Chapter Text
Driving in a car with three men, all stoic and introverted, should feel like a time of peace and reflection for me, but, instead, it's made the entire drive to California feel ten times longer than it actually is. I debated for a silent hour, whether to play the radio to fill the quiet space, until the obsessive jitter in my leg grabbed Derek's attention.
Usually, when driving with anyone else, say Liam for example, he will throw his feet up on my dashboard and point in a direction, telling me to go. He had no problem turning on any music or fidgeting with buttons he shouldn't, nor filling the silence to talk about school, the pack, or other random things that popped up into his tiny brain.
Mason and Corey were the same way. I got used to the silence being filled, without my consent.
Later, I was then used to being completely alone. No one else to think about but myself when going out on an assignment or being on my own.
After a minute of my short glances around the car, and down at the touch-screen stereo for the umpteenth time, Derek sighs, before reluctantly reaching over and turning on a random station.
Well, maybe it would have been best to leave the radio off.
Whoever had used this SUV last was listening to Country music. When Dolly Parton's 'nine to five' came on, I could see the strain in Derek's jaw from my peripheral vision. But, he didn't move to change it, so we all sat stiff, listening to the bothersome ironic song in the cramped space.
"What the hell is this?" Hernandez suddenly blurts. I peer into the rear view mirror to see him eying me in distaste, the lively music still filtering through the speakers. He shakes his head twice before frowning at the center dash. Change it, his expression tells me— I know the twenty three year old loves terrible rap, and I'm not listening to that crap either.
My fingers tap at the steering wheel, more and more impatient with the song, and a small smirk twitches onto my face before quickly changing the station again. Rock music, and Hernandez bops his head to the tune.
I look over at Derek, who's tilted his head downward with the faintest smile of amusement, before he drops the expression completely, and continues to stare out the passenger window. The tension slowly withering in the car to a more comfortable silence.
We arrive in Yreka, California, after three and a half hours of consistent driving. It's nearly ten in the morning when I park outside of the theatre, right on the outskirts of the reservoir of the city. We all climb out of the car and begin gearing up.
I finish tightening my chest guard when Johnstone reaches forward handing me an M-4. The dark metal of the gun is cold to touch and weighs heavy in my hands. I've had many discontent thoughts about bringing claws to a gun fight, similar to bringing a knife to a fist fight; Arguing with Argent about the disadvantage.
"Fine. But you'll need to learn some proper gun etiquette.'"
That training led to weeks of random kidnappings, being tied down in restraints, target practice, and learning more tactical combat than necessary. That was a miserable few weeks to put it lightly. But I also picked it up quickly. Argent had begrudgingly stated that I was a fast learner, which was great in his case, so that I wasn't wasting his time.
Now I get to hold a gun.
Hernandez and I move forward first, while Johnstone and Derek flank us. We cross the dry desert toward the water supply operating theatre. The fence surrounding the area is cut open, sloppily, presumably by Monroes team, yet the entrance to the building is chained up, using a fresh and prestine looking padlock.
We move through the hole in the fence, and cross the rest of the way.
The metal trim of the door to the theatre holds the same Dread Doctor decal, of a snake eating its tail, the unrequited familiarity of the area pricking at the hairs on my neck, making me feel on edge.
I reach forward to grab the padlock, and tear it off, unraveling the chains wrapped around the handles.
I'm the first to step into the concrete building, familiar feelings of anxiety kicking into overdrive that I try my upmost best to push deep down. The last time I had stepped foot in here, I was cornered by two men with machine guns, and just when I had thought I had escaped; mere feet away from my truck, I was shot.
The four of us make our way through the dark dank halls of the theatre. It smells of mold and water damage, as well as familiar chemical elixirs the doctors used to pump their experiments, and themselves with. The smells make my wolf-sensitive nose crinkle, and it burns at my throat. Dereks disgusted expression mirrors mine.
Some time later were down a flight of stairs into the main area. The place had been ravaged, examining tables knocked over, books torn through, pages spread all across the floor, wet with puddles of shattered glass and different variations of liquids.
Some of which, could be pages from journals or manuals regarding L'Usurpateur, but are too destroyed to read. Ink smudged, and pages torn from the sensitivity of being soaked and walked over.
Before Monroe's team, the area looked untouched. Bookshelves and random objects covered in layers of dust, old large jars holding obscene objects, and random corners of decomposing skeletal systems. Old experiments left to rot for years.
I'd become so accustomed to this life, the gore, the pain, the darkness. Now that the cloak has been lifted, I feel a form of loathing, or repulsion, that I cant quite describe.
"Well they definitely seemed to be looking for something," Hernandez grimaces, nudging the tip of his gun at a dried, oxygen-exposed fetus, that very likely sat in a jar of unknown fluids until recently. I swallow vile coating my mouth.
None of the doctors experiments have ever failed to make me nauseous.
"But what were they looking for?" Derek asks, eyes scanning the area. I continue to do the same.
It doesn't look like they took much, if anything at all. Left valuable weapons thrown in the scatter, and instead, the only thing I can really notice is gone: black wolfsbane. The same wolfsbane that the doctors would use to weaken their experiments, preparing them for surgery.
What in the hell would Monroe need with that? Weapons? Kidnappings? Maybe both? Unless she's taken on experimenting too, and I wouldn't put it past her. "Black wolfsbane. That seems to be the only thing she took." I announce, walking over a puddle of green thick sludge on the ground.
Derek's questioning eyes lift to me, as I stare back at him knowingly— what does Monroe want with black wolfsbane?
"Well, she obviously really wanted it," Johnstone guesses, wordlessly gesturing to the visual state of this theatre. But destroying everything else seems purposeful.
"But why?" I question out loud, welcoming any ideas. No one has any. So we continue our search stumped.
With a superior amount of effort, we find nothing more of importance to note, and we leave the theatre untouched. I don't begin my way upstairs without a wordless apology to the many rotted corpses left here to the dark by the doctors. They'd deserved so much more than the outcome they'd had.
--
Johnstone drives us home, but not without stopping at one of Hernandez' favorite places, a small Chinese restaurant, closely resembling a little hole in the wall, but as a miniature cabin in the woods. Where the restaurant is the entire first floor, and the owners live on the second.
Apparently the people who own the place know Hernandez quite well too, giving him a pat on the shoulder when we had first walked in. When the small elderly lady had wobbled over, and asked him if he wanted the usual, I nearly felt bad that she has had to take his order that many times, to know it by heart. Especially for the amount of food this guy could eat. Three entrees all to himself.
I ordered the house special, same as Derek. Some type of rice, and some type of chicken.
The owner and her son carried the food out to the four of us when it was finished, and remembered without needing to ask who got what.
My plate looked pretty average compared to whatever the hell Hernandez had got himself, and he had told us that he wouldn't be sharing.
Half way through my meal, I'm full, and slide it to my side, and when Derek does the same, I ask him, "Why is Scott coming back to Veneta so soon?"
Derek eyes me, and swallows whatever was left in his mouth before clearing his throat. "Don't know."
His shoulders shrug, and my brows lift knowingly. Liar.
"You don't know, or you cant tell me?"
Dereks eyes narrow, "Can't tell you."
I sigh with a roll of my eyes, denying the offer that comes a second later, for a to-go container. Hernandez's immediate exasperated expression had me changing my mind in an instant, practically seeing a tantrum brewing.
"Fine, yes please. One." I turn back to Derek, "Why cant you tell me?"
"Probably because your not supposed to know," Hernandez explains to me, matter-of-factly.
I snort as his interrupting words, "But you do?" His smile dwindles some, face paling. Of course he would know. "Tell me," I say to him, kicking his shin.
Ow, he complains, reaching down to rub at the spot.
"Stop being a Stiles, and just wait to ask him yourself," Derek interrupts, unimpressed by the two of us.
He couldn't have offended me more, than ever comparing me to Stiles. I scowl at him in disgust, and Derek doesn't react to my expression, just stands, throwing a hundred, and twenty dollar bill to the table, nodding his head toward the door, in a silent request for us all to follow him outside.
We do.
--
Our last stop is at my least favorite gas station in the city, right at the edge of Eugene, filling the SUV like required when using Argents company vehicles. There's an unusual amount of people here right now, but were on the outskirts of a college campus, and its a Friday night. So maybe it's not so unusual after all.
It still feels unmistakably unsettling; the last time I was at a crowded gas station, I was walking around with a bullet wound in my stomach, dying. The visual memory of it all, leaves goosebumps to prick at my skin. Acknowledging that the scenario from a few days ago, was possibly the closest to death I've ever been, or at least it had certainly felt like it.
I think about stocking up my truck, pushing down the need to shiver at the memory, thinking I could beat two birds with one stone being here. So when Hernandez jumps out of the car to sprint to the bathroom to pee, I follow after him, pace much slower, making a small list in my head.
I need more toothpaste, some power aid, and possibly more instant noodles; Maruchan chicken. I can always use the opportunity to pick up more.
Hernandez slips into the building as fast as possible, bladder apparently overfilled, the door swinging back and fourth in his wake, and I approach the entrance, ready to push forward when someone else pushes it back.
"Hey Theo," Mason says, confusion picking at the edges of his eyebrows. He immediately looks around me, searching the parking lot for my vehicle, and when he spots the familiar black SUV, he lifts a hand to wave. I turn my neck to see Derek staring in our direction, spying like he does, and nodding once to Mason in acknowledgment. Peachy.
"Another assignment?" he guesses, already sounding peeved. Which I've honestly had enough of. In my silent moment of annoyance I notice how dirty his shoes and the knees of his pants are.
I step around him and his tattered clothes, noting exactly where to go to grab my groceries. "Clearly," I agree, not wanting to play the game of tag, back and fourth bickering and the guessing game of 'what can Theo possibly be doing now'.
Mason snorts, unimpressed and steps away, as do I.
It doesn't take me long to grab my refills, dropping them to the counter in front of me. The person at the counter scans my items at a koala's pace. Slower than necessary, and she keeps eyeing me from beneath her curly bangs, a flash of intention in her eye. "How're you doing today?" she asks me, volume of her casual voice, kept low.
"I'm doing okay."
She nods her head, smiling a little too brightly, "The blue one is my favorite," she tells me, and I look down to the blue power aid she scans and places into the plastic grocery bag; the bright red 'thank-you' logo, repeated on the outside of it.
"Me too," I lie, because my favorite is red, but they're out of stock and I couldn't find a more brief response.
"Would you like to pay with cash or card today?" she asks, typing something out on the small screen in front of her. I hold the cash out to her, using the last of it to pay for the items. She accepts my wordless answer.
I'll get paid again on the first, and then I can fill my tank.
I turn toward Hernandez who approaches to my right, and he stretches his arms above his head, with a slight groan. "Here you go," the girl says, and I turn back to her.
"Thank you," I respond, and after grabbing my bag, she calls out to the both of us as we open the door to leave.
"Check the receipt!"
Hernandez looks back to her, but I don't, I instead continue my way toward the SUV. Derek and Mason conversing, and leaning against it. "Well are you going to check the receipt?" Hernandez questions, curiosity getting the best of him, as I toss the bag into the back seat of the car.
"No. It's just her number," I say straight faced, not exactly caring if I were being honest. It's not the first time someones hit on me, and shamelessly provided me with information I never asked for, nor necessarily actually wanted. When standing straight to shut the door, Hernandez's eyebrows shoot up.
He snaps his neck, looking back to the entrance of the store. "You asked for her number?"
I stare at him, the confusion written all over his face, and roll my eyes. "No, I saw her writing it when you came up to me."
"You asked for a girls number?" Mason butts in from beside me, and then I shake my head, fully exasperated.
"No, I didn't ask for anybody's number."
"When?" Hernandez digs, and I glare in his direction, annoyed about the sudden prying of my life choices. He looks offended that he wasn't the one that received the girls number instead, so I reach back in, and rummage through the bag, taking the receipt out with bright blue ink scribbled across the top of it.
"Here," I say, shoving the receipt in his hand, my day becoming significantly more grim, "You have it, I'm not interested."
I don't care about someone's number, I'm more concerned about supernatural, autonomy-controlling devices being held in mass murdering hands.
"Why not? She was cute," he questions me, like I'm crazy for the disinterest, but pockets the receipt anyway.
"Does Theo really strike you for the dating type?" Johnstone comments from the front seat— an unnecessary comment— fiddling with his phone in his hands, and Mason laughs at the suggestion.
I glower at the comment.
I could be dating material. "She's not my type," I say, and I end it at that, hopping into my seat, and closing the door behind me. Ending the conversation altogether.
--
Mason follows us back to the A.A.A— Triple A, Corey had called it at dinner yesterday— parking his car in the lot near ours. Despite his constant, purposeful neglect to talk to me, unless there's a problem with Liam as I've somehow become his emergency contact, stays by my side, walking into the building.
We don't make small talk, none of us really do. We all beeline towards Argent's office on the first floor, three doors down from my own.
His door is closed shut, his face only inches away from his computer screen, and when we all stop at the entrance, Johnstone knocks to grab his attention. Without ever looking up from his monitor, he throws out a, "come in," and we file inside one by one.
Mason is asked for minor information first, training with Deaton, how his 'test' went earlier this morning, in the woods, which explains the ragged clothing. His test went, "surprisingly well for having a bag over my head".
Argent smirks at the report, only momentarily, and then Mason's dismissed to leave the room.
Only when Mason's gone does Derek gives an update on our trip to Yreka and what we found; our lack thereof.
The discussion is brief, and lackluster ideas for Monroe's interest in more black wolfsbane is exchanged before we all split ways too. If anything, this was less eventful than the first time around, solo. Which is a frustrating fact on its own, considering how eager I am to find the blueprints, or manuals regarding L'Usurpateur.
The entire situation is feeling too helpless for my liking.
Argent seems satisfied we've all made it back in one piece, if anything I think that's showing how weak we actually are. Survival should be the bare minimum for satisfaction, and we should only be content when we have the information we really need; when pieces are finally clicking together. I won't be relieved until they do.
Problem is, I don't know where to keep looking.
We all leave and go our separate ways exiting Argents office, leaving him to prepare for his next meeting. I make my way toward my office. If I'm going to find more research, I'll need to start from square one.
I open the door to my small, personal, cubicle-sized space, and am caught off guard by Mason sitting across from my desk chair, in a plastic one of his own. He holds a folder in his hand, tapping it against his knee. His attention moves from his shoes to my face in an instant, and he really stares, when I step into the room.
I don't re-greet him, just still near my desk and wait for him to explain himself. "This is for you," he says, tossing the thin folder to my desk. My eyes follow it, curious as to what's inside. "It's from Deaton," he tell me.
My eyes bore into the blank folder. "What is it?" I ask him, walking around my —too large for this cramped room— wood desk. It's an assumption that he'd know, especially if it were from Deaton. Mason shrugs his shoulders, as if unaware, but I narrow my eyes at him. He's just as snoopy as Liam.
His face doesn't budge. "I don't need to read through your research to know that it has something to do with the Dread Doctors," he claims, crossing his arms, and tilting his head. Testing me, to disagree with his suspicions.
I have nothing else to do but roll my eyes.
"I put the pieces together months ago, when Argent asked you to go to Silver Springs; an operating theatre location. Looks like I wasn't too far off," he points at my bulletin board coated in blueprints.
"Took you longer than I honestly thought it would," I tell him a beat later, and he raises a brow at my comment.
Mason is smart. I'd underestimated him once, and I'd learned from that lesson. I wouldn't put it past him to have eventually figured things out.
He sits again, and my mind wanders back to the folder. Deaton, Monroe, device. Where are those journals, and why haven't I found them? Unless Monroe already has, and we've lost our chance at getting them. Under yet another disadvantage. My eyes drift to the blue prints, the different Theatre's we've searched, the ones Monroe's searched, and the very few still left untouched.
My problem is that I know where most things are. I grew up in those abandoned factories. I know every corner, every experiment, and every phase of curiosity the Doctors had on their search of the perfect Chimera. Ten years worth, and I can't remember a single thing about this device besides it being used?
I revel in the silence before Mason finally clears his throat, "What does she have, that has you all so worried."
My eyes remain on the maps, "I can't really tell you."
"And you haven't," Mason shakes his head, "But whatever it is, I could probably help a lot more than Argent's hunters can. They're brut force, not intelligence, Theo."
I grab the folder he's set on my desk, opening it to my back-and-forth notes on black wolfsbane with Deaton. What I know, what he can infer, etc. I eye Mason, curious to how much he's really put together.
After some thought I still shake my head no. He should stay out of this. For his own good.
"You cant keep doing this shit alone," he claims. Yet, he knows I'm not. He has just seen me clearly not working alone. But undoubtedly, in many ways, I am. Argents hunters in essence, are meat shields and a good pair of eyes.
"I'll been fine. Thanks for the folder," I mutter to him.
"Fine?" Mason exasperates, "Look at what happened two weeks ago."
My hands clench next to my knees, jaw tightening at the reminder. "Which is exactly why you shouldn't go," I snap, "You'd be a liability."
My tone is too rigid, too cruel. His eyes narrow at me, clearly frustrated and slightly enraged.
"I can handle my own. This," he points down to the folder, "Is everybody's war. Hunters have been attacking us for nearly two years, and Scott thinks its best to leave us in the dark? Im. Sick. Of. It." He stands, and begins pacing the small area. I watch him. Feeling guilt rise in my chest at every passing second.
"Liam still doesn't have a clue about whats going on, and its driving him up the walls. Corey has been so stressed he hardly eats, and I've been completely useless; a delivery man," he claims, gesturing again, toward the folder. "We've been getting solo attacked by her hunters, and Liam almost killed somebody because of it."
I continue to watch him, trying to find the words to convince him, the he shouldn't be involved. He stops his pacing. "You're clearly searching for something specific, something that ties into the Dread Doctors and Monroe. Let me help you."
He sounds so desperate, close to begging to help. And I'm not sure what it is. His words about Liam and Corey, about the constant attacks, about feeling useless. Or maybe my exhaustion is truly starting to make me loopy. Something about it resonates with me in a compelling way; thudding in my chest. It strikes a nerve.
I take a deep breath, letting the guilt settle before I speak.
"Fine," I concede, the word feeling heavy on my tongue. "Sit down."
I gesture to the plastic chair he'd been using.
Mason's expression shifts, surprise warring with the lingering anger. He hesitates for a moment, and then he sits, his gaze fixed on me, expectant.
I may regret this later.
"Monroe has a device, and— its dangerous." I draw out the words.
The familiar anxiety kicking in, but I push it down, focusing on Mason's steady gaze. "I remember the doctors using one all of the time, but I don't remember where that device research went, or how they actually work. It's like, right there," I say, pointing to my temple. "I just can't remember it."
Mason considers an explanation, head tilting sideways, like it does when he's thinking. Quite similar to Scott. "I mean, what you did with the Doctors, especially at such a young age, was extreme. It's not a surprise that you'd have blanks about certain aspects of their work. Our brains do that to protect us from intense trauma."
I immediately snort at the common use of the word trauma. "I'm not traumatized," I proclaim. I can't bring myself to look Mason in the eye, the topic of conversation making me significantly uncomfortable.
From my peripheral, Mason's expression doesn't change, "Maybe the doctors stole those memories," he finally says.
"Unlikely. They never usually stole my memories. Just his test subjects."
"From what you can remember," Mason argues. And my face squints. Because yeah, that is what I can remember.
I was their test subject.
I hum, concurring, and he speaks again, "When's the last time you read that book by Valack?"
My brows lift some before responding, "I'm not sure."
"Well its worth giving it a try," he suggests, and I nod again.
It would be worth a try, if I knew where to find it. Last I remember Malia had the original, and I know they made copies, but I don't know where those went either. Likely the trash. "Do you have a copy?"
Mason looks down at the desk, fingers twiddling around each other, "No. So we'll need to go get one." He stands, walking toward the book case, reading each spine, fingers dragging along each. "Pretty sure the original text is at the McCall house. We could probably leave for Beacon Hills after Corey's birthday."
"We?" Never did I say he was coming with me.
Mason Scowls over his shoulder. "Yes. We." Mason lifts a hand grabbing a random journal, and snorts opening the leather bound book, my multiple random placements of taped notecards, sticky notes, and bookmarks flashing in an array of colors. "You might be worse than Stiles," he mumbles, and I roll my eyes at the second comparison of the day.
I stand from my chair and snatch the book out of his hand, slamming it closed. "Me and Stiles are nothing alike."
"Yeah, he'd probably throw a fit if he heard me saying that," he eyes the book. It's a judgmental look, as if assessing another comparison between us two. I'm not throwing a fit.
His eyes slide over to the board behind me, small maps and blueprints of different operating theatre's I've printed and tacked to the wall.
"I'm going with you," he tells me, taking a step forward, toward the parchment. "Highly doubt Melissa will welcome you in her home with opened arms."
That uncomfortable feeling in my chest manifests, squeezing at my insides. "Probably not."
We discuss a plan, quickly and efficiently, noting the time of day and how tired I am. I tell him we will leave after Corey's birthday like he said, but he can't tell anybody— especially Liam, considering his current lack of control of the shift— because word spreads like fire. At last he asks me, "When do we tell Argent?"
"Oh, I'm not telling Argent." I say, closing and locking my office door behind me.
"Why?"
"Because if that book brings back my memories, I don't plan on waiting another week for him to scout out another area before I can access it."
I turn and make my way down the hall, back into the main area, ready to go our separate ways, "What, you don't like the security?"
I turn around, my eyes holding his, serious when I say, "I don't like waiting." Mason scratches at his coily, grown out hair. "Monroe doesn't wait."
He appears uneasy with the idea, blinking a few times before agreeing with an "okay," and a silent nod, before leaving without saying goodbye.
Watching him walk away, reminds of a time that's been engraved into my head. Likely one of the most stressful days I'd had, after being pulled back to the land of the living; a moment that had changed my entire outlook on life.
"You took his pain," Mason nods, not fully looking in my direction. I can smell his nervousness, approaching me, talking to me. Gabe lying lifeless and grey near my feet.
I tried to take Mason's pain too, not long ago in the tunnels, and completely failed. Mason had said I didn't care enough to do it, and maybe he was right, I had felt little of anything toward him but annoyance or some fleeting begrudging alliance. Maybe it didn't work because my reasons were selfish, or maybe it didn't work because I didn't know how to take pain even when I wanted too.
Maybe my hands were too stained with purposeful, hateful, inflicted pain, I couldn't take it away.
You cant take pain if you don't care.
I would have ran, and left him to the enemy— survival of the fittest— if I didn't care. Thats what I did best.
But I took Gabe's pain.
I can't find the right words to say to him, so I remain silent, and continue to let the black hurt beneath the surface of my bruised skin, settle deep into my bones.
Part of me wonders what was different now. Did I care about Gabe? No. Do I think, anyone else was willing to get on their knees, and help their attempted murderer die a painless death? Scott would; Liam would.
Seconds later he opens his mouth to speak again, but I interrupt whatever he's about to say with a heavy-tongued confession.
"I was trying to leave Beacon Hills. I didn't want to stick around and die," I explain in a slow mumble. I don't over explain my cowardly ways, that was obvious enough, and I know that wouldn't go over well. Mason closes his mouth, a blank stare pointed in my direction. I turn my attention back to the grimey hospital linoleum.
To be redeemed, it to start taking accountability. I feel like he deserved the transparent honesty.
He nods his head, firm and acknowledging to my statement. Mason, of anyone, wouldn't doubt that fact. So something inside stabs at my soul, bitter and cold. "But you came back?" he asks me quizzically, catching me off-guard. The question feels nearly rhetorical; a piece of the puzzle, or something he sees, that I don't.
I almost didn't, I fight to say, but my pride holds it back, safeguarded within.
He must catch something in my raw expression, because he has the smallest flicker of satisfied understanding. I almost think he's going to answer for me, but instead he just tilts his head to the side, and draws out the inquisitive stare toward the side of my face. Finally, after a few long moments later, "You saved my life the other day. You kept Liam alive," he tells me in a hushed tone. He hesitates, before patting my stiffened shoulder once, in a firm affirmation, then leaves.
Walking away from my side to Corey's, without saying goodbye. Leaving me to my woefulness.
For every selfish reason, and every pitiful feeling raging within that day, I wanted to argue the facts. But they stared me dead in the eye. Liam stared me dead in the eye; I came back for him. I'm staying for myself.