The morning after the full moon was a study in grey misery. A persistent drizzle coated Beacon Hills, matching the somber mood inside Scott McCall's head. He walked along the side of the road, a lone figure hunched against the chill, his expensive new jacket doing little to ward off the bone-deep ache. His arm, where the arrow had pierced him, had healed with terrifying speed, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin and a phantom pain—a dull, stiff throb that served as a constant reminder of the night's horrors.
A familiar, quiet hum grew louder from behind him, and Melissa McCall's sedan, driven by Alex, pulled up smoothly beside him. The passenger-side door swung open. "Get in, Scotty," Alex said, his voice unusually subdued. Scott climbed into the car, slumping into the leather seat. Stiles was in the back, looking exhausted, his usual manic energy replaced by a worried silence. "You alright?" Alex asked, his eyes scanning Scott for any visible injuries before pulling back onto the road. "Yeah," Scott mumbled, staring out at the dreary landscape. "I'm fine."
Stiles leaned forward from the back seat. "Dude, that was one hell of a night. The hunters, the arrow, the... you know, the howling at the moon thing. Are you sure you're okay?" Scott sighed, rubbing his still-aching arm. "You know what worries me the most?" "If you say Allison," Stiles said, his voice deadpan, "I am literally going to reach over this seat and punch you. Gently. But still a punch." "She probably hates me now," Scott said, ignoring him completely. "I ran out on her. I took Alex's car. I... I wasn't myself." "That," Alex said, his voice flat as he stared at the road ahead, "might be for the best, little brother."
Scott turned to him, a questioning look on his face. "What are you talking about?" Alex glanced at him, his expression grim. "Had you forgotten in the frantic rush of the night? The man leading that little hunting party, the one who was perfectly happy to turn you into a human pincushion? That was her father."
The words hit Scott like a physical blow. He felt the air leave his lungs, the world tilting on its axis. Chris Argent. Allison's father. The man who had seemed so intimidating but... fair. He was a hunter. He had tried to kill him. And Derek. "Oh, God," Scott breathed, slumping back in his seat. "Shit, man. My life. It absolutely, positively, sucks." "Yep," Stiles confirmed from the back. "Sucks hard. So what are you going to do now?" "I don't know," Scott said, his voice thick with despair. "But I... I love her, man."
"You think you love her," Alex corrected, his tone not unkind, but pragmatic. "Love's a big word, Scotty. You've known her for, what, a few days? It's a powerful crush, fueled by supernatural teenage angst. There's a difference." "It feels like love," Scott mumbled miserably.
Alex sighed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Okay. Look. We have to do something about all of this. We can't just react. We need a plan." "What kind of plan?" Stiles asked. "We can't go to my dad. He doesn't know squat about any of this. The cops are useless here." "Yeah, the local police may not know," Alex agreed, his mind clearly working, shifting into the analytical mode he used for business. "But people do. Allison's father and his buddies weren't just some weekend hobbyists; they were organized. Professional. Which means this isn't some secret kept by a few families in the woods. This is bigger. The government is probably involved, at least on some level, to keep this stuff under wraps. It has to go both ways. The werewolves and whatever else is out there keep quiet, and so do the humans in the know." "Like a secret society?" Stiles said, his eyes lighting up with the familiar spark of conspiracy. "Like the Illuminati, but with more fur and less pyramid symbolism?"
"Exactly like a secret society," Alex confirmed. "And the only way we can figure out the rules of the game is to find out who the players are." "That means going to Derek," Scott said grimly. "He's the only one who knows anything."
"No," Alex said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm not relying on the guy who used you as bait and is trying to start his own creepy 'brotherhood of the wolf' with you. I have other options. I have contacts." Stiles leaned forward again, intrigued. "You have contacts that know about werewolves? Since when?"
Alex was silent for a moment, navigating a turn. "A while back, I was at this ridiculous party in Dubai. Got stuck talking to this eccentric old British billionaire. He was completely drunk, rambling about his family's history, about 'creatures of the night,' ancient bloodlines... werewolves, vampires, all of it. At the time, I thought he was just high on his own supply or completely senile. But now..." A small, dangerous smirk touched Alex's lips. "Now I think it's time I give my old friend a call." Scott looked doubtful. "And if he doesn't tell you anything?" Alex's smirk widened. "Oh, he'll tell me. He'll tell me everything. Because he knows there is absolutely nothing to gain by not telling me. People in his world, people who want to stay in my good graces, they understand the value of information. And if I want information, Scotty, I can get it from a lot of places. He'll want to be the first one to give it to me."
Later that afternoon, on the lacrosse field, Alex was a mess, and it had nothing to do with his physical abilities. His mind was a million miles away, replaying the events of last night, thinking about his contact in Dubai, about Allison's father, about the pain in Scott's voice. He was distracted, his movements clumsy. The first time the ball came his way, he fumbled the catch. The second time, he missed a pass completely. The third time, he was so lost in thought, he didn't even see Jackson Whittemore bearing down on him until it was too late. Jackson lowered his shoulder and leveled him, sending Alex sprawling to the ground with a grunt. "Get your head in the game, McCall!" Jackson sneered, jogging past him. "Or don't you have your brother to protect you today?"
TWEEEEEEEET! Coach Finstock's whistle shrieked. "McCall the Second! My dead grandmother, GOD REST HER SOUL, and she was buried with her walker, MOVES WITH MORE AGILITY AND PURPOSE THAN YOU! What is WRONG with you today?! Can you play better than my dead grandmother?! CAN YOU?!"
Stiles, who was inexplicably on the field for this drill, suddenly yelled, "YES! HE CAN!" And with a burst of spastic, uncoordinated energy, he charged. Jackson, surprised by Stiles's sudden offensive, turned just in time for Stiles to collide with him. It wasn't a tackle; it was a chaotic, flailing car crash of limbs. They both went down in a heap, but Jackson, caught off guard, landed harder. Scott, seeing the entire exchange – Alex getting hit, Stiles defending him, Jackson getting angry – felt a hot surge of rage. He put his hands on his head, a low growl rumbling in his chest, his vision starting to tint red at the edges. Not here. Not now.
Alex and Stiles saw it instantly. The shift in Scott's posture, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped his lacrosse stick. They moved as one. "Time out!" Alex yelled, grabbing one of Scott's arms. "Yeah, yeah, cramp! Very bad cramp! The worst cramp in the history of cramping!" Stiles added, grabbing the other. They quickly hustled a still-growling Scott off the field and into the relative quiet of the locker room.
The moment the door swung shut, Scott wrenched himself free from their grasp. His eyes were glowing, a faint yellow in the dim light. With a snarl, he didn't just walk or run; he leapt, scrambling up the bank of lockers with unnatural ease, clinging to the pipes on the ceiling like some terrifying, human-sized spider. He looked down at them, his face a mask of feral rage, and hissed.
He dropped down, landing silently, and tried to lunge at Stiles. "Whoa! Not the face! It's my primary source of... well, it's my face! Don't hit it!" Stiles yelped, dodging clumsily. Alex, his mind racing, backed away, his hand diving into his athletic bag on the bench. Scott stalked towards him, claws slightly extended, a low growl in his throat. "Easy there, little brother," Alex said, his voice calm, even as he pulled a sleek, silver canister from his bag. "Just take a deep breath. A really, really deep breath."
As Scott lunged, Alex raised the canister and pressed the nozzle. PFFSSSSSSSSSSST! A foul, noxious, truly unholy cloud of aerosol erupted from the can, hitting Scott square in the face. It smelled like a combination of week-old roadkill, rotten eggs, and pure, concentrated evil. It was a high-tech, military-grade stink bomb Alex kept for... emergencies. "Smell this, Cujo!" Alex yelled. "It's called 'The Fart of a Thousand Dead Skunks'! Custom blend!"
The effect on Scott's heightened werewolf senses was immediate and catastrophic. He recoiled as if he'd been punched, choking, gagging, his eyes watering. The feral rage vanished, replaced by sheer sensory agony. He turned and bolted for the nearest bathroom, the sounds of violent, desperate vomiting echoing from the stalls a moment later.
Alex stood there, lowering the canister, his own nose wrinkled in disgust despite the distance. Stiles, who had been hiding behind a row of lockers, peeked out, his eyes wide. He looked down at the sleek, silver canister in Alex's hand, then back up at Alex, an expression of profound awe and respect on his face. "Dude," Stiles said, his voice filled with reverence. "Could I, uh… could I get one of those? I think I'm gonna need it. Like, a lot. In the future."