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It’s surprisingly easy, his first kill. He had imagined panic, a doubtfulness in his ability to hit the target, to finish the job. Jacob had said that the first kill was always the hardest, that if he lost his nerve and couldn’t do it, well, no one would blame him. Especially with such attachment to werewolves of his own.
But as he stared down at the wolf from his position on the warehouse roof, he did not think about the wolves he left behind in Beacon Hills, or how they had been his Pack once upon a time. He doesn’t think about Lydia, or Isaac, or Scott, who had tried to fix the gaping, bleeding wound in his heart; pleaded with him to stay with them when he told them of his plans to leave. He did not think of Peter, who had not tried to comfort him, but had sent him secret glances when the wolf thought he wasn’t looking, filled with empathy that made him furious and enraged. He did not think of Derek, who had said nothing; who hadn’t tried to stop him when he told the Alpha that he was leaving, which stung his heart more than he would ever admit.
As he watched the werewolf roaming the alleys below him, with his muzzle still dripping blood from the drunk he killed three blocks before, he did not think of the wolves of Beacon Hills. As he sets up his riffle and makes sure it’s wolf bane bullets he’s using, he thinks about how his dad had taken him to the shooting range every year for his birthday (“You’re getting pretty good at that, you know that? Keep it up and you’ll be a better shot than me.”) When he relaxes his muscles, and lines up the shot, breathing slowly as he follows the target with his gun, he remembers how his dad used to stand behind him when he was younger, keeping his hands on his shoulders to keep him steady as he whispered advice in his ear (“Take a big breath, calm yourself. Let your breath out slowly, then shoot.”) When his finger slips around the trigger, he remembers his father’s body, broken and bloody, with his throat ripped out. A parting message from the Alpha pack when they had finally been run out of town.
Take a big breath, calm yourself. Let your breath out slowly, then shoot.
He takes a big breath.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He pulls the trigger.
He does not feel panic, or doubt, or remorse. He does not feel sad, does not feel anger. He feels nothing at all.
-X-
When he finally rolls into Beacon Hills, all he can feel is exhausted. He got the call from a contact while he was finishing up a job in Louisiana- the Argents had requested for immediate backup, and had asked for someone well experienced with Alphas. The request had traveled through the vines until it had finally reached him, some three days after the call had gone out.
“They asked for an Alpha expert,” Garth had said on the phone. “Who’s better at taking down Alphas than you, Red?”
He knew that the Argents didn’t ask for backup unless they were completely desperate for it. They usually liked to handle things on their own, to keep code-less hunters away from the Hale pack. And if they were calling for help, that meant whatever was going down in Beacon Hills was too much to handle for both the hunters there, and the wolves.
“I’m on it,” he tells Garth as he starts to pack up his bag. “Spread the word that Beacon Hills is covered- we’re not gonna need anyone else on this.”
“Well aren’t you just a slice of humble pie?"
“Topped with sarcastic whipped cream and sprinkles of charm. I’ll call you when the job’s over.”
He drove 29 hours straight, only stopping for fuel and cheap gas market sandwiches on the way. It briefly crossed his mind that maybe he should sleep before he got there, be prepared and ready from the get-go. But that idea was quickly shot down; he didn’t want to waste time on anything if shit was going down without him. And, he thought quietly to himself, he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. Thoughts whirled through his mind as he drove, and anxiety twisted in his gut the closer he got. He wondered what had happened to everyone; he wondered what they would say to him when they realized who had responded to their call. He wondered if anyone had died while he was gone. There was always a possibility. After all, a lot can happen in eight years.
Now, as he drives his car down the once familiar roads, he wonders if he made the right decision. There was a big possibility that he wouldn’t be welcomed here- not after the way he had ran away and broken all contact with his hometown. For all he knows, they might think he’s dead in a ditch somewhere; perhaps coming back hadn’t been a wise decision. Too late now, he thinks as he pulls into the Argent’s driveway.
He takes his gun out of the shoulder holster hidden under his brown leather jacket, checking make sure there’s plenty of ammo in there (can’t be too careful, can’t trust anyone), before he tucks it back in its place, takes the keys out of the ignition, and hops out of the car. His walk is sure and steady; it does not betray his nervousness.
Calm down.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He knocks on the door.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The door swings open, and Chris Argent is standing there, his face morphing from serious to confused to disbelief. “Stiles?”
Inhale.
Exhale.
He is calm.
“I heard you were in need of an Alpha hunter,” he says with a smirk.