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He was the good guy.
The Nogitsune was long gone, that was for sure. Or was it? Stiles’ friends obviously didn’t know, but Stiles knew. This was him, in the flesh. The Nogitsune was dead, gone. You’re not gonna find that sucker anywhere near him again. The pack was wary, they’d obviously noticed something. . . different about Stiles. He didn’t really care, though. After the Nogitsune, something inside of him. . . changed. He wasn’t sure what it was or what happened, but suddenly nothing really mattered to him anymore. He’d play. . . tricks on the pack, causing strife from the shadows. He felt the need, he couldn’t just ignore it.
Some people just needed to go, and Stiles took care of that. The pack never cared anyways, so what if he got a little bit of blood on his hands because of it? Any time a new ‘enemy’ came to town, well, Stiles took care of it.
The pack may have thought that Stiles was weak, he didn’t really care what they thought. He wasn’t weak anymore. No, he was strong. His powers responded to his every choice, and he may have used some ‘unsavory’ methods, but who really cares. The town was safe, that's all that mattered.
And if the pack never knew it was him, well, whose fault was that?
The moment the pack really noticed something was different with Stiles was when, during a pack meeting, he was missing. Halfway through the meeting, he showed up, covered in blood with a malicious grin on his face.
“Sorry I’m late, got a little caught up,” was all he said as he collapsed onto a chair next to Peter, who gazed down at the boy with a glint of shock in his carefully crafted expression. The rest of the pack just stared. What in the world?
“Uh. . . well anyways, as I was saying, the vampires-” Scott was cut off when Stiles raised his hand and remarked, “Took care of that, you’re welcome.”
Scott stared at the boy in shock. What?
Stiles rolled his eyes, “The vampires,” he clarified. “I took care of them. They’re dead.”
“You?” Derek scoffed, staring at Stiles skeptically.
Stiles smirked at Derek, eyes cold. It scared the pack, to be honest. What had happened to Stiles?
“Obviously, sourwolf. Who else is sitting before you, covered in blood?”
The pack was quiet at that.
“Is there anything else, or can I go?” Stiles asked conversationally, a bored look crossing his features.
“Uh- no. . .” Scott said, still staring at his best friend.
“Good,” Stiles smirked, pulling himself up off the chair. “See y’all tomorrow.”
And with that, the boy left, leaving the pack in stunned silence.
This wasn’t the only time something weird happened with Stiles, but it was the most obvious one. Stiles was a trickster, the Nogitsune was right about that. And the pack was just beginning to realize it.
The next thing they noticed was how the amount of supernatural threats had gone down. They’d find rogue werewolves dead in pools of their own blood, and fae withered and magicless. The ones they found alive told stories in terror of a boy in a red hoodie, a scar across his nose and a malicious grin on his face.
But the pack could never connect these stories with Stiles. Each time they happened, someone was either with him or watching him. How could someone like him do this without being noticed? After all, Stiles is too energetic for his own good, all gangly limbs and tripping over air. How could he be the psychopath they were chasing?
He seemed fine, other than that one specific night. He joked around, made somewhat insulting jabs at people, and generally acted normal.
Soon, the new ‘Big Bad’ popped up.
Supernaturals who resided in and around Beacon Hills were dropping dead, seemingly of their own accord. No one survived an encounter with the new threat. Sometimes it almost looked like the ‘Big Bad’ was. . . playing with their victims. Their deathbed always smelled of terror and dread, according to the ‘wolves. But the pack couldn’t figure out who was behind it.
Derek suspected Stiles. He voiced his thoughts a few times, but he couldn’t find proof to back up his claims, and his suspicions eventually vanished. The boy was an enigma, and Derek didn’t quite know what was up with him. Since the Nogtisune, he wasn’t quite. . . right. He seemed fine, but. . .
Scott didn’t suspect a thing. Like, who would suspect their best friend of murder? Though he would sometimes find red stains on the clothes that Stiles would leave around his room, he chalked it up to food dye, ketchup, that sort of thing. After all, Stiles was the clumsiest of them all.
Lydia was concerned. The boy was her rival in all things academic, and she had to admit she felt a bit of an. . . attachment to him, though she’d never admit it. Stiles seemed fine, to most people. But Lydia wasn’t most people. She didn’t think it was Stiles doing these things, though, he’d never do something like this without incentive. She suspected that perhaps the new ‘Big Bad’ was forcing him to do them. Stiles wasn’t cruel, he just had. . . flimsy morals.
Peter was relishing this change. He could taste the darkness, and it thrilled him. The silent psycho that the kid hid behind carefully crafted personas, it was a game, and Peter just loved trying to solve it. Perhaps it was because he felt the most. . . kinship with this, after all, he had been psychotic himself, out of his mind and doing things he couldn’t quite remember. But, the only thing was that Stiles didn’t seem to be doing any of this stuff. Always with someone when they occurred, how could it be him? Maybe the boy was more crafty than he thought. . .
Jackson didn’t care. To him, Stiles was always the clumsy idiot, mouth moving too fast and limbs faster. Stiles wasn’t capable of hurting a fly, much less werewolves and whatever else was being killed. Secretly, though, he was a bit worried about Stiles’ actions sometimes. Sometimes they weren’t quite. . . convincing. Like an act, a mask. Like that mask was falling off, and Stiles didn’t care to put it back on.
Isaac was dead. So, well, he couldn’t voice his thoughts.
The pack had found him, along with a group of other were-creatures, dead in an abandoned warehouse, to the side of the Preserve. His face was twisted in a look of horror, and was that. . . betrayal?
In the end, the deaths had no pattern. No, all the victims were ‘wolves or all the victims were killers. The only similarity between all of them was that they were supernatural.
Hunters, the pack whispered to each other. The Argents?
But it wasn’t the Argents, and no new Hunters were in town, so who was it?
What was going on?
Two weeks after the murders started, the pack was scrambling. One of their members dead, and they still had no clue who was doing this. Lydia suspected Peter, pushing him against the wall one day and accusing him of it. Peter insisted that it wasn’t him; he had no reason to go around murdering people. Stiles suspected that a creature called an On’he was behind the murders.
On’he were supernatural assassins, though only stories, but those stories obviously came from truth. They were faceless beings, somewhat like the Oni, but not Japanese and were not controlled by anyone. They worked through supernaturals, killing those with the potential for evil.
The explanation made sense to the pack, and they spent days researching these creatures. The deaths matched, but how does one defeat an On’he if it was only a myth?
It was Stiles who came up with the solution.
It was always Stiles.
No one noticed though, Stiles always found the answers in the first place.
He told them that if you could capture enough in a room surrounded by Mountain Ash, you could kill them by destroying their swords. Their swords, again like the Oni, connected them to the mortal world. Once that tether was cut, they would merely cease to exist. And what was the best bait for a merciless supernatural killer was a boy who ran with wolves? Anyone who met Stiles had to admit he had a bit of a darker streak, but Scott always assured him that he was good. He’d never be bad, at least not to them.
So Stiles was made into the bait for these assassins.
To say he felt a bit. . . put off from this new development wasn’t enough to show how he actually felt. Once again, the human was collateral damage. No use sacrificing someone who actually is an asset to the pack, huh?
Stiles donned his red hoodie that night.
Scott and the pack hid outside the warehouse, Lydia ready to close the Mountain Ash barrier. She wasn’t affected by it, since she was a Banshee, which was immune to most supernatural things. They waited, breathless, for the signal. Silence. The minutes ticked by, and the pack was getting restless. Suddenly, they heard the signal, a simple howl from the human. The pack ran into the warehouse and Lydia closed the barrier behind them. But the warehouse was empty, no On’he or Stiles in sight.
“What?” Scott asked, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “Where's Stiles? And the On’he?”
As Peter looked around, he suddenly realized. The pack was trapped. Lydia had closed the Mountain Ash and, well, only a human can break the Ash. Banshees may be able to create the barriers, but it's strictly a human thing to be able to break them. “It was a trick,” he said slowly, staring at his hands. “There are no On’he are there?”
There was a figure in the corner of the warehouse, outside of the barrier. Their eyes glowed a dark, alluring orange color, unnatural in the human’s face. Scotts eyes widened in horror at the realization. “Its- Its been you, the entire time-?” He stuttered, staring at the human with glowing orange eyes and a psychotic grin. The human stepped out of the shadows.
“Hiya Scotty!” Stiles smirked, flipping a knife in one hand,“ Took you long enough. ”
The human’s face was pale, like how he looked during the Nogitsune, but his eyes glinted orange, and he was so obviously Stiles.
“What-” Scotts face was pale, “Why? What- What? How?”
Stiles’ face took on a mockingly sad look, lips pouting and eyebrows scrunched. “What, Scotty? Don’t like the new me?” The boy continued to flip the knife in his hand, its metal glinting in the moonlight each time it was tossed into the air.
Lydia's face was a picture of shock and confusion. How had she not managed to realize something was up? Derek growled at the boy, eyes flashing. He had been right, it was Stiles! Deep down thought, he was just as shook as the others. How could the ecstatic, flaily teen be the same as the- the monster with evil, glowing eyes before them?
“Aw, Derek, that's not nice.” Stiles remarked mockingly sad, and Derek realized that he’d said that last thing out loud. “I’m not a monster, just a guy!”
“You’ve killed so many innocents,” he snarled, banging into the Mountain Ash barrier when he tried to charge at Stiles. Stiles rolled his eyes, a grin on his face.
“So?”
The room dropped a couple degrees at the coldness the single word was said with. The word chilled even Peter, who stared at the teen before him. Before this, he’d found pleasure observing the psychotic teen, but this, this was something else. Something like the Nogitsune, evil beyond measure. And it was Stiles.
Stiles.
“Why are you doing this?” Lydia asked, desperate. Desperate for the boy she knew to still be there. He couldn’t just become this- this empty, evil husk of a person. How could this have happened?
Stiles shrugged, “I guess the goodness just. . . ran out.”
Scott stared at his best friend, eyes wide and broken. His best friend, the one he’d known for his entire life. . . was a murderer. On purpose. “What happened to you?” He asked, sadness dripping from his words.
Stiles’ eyes went cold. “You did.”
The pack collectively gasped at the expression on his face.
“I was possessed, Scotty, possessed. Do you have any idea how that feels? To feel your body doing things and you can’t do anything about it? To be used, like a puppet ? No you don’t, because you didn’t care after. When I was shattered. I’ve had to put myself back together piece by piece and well, it looks like some of the pieces have gone missing.” He shrugged, expression dark. “Or maybe they were never there in the first place.”
Derek rolled his eyes, “Stop being so dramatic, Stiles. We were suffering too! We had to deal with being attacked by a packmate, Allison died, Stiles! You aren't the only one who was a victim, accept that. So what, we didn’t spend everyday with you? I thought you were stronger than that.”
Stiles growled at that, a low sound that shocked everyone. “I died too, idiot! When Scott bit me, I died! The only reason I’m alive right now is because of the Nogitsune! It turned me, you idiots. My body rejected the bite, and when the Nogitsune died, its life force melded with mine! Do you know how that feels, to be taken apart and put back together with something else?”
The pack were shocked by this new development. Stiles was supernatural now?
“I”m- I’m sorry,” Scott said, still staring brokenly at his friend.
Stiles curled his lip, “It's a bit too late for that, Scotty.”
Peter couldn’t believe what he had just heard. That was- what Stiles had just said was impossible! No human could survive that. He voiced that, and Stiles smirked at him.
“Good thing I’m not most people, then, huh?” The sarcasm dripped from the words, Stiles’ eyes still glinting orange.
“Well then, what are you?” Lydia asked quietly. Stiles let out a dark chuckle, he’d actually scared the great Lydia Martin.
His eyes darkened, “I’m your worst nightmare.” In one movement, Stiles threw the knife he had been flipping in his hands and, with deadly accuracy, it hit Derek in the chest. The ‘wolf hit the ground at the same time as Stiles lit a match, the fire the exact same color as Stiles’ eyes. “That was for being a jerk. Oh well, looks like I’ll get to add arson to my little list of crimes.” Stiles dropped the match in a pool of gasoline that had been lined around the warehouse. “Hope you enjoy the smell of burnt wolf, ‘cus that's the last thing you’ll ever smell.”
The terror and betrayal in the eyes of the pack were the same as the look in Isaacs eyes as Stiles walked out of the warehouse.
The explosion illuminated the boy wearing a red hoodie, a scar across his nose and a malicious smirk on his face.
Leave no witnesses.
Looks like I’m no longer the good guy, hm?