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The speech is supposed to be given in the center of Auden Square, where, surrounded by his personal guard, the entirety of the BHPD, and a number of assorted SWAT units, Peter Hale will address the world about his unbending intention to rid the world of terrorism. All the major news stations will be there, covering the speech, live, with rolling commentary. C-SPAN, CNN, Fox, HLN, the whole gamut, with talking points all scripted from the official autark-endorsed press briefing. It'll show on every citizen's television screen in the country at exactly 7 PM, CST.
That is, unless Stiles can help it.
"Stiles, are you in position?" Lydia radios over his com. She's a few blocks away, underneath the city museum, scrolling through hundreds of thousands of intercepted communications, eyes flicking back and forth over the salient data, mind humming like a well-oiled machine, whirring at speeds Stiles can't even begin to comprehend. Danny'll be there too, breaking into every database he can, siphoning the information directly to Lydia. They'll be leaving a massive digital footprint for when an investigation inevitably is mounted, but they're not especially worried about being covert. They are, after all, going to kill the president.
"Affirmative, guys," Stiles responds, pushing one of the blinds up a tiny crack to look out from the Regency Suite he and Scott are positioned in. Twenty-four stories off the ground in the oldest hotel in the city, he can smell the antiseptic wafting from the bathroom, the candles that were lit a couple of days ago, and Scott's aftershave. He can't lift the blind up too much, there are snipers, one or two in every building, waiting for a window to fly open and a gun to point out. He'd be dead in a nanosecond.
"Scott, buddy," Stiles motions for the massive suitcase Scott is holding. It's heavy, filled with two explosives and a disassembled sniper rifle. Scott, being an Alpha, however, can manage it. Endowed with increased strength, speed, and senses, Scott is the only Alpha that the Omega Resistance Front has been able to recruit. As he's been Stiles's friend since birth, however, "recruit" probably isn't the word to use. Scott was with Stiles from the start.
Trundling the suitcase over, Scott snaps the lock open, and pulls out the two explosive devices. He tosses one to Stiles, who affixes it to the underside of the window. The second device Scott places on the door leading into the room. They begin to construct the rifle.
"So where's Allison?" Stiles asks. This is nerve-wracking, every second feels like it's breathing down his neck, and it's way too hot in here to be doing anything. Scott's sweating, as Stiles can tell from the perspiration that's visibly soaked under his armpits, and he's being abnormally quiet. The room is enormous, with crenelated lamps, a flat screen TV, sumptuous quilt. It feels like they're in a church. Stiles hasn't been in a church since his mom died. However Scott's always happy to talk about Allison, as the smile that is visible from his bent head, under his shaggy hair is able to prove.
"She's back at the police station. They needed the token Omega recruit to work the lines and, well, to be honest, I'm glad she's not going to be standing around for this." Scott's smile is gone. Allison's had a hard time at the BHPD, as an Omega, but she's perseverant in her desire to work there. Omegas aren't typically part of anything but low-level service sector jobs, and even then, they face heavy discrimination. Ever since the Sex Protection and Enrollment Act, passed by the Hale Administration, Omegas have been barred from jobs placing them in administrative positions "as appropriate to the dictates of nature and rationality." The SPEA also served to enforce disenfranchisement, servility in banking and fund management, and strict regulation of Omega reproductive rights. If it wasn't for Chris, Allison would've never gotten the job.
"She'll be all right, buddy. This is a precision attack. Or don't you trust me?" Stiles punches Scott's shoulder playfully. Scott shakes his head ruefully, smile back in place.
"I trust you."
"Good."
Scott and Stiles stand up. The gun is assembled, large and fixed to a stand that has it pointed straight at the sharpie mark Stiles had put on the blinds. He needs 10 seconds of the blinds being open to take the shot. He hasn't missed yet. The Omega Resistance Front had dispatched 25 Alphas, all of them government agents, 10 by sniper fire, and each of those 10 had been single-shot fatalities. Stiles is pretty proud of his marksmanship and low collateral rate. Lydia doesn't humor civilian casualties.
Stiles sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He looks at Scott, who's looking at his phone, scrolling through messages. 30 minutes till go time.
"Stiles, Scott, do you copy?" Danny's voice breaks through the interlude.
"Yeah, we do, Danny."
"Okay," it's Lydia now. Her tone is businesslike, with keys clacking in the background. "We have the room number of the sniper covering your location. Name's Ben Greenberg, room 2403 in the Carlisle Hotel. Scott, you're to impersonate Major Yusuf Shapiro and relieve him on my signal. I'll be sending you additional information directly."
Scott nods, pocketing his phone. One of Scott's most useful functions is that no one ever expects an Alpha to be complicit in the Omega Resistance Front's activities. Stiles throws his arms out and brings him in to a hug. "Good luck, buddy," he says into Scott's shoulder. "Be safe." Scott pushes him back, faking incredulity. "You know I will be," he says with his crooked smile.
"Scott, you're to get staff clothing from Isaac near the metro entrance two blocks away," Lydia says. "Staff entrance is near 52nd and Main. Danny'll put that into your GPS."
Scott nods to Stiles and walks out the door, his gait casual and swinging.
The air settles a bit, and Stiles wipes the sweat from his forehead.
28 minutes to go.
***
Laying on the bed, arms crossed over his body, Stiles closes his eyes.
Three years since the Hale Administration began.
The first weeks weren't so bad. Everyone knew that Peter Hale's pathway to power was a coup, and everyone knew that he was a reactionary, but that didn't cause anyone to panic. It wasn't until the Omega's bank accounts were frozen and reproductive enlistment kicked in after the first 6 months that people began to panic. No one could really tally the exact number of deaths that the Hales were responsible for, it was the condition of the living that was foremost intolerable. Stiles repeats the mantra in his head.
He doesn't enjoy killing, and he doesn't relish the looks of pain on others' faces when he shoots down a loved one in the middle of a crowded birthday party, or a commencement speech, or whatever, but he has to believe that his praxis is working. He has to believe that Lydia's plan is working, and his agency within it. Because there's no other way to fight. When your enemy possessed all the institutional power, the media, and public opinion, you had to fight dirty. It was the only way.
Sometimes he wonders what his mother would think.
The pager buzzes.
"Stiles, get in position." Lydia's voice is very terse. He can picture her, body gone rigid, mouth drawn into a line. Staring at a camera feed. He can feel Scott's knuckles hovering, waiting in the hotel across the street to knock on Ben Greenberg's door. If Danny missed one camera, they'll all be dead men.
He kneels down, one eye peering through the scope of the rifle. A faint dark dot is in his vision, a smudge. The sharpie point.
"We're go," he says.
"As soon as your pager sounds," Lydia says "open the window. You have approximately 10 seconds to take the shot."
He can hear Scott through the feed, knocking on Greenberg's door.
"Greenberg! This is Major Shapiro! You're being relieved!"
Pause.
"Affirmative," Stiles says, fingers hovering over the cord to the blinds.
There's the sound of a door unlocking, it swings open in Stiles's mind's eye. Then, through the comm, a muffled yelp as Scott releases a shot from a silenced pistol into Greenberg's face.
The pager sounds.
Stiles leaps into action, pulling the blinds up in a rapid jerking motion, sending them askew in the air. Heedless of their jumping around, he puts his eye to the scope. 9, 8.. he sees Peter Hale's head at the podium. He's gesticulating and pounding his fist against the wood. 7, 6...the shot is lined up, Peter Hale safely within the cross-hairs. Long shot, little wind. 5, 4...soon Greenberg will be noticed as unable to respond to the SWAT radio. 3, 2, 1...Stiles takes the shot.
He thinks his mom would be proud.
***
When Derek visits the hospital room, his uncle is dead.