Dark Destiny

(Charmed Sons Virtual Series)

Season One, Episode Two

Dark World

Scene Two

"Would you believe the kid in front of me actually took a spoonful of that glop they call lunch?" Mel snickered derisively.

"Not everyone here thinks the school food tastes like plastic like you do, you know," retorted the boy to whom she'd been speaking. Thick, brown hair fell across his forehead; and light brown eyes glowed with mirth. Pointing to the seat across from him, he silently offered her a seat.

"Thanks," she grumbled, dumping herself onto the bench and dumped her tray of food – a banana, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a mini carton of one percent milk – onto the table. Eyeing her friend suspiciously, Mel narrowed her eyes and muttered, "Must you be so cheery all the time?"

Aiden smirked. "Don't you ever get tired of asking that?" he wondered innocently, taking a bite of his own sandwich, tuna, and chewing thoughtfully. "I mean you've known me for over two years now, right? You'd think you would be used to me by now."

"Maybe," she agreed slyly, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Oh, come on, Laura," he protested playfully.

"I told you not to call me that," she snapped irritably. Wild strands of hair fell across her face as she moved into a more comfortable position, and she tried to rearrange herself in a way that didn't scrunch up her pale blue, long-sleeved shirt. The mornings always tended to be slightly cool, as if the school's air conditioning had gone haywire the night before.

"Why not?" he challenged, "It's your name."

"Middle name," she corrected promptly, sighing at the age-old argument. "There's a huge difference."

Ignoring her, he lightly countered, "I don't see why you don't like the name anyway. Laura Warren was a very powerful witch in her day."

"She could see the future and read people's thoughts, idiot," she retorted, rolling her eyes at Aiden's pathetic attempt to pacify her ever-growing temper. "How exactly did those powers make her anywhere near powerful?" Biting the inside of her lip, she purposely ignored the fact that those were her powers, too. She was just as weak as her namesake.

Aiden's eyebrows arched in disbelief; did Mel really believe what she was saying? "You of all people should know powers aren't the only thing a witch has," he remarked. "She was a phenomenal spell caster – just like you."

Only one who knew Mel like the back of his own hand would notice the faint blush that tinted her cheeks. Wyatt would have noticed it; Aiden noticed it immediately and was quickly forced to conceal a grin. "Right," Mel mumbled.

Changing the subject, Aiden casually asked, "Do you even like milk?"

"No," she intoned, eyeing the carton with distaste, "but it's either this or egg water. No thank you. I'll take the milk – strong bones." Rolling her eyes, she opened the carton and lifted it to eye level. "Whoop-dee-doo," she sighed, tipping it so that a slow stream began to trickle slowly but steadily from the nozzle.

"Mel!" Aiden cried, pulling her hand back and setting the milk back on her tray, "What are you doing?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mel stared at Aiden appraisingly. "What?" she asked harshly. She never took kindly to people telling her what to do, and Aiden knew that about her. Why was he staring at her so incredulously like that?

"Don't you know how many people aren't lucky enough to have any milk – or any drinks at all for that matter? Don't just go around wasting what you have! We're lucky to have everything that we have."

Snorting, Mel snatched the carton back from her best friend. "Oh yeah?" she snickered. "How come I don't feel lucky?" She downed the rest of the milk in one gulp.

Dark World: Six Years Ago...

Balancing a carton of fresh milk in either hand, twelve year old Michael shook his light brown hair out of his eyes, squinting into the dimly-lit alley. Eyes scanning for demons who might have followed him from the Dark Alley, he quickly wove past dilapidated, discarded furniture and old boxes, soggy and deteriorating. Behind one of the larger boxes was a small flap, purposely hidden so that no one would find it unless he or she knew precisely where to look.

Michael knew where to look.

Hefting both cartons into one hand, he reached over with his right arm and pushed back a flap to reveal and cramped space where he, his mother, and his sisters resided. It wasn't much, he knew; but it was home and had been for quite some time now. This place had protected them from demonic attacks more than once thanks to Chris's protection spells and circles. Michael's family was indebted to Chris for all he had done for them after Wyatt came to power. The Fitzwilliams and the Halliwells had been family friends for as long as Michael could remember, and when Wyatt had turned it had devastated both families.

He had awoken that morning to the smell of something burning and shot up in an instant, his eyes wide as they scanned the room for the source of the stench. His first thought was that someone had found them – somehow – and was flushing them out like one did with bees in a beehive.

Jeanne, Michael's mother, had glanced up from the object in her hand and looked across the room at her oldest child. A weary smile lit her face, but her eyes remained as dark as ever. Casually, she held up a burnt piece of toast for him to see; it was black as coal, and it smelled just as bad.

Michael wrinkled his nose and questioned, "What's that for?"

"When it's burnt," she calmly explained, "you can hardly taste that it's moldy." She busily returned to what she was doing, not wanting to see the expression of despair that flitted across her son's face. She knew what he was thinking and often wondered the same thing herself: Why were they forced to live this way, like rats in a hole?

That was why, this afternoon, Michael proudly bound into the room he called home with two fresh cartons of milk cradled carefully. Fresh. These were fresh jugs of milk. The word 'fresh' barely held any meaning to them anymore. It was from a fantasy some child made up long ago, and it was forgotten when people grew up – just like everything else in children's imagination. Fresh did not exist.

However, in the Dark Alley, one could find food… if one knew where to look. It was the modern-day Black Market, and Michael knew how to sweet-talk his way past other costumers and into the best foods before anyone else. It was how he came across these two drinks, and he had seized them the moment the opportunity presented itself. Michael wasn't one to let an opportunity like that just vanish.

"Hey, guys, check out what I found!" he called in excitement, stumbling into the room in his eagerness to show his mother. "I got food!" he exclaimed loudly when no one answered his call. His eyes darted around the room and immediately landed upon a towering figure in the corner. He sagged, let out an audible sigh of relief, and carefully released his burden on the floor.

"Chris," he smiled. "What are you doing here?"

Not bothering to answer the young pre-teen, Chris merely stared at Michael, let a glinting object drop from his hands, and orbed out. Michael saw the shadow of a wink and a smirk on his face before it disappeared in a pillar of bright orbs. He had to shield his eyes, wondering just what that had been about.

The least he could have done was say goodbye, he grumbled to himself as he walked past the couch on which his mother always slept. Where was she anyway? Where were his two sisters, Stephanie and Danielle? Where could they possibly — then he saw it. A foot sticking out from underneath a blanket in the corner behind where Chris had been standing – the only blanket they owned. He stepped forward and gingerly lifted the blanket up.

If he had been holding the milk, it would have dropped from his hands now and spilled all over the floor beneath his feet. His legs gave out beneath him, his eyes searching in horror for some glimmer of hope – some piece of nonexistent hope.

"M-Mom?" he croaked, a trembling hand reaching towards the fallen body on the floor. Her cheek was cold as ice, and dried blood bathed the skin on her face, dyeing it a deep shade of crimson. Shivering, he withdrew his hand. "Mom!" he screamed. "Mom, come on; answer me!"

His eyes darted to the floor where Chris had been standing, where Chris had dropped something… A knife, Michael realized and slowly crawled over to the bloodstained weapon, tenderly picking it up and turning it over in her hands. Why would Chris…?

"Stephanie!" he yelled, not allowing his mind to comprehend what he had just seen. It wasn't possible. "Danielle! Where are you guys?"

He needn't have yelled because his sisters were right there, hidden behind the couch so that Michael hadn't noticed them before. Their bodies, too, were mangled, bloody messes. From Stephanie's wrist jutted out a shock-white bone, and Michael would have vomited had his stomach not been empty for the past few days. For once he thanked whoever was watching that he hadn't had enough money to also buy some food from the Dark Alley. If he had eaten a single bite of food before now, it would have immediately come back up.

As it was, he collapsed over his sister's body, sobbing and retching dryly until he could hardly breathe. When he touched her hand, he realized it was still warm; and the blood still flowed from an open wound on her stomach. She had only been killed recently. With sudden determination, he turned to stare at his other sister, Danielle. Perhaps whoever did this (he refused to believe it was Chris, despite what his eyes and brain told him) didn't have time to kill her.

"Please," he whispered, a desperate prayer to the Powers-That-Be (who had seemingly abandoned Earth long before now). Weakly, he dragged himself over to Danielle's emaciated body. "Danielle?" he whispered.

Lips moved, but no sound came out; and Michael's breath caught in his throat. He was too afraid to breathe, afraid that it might kill the only family member that was still alive. "D-Danielle," he murmured, squeezing her hand. "Please don't go."

The nine-year-old girl moved her lips again, trying to tell her older brother something; but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't even read her lips. He gave one last squeeze as he made out her last words: I'm sorry.

"It's not your fault," he whispered to her, tears streaming down his cheeks as he felt her go limp beside him. "It's not your fault," he repeated… because how could it be her fault when he knew it was really his own? If he had been here to protect them, if he hadn't run off to the Dark Alley… If he had just been here…

"Stand up, boy," a callous voice commanded.

Without having to turn around, Michael knew the voice that echoed endlessly in the tight room. It haunted his nightmares and his memories. How could he ever forget the voice of Wyatt Halliwell?

Numb, Michael obeyed.

"I take it you've seen your mother, too," Wyatt said, and Michael could find no trace of a smirk in his voice. "And I'm guessing you saw Chris, too."

"He didn't do it," Michael remarked, certain. Chris would never do anything to hurt his family; there was another explanation, something he was missing – something that was staring him right in the face.

Wyatt was staring him right in the face, he noticed.

"Oh no?"

There's the smirk I was looking for, Michael thought dazedly. Without even realizing it, his fists curled into tight balls, his eyes narrowing at the bastard standing before him who would dare talk about his family with such disrespect.

His voice was flat and confident when he replied, "No."

"How else would I have known where this place is? Chris took down the protection against me," Wyatt pointed out, though Chris had done no such thing. Chris was strong, but when Wyatt wanted to he could take the time to break through Chris's defenses, especially when such a huge concentration of power was being hidden in one place. And Michael possessed a hell of a lot of power.

"He wouldn't," Michael replied with conviction.

"He already did," Wyatt countered. "Look around you, Michael"—Michael winced—"open your eyes. Don't you see the destruction Chris left in his wake?" Wyatt spread his arms to motion to the blood pooling on the floor, the three maimed corpses crumpled and left to rot. "Chris betrayed you and your family; he's not who he says he is, and this proves it. He was afraid you would get to powerful —"

"Me?" Michael interrupted with a courage he certainly didn't feel. He laughed harshly and continued, "I think you've got the wrong witch. I have minimal powers, Wyatt." The name felt raw on his tongue, like acid. He bit his cheek to keep from crying out in frustration and charging at the monster in his home.

"You are powerful," Wyatt responded calmly, his voice so gentle that Michael almost remembered who this man used to be. He was almost convinced until he glanced down at the mangled bodies that had been his mother and sisters. "You have more power than you could begin to imagine… and I can help you channel it."

"I don't want your help," Michael spat, turning away in disgust.

"Oh no?" Wyatt remarked airily. "How will you get revenge for"—he motioned to the blood again—"this."

"I—don't—want—revenge," Michael forced through clenched teeth. Then, lividly, he burst out, "I want justice! I deserve it! They… they didn't deserve to die…" His voice cracked as he brokenly continued, "They didn't do any-anything wrong." A dry sob wrenched past his closing throat, and he shook his head, closing his eyes against the stinging tears.

"Of course they didn't," Wyatt replied in as gentle a tone as he could muster. Taking a risk, he stepped forward and placed a comforting arm on Michael's shoulder. The boy winced and stumbled backwards in his hurry to retreat, but Wyatt kept a firm grip on him. "Look at this, Michael, at them. Do you see your mother's body lying there? Do you see your sisters? They deserved so much more – the chance to grow up safe, the chance to lead normal lives. Chris stole that from them. Wouldn't they want justice for their deaths?"

In a daze Michael merely nodded, defeated. Wyatt released the boy's shoulder and extended his hand in front of Michael's face. After a fleeting hesitation, the young witch seized Wyatt's hand, anger flashing in his eyes. Chris always said Wyatt was evil, Mom always said Wyatt was evil… but Mom wasn't here anymore. According to Wyatt that was all Chris's doing. Normally Michael wouldn't believe the alleged tyrant, but the way Wyatt spoke… as if he actually cared… it was more than Chris ever accomplished when he came by for a visit. Even calling it a 'visit' was a bit of a stretch. He would orb by every once in a while to inform Jeanne of the latest threat, tell her to watch out, and then orb off again.

Before he orbed, he winked at me, Michael reminded himself, dread bubbling in his abdomen as his stomach muscles clenched painfully.

Not giving him the chance to change his mind, Wyatt immediately orbed away from the three bodies, leaving them to rot for eternity. The moment he and Michael vanished, he activated a spell under his breath, causing the entire hideout to go up in flames. He didn't need Chris coming after him, finding something in the Fitzwilliam lair to scry for Michael.

When the two reappeared, Michael immediately stumbled forward, not used to orbing from place to place. While he steadied himself, Wyatt crossed the room and closed the door loudly. Startled, Michael jumped, eyes darting to Wyatt nervously. What had he just gotten himself into?

"You're scared," Wyatt stated without question. "I'll let you get used to your new home before we begin your training." If he was expecting a 'thank you,' Wyatt was sorely disappointed.

"New home?" Michael echoed, confusion written out on his face. "Train —"

"That's right, new home," Wyatt interrupted. "And yes, training." He looked Michael square in the eye and said darkly, "You want to avenge your family's death, don't you?"

"Of course," Michael hurriedly responded, intimidated and therefore quickly backing down. He wanted – needed – Wyatt's help if he wanted his mother and two sisters to truly be able to rest in peace.

"Hey, Wyatt —" came a voice from behind the door. It creaked open and a head peaked through, pale brown hair falling down the girl's shoulders in great waves. She wore a skin-tight, sleeveless shirt and mini, black shorts. Across the butt was written the words 'Bite Me' in fiery red. Her eyes were fierce with a, "keep the hell away from me" expression.

Why does she look so familiar? Michael wondered as he watched her storm into the room as if she owned it.

"Mel," Wyatt murmured, obviously pleased. "This is Michael"—he waved a lazy hand in Michael's direction—"a witch." Michael scrunched his nose; he hated being labeled for his powers. It was his personality, as his mother always said, that was important. He wasn't a witch who just happened to be a boy; he was a boy who just happened to be a witch.

Mel… Mel… Mel… Where had he heard that name before?

"Mel is my cousin," Wyatt introduced to Michael. Michael's eyebrows rose as he wondered why Chris never mentioned one of his cousins actually working with Wyatt. More proof that Chris was indeed a liar.

"Michael, get down!" Jeanne shrieked, and her son ducked just as a fireball zoomed above his head. Terror squeezed the heart that pounded loudly against his ribcage as if trying to escape. His mother's power was weak at best; there was no way she'd stand a chance against an upper level demon.

"Mom, let me help!" Michael called. Where was she?

"No! Stay down, Michael. Find your sisters and get out of here." Her voice was coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time; he could barely concentrate. Oh god, she was going to die and so was he. What would happen to Stephanie and Danielle? They couldn't take care of themselves, but they certainly couldn't go to foster care either – not with their Wiccan powers.

"Michael, listen to me." Suddenly, his mother was standing in front of him, shaking the nine-year-old vigorously to shake him from his reverie. He wondered where she had come from; materializing wasn't her power. "Michael, look at me, baby." His gaze slid past her, panicked. "Michael, you need to get out; you need to find Stephie and Dani and hide. I'll hold the demons off long enough for you to run and then —"

"No way!" the boy protested. "I can't take care of them by myself." His eyes filled with tears as the words poured from his lips. He couldn't believe what he was saying, how he was talking – as if his mother was already dead.

"I know you can do it, baby," Jeanne whispered to her son, kissing his cheek tenderly, her lips lingering on his skin for a moment as if hoping it might keep death at bay for a little while longer. "Now listen to me; I'll distract them so that you can get to the door. When you're out of here, don't wait for me. I want you to run like hell and find your sisters. Understand?"

Even as he shook his head frantically, he knew he would do as she asked.

"On the count of three." She squeezed her son's hand and spoke out of the corner of her mouth as she turned around to face the seven demons closing in on the pair. "One…" She tightened her grip. "Two…" Tears spilled out onto his cheeks and thoughts whirred madly in his head. "Three!"

Shoving him away from her, she yelled, "Go!" and jumped up into the air. Tapping into her power of levitation, she hovered over the demons' heads kicking one in the face so that he went sprawling. The others snarled angrily and swiped at her ferociously.

One grabbed her leg and dragged her down from the ceiling. She screamed in terror as she was pulled to the floor and kicked painfully in the stomach. Tears of agony collected in her eyes, and she bit them back fearfully.

Suddenly a swaddle of orbs materialized before her eyes; and the second-to-oldest Halliwell child appeared. Before the demons could figure out who he was and what was going on, he sent them all flying backwards with a simple wave of his hand. Quickly, he stooped beside her and extended his hand.

"We have to hurry," he said in a rushed tone.

"Michael," Jeanne mumbled in horror. "I can't leave him; he doesn't know where to go. And my girls —"

"—Are fine," he finished for her. "Talia picked them up from school earlier today; we anticipated his attack. Jenna is with Michael now. We have to get you out of here before he comes." Reaching out to grab her hand, Chris helped her climb to her feet. Then, just as the demons began to climb back up, he orbed to the large building hidden from Wyatt's radar.

"I don't understand," Jeanne sighed, hugging a seven-year-old Danielle to her chest. Her youngest, Stephanie, clung to her frantically, one thumb popped into her mouth for comfort. "You're trying to tell me that Wyatt sent those demons after us? How could he? He's always been such a sweet boy."

"Not anymore," replied Chris darkly. "He's after followers, and the people that aren't willing to serve him – well, they won't live for much longer. We barely got to you on time."

"On time for what?" Jeanne snorted. "Chris, I've known you and your siblings for a long time. Wyatt's powerful. If he wants something done, he'll get it. What do you propose to do – kill him?" He flinched as if she'd slapped him, and she sighed heavily, shaking her head. "He's just as stubborn as your mother is… was. We can't convince him that what he's doing is wrong if he doesn't want to see it."

"No but we can protect the innocents – just like always. Our jobs haven't changed; the only thing that has changed is what we're now protecting them from. That doesn't change the fact that people are in danger. We're in danger – so what? What else is new?" Firmly, the fourteen-year-old crossed his arms and stared at the witch before him.

"Mommy, I'm tired," whined the four-year-old glued to her leg. "I wanna go to sleep."

"Not yet, baby. We're waiting for —"

"Mom!" Michael tore from Jenna's grip and scrambled into the room. "You're all right!"

"Of course I am, baby," she murmured with a relieved smile. Her family was back together again. "Chris saved me from the demons."

Shyly, Michael turned gratefully to Chris. "Thanks for saving my mom," he mumbled, staring at the floor.

A fleeting, half-smile flitted across the witchlighter's face; and he nodded his head in response. Then, back to business, he said, "We have a place you can stay that will shield you from Wyatt's radar." I hope, he thought mentally. After all, as well as he knew his brother, he didn't think even Wyatt himself knew the true extent of his powers. "You, Michael, and the girls should be safe there."

"Thank you, Chris," Jeanne replied. "You don't know how amazing you have been to us. You saved my life and the lives of my children. I have no way of thanking you for such a great act."

Blushing, Chris dropped his gaze and modestly mumbled, "Mom would have wanted us to help you."

Jeanne smiled. "She would have been proud."

TBC...