Note: Grammar free, you will probably see everything and anything. I've left out important events that don't really serve their purpose in this story. Not a single person is in character, I can't get anyone right. It's a big mess, but the actual plot line of the show is even worse. It's not entirely season two compatible. I do what I waaaaaaant.

(PS: Before you lovely people shoot me dead, just remember this is purely for fun and I am well aware that all the good, making-some-sense, well-structured fanfiction out there, is somewhere far from this... draft. This, again, is just for fun, and many canon events or facts have been omitted.)

Chapter One

It Wasn't Fire

Once I saw him in the moonlight, when the bats were flying;

all alone I saw the werewolf and the werewolf was crying.

"So, I know we had an agreement and whatnot, but I...", I start explaining to her all the reasons I had to leave earlier and why I couldn't have waken her up. I tell her about the strange man that followed me in the cafe and how I couldn't go back home, leading him right into our safe place. I tell her that she needs to pack my things and take the first bus to Beacon Hills because that's how things should roll for the time being and that no, I can't shut up, plus she needs to listen to me because I'm older and for one time, I'm right.

Her shrieking. Her shrieking is the worst. I bet the old woman sitting beside me has already heard half of the cursing she's shooting at me and all I can do is roll my eyes at the window and watch the landscape slowly change, from muddy trees to humble houses. She's not pleased. She's not even neutral. She's just yelling and tells me that I promised to never leave her alone and I try my best to calm her down but she keeps shouting and shouting.

Then she calms down. She takes some deep breaths. "Okay," she finally says. "Okay, I'll... I'll pack some bags and I'll take the bus and I'll meet you... and it'll be fine. Right?"

I smile. "Sure it will."

"What if the man you saw comes after me?", she asks. "What if he makes a move?"

"He won't," I reassure her. "And you can always tur-", I look at the old lady and move closer to the window. "You can turn invisible," I whisper.

"Oh. Yes. There's that too."

"See?"

She's anxious. I can feel it in her way she forms her sentences and I have a bad taste in my mouth. I know she'll be fine, because she's not new at this, but still, that dark clothed man could be anywhere. He saw me leave. He never saw me with her. That means he might not even know she was there with me. He might have followed me. Oh. That would be really bad. Maybe he let it go. Agh, they never do though. They always come back for more. I'm prepared this time. And Beacon Hills has a reputation for the supernatural, so we might find some help here. Well, I have to find some help. She won't be here for at least eight to ten more hours and I'll need to find us somewhere to stay… And school. If we don't want to draw stares, we'll need to stay in school. Parents? Business trip. Hawaii? No, no, too vocational. How about Paris? Yeah. It's sweet but serious too. France it is. And, "Yes, sir, they'll be gone for a long time", and, "No, no, we're used to it. We can really take care of ourselves". Maybe even a, "We've got some grandparents here," if necessary.

God, I've become such an expert at lying.

When we end the phone call, the bus has stopped and everyone's already started getting off. I don't have anything with me except my phone, which battery is dying, ID, my keys to the previous place, some pills in my back pocket and a sweater strapped around my waist, that I'll now need to wear, because it's getting chilly here.

The first thing I see is the bakery shop.

(No, not really, that's my hunger.)

What I really see is the round square with the perfect trees and the perfect park and people walking around, chatting. Then the smell from the bakery on the corner of that street hits me and my stomach growls, but I shut it up because I don't have any money left, not until she arrives. Everything looks grayer here, from the weather to the roads and the houses. But it's familiar. Last time I was here, I was eleven or twelve... and that fire was the event of the week. A family had been burnt to ashes in their very own home and only a sixteen-year-old boy with his sister and their semi-burnt uncle had survived, with the last one being admitted to the hospital, falling into a coma.

Was it the Harvey family? Harv… Ha… Hale. Yes, it was the Hale's. Strange, yet kind people.

Their house was built somewhere in the woods. I could take a look later.

My steps bring me in front of a plain building that has a sign above the entrance that reads ReRo and I suppose it stands for "Rental Rooms". I open the door, it makes a loud jiggle noise and then I'm inside a friendly, tile-walls-everywhere lobby, with an old woman behind a wooden desk that's got huge purple glasses and types slowly on a pre-historic computer. I approach her, taking in everything around me, the maps up the walls of Beacon Hills and the couch below them, the welcome carpet that's been misplaced and it's now in the middle of the room.

I stand in front of the desk and she doesn't notice me, she's too sucked up into the internet world. She seems to struggle with something and she frowns and starts muttering words I don't understand. I lean over to her, just enough so I can see the monitor. It's simple Windows stuff.

"I might be able to help you," I say and her eyes glance over at me and she's a bit taken aback. I take a step back, because giving heart attacks to old people isn't my thing. I smile hesitantly, afraid she'll start chasing me with the baseball bat that's hanging right behind her.

"Oh, dear," she speaks in an old, sweet voice and thankfully, she doesn't seem angry at all. "I didn't see you there!"

"I'm sorry if I startled you," I apologize innocently. "You seem to need some help…?", I point at the computer. "I can assist."

She looks at the monitor again, she makes a face and then she nods. "That would be most delightful!", she grins and makes a gesture so I get next to her. When I take a look at the files and the archive problem, I explain to her as simply as possible how to move all the files to the one single envelope she wants to put them into. After three minutes and some other demonstrations, she's set. She thanks me many times and repeats what a bright young woman I am and that not many people have been kind to her in her life. I tell her it was nothing and I ask her if I can rent a room, because thankfully, it is a place for room rentals – that's what the files are; names, prices and days. We agree that I'll pay her as soon as possible, once my beloved sister arrives. She proceeds to ask me for an ID, because it's sadly, "things I cannot avoid, honey".

"Here you go," I give her my ID and she takes a good look at it. At first everything looks normal, she starts typing again my information, crosschecks things.

Then she stops.

She brings the ID closer to her eyes and then away again. She repeats two more times and finally her eyes rest on mine. Her lips are trembling a little bit and I don't understand, have I done something wrong? She scans my face, every detail. "Your name is Odette Banyoham?", she asks and her voice is close to a whisper.

I nod. "Yes. Is something wrong?"

"Banyoham? Your last name is Banyoham?"

I nod again.

Both of her eyebrows rise and she doesn't move. She gulps a bit and then smiles. "Are you sure, sweetheart?".

"Absolutely," I laugh, because I'd know my own surname. "You might have heard it before. I used to live here, when I was younger."

I can't read her face. She seems terrified but relieved at the same time. She stands up from her chair. "What was your father's name?", she keeps at it.

My eyes open wide open, but I pull myself together again. Was? She used past tense? She didn't say is, she said was and what the…. "How did—"

"What's your father's name?", she interrupts me and this time her voice is louder, needy for my answer.

"Ben. Ben Banyoham," I reply.

What the hell is going on.

"Benjamin Banyoham," she mumbles to herself and suddenly she changes faces again and she's smiling once more. "Okay. That's all," she hands me my ID. "There," she grins. "Your room is number 15 and it's in the far right of the second floor, right after you take the stairs," she gives me my key and sits back down again. "I hope you enjoy your stay, beautiful!", she exclaims and then starts typing slowly again like nothing happened.

I blink a few times and I want to ask her so many things, but I feel as if I imagined her reaction to my name and her knowledge about my father.

Maybe she knew him, I convince myself, Maybe she had met him, because really, my parents were friends with everyone around this town. I shake it off and start heading for the staircase, which is on the far left of the wooden desk. I can feel her eyes on me but I don't turn my back.

The room is quite big and it looks surprisingly comfortable. There's a double bed in the middle of the wall right across the door I'm standing and there's a small couch to my right, right under the big window that allows sunlight to come in. The walls are like those of the lobby and there's a circle shaped carpet with orange and red colours. To my left, there are two doors and I suppose one of them is the bathroom. I take a few steps towards the middle of the room and when I turn around, next to the door there's a huge painting hanging on the wall. It's a beautiful portrait of a blonde lady staring straight at me with her two big green eyes. She doesn't smile, but doesn't seem sad either. She's neutral. Her neck, instead of having a necklace, is occupied by a metal collar and her skin around that area is full of scars. Her lower lip is bleeding. In the painting's presence, I feel like I'm the pray.

Surprise, surprise.

I relax my shoulders and I lay down in the bed, my legs hanging on the front of the frame. I cross my hands on my belly and I stare at the almost-orange ceiling. This was a close one. He could have caught me, caught us. But he didn't, that's the positive aspect. And no one will try to reach us here, at least not for a while. They first need to map the whole town and I doubt they've got the blueprints of Beacon Hills. We'll like it here. It has everything we'll need, it even has a mall. It has people that hopefully will not recognize our names. We can blend it. We can start anew. Again. And if they try something, this time we'll be prepared, I'll make sure of it. I'll try to practice everyday, after school. They won't get to us. Not like they did with our parents, not like they did with so many other people with families.

Fucking hunters, my mind chants, before my eyelids become too heavy to keep them open.