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Chapter Text

The agent walked through the halls of headquarters, towards the room where Irene Kennedy and Stan Hurley were waiting. An all-black satchel slung over his shoulder, matching his slightly bloody clothing, made it clear he had just gotten back from a mission. Likely, it had been a long flight and an even longer mission if the dark circles under the agent's brown eyes were anything to go by. The stubble growing on his face did little to mask the gauntness as his jawline jutted out. His muscular body was mostly hidden by his clothing, but there were clear signs of cuts and bruises decorating his skin.

Yet the agent was happy. Or at least as happy as he felt he was capable of. He had another successful mission, and another crisis had been averted. The United States of America had been saved once again.

Now he was on his way to what Kennedy had promised would be a highly significant briefing. The agent was naturally curious. He had been for as long as he could remember. This new mission seemed important, in a way that the agent felt was different from his standard assignments. He had only felt this way about one other job, and well, that one had certainly ended... interestingly.

The assassin pushed the door open quickly and closed it silently, a force of habit from years of experience in the field. Yet Stan Hurley heard his footsteps easily with expert quickness, and turned his head towards the younger agent.

"Mitch. Took you long enough," Stan grumbled, although he nodded his head slightly in greeting. "What, you couldn't be bothered to fucking show up on time?"

Mitch Rapp was five minutes early. He was quite annoyed by that fact because it meant his mentor was correct. He was late.

"Enough," Irene Kennedy interrupted, knowing the banter that would ensure if she didn't shut the conversation down now. There was no time to waste with this assignment. "Your target's file has already been created and delivered." She held up a normal-looking flash drive in her hand.

"Then, with all due respect, why all the secrecy?" Mitch asked her. After all, it wasn't like they hadn't handled his briefings virtually before.

"Well, this mission could be one of the most influential points of your career," Stan shrugged. "So you tell me. Would you rather we go shouting to the rooftops for every nosy mother and their fucker to overhear?" So Mitch had been right. This was a mission like last time.

Irene took control of the conversation again. "As you are aware, the first lesson that every assassin learns is to never let their job get personal." Stan shook his head, crossing his arms. "But sometimes, there are circumstances where rules need to be... stretched."

"Excuse me?" Mitch asked, taken aback.

"Let me put it this way. Your next assignment will try with everything it has to become personal. You will most likely have to pretend that it is in order to get close to the target. But no matter what, you cannot let your target influence you. You will need to put your past behind you or there could be terrible consequences," Irene told him, in that forever unwavering and determined tone of hers.

Unease flooded Mitch's system, but he pushed it aside as usual. "Alright," he nodded. "So who is this mystery target?"

"I have reason to believe you know her," Irene said, holding out the flash drive.

Mitch took it from her with the barest hint of hesitance. Walking past his two superiors, he saw a computer waiting for him on the conference table. After plugging the drive, Mitch quickly found himself looking at the face of someone he thought he would never see again.

No. No, this couldn't be right.

"You'll be sent to Beacon Hills, California in the morning," Stan said as Mitch remained in silent shock. "We've already sent your little friend to scout ahead. You'll be in contact with her the entire time, and I recommend-"

"She's dead already. The target," Mitch blurted. Stan looked annoyed at the interruption but allowed him to speak. "She's been dead for years."

Irene sighed. "We know you used to live in Beacon Hills. As a former local, you of all people should know the inordinate amount of deaths and unsolved cases in that town. But never before have we seen a woman who's been dead for years... come back."

"The FBI already sent some grunts to check it out a few months ago. Didn't even get close before something made 'em sprint away, tails between their legs. It's like something or someone is out there protecting Zombie Bitch. No one's explained it. And we don't like it or trust it," Stan frowned. "Your job is to go to your old town and find your old friend. The higher-ups are thinking either you'll be familiar enough to get close to her or you'll be able to survive anything she throws at you. Find out how to make her stay dead. It seems our Angel of Death needs to recollect a soul."

Mitch nodded slowly, his face not giving away any of the panicked thoughts in his mind. He took the flash drives from Kennedy's computer and stuffed it into his jacket's pocket.

He'd contact Print when he got to his room, tell her what he needed. He wouldn't make this personal, if only for her sake. Neither of them could afford to make a mistake. He sighed, taking out the drive and staring at it.

"Welcome back, Stilinski."

Chapter Text

Lydia Martin's phone rang as her car drove through a large rain puddle. But it wasn't until the sound of spraying water reached her ears that she finally blinked. The blank look in her eyes slowly faded as she looked around.

Noticing the ringing cellphone, she was hesitant to answer. "He-hello?"

"Hey! I've been trying to call you for the past twenty minutes!" Malia Tate shouted into her ear.

"Oh. Sorry," Lydia mumbled, sounding like she had just woken up.

Malia scoffed. "Oh, sorry? You need to get to the animal clinic right now. Everyone's waiting for you, and that's only because I suggested we wait for the Banshee."

"I'm the one who suggested that. Malia thought we should leave you," Mason Heweit said faintly in the background.

"Okay, shut up, Mason. That's not important right now. What's important is that Scott has everyone here for some kind of search party, and we're still waiting for you." Malia waited for a response but found none. "Lydia? Are you still there? You need to get to the animal clinic."

Lydia hadn't responded because she was too busy looking at the street signs outside. After seeing several familiar buildings and streets, she told Malia, "I- I think I'm already here."

"Here? Like, at the clinic?"

"Yeah," Lydia confirmed as she saw the parking lot to the exact location in question. "But the last thing I remember is getting ready to leave work. I don't know how I got here." Lydia looked around again, her chest tight. It had been a while since Lydia had felt this way, and she was painfully reminded of how unpleasant and disorienting it was.

"Banshee powers?" Malia guessed. Lydia heard Malia's voice muffle as she spoke to the others inside. "I think Lydia's Banshee powers lead her here. No, I don't know what that means." Her voice got clear again. "Lydia, what do you think that means?"

Lydia could only stammer an unhelpful response as she turned into the clinic's parking lot.

"I'm not picking up any scents of death." Liam Dunbar's confused murmur vibrated in Lydia's hand as she clutched her phone tightly.

"No, it's different," Lydia corrected him, not sure if he could hear her. "No one had died yet, but there's still something there. It's almost like-"

Before Lydia could figure anything else out, something ran in front of her car. Lydia slammed on the brakes as quickly as possible, which was fairly easy considering her already slow pace, but she still heard two thuds. One as her car connected with something and then another when the thing connected with the pavement. "Oh my God!" Lydia yelled, dropping her phone and putting her car in park. Ignoring Malia's concerned questions from the phone, she ran out of her car and jumped outside. The puddle and mud from the storm earlier saturated her jeans as she knelt down to see the person she had collided with.

It was hard to see much in the dark of the night, but Lydia's headlights shone brightly on the girl's face as she struggled to sit up. She looked about sixteen, with short brown hair and tanned skin. One side of her face was covered by her hair, but the other showed a whiskey brown eye staring out at her. It was odd. Lydia felt as though she had seen those eyes before. But observing the girl would have to wait, Lydia remembered, as the stranger groaned in pain from her car's hit.

"I'm so sorry, are you alright?" Lydia gasped, holding out a hand to help the girl up.

The girl ignored the hand and stood up on her own, shakily. "I just got hit by a car. Would you be alright?" Lydia blinked in surprise at the unexpected accent that the girl had. It sounded unfamiliar, but Lydia guessed it was from somewhere Middle Eastern. Possibly Arabic?

"Right, right, sorry," Lydia said, standing from her crouched position.

"Ah, don't worry 'bout it," the girl waved dismissively, already stepping away from the car. "Thanks for stopping, but it really wasn't necessary. I'll be going now." She starting creeping away, a telltale smile of a teenager trying to escape their own mischief on her face.

"Are you sure? I can always get you a ride or you could get your head looked at. It looks like it got hit," Lydia offered, fighting an unsettling feeling she had about the girl by drawing attention to the slight blood trickling from her forehead.

"It'll heal, it's fine," the girl shrugged, flinching at the pain as she noticed it. She turned on her heel and started speed-walking away.

Lydia couldn't hide the worry in her voice as she asked, "Do you need me to call someone? I don't think you should-"

"That's her!" Scott McCall's voice shouted from behind her. Lydia spun around to find the Alpha staring in shock at her. Well, not at her. At the girl.

"Shit," the girl muttered, before starting to scramble away.

But the disorientation of getting hit by a car seemed to show her down, enough that Lydia quickly overtook her. She grabbed the girl's arm gently, just enough to keep her from running, before tightening her grip in surprise. She hadn't meant to. She didn't want to hurt the girl. But as the girl's skin touched hers, Lydia felt the uncontrollable and recently unfamiliar urge to scream. The Banshee felt herself black out as nothing but the sounds of souls screaming through her, ones who were long dead now and had been in agonizing pain when they met their untimely demise. Whatever the thing she was holding on to was, it had been a witness to every single kill.

As Lydia fainted at last, the final thought in her mind was that with absolute certainty, it intended to be a witness to at least one more death while in Beacon Hills.

Chapter Text

Lydia's eyes fluttered as a worried voice asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Roar or something! You're the Alpha, so alpha her awake!" another voice ordered, sounding equally panicked.

"Guys, she's waking up," a third voice rang out, sounding the closest to her. Lydia opened her eyes fully to see Melissa McCall looking concerned at her. The older woman held her arm as Lydia sat up painfully, wincing at the slight headache pounding in her skull.

Lydia looked around the room. Scott and Melissa's matching brown eyes looked worriedly at her, while Malia leaned against Jordan Parrish nearby. Jordan gave her a small smile, while Malia stayed deadpan. But even the Werecoyote couldn't hide the tenseness in posture completely. Looking past them, Lydia saw Liam Dunbar fidgeting with his leather jacket, eyes constantly flicking over to something outside of Lydia's view. Next to him was Chris Argent, also keeping a watchful eye on the hallway under Liam's surveillance. Mason Hewwit and Sheriff Noah Stilinski were still in their police uniforms, giving Lydia the impression that they had rushed to the clinic right after their shift.

Lydia was initially surprised not to see Allision McCall until she remembered what day it was today. There was certainly no way she could be here today, not when today was so important to her.

"Are you okay?" Scott asked from behind his mom.

Lydia shook the remnants of dizziness from her head as she stood up from the table they had set her on. "Yeah. What happened?"

"You passed out," Malia said. "We've got that girl you caught handcuffed to a chair, but she's refusing to say anything. What did she do to you?"

"I- nothing. I just touched its arm, and my powers went crazy. It was like I was hearing hundreds of screams all at once," Lydia said, shuddering at the memory.

Deaton came in from the hallway that Liam and Argent had been watching, his face thoughtful as always. "Was the feeling that she had already killed the voices or that she would?"

"Neither," Lydia answered. "That thing was a witness. The screams were because of someone else."

Deaton hummed softly. "I see. Scott," he called, turning to his former protege. "I think now is the time to explain why you called everyone here."

Scott pulled away from Lydia, straightening up to address everyone in the room. "The girl that Lydia caught was breaking into the clinic. Deaton and I found her as she was looting the front desk. She got away with a jar of Mountain Ash that Deaton keeps in there, leaving Wolfbane petals in its place. After she escaped, all I could tell was that she was staying nearby. The Wolfsbane was throwing off my senses too much. Then Deaton pointed out that she might go after you guys as members of my pack, so I knew we would have to find her fast. I called you here so we could go out to try and catch her, but turns out Lydia had it under control." Scott smiled playfully at Lydia, who smirked back. They both knew she hadn't meant to do anything, but it had all worked out in the end and that was the important thing to the True Alpha. "So now I think we need to figure out why she showed up, who she is, and whether she is a danger to Beacon Hills."

Lydia had a bad feeling she already knew that answer to the last question.

~*~*~

Sixteen year old Eli Hale-McCall was in charge of keeping an eye on the girl who had tried to kill his guardian, and he was having mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, Ms. Lydia seemed terrified of her, and that was ignoring Mr. Deaton's painstaking caution as he inspected the girl before rushing out to meet the others. Not to mention the clear threat that seemed to linger inside the piercing stare that had turned from Deaton to Eli as he sat on the other side of the hallway from her, like she were some caged animal.

But, on the other hand, this girl was super pretty, in a menacing kind of way.

In an attempt to be helpful, Eli tried to strike up a conversation with her. "So... what're you in for?" he joked, trying to be casual. The girl did not seem as amused as he had hoped, choosing instead to keep glaring at him. "Sorry. Uh, I'm Eli. What's your name?"

The girl still ignored him but dropped her eyes to the police handcuffs keeping her in place on the chair. The adults had quickly figured out that she wasn't a werewolf and had a human level of strength, meaning it only took Sheriff Stilinski's human level of restraint to keep her from running from interrogation. Nevertheless, before Deaton has ran out, he'd ordered the teen to make sure she didn't try anything. Eli wondered what he was expected to do in the meantime.

The girl tugged on the cuffs, like she was trying to break them in half on the chair they were looped underneath. Eli let her, quickly seeing that the attempts weren't going to work.

"Is there anything I can call you?" Eli tried again as she kept pulling at her wrists.

The girl looked annoyed as she gave up on breaking the cuffs, blowing her short brown hair out of her eye. Accent prevalent in her voice, she groaned, "No, there isn't. Now, please, shut up. It's been a long day and the jet lag isn't helping."

"Jet lag? Where'd you come from?"

"I've been all over the place," the girl answered, her fingers still tapping even though she had given up on escape. "First time in California though." She held up her trapped hands as high as they could go, making the handcuffs rattle accusingly. "It's been going great."

"Why'd you come to Beacon Hills? Was it for Scott?" Eli pressed, having plenty of questions. The most significant one being if she was somehow connected to the Nemeton, but he figured that wasn't a good question to start with.

"Do you not know how to shut up?" the girl asked, aggravated.

"Not really," Eli shrugged. "Scott said you were looting the clinic. Why did you need Mountain Ash?"

The questions did nothing but annoy the girl. "It goes well with the Wolfsbane I'm going to shove up your-"

"Eli," Liam called, leading the other pack members into the hallway's space. Eli stood up in his chair as Scott walked up to him, silently looking to make sure everything had gone alright while he was gone.

"She hasn't said anything," Eli answered the silent question aloud. They both looked at the girl, who had curled on to the chair, holding her knees to her chest.

Scott took a step before kneeling to her level as he asked, "Do you know my name?"

The girl held his curious gaze with a look of calculation. "I know you're McCall. The True Alpha."

"Okay," Scott nodded encouragingly. "Could you tell me how you know?" The girl didn'y say anything. "Do you have a name we can call you?"

"You could call me F, but I don't have any of those to give. Just let me go," she snapped, dropping her stare before her eyes softened. "Look, I genuinely don't know anything. I was just doing what I was told."

"Who was telling you to do this?" Deputy Parrish wondered.

"Her master," Deaton said, his arms crossed. "After all, she is a Corbadh." He addressed the surprised girl directly. "Isn't she?"

Overcoming her shock, the Corbadh - Eli struggled to pronounce it even in his head - nodded to the veterinarian. "Yeah, actually. Lemme guess, Druid emissary? You do have that Obi-Wan kind of vibe."

"What's a Corbadh?" Mason interrupted, looking around as he stumbled over the foreign word.

Mr. Argent seemed familiar with the term. "The corrupted form of a Banshee, similar to how a Darach is a dark druid. There aren't many in America though, or in general. I've only met one once, while Issac and I were in France. Crafty thing."

"Banshees can manipulate sound and are drawn to death," Deaton said, nodding to Lydia. "A Corbadh manipulates slight - namely through shapeshifting - and is drawn to killers. In this way, Bestiaries categorise them as an Abomination because, similar to the Kanima, it seeks a master in the killers it finds. It will bond with these killers, having a direct link to their orders when assisting with kills."

"Direct link?" Melissa noticed. "Does that mean this killer knows she's here?"

Scott turned his head from his mother to meet the girl's eyes again. "Can they hear us now?"

The girl sighed before wincing as though she had heard a loud noise. "I've been bonded to... him... for almost six years now. I've grown used to having him in my head, having instructions. He told me to come here, to go after you. But ever since you caught me, it's been so... so quiet. I haven't heard a thing. I don't know what he wants me to do next." Her breathing became a bit shaky, and a very nervous look appeared in her eyes, yet it was clear that she was desperately trying to submerge the panic. "I'm not sure what to do next."

"Would you mind telling us about him?" Liam asked. Eli wasn't sure if the older werewolf was genuine or just trying to get information from the girl. After all, whoever this master was, they had made it very clear they were a threat to the Pack.

The Corbadh's breathing deepened as she finally retook control of her emotions. She looked up at the McCall Pack, an odd, almost pitying glint in her eye of knowing something they didn't. "They call him 'Malikul Mawt." It's Arabic. Do you know what that means?" Some of the older members seemed to, but Eli personally did not. The girl gave a sad chuckle. "It means he is the Angel of Death. And speaking from experience, believe me when I say he will stop at nothing when it comes to collecting his souls."

Chapter Text

Scott has been a True Alpha for over a decade now and had protected Beacon Hills for even longer. By now, he had well-trained instincts for detecting danger, even when blind. Yet he could not get a read on this girl. She had attacked him, both Lydia and Deaton were clearly wary of her, and she seemed to intentionally flood his Pack with palpable unease. But was that her doing, or was it the Angel of Death she had spoken of? Something about the girl made Scott think she was someone to be helped, not stopped. She wasn't like the Darach or Nogitsune. There was something more human about her, like Jackson Whittmore and his Kanima.

Not only that, but Scott couldn't help but think he had seen her before. Something about her eyes held a familiar honey-brown light, making Scott reach for a memory he knew was there but unable to be recalled fully.

Scott stood up and stepped away from the teenager. He looked at Lydia. "The Angel of Death. Are those the murders you sensed?"

"It makes the most sense to me, yes," she nodded, looking suspiciously at the Corbadh.

There wasn't much warning for what happened next. The girl's fingers twitched and fidgeted with one of her jacket's pockets. Awkwardly, her arm jerked out, a piece of paper peeking out from her fingers. The Pack jolted at the sudden movement, but so had the girl, who looked the most bewildered in the room.

Malia was the one to snatch the paper from the stranger's outstretched hand. "This is yours," she told Scott after she had inspected the photograph, handing it off to Scott.

Scott looked. His teenage self smiled at him from the far right while Malia smirked from the far left. In between them was a smiling Lydia and a brunette boy with the biggest grin of them all. He must have failed to notice the picture was missing from its frame on his desk after the attack.

"Why did you take this?" he asked the girl, his voice betraying his confusion.

The girl stared for a second, clearly thinking. "He didn't tell me to take that," she said at last, sounding almost shocked by the fact. Scott heard her heart grow faster again, likely in some sort of panic like before. "But I wanted to know how you knew him."

"Him? Him who?" Liam asked, sneaking a glance at the picture.

"Did you... recognise... Stiles?" Sheriff Stilinski asked. His son was the only one in the picture who was not present after all. Parental concern had been a frequent feeling for Noah recently, and it only grew at the thought that Stiles had encountered the supernatural alone.

"Who's Stiles?" the girl asked, her head shaking slightly.

Scott, understanding the Sheriff's idea, held the picture out for the girl to see. "Do you know who this is?" He pointed to Stiles Stilinski, the brunette boy in the photo and once his best friend in the whole world.

"Oh, yeah, him," she nodded. Her eyebrows furrowed and she looked down, almost talking to herself as she wondered, "Stiles. Why Stiles?"

"How do you know him?" the Sheriff urged, worried about his son. It was no secret that Stiles had been unreachable to his father for a long time. It had been years since he had even gotten a call. The only true confirmation Noah got that his son was alive was an annual envelope with two $100 bills inside and a note, no address to be seen. The notes were short themselves; Eli had peeked at a few of them once or twice. His own dad would have smacked him over the head for the lack of care put into the chicken scratch on a tiny note card if he ever sent him something like that.

Not that Eli would send something like that to him. He'd love to write something to his dad now, to know it would be received at all.

For the first time since Scott had entered the room, the girl was reluctant to say a word.

Argent and Deaton shared a glance. Deaton nodded quietly. "If I may... hold the photo up to her face. I need to make certain of a theory before I say anything further."

Scott obeyed. The girl, thankfully, stayed completely still in her chair as Scott's steady hand placed his photo right up to her cheek. Her eyes stayed trained on his, and it was then that Scott realised what was so familiar about them. The Corbadh was copying Stiles. Deaton had mentioned shape-shifting, right. Yeah, because this girl was the exact image of Stiles, albeit younger and more feminine.

Girl Stiles clearly saw that they recognized her. "You're not misgendering me, if that's what the shocked faces are all about." She still didn't move, other than a slight smirk in her eyes. Stiles' smirk. "The real question is am I handsome or pretty? Well, I'm cool with either."

"So she's seen Stiles," Ms. McCall deduced, worry etched on her features. "What does that mean?" Stiles was her son's best friend. Due to the two boy's bond, he had become something of a surrogate son to her. Any business that this creature had with the younger Stilinski left Melissa fearing the worst.

Chris was as quiet as the girl. He stepped closer and held out a hand, his blue eyes meeting Stiles' brown ones. "Seo thu fein," he muttered to her, no one else but Deaton knowing the translation or meaning of the words. Blankly, the girl gave him her right hand. He held it gingerly, but still thoroughly inspected a pale scar wrapping a long her fingers and across the top of her palm. He pressed his thumb onto the crease of her ring finger, directly where the scar was. "Nocht," Chris ordered, looking at her expectantly.

When nothing happened, his eyes widened and he jumped back. Deaton inhaled shakily.

"Okay, am I the only one who doesn't know what's going on?" Malia asked annoyedly.

"No, I'm lost too," Mason reassured her.

"What were you doing to her?" Liam asked Mr. Argent.

Deaton had a rare look of concern in his eyes. "The scar is a sign of the bond a Corbadh makes with their killer. In this case, with Malikul Mawt. Argent was evoking the scar on her truth finger to reveal her Favoured Appearance."

Lydia raised as eyebrow when he paused. "Which is?"

"Remember that a Corbadh is a corrupted Banshee, appealing more to sight that sound. Banshees have Favoured Frequencies. I'm sure you remember Dr. Valack?" Lydia nodded, so Deaton continued. "He had opened your mind to every possible frequency, but every Banshee in normal circumstances has a Favoured Frequency. For example, Meredith Walker had the uncommon power to hear comatose patients like Peter Hale. You can perceive the locations of past deaths more accurately than you can sense a death that hasn't happened yet. Your abilities favour different frequencies. The same can be said for a Corbadh."

"So Stiles is her Favoured Appearance," Jordan nodded. "I still don't get what that has to do with the Angel of Death or why she attacked us."

Chris explained. "When Issac and I went to France, the Corbadh we encountered was bonded to a rogue hunter. He had been posing as his brother, which we believed since they looked so similar. Even after we had figured him out, he rarely shifted into anything other than the hunter." He looked down, almost reluctant to reveal more. "A Corbadh's Favoured Appearance is just as connected as they are to their master."

"Clearly, I'm not understanding something," Sheriff Stilinski frowned, obviously understanding and livid about it. "Because it seems like your implying that Stiles-"

"That Stiles is her master," Lydia whispered. "Stiles is the Angel of Death."

Chapter Text

Six years earlier.

Mitch Rapp listened silently for the sound of gunfire after him. None came. He remained unknown to the Dhib terrorists as he made his way through the disrepaired, cement hallway. Thank whatever God was out there for that. Mitch had known there was something odd about this mission from the moment he'd been assigned to it. Now his earpiece was jammed, and he was completely on his own.

But Mitch knew where to go. He knew his mission.

Footsteps echoed behind and sped up his lurking to the door at the end of the corridor. Opening and closing it with the trained silence of any decent assassin, it was the sudden stench of decomposition that made him fear discovery. Turning around made even Mitch gasp slightly.

Bodies. So many bodies. They had not gone peacefully either, if the blood and claw marks were anything to go off of.

Once he had gotten over the initial surprise, Mitch could hear the footsteps getting louder behind him. But there was no way for him to utilize the element of surprise in a room like this. He wouldn't even have time to be able to see how many of his persuers there were. The bodies thrown carelessly into piles, and the circular pale walls of the already small room provided very little cover. Mitch would be at a disadvantage.

He'd done more with less, he supposed. Mitch began to step closer against the walls, checking his handgun for a final time.

Something grabbed his ankle.

He had his gun on it instantly, but quickly stopped himself from shooting when he saw his so-called "assailant." A small, dark-skinned hand weakly grasped at him from underneath the pile he was closest to. Contrasting the ashen grey of the corpses, he could feel its warmth on his skin. The sight cut off at the wrist, anything else hidden from view below the dead. Whoever it was, they clearly needed help. But so did Mitch, at the moment.

Lifting several of the stiff obstructions, Mitch lay on his side and let the bodies fall back onto him, hating himself for this idea.

Small view of the enemies, awful position for firing or aiming his handgun, a stench perfectly capable of making him pass out. Mitch knew he was still disadvantaged. But he was hidden, and that made his situation better than it was a minute ago.

The door slammed open, a stark contrast to Mitch's previous stealth. The footsteps he had heard became targets in his eyesight as they searched the room, arguing in Arabic. "There was a sound. There is someone here. Their smell..."

"Can you smell more than corpses?"

"Not anymore," the first terrorist groaned.

Mitch listened. He looked at anything he could. There were only two of them, he could be sure of that. But the way they talked, particularly the reference to his scent, made him hesitate to reveal himself. Different language aside, it was a phrase Mitch was well familiar with. If only to ease his hunch - he could internally laugh at himself later if he was wrong - his hand reached into his pocket. Moving ever so slowly, he gave himself extra hearing protection and removed the silencer from his gun. His shuffling was muffled by the bodies surrounding him.

And then he waited.

The threats walked closer to him. Then closer. Then close enough.

He cocked his gun, slid out from his hiding spot just enough to barely aim, and fired. A wounding shot to the first Terrorist that, annoyingly, healed almost immediately. Two pairs of eyes glowed golden, stuttering as the gunshot echoed around the room.

Why on Earth would a werewolf need hearing protection while on sentry duty? If someone even had the chance to shoot before they were ripped apart, their ringing ears would just heal. Nothing like that really happened anyway on an average sentry job.

But all something like Mitch needed was a moment of disorientation from the loud blast coupled with some of the most advanced hearing unknown to man. His His first attempt may have been too frenetic to kill, but even a werewolf couldn't survive a point-blank bullet to the brain.

There would be more sentries coming after the loud gunshots. Mitch had done nothing except buy time for himself to find his true target. But first, he needed to help whoever it was that had helped him. Mitch shifted through the bodies, looking for that warm brown skin amidst the pale grey. He found her quickly, a young girl barely breathing, eyes fluttering between awareness and nightmarish sleep.

She possessed some of the longest, messiest, and most raven-black hair he had ever seen.

Mitch hated that he had to move the clearly injured girl, but she certainly couldn't stay where she was. Especially not know that he had brought guards to her hiding spot. He lifted the underweight child as gently as he could, although she still flinched in pain at the movement. Mitch felt the unwelcome feeling of his eyes softening at the girl in his arms, pity and a desire to comfort her dangerously stabbing at his chest.

How could he manage to get this girl safely out the building and complete his mission at the same time? The kid might die in the time he was gone if he left her here, or would at least get recaptured. But Kennedy had been very clear that they would not get this chance to find the leader of Dhib, Yunis Eliya, again. Mitch had no second chances, no matter the decision he made. But Mitch knew here and now, he could not and would not leave this child.

"Okay, kiddo," he winced, knowing his plan was horrible. He re-silenced his gun and gave her his earbuds he had in his bag. "I need you to stay with me on this, got that?"

Kiddo certainly wasn't in any position to argue.

~~~

Mitch walked along the halls, carrying the girl over his left shoulder. It made handling his firearm much more difficult, and he was starting to consider that this was much worse than leaving the kid where she was. For both of them.

She certainly provided a wonderful distraction for Mitch's attention as he just barely noticed the growling werewolf behind him. Mitch only just felt his presence when clawed hands swiped down at him, intent on ripping him to shreds. Mitch should have died. But, as though wings proved a protective barrier behind him, the hand Mitch by almost a foot. It gave him just enough time to turn and shoot the man. His bullet felt guided, the aim steady, as it hit its target perfectly in the brain.

Mitch considered investigating the force he had felt protecting him, but the girl in his arms shivered and he knew he didn't have the time. He continued on, although he knew that the kill he had just been given was no lucky break.

~~~

The Dhib were all monsters, and Mitch meant that in both the derogatory sense and literally. It had been so long since Mitch had felt the need for any kind of Wolfsbane or Mountain Ash. Stiles hated how he briefly felt like a teenager again, but Mitch disregarded the emotion with practiced ease.

He had gotten barely a second of thought before snarling lycanthropes rushed at him, Mitch knew that all of this dodging, gunfire, and running had to be causing the agony to the little girl over his nondominant shoulder. But somehow, her eyes stayed open and neither of them had died yet. Certainly a positive.

Another positive: he had finally found Yunis Eliyah. An unsurprising negative: he was guarded by more werewolves and clearly pleased to see Mitch with young cargo in hand. Mitch set Kiddo down against the wall behind him, making sure her head could rest comfortably against it, before shielding her from Eliyah's eyes by approaching the throne-like chair that he sat on top of. He looked much too at ease, Mitch thought.

Eyes stayed from the girl to Mitch, changing from a brown to a bright red. "I found failure, Malikul Mawt," Eliyah sighed. "Watch now my success."

His bodyguards grew even more lupine as they sprinted towards Mitch, moving faster than any normal human being.

But Mitch was not normal - had not been for years. Mitch had already left a trail of their kind a long the halls of their base with one hand and one gun. He dodged a blow from one, only to shoot the arm of a clawed hand. So many times, Mitch knew in his mind he was supposed to die. But something kept his luck from running out, just like before in the halls. Something in the way the werewolves fought with gnashing teeth and slashing claws made Mitch feel as though they were holding back. Their eyes looked unfocused, and their movements stayed strong but missed him entirely. Could this be an elaborate plan of Eliyah's? Was this a trap?

The theory was disproven after Mitch had killed every one of his attackers. He hadn't blacked out, yet he had the feeling of waking up as he looked up from his business. It was then that the feared terrorist leader and Alpha werewolf, the bane of the CIA for almost a year, a ruthless and cunning menace who threatened multiple countries, desperately tried to flee the room past Mitch.

Mitch stopped him in his tracks, again feeling a presence surrounding him as though everything had slowed around him. He looked at the outraged expression of the Dhib Alpha and reloaded his firearm. Eliyah was definitely looking at him now.

Mitch didn't feel anything when he pulled the trigger. Finally something felt familiar.

He used an entire magazine on the bastard in the end. He knew what an Alpha could withstand. He knew the effort needed to make them stay dead.

~~~

The girl hadn't moved since he had set her down. He felt for her pulse. It was the same as before, fluttery but strong, so he placed her in his arms again. He used his shoulder to support her head this time, feeling off-centre with how she buried her face into his shirt. Mitch would stay alert, if only so Kiddo could be a bit more comfortable as they made their exit.

As Mitch finally got far enough away from the tall building, the radio in his earpiece found its signal again. He put his gun into safety, strapping it into his holster at the sound of his handler's voice. "Mitch- Mitch! Do you copy?" Kennedy's crackling voice asked.

"I copy," Mitch responded, rocking the girl slowly to silence her before she made her presence known. "Yunis Eliyah was there, exactly like your sources said. I killed him and anyone else who saw me."

Irene exhaled. "Well done. Head back to your room for tonight, we'll get you your flight back home in the morning."

"Yes, ma'am."

There was a crackling, followed by silence. Mitch's caught the almost-black irises of his kid as she stared up at him. He should have told Kennedy about her. Both of them knew that and both of them weren't quite sure why he hadn't.

But the Dhib Alpha had called Kiddo and her dead companions 'failures' in comparison to his werewolf terrorists. Not to mention the force that Mitch was certain the girl had conjured to protect them both. Kiddo was supernatural. And Mitch would rather not reveal the existence of monsterous beings to the director of the CIA until he knew more.

~~~

Back in his hotel room, Mitch set her down on his bed and gave her a glass of water with two loaves of bread that he had stored away. This had never really been Mitch's part of the job. He saved people without ever revealing himself to them. He was out of his element as he attempted to nurse this poor kid. But sleeping on something that wasn't cement, drinking water, eating starch, that was all things people like her needed. That part was simple enough to understand. The True problem was being comforting when Mitch felt so unsettled by the resurfacing of supernatural beings in his life.

Mitch had no access to a bestiary, nor any certain protection if she ended being a dangerous creature. Kiddo had ended up protecting him, but there were still monsters capable of violence even when they weren't aware of their abilities. Any profile he created for this girl would have to be entirely based on memories that Mitch liked keeping in the back of his head, chained away by years of avoiding his former Pack.

Movement served to distract him from flashbacks of his childhood.

As a small hand - the same one that had desperately grabbed onto him for back with the Dhib - reached out to meet Mitch's palm, he hesitated, then let her. Her attempt drew memories to his sophomore year - after a funeral of a mother and before his first time being kidnapped or beaten - and created a theory that Mitch was willing to test.

The contact left Mitch with a flash of pain in his head, followed by normality. But now, he couldn't help but imagine a door in his mind, one too familiar for Stiles' liking, opened just slightly. Not invasive, but patiently waiting for something. Mitch had the unmistakable urge to say something through it.

"What are you?" Mitch asked, looking at the girl while aware he wasn't talking aloud.

The girl stared at him, her eyes growing in clarity. "A monster. But one that wants to help you, I swear," a young girl's voice answered in his head. Kiddo's lips hadn't moved at all.

Kiddo began to blur and shift. Growing older, then younger, then masculine, then feminine again, the girl looked focused as she changed. Mitch looked on as he checked off each species he knew in his head. Likely not a werewolf, certainly not a Kitsune, possibly a Kanima but probably not...

Before long, Mitch saw a girl of about ten years old again. Only she looked much more familiar now.

Now, she looked just like him.

Chapter Text

"How does that even make sense?" Mason asked. He hadn't known Stiles as long as the original Pack members, but the idea of his older friend becoming a dangerous threat to Beacon Hills seemed ridiculously far-fetched.

"It doesn't," Malia scoffed. "Stiles is our friend. He's a part of the Pack. What reason would he have to attack us?"

The girl snorted. "Oh, yeah? When's the last time you've talked to him?"

There was an awkward silence, but the question wasn't rhetorical. Lydia answered quietly, having seen him last. "Eight years."

"You don't think people change after almost a decade?" Stiles' eyebrow raised judgementally. "Haven't you?"

"What is the Angel of Death?" Jordan Parrish asked, half to change the subject and half out of confusion. The name seemed more like a title than a species like a Hellhound, even if they were bonded to something supernatural.

The girl paused. "An assassin," she said after a moment. "The best in the country and likely in the world."

"Who are you?" Jordan continued. "Other than the Corbadh who's bonded to Stiles."

There was no pause this time, the response quick and sharp. "You may call me Print. Malikul Mawt saved my life and I am indebted to him, regardless of the Bond. His name is no longer Stiles, nor is he your friend anymore." Her eyes squeezed shut and she clasped her hands together tightly, groaning slightly. "I warn you now, do not pursue him while he- while he is here. If you go... looking for him, h- he will kill you. You can't- just stay away- ah-"

"Then why would you reveal that he's here in the first place?" Sheriff Stilinski narrowed his eyes, a mirror of Print's widening ones. "Why would you attack us or be here at all if my son wanted to remain hidden?"

The wide brown eyes didn't stay that way for long. If anything, they only darkened. Print grinned. "Why indeed." She held up her hands to reveal a slender lockpick, raising them far higher than her handcuffs should have allowed. How long had she been free?

Print stood up, massaging her wrists. "A message from Malikul Mawt to the McCall Pack and their True Alpha, Scott McCall. 'I'm at the hospital. I'll wait for you.'"

Scott answered with a lupine growl and a red flash of his eyes. He had more questions than answers, answers that Print was deliberately keeping hidden, and he could not let the Corbadh escape until he knew more. He chased Print as she bolted through his clinic, but she had a trick up her sleeve. Literally. She threw a cloud of the Mountain Ash she had stolen, enjoying the luxury of being some sick subversion of a Banshee and impervious to the material's effects. The Ash stopped Scott in his tracks, forcing him to walk around the line drawn, only to see Print open the door into the night.

She looked back at him, looking so much like Scott's old friend but distorted by quiet fury. "Thanks for the fucking catch-up, Scott. I look forward to our chat later." With that, Print vanished.

It became clear that Print had let herself be caught before. Scott should have caught on sooner when she had claimed not to hear anything from the Bond or Stiles. He had foolishly accredited the girl's loudly beating heart to nerves and panic instead of the lies that they were, flowing from her every move like a poisoned river. This entire circumstance must have been calculated from the start - the attack, Print's capture, Lydia's senses, the picture that led to the slow reveal of the Angel of Death and his identity - and it was all to deliver this message.

"Stiles is waiting at the hospital?" Liam echoed, stepping past the Moutain Ash himself.

"Can I assume that's where we're going immediately then?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely," Malia nodded, beginning to run past Scott.

Scott stopped her. "We need to think about this first, Malia. We haven't seen Stiles in years. This whole attack was to get the pack together so we could find him. But if Stiles really has changed so much, we don't know what he plans to do with us when we find him."

"Print was talking to Malikul Mawt this entire time, wasn't she?" Argent guessed, inwardly berating himself for not realizing sooner.

"I... don't think so," Scott thought as he recalled Print's pained words. "Before, she had warned us not to follow him. I don't think that was Stiles who was warning us. Print disobeyed to tell us to stay away, only for him to tell us to follow."

Malia was ready to argue. "Wouldn't that mean we should go then? Telling us where he is means he wants us to find him. That girl is the one who doesn't. Are we seriously trusting some stranger over Stiles?"

"But why does he want you to find him?" Deaton reasoned. "I think it's safe to assume she was truthful about Stiles' new... profession. Expert assassins make it a point to avoid personal situations. I have very little doubt that this is another calculated move."

"What would even be at the hospital that Stiles would be after?" Liam thought aloud. "What's there that's so important that somebody'd need an assassin?"

Lydia saw Scott's face of realization first. It was unclear whether her own discovery was due to her intelligence or her Banshee powers. She prayed it was the former.

"Shit. He's going after Allison."

~~~

Mitch walked up to the receptionist desk of the Beacon Hills hospital, feeling as though he was simply going through the motions in a dream, or perhaps even a foggy memory. "Hi there," he smiled at the secretary.

The secretary looking tired, blinking at him slowly. Good to know some things never changed. "Do you have an appointment?"

Mitch slipped into a much more human demeanor. He rubbed his neck, averted his eyes, and chuckled slightly, looking like nothing more than an embarrassed stranger. "Not exactly. My name is Stiles Stilinski? I'm an old friend of Scott McCall's and when he realised he couldn't make it to his wife Allison's appointment, he asked me to go instead. I know it's not exactly the right protocol, but I figured I'd check on her. Not sure if you know Scott, but I mean, the guy's a mess right now. The guilt and nerves, I reckon it's getting to him a bit when he has to miss such an important date."

The man's eyes had flickered at the name 'Stilinski' and his face lit up at the mention of Scott and Allison McCall. "I- yeah, I know that name. My coworker, Melissa McCall, has mentioned you a few times. It's been a while since you've been in town, huh?" He looked around. "It's past visiting hours for people outside of the visitation list... but I can always ask Allison if she'd be willing to, ah, check you in."

"Thank you so much," Mitch sighed, letting his lips pull into a relieved smile.

The receptionist smiled back sympathetically, typing at his computer and shifting his eyes around, before finally leaving. Mitch let his face drop and straightened up at last, masking slightly less without the presence of anyone other than disinterested cameras tucked away in the corners of the room.

He felt Print's presence before he saw or heard her. With Mitch sending nothing but a thought in her direction, her furious tirade of curses was replaced by a wince of slight discomfort as her appearance was shifted to look slightly less like himself. The two had learned very quickly that Print could not shift into an exact copy of someone else, so they had needed to get creative. Variations of gender, aeg, hair or eye colour, skin tone, even a subtle change to bone structure would suffice.

Print, likely in an act of spite, kept her feminine version of his face shape and his eyes while letting herself turn blonde and pale. Her shift took only a moment, easily misdirected from by the opening of the hospital doors to let her inside. Someone who knew what they were looking for would easily see Mitch's face in the girl, even if that someone was rare. Mitch was probably the best example of that kind of person. Despite all their time working together, it was still strange to see a face that looked simultaneously identical and yet nothing alike to his own staring back at him. Even stranger when the face was glaring daggers at him.

If looks could kill, he sighed internally. Teenagers.

"Soon, but not yet," he told her with a look. The daggers in Print's eyes remained but lessened enough that they would give only flesh wounds, had they been real.

The receptionist returned, still smiling. "I've sent it along the grapevine. Allison's nurse should let me know her answer soon enough," he promised, gesturing to his walkie-talkie.

Mitch could already picture Allison's face when she heard his old name, the slack of her jaw and widening eyes. Although he couldn't help but still picture her as the young teenage girl he once knew. The last memory he had of her face before she had died. Part of the assassin was reluctant and all of him was loathe to change the image for good.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist's address to Print drew Mitch out of his musings.

Print, having already ended the outward slaughter of her mentor, gave a bored grin and lazy point. "That's my uncle."

"Yeah, sorry, she was supposed to stay in the car," Mitch sighed awkwardly, giving an amused glance in Print's direction. "I assume it would be too much for ask for her to come with me if Allison lets me visit?"

The receptionist's gaze dropped to his radio as it crackled. Mitch had no surprise to feel when it affirmed the obvious: Allison wanted to see him. A sigh preceded a resigned, "You can both go up. I know who friends can be during something so important like this appointment."

"Of course. Thank you so much," Mitch nodded, pulling Print a long by the sleeve of her jacket as he thanked the man. It was an older coat of his that he had given her, back when they were still uncertain with each other and their Bond's telepathy. He hadn't known the first thing about raising children, but she had needed better clothing when the plane had taken them away from Mitch's mission. He'd just... never taken it back. Print hadn't kept much else from any sort of childhood Mitch had tried to give her, growing out of them eventually. But the jacket remained, still slightly too big for her six years later.

Mitch pressed the elevator button. The moment the door slid shut, Print turned to him. "So," she grumbled. "What the hell?"

"Elaborate?"

"You haven't told me a word about what we're doing telling the supernatural family of our target where we are. Even better, one that you know from nearly a decade ago." Ah, right. Mitch had told her before she landed on her flight about his situation, or at least most of it. And she had known for even longer about his past in a werewolf pack. "You talked through me and just- invited them over! Just as I was threatening them to stay away too, like I thought you wanted me to. You talked through me, Mr. Rapp!"

"I know. I doubted you would listen if I simply told you what to say. This was more efficient," Mitch admitted simply. He knew Print hated it when he was logical in their arguments, but it was the truth. He would never talk through the kid if he didn't feel it was necessary.

Print sniffed. "I beg to differ. I think I was pretty quick to let myself get hit by that damn car. I've been wounded for this mission already!" She lifted her bangs to reveal a slight cut on her forehead, one that had already been carefully bandaged. Mitch vaguely wondered if Alan Deaton had done that. "You saved mere seconds through your strategy. Not worth my theory, methinks," Print continued, letting her hair flop down over her eye again. Mitch didn't smile often and Print excused the blank look he gave her with this knowledge. "But still. Why tell them anything? Why show ourselves at all?"

"I will explain very soon, Print, I swear to you now," Mitch assured her, eyes flicking to the changing floor numbers on the elevator.

Print looked down, almost guiltily. "This isn't... you're not getting too close, right? This reasoning of your isn't personal?"

The elevator opened with a ding, but Mitch took a moment to look Print dead in the eye. Directly into his own eyes. "Not at all," he promised.

And he meant it.

Chapter Text

Despite Scott's initial order to make a plan before further action, he was the one who ran off without another word. Allison was in danger. His wife was in danger. Stiles was a danger to his wife.

A werewolf's stamina would carry Scott far, especially with desperation pumping his veins with adrenaline, but when his ears picked up the sound of Lydia's car, he forced himself to slow to a stop. Lydia sat in the driver's seat and three others uncomfortably squished together in the back, leaving Scott a space in the passenger's seat. Lydia beckoned him in, and Scott had no reason to argue.

They made it quickly. Lydia, Scott, Malia, Liam, and Mason almost tripped over each other as they scrambled through the hospital doorway.

Scott hadn't been sure of what to expect, but it certainly wasn't an image with nothing out of the ordinary. He had walked through these doors hundreds of times for a multitude of reasons. But his current reason seemed too new and too wrong, there needed to be something different. Yet there was nothing that Scott could see.

Mason, likely not thinking about how he was still in uniform, nearly gave the man at the receptionist desk a heart attack as he charged at him, still slightly out of breath. "We need to see Allison McCall immediately."

"I made sure she was okay with it first!" the receptionist squeaked, throwing his hands up as though he was being held at gunpoint. "Surely this isn't anything to arrest me for!"

Mason blinked. Liam poked his head out from behind him. "Dude, what are you talking about?"

The receptionist seemed to quickly catch on that he had misread the situation. His arms dropped and he looked down, hiding his blush. "Oh, uh, I mean- wow. Allison's sure popular today."

"Yeah, what does that mean?"

Uh, well, she's already with a visitor - who she told her nurse she wanted to see! - after he explained that her husband felt bad about having to miss her appointment," the man mumbled, still not meeting anyone's eyes.

"I'm her husband- I'm Scott McCall," Scott told him, furrowing his eyebrows. He'd called Allison right away after he'd been attacked, warning her to watch herself and apologizing excessively that he needed to miss the appointment to protect the Pack.

The receptionist finally looked up, his mouth rounded to a near-perfect circle. "Oh."

"Who's visiting her now?" Lydia demanded.

"He said his name was Stiles Stilinski! That's your friend, right? He said he knew you, and I knew the McCalls knew a Stiles from Melissa. She's your mom! He came with some girl, his niece or something. I promise you, I checked everything beforehand. No protocol was broken on my watch! Just- stretched... a little..."

The Pack looked at each other. Scott spoke. "We need to see her."

"Well, there's already two people in there, so only one of you can go. Otherwise, hospital protocol would actually be broken. It is past normal visiting hours, after all," the receptionist explained sympathetically. "Sorry."

Malia was the first to nudge Mason. He stared at her blankly. She squinted back and jerked her head towards his badge. His fingers fumbled to bring out his insignia and he held it out for the man to see. "Sir... this is an emergency. You'll let us all in or you will be detained for obstruction of justice."

The receptionist hesitated, thinking. "What do you need these guys for-"

"Sir."

"Yes, sir." The receptionist looked down again.

Mason nodded, putting his badge away as he back away with the other Pack members. "Thank you..."

"Kader? Samson Kader."

"Thanks, Mr. Kader," Mason smiled guiltily, stopping just before the elevator doors to gesture to himself. "Uh, Deputy Mason Hewwit."

Malia grabbed the officer by the scruff of his neck and tugged him backwards into the lift. The Pack crowded inside, barely hearing the quiet, "Nice to meet you," just before the doors closed.

~~~

Ten minutes prior.

Mitch stopped at the door the nurse had told him Allison was behind, Print close by. It wasn't hesitation - or at least he would never admit that it was - that made him close his eyes for just a second, preparing to lose the image he had of his childhood friend permanently.

He opened the door.

Allison had clearly been waiting for him, looking hardly surprised to see him now and simply taking in his features. He did the same. Both of them had aged, lines that hadn't been there before now decorated their faces. Mitch had tanned, while Allison's skin was only barely darker than she had been when they'd buried her. Her hair was slightly longer, as was Mitch's. Mitch was taller, broader, and had a few more scars than anyone would have expected.

Allison's biggest difference was the rise of her stomach that she rested a hand on protectively as she watched him.

Stiles felt more than a little guilty for making Scott have to miss her ultrasound, but it had been necessary for him to get to her first. It was important that Scott came late, with a Pack of old memories for Mitch to suffer through behind him.

"Stiles," Allison said once she had finished her inspection of her old friend, voice hoarser with age. Her eyes shifted to Mitch. "You have a kid too."

Of course Allison would be the kind to catch his face in Print's features. Mitch walked forward, letting Print stand next to him. "You could say that. It's good to see you, Allison. You look... alive."

Allison chuckled slightly. "Yeah. And you look... here."

"Yeah."

Print looked between the two of them. He heard her ask in his head, "When are you going to kill her?" and Mitch could only tell her to wait again. He couldn't bring himself to reprimand the girl, he knew she was unsettled by how unsettled he was. But there was more to the mission than just Allison, even if the CIA had missed it. Mitch wasn't breaking protocol. He was just... stretching it slightly.

"How'd you find out about me?" Allison asked suddenly. "They told me you've been unreachable for years."

"Work," Mitch shrugged. "The government tends to notice when a dead woman comes back. Speaking of which, have you had any contact with the FBI recently?"

Allison's eyebrows shot up. "Is this an interrogation?"

"Answer the question."

A frustrated exhale, followed by a definitive, "No," made Mitch nod and Print begin to understand why they hadn't smothered her with a pillow yet.

Allison decided that two could play the question game. "Have you talked to Scott yet? Or stopped by the Animal Clinic?"

"Not exactly," Mitch admitted, taking a few steps and settling into one of the hospital chairs. "She has." He gestured to Print, who took the hint and sat next to Mitch. "This is my charge, Tibaeat Risha."

"You can just call me Risha," Print said diplomatically. Mitch was one of the few native English-speakers she trusted to pronounce her Arabic title correctly. But Feather Print was obviously too conspicuous of an alias. So 'Feather' in Arabic was her compromise. English enough to pronounce and pretty enough for Americans to ignore obscure translations. Perfect.

"Nice to meet you, Risha," Allison nodded. She turned back to face Mitch. "You know, he was supposed to come here. But something came up at the clinic. Shame, isn't it?"

"He'll show up sooner or later," Mitch assured her. His eyes narrowed. "Likely sooner, so you can stop considering ripping out your IV and shaking me with it." His once-over of her had been much more than greeting an old friend.

Allison kept her hands where they were, one draped over her swollen stomach while the other rested on the bed, unnaturally turned to reveal the corded end of the needle. The hand had been half-reaching for the cord since he entered. She did glare slightly, but relaxed her arms. "Melissa and your dad called a few minutes before my nurse told me you were here."

"You still let me in," Mitch pointed out. Allison said nothing, didn't dare to voice the question of whether she would regret her decision.

She would, but not for a while yet.

The door slamming open made her jump, while Mitch and Print just sighed at the loudness. Civilians were always so needlessly loud.

Mitch knew who it was before he saw any of the intruders. He looked on at the ghosts of his past as they stood by in poorly-disguised awe with a slight sigh.

His eyes focused on one in particular. "Hey, Scott."

Chapter Text

Allison McCall had gone into her ultrasound betting on a girl growing in her womb. She had not expected a boy, and she certainly hadn't expected her mother-in-law warning her that her childhood best friend was on his way to possibly kill her, likely being trailed by a corrupted Banshee shapeshifter. Being brought back from the dead had felt less disorienting than this.

The aforementioned friend-turned-killer raised both eyebrows at the slack jaws of her husband and their friends, clearly as shocked as Allison had been. His kid sat next to him, not sparing any of the Pack a glance as she stared vaguely in Allison's direction, not blinking or moving. Allison would have kept her eyes on them in some twisted staring contest if it weren't for her Pack's mouths finally working.

"Stiles."

"Stiles?"

"It's been a while."

"Where have you been?"

The reactions came all at once, and Mitch had no inclination to answer any of them. Whether it was returning a sentiment or answering, he wanted nothing to do with it. But his line of work often involved doing things Mitch didn't want to do. He stayed in his chair and hummed lowly. "You're..." he looked at his watch. "Two minutes early. Well done."

Malia scoffed. "And you're eight years late. What the hell is this?"

"I consider 'this' a buisness trip of sorts. Unwanted, but necessary. One that will go much faster if you cooperate," Mitch responded, his face remaining deadpan. There was a passive air to him - one that the Pack could never remember sensing from their friend before - that showed no signs of concern for what could happen in the near future. The assassin would get what he wanted regardless of how his old Pack 'cooperated.' Scott could quickly gather that they were only here, all together again, because Stiles wanted them to be.

However, the werewolf in Scott could sense a coil of anticipation underneath, one that could easily turn violent if pushed. Scott wasn't sure which of these warnings he preferred.

"Cooperate how?" Scott asked, treading lightly as if to keep Stiles from deciding this wasn't worth his time.

"I have an offer to make." The coil stayed tight, even shrinking more in preparation to strike.

"Okay? With what?"

Mitch stared for a moment, considering, before sighing as he stood up. He reached into his jacket while he confessed, "Before I say anything further, I feel you have a right to know I am a CIA assassin known as Malikul Mawt, the Angel of Death, and I was sent to kill Allison McCall." He revealed a handgun hidden in his jacket.

The sudden reaction was too expected to be truly surprising. A pause of silence, of processing, followed by the beginnings of chaos. As werewolves started growling, fangs and claws elongating, eyes glowing, Mitch turned away to face Allison. Or at least her general direction. His eyes tracked something slightly to her left, nodding slightly. Allison had no time to gasp as metal pressed against her throat, held by a slightly small hand. The girl she had seen sitting next to Mitch vanished, there one moment and gone the next.

Appearances could be so deceiving with something like Print.

Scott's senses, so alert to protecting his wife, shifted back to humanity moments after she had gasped. His hands were up, stopping his Betas and trying to placate the threats he finally saw. Trying to suppress the coil he had set free and discovered was aimed at Allison. Looking back at Stiles, Scott saw him unclip the magazine of his gun and reveal its emptiness, before setting the two useless pieces aside on the desktop. The gun had never been loaded. After all, he had never really needed it.

Stiles looked back at Scott. "And I could. You see that, right?" Scott nodded, hands still raised, while Mitch sat back down. "But... I don't plan to. Print? Let her go."

Print looked at him sharply, eyes wide, but she obeyed as always. As she stepped back and pocketed her knife, the Pack looked relieved and slowly lowered their arms. Allison finally let herself breathe.

"I'm an assassin, yeah, but not a murderer. I came here suspecting you were falsely accused. The FBI has attempted to contact your family for months now about Allison coming back from the dead, but something's been picking them off before they can. It's unsettling the higher-ups, so they sent me to take care of it. But I know you. You aren't one for killing, unless the Pack has changed that much?"

Scott shook his head. "We never even knew the FBI had noticed us."

Mitch nodded. "That's what Allison said. I know you're innocent, you know you're innocent, but the American government does not. Any reason I can give is going to be seen as unprofessional, as me becoming personal with targets. I'll be discredited, and Allison will be killed by some other trigger-happy bastard who knows jack shit about the truth of Beacon Hills. So, help me find a reason why I shouldn't kill an innocent woman. Work with me to find who's been attacking agents, and we have a chance to save Allison."

Mason looked thoughtful. "Will that be enough?"

"It's the only chance you have," Mitch admitted.

"And if we fail?"

Stiles looked over at Lydia, who could feel her powers spark at his very presence. He let her answer for him. "Then he'll do what he was sent here to do."

Mitch ignored the uncomfortable silence that threatened the room. "The mission is expected to take two days. We have until then. I suggest you take this deal, Scott. It's the only way you can save Allison and your kid." He held out the same hand he had used to hold a gun to Scott.

Scott couldn't refuse, just as Mitch had planned.

~~~

They waited for Allison to be discharged in the downstairs lobby, Samson pretending not to eye them from the desk. Mason waved after catching his gaze before the receptionist looked down quickly. Stiles was sat across from the Pack with his Corbadh, the two seeming to communicate silently.

Scott was far past his days of fidgeting, but he figured that the news that he had both a son and a deadline to protect his family from being killed by his former best friend was a decent excuse. His hands rubbed together repeatedly as he thought, Scott barely registering the contact his regression was causing.

Malia broke the awkward silence first, naturally, as she was often allergic to them. "So. Assassin. How'd you end up with a job like that?"

"The CIA headhunted me." A short, singular, and vague sentence. No anecdotes or sarcasm in sight. Stiles really had changed.

"Who's the kid?"

"The kid's name if Print, hello, lovely to meet you again," Print squinted at the Werecoyote. "And I'm assuming you're Malia Tate." Malia squinted back in retaliation, even as the teenager pretended to ignore her.

"Or do you go by Hale now?" Stiles asked politely. No one chose to notice the convenient change in subject.

"Nope. Still Tate. We actually haven't seen Peter in a while," Malia admitted. "Not since-"

"Why now, Stiles?" Liam blurted. The thought had been looping around in his head for a while. "We haven't seen you in almost a decade. After everything, a job is what brings you back?"

"Nothing else would. For your safety and my own." His honesty both sank and raised Liam's spirits. Stiles' face twitched, as though he'd remembered something. "Oh, and I go by Mitch now."

Lydia's face crumpled as she finally looked him in the eye. "Mitch?"

"Mieczyslaw Rapp. Mitch fits better than Stiles, don't you think?" Mitch raised an eyebrow, the contempt as he said his old name evident in his voice.

"Where'd the Rapp come from?" Malia asked confusedly.

"Again, for safety," Mitch explained. "The CIA is well aware of my history here, obviously, but we can't afford that information falling into the wrong hands."

"If they know this is where you're from, why would they send you? They'd know this would be personal," Lydia pointed out.

Mitch glared slightly, his lighter face dropping. "One this is not personal in any respect other than that I know Allison is innocent. Do not mistake morality with connection or friendship. And two," he inhaled deeply before continuing. "They know she'll trust me enough to let me get close to her."

Scott had been listening quietly, trying to recover as much information as he could about his lost years with Stiles, but he finally had a question of his own. "How do we know that's not what you're doing? You distract us with this deal until we trust you, only to kill Allison when we least expect it?"

Finally, a familiar expression of 'Scott, you're an idiot' came across Stiles' face. "Did my demonstration show you nothing? If I were planning to kill her, you would never have been involved. She'd be dead already. It would have been quiet, quick, and painless, and you'd never have known I was even here."

Scott knew he was telling the truth, could hear it in his heartbeat. He could smell the revulsion Stiles felt at the very thought of hurting Allison. If they failed, Mitch would carry out his mission, and everyone including him would suffer. But it was only if they failed that it would happen.

Scott would not let it happen.

Allison came down at last, her hospital wristband still fastened around her, resting her hands against her stomach. Scott stood up for her, crossing the room and holding his hand out to her. She grasped his hand tightly as he pulled her towards the group, now getting ready to leave.

"Liam, make sure everyone is still at the Animal Clinic. We'll meet them there," Scott directed. "Lydia, we have more people now, so I'll take some people to run-"

"Print and I have a ride," Mitch interjected. "Someone can join me, if they like."

Both Mitch and Scott pointedly avoided looking at Allison. "I can go," Scott offered. He nodded to Lydia, who left being trailed by Liam, Mason, and Malia.

Scott finally met Allison's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, taking her hands. They kissed slowly, if only to comfort each other. "Stay safe."

"I love you," she whispered back, smiling to reassure him.

"I love you too."

They missed how Mitch elbowed Print at something she said, unheard by anyone other than themselves. They left as well, the couple behind them still holding hands.

Chapter Text

Print pouted in the backseat. It wasn't often that she was exiled to the outskirts of a vehicle - she was used to the seat of honour next to Mr. Rapp - yet that was where she found herself for some uneven-jawlined, Alpha werewolf dude that Mr. Rapp hadn't even seen in almost a decade. The sheer injustice and audacity! At least she could finally shift back to her true Appearance and end the painful sensations of a body that wasn't quite hers from making her skin itch.

The drive was awkwardly silent, since Mr. Rapp seemed to ignore any attempt she had at commentary or questions. It was... unsettling... to say the least. He had always been quiet and straight to the point, but never radio silent like now. Print started to get nervous that her lie earlier about not hearing him in her head was coming true, even if she could still feel his presence in her head, familiar and grounding.

This job was going to end bitterly, she knew, some way and somehow. Her relationship with Mr. Rapp's employers was strained, sure, but at least Mr. Rapp had enough credibility within the CIA to trust them to turn a blind eye around the details of her existence. This Pack was completely unknown to her. And as much as he may want to ignore it, Mr. Rapp didn't know them anymore either. The McCalls were an uncontrollable factor in an already delicate situation.

Weird-Jaw Alpha - right, Scott... whatever - finally talked and print felt an odd sense of relief from the broken silence. "What happened, Stiles? What happened to make you like... like this?"

"People change, McCall," Mitch answered, eyes staying on the road.

"Not this much," Scott argued. "After Donovan, I remember- you were... destroyed, you- the guilt I could sense from you-"

Mitch's jaw clenched. "Killing Donovan was a rude awakening to the fact that some deaths are necessary. My targets will cause death and destruction on a global scale if they're not caught and put down. I'm not some contract mercenary with no sense of loyalty. I protect innocent people, save lives. Like Allison. Like you. Like the entire Pack."

"If you didn't know Allison, you'd have killed her. You'll still kill her if we fail. I believe you enough to realize that, Stiles. My wife and son would be dead, despite being innocent. Would you go home, thinking the loss was necessary? Thinking you're... some kind of hero?"

Mr. Rapp was still ignoring Print, but she could feel the thoughts in his head like pins and needles. If they were uncomfortable for her, they were likely agonizing to her boss. She needed them to stop, broken silence be damned.

"Then consider yourself lucky, McCall," she interjected. "We haven't killed her and we're going to do everything we can to save her. That's the reality."

Scott looked back at her, his eyes thoughtful under furrowed brows. "How old are you?"

Print blinked. She looked at Mr. Rapp, who just shrugged slightly - still not fucking saying anything to her. Best to tell the truth then. "Sixteen, I think? I can copy DNA almost perfectly, but you really can't age genetics."

"Hm. I was your age when I became a werewolf. A member of my pack is about your age now. You met him, remember? You're still so young; is this really something you want to be involved in? Killing people?" The guy didn't seem to be consciously giving her puppy-dog (wolf?) eyes, but fuck it if they didn't make her sad just by looking at them.

"I've been doing this since I was ten. Mr. Rapp and I work well together, doing important work for your country. I take pride in our work," Print responded, averting her eyes from the sad-wolf ones. Mr. Rapp had said very similar sentiments in the past, so it must be true enough for Scott to stop his interrogation.

Scott turned back to the front, taking his sad eyes from Print to the barely-lit road. "That wasn't my question."

Ya Allah, this guy was the walking definition of 'kill them with kindness.' Print stayed quiet externally, but she silently told Mr. Rapp her concerns. "His morals are going to get in the way."

Mr. Rapp finally stopped ignoring her, blinking in agreement. "Wouldn't be the first time," he sighed in her head.

Print remembered Donovan. Or at least Mr. Rapp's memory of it. She'd been curious, asked when his first kill was, and all he could do was show her. She'd felt his fear, the panic, but especially the relief after the deed was done. There had only been one thought when the younger version of her mentor saw the broken body. "Good." There was a simultaneous feeling of satisfaction and disgust, of being unable to look away while desperately wishing one could.

She understood that completely. Her own thoughts had been quite similar that first time they'd killed together.

~~~

Six years ago.

No-Name felt a weight lift from her young shoulders as the kind man killed her Master. Something in her mind was untangled, a door closed, and she felt the sense of total liberation even as she was trapped below her stiff companions.

Then this savior returned to her, and her heart leapt even higher with joy. No-Name felt guilty at the way her small body ached when the man so clearly tried to be gentle as he carried her.

And yet, as they walked, something in No-Name's very nature felt her freedom and forced a bad taste in her mouth at it. This new independence felt toxic, unstable. And her current body, which had become the only form she felt even remotely happy in, began to feel wrong in too-familiar ways - stretched and too much of something that wasn't her.

So No-Name, as children will do, sought to end it by reaching out to someone she felt she could trust. Her intuition had been wrong twice now, but (before they'd gone silent and grey) she'd heard companions in the big room say 'third time's the charm.'

She heard the steps of someone behind her hero. And she knew what to do this time. As she felt her fingers pulse with energy, the intruder swiped his claws through the illusion she'd created, only for him to blink at how much farther the pair was in reality. And by then the Hero had spotted him, killing the intruder quickly.

Hero killed a lot of people, No-Name was learning quickly as he set her down. And the instincts that she could only describe as inhuman liked it. To some degree, the illusions she created in the room where Hero left a trail of monsters at his feet were no longer hers. But they made her feel a bit less uncomfortably independent, latching onto a new killer, so it was probably fine.

It seemed that Hero had a master as well. In the beautiful outside that No-Name had never remembered seeing before, she saw Hero defer to someone she could not see. Her first two Masters had also had Masters of some sort, so this was not too unusual. What was unusual was that even as he spoke in a language No-Name could not understand, but although as he looked at her in his arms, she got the feeling he never said a word about her presence.

When he gave her food and water, she did want it. But her skin itched terribly now and she knew by now that any food she consumed would be in a stomach that rejected its own existence. It would reject anything else too, and No-Name really hated tummyaches.

Argh, no-

No.

No.

It hurt-

No-Name needed it to stop. She needed to be new. And she knew what to do.

Hero looked thoughtful. Probably because of her, which No-Name could understand. She looked at the scars on the hands she was currently wearing, knowing they'd stay on her true hands once she got them. Those stayed no matter what she did.

She held out the hand she had once thought of as hers out to Hero.

Maybe No-Name wasn't the only one desperate for a companion. Maybe Hero felt her abilities' pull too, at some unconscious level, because he carefully connected their hands together just the way he was supposed to. And before she knew it, No-Name could feel her mind relax again. She was free from the lonely freedom that her powers hated more than anything.

Hero seemed startled by the Bond. No-Name recalled a similar response from her first two Masters, although she physically didn't seem capable of understanding the reaction herself. It felt too right, too perfect, to her instincts.

She heard his voice in her head for the first time, his Arabic pronunciation surprisingly perfect for what No-Name could now recognise as an American. Her second Master had hated those, but she couldn't find anything wrong about Hero. "What are you?"

No-Name had experience with Bonds. She knew she couldn't lie to him. "A monster," she told him, knowing it was what best described her. "But one who wants to help you, I swear."

And maybe Hero saw she couldn't lie to him either, because he relaxed slightly.

But No-Name had more she needed to do. She took the chains in her head and mentally hugged them as she changed the body into her own. Brown hair... brown eyes... this was her first master that was white, even if he was still somewhat tan... there were some beauty marks on his face, very important to keep those... gender was always the most difficult for them to manage. No-Name liked being female. They couldn't be an exact copy of anyone, not even her Master, and they had only ever had male Masters so this worked to their advantage. They could have been a boy and changed something else, but this was what she preferred. Nevertheless, for a few moments, No-Name was a perfect copy of Hero in every way. It was never permanant, but her powers relished in the brief moment even if it was them that rejected the perfection in the next second.

When the shift had been completed, No-Name finally felt a lot more like herself and that was what finally had her eating her bread happily.

Hero just stared at her. "What did you just do to me?" He must not have been used to talking in minds yet, as he said it out loud. No-Name winced at the volume, her ears still ringing from the confrontation earlier.

Talking with your mouth full was rude, someone had taught her years ago, so she quickly chewed her food before responding in her head. "We Bonded, sir?"

"And that means?" He still spoke aloud.

Hm. She didn't have experience with this. Both of her previous Masters had known more about her species than she did. Maybe it would be better for hero to hear this with her outside voice. "I- I am not too sure, sir. I- uh, I'm told my kind is called a Corbadh? A Celtic Abomination. We Bond with killers, like for a synb- symd- symbitiotic relationship."

"A symbiotic relationship?" Hero corrected her, choosing not to address the hoarsness of her unused voice yet. "How so?"

"You get protection and assisstance with your kills, due to my abilities, and ea- eat? The energy transfer of you taking their life. I- it is like eating. I think?" the girl tried. This was not her area of expertise. She looked at the half-eaten bread in her hand awkwardly. "I do like your bread much better though, sir, thank you."

She took another bite to prove it.

"Okay... and how do we... unbond?" Hero asked her, his hands subtly reflecting his words by interlocking and then pulling apart.

No-Name, taken aback, thought hard. She retreated back to using her inner voice as she looked him dead in the eyes to say, "One of us dies."

Hero blinked. "Oh."

"That's the only way I've been 'unbonded' to my other Masters," No-Name shrugged. They had died, not her. Obviously. Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, sir, I- I can do research if you like-"

"No, it- you look half-starved and exhausted. You can stay with me for now, at least until I figure out how to safely break the Bond. But I'm not- you need help from someone who- not me," Hero told her, backing away. "Just- drink your water. Slowly."

No-Name took a sip, and then another. It felt good on her sore throat. How did hero talk aloud so much without getting tired?

Hero avoided her gaze, opting to look for his laptop in his bag. No-Name was impressed at how he could talk without using any kind of words. Maybe it was because she was now telepathically linked to him, but No-Name could sense his unease at something beyond her presence in his head. He walked a thin line between inexperience and begrudging mastery. His every move was filled with a forceful purpose, sharp enough that it was clear he didn't know what else to consider his purpose at the moment.

No-Name didn't understand it. Her previous Masters had had a clear purpose: to kill. It was why they had sought her out to Bond with them in the first place. There was a never ending plot of death and destruction No-Name could rely on to drive her Bond. But Hero's mind lacked a certain hatred that No-Name had become used to. There was a rage - and oh, it was fiery - but something else entirely stoked its flames. Something... nicer? That wasn't the right word, but either way it felt safer than anything No-Name had ever felt before.

"What's your name, anyway?" Hero suddenly asked her.

No-Name paused. "I'm not sure, sir. I was never given one." Not that she remembered, at least.

Hero nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. "I've been calling you Kiddo in my head," he admitted, somewhat apologetically. Odd. Valid, she suppose. And much nicer than other titles she'd been called. "I'm Mitch. Mitch Rapp."

"Hello, Mr. Rapp," Kiddo smiled politely.

"Get some sleep, alright?"

Kiddo lay down where she was on the bed, her eyes going wide at its softness before fluttering closed. She heard the light tapping of a keyboard, while her last conscious thought was that she hoped Mr. Rapp changed his mind about breaking their Bond. He seemed like it was good. Like really, actually, and truly good - not just good for her instincts finding a way to feed.

"Third time's a charm," someone had taught her years ago, but that was the day before the Loud day when they'd all been dumped to the big room. The most human part of Kiddo remained skeptical.

But not skeptical enough to avoid having the best sleep of her life. For the first time in Kiddo's memory, her lullaby of screams was replaced with something akin to peaceful silence.