The first sensation was wrong.
It wasn't the soft, familiar mattress of his flat in London. It wasn't the faint, rhythmic pulse of city life filtering through double-glazed windows. It was... quiet. Almost unnaturally so. And the duvet was too soft, too light. He cracked open heavy eyelids, met not with the usual grey drizzle light but a warm, Californian sunbeam cutting across a distinctly unfamiliar room.
Cream walls, a poster of a band he vaguely recognised but didn't listen to, a desk piled with American-sized schoolbooks, and a window overlooking not terraced houses, but thick, menacingly green woods.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the grogginess. Where was he?
He tried to sit up, his limbs feeling surprisingly lithe, younger than he remembered. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on a plush carpet. His reflection in a mirror on the wardrobe door startled him. A face stared back – his face, yes, but thinner, softer, sixteen again, with messy brown hair and wide, bewildered blue eyes. He wore simple pyjama bottoms and a plain t-shirt that felt… his.
A wave of fragmented sensations hit him then – the lingering scent of some floral air freshener, the quiet hum of electronics, a strange, recent lightness in his head like recovering from a fever dream. And then, the memory of… falling? No, not falling. Something instantaneous. Bright. Stupendous.
'Stupendous death,' a thought echoed in his mind, absurdly. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Stupendous death? What did that even mean?
He stumbled towards the desk, his eyes scanning for any clue. A phone lay charging, unfamiliar model but definitely smart. Next to it, a school ID. He picked it up, staring at the photo of the younger him, squinting slightly in the sun.
BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL
NIKOLAI ASHWORTH
STUDENT ID
Nikolai Ashworth. The name was his, but the surname wasn't. Ashworth. And Beacon Hills?
His breath hitched. Beacon Hills. Woods. High school. The name… Ashworth.
'No way,' he thought, a cold dread and a frantic, disbelieving excitement battling in his chest. 'No bloody way.'
He snatched up the phone, fumbling with the unlock screen. It recognised his thumbprint. He opened the browser. His recent history was filled with typical teenage stuff – band sites, gaming forums, social media. He navigated to a news site. Local news.
"POLICE CONTINUE SEARCH FOR SECOND HALF OF HOMICIDE VICTIM"
A photo. A grainy image of the Sheriff's car near the woods. Sheriff Stilinski.
It hit him with the force of a physical blow.
Beacon Hills. Sheriff Stilinski. Homicide victim found in the woods, only half a body. This wasn't just a Beacon Hills. This was the Beacon Hills. Season 1. The night before Scott McCall got bitten.
He'd wished. Countless times, watching the show, safe in his flat, he'd wished he could be there, experience the thrill, the supernatural. Be part of the pack. Not just watch it.
'And I died?' He vaguely recalled something… a sudden, violent, utterly ridiculous end. 'And now I'm bloody here? In Teen Wolf?'
A soft knock sounded on the door. He froze, the phone clutched in his hand.
"Nikolai? Are you awake, darling?"
A voice. Gentle, warm, unmistakably British. His heart hammered against his ribs.
He swallowed, trying to compose himself. "Yeah. Yeah, Mum. Coming."
Mum.
He quickly placed the ID back on the desk, smoothing his hair. He needed to play this cool. He had knowledge no one else here did. Knowledge that could change everything. But he also knew nothing about his new life, his new body, his new mother.
He opened the door.
Standing there was a woman in her late forties or early fifties, elegant in a simple dressing gown, with kind eyes and a soft smile. Her hair was the same shade of brown as his, touched with silver at the temples. But it was her presence that was most striking – a quiet confidence, a sense of looking through things rather than at them. And the accent. The same one he was sure he now possessed.
"There you are," she said, her voice melodious and calm. "You slept in rather late. Had a rough night, did we?" She reached out, placing the back of her hand against his forehead gently. It felt cool. "Still a bit warm. That dream must have really unsettled you."
'Dream?' He supposed dying and transmigrating felt a bit like a dream. He decided to go with it. "Yeah, Mum. Weird dream. Felt… really real."
She smiled sympathetically. "Sometimes they do, darling. Breakfast is ready when you are. Your favourite – crumpets with honey."
"Thanks, Mum."
He followed her down a short hallway into a spacious, bright kitchen. It was lovely, modern but with old-fashioned touches. A stark contrast to his tiny London flat.
As he ate the crumpets, which were indeed delicious, his mind raced. He watched his mother – Eleanor, presumably, if the ID was anything to go by – as she poured tea. She moved with a quiet grace, her eyes occasionally flickering towards him with a look that wasn't just maternal concern, but something else. Assessment? Observation?
"Feeling better now?" she asked, sitting opposite him with her own tea.
"Much," he lied smoothly. He felt like his brain was vibrating. "Just… fuzzy."
"Understandable." She took a slow sip of her tea. "You've been… different, lately. Since that odd turn you took last week."
'Odd turn?' Was that the 'stupendous death' equivalent in this timeline? He decided to ask, carefully. "Odd turn? What happened?"
Eleanor paused, setting down her teacup. Her gaze was steady, almost unnerving. "You had a rather sudden and alarming... collapse. The doctors were baffled. Said it was just a syncope episode, but I know you, Nikolai. It was more than that. You've seemed… more yourself since, but also… altered."
'Altered? She knows something. She must.' He felt a prickle of unease, but also a surge of curiosity. This new mother wasn't just a background character.
He decided to test the waters, playing the innocent, slightly confused teenager role. "It felt like... like I fell from somewhere really high. Like everything just stopped."
Eleanor's expression didn't change, but her eyes held a depth he hadn't expected. "A vivid dream indeed, darling. Or perhaps… a journey."
Journey? That word choice felt significant.
He looked around the kitchen, trying to ground himself in the reality of this strange new life. "So… Beacon Hills, huh? How long have we lived here?"
"Just a few months," she said. "Since your father… well, he travels a lot for work. It was time for a change of scenery, and I heard… things about Beacon Hills. It seemed like a good place for us. Quiet."
'Quiet?' Nikolai almost scoffed. Beacon Hills? Quiet? It was a supernatural magnet! But her mentioning his father, and the vague reason for moving, added another layer to the mystery. Absent father? Travels a lot? Supernatural business?
He took a deep breath, the scent of tea and crumpets filling his nose. He was here. In Beacon Hills. At the very beginning. The dead body search was happening right now. Scott and Stiles would be going into the woods tonight. Derek would be there. The bite would happen.
He had a head start. He knew the players. He knew the stakes.
His goal, the one that had formed instantly the moment he processed "Beacon Hills High," solidified. He hadn't just been transported here to watch the show from the sidelines or become another victim. He was here for a reason. A stupid, fantastic, terrifying reason.
To build the most powerful pack Beacon Hills had ever seen. Forget just surviving; he wanted to dominate. Protect the innocent, sure, but on his terms. With power.
But first, he needed to understand his own place in this world. His 'alteration.' His mother's quiet knowledge.
He met Eleanor's gaze across the table. "Mum," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "About that dream… or journey. Did… did it mean anything?"
She smiled, a knowing, slightly mysterious smile. "Everything means something, Nikolai. Especially when it feels like a new beginning." She paused, her eyes holding his. "There are things we need to discuss, darling. Things about who you are, and who we are. Things that might explain why Beacon Hills called to us."
He didn't know it yet, but she wasn't just talking about British expats looking for a quiet town. She was talking about magic. And power. And his place among the wolves, banshees, kitsunes, and whatever else lurked in these woods.
'Right,' Nikolai thought, a slow, strategic grin forming internally. 'The game is on.'