Chapter Text
"Lydiaaaa!" Stiles bellows as loud as he possibly can over the sound of bubblegum pop music blasting through the thin walls. "I know you can hear me!"
A few moments later, Lydia stalks through the door wearing her favorite smug expression and her favorite ladykiller shoes as well. "Stiles, my brother," she purrs, rolling her large green eyes in annoyance. "You called?"
"Pack meeting," he reminds her, balancing precariously on the windowsill, hair blowing in the breeze. She pops her gum, rolls her eyes a few more times, and finally makes up her mind. "Well, get on with it then," she snaps, shooing him with her hands.
He laughs and looks out the window at the ground below, pushing himself off the edge and snapping his wings open, allowing himself to enjoy the sheer power for just a moment. Then he lands, and all too soon he's folding his wings back up again, resisting the ever present urge to get up and fly far, far away.
"I still don't understand why we have to walk," she grumbles a few minutes later, skirting around a mud puddle as they walk through the woods. "Even if the jeep is in the shop. There's no shame in using our-"
He cuts her off with a murderous glare, knowing that she knows they are fully within the wolves earshot. She simply shrugs, staring right back at him. "They'll find out anyway, soon enough."
"Shut up!" he spits through clenched teeth. "They can't know. It puts them in danger."
"And us," she reminds him gently, poking him in the side. "It would put out lives in danger too."
She darts in front of him, daintily stepping over the crunchy dried leaves as they make their way inside the Hale House.
~
[ Stiles is thirteen years old when they put the little redhead into the cage beside him. He's cold, shivering and hunched into the corner, but seeing her brings him a tiny little scrap of warmth. He holds onto it, nurtures it by allowing himself to stare at her, wonder about her, and it passes the time a little bit easier.
"Who are you," he manages to croak, and she looks over with these huge, haunted green eyes, like a ghost. She looks scared, like all of them, but he can also see a fighter in her, a resistance deep inside. She answers, "I named myself Lydia," in a tiny voice until the whitecoat in front of them smashes a club into the side of Stiles' crate, hitting his already aching bruises, and that's enough to make him shut up for a long, long while, but the name doesn't leave his mind.
Lydia. ]
~
"You guys walked again?" Isaac asks sympathetically, his expression exactly sad-puppy-dog, and Stiles scoffs at him. "Gotta keep in shape, my man. Biceps like this surely don't come easy. Ain't that right, Derek?"
The alpha in the corner simply glowers at him like usual, Stiles flashing him a bright, immature grin in response. "What's gotcha grim today, Sourwolf? It's been a while since something's tried to kill us, look on the bright side."
If anything, Derek's features darken some more, him gesturing sharply to the bootleg TV set in the living room. The screen reads something about CHAMPION ARGENT FAMILY MOVING TO BEACON HILLS, the reporter standing outside what looks like the home that was on sale on 44th street.
"She's kind of hot, Scott," Stiles observes, sliding onto one corner of the counter, sitting up so he can see. "Yeah, definitely hot. And your type."
Scott gapes at him, awkwardly looking from Stiles to Isaac, and he grins in mischievous glee. "I'm just kidding, Isaac. Scott will be your secret werewolf lover for all of eternity and all that bullshit."
The smile that spreads across Isaac's face is priceless, completely innocent and as lovey-dovey as it gets. Ick, in Stiles' opinion, but Isaac does deserve the happiness. For christ's sake, the kid had been through hell and back before Derek had changed him, Stiles isn't sure what he'd do without Scott right beside him.
"Listen," Derek literally growls, setting the hair on the back of his neck up. He listens, barely having to try to hear it. "The family, consisting of Chris and Allison Argent, are here training for an upcoming Olympic training event here in Beacon Hills, Allison being a strong contender for the 2016 Summer Games."
Argent, he realizes, and his whole body goes numb with shock. His ears roar and he's stumbling off the counter and out the door, dizziness carrying over him in sweeping waves. The Argent Corporation. Of course.
~
[ The old newspaper covering the bottom of the metal cage makes for good reading material, from what he can make out. The Argent Corp. isn't making off well with their newest line of products, it seems, and it fills him with the slightest bit of hope. People from all over are outraged after learning of the horrible, cruel practices they test their life saving products on. The article mentions dogs and cats as test subjects, even the possibility of monkeys or horses, but quite obviously it doesn't mention humans. Stiles reckons they're stashed somewhere far from civilization, away from prying eyes, and the places each of the newspapers are from are always scattered, so that's a dead end clue. His only memories are of the School-of pain and suffering. His only glimpses of the outdoors are tests as well, the whitecoats making him run mazes or obstacle courses and never allowing him to do regular kid things. Then again, Stiles and Lydia are not normal kids. At all. They never will be.
Sometimes, when they're dragged kicking and screaming from their cages, the whitecoats will tell them of their 'purpose', how they will save the world from it's impending doom and the mutants will soon reign over the humans. Stiles makes a note to get himself some of whatever these people are smoking, because it seriously fucks them up in the head.
There was no way for him to know just how right they were until time ran out. ]
~
His chest feels tight, like he's breathing through a straw, and he's only dimly aware of Lydia crouching beside him, a hand on the small of his back. "Stiles," a low, powerful voice commands, and he knows it's her but can't bring himself to speak. "We need to go. Now," she says sharply, and grabs him by the wrist, yanking him off the porch. Behind him the concerned voice of Scott is tinny in his ears, Lydia shouting some nonsense about his blood sugars being too low. He focuses on moving each step forward, each step closer to home, and doesn't look up until she stops suddenly.
He shakes his head lightly, tries to calm his racing heartbeat, and glances up at the world in front of him.
There is a girl with a crossbow that looks awfully familiar. The crossbow is aimed at Stiles' chest, and the girl looks damn serious. "My name is Allison Argent," she says slowly, still holding the bow tightly. "And I need you not to run."
Lydia makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat, and Stiles can tell that this curly haired she-devil looking chick is going to be nothing but trouble for everybody.
Especially, you know, the mutant children her father created. But no big deal.
"Please don't shoot him," Lydia says, putting her hands up, while all Stiles can think is Argent. Argent. Argent with weapon. Run.
"Lydia," he says and snaps his wings out, propelling himself a few feet into the air. Allison's bow moves with him, her glare intensifying as he moves.
"I don't want to tranquilize you," she calls up to him, and just the word sends a violent shudder through his body. "Please come down. We have a lot to talk about."
The panic growing in Stiles' chest feels like it's going to smother him any second and so he lands, feet touching the ground for less than a moment before he begins to run; and once again becomes the hunted.
~