Angsty Tomtord fic with slight Paultryk on the side.
WARNING! This fic contains: Foul language, torture scenes, blood, use
of medical tools, drug use, suicidal tendencies, self-neglect,
violence, self-harm, and a little bit of stockholm syndrome and force
feeding. Viewer discretion is advised.
The door slid shut behind them as they stepped out into the hallway,
stretching both ways to his left and right. The walls are bland in
colour, only greys and whites with black marble floors so shiny you
could practically see your reflection gleaming back at you.
turned the left hall. “Follow me, and please don’t fall behind.” He
commanded, walking at a steady pace with his arms folded behind his
Tom was quick to follow, trailing behind to look around his
surroundings in curiosity. There wasn’t much to look at though. They
passed by some rooms, but they didn’t seem to hold anything of interest.
Tom was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the base. If this is the lower floor, how big is the entire base in total? He wondered.
fell in step with Tord, walking to his left side where the red leader
side glanced back at him. A grin stretched upon his face. “Impressed?”
He asks smugly.
Tom turned back to Tord, his face contorting into a
scowl. “Not really. This place is huge, sure, but there isn’t much
around here.” He answered truthfully.
Tord nodded in
understanding. “Maybe not down here. Like I said: this level is reserved
only for you and the serum experiments.” He says. “The upper levels are
where most of the activity happens.”
So, secret sharing
time, Stiles’ dad is not actually his dad. Or rather, he is his dad, but not
His father died when
Stiles was five from a knife wedged between his ribs and straight into his
heart. Stiles knows that, because he watched his mother put it there.
After that, they run.
Apparently, the mob isn’t very forgiving of people murdering their own, much
less a woman who is supposed to be seen and not heard and take her hits
silently. They run through Europe and all the way to America, then zigzag their
way across the entire country, never stopping.
By the time they reach
the West Coast, Stiles knows how to fire a gun, how to disappear into a crowd,
how to use a knife to slit a man’s throat and a dozen other things. Before his
mother became a mob bride, she was something else entirely, and she tells him
no child of hers will ever be defenseless.
(By the time they reach
the West Coast, Stiles has used what he has learned three times. He stopped
crying after the second.)
They stop in a little
place called Beacon Hills, only another in an endless row, but there is a
difference. Just one.
A deputy who likes to
eat in the diner where Claudia works. He speaks a few words of Russian, by way
of his Polish parents, and he makes Claudia laugh. He makes Stiles laugh, too,
and Stiles hasn’t laughed in a long time.
(There was a bad man
and a garrote wire and a gun too big for his little hands.)
Within a year, Claudia
has a new name solidify to her cover and Stiles is adopted, name changed,
birthday moved forward. (Six again. He’s okay with it.) He’s as safe as his
mother can make him and for a while, he thinks it’s going to be okay now.
Claudia never does. The
lessons continue, moving from evasion and defense to offence, until Stiles
knows everything she does and can beat her in a spar two times out of five.