Scott McCall (weredope) wrote in silenstumulosus, @ 2015-08-30 10:32:00 |
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Trigger warning in this one for very disturbing violence. Sorry!
Scott's on his bike at a stop sign, it's night and the road is deserted, so when his phone rings he glances at it and then answers without moving off the road. His end of the conversation is the only one audible and his voice and the rumble of the dirtbike's engine sound startlingly loud in the quiet of the abandoned road.
“Stiles? Yeah, I'm on my way over. Dude, no, I'm on my bike...well I don't think a car was going to stop the League of Assassins which...we need a better name for...yeah, okay I'll be there in like five---oh crap, no, I have to stop by the school. Because I forgot my history book and if I fail this midterm we won't have to worry about assassins, because my mom will murder me? Stiles, I don't think anyone is lurking at the school on the off chance a werewolf shows up in the middle of the night to get their history book. I'll be fine. The high school is not cursed at night. Can you even curse things just at night? I'm hanging up now.”
He shakes his head and slides his phone back into his pocket, then turns his bike right towards the school and drives off.
A moment later a black car pulls up to the same stop sign and follows Scott's route, the engine completely silent.
---
The next scene fades in to show the hallway of the high school, abandoned except for Scott who's looking a little nervous despite himself as he spins the combination on his locker. He jumps suddenly and whirls around...only to see a man in a janitor's uniform giving him an amused look as he waves, keys in hand, and heads for the doors.
“Yeah, terrifying janitor assassins. Mopping you to death. Good job, Scott,” he whispers to himself, forcing a smile and turning back to his locker. He grabs his history book, then leans down to stuff it into his backpack, shoving papers aside to make room. When he raises his hand to the back of his neck at a sudden pinprick it's almost an absent motion, as if he's assuming a mosquito or a random itch. He frowns when his hand encounters something that he grabs in his fist and brings around to his face. There's just enough time for him to see the dart, to register what it probably means and widen his eyes in alarm, before he collapses to the floor, motionless, but with his eyes still open and breath coming fast.
Footsteps sound from down the hall, and a man walks unhurriedly over to kneel down next to Scott's body. He's completely unremarkable, any man in his forties that you'd pass on the street with sandy brown hair cut short and a calm demeanor. Maybe fitter than most, but dressed casually in khakis and a pullover that would have made him look more at home wandering around the aisles of Target after his wife than kneeling in the hallway beside a teenager he'd just shot, retrieving a dart and placing it into a plastic bag. The only thing that really sets him apart is the calm with which he takes out his blow gun, removing a tube of fluid labeled kanima venom in bold letters and replacing the gun and tube in a black metal case. He turns Scott over with the same calm, ignoring his attempts at speaking as he tilts his head back and opens his mouth carefully, holding it open as he reaches into a duffle bag and comes up with a new pack of tube socks, removing one and rolling it up before stuffing it into the teenager's mouth and securing the gag with duct tape.
He's humming quietly as he takes out a stopwatch and sets a timer for twenty minutes before raising his eyebrows at Scott,
“True alpha? Maybe give it fifteen for the venom,” the mutters to himself, before changing the time and setting the watch on the ground. Scott's trying to howl against the gag, but he can't get enough air and he's forced to lie still and mostly silent as the man opens his duffle bag, pulling out a roll of tarp that he unfurls and tapes up vertically against the lockers with the same ducttape he'd used for the gag. Unrolled, it's long enough to cover a couple feet of floor too, and when he's smoothed it down the man picks Scott up with a slight grunt of effort and moves him so that he's in the center of the plastic sheeting, sitting up and facing him, head leaning limply against the sheeting covering the lockers.
The timer reaches ten minutes as the man reaches into his duffle bag and brings out a roll of garbage bags and then, one by one, a series of medical saws. A long curved one with small teeth, a saw with a holster like a gun and a precision blade, and a circular saw that he holds up and starts, the blade whirring a few inches from Scott's face as the teenager's breathing picks up and the smaller muscles in his arms begin to twitch with useless effort. The man ignores him, shutting off the saw and reaching into his pocket for his phone instead to make a call.
“Hey, it's me. Yeah, he's dropped, just prepping to shoot him and bag him. Listen, you said this kid's fingerprints were on file, right? Not criminal, some kind of register your kid in case they get kidnapped thing? You think proof of death would be good with a finger if we could run it through somewhere? I hate dragging heads around. What? Yeah, I know. I know it's not public record, but if someone could make a deadpool like that I think they could hack...yeah, okay. Fine. Yeah, I'll bring the head. I've got like seven minutes of venom left, I have to get on with this. See you back home.”
He starts humming again as he cups Scott's face between his palms, carefully arranging him so that he's facing completely forward, giving the best possible angle. There's nothing personal about the touch, no hatred or anger, not even discomfort. It's like Scott is already dead, or not even dead-- never alive at all, a mannequin he's preparing for a store window. When he seems satisfied he stands up and backs away a few paces. The timer says five minutes. He draws a gun and raises it, steadying his aim for a shot right between Scott's eyes and--
“HEY!” Stiles smashes into him from the side, frantic and uncoordinated, half with his body and half with the metal baseball bat he's carrying. The man falls to the ground, crying out in surprise, and Stiles kicks his gun away, into the shadows of the darkened hallway. Then there's a moment where Stiles hesitates. Maybe it's that he doesn't know Scott is paralyzed, expects his best friend to leap to his feet now that there's no gun pointed at him, or his instinct is to move towards his friend first, to check on him, or maybe it's just that after the nogitsune he doesn't have the stomach to beat someone with a baseball bat without at least a few seconds of hesitation. Whatever the reason, it's all the assassin needs, and he kicks out, knocking Stiles off his feet and wresting the baseball bat from his hands. Scott shouts against the gag as his best friend's eyes go wide and he raises his arms defensively, as the man gets to his feet and smiles, the calm wiped away from his expression and something hard and cruel and focused in his eyes.
“Bad idea, kid,” he whispers. Then he brings the bat down, hard, on Stiles' legs. There's a sharp crack and Stiles cries out in pain. The stopwatch has three minutes left.
The shot cuts to Scott's horrified face, his eyes red, the cords in his neck standing out. He must be screaming against the gag, but he's drowned out completely by his best friend. The camera stays tight on Scott as Stiles screams, surprised then agonized. A few drops of blood splatter against Scott's face and the muscles in his cheeks and jaw flutter frantically under his skin. Stiles stops screaming, but the noises of the attack don't slow, the thud of the bat coming down on flesh sound again and again as Scott twitches his paralyzed muscles desperately.
Then, suddenly, the camera pulls back again as Scott's left hand jumps like it's just been held to a hot stove. He roars against the gag and forces his hand out out far enough to dig his claws into the assassin's calf. The man drops the bat, tries to turn, but Scott yanks back sharply and brings him down as hard as he can. The assassin hits his head on the lockers going down and lies still and for a moment they're frozen like that, Scott slumped against the lockers between the bodies of his best friend and the man who almost killed him.
Another second and he manages to peel off the gag, to fumble his phone out of his pocket and, shaking and cursing, dial 911 to gasp out a call for help.
When they say they're sending an ambulance he tips himself forward and crawls on his stomach, forcing himself towards Stiles inch by inch until he's close enough to grab his friend's ankle.
“Stiles?” he chokes out as his veins turn black, “Stiles?”
---
In the hospital waiting room a doctor walks through the doors, pulling the Sheriff aside as Scott and Malia raise their heads to listen.
“We've had to put your son into a medically induced coma. The swelling in his brain was reaching dangerous levels. We expect to be able to bring him out of it in a week, after surgery. With someone young and healthy the chances--”
Scott gets out of his chair and heads for the front doors, only stopping when Lydia grabs his arm.
“I have to...he'll need things...from home. His dad won't want to leave so...”
It's a testament to how upset Lydia is that she believes him, settles for a hug that he returns fiercely before letting him walk out the doors.
---
He's on his bike again, at an intersection. When he raises his hands to grip the handlebars they're illuminated sharply under a streetlight and there's dried blood visible on his palm's and knuckles. One hand from bringing down the assassin, one hand from grabbing Stiles' ankle to take his pain.
“Shit,” he whispers, then he's off his bike and vomiting on the side of the road. When he gets back to his feet he takes out his phone and opens his texts, hesitating for a moment before scrolling down to the list, to his name on it, the huge sum of money (more than all the others combined), to the note that says pursuit outside of Beacon Hills is authorized.
When he gets back to his bike he wrenches it to the right without hesitation, speeding through the night, past a sign, Now Leaving Beacon Hills.
---
It's days later and Scott is crouched in an alley, talking into what's obviously a cheap tracfone bought on the road.
“Hey, how's he doing today? You said yesterday they were going to...they did? When? How long has he been awake?” he slumps against the wall and exhales deeply in relief at the answer he must be receiving on the other end of the line. “They're sure he'll be okay? No brain damage or...they're sure?” He moves the phone away from his ear for a moment, running his hand over his face and pulling himself together for a moment before he brings it back to speak again. “Thank you. Seriously, I know I asked a lot but...thank you. Everyone else is okay? No one coming after you guys?”
Scott's side of the conversation goes on for another minute or so, checking in on everyone, reassuring the person on the other end that he's fine, circling back again every few moments to ask about Stiles, obviously a little freaked out by not being able to see that he's okay for himself. He's also looking more furtive moment by moment, clearly unnerved by being in the same place too long, his gaze darting repeatedly to the mouth of the alley. Eventually the nervousness seems to win out and he cuts in again with,
“I have to go I...I have to get rid of this phone, and I won't be able to call again. Just...look out for them, okay? And don't tell him I called, okay? You can't, he'd come after me or...”
The scene switches abruptly to Malia, standing in the hallway of the hospital as she says,
“I'm not going to tell him, Scott. Not any of them. I already promised. I know. Okay...bye Scott.”
She hangs up the phone and takes a deep breath, steeling herself, then walks into Stiles' room, joining the crowd around his bed and grabbing one of his hands.