First chapter! This is veeery dialogue-heavy, and not as long as it could be. Still, enjoy!

"Dude, are you sure you're okay?" Scott made puppy eyes at him – again - as they walked through the double entrance door of Beacon High. Stiles had to strain his ears to hear him over the chattering and hustling of the other students in the hallway.

Scott's voice sounded hesitant, and it conveyed his earlier wish for Stiles to stay at home and recover.

As soon as Stiles had woken up that morning, there'd been numerous messages on his phone, advising and begging him to stay in bed. Scott had even used that once emoji he only ever used when he felt really guilty.

But Stiles had thrown his clothes on and ignored them all.

Like hell was he going to stay in bed and sleep when there was a riddle to solve – even if said riddle consisted of his friend being a bloodthirsty, Stiles-hunting werewolf.

So here he was, absentmindedly keeping his eyes open for Lydia and Malia, while he tried to ignore the throbbing in his right side, where Scott's claws had torn into his flesh the night before.

He still remembered the panic that'd surged through him when he'd felt thick blood trickling down his side, soaking the hem of his trousers.

After Deaton had confirmed that no, it was not deep enough to transform him, he'd decided to put a bandage around it and ignore it, but now, as the pain flared up like Scott's eyes at night, he regretted not taking any pain medication to school.

"Yes," he answered, not once looking at his friend, "I'm okay. You know, physically. Because emotionally I'm pretty confused and shaken up – which is no surprise, since my best friend tried to murder me last night." He paused, looked at Scott and shrugged his shoulders. "But what else is new? I'm glad you got your shit together when I screamed my lungs out."

Scott grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Stiles, I hope you know that I had no idea what I was doing last night! I would never want to hurt you."

"You know," Stiles said, throwing him a sideways glance. "I really don't know if this is supposed to calm me down or not, because the prospect of you being a mindless murder machine is endlessly more frightening than anything else I could imagine."

Letting go of his friend's arm, Scott looked to the ceiling for a moment, as if trying to find something worse than what Stiles had come up with. "Just think about Peter being a mindless murder machine. Now there's a nightmare you don't want to have."

"I don't have to imagine that, because that is a very, very real thing that already happened."

"Fair enough," Scott admitted.

"Seriously though," Stiles' voice got quiet, taking on a serious edge, "That was not normal. In fact, it was very abnormal. We have to find out what happened, and fast, because I do not want a repeat of last night anytime soon."

Scott nodded. "I don't know," he said, "maybe it was just… some kind of super strong full moon or something."

"That is," Stiles raised an eyebrow and licked his lips, "I'm inclined to say that this is bullshit, but I'm very hesitant to dismiss anything as bullshit anymore. You know," he made wild, unidentifiable gestures with his hands, "with all the bullshit constantly happening in this town."

"Again," Scott said, "fair enough." Dodging some gossiping girls, he readjusted his backpack. "I'll ask Mr. Argent or Derek, they ought to know something."

"Good plan, alpha," Stiles praised, "you're a good alpha."

"Are you trying to bring my subconscious, vicious alpha side to like you so it won't try to kill you again?"

"Yes."

"That's…" Scott trailed off and stood still. Stiles almost walked into his back before he stopped and looked over his friend's shoulder, following his line of sight.

He sighed.

Kira stood in front of her locker, fumbling with her books. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, leaving her pale neck exposed. Stiles came to appreciate her bold choice of clothes; a mix of feminine elegance and casualness.

As if she sensed Scott's presence - which was very much possible, Stiles reminded himself - she turned her head and smiled at him. Stiles didn't need to look at his friend to know that he smiled back just as sickly sweet.

Stiles felt a pat on his shoulder and the next thing he knew, Scott was sauntering towards his girlfriend. Stiles averted his gaze just in time to spare himself of the kiss.

Stiles was sure Malia would choke on her markers one of these days, with the way she gnawed on them as if they were dog toys. He was also sure that thought would've killed him if he'd uttered it aloud.

Tapping his pen onto the table, Stiles stared at the back of her head, willing her to look at him.

"Psst!" He tapped the pen harder, making more noise. It was annoying even to his own ears. "Psst! Hey, Malia!"

He heard the clattering of pens and the rustling of paper. "What?" Malia turned her head, her teeth showing in a snarl. "Can't you see I'm trying to concentrate?"

Stiles rolled his eyes and shook his head. Leaning forward, he whispered: "Have you felt the urge to kill me lately?"

"You mean more than usual? No." Malia turned around, stopped midway and looked at him again, her arm draped across the back of her chair. "However, if you keep abusing your pen like that, I might actually kill you."

His hand froze. "Yes," he said, "thank you. That's very comforting."

"Ms. Tate, Mr. Stilinski," coach Finstock interrupted them. "You might want to pay attention if you don't want your grades to sink further than the bottom of the ocean, if that's even possible."

Stiles bit his lip and leaned back into his chair. Winking awkwardly at his coach, he opened his textbook and pretended to look at the page, but his thoughts were running in circles, trying to find a solution to the new problem presenting itself.

"So, Malia doesn't want to kill me."

"Excuse me?" Scott looked at him, eyes wide and mouth open. The shocked-puppy-look.

Mrs. Martin was writing a formula onto the blackboard, paying the whispering students at the pack of her classroom no mind. Lydia, however, threw them a curious glance, her round eyes narrowing. She mouthed her confusion, but Stiles waved at her dismissively, a silent promise to explain later.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Scott.

"Yeah, I know, unbelievable, but she actually doesn't want to kill me. Well," he added, "not more than usual – her words, not mine."

"No, no-," Scott stuttered, "I mean what? What are you talking about?" His eyebrows knitted together; the confused-puppy-look.

Stiles faced his friend and sent him a look that said he should know exactly what he was talking about – which he should, by the way. "I mean that the problem is you, not me. And I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Shouldn't you say something like 'I'm sorry, it's me, not you'?"

"Dude, we're not having relationship problems," Stiles paused and shrugged his shoulders. "Well, unless you count almost killing me as having 'relationship problems'. But then there's still the fact that we're not in a relationship."

"What is your point?"

Stiles flailed his arms. "The point is that you're the only were creature here who wants to mangle me, tear me to pieces – whatever you want to call it. I didn't just ask Malia, either, I asked everyone else as well."

Scott gnawed on his bottom lip, an action Stiles identified as an expression of worry and guilt. His insides tensed and turned at the sight.

"Don't worry," Stiles said, as flippantly as possible, "we'll find out what's going on. I survived a pack of alphas – I'll survive one puppy-alpha."