Chapter 2: The Girl Who Remembers
Allison Argent stood surrounded by cardboard boxes, each one labeled in her mother's precise handwriting: Allison's Books, Allison's Clothes, Allison's Archery Equipment. The last box made her smile despite the exhaustion that came with moving to their fourth different town in three years.
At least some things stayed constant.
She absently rubbed her right palm, where a strange burning sensation had been coming and going since yesterday. The skin looked normal, but it felt like she'd pressed it against something hot. Dr. Morrison back in San Francisco had said it was probably stress—moving was hard on teenagers, especially when it meant leaving friends behind.
But Allison hadn't had friends to leave behind. Not real ones, anyway.
The burning flared again, sharp enough to make her gasp. She examined her palm under the overhead light, searching for some explanation—a cut, a burn mark, anything that might explain the sensation.
Instead, she found a thin white scar that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.
"What the hell?"
A knock on her bedroom door interrupted her examination. Her father's voice carried through the wood, warm but tired from the long drive.
"Allison? I made coffee if you want some before school."
"Coming, Dad."
She grabbed a cardigan to cover the short sleeves of her dress, noting how the soft cashmere felt different against her skin today—every texture seemed more vivid, more defined. "Probably just the stress of moving. Again."
Downstairs, her father sat at the kitchen island with his laptop open and a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. Chris Argent looked older than his forty-three years, silver threading through his dark hair and lines around his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. The moving boxes in the kitchen were fewer but more carefully packed—items that never went into storage, things they carried with them no matter where they went.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Fine," she lied, not mentioning the vivid dreams that had plagued her all night. Dreams of a forest clearing, summer sunshine, and children's laughter that felt more like memories than imagination.
Chris studied her with the intensity that had always made her feel like he could read her thoughts. It was one of the things that made him so good at his job, whatever that job actually was. Her father had always been vague about his work—something in import/export, he said, which required a lot of travel and sometimes staying armed.
"First day at a new school," he said, closing his laptop. "You know the drill."
"Keep my head down, don't get too close to anyone, be ready to move again in a few months."
The words came out sharper than she'd intended, and she saw her father's expression tighten.
"Allison—"
"I know, Dad. I'm not complaining. It's just..." She gestured vaguely at the boxes around them. "How do I explain that my family moves around like we're running from something when I don't even know what we're running from?"
"It's just temporary. Until we can establish ourselves here."
"Right. Just like San Francisco was temporary. And Portland before that."
Chris set down his coffee and really looked at her—the kind of look that made her suspect he saw more than she was comfortable sharing.
"This move is different, Allison. Beacon Hills is... it's important. For the family business."
"The family business that you never actually explain."
"And what exactly is the family business, Dad? Because I'm starting to think 'import/export' is code for something else entirely."
For a moment, she thought he might actually tell her. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. But then Chris's phone buzzed, and the moment shattered.
"We'll talk more tonight," he promised, but they both knew that meant the conversation was over. "Have a good first day. And Allison? Be careful who you trust here. Beacon Hills isn't like other places."
"None of the places we've lived are like other places, apparently."
She grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, her father's words echoing in her mind. Every town came with warnings about being careful, about watching for signs of trouble, about not getting too attached to anyone. Sometimes she wondered if they were the ones other people needed to be careful of.
Beacon Hills High School looked exactly like every other high school she'd attended—brick building, crowded parking lot, teenagers clustered in their predictable social hierarchies. But walking through the front doors, Allison felt something she'd never experienced before.
Déjà vu so strong it made her dizzy.
The hallways felt familiar in a way that went deeper than architectural similarity. She knew without looking that there would be a trophy case around the next corner, that the cafeteria would be down the hall to the left, that the library would have tall windows facing east.
"I've never been here before. So why does this feel like coming home?"
Students flowed around her with the practiced chaos of a school day beginning. Conversations washed over her—complaints about weekend homework, excitement about parties, the kind of mundane drama that followed teenagers everywhere. But underneath the normal sounds, she heard something else.
Whispers about a body found in the preserve. Speculation about animal attacks. An undercurrent of fear that didn't belong in suburban California.
"Dad was right. This place isn't like other places."
She made her way to the main office, collected her schedule, and started the familiar routine of navigating a new social ecosystem. First period was French with Madame Rousseau, where she discovered her accent was better than the teacher's. Second period was AP History, where she already knew more about the French Revolution than the textbook covered.
By third period, the strange familiarity of the school had settled into background awareness, and Allison found herself actually paying attention to the chemistry lesson until her palm began to burn again.
This time, the sensation was so intense she gasped audibly.
"Ms. Argent?" Mr. Harris looked at her with barely concealed irritation. "Is there a problem?"
"No, sir. Sorry."
But the burning continued, spreading up her arm like fire. She pressed her scarred palm against her desk, trying to ground herself, and found her gaze drawn to the windows that looked out over the lacrosse field.
Two boys stood near the bleachers, talking with animated gestures. One was tall and thin with short brown hair, moving with the kind of manic energy that suggested too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The other was shorter, broader through the shoulders, with an earnest face and eyes that seemed too old for his age.
"Scott."
The name came from nowhere, arriving in her consciousness fully formed and completely certain. She didn't know why she knew it, but she was absolutely sure that the brown-haired boy was named Scott.
And looking at him made her chest ache with recognition.
The bell rang, startling her from her trance. Students began filing out for lunch, but Allison remained frozen at her desk, staring at the two boys who were now walking toward the school building.
"How do I know his name? How do I know that face?"
Her palm burned again, and this time she looked down to see the thin scar standing out white against her flushed skin. As she watched, the mark seemed to pulse with its own light.
She needed air. She needed answers. She needed to find out if those boys felt as familiar to them as they felt to her.
The lacrosse field called to her like a magnet.
By the time Allison made it outside, the boys had disappeared into the building. She stood on the grass where she'd seen them, feeling foolish but unable to leave. The burning in her palm had subsided to a dull ache, but the sense of rightness—of being exactly where she needed to be—remained strong.
Students were scattered across the quad, eating lunch and enjoying the California sunshine. Normal teenage life proceeding normally. But Allison felt separate from it all, like she was watching through glass.
"This is ridiculous. I'm acting like some kind of stalker over two boys I've never even met."
But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. She had met them. Somewhere, somewhen, in a way that had left a mark deeper than memory.
The lacrosse team was running drills on the far end of the field, their shouts and the sound of sticks hitting balls creating a rhythmic soundtrack to the afternoon. Coach Finstock's voice carried clearly across the distance, alternately encouraging and berating his players with equal enthusiasm.
Allison found herself walking closer, drawn by the same inexplicable pull that had brought her to the field in the first place. She settled onto the bleachers, pulling out a textbook as camouflage while she scanned the players.
There—number eleven, running with easy athleticism that hadn't been obvious when he was standing still. Scott. She was absolutely certain now, though she still couldn't explain how she knew.
He moved differently than the other players. More controlled, more aware of his surroundings, as if he was constantly monitoring threats that others couldn't see. When he had the ball, his movements were fluid and precise in a way that went beyond simple athletic ability.
And when he turned toward the bleachers during a break in the drill, his eyes found hers immediately across the distance.
Recognition hit her like a physical blow.
She knew those eyes. Brown flecked with gold, serious but kind, holding depths that suggested old pain and older secrets. They were eyes she'd seen in dreams, in the fragments of memory that surfaced sometimes when she was falling asleep.
Her hand flew to her side instinctively, pressing against ribs that suddenly ached as if she'd been hit. But the pain wasn't her own—it was an echo of something else, someone else's injury that she somehow shared.
Scott dropped his lacrosse stick.
The sound of it hitting the ground was impossibly loud in her enhanced hearing. "Wait, enhanced hearing? When did that happen?"
But she didn't have time to process that revelation because Scott was walking toward her with the kind of purpose that suggested destiny rather than choice. His teammate—tall, thin, intense—followed a step behind, and Allison knew without being told that this was Stiles.
"How do I know that? How do I know any of this?"
She fumbled for her pen, using the excuse of dropping it to look away from those devastating eyes. But when Scott knelt beside the bleachers to retrieve it for her, she couldn't avoid looking at his outstretched hand.
Scarred across the palm. Thin, white, impossibly old.
Identical to hers.
Their fingers brushed as he handed back her pen, and the world exploded into fragments of memory and sensation.
Summer heat on bare arms. The smell of pine needles and earth after rain. Three children standing in a circle around something ancient and powerful, their small hands joined and sticky with blood. Words spoken in unison, innocent voices calling power from deep places. Light pulsing up from beneath the earth, answering their call.
"Friends forever."
"No matter what."
"Always together."
The vision lasted only seconds, but when it faded, Allison found herself staring into Scott's eyes with complete understanding. He'd seen it too—the memory that belonged to both of them, the ritual that had bound them together before they were old enough to understand what binding meant.
"I remember you," she whispered.
Scott's voice was rough when he replied. "I remember you too."
Behind him, Stiles made a strangled sound that might have been relief or terror.
"Okay," Stiles said, looking between them with wild eyes. "I vote for terror. Definitely terror."
But Scott was still looking at Allison like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Your name is Allison Argent."
"How do you know that?"
"The same way you know mine is Scott McCall."
"The same way I know his is Stiles Stilinski," she thought, glancing at the third boy whose presence completed something that had been broken inside her chest.
"This is impossible," Stiles muttered, but he was looking at his own scarred palm with dawning comprehension.
"No," Allison said, standing up slowly. "It's not impossible. It's just... forgotten."
She looked between the two boys who felt like family, like home, like the missing pieces of herself that she'd been searching for without knowing it.
"We knew each other. When we were children. We made some kind of promise, didn't we?"
Scott nodded. "In the woods. There was a tree, and we—"
"Cut our palms," Stiles finished. "Pressed them together and swore to be friends forever."
"But it was more than that," Allison thought. The memory was still fuzzy around the edges, but she could feel the weight of power that had been involved. Whatever they'd done as children, it had been more than simple playground promises.
"What happened to us?" she asked. "Why don't we remember?"
"I don't know," Scott said. "But I think... I think something's changing. Something's waking up."
As if summoned by his words, pain flared in Allison's palm again. But this time, when she looked down at the scar, she could see it pulsing with faint light.
Just like Scott's.
Just like Stiles'.
Three scars, three forgotten children, three lives that had been separated but never truly broken apart.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, Allison heard her father's voice warning her to be careful who she trusted in Beacon Hills.
"Too late for that, Dad. I think I already know exactly who I'm supposed to trust."
The question was: would trusting them put them all in danger, or was the danger in staying apart?
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