❝I'm overwhelmingly human. Sorry to disappoint.❞
Luna Flores hasn't had an easy life. And after moving to Beacon Hills, it isn't about to get any easier.
Forced to uproot her family's life in Arizona, Luna hopes to find respite in the unknown, quie...
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WE'RE GETTING CLOSER," The boy said, all too confident for someone so unsure of what they were saying.
Stiles Stilinski ran his hand over his head, feeling the stubble leftover from when he impulsively took the razor to his hair a few months back. In his other hand, he held a flashlight, swinging it freely as if it were a baton.
"How do you know?" His friend said behind him, straggling back and out of breath, rattling his inhaler. Scott McCall knew this was a bad idea. All of Stiles' ideas seemed to be bad ideas, and yet he went along with every single one because that was how the dynamic had always been. He couldn't exactly say much if he was an enabler, so instead he said nothing at all, instead only focusing on counting his breaths. Stiles had always been the louder one, and he played that part well.
"Because I'm pretty sure we've been walking for an hour," Stiles reasoned, readjusting his jacket. It was waterproof, but he hated the swishing sound it made when he walked. "It has to be here somewhere if we've been walking so long."
He blew a drop of rain off his lips. His old faded blue Jeep — Roscoe, he called it, and the name never seemed to catch on with anyone except himself —stood by the entry of Beacon Hills Preserve, directly across from the sign that also said No Entry After Dark. There was no possibility that he had beaten his dad or his team here, which meant there was still a slight chance that they were still looking — and an even slimmer chance than him and Scott could find what they were looking for first.
Growing up in and around the Preserve didn't making navigating it all that easier. Most people swore that it only grew more confusing if you went off trail, and how the place seemed to have a mind of its own, somehow becoming bigger and wider and harder to understand.
"Not true," Scott replied, climbing over a small mound of dirt and fallen tree trunks, chest heaving. They had only been walking for at least twenty minutes. Five minutes to Stiles could feel like a day. "And hey, maybe we shouldn't call the dead body an it."
"Sorry — she."
Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. He could be insensitive, even in his best intentions, and it was something he was trying to actively counter and work on. At Scott's correction, he had to remember that this had been a person they were looking for. Not just a body. Sure, it—she—had been dead for who knows how long, but still he supposed it was only respectful to not be so thrilled about it. It wasn't unrealized to him that looking for a dead body was morbid. A little troubling even for two young boys to do. But Stiles had always loved investigating and meddling, and Scott had always sucked it up and joined for the ride. If Stiles could just see what he heard on his Dad's radio, maybe he could help.
Maybe a part of it was just his own morbid curiosity. A big part of it.
"How do we even know what part of the body we're looking for?" Scott asked.
