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Good Grief

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Part of Stiles has always felt...responsible. Actually, it wasn’t just a feeling, it was knowledge. The mess that was his life really only took off the moment winter break of his sophomore year ended, and there was really no one to blame but himself. He was the one who dragged Scott out of the house that last night before they went back to school, and he was the one who left him in the woods after his Dad found him.

So yeah, this was his fault.

It’s sad to say, but waking up in the basement of Eichen House, his hands zip-tied to the handles of the folding chair he was laying on, was when he officially realized what the hell he had done. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw Malia lying lifeless in the chair next to him, the terror trapped in her eyes that were now glazed over, a hole in the side of head. Trepanation. That’s what Oliver had done.

His nose crinkled as Stiles struggled in the chair, his body twisting and turning as he tried to break his restraints, but he was weak. This whole ordeal with the Nogitsune made him weaker than he already was. It was no use. Malia was dead because of him, and now he was going to die too.

“Stiles,” He froze as the giggly voice filled the silence. “I am so, so, so happy you’re awake!” His eyes trailed across the room, landing on the person standing in the corner. Oliver was trembling, a psychotic smile on his face. “We are going to have so much fun!” His smile grew. There was blood splattered on his face and Stiles felt like he was gonna puke. “Malia was fun, but she died,” His lips folded into a pout. “But I think I know what I’m doing now, don’t worry! You probably won’t die...I hope.”

He took a step towards the restrained teen, which was all Stiles need to full-on freak out. He was twisting and turning in the chair, willing for the zip-ties to just freaking break! “Oliver, this isn’t you!” He yelled, his voice dry. “Please!” His voice broke in the middle, his pleas borderline hysterical. Oliver was right next to him now, seemingly unaffected by his screams. “Please man, don’t do this,” The possessed teenager paid him no mind, placing his hand on the side of Stiles’ face, pushing roughly until his head turned to the side. “Nononono, please! Stop!” He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to suppress his tears. Beside him, the drill buzzed to life. “Nononono please!” He screamed in agony as he felt the drill make contact with the side of his head.



The world was hazy, that’s pretty much all he knew at the moment. He he wasn’t fully there. What happened? He blinked a few times until the world came into focus, but there wasn’t much to see, it was dark anyway.

He felt like he had the world’s worst headache. The only time he had felt like this when after Lydia poisoned the punch at her party with wolfsbane and when Stiles had chugged a whole entire bottle of vodka when he was trying to cheer Scott up after Allison. But, he knows he didn’t drink any alcohol, so what the hell happened? Slowly, he sat up, his whole body aching as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his sore wrists, noting the purple lines that made a ring around them, but at the moment, he couldn’t figure out what did that to them. He took a deep breath, now noticing the uncomfortable feeling of something...dripping, lack for a better term, down the side of his head.

“What the hell?” Was all that he could mutter, even though it felt like his mouth was full of cotton. He brought his fingers up, caressing the side of his neck, feeling perturbed by the thick substance that was coating his fingers. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at his hand, his heart dropping when he found that it was blood coating his fingers. He felt sick, and he couldn’t remember why. His hand was on his head now, looking for the source of the bleeding.

He wished he never found it.

As soon as his fingers grazed over the hole in his head, the memories rushed back to Stiles. Suddenly, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. How was he still alive? Why wasn’t he still strapped to the chair of death? He shot up, ignoring how he felt a head rush. Spinning around, he was once again greeted with the sight of Malia lying limp in the chair beside his, her position never moving. Where the hell was Oliver?

Well, he didn’t actually want the question answered. All he knew was that he needed to get out of there before he came back. He turned around, the world moving with him, causing Stiles to freeze. How was he gonna get out of here when he was pretty sure he was dying?  He took a slow step forward, attempting to keep his balance. The side of his shirt was damp, and he didn’t want to think about what substance was responsible for that.

He took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay, he could do this. “Stiles,” The voice was almost a whisper. Stiles wanted to cry. He froze, squeezing his eyes shut, a few tears escaping, streaming down his face. “Stiles.” The voice said again, though this time it was much harsher. He held his breath, not wanting to turn, but he did anyway. His heart stopped as he saw Oliver standing across from him, but it wasn’t the fact that the teenager was there that made him want to run. It was the fact that there was a pair of scissors sticking out of his chest, accompanied by a red patch of blood. “I saved you, Stiles.” It was Oliver’s voice, but it wasn’t Oliver. He knew who it was.

“You didn’t do anything,” Stiles retaliated. “Just leave me alone, please.”

“We were meant to be one, Stiles. As you can see, Oliver wasn’t strong enough.” The Nogitsune grinned at him. “The minute I left him alone, he got to see what we had done. And he wasn’t strong enough to see the beauty of it.”

“You killed Malia.” Stiles spat. “There’s no fucking beauty in that at all!”

“There’s beauty in pain, Stiles. You will soon see that.”

“Shut up, just...just shut up!” He was backing up now. He needed to get of there as soon as possible.

“Don’t worry Stiles, we will soon be one again.” And like that, Oliver fell. His eyes wide and empty as he stared up at the ceiling. He was dead.

Stiles didn’t stick around to figure out what exactly the Nogitsune meant, for he was busy running up the stairs as fast as his injured body could take him. He couldn’t stay here.

In his escape, Stiles didn’t realize the firefly that had flown out of Oliver’s mouth.



New York was freaking freezing during the winter. In Beacon Hills, you only need a good hoodie and a beanie to get through the cold months- but here? Here, you needed three jackets, two pairs of gloves, three layers of jeans, and five beanies just to be remotely warm. Unfortunately, Stiles only had a long-sleeved plaid shirt on, layered with a dark red hoodie and the only thing keeping his head warm was a thin black beanie- so needless to say, he was freezing his ass off.

He didn't attract any attention to himself, probably giving off the average teenager vibe to anyone who passed him, which was good. The angstier Stiles looked, the more people would avoid him. His fingers twitched in his pocket, the feeling of pent-up energy traveling in his veins giving him an uncomfortable feeling.

The Nogitsune had done something to him that night, most likely when he was lying motionless on the folding chair. He had no idea what the Nogitsune could have done to him to elicit this sort of response, but all Stiles knew was that he now had the ability to control electricity.


The marks on his back were present once more, except now they weren’t fading. He had a feeling that they would be with him forever. Great. He remembered Ms Morrell explaining to him that the marks were very common in lightning strike victims, and since there was some way he was given the power over electricity, he figured that the two things had to have something in common.

Any piece of metal was in danger by the uncovered hands of Stiles Stilinski, because he couldn’t exactly control his new powers. Which is why he had to steal a pair of gloves from a little stand back in New Mexico. It was for the good of the people around him.

After the run-in with the Nogitsune, before he escaped Eichen House, Stiles realized that he couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills anymore. He’s caused too much sadness, and with the Nogitsune threatening him, he couldn’t put his family at risk anymore. So he ran away.

Basically living on the streets have opened Stiles up to a lot of new abilities he never knew he could gain. For instance, he could actually run for a prolonged period of time without feeling like he was going to die, but he felt like that was mostly due to how many times he was forced to run away from something. For example, when he’s stolen things from stores- and then he was caught by an employee, he had to run away. Which brings him to his next skill- Stiles had quite the sleight of hand. It had gotten to the point where he could swipe someone’s wallet just by walking past them.

Not that he did that a lot...

It’s not that Stiles wanted to be a thief, it’s that he had to. He left Eichen House with only the bloody clothes on his back, the ugly slippers the asylum forced him to wear, and the red hoodie he had stolen. It wasn’t quite like the one he had back at home, but it was close enough. But in order to actually survive, Stiles had to steal some things, it wasn’t like he had money to buy stuff.

And how did he end up in New York? Well, it was a lot of walking and hitchhiking, but he decided it was good to get as far away from California as possible. Plus, he’d always wanted to go to New York before, so really it was kind of a win-win situation.

So, by the time he had reached New York, Stiles had shed the clothes that made him look straight out of a crime scene (which he basically was, but let’s not focus on that detail) and was now clad in his “new” outfit, and he had gained a new backpack, an old pillow, and a metal mini baseball bat. Though none of that did anything to relieve him of the bitter cold.

He shivered, rubbing his gloved hand over his face as he walked through the busy streets of New York City. He took a quick glance to the side, spotting a suited male following closely behind. Honestly, Stiles wouldn't have paid him any attention if it wasn't for the fact that he had been trailing him since he passed Hard Rock Café, and that was twenty minutes ago. This guy was following him, wasn’t he?

Deciding to test if his suspicions were correct, Stiles turned a corner, only to come face to face with another suited man, except this one just gave him a dirty look and the middle finger. It was just another New Yorker. Great, these guys were so nice and friendly.

He looked around, his eyes locking on a McDonald's, a metaphorical light bulb popping over his head as he came up with the bright idea to duck into the fast food restaurant. And just as he suspected, the man followed him. Stiles dug into his jean's pockets, searching for any money, and luckily he came up with two dollar bills. He was starving. And there was nothing quite like a McDonald’s breakfast sandwich.

He couldn't really remember the last time he ate, which sounded terrible, but money was hard to come by when you didn't have a job. Hence why he was such an amazing pick-pocketer. It really does be like that sometimes.

Walking up to the counter, Stiles set down the two dollars, excitedly ordering an Egg McMuffin, the smell of other people's order just about enough to make him drool. He really was starving. He really needed to figure out some way to eat more. He pretended to look around, though really it was to figure out who exactly was tailing him. He noticed other people who were eating staring at him, and he figured it was probably because he looked like the epitome of a hoodlum, or maybe it was because they could tell he was homeless. Who knew?

Out of the corner of his eye, however, he could see the man in black standing off to the side by the entrance, his suspicions awfully correct as the male seemed to be watching his every move with a calculating gaze. Stiles looked back at the cashier, giving the woman a slight smile as she handed him the receipt. Slowly, but surely, he stalked over towards the pickup area, knowing that the man's eyes were following him.

So, he did the only reasonable thing; the minute his sandwich was handed to him, Stiles bolted.

The suited man followed after him, all while talking into his wristwatch. Stiles couldn't hear what was being said, but he couldn't imagine it being anything good. He sprinted down the street, doing his best to keep from running into unsuspecting people, though his only real goal was to keep his sandwich from getting caught in the crossfire. That was the most important thing.

In a matter of two minutes, one suited man went to three, then to five, leaving Stiles outnumbered as he continued to run. Great, somehow this felt like lacrosse all over again. Stiles skidded to a stop as three more people in black jumped out in front of him, making his face scrunch up in distaste. He made a turn to back up, only to have his original followers block his path.

"Wow fellas, really know how to make a guy feel uncomfortable." He smarted off, bringing his hands up as if he’s surrendering, only to mess with the straps of his backpack.

"Keep your hands up!" One of them yelled, his own hands reaching to his waist, where a gun most likely was.

"Calm down, calm down. I'm just taking my backpack off. You'd want it right?" He asked simply, slowly pulling the strap off his left shoulder.

The man kept his eyes on him, though Stiles anticipated this, which is why he went on with his plan. In one swift movement, he flung the backpack around, smacking the man in the chest as hard as he could with the bag, all while pulling his beloved bat out and throwing his sandwich in. If he made it out of this, that sandwich would be a good prize.

The men gasped, falling backward from the force and the shock of the attack, giving Stiles ample time to lay a blow with the bat. Alright, he got one man unconscious, time for seven more. He could do this. With a cocky smirk of triumph, Stiles ducked under a thrown fist, this time smashing some guy in the knee, but he would be a fool to believe that he could easily win.

Plus, he deducted that these clowns were spies. And he was only a scrawny seventeen-year-old boy, so if he could hold his own, then electrokinesis probably wasn’t his best characteristic.

He ducked again as another spy attempted to pistol whip him, instead he ended up hitting the gun from the spy's hand with his trusty bat. "Bitch!" He snarled, though he did sound excited, knocking another blow onto his head, successfully knocking another agent out.

That was two. He spun around on his heel, practically diving over an incoming spy. It felt like it was a movie, especially when he hooked the baseball bat under one of the spies chins, successfully yanking him onto the concrete and knocking him out cold.

That was three.

He felt pride build up in his chest as he realized his accomplishment, but as he got lost in his self-pride, he was left vulnerable to the last five agents. Stiles gasped when a gun smacked against his temple, though he kept his bat in his grip, returning the blow. Sadly, it didn't weaken his opponent as the spy smacked him once more. He yelped in pain as the gun came in contact with the soft spot that belonged to his still healing trepanation scar. His nostrils flared as he fell to the ground, his hands curled around his head as he tried to gasp through the pain.

And for a second, Stiles seriously considered tearing off his gloves and frying these guys to a crisp.

Shaking the thought out of his mind, he struggled against the two guys that grabbed him by the arms, forcing his hands from his head as they pulled him into a standing position, but it was no use. He had lost. He glared wholeheartedly at the spy that stepped in front of him, a satisfied looking smirk on the older man's face as he lifted his watch to his mouth-

"Target has been apprehended."