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Brian knew there was only one reason he'd be called into the ASAC's office at this point: the fresh crop of recruits had just graduated the academy, and his unit had an opening. His team was unique, at least enough so that the higher-ups would rather leave the position vacant than fill it with someone who would take one look at their caseload and turn tail screaming, but he'd had it on good authority that there were a few graduates that would slot right into the very specific niche they had available.
He didn't bother with preamble; if the opening was slated to be filled, arguing would do him no good. "What do I need to know?"
Assistant Special Agent in Charge Manuel Rodgers didn't bother with bullshit. "Stilinski's a civilian."
Translation: human. Shit.
"With all due respect, sir, my team already has enough squishy blood bags to worry about."
Translation: liabilities. Specifications: Supervisory Special Agent Brian Worth. Exclusions: Special Agent Alexis Madeiros. Alex didn't count—she'd been raised with every ounce of wisdom regarding this supernatural shit that her ancient family could impart, and a gun in each hand.
Keeping himself alive in this job was hard enough; how the hell did they expect him to keep a kid alive too?
"This one comes specially recommended by Agent Rafael McCall."
"The guy who's son's some big-time Alpha in Cali?" He knew damn well who Agent McCall was: he was the man responsible for getting him put in this position so far over his own head he might as well get cozy roasting in the Earth's core. His team was great, sure, but the shit they managed to ferret out on the job? It was a miracle he was still standing. Arty had been significantly less squishy than he, and the job had still managed to knock him ass over teakettle three times before the guy had put in for transfer. So now they were filling Arty's spot with some human kid straight out of Quantico. Gave the phrase 'fresh meat' whole new meaning.
Rodgers gave him a bland look that said he knew exactly what Brian was doing. "Yes. That guy." He rustled some papers without really looking at them—Brian had to resist the urge to squirm. Finally Rodgers deigned to continue the conversation. "The kid's apparently his son's best friend. And maybe his emissary. No one seems to want to give me a straight answer on that."
"And he's human?" He massaged that concept as deeply as he dared. It had some interesting implications for his understanding of the wolves and their packs. He thought that emissaries were exclusively Druids, beings with a fundamental understanding of nature and the healing arts, with the occasional heavy dose of mysticism and magic. Maybe he'd get some clarification from Marco before he headed out for the night. "Wait, why would the McCall emissary be assigned here in DC?" Especially when Rafael McCall was basically Brian's west-coast equivalent.
A grunt. "Both fantastic questions that I hope you'll get me the answers to once you have 'em."
Orientation was an experience in patience—not something Stiles Stilinski was known for. After the usual introductions (during which the brass mutilated his birth name beyond recognition) and boring, run of the mill lectures on rules and comportment (that they'd gotten at least a dozen times in the Academy) they pulled Stiles aside and put him in a room with one Supervisory Special Agent Brian Worth. The man was definitely ex-military with the impeccable, greying high-and-tight he had going on, and looked like someone had started chiseling him out of granite and forgotten to finish.
"I'm supposed to start off by informing you that the supernatural is real, but my understanding is that you are already aware of that."
Stiles nodded sagely. "Water is wet."
Worth had narrowed his eyes and everything went downhill from there, devolving into a lecture about how the FBI had not been created to deal with supernatural phenomenon but after certain events three years ago in North Carolina and California—Stiles had managed to suppress a snort, since his name had been scrubbed from the official records of those particular events—they had been forced to adapt. This unit, and McCall's in Cali, had been reinvented to deal with the things that went bump in the night. Then he gave him the grand tour that ended with them standing in the center of a moderate-sized room with six desks and a lot of open space.
"Welcome to the X-Files, kid," Worth pronounced.
"Yeah, if they existed in the Buffy-verse with a lot more fur." Stiles took in the bemused expressions of his four new coworkers, three female, one male. Suddenly Worth's unenthusiastic tone and frankly insulting level of detail made a sick amount of sense.
"Wait. Do you all think I'm a nepotism placement? Seriously? How was this gonna go? Sideline me with research until I gave up and quit?" He took another look around the room, absorbing all the little details his brain had been filing away since he'd stepped foot through the door. "And let two wolves I don't know, no offense, a hunter who displays wolfsbane bullets all over her workstation like trophies, and a random kitsune—absolutely fascinated by your presence here, don't get me wrong, and I will definitely be circling back to that at some point—take down Tamora Monroe? I think not!"
The wolves looked like they'd swallowed lemons and the kitsune was looking at him like he was an interesting bug she'd like to squish. But the hunter, a tan-skinned woman with black hair streaked with white was smirking like an indulgent aunt.
Agent Worth looked like he was going to throw him into the wall. Too bad Stiles hardly found that threatening anymore. Especially not from someone so obviously human. "You shouldn't even know about that case."
"I lived that case, so help me god, I will put together a goddamn PowerPoint and make you all sit through a three hour lecture on my first day!"
"Ease off, Brian." The hunter drew Stiles' attention away from Worth, who was frankly starting to look apoplectic. "Argent vouches for him."
Stiles threw his head back in exasperation. "Of course you know Chris," he told the ceiling. When he looked back down, she was grinning at him, an expression so full of dimples it made his heart hurt. It was that which told him what she was, if not exactly who. He groaned. "You're an Argent."
Her smile ratcheted up a notch. "After a fashion," she agreed with a wink. "Alexis Madeiros, Alex for short." Stiles shook her proffered hand, but she was already looking past him again at Worth. "Didn't you wonder who Argent's inside man was in NC?"
Worth had deflated when Stiles turned back to him. "Hell, woman. I'd assumed it was you. Or, hell, even McCall."
Alex snorted. "McCall was in so far over his head that he was drowning."
"And hospitalized in San Fran," Stiles added.
She gave him a mom look that thanked him with immense sarcasm. It was a look he tended to engender in every woman over the age of forty—it was a gift. "And officially, I was on leave dealing with a family matter. Unofficially, I was in Brazil kicking my third cousin's ass for letting Gerard drag him into his crusade."
Stiles decided then and there he was going to murder to Chris for not giving him a head's up. It was one thing to be familiar with the inner workings of the FBI, to have served as an arms dealer for some of their more esoteric weapons choices, to have earned the title of "consultant"—all things that Stiles had discovered about the older man during the aforementioned North Carolina incident—but for there to be an Argent inside, in one of the supernatural units no less, and for Chris not to have warned him? Especially one with enough pull to be the one to go after the hunters that had set Derek up in Brazil? Oh, there was going to be hell to pay. Petty, childish hell.
Stiles wandered away from Alexis and Brian who continued to hash out something that might still have had to do with his own credibility, and ignored the three supernatural members of the team on his way to what was clearly supposed to be his desk. It was void of all personality, a blank slate waiting for his chaotic touch, save for the piece of paper placed precisely in the center. On it was written four names in sharp, neat print:
Alexis 'Alex' Medeiros - Hunter
Kathleen 'Kat' Smith - Wolf
Katherine 'Ami' Hirata - Fox
Marco Rodriguez - Wolf
He huffed a laugh at the exactness of the list. Someone was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he somehow doubted it was Worth. And the handwriting didn't strike him as belonging to Alex either.
"How did you know me?" A soft voice asked. He looked up into eyes the color of sea glass. "For one who runs with wolves, they are easy. But I am no wolf."
"I could probably see your aura if I bothered to try."
"But you didn't." He gave her a crooked grin and a head tilt in agreement. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You are human."
He tilted his head again, acknowledging she'd hit true. More or less. "But I have powerful friends, and I am not unexperienced with foxes." When she didn't rise to the bait, he chuckled. "Noshiko Yukimura called me this morning with the vaguest warning ever. 'Perhaps my daughter is not the only fox who plays with wolves,' she said, and hung up on me. Hadn't heard from her in years; assumed she was more than happy to wash her hands of our pack. Wasn't hard to figure out what the hell she was talking about once I actually saw you."
"I didn't know Noshiko had a daughter."
The way she said it set Stiles' hackles up. Kira was still working her shit out with the skin walkers, and was therefore untouchable. But she'd been through enough, and she was pack, and Stiles would be damned if he would let a—he opened his senses as wide as they would go, unfocused his eyes, and believed with everything he had that he could see the fox inside the woman in front of him, revealing her icy blue aura—wind kitsune cause her problems.
Ami narrowed her eyes. "What did you just do." She seemed to be as averse to question marks as Derek. Awesome.
"Took a gander at your breezy alter ego," he told her smugly.
Her smile was a razor blade that made his stomach turn over and heart miss a beat. He took an unintentional step back.
"Stop torturing the kid, Ames, he doesn't get your sense of humor," Kat the wolf called from across the room.
The menace melted away from the kitsune. "Sorry," she told him with what sounded like sincerity. Stiles didn't buy it, not entirely. Kitsune lived long lives and could play long games—he knew that better than most. Just because she wasn't Void didn't mean she would be his friend in the end either.
Stiles rolled his shoulders to chase away the tension. Everyone in this room was dangerous, including him. But they were all here to help people. That would have to be enough. His trauma was not their problem. He refused to make it their problem.