Disclaimer: Teen Wolf and all associated characters do not belong to me.

A/N: Quick note here, guys, and then I'll erase it. Due to some major changes in the story plot and timeline...well, this is really late for starters...But the revamping has made the previous note about characters totally obsolete. The story now follows the canon end of Season 2 (with the exception of Jackson, who is still the Kanima). Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the next installment! ~ ST

Chapter 2

Supernaturally speaking, Emily found him to be...unimpressive. Over the course of her career, she had seen more than her fair share of the werewolf population. Enough to know that not all of them were talented in the art of disguise. Most could manage a decent enough mask to blend into a crowd, but individually, there were always tell-tale signs that what you were dealing with wasn't altogether human.

Whether it was in the slightly sharper features, or the unnatural gleam in the eyes, or even a certain robustness in the hair and cheeks (excluding most omegas, naturally). The hints were present for those who knew where to look.

Except in this boy.

In Scott McCall's case, Emily felt as if she could have walked into the nearest mall and have found dozens just like him. He was overdue for a haircut. He was built but not intimidating and, for his age, he certainly couldn't have been described as naive. There was a rebelliousness in the set of his jaw and eyes that had not yet blossomed into defiance. And as far as she could discern through the observation window, there was nothing to suggest they even had a werewolf in custody.

Emily entered the interrogation room with her briefcase leading the way. She paused, bombarded by the smell of stale fries and cheap burger grease. Apparently, that stained little bag had had enough time to permeated throughout the small space. Before she could move further, however, Warren's broad hand settled between her shoulder blades and gave her a none-too-gentle nudge. Emily stumbled and almost toppled with her case before she was able to catch herself.

Cheeks flushing, she spun around just in time to fall back another step as the steel door swung past her nose. It slammed shut with a deep clang and a low grind as the lock was slid slowly back into place.

She huffed in irritation, dropping her hand from her chest in attempt to regain her composure. She ran her fingers over her pulled back hair and tugged at the hem of her jacket, brushing at her pant legs for good measure.

So much for entering the environment with an air of authority.

She turned her attention towards the suspect.

Any doubts about his other nature evaporated. A familiar little jolt wound through the bottom of her stomach as their eyes met. Instinct or intuition, she had never really established what it was, but it was essential to her job. A warning, an awareness even, that she was immediately in a situation where she was at a disadvantage and in the presence of a being infinitely more dangerous than herself.

No matter how many chains were involved.

Mr. McCall had not only had his wrists handcuffed behind him, a short chain was also tied around his waist, pinning him to the back of the sturdy chair. The seat itself had been welded to the floor.

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she crossed to the table in silence. Her routine was back in play, allowing her subject to study and draw his own conclusions about her first. Her face remained neutral and she made sure every movement was executed with calm confidence. All the while, she knew that nothing would hide her flaws from him. He would catch the slight gathering of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the faded scar that traced her lower lip. Even the few strands of gray that had managed to infiltrate her hairline, it would all be taken into consideration.

Mascara and hair-dye could only hide so much.

By the time she set her briefcase onto the table, the boy's scrutiny was finished. She was surprised, however, to find no judgment in his dark eyes. He didn't seem suspicious or belligerent. If anything, he appeared only mildly curious.

She smiled then. "Hello, Mr. McCall. My name is Emily Hansen. Do mind if I join you?"

He didn't answer which Emily took as an affirmative. Taking the fast food bag, she dumped it in a trash can near the observation window. She moved the brief case to its side and undid the latches, opening it with the top of the lid facing her suspect. Scott lifted his chin slightly as if trying to peer over it.

"I'm a representative of the Werewolf Integration Association," she continued, ignoring the fear that crept into his eyes at the name. "I'm here to investigate the murder of four young people and I'm hoping you can give me some insight on the incident."

He dropped his brow into a scowl.

Emily ran a finger across her lip as she sank into her own seat. Then she reached into her case and pulled out a small item. She reached across the table to set it before him.

It was a packet of wet wipes. The boy blinked in surprise and looked back to her.

"The police ran your fingerprints, Mr. McCall. We know who and what you are. So, really, sitting there in your own filth and blood seems rather silly, doesn't?" She gestured to the packet. "Please, feel free to clean yourself up."

He sat still for a long moment, a debate filtering from behind his eyes. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he slumped. He brought his wrists from behind the chair, a metallic clink-clink filling the air as a few of the handcuffs' links broke beneath his strength. One of his shoulders popped when he rolled them forward. Emily smiled at the golden ring that appeared at the outer edges of his irises before being swallowed up again by dark brown.

The cuff about his wrist clattered against the tabletop when he reached for the wipes and he winced, nervously, his eyes shooting to hers.

Emily gave him a nod and an encouraging smile. "Go ahead."

His hand trembled a little as he pulled the pack to himself and broke into it. He freed a cloth and kept his eyes downward as he began to scrub his face. Crusted blood and flecks of soil gave way to healthy, tan skin. The flesh at the corner of his eye didn't even bear a fading scar when he smeared the mess away. He had cleared off half of his upper lip when he noticed that Emily was watching him with a small grin. He froze.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just...I have to admit that I'm a little star struck."

He frowned.

She laughed and pushed herself higher in her seat. "Please, Mr. McCall. As close as the WIA interacts with your portion of society, you must have known that some of us would become familiar with the rogue pack of Beacon Hills. Led by the infamous Derek Hale."

The cloth drew slowly away from his mouth.

"Infamous?"

His voice was low and husky from misuse and the smoke in the air.

"Yes, well, that is the professional opinion." Emily extracted a notebook and ran her hand over it. "The blood of the Hales is very old and very influential and the Association doesn't appreciate being undermined by a group of boys. Boys who not only refuse to register but also interfere with the progress between human and werewolf relations." He lifted his brow in surprise. "They've gone to great lengths to try and pass you all off as a type of urban legend. Personally, I'm glad to know you really do exist."

"Why?"

She sighed, tapping her nails off the notebook while she decided how much to divulge to him. "Someone has to clean up the good intentions of heroes, Mr. McCall. That is where my career began. I would go to sites of incidents between men and wolves, oversee reconstruction and restitution for property damage, and then interview any surviving witnesses." She gave a small laugh. "It's been quite a tale to hear over the past years."

His eyes grew distant. "Survivors," he said, quietly.

Emily's smile faded and she drew back. "Quite unlike those people last night, I suppose."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Would you care to talk about the incident?"

"Not really."

She nodded, understanding. "It must have been hard, not being able to save them. You haven't had such a loss in all the years I've seen your fights. How are you handling this?"

"Fine."

"Really? Because I would have believed it would have hit you rather hard."

He swallowed and asked, thickly. "Why's that?"

"Because Derek's not the only one who lingered in people's minds, Mr. McCall."

She stood and reached into the case, withdrawing a stack of manila folders. Together they were three inches thick and all bound by a strained rubber band. Setting the mountain of paperwork down, she chuckled at the surprise on his face.

"This is your legacy, Scott. As close as I could document it anyway."

"That's...kind of scary," he muttered, leaning his elbows up on the table.

She shrugged. "Well, a girl needs a hobby on the weekend." She didn't see his eyes widen as she began to shuffled through the files. Each one was tossed in front of him while she rattled off memorized sections of each report.

"The O'Flannary Family, 2015. Quote, 'It was the boy with the dark eyes who stood over us while the others were all fighting.' The Mobile Incident, 2015. Quote again, 'He said he name was Scott and that he wouldn't leave my side that night. And he never did. Not once.' The Slayings in Lincoln, 2016. 'I ain't never seen a fellow fight so hard for people he didn' even know.' And that little girl from Denver who was held hostage? She told me, 'He kept talking to me when those other ones were stopping the bad man. He kissed me right on the nose to stop me crying.' I think you gained an admirer there, Mr. McCall."

He watched her, his expression becoming, if anything, more neutral. His eyes stayed on her, never wandering down to the growing pile in front of him.

That didn't deter Emily. "Oklahoma, South Dakota, Virginia, Texas, Illinois, Nevada, all leading up to the property dispute at the Menendez Farm eight months ago. They all say the same thing. The Hale leader came to deal out justice but it was a beta named Scott who put himself between the victims and the assaulters. You're a protector, Mr. McCall. A hero to so many of these people. You expect me to believe that these four dead have had no affect on you?"

The boy scowled a bit and then sighed, finally looking over the closed folders. His tongue traced the inside of his lower teeth before he spoke again.

"Did he live?"

Emily blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Menendez. The husband. That alpha took a good chunk out of his leg before we were through. He live?"

She considered him for a long moment, the heels of her palms resting on the table between them. He kept his head lowered and his eyes averted, patiently waiting for the reply.

"No," Emily said at last. "Between the injuries he sustained that night and alpha's venom working through his blood, it turned out to be too much. He died early the following morning."

Scott took a steadying breath, his shoulders sagging in disappointment. "Well, the odds are always against bite victims aren't they?" he said softly. Bitterly.

Emily interlaced her fingers beneath her chin. "See? That's the spirit I'm talking about. It's not in you to pull back from someone else's suffering. Such an admirable quality for one your species."

He looked up, sharply, at her choice of words.

"I can't help but wonder who you lost in life to have such a drive. Not to mention such loyalty to an outlaw like Derek Hale."

The corners of his mouth tugged downward and he looked away.

"Was it having to leave your mother on her own?" She reached out to set a single sheet of paper on top of the pile.

It was a Suspect of Lycanthropy Report.

In 2016, the government had issued them throughout the country. They could be found in every court house, post office, and police station from the largest cities to the smallest backwater holes. A census, they called it, and an outlet for concerned parents and neighbors to notify authorities about "potential hazards" in their communities. Or to have them keep a lookout for missing persons and runaways after the werewolves were exposed two years prior.

Emily had never approved of the tactic. Essentially, it had been a way to gage the number of wolves the government had to contend with. Creating files on people, American citizens, without their knowledge or consent. It felt a little too "big brother" even for her. And they weren't able to track down many of the missing suspects anyhow. The reports had fallen out of circulation since then, but not before thousands of cases were reported.

Including this one.

A copy of Scott's senior picture had been clipped to the top of the report, blocking out most of the legal jargon, but leaving the loopy signature at the bottom in full view. She heard Scott's breath catch as he read it.

Melissa McCall.

The boy leaned over the table, staring desperately at the name of his mother.

"Eight years you've been gone," Emily said. "Surely, you might have managed a phone call in all that time?"

His eyes flicked up, looking to her from beneath his bangs. Then he sat back with a silent scoff. He turned his head towards the door and pressed his lips tightly together.

"Hmm, I thought not," the woman said gently. "You probably convinced yourself that it was for her own good. You were protecting her by leaving her, right?"

Scott's nose wrinkled in stubborn silence and he continued staring at the wall.

"Well, if it is not your mother, was it the loss of Mr. Stilinski?"

His head snapped back around, his eyes sharpening in an instant. "What?"

She hesitated. "You don't know?"

He shook his head and leaned forward. "Mr. Stilinski? The sheriff? What happened to him?"

"Uh..." Emily passed her hand over the folder. "Mr. McCall, if you were not aware, I don't believe this is an area we should be delving -"

"You brought it up," he said, his voice becoming a little more forceful. "What happened to Mr. Stilinski?"

"It..." she sighed and extended the file to him. "It wasn't the sheriff, Scott."

His face drew blank and when he reached for the report, the broken chain on his cuff was trembling. He brought it to himself and flipped open the top cover. The agent winced at the soft sound that slipped from him. The manila folder fell to the pile and Scott's elbows struck the table, his hands raking back through his dark curls.

"Stiles," he breathed between his teeth.

The death certificate stared back up at him.

A series of photos had snuck from beneath the paper, all of them displaying different angles of the end of a guard rail and the river beyond it. The metal had been twisted and ruined, a pair of black tire marks streaking the pavement up to it. And jutting out of the muddy current of the river, upside down, was the rear end of a blue Jeep. The rest of the vehicle was lost beneath the surface.

There was a recovery crew present in the pictures, but even in the frozen snapshots of time, it was clear that they were in no hurry. They were there to extract the car, not save a life.

Scott's shoulders quivered as he hunched over the report, his teeth chattering as he began to wheeze. Emily sat a little straighter when an ugly sound tore through his throat. Like he was somehow not getting enough air.

"Mr. McCall?"

He leaned forward, choking a little as he forced his lungs to exhale.

"Are you all right?"

The boy nodded, weakly. He took a few deep breaths, clenching his fists tightly. "Happens..." he said thickly. He blew out a sigh, wiping his hand across his mouth. His eyes were glistening with moisture. "W-when?"

She didn't need clarification. "About thirteen months ago."

"How?"

"He was coming home from work. Night shift. It was raining hard that night. The police speculate that he met a drunk driver on the curve and tried to swerve aside. Then he lost control of the vehicle trying to correct it."

He swore and scrubbed his hands over his face. "We left...he was supposed to be safe..."

"I am truly sorry," Emily said, reaching over to clasp his wrist. "I tought you knew."

"I didn't," he muttered, still staring at the Jeep. His face was still twisted with grief.

Emily sat still for a long moment, letting him process the information. When she sat back, she looked to the gray sky filtering through that high, narrow window.

"But you do know that you're not the only one grieving right now."

He looked up, his shoulders hitching when he sniffed.

"There are three other families suffering in this town, Mr. McCall."

Dark eyes rolled shut. He bent his head, moving his fingers from his hair to the back of his neck.

"I understand there is a sentiment out there that the affairs of werewolves should not be shared with the government. But last night, that business bled over into humanity's world. Please, help me explain to those families why their children had to die."

"We don't know."

The reply was empty, lifeless, but all the same, he had given it. Emily felt her heart lift as he studied the table as if he'd never seen something like it before. Behind his eyes, she suspected he was running back through the events he'd witnessed the night before.

"Two in Seattle...two in Spokane..." he whispered. "People being killed for no reason. We followed the trail, the scents, going east as fast as we could but..." He licked his lower lip. "They were already dead by the time we got here."

"All right," Emily said, scribbling fast and trying not to break this stride. "Do you know what time that was?"

"One. One-thirty." He nodded to himself. "When we got to town, the fire was already going. Pete - uh, t-two of us went to see if they could stop it. Derek and me tried to track the pack."

"So you actually interacted with the killer?"

"Killers," he corrected. "There were three of them."

"Can you describe them?"

"Uh, two guys and a lady." He frowned at little, closing his eyes. "She was blonde. Skinny. Too skinny, but strong. She tore into Derek pretty good when he tried talking to her. The guy I fought had a scar on his chin, right here." He ran his thumb along the left side of his own. "The others took the last guy, I didn't really get a look at him."

"And ages?"

"Older than me. Maybe like in their thirties?"

Emily's pen stilled and she glanced up. "All of them?"

"Yeah, why?"

She jotted down the note. "That's unusual. Packs, even small or new ones tend to have a difference in ages, don't they? An already established hierarchy, that sort of thing?"

He shrugged. "Not always."

"But like any family, surely there are elders in most packs?"

"Sure?" he said slowly, lifting one shoulder. "Depends, right?"

"Right," she nodded. "And, uh, how did you come to be in that playground all alone?"

Scott sniffed, rolling his neck and swiping his finger beneath his nostrils. He looked drained. "They took off. Derek went after one, I took after the other. When we got to the edge of town, I got hit from behind. I don't know, maybe the third guy followed us. I woke up here," he said, tilting his head about the room. Then he paused. "I don't even know if the guys are looking for me yet."

"Well, we can always keep an eye out for them, can't we?"

His eyes shot to hers, warily, and Emily gave him a wry smile. Shaking her head, she continued. "These strangers of yours, is there anything else you can remember about them? Any distinguishing features?"

"Yeah, the guy had a piercing. Here." Scott reached up and pinched the little divot of flesh at the front of his right ear.

A spark of alarm sprang down the woman's spine and she felt her breath catch. "The tragus?"

"I don't know. Is that what that is?" When she didn't reply, he frowned and posed a question of his own. "Why? Do you know this guy?"

"No," Emily said, stirring herself. "Of course not. It just..." she circled her note several times. "I...I only ask for," she rolled her hand, "verification reasons."

He blinked, doubtfully.

Emily wiped her thumb along the corner of her mouth. "Um, well, this...this is a start. We'll begin looking into your story immediately. For now, why don't we look into getting you some proper food?"

Her smile had suddenly become a bit too sincere and the boy straightened, confusion etched across his features. "That's it?"

"I will send your descriptions over to my office in Spokane and to the surrounding areas. If these three have moved on, we'll find them, I assure you. Especially if they are as prone to violence as they seem."

"And me?" he asked.

Emily swept her fingers back over her ears, despite the fact that not one hair had slipped out of place. "Unfortunately, I cannot release you until your story can be verified. Either though additional witnesses or the capture of these individuals. And since you are a viable witness for this case, we'll need to get you registered with the national database as well."

"Registered," he said softy.

"If you're worried about your pack, we could always try and get a hold of them. I think the WIA would be very interested in reuniting you with them.

Scott scowled and clenched his jaw. He looked away again.

"I thought as much," Emily said with a dry smile. "Don't fret, Mr. McCall, as long as these facts check out, I see no reason to pursue Hale and the others at the present. I will, however, be transporting you to the WIA's main facility in Wyoming come sunup."

His shoulders tensed. "What? Why?"

The woman leaned forward, folding her fingers over her notebook while she tilted her head. "I could always leave you to the mercies of High Peaks," she waved a hand towards the window above them. "Though, given the current climate of the town is geared towards hunting werewolves, I wouldn't feel too comfortable about it, would you?"

He followed the direction of her hand, his face full of doubt. A sigh slipped through his nose.

"Which would you prefer, Mr. McCall?"


The barred door of the prison cell rattled behind him and Scott turned just as it slammed into place. The cell itself was ancient, sporting cracked cement and a bathroom sink that looked to be straight out of a horror flick. The key was twisted into place by a thin deputy with eyes full of disdain and an upper brow slick with sweat.

Emily had seen the procession from interview room to the holding cells with her calm air. Now, as Scott stepped back up to the bars running between them, she gave him another long slow smile.

"You made the right choice, Mr. McCall. I'll see in the morning."

Scott set his forehead against the white painted steel and watched as the deputy and agent meandered back out of the area. The door opened (unveiling Sheriff Warren's booming voice raging about crossing a murder suspect over state lines) and slowly swung shut, leaving him and the empty cells around him in peace.

When he was sure they had continued on through the station, Scott's brow fell.

He pushed off from the bars and strode past the narrow bed and the terrifying sink. Planting his foot on top of the toilet seat cover, he hoisted himself up and then leaned over to the left. He worked his way over to the window, balancing on his toes so he could peer through the wire-meshed window.

Outside, the parking lot was dim in the oncoming evening. The trees beyond it were already lost in shadow. Gold seeped back into the young man's irises and the world before him melted into the sharper, maroon-tinted vision of his more feral nature. Beneath the canopy of that little grove, he watched every branch be outlined. The tree trunks and shrubs were pulled out of the darkness, along with the curve of a leather-clad shoulder and arm.

"Peter?" he said to the empty room.

The figure in the trees stirred. Moving to its left, it faced off with the police station. Violent red eyes gleamed in Scott's enhanced sight and the man standing outside tilted his head, sorting out Scott's voice from the rest of the noise in the building.

Licking his lip, Scott steadied himself on the cement ledge of the window.

"I did it," he said. "Tell Derek that I'm in."

Across the parking lot, Peter's teeth flashed with a smile.


* Oh. My. Word. I hope Scott still kind of sounds like himself. Maybe a little OOC, but hey, he's ten years older, seen a few more things. And he just found out his best friend died (right?). So, there's part two for you! Please, please, let me know what you think.

Teaser for next chapter: Derek, Peter, and Isaac shed some light on the incident in High Peaks...