Chapter 4: Memories Bleeding Through
POV: Stiles Stilinski
Stiles' laptop had officially entered its death throes, and it was taking his sanity with it.
"Come on, you piece of shit," he muttered, jabbing the power button with enough force to crack the plastic. "I need you to work for like five more minutes so I can finish this research paper about the economic impacts of the French Revolution, which is basically the most boring topic in the history of topics, and then you can die in whatever slow, electronic way you want."
The screen flickered once, showed him three seconds of his desktop, then went black with the kind of finality that suggested the laptop had given up on life entirely.
"DAMN IT!"
The shout came out louder than intended, carrying enough frustration to make his bedroom windows rattle. Literally rattle, which was weird because his room was on the second floor and there was no wind tonight.
Even weirder was the way every electronic device in his room suddenly surged back to life.
His laptop screen blazed bright enough to hurt his eyes. His phone started playing music at full volume. His alarm clock began flashing random numbers in rapid succession. The overhead light strobed like he was having a seizure.
"What the hell?"
Stiles stared at his hands, which were tingling with residual energy that felt suspiciously like the sensation he got when he touched Scott. His scarred palm was warm to the touch, and when he looked closely, he could swear he saw faint light pulsing beneath the skin.
His phone buzzed with a text from Scott: everything okay? I just felt something weird
Stiles typed back: define weird
like electricity. made my teeth itch
yeah that was probably me. my electronics are having a nervous breakdown
your electronics or you?
Stiles looked around his room, where everything was slowly returning to normal function. His laptop had not only turned back on but was now running faster than it had in months.
honestly? both
The next morning brought chemistry class and another installment of Mr. Harris's ongoing campaign to make learning as joyless as possible. Stiles slumped at his lab table next to Scott, trying to focus on molecular structures while his body hummed with restless energy that made him want to pace around the room or possibly run several miles.
"Three more days until the full moon," Scott muttered, measuring out precise amounts of sodium chloride with the kind of concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs. "And I already feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin."
"Maybe you should skip the next few practices," Stiles suggested, carefully not mentioning last night's transformation disaster. "Give yourself some time to adjust."
"I can't. Coach is already suspicious about my sudden improvement, and Jackson's been watching me like he thinks I'm on steroids."
"Speaking of Jackson, incoming at three o'clock with his usual charm and personality."
Jackson Whittemore approached their table with the predatory confidence of someone who'd never been told no in his life. His lab partner Danny trailed behind looking apologetic, which meant Jackson was about to be particularly unpleasant.
"McCall," Jackson said, setting down his beaker with enough force to slosh clear liquid onto the lab table. "Heard you had some kind of episode at practice yesterday."
"It wasn't an episode," Scott replied carefully. "I got hit hard and needed a minute to recover."
"Right. Because normal people make sounds like that when they're winded."
Stiles felt his protective instincts flare along with the strange energy that had been building all morning. "Back off, Jackson."
"Or what, Stilinski? You'll bore me to death with statistics about lacrosse injuries?"
"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of shorting out every electronic device in a three-block radius, but sure, let's go with statistics."
The thought came from nowhere, accompanied by a surge of power that made the overhead lights flicker. Mr. Harris looked up from his desk with irritation, but before he could identify the source of the electrical fluctuation, Allison Argent walked into the classroom.
Stiles felt the change immediately—a settling sensation in his chest, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Scott straightened beside him, his enhanced hearing probably picking up the sound of her heartbeat from across the room. And somehow, Stiles could sense her emotional state: nervous about being late, frustrated with her locker combination, and underneath it all, the same restless energy that had been driving him crazy for days.
"How am I reading her emotions? That should be impossible."
But impossible seemed to be the theme of his life lately.
Mr. Harris assigned Allison to the empty lab station directly behind Scott and Stiles, close enough that Stiles could smell her shampoo and catch fragments of the murmured conversation she was having with her lab partner about chemical bonds and molecular structure.
"Focus on the assignment. Stop thinking about how she makes you feel complete in ways you don't understand. Definitely stop thinking about how her presence seems to stabilize whatever weird supernatural thing is happening to you."
Mr. Harris began explaining the day's experiment—something about combustion reactions and heat generation that Stiles would normally find fascinating. But his attention kept drifting to the Bunsen burner on his table, specifically to the blue flame that danced hypnotically at its tip.
"Fire."
The word echoed in his mind with significance that went beyond the simple chemistry experiment. Fire meant something important, something connected to the dreams that had been getting clearer every night.
Scott reached for a test tube, and his hand passed close to the flame. The motion triggered something in Stiles' memory—a cascade of images that hit him like a physical blow.
Summer afternoon. Sunlight through leaves. A small campfire crackling in the center of a forest clearing. Three children standing around it, their faces serious with the weight of what they were about to do.
"Are you sure this will work?" A girl's voice, younger but unmistakably Allison's.
"The fire makes it official," said his own voice, high with childhood but certain. "Blood and fire and promises. That's how you bind souls together."
"Bind souls?" Scott sounded worried. "Is that safe?"
"The tree will protect us. It's been waiting for us."
A teenage girl with blonde hair watched from the shadows, her smile predatory in a way that should have been a warning. But they were eight years old and believed in magic and promises, and they didn't understand that some adults used children for their own purposes.
"Cut deeper," the blonde girl instructed. "The binding requires real blood, not just drops."
The knife bit into their palms. Blood welled bright and warm. When they joined hands around the fire, power rushed up from the earth itself.
The flashback was so vivid and overwhelming that Stiles gasped audibly, his hand knocking over his beaker and sending clear liquid across the lab table.
But he wasn't the only one.
Scott had gone rigid beside him, his enhanced senses probably making the memory even more intense. Behind them, Allison made a strangled sound that could have been pain or recognition.
All three of them were experiencing the exact same flashback at the exact same moment.
"We really did it. We actually performed some kind of soul-binding ritual when we were eight years old, and now it's awakening."
Mr. Harris's voice cut through the memory like a scalpel. "Is there a problem, gentlemen? Ms. Argent?"
Stiles looked around the classroom and realized that every student was staring at them. Three teenagers having simultaneous reactions to nothing visible was the kind of thing that attracted attention.
"Sorry," Scott managed. "Just... thought I saw something."
"Yeah, a really big spider," Stiles added quickly. "Probably nothing dangerous. Definitely not supernatural."
Mr. Harris looked at them with the expression of someone who suspected teenagers of being inherently suspicious but couldn't prove anything specific.
"Perhaps you could focus your attention on chemistry rather than arachnids."
"Absolutely. Chemistry. Super focused."
But as class continued, Stiles found it impossible to concentrate on molecular bonds when his own bonds to Scott and Allison were apparently stronger than he'd imagined. Every time he looked at them, he caught echoes of their emotional states—Scott's mounting anxiety about the approaching full moon, Allison's confusion about the memories that were surfacing.
"We need to talk. All three of us. Preferably somewhere private where we can figure out what the hell is happening to us without an audience."
The bell rang, releasing them from chemistry class and Mr. Harris's suspicious stare. Stiles packed his books with shaking hands, hyperaware of Scott and Allison doing the same behind him. The air between the three of them felt charged with potential, like the moment before lightning strikes.
They needed answers. And Stiles had a feeling they weren't going to like what they found.
The parking lot ambush came courtesy of Jackson Whittemore and his finely tuned ability to sense weakness from a hundred yards away.
"Well, well," Jackson said, positioning himself between the trio and Stiles' Jeep with the casual confidence of a predator who'd cornered his prey. "If it isn't the weird little club that seems to share everything—emotions, reactions, probably brain cells."
"Move, Jackson," Allison said, her voice carrying an edge that made Stiles reassess his understanding of her personality. "We're not in the mood."
"Since when does Allison Argent sound like she could kill someone with her bare hands?"
"Oh, but I'm curious about your little moment in chemistry class. Very synchronized. Very..." Jackson paused, searching for the word that would cause maximum damage. "Intimate."
Scott stepped forward, and Stiles caught the scent of his friend's rising anger—sharp and metallic, with an undertone of something wild that meant trouble.
"No. Not here. Not in front of half the student body."
"We felt what you felt," Jackson continued, directing his words at Allison. "Which means either you three are sharing some really good drugs, or something else is going on."
"You felt what we felt?" Allison asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
"Uh oh. That's not good. That's the voice people use right before they do something they'll probably regret but definitely enjoy."
"Everyone in the classroom felt it," Jackson said. "That little electric shock moment when you three had your synchronized freak-out. Kind of hard to miss."
Stiles felt the energy building again—the same power that had shorted out his electronics last night, only stronger and more focused. Around the parking lot, car alarms began chirping intermittently, and several students' phones started behaving erratically.
"Shit. I need to get this under control before—"
Jackson grabbed Scott's arm with enough force to leave marks. "So what's your secret, McCall? Performance enhancing drugs? Some kind of weird therapy group? Or are you three just—"
The word Jackson was reaching for got lost when Stiles snapped.
The fury came from somewhere deeper than conscious thought—protective rage that demanded Jackson understand exactly how badly he'd miscalculated. Stiles' eyes flashed purple for a split second, and every electronic device in the parking lot surged simultaneously.
Car alarms shrieked. Phone screens went blindingly bright. The streetlights came on despite the afternoon sun. And in the center of the chaos, Jackson stumbled backward as if he'd been physically shoved.
"Holy shit. Did I just do that?"
The electrical surge lasted maybe three seconds before everything went dead. Complete silence fell over the parking lot as students looked around in confusion at their non-functional devices.
Jackson stared at Stiles with something approaching fear.
"What the hell are you?"
"That's an excellent question. I wish I had an answer."
"We're leaving," Scott said, his voice carrying enough authority to make Jackson step aside without argument. "Stiles, keys."
They piled into the Jeep in tense silence, driving away from the school and the wreckage of the parking lot's electrical system. Stiles' hands shook as he gripped the steering wheel, adrenaline and residual energy making him feel like he'd been hit by lightning.
"Okay," Allison said from the passenger seat. "We really, really need to talk."
"Yeah," Scott agreed from the back. "Somewhere private. Somewhere we can figure out what's happening without accidentally destroying any more technology."
Stiles knew exactly where to go. His body was already turning toward the preserve, following an instinct that led straight to the place where three children had once made promises they were only beginning to understand.
"The clearing. We need to go back to where it all started."
The forest welcomed them like old friends returning home.
Stiles parked at the edge of the preserve and they walked into the trees without discussing direction. Their feet found a path that wasn't marked on any map, following game trails and deer paths with the certainty of people who'd walked this route before.
"How do I know where I'm going? I've never been this deep in the preserve."
But his legs carried him forward with confidence, muscles remembering a journey taken eight years ago by a boy who'd believed in magic and the power of promises.
"This is crazy," Scott said, but he was following the same invisible path. "We're walking through the forest like we have GPS coordinates for something that only exists in our dreams."
"Not dreams," Allison corrected. "Memories. What happened in chemistry class proved they're memories."
"Shared memories. Which should be impossible unless we really did perform some kind of supernatural ritual as children."
They walked in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts but aware of the others' presence in ways that went beyond normal friendship. Stiles could sense Scott's nervous energy, the wolf nature that was still learning to coexist with human consciousness. Allison's emotional state was more complex—curiosity and fear and something like relief that she finally had answers to questions she'd been asking her whole life.
"There," Stiles thought as they crested a small hill. "That's it."
The clearing spread before them like something from a fairy tale. Ancient trees formed a perfect circle around a space that caught afternoon sunlight in pools of gold and green. At the center stood an enormous tree stump, weathered by time but still magnificent, its surface carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly.
"The Nemeton."
The name came from nowhere, arriving in Stiles' consciousness with the weight of absolute certainty. This was where it had happened. Where three children had cut their palms and pressed them together and spoken words that bound their souls across time and space.
"We did it here," Allison whispered. "All of it. The ritual, the promises, the blood oath."
They approached the stump slowly, reverently, and when they were close enough to touch its ancient surface, all three of them stopped.
"If we touch it again, what happens? Do we complete whatever we started eight years ago? Do we make it stronger? Or do we find a way to break it?"
"I can feel it," Scott said, his voice rough with emotion. "Like it's calling to me. To all of us."
"Together?" Stiles thought, extending his scarred palm toward the tree.
Scott and Allison placed their hands next to his without hesitation. The moment their skin touched the Nemeton's weathered surface, the world exploded with memory and sensation.
Eight years old, standing in this exact spot with two other children who felt like extensions of his own soul. The blonde teenager watching from the shadows, her smile cruel and calculating. Words spoken in unison: "Friends forever. No matter what. Always together."
Power rushing up from deep places, ancient magic recognizing their offer and binding them with threads stronger than DNA. The feeling of completion, of finally being whole after a lifetime of inexplicable emptiness.
And then... nothing. A gap where memory should be, as if someone had taken scissors to their minds and cut away everything that happened after the ritual was complete.
When the vision ended, they were still standing around the Nemeton, but something fundamental had changed. The connection between them was stronger, more stable, no longer the fragmented thing that had been awakening in pieces.
"We're complete," Stiles realized. "For the first time since we were eight years old, we're actually complete."
"I remember," Allison said, tears streaming down her face. "I remember everything. The summer camp, the counselor who convinced us to do the ritual, the way it felt when we..." She gestured at their joined hands. "When we became more than just friends."
"What did we become?" Scott asked.
"Family," Stiles thought. "Pack. Something that goes deeper than blood or friendship or any word we have for it."
But before he could voice the thought, the sound of footsteps in the underbrush made all three of them turn.
Derek Hale emerged from the tree line, his expression grim with the weight of someone who'd been watching and waiting for this exact moment.
"You were right," he said into his phone, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing. "The Triad is awakening. We have a problem."
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