The man visited by ecstasies and visions, who takes ... The man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic.
- Voltaire
He killed again.
It's been two years since anyone heard about the guy, Stiles just got his job in the FBI when the las murder happened. As still unexperienced agent, he decided to reject the case. Not because he doubted in his ability to catch the goddamn psycho, but because they couldn't risk not to throw his ass in the jail. Everyone in department agreed to pass it on the best agent they had, Lydia Martin. She hasn't succeeded. Last murder happened in 2012, and now, two years later, the fifth boy was brutally murdered.
Stiles is still in certain degree new at this job, he as got only two yeard of experience after all, but his supervisor thinks he is ready. In this job, you can see a lot in only one week. What Stiles has seen in his two will leave scars on his brain for the rest of his life, which will heal by the time, but never disappear. Deep down inside his heart he knows he can do this, this is his profession and a true calling. Maybe catching killers is only thing he is good at. Those families need a closure, and Stiles can give them that by catching a killer of their children. ''Listen to me, Stilinski.'' His supervisor said, ''This is how it's gonna be, you catch that sick bastard and I'll give you a raise. To boost you to do the job properly.''
''Thank you, sir. But I'd say that five dead kids is good enough 'boost' to me." He responded and grabbed the case file from the dest. Stiles was just about to leave the office when the man spoke up again. ''I'd suggest that you work with agent Martin, since she worked on this one before.''
Stiles stared at the man's uneven jaw. And yet she couldn't catch him, he thought but didn't say anything. He coudn't help but ask himself would this case end up any different if he just took it the first time he had a chance.
Other agents had their noses buried in piled of paperwork, all trying to do the same thing, all of them having the same cause in a different case. As much as he tried not to look or think about any other case he couldn't help himself, his eyes glanced at the boards filled with pictures of crime scenes, blood, dead people, weapons - why would a human being to something like that to another? Some things will never make sense to him. He shook his head to clean up those thoughts just as he reached agent Martin's desk. As any other in the building, her too is overcrowded with papers, the only difference is that her stuff are actually in order. Cases are arranged by type and date, even pens are separated from pencils. Stiles threw the papers on one of the files, not really caring if he messes up this framework she's trying to keep in orer. You can bet at least her drawers are messy, no one can be so tidy as Lydia is. She looked up at him, a ''how dare you?'' look on her beautiful face. ''Tell me everything you know about this Wolf of Beacon Hills guy.''
Lydia looks down in her hands, cleary not too happy about bringing that part of her past into her life again. She leans in her chair, ''He's good, evil genius.''
They have practically nothing about the guy, except he is a psycho who thinks he is a werewolf, creature of the night and uses artificial claws as his weapon. ''I've figured that out on my own since The Best couldn't catch him," it wasn't his intention to offend Lydia, the last thing he needed was to be on Lydia Martin's checklist for revenge. He doesn't know what he expected, but Lydia only swallowed the lup of guilt in her throat and nodded. ''That good.''
''What do we know about him?''
''Not much,'' strawberry-blond sighed. ''We don't have a name, nor his age and job... nothing.''
''I asked wat we do have,'' Stiles rubbed his forehead, irritation slowly boiling up inside him. God, he just got assigned to this case and he already has a need to swallow up an aspirin.
''We have a sketch of his mask, though,'' she lifted a finger, and started rummaging through her desk drawers. Stiles was wrong, they mirrored the perfection on the top of her desk. It took her a while to find it, occasionally sighing in frustration, but finally she handed him a piece of paper. Stiles let out a gigantic breath like that first time he saw the same sketch hanging on a board with title: WANTED.
When he looked at it that day he was amazed by guy's imagination and his ability to hide. Now it's only making him sick.
''The guy's insane.'' He says, still looking at the picture. What needs to happen in person's life to have such an effect on them?
''I have spoken to a psychiatrist that believes our unsub suffers from Clinical Lycanthropy.'' Stiles looked up at Lydia, expecting her to laugh or give him any sign of humor. ''You're kidding me, that's a real thing?"
The girl nodded, opening one of the drawers again just to pull out a book. ''It's a rare psychiatric syndrome,'' she started, without opening the book or reading from it. ''Affected individual is in a delusion that he can transform, or has transformed into a non-human animal.''
Stiles groaned, ''Are you trying to tell me his mother read him storied when he was a kid and now he thinks he's a freakin' werewolf?''
Again, Lydia nodded. ''I still don't know what causes it... But Clinical Lycanthropy is thought to be a cultural manifestation of schizophrenia. The syndrome comes in four stages.'' She opened the book, flipped a few pages, and pushed it toward Stiles. ''First: a delusion in which person believes he or she turnes into an animal.'' Stiles started to add features on his mental list about Lydia Martin. Next to beautiful, she is also a genius. ''Second symptom are hallucinations,'' Lydia carried on. He figured she would be a good teacher and continued to listen what she has to say. ''of being an animal, having whatever traits that animal has, like fur... or in his case fangs and claws.'' She pointed at the picture but Stiles didn't want to look at it again, it gave him creeps and made him uncomfortable. He's not scared, but it wakes up something in him he's been trying to hide for a long time. Anyway, he already knows how it looks like – a typical modern werewold – almost too real. ''Third?'' He asked.
''Disorganized speech. If a person believes he's a werewolf, they begin to howl at the moon at night. Some do it in the daylight, too.'' She sighed, ''The last one matched schizophrenia, the disorganized behavior.''
''Wait, let me guess.'' Stiles lifts his hand to stop her from talking. ''He starts eating people's hearts, slashing their throats and runs on four legs in the woods? Awesome.''
At that moment Stiles promised he will never let his kids watch or read anything that includes shape shifters with or without fangs.
There's a moment of silence bewteen the who. Stiles has seen serial killers, bengeful lovers, drunks on a killing spree, nurses killing their patients... but he never worked on something like this. How are they supposed to catch a man no one managed to collect any information about since he started killing?
''It wasn't your fault, Lydia.'' He said when he noticed how the she kept looking at the sketch, tears forming in her eyes. With trembling hands Lydia rubbed her eyes before a tear could escape.
[two hours later]
Since they left the department and all the way to the crime scene Lydia didn't say a word. They reached the alley just in time when the amvulance disappeared from the view. All Wolf's previous killings occurred near the woods, at the edge of the town. But this time it was different, he ditched the body in the dark alley, or he killed him right here. Both situations don't make any sense. Why would he leave the body here and risk someone seeing him, or risk being cought red-handed.
''He never moves their bodies.'' Lydia says, crouching to have a better look at the blood covered ground. They arrived late, so the body was already removed. Stiles pulled out the photographs. Looking at the victim's disfigured, bloody face used to made him sick, but somehow he became immune at the sight of a dead body.
''He never kills in the town, either.'' Stiles says in a flat voice. ''What changed?''
Lydia stood up again, looking around for any other clue. They are in the center of the town, in a dark alley. Just the place, without all the blood and human organs on the brick walls gives you a feeling you're in a horror movie. ''Who's the victim?''
''Gale Reed,'' Stiles mutters, observing the crime scene. ''Jesus, I knew the kid.'' It's a small town, everybody knows everybody. Gale was one of the lacrosse players, he's seen him play handful of times when he visited Scott at the practice. Scott's his coach. ''He was only fifteen. His parents said he was coming back from a party. Drunk, probably.'' He said, rubbing his forehead.
''No witnesses?''
''Are there ever?'' He answered and looked back at the photos. She joined him, both hoping for any kind of evidence wich they could have missed.
''He randomly chooses his victims, right? But they are alwas from age 15-20'' She spoke, looking at Stiles who spread the photographs around the floor.
''Yes, becase others are too young to be out this late, and others too old. They're probably already sleeping when he's on the hunt.''
Hunt was a good word for it. If he was the wolf, then this is his hunt, and everyone in Beacon Hills became his prey.
Stiles's attempt to revive the crime scene failed as soon as the first wind blew and carried the photographs with it. Lydia didn't say anything, but he could tell she's thinking he's an idiot. Lyia reached the last photograph that ended up below the green container.
''Stiles,'' she stood up, her face white like she's seen a ghost.
In her left hand, Lydia wasn't only holding a photo, but a cassette tape too. She extended her hand for Stiles to get a better look, on a cassette tape, with messy handwriting that he barely red, two words were written Stilinski; Martin.
Partners rushed into Lydia's Toyota and shoved the cassette in the player. ''Good thing I didn't remove this thing yet.'' She says, pushing the play button.
There are few things you need to know. The gravelly voice said.
''Except that you belong in the loony bin?'' Stiles joked, which Lydia didn't find funny at all.
This is my game and you play by my rules.
There was something about his voice that made Stiles think he knows him, it's almost like a ghost in the back of his head, where everything is too dark to see. He hids there, but he won't get out.
This is just a beginning, and by the time I'm done with you, you will become my pets, marionette puppets performing just for me.
A/N: Hello! I would really be thankful if you give me some reviews. (Sorry for my bad english, it's not my first language.)