undergrounds | I'm fairly local; I've been around (OPEN)

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I'm fairly local; I've been around (OPEN)

A. DAY:

[ creature of the night he may be, Derek's life is far from nocturnal. admittedly, this is partially because he sleeps less than he probably ought to, especially these days. however, it's also because even in London, there are places that aren't 24/7. yet. a bank. a decent mechanic. somewhere that sells smores flavoured pop tarts. combined with his own restlessness, and a sense that he still doesn't quite belong, Derek is unable to hang around at the den all day.

when he's out, he's watchful. even on the streets of the city centre, Derek has come to learn that he can't afford to overlook anything. perhaps it's an inhuman kind of scent that has his gaze catching, lingering, or perhaps a face he recognizes from the Redbright ball has him staring in heavy, curious scrutiny. maybe he simply has to squeeze past the same PETA collector on the street, muttering something about no goddamn escape. ]

B. NIGHT:

[ after the sun sets, Derek retreats to his own territory. generally speaking, he's not looking for a fight, and lurking around other areas of London at night is sometimes as much a provocation as is necessary. he keeps to the east end, hemming along every county line like a sentry, watching - waiting, maybe - for any suggestion that things are not as they should be on his turf. his. he'd never considered it in those terms when he'd been following Laura's lead, when there had been another alpha running things. aside from an inherent wolfish sense of territory, he'd felt little investment. now, his position has changed, but the disconnect here lingers. in the wake of his own hasty decision making, he still feels like he's standing in. that only makes him all the more tense.

and all the more eager to work. he covers a surprising amount of distance on foot, keeps his ear to the ground to keep track of what's going on. maybe it's quiet. maybe it's not. but he stays out late.

if, on his unofficial patrol, he comes across something or someone that seems like they shouldn't be here - well, Derek follows. ]

C. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!

( catch all! feel free to tag in with your own starter - just give me a heads up if you're looking for anything in particular - or let me know if you'd like a specific heading! 8] )

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If nothing else, he can be grateful that his staring match with the coyote is less awkward than he initially feared it would be. The silence drags on, but what else could he expect? She can hardly reply to him verbally - although that roll of her eyes is as convincing as anything that he was understood. Without elaboration, however, he can only wonder at it, at her. Why is she out here? How much time does she spend in this form, that it's all he's ever seen?

Faced with a myriad of questions and precious few answers, what can Derek do but follow? Now that he's committed himself to figuring out the shifter, he has little choice but to go with her, as directed. At least, he's fairly sure that this all amounts to guidance - and that it's not a trap (unlikely, but always possible). There's still a part of him that questions the idea of going after her, like maybe she's not actually signalling for anything and was just trying to taste his shirt, or something.

That doesn't make sense, but neither does a coyote in London.

Derek follows, not too fast - he's not convinced that he won't spook her - but ensuring that she doesn't leave his sight.

Malia doesn't move quickly. She's purposefully trying to make sure he can follow her, checking back over her shoulder every now and then to make sure he still is. She's not sure what she'll do if he loses her.

Probably move on with her life, she supposes.

Anyway, her destination isn't far, and Malia drags the clothes out of the cardboard box, one last glance his way as she pulls them into seclusion to change both body and clothes.

She's zipping up a kneehigh boot as she steps back out, watching him with now human eyes, long hair a little bit of a mess.

"It's Derek, right?"

He stops when she does, brow furrowing in consternation when she pulls out what appears, at first, to be a heap of fabric. It takes a moment for him to put it together - she's going to shift. She's going to speak to him. He's reassured by that, even as he's reassured by the knowledge that he was right: whoever she is, she isn't feral. She's clever. She's planned, perhaps not for meeting him, but for life in a city.

When she steps out, Derek is silent. Immediately, he gauges her age and thinks that it fits. Mouth pressed into a thin line, he studies her face closely. She and Peter share no close resemblance, but that doesn't make the possibility void. Looking at her is making his head spin: he cannot stop his mind from turning the question over and over again, is she? could she be?

Swallowing, he nods, makes an effort to appear less stricken. Warily, he glances around. Just incase.

"How do you know?"

If she was in coyote form her ears would twitch. There's no one around, she's sure of that, having picked this particular alley for the lack of people that come down it. She's become accustomed to tracking people, figuring out when they were there last, how often they come down. This kind of life in the city, digging through the dumpsters, getting bottles and whatever else on hand thrown at her, having to dodge animal control and humans in general—this is what she knows how to do. Malia wouldn't have brought him here if she was concerned they might get caught.

For her, getting caught means, at best, death.

Still, his wariness has her listening, too, albeit probably not as intently as he is. She regards him with some measure of aloofness. His questionanswer is all the proof she needs to be sure that she's right, although she's... not impressed. She didn't expect someone so normal. Not after the things she's heard about her father.

"My mom showed me a picture, once. She wanted me to know what you guys looked like, in case we ever rant into you." Granted, that was mostly an 'In Case of Peter' scenario, but...

Somehow, despite asking the question, Derek didn’t expect an answer. Maybe it’s just superstiition, maybe it’s because, in recent months, they’ve become so hard to find, or maybe it’s because Derek’s thinking of Peter and how he never answered straight if he answered at all.

Derek stares at her - continues to do so, really, though his eyes fix on her with a renewed sharpness. All over again, he’s reading her face, mapping her out, in the hopes of finding something more than words, something he can trust. They study each other in the same way. Derek’s not sure what he expected, except that it probably wasn’t her. (So normal might about cover it, honestly, especially when he found her rooting through trash.)

Something about the idea of this girl’s mother knowing about them, knowing about what happened, starts the beginnings of an insidious anger somewhere in him, but he thinks about it, turns it over and over again in his head, and realizes that the shifter - cousin? - in front of him doesn’t know. When the fire still holds such a vast space in his mind, it’s hard to believe - and it’s also not what he needs to focus on right now.

His gaze flicks over her again. Her clothing fits, she wears it comfortably, and she had it ready, so however long she spends a coyote Derek assumes that she must shift fairly frequently. Did she steal them, or does she have people helping her? Who’s she with, Derek wonders, but instead he asks:

“How long have you been out here?”

"Mom died eight years ago," she says, crossing her arms. It's a defensive maneuver because she doesn't know him, either, doesn't know if Peter's with him or on his side.

All she knew about the Hales was that Peter Hale was a manipulative prick, and his family was a powerful family of werewolves. The only one her mother had ever cautioned her to stay away from was Peter.

"I've been out here since then. Sometimes shapeshifters come and help me... they tried to get me to join their clan but I'm not interested in helping the people who got mom killed."

At first, the implications of what she says don't really sink in - Derek is too caught on a wave of sympathy, of too-keen knowing that leaves him hollow, empty of words to say but full of sentiment. Her position - her appearance - abruptly makes sense to him. After the fire, if he'd been a shifter - would it have been the same? Probably not. Laura was never that evasive. But the coyote didn't have a Laura, evidently.

But after the initial surge of emotion, Derek thinks eight years and realizes that she has been alone for far longer than him. All at once, he eases, gentles. The other shapeshifters - he wants to ask, but right now, it seems less important.

"What's your name?"

"Malia."

She gives it freely because she has no reason to not tell him. He knows who she is and he has her scent, giving out her name isn't going to keep him from tracking her down if this goes sour.

Part of her is hoping it won't. She's been by herself without family for so long that now that she has an idea of what she might be able to have—someone else in her life she can rely on and can be trustworthy—that she doesn't want to let it go, even if it's the barest hope that she's clinging on to.

"Mom told me that they wanted to name me after the Alpha."

Well, that's a twist of the ever-present knife. Unexpected as it was, the words only hit Derek harder. He nods, sets his jaw, but averts his gaze as he does so, rolling his shoulders in a bid to will away the tension. The last thing he needs right now is to act like he's crazy - for both their sakes. Malia. He swallows down the sharp stab of anger threatening to claim him. Even if Peter didn't tell him, it's not fair to hold it against him now.

He doesn't quite manage to tell her that he's sorry.

"It's stupid to be out here alone."

"I've survived this far." It's defiant, like he's judging her, and she isn't here for that. She won't take it from people in her race and she won't take it from family members she's never met until now, no matter how badly she wants a family again.

"I can make it by myself."

"Coyotes aren't meant to be out on their own," he says, aware that he's mistepped but intent on pushing forward. The look he gives her now is flat and sincere - honestly, he has no idea how social an animal the coyote might be, but the details are less important than the end result right now. The longer he stands here with her, knowing who and what she is, the more unthinkable it becomes to let her vanish again. "Neither are wolves."

"I'm not a wolf," she retorts, looking at him in the eye. But she's relenting, a little bit. She's tired of being alone. "I'm not even a werewolf."

She asks it like it's going to be a problem, for her to go to his pack.

In that moment, it's difficult to hold her gaze. Filled with a fierce need to prove something, to prove himself to her, he finds himself faltering. But he shakes his head.

"You don't need to be a wolf, Malia."

Pack means more than that, she means more than that. These sentiments are too much for him to articulate, so he settles for something more flippant.

"Even humans have been part of the East End before. You? Not that weird."

That gets through to her. After a long moment, she nods once, slowly.

"Okay. I'll join."

Derek isn't sure what he expected, what he hoped for, but when she responds he finds relief welling in him so hard and fast he almost sighs to let it out. He's glad that she replied that way, not merely because it means she's joining but because it means she's accepting, that he's done enough.

He returns her nod.

"Okay. Good. That's good."

He presses his lips together, suitably ashamed by his reply. It is not difficult to remind himself that she's the only family he has anymore, really - the thought is constantly skirting along the edge of his mind when he thinks of her. So he pushes himself. Makes an effort. Looks at her again, and says, sincerely:

"I'm glad."

"Me, too."

She means it. In fact, he even gets a little smile with it, her body language suddenly a little bashful. It's... nice. To be part of a family. It's one of those things that you don't realize you miss until you have it again.

"Let's go."

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I'm fairly local; I've been around (OPEN)

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