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Author: adja999, Original_Cypher on AO3.
Title: Staring into the sun
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing(s), Character(s): Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale, Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Alan Deaton, Peter Hale, Bobby Finstock, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Danny Mahealani, Laura Hale, "Hit-Girl" Mindy Macready, Sergeant Greg Parker, mentions of others
Rating: Teen and Up?
Words: 32,265
Summary: X-Men like AU
Our protagonists are attending Beacon Hills Academy, an institution for 'specials'. They've been detected early on, and some of them are showing spectacular abilities already. The Hales are a genetic mystery all together. Stiles, however, despite having being singled out as a kid, is nothing special. And he knows it.
Circumstances and people – read Peter – conspire to put Stiles and Derek together. Changes ensue.
Then all hell breaks loose.
There are two characters guest staring from other fandoms. One from KickAss, one from Flashpoint. You do not need to have seen the movie or tv show to understand this fic, and it does not contain spoilers for either of them.
Spoilers for Teen Wolf are very few, since it's an AU. Mostly characters from S2 and relationships.
Spoilers/Warnings: There are two characters guest staring from other fandoms. One from KickAss, one from Flashpoint. You do not need to have seen the movie or tv show to understand this fic, and it does not contain spoilers for either of them.
Spoilers for Teen Wolf are very few, since it's an AU. Mostly characters from S2 and relationships.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm just playing. I'll give them back. Maybe. If and when I'm done.

First part | Previous part


Everything is still in the classroom. Stiles is still. Nobody bothers answering Peter's question out loud. Of course they know about the prison. Mostly, because it's only a little over a hundred miles east, and because it's known, in the 'special' world, for being the place you're sent if you misbehave.

There are places that contain people that have lost control of their abilities, or have harmful ones. There are psychiatric hospitals, low level security prison, etc... But Fort Longview is where psychopaths, spree killers, and supremacists are sent. Basically, it's the place you don't want to have associated with 'we have a situation'. The look on Professor Hale's face says he hates that he just had to.

“There's been an incident at Fort Longview.” He explains. “It lead to a prisoner riot and a breach.”

“A breach.” Stiles echoes without meaning to.

Peter's eyes settle on him briefly. “Yes. Most of the prison staff is... down. And inmates are getting out.”

Are?! As in, 'still are'?!” Scott cries out.

Finstock's eyes skitter across the floor. Peter looks back at his colleagues and sighs. “As in, the gates are wide open. So they're probably all out by now.”


“We all know that most inmates in this prison are specials. Like us.”

“Only deadly.” Someone says.

“Speak for yourself.” Mindy hisses. Lydia looks offended, but Stiles is pretty sure Mindy's not being cocky, or joking at such a time. She's trying to reassure herself. Deep down, she is still a young girl in over her head like the rest of them.

Then it hits him and he squints at her.

Before he can question anything, Peter speaks again and he focuses back on the matter at hand. “Squadron 59 and 82 are on site. However, since the prison break has occurred, inmates seem to have split up in small groups or even gone on their own. They have difficulties wrangling everybody back in.”

“Are they okay?” Derek asks. Stiles swallows, and so do a lot of kids. They all know someone or have relatives in Squadrons.

“They have one soldier down, not fatal. A few minor injuries. Nothing alarming reported so far.” It sounds like press conference talk, but Derek seems to relax a little. Stiles' heard it said that the Hales can listen to your heart and tell if you're lying. It takes it as a good sign.

Deaton delivers the punchline. “Other teams would take too much time to deploy and or are busy containing other events. They've called upon us for backup.” Truth be told, Stiles was expecting it. It was either that or the announcement that the school would be evacuated for the time being due to the closeness and relation to the problem.

“.... seriously?” A small voice asks.

“They're turning to students. We're all going to die.” Jackson says blankly. Lydia grips his hand until her knuckles turn white.

“It's nothing like that.” Finstock assures them.

Harris steps up, looking less smug and despicable than usual. “They need manpower to contain however many are left once we get there, which will be a lot less than they had to begin with. However they will be more widely spread. They need us to help cover more ground. So far they're on foot and they've made sure to capture the ones who could provide faster travel options first. As you know, most powers are contained within the facility, but the speed at which they regain their abilities is unpredictable as it depends on each individual.”

There's a moment of silence during with they all process the news.

“We will be briefed on the profiles that haven't been captured yet with the latest intel once we're on our way.” Peter clasps his hands together, standing straighter, and Stiles is suddenly reminded that he's a Squadron veteran. “Now. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to ask you to weigh your decision carefully. Some of you intended to integrate the hierarchy, some of you didn't. There is absolutely nothing mandatory in this assignment. There will be real life battlefield conditions, with real weapons and powers. Life and death. We will be there with you, but we won't be able to back each and everyone of you up at all times. You have to understand it and think it through before signing up.” He glances at Deaton and Finstock, exchanging a nod before finishing. “We have gathered you all because you are over eighteen and in the last two years of your studies, which means you have at least two supervised deployments under your belt. However, let me stress this again, you are absolutely free to refuse and stand down. You won't be blamed if you do.”

“Tss...” Stiles is amongst the first ones to get up. It's part of his fear of the unknown, the reject of inaction. The general population is in danger. He could do something about it. Better yet, he's asked if he will. How could he not?

Boyd and Erica rise, Isaac is clutching at his desk, looking like he's ready to throw up. Mindy is stands, wearing a mask of fake bravado that isn't fooling anyone. Scott is still sitting, looking up at Stiles in fear. But Allison gets up, a picture of resolve and fierceness, so he follows. Stiles wants to tell him to sit back down, to not do it for her, but his friend meets his eyes like he read his thoughts and nods. He's not. She just gave him the last dose of courage.

One by one, chairs rattle and people stand. Jackson tries to pull Lydia back down, but she refuses. He follows her up without letting go of her hand, throat bobbing convulsively. Peter's eyes gain laser sharp focus on Derek when he unfolds from his chair slowly, whatever silent conversation they're having has Peter blink and eventually nod.

In the end, half the gathered students have joined in. They're told to go change into field clothes, pack their weapons and specific tools, and gather on the Lacrosse field thirty minutes later.


Stiles doesn't know what he expected, but the eery silence of people too scared to break it isn't it. The only sounds are hurried footsteps, rustle of packing motions, muttered curses when something is dropped by shaky hands.

He jogs back up the stairs to his room with a couple of his combat staffs, drops them on the bed and bends down to adjust the lace on his left boot. He goes over everything in his head. The clothes, the flash grenades, his staffs, his .45 cal. First time testing his ability on the field. Isn't that what he'd imagined?

He stands up, ready, and catches Scott looking at him, hands twisting on a jumper. “Stiles...”

He takes three long strides to round his bed and wrap him in a hug. “We'll be fine, Scott. We're trained. We got this.”

“They're prison people, Stiles. Nutcases. Dangerous.”

Stiles pulls back and gives him a crooked smile he doesn't really feel. “So are we.”


Stiles hates himself for jumping when Derek drops his bag next to his and Scott's. His best friend is off hugging Allison. Somehow, the situation made a lot of people a lot less minding of PDA. Couples and friends are seen huddling close, holding hands and hugging.

Stiles notices that Derek's gear is like Peter's. He's always had a riot at the idea that the Professor's pants were tear-away. It doesn't feel so funny, today. Stiles also knows Derek has never worn the same before, which means he's intending to shift completely if push comes to shove.

Their eyes meet briefly, an exchange of 'you okay?' glances, refusing to be spoken out loud.

“Hey.” Mindy greets, unusually quiet. Her eyes settle on the combat staff Stiles' holding in his hand and leaning on. “Is that the one I got for your birthday?”

Stiles smirks, snaps the discreet mechanism and lifts it from the ground just enough to tap once. With a swooshing sound, a blade springs out from the other extremity. Derek takes a startled step back and Stiles heart goes a little wild. Mindy is smiling up at the weapon, like it's reassuring. Like they're safe.

Because they are, right? They're armed. They're trained. They got this.

“Why are you even here?” Stiles asks her. “You're not even seventeen yet.”

Derek looks at him, then her, like it hadn't occurred to him before.

“I'm also top of the class in field assignment.” She hisses with a cold look. “And emancipated.”

Stiles wishes he didn't know she would gut him if he tried to hug her. He wishes he had someone to hold onto right now.

They all look up when two army choppers approach. Scott is jogging back to them along with Allison. Derek twists around to watch, bringing himself closer to Stiles' side. Everybody is quiet under the roaring of the blades. “We'll be okay.” Derek says. Stiles barely hears him. “Right?”

“Dude. Don't ask me.”


Stiles watches Mindy nervously twirl her butterfly knives open and closed until he goes cross-eyed. His body is being lulled into sleepiness my the vibration of the chopper and the random jolts that rock him against Scott's side. His mind, on the other hand, is a constant whirr of panic. Panic at the fact that he's halfway to dosing off and won't be sharp when they get there. Panic at the idea that they're going into battle. That any of them could die. Or all of them. Panic at change. At what's coming. At the unknown.


Derek's leg is bouncing again.

Derek and Peter are sitting across from Stiles, and when he looks up he catches Peter's eye. Peter, who is sometimes flirty, mostly cryptic, occasionally creepy, is... forty. He looks tired, all the usual swagger and smirks stripped away. There's actually a question in his eye, a worry mixed with an attempt at reassurance. Are you okay? You'll be okay. Two conflicting messages that fit the situation like a glove.

Right now, when Stiles compares the two Hales, he can really see the family resemblance. When Peter's face is blank and tensed, there is no doubt Derek is related to the teacher.

With a pang in his chest, Stiles realizes there probably is something more to the haunted, faraway look in Peter's eyes. There are memories. Of the battlefield.

Stiles doesn't know anything, but he assumes Peter's chosen to walk away from the life and teach for a reason. Whatever it was, or whether he ever intended to go back, he's now being forced into it.

Stiles ponders. Is it worse, in this situation, to be faced with the unknown like he is, or to remember exactly what you're getting into.

All he knows now – which may change, he also knows that, because he knows himself pretty well by now – is that his half made choice is now a done deal: He's not a Squadron person. He's got a scientific mind. He'll go into research. Or teaching. Oh, god, Peter would love to have him as a TA. The though almost makes him grin.

It must show on his face because Derek makes questioning eyebrows at him. Stiles almost laughs at the absurdity, and blushes, hiding his face in his hands, rubbing hard to wake himself up.

A new jolt sorts the priorities again. The present is the present. What Stiles was thinking of is the future.

He thinks of his mother.

But I don't understand.” A twelve year old Stiles scratches the tip of his nose, frustrated that something stubbornly remains out of his grasp.

“Tomorrow is the day that never comes. Think about it. Think hard, baby. Why is it?”

But tomorrow it'll be tomorrow. So... it'll come. Yesterday's tomorrow's today, so it did come.”

This is where we get tomato to-mah-to with the semantics, honey.” His mom gives him a smile, tucking a loose strand of her long strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Technically, when we get to tomorrow, tomorrow will be called 'today'.”

Stiles blinks at his mom. “... Oh.” He smiles. “Oh, yeah. I get it.” Then his face falls. “Yeah, no. What does it have to do with the girl from school?”

Don't tell her how you feel later. Don't tell her 'tomorrow'. Tell her today. Tell her now.”

... Don't miss my chance?”

Yes, baby.”

It's bittersweet to realize that growing up means leaving your life in the future. You do your homework today to reap the fruits not even tomorrow but someday. You eat right, you work out hard, so that maybe, next summer, you'll look half as good as your best friend in your swimming trunks. You sacrifice things you want, make hard choices, so that one day you will be the man you'd like to be.

So what if tomorrow truly never comes?

A jolt that has nothing to do with transportation brings him back from his thoughts. He glares at Scott, the guy has bony elbows. “What?” Scott jerks his chin, gesturing Stiles to look ahead.

He meets Derek's questioning eyes. 'What's up with you?' he mouths across the middle way.

Stiles ponders, then smirks a little when he says quietly. “Semantics.”


They get the briefings while they're starting to descend. There are fifty plus people they have left to gather. Most of the fatalities are on the inmates sides. Some of them resisted capture and refused to surrender and go back – which, in all honesty, Stiles can totally sympathize with. Jail is, after all, supposed to be a cautionary tale that makes you want to not go – and some committed suicide when they got cornered, probably for similar reasons. According to their intel, some fights also broke out between inmates.

All in all, the two teams on site seem to have handled most of the problem. Which is a good and a bad thing. Stiles can read between the lines of the very carefully worded briefing: the worst ones are still out there.

They will be meeting Squadron 52's Team One on the ground and briefed personally by Sergeant Gregory Parker. He's somewhat of a legend at school. Stiles has concluded by the greeting over the radio that he and Hale go back. At some points Peter called him 'Boss' and once 'Teach'. Boss he can get, he is, after all, one. It doesn't necessarily mean that he was Peter's boss. But Teach?

Anything, really, to keep his brain focused on something else than the problem at hand. Namely, survive, try to help, not get anyone else killed because he's an idiot. That kind of thing.

Finstock has them pass around coms when the pilot announces they will be touching down in two minutes. Stiles Sets his ear-bud easily and has to help Scott not put it in upside down. He could kiss his best friend for being his comic relief at such a time.

They expect battle and gunfire and explosions when they get there. Not two guys standing in an empty open field. Stiles watches the weeds flap away at the rottor's wind, they look like they're trying to run away.

They hold on to each other and whatever they can grab onto when they land. If Scott feels how clammy and shaky Stiles' hand is, he doesn't comment on it.

When the engines stop and the rotors slow to a complete stop, they leave a ringing in Stiles' ears that make the whole situation feel unreal. He gets up and grabs his gear in a daze. His attention is caught by the sudden movement for Derek falling back in his seat, looking confusedly at the firm hand Peter's got on his arm.

Right now, he doesn't look like Old Hale, like a teacher or an authority figure. He's Peter, a family member. A little lost, a lot worried, and trying to hide it all and take charge. “Be careful,” he tells Derek. It's not quite an order.

Derek meets his eyes and gives a faint nod, trying for a smile. “You too,” he responds as Peter's hand slips away from his jacket. He holds up his arm, offering the outside of his forearm to his uncle. In a gesture that speaks of familiarity and tradition, Peter presses his own limb against it briefly, a parting gesture, before he gets up and slips a new mask on.

Commander Hale. Wow.

They all follow the teachers outside, jumping down on cotton legs. Stiles only stays upright because Boyd is there with an iron grip on his elbow when his knees give. “Stilinski. You alright?” Finstock asks quietly, looking ahead and pretending not to be talking when he comes to stand next to Stiles. So he does know how his name is spelled, then.

Stiles contracts his legs alternatively, swallows and clears his throat. Now is not the time to make anybody lose time because he's a wuss with a panic attack. He unfolds his fingers and wraps them back around his staff, Mindy's gift, and reminds himself that he is trained. He's good at what he does. He's got this. “Yes, sir,” he says in a steady voice he doesn't recognize. “Peachy.”

“This better be quick.” Finstock muses. This time, Boyd and Stiles stop pretending not to be engaged in a conversation and shoot him a confused look. Finstock eyes them. “Chocolate fudge tonight. You really think the others are going to leave us any if we don't get back there on time?”

Stiles adds the way Boyd's lip twitch into a smile to the list of positive things to hold on to.

They all gather, people standing a little closer than they usually wood, telling sign of emotions – albeit ignored and unspoken – running high. Peter and the Sergeant embrace and grin at each other for a second before they turn serious again. Parker claps Deaton on the shoulder with a warm smile that speaks of previous encounters. Finstock joins them quickly and shake hands solemnly.

Stiles feels Scott press against his side.

This is it.


They're divided into seven teams. The Sarg gives the number, but the teachers do the splitting. They know how their kids work, they also seem to try and to dispatch people with defensive powers, attack powers and useless-in-such-circumstances somewhat equally, so as to create the most balanced teams they can. The same goes for super-strong, super-healing types.

This is how Scott and Allison end up being separated. Deaton eyed Stiles and his best friend for a second and seemed to have decided not to split them up. Small mercies and all that. Despite the previous rules, Peter categorically refused to be dispatched to a different team than his nephew. This is how they become the Alpha Team. Commander Hale as the head, Derek, Scott and Stiles. Then Mindy, Boyd, Isaac and Jackson are added into the mix. Mindy and Boyd, Stiles gets. Isaac or Jackson, too. But fire and ice?

Meh. Why the fuck not? The more the safer, he figures. He's almost sure that Jackson wouldn't let him die. You know, if it didn't take too much effort to help him out.

They are told to huddle close and touch, which they do with a lot less jokes and sly grins as they usually would. Stiles feels his heartbeat skyrocket when he's got not only got his hand on Scott's shoulder, but Peter's on his upper arm and... is that Derek that just grabbed his hand? Okay, it's far from the hold you would take to actually 'hold someone's hand' but it's... God, he doesn't want to let go.

He wants to be brought back to a week ago, raging over maths homework. Or a month ago when he thought Derek wanted him squashed like a bug. Peter and Derek's hand squeeze gently and he wonders if they were both intentionally listening in on him panicking and trying to bring him some sort of reassurance. He wonders whether they know how in synch they are.

Serg. Parker radios someone and suddenly they're a guy popping in out of nowhere in front of them. “Location?” He's given coordinates by the other Squadron officer, he turns back to them and takes a deep breath, looking like someone steeling themselves for physical effort. He reaches forward and grabs Boyd's free hand as if to shake it.

In a flash, they're somewhere else. Scott gasps and Stiles feels Derek jump. Really? Stiles is amazed, don't get him wrong, but... Didn't they expect teleportation? Have then never read any comic books? Or fantasized about abilities? Why else did they think they all had to gather in the middle of nowhere and touch?

“Good luck.” The guy says, solemnly, and disappears just as an explosion that sounds like a rocket being launched startles the whole bunch.


Stiles gives the staff in his hand a critical look. Great.

Here goes nothing.


It all becomes a blurr. They're quickly spotted by the officers on sight and they run into action like they've been taught. They try not to step in each other's way, but never to get too far so that they won't know if one of them is in trouble.

The action is pretty easy to get to. It finds them. A man is charging forward, barreling towards them a machine gun in hand. Luckily, it seems either jammed or out of ammo, but that doesn't keep the gun from continuing forward. He has machetes hanging from his belt and flapping his sides.

Stiles understands the problem when a placating shot aimed for his leg bounces off an invisible barrier and seems to dissolve in thin air. He readjusts his grip, mentally counting how many blades he's got on him and feeling his gun at his back. At some point, the guy is going to have to let someone into his force field if he's looking to attack like he seems to.

Stiles' staff is longer than a machete.

He's jolted to the side by Mindy pushing past him, and planting her feet into the ground, right in the lunatic's path. A Squadron guy looks at her like she's insane. The slack jawed look on his face may also be because he has registered how young she looks. But Peter makes a calming gesture to the soldier and Stiles positions himself to back her up. He knows what she can do.

Mindy squints at the inmate and doesn't move while he keeps charging, then she bows her head in concentration. Stiles hopes she knows what she's doing and will have enough time, because he's getting close. But then her lips twitch and she looks up. The guy falters, falls to his knees with his hands pressed to his head, tripping forward and face-planting with the inertia of his run. Mindy's psionic blast hit him dead on.

The Squadron guy – Ed? – looks mildly impressed when he wrangles the guy in and zip ties his wrists, tagging him with gps for the retrieval team. Stiles looks away when he hears the distinctive crack of ice shattering and finds Boyd, Jackson and Scott fighting off a hail of bullets. Mindy races to them. Stiles wishes he could do something like stop a gunshot.

His ability is too fresh. Too weak.

So goddamn useless.

The inmate on the floor suddenly lunges for him. Apparently, Stiles gathers while he's got extra large hands crushing his windpipe, having the power to shield yourself also means you can bust zipties. The Squadron guy is running back, not daring to shoot with Stiles so tangled with his assailant. It's all on Stiles.

Except the guy makes Boyd look medium sized. And his vision is starting to get spotty.

He claws at the guys' wrists, and tries to shift his hold just enough to breathe, to make a sound. He lets out a roar of pain and desperation and sheer rage, pushing forward so hard that his abdominal muscles feel like they're tearing. But it's working. He can feel the hold loosening.

He still can't breathe but it's less excruciating. He just has to hold on, keep pushing, keep going. The aggressor seems angrier, aware he's battling something else than a choking teenager. He does until he can feel sweet, blessed oxygen sip in, and the guy is thrown backwards, only now straddling his thighs. The war cry Stiles ended up shouting dies in his throat, leaving burning ambers behind. His eyes sting and his lungs are on fire, but he's got no time to think or recover. The Squadron guy tries to shoot the inmate but it doesn't work. From the way he turned toward the military man, Stiles gets that he can either only shield in front of him, or that it takes more effort to make a whole bubble.

Before he can think of what to do with the information, or before his attacker can turn back to him, a growling blur of black movement tackles him off of Stiles. Fully shifted, huffing and puffing, it even manages to scare the convict, judging by the yelp he lets out. Mindy is back, and she yells not to kill him. She gives him a hard stare and he falls back like a rag doll.

“He'll be out for a good five hours.” She huffs when the Squadron guy looks at her. “No killing unless absolutely unavoidable, right?” They had the 'deadly action authorized' speech earlier. Stiles didn't think she was listening.

The thing, the – the wolf, turns to Stiles and its eyes are burning yellow. “Oh, Peter. Hey.” He just got rescued by his political science and history professor. How weird is that? Now that he's got time to see, it's clear beyond the fur, built and eye color that it's not Derek crouching next to him. He wonders whether it's normal that he finds the way they move so easy to recognize. “Nice moves.”


The rest of the fights work out much better for Stiles. He gets slashed in the arm pretty bad at some point, but he doesn't get choked to death again so he counts all of them as wins.

He uses his ability, because there is no time for life crisis and being shy in battle situations. Not when you're in danger, not when your friends are. He doesn't think anyone's noticed, though. He didn't have to use it too visibly, and, in their defense, they were pretty preoccupied.

Isaac gets knocked into a tree pretty badly and is out for a couple of very frightening minutes. Jackson almost looks ready to give him a hug when he comes around. The back of his head is bleeding, he's zapped off the field by the same man who got them all here in the first place.

Boyd seems immortal. Or something. He's hit by a flare gun at close range and, somehow, between howling in pain and beating the shooter unconscious, he manages to siphon the flare itself to heal the chest wound it gave him. Everybody more or less gapes at him at that, safe for the now out-cold asshole that short him. Stiles wonders what would have happened if he'd been shot with something lifeless that Boyd wouldn't have channeled like a plain old bullet or a bolt, but he doesn't want to find out.

The display of power on their side stops an inmate in his tracks. He just stops walking, cups both hands under his gun and deposits it on the ground like it was a cradle, surrendering. Stiles understand the impulse and makes a mental note to always stay on whichever side Boyd is fighting – it's a joke, if Boyd ever went darkside he knows he couldn't do anything but stand up to him, but it would suck.

In the end, they wrangle five inmates back into jail life. They're told only two more are in their area. There's one more casualty on the Squadron side. Greenberg and Erica are wounded but they'll be fine – broken bones and concussions.

The two inmate left are twins, and supposed to be traveling together. “Description?” Peter calls into the walkie.

“Any of you read the Fantastic Four?”

“I have.” Stiles pipes up, surprising absolutely no one.

“Remember The Thing?”

“Oh.” Stiles loves The Thing. It's epic. However, he never imagined fighting against it. Let alone times two. “Yay.” he says flatly.


“It's like an armor!!” Jackson calls when he pushes up from where he's landed and runs back into battle. He opens the coms to repeat the finding to the whole team. “It's like an armor! Aim for the joints! It's weaker there.”

The beast they're facing has large clumps of what look like scales. Stiles got backhanded pretty hard when he got too close, but from what he'd seen they look solidified. Although they appear to be part of the body, they look hardened to a point they're akin to wood, or stone, in patches. From the sound bullets of his .45 and the blades make when they collide with it, he's not too far off. Which is just great, because it means most of their weapons are useless.

“Where's Derek?!” Stiles cries out, looking around. Two seconds ago, he was fighting with a couple of Squadron guys the other giant – because of course, they couldn't simply be regular sized unhurtable monsters, nooo... – but now the army guys are down and neither Derek and the beast are to be seen. “Derek?!” he calls into the coms.

“He chased it uphill!” Scott calls, dodging a slow but oh so powerful looking swing of stony fist. Holy hell, he's never doing this again.

“Derek, do you copy?!” Peter calls, distracted, and is sent flying for his instant of inattention.

“...-opy.” Stiles sags in relief when he hears the distant sounding voice in his ear.

“Location?” Stiles asks, eyes locked with the gasping Commander. One of the soliders waves him off when he goes to check on him.

“... just uphill. Am fine. Could use som-...” Stiles freezes – so does Mindy, and she almost gets squished into a pancake for it, thank fuck for Jackson and Scott's reflexes – when Derek gets cut off by a loud smack and cry of pain. The communication fizzles out and the com goes silent.

There a beat during which Jackson doges a hit, looking like he's about to run to Derek. A gunshot cracks and Stiles is seconds away from bolting uphill. Then Derek comes back online, panting.

“I could use someone to back me up. Just one. Don't send a whole team. It's pretty weak, spare-...” the communication crackles and the line goes dead again.

“I got you.” Stiles says, taking off towards the steep hillside, meeting Peter's eye. “It's Stiles. I'm on my way.”

The coms make a sound like something sizzling in a frying pan and Derek's voice comes back on, barely audible. “...-opy. … two minutes... see us...” Mindy lets out a cry of rage and tries sending another blast. It doesn't seem to work with those.... things. “... ear-... damaged...”

“I copy, Derek. I gotcha.”

Stiles is already out of sight when he ears Jackson argue. “I should go! He can't do anything!”

“He can do plenty.” Peter growls back, then into the coms. “And he's not reckless. If they need us, he'll radio in.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Stiles pants.

Last part