Trigger Warning from here on out. Wasn't sure how much it would come up, but there will be some discussion of suicide/self harm/suicidal thoughts. Please take care of yourself!


"There are a lot of sewage tunnels that run through the Preserve. Like, a lot, a lot. I'm not sure how you expect me to help all that much."

Scott shifts his weight between his feet restlessly, tapping his fingers against his leg. He and Derek had gone back out to the road to meet the Sheriff and Malia, and while he knows getting them will be faster in the long run than having them try to figure out which way they'd gone, it feels like backtracking. Scott already feels the urgency to find Stiles, but that last conversation with Lydia has only upped the ticking clock, and getting everyone up to speed feels like he's wasting precious time.

"You know these woods better than anyone," he tells Malia, trying to keep his tone neutral. He knows she's not trying to be difficult, that she's just as concerned about finding Stiles as the rest of them, but he's stressed and it's bringing out the irritation he'd already felt toward her a lot stronger than he'd thought it would.

"We know it's got to be somewhere in the Bluffton Creek area," Derek adds, laying a calming hand on Scott's shoulder. Scott's sure he's blasting off a mess of chemosignals right now, and even if he isn't, he's probably not being as subtle as he thinks about his current emotional state.

The Sheriff, who is just as antsy to find his son, but maybe doesn't quite trust the supernatural reasoning that led them here, frowns. "Why Bluffton Creek?"

Scott glances back at Derek, pressing his lips together. The Sheriff isn't going to like this. "Uh, Lydia said Stiles has kinda been… Looking into some of the families. Of the victims," he says.

The Sheriff's face goes from shock to horror to anger all in the matter of a couple of seconds before settling on something Scott decides looks like weariness. He runs a hand over his face, sighing in resignation. "I should've known…" Pressing his lips into a line, he asks, "Let me guess, one of the people he was looking into was Tim Reynolds?"

Scott nods, swallowing.

"Dammit, Stiles," the Sheriff mutters, turning and pacing back a few feet with a hand in his hair.

"Who's Tim Reynolds?" Malia asks hesitatingly.

The Sheriff is still collecting himself, so Scott starts explaining what Lydia told him and Derek and how it connects to Bluffton Creek.

"We already searched for a body out here," the Sheriff interjects, returning to the conversation. "Tim's sister thought he was suicidal, and he'd taken his kayak and a gun with him. We found his car upstream about five miles, but we never found him or the boat. But we didn't even start the search until Tuesday afternoon, and by then he could have been swept miles downstream."

"So you think Stiles came out here looking for him, and… What? Got lost in the sewage tunnels?" Malia says, raising her eyebrows at Scott.

"I don't know what happened, but I think there's something else going on out here," Scott says, looking at Derek again. "And Lydia seems pretty sure that's where he is, so can we please stop standing around asking questions and go find him?"

Malia shrugs and starts into the forest. "All right, if you're sure. Follow me."

They don't talk much as they walk back toward the creek. There isn't much to say. They're all on edge—Scott practically feels like he's vibrating with anxiety. But they're moving as fast as they can. There's no clear path around here.

"This is where we lose the scent," Scott says when they arrive at the creek. He feels like creek is a misnomer—it's really more of a river. And now that he knows more about Tim, he doesn't like the images popping into his mind. Of Stiles, searching for Tim, losing his footing on the wet, algae-covered rocks and being swept downstream. Ending up tangled in one of the sewage tunnels that dumps out into the river.

Or worse—Stiles out here all alone, looking for Tim. Being nabbed by something and dragged into the tunnels. He shudders at the thought.

"Okay," Malia says, squinting at the forest around them. "So the closest sewage tunnel to here is this way." She turns left and heads upstream.

He has to hand it to her, Malia definitely knows the woods better than the rest of them. Scott supposes living out here for one's formative years will do that. He can navigate part of it okay, but this area in particular is pretty overgrown and littered with rock ledges and outcroppings that make it easy to get turned around. He would have never guessed the winding path they end up taking to it, but once he catches the stench of wastewater, he wonders how anyone could miss it.

"This is weird," Malia says, suddenly slowing down once she leads them across a shallow part of the creek.

"What's weird?" the Sheriff asks.

Malia's brow furrows as she searches the ground in front of them. She points at a small white flower. "These aren't usually out this early in spring."

Derek stoops to look at the flowers, his usual scowl firmly in place. "She's right. They're a few weeks early."

Since when has Derek been a wildflower enthusiast? Scott shakes his head. "So what? Couldn't it just be warmer than usual?"

"Could be," Derek answers, but he doesn't sound like he believes that.

As mysterious as this is, Scott just doesn't have time to worry about climate change right now. Not when he has a best friend to find. "Let's worry about it later, okay?" he suggests.

"Just a little further," Malia agrees, nodding in the direction they were going. She leads them away from the river for a bit, up some rocky outcroppings, and then cuts back in. Scott notices more of the white flowers along the way, plus some purple and yellow ones peppered in. They're getting thicker the further they go.

Scott.

The whisper is so quiet he's sure it must just be the wind, but it sends a chill straight down Scott's spine all the same. But he must be imagining it. It can't possibly be…

Scott.

The second time, he's sure he hears it. He looks around, drawing a concerned look from Malia next to him. There's nothing there.

No, no, no. Not now. He can deal with that later. Blocking out the voice, he presses forward resolutely. Right now, he needs to find Stiles.

"There." Malia points to a large drain pipe up against the side of the creek. "That leads into the bigger sewage tunnels."

Scott is so focused on getting there that he hardly notices the slippery climb down the crumbling shale ledge to get to the pipe. What he does notice are the bunches of wildflowers and tangled vines coating the pipe and the forest floor around it, as if they've suddenly entered the botanical gardens. Malia's right. There shouldn't be this many flowers out so early in the spring.

Something's definitely wrong.

"Scott," Derek warns, grabbing the back of his shirt before he can scramble inside the open tunnel.

He looks back at the other werewolf, noting the hesitation in his eyes. "What is it?" he asks.

Derek shakes his head, peering into the dark pipe with what might be actual fear on his face. "It's—You don't feel that?"

Yeah, of course he feels it. That sense of dread, like a cold breath on the back of his neck. He couldn't ignore it if he tried. But all it does is make him want to get in there faster.

"What do you want me to do?" he hisses impatiently. "Stiles is in there."

Derek's eyes go back to the entrance nervously. He looks a little sick, actually. And, honestly, him freaking out is making Scott a lot more nervous than the weird sense that there's something bad waiting for them in the tunnels. "Just… Be careful, okay?"

The Sheriff pulls out his sidearm, seemingly understanding that if Derek Hale is afraid, there is something to be very afraid of. "Let's go get my son," he says.

The drain pipe is almost big enough to stand in, but not quite wide enough to walk side-by-side, so they go in single file. Scott leads the way, the Sheriff right behind him, and Malia and Derek in the back.

They don't have to go far before the pipe opens up into a much larger tunnel. The sunlight behind them fades as they go deeper inside, the only natural light now coming from small openings above them every so often. Scott pulls out his phone and turns on the flashlight app. The foggy air swirls through the beam of light as he walks.

He reaches out with his senses, the anticipation of what they're going to find bringing everything into sharp focus. The sound of dripping water. The stench of wastewater and dead rodents. The stale taste of stagnant air. His hands are trembling from the overload of adrenaline, and he holds his phone tighter, like it will protect him from whatever's waiting.

"Scott," Malia whispers. "Do you hear that?"

All Scott hears are the ragged breaths of the others. He tunes his ears, searching for something else. It's faint at first, but once he catches it, it's undeniably the thudding of a heartbeat in the distance. Fast and thready, but there.

And over the smell of sewage, blood. A lot of blood.

"It's him," Scott says, not waiting for the others as he takes off blindly toward the sound, forgetting all sense of caution. The dirty water splashes under his feet as he runs. He knows the sound, the smell, of Stiles like the back of his hand. But he's not the only one Scott's picking up. There are others, and one is… Wrong somehow. Like, terrifying, making every hair on his body stick up, wrong.

Whatever that is, it has his best friend.

He comes up short when he rounds a bend and nearly runs straight into someone. It's a young guy, can't be over thirty, covered in grime and sludge, suspended limply from the ceiling with ropes around his wrists. A tube is snaking out from the side of his neck, dark red with the blood it's slowly draining from his body into a jug on the floor under him. Scott sees another silhouette in the shadows further down the tunnel and moves his light to see a second boy, younger than the first, hanging a few feet away with the same set up. And beyond him…

Stiles.

Except, Stiles isn't alone. Next to him, there's what looks like a young woman with long, dark, curling hair and a white dress holding onto the tube connected to Stiles' neck. No, not just holding. Drinking from it. Like one of those silly straws Scott used to love as a kid. Except instead of Yoohoo, she's drinking his best friend's blood.

Scott's vision goes as red as his eyes as the wolf leaps to the forefront, howling in rage. The woman turns, purple eyes flashing back, and hisses, her sharp teeth stained red. Scott doesn't know what she is, but she's going to pay for what she's done.

"Let him go!" the Sheriff shouts from somewhere behind Scott. There's a click as his gun is cocked, ready to take a shot.

The woman—creature—whatever she is, curls her needle-like claws possessively into Stiles' mud-caked t-shirt, stepping behind him and hissing again. Stiles swings gently at her movement, but doesn't react to any of it.

Scott doesn't wait for her to comply, doesn't think he could if he wanted to. He charges down the tunnel with a roar, going straight for her, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.

He's on her in an instant, ripping her away from his best friend's limp form and tackling her to the wet ground. She swipes at his face, making him recoil against the deep, burning scratches across his nose and giving her a chance to scramble out from under him. She scampers away, screeching in a way that makes his blood run cold.

Before he can regain his balance, Derek is shooting past him, Malia on his heels, a tornado of fangs and claws. But the creature turns and repels them both, knocking them aside as easily as if she's swatting at flies.

Time seems to slow down as Scott charges her again, claws at the ready. His eyes meet hers, the electric purple burning into his vision as he gets closer, closer.

Scott.

The voice is unmistakable. His feet falter, just for a second.

Scott, please. It's me.

The face in front of him changes. It's no longer the pale woman with the black hair and blood-soaked teeth. She turns around, stepping into a beam of light, and it's suddenly her.

"Allison?" he breathes, forgetting what he's doing. Where he is. Everything except her face as she smiles at him. Holds out her hand toward him.

No one has to die, Scott. No one ever has to die again.

And then, out of nowhere, Derek is tackling her, throwing her up against a wall. Up against a broken grate, twisted rebar protruding from the wall. It goes right through her, in the exact same place that the sword went through…

But she's not Allison anymore. She's the creature again—purple eyes wide and blood dripping from her teeth. Only this time, it's her blood. Dark and inky. She meets Scott's eyes once more, her lips curling into a hideous smile. And then, with one final ear-shattering screech, her body dissolves into sparkling black dust. Like mountain ash.

And she's gone.


As soon as the werewolves chase the creature out of the way, Noah rushes down the tunnel to his son, tucking his gun back in its holster and his flashlight under his arm so he can free his hands. He's dimly aware of the two other bodies hanging nearby, but right now, he only has eyes for Stiles.

"Stiles? Come on, son," he says, cupping his face and lifting it towards him. Stiles' skin is icy, and dirty tear treads stain his colorless cheeks. Noah's heart clenches at the bluish tinge of his lips. He looks like a corpse. "Stiles! Open your eyes."

Stiles' eyes flutter for a second, as if he's trying to obey. A wave of relief washes over Noah. He's not dead. Not yet.

But he will be if they don't get him out of here.

Keeping one hand against Stiles' face, Noah examines the ropes holding him up. Not only are the knots tight, but the rope is damp. "Dammit," he mutters, knowing it'll be impossible to untie. He's going to have to cut him down, and it's not going to be easy. "What did you get yourself into this time?"

The tube in Stiles' neck is still leaking blood, so Noah decides that's his first priority. He snags his handkerchief from his pocket, thinking how Stiles always calls him an old man for carrying one. "Good thing I never listen to you, huh?" he asks, holding it over the wound. Wincing, he carefully pulls the giant needle out and tosses it away with disgust. "Sorry, kid. All done, okay?"

Pressing the handkerchief to the bleeding spot on Stiles' neck, he feels the too-quick pulse skipping weakly under his fingers, the panting breaths against his wrist, the tremors running through his body. He isn't a medic, but he's seen enough accident victims in shock before to recognize it when he sees it. He knows it means they don't have a lot of time.

"Hang in there, kiddo, you hear me?"

The sound of Derek, Scott, and Malia fighting with the creature echoes down the damp tunnel, and while Noah trusts that they'll handle the thing, he wishes they would do it faster. He could really use some help here. He glances around, trying to see if there's anything nearby that he can use to help get Stiles down, but nothing looks exceptionally inspiring. He'll just have to make do with what he has.

Tossing his flashlight a couple feet away on a dry spot so that the light shines back in his direction, he flips open his knife and gets to work sawing on the rope holding Stiles up. It's an awkward angle, and he can barely reach it even when he stands on his toes (when did Stiles get so tall?). When it finally begins to fray, he hooks an arm around Stiles' chest so he won't collapse into the dirty water.

"Come on, come on," he urges the rope, his shoulder burning with the effort of cutting through it. "Almost got it. Almost…"

The rope suddenly snaps and Noah scrambles to catch his son's dead weight, ending up falling painfully to his knees underneath him so he doesn't hit the ground. There's a horrific screech down the tunnel, but Noah ignores it, cradling Stiles up against his chest.

"I gotcha, son," he says, repeating it like a mantra as he settles his son's head in the crook of his shoulder. "I gotcha. You're okay." The handkerchief is still stuck to Stiles' neck with a tacky circle of red, and Noah uses his free hand to put more pressure on it. Stiles can't risk losing any more blood than he already has.

The boy's eyes flutter again, and he groans deep in his throat. "Stiles?" Noah asks hopefully. "You with me?" But he gives no further indication that he's conscious.

Shrugging out of his jacket, Noah tucks it around Stiles' shivering form, trying to rub some warmth into his arms. Running footsteps echo back in his direction, and he glances up to see the three shadows approaching in the refracting light off the wet tunnel walls.

"Stiles!" Scott calls out, already halfway through morphing back into his normal self. He drops to his knees beside Noah, oblivious of the grimy floor, and reaches out to grab his friend's shoulder. There's a nasty scratch across his face, but otherwise he doesn't look any worse for the wear.

"Is he okay?" Malia pants, jogging to a stop behind Scott. Her hand is pressed to her side, blood leaking through her fingers, and Noah catches a glimpse of a torn shirt and deep scratches underneath.

"He's lost a lot of blood. We need to get him to the hospital," Noah says, thinking that even if she heals, that might be serious enough to warrant her own trip to the hospital. He shifts his gaze to Derek, who seems to be unscathed. "The creature?"

Derek shakes his head, his brows drawn as he takes in Stiles' pale face. "It won't be bothering us anymore."

"What the hell was that?" Noah blurts, still reeling from the image of that thing slurping up his son's blood, like he was a Capri Sun. "Tell me it wasn't a vampire." Oh God, what if it was a vampire? What if that thing turned Stiles into a vampire?!

"Sheriff!" Derek barks, snapping him out of his panicking thoughts. "I don't know what it was, but right now, we just need to focus on getting everyone out of here."

Right. Noah follows Derek's eyeline to the other two bodies hanging behind him. Even under all the grime, he recognizes them both. After all, he's been working both cases on overtime the last few days. He slides back into Sheriff mode, pushing his panic aside and focusing on the problem at hand.

"That's Tim," he says, nodding toward the one furthest away, "and the one next to him is Nicholas Brown. He went missing Wednesday night. Runaway." More questions are popping up like weeds in his mind, like how are these two connected and how did Stiles figure it out and what does it have to do with that creature? He shakes them out of his head. There will be time for all that later.

"I didn't have time to check…" he admits.

"The one on the end is dead," Derek says bluntly, and Noah dimly remembers that Stiles told him werewolves can hear people's hearts beating from across a room. "And the other isn't far off. I'll get him. You get Stiles out of here."

"I'll help Derek," Malia says, her eyes raking over Stiles one more time before she follows the older werewolf toward Nicholas

Scott has been gently removing the ropes from Stiles' wrists while they talk, slicing through them with his claws and peeling them away from the abused skin underneath. "I can carry him," he offers, and Noah nods. The primal urge to protect his son makes it hard to let him go, but there's no way he'll be able to carry Stiles out of here nearly as fast as Scott, no matter how much adrenaline is flooding his veins.

Indeed, Scott scoops Stiles up like he's nothing and begins carefully navigating them back out of the tunnel. As soon as they get close enough to the entrance for his radio to work again, Noah calls for backup and a couple ambulances to the nearest access point. They're a couple miles from where they parked, but only about a quarter mile from an access road. Even that feels like far too great a distance right now.

By the time they reach the access road, two ambulances are already pulling up, and the paramedics run out to meet them. Noah knows the two that swoop in to take Stiles from Scott's arms, has seen them at accident scenes before and knows they've been around a while. Knows from their lack of friendly banter, their efficiency in which they get Stiles ready to transport, that this is serious.

Derek is close behind with Nicholas, but Noah doesn't even see whether the other boy is still alive. He's too busy trying to explain to the paramedics how someone strung up his son and drained him of blood as they cut open his shirt to search for a wound that would account for this. Too busy babbling because it all sounds so unreal when it comes out of his mouth.

Suddenly, they're in the back of the ambulance, on their way, lights on and sirens blaring. Noah's pressed up in the corner to give the paramedic in the back with him space to work, though at this point she's just reading out stats in a way that seems like she's urging the driver to go faster. The space is tiny and cramped, and yet Noah feels like there's a chasm separating him from his son.

He's sure the driver is doing his best not to jar them, but the gravel access road is bumpy, and they're not wasting time getting out of here. As they lurch along Noah grasps onto Stiles' ankle, like he's the last thing tethering him to the land of the living. He watches the wavy lines of the heart monitor, the way the oxygen mask fogs up every time Stiles takes a shallow breath, and knows it's more for his benefit.

"Stay with me, son," he tells Stiles under the paramedics' tense chatter. "You hear me? After everything we just got through… You are not allowed to leave me now."