Rachel is actually very calm, all things considered.
Stiles admires that about her. Even though they're sitting back to back, duct tape binding their limbs, she hasn't broken free yet and killed anyone. He's actually very proud of her, although the breaking free thing would be handy. He would tell her as much, if it weren't for the tape covering his mouth.
They've been sitting unsupervised (and really, if they had managed to escape by this point Stiles would have been laughing about precocious villains, but they haven't so he doesn't think he has any room to speak) in the dank, dark room for about an hour before Rachel speaks.
"Hey, Stiles?"
He grunts, and would probably be annoyed that they hadn't bothered to tape her mouth shut as well, if not for the crude and frankly unimaginative reasons they had detailed to them for leaving her lips free.
"I'm going to do something, and you have to promise me you won't look."
For a split second, he considers using one of the many sarcastic noises he keeps in his arsenal for situations like these. There is something in her voice that stops him, though. It is not uncertainty or fear; instead, her voice is laced with resignation and the steel that assures him that she will do whatever she is planning no matter what, but it would be really freakin nice if he's just do as he's told for once. So he stays quiet, tipping his head back slightly so she can feel his nod. She nod back, and then he nearly loses his balance as his back rest is suddenly missing. He rights himself, and listens to the sound of Rachel scooting away from him, so they are no longer in contact. He quickly shuts his eyes so that curiosity will not get the better of him just yet.
Everything is silent for a long moment, aside from Rachel's steady breathing and the sound of his own blood rushing in his head.
Then the horrible crunching, sloshing, horror movie noises start.
His head snaps up, but he squeezes his eyes shut, refuses to open them until the beautiful blonde woman who is apparently going through some monstrous transformation not three feet from him says that he can.
He's lived with and around werewolves long enough that the idea and sight of a human shifting into something other doesn't bother him anymore. In fact, he'd come close to writing essays on it in college.
But whatever it is that is happening behind him is nothing like those changes.
He takes deep breaths to stop himself from losing his lunch into his taped-shut mouth. He tries to focus on anything other than the sickening noises of whatever is happening behind him. He tries to remember whether they had turned the stove off before being snatched and whether the lettuce they had left on the counter would have wilted by now. The sloshing and creaking finally give way to a quiet rustle and the goosebump-raising sound of sharp claws of some kind or another being dragged across a concrete floor.
There is a long moment of silence, although he can practically sense movement as Rachel stretches and takes her time in whatever form she's taken. He wonders how it is that this is the first time he's finding out about this.
He misses that eerie silence as soon as the horror movie noises start up again.
Her hands are rough on his as she tugs at his bindings, and her voice is sweet in his ear as she mutters, "You can open your eyes, stupid."
He doesn't want to, afraid to see what she has become. But he's sure he's seen worse. With a deep breath, his eyes open and he turns his head and is greeted by...a familiar blonde woman. If it weren't taped shut, his mouth would've been hanging open as he stares, somehow more surprised than he'd be if she were a twisted monster. She meets his eye with her own ice blue ones, and arches one perfect eyebrow.
He wants to ask her, but she hasn't removed the gag and his hands aren't unbound yet.
There is one final yank, and the duct tape is gone, taking a lot of the hair from his arms with it. He grunts, tears pricking at his eyeballs. Rachel rolls her eyes and mutters something about how he shouldn't be such a big baby. He glares, but quickly reaches up to work on pulling the duct tape from his face (praying he can do it without tearing his lips off) while his companion sets to work on his feet. He finally gets a good look at her, and it is still not what he is expecting to see.
She's flawless, and really he should be used to this by now. Not a single hair is out of place and the wounds that he was pretty certain should be there (because if there's one thing that their captors weren't, it's gentle) are definitely not there. And he knows this, because she's in nothing but her underclothes, a pair of tight shorts and sports bra and a piece of displaced duct tape hanging from one arm. He frowns, and wriggles enough to glance behind and sees her regular clothes lying abandoned on the ground.
When he turns again, she is looking up at him. There is none of the amusement or chagrin that he's become so used to. Her face is almost blank, and her eyes are too hard. He swallows around the lump in his throat and pushes to his feet, hand offered immediately to Rachel. She accepts it this time and pulls herself up. She strides around him, perfect hair swishing in time to each graceful, long legged step, and scoops up her clothes without pausing to don them. Stiles stares after her for a long second, newly freed jaw hanging uselessly open.
She's already disappeared into the gloom of the poorly lit room by the time he gathers himself and runs after her.
Later, their captors will return to find the room empty, besides the leftover bindings and a few brown feathers.