Chapter 6: The Prank to Help and a New Ally
The air in Scott's basement was thick with a scent that was equal parts ozone and fear. It was a lingering, invisible stain left by the previous night's chaos. Scott, our new-and-improved Beta, was a crumpled mass of limbs on a ratty mattress, the kind you buy at a thrift store when you're a teenager and think you're immortal. He wasn't asleep; his body was a silent, tense line, a coiled spring of post-traumatic stress. The blanket he had pulled over himself seemed to offer no more comfort than a paper towel.
Stiles, as always, was a human tornado of nervous energy, his hands a blur of motion as he paced a frantic, well-worn path across the concrete floor. "Okay, so what's the official protocol for dealing with a teenage werewolf who just had his first full moon and is now emotionally and physically wrecked? Do we bring him soup? Do we sing a sad song? Do we just... stare at him until he feels better? Because I'm pretty sure that last one is a one-way ticket to a restraining order and a very awkward conversation with my dad."
I leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, a small, knowing smile playing on my lips. "Stiles, calm down. The last thing he needs is soup. The werewolf part of him would probably just tear the bowl to shreds. The human part of him, the part we're trying to save here, would probably just feel more pathetic. He needs a distraction. A reminder of who he is. The wolf part is a new, scary thing. The Scott part is the core, the anchor. He just needs a little push to remember that, you know, before the claws and the glowing eyes, he was just a clumsy, kind-hearted dork who was terrible at lacrosse."
Stiles stopped his pacing, his eyes wide and unblinking. "A push? What kind of push? Do we push him down the stairs? That seems counterintuitive and probably illegal."
I shook my head, a low chuckle rumbling in my chest. "No, you sarcastic muppet. We're going to use my greatest power: the power of the utterly ridiculous, also known as a prank. But this one is less about laughs and more about therapy. It's a therapeutic scavenger hunt. It's a new brand I'm developing. 'Pranks with a Purpose.' I think it's going to be huge."
My internal monologue, a constant, sarcastic ticker tape of information and commentary, was on a quiet setting. The full moon had been a rough one for Scott. The bite, the change, the terror—it was a lot for a kid to handle. The system, that silent, knowing entity that lived in my head, had been dormant. It didn't offer a quest, a power, or a solution. It was just there, a silent observer. This was on me. And my greatest weapon, in this moment, was not a borrowed power or a supernatural ability. It was a prank. It was a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most effective tools in this new, crazy world were the most human ones.
The idea was a masterpiece of convoluted logic and a subtle understanding of the human psyche. The prank wasn't about testing Scott's new werewolf senses; it was about forcing him to use his human senses—his memory, his heart, his connection to his past. The first clue was a small, handwritten note taped to his battered, much-loved lacrosse stick. It read, "The first time you felt like a hero was before you knew what a hero was. Where did you first learn to fly?"
Scott, still groggy and withdrawn, read the note with a look of utter confusion. But then, a flicker of recognition passed over his face. The muscles in his shoulders, which had been tight and tense, visibly relaxed. He picked up the stick, his eyes scanning the room. "The... the tree house. The one my dad built for me when I was a kid. He called it 'The Falcon's Nest.'"
The scavenger hunt led him all over Beacon Hills, but not to the places he had been as a werewolf. It led him to the places of his childhood. It led him to the old arcade where he and Stiles had spent countless weekends, the air still smelling faintly of stale pizza and sugar. It led him to the bench at the park where he had his first kiss, a memory that, for a moment, was not overshadowed by the terrifying scent of a werewolf. It led him to the baseball diamond where his dad had taught him how to throw a fastball, a memory that was now a little tinged with sadness, but also with love. Each clue was a memory, a snippet of a life that had nothing to do with claws and fangs. Each clue was a reminder that he was still Scott.
The final clue was a small, tattered note taped to his front door. It read, "The one thing that has never changed, the one thing that never will, is the people who love you. Go inside, and you'll find your prize."
When Scott walked inside, he saw Stiles and me sitting on the couch, a large pepperoni pizza box on the coffee table. The air, which had been thick with tension, was now filled with the comforting scent of pizza and the low hum of a bad horror movie playing on the TV. He looked at us, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and gratitude.
"You guys... you did all this?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the couch, his body no longer a tense, coiled spring.
Stiles nodded, a huge, goofy grin on his face. "Yep! Adam's idea. The 'Psychological Prank to Mend a Broken Heart.' I just provided the pizza and the moral support. Also, the rope, which we didn't end up needing. So, what's the verdict? Are you still a moody, brooding werewolf, or are you a moody, brooding human who just happens to be a werewolf?"
Scott smiled, a tired but genuine smile. "I'm still Scott," he said, his voice a low whisper. "And I have you guys. I'm okay. It's just... it's hard. The wolf feels so... big. So loud. It's hard to remember the boy sometimes."
"We'll help you remember," I said, my voice a quiet, reassuring presence. "That's what friends are for. And also, for eating pizza and watching terrible movies."
We sat in comfortable silence, eating pizza and watching a terrible, low-budget slasher film, a quiet moment of friendship in a world that was becoming increasingly chaotic. My internal monologue, for once, was silent. I wasn't thinking about the next prank or the next supernatural monster. I was just a guy, sitting with his friends, and it was a pretty nice feeling.
Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw him. Derek Hale. He was standing in the shadows, a silent, brooding presence. He was a creature of the night, a silent guardian, and he was watching us. His face, usually a mask of brooding intensity, was a blank slate of confusion. He had expected us to be in a panic. He had expected the werewolf to be out of control. He had expected chaos. He had not expected a simple prank and a moment of quiet, human friendship.
He gave me a single, intense nod, a silent acknowledgment of a job well done. Then, he melted back into the shadows, a ghost in the night.
"I don't get you, man," Stiles said, his mouth full of pizza. "You're like... a magical therapist with a prank problem."
"It's a new brand," I said with a shrug. "Coming to a town near you. And it's working, isn't it?"
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