From Ashes ✗ Stiles Stilinski [#𝟏]

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 [ apocalypse, part two. ]

A/N: So...nearly three months. JFC. I applaud anyone who still gets excited for updates for this. The thing that was hindering my writing is gone now, so I'm getting a head start on 46 now before I lose any more traction. 

Anyway, parts of this were written months ago and other parts I just wrote this week. If there are any inconsistencies, let me know. Either way, the conclusion to the Sunnydale is in the next chapter. I also hope you enjoy my first time writing for Lydia because that was the hardest part of this whole thing. Without further adieu...

Song Recommendation ["Come As You Are (cover)" - Prep School]
NOTE: For the full experience, I do personally suggest seeking out each song rec.

☽ † ☾

Max's hands were dry, severely dry - something she hoped she wouldn't have to get used to. It was such a strange quirk to have and she couldn't trace it back to any one moment, but it'd become a constant annoyance and she never quite got past it. She hated the feeling of rubbing her fingers together and the scratchy noise they made. She hated the white lines that appeared and the itchy tightness of her skin, as if stretching her fingers would tear it open. It was a tic, a nervous tic that she only realized she had when there were too many important things to worry about - or just the one enormous thing.

In the building's basement attached to the abandoned store, she was waiting to receive her official assignment. There was a place lower than this and she could hear it; she could hear fighting. A woman shouting over a chorus of synchronized grunts and, somewhere else down there, the erratic rhythm of flesh and bone hitting something heavy. Beneath Max's feet, right at this moment, were dozens of vampire slayers learning to be vampire slayers. Max had only met one ever, and that was only a day and a half ago. One of those girls down there may end up being her slayer, a real human life to guide and help.

The skin on her hands felt tight and itchy. What type of nonsensical place was California? How could it be overcast and so dry?

She shifted slightly in her seat at the beige suede couch, which was soft and comfy and broken in after years upon years. It clashed horribly with the pale greenish-blue color of the walls, but she doubted the people who typically sat in this room had time for things like choosing flattering color palettes. Unsurprisingly, the entire room smelled like old coffee grounds and stale store-bought cookies and biscuits, a combination that she hoped to never have to identify again.

Max sucked in a breath, hands still pressed together on her lap as she turned to the door on the opposite side of the room. The woman from before was standing there, her large, cynical eyes scrolling rapidly through something on her phone, and paying Max no mind. There was an air about her that read like a 'NO TRESPASSING' sign on a barbed wire fence. Her presence alone told Max to keep quiet. Still, Max thought about the girls downstairs and being so far from home in such little time and couldn't help but feel the words bubbling up in her throat. "Excuse me."