*"A cheeseburger," Liam said matter-of-factly. "And not one of those tiny, fake fast-food burgers, either. A nice big one made of real hamburger meat. With onions in it."
"No onions," Scott protested, but it was weak. He'd eat onions right now. On anything.
"Onions in mine," Liam insisted, a momentary brightness in his eyes before it faded again. "Not just sliced on top but diced up and mixed into the burger like my mom does it. And cheese on top. Chipotle cheddar. Extra pickles and one slice of tomato makes it perfect. Spicy brown mustard."
"I haven't tried chipotle cheddar but I'm going to now," Scott informed Liam. "And you forgot the fries. Nice and crispy. With ranch dressing."
"We have to stop," Liam moaned. "I'm drooling."
"Yeah," Scott agreed in disappointment as his fantasies melted back into reality. "Me too."
He ripped the top half of the wrapper from his dry granola bar with his teeth and spit it into a corner. He'd pick it up later but he didn't have the will or the energy to care about litter at the moment.
He wasn't expecting company.
He reached forward and plucked Liam's wrapped granola bar from his lap and flipped it at him. Liam didn't raise a hand to catch it and it landed back in his lap.
"Eat your burger," Scott half-joked, hoping to keep Liam from sliding back into the morose depression the game had temporarily relieved.
"It's not working anymore," Liam said glumly.
Scott agreed with that. He curled his lip in distaste as he lifted his own dinner and took the first of the two bites it usually took for him to consume it. His stomach ached in hunger and cramped for real food while paradoxically trying to revolt at one more bite of another stale, dry, tasteless granola bar. Their little game had been for distraction at first, and to make swallowing their dry and monotonous staple easier, but it had only lasted a couple of days before it became difficult to fantasize their favorite foods while choking down dry bits of granola a couple times a day.
"You still have to eat," Scott prodded. He was such a hypocrite. He'd thought the same thing to himself just before Liam said it.
"I don't think I can stand one more of these," Liam complained without energy.
Scott regarded Liam as he tried to swallow his own granola. The younger werewolf was skinnier than he had been. Dirty and unkempt. They both were. Hygiene was an afterthought and not one of Mr. Cross' priorities for his captives. What passed for their sustenance was enough to keep them from starvation but not much more than that.
Perhaps more worrying, though, was the vacancy in Liam's eyes and his slack face.
Their conditions were horrid and Scott had concerns about how long they could physically last. He was constantly trying to come up with something that would get them out of their predicament. Some way of bargaining their way free or plan of escape. Nothing yet had been viable. Mr. Cross had, so far, shown an efficiency that had thwarted any possibility that Scott could see of getting both he and Liam out safely. That didn't mean it wouldn't happen. Scott would find that weak point, that unexpected opportunity.
None of that would happen, though, if they fell into the pit of depression and despair.
It was hard not to. They were caged and dirty, barely fed. Scott was thrown into a ring to fight for his life routinely against other alphas and, on occasion, other creatures altogether. Liam's only purpose seemed to be to as leverage for Scott's cooperation and to apply the scant first-aid available to them so as to spare Mr. Cross and his entourage the necessity of doing so
whenever Scott was dragged from the ring, the ripped and bleeding and grieving victor.
Like Scott, Liam was becoming bored and restless with his inactivity. It was getting harder and harder for the two of them to stay mentally and emotionally engaged, but even Scott had the fights to look forward to, if he could call it that. He wouldn't want Liam to have to do the same but he tried to see it from Liam's point of view. Never outside of their cage. Unsure of what might happen to him should Scott be taken away and not returned.
It could happen. One lost fight and Liam would be on his own. That was the one reason Scott had allowed himself to be victorious, no matter what it meant, and in some cases he'd fought almost to the death for it. The only other option than fighting almost to the death and winning was fighting to the death and losing. Mr. Cross was not a wasteful man. He would not invest even the sparse resources he'd committed toward keeping Liam as a tool to waste an opportunity once he no longer needed him. Liam's life would be forfeit but Mr. Cross would certainly make sure he got his time and money worth with entertainment first. Scott had heard stories of depravities from some of the combatants brought to fight him.
Liam didn't need to know such things but he did need to be ready. Mentally as well as physically.
Scott reached over and picked up Liam's still-untouched granola bar. "Here," he offered.
"Maybe later," Liam mumbled, batting it aside.
"Liam," Scott tried to encourage, only to be ignored. Scott brought the bar to his mouth and ripped off the top half of the wrapper as he had to his own granola bar, then thrust it back at Liam, startling the younger boy into lifting his dull eyes to look at it then at Scott.
"Eat it," Scott insisted forcefully. He expected at least a token argument, an angry remark. Instead, Liam took the bar, bit off a corner and munched on it quietly.
Scott should have been relieved but he wasn't. Liam was obediently biting, chewing and swallowing mechanically but his eyes were back to staring at his crossed knees vacantly.
"Are we still going uphill?" Stiles huffed. His breath blew out in fast little puffs and he gave his shoulders a rough shrug to pull his backpack straps back into place. "It feels like we're still going uphill."
"I think we could use a break," Lydia suggested, sounding as winded as Stiles. Her hair was windblown and her face was red from either cold or exertion. Probably both.
They stopped, some more reluctantly than others, but it was a stark reminder to the group as a whole that some of them didn't have the unending stamina of were-creatures.
Kira dropped down to rest on the cold ground next to Stiles and Lydia while Derek wandered nearby inspecting rocks or trees or whatever, Stiles didn't freaking know. He just knew that Derek, who'd been setting the pace, seemed to have forgotten that some of them weren't freaking werewolves and couldn't move as fast as him or for as long, nor as easily with packs on their backs. In the cold mountain air that was thinner than what they were used to. Up mountain ridges that seemed to never have a down side.
"Do we even know where we're going?" Kira asked. She had leaves in her hair from when they'd gone through a copse of trees rather than around. It had gotten easier to stomp through than walk around them. Stiles had gotten a scratch on his face from the same copse. It still stung.
Malia, no more winded than Derek, damn her, joined their circle on the ground but crossed her legs and sat upright while they sprawled, letting their breaths even out.
"If what Satomi told Derek is accurate," Lydia reminded them, "We're not supposed to find them. They'll find us."
"Then what the hell are we tramping around for?" Stiles asked.
"We have to be in a certain range of their territory before they'll approach us," Derek told them as he headed back toward them from whatever he'd been inspecting in the trees. "As long as they're peaceful, anyway."
"And if they're not?" Lydia asked.
"They'll kill us or run us off," Malia answered for him factually. Everyone looked at her and she shrugged one shoulder. "That's what coyotes do."
"She's right," Derek confirmed. "Satomi says the pack prefers to avoid humans and any non-werewolf contact. They like to keep to themselves. They're pretty reclusive. That means they probably leave the average camper and hiker alone. That doesn't mean they're friendly. Not all of us are human, and most anyone who can cross a certain point, right here-" Derek held a paper map out for all to see and pointed to a spot he'd circled in red pen "- isn't the average hiker. It takes professional skill or...being one of us...to hike these mountains. Or both. Any werewolf will be met with curiosity if not suspicion because that's the perimeter of their claimed territory."
"So we just wander around and hope we find them?" Kira asked with doubt.
"No," Derek answered. "We get there, to their perimeter, and wait. They'll find us."
"That sounds kind of ominous," Stiles pointed out.
"You said they might not be friendly. What happens if they don't want us there?" Lydia asked, following Stiles' half-inferred thread.
"If that happens, we'll find out," Derek growled.
That sounded even more ominous. Their odds wouldn't be good. Far outnumbered, most likely, with only Malia and Derek having a real chance against unfriendly werewolves one on one. Kira might have a passing chance with her sword until she was outnumbered. What he and Lydia would do other than flail around in the ice and snow in a panic, Stiles couldn't say, but it would probably all be for naught. The results would be the same.
"How much longer until we get there?" Kira asked.
Derek glanced down at the map then looked pointedly down at Stiles and the girls sitting on the frozen ground. "That depends on how long we hang around here before we get back to hiking."
Stiles sighed. It sucked but it was true. Before they hit the non-existent trail, though, Stiles had to borrow a tree.
"Fine, but I've got to go water a bush," he informed them inelegantly. "And I hereby cast my vote that we let Lydia take the map and the lead for a while so the rest of us who aren't freaking werewolves can keep up."
He wandered away to find a suitable tree, smiling as he heard votes cast and Derek's stubborn refusal to entertain such an idea. His smile grew when he returned to find Lydia holding the map and studying it while Derek glared his discontent.
After a moment to orient themselves, they fell into single file, Derek at the back. If he wouldn't lead, he would be the rear guard. Whether they needed one or not, apparently.
They resumed their trek north, up the mountain, already beyond accessible roads or visible trails.
They were either going to find someone who might help or be eaten. Whichever it was, Stiles hoped it wasn't all for nothing.
"Hold on, Scotty," he prayed. "Just hang on, guys. We'll find you."
Please be alive.
