Notes: Beta by Poicephalus, whose insights resulted in a frantic partial rewrite of this chapter at 2 AM. If any of you run into her in real life, buy her a drink. And when she's not looking, hit her with a brick.
Chapter warning for discussion of child abuse.
Chapter Four: "Blue Flu"
Even this far from the shore, Erica can smell the sea.
She and Boyd are rooming with Jackson again, which sucks. All three of them actually got into a fight the other day over whether this arrangement sucks more for Jackson, or Erica and Boyd. She maintains that she won, no matter what Jackson says.
Erica tosses her bag onto one of the beds and walks to the window so she can open the curtains. Their motel is cheap, which means it's well outside the parts of San Francisco that actually look like San Francisco. The view from Erica's window could be any city in America.
Someone knocks on the door. When Jackson opens it, Derek and Isaac walk in.
"Your view is way better than ours," Isaac says, petulant.
Boyd raises an eyebrow at him. "Our window looks right at a liquor store."
"Ours looks right at a wall."
Derek says, "Erica, I need a phone number for Alex Tsao."
"Uh, sure." Erica digs her laptop out of her bag and fires it up.
After clicking past the usual motel wi-fi terms of service pages, a quick Google search turns up a result for 'Alex Tsao, Research & Communications.'
"What does that even mean?" Isaac says with slight disdain, reading over Erica's shoulder.
"She's an information broker," Derek says. "Number."
Erica reads it off. Derek dials it in on his newly-acquired burner phone. In all the time Erica's known him, Derek has never actually bought a proper phone. Although, considering the kind of life he's had, this is probably an appropriate level of paranoia.
After three rings, the call picks up and a bored voice says, "Ms. Tsao's office, please hold."
'The Girl from Ipanema' starts playing over the line. Derek gusts out a sigh and sits next to Erica on the bed.
A few minutes later, the voice comes back and says, "Thank you for holding. May I ask who's calling?"
"Derek Hale."
"Thank you. Please hold."
The music starts up again.
"Well, this is riveting." Jackson stands and stretches. "I'm gonna go have a look around."
"Stay in range of the motel," Derek calls after him.
After another ten minutes, the music cuts out and a woman's voice says, "Derek?"
Erica sees Derek tense up, and there's a forced smile on his face as he says, "Hi, Alex."
"Oh my god, it's been a million years. I heard you left New York."
Derek stands up and walks to the window. "Yeah, family stuff. My sister died." He swivels around and walks back to the bed.
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
Derek clears his throat, switching the phone to his other ear. "Anyway, uh, I'm in San Francisco right now and I was hoping you could look something up for me."
"Hmm. Are you free tonight?"
"Yeah."
"All right, there's a restaurant by my office called Niccolo's. Meet me there, let's say... six 'o' clock?"
"I'll be there."
"Great. Can't wait to see you." She hangs up.
Boyd says, "So..."
"It's a really long story," Derek says.
o
The maitre d' takes one look at Derek and Boyd and immediately puts his hand over a button on the podium. If Derek had to guess, he'd say that's the 'summon security to drag these peasants out into the street and euthanize them' button.
Derek says, "We're here to see Ms. Tsao."
"Oh." The maitre d' deflates. His hand drops to his side. "Through there, second booth on your left."
The restaurant is almost ridiculously opulent. It's the kind of place people use to impress their dates, or intimidate their potential business partners. There also appears to be a dress code in effect, which means Derek and Boyd quite clearly Do Not Belong.
As he passes through, Derek hears someone whisper, "Who's the biker?"
Alex waves them over when she sees them.
Derek slides into the booth first, letting Boyd take the outside seat.
Alex Tsao looks more or less exactly the same as she did years ago, when Derek first met her. Same boyish features; same business-casual wardrobe, with emphasis on the 'casual.' Aside from Boyd and Derek, she's the only person in here wearing jeans.
"Who's your friend?" Alex says, putting her elbows on the table and leaning forward.
Boyd glances at Derek. "Boyd," he says curtly. One of the first things Derek taught his pack was to be wary of who they gave their full names to.
"Nice to meet you, Boyd." Alex tilts her head slightly, looking Derek up and down. "Derek. You still have that jacket I bought you?"
"It got kind of shredded," Derek says. "Hunters."
"Mmm. I guess that's a risk. Are you two eating, or is this strictly business?"
Derek raises his eyebrows. "You really think I can afford to eat here?"
"Considering all the insurance money you've got stashed away? Yes."
Boyd must feel him tense up, because his eyes flick nervously in Derek's direction.
"I get it. You're good at your job," Derek grits out.
"The best," Alex says. Her smugness is probably warranted. Doesn't make it any less irritating. "So, what is it you need from me?"
"I want to know what happened to the FDSI."
Alex snorts out a laugh. "You and everyone else. The conspiracy theorists are going nuts, and the ones with money keep calling me. My assistant wants a raise. What's your interest?"
"You say that like you don't already know."
"I've heard a few rumors about you and some agent. Nothing conclusive." A sly grin steals across her face. "Are you confirming...?"
"Does it matter?" Derek snaps. Oh, that was too loud.
The restaurant goes quiet. A few patrons start whispering among themselves.
Derek lowers his voice. "I just need to know where they are. I can pay."
"Don't worry about it, first one's free," Alex says. "I've got your number. I'll call you when I have something. If I get something."
"Thanks," Derek says. He taps Boyd on the shoulder, and Boyd shuffles out of the booth.
They're almost to the door when Alex says, "Derek!"
Derek squares his shoulders and turns slightly. Alex toys with the pearl dangling from a chain around her neck, wearing an amused, close-lipped smile.
"It was good to see you," she says.
"Yeah, you too," Derek lies.
Once they're outside, Boyd says, "That went pretty well."
Derek glares at him.
o
Erica figures Derek can probably hear her as she approaches the door to his motel room, but she knocks anyway.
A few seconds later, Derek opens the door.
Erica says, "Since we're here anyway, I thought we could go do some exploring. 'See the sights.' That kind of thing."
"Okay," Derek replies. He looks almost offended. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"
"No, Derek, when you said 'we' I meant all of us."
"I'll pass, thanks." Derek moves away from the door. Erica snakes a foot out to keep it propped open.
"But we're in San Francisco," she says.
Derek sits on the bed, checking his phone. "I did notice that, Erica, thank you."
"Derek—"
"Look, this isn't a vacation for me, okay?" Derek snaps. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging a little. "You saw what happened in Colorado. The people who did that—who were crazy enough to directly attack the U.S. government—that's what Stiles is up against. And I can't find him."
Whatever energy fueled that out burst depletes, then. Derek slumps a little. His eyes are on Erica, but he keeps turning the phone over in his hands. He may not actually realize he's doing it.
"I let you all come with me because I knew you'd follow me anyway," Derek says. "I figured, at least this way, I could protect you. But I need you to understand how dangerous this is for you."
Erica swallows, her mouth dry. "Okay," she says quietly. "Should we stay in?"
Derek lets out a sigh, the tension around him dissipating. He rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. "No. Go be a tourist. Have fun. Keep your phone on. I'll see you later."
"And you'll just... sit by the phone and wait for your information broker to call."
"Yeah."
"... Okay."
Erica moves her foot and lets the door swing shut.
o
Jackson has no idea why he's out here.
Well, he knows why he's here, sitting under a tree in Golden Gate Park, watching Erica attempt to climb some kind of rope tower thing in three-inch leopard print heels. The others asked him if he wanted to come do touristy crap with them, and it seemed like a less boring idea than sitting around the motel, so he said yes.
Boyd stands on the edge of the playground, eyes on Erica, laughing and providing 'moral support.'
"What's she doing?" Jackson says.
Isaac looks up from where he's been plucking and shredding individual blades of grass. "Erica wasn't allowed on the playground after the seizures started. Everyone was worried she'd fall and hurt herself. I think she missed it."
Jackson considers Isaac with a sidelong look. "You were friends with her back then."
Isaac shrugs. "We were close when we were little. Drifted apart. Then Derek asked me if I knew anyone who might want the bite." He goes back to shredding grass.
Erica reaches the top of the tower and throws one arm up, looking a bit like Rocky atop the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum. Boyd gives her a polite little golf clap. She sticks her tongue out at him.
Jackson says, "You don't like me very much, do you?"
"Nope," Isaac says.
He doesn't say anything else for a while, and Jackson assumes that's the end of it until Isaac adds, "You never told anyone."
"What?"
Isaac's staring at him now. "You lived right across the street. I know you saw things. Why didn't you ever tell anyone?"
Jackson bristles. "Why didn't you?"
"I thought nobody would believe me!" Isaac snarls. "He told me I'd just get in trouble for lying. And then one night I looked across the street and there you were, watching." He shakes his head. "For a little while there, I actually believed it was over, you know? Somebody finally knew. Any day now they'd come to take my dad away. And do you know what happened?"
Jackson doesn't answer. He remembers that night. He remembers being confused, and a little afraid, and finally deciding it was better not to get involved.
"Nothing," Isaac spits.
Boyd helps Erica down from the rope tower like she's a princess stepping out of a carriage.
Jackson says, "I did tell the sheriff."
"Yeah, when my dad turned up dead and everybody thought I did it," Isaac says with a sneer. "Thanks for that."
Jackson lurches to his feet, firing off a noncommittal, "Whatever," as he walks away.
o
It's starting to get dark when Derek's phone lights up. He answers the call right in the middle of the first ring. "Yeah?"
"Michael Ashton," Alex says.
"What?"
"Before the incident in Kenopsia, the FDSI was investigating Michael Ashton. He's big in Silicon Valley, more money than god. I had someone look into Ashton's finances, and he's just liquidated a lot of assets."
"What for?"
"No way to tell for sure, but I've got a theory. Ever heard of Blue Flu?"
The term sounds familiar, but Derek can't quite place it. "Not really."
"It's a kind of unofficial police strike. Oakland PD seems to be having a bout of Blue Flu tonight. Almost all of District One's night shift have called in sick."
Derek gets up off the bed and starts to pace, running a hand through his hair. "There aren't any cops on the streets in Oakland?"
"Around the docks? Almost none."
"Oakland PD can't be that corrupt."
"It doesn't have to be. You just have to pay off the right people. Something's going to happen in the docks tonight, and somebody wants to make sure the cops aren't in a position to interfere. I'd bet money on that 'somebody' being Ashton."
Derek grabs his keys and his jacket and heads for the door. "Thanks."
"Did I hear keys? Where are you going?"
"Oakland."
"Of course you are."
o
"I don't get it," Jackson says. "It's a bridge."
Boyd is obviously judging him. "It's the Golden Gate Bridge."
"Like I said. It's a bridge. We're on a cruise to look at a bridge."
Erica tips up onto her toes, scanning the crowd. "Where'd Isaac go?"
"He's probably as bored as I am," Jackson says. "Seriously, Erica, why are we out here admiring the infrastructure?"
"It was Boyd's idea. I just wanted to go on a boat." She props one elbow up on the rail, looking up at the illuminated bridge that rises out of the dark. "It's pretty, though."
Boyd bends down to whisper something in her ear. Erica giggles.
Jackson rolls his eyes. "Adorable."
"Seriously, though," Erica says. "We should find Isaac."
Jackson says, "Why are you so worried about him?"
Erica chews her lip. "Something Derek said. We really shouldn't get separated."
"God, fine, I'll go get him," Jackson says, turning and heading belowdecks.
To Boyd, Erica says, "Did I not just say we shouldn't get separated?"
It's crowded down here, and noisy. Jackson shoves someone harder than he meant to—he's still getting used to his strength—and the guy's drink goes flying.
The guy turns, slowly. "What. The fuck."
"Sorry." Jackson tries to move past him, but the guy's hand lands on his shoulder.
"What the fuck was that, asshole?" the guy says.
Jackson brushes his hand off. "I said I was sorry. If I weren't underage, I'd buy you a new one. Now leave me alone."
From behind him, Jackson hears Isaac's voice: "Is there a problem here?"
Isaac's got his hands in his pockets, every line in his body tense. Jackson knows this look. The whole pack knows this look. It's not good.
The guy must be exceptionally oblivious—or maybe drunk—because he says, "Dickhead here spilled my drink."
"'Dickhead'?" Jackson says, unimpressed. "Really?"
Isaac's gaze flits between the two of them. "So? Fuck off."
And now it's glaringly obvious the guy has no self-preservation instincts, because he crowds into Isaac's space and barks, "What did you say to me?"
Isaac headbutts him.
o
Once he reaches the docks, Derek throws the car into park and kills the engine so he can hear properly. Off to the north, just on the edge of his hearing, comes the distinct rattle of gunfire.
Derek turns the car back on and starts driving again.
It isn't long before he comes across two SUVs parked across the road, blocking it. The two guys manning the roadblock have Kevlar vests and very big guns. One of them walks over and taps on Derek's window.
"Road's closed," the guy says once Derek cracks the window.
In his best 'indignant entitled asshole' impression, Derek says, "I need to get through."
The guy shifts his grip on his rifle, probably in order to draw Derek's attention to it. Derek recognizes the model; Argent and his hunters were fond of it.
"Turn around," the guy says.
"Sure," Derek replies, throwing his car into reverse.
He drives just far enough away that the guards won't see him, parks the car, and gets out.
It isn't hard to evade the roadblocks on foot. Derek follows the sound of gunfire, until he hits a fence.
He's at the edge of a cargo yard. From here he can see some kind of base camp. More Kevlar, more guns. Two women stand close to each other, one of them barking orders into a radio, while a man in a suit paces behind them. He stops and tries to say something to the woman with the radio; she regards him with a flat look until he falls silent.
Beyond the camp stretches a massive labyrinth of stacked shipping containers.
Derek scales the fence and lands softly on the other side. He skirts around the edge of the yard, trying to filter the din of human voices and weapons fire, hoping he'll recognize something.
He turns a corner and almost collides with another body. Derek leaps back, claws extending. The stranger turns around—
"Stiles?"
Stiles just stares at him, utterly bewildered.
A million questions run through Derek's head. He doesn't even know where to start. So he follows his first impulse.
He reaches for Stiles and drags him into a hug.
Stiles freezes up, then relaxes and puts his arms around Derek. He smells like sweat and cordite, but not like soap or Adderall or any of the other notes usually overlaying his scent. But the overlays are irrelevant. Underneath all of it, it's still Stiles.
"What are you doing here?" Stiles says, pulling back.
"Looking for you," Derek replies. He flinches as another burst of gunfire goes off, close by. "What's going on?"
Stiles stares at him again. Derek can almost see the gears in his head turning.
"They're trying to kill Director Lei," Stiles says.
"Who's 'they'?"
Stiles shakes his head. "Look, you probably have a lot of questions, but it'll have to wait. I have to get to the director before they do."
Derek nods. "Where is she?"
"Main office. On the other side of the yard." Stiles looks Derek over. "You coming?"
"You gonna tell me I shouldn't?"
"Not today."
Nearby, someone starts shouting. Stiles grabs Derek around the arm and drags him behind a shipping container.
"We can't risk being spotted," Stiles whispers. "By anyone. I don't know who I can trust."
"I can work with that." Derek takes a few long strides back, gets a running start, and clambers up on top of the shipping container.
He kneels at the edge and holds a hand out to Stiles. "Come on."
o
Jackson drags Isaac back up to the deck. His heart won't stop pounding. Security's probably going to turn up any second now.
"Let go of me," Isaac growls, yanking his arm out of Jackson's grip.
Jackson says, "Why the fuck did you do that?"
"He was too close for me to punch him."
It's not even that funny, but a laugh claws its way out of Jackson's throat anyway. He laughs, because any other reaction at this point is out of the question.
Isaac seems to approve of Jackson's sudden loss of sanity. "Fuck," he says, with a hysterical giggle. "Fuck, I'm not supposed to do shit like that. I promised Derek I wouldn't."
"Derek got into a barfight. He doesn't get to judge."
Isaac laughs again and rubs his forehead. "That actually really hurt."
"You play lacrosse," Jackson points out. "Do you honestly expect me to believe you can feel pain in your head?"
"Asshole," Isaac says, without much conviction.
o
One of the first practical lessons Derek learned about dealing with humans is, they almost never look up.
Derek climbs up onto the next stack of shipping containers, pulling Stiles up after him, then starts running along the top of the crates, careful to tread lightly. They're getting close to the office.
Skirmishes play out all over the labyrinth of the cargo yard, little bursts of violence whenever the two sides come into contact. The defensive line can't hold; they're too outnumbered. Inch by agonizing inch, they're falling back.
Stiles hasn't said a word since they started moving. Tactically, it makes sense, but the silence still has Derek on edge.
The row ends, and Derek drops down onto the crate below. Stiles lands softly behind him.
Between them and the office—a two-story building constructed mostly out of corrugated sheet metal—is a wide swath of open ground.
"Stay out of the light," Stiles says as he climbs down.
They circle around the back of the building, where one of the windows on the second floor has been smashed. Derek boosts Stiles up to it and climbs up after him.
It's dark inside. This room looks mostly unused, but Derek can hear voices in other parts of the building, and the sound of equipment being moved.
"This way," Stiles says, crossing the room to a pair of sliding doors.
Before Stiles has a chance to reach them, the doors open.
Standing on the other side is... Stiles.
Another Stiles, with a split lip and a bloody scrape along one cheek, reeking of stress, Adderall, and cheap hotel soap.
Stiles—the one Derek snuck into this building with—swears in a language Derek's never heard before and reaches for the gun holstered at his belt.
Next: "Seven Soldiers"