cause they got the cages, they got the boxes and guns
they are the hunters, we are the foxes and we run
It was Scott's idea to run.
The pack had fought, and fought valiantly. They did everything they could to save themselves, but it wasn't working. They were outnumbered and no amount of Deaton's advice or training could prepare them for the beings they faced. Hundreds were after them, and the only solution any of them could find was to run.
It was supposed to be the three of them - Stiles, Lydia, and Scott. Though nearly consumed by grief and beaten-down by the sheer magnitude of their loss, they thought they could make it. If they just hopped in the jeep and headed north; if they drove until they ran out of road. Scott would be able to sense creatures on their trail, and Lydia would know if death was closing in. It should have been a perfect plan.
But then it happened.
She never saw it coming.
Lydia, the banshee. She should have seen it. She should have known. But she was distracted by the need to throw things into a suitcase; broken by a grief so all-consuming she couldn't breathe. She was caught up in saying goodbye to Prada and making excuses to her mother and -
The scream ripped from her throat out of nowhere. It shattered the night sky and sliced through the broken remains of her heart. Stiles didn't need super senses to hear her, and he certainly didn't need visual confirmation to know whose life had been ripped from his desperate and pleading grasp.
His best friend. His brother.
Scott.