"So we killed a deer."

Isaac woke up shortly after Scott and was now mulling over their situation, trying to spin it in a way that made the other werewolf feel better. They were walking home, the morning sky still dark enough for them to travel unseen. There wasn't a source of water nearby, so both teens remained covered with the remnants of last night's carnage. With leaves in their hair and torn clothes, they looked wild, as if they'd escaped a horror movie. If anyone spotted them, no doubt they'd have to start running or risk arrest.

"Ok, it's weird to think about. Really weird. But at least we didn't kill a person," Isaac pointed out. "Lots of people hunt and kill deer, so it's not like we're doing anything that hasn't been done before."

"They usually use guns. Not their bare hands," Scott held up a bloody hand to prove his point. "And they usually cook it first."

"Unless they're making jerky. Then they…" Isaac stopped explaining when he saw the look on Scott's face.

"Listen, it's not that bad. I mean, we're werewolves. Hunting animals kind of comes with the territory, I guess."

"Easy for you to say. I didn't choose to become a monster. You did."

"I'm not a monster! And neither are you," Isaac said. He found Scott's thinking on the matter to be limited, a knee-jerk reaction of his feelings towards the Hales. Isaac knew first-hand that being human didn't exempt you from being a monster. In his mind, it was a person's actions and the harm they inflicted on others that defined the monsters of the world.

"Really? Then what exactly are we?" Scott kicked at the ground. "We're not human. We change shape during the full moon. We've all had the urge to kill people. Just like Peter."

"Just because we're not normal doesn't mean we should be ashamed of what we are. Remember, Matt and Gerard did just as much damage as Peter. Maybe even more. And Peter killing people doesn't mean you or I would kill someone."

Scott didn't say anything and just shoved his hands in his pockets. Isaac knew he wasn't convinced.

"Derek's right, we are predators. But we're not blind killers."

Scott grimaced at the mention of the older werewolf's name.

"As you yourself prove, we can learn manage those instincts, especially if we have an anchor. This isn't some sort of condition that's gonna go away, Scott. At some point, you gotta learn to accept what you are. You'll be better off," Isaac said.

"You're wrong, we're dangerous. What we need is greater self-control."

Frustrated, Isaac stopped arguing and instead began licking his fingers clean.

"What are you doing?!" Scott stopped and stared, wide-eyed. "That's disgusting."

Isaac pulled his bloody index finger slowly out of his mouth. He gave Scott a defiant glare.

"We are what we are. We didn't hurt any people and I'm not going to lose sleep over killing an animal." He wagged his fingers at Scott. "And besides, it tastes good. You should try it."

Scott growled in disapproval. Isaac shrugged.

As they walked home in silence, Scott thought back to the first time he really grasped he was no longer human. It was something his mom said a couple weeks after his first full moon that revealed the bite had changed him more than he first understood.

"Since when do you like your burgers rare?" His mom had asked.

They were at the Beacon Hill Grille getting burgers out, a treat the McCalls seldom splurged on. His mom had been working a lot of overtime and he'd been so busy with Allison and finding the Alpha that this was the first dinner they'd had together in weeks.

Scott swallowed a mouthful of the offending entree.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your burger. You ordered it rare. But you've always gotten them well-done."

"Oh."

His mom was right. He hadn't even noticed. He tried to pinpoint when he'd starting liking them this way. Recently he'd been getting his burgers rare when he and Stiles been grabbing food with the team after practice.

Ever since he'd made first line.

Ever since he turned.

"I guess I'm just learning to like new things," he offered.

"Does this mean you're going to start enjoying foie gras and crème fraîche? 'Cause you know that's not in our budget, kiddo."

"Probably not. Also, I have no idea what either of those things is," Scott said. He wanted to push away the unfinished burger, his appetite vanished. Instead, he smiled and continued eating, because he knew that's what his mom expected.

Inside, worry began to gnaw at him. Clearly, he'd been so preoccupied with the obvious drawbacks of his transformation that he'd missed the more subtle changes. He still liked the same bands, still had the same friends, and still had the same memories as he did before. Most of the time it seemed unreal to him that he'd become a werewolf. Almost a joke—as if it had happened to someone else. He still felt like Scott McCall, except for those moments when the wolf took over.

Then, he felt every agonizing sensation as his entire body reshaped itself into something else.

The thought of going into a blind rage when he transformed frightened him beyond belief. That he couldn't remember doing so frightened him even more. He didn't have feelings like that. Couldn't have feelings like that.

Scott tried to wrap his head around the idea that he now had the instincts of a predator. On the drive home from dinner, he vowed to master his werewolf side. The Other, as he'd begun thinking of the set of impulses and drives alien to the person he really was. It was an enemy he would defeat, no matter what.

But as the months passed, he learned it wasn't that simple.

There was the incident at the school, the night Peter forced him to shift against his will. The Other almost won and it was only by the narrowest margins he avoided slaughtering Jackson, Lydia, Allison, and Stiles.

He barely managed to shift back, and he blanched when he remembered the thrill he'd felt at the murderous rage coursing through his veins. Whether those feelings belonged to the Other or to Peter he wasn't sure. He just knew they couldn't belong to him.

There were other things, little things. At lacrosse practice he had to restrain himself from chasing other players at full speed when they ran from him. And he noticed every small animal within earshot. With his heightened hearing it proved to be a constant distraction.

He also felt his heart beat a little faster when he smelled fear on another person, whether it was on the field or in the hallways. High school was full of fear and there were days he was nearly drunk from the potent energy that flooded the halls. He tried to squelch the exhilaration that surged through him, calling to the Other like a siren song, but he couldn't deny it was there.

One night, he raided the kitchen for a midnight snack. After a few minutes, he discovered he had absent-mindedly been eating raw meat his mom intended to use for dinner the next day. Repulsed, he washed the rest of the contents down the sink. He went to the grocery store as soon as it opened and replaced the entire package while his mom slept in.

And then there were the dreams.

The dream of killing Allison on the bus was the first. He told Stiles about that dream, not knowing it spilled over to the real world.

Soon, other dreams followed.

Vivid dreams in which he was stalking, hunting, and killing. Sometimes it was a person. Other times, it was a deer or a mountain lion. Worst was when he caught his target and ripped his victim apart, feasting on soft flesh, dripping with blood still hot with the life he'd ended. He always woke up from these dreams in a cold sweat, heart racing. But it wasn't terror he felt upon waking.

It was excitement.

He didn't tell anyone about these new dreams. He wouldn't even know where to begin or how to describe what he experienced. If he was disturbed by them, no doubt someone else would send him to the nearest shrink for evaluation.

To tell his friends he dreamed of slaughtering people might drive them away for good, severing the last thread that tied Scott to his old life—and his humanity.

So Scott willed himself to stifle the animal urges. As he grew stronger, so did his ability to suppress the Other. The frequency of his nightmares decreased. After a couple months he stopped having them altogether. He managed to feel almost normal again.

But the night they defeated Gerard and Scott told Derek he wasn't his Alpha, the dreams came roaring back. He'd had one nearly every night since. They were every bit as explicit as when he first turned. But back then, Peter had been trying to bend Scott to his will by exploiting their supernatural link.

Scott didn't know what caused them now.

He redoubled his efforts to exert control and beat the monster into submission. It seemed like last night, he had lost.

Scott managed to climb into his window without leaving too much blood on the sill. At least, he hoped so. It was hard not to leave a trail when you were covered in the stuff. He also hoped that his return had been quiet enough to escape his mom's notice.

The sun had risen and as the day began, exhaustion overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing more than to dive straight under the covers, but thanks to his diligent efforts to bring up his grades, he was allowed to play sports.

August had just begun and Coach demanded that the team, especially those on first-line, avoid contact sports in the fall lest they sustain an injury that interfered with their ability to play come spring. Coach expected everyone from the lacrosse team at an 8am tryout session for the track and field team. Partially, this was due to Coach's impression that running was less of a liability because of the more solitary nature of the sport. But Scott suspected the real reason Coach wanted them to try out for track was because he served as co-advisor to the track program, giving him greater control over the strain his key players endured.

Sleep would have to wait—a shower to remove the residue from the night before was the first order of business.

He took off his bloody shirt and tossed it on the floor. He'd have to dispose of it before his mom could find it. Now that she knew what he was, any negative trace of his other life would send his mom into overdrive. The last thing he wanted was for her to withdraw from him again after all the progress they had made this summer.

As he sat there, he thought about Isaac licking the deer blood from his fingers. Scott couldn't help but wonder if Isaac was right. Would he enjoy it?

Disgusted that he even entertained the idea, Scott shook his head.

But then curiosity got the better of him.

He tentatively tasted a finger.

It was good.

And it was at this moment Stiles burst into Scott's room.

"Scott? You better be ready because I am not gonna be late for…" The words died on his lips when he saw Scott. He froze in place, mouth hanging open.

The room was colored by shades of red, which meant that Scott's eyes had shifted, making matters worse. He let his hand drop from his mouth.

"Stiles, I can explain. It's not what it looks like…" Scott said. He stood up, careful not to move too quickly. His caution was wasted. The other boy took off like a shot, bolting down the stairs and out the front door.

Dejected, Scott listened to Stiles' Jeep peel out of the driveway, tires squealing as the car raced down the street.

This was not good. Scott knew what it looked like. He knew what he would have thought if he'd seen him. Werewolves didn't just happen to wind up drenched in blood. Now, he had to convince Stiles that he hadn't killed a person. He hoped Stiles would listen to the truth at tryouts.

He had to.