Chapter Text
THE CONGO - 1889 - RIVER
Any anxieties and fears of their failures trickle downstream as the boat continues with no sign of villagers or Alpha to stop them. His confidence-hardly ever wavering-returns full force to Adrian as the pieces fall into place once more.
Adrian watches Stiles from afar, the man’s wrists shackled to the boat railings limiting his lively attempts to escape. Stiles watches the water and scenery pass by with a distant look in his eyes that only breaks when Adrian approaches.
Stiles raises to his feet, refusing to look up at the pathetic man, and glares into the coward’s eyes.
“I don’t know who you are but we’re here on invitation from King Leopold himself. We’re his guests,” Stiles grits out, just the sight of the man making him angry.
“Mr. Hale, I am the one who sent the invitation. You, however, were not on that invitation,” Stiles’ confidence wavers at the knowledge, the information settling like lead in his gut.
“I made a promise to the…savages to deliver your husband to them. So they tear him apart, limb by limb, or whatever they’d like to do. I intend to fulfill my promise of delivering him no matter who is in my way.”
Stiles levels the man with a blank, unimpressed stare as he monologues, “Argent, will not be left as a witness to run and tell his precious president what has happened here. That just leaves you, Mr. Hale.”
It’s a threat, that’s obvious, Stiles is just far beyond being phased by veiled threats and ego-driven men. So Stiles rolls his eyes and gives the man a dark chuckle. Looking away from the madman; Stiles meets Wasimbu’s gaze and smiles at him. Wasimbu does not give him a full smile but he looks calm and at ease with the situation.
Adrian catches this, pointing towards Wasimbu, “That one, is he your friend?”
“They all are,” Stiles snarls, never one to entertain a racist, he ends there, looking back over the water knowing Derek will put a stop to this man and all his wicked plans.
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THE CONGO - 1889 - JUNGLE
Argent’s panting is loud and harsh amongst the jungle cacophony but he keeps up enough to not be left to the creatures of the wild. Derek races through the greenery with less ease than he’s used to but with each step, it returns until they’re at a cliff edge.
Derek waits for Argent despite all his warnings and snarling at camp. Their small group looks over the distant tree line and the warm horizon.
“How, exactly, are we going to catch a train that is going forty miles per hour,” Argent asks, only a little wheezing heard.
“Gravity,” Derek replies with a smirk.
Then he jumps, falling in view for a few seconds and disappearing into the plush treetops. Argent watches him vanish from view in horror, only to groan in defeat as the village members follow his move.
“You’ve got to be-“With a shout to release the fear and tension of following, Argent lunges off the cliff edge. The fall feels shorter than expected as Argent slams into a branch as thick as the tree trunks in America with his chest.
Looking back to make sure their American friend made it, Derek smirks again and forms his path on the maze of branches as wide as footbridges. Argent follows at a slower and more nervous pace, finally catching up when they all stop to listen to the train’s approach.
The distant call of a steam train echoes into the air as the group comes to a stop. Train tracks empty of the vessel are a long way below but the train sounds too close for them to climb down. Not to mention that a man can’t just hop onto a train moving as fast as this one.
Derek grabs a thick hanging vine, wrapping it around his forearm with a swift flick of his wrist. Argent reaches for one as well and looks at Derek as if to say, ‘Try me.’ With a sigh, Derek reaches across Argent to tug the vine with his free hand causing it to snap.
“Get onto my back,” Derek growls, not keen on the idea but respecting Argent for making it this far makes him willing to help.
Argent wraps his arms around Derek’s neck with a groan, “Legs too.”
More grumbling but no arguing meets Derek’s demand. The others giggle at the sight of the American clinging to the Alpha’s back and even Derek smirks a little as they wait for the train. And with one final steam puff, they’re off.
Each member of the group swings down then side to side to eliminate the few guards on top of the train before landing on a cart with a heavy thunk. Pausing to see the horrifying sight of tribal men chained and secured in an open-top cart, Derek drops down to the cart door where a battalion is sitting without a care in the world.
‘Murder brows’ as Stiles loves to call them, are out and more aggressive than ever as Derek scans the blue uniformed men aboard the train. Each man looks back at him, all with varying levels of fear and anxiety. Shifting his neck from side to side, Derek welcomes the cracks and meets the first man who lunges at him with ease.
One hit from Derek is all it takes for a soldier to drop as he maneuvers through the men with ease. Not a single man comes close to Derek’s height and the few taller ones have nowhere near his mass. A vicious hit with his knuckles, another with the side of his fist, and a firm kick are his rotation of destruction.
Argent watches on at the ease and lethality with which Derek deals damage. Last night he was caught off guard, but this man, this is who the Alpha is. One man is even grabbed by his shirt and thrown into and partially through the roof by Derek. Argent pokes his dangling foot as he walks by.
The last idiot tries to punch Derek in the back and is met with a back slap that sends him sprawling into the train wall. What few standing men are left are trapped between Derek and the villagers at the door behind them, exchanging nervous glances.
“Give me the keys to the-“The door they entered from slams open drawing the group's attention.
A man, almost Derek’s height with a heavyset build enters with a smirk. Argent looks at the man ready to see how Derek fares against a bigger opponent. Derek nudges Argent aside and stomps up to the new soldier.
Derek parries a hit and delivers his own to force the man off-balance. Seeing his window, Derek kicks the man in the center of his chest forcing him through the train windows and into the jungle for good.
Everyone watches in either horror or respect as the man disappears. The door opens once more with a new man wearing the garments of a conductor.
“Are you the commander,” Derek asks, their friends shoving the man forward.
“Don’t say a word!”
Argent turns towards the soldier who shouted, drawing his pistol, “You’ve got some big ears, kid,” Argent says as he takes aim and watches the others move away from the culprit.
Firing his gun, the man clutches at his now bleeding ear that is missing the top chunk. Argent turns towards the commander with a lifted brow. The commander looks between Derek and Argent as if to contemplate if this is all worth it.
“Je ne parle pas anglais,” the commander stutters.
Argent, unimpressed as ever, lifts a brow and responds in French. Sighing in defeat, the commander drops the facade and tells them he’s just an engineer for the bridge they’re building.
“How many men have been enslaved to build your bridge,” Derek growls.
“Eight hundred, not including this group of natives,” Derek and Argent exchange a glance, “Please, I am not part of this. I am just here to build the bridge for Harris’ new army.”
“What army?”
“All the forts and tracks have been built, the army was supposed to arrive months ago but they said the King has not paid them. That’s all we know on why they’ve been delayed.”
“How many are there,” Argent says, looking at the provided map to view their territory.
“Twenty thousand…not just soldiers either, they’re mercenaries.”
Argent smothers his curses and ponders the new information, “50 forts, twenty thousand mercenaries…he’ll be enslaving the entire country to secure what he wants.”
“All of this is Mr. Adrian’s plan, he’s rumored to be the Governor General soon for all his work here.”
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THE CONGO - 1883
Stiles had already gone further into the forest playing hide and seek than he should’ve but he couldn’t help but race after the man now that he’s finally seen him. The spirit or demon that lives among the animals was a story told by everyone for as long as Stiles can remember. He didn’t seem evil or vicious, he didn’t even appear to be a ghost, just a man who lives with the apes.
Later he’ll say his mother’s handkerchief caught the wind and he had to find it; which is why he went further into the growth. Not because a very handsome and large man sniffed him and then ran away, definitely not that.
“Wait! Please!”
Forcing his way through more brush and growth, Stiles stumbles into a bright opening where the man is nowhere to be seen and the jungle is eerily quiet. One tree top shakes and rains small leaves into the air drawing Stiles’ attention.
Fighting the sun’s harsh rays, Stiles looks up at the canopy and watches for the sight of the mysterious man to reappear. Instead, the furious howl of an ape screams into the silent jungle.
A large gorilla breaks through the tree line swinging towards Stiles with its fist raised and teeth bared. Stiles flings himself backward into an awkward heap on the jungle floor. Before the gorilla can slam into him, a tan blur slams into the ape from the side tackling it into the bushes and out of sight.
Stiles scrambles to his feet as the ape stands up and charges him with another roar. Turning to sprint back to the village-something they’re taught to never do but the adrenaline controls him rather than his knowledge-Stiles trips once more over a gnarly root.
Flipping onto this back to raise his arms in a pathetic attempt to protect his face, Stiles whimpers at the agonizing fate that awaits him.
Another blur of tan moves from the corner of his eye to directly above him. Startled, Stiles meets the stunning tri-color eyes of the man he was chasing. The man forces him as far into the dirt as possible, their noses grazing and their gazes locking. The moment is broken only by the man looking over his shoulder at the raging ape reminding Stiles of exactly where they are.
The first slam of the ape's fists into the man’s back draws a pained gasp from Stiles’ lips. Everyone in the village has seen the unrecognizable remains of loved ones who bare the attacks of an ape. So much strength in even the smallest ape is known. Stiles can’t even imagine the pain and strength it takes to bear the attack without faltering an inch.
And yet, with each slam the man shifts to make sure his body covers all of Stiles and keeps the ape as far from him as he can all while their eyes are locked onto each other. The urge to trace or feel the strength behind his muscles is so powerful, that Stiles’ hands twitch in the dirt at his sides.
Then finally, after what feels like hours of restraint on his part and perseverance on the man’s, the ape retreats into the jungle with a final warning roar. The man slumps onto him in relief, every inch of his body briefly pressed into Stiles as he rolls them so he’s prone and unconscious beside Stiles.
Refusing to leave his savior in fear that he’ll succumb to his injuries or vanish once more, Stiles stays by his side until the shouting of his name and rustling brush grows near. He calls out to the group and waves to his terrified dad as they arrive by his side.
Before his father can lecture him, Noah looks at the beaten and bloodied man beside his son and the way Stiles looks at the man. With a sigh, Noah orders the others to place the stranger on their makeshift gurney. Even though he’s unconscious, Stiles holds the man’s hand the entire trek to the village, never letting go until he wakes.
It was too early to call it love. Stiles knew the man could not speak and was barely a man but he knew from the first moment they locked eyes that it would be so easy to fall for the strange and gruff man.