i. bang: refrigerator
Isaac didn't know what had set off his dad this time.
One moment he was sitting in his armchair, watching tv and completely ignoring Isaac (which was fine for him, because ignoring meant that his dad couldn't hurt him) and suddenly he was standing behind Isaac, criticising his tardiness when it came to preparing the food. And before Isaac could even think of defending himself – which he should have learned by now was useless and only angered his dad even more – his dad had already worked himself into this deep, primal anger that Isaac could do nothing against but letting it wash over him; hoping that he wouldn't drown; hoping that he would be able to make it to the shore again.
It had probably been the veteran the tv host had interviewed. Not even about anything military-related; just the local weather, but these days anything that even remotely reminded his dad of Camden – and the military certainly qualified – was likely to set his dad off. And then when he caught sight of Isaac and was reminded again that the wrong son was occupying his home, there was no holding him back.
So used to it Isaac was now, that he even managed to switch the stove off before his dad began hauling him downstairs towards the basement. His dad wouldn't remember to, and Isaac didn't want the house to burn down (though he sometimes imagined it; ashamed of how good those thoughts felt, how they warmed his heart when the cold of the refrigerator was seeping into his very bones).
Isaac didn't even waste any breath on begging for his father to stop. It would only show his father that he was weak, that he was afraid, and above all his father hated weakness. Sometimes Isaac wondered if his father hated him because he was weak or if he was weak because his father needed him to be so that he could hate someone that wasn't him. It was one of those questions he spent a lot of time pondering about, because if nothing else time he had in abundance once his father locked him away.
Sometimes Isaac wondered if it was only a question of time before his dad went too far in his rage. Wondered if he would forget to let Isaac out of the fridge again. Once, when Isaac had been in an especially morbid mood, he had looked up what would kill him first: The thirst, the hunger or the oxygen deprivation. It would be the latter, which was fine with Isaac: Of all three it was the least painful way to go.
Time, silence and darkness. One would think that Isaac would be afraid of them, shy away from them; but you couldn't be afraid all the time. Sooner or later, exhaustion would always win out and so as the refrigerator door closed on him with a loud bang, Isaac welcomed the darkness and the silence as the old friends they had become by now.
His only friends.
Of course, for the first few moments he was afraid. He always was. But as his dad's footsteps echoed away, the silence settled in and his eyes became accustomed to the pitch black surrounding him, it settled at the back of his head like an old friend, reminding him that it was still there, but not blocking out any other thought.
Isaac would have gone mad a long time ago if he was always afraid. Maybe he already was, who knew? Being used to get thrown into a fridge in the basement certainly wasn't normal.
Instead, he dreamt. Not in the conventional sense, he didn't fall asleep. But there was no difference between his eyes open and closed, and so he used his imagination to build landscapes instead. Meadows full of bright flowers and butterflies, oceans so crystal clear that you could see the millions of fish swimming in it, mountains so high that you could see the whole world from their tops laying at your feet.
His body might be trapped somewhere in a basement in Beacon Hills, but his spirit... his spirit was everywhere; could travel the whole world and gaze upon wonders that only existed in his imagination. No other gaze but his own would ever sully the landscapes he had built for himself, and it was this knowledge that gave Isaac the comfort he never had in the real world.
But somehow, this time all of this felt hollow. Used up. Faded and shallow. And Isaac didn't know why. Didn't know why this last place of comfort to him was taken away. As if he was allowed nothing that made him happy.
'You have strength, I can see it. You have agency, you have power. You just haven't chosen yet to wield them and that is what keeps you trapped.'
Argent's words haunted his thoughts ever since he had spoken to Isaac. Replaying in his mind on repeat like a song he couldn't get rid of. What did the old man even know? Isaac thought spitefully, but the feeling rang hollow, because deep down he knew that the man was right.
There had been offers of help from various people throughout his life, but he had chosen to decline them. It was easier to wallow in his misery than to act; easier to suffer in the comfort of the hell you knew instead of the uncertainty of the heaven that might await. Easier to let the poisonous hope that his dad might still change, might still start to love him again like he once had, seep into his heart than facing the cold hard reality that Isaac just wasn't enough to make his dad change.
'But the moment you reclaim your strength, know that my door is open to you, and I will aid you with all the power I have. But it is you who will have to lead the charge.'
But was Isaac brave enough to lead the charge? Out of this refrigerator, this house, this life and into something new that might even be worse?
'Or better,' a voice inside his head whispered sickly sweet. 'You might finally become strong. No one would ever trap you again. No, instead they will fear you like you have feared others your whole life.'
It sounded so promising. So tantalising, that Isaac imagined that he could taste the freedom on his lips already. It tasted like honey and something else. Something good, that he couldn't quite name but remembered from his childhood.
Isaac wanted more. He wanted more and more and everything at once. This flame inside his body had ignited and it couldn't be put out anymore. So many years he had tried to be what his father wanted him to be – brave, strong, a man – Camden. But what had it brought him? What but bruises all over his body, split lips, bruised rips and the knowledge that he could never replace what they had lost so many years ago.
There were two choices: Isaac could just give up. Float through life like nothing mattered. Let everything happen to him, go with the blows and never take the initiative. He could try to be whoever everyone else wanted him to be. Only never himself. He could lead that kind of life and look back at it with nothing but regret and contempt, bemoaning all the lost chances.
Or he could do something about it. Change, become more… become better. If his father couldn't love him, then maybe fear would be enough. Yes, Isaac thought to himself, if he couldn't be loved, then he wanted to be feared instead.
A grin spread over his face. It would be wrong to say that it lit up the world, because there was only darkness surrounding him. And then he banged his fist against the refrigerator's door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He knew that his dad couldn't hear him. And even if he did, he wouldn't care.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
But Isaac needed to feel anything – even if it was only the pain that was slowly blossoming in his knuckles and spreading through his fingers.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Because even when he got nothing left, his pain would still be there.
The next day at school, he wordlessly walked up into the headmaster's office. No one was there and the secretary let him walk through without question. As if he had been awaited the whole time.
"I want to be strong. Make me." And from the way the headmaster's lips spread into a mirthless grin, it probably had been only a question of time.
ii. bang: the stands
As Lydia reached the lacrosse field, she could already see the players darting across the green in their white jerseys and protective gear. Despite not being able to make out their features from afar, she knew that she wouldn't find Jackson amongst them. He had been missing school for the last two days and hadn't picked up her phone calls. According to his mother, to which Lydia had been able to talk to, he was sick.
It annoyed Lydia that she had to find out like this. She was better than that. It was beneath her to run worriedly after a boy like one of those stupid girls on TV and she vowed to make Jackson regret not informing her once he got better. Once he came back.
Jackson's absence had also left her bereft of an excuse for why she was here. Usually, she only ever visited the field when Jackson was playing or training – sometimes also for Danny, but only if she was in an especially good mood.
It was one of Lydia's many secrets that she actually didn't like lacrosse that much – or team sport in general. It was just too much posturing, rituals, and testosterone for her to be comfortable with. But if she wanted to be the most popular girl at the school, then she needed to be seen to also like its most popular sport.
Her actual target was sitting on the stands, watching the players run back and forth across the field in various variations that Captain Finstock was screaming at them.
"Jackson's not playing," Allison spoke without tearing her eyes away from the field as Lydia sat down next to her.
"I know," was Lydia's reply.
"It must have cost you, searching me out."
"It did," Lydia admitted. To be honest, she hated the feeling, but she hated this unresolved anger between them more and what spoke more of maturity than jumping over your own shadow to do something that went against your own character but in the long run would only benefit you? It would have been childish to hold on to her anger and let her pride get in the way of resolving a problem. That was Jackson's way of doing things, not hers. "But I'm here anyway."
"It got quite boring, anyway," Allison replied, still not looking at her. "Even boys in tight shorts can only hold my attention for so long."
"Especially if it's only one boy you're interested in," Lydia pointed out.
Scott didn't make much of a figure amidst the other players, but he was swift and fast and ever since what Lydia now knew were his werewolf senses had come into play, he had become a force on the field to be reckoned with. She let her gaze wander over the field but couldn't see Stiles anywhere. Unusual, but not unheard of, although he would usually support Scott even if it was only training and not real games.
"It's complicated," Allison sighed.
"Isn't it always? Besides, Scott told me that you were on you way to patch things up."
"Did he?" Finally, Allison turned her head to look at Lydia. "I didn't know you two were that close."
Lydia just rolled her eyes. "Please, Allison, as if I would ever. Just a little small talk during one of their training sessions." Allison's lips turned into a thin line.
"Lydia, I still think that you shouldn't…"
"Allison, please," Lydia interrupted her. "I'm here because last time we both said some things to each other that were cruel and out of line and I wanted to apologise for my part in it. Not going to lie, I also hope that you'd apologise for yours as well. But I'm not here because I changed my mind."
"I am sorry for what I've said," Allison spoke earnestly. "But I'm not taking back the sentiment behind it. It was true. It still is."
"Could you just sit back?" Lydia challenged her. "Could you just stay behind, pretend to live a normal life, while the people around you get to be part of something more? Maybe not something better, but definitely something more. Could you do it? Could you sit in your room and do your homework, knowing that others get to experience something that billions of people never will, get to receive knowledge that has been hidden from most of humanity for millennia?"
Allison hesitated just for a split-second too long and that was all the confirmation Lydia needed. "Don't be a hypocrite, Allison. It doesn't suit you. Besides, Derek Hale is showing me how I can defend myself against werewolves."
"He is?" Allison asked, surprise etched on her face.
Well, he would once she asked him, Lydia thought. She had blurted it out without thought, just to get Allison off her case, but now that she thought of it, it did actually sound like a not-so-bad idea, to be honest. "In that aspect you were right: I need to know how to defend myself. My charming attitude and intimidating intellect won't keep the monsters away."
Allison's lips curled into a faint smile. "Who knows? Maybe all it needs to stop an Alpha is a lecture on intersectional feminism to make him realise that he should apply his considerable strength to fight the gender-pay-gap instead of teenagers."
Lydia didn't say anything, but she felt happy as she realised that Allison and she were on better terms now. Not at forgiveness yet, but on their way. Only time would tell if their friendship could regain its former strength, but Lydia was pretty sure that it would. Even the supernatural couldn't and wouldn't temper their connection.
"I know it's too early to ask, but I'll do it anyway," Lydia started. "If you ever feel comfortable enough, I don't think Stiles would mind if you came along with me."
Allison looked at her. "You're right, it's too early. Even if I was comfortable with it, I have my whole family on my back. But I appreciate the spirit of the offer." Lydia opened her mouth…
Bang.
The sound tore through the relative silence of the training grounds like a gunshot, but thankfully it hadn't been one.
"Sorry," a sheepishly looking Scott exclaimed as he took in the dent, he had caused in the stands only a few meters away from where Lydia and Allison were sitting with a wrongly thrown ball. "I was aiming for the goal."
"The goal is on the other fucking side of the field, McCall!" Lydia shouted, the shock still sitting in her bones. Some of the other boys were laughing at Scott, but Lydia's withering stare made them duck away in silence.
Huffing in annoyance, she walked over to where the ball had fallen, picked it up and threw it back at Scott. Obviously, the power behind her throw was by no means a match for the force the other had applied before, but Lydia liked to think that she had put all her annoyance in her throw.
"Won't happen again!" Scott promised with that disarmingly charming, dimpled smile of his. Lydia could practically see Allison melting. Lydia just rolled her eyes.
Nothing could sour her mood today.
iii. bang: microwave
The art of seduction was not something that came easily to someone as breathing like some would like to make the naïve onlooker believe. It was something that needed to be trained and honed for many years and even then, it was often met with failure as Jennifer had gotten to learn over the long time, she had spent planning her revenge on the Alpha Pack.
After her death and rebirth had burned away her compassion and empathy, she had to relearn again what it meant to pass as human. She observed and imitated and by doing so she learned how to see through other people and find out who they truly were, what they truly wanted and what they were truly afraid of. She could no longer comprehend it, but she didn't need to, anyway, in order to prey upon it.
She had learned to craft herself into any person she needed to be. Any person someone else needed her to be. And it had helped her greatly over the course of the last few years. Maybe it came so easy to her, because she already had lost herself when Kali had killed her and so it was easier for her to reassemble her personality into whatever she needed.
Jennifer had pondered quite a while the question if she should try to seduce the local sheriff. Getting law enforcement on her side had helped her quite a few times in the past. Plus, it would get her close to Stiles as well, who as the local alpha was a player she could and should not discard so easily, despite his apparent young age.
Yet, all these advantages were also disadvantaging as well: Closeness to law enforcement also brought also more scrutiny, something she could ill afford. And what if Stiles sensed that something was off with her?
But in the end, Jennifer had decided that the risks were well worth the reward. If she could make the officers help her with her task of destroying the Alpha Pack, then the chances of her coming out of his victoriously would rise significantly. Not that she thought that the officers would be any help in a fight – no humans besides hunters were against alpha werewolves – but she could use them as distraction or cannon fodder.
But Jennifer shouldn't take the second step before the first. Before she could use the sheriff and his underlings for her plans, she first needed to enthral him. Not magically, no. Despite her knowledge of the arcane, enthralment was not something she was capable of. Besides, it was fickle and too easily broken. No, what she needed was true devotion and for that she needed to know what the sheriff wanted.
First thing first, his name was actually Noah. For something so easily as a first name, it had been quite difficult to find out. Everyone – even the local newspapers – just referred to him as Sheriff Stilinski or just Sheriff – with capital S.
As to what he needed? To her it was obvious: The Sheriff was still hung up on his wife, but he was also desperately lonely. He needed someone that made him forget his loneliness without forgetting his wife. He wanted companionship without being forced to feel guilty about it. And if it was with someone who had only recently come to Beacon Hills and therefore had no connection, no history and no memory of his deceased wife and how things had been back then, then the better.
Jennifer could not spend too much time on this seduction. There were many moving pieces she had to keep an eye on, and she couldn't get distracted by one in particular. What luck then, that she was quite adapt at multitasking.
All that was the reason why she was standing in front of the police precinct. Putting on her friendliest smile, Jennifer walked through the glass doors and up to the bored-looking officer who was sitting behind the reception. Valerie Clark, the name tag read.
"Hello," she greeted Jennifer. "How may I assist you?"
"Hello," Jennifer greeted back. "I'd like to speak to Sheriff Stilinski."
"Regarding what?"
"I'm the new English teacher at the High School…"
"What did Stiles do this time?" Clark interrupted her while rolling her eyes, though there was a certain fondness in her voice as she spoke.
"Actually, it's got nothing to do with Mr. Stilinski," Jennifer assured her.
"Really?" Clark looked quite baffled.
"See, with the current…situation in the city, I thought it'd be quite prudent to have a law enforcement official come to the school and maybe speak in front of the children about the right behaviour in times like these." She huffed in fake-nervousness. "I know it's not much, but at least it feels like I'm doing something, you know? And if even one of the kids knows how to call 911, I consider it a win."
Clark looked at her with sympathy. "I understand. Let me see if the Sheriff's got a free minute for you."
"That'd be very nice."
Apparently, the Sheriff had a free minute for her, because three minutes later, Jennifer was led into his office and asked to take a seat in front of his desk.
"Ms. Blake," the Sheriff greeted her with a smile. "I think in the short time you've already been in town I've seen you more often than Stiles' old English teacher in years."
Jennifer laughed. "From what I've been told, that doesn't sound likely. From what I've heard the teachers must have waited in line to get to talk to you."
"It isn't that bad," the Sheriff replied ruefully. "True, there are a few teachers Stiles has some feuds with, especially his chemistry teacher, but he actually quite likes English, so that particular teacher was spared."
"Then I can count myself lucky," Jennifer replied.
"Valerie told me that you wanted to speak about me about an officer having some kind of talk at the school?" The Sheriff steered the conversation back.
Jennifer nodded. "Indeed. I thought it'd be prudent if a police officer could come in and give some advice to the children."
The Sheriff frowned. "In theory, I've got nothing against it, but as a parent of a hyperactive child, I feel obligated to point out that teenagers probably won't be very attentive."
"Oh, believe me, I know," Jennifer said, throwing her hair over her shoulder. "I teach them after all. But even if only one of my pupils listens to what you have to say, then I'd consider it a success." Honestly, she didn't really care, because after all, she was the serial killer everyone was afraid of, but the Sheriff would like a woman who cared about her charges.
The Sheriff raised his eyebrows. "What I have to say?"
"Of course," Jennifer nodded. "It'd give the lesson a certain gravitas if you were the one to give it."
"My son would kill me," the Sheriff admitted, scratching the back of his neck.
"All the more reason to do it!" Jennifer exclaimed, laughing out loud. Feeling the right vibes in the moment, she fleetingly let her hand linger on the Sheriff's forearm. "Just think about it."
She snatched a pen from the desk and wrote her number on the post-it. "Call or text me, so we can hash out the details."
"I will," the Sheriff promised.
Jennifer wanted to say more – to push for more, now that the moment was right – but they were suddenly interrupted by a loud bang.
"Was that a gun?" she exclaimed in mock-fear. Guns wouldn't hurt her, but it always played well with men to act like a frightened woman in need of protection.
The Sheriff, who hadn't even tensed up a little bit, just let out an exasperated sigh. "No," he assured her. "That was our microwave. Apparently, the training session about the correct use of a microwave and what to not put in it, still wasn't enough to keep Kowalski from putting his metal pot in it." He gave Jennifer an apologetic smile. "If you excuse me, I have to dock some pay for a replacement microwave."
"Don't worry," Jennifer assured him. "I'll be waiting for your call."