AN: Where is everyone? Views have steadily dropped, reviews are pretty nonexistent. I'm starting to get a complex. Is this story so bad? Should I just give up, take it down, and be done with it?

Warnings: language, child abuse

Disclaimer: I don't own "Teen Wolf".

Chapter Nine
Suffocation

"Consent was given? A child over the age of fifteen may choose the Bite, according to the Code." The tone is formal, but the question itself is just a ritual. They have reviewed his evidence, heard his accounts. They know everything, and their decision has already been made. But the ceremony is important to them, and it must be followed to the letter.

"It was not. The then Alpha, Peter Hale, bit him while he was in the woods one night with a friend. Not only was permission neither asked nor granted, but he was left to figure out what he was becoming by himself." The words fall from his tongue, and Chris just wants to cut it out. This is his baby girl's boyfriend, and he's offering him up like the lamb to slaughter.

"I see. And human blood has been spilt?"

"A school bus driver was mauled to death, a store clerk had his throat ripped out, a janitor was gutted, two hunters were strung up by their own entrails, and, of course, there is the matter of Kate."

"Yes. She broke the Code and burned the Hale Pack alive, correct?"

"She did."

"And the actions of this Peter Hale were those of revenge?"

"We believe so, yes." It was vengeance and it was justice, and Scott shouldn't have to die for this, but he's going to.

"But Peter Hale is dead now. His nephew, a Derek Hale, is currently the pack Alpha?"

"Yes."

"The scion of a slain pack, vengeance left unfinished, murdered humans, and the forceful turning of at least one minor. These are your charges? You were witness, or else have irrefutable proof of these allegations?"

"I was and do." He wishes he didn't. Without proof, he could make this all go away. Could allow himself to be ignored and the Hale Pack left in peace. But he has it, all neatly collected during Peter Hale's brief reign. The proof is there, unhidden and indisputable.

"You seek the ultimate punishment for these crimes. Not just death to those guilty, but to all those who might align with them. You seek to dispense with the Code and to declare war on the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, California?"

Chris wants to say no. To say he was wrong. That the Hale Pack doesn't deserve this. But he'd summoned the Council, he had made this happen. And there isn't anything left he can do to stop what's coming. If he withdraws his accusations now, they'll launch an investigation. They'll see the truth in his allegations, and then they'll find out why he removed his claim. They find out about Scott and Allison and how she protected him when she should have been killing him.

There's no going back now.

"…I do." For his daughter's sake, there is nothing Christopher Argent won't do. Including declare war.

"We hear your plea, and are moved. From this moment on, Argents shall war with Hales. Until they are all dead, or we are."

The words echo in his head, and he can't breathe. It's done.

War has been declared and the end is coming for them all.

He can't breathe.


There is a solemn sense of finality looming over the house. It's stifling, and Allison can't breathe through the overbearing feeling. No one tells her what's going on. Her father has made it very clear, without saying a word to anyone within her hearing, that she's not to be involved in…whatever's happening, and the other hunters seem content to follow his lead for now.

But Allison isn't stupid. She can put the pieces together on her own. Derek warns of an impending war and fifty hunters waltz into town, holding secret meetings and hauling some serious hardware. Now, now is just when they've finished making the decision everyone always knew they would.

She's tempted to call Scott, to warn him. But she's already called once this week, and two in a row might be enough to gall her father into action. The fact that action is inevitable at this point, that the war is coming and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it, is irrelevant. In this instance, later is so much better than sooner.

And, besides, Scott already knows. This isn't news. He'd known this was coming even before she did. So she doesn't have a reason to call him, other than because she wants to. And that's not good enough anymore. Not if she doesn't want to get them all killed.

She's tempted to run. To defect now, before her family has the opportunity to force her hand. But she thinks, hopes, that she can stay for a little. Can play double agent. Listen in on plans and get a warning out.

Allison is prepared to bide her time, but when push comes to shove…well, she has a bag packed and a determination to get the hell out of here. Derek might not take her, but she can hide with Scott and/or Stiles. When she runs, she trusts her dad to let her go. He wouldn't risk the chance that her defection will end in her execution at Argent hands. Or drawing attention to the family now that they're preparing to wage a secret war.

Yeah, there's a lot of leverage in her hands for when she decides it's time to get out of dodge.

Allison nearly jumps when her phone goes off, vibrating violently in her pocket. She's way too jumpy for a girl trying not to draw attention to herself, but no one can really blame her for being a little tense. She pulls her phone out, expecting a pouting text of boredom from Lydia whose eyes, turns out, are resistible if your name is Christopher Argent and your daughter is grounded for consorting with werewolves.

I left you a gift under your bed. Try not to have to use it~~Daddy

So, not Lydia then…

Allison isn't sure what her father's getting at, but she scurries up the stairs to find out. She closes the door carefully, wishing her parents hadn't taken the lock away from her after they found out about Scott. She makes do by shoving her computer chair under the knob. It won't stop anyone determined to get in, but it'll buy her a few seconds.

She flops onto the floor and peers into the darkness between the floor and her mattress. The shape is instantly familiar and a smile spreads across her face. Her hand reaches out and pulls the bow into the light. It's a compact bow, collapsible. And a quiver of steel arrows, sharp and deadly. Allison glides the tip of her finger over the edge of the point so gently as to barely touch it all, and the digit comes away dripping crimson.

It's not deep, but only because her touch was so light. These are not arrows meant to slow down a werewolf so she can put a pull in its head. These are so fine she hadn't even felt the bite of the blade against her skin until the bleeding started. This is the kind of arrow that shreds through skin and muscle, slips between hairline gaps in bone, and kills. With her skill and these arrows, Allison can put a shaft of steel into a beating heart from a hundred paces. Let it fly and watch it spear between ribs.

She could kill a werewolf with these.

She could kill a man with these.

The question is why her father gave it to her. She has plenty of bows she can, but won't, use against werewolves. Her little misadventure with Kate had proved that. So why give her this? A bow she can hide easily in her backpack or a large purse and arrows that kill instead of wound.

Try not to have to use it.

Allison blinks, surprised. He wants her to run. When and if she needs to. He wants her to be able to get away clean, should the family try and draft her into this war. But…he can't. He has to know she'd run straight to Scott, straight to the enemy. That she'd take this finely crafted weapon and use it. Against the Argent's, against their family.

Which means that he has a really good reason. Chris Argent never doesn't anything on a whim. He has back-ups for every plan, contingency plans for every back-up. After she found out about the "family business", she'd spent an inordinate amount of time snooping through everything she could get near. Including a massive filing cabinet filled with spreadsheets, lists, and plans: A through Z, AA through ZZ, and AAA through ZZZ. It was surreal and vaguely terrifying.

She should probably look back into all that, now that she's preparing to commit treason against her family. There might be battle plans and the like stored in there. Hmm, the kinda cute photographer guy would probably let her borrow a good camera. And Jackson, who her parents approve of way too much, could buy her some alone time in her father's office.

Well, there's the start of a good plan. All she needs to do now talk it over with Jackson, and maybe Stiles because Stiles a freakishly talented at this devious planning thing.


Isaac closes his eyes tightly and prepares for what he knows is coming. He got a D in chemistry. His dad doesn't like it when he doesn't do well in school. And Isaac doesn't like it when his father doesn't like things.

He doesn't like it when it hurts.

"It's okay, Isaac. I'm not mad." His father placates, but Isaac knows it's a lie. Father is always angry.

"…really…?" He doesn't believe it, not even a little. But he allows himself the vaguest glimmer of hope that maybe, just this once, it can be alright.

"Of course," It still surprises him how easy it is for his father to sound so calm, so reasonable. Especially right before the rage. "Though I am going to have to punish you."

The flinch is irrepressible and pointless. It doesn't stop his father from wrapping a hand around his arm, fingers digging in deep. Isaac already can feel the purple-black bruises rippling across his flesh, five pinpoints of pain. A rough jerk yanks Isaac from his chair, sends him tumbling to the floor. There's a popping sound from his shoulder, and Isaac bites back a scream. His teeth tear through the soft skin of his lips, but he doesn't make a sound. Father doesn't like it when he screams.

A few vicious kicks to the ribs, twisting the shoulder of the arm his father still hasn't released, and Isaac feels himself moving. Dragged. Oh. Oh no. He knows where this is going, and he wants to sob. But he can't. Father doesn't like it when he cries, doesn't like it when his son is weak. And Isaac strives in all aspects to not do things his father doesn't like. Especially when he's in a rage.

He hasn't needed to go to the hospital since he moved to Beacon Hills three years ago, and Isaac would really like to keep it that way. He doesn't want to be asked the awkward questions again, doesn't want to have to lie again.

The steady thud-thud-thud of the legs he can't seem to get up and under him against the stairs is a jarring confirmation of everything he already knew. The basement.

"Dad, please. I'll bring it up. Please. Don't." Father doesn't like it when he begs either, but, oh god, he doesn't want this. Not again.

"I know you will." He growls, and Isaac knows he can't get out of this. This is happening. It's happening right now and there's nothing Isaac can do or say to stop it. He stops moving and the hand around his arm finally relinquishes its hold. He can hear the sound of his father shoving the key into the padlock.

Isaac doesn't want this.

It's a bad idea. A stupid, useless idea. But, he does it anyways. He starts to crawl away.

He doesn't get far.

A foot crashes down onto his back, and all the air in Isaac's lungs goes rushing out of him in an agonized whimper. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm sorry." He sobs. It won't do any good. It never does. But the words slip from his bloody lips regardless. Over and over again on repeat. He can't make himself stop. "I'm sorry."

His father scoffs in disgust, stomping down on his back again before pushing and pulling Isaac up against the freezer. Heavy handed punches fall like anvils across his face. The wet snap of bone and cartilage collapsing rings in his ears, and the bitter-copper taste of blood coats the back of his throat and tongue.

He wants to die.

"I'm sorry."

A harsh shove and, already unsteady, Isaac tumbles into hell. He cracks his head on the floor and spots of sickly yellow and empty black spatter across his vision. Then his father is shoving his legs in, and Isaac is bent nearly double, lying on his back with his knees in the air.

"I'm sorry."

The lid of the freezer slams shut, slamming against his knees. There's not a lot of space in freezers, but Isaac knows this one better than most people know the backs of their hands. He knows that if he moves like this and shifts like that, he can put his feet against the floor. Legs still bent at the knee, but in a more natural position. And with a little wriggling he can get his arms wrapped around his chest to help keep him warm. He braces the back of his head, still throbbing and—if the wet warmth trickling down the back of his neck is any indicator—bleeding, against a wall. He knows to keep his head propped up while he bleeds.

"I'm sorry."

It only takes three inches of liquid to drown in. And his shoulders prevent the fluid from moving farther down the freezer. If he turns his head in his sleep, he could wake up breathing blood. Or he could never wake up at all. And as terrible as his life is, however much he sometimes wishes for death, he's not about to do it himself.

"I'm sorry."

Whether it's cowardice or bravery, Isaac doesn't know. Doesn't care.

The freezer is small, only holding so much air. Enough to last the night, his continued existence proves, but he's not about to waste it. So he finally gets his traitorous mouth to stop apologizing. After that it's just a matter of convincing his brain that, even though he's in a small, dark, enclosed space with no air coming in, he isn't actually going to die. Probably.

But the human mind loves to play tricks on itself. And so, even though Isaac knows there's still plenty of air left, there always is, he can't help the stifling feeling of suffocation from smothering him.

He can't breathe.

He can't breathe.