Ayyye! Look whose back. Back again. NEW UPDATE YAS YAS LET'S GOOOOOOO. I hope you all had a lovely new year. I can't believe the holiday season's over. Is time even real anymore wtf. Oh welllll... Welcome to 2016! This update's my Christmas gift to you all. ^.^

P.S Things are going to get all topsy turvey after this chapter, so enjoy the tranquility before the shit parade while it lasts, lol.

Oh and I don't have to tell you to review, right? JUST DO IT! - Shia LaBeouf, 2015

CREDITS: This chapter contains dialogue adapted from Teen Wolf, Season 3, Episode 11, "Alpha Pack".

When, my, time comes around,
lay me gently in the cold dark earth,
No grave can hold my body down,
I'll crawl home to her

Stiles

Two pairs of blurry eyes. Green and brown and blinking curiously in his face.

Everything was hazy, like trying to peer through fogged up glass. Where was he? Who were these people? Were they angels? They didn't seem like angels. There was a strange and relentless ringing in one of his ears… ears! He still had both of them. He ran a hand over his chest, he could also feel his legs, and if he was moving his hands, he probably had arms attached as well. He felt himself sigh in relief. He had all his limbs intact. He didn't seem to retain any injuries, considering there wasn't a sword sticking out of his chest. Someone said something muffled, he barely caught the words. His eyesight cleared. Definitely not angels.

It took him a couple of minutes to regain his bearings, his body felt lighter than it should, and he felt like there was dirt lodged in his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. Lydia Martin was crouched by his side; her slender fingers were knotted in his t-shirt – either out of nervousness or because she couldn't wait to punch him. Her eyes glimmered with liberation, as if someone had just told her that the war was over. Her bubblegum lips parted to speak, but then she closed them like she thought better of it. Scott stood over her, with a hand resting on her shoulder, his big, brown eyes were ecstatic.

"Do you think the shock's rendered him mute?" a disembodied male voice that was neither Lydia nor Scott muttered. "Cut the guy some slack. He's just returned from the depths of his own brain. I know I'd be in rehab if I took a tour of my brain," said another voice, this one, slightly higher pitched; female. "Yeah, I bet your brain's a terrifying place." The other voice responded. He could feel more eyes on him. They were expecting him to do something, say something.

"So am I like undead now?" he said. "Does that make me like a vampire or zombie? Because that would be cool."

There was a collective release of breaths he couldn't believe they were all holding - for him.

Despite going out every night, living behind a mask, a bright red lie who'd seemed to so effortless become the clutches of a limping city; Stiles had always felt like an insignificant, somebody nobody bothered to look twice at in a crowd of colorful faces; a ghost boy whose smiles were see-through, whose hollow eyes held secrets and dust.

And suddenly, he felt important. Or at least, wanted, needed, missed.

Existent.

Lydia smiled, let go of his t-shirt, and got to her feet. "He's himself again," she announced. Stiles managed a small smile of his own, because his insane plan had somehow worked, he wasn't dead, and his little joke had already lightened the clouds of darkness that had been hanging above their heads while he'd been out cold.

"Come on, man." Scott said, lending him a firm hand. "Get up!"

"This isn't heaven," he said, jokingly, as he pulled himself to his wobbly feet with the help of Scott, despite of the emptiness in the pit of his stomach. "There'd be harps in heaven, and underwear models feeding me grapes."

Scott chuckled and then yanked him into a hug. "Glad to have you back," he said. "And in one piece." Stiles nodded against him. "That makes two of us."

When he let go and turned around, he realized that they were standing in Derek's warehouse, and the man himself stood by his dining table, mouth curved in a scowl, brooding silently as natural to him. Stiles thought about how if his mom was still alive, and she met Derek, she would warn him that someday, his face would freeze on that unpleasant expression.

"If he's here, this must actually be hell," he snapped. Derek grunted. "I will bite your head off and –" Scott cut him off. "Be nice to him, we wouldn't have been able to bring you back without his help," he explained. "Sorry," he amended, quickly. "I'm just a little on edge, after being resurrected and all," he chuckled lamely. Derek simply rolled his eyes.

"You know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I liked him better when he was all murderous," he muttered.

Stiles was surprised to see Isaac Lehay and Malia Tate there. Well Isaac not so much. He'd always been weird and silent. The only way he made sense was if he was a supernatural creature, and to his credit, he did turn out to be one. His ex-girlfriend on the other hand…

"Malia?" she offered him a small smile and then sauntered over to embrace him. "You're a… You're a werewolf?" she nodded her head. "A were-coyote, actually,"

"Really? Were-coyotes? What's next? Were-alpacas? Were-monkeys?"

"Humor really is your defense mechanism huh," she commented. "The one and only," he agreed. "But seriously, were you a wolf when we…?"

Malia nodded with a smirk. "Why didn't you ever tell me? God! All those deer jokes. It's because you actually eat deer, don't you? And that was why you tried to eat my cousin's pet rabbit. Wow. It all makes sense now," Malia considered this, "Yeah, now that I think about it, you should've figured it out,"

"I still feel betrayed,"

"Welcome to the club," said Allison, sauntering over and wrapping him in a hug. "It's great to have you back. The other you was one sleazy comment away from getting his ass seriously kicked."

Stiles smiled, nodded and then proceeded to take a seat on Derek's lonesome little dining table. He needed a few minutes. He was quipping and pretending to be okay, but the truth was, he remembered every single thing that Void had done, he'd seen it all, felt it all. It was like watching a never-ending horror movie. He'd been helpless and sitting on his hands. He'd heard the words that came out of his own mouth, felt all the guilt and terror that Void was numb to. And it was overwhelming him. It was like a parade of storms in his stomach, a volatile rush of lightning, several broken hearts stomped over at once. The truth was, he felt galaxies away from who he used to be. The truth was, he was a mural of death and dying lights.

Void had injured people and hurt the ones closest to him. Stiles didn't feel very much like a hero anymore, not that he'd been one to begin with. He felt like a terrible person. He felt asleep. He felt… like a coward. He didn't think he even deserved to be Spiderman anymore, after all the tragedies he'd set off, one after the other like a string of bombs. The reality was that he was extremely disoriented. The reality was that he felt like a stranger in his own body. The reality was that he wanted to break into tears, bury himself six feet under the stars and peel his own face off all at the same time.

The reality was, that even though he'd won; he'd lost.

It was when he'd collapsed to the floor and began wheezing that he realized he'd been greeted by his old friend: the panic attack. Not now, not now, not now. I just convinced them I was fine and now they're going to incessantly worry. Stop, stop, stop, stop!

Damn it.

It was like an invisible fist was choking him to death, his chest stung like he'd just drank a whole bottle of rat poison, and his stomach lurched uncertainly. Stiles grabbed his own neck, hoping to somehow calm himself down, think of his happy place, but it wasn't working. Everything and everyone was reduced to a blur again. He heard a rumble of footsteps and then Scott was grabbing his shoulders firmly and striving to get him to meet his eyes.

"Stiles, look at me. Come on, look at me," he directed. He did as he was asked. "Let's count backwards from ten, okay? One, two," he said, to get a fumbling and ridiculous Stiles to repeat after him. He was held hostage by the panic, and the way his insides felt like they were going to soon become his outsides.

"One… T- Two…" it wasn't working.

They went all the way till seven, and still nothing.

Stiles was still shuddering, breathing heavily like a woman in labor would. His arteries were on fire. It was as if some supernatural force was aiming to snuff the life out of him. No matter how many times the panic attack struck, he was always caught by surprise by its arbitrary viciousness. It made him hate himself; it made him ashamed to be Stiles Stilinski. He was drowning, drowning, drowning… and there was no coming up for air. He had just escaped death, and now he would die like this.

Scott looked panicky and frantic himself, eyes swiveling for help. "Maybe we should call the ambulance, I… I can't do anything, I tried to take his pain away, but it doesn't work like that with panic attacks," he explained, to a silhouette on his left. The silhouette replied to him, but the words were drowned out by the blood raging in his ears.

And then he was gone and Stiles was alone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, silently praying for the suffering to stop. When he opened his eyes, it was like someone up there had answered his prayer.

Lydia now stood in Scott's place, enchanting eyes wide, lips parted in worry, cheeks flushed so very ruddy he wanted to reach out and stroke them.

Only he couldn't, because he was still breathless.

"Okay. Come on. Come on," she was freaking out a little too, but she looked prettier than him doing it. Stiles' heart was beginning to do back-flips inside his chest, and not in a good way.

"Just try and think about something else, anything else." Lydia said.

Stiles, between laborious breaths, "Like what?"

"Uh, happy things. Good things. Uh, friends, family."

It wasn't helping, but he appreciated her effort. Perhaps this panic attack was incurable. Perhaps his heart would give out, or his lungs would tire and he would die. Maybe it was okay, though, because if there was one person he last wanted to lay his eyes on before he went, it was Lydia Martin. And she was a beautiful sight to close his eyes to. Marvelous and endless, glistening like a constellation; or a whole night sky full of dancing constellations.

"Oh, God," he really wasn't going to make it.

The hyperventilating was only getting worse; he could see his own terror mirrored back in Lydia's eyes; her green, green eyes… rather prismatic, almost entrancing; like moonlight…

"Okay, uh, just… Try and slow your breathing."

Stiles gasped, "I can't. I can't."

He really couldn't.

Everything that had happened this past month swelled and raged and tormented him. Every macabre and damned thing, every wonderful and memorable thing too, both swirling in streams of memories floating farther and farther away from him… The weight of a thousand terrible things sat on his back, the elephants in his stomach partied, he was going to die, he was going to die…

"Shh, shh. Stiles, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Stiles."

What a tainted and unfulfilled life he'd lived, what a…

Stiles looked up at Lydia, and before he could even blink or linger on her lovely features, she pressed her mouth to his in an engulfing kiss that spread all the way from his toes through to his 's palms were soft and warm against his face, like they were carved out of honey and sugar. At first, he was taken by surprise, but then, he closed his eyes and eased into it. His lips dancing with hers elatedly; everytime they touched it felt like the whole world wanted this. Like perhaps they weaved starlight and made the mountains dance and they didn't even know it.

The kiss made him think, think the moon flirting with the stars, think every lullaby his mother used to sing to him when he was a kid, think gold skies and wishing fountains.

Lydia Martin's kisses were always painful in the sweetest possible way, like blood mixed in with cranberries, like hurtful heaven.

It had been so cold, for so long. Stiles had almost forgotten what warmth felt like. It felt like Lydia Martin, and summers, and kisses just like this one. He wanted to stay in that kiss forever, perhaps seal it in a button that he could press every single time it got dark and he needed some light. Lydia let go, gently.

He hadn't even realized he was breathing again.

Stiles just gawked at her. His vision had cleared, but Lydia was still the only thing he could see clearly. She was beaming, delighted by her success.

"Oh. How'd you do that?" he managed.

"I, uh… I read once that… Holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So when I kissed you… You held your breath."

"I did?"

Lydia broke into a small, neat smile. "Yeah. You did."

He was quiet for a couple of seconds, and then he took a deep breath and let it out. The fires had diminished, the air had cleared. The invisible beast had retreated. His lips still tingled with sparks. That was the acceptable kind of stinging. "Thanks. That was really smart."

Lydia frowned at him for a moment, in confusion rather than disdain, and then chuckled.

"Come on," she said. "We need you get you to the hospital."

"No," Stiles said. "I… I have to see my dad,"

"You will see your dad after we make sure your blood's not turned black and that all your vitals are stable," Lydia said, in a don't-even-bother-arguing-with-me-on-this tone.

Stiles nodded, she helped him to his feet.

"I didn't sign up for a porno you know," Isaac commented. Lydia flashed him a glare that could perhaps make a God change his mind. Stiles almost felt guilty about kissing Lydia in front of Malia, but to his surprised, she looked engrossed in Isaac, arguing with him over something with fervor twinkling in her stance.

He caught her eye and he offered her a small smile, like he knew. Her smile said that it was a secret.

He was happy she was moving on, she deserved a boy who didn't spend his days doting over Lydia Martin.

Derek Hale looked relieved. "Everybody do exit my humble abode," he said. "I hope I don't have to see you again for a while,"

"Oh, Hale. You know you love us," Stiles teased. He huffed, but he didn't make a rude comment. Progress.

He left the building with both anxiety and excitement bubbling in his chest, with Lydia, Allison and Scott by his side.

This felt like a new beginning, like unbidden friendship and a warning to the dark things in this world: whatever would come at them next, they would be ready for it; armed and equipped with weapons more efficient than any blade or pistol: each other.

xxxxx

"Everything looks stable, your heartbeat's slightly rapid, but understandable under the circumstances. Your blood sugar levels look a little low though, so stack up on those candy bars and you'll be just fine," Melissa McCall said, with that brown sugar smile of hers that gave him nostalgia. She had dark hair and tanned skin, her eyes were warm honey and coming home after a long trip to a foreign country. There was something in her stance, in her determination and fire to do good, to save people's lives; that reminded Stiles of Scott. It was definitely where Scott got his kindred instincts.

It felt strange to be back in a hospital room, it still held bad memories of the time Lydia had spent here. The nights he'd himself spent, in nervous anticipation, not knowing whether she would live or die. The stale food and the florescent lights. The putrid stench of medicines.

Stiles pushed the thought away, he had enough of horrifying thoughts left from the aftermath of Void's war to dwell on events that now felt like they had happened eons ago and make matters worse. "Thanks, Melissa," Stiles said, politely, sitting up to get rid of a kink in his neck. Scott's mother was a doctor, and she knew about her son being a werewolf. She didn't know that Stiles was Spiderman, but Stiles planned to tell her, eventually, now that his father also knew. Melissa had always been like the mom he'd never had, and she treated him like her own son, too.

Being around her made him feel the way he used to back when his own mother was around. And it brought back childhood memories, back when the world was simpler and lighter, of sandbox days and beyblade races. Sometimes he wished he could go back to being that oblivious kid who was blind to how dark and twisted everything could be.

Melissa nodded, and tousled his hair lightly. "You take care of yourself, alright? I don't want to be seeing you in this hospital room again for a long time coming," Scott, who was with them, scoffed silently, probably because he knew that with their circumstances, Stiles was bound to end up in the hospital every single day, and that it was a testament to his luck probably, that he didn't. Despite himself, he nodded humbly. "I will."

Lydia had gone home, she said it was urgent, and that her mom was sick; but Stiles knew that that was probably a lie. She needed time to clear her head after everything that had gone down. Despite that kiss that might've even saved his life, Stiles noticed the way she sucked in a breath everytime their elbows even brushed on the drive to her house, where they dropped her before they headed to the hospital. He noticed how she could never meet his eyes, how she wrapped her arms around herself protectively. Void had left a string of broken people in his wake: Scott, Allison, Lydia. He'd managed to leave a scar on everyone.

The largest scar of them all was Stiles himself.

He would have nightmares for days to come, about the thoughts he would never dare to imagine were his own, swirling around in the black pool that had become his infected head. He couldn't think or see or comprehend clearly. Everywhere he turned, he thought he might find Void, still standing there, breathing down his neck, smiling with those vacant vessels of eyes, like a lifeless corpse reanimated by puppet strings and stage lights. It was terrifying. He'd been terrifying. He couldn't even look at his own reflection in the mirror without cringing anymore.

If Stiles had been struggling with self-loathing before, he was drowning in it now.

Scott promised his mom he'd be home in time for dinner, and then steered Stiles out of the hospital. "I have to see my dad," he announced. "I know," Scott said. "You sure you're up for it right now though? You're looking a little disoriented."

"I'm fine,"

"You're not, buddy. If you were, I'd assume you have no soul, or that you're a sociopath; which I guess; is the same thing. What I mean is - it's normal for you to have some PTSD."

Post-traumatic stress disorder - did that apply in situations when the devil inhabited your body?

"I don't want to talk about it,"

"Why would I want to talk?"

Scott was more understanding than he let on. Stiles shot him a small smile, and it delivered what he meant to say: thanks for being a non-sucky friend, Scott's expression seemed to reply: don't get emotional on me, asswipe, but I appreciate the sentiment.

When they got to his father's NYPD base, Stiles' hands were shaking. They just stood there for a couple of moments, staring at his father's name embossed in gold lettering on his office door. What was he even supposed to say? Was there anything to say, even? He couldn't just barge in there like, Hey, dad. So I'm back from hell. Sorry I'm late, but I've never been super punctual anyway. How's life going? Did you join that dating website I suggested?

"Stiles," Scott said. "He'll just be happy to see you alive."

He was right, of course, but his father was going to see him, for the first time, as not just Stiles Stilinski, his son, but as Stiles Stilinski - Spiderman. He wasn't sure what to expect anymore, but he knew that his father deserved to know after all, and that he didn't deserve to suffer longer than he already had. It was what kept Stiles motivated to keep himself alive, because John Stilinski already lost his wife, but if he was to lose his only son, he would not be able to go on living. Stiles knew this for a fact. Maybe it was true to the both of them ever since his mom had died, they began to lean on each other; becoming one another's lifelines.

If something were to happen to either of them, the other wouldn't be able to bear it. Stiles was just as overprotective and paranoid when it came to his father as his father was when it came to him. It seemed only appropriate.

Stiles fumbled with the knob, and stepped into his office.

John Stilinski was standing with his back facing his son, he probably hadn't heard him come in since he was too busy digging through several yanked open cupboards, leaking files, files and more files. His father's cluttered work place always looked the same; an ocean of overflowing stuff, staplers, markers and pin boards. Stiles always thought that with all the pressure on his father; the interiors of his office were a reflection of what the inside of the man's head looked like. "Key, key. Where did I leave it?" he was muttering, under his breath.

"You keep your car keys in the last drawer on the left, you've even marked it in bright neon and you still manage to forget every time," Stiles reminded, shoving his hands into his pockets and shifting his body weight rather awkwardly. "Oh. Right, right..." his voice trailed off, carefully, John turned around, and then he was staring at his son, eyes wide and disbelieving, lips parted in shock; his entire face went chalky white. "Hey, dad," he mustered a smile.

Scott slid in behind him and shot Mr. Stilinski a curt nod that basically indicated that he was himself again. For a couple of tense moments, his father just stood there, frozen in place, barely breathing, unblinking; caught completely off-guard. Stiles had to look away, because meeting people's eyes was beginning to feel tiresome. Especially when everyone looked at him like they were looking at him from six feet above ground. Especially when it felt like he'd been buried alive, ever since he'd escaped Void, as if he was stuck in a casket, and passer bys, friends and family were all saying their last goodbyes.

Stiles' stomach dropped, he suddenly felt like there was a hole in his chest. Maybe there was.

And then, to his absolute surprise, Mr. Stilinski rushed over and wrapped him in a bear hug. It took Stiles a second or two to remind himself of how hugging worked, before he wrapped his arms around his dad in response. Mr. Stilinski patted him on the back once, twice. Stiles breathed in the scent he was so familiar with: laundry detergent and cologne; to make it tangible, to make it real. He was alive. He had crawled out of his own grave, and this was proof that there was still hope. "My son," he said. "I... I can't believe it."

"I know you must be pissed, I didn't mean to -"

"I know, kiddo. I know."

"You're not mad?"

"Frankly, dunno yet. I'll make my decision later. Right now, I just want to make sure this is real."

"It's real, Pops."

When he let go, he was beaming at him; looking at him like he was seeing him - really seeing him, for the first time. "So, Spiderman. When did that happen?"

"It's a long story,"

"And I want to hear every gruesome detail. You did go off to battle the Green Goblin in the middle of the night countless times, most teenagers sneak out to go to concerts and parties, and of course my son goes about saving the world from monsters,"

"It's not really like that," Stiles said, feeling his ears turn pink. "I've never been more proud of you," Mr. Stilinski said, leaving him floored. "Really?"

"Spiderman has changed the world, what we believe, what our limits are. You're a revolutionary. My son's a revolutionary!"

"Well then," he joked. "Keep the flattery coming and things should be just alright,"

"Well, I'm also equally mad,"

"I thought you were deciding,"

"Yeah, I'm decided. But we can figure out your punishment later."

"I'll do all my laundry and I'll keep my room clean and I'll arrange all of your files in alphabetical order and -"

"And I'll take you to Disneyland and we can have breakfast foods for dinner and we can go grab ice cream every night - I know I've been hard on you, and everything has been overwhelming what with superpowered freaks running loose, but you're alive and doing good, and that's all that matters." Mr. Stilinski said.

Stiles felt something warm spread through the hole in his chest, like sunlight, like home, like the prospect of something broken being glued back together again.

xxxxx

"I'm terrified," Stiles admitted, as Scott drove him back home that evening.

Scott was quiet, not because he didn't have a response, but because he knew Stiles wasn't finished. "I remember everything I did," he went on. "I hurt so many people. I... I tortured and... and Spiderman's a criminal now, wanted by the FBI; dead or alive. This was not what he was supposed to symbolize. Void turned my only weapon against me. Now he symbolizes darkness and ruination and plague. Spiderman was supposed to be a beacon of light, he was supposed to be the good guy," Stiles was ranting now, but he couldn't help himself.

"Everyone's got a good side and a bad side. The world isn't divided in blacks and whites. So Spiderman made a mistake, that doesn't mean he shouldn't deserve redemption. Get back out there, in your red cape, and remind this city what he stands for - what you stand for,"

"If they don't shoot me on sight," Stiles muttered grumpily.

"I was a monster, Scott. I injured you, Allison. And Lydia... I wouldn't blame her if she never looked at me again."

"It wasn't you,"

"I should've fought harder."

"You did your best. Now stop with the superman complex and the self-pity. You're not a magician. And you may have been bitten by a radioactive insect -"

"Arachnid," Stiles corrected.

"Whatever, Geeknator 3000, but you're still human."

Stiles stared out the window, at the street lights forming whimsical patterns on the winding roads in the parting light of the dimming sun, he stared at all these people whizzing past him, wearing their own masks whilst they fought their inner demons, smiling and laughing and cursing and stomping. He stared at the trees lining the sidewalks, evergreen and brooding silently. He wondered what they would have to say about the world if they could speak. He stared at his own reflection, and something ghostly behind his own eyes made his heart collapse into his stomach. "We still have Stern to worry about," Scott said. "You must have extra dirt on him after playing his pet for so long, so that's good. Right?"

Stiles just nodded. "The city's lost faith,"

"So you lose faith too. Are you really just going to give up? Because there are only two kinds of people who give up: losers and cowards, and if I'm friends with you, I know for a fact that you're neither of the two, so get your shit together and shake it off."

It was easier said than done. Scott was right of course, he was one hundred percent right, but he also hadn't suffered like that. He hadn't watched his own hands, his own mouth, work against his will. He hadn't felt powerless against his own body. He hadn't experienced first-hand, what Void was capable of doing; what he wanted to do.

He wasn't disgusted by himself, and he didn't even have a reason to be. He didn't know what it was like, to feel like you'd been betrayed by yourself.

Stiles felt like scum, and it was chewing him up from the inside.

His father had forgiven him, but he didn't even want to think of the things he must have put him through. John Stilinski had looked more exasperated than ever, there were shadows swimming under his eyes, and Stiles was sure he'd downed half of the city's whiskey supply in worry over him. Because of him. Lydia Martin was probably locked up in her room, weeping her sanity away like she'd done when she thought he was dead. Because of him.

"After everything I put you through, aren't you at least a little mad?" Stiles questioned, earnestly.

Scott kept staring straight ahead at the road, avoiding his gaze before he answered. "Of course I am. I would love to declare bloody murder on your pasty ass right now, but I have myself under control because I know that wouldn't be that right thing to do, it would be the stupid thing to do. And I don't do stupid." Scott explained.

"Gee, thanks," Stiles said, dryly.

"You're my best friend, you dumbass. And I know my best friend. The blood he shed is not on your hands."

"He was me, Scott. That's the thing. I wasn't possessed or being controlled by one of Stern's minions. What he did to me... It just brought out the worst parts of myself. All the terrible things he did are all terrible things that I'm capable of,"

"Even Jesus probably dealt drugs as a guilty pleasure. What I'm trying to say is, if it were me and Stern had done that to me, I would have been a monster, too. What matters is that you feel the guilt, you acknowledge it, and in doing so you remind yourself that you're still a person, and then you kick the guilt's ass."

For once, Scott's inapt analogies actually made him feel a teensy bit better.

They pulled into his driveway and Scott nudged him lightly, his smirk infectious. "You're going to be okay, Mary Poppins, now get out of my car and go take a nap. You look like literal death."

xxxxx

The darkness was pouring into every corner.

It was in his ears, it was in his blood, it was in his heart.

Blackness; the color of oblivion, the color of eternal night.

Void was laughing. Eyes red lights flashing. A highway that led to nowhere.

Fear clasped his heart, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing.

He was paralyzed, he couldn't move a limb. It was like half of his body was encased in ice.

When he woke up, he was sweating, panting, being choked to death. "What the hell is happening to me?" he gasped to himself. A voice in his head that still sounded like his evil twin responded with a vicious, gut-churning snicker. "You're dying, Stiilless," the slurring of a snake, the shot fired, a screaming sky.

Everything was void.