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Teen Wolfish

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Okay, here we go. A five paragraph essay on one of the major themes from Of Mice and Humans. Was “stereotyping” one? What was that word she used? Ah. Prejudice.

Scott McCall smiled as he closed the word document and opened a window to the world wide web. In the Google box, he typed “prejudice Of Mice and Humans” he then spent the next few minutes copying and pasting the opinions and ideas of others. He was not plagiarizing. He would rewrite everything in his own words. He just didn’t want to take the time to come up with his own ideas and opinions. The internet can be quite helpful like that.

After a half a page of small sized font words filled with enough information for him to slap together the minimum of twenty-five sentences of his own creation, he saved and closed everything. That was enough homework for one night. After all, today is Wednesday, and the paper isn’t due until Friday. Plenty of time.

He sauntered over to his bed, only to remember that his tv is still broken. The saunter turned into a lumber until he laid all the way down on his bed, his boredom sinking down with him. He had two choices, to stay and do nothing, or to make the journey all the way downstairs to the living room’s TV. What to do? Well, there probably wasn’t anything good on anyway. And of course there was always option C. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the contact to a well used number.

“WASSSS-UP?” He greeted.

“Dude, not now.” His best friend said.

“What’s up?”

“Shhh... okay, so there’s been another Werewolf sighting, and I just got the location through my Dad’s line. This is serious. This is not a prank. You know what, I’ll pick you up in five.”

“You’re the best.” Scott sat up, feeling quite energized now. A Werewolf sighting of all things. Sure, he has always dreamed of such a thing, what boy hasn’t? In fact, it was the only thing he liked about living in a small town surrounded by woods and wide open spaces of nothingness and the occasional horse ranch. He thought he had met a vampire once, but he turned out to be just a really pale guy with a biting fetish. It had led to one of many jokes about Scott really being an EH (Enhanced Human) and that he had the innate and enhanced ability to attract homosexuals, even the creepy ones.

He knew it was more than a little moronic to be galavanting through the woods to get a peek at a person with the potential to rip his throat out. However, Scott, and many other around the world, held the belief that Werewolves were just a deeply misunderstood variety of humankind; that their bark was literally worse than their bite. Though there was that myth that their bite actually enabled, generated, or passed on the genetic code for the enhancement. Making it the only type of EH that CAN be passed on in non biological (sexy times) ways.

Scott’s phone rang again. It was Stiles, his best and only friend. Stiles was an EH. A pretty common one too. Scott always found it funny whenever Mr. Stillinski would call his, genetically altered with high intelligence, son an idiot. Because nine times out of ten, it was true; they do some really dumb stuff together.

Tonight would not be one of them. Scott could hear the disappointment in his friends voice before his mind put the words together in a comprehensible sentence. It was a false alarm. The “werewolf” was nothing more than a big normal, with not once ounce of human DNA, dog. A big one, but still just a wild, lost, tramp of a dog. Scott ended the phone call feeling even worse than before. He had been all pumped up and primed for adventure, only for the chance to slip away do to an unfortunate Fido sighting. Honestly, who would even let their dogs out in a fenced in yard, at night, when real rumors of Werewolves existed? Not that he had ever heard of any wolf person on dog violence before.

With the effects from the adrenaline rush still in his system, Scott pulled on his red zip hoodie and the black shoes that his mother made him buy as a bargain outlet store (in which he rebelled by only wearing them occasionally, at night... in his defense they squish his toes) and headed downstairs. Thankfully, his mom had the night shift. He had no idea what excuse he would of had to make up to get out of the house. Once the crisp air of an autumn night hit his face, he picked a direction and went for it. Perhaps a walk around the block would do him well. The full moon made everything easy to see. It also made Scott think about the Werewolf he wouldn’t be seeing tonight. Even with a full moon, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he would have a safe and werewolf-free walk. His life is simply never that exciting.

Ah, but what was this, who was that? There was someone walking up ahead and across the street from Scott. He could only make out their hooded outline. Whoever it was, he or she, most likely a he, was huge. Not bulky, just gigantic in a tall sense. The person stopped and glanced back. Scott also stopped. The man, who was indeed in a green hoodie and dark colored pants may have been looking at him, or the ground in front of him, or at the lamppost over to the right. Or maybe, just maybe, he was looking at whatever made that... angry dog sound that came from behind Scott. Oh please, please be the wayward Fido.

Scott’s eyes moved more than his head did. He didn’t even get a good look at what was behind him, the man or boy or teenager ahead of him began to run and whatever was behind Scott ran passed him and after the boy. The kid only made it a few paces before being violently tackled to the ground as what Scott could only guess was a large, angry dog or perhaps a small bear in a leather jacket. The man bear pounced on the guy’s back, and then, with his arm in his mouth, started dragging him down the street. It all happened so fast that the attacker/victim pair was already halfway down the street by the time the young man started screaming. They had rounded the corner by the time Scott was running after them.

Stiles likes to claim that Scott has a hero complex. It might have started with the squirrel that was stuck in the tree. And Yes, Scott knows squirrels are suppose to be in trees, but this one was so small and it keep attempting to climb down. And there was that time that Stiles got stuck in a tree. Instead of calling for help, like he should have done, Scott spent an hour trying to get his friend down with various stacks of books, and pots, ropes made of bed sheets and curtains, until finally climbing up the tree himself to rescue his friend. This only led to having both boys stuck in the tree.

There was no squirrel or tree or Stiles, but Scott felt himself running, trying to answer the desperate young man’s cries for help. When he rounded the corner, he wished he had picked different shoes, his toes screamed at him, and he couldn’t hear any real screams any longer or see any movement. There was no way a dog dragging a grown young man could run that fast. He must have gone behind one of the houses. Still, he should be able to hear the man at least. Scott’s eyes strained in the darkness and when he looked back the other way, he almost ran into somebody.

“Ah!” His scream didn’t even startle the other man.

“Good evening, I’m Peter, what’s your name?” Had he just imagined a guy screaming and getting dragged away from a ferocious man shaped dog? Did he just sprint down the street for nothing?

“Huh..I - I’m Scott, did you see-”

“Well, Scott, don’t you think it’s a little late to be running outside?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, who knows what kinds of things could be lurking or running around on a night like this.”

“Like this?” Who says Styles is the only one who can eloquently hold a conversation. Scott may not be positive of what he may or may not have seen, but he knew that he needed to take a few steps away from this man. Best case scenario, he had just run into another creepy gay man. Tis his life.

“Like this.” The man smiled. But it wasn’t his mouth that Scott was drawn to, not yet. It was his eyes, his glowing, red eyes. Then he noticed, with the help of the moonlight, the white, bright, sharp teeth. No, not teeth, fangs.

For all the thinking Scott had done on the subject previously, he mind wasn’t able to piece together the word “werewolf” for the being in front of him until he felt a sharp pain in his side, and darkness overtook his everything. Oh god, he was dying, being killed to be exact.

Oh light, light, fangs, WEREWOLF!

Scott sprang up into a sitting position and clutched his side. Then he lifted his shirt. There was nothing. There were no... bite marks. Had it been a dream? It would explain why he’s waking up in his bed and not on the sidewalk down the street, bleeding out onto the concrete. But it had felt so real. When had he fallen asleep? And more importantly, since when did he fall asleep with his shoes on? Even more importantly, there may not be blood on his body, but that sure as hell wasn’t a ketchup stain on his shirt. So what, what the hell just happened to him!

His first, second, and every proceeding thought after that, as he made his way to school that day via his bike, was really just a word. And the word wasn’t “doggy”. He hadn’t been bitten by a dog. He hadn’t been bitten and miraculously healed overnight from a dog bite. He had read about it in his history book, under the topic of controversial consequences of the human genetics revolution. He couldn’t remember the whole story, but a Dr. Insane Dude thought of mixing wolf DNA strands with humans in order to gain some of the canine’s keener qualities. What he got was a bunch of mass murderers with deadly abilities mixed with kinder people being stigmatized as monsters. Hence the creation of anti and pro wolf person organizations. He was a member of the latter. Or at least, he planned to be once he was old enough to vote.

Heck, they may let him in early since he may already be a-

“Werewolf.” Said a familiar voice suddenly next to him. The voice of his best friend.

“Huh?”

“And we missed it. Last night, there were more sightings after the false one. This one had like a whole pack, like four of them all running together in our neighborhood. Down our streets. Can you believe it?”

“No,” Wait, was he really planning on not telling his best friend? “I mean yeah, I do, I was there.”

“Say what?”

“I was there, except we weren’t running, well, we were, but it was more like chasing, well I was really running after the guy who was being chased, and then he was being dragged, and that’s when I started with the running, but then when I got to the corner -”

“Before class starts, Scott, I didn’t take my meds today.”

“I ran into a guy that bit me.” Scott pulled up his shirt. Stiles tilted his body sideways for a closer look.

“You’re an asshole. Though I am impressed by your creativity. May want to brush up on your story telling though, it was a bit choppy.”

“I’m not making this up, he bit me and now the mark’s gone, but there was blood on my shirt.”

“Scott, give it up, I’m not buying it, at most, you got bit by a creepy pervert, which isn’t that weird for you, it was late last night, right?” Stiles had lost his patience with the story and with standing in one area, in general, so he started to head towards their classroom.

“A pervert with red eyes?” That stopped him. That turned him. Now Scott had every bit of his best friend’s attention.

“Trick of the light?”

“What light, it was at night. And he had sharp, I mean sharp teeth.” Scott would know, he felt them break into his skin, his body.

“Dental issues.”

“And you know I’m telling the truth, you’re getting excited. Your heart is speeding up, I can hear it. I can hear everything.”

“Oh really, then what’s going on in the girls’ locker room?” Someone slammed a locker and Scott flinched.

“What?”

“Locker slammed.”

“Where?”

“The hallway below us.”

“Dude... you’re a werewolf!” And Stiles couldn’t look more ecstatic at this fact.

“I told you.”

“I know. We need to test this out.”

“What, no. How?”

“Give me a minute.” While Scott watched his friend think, feeling better already for having someone to go through this craziness with, his ears picked up on another conversation nearby. His eyes caught it first. He will always take notice of Allison Argent. She’s the moon in his sky, the howl in his heart. What the hell kind of metaphors were these? Must be a wolf thing. And did Allison just say “wolf”?

“...great the wolves are back. You know, he isn’t going to let us anywhere near an actual fight with one.” Lydia Martin, all pretty hair and skimpy dress, was talking like she plucks food out of her teeth with daggers.

“Who says he’d know about it?” Allison, the star of many of Scott’s fantasies, was also taking on a frightening tone.

“I’m listening.”

“We both know there’s only one place they would go.” Scott found himself mouthing it at the same time Allison and Lydia said it.

Hale House.

Ah yes, Hale House. About a decade back, there was a real wolf hunt in Beacon Hills. And at the center of the drama was the Hale family. There were rumors of howls coming from the house, weird camera flares whenever there was flash photography, the kind that only affected the eyes of a Hale member, and kids from that family who would scrap their knees at school, only to be perfectly fine by the time they would reach the nurse’s office. Still, under the Enhanced Humans Equal Rights Act (EHERA), even if they were found to be Werewolves or “Wolf People”, as long as they harmed no one, no harm or jail time would come to them. But it did. One day, a great fire broke out at Hale house, killing everyone inside, every member of the family. At least, that’s what everyone believes, since no Hale has ever been heard from since.

After that, children, including Stiles and Scott, would be dared to get close to the house that once housed the notorious family. Scott made it up to the front step once, but then he needed his inhaler and had to back out. Oh yeah, his inhaler, did he remember to pack that?

About a year ago, all daring games had to come to an end. A Mr. Peter Heart wound up buying the property and rebuilding the house. These days, it looks almost as good as it used to. And there really hasn’t been any noteworthy news about that house or it’s past occupants since.

Scott told Stiles what he had heard between Allison and Lydia through notes during their first class. Stiles refused to believe that his beloved Lydia would be involved with something as illegal as werewolf hunting. He was being really difficult today. Even the mention of Hale House didn’t seem to deter his resolve. Scott tried to hear more of anything Allison had to say, but she seemed to be done with talking about hunting or werewolves for now. She would, however, be rooting for Jackson Whittemore at the Lacrosse tryouts today. This day was just getting more and more aggravating.

He felt like punching someone, anyone, by lunch. Preferably Stiles, who kept trying to get him to listen in on various people’s conversations.

“No, I think I’m getting a headache.”

“But haven’t you always wanted to know what teachers-”

“Stiles!”

“Okay- dude... your eyes.”

“What about them?”

“T-their, ya know, yellow.” Scott could feel his whole body getting warmer as his ears were assaulted with more noise and smells, all that food, at once. Much too much. He jumped to stand and Stiles jerked back in his chair, unsure and a little frightened of how his friend was behaving. What Scott wanted to do was run. The thought crossed his mind, but a large chocolate colored hand ceased all movement. That large hand belonged to a larger arm, which belonged to an even larger man. Someone has been eating his Wheaties since infancy, and that someone was Boyd the Bully. Boyd is his last name and no one dares to call him by his first name. He lost a lot of weight over the summer and yet his new, healthier size still sent fear in his peers and their lunch money in his hands. His fingers dug into Scott’s shoulder. Scott also picked up on the strong smell of dirt and sweat and... wet fur? and oranges coming off of Boyd’s person in waves.

Up to that point Scott could feel his anger raising, his energy level raising, and the need to lash out at any wrong word or action he witnessed. But once he felt Boyd’s fingers painfully digging into his shoulder to the point where he was sure there were layers of skin cells being sliced through, his anger vanished. It was the opposite of what he was expecting. He felt some panic mixed in with the usual amount of fear, which comes with an encounter with Boyd, creep into his system. In short, he felt like himself again, and it didn’t feel good.

“You seem a little agitated, McCall.”

“Which could never be brought on by such a commanding presence like yourself.” Scott didn’t have the balls to make a statement like that. How Stiles still had his, why Boyd hadn’t ripped them away by now, was anyone’s guess. And just when Scott didn’t think this day could get any stranger...

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Scott. Not anymore.” That happened. Maybe with his new fat-less figure, Boyd was trying out new ways to scare the shit out of people. Reverse Intimidation: the new bully speak.

“Okay... T-thanks, Boyd.” Stiles looked just as confused as Scott felt. So he wasn’t going crazy, someone else was witnessing this for the strangeness that it was.

“Don’t thank me.” Boyd let go of Scott’s shoulder and walked away. He lumbered back to his table, which a year ago he had to himself, which he now shared with the haggard turned hottie, Erica Reyes. That’s a whole new level of strangeness that Scott didn’t want to think about. He looked to Stiles for answers.

“I got nothing.” Was his answer.

“That’s a first.”

“At least your eyes are back to normal.”

“Are they?”

“Maybe Boyd calms the werewolf in you. Maybe you should ask him for his school picture, a memento, to help in the future.” Scott blocked out the more foolish parts of what Stiles was saying. It’s a listening skill that has taken years to perfect.

“I didn’t feel calm... wait, so this means you believe me?” May be trippy dreams and crazy sounds and feelings aside, were they seriously going to consider the option that he has been turned into a werewolf?

“Where have you been, I’ve been believing you for like half the day already.” There was a minute pause where the words of his friend sunk in between them. In a moment, he had gone from, you think you are, you might be, to, you are. He was a werewolf. Nope, still didn’t sound real. Stiles then went to babbling on all the ways they should test it. There was a battery of tests given to EHs with the high intelligence strand, there had to be similar tests for all other types, even the illegally made, slightly rejected by the masses and somewhat, okay, the very obsessively loved by the minorities of the populace, ones. Though all Stiles could come up with for the moment was attacking his best friend with a silver spoon.

Isaac Lahey wasn’t in Chemistry class. He usually isn’t in chemistry class, but for some reason Scott’s new genetically enhanced, bite enabled ears picked up on that name, on that empty space, and it felt, important, like he should know something about it. Like he did know something about it and he just hasn’t remembered yet. After lunch, Stiles had dashed to the library to pick up books he thought may help with Scott’s newfound “condition”. So he missed the Isaac conundrum. He came in as Mr. Harris started writing on the chalkboard. Scott wondered when his school would upgrade the tech to dry erase white boards. Those things look so cool on TV. More students would probably volunteer to go up to such a board, when asked.

Stiles threw a note at his desk. He would have just leaned over and started whispering like he usually does, but he wanted to delay Mr. Harris’s acknowledgment of his presence, followed by his unkind greeting slash hello threat. His note to Scott said he had found a few books that look promising. Scott wrote back a question. He wanted to know what Isaac Lahey was wearing yesterday. If anyone would remember something as random as what the tall lanky, quiet student who only shows up to class half the time and, even with his large figure, has the presence of plain patterned wallpaper (stripes for instance), it would be Stiles, observation extraordinaire, who also has the ability to be distracted and temporally fascinated by just about anything.

“Why?” Evidently, the note portion of their conversation was over.

“Do you remember?”

“He wore a dark green pullover hoodie with lace ties, ones he kept chewing on. He also wore dark wash jeans and his usual stained white shoes, converse style.”

“What was I wearing?” Scott added out of curiosity. Stiles huffed out air. Now was not the time to focus on and play with his EH abilities, not when Scott’s new DNA essentially made him into a hairy ninja with super healing powers. How does a photographic, audio-graphic and just about every way in which one can absorb information, type of memory or recollection skill compare to that? It’s like comparing Superman to Bill Nye the Science Guy. Which he legally isn’t suppose to be referred to as anymore, but realistically generations of people need to die before that will ever happen. Wait, what was he thinking... oh yeah, clothes.

“Really, that’s what you want to talk-”

“As pleased as I am to have you join us, Mr. Stillinski, do you think you could possible shut that obnoxiously babbling thing under your nose.” And there’s the greeting.

“I can try, but I truly believe that if a booger is speaking to you, you should let it speak.”

“Well then, if you like talking about vile substances, than I can’t wait to hear what you will have to say about your experience of cleaning the snake and tarantula cages later at three.” And there’s the detention. Scott thought that it was nice to know that even on days where your very DNA is altered and the attitudes of those around you have shifted, some things never change.

Another thing that didn’t change was the plan to go to lacrosse tryouts. It’s really more of a team position tryout, than a, get on the team, tryout, since with a school as small as theirs, it’s always been the rule that if you want to be on the team, you are. Scott and Stiles were on the team last year. They basically got benched even for practices, since they didn’t present a formidable enough challenge for the teammates who actually got to play.

This year would be different though. Scott could feel it. He would get off that bench, he would get on first sting, heck, he’d make captain. He could actually see it happening. Like when you try to think of an answer to a question on a test, and it looks just like one that was on a homework paper and once you recognize it you can see the answer even before comprehending what it is being asked or what the answer means. It’s a good feeling.

“McCall! Either pick up a stick or get off the field, I’ve seen turtles hustle faster than you. And do you know what turtles are known for?” Coach Finstock yelled as he charged towards Scott.

“Being slow?” The coach didn’t like it when you answered correctly or jumped the gun during his critically constructive speeches.

“So I suggest you speed the hell up, unless you want to play lacrosse with the turtles!” This is a man who probably shouldn’t be teaching, but because the students find him so entertaining, they not only hold him in high esteem- which is reflected in teacher evaluations, but students also tend to do well in his classes as a result. Which is how a guy, who probably shouldn’t be a teacher, is holding three teaching positions at Beacon Hills High School.

Along with feeling slightly humiliated, Scott began to feel something else, something off, something that made him uneasy. This wasn’t internal, which was currently shifting to slight aggravation, it also wasn’t new. It was a common, run of the mill, I’m being watched, feeling. But it felt sharper, more urgent, and more sinister than when you meet the eyes of a fellow classmate down the hall. He is being watched. Someone is watching him, where, where, need to find, need to find, familiar, dangerous, need, THERE.

Has he mentioned that Beacon Hills is a small town surrounded by, really engulfed with, woods. In fact, the school is planted in the center of a large cluster of it. It’s the type of school you’d see in horror films. Of course, in film, the band of sexually charged rat pack of adolescents won’t get any phone service and the only way to escape the school and the chain saw wielding mass murderer is to run for it. But with a school in the middle of nowhere, all but one will die before they get anywhere near the rest of town. And the survivor will be that super smart virgin one that knows how to make fire bombs from the supplies in the chemistry classroom. And that person can kill the murderer. The flames will send the cops over. Does Stiles know how to make fire bombs?

It was a fantasy Scott has played with before, so when he saw the stranger staring out from the edge of the forest, staring at him, his mind only supplied the word “fire bombs”. The next word was “leather jacket.” That same knowing feeling he had about being a lacrosse captain came back, but it didn’t feel nearly as good. It was quite horrific. He knew. He knew he was staring at the guy who had attacked Isaac Lahey. He knew that the guy who attacked Isaac Lahey was staring at him.

“McCall!” Instantly, Scott looked to the source to his name being called, his coach. Then he looked right back to that same spot in the woods. It had to have taken less than a second. In less than a second, that man had disappeared.

The only way Scott got through tryouts was by assuring himself he could always be going insane. That way there really wouldn’t be a vicious man stalking him. And after Jackson Whittemore slammed him to the ground for the third time, and he felt him return the favor in just, it only looked like he went further and higher, and Jackson slammed back to the ground. The whole knockdown was like some action movie stunt and not something Scott was physically capable of doing. At least he hadn’t been that strong yesterday. Or any day before that.

By the time he got home at 3:15 PM, he had almost forgotten about the strange man or Isaac Lahey or Boyd and that weird conversation or that Stiles had said he would be coming over with some utensils later (after his detention). His mind was filled with his new co-captain status, and the fact the Allison had started to cheer HIM on towards the end of practice. How great it had felt to see Jackson so angry, he could practically taste the jealously.

The memories he would rather forget came crashing back as soon as he entered his bedroom. If he hadn’t seen him, he would still smell the dirt and sweat and wet fur and... gasoline? that would alert him to the intruder in his room. The man, from the woods, walking towards him, also told him that.

Scott instinctually backed up, his body closing the door behind him. That’s right, close your only means to escape, that’ll ease your troubles. The man moved right into his personal space and closer. Scott held up his hand and closed his eyes, waiting for the attack.

Nothing happened.

Scott opened one eye, than both. The man, and he was definitely a man, the even amount of finely trimmed facial hair, the gelled back hair, his hazel green eyes, not red, also decreased the intimidation or scare factor a bit. Just as Scott felt his body relax the man grabbed onto his shirt.

“Come with me.” If he could even think to scream, he would have as the man’s eyes suddenly glowed red. One arm joined another and Scott was half carried, half dragged from his room, out of his house and pushed roughly into a car. He would have fought his way to the other side and out of the car, to home, to freedom, but Boyd was also sitting in the back seat of the car. And he was smiling pleasantly at him. He was stunned into inaction. Finally, he was able to think again and his thoughts had words attached to them.

“What the hell is going on!” is what his brain had cooked up.

“Relax, it’ll all make sense shortly.” The man grunted out. Scott highly doubted that. He highly doubted anything that was going to happen next would make any more sense than what has happened so far.

He was inclined to feel correct when they pulled up in front of the Hale House. In fact, he was certain it was all about to get a whole lot more confusing.