Stiles is changing. His humour fading, the light in his eyes turning darker with everyday, he was becoming more and more like the dark spirit they just defeated. His friends notice it. His dad notices it. Stiles knew this.
But what he didn't know...
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Stiles played with his pale fingers anxiously, tracing over the purple veins and ghostly bones of his thin hands as his mind pondered the events of the past few days. He didn't blame his father for what he had done. He knew the Sheriff meant no harm by his actions and only wished for him to be home, and yet Stiles did not feel any obligation to give that to him.
The betrayal had hurt sure, but that's not why he was currently hung up in some dingy apartment in Chicago with Sierra and the others. He needed to stay with them, he had to get answers to what was going on and currently they seemed like the only people who would give it to him.
Stiles hated not knowing. The nagging feeling inside his head that others were keeping information from him had begun to drive him insane. Since he had followed the pale man from the meadow back to the apartment he felt like all eyes in the room were away from him, like he was let out of some inside joke that every other person seemed to be apart of except from him.
When he had arrived back at the apartment with the pale man he introduced himself as Rowan before leaving to a room across the kitchen, leaving Stiles alone to his thoughts. A few minutes later he was surprised as Sierra walked through the door, closely followed by a woman the teen didn't recognise who he later found out was called Lysandra.
The only one who had really spoken to him the past week was Sierra, just small things however, to check if he was still breathing after spending days on end in the small single bedroom in the apartment. The smell of mould and damp wallpaper woke him up every morning and kept him awake at night, that and his constant spiralling thoughts. It wasn't until that rainy Wednesday afternoon when his door was finally opened, and he was beckoned into the kitchen where the other three were waiting.
"Stiles, take a seat." Rowan smirked, gesturing to the spare chair at the circular wooden table. Stiles eyed him wearingly, sparing a glance to Sierra who would not meet his gaze as her dark eyes were staring her hands into the ground. Something wasn't right here.
"I think it's about time we have a little chat, don't you think?" Rowan chirped, as Stiles stiffly sat in the creaky wooden chair, refusing to meet his patronising look.
"Look at him when he's talking to you." Lysandra snapped viscously, causing the teen to look up surprised. Rowan gave out a light laugh.
"It's okay Ly, he has every right to be upset." The man smiled as he gently placed a hand on Lysandra's shoulder. "We are the four horsemen after all, not the three musketeers." Stiles rolled his eyes and focused on the woman who had refused to speak since he had entered the room.
"Sierra, what's going on here?" The teen asked, tired of the other twos antics. Sierra sighed, finally looking up and meeting his gaze with the sad expression of a kicked dog.
"Stiles, we are the four horsemen of the apocalypse." She began, softly biting the bottom of her lip as Rowan smirked arrogantly beside her. "I am Famine, Rowan here is Conquest," the pale man gave him a nod and flashed a wicked grin that sent shivers down the teen's spine. "Lysandra is War. And you Stiles, are death." The teen nodded, nothing was of news to him yet.
"Stiles, long ago there was a prophecy." Rowan cut in as he kicked his feet up onto the cheap kitchen table. "A form of it is in the bible, but the true prophecy is much older than biblical times." The smirk left his face as his words turned grave, the arrogance fleeing from his face as the room turned cold. "It is the duty of the horsemen to bring the apocalypse once death is awakened once again." Stiles eyes widened.
"Awakened?" The teen asked curious. "Like what happened in Beacon Hills?" Lysandra rolled her eyes.
"I thought you said this kid was clever?" She retorted to the others. "Yes the incident in Beacon Hills." Sierra sent the girl a harsh glare, causing Lysandra to angrily play with her nails again as she was told to pipe down.
"Stiles I know you may not like it, but it is written and so it will be." Sierra met the teen's gaze. "We will start the apocalypse, and you are going to help us."
Stiles stared at her in shock, tears glistening in his whisky eyes as her words sunk in. He thought Sierra was on his side. He thought they were going to stop the apocalypse together, she had betrayed him. Like everyone else in his life she had betrayed him.
"No." Stiles growled lowly, his eyes narrowing. Rowan let out a light laugh of distaste.
"No? What do you mean no?" Rowan smiled coldly at him. The smile on his face not reflecting the harsh spiteful tone of his words. Stiles could sense the anger radiating off the man before him, he could feel the tension in the room sharpening with each passing moment.
"You didn't think you had a choice in the matter did you?" Lysandra growled. "We've been around for a very long time, Stiles. You may not remember your past but we certainly remember ours. The apocalypse is going to happen and it will happen with your help, with your power. If you will not help voluntarily so be it, there are plenty of ways to channel the power of death, many excruciatingly painful ways to ensure that the end of times will occur. You Stiles are the key to all of this. And if you won't help us so be it, because no one is going to help you."
Stiles began to shrink in his chair as the three horsemen before him stood up in all their glory. As darkness began to cloud his vision, as his legs fell weak and he collapsed to the ground, one thought circulated his mind sending a message far and wide of one word, one powerful word.
Help.
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Peter Parker stirred in his sleep in his room at Stark tower. His dreams had been plagued by nightmares ever since Stiles had gone missing, and so Tony had offered to let him sleep in the tower for a bit of a change of scenery. It had helped for a bit, but over the past few days the dreams have been getting worse. More vivid and more vicious.
A cold breeze swept over the teen's body as his eyes flickered open, slowly blinking away the mist of sleep as he began to sit up in his bed. He looked over to the alarm clock to his right, the blaring red number of 3:04 glared back at him as he groaned in annoyance. He began to slide out of bed as something came over him, something strong.
Peter fell to his knees as his head exploded with raw splintering pain. He slammed his eyes shut as they were filled with a white hot glare of anguish that spelled out a word in his mind. The curves of each letter imprinting in his brain, brandishing his thoughts with a message. A plea. Help.
Stiles needed help.
As the mist of pain began to fade, the teen stumbled out of his room crying out for Tony. The billionaire sprinted out into the living space after hearing the boys cries to find Peter on his knees, clutching his forehead in agony.
"Kid?!" Tony shouted shocked, as he ran to the boy's side. "You ok? What's happening, talk to me!" Peter moaned, his eyes brimming with tears as he slowly looked up at the man he saw as a father.
"It's Stiles." Peter huffed out. "He's in trouble.
