Just putting up the prologue now. I have way more stories in progress than I should at the moment so updates for this one will probably come slowly until a couple of the others are done. But since the plot bunny won't get out of my head (thanks to a little not-quite-cousin who made me watch this movie three times in the past three days), I decided that I might as well start typing.

No, Race to Witch Mountain is not mine. Please try to contain your shock.

Seth stumbled as he landed on the other side of the fence, pain shooting up his leg as his left ankle rolled, but he could already hear shouting coming from the house. He'd thought that he'd have more time, but the frame around the screen had made such a clatter when it had fallen….

Someone shouted his name, and he ran.

He knew that he couldn't follow the road, the road meant that he could be followed in a car, and branches whipped at his face and tore at his arms as dashed in the opposite direction, into an overgrown wooded area. His ankle screamed each time he put pressure on it, but he didn't care. He wasn't going to let anyone take him back to that place. Not now; not ever.

Moments later he heard someone crashing through the brush behind him—far closer than he'd expected—and a voice commanding him to stop, and he pushed himself to go faster. The only reason he'd been caught last time was because he'd fallen; this time he would make it. He'd get away; he'd find Sara; th—

He cried out as something—someone—yanked him backwards by his jacket, and when his instinctive attempt to phase failed, he rolled his shoulders and tried to shrug out of it.

One arm slipped through cleanly and he felt a moment of triumph, but then the other caught on the metal ring-and-chain contraption locked around his wrist, and he gasped as the ring was dragged across already-raw skin. He tried to push past the pain, twisting and pulling harder against the cloth, but when it was obvious that it would not release, he spun on his pursuer with a snarl and lashed out with his free hand. He was not going back.

His snarl turned into a scream as his hand was grabbed by a larger one and pressure came down on his injured finger, and he stumbled backwards as his attacker released him abruptly. Unfortunately, he only managed to get a couple of steps away, barely getting turned around to run again, when he was grabbed and dragged backwards a second time.

As before, his automatic reaction was to phase, and when that failed he threw himself forward, trying to break the grip on his shoulders and ignoring yet another order to cease fighting. And then arms wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms to sides. He kicked and twisted, trying to break free, but it wasn't working—the arms around his chest might as well be metal bands, there was no leverage for kicking, and throwing his head back only meant impacting a solid chest—and his desperation grew. He couldn't go back there. He couldn't.