It was about the Alpha pack. - the Hales too but they were harmless, a family. Teaching control and peace since the children are babies. They were safe. The Alphas however, were being hunted by more than they knew.

"Miss Martin, are you prepared for this?"

She wasn't - at all. This was everything she has feared and hoped for but really it didn't matter if she was ready. She didn't stay in the agency for herself. She stayed for her brother.

Their mother, a half-Italian, half-Spanish woman was beautiful. She had thick dark hair and eyes exactly like Dylan. Holland herself took after their English, Irish dad. Red hair, green eyes.

They were a happy family.

Her mother had always worked for the agency, killing things that went bump in the night, right under their father's nose. Business trips to the states, a meeting in Hong Kong - all fake and half-lies.

When she died it was just a vacation. A two week trip with her, her brother, and her mother to Spain, a quick hop, skip, and a jump from their home in Ireland.

It wasn't a werewolf, as perfect as that would have been, it just wasn't.

It was something else. Something with shadows that dipped its knife into her again and again. Pulling out more blood with screams and tears and - please, please let me die.

They were lucky. Another couple that was part of the agency was hunting the thing, so while she clung and wrapped herself around her brother, both of them screaming, two women charged the cloud and swung consecrated iron rods, probably from some old church fence.

That's not when they joined, they were only six at the time.

Lydia Martin stands, tall and proud and ginger over two fighting packs. She shoots a round in the air, the resounding echo of the shot and the smoke making her dizzy with excitement and nerves.

This is - this is it.

The moment she's been building up for, for almost half her life. She sees her brother, the look that's so familiar but her heart aches.

He doesn't know.

She is six, her father is recently a widower. The smell of whiskey permeates through the air, sharp and crisp.

Her father moves sloppily to look at his children, huddled and crying on the couch. Straining with the effort to stand he glares at them, eyes wet and warm and open. She sees hate and her brother clutches her closer.

"You little shits!" And he's crying, horrible tears as he stumbles down the hall to the room with a half-empty bed.

They start sobbing, mom dead and dad gone.

Lydia stands above the two packs and giggles, a horribly hysterical sound. But this it.

"Hale pack," she calls out, "this doesn't involve you. Leave now or else."

They're all shifted and Allison points her bow at her.

Lydia snarls and points her gun at one of the Alphas. Scott - and really even though he's not the smartest or the most cunning, gets it.

"It's an ambush!" And then he runs. Smart puppy.

Isaac follows because Scott, and Boyd because he's smart. Allison isn't in range and ducks away quickly. That leaves Derek, who runs after his pack, and Cora who follows her brother and the Alpha pack who try to run after.

It's the woman, Kali, who hits the border that the Hale pack has already crossed and Lydia activates the field. It starts a high pitch sound and flashing lights and all the Alphas back into a tight ring.

Shots ring out, some her own - she's sure that she hit the twins who separate quickly.

They all snarl and roar and then curl in to each other as bullets riddle their bodies. The rapid fire ones are regular bullets while the snipers who are taking careful aim have some varient of wolfsbane.

It slows them, falls one of the twins - Ethan maybe, and Kali can't lift one of her arms. Deucalion - whose form is monstrous - growls and snarls.

A smoke bomb goes out, laced with a special type of wolfsbane. They all separate and Kali's scream and guttural throat rasp as specialists go in and began cutting off heads.

The twin's screams are next, one in death and the other at the pain of being alone and then death. Deucalion is next, although even from the smoke she can see two men are dead as he rages and snaps.

A woman is going in next and Lydia shoots at him from her vantage point. He snarls up as the woman cuts his throat and then slices his head off entirely.

The woman has scratch marks and a scrape of teeth. Lydia doesn't know or care if she's been bit.

The smoke clears and the bodies are black bagged so the remains can be cremated. She doesn't care about that either, what she cares about is getting her pay.

It reaches a breaking point when they're eight. They're father barely manages to roll out of bed to work so he can slink back home to drink.

He yells a lot. Mean gibberish they don't always understand and cruel things that they do.

He hits them sometimes, usually just a smack that leaves a red mark and maybe a bruise. One day though she's locked into a closet, a small stuffy space with heavy coats for when it rains.

She hears yelling and then something crashes, a bottle probably.

But it didn't sound like it hit the wall. Standing against the door she tries to hear what's happening.

She's scared. It's dark and all she can hear for a while is shouting until she hears flesh hit flesh. It's violent and makes her stomach curl. She starts banging on the door, as it continues, over and over and over again.

A door breaking, sirens, but she's sobbing and sinking to the floor yelling and scratching at the door.

It opens.

She reaches for her phone but pauses.

There's a man behind her, holding something in his hand. She studies him and when he pushes it into her hands she takes it.

It's a box and she doesn't even bother to look up as she studies the syringe and the vial in her hands.

'Dylan O'Brien' is ingrained on the box and she traces her fingers over the word.

One of the neighbors called. The policeman - or was it a paramedic - picked her up. They had gentle hands, broad and for the life of her she can't remember any detail but that. The hands. Her father's were thin and long and bony and she can practically see the marks where the knuckles cracked against Dylan's skin.

Dylan.

He is a mass of of still flesh. Red marks and fresh bruise cover his skin and blood is simultaneously drying and slowly gushing from his head.

She screams, shrill and loud.

She seeks the pack out at the Hale house because she's sure that her brother will be there. Her hands are trembling; she can taste something like anxious relief on her tongue; and blood rushes and roars in her ears.

They must hear her, her heart is beating, almost thudding out of her chest. Pausing she takes a moment to slow it or at least stop the trembling in her hands. She wonders what she smells like - happiness, relief, excitement, anxiety? Maybe even fear?

Taking a deep breath she enters the burnt husk of a house.

Dylan isn't moving. Isn't laughing or making ridiculous faces.

He looks like he's floating lifelessly in sheets.

"He has brain damage." A voice says, "do you know what that means?"

She looks at him and nods, it's like their old neighbor who could never quite grip his silverware right. She'll love Dylan, she'll help him, spoon feed him like a baby if she has too. They'll be alright.

"He'll be fine," she says.

The voice - belonging to one of the two suits - gets closer. The man is kneeling to be in her eye level.

"No he won't be," the man says and, well, that gets her attention, "he won't be able to move or smile like he used to, he might not laugh."

His face gets really close and she swallows. She's scared of this man and his cruel truths.

"He not going to recognize you."

Her eyes are wide, and she's gripping the stupid hospital chair so hard it's sure to bear the crescent moons of her fingernails - or at least the ones she didn't scratch to broken bloody stubs.

The woman in the duo goes and the sits in the chair next to her. Her hand strokes her own.

"But we might be able to help." The woman says, "We have technology more advance - and albeit risky."

She lost her mother, her father, she can't lose her brother too.

"H - how?"

The woman smiles and it's edged and cruel, "We want you to work for us. You'll start training and then be employed by us for ten years."

"Maybe less." The man offers up.

The woman glares at him, hisses something about alphas and amateurs, before returning to smiling at her, "Maybe more."

The woman leans in and the two are next to her, offering her something she can't refuse. Later a thought will flit through Holland's head about her mother and why she worked for them but it passes quickly.

"Okay." She says quietly.

She takes note of the wolves, their angry and confused faces, but doesn't see them. Not really. All she sees is her brother's face, her brother's scared, scared face.

"Lydia," he says but she walks right up to them, pushes him and growls because - oh - she's angry.

Her whole body is tense and shaking, "Do you know what I've been through?"

He looks confused because this isn't Dylan, not really, he's Stiles, someone so like Dylan that it makes her cringe.

"Lydia?"

"Stop calling me that!" She screams and surges forward, pushing him against the wall, hitting him with her palms on his chest.

She doesn't want to hit him, doesn't want to hurt him but she's so angry.

One of the wolves, Scott - an annoying thorn in her side because he was closer to her brother for the last couple of years than she was - grabs her by the arms and she screams, twists and struggles as she throws her head back. She kicks her legs and tries to free her arms.

" - dia, Lydia!"

She stops, forcing herself to be still.

"Stop calling me that. It's not my name."

Scott stops dragging her from Stiles.

"Lydia," poor chipmunk-faced Allison, "what are you talking about?"

"I was stationed here to -"

"Watch the Hale pack after the fire." Derek finishes for her.

Lydia - not Lydia - nods, a crazy smile spreading across her face.

"B-but I organized the termination of the Alpha pack. I finished my term." She snarls.

"Why?" Derek growls.

Lydia's mouth twists, then curls into a smirk.

"Deactivation code: Beta-Dylan O'Brien 924501."

Stiles gasps and she watches as his eyes dim and close, like a computer turning off. He slumps forward and falls to the floor.

Derek snarls and whips his head from Stiles - not Stiles - to Lydia - not Lydia.

Scott drops her and runs to him.

"Stiles? Stiles!" He shouts, shaking his fallen friend.

Lydia stands and brushes the soot off of her clothes. She stands still and watches chaos urupt around her.

Scott is frantic over her brother - he's so still like a doll - and Allison follows, her hands checking over him for injuries. Isaac whines and circles the three of them.

Boyd backs away, keeping watch on her; this isn't his fight, he doesn't even particularly like Stiles, but she's a threat and his pack is all there.

Derek snarls, at her, at Stiles; like if he can just rip apart the threat. Cora is steps behind her brother, confused and whining.

Her brother jerks suddenly, spine straight. Eyes fluttering open.

A chorus of 'Stiles' rings out but Derek keeps his snarl turned to her.

"What did you do?" He growls out.

Lydia Martin laughs, sharp and cruel.

Training is hard and difficult and she lays silently at night, tears gently falling down her face. She thinks that there's a shard of ice in her. In her heart and in her mind.

It must be melting, she thinks when she rubs her face red trying to make the tears go away.

The days stretch on to weeks, that turn into months.

It's almost eighteen months since she's seen her brother when he walks in with another man in a lab coat.

It distracts her so that her training instructor pins her down, making her head bounce against the floor.

All training is forgotten though, as she squirms, screaming, "DylanDylanDylan"

Her instructor lets her up, the lithe woman's mouth twisted in an ugly quirk.

Dylan's a little bigger, face different and strangely, very blank.

The man in the lab coat gives her a kind, cruel smile. Something she's become utterly familiar with.

"I'm afraid miss, that this isn't your brother." He places a hand on Dylan's shoulder, "at least, not quite."

Holland stands, tries to school her face to be as blank as her brother but she's exhausted, red faces and and red eyed.

"What did you do to him?" She almost shrieked.

"I saved him." She says, voice twisting up hysterically.

She has the grin of someone pushed to the brink, not quite believing the feats of their own actions.

She has the needle in her hand and the doll blank eyes of her brother flicker in wake of her voice. He stands and goes to her.

"We had to reboot his brain, like a computer." The lab coat man says.

Holland looks at him, she remembers the big computer her mother used to shoot emails for work on and type up documents.

Remembers how her father had smashed it in a drunken rage, how the pieces had scattered. Broken and intricate.

She thinks she gets it.

The man smiles again, twisted and kind.

"We're extracting his memories, they'll be released to you when your contract is finished."

Holland nods, face hard and finally, blissfully blank.

"Now we just need you to make a choice. We can put him back under, keep him in a coma. Or, we can place him under training, keep with you. He won't be quite himself of course, it wouldn't suit our needs."

It was a rotten fruit to dangle in front of a little girl. And maybe it was selfish of her to take it but she didn't want to be alone.

Lydia grabs his neck and pushes the needle into the soft spot right before his skull. She depresses the plunger.

Holland watches as they turn her brother into someone else, someone who knows how to fight and kill and follow orders.

Her orders.

They're about to be sent on their first mission, but haven't been debriefed yet.

They inject something into him, a bunch of machines and wires crowd the room.

This is where they created his computer like mind. This where they'll program him for the next ten years.

She yanks the needle out and watches as he begins to seize. She closes her eyes and holds him to her, not the proper way when someone's having a seizure but that doesn't matter to her.

What matters to her is when he stops and the first thing he whispers is, "Holland?"

Her smile is the smile of victors.

{Epilogue}

Sometimes her brother's eyes go dull and glassy. He won't quite recognize her; drifts around her like she's the sun and he's an orbiting planet.

Sometimes he won't respond to Dylan; she'll bite down curses and call him Stiles and watch as he jokes and babbles and talks like Dylan but not, because he doesn't talk about her or mom as much as Scott and werewolves and his dad the Sheriff - oh sister, what sister? She even lets him call the pack they left behind and they play along with heartbroken voices.

Sometimes his hands shake and he can't quite pick up his silverware so she'll do it for him; feed him even as his cheeks go red and he insists he's not a baby. He's not but she's the oldest and it's her job to take care of him.

They'll be okay, they'll be fine because they're together again.

(A/N: Okay, um. don't even know okay? I just wanted to write a spy au and this is what it turned out to be. So basically Lydia and Stiles are siblings, Stiles doesn't know... So ya.