"Sorry, Lahey, but I'm more of a cat person."
Vera Pérez is no stranger to the supernatural. Growing up alongside the Hale family has kept her fairly well-informed about the creatures that lurk in the darkness. However, she didn't become one of thos...
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( chaos rising, pt. ii — fireflies, pt i. )
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
STILES SLAMS A map of the bank onto the table in Derek's loft, using a desk lamp to see through the multiple layers of sheer paper that create the entire picture. Vera leans over it with her elbows resting on the table, her faux leather jacket creating an efficient barrier between her skin and the cold surface. Her fists squish the soft skin of her cheeks together as she watches every one of Stiles' hyperactive movements intently.
"Okay, you see this?" he asks, tapping a small area labeled 'vent' with the cap of his red sharpie. "This is how they got in. It's a rooftop air conditioning vent. Leads down inside into the wall of the vault, which is here." He yanks the cap off and messily circles the place labeled 'vault'. "Okay? One of the robbers was lowered into this shaft. Now, that space is so small, it took him about twelve hours to drill into that wall, which is stone, by the way. Then, throughout the rest of the night, they siphoned the cash up to the guys back on the roof through that one little shaft in the wall. Boom."
"It took you almost twenty-four hours to figure all of this out?" Vera questions with raised eyebrows, recalling when he'd told Derek that the internet would only take minutes for him to discover the robbers' heist plan.
Stiles jabs the marker at her, narrowly missing drawing a red dot on her nose, as his brown eyes squint in annoyance. "You— you, be quiet. At least I got it, alright?"
"Can we fit in there?" Scott questions disbelievingly.
"Yes, we can, but very, very, barely," Stiles responds, capping the sharpie after shooting Vera one last playful glare. "And they also patched the wall, obviously, so we're gonna need a drill of some kind. I'm thinking maybe a diamond bit—"
"Look, forget the drill," Derek pipes up from his spot leaning both hands against the table, head thoughtfully turned toward the pencil-sketch drawing of the bank's floor plan.
Stiles pauses, eyebrows furrowing and spastic hand movements freezing in place. He drops his arms with a confused expression directed at Derek. "Sorry?"
"If I go in first, how much space do I have?"
Stiles rotates his head incredulously, tapping the end of the sharpie on the table. "What do you — what do you think you're gonna do, Derek? Are you gonna punch through the wall?"
The Alpha straightens up, crossing his burly arms over his chest and giving the boy a falsely sweet smile that acts as a polar opposite to the sarcasm in his voice. "Yes, Stiles, I'm gonna punch through the wall."
