Chapter 7: The Alpha's Threat and the Prankster's Gambit
The first real threat of Beacon Hills' supernatural underworld was not a pack of werewolves or a mysterious hunter. It was a single, solitary Alpha, a force of nature driven by a need for power and a deep-seated rage. Peter Hale. The same Peter Hale who had bitten Scott, and the same Peter Hale who was now hunting down a new, mysterious werewolf in town. He didn't know it was Scott, but he was getting closer. The scent of a fresh bite was a beacon in the night. He was also still furious about the prank.
I was sitting in my bedroom, a sprawling, ridiculously luxurious room with a view of the entire town, and I was smiling. The prank on Jackson was a distraction. The prank on Scott was a therapeutic hug. The prank on Peter was going to be a declaration of war. A war fought with whoopee cushions and glitter bombs.
"Hey, Adam," Stiles said, his voice a frantic whisper through my phone. "I think someone's been in my dad's office. He said he found a rubber chicken on his desk. A rubber chicken! What's going on? Is there a rubber chicken conspiracy? Are the chickens... alive?"
Oh, Stiles. You'll never know. The rubber chicken is just a metaphor. A metaphor for the absurdity of the universe, and also, a very, very funny prank. I'm pretty sure Peter Hale's 'loosen up' is synonymous with 'tearing someone limb from limb.' This is going to be so much fun. It's like playing a game of chess against a very large, very angry, and very stupid pigeon.
The prank was designed to be as frustrating and as absurd as possible. The first part was the anonymous gifts. I had a team of people, a team I paid very well, to deliver a series of ridiculous, nonsensical items to the Hale house. A dozen red roses. A singing telegram. A rubber chicken. A whoopee cushion. A bouquet of dandelions. Each one was a new and confusing annoyance, a constant drip of insanity into an already unhinged Alpha's life. I wanted to break his mind before anyone had to break his bones. It was a more elegant solution.
The second part of the prank was the illusions. I was still holding onto my mimicked werewolf powers, and I had a decent grasp of the basics. I had a plan. I was going to use my power to create a series of illusions that would drive Peter absolutely insane. The power was a quiet, humming presence in the back of my mind, a ghost of a ghost. I could feel its subtle energy, a low hum of power that I could bend and shape with a little bit of focus. It wasn't enough to hurt him, but it was enough to annoy him. And annoyance was my superpower.
That night, I was a ghost in the woods. I was a phantom, a whisper in the dark. The scent of pine and damp earth filled my nostrils as I moved silently through the trees, a digital phantom in a physical world. I used my mimicked powers to create a series of illusions around Peter's lair—a phantom car alarm going off in the distance, the faint, glowing red eyes of a phantom wolf in the trees, a ghostly snarl on the wind. Each one was a new and infuriating distraction, a new thread in a web of confusion that I was weaving around the Alpha.
I watched from a distance as Peter Hale, a blur of muscle and rage, tore through the woods. He was sniffing the air, his eyes glowing a furious, electric red, a guttural snarl rumbling in his chest. He was a monster, a predator, but he was also a victim of a very, very stupid prank. His fury was a palpable thing, a physical heat that radiated off him. It was delicious.
He ran from one illusion to the next, his rage growing with each failed attempt to find the source. He found nothing. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He was chasing a ghost, a phantom, a lie.
There's a big, bad wolf in Beacon Hills. He's coming for you. But he's not going to find me. Not yet. I'm a prankster, a rival, a wild card. And I have a feeling that this is only the beginning. This is a game of chess, and Peter Hale is my pawn. A very angry, very confused pawn.
The prank was a success. Peter Hale was now a walking, talking rage monster, and he had a new target. Not Scott, but me. The elusive, anonymous prankster who was driving him insane.
The last part of the prank was a small note, a single piece of paper I left on a tree stump near his lair. I had used a font that was a ridiculous mix of gothic and cartoonish, a final insult to the man's ego. It said, in a neat, cursive handwriting, "I know you're here. And I'm not afraid. Now go find your rubber chicken."
I was a ghost in the night, a silent witness to a very angry Alpha's rage. I was a prankster, a rival, a wild card. And I had a feeling that this was only the beginning.
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