Hey guys! I'm back! I have a feeling that the next episode will be a little more backstory, so I'm hoping it won't throw me entirely off. I've decided since I'm going a different route than Jeff (I'd imagine so at least, but with my track record, you never know), that I'm going to incorporate different elements different ways. I want to use the Echo House, but I don't want to do it the way Jeff did it, personally.

Someone asked me how much longer this will go, and since this is essentially around the middle of what I deemed 'part two' of this pseudo-two part story, I'd say there's about 4-5 chapters left. There were a few things I set up in the beginning chapters that will come to fruition this chapter, so we'll see how it goes!

Chapter 13

Because It's Pretty

The thing about chess is, it's not about the board. It's about what the board will look like in one play. Two plays. Five plays down the line. So playing chess isn't really about accepting the reality in front of you. It's about guessing what the reality will be in a few moves. It's all about guessing, it's all about planning, it's all about figuring it out.

So, there is a riddle: what do you do when you take the person who figures it out, out of the equation?

What do you do when the person who thinks three moves ahead is no longer able to do so? The person who is always figuring it out figures it out not because they're seeing the entire chessboard, but because they see the chessboard for what it'll be in the future. What happens when you take that person away?

Chaos.

Pain.

The shadow purses his lips, standing at the edge of the beach, wincing when the waves tickle his toes. It's not like he feels it anymore, but there were times the human body shivers. It must be cold. He's not sure, though. It's such a human sensation that he may never understand, but he's not sure if he wants to.

The shadow clutches his chest and feels the faint flutter of the heartbeat. It's a little more erratic than the typical person's but it's so very human. He could feel Stiles within his bones, but it's getting weaker. Less distracting. The shivers and the ticks are slowly disappearing. He awakes less in the tub.

Soon it'll all go away.

He knows the humans are afraid of Bardo, but he welcomes it. It's when the fun really starts. It's when everything that once defined this human – this Stiles, whatever the hell that was – will be gone. He will no longer feel the twinges of inattentiveness, he will stop twitching, and he'll stop fighting the urge to talk a mile a minute. All of that will be done. Because Bardo doesn't happen to Nogitsunes.

Only humans.

XXX

Scott sits on the edge of his bed, unable to fall back asleep. He's lucky if he gets more than a few hours the past few days, unable to being himself to disappear from the world for more than a few mere moments. There's a light tapping on his door, but Scott doesn't answer. He knows she'll open the door anyways.

"Honey," Ms. McCall says, walking in. "It's almost time for school."

Scott laughs. It's empty and humorless, but the entire situation is hilarious. School at this moment in time? Not even in the top ten list of things he cares about. But he'll continue to go if it means any sense of normalcy and peace of mind for his mother. "I'll take a shower in just a second."

Ms. McCall joins her son on his bed, the both of them staring blankly at the wall in front of them. After a few moments, she says, "We'll find him."

"Oh, that I know," Scott mumbles, bringing his eyes to the ground. "I'm more afraid of what we'll find once we do. Deaton said that there's a point when the human part of Stiles dies and all that will be left is whatever's controlling him. That – at that point – even if we figured out how to get rid of it, it won't be Stiles anymore. He'll already be dead."

"Scott, that won't happen."

"But how do you know?" Scott asks, his voice cracking a little. He genuinely wants to know the answer because he can't think of anything at the moment. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know you." She states calmly, reaching over to grab his hand. "And I know Stiles. I know what you two are capable of. And I know that, even though this is terrible, you two will figure out a way to make it back to each other. You always do. You guys have been through so much and are still standing. You got through your dad's leaving, Stiles' mother dying, you turning into a supernatural creature—" she playfully nudges his shoulder. "You'll get through this too. Like you always do."

Scott tells himself this over and over. Because it's true, for the most part. But what he doesn't say – what he doesn't tell his mother for fear not only breaking her heart, but his own – is that there was a difference in those instances. In those instances, it was both Stiles and Scott together, working for a common goal. Whether it be comfort or a solution to a supernatural problem, they were in it together.

This was not the case anymore. How can they be 'in it together' if one of them wasn't even

'in it?'

Ms. McCall squeezes his hand again. "How's Derek?"

Scott frowns, remembering his last conversations with the man. Once they got the bleeding to stop and once they got Derek to stop shouting about how he was going to wring Stiles' neck (although he was certain it was out of embarrassment for being bested by 'skinny, defenseless Stiles'), Derek went into a dark stupor. Even after coaxing, he didn't make much sense.

"…confused."

XXX

When Stiles wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's no longer in Derek's loft. The second thing he realizes is that he is freezing. Like, he should be snuggling against a polar bear freezing. Like, sitting on an igloo freezing. Like…

Just emerging from a sixteen-hour ice bath, freezing.

Stiles takes a few minutes, lying on whatever icy-hell he's stuck to, unable to prop himself up without stars dancing around his eyes. His head is pounding like a drum. It's driving him crazy because it beats steady, as if a war is coming. Maybe one is. That's not a thought that Stiles would like to entertain, to say the least.

The third thing he notices is his hands.

The third thing he notices is the first thing to get a true reaction out of him: he throws up.

Propping himself on his elbows, Stiles retches next to himself, wincing when he feels some splatter on his arms. But that wasn't as bad as what was on his hands.

Stained a faint red, Stiles knows what the color's from. His fingers start to tremble and he doesn't know how to stop it. His breathing becomes more ragged and he knows that he's on the brink of a panic attack, but only one thought hits him: he's entirely alone.

There's no one to save him out here. No one who can talk him down.

So instead, his chest heaves, his mind screams, and his lungs fail. Maybe it's better this way. He'll never figure out whose blood is on his hands, just as he'll never figure out how to survive having a demon inside his mind. Would it die with him? Or would it persist to torture another human? He desperately hopes for the former.

"Now is not the time, Stiles."

Stiles is broken from his panic to the rough, terrifying voice. He leaps to his feet – an action that is far too dynamic for his mental state and he stumbles. "W-Who's there?" He shouts.

Then he realizes where he is.

His legs are resting against the Nematon.

He scrambles backwards and falls off, his back slamming against the ground. "Are we really going to play this game, Stiles? You know exactly who I am."

Stiles sprints. Sprints in a way that Coach never was able to get him to do in practice. Sprints in a way that may even give Scott a run for his money. Sprints until his lungs are on fire and he can't breathe. Sprints until he—

-collides right into the Nematon, his stomach slamming against the top and making his head smash against the wood. "No," he mutters when the daze lifts. "No, no, no."

"I'm the voice in the back of your head. The shadow you cannot escape. The nightmare you can't wake up from.

I am the result of a door."

XXX

Derek's annoyed, to say the least.

A flailing, insane, weak, gangly, seventeen-year-old human got the jump on him. If that wasn't enough, Scott made sure there was someone with him at all times, just in case Stiles came back because obviously he couldn't handle himself against the small boy. Derek runs his fingers through his hair in some feeble attempt to calm himself down, but it doesn't work.

Tracing the lines of where there once was stab marks – the wounds were long gone now, but he felt like they were still there – Derek tries to sort through his thoughts. None of it made sense. The nogitsune's movements didn't make sense when he attacked him. It wasn't… what he expected.

"What are you thinking about?" Someone asks him, looking up from a stack of books he was sorting through.

Derek scowls. "I can't believe Scott convinced you to do this."

Chris Argent gives him a smirk. "It makes sense. The kids have school, which is easy to forget about during all this supernatural bullshit. Someone needs to be here during the day." He states.

"Oh no, I get why he chose you to babysit but I can't actually believe that you agreed."

Chris shrugs. "I like to surprise people."

"I've had a few close encounters with death that would support that statement." Derek growls and Chris only laughs at him. But when Chris won't stop looking at him, Derek sighs. "I'm just—" he groans again, shaking his head. "Trying to make sense about this entire ordeal. Stiles—"

"—getting the upperhand on you?" Chris finishes.

"You know I can actually hear you smiling from here, so if you could not be such an asshole about it, that'd be great." Derek says. "But it's more than that. He could've killed me."

Chris flips a few more pages. "Yeah, he could've. You're lucky."

"But why didn't he?" Derek wonders aloud, the question that had been rolling around in his brain for what feels like ages finally tumbling out. "I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. He was too quick, too sharp, too powerful. It's like—"

It's foolish to think and Derek doesn't want to entertain the thought.

Chris finally puts his book down. "Like Stiles is fighting through for control?" He asks.

"No, it was definitely the Nogitsune," Derek muses. "It's like… it's like they were one. One entity. Not Stiles, not the Nogitsune, but both functioning at the same time."

Derek knew he sounded crazy and Argent was giving him a look that he expected.

"When he attacked, there would be a slight hesitation. Or there would be times he would blink that would be so inherently Stiles that I could've sworn it was him, but it wasn't." Derek says, frowning. "Like the Nogitsune doesn't know how to be in Stiles' body because it has too many quirks and weirdness, that he actually physically cannot be in it. I don't know," he finishes with a huff. "Sometimes was off. It was the Nogitsune, but it wasn't and I'm not sure how that can be."

"Like," Chris says, getting up from his seat. "That there may be a part of Stiles which is subconsciously trying to protect everyone? Like a third persona?"

Derek runs his hands down his face. "I know it sounds impossible, but—"

"We live in a world where a 'Nogitsune' is something we've been using in our everyday language. These sort of things stopped surprising me a long time ago." Chris says with a chuckle. "Did everything get damaged in the fire that burned all of Stiles' documents."

"Yeah, everything was destroyed," Derek mutters. "Everything except—" His eyes light up. "This may be a long shot, but there was one thing that survived."

Derek rushes to the living room, Chris following closely behind. He grabs Stiles' bloodied shirt from the corner – he couldn't bring himself to touch it because it seemed like something Scott should do, but of course that though probably never crossed his mind. "This survived."

Chris takes it in his hands. "Besides being a little grotesque, I'm not sure if this is entirely helpful."

But when he shakes it a few times, a weird crinkling noise sounds. They both frown, so Chris reaches into the shirt. His face is still as his fingers graze against the dried blood, until he takes them out, something in his palm. Derek leans in – silently cursing his life and how he's somehow become this comfortable with an Argent – anxiously waiting until Chris unfolds it.

"What is that?" Derek asks.

Chris looks at him plainly. "I have no idea."

The picture is wrinkled and torn, a giant red circle marked in permanent marker around the building. All Derek can think is that it's a place he would not ever willingly enter into. An old building with tall towers and grungy walls, gated in cast-iron. In the gates are the words "Eichner House."

Chris sighs. "But something tells me that Stiles wants us to figure it out."

XXX

"I swear to God, Greenburg," Coach Flinstock says, nearly breaking his chalk in half as he attempts to calm himself. "If you ask me one more question about Kensian theory, I'm kicking you off the lacrosse team. We all know you did the reading, so you should know it better than 99% of the idiots in this class."

A wave a giggles runs rampant in the class, but Scott can't bring himself to smile. It's been a week. Well, technically seven days, six hours, and twenty-three – no, twenty-four minutes since Stiles disappeared. That thought made his hair stand on edge. All he wanted was to see him. See him alive, no matter the state.

But there was a small voice in the back of his head that asked him if it'd be easier if Stiles didn't come back. Then he wouldn't have to entertain the thought of potentially killing his best friend. Scott shakes his head, appalled with himself. Stiles has to come back. He'll figure out a way to save him. Because there is no Scott without Stiles. He couldn't do it. The idea of having the world without Stiles Stilinski is too much for him to even fathom. It makes his stomach churn and his mind grow fuzzy.

"McCall!" Coach shouts. "Can we at least pretend we're paying attention? I know that—" Coach stops mid-sentence and his face grows ashen. He takes a breath. "I'm sorry, I know this must be a difficult time for you." He mumbles quickly. Coach only show that moment of affection and vulnerability for a second. He then straightens up and then barks, "Which reminds me. If any of you even gets a whiff of Stilinski, you find the nearest teacher or cop and report it immediately. People who participate in the city sweeps in search of him will receive extra credit for the class. Anyways—"

Coach continues as if he didn't just offer extra credit to someone who helped find a missing kid.

It's moments like this that Scott seriously considers if moving away from Beacon Hills would be beneficial to his life.

Scott peers out the window, knowing that anything Coach could say about economics would not interested. Instead he tries to find some hope in the weather, which of course means it's overcast and dreary. But then he squints. There's a figure slumped on one of the outside picnic benches, his head lulling like he's about to fall asleep. "Oh my God," Scott breathes, shooting up so quickly from his desk, he knocks it over.

He sprints out of the classroom before Coach can shout his name.

Scott has to actively tell himself to slow down, as to not get into 'supernatural speed,' but it's almost no use. The briskness of outside eats at his face, but that only makes him panic more. "Stiles!" He exclaims, rushing over to his best friend, whose eyes are drooping low. "Stiles, are you okay?"

As soon as he reaches him, he realizes two things that make his heart palpitate. One: No, his best friend was not okay. Deep circles ate his eyes and his lips were colored a light blue. And Two:

There was blood on his hands.

Scott checks his best friend over, scared by the slowing of his heart. "Stiles, can you hear me? Can you hear me, buddy?"

Stiles lifts his head, his gaze haunting and hollow. "Scott, I think I may be drowning and I don't know how that's possible."

His eyes roll back and he collapses into Scott's arms.

XXX

Everyone's huddled in the room. Scott knew if Stiles woke up, he'd be a strange combination of pissed, embarrassed, terrified. But, the chances of Stiles waking are slim.

The Sheriff doesn't move from the doorway, his gaze never leaving his son. Scott knows that he hasn't been sleeping either and he isn't sure if the Sheriff will tear his gaze away from Stiles anytime soon. "Thank you," he whispers to Scott, but Scott shakes his head.

"I didn't do anything," Scott mutters. "I just found him. I haven't figured out how to save him. I haven't done anything."

The Sheriff places a hand on Scott's shoulder and stares into his eyes. "You brought my son back to me. That's something. That's more than something to me, Scott."

The blue in Stiles' lips are fading away, but his face is so pale, Scott focuses on his heartbeat to convince himself he's not a corpse. It's not steady, but it's there.

As long as it's there, right?

Allison clears her throat. "My dad just texted me a picture that they found at Derek's place. Have you guys ever heard of Eichner House?"

The Sheriff looks up. "That's the mental institution that Barrow was in. Why?"

Allison frowns, waiting for a response from her father. When he finally gets back to her, her frown deepens. "He says he and Derek found it in the loft. The only thing that didn't get lost in the fire. He says that Derek has a theory that Stiles might be leaving things for us." She looks up. "Leaving things for us? What does that mean?"

Lydia, who'd been pressed firmly against the wall without saying a word ever since they managed to get Stiles cleaned up and in bed, spoke up, her voice rusty. "Like a riddle." She says, stepping away from the wall. She gazes at all the pictures and strings taped up on Stiles' wall. She'd looked over these with Stiles a handful of times, all the red string incredibly overwhelming. Except there's something different this time.

Lydia approaches the wall, her hands shaking. Scott asks, "Lydia, what is it? What do you feel?"

"I-It's not that," Lydia says, brushing her hands against the wall. "Some of these strings are blue."

Everyone stares. The Sheriff looks upset. "What does that mean, Lydia?"

Lydia turns to all of them. "Green is for solved. Yellow is 'to be determined.' And red is unsolved."

Scott frowns. "The wall is mostly red."

Lydia nods. "Mostly. It was all red last time I saw it."

The Sheriff stares incredulously. "Then what does blue mean?"

Lydia winces at his harsh tone. "I-I don't know. H-He said—"

"He said what?"

"Blue is just pretty."

Scott looks at his best friend, who's lips are still tinted a faint color of blue. It sends ice down his spine. His eyes travel across the wall. There are four blue lines. Four distinct blue lines. They all connect to various points of the wall. The Sheriff Station. The High School. Eichner House. And…

Kira's shaky voice is heard from the corner of the room. "…is that… my house?"

A/N: What do you think? I think there is about 4 or 5 chapters left! Any guesses of what's going on?

If you could leave a note, I'd really appreciate it! Much love!