Carpe Diem (Fiore & Spaghetti Toes)

[NightmareMoon]

Fiore & Spaghetti Toes are permitted to post here only.

​

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"Scott! Scott! Listen to me. You need to get back here. It's bad. Real bad."


"Stiles, slow down. What's wrong?"


"Fuck, I should of hauled your sorry ass out of your goddamn exam and dragged you back to Beacon Hills. Why did I leave? I'm a fucking idiot! Now, the airports are closed and you can't-"


"Stiles! Focus."


"Shit hit the fan big time, buddy. Have you watched the news?"


"I been studying..."


"Of course not, why am I not surprised --- Listen, you need to haul ass back to Beacon Hills, Scott. I don't know how, but you need to leave. Davis isn't safe. No goddamn city is safe."


"Why? What's happening? Are you safe?"


"Of course not I'm not safe, it's the friggen' Apocalypse! This ain't a Beacon Hills problem, Scotty. No bloodthirsty werewolves or psychotic lizard monsters. The dead are rising and eating people. Scott ... it's everywhere. Cities are more vulnerable. Pack your shit and run."


"...Is everyone alright?"


"We're fine. Everyone is fine."


"Stiles..."


"Don't be such a worry wolf, Scott. You'll be here before you know it."


"Stiles, I don't have a car. Beacon Hills is a week's hike from Davis. It's not safe. You all need to leave."


"Not without you, buddy. Even if we leave, we'll find each other."


"How?"


"Here's the plan..."


Two weeks. Two weeks passed since Stiles contacted him. Two weeks since he was separated from his pack, his family. Two weeks since the goddamn Apocalypse condemned humanity, including the Supernatural realm. Scott followed his best friend's advice and packed the essentials, leaving Davis on foot. He preferred driving, but hijacking a car in a city filled with panicking citizens wasn't ideal. Thus, delaying his original plans. In the span of fourteen days, Scott endured an innumerable amount of shit. From decaying rotters to hostile survivors. Encountering other survivors changed him. Some people were kind. Others, not so much. From experience, Scott knew not everyone could be trusted. Theo fucking Raeken proved it. On the other hand, if someone needed help, how can he walk away? How can he watch someone die and not save them? His morals, beliefs, sanity - all of it was tested. Sometimes, Scott feared losing his humanity. He didn't want to turn hostile. He might be a predator, but it doesn't make him a killer. Unfortunately, whether he liked it or not, his "no-killing" rule doesn't apply in the Apocalypse. Hell, no rules applied anymore.


Shh-Flick. Shh-Flick. Shh-Flick.


Scott retracted his right hand, receding his wickedly sharp claws. He stood in front of a large oak tree, staring at a marking he imprinted. Double circles. A smaller circle carved inside a larger circle. It was his pack's signature, or symbol. Underneath the mark, Scott scratched a arrow pointing north. To communicate with his pack, Stiles suggested carving signs. Pack symbol to represent the McCall pack. Arrow to indicate last known direction. If Scott failed locating his pack in Beacon Hills, he could track his friends with his symbols. The odds finding his pack alive were painfully slim, but Scott refused to give up. He had faith in his pack, especially Stiles. If anyone could survive the Apocalypse, it was his spastic genius best friend.


"Remember Scott. Whatever you do, don't get bit or scratched. Human rotters are one thing, but werewolves? I don't think wolves turn, but I don't want to find out."


He scrubbed a hand over his face, brushing his stubble. "Well, Stiles. I think I confirmed your theory," Scott mumbled. He turned around, retrieved his crossbow, and slung it on his back. A few days ago, Scott encountered a couple Betas, who lost their pack. They wanted to join him. As an Alpha, he could provide them strength. However, when he refused, they lashed out. During the fight, a small herd of walkers appeared. Scott attempted warning them, but they were attacked from behind. After eradicating the biters, Scott anticipated the Betas turning. On the other hand, they didn't. Werewolves can't be turned. The bite is fatal, but it doesn't reanimate wolves. A part of him felt guilty for not saving them. Hostile or not, no one deserved being ripped apart by walkers.


"You even have a snack. We can all share."


Threatening his companion cemented his rejection. Scott may be many things, but he refused succumbing to his primal instincts. Werewolves were predators. They craved human flesh. Specifically, human hearts. Witnessing two Betas embracing their instincts sickened him. Losing his humanity wasn't an option. Finding his pack anchored him. Scott gathered his prize, an average-sized buck, and draped it over his shoulder. He tracked the deer for miles, using his heightened senses to his advantage. After two weeks of hell, Scott learned to hunt, fish, and shoot. Argent taught him a few things about weaponry, but he improved by experience. Regardless of his aversion to weapons, Scott favored his Beretta 92FS and Stryker Strykezone 380 Crossbow. He maneuvered through the forest, heading toward his campsite. It was early in the morning, half past seven. Based from their location, Beacon Hills is another four day walk. Depending on their path, maybe more. Before leaving Davis, Scott mapped out the fastest route to his hometown. However, after encountering several herds of biters and multiple territorial survivors, Scott learned the quickest route is too dangerous. To protect his roommate, they traveled the long way home.


Twenty minutes later, Scott hopped over a network of wires. The thin ropes surrounded his camp. Metal objects were fastened on the ropes, behaving as an impromptu alarm system. Despite his supernatural hearing, Scott learned to rely on other sources, more than his heightened senses. He dropped his buck next to a makeshift fire pit, lowered his crossbow, and plopped on a fallen log. He brandished his hunting knife, dragged the deer closer, and started gutting it. Two weeks ago, killing an innocent animal might of sickened him. At UC Davis, he majored in a Veterinary Medical degree. He saved animals, not kill them. On the other hand, food is food. Instead focusing on his disgust, Scott utilized his hunting abilities. Additionally, his Veterinary skills, including his mother's tricks, made him a competent impromptu doctor.


Scott's Attire: [1] (No Wolf Buckle)

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

That conversation. Those words. They never ceased in their rerun through his head. It made it hard to sleep at night and there were many times in the last two weeks where all he had left to do was stare up at the stars. They soured his already horrid mood; etched circles under his eyes. He couldn't get rid of them, couldn't escape them and didn't want to.





"Hen-Hen, it's bad... it's really bad." Was all she had started with, whimpering over the phone. The sounds in the background had been frightening; all growls and screams and thumps and shots.





"Anna? Anna what's going on?"


"They're going to die Hen. We're going to die." Nothing had ever turned his blood to ice-water like that had. "I can feel it."


"What's going on Anna? Where are you?"


But the phone call had cut off after that, leaving him only to speak to empty air. No matter how many times he had tried to call her back, no one picked up. He tried until the battery on his phone died. For the night and the day after he hadn't spoken a word to Scott, blocking himself off to his emotions, off from everything to keep from breaking down.


That had been two weeks ago, but her words still haunted him. "I can feel it."


How scary was it? To be able to feel death? Henry had never completely understood the concept of his sister's abilities, and at the same time, had never really wanted to. Why take part in a world that could just as easily kill you? He saw how much his sister suffered with the burden, and while his heart went out to her, and he tried to help her the best he could, he wanted nothing to do with it.


And then the next thing he knew, the dead were walking and his roommate was a werewolf. A fucking alpha werewolf. Just like the one that had turned his sister's life upside down. If that wasn't ironic, he didn't know what was.


With no family to go looking for, he begrudgingly agreed to go on the most-likely futile mission with Scott to find his pack. Not only was it probably futile; he had to deal with the goody-goody guy the whole trip. Yet, he didn't have anywhere else to go and he'd never admit it, but he did feel safer with a werewolf be his side. Not that he couldn't protect himself; when the shit had hit the fan, all he had to do was brush the dust off the compound bow he used for hunting before college had started. But he had no set of claws or glowing red eyes. He may not like his constant companion (the apocalypse didn't approve of much alone time) but he had a damn good set of claws.


With Scott's big, dopey brown eyes and gentle demeanor, Henry would've never expected him to be a werewolf, let alone a true alpha (whatever the hell that meant). So it had come as a surprise, and not an enjoyable one. He had never wanted to get so involved with the supernatural, yet here he was.


It was Scott's turn to catch their breakfast - and next couple of meals for the week, so Henry sat watch at the camp, sharping his arrows. It was fairly uneventful. Only one stray walker had wandered his way, but had clumsily gotten caught in their alarm wires.





"Took you long enough." He grunted, when Scott finally got back. He didn't look up from his arrows, as the other male dropped the deer down. Henry only looked up once the arrow he had been sharpening was finished.





"Even caught a walker while you were gone. Had more meat on it's bones than that thing." He sniffed with disdain, dropping the arrow into his quiver with a slight clink.





Henry's Outfit: Here

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"Even caught a walker while you were gone. Had more meat on it's bones than that thing."


Scott snorted. A lopsided grin adorned his face. He averted his gaze, staring at his acerbic-tongued roommate. "Too bad walker meat is no good. We'd have a feast with your kill," he quipped. He continued his ministrations, preparing the buck for skinning. His kill could provide them a week's worth of food. Maybe more if they rationed carefully. Nowadays, finding game - large game, specifically - is difficult. If rotters didn't claim it, other survivors interfered. Before the Apocalypse, Scott conformed to his human side, hiding his inner wolf. Now, after shit hit the fan, Scott stopped hiding. Being a werewolf wasn't a curse anymore, but a gift. It kept him, including his companion, alive. A few months ago, Scott may of hated Henry. The older boy is extremely rude, somewhat condescending, and downright offensive. Since the day he arrived at UC Davis, Scott was subjected to constant ridicule. Stiles, his paranoid best friend, conducted a full background search on his (Scott's) roommate. Scott didn't condone Stiles' intrusion of privacy, but appreciated his best friend's concern. Hearing his roommate's life story - well, a version of it - diminished his hatred. Eventually, he became immune to Henry's cutting tongue. Sometimes, it reminded him of Stiles. His best friend is the King of Snarks. After leaving Davis, Scott welcomed his companion's presence. He might be a insensitive asshole, but it was better being alone. Occasionally, Scott wondered why Henry agreed traveling together. Beacon Hills isn't his home. He didn't care about his (Scott's) pack. Hell, Henry believed his mission is pointless. Scott offered escorting Henry to his hometown, but the older boy declined. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know why, but Scott suggested it, nonetheless. Regardless of Henry's cold nature, Scott considered him pack. They weren't friends, but he's determined to break Henry's iron-clad shell.


Five minutes later, Scott switched from gutting to skinning. His hypersensitive nose flared, courtesy of the heavy aroma of blood. Two weeks ago, rotters made him sick. The putrid stench of decaying flesh burned his sensitive nose. It took him days to adjust. Now, he could distinguish scents, improving his tracking capabilities. On the other hand, everywhere smelled like pain, hopelessness, and death. If Henry declined his request traveling together, Scott might of succumbed to the depressing scents. "Next town we hit is five miles north. Maybe we'll get lucky," Scott announced, referring to their current dilemma: a car. Hijacking a vehicle in Davis wasn't safe, but they weren't in the city anymore. They needed a car. Last two weeks was unsuccessful, but Scott refused to give up. Minutes later, he completed the skinning, preparing the buck for stripping, cooking, and salting. He didn't like hunting, but he excelled preparing the meat.


"How are your ribs?" Scott inquired tentatively, concern evident in his chocolate brown eyes. He glanced at his roommate, gouging his reaction. A few days ago, when the two Betas retaliated, Henry was caught in the crossfire. Scott protected his companion the best he could, but it wasn't enough. He remembered the crippling fear being surrounded by rotters. Before the Betas were eaten, he attempted saving them. Thus, resulting his near-death experience. Perhaps, attempting to save his enemies was foolish. Okay, extremely foolish. However, he didn't regret it. Hostile or not, no one deserved that gruesome fate. Their bloodcurdling screams remained fresh inside his mind. Sometimes, he felt impressions of their last emotions - pain, fear, desperation, and regret. He wouldn't admit it, but it haunted him. Hell, every Apocalyptic experience haunted him. He may be a True Alpha, but he wasn't invincible.


Eventually, Scott completed preparing his venison. He gutted, skinned, stripped, cooked, and salted the meat. After packaging the meat, Scott discarded the bloody carcass far from their campsite. Once he returned, he plopped on his log, retrieved a piece of jerky, and munched on it. After breakfast, they needed to leave. Camping in the forest provided seclusion, but it was too dangerous. His heightened senses gave them an advantage, but he couldn't be everywhere at once. "They lied. Y'know, about how their pack died. Rotters didn't get them," Scott pointed out. He averted his gaze, staring at the makeshift fire pit. Due to the traumatic experience, Scott refrained mentioning the Betas. However, this was important. "I'm not sure what did, but it knew how to kill werewolves," he added. His immediate assumption are hunters. They're trained killing supernatural predators, including wolves. If his deduction is correct, he needed to tread carefully. Before the Apocalypse, hunters were ruthless. He couldn't imagine their behavior worsening after the world ending.

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

Henry scoffed at the retort, moving closer to the firepit. "Who says it isn't?" He still had about a quarter left of his quiver to sharpen and although it wasn't that important, it gave his hands something to do. It was always good to stay busy; it was always a good distraction from the dark things that went on in the world now. Otherwise he felt like he might drown, lose himself. He watched Scott work at the deer as he got started on another arrow. He did have to give it to the other male; he knew how to gut an animal. His own slices were never as straight and sloppier in comparison. Scott's veterinary skills certainly came in handy - maybe that was another reason why he stayed? Scott? Scott healed wickedly fast. Henry? Yeah, no. It was almost scary how fast Scott healed; he could never bring himself to look. He couldn't even imagine what it must feel like, as the tendons, as the flesh, as skin knit together, repaired itself. Not much made him squeamish, but that sure did. And despite what he had said, that deer was a damn good catch. Would last them quite a while.





"Next town we hit is five miles north. Maybe we'll get lucky."





With another clink, Henry dropped a finished arrow into the quiver, pulling out another one. A soft swish accompanied it. It only took a a couple of flicks of his knife and it was sharpened and back in the quiver. "Lucky," He snorted. "Bullshit. I think luck went down the toilet the day the world ended. Not that I ever believed in it." Clink. Swish. The shik, shik, shik, of metal on metal. Clink. Swish. Shik, shik, shik. Clink. He got lost in the repetitive motions for a moment, a handful of arrows joining the finished ones in the quiver. So when Scott asked about his ribs he glanced up in surprise. Freezing for a second, his hand went to his side automatically.


A few days before, when those werewolves had wanted to join them, Henry had been skeptical from the beginning. One werewolf, he could deal with. Three? Not so much. They had been pretty creepy, eyeing him weirdly at times. Then they wanted to eat him - which was fucking kinky - and Scott had flipped his lid. In his nice and gentle way of course. And when shit had gone down he had gotten thrown aside like a rag doll. He had gone down swearing like a sailor, and ended up cracking a good number of ribs. It was impossible to tell how many of course; there weren't exactly any x-rays around. Scott's training in veterinary school had helped. It was the first time he was glad his roommate had been the goody-goody, wannabe animal doc.





"Everything's hunky-dory." He flashed a smirk, even though it was a complete lie. His ribs still hurt like hell. Every time he moved he favored his left side. But at least he could move and that's all he hung on to. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he had been forced to rest longer than a couple of hours or have something more restricting unlike the wrap he had around his chest. If his arm had been broken, or his leg... Henry wouldn't have been able to deal with being so helpless.


Swish. Shik, shik, shik. Clink. Swish. Shik, shik, shik. Clink. Henry went about finishing his arrows as Scott went about finishing the deer. He got done just as Scott was, and he reached over to snatch up a piece of jerky as well. "Oh?" He mumbled, cocking an eyebrow. He didn't give a damn what the werewolves had said, the only thing that caused him strife was the fact he gotten injured because of them. Scott on the other hand, hated talking about it. Henry knew he was still haunted by that day. He had this no-kill policy, that Henry frankly admired, though he himself was more realistic. In this world, it was kill or be killed. Not everybody had a heart of gold like McCall. It was surprising that he brought it up. "What do you think did it? A were-bear?" He chuckled at his own snarky comment, shaking his head.





"Maybe they killed their pack themselves. Those two were pretty fucked up," He said in a more serious note, shaking his head again. "I wouldn't worry too much about it." He reached over to grab another piece of jerky, before standing with it half-sticking out of his mouth. "We should get going, yeah?"

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"Bullshit. I think luck went down the toilet the day the world ended. Not that I ever believed in it."


Scott consumed the rest of his jerky. He retrieved his canteen of water, uncapped it, and sipped it. "I dunno, we're alive, right? I consider that lucky," he pointed out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, capped his canteen, and stuffed it inside his survival backpack, one of his many finds. After two weeks of hell, Scott replaced a lot of his belongings - backpack, clothes, etc. etc. "Back home, if I wanted to live, I had to believe in it," he added. He rose into a standing position, stepped forward, and stomped out the fire. Flames licked at his boots, but his precise movements prevented permanent damage. Thinking about Beacon Hills filled him with nostalgia. The town that attracted the Supernatural ... like a beacon. Christ, he remembered every single dangerous adventure his pack endured. All the sacrifices they made. The loved ones they lost. In a way - a sickeningly twisted way - becoming a werewolf was the best thing in his life.


"Everything's hunky-dory."


Ba-Blip-dump.


A familiar blip, or spike in Henry's heartbeat suggested otherwise. Scott hated it when Henry lied, especially concerning his (Henry's) health. He remembered examining Henry, probing the older boy's ribs. They weren't broken - thank god - but they were cracked. Roughly four on his left side. Since they lacked proper equipment, his deduction wasn't full-proof. Scott convinced Henry to wrap his ribs, but that's about it. There's no special treatments concerning ribs. Unlike him, Henry didn't have a supernatural healing factor. After the fight, Scott noticed his roommate's restrictive movements. He offered to siphon the pain, but every single time he asked, Henry declined. His instincts screamed to protect, but Scott curbed his inner wolf. His acerbic-tongued roommate wouldn't appreciate if he hovered. "You're a terrible liar," he commented. He turned around, retrieved his backpack, and slipped it on his back. He picked up his crossbow and slung it on his back, over his backpack. Scott scanned his surroundings, inspecting their makeshift camp. His Beretta 92FS is stashed inside his inner jacket pocket. His hunting knife taped inside his right boot.


"Maybe they killed their pack themselves. Those two were pretty fucked up."


A frown marred his lips. "Neither were an Alpha," Scott reminded. Deeming everything packed and accounted for, Scott directed his attention to Henry. "If they killed their pack, one of them would be an Alpha. They had cobalt blue eyes, Henry. Not red," he elaborated. He refrained explaining the process becoming an Alpha. First of all, it made him uncomfortable. Secondly, Henry already knew, including the rise of True Alphas. Despite his roommate's assuring words, Scott pondered. They needed to increase their vigilance. His inner wolf considered Henry pack, so he wasn't powerless. On the other hand, he's at his strongest when his pack is reunited. Stiles, Lydia, Malia, Kira, Liam, Mason, Hayden - all of them gave him strength. Werewolves are social creatures. They relied on each other for strength. "If hunters killed them, we're screwed," Scott announced. To be specific, he's screwed.


"We should get going, yeah?"


Scott banished his dark thoughts. "Five mile hike to our first town. We're running low on supplies, so if there's anything worth looting, we take it. Our main objective is a car. If there's nothing salvageable, we'll resume on foot," he informed. Despite his gentle demeanor, he channeled his inner Alpha. Scott listened to his partner's input, but he made the final decisions. He wasn't a perfect leader - far from it - but he was competent. He kept his pack alive, including Henry. Without another word, Scott pivoted to his left and headed north, maneuvering through the forest with caution. He kept his ears peeled, using his heightened senses to his advantage. A myriad of scents wafted through his hypersensitive nostrils. However, none of them smelled like decaying flesh and emptiness. No rotters were present ... for now.


{ Time Skip: 5 Miles Later }


He crouched low, pressing his frame against an abandoned truck. He peered around the corner, inspecting their current dilemma. Walkers. Approximately, a dozen rotters. They stumbled across the desolate street, wandering aimlessly. Sounds of sibilant rasps and guttural groans filled the air, eliciting a shiver. Sometimes, he hated his heightened hearing. Scott surveyed his surroundings, searching for a safer route. They could eradicate the biters. However, it might attract other stragglers. Or worse, survivors. For the moment, he didn't detect other survivors, but they were traveling in uncharted territory. They couldn't afford assuming otherwise. Ten minutes ago, Scott and his roommate arrived at their destination. A rural town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the forest. They infiltrated the town with ease. However, by the time they moved closer to the stores, Scott detected the walkers. He shifted his head, staring at his companion. "The alleyway over there has a fire escape. I'll distract the walkers. When I say go, run for the alleyway," he instructed, motioning to a nearby alleyway nestled between two tall buildings. He leaned forward, grasped a large stone, and peeked over the truck. He swung his arm back and chucked it, applying more strength in his toss. The stone soared across the air, crashing through a store window. One by one, every single walker shuffled toward the store, drawn by the seemingly mysterious noise. "Go," Scott commanded, his tone adamant. The walkers closest to the truck were distracted, providing Henry a perfect opportunity for escape.

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

"Neither were an Alpha. If they killed their pack, one of them would be an Alpha. They had cobalt blue eyes, Henry. Not red."


"Oh. Yeah, well, whatever," He huffed with a frown as he grabbed his own things, gingerly using his left arm when he had to. He was still struggling to wrap his head around all the supernatural rules. The rules of the Possible had been hard to fully understand, and now that they included the Impossible, it was a whole other story. And he was fairly sure there were still a lot of rules he didn't know about. Like, for example, Hunters.


Henry glanced from his pack, clutched in his right hand. Anything weighing more than a pound, picked up by his left arm, sent knives of pain straight to the afflicted area. But he didn't complain, quite the opposite. Made him feel more human, something he needed. The killing, the Rotters, it was dark shit. Easy to lose yourself. Especially when among the superhuman. "Hunters?" Not something that had been mentioned. Then again, there was a lot Scott never mentioned; it was the depth of his eyes that gave Henry that feeling. They said tragedy aged a person - it had changed him. He had to wonder how much tragedy Scott had seen to get that depth. "This just keeps getting better and better." Despite his snark, the unsettled look in Scott's eyes made him wary. It was almost like Scott feared these Hunters. All Henry could picture were fat, middle-aged men in bright orange hunting jackets, and trying to imagine them taking on the big, bad, Scott McCall almost made him laugh.


With one swift movement he hooked his bag onto his back, his quiver thrown over it. The knife he had been using to sharpen his arrows was slipped into a sheath and strapped at his hip, right next to a handgun that he hardly ever used; a back up weapon he hated but Scott had insisted on. Once he had everything in check, he followed after his roommate. At first he hadn't appreciated Scott's annoying need-to-lead attitude. After all, he was the elder by two years. The only thing that made up for the age difference, was the fact Scott was a werewolf, and an alpha. Leading was in his nature. So Henry let it go. He (Henry) was better at directions anyway. And it wasn't like his ideas were ignored.





"Other way, genius."

​

"I'll be damned," Henry muttered, peeking out from behind the truck with Scott, observing the Rotters stretched out before them. "And I thought this was a small town." He could see the wheels turning in Scott's mind. There was no way they could fight them off without drawing too much attention. And the said truck they were cowering behind was sadly of fuel; because luck was a load of bullshit and the universe was set on screwing with them. Scott's endless optimism over this had almost woven a thread of hope into Henry, only to have it crushed with reality when the first car they found - in perfect shape - was far from being able to work. The chances of finding a working vehicle were slim already, even with fate not in their favor. When shit had hit the fan, everyone had wanted to leave, and in doing so, used up a lot of their gas. Even if they did find one, they probably wouldn't get far. Yet still, Scott had that boundless optimism. Henry did have to hand it to him: the guy had drive.


"The alleyway over there has a fire escape. I'll distract the walkers. When I say go, run for the alleyway."


His gaze flickered from the walkers to his companion, confusion etched across his features. What was Scott going to do? But he trusted Scott. He didn't stop to question it, and the minute Scott said 'go', he shot off, cursing obscenities under his breath as he went. Holding his bow at the ready, Henry slipped into the alleyway, glancing back. The noise his roommate had created had distracted them, as they started to gather around the broken window in hope of their next meal. 'Clever,' Henry thought. 'Enough distraction to-'


His thoughts were interrupted by a rotter who had been hiding in the shadow of a doorway into the shop next door. It growled right in his ear, nearly making him jump out of his skin, and it took all his self-control not to scream bloody murder. He whipped around so fast he stumbled a tad, just as the walker had tried to grab at him. It was a nasty thing, so rotted it sagged and so clearly decomposed it was impossible to tell it's previous gender. When it comes to biter's though, there really is no gender. It isn't a he, or a she, but an it. They lose the right to a gender when they die and begin to eat people. Monsters aren't hes or shes, they're its.


Henry froze for for just a second, before another growl from the walker broke him out of his stupor. It dove at him, and having no other way to fend it off, he shoved his bow in it's way, rolling to the side, further into the alley. It growled at him, black teeth inches from his face, rancid breath washing over him. Henry grunted in return. He was in too close of quarters to draw back an arrow, but he didn't really need to. With a shove, it gave him enough room to reach back and grab one from his quiver.





Only took one jab to the head with the sharp object to put the beast down and Henry stood over it as it crumpled to the ground, panting like he had just run a marathon and feeling like he had just had a heart attack. His heart raced and he was so pumped with adrenaline he was pretty sure he could run a marathon. His chest, however, didn't quite agree, sharp pain shooting through him with each deep intake. Shaking, he collapsed back against the wall, hand curled against his side. "Motherfucking bastard.." He hissed, releasing a whole string of swearwords in his artillery - which was quite a number. Only then did he glance in the direction he had just come from, having momentarily forgotten about Scott in his terror. "Fuck." He cursed again, his scuffle had caught the attention of a couple more rotters who hadn't yet joined the group by the window. "Scott."

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

Bang. Crash. Thunk.


"Scott."


Scott whipped his head back, peering inside the dark alleyway. His eyes widened in horror, spotting his fallen roommate. On the ground ... clutching his side ... vulnerable to the cluster of straggling rotters who abandoned the broken window. "Henry!" Without hesitation, Scott brandished his crossbow and fired. His bolt soared across the air, piercing a walker's temple. It crumpled on the ground, terminated. He sprinted across the street, moving closer to the small alleyway. He stopped in front of his kill, removed his arrow, and reloaded. Scott whirled around and shot another rotter. It toppled over, dead. He retrieved his bolt, pivoted to his left, and stabbed a biter in the eye. By now, his movements attracted other walkers. Specifically, the biters who approached the broken window. A chorus of sibilant rasps and guttural groans filled the air, signaling their upcoming arrival. Scott kicked back a walker, turned around, and rushed inside the alleyway. He kneeled beside Henry, lowered his crossbow, and examined his roommate. His chocolate brown eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?" he inquired. Before he could continue, the scent of decaying flesh and emptiness burned his nostrils. Scott craned his neck back, witnessing the herd of walkers encroaching the alleyway. A frown marred his lips, noticing additional stragglers. More rotters joined the horde. Lovely. Suddenly, a wave of protection washed over him. His eyes bled a brilliant crimson. Scott bared his teeth, revealing his sharpened fangs. He released a threatening snarl, promising oblivion. He rose into a standing position, crouched low, and lunged. Scott bashed his crossbow against a walker's temple, killing it instantly. He slammed his foot against several biters' knees, snapping their bones with ease. After they fell, he crushed their skulls with his boot. He fought and fought and fought, determined to protect his companion.


He removed a bolt from a fallen biter, shifted, and pierced a walker's temple. One by one, the moderate sized horde dwindled. Walker blood splattered his clothes, caking his tanned skin. The smell was revolting, but he ignored it. Two weeks ago, the thought of killing rotters sickened him. He hated killing in general. However, to protect his roommate, or pack mate, Scott accepted the inevitable. When he faced walkers - like now - he didn't think. He didn't dwell. For once, he succumbed to his instincts, unleashing his inner wolf. All that mattered was protecting his pack, including Henry. Now, after killing hundreds of rotters, Scott didn't hesitate anymore. Survivors, on the other hand, were a different story. Despite his instincts, Scott struggled negating his "no-killing" rule. How can he overcome his morals? Some survivors deserved oblivion - even he can acknowledge that - but it didn't make things easier. When people lose hope, they become hostile, bloodthirsty, and vengeful. On the other hand, Scott believed in the good. Regardless of the harsh, Apocalyptic world, not everyone are monsters. He believed survivors can come back from the bad.


Five minutes later, Scott stabbed the last walker. He stepped pack, panting. Eradicating a horde was exhausting, but his heightened stamina compensated. His crimson eyes dimmed, resuming a warm brown. He collected his fallen bolts, wiped them clean, and sheathed them. He pivoted to his right, facing Henry. His gentle demeanor surfaced, previous aggression vanished. He suppressed the urge to wipe his face, mindful of the walker blood staining his tanned skin. "The rooftop can provide us better cover," he announced. Scott slung his crossbow on his back, approached the fire escape, and yanked down the ladder. Without another word, he climbed the ladder, keeping his eyes peeled for potential threats. He anticipated more walkers dwelling in the shadows, waiting for their next meal. Hopefully, the commotion didn't attract too much attention. Scott landed on the roof, unloaded his crossbow, and scouted the flat cement surface, searching for hidden threats. Finding none, he returned to the edge, waiting for Henry.


"We'll find each other, Scott. We always do."


His heart clenched. Scott was determined reuniting with his pack, but things changed. He changed. How will Stiles react to his aggressive inner wolf? His willingness to kill? Granted, his inner wolf protected his pack, but negating his "no-killing" rule? For the moment, Scott hasn't killed a single human. He vowed to maintain his rule, but whether he liked it or not, his resolve was crumbling. Some survivors were decent, but others couldn't be trusted. Despite his seemingly too-trusting nature, even he can acknowledge the dangers trusting strangers, especially in the Apocalypse. Humans are one thing, but supernatural creatures are a different story. It terrified him, but to protect his pack, he might be forced to do the impossible. Will his friends accept him if he became a predator? Is he capable coming back from the bad? "Only a few days left," he thought, referring to their journey. The abandoned truck on the street was a bust, but Scott refused giving up.


Scott directed his attention to the street. The rooftop provided a large aerial view of the shops below. He used his heightened sight to his advantage, searching for signs of life or movement. He spotted a few stragglers, but nothing else. A working vehicle was their top priority, but they were running low on supplies, including clothing. Hopefully, the town wasn't picked clean. If nothing was salvageable, they could raid the resident houses. "How bad are your ribs?" he questioned, detecting Henry's presence. He pivoted to his right, facing the fire escape ladder. "You need to rest for a bit? I have some painkillers in my pack," he offered. His first instinct was siphoning Henry's pain, but his roommate wouldn't accept his request. Honestly, he didn't understand. Scott retrieved a water bottle and rag from his backpack, dampened his rag, and wiped his face, cleansing his tanned skin from walker blood. Since they needed to preserve water, Scott limited it to his face and hands. If they encountered a stream in the woods, he could wash off the remaining rancid blood. He made a mental note to scavenge clothes. His current attire was soaked. He wouldn't admit it, but his inner wolf was growing more aggressive. All it cared about was protecting his pack, nothing more. He stuffed the dirty rag in his pocket, stored his water bottle inside his pack, and slung his backpack on his back, underneath his crossbow.


"Our top priority is a car, but we should check the stores. We need more supplies. If the stores are picked clean, the local houses are our next stop," Scott declared. Instead waiting for an answer, he retrieved his bottle of painkillers and handed it to Henry. "I would suggest splitting up, but I have a bad feeling about this place," he added. Truthfully, with Henry's busted ribs, Scott didn't feel comfortable leaving his roommate alone. Raids were different than hunting.

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

He watched as Scott ripped through the walkers in his way, with that protective look Henry knew all too well. And that he had grown to hate. "Oh for the love of... I'm fine." Henry snapped at Scott's overly-concerned look, waving him off, but Scott had already turned away to go to town on more rotters. While Henry hated being the damsel in distress, he did have to appreciate the chance to catch his breath. He scrambled to his feet, picked up his bow and pulled the arrow from the walker he had killed. There was a sickening squelch as he pulled it free, and he wiped it on his sleeve before putting it back in his quiver with the familiar clink. That was the part he always hated about having to use arrows. You have to get them back.





While Scott was busy with the walkers, Henry made sure to actually check the alleyway this time. He felt stupid for not doing it before. He had gone through so much in the past couple of weeks, gone through hell and back, and killed many of the undead. But he hadn't checked the alleyway. He mentally cursed himself again, glancing over his shoulder just to make sure Scott was still kicking. With a couple of well-aimed arrows, Henry picked off a couple of rotters, but for the most part Scott had it.


His gaze traveled up from the scene before him, to the shops on the street. If there were any survivors nearby, they sure as hell would've heard the commotion by now. It made him nervous, the noise. Loud noise always did nowadays. He remembered how noisy life used to be. Cars, and planes, television and games, and just people. Noise meant people, and it still did. What people meant was the only thing that had changed. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, the thought of being watched. There were so many windows in the shops....





Movement behind one pane of glass caught his gaze and he narrowed his eyes. So someone was watching them. He was about to point it out to Scott, when the person behind that window bumped right into the glass and if he was close enough, he was pretty sure he would've heard the growl. Henry scoffed at himself and shook his head. 'It's just a rotter. No one's watching. You're getting paranoid,' he scolded himself.


He turned back to Scott just as he was finishing off the rest, and he went over to retrieve his few arrows. Sidestepping the rotters, Henry was once again impressed. Back in the beginning, Scott had always been squeamish of killing. Of course, after seeing those betas, Henry really understood. He couldn't fathom what it was like, not being human, but he understood to a point. With all that power, how hard would it be to hold onto your humanity? When it felt like being a god among mortals? So Scott tried not to kill to keep from losing himself. Yet there was no way to get around it. You had to kill to survive. It didn't go unnoticed by Henry that every time Scott killed, he got a little more torn up inside. He nudged a walker with his foot and made a face as a bit of guts covered the toe of his boot. "Nice job, Sweetheart," He muttered, using the nickname he had coined off Scott's gentle demeanor. His jab however, lacked a lot more edge than usual. He wiped his boot on the arm of another walker as he slid the arrows into his quiver before he went to join Scott in the alley.


"The rooftop can provide us better cover."





Henry nodded. "And view." He added, his gaze flickering around once more. The watched feeling still hadn't left him, and though he was fairly certain his feeling was ludicrous, he wasn't completely inclined to ignore his gut instincts. He climbed up after Scott, and he slid onto the roof with a wince. The run in with the walker had jostled his ribs a little too much for comfort, and now seemed to be more strained than before. Fighting walkers obviously wasn't very good for healing. He waved off Scott's questions however, and shuffled to the edge to look down at the street. "I'm fine." He insisted, surveying the area for danger. Still, nothing seemed to be even remotely looking in their direction, except for that one rotter in the window, biting at air as it tried desperately to get past it's obstacle. Faced with no evidence to his nervousness, the feeling eased up a bit and he released a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.





"Our top priority is a car, but we should check the stores. We need more supplies. If the stores are picked clean, the local houses are our next stop."


"Aye, aye captain. I know I could use some new clothes. And you definitely do 'cause you-" He turned to face Scott, and paused, seeing the bottle of painkillers offered to him. "-stink." Henry hesitated, eyeing the bottle before him as if it had a catch, some trick to it. He hated help, he hated 'good-will', he hated acts of kindness. And above all, he hated that he needed to be taken care of.


But damn did his ribs hurt.





His expression soured a bit but he begrudgingly took the bottle, popped the top, and swallowed a couple of pills dry before handing it back without a word. To avoid Scott's eyes, he went back to scanning their surroundings.





"I would suggest splitting up, but I have a bad feeling about this place."


"I do too." Henry agreed with a grunt. "Splitting up would be quicker though. We should get out of this place as soon as we can. I don't like it." He wasn't so quick to split up just because he was trying to stubbornly prove he didn't need Scott's help, though that certainly had a large part. But he was genuinely getting the creeps from the place, that anxious itch still faintly keeping the hairs on the back of his neck standing.


The town had gone back to being quiet, with only the few rotters strolling about. For a moment, he could almost imagine they were normal people, window-shopping on a nice evening. The moans of the dead quickly shot down that dream. There were things he didn't miss about the old world, like long lines and boring classes, drama and girls, but the sense of peace that had always filled his days - even when it didn't quite seem like it - that he missed. The days were you could stroll down fifth avenue and not worry about a rotter jumping out and ripping a hole in your jugular. If he could have anything back, he'd want it to be that peace. That sense of safety.


Shaking his head a little, his eyes skipped from shop to shop. Book shop? Bullshit. Who read anymore? Eye glass store? Ha. He could only the imagine the torture of not having twenty-twenty vision during the apocalypse. Department store? Bingo. "There." He pointed out the shop he had spotted. It was some, awkward, hole-in-the-wall department store he wouldn't have paid any mind to before it all went down, but it seemed like their best bet at the moment. It looked mostly untouched, a flipped-over car resting in front of the door and much of the windows. Either it would be a complete bust or a goldmine. "We can start with some clothes. You seriously stink."

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"Splitting up would be quicker though. We should get out of this place as soon as we can. I don't like it."


Scott accepted the bottle of painkillers, stashed them inside his back, and adjusted his crossbow. His inner wolf grumbled with approval, satisfied his pack mate was tended to. He wouldn't admit it, but half his concern is influenced by his inner wolf. "We're not splitting up," he countered, tone adamant. He scanned the street, surveying the desolate road. A few stragglers wandered, but nothing else. He wanted to ignore the bad feeling, but Scott learned to trust his gut. They couldn't afford assuming the town was empty. If they encountered other survivors, he prayed they were harmless ... somewhat.


"We can start with some clothes. You seriously stink."


His lips twitched with amusement. He reeked, but his heightened nose made things worse. "We'll hit the department store first, then the pharmacy," Scott confirmed. He pivoted to his left, hopped over the ledge, and scaled down the fire escape ladder, keeping his eyes peeled for hidden threats. He landed on the ground, brandished his crossbow, and waited for Henry to climb down. He stalked closer to the edge, pressed his back against the wall, and peered around the corner. Minus a few rotters, the street was clear. The number of biters were significantly lower. Four or five at best. Together, they could terminate the walkers with ease. Scott motioned behind him, beckoning Henry to move. Without a word, he slipped around the corner and strolled down the street, maintaining a cautious pace. He shot a couple biters, who wandered too close. After retrieving his bolts, Scott maneuvered closer to the department store. Five painstakingly slow minutes later, they arrived. Since the windows and door were blocked heavily by a flipped vehicle, Scott was forced to shove it back, enough to create an opening. Specifically, half the window. The door was cleared, but he preferred the open window. Using his supernatural strength attracted more stragglers, but they were immediately eradicated.


He hurdled over the window ledge, entered the department store, and surveyed his surroundings. The store was quaintly sized. It contained a few aisles, including several racks. Half the store was looted, but it still possessed a variety of clothing. Before raiding the racks, Scott started scouting the area, searching for possible threats. "West end clear," he announced. Instead clearing the east end, Scott entrusted Henry performing the task. They were in the same store, so they weren't technically apart. Despite his inner wolf's grumbling, Scott focused finding clothes his, or close to his size. After rifling through several piles, Scott found a moderate assortment of shirts, jeans, and miscellaneous. Finding a secluded corner, he lowered his crossbow, removed his backpack, and peeled off his bloody clothing. He changed into a clean outfit, discarded his soiled clothes, and gathered his belongings. He abandoned his bloodstained clothes, but kept his boots. Once his backpack is secured, Scott scoured for more supplies. During his search, he spotted his roommate around the corner. He raised a dark hoodie.


"Henry, I found something in your si-" Scott cut himself off,


Leather. Gun oil. Silver.


Scott stiffened, dropping the hoodie. A familiar scent burned his nostrils. His hypersensitive hearing detected a distinct cock of a gun. He glanced at Henry, realizing the direction of the gun. His eyes widened in horror. No. His inner wolf howled, urging him to protect. Without warning, Scott lunged forward, shoving his companion on the tiled floor. He winced internally, recalling Henry's sore ribs.


Bang.


Pain exploded inside his chest. Scott staggered back, clutching his right side, above his ribs. He crashed against a set of shelves, but refrained falling on the floor. Rivulets of blood seeped past his fingertips, staining his white shirt red. A peculiar scent surrounded his bullet wound. Wolfsbane. "H-Henry, stay down," Scott rasped. He gnashed his teeth, suppressing a hiss. Fuck, the bullet burned. He removed his hand, summoned his claws, and released a threatening snarl. His chocolate brown eyes illuminated a brilliant crimson. He bared his teeth, revealing his sharpened fangs. He stepped closer, standing in front of Henry. Suddenly, a older man in his late twenties emerged from a dark corner, close to the open window. Or, entrance. He stood on the opposite end of the aisle, meters away from Scott's position. He aimed his Springfield Armory TRP at Scott. A dark smile adorned his face. His crazed eyes glinted with twisted amusement.


"I witnessed your little stunt outside. Thought you were crazy, but then ... I saw your eyes. It's been awhile since I bagged an Alpha!" the man exclaimed. A fleeting laugh escaped his lips.


He ignored the man's unhinged state. "It doesn't have to be this way," Scott reasoned. Regardless of his statement, he maintained his defensive stance.


The hunter's grin widened. "Oh, but it does. I'm not letting this opportunity slip through my fingers," he sneered.


Scott glanced at the nearby window, spotting a small herd forming. The gunshot attracted hidden stragglers. "Y'know, traveling alone isn't smart," he commented.


He snorted. "Stalling isn't going to work, kid," he pointed out.


He directed his attention to the hunter. "This will," Scott countered. He breathed in deeply and released a loud Alpha roar. It reverberated off the walls, attracting the growing horde outside. Seconds later, a plethora of rotters stumbled inside the store, climbing through the window. A chorus of sibilant rasps alerted the hunter. Once he was distracted, Scott brandished his crossbow and fired. His bolt soared across the air, piercing the man's hand. He howled in pain, dropping his handgun. He (Scott) turned around, facing Henry. "Run!" Ignoring the excruciating pain inside his chest, Scott grasped his roommate's wrist and bolted, away from the alarming herd. Fortunately, the department store contained a back entrance leading to an alleyway. He guided Henry around a few aisles, past a couple racks, and exited the back door. He retracted his hand, stumbled forward, and coughed. Black sludge spewed from his lips, eliciting a pained groan. Scott leaned against the brick wall, clutched his ribs, and surveyed the alleyway. He froze, spotting a large cluster of rotters surrounding a nearby dumpster. They turned around, detecting Scott and Henry. "This way," Scott hissed. He pivoted to his right and sprinted in the opposite direction, trying his best to avoid obstacles. A wave of dizziness washed over him, evoking a curse. He tripped over a fallen brick, but scrambled to his feet and continued running.


"There!" Scott pointed at a semi-isolated apartment complex. Specifically, the fire escape attached on the side of the building. He approached the fire escape, yanked down the ladder, and ushered Henry to climb. After his roommate moved, Scott followed. Together, they scaled up the ladder and arrived at the top. He hopped over the ledge and dropped on the flat cemented roof. He rose into a sitting position, shifted his head, and vomited more black sludge. Scott leaned against the tall ledge, clutching his ribs. He gritted his teeth, fighting off a dizzy spell. "There might be more hunters. We need to leave," he announced. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pressed a firm hand against his chest, above his bullet wound. He needed to remove the bullet immediately to activate his healing factor. However, the excruciating pain and dizziness thwarted his plans. In the midst of his dilemma, an old memory tugged at his psyche.


"Does Nordic Blue Monkshood mean anything to you?"


He recalled the peculiar fragrance. Fuck. He knew the type of wolfsbane smelled familiar. "Henry ... take my pack. If there's more hunters out there, they'll be focused on me. You can leave while you still have a chance," Scott declared. He removed his backpack and tossed it at Henry. "The bullet was laced with a special form of wolfsbane. I'm good as dead," he confessed. He flicked his right hand, summoning his claws. He breathed in deeply and plunged his claws inside his chest, above his bullet wound. He grunted, suppressing a pained yowl. A few minutes later, Scott extracted the bullet. He dropped it and pressed a firm hand against his wound. The rare breed of aconite stunted his healing factor. Soon, the wound would be inflamed, oozing black liquid. Spider-like black veins started appearing around the bullet hole, the first sign of infection. If the odds were in his favor, he might survive the full forty-eight hours.


"You remember the way, right? To Beacon Hills?" Scott inquired. His vision blurred, courtesy of blood loss. "You'll be safer there. Better than here..." he trailed. He rested his head against the stone ledge. His eyes drooped heavily. He struggled maintaining consciousness, but it was a losing battle. Eventually, he passed out. His grip on his wound slackened, revealing the beginnings of his infection.


[Outfit Link: Replace the gray vans with sturdy boots.]

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

"We're not splitting up."


Henry rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion. "Fine. Let's go then." Looping his bow over his back, he followed Scott, though if a bit more slowly. The painkillers had started to kick in, taking a huge edge off the pain. Only large, sweeping movements badly hurt. Scaling the ladder, it almost slipped his mind for a moment that he was injured at all. It felt nice, and a bit of tension in his shoulders he hadn't even noticed, relaxed. 'See what happens when you let someone help,' a small voice in the back of his head said, before he brushed that thought aside. Hopping to the ground, his bow was back in his hands within a couple of minutes. He shadowed Scott out onto the street, sideways to watch Scott's back and at the same time avoid crashing into him. There weren't many rotters wandering about anyways, and after he and Scott took some out there were even fewer.


Bow drawn, he surveyed the town stretched out before him while Scott moved the car. He had almost suggested they go around the back, before remembering his companion's super strength. Scott seemed so normal, it was easy to forget the damage he could really do if he wanted to. Shaking his head, he took out a couple of biters that wandered too close before slipping through the window after Scott. Why the window? He didn't ask. Considered going through the door to make a point, but after already being inside, he noticed a bell hanging above the door, the kind meant to signal if someone was to come in. He reached up on his tiptoes to pull the thing off, the little chain letting out a soft squeal in protest before it let go into his hand with a dull jingle.


He started to scout the other side of the store after noticing Scott had already taken off. His end contained the bathrooms, and turning the corner towards them, he made a face. He didn't have to go in to tell it reeked. Covering his nose, he gingerly kicked the door to the first one open. The smell that washed over him was gag-inducing. "Oh god." He coughed, and almost turned back before hearing a moan of the dead. 'Just my lucky friggin' day.' However, the walker was locked in the last stall, and not wanting to waste his time busting down the door trying to get to the damned thing, he backed out into the hall. It was the woman's bathroom anyway, and he had no wish to see what state she had been before dying. How could you die in a bathroom stall anyway? Drown in the toilet? The next bathroom was clear, and he was glad to get away from them. Somehow, something must've gone wrong in the sewage. Either that or someone took nasty dump and couldn't flush. Either way, he was glad to be back in the main part of the store.





"East clear." Henry called a moment after Scott did, running his fingers over the rows of clothing. After sifting through the racks, he finally found a complete outfit in his size if not at least close. The jacket he found - which was amusingly the same brand name as the one he was currently wearing - was a few sizes too big but other than that it all fit good. It didn't get in the way anyway; he had to roll up the cuffs a little, but it otherwise worked well. Scanning the store to pinpoint Scott's location, he could just make out his (Scott's) shoulder sticking out from behind a shelf in his way. Just to be safe though, he stepped behind a rack of clothing to change. While he doubted Scott would be all that uncomfortable seeing Henry in his boxers or even just shirtless - they were both males after all, and not only that, Scott had on some kind of sports team in highschool - Henry on the other hand, found the idea... uncomfortable. Even before everything went down, Henry had always skirted around the idea of changing in front of Scott, or witnessing the younger boy change in front of him. Traveling with him, sleeping next to him, killing walkers with him, spending all of Henry's frickin' time with him did nothing to change that fact. Henry figured Scott was probably uncomfortable changing in front of him anyway. It wasn't a secret Henry was gay. There was no skirting around that fact. Scott was probably - no, obviously straight. Not that Henry cared about his roommate's sexuality. It wasn't like he ever... thought about it.





He shook his head, tightening his shoe laces. There was no use worrying about it now. Not with the apocalypse.





"Henry, I found something in your si-"


Henry glanced over his shoulder, finishing his laces with a final tug. Oblivious to the issue, he snorted, and shrugged his jacket on as he stood. "Thanks but I already.." He trailed off seeing Scott's facial expression and before he could ask he was pushed suddenly and forcefully to the ground.


Bang.


The sound of a gun going off registered before anything else. Even though he hit the ground on his right side, the pain of jostling his left, left his vision flashing white before it could clear. He must've blacked out for a couple of seconds, because when his vision finally cleared he couldn't quite make sense of the situation.





"It doesn't have to be this way."


Scott's voice. But who was he talking to? The person who fired the gun? He struggled to sit up with a little wheeze, hoping his ribs hadn't been injured further. Bracing himself with one arm and holding his side with the other, his gaze flickered over Scott's form standing over him, his attention immediately catching the blood covering Scott's hands. Was he the one shot? His mind was racing, having no clue as to what was going on.





"Oh, but it does. I'm not letting this opportunity slip through my fingers."


That must be the other person. Henry didn't recognize the voice in the slightest, and he could only just make out his form from behind Scott. Trying to scoot back as quietly as possible, and without hurting himself further, he reached for his bag. He missed most of the rest of the conversation; the man was more interested in what Scott was doing, eyes watching his every move like a hawk and gun trained in his direction. It clicked. Hunter. Scott meant Hunters as in ones who hunted the supernatural - like that show he had only seen commercials for. He remembered that now that his mind made the connections. It was something his sisters used to watch, and get obsessed over the characters. Now that image was in his head and seeing this dude, it was easy to understand why Scott had been fearful.


The pain was starting to fade as he pulled his bag onto his shoulders, cautiously trying to make as little noise as possible, and struggling not to make a big deal. All that was left was his bow....


When Scott roared unexpectedly, Henry nearly jumped out of his skin. He had only heard that kind of roar once or twice before, and just like those times, it made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. Then his companion was turning and tugging him to his feet, taking off with him in tow. He grabbed his bow just in time, though it just nearly slipped through his fingers.





"What the literal fuck Scott?" He managed to whisper-yell, as they stumbled out into the alleyway. Scott never answered, though Henry doubted he was listening. There seemed to be quite a bit on his mind. The werewolf coughed up a mouthful of black goo, and Henry only stared, mind struggling to catch up. And then a group of walkers spotted them and they were running again. "This way," "There!" Henry followed Scott's directions in a slight daze, thoughts still running in circles, as he raced to keep up. Scott seemed unbalanced, unstable, and it frightened him. Scott had super-healing. Wasn't he healing?


They finally came to a stop on a roof, where Scott vomited more of that black stuff. His words were enough to snap Henry out of his haze. "What the... Scott, you can barely walk you idiot." He snapped, brain going over everything that had happened in the past, what? Ten minutes? While the idea of the both of them leaving immediately was ludicrous, the thought of leaving Scott behind was even more so. "Holy shit you really are an idiot."


He started to pace, looking away with another cuss word as Scott literally started to dig around in his chest for the damned bullet. What the fuck was wolfsbane anyway? It was obviously bad if Scott was insisting to be left behind. Wolfsbane sounded bad. Was it poison? It had to be poison right? That's why he was puking up that black gunk. Henry chewed on his lip.





"You remember the way, right? To Beacon Hills? You'll be safer there. Better than here..."


"I'm not leaving you, you dumbass!" He objected with a scowl, but Scott had already passed out, leaving Henry with nothing other than a grand reveal of that nasty wound. He was no doctor, but it looked really bad. Really, really bad. Black did not seem like a good vein color. Running a hand over his face and kicking at the wall - which only hurt - he got out his frustration.





"Okay Henry, think." He muttered to himself, pausing in his pacing to run through his options. Scott's cellphone didn't work, and neither did his so it wasn't like he could call up Beacon Hills and get some answers. And neither could he google it. Could he cut the infected section off? That was a possibility right? He risked a peek, and restrained a shudder. No way would he be doing that. He didn't trust his cutting skills when it came to avoiding something vital. And hacking away at Scott didn't seem like the best action. He could wait for Scott to wake up; but he wasn't sure when he would wake up, and if he would even survive that long. Just leaving him was out of the question as well. He might have a cold conscience, but leaving the companion who took a bullet for you was a bit low for him.





So that left either waiting for him to wake up, or for him to hunt down the Hunter. Neither seemed like a good plan. "Fuck," he cursed again. He took a moment to check the surroundings for dangers, before going back to where Scott lay unconscious. After about ten minutes of waiting, Henry quickly got antsy. Leave or go? Leave or go?


A couple more minutes of sitting and watching and pacing, and Henry couldn't wait anymore. He double checked the roof for any other entry points besides the ladder for walkers to come up, along with any hidden dangers and after making sure the coast was clear, he was ready to take off. Before he left though, he hesitated, staring at Scott, torn. He felt horrible leaving him so vulnerable.


He walked over to Scott's pack, and pulled out the sleeping bag, throwing it over him for good measure. At least he wouldn't be seen?


Henry bit his lip and hurried down to the alleyway below before he lost his nerve and went back. He was already coming up with a course of action, though there was a couple of slight problems to his plan: one, how was he going to find that Hunter? And two, how was he going to get that Hunter to help him? Pressing his back to the alley wall and eyeing the street, he couldn't help but feel like everything had gotten a whole lot bigger.





"And I thought this was a small town." He muttered dryly, before setting out.





Henry's Outfit: Here

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"I'm not leaving you, you dumbass!"


"Henry!" Scott shot up, gasping. He pressed a hand against his chest instinctively, above his right ribs. Fingertips met soft fabric. He glanced at his chest, expecting a bullet hole. The infected wound is gone, including the blood. Confusion washed over him. What happened to his bullet wound? Did Henry save him? No. His roommate is unfamiliar with Nordic Blue Monkshood. Or, wolfsbane in general. Scott regretted omitting important details about his past. Specifically, his adventures in high school. If Henry knew, things would be easier. Knowing his acerbic-tongued roommate, he wouldn't be foolish enough confronting the hunter. Suddenly, realization dawned on his expression. Oh god, is he dead? Scott surveyed his surroundings, anticipating the worse. However, he recognized his setting. His college dorm room. What. The. Hell? Before he could react, the front door opened, revealing...


"Stiles?" Scott breathed, tone radiating disbelief.


Stiles, his best friend, closed the door behind him. "Finally! You're awake! Bout time, Scotty. I thought about dumping cold water on you, but decided against it. I'd like to keep my throat intact, thank you very much," he snarked. He approached Scott's bed, dumping a paper bag on his lap. "Here's breakfast. We have our first exam in two hours, so eat up," he added. Stiles turned around, removed his backpack, and started unpacking it.


He stared at his best friend, struggling to comprehend his situation. Stiles is alive. His best friend is alive. He ignored the paper bag containing, based from the smell, his favorite breakfast sandwich. "How?" Scott croaked.


Stiles craned his neck back, staring at his best friend. A frown marred his lips, noticing Scott's expression. "You alright there, buddy?" he inquired. All of the sudden, a pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling him against a solid chest. He coughed, suppressing a startled yelp. Damn werewolves and their heightened speed. "Uh, Scott? Can't breath," Stiles rasped, patting his friend's back for emphasize.


He stepped back, scratching his head sheepishly. "S-Sorry," Scott mumbled.


"Any reason for the hug attack, Scott?" Stiles questioned.


Scott wanted to laugh. He couldn't believe this is happening. Is he alive? Or, is this his afterlife? He was shot with Nordic Blue Monkshood, so he leaned toward the latter. Surprisingly, this wasn't the craziest moment in his life. Hell, rotters paled in comparison to his high school adventures. "I-I'm fine. Where's Henry?" he dismissed, scanning his surroundings.


He arched an eyebrow. "The angry kitten? He moved out weeks ago. We convinced the board to switch roommates, remember?" Stiles pointed out.


A frown marred his lips. "Wait ... you go to UC Davis? Since when?" Scott demanded.


"Since the moment we got here? You sure you're alright? Did you hit your head in your sleep or something?" Stiles asked. Concern flickered inside his whiskey-brown hues.


His frown deepened. "You enrolled in the Police Academy," Scott deadpanned.


Stiles scoffed. "Not without a full college experience. That's what I told my dad," he countered. He draped a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Look, do I need to call Deaton or something? You're kinda freaking me out," he admitted.


Scott shook his head. "No, no, no ... none of this is right," he muttered. He removed his best friend's hand, pivoted to his left, and plopped on his bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, scratching his head. This couldn't be real. Afterlife or not, this wasn't right.


"I'm not leaving you, you dumbass!"


He lifted his head. "Wait a minute ... what day is it?" Scott asked.


"May 1st ... did you have a nightmare or something?" Stiles guessed.


He froze. May first is the day Stiles called him, warning him about the Apocalypse. Day zero. No, no no - this couldn't be happening. Scott rose into a standing position abruptly, startling his best friend. "We need to leave," he announced. He pivoted to his right, approached their shared closet, and retrieved a large duffel bag. He tossed it on his bed, opened it, and started packing the essentials. "We need to find Henry and haul ass back to Beacon Hills. We'll take your jeep. The airports are useless," he instructed. He bit his lip, recalling his abrasive roommate. Or, former roommate. Is he safe? Where did he move?


Stiles sputtered, disbelief plastering on his face. "Scott, calm down! What's wrong? When did you start caring about Day? He was a freaking nightmare," he reminded.


Scott growled. "Henry's pack," he defended, voice adamant. Five minutes later, he finished packing his bag. He retrieved Stiles's duffel from the closet, opened it, and started packing for his best friend. He didn't have enough patience waiting. They needed to leave Davis. Finding Henry would be tricky, but he memorized his roommate's habits, hangouts, and what not. It wouldn't take much finding him. Minutes later, Scott completed his task. He tossed the duffel at Stiles, slung his bag over his shoulder, and approached the front door. He made a mental note to find a survival pack. Many of his belongings were assembled after leaving Davis.


He caught his bag, albeit clumsily. "Since when? Why are we leaving? Goddammit Scott, answer me!" Stiles snapped.


Disbelief washed over him. How can Stiles be so clueless? "Haven't you watched the news? A mysterious pandemic ring any bells?" Scott countered.


He dropped his duffel bag. "Pandemic? There's no pandemic, Scott! Look, I get it. Exams start today, right? You're freaking out. In a totally insane way, but its not the craziest thing I've seen," Stiles rambled. He stepped forward, grasping his best friend's bicep. "You'll be fine, Scotty. Let's take a deep breath. In and out," he instructed.


"You're wrong," Scott denied. He stared at his best friend, listening to his heartbeat. No blips or ticks. Stiles is telling the truth. His friend is a notorious liar, but his heart never lies. How is this possible? Scott didn't visualize two weeks of hell. The Apocalypse isn't a goddamn dream. Sometimes, he imagined his life without the Apocalypse, but this is ridiculous. "You're wrong," he repeated, tone heated. Without another word, Scott removed his best friend's hand, opened the front door, and froze. A familiar figure stood in front the doorway.


"Henry," Scott breathed. Relief coursed through him. Thank god.


His roommate stood there silently. A hoodie covered his head, masking his face.


He cracked a smile, ignoring his companion's silence. "I was about to look for-" Scott cut himself off. His nostrils flared, recognizing a peculiar odor. Decaying flesh and emptiness. Realization washed over him, eyes widening in horror. "No," he whispered.


His former companion lifted his head, revealing lifeless, milky eyes. Henry, his abrasive friend, is a walker. His lips curled back, exposing black rotted teeth. A guttural snarl escaped his lips, sending shivers down Scott's spine.


Scott stumbled back, bumping into Stiles. "Stiles! You need to-" Teeth pierced his shoulder, eliciting a pained scream. He whipped his head back, spotting his best friend. A very undead best friend. When did that happen? He directed his attention to Henry, who stood at his doorway motionlessly. He raised his hand instinctively. "Henry..." His roommate lunged, aiming for his throat.


He was too late.

​

"...tt...tt...Scott!"


His eyes snapped open. Scott jerked forward, gasping. He pressed a hand against his shoulder, expecting a bite. His fingertips met smooth skin. He glanced at his chest, spotting a roll of bandages secured around his ribs. His bullet wound is real. Scott surveyed his surroundings, recognizing the flat rooftop. The Apocalypse is real. A mixture of disappointment and relief coursed through him. He wasn't crazy. Without warning, Scott shifted on his side, vomiting black sludge. A pained groan escaped his lips. Dammit, he hated wolfsbane.


"Shit! A little warning next time!" a voice sputtered.


Scott froze. He lifted his head, pinpointing the source. "Stiles?" he gasped. Oh god, is this another dream?


Stiles stepped around the puddle of black goo. "About time you woke up. Malia went after the hunter. She'll get your bullet," he announced. He kneeled beside Scott, draping his hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Seriously dude, only you would get shot with freaking Nordic Blue Monkshood in the goddamn Apocalypse," he snarked. He tapped Scott's bandages. "The wound is nasty, so I bandaged it," he added.


"How ... Are the others with you?" Scott inquired, tone hopeful.


He shook his head. "Just me and Malia," Stiles admitted.


His heart clenched. "Are they...?" Scott trailed, anticipating the worse.


"Oh god, no. They're fine. We waited for you for a week, but we had to leave. Argent has a bunker by Death Valley. A family heirloom or something. I wanted to look for you and Malia volunteered," Stiles explained. Honestly, his girlfriend refused to leave him. Not that he was complaining. Her werecoyote abilities kept them safe.


His eyebrows furrowed. "Death Valley?" Scott inquired.


He sat down, flanking his best friend's left side. "Sounds fantastic, doesn't it? Supposedly, the bunker is decked out and everything. Even rumored to have electricity," Stiles pointed out.


Scott carded fingers through his dark hair. "How did you find me?" he questioned. He coughed, wincing in pain. It hurt to breath. His airways were constricted, reminding him of his former asthma.


Stiles tapped his ears. "Even I can hear a Alpha roar, Scott. Plus, we saw your last message," he disclosed, referring to Scott's tree carving.


A fleeting laugh escaped his lips. God, he couldn't believe this is happening. He had his best friend back. "I missed you," Scott confessed softly. He leaned back, resting his head against the stone ledge. Sweat accumulated on his forehead, sliding down his tanned skin. Shivers trickled down his spine, courtesy of a fever. Another sign of his infection. Due to his weakened state, Scott didn't bother moving. Suddenly, it dawned on him. "Did you see Henry?" he questioned, recalling his roommate. Did Henry leave? He doubted it, but where is he? His inner wolf growled, howling in dismay. He hated the thought leaving Henry, especially with a hunter on the loose.


"Your roommate? Malia followed him. Surprised the asshole went after the hunter," Stiles answered.


He stiffened. "What?" Scott attempted moving, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, inducing a pained groan.


Stiles pressed a steadying hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Easy, he'll be fine. Malia will protect him," he assured.


Despite Stiles's assurance, the worry didn't quell inside his chest. His inner wolf screamed to protect. "I thought he left," Scott murmured.


He snorted. "Thought so too. Seriously, though. Henry? You couldn't pick a better traveling companion?" Stiles snarked, arching an eyebrow. Unlike his best friend, Stiles didn't trust Henry. The asshole treated Scott like crap. If he enrolled in UC Davis, he wouldn't hesitate convincing the board to switch roommates.


His lips twitched. "Henry isn't so bad," Scott defended.


"Whatever, I still don't trust the guy," Stiles dismissed.


Scott didn't bother arguing. His best friend had every right. Henry wasn't the most pleasant roommate, but Scott trusted him with his life. His companion is many things, but he isn't Theo Raeken. Whether Stiles liked it or not, Henry is pack. He trusted Malia to keep Henry safe. "He's pack," Scott warned, tone adamant. His eyes drooped, exhaustion washing over him. He rested his temple against the cold stone, closing his eyes. A few minutes later, Scott drifted off, succumbing to slumber's embrace.

 

[Lowkey Gemini]

Henry Day

​

Not knowing where else to go, Henry decided to check the department store first. It was the place where he had last seen the Hunter, and while he wasn't a very good tracker in the least, he figured it was better place to start than any. Hurrying across the street in a defensive position, he held his bow at the ready. Due to Scott's roar, there were rotters everywhere which did not work very well in his favor. There was one group of them in particular that he was worried about. They were growing in number, banding together. Fortunately for him, they were starting to make their way out of the department store. Unfortunately for him, they were traveling in his direction.


He ducked behind a pillar, shooting the few that caught wind of him. He didn't bother to retrieve his arrows, and he disappeared into the eye glasses shop behind him before the whole group took notice of him. The store was far from ransacked; he doubted anything had been taken, though it sure looked like there had been a scuffle. Broken glasses were everywhere and crunched softly underfoot. Along with it were some ominous looking reddish streaks over everything. 'Hopefully there's a door that leads to a back alley or something.' he thought, taking aim and eliminating the few walkers that were wandering about.


Crunch.


Henry froze. Had that been him? He looked down to his feet. Nope. Ears straining, he couldn't hear anything other than that. So, not a walker. Hunter?


Carefully, and as quietly as he could, he pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He could guess where it had come from. Bow drawn back, he whipped around. "Who's there?!"


A girl he didn't recognize stepped out from behind a shelf. "Whoa, you can put the bow down. I'm a friend." She put her hands in the air, although she didn't seem all that scared. She took a step further, and his reaction was to pull the bow back a little more.


"Friend?" He scoffed, scowling. "Who the fuck are you? Why are you following me?"


"Yeah. Friend. I know Scott." She shrugged as if that answered all his questions. Abruptly, she held out her hand for him to take. "I'm Malia."


Henry's frown deepened further, his gaze flicking from her hand to her face. Scott's friend? What, from Beacon Hills? He tried to remember a Malia, but the only friends Scott had mentioned were his best friend Stiles, and a girl named Kira. But then again, Scott didn't talk much about his past. Hardly at all really. Stiles had come up because of the phone calls, and Kira over an extremely weird conversation. Otherwise, the rest of his friends were just referred to as 'pack'. Scott was really big on the whole pack thing. Slowly, he lowered his bow, though he didn't put it away. "Why are you following me?" He prompted again, ignoring her hand.


Malia put her hands on her hips awkwardly when he didn't take her hand. Or introduce himself. Not that it mattered all that much; she knew his name already. "We're both after one of those bullets. I saw you and figured I might as well join you. Where were you heading anyway?"


"Bullets? What bullets?" Henry asked, narrowing his eyes.


"Oh. Great thing I'm here, you don't even know what you're looking for. You know, the bullets to help Scott?" Henry's blank look was the only answer she needed.


Henry studied her for a long moment, trying to figure her out. If she really was Scott's friend like she said she was, then it seemed like she also knew what she was looking for. At least she seemed to think she did. How would a bullet help anyway? But if she wasn't who she said she was, and she was actually a Hunter, he could be falling into a trap. That train of paranoid thought was something he wasn't used to and it was kind of surprising, as well as incredibly draining. It was the type of thought process that ran in circles, with no obvious answer in sight. To trust or not to trust. Both could have catastrophic results.





'Is this what Scott went through all the time back in Beacon Hills? Why would he want to go back?' Henry thought. 'No wonder he never likes to talk about it.'


Slowly, Henry finally put his arrow back in the quiver and lowered his weapon the rest of the way. "I'm Henry. By the way."


"I know." Malia said abruptly and Henry frowned again in response before she smirked. "I mean, Stiles told me."


Henry's frown deepened a little more, though he took that as a sign that she really was who she said she was. Stiles was Scott's best friend, and if he was in the area as well... Henry wasn't sure how he felt about that for some reason. "That's great." He turned and started towards the back of the store, picking his way across the fallen glasses. Malia trailed him, and he could feel her gaze on his back. "I was going to check the last place I saw the Hunter. Better than looking for a needle in a fucking haystack."


"He said you had the mouth of a trucker." Malia snorted. "I might be able to catch the Hunter's scent once we get there."


Henry's gaze cut to her. "I'm a werecoyote." Malia huffed as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.


Henry cocked an eyebrow, pausing in his step to stare at her for a second. Werecoyote? What was next? A werecheetah?


"What?"


"And I thought it couldn't get anymore weird." Henry muttered with a shake of his head, turning a corner to nearly run into a rotter. Before he could react though, Malia shot out in front of him, and took it down with a swift swipe of claws. It crumpled to the ground, and he took a step back to avoid it. She flicked her claws to get rid of some of the blood before retracting them, glancing his way as the glowing blue faded back to brown. He returned her gaze with a glare, pushing past her. "The door's this way."


"What? No thanks?" Malia called after him, wiping her fingers off on her sleeve before following.

​

The moans of the dead were loud enough that he could hear them through the closed door which made him nervous. He had hoped for an empty house, but apparently that wasn't going to be the case. They stayed by the door, looking through the little square of glass that served as a window. Watching. Waiting. Listening. Malia chewed on her lip next to him, growing as impatient as he. "What if we-" He cut her off with a shush. "But-" He silenced her a pointed look and she shut her mouth with a frown accompanied by a glare.


"The bullet was laced with a special form of wolfsbane. I'm good as dead."


Scott had sounded so sure, so defeated. How long did it take for wolfsbane to kill a werewolf? Each minute that passed felt like eternity. Like a timed clock, except instead of an annoying buzzer when that time ran out, death awaited at the end. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he watched a rotter ambled past the tiny window, then as it passed again.


"When I say go, run for the alleyway."


"I have an idea." Henry murmured to Malia, backing up and looping his bow over his back. He searched the ground for a hefty-enough rock and found a nicely-sized fallen brick. 'Bingo.'


"Stay here." With that he hurried off as quietly as possible around the back towards the front of the store. A couple of walkers noticed him from where he weaved through the alley, but after a couple of whacks from the brick he held, they weren't any trouble. Coming up to the front of the store, he peeked around the corner. Walkers were still streaming in and out - though mostly out - of the storefront and it hardly made a dent on the number that remained inside. Henry scanned the premises for a good window to break, and one that was close enough that they would hear. The window of the truck they had been hiding behind the first time around, as well as it being close enough for him to be able to hit it. It was kind of a depressing thought, that while they had spent all this time wrong around the town, they weren't that far from where they had started.


Lifting the brick over his shoulder, he took aim and threw it as hard as he could. For a moment, he was almost afraid he had fallen short but the brick hit it's target, shattering the glass. However, that wasn't the only loud thing that had sounded.


BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.


The truck had apparently run out of gas, but it clearly still had enough battery power for the car alarm to start wailing. While it attracted the rotters like bees to honey, that wasn't the only thing it would be attracting.


"What the hell is that?!" Malia cried, as he ran up to her. "What did you do?"


"Broke a window." Henry threw his shoulder into the door and after a second shove it opened with ease. "Be quick. As much as I do love the prospect of seeing Mr. Gung-Ho again..."


He trailed off when the car alarm abruptly fell silent. "Uh, cars can do that themselves right?" Malia asked, eliminating a couple of walkers that hadn't joined the others in checking out the car.


"No." Henry swallowed thickly, looking to her before hurrying into the shop. "This way."


"Do you know how many Hunters could be coming?" Malia whispered to him, as he lead her through the aisles. The alarm hadn't gone off for that long - the speed at which it had been silenced was unsettling - but it had been enough to get the majority of the rotters to leave. Henry just hoped that the Hunters, if they had been the ones to shut down the car alarm, they wouldn't look in the department store first.


"No."


"Well, do you -"


"No." Henry stopped and turned in a circle. There was some smattering of blood from where Scott had been shot. "Here."


"This is where you saw this guy last?" At his nod, she began to wander about sniffing like a dog. If he hadn't seen Scott do it before, he would've found it extremely ... unsettling. As she did her thing, he kept watch, pulling his bow from his back along with an arrow.





"All I smell is you and Scott and ... rot." Malia crinkled her nose.


"Whoop-di-do. Not my problem." Henry muttered, taking out a couple of walkers that came a little too close for comfort.


"You're an ass."


'I get that a lot' was what he meant to say, before the swish of the door opening interrupted him. They both ducked and exchanged a look. Nothing had to be spoken. Malia crept away, silently. He just hoped the same thing he had \tried to convey had been the same thing she had received. If the Hunters were here, she wouldn't need to pick up a scent. And if they weren't, they'd have all the time to find it. He did have to bet however, that it was the former. They were just having a crappy enough day as it was. He kind of hoped it was; he wanted it over soon. The longer he spent apart from Scott as he lay dying, the more anxious Henry became.


"Oh, wolfie, wolfie, wolfie. You in here?" A voice drawled, not the same one as before, but it was clear he was a Hunter. What other sane person would call someone a wolf? Though Henry was uncertain as to who this guy thought he was. Did he know Malia was with him? He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly going dry, as he heard the Hunter stalk throughout the store, shifting clothing racks noisily. "Aw, come out. Let's make this quick."


Henry remained silent, and he didn't hear Malia speak up either so he took that as a good sign, hoping she was doing something to get the jump on the Hunter.


"How's your buddy doing huh? Heard my friend shot him. Must be pretty gruesome, watching him die." He moved a rack not to far from the one Henry crouched behind, making him wince. The anxiety coupled with anger made his skin crawl. Where was Malia? What was she doing? Had she even understood what he was trying to tell her? He really regretted not even trying to speak to her.


"Unless you made it quick." His laugh was sharp and cruel. "You werewolves are pretty sick. He was an alpha right? Did you take his power?" Another rack was moved, this time a little bit closer. Henry gritted his teeth."You the big bad alpha now? I wouldn't be surprised. I would toss away my friend's life for that kind of power." He paused to move another rack. "But then again, it would make me a monster and a killer."


Finally he stood up, too pissed to be cautious. 'Please tell me Malia's somewhere' he pleaded internally. "Oh, you know. It's not like you're anything like that now."


The man turned, and the grin that stretched across his face was even more sickening than his voice. He was missing his two front teeth, and the rest were a gross yellow color. Went perfectly with his personality. "Well looky here. Our wolf's finally come out to play." Henry tried to reach for his bow, but the Hunter aimed a gun at his head and shook a finger. "Ah, ah. Now that's no fun. You have to play by the rules if we're going to do this game."


There was a childish glee in his eyes, that almost made Henry shudder. Did he really enjoying killing werewolves that much? What kind of person took such joy in killing things, even if those things weren't human?


Henry snorted, his gaze flickering briefly to the side as he dropped his hand back to his side. "I have a game. Let's play 'Hide and Get the Hunter'."


The Hunter laughed. With a click the safety was off. "You think you're so clever. That doesn't even make sense," the Hunter sneered.


"Yeah, yeah it kind of does." As if they had practiced it, Malia stepped right up and knocked the man out with the handle of her gun and he crumpled like a bag of wet sand.


"What took you so long?" He huffed, watching as Malia went digging around in the guy's bags.


"Shut up. He wasn't alone you know. I had to take out two other people before this guy." Malia grunted, before finally coming up with a triumphant look and a little pouch. Pulling it open, she revealed a least a clip's worth of bullets. "Got'cha. Let's get these to Scott."


Henry looked at them skeptically. "Those are really going to help him?"


"Yes. Now let's go." Malia went to pass him, and he grabbed the pouch from her fingers as she did. She gave him an incredulous look. "I still don't know you," he replied with a slight frown, heading out the way they had come in.


"But I helped get those bullets!" She protested, reaching for them.


"I don't care." He stuffed them in his jacket pocket before she could grab them. He wasn't quite sure what he was so paranoid; she had helped get them in the first place after all and she had been the one to tell him what would help in the first place. He didn't even know what he was supposed to do with them anyways. But she had showed up out of the blue, and he'd only known for a grand total of half an hour or so. He'd rather play it safe, than be sorry. They lapsed into silence as they headed back to the building where Scott and Stiles waited until finally Malia broke it. "'Hide and Get the Hunter'?" She asked with a snort.


"Shut up."

​

The group of walkers that had left the department store for the street took a couple of minutes to skirt around, though the Hunters, they presumed had picked quite a number off. Henry was glad to be close to finished with their little adventure. The closer they got however, the more he was reminded of how long he had been gone. How long had it been exactly? Half an hour? An hour? It felt like eternity to him.


Malia kept glancing his way, able to see the worry clear on his face. He wasn't good at hiding it. If he even was trying to. Not only that but he reeked of it. "You're worrying about him." She stated, returning his gaze evening when he glanced her way in surprise.


"No." He said bluntly, looking away to regain his composure. He hadn't realized it was so present in his expression.


"You care about him," she insisted. "You wouldn't be walking so fast if you weren't worrying about him."


"I need to pee." He replied deadpan, glad that they reached the ladder. He was well aware she'd be able to tell he was lying - an annoying ability of werewolves. She did drop the subject as together they made it up onto the roof.


Henry had to remind himself not to panic and draw his bow when he saw the figure on the next to Scott. Another male, with surprisingly pretty eyes. "You must be the infamous Stiles." His tone was cold and very clearly unimpressed. His gaze did soften a little when he saw Scott's chest had been bandaged. "You up Scott?" He asked, his focus shifting. Sliding his pack and bow from his shoulders, he moved closer, dropping to crouch down next to him. "Malia says these will help."

 

[NightmareMoon]

Scott McCall

"How have you been?" Scott inquired, sipping his cappuccino.


"I, uh, I been good," Kira answered cheerfully.


A tad too cheerful, but Scott ignored it. They were currently nestled in a corner at Scott's favorite café in Davis, drinking coffee. A few months passed since their last encounter. Specifically, graduation. Months prior, Kira left Beacon Hills, joining the Skinwalkers. He hated the distance, but supported his girlfriend's decision. Although his last experience with Skinwalkers wasn't pleasant, he trusted Kira's judgement. Whether he liked it or not, her inner fox was out of control. If she believed the Skinwalkers could help tame the fox, he wouldn't interfere. Truthfully, Scott didn't anticipate Kira attending graduation. He shouldn't feel that way, but months of separation grated on his patience. He masked his frustrations behind his optimistic demeanor, fooling half his pack. Everyone, except Stiles. After thirteen years of friendship, he couldn't hide anything from Stiles. One way or the other, his best friend found out. God, Stiles can read him like an open book. When Kira arrived, he was ecstatic. Unfortunately, his happiness was short-lived. After graduation, Kira left again, claiming her business with the Skinwalkers wasn't over. Watching her leave conflicted him. Scott loved his girlfriend. A part of him supported her, but the distance killed him. His inner wolf hated the separation. He endured his last semester of high school without Kira. As her Alpha, Scott approved her determination taming her fox spirit. As her boyfriend, Scott didn't want her to leave. It was selfish, but he couldn't help it. How long would it take? Months? Years? Could he wait that long?


No.


After careful consideration, Scott ended things. He'll never stop supporting Kira, but his heart couldn't take it anymore. Thankfully, Kira understood. Their break-up was painful, but they vowed to remain friends. Now, they were together inside his favorite café. What others perceived a coffee date, Scott considered it a friendly chat with his pack mate. A few days ago, Kira called him, revealing her training is complete. With her mother's assistance, she planned enrolling in UCLA, majoring in Architecture. Before moving to Los Angeles, Kira stopped by Davis for a visit.


"You sure? You're fidgeting," Scott pointed out, placing his Styrofoam cup on the table.


Kira bit her lip. "I..." She heaved a sigh. "I'm nervous about my application. What happened if they don't accept it?" she admitted. She fingered her cup absentmindedly. "Not all of us has the brains getting a full ride to Stanford," she muttered, recalling one of her best friends, Lydia.


His lips twitched with amusement. "Not all of us are Lydia Martin," Scott countered. His comment earned a snort. He softened his gaze, staring at his former girlfriend. A warm smile adorned his face. "You'll be accepted. If I, of all people, can be accepted by UC Davis, you're a shoo-in for UCLA," he pointed out. Scott remembered the genuine shock he felt. He didn't anticipate his application being accepted. His grades were adequate, but they weren't perfect. Three years of supernatural shenanigans ruined his perfect record.


She smiled hesitantly. This is why she visited Scott. His assurance didn't quell her anxiety, but his boundless optimism inspired her. Honestly, she thought conversing with her ex-boyfriend would be awkward, but it wasn't. Scott is the type of guy everyone loved. Even the coldest of hearts couldn't resist his warm, gentle demeanor. Well, maybe Theo Raeken, but he didn't count. Neither did Peter Hale. Or, the other psychopaths they endured in high school. Bottom line, their enemies were exempt from the equation. "I hope so," Kira mused. She drained the rest of her coffee and rested her cup on the table. "So, tell me about this roommate of yours. Is he cute? How long have you been roommates?" she inquired. She remembered a few descriptions Stiles described, but none were remotely positive.


"He's snarky. Really snarky. Almost bad as Stiles," Scott supplied. And downright offensive, but he refrained mentioning that. "We been rooming together since October, so ... six months?" he added. It was middle of April, the seventeenth to be exact. Sometimes, he couldn't believe half a year passed.


Kira arched an eyebrow. "Is he cute?" she pressed.


His eyebrows furrowed. "I guess?" Scott replied. Honestly, he found Day appealing. The boy's abrasive attitude made things difficult, but he couldn't deny Henry's attractiveness. The majority of people considered him straight. In a way, he thought so too. However, Scott never fully contemplated his sexuality. During his Freshman year at high school, he was painfully awkward and asthmatic, focusing on lacrosse and his best friend's craziness. Being a social outcast didn't help. Sophomore year, he was bitten by a psychotic werewolf. Since that night, everything changed. Protecting Beacon Hills from the dangers of the Supernatural realm ruined his chances formulating a decision. Now, after six months of college, Scott realized he didn't care about gender. He fell in love with Allison because she's Allison. He loved Kira since she's Kira. Gender wasn't the reason. Henry might be borderline sadistic, but Scott admired his brutal honesty. He wouldn't admit it, but Henry is cute. In a angry kitten-kind of way.


She blinked. "Oh my god, I know that expression. You totally like him!" Kira exclaimed, gaining a few peculiar looks.


Scott, who sipped his cappuccino, choked. He coughed, patting his chest firmly. "What? I don't like him!" he protested. Acknowledging attractiveness is one thing, but feelings were a different story.


Kira snorted. "You're oblivious. Oh my god, you don't even realize it, do you?" she remarked, referring to his dazed expression.


A frown marred his lips. "I'm not oblivious," Scott denied. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed his empty cup on the table. "I don't like him," he repeated firmly.


She pursed her lips. "Are you straight?" Kira questioned.


He shrugged. "I don't care about gender. I prefer not labeling it," Scott dismissed. He contemplated Bisexual, but decided against it. A better description would be Pansexual. When it involved relationships, he cared about his significant other, not their gender.


"So ... you do like him," Kira teased. Her brown eyes glinted with amusement.


Scott scratched the back of his neck. "We're just friends. Or ... acquaintances or whatever," he muttered. His relationship with his roommate is complicated. He wouldn't mind becoming friends, but Henry is antisocial. He doubted his roommate would accept it. "I'm not sure he sways that way," he admitted.


Her smile widened. "Worrying about sexuality is the first step. Admit it, Scott, you like him," Kira pointed out.


He heaved a sigh. Arguing with Kira is pointless. Sometime later, Scott escorted Kira back to her hotel. Thankfully, his ex-girlfriend dropped the subject. For awhile, Scott ignored their conversation, shoving it inside the darkest corner of his mind. Before he knew it, the Apocalypse condemned humanity, including the Supernatural realm. During his two weeks of hell, Scott mentioned his ex-girlfriend in a conversation involving Kitsunes. Normally, talking about Kira didn't bother him. However, that moment, a familiar memory tugged at his psyche. Against all odds, he recalled his talk at the café. Specifically, the moment Kira teased him about liking Henry. At first, he denied her accusation. On the other hand, traveling with Henry changed everything. It made him realize Kira was right. He did like Henry. God, ending his conversation involving Kira was awkward. How could he be goddamn clueless? Why did it take the fucking Apocalypse to recognize his feelings?


Fate is a goddamn bitch.

​

"You must be the infamous Stiles.


A scowl carved on his face. "And you're the angry kitten," Stiles deadpanned, tone glacial. He returned the glare full force. His expression screamed, I'm not impressed either, jackass. He rose into a standing position, fighting the urge to shield his best friend. Pack or not, Stiles didn't trust Henry. If Scott wasn't filled with rainbows and puppies, he'd suggest leaving the asshole. He glanced over Henry's shoulder, noticing his girlfriend. His cold gaze softened significantly. Relief coursed through him. Stiles didn't doubt his girlfriend's strength, but the Apocalypse made things difficult. Without another word, Stiles approached Malia, wrapping his arms around her. She returned the gesture, scent-marking his neck instinctively. Since the moment they separated from the pack, this became a tradition, or ritual of sorts. A few seconds later, Stiles stepped back, wrapping a loose arm around his girlfriend's waist. He pivoted to his right, facing Scott's direction. He watched the scene silently, keeping a close eye on his best friend's roommate.


"You were right. He is a sourpuss," Malia stated bluntly.


His lips twitched, but Stiles didn't comment. Some things never changed, including his girlfriend's straightforwardness.


"You up, Scott?"


A groan pierced through the air. "Henry?" Scott rasped, voice hoarse. He opened his eyes, flinching from the harsh light. He lurched forward, coughing. Speckles of black sludge spewed past his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grateful Stiles cleaned his hands. His fever worsened, evident by the sweat drenching his tanned skin. All of the sudden, his nostrils flared, detecting a familiar scent. His eyes widened in disbelief. "You retrieved a bullet?" he breathed, wincing from the scratchiness in his throat. Vomiting black sludge strained his airways.


"We retrieved the bullet. He didn't know what he was looking for," Malia interjected. She folded her arms across her chest. "He would of gotten himself killed," she added.


Scott rubbed his throat absentmindedly. "Right. Thank you. Both of you. I ... I should of told you sooner. About the wolfsbane and ..." Everything. He retracted his hand and scratched the back of his head, chocolate brown hues reflecting genuine remorse. When his roommate presented the bullets, Scott accepted the pouch. He brandished a single bullet, dropped the pouch, and removed his bandages. His infection intensified, the wound festering blackish-purple puss. Dark veins surrounded the inflamed bullet hole, enhancing his infection.


Stiles averted his gaze. "Oh god, and I thought Derek's was bad," he complained. Give him walkers any day. Despite the world ending, he hated festering wounds. Or, any severe-looking wounds. Stiles prided himself not passing out, but it didn't improve his situation. Rotters were worse, but he accepted the inevitable. Their grotesque appearance and putrefactive smell sickened him, but it didn't hinder him.


He ignored his best friend's outburst. Some things never changed. Scott tore the bullet open with his fangs, dumping the powdery wolfsbane on the ground. Malia stepped in, offering him a match. He thanked her, ignited the match, and torched the wolfsbane. Once the powder reduced to ash, Scott scooped the black substance in his right hand. He breathed in deeply and pressed the ashes directly on his bullet wound. His ribs exploded with pain, eliciting an agonized scream. His eyes flashed a brilliant crimson. Fuck, it burned. Scott removed his hand, panting. The dark veins surrounding his wound vanished. His skin knitted back together, banishing all signs of his infection. He rested his head against the stone ledge, regaining his breath. Regardless surviving his near-death experience, his blood loss weakened him. His fever broke, but his body needed time to rejuvenate. "That is Nordic Blue Monkshood, a rare breed of wolfsbane. Without a cure, a werewolf has forty-eight hours to live," he explained, directing his comment to Henry. Stiles handed him a water bottle. He accepted it, unscrewed the lid, and guzzled half the bottle. "The only way to cure the infection is using the burnt ashes of the powdered wolfsbane inside a bullet," he elaborated. Scott screwed the lid shut, handed Stiles his bottle, and rose into a standing position. He staggered a bit, but stabilized himself. He retrieved his backpack, slung it on his back, and picked up his crossbow.


"What do we do now?" Malia inquired. She scanned the streets, inspecting the walkers. The horde is growing bigger and bigger. The Alpha roar combined with the car alarm attracted several rotters.


Scott retrieved the pouch, stored the bullets inside his pack, and adjusted his straps. "Are you two low on supplies?" he questioned. He coughed, rubbing his throat. His healing factor repaired the damage to his ribs, but other areas needed more time.


Stiles shook his head. "We ransacked a town a few hours back. We have plenty to share," he answered, patting his pack for emphasize.


He inclined his head. "Good. We can share our supplies. This town is too dangerous to raid, so we need to leave. How far is Death Valley from here?" Scott asked. The name sounded intimidating, but he trusted his best friend's directions. If Stiles claimed Argent had a bunker in Death Valley, he wouldn't doubt him. Knowing his pack is alive filled him with overwhelming relief. The fall of Beacon Hills, his territory, saddened him, but it wasn't a total loss.


"A week on foot," Stiles admitted. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "But I have Roscoe. So ... a few days? That's if we're lucky. This is the fucking Apocalypse, so don't get your hopes up," he continued.


His eyebrows furrowed. "Your crappy jeep is still running?" Scott remarked.


He scoffed. "I told you Roscoe is reliable! She hasn't given up on us yet," Stiles announced triumphantly.


Scott snorted. He pivoted to his left, facing Henry. "Beacon Hills is overrun. A friend of our's has a bunker in Death Valley. That's where the rest of our pack is. Stiles can lead us there," he explained. He produced a short-sleeved maroon henley from his pack and slipped it on, including his signature distressed jacket. After securing his belongings, Scott peered over the edge. He surveyed the streets, watching the growing herd. If they didn't move, they would be stranded on the roof, surrounded by a horde of flesh-eating monsters. He hasn't fully recovered from the wolfsbane, but he couldn't afford resting.


Stiles flanked his best friend's right side, witnessing the large herd. "Holy- Are you fucking kidding me? You just had to roar, didn't you," he snarked. He grumbled obscenities underneath his breath, cursing their rotten luck. Truthfully, he blamed Henry. He contemplated sacrificing the asshole, but decided against it. One, Scott wouldn't forgive him. Two, his best friend would protect Henry with his life. Stupid Alphas and their goddamn instincts. "Got any ideas, Einstein?" he huffed. Stiles carded fingers through his dark hair, suppressing the urge to flail his limbs. "While you're at it, are we seriously keeping him?" he added, jabbing his thumb in Henry's direction. He couldn't help it. Nowadays, trust is a delicate commodity. If Henry proven to be a threat, he wouldn't hesitate ending the jackass. Consequences be damned.


His eyes flashed an Alpha red. "Henry is pack," Scott reminded adamantly. He pressed a hand against his face, breathing in deeply. Fighting is the last thing he wanted. His inner wolf felt threatened, so he needed to calm down. God, Stiles can be a paranoid son of a bitch. "He's one of us, so don't start, Stiles," he defended. Scott retracted his hand, turned around, and approached the fire escape. Hopping the rooftops was his first choice, but he vetoed the idea. The distance between buildings is too far, especially for his human companions. "Where is Roscoe parked?" he asked. Scott slung his crossbow on his back, over his backpack.


"South, hidden in the trees, off the road," Stiles answered.


Malia flanked her boyfriend's left side. "It's not far from this location. If we take this alleyway, there's a chance we can avoid the horde, but we need to be fast. We can't afford distractions," she informed. She glanced behind her shoulder, inspecting Henry. "He smells injured. Can he run?" she demanded.


Scott recalled his roommate's busted ribs. "He'll be fine," he assured. He craned his neck back, staring at his companion. "Right, Henry?" he added. He preferred not aggravating Henry's injuries, but they didn't have a choice. If the horde multiplied, escaping would be impossible. Without another word, Scott hopped over the ledge and scaled down the ladder, keeping his eyes peeled for rotters. A few walkers ambled through the alleyway, but he terminated them immediately. He retrieved his bolts, sheathed them, and faced the opposite direction of the department store. Or, their previous entrance. He maneuvered through the alleyway, pressed his back against the brick wall, and peered around the corner. The opposite direction revealed a row of houses, including a view of the forest. To his relief, the horde condensed near the shopping stores, not the houses. However, they couldn't afford lowering their guard. All it takes is a single walker to expose their location.


"This way," Stiles whispered, pointing at the cluster of trees leading to the forest. He brandished a machete, posed to attack. Sadly, he lost his aluminium bat days after the Apocalypse condemned the world.


Malia flicked her fingertips, summoning her claws. She carried a few weapons, but preferred using her claws. Among the pack, she had the best sense of smell. "We need to move now. The horde is starting to notice us," she declared, motioning to the group of rotters behind them.


A wave of protection washed over him. "Malia, you're in front. Stiles, you take left. Henry, right. I'll cover the back," Scott instructed. Together, they formed a diamond-like formation. One in front, two in the middle, and one in the back. He ushered his pack forward, heading toward the grove of trees. Scott loaded his crossbow and kept it raised, ready to fire. A few walkers approached them, but they were eliminated. Like Malia said, Scott heard the pounding footsteps not too far behind him. The herd is following them. Instead panicking, Scott focused guiding his friends to safety. Fifteen minutes later, after maneuvering through the forest, they approached Stiles' light-blue jeep.


"You parked this close to a uncharted town?" Scott commented, frowning.


Stiles rolled his eyes. "Oh my god, now isn't time Scotty. Give me a lecture after we escape the goddamn herd!" he snapped. He was aware parking this close was dangerous, but he didn't care. Due to their current situation, he made the right decision.


While Stiles started his jeep, Scott ushered Henry in the back seat. He joined his roommate, leaving the passenger seat for Malia. Once everyone was secured, his best friend peeled out of the clearing, driving to the closest back road. Fortunately, they evaded the ravenous horde, who followed them. Scott leaned back, resting his crossbow on his lap. "Mission accomplished," he muttered, referring to his first priority. Locate a working vehicle.