Chapter 23 – The Storm (Part 2)

Stiles' lungs burned as he ran. He was too far away to see what had happened, but clearly something had – Scott's howl, raw and pained and more terrible than anything he had heard before, had shaken him to his core. He could almost feel its pull, a faint echo of how Scott's roar had once dragged his subconscious back into the light.

Fuck, Scott. What happened?

The distance between them was closing fast and Stiles pushed harder, wrestling his whirling thoughts into order as he peered at the scene ahead. The broad-shouldered boy lying against a pile of rubble could only be Boyd. Something dark stained the lower half of his shirt, but his head was rolling and his fist clenching and unclenching, so Stiles shoved down his anxiety and tore his gaze away. He's alive. That's all that matters.

To Boyd's left, two figures were locked in a fast-paced, deadly battle. Peter had his back to Stiles, but for once he seemed to be losing – as Stiles watched, the taller man took a half-step backward, then another, slowly but steadily giving ground. There was no fancy footwork this time, just quick, desperate jabs at his assailant and occasional quick twists out of the way.

And then Stiles noticed Derek, and he stumbled to an abrupt halt.

The werewolf was lying spread-eagled on the ground. His body was littered in bruises and claw marks, deep gauges that marred his skin and revealed muscle and sinew. His dark hair was matted with dirt and his eyes were glassy as they stared, unseeing, at the sky.

And his mouth. His mouth was open, forever frozen in a silent scream. Deep, red blood stained his lips and tracked paths to his neck, where it merged with a veritable lake. Thick enough to completely coat his skin and copious enough to spill over into the ground, the sticky fluid had already formed a too-large puddle beneath his body.

The bile was back. Stiles' gut twisted in horror and he doubled over just in time to heave yesterday's lunch onto the ground. Derek, please, no. His head swam and his hands were numb as he wound his fingers into his hair. No, not Derek. Not like this.

His chest burned. Inhaling shakily, Stiles dragged a hand over his mouth and summoned the heat almost on instinct. It roared across his shoulders into his hands, across his hips into his legs. It heated his face and traced patterns on his skin, while thunder rumbled amongst darkening clouds overhead.

Dad, Stiles reminded himself sternly. Think about dad, and don't lose yourself again.

It was tricky, balancing the memory of his father with the burning beneath his skin, but Stiles had always been good at multitasking. With a few, steadying breaths, he waited until the heat was simmering beneath his palms, then straightened.

Control, as it turned out, was overrated. Peter's concoction had turned out to be a blessing in disguise – once Scott helped him find his anchor, at least. As soon as he'd snapped out of his power-induced haze, Stiles realised that he'd been making a very grievous mistake.

He'd been trying entirely too hard to control the spark that was as much a part of him as his arm – albeit, a very silent part of him that he'd been suppressing for years. He'd skimmed through his book as the author rambled at length about the unpredictable mischief of magic, but he probably should have paid more attention because he was starting to realise that his magic, at least, didn't respond very well to being shackled. Peter's concoction had overwhelmed him with a degree of power that he had no hope of suppressing, and in doing so it forced him to stop fighting the spark and instead start working with it.

As it turned out, his spark did respond very well to being used.

It flared a little hotter beneath his palms as he took one last glance at Derek, grief squeezing his lungs, but he shoved away his flash of anger. Dad always believed in justice over revenge. I can't let him down now. Instead, he turned his attention back to the duelling werewolves.

Peter had been forced a little closer to Stiles and he ducked to avoid a slashing hand, finally allowing Stiles a good look at Scott. Slick blood coated the teenager's hands and face, which was twisted into an animalistic snarl that made him almost unrecognisable. He lunged forward, snapping his sharp fangs over the area where Peter's neck would have been if he hadn't managed to twist out of the way.

But his eyes were yellow, burnished gold in the sunlight, and it was that that pushed Stiles into motion.

"Enough!" Stiles bellowed, closing the distance in a few short strides. Wind whipped past him and clouds clustered overhead, but he paid them no mind. Sweeping his left hand to the side, he released a pulse of air that knocked Scott off his feet and sent him flying. The teen turned his landing into a roll and was back on his feet in seconds, but that was all the time Stiles needed. Lifting his other arm, he narrowed his eyes at Peter and clenched his hand into a fist.

Peter's crimson eyes bulged. A small grunt worked its way from his throat as he struggled in vain to move. Stiles' invisible binds wrapped him from neck to feet, trussing him up tighter than a Thanksgiving Day turkey.

A growl and a rush of footsteps sounded from Stiles' left, so he flicked his left hand to throw Scott back once more. The werewolf screamed in frustration as his back crashed into the ground.

Peter, never one for futility, stopped squirming. His gaze landed on Stiles, more calculated than fearful, and it made Stiles clench his jaw in anger. Don't you dare, he warned him silently. I've had enough of your games.

Peter's mouth already opening to speak, but at Stiles' thought it snapped shut and stayed there. That's better. Peter's suddenly bloodless face as he struggled to make a sound was proof enough that he disagreed, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to care. Now stay that way. I've got more important things to deal with.

Turning back to Scott, Stiles had his first moment of uncertainty. The werewolf had shifted his anger to Stiles, and his angry yellow gaze was locked on Stiles as he flexed his claws by his sides. He looked ready to pounce…but he didn't.

He's still in there. Good.

"Scott," Stiles said, lowly. He raised a placating hand, then shoved it back down as Scott growled in warning. Right. That's going to take some getting used to. "Scott, I can't imagine what you're going through right now," he tried, eyes flickering to Derek's mangled body before he could stop himself. Swallowing back another wave of nausea, he fed the hurt into his flame and continued. "But if you do this, there's no going back."

"He killed him." Scott's voice was guttural, underscored by a low growl, and his glare somehow grew even hotter.

Stiles pressed his lips together and wondered if he could somehow inch in front of Peter without Scott noticing. "I know," he said, softly. "Scott, please. I know you're hurting, but this isn't going to make you feel better. It's not going to bring Derek back either."

This time, Stiles barely got his hands up in time. Scott's eyes glowed as he lunged forward, one hand stretched toward Stiles' face. He slammed into an invisible shield and fell gracelessly onto the ground but instantly sprung to his feet. Fury twisted his features, and he beat angrily at the shield with both fists.

Stiles licked his lips, his anger faded enough to let his nervous jitters shine through. Shit. He didn't want to hurt Scott, but the other teen would never forgive himself if he killed Peter. The talking had surprised him – Scott had never spoken much when the wolf fully took over, so maybe he was more in control than Stiles thought – but, either way, he had to get through to him. But how?

Scott had appealed to Stiles' dad, but talking about Melissa was definitely out. Her death was just another painful memory to feed Scott's rage, as was anything involving Derek. Rafe seemed as much of a douchebag in this world as in Stiles' own.

The werewolf continued to batter the shield, hard enough to split the skin on one hand. Stiles swallowed, desperately wracking his brain. Logic wasn't working, and most of Scott's memories had unhappy endings, but maybe...fuck. He really didn't want to do this.

"I killed someone." The words were barely audible even to Stiles' ears, but Scott must have heard them because the banging abruptly stopped. Stiles hesitantly raised his gaze, wincing at Scott's unblinking yellow stare. Impatience was written into the werewolf's stiff shoulders and heaving chest – Stiles had one chance to say his piece, and one chance only. That much was clear.

Why was it so hard to speak? Stiles had never had trouble finding words. Until now.

"It was…uh. It was self-defence, I guess." He'd never said that aloud before. It sounded pathetic. An excuse for an action that had no excuses. "He was trying to kill me and I was trying to get away. The scaffolding collapsed, and this pole…"

The words died on his tongue. He couldn't say it again. Once was hard enough, and this awful, blood-drenched day had long past wrung him dry.

But it seemed to be working. Scott hadn't moved and his snarl was still firmly in place, but there was a hint of emotion in his golden eyes. The first sign of something other than raw fury.

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway. He died, and it ruined everything. It ruined the Pack. It ruined the best friendship I ever had. Most of all, it ruined me.

"They say it gets easier with time. But the truth is, it doesn't. He's never going to stop haunting my dreams or second-guessing my decisions. I'm slowly learning to live with it, but I don't want this for you."

Another flicker, and a twitch of Scott's right hand. The snarl lessened, ever so slightly.

Stiles breathed, heavy with emotion. He'd never spoken about this to anybody, not really. It was oddly freeing. The massive weight that had lived on his shoulders for months was slightly lessened.

"Scott," Stiles continued, voice breaking slightly. "Scott told me: 'there's always a choice.' And I hated him for it, but he's right. I chose to pull that pin. I would have died if I hadn't, but it was still a choice." And this was it: now or never. Hopefully Scott was in control enough to listen.

"Right now, you have a choice." After a brief pause, Stiles allowed the shield to fall. Scott's hand fell forward until he yanked it back to his side, his golden eyes never wavering from Stiles'. Stiles hesitated only a moment before gesturing toward the still-immobile Peter. "It's up to you," Stiles said, evenly. "I won't stop you."

Scott twisted to face the older werewolf, a low growl rumbling in his throat, and Stiles held his breath. Peter couldn't make a sound but his blood-red eyes widened in fear, and his muscles tensed once more beneath their binds.

The moment stretched on, until finally Scott's shoulders slumped. His fingers twisted together in front of him as though to hold them steady as he turned back to Stiles, golden eyes teary. "You're right," he muttered, hoarsely. "He's not worth it."

A wave of relief weakened Stiles' knees and almost made him fall. His mouth was too dry to speak, but he managed a weak, sympathetic smile.

Soft footsteps interrupted the silence. Boyd limped toward them, one arm wrapped protectively around his bleeding abdomen. His face was unreadable as he shifted his gaze from Peter to the carpark at large, where injured and angry werecreatures were still scattered across the pavement, and his voice was blank when he asked, "So, what now?"

Scott hesitated, almost dropping his gaze to Derek's body before jerking it away at the last second. "The Preserve. Isaac, Jackson and the girls should be there, along with some of Satomi's people." Glancing over the rest of the carpark, he added, "Once we know they're okay, we can come back to help."

Boyd nodded, then tilted his head toward Peter. "And what about him?"

Scott made to answer but Stiles beat him to it. The fire surged forward, responding to his thoughtless will, and Peter whimpered as the bonds tightened around his chest.

Scott stopped and eyed Stiles with suspicion. "What are you doing?" he asked, warily.

Stiles waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not going to kill him," he assured him. "But I don't want him running out on us, either." Eyeing Peter thoughtfully, he jerked his head to one side and clenched his teeth at Peter screamed in agony, his tibia bursting through his skin. A second jerk of Stiles' head, and the other leg followed suit. "That should do it."

Scott swallowed, visibly torn between disapproval and relief, while Boyd seemed darkly amused. "I'd say so," he drawled, clapping Stiles on the shoulder.

Peter's screams faded to pained sobs. Stiles hesitated a moment longer before releasing his binds, allowing him to collapse onto the ground, and the werewolf immediately began to crawl toward him. "Please," Peter begged, voice cracking between gasps of pain. "Don't leave me here."

One clawed hand reached out to touch Stiles' ankle and he yanked his leg out of the way, hopping backward in disgust. He fought to keep his voice icy as he replied. "Don't worry, Peter. We'll be back."

And then he turned and, gesturing to Scott and Boyd, led the way to the Preserve.

It took longer than Stiles had hoped.

Boyd couldn't manage anything faster than a lumbering walk and the others weren't much better. They'd stopped a few streets from the school to bandage Boyd's abomen, using strips of his shirt for want of any actual materials, but he still clenched one arm against his side and suddered in pain with every step.

Scott had too many cuts to even think about bandaging them all. Stiles had nearly fainted when he first doffed his shirt, openly gaping at the criss-crossing wounds and bruises that covered his entire torso. Scott took one look at his face and wrenched his shirt back over his head, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"Don't," Stiles protested thinly. Biting his lip, he stretched one shaky hand toward his friend's battered skin. "Maybe I could…?"

Scott shook his head, a little too fast. Stiles dropped his hand as though burned.

"It's not like that," Scott rushed to assure him, words tripping over each other. "But have you ever tried it before?"

"Well, no. But –"

"Stiles." Somehow, Scott managed to muster a wan smile. "I'll heal. Meanwhile, you look ready to pass out. Save your strength."

He had a point. Whatever Thomas had injected Stiles with was starting to wear off. Stiles yawned as the flames died down another notch, leaving him feeling cold and weak in their wake. The last thing Scott needed was to carry his unconscious ass the rest of the way.

Their route took them past the remnants of the Sheriff's station, but by then Stiles was so worn out that he barely noticed his own shock. The building was reduced to rubble, and Stiles stared blankly at the destruction until Scott prodded him on.

"Did he think you guys were still in there?" Stiles finally asked.

Scott's voice was flat when he replied. "Probably. But we weren't, so it doesn't matter."

Boyd discovered some bikes which they rode to the edge of the woods, but then they had to ditch them to stumble over sticks and stones and leaf litter. Finally, though, the Hale house came into view, and with it the soft rumble of voices.

Stiles sagged in relief. Almost there. A small crowd was gathered in front of the house and he spotted Isaac, instantly recognisable with his curly hair and tall frame. The teenager must have heard them coming, because he whipped around to face them with a guarded expression that immediately turned to relief. He started toward them, a broad grin spreading across his face, as –

An engine roared overhead. It burst over the treeline, jerking Stiles' gaze upward just in time to identify a sleek, grey military jet with something horribly familiar strapped to its belly.

"No." Stiles' whisper was hoarse and he twisted, straining to follow its path. It was flying low and straight, following a straight line from the far side of the Preserve to the centre of town.

To the school.

"Stiles, what -?"

Scott didn't get to finish his question. A loud bang sounded through the trees, almost immediately followed by a rolling tremor of the ground.

A sob choked Stiles' throat. In his mind's eye, he could see them all. All the injured people who'd lain scattered across the ground, immobile and completely helpless to escape.

God, he'd tried so hard to find a way out that didn't involve killing Peter, and for what? He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

A second roar sounded overhead, closely followed by a third. Stiles closed his eyes – the sound of the explosions was proof enough of the massacre occurring a few short miles away. He didn't need to see the bombers as well.

A hand clapped his arm, startling his eyes open. Scott was standing before him, lips trembling and face pale as he asked, "Can you get us out of here?"

Stiles swayed, confused. "What?"

Scott tightened his grip, digging his fingers almost painfully into the soft flesh of Stiles' forearm. "Can you get us out of here?" he repeated, urgently.

It was hard, but somehow Stiles forced his brain to process the question. "Um. I don't know. Why?"

"Lydia's freaking out – she says they're planning to carpet-bomb the whole town. For some reason, Isaac's taking it as gospel. We need to get through the fenceline, now."

That kicked Stiles' brain back into gear. Ignoring his racing heart, he quickly found the remnants of the flame and gave it an experimental tug. A gentle wave of heat rolled over his shoulder and upper arms in response.

Glancing from Scott to Isaac, who must have made his way over to them while Stiles was busy freaking out, Stiles set his jaw and met Isaac's questioning stare with a sharp nod. "If you get me there, I'll get us out," he promised.

Isaac looked doubtful, but to his credit he only hesitated a moment before nodding. "It's only a few hundred yards from here," he told Stiles, before turning to Boyd. "We'll go on ahead; you muster the rest."

"I'm coming with you," Scott interrupted, speaking over Boyd's agreement. Isaac's brow knotted in concern, but Scott merely set his jaw and stared resolutely.

Isaac heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Let's go."

He didn't wait for a response, turning on his heel and leading the way through the trees. Once, Stiles might have made a snarky comment, but now he merely started after Isaac in silence. He was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to care.

Isaac was right. It really was only a few minutes before they splashed through the shallow creek and climbed the opposite bank, and then there it was. The fenceline.

Scott had described it as Jurassic Park, Stiles suddenly recalled. He could see why.

It was twenty feet high and imposing, a combination of wall and wire fencing. Electricity hummed through it – Stiles could feel it, he realised with a faint shock, the energy calling to him, resonating with his spark. Guard towers stood at various intervals, although all the ones Stiles could see were empty. Clearly, they weren't expecting too much trouble at this particular section. Looking closer, Stiles could see threads of wolfsbane and razor wire intertwined with the fence, along with another two or three plants that he didn't recognise. The base sank into concrete that must have run deep into the ground, and Stiles could sense the embedded mountain ash as easily as the electricity.

Frowning, Stiles took a step closer and tilted his head.

"Well?" Isaac prompted. "Can you do it?"

Stiles ignored him. Holding out a hand, he mentally reached for the electricity running through the fence and felt it jump in response. Hey there. Come on, now. Tugging gently, he pulled it away from the metal and drew it in toward him. That's it.

His brain told him that it should hurt, but it was just a pleasant tickle on his skin as it soaked right through his palm to feed the fire in his chest. In seconds, the flames spilled over into his arms with renewed gusto but Stiles kept going, feeding the heat until it pressed against the inside of his skin, right on the verge of becoming painful.

He only had one shot at this, after all. Exhaustion hovered at the edge of his consciousness, evident in the shakiness of his legs and the slight swim to his head. If he failed, they were all screwed.

The press began to hurt, so he reluctantly let his connection to the electricity subside. Any more, and it would come spilling out of him just as it had back at the Whittemore house.

A clatter of footsteps and hushed voices announced the arrival of Allison, Boyd, Lydia and the others – a handful of survivors and a dozen or so kids. Stiles' concentration lapsed, only snapping back at the sound of lightning cracking threateningly overhead. Fuck. He couldn't afford mistakes now.

Ignoring the noise, Stiles slowly knelt and placed his open palms against the ground. He took at deep breath as he raised his head, and then he pushed.

The ground split with a loud crack. A deep fissure opened directly beneath Stiles' hands and zig-zagged toward the fence, splitting the concrete in a shower of dust and shrapnel. Behind him, someone shrieked in surprise, but Stiles ignored them. Raising his hands, he slashed outward in a sudden ripping motion.

The fence tore in a heartbeat. Metal screeched, sparks flew, and several of the intertwined plants burst into flame. Gritting his teeth, Stiles pulled harder on the spark, steadfastly ignoring the way his core grew colder by the second, and flung the heat outward in a steady stream. He could feel it coursing through the air to hug the sides of the fence, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he forced the sides of the fence apart, inch by painful inch.

It couldn't have taken more than a few seconds, but it felt like hours before the gap was large enough for a person. Stiles tried to hold on longer, but his spark sputtered out and the heat fizzled away from his hands. Without it, he could no longer hold his exhaustion at bay and it washed over him in a powerful wave. Collapsing forward, he felt his knees slam into the ground as his vision began to darken at the edges.

Someone caught him before he could fall any further. Blearily, Stiles raised his eyes and could just make out Scott's worried face, wavering in and out of focus. His mouth was moving, but Stiles had no chance of making out the words over the foggy buzzing in his head, and after a moment Scott seemed to realise that. The werewolf settled Stiles into a sitting position and sat down beside him, on strong arm bracing Stiles across his shoulders.

A few minutes passed in silence. Stiles was vaguely aware of movement, but he kept his eyes on the ground and didn't bother paying attention until Scott shifted to catch his eye.

"Hey," Scott said, quietly. "I know you're struggling, but we need to keep moving. Ready to stand up?"

No. Stiles turned his head and shot Scott the filthiest look he could manage, which Scott promptly ignored.

"Sorry, dude, but we don't really have a choice." Shifting to a crouch, Scott wrapped his arm tightly around Stiles' shoulders and dragged the other boy to his feet. Stiles wavered, but Scott quickly adjusted his position so that Stiles was tucked into his side, one arm around Scott's shoulders while Scott gripped him securely around the waist.

The world wasn't spinning quite as hard as Stiles had expected. Sighing, he rested his head on Scott's shoulder and tried to mutter a thankyou, but all the came out was a garbled grunt.

Scott shot him an unreadable look. "Don't thank me," he muttered as he heaved Stiles closer to the newly-made fissure. "You've done more than enough for us today."

Stiles frowned. He'd terrorised a bunch of people and then killed Peter. Not exactly his finest hour. He opened his mouth to say as much – or to try to, anyway – but never got the chance as Scott suddenly jerked backward and spun around. Stiles groaned at the sudden movement, but bit off his curse when he realised what had happened.

Isaac lingered just beyond the fence, but the rest of the makeshift party were already limping toward a nearby copse of trees. Aside from Scott and Stiles, only Lydia remained on the inside, and she was currently standing a few yards away with sheer terror written into every line of her face. Behind her, one arm wrapped around Lydia's chest and another pressed against the banshee's throat, was Kali.

Scott's grip tightened around Stiles' waist. "Let. Her. Go," he demanded in a low growl.

Kali, for once, didn't smirk. Surrounded by blood and dust, her dark eyes were piercing as they locked onto Stiles. "You killed him," she rasped.

Stiles shrunk back. Scott's grip tightened even further.

Kali didn't even seem to notice that Scott was there, her attention completely focussed on Stiles. "You ruined everything. We were fine, before you came along, and now we're gone. Because of you."

"Kali, I –"

"But your friends mean nothing to me," Kali continued as though he hadn't spoken. "So I'll cut you a deal. Come here. Come to me, and I'll let her go. Your little werewolf friend, too. That's my promise to you."

Stiles hissed in pain as Scott's hand spasmed. The werewolf muttered an apology and loosened his grip, but only by a hair. He clearly knew – or at least suspected – what was running through Stiles' head, and his supernaturally-strong hold on Stiles was more than enough to counter Stiles' feeble attempts to pull away.

"Let me go," Stiles hissed, momentarily giving up the struggle.

"No."

His heart throbbing painfully, Stiles turned just enough to shoot Scott a heatless glare. "Scott, stop. We don't have a choice here."

"There's always a choice, right?" He could almost hear the gears whirring rapidly in Scott's head, but he knew him better than he knew himself. The werewolf was freaking out just as much as Stiles.

A flash of movement and a loud howl shattered the moment. Something grey leaped out of the nearby woods, moving so quickly that Stiles only had a faint impression of a muzzle and a tail, and then Kali was screaming.

The werewolf dropped Lydia in an instant to instead clutch at her arm. Her skin hung in ribbons around a deep crater in her forearm, and before Stiles could even figure out what had happened the grey blur reappeared behind her, tearing a mouthful of flesh from her calves.

Kali dropped to the ground, howling. Lydia darted away to take shelter behind Scott, who stepped in front of her protectively, but Stiles couldn't take his eyes away from the grey animal.

It was a coyote. Blue-eyed and slim-footed, it snarled through a blood-soaked muzzle before whirling to make one final pass at its prey.

Kali's throat was ripped out in a shower of blood. The woman's eyes bulged, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her hands briefly drifted toward her mutilated neck. Then her muscles slackened, and she slumped lifelessly to the ground.

For a moment, no one moved, until Stiles slipped out of Scott's loosened grip and took a step closer. His legs wobbled a little beneath him, but he managed not to fall.

The coyote was breathing hard, her tail twitching restlessly as she stared at Kali with white-hot anger.

"Malia?" Stiles asked, cautiously.

She twisted her neck toward him, but otherwise didn't move. Stiles tried not to react to the sight of her blood-soaked snout, or the chunks of flesh and muscle and god knew what else that spattered her fur.

He summoned a smile – shaky, a little uneven, but sincere all the same. "You saved my life. And Lydia's. Thankyou."

Stiles heard someone mutter a soft question from behind but ignored it, keeping his focus on Malia as she gave her tail a hearty wag.

The sight of it make Stiles chuckle. An honest-to-god actual chuckle, which burst out of him unexpectedly and was probably as much due to his exhausted delirium as actual amusement. Malia seemed to appreciate it, though, as she grinned toothily before lowering her head to delicately pick up a hung of flesh. Carrying it carefully in her jaws, she tottered over to Stiles and placed it on the ground before him.

"Uh." Frozen, Stiles tried not to let his repulsion show on his face. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm good."

Malia cocked her head in confusion, and Stiles was wracking his brains for a polite way to say I'm not a huge fan of raw, human flesh, but you do you, when they were interrupted by the sound of more jets approaching from the south.

The absurdity of the situation immediately fled his mind. Panic gripped him and Stiles leaned forward, voice low and urgent. "Listen, Malia, you have to get out of here, okay? It's too dangerous to stay."

Malia stiffened, blue eyes suddenly cold with suspicion.

No, no. Don't distrust me now. Desperately, Stiles grasped for a way to explain it. "I know this place is important to you," he said hurriedly. "But you'll die if you stay. Okay? You can always come back later. "

Malia growled, softly, and danced backward.

Unthinking, Stiles reached out a frantic hand to halt her, but realised immediately that he'd made a mistake. Malia yowled and snapped threateningly at the air between then, her eyes pulsing an electric blue. Without waiting for a response, she whirled around on the spot and darted back into the woods.

"Malia, wait!" Stiles yelled, making to follow.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder. Stiles glanced at Scott in irritation and tried to shrug it off, but his friend merely dug his fingers in a little tighter.

"Stiles, we need to go," Scott urged. A flicker of regret crossed his face as he glanced toward the Preserve, but his jaw was set with determination. "I'm sorry. But she's made her choice."

For a moment, Stiles didn't move. But she doesn't understand…If I could just….I can't just…

In the distance, a jet engine hummed. Scott was right. If they didn't leave now, all of this would be for nothing.

His heart crumbled as he allowed Scott to steer him to the fence where Lydia and Isaac were now waiting on the other side. Stiles' burst of energy was rapidly fading, but Scott helped him into the fissure and kept one steady hand on his back as he guided him over the uneven ground, and Isaac effortlessly lifted Stiles out by the arms at the other side.

"Let's go," Isaac murmured, dragging Stiles' arm over his shoulder as Scott heaved himself out of the fissure. "The farther we can get from here before stopping, the better."

That was a good idea. A good strategy, and Stiles had the fleeting thought that maybe he should be helping with that. That was his job, after all. But he was just so tired, so all he could do was lean into Isaac's side and let the taller boy guide him across the field to the copse of trees that already hid the others.

They were nearly there when the jets arrived. All four of them stopped, eyes unwillingly drawn to the air. Two, four, six – Stiles counted ten. Ten bombers, flying in formation, all of them headed toward a sleepy Californian town turned nightmare prison camp.

From this distance, the bombs were merely shadows. Stiles might have thought he imagined them, but the explosions were unmistakeable. The deafening bangs that threw dark clouds of ash into the sky. The rumble of buildings – schools, coffee shops, homes – collapsing into rubble. The tremors that rippled across the grass, grumbling and groaning to shake the ground beneath their feet.

Choking back a sob, Stiles turned away from Beacon Hills to head into the trees.