𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐄 • 𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐚𝐜 𝐋𝐚𝐡𝐞𝐲

𝟏𝟐.

-ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ: ꜰʟᴀsʜʙᴀᴄᴋ-

Under a twilight sky, a pickup truck surges into a lot of an isolated and iconic 1950s motel. The sign above the office reads: Glen Capri.
Stepping out of the truck, a dark figure of a man quickly pulls a heavy bag from the inside and slams the door shut. With a noticeable limp, he hurries to the motel office.
As the door clatters shut, a newspaper lying under the murky glass of its dispenser reveals the date: March 5th, 1977.

The key for room 217 shakily approaches the door. Knuckles bruised and speckled with dried blood, the man steadies his hand and unlocks the room.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, the man holds an unblinking stare on his own reflection, almost as if waiting for something to happen.
Slowly, he unbuttons and removes his shirt to reveal a bruised and slashed body. But then he twists around to reveal a far more alarming wound at his lower back, just above his hip the unmistakable bite of an alpha werewolf.

Reaching up, the Man swiftly yanks open the blinds. A full moon rises behind the clouds in the night sky.
Moving quickly, the Man kneels at his bag and pulls out a sawed-off shotgun. With mounting panic, he rifles through his pockets and dumps the contents to the floor--wallet, keys, lighter, shotgun shells.
He grabs the shells, fumbling them into the chamber of the gun. Raising the weapon, he cocks it and swings the barrel under his chin.

Behind him, the moon rises. Its pale light spills in through the window, creeping over his shoulder.
A bead of sweat trickles down his brow as a yellow glow begins to fill his irises. Finger tightening around the trigger, he whispers his last words... "Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent."
A shotgun blast tears through the night as the window of room 217 lights with a flash and then turns red.
Blood slips down the glass, over the chipped paint of the radiator, and down to where the dead man lies.
Seeping into the carpet, the blood pools under the still-smoking barrel of the shotgun widens past the bag, and finally reaches the open wallet.
His driver's license visible, and the name underneath the picture of the handsome man reads, "Alexander Argent."

-ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ-

The view of the Glen Capri changes, exterior updating as modern cars whip past while buildings rise up to surround the still iconic but no longer isolated motel.
A school bus rumbles into the lot, doors swinging open. Coach and his Cross Country team disembark. An exhausted Scott and Stiles step out, followed by Maya, Allison, and Lydia.
"I've seen worse."

"Where have you seen worse?" Stiles questions.
A whistle blows and Coach holds up a handful of room keys in front of the gathering students. "Listen up. The Meet's been pushed to tomorrow morning. This is the closest motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgment in accepting a group of degenerates like yourselves. You'll be pairing up. Choose wisely." He begins handing the keys.

"You and you, fine. Scott, Stiles. Ethan, Danny--behave yourselves. A'Maya, Isaac, and Boyd, you're all in one room. Allison, Lydia... Allison, Lydia?"

"Thanks, Coach." Allison grabs a key as a confused Coach looks after them. But then gets back to addressing his team.

"And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you deviants. Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves." Keys taken, the team heads for their rooms while the bus moves on to park. But one person remains, still gazing up at the motel with concern. "Lydia?" Allison questions.

"I don't like this place," Lydia states with slight fear showing on her face.

"I don't think the people who own this place like this place. It's just for a night."