# **Bloodbound: A Teen Wolf x Young Justice Crossover**
## **Chapter 2: The Hall of Justice**
---
**July 4th**
**Washington, D.C.**
**11:47 AM**
The Justice League arrived exactly fourteen minutes after the team emerged from the collapsing Cadmus facility.
Stiles counted the heartbeats before he saw them — three distinct rhythms approaching from the southwest at speeds no human could achieve. One heartbeat was strong, steady, impossibly slow for the velocity of movement. Kryptonian. Another was fast, precise, mechanical in its consistency. Trained human at peak performance. The third was... strange. Warm but resonant, carrying an undertone that hummed against Stiles' magical senses like a tuning fork.
Superman landed first. The impact crater he left in the pavement was minimal — controlled descent, precise force distribution. Stiles catalogued it automatically: Superman had complete awareness of his own strength, years of practice moderating his power to avoid collateral damage.
Batman arrived via grapple line from a nearby rooftop, his cape spreading like wings as he dropped the final twenty feet in controlled silence. No heartbeat spike. No elevated respiration. Either the man had absolute mastery over his autonomic responses, or he simply didn't experience fear in any meaningful way.
Stiles suspected both.
Wonder Woman descended on currents of air that Stiles' magical senses recognized as *assisted* — not true flight, but something adjacent. Divine blessing, perhaps. Her heartbeat was the strange one: old, powerful, carrying the weight of centuries.
*Older than me*, Stiles noted. *Possibly much older.*
He filed that information away.
"What happened here?" Superman's voice carried the weight of authority without aggression — a leader accustomed to being obeyed, but not through fear. His eyes swept across the group, lingering briefly on Superboy.
The clone stiffened.
Something flickered across Superman's face — recognition, confusion, discomfort — before his expression smoothed into professional neutrality. Stiles watched the microexpressions with clinical interest. Superman was *afraid* of Superboy. Not physically. Existentially. The clone represented something that unsettled the Man of Steel at a fundamental level.
*Interesting.*
"Cadmus was conducting illegal experiments," Robin reported, stepping forward. His body language shifted subtly — still confident, but deferential in a way that acknowledged the hierarchy. Addressing his mentor's colleague, not challenging him. "They were creating biological weapons. Including—" He gestured at Superboy. "—a Kryptonian clone designated Project Kr."
Superman's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "A clone."
"Designation: Superboy," Aqualad added. "He was created to replace you, should you ever turn from the Light. Or to destroy you, if you could not be controlled."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Wonder Woman moved first, approaching Superboy with a warrior's grace and a diplomat's smile. "You were created in chains," she said, her voice warm. "But you stand here free. That speaks well of you."
Superboy looked at her uncertainly. The anger that simmered constantly beneath his surface flickered, momentarily supplanted by something more vulnerable.
Batman hadn't spoken yet. He was looking at Stiles.
Stiles looked back.
The moment stretched. Two predators recognizing each other across a crowded room — not threatening, not challenging, simply *acknowledging*. Batman's eyes were hidden behind his cowl, but Stiles could feel the weight of his attention like a physical pressure.
"There were five of you," Batman said. It wasn't a question.
"Four of us went in," Robin replied. "We found him on Sublevel 53. A level that doesn't appear on any Cadmus schematic."
"Who are you?" Batman directed the question at Stiles.
"Stiles." He let the name sit there, offering nothing else.
"Is that a first name or a last name?"
"It's the name I answer to."
Batman's lips thinned. "Cadmus had you contained. Why?"
"Because they wanted a weapon they could control." Stiles tilted his head slightly. "They couldn't."
"What kind of weapon?"
Stiles considered his options. Lying would be pointless — Batman would investigate regardless, and half-truths would only make him more suspicious. Full disclosure was equally unwise; explaining that he was a vampire-werewolf-witch hybrid from an alternate universe would raise questions he had no intention of answering.
Partial truth, then. Enough to satisfy immediate curiosity without opening doors he wanted closed.
"I'm a vampire," he said.
The word dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water. Robin and Kid Flash exchanged glances. Aqualad's expression remained neutral, though his hand drifted slightly closer to his water-bearers. Superboy just stared.
Superman's reaction was the most interesting — a subtle relaxation, as if the word *vampire* had slotted into a category he understood and could process. A known quantity. Supernatural, but categorizable.
*He's met vampires before*, Stiles realized. *Or at least, he's heard of them.*
Batman's reaction was no reaction at all. "Elaborate."
"Enhanced speed. Enhanced strength. Accelerated healing. A requirement for human blood to maintain optimal function." Stiles listed the traits without inflection. "Sunlight sensitivity, mitigated by this ring. Inability to enter a private residence without invitation. Vulnerability to wood through the heart — it won't kill me, but it will incapacitate."
"How long were you held?"
"Four years, seven months, sixteen days."
"And before that?"
"Before that, I was living alone. Off the grid. Cadmus found me, determined I would be useful, and captured me during a moment of weakness." Stiles paused. "I don't intend to have any more moments of weakness."
Batman studied him for a long moment. Stiles could almost see the calculations running behind those hidden eyes — threat assessment, risk analysis, the weighing of known factors against unknown variables.
"We'll need to debrief you fully," Batman said finally. "All of you. There are facilities at the Hall of Justice—"
"No."
The word came from Superboy. Everyone looked at him.
The clone's hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw tight with barely suppressed anger. "No more facilities. No more containment. No more *observation*." His eyes locked onto Superman — challenging, defiant, wounded. "You don't get to put us in another cage and study us."
"That's not what I'm suggesting," Batman said evenly.
"Isn't it?" Kid Flash muttered, then winced when Robin elbowed him.
Wonder Woman stepped between the groups, her presence calming without being dismissive. "You have every right to be wary," she said, addressing Superboy directly. "You were created in captivity, held against your will, treated as property rather than person. That leaves scars." Her gaze shifted to include Stiles. "Both of you have reason to distrust institutions. We understand that."
"Understanding doesn't mean anything if you still do the same things," Superboy said.
"No. It doesn't." Wonder Woman nodded once, acknowledging his point. "So let me be clear: you are not prisoners. You are not subjects. You are young people who did something extraordinary today — you saw injustice, and you acted against it. That makes you heroes, regardless of how you came to be."
She turned to look at Superman, who still hadn't moved from his landing position, who still hadn't approached his clone, who still radiated discomfort like heat from a forge.
"They deserve answers," she continued. "And so do we. The Hall of Justice is a neutral ground. We can talk there — as equals, not as captors and captives."
The silence stretched.
"Fine," Superboy said finally. "But the moment I feel like I'm being caged again—"
"You won't be," Wonder Woman assured him.
Superboy looked at her. At Superman, who still wouldn't meet his eyes. At Batman, whose expression revealed nothing.
Then he looked at Stiles.
Something passed between them again — that strange recognition, that shared understanding of what it meant to be treated as a thing rather than a person.
Stiles gave an almost imperceptible nod.
*We watch each other's backs. We leave together if we leave at all.*
Superboy's shoulders relaxed fractionally. He nodded back.
"Let's go," Stiles said.
---
**The Hall of Justice**
**12:23 PM**
The Hall of Justice was designed to impress.
Towering columns. Vaulted ceilings. Statues of the League's founding members positioned like gods surveying their domain. It was architecture as statement — *we are powerful, we are noble, we are watching over you*. The public spaces were filled with tourists, families, children pressing their faces against glass to glimpse the heroes they idolized.
Stiles walked through it all with the detached observation of someone cataloguing exits.
*Seventeen visible points of egress. Eight more concealed. Security systems in the walls — standard and exotic. Magical wards on the lower levels, faint but present. Panic room beneath the main floor, accessible via the third statue on the left.*
He wasn't planning to escape. But he wasn't planning *not* to escape either.
The private areas of the Hall were less theatrical — functional spaces designed for briefings, strategy sessions, and the administrative necessities of running a global superhero organization. The team was ushered into a conference room with a long table, comfortable chairs, and windows that Stiles suspected were reinforced enough to withstand significant ordinance.
Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and two others — Martian Manhunter and Aquaman, according to the briefing files Stiles had absorbed from Cadmus — took positions around the table's far end.
The team sat on the opposite side. Five young people facing five of the most powerful beings on Earth.
Stiles chose a seat that put his back to the wall and gave him sightlines on all doors.
"Let's start with a complete account," Batman said, activating a holographic display. "From the moment you decided to investigate Cadmus."
Robin took point on the narrative. He was good — concise, comprehensive, presenting facts without editorializing. Aqualad supplemented with tactical observations. Kid Flash added details about the Genomorph encounters. Superboy remained mostly silent, contributing only when directly questioned about the G-Gnomes or his own capabilities.
When they reached Sublevel 53, all eyes turned to Stiles.
"The structural damage from the earlier fighting compromised a concealed doorway," Robin said. "Behind it was another laboratory — smaller, more isolated, with an independent power grid. We found Stiles in a stasis tank similar to Superboy's."
"Similar how?" Martian Manhunter asked. His voice was calm, resonant, carrying the subtle psychic undertone that all Martians apparently possessed. Stiles felt the probe — a light touch against his mental barriers, exploratory rather than aggressive.
He pushed back. Hard.
Martian Manhunter's eyes widened slightly. The psychic touch withdrew immediately.
*Don't*, Stiles thought at him, letting just enough cold purpose bleed through the contact to make his point. *Ask with words or don't ask at all.*
"Similar in function," Robin continued, unaware of the silent exchange. "Designed for long-term containment. But the monitoring equipment was more extensive — neural interfaces, biological scanners, the works. According to the files I was able to access, Stiles had been held for over four and a half years."
"And what were they doing with him during that time?" Aquaman asked.
"Programming," Stiles said, speaking for the first time since entering the room. "They uploaded combat training, tactical frameworks, languages. They attempted to implant control protocols." He paused. "Those didn't take."
"Why not?" Batman's question was sharp, probing.
"I don't know." It was technically true — Stiles didn't understand the precise mechanism that allowed his mind to reject the G-Gnomes' programming. He suspected it had something to do with being possessed by a Nogitsune, once upon a time. That experience had... hardened certain aspects of his psyche. "Something about my nature made the psychic control ineffective. They kept trying. They kept failing."
"So they kept you in stasis indefinitely."
"Until a better solution presented itself. Yes."
Batman nodded slowly. "And before Cadmus captured you — where were you? What were you doing?"
"Living alone. In Montana, mostly. Staying away from populated areas." Stiles kept his voice flat, uninflected. "I prefer solitude."
"For how long?"
"A few years."
"And before that?"
"Before that is not relevant to this conversation."
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees — metaphorically, at least. Batman's eyes narrowed behind his cowl. Superman straightened in his chair. Even Wonder Woman's expression sharpened with interest.
"Everything is relevant when we're trying to assess whether you're a threat," Batman said.
"I understand that." Stiles met his gaze steadily. "And I understand that you have no reason to trust me. I've told you what I am. I've told you what Cadmus did to me. I've demonstrated that I'm willing to fight beside your protégés against a common enemy. What I was before I came to this country is my own business, and I'm not going to discuss it simply because you're uncomfortable with uncertainty."
"This country?" Wonder Woman caught the phrasing. "You're not American?"
Stiles considered his response. "I wasn't born here."
"Where were you born?"
"Somewhere else."
Another silence. Batman's jaw tightened.
"You're not making this easy," Superman said.
"I'm not trying to make it hard," Stiles replied. "I'm trying to establish boundaries. You want to know if I'm dangerous? Yes. I am. Very. You want to know if I'm a threat to you or anyone in this room? No. I'm not. You want to know every detail of my life before Cadmus? That's not something I'm willing to share, and pushing won't change that."
He leaned back in his chair slightly, projecting calm he didn't entirely feel.
"I have no interest in being your enemy. I have no interest in harming civilians. I have no interest in global domination or whatever else you might be worried about. What I *do* have interest in is not being caged again. Not being controlled. Not being treated as a weapon to be pointed at whatever target you deem appropriate." He paused. "If you can accept that, we can coexist. If you can't..." He shrugged slightly. "Then we'll have a problem."
The League members exchanged glances — the silent communication of people who had worked together for years, who could convey entire conversations in a look.
"You're very confident," Aquaman observed, "for someone sitting in a room with five of the most powerful beings on the planet."
"I know exactly how powerful you are," Stiles said. "I also know exactly how powerful I am. Confidence has nothing to do with it. It's just math."
Kid Flash made a small choking sound. Robin kicked him under the table.
Wonder Woman laughed — a genuine sound, warm and surprised. "I like you," she said. "You remind me of some warriors I've known. Direct. Unafraid. Perhaps too certain of your own strength, but that's a flaw youth often carries."
"I'm older than I look."
"Aren't we all." She smiled, but her eyes remained assessing. "Very well. You've established your boundaries. Now let us establish ours. You say you're a vampire. In our experience, vampires are dangerous — not just physically, but socially. They feed on humans. They can influence minds. They create others of their kind, often without consent."
"All true."
"And you expect us to simply... allow you to operate freely? Without oversight? Without accountability?"
"I expect you to treat me the same way you'd treat any other powerful individual who hasn't committed any crimes against you or your society." Stiles' voice remained level. "I don't kill when I feed. I don't turn people without consent — and the consent has to be meaningful, not compelled. I don't use my mental abilities to manipulate or control except in immediate self-defense or to protect innocents. Those are my rules. I've held to them for a long time."
"And if we asked you to submit to monitoring? To regular check-ins?"
"I'd decline. Politely."
"And if we insisted?"
Stiles looked at her. Really looked. Let just a fraction of what he was show in his eyes — the cold, the age, the predator that lived behind the teenage face.
"Then you'd discover," he said softly, "that insisting would cost more than it's worth."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then Batman spoke. "You said wood through the heart would incapacitate you. What else?"
The tension shifted — still present, but redirected. Batman was moving the conversation onto practical ground. Threat assessment rather than confrontation.
*Smart*, Stiles acknowledged.
"Sunlight, without the ring, causes severe burns. I heal from them, but it's... unpleasant." He touched the gold band on his finger. "The ring was created specifically to circumvent that weakness. It's bonded to me; it can't be removed without my cooperation."
"Anything else?"
"I need to be invited into private residences. The invitation must come from someone who has legitimate authority over the space. Once given, it can't be revoked — I'll have access permanently."
"Stakes?"
"Wood through the heart causes temporary desiccation — essentially, my body shuts down until the stake is removed. It doesn't kill me. Nothing kills me."
*Nothing kills me.*
He said it without emphasis, without drama. A simple statement of fact.
Batman filed it away. "What about fire? Decapitation? Sunlight without the ring?"
"Fire hurts, but I heal. Decapitation would be... extremely unpleasant, but my body would regenerate given time. Sunlight without the ring would burn me continuously, forever, without actually destroying me." Stiles paused. "Trust me when I say there are worse things than death, and I'm familiar with most of them."
Superman shifted uncomfortably. "You can't die. At all."
"No."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know the precise metaphysics. I just know the reality." Stiles spread his hands slightly. "I've existed for a while. I've tested the limits. They don't exist."
"How long is 'a while'?" Robin asked.
Stiles considered the question. In this universe, he'd been active for perhaps five years before Cadmus captured him. But his actual age, counting his time in the Teen Wolf universe...
"Long enough," he said.
---
The debriefing continued for another two hours.
The League questioned each member of the team separately, then together, cross-referencing accounts and probing for inconsistencies. They were thorough, professional, and — Stiles had to admit — fair. They asked hard questions, but they didn't demand impossible answers. They pushed against boundaries, but they didn't try to break them.
By the time they finished, the sun was descending toward the horizon.
"We need to discuss this among ourselves," Batman said finally. "The four of you—" He glanced at Superboy, then at Stiles. "—the five of you will wait here. Food and refreshments will be provided. We'll have a decision within the hour."
"A decision about what?" Kid Flash asked.
"About what happens next."
The League filed out. The door closed behind them with a soft click that Stiles' enhanced hearing told him was accompanied by a magnetic lock engaging.
*Not prisoners*, he thought dryly. *Just kept in a magnetically sealed room while the adults decide our fate.*
He didn't comment on it. Neither did anyone else.
"Well," Kid Flash said after a moment, "that was intense."
"You did well," Aqualad told him. "All of you. You represented yourselves with honor."
"Represented ourselves?" Robin's voice carried an edge. "They're treating us like suspects. Like we did something wrong. We *saved* people today. We uncovered a massive illegal operation. And they're acting like *we're* the problem."
"We broke their rules," Aqualad said calmly. "We acted without authorization, without backup, without informing our mentors. In their eyes, we endangered ourselves and potentially compromised a larger investigation."
"What larger investigation? They didn't even know Cadmus existed!"
"That's... actually a fair point," Kid Flash admitted.
Superboy stood by the window, staring out at the city below. His reflection in the glass was tight-jawed, tense.
"He wouldn't look at me," the clone said quietly.
Everyone fell silent.
"Superman." Superboy's hands clenched at his sides. "He wouldn't look at me. Like I was something... wrong. Something that shouldn't exist."
"He was surprised," Robin offered. "Finding out you have a clone has to be—"
"I'm not his clone." Superboy turned from the window, anger flickering in his eyes. "I'm not him. I'm *me*. I have his DNA, his powers, but I'm not just a copy. I'm a person. And he looked at me like I was a *thing*."
No one had a response to that.
Stiles watched the exchange from his position against the wall. He understood Superboy's anger — understood it intimately. He'd been a *thing* too, for four and a half years. A project. A weapon in development. The only difference was that he'd been conscious of it, trapped in his own mind while they poured combat styles into his brain and tried to install obedience he'd never accept.
At least Superboy had been asleep.
"He'll come around," Kid Flash said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Will he?" Superboy's laugh was bitter. "You saw his face. You saw how he looked at me. He's not going to 'come around.' He's going to pretend I don't exist and hope the problem goes away."
"Then that's his loss." Stiles spoke for the first time since the League left. Everyone looked at him. "You don't need his approval to exist. You don't need his acknowledgment to have value. He's one man — powerful, yes, but still just one man with one opinion. If he can't see past his own discomfort to recognize what's standing in front of him, that's his failure, not yours."
Superboy stared at him.
"You don't know what it's like," the clone said. "To be made for a purpose. To have your whole existence defined by someone else's plans."
"Don't I?" Stiles let a ghost of something — not quite a smile, but close — cross his face. "I spent four and a half years with wires in my brain while they tried to turn me into a weapon. They uploaded everything they wanted me to know and tried to delete everything they didn't. They couldn't break me, so they kept me in storage until they figured out a better approach." He paused. "I know exactly what it's like to be treated as a thing. And I know what it took to remember that I'm not."
Silence.
"What did it take?" Superboy asked quietly.
Stiles considered the question. Thought about the long years in the tank, the constant pressure of the G-Gnomes, the endless attempts to rewrite who he was. Thought about the ember he'd protected — that ten percent of Stiles Stilinski that refused to be extinguished.
"Spite," he said finally. "Mostly spite. And the absolute refusal to give them what they wanted."
Kid Flash snorted. Robin's lips twitched. Even Aqualad's stoic expression softened slightly.
Superboy looked at Stiles for a long moment. Then, slowly, some of the tension drained from his shoulders.
"Spite," he repeated.
"It's underrated as a survival mechanism."
"I'll keep that in mind."
---
**One Hour Later**
The League returned.
Their expressions were carefully neutral — the professional masks of people who had reached a decision and were preparing to deliver it regardless of how it would be received.
Stiles read the room in an instant. *They've decided something they think we won't like. They're braced for pushback.*
Batman took point, because of course he did. "We've discussed the situation at length. There are... concerns. About all of you. About what happened today, and what it represents."
"What it represents?" Robin's voice was carefully controlled, but Stiles could hear the hurt underneath. His mentor — because it was obvious now that Batman was Robin's mentor — was about to deliver bad news, and Robin knew it.
"You acted without authorization. You deliberately disobeyed direct orders. You infiltrated a facility you knew nothing about and engaged threats you weren't prepared for. The fact that it worked out—" Batman's jaw tightened. "—doesn't change the fact that it shouldn't have happened."
"We saved people," Kid Flash protested. "We uncovered Cadmus. We—"
"You got lucky." Batman's voice was flat. "Cadmus wasn't expecting you. They weren't prepared for the combination of powers you brought. If they had been — if they'd had contingencies in place — some or all of you would be dead right now."
"But we're *not* dead—"
"That's not the point!" Batman's composure cracked, just for a moment. Anger flashed across his face — real anger, the kind that came from fear. "The point is that you took risks you didn't understand, against enemies you couldn't fully assess, without any support or extraction plan. You're not ready for that kind of operation. None of you."
The words hung in the air.
"So what?" Superboy's voice was quiet, dangerous. "You're going to lock us up? Put us back in cages because we didn't follow your rules?"
"No." Wonder Woman stepped forward, her presence calming. "No one is being locked up. But you need training. Structure. The opportunity to develop your skills in a controlled environment before you face threats like this again."
"What kind of structure?" Aqualad asked carefully.
"We're proposing a team," Batman said. "A covert operations unit, attached to the Justice League but operating independently. You would take on missions — real missions, not babysitting or busywork — but you would do so with League oversight and support."
"Oversight?" Robin repeated.
"A handler. Someone to provide guidance, coordinate with League resources, and ensure you don't get in over your heads." Batman paused. "You'd have autonomy within defined parameters. The chance to prove yourselves. But you'd also have accountability."
Stiles watched the others process this. Kid Flash looked cautiously optimistic. Robin was skeptical but interested. Aqualad was already analyzing the proposal from multiple angles. Superboy's expression was unreadable.
"What about me?" Stiles asked.
All eyes turned to him.
"You're a special case," Batman admitted. "You're not a protégé. You have no established relationship with the League or any of its members. Your capabilities are... significant. And your refusal to provide full background information makes proper assessment difficult."
"So?"
"So we're offering you the same deal. A place on the team. Access to resources. The opportunity to operate within a structure that doesn't involve cages or containment." Batman's eyes met his. "In exchange, you agree to certain boundaries. You don't feed on anyone against their will. You report any use of your mental abilities against humans. You submit to periodic check-ins — not monitoring, just check-ins — to verify you're not becoming a threat."
Stiles considered the offer. It was reasonable, as far as such things went. Boundaries he was already following, accountability that didn't feel like a leash.
And it gave him something he needed: a place. A purpose. A context in which to exist in this strange universe without drawing the kind of attention that had gotten him captured in the first place.
"The feeding thing," he said. "I need to feed regularly. From the vein. It's not optional — it's biological necessity. If I don't feed, I weaken. If I weaken..." He didn't need to finish the sentence.
"Understood. We're not asking you to starve. But the feeding needs to be consensual and leave no lasting harm."
"It already is. I use compulsion to keep the donor calm and unaware, and my saliva heals the wounds. They wake up a little tired, with no memory of the encounter."
"You use compulsion," Batman repeated. "Mind control."
"Limited mind control, used specifically to facilitate feeding without causing psychological trauma to the donor." Stiles' voice was flat. "I could drain people fully conscious if you prefer. Let them feel the fangs, experience the blood loss, remember every moment. Would that be more ethical?"
Silence.
"No," Wonder Woman said finally. "What you describe — if it truly leaves no lasting harm — is... acceptable. Predators hunt. It is their nature. The question is whether they hunt responsibly."
"I do."
"Then we have no objection." She looked at Batman, who nodded once, reluctantly.
"The team," Aqualad said, drawing the conversation back to the central proposal. "You said we would have real missions. What kind of missions?"
"Covert operations," Batman replied. "Reconnaissance. Infiltration. The kind of work the Justice League can't do openly without causing international incidents. You'd be deniable assets — officially, you wouldn't exist."
"Shadow work," Robin translated. "Black ops for capes."
"If you want to put it that way."
Robin considered. "I'm in."
"Ditto," Kid Flash said immediately.
Aqualad nodded slowly. "This aligns with my purpose. I accept."
Superboy was still silent. Everyone looked at him.
"What's the alternative?" he asked.
"You could refuse," Batman said. "In which case, we'd try to find another arrangement. Somewhere for you to live, a civilian identity, the chance to build a normal life. We wouldn't force you into anything."
"A normal life." Superboy's laugh was hollow. "I'm a clone with Superman's powers who was grown in a lab and programmed by telepathic monsters. There's no normal life for me."
"There could be, eventually. With time and support."
"No." Superboy shook his head. "I don't want normal. I want *purpose*. I was made to be Superman's weapon or his replacement. I refuse to be either. But I can be something else. Something that's *mine*." He looked at the others — at his teammates. "I'll join the team."
All eyes turned to Stiles.
He felt the weight of the moment — the decision point, the fork in the road. He could refuse. Walk away. Disappear into the world and live as he'd lived before: alone, careful, feeding in the shadows and avoiding entanglements.
But that life had gotten him captured. That life had led to four and a half years in a tank.
And there was something else. Something he'd almost forgotten how to feel, buried as it was under layers of cold pragmatism and survival instinct.
The others. These kids — because they were kids, all of them, even if they didn't realize it yet. They were brave and reckless and idealistic in ways that reminded him painfully of another group of teenagers he'd once known. A pack, in another universe, another lifetime.
He wasn't part of their pack. He wasn't sure he was capable of being part of anything anymore.
But maybe... maybe he could watch over them. Keep them alive. Be the predator that protected rather than hunted.
It wouldn't bring back what he'd lost. It wouldn't make him who he'd been.
But it might make him something other than what he'd become.
"Fine," Stiles said. "I'm in."
---
**Mount Justice**
**July 8th**
The Cave — as they were already calling it — was massive.
Hollowed out of the rock beneath Happy Harbor, Rhode Island, it was a former Justice League headquarters that had been mothballed years ago when the Hall of Justice opened. Now it was being repurposed: living quarters, training facilities, mission briefing rooms, a hangar bay capable of holding multiple aircraft.
It was also, Stiles noted, extremely difficult to access without League authorization. Only two entrances — the Zeta tube system and a concealed hangar door — both of which were monitored and controlled remotely.
*A comfortable cage*, he thought. *But a cage nonetheless.*
He didn't voice the observation. The others were too excited to appreciate it anyway.
"Dude, have you *seen* the training room?" Kid Flash was practically vibrating. "It's got everything! Combat simulators, obstacle courses, a swimming pool —"
"Why would a secret base need a swimming pool?" Robin asked dryly.
"Why *wouldn't* it? Plus, there's a full kitchen, individual bedrooms, a common area with a TV the size of my garage —"
"Kid Flash." Aqualad's voice was calm but firm. "Perhaps we should focus on the briefing."
They were gathered in the mission room — a circular space dominated by a central holographic display currently showing a rotating image of the Cave's layout. Standing before them was a Black Canary, who had been introduced as their combat trainer, and Red Tornado, an android who would be their "den mother" — a term that made Superboy scowl.
"Welcome to Mount Justice," Black Canary said. "For the foreseeable future, this will be your home base. You'll live here, train here, and deploy from here on missions assigned by the League."
"Who assigns the missions?" Robin asked.
"Batman, primarily. He'll serve as your handler for most operations."
Robin's expression flickered — a complex mix of emotions that Stiles didn't try to unpack.
"Your first priority is integration," Black Canary continued. "You're a team now, but you don't know each other. You don't know each other's strengths, weaknesses, or tendencies. That needs to change before you can operate effectively in the field."
"So... team-building exercises?" Kid Flash's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Like trust falls and stuff?"
"Like combat training." Black Canary smiled thinly. "You'll learn to fight together by fighting each other. I'll evaluate your skills, identify gaps in your abilities, and design training regimens to address them."
"When do we start?" Superboy asked. His eagerness was palpable — the need to *do* something, to prove himself through action rather than words.
"Tomorrow morning. 0600. Don't be late." Black Canary surveyed them all, her gaze lingering on Stiles. "Any questions?"
"Just one." Stiles pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against. "The feeding thing. Batman said it was acceptable as long as it was consensual and left no lasting harm. But I need to actually *do* it. Regularly. How is that going to work here?"
The room went quiet.
"We've considered that," Black Canary said after a moment. "There are options. Blood banks can provide bagged blood if—"
"Bagged blood doesn't work." Stiles kept his voice flat, informational. "It needs to be from the vein. Fresh. That's the biology. I didn't design it; I just live with it."
"Then we'll need to establish a protocol. You can leave the Cave to feed, but you'll need to log your departures and returns. And the feeding itself needs to follow the guidelines Batman outlined — consensual, no lasting harm, compulsion only for immediate psychological protection of the donor."
"That's already how I operate."
"Then we shouldn't have a problem." Black Canary's gaze was steady. "But Stiles — if we find out you've been feeding in ways that violate those guidelines, there will be consequences. The League is giving you a chance. Don't waste it."
"Understood."
The briefing continued — logistics, communication protocols, emergency procedures. Stiles absorbed the information automatically, his enhanced memory cataloguing every detail while his attention remained fixed on the deeper implications.
He was part of a team now. Part of a structure. It felt strange — constraining in ways he hadn't experienced since leaving Beacon Hills.
But it also felt... safer. Not *safe* — he'd never be safe again, not really — but safer than being alone. Safer than the isolation that had made him weak enough to be captured.
He'd take the constraints. For now.
And if they ever became cages...
Well. He'd dealt with cages before.
---
**Later That Night**
The others had retired to their rooms — getting settled, exploring their new home, doing whatever teenagers did when given access to private space and reliable wifi.
Stiles didn't sleep. Vampires could — it was a choice, not a requirement — but he'd spent four and a half years in forced unconsciousness. The idea of voluntarily closing his eyes held no appeal.
Instead, he stood on the cliff overlooking Happy Harbor, watching the moonlight scatter across the water. The ocean smelled of salt and life and ancient things. It reminded him, distantly, of something he couldn't quite name.
*Beacon Hills had a lake*, some buried part of him remembered. *You used to go there with Scott and...*
He pushed the memory down. Scott McCall existed in another universe. Another life. That version of Stiles Stilinski — the hyperactive kid with the plans and the sarcasm and the desperate need to protect his friends — was gone.
Mostly gone.
Ten percent, whispered the ember in his chest. You're still here. We're still here.
"You know it's after curfew, right?"
Stiles didn't turn. He'd heard Robin's approach long before the boy spoke — the soft pad of trained footsteps, the whisper of fabric, the steady beat of a human heart.
"Vampires don't really do curfews."
Robin moved to stand beside him, looking out at the water. His mask was off — he was Dick Grayson here, not Robin — but his posture still carried the coiled readiness of someone trained to expect attacks from any direction.
"Can't sleep?" Dick asked.
"Don't need to."
"Right. Vampire thing." Dick was quiet for a moment. "Must be weird. Not needing sleep. I'd go crazy without my eight hours."
"You learn to fill the time."
"With what?"
Stiles considered the question. "Thinking, mostly. Planning. Remembering." He paused. "Learning."
"What do you learn?"
"Everything." The word came out flat, factual. "Languages, combat styles, history, science. Whatever's available. Whatever might be useful."
"Sounds lonely."
The observation landed differently than Dick probably intended. Stiles felt something shift in his chest — that ember, flickering in response to unexpected warmth.
"Sometimes," he admitted.
They stood in silence for a while. The waves crashed against the rocks below, a rhythmic heartbeat of water and stone.
"Can I ask you something?" Dick said finally.
"You can ask."
"The stuff you told Batman — about being a vampire, about the ring, about how you can't die. Was any of it not true?"
Stiles considered his answer carefully. "Everything I said was true."
"But not everything you are."
"No."
Dick nodded slowly. "I figured. The way you move, the way you fight — it's not just vampire stuff. There's something else going on."
"Yes."
"You're not going to tell me what."
"No."
"Okay." Dick didn't push. "Just... if it ever becomes relevant, you'll let us know? We're a team now. That means trusting each other enough to share the important stuff."
Stiles turned to look at him. Dick Grayson was young — sixteen, maybe seventeen — with dark hair and blue eyes and the kind of face that probably charmed everyone he met. But underneath the charm was steel. Training. Experience. The kind of hard-won competence that only came from years of surviving things that should have killed you.
"You've lost people," Stiles said.
Dick's expression flickered. "What?"
"You've lost people. Someone important. I can see it in the way you carry yourself — the way you watch exits, the way you position yourself to protect others without thinking about it. You learned that the hard way."
The silence stretched.
"My parents," Dick said quietly. "I was nine. An... accident." The word carried weight — the kind of weight that suggested it was anything but accidental.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago." Dick's voice was steady, but Stiles could hear the old grief beneath it. "Batman found me after. Gave me a purpose. A mission."
"And you've been fighting ever since."
"Something like that." Dick looked at him. "What about you? What made you... this?"
Stiles turned back to the water. The moonlight caught the ring on his finger, making the gold glow softly.
"I lost people too," he said. "My whole world, actually. Everything and everyone I ever knew." He paused. "And then I spent a long time trying to figure out how to exist without it."
"Did you figure it out?"
The question hung in the air like a held breath.
"I'm working on it," Stiles said finally. "Being here, with you and the others — it's a step. I'm not sure where it's going, but it's movement."
"That's something."
"Yeah." Stiles let out a breath he didn't need. "It's something."
They stood in silence as the moon arced across the sky and the waves continued their ancient rhythm, two broken things trying to learn how to be whole again.
---
**END OF CHAPTER 2**
---
**Next Chapter: The team's first training session reveals unexpected tensions. Stiles struggles with hunger and control. And a mysterious figure takes interest in the vampire who shouldn't exist in this universe.**