Nothing had been clear for Stiles from the moment he saw deep black orbs look back at him from a napkin dispenser's reflection; it had all been a blur. In fact, most of it he didn't truly understand. Fading away from one place to appear at another, wondrous eyes shining upon new and strange surroundings while his whole body moved unwillingly and controlled by something that talked for him; it was as if his body belonged to it, and he was only the unwanted voice of the mind of a diagnosed schizophrenic. Was that what it felt like to have multiple personalities? To feel trapped inside his mind and hear someone or something else speak through his lips in a different voice? Or move when he didn't will his body to?
It scared him, it stole any and every breath of a memory he could think of; borrowing them for its own purposes as Stiles thought of what to do, of what to say or how to force upon his release regardless of the horrible disability for him to even attempt trying to, for whenever he felt he was strong enough it proved him wrong. It whispered or shouted or tortured him by trapping him inside a vivid image created from figments of his memories; instances where the moment had been a good one being twisted by its horrid will to show upon a painful flicker of a change that more times than not ended on the death of someone the boy cared deeply about. Like Lydia, like Scott, like his own father, even like the rest of the pack; it reminded him repeatedly of what it wanted, of the revenge it searched and expected to receive relief upon while watching those very people he loved nearly lose their mind by Stiles' unwilling absence.
And the worst part for Stiles to witness was that it was enjoying every single second.
It had been funny for it, to watch them all, to see the way they scurried from one house to the next in search of the boy, even the woods. Each of his friends more worried as the days passed; some not sleeping, others considering drinking, others blaming themselves if they'd found his body dumped somewhere with no life already. Every instance kept it entertained, watching, listening; and even better, keeping the trapped boy inside his mind screaming, begging, and crying. All thought out to torture the very same boy. "Stiles..." The name left his lips in that rough tone that definitely wasn't him; but instead of continuing the tearing of his mental walls, both Stiles and the intruder were broken off by a whimper of pain echoing from steps away, making his eyes focus at its will on the girl tied to a chair in the middle of the warehouse it had decided to turn into its playground.
It'd been at least three days since it had stolen Stiles' body to use as its own, leaving Scott wondering where his friend had gone off to, and it had taken the intruder all that time to choose its next step; sure, it had spent most of the time enjoying watching all those people bump heads and run around in search of the boy like chickens without a head, but it had also spent it flipping through each page of Stiles' memory to see which card he could play that could bring him the most pain. The main card, of course, was the one he planned to play at the end: the death of every single person he loved brought forth by his own hands at the intruder's will. It was brilliant for it, but the dark eyed intruder needed more; and more importantly, it needed the eyes of everyone smart on the town of Beacon Hills to be looking elsewhere instead of at the boy it possessed, to have more fun, in a way; to make the moment of their realisation upon 'Stiles'' fault seem that much sweeter.
One of the things it learnt from Stiles' mind, among everything, was the fact that he had seen his fair share of tragedy; all his friends had, really, but the boy more than most. Maybe it wasn't much of the amount, but the emotional connection he had to two of them. One, his mother, dead due to some horrible illness; something that the intruder could in no way mirror without having to possess the boy for years, which it was not at all interested in doing, of course. But the second, a death, a murder caused by one Jennifer Blake – or in more racist words: a darach –, was that of the one other childhood friend Stiles ever had; a girl called Heather. Stiles had had to see her dead body in the morgue after two days of hoping she was alive; after, in fact, almost losing his virginity to her, something that, unimportantly enough, he had lost to his current girlfriend. But the point was that the intruder could very easily mirror Heather's death; it would hurt the boy to know and see what his friend had gone through moments before she died, it would hurt him even more to feel it with his own hands; but it would also give the town something else to focus on while the intruder had its fun. Thus, it was shooting two birds with one stone.
It was what had brought them both to such a moment in the empty warehouse. A girl as blonde, tiny and kind eyed as Heather had been; actually the crying girl could very well have been her twin; was tied from hands and feet to an old wooden chair left behind by the people who had abandoned said building. Her cheeks were stained with tears, voice whimpering with fear. "Please, let me go." She whispered and cried once every few seconds, like a chant that would make her believe she would be set free just by willing it so. Dazed, probably, by the hit to the head it had caused with a big enough rock, enough to knock her out but not kill her, not yet. The intruder wanted Stiles to feel the girl's blood on his hands while it mirrored his friend's death to the T; three steps that would copy Jennifer Blake's so called sacrifices. First came the head injury, then came the strangulation, and then the final blow to end the art came in the form of a knife to the throat.
And it was taking its time with the last two steps because it seemed, as things progressed, that the act was as much a torture for the girl in the chair as it was for the boy trapped in his own mind; a feat that was purely confirmed when the intruder willed Stiles' hands to reach for the metallic string that would start 'round two' of the girl's torture and got the head splitting screams to echo from the little cage where the boy rested trapped. Screams that, if it were human, would most likely have given it a headache, instead amused it and made a soft broken chuckle escaped in its rough voice through Stiles' lips and echoed in the nearly empty warehouse while he stepped behind the whimpering girl and took one end of the string with each hand. "That's right, Stiles." It taunted. "Scream; no one can hear you, anyway." In a movement that lasted less than a blink, his hands wrapped the string around the girl's throat by its command, and pulled.
The girl sat straight, attempting to get away from his hold, suddenly more aware of everything as fear pumped adrenaline through her veins, no longer dazed by the bleeding wound upon her brow, gasping for breath, chocking gurgles echoing on the walls as she struggled to breathe while her lungs begged and burnt with lack of air. More tears fell down her cheeks, and a thin line of red crimson trailed down from the place where the string made contact with her throat; a reaction to the friction she'd caused by moving so much, making the string burn into her flesh. The smile remained unwillingly on Stiles' lips and never left, even when the movements stilled and the sounds stopped; it removed the string, wishing upon the survival of the girl with the means of copying the steps it had listed upon its borrowed mind. Willing upon her death until the last step of its plan and it could make the blood from the wound he would gift her with bleed on the boy's pale fingers.
The next part was the tricky one, though. Waiting; how long did it have to wait? How long did it have to listen to Stiles' screaming and pleading before he gave up and shut up? The answer to the second question remained a mystery, but the answer to the first... It was five hours later that the girl started showing any sign of being alive; she was trembling because of a cold the intruder didn't even feel regardless of how little clothing Stiles wore; though the hairs in his arms had raised, it had a feeling it had nothing to do with the weather. The metallic string it had been holding before the girl fell unconscious lay forgotten somewhere by the girl's feet, replaced in Stiles' hands by a sparkly metal knife; It leaned against a wall, flicking the dirt and dried blood from Stiles' nails with the sharp end of the blade, listening to the boy plead and ask that it stopped what it was doing, what it was making him do. In fact, the boy was so loud that he almost made the intruder miss the girl stirring shortly on the chair. "Ah, look, Stiles." It said. "Our guest is awake again." It pushed its borrowed body away from the wall in order to make its way toward the barely alive girl; twirling the knife on Stiles' hand for a moment until it stood only three steps away from the girl. "Hello."
"Please." The sound had been so quiet and broken that it had almost missed it; the girl's last plea for mercy. "Please." She said again.
It made it raise Stiles' brow in partly fake awe. "Well, colour me impressed." It spoke slowly, listening to its words in the boy's voice while taking one more step closer to her and kneeling before her until it could look into her barely open bloodshot eyes, her head almost hanging weakly to one side.
The hand with the knife lifted, making its sharp end rest under the girl's chin before it willed Stiles to lift it; a lone bead of crimson trailed down from the place the knife made contact, and once again, the girl whispered in a barely audible broken tone. "Please, stop." Her green bloodshot eyes moistened with fresh beads of water, tears wishing to fall.
All it gained was a scoffed breath to leave through smiling lips while it allowed the mask of Stiles' human amber orbs to disappear into the endless black that were its own. "You hear that, Stiles?" It whispered, slowly enjoying the manner with which the skin around the girl's intensely green orbs wrinkled and widened with fear regardless of how weak they actually shone. "She wants you to stop." It tilted his head, and only after another nearly silent chuckle left in its tone did it allow the hand with the knife fall at Stiles' side so it could watch the girl's head bob weakly into its prior hanging position. "Yeah..." Its borrowed legs lifted the boy in order to look down at the girl's weak frame, its dark hues observing her as she attempted to command her frail body to move. "I guess you're right, Stiles." It horribly replied upon one mental command and plead that continued echoing like a migraine inside Stiles' head. "We should stop." And of course it felt the minute relief echo inside its borrowed head, and it only brought upon a smirk upon the intruder's possessed lips. It had to laugh; an evil echo that shook the boy's whole body for a couple of seconds that stopped almost as suddenly as it had started. "Fun's over." It stated, and with no more words, it willed Stiles to move swiftly to stand behind the girl, take a first full of her blonde locks and lean her head back – thus, exposing the flesh of her neck enough for the hand with the knife to move slowly in a horizontal motion against her skin, which painted crimson art upon the hand that opened the epic wound on her pale throat.
Stiles screamed, because, just as it had planned, his full senses were aware at that moment; he could hear the echoing gurgles coming from the dying girl, he could see the way her green eyes looked up into his, void of any sense as the life slowly drained from her; he could feel the warm crimson liquid against his hand after it had taken its time forcing his hand to open the wound, as if he had been the one commanding his own body instead of the intruder.
Stiles had felt it all, and he was screaming in his head; crying so much that a slow tear actually slipped against his cheek and surprised it enough to suddenly start laughing. It had been when the intruder started realising something, something that made it smile even wider as the girl took her last breath: Stiles was strong, and because of it, every single one of its plans would make it harder to achieve. It meant a challenge; and it meant, above all, that in its opinion... the fun had just begun.
To Be Continued.