A/N - I hope everyone is staying as safe and healthy as they can in this weird and kinda awful time we're all trapped in.
I decided to be a little weird in the second half of this chapter-not quite sure if it turned into a good weird or a bad weird, but I hope you enjoy it anyways.
xv.
scale
"I have a few leads, but I need you to come in and look at a few things, help us narrow it down. Is that okay?" Supergirl and Stiles speak in National City's central park a few days after he finally asked for help. Kara floats a foot above the ground, unconsciously it seems, and Stiles thrums with anticipation at her words. He's been exhausted ever since his meeting with Luka, barely able to make it off his bed, but Kara's request to meet energized him, drove him from his apartment, ready to make some headway against the Essyolyte.
"Yes, definitely, when?" he asks.
"Today. I'll take you there now, but I'll have to blindfold you. Security reasons."
It's funny because he's already been to the DEO. "That's fine," Stiles agrees, and Kara passes him a bag to put over his head before she picks him up bridal style and launches in the air. The wind catches the edges of the bag and the cuffs of Derek's leather jacket. Stiles shivers as they gain altitude, but it's barely a minute before they land again, and Kara sets him down, dragging the bag from his head.
They stand on a balcony high up a skyscraper overlooking the entire city. Stiles loves being up this high at night because the lights of every single building glimmer and wink up at him, and cars roam the streets like glowing blood rushing through veins, and it's as if he can hear the heartbeat they create.
Kara tugs his sleeve to pull him from his reverie and leads him through the wide glass doors into the DEO. It looks much the same as he remembers—very modern, very high-tech, crafted out of greys and blacks, dark-uniformed agents scurrying around like ants. Alex and Winn no doubt have the day off or are sequestered somewhere, but Stiles still keeps an eye out for them as Kara leads him to the central command room he broke into to hack a computer the first time round. Several of the agents they pass give him very suspicious looks, though Stiles hopes that's because he's an unknown visitor and not because they might recognize him from his intrusion. The masking spell he used warped him on the sensors, but it didn't do anything to disguise his features in person.
The computers ring an octagonal glass and metal table in the center of the room that throws holographic images into the air above it when Kara touches a button on the side. Superdouche appears as the images finish loading, and it's even harder to look at his stupid, too-familiar face after scrolling through all those old photos on his phone.
"We've narrowed it down to three possibilities," Kara says, and Stiles assumes Superdouche is all caught up on the situation because he moves to stand near Kara without saying anything. She hits a few buttons on the top of the table, and a trio of profiles appears before Stiles. All three are reptilian, one long and sinuous and running around on four legs, the second a chameleon of ever changing color, and the third, the third is the Essyolyte. Rage pools in his stomach, and Stiles has to hold it deep inside because that ancient alien—J'onn, or Hank, or whatever his name is—just walked through the door, and Stiles can't let his dark magic give him away.
"This is my boss, Hank Henshaw," Kara introduces him.
Stiles nods to the man and wonders if they've forgotten that the two of them already met briefly, outside Kara's apartment. He decides not to mention it right now.
"Do you recognize any of these aliens?"
Stiles points to the Essyolyte. "That one."
Kara knocks the other two suspects away and enlarges the Essyolyte's profile. She takes him through the information there, all things he found the first time around, and he pretends to look surprised . Kara's eyes cut to the side, her voice hitches, as she reaches the last point—the one about the Essyolyte's master. "I'm sorry, Stiles. It means someone else targeted Derek."
Stiles knows this already, of course, but hearing it again fills him with such fiery, overwhelming anger. You'd think he'd have burned up by now, crumbled away to ash and blackened dust, but instead, it turns him to dark glass which melts again each time he's sparked, a bit of him eroded away once more.
"He grips the edges of the holotable, knuckles turning white, fit to split, and he clenches his jaw to keep his power from spilling over, the wall within his mind trembling with the effort of it because he's infinitely aware that the mind-reading Hank Henshaw is right there.
"Can you think of who?" Kara asks quickly, and Stiles can barely hear her above the roaring in his ears.
Who indeed. Who hadn't they made enemies of over the years? "Can this thing look up people, too?"
Henshaw scratches the back of his neck. "Unofficially, yes," he says in his gravelly, avalanche down a mountain voice. Kara gives him a vaguely aghast look.
"Can you look up Gerard Argent?" Stiles asks. They fucked that man over a million ways to Sunday, and if anyone could find an alien to enslave to their will, it's Gerard Argent.
"Who's he?" Kara asks while Henshaw's fingers tap across the keyboard.
"He's psychotic," Stiles says.
"He's dead," Henshaw announces. "Died two years ago. Heart attack."
"What?" That is not possible. Gerard Argent is not the kind to be taken out by a mere heart attack. No. That's just what he wants the Pack to think.
"He's dead," Henshaw repeats.
Stiles lets out a cackle, a single, sharp bark that cracks something in the air around him. "He's not dead."
"I've got the medical reports, the death certificate, the obituary." Henshaw squints at the glowing text. "Not a very warm obit, is it."
"He and his son didn't exactly get along." That gives Stiles an idea, and he pulls his phone out to text Chris Argent.
"Is Gerard really dead?" the message reads. A little blunt, maybe, a little terse, but that's Stiles' and Chris' relationship. There's only a fifty-fifty chance that Chris will actually reply as the man forgets that he owns a phone most of the time, but today, his answer pops up barely seconds after Stiles texted him.
"Yes. Saw it myself. Why? That was two years ago."
"Oh, you know, just looking him up in a secret government facility. He ever have dealings with aliens?"
"No. Why?"
Stiles ignores the question, turning his attention back to the SuperFriends and their holoboard. "His son says he's dead, so I guess it can't be him." Stiles doesn't know how he feels about that. Gerard caused them so much pain and anguish, obviously, but the man was a force of nature, a fixture in the world, and it almost seems that would should end without Gerard raging through it.
"Anyone else?" Henshaw asks, but before Stiles can search his mental archives for another name, a young woman in a lab coat 'pardon mes' her way up to Henshaw to pass him a file.
"Sorry, sir, I have that analysis report you said you wanted right away, and the—" She falls silent when her eyes happen to land on Stiles for a moment, and his heart skips a beat because he recognizes her green eyes and flower crown. The lab tech he flirted with the last time he was here. The lab tech whose number her wrote on his hand. And then never texted.
Maybe she won't recognize him?
"You," she says, blinking. "You never texted." Her face crinkles, no doubt realizing the implications of his other lies that day.
"Do you to know each other?" Supderdouche asks, finally breaking the silence that Stiles has been using to purposefully forget that he's here.
She points a confused finger at Stiles. "He works here. His name is Scott."
Stiles folds his face into a look of confusion. "Sorry. My name is Stiles."
But Scott is the name of his best friend who he's told Kara about. Damnit. Why couldn't he have picked a better fake name?
"You said you were new."
"I've got one of those faces," Stiles says with what he hopes is an innocent shrug. He really screwed the motherfucking pooch on this one, didn't he? With Henshaw the mind-reading alien right there, he can't use his influence. Just hope he can come up with a mighty good lie.
Stiles feels the gentle prod of the alien's mind against his own. A normal person would never notice the intrusion, and Stiles has to decide what to do quickly because mental walls would be quite suspicious to someone who has probably never encountered them on a human before. He wipes the memories of his first time at the DEO, hides them behind something innocuous, a movie night all alone, the film unremembered because it was unimportant, just another in a long line of lonely movie nights. His other incriminating memories he keeps at the back, where it would take a long, deep delve to find, and after a breath, he feels Henshaw withdraw.
"Look, I'm sorry if some dick with a face like mine ghosted you, but that couldn't have been me. I mean, this is a super secret government facility." Stiles gestures around him, running his mouth like he always does to get himself out of trouble. "How would I have gotten in here?" Very easily, actually, but that's not the point. "I'm not exactly a master infiltrator over here, am I? I trip over nothing, like every other step—I'm literally the living embodiment of a foot on a banana peel." Laying it on a little thick there, but his mouth is moving, and there's no stopping it. "And I'll be the first to admit it—I do a lot of stupid shit. I used to drag my best friend into the woods to look for dead bodies—my dad's a cop; it's not that weird—but even I'm not dumb enough to try breaking in somewhere like here." Stiles laughs. Wind it up. "Sorry. I babble. I'm not nearly cool enough to ask a cute girl for her number, even if I weren't, you know, grieving a dead boyfriend." His smile cracks at that, at the oh-so-cavalier way he says those words, and he wants to carve that sin, that betrayal from his flesh like penance.
He blinks a couple of times, fighting back the tears which so desperately want to spring forth and be free, use them to his advantage here to drive his lie home, but that just makes him feel sicker, diseased.
So Stiles swallows the tears, skirts his gaze away, hoping he's done enough and wondering what he'll do if he hasn't.
"I guess…I was wrong," the lab tech says, slowly, the conflicting stories warring across her face. "Sorry."
Stiles is on thin fucking ice—he can see that in everyone's eyes as the lab tech hurries away with her report. One more crazy coincidence like this, and he won't be able to talk his way out of things anymore.
He offers the others his best awkward smile—his "what can you do?" grin, a faint shrug on his shoulders. "Doppelgangers. Weird, right?" He looks at Superdouche. At least that helps his case.
But the three of them—Henshaw especially—are staring at him with hints of uncertainty and doubt in their eyes, and Stiles knows they will never look at him the same way again. It's the same way the Pack looked at him after the Nogitsune when they thought he wouldn't see, the same eyes Scott gave him after he drove that support beam through Donovon's chest.
Lack of trust.
"I should go," he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Thanks for your help. If I come up with any other names, I'll let you know."
Henshaw drums his fingers against the table, and he's definitely thinking about holding Stiles here, but Kara rounds the table to give him a ride home, Superdouche following her after a beat. The bag goes back over his head, and soon, the cold air wraps around him once again, Kara's arms firm and thin beneath him. And for a moment, he allows himself a weak thought. He wishes it were Superdouche carrying him through the sky, so that he could feel those thick arms and that broad chest and pretend, in the darkness, that it's Derek holding him instead.
A tear slides down his cheek as Kara sets him down, and Stiles slips a hand under the bag to wipe it away before the cover is removed. He blinks as the bright sun hits his eyes, and he's not surprised to find that they aren't at his apartment, standing instead on some random balcony near CatCo.
Stiles raises an eyebrow at the two Supers, refusing to speak first.
Kara plants her hands on her hips. "We thought we could go look for the Essyolyte. You were by the docks last time, right?"
"There a reason we didn't have this little chat back at the DEO?" Stiles asks, holding back a little smirk.
"Hank's very by the book. Gather all the info before moving. Get a team together. It didn't seem like the database was going to be very helpful, so I thought we could go look for the source." Kara shrugs. "What do you think?"
Stiles thinks he doesn't have his Void mask on him or any magical supplies other than a vial of purple powder, and he really can't remember what it does. "Okay," he says and cracks his knuckles. "Can we get something from my apartment first?"
Kara nods, and in an instant, they're standing before his window, Stiles ducking through it and wondering why he hasn't yet figured out how to do so smoothly given how many windows he's climbed through over the years as his foot catches on the sill, and he crashes over the radiator and into the room. "Ow," he groans, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.
Kara's head pokes through the window, golden hair cascading in a curtain around her. "Okay?"
"I'll live." He groans as he stands, his knee protesting even through the magically altered brace. "Give me a minute."
Allison's knife is still stuck in the wall, and Stiles yanks it free, retrieving his forearm sheath from his dresser so he can strap the blade beneath Derek's jacket. He sequesters a few pouches and vials around his person, though his supplies are running low. Stiles opens his sock drawer, pushing a few rolled pairs aside to reveal his Void mask, still cracked across the cheek.
Stiles stares at it. It would give him away in an instant. The time isn't quite right for that.
So he leaves the mask among his socks, turns instead to his wolf plushie, perched atop his pillow. He stretches out a finger and gently touches it on the head. "I think we're getting closer," he whispers. "Will we be able to rest, once this is done?" God, he hopes so.
He kisses the wolf's plastic nose and darts from his room before the tears begin to fall. Kara helps him climb out onto the balcony, his head ducked to avoid smacking it on the sill like he has so many times before.
"Is there another way you can carry me rather than bridal style?" Stiles asks as Kara comes to pick him up again. "It's embarrassing. I feel like a baby."
Kara just giggles and sweeps him off his feet.
"So undignified," he mutters.
It only takes them a minute or two to reach the dock district, but that's more than enough time for the frigid, fast-moving air to freeze Stiles' fingers and nose, and he stuffs them under his jacket when they land, rubbing them against the flannel to warm them up. The three of them stand by the water's edge, only two feet from the place where Stiles almost tipped himself over, the Essyolyte's warehouse to their left.
"I think that's its lair," he says, pointing at the squat building. There's newly broken glass littered across the ground.
"I doubt it's here now, but let's take a look. Maybe it left some kind of clue." Superdouche leads the way to the front doors, and Stiles hears the lock crunch as he pulls them open as easily as he would an already unlocked door.
Stiles steps around him to enter the large, open room first. Dust motes dance through the air, sparked golden by the sunlight streaming through the broken window. There are the shattered boxes from their fight, still strewn about the floor, no doubt responsible for the happily revolving dust. Other than that, the warehouse is empty.
Kara squints in that way she does when she's using her x-ray vision, while Stiles and Superdouche move deeper into the building. If Stiles can just find some scrap of DNA—a dot of blood or a fallen scale—then he can track the Essyolyte down, wherever it may be. But finding that scrap is a big ol' if. He searches the area where they fought—if there's any evidence, that's where it'll be.
"What are you looking for?" Superdouche asks as Stiles begins to rifle through the broken bits of wood.
"DNA," Stiles says, grunting as he squats, bum knee stuck straight out.
"You think the science geeks can use it to find the Essyolyte somehow?"
"I don't know. They're your science geeks." Stiles cranes his neck to look up at Superdouche. "You really call them science geeks?"
"They call themselves that."
"Help me look."
Superdouche tosses his red cape back as he squats down beside Stiles, and a moment later, Kara is there as well, all three of them sifting through the wreckage. "If we find the Essyolyte and its master, what will you do?" Kara asks Stiles.
"Do you really want to know?"
He looks her in the eye, fingers paused above a particularly jagged spear of wood. She nods once, a quiet nod, worry in her blue irises.
"I'll kill them." The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. "Will you stop me?"
"Wouldn't you rather they be brought to justice?"
"No."
"Do you really think you can kill them?" Superdouche asks, though Stiles can't tell if he means morally or physically.
"I guess we'll find out." What Stiles really means is yes, he can, but he's worried that answer might make the others want to stop him.
Kara flips over a mostly intact plank. Beneath it lies a single reptilian scale. Stiles reaches for it, other hand fishing a pouch from his pocket. But before he can lay a finger on the prize, something slams through the wall behind him with an almighty crash, and he finds himself flying through the air, hard arms catching him after just a second, spinning him around so he's not the one smashing into the wall, though slamming into Superdouche's rock of a torso isn't much better, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
Stiles groans as he drops to his knees, Superdouche's hand a weight on his back. "Okay?"
Stiles coughs once and nods.
He struggles upright with Superdouche's help, clutching the man's forearm like a lifeline more than he'd like to admit. His vision spins, the whole warehouse muddied, but in a moment, the world solidifies once again, and Stiles sees that the wide open room is filled with snarling, dog-like creatures. Their necks are too long, their tails as well, tapering to a point like a lizard's, and their heads are far too small—though that might just be because of the size of the teeth. And the claws. Longer than steak knives on those short little legs.
"Well, shit. That's not the Essyolyte," Stiles says, crossing his arms.
"That's your reaction to five alien dogs trying to maul Supergirl?" Superdouche asks.
Seems Stiles forgot to notice that bit. One creature has its jaws around Kara's arm, another is locked on her leg, and a third lunges at her even as she flings the fourth into the fifth, knocking them both into the wall. "Oh right. I suppose we should do something about that."
"I'll do something about it. You stay out of harm's way."
Stiles has literally never stayed out of harm's way in his life. Instead, he stays close behind Superdouche as they rush the fight A dog creature snarls and spits at them, shaking plaster dust from its oily fur, but Superdouche hits it with a blast from his laser eyes. It whimpers, two charred and reddened spots on its side. Stiles ducks under Superdouche's arm, despite his shout that Stiles stay back, Allison's knife falling into his hand, and he wonders—could these things be connected to the Essyolyte? There's something reptilian about them, but their hide is more otter-like than lizard, and could he ask them? Are they at all intelligent, or merely beasts as their snarling, grimacing demeanor would suggest?
One lunges for him, detaching from Kara's leg, clearly deciding that Stiles makes easier and softer prey. He sees those teeth, yawning like a maw, like Peter's did when he was in his maddened state, like Donovon's did just before Stiles—Stiles brings his knife down on sinewy flesh which resists unnaturally before finally giving way to blood and muscle and eventually bone. The creature shrieks, tears itself free of his blade, and rears back, blood arcing through the air like paint from a brush.
It falls as Kara knocks one of the creatures off her arm with an icy breath, and the five dog-aliens collect themselves into a pack before Stiles and the Supers—great name for a band—and after the briefest of high-noon stalemates, everything erupts into chaos.
The dog-creatures leap as one, like something of a hive mind, jaws dropping open, unhinged to reveal all those teeth. Both Kara and Superdouche try to shove Stiles behind them, but he's slippery, years of practice, of dodging Derek and Scott in just the same way—
He ducks claws, slides across the ground, right underneath the vulnerable belly, though his knife is just an inch too low as the creatures leaps—
He sees a flash of red eyes—red sleeves—
He flips over, scrambles to his feet, slipping on leaves as the pack jumps again in unison, slamming into his own, smaller pack in a burst of red, blue, and yellow—
And his feet catch on the concrete, and he stands, the world bending around him, trees bursting from that very concrete beneath his shoes, the grey stone cracked and warped as a leaf falls on his head—
The wolves howl, though the sound is too high and too harsh, that sorrowful beauty he loves so much gone, replaced by a sort of laughter that Stiles certainly doesn't like—
He throws the knife—
Underhand, the way Allison taught him—
As the dry leaves fall amongst the dust to land on the shattered planks of wood he had been rifling through not too long ago—
The knife strikes flesh, bites shoulder, and one of the dog-aliens falls out of line, squealing, but the other wolves crash into his pack of red and yellow and blue eyes as sharp, bright lines slice into the wall and a chill fills the air—
Stiles tackles the alien, tearing his knife from its shoulder, and saws through the muscle and sinew and cartilage of the throat as he wishes he had when the Alpha Pack was killing his friends or when the Dread Doctors were experimenting on kids, as he wishes someone had done to him when he'd gone dark—
Blood splatters his face—
It's warm, like the spray off a bowl while washing the dishes—
He falls off the corpse; he'd like to say he rolls off it, suave and coordinated and ready to jump on his next target, but really, he falls off the body, panting and trembling, slipping in the spreading pool of blood—
Yips, barks, lash the air, and then the oily wolves are fleeing from the warehouse-forest, which confuses Stiles because he's never known one of his enemies to flee so tuck-tailed before as they usually like to disappear into thin air or beat the shit out of his pack, but these aliens leave their wounded two behind to rush from the warehouse as fast as they can, one of them nearly bowling Stiles over as it goes—
Stiles pants in the silence that the battle leaves behind, and in that quiet, he does what he always does when the violence begins to die down—
He finds his red eyes—still glowing with adrenaline, and Stiles stumbles over to him to make sure he's unharmed, his hands sliding over cheeks to draw that face to his, lips pressed to lips, just as they always do after battle.
But this time, something is wrong.
The cheeks are too smooth, and the jaw is too tense, and after a second, he pulls away from Stiles, dragging Stiles' hands off his face, expression concerned and confused. "What are you doing?" Derek asks.
"What am I—?" Stiles blinks, steps back, and the whole picture clicks into place before him.
He staggers away, hand clapped to his mouth, scrubbing the betrayal from his lips as he fights to keep the tears from his eyes. Superdouche stares back at him. He clearly has no idea what to do or even say. Stiles doesn't want him to react at all. That would be mortifying.
"I'm sorry," he says to Derek.
"I—" Superdouche begins.
Stiles will pay for this later, but right now, there's a task that needs doing, so he turns to Kara, hoping he can ignore his way out of what he just did to Superdouche. "Where's that scale you found?"
Kara can obviously tell he wants to move forward, so she frowns and walks back to the broken crates they had been searching which are now scattered hither and yon across the warehouse floor. The scale is nowhere to be found, crushed to dust during the fight.
Stiles stares at the dirty floor. All sound has disappeared from the world. That was his one chance. Why the fuck does this keep happening to him? Each clue he finds, each lead he follows winds up as a dead god-damned end with no clue where to turn. Why has his entire life been a failure and a struggle and a hardship? It doesn't even have to be easy—that would obviously be too much to ask—but for once, he would like something to at least work. Especially now. Especially this. Because it's for Derek.
His anger wars with his sadness while his guilt sits on the sidelines and eats popcorn. The anger wins. He picks up the longest plank of wood and just sort of stares at it for drawn out moment before suddenly exploding into motion, beating the plank against the ground as hard as he can. Splinters of wood fly through the air until the whole board disintegrates, biting into his hands as it crumbles. He flings the last bits away.
Stiles hunts around for another plank to smash, but he winds up collapsing to his knees instead, all his rage leaving him in a rush. He sits there with his hands limp in his lap and closes his eyes. A gentle hand touches his shoulder. "What can we do?"
Stiles sighs, exhausted. "Nothing, Kara. I don't know."
The hand lifts away. "I'm sorry? I'm not—that's—"
Stiles heaves himself upright and turns to face her. She looks shocked and a little frightened as she flounders to find a way to protect her secret identity. "It's fine. I've known who you are since we met. I haven't told anyone. Don't worry. And I know he's Clark, too." He flaps a hand at Superdouche almost as an afterthought.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Kara asks.
"I know a thing or two about secrets, and I know it's usually better to let people tell their secrets in their own time. Sorry to steal yours, but man, I am just so exhausted."
Kara cups his cheek in her hand then leans her forehead against his. Stiles shuts his eyes, lets a few tears slip out. "I'm sorry, Superd—Clark. I get mixed up sometimes. The past…bleeds into the present sometimes, and I get…confused."
"I'm sorry I have his face. I can't imagine how hard that is." Superdouche smiles at him then seems to remember his stolen face and cuts the expression off before it can slice into Stiles. Too late.
"So what now?" Kara asks, but Stiles only shrugs. He just wants to fall into the harbor and sink all the way to the bottom.
"I'll call the DEO. Maybe they can get something off one of the creatures." Superdouche nudges the dead dog-alien with his toe while its wounded companion—the one Stiles stabbed in the shoulder—writhes weakly nearby. "And, uh, we need a clean-up crew."
"You fight like you've done it a thousand times before," Kara says. "Where did you learn?"
It's a double standard. He stole her secret away, but he can't yet give up his own. Though in all fairness, his secrets are a lot worse than some glorious alien superpowers.
He shakes his head. "My dad is a sheriff."
Kara and Superdouche know that's not the full story. How could it be? What sheriff's son could butcher an alien creature like he just did? What sheriff's son would barely flinch at the thought of brutal, bloody battle?
Superdouche finishes speaking into his comm. "A team is on its way."
"Can I go now?" Stiles asks. He wants to sleep so badly.
"I'm afraid J'onn will want to debrief you," Kara answers, smiling apologetically.
Stiles sighs and sits back down, slumped amongst the broken wood. "So what's his real name? J'onn or Hank?" Kara blinks at him. "You introduced him as Hank this afternoon."
"J'onn Jones is his real name. Hank Henshaw is the name of the face he wears. He's a shape-shifting alien from Mars."
"Oh. Cool." He didn't know about the Mars part. Past Stiles would have been absolutely thrilled about that, bursting with a million questions, but right now, he is just too tired to care.
The three of them don't talk while they wait for the DEO's team. Stiles lies down, a plank of wood his pillow, and closes his eyes, slipping backwards.
He lay in a patch of sunlight, an arm that was more log than pillow beneath his head. "I don't understand why we couldn't go to a forest or the beach like a normal couple," Derek complained. He holds a paperback in the hand not trapped under Stiles' skull, but he hadn't really been able to concentrate on it.
"This is so much more aesthetic," Stiles explained.
"This is so much creepier," Derek corrected.
They lay in the Beacon Hills graveyard, surrounded by tombstones, a blue blanket between them and the still slightly damp grass.
"It's a beautiful, sunny day," Stiles said, pointing up at the bright blue sky for emphasis. "How can that be creepy?"
"I don't like dead people."
"They why do you watch horror movies with me every Friday?"
"Because you like them."
Stiles glowed and snuggled closer to Derek, a smile tugging at his lips because he could not be happier.
He wakes up when boots tramp through the door, but he doesn't open his eyes or sit up. He hears J'onn's voice, Alex's, the babble as the agents collect the dead and wounded dogs in what's no doubt a body bag, and then footsteps approach his head, and it's Kara's voice near his ear. "Stiles, it's time to go. We need you to come back to the DEO with us."
"Okay," he says. He stands woodenly. Catches Alex staring at him. How covered in blood is he this time? And then he follows the Men-in-Black out of the warehouse and into the back of a serial killer van with tinted windows.
