Chapter Text
There are hunters.
That's how it starts.
There are hunters and they are only wolves.
"They have wolfsbane bullets," Stiles emphasis with wild hand gestures, "That's one bullet that will kill a wolf almost instantly."
"We can burn the poison out," Derek says gruffly. "It won't be a problem."
Stiles hits his hand on the table, "That's if you're not dead! These things will kill you almost instantly. It's beyond toxic to a human, and to you guys? It's like werewolf lethal injection. Don't you understand? You won't have time to find a bullet and a lighter!"
"Enough," Scott interrupts before Derek can retort something back. "We go in cautiously. With care. No claws until later," he directs to Liam and Malia, both of whom nod obediently.
There are hunters.
That's how it starts.
There are hunters and they are only wolves.
Except the ones that aren't.
It's chaos. There's no other word for it and Stiles ducks close to the ground as possible, hands over his head and jumping at every shot that rings out. His baseball bat is clenched in one hand, the metal bloody and sweaty to grip.
Someone darts across and it may be Scott, or it may be Liam. They let out a snarl and rip a gun from one man’s hands, chucking it away. They lash out with a punch to the face, and the hunter topples.
Stiles tries to keep low to the ground, because he won't heal if he gets hit. He slips behind a tree, and his body pumping with adrenalin, he darts out again.
One hunter goes down with a broken leg, and another is brained into unconsciousness. Stiles kicks him aside and skids through the trees, looking around. To the right Malia and Liam slash and snarl. To the left Lydia has a flamethrower and Kira's katana flashes.
And in front of him is Scott, and as another hunter gets knocked down by Stiles' bat he sees it.
There is a flash of glass through the trees as someone with a sniper rifle takes aim. It takes two seconds for Stiles to see what they're aiming at. Another one and a half to make a decision, and then five to cross the distance it takes to put himself between the sniper and Scott.
And he turns, mouth open, telling Scott "Get down!" and that's when all the air rushes out of his lungs. It feels like he's been punched in the chest.
He chokes, and staggers forwards. Scott's expression crumples and his claws rip carelessly into a nearby woman, her knife falling to the ground. Stiles feels his limbs go numb. He feels himself falling and feels Scott catch him.
Scott's arms are wrapped around him, and he pulls away slightly, examining one of his hands. It's sticky with blood.
"Scott," Stiles, frowns, "You're hit. You need to get the bullet out…"
Scott's eyes are frantic. Wide. "Stiles, stay with me. Stiles."
And that's when Stiles realises it isn't Scott's blood.
It's his.
There are hunters.
That's just the beginning.
There are hunters and wolfsbane bullets and yet the only member of the pack they manage to hit is the one without any supernatural ability.
Stiles dies choking on his own blood in Scott's arms, a bullet wound torn through his back and straight out the other side again. In desperation, and deep rooted terror at losing his best friend, Scott grabs Stiles' wrist and bites down, tasting the blood of his best friend. The blood of his brother.
The heart thumps wetly, trying force blood around the body, but it's sluggish and slow.
Footsteps thunder past and Malia and Kira pause. Malia lets out a whine and Kira gasps. "Stiles!"
"We have to go!" Liam calls, "There are too many!"
"Scott, he's right!" Derek shouts, appearing from nowhere. He freezes because the heartbeat shudders and stutters and then it stops completely and Scott is too late.
He lowers Stiles' body to the ground, and that's when Lydia appears, repeating the warning. "They've got back-up! Scott… what…?" and all the breath leaves her body at once. "No," she whispers.
And Scott knows he needs to go. He needs to leave. He needs to protect his pack…
"Stiles…" Malia whimpers, "Oh my god…" her eyes flash and her control is waning.
"Leave him," Derek whispers, "Scott, we can come back. We have to get out…"
Gun fire shatters the air overhead and they all duck. Malia whines and then looks like she's about to bolt. Something makes her pause, grab Lydia, and then the pair stagger away, ducking and weaving. Liam looks around and then follows.
"Scott," Kira begs, but it's Derek who grabs him, forcing him up and Scott's fingers clutch at thin air, and he sees Stiles' still form once more, lying there, almost peaceful. A pool of blood spreads from him and clings to his lips and his heart is still.
Then Scott's turning and running and there are more hunters (that's just how it starts) and they're outnumbered and Stiles is dead and nobody else is going to die.
Not today.
They leave the body. Nobody therefore is around to hear the soft, wet thump as the heart stutters back into life. Not at least until a hunter bends over and checks the pulse.
"This one's still alive! He's freshly bitten."
A heart beats. Thump-a-thump-a-thump but what it beats for is long gone.
When they come back later, there is nothing there but the sharp tang of Stiles' blood, hanging in the air.
She watches the body between iron bars. It’s so still lying there.
She glances at the moon outside. It will be full soon, and then it'll be a wild thing, snarling and raving.
"Still examining your pet?" he asks from behind her.
"I think," she shares her thoughts, "It can be useful."
"How?" he asks her, "Blue-eyed betas like that ought to be put down."
She finally turns away from the animal in its cage, looking at the other hunter. She waggles one finger, "This one, it's different."
"How?" he seems unimpressed.
"ADHD," she says, smugly.
He is confused. He should be. "How is that different?"
"The bite cures illnesses, right?" she asks, pacing forwards, "And ADHD is an illness, but for it, the bite didn't cure it. Do you know why?" she answers her own question, "Senses. It can hear and smell and see everything for a mile radius, at the very least. It's like being surrounded by televisions and watching every show on them, unable to tune it out." she pulls a face, "So I don't know exactly what it's like, I don't have ADHD, but I'll tell you one thing. The reason the lycanthropy didn't get rid of it? It's an advantage on the hunt."
He looks scornful, "Do you really want this monster hunting us?" he sneers.
She smirks, "Not us," she says, and the smugness creeps into her tone, "Other werewolves."
He watches the monster on the full moon.
She's mad, if she thinks she can turn a rabid wolf into a trained attack dog. The wolf alternates between howling and clawing at the walls, and curling up, hands over its ears and bleeding from the scratches it tears into itself. The bite cursed this one. Every sense, every sound is magnified, and since its medication no longer works, it can't tune anything out.
His shoe squeaks, or makes some noise or other, because the wolf's head snaps up. Its eyes flare up blue, and he wonders idly who this one killed. The others aren't impressed by what she wants to do, but then they're still licking their wounds from that pack of mongrels where they picked this one up from.
There would be a certain irony, he thinks, in using a werewolf to kill werewolves. Even more if in a year or two they set it on its own pack.
She might be onto something here.
He screams. He's been screaming a lot lately.
The female whispers in his ear, and it's a margin of comfort in this hell hole. Then she leans away and turns a dial and he can't think of anything for a while because the pain is too much.
When he can finally think, the male is leaning over him, a vial of yellow. "Wolfsbane is usually blue," he says, "But this kind? This kind is specially designed for you. Not too strong, wouldn't want to kill you. Perfect, wouldn't you say, dog?"
"'m not," he slurs, lifting his head weakly. He's not a dog, he wants to protest, he's a person. He's a human. He's Sti-
"Yes," the male says, "You are. You're a dog. You're a killer. And you'll do what you're told." and the needle is stabbed down into his veins.
It hurts. It always does. He struggles at first, wrists rubbing raw and healing as he thrashes. He calls out, but he no longer knows who he's calling for. Names and people flash and fade because they're not here. There's nobody here except them. Nobody is going to save him.
He's not important.
He had (has) a name. He knew he did (knows he does) but as his head lolls back and the only voices he hears are the female's and male's he wonders how important it really was to start with.