Scott and Stiles. The best of buddies. A duo. A pack of two— never to be broken.
Until now. Never to be nearly dead.
Until now. Until this very moment as they ran through a patch of forest miles from man. Their blood dripping in droves and falling from their fleeting frames like raindrops of red.
The Moon was almost entirely gone from the sky— their power was on the verge of being completely swallowed by the rising sun. They'd been running all night. Fleeing was a better way to describe it.
Sleeping in Isaac's home was never a good idea. But they had no choice. If only they knew….
If only they would've been smart enough to consider that maybe, just maybe, the one that burned and sucked the life out of Isaac's house would return.
And return it did.
As Scott ran through the forest, carried upright by Stiles, his mind continued to feed him gruesome flashbacks in the midst of his exhausted delirium.
The Monster was like nothing he'd ever seen. Like something straight out of myth. It put the Blue Eyed Beast to shame.
With its slitted reptilian eyes and scaled demonic body fitted with a single wing and horn. Scott could've sworn he was looking at a weredragon.
When it started spitting fire, he was almost sure of it. He couldn't beleive it was really happening until the flames singed his skin, burning away his clothing and defensive layers of fur.
They shouldn't have stayed.
He shivered at the memory.
They were way in over their heads. He was Suprised they survived. Even more surprised that he landed a hit on the Monster.
The memory reminded him of the caustic cold burn running through the nerves in his hand like lightning.
"ACK!" He snarled, tripping at the same time and falling into the dead leaf riddled forest floor.
Stiles skidded to a halt, bolting over to his side.
"W-what is it? Your hand still?" Stiles scrambled.
"It burns!" Scott explained before letting out a canine roar.
Stiles eyes flared a bright yellow in response before he began removing the torn shirt wrapped around Scott's hand to check the injury.
Scott looked away. The smell was already too much.
Slowly, the wrapping came away. Revealing a scalded hand riddled with black veins and cuts. The veins wriggled beneath his skin like snakes. Each claw still fully extended as if the hand was unwilling to shift back along with the rest of Scott's body.
Under the light of the slowly rising sun, Stiles could've sworn his hand was steaming.
No good.
"How is it?" Scott said in a slightly dazed tone.
Stiles began rewrapping the wound, "it's fine. It's nothing you need to worry about. Just a burn. We need to move."
Scott groaned as Stiles helped him to his feet. "We— we can't go home yet….if it's following."
Stiles froze, sniffing the air with his increased sensory perception as his mind went to work.
It was hard to focus. Especially with everything that has happened. One hell of a first Full Moon. He barely even remembered any of it. But one thing he did remember was Scott. Scott tackling the dragonoid monster and shoving his hand into its guts to stop it from burning Stiles alive.
He was the reason Scott was hurt. He was a liability.
All this new power. And nothing changed.
He'd be damned if he didn't do what he could now.
"Come on Stiles. Think." He thought as he pulled Scott's arm over his shoulder.
"A place with defenses…..maybe a place nobody or any monster would expect. A place where we could be protected and blended in....wait."
"Where….are we going?" Scott asked.
"We're going to the vet."
Scott smiled faintly opening his half shut eyes, "…..what would I do without you?"
Stiles shrugged, "I don't know, fight a weredragon by yourself probably."
Scott laughed, immediately regretting it in response to his cracked ribs.
"Sorry, too soon." Stiles replied before they began moving, slowly beginning to heal enough to continue running.
***
Silence. Deaton enjoyed silence. In his line of work, it was rare. Animals were rarely engaged in silence these days…..especially in Beacon Hills. For the past few months, the animals of Beacon had been rowdier than ever. On the outside and in his clinic. And last night, it was only worse. Full Moons tended to do that.
Luckily, he'd hired a new hand who seemed to have a curious affinity with them. Much like himself— and much like himself, he enjoyed silence.
"A good early morning to say the least." Deaton said with a smile to the young Doberman seated on the operating table in front of him as he gave the beautiful animal a rabies shot.
It's fur was like black and brown silk as it sat over the lighted silver operating table in the center of the room lined with x-ray shots and medical equipment.
As he moved to insert the needle, the Doberman moved to scratch its floppy left ear with its back leg, causing Deaton to knick it in the buttox with the needle.
"AARP!" The Doberman yelped before spinning around and growling at him angrily.
Deaton lowered his head and made himself small, holding out his opened hand for the animal to smell it. Some animals required the opposite reaction, but he could tell this was a fighting dog based on its scarring and medical history. In the face of violence it would grow more violent. A survival response.
"My apologies." Deaton said.
The Doberman didn't seem to care, slowly beginning to move on the vet with a g—
"Stop it."
The voice rushed through the room like a tidal wave, smashing everything in its path.
The Doberman whined and laid flat on the table, lifting its head to show its throat to whatever spoke.
Deaton stood back up and sighed in the direction of the voice. He could feel the presence of his new hand in the clinic.
"Is this how you handle all your issues, young man?"
"As long as all issues are handled, it doesn't much matter what I'm doing….usually."
Deaton could've laughed. The young man had such intense idealogies. They'd scarcely spoken but he knew that much ever since he first met the man. Especially considering the circumstances of their first meeting.
"Is that really what you believe?"
"I believe in results. So yes."
"Very well…" Deaton started before he began running his hands along the scared canines fur, "But I will say, sometimes. Only sometimes, life's hardest battles require a softer hand. Life doesn't always need strong armed manipulation. Finesse can get you quite far." As he finished speaking, he began pulling the rabies shot from the Doberman's thigh, without it ever noticing due to his slight of hand.
The voice from the next room went silent. Deaton smiled thinking he made a decent point.
"Did I just make your job easier?"
Nevermind then.
Deaton chuckled to himself as he shook his head.
"Alright then." The voice came again.
Before Deaton could continue speaking somebody began knocking at his door. Faint. Weakening with every strike.
The Doberman got up in a flash, sniffing in the direction of the door ahead as the hairs on its back rose.
"We'll continue this conversation later. It seems we have company." Deaton said before leading the Doberman back to its kennel to get the door.
***
"-Oure going to be alright. We just need to watch this hand.." The voice came into Scott's mind, faded and soft….familiar.
"—ott, can you hear me? Come on, focus and tell me what happened. What attacked the two of you?"
"....wings….fire….dark." Scott started as he flowed in and out of consciousness on the operating table.
In his blurred vision, Deatons concerned face watched him, and someone else that he spoke to inbetween questions.
The person had to be intelligent in an area very few were because they were theorizing, bouncing ideas of one another's head based of his information. He could scarcely follow along in his unconscious daze.
Suddenly, they reached a conclusion. And Deaton looked grim to put it simply.
"Ok Scott. You and Stiles get some rest. I'll call Derek and make sure he's alright with Alison. You and I will talk when you awaken."
Scott heard Alison's name and immediately the transformation took him over in an attempt to get him off his feet.
Before he could move, something stabbed him in his shoulder.
"I said sleep, Scott. Your biggest priority is survival right now. For you and your friends. A task that won't get any easier from this point."
As Scott faded he watched Deaton look up at whoever was out of his vision.
"What do you think about survival? Good? Bad? A preordained outcome? Animal instinct?"
The voice replied. Accented, a blend of two that came out as something entirely original….and eerily familiar.
"A driving force. The pursuit of survival makes us stronger."
Scott faded soon after, pondering over a scaled one winged monster, blue eyed giants and the idea of survival.