Questions marks. That was what his life was full of. As far back as he could remember, there were things that didn't make sense. Not that he could remember much. Two years ago, they told him, he'd been the only survivor in a car accident that had killed his best friend, Scott McCall. A friend that he had no memory of. There was only a blank white space in his memory of anything before that accident, and if he focused too long on it, all he would end up with was a headache.
His name was Stiles Stilinski, and he was the heir to Stilinski Investment Corporation, a multi million dollar company that his dad had built from the ground up. As much as his dad wished he was involved, Stiles went through the motions of going to the office every day, but he just couldn't see himself spending his life in a cubicle. There was nothing more boring to him than charts full of numbers, or managing the money of the super rich. Still, he tried, for his dad's sake.
One of the biggest problems was that ever since he'd woken up after that car accident, and probably before, he assumed, he'd been plagued by an illness that defied most treatments that doctors tried. Some days he felt so awful that he couldn't even go into the office, which only annoyed his father more. His dad couldn't imagine why Stiles wasn't like him, and Stiles couldn't imagine why his dad expected him to be some kind of a progeny. Just once, he wanted his dad to lay off, or to find another heir for his precious company.
Stiles was in his office that morning, just like most mornings, reviewing documents for a meeting later with some prospective clients. He set the papers down and rubbed his eyes, accepting the tea that his assistant, Tyler, offered. Tyler was a lifesaver at work, even going so far as to come to Stiles' apartment and run through paperwork or other business tasks with Stiles on days when Stiles wasn't up to going in to the office.
"Thank you."
"Do you want me to call a car to take you home? I'm sure one of the other associates would be willing to take over this meeting." Tyler asked, sliding his phone out of his pocket to call.
"No, I'll be fine. It's just one meeting. It shouldn't take more than an hour, and then my father won't be able to complain that I don't do anything around here."
"He hardly has room to complain. You get done in half the time what it takes some of the others hours to finish. And your client retention and new client base is 10% higher than the company average. As much as you don't like the work, even he has to admit that you're good at it." Tyler said, sitting down in the chair across from him.
The meeting went smoothly, and when it was over, and after Stiles typed up his report for the next day, he followed Tyler down to where the car was waiting. Stiles gave the driver directions, and the two sat back in comfortable silence. Stiles looked out the window, and for a moment, an odd feeling stirred up inside him. He could have sworn he remembered something, and it was just on the edge of his memory, but he just couldn't quite grasp it.
"Wait," he said to the driver. "Take us to the park. I'd like to get a little fresh air." He could tell that Tyler was studying him, gauging whether or not this was a good idea. Tyler was more focused on Stiles' health than Stiles was, and at times, it was a little annoying. "I'm fine. Fresh air is what the doctor ordered." Tyler shook his head in defeat, but he didn't say anything. When they pulled up to the park, the trees that stood intermittent, were gold and orange and red, autumn in full swing. Stiles got out and took in a deep breath, letting it out, and with it, the tensions of the day. He sat down on a bench and let the sun shine on him and warm him up through the crisp air. This was his favorite time of the year, when the air was getting cold, and people were getting ready for the cold to set in, but before they needed winter coats or boots. But after what seemed like no time at all, Tyler was at his side.
"The driver needs to get home. We can come back another day." Stiles reluctantly got up and slid into the back seat of the car. Tyler got in next to him, and gave the driver the address. As they pulled away, Stiles took one last look back toward the park. Why did this place seem to mean something? And why did he feel a prickle on the back of his neck, as though someone was watching him?
From across the street, there was someone watching. A man sat in a nondescript green car, and as the black car drove away, he pulled out his phone to make a call.
"He was at the park again," he said.
"Alone?" On the other end, a woman sounded alarmed.
"No, his assistant was with him." The man, Isaac, said.
"Did he see you? Did he say anything?"
"Lydia, don't you think I would have told you that first?" He asked, a testy edge to his voice. "It's been four years, and there hasn't been a single sign that things are getting better."
"I'll talk to Allison and see if she's come up with any more ideas," Lydia said. "We can't lose hope."
"You do that," Isaac said. "I'll see you in the morning. I'm heading home." He ended the call and tossed his phone on the seat next to him. He drove home through the dark streets, automatically noticing everything, without really paying attention to anything. He worked for a top-secret branch of the federal government that dealt with organized crime and undercover work that those who knew about called the Agency. The agents worked in teams of six, with a leader, called the alpha, and five betas, or support members. Up until two years ago, Stiles had been the tactician on their team, with Isaac, Scott, Derek, Allison and Lydia. They called themselves the wolf pack, and they had been unstoppable. Until, two years ago. In June, two years ago, Stiles and Scott were casing a warehouse that their intel told them was the meeting place for an auction for high powered assault rifles. What exactly happened wasn't clear. All the rest of the wolf pack knew was that Stiles had some kind of head injury, and Scott hadn't survived the trip to the hospital. In the days that followed, it became clear that Stiles' memory was completely gone. When the others went to visit him in the hospital, he didn't even recognize them. Doctors hoped that with time, Stiles' memory would come back, but in the past two years, there had been only minimal improvement. In every other way, he improved and recovered, but whatever happened that night was gone.
The next morning, Isaac made his way to an office in the Agency headquarters and knocked on the door. There was the distinct click of a lock, and then the door swung open.
"Isaac. You have the report I asked for?" Allison Argent held her hand out, knowing that Isaac would deliver. He handed her the file, and walked past her to sit down at the desk. Allison closed the door and sat down across from him. "I heard you saw Stiles last night. How did he look?"
"Fine. Clueless. I don't know. If he was here, he would have a hundred questions and have everything figured out. But the way things are, he doesn't even know that there are questions to ask." Isaac said, pouring a cup of coffee. "Derek says to keep our distance, but I think we have to do something to bring him back. I mean, can you imagine Stiles being happy somewhere besides the middle of the action?"
"No, but if Derek says to stay away, then we have to stay away. He's the Alpha." Allison said, for herself as much as for Isaac.
"Yes, well it's all well and good for Derek, isn't it?" Isaac muttered. He got up and took his coffee with him. "Let me know when he gets back so we can go through the report together." He strode out of the office, a stack of forms tucked under one arm. One of the many problems with Stiles not having his memories was that without knowing specifically what happened that last night, they were left vulnerable to attacks from whoever it was who had ambushed Scott and Stiles. Plus, Stiles' ADD had contributed to him being a brilliant tactician, because as distractible as he could be, what caught his attention were flaws in their plans, or weaknesses in the enemy's plans. Without him and Scott, the wolf pack was two members short, so Isaac was left the unenviable task of trying to fill those two spots. They needed a tactician, and what they called a runner, someone who communicated information to the rest of the team, ran after suspects who tried to flee, and was skilled in hand to hand combat. The wolf pack prided themselves on having the best record at the agency, but Isaac was struggling to find agents who could fill the roles with the standards that they needed to have. It wasn't just a matter of pride. As the accident had shown, any mistake could lead to someone being killed, or permanently scarred.
"This doesn't make any sense," Derek said, slapping the report down on Allison's desk. Allison didn't have to look at it to know it was the report Isaac brought in this morning. She swiveled around in her chair.
"I know. That's why we wanted to go through it with you. But it's accurate. Isaac followed the leads himself." The report was part of a case they'd been working on for months. It was a white collar money laundering crime, but the newest intelligence was that the trail led, not out into some gang on the streets, but toward the Agency.
"Who knows about this?" Derek asked. "Who knows how far into the case we are?" Allison thought for half a second.
"Just the pack. Well... Stiles and Scott knew, too, but neither of them are talking."
"Let's keep it that way. Until we know more, we need to make sure that nothing leaks out about what we're looking into." He picked up the report. "Are there any other copies of this?" He asked.
"No. Isaac only brought in the one."
"Good. I'll see you later." He folded the report and tucked it into the false side of his briefcase, and disappeared out the door.
