{Latin ^ It's like she's an anchor} Tuesday, February 1st 2011 {Day 24}
{Words: 3882}
Meanwhile, in the boys' locker room, Scott and Stiles packed their lacrosse gear into their gym lockers. Morwen stood in front of the mirror, fixing their hair and tucking their belongings into their black shorts. They leaned down to double knot their laces, ensuring they were securely tied.
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Stiles yawned and shrugged. "So you're gonna stay away from her for a few days."
Morwen sneered, glancing at themselves in the mirror as they tucked their hair into a ponytail. "You can handle that."
Scott grinned wryly. "But is it gonna be just a few days or forever?"
Stiles sighed and shrugged. "You know, this whole 'women make you weak' thing is a bit too Spartan Warrior for my taste."
Morwen, now with their backpack on and leaning against the wall, replied with a smile. "It's probably just part of the learning process."
Scott tilted his head, giving his brother an incredulous look. "But you've seen Derek. He's all alone. What if I can never be around her again?"
Stiles smirked and lightly tapped Scott's shoulder. "If you're not dead, it might actually be a good thing."
Scott sighed. "I'd rather be dead."
Stiles chuckled and reassured him. "You're not gonna end up like Derek."
Morwen, ready to leave, put on one backpack strap and removed their headphones. "We'll figure things out." The bell rang, signaling the end of the period.
Stiles grinned. "Come on, let's go."
Scott sighed, a foul smell making his stomach churn. "Okay. Something in here—"
Morwen interjected, nodding in agreement. "It stinks anyway."
Stiles sarcastically and amusingly commented, "What's going on here? Is this a locker room? That just doesn't make any sense."
Scott shrugged off the unsettling smell. "Yeah, it does smell like something's decaying. Or maybe it'll make you die..." As Scott led Morwen and Stiles out, a pale Jackson emerged from between the lockers. The typically attractive young man looked dangerously sick, with dark circles under his eyes and dry, cracked lips.
Alone, Jackson approached the mirrors and spun around to examine the back of his neck. He raised a hand to touch the bandage, pulling his shirt off to get a closer look. His fingertips explored the gauze, revealing a disturbing yellow color.
The bandage slipped off and fell into the sink. Jackson felt the markings, his fingers coming away with strange pus on the tips. He gagged and squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by sickness. Gripping the sink with both hands, he started retching, his mouth wide open as if about to vomit. And then, something emerged from his mouth.
