everybody wants to rule the world

[triskeles]

holding hands while the walls come tumbling down when they do i'll be right behind you

Comments

[hypercompetent]

[ To become an alpha was the greatest honor of all, or so people said. To be with an alpha was just as great. The Alphas were the people who ran the world--drew the borderlines, ran the businesses, held the money in their hands. Each alpha held with them an indiscernible amount of power that they earned, from quelling revolutions, and most of all, winning competitions, where powerful betas from all across the country were selected--forced--to fight for the honor of becoming an alpha and joining the few and the proud. For these betas, it was supposed to be just that, an honor. They would bring power to their families names, protection to their loved ones, and be elevated to a status that so very few can obtain.

But that's for one. One beta a year. Not everyone can be a victor, of course.

The twenty odd betas who are left? Well, they're all dead. It's a fight to the death to be that one beta turned alpha, and maybe that's a little more indicative about what their werewolf games are all about. The entire thing is a farce, death and destruction designed for the murder happy populace--for the murder happy alphas.

Beacon Hills had had exactly one victor. He hasn't been back since.

Stiles Stilinski doesn't really blame him, to be honest. He's been watching the games since he was younger, participated in every school sponsored exam. The whole point of this was to pick the best of the best, and so the alphas themselves came and watched as young werewolves ran in PE or...excelled at academics, or whatever they were interested in. Stiles stood in line with the rest of the kids and waited not to get picked, then watched the games with Scott, every year. It was stupid, it was wrong, but there was never any changing it.

Until this year. Stiles was sixteen years old when his best friend was nominated for the games, and he just--maybe it was stupid. Maybe he couldn't control his mouth. But the fierce urge to keep Scott safe had ended in him screaming, I volunteer, and now here he was, in the alphas complex, sitting and awaiting a presentation to the entire country, and most of all, sponsors. He'd chatted with his stylist, who was from Beacon Hills too and was just stupidly pretty, and even as she'd gussied him and fussed at his suit, she'd stared at Stiles as he said something particularly smart and muttered, "Oh, they're going to love you."

And so, Stiles went into the tech room. Eyed the other werewolves in the room, who mostly sneered at him from being from the middle of nowhere, but the entire time that he was in the room, he was taking information in his head.

And when it was his turn to step up, Stiles swallowed his nerves, the thudding of his heart, and leveled the sponsors just above him with a cool look, never stopping to pick up a weapon. ] Candidate from San Dimas, weak runner and he strikes really heavily on his left side. He also has a huge thing for the other candidate. It's a weak point. The candidate from San Diego, on the other hand, is like a frickin machine, except for the fact that his temper is so fast that he's going to lose, because anger clouds his sparring skills--I mean, did you see him against the soldier lackey you've got in there?

[ One by one, he goes through the other candidates, exacting, then pauses and narrows his eyes at the box of sponsors. ] And you guys--you guys rely so much on your alphaships that you don't give a crap about the people trying to snare you around your legs. You get so comfortable in your power that you start getting fat--[ And a pointed look at one of the bigger alphas. ] --and stop caring about anything that's not a frickin' gala. And when somebody stops following your little games, you're all gonna be screwed, because you just weren't paying attention.

[ And apparently, while people weren't paying attention, Stiles picked up what looked like a cherry bomb. And when he tosses it in the air, he slams the bat he'd picked up at the beginning of the demonstration into it, so it sails through the air and slams into the forcefield.

With a sarcastic bow, he turns around and leaves, and when Lydia receives him and moves him into the one on one room, she tuts at him. They're gonna kill you, you know. Stiles gets settled in the chair and drops his head into his hands. ] If I don't die in the next ten minutes, I'm gonna be the first kill in the stupid games, anyway.

[triskeles]

[ What most people don't seem to realize about the so-called prestigious position of being an alpha, being a part of the council itself, is that it's not a permanent position. The press talks about it, of course, but it's dolled up so that the world thinks that they've simply retired. But for every beta that dies, for every one that wins, there's a number of alphas that meet their end themselves. It's backstabbing at its finest, a game of its own.

Beacon Hills has had one victor, and with him an increase in supplies, trades, defenses, whatever could be supplied. But there's a certain line that the council doesn't want any of them to cross, unless they want those rights to be revoked, and so he can only do more on the sly, or under the guise of something else. He might never return, but Derek Hale does what he can to help his home.

Watching other candidates come in from the small town over the years has grated on him, because no matter what he does for them as a sponsor-- if he can get to them before the other alphas, anyways-- can't get them through these damn games alive. And it weighs heavy on him, though he carries the weight with what already sits on his shoulders. He's not given up, trying to get these people through something that ripped the heart out of him when he was their ages.

The fact he's held onto his seat for so long is a miracle, given how vicious those around him can be. But when he had become a candidate, he had been fifty pounds lighter at the very least and what they called the softhearted prince. They hardly expected him to last through the first night.

They were wrong, and they're going to be wrong about this Beacon Hills native, too.

Without even looking away from where he tracks the teenager-- M. Stilinski, with a note for his nickname it says-- Derek can feel the tension suddenly rise in some of the alphas around him. He knows that the San Dimas and San Diego candidates have eyes on them already, special treatment planned, and the insults at their weaknesses riles them up. But the entire box goes on edge, tension thick in the air, as he directs his attention solely to them. With the explosion, that tension snaps, some of them jumping up and others bristling, growling, even flashing their eyes.

Derek just gets up from his seat as Stiles leaves, ignoring anyone that pays him any mind as he heads down to the one-on-one room without hesitation. He can hear them vying for his loss on the first day, even as he makes his way down the hall, but this one. This one is going to be it. He knows it, as he enters the room. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ It was satisfying, at least. Stiles can console himself with that when he's about to die. When Lydia's gone and there are footsteps down the hall, Stiles jerks up and grabs onto the edge of the table, trying to stay calm. His heart thuds in his chest as he ponders the merits of getting up and bolting out of the window, or how fast the guard would kill him.

But he doesn't lose his grip or his focus, and as far as it would look to naked eyes, he's human. Stiles doesn't freak or flash his eyes when the door opens, either, but he does regard the alpha with a wary look, only to stop for a second as his eyes scan over his face. ] ...Alpha Hale.

[ That wasn't who he was expecting, exactly. Stiles' shoulders slump a little, and he raises an eyebrow. ] Are you here to give me the killing I just asked for or do I get to wait for my government-ordained killing in the arena when I inevitably trip in the starting countdown?

[triskeles]

[ Up close, Stiles is all limbs and mouth, and he can't say he's particularly surprised. But his eyes are really what catch his attention, and there's no denying that he's smart. It's obvious even when he's not trash talking the other candidates and the very alphas that he was supposed to be appealing to. (To be fair, he wasn't exactly conventional when he'd done it, himself.) Unfortunately, it's also obvious that he's tense. Not that he can blame him, after that stunt, but he's visibly handling this rather well otherwise.

Derek slowly cocks his head to the side, almost as if actually considering the question. He brings his hands up, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall opposite Stiles. ] I'm here to get to you before they do, and to make sure that you're actually prepared so you don't trip in the starting countdown.

[ And, preferably, survive the damn games. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ Stiles literally gapes at him for that one, staring for a minute. He wasn't really expecting anything short of "here's my claws, nice to meet your throat" and a cannon shot to go off before he even frickin' got into the game.

His mouth shuts with an audible click, and he raises his eyebrows. He's more than smart enough to figure this part out. ] You want to sponsor me.

[ Somewhere it echoes in the back of his head that everyone Derek Hale's ever sponsored has died. It's kind of hard to have luck with this kind of thing, particularly when alphas like Deucalion and Kali have their bets on the wolves from the big city. ]

training yup

[hypercompetent]

[ Day one of living in the alpha's complex meant nothing but training. Interviews were kept to the second day and the arrivals, giving the candidates a chance to train in the facilities owned by the complex. Honestly, it wasn't like the training was going to help the ones who were well and truly screwed, so it seemed like a gracious gesture of the alphas, to give them a fighting chance.

Being one of those losers, Stiles can concur, totally freakin' sucks.

What he knows about combat is limited to sparring with his best friend. His survival skills are better--the son of the sheriff has an even shot, can identify up to forty strains of wolfsbane with little to no effort, and watched enough Bear Grylls to live out in the woods for like ten years. That part he's not worried about. Killing a bunch of other werewolves, some of whom train their whole lives for this? That he's a little worried about.

Derek had told him to pick a weapon that felt familiar. The bat, as useful as it'd been during the exhibition, was going to have to be put down, because the idea of bludgeoning someone's brains out with it made his stomach churn a little. Plus--that would take time. Stiles has a good swing, but it's not that great.

His eyes land on what looks like a poleaxe, similar in size to a lacrosse stick, with a viciously sharp, curved blade on one end and a shorter one on the other. He picks it up, tests the weight of it in his hands (nearly drops it on account of how light it is) and gives it a spin. Distance. Put distance between you and an opponent, but you don't want something you have to constantly load and reload.

Taking it into the testing room, he glances over his shoulder, watching the other candidate from Beacon Hills, a woman named Jennifer Blake, mercilessly destroying a couple of targets with what looked like miniature daggers.

Super. ]

[triskeles]

[ Since having first participated in the games, having come into the alpha's complex, things have received some upgrades. He is grateful for them, in some ways, but the problem is that only certain upgrades are shared by all of the candidates. Fortune favors the rich, after all, and some candidates are given special attention where they truly don't need it. They're being shaped into proper killing machines by their sponsors, who provide trainers and special weapons.

But it's impersonal. It makes them cocky, doesn't remind them of the risks that come with entering the dome surrounded by other players that want to win or survive. A pair from Beacon Hills, recently sixteen and scared out of their wits, hadn't been given special treatment. Their sponsor did what he could for them, a sad but knowing smile on his face every time they spoke to him, but Paige had always made sure to keep their heads above water. Even towards the end.

Almost eight years later, Derek plans to do the same. He passes through the complex, citing to anyone that stops him that he's busy taking care of sponsor-related business, with only one destination in mind. He's been to the training room plenty of times since he first passed through, so it's an easy path that he takes almost subconsciously. He'd said, when he and Stiles first spoke, that he would train him himself if he had to.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

As he comes into the training room, he unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs it off, folding it over his arms neatly as he approaches where Stiles is examining one of the glaives set out for the candidates to train with. It's a good choice, and hopefully one that he'll click with. Because they need to get started, and fast. ] Good pick.

[ Jennifer goes completely unnoticed (or, more likely, ignored) as he comes to a stop next to Stiles. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ Stiles jumps half a foot when Derek sneaks up on him--he'd been in his own little world, staring down the silver pole and trying to merit the weights of it against other werewolves. If he was allowed to, he would have coated the blade with wolfsbane, but that would have to come later, when he was actually in the games with the weapon in his hands. (If he could get to the cornucopia and back fast enough.)

The glaive clatters and he nearly drops it, grabbing it and jumping back half a foot as he points the thing at him. Stiles--is jumpy. He's really jumpy. Every second here makes him feel more than just nervous, it makes him hypervigilant, and Stiles scans Derek's face before he relaxes the glaive, holding it back down. ] Jesus, man, could you not sneak up on me in a room full of people that are actively going to try and kill me in three days? Uncool.

[ But his posture relaxes a little, and his brows furrow. ] What are you doing here?

[triskeles]

[ Something like a small smirk curls across Derek's expression as Stiles jumps, as if he isn't pointing an incredibly dangerous weapon at him. Instead of seeming particularly bothered-- he's amused by the jumpiness, but it's also going to come in handy for the games-- he simply goes about unbuttoning his waistcoat, quickly losing that official air that many of the alphas carry around with them. He folds it up the same as he had his jacket, setting them down on the weapons table, then undoes his cuffs and starts rolling his sleeves up. ]

Your reaction time's pretty good. [ It's offhanded, and a bit of a nudge to see if he'll relax a little more if he pokes a little fun at him. ] I told you. You'll learn, even if I have to teach you myself.

[ He loosens and undoes his tie, dropping it on top of his jacket and waistcoat. Maybe he could've snuck down here in something more suitable than his dress clothes, what everyone expects him to be wearing while the games are going on and the media is breathing down all their necks, but the fact that they are breathing down their necks is a bit of a problem. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ For some reason, Stiles hadn't really expected Derek to follow through. Maybe it was cynicism--he wasn't exactly one of the favorites, and Derek wasn't looked upon so hotly here, either. But he continues to surprise him, and Stiles grips a little tighter at the glaive in his hand, adjusting it so he can grip it with two hands. He does, in fact, shoot Derek a flat look at the reaction time thing, but rolls his eyes and shakes his head, trying to work the nerves out. ]

This better be like Rocky kind of training or else I'm screwed. Probably literally. [ Giving the glaive a toss, he looks at Derek with those same bright eyes, examines his figure, his fighting stance. ] What's on the menu?

interview time

[hypercompetent]

[ Day two dawns with Stiles feeling no less terrified about the ordeal he's about to go through. His stylist is from Beacon Hills, and she gives him a sympathetic look and tuts at him when he comes out into the styling room in ratty sweatpants and a tank top (they didn't exactly give him much of an option to change clothes for the choosing). He cracks a joke about her killing him before any of the candidates do, and she just raises her eyebrows at him.

Right. Terrifying.

But he has two admit, two hours of being picked at and gelled and poked with pins, she might be a magician. The image that everyone seems to have latched onto is red riding hood--it's a joke, that he's gonna be the first easy kill, and because he'd been wearing his favorite old red hoodie when they picked him. So Lydia latched onto that. In a bright red suit cut to his proportions perfectly, Stiles holds his arms out dutifully and turns for her--the coat has coattails shaped like the bottom of a cape, with velvet swirls going up the back, and a hood cheekily stuck out from the back of the jacket. She'd probably spent ten minutes staring at his hair and shaking her head before she gave up and put in enough gel to keep it from getting even more birds nest-y, and Stiles had laughed and told her his mom tried to fight that monster with no success for years. She threatened to shave it; he mentioned he'd been there, done that.

Stiles absolutely loved his stylist, he'd decided by the end of it. Even if he was sure she was poking him with the straight pins on accident. And when they walked up together, she paused, straightened his tie. Try to smile.

People are getting ready to kill me. Might as well, right? First time on TV.

With a little bit of sarcasm to his grin, Stiles steps out into the bright, bright lights of the stage, waving at the crowd as instructed. ]

[cheesed]

[ To say that one Stiles Stilinski is not the talk of the metaphorical town would be a lie, and John would not perpetrate that lie in the least. Volunteering at Beacon Hills' choosing, to go in his friend's stead, is certainly one hell of a jump. His profile cuts a perfect image, red hood standing out bright in the midst of the residents, something for the media to latch onto. And of course, there's the story of little red riding hood, eaten up by the big bad wolf. Some versions of the story end well for her. Others, not so much.

He's pretty sure that the media is leaning more towards the latter, but even if they went on the former? Well, she was a damsel in distress. No damsel in distress steps forward and says take me instead.

John intends to remind them that a long time ago, there was a different connotation to the red riding hood story. Maybe it's died in recent years with the rise of the alphas, wanting to cash in on their bright red eyes and keep that color for themselves. But he's certainly not going to voice that on public air, where he could get himself thrown in as cannon fodder for the rest of the candidates. He has enough problems as it is fighting with other media moguls to keep his position as one of the announcers for these games.

As Stiles comes out, he stands up, gesturing with both hands towards the teenager to encourage the crowd further. ] And red riding hood himself is here to join us!

Welcome, Mr. Stilinski-- Stiles, right? C'mon, let's get started. [ John grins wide at him, thick brows raised as he gestures towards the chairs set up on the stage. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ The lights are bright and blinding, and it takes Stiles a minute to properly focus on the announcer. His name's John Cheese, and his affectionate brand of weirdness had made him a natural choice for the announcer job. Stiles kind of knew him--he knew Derek Hale's older sister had had something going on with him before she was killed in the fire. It's a little familiar, even if it's from the television and the occasional jaunt around town, and Stiles swallows the lump in his throat and strides forward.

Not to mention, they call him by his name. During the actual choosing, he'd had to cut the woman off--it's Stiles--and he squares his shoulders and makes his way forward to the chairs, trying to turn on the charm. ] What big eyebrows you have, John.

[ At least he can banter with the best of them. Sarcasm is his default state--hopefully it doesn't come to bite him in the ass. ]

[cheesed]

[ The fact that Derek's picked the underdog to sponsor doesn't surprise John in the least. His once-upon-a-time-almost-in-law had this habit of looking out for the people that were in the same position he had once been in, even if none of them had managed to pull through to the very end. But even if they weren't the finalist, the one in the winner's circle, they sure as hell made it far-- none of them were lower than the top five, and no one could say if that was because of Derek or because of them. Beacon Hills just churns out some damn tenacious people.

From what he knows about this one, in passing conversations with Derek that are entirely off the record, he's about ten times more tenacious than the rest of them. So John's rooting for him, and instantly likes him with the sarcastic barb. As they're pointed out, he wiggles his eyebrows at him suggestively. ] All the better to turn questions inappropriate with.

[ The grin cracks his face further, and he moves to take a seat with him in his cushy chair. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ He grins a little in response, the tension seeming to melt out of his shoulders, and Stiles leans back against the chair, looking out at the faces staring back at him. They're going to play the clip of him scaring the shit out of the alphas, probably, and Stiles recalls Lydia's advice--work with your image--so as the clip plays, he pulls up his bright red hood.

By the time it's finished, he's a little more relaxed. The crowd reacted with "oooohs" and a bunch of different other noises, and that's--well that's something he can work with. Stiles leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, letting his hands hang down in the middle, and looks at John head on, ready for whatever questions he's going to hit him with. ]

Time to go.

[triskeles]

[ Every time Derek has seen off his candidates, he's felt like he's been sending them to the slaughterhouse. But he refuses to just go sit up with the rest of the alphas when he can at least try and brace them for what they're about to face, try to give them some last minute advice. The fact that he's been through the games once, himself, and seen them so many times from a close vantage point, has given him something of an advantage. Maybe some of the other alphas watch with the same critical eye that he does, making it a game of chess, but he fights to keep himself five moves ahead.

Stiles is a chess player, through and through. He just hopes that he can keep ahead of the rest of the players.

He comes down to the lift, jacket abandoned and sleeves rolled up, waistcoat really his last image of professionalism as the anxiety of the final countdown weighs heavy on him. On the other candidates. The woman from Beacon Hills is down in the lift area, as well, but she's been sponsored by another alpha-- Kali, vicious and out for Derek's throat, so he's not particularly surprised that she'd go after someone from his hometown-- and from day one, he'd only had eyes for Stiles.

Even now, he only has eyes for Stiles as he comes in, catching his scent and the sound of his jackrabbit heart thundering. If he could just take him from this death trap, he would. But there's no chance of it, so he can only hope that he's done enough to help him survive.

Moving towards him, as if pulled by his personal gravity, he gives him a once-over as he had when they first spoke. ] I'm not even going to ask if you feel ready for this.

[hypercompetent]

[ After the day of respite, where Stiles phoned his dad and cried for several hours where no cameras or people could see him, he had to be ready. So he'd gotten out of bed that morning in the complex, got dressed in the suit they gave him--tight and form fitting, designed for what looked like a trek through the forest, high up around his collar but exposing his jugular anyway. They all matched, and Stiles didn't flinch when they put the tracker in him, just sat and traced the BH on his shoulder with his fingers and thought about his mom. (It's a sign for how much he's in his own world--Stiles hates needles, probably more than anything in the world.)

By the time he reaches the lift, with Jennifer nearby, Stiles is jittering almost to the point that his teeth are rattling in his mouth. There's no eerie calm, this is 100%-about-to-have-a-balls-to-the-wall-panic-attack Stiles Stilinski right now, and he jams his hands against the side of his suit, kneading his knuckles against the watertight material to try and find something else to focus on, jumping up and down. But when Derek enters the room, he stops, meeting his gaze almost immediately and calming down a little. Whether it's trying to put on a good show for the poor guy or something else entirely, even Stiles isn't sure, and he swallows down the lump in his throat, managing a crooked smile. ] Dude, can't you tell? I'm totally ready to go out and run to my inevitable death.

[ Beside them, even if quietly, Jennifer scoffs. ]

[triskeles]

[ Fingers twitching a little, at first he ignores the impulse to reach out and touch Stiles. It's been rather prevalent, over the past couple of days, but Derek's done well to push it aside because there's more important things to worry about than the pull he's felt around Stiles. Still, he enters his space as he examines him in his suit, brows quirking in response to the strained sarcasm. (He continues to disregard Jennifer's presence, or at least seems so trained on Stiles that he might as well have tunnel vision, where it's just the two of them in the room.) ]

You're not going to die. [ He meant for that to come out sternly, but it's something softer, and he caves, bringing a hand up to trace his fingers along the BH on his shoulder. It was something that he'd done plenty of times when they first suited him up, too, so feeling that it's already been smoothed over a little doesn't surprise him. But even as he touches it, touches Stiles, he keeps his eyes on his. ] You're going to survive.

[ No one wins the alpha games. ]

[hypercompetent]

You keep saying that. [ Something else in him relaxes noticeably as Derek's fingers brush against his shoulders. He obviously doesn't mind the contact, and even leans into it a little, his brown eyes searching his face for something, some kind of answer.

He wants to believe Derek so badly. A part of him does. Stiles isn't intent on dying anytime soon, but none of these people are either. No one goes into the games just to die, after all, and Stiles' stomach churns as he imagines Scott, Allison, his dad watching him die on screen at home. Whatever determination he has is lit by the fire that his family brings, that his dad won't have to bury him next to his mother in the family plot.

Sixty seconds, the voice drones overhead.

Jennifer turns cool eyes on them both, watching from the corner of her gaze. All she wanted was Derek to sponsor her. ]

I don't get much of a choice at this point, right? [ His smile goes soft at the edges, a crooked, lopsided thing, and he fixes Derek with what can only really be described as a Look. ] If--if I do, tell my dad I love him, okay?

[triskeles]

[ Curling his fingers against his shoulders as Stiles leans into it, Derek looks back at him, wishing he could actually give him some kind of answer. Give him something more than what little he feels he has. But it's the best he could do, in three days, and maybe it'll get Stiles to the end of this madness.

He doesn't want to see someone else that he's gotten attached to die, and, Jesus, has he gotten attached to this candidate. To Stiles, himself, as a person and not as someone he's sponsoring from home. They clicked on the first meeting, and it's just grown over the past couple of days, try as he might to stay detached. He thinks, maybe, that it's that spark that lives in Stiles.

His expression twitches a little at the edges, though it's not obvious if it's into more of a frown or a smile at first. A minute until they're loaded into the lifts, let loose in the dome and on one another. ]

No one does. [ Something clenches in his chest at the smile Stiles gives him, and he slips his hands higher, frames either side of Stiles' neck, fingers brushing his jawline. ] You'll get to tell him yourself.

[ Sudden as it is, it feels natural to bow his head forward, touching their foreheads together. It's not a direct promise, but it's still something like one. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ WELCOME TO THE ALPHA GAMES.

HERE IS YOUR PLACEHOLDER FOR YOUR STILES GETS SHIT DONE THREAD, SISI. ]

[triskeles]

[ Six betas were left in the dome. Six tributes, fighting amongst one another to get through the games and to victory. To survival. San Diego's male tribute, Albuquerque's female, San Fransisco's male, Sacramento's male, and both of Beacon Hill's. Somehow, the small town candidates have made it across the days and to this point. The announcers have been calling them tenacious, marveling most of all at their little red riding hood making it past the first ten minutes.

Derek isn't in the least bit surprised.

But the third day rolls around, and the alphas are getting restless. He watches them from his seat, away from the collective, and listens to their upset at the fact that Stiles has made it this far. And he's done it without really fighting, without direct bloodshed. He's found patches of wolfsbane, set traps, left mistletoe berries for the unsuspecting, but he hasn't truly killed anyone yet. Derek personally thinks it's for the best, that maybe his brains will get him through this alive.

The other alphas think it's boring and weak. They've wanted his head on a pike for almost a week, anyways.

Deucalion suggests livening things up a bit, from where he sits above them all. They all look, and Derek feels dread sinking into the pit of his chest as the blind man simply smiles at them all. ]

[triskeles]

[ Two hours later, the ceiling of the dome flickers, the profiles of those still remaining sliding aside for four blank spaces to appear. ]

Ladies and gentlemen, we have some astounding news for you! Our prestigious Alphas have decided that it's time to spice things up, as we come to the final six. So, making history, they've decided to introduce something new to the games.

Four very familiar faces have been entered into the games, to act as competitors alongside our newfound tributes. Of course, the rules of this year's games have been adjusted accordingly: to win this year, you must kill an alpha and take their alphaship. Two winners are allowed at the end, but if we don't see those bright red eyes of yours, I'm afraid that you'll have to fight one another until one is victorious.

Good luck, tributes!

[ The blank spots flicker to life, familiar profiles updated on the digitized sky that looms over the remaining candidates. Their current headshots are enlarged, where their old ones-- from when they first competed in their respective games-- sit in the corner, smaller. A stark contrast between the beta that entered and the alpha that emerged, victorious. All alphas from within the past decade, in their prime and considered top of their game.

Except for one. The underdog. Derek Hale stares up at his own portrait from the lift that he comes up from, jaw tense and only one thing on his mind the moment the lift stops and he's moving: find Stiles. ]

[hypercompetent]

[ So far, Stiles had been doing well. The cornucopia had nearly been a disaster, and it'd been his own hometown friend who'd nearly killed him, but he'd managed to escape with not only the glaive but a backpack, with a small heat blanket, several feet of cording, and a canteen in it. From there, it'd been all about being a few steps ahead of the people in front of him, vicious betas who'd been training their whole lives for this.

He'd caught San Diego's male, Giorgio, by tricking him into eating mistletoe berries--the dude was about as stupid as he figured he was way back at the beginning of the competition, and hearing the canon go off from where he was running ahead of him was surprisingly satisfying. Another one, caught up in a snare laced with wolfsbane and left as easy pickings for the next power hungry beta. And two more, at once, when Stiles had received his sponsors gift, a mask that covered his face and a pair of goggles. He'd hidden out for much of the first day in the hollows of a tree, powdering wolfsbane with the edge of his glaive until he'd A) coated the thing in it, using the sticky sap from the tree to hold it in place, and B) created enough to use the vicious winds that the gamemakers whipped up during the second day to send it into a noxious cloud that poisoned two werewolves dead on the spot.

Stiles was able to run through it, mask and all, and he'd literally never been more thankful for his sponsor in his life. Derek had been saving him from day one. When the announcement comes on, the werewolf freezes from his position, perched up in a tree and making fish hooks and stares up at the sky. It's unusual for an announcement to go in the middle of the day, and as the names start flashing up, Stiles' heart drops into the bottom of his stomach. No.

Derek Hale, eight years victor, from Beacon Hills, California!

No, nonononono. No. It comes out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and he stares at the screen in absolute horror, eyes wide, barely even registering the fact that that was surely caught on camera. He knows exactly why they were doing this--killing two birds with one stone. Neither he or Derek seemed to be very well loved by the alphas, at least, and the bounty on his head was big enough, let alone now that they knew they could honestly, probably, use Stiles as bait to get the alpha, then kill them both and win the game.

That was a grim thought. Swallowing the panic in the back of his brain and grabbing his glaive from the makeshift holster he'd made of the backpack, Stiles starts to scramble down the tree. No matter what happens, he has to find Derek, before someone else is. One alpha winner, one beta winner--soon to be an alpha.

His feet hit the ground running, and he skirts along the edge of the shimmery forcefield surrounding the dome (the same one he'd seen take out a girl from Los Angeles earlier today) and breaks out in a run. Derek, Derek, Derek. ]

[triskeles]

[ Derek doesn't even bother making a break for the cornucopia-- there's bound to be traps surrounding it, or barely any supplies left-- and instead pivots, moving straight for the treeline. He practically bounds for it, cutting the distance before Ennis or Aiden and Ethan can whirl around and head after him. He flies through the trees, jumping over felled logs and breaking through foliage and branches like it's nothing. His suit gets a little scuffed in the process, but it doesn't matter. He just knows that he has to get distance between himself and the other alphas, because regardless of the fact that Ethan and Aiden will kill everyone in their path to make sure they both survive this, they'll all work together to kill him before turning on one another.

Besides, he doesn't need to head to the cornucopia when there are plenty of bodies in these woods. The four alphas have the advantage of watching the deaths in real time, of seeing where they fell. He's not sure if the other three will use this to their advantage, but he sure as hell will. Once he figures out where he is, following an errant path made by others before him, he heads straight for where he knows one of the betas was caught in Stiles' snare.

Upon finding her, throat slit and blood mixed with oil from the wolfsbane in her system, he moves to take her backpack without second thought. There's a few supplies still left, as if the ones that finished her off didn't care about scavenging, and he simply swings it around over his shoulders and picks up the bloody dirk that must've been what killed her, wolfsbane in her system keeping her from healing.

He at least cuts her free of the snare, setting her on the ground and closing her eyes, before he moves on.

His movements are being followed by the cameras, but he doesn't care. Just continues moving, trying to catch a fresh trail or scent to where Stiles has gone. Those two hours it took to send them in weren't just to get them prepared to go in, after all. Two hours ago, he knew exactly where his beta was.

Now? He's got no damn idea, much to the delight of the other alphas, and he needs to find him. ]