2019.02.12 - Cutscene: Into the Black Lodge--It's You, Stiles

**Emitter:** Stiles

*Stiles ventures into the Black Lodge.*

January 4th, Year Unknown; Evening

The Black Lodge

Wasn't there a circle of trees, some kind of gateway?

For some reason, Stiles' memories felt vague. People were there. Derek was there. He said something bracing, supportive, didn't he? Then there was a strange place. A room with red curtains, jagged black and white stripes on the floor, armchairs, statues? A strange, small man who spoke with the oddest vocal cadences he'd ever heard?

Then he was alone. Then he wasn't. Then, his mother was there.

His mother, Claudia Stilinski, who'd died when he was eight, was sitting in the armchair opposite him. She smiled at him. Then, he was standing a few feet away, and she lurched to her feet, now wearing a hospital gown and looking pale, emaciated. She extended her hands toward him. The lights began to flicker and strobe. She screamed, her eyes flashed. Her fingers twisted like claws.

Then, they seemed to stand on a rooftop. Stiles stood near the stairwell leading back inside. Claudia stood at the edge of the roof. His father, Noah, stood beside her, reaching out beseechingly, but she just shouted, sobbing.

"I couldn't stand to be in that room anymore, not with him looking at me like that. He's trying to hurt me. I don't care if you don't believe me, but he is! He's trying to kill me!"

The lights flickered again, like lightning, and she was flying at Stiles, nails extended, and he flung up his arms to defend himself, but it was past. Once again, he stood in the strange place with the red curtains. The curtains fell close around him, twisting like a maze, and he tried to find his way through. There was an opening. He burst through.

"Perhaps you should reevaluate your dreams." The figure who spoke the words was shadowed, indistinct, one of many. They seemed familiar, yet also alien. "You should count your blessings that you're here, still, and that you have the privilege of self-pity."

Another shadow spoke, saying, "There's always a choice." It felt like an echo, once again familiar but strange. The shadow stepped forward, revealing Scott McCall, looking at Stiles with an expression of mingled pity and disgust. "You weren't supposed to do this."

"Yeah, well, I can't do what you can, Scott." Stiles felt the words come from his mouth, but he couldn't remember ever choosing them. Did he know this? Had this happened? *Could* it happen? He felt himself getting louder. "I know you probably wouldn't have done it. You probably would've just figured something out, right?"

Scott shook his head. "You have no idea what I can do."

Then, they were standing in the rain at night, in the midst of a moment that had never been--yet, somehow it felt as vivid as any other memory, and Stiles was screaming at his best friend. "All of us can't be True Alphas--some of us have to make mistakes! Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes. Some of us are *human*!"

Lightning struck again, the air flashing, and he was back in the room with red curtains, the jaggedly patterned floor.

Noah Stilinski, dressed in black for a funeral, stood over his Claudia's body. She was surrounded by a pool of blood. Noah held a bottle of whisky in one hand. It felt familiar, yet alien. Then Noah spoke, looking directly at Stiles, with tears running down his face.

"It's you. It's all you. You know, every day I saw her lying in that hospital, slowly dying. I thought, 'How the hell am I supposed to raise this stupid kid on my own, this hyperactive little bastard who keeps ruining my life?' It's all you. It's you, 'Stiles.' You killed your mother, you hear me? You killed her. And now you're killing me."

Noah looked at the bottle in his hand, took a drink--then hurled it right at Stiles' head.