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How do wolves call for their packs?
They howl.
Scott never realized how much he relied on his voice. It never occured to him, because why would it? When push came to shove and the pack had to take matters into their own hands, they didn’t truly need words. They knew what was important, knew what they had to do, and there was never a question how to decide.
Even when the situation wasn’t downright deadly, often times they didn’t need words to communicate. They were so in tune with each other that looks or gestures were enough to understand what others wanted to say.
And then there were the pheromones. As the Alpha, Scott always knew how members of his pack felt. Always, no matter how far he was from them. It worked better with the weres, but Stiles and Lydia weren’t excluded, and lately, he started to form a bond with Mason, too.
It was why he never thought about it. Yes, he used words to express his feelings, but in so many occasions he didn’t really need to because his presence, the presence of an Alpha, was enough to attract attention or make people calm down or chase away their distress and bring support and assurance instead.
Scott wished he have his voice some thoughts before. He wished he could use the pack bonds to navigate his Betas to himself, wished he could do anything to soothe the fear that had been flowing through their bonds to him, but he couldn’t do neither.
Just like he couldn’t speak.
The hunters that got him were prepared. They knew who exactly he was, knew he had a pack, knew he was the True Alpha Scott McCall.
And hunted him down accordingly to the knowledge.
They took him by surprise in the hospital, where he couldn’t do much if he didn’t want to endanger other people. He went almost willingly and by the time they made it outside, they had him drugged on wolfsbane so much he was barely standing.
That was how he ended up here, in an unknown, dark building. His hands were tied together with a thic wire that had been connected to the ceiling. He was about five feet from the ground, naked with the exception of his boxers, gagged and there was a wolfsbane burning in a vaporizer that made his eyes stink and brought back unpleasant memories.
He didn’t know where they were, but the locality didn’t smell, didn’t feel like Beacon Hills at all.
He was on his own. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t scream, he couldn’t do anything.
In the darkness, he saw the hunters enter the room. He saw the blades, sharp as ever, saw the wicked smiles, and suddenly Scott was glad none of his packmates knew where he was.
Because they won’t have to hear his muffled screams. They won’t have to fight the hunters. They won’t have to go through the pain he was about to suffer.
What happens to a wolf that can’t howl?
They die alone.