#au!sterek

They landed in a large airstrip and Stiles was rushed to his armored car running fifty feet from the huge plane by his body guards, then had to wait as the huge demonstration crates were loaded onto other bigger vehicles that would follow closely behind them, protected on their journey. Stiles pulled out his satellite phone to text Boyd, asking how things were going without him.

Sender: Boyd To: Stiles - 23:57 everything’s fine on the home front. Focus on what you’re doing there. It’s more important.

Sender: Stiles To: Boyd - 23:58 yea, yea, make sure Jackson and Isaac don’t get into anymore fights. I don’t need any more accidental explosions in the ballistics lab, understand?

Sender:Boyd To: Stiles - 00:01 Aye, aye, captain, anything else?

Sender: Stiles To:Boyd - 00:02 yea…tell Lydia she’s looking gorgeous today.

Sender: Boyd To: Stiles - 00:05 she says stop being a creep from the other side of the world and “shouldn’t he be sleeping? He’s got a weapons demonstration in Day Mirdad tomorrow morning!”

Sender: Stiles To: Boyd - 00:08 awe, how sweet, she’s worried about me even from California. <3 Whatever, I’m going to sleep on the car ride. Talk to you later. You’d better let me know if they screw anything up.

Sender: Boyd To:  Stiles - 00:11 night, boss.

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“Rise and shine, it’s time to get moving,” Sergeant Mahealani stated, pulling Scott’s and Stiles’ blankets from their bodies.

“Give it back!” Scott whined while Stiles rolled onto his back to stretch, shaking his head at his best friend.

“No, can do, cupcake. Get your ass out of bed; breakfast in thirty.” The sergeant turned on his heel and disappeared out of the dusty tent.

Stiles threw his feet over the edge of the cot and placed them on the canvas floor. “I hate desert heat,” he stated dryly as he stood up and gathered his clothes and sweat dripped down his temples and neck.

“I hate the night cold,” Scott remarked as he did the same.

They made their way to the latrines, showering quickly but still not exactly able to get all the dust off their skin or out of their hair. They dressed similarly in khaki trousers and button down shirts. Scott’s white shirt contrasted nicely against his dark Hispanic skin while Stiles’ pale blue one brought out the golden tones in his eyes. They bickered like an old married couple, trying to straighten each other’s ties before rolling their eyes and giving up, lacing up their shoes and going to the mess hall. The small structure was filled with soldiers, most of them huge and burly, making Stiles and Scott feel smaller than they actually were. They got their trays of food and made their way over to Sergeant Mahealani who waved them over.

“You finally woke up,” the sergeant commented with a smile.

“Mhmm, this food is terrible,” Scott muttered, shoving dry pancakes and burnt bacon into his mouth.

“Your tax dollars at work, sweetheart,” sergeant replied, “It’s better than what some places get.”

Stiles stuffed his mouth with runny eggs and a hard bagel, washing it down with watery orange juice before leaning back and looking around the room. There were a handful of women scattered around the room among the large numbers of men, and several would turn around in their seats to stare at Stiles and Scott before going back to their food.

“PFC Argent will be driving you to the demonstration site,” Sergeant Mahealani informed them as they stood up and left the small dining structure.

“Thanks, Serge,” Stiles grinned, looking around at the clusters of sand colored tents surrounding them.

“Call me Danny.”

“Thanks, Danny,” Stiles repeated.

Just then an armored car pulled up in front of them and a pretty young woman stepped out of the driver’s seat, eyes set straight as she stood at attention in front of them. She had a sharp jaw line, deep brown eyes and feather duster eyelashes. Stiles turned to Scott to give him an approving look but found his best friend already ogling the woman.

“At ease, Private,” Danny said and the girl’s feet broke apart in a less rigid stance.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied respectfully.

“Mr. Stillinski, Mr. McCall, this is Private First Class Allison Argent. PFC Argent, these are the men who will be doing the weapons demonstration this morning. You’re to pick up Private Reyes on the way out and stay with them while they set up. Six marines have been there since dawn to secure the area and stand guard. If anything happens, you bring these men back immediately, understand?” Danny told her, standing straight up and eyeing her.

“Yes, Sergeant,” PFC Argent agreed, her heels snapping together.

“Get a move on then,” Danny urged and PFC Argent opened the back door dutifully, motioning Scott and Stiles into the back seats.

“This car is safe against gunshots and some low-grade IEDs. But if anything happens, don’t screw around. Just get the hell out of there. Understand? The higher ups will have my ass if anything happens to you guys,” Danny told them and then shut the door when they nodded, slapping the side as it pulled away.

They picked up Private Reyes on the way who was another pretty young woman with a deep scowl and angry brown eyes and flawless cream skin turned dark under the desert sun. The drive to the demonstration site wasn’t long and Stiles filled it with chatter, talking to Scott and then turning the attention on the two women in the front seats. PFC Argent told them to call her Allison and loosened up considerably, giggling at Scott and batting her eyelashes. Private Reyes told them to just call her Reyes and didn’t answer any questions except with grunts and glares.

The demonstration site was little more than a huge open space with high ridges in a semicircle around them about two miles out. Six huge marine guards were waiting there for them, the large crates waiting to be opened.

Stiles hopped out immediately like a little boy running to a candy shop; he was always like that when dealing with weapons, especially the ones he created with his own mind and got to show off to people. One of the guards held out two crowbars to him and Scott who took them happily, prying open the crates. They broke apart the casings, recruiting a few of the guards to help them place the huge missile launchers in precise positions and the other weapons they’d brought. Scott pulled out the laptop to make sure the video tapes were recording in the distance they’d asked to be set up.

They were finishing the last of the set ups when the trucks of marines and army men pulled up, soldiers piling out of them like clowns out of those tiny little clown cars. Scott instructed them where to stand as Stiles made the final adjustments and then they got started.

Stiles started with the simplest ones first, directing attention to their new line of machine guns and sniper rifles. They asked for volunteers and showed them the new features, new scopes, new lasers. They demonstrated their grenades that came in smaller and larger sizes, depending on their targets; the flash grenades that were more or less potent depending on the room size and how many people they were trying to stun. And then they moved onto the more fun stuff that was Stiles’ favorite to demonstrate - the missile launchers and his one secret weapon. He grew more and more animated as he spoke, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a huge grin on his face.

“Okay, guys, now this…oh, this is my baby,” Stiles crooned, moving over to the last weapon set up that was pointing towards the ridges as some of the soldiers snickered. “Laugh all you want, but I created this baby with a good, devious minded friend of mine, Lydia Martin.”

“A chick made that? What kind does it launch? Fluffy bunnies?” one of the guys towards the front called, rolling his eyes. Luckily Reyes took care of that quickly, glowering at him and stomping hard on his toes that made him utter a quick apology. Stiles sent her a thankful smile but she rolled his eyes so he continued.

“No, this does not launch bunnies. If you met my Lydia, you’d know it was something much, much worse than bunnies. This is what it launches.” Stiles moved around the machine to slide one of the bullets from its place, holding it up with two fingers over his head. It was a small thing, weighing less than an ounce and he saw several of the soldiers roll their eyes, disregarding his work. Scott and Stiles shared a devious look as Stiles replaced it before launching into a detailed explanation of the materials used to build it, its special gunpowder and explosives mixture, etc.

“Now, I know this is just a measly little bullet, but it’s a bullet that was created to be shot at high velocity and then explode upon contact with the target,” Stiles said, and turned to Scott. “Scott, would you put up the screen please?”

Scott moved quickly, setting up the medium sized screen so that the group could all see it before he went to the laptop that had been connected to a small projector and bringing up the image of several adult male sized dummies clutching smaller child and female sized dummies.

“We had these dummies set up out there,” Stiles pointed towards the ridges, “and put video cameras on them to show you how this works. There are two settings and two different kinds of bullets, on this side,” he slapped the left side of the boxy machine, “are the heat seeking bullets, and on the other are the regular bullets. If you’re dealing with a hostage situation you can put in a simple code, a high res camera up here will lock onto their location and then you can choose the targets.”

Stiles moved around to the small code pad and screen, moving his fingers quickly while the dummy-insurgents on the screen had small green boxes around their faces. Stiles pressed a button and the bullets were shot. He turned to watch the soldiers as they watched the bullets shoot out of vision only to appear on screen as they hit only the dummy-insurgents and not the hostages they held, straight in the foreheads. He loved seeing those awed and revered expressions on their faces as they looked back at him.

“Now, if there are no hostages, only insurgents, then you can use a different code for the heat seeking bullets, which essentially do the same thing but save you the time of having to choose the targets. The bullets will seek out any living thing within a three mile targeting distance. Scott?” Stiles turned to Scott who switched frames to a different set of dummies that were smoldering under slow burning flames.

Stiles once again moved to the key pad, entering a code before the weapon launched (with no kick-back might he add). He watched the soldiers again as they watched the bullets shoot out of sight, only to appear on-screen taking out the burning dummies. There was a smattering of awed applause as he and Scott wrapped up the demonstration.

“Each squad will have their own codes for the machines, should any questionable launchings take place and they need to trace it back. Squad leaders can find me back at base to get your codes. Scott and I will be sticking around for the next few weeks to offer training to anyone and everyone who needs it,” Stiles called happily.

The soldiers disbanded, climbing back into their vehicles to be carted back to base while more lingered, waiting for their rides to loop back around.

“You really seem to love what you do,” a voice said from behind Stiles and he turned to regard a pretty woman with sharp features and eyes the same color as the sand surrounding them.

“Do I now?” Stiles asked charmingly, leaning on one of the missile launchers he’d just powered down.

“Yes, you do,” she grinned, dimples popping up on her cheeks as she batted her eyelashes.

“Well you’d be right. I always thought about going into the military but never made it past the physicals. I’ve got bad asthma, ADHD and was born with only one kidney.” He shrugged in a way that said eh-what-can-yah-do?

The woman giggled. “I guess the desert’s not a real great place for you to be then, huh?”

“Not particularly,” Stiles laughed, and then coughed a bit as if to strengthen her statement. He held up a finger in apology, pulling out a small blue inhaler from his pocket, putting it back and pulling out a red one. He took a quick puff and replaced it. “Sorry, about that,” he apologized.

“No, problem,” she assured him, “I’m Stacy, Private Stacy Wilder.”

“Nice to meet you, Private,” he replied, offering a polite hand. “I’m Genim Stilinski, but you can just call me Stiles.”

“You’re…Genim Stilinski? As in Stilinski Weapons Data and Armor Technology?” she breathed in awe, her wide eyes going even wider.

Stiles laughed and put his hands in his pockets. “Yep, that’d be me,” he stated.

“But...I mean… you can’t be older than like…” she trailed off, unsure.

“I’m twenty two,” he laughed, “Graduated college at nineteen, started the business at twenty.”

“And now it’s like, a multibillion dollar company. I thought for sure you were just like, one of the techies they send out for these things,” she said.

“No, ma’am, are you kidding? This is the best part of the job! I’d choose this over sitting behind a desk.”

“That’s so awesome…so uhm, I get finished with patrol at seven. We should grab dinner together,” she suggested, sidling up closer to him so she could bat her lashes from underneath her cap.

Stiles laughed a little awkwardly and tilted his head down a little to be at her level. “I’m real flattered, ma’am, but, uh,” Stiles paused.

“He swings for a different team,” Scott supplied helpfully from where he was setting things up for the afternoon demonstration.

Stacy’s face fell in disappointment. “Oh.”

“Sorry, but if you need a gay best friend to help you pick out which fatigues to wear in the morning, come find me,” he teased, sending her a playful wink that made her laugh and walk off to meet the approaching vehicle.

“Bye, Stiles, see ya ‘round,” she called with a wave.

As she got in Stiles caught the eye of a particularly large, surly looking marine who was staring at Stiles; he had a dark smattering of facial hair over his cheekbones and chin, eyes that Stiles couldn’t decide on the color of from the distance, and a glower that made Stiles’ skin tingle.

“Dude,” Scott said, approaching Stiles and following his gaze, “He’s kinda hot.”

“Yea,” Stiles agreed, nodding to emphasize his words.

Scott wasn’t by any stretch gay, but he knew enough of Stiles’ taste in men, and was comfortable enough in his sexuality, to admit when a guy was attractive. They finished setting back up before hopping into the vehicles and letting Reyes and Allison drive them back to base for lunch.

Stiles caught the eye of the same guy from the demonstration site and flashed him a smile that caused the other man’s glare to deepen and look away. Stiles frowned and went to sit beside Scott with Allison, Reyes, Danny, and some other good men whose names he forgot almost immediately. It was a good thing that most people went by their last names, and those were written in black block letters across their chests.

The afternoon brought them back to the demonstration site with two new drivers and six different guards, and none of them liked to talk. The new group of soldiers reacted just like the rest and then they were packing up and heading back to base again. Danny showed them back to their tent and Stiles told him he could send the squad leaders in to collect their weapons codes. They’d make a signup sheet for trainings to be put out at breakfast the next day. Everyone would get a new rifle and return their old ones to be sent back to the lab and recycled for parts. Mostly the rest was just a whole lot of paperwork.

Scott and Stiles set up their Macs, putting up their wireless internet modem so they could bring up their company logs. Soldiers trickled in, gave them their service numbers and the last names of their squad members. Stiles and Scott would bring up the correct file and hand them a small square of paper with their code on it with the express instructions to “memorize the codes and burn the paper. You don’t want any insurgents to get a hold of those numbers. Those codes will activate all of the weapons, understand?” Then the soldiers would nod and disappear. It was pretty boring until the man from the first demonstration stepped up in front of Stiles, scowl still in place.

“Well, hi, there,” Stiles greeted cheerily, smiling as the man sat down in front of you, “What’s your name?”

“Does it matter?” the man replied gruffly. Stiles glanced at his Velcro nameplate. Hale.

“Yes, actually, it does. I need your name, the names of your squad and your service number, please,” Stiles informed him.

“Corporal Derek Hale, squad members Stacy Wilder, Warren Price, Jeffery Walls, Tyler Bryans, Charlie Williams, Jarred Williams, Erica Reyes, Dylan Roden, Jacob Coble, Holly Wince, and Joshua Crane. Service number: three-seven-nine-zero-six-four-three,” Hale rattled off.

“Derek Hale, that’s a nice name,” Stiles grinned, typing the information into the server. Derek grunted by way of reply. “It’s a better name then Genim Stilinski, at least. My mother named me, and I have my father to blame for my last name.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You can call me Stiles though.” Derek grunted again and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. “How about you smile once and speak with more civility, then I give you the codes?”

Derek’s glare faltered slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Make small talk like I’m sure you’re capable, crack a smile and I’ll give you your code,” Stiles retorted, raising an eyebrow and holding the small slip of paper out of Derek’s reach.

“You know I could probably beat that paper out of your hand right?” Derek asked, raising a single black brow. Oh, his eyes were a pale blue, like a blue watercolor painting left out to fade in the sun, Stiles noted.

“You know if you do that you’ll get your ass sent back home and probably dishonorably discharged right?” Stiles snorted, rolling his eyes.

Derek deflated a bit. “Fine, what’s up?”

Stiles grinned. “That’s better. Not much, I’m Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“Well where are you from, Derek?” Stiles asked happily.

Derek raised a brow again. “New York, but I’m moving to California when I get back to live near my sister.”

“Oh, that’s cool! I live in California. SWDAT is near San Francisco. Tell me, Derek; is your sister as grumpy as you are?” Stiles leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his steepled fingers as he cocked his head in curiosity.

“No, Laura is…” Derek trailed off and a small smile appeared in spite of himself. “Laura is always smiling and laughing and telling jokes.”

“You miss her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Derek nodded an affirmative and resumed his usual scowl.

“Well, I suppose you’ve earned this,” Stiles stated, looking put out as he held out the small slip of paper. Derek reached out to take it but Stiles held his grip on it. “See ya around, Corporal Hale.” Stiles winked at him before releasing the paper and leaning back again, motioning the next squad leader in as Derek walked away feeling confused. 

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