'When Plan B goes Bad'
When they emerged from the ice tank, each of the surrogate sacrifices felt something different.
Allison felt numb: the cold had turned every fibre of her body to aching, biting numbness and seeped into her lungs, the cold rooted there permanently.
Scott felt hope: a fleeting feeling quickly disappeared by the knowledge of what was next to come – but for that first second, he felt hope – he knew where his mother could be found.
Stiles was different to the others, for when he was submerged, he did it with no hope, or anger, but with fear. When he resurfaced, he took a breath, but did not open his eyes immediately. When he did, his eyes were dark.
Shivering, Allison jumped out the bath with surprising speed, gracefully accepting the towel Isaac held out for her and attempting to rub some feeling back into her limbs before changing into the dry clothes waiting in the other room. She did not meet Scott's eyes as she went. The werewolf reacted slower, taking his time to get out of the tub and sitting on the edge with the towel around his shoulders before he spoke to his best friend, who remained sitting in the icy clutches.
"We know where the Nemeton is."
Stiles nodded, "So what do we do now?"
He looked up to his friend for answers, because despite Scott's temporary change of allegiance, Stiles would always look to Scott and follow him. Anywhere.
"We find our parents," Scott answered dumbly, and when Stiles rolled his eyes, he explained. "Whatever happens, it's all got to end there. Where it started for Ms. Blake. I'll get the alpha pack there-" Everybody in the room stiffened, but the young boy's tone remained determined, "You and Allison get our parents out of there – I'll distract Jennifer."
"You can't beat her," Isaac spoke up, looking at Scott in confusion. The worry on his face was clear, brow downturned and voice holding a strange quality even he wasn't used to. Huh, so that was what caring felt like. "Even if you get your parents out – she could kill you. She's strong."
"That's a risk we've got to take."
"Then I'll go with you," Isaac said simply. "The more wolves the better, right?"
Scott looked like he might argue, but eventually nodded gratefully after his eyes lingered on his friend for a second. Logically, he knew Isaac was right. But he had sworn he was never going to be the guy who leads his friends into battle. But there was nothing left to do; his mom needed him. Scott nodded and got to his feet, shuffling to his clothes before throwing a dry hoodie over his wet shirt, feeling immediately better.
"Get Derek," Stiles said bitterly, drawing their attention, and Scott realized he hadn't yet moved. "This is his fight too, and he can sure as hell get his ass there to help."
He tossed Isaac his phone from beside the tank, and the other boy held it nervously. "I'll talk to him and Peter, but I don't know whether they'll come," he hesitated, "I might have yelled at him a bit when we last spoke."
"Try anyway," Scott reassured him, taking a last sweeping look around the room before he started to leave. He had to believe Derek would see sense and help. Without every one of them, they wouldn't stand a chance. At the door, he paused, twisting back, "You should get going."
He'd meant it for Stiles, who was still motionless, but Isaac misinterpreted it and made for the door.
Meeting Stiles gaze, Scott saw a truth, a determination that wasn't there before. It didn't fit him well. But it was too late – there wasn't enough time to worry about the effects of their ice dunk now. He and Isaac left together before parting ways outside the animal clinic.
(Plan A gets a good turn)
Back inside, Deaton studied the last remaining 'sacrifice' with as much intensity as Scott had. Stiles was still sitting in the freezing bath, as if mulling things over in his mind. The stillness of his limbs was striking, the way his eyes looked but didn't see, like he was drunk or dazed – it was eerie. As predicted, Lydia eventually spoke and pulled him back.
"As much as that looks like fun," she eyed the water warily, "I think you should get out now."
Stiles responded instantly if mechanically, getting to his feet in the tank and standing dripping. Rejecting the offered towel, he padded from the room to change silently.
"What's wrong with him?" Lydia asked as soon as he left. There was a red mark on her lip where she had bit it nervously in the hours that had passed, which had been almost unbearable; it was too slow, like being stuck in slow motion. Now, she wished it back – something was very, very wrong with her friend. One way or another, Lydia was certain he was not safe.
Deaton shook his head. "I don't know."
Changed and dry, Allison and Stiles emerged back into the waiting room together, their pale faces tinged with colour again and looking back to normal. Mumbling an apology and touching her elbow as he entered, Stiles even tried to aim a crooked smile at Lydia. It was dim, but undeniable.
"We have to get there before the pack's do," Allison began the conversation confidently. With Scott gone, she was the natural leader of the group, stepping forwards seamlessly. "If the alpha pack gets there first and attacks Jennifer, she won't hesitate to kill them – then no one can stop her."
"But we have to get our parents out first," Stiles finished. "I'm all for saving the world, but my dad is my priority. That isn't changing."
"What is she kills us? The wolves stand a better chance against her than we do," Lydia started.
"-But our parents don't."
Stiles and Allison caught the others gaze and a silent agreement passed between them – they'd died once for their parents, and would do it again if it came down to it.
"We have to try," Allison stated, and moving as one, the three headed for the door. The girls left first, having the door held open for them by Stiles, he paused before he too followed, turning to Deaton. A knowing look shared, as they had been planning something different for weeks now, he muttered the words.
"If not, there's always plan B."
He didn't meet the man's eyes as he left.
Once they were gone, the vet sighed, knowing that Plan B was not a good thing. Scott would be furious with them both if it came down to that. And he would have to shoulder the blame alone.
(Healing and Hales)
"Derek!" Isaac burst through the doors, startling all three Hales inside. Cora, now conscious, leant against the sofa tiredly, looking worn out. A thin layer of sweat still clung to her skin; it gleamed oddly under the moonlight, giving her a fragile, ethereal look. Like she was composed of the light itself, or would crumble under any touch.
The ex-alpha looked up irritably, but Peter sensed the panicked tone and was instantly serious. "What is it?"
"We know where Jennifer is – Scott and the alphas are going after them."
"What? How?" Derek demanded, on his feet in a heartbeat. Despite everything, he still cared a great deal about Scott's safety.
"There's no time – Stiles and Allison are going to try and save their parents while the pack distracts the Darach, but we need your help." Isaac looked pleadingly towards him, shaking slightly. "We need to go. Now."
"I want to help" Cora said, trying to get to her feet. Her brother was at her side in an instant, hand on her shoulder to keep her from rising.
"No! Definitely not, you're in no shape for a fight," Derek protested, and she reluctantly slid back to her seat, weak at the knee's. Fiery eyed, she stared him down.
"Fine, but don't stay here on my behalf. You healed me, Derek. I'm okay. But you have to go." There was no jealousy or bitterness in her voice. Her brother had to leave her. She knew that, and accepted it. "Go help them for both of us."
For a moment, Derek looked trapped, and confused, and vaguely human, causing Isaac to regret his earlier anger. But the moment passed, and his usual armour was thrown back up, making his face unreadable as Derek turned back to his former Beta, "let's go."
To everyone's surprise, Peter followed without complaint, and they raced towards the Nemeton.
(The Nemeton)
Plan A was to sneak in undetected and snatch their parents before things got ugly. The Jeep creaked and moaned under the speed as the three teenagers talked over their plan on the way to the forest in which the Nemeton rested, loud and ominous as they considered the fight to come. Stiles' hands gripped the wheel harder than usual, his knuckles white, but nobody noticed.
He was glad. This time, he felt confident facing the Darach. This time, he had a Plan B; the best part was the only person it could possibly hurt was himself. That didn't matter though. As long as his father and his friends were safe.
Plan B was his secret. The last hope of a desperate man.
As they skidded to a stop, doors open before they had even fully halted, Stiles prayed that Plan B wouldn't be necessary. But he knew he wouldn't hesitate a second to do it.
(Things take a turn for the worse)
The three guardians were tied to trees in the clearing surrounding the Nemeton. Jennifer had moved them that morning, anticipating that today was the right time. They were coming, and she was ready.
Side by side, the parents caught each other's gaze, thinking it was their time to go, and that their children were about to be made orphans at the hands of a mad woman. They were wrong.
The weather, defiant of the darkness, was bright. In the sun, the parent's bones were warmed after days of locked up that that root cellar, dingy and dirty and dismal. It was as if they were being put on display, out in the open; the final act of a murderous show put on by the less than angelic English teacher. It was time for the curtain call.
Lydia, Allison, and Stiles approached as quietly as they could, creeping through the leaves and bushes to get close enough for a view of the infamous Nemeton tree. Well, it was a more of a stump – not that it mattered. The young huntress had her bow readied, arrow notched. Allison was sure that if Ms. Blake appeared now, she'd shoot her down without a seconds thought to taking a life. Before their ice bath, such a thought would have made her shudder, but now she only felt calm, absolute.
Perhaps that was the darkness Deaton had warned them of. Her hands no longer shook.
The clearing came into view, the stump in the centre white and mesmerising, as if drawing them all to it. A strange feeling passed over her, and she met her friend's eyes. They felt it too. A pull: a noose around their necks connecting them all to that tree. She didn't like it one bit, but her concentration was lured away by the sight of the trees across from them, on the other side of the stump.
"Dad," Allison breathed, making to run to the hostages bound there, but a hand grabbed her arm, restraining her.
"It's too easy," Lydia's wide eyes met her own, scanning the clearing thoughtfully, "Why would she just leave them like that, for us all to see? She wants us to go to them."
Her words made sense, Lydia's sharp and tactical mind pulling the pieces together but not quite grasping the entire picture yet. For a second, the huntress listened. She waited. But then Allison glanced over to her dad, and saw his face was bloody. Damn the consequences, she had to get to him.
Sprinting across the clearing, Allison notched her arrow before letting it fly towards the trees. Meeting its mark, it severed the rope holding her father aloft, and Mr. Argent fell to his knees in the dirt. Voices yelled behind her, but Allison did not stop until she reached her father side. Already having loosened most of the knots, the girl deftly pulled her pocket knife to cut the rest.
"What were you thinking?" her father hissed at her, and her face fell.
"I- I just-"
"It doesn't matter now," Chris argent growled, seething at himself for getting into the situation in the first place. This wasn't supposed to happen; Allison couldn't be here. "You have to run."
"Not without you."
At the look in his daughter's eye, Chris saw there was no point in arguaing. He let her take his arm and rag him up, feet unsteady. Footsteps rung around them, and Allison looked over to see her two friend's approaching, running across the clearing themselves – Stiles had eyes only for his dad and was further ahead.
But Lydia was only half-way across when a voice spoke.
"So nice of you to pop in to see me." And there she was: Jennifer Blake, the Darach, standing atop the Nemeton's stump and gazing down at them disdainfully. She had appeared from thin air, or was fast enough to be missed by normal vision now. Either way, they were screwed and knew it.
"Miss Martin, I thought you were smarter than this," Jennifer chided, taking pleasure in their panic. Lydia stood frozen, he hand subconsciously making its way to her throat, choked. It trembled, hovering a few inches from the skin. "But then again: this is exactly as I planned."
Faster than humanly possible, Ms. Blake zapped across the clearing to the trembling girl, and had just raised a hand to strike her when something tackled her, sending her sprawling. Lydia, still frozen, was pulled away from the tussle by Stiles, who wrapped a protective arm around her as Isaac and Peter emerged from the trees, joining Derek – the original tackler – in holding off the Darach.
Slashing and stabbing, the three wolves corralled the woman, who was fuming more and more with each passing second; circling her and taking turns to swipe. Although the cuts healed, the relentless efforts kept Ms. Blake momentarily at bay, trapped within the circle.
Allison joined the fray, sending another arrow at the woman and catching her in the shoulder, causing a stumble, then a fall. Derek, no longer an alpha but still formidable in wolf form, towered over her, claws outstretched and ready to make the final bow.
For a shining second, there was hope.
(Fight or Flight)
Of course, hope is usually very short lived, and only serves to make the inevitable crumbling of plans and downfall more crushing. Such as when Ducalion entered the clearing, tailed by the alpha pack, right on cue.
Scott was there, and saw in clarity the scene – his mother tied to a tree, Derek about to kill Jennifer, Lydia's terrified face as she clutched her throat. He made to move forward, but Ducalion held up a single finger to stop him; the distraction enough, Jennifer took advantage and knocked Derek away, getting to her feet to face the pack. Without meaning to, they had gathered together, all the wolves backing away until they all stood in line – both packs against her.
Allison and her father still stood in front of the trees, not daring to make a move to free the others; Stiles and Lydia huddled to the right of the tree stump in the centre, and Jennifer, confident smile at the ready, stood before the source of her power.
Here, she thought, I cannot be defeated.
"You always liked to make an entrance, Ducalion," she remarked coldly, pacing before them. Her wounds were healing quickly – soon any won advantage would be gone. The lead alpha smiled wanly in return. The rest of the wolves bristled, changed and eager to take her down, but Ducalion seemed too calm.
"You can't beat me," Ms. Blake continued, but her eyes betrayed her true emotions, uncertainty lingering there. "I have everything I need for the sacrifices, after that you stand no chance against me."
"They are still alive, you're not invincible yet." He paused, tilting his head to the side. It was a cold gesture, calculating – one she had seen too many times. Tell me Jennifer – are you afraid?"
"Never."
Suddenly, the ropes at the trees sprang to life. They wrapped around the parent's throats and began squeezing, the strangulation beginning. Still tied to the trees, Melissa and the Sheriff could do nothing to fight back, eyes bulging in fear and pain as they kicked out, basically immobile.
"Mom!" cried Scott, starting to run across the clearing, but Jennifer held up a cruel hand.
"Now, now, as long as none of you move – they'll live," she said coolly. To prove her point, the ropes stopped squeezing Melissa and the Sheriff's throats, and they gasped for air. Scott paused before her and her lip twitched up into a smirk. "Good, now no one moves and I promise they can walk away."
"Liar!" Scott spat, fists clenched at his sides. "You still need them for sacrifices."
Jennifer shook her head almost sadly, "No. I never did."
"What do you mean?"
"I took them to get you all here, but your parents are not my sacrifice. But they do stand among us."
Derek growled, tired of her games. He'd been played, and wanted to tear up the board. Or her face. Whichever was easiest. Lowly, he demanded – "Who?"
A smile more sinister than any yet flashed across the Darach's face; finally stopping pacing, she stood to face them directly. In the light, her eyes looked black.
"The final sacrifice – Guardians, yes? No. It was the centre knot – it had to be every one of the others to work. Virgin. Warrior. Healer. Philosopher. Guardian. The five-fold sacrifice. Who do we know that ticks every box?" she finished with a grin, knowing none of them, least of all her target, would guess.
It was very much surprising to her when Scott's eyes narrowed, then focused on someone behind her. He'd got it. Clever boy – more so than anyone gave him credit for, least of all himself. That was the goodness in Scott McCall: he saw the greatness in everyone he met, especially his friends.
"Stiles," he breathed. Then the alpha looked up, eyes panicked and shouted, "Stiles, Run!"
The already pale boy grew even more so as the Darach's attention turned to him, everyone assembled still too wary of what she could do to make a move. He took a few steps backwards, tripping on tree roots, and choked out."M- me?"
"Who else?" teased Ms. Blake.
"Listen, I'm just a pathetic human – so not worth killing," Stiles backpedalled, desperately searching for words that usually came easily to him. "I mean of everyone here, I'm the least likely to be useful. I'm not a . . . five fold sacrifice? Nu-uh. Not those things – that's not me."
"I think not."
He grinned nervously. "Listen, Lady, I don't know what's in that ash you've obviously been sniffing – but I'm no warrior, or healer – just puny boy and a thin layer of sarcasm over here."
But the Darach wasn't buying it, her smile only deepening to a cold smirk as she advanced on the shaking boy. He started, but his legs were frozen, even the pack stared in shock. But Scott had lost too much; he wouldn't lose his best friend too.
(Brother)
With a roar of anger, Scott charged the figure before him, not caring if it meant losing his opportunity to become a true alpha. He'd take the shot if he had it. None of the other stuff mattered, as long as his friends were safe.
Hitting her with everything he had left, Scott slashed blindly, cutting her across the collar bone, making Jennifer turn back to him with a shriek of anger. He slashed again. And again. But with all the Nemeton's power, Ms. Blake – the Darach, was just too strong. She slammed a hand into his chest, eyes white and glowing, and he was thrown back.
Wind knocked out of him, he lay in the dirt as Jennifer made to hit him again: this time with a wickedly curved knife in her grasp. The pack's reacted, running to help, but a stomp from the Darach sent them all flying, landing around the clearing. Dazed. Helpless. They could only watch.
"Scott McCall, you should have stayed at school," sneered Ms. Blake, leaning over him. Bones were shattered, he knew it – he couldn't move. He would die here. Angling his head to see his mother, who was still tied up with tears on her cheeks, he waited for the blow.
"NO!" came a scream from behind the Darach, and it's source was Stiles, who had pushed Lydia aside – out of harms reach – and now stood atop the tree stump screaming at Ms. Blake. "Leave him – it's me you want! Come on, you ugly bitch – come and get me! Or are you afraid – Julia – a scared little girl even after all this time," Stiles didn't care anymore, he wasn't about to watch Scott die. He held his arms open, pounding his chest, while ignoring his best friends violently shaking head and roared, "COME ON!"
The Darach obliged.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as she advanced on the other boy, who did not back down or run, but stood his ground – a man. Some of the wolves were on their feet, crashing towards them but too far, too late.
Peter let out a roar as his lungs burnt, trying to reach them in time. Chris argent let loose a shot from his gun, whizzing past Ms. Blakes head. Kali's feet skidded on the soil as she sped forwards. Ducalion threw the spear of a seeing stick towards the Darach. Derek was just getting to his feet, blood trickling down his face, when he saw the commotion unfolding and fear pricked behind dead eyes. Scott, healing in seconds, could do nothing but watch as they were all too late.
The Darach plunged the knife into Stile's stomach, the sound loud even among the tumult. His eyes bulged as the blade went in, panic setting in for a second. Then it was done, and chaos ripped through the clearing.
(The meaning of Sacrifice)
The Sheriff's cries were the worst thing. Above all the fighting they could be heard, raw and broken – screaming for his son. They had all paused a second when the blade went in: pulled short in their running, physically halted by the reality of what had just happened. Then Jennifer turned round, and she was actually smiling victoriously; all hell broke loose.
Stiles was still standing, one hand clamped around the wound spilling blood onto his shirt, but that didn't worry Jennifer. He wouldn't last long, and then she would be unstoppable. Wolves charged her from the left, but she dispelled them with a flick of her wrist, sending them flying.
Isaac was among them, disbelieving that a friend had just died in front of him. Yes, a friend. He wished he'd have told the annoying, hyperactive kid that.
Derek, emotional and reckless, came from the other side, but she simply grasped him by the front of the shirt and threw him over her head like it was nothing. They weren't her targets – Ducalion was.
But still, the so called 'demon wolf' seemed undeterred by the events, calmly watching her tear thrown the packs as she approached. An odd smile played on his lips. Glancing up at the darkening sky above, she glared at Ducalion.
"Pretty close to the lunar eclipse," she said, obviously wanting a reaction. He said nothing, so she continued. "Are you ready to die, Ducalion?"
"Are you?"
Infuriated by his words, and apathy, she let rage resign in her – therefore not noticing her powers draining from her. Het target in sight, she reached out a hand, eyes glowing fiercely – but when she slammed it into his chest, the fire in her eyes dampened as nothing happened.
"What?" she gasped, looking down at her hands. She tried again, to no avail. Ducalion simply smiled at someone behind her, actual smirking awe written across his face.
"What's wrong?"
"The sacrifices – they're – they're fading," she stammered.
A laugh sounded across the clearing, wet and wracking, but a laugh. Wheeling to face it, Ms. Blake saw Stiles still standing on the stump, holding in his guts with a manic smile plastered across his face, teeth stained with blood. Although the effort of merely laughing seemed like it in itself would kill him, he kept on, determined Plan B was the only option.
"What did you do, boy?" raged Ms. Blake, starting back towards him and halting halfway there. He still smiled.
"Mistletoe," he held up a clear jar of the stuff, pulled from his pocket, for them all to see, "I've been drinking a little every day for weeks – just enough to infuse it into my bloodstream." When none of them linked it, he rolled his eyes, an action so painfully familiar that for a second he could forget that he was dying.
"How do you break a chain of power?" Stiles asked simply, staring at his own blood at his feet, coating the Nemeton's stump, "You poison it at its source."
"No!" shrieked the Darach, but she could feel the changes happening already. As the Nemeton became drenched in the boy's blood, she could feel the effects weakening, as the benefits from every sacrifice left her. She screamed again, as she felt old scars from the first attack forging their way back onto her face, distorting it.
"You see, you made one mistake – you underestimated humanity," Stiles went on, and no one moved, transfixed by his words. "All the killing: it changed you. You're not human anymore, Ms. Blake – you're no better than them," he nodded at the alpha pack, "Vengeance isn't what sacrifice means."
"What would you know? All my work, I could have stopped them! I could have done it!" Screamed the flailing lady as agony, fists clenched tight with all her anger pent up for years directed at one boy.
"Sacrifice," Stiles Stilinski went on, as if she hadn't interrupted, a calm now descended over him that made him seem a little taller in the knowledge that this was his choice, "is giving up something," he looked down at his leaking wound, and the crimson on his shirt, "for something you love more."
He looked only at his dad then. His voice lacked its usual snark and bite, replaced by something more genuine; an affection that softened his words. For a moment, he was just a terrified boy again, thinking his dad was worth the world.
"Touching," snarled the Darach. She knew she had lost. "But you'll still die."
"That's the point. I had a Plan B this time. I make that point one to Stiles, nil to psychotic murdering monsters."
(Houses of cards)
Jennifer Blake had heard enough. With a final scream, she charged towards the bleeding boy, taking him down with her. The ground broke under their weight, and they crashed into the cellar at the roots of the Nemeton. Getting to her feet, she rushed at him again, fingernails splayed like claws, but he stepped out of the way, grabbing her shoulders to spin her around, and shoved. Then Ram-
The Darach fell backwards, onto a sharp out-turned root, which pierced her chest. Eyes wide and breath ragged, she looked down at the tree then back up at Stiles.
Once upon a time, he would have felt something, but now he felt nothing. He told her coldly, "You should never have gone after my father."
Outside, Scott had raced towards the cellar doors throwing them open to see Ms. Blake impaled, and Stiles standing before he, talking lowly and darkly. Words that sounded bitter in his mouth, Stiles, frankly just tired by this point, placed a sympathetic hand on the woman's shoulder as she died. After all, it was Stiles.
But he also asked one more question, an echo of Ducalion's earlier words. "Julia, are you afraid?"
The English teacher nodded once, completely honestly to him, before she slumped, held up by the tree. Scott, at the top of the stairs, listened. There was one less heartbeat in the room. The Darach died where she should have all those years ago by Kali's hand, on the roots of the Nemeton that gave her life.
(The things left unsaid)
Afterwards, Stiles fell, clutching at his side, to the floor. Sitting against a root, he breathed. It was done. They were safe. Plan B had worked, which was unfortunate for his health, but good for theirs. That's all that counted. Guess he wasn't useless after all.
Scott raced down the stairs at this, shocked out of his trance, and fell to his knees at his friend's side, grabbing his shoulder in one hand.
"Stiles, Stiles! Listen to me," Scott pleaded, and his friend's gaze, now hazy, met his own. Stiles managed a watery smile. "You've got to stay awake, okay? You've got to stay awake."
"My dad," he choked out, and Allison, who had ran in behind Scott, rushed off to untie the Sheriff. But the boy's eyes met – they both knew they wouldn't get there in time.
Scott knew he was crying. He could feel the burn in his eyes and the wetness on his face, but he didn't care. He grabbed his friend's hand in his own and started pulling out the pain, his veins black with blood and mistletoe.
He couldn't feel the pain, even as he reached the limit of what he could relieve from his friend. All he could think of was all the things he wanted to say, but the words caught like hooks in his throat, and could not pass his lips.
I'm sorry I dragged you into this. Just hold on. You saved them. Please don't leave me, brother. Thank you.
But, as it turned out, he never had to say it. Stiles pulled his hand away, knowing Scott would only injure himself, and his eyes said everything. He knew.
"It's okay, Scott. It's okay."
"No, it isn't. Please."
"My dad," Stiles started again, although his vision was swimming and he could feel the pain starting to subside, "tell him, tell him-"
But Stiles never got to finish the sentence; it died on his lips as his whiskey eyes glazed over and saw no more, head tilting gently to one side.
He was gone.