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komahinasecretexchange · 7 years

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Title: Minor Inconveniences

Author: @midnight-run-amok

For: @moosabus

Rating/Warnings: All Ages (Some minor references to sex and some low-grade cursing, but nothing to write home about.) Relatively Tame Spoilers for DR2, 2.5 and DR3. Prompt: Komaeda adopts a puppy and seeks hinata’s help in caring for it Author’s notes: This was really a lot of fun to write because fluffy concepts like this aren’t really in my usual wheelhouse so… yeah, I’m a little nervous about it. I really, really hope you like it. Timeline-wise this occurs after DR3:Hope Side. Cheers! ^_^

“Well, I mean….” He trailed off, running a distracted hand through his hair as he stared down at the small, fuzzy animal currently flopped over in the middle of the deck licking its… no… his junk. “Can you return it?”

Komaeda just stared at him and somehow his wilting smile made him feel like he’d just spat on a child’s birthday cake.

It was a look that clearly said: You are a monster, Hajime Hinata.

A crusher of dreams.

The literal worst.

“Nevermind,” he sighed, rolling his eyes to stare up at the bright blue of the sky above.

A small voice inside him that was all that truly remained of the most analytic parts of Izuru (and somehow always sounded like Nanami) quietly informed him that the sky wasn’t actually blue.

Don’t be pedantic.

He turned his attention back to the man at his side who was now smiling and looking awfully pleased with himself for someone who had just moments before looked as if someone had just canceled Christmas.

Not that he really thought Komaeda had ever actually celebrated Christmas. He’d seemed completely gobsmacked by the idea when Sonia had started making noises about how they should maybe find some lights to make the ship a bit more friendly-looking so people would stop running away when they docked.

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that people would probably still run away, they’d just be able to do so a lot sooner, because they’d see them coming from further off.

Fortunately, the running and screaming actually seemed to finally be dying down a bit as people slowly forgot who they had been and what they could do. Eventually he hoped they’d just seem like eccentric weirdo do-gooders wandering the world fixing things.

Like those guys on Scooby Doo… only with more practical repair work and a boat instead of a brightly painted van.

They even had a dog now… apparently.

“Where’d you even get a puppy?”

“Oh, I found him.”

And knowing Komaeda that could mean any number of things, each more potentially distressing than the last.

This was why he hated being labeled de-facto leader of their little bad of misfits.

Being responsible for things like this.

Because it had pretty much been an endless parade of things like this ever since they’d woken up.

Gundham was running some sort of weird island rodent rehabilitation program in the old theater and since he’d used the ship to bring them to the island in the first place, they’d been cleaning rat crap out of all the nooks and crannies for the better part of a month.

Akane had somehow stolen one of Togami’s credit cards and used it to order fifteen pigs last month so they could roast and eat them. He hadn’t even known you could buy fifteen freaking pigs online much less have them airlifted to an manmade island in the middle of the Pacific.

Such was the power of the Togami name, apparently, even now.

Their Imposter still couldn’t settle on a name or a default persona and had been oscillating between old standbys for the last few weeks which - in and of itself - wouldn’t have been that big a deal if it hadn’t sent poor Mitarai running to their room every other day at half past three in the morning with a laundry list of completely earnest questions about sex that had made him want to weep.

Mostly because of the sort of answers Komaeda cheerfully volunteered.

Souda had built a giant security robot that had managed to set half of the buildings on the fourth island on fire.

Nekomaru had managed to blow out the plumbing in both his own room and different parts of the hotel no less than five times in the last month.

They had started leaving him behind on the island to avoid potential mid-ocean disasters (not that that helped with the blow out issue exactly, but at least it kept it contained to the island where there were a number of bathrooms).

Akane had volunteered to stay behind with him (which he was silently grateful for as Akane had a tendency to mow right through their food supplies by the time they were two days out of port). Between the two of them they always managed to break something while they were gone, but at least they didn’t have to worry about intruders attempting to take over their little piece of the world while they were away.

Not that people were exactly lining up to attack their island these days.

It only took so many stalled ships and airplanes and so many rockets shot out of the air before those few countries who had been so inclined had given it up as a bad job.

Mahiru was constantly banging on his door at all hours of the night to complain about something Hanamura had done during the day. Or how she really needed a dedicated space in which to develop pictures. Or how they really needed to install better lighting in the common areas. Or how irresponsible it was of him to be sleeping without first making sure everyone was safely in their cabins for the night.

At which point he usually reminded her that he wasn’t a hall monitor and that they were all adults perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

And the look she usually gave him when he said that was the same look she might have given gum she had to scrap off her shoe.

Fortunately, he had resigned himself to Mahiru’s disappointment when he’d first woken her up and she’d asked him what had taken so long.

For his part things, Hanamura (when he wasn’t having to lecture him yet again about his inappropriate behavior) had begun insisting on regular delivers of all sorts of exotic ingredients so he could stretch his culinary wings.

Which really meant they’d been discovering with uncomfortable regularity that everyone was allergic to something.

And it probably explained the Nekomaru’s bathroom issues as well.

Sonia had insisted on expanding the library’s already improbably large section devoted to the occult and unnatural phenomena, but while they’d been removing and disposing of the library’s collection of weird porn (which Hanamura had been delighted to take custody of) to make room for it they’d discovered some intrepid librarian had built a secret sex dungeon in behind the ‘Do-It-Yourself’ section.

Which would have been fine except apparently Despair had hit the island really, really hard and the sex dungeon had become… something else entirely and since just lighting the building on fire with one of Souda’s robots wasn’t an option they’d had to figure out a way to clean the whole place out.

Which had been an incredibly disgusting task that Komaeda had overseen cheerfully claiming he was glad to have a way to contribute and blithely ignoring Souda’s and Kazuryuu’s loud complaints about being forced to do the grunt work.

Peko… actually never caused any particular problems.

Or possibly was just better at resolving any situations that arose on her own.

It was hard to say for sure.

Saionji had brought the act of ‘making a bad situation worse’ to an art form of epic proportions during the months since she’d woken up. Besides playing pranks on everyone (but mostly Mikan because some folks never really changed completely). She and Ibuki had also formed a band called Hair Down There and had been threatening to hold a concert as soon as they convinced Souda to build them a giant flame spewing dinosaur they absolutely needed for the their big finale.

He was pretty sure the giant robot had given them ideas.

And Komaeda…

Komaeda had apparently found and adopted a dog.

And since they’d been sleeping together practically since the moment he’d taken his hand and pulled him back into the waking world, he had apparently also adopted a dog.

Because, honestly, his life just wasn’t complete without something to stare at them awkwardly from across the room when they….

Dammit.

The idea of having yet another living thing dependent on him for its survival was nauseating.

But Komaeda looked so damn happy about the idea.

Fuck.

When exactly was it that he’d become completely incapable of saying no to Nagito Komaeda?

Komaeda’s chin settled against his shoulder, arms looping tight around his waist, “It’s a lot to ask, isn’t it?”

“The asking part would have been nice,” he sighed, tipping his head in against the soft, pale hair. “Seriously? Where did you even find him?”

“You know all those busted up shops near the dock?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Because it was hard to be sure which shops he was talking about since pretty much all the shops on the entire island (whose name Izuru/Nanami politely informed him was Sint Maarten as if that were important or relevant to the conversation and not just one more awkward piece of knowledge to deal with) had been burgled or trashed at some point before they’d arrived and while they’d been doing clean-up for a couple days, there was still a lot of work to be done.

“I heard him crying. His mother… well. I think it was lucky I decided to take my walk there today.”

“Mm, how are you feeling?”

“I…” He hesitated and within that pause he could practically feel him swallowing down the urge to lie or to tell the truth in the cruelest possible way.

They were all trying so hard to be better than they were.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he shrugged.

“Because you know anyway?” Komaeda murmured, voice flat, but his arms tightened around him which was a good sign.

He did.

That soft, flat voice in his head was running down numbers and percentages and adjusting his exercise regiment.

He couldn’t help being what he was.

“But you’d still rather hear it from me,” Komaeda commented as if plunking the words from his mind. “Today was a pretty good day. Look at him. He’s cute, isn’t he?”

The nameless puppy had apparently finished cleaning himself and was now roaming around sniffing at the pile of supply crates that dominated that part of the deck.

“He’s going to pee on that crate.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“He just did.”

“Oh… so he did. I should probably clean that up,”

“Probably. I’ll go see if we have anything to feed him,” Hajime sighed, resigned to the inevitably of their new crew member.

He could already see the span of days falling out before him. Days of Komaeda chasing that puppy around the ship, cleaning up after him, apologizing for him… this was probably a mistake.

Still….

He liked the mistakes.

Maybe it was selfish, but he liked watching them all make mistakes.

He was still able to see everything that would happen, all the inevitable cause and effect that ruled the world, all those potential inconveniences coming miles away. That hadn’t changed when he’d woken up in his pod, gasping for air, heart racing. The world was still boring and very little surprised him, but it was somehow less of a burden than it had been when he’d been only Izuru Kamakura and the world had seemed mired in molasses, always moving too slow and predictably around him to be of even the slightest interest.

Now at least he could appreciate the pleasure that came from letting things play out as they would, content himself with enjoying the little surprises as they happened rather than intent on breaking the world to pieces in search of them.

These days he found he liked watching things happen.

Liked seeing what they would make of their lives.

It was worth watching buildings burn and fielding angry calls from Togami and answering uncomfortable questions and navigating an endless series of complaints.

Sometimes they surprised him and events would veer off in directions he could never have predicted.

More often they didn’t.

But that was okay too.

Life was full of inconveniences and robots and wrecked buildings and the feel of Komaeda sliding his metallic hand beneath his shirt and dragging chilly fingertips up his spine because he knew the cold would make him flinch and squirm against him even if he knew it was coming.

That it would still make them both laugh.

There was more laughter than despair these days and that, in and of itself, was something special.

In the simulation, he’d spent weeks wishing Komaeda would leave him alone.

Now he couldn’t imagine what his days would look like without him.

Didn’t want to.

So, if he wanted a puppy… that was okay too.

“So, what are you going to name him?” He’d asked late that afternoon as they lay sprawled out on the deck watching the others laugh and talk as Hanamura grilled up something that smelled amazing and would probably taste twice as good. “And don’t say Hope. You are not naming our puppy ‘Hope’.”

Komaeda laughter was like the tinkling sound of wind chimes swept together by a warm breeze, “Our puppy?”

“Would you rather he was just yours?”

“No, not at all,” he hummed, scooting a little closer so their legs touched, careful not to disturb the puppy currently snoozing on his chest. “Though maybe you should name him. I’m really no good at naming things….”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. If it’s something awful, I’ll veto it.”

“I really don’t know if I can trust someone like you with such an important job, maybe we should have Sonia or one of the others….”

“Oh, shut up about my talent and name the damn dog already,” he laughed, poking Komaeda’s shoulder.

Komaeda hummed and fell silent for long moments as he contemplated the compromise. “Lucky,” he said finally, his face gravely serious.

“What is?”

“His name. See, I told you I wasn’t very good at naming things, you see,” Komaeda replied, scratching a finger against the puppy’s floppy ear. “You are very unfortunate to have such a terrible master.”

“I don’t know, I think it suits him.”

“Really?”

“I do.”

“Okay.”

The fingers of Komaeda’s robotic hand slid over his own, clutched briefly before retreating.

“But we’re going to need to find someone who’s willing to watch him if you want to fool around.”

“Why? I don’t think he’d mind.”

“I’d mind.”

“You’re surprisingly prudish about the strangest things. I don’t think Lucky cares what you look like naked. Or are you worried my body will frighten him? I admit that might be-“

“You’re beautiful.”

“Well, yes, so you’ve said, but I think that’s just because you have terrible taste. I mean, you’ve chosen to spend your time with someone like me so your judgement is highly questionable on a number of levels.”

He rolled over onto his knees so he could loom over Komaeda who, unsurprisingly, looked back up at him with that usual pleasantly blank expression that made him want to throw things at Komaeda’s long-dead parents for whatever part they’d had in this attitude, “You do know I’m literally the most talented man in the world, right?”

“Well, yes, but only because you cheated.”

He chose to ignore that remark. It was one he was well-used to hearing from Komaeda’s lips, after all. Whatever sting it might have carried had worn away long ago.

“And you’re in love with a cheater.”

“Am I?” A smile quirked across his lips, subtle but real.

“Aren’t you? Seems like you said as much several times this morning.”

“Well, you have a few redeeming qualities.”

“Thanks for that. That’s good to hear,” he commented dryly, dropping a kiss against Komaeda’s lips. He’d intended to be a quick thing, but Komaeda had other ideas, fingers catching against the back of his neck and drawing him in for something wetter, deeper.

When he’d finally drawn away, they were both breathing a little harder and somewhere behind them Saionji was bitching loudly about how some people should take their little makeup sessions downstairs.

Komaeda smiled, pale cheeks flushed pink in the light of the setting sun, “Mm, do you think Mitarai likes dogs?”

Hajime laughed, reaching down to scratch behind Lucky’s ears before sitting back, “I think if you have Mitarai watch him for us, there’s really no telling what his boyfriend is going to imitate next.”

The idea of the unknown was always such a unique and tantalizing possibility.

Komaeda’s smile was soft and knowing as he sat up slowly, lifting the puppy from his chest and depositing him carefully in Hajime’s lap. He leaned in and pressed a fleeting kiss against his lips before getting unsteadily to his feet, “I’ll go find out. Wait for me?”

“I always do,” he said, setting a tentative hand against the pup’s back as it lifted its head, suddenly awake and interested in the proceedings as Komaeda slipped off into the crowd gathered around the grill.

The puppy clamored up out of his lap, sniffing the air and padding off towards the pile of crates.

“You need to go for a walk don’t you?” He sighed, climbing to his feet and adjusting his slacks. “C’mon, then.”

Lucky glanced back at him and lifted his leg against one of the crates in response.

Right.

#komahina #komahina secret exchange #fanfiction

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hey-i-wrote-a-story · 7 years

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Chapter 27 The Farm

Scott and Stiles rode at top speed down the old and crumbling highway that led to the Willoughby Farm. Even though it took very little time to get the trio of amateur conjurers settled in with a promise not to wander off (and most certainly not to try to help), it was already early afternoon by the time the best friends began to approach the legendary bleak homestead.

“How much farther is it?!”, Stiles yelled in his friend’s ear.

Stiles had to shout to hear himself over the rush of wind and the sound of tires buzzing over the pavement. He sat on the back of the seat of Scott’s motor bike, his arms clutched around the waist of his friend. A helmet that did not suit him in any way also covered his ears, hampering his hearing further.

“You don’t have to shout”, Scott answered. “I have pretty good hearing, you know!”

“What?!”

“Just speak normally!”, Scott called back.

“I can’t hear you!”, Stiles persisted. “There’s wind! And whooshing noise! A-and gravel bits being shot up my nose and—why is it so damn cold??!!”

Scott had noticed it too. Even as the scenery around them had steadily devolved from lush surroundings or grass and forests to dank, open areas of depressing grays, so had the temperature grown cooler to match it. Both he and Stiles had bundled up for the long ride, with Scott in a fleece-lined denim jacket and Stiles in two hoodies, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. There was something about The Wasteland that discouraged warmth, and shunned sunlight. If they didn’t believe in the legends about the cursed land shared as they were growing, this journey would be enough to convince them.

“I don’t think it’s much farther!”, Scott called over his shoulder.

“SPEAK! UP!!”

Scott was almost ready to go wolfen and roar a reply at Stiles, despite the risk of the sound knocking the skinnier lad off the back of the bike. But before Scott could give that idea any serious thought, his eye caught something up ahead. He nudged Stiles with his elbow and then extended his arm forward, his finger pointing. Stiles’ eyes followed where Scott was indicating and he saw it, too. Sitting squat within a thick expanse of wild, mostly dead grass, was the remains of what must have once been a farm house. Broken posts, cracked foundation, jagged and mysterious pieces charred black jabbed upward at the overcast sky. Nearby the house was some kind of stone or brick structure, also in a dreadful state of disrepair. It could have been a flower shed, a guest house, a garage, or any number of things. Now it was a crumbling mass of rugged detritus with no discernable purpose besides being an eyesore. A dirt road led form the wreckage of the house perhaps a few hundred feet into the property to a large barn. It was still in one piece, but that was all it had going for it. It swayed ever so slightly in the bitter wind as if it were aching to fall over. This was the place, alright. Stiles swallowed when he saw the farm, and even Scott had to suppress a shiver which he knew was not from the cold.

The dirt and gravel crunched under Scott’s tires as his motor bike came to a halt halfway up the lengthy driveway that led from the old road to disheveled property. As he and Stiles dismounted, he paused as he sarcastic best friend started lodging his first complaint. “Tell me again why we didn’t come by car? Kira has a car, we could’ve asked her, ‘Say, my best friend’s true love, would you mind lending us your vehicle that actually has sides and a roof so we could ride in it the long way to the spooky Scooby-Doo setting so that Stiles won’t freeze to death before we can reach the latest monster that will try to kill him?’ I’m sure she would have said yes.”

Scott was slowly removing his helmet as he answered, only half paying attention to his own words. “Kira should have the car in case she needs to get Kaitlyn, Aadesh, and Freddie out quick. I don’t trust Freddie’s truck, and I—“

Stiles set his helmet on the bike seat and walked up to his friend. “Scott, you okay?”

“There’s something about this place. It puts my senses on edge. The dank smells, the lack of moisture in the air…and have you noticed how quiet it is? No animal or nature sounds at all.”

Stiles paused long enough to pick up on it, too. “When I stop to listen, yeah. There’s literally nothing to listen to.”

Scott handed his helmet to Stiles, who secured it on the bike. The closest structure was the stone building, which Scott approached first. It only took a few more steps to see that the stone building wasn’t a building at all, at least not anymore. Two walls were still standing, but that was all that was left of it. The back wall, and the wall facing the highway were still upright. The front façade, other side, and roof were all gone. Those that remained were lashed with scorch marks, still visible after all these years, despite all the weather and inspects that had come and gone. Stiles followed behind Scott, seeing nothing but an open area, there was no reason to hesitate. If anything was going to jump out at them, it would have already, and this spot offered no camouflage or objects to hide behind. As Stiles stepped forward, the floor creaked beneath his feet. Both boys looked down to see that the floor was planked wood. Scott raised an eyebrow, having expected the floor to be either dirt or concrete. Weird.

Beyond the cluster of dead leaves off in the corner and the abundance of cobwebs and wood rot, the only thing of note was an old wooden beam. It was charred black, but still sturdy. Its thickness alone made it obvious why it hadn’t fallen over long ago. As it was, the beam was lodged tightly in place on an angle, jammed between the wooden floor and the longer of the remaining walls. The boys looked behind them at the foundation of the old house. The foundation was pretty much all there was left of it. It had been devastated by fire, as they’d been told, but they expected to find some small part of it that remained. They were out of luck.

“Whatever it was that blew the house apart must have had a lot of power behind it”, Scott said, pushing a bit against the beam. “If it shot one of the supports through a cement shed and left it stuck here for decades.”

Stiles stepped out of the wrecked structure and ventured to the house. It took a couple tries to get up onto the raised floor, as any steps or inclines had evidently been long destroyed. Stiles looked around, seeing that there was nothing much to see. Blackened, devastated flooring, a couple standing beams, equally black, in varying heights, at three of the four corners of the house. Stiles turned to see Scott sniffing around the outside of the foundation, hunched over, trying to discover something…anything that could tell them more.

“You get anything?”, Stiles asked.

Scott stood up and declared, “Yes. From what I can determine here, all the evidence points to this house having burned down at some point in the past.”

Stiles stuck his tongue in his cheek, his eyelids now drooping. “Had you been on the case, the Zodiac Killer would have been locked up years ago.” Scott snickered and moved to get up onto the floor with his best friend. Stiles extended a hand. “Here. It can be tricky. If you need a hand—“ Scott deftly jumped from a standing position four feet in the air to land deftly beside his friend. “—which of course you don’t.”

Scott walked through what was left of the house, which wasn’t much. Just about everything was charred black, and the burnt smell still lingered beneath all the dust, bits of dirt, leaves and dead branches, and insect nests scattered across it. There were no walls to be seen. The house was not a large one, so if there were walls at one time, the rooms would have been cramped. That was typical of some farm houses of the period. The least time of the farming family was spent inside, as all moments of light were spent outside engaging in hard work. Scott eyed a large, nasty-looking spider slipping through some cracks in the floorboards, and that was about it. He looked over to Stiles, who was leaning on some kind of tool handle—for perhaps a shovel or a rake—that had been stabbed into the ground at one time and never picked up again, its daily use interrupted by the attack of an interdimensional monster. The handle was now covered in weeds and vines, but still offered support to the gangling teenager who held onto it as he leaned forward, groping for an ancient but formidable axe that was buried in a petrified tree stump just beyond the foundation.

“What are you going to do with that?”, Scott asked.

Stiles jumped back, like a kid with his caught in the cookie jar. “Nothing. Just…yeah, just checking out the axe.”

“We’re not going to find any answers here”, Scott decided. “Which means we’re going to have to go over the rest of the property. Dig for anything that can give us some clue about the Unspoken.”

“Let the sleuthing begin!”, Stiles said, leading the charge out of the wreckage and down the dirt driveway leading further into the property. His determined tone did little to hide the fact that he was creeped out of his mind and wanted nothing more than to turn tail and get the hell out of there. Despite that, he ventured on. Scott’s presence helped. Although the young werewolf was just as aware of the wrongness of their surroundings, with his senses on alert, and his powers at the ready, he seemed almost at home there. He was very much in his element.

The weeds and underbrush had grown tall and thick beyond the house’s foundation, making it difficult to navigate. It was too dense to walk through freely, and its height obscured even Scott’s heightened vision.

“How can something look like it’s been dead for a hundred years get so thick?”, Stiles complained. “We’d be further ahead doubling back to the driveway-road deal and going around.”

“You may be right about that”, Scott said, then he noticed that the underbrush thinned markedly before them. The duo pushed through the shafts of weeds to find an expansive area of the wild growth that had been flattened down to the ground. It was easy to deduce how, as a massive tree trunk lay on the ground atop the weeds and yellowed grass. It was from a graying tree that was taller than the section they were seeing, as the end that was not torn roots looked to have been snapped in half. The two best friends stared at it for a moment. They looked around, searching for a spot of torn-up earth from where the tree may have come. There was nothing within sight.

“You’d think that when big trees get uprooted, swept up into the air, and crash to the ground in giant chunks that that may be a good indication your magic spell had gone sideways”, Stiles observed.

“You’d think so”, Scott agreed.

Seeing the devastation in front of them, they wanted answers, clues, anything that might help them, the sooner the better. They followed the fallen tree’s length to the dirt road that led past the house into the farm proper. The spot where they stood was not exactly rife with clues. A crushed metal structure that may have been the remains of a corn crib, which the dirt road encircled in a wide berth. Presumably that was the spot where large equipment could make a turnaround when needed. Not far from the crushed crib was the chassis of a bisected tractor, covered with rust, missing three of its wheels, and unable to turn anywhere. A couple large wooden barrels stood nearby, their planks bulging outward, ready to snap their rings. That was it. That left what was at the very end of the dirt road; the only other standing structure on the property, the barn.

Located about one hundred feet from what was presumably the house’s front porch, the old barn was gray and weather-worn, sagging and dilapidated. How it had remained standing all these years was anyone’s guess, but it also made it somewhat suspect on a patch of land scarred with death and devastation. Scott and Stiles approached the barn with caution, opting to avoid the large door on the front of the barn, less because of the large browned chains immobilized by rust and a padlock the size of a fist, than that they didn’t want to risk it falling down on top of them. Instead, they used a smaller door they found around the side. Scott reached for the old wooden handle, and even opening it gingerly, had the door come off in his hand.

“Did you use wolf strength?”, Stiles asked.

“No. It’s just really that messed up.” He set the door aside and let it fall down onto the dead grass.

“Good thing we didn’t knock”, Stiles commented.

“Just be careful”, Scott cautioned. And the two stepped through the doorway into the aged barn.

The barn was as gray and bleak on the inside as it was on the outside. Divided into sections, the first portion of the barn beyond the open doorway was a large storage area with a high ceiling supported primarily by rafters that did not look long for this world. As the wind blew through the wall’s wooded slats , the rafters creaked and whined, an unnerving sound that gave voice to the old support beams’ desire to be free of its long-held burden and let it fall to the ground. Thankfully, it held. But the walls of the barn moved slightly in and out with the lashes of the wind, making the building look like it was gasping for breath in its dying state. Cobwebs, abandoned nests, and dirt and dust piles decorated the large empty room. A large spider skittered up the wall to their right, taking refuge in a crack in the wooded paneling where it seemed to vanish.

“Well, this isn’t at all creepy”, Stiles said.

A few empty wooden crates, as gray as the building, were present under the high-roofed room, two of the three that were immediately visible were shoved against the walls and into corners. It was unclear whether this had been done to get them out of the way or offer additional support to the sagging walls. The floor was covered with an uneven carpet of old straw, the husks either yellowed and crackling, or faded near-white and damp. Small piles of animal droppings littered the edge of the walls and collected in the corners. The smell of the place was pungent, and after only two or three footsteps inside, the dank stench caught the boys full in the face.

“Pyew!”, Stiles said involuntarily. “This is the result of no spring cleaning since 1927, huh?”

Scott glanced back over his shoulder at his friend. “Be thankful you’re not me.” He pointed to his nose, indicating his enhanced senses. The smell of the place had to have been ten times worse for Scott. Stiles nodded in understanding.

“Consider me thankful.”

The duo ventured on beyond the large room quickly. They could see nothing there worth investigating, and their conclusion was bolstered by the desire to escape the horrible smell. Another door on the far side of the room led them to a few other separated areas. The smell was much less pungent there. Most had open doorways or partitions that rose only four or five feet tall, making it easy to take stock of everything quickly. To their immediate left was another small are filled with rusted, ancient tools. Further ahead to the left, a gate which lead out to what might have been an animal pen back in the day. Straight ahead was an uneven stack of old hay bales, some of which were arranged to be used as steps to climb into what appeared to be a hay loft. To their right were the large double doors of the front face of the barn. There seemed to be very little for them to discover here. Still, better to be sure.

“You look in there”, Scott instructed, pointing Stiles toward the tool room. “I’ll check out whatever’s up there”, and he indicated the hay loft.

“Should we be splitting up?”, Stiles asked. “This exact decision in every horror movie always leads to the moment when people get chopped up by 7-foot guys with chainsaws.”

“Stiles, we’re going to be like twenty feet away from each other. I think this once we can risk it.” Scott waved his friend away as he moved toward the dank hay bales.

Stiles entered the doorless entry of the cramped tool room. There was very little to see, beyond a rake, a hoe, and an assortment of shovels all rusted through and crumbling as they rested on the floor, amid small piles of straw, or tacked to the wall on equally rusty nails. A tightly-wound circle of straw in the far corner looked to have been home to a fox who had long since vacated the premises. The floor itself was constructed of more of the gray paneled wood that gave a little as Stiles walked on it. He knew that were the room not on ground level, he most likely would have fallen through it. He was about to turn and rejoin Scott when something caught his eye. “Scott?”

From up in the hayloft, Scott called back, “Yeah?”

“I found some kind of closet or cupboard or something.”

“Okay. What’s in it?”

“Dunno.”

“Is it locked?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“So what’s in it?”

“Dunno. Not sure I wanna know.”

Scott scampered down from the hayloft and stuck his head into the tool room. “Stiles, will you open the stupid closet? I don’t want to stay here any longer than you do.”

“Well, I don’t want to be the one to open this up and have the skeletal remains of farmer Willoughby come tumbling out onto my feet.”

“There’s not going to be any farmer skeleton in there”, Scott assured him.

“You promise?”

Scott eyed Stiles with an expression that said Just do it, willya? Stiles steeled himself and slowly turned the old wooden latch on the closet door. It turned easily. Damn it. Gingerly, Stiles slowly started to open the door. When it was open by perhaps a foot, Stiles flung it wide quickly to reveal what was inside. A slumped form that looked like a skeletal farmer lurched forward onto Stiles, causing him to leap backwards while rising a good two feet off the ground. “OHH my GODD!!!” Stiles flung himself against the wall in an attempt to escape whatever had attacked him. Scott stepped forward, although if he was rushing in to rescue his friend, his pace seemed incredibly slack.

“Look out!”, Stiles yelled. “Dead farmer remains! Don’t let it touch you! It’s the Willoughby Crypt! I knew it!”

Scott knelt down and picked up Stiles’ would-be attacker. In his hands he held an old straw hat, some ragged flannels, and dusty worn bib overalls. “I don’t think you have much to fear from this”, Scott said. Scott reached into the open collar of the flannels to find a very old, spindly wire clothes hanger that snapped apart between his thumb and forefinger with very little pressure. Scott stood up and surveyed the contents of the open closet along with the ancient garb he held in his hands. “It’s a clothing cupboard”, he said.

Stiles stopped cringing long enough to see what they had discovered. “It is?” Stiles beheld an old wooden closet stuffed with dusty flannel work shirts and perhaps half a dozen pairs of bib overalls. A crooked shelf above the hanging work gear held an assortment of old-time farmer’s hats that would look comical in any other setting. At the bottom of the closet, four pairs of tall rubber farm boots were lined up. Perhaps once jet black and shiny, they were now worn and gray, with splashes of white discoloration blooming along their shafts.

Scott pointed to the severed end of a wire hanger still hooked around the wooden post that once held the fallen ensemble. “It’s so old, it probably broke off a long time ago. The door was the only thing holding them up.” Scott tossed the bundle of overalls and flannel to Stiles and said, “Have a look and see if there’s anything in there except old clothes.” With that he left the room to continue his search.

Stiles rolled his shoulders and craned his neck as he attempted to brush off his frightened outburst. It was immediately evident that the old clothes cupboard held no secrets or clues beyond decades-old farmer wear. Stiles knelt down and picked up one of the tall rubber boots. “How did anyone ever wear these things?”, he pondered aloud. A pointy little face popped out of the boot as if to answer him. Stiles hurled the boot back into the closet and screamed like a little girl.

“YYEEEAAAAGGHHHHH!!!”

Scott came running around the corner again in response to Stiles’ cry. “What? What is it now?”

Stiles point at the closet. “It’s a rat! A RAT in the BOOT! It’s the size of your forearm!”

Scott rolled his eyes and moved to pick up the discarded boot.

“Careful!”, Stiles warned. “I saw its eyes glow red! It’s an alpha rat!”

Scott looked inside the boot and then pulled out a tiny squeaking creature by the tail. “Stiles, it’s a mouse.” He held it up for his friend to see. He then tossed it lightly onto a nearby hay bale, where the tiny rodent scampered away.

“It could have been an alpha mouse, then”, Stiles conceded.

Scott held his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. “It was this big.”

“You were the shortest berserker on record. You were still scary.”

Scott turned away to continue his half of the search. Stiles attempted to return the fallen clothes to the closet, only to have more fall from their hangers. As he moved to pick them up, a couple pairs of boots tumbled out. Reaching to hang the overalls and flannels back while bending over to retrieve the boots, Stiles slipped on some of the boots, bumped the shelf holding the hats, which came free of one of its moorings and fell down to hang at an odd angle. Hats spilled everywhere. Stiles stared at the mess for a moment, then simply dropped everything, and pushed the door closed as far as he could against the mound of old clothes. “Close enough”, he decided, and turned to follow Scott.

Scott was already climbing down from the hay loft when Stiles emerged from the tool room. “Nothing up there either”, Scott said. “There may not be anything here to find after all.”

“Fine by me”, Stiles was quick to say. “With all the killer rats and uncooperative clothes and creepiness and general stench of evil, I am more than happy to don my riding helmet and—“

“Whoa.”

Scott’s quiet remark cut Stiles of fin mid-ramble. Stiles noticed immediately his friend’s stiff posture and knew his sarcastic comment could wait.

“What is it?”

Scott tilted his head slowly, searching for a sound, a scent, anything beyond the feeling of unease that had settled upon him. He gestured for his best friend to follow him. Without turning, he said, “Slowly. Stay alert.” Unseen by his friend, Stiles nodded in agreement. The exited through a side door beneath the hayloft that was similar to the one through which they’d entered on the opposite end of the barn, but with sturdier hinges. This one creaked a bit, but stayed connected to its moorings. As soon as Scott stepped out into the dim light of early evening, he felt a rush of freezing cold air cut into him.

“Holy--! Do you feel that??”

Stiles was right behind him. “Feel wha—Yow! Okay, that’s frigid. What just happened?”

Scott pointed at the ground about ten feet in front of that. “I’m guessing that.”

On the ground was a circle drawn into the dirt, about six feet across. At various points around the circle, various objects had been placed in a very specific manner. The objects themselves were common; stones, twigs, twine, a collection of leaves gathered from the branches of trees from a time when trees in the area still bore leaves. Markings that may have been chalk lines at one time now stood out as gashes; wounds that had healed poorly and now stood forever as protruding scars. It was emanating cold. The ground and every item encircling it was coated in white, like frost.

“I think it’s a summoning circle”, Scott said.

“Not knowing anything about raising demons and monsters from the underworld, I’m going to go out on a limb and back you up on that one”, Stiles said.

“Do you think this is the circle they used to bring up the energy monster?”, Scott asked.

Stiles slowly shook his head. His eyes made their almost imperceptible shift from smartass to investigator. “No…I don’t think so”, he said. “Look at how small it is. Could something as big as our guy even get through that?”

“It’s made of energy, Stiles. It can probably work its way through anything.”

Stiles stroked his chin. Yes, that was probable, but still… “Maybe. But why is it cold? Our guy is blazing hot and this is freaking freezing.”

Scott had knelt down beside the circle and held his hand above it. “It is really cold down here”, he described. “Like sticking your hand in a freezer.” Gently, cautiously, Scott placed his fingers against the ground. So very cold, it stung to touch it. He pushed down slightly, then placed his palm flat and put his entire arm, then his shoulder into it. This was nothing like the soft and sandy soil everywhere else on the farm. This felt solid. Solid like marble, or like bedrock.

“There’s no give”, Stiles observed.

“No, it’s like this one area is—aah!” Scott pulled his hand away from the circle, leaving a small bit of flesh behind. He looked at his hand and saw his skin discolored to a mottled bluish-purple. The pain was intense, even with Scott’s healing factor working quickly to repair the damage.

“Scott, let me see!”, Stiles said anxiously. He took his friend by the wrist and examined his hand. “This is second degree frostbite.” He watched as the color changed steadily from purple to bright red to pink as the hand healed. The muscles of Scott’s arm relaxed as the pain subsided, but his body remained tense. He was still unnerved by what had happened.

“Stiles, I think this is the summoning circle that was used to bring the monster to earth the first time.”

Stiles titled his head. “You think so?” Scott nodded. Stiles looked at the circle and frowned. “Look at this stuff around it, though. Sticks, string…leaves, even. You think this stuff just sat here since the late 1920’s? The leaves never blew away, no birds took the string or sticks for its nest? ��Have you heard any birds since we got here?”, Scott asked pointedly.

“Still, a pile of leaves that hadn’t budged in over half a century--”, Stiles began, kicking the leaves for emphasis, expecting them to scatter. They didn’t. “Ow! Heyyy.”

“What?”

Stiles looked at Scott. “It felt like I was kicking a tree stump.”

Immediately, the two went down on their haunches and grabbed an object from the edge of the circle. They pulled. In a few seconds, Stiles gave up tugging on a twig and yanked his hands back. “Okay! Too cold! Way too cold!” Scott had his hands around a stone no larger than a grapefruit. He was pulling with all his might, his muscles straining, the veins on his neck bugling. He let go, panting. The stone wouldn’t budge, any more than the twig or leaves would.

“It’s all fused to the ground. I can’t be moved”, Scott said.

“This may or may not be how the monster got here the first time”, Stiles realized, “but it is definitely how it went back. This spot was the exit. It went through here when it was banished, and that sealed the path.” Stiles took a step back, taking in the gravity of what they were standing around. Scott moved a bit closer, marveling at how this ordinary circle in the dirt with its scattered objects could hold back a monster. His reflection was cut short as Stiles patted his friend on the arm. “Scott. Look.”

Scott turned to see what Stiles was looking at. Some sixty feet from where they stood, there was a clearing. It was not a natural occurrence. Trees and tall grass lay thrown aside, broken, or flattened by something that had come through that clearing. Something big. And something very, very strong. Scott looked at Stiles with renewed purpose in his eyes. This was what they come for. Scott started moving quickly toward the clearing.

“Oh by all means, yes”, Stiles called after him. “Let’s run right over to the big gaping hole of recently erupted chaos. Nothing bad can come of that! Scott?” Scott was already well ahead of him, more than halfway to the clearing. Stiles made a groaning noise of frustration and took off after him. Scott slackened his pace a bit when he heard Stiles making his way through the tall yellow grass behind him. They reached the clearing together.

They stood at the edge of another circle, larger than the first, at least fifteen feet across, perhaps twenty. Unlike the rough scratches in the smaller circle by the barn, this one was composed of an intricate and arcane pattern etched three inches deep in the ground. Scott and Stiles stood there a moment, taking it all in. Then Scott turned to his best friend. They both felt a rising unease creep into their bellies.

“Think we should be on the lookout for the monster? In case it comes back around here?”

“Either him or a really big blond guy with a hammer”, Stiles said.

Scott stared blankly. “Who?”

Stiles felt his brow scrunching into creases. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that one, either.” Scott just shrugged. Stiles held up his palm to halt the conversation and turned away in exasperation. Scott, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the pattern on the ground.

“It’s hot”, he observed, getting down on his haunches. He rested his palm flat against the surface. “The ground is hot. This circle, this pattern, it’s radiating heat.”

Stiles squatted down to see for himself. He held his hand above the strange pattern and felt nothing, but as he lowered his hand down much closer, to about an inch above it, he began to feel the heat too. He pulled his hand back right away. “Okay, that does not seem like a good thing.” He stood up and took a step back. Scott remained on his haunches, his hands feeling along the pattern in the ground. The ground was still a bit soft, a sharp contrast to the hard, cold circle by the barn.

“The four of them never mentioned anything about carving a pattern in the ground, did they?”

“Not that I can remember”, Stiles said.

“So that means this happened when the monster came into our world. But this pattern…it wasn’t burned into the ground. It’s not blackened, there are no scorch marks. So where’s the heat coming from?” Scott dug into the ground with his finger, seeing if he could uncover a heat source. All he found was more warm dirt. But as he pulled his hand up, the dirt clung to his finger like glue. Scott felt a strange suction on his finger, and the dirt rose with him, rising along with his hand like a grainy funnel. Scott then jerked his hand back quickly, causing the vortex of soil to collapse back to the ground, spreading evenly as it had been before, looking now as if nothing had happened. “Whoa”, Scott said. “Did you see that?”

“I saw”, Stiles confirmed.

Scott picked up a small branch from a few feet away and poked at the pattern with it. The branch sunk in about as far as one might imagine when poking a branch into dry earth. Scott pressed down a little further, and the suction could be felt. He tried to lift the branch out of the ground, but this time the pull was stronger. Curious to see what would happen, Scott let go of the branch and watched wide-eyed as the warm ground sucked it down in an instant with a short slurping sound. “Holy crap.”

“Scott”, Stiles said, his voice sounding a bit strained.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Scott, get up and step away from that thing.”

“Just a second, I’m still checking it out—“

Stiles grabbed Scott’s collar. “Scott! Get away from it!”

Scott scrambled to his feet quickly and looked at Stiles in surprise. “Dude, what?”

Stiles looked at Scott, but pointed at the intricate pattern in the ground. “Scott, do you realize what that is?”

“Well, yeah. It’s definitely the spot where the energy monster came through. It’s a…a portal, I guess.”

Stiles paused for a moment before speaking again. He wanted to be very clear. “What if it’s not that complicated? What if it’s not some strange, magic portal or cosmic wormhole? What if it’s just…a door?” Scott looked at him askance. Wasn’t that the same thing? Stiles continued, “Do you remember what your dad used to say to us when we were little, when we’d burst through the front door and leap off the porch to go play in our hoodies whenever it got cold out?”

Scott smiled as the memory came to him. Mimicking his father’s voice, he said, “Close that door! I’m not paying to heat the whole neighborhood!” As soon as he realized what he’d said, his smile disappeared. Stiles nodded. They both looked at the pattern in the ground again. “But…if that’s just a door, and we can feel heat, maybe from the other side…”

“Scott, that means the door is still open. Which means if we’re not careful, we could fall through it.”

Scott felt a chill run up the back of his neck as he added, “Or anything down there could get out.”

They both stepped away quickly, the cool air dispelling any lingering warmth they’d felt from the supernatural gateway. The sudden chill was a welcome thing indeed.

“You know what we have to do now”, Scott said.

“Yes!”, Stiles answered. “Leave. We have to get far, far away from the scary hot springs hole in reality as quickly as possible. Leaving is good!”

“Fast as we can”, Scott agreed.

Quickly, the two friends rushed beyond the clearing, pushing past stray dead branches and shrubbery that was brittle and brown. They had scrambled beyond the tall grass back to the farm proper, and kept on moving until they hit the dirt road that stretched the length of the farm. Stiles was close to halfway to Scott’s bike when he realized his friend was no longer at his side. He whirled to see Scott, just a few paces behind him, having just stopped in his tracks. His body was tense, his eyes wide. He was still balancing himself on the balls of his feet, as if he’d been frozen in mid-stride. Scott slowly spread his arms out at his sides, fingers unfurling as he felt the chill air.

“Scott”, Stiles said, trying to catch his breath, “we gotta go.”

Scott did not respond to Stiles’ statement but instead looked at him and asked, “Do you feel that?”

Stiles felt the fear begin to rise within his belly, in anticipation of what would come next. These kinds of questions rarely led to something good. Stiles swallowed and licked his lips, bracing himself. “No. What are you feeling?”

Scott slowly cocked his head to one side. “I’m not sure. It’s like…the feeling in the air before a thunderstorm.” Stiles glanced up to confirm that although the sky looked gloomy, there were no storm clouds in sight. “But”, Scott went on, “it’s…thicker, stronger, if that makes any sense.”

“It doesn’t, but that’s long since stopped being a prerequisite for us.” Stiles was now beside his friend. “Scott, come on. We need to go. Now.”

Scott lifted his head. His eyes were wide and blazing red. Stiles froze.

“Scott? What’s going on? Are you okay? Your eyes—“

Scott opened his mouth to reveal that his teeth were already transforming into fangs. He spoke, his voice a low rumble, “I know. I can feel it. Something’s wrong…”

“Wrong? Wrong how? With you? Your powers?”

Scott held up his hands to see his claws slowly extend. It was almost painful. Like a forest animal that senses danger and instinctively goes on guard, Scott’s powers were asserting themselves through an instinctive need for protection. His ears becoming pointed, his hair growing thick and coarse, his face shifting from human to werewolf, he looked at his best friend. “Can’t you feel it??”

Stiles began to ask, “Feel wha--?” when his question was interrupted by the feeling of the air growing hot. This was no warm front or natural change in temperature, to be sure, and they both new it. Stiles looked down as their shadows caught this attention. It was now too late for them to see any shadows. The sun had dipped too deep on the horizon. But there they were; long, dark cast shadows beneath their feet, and growing longer by the second. Scott sniffed the air, and his face spasmed as if he had inhaled something foul. It stung his nostrils.

Scott whirled around to see a large light glowing in the distance, just above the barn. And it was growing larger as it moved closer. In less time than it takes to tell, the monster was upon them, crackling with energy, wings spread menacingly, and mouth gaping as it howled a hideous cry that hurt Scott’s ears.

Scott saw that Stiles wasn’t moving. He stood transfixed and horrified by the creature before them, unable to budge. Scott clasped his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and shouted, breaking him out of his paralysis. “RUN!” He emphasized his command with a strong push that sent Stiles flying some fifteen feet, sprawling in the dirt driveway. But when Stiles rapidly collected himself, bringing himself to his feet in a heartbeat, he was already running.

Scott looked up at the huge monster that hovered above him, beating its wings and crying out its ear-splitting warning. The fiery wings cut the air, sending waves of heat down upon Scott. The temperature soared, any moisture in the air evaporated. It felt as if a desert climate had been dropped like a bomb onto the abandoned farm. Scott squinted against the heat, keeping his arms wide and his claws visible. He was not going to back down. He roared back at the monster, expecting it to answer back at twice the volume, drowning out his challenge as a way of showing its dominance. Scott was astonished to see instead that the monster closed it mouth and pulled back about twelve feet. Its eyes glistened, seeming to glow brighter for an instant. It seemed more curious than afraid, as a small spark of orange energy arced out of its left eye to vanish with a pop in the night air. It had clearly never seen anything like Scott McCall before. The monster than looked past Scott, and though it was nearly impossible to judge expressions on its hideous face, Scott could have sworn that it had just smiled. Scott whirled to see what the creature had spotted, and his own expression switched to one of terror.

Stiles ran for all he was worth toward Scott’s bike. He had no idea how well he’d be able to handle it, but he needed to get away fast; much faster than he could on foot. No sooner had the thought come to him than he felt a flush of shame. He knew he couldn’t leave Scott. He could never leave him alone, certainly not to face something like this. But if Stiles were to use the motor bike, perhaps ride it to the very end of the driveway and turn back around, gain enough speed to ram it…

Stiles’ poorly-thought plan of heroism was short-lived. The creature swooped high in the air and then back down with tremendous speed. It spat a volley of eldritch energy at the ground in front of Stiles, causing a small explosion, but more than big enough to send the young man flying off of the driveway and into the nearby brush. Paying no further attention to Stiles, the monster flew a rapid circle around the bike and swung its crackling tail right into the tires. The tail sliced the air like a knife, passing through the bike like a ghost, but leaving in its wake a rush of heat that made Stiles cringe even from where he’d fallen, thirty feet away. The monster took to the air again, rising fast in an arc over the dried fields, letting out another piercing cry that might be mistaken for laughter.

Scott looked to Stiles, relieved to see he was unhurt. Stiles returned the look to his friend, feeling the same. When Stiles Saw Scott’s eyes widen and his jaw fall slack, Stiles turned quickly to find the source of that shocked expression. It didn’t take long to find. The bike still stood where it had been parked, its standard undisturbed, and primarily intact. The tires, however, were another matter. The rubber tires had been melted completely. What little remained of them was flowing down the driveway and seeping into the dirt like syrup. Both young men looked up to see the monster completing its arc, now high in the sky, its victorious cackle ringing clearly. They realized that the monster had never intended to hurt Stiles; not yet. It merely wanted to cut off his means of escape. The monster didn’t have to destroy the bike, just cripple it. It was a taunt. The monster was not ready for them to die. He wasn’t done playing with them.

Stiles ran towards Scott. If he was going to be exposed out in the open, he would least do so while at his friend’s side. Plus, he would prefer to have one of the most powerful supernatural creatures he’s ever known having his back. So there was that. Scott did not share Stiles’ confidence in his abilities and was less than thrilled with his friend’s decision.

“Run! Go! Get to safety—I’ll hold it off!”

Stiles yelled back, “Go where?! There IS no safety out here!” Then he added, “We’re in this together!”

Scott knew it was pointless to argue. “Then at least find something to defend yourself with! Anything!” Stiles nodded. It was a good point. He dashed toward the closest thing that might provide some means of protection; the demolished house.

The monster was coming back, faster than it had departed. It was on top of Scott in seconds, its wings pushing wave upon wave of heat down on the young werewolf. Scott went down on his haunches, his arm held up to ward off the heat. Gathering himself, he leapt up at the monster, going on the offensive with slashing claws. Left arm, right arm, left, right, right, left again; Scott’s fingers sliced through the air with ten razor-edged claws seeking to wound the massive energy monster. But air was all he sliced. The monster was incredibly quick, and it dogged and weaved away from Scott’s attack with ease. It was clearly very much at home in the air. Scott snarled in frustration and attacked again with renewed fury.

Stiles rummaged frantically through the wreckage of the old house’s blackened husk, tossing aside old scorched and fragile chunks of timber in search of some kind of weapon. His arms dug through the soot and tossed about debris frantically. Nothing. Then Stiles eyed the old axe, buried in the stump just beyond the house’s foundation. In the dim light, he’d nearly missed it. Leaping over the edge of the rotted floor, Stiles landed next to the stump, stumbling, but quickly regaining his feet. “Gonna slice myself up some flying monster cutlets!” He grabbed hold of the axe handle with both hands, and with a red-faced expression of furious determination, he let out a battle cry as he yanked with all his might to pull the axe free. “RAAARHHH!!!” There was a terrible CRACK and the handle came free; but only the handle. The axe handle had snapped off at the head. The blade was still buried deep in the stump. Stiles puffed an angry breath of frustration.

“Are…you…serious?!!”

He then spotted an archaic shovel planted nearby the stump. It was entwined with lifeless climbing weeds and cobwebs. Hardly impressive, but easily accessible. Stiles grabbed the shovel and pulled it free of the dry earth and dead weeds easily. He hefted it for half a second. It was heavy, solid. It was no baseball bat, but it’d do. He raced back toward Scott with all that his legs would give him.

Stiles found Scott gaining some ground against the monster, slashing at it relentlessly as the monster flapped its wings more slowly and made less progress backing away from the fray. Stiles felt hope rise in his chest. Maybe Scott could take this thing after all. Then Scott lunged right into the creature only to go right through it. The monster made its mocking cry again, delighted at how it had played Scott. Not one to give up, Scott whirled around without missing a beat and continued his attack, unfortunately to the same result.

Stiles realized what he was seeing. He’d already witnessed it up close (too close) when it drove its tail through his jeep. Seeing it at a distance made for clearer deduction. The monster was composed of raw energy. It only made sense that it could control its density. It twisted its head on an odd angle at the end of its elongated neck, widened its eyes, and fired lances of what looked like orange lightning at Scott. The bolts of energy arced forward faster than Scott could dodge. One grazed his side, briefly setting fire to his shirt. The other went right through his shoulder, cauterizing the wound as it entered and exited, causing Scott agonizing pain. The teen werewolf howled a desperate wail, even as his body fought to heal the wound.

The monster did not give Scott any time to recover. It descended upon him quickly, its gaping maw opening wide to envelop Scott’s head. Scott looked up, still reeling from the previous blow, and feared the monster was going to eat him. There was another roar then. High pitched, panicked, and wild. Stiles swung the shovel at the monster from behind. It was like hitting a sack of concrete mix, barely giving under the impact. Stiles felt it more than the creature had, with the force of his strike driving up his arms, but it was enough to distract the monster. It turned its attention to Stiles, who was already winding up for his next blow.

Scott made good use of Stiles’ timely distraction by lunging with claws bared at the monster. This time it was not content to let him simply pass through its form by becoming insubstantial. It solidified its body and lashed at Scott with the back of its wing, sending him sprawling down the dirt driveway. Stiles swung his shovel, which the monster fired upon with its lightning eyes, severing the spade from its handle like a tree split during a thunderstorm. Stiles stood frozen, staring at the blackened, smoking end of his shovel, able to think nothing other than Well, that’s not good.

The monster lashed out with its wing again, slicing the wooden handle in two, and then striking again at Stiles with a broad sweep of its wing, catching him in the chest and sending him flying over Scott’s head to land in a heap just ten feet beyond him. The monster had enjoyed its play, but now its demeanor indicated that it felt it was time to get down to business. It advanced on the two boys, its smoldering eyes focused mainly on Stiles, still prone in the dirt, groaning, and far slower to recover than Scott. Scott realized its intentions immediately and threw himself between Stiles and the monster, protecting his best friend with his own body. He then stared down the gargantuan monster that towered over him and he roared. This was different than the roar of challenge Scott had sounded before. This was a roar of warning. It struck the monster like a physical thing, the sound forcing its way through it like a fist. The roar could be heard for miles, and its resonance lingered in the air well after it had ended. This was the roar of a True Alpha. Its meaning was clear. If you dare to touch a member of my pack, I will kill you.

Stiles sat up like something had stung him. “Hell-o!” He saw Scott positioned, battle ready, between himself and the monster and knew immediately what had happened. Gotta love that Alpha roar, he thought.

The monster stopped in its tracks. It stared at Scott, mesmerized by his glowing red eyes and primal ferocity. In all the millennia that this dreaded monster had existed, it had never encountered anything like this. The monster took to the air again, but only by a few dozen feet, where it hovered, eyeing the duo below it no longer as prey, but as adversaries. It studied them. The creature had seen countless monsters and supernatural beings born, thrive, and even fall to extinction. But it did not know what to make of Scott McCall. The werewolf that had actually frightened the monster that was unaccustomed to feeling fear now tenderly helped his companion to his feet. He showed as much concern for this lesser being’s welfare as he did his own. Perhaps more. What an odd world the monster had found itself in.

The monster blinked its eyes once, and the blazing orange shifted to an oily dark green. It peered intently at Scott and Stiles.

“What’s it doing?”, Stiles asked.

“I have no idea”, Scott admitted.

What neither Scott nor Stiles could see was the view through the monster’s eyes. Its vision had shifted, and it beheld its opponents on an entirely different plane than others are capable. To the monster, Scott now appeared as a figure of blazing red energy. An Alpha. This tiny thing was an Alpha of its species, the monster realized. More than that, it was what the inhabitants of this world centuries ago once called the Zenith Monster. The Transcendent Creature. The High Alpha. For a split-second, the gelatinous mass that served more or less as the monster’s heart skipped a beat. It then looked at Stiles. Stiles glowed a subdued, soft blue. Human, good for provender or chattel, but this one glowed far more brightly at its center. Possibly due to its youth, possibly something more. As the two moved closer together, bracing for the next attack, the monster’s eyes widened, caught off-guard by what it saw.

Streams of energy flowed back and forth between them; from Scott to Stiles and back again, causing their auras to blend. In that moment, the monster knew that these two were connected so strongly that each would never stop fighting to protect the other. The monster growled softly. It knew it could end the human youth first, but not before receiving considerable damage from the Alpha. If it focused its energy on the Alpha, the monster might eventually destroy him, as his focus would be divided between fighting his opponent and protecting his companion. But two more corpses, the monster didn’t need. However, something else it required was currently in short supply. The creature squinted its eyes, which shifted back from their inky pools to miniature suns. If its expression could be read it all, the best guess now would be that it was grinning.

Rough, truncated snorts emitted from the monster’s mouth as it flapped its wings harder and lifted itself another twenty feet in the air.

“Scott…is that thing laughing?” Stiles swallowed hard, not wanting to know what something like that would find funny. Scott said nothing. He almost told Stiles to get ready to run, but he knew how futile that would be. All they could do now was stay sharp and brace themselves for whatever came next.

Suddenly, the monster shot upwards into the air, higher and higher, soaring in an arc and then rocketing back down toward the boys. Its wings spread wide, it plummeted with increasing velocity, opening its mouth wide. Scott spread his own arms wide, readying himself to pull Stiles behind him or push him out of the way so he could take the brunt of the attack. Stiles dug his feet into the dirt, knuckles white as he gripped the shovel handle, prepared to thrust its jagged end up into the monster as best he could.

Neither of them got to do anything like that. Just as it was near impact, the monster rolled its shoulders back, opening its wings to serve as break, slowing its velocity unexpectedly. Its gaping maw emptied a flurry of energy thistles down upon Scott and Stiles. Once more the monster flapped its wings, pushing itself back as well as sending the glowing thistles whirling around the two boys like feathers in a whirlwind.

“Oh my God, no!”, Scott cried, his arms slashing around him in attempt to fend off the flurry of thistles that spat and hissed as they flew ever closer to him. Many had already settled on the back of his jacket, tiny nettles burrowing into the material, their heat radiating through to Scott’s skin.

“Get ‘em off me, get ‘em off me, get ‘em off!”, Stiles shouted. He’d dropped the shovel handle and his arms were now flailing about as if he were having a seizure. He tried madly brushing the thistles off his sleeves, shaking them off his back, and swatting them off his pant legs. He had no success. The back of Stiles’ neck burned as a halo of thistles settled around his jacket hood, fastening themselves there, and slowly lifting the hood upwards. In another few minutes, the thistles would bring the hood down upon Stiles’ head, there to wrap it tight around him and bore through the soft cotton toward skin and sinew. The way Stiles’ frantic flailing did nothing to swat the thistles away, it wouldn’t have mattered if he had a few hours.

Scott was covered in thistles. His arms and legs already glowed brightly as the thistles sparked and gleamed like distant stars growing dim just before going nova. Scott’s head whipped back and forth, his fangs snapping at empty air, his claws slashing at his own limbs. His efforts did nothing to disperse the energy thistles. His claws were merely drawing his own blood.

Scott looked up at the creature as it hovered above them. Their eyes met and the monster seemed to smile before it was gone in an instant. It shot high up into the sky, then some hundred feet up, it banked sharply and vanished into the horizon, its glowing body lost amid the blanket of stars.

Stiles watched as Scott clawed at his own face in a desperate attempt to save himself. As the thistles were on Scott’s clothes and not his face, Stiles feared his friend was losing his wits to panic. That only made Stiles’ own panic worse, as he needed his friend to save him. Scott couldn’t do that if he couldn’t even save himself.

“Scott!”, Stiles cried. “Don’t lose it man! Don’t—I need you!”

Scott lowered his arms and raised his head slightly to look directly at Stiles. Scott’s glowing red eyes faded in color to be replaced by the intense orange of the monster. Scott’s head twitched to one side harshly. As he straightened himself out, for the briefest moment he saw with the eyes of the monster. Without knowing what he was looking at, he saw a ribbon of energy connecting him to Stiles. As he looked at it, that flow of energy twisted and warped. It grew very dark and pulled itself taut, thin, and began to fray. Scott blinked, and the odd vision was gone. Now all he could see before him was Stiles. Small, weak, frail, pathetic human Stiles. Thrashing ineffectually at the glorious prickled energy spheres which settled so majestically upon him.

Stiles was flailing, but even under the growing heat, the sting of the energy thistles, he could see what was happening to his best friend, and that frightened him more. “Scott! Come ON, man. Fight it!” Tears were now streaming down Stiles’ face as he wailed in higher pitch, “You can do this, Scott! PLEASE!!”

Scott lowered himself down to his haunches, legs tensing to leap. He let out a low growl as he bared his fangs. Scott’s eyes were no longer those of Scott McCall, werewolf and True Alpha. Now his malevolent eyes looked at the frightened boy before him as would a predator sizing up its prey.

Stiles’ cries devolved to begging. “D-don’t you kill me, Scott! Don’t do it—DON’T!”

Scott’s answer was a small roar, a declaration of oncoming attack. Stiles gasped, and in that moment the thistles covering Stiles’ clothing sparked tiny lightning-lances across his brow, stinging his eyes. Stiles blinked away the pain as new heat evaporated his tears before they could fall. Now his eyes also glowed an inhuman orange. His fear had reached its peak and crossed over into rage. Stiles’ expression was one of naked fury. His jaw set in anger and frustration, small sparks flashed across his eyes. Burning tears still welling up in his eyes only to steam away from his face, Stiles’ stared down the monster that moments ago had been his best friend. No more. No more Stiles the victim. No more Stiles the weakling. Not this time. Enough with the monsters, enough with the crippling panic attacks, just…enough.

Stiles screamed at Scott, “Well, COME ON, then!!!”

Scott lunged forward at Stiles, fangs bared, claws out and slashing violently. Stiles barely had time to scream.

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