Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Void Stiles looked up at Stiles and Lydia from the ground, where the newly unconscious Scott and Kira now lay. He had this horribly twisted, irked look on his unnaturally pale face. Or was it a smirk?

He scrunched his lips together before uttering aloud, "This was my game. Think you can beat me at my game?" Twisting his head around to face them properly, he looked visibly annoyed.

Void Stiles started marching forward with a horrifying sense of urgency, as Stiles and Lydia started rushing backwards, not daring to look away for fear of being hurt too.

"Divine move? Divine move?!" Void begins to lecture the two, getting angrier by the second, "You think you have any moves at all?"

It was this moment of time when a shiver ran down Stiles' spine. It was terrifying how unafraid the Nogitsune was of then. It was terrifying how a demon with his own face could do this to them. He honestly believed that he would beat them. Shivering more and more by the second, Stiles tried his hardest to run backwards with Lydia, who was half-dragging him. Stiles wanted to give up.

Void continued, this time he was yelling, "You can kill the Oni, but me? Me?! I'm a thousand years old, YOU CAN'T KILL ME!" He finally screamed, advancing closer and faster.

Lydia didn't hold back, she would take this risk.

"But we can change you!" She suddenly found herself crying out.

Void stopped in his tracks, momentarily confused.

"What?" He spat.

Stiles blurt out, "You forgot about the scroll," he shivered, and his voice shook when talking.

"The Shugendō scroll." Lydia added.

Void was taken aback, a horrible wave of realisation hitting him, directly in the face. He gulped back a sudden lump in his throat, knowing what was about to happen.

"Change the host." He croaked in disbelief, starting to shuffle back the way he came.

"You can't be a fox and a wolf." Stiles replied in such quick succession, it was almost hard wired into his brain.

Scott suddenly appeared behind Void, his fangs beared and eyes glowing bright, bright red. He grabbed onto Void Stiles' arm and ferociously sunk his teeth into it. A blood curdling scream that echoed throughout the halls followed. It was at this moment that something long, and shiny materialised from his front, and then disappeared. Kira had stabbed him through the heart with her katana. His screaming suddenly stopped, and he locked eyes with Stiles.

"Anata wa shi no shishadesu." He mumbled quietly, before falling to his knees, his face suddenly freezing like it was turning into stone. Then it started cracking all over.

"Good riddance." Somebody said, maybe Stiles.

The duplicate's body fell to the floor and crumbled into dust, disappearing into nothingness. It was at the moment the body crumbled when a burst of energy emanated from his body, filling the halls with the screams of what sounded like hundreds, if not thousands of dead people.

He left no trace of his existence, except for the weak firefly that emerged from the ashes, which flew away quickly. However, before it had a chance to get away, it was suddenly trapped in a jar, by Isaac.

Stiles looked up at Scott, weakly smiling. He suddenly felt this heaviness in his body, the second the burst of energy was released.

Stiles' vision started to double, and everything started spinning faster than what seemed possible. Suddenly he was blinded, and before he knew it he was out.

-----

Anata wa shi no shishadesu.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu.

Wake up!

"-iles. Stiles. Are you awake?" Someone called out.

Stiles forced his eyes open, blinking swiftly as he took in the daylight.

Wait, the daylight?

"Eurghh." Stiles groaned.

Someone sighed in relief. "Oh good, he is." A female voice said.

Stiles felt like he has just had the best sleep of his life. Seeing as it was now day, he probably slept better than in the last few months.

"Oh God, I fainted, didn't I?" Stiles asked, realising he was in his bedroom.

He focused on his surroundings, in Lydia and Scott, who were sitting in separate chairs, both sides of Stiles. He smiled, still squinting, but now awake. He was still confused as to how they ended up in his bedroom. How long was he out?

"Stiles-," Lydia started, "It's been 2 days."

He sat up very quickly, shocked.

"I've been out for 2 days?!" Stiles breathed in disbelief.

Scott sat up off the chair, and moved his hand to Stiles' shoulder. Heat was rising in his chest.

"You just.. fainted afterwards, a-and, didn't wake up. We thought you were dying, man. Are you okay?" Scott asked him, concern, or even anxiety, washing over his face.

Stiles began to relax, and slowly slumped back down again. He looked at his two friends, their faces filled with sorrow and despair. Stiles looked down at Lydia’s hands, which were elegantly folded on the edge of Stiles’ bed. She was trembling. He didn’t need super-senses to tell that they were sad, something horrible had happened.

Just as Stiles was about to open his mouth and ask, the door burst open. An audible thud was heard as it slammed against the wall. Stiles looked at the doorframe, and saw his Dad standing wearily over the bed.

“Stiles, I thought I heard you. You’re awake!” the Sheriff yelled out nervously. He seemed out of breath. Stiles could feel the hidden tension in the air, an invisible barrier that breathed awkwardness.

“Hi, Dad.”

A painfully awkward silence became of the interaction. When it felt like they had been sitting there staring at each other for hours, it had been a mere 20 seconds.

Scott cut in “Uhm,” he chuckled, unsure of how to read the situation, “I’m gonna go now.” Stiles just blankly looked at him as he blurted out nonsense, “So yeah, um, I’m glad you’re awake Stiles. The pack will probably want to know you’re awake.”

He sat up and made towards the door, Sheriff Stilinski shuffling out of the way, then backtracked on his actions, "I'll show you to the door, Scott," Sheriff and Scott both exited the room.

Now it was just Stiles and Lydia.

“So they can kill me.” Stiles mumbled to nobody in particular.

Lydia instantly shot her gaze over to Stiles, who was not looking at anyone anymore.

"Stiles, no."

“I remember everything I did, Lydia. There’s no way I come out of this. I’ve caused everyone so much pain. If they try to kill me, I honestly don’t think I can stop them. I know Ethan and Aiden definitely want to.”

Lydia held her breath.

At first, she hesitated, but then finally talked, “Stiles, Aiden’s dead.”

Stiles didn't visibly react, instead he made some kind of a noise that sounded like Mmm.

Surprised Stiles didn't react to the news, Lydia reached her hand over to Stiles' shoulder, and was shocked when he flinched away from her touch.

"Stiles..." She said in dismay.

When he didn't reply, she sat up from the chair and moved to the bed, resting her arm on Stiles' lap this time.

He still wasn't saying anything, nor was he reacting to anything that was happening. But then he managed to move his gaze over to Lydia's neck, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Lydia... just go." He replied coldly.

Lydia looked at Stiles, confused but also hurt, "Why? What's wrong?"

"You have to. I just want to be alone right now, and I'm sure you probably need to as well." He stated.

Lydia was angry now, "Don't tell me what I need. It's not good to be alone, you need someone to be with."

Stiles remarked, still cold and foreboding, "Not you."

Lydia lost all expression in her face and blankly stared at Stiles, who still refused to look at her. She hastily removed her hand from Stiles' lap and stood up, hesitating before she walked away, slamming the door behind her.

The room felt oddly empty.

Stiles reached over to the glass of water someone had left there for him. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink in days. When he realised how thirsty he was, he guzzled the entire thing down in what seemed like no time at all, but was really 7 seconds.

Then it sunk in. He wasn't possessed anymore. Aiden was dead, along with other innocent people, because of him. And, he had basically told Lydia to fuck off.

Scrunching his toes and the fingers in his free hand together, Stiles threw the glass at the door, where it smashed. Stiles finally just screamed. A horrifying, extremely pained scream.

And then the waterworks came.

He spent 30 minutes going back and forth between sobbing and sitting in silence, and then he saw blood on his leg. He reached down and pulled his blanket off his feet, looking to see at the wound. A glass shard had somehow ended up in his leg.

"Fuck." It looked horrible, and he knew it would hurt like a bitch.

Stiles didn't want to bother his Dad, and he didn't want to leave his bed either. He opted for the stupid decision of ripping the glass out of his leg with his bare hands.

After a while of cussing and yelping in pain, he finally managed to get the thing out of his leg, not before cutting his hand in the process. He threw the shard into the trash.

He had to get out of bed now, this would eventually just become a bloody mess.

Stiles jumped out of his bed, immediately falling over. He hadn't stood up in days. After regaining his composure, he stumbled out of his room, careful not to step on any glass, and to the bathroom. After getting to the bathroom, the first thing he looked at was his reflection.

He looked dead. The cold, pale mask that has become of his face was no longer there, but the dark circles were. His dark hair, usually just naturally jutting upwards in a way that seemed impossible, had flattened over his head.

Dammnit, he thought. He grabbed the tap handle and twisted, water instantly rushing out of the faucet. He ran his hands under the water, and then through his hair. Then he splashed some water on his leg, before sitting down on the toilet to examine the extent of the cut.

Except, there was no cut.

"What," He whispered.

Stiles blinked hard, and then looked again.

Still, nothing. There was no evidence of there ever being a hole in his leg.

Stiles then looked to his hand, which had had some pretty gnarly slices on it from trying to get the glass out of his legs, only to find these cuts had also vanished.

If he didn't know any better, he would say he was dreaming. Except for the fact he was covered in diluted blood.

"No. No, no, no."

Was he still possessed??

"Oh God, uh." Stiles' hands began to shake, he could feel himself losing his breath.

He shot up and tripped over trying to get out the door.

"Crap," He hissed. He swore the ground was shaking beneath him.

He got up again, slowly this time, walking up the hall, and then down the stairs.

"Dad," he shouted, "Dad!"

No reply. The sheriff had gone to work.

Stiles felt a heaviness again, stumbling over until he was staring at the floor on his hands and knees. His breathing was shallow and chaste, his lungs refused to take in any air. The whole house was spinning. He couldn't focus his eyes. He swallowed, but gasped as the swallow restricted the air he already wasn't getting, spluttering all over the floor. He slowly moved to sit flat on the floor, and raised his hands, which were closed in fists. Stiles was clutching onto reality so hard, he was sure that his circulation was cut off because his knuckles were beyond white.

He shakily started removing his fingers, one by one, as he counted them. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

5 + 5 makes 10.

10.

10.

Suddenly, his chest let go of the tension in his airway, and air slowly began to creep back in.

"I'm not dreaming. Which means..."

He knew what it meant.

Stiles could hear a faint buzzing. It sounded like his phone, but that wasn't possible, because it was upstairs, he saw it on his nightstand. He heard his own heartbeat in his chest, it being the dominating sound in the house. He heard the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom faucet, left open slightly. He heard the rustling of leaves in some nearby trees, except they were deafening, it was rattling inside his head like someone had put an alarm clock in his brain and set the volume to 1 million.

Stiles brought his hands to his ears, squeezing them with all his might against his head.

"Stop. Stop it!" He screamed, baring his teeth as he sobbed his heart out, "Leave me alone!"

The noise suddenly returned to normal, and there he was. The house was filled with an ominous silence. The kind that Stiles dreaded. And then the loneliness hit him like a brick. And then thunder cracked from up in the sky.

Sometime during the whole ordeal, the clouds had taken over the sunlight, and begun to empty their contents. It was pouring rain now.

Stiles stood up once more and walked over to the front door, opening it without realising. The instant breath of fresh air was one of the best things he had ever experienced. An exaggeration, sure, but he hadn't smelled anything in the past few weeks. He put one foot forward, stepping out into the rain. It was still pretty bright so he looked up at the sky, where dark storm clouds showed up, sporadically opening gaps for the blue sky to peek through.

It took the time for Stiles' body to be completely saturated that it also took him to register how cold he was. He didn't exactly feel cold, but he knew his body temperature was definitely way below normal.

Stiles took note of this, yet continued to stand in the bittersweet grips of nature. It was exhilarating, to feel something after being trapped in his own body. In control of what senses he could manipulate, and feeling things with his skin. Stiles held out his hand horizontally, allowing the ice cold rain to fall onto his palm. It burned, but he ignored it.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu. Something whispered.

Stiles jumped, probably a foot into the air at the sudden dramatics. Swiftly pulling his hand back, he peeked around erratically, looking for any kind of source of the whispering. His search was met with displeasure, as there seemed to be no-one around.

"It was probably just in my head." He assuredly said out loud, wiping his hand on his shirt, which was even more drenched than his hand.

Stiles turned on his heel, and in doing so twisted his ankle. It really was not his day. The pain however, did not register in his body. Stiles was simply too cold to feel anything, a numbness was beginning to gnaw at him, manifesting in the depths of his stomach, and causing his limbs to be leaden. Stiles continued to stand in the rain, letting the water run down his face and into a puddle which was forming at his feet. No thoughts were running through his mind, he just blankly observed the raindrops falling around him, never moving a limb.

Some time passed, but Stiles had zoned out completely, and didn't realise that it had become dark when he heard the familiar screeching of a car pulling into the driveway next to him. A slam, some footsteps, which were moving towards him, and Stiles was broken out of the trance, painstakingly moving his head from its frozen state to face his Dad.

The sheriff stopped next to Stiles, reaching his hand for Stiles' arm, "Stiles?" The sheriff instantly removed his hand after feeling how cold Stiles was, "Stiles, you're freezing. Let's go inside."

Chapter Text

Stiles jumped awake as his phone beside him started ringing.

Groaning, he slumped to the left, his hand following through and reaching for the phone, feeling around for the noisy box in his pitch black room. He finally found the phone, pulling towards his face. The sudden bright light emitting from the screen made him squint in askance.

Scott McCall, he made out in the screen as his eyes adjusted.

He silently swore, then jabbed his finger onto the green answer button.

Clearing his throat, Stiles listened for some sort of greeting as he brought the speaker to his ear.

"Stiles! Hey, man, you doing okay?" Scott's voice said through the phone.

At first Stiles hesitated, but then answered, "Yeah, I'm doing alright. I guess I wish you stayed. I know you're busy," Stiles rubbed his eyes, trying not to shake his voice too much.

"Listen, I'm so sorry for leaving you like that today. I had to talk to Argent. Isaac's leaving with him to go to France."

Stiles could hear the horribly hidden pain in his voice. He could only reply with a strained, "Oh."

He looked up from his bed to the wall in front of him, not sure where to look in the void of darkness.

Scott breathed into the call loudly, or maybe it just seemed loud, because nobody was talking.

It was at this point in time when Stiles realised that the reason the breathing was so loud, was because it was coming from outside his bedroom door.

Quickly sitting up, he hung up the phone and half-whispered, half-yelled at the door, "Scott! Get in here."

The door slowly opened, a deafening screeching noise emanating from the slow and painful movement.

Because his eyes were used to the darkness by now, he could make out Scott, who was visibly cringing at the sound, and a gasp came out of his mouth. Stiles couldn't help but burst out laughing at the scene.

Scott ran to the bed and put his hand over Stiles' mouth, said hand instantly removed when Scott tripped over the bed, his knees landing on the floor with an extremely loud thud.

Scott seemed to just accept that he was on the floor now, and looked up at Stiles, very clearly embarrassed by the entire situation.

Wheezing more and more by the second, Stiles finally managed to talk again, "Scott, you're hilarious."

Scott looked at him with wide eyes, trying to mimic puppy eyes, but failing.

Stiles continued, "Nice try dude," and stopped laughing.

"Your dad told me what happened after I left. I shouldn't have left. Scott said quickly.

"It's okay dude. I'm gonna get better."

Scott now looked at Stiles hopefully, who then extended his arms to Scott, shuffling over so he could reach Scott on the floor. Scott accepted the contact, pulling his best friend in for a much needed hug after the events that had recently occurred.

“Hey, I need to ask you,” he broke the silence, pulling away, “Do you want to come to my house tomorrow? Malia’s coming over, she seems really eager to learn.”

-----

Scott and Stiles walked through the bleachers, lacrosse gear in hand, ready to practice before tryouts.

Waving his hand, Stiles asked Scott, "Of course you're still team captain. You got your grades up just like Coach told you to, right?"

Scott paused for a second, but then replied, "Yeah, but he never told me I was back on the team. He just told me to show up at tryouts today."

Stiles then waved his hand once again, as if to dismiss the current issue, and stated, "We got bigger things to deal with, anyway," Still walking, he looked back at Scott and asked, "Did you tell Argent yet?"

Scott stopped walking and looked to the grass.

"Ah, I texted him, but he didn't get back to me."

Stiles stopped too, turning around fully to look at Scott, and stared at him in disbelief.

"You told him his sister Kate came back from the dead over a text?"

Scott shook his head to the right slightly as he replied, “I didn’t have the money to call to France.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, you think you got money problems? Try paying for an MRI and a visit to Eichen House.”

“Another notice?” Scott asked.

“Yeah, this one said, ‘Final,’” Stiles replied, sighing afterwards, ‘Now, what the hell are we even doing here anyway? We got like, 117 million problems, and worrying about our status on the lacrosse team is not one of them!” He scoffed.

Scott looked behind Stiles, concerned, then interjected, “It is now.”

Stiles turned around warily, then his jaw dropped.

Multiple players were all launching lacrosse balls at the nets, every single of which did not make it into the net. Stiles then focused his gaze onto the net, where a player was catching, every single shot, seemingly with ease. The other players kept aiming for different points of the net, only for the ball to be caught again and again by the goalie.

Stiles looked back to Scott incredulously and then back at the player in the net, who was still catching every shot. It seemed impossible, each shot looked as if it would definitely make it into the net, but then was miraculously caught or blocked by the defender.

A whistle was heard, and then the goalie took off their mask.

“Nice, Liam! You might just be our first ever freshman captain.” one of the attackers said to the new player.

Liam nodded to the other person who was attacking the goal and bumped sticks with them.

Stiles and Scott continued to stare at the new player in awe, before Stiles talked again, “Okay, maybe we should practice a little bit.”

The two rushed over to the field, not wanting to be replaced by the multitude of new freshmen players.

Stiles picked up one of the balls from the grass and placed it in the net of his stick, being careful not to drop it and look stupid in front of the freshmen.

“Stiles, let’s work on your back-shots.” Scott shouted to him from a few feet away.

Stiles winced at the noise, which definitely should not have been that loud.

“Geez dude, maybe tone down the yelling a little bit?” he asked.

Scott looked at him, mildly confused, but then chuckled to himself lightly.

Stiles pulled the lacrosse stick behind him, preparing to shoot it at Scott.

“Ok, so just hold it out like this,” Scott also pulled his lacrosse stick behind him, the front facing forwards, “and make sure that the stick is facing where you want it to go, so that it goes where you want it to," he then swung it from behind, where it launched the ball forwards and through the air, towards Stiles.

It was like it happened in slow motion, Stiles instinctively put the stick in front of him with one hand, and at the same time, the ball landed in the net of the stick.

Scott blinked in surprise and looked at Stiles, who was just staring at the ball in shock.

“Dude, that was great,” he yelled at Stiles, "now pass it back to me.”

Stiles let go of the stick slightly, and spun the lacrosse stick around, holding it delicately and letting it dance between his fingers, stopping when it was behind him.

“Woah, I did not know I could do that.” Stiles scoffed.

He then swung it, the stick facing forwards, and the ball left the net. Except the ball did not just fly to Scott. It whizzed past Scott, narrowly missing his head, where it landed about 100 yards away, off the side of the field.

It was Stiles’ turn to blink in surprise. Scott started walking over to Stiles, not really registering the impossible shot Stiles just made.

“Alright, Stiles, that was pretty good. I think we should work on it just a little bit more.”

The bell rung, and the two turned around to face the building, then to the other lacrosse players who began to exit the lacrosse field.

The players all headed to the locker room, getting ready for their next class.

Stiles spotted Liam, who was getting changed out of his gear, and walked over to where his cubby was. Scott followed.

Liam was throwing on a shirt and noticed the pair, so he turned around in surprise to Scott and Stiles standing there and staring at him suspiciously. Liam looked at Stiles, then at Scott.

“Hey. Liam, right?” Stiles asked, “You want to explain what that was out there?”

Liam, confused, asked back, “W-what do you mean?”

Stiles looked at him, half-seriously. Liam couldn’t help but look back and forth between Scott and Stiles.

“That little display. Your little circus act.”

“What circus act?” Liam asked, shuffling in his stance.

Stiles raised his hands, as if to make a point, “You caught every shot.”

Liam just looked at Stiles, dumbfounded, “I was in goal.”

Stiles was continuing to get annoyed at this kid’s impossible talent.

“Yeah, but nothing, not a single shot got past you.” Stiles nodded to Scott as he talked.

Now, Liam was extremely confused by what was happening. He did not know what they were talking about.

“Yeah, I was the goalie,” he replied, turning to look at Scott, “You guys played this game before?”

Stiles simply groaned at this obvious question, and Scott entered the conversation.

“You’re a freshman right?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Liam responded nervously.

Stiles got the memo when Scott looked at him, then asked Liam, “But you weren’t here last semester.”

Liam shrugged his shoulders.

“I transferred from Devenford Prep.” nodding his head to solidify his response.

Scott thought hard for a second, “You transferred?” he looked at Stiles, who was coming to a realisation, and raised his head.

“Yeah.” Liam repeated.

Stiles faced Scott, mentally approving what Scott was about to say.

Scott then turned to Liam again and asked a different question, “No, you got kicked out didn’t you?”

Liam moved backwards slightly, and his face dropped, in horror. He quickly examined Scott up and down before regaining an amused expression on his face, “Look, kicked out, transferred, what do you guys care?” He raised his hands, looking back and forth again between Scott and Stiles, “I came here to play lacrosse. The team could use a few good players, right?”

“No,” Stiles retorted, “No, we don’t need any more good players.”

“Actually, we could sort of use a couple.” Scott interrupted.

Stiles than began to question Liam apprehensively, “Okay, how’d you get this good? Have you always been this good?”

Liam lowered his eyebrows, perplexed by this question.

Stiles continued, “Or did it suddenly happen just once overnight?”

Scott, alarmed, looked at Stiles at a loss for words.

Again, Stiles questioned Liam, “Have you ever been out in the middle of the woods during the night of a fu-“

“Stiles.” Scott intervened. Stiles looked down in defeat, accepting the fact that this kid may just be that good.

Liam, bemused, decided to answer Stiles’ confusing set of questions, “Look, I learned from my stepfather, all right?” he glanced at Scott, “He made team captain when he was a sophomore. Like you,” He spun around to grab his stuff out his cubby, and then faced Stiles once more, “And yeah, I guess I’m just that good.” he asserted, then walked out of the situation.

Scott watched as Liam walked away, smiling, “He wasn’t lying that time.”

“Well, okay, but this kid can’t be that good.” Stiles interjected.

“Just leave it Stiles, we got class now.”

Stiles walked away from the locker room, down the hall. Just in time to see Malia slowly backing way from the door of their class. He picked up his pace and then walked up to her, placing his hands on her shoulders to guide her back into the classroom.

“I hate math. It’s pointless.” She complained.

“It’s school.” Stiles sighed.

-----

Kira and Malia sat down at the bleachers on the field, having a conversation in which Kira appeared uncomfortable. Stiles thought it had something to do with what Scott told him earlier; how he had chastely kissed Kira before heading to class. Stiles saw Scott next to him, who was avoiding eye contact with Kira.

“Stilinski!” someone yelled from behind, “McCall! Laps, now!”

Coach blew on his whistle right into both of their ears, and the two instantly set off sprinting at the sound. It wasn't long before Stiles finished his first lap, and once he surpassed two, he called out to Scott, who was in front of him.

“Scott! Slow down.” he whined.

Scott suddenly stopped, and began jogging backwards, stopping in front of Stiles.

“Slow down? Stiles, you almost lapped me,” he remarked, “You're running way faster than me, I'm only just starting my second lap.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, then spun around on the spot, to see that he had almost gotten to his third lap. Coach then blew his whistle and waited for the rest of the team to finish.

“Terrible,” Coach began, as a player passed him, “Horrifying,” another, “Pathetic. Unbelievably pathetic,” Coach stated, “Is that everyone?” he then asked sarcastically, “Is that everyone? Yep, that's everyone.”

“Who came in first?” Stiles inquired, now looking at the team again.

Scott nodded to Liam, and then raised a finger and pointed it at Stiles.

“Is that kid even human?” Stiles made a notion towards Liam, who was doing push-ups in the middle of his out of breath teammates, “What is he, like, a werecheetah? Does it even exist? Is that a thing?”

Scott raised his eyebrows, impressed, and replied, “I think he's just that good. Come on, it's time to shoot goals.”

Every aspiring player picked up a stick from the pile of barely usable school owned sticks and lined up in front of the net, which the goalie was going to attempt to block.

Stiles was first in line. He swung his stick onto the ground, collecting a ball in the process as it flew back up, then rested it in his palms. He brought his arms back and swung them forwards with all his might, the ball flying to the net and landing behind the goalie, who failed to block it.

“Nice dude.” Scott said, going to fist bump Stiles. Stiles accepted it, punching his fist to Scott’s. Maybe a little bit too hard, because Scott then pulled his hand back and shook it, laughing at Stiles’ antics.

“Sorry, Scotty, didn't mean to punch you that hard.” he insisted, before heading to the back of the line.

Stiles watched in awe as Scott collected the ball in his stick with ease, swinging it around in his hands, and threw it at the net. Except he missed, and it hit the side of the net.

“Nice, McCall.” Garrett sniggered.

Stiles defended his friend, “Hey Garrett, shut up.” He grimaced at Scott, who was walking to the back of the line to join Stiles, looking confused as to how he missed.

It was Liam’s turn now. And as they both expected, he made the shot into the net.

Fast forward 10 minutes, zero shots made for Scott, no shots missed for Stiles and Liam, and many disappointed insults hurled at Scott later, it was almost time for two-on-ones.

Scott walked back to Stiles in defeat, once again, and Stiles raised his hands in question.

“Dude, what is going on with you?” he interrogated.

Scott made a weird look with his face and answered, “I don't know. I'm having a really off day.”

“Off day? You were dying out there! I feel actual physical pain watching you.” Stiles yelled, flapping his arms.

Scott seemed to accept this feedback, because he relaxed his face and kept talking.

“Hey, well at least you made a bunch of shots. You been practicing?” he asked.

“Oh. Yeah I have been.” Stiles replied, realising that he did in fact make every shot.

The truth was, Stiles had not been practicing, and he really didn't know how he was doing so well today. He had been laying in bed for the past few weeks, trying to get over what had happened, and definitely had no time to practice. He was just looking at what he had to do, and somehow, his body did it.

“You, you are the alpha.-“ Stiles began.

“Not on the field,” Scott interrupted, “I'm a human on the field.”

“Well, human you is kinda sucking at the moment,” Stiles hissed, raising his arm to make his point, “So do you think there is any way you can use just, like, a tiny little bit of wolf power?”

“It's cheating.”

“I know it is! It's just, I hate seeing this little freshman come in and steal all your glory after you worked your tushie off. I hate it.”

Scott weighed the pros and cons for second, then quickly looked at Stiles.

“You should talk, you're doing just as well as him! He's not going to steal all the glory,” Scott told him, annoyed, then looking to the nets where the team was cheering on Liam after having shot yet another goal successfully, “Come on, let's go.” He growled, eyes now glowing red.

Chapter Text

"So, you bit him."

"Yeah."

"And you kidnapped him."

"Yeah."

"As a reminder, this is why I always come up with the plans, your plans suck."

"Why do you think I called you?"

...later...

Stiles stepped out of his jeep, the cold instantly setting his insides on fire. Shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, he looked towards the road, where Scott was riding up the hill to the lake house. He looked behind him, to Malia and Lydia, then back to the road.

"Smile!" Malia screeched from behind Stiles, who turned around to Malia jumping to his side and snapping a photo both of them, the flash burning into his eyes, "Here's your phone back."

Malia handed his phone back to him, Stiles still not sure how she got it, but oh well. He looked to the road, Scott was drawing closer.

He swiped the camera away and opened up a different photo on his phone as Scott pulled into the driveway.

"I just talked to Kira. She's on her way. She said it's all going fine." Scott blurts out rushingly as he dumps his helmet on his bike, making his way towards the group. 

"No it's not that. I have to tell you something," Stiles interjected, "I asked around about Liam. I know why he got kicked out of his last school."

"This is going to be bad, isn't it?" Scott complained.

"He kind of got into it with one of his teachers." Stiles clarified, before holding up his phone to Scott, "And... the kid's got some serious anger issues."

"How serious?" 

"Well, that's his teacher's car," Stiles said, facing the screen towards Scott, who looked at the phone with wide eyes, "After he took a crowbar to it."

The picture was of a totalled car, every single window violently smashed in, with words carved into it; 'THIS IS YOUR FAULT'.

Stiles walked back to his keep and picked up a tattered brown bag.

As the four made their way into the house, Stiles swore he could hear music.

Shortly after, Kira's car could be heard driving in, the music which was thrumming throughout the driveway and the house, stopping as Kira and Liam got out of the car. Muffled chatter moved closer to the door and then they appeared.

Liam stepped through the front door, instantly pausing in his step when he saw the four of them standing in the living room. Stiles waved his hand in hospitality when Liam visibly began to react.

"Sorry." Kira voiced half-heartedly when Liam looked back at her defeated.

Liam turned to face the four again as Kira stepped over to join them, confusion lingering around him, "What the hell is this?" he interrogated sourly.

Stiles answered him, speaking for the group, "Think of it like an intervention. You have a problem, Liam."

You have a problem.

"And we're the only ones that can help." Scott continued.

---

After a painstaking 5 minutes of trying to explain the supernatural to him, Liam appeared to be getting more and more confused by the second. And angrier.

"Werewolf." Liam stated, making a notion to Scott, who made a facial expression that agreed with him.

Turning to Malia, Liam continued, "Werecoyote." 

Malia nodded in response.

"Banshee?" 

"F-fox?" he asked.

"Kitsune. But fox works." Kira commented in approval.

Liam turned to Stiles and asked him the dreaded question, "What are you?"

"I'm- just me? I-?" Stiles answered sarcastically, not really wanting to admit he was the only human.

He thought about the nogitsune.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu, Stiles.

Stiles looked up again, to find the others looking at him concerned.

"Dude, your heartbeat just like, doubled. You good?" Scott asked him warily, his eyebrows slanting sympathetically.

"I- um." Stiles began before being interrupted.

"I could hear that?" Liam remarked, bringing the attention back on him.

Suddenly, Liam doubled over, his hands rushed to his ears, and a pained wail escaped his mouth.

"Liam? What's wrong?" Scott asked, moving forward to comfort Liam.

A mass of screeching and roaring engines filled Stiles' head and he doubled over too, scrunching his face up in agony, his hands also pressing into his head.

"What the hell's going on?" Malia demanded, before crying out, her claws shooting out her fingers.

Scott concentrated for a second, and realised what Liam was hearing as Lydia looked out the windows where multiple cars were pulling in.

Lydia questioned Liam, "Did you tell someone about this?"

"My friend Mason," Liam panted, looking at Kira hopefully, "You said it was a party."

This wasn't good.

"Who did Mason invite?" Stiles asked him, turning his head slightly to face Kira, who hadn't noticed Stiles was on the ground.

"Everyone." Kira replied, panicked, "Scott, what do we do?"

Liam roared out, his claws also coming out, and he pressed them into the floorboards and pulled back.

Lydia rushed over to him, "The floors! Get him off the floors." She stopped immediately when Liam directed his roar at her.

Stiles managed to get up, delirious and overstimulated from all the sounds of cars approaching and hysteria in the room. He stumbled over to Malia, hastily grabbing his bag on the way over. Malia growled at him, but accepted Stiles' hand which went to grab her wrist. The two exited the room, leaving behind the chaos that was ensuing.

"Lydia, who throws the best parties in Beacon Hills..." Stiles could make out as they walked downstairs to the basement.

---

"Too tight?" Stiles asked, adjusting the leather strap so that it was snug around Malia's wrist.

Looking up from her downwards gaze, she growled deeply, as she revealed her shift.

"Tighter." she seethed through her teeth.

Stiles tightened the chains and then stepped back.

"You can leave if you want." Malia gasped.

"I'm not going anywhere. And, to be honest, I'm probably safer down here than in a party with fifty freshmen and a very pissed off Lydia." He inferred to the commotion upstairs.

Malia began to struggle against the chains.

"Stiles, please go."

"It's okay. I hate parties. It's a social anxiety thing." Stiles explained, trying to distract Malia, "You ever had a panic attack?"

"I'm having one now!" She growled reaching her hands in front of her face to claw at Stiles, only to be stopped by the chains being pulled taut.

Stiles twisted his body to narrowly avoid being scratched by a claw. "Just breathe, okay? I'm not going to leave you."

"What if I hurt you?"

"You're not going to."

Malia moaned in desperation. "But I want to. Ugh! I look at your face and I want to slash at it! I want to tear at it! I want to feel your bones crack between my hands!" Growls came out of her throat as she spoke.

"Surprisingly enough, you're not the first person to ever say something like that. I'm not leaving you. And I'm not going to let you hurt anyone."

Malia cried out, fighting against the restraints harder. The leather strap around one wrist started to rip.

"You're not going to have a choice."

"Okay, Malia. I know you can hear me. Just listen to my voice."

"Listen to mine. run!"

The leather tore apart, freeing Malia and allowing her to launch herself and her claws at Stiles. He instantly jumped backwards, just out of reach of where Malia was still restrained on the other hand.

"I'm not going to run, because I don't think you're going to hurt me... And I think maybe you're so afraid of hurting me because of what you did to your family. I know what that's like. I remember everything I did," He took a step towards a struggling Malia, "And the worst part is, I remember liking it. Because I felt powerful. I felt fearless. And most of all, in control," Another step, "But, when I came through it, I learned something else"

Malia looked at Stiles desperately.

"Control is overrated." he remarked.

He unshackled the restraint slowly, and as it fell to the ground after being loosened, Malia instinctively moved forward. However, instead of attacking Stiles, she collapsed into his arms.

Stiles looked down at her, sweaty and discombobulated, to see she had shifted back and her claws had retracted.

"You did it." he sighed in relief.

The two fell to the floor.

---

Stiles slowly wiggled his way out of Malia's grip, whose claws had dug into Stiles' arm as she slept. Malia, who was still on the floor of the basement, didn't move once.

He stood up and walked over to the stairs, keeping a firm grip on his left arm.

Walking past multitudes of 15 year olds, he made his way to the bathroom, after having waited in line for a few minutes. This was a party after all.

Stiles stood in front of the sink, making sure that the door was locked, and removed his hand from his arm, dried blood smeared on both his hand and his arm.

He reached for the faucet and pulled it towards him, moving his arm to the stream of water as it fell. He used his dirty hand to wipe away the blood on his arm, revealing unblemished skin.

He frantically rubbed at his arm, watching the weakening flow of diluted blood on his arm dissipate, and the evidence of him ever bleeding was gone.

It was then when his hands began to shake. Stiles slowly backed away from the sink, looking up into the mirror at his reflection. He stared in horror at his face, not knowing why this had happened for a second time. The first time he miraculously healed? Probably a fluke, the glass probably didn't cut him that deep. But the weak red stain in the sink definitely proved that Stiles was not dreaming, or hallucinating.

Something was happening.

His breathing quickened, and Stiles stumbled backwards into the wall behind him. He collapsed downwards, crouching against the surface and staring at his hands.

The music began to pound at his ears, each beat getting louder and louder, turning his brain into ooze. He flickered his eyes, deciding he had had enough of this. 

The lights seemed to flicker too, brief periodic blackouts became of the room. 

Stiles smashed the sides of his fists into the floor, a thunderous crunch escaping from the floor. He didn't notice, but the tiles had cracked.

And then the lights went out, this time forgetting to come back.

The electronic music had also stopped, and every single person in the house groaned collectively at the power outage.

Stiles whisked his head up to the ceiling, suddenly snapped out of what appeared to be a panic attack, and stood up once more.

He walked over to the door, turning around to take in the surroundings, and opened up the door.

Except nobody was in the house.

He looked to the right, where the line to the bathroom used to be, but there wasn't a single person in line, on the dance floor, or on the stairs.

He called up the stairs, but he didn't get an answer, so he peered into the kitchen to an expectant empty room before stepping into the living room, where dancing teenagers no longer took up the space. An every silence encapsulated the room, encapsulated Stiles, and he took more steps towards the centre of the room, confused by the emptiness.

"Stiles." something whispered into the space.

Stiles jumped on the spot, turning on his heel to search for the source of the whisper. It came from the front door.

"Wake up." it whispered again.

"What did you do?" Stiles screamed, his face screwing in alarm, balling his hands into familiar fists, "What did you do?!"

A ringing filled his ears, and as it grew louder and louder, he screamed.

"Stiles!" Someone yelled, and a hand touched his shoulder. Stiles refused to look at the person.

"STILES!" They yelled again, and Stiles gave in and turned around, to see Scott staring intensely at him, and the house which was then-empty now had people in it again. The ringing stopped.

Although the power hadn't come back, people were playing music from their phones and drunkenly dancing, making out or vomiting into their drinks around the two. Stiles looked around obliviously, the anguish wearing off, breath shakily decelerating, then rested his eyes on Scott's hand, which hadn't loosened its grip on Stiles' shoulder.

"Stiles, are you okay? You just yelled the hell out of some kids. I think they're traumatised for life now."

Stiles looked to his left, some kids he had never seen before in his life eyeing him up and down judgementally. Screw them.

"Sorry, I gotta go." Stiles breathed, removing Scott's hand from his shoulder.

He turned around again towards the door, probably running, and left the house, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

The icy air filled with him with a sense of dread, but it also was calming at the same time.

Scott's loud footsteps could be heard, chasing after Stiles, who was itching to get away from the situation.

"Stiles! Wait up, man. What's going on with you?" Scott shouted interrogatorily, yet concerned, "First you almost give yourself hypothermia again, then you randomly, like, disassociate, twice! Please tell me if you're okay. Stiles!"

Scott jumped forward, attempting to reach for Stiles' shoulder again, but Stiles stopped and spun around just in time for Scott to grasp onto air.

"Listen Scott, it's the party or something, okay?" Stiles snapped. His face then relaxed when he saw the look on Scott's face.

"Stiles, you know you can tell me if somethings wrong, right?"

"Scott, I'm fine. Fine." Stiles assured him, moving his hands to grab Scott's arms, which then extended and pulled Stiles into a hug. Stiles was stiff at first, but then he wrapped his arms around Scott.

"Look, I know things have been... different, since- then. And they're probably about to get harder, with Liam and all, but I don't want you to feel bad," Scott begins as the two pull apart, "You're my best friend in the world, you've saved me countless times," he chuckled.

"Scott..." Stiles tried to interrupt.

"Just listen," Scott stopped him, "I want to be able to save you. Just because you're the only human doesn't mean that you need to fend for yourself, alright? You have all of us, the pack. Liam too, now, if he wants to be with us."

It was oddly silent for a second, but then Scott continued, "If something's wrong, I want you to tell me, okay?"

Stiles tilted his head to resist, but then rested it in submission and agreed.

"Okay."

Stiles got into his jeep and started the engine, not taking his eye off Scott as he started to drive.

Pulling out of the driveway, he saw the moon, how large and bright it was. Scott would have to have so much control to handle Liam. Wait, where was Liam?

Stiles glanced at his rear view mirrors, searching for Scott, who had gon back to the house by now, probably to find Liam.

The drive back into Beacon Hills was peaceful. He hadn't noticed it at the time, but the constant sounds of loud music and teenagers would have probably driven him crazy, and the sudden silence was nice.

“I should tell Scott.” Stiles uttered aloud.

The truth was, Stiles probably already was crazy, if the past few days had anything to show for it. He was healing miraculously, had gained an unnatural talent for sports in one day, and was hallucinating as well.

“Tell Scott. I said I would.” He repeated.

You are now entering BEACON HILLS

He did not honour their agreement.

Chapter Text

As Stiles continued his drive back to Beacon Hills, he thought about the night's events. His hands were still shaking from the utter shock.

"Gonna tell Scott." He repeated over and over, each time becoming further and further from the truth.

He took a shaky breath in, trying to avoid another panic-attack induced hallucination. Were those a thing? As he tapped his fingers against the wheel, drumming them to the beat of his own heart, he couldn't help but notice how fast his heart was actually beating. Of course, he was stressed.

Stiles tapped. Once, twice, three times. Getting faster and faster each beat. Not slowing down, his fingers refusing to stop their uneven pace.

His blood began to curdle inside, and beads of ice-cold sweat began to form in the crook of his brows. He grinded his teeth in retaliation to the uncontrollable tachycardia, his breath also starting to quicken with his heart.

"Gonna, tell, Scott." Stiles gasped in between each breath.

He took one hand off the steering wheel and brought it to his forehead, smearing the moisture off his face.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu, Stiles.  

Stiles heard the whisper once more, except this time, he didn't jump, he didn't exclaim. He had no idea why he kept hearing someone whisper 'anatwashiwahsh-whatever', or what it was supposed to mean, but the constant pestering he had grown used to. He did really want to know what it meant, or at least what language it was.

"What." He whispered out loud, to nobody in particular, his breath coming to a steady halt at this point.

With the absence of breath, and what seemed like his heart, the rest of the noise fell away too, and Stiles strained his ears, trying to listen for the whisper once more.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu, Stiles. ..

Anata wa shi no shishadesu, Stiles. ..

"Anata wa shi no shishadesu, Stiles."

"Ana-oo wa-re no-ger shishade-ath, Stiles. Stiles."

"What?!" he screamed, his voice breaking with a mixture of fear and urgency. Hardly corrigible, his foot slammed down on the brake pedal with a force that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. The jeep skidded to a violent stop in the middle of the road, tires shrieking in protest, the sound piercing the night like a desperate cry for help.

His heart was pounding in his chest, each beat echoing the terror that was slowly creeping up his spine. The world around him blurred as if the very air had thickened with dread, suffocating him. The music—if it could even be called that—pounded in his head, a chaotic symphony that grew louder and louder, drowning out all rational thought.

Anata wa shi no shishadesu . The words twisted and warped, no longer the eerie chant they had been before. Now they were a garbled mess, each syllable mangled and spat into his ears with a venomous intensity. It was as if the very essence of the language had been corrupted, turned inside out and spat back at him like a language he was supposed to know but simply couldn't understand. He could feel it burrowing into his mind, each nonsensical word a dagger of confusion and fear.

"Stiles! Listen to me!"

There was a word he could recognise.

Hadn't Malia said similar words earlier that night?

Stiles sat up quickly, and gasped when he realised he had stopped breathing.

Ripping his phone out of his pocket like a knife in his chest, he scrolled through his camera roll, searching for the picture Malia took so he could use it to ground himself. After a minute of back and forth, he resorted to scrolling through from the bottom, one by one. Eventually, he landed on the photo he wanted, except it looked a little different than he anticipated.

--

Stiles stood over the table, placing a single creased piece of paper onto it, splaying it out in front of his dad.

“So, the Walcotts were the first. At least, the first we know about. Four murders; Sean, his brother, and their parents. They were killed by a professional assassin called the Mute. Weapon of choice, a military tomahawk. But then, the Mute was killed by Peter Hale after he tried to blow up Derek with a claymore mine. Next was Demarco. He delivered a keg to the party at Lydia's lake house... and got decapitated outside his car. And then, last night, twenty-three-year-old Carrie Hudson.”

"It's a deadpool. A hit-list of supernatural creatures," Scott explained further, "this is only part of it. The rest still has to be decoded.”

“Who found this list?” The Sheriff asked, his face narrowing puzzlingly.

“Lydia.” Stiles remarked.

“How?”

“She wrote it. Actually, she  transcribed  it. Without realising it.”

“Banshee?”

“Banshee.” Stiles reiterated.

The Sheriff sighed.

"Beautiful,” he claimed exasperatedly, before pressing on, “all right, what are these numbers next to the names?

Stiles tapped on the paper with his hand.

“We're getting to that. First, you need to know that the code was broken with a cipher key.”

“Wait... You mean, like, a... like a key word?”

“It's actually a  name -“

"Allison." Scott said sadly, looking down at the paper with remorse on his face. It was silent before Stiles continued again.

“Her name broke a third of the list.”

"And now we think there's two other cipher keys." Scott remarked.

"Which will give us the rest of the names. Okay. So, how do we get the cipher keys?"

"Same way we got the code." Stiles began.

"Lydia."

After explaining the rest of the deadpool to the Sheriff, the three eventually came to the conclusion that one of the assassins had to have been at the party, and had to have been the one to order the beer keg that was mysteriously delivered that night. With an increasingly concerned Sheriff mumbling over the deadpool to himself, inquisitively trying to work out how in earth 117 million dollars would just be stolen to use for a supernatural hit list, Stiles and Scott left the station, Stiles walking out with some of the photographical pieces of evidence.

Stiles flipped back and forth about a hundred times between the photos in his jeep while Scott drove them both to school.

He still couldn't make sense of the strange hexagonal shape that surrounded the stab wounds on Carrie's body. The pattern puzzled him, a piece that refused to fit into the gruesome picture unfolding before him. Why this shape? What did it mean? The questions circled endlessly in his mind, each one more confusing than the last, as if the answers were just out of reach, hidden in some deep corner of his memory he couldn’t access.

--

Coach paced back and forth between the desks. Stiles was sitting in his seat, not exactly paying attention but still focusing on the evidence they had. After last night's revelation, he desperately had to find out who was killing supernatural creatures, if it meant saving everyone else. He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the desk beside the papers.

Once, twice, three times.

The chanting in his head had just become background noise by now, Stiles having distracted himself by diving into the work.

"Economic disparity exists in all forms," Coach began to lecture them, "Well, take sports, for example. Some teams have better training facilities, some have better equipment." Coach then picked up a lacrosse stick and started fidgeting with it as he began down the middle aisle of desks, still dramatically monologuing.

A scoff sounded somewhere in the class, not withdrawing Stiles' attention from the evidence he was still obsessed with.

"Unlike Beacon Hills, that can barely afford the duct tape to keep our equipment together."

Coach stopped, right at Stiles' desk, and as he saw what Stiles was looking at, he slammed the stick right in front of Stiles' face, snapping him out of his focus. Looking at the photos, he scowled, reaching over to take a closer look, before putting them back down disbelievingly.

"You know, Stilinski, if I could grade you on how profoundly you disturb me, you'd be an A-plus student." Coach said, half serious.

Stiles looked up at Coach awkwardly, grimacing, "Thanks Coach."

"Put those pictures away!" Coach yelled, removing his stick from Stiles' desk.

As Coach pulled the stick away, Stiles noticed the shape of the stick. The metal prismatic sculpture it took. It seemed familiar, like...

A hexagon.

Without thinking, Stiles yanked the lacrosse stick from Coach, intending to examine it. However, instead of holding onto he ended up just flinging it across the room, landing behind the desks, clearly underestimating his own strength, and he gasped.

"Stilinski! The hell is wrong with you?" Coach questioned, as Stiles jumped out of his seat to retrieve the stick. He paced awkwardly to the back of the room, bending over to pick it up. He then slipped the handle off the neck, revealing the hexagonal shape of the tool.

"Don't answer that."

Stiles then threw it to Coach, running back to his seat and hastily going through the photos to see Carrie's body. The same hexagon as the lacrosse stick marked her stab wounds like the signature of a killer.

Stiles turned to Scott, who was looking at him confused.

"It's a lacrosse player." Stiles whispered, sitting back down in his seat.

Scott's jaw almost dropped.

"The killers on the team."

Chapter Text

Stiles, Scott, and Kira stood in Coach’s cluttered office, surrounded by the remnants of their frantic search. The desk was buried under a chaotic pile of stripped lacrosse sticks and discarded rubber handles, the floor littered with evidence of their futile attempts to find the hidden blade.

“This is pointless. Most of the team plays with their own gear.” Scott said, frustration clear in his voice. He tossed another lacrosse stick onto the growing pile, his brow furrowing.

Kira set down the stick she was holding, her fingers cramping up from the relentless search. “Maybe instead of trying to find a lacrosse stick with a hidden dagger in it, we should be trying to get the game canceled?” she suggested, her tone subtle but acute.

Scott shook his head, a determined look crossing his face. “The game's the best way to catch him red-handed,” he argued, though the unease in his voice hinted at his own doubts.

“But what if he's red-handed because his hands are covered in the blood of the person he just stabbed to death?” Stiles countered, his voice trembling slightly. “Which, by the way, could be either of you guys.” he exclaimed, flapping his hands.

Scott’s expression faltered, a flash of worry crossing his face. “Or Liam,” he added, his voice dropping as the thought of his young Beta being in danger crossed him. “We don’t even have the whole list, he could be on it.”

Stiles, who had been pacing restlessly, stopped in his tracks, turning to face the others. “We don't know anything about that list—how it's made, how it's updated. I mean, who's been out taking a supernatural census, anyway?” he said, his voice laced with frustration and fear. The unknowns were driving him crazy, every unanswered question adding to his growing anxiety as of late.

Kira’s face tightened as she thought about her own name being on that list. “How do they even know about me?” she asked. 

“They know about everyone,” Scott said quietly, his tone grave.

Stiles stared at the mess of lacrosse sticks, his mind racing. He swallowed hard, fear gripping him. “I think Kira's right. I think we should stop the game,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The risk was too great—he didn’t want to see any of his friends hurt or worse.

Scott turned to Kira, his gaze steady and resolute. “I’m not afraid,” he said firmly, his voice filled with determination.

Kira met his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips despite the tension. “Neither am I,” she affirmed confidently.

Stiles shook his head, anxiety evident in his eyes. “Well, I’m terrified, and I’m not even on the list,” he confessed, his voice tinged with nervous energy. “Guys, these are professional killers. It’s their profession! One of them’s got a thermo-cut wire that cuts heads off! Who knows what else they have?”

The weight of his words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the deadly game they were caught in. Scott glanced at the pile of dismantled sticks, appearing to have his mind racing as he tried to think of their next move. They were running out of time.

“I don’t want to find out,” Stiles continued, licking his lips after. He wandered if the killer might try to hurt him, Stiles not even knowing what was happening to him.

Scott made toward the door, “We have the game soon. Hopefully the killer reveals themselves.” He said, opening the door, leaving Stiles and Kira with the mess of lacrosse sticks. 

Stiles bent over and picked up a stick, also grabbing a handle on the way back up, “I’m going to take one. I lost my stick a while back.”

---

The rest of the day was a blur. Between the altercations with Liam, and finding out that Garrett might be the killer, and wondering what the hell was going on with him, Stiles constantly felt on the verge of blackout, panic running through his body whenever the deadpool came to his mind. His friends dying was a big catalyst, an impossible gasp taken in at the dreaded outcomes every time. But mostly, the thought that he would lose control once more, sent daggers into his soul. 

His mind was cluttered, and this specific thing wouldn't leave him alone. The thought crept into his mind every five minutes, unbidden and terrifying, fists clenching at every doomed thought: what if he wasn’t in control anymore? Had the nogitsune taken hold again? The idea that it could be using his body like a puppet, using him to kill. And he could be killed for this? It wasn’t just the fear of what she might do under its influence - it was wondering if a bounty had been placed on his head, assassins on the lookout to hunt him down. Having to constantly be watching over his shoulder - always alert. He didn’t want that to be his life, never truly being free .

Unfortunately, the uncertainty was his reality as the game drew closer. He watched Garrett like a hawk, prepared for any sudden moved he might make, to harm Scott. Or Kira. Or Liam , an innocent kid who had been dragged into the whole mess. Or himself. He pushed off yet another panic attack as he ran onto the field, quickly glancing at Garrett as he moved away from the bleachers.

Garret was staring daggers at each one of them. This kid had to be guilty.

Kira ran up besides Scott, who was preparing for the start of the game.

“Why do I feel like this is going to end badly? She questioned.

Stiles turned to face her, eyeing her precariously, “Because it usually does,” he replied.

Scott sighed. “Kira, you keep an eye on Garrett. I'll watch out for Liam.”

The couple ran towards the middle of the field, leaving Stiles, who was merely pacing along, with his thoughts.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna try to play lacrosse,” he mumbled to himself, “All right.” 

He picked up the pace, taking a stance on the field.

Stiles wasn’t really thinking, just living in his brain as the game started.

“Brett. I know you guys feel like you owe Liam some payback for what he did, but could you just hold off for one night? Trust me. Just one night. ” Scott almost growled.

Brett chuckled at Scott’s desperation. “Yeah. I can do that.” 

“Really?” Scott asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice. Maybe they could keep Liam at bay for now.

Brett laughed even harder, “No!”

And the game begun, Brett managing to nab the ball before Scott. He ran to the end, flinging it past the goalie and into the net at an impossible speed. The whistle blew, and he ran past Liam on the way, the other team’s players taunting him as well.

Liam looked like he was about to explode. He tossed off his gloves, and then ripped his helmet off his face, throwing his body at Brett and the rest of their team.

“Liam!” Scott yelled, rushing to Liam to hold him back.

“LIAM!” he yelled once more, the other players just cackling louder and louder by the second, highly amused by Liam’s anger.

Liam eventally managed to calm down, although it had been taking a lot of restraint from all of them, all day .

As the players retook their stances, Stiles moved to the centre, getting ready to start.

After psyching out the Devenford starter, who clearly was not a teenager, Stiles had been able to get the ball when the whistle sounded, and he started running down the field.

“Run, Stiles, run!” someone shouted. He guessed it was Scott as he didn’t take his focus away from the goal.

A rush of adrenaline surged through his body as he pounded down the field, the ball rattling around the net on his borrowed stick. Impossibly, he outran and contorted around every player, scoring a goal. Stiles jumped into the air, celebrating loudly. Something to be happy about.

“Stiles, you scored a goal!” Scott shouted at the top of his lungs, sprinting towards Stiles in excitement.

-

Again, the players went, all chasing each other around with a common goal. Stiles worked up the confidence to tackle a player into the ground, remaining uninjured as he threw a boy (or man?) who was at least 6 feet tall into the ground.

He looked up, picking up the ball, getting ready to run again, when he saw Brett darting towards Liam at full speed. Liam, just stared, pale as a ghost, as Brett ran to him. Stiles moved in front of Liam, trying to defend him.

At the same time, Garrett appeared out of nowhere, ramming himself into Brett, who had just run into Stiles, the four of them crashing into each other, spinning through the air, onto the hard ground. Stiles felt a thin pain shoot across his arm as he landed, his shirt moistening slightly.

Brett groaned, rolling across the floor annoyed.

Stiles reached his hand to his right forearm, trying to locate the source of the pain. He rolled up his sleeve, looking for what had hit him, and then realised Garrett had cut him, as he saw Garret getting up with ease, a metallic sound echoing slightly. Garrett looked down at Stiles menacingly, before walking away. 

“Stiles!” Scott yelled, rushing to help his friend up. Stiles grabbed onto Scott’s hand with his right, not wanting to exert his injured arm.

With his other hand, Scott helped Liam up, quickly examining him as he did.

“Are you guys alright?” he troubled.

Stiles winced, the cut Garrett made on him stinging. 

“I’m good.”

Brett was helped up by another teammate, both of them glaring at the three as they walked away angrily.

Garrett was standing a way over from them, still keeping his eyes on them dangerously.

Then Scott realised.

“Are you cut? Did Garrett cut you?” he interrogated, grabbing onto Liam’s arms and frantically searching for any blood on his shirt.

“No, No, I’m okay.” Liam replied, surprised, looking back and forth between both of his arms.

“He got me, though.” Stiles interposed, holding up to Scott and revealing his cut and still-bleeding arm to Scott.

Scott stared widely at the arm, which had some kind of yellow liquid dripping off the cut, before looking onto the ground, “Then he missed.”

“What do you mean?” Liam asked this time.

“It’s you, Liam. You’re the one he’s after.”

Liam’s eyes widened in horror. He took a step backwards, realising the brevity of the situation.

Scott continued, “Stiles, you head to the locker room and get that cleaned up. We’ll deal with Garrett.”

Stiles nodded, and jogged away from the two, black circling his vision.

He stumbled a little bit upon reaching the bleachers, a sudden wave of dizziness crashing into him. He reached out to a pole for support, before wrapping a hand around his arm once more and walking to the locker room, fighting his presyncope with everything he had. What the hell was on that blade?

(slight change of pov?) Meanwhile…

The whole ordeal had brought a timeout to the scrimmage.

Scott sipped on some water, occasionally seeing Garrett in his periphery, making sure he didn't come after Liam again. After the ‘accident’, Garrett seemed to leave them alone, not interacting with them at all.

It confused Scott, because he felt like he was just waiting for Garrett to make a move, not knowing when or even if he would try to hurt one of them again. Having to constantly be alert like this was honestly just tiring. They all needed a break.

A ding sounded from inside his bag.

Scott took out his phone from the side pocket, which he turned on to see the notification. A text from Lydia?

He opened it up, an image loading in slowly. The service on the field wasn't that good, surprisingly for a big open space. Drumming his fingers as he waited, he peered over at Garrett once more, who was just talking with some teammates. And laughing . Like a normal teenager. If only they knew.

Once the image had fully loaded, he clicked on it and zoomed in. So Lydia and Malia had unlocked the next part of the deadpool. Nice.

Scott scrolled through all the names, not recognising most of them. But there was one, owning a very large number, which almost made him drop his phone.

He stood up quickly, a breath caught in his throat.

“Liam, we gotta go. Quickly, come on!”

Chapter Text

Stiles basically tripped into the locker room, collapsing onto the bench next to his cubby. He was sweating profusely. No, inhumanely . The moisture was forming at an alarming rate on his face, dripping off onto his lap as he haunched over, grasping onto his ankles with his hands to pace himself.
The room was dark, the only sound breaking the silence was the pounding of his own heartbeat. It was fast, almost deafening in his ears, and each thud grew louder as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He could feel it reverberating in his chest, quick and relentless, like a drumbeat that refused to slow.

He tried to steady his breathing, hoping it would calm the frantic rhythm inside him, but it only seemed to amplify the sound. And then, in the midst of the overwhelming noise, he heard something else—a second heartbeat. Faint at first, almost imperceptible, it pulsed in the background, syncing with his own before breaking away, steady and deliberate.

His eyes widened as the realisation hit him. He was hearing a second heartbeat. The locker room was supposed to be empty. He was alone - or so he thought. But that second heartbeat, beating in tandem with his, told a different story. There was someone in here with him, hidden in the shadows, close enough that he could hear the life pulsing through their veins. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the two heartbeats echoed in the silence, a sinister duet in the dark.

And then, footsteps. Pat, pat, pat. Tapping their way through each row of lockers, and then stopping, as a shadow loomed over him from the right.

“There you are.”

-

Scott ran full speed towards the school, phone in hand, breathy gasps sounding as he went. Liam followed close behind, not sure of the urgency, but Scott was clearly serious about it.

“Scott! Scott!” Liam shouted ahead, “What’s happening?”

Scott rotated slightly to the left so he could face Liam, and threw his arm over his shoulder, pegging his phone at Liam. Liam, unprepared, caught it, but almost dropped it as it slipped around in his hands. He slowed down momentarily, not sure what Scott wanted him to look at, but then he saw the picture that Lydia had sent Scott.

C:// KEYWORD: AIDEN

KATE ARGENT 8

NOSHIKO YUKIMURA 4

JOANNE MCLAUGHLIN 1

STEVE GRACE 1

TOM HILL 1

BRETT TALBOT 1

REED SCHALL 250

RICHARD BENEFIELD 250

JACK MARSLAND 250

JOY WALDROP 250

CHERYL CALIX 250

JORDAN PARRISH 5

MIECZYSLAW STILINSKI 20

Scott burst through the front doors with a force that rattled the hinges, his breath coming in sharp gasps. His eyes were already scanning the floor, searching for any sign, any clue. There it was—a thin, barely visible trail of blood snaking its way across the hallway floor. His heart dropped. It had to be from Stiles' arm.

The scent of blood hit him instantly, unmistakable and sharp, sending a jolt of fear through his body. He moved quickly through the hallway, his steps guided by the faint trail, every drop leading him deeper into the school. Scott's mind raced. The cut Garrett made must not have been deep, but the fact that Stiles was bleeding at all meant something had gone wrong. His hands clenched into fists as he picked up the pace, following the trail like a lifeline, his worry for his best friend growing with every step. As he approached the locker room, the sharp and nauseous smell of fear - or anxiety - flooded his nostrils, almost making him gag because of how potent it was.

He turned the corner, entering the room from the wide open door, and what he saw right there in front of him made him stop.

Stiles, holding Garrett’s girlfriend - Violet - against a wall next to the sinks, by the throat. She clawed at his grasp, struggling against the asphyxiation and her legs dangling helplessly. He spotted a pendant by the cubbies, probably Violet’s.

“Stiles, what are you doing?!” Scott shouted, “Stop!”

Stiles moved his eyes from Violet to Scott, staring at Scott with the eyes of a scared child, and instantly relaxed his grip on Violet, face faltering as he realised what he was doing.

Stiles just looked at Scott, not really registering what was happening in the moment, when he heard pounding footsteps approaching. Liam almost leaped into the locker room, sliding around the corner, and he gasped for breath.

“Scott, what’s happening-” he began, but the beta stopped when he also saw Stiles, and his mouth widened.

A single trail of thick, yellow fluid had begun to run down Stiles’ arm, slow and unsettling as it dripped from his elbow in small, sticky droplets. It was something Scott had seen before. His stomach churned at the sight of it, knowing instinctively that this wasn’t normal blood. It oozed unnaturally, the color too sickly, too wrong.

Scott’s eyes darted to Stiles’ face, and his heart sank. Yellow fluid was seeping from his nose as well, a steady trickle that mirrored the grotesque stream on his arm. Stiles' breaths were shallow, his face pale, and his eyes glassy with fear, as if whatever was inside him was slowly taking over. It wasn’t just his wound—something far worse was happening to him.

“The blade was laced wolfsbane.” Scott muttered in disbelief, biting his lip.

Stiles' eyes fluttered weakly, the faint movement barely noticeable before his body went limp, crumpling like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Panic surged through Scott as he rushed to his side, dropping to his knees beside his best friend. His hands trembled for a split second before his instincts kicked in, steadying him. He listened to Stiles' chest, listening desperately for the sound that would reassure him.

There it was. Faint. Almost too faint. Pulsing slowly, weakly.

Scott’s breath hitched as he heard it beneath his skin. He reached a hand underneath Stiles’ shoulders, lifting his flacid frame with an ease that he was thankful for. Holding Stiles tightly to his chest, Scott rose to his feet, determined and afraid. He could feel the wetness of the yellow fluid staining his own clothes, but all that mattered now was getting Stiles help before it was too late.

“We gotta get him to Deaton. Liam, call my dad. He should know about Garret and Violet.”

Liam nodded warily, starting to follow Scott out of the locker room.

-- 

They carried Stiles into Deaton's clinic, his body convulsing violently, words tumbling incoherently from his lips. His eyes were wild, darting from side to side as if seeing things no one else could. "I don’t know what’s happening," Scott muttered, panic tightening his voice.

It was then when Stiles finally muttered something comprehensible, “Anata wa shi no shishadesu.” 

“Huh?”

Deaton looked down at the boy, his expression calm but concerned. “It’s.. wolfsbane,” he said quietly, examining the liquid escaping from his body, “but… it shouldn't be affecting him this way.”

Stiles’ seizures worsened, his muttering devolving into frantic whispers, gasping and flinching at unseen horrors. "Deaton, do something!" Scott begged.

“I’m afraid there’s only one thing I can do,” Deaton finally said, his voice grim. "I’ll have to cut him open."

Scott recoiled. "What? That’s insane!"

“It’s the only way to stop this,” Deaton insisted, preparing his tools. "I don't know why he's reacting this way, but we have to get it out."

With practiced hands, Deaton made a careful incision across Stiles’ chest. As the scalpel cut through skin, the tension in the room thickened. It broke at the slight gasp that escaped the thin opening - a small puff of yellow wolfsbane. And then Stiles began to relax. Scott breathed a sigh of relief, grip loosening on his friend’s arm as he felt the weak but erratic pulsing finally gain somewhat normal rhythym. 

Before they could react, a shadowy, transparent form began to rise from his chest, coiling and shifting in the dim light. Everyone froze, their eyes wide in shock as the entity took shape. A pair of orange glowing eyes flickered in the gloom, and then, from the misty darkness, the figure of a fox emerged.

"What the hell is that?" Scott whispered, disbelief and fear mixing in his voice.

Deaton stepped back, his expression unreadable. "A fox spirit…" he murmured, eyes narrowing at the mysterious entity that now stood before them, “A- nogitsune?”

It directed its stare toward the three of them, its glowing eyes casting an eerie light over Stiles' pale, lifeless face. The room felt colder, the air thick with an unnatural presence. For a moment, no one dared to breathe.

Then came the roar.

A bone-chilling, guttural cry ripped through the clinic, shaking the table beneath Stiles. The walls trembled with the sound, as if the very foundation of the building could feel the entity's pain and fury. Scott instinctively took a step back, his heartbeat quickening, while Deaton held his ground, eyes fixed on the fox spirit.

The roar wasn’t just loud—it was raw, filled with something ancient, something broken. Stiles’ body jolted, the table beneath him groaning under the strain. The sound echoed in their bones, vibrating through the room like an unearthly wail that didn't belong to this world.

And then, it recoiled,  snapping downwards into the incision in Stiles’ bare chest, which was partway healed. The lights went out with its whispy exit - or entrance -  escaping through the walls in intruding bursts of lightning.

“That’s…” Scott began.

Deaton cut in, face still tranquil, “Foxfire. Interesting.”

Then, the entity finally disappeared  - melting back into Stiles’ body entirely like smoke sucked into a void, vanishing as quickly as it had emerged. The foxfire had stopped shooting through the room, and it was left in silence, heavy with the strangeness of what had just occurred.

The small surgical cut he had made down Stiles' chest - the one that had been deep and deliberate - was closing. Slowly but surely, the flesh was knitting itself back together, sealing the wound as though it had never existed. In mere moments, Stiles' skin was whole again, unmarked and smooth. Not a trace of blood, not even a scar to suggest that Deaton had ever touched him with a scalpel. The laceration on his arm had also gone, and the yellow wolfsbane that once was pouring out of his nose was now non-existent.

“He healed!” Scott exclaimed, face wide with shock as he pointed baffledly at Stiles’ chest.

Liam lingered warily in the corner, unsure of how to proceed in the situation. After all, he was entirely new to the supernatural world.

“Is he okay?” he asked, taking slow, cautious steps towards the metal table. 

Scott put a hand in front of Liam, stopping him from moving any closer, “Be careful,” he whispered.

Stiles jolted upright on the table, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes - glowing a fierce amber - darted around the room. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and his hands gripped the edges of the table like he was holding on for dear life. The panic was all over his face, but no words came.

Scott rushed forward, trying to catch his eye. "Stiles?" he said softly, worry creeping into his voice.

Stiles’ glowing eyes flickered toward Scott, wild and confused. He didn’t say anything, just blinked rapidly, like he was trying to figure out where he was. His hands trembled as he reached up and touched his arm, feeling the smooth skin where there should have been a wound. His breathing quickened even more, panic overtaking him as the glowing in his eyes intensified.

"Stiles, hey—it's okay," Scott said, his voice calming but tense. "You're alright. You’re here with us. Just breathe, man."

Deaton stood nearby, watching closely but keeping his distance. "He's in shock," he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he observed Stiles.

Suddenly, Stiles’ eyes darted around the room again, faster this time, unable to settle on anything for more than a second. His chest heaved, his breathing erratic as he struggled to make sense of the chaos inside his mind. He wanted to speak, to explain what he was feeling, but no words came. His throat tightened, his voice caught somewhere between panic and confusion.

And then, out of nowhere, he spoke.

“You are the messenger of death,” Stiles whispered, his voice low and hollow, as if the words weren’t his own. His tone was eerie, devoid of any emotion, and it sent a chill through the room. Scott’s blood ran cold at the sound of it.

“Stiles, what?” Scott yelled, his voice louder now, his panic rising. He stepped closer, trying to reach him, to pull him back from whatever dark place he had been dragged into. “What are you talking about?”

But Stiles didn’t seem to hear him. His glowing eyes remained fixed, distant and detached, as if he wasn’t truly there. The words had come from him, but they felt foreign, like they belonged to someone—or something—else.

Scott’s heart raced. He had never seen Stiles like this before. It wasn’t like the time the Nogitsune had taken control of him, twisting his thoughts and actions. This was different. Stiles wasn’t being controlled—not entirely. But something dark was inside him, something they didn’t understand.

Deaton took a step back, “This isn’t just about the wolfsbane,” he murmured, his voice more for himself than anyone else. 

Before Scott could react, Stiles snapped.

With a sudden, explosive burst of energy, Stiles slammed his fists into the table beneath him. The sound was deafening, a sharp crack as the metal crumpled under the force of his blow. Scott jumped back, startled, his eyes wide with shock.

“Stiles, stop!” Scott shouted, his voice filled with fear and desperation. 

The rrom got duller, as a pitch black shadow settled in the room, seeming to be leaking in through the windows. For a moment, the room was filled with a tense, oppressive silence. Stiles sat there, his hands still clenched in fists, his breath ragged and uneven. His glowing eyes flickered, flashing between the unnatural amber light and their normal color, as if he was teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

Deaton stepped forward cautiously, his voice calm but firm. “Stiles,” he said, trying to break through the haze of panic that had consumed him. “You need to focus. You’re in control, but you need to breathe.”

Stiles’ hands shook, his fists loosening as he slowly released the tension in his muscles. His chest still heaved with labored breaths, but his eyes began to lose their glow, the amber light fading back into his usual dark brown. He blinked rapidly, his gaze sharpening as he slowly returned to the present.

Scott took a deep breath, his hand still hovering near Stiles’ shoulder, afraid to move too quickly. “Stiles, it’s okay,” he said quietly. “Whatever happened, we’ll figure it out. Just… breathe.”

As if Stiles didn’t hear him, he pushed off the tables with his fists and leaped off, static electricity sounding as he separated from the metal.

He sprinted out the door, ignoring the cries from Scott as he went. When he burst through the glass door of the clinic, almost breaking it, the phrase kept sounding in his ears, a calamity of whispers trying to break down his own walls until he accepted its force. Stiles thought he could live with, even ignore it, and just get on with his life.

But he couldn’t.

The words echoed in his head, over and over: “You are the messenger of death.” What was once gibberish in his head had slowly become a taunting second language to him.

He ran, and ran, not caring where he was going, but he had to clear his head. The phrase was overstimulating, Stiles unable to have his own thoughts because of his overthrown mind.

And, unaware of how far he had run, he found himself in the woods, slightly out of breath as he realised where he was and began to slow down his running.