A/N: This is a followup to the vignette posted in the "X, or Crossovers that I'm Not Going to Write" series. (Yes, I realize that now makes me a liar. Sucks, don't it?). As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcomed.

Death Defiant

by LadySilver

Being murdered three times in as many days was really starting to piss Jackson off.

On Saturday night (technically Sunday morning, but who was keeping track?), he'd been driving home from a party, slightly drunk, but not worried. Since he'd come into his Immortality, his metabolism tolerated a lot more alcohol before his reflexes and inhibitions started to suffer. And he sobered up a lot faster. He figured that even if he were pulled over, he'd be sober before the cop could reach for his Breathalizer. Out of nowhere, another car came up behind his, headlights on bright. He tilted the rearview mirror down to cut the glare from shining in his eyes, pushed harder on the accelerator. The Porsche gained some distance, then lost it again as the other car also sped up. It crept closer to his bumper, ever closer, then dropped back. The game was repeated several times. In frustration, Jackson jerked the steering wheel and yanked the car over to the shoulder with a squeal of tires. Slamming to a stop, he stepped out of the car, middle finger raised, to confront the other driver. Gravel crunched under his feet. The humidity of the night was a surprise after the comfort of the cool, dry air conditioning in the car.

The other car sped on past, an extra rev of its engine serving as its own middle finger. A smaller car that had been driving much farther back—its white color standing out in the darkness-also pulled off the road. Probably a good Samaritan who thought he had car trouble. Jackson reached to his back pocket for his phone. As much as he didn't want to call the police, enough crap had gone down in his life recently to make him aware that sometimes they could help. (When they weren't nosily getting in people's way). The night was extra dark out here with no street lights or house lights, far enough from the town that its ambient light didn't spill over. A few stars peppered the sky, and the tip of the half moon poked up over the tree line to his left. The glare of the headlights in front of him reduced the strip of roadside on which he sat to a tunnel. The trees swayed in arms of shadow next to him. Jackson made a visor over his eyes, squinted toward the white car. He could see was a dark figure emerge from the vehicle. "Hello?" he called. Should he walk toward them or not? In response to his call, a flat crack shattered the air. He felt a sudden hot pressure encompass his chest like a vise grip.

Then he was waking up by the side of the road with a gasp of air rushing into lungs that felt like they'd forgotten how to be used. The sky was starting to lighten, a pale pink infusing the horizon. Racking coughs consumed him as he tried to convince his lungs to work. Not until the coughing started to calm did he realize what had happened. His shirt was a bloody mess, the blood still wet, though starting to dry and turn brown. A tiny hole was burned through the fabric over his heart. He shuddered, yet was unable to stop himself from sticking a finger through that hole in morbid curiosity. The last time—the first time—he'd died, he didn't know what happened. He had expected to suffer a werewolf bite, go to sleep, and wake up with it gone. When that happened, it never occurred to him that the plan hadn't worked—until that upstart doctor walked into his parents' house and informed him otherwise.

Derek's bite had kick-started a latent Immortality, a potential with which he had been born but that required a violent death to initiate. Now injuries healed in seconds, without scarring. Death… well, death could take a little longer to heal—anywhere from minutes to hours. He couldn't get sick, his organs would never wear out, he'd never have to worry about high blood pressure or cholesterol. He'd never age. That had to be the best news. He would always be at the peak of his physical perfection. As thrilled as he had been to learn these rules, all that concerned him right now was the fact that he had just been murdered in cold blood.

He rolled into a crouch, running a quick test of his limbs. Everything appeared to be in working order. Except that he'd just come back from the dead and that had to be the worst sensation he'd ever experienced, like vertigo and pain and a crash of sensory overload all crammed into one never-ending moment. His lungs burned from the shock of their reuse. The driver's side door to his Porsche still hung open. The interior light was on. A beeping informed him that the door had been open for some time. He glanced around, searching for signs of the other car, the shooter. Besides a spray of gravel from where the car had pulled over, he couldn't see one. The person had shot him, killed him, and left. They'd left him, his car … he slapped his hand over his back pockets, felt the familiar bulges of his wallet and phone. What the hell? To the raucous chirps and tweets of birds awakening in the forest preserve that surrounded him, he climbed back into his car and continued the drive home—bloody shirt shoved under the front seat so he wouldn't have to feel it rubbing against his skin, reminding him.

Sunday afternoon he escaped from his parents' scrutiny and went driving through the industrial district. Sundays were the best for this, as most of the factories closed for the day, leaving their parking lots empty and unmonitored. Without even a latent fear of being injured in a car wreck, he could really open up with the Porsche and play with its capabilities. He finally understood the full meaning of luxury sports car. It was a glorious afternoon—until he felt the back right tire blow out, the car skidding in an abrupt loss of control. When he got out to assess the damage, he was shot from behind. He never saw the person who did it.

On Monday he was murdered in his garage before school. He woke up in a pool of blood on the garage floor. Another shirt was ruined, and he was twenty minutes late for first period. Yet again, he'd been shot in the chest.

Pleading the excuse of oversleeping (because what he supposed to tell the idiot of an office assistant, that he'd been too dead to come to school?), he finally was able to claim a late pass—just in time for the passing bell to ring. He pushed his way through the sudden throng of people to his locker, more annoyed than ever at their refusal to get out of his way.

Though he didn't show it except in the clench of his jaw, inside he was shaking with rage at the injustice of the last couple days. Adams had explained the rules of The Game to him, and he intellectually got that others would be coming to challenge him in a dual to the death. With swords, of all things. Immortals could only be permanently killed via decapitation, so they had some kind of obligation to go around trying to cut each other's heads off. He was sure he was missing nuances since, really, the whole thing was so ridiculous that how could anyone be expected to believe it? But being shot in cold blood didn't seem like a challenge, not the way Adams had spoken of them. It seemed like a power play—especially since the killer clearly knew where he lived, where he went, what his schedule was, and couldn't be bothered to reveal himself. Whatever the killer wanted, it didn't seem to be Jackson's head. And Jackson wasn't being given a chance to fight back.

A prickle on the back of his neck made him turn. Scott was standing a few lockers down, staring at him with an odd expression on his face. Stiles stood next to him, one hand on Scott's shoulder. "What are you looking at?" Jackson demanded.

Scott tipped his nose up, nostrils flared. "You smell like blood," he said, drawing closer. At least he had the sense to keep his voice down.

"What about it?" Jackson demanded. He had to resist the urge to touch his chest where the bullets had entered. He'd changed his shirt-he'd gone through a lot of shirts this weekend—but, he didn't have the time to take a second shower this morning. A quick pass with a handful of paper towels had been enough. So he'd thought.

"You smell like a lot of blood." Scott swallowed hard, his Adam's apple visibly moving. The set of his face took on a feral cast.

"Come on, Scott," Stiles said, off a double-take at his friend. "We're going to be late for class." He tried to steer Scott back into the press of students; Scott shrugged his hand off, continued to sniff in Jackson's direction.

"The fact that half the kids in this school menstruate must be a hoot and half for you, McCall," Jackson taunted. He yanked a random book from his locker and slammed the door shut. "Why don't you take your freak out on them?" He turned and escaped toward his class before Scott could respond, grateful that the class was one he didn't share with the werewolf.

He stayed as far away from McCall as he could that day, though it turned out to be a lot of more difficult than he'd thought. He'd never realized how many classes they had together, how many times they passed each other in the hallway. To make things worse—as if they could get worse—Jackson's phone seemed to be broken. No matter how often he checked it, no messages waited. He'd texted Adams a half dozen times. What kind of mentor was he? Couldn't the good doctor be bothered to check his messages? What could he possibly be doing that was more important? Jackson had even tried calling his father's offices directly, but was told that Adams wasn't available. Jackson grunted in frustration at the newest message-less screen that greeted him.

"Got a hot date waiting for your attention?" Coach Finstock snapped. He yanked Jackson's phone out of his hand and peered at the screen, no doubt expecting there to be a juicy text message he could read aloud to the class. A flash of disappointment crossed his face at seeing nothing more exciting than the time. He recovered quickly. "I'll just hang on to this," he said, still holding it aloft so that everyone could see what he'd confiscated. "You can pick it up after your parents give their OK." He strode back to the front of the room and tossed the cell phone onto his desk. "What do you say we all pretend we're here to learn about economics?" he challenged the room.

Jackson narrowed his eyes in fury, but bit back what he wanted to say. The loss of the phone was annoying, but he could get it back after school. Finstock's threat was toothless—unless the coach was pushed too far. Then Jackson would hear about it at practice.

He didn't hear a word Finstock said for the rest of class. Jackson couldn't tear his gaze off the phone. At any second it would jump and start vibrating across the desk, Adams finally getting off his ass and returning the messages.

Except—maybe he didn't know either. Maybe that's why he wasn't calling back. Adams and Jackson had only spoken a handful of times since that evening at the Whittemores, and while Adams had said he would be training Jackson, he hadn't done much. He certainly hadn't bothered to start teaching Jackson how to use a sword.

Or maybe it was a test.

Jackson nodded in sudden certainty at his conclusion. Adams was testing him. Could Adams be the mystery shooter? Is that why Jackson hadn't been able to see the guy? Why the shooter had left so quickly? The phone continued to sit amongst the papers, silent. Yeah, this was a test—that's why Adams was ignoring his calls—

-and Jackson knew exactly how to go about passing it. His "mentor" might think he was clever, but Jackson had a few tricks up his sleeve, too.