undergrounds | OTA; various locations and times

A) One’s An Incident

“—listen to me!”

Somewhere near you, whether it’s at the park or on the sidewalk or in the café or riding the tube, there is a young man engaged in a heated conversation. The identity of the person he’s arguing with may not be readily obvious to those without supernatural hearing; the discussion is taking place over the phone. Should you attempt to tune Stiles out, it’ll quickly prove fruitless. His voice rises in volume the longer he’s on the call.

“I’m telling you, it’s fine. …No! I’m not sending you a picture of it. There’s nothing to see! …No. …No. It was just an accident, okay!?”

Distractedly, Stiles turns in your direction. There is an ugly, swollen bruise taking up half his face, clearly the work of someone’s fist. You may be able to infer that this is what the fight is about.

“—oh my god, don’t. You were the one who shipped me off here. You don’t get to pull that card on me, not now. …Dad. …Dad. Would you— …Would you just TRUST me for once!?”

Whatever his father responds with, it elicits an immediate reaction from Stiles. Expression twisting miserably, he seems to lose all energy for continuing the exchange. His voice is wooden, weary.

“Fine. I gotta go. …Yeah, I will. …Alright. Love you too.”

The call ends. Maybe you make eye contact with Stiles awkwardly. Maybe you decide to talk to him. Maybe you try to pretend you hadn’t overheard.

“Sorry about that,” he says to you, light and cheery. His smile is tight. “You know how it is. My old man always has to get his say in.”

B) Two’s A Coincidence

If you venture to the library, you’ll likely find Stiles buried nose-deep in an oversized tome. He’s piled high a wall of literature around him, to the point where it might be difficult to see him from the front. The titles of the books? All on mythology and mythical creatures. On occasion, a particularly interesting passage has him muttering under his breath and jotting down a few notes in his journal. Feel free to pull up a chair and harass him; he could use a break.

C) Three’s A Pattern

Guess who just drove his shitty used bicycle into you or your vehicle? This guy. Eyes wide, he hastily stammers out an apology, then loses his balance. Both bike and boy crash to the ground in a mess of whizzing gears and muffled groans. Maybe he took you down with him.

D) Four’s A Warrant

Night in London isn’t kind to humans—not that that’s ever stopped Stiles from exploring the city at inappropriate hours. However, there’s something different about the young man tonight as he wanders the streets aimlessly. For one, he’s clad only in a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt with no shoes in sight. He doesn’t even have his trusty lacrosse stick on him! If you get close, you’ll see the unfocused, glassy fog to his eyes. Hopefully your intentions are well-meaning. Or maybe you’re looking for an easy snack. Either way, Stiles doesn’t seem to be in a position to argue.

( If you prefer brackets over prose, I’ll follow suit! PM me if you’d like to plot out a specific starter for your character! c: )

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Well, that horn is certainly effective at getting said stupid child off his ass and back onto his feet. Stumbling in disorientation, he takes a moment to regain some equilibrium before staring at the driver incredulously. He holds up a hand as if to signal that he just needs a moment to grab his bike and move, but the honking does...not...stop... Stiles thinks he may go permanently deaf.

"Alright, alright, alright, alright," he shrieks, slamming both hands down on the hood of the ugly truck. His father would have cuffed him; the Sheriff has warned Stiles many a time about provoking drivers with road rage. "Knock it off!"

Oh. Sorry. Does Stiles not like that? Trevor keeps it going for about thirty seconds longer before it abruptly stops. The air seems to ring from the grating cacophony of get the fuck out of my way, you stupid shit that just bellowed from his beast of a pickup truck.

When Stiles slams his hand down on said truck, Trevor doesn't even flinch. He's from (the equivalent of) California. Dumb youngin's with no fear of a trip to the hospital are quite common. T decides to rev the engine, making it roar like he's about to bowl the little bastard over.

"You are an advocate for child abuse. Paws off, kiddo." Shouted at him rather calmly, all things considered.

If the driver didn’t look like he was seriously packing heat, Stiles would have marched up to the window and…and…well, he’s not sure. Something brave and foolhardy, for sure. It probably would have ended with his body in the Thames. Stiles doesn’t want his father to have a son who became fish food. So he clamps down on his unwise urges and settles for scowling as fiercely as he is able to (it isn’t very impressive).

“Yeah? You look like an advocate for incest, asshole.”

The engine revving has him a little nervous though, so he quickly retrieves his bicycle from the ground.

Ah, yes. The incest insult. He's heard it slung so many times it's become something that Trevor now actively enforces the idea of, because, you know, why not.

"You know it, asshole! Daddy and his sister had a baby and it's gonna drag you right down to hell."

He yanks the car into drive, seeing the kid's picking his stupid bike back up. Is he going to run? Is Trevor going to chase down and terrify some hapless high-schooler? We just don't know. (But most likely.)

Definitely not the response he expected (and hoped) to elicit from the driver. Nose wrinkling in disgust, he slowly drags his bicycle away from the truck as if he’s forgotten it has two functioning wheels to push it along on. Forget road road—this guy is crazy. And while Stiles may have dealt with different brands of crazy before, he’s out of his league here.

“Are you kidding me right now!?”

Stiles refuses to believe the driver will chance actually mowing him down. He refuses. But survival instinct kicks in and he’s climbing onto the bike frantically…just in case.

Trevor's prone to psycho-killer rampages and all, but generally he reserves it for adults. Some weird sense of morality toward the children. Sort of. Regardless, while he has no genuine plan to kill this kid, he doesn't have a problem with traumatizing him. He slams his foot on the pedal.

Cheerfully, in response: "Nope!"

And then he accelerates. Might smash into that bike and ruin it, or if Stiles starts booking it, he'll chase him.

In that split second following the truck’s acceleration, Stiles entertains a fanciful vision in his mind’s eye: He, heroic and grim, vaulting into the air to somersault onto the hood of the truck. If he had werewolfy-strength, maybe he could follow the gymnastics up with something cool, like shattering the windshield with his fist. Then he would deck this guy, thrown on the emergency brake, and watch the dude brain himself on the steering wheel. All without a scratch coming to his bicycle.

The reality leaves much to be desired. Abandoning the bike with animalistic survival instincts, he scrambles away from the street and up onto the sidewalk. He even slides behind a sturdy-looking street lamp to watch in disbelieving horror. HIS BIKE…you monster.

He should not feel this great about destroying some poor kid's bike. But Trevor does. He's quite chipper as he runs the thing over, then proceeds to back up over it again, because overkill. Then he glances toward Stiles. Points at him.

"This is what happens when you're inconsiderate. You are entirely in control of your own destiny. Your fate. Which, in this case, is a shitty bike meeting its end."

Pause.

"Think of it as a mercy killing! Fuck your fixie, you hipster." Yes Trevor just said that. Then he's shifting it back into drive, prepared to just squeal off into the streets again if Stiles has no rebuttal.

Trevor wins the last word; struck dumb by the sight of his mangled bicycle, Stiles has nothing to say for once in his life. He just stands there gaping at the mess in shock, hands held out to the side as if to broadcast a universal "what the fuck" to anyone who might see him. RIP shitty secondhand bicycle; you are now even shittier.

OTA; various locations and times

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