Chapter 22 – The Storm (Part 1)
The explosion knocked Isaac off his feet.
A wall of air sent him careering forward and he would have slammed face-first into the ground if he hadn't managed to throw his hands up with milliseconds to spare. The bitumen ripped into his skin, stinging his palms, and he wrenched his head backward just in time to stop it smashing against the ground. The muscles in his neck screamed in protest and the world swam dizzyingly around him, and he couldn't think past the one question ringing in his mind.
What the fuck was that?
The air was hazy with swirling dust, so Isaac scrubbed his stinging eyes with his sleeve as he steadied himself. He waited a beat then pushed to his feet, blinking uncomprehendingly at his surroundings.
Twisted chunks of brick and metal dotted the carpark, interspersed with the remainder of Satomi's people. Almost all of them lay prone on the ground, some groaning in pain while others were terrifyingly still. Few were uninjured, and Isaac caught a glimpse of an ankle twisted nauseatingly backward and a long gash that exposed jagged edges of bone before tearing his eyes away.
Breathing rapidly through his nose, he squinted at a thick plume of smoke rising far in the distance. A second explosion? he wondered, faintly. It was too far away to have caused the massive blast still ringing in his ears, and the wrong direction besides.
It's too far away to worry about right now, Lahey. Get it together. Wetting his lips, Isaac reluctantly dragged his attention back to his immediate surroundings – and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.
The elderly man lay half on his side, blue eyes open and glassy. A thick layer of dark blood pooled beneath his body, and his wrinkled hands loosely encircled a metal pole protruding from his abdomen. His lips were parted in a saggy 'o', and his neck was extended at an impossible angle.
His chest wasn't moving at all.
Isaac choked and stumbled backward, shoving down a wave of panic as he tried to avoid the creeping edge of the bloody pool. I'm so sorry. God, I'm so sorry.
Gasping, he twisted away from the body and found himself staring instead at the remnants of the school. It was almost unrecognisable: where once was a brick-walled building, tall and proud and topped by a long, tiled roof, stood a smoking pile of rubble. The red-brick wall was barely visible through the dust and it ended at waist-height, giving way to a gigantic mount of twisted pipes, broken brick and shattered glass. Flames crackled deep in the wreckage, and the whole structure creaked threateningly as it struggled to stand in place.
Isaac blinked. His chest heaved, a wave of fury and heartbreak finally overcoming his terror, and he bunched his hands into fists as the wolf surged forward. Eyes burning orange, his muscles coiled with anger and a low growl emanated from his throat. He could barely hear his inner voice screaming beneath the shift: Boyd, please, no! Please tell me you weren't in there. And – oh god. The kids.
His senses heightened by the shift, he was suddenly aware of everything. The gasps and whimpers of the injured. The wails of the bereaved. The heat of the flames, the soft brush of dust against his skin.
His heart pounding forcefully against his ribs. His throat rasping painfully as his growls grew louder.
And then an anguished bellow cut across the carpark and jerked Isaac out of his head. Twisting back to the scene, he noticed that more people had struggled to their feet, jaws set in faces that were pale beneath dust and streaks of blood. It was the tattooed man who had cried out, cheeks burning a deep, angry red as he turned to glare at the older man. "You monster," he snarled. Raw and furious, his voice easily silenced the crowd's whimpers as it rang through the air. His fingers trembled as they balled into his fists, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. "There's kids in there. There's kids in there!"
With an anguished cry, he launched himself toward Peter in a jerky, powerful leap. Claws burst from his fingers and his mouth split open to reveal several rows of fangs and a too-long tongue, and his forehead twisted to form hard ridges above his eyes.
And then he screamed, as a volley of cracks cut through the air and a dozen bullets slammed into his chest.
Isaac couldn't move. All he could do was watch, limbs frozen in horror, as the man dropped to the ground and smashed his head against the bitumen. The blow knocked him unconscious and he immediately stilled, limbs sprawled across the pavement like a broken doll, blood leaking from far too many holes in his torso.
His scream trailed off into a heavy silence. Even the mutters of the injured had ceased, their pain forgotten as they watched him fall into unnatural stillness, his breathing wet and uneven. The air crackled uncomfortably as tension stretched the moment to infinity, and the whole world held its breath to see which way the top would fall.
Peter scrunched his nose and wiped a splatter of blood on his trousers. "Pathetic," he muttered.
And, just like that, the top fell.
Howls of rage erupted from every direction. It took a moment before Isaac realised he was howling too, and he wrenched the wolf out of the driver's seat with an effort, clenching his claws into his palms as he desperately fought for control. He couldn't lose his head now.
A press of bodies surged forward as one. Startled, Isaac glanced around him to see the injured struggling to their feet, their wounds forgotten in the wake of their rage, while the healthy rushed forward in a ferocious, writhing mass. Eyes glowed blue and green and gold, lips peeled back to reveal fangs and tongues and gaping maws that defied definition. And every face was flooded with single-minded fury.
Someone shoved into Isaac and knocked him forward. "Shit," he muttered, twisting to the side as he tried to plant his feet, but before he could there was a second shove, and then a third, and then he was in the thick of it. His height gave no advantage over the mass of bodies that pressed him from all sides, hot with rage and anguish and a thirst of revenge, and they carried him forward despite his best efforts to stay put.
Suddenly, he spotted a glint of sunlight on metal and wrenched his arm away from the nearest person with a curse. A loud crack sounded just as he dropped to the ground and he glanced up in time to see a bullet plough into a red-haired woman's arm. It did nothing to slow her down: screaming in fury, she leaped clear over Isaac's head to attack the shooter.
Isaac had no time to think about it any longer. Feet pounded the earth all around him, sending his heart racing with fear as he desperately tried to wriggle out of the way. Get shot if I stand up, get trampled if I stay here, he realised frantically. Fuck. I need to get out.
A boot landed entirely too close to his ear and Isaac jerked to his knees. Somehow, he'd ended up mere yards from the convoy. The trucks were all running, he realised, and the nearest one grumbled as it began to reverse away from the school.
It barely made it two feet. A woman – the gentle one, with the kind eyes and the cool hands – leaped onto the bonnet and punched her bare fist right through the metal hood. She tossed a chunk of engine to the side, dodged to avoid a flying bullet, then launched herself bodily through the windscreen to yank the gun from her assailant's hand.
The other vehicles were faring no better. Gunshots blasted through the air as werecreatures swarmed the convoy, but wherever one person fell two more took their place. Engines sputtered to silence and metal screamed in protest, and one by the one the drivers leaped from their useless trucks to join in the fight.
"Shit," Isaac muttered, scrambling to his feet. The fight spreading out as the number of people on the ground swelled, and within minutes he would be surrounded by a mindless, violent bloodbath.
Time to go.
But first, he needed to find the girls.
They'd been somewhere to his right before everything went to shit. The mob was obscuring his view, but Isaac angled in that direction and forced his way through the thrashing bodies. Or, tried to: within seconds, he found himself lurching backward to avoid a fist sailing directly at his head.
Oh, that does it.
His paper-thin hold on the wolf finally broke. Anger flooded his limbs as he hurled himself forward, the shift transforming his face. His shoulder smashed into the man's waist and slammed both of them to the ground with Isaac on top. A fist swung toward his face and he snarled as he caught it, squeezing until he heard the bones crack. Drawing back his other arm, he smashed his knuckles as hard as he could into the other man's cheek.
There was a sickening crunch of breaking bone and the man's cheek crumpled inward. The wolf grunted in satisfaction and drew back once more, but something heavy crashed into his side and sent him flying.
He landed ungracefully on his side, ribs cracking and pain bursting in his skull as it bounced against the bitumen. The wolf wavered – only for a second, but long enough for Isaac to seize control of his suddenly-shaky limbs. Gasping, every breath a new agony, he rolled to the side and swallowed a wave of nausea as the world rocked disturbingly beneath him. Head injury, he realised with a jolt of fear. Fuck.
His vision was oddly blurred, so he didn't see the boot swinging directly at his face until it was far too late. He couldn't move out of the way, couldn't stand up…scrunching his eyes shut, Isaac held his breath and braced for impact.
The blow never came.
A roar thundered in Isaac's ears, sending a fresh bout of pain through his skull. Squinting, he opened his eyes just enough to see someone land directly in front of him and grab his assailant, tossing her fifteen feet through the air. She collided with a pair of brawling women and all three fell to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs.
Isaac's rescuer heaved a deep breath, then turned toward him and extended a hand. "Come on," Derek ordered. "You need to get up."
Sagging in relief, Isaac grasped the hand as much out of habit as anything else, then instantly regretted it when Derek pulled him roughly to his feet.
"Woah," Derek muttered, grabbing Isaac's shoulder as he wobbled unsteadily, fighting back a wave of nausea. "Are you hurt?"
"Bumped my head." Isaac bit out the words. It took a moment of breathing through the vertigo and stiffening his legs, but when he was sure he wasn't going to fall he shrugged off Derek's hand and turned his focus to more important matters. "Have you seen the girls? Or Boyd?"
For a moment, Derek's face seemed to pale around his blazing eyes. But maybe it was just Isaac's imagination, for a moment later the alpha's expression was as stony as ever and his jaw clenched with nothing but pure determination. "Where were they last?"
Isaac pointed in the direction where they'd been standing, then dragged Derek to the ground as the distinctive crack of gunfire sounded nearby. "Shit!" he yelped, clapping a hand to his shoulder as a fiery stab of pain lanced through his flesh.
Derek's hand tightened on his arm. "Were you hit? Where?"
"Just a graze," Isaac grunted. He thought that's all it was, anyway: his hand was feeling disconcertingly numb, but he found that could move it – sort of – so there was no point stressing over it now.
The woman who had tried to rearrange his face wasn't so lucky. She screamed, drawing Isaac's gaze just in time to see bullets rip holes in her abdomen, bursting out the other side with small sprays of blood.
Maybe it's not the wound after all. Distantly, Isaac realised that all of his limbs were starting to feel numb, but it was hard to think through his buzzing head. When he spoke, his voice sounded so detached that he wondered if it was coming from somewhere else. "She was on their side," he murmured tonelessly. "They're killing their own people."
From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Derek watching him in alarm, but whatever concern the alpha had didn't prevent him from poking Isaac painfully in the ribs. "Pull yourself together," he ordered gruffly. "We don't have time for this."
Ordinarily, his tone would have set Isaac's teeth on edge, but for some reason, right now, he didn't mind. Actually, it might have helped. A simple order gave him something to focus on, and Derek made sense. He took a deep breath, and the numbness receded a little. Another, and the buzzing began to quiet.
"That's better," Derek grunted, and Isaac must have hit his head hard since the werewolf actually sounded relieved. Pushing to a crouch, the larger man peered in the direction that Isaac had indicated, then glanced at the beta with a crimson gaze. "Now, stay low and move."
For once, Isaac needed no further encouragement. Mimicking Derek's crouch, he darted forward at a low run, keeping a sharp eye on the path ahead. They barely made it five metres before clashing with a wendigo, but between the two of them it was over quickly, and from there they did their best to dodge around the groups of fighting creatures. Even then, they had to stop several times to fend off attacks from werecreatures intent on drawing blood.
"Isaac! Derek!"
Lydia's shrill voice pulled Isaac out of his zone. Whirling, he frantically searched the crowd for a glimpse of strawberry-blonde hair, and – there.
Lydia was waving one hand frantically in the air, trying to catch their attention. Her other hand brandished a metal pole like a cudgel, and blood streaked down her dusty face from an inch-long cut in her hairline. At her back stood Allison, a knife in one hand and a pole in the other. The two of them were surrounding a knot of screaming, bloodthirsty werewolves.
Isaac's heart stopped. How are they still standing?
His question was answered almost immediately, and if he wasn't so numb his jaw would have dropped in shock. Scott was a blur of motion amongst the attackers, ridged brow furrowed in concentration and eyes burnished gold as he slashed and kicked at anyone who came close. In the seconds that it took for Isaac to assess the situation, not a single blow got past him.
But he wouldn't be able to hold out forever. Even with Jackson's help – Isaac finally noticed the other boy standing a foot in front of Allison, his movements slower than Scott's and hampered by a makeshift splint – the other werewolves would overwhelm them in minutes.
He was moving before the thought had even finished. His mouth opened in a yell – an anguished howl, a battle cry or an odd mixture of the two, even he wasn't sure – and he dug his claws into the nearest man's leg, catching a tendon and ripping it out of the bone before he could think twice. Then he spun, slashing deep grooves across the surprised face of the werewolf to his left before flipping over his head to send a third man flying with a well-placed kick. To his right, Derek's methodically tore his way through the crowd, face covered in a fresh spray of someone else's blood, while in front of him Scott's movements somehow picked up even more speed, every blow hitting home with terrifying accuracy.
And then it was over. Isaac froze, muscles taut and arm wound to defend against an attack that never came. Head spinning, his injuries crashing back full-force as the adrenaline fled his system, he stared in confusion at the pile of bodies on the ground. Some groaned in pain and others were terrifyingly still, yet none were trying to rise. Hesitantly, he raised his eyes and nearly collapsed in relief: Derek and Scott, Allison and Lydia and Jackson: they were all covered in fresh bruises and they all looked incredibly shell-shocked but, somehow, they were still standing.
Allison darted out from behind Scott and threw her arms around Isaac's neck, her hands still clutched tight around her weapons. "Oh, thank god," she breathed. "You're okay."
She released him before Isaac could even hug her back and eyed the chaos with a wide-eyed stare. "We need to get out of here," she urged.
Isaac agreed wholeheartedly. Derek, on the other hand, shook his head. "You go. Head for the Hale house, I'll meet you there."
Squinting in confusion, Isaac opened his mouth to protest. Then, realisation struck and triggered a spike of rage that shattered his numbness.
"You're a selfish asshole, you know that?" he snarled, stepping forward to shove Derek roughly in the chest. The alpha's mouth tightened, but he didn't reply, which for some reason only heightened Isaac's irritation. "You're abandoning us to go after Peter, aren't you?" he spat, bitterly. "I should have known not to trust you."
Understanding flashed through Derek's crimson eyes. Surprisingly, he seemed more sad than angry when he replied, "I don't want to leave you alone, but I need to find Boyd and the kids."
And - oh. Flushing, Isaac bit off his snarky reply and ducked his head to avoid Allison's accusing scare.
Luckily, Lydia came to his rescue. "The kids are halfway to the Preserve by now," she informed Derek, thankfully taking his attention away from Isaac. "But I don't know where Boyd is."
"Alright," Derek acknowledged, nothing but determination in his voice. "You guys should go. Now."
Scott frowned and stepped up to Derek's side. "I'm coming with you," he announced. Swinging his gaze to Isaac, he continued before the alpha could protest. "Jackson's hurt and Allison's out of weapons. I need you to get them to the Preserve, okay?"
No, it wasn't okay. Isaac's mouth opened, then shut again as he tried and failed to come up with a better option.
There wasn't one.
"Be safe," he finally said. Scott returned the sentiment then disappeared with Derek into the fray.
Be safe. Or, at least, keep the others safe. They were relying on him, now.
Exhaling carefully through his teeth, he ignored the other three for a moment and instead scanned the area behind them, planning their escape route in his mind. They were near the edge of the fighting now, and there were only a few brawling groups between here and there – if they were careful, they might be able to avoid almost all of them.
"Alright," he started, trying to inject some confidence into his voice. Jackson was cradling his injured arm to his chest, his blue eyes glittering with adrenaline, while Allison and Lydia gripped their respective weapons with an unexpected readiness. "Let's do this."
The van rocked to one side, then landed back on all fours.
Stiles gripped his seat with sweaty hands and shot a desperate glance at his captors. "Um, should someone maybe check on that?" he asked, shakily. "I don't think that's supposed to happen."
Predictably, the woman completely ignored him. Rhian, he thought her name was, although she had refused to acknowledge his question so he was basing that assumption on a scrap of overhead conversation. The bearded man – Thomas, which Stiles knew because he actually introduced himself, like a normal human being - shot him an irritated glance but knocked briskly on the wall that separated them from the cab. "Hey!" he barked. "What's going on out there?"
"Just stay put!" Even muffled, Kali's voice was instantly recognisable and it made Stiles grit his teeth in annoyance. Damn Kali and her haughty attitude. Damn him for letting her get under his skin.
Shifting on his seat with his hands cuffed to the floor, Stiles had no choice but to do as she had instructed. But as the minutes ticked past, the shouts and screams grew steadily louder and it wasn't long before Stiles heard the driver's door crack open, almost immediately followed by the sounds of fighting.
Thomas swore and stomped to the back of the van. He made to open the rear door, but as soon as he rested his hand on the lever the smaller woman shot out of her seat and wrapped a tight hand around his wrist. "You heard her," she said, sharply. "Stay put."
"For what it's worth, I agree with the other guy," Stiles offered, clenching his hands even tighter around the metal bench seat. "We're sitting ducks in here."
"Shut up," Rhian snapped. "You don't get a say in –"
Something banged against the metal door before it began to screech, one corner peeling back in a way that thick metal should not be able to peel. Stiles gaped, distantly amazed despite his panic, as the bottom hinge popped off to create a window to the outer world.
A woman's face appeared in the hole and Stiles yelped, scrambling back as far as his restraints would allow. Her forehead was ridged in a way that resembled werewolves, but her skin was covered in soft blue fur and her nose was pushed forward into a snout. Her eyes glowed a fanatical green, latching onto the three of them with a crazed fury. "Get out here, you cowards," she bellowed as she threw herself bodily through the hole and grabbed Rhian by the ankles.
Rhian snarled and rammed the butt of her gun into one of the woman's hands. She may as well not have bothered: the blue-haired woman barked a laugh and tightened her grip, giving a sharp tug backward. Rhian toppled forward, losing her gun as she slammed into the floor hard enough to make it shake. She began to slide toward the hole, helpless as a doll in the blue woman's grip, and dug her claws into the van floor in desperation. Her mouth opened in a desperate howl, her eyes widened with fear, and she left tracks in the floor as she disappeared feet-first through the opening and out of sight.
Stiles stared, frozen. The entire attack had taken mere seconds. "What the fuck?"
Thomas looked equally terrified, the muzzle of his gun wavering as he aimed it at the hole. "Alright, alright, alright," he muttered beneath his breath. "I can do this."
He didn't look like he remotely believed it. Licking his lips, Stiles studied him thoughtfully and picked his words with care. "You don't have to," he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to be heard over the bangs and screams and sounds of gunfire from outside. "It sounds like a bloodbath out there. You'd be better off running."
The man spared him a quick, anxious glance. "Run where? There's nowhere to hide in Beacon Hills, and no one's leaving town without you. I can't fight and watch you at the same time."
"Then let me go!" Stiles blurted out, frustrated. So much for choosing his words.
Thomas hesitated. "If I let you go, I'm never going to see my little girl."
If he intended to appeal to Stiles' better nature, Thomas would be sorely disappointed. "Don't you get it?" Stiles snapped, pure exasperation making him slam an open palm against the metal seat. "It's over. Peter failed. No one's getting out of here, okay?"
The man's jaw worked. Desperation tightened his eyes as he looked from Stiles to the hole in the back door, to the deep gauges on the floor.
And then he reached under the opposite seat and pulled out a small leather case.
Stiles stiffened as his heart skipped a beat. "What is that?" If his voice was a tad higher than usual, well, no one would ever need to know.
"It's Peter's plan," Thomas explained as he opened the case. It contained a single syringe filled with a strange, milky-white liquid, which he picked up as he reached for Stiles' arm.
Stiles yanked himself back far enough that the metal cuffs cut into his wrists. "Get away from me!"
For some reason, the man looked almost offended as he paused, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles'. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Stiles snorted in disbelief. Not taking his eyes off the sharp needle point, he tugged fruitlessly at his cuffs and wished, not for the first time, that he had even a fraction of werewolf strength. "Don't take it personally," he babbled, fear sending him reeling back to old habits. "It's just that I'm not a big fan of needles. Or being drugged with unknown substances. You seem…somewhat rational…so you get it, right?"
The man replied by rolling his eyes. Reaching out, he gripped Stiles' arm in one unnaturally strong hand and pushed his shirt sleeve up with ease. Stiles closed his eyes as the needle pierced his skin, but he couldn't block out the sharp sting of his arm or the cold sensation as something pooled deep in his muscle.
When it was over, Thomas replaced the needle's cap and tossed it carelessly into a corner of the van. Stiles swallowed uneasily and waited until Thomas met his gaze before speaking. "What did you do to me?" he whispered, hoarsely.
Instead of answering, Thomas merely cocked his head. "Can't you tell?"
What is he…? Oh.
Nestled next to his heart, his spark flared. Stiles gasped, every inch of him tingling as it suddenly roared into being, filling his chest with intense heat. But it was different, this time. He wasn't coaxing it into being, and the energy wasn't coming from him at all - Stiles gasped, completely taken aback, as he felt it himself somehow draw it in from his surroundings. He could almost see it, heat and light and sound soaking smoothly into his skin, racing through his veins to his heart. The energy fed the flame and tongues of heat warmed his collarbones, his neck, as the fire heightened to an inferno. It was so intense he wasn't sure he could stand it, until it raced tracks down his arms to pool beneath his palms.
It was everywhere. Every part of him was alive with it, the energy, the power pressing against his skin, just begging for release…
A thought flitted through his mind and the handcuffs shattered with a loud crack, fragments hurling through the air to bury themselves in the van walls. Stiles barely noticed, just as he barely noticed the bearded man shrinking into a corner, eyes shining with fear as he yelled something Stiles didn't bother to hear. He was nothing, after all, utterly inconsequential compared to the sheer power at Stiles' fingertips.
Stiles was standing. When did I stand up? It didn't matter. He jerked his head at the back door of the van, watching impassively as it flew off its hinges to slam through the windscreen of the nearest car. He didn't care, didn't bother to check if there were people inside – his attention was already elsewhere. Drawn to the sound of screaming, of yelling, of snarling and gunfire and shouting, mere yards away.
Stepping out of the van, he turned to face the chaos.
Scott frowned at the hovering drones, relying on Derek to guard his back. They were huddled behind a chunk of debris while the alpha figured out their next move, and when he had last looked at Derek he had been stoically ignoring the blood dripping into his eyes from a fresh scalp wound while he focussed all his attention on the battlefield. He must have noticed Scott's distraction, though, as he grunted, "What is it?"
"The drones," Scott answered succinctly. He broke off his gaze and scanned the nearby carpark while the older werewolf craned his neck upward. "I've never seen so many of them in once place before. They're positioned around the edge of the campus, and I'm pretty sure they've somehow grown weapons."
Pretty sure was putting it mildly. With his werewolf vision he'd clearly seen high-powered guns sticking out from the bottom of each drone, occasionally recoiling as they fired. He almost wished he hadn't.
Derek's shoulders immediately tensed. "They're pinning us in," he breathed, before whipping around to stare at Scott with wide eyes. "Isaac and Jackson. You have to go back and warn them."
Scott had already considered that, and he shook his head. "By now, they'll either be past them or trapped by them," he pointed out. Or dead. Best not to think about that. "But it does make things more difficult."
Derek grunted, glancing back in the direction they had come. His brow was creased in worry, his torso leaning slightly in that direction as though tempted to run back anyway.
"Derek," Scott prompted gently, "we should – argh!"
Something slammed into his head and knocked him sideways so that his skull bashed into the brick debris. Vision swimming, Scott blinked frantically as he tried to scramble to his feet, peering at the silhouette of his assailant. It was uncomfortably familiar even as it danced around Derek, both werewolves slashing and snarling and snapping ferociously, and he groaned as he stiffened his legs beneath him. Peter. Of course.
Derek and Peter seemed equally matched, and Scott hesitated. If he was having this much trouble standing, he wouldn't be much use fighting, but before he could come to a decision a third figure sailed over nearby debris, face twisted in anger. Boyd planted a boot directly between Peter's shoulder blades pushed off to flip over the older man, landed neatly on his other side.
Peter stumbled but didn't fall, instead turning the motion into a tight tumble. He came to a stop directly in front of Boyd and slashed out as he rose, gauging at Boyd's knees, abdomen and chest in quick succession. He had just raised his hand for a fourth blow as Derek whirled in from the side, sweeping Peter's legs out from under him before twisting into a leap and pinning the older man to the ground, one palm landing heavily on his windpipe.
"I should have done this a long time ago," Derek snarled, crushing Peter's throat as he raised his other hand into the air.
Scott's breath caught. He wanted to say something. He had to tell Derek not to do this…
At that moment, thunder rumbled overhead as storm clouds swirled into existence, blocking out the sun. Electricity crackled in the air, sending Scott's hair on end, and a loud boom sounded from somewhere to his right.
Derek froze, arm raised, as a multitude of screams filled the air. Then he turned his wide-eyed gaze on Scott. "Go," he ordered.
Scott didn't need to be told twice. His boots thundered against the ground as he sprinted toward the noise, not daring to hope. He tensed as he spotted several people running toward him, readying himself for yet another fight, but to his surprise they pounded past him without a second glance.
Was that good news, or bad?
No time to think about it. Pushing himself even harder, he darted around the first row of vehicles then skidded to a halt, eyes wide.
Four nearby trucks were on fire, their bonnets twisted and blackened while identical plumes of smoke rose from each one. Exploded, he realised, absently. Somehow, that detail was nothing compared to the insanity on display in front of him.
Between the four trucks, half a dozen werewolves hung suspended in mid-air. Their arms were flung outward, held stiffly as though trapped, and their mouths stretched open in silent screams. Only their eyes moved, and when they saw Scott they widened in either fear or warning, he wasn't sure which.
They were all unnaturally still but, behind them, something was moving. Stepping softly, Scott picked a path between the suspended bodies and the lifeless ones on the ground, only stopping when he was finally close enough to see clearly.
Stiles stood whole and injured a few yards away. Scott sagged, relief weakening his limbs, and felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his lips until he noticed it: Stiles' face was completely blank, utterly expressionless save for a considering tilt to his head. Before him, Kali floated spread-eagled in mid-air, her dark eyes glittering in anger and her lips pulled back in a sneer.
"You insolent child," she snarled. "You're playing with things you can't begin to understand."
Stiles' face didn't so much as twitch, but his head did tilt a little further. Instantly, Kali flew backward until she crashed into the truck behind her hard enough to leave a dent. She floated back to her original position, then slammed backwards a second time.
Scott had seen enough. "Stiles," he called out, hurrying forward. His friend had to still be in there, somewhere. He had to be. "Stiles, it's me. Scott."
Finally, a flicker of emotion. The corner of Stiles' lips turned up in amusement as he turned to stare at Scott with unnaturally bright eyes. "I know who you are."
"Right," Scott muttered. "Stiles, you know you're not in control, right?"
Stiles' eyes narrowed. Something invisible snaked around Scott's ankle and yanked them out from beneath him. He couldn't quite suppress an undignified yelp, and a second later found himself hanging upside-down by invisible ropes around his ankles.
Good job, Scott. Really well done. Inhaling deeply, Scott blew the air out through his cheeks and tried to remain calm. It was harder than it sounded, what with the blood rushing into his brain, muddling his thoughts, but he eventually managed to crane his neck to meet Stiles' gaze.
The other boy was watching him with eyes that were somehow bright and completely lifeless at the same time. "See?" he said tonelessly. "I have control. Completely."
This time, Scott managed to suppress his yelp. The ropes shifted, rotating Scott until he was facing a nearby truck. A moment later, the entire truck exploded into flame.
Flinching, Scott squeezed his eyes shut as though to shield them from the searing heat, and steadied his breathing as he felt himself spin back to face Stiles.
The boy was clearly waiting for a reaction. Scott had a feeling he was supposed to be impressed, or at the very least scared, so Stiles probably wouldn't be pleased to know he was fighting a flood of white-hot anger. Damn you, Peter, he thundered internally. What did you do to him?
It wouldn't do to voice that thought aloud, though, with the weirdly inhuman Stiles waiting for a response. It was an effort for Scott to smooth his face and calm his voice, but he managed it. "Your dad, Stiles," he said, instead. "Did I ever tell you I knew him?"
Something indecipherable flashed across Stiles' face, so brief that Scott wondered if he imagined it. God, he hoped he hadn't imagined it. "He and mum were close, especially after my dad moved away," he pressed on, blinking away the red tinge to his vision. No need to tell Stiles they were dating, since he was pretty sure that wasn't the case in Stiles' world. He wanted Stiles to remember his own father, not Scott's version of him. "I really admired him. He was kind. He genuinely cared about everyone, and he would always do his best to help no matter how hard things got."
For a spur-of-the-moment plan, it actually seemed to be working. If he squinted, Scott could almost see a glisten in Stiles' unnaturally bright eyes, a tiny tremor to his lips.
Licking his lips and ignoring the pulsing throb of his head, Scott made himself continue. "He's the most supportive man I've ever known," he said, then added dryly, "more than my actual dad, that's for sure. He always made me feel like my opinion mattered, even when I was just a dumb kid."
Stiles breathed a laugh. "He put up with so much shit from me," he murmured, speaking to himself as much as to Scott. "Still does, I guess. I don't know how he does it."
That's it. Scott ignored the flaring hope in his chest and considered his next words carefully. He was working on nothing more than a hunch, but he couldn't see any other options right now. It had to work. "Can you picture him?" he asked, quietly. "His eyes, his face? His smile?"
For the first time, Stiles blinked. Something flickered behind his eyes and his throat worked. Finally, he nodded.
"Focus on him, Stiles," Scott said. "Find a memory."
He held his breath, desperate. If this didn't work…god, he didn't know what he would do. He didn't know what he could do – it was impossible to fight when Stiles could restrain him with nothing but a thought.
The seconds passed, and then it happened. Stiles' blank expression fractured. Anguish, pain, laughter and warmth chased each other across Stiles' face, each emotion as brief and intense as the last. Scott didn't dare breathe, eyes burning as he stared intently, not even daring to blink.
When it happened, it was subtle. A focussing of his eyes, a miniscule shake of the head, a tightening of his lips.
Then Stiles blinked, gaze shifting from the middle-distance to Scott's reddened face, a small frown lines creasing his forehead. Confusion clouded his face, until suddenly it didn't.
Jaw dropping, Stiles paled in horror and hopped backward with an almost comical yelp. "Oh my god!"
The invisible ropes around Scott's ankles vanished instantly. He had just enough time to panic and squeeze his eyes shut before he crashed headfirst into the ground.
"Shit, I'm sorry!" Stiles babbled from somewhere behind him. There was a rush of footsteps as Stiles appeared at Scott's side, one hand hovering guiltily over the werewolf's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking. Are you okay?"
Scott flashed an ok sign, too busy wincing at the sharp pain in his skull to reply. At least I don't have to worry about college after today, he thought wryly. Fucking ow.
After a minute, it subsided enough for him to climb to his feet. He took a moment to relish the feeling of solid ground beneath his boots – honestly, the relief of being upright far outweighed any pain from his fall – although, after a moment, he decided to keep that particular thought to himself. Stiles probably wouldn't find it comforting.
Speaking of whom, Stiles was still hovering at Scott's elbow, his face flickering between worry and shame fast enough to give Scott another headache. Rolling his eyes, Scott reached out to drag him into a one-armed hug, then jerked backward and stared in surprise.
Stiles looked the same as he always did, albeit somewhat more alarmed. "What?" he demanded.
Scott rubbed his arm uncomfortably. It tingled where it had touched Stiles, a faint echo of the sharp staticky sensation from a moment ago. "Are you…is it…?" Trailing off, he gestured helplessly at Stiles' chest.
The other boy glanced down, then met Scott's stare with an oddly guarded expression. "Yes. They injected me with something, I think it's here for a while." He sounded almost defensive, although Scott for the life of him couldn't figure out why.
"Okay," Scott said placatingly. Turning, he waved a hand toward Kali and the other floating prisoners. "Maybe you should think about letting them go, then?"
Stiles jumped. Actually jumped, as though he had completely forgotten they were there, and the whole situation was so ridiculous that Scott might have laughed if it wasn't so dire. It was, though, so he merely watched silently as the prisoners dropped to the ground with significantly more grace than Scott. None wasted any time in leaving, although a few shot Stiles terrified glances and Kali paused just long enough to be sure he noticed her glare.
Relieved, Scott allowed himself a small smile, which immediately faded when he noticed Stiles' pained grimace. "What's wrong?"
Stiles shrugged awkwardly. "I've never had anyone look at me like that," he muttered. "You, sure. Scott's a little terrifying when he's angry – don't tell him I said that. But not me."
Scott reached out to squeeze his shoulder sympathetically, ignoring the uncomfortable prickling of his palm. He wanted to say it would get better, but he could still recall every detail of Allison's horrified expression when she first saw him transform, and he didn't want to lie.
"We should get going," he said instead, giving Stiles one last squeeze before letting his hand drop. "I left Derek and Boyd with Peter."
"What?" Stiles yelped, immediately jolting into motion. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"
Snorting, Scott broke into a light jog to keep up. "Derek had it under control."
Clouds still blanketed the sky, but the thunder seemed to have vanished as they rounded the trucks and entered the open area of the carpark. The fighting seemed to be slowing down, finally, which made it easier to avoid the last groups of brawling werecreatures. Instead, they found themselves stepping around blood-spattered people in various states of injury and unmoving bodies that Scott did his best to ignore.
Conscious of the fact that Stiles was already panting a little – so the spark hasn't given him every advantage, he thought grimly, if a little pettily – he kept his pace slow and led the way until he spotted a drone out of the corner of his eye. Pulling to a stop, he squinted thoughtfully at his friend. "Stiles," he began, careful to keep his tone free of expectation. "I don't suppose you're able to take out the drones?"
"Take out the drones?" Stiles echoed. He stopped, scratching the back of his neck as he peered upward and twisted to identify all of them. "Why?"
"They're shooting people."
Stiles gave him a sharp glance. It wasn't angry, exactly, but it carried an undercurrent of resentment that had much the same effect. His brow furrowed as he turned his attention back to the nearest drone, lips pursed in concentration, and –
– Scott jumped, biting off a surprised curse as six bolts of lightning flashed through the sky. The nearest one burned an imprint on his retina as it jig-jagged between the clouds to lance straight into the first drone. It vanished as quickly as it arrived, and for a moment the drone hovered uncertainly in the air. Then it fell, plummeting straight down to crashed into the ground with a distant thump. A quick glance showed the remaining five drones following suit.
Scott realised he was grinning. It was a strange feeling, as though he'd almost forgotten how to smile, but he couldn't help it after the disaster of today. It was catching, too, as a quick glance at Stiles saw his eyes sparking with laughter. Maybe their luck was finally turning.
Then, he saw them.
They were far in the distance – too far for Stiles to see, he'd wager, but near enough for his werewolf sight – and he could make out just enough. Derek, lying motionless on his side. Peter, looming over Boyd as the younger boy scrabbled backward on hands and feet.
Scott was running before he could think. Stiles' confused shout followed him but he ignored it, his focus narrowed to a single point. Boyd seemed to have lost all his fight, not even resisting when Peter reached out and sunk his claws deep into his abdomen. His mouth opened in a scream and his limbs flailed weakly, but he was helpless against Peter as he lifted the boy bodily into the air.
Derek roared. The sound rattled the nearby bricks and tugged at Scott's bones, pulling him forward as only an alpha could. But Scott was too far away, helpless to do anything but watch as Derek hobbled toward Peter, too injured to properly stand, and grabbed the older man's arm.
Peter twisted so quickly that Scott couldn't follow the movement. One minute, he was leaning over Boyd; the next, his hand was around Derek's throat, claws sinking into the alpha's skin to grab hold of his windpipe, and then –
Scott howled in agony. He'd never felt the bond, that indescribable link between him and Derek. But he felt it snap, felt the sharp pain that seared its way into his bones, forever marking him what he had lost. Grief and fury whirled in his heart and the wolf surged forward, hurling his human thought into nothingness.