Chapter Text
Stiles settled into the grass with a glass of chardonnay, glancing back at the mansion as Erica ran toward him. Her $2,000 dress flapped in the wind as the sun glinted through her perfect hair, framing the pitch-black makeup around her eyes.
She plopped down beside him, smirking. Stiles raised his glass. “Want some?”
Erica pretended to ponder, “Maybe I should reduce my alcohol intake.”
Stiles rolled his eyes before shouting to an android, “Can we get another glass?”
The android, which was cleaning the pool, halted mid-motion. Its metal shell reflected the sun like a light source. Stiles zoomed in, adjusted the vision's saturation and gamma until he could see clearly. Mr. Sparkles was a reliable android that never malfunctioned. Stiles watched as it rushed into the house and reemerged with a bottle in a bucket, heading for them.
“Have you ever wondered what’s behind the wall?”
Stiles retracted his vision and gazed at Erica. Her expression became serious, and the wind stopped. Stiles frowned, “What do you mean? There’s nothing behind the wall except for bloodthirsty werewolves, desert, and- ... dead people.”
Erica smiled warmly and then glanced down, her fingers parting the blades of grass. “I want to go there sometime, see it with my own eyes.”
Stiles sputtered, his eyes bulging in disbelief, “Are you crazy? We live in the wealthiest town in the country with gold castles, parks and ponds with cute little fishes! Have you seen what’s happening there? Like with a drone?”
Erica raised her hand, dirt caking under her well-manicured nails. She picked at it until Mr. Sparkles appeared beside her. “Here's your wine, Ms. Reyes.”
She squinted at him, “Thank you.”
The android retreated, leaving only the whir of its machinery. Erica placed the ice-filled bucket beside her, the bottle shimmering in the light. Chablis Premier Cru Mont de Milieu.
“I heard something from my dad today.”
Erica’s father patrolled the wall as one of the security guards. He told Erica everything he knew about werewolves and how they hunted and ate humans.
“Something about the outside?” Stiles asked, his eagerness apparent in his voice. The outside world and its wild, animalistic inhabitants always fascinated him. He'd seen countless documentaries and news features, learning about their behavior and instincts. They used to be like humans, but something went wrong, and a sickness permeated their DNA and changed them.
This occurred at about the same time as the new plague began to strike humans, an invisible disease that progressively weakened them until they couldn't move. They would smile and laugh while trapped in wheelchairs, the disease only affecting their bodies, not their minds. Eventually, they could only communicate with their eyes, blinking once for yes and twice for no. And then their eyelids would grow too heavy, and the cord would be pulled, and then there would be absolute silence, with only a straight line displayed on the heart monitor.
“What did your dad say?”
Erica took a deep breath.
“There was this werewolf who didn’t run toward the first fence. He just stood there, growling and stomping while the others moved closer, taking one step after another until they were shot. He held up a sign that said something, but even after three times zooming, my dad couldn’t read it. It was a blurry mess, as if someone had smudged it with their shirtsleeve.”
Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion. He had never heard of a Were that could write or use tools like pens and signs. "So he was trying to communicate with us?"
Erica looked back at him, shrugged, and took a big gulp of chardonnay. "I don't know. They watched a drone recording, and it appeared to be an empty page. Like it was just a blank piece of cardboard they'd found at the dumpsters."
Stiles sighed. It didn't make sense. People could mistake something for another, but they couldn't make something out of nothing. "Were there any other drones in the area?"
She nodded. "Yes, at least five more were registered nearby, but they all malfunctioned and shattered on impact. The one they found was still sitting on the wall."
Stiles' frown deepened. "Strange. Someone must have really messed up."
Erica arched a brow. "Or... they're hiding something."
Stiles gritted his teeth and asked, "Can you remind me again why we're doing this?" He clutched the Colt M4 Carbine so tightly that it vibrated. They had escaped from the Stilinski mansion, and his dad's ID was hanging around his neck as they crouched along the inner side of the wall. Stiles knew his dad was going to kill him for this.
"We're going on an adventure!" Erica exclaimed, her war paint making her look attractively aggressive. Stiles felt a little intimidated.
"Shut up. Don't quote lousy movies at me in a time like this," he retorted.
Erica rolled her eyes at him. "Don't be melodramatic. We're not doing anything illegal."
Stiles raised the enormous gun and waved it around. "We just stole the most dangerous and expensive weapon from my dad's gun cabinet. That sounds pretty illegal to me."
Erica waved a dismissive hand at him before continuing along the wall. Stiles sighed, held the gun low, and followed.
Beacon Hills was a thriving town located between the Black and Red Werewolf lands. The town was fortified with a towering wall that was at least 100 meters tall. Okay, maybe not exactly a hundred meters, but it was still impressively tall. Stiles had once walked on top of it and his stomach had churned when he looked down the other side. It had to be at least 50 meters.
Or maybe 30 meters? Stiles had read about it in his history class, but he couldn’t recall the exact measurement. Hmm, maybe it was 20 meters? Regardless, he needed to focus on the story.
The purpose of the wall was to keep werewolves out. Werewolves were dangerous, ugly creatures with distorted noses, red shining eyes, and sharp claws that could cut through almost anything. They lived in nests, underground or above ground. Stiles had watched them through cameras attached to drones, and he’d seen them tear flesh apart and eat it raw, growling at each other and mating like rabbits in heat. He found them disgusting, to be honest.
They had caught one once. The security guards had captured it. The werewolf had been named Bob and placed in a terrarium made of lead-infused glass at the Beacon Hills Park Zoo. It was a commercial failure. The children found it scary, and the adults found it repulsive. Stiles had seen it pound its clawed fists against the glass and roar, eyes flashing and drool running down its throat. They had to put it down eventually.
“What’s your reason for passing through?” asked the guard.
“We're on a scout mission. We were assigned by Jonas Reyes and my father, John Stilinski. I have his ID here as proof,” replied Stiles, holding up his father's ID.
“That won't be necessary,” the guard shouted. “I'll open the gates.”
Dust raised up into the air, and Stiles placed his finger on the trigger. Just in case.
The outside was scorching hot. There was nothing in sight except the blazing sun and endless sand beneath their feet.
"So what exactly are we supposed to do now?" Stiles asked, wiping his sweaty forehead with his shirt sleeve.
"We explore!" Erica exclaimed. "I have the map memorized in my head." She then took off towards the seemingly never-ending desert landscape. Stiles struggled to keep up with her, stopping to gulp down water at regular intervals. He still couldn't remember why he had agreed to this.
They walked for at least two hours before they finally caught sight of something on the horizon. What started out as a tiny dot turned into a landscape of ruins as they zoomed in. It looked peaceful from a distance, but up close, it was a disgusting place. The walls were covered in grime, feces, and blood. The air was filled with one of the worst smells Stiles had ever experienced. "Do these beasts ever wash themselves?" Stiles muttered, and Erica just laughed while beginning to zigzag through the ruins.
"Let's hide here," Erica said after they had paced for a few more minutes. "This is one of the best spots to watch Weres."
They situated themselves behind a rock with a crack in it, just wide enough to stick the rifle muzzle through so they could shoot through to the other side. Erica put her rifle to the hole and crouched down to look through the sight. Stiles watched in fascination. "You're much more badass than I had imagined."
Erica laughed again, throwing her hair back to get a clearer view through the sight. "I've done my research, plus my dad takes me to the shooting range at least twice a week. You know this."
Stiles smiled, peeking out beside the rock to look for whatever Erica was aiming at, but there was nothing there. "I've just never seen you in action like thi-"
A sudden, loud bang made Stiles jump. He dropped his gun into the sand as he instinctively threw himself back against the rock. "Jesus Erica! Warn a guy." He yelled, reaching to pick his gun up but was interrupted by a second bang that made his ears ring. "For fuck's sake! What are you shooting at?" He exclaimed before turning to look at her. He expected her to be laughing at his ridiculousness calling him a scaredy cat, but she had turned serious. When he looked closer, he noticed the thin, green circles on her irises indicating she was zooming in on something. Another gunshot, and the force rocked her body before she positioned the gun and fired off a fourth time.
Then she turned to look at him. She wore a worried expression that he had never seen before. "You have to run, Stiles," she said, "I'll keep you covered for a while."
Stiles was confused. There was no sarcasm in her voice, and she was a horrible liar. She couldn't even make a prank call without cracking up, so something had to be terribly, terribly wrong. "What do you mean?" Stiles began but was interrupted by Erica shoving him in the chest hard enough to make him fall out from behind the rock. He lay there with limbs disarrayed, groggily staring towards the horizon. He took a second to zoom in before discovering in horror how an entire pack of werewolves were surging out from behind a ruin wall.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles chanted as he scrambled to his feet. He looked back towards Erica, who was nodding at him. "Go!" she yelled, and it was all Stiles needed to hear before taking off like a rocket.
Stiles quickly realized that running on sand was difficult. It felt like he was wading through clay or deep water, and he quickly grew tired. He could hear the footsteps behind him, or pawsteps, since they were running on all fours. He knew he was finished. It was strange to know that he would be dead in a few minutes, eaten raw. The muscles he was using to run would be strung between sharp teeth, and maybe some fibers would get stuck between them. And he hadn’t even lost his virginity yet.
Something grabbed hold of his ankle, and he face-planted into the sand, dragged back like a dead weight. He thought he would be lifted into the air and put above a fire to be cooked before they ate him, but then he remembered that they liked their meat raw and would probably just dig in.
“No! Don't-“ he stammered, his eyes closed tightly as he squirmed on the sand. One of them grabbed his arm and twisted it around, forcing him onto his back as the others held him still. He sobbed, keeping his eyes closed to block out their faces. He couldn’t stop thinking about his dad and Erica. Would anyone find his clothes? He prayed they wouldn’t. He prayed they’d just believe he got lost in the desert and died of dehydration. Those pathetic, ugly creatures shouldn’t be honored as the reason for his death.
Something wet suddenly landed on his face, and Stiles thought that it must be drool. The werewolves were salivating while thinking about eating him. He felt dizzy until some of the liquid dribbled onto his lips, and Stiles realized by the tang of copper that it was blood. Oh, right. Erica had shot them. Well, that served them right.
He had barely managed to open his eyes before there was a sharp light, almost like a camera flash beaming straight at his face. Pain shot through his head like lightning, and he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. He began to rock and spasm on the sand as the pain intensified until it suddenly stopped, and everything turned quiet.
The werewolves had been growling, grunting, and making other canine sounds, but now they were completely silent.
Stiles slowly and carefully opened his eyes. There was a man staring down at him, only a few centimeters from his face.
What he saw almost made his heart stop. Where had the werewolves gone?
The relief that overcame him was so immense that he couldn’t help but let out a hysterical little laugh. He’d been saved. Somehow, magically, he’d been saved.
“Oh my god,” he breathed, beaming up at the man hovering above him. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You can’t believe how scared-“
“Can you see me?” The man interrupted. He was still staring down at Stiles’ face with a calculating look in his eyes. And there was blood, so much blood all over his face. But behind the sludge of red was a handsome young man. His eyes were green like the jungle, alive and serious, yet there seemed to be something broken about them. Stiles had been too overcome with joy to notice it earlier. Another drop fell from the man’s forehead down onto Stiles’ cheek.
“Uh- yes. You’re kind of right in my face. But dude- … are you okay? You’re covered in blood. Did the Weres get you too?”
The man let out a sudden growl, a guttural, animalistic sound that frightened Stiles. He froze as the man continued to glare down at him without saying a word. The man eventually grabbed a device that resembled a DIY Star Wars lightsaber, minus the plasma blade. Stiles barely had time to think before the man began talking.
“This is a flashlight to disable your bionic contact lenses. They are surgically applied to anyone born in the last fifty years, making us look like monsters,” the man said, finishing his sentence with a disgusted tone. He then turned away from Stiles and looked at the group that had gathered around them.
Stiles was suddenly reminded of their presence. They all wore tattered clothes, with dirty or bloodied faces. Three of them lay dead on the sand, shot in the head, with blood still seeping out and disappearing into the sand. Stiles gasped, sitting up and pushing the man away. He crawled back in horror as their dead eyes stared at him. A woman wept, clutching a child to her chest. The child's head hung limp with streaks of red in its hair, long enough to graze the sand.
“What-...what happened?” Stiles stammered, suddenly feeling light-headed and nauseous.
The man growled, fists clenching as he stared off to where Stiles had run from. “Your friend killed them,” he said.
Stiles closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts on maximum zoom and other vision-clearing functions, but when he opened his eyes again, everything appeared the same. The group still looked at him with broken expressions, and the young man continued to glare.
“I don't understand," Stiles breathed, his eyes flicking from one face to the other. How could this have happened? What was the purpose of this?
“You don't need to understand," the young man said.
Stiles closed his eyes, his face turning pale as if he had just stepped out of a cold ocean. “How is this possible?"
“The sickness. That's what your people call it, right?" the man asked, gazing off in the direction of Beacon Hills. Stiles was confused. "What does that have to do with this?"
“It's not a sickness, it's a war. The main reason your soldiers didn't shoot us was because we're humans. We have families, emotions. To solve this problem, they developed the contacts. No one cares for ugly creatures," the man explained.
Stiles replied in a distant voice, “Oh." His entire world view was shifting, and nothing made sense anymore. Had his entire life been a lie? It rocked him to the core how wrong he had been all this time. How could he not have figured it out?
He looked down at his hands. At least they still appeared the same. He clenched his fist, then spread his fingers, dragging them through the sand. Oh God. No.