Winston Churchill had it right: If you're going through Hell, keep going.

The last few days since the revelation about Boyd and Erica's treatment at the hands of the Alpha Pack, the introduction of Derek's little sister Cora – and wasn't that suspicious in its own right? – and the first of the Three-Fold deaths were definitely surpassing the craziness of last year, which was something Stiles never thought would happen. How could your best friend turning into a werewolf and then your arch-nemesis turning into a nasty lizard be topped? Apparently the universe was determined to prove that, yes, Beacon Hills really was sitting on the Hellmount.

Stiles was beginning to think he needed to track down Joss Whedon and find out if the man was just a genius or connected to the supernatural world. He definitely seemed like a man who knew too much (at this rate, Derek would be proven wrong and Vampires did exist). Scott's voice broke into his musings and he tuned back into the ongoing conversation, mentally shelving his rumination for a later date. The info might make an appearance on the spreadsheet.

"Looked everywhere, it's like he just walked away; left his car, his dog."

"Is it weird to you too how many of our conversations take place in the locker room?"

Scott didn't even look at him. "Stiles, be serious. The guy just disappeared."

"I am being serious, Scott." Stiles drew in a breath and refocused. "Okay, like, did he-could he be like a virgin? Did he look like a virgin? Was he, you know, virginal?"

"No, definitely not. Deaton makes me have sex with all of his clients. It's a new policy."

Stiles stopped for a moment as he stared at Scott in consternation. Obviously he was kidding, but could this actually be a thing? Did the guy disappearing mean Deaton was part of the ritualistic deaths? Maybe they weren't virgins this time because it was the start of a new cycle? Sluts? No, that couldn't be...could it?

"Heh."

Hopefully Scott felt his head being popped like a zit.

"No, I don't know if he was a virgin. And why are you talking like he's already dead? He's just missing."

And there it was, ladies and gentlemen, his best friend's incurable optimism despite all evidence to the contrary. He really wanted to pat Scott's cheeks and tell him Santa Claus was real too.

Of course, if the dog owner was a virgin, then the cycle was starting a new, and it was close, only a day or two from the previous three deaths, which if the dude were a serial killer – sad to say Beacon Hills wasn't so lucky to have a run of the mill normal killer – this would be escalation of the worst kind.

Oh man, if the killer wanted virgins...well...Stiles was definitely a virgin. Well, not virgin in the Rosy Palms kind of way, or even, you know, a few finger lengths further down, but almost only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades. Sex, he needed sex, right now. Sex so he wouldn't be the next target because, lets be real, how many virgins were there left in Beacon Hills besides him?

"Stiles, you do realize you're saying this all aloud, right?"

"I need sex!"

It was then Danny's velvet voice cut through the clang of the locker room, the purring invitation to come over to his house both seductive and odd at the same time. Danny was a sweet guy when he wasn't being influenced by Jackson. And he definitely got hotter over the summer – man, the definition in his arms and chest alone was awesome. Not that Stiles was into that, though there was nothing wrong if he was.

"I like to cuddle."

"So do I!"

"I was kidding."

"Oh...I wasn't. Cuddling is manly. And you're mean. Mean, Danny, mean. I see why you and Jackson were friends for so long."

Danny winked suggestively, even as he sauntered away, dimples flashing as he laughed at Stiles' pain. Laughed!

"Uh, dude, what was that? I mean, I thought you liked Lydia."

"Hey, I could be the next victim so I can't cut off my options by limiting myself only to females." Stiles forcefully stuffed the rest of his stuff into the locker and slammed it close. "But see what I mean about having important conversations here where anyone could overhear?"

"Dude, are you trying to tell me you're gay? Or, bi?"

"No Scott, I'm not having a gay crisis right now. I know who and what I like and want."

"Uh, it would be cool with me if you, you know, liked guys. Whatever makes you happy."

"On the one hand that's incredibly sweet. On the other...what the hell, Scott?"

"What?"

"Are you two Chatty Cathies done yet? The track isn't going to run itself."

Both boys jerked around at the interruption. Coach Finstock stood with his arms crossed glaring at them. "You're both pretty pretty princesses and yes, Bolinski, McCall will go to the Dance with you if you ask him nicely."

"That's not what we're -"

"I don't care what you guys are talking about. I want you out this door pronto with the bit between your teeth like you just saw the carrot at the starting line."

"Uh Coach, you're crossing your metaphors there..." Again.

"I don't care if I'm cross-dressing like you, Bolinski, just get out!"

They headed out the doors and towards the back of the field. Stiles hadn't known that being on the Lacrosse team automatically meant you were going out for Track, but it wasn't optional if they wanted to stay on the team for next season. Stiles wasn't a huge fan of running, so he was a reluctant participant, at least during school hours. Deaton had also recommended running as a part of his training because, as he put it, "you need to be able to use your magic in any situation and think quickly on your feet," because "it's doubtful your enemy will patiently wait for you to encircle a building with belief."

Running had become not just a tool in his arsenal, but also a healthy way to engage his mind. The physical activity helped keep him focused on the task at hand, a feat Stiles had once deemed impossible because too often he was easily distracted as evidenced by the millions of tabs open on his computer at home when he researched something.

Here, though, it was an impediment to a conversation he desperately needed to have with Scott. Sure, his best friend had heard his theories regarding the deaths, yet hadn't heard the most important information Stiles had obscured from everyone except Peter: the magical sigil. Having his body ripped apart and repaired within a short amount of time, with no scars or marks to even show for his agony, had taken its toll on Stiles while simultaneously increasing his respect for the wolves in his life.

It was also becoming increasingly apparent he needed to confess to Deaton exactly what he'd done and learn how to reverse it because he didn't think he could go through sharing more of Derek's pain. And with other predatory Alphas hunting him, it was more and more likely Derek would find the final death if he didn't fall in with their plans for him. Stiles didn't know how far the magic would go, if he could expect to share in the death or not, and not for the first time in the last few days cursed his curiosity which lead to use of the damn symbol.

"Scott," he began, half-turned towards his friend, only to see the back of him as he hurried towards Isaac. Resentment and jealousy curdled in his stomach, winding him as if Scott had punched him instead of walking away. He was unused to sharing Scott, and had grudgingly done so with Allison, yet the other wolf was another matter.

Heeding some call of the wild only he heard, Isaac took off a moment later with Scott hot on his heels as they chased the twin Alphas who were in front. This wasn't going to end well. At all. And if any of the wolves hoped to hide their natures, they should check their strides. It was a brief whisper of breath between complete stand still and flat out racing across the hilly topography; he could hear Coach Finstock's exclamations of amazement at their pace.

Resigned to running alone, as he had no desire to join the herd placidly jogging ahead, Stiles stamped his feet a few times and tried to set off in the same direction.

Tried to, being the operative term, as a white wash of sound suddenly slammed into him and doused him in a maelstrom of heat like he was a wick set afire. It was similar to the agony of rent flesh except it wasn't a physical manifestation. His feet moved without conscious thought and Stiles shambled through the thick brush into a small clearing, his eyes automatically tracking the area with wide sweeps until it came to rest on the body hanging limply from a tree, bound to the trunk with a thin leather strap. Stiles didn't need confirmation from Scott to know this was the pet owner who went missing so mysteriously.

The blood was tacky and dried on the bark and the kid's clothes, so obviously not fresh, yet Stiles could still as hear unheeded screams echoing in his ears. The tree seemed to vibrate as if it were sentient and wishing to rid itself of its unwitting burden so Stiles cautiously put a hand to it, studiously avoiding the body and any evidence, and exhaled with relief when the world righted itself once again.

He was only spurred from his immersion into the quiet space when a real scream pierced the veil between him and the rest of the world, channeled through the vocal chords of a distraught classmate coming upon the scene. Stiles quickly looked at her, but there was no accusation on her face at his proximity to the corpse, so much as disbelief at seeing the dead boy.

With more mental clarity for time and space he currently existed in, Stiles stepped back so he could reexamine the gruesome scene. The same three marks were immediately apparent on the body and brought home the fact his fears for a new cycle were fully realized. Whether the boy was a virgin or not was incidental; there was a pattern to be found, he was sure, and was equally imperative he discover it, but more importantly – how had he known where to find the body?