#connectthemoles

It was a pretty simple task, well, at least Scott thought it would be a pretty simple task. It wasn’t like he had a bullet stuck in his side. Or poison in his veins. Or a really bad disease that only werewolves could get because you know apparently that happened (because disease is high up on the things Scott wants to deal with right now). So it wasn’t anything Stiles couldn’t help him with.

After all, Anders was busy. And he’d said something to him that meant more than he’d anticipated.

              He’s more than your friend Scott. He’s much more than that to you now.

Something clicked in Scott as he headed home from work with a list of ingredients tucked neatly in his front pocket. Something was pulling on his heart strings, something he’d forgotten.

At the end of the day, no one could help the way that Stiles always could.

“Stiles, buddy, you home?”

Repurposed from an earlier thread which dissolved.

A young girl stood on the corner of two streets, looking nervously down the busy intersection. She was around ten years old, had medium blonde curls which fluttered with the wind around a blue ribbon in her hair, and her eyes were as grey as the cloudy sky above her. Her knees knocked against each other in the cold wind of New York underneath a wool skirt that covered them. Ahead of her was a group of humans. She could not help what she did next. The ring on her finger burned and she knew.

Ten minutes later each and every one of them was dead, piled up in an alley like firewood. The only sign of the young girl left was a blood stained teddy bear which had been left there.

Within three weeks the news had begun to report it. Corpses would be found in piles, with a small teddy bear sitting out in front of them. The killer could not be found; police had no idea what to make of it. Reporters gave the best stories they could; with so little information about who might be doing it, they had only speculation to work from. The story began to spread across the internet soon enough, and it got big enough to catch the attention of more than one hunter.

Crowley was having a few bad days as well. His vault had been broken into, and he still had no idea by whom. Inside the vault were hundreds of valuable artifacts, all of which he had collected over hundreds of years of wise purchases and investments. Each of them had some kind of unique power, and they provided him the means by which he had climbed to power.

The one which was missing was very, very valuable, and very dangerous, and he needed it back as soon as possible. It didn’t matter what he had to do. But then, didn’t he already know of some people who could help him? He could tip them off to the case, and work with them, except he didn’t trust them. So instead he decides to let them solve the case themselves and watch over it to make sure they get it right. If it seems like they’re getting off track then he might make an appearance to help them out.

Note: This para takes place in the past, before Stiles moved to New York.

Pietro had always boasted about the superiority of a speedster brain --there was a reason why there was a Pietro Maximoff Syndrome, after all. Tommy could agree that his brain was pretty awesome. It allowed him to speed up without colliding with trees. Or buildings. Or people. Especially the latter one was pretty great. It wouldn't have been beneficial for a superhero to crash into the very humans he tried to save. And both of them were supposedly able to out think twenty opponents at once.

Tommy had half a mind to try and find his uncle and demand to know what the hell the knife wound on his back was all about.

He raced his way through the landscape, gritting his teeth against the searing pain and blinking, trying to keep those tears in. He'd had worse; it would be embarrassing when he reached his destination. Tommy forced himself to go faster, his usually smooth motions stilted and awkward by the pain. He nearly crashed over a log as he tore through the forest as fast as he could, but avoided it and sending another spark of pain through his body.

It wasn't too bad, nothing life threatening, he thought, but it probably needed stitches. Tommy could generally patch himself up, but he couldn't reach his back. He'd tried, and while the silver fingers had come away stained with blood, it still would be impossible for him to do it himself.

Flying solo was generally not a good idea. It was much safer to do it in pairs, or in a team, but nobody wanted to with him. There were very few who could keep up with Tommy anyway, and even fewer for who Tommy would slow down. Though it seemed that those worthy few all had congregated in California. The speedster trusted the Runaways with his life -after all, they were genuinely good kids, hurt like him, but still trying to do the right thing- but he couldn't trust them not to tell someone.