𝑀𝑂𝑅𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐴 - S.S.

{four;}

Scott isn't stupid.

He knew something was wrong three years ago when his dad has called him to warn him to stay the hell out of it.

To tell him it's probably nothing, but, Stiles' disappearance is under federal investigation and interfering in anyway could get him in deep shit.

He knew something was wrong when Noah got arrested by a group of FBI goons for investigating Stiles' apartment in Virginia.

He knew something was wrong when months past, and his dad stopped answering his daily calls begging for updates.

So no Scott isn't stupid, but forgive him if he's having a little trouble wrapping his head around this.

-

He's only seen his father twice since Stiles' disappearance, and this is the second.

It's his fourth day home in Beacon for summer and none other than Special Agent McCall comes knocking at the door, looking guilty and glum and a little like he'd swallowed his own tongue on the drive over.

Melissa and Noah are at work, so it's up to Scott to answer the door, then subsequently slam it in his father's face.

Rafael sticks his foot in the entryway and the yelp of pain he makes when the door slams into his foot is so worth it, Scott thinks.

"What do you want?" Scott grouses, when Rafael pushes the door back open all stoic and serious, and it's then he notices the shiny black briefcase in the man's hand.

"Look, I know you don't want to see me, but it's important," he pauses then, like he's debating whether he actually wants to say it, before he adds, "it's about Stiles."

All of the anger fizzles out of Scott faster than a deflating balloon and leaves nothing but a gaping wound behind, his mind spiralling back to that fateful call with Noah three years ago, "I know you're probably busy but I didn't know who else to call, Scott, it's about Stiles, I think he's missing."

"What is it? Have you found him? Do you know something? Tell me, I need to know, I deserve to know," Scott rushes out, following Rafael, who walks into the kitchen like he owns the place.

"You might want to sit down, it's a long story," he says, a little cryptically, but there's a sigh in there, like he's achingly tired and he doesn't want to have to do this.

Scott watches as his father places his briefcase on the kitchen table, opening it up and gesturing for him to take the stool opposite as he sits down himself.

"It's not going to make a lot of sense, and you're not going to want to hear it, but I need you to just listen, okay?"

Scott swallows harshly as he sits down and that gaping wound inside him reinflates with dread.

"What is it dad? He's okay right? You- you found him alive?"

He won't be able to cope with the alternative, it'd drive him mad.

Rafael, for his part, just sighs, pulling out folders and documents before pushing the briefcase out of the way, "during the last term of him first year with us we thought it would be a good idea to get the interns -- specifically Stiles' denomination -- to look into a group of elite assassins that like to call themselves the Mortel."

Scott frowns, but nods for the man to continue, it doesn't go unnoticed that his question went unanswered.

"The rest of Stiles' group didn't know it at the time, but the Mortel weren't killing at random, they had a very specific breed of target, preternatural creatures — specialising in the hunting and slaughtering of werewolves."