed, blue orbs lingering over the cherry wood handle gripped tightly in an unforgiving fist. The polished teeth glinted, reflecting the light that fought its way through the flimsy curtains that framed the window overlooking the teen's bed.
"Time for a miracle if I've ever needed it; let's see what this baby can do."
With those final words the Twice Blessed reluctantly raised the custom made comb and pulled it through the crazed locks, all the while whispering frantic pleas to a God that he wasn't even sure he believed in.
oOoOoOoOoOo
The delicious scent of warm, home made pancakes and fresh maple syrup welcomed the lanky teen as he loped into the kitchen, not a single strand out of place and a bright smile plastered onto his face for all the world to see. His mother stood in front of the stove, piling pancake after pancake onto a large platter as she happily prepared breakfast for her rather large family.
Wyatt's eyes glazed over, his cheeks pulled taut as the grin grew to unbelievable proportions, daring to challenge his delicate ears for space. He swallowed hard as a sudden surge of saliva threatened to escape his gaping maw, and he could practically feel the pounds collecting on his rather gangly frame as he inched closer to the flat cakes that he firmly believed had been a gift by God himself.
Leo and Henry sat side by side at the table, bickering and fighting good-naturedly over the morning paper as had become tradition over the past few months, and a tiny smile lit Paige's face as she raised her coffee mug, taking a huge sip of the brown liquid that both she and her husband worshipped daily. His mother turned around humming an unknown tune from the double 0's and dropped the platter onto the table, announcing the start of breakfast.
"What took you so long, Wyatt? I thought the smell of my pancakes would've brought you running down the stairs ages ago."
A growing smirk pulled at Piper's lips as she affectionately ruffled her son's hair, inadvertently destroying all of his morning's hard work and completely oblivious to his vicious Glare of Death. Wyatt's infamous love of pancakes had travelled the seven seas riding atop a pink, polka dot hippo and was known throughout the world (magical and non-magical). Whenever the two were together they seemed to be in a world of their own. Not even demons dared to destroy the sacred bond between boy and batter cake. No, not after the massacre from last week.
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The Halliwell family, in its entirety, was squeezed around the diner table, noisily bumping elbows and clinking dishes in their haste to get a hold of at least one of Piper's legendary pancakes before Wyatt wolfed them all down. This was no exaggeration, as Wyatt had once managed to eat thirty seven pancakes (technically thirty six and a half, as the other half had been an unsuccessful attempt by the ever so valiant Henry to gulp one down before Wyatt had stolen the rest off his plate) in simply fifteen minutes. Needless to say, he had been hailing the porcelain god for most of the day afterward.
Piper shook her head as Wyatt reached for the maple syrup and drowned the doomed pancakes that lay atop his plate. Those things never had a chance.
"Wyatt, don't you think that's enough syrup? You should leave some for other people too; I thought I had raised you better than that."
Wyatt nodded whole-heartedly, his blonde curls flailing through the air. "I totally agree, Mom. Uncle Henry, stop hogging all the syrup! It's rude."
Henry ruffled the young man's hair and tried to contain the laughter that was bubbling up in vain. He'd never get tired of his eldest nephew's antics. He would also never tire of Piper's cooking, and a large smirk adorned his face as his fork pierced the outermost layer of pancakes that were stacked upon Wyatt's plate, and he shovelled them all down, a sputter here and there breaking through the cracking laughter as his nephew gallantly battled through the assault of fork attacks in an attempt to salvage any remaining bits of pancake that might have escaped the cruel cavern of death that was otherwise called Henry's mouth.
Paige smiled with a hint of wistful yearning when a barely perceptible dot in the corner of her eye leaned slightly to the left. She grabbed those closest to her (Piper and Henry) and pulled them underneath the table with a shout, narrowly dodging a flying enerygball.
The comfortable, teasing atmosphere was instantly replaced with that of fierce animosity as another battle in an endless war was fought. A bright, blue sphere encircled Leo and his son as they vanquished side by side, spouting energyballs and athames alike.
Wyatt had just vanquished a darklighter when he saw it, the inexorable Glare of Death, and it was pointed straight at his plate, or to be more exact, at his warm, beautifully stacked pancakes that practically exuded maple syrup from every pore of its pious Holiness.
Time seemed to slow down for the young witchlighter as he saw the energyball leave the palm of the demon and head straight for his beloved breakfast. It was too late; there was nothing he could do to stop it. Wyatt spared a quick glance at his father and took a running leap, blocking the path of the evil ball of energy.
The energyball collided with the young man, throwing him backwards. Wyatt rolled to the side to avoid crushing his beloved pancakes, and slammed his fist in a fit of rage, vanquishing all the demons in a single flare, ashes lazily fluttering in the air . His chest glowed a soothing gold as his wound started to heal, but not soon enough as Piper slapped his wounded chest and towered over her quivering son.
"What the HELL were you thinking? If you were thinking at all!?"
The rest of Piper's angry tirade faded into the background as Wyatt's gaze veered towards his stunning pancakes, carefully tucked to the right of the table, sheltered from all the evils of the world that would inevitably try to harm them. Yes, they were safe for another day, and as far as Wyatt was concerned that was the way it would remain.
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Needless to say, they weren't going to forget that one for years to come, so Wyatt still had many years of endless teasing to deal with. Piper was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of a chair being pulled out and a lazy, teenage body dumping itself onto the rather unfortunate piece of furniture, hands carefully preening errant locks back into place.
"I…kind of got attacked by a malicious, little bastard that wanted nothing more than to torture me endlessly solely for the purpose of satiating its forever growing sadistic pleasures. Don't worry though; I took care of the problem. That thing ain't going nowhere after what I did to it."
He was promptly smacked on the head by his father.
"Language, Wyatt! At least wait until we're not in the room to start swearing!"
"Sorry Dad."
Leo nodded his head in acknowledgement and continued reading the newspaper with Henry as Paige finally parted with her saintly mug for a few seconds to instead grace Wyatt with a few words.
"Darn alarm clock again?"
"Yeah…the thing attacked me in my dreams and tried to kill me using its ultrasonic screeching. And just as I was going to score a goal!"
"You broke your alarm clock again? This is the third time this week, and it's only Monday! I swear, that store should just set up shop in our basement; God knows we give them more than enough business to pay off their mortgage and send their kids off to college! What were you thinking?"
"Sorry mom, but that thing was evil! I swear, it tried to kill me. Whatever I did was purely a case of self-defence, surely you would prefer a smouldering alarm clock to a dead child in your house."
Leo noticeably flinched as those words escaped his son, but displayed no outward signs otherwise as to hearing those few words spoken in jest. Wyatt didn't know, it wasn't his fault, and he had promised his wife that he wouldn't think about that anymore. It was easier said than done, though, as he couldn't help but think about it every single day.
Piper, on the other hand, just shook her head and ruffled Wyatt's hair affectionately to a whining lament of unparalleled pain, planting a soft kiss on his head on her way past.
"Whatever, kid, just eat your pancakes quickly because the bus is going to be coming soon, and you don't want to be late for the first day of school again, now do you?"
"No, mum."
He quickly piled the pancakes onto his plate and scarfed them down, curls flying through the air in a possessed haze and heedless of the various incredulous gawks directed in his general direction. As soon as he was done, he grabbed the rest of his Uncle Henry's coffee, dismissing his rather loud protests as he desperately tried to get his angelic coffee back (God's very own spiritual beings had come down to Earth to present him with this glorious gift, and he did not intend to waste it on his nephew), and gulped it all down to wash down his rather delicious meal.
"Thanks Uncle Henry!"
He amiably patted the top of his uncle's head as he grumbled in despair under his breath. His poor coffee, gone, gone like it hadn't even been there! Just…disappeared into the endless pit otherwise known as Wyatt's stomach; never to be seen again…Paige sympathetically patted his arm, all the while cradling her mug protectively against her chest. She had seen bigger men than herself taken down by the gruesome larceny of their coffee, and she would rather die than be the poor, unsuspecting victim of coffee theft.
"You know, I'm going to get you one of these days."
"Sure, sure, whatever you say, old man."
They all heard the distant sounds of a school bus rolling down the street as Wyatt hurriedly gave his mom a kiss and rushed out the door, jacket and bag snatched along the way.
"Have a nice day!"
The crash of the front door being slammed shut answered her as her son frantically ran after the bus waving his arms while trying to get the bus driver's attention, faintly reminiscent of a mad man she had once encountered in the subway. The poor man had thought that she was his pet alligator.
Piper sighed and turned around, a jug of maple syrup clutched in her hand.
"So, who wants to drive him to school this time?"
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A dog barked in the far off distance, sending thin shards of pain lancing throughout his head. A cry erupted from his lips as he tried to rub it in an effort to thwart the pain, but alas, it was just not meant to be. This is what he got for talking back to a drunken fool who had nothing better to do than hit defenceless children. Not that he was a child; far from it after all that he'd seen in the short fourteen years that he had lived on this earth.
It felt as if a tiny dwarf had taken up permanent residence at the top of his head and was erratically drilling large holes into his head with a large, iron hammer, searching for diamonds in muddy terrain.
He whined pitifully as another wave of pain racked his poor head, and curled up into a small, protective ball. This did not help soothe the pain, though, so he promptly fell off the bed, being too lazy to do it the customary way, and slowly started the long crawl across his rather tiny room to his duffel bag, in which he kept his Advil.
After what seemed like an eternity to the poor boy, he finally made it to his bag and opened up the side pocket, retrieving the long awaited for bottle of pills. Popping two into his hand, he swallowed them dry and started to search for his toothbrush, waiting for the medication to start their magic.
A frown pulled at the edges of his lips as he finally found his toothbrush. It was hidden underneath his clothing, and crushed to the point of no return. It must have been broken last night, when he had used the bag to break his fall while he had been pushed around, substituting for a punching bag that they couldn't afford. He would have to try and steal one tonight, as they had just recently moved in and Joe had not had the time to find a job yet. Oh well, it wouldn't make much of a difference as he would probably be fired again after only a week on the job due to severe alcoholism.
He grabbed his worn out towel and turned on the shower. Cold, because they didn't have enough money to pay the heating bill yet. He towelled himself dry and pulled on a wifebeater and a pair of jeans. He then grabbed his chain and left his room. He never left without it, and he did not intend to start now. He quickly put it on on his way to the kitchen.
As he approached the dimly lit room, he could make out a faint shadow resting on their kitchen/dining table. Great, Joe had passed out drinking, again. That was never good news for him. If Joe had passed out, then that meant that he had drunk a lot, if the empty bottles scattered across the table meant nothing. And by a lot, he meant a lot, because Joe could hold his liquor like no other man, the lifetime of drinking problems aiding somewhat.
He rolled his eyes and made his way towards their beaten up fridge. It had come with the house, and seemed even older than the man he dared call father. He opened it as silently as he could and grabbed the first thing that he saw, an apple, before closing it and turning to carefully sneak out of the room. Apparently he hadn't been careful enough, though, as Joe jolted up in his seat with a snort.
"Wazzat? Dean? What the hell you doing up at this hour! Didn't I tell ya to beat it? Don't need anymore crap littering this house…"
Dean's head snapped up as he heard the familiar insults roll off his father's tongue. Who did he think he was? His eyes narrowed in contempt as he glared hatefully at the man who had beaten and insulted him his whole life, not to mention his poor mother, bless her soul…
"It's morning, old man. Get a fucking clock! Maybe then you wouldn't sound like such a fucking retard all the time."
Joe quickly stood up and opted to stand over Dean intimidatingly.
"The hell you say, kid?"
A fist came flying out of nowhere and collided roughly with Dean's left cheek, slamming him back into the fridge. He dropped the apple and balled his own hands into fists. He didn't have to take this.
"Oh, think your some hot shit, eh, kid? Looks like I'm gonna have to teach you another lesson, bitch."
Dean was then promptly tackled to the ground as fist after fist was plunged into his face, chest, arms, he couldn't even tell anymore. His blood boiled under the slaps and bruised with the punches that came far too much for the likes of a single man. He faintly registered the sound of a bottle breaking in the distance, and pain like no other lanced through his head, beating against his skull with a jackhammer.
Dean struggled with all his strength, vainly trying to throw Joe off of him, but with his arms and legs pinned to the filthy, decrepit tiles that adorned their kitchen floor there was not much that he could do. He winced as he heard the nauseating crack of his nose as it was once again pushed to the side of his face.
"Not so tough after all, eh? Oh, I'm sure your mother would be proud of you now, boy, the bitch-"
Joe never got to finish his sentence as he was suddenly lifted off of the boy and thrown into the opposite wall. Dean sat up; eyes opened wide as he took in the splendid image of his father lying in a crumpled heap across the tiny kitchen.
Not again, no, not again. He seized his apple and darted out of the kitchen, grabbing his schoolbag somewhere along the way. The front door slammed in his haste to get the hell out of dodge, rattling slightly on its rusted hinges as the boy dashed onto to streets with not even a single glance to spare for the man who lay in an unconscious heap on their kitchen floor.
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"Telekinesis, eh? How convenient."
Flames licked the air in muted anger, trapped within their steel cages and strapped to the crumbling, carved walls that lined the cavern. They radiated a burning blaze, casting a faint glow throughout the dim room. Musty books were lining the perimeter in orderly stacks that belied their cruel natures, pages ruffling in the presence of a mysterious chill that permeated from a large, ornate cauldron sitting heavily in the corner, the only place in the whole cavern that seemed to escape the ever present glow.
A large hand rested upon the handle as a cloaked figure towered over the cauldron, features hidden under gaping darkness but for twin orbs piercing through the shadows, glinting with a hidden knowledge.
"Almost like it's meant to be…."
Cracked lips lifted upwards in a semblance of a smile, and with those last words, the demon shimmered; the torches strewn haphazardly around the cave flickering in his absence, before dying out all at once, leaving the room in darkness.
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-Well, I was thinking about it one day (on one of my weird and random tangents that I have floating around in my head) and the 2000's sounds kind of weird, so it is now officially dubbed the double 0's; sort of James Bondish :P