"Understand death? Sure. That was when the monsters got you." —Salem's Lot
Stiles has never cared for Theo. The guy's a smarmy asshole who sells bullshit weapons to the highest bidder. The only useful thing about him is the fact that his greed makes him loyal. All it had taken to get Blake killed and Boyd dragged through the doors was a simple email promising millions in exchange for the Darkness.
"Did he even question who sent the email," Derek asks, leaning against the wall. They haven't grown any closer in death, but they also don't get along with the other spirits. Sure, Stiles and Peter have great sex, but there's no witty banter afterward.
"Nope," Stiles says, popping the P. The lights have flickered back on in the lobby, catching the blond highlights in Theo's hair. "You'd think he'd be wary to come to this place considering our disaster party."
"He's too greedy. It's his fatal flaw." Stiles grins over at his husband, stepping close to wrap his tie up in a fist. He tugs harshly, dragging Derek onto the balls of his feet.
"Speaking of fatal…." Derek's answering grin is bloodthirsty, the big bad wolf showing off his teeth. "He doesn't need all those henchmen to kill one person, does he?" He looks at the group, setting his sights on a taller man with dark hair. "I call dibs on Donovan."
"I want Tracy. I'll bet I can make her scream." The kiss they share holds no tenderness, it's bruising and painful, a clash of teeth that tastes of copper. When they part, Stiles' lips are cracked and bloody, but they heal as fast as they'd broken. Stiles moves away from his husband, disappearing into the creeping mist rolling out of the basement.
"Keep going, Eri," Stiles calls, drawing attention to the basement.
"We need to split up," Derek calls in falsetto, near the bar. Theo's group looks torn in which direction to head. It's stupid, really. You follow the voice you think you're supposed to sacrifice. Stiles rolls his eyes and calls again.
"Keep going, Erica! They can't find me in the basement!" Theo lets out a low growl, looking between the bar and the basement. He doesn't see the mist and hasn't paid attention to the mold, he doesn't know just how dangerous this place can be for the living.
"We'll split up," Theo decides. "Donovan and I will take the basement and you girls will check the bar. And Trace? Watch out for flying objects." Tracy groans at the bad joke and stomps into the bar, dragging Hayden after her by the sleeve.
"You're not getting laid tonight, dude," Donovan says, smirking.
"Shut up, Donovan." Theo shoves him forward, but neither man seems particularly keen on exploring the basement. Stiles can't blame them, he's been lurking down there for months and it's only gotten worse. The supports have cracks spiraling through them, the lights are mostly gone, and an entire section has collapsed.
"Why do I have to go first?"
"Because you're uglier." Donovan scowls but he forces himself to keep moving, sneakers squeaking against the stones. When he finally reaches the bottom, Stiles glides close and breathes down his neck, a cold gust of air. Donovan flinches away, swinging his pistol around wildly.
"Watch it! You shoot me and you don't get paid."
"I felt someone behind me—"
"I'm behind you, dumbass." Theo shoves him again and Donovan stumbles right through Stiles. Mist scatters and Stiles reforms a few feet away, wiping phantom dust from his bare chest. He's still dressed in his pajama pants, they're all wearing the clothes they died in. "Do you hear Boyd?"
"No." Stiles moves down the hall, making sure his footsteps are audible. There's shuffling behind him and then the other two are coming around the corner. Stiles heads to the left through the maze, stopping every now and then to make sure they're still coming. He won't kill Theo yet, not when he's the only capable one of the group, but Donovan is a loose end. Besides, it's been a long time since Stiles committed a murder and he's bored.
"Help," Stiles screams, filling his voice with panic and fear. The quiet footsteps grow faster as the men sprint. Stiles darts from one room to another and then farther down the hall, just a shadow to the men.
"He went this way," Theo says, pointing to the right.
"No, he went down there," Donovan says, pointing straight ahead. They argue for a minute, going in circles until Theo throws his arms in the air.
"We'll split up, I guess. You got your phone?" Donovan pulls it out of his pocket, a burner you can find in gas stations all across America. "Keep it handy and text me when you get close to Boyd. Shoot him in the leg if you have to, but don't kill him. We do it upstairs where we can trap the Nogitsune."
"You got it, boss." Donovan gives Theo a half-assed salute and then he's heading in Stiles' direction. Stiles stays mostly in the shadows, letting Donovan wander farther and farther in the basement. It's bigger than it should be, the halls twisting around on each other until it's a labyrinth. All it needs is an abundance of glitter to really set the scene.
Stiles chuckles low in his throat, appearing at the end of a dark hall to gain Donovan's attention. He can feel himself shivering in and out of view, a twitching sensation that happens when he tries to solidify. That's only possible when he's playing host for the Darkness. It's laughably easy to get Donovan all turned around until he doesn't know up from down. Stiles is positively skipping through the halls, scratching dull nails against damp stone, kicking dilapidated wheelchairs, anything to keep Donovan on his trail.
"You're not getting out of here," Donovan calls. "You might as well give up."
"Might as well give up," Stiles echoes. "Give up, Donnie Boy!" He cackles and keeps going, deeper into the damp blackness and the mist. It swirls thickly around his feet, tendrils of mold growing wherever it touches. It would be fascinating if Stiles could make himself care about science again.
"Boyd!" Stiles comes to a stop in a room with a deep vat set close to the far wall. He knows it's still full, thinks of those vats of red clay in Crimson Peak that had held the decaying remains of Thomas' wives. He steps closer, makes his way up the stairs to peer down into the viscous gunk.
Sometimes they'll move your stuff or confuse your perception to get you lost or drown you in a tank of blood the size of a Buick, Isaac had said. I suggest you all avoid the last option, it's just as bad as it sounds. Stiles kind of wants to see that happen. If nothing else, it'll be entertaining.
"Are you going to drown him," Jackson asks, appearing on Stiles' left. He's got his head attached as a ghost, but his suit is a bloody mess. He's still pissy about Stiles killing him, but maybe he'll get over it in a few years. Maybe Stiles will lure Danny here and kill him as an apology. The lovebirds can be stuck together for eternity.
"I was thinking about it, yeah."
"Don't you think there's been enough deaths here?" Stiles gives him a cold look, one that makes the taller man back down a few steps. Was this how Obi-wan had felt when confronting Anakin? It's a power rush that goes straight to the head. It's over, Jackson, I have the high ground, he thinks with another low chuckle.
"Why don't you run back to your cozy suite and leave the dirty work to me, Jackson?" Stiles saunters close, inside of his personal bubble until their chests are nearly touching. "Or you can stay and play with me." His smile is like glass, jagged and cutting. Jackson, if possible, grows grayer.
"Do what you want, Stilinski. You've always been a sociopath."
"Psychopath," Stiles corrects disinterestedly. "There's a difference." Jackson mutters something that sounds like freak and then the mist is swallowing him. Maybe Stiles will hunt him down later, cut him open as a gory foreplay with Peter. Stiles shakes the thoughts off as Donovan finally makes it into the room.
"Boyd? Just come out and let's get this over with!" Stiles flickers once, the mist separating from him and forming another person standing on the edge of the vat. "What the hell are you doing up there?" Donovan pulls the pistol out of his waistband and aims it at Boyd's head. "Get down!" The shade says nothing, just tumbles forward into the blood.
Donovan curses as he runs up the stairs, bending over the vat to try and drag Boyd out. He never notices Stiles coming up behind him until it's too late. One good shove sends Donovan tumbling into the blood, his arms and head breaking the surface with a desperate grab for the edge. Stiles crouches down in front of him, allowing himself to be seen fully. He's smirking down at Donovan, his cold hands covering bloody ones.
"Long live the king."
Donovan's scream is swallowed by the Darkness.
Tracy and Hayden are easy to distract, he doesn't even have to use that shitty falsetto to keep them moving. He's not gonna lie, folks, they're a little stupid. Well, Tracy is. Hayden's just trying to keep up with the other girl. Derek leads them farther than most of the other ghosts have gone. They mainly stick to the third floor where the bedrooms are, playacting life.
"Can you catch me, Tracy," Derek asks, dancing just out of view up ahead.
"Wait! Just fucking stop!" But Derek has no plans of stopping, he's got a barrel of rage just begging to be released. It helps to kill Stiles from time to time, but it's better when they're still alive. He wants to hurt someone that won't just heal within minutes.
"You're getting warmer." Derek's voice is hard for the living to hear, it's a barely there whisper, but it's starting to get stronger. All of the spirits are getting stronger, a side effect of the Darkness. "Don't you wanna play Tracy?"
"What the fuck are talking about?" Tracy comes to a stop in one of the halls, looking around her in confusion. Hayden had lost her a few turns back and there's no hope of her catching up now. Tracy is all his and he doesn't feel like taking his time with her. "Hayden? Hayden, where'd you go?"
Derek continues forward, drawing Tracy after him as the mist starters to gather. He knows what the mist means, that his husband is nearby. Stiles always has been voyeuristic. Tracy follows him like a trained pup, never realizing her life is in danger. They come to a stop in the kitchen, the countertops gleaming under bright lights. There's no trace of mold to be found in this room, it belongs to Derek. He keeps it fastidiously clean, a byproduct of a strict mother and good old fashioned trauma. He stops by the sink, pulling a knife from the drying rack. It's meant for carving turkey, but he's got a different meat in mind. He supposes humans are pork. Isn't that what he'd read somewhere? He'd been planning a haunted house revolving around cannibals, his own spin on Leatherface.
"Who the fuck are you," Tracy demands. She doesn't have a gun, but she's got plenty of fighting spirit. Of course, no amount of fighting spirit will keep you alive in the Institute. It tends to devour those people.
"Don't you recognize me, Tracy? I was pretty famous before I was murdered." His grin is picture worthy, belongs on the front of a magazine, and Tracy's eyes widen with recognition. She knows him just like all of Theo's peons know him, a banker with an interest in illegal weaponry.
"You're dead."
"You're right." He moves forward gracefully, closing the space between them in three long strides. She never sees the knife just like Jackson had never seen the scalpel, her throat opening with a gush of hot blood that steams where it hits Derek's skin. She drops immediately, body twitching as she struggles to breathe. She doesn't struggle long, though.
"You did it too fast," Stiles complains. He's sitting on the counter when Derek turns, swinging his long legs back and forth. Derek drops the knife beside Tracy and crosses to his husband, settling between those long legs, wrapping them around his waist. "You said she'd scream."
"I'll make her scream later." Derek brushes his fingers across Stiles' cheek and then into his mouth, making him suck them clean of blood. "In the meantime, how about I make you scream for an hour or so?" Stiles smirks up at him, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck to keep him close.
"Promise?"
Chris, Erica, and Boyd have come up with a game plan to get the fuck out when the bedroom door opens and two people stumble inside. The front of Theo's shirt is covered in blood, splatters of it on his cheeks and caught in his hair. Despite this, he still appears just as calm as ever. He's got the gun in one hand and his phone in the other, glaring down at the three hostages with a malice that hadn't been there an hour ago.
"Get up," he snarls. "Get up or I shoot the useless one." The gun swings in Chris' direction, no tremor or hesitation. Theo means it, he has no problem with killing if it gets him a small fortune.
"Take it easy," Boyd starts, but Theo cuts him off with a growl.
"I've got a dead teammate downstairs, so don't fucking tell me to take it easy!" Chris focuses on Hayden and the way she seems to fight a trauma response. Her eyes glaze and then focus again, she's lost all color in her cheeks, she's shaking like a leaf in a strong wind. She's also got blood coating her hands up to her forearms.
"Who died," Chris asks, quiet and calm. He's not going to set these people off.
"Tracy." Theo's voice cracks, the only sign of emotion other than the rage darkening his eyes. "Her throat was cut downstairs and I wanna know how the three of you managed it. How'd you get us to wander through this fucking house for an hour and make it up here without us seeing you?"
"We've been here the entire time."
"Bullshit!" Theo's phone dings and he sucks in a deep breath before looking at it. Whatever he sees there makes his shoulders relax a fraction, some semblance of relief bleeding through his mask. "It's Donovan. He said he found something important."
"Where is it," Hayden asks. Her voice is steadier than the rest of her and she's visibly piecing herself back together. Theo pockets his phone and gestures with the gun, getting the three hostages out of the bedroom they'd been camping in.
"The basement."