Chapter 1: - the silent soldier-
Notes:
I totally forgot to post these aesthetics I made. please enjoy!! <3
Chapter Text
- the silent soldier -
- the silent soldier -
teen wolf x american assassin crossover
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"no, a body of water. yes, dumbass, a dead body!"
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- synopsis -
Stiles is transferred from the FBI internship to a CIA recruit for a team of supernaturals, forced to keep his new status a secret from the pack. But when he pays Scott a visit, he's once again caught in the middle of a supernatural battle and sustains an injury that renders him unable to speak. Adopting a new persona, Mitch Rapp, Stiles becomes dead to the rest of the world as he throws himself headfirst into his new job: hunting down a new terrorist.
Little does the CIA know, this new threat is a supernatural one. And Mitch might just need the help of his old pack to take them down.
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"i'm either always afraid or never afraid. i never know which."
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- casting -
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"mitch" ( stiles stilinski )
- dylan o'brien -
» angel with a shotgun - the cab «
"aren't we all just a little crazy?"
"cleo" ( annalise omari )
- elodie yung -
» bad reputation - joan jett «
"here to save your ass and look good doing it."
"hugo" ( chuck alverez )
- deaken bluman -
» everlong - foo fighters «
"this isn't a game. it's war."
charlie alverez
- alex wolff -
» mr. brightside - the killers «
"music is the window to the soul. my bedroom window, however, gives me the perfect view of the hot new neighbor girl."
"andre"
- brandon mychal smith -
» animal i have become - three days grace «
"sometimes i forget the people i'm fighting are even more human than i am."
"gavin"
- hunter parrish -
» headsick - matt maeseon «
"life's full of disappointments, including myself."
"the omega"
- cillian murphy -
» harness your hopes - pavement «
"how much longer can you stay silent, i wonder, without letting loose a scream?"
- the rest of the teen wolf + american assassin casts as themselves -
note: american assassin aspects of this story will be based on the book, not the movie.
"𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝘩𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑠."
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the silent soldier
Chapter 2: i.
Chapter Text
STILES STILINSKI was keeping a secret. And he wasn't sure how much longer he could lie about it.
Intern for the FBI; that's what he'd told Scott, what he'd told his dad, what he'd told anyone who asked. Because that's how it had started. But mere days after his second field operation with the FBI, in which Stiles somehow caught and wrestled a lead to the ground with his bare hands, he was summoned into the office of one Irene Kennedy. And that was the end of the FBI.
He had "unique skills," Irene had told him. He was learning quicker than any of the other interns, and wasn't content to sit behind a desk all day. With a heck of a lot of physical training, she'd added after glancing his stick-like frame up and down, he could be downright dangerous. Deadly, even.
Stiles hadn't believed her at first. Him, the pale, wimpy human who paled in comparison to his powerful friends, in a black ops unit?
But then he'd been sent to a special three-month boot camp. The Runt Program, Irene had called it while she drove Stiles to the camp, was a new project she was heading. Those who possessed, as she said again, "unique skills," and showed promise in combat.
Stiles had laughed at that. He had had his butt saved one too many times to know that he'd be absolutely useless in combat.
And yet there was a small part of his brain that whispered for him to remember taking down that lead for the drug ring, remember stabbing Scott as the Nogitsune.
Remember killing Donovan.
As he watched the world fly past the window, his blindfold having been taken off, Stiles found he didn't have to close his eyes to block out the memory anymore. Instead, he found that he didn't mind thinking about it. Knowing he'd snuffed out a flame of life terrified him, certainly, but it brought him a sense of strength to know he'd defended himself that bravely. Because it took a lot to kill someone.
Scott certainly doesn't have that bravery. He possesses the kind of cowardice that tells him he can save everyone that crosses his path. Me, Stiles thought as the car rolled to a stop outside of a cabin, I'm a realistic man.
"This is it?" a man snapped as Stiles jumped from the car, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. He looked to be in his fifties, wearing a John Deere baseball cap and an old plaid shirt. "Where's the rest of him?"
"He isn't even the smallest one, Stan," Irene snapped as her heels slipped in the mud. She took a deep breath, calming herself. She lowered her voice, but not enough to where Stiles couldn't eavesdrop. "I know you're mad because of the amount of information you've been given about these kids, but trust me; if you had to read their complete files, you'd flip your shit."
The man, Stan, gave a harsh laugh that bounced his cigarette up and down. "Would I, now? Nah, dear, nothing would surprise me now. You of all people should know that."
"Do you two know each other?" Stiles interjected, and Irene gave a stiff smile.
"He and my dad fought together," she said. "But that's a story for another time."
The man scowled down at Stiles as if he were sizing him up for a fight. Stiles suddenly felt really small in comparison.
"Stan Hurley," he said, jutting his hand towards him. "And after glancin' at your file, at least the stuff I was permitted to see, your name looks like a big mouthful dipped in shit, so just tell me what you want your code name to be."
He sneered at him now, and Stiles hesitated for one second too long after shaking the man's hand. His grip wasn't even comparable to steel; it was like titanium.
"Um..."
Hurley rolled his eyes. "For God's sake. You answer every question the second I ask, you got that?" Stiles nodded. "Now, how do you say that name your shitfaced parents gave ya?"
"Mieczysław," Stiles blurted. "Like mitch-e-slav, it was my---"
"Mitch." Hurley didn't waste another second and spun around on his heeled boots, marching towards the house and gesturing for Stiles to follow. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Irene give him a quick nod goodbye before speeding off in the big black car. As if she were trying to outrun whatever terrors would be held here.
He plodded up the stairs after the man, trying his best to keep up with his long strides.
"Despite what Irene may have told you," he said, opening a side door and gesturing for Stiles to go inside, "this training won't be all that bad."
"Really?" Stiles clutched his bag strap tighter as he crossed over the threshold, something decaying inside him as he did so. He found himself standing in a room crammed with bunk beds, but only a few of them had stuff sprawled on them.
Hurley chuckled. "No. It's worse."
At that, he slammed the door, leaving Stiles standing awkwardly by the door. It was then he noticed the four other guys standing at the opposite end of the room, staring at him.
"Um, hi," he said, praying his voice wouldn't crack. "What's up?"
He felt as if he were intruding on a private club, with the way some of them were glaring at him. Sizing him up the same way Hurley had.
One, a tall, muscular blonde, strode forwards and stuck his hand out.
"Nothin' much, man," he said easily. Stiles shook his hand; it was firm, but not like Hurley's I'm-going-to-suffocate-you-through-your-palm firm. "My code name's Gavin. Yours?"
"Mitch, I think..." Stiles gestured to the bunks. "Any of these not taken?"
"Oh, for sure." Gavin pointed to a particular bottom bunk. "You can bunk with me, if you'd like. Those guys aren't real social, they parked it at opposite ends of the room."
The other three guys proved Gavin right by remaining silent, hands clasped behind their backs. Military background, Stiles noted. One of them was huge and dark-skinned, with buzzed black hair and sharp eyes. One was a brunette, looking like the default white male on the Sims. The third was a scrawny Latino with frizzy curls. He had a dark, disturbed look about him, something akin to recognition crossing his face when he looked at Stiles. But it was gone before Stiles could open his mouth and ask where he'd seen the guy before.
"Andre," the first one boomed, his deep voice as big as his biceps. He jerked his head towards the brunette and his skinny, sleep-deprived companion. "This is Marcus and Hugo."
"Hugo," Stiles said, turning the name over in his mouth. It didn't sound familiar to him. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
Hugo kept his jaw clamped firmly closed. With a glare, he shook his head.
"No," he said, voice uneven yet smooth, like stained glass. Without another word, Hugo retreated to his bunk. When Stiles sent a questioning look to Andre and Gavin, they just shook their heads.
Stiles crossed the room to where Gavin had offered his bottom bunk and set his bag down. Sheets were pulled over the thin mattress, and somehow, Gavin's were already askew above.
He wanted to lay down next to his bag and have a nice, long nap, but something told him Hurley would come pouncing into the room the second his head hit the pillow. So he remained standing, shuffling his boots back and forth. They were more heavy-duty than your average pair, but not as bulky as traditional ones. He had used them for his two brief stints on the field.
"So, how long were you guys here before I crashed the party?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. But once again, Gavin seemed to be the only one fazed.
"Naw, you ain't crashin' our party, man!" He gave Stiles' shoulder a knock, making him stumble. He was a lot stronger than he looked. Like, Scott strong. "It's only just begun. I was only here for a few hours, but I guess these two and the girl have been here for a few days. None of 'em will say."
"That's because we're not supposed to, asshole," Hugo hissed, staring up from the shadows of his bunk like a snake that had just slithered out of his hole. His eyes had a shell-shocked look about them now, as if seeing Stiles had made him remember something he'd prefer to forget.
Gavin rolled his eyes. "Riiight, secrets. Boring backstory stuff. Don't go waving the rule manual around, Hugo, you might drop it."
Stiles smiled. He was liking Gavin already.
Three months was a long time to be run thin by someone like Hurley. Physically and mentally.
"This isn't even normal Runt training, you lazy little shit!" Hurley screamed in his ear during a morning 5k. "I don't know why those brainless dumbasses dumped you here in the first place!"
Stiles had simultaneously puked and keeled over, stopping just in time for Hurley to trip over him and land in it. He had spent the rest of the morning doing push-ups, arms quaking as he watched the other Runts doing fight training.
The girl, who went by Cleo, was the best out of all of them. Except for Hurley, and he made sure to rub it in everyone's faces.
Go over there and show him, an eerie voice whispered in his ear, making him rub the back of his neck. Show him how strong you are. Rip out his throat...with your teeth.
Knowing who it was influencing his thoughts, he'd ignored the voice. Still, a small part of him thought as he trudged back to the bunks, covered in sweat and mud, Derek would be better at this.
Each night, he would collapse onto his tiny twin mattress, exhausted and beaten. The other guys would joke and share stories late into the night. Sometimes Stiles would contribute, but he stayed silent most of the time, feeling pretty lousy in comparison to their military and firefighting stories.
I once hit a werewolf with a baseball bat, he wanted to shout. I've defeated the sorts of creatures that would make even the strongest of you squirm with nightmares.
Yet he rolled over, trying to ignore it.
After the first week, Hugo finally warmed up to them. Only slightly. He would share stories sometimes, but they were never quite detailed, as if he were afraid Hurley were listening to them through the door.
He had it out for Stiles, though, that's for sure. He would elbow him aside at breakfast, knee him in the head if he was sprawled out, asleep on his bunk. If they had to pick sparring partners, Stiles didn't even have to blink before Hugo was standing before him, bearing a cocky smile and fists ready to go.
What made it worse was how strong Hugo was. He and Stiles were about the same height, but Stiles had definitely underestimated him on that first night. After taking off his big, bulky sweatshirt, his arms could compete with Marcus's, who was an ex-marine. Maybe not Andre, but still pretty buff.
Leaving Stiles as the "wimpy one." He was tagged the runt of the Runts not even before the first day was over. And Hugo certainly took advantage of that.
"Why are you even here?" he'd said one morning after elbowing him aside in the bathroom, making him topple over and bang his face against the ceramic counter. "You're so weak that it's pathetic."
"I--I don't know," Stiles mumbled, scrambling to his feet and touching a hand to his nose. His fingers came back red. "They wanted to see if I could be beneficial to the program, I guess."
"News flash, Polack," he spat, grabbing Stiles by his shirt, hefting him into the air, and slamming him against the wall like he weighed nothing. "You're not even good enough to be a Runt. So why don't you run along home to your werewolves and banshees, mi primo?"
Stiles fought to keep his panic under control, but between his gushing nose, frantic heartbeat, and the light switch digging into his spine, it was hard to conceal his shock.
How does Hugo know?!
They weren't supposed to know anything about each other, Stiles thought as Hugo dropped him to the ground, scoffed, and sauntered away. But somehow Hugo knew not only that he was Polish, given his derogatory little language in there, but he also knew about Stiles' other life. His life of battling supernatural creatures.
Hugo must be one of them. A member of a rival pack, out to murder me.
The thought sent shivers down his spine. A cold fear pressed against his back where it'd been crushed against the wall moments before, and he found himself hyperventilating.
Not a panic attack. Please. Not here.
Stiles curled into a ball and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the ringing of the screams and the ringing of the blood in them. Rushing in and out, in and out, alongside his heartbeat. The room grew bright and spots danced before his eyes. He heard someone, maybe Scott, sobbing at the top of his lungs; he felt Gerard's cold, withered hands at his neck; he saw Kira's sword puncturing a hole straight through his Nogitsune-possessed doppelganger.
Worst of all, he felt the desperation choking him as he looked down and saw Donovan's dead body. Donovan, that he had killed.
Warm hands, Lydia's hands, he thought, grasped him by the arms and forced his rocking to a stop. Slowly, bit by bit, they unfurled him from the ball he had rolled himself into. He was forced to take a deep breath, and as his lungs filled with sweet oxygen, his vision cleared.
It was not Lydia kneeling in front of him, but Cleo. The girl of the group.
Stiles scrambled upright, nearly losing his balance because of the lack of oxygen. Cleo caught him, her arms incredibly strong.
"W-what..."
"It's okay." Stiles had hardly heard her speak before. Her voice was smooth and commanding. He suddenly wanted to do anything she told him to do. "You're safe now. The rat's gone."
Stiles furrowed his brows. "The...rat?"
"Hugo." She rolled her eyes. "He's gone, so you can man up and quit sulking in the bathroom now."
"Oh." Stiles took one more calming breath and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face turn red. "I--I'm sorry, I didn't mean---"
A high, chirpy laugh popped out of her mouth. "I'm teasing you, Mitch. I understand panic attacks. I got them sometimes when I was on the field as a firewoman."
"Yeah, it's just..." Stiles swallowed, backing out of the mess hall's bathroom. "It's just that you all are so brave and strong, and I know Hurley said we weren't allowed to share backstories, but all the guys have been doing it anyway, and you all seem to be so tough, you know? Come from military careers. And I feel like the odd one out, because I didn't."
Cleo glanced his physique up and down, suppressing a snort. "Well, that much is obvious."
"Hey, I didn't mean---"
She raised a hand to stop him, dark eyes boring into him. "Look, I get it. But we're all Runts here. Don't be too hard on yourself.
"Besides," she added as she strode from the hall, "it's always the shrimpy ones with dreamy eyes and a sharp side profile that turn out to be the deadliest. Trust me, I'd know."
Chapter 3: ii.
Chapter Text
"Dad, it's just a black eye."
"Well, why won't you tell me how it happened?!"
"I just fell, okay?"
Stiles ran a hand through his hair, which was freshly cut, and heaved a sigh. He'd been back to visit Beacon Hills for a mere twenty minutes, and already he was regretting it. His phone buzzed repeatedly with messages from Scott asking him to pop into a pack meeting, something about a crazed Omega.
His dad's lip curled over his teeth in frustration as Stiles pushed past him and into the kitchen, opening the fridge. He scanned the shelves, ignoring his dad's eyes that were burning holes into the back of his head.
"That's bullshit," he said, reaching over and slamming the fridge door closed. Stiles jumped, taking a step back. "You don't think I've worked long enough in law enforcement to know that you can't get a black eye from taking a spill?! I've heard enough excuses for domestic abuse that I can out rule them all. Now, who punched you?"
"I don't know." Stiles crossed his arms across his chest, suddenly feeling small. "I mean, I don't know his real name. We weren't allowed to disclose information about ourselves. We just got into a little argument one night. That's all."
His dad rolled his eyes. "Stiles, you're old enough to know better. Getting into fights is immature and stupid."
Instead of arguing, Stiles simply nodded. No use getting into a fight so heated he accidentally let slip what he really did all summer. And what he and Hugo were really fighting about.
If his dad noticed that he'd put on more muscle, he didn't say anything. Stiles almost wished that he would; use his old police tactics to get him to confess. It would make him feel so much better about the whole thing.
Instead, he gave his dad a stiff smile and turned right back around.
"I've gotta go help Scott, Dad," he said, feeling slightly guilty. "He's got some kinda supernatural issue he wants my help on, like a pack reunion. I'll be back later tonight, okay?"
"Okay." His dad sighed and shook his head, seeming infatuated with the floor, the wall, with anywhere that wasn't Stiles' face. "But I'm not gonna be home. I've got work. Some files needing my attention."
Stiles nodded. He felt like he and his dad were on opposite sides of a canyon now, unable to see each other anymore.
"Stiles!"
Stiles hardly had a chance to step out of his car before he was attacked by a whirlwind of an army-green jacket, black hair, and the smell of wet dog. He laughed, pushing Scott off of him, and surprised himself when he found it slightly easier than it had been before.
Why didn't I work out sooner?
"How've you been, man?!" he asked, slapping Stiles on the back. Stiles shrugged, trying his best to look like he'd been cramped up in a desk as an FBI pencil-pusher all summer.
"Bored as hell. How about yourself?"
Scott tsked. "Eh, I can't complain. LA's certainly not Beacon Hills, simultaneously in all the best and all the worst ways. Everything's expensive, but there's not a whole lot of supernatural crime going on, if you know what I mean."
"I think I might get the gist..." Stiles' voice trailed off as he slammed the car door and glanced around the preserve. Malia and Liam stood several feet away, offering him tentative smiles, but he didn't see anyone else.
"The rest of the pack's busy," Scott said, almost as if reading Stiles' mind. "I wish we had more time to talk, Stiles, but I've been tracking this Omega for a few days and I'm really close now. I thought I could use your help."
"Okay. Sure." Stiles slapped his hands against the empty pockets of his jeans and nodded. "What's the plan, exactly?"
"Well, we're going to try talking to him before we resort to violence," Scott said, like it was obvious. Stiles nodded again, finding himself internally rolling his eyes. "I mean, based on what Liam's told me, he's been terrorizing some locals during full moons, starting trouble between packs, and killing livestock. Trying to bite people to turn them, even though he's not an alpha."
"He's a mental patient, too," Liam added off-handedly, as if it weren't important. "We got him ID'd after he ripped one of his claws out shredding the bark of a tree. Jakub Gajos, was a patient at Eichen for a few days before he broke himself out on the night of a full moon."
"Why does---" Stiles broke off. Jakub Gajos... The name seemed slightly familiar, a distant memory tugging at his brain, but he ignored it and scoffed. "You know what, nevermind. Let's just go and get the guy."
Scott seemed surprised. "That's it?" he asked. "No research on Jakub Gajos?"
Stiles stared blankly at him. "Yeah."
As the seconds dragged on, with Lydia and Liam staring at him now, too, he suddenly realized that before the whole ordeal with the CIA, he always insisted on doing research before taking another step. He scrambled to cover himself, not wanting to seem suspicious for being so relaxed about jumping into a fight.
You know, I can fight now, Scott, he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs. And I'm kinda good at it, too.
Unless he was facing Cleo, of course.
"I mean, let's try talking," Stiles said quickly. "If that doesn't work, I guess we can do some research on him. Find out about his past."
Scott smiled. "Seems like the FBI's hardened you a little, eh?" He reached over to ruffle Stiles' hair, and though he found himself wanting to cringe away from the affectionate gesture, he stayed rooted to the spot.
They tramped single file into the woods, with Stiles following directly after Scott, who led the way. With his nose, they tracked Jakub Gajos's scent to a small creek in the middle of the woods. Stiles could practically see the anxiousness in the air between them.
"If this goes south," Malia said in Stiles' ear, making him jump, "he'll probably go after you first. So I'd get in the back."
Stiles wrinkled his nose. "What? Why me?"
"Because you're the weakest, the easieset to kill," she said bluntly, giving his arm a reassuring pat. "We'll protect you. Don't worry."
Glowering, Stiles slunk to the back of the group.
He watched as Scott paced around in a circle, his nostrils flaring. "I can smell him," he insisted. "I just can't tell where."
A soft hissing sounded in Stiles' ear, and before he realized what was happening, a cold hand was wrapped around his throat. With sharp claws that dug into his skin. He gagged, body stiffening with terror. The hot, putrid breath of a werewolf hit his ear, and he watched the rest of the pack whirl around.
"Stiles!" Malia shouted, going to spring forwards, but Liam pushed her back.
"Don't!" Liam shouted as the claws tightened around Stiles' throat. His watering eyes felt like they were about to pop out of his head. He gasped, hands automatically reaching up to try and pry away what was blocking his airway. But the werewolf's other arm locked around his shoulders, rendering him immobile. He felt his legs squirming and kicking on a reflex.
The werewolf chortled. A deep, sinister rumbling sound that sent goosebumps erupting across Stiles' skin.
"To what do I owe the fine pleasure of a visit from the true alpha?" he asked, voice eerily calm. Scott howled, flashing his red eyes and baring his teeth.
"Let him go!" he snarled. "We're not here to pick a fight."
"Oh, no?"
The arms squeezing the life out of Stiles jolted him back, forcing him to move. Each stumbling step backwards that took him farther from Scott made the panic expand in his chest. Every single self-defense move had left his brain; he was frozen.
"Something's not right," he heard Malia murmur to Scott, who replied something along the lines of 'no shit, Sherlock.'
"You've got me there," the voice said in his ear. "Something isn't right. Because at this moment, just about, oh, a dozen or so of my fellow omegas are heading right here to this location, thanks to your lovely howl. And if you don't give me what I want, then they're going to rain hell down on you and your friends. Some of your...weaker friends, like this little one, won't make it out. I can promise you that."
Scott glared at him, still advancing slowly. Stiles was staring to feel so lightheaded and nauseous, he wanted to scream at Scott to stop. But he couldn't force any words through his constricted windpipe.
"And what do you want?" he asked, spreading his arms wide like he was in a one-man play. The werewolf, who Stiles could only assume to be Jakub Gajos, stiffened.
"A simple gift, really." Stiles shivered as Jakub Gajos lowered his head near Stiles' shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see his sharp teeth. "I want you to make me an alpha. Or I'm biting this little freak and taking him for my own pack with the omegas."
Malia roared in frustration, but didn't actually do anything. Disappointment sunk into Stiles' stomach, much like the fangs that were undoubtedly about to sink into his shoulder.
Scott stared at him unblinkingly. "And how would I make you an alpha?"
"By letting me kill you."
This time, it was Liam who went into a furious rage. He snarled, stepping in front of Scott protectively.
"If you think we're letting you go and hurt our alpha, then you---"
"It's either his life or yours," Jakub Gajos mused. Pain began slicing across Stiles' neck as his claws dug into his skin. He gagged, making Scott flinch. It hurt him, he supposed, to see Stiles in danger. "His life or yours, and I just know how much you love preserving this little curse called life, for avoiding responsibility for all the deaths you've caused already. And getting my spark by the true alpha... Now that would certainly be a story to tell. But I can settle for killing his human beta. His second in command."
"He's not my human beta!" Scott shouted. "He's my brother. And we're not going to be killing anyone. Okay?"
Jakub Gajos whistled. "An awfully big statement coming from a wolf who has so little backup."
"You're going to release him," Scott said, voice carrying a dangerous undertone, "by the count of three."
"Or what?" Stiles gasped as Jakub Gajos forced him to his knees, pressing his claws so deeply into Stiles' neck that he actually saw a line of red begin running down the man's dirty fingers. His vision swam at the sight of it.
Scott gave no answer except for a bright flash of his red eyes.
"One," he said steadily. Stiles was unable to hold back a sobbing cry as Jakub Gajos's grip didn't lessen, but tighten.
He's not going to let me go, Scott. You must know that.
Just a small bolt of fear lit Scott's eyes now, but he refused to glance at Stiles. "Two..."
A dozen wolves howled as they surrounded them, hidden in the forest. Jakub Gajos took the hand that had been holding down Stiles' shoulders and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back.
"Three," the Omega whispered.
With the horrible sound of ripping flesh and cartilage, he sliced his claws across Stiles' throat.
The ground in front of him splattered with red. The stuff that was supposed to keep him alive.
Stiles choked, gasped for air as he collapsed to the ground. He became unaware of anything that was happening around him, only of the air that refused to get into his lungs. Warm liquid bubbled up into his throat, making him cough in disgust. The same stuff leaked outwards from his neck and from the corners of his mouth.
He gave a shredded, gurgling scream that only made him cough harder. His eyes finally focused on his left hand, which was splayed out before him, fingers clutching desperately at crushed leaves and other underbrush beneath them, gooey with red sap from his mouth. Past that, though his vision was blurred, he made out the shapes of his friends struggling. Fighting for their lives, slashing left and right. He made out flashing fangs, glowing eyes, and furry cheekbones. And overseeing it all was Jakub Gajos. His back was to Stiles, but he was wearing a tattered dress shirt and pants that looked like they'd been through several years of roughing it in the woods. A special outfit for a special occasion, maybe?
Jakub Gajos glanced over his shoulder at Stiles, sending him a bone-chilling smile accompanied by a wave. There was recognition in the gesture, so similar to Hugo's that Stiles thought he was getting a case of deja-vu.
Though he knew it was selfish, he wondered why none of his friends were helping him. Why no one was risking their easily-fixable werewolf body to save his frail human one. He was, after all, just a passing outsider, a guest, to their supernatural war.
His lips quivered as a pang of nausea punched him in the gut, wanting to vomit but not being able to.
I'm going to die here.
As more and more of his life pooled onto the ground, it became harder to cough and gasp for air. He could feel his face getting more and more stiff, and before long, it seemed as if he had melted into the ground. Become one with the bugs and dead, fallen leaves. Just another thing to decompose.
The sounds of the battle were far-off in his ears. Underwater. But though his eyesight was still hazy, he sure didn't mistake the sight of Scott, Liam, and Malia running for their lives, being chased by the Omegas. Deserting him, leaving him for dead.
He knew they'd come back, though. Look for what was left of him, possessing stupid hopes of saving him.
The pain that sprang up in his heart nearly matched the pain in his neck. He gave a cry, his hoarse, ruined voice cracking and bubbling. He was going to die here, and his father would be left alone. No one to tell him to stop drinking. No one to help him heal from the pain of losing both his wife and his son.
Though he hadn't seemed all that happy about Stiles returning home, anyway.
Eventually, he realized that he was moving. It felt like he was watching a movie rather than experiencing it. He tried to fight it, but his limbs were so heavy.
"Stop struggling," a voice hissed. "I'm trying to save you."
A hell of a job you're doing, Stiles thought bitterly, but he couldn't concentrate through his delirium.
The hands that were dragging him locked across his chest from behind, hoisting him into the air. Stiles gave an involuntary moan that had no vocalizations, only a gurgling huff of air; blood spraying forth from his lips as he was heaved upwards. The person leaned his limp body against something hard and stepped in front of him, grabbing his armpits and draping him across what he realized was the backseat of a car. They were strong. Too strong to be human.
He couldn't make out a face, but before the dark spots took over and he lost consciousness, he saw dark hair and luminous blue eyes.
The eyes of an omega.
Chapter 4: iii.
Chapter Text
Stiles tried to wake up, to open his eyes, to scream. But the white-hot pain slashed across his throat over and over, the warm blood bubbling up inside his throat and spilling out as he choked, watching Scott run away through blurring vision. Playing over and over in his mind like a broken tape.
He remembered a set of pale arms dragging him across dead leaves, a black curl-framed face shushing him when his hoarse, breathy cries got too loud.
Hugo.
Somehow, Hugo had gotten to him. He must have dragged him off to his evil villain lair.
Though he could hardly see anything, he pushed himself up onto his elbow and tried frantically to escape whatever bonds were holding him down. But a pair of hands shoved his shoulders down, and as he fell back against something soft, he realized he wasn't tied down, but under a thick blanket.
The hand pushed the hair out of his undoubtedly glassy eyes and felt his forehead. It was cool against his steaming skin, and he melted into the gesture. As his vision cleared, he made out the lean shape of Cleo stooping over him. He must have said her name aloud, because she pressed a finger to his lips.
"Don't try to talk," she said sternly, voice as stern, smooth, and commanding as usual. "Just breathe."
Stiles obeyed, but it pained him. Something stuck out of the corner of his mouth and he reached a lazy hand up to tug it out, gagging as he realized it was a tube slinking down his throat and into his lungs. It was secured there with tape underneath his nose like a stick-on mustache. Though it pained him and he wanted nothing more than to rip it out, he turned his attention away from it and took in his surroundings.
He was laying on a white bed in a sterile-looking room. Glancing down at his wrist, Stiles saw that he was wearing a hospital bracelet.
DOE, JOHN
SEX M
TYPE A+
ADM 8-28-15
All of the other information was blank. DOB, the name of the hospital, and the doctor.
"Are you feeling alright, sir?" Cleo asked forcefully, raising her eyebrows at the title. She had never once called anyone sir except for Hurley.
I'm not supposed to use my code name, he thought, reminding himself that he was 'Mitch' to Cleo.
Stiles gave a nod in understanding, unable to talk because of the endotracheal tube sticking out of his mouth. A good thing, too, otherwise he would've run Cleo down with all of his questions.
"You were involved in quite a terrorist attempt," she said in that same stiff voice, like she was instructing him on what had happened. Telling him the cover story. "It was brave of you to risk your life for your fellow operative."
Hugo.
Stiles had to refrain from rolling his eyes. How Hugo had ever saved him, let alone been near enough to Beacon Hills, he would need to find out as soon as possible.
He ran a gentle hand across his neck, feeling tape, bandages, wires, and tubes. Cleo's eyes turned downcast and she watched him with a frown.
"You're lucky to be alive, you know," she said, straightening. "No one knows how you kept breathing. Your larynx was so damaged, they could hardly get a breathing tube in you."
Stiles felt the tube with his tongue, pushed it across his teeth to the side of his mouth, and tried to sit up again. He was more successful this time, and Cleo grasped his shoulders for support. His throat burned so much that it felt like his head was ready to detach and float away like a helium balloon.
Inch by inch, though it felt like pulling a live snake from his gut, Stiles yanked the tube from his mouth. He panted for a few moments, short of breath, but leaned back against the pillows and ignored the hot, scraping feeling that accompanied each inhale and exhale. Cleo watched with a wrinkled nose, but didn't try to stop him.
"I would wait a few days to try and speak," Cleo said quickly. "Your glottis...it's practically gone. Torn out. Among some other damaged muscles. They've got a lot of glue and stitches in there holding you together."
Stiles narrowed his eyes at her, not having even the slightest idea what a glottis was in the first place. But he stayed quiet as a knock sounded on the door, and a few seconds later, Irene Kennedy poked her head into the room.
"I only came by for a quick debrief," she said as-a-matter-of-factly, like Stiles wasn't totally out of it, wearing absolutely nothing underneath the paper-thin hospital gown, and probably looking like his neck had been swapped out for Frankenstein's.
Cleo cleared her throat and stepped out of the room. As she left, it felt like a piece of Stiles' patience went with her.
"Mitch..." She clasped her hands, looking like a mother about to tell her kid that their dog had just been run over. "As I'm sure you were aware, you were caught in the middle of a terrorist attempt. Hugo filled us in on most of the details, but given the head trauma you appear to have received and the medications you have been on, you probably don't remember much in between."
Stiles shook his head, and she continued.
"You saved him," she said simply. "He says you pushed him out of the way of an Iranian's knife and caught it right in the throat. Somehow, you survived long enough for him to tow you back to the nearest hospital that wasn't in your hometown. He got some agents down here to help keep your records locked here, which is why you're labelled as John Doe. We can't have any information getting out, as I'm sure you're aware."
She said this in the same tone Cleo had had with him. As if she knew more about the attack than she were letting on, but was trying to convince him that it hadn't been a supernatural attack at all.
Instead of replying, Stiles touched a hand to his throat in a questioning gesture. She nodded, pursing her lips and taking the tiniest fraction of a step closer to the door. Like she was, once again, trying to outrun the terrors that were chasing Stiles.
"Unfortunately, after a show like that, we can't let you back into the program." She sighed, almost like she regretted it. "We can, however, continue to utilize your skills and knowledge. There's an open job in our internal communications department that has your name on it. Well, your code name, that is."
Shaking his head again, Stiles took a piece of paper from the bedside table. After Irene handed him a pencil, he scrawled out a message.
No. I'm getting back into the program, he wrote, in his neatest please-give-me-my-job-back handwriting. I want to fight.
Irene hesitated. Long and hard.
He stared her down, daring her to tell him no. Stiles could feel the seconds creeping down his spine like spiders, feel Irene's patience thinning like a stream of blood on a closing wound. Her next words could determine his fate. If it was the same, he would have to go crawling back to the FBI. And it was unlikely they'd take him; he would have to take the stupid CIA desk job. But if she let him back onto the team with his fellow Runts, then he could start over. Shut out the rest of the world so he could focus.
"I'll think about it," she finally said, making Stiles' heart soar. "But in the meantime, I want you to stay put at that desk job."
I will, Stiles wrote. Thank you.
"Another thing..." She crossed her arms thoughtfully. "If you really want to get back into the program, you're going to need a new identity. We can't have your old one getting compromised. Do you understand what that means?"
Stiles was pretty sure he did.
I'm dead now, he wrote with an ease that scared a small part of him. Aren't I?
"If you want to continue in the program after a stunt you just pulled in front of your friends like that. But, Mitch, you have to understand what's at stake here. The Runts...you are a unique team. A very special program, one I've fought tooth and nail for. The only reason I'm allowing this is because of the sacrifices we've had to make to get you this far. Do you understand?"
His pen scrawled quickly, and he no longer worried about his handwriting. Nor how crazy he sounded. At the worst, he could later blame it on being loopy from the meds.
We're all supernatural, aren't we?
Irene's silence on the matter was all he needed.
"Think about what you want," she finally said. "And I'll let you know if it coincides with what the CIA needs."
She didn't disclose any more information on the matter, promptly excusing herself from the room. No one, not even Cleo, came in for a long time. Stiles found himself staring at the piece of paper he had written on, at the last phrase. About the Runts being supernatural.
It made sense; why their group was so small, why they weren't allowed to know anything about each other, why the CIA bothered with them in the first place. Each of them must have had some kind of connection that crossed over both the supernatural and the public safety department, possessing unique skills the CIA was prepared to utilize for black ops.
Because putting the life of a monster on the line was so much easier than a human's.
He thought about what he would be saying yes to by going back into the program, what he would be saying goodbye to. His dad, for starters, and the rest of the McCall pack. He would probably never see any of them again.
Instead of feeling remorse, Stiles just felt angry. A huge, gaping hole, gnawing at his gut when he remembered Malia pushing him to the back of the pack. Remembered Scott running away, remembered his dad not really caring as much when he came home. How Scott didn't send him a single text message over the summer.
Three long years of being by Scott's side, the first to help him through his transformation. He'd lost numerous baseball bats, the life of his jeep, his sanity, control of his mind at one point, a hope of ever having a peaceful night's sleep, and every last inch of his patience. And what had it accomplished for him? Nothing. Not even a strengthened friendship with Scott. Even before they had gone their separate ways, they had been splitting. Slowly but surely. Since the night he had killed Donovan, Scott didn't look at him the same. Distrust simmered deep in his eyes, hidden behind a false sense of comradery.
It wouldn't matter, me being gone. They'll be fine without me. Better, even.
If they didn't care, then Stiles wouldn't, either.
Chapter 5: banjo
Chapter Text
Mitch awoke at precisely 4:58 in the morning, two minutes before his alarm. He quickly canceled it and rolled out of bed, stepping into the bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and ran his toothbrush across his teeth. The tube of toothpaste was, as it had been for the past six months, labelled as an edible, non-irritating toothpaste for kids. Bubblegum flavored; he would never dream of using mint again in his life with the throat irritation it gave him.
He slipped on his running shoes and let out his dog, Banjo, through the back door. The happy-go-lucky Golden Retriever was a retired bomb dog, given to Mitch by Irene herself when he'd had trouble breathing through the night for the first few weeks after the accident. It had been comforting to have a furry pal during those terrifying moments when he'd awoken in a cold sweat, unable to suck in any air past his destroyed larynx. Now, thankfully, all he needed the dog for was to make an excuse to leave the house for non-work reasons.
The morning air was cold and brisk, waking up all of his senses. Banjo trotted happily alongside him for the first few meters, but eventually fell behind and gave up. A glance over his shoulder told Mitch that the dog was rooting around in the yard, tail wagging.
By the time his watch chimed 7:00, Mitch was showered after a long 10k run and brewing a cup of coffee, his dark, wet hair dripping into his eyes. It was a lot longer than it had been six months ago, hanging past his forehead and down the nape of his neck. His jaw, too, had acquired some stubble. He only wished it would go down farther, hide the ugly scar slashing straight across his neck. It made people ask questions, so he usually just told them it was a surgery to save him from choking on Froot Loops.
When he could talk, that is.
Some days were better than others. Usually, at the most, he could formulate a dry whisper, give it some vocalizations on the good days. But sometimes his voice wouldn't cooperate with him at all, and it would be painful to even breathe. He stayed quiet those days, resorting to sign language only.
Several years ago, it would have driven him out of his mind. But now, he didn't mind it so much. He was free from wanting to release the constant babble of thoughts polluting his mind, free to take a deep breath and just watch the world fly by. Silently taking in every miniscule detail, not distracting himself with speech.
Now, he was free to set his mind to his goal: killing The Omega.
He knew he had to get back in the field to do that; it couldn't be accomplished sitting behind a desk all day, even if it still was for the CIA. He'd been grateful for the temporary desk job they'd given him, of course, but he never once relented in it being the next stop over from getting back into the Runt Program.
Being a pencil-pusher was, as he had discovered with the FBI, not his forte. And he was determined to get back onto the field as quickly as possible.
After bidding a restless Banjo goodbye, who was scratching at the floor and whining, Mitch took his coffee to-go and clambered into his car. Usually he waited until 7:30 to leave, but he needed a few extra minutes to grab gas.
Working behind a desk for the CIA wasn't as secretive and high-profile as young Mitch had imagined it to be. In fact, he so closely resembled the modern American sitting through traffic jams, keeping his eyes peeled for parking, and scrambling up a regular office building that it disgusted him. He longed to be free of the dull gray walls of the office, of the confined quarters of his cubicle. Nothing on the walls but a calendar put there by his manager.
He hadn't wanted to make himself comfortable, possessing hopes of returning to the field that were stronger than the 300mg of caffeine in his coffee. But he hadn't heard a word from Irene, Cleo, the Runts, or anyone since John Doe had been released from the hospital onto a clean slate: Mitch Rapp.
"Hey, Mitch," one of his overly-friendly coworkers said to him as he tossed his briefcase onto his desk. "Wanna grab a cold one with me and James tonight?"
Mitch gave him a stiff smile overtop of his cubicle as he opened his bag and pulled out his files. He knew that his coworker was just trying to include him because he had never gone to any kind of employee social event since getting hired; not wanting to pin himself down and waste time with such things.
That, and it looked pretty good on him to be inviting the nearly-mute guy out for beer.
Mitch shook his head, his voice feeling particularly hoarse today. He gave his coworker a thumbs-up before settling down at his desk, rubbing the life out of his eyes before switching on his computer. He needed to do another workout tonight, and he hadn't had alcohol since the accident. In addition to the fact that his coworkers probably didn't know that he was only twenty, he didn't want to try it only to get another flare-up of choppy breathing.
This is so stupid, he thought as it booted on and he typed in his password. He belonged in the shooting range with the other Runts, not trapped behind a desk and forced to stare at a glass box all day.
But he kept his head down and started glancing over the morning's emails. One caught his eye; from a no-reply email telling him that his home warranty had expired.
He heard approaching footsteps and quickly closed out of his email, jumping to his feet as two security guards stood side-by-side at his cubicle. They both wore dark jackets and earpieces.
"Mr. Rapp?" one asked, fidgeting with his earpiece. Mitch could hear loud, frantic messages being relayed over it from several feet away. Mitch nodded, and the other jerked his head.
"This way, sir."
Mitch didn't even bother to grab his suitcase. He took off after them like a bolt, hope springing up in his chest so strongly that his hands started shaking. In his six months of working behind a desk in communications, he'd never once been summoned anywhere like this. So it either meant one of two things, most likely: he was being put back into the Runt program or being let go entirely.
He was sure there were hundreds of other reasons, but his brain couldn't wrap itself around any other alternatives at the moment.
The guards took him upstairs and around a maze of hallways until he got to the office of the Director of Counterterrorism.
Irene Kennedy.
The sickening feeling of hope and anxiety tripled.
They opened the door for him, shutting it quickly as soon as he was over the threshold. Irene Kennedy hunched over her computer, her forehead wrinkled as she watched something on her screen, but looked no worse for wear. Without looking up at him, she gestured to one of the chairs before her.
"Sit down, Mitch."
Mitch sat, holding his breath.
"What time did you leave your house this morning?" she asked, finally taking her eyes away from the screen to squint at him.
Mitch coughed, since he no longer possessed the ability to clear his throat, and folded his hands on his knee. "About seven fifteen," he said, voice a husky whisper. "Early. For gas. Why? Did I do something wrong?"
Irene softened. "No, Mitch. Not at all. We're just trying to figure out what happened."
Mitch's blood turned to ice. He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"Mitch..." Irene took a deep breath. "A bomb went off on your property at 7:24 this morning."
His mouth fell open, eyes widening. "A bomb?" He leaned forward in his chair. "What--How---"
"It's all gone, Mitch." She pursed her lips, offering him a pitying frown, and showed him a picture. The charred skeleton of a house stood in the middle of the blast radius, unrecognizable from when he had left that morning. "They'll see what they can salvage, but..." She shook her head.
With a quivering exhale, Mitch remembered how Banjo had dug around in the yard that morning, how he had been scratching at the kitchen floor. The old bomb dog had been trying to warn him.
"My dog?" he dared to ask, steeling himself. Irene shook her head.
"He was killed. Thankfully, no humans were caught in the blast radius, though your neighbors up the hill were quite shaken up with the aftershock."
Mitch leaned back in his chair, trying not to show emotion. If he'd cared for anyone else on this planet, it had been Banjo. Now the loveable old dog was gone, and it was all his fault for ignoring him.
The last thing he needed was to be out of a job, so he decided to rule that out. "Are you letting me go?"
Irene threw back her head and, despite the circumstances, laughed. "God, no, Mitchell. I would never. Quite the opposite, actually. I want you back in the program."
"The Runts?"
"The Runt Recruits have...graduated, per se. I want you for Project Lunar."
Chapter 6: lunar
Chapter Text
Seeing his old team for the first time in six months felt like deja-vu. But it was as if he'd never left.
He was greeted with back-pounding from Gavin and Andre, a warm smile from Cleo, and even a nod from Hugo. His long hair got ruffled and examined, and jokes were thrown about the whole passage of time. He learned that Marcus had quit several months ago when Gavin kicked him between the legs after sparring for being a sore loser.
Hurley pulled Mitch and Irene aside into the soundproof room in the cabin, reserved for the big, important conversations.
"Irene," Hurley had grumbled, "not only is this recluse half a year behind all of their training now, but he's a mother-loving mute, for God's sake. No amount of excuses you give can justify this inconvenience; he'll get them all killed."
Mitch kept his chin level with Hurley, feeling one of his eyebrows twitch.
"I'm not a mute, Stan," he whispered softly, stepping closer. He could sense the fear in the older man now; it was so close he could almost reach out and squeeze it with his fist.
"And as for training," Irene interjected nervously, putting a hand on Mitch's shoulder, "he's right where he needs to be. We monitored him since; he's made an extremely impressive recovery."
"What about his..." Stan wrinkled his nose. "Special skills?"
Irene crossed her arms across her chest. "That's a conversation for another time. But he's strong, Stan. I wouldn't be sending him your way unless it was really important. Necessary, even."
Stan scoffed. "What, he decide typin' on the computer wasn't too exciting for him?"
"He was almost killed," she said flatly. "A bomb was planted inside his house, and a mere hiccup in his daily routine saved his life. The Omega's targeting him, and I think I know why."
Stan's eyes narrowed. "And why, pray tell, did you think it would be a good idea to send him here?"
"This is as much of a safehouse as we've got." She gestured to the guns hanging on the wall. And it wasn't even the weapons room.
"So you're jeopardizing the rest of the Runts so he can---"
"You know what really happened to him in the woods." Irene lowered her voice, a dangerous look in her eyes. "You know better than anyone what the Omega's capable of. And you know Mitch'll stop at nothing to get that wolf's head on a plate. He's got the fire, the drive, and the power.
"And what's more," she added, "he's quiet."
That certainly sold him, Mitch thought as the man reached out to shake his hand once again with the weight of a freighter, popping his knuckles. If he can't have a fully functioning member of a team, at least he can have one that doesn't complain.
"Listen up, oxygen hogs," Hurley said at dinner that night. Andre, the food enthusiast of the group, had tried his best with Hurley's expired ingredients from the 70s and fixed everyone bland sandwiches. "Mitch the Bitch here waltzed right back into the picture right before we were about to send you guys on your second field operation. The first one, Mitch, was a nice trip to the good old Middle East, in case you were jealous. I can't tell you what we'll be doing with this one quite yet, but it'll be down in Mexico investigating a lead."
Hugo paled. "Mexico, sir?"
"We're not visiting your familia." Hurley rolled his eyes. "This isn't an in-and-out mission, you've gotta stick around and gather some data. We can tell you more tomorrow, but for now, just get your stuff and be ready to go here in the mess hall within an hour."
Gavin raised his eyebrows, a piece of cheese hanging out of his mouth. "An hour, sir?"
"It's a time-sensitive case." Hurley slapped his hand on the table. "Let's go, boys! And Cleo. Move it!"
As the others jumped up from the table and rushed out the nearest door to find the cabin, Hurley grabbed Mitch's arm and yanked him closer.
"If you sabotage the mission," he growled, "I won't hesitate to pull you. No matter how much force we have to use."
"You don't have to worry about me, sir," Mitch said. With all the talking he'd done today, there was hardly anything left of his voice. "I'll provide support and stay out of the way."
Hurley winked. "Atta boy. Like a silent soldier."
Within one hour, everyone was crammed into two separate SUVs, blindfolds tugged over their eyes until they got to the main road. They boarded a regular plane filled with regular people, set to have a regular layover in Nashville before boarding one for Mexico.
The flights themselves were actually quite smooth. The only gum any of them had for their popping ears was mint flavored, so Mitch sat in silent begrudgery, keeping his jaw loose to stave off the uncomfortable sensation.
Though Hugo was unfortunately the one sitting next to him, Mitch still closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. Just twelve hours ago he'd been preparing a cup of coffee in his house, ignoring Banjo's attempts to get him to notice the bomb, and now he was back with the Runts. Who had now moved on to Project Lunar and were going to Mexico for a field operation.
Boy, time flies when you're having fun.
It'd been a year since Mitch had gone on an official field operation, the last one being with the FBI as Sties Stilinski, the intern. Now, Stiles was dead, and Mitch, the cold-blooded fighter, was about to step foot into a live bee's nest with a team of people who had had the opportunity to bond not over several weeks, but almost an entire year, most of it without him.
No matter how hard Gavin tried to include him, he would always be different. That was clear from his first day of Runt training, even before the accident. He was the weak one of the group. And, some of them presumed, probably not supernatural.
He dug his fingers into the armrest of his seat, a smile darkening his face as he imagined proving them wrong.
Then he shook himself out of it and the sadistic grin vanished, replaced by a yawn.
"You'd better not screw this mission up," Hugo growled as Mitch started to drift off. "We've worked our assess off for these past few months while you've sat yours down at a desk."
Mitch glanced at Hugo out of the corner of his eye. He could tell the guy was just terrified; something about the idea of Mexico bothered him.
"Are you scared, Hugo?" Mitch whispered, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as Hugo stared at him with wide eyes. "Are you scared we'll find something in Mexico? Scared your family will be exposed?"
"No," Hugo said, but it sounded forced. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No, I'm not. I'm worried you're going to make us fail the mission and get us killed by the..." His voice trailed off.
"Hunters?" Mitch finished. He smirked as Hugo's eyes fell to his hands clutched anxiously in his lap.
"You know what we are," he said desperately. "We all do. We could smell it on each other from the very first day. Everyone except you and Cleo."
He said this accusingly, and Mitch leaned back in his seat.
"Maybe we're more powerful creatures than you wolves," he mused. "Because we have control."
Hugo snarled, eyes flashing blue, but a heavy hand slammed on his shoulder from behind and he jumped. It was Hurley.
"You've gotta be shitting me," he said lightly, smiling between clenched teeth as if he were putting on a show of calm for the other passengers. "Not even two hours into the flight and we're already getting some of this? Knock it off, boys."
Giving him a look of pure death, Hugo sank back down into his seat.
"I'd be careful if I were you," he hissed in Mitch's ear. "There's only room for one alpha here. And it isn't going to be a mute deserter."
Chapter 7: calaveras
Chapter Text
"Alright, here's the plan..." Hurley passed out earpieces and extra magazines in the hotel room. Why he thought werewolves needed guns was beyond Mitch. "Hugo, Cleo, Andre, I want you guys to be the primaries on the ground. You'll blend in more."
Cleo scoffed and rolled her eyes.
"Mitch is obviously more Mexican than me," Andre tried to argue, which surprised Mitch. During the Runt training, he hadn't heard the guy speak two words.
"Just pull a sombrero over your eyes," Gavin said, and Hugo gave him the finger.
"Gavin and Mitch," Hurley continued, clearing his throat like a frustrated, passive-aggressive kindergarten teacher, "I want you two on comms and backup. The team on the ground is gonna be lookin' for this guy, Daniel Torres."
He spun his computer around and showed them a picture that he had already given them during the long commute. It was pixilated, but he appeared to be a disgruntled-looking man with unusually blue eyes and sharp teeth. He was flashing them at another guy whose back was to the camera.
An omega.
"He was a known accomplice of Jakub Gajos." Hurley glanced over to Mitch at that, as if he were missing out on some inside joke, but Hugo flinched. "Caught and arrested yesterday for trying to smuggle wolfsbane across the border, but he was bailed out with a pretty large sum of money."
His fingers swiped the screen, showing them the total, and everyone's eyebrows achieved orbit. Gavin whistled.
"That's a lotta zeroes," Cleo said.
"Bro's makin' dough," Gavin said, and Hurley nodded.
"We've traced the account to a local businessman by the name of Calavera." The second the name left Hurley's lips, Mitch and Hugo both stiffened, eyes widening.
"The Calaveras?" Hugo asked, crossing his arms across his chest as if afraid a wolfsbane bullet would tear through it. "As in, the ruthless hunters?"
Hurley nodded again. "Yeah. What they're doin' bailing one of you guys outta jail, I don't know."
Mitch could feel the tension in the hotel room thicken at 'you guys'; and everyone threw each other glances.
"Our guess is Torres stole the wolfsbane from them," Hurley continued, oblivious to the way their fur had gotten rubbed the wrong way. "And you know these guys; or at least, Mitch and Hugo do; they've got their whole honor code or whatever. Gotta serve him justice and whatnot. So what you guys need to do is find him and get information on the Omega. I don't care how."
His expression told Mitch he wanted them to use any means necessary, to which he nodded. Gavin slid him a fist-bump as the other three exited the hotel room, planning to find the Calavera's club on foot; he and Mitch taking the van. But Hurley grabbed Mitch's arm.
"Gavin," he said, and jerked his head outside. Gavin obediently closed the door, and Mitch heard his footsteps receding out of range, even for a werewolf.
"I'm not gonna screw the mission---" Mitch began, but his voice gave out as Hurley interrupted him.
"It's not that," he said darkly. "Mitch, what do you remember about your uncle?"
My uncle? He held up four fingers, trying to signify that his father had four half-brothers somewhere in the Midwest, but Hurley shook his head and handed him a piece of paper and a pen.
"Your mother's brother," he said, making Mitch's stomach turn cold. "Write down everything you know about him."
Feeling like live worms were wriggling around in his gut, Mitch uncapped the pen and wrote:
Nothing. I think his name was Jake, but he and my mom broke all contact off when I was little. I don't know how old; she never talked about him. The only way I know he even exists is fuzzy memories and the occasional baby photo of them. He wasn't even listed as a surviving relative on her obituary.
The wrinkles on Hurley's forehead deepened as he read.
"Well, this isn't very helpful," he admitted. "But Jake? It's short for Jakub. Jakub Gajos."
With his newfound connection to the Omega, Mitch found it hard to focus. His mind reeled as he and Gavin bounced along in the van, listening to the other three Runts' chatter over the comms. They were getting close.
"Hey," Gavin said after parking on the side of the road, giving him a nudge. Mitch bristled, but didn't move away. If he could tolerate any of the Runts, it was Gavin. "It's been a long time."
Mitch nodded. When he didn't say anything else, Gavin pointed to Mitch's scar and rubbed a hand across his own throat. "Cool scars."
"Thanks," Mitch breathed, his voice completely shot already. Gavin held up a hand.
"You don't have to talk. I get it. I was actually seventy percent deaf before I got, you know, bitten or whatever. So trust me; don't force yourself to stoop down to other people's easiest forms of communication. You do what's easy and comfortable for you."
Sign? Mitch flashed him with his hands, and Gavin's face split into a grin.
Yes.
The chatter between their hands stilled as the three on the ground got let into the club, but Mitch tucked that piece of information on Gavin the back of his mind for future reference. You never knew when American Sign Language would come in handy. especially in a case like his.
"Let's fan out and search for the target," Hugo's voice said over the comms. "I think if we---"
The audio broke off with a fizzle. Cursing, Gavin slammed a fist on the dashboard.
"Something had to have knocked it out," he said, fingers flying across his keyboard. "I've gotta go out there and get them."
Me? Mitch signed, and Gavin's head gave a nervous twitch as he jumped into the back half of the van, which had been hollowed out for this type of work. He pulled a dusty old keyboard out of a cabinet and hooked it up to something next to the computer, gesturing for Mitch to join him in the backseat.
"Use this over the comms," he said, handing the keyboard to him. "We don't have trackers on us, remember, so once I reestablish the comm links, keep routine track of everyone's locations. And keep the van prepped for retrieval and getaway."
Mitch nodded.
After making sure his gun was secured, Gavin leapt out of the vehicle without looking over his shoulder.
Looks like it's just me, Mitch thought ruefully, remembering how Hurley had told him again and again that he would screw up the mission. If he managed to hold everything together, he would be rubbing his competency in Hurley's face.
He wondered vaguely if they should call Hurley down. He was monitoring all of it, of course, and Mitch wondered how nasty he would let things get before stepping in.
Gun Shop, Mitch typed, using Hugo's call sign. Gun Shop, do you copy?
The words were fed into a text-to-audio program and automatically relayed over the comms. But he received nothing but static.
Snakeskin? Cleo. Cable? Andre. No responses from either.
Rapunzel? he typed. Gavin. He, at least, answered.
"Rodger, rodger," Gavin said. "I'm on the west side of the building. I think---"
He broke off with a sudden buzzing and groaning, like he was getting electrocuted. Then the line went quiet.
One year ago, maybe Stiles' heart would have leapt into his throat and maybe he would have started panicking. Hyperventilated, even.
Now, Mitch calmly flipped a few switches on the dashboard, used the radio-keyboard program to alert Hurley of the situation, and stepped out of the vehicle. He could feel the knife in his boot, the gun under his jacket, and the blade woven into his hair at the base of his scalp. He had done that one himself, and thankfully, Hurley hadn't searched there upon his arrival to the cabin.
His quiet bootsteps marched at a brisk pace down the street, but not too quick so as not to appear suspicious. He planned on getting a vantage point on the west side of the building by meandering between two buildings across the street, ignoring Hurley's shouts in his ear to abort the mission.
But someone came up behind him before he had the chance.
He sensed the attack before it was about to happen. Agitated souls squirming behind him, chomping at the bit to blow his head clean off his shoulders. But restraint stopped them. They had orders not to kill him.
Orders that obviously had to have come from the Calaveras. Which was exactly where he needed to go, anyway.
Getting captured was going to be so much easier than sneaking and fighting his way in. And, though he would never admit it to Hurley, it was going to be so much more fun.
So he went limp against their attack, feigning ignorance and incompetence. They didn't even have to try to subdue him, carefully yanking him into an alley. There were two of them, and the bigger one didn't hesitate to slam his knuckles to the side of Mitch's skull. Knowing that it was enough force to knock a normal person out, even an operative, Mitch went limp. Eyes rolling up, breaths slowing, and heartbeat quieting.
"Vamos," he heard one say, grabbing him by the middle and dragging him into a side door. The building they entered was dark, damp, and smelled like baking flour. "Los tenemos todos."
Chapter 8: the boy who cried wolf
Chapter Text
Mitch wasn't unconscious. He felt secondhand embarrassment for the men who thought so. He was dragged through the back halls of the club that he hardly remembered, having traversed in here with the pack so long ago.
Seventeen. It had been three years, but the place had hardly changed. At least to his other senses. Beyond the thick walls, he could hear the DJ's blaring music. Feel the cold and the griminess of the concrete floor through his thin shirt. Smell the remnants of wolfsbane in the air.
The men conversed in low, grumbling Spanish. Though he knew he should have learned it during his time with the FBI and CIA, Mitch still didn't know a lick of Spanish past the number of fingers on his hands and the colors of the rainbow. He had been introduced to a few Middle Eastern languages during his summer stint with the Runts, but it had been merely that. An introduction.
So he focused on the meaning behind their words. Rooting out the intentions within their souls like a gardener might dig up weeds.
One complained about how heavy Mitch was. The other wondered what the superior wanted to do with the prisoners.
Araya.
Mitch had met the ruthless woman before, attempted to bargain for Derek's life. It hadn't worked too well, and Scott had had to come to save their butts. Hopefully, she wouldn't recognize him; and hopefully he wouldn't need a werewolf to save him again.
He was dragged through a doorway into a room with seven other souls. Three of them hostile, four of them petrified. His friends. And Araya must have had two bodyguards with her.
The two men carrying him dumped him onto the floor like he was a sack of rocks. Unfortunately there wasn't much he could do to cushion his fall without giving himself away, and his jaw nearly snapped when it made contact with the concrete floor. He heard Gavin shout in protest.
One guard stayed in the room and reported how he'd oh-so-heroically taken Mitch down, the other taking up a position outside the door.
They had searched him for weapons and taken them all away, save for the sliver of metal in his hair.
"This one is a human," came Araya's disdainfully disgusted voice, nudging his head with her foot. "Stop your bragging. Any one of us could've taken him down."
"How do you know?" the man who had taken Mitch in asked, desperation to prove himself to his boss---his mother, Mitch realized---wriggling and darting about inside him like a collection of live bees. "Maybe we should chain him up just to make sure."
Araya scoffed. "I'm not wasting chains. I know this one; he came in before and tried to trick me. He has a clever mind, but he's about as useful as you."
The man's soul deflated a little at her insult, but he kept strong. "He was heavily armed. I think if we---"
"Silence," Araya spat. Mitch could feel the annoyance and rage inside of her; how she had birthed such an aggravating coward, she yearned to figure out.
Mitch kept still, waiting for the opportune moment. Either when the guards would leave or when their attention would be turned on something else. But he supposed now was as good a time as any.
"We're not wasting our energy with the humans," Araya continued. "It's the wolves we want."
Without sucking in a breath of air, Mitch's hand few to his head, tore out the piece of metal, and he sprang to his feet. He was on the nearest man in seconds. Part of him screamed to go for his eyes, but the smaller, human part of him crushed it down with pity and he hesitated.
That moment was all Araya needed. The clicking of a gun made Mitch freeze, and he dropped the sliver of metal and raised his hands above his head, cursing himself. It had been foolish, stupid, even, to risk an overtake so early. And what would the pin have done? Given them cat scratches?
The human side of me is weak.
Araya tutted. "You've learned new tricks," she said, almost smugly. "Turn around."
Mitch obeyed, keeping his hands clasped behind his head. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of his friends on the wall: Gavin, Andre, and Hugo were chained by their wrists. Cleo was cuffed to a chair, spitting mad and trying in vain to wriggle out of her bonds.
He knew the Calaveras hadn't started torturing the wolves yet because they still had their shirts on, electric wires lying unused in a pile in the corner.
"What do you want from us?" Gavin asked, tugging at his wrists. Hugo kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
It was funny, Mitch thought. All of these trained CIA operatives in one room and they were taken down by some Mexican werewolf hunters within the span of a single hour.
"Blood," Araya said simply, gesturing for Mitch to get on his knees. "Justice. Do you know how long we've kept our streets clean of filthy American werewolves?"
No one responded. Araya's face, looking the same as it had three years ago, bent into a dark, twisted smile.
"Not long enough." She turned her gun on Hugo. "Now, tell me, why was it so important you snoop around our lovely home?"
Hugo kept his head down. If anything, it sank lower. And he remained silent. Gritting her teeth, Araya strode closer and pressed the gun underneath his chin as much as she could; he was keeping a tight hold on his bowed head.
"Answer me," she growled, "unless you want wolfsbane to do your thinking in place of your brain."
Slowly, Hugo raised his chin to meet her eyes, face devoid of emotion. But Araya gasped.
"Alverez," she said, moving the gun away from his head like she were suddenly afraid to hurt him. "What are you doing? We told you never to come back here."
"I..." Hugo swallowed, looking from his fellow wolves chained to the wall to Mitch and Cleo. Something slimy tugged at his soul; he was about to lie. And he needed them to back him up.
"I was looking for my brother," he finally said, sighing as if in defeat. "We heard that the...Omega was active again. And I wanted to make sure he was safe."
Brother?
The way he said Omega made Araya pause, keeping something withheld. As if the two shared a secret. Another slimy lie.
"Well," she finally said, carefully setting her gun on the table. She nodded to her younger son, who stepped forward and reluctantly cut Hugo free. "I hate to disappoint you, but your brother isn't here."
"What?!" Alarm lit up Hugo's face like the Christmas lights in Rockefeller. "What do you mean?! What happened to him? Is he okay?"
"I don't know." She shrugged helplessly. "We noticed he wasn't getting up one morning and went to check on him, but he was gone. Left a note."
"What did the note say?" Hugo demanded, but Araya ignored him, apparently done playing surrogate mother.
Gavin glanced between them, a look of pure astonishment on his face. "Can someone please explain what the hell is going on?"
Araya took the gun from the table, cocked it, and shoved it into Hugo's arms. "Not until little Chuck proves his loyalty," she said, taking a step back and folding her hands behind her back like this was a normal occurrence. "Or, God forbid, his betrayal."
Hugo paled, clutching the gun.
"Prove you mean no harm to us." Araya cocked her head towards Mitch. "Shoot him. Or face consequences."
"I can't," Hugo blurted. Araya hardened.
"If you aren't going to shoot him," she said, "how can we know you trust us over your immundo amigos? That they haven't turned you away from us, from what you promised us all those years ago?"
"Hugo, what are they talking about?!" Cleo demanded, straining at her ropes. "What did you do?!"
"Nothing." Without missing a beat, Hugo unloaded the gun and cast the bullets to the floor. One by one, they rolled to a stop near Mitch's boot. His voice trembled as he faced Araya, heartbreak and longing flooding his chest. For his brother. "I promised nothing to the Calaveras that I regret."
"Staying clean?" she probed, and Hugo nodded.
"I haven't shifted since," he promised. Though there was the sliminess of a lie wriggling within him. "I've rejected it. Just like you said."
"Then why are you hanging around acquaintances such as these?"
Hugo bit his lip. "I... That's classified. But we were all chosen for a mission, one to take the Omega down."
Classified. Sure.
"And what were you doing around here?" Araya crossed her arms across her chest. "Surely you wouldn't think we had information on him, do you?"
Hugo answered something in Spanish, and for the next few moments, the two talked earnestly between themselves. From Cleo, Gavin, and Andre's expressions, it was clear they were understanding more than Mitch was.
When they paused, Araya pulled Hugo into a hug.
"I'm so confused, man," Gavin grumbled.
"When he was a pup," Araya said the word begrudgingly, "his family warned and then protected ours from an attack from the crazed Omega. After the Omega killed his alpha, he targeted Alverez and his brother. So what better place to hide from a werewolf than with werewolf hunters?" She chuckled, laying a hand on Hugo's shoulder, but he looked to be sculpted of pure terror. "We promised to keep Charlie safe, as long as this one rejected the lobo inside of him. Our honor code required we spare his life after the sacrifice his family made for us."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "But it does not require we do it again."
"Araya," Hugo tried again, "please. We didn't come here looking for a fight. We only wish to speak with Torres."
She shifted, a smile playing on her face.
"Alright," she said at last. "I'll take you to him. All of you."
After dragging everyone through a wolfsbane gas chamber, they were thrown into two cells. With Torres's dead body, one half in each.
"I knew it," Andre grumbled, trying to punch the wall but being too weak after the wolfsbane poisoning. His fist flopped lazily back into his lap, sweat beading down his forehead.
"Yeah," Gavin panted, sprawled on the floor from where they'd thrown him. He hadn't moved an inch. "These people are crazy."
Mitch was in a cell with Cleo, the two non-wolves, and Andre and Gavin were in the other. Hugo had been dragged off to who-knows-where, to be killed or made king, no one knew.
"Guys, come on," Cleo said, pressing her face against the bars. "This is our first mission like this. We can't screw it up."
"Whadda 'bout that time in Syria?" Gavin asked, voice slurring. He was obviously delirious. "'Member the falafel?"
"No," Andre groaned, holding his stomach from the memory. "Please..."
Cleo glanced sideways at Mitch, actually looking fearful.
"We have to do something, Mitch," she said quietly. "We have to get out of here and find Hugo. He obviously has some kind of connection to the Omega. Him and his brother."
Mitch nodded, choosing not to disclose his own newfound connection with the monster. He crawled over to Torres's body that lay across the cell, Cleo having pressed herself as far away from it as possible. It was his lower half, with blood seeping into the stone floor.
But the lower half meant pockets. And pockets meant potential weapons.
He doubted he would find anything, but he still searched them. And to his luck, he found what appeared to be a harmless wooden cross. Upon further inspection, however, he discovered that a part of it slid open to reveal a blade.
"I wonder what Torres was doing with the wolfsbane," Cleo said aloud, eyes drifting from the wooden cross to Mitch's eyes. "And what he was going to do with it once he got across the border."
Mitch shrugged, sliding down the wall and settling on the floor next to her. He was in a situation he hadn't been in since the train station: trapped. Captured, unable to free himself and save his friends. He had hoped he would be done with circumstances such as this after leaving Scott and his so-called pack behind, but here he was. Stuck.
And Hurley wouldn't hesitate to pin it on him.
Well, he determined, clenching his fist around the wooden cross, I'll make sure to put it right. Better that he ever would.
Chapter 9: monsters
Chapter Text
There were two guards, each standing at a cell door. Severo alongside his insignificant brother. They stood still and unmoved, despite the two delirious werewolves in one of the cells demanding to be let out.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Araya marched to the middle of the room, hands on her hips all sassy-like.
"Well?" she barked to the smaller son, an angry fire in her eyes. "I need a moment alone with Severo."
He hesitated, but after she made shooing motions with her hands, he grabbed his gun and fled the room. Severo turned to his mother, but there was suspicion gleaming in his eyes.
"Que pasa?" He crossed his arms across his huge chest. Something about the way Araya stared blankly back at him told Severo that Araya hadn't understood what he'd said.
But that was impossible, he thought.
"I need the key," she said simply, stretching her hand out palm-up. When Severo hesitated, she shrieked something in Spanish at him that sounded like she was counting to three.
Fumbling with the key and trying to hurry, as if he would be put in time-out if she reached three, Severo handed it to her. To his eye, he pressed the key into his mother's palm. If he had looked any harder, he would have seen the flash of metal as it slipped right through her hand, which was just an apparition, and falling into the dirty, outstretched fingers of Mitch Rapp.
"I'm going to have someone else watch these cuatro," she said, as if trying to squeeze all the Spanish numbers she could into her vocabulary. "It's such a boring job, Severo, and I need you doing more. I'll watch them, if you want to go and make sure there aren't any more filthy dogs like these crowding the streets outside?"
Severo nodded. Stepping past his mother, whom he did not notice lacked a shadow, he slammed the door to the cell hall behind him.
Mitch collapsed in exhaustion, his clenched hands going slack and dropping the key. He slumped against the bars, his skin gray, his eyes glazed and unfocused with a hue of silver to them. After grabbing the key and unlocking the door, she tried to haul Mitch to his feet, but he was too heavy.
"Mitch," she hissed, casting a fearful glance at the hall door like it would burst open any second. "Mitch, what's wrong? Was it the hallucination?"
"Tired..." Mitch whispered, breath heaving. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead and he stared groggily up at her. "See black...and white."
"What? You're seeing in black and white?" She gave her head a shake and was successful this time in dragging him upright. He steadied himself on the bars of the cell, but his knees shook. "Mitch, I can't deal with three loopy guys twice my weight."
Mitch nodded, steeling himself and taking a step. He clutched onto the bars for dear life as he walked, following Cleo to the other cell.
"Let's go," she said. Gavin and Andre jumped to their feet, apparently got vertigo, and nearly bashed their skulls together as they tripped and fell.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," Gavin promised, scrambling to his feet. He glanced at Mitch and his eyebrows jumped. "You, my good man, do not look okay, however. You good?"
Mitch tried to nod. But the room was swirling, his knees were buckling, and everything was very much still sapped of color.
Except for red. He didn't miss a smear of the stuff on Gavin's head just underneath his hairline, some stripes on Torres's plaid shirt on the upper half of his body, and the color on Cleo's lips.
He had always had a weak gag reflex, he thought as he tried to follow his friends to find Hugo. Since the accident, he had only thrown up once, and that had been at the hospital. Good old meds. It had burned his throat like lava, and it had taken him nearly a week to talk again.
Now it felt surreal as he watched vomit spew out between his fingers, his knees giving out. It felt like he was watching his own life like TV, watching his friends pull him upright and drag him along.
Because there was nothing to distract him from the burning. His throat, stripped of any and all protection and nearly paralyzed, screaming at him to drink water. The blistering acidity melting him into a thick, bubbling pile, making him want to toss his head back and scream.
Though he could hardly move, he wasn't unconscious. His brain was just in another place, tap-dancing in a different plane of existence.
He remembered walking to the van, his feet finally obeying him. But he didn't have any sense of up or down, and had leaned heavily on Gavin. He remembered driving back, staring numbly at the little red dot blinking on the computer, signaling Hurley would be very pissed when they got back. He remembered Gavin talking to him, trying to sign with him, even, but he remained a blank NPC.
When other colors finally began coming back to him and he became grounded where his feet were, he was standing and facing Cleo, who was snapping in his face. He nearly jumped and took a step backwards, eyes darting to take in the landscape around them.
They were at a gas station, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by small, shallow hills. Based on the signs around him, they were still in Mexico.
"Where are we?" Mitch whispered, coughing.
"We're in Mexicali," Cleo said. "Close to the border."
Mitch narrowed his eyes and spread his hands. What are we doing?
"Getting on the road to look for Hugo's brother to see if he can lead us to the Omega." Cleo sighed, pursed her lips, and gave her head a disapproving shake. "We're going AWOL."
Mitch's jaw dropped. Little alarm bells rang in a small part of his brain, but he swallowed it back. He winced as he felt the awful post-puke burn, knowing it'd make his voice even raspier for the next few days.
He knew disobeying Hurley wasn't just bad. It was dooming their future careers. He could see himself and Gavin breaking the rules in a heartbeat, but not the others. Something had to have happened, something he wasn't aware of.
Hurley thinks we're monsters, he realized. They want to prove themselves, no matter how much they know he's right. We are monsters.
Chapter 10: hermano
Chapter Text
They crossed the border without getting into too much trouble, but since there weren't enough seats in the van, a few of them hid in secret compartments under the floorboards until they were in the clear. And after a twenty-minute conversation Gavin had with an officer about his shampoo, they were speeding towards LA. The actual drive itself was over four hours long, but Mitch fell asleep for most of it. He was still feeling pretty exhausted after conjuring the hallucination.
He wasn't sure how his powers worked, but that was the first time he'd done a big illusion like that. What he did know was that it fed on every scrap of energy and good emotions he had, and he would be left seeing in black-and-white for the next few hours.
But had been the first time he could still see red. Whether that meant he was getting stronger or weaker, he didn't know. So far, no one had questioned him about his powers. And for that he was thankful, because he wasn't entirely sure where they came from.
He certainly knew when they had come to him, though.
"But we can change you," he remembered Lydia saying, confronting Stiles' evil doppelganger.
And then, a sting of pain clamped together on Stiles' right bicep. Teeth biting down on his arm, tearing through his shirt, slicing through his skin. Holding firm.
Then the connection between them broke. And a good thing, too, because it wasn't a second later that Kira's sword punctured through the Nogitsune's stomach and shot cleanly out the other side, the silver blade completely dry of blood. He had watched, stunned, as Isaac caught the Nogitsune's fly inside of the jar and the Nogitsune turned to dust.
Everything had gone dark after that. Stiles had awoke lying flat on his back, Scott's jacket lying balled up underneath his head. Lydia's hand was pressed against his chest, everyone's faces creased with worry. Glancing at his sleeve, he saw that it was somehow free of blood. But it still stung, and, upon further inspection later that night, still had a wound showcasing his best friend's perfect dental impression.
It wasn't until he started being able to sense things that he shouldn't, such as the state of a soul and what it desired, that he realized the lack of blood on his sleeve was just an illusion. A hallucination. Crafted so that his friends wouldn't suspect he had still been linked to the Nogitsune at the time of the bite.
What that said about his powers, and what kind of supernatural creature he was, he didn't like to think about. Because he could only imagine what Scott would do to him if he knew a sliver of the dark fox's powers were still Stiles' to control. But there was a small part of him that wondered now if Scott already figured it out, and that's why he left him for dead at the mercy of the Omega's claws.
Why he had abandoned him.
"I don't like this," Cleo said for the millionth time, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and scowling. Hugo rolled his eyes and Andre, who was driving, turned up the music a little.
"Just picture this," Gavin said, putting a hand on Cleo's shoulder. For some reason, a bolt of jealousy shot through Mitch like a bullet. "We kill the Omega and Hurley welcomes us back not just as heroes, but as fellow humans."
"But we aren't," she pressed. "And this is only going to make their opinions of us worse."
Hugo nodded. "Maybe. But did you think that there's a chance Hurley's hindering us from reaching our full potential because he just doesn't realize what we can do yet? And that maybe, just maybe, killing the Omega will show him?"
Mitch nodded, but Cleo shook her head and glared at the ground.
"You're going to get us all killed," she growled.
Andre flicked on the radio, which had started playing September by Earth, Wind, and Fire. "Not before we jam out!"
Gavin seemed to be the only one intent on doing that, and the car lapsed into a silence that made Mitch's eyes droop.
By the time he opened them again, they were driving past all the glamor of LA and into the run-down apartment area. Power lines sagged and the cars looked cheaper, but other than that it still looked classy compared to most cities in America.
Hugo was apparently texting his brother, whom he hadn't seen in over a year. Why he was giving the guy directions to his house, Mitch didn't know. He would have to meet Mini-Hugo to understand his motives. All they knew about him was that he was a human, eighteen, and loved music; seemingly being interested in a career as a songwriter. Which, Hugo speculated, was probably why he ran away to LA.
Of all places, Mitch reminded himself, Scott is supposed to be living in right now.
He obviously hadn't kept in touch. It would be super weird to receive a text from your "dead" best friend. So whether or not the beloved Alpha was still stationed here, and whether or not he thought Stiles was actually dead or just missing, Mitch didn't know. And he certainly didn't want to find out, so this was going to have to be a swift operation.
They jumped out of the van and stretched their legs, happy to see the sun. Hugo didn't stop to wait on them, though, and marched straight up to the building with his usual swagger, like he owned the place.
His brother, Charlie, lived on the very top floor. After a long trek up the stairs, Cleo refusing to take the elevators with a bunch of stinky werewolves, they arrived on the twelfth floor. Room 1209. Mitch couldn't help but notice Hugo's hand shaking before he knocked. Couldn't help but feel the fear pulsing in him like a parasite clamped to his soul, sucking out all the light and good feelings.
Mitch gave his head a shake, repulsed at how he was drawn to the negative energy like a moth to flame.
An eager, nervous soul scrambled to the door, and within seconds, it flew open. A teenager with curly black hair, mismatched socks, and a plain white t-shirt on stood in the doorway, a stupid grin on his face. His thick, dark eyebrows that matched Hugo's leapt up in excitement and he reached in for a hug. Mitch felt reluctance stirring in Hugo at the gesture.
"Chuck!" he squealed. "It's been forever, man!"
"It's...good to see you," Hugo said, giving his brother a small smile and stepping back.
"These your homies you mentioned?" He peered at each of them one-by-one, gaze resting a little longer on Mitch than he would have liked. Hugo--or Chuck--rolled his eyes.
"Yes. Now, can we please come in? We have some important questions."
A playful smile lit Charlie's face and he blocked the doorway with his skinny, stick-like frame. "What's the password?"
The two engaged in a few moments of stupid brotherly tussling, which ended in Charlie's arm being bent behind his back at a painful, violent angle. Mitch spotted a scar on his forearm, in the shape of bite marks. But Charlie wrenched it free before he could get a closer look.
A werewolf bite, perhaps? But then, why would it leave a scar? And how was Charlie still human? All questions would be answered in due time, Mitch supposed, as Charlie led them further into his apartment.
The place smelled of something familiar Mitch couldn't put his finger on. It was a small, modest apartment, and looked like any living space occupied by two college boys would. Dirty dishes lay in the kitchen, laundry in corners, and a fine layer of dust coated just about every surface but the video game controllers and the bathroom door handle. Several guitar cases were piled in the small living room, along with stacks upon stacks of loose paper. Upon further inspection, Mitch discovered they were covered in scrawls of lyrics and chords.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Charlie said airily, plopping down onto the worn couch and picking up a beaten six-string. "Feel free to sit down."
No one did.
"What's been going on, Charlie?" Hugo asked, looking around in the kitchen. "Why did you run away from the Calaveras? You were safe there."
"I was safe," Charlie said slowly, plucking the strings and staring into space. It was from this angle that they could really see his scar, and how deep the wound must have gone. "I was safe, but I wasn't free, man. You know? I don't wanna live; I wanna survive."
"You sound like a hippie." Hugo wrinkled his nose at something green on the counter and meandered back into the living room. "Not that I'm opposing chasing your dreams."
Cleo nodded to the guitar. "You're a...singer?"
"A guitarist," Charlie corrected. "But yeah, I dabble. Better than my roommate."
Hugo finally sat on the couch next to him. "Enough about your weird hobbies. Listen, we're trying to find..." He took a breath. "We're trying to find the Omega."
Charlie flinched, but his fingers didn't waver on the strings.
"He's planning something," Hugo pressed. And, to Mitch's startlement, he pointed directly at him. "You see his scars? Notice how he's been kinda quiet?"
After squinting at him, Charlie nodded.
"The Omega did that." Hugo dropped his arm and put his hand on his brother's guitar to quiet his strums. "Now he can't talk."
Charlie blew out a puff of air, making his curls momentarily fly up into the air. "If this is a plea for me to tell you information, then you can drop the whole act. Because I'll help you anyway."
Gavin breathed a sigh of relief. "Finally, are we going to get to hear the story now? Of the Calaveras and everything?"
"Sure." Charlie nodded. "But you gotta get one thing straight first... Chuck and I, we're nothing like him."
Andre's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Like who?"
"The Omega," Hugo sighed. "Our dad."
Chapter 11: scars
Chapter Text
"You have to understand that the man who used to be our father isn't...well, he's not in a sound state of mind." Hugo shifted from where he sat next to his brother on the couch. "He went crazy...decided all humans should be turned into werewolves."
"He bit me, his human son, even though he wasn't an alpha," Charlie added, twisting his arm to reveal the scar. "So thankfully it didn't do anything to me; like turn me or kill me. It just hurt, like any grown man biting a five year-old would. But it definitely put me through some trauma for awhile. Until sophomore year, I'd never even worn a short-sleeve shirt. I didn't want people to see it, to start asking questions."
I know the feeling, Mitch thought, brushing a hand across his throat. When he went to fancier functions or out to the grocery store, he still wore the occasional scarf.
He was standing across the room, facing his supposed cousins. Mulling everything over in his head, trying to determine whether or not he should tell them. By the way they were talking about their dad, they probably wouldn't like to meet other people who shared in his bloodline. So Mitch let his gaze drift from the bare, gray walls to the piles of half-finished songs on the floor. Anywhere but his cousins' faces.
Cleo sat cross-legged on the floor, listening intently like a kindergartener at story time. Gavin and Andre had pulled up the only two chairs from the kitchen, Andre's looking like it wouldn't be able to support his bulky, muscular weight within the next few minutes.
Andre the Giant, Mitch thought, and he suddenly wondered if that's where his code name had come from.
Mitch gritted his teeth, trying to focus. It was difficult with all the fuss of the souls in this room, let alone from the others in the building. He could sense two having an argument in the parking lot, several partying a floor below them, and even two souls becoming one down the hall. But he wrinkled his nose and tried not to think about that one too much.
"We ran away from him after he bit Charlie," Hugo said. "And---"
"Can you, like, start at the beginning?" Cleo interrupted, waving her hands to get their attention. Charlie rolled his eyes, striking a bad chord on his guitar.
"She's pushy, ain't she, Chucky?"
"For the last time," Hugo said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "it's Hugo."
"Right. Because you're so good at keeping a low profile."
Lunging forward, Mitch slammed his fists on the table. The colors in the room dimmed for a moment, his eyes undoubtedly flashing. He bared his teeth at Charlie and flicked some brief signs towards them.
"Uh..." Gavin cleared his throat. "He says...hurry up. Alongside some other stuff."
Charlie looked like he was about to piss his pants, and Hugo looked like he was about to murder Mitch.
"My dad's family is from Poland," Hugo growled, eyes glowing an aggressive blue, "and our grandfather was actually one of the Jews hiding in St. Maximilian Kolbe's monastery during World War II. My dad, a human at the time, met my mom when he moved to Mexico for work. She was the daughter of an alpha for a very powerful pack. It took a lot of convincing, but they were eventually allowed to be married."
"But then," Charlie added off-handedly, strumming what sounded like Sweet Home Alabama, "after I was born, he got what Mami called a brain sickness."
Mitch started to get a really bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as he sat back onto his heels, leaning away from the coffee table. This story was starting to sound similar to his mother's.
"His mental health...declined," Hugo said hesitantly, gripping his knee. "He and our mother debated on whether or not he should receive the bite. By the time they finally decided, our abuelo finally gave him the bite, and his body finally accepted it, he..."
"He was a little bonkers," Charlie said.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Mitch tried not to let it bother him of how easily they talked about this. How they referred to the brutal killing disease that took his mother as 'bonkers.' Frontotemporal dementia was genetic, he remembered. The Gajos siblings must have just both been extremely unlucky.
Are you unlucky, too? a small voice whispered, making him rub the back of his neck.
Hugo straightened, seeming to remember he was supposed to be looking stoic and professional. "He tried to convince the pack that they needed to attack any and all nearby humans. The Alverez pack, especially our mother, refused."
"And then..." Charlie took in a shaky breath. "He killed Mami. He tried to bite me again, but Hugo took me and fled before he had another chance."
"And where's the best place to hide from a werewolf?" Hugo asked quietly.
Gavin spoke up. "Hunters."
Suddenly satisfied, as if he'd received all the answers he had been looking for, Mitch let his gaze wander back to the floor, to the stacks upon stacks of looseleaf papers Charlie had scrawled on. His handwriting was messy, rushed. Exactly like his own. It almost made him smile. Almost.
He wondered what it was like to have cousins. If he confided in Hugo and Charlie that they were related, would they turn their backs or welcome him with open arms? Or just laugh, think that he was making it up?
Before he could ready his hands to sign the statement to Gavin, Charlie had started talking again.
"After I ran away," he said, "I lived on the streets in LA for about a week. I knew it wasn't safe, especially for me, with my dad; but I didn't have money to rent a place here. I was playing guitar for money on the street, you know, and this young guy came up to me and we talked for awhile. Like, a few hours. Turns out he's a lone wolf, too, needed a pack. He offered me a place at his apartment and I've been helping him pay the bills. Well, more or less. He has classes during the day, studying science or something."
Cleo pursed her lips. "And does this roommate know about your history with the Omega?"
"Yeah," Charlie blurted instantly, totally oblivious to the way everyone's hair suddenly stood on end. "Why wouldn't I tell him? I trust him."
Mitch scowled, giving his head a shake.
"You can't trust anyone," Andre said, mirroring Mitch's thoughts. Charlie shrugged nonchalantly.
"Well, I trust him. He's my alpha." He checked his watch and smiled. "And you guys can meet him any moment now. He'll be home soon."
Gavin leapt to his feet. "Dude, not cool! We're supposed to be undercover!"
Charlie scoffed. "And a great job you've done, introducing me to the mix."
After scolding him in Spanish, Hugo gripped him by the shoulders. "Where is he, Charlie?" he asked sternly. "Where's Dad?!"
"He's going to hurt a lot of more people if we don't stop him," Andre added.
Before Charlie could answer, Mitch heard the stairwell door open down the hall. He knew all the werewolves heard it, too, since their necks simultaneously snapped to the door. Mitch felt a soul, a blissfully ignorant but strongly protective soul, making their way towards the door.
And it was achingly familiar.
"We need to get out of here," Cleo said. But no one moved. It was too late.
With the click of the doorknob turning, his roommate stepped through the door.
Scott McCall.
Chapter 12: aphonia
Notes:
thank you for all the love, comments, and kudos!! <3 you guys are amazing. :)
Chapter Text
"Oh my God. Stiles?!"
The words were out before Mitch could suck in a breath of air that had suddenly gone frigid, goosebumps erupting along his arms.
Scott looked faint. His soul was fireworking with joy, despair, and confusion, pockmarked with memories of all the times he had hurt Mitch. Swimming in regret because of them. Reliving the moments every day in a living nightmare, to Mitch's joy.
He deserves it.
But he couldn't very well let Scott know that Stiles was still alive. That would compromise his identity and, by extension, the entire mission and the CIA itself. So he allowed a small hallucination to fall over himself like a veil, only playing with Scott's eyes. Mitch's irises would appear blue, his nose a bit smaller, and his features less dark. How long he could keep the hallucination up, he wasn't sure.
Scott's face seemed to morph into confusion, then disappointment.
"Oh, sorry," he stammered, puzzled. Because of course someone couldn't just change their appearance on the fly; of course he had to have been seeing things. "I thought you were someone else."
Mitch shrugged nonchalantly, then tapped his ear. Deaf, he signed pointedly at Gavin, who took a minute to understand.
"Yes...?" he said, albeit a bit awkwardly. "I mean, this is Mitch. He's...deaf...?"
"Really?" Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "I had no idea."
Hugo rolled his eyes.
"Who are all these people?" Scott asked, finally tearing his eyes off Mitch. "I didn't know you were having guests."
"Me, either." Charlie hauled Hugo up by the elbow. "This is my brother, who's going by Hugo right now, and these are his buddies. I don't actually know their names."
Scott narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and Mitch could feel distrust pulsing inside of his soul like an underwater speaker.
"I'm Scott," the Alpha mumbled, sticking out his hand to Gavin. He went to shake Mitch's hand next, but Mitch pretended not to see.
Scott and Charlie proceeded to have a "so you're just going to invite over whoever you want?" conversation, and Mitch blinked hard as his eyes started tearing up. The hallucination was on the brink of starting to strain him, and he needed to get away from Scott as soon as possible. But what could he sign to Gavin?
Hey, Gavin, Scott's actually a prominent figure from my past and he thinks I'm dead. I'm keeping up an alternate appearance hallucination and it's exhausting. I know we don't have any of the information we came here for, but can we skedaddle?
And if he hadn't been sapping up his powers with the hallucination, Mitch would have detected the hostile souls entering the building. But he was too busy focusing on Scott, and what he wanted the Alpha's eyes to see.
"Shh," Andre hissed at Scott and Charlie, who were still bickering about the unexpected houseguests. "Does anyone else hear that noise?"
With a huge crash, the window shattered, showering them with glass and smoke from what must have been a smoke bomb. Mitch ducked and covered his head, the world a whirlwind of panic. The wolves fanned out over the smoke-bombed area, fangs sharp, ears pointy, and eyes glinting. It was hard for even Mitch to see Scott in all his red-eyed Alpha glory, a status he should have lost the right to have.
A sickening crack resounded through the apartment, and as the dust cleared, Mitch was able to see the intruder dragging a limp Charlie through the window. With a roar, Hugo bolted after him. Scott followed soon after, with Mitch on his heels.
The intruder, whom Mitch now realized was an Omega werewolf, had Charlie draped over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes and was swinging down the fire escapes like they were monkey bars. Hugo put on a burst of speed and took a flying leap, tackling him so that the two of them fell to a lower fire escape. Charlie went sprawling one platform lower.
As Hugo and the rogue omega locked into vicious combat and Scott dove after Charlie, Mitch took the opportunity to play his games again. Scrambling down a few floors, he stretched out his hand towards the omega. He channeled a small fragment into his brain, past his wolfy defenses and into his mind. Teeth gritting, Mitch projected the wolf's greatest fear into his eyes.
But he hit Hugo instead.
The older Alverez's mental boundaries were horrifyingly easy to penetrate, even by accident. Before he knew what had happened, Hugo was screaming. Charlie's broken body lay in front of him, smeared with black blood, bite marks marring his neck. A failed bite. His little brother's blank eyes stared past him into space.
Not realizing it was an illusion and failing to spot the real Charlie safe in Scott's arms below, Hugo flew into a rage. He threw himself at the rogue omega, claws flailing, teeth gnashing. Both found contact, and in several vital areas. It was like watching dogs fight, one tearing the other to pieces.
As Mitch stared open-mouthed, Hugo took the intruder's head in two hands and gave it a sharp twist. The snapping of his neck jolted through Mitch's stomach so hard that the illusion of Hugo's greatest fear flickered and gave out. Hugo kicked the rogue omega's body aside and turned to where he thought Charlie's lay. He grew frantic as he couldn't find him for a moment, his soul undoubtedly spiraling, but he was quickly calmed as he spotted Scott in the parking lot, Charlie standing upright and rubbing his head.
Casting his gaze towards the apartment, Hugo bared his teeth as he caught sight of Mitch climbing down the fire escape. His head was still swimming from conjuring the illusion, and even more so by the fact that he was still keeping one up for Scott.
"You got into my head!" he screamed, pushing Mitch so hard that he nearly fell. "You dirty, shitting freak!"
"Woah, hey." Scott held out his arms. "Calm down, he looks just as confused as---"
Hugo rounded on Scott, pointing at Charlie. "I will not calm down! This asshole made me see my brother, and---" His voice cracked, making him angrier. He jabbed a finger at Mitch's chest. "You're a traitor!"
Mitch didn't have the energy to fight back. Even Hugo's pointer finger seemed to carry all the weight in the world.
I'm sorry, he wanted to scream. It was an accident.
But in the end, it had all worked out, hadn't it? The intruder was dead, and Charlie was safe. That was all that mattered. Right?
"You can't even look at me straight," he sneered, grabbing Mitch by the shoulders and giving him a harsh shake. "Give me a reason why I shouldn't claw your guts out right now!"
Mitch couldn't. The colors around him flickered, highlighting the flecks of red sprayed across Hugo's face. The blood of a fellow omega he had just killed because of something Mitch had made him see.
Hold on, he begged himself. Hold on, please. Scott can't see you.
He managed to pull himself together with a deep breath. Steeling himself, he glared at Hugo, collecting himself and straightening his shirt.
"If we're trying to catch the Omega," Scott said slowly, as if he were afraid he and Hugo would kill each other if his voice got too aggressive, "then we have to work together. All of us."
It was all Mitch could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Typical Scott and his cheesy comradery. The false "we're all in this together mindset." Where had that been when Mitch had needed him that night in the woods?
Running away. Like the damned coward he is.
"We can't just kill the Omega with our bare hands," Scott continued, oblivious to both Mitch and Hugo's unwavering anger. "We need to imprison him, or destroy him for good. And I think I know who we should go to."
Chapter 13: classified
Notes:
so sorry for the long gap in publishing a chapter. my great granny passed away, I broke up with my boyfriend, a close family friend who is already disabled was in a horrible car accident, I moved dorms, and I have been adjusting to the stress which is college life. :')
Chapter Text
Scott wasn't able to finish his thought before they were attacked. Again.
A knock sounded at the door, but that didn't matter. It was kicked down and a huge, burly werewolf of a man shoved his way through the splinters.
"Knock, knock, pretty boy!" he snarls, flexing his claws. "Time to go home to your daddy!" Three more companions flanked him. Charlie screamed like a girl and dove for cover.
Mitch stepped back into the shadows of the room as a battle erupted. He was nearly spent from the hallucination; he didn't need to pile on physical fighting on top of that. While his friends snarled and slashed at the enemies, Mitch kept up the illusion to Scott's eyes. It was a little harder to focus on twisting his soul's perception when Scott was darting about the room and fighting for his life, but Mitch didn't want to risk setting the hallucination down and being too weak to pick it back up again.
Hugo, still exhilarated from his fresh kill, began throwing taunts at the intruders. Gavin, Andre, and Cleo entered full-on battle mode.
In a way, Mitch felt bad for the intruders. They had no idea what they had stumbled into. Probably planning to enter an empty apartment and take Charlie by surprise, kidnapping him for his deranged father, the poor dears looked scared silly at the sight of one alpha, three betas, and a female battle-queen like Cleo. All chomping at the bit for blood.
"Where's Ralph?" one omega demanded with a growl. Hugo slid a tongue over his fangs, eyes flaring up like blue glowsticks.
"Oh, Ralph?" He laughed, leaping into the air and kicking the omega into the wall. "His neck was smoother than breaking a stick of butter."
That got the omegas fired up, but it wasn't enough for the four CIA black ops and the True Alpha. Before Mitch could suck in a breath of air past his aching throat, every omega was knocked out cold, clutter had been kicked from every surrounding surface, and the wolves were shiny with sweat and panting. Gavin sported a deep cut on his cheek, which he touched gingerly, fingers coming back red.
Mitch didn't have the strength to read his soul, but he knew pain when he saw it. Stepping across the clutter, Mitch took two fingers and touched them to Gavin's cheek. Black veins danced up his arm, lacing their way to his heart. His eyes rolled back and he shivered from the energy it brought him; Gavin relaxing as his pain dissipated.
"Thanks, man," he said, clapping Mitch on the back when he drew away, rejuvenated. He now had the energy to keep Scott's illusion up without killing himself.
He met Scott's eyes with defiance. Scott's gaze clouded over a bit as he tried to focus on Mitch, which was normal. Perfect, even. It meant Mitch's hallucination was working, that he couldn't concentrate on the exact details of Mitch's complexion. It seemed to frustrate him.
"I'm sorry..." Scott said again, pulling at his hair. "But you look so familiar."
Mitch opened his mouth to reply, but thankfully, Gavin came to his rescue.
"Are you the deaf one?" he said, a harsh undertone to his voice. "I just told you he can't hear!"
"But you were talking to him," Scott protested, face flushing a little. Mitch glared at him, feeling the smirk of satisfaction as his former friend shifted uncomfortably.
"He can read lips, dumbass."
Hugo rolled his eyes, shoving his way between them. "Okay, look, we can't stay here any longer. The Omega---I mean, our dad obviously knows where Charlie is, and now he'll know I'm here, too."
Part of Mitch wondered if the Omega hadn't known that Hugo was there already. And if he knew Mitch, his sister's boy, was there as well.
They clambered into the van, which had thankfully been stripped of all tracking devices by Andre, and bolted. Scott came with them, unfortunately, and so did one of the omegas, though unconscious. Even Mitch had to admit, Scott saw too much to be left on the street. But he sat next to the Alpha, since he couldn't relinquish the illusion anyway, for the pure satisfaction it would bring him to know he sat next to his former best friend who was still---and probably would be for the rest of his life---mourning Mitch's own death.
If only you knew, Mitch thought, smiling eerily at the older boy. If only you knew how much you had truly lost.
"Let's get a hotel," Scott said, taking charge as always. Not picking up on the agitation creeping out of the rest of the Runts' souls like barbed wire.
"We should get a hotel," Hugo said forcefully, clenching his teeth. Andre's grip tightened on the steering wheel. Finally, Scott blinked and relinquished his hold of authority in the van filled with strangers.
Supposed strangers.
Cleo's soul squirmed in the backseat, guilty about the omega they had brought along. Drugged into submission with a shot of wolfsbane from the emergency weapons in the trunk. Mitch glanced at her over his shoulder, and then at Gavin, who sat next to her. Charlie was crammed between them, looking quite unhappy. Hugo and Andre sat in the front seat.
The cut on Gavin's cheek had completely healed, leaving no scar. Lucky Gavin, Mitch thought, brushing a hand across his throat and feeling the strips of scar tissue there. It was then he realized, with the jolting sensation of falling, that he forgot to slip the hallucination past his eyes, nose, and features to cover his neck as well.
Too late, he thought as Scott's eyes followed his hands to his neck. He quickly looked away, but his soul pricked with interest as the information was stored for later. He knew something was off about Mitch.
Turning back to Gavin, Mitch waved for his attention.
I need help, he signed the second Gavin's attention turned to him. Scott, he continued, fingerspelling the name, from my past. Thinks I'm dead.
Gavin's eyebrows achieved liftoff. Illusion? He asked. Mitch nodded, and Gavin sighed. What do you want me to do?
Talk to the others, get him away from me. From us. Please.
Gavin simply nodded.
"What's wrong?" Scott asked, soul bristling as he sensed something relating back to him. Mitch just shook his head and Gavin stayed quiet, making the tension between Mitch and Scott double.
Everyone was jarred as the van bumped over a curb and into the parking lot of an obscure inn. Two floors, half of the street lamps actually working, and junk spilling out of a dumpster and flooding the walkways. Just as the last of his strength from Gavin's pain faded, Mitch sensed the pathetic, mortal souls of rats scuttling around.
Mitch clambered out of the car ahead of Gavin, Charlie, and Cleo. Scott's slamming of the car door echoed through the lot that was nearly devoid of cars, making the Runts flinch.
He is so stupid, Mitch thought, glowering as the bumbling idiot scrambled to lead the way to the front door. Hugo gave Mitch some side-eye at the alpha's obvious desperation.
Oh, the things I didn't notice about weak, weak Scott before the CIA.
It would be so easy to take him down. Even Mitch would be able to handle it in his hallucination-stupor.
Mitch stopped in his tracks.
Oh.
The solution was so simple, he cursed himself and his dead dog for not thinking of it sooner. All he had to do was wait until Scott was alone, and ambush him. In the last six months, he'd wanted nothing more than to blow a hole in Scott's head. Now was his chance. Two birds with one stone: revenge, and solving his hallucination issue.
He would just have to be patient. He had waited six months; what would be another six hours or so?
"Cleo and I will go in," Hugo said slowly as they stepped up to the front door, "and the rest of you will remain unseen and hidden out here. We'll pretend we're just getting a room for two or something, and then Gavin can come in and get a second bigger room. We can split between the two, but we'll probably have to---"
Cleo made a noise of disgust. "If I'm pretending to be anyone's partner," she said, wrinkling her nose, "it ain't gonna be you. No offense."
Hugo blinked. "Um, okay... Mitch?"
Mitch was caught off guard, being so focused on keeping the vision wrapped around Scott's soul. He pointed to himself quizzically, making Hugo sigh and roll his eyes again like he was a middle school female about to kick another girl out of his clique.
"If that's what the princess wants," Hugo said. Cleo grabbed Mitch's arm and hung on for dear life.
"Yes," she said stiffly. "I don't feel safe with you."
"That's what I've been saying!" Charlie said, clutching at his curls in exasperation. "See, this girl gets it." He held up his hand for a high five and was ignored.
"As long as Mitch will be well enough to do his thing," Hugo said forcefully. "The thing you do. Andre's going to go in with a girl and you're going to handle that. Got it?"
Mitch exchanged a glance with Gavin, but he forced himself to nod. Never before had he kept up a hallucination as long as he had kept up one with Scott. What was adding one more? He had already figured out he could do two at once earlier in the day, when the first omega had come to attack Charlie. He would be fine.
Gavin had other thoughts. "I don't think---"
"What do you mean?" Scott interrupted blatantly, looking between Hugo and Mitch. "What thing?"
Staring into Hugo's eyes, Mitch gave his head the smallest fraction of a shake. Hugo avoided Scott's gaze, instead opening the door for Cleo and Mitch.
"Classified."
Chapter 14: wounds
Chapter Text
Cleo squeezed his arm tighter and tighter as they walked in.
"Pretend you're drunk," Mitch whispered. "Do all the talking."
Cleo glanced up at him in surprise. It then occurred to Mitch that he hadn't talked to her directly since the accident.
"Whatever you say," she said, putting on a sappy smile and her balance wavering as they stepped inside, "dear."
The check-in clerk, innkeeper, or whatever the proper title was for the man standing at the front desk rolled his eyes as Mitch and Cleo stumbled over each other, smiling and giggling.
"We'd like a room." Cleo tapped Mitch's cheek with a cold finger. "For two."
"Uh-huh." The clerk tapped lazily at a few keys. "One bed or two?"
"Uh, two," Cleo said, nearly losing her composure. "We like to...spread out."
The clerk raised a graying eyebrow but didn't argue. "Uh-huh," he said again. "I'm sure."
Despite his suspicions, the clerk handed them the keys for a room on the fourth floor. "And don't be too loud," he had growled as they pretended to stumble away. "You'll wake the whole neighborhood up."
As soon as they were in the clear, they separated like two opposite ends of a magnet. Cleo cleared her throat and Mitch, being unable to do so, coughed. They both tucked their hair behind their ears. Mitch stayed silent as Cleo fitted the key into the door and twisted. As it creaked open, Mitch noted how his heart rate went up and he reflexively tensed. But the room was empty. God, he was so on edge. He needed to relax.
They stepped into the threshold and Cleo shut the door behind him.
"The others will be up here soon," she said, like she was hinting at something. Mitch only nodded and sat on the edge of his bed, the hallucination draining him. Scott wasn't even here, but the second he dropped it, it would be like a dam breaking. All the pent-up pain and exhaustion would be dumped on him like a floodwater, and he didn't want to have to face that just yet. After all, he'd kept it up all day; what was another hour or two until everyone was settled and he could rip into Scott?
He noticed Cleo watching him intently. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a knife. Trusting her, Mitch didn't even flinch until she poised the blade on her forearm. As he watched in shock, she cut it. Shallow, but blood still oozed out.
"Take it," she gasped, extending her arm to him. "I know the illusion hurts you. And I know what fuels you; I've seen it with Gavin."
Swallowing back his protests, Mitch grabbed her wrist and closed his eyes. All at once, he dropped the hallucination like a curtain, like a bathrobe, and soaked in Cleo's pain. He gave a sigh of relief at the strength, Cleo a groan as her pain was soaked up like a sponge. Black vein-like ribbons laced their way out of Cleo's cut and wound their way up Mitch's arm, disappearing underneath his shirt to where he knew his heart lay.
'The black heart,' Mitch thought begrudgingly, 'does not beat alone.' Ironic.
It wasn't long before Gavin and Andre joined them in the room, leaving Scott and the brothers in a second one down the hall. Someone mentioned doubling up on the two beds, but that idea was quickly shot down as one of them was a female. As such, Cleo ended up having her own bed, Gavin and Andre slept at opposite sides of the other, and Mitch curled up with a blanket on the floor. He didn't sleep much, he had insisted to a worried Gavin, because of the pain in his throat. Not a total lie.
Around two in the morning, when his tossing and turning became too much for him to bear, Mitch clambered to his feet, washed his aching, parched throat with some water, and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the sounds around him. With the nourishment from Cleo's pain, his enhanced hearing was slowly returning. He could now hear the breathing of everyone nearby, sense the souls of those around him. He found himself focusing in on Cleo's soul as it squirmed restlessly, finally drawing itself from the depths of sleep. And though he heard her footsteps approaching, he found himself staying rooted to the spot, even as she opened the door and stood next to him.
"Enjoying the view?" she joked, cocking her head towards the parking lot swirled with tar and sprinkled with the glass of beer bottles. The overfilled dumpster was the cherry on top.
Mitch glared at her with some bombastic side-eye and she shrugged. "I heard you get up, figured I could join you."
"What are you?" he found himself asking in his husky whisper. Losing his voice had taught him to be direct and blunt so as to speak as little as possible.
Cleo hesitated. "You first," she finally said. Mitch opened his mouth and closed it again, at a loss for words. How was he supposed to answer a question he didn't fully understand himself?
"I don't fully know," he admitted. Finally, he decided on "Type of kitsune."
Cleo nodded. "I suppose it's only fair if I share," she said. "I'm...what's called a Naga."
She didn't elaborate. Mitch didn't ask her to.
"What's it like?" she asked, gesturing to her throat. "Not being able to...you know. Speak to your heart's content?"
Mitch shrugged. "I want to say so much." He met her warm brown eyes. "But I'm a prisoner of silence."
"That's actually really deep."
"Isn't it?" Mitch coughed and massaged his throat, feeling the scar tissue there. He wondered if Cleo thought it was ugly.
Her soul pricked in interest as he did it, and with something else. Something deeper. Her hand hovered by his neck until he dropped his own fingers, giving her permission. She ran her fingers delicately along the ridges and valleys of his scars, her fingers cool against his burning throat.
He held his breath as she leaned in, fear pricking his own soul. The last time he had let someone get this close...
But his fear melted away as he found himself brushing the hair from her face, and her soul tugged towards his own. Cleo's breath fluttered as she sucked in a small breath of air.
And Mitch spotted something out of the corner of his eye, down the hall. Something he should have heard coming, but he had been distracted by Cleo.
It was Scott.
His soul exploded in a fireworks display of emotions. I was right, he was thinking as he paled, the oh-so-tough Alpha's knees trembling as he took a step back and found himself pressed against the balcony.
The balcony leading to a four-story drop.
He set his jaw and stepped away from Cleo, feeling jubilant at the fear now alight in Scott's eyes. The poor boy looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Mitch was able to walk right up to the guy. The idiot was too shocked, overjoyed, and terrified to move a muscle until Mitch was up in his face and he could feel Scott's breath.
"What's the matter, Scott?" Mitch whispered hauntingly, turning his head to the side and smiling. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Scott gulped, steadying himself on the balcony and regaining some composure. Mitch's smile flickered; the element of surprise had now been lost.
"Stiles?" he breathed, reaching out a hand as if to touch him, to make sure he was a real, solid thing and not a figment of his imagination. "How--how---"
"I'll tell you how," Mitch hissed, suddenly aggressive. He grabbed Scott's arm and twisted, spinning him around and slamming him against the balcony.
Alarm and panic surged through Scott's soul and pumped through his veins as he gave a shout, now on high alert. He was too scared to break out of Mitch's grasp, he knew---too scared to hurt this delicate apparition of his mind.
"You abandoned me," Mitch growled, not caring as the act stripped his vocals. He'd been waiting too long for this. "You fucking abandoned me. Left me to die."
"No, Stiles---" Scott cried again as Mitch pressed him harder into the barrier, and he felt satisfaction as he heard a crunch of a rib being fractured. "Stiles, I would never abandon you! I'm your best friend!"
"I'm not Stiles. Y ou killed him!"
"No!" Scott was nearly sobbing now. "We were forced out of the woods, we circled back as soon as we could but---"
"Stiles' blood on the forest floor's all that remains of him." Mitch was losing his voice completely now. Tasting copper, he spat the blood on Scott's face. "Tell me, Scott, do you see him in your nightmares?"
Hooking his foot around Scott's leg and giving a hard, sudden shove with his arm, he went to dump Scott over the edge of the balcony like a sack of potatoes.
But Scott twisted out of his grasp at the last second and, with his momentum, Stiles found that the ground was no longer underneath his feet.
Chapter 15: unkillable
Chapter Text
Mitch could hardly breathe. Each breath smelled of copper, and he could feel the dried blood sticking to his throat and the roof of his mouth. He coughed weakly, moving his tongue and trying to swallow some of it, but he found claws tearing at the inside of his throat. He squirmed uncomfortably and tried to open his eyes, tried to get his bearings, but something was covering his face.
Cold fear pressed against his chest like a knife. His senses heightened and he detected six souls within a close vicinity of him; Cleo, Hugo, and Charlie alongside three others. A low drawling like an engine filled his ears, along with a soft scrabbling next to him. He raised his hand to try and get whatever was blindfolding him, but he found his wrists were duct-taped together.
Are we being taken hostage?
His first thought was treason, accompanied with Scott. There was no way Cleo and Hugo would have allowed themselves to be kidnapped like this unless someone on the inside had taken advantage of a weakness.
Wolfsbane, he thought as he smelled the stuff in the air. Hugo's heartbeat was sluggish; he had to have been unconscious. As for Charlie---well, taking him down would be easy for a first-grade girl, but he didn't know enough about Cleo to know what her weakness would be. She seemed perfectly alert next to him, though something seemed off about her soul and he smelled copper on her skin. He wondered what they had done to her.
Sensing he was awake, her freezing fingers met his feverish forehead. Mitch was pretty sure steam could have been created in the contrast of temperatures; it seemed like her hand had been dipped in an ice bath.
Maybe being cold is her weakness?
It would make sense, as her hand seemed to be shaking. She was probably freezing.
Mitch tried to move, but pain laced its way up his back and slammed into the back of his head, making him remember that he had fallen. A tree had broken most of his fall; he remembered sharp slicing sensations of the sticks before the blunt force of hitting the ground and nearly splitting his head open.
He remembered lying on the ground, his eyes open to the chilly night air, but being unable to see anything. Hands, Cleo's hands, had pressed into his neck, searching for a pulse. He remembered her pulling away sharply and screaming, turning on Scott and attacking him.
Because she hadn't found a pulse.
Whether or not the fox inside of him had been playing tricks again or if he really had been dead for a minute, Mitch didn't know. And it didn't seem to matter at this point, as besides a little pain in his head and some broken ribs, he seemed perfectly fine.
It's a mixture of shock, relief, and mourning, he realized as he focused harder on Cleo's soul. That's what was off about her. She thought I was dead until now.
As she gripped his hand, hers still freezing and his feverish, he squeezed it back.
The truck kept rattling along. Mitch couldn't tell where they were, only that they'd been driving for a long time. The driver's soul was dragging with boredom, and whatever guards were near them weren't watching them too closely. He wondered where Gavin, Andre, and Scott were; and a small part of him briefly panicked that they had been killed. Well, for Gavin and Andre. Any disappointment over Scott's death would be over the fact that Mitch wasn't the one who killed him.
But they had dragged him into the truck, hadn't they? They must not have cared that he was dead. Or, though Mitch wasn't sure which was worse, somehow they had known it was an illusion.
But was it an illusion?
He certainly felt like he'd just been dragged back into the land of the living. His body complained loudly with aches, his head pounding something so fierce he hadn't felt since the accident. Not where the Omega tore his throat out, though that had been painful enough itself. But after the time he had, in Kate's supernatural wind storm, crashed Roscoe into a tree. He had awoken to the worst headache of his life, his fingers coming back red when he ran his fingers through his hair. Despite it, he hadn't wasted any time in darting to the cellar to save his friends. And what had they done to repay him or soothe his headache? Complain that he'd taken too long.
He was jarred out of his thoughts as the van came to an abrupt halt. Frustration pulled at his chest as dozens of souls moved about them and he still didn't know where they were. Nor what was happening.
The doors of the truck were pulled open. He heard Cleo try to start a fight, but she was quickly put down with a splash of cold water. Mitch tried his hardest to remain still as it splashed over him, too, but he sensed Cleo's soul frosting over and she sank to her knees, gasping for air.
So cold is her weakness, he thought.
"Where are you taking us?" Hugo asked, voice slurring with wolfsbane-induced exhaustion. Mitch could sense it getting slowly flushed out of his system with every breath he took.
"Your daddy wants a word," one of the hostile souls---an omega, Mitch realized---prodded Mitch with his foot. He had a thick New York accent. "What about this one 'ere?"
"He's--he's dead," Cleo said quickly, before Hugo could say a word. "Has been since you've thrown him in here."
The omega's soul twitched with humor, something akin to a smirk, and he chuckled. Literally the last response Mitch would have expected. He felt no response of grief from Hugo's soul, at any rate, which was at least normal. Charlie gasped, but only for fear of himself.
"The Omega said he might be," he said eerily. "He said to bring 'em all in anyway."
Whatever Cleo was planning, Mitch decided to go along with it. He cast an auditory illusion over himself, masking his heartbeat. The werewolf grabbed Mitch by the arms and started dragging him out of the truck. He tossed him to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and though the drop was only several feet, it was all Mitch could do to keep from crying out as his already-broken ribs and concussed head slammed into the concrete. The werewolf chuckled again, like he knew Mitch could feel it.
He had long since realized the thing covering his face wasn't a blindfold, but a tarp. And as he felt it start to get dragged off of him, he was forced to make a split-second decision. If he closed his eyes, it would be a lot easier to pretend like he really was dead. If he left them open, though, he could still get an idea of where they were. And it might just be more believable.
He allowed his eyes to stay open and go unfocused as the tarp was pulled off of him. He heard Cleo give a sobbing gasp; given for the benefit of their captors, but also out of dread of seeing him in such a state. He hoped whatever had started on the balcony of the inn could still be rekindled after this whole ordeal.
Charlie gagged, disrupting the vibe. Mitch wondered vaguely if he'd ever seen a dead body before, even someone pretending to be dead.
Much like at the Calaveras, Mitch's arms were hooked around two different werewolves and he was dragged alongside his companions into the building: a simple smalltown bar.
He couldn't tell what city they were in; all he caught a glimpse of was the nearly-empty parking lot, the bar itself, and a McDonald's across the street. For all he knew, they were back in Beacon Hills. They hadn't been too far from LA, after all. But his head slumped forward, blocking his view of the sign.
He knew exactly where they were as they crossed over the threshold and the familiar jukebox music filled his ears. Benny's, a place his dad had frequented for the first few years following his mother's death. The place that had turned him into an alcoholic and sucked his soul away.
The music stopped with a cringey record scratch as they were dragged in. Cleo dripped water, Hugo was obviously pumped full of drugs, Charlie shivered in fear, and Mitch did his best at looking dead. The two werewolves dropped him, letting him spill onto the floor, and he now had a lovely view of the ceiling and the old fan spinning around and around. A boot pressed against his skull and turned his face towards the front, where a figure stood hunched over a pool table. A bottle of beer was clenched in one hand, a cue stick in the other.
"Well, don't just stand there," The Omega barked. "Bring them in."
It was hard to control the rage that flared up in his gut as he watched his friends being led towards his archenemy, the one that had ruined his voice and condemned him to a life of silence. His uncle.
"Mitch, don't be rude," the Omega said loudly, scaring Mitch into nearly dropping the illusion around his heartbeat. "Come with your friends."
"He's dead, sir," one of the werewolves said pathetically. Mitch's uncle just threw his head back and laughed.
"Oh, I see." He shook his head. "Following in my dear sister's footsteps. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"
Something slammed into Cleo's soul like a bullet. She hadn't known that they were related, and it changed things.
But what?
The Omega stepped closer and regarded Mitch with a sly look. "It might take him a minute to get out of it," he said, "but he'll come around. My nephew cannot die."
Chapter 16: [ note ]
Chapter Text
![Fan Forum - View Single Post - Mitch Rapp [American Assassin] #3: Because the 15th of September can't get here quick enough.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/523bbd6e9b5e11dc1507eddd3e3ac21b/tumblr_ov3qzhYlVh1smfh9io1_500.gif)
hey, all! <3 I just wanted to apologize for not having a chapter out sooner!! I got swamped with my fall semester wrapping up, got swamped with work, and now, on the first day back to my spring semester, I'm already swamped with assignments and 30+ page readings. *sobs*
I AM GOING TO KEEP WRITING THE STORY!! <3
I think about it all the time, and recently I've been wanting to develop it in an entirely different direction from where I had planned it to go.
please bear with me, it's going to be worth it!! :)
thanks for the patience <3
Chapter 17: a game of pool
Chapter Text
Mitch didn't move a muscle. Something told him he would find out more information that way.
"He didn't tell you?" the Omega mused, lifting Charlie's chin with the cue stick. Charlie scoffed and looked away, down at the ground. Tears shone in his eyes. Hugo remained stone-faced and cold, staring into his father with eyes that grew less foggy with each breath. He would soon be out of the wolfsbane trance, and Jakub must have known it as he hurried on with his villain speech.
"Yes, Claudia was my younger sister." The Omega strutted back and forth, well aware he was now controlling the room. "We 'moved' to America, the wonderful country of dreams and freedom, when we were too young to remember the Land of the Fields. My sister and I didn't know it at the time, but it was the Communist regime that forced our parents out of our beloved Poland. I never once asked myself how my Jewish parents survived the war, how it was possible there were records of my father's seven year-old execution in a gas chamber."
He took a deep breath and steeled himself, a wild light dancing in his eyes. "And then I married a werewolf." He chuckled, looking over his two sons like it had been the worst mistake of his life. "I questioned her about this one day, very casually. She mentioned something called the Wawel Chakra, a chapel radiating with spiritual energy. A possibility, something I wouldn't believe until I saw it myself. So I visited, and their ghosts told me. Told me of how anyone of our bloodline couldn't be killed by someone who didn't want them dead; didn't want to wish them harm."
Hugo bared his teeth. "You're lying."
"Am I?" The Omega cocked his head to the side, smiling. "There must've been some regret in that soldier who flipped the switch in that chamber, and I tested the theory on my dear nephew not too long ago."
He rolled up his sleeves and, as he grabbed his cue stick, Mitch noticed it was splattered with blood. The Omega's head twitched, almost like a tic, and he barked a sudden laugh. He pointed the cue stick at Mitch, who was still sprawled lifelessly on the floor.
"Let's play a game," he said. "Pool is one of my favorites. Me against Mieczysław, house rules. The stakes: Charlie's life. I know for a fact my eldest would never dream of harming Charlie, as pathetic as he is, so we can toy around with our spiritual blessing and have some fun."
Charlie gave a fearful squawk and tried to break free of the werewolf holding him down. His attempts were, of course, futile. But no one was overwhelmed with panic so much as Hugo. His soul grew thick and black with it, blocking everything else out. Choking him.
The Omega turned away from his sons and started setting up the balls. He tsked and shook his head.
"You should have more trust in your father, Chuck."
Mitch had, of course, planned on cheating. Using his powers of visual manipulation to make his good old uncle Jakub think that he was losing. But his hallucinations felt as if they were stuck in the mud as the werewolves hoisted him to his feet, tearing apart his duct-taped hands and forcing him to take a step forward.
"You like it?" Jakub asked without turning around. "I had my boys inject you with a little something while you were...well, not with us, per se. Not a lot, but just enough."
Mitch glared at the back of his uncle's head, feeling his fingers twitch. How he wanted to sink a knife into that monster's throat, see how much he liked the pain.
"'It grows where a Nogitsune bled,'" the Omega recited in a singsong voice. "And, as I'm sure you're well aware, is a mere few miles from here."
Mitch's stomach went cold. Of course. The forest. He pictured wolf lichen sprouting up between the leaves of where Jakub had tried to kill him. With as much blood as he'd lost, it was probably quite plentiful. Jakub would surely have more somewhere. The lichen would remain in his bloodstream for several hours, but something told him that it wouldn't be as long as the last time Deaton had injected him with the stuff. He was stronger now.
He tried to open his mouth even to whisper, but nothing came out. His throat was dry as the scorching Mexican desert, rank with blood, and ached something fierce.
I've done something to it, he thought with cold terror as one of the werewolves handed Mitch a cue stick, when I threatened Scott. When I forced too many words out, when I puked, when I should have been resting it.
He only prayed the damage would undo itself.
Mitch flinched as Jakub threw the balls into the triangle. The sounds were muted---being stripped of his enhanced hearing, everything was toned down---but the thuds of each of the balls bouncing seemed to hammer into his brain.
Baring his teeth in a smile, the Omega swiped his tongue across his chapped lips and gestured for Mitch to hit the first ball. He turned, glancing at the others for reassurance. None came. Charlie was still clamped down by two werewolves, though even one seemed excessive. Hugo was practically frothing at the mouth, his soul yearning to rip his father's throat, and it was all Cleo could do to hold him back. For though he still couldn't conjure an illusion, Mitch could certainly still sense everyone's souls in the bar.
And as he glanced around the place, it finally dawned on Mitch where Benny's was. Of course he thought it, but it hadn't sunk in.
He was back in Beacon Hills.
The fact that his father wasn't here, bent over a bottle and mourning his death, troubled and relieved him at the same time. Was he not important compared to his mother, or was the sheriff now so broken after losing both wife and child that he couldn't even make it to the bar? Hopefully, they could get out of town before they ran into each other. Before anything bad happened.
Too late, he thought as Jakub took advantage of his hesitation and struck the cue ball first. With a loud crack that jolted Mitch back to the present, the multicolored balls scattered.
"Whoever hesitates loses their turn," his wretched uncle said with a helpless shrug. "House rules."
Mitch grit his teeth. House rules. So this was Jakub's way of twisting the game to where it became impossible for Mitch to win. He should've been expecting it, but panic still started to envelop him as Charlie began to hyperventilate.
I've got you, buddy, he thought, glancing at the teen before angling his cue stick towards the white ball. After shooting it and making one ball go in, Jakub thrusted his arm across the table to block a second and third ball.
"House rules say you can't put more than one ball in at a time," he said, smirking. Mitch resisted the urge to smack him with the cue stick.
He sensed a disturbance in the souls behind him; the gathered Runts wanted him to do something. Because shit was about to go down.
What am I doing? he asked himself, watching Jakub hit the cue ball again. This is absurd.
Taking his own cue stick and breaking it in half over one knee, Mitch used a sliver of the wood to carve a message into the side of the table. One of the omegas holding Charlie down started to protest, but Jakub hushed him, taking interest.
WHERE ARE THE OTHERS? it read in lettering as big as Mitch dared.
Grinning, Jakub leaned against the pool table and traced a clawed finger along the dried blood splattered on his cue stick. His eyes flashed, fangs glinting, and Mitch saw with horror that they were no longer blue.
They were red.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jakub hissed.
And before Mitch knew what was happening, all of the windows in Benny's had exploded. Shrill alarms started beating their way into his skull alongside uniformed agents Mitch realized were the FBI Hostage Rescue Team.
Jakub's soul snapped.
No, no, no, no...
"We been sold out, boys!" he shouted, throwing his cue stick like a javelin. It bounced harmlessly against the wall and Jakub vanished.
Amongst all the shouting, dust, and debree, Mitch couldn't tell which way was up. When Cleo stumbled into his arms, eyes wild with panic, he knew one thing for sure: they couldn't let themselves get snagged into the hands of the FBI.
That would create a multitude of problems, most of which surrounding their mutiny and yet-to-be-completed mission. They could be detained for years---if they were lucky.
But with monsters like them, there was no telling what their punishment could be.
"We have to go," Cleo said, tugging on Mitch's arm as agents started yelling. "Now!"
Mitch couldn't agree more, but Hugo blocked their path.
"We can't leave Charlie!" he shouted.
Gunshots popped off into the air. Mitch ducked instinctively, but something clicked into place in his brain. Something that Jakub had said.
Can't be killed by someone who didn't want them dead...
Without hesitating, he dove into the gunfire towards where he had last seen Charlie.
He heard the agents shouting at each other to stop as one of their "hostages" came into view, but they didn't much have a choice as Jakub's werewolves kept attacking them. Mitch hissed as he felt a sharp grazing in his leg, then his arm.
Pushing the very concept of pain from his mind, Mitch zeroed in on where he could sense Charlie's soul: small, blank, frightened. He was in a booth against the wall, struggling against his father.
Mitch yanked one of the knives from his boot, ready to stab his traitorous uncle in the back, but Jakub twisted, violently pulling Charlie in front of him like a body shield. The boy's eyes were wide with panic, limbs scrabbling for a hold as his father's lanky arm was lashed across his throat.
"Help---" Charlie wheezed. Lunging forward, Mitch grappled to split the two apart.
He hadn't realized that Jakub had bunched his legs up to his chest and kicked against his son's back until he and Charlie were both knocked to the ground, breath crushed from their lungs. Groaning, Charlie rolled off of him.
Agents swarmed them, and for once, Mitch put Jakub out of his mind. He couldn't kill his uncle if he was locked up for treason.
"Go," he breathed, praying Charlie could hear him over all the shouting agents, blazing guns, and snarling werewolves. Regardless, he got the message, and the two began army-crawling towards the door, Mitch taking a defensive stance over the smaller boy as glass and gunfire rained down.
"STOP CRAWLIN' AROUND, YOU SHITHEADS---" a voice shouted. With sudden panic that gushed faster than his wounds, Mitch realized who it was. Hurley. The older man used the butt of a gun to knock a werewolf out with a sickening crunch. "---AND GET YOUR SORRY ASSES BACK HERE NOW!"
Mitch had never before heard a man scream at such volume. Which was saying something. Grabbing Charlie round the middle, Mitch hoisted his younger cousin to his feet and ducked into the back of the restaurant, where Cleo and Hugo were disappearing.
The four of them pressed their backs against the wall, chests heaving, hearts hammering. Rather than subsiding, the sounds of battle picked back up. Mitch heard a door fly open and more werewolves join the fray.
Becoming an alpha, Jakub must've gained the support of even more betas. Who knew how many?
Hugo made a sound Mitch would imagine a dehydrated fish would make, gawking at Charlie. When he whirled around to see, Mitch figured he would've made that sound too, if he could.
Blood was gushing from a wound on Charlie's neck in the shape of bite marks.
Chapter 18: blood
Chapter Text
Charlie gasped, as if he had been completely unaware of the gaping wound.
"He bit me," he whispered, staring up at his older brother with horror. "Dad bit me!"
"It's okay, you're gonna be fine!" Hugo pressed a hand against Charlie's neck to staunch the bleeding, but he flinched away. "Dad's just a beta, he can't hurt you."
Realization slammed into Mitch like a brick wall. He grabbed Hugo's arm, a panicked light in his eyes, and shook his head frantically.
"What?!" Hugo snapped.
'No,' Mitch mouthed, pointing to a red janitor's bucket on the floor that had been the color of Jakub's eyes. 'Alpha.'
Pale horror sank into Hugo's face. Mitch recognized it as the face of someone who knew their loved one was already dead---that grief-stricken panic that tends to lead to frantic bad decisions. He'd seen it in Scott's face right before Jakub had swiped his claws across his throat, nearly hidden behind a mask of false confidence.
"We have to get him out of here!" Hugo roared, eyes glowing blue as his fangs lengthened and his morning shave undid itself instantly.
"What about the others?!" Cleo asked, still shivering in Mitch's arms.
"There's no time!" Hugo grabbed Charlie by the arm and started dragging him towards a back exit. Mitch sensed no souls around it, all the agents swarming the front and providing backup for the apparently unexpected werewolf attack.
The door let off an alarm as Hugo dragged Charlie through, hefting it open for them. But something caught Mitch's eye as he was about to leap over the threshold.
There was a figure sitting on the floor, crouched against the wall and quivering in fear. His soul was so small and lifeless, Mitch hadn't even known the man was there. A mop lay at his feet, as if he'd dropped it, and he wore a janitor's uniform.
Though it was too dark to see his features in the dark hallway, Mitch recognized the tracings of the shrunken soul.
It was his father. Working as a night janitor at Benny's.
Oh, Dad... he thought as Cleo regained enough strength to pull him towards the door. What did I do to you?
Charlie bucked against their arms, shrill screams piercing their eardrums.
"He'll be fine once the change takes over!" Hugo promised, like his brother wasn't writhing in pain, eyes rolled up in the back of his head.
They had crashed in an abandoned garage a few blocks from the bar. Mitch knew it well; it's where Stiles had seen one of his first dead bodies, crushed by his own jeep as he watched, paralyzed and helpless.
Now, he realized, it was happening again.
With his senses regained, Mitch could smell death on Charlie, and he knew Hugo could, too.
"Mitch," Cleo said, catching his attention. "You used to live here, didn't you?" He nodded. "Well, isn't there anywhere we can go to help him? Any kind of werewolf den around here, like the Runt base?"
Mitch nodded again---Deaton.
"No!" Hugo snarled as Mitch took Cleo's phone to type directions into the man's clinic. At least, where it used to be. "We can't trust anyone! They could have spies for my father!"
Cleo fixed her gaze on the crazed young beta. His hands were shaking, slick with his brother's red blood. Mitch was just glad it was still red and not black yet.
"Hugo, Charlie isn't going to survive the transformation unless we can get him some help," she said. "He needs medicine."
"Medicine won't help!" Hugo slammed his fist into the lift, making the metal creak. Mitch winced. "He has to survive the transformation on his own."
Mitch stepped forward and pushed him away from where Hugo lay on the creeper, the only comfortable place they could find. He intended to try and communicate with Hugo the urgency of the situation when they heard a gurgling sound come from Charlie's throat. All of them froze like ice statues and stared at the boy as he retched, coughing up a glob of black blood.
White flashed across Mitch's vision and pain cracked through his already-injured skull. Hugo had spun him and slammed him against one of the metal legs of the lift. His dark, tear-stained face contorted into rage as Mitch tried to struggle against him, one small hand expanding to wrap around his throat. He was lifted several inches into the air, Hugo's cold hand cutting off his air supply.
And suddenly he was in the woods again, watering eyes staring down into the face of his bloodthirsty uncle. Hugo's features morphed into his father's; why hadn't he seen all the similarities before?
Jakub growled, pressing helpless Stiles so hard into the bark of the tree that it gave a metallic whine. Strange, wood wasn't supposed to make that sound.
Stiles whimpered and cried, but no sound came out. He felt his legs kicking of their own accord, hands pulling desperately at the steel grip that encased him. But all of the strength left his body, overtaken by fear.
He remembered that inability to breathe, of Jakub's hand lashed tight around his neck and cutting off all air. He remembered the sharp, hot sting as Jakub had sliced him, feeling blood go backwards and forwards; gushing both from his wounds and down his throat. He remembered the terrifying realization that was his own end.
Tears slid down Stiles's cheeks and the world was soon spinning. He found that he wasn't breathing at all. Unable to choke, unable to cough, unable to scream.
Unable to die.
Just as the black spots started covering the last of the light, the weight disappeared. Mitch collapsed to the floor like a deadweight, barely keeping himself up on shaking elbows. He gasped for air, still unable to inhale for a moment.
Staring up past the blinding lights of the garage, Mitch saw the young Jakub staring at his hand, horrified. He glanced down at the former shell of Stiles, with a face broken into a thousand pieces of grief and regret. He took in a shaky breath.
"Mitch, I..."
He didn't get to finish the sentence. Pushing himself up onto his unsteady feet, Mitch bolted for the door. Even after he threw himself outside and fled across the parking lot, he didn't hear anyone coming after him. He doubted they would.
They would stay in that garage until Charlie took his last breath. Paralyzed and helpless.
Chapter 19: family ties
Chapter Text
Mitch didn't remember what happened after he fled the garage. His body was still in such a state of weakened survival mode, which was to be expected after falling off of a four-story balcony and dying for a few minutes, getting shot at, and nearly being choked to death by your cousin.
The next thing he knew, he was blinking awake on a shabby couch in a dim room, a thin blanket tangling his legs and a washcloth pressed against his forehead. He could feel bandages over his gunshot wounds, but knew the fox would soon be healing them.
The CIA part of him screamed at him to leap to his feet, take in his surroundings, and find the closest thing that could be a weapon---even the washcloth. But that had been peeled off like sunburnt skin, leaving Stiles Stilinski standing raw and exposed. Laying on some stranger's couch, defeated.
As he came to, he sensed two souls. Both were so achingly familiar to him, he doubted they were real for a moment. Then his vision cleared and he finally saw Scott sitting on the floor across the small living room, looking wary as Mitch pushed himself up onto his elbows. But his soul melted with relief.
"You're awake," he said. A statement---no emotion behind it. "You're...alive."
Of course I'm alive, you idiot, Mitch wanted to snap, but he remembered that the last time Scott had to have seen him was when he was a sprawled dead body, pushed off the balcony by his own hand. He had to have felt guilty about that, right?
Searching face, Mitch couldn't be sure. But he knew Scott, and he knew that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He swallowed, but his throat wasn't scratchy and agonizing. It was still a little sore, but his mouth tasted like honey. Pointing quizzically to his lips, Scott nodded.
"I found some cough syrup in Noah's closet."
Mitch's stomach went cold. His gaze traveled to the kitchen, where his father was trying to keep himself as busy as possible. He got the idea that Noah was trying not to look at him as he pulled a few clean plates from a cabinet and started washing them, his back to the living room.
"We're in your dad's apartment." Mitch stared blankly into Scott's eyes until the man bit his lip, crooked jaw moving forward. "He moved here a few months ago. We helped him sell the house."
Swinging his legs off of the couch, Mitch tried to stand to approach his father, but Scott blocked him.
"You need rest," he said. Rolling his eyes, Mitch pushed past him and into the kitchen.
His father's soul was nearly unrecognizable beneath layers and layers of crushed hopes. It was him, but even from behind, he looked different. He was rail thin, shoulders hunched, smelling like he hadn't showered in a few days.
The one good thing was that Mitch didn't get a whiff of alcohol.
"Noah?" Scott called, and Mitch realized he had been unconsciously taking steps towards the man. His father's soul was tense with a mix of emotions, none of them good.
He doesn't believe it's me, Mitch realized.
Noah turned to face Mitch with a steely gaze. His wrinkles had deepened and stubble decorated his face, eyes sunken beneath sleeplessness, but they were still as bright and sharp as ever as they looked Mitch up and down.
Mitch sized him up just as carefully. There wasn't a trace of intoxication, just an old man who wasn't ready to let go of the past.
"All right," Noah grumbled, tearing his watering eyes away from the ghost of his only son and looking to Scott. "What kind of witchy voodoo shit is it?"
"I told you when I carried him here," Scott said helplessly. "It's Stiles."
Noah shook his head frantically, sticking a knuckle between his teeth to stave off fresh tears. "It's not him. You told me he died."
"We thought so..." Scott shrugged, as if the mail had gotten delivered to the wrong house. "Somehow, he survived."
"Then why didn't you say anything?!" Noah suddenly screamed, jumping back from Mitch like he had been pushed. "It's been nearly eight months since you disappeared!"
He gestured to Mitch like he was devil's spawn. "If this really is him, then why wouldn't he have told me, his own father, that he was ALIVE?!"
Scott shook his head helplessly. "I..." His gaze traveled over the scars on Mitch's throat and he took a deep breath. "He couldn't, Noah."
"Bullshit, I---"
"You know what the Omega did, he...he ripped out Stiles's throat." Scott spoke slowly, but Noah's soul spiked as if he'd been stabbed. "Stiles can't talk anymore."
Noah forced himself to look into Mitch's eyes, and he returned the stare. He felt it then, his father's soul giving off a small pulse of recognition. He knew he was looking at some version of his son, he just didn't know who.
His father softened like a stick of butter in the microwave, stepping towards him. "Stiles...?"
Noah's shaking fingers gently brushed against Mitch's throat, tracing over the stars. Mitch inhaled sharply, but didn't move as Noah cupped his head with his hand.
Trembling with quiet sobs, the father pulled his son into an embrace. After a moment's hesitation, Mitch loosely wrapped his arms around him.
Mitch stared at the half-chewed pencil and the crumpled up bill, apparently the only writing utensil and paper in the whole apartment. How was he supposed to convey what had happened? And without giving away too much of the Runt program?
Noah sat at the table across from him, bouncing his leg and his soul rippling with anxiety. Scott had gone outside for a "breath of fresh air," but Mitch heard him stand right outside the door within werewolf earshot. Wanting to give them privacy but ready in case Mitch tried something, he supposed.
Staring down at his dirty hands, Mitch found the mere idea laughable. He didn't feel up to anything mischievous right now, no matter what the fox wanted him to do.
"Um..." His father shifted his weight again, drumming his fingers on the table. "You're sure you can't speak? At all?" Mitch nodded. "Ain't even got a whisper?"
Ignoring him, Mitch let his gaze travel around the apartment again. It wasn't decorated at all, and the only photo was a singular picture taped to the fridge of Stiles when he was five or six. Buzzed brown hair, dark eyes squinting past the sun, tongue pushing past missing front teeth in an oversized lacrosse jersey, Mitch almost laughed. It looked like another person, another life.
His father gestured to Mitch's long hair, getting his attention. "Like the hair. It's very...retro."
Mitch rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed in frustration. His father had always been awful at making small talk, that sure hadn't changed. Taking the pencil, he scrawled a quick message and turned the paper around so Noah could read it.
Part of a new government program. Mission got sidetracked. That's all.
Noah's eyes glared at the paper. "'That's all?' That's all?! You come back here, a walking corpse, and tell me that's all like you're gonna hit the road again---" His voice broke as his soul surged in anger. "I thought you were dead, Stiles! Don't you understand that? Don't you care what that did to me? We already lost your mother, and the Stiles I knew would never have left me alone with that much soul-crushing grief."
He shook his head. "No, you're not that selfish. Someone made you stay quiet."
Mitch bit his lip, giving a miniscule nod. He took back the paper and wrote another message.
It wasn't my intention to keep you in the dark. I couldn't contact the outside world as Stiles Stilinski anymore. I was given a new identity.
"I can't ask who it was, can I?" his father asked. "Who made you keep quiet?"
No, Mitch wrote on the paper. CIA. t's a big operation with a lot of gears. I'm just one cog in the machine.
"Alright." His father gave a conceding sigh. "Well, what's the new name? Am I allowed to know that?"
Mitch hesitated. It was already bad enough that his father knew he was still alive. If Irene got wind of it, she would have to have his father locked up---or worse. But staring into his blue eyes, Mitch knew that he was hanging on by this one thread. Being a former officer of the law, he understood that Mitch couldn't tell him everything. But who Mitch was now---Stiles's new identity---was the one thing he truly yearned to know.
That, and whether or not he would be visiting him again. There was a heavy twinge of urgency hidden in the depths of Noah's soul, and Mitch could tell that his father knew he wouldn't be seeing him again. Not for a long time.
They call me Mitch, he wrote, a small smile playing on his lips. After Mieczysław.
As his eyes glazed over the handwritten words, his father chuckled and wiped a stray tear from his eye.
"After all this time," he said softly, "you're still just our little Mischief."
Mitch was on his feet before he realized he'd stood. He didn't want to hear that name again, not ever. The last time he had heard it directed at him in the form of a name was from his mother's lips as she lay dying.
Upon hearing him stand, Scott scrambled into the room. Mitch snatched the paper from his father and scribbled a message onto it, growing agitated. If Gavin didn't come back soon to interpret for him, he was going to go insane.
Where were you after I fell? Where are Gavin and Andre?
Scott wrung his hands as the former Sheriff read the paper, too.
"'Fell?'" He stood. "Where did you fall?!"
They ignored him, though Mitch yearned to tell his father who had pushed him off the balcony. Then maybe he'd have some help in murdering Scott.
When Scott's eyes flashed guiltily to Noah, Mitch realized he couldn't do that. Scott was Noah's singular remaining emotional tether, the one thing keeping him from relapsing into another mindless drinking cycle. If he sabotaged it, his father would truly be alone in the world with nothing but the picture of toothless Stiles on the fridge and a bottle.
"After you...fell," Scott said, "a bunch of omegas swarmed the place. Cleo was knocked out with some water for some reason, and after you guys got dragged off, Andre, Gavin, and I were still fighting. But there were too many, and they started taking us somewhere. I had barely escaped when I found you laying on the side of the street like roadkill."
Mitch scoffed. Where? he pressed. Literally. The pencil bit into the paper so hard Noah's soul winced for the table beneath the page. Scott grit his teeth and swallowed.
"The Hale house."
Gawking, Mitch gestured for Scott to explain more, but Noah cut in.
"Stiles---I mean, Mitch---When Scott came in, he told me it was all Peter. Derek, Malia, et cetera, they had nothing to do with this. Peter's gone rogue again. Though I suppose he's always been, hasn't he?"
"Where's Derek?" Mitch breathed, heart hammering in his chest. All this time, he hadn't thought about what side the guy would be on. The right one, he hoped, but couldn't assume given the guy's backstory. Maybe he could help them, or be their ally on the other side when it came to persuading Peter.
Scott and Noah didn't have to say anything. With the way their souls immediately drew closed with a black veil of grief and hurt, he knew.
Derek was dead.
Breathing heavily, Mitch snatched the pencil and wrote on the bill itself since there was no more room on the back.
How did he die?
Scott looked away. He didn't question how Mitch knew, and by now he had probably figured out that the Nogitsune had never really left him.
"How it happened isn't important," Noah said before Scott said anything. "What is important is that Scott is raising his son, and he needs to get back home to L.A. I don't want to imagine what the babysitting rates are."
"But," Scott said loudly as Mitch's jaw dropped, "I'm gonna help finish this with the Omega first. I don't care what you think of me being here. I'm gonna be by your side, and this time, I won't run away. I'm kind of a father now, so I mean it when I say I'll protect you."
Scott clasped a hand over his shoulder, eyes flashing red. For a brief moment, Mitch felt like a stupid sixteen year-old again, with nothing going for him but Roscoe and his baseball bat. Watching as the True Alpha saved everyone again and again until he slipped up one day and missed someone.
And that guilt had eaten him and Noah alive. Mitch tried to picture it: Scott coming to Noah's doorstep drenched in blood, telling him that Stiles had been attacked. Them searching the woods for hours, days, weeks, before finally calling it off. Kept up at night wondering where he was, and whether or not he was still breathing. Waking up each morning wishing they had done something more, even if it was just telling Stiles they loved him.
"I won't leave you again, Stiles," he said. "I promise."
Chapter 20: peter
Chapter Text
"It's good that you found them."
Hurley looked down his nose at Gavin and Andre, who were sitting handcuffed on the floor. They could break them, easily, but a dozen agents with trained guns surrounded them.
"Oh, it was no problem." Peter Hale flashed the older man a smile, but there was tension in the expression. "I overheard that you guys were looking for them, and while that wicked terrorist attacked the others at the inn, we managed to get ahold of these two."
Gavin and Andre exchanged a dark look. They knew Peter was lying, and Hurley had to have, too. He wasn't an idiot.
"Yeah..." He rubbed a hand across his chin, squinting. "What were you doing hanging around with a handful of other werewolves? Remind me of how we know you all aren't working for the Omega?"
Peter gave a harsh laugh. "Oh, Stan..." He flexed his fingers until his knuckles popped, making Hurley flinch. "First of all, you know the deal: I get you the goods, you don't ask questions. I don't give a shit about the law and your agents. Secondly, I don't associate myself with that crazed bastard. My friends here were just on their way back from retrieving my great nephew, who is in my legal care. He was taken from me."
He gave a stiff smile, trying his hardest to look like those same wolves hadn't been sent by the Omega, too, to get Charlie. They happened to share an apartment. Two birds with one stone.
They'd only been half successful. The True Alpha hadn't even left little Elijah in the apartment---he'd been found at a daycare place down the road waiting to get picked up by some babysitter. Easy pickings.
"All right," Hurley conceded in a low voice. "I'll forget this happened. But I don't want to see your sorry mug around us ever again."
Still smiling, Peter watched as Hurley and his agents hauled Gavin and Andre to their feet, down the hall, and out of the Hale House. Only then did his smile fall. Turning quickly on his heeled boots, he snapped at one of the few omegas standing behind him.
"Let's move," he said. "Get the kid. Jakub's not gonna be patient much longer."
Chapter 21: fox
Chapter Text
It was surreal, standing by Scott's side and surveying a dead body. Mitch not wanting to murder him, and surrounded by members of their pack.
Charlie's eyes were glazed, staring past this world and into the next. Black blood had bubbled around his mouth and dripped down his cheeks, past the bite marks of his father, but there wasn't much blood besides that. Not enough for a human to lose against the change and be dead already. Two small puncture wounds dotted his wrists, which explained it.
Like Derek killing Paige, one of them had done it. Put him out of his misery.
"I couldn't take his screams anymore," Cleo whispered, staring numbly down at the body. "Hugo asked me to...well..."
"She had venom," Hugo said. His voice was heavy and gravely, congested from crying. His red-rimmed eyes looked everywhere except his brother. "She had venom this whole time and she never used it to help us."
"I told you," she hissed, "it's not an endless supply! I have to save it for something!"
"Oh, what, like Charlie?!"
"Guys," Scott snapped, "stop. Look, I don't know any of you very well, but Charlie was like a little brother to me. I lived with him. I loved him. I just...I just need a minute."
Sinking to his knees, soul pattering with grief like raindrops on a windshield, Scott brushed the curls from Charlie's forehead. He swiped his hand over Charlie's eyes, closing them. Hugo made a choking sound in the back of his throat, and Mitch and Scott both looked in his direction as they smelled fresh blood. The red liquid started dripping between his clenched fingers where his claws were out.
"He killed him," Hugo whispered, soul numb and stiff. "He really killed him."
Scott rubbed his eyes, leaning back from Charlie's sprawled form. "Charlie was still working on his album." He stood, breath shaking more than his knees. "He never got the chance to finish..."
Without warning, Scott turned and punched the wall, making the entire place quiver.
"It should've been Dad," Hugo said, finally looking down at Charlie's body. "So let's put it right."
Glancing from an outraged Scott to a hardened Hugo, Mitch had never before been scared for someone's life as much as the Omega's. He knew right then that, like Mitch, both of them would stop at nothing to have the Omega's head on a stake.
Scott had said Andre and Gavin were being taken to the Hale House. Noah had claimed it was Peter behind that, but Mitch wasn't so sure. Even if he was, it was likely the old coward was in cahoots with the Omega.
Still, they traversed through the old McCall pack stomping grounds to find the place. Hoping that they could find the remaining members of their new pack. Mitch didn't know what would happen if they lost anyone else.
They had spent about half an hour digging Charlie a shallow grave behind the garage. Hugo was strangely okay with it, his cold eyes surveying the mound of dirt like it was just another landmark on a boring road trip.
Mitch had shivered as Hugo's soul frosted over with such icy hatred that it shrunk considerably. Much like Noah's had been. Still, Mitch found himself drawn to the negativity, yearning to draw it from Hugo's soul and into his own. But he stayed back. Hugo needed this, he thought as they started walking again. If they were going to take down his father, they would need every ounce of motivation they could get. And Mitch had plenty of his own.
In the back of his mind, the knowledge of Derek's passing pressed against Charlie's. The mystery shrouding it all was what puzzled him the most, especially since Scott knew and wasn't telling him. Glaring at the back of his head as they walked, Mitch did some delving into the alpha's soul to try and find some answers.
He found a grief for Charlie so overwhelming it nearly knocked the breath from Mitch's lungs. His soul was a deep, endless ravine of grief, ever since he lost Mitch and then Derek. Charlie's demise only deepened the crevice.
Digging into that grief, Mitch found an unbearable amount of responsibility. Scott wanted to keep everybody safe, obviously, but Mitch didn't know it felt like the weight of the world was physically crushing down onto his shoulders. The load only got heavier with each loss he suffered, Mitch being the heaviest one at the center.
And right next to himself was Derek. Scott rubbed the back of his neck, as if he could feel Mitch poking around, but he ignored it.
The grief surrounding Derek was smaller than the grief surrounding Mitch, but it was heavier. He felt even more guilty about Derek's death---something blatantly clear had been in front of his face, and he could've stopped it. Derek's grief was so entwined with Mitch's that it was easy to see they had died within a short time of each other. Days, even. As if one had been caused by the other.
It hit Mitch slowly, and then all at once.
He stopped in his tracks, making everyone else freeze. Reaching out an arm to get Scott's attention, he coughed and began trying to speak again. There was still only breath.
"Derek...killed himself," he whispered, "didn't he?"
Scott's face contorted into unexpected rage.
"What the hell!" he shouted. "You're reading my mind or some shit, aren't you?!"
Mitch opened his mouth, but Cleo interjected. "That's not exactly how his powers work."
"Then please explain how they do work!" Scott clenched his crooked jaw. "Because nobody else was there when Derek drove your jeep off a cliff. Nobody!" He glared at Mitch, as if accusing him of revealing Derek's cause of death. "Get out of my head."
"You...first."
Stepping between them, Cleo placed a hand on Mitch's shoulder. Mitch sensed her soul wanting to pacify them, but there was something else beneath that. Something hidden that he couldn't quite focus on.
"He's not a mind reader," she said sternly. "He's a type of kitsune. He just looks at your soul and---"
Kitsune was all Scott needed to hear. He gave a startled roar, crouching down and transforming. The eyes that had looked at Mitch with love and acceptance a mere hour ago now glared at him with a hatred so strong it pulsed off of his soul in waves.
"You've still got the fox," he panted. "After all these years, you didn't even get rid of it!"
"I...tried," Mitch wheezed, throat stinging. Apparently that cough syrup stuff was wearing off.
Gritting his teeth, Scott looked away. He drew himself up to his full height, but he didn't transform back. His voice broke as he spat accusations.
"You're the monster that killed Allison."
It was like Kira's sword went right through his chest again. The painful memory of one of his closest friends dying in Scott's arms. Not dying by Mitch's own hand, per se, but dying because of his own weakness.
If you hadn't been so weak, a voice hissed in his ear, then Allison would still be alive. Scott would still be happy, the pack would still be together, and you would still be wanted.
A lump rose in Mitch's throat, making it even harder to breathe, but he refused to show emotion. Hurley had taught them that it would give the enemy leverage.
How easily you think of him as the enemy, that same voice said again, and you don't even try to fight it. You haven't tried to fight it for a long time.
"You never rejected it," Scott said in realization. "It's been living in you, all this time. God, how could I be so stupid?! This explains everything! How you killed Donovan, how you survived that day in the woods..."
Mitch wanted to shout that it wasn't the fox at all that spared his life, but a mere philosophical hiccup in his genetic makeup, and that Donovan had nothing to do with his powers. But words stuck in his malfunctioning throat.
Growing angry and frustrated, Mitch's powers exploded in the form of an auditory illusion. His lips didn't move at all as it screamed through the silent woods, containing all of his pent-up yearning and hatred of his own voice.
If the omega pack didn't know where they were, then they sure did now.
"You think I chose this?!" his voice shrieked inside each of their souls. Mitch watched as they covered their ears and twisted around, looking for the source. But his jaw stayed clamped shut. "The Nogitsune possessed me because you, Scott McCall, were too busy to protect the weakest member of your pack! And it stayed with me because you, Scott McCall, decided biting it would be a good idea!"
Scott dropped his hands from his ears, staring at Mitch with a mixture of wonder and fear. "What the hell are you even talking about?! I never bit---! Oh."
Realization dawned on Scott's face as Mitch's illusion kept going. His eyes, undoubtedly silver since all the color had been sapped from the woods, locked into Scott's, unnerving him.
"I grew strong on my own, Scott, get that through your thick skull. The fox was just there for me when no one else was. Killing Donovan and escaping death...that was all me."
Scott bared his teeth. "Bullshit. Even if you think it was all you, Stiles, I know you! You're too much of a coward to kill Donovan; you never would have done it unless someone else made you. Like the Nogitsune."
He looked so proud with what he'd said, that Mitch almost felt bad for what he was about to say next.
"It was an accident," the fox hissed as Mitch stepped closer. "It was an accident, you fucking moron. Donovan was threatening to kill my father and then he tried to kill me, too. And you weren't there to protect me, so I was forced to try and escape on my own. And it. Was. An accident. Because like you said, Stiles was too much of a coward to kill anyone."
Scott looked horrifyingly guilty. "I didn't know he attacked you," he said quietly. "I didn't know it was an accident."
"Because you never bothered to ask, did you?" Turning his back on the newfound pack, Mitch disappeared into the shadows of the forest. The illusion echoed in their souls as he marched away, fading alongside his footsteps.
"Stiles was too much of a coward to kill anyone... But I'm not."
Chapter 22: [ note 2 ]
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
wow, I've received even more love and support on this story than I thought possible <3 thank you, you guys are amazing!! :)
sadly, I'm going to be working at a summer camp until about mid-july. it's a no tech camp, and I wouldn't have time to work on this story anyway. chapters have been taking me longer and longer to write as I need to keep going back and refreshing myself on what was happening lol. practically immediately after, I'll be going on vacation with my family which hasn't happened in awhile since there are a lot of us.
this means I probably won't have another chapter out until august. which is over a whole year of this story. i'm terribly sorry to keep you all waiting... I'll try my best to make it worth it <3
again, thanks for all the love and support. each comment warms my heart and makes me want to keep going. I'll see you in august :)
p.s. i'm going to be struggling relationship-wise at this camp as I'll be working side by side with both my crush and ex boyfriend... please wish me luck *sobs*
Notes:
update for anyone who was curious: things actually went really well with my ex for the first week, it wasn't even awkward. but now things are more complicated cause my crush was playground-flirting with me and I had no idea and I think I hurt his feelings :')
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