xviii.

the living dead

Stiles stares at the empty patch of ground, willing it to fill again, his fingers crossed tightly at his sides as if he might somehow conjure Derek's specter through sheer force of will. Then he twists in a circle like Derek had just walked away like any normal person. But the park is empty of cut cheek bones and dark stubble.

"Everything alright, Stiles?" Kara calls, and Stiles realizes the rest of the team has already started back towards the van. Kara pauses in the grass and looks over her shoulder at him, holding out her hand.

Stiles swallows the thick lump in his throat and casts about the park one more time. "I—Yeah. I just thought I saw something."

He hurries to catch up with the crew, his shaking hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He, J'onn, Kara, and Alex climb back into the van where James and Winn wait, and as soon as the doors close behind him, Stiles' throat closes up. He lightly clasps his hands together and lets them dangle between his knees, leaning forward on his elbows as he closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe. He can hear J'onn and Winn talking, no doubt strategizing about this warehouse and its location, but to Stiles, their voices are just a hum of noise.

He should join them. Brainstorm as well, help craft the plan. That was his entire role back in the Pack, and part of him feels horribly guilty that he's not taking that on again, here and now, but another part of him is glad that someone's finally taken the responsibility out of his hands because clearly, he can't handle it.

Before he knows it, they're back at the big, shiny DEO building, and Alex is sliding past him to open the doors. Stiles blinks as light bleeds into the van, dragging himself upright to follow Kara and the others outside. He looks around, struggling to regain his bearings after disappearing for a moment, and he sees a man in a familiar leather jacket with dark hair and stubble and a swagger to his walk pass by the mouth of the alley and disappear. Stiles takes half a step in that direction but stops himself. He does not need to feed into this new delusion, doesn't need to tie himself up in knots chasing after ghosts.

"Okay?" Kara asks again.

Stiles nods sharply and moves his attention from the alley, crossing to the open door with his head bowed. The group traipses inside, and J'onn heads up to the command center with its holotables and walls of computers. Stiles sits down on the same chair he was in earlier, checking his pockets for any drugs, but they're tragically empty.

"Winn, pull up the specs on this warehouse," J'onn orders with a snap of his fingers, and Winn jumps to it.

Stiles takes a careful, deep breath. He will not let himself slide away right now, though his mind so clearly wants to, to escape the newfound stress of the knowledge that he's truly cracking up and hallucinating, but his presence in the real world is more important right now, and so he'll do his best to remain.

Stiles rises. Maybe movement will help him stay grounded. He steps up to the holotable, slotting himself in between Kara and Alex who slide to the side to make room. The warehouse is in a part of the city he hasn't explored yet as it's way on the outskirts—a trek to reach on the best of nights. Stiles doesn't much care about the logistics of the plan the others are crafting. He's too busy wondering what he'll find within. He cannot even begin to fathom who the Essyolyte's master might be, and it's driving him absolutely batty. With Gerard dead and the Alpha Pack disavowing the whole thing, he's been wracking his brains trying to come up with more options. The Daroch is dead, the Dread Doctors as well. Peter's a dick and would have no problem snuffing Derek, but Stiles doesn't think he knows about aliens or is smart enough to get one under his thumb anyways.

In the end, it doesn't matter. No matter who this person is, they'll die all the same once Stiles finds them.

"We'll go tomorrow night," J'onn says, jolting Stiles from his thoughts. If it were up to him, they'd go this very second because he doesn't know how to sit still, but if he really puts his mind to it, he supposes he can see the sense in waiting and resting up. It's not like this master knows they're coming. One more day won't change that. Probably.

The meeting breaks up soon after that, and Kara takes him home, flying through the sky and carrying him bridal style once again. They climb through his window, and then Kara goes to change, leaving him alone for the first time in, well, he's not entirely sure.

He goes into his bedroom and searches all his drawers for any drugs he might have on hand. He finds a few tabs of acid, but a twelve hour trip might not be the best choice right now, especially in his current state of mind, so he reluctantly leaves it be in favor of his last packet of peach gummies. He pops a couple in his mouth, changes into pajamas, and shuffles back out into the living room. Kara has already returned and is currently rooting through his very bare cupboards, looking for snacks.

"Seriously?" she asks, shutting the last drawer.

Stiles shrugs. He doesn't really have an excuse.

"I'm ordering DoorDash," Kara decides as she pulls out her phone. "What do you want?"

"Whatever's fine."

Kara tsks at his indecisiveness and orders a buttload of Chinese food. They eat on the couch while watching cartoons, and they don't talk much. Stiles is grateful for that. He's too wrung out for words. He falls asleep on the couch at some point, waking only briefly as strong arms carry him to his bed and tuck him in. In his hazy state, he can just about pretend they're thicker than they are, broader, but sadness still twinges his heart as he settles back down into the depths of sleep.

In his dream, the sun is shining. It's hazy and golden, and it fills the room like it's been spread through a diffuser. It spills across the bookcases and gleams off the heavy oak desk by the wide windows. It shines off the hardwood floors and catches on the dust motes in the air, and it feels like breathing liquid gold.

Stiles sits upside down in the leather chair by the desk, his feet sticking up in the air, his head dangling towards the ground as his hands rest on his stomach. It's not exactly a comfortable position, but he's studying something very important on the ceiling, and this is the best way to do it.

The door opens, bringing with it a gust of wind and the smell of coffee. Stiles cranes his neck and spins his chair to see who it is. It's Derek, of course. This is his office, after all.

Except he doesn't look terribly happy, his thick eyebrows drawn together in consternation, and he drops the tray of to-go coffee cups to the side table hard enough that liquid leaps out of the hole in the lids. He plants his fists on either side of the cups, his shoulders tight as he hunches over.

"What's put the bee in your bonnet?" Stiles asks, still upside down. There's so much color in the room. It's honestly amazing.

Derek looks back at Stiles, and Stiles grins at him a little dopily, trying to make that furrow between Derek's brow go away. His efforts are all for naught as that furrow remains staunchly in place as Derek pushes away from the side table and faces Stiles fully. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a harsh sigh.

"Stiles, are you high right now?" Derek demands, his voice heavy and annoyed.

Stiles' grin widens. "Maybe."

The grain in the wood floor shifts and dances like a kaleidoscope, drawing his eye and distracting him from whatever Derek thinks is so serious. Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, his jaw bunching beneath his stubble in that way Stiles likes.

"Seriously, Stiles?" Derek snaps, and the grin drops off Stiles' face. "I thought we talked about this. Now is not the goddamn time. We have no idea when this thing is going to strike next, and we all need to be on our toes. Look, I know you're going through some shit right now, but you promised me no more drugs. Not after the last time when you wound up crying in the graveyard."

"Yeah, but then I thought about how nice drugs are and how colorful they make the world," Stiles pouts. "And I just… it was all going dark, you know? And I wanted to see the colors."

"But you promised," Derek insists. "You promised me multiple times on multiple occasions, and Stiles, I—" Derek's whole face scrunches together in pain. Stiles lets his hands fall from his stomach to dangle on either side of his head, knuckles brushing the floor.

"I don't know if I can do this if this keeps up."

Stiles slides off his chair into a puddle on the floor and struggles to get his feet under him so he can stand. The world tilts around him, and the kaleidoscopes in the wood grain and the miniature dragons crawling along the backs of the shelves seek to draw his attention, but he gives his head a shake so he can focus on Derek, on his words, on that pained expression on his face, even as a dark knife slides through his heart, and the colors in his eyes begin to dim.

"What?" he stutters.

"Stiles, I can't worry about the Pack, and the stuff trying to kill us, and whether or not you're falling apart all at the same time!" Derek throws his hands in the air.

Stiles shrinks into himself. "Derek, I—"

The dream dissolves before he sees how it ends. Stiles knows how it goes anyways. He promises Derek he'll be better, Derek chooses to believe him, and then nothing much changes, and Derek never makes good on his threat.

Stiles groans and drags his hands down his face, nails digging into flesh. Why couldn't he have gotten one of his nice memories last night? He's already so tired, and the bad dreams mean he doesn't rest at all. He buries his head in his pillows and tries to doze again, but that just brings on the sleep paralysis so he gives up after he rips himself free from the grip of the demon.

He shuffles into the bathroom and showers. There's music filtering out of the living room, so Kara is still here, and he can smell sizzling bacon as well, even over the scent of his shampoo. He lathers the suds slowly through his hair as his body aches.

Tonight.

They're going after the Essyolyte and its master tonight. His skin buzzes with the thought of it. Tonight, he'll get vengeance for Derek. Sweet, bloody revenge. The box in his head rattles and screams, and he's tempted to let it out. The beast. It roars louder, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get control again. It takes him a long time as he's fighting himself. He manages it eventually by focusing on how the bar of soap feels in his hands. His hands alone. Not larger, broader, rougher hands with black hairs on the backs of the knuckles, slicking the bar up and down Stiles'—Nope. No. Stop.

Stiles turns off the shower, changes, and heads out to the living room. Kara's put two plates on the kitchen counter, each laden with pancakes and bacon. Stiles doesn't eat much anymore, but he sits on the stool and picks up his fork anyways because Kara is beaming at him with such expectation in her eyes. He picks at the food, eating it in tiny bites, and Kara wolfs her breakfast—or is it lunch at this point? Stiles is unsure of the time—down in one go, and Stiles slides his leftovers her way to be devoured as well.

Then it's time to head back to the DEO to continue to prep for the night's mission. They go over blueprints and security cameras—not that there are many in the district. Kara and Alex leave for the training rooms. They invite Stiles to join them, and he agrees to go along to watch, if only to get out from under J'onn's dark and brooding eye, though he needs to save his energy for the fight tonight, and he's so on edge right now, he's a little worried what he might do with even a little adrenaline coursing through his system.

The have some kind of device that filters out the yellow sun particles or whatever—Stiles doesn't understand it—but it allows the two of them to spar on an even playing field. Stiles watches them closely. Alex is clearly the better of the two—Kara is more used to relying on her strength and speed, and it's left her technique a little sloppy. She reminds Stiles somewhat of Scott in that way—full of boundless enthusiasm and not necessarily a lot of strategy.

The two of them are sweaty and tired by the time they're done, so they leave Stiles to take showers. This is the first time he's been left unsupervised in a while, and he wanders the halls alone, a ghost amongst the agents and scientists flowing this way and that. He's become something of a fixture at the DEO lately, and he uses that to his advantage until he reaches the roof. The door requires key card access, but he swiped one on the way up here, and he lets himself out.

It's raining. It's a light sprinkle, barely begun, the sky still semi-light as the clouds continue to gather. Stiles walks right over to the side and sits on the ledge, dangling his feet over the empty air. He's not sure how high up he is. He just likes the way the wind feels against his face, and the sensation of that pit in his stomach, like when the roller coaster is climbing slowly up its very first hill.

He stays up there until it begins to grow dark, and then he heads back in. No one comes to find him, and he's grateful for that. There's a lot of noise in his head, and the presence of others only makes it worse. He needs to quiet somehow, if he's going to find his revenge tonight, but he can't capture the quiet, the stillness. He doesn't know why he expected otherwise. He's literally never been able to quiet the voices in his head, even before… all this.

Stiles travels downstairs and finds the others still in the mission control room, loading up with weapons while they wait for him. There are plenty of things Stiles could have done to prepare. He could have refreshed the sigils carved into his skin—they lose potency without the fresh blood, and though he thinks they'll still work to some degree, he doesn't want to rely on their reduced power. He could have reupped the contents of his vials and pouches, but all he has are the remnants of whatever he already had on hand. He doesn't even have Allison's triangular knife at the moment—it's probably stuck in one of his apartment walls.

His lack of preparation doesn't matter. He'll take the Essyolyte and its master apart with his bare hands if he can.

"Are we ready?" J'onn asks in his deep, bass voice.

The whole squad turns to look at Stiles. He meets each of their eyes, trying to imagine they are his Pack, the faces of the old overlaying the new. Kara and Scott, both so hopeful, so strong and determined to do the right thing, to save people, no matter the cost to themselves. He sees Lydia in Alex, in their intelligence that's so sharp it almost hurts, their take-no-prisoners, kick any and everyone's asses attitudes. Winn and Kira, both kind, both bubbly, both unparalleled in their areas of expertise. James and Liam, new to their badassery and finding their place. J'onn's leadership reminds him of Allison—stalwart, unflappable, just a little bit mean when the moment calls for it.

And Superdouche—Superman—Clark Kent—whatever the hell you want to call him. The connection should be obvious, given that they share a face, but Stiles doesn't actually see much of Derek in him. Superdouche is kind where Derek was acidic, open and available where Derek was brooding, calm while Derek literally bubbled with rage at any given moment in time.

Stiles doesn't know if that makes it easier or harder. He keeps looking for someone who's not there, keeps waiting for a different voice to come out of that mouth, and it hurts him every time it doesn't. But if he saw more of Derek in Superdouche, would he want this other man? Would he lose himself in a fantasy that would only be a disservice to himself, Superdouche, and Derek?

He blinks, and there's his hallucination standing right beside Superdouche. This is the clearest he's seen the ghost since he started going crazy. Ghost Derek doesn't move, and as Stiles shifts his stance, he sees that the ghost is two-dimensional and warps as Stiles' perspective changes. Stiles' Derek is dead and gone, and that's the truth. Superdouche is flesh and blood, and he's not Derek, despite their faces.

And that—

Stiles forces himself to say it.

Is okay.

He looks to the others and nods, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He takes a deep breath.

"We're ready."


They park at the waterfront. They place themselves right at the doors to the warehouse because at this point, Stiles doesn't care about stealth or subtlety, and he somehow pulls the others into agreeing with him. Kara and J'onn are scouting the area overhead while the rest of them wait in the van, and Stiles' entire body itches with the desperate need to move and fight.

He hears their feet land outside the van like a heartbeat, and Alex swings the rear door open to admit them, though neither of them climb inside.

"We haven't seen any movement," Kara says. "No lights, either. Not even my x-ray vision is picking anything up."

Stiles' heart stings at the thought of this being all for naught, of starting over, but he takes a deep breath and forcibly calms his nerves. "We still don't know how magic interferes with your fancy sight," he points out. "They're in there. I feel it in my jellies."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "Your jellies?"

Stiles shrugs.

They leave Winn in the van, and Stiles, Alex, and James hop down to the pavement. Alex is dressed in her agent blacks and James in his Guardian garb, overdramatic black mask and all. Stiles thinks the Void mask is cooler, but J'onn made it very clear that he's not to wear that anymore lest it help to unchain the box in his head. Stiles is simply dressed in his usual red plaid, his jeans dark and ripped at the knees.

He stretches his arms towards the sky, feels every ache and pain in his body, and finds he revels in them. Because they brought him to this moment, this place. His scars belong to him, they mark the passage of his life, the voyage of his days, even if some of them also fill him with shame. He will bear that shame and these marks, and maybe one day, he'll be better for them, even if today is not that day.

Stiles takes the lead. It's his right, and he won't be denied it. No one argues with him. Instead, they fall in behind him, flanking him in a V—all except James who splits off to do another perimeter check—and the older version of himself revels in the squad goals and badassery. He walks right up to the main doors of the warehouse and throws them open. He does not care for stealth tonight. He has come as an avenging angel, and the Essyolyte and its master will know their doom approaches. He wears red and black so the blood won't show through, and as energy and adrenaline begins to flood through him, he feels the runes carved into his skin tingle, and he feels small threads of power begin to coil through his muscles. The blast rune spells on his knuckles were one use only, but the speed and strength runes still have a smidge of juice left it seems.

The warehouse is dark. There are a few sky lights in the ceiling that let in the silver moonlight. Stiles knows a night vision rune, could carve them right above his eyebrow, but he doesn't think that would be well received by his entourage, so he lets his plain human eyes adjust until he can see the world in greyscale.

Not that there's much to see. The warehouse is vast but mostly empty. A few hulking shadows are littered around the concrete floor—leftover machinery, maybe—and there's trash littered everywhere, and their footsteps track prints through the thick dust as they press forward. Stiles listens for any sound of movement. He wishes he was a wolf because his normal ears can't pick anything up. He looks to Kara and Superdouche, but they shake their heads.

Stiles glances upwards. Thick rafters stretch across the ceiling of the warehouse. If he were the Essyolyte, that's where he would hide so he could drop down behind the group for the big, dramatic entrance. Kara follows his gaze, and he sees that she has the same thought. He raises an eyebrow, and Kara nods before moving to grab him under the arms. She flies him up to the rafters, and they land silently on one of the beams. Stiles crouches there and peers into the gloom, holding his breath as if that will somehow steady his vision.

It takes a few moments, but he spots the hulking shadow there amongst the rafters. Ice spreads across his limbs, his spine, sharpening him, and that box in his head rattles and roars as he floods with anger, and it takes all his willpower to keep the lid on.

The Essyolyte rises to its full height, and its head scrapes the ceiling. Stiles digs his feet in and rushes the Essyolyte. Kara is a second too late to stop him because she doesn't realize he's about to be this stupid. He's about halfway across the rafters when a second commotion starts up down below. Stiles is too laser-focused on the Essyolyte to look down. The rest of the Super Team can handle whatever it is.

The Essyolyte storms to meet him, rears back one of its thick, scaly arms, and swats at him. Its hand slams into Stiles' chest, and he flies off the rafters and through the air, hurtling toward the ground at a speed that will break all his bones. Yep. That was a dumb plan.

Arms grab him and place him lightly on the stone ground. He sits there with his head reeling and his chest aching from the blow, and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the stars away. Kara lands beside him in that dramatic, heroic way of hers and offers him a hand up. He slaps his palm to hers, and she drags him upright, holding him upright while he catches his balance.

The warehouse has turned to chaos. It seems the Alpha Pack has busted through the windows and leapt at the Super Team. Deucalion has jumped J'onn who's back in his Martian form, while the twins have combined to take on Superdocuhe. Superdouche punches them in the chest, but the Twins barely stumble back. Superdouche looks absolutely stunned, but luckily, his impervious skin protects him from the werewolves' claws. Kali and Alex dance together, trading blows that never actually hit.

Stiles ignores them all as Kara goes to help her sister. He looks instead for the Essyolyte and spots it just in time to see it bound down from the rafters and head for the back of the warehouse. Stiles runs after it. It will not get away from him. Not this time. Not ever again.

Except that Deucalion breaks from J'onn and jumps him, and it's only the slim thread of power from the runes running along his limbs that lets him dodge out of the way. Deucalion's claws miss him by a millimeter, and Stiles stumbles over his own feet. He stuffs his hand into his pockets and pulls out one of his vials. It's green, and he thinks he knows what it does, but there's only one way to find out for sure. He uncorks it, and as Deucalion swipes those vicious claws at him, Stiles sways out of the way and flings the vial's contents at Deucalion's face, the green powder glimmering as it arcs through the air. The substance strikes Deucalion head on, and Deucalion reflexively snorts it in. He coughs and chokes, and lesions immediately break out across his skin. Stiles' eye widen. That was not what he thought the powder did.

Deucalion howls and falls back, and his cry is loud enough to make his Pack snap their hands to their heads for a moment as they feel the ghost of their Alpha's pain. And then, of course, they all converge on Stiles. He starts to run, eyes clocking the Essyolyte at the very back of the warehouse, but he hasn't gone three steps before Kali is on his back, her weight bearing him to the ground, her claws digging into his skin through his flannel. Kara and Superdouche both rush to his rescue, but the Twins are there, meaty fists swinging once, then twice, and knocking the Supers away.

Deucalion roars again, but he's already healing, the lesions reversing as if someone hit rewind on the TV remote. And as it does, he begins to shift. His skin blackens as his features grow ever more bestial, and his blind eyes redden until they glow like vivid laser pointers. His shoulders strain the fabric of his shirt as his muscles expand, and his massive hands contort as his claws sprout even longer, and he snarls down at Stiles on the ground with teeth too big for his mouth.

Stiles laughs. He can't help it. Deucalion's full shift has always just looked so stupid to him. Like he's trying too hard or something. Just turn into a wolf and be done with it. The half-human, half-beast thing is totally lame.

Kali's claws dig deeper into his back to shut him up. J'onn, in Green Martian form, flies right at Deucalion, but the wolf catches J'onn around the throat and holds him suspended in the air as J'onn flails and struggles. Alex fires at him, the bullets barely registering with him. She smartly keeps her distance, knowing her vulnerability. Who knows where James is at, or if he even knows what's going on inside the warehouse.

"What do you think happens when an alien gets bitten by a werewolf?" Deucalion wonders in his gravelly, demonic voice.

Deucalion's jaw distends, and it seems like even more teeth fill his mouth as he draws J'onn closer. Alex fires fruitlessly at Deucalion once more, and Kara and Superdouche zip to stop him as well, but the Twins are there once more, blocking their attacks. There is nothing Stiles can do from the ground even if he weren't totally distracted by the fact that the Essyolyte has just disappeared out the back.

J'onn's neck is an inch from Deucalion's fangs. It looks like they really are going to find out what happens if an alien gets bitten by a werewolf. Would J'onn become a super wolf, or would something in his alien DNA overwrite the lycan virus and protect him? Or react violently against it and kill him?

Old Stiles would have been fascinated by these questions. New Stiles is more concerned with the Essyolyte's disappearance and where it might go next.

He presses his palms to the ground. Kali's claws are stuck in his back, but he doesn't give a shit about that, and a part of him that he hates doesn't care about J'onn's imminent danger, either. He only cares about the escaping Essyolyte and its master.

He tries to drive himself to his feet despite Kali's weight and claws, as J'onn strains against Deucalion, their alien and supernatural strengths warring against each other. Kali's hand wraps around his throat and cuts off his air supply as the points of her claws dig into her flesh. Let her rip out his throat for all he cares. So long as he gets his prey.

He feels blood trickle down his neck as he continues to push to his feet. J'onn loses the strength contest against Deucalion as the Twins continue to hold Kara and Superdouche at bay. Stiles wonders if they found a fresh way to boost their power after he stopped them the last time.

Deucalion's jaws begin to curl around J'onn's neck. Stiles is on his knees with Kali's grip ever tightening on his throat as black spots dance before his eyes. There is nothing Kara, Superdouche, or Alex can do to stop their two impending deaths, and tears slip down Stiles' cheeks as he tries once more to get to his feet, pain cascading down his throat. He knows he just said he wouldn't care if Kali tore his throat out, but that was a lie. He cares very much, because if he dies here on this concrete floor, then he can't get vengeance for Derek, and if there really is a heaven and hell, or whatever, then he and Derek aren't headed to the same place, and he'll never see Derek again.

Stiles closes his eyes and subsides. Deucalion's fangs skim J'onn's neck. Kara cries out.

And then light fills the warehouse.

Stiles thinks he's actually died, but then he realizes his throat still screams with pain. Several things happen at once. The light fades, and Luca is there, right beside Deucalion with a strange, blue knife in his hand that he rips into Deucalion's spine. James is there as well, spraying bullets across Kali's back so that she leaps off Stiles, while the Twins, startled by the flash of light, get flung to the side by Superdouche so Kara can rush forward and rip J'onn out of Deucalion's grasp and cart him all the way to the other side of the warehouse. Deucalion begins to collapse. The world seems to be moving in slow motion to Stiles' eyes. Luca rears back for a second strike. Kali is off Stiles' back, and he tries to rise to his feet, but it feels like he's moving through molasses.

Luca's knife falls again and slices into the back of Deucalion's neck. Blood sprays into the air in slow motion, each bead distinct, hanging suspended like a splash of abstract art. Deucalion's mouth opens. A roar rips free from his throat, and with that, time snaps back into place.

Stiles scrambles to his feet. Deucalion hits the ground as the Twins crash into the wall from the force of Superdouche's punch and split back into two people. Stiles sprints past Kali who lunges at him with her vicious claws, sprints past Deucalion who is already healing, past Luca whose blade is sizzling like it's hot, and races towards the back of the warehouse.

Air whooshes behind him, but he doesn't look back. He doesn't care what happens with the Alpha Pack and the others. He doesn't care why Luca has come or how the Alpha Pack knew they were here. The Essyolyte is the only thing on his mind.

He reaches the back of the warehouse. He can hear a commotion behind him, shouting, but still, he doesn't look back, nor does his attention waver as Kara lands behind him. She says something to him. He doesn't hear. He's too busy trying to decide where the Essyolyte would have gone. There's a back exit directly in front of him, but that seems to obvious, and every single fiber of Stiles' body screams for him to ignore it, so he widens his senses instead and looks for something else. The box in his head rattles and tells him how easy it would be if he would just open the lid even a tiny crack.

Kara says something else, and again, Stiles doesn't hear as he moves around, hunting for clues. Movement flickers at the corner of his vision, and when he turns, there's Derek's hallucinatory ghost again. His hand is slightly raised, pointing to a pile of rubble on the floor that Stiles had mistaken as a deep shadow before. As he gets closer, he sees that a huge tunnel has been dug into the floor, great chunks of concrete scattered around its mouth. Stiles bares his teeth in the approximation of a grin as he runs to its edge. He doesn't even look to see how deep it is. He just jumps in feet first and lets gravity take him.

Stiles falls ten feet then hits the ground hard, Converse splashing down in a stagnant pool of water. Three seconds later, Kara lands beside him. She doesn't say anything, like she's realized there's no point, but Stiles is glad to have her at his back anyway.

They stand in a tunnel just tall enough for the Essyolyte to pass through at full height. There are no lights but for the dim illumination streaming in from above, so Stiles pulls his phone out and toggles on the flashlight. The walls are rough, like the alien carved them with its own claws. The earth and stone is damp as if water from the harbor is slowly leeching through the foundation. Stiles has no idea how far the tunnel stretches, and his sense of direction isn't good enough to tell where it's headed, but those are just details. No matter what, he'll find what he's looking for on the other end, and this will all be over.

He takes off at a run. His feet splash through the collected water. His breath rasps off the walls. Kara stays right at his back, moving so much more quietly than him. The tunnel slopes downwards at a steeper and steeper angle, and the momentum of gravity pulls him along ever faster. Prudence says he should slow down. That he should approach this thing with caution and intelligence, but he's not exactly sentient anymore. He is a ball of grief unending. He is tragedy in the shape of a man, and he barrels towards his ending because he doesn't know what else to do. There are tears on his face. They feel like blood. His heart does not beat, or if it does, he does not feel it. If he is done lying to himself, then he is the living dead and has been for a long time, shambling relentlessly towards his singular purpose no matter the damage to his own body, and will he be satisfied when he finally wraps his grey fingers around the round and bloody brain of his goal? He does not know. If he truly is the walking dead, he will never be satisfied, and his unbeating heart breaks at the thought.

Stiles erupts out the other end of the tunnel. He finds himself in a vast cavern with several fluorescent stand lights ringing a portion of the floor, all pointing inward to create a single circle of light. There are stalactites dripping from the ceiling, and Stiles hears running water somewhere off in the vast darkness outside the harsh, white circle.

He sees the Essyolyte in the direct center of the ring. It stands with its back to him, straightened to its full height as its tail swishes across the stone floor. It doesn't turn even though Stiles' entrance is thunderous, though the spines running down its scales seem to bristle. Stiles pulls two of his remaining pouches from his pockets as he approaches. He really should have brought Allison's knife, but his hands feel more than up to the task of tearing this thing apart by themselves. Kara floats along behind him, a silent sentinel.

Stiles' feet hit a pebble, sending it skittering along the ground, and the Essyolyte finally turns. The fluorescents reflect off its black eyes, but there's no emotion to its reptilian face, nor does it reach for his mind with its psychic tendrils. Stiles opens his mouth to scream some final, vindictive threat its way, but before he can suck in the breath to do so, the Essyolyte steps smoothly to the side.

Stiles stops right in his tracks. His heart thunders so loudly in his chest that the whole rest of the world falls away.

A blonde woman stands in the space the Essyolyte just vacated. Her back is to him. She wears a black leather jacket and tight pants, and she stands with arrogance in every line of her body, and her hair is too sleek as it cascades down her shoulders in waves.

She turns.

Stiles head roars.

Kate Fucking Argent stands there, grinning at him with sharpened teeth as her eyes shimmer a vibrant green.

"Hello, Stiles," she begins with a twisted sneer on her lips. "I've been waiting a long time for you to find me."