[Well, the atmosphere at the Meri-hosted forum is pleasant…until a certain young man carrying a chip on his shoulder arrives. He’s dressed in the same clothes that he crawled out of the earth wearing—namely: maroon-colored canvas sneakers; worn, gray jeans; and a thin, blue raglan hoodie—with clumps of dirt still clinging desperately to the fabric. Though the actual hood of said hoodie has been drawn up over the back of his head strategically, the vibrant, blood-red Shard buried in the left-side of his neck remains easy enough to spot at the right angle. Unconsciously, his hand drifts to rub at the area every so often, the neighboring skin pink and puffy from too much attention.

Maybe you don’t notice him immediately. After all, why would you? He appears to be little more than an average human being. Nothing about him stands out. At least, not initially. But as the hour inevitably drags on, something begins to spoil the agreeable ambiance. Genial smiles fade. Conversation grows awkward and stilted. And the source of the negative energy that’s poisoning the informational session? Why, it’s none other than Mieczysław “Stiles” Stilinski himself. From unassuming group to unassuming group does he slink, expression carved as if from stone. Wherever he insinuates himself, people seem to become rapidly uncomfortable. The Californian teenager takes no prisoners—assailing anyone he speaks to with a barrage of pointed, intrusive inquiries. A lucky few manage to find excuses to take their leave, hastily fleeing from the Tribune with nary a backward glance. Others are not so fortunate.

His current crowd of unwilling victims looks particularly harassed. Should you wander closer, you might hear the tail end of a diatribe poorly masked as discussion.]

What do you mean, “I don’t know?” [scoffs Stiles in a tone painted overbright with acid.] You’ve lived here how long and you can’t even answer a basic question like that? Give me a break.

[An older woman draws herself up, flinty eyes narrowed. Tragically, her ensuing stern lecture doesn’t faze the aggrieved party crasher.]

Go pound sand, [he tells her unkindly, his own eyes dark with an inexplicable emotion.] You’re wasting my time. I mean, hello? Why attend an event like this if you’re an established local with no useful information to share? What is this to you—some kind of hoity-toity soiree where you can gawk at and gossip about newbie outworlders? Jesus Christ, get lost already.

[Everyone present within that group proves more than happy to oblige; they disperse, muttering in hushed whispers to each other. Yet Stiles hardly claims the bearing of smug victor. If anything, he appears…disappointed? Whatever the case may be, the moment that he catches sight of you lingering nearby, the young man slings a challenging look your way.]

Got something to say?

[Flute glass in hand, Stiles stands at the edge of a reflecting pool. Today, his manner is just as subdued as that of the resident Zenites, who gracefully glide to and from social circles behind him. There are no visible traces of the misplaced, pent-up rage and grief that had plagued him the other afternoon. In fact, his countenance is almost eerily blank—revealing nothing as he gazes down at the still, luminescent waters. But beneath the pale moon’s light, even a complete stranger will be able to discern how ashen his face is. If you approach, you might potentially glimpse what has so transfixed and disturbed him. Across the glittering surface of the pool, a gruesome image glowers back: Stiles himself, impaled fatally through the chest upon a slender metal beam, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as glassy brown eyes seem to sightlessly stare you down. This is only the memory of a hallucination that’s haunted him recently, though you won’t know that.

With a rough start, Stiles realizes he is no longer alone. The young man jerks guiltily away from the reflecting pool, mouth opening and closing on a dozen different denials that go unspoken. He has no idea whether or not you saw what his traitorous memories conjured and tries to glean that detail from your perceptible reaction.]

Some party, huh?

[Stiles chuckles weakly. His voice is shaking. In an attempt to inject a cheap imitation of normalcy into the encounter, the teenager knocks back the wine as if it were watered-down beer—resulting in an embarrassing amount of choking, sputtering, and wheezing.]

Wh-what… Oh my god, that—ugh, that was so nasty. [Nose wrinkled with disgust, he actually smacks his mouth several times in succession as if savoring the taste of the offensive alcohol.] Okay, dude, seriously? Take my advice. I’ll offer it to you free of charge. Do not drink this stuff. Pretty sure I just swallowed the girliest excuse for body wash ever. There are bubbles attacking my guts right now. Oh, but—no hate. Girl body wash? Great. Fantastic. Love the stuff. You familiar with, uh, that product line by Philosophy? Totally recommend their “Melon Daiquiri” shower gel. Or maybe you’re more a “Salted Citrus” kinda person. No? Cool. Never mind.

[And with that, he finally shuts up.]

[If there’s one truth Stiles is intimately familiar with, it’s that valuable intel sometimes flows best in the seediest of underbellies. But to his genuine surprise, Kenos’ criminal underground doesn’t seem to exist beneath Highstorm that he’s been able to discover. Okay, sure. He might’ve prematurely pigeonholed the aforementioned twilight city as a perfect setting for sordid corruption, lurking insidiously out of sight. Sue him. Once Stiles learns about Kowloon, however—after snooping and eavesdropping and greasing palms with gold staters he absolutely legitimately earned, yessir—the young man vows never to fall prey to stereotype fallacies again. (A vow that he will undoubtedly break in a handful of hours.) Anyway…

Though he admittedly does have his fair share of idiotic moments, what with being a seventeen-going-on-eighteen-year-old boy harboring questionable interests and hobbies, Stiles isn’t, in general, stupid. Actually, the fact of the matter is: Stiles is quite intelligent. Perhaps not the borderline genius that his longtime crush and friend Lydia Martin may be, but inarguably gifted. So, despite inclinations for spontaneity and improvision, he takes his time to prepare. All the while, Stiles keeps in mind the subtle glint of malicious amusement that he’d observed in the last Meri he interrogated. That asshole had hidden something from him. And a keen sense of intuition insists that that something involves how specifically to enter the Below—an intuition that is validated as Stiles at last slips past the aqueduct entrance into the tunnels. At the first fork, he reluctantly pauses his journey. Continuing on ignorantly would be beyond stupid. Instead, Stiles adopts the relaxed, confident air of someone who belongs and waits. Eventually, he’s rewarded; a dark-haired individual who looks similar in age enters the passageway roughly forty minutes later. Stiles offers a companionable nod in greeting that goes unreturned, then watches intently as the stranger disappears down the right tunnel. He allows a twenty-second head start before quietly following. Stealth is by no means a strong suit, yet the other youth never acknowledges his presence. By the time they reach the underground city, Stiles has already memorized the correct path through the Below.

Upon entering Kowloon, Sasuke seems to melt into shadow and vanish (which is just as well, because Stiles hadn’t been planning on tipping for the unnegotiated guidance). Undeterred by the hostile looks shot his way by locals, Stiles begins his time-consuming exploration—winding in and out of gambling parlors, drug dens, and fighting rings.

A. You might find him in the Crown, nimble fingers lightly relieving unguarded pockets of money. He overstays his welcome; a target catches him in the act, seizing his arm and wrenching it painfully behind his back. Meeting your eyes, he tries to silently plead for help. Do you?

B. You might run into him in Draumahol, examining an unattended hookah with sharp curiosity. Maybe you overheard an employee previously mention how toxic that station’s tobacco is for humans. Maybe you simply object to what appears to be an underaged young man hanging around hard-hitting drugs. Better hurry—Stiles is reaching for the hose.

C. You might stumble upon him in one of the caverns, seated on a fluorescent mushroom cap and staring moodily into the distance. His knees are pulled up to his chest, a position that makes him look especially vulnerable. If you draw near, he’ll glance mistrustfully at you but say nothing in protest. Really, he can use the company.]

( ooc | None of these prompts work for you but you’re interested in threading? Feel free to hit Stiles up with something different or plot with me! For reference: Stiles is a seventeen-year-old human and taken from the start of Teen Wolf season 5b, episode 1. If your character can read Japanese, they will likely recognize the kanji that his Shard represents. If you have any questions, let’s chat! )