Wyatt doesn't understand what happened.

One minute they were meeting her on her turf. Impressing her, even. Laughing together. Connecting. He's sure of it!

The next, she was...flying across the practice space like a frightened rabbit...And I was the clumsy wolf nipping at her heals.

Ugh, the back of his head hits the wall behind him with enough of a thunck the glass vibrates, a string of curses growled low under his breath.

This is his fault. He-he'd done...something. Said something. Been too eager, pushed too hard, and now she's weary.

A whine slips out, an embarrassingly pitched, weak, little noise wheezing pitifully somewhere around the top of his throat, and he comforts himself with a quick scratch at the spot just behind his left ear as he closes his eyes to reconsider the events of yesterday afternoon for something like the thousandth time before the sun has even managed to properly heave itself above the tree line.

He's on his own at the moment, which, for the record, is hardly earth-shattering given the frequency he's tasked with chores like exploring...aheh, abandoned campsites and picnic areas, and even venturing into Seabrook's outskirts in search of resources, information, or just the occasional plaything for the werepups. He's grown more comfortable with his own company than some of his packmates might be, and, at the moment, he can't hear himself think in even the Den's most secluded spaces. Definitely not in the tightly knit sub-packs they've all taken to forming while, let's face it, aimlessly wondering Seabrook High.

He is not, despite his increasingly irate sister's near certain willingness to argue semantics, sulking. Or brooding. Or whatever other equally dramatic, melancholic synonym she decides to throw at him.

...

...

...Okay, fine. But c'mon! The way Addison had kinda just run off like that, sort of mid-conversation, would be enough to bruise anyone's ego. And her sudden -if gentle- refusals to properly engage with him after the fact hadn't done much for it either.

But. That is beside the point. The point is that Willa's own avenues of pursuit are turning up nothing left and right, (Though, still somehow managing to raise some hackles and strike a few nerves...) and his slow simmering rapport with Addison just boiled over leaving their pack no closer to the Moonstone than they were before she'd stumbled out of that bus crash. And still the sickness creeps.

And, if Wynter's episode in full view of the Cheer Pack yesterday is anything to go by, it's, ahuh, gaining confidence.

Despite the defensive sarcasm, a cold coil of fear slow rolls in the pit of his stomach as he's once again assaulted by the distressing image of Wynter's weak form sagged, hacking and gasping, against a concerned looking cheerleader on the floor. There's no color in her face, the warm pinky halo usually brushed along her cheeks and nose cooled to an unsettling white, which is enough to raise his blood pressure all on its own. Pair it with a slack, unseeing gaze echoing the sickly green glow of the Moonstone flickering against the hollow of her throat and...well, he's never had a heart attack, but...

And that gut-retching, full-bodied cough! It just doesn't stop, like a death rattle violently shaking up out of her chest. It buckles her knees right out from under her. Racks her shoulders. Clogs up her throat.

Suffocating her.

I don't have time for this! he scolds himself, scratching at his ear a little more firmly. He briefly puffs his cheeks out with a big gulp of air before forcing it, along with the worst of his rapidly building panic, out around his clenched teeth and reminds himself that Wynter is tougher than she looks.

It's true enough. Next thing he'd known yesterday, Wynter was back on her feet with a smile and a playful snap of her teeth, Addison was halfway across the practice the space, and he was standing in the middle of everything like an idiot trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

But the fact that it had happened at all is more than enough cause for concern. The recent uptick in Willa's usual aggression and open hostility since arriving in Seabrook proper are about more than just a general distrust of humans and zombies-by-proxy. Werewolves, like anything that comes out the wilderness, are hardwired for survival. They're highly prone to deimatic behaviors and misdirections, hiding injuries, flexing claws when feeling cornered or startled, and just generally trying to come off as being more trouble than they're worth*.

Wynter, despite her loveable fur-ball nature and endearing naivety, is no exception to bone-bred instinct. And, yesterday, smack in the middle of a den full of strangers, she had not been able to hide her weakness.

Wyatt really thought he was standing there, helpless, and watching his friend -his packmate- die.

But she didn't, and she isn't, and standing around dwelling on it is hardly doing her -or anyone else- any good.

Wynter is, unfortunately, merely the latest in an ever-growing string of wolves beginning to show symptoms of a weakening charge in her Moonstone-necklace, and those already stricken with the sickness are getting worse by the day. And it's less predictable than it sounds after a crash course in werewolf biology, especially given their tendency to hide illness until it's truly dilapidating. Not to mention wolves like himself and Willa who are less dependent on their necklaces than most.

It hit the Elders first, makes sense, their necklaces are the oldest and, presumably, the most drained. But there was little rhyme or reason to who got sick or to what degree, and, like any disease, it spread. Then Wynry spooked a bull moose with a coughing fit in middle of a hunt, which ended about as well as one could hope. She's only a few years older than he and Willa are.

It wasn't long before the Elders were completely out of commission, too sick to travel or contribute to the daily needs and well-being their packmates and young. When that happened, the Alpha and Council made a decision. They believed that the yearlings and pups had a better shot without them draining resources and distracting scouts and hunters from the Pack's only chance of survival.

Wyatt doesn't know where they are. Willa might, but he doubts it.

We need to find the Moonstone.

And, whether his sister likes it or not, (And she REALLY doesn't.) Wyatt knows deep in his marrow they need Addison to do that.

(Willa does too, of course; it's why she's fighting it so hard.)

Unfortunately, even in face of his unwavering certainty and bull-headed instance, Addison remains completely, stubbornly human. She has no concept of their struggle or ambiguous-but-definitely-shrinking-timeline, and he and his packmates aren't exactly lining up to explain. Not without Willa's say so, in any case, and she guards their secrets fiercely. Although...if Addison were one of them...but that would require more than just Willa's approval. They'd also need her support. His sister is proud, viciously so, but she will do anything for the Pack, and once Addison proves herself, as Wyatt knows she can...

Ugh, but why would she?

Sure, he can spout off pretty, noble words like Destiny, or Duty, or whatever else he likes, at the end of the day, Addison's trail is her own to follow. She's not a wolf, not yet; their Pack is nothing to her. And even if it is the vile, roiling cesspit his sister claims it to be, (It's not.) Seabrook is her home, its people her Pack, and why should she upend her whole life to beg the right to be their savoir?

They may not need to win over the whole town, but they do need to be more to Addison than just a pack of strays that happened to wander in.

We need to be her friends. We need to her care.

The trouble is that while Addison may have managed to surprise and rally them yesterday with her playful challenge and impress-me-grin, wolves are, by nature, just too aloof and weary to bond or engage with her in the way they need. Participating in the Cheer Ritual had been a huge step in the right direction, but the fact is they don't have time to 'go gently into the forest' so Addison can unwittingly gain their trust.

Willa's attitude certainly isn't doing anybody any favors either, he grumbles to himself. His sister is the Alpha; where she leads the Pack follows. If she's aggressive and mistrustful, so are they.

Which leaves me. And I can't do this by myself!

But he's got one trail in front of him at the moment and no choice but to follow it. This is no different than any other difficult task he's been assigned for the good of the Pack, so he'll just have to put his head down and make it work. First thing's first, he has got to find a way back into Addison's good graces. Fast. Which means he needs to figure out exactly how he fell out of 'em.

"First thing to do when a trail ceases to explain itself is to cast forward without leaving your own confusing foot-marks on the ground*."

How many times had his father gently barked that refrain to his two tired, frustrated pups hours deep into the Forest and hours yet behind the herd? Wyatt still sometimes playfully sing-songs it to his impatient sister, who to this day approaches tracking with all the weaponized restlessness of a bored pup.

He's not...actually sure it's a lesson he can apply it to his current situation in any kind of...tangible...way...Still, sound advice and a happy memory from a time when he was small. When someone he loved and respected was still there to guide his steps.

There is comfort in that, and in the moment that's enough.

Anyway, can't hurt.

A deep breath and blurring boots later, he's standing back in the practice space. The strange, artificial lights cast shadows in ways he doesn't understand, but it's only a few moments before he gets the hang of it.

Keeping careful track of his feet, he crouches low to the curious, too glossy ground and casts his gaze in a slowly widening circle.

There!

It's a single-foot (There is only one person.)* and the tracks are small. The imprint is slightly smeared with the heal and arch pressed deeply into the ground. The toes are spread apart. It's Addison, she runs.*

So does Wyatt. Falling into the familiar, choppy trail-trot his father had taught them all those years ago, he follows Addison mark until, quite suddenly, it halts.

Oho! What's this?

A second trail! Wyatt quickly bounces forward and to the side, landing lightly, well away from the spot the trails intersect. Once again crouching low, he carefully inspects this new foot. The print is bigger, every indent and crevice clearly etched into the ground...Heh, a familiar green-haired nuisance looms contentiously in the entranceway.

Zed's presence yesterday had oozed discontent, and now even the mark he's left behind seems combative and unhappy. Nonetheless Addison's trail is a straight shot, her marks decisive and left with purpose. They halt and sink into the ground barely inches from that single, stationary mark where that perturbed zombie must have stood...watching...? Waiting...? Why was he even here?

Wyatt isn't sure about any of it, but the toes are nearly touching, and that conclusion, at least, is obvious.

She didn't run from me, exactly. More like she ran to him.

"But what does that mean?!"

He growls out loud, mouth twisted into a full blown snarl, complete with golden eyes and a Moonstone bright with power if the familiar ball of heat against his throat is any indication, and...uh, well, you know, that, uh, that actually came out a little...louder than he'd thought it was going to.

He sneaks a glance across the narrow tunnel where a troop of zombies and humans have been gossiping around one of the long, narrow cubbies etched into the metal walls lining the lowest chamber of the School Den since, well, since before Wyatt had slunk in seeking a brief respite from his packmates while he sorted himself out. He'd eavesdropped for a moment or two, slouching back against the glass under the chunky tunnel connecting the upper and lower chambers, but none of their chatter had seemed useful or even interesting, so he's largely been ignoring them.

He notices when it stops, though.

Sure enough, his surreptitious glance is met five wide-eyed, gaping stares. A zombie female practically swallowed in an oversized Cheer Pack letterman with a low ponytail and wide brown eyes made wider and round with shock, gawks at him, evidently frozen mid-story. Wyatt thinks she must talk with her hands from the way her palms are raised up and turned toward each other, fingers curled and spread as if to punctuate the words still sitting silent on her half-open mouth.

It's not that they're...bothering him...exactly, or, actually, doing much of anything, really. But he doesn't like them staring.

So he straightens up to his full height, and makes eye contact with the biggest one -a dark skinned human male sporting a buzz cut, dressed in Seabrook-standard powder blue and kaki- curling his lip with a low, warning, "Uff."

Predictably, they scatter, accompanied by cacophony of "Eeps!" and other various startled squeaking sounds.

Wyatt drops back against the glass, which protests his inelegance with an ominous warning creak!, immediately chastising himself for losing his patience and exacerbating what is probably their most basic problem. Why did he have to react like that? It's not like anyone was bothering him, and he knows from his relatively frequent forays into Seabrook disguised behind a pair of simple wire-rimmed glasses or under a collection hats, if he'd just given it a minuet, it likely would have stayed that way.

It's just that...he is missing...something. Something that is both obvious and important. But all he can see is that...gorgeous mane of white flying out behind her as she runs-

Well, until a vaguely familiar mane of deep, springy, zombie-green catches in his peripheral, that is.

Head cocked thoughtfully to the right, Wyatt pushes himself up away from the glass reluctantly supporting him, and turns to look at her properly.

He's only got her in profile, and yesterday's dark denim jacket has been replaced with a deep green vest, stylishly frayed at the shoulders with a long sleeve in a classic plaid pattern snaking down to her wrist. She's also traded in the stiff looking maroon denim skirt for a softer, loosely pleated one just skimming the tops of her plaid covered her knees. Opposite yesterday's plain design, this one is decorated with asymmetrical tiers of black lace and accented with loops of metal echoing the chains swooping along the sides of her chunky ankle boots.

It's definitely her, though, he recognizes that loose mop of glossy green curls spilling down just past the clunky, geometric statement jewelry still dangling from her ears.

It's that girl from yesterday.

The one with Zed. Not the kid, the girl. And, not that he'd been paying much attention in the moment, but come to think of it, weren't they also together when the Pack, Ah...how did Willa put it...'joined' the school?

Wyatt's never liked coincidences.

More than just a hype-man, -person?- then. Are they friends? How close are they?

More importantly, given Zed's apparent connection to Addison, Does she know her too? Are they friends?

And if...Wyatt can be friends with her friends, then maybe-

He quickly makes his way over, Plan B already half-formed.

8888

She's taller than he'd thought. Petite, sure, but not tiny like she'd seemed the day before.

Comes from not being flanked by six-foot behemoths, he supposes dryly, pausing about a step behind and to her right, allowing himself a calming breath and one final moment of recon before making his move.

Now that he's here, he can see her first-glance plain seeming vest is actually adorned with an assortment of colored pins arranged in a floral pattern done up across the back. It's delicate and intricate, and he wonders if she's done it herself. Makes a mental note.

Could be a good talking point.

And up close he realizes her ponytail is actually quite neat. He likes her glossy green curls, softer and looser than his sister's coarse, unruly coils, all piled up in a crown at the top of her head and tumbling down just past her chin. It isn't mop-like at all, and just about the right height-

"Wh-Hey!"

...Whoa.

Her face is small and round, tapering off into a sharply angled chin, and set with a strong nose and high cheekbones. Dark, expressive eyes, made darker with obvious ire, narrow below angry, slanting brows following the harsh line of her mouth, twisted downward in scandalized fury.

And all of it framed by the subdued wildness of those glossy, moss-colored curls.

It isn't that Wyatt is surprised, exactly, he'd known the petite zombie in front of him is cute. Distinctly recalls, in fact, his thoughts briefly drifting down that vein for a moment or two the day before when three zombies had crashed the Pack's after-school rendezvous outside that café. But the moment had been a busy one, and, to be honest, she had not been its focal point.

Well, now she's got his undivided attention.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Uh...that's a...good question. What is he doing again?

Uh! Yes! Right!

He snaps back to the moment with a wide smile that prominently displays his fangs, which he knows are sharp and straight*, "You smell nice."

It's not empty flattery. It can be a difficult thing to describe sometimes, even amongst other werewolves, but it's like...Addison is sweet and idealistic, and, well, she smells like it. Bright and soft, with heavy floral notes, like wildflowers and honey.

But the girl in front of him smolders. Harsh but warm, like spice and smoke, rounded off with something...something. It's familiar but not. Deep and not exactly metallic...

Heat, his mind supplies distractedly, like the air around a fire*.

"Yeah, well, so do you," she snaps back, aggressively smoothing her hair and tightening her ponytail as if the slightest lock out of place is a direct insult and his fault. "But you don't see me shoving my nose into your hair."

So, obviously, she utterly fails to grasp the magnitude of the compliment she's just received and (Inadvertently) given, but it stokes his ego nonetheless. His smile broadens with a brightly yipped, "Thanks!"

"...Uh huh," she drawls uncertainly, one arm crossing over herself to grip the bag strap slung over her shoulder with both hands, somehow still managing to seem imposing even as she shrinks back against the pink and green wall of metal behind her.

Clearly...not the reaction she'd been going for.

Okay, take two, "...We, uh, we met yesterday."

"If you wanna call it that," she coos sarcastically around a cold undertone of false cheerfulness.

Wyatt lets out low, gravely chuckle, I, he realizes all at once, am going to like this girl.

That's good. He can use that. A role is, after all, always easier to play when it's not completely a role.

"I'm Wyatt," he smiles, quickly tweaking his posture.

One does not achieve the rank of Pack Beta without a certain...predisposition toward prepotency, and Wyatt is more than capable of matching his sister tooth for claw should the occasion call for it. By nature, though, he's a much more docile and passive personality type. He is suited to the position and effective in his role. Right-hand to the head.

He thinks that will work in his favor now.

So, a quick narrowing of his stance here, slight lowering of his shoulders there, drop his eyes just a smidge to the right, nothing overt, just enough to make him seem, well, if not exactly meek, definitely the tamer side of wild.

He doubts it really hits anything beyond her subconscious, but does manage to draw a flat, "I know*," beneath a stiff, unfriendly smile, her own body language loosening somewhat in response. She even gives him her back, turning to pop open the narrow, pink cubby behind her with practiced ease as if to underscore just how unimpressive she finds him.

Success!

88888888

NOTES

Okay, so this mostly background with not much actually happening, but this chapter was getting pretty cumbersome and has already take WAY too long, so it's getting broken up into two.

1) I don't really understand some of the directions this movie took, and some of the werewolf behaviors just make no sense. Parts of it can be explained by remembering they are a bunch of kids making adult decisions, but I mean, c'mon. Stealth mission, only to very publicly reveal themselves the first hour in, rebuff any attempts, however clumsy, at friendship, and actively terrorize their peers, then whine and complain when they're seen as monsters. They also make the very pointed decision to not reveal the existence, let alone significance, of the Moonstone, but it's Seabrook's fault when it accidentally gets blown up. They're sixteen, not six.

Also, I'm really trying play-up the concept that the wolves are absolutely NOT 'fighting for who they are'. It's survival, and Movie doesn't even try to pretend otherwise until it reaches Zed's Life-lessons Corner. But more on that in the next chapter.

2) From The Jungle Book: The King's Ankus. I feel like the longer I continue this story, the more Jungle Book references there will be. You know what, if you see something that seems kind of familiar just assume it came from The Jungle Book.

3) I know there are a lot of problems with this scenario. Addison's wearing shoes for one, flooring doesn't hold prints blah blah blah; it's just a metaphor he's using to work through the problem, and it's all in his head anyway. Don't think about this stuff as much as I do.

4) Plasma and ozone is what Wyatt is trying to describe; that scent you get with working with very hot flame. One of my personal pet-peeves about sequels in general is their tendency to over-simplify the original characters to make the new ones stand out. Eliza's got a little bit of a short stick in this movie, not as much as Bucky, but still. She's always been portrayed as a tech genius, but she's also driven and passionate and Movie downplays it a lot to make room for Zed's shortcomings and conflict with the wolves. She also builds things; electronics, machines. That's soldering tools at least, probably welding. In the first movie, she's visibly uncomfortable with just word 'fire', which means she overcomes a deep-seated fear every time she makes something. I mean, think about that!