♡ 𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 ♡
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 eighty-four.

bleeding me dry like a goddamn vampire

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

THE CLOUDY, AUTUMN SKY LIT UP WITH AN AMALGAMATION OF BLACK, WHITE, AND PLASMA BLUE.

Thunder made an appearance, too. Then a white crackling in the sky that resembled the heavens tearing apart at the seams. From the reflection of electricity in his windshield to the fear in his eyes, Stiles followed the trail of police cars that swarmed through the stormy streets of Beacon Hills.

Stiles' tightened his grip on his steering wheel, the veins in his knuckles becoming his very own blood-filled bolts and the rumbling of his heart his very own thunder.

The Jeep rumbled down the roads, barely keeping up with the officers, as the road narrowed around the edges and doused itself in a hazy mist. As the combined sounds of the engine and sirens faded into darkness, only the faint murmur of wind could be heard, carrying it with an eerie sense of foreboding. The distant chaos was shattered by slick nails scraping against the road, its thick fur and bright eyes leading them astray into a thicket of danger.

"Unit Five heading northwest on Crescent, reporting an incredibly large.." the operator paused, her fuzzy voice coming in muffled through Stiles' radio. "Something!"

Another voice buzzed through, this one male. "Unit Nine, to dispatch, I think I've got eyes on the same thing.. some kind of rabid animal."

Stiles' head snapped to Scott, his hands gripping the wheels until the leather tore into his skin.

"Unit Five to Nine, trust me, that's no animal." The officer pressed her foot down on the pedal, The Jeep not far behind. Cars tires against wet concrete and the wet screeching echoed in the Stilinski's ears as he heard another officer buzz in.

"Unit Six to dispatch. We have a situation downtown. Multiple fatalities." The officer in question glanced around at the fire surrounding him, cars ablaze and citizens stumbling across the pavement doused in blood and ash."

"Unit Six, do you have a perp in sight?"

"Negative. Looks like a 10-1E. Animal attack."

"10-4. Can you say what kind of animal?"

Stiles heard the pause and grabbed his father's stolen mic, speaking in on the radio. "All units stay back. Do not engage!" he stressed. "I repeat, do not engage!"

His father buzzed back. "Stiles, get off the radio!"

The Sheriff, however, seemed to take his son's advice. "All unit alert, everybody wait for back up. Repeat, no one goes near this thing."

"Unit Five reporting a sighting on Hill Road southbound-"

"Unit Nine, I've got it turning off Oakridge, southbound on Beachwood-"

"All units, this is Dispatch. We've got a 911 call with additional sighting on Mitchell."

Stiles heard Scott turn in his seat, voice panicked. "Wait a second, Beachwood to Mitchell?"

Scott nodded, eyes wide. "It's headed back for the hospital."

He grabbed the mic again. "Dad-"

"Stiles, get off this channel." The Sheriff warned.

"Dad, just listen to me, okay? It's headed for the hospital. He's headed for Beacon Memorial." he breathed. "You hear me? It's headed for the hospital."

When no answer came, Stiles tossed the radio back and put his car into gear, pressing harder on the pedal.

Meanwhile, miles away at the same hospital, Melissa McCall's voice echoed across the intercom. "Again, this is a Code White, a full hospital evacuation. All critical patients will be taken by ambulance upstate to Hill Valley," she spoke with a slight shake to her voice as citizens stormed and pushed through the halls. "I repeat, all critical patients will be taken by ambulance upstate to Hill Valley."

Melissa jumped back when a loud crash shook the building, lights flickering and dust falling from the crevices of brick. Screams erupted, and panic ensued. Yet, Melissa gave a curious and fearful stare as she carefully stepped forward.

The halls were becoming empty as doctors and nurses ushered the patients out. Leaving Melissa alone in a flickering and unsteady hall that housed much more darkness than the odd blinking light.

Soon, she was all by herself while she faced a long hall stretching for what felt like miles. A few spotlights lit up her path but it was still covered in the same misty haze that covered everything in town for miles.

The elevator creaked upwards as it stopped at her floor. Adding to the unease, the doors remained shut; the mirrored doors were right in sight as they reflected the horror she wore on her face.

The doors came to a stretch and as she saw the dark silhouette, it didn't take another moment for her subconscious steps to carry her towards the exit, dark hair blowing in a winded craze.

"Unit Five, Clark, I need eyes on Parrish." Sheriff Stilinski buzzed. "Does anyone have Parrish's 20?"

"All units, we have a 911 emergency call reporting a man on fire running into Beacon Memorial."

"Clark, disregard." The Sheriff muttered into his mic before making a sharp turn.

Cold glass pressed against Stiles' hand as he pushed open the door of the memorial. Scott was beside him, soaking up the paranoid scents he was waving. They were barely two steps in before their sneakers screeched against the plastic flooring and fear crept up their spines like icy spider-legs. Cocking his gun behind them, Noah appeared.

He gave Stiles a stern shush before Scott spoke up, wolf ears perked at the distant growling erupting through the shaky building. "Fourth floor."

They crept up the stairs; Noah decided to step in front and kept him gun aimed upward as he shushed them lowly. The deeper they descended into the madhouse, the thicker the smoke got. Stiles could taste it in his lungs, Noah could feel it in his eyes, and Scott? Scott practically melted into it as his senses became his sight.

There was the odd flash of light from the flickering strip lights. Every few seconds, it was doused in a whitish glimmer before disappearing back into darkness. Noah took that as his advantage to scope out the room every second in between, his steps careful and quiet as his gun stationed forward.

The trio snuck deeper into a trashed hallway as they avoided the scattered papers and ashy merchandise that littered the floor. Noah glanced back at the boys every so often, their safety prioritized over his own. It didn't matter if he was walking into a lion's den, a supernatural one, no less. He was a father first, a sheriff second, a person last. He'd always look out for the boys.

As they turned a corner, a flaming body came hurling in their direction. Those same instincts kicked in as Noah immediately pushed the two boys backward and out of the crossfire as he barely dodged the flamed body himself.

When the body dropped to the floor, and horrifically, at their feet, Noah swallowed thickly as he recognized the man. His body wasn't charred and charcoal flesh. It was unharmed, pristine even, aside from the soot that gritted into his pores and the three deep claw marks slashed across his bare chest.

Eyes resembling hot coals and oozing honey stared up at him, barely conscious, while Noah kept both arms stretched out against the teenagers' chests. The older Stilinski let up for a moment as he knelt to his height while Scott slipped out of his grasp to examine the dirty footprints and scattered paper across the floor.

Stiles couldn't do anything else but stare, admittedly.

"Parrish, you okay?" Noah's voice was hoarse, and from the hazy war-like stare he wore, he knew it was a dumb question to ask. "Deputy!"

The sharp tone shook him out of his trance, shoulders bunching up quickly as he flickered his eyes to the Sheriff once more. A confused look overcame him as he panted; he glanced around at the thick smoke around him, seemingly unable to comprehend his own surroundings.

Noah noticed his hesitance, and his hot skin, and decided against planting a comforting hand on his shoulder and opted for a wince instead. Stiles tore his eyes away from his father for a moment and onto Scott, who was in a trance of his own as his senses urged him to follow their direction.

Eventually, all three sets of eyes were on him.

He followed the bloody footprints of a beast, bear and wolf combined, the prints wandering deeper and deeper into the hellscape that burned around them. Stiles started to follow too, albeit, hesitant.

The prints got fainter and fainter before the red liquid finally stamped into the shape of a shoe sole instead. He studied the soles, the intricacy of the lines, and the sizing of the shoe.

Surely he'd seen it somewhere.

Surely.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Dallas furrowed her eyebrows at Stiles. "A footprint? That's all you have?"

He flopped his hands to his side as he gave his girlfriend an exasperated look. "No, it.. it went from beast to like.. man. Like it wasn't Parrish."

She bit her lip wryly as Deaton's cold metal table pressed against her thighs. She glanced down at her shoes before glancing back up to Stiles. "Well, I can promise you they're not mine. Check my soles, if you'd like."

He gave her another deadpanned look to which she chuckled at. "Sorry, yes, very serious." Dallas tried to muffle her laughs. "Okay, you can't look at me like that and expect me not to laugh, it's not fair."

"You laugh at everything I do."

"You bring me joy, shoot me."

His deadpan turned upwards into a smirk, which he had to turn his head to conceal, and forced his mouth back down again as he looked at her. "Dallas." He spoke with a stern, authoritative tone that made her chuckle just a bit more. "Focus, baby, please?"

She sighed heavily, nodding. "Okay. So you idiotically, and Scott even more idiotically, and your dad—which would be very disrespectful to say idiotically, but you know I want to—found Parrish? And footprints are the only thing pointing towards his innocence?"

"No, he was like.. in a trance. Hypnotized almost. Hurt, too. Three slashes across the chest," he paced, hands flailing. "Everything was just... burned."

She nodded. "Soles aren't much to go off, Stiles. Unless this beast is Cinderella, it doesn't narrow down much."

Stiles was unconvinced. The red strings in his mind always twirled and twisted around his membrane, tying him to the closest suspect. This time, for no apparent reason other than unbridled hate, it led to Theo. "Still gonna check Raeken's."

Dallas felt her gut twist. Perhaps she'd swallowed one of those strings, and it was tightening around her stomach. It would explain the sickness she swallowed. The fiddling she did with her hands. The nausea she had felt like sea sickness. The unbecoming urge to bring up a kiss that she never wanted ... a kiss that felt more punishing than a punch.

But she couldn't, she couldn't speak the words. She didn't want to hurt him or to give his insecurity any grounds to latch onto, so she took the sucker punch with her intestines cushioning around the knuckle.

After all, A Siren's body was owned not by the sea, or the devil himself, but by men who were worse than both.

Did he know her lips had touched another? Did he know she never wanted it? Did he know that she'd always be fighting for ownership of her own body? That her skin was like wet boards of a ship that would always be pierced not by salt, but by the thunder of harsh fingertips?

He noticed her softened expression and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. The anchor tugged at the ship.

"Baby, are you okay?"

She opened her mouth to speak. "About Theo-"

The words were robbed out of her mouth, Deaton's words wedging between hers but louder. She could only stare back at Stiles as he did. His blue flannel, his chocolate brown eyes, the slight gel wetness to his hair. Beside her bright burning fire, he was her company in the sky. Her moon.

"What I'm about to show you isn't supposed to exist."

Dallas had heard that before. Anomalies. Unexplainable mysterious. She'd become accustomed to them. Firstly, because she was one. She was the girl who got up and walked out of the Hospital two days after her death unscathed. She knew of it because she never believed in monsters, then watched her father's deceased body on her dining room floor after a vampire made him his dinner. She knew of it because her best friend was a living corpse detector. Her other one was a shape-shifting coyote. The third, a Kitsune.

She knew of it because the first time she was bedded it was by a demon, no less.

Dallas was used to 'anomalies,'

Deaton placed a few polaroids beside her on the table, Scott and Stiles at his sides. They all captured disfigured werewolves and beasts.

"This is the only surviving evidence of Dr. Valack's time as Chief Medical Officer of Eichen House," he muttered, placing polaroid after polaroid. Each one was as disturbing as the last. "To call it human experimentation would be charitable."

Scott took one of the photos up to the light, watching the screaming figure glimmer underneath the fluorescent lamps for his two friends to see.

"a Banshee." Deaton caught their eye, swallowing. "She died screaming."

Dallas couldn't help the thought that seeped in. So would he.

"So, he drilled holes into their head? All of them?" Stiles questioned, his fingertips brushing against her thigh in an almost comforting manner. There was nothing that could comfort the oncoming slaughter, though.

"That was the experimentation part." Deaton's words were hesitant, like they'd hurt his tongue if he spoke them, but did anyway. "He did it to werewolves, banshees, wendigos, any creature he gets his hands on."

"There's nothing scarier than a man thirsty for power." She muttered, recalling just how much she could pin those words to and see it stick. She bit back the words that there's nothing scarier than what a man would do for power.

"And Valack found that trepanation would initially heighten their powers... but to levels that couldn't be contained."

"So he wants to make Lydia more powerful?" Scott quipped.

"I hope she makes him regret it," Dallas muttered back.

"She's not, she's going to end up like them." Stiles gestured to the photos.

Deaton then chimed in. "Worse, actually. Lydia's abilities were already pretty exceptional to begin with. Putting a hole in her head will be like fusing a leak in a nuclear reactor.. she'll hear everything-"

"Every death, every dying scream, all at once."

"That's going to kill her."

Deaton continued. "Not only that... Her own dying scream.. could be so powerful that it might kill everyone around her as well."

Dallas watched as Scott stepped away from the table, his hysteria consuming him. She took it upon herself to follow. To pick at the rambling thoughts in his head. Maybe their matching mindful tornadoes could conjure up something more useful than their own self-destruction.

"What's the move here, Scott?" Her voice was faint, but sharp, like pearls rattling against shell coating with each push of the tide. "Cause I don't see a way to approach this without somebody getting hurt."

In her defense, no way existed. The pain was an endless cycle. From the rotted roots of the trees.. to the sharp edges of the wind .. to the burning smog of wood and boot indents on growing seeds in the mud. How could they find a way to live without hurting anybody when even the world around them couldn't?

"Not everyone plays fair like you do, Scott. It's admirable, but it's stupid." She muttered, eyes softening but tongue still cutting her words in half with its sharpness. "You can't bargain with monsters. You can't save some monsters."

Scott wouldn't budge. "We saved you. A damsel who sure loved her distress."

"Distress loved me." She argued gently, glancing towards Stiles. "Still does."

If distress wore red and blue flannels, maybe she wouldn't mind being wrapped up in it so much.

"I'm not gonna let anything happen to her, Dallas." He promised -- something that felt like he was betting on dying stars. "Believe me."

"Oh, I believe you." She scoffed. "I just don't believe that'll mean anything."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. The bone rotted beneath like deadwood. But she didn't tense. Many hands had been laid on her, but Scott McCall's was one of the few that didn't make her stomach bunch up and skin crawl with the uncertainty of whether it was a pat or a punch.

With him, it was just a hand.

"Then believe me when I say," he paused, eyes flickering to meet Stiles' for a moment as he received a stiff nod. "We won't make a move until I can promise you and mean it."

He stepped forward. "Go home, Dallas." Scott pleaded. "If we're gonna save Lydia, I need you on my side. Not opposing every idea I have. I need you to, shocker, trust me."

She was hesitant. So hesitant. But not too hesitant to lean into the hand that slithered around her waist and kept her from lunging forward.

"I'll make sure he behaves." Stiles joked. It didn't go unnoticed, however, became a chip on her shoulder rather than a tickle on her side. "Come on, Dal. I don't want you seeing that."

"I'm not gonna get nightmares-"

"Well, I am!" Stiles split a smile. "And if I can spare a pretty girl a few, what better use of my time?"

He was laying the charm on thick. So much so, that she wondered if his intent stretched beyond the heart. No. No overthinking. He had that glint in his eye and a slight frown on his lips. That's enough. Not everyone hurts. But some do.

"Come on, Dal, don't make me beg in front of Scott."

She quirked a brow. "Don't tempt me."

His wide smile broadened as he slung his arm over her shoulder and gently pushed her towards the door. "Hm, I love you, but go away, you little minx." he teased. "Leave the saving duties to the men."

"Tsk, don't make me bite you." She warned, his teasings riling her up in just the right way.

"Promise?"

And with that, she was practically pushed out of the door.

God, they were weird.

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Stiles stormed into his dad's office, his face as sour as his girlfriend's bubblegum.

"I'm doing everything I can, but her mom is her legal guardian." Sheriff Stilinski tried to reason but to no avail. "She's the only person who can check her out of Eichen House."

"Can't we get a court order or something? Mr Garcia already agreed-"

"Technically, trepanation is still considered a medical procedure. A judge would have to declare Natalie unfit, which isn't likely. Besides, James can't even go outside without the fear of bursting into a ball of flames."

"It could all take months."

Stiles stepped forward. "So you're saying there's nothing we can do?"

"I'm saying there's nothing we can do.. legally."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Marilyn Garcia sought comfort in the bottom a glass.

She'd have her tail curled up in the crevices of the cold corners, drowning her scales in something saltier than seawater. Something far more bitter than a storm. Something more soothing than the soft underbelly of the sand. Something that she could cradle in her hands and feel its warmth, recalling when it was once a child instead.

The plastic sheets covering the room made her suffocate, though her lungs were clear, she couldn't help but feel an odd sense of melancholy. The waves of nostalgia for a time she never lived through hit her hard, either that or her skin had woven into the armor she had built up over the years that even her body saw itself as the enemy.

Perhaps that was a good thing, after all, that's what she was painted as. What was paint and what was skin at this point?

"Little early to be drinking, isn't it?"

Her head perked up. Dallas. Of course, she'd only see her in her worst moments.

"It's dangerous for a Siren to be dehydrated," Marilyn answered blandly. She'd dropped the toothache-inducing sweet tone and motherly warmth. It didn't come naturally -- it almost sounded forced, actually. Perhaps because it was. As a puppet without strings telling them where to go could only fall.

"Well, that's rum, not water," Dallas muttered, sympathy stinging her in parts it shouldn't. "Is this about dad?"

Marilyn scoffed. Her being widdled down to the worth of a man.. and so the Siren cycle continues. She had a lot to drink about, more to throw up in the form of stuttered sentences, but James Garcia was not the heated star she revolved around. He hadn't lit up her skies for years.

"I exist beyond that, you know?" She tapped her fingernails against the countertop, swallowing down the blockade in her throat that made the words slip out like winded breaths. "Beyond the form of a damaging mother. I was a person once, too."

Dallas felt the foul words on her lips. They tasted too much like ones she'd speak. It was an uncomfortable reflection, one that could very well be her future. Marilyn was everything Dallas feared being -- and Dallas was everything Marilyn was once.

They had only made it one generation and it was already repeating its own mistakes. The family tree planted in moldy soil could barely grow an inch without its roots retreating into the ground, ready to wither and rot away. Yet, its fruit was still sweet, like the tone Dallas used with her mother for the first time in eight years.

"I know."

Pause.

"It's not my fault I can't remember that."

There it was. A pang of guilt Marilyn tried to deny when around her daughter. The shadow hung over them and doused their sunny memories in a blurry darkness. Marilyn remembered them all so clearly.. but Dallas was so young. So premature. Her biggest concerns were the burning sensation of ice against her knees and the loose wool in her gloves.

Retract a little. Start from the beginning.

"At least you'll have two good fathers." Marie glanced at her from across the marble countertops, her eyes sharp but her words soft. She was lowering her weapons, ceasing the fire, allowing her body to wave the white flag. "Because they are. Dallas. Good fathers."

Marie's words hung in the air, causing her to feel a bitter mixture of pride and despair. It stung to acknowledge that James and Derek, the two men she had chosen to father Dallas, were truly good fathers. As she stood there, her gaze drifting to the marble countertops, Marilyn couldn't help but feel a surge of regret and self-doubt.

How could she compete with the memories that James and Derek had created with Dallas?

They had been there for all of her firsts, witnessing those precious moments that Marilyn had missed. It was a painful truth that Marilyn had become her own worst enemy, sabotaging her chances of being a prominent figure in Dallas's life. The poison of her own insecurities swelled within her, as she grappled with the knowledge that she might never have the same level of closeness and connection with Dallas as James and Derek did. The weight of these emotions bore heavily on Marilyn's shoulders, as she struggled to come to terms with the consequences of her choices. Deep down, she knew that she had made a mistake, one that would forever alter the dynamics of Dallas's life, leaving her on the outside looking in.

Dallas wanted to be angry. Oddly. The wave of submission was one she spent her life yearning for. Yet, the moment she saw it with her own glossy brown eyes, she didn't want it. Where was the anger? The reluctance? The possibility that even if all they did was fight, she'd still have her mother around. Even her vengeful ghost would feel more comforting than her absence.

Although, they both knew deep down, what began as motherly love had grown into a toxicity that rotted them both inside and out.

"You know?" Voice bitter. Fierce. The walls were coming up around Dallas quicker than her soft hands could register. "About Dad and Derek?"

Marilyn scoffed. Her walls were just as high. Hers, however, had a fresh set of spikes lining the brick.

"Of course, I know. I know the look of love. I haven't seen it in years."

Pang. It was Dallas' turn to feel the guilt. A pang of guilt that gave her slanted pigtails and a unicorn backpack. A pang of guilt that made her feel like a kid again, even if it felt like a hundred years ago. Even if it was only eight. Even if she was only ten.

It was unfair, woefully so, to be the one feeling the most hurt between them. It was a fight neither of them would win. Was the prize? Victory? Peace? Or was it just an endless battle that would leave them both too wounded to go on?

Dallas would always be the little girl fighting against her mother, no matter how old she got. She'd always be at that ice rink. She'd always be in those clothes. She'd always be only ten.

"I tried my best with you, to give you your best chance, you need to believe that." Marilyn gave her a slight nod that made her feel sick to her stomach. "One day, you will. You'll see my sacrifices for you run deeper than what you see."

Marilyn would always regret leaving. Dallas would always resent her for it. If someone widdled words into the family tree with a knife, it'd be those. They were carved into each other like a memoir of a past lover's life.

"You talk so much about sacrifice, but you didn't make any." Dallas scoffed loudly, her throat sore. "Running away isn't a sacrifice, it's a cheap cop-out! A sacrifice is.. despite the hurt, despite how much you want to, you don't run from someone who needed you -- because I did. I needed you."

Marilyn winced. Was it James who sharpened her tongue? Or was it curved that way from decades of licking her own wounds?

"You sacrificed me for yourself." She tried to look her mother in the eyes but her gaze was hard to reach. "Didn't you?"

While Marilyn was waving her flag, Dallas was dunking hers in the same shade as her warpaint. "Don't talk to me like that-"

"Then don't fucking mother me!" she spat, hissing as her nose scrunched up to the bridge. Her flag was waving wild, painting the town red around her: the walls, the floors, the inches of her sobbing throat.

"I am your mother!" Marilyn yelled back, her frustration pouring into thick sentences that hurt her tongue. "I just... I don't know how to be."

Her face blotted with hurt. Her cheeks were stuck between her teeth and her world was caving in one lake at a time. "It's not an excuse, but it's the truth. A cold, hard truth. The warm welcome from Sybil and Seline was the only thing I can recall from after the shipwreck. I was only a daughter for a split second. Then a sister for eternity. I was a mother too quick. Too soon."

A cold pass of wind howled. Marilyn admitted it. "I didn't run from Chris. I ran from you."

Dallas felt a fleshy tear ripple down the beating muscle that she called a heart. She was right all along. It was her. She was the problem.

She was the difficult child, the troublemaker, the girl so much bigger than herself that she couldn't even warm herself at night. It wasn't like these weren't the words she told herself every morning in the mirror. They were familiar -- an old friend that tripped her up and pulled her hair every chance they got. Yet, it was different hearing them in another person's voice. It became much more real, more real than an imaginary friend praying on her downfall.

"You did?" The spitting ceased to child-like muttering. A fresh layer of innocence, something Dallas didn't remember having a shred of left, appeared in fresh wet tears. "It was me? I was too much?"

"You always were." Marilyn breathed heavily. The truth wasn't an easy pill to swallow. In fact, she'd have to douse it down with rum and coffee that had long run cold. "Loving you is like trying to breathe through thin air. Your smile was always wider. Your eyes were always fuller."

"How could I look down at the better version of myself and give her what I never had?"

Heartache. The tears in her heart were causing irreparable damage. Surely her body was too wounded to stand? Surely this was the final battle between them before the killing blow came?

"I would," Dallas admitted, eyebrows furrowed underneath glistening pools of brown and amber. "If it were my daughter. I'd never abandon her the way you did to me. But even now, because of you, I can't promise that anymore.. because that's all I've ever known."

Marilyn opened her mouth to speak but Dallas made sure hers was heard first.

For once, in eight years, she'd have the last say before either of them disappeared. She'd be the leading lady in their tragic play.

"I never wanted to be your competition, or the new you, I just wanted to be your daughter." Dallas stepped forward, her words painstakingly raw and her voice as hoarse as it was the first day she used it. "You make it feel like such a crime."

Marilyn grew defensive. "You will always be my competition. Even when you were killed, the town couldn't stop talking about you."

More heartache. Dallas had never had her heart crushed so carelessly. Not when her walls were crumbling and her hands were too shaky to build more. "Mom-"

"You will never understand it, will you? Sybil and Seline flock to you like you're the new me. Peter idolizes the new Siren born through the curse. She has more power. She who's younger, smaller, who can turn her snarkiness into something charming. The girl that can move mountains without even lifting her pretty finger... Jim's precious little girl. Derek's little prodigy." Marilyn spoke with a tone of disgust that broke Dallas. "Dallas fucking Garcia."

Dallas visibly winced. Her shoulders shook. Her eyebrows furrowed quickly as if to soften the blow. The way she said her name, like poison in her mouth, made Dallas wonder if she ever even liked the name to begin with.

"Do you want the truth, Dallas?" she wasn't sweetening up her tone anymore. "You were what James wanted. He was ready to settle. Your name was meant to be a constant reminder of where we fell in love but every time I hear it, I think of you. You're on my map, you're in my head, I can't escape you. Even after seven years of fucking running, I never can."

"I'm sorry-"

Dallas didn't know what she was apologizing for. She just felt like she had to. She just wanted to please her. She wanted to make her happy enough that she'd stop saying such mean things.

"Oh, you're sorry?" Words were spilling. "I thought it was Derek I was angry at for speaking to you the way he did, but it wasn't. I guess I was just mad I wasn't the one to tell you. All you do bring is pain, Dallas, but it's not because you're a Garcia. It's because you're you."

Her mouth glued shut. She felt like a kid again, scolded and belittled. Her mother's shadow looked larger now. Her hands felt like woolen gloves. The floor beneath her turned to ice.

Marilyn loved her daughter. In her own way. She would never let anybody speak down to her and make her feel less. That was her child. Only she was allowed to hurt her like that.

That was the issue. She really did want to make her hurt sometimes.

Dallas followed her mother out as she stood up, her legs almost falling beneath her with the balance of a newborn deer. "Wait, wait, I know. I know I'm bad, but I try-"

The Siren was doing her best to please. Even if it was trying to plead to someone who'd never listen to her case. It was happening again. She was leaving. This time, though, Dallas had to live with the guilt of knowing it was because of her.

"Please."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Stiles stood before the pack, his chest puffed out beneath his flannel and his shaky pale hands counting on each finger. Everyone was there. Everyone except a certain maneater. "There are four steps. We get into Eichen, we get into the Closed Unit, we get Lydia, we get out."

Scott chimed in. "And we have to do all of this while getting past orderlies, guards, electric 

"You have a plan for all of that?" Malia hummed. 

Stiles gave them both a nod as he lifted up a card key. "I stole this last night off an orderly... but it's useless 'cause they reset the codes each night." 

Kira quirked a brow. "Wait, why bother taking it?"

"I'm getting to that-"

"Scott spoke for him. "The only way to get Lydia out of Eichen is to make that key card work again."

Kira spoke. "Hang on, how are you even gonna do that?"

"We're getting to that, okay, just listen." Stiles pulled the laptop screen around to their view. "I pulled all of the history off the key card. Two weeks ago, there was a brownout and the security system was robbed. During a reboot, all of the key cards revert back to a default code.. So if we trigger a reboot.."

"The card goes back to the default code." Malia grinned.

Stiles ripped the lock from the gates, scurrying down the halls. 

Kira didn't latch on immediately. "How are we going to cause a brownout?"

"That's your part," Scott explained. "You're going to draw the power from the main line but only enough to cause the brownout."

"Not a blackout." Stiles pleaded. "Do that and you send Eichen into a lockdown which would be bad. Very, very, bad."

"There's an electrical room behind the reception counter. The main power line goes into two breakers that run power to all of Eichen."

Kira stood before a nest of wires, planting her hand around the exposed cables and watching as the electricity fizzled around her fingers. 

"Okay, slight problem. I don't know how to do that."

"That's okay. You have time to practice."

Malia shared an uneasy look with Kira, who tapped her nails with something sharp enough to poke holes into their plan. Luckily, Malia did it for her. "Say this all goes perfectly. How does a brownout get us into the Closed Unit of Eichen?"

Stiles cleared his throat. He took the mic this time. "The system takes five minutes to reboot. In that five minutes, all the alarms will be turned off. The key card should work."

Scott had it next. "Liam, you and I get Stiles to the gate of the Closed Unit."

Moments before Stiles left scurrying, Liam and Scott guarded him through the halls. 

"But after that, he's on his own. We can't get through the Mountain Ash." 

Stiles scooped up Lydia, helping her to the exit doors. 

"What about Dallas?" Malia hummed.

He didn't say anything else, just turning to the rest of the group. "By the time we're gone, all anyone's gonna think is that there was a reboot of the security system caused by a brownout." Stiles tried to avoid her ten-yard stare. "Uh.. any questions?"

"How do we get into Eichen in the first place?"

"What's the worst-case scenario?" 

"What if I can't do it?

They all spoke at once causing the two boys to share a worried look. They weren't prepared at all. "Okay, admittedly, a lot could go wrong."

Liam scoffed. "A lot could go wrong."

"Guys, if we don't do this, we lose Lydia. She's going to die there tonight.. and she might take a lot of innocent people with her."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Malia stood in front of Kira, a lit lightbulb at her side and the classroom surrounding them. The tension was palpable. With a stiff nod, the coyote nodded forward.

However, her actions fell on deaf ears.

"What?"

"Do it. Do your thing."

"What thing? I don't have a thing." Kira rambled, hands shaking with her words. "What thing would that even be? Not my thing, 'cause I don't have a thing!"

Malia quirked a brow, hiding a smile beneath the tulip pink lips. "You did it before. You had to learn how, right?"

"Actually, no... it just happened."

A quick roll of amber eyes and a hefty amount of positivity later, Malia placed both hands on the girl's shoulder."How'd you learn to fight with the sword?"

"It just happened?" Kira excused again, eyebrows folded inwards in a smile that'd make ice melt.

"So you've never worked for anything and basically you're a cheater?"

"This wasn't my idea!" She slumped against the table, avoiding the sizzling live wires. "How are we even getting past the front gate?"

"I have a guy on the inside," Malia smirked. "And stop changing the subject. Do your thing."

Kira scowled playfully before grabbing the wires. Electricity swam up her hand and twirled around her fingers. Her blood sent it haywire, frazzling and piercing the wires until a pit of sparks brightened up her eyes. 

Just as she tried to simmer her power, glass erupted beside her with shards of bulb glass flying around her.

"I said it wouldn't work!"

Amid her haze, she finally glanced up at Malia.. who was left picking a glass shard out of her forehead. "As dumb as this sounds.."

She hesitantly picked up another bulb and passed it to Kira, who wore a sheepish smile.

"Try again."

This time, she made sure to take a few large steps back. 

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Dallas followed her mother out onto the driveway, venom in her words and ears filled with the rumbling of luggage.

"Fine, run. Run like you always do." She spat, voice shaky. "How many clean slates do you need before you realize you're the problem?"

Dallas never got to put her two-pence in before her mother left, but she'd grown a lot since then. The second time around, she'd make her opinions known. 

"You don't have to leave, again. But your temper is just as bad as mine and I can bet half the things I said and didn't mean share a striking resemblance to yours." She pleaded. "Please. I'm sorry that I don't how not to bite."

She'd fare better talking to walls and stuffed pillows. Their replies would be nicer.

"You can't just.. make people and abandon them, it's not how it works. It's not fair." She swallowed. "It's not fair to make it my fault. I wasn't a bad kid. I'm just.. bad now."

Couldn't she hear the sincerity in her voice?

They were two forces too strong for each other. A tornado and a tempest. A thunderstorm and a typhoon. They couldn't coexist within the same town without significant damage to the world around them. 

Dallas was vengeful. She demanded answers. "You're just as bad, you know. Dad wouldn't have gone running to somebody else if you weren't so cold. If you actually gave a shit about anyone but yourself. If you were anything but a soulless, empty shell of a person-

She felt the hard slap against her cheek. And the vengeance turned to a sting.

Tears came. They weren't sad ones, though. Tears of too much wind in her eye. Tears of broken eyelashes. Tears of, well, tears.

She straightened out her cheek, jaw tightening as Marilyn withdrew her hand, and felt the wind prick the struck skin with a cold tone in her voice. "I'm glad you took your ring off before that. It was good forward-thinking." 

Marilyn wanted to apologize. However, the bridge was burned. Its ash clotted the bottom of the lake and left the once-clear water muddy. 

"I'm sorry."

It wasn't Marilyn apologizing. It was Dallas.

"Please." She murmured out, eyes red and wide like a lamb eyeing up its predator. The wolf had already taken a chunk out of her side, her pride, and her heart. What else could she do but beg for its mercy?

There was just something about her mother that made her nastier than she'd ever been. But also the most innocent.

Marilyn continued packing her car. With each slump of duffel bags in the back of her car, she'd push the teenager away with the jolt of her elbow and ignore her childish pleadings. "Why come back if it was just delaying the inevitable, hm? Why give me that glimmer of hope?"

"Don't pin your childish expectations on me."

"So what, give it another ten years when I'm more susceptible to your bullshit excuses? Or when I forget and start telling myself that I'm just being sensitive?"

She scowled her. It cut right through her.

Dallas felt rain sprinkle her shoulders and she knew this time, she wouldn't forget any details. She wouldn't just remember the perfume or the way she wore her hair. She'd remember the little intricate details that would keep her up at night. 

The smell of asphalt and burnt rubber would be the standout ones. 

Dallas was the only true Garcia Siren remaining. One who never ran, who never hid, and would no longer apologize for the teeth she was born with. Even if it killed her, she'd be the best one the town had ever seen. 

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Melissa McCall pulled her shirt from over her nose and breathed in the fresh air outside as she handed the empty bodybags over to Scott and Liam. 

Liam held his hands out but winced when she sharply placed them in her son's hands. "Just promise you're not coming back in one of these."

"We're coming back with Lydia." Scott spoke softly. 

She nodded, and reluctantly handed them over. 

"We still don't know who's actually doing this... who the Beast is." Liam shared an uneasy look with Scott who secretly hoped the bodybags in his hands weren't previously used.

"We'll find out."

"You think it's someone we know? Do you think he even knows he's doing it?"

Melissa placed more body bags on the table before tossing them carelessly at Liam. "How are you so sure it's a he?"

Scott couldn't help but smirk at her actions. Not once did he ever take her for granted. She'd fight the devil for her son. Or in this case, just Liam. 

"You still mad at me?" Liam stuttered.

"No," Ms McCall hummed. "But if you try to kill my son again, I'll put you in one of these myself."

Liam whispered softly with a quiver to his voice.

 "She's still mad."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Parrish slid a pair of keys over the desk to Stiles, hesitance clear on his young features. 

"That's the worst plan I ever heard."

"Okay, the plan is perfect and it'll work perfectly. Especially if you agree to drive the van." Stiles slid the keys back defiantly.

"Is the Sheriff on board with this?"

"How do you think I got the keys?"

"I thought you stole them."

"While that's a perfectly reasonable assumption, I did not steal them. And we need you because all of the Eichen guards know all of the Sheriff's deputies, okay? We need a real deputy. And one who won't ask questions."

"It's not safe to bring me along." Parrish paused with a slight jitter to his muscles. "I'm.. dangerous."

"So is a giant murdering werewolf that's killed over thirty people but somehow didn't kill you."

Parrish paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip with feverish doubt, before huffing. "Fine."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

Smashed lightbulbs surrounded Kira -- and Malia, who sat a few rows away with safety goggles strapped to her face.

Kira leaned against the table in a failed slump, avoiding the white shards of glass. "Can I ask you a question?"

"No."

She did anyway. "Did your mother really try to kill you?"

"Did your mother try to leave you in the desert with skinwalkers?"

Kira took that on the chin, or her back, since her current angle was reclined in a premature pout of shame. "Are you really going to try to kill her first?"

Malia removed her goggles, sighing. "Dallas used to tell me that mothers were overrated. That they were just a giant...fleshy.. meaner ..  female version of a dad. I didn't realize the mean part could mean murderous, too."  She swallowed. 

Malia shrugged off the sincerity and placed both hands on the table. "This time, you're gonna do it, okay? And it's gonna work.. because this is the only way we're getting Lydia out of Eichen House."

Kira grasped the wires once more and felt the electricity swim up her molecules like a second skin. Except, this time, the electricity didn't spark. It dimmed. 

Just as her smile widened, the bulbs throughout the entire school shattered, as it were blown away by the beauty of it. 

"We should go," Malia glanced up, hearing teachers shuffle the halls. "Like, now."

⊱ ──────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰

"My dad's got the lab working on the shoe prints." Stiles bounced down the stairs of the library beside Scott. "But uh, we're both kind of mystified about how the giant werewolf feet turn back into a pair of sneakers."

Scott shrugged. "Argent said it wouldn't be like anything we've ever seen before."

"Did he say it was going to defy the laws of physics?"

Just as they turned a corner, Theo Raeken gave a world-class smirk. 

"What are you doing here?" Scott swallowed thickly.

"I still need to graduate." The Chimaera teased. 

Stiles scoffed. "No, no, what you need is to be beaten severely with a lead pipe.. wrapped in barbed wire..-"

"Okay, I admit that mistakes were made-"

"Murders. Murders were made."

"Hey, I don't see you scolding Dallas." He poured salt into the wounds. "Speaking of which, where is she in this little escapade?"

Silence.

"Awh, muzzling the dog, are we?" His words now just wanted to taunt Stiles. "Least I got a kiss before she used those teeth."

"Theo." Scott tried to diffuse. "What do you want?"

"You know how the Soviets helped us win World War II? They knew how to make it through a Russian winter."

Stiles snapped. "That's it? Okay. Thank you, Theo. Very informative."

"If you're planning to break Lydia out of Eichen House, you still need to get past the Mountain Ash. We can make it through.. But you? You can't."

"What do you really want?"

"I know you saw the fresco. Two seriously pissed-off creatures, the Hellhound and the Beast, fighting over a pile of dead bodies. I don't want to be one of those bodies. It's that simple. I can get you to Lydia."

He slammed his book shut.

"Or we can see who gets to her first." 

Stiles watched Theo leave with a scowl, wanting nothing more than to corner him and take his taunts at face value. "There's no way he knows what Valack's doing. Why's he so interested?"

Scott patted his back in a sense to calm him, which evidently, seemed fruitless. There'd be a better chance simmering fire with oil.

"He probably thinks what we're all thinking.. that Lydia's got something bigger to do with this."

He inhaled sharply. "Lydia might be the only one that can save us, Stiles." Scott swallowed. "Stiles, there's no way we can make this plan work.. not-"

"Don't say it. There's no point saying it. I don't wanna hear it-"

"Without Dallas." He frowned sympathetically as the boy scowled to himself.

"Aw, hell."

☆ word count: 7,847. ☆

A/N: ... 'lasted updated july'  put the pitchforks down right now