I don't usually write AU's, but this one popped into my head and would not be ignored, so I planned it out properly, for once, and I know where I'm going with it, and what should be in each chapter. I'm going to try for semi regular updates, because I do have my plan, but if I miss one it'll be because my muse is dying and needs revival.
Disclaimer: I do not own teen wolf, or it's characters, but damn if I'm not going to use them to the best of my ability.
A file, full of clandestine information to the point of bursting, sits on a plain desk, in a plain room, in a plain building, on a plain street. A perfectly unnoticeable man sits across the table from him, slightly balding, in a tweed suit that is perfectly horrible, but again, unnoticeable. His hands are folded on the desk passively, and only rise to push his glasses up his nose every twenty seconds or so.
He knew because he has been counting. His training has been thorough; he must know if repetitive motions are a scam; a forced habit, or just the rigmarole of civilian life.
17, 18, 19...
The man pushes his glasses up his nose again, placing the hand he had used back down over the other, and crosses his thumbs, the right over the left.
Left handed, he notes; it is his job to notice the details. He waits for the man to push his glasses up again. He does not. Instead, the unnoticeable man slides the file towards him, then rises, and leaves.
The door shuts behind him. It is an unremarkable door, to match the unremarkable room.
Nothing stands out. Nothing is supposed to.
He looks down, at the file, a red Classified stamped across the front.
He opens the file.
The first page is a side profile, of a man catching a set of car keys in his hand, walking towards a Lamborghini, with a name printed in bold black ink below; Santos D'Meyer.
The second is a list of his illegal activities, attached to a thick packet of what he knows will be an in depth description of those activities, and of the man himself. He reads that, too, then flicks to what is technically the six hundredth and forty seventh page, but he refers to it mentally as the third.
He scans the page, scans it again, and rises. Leaving the file there, on that plain desk, he exits the room, and collects a memory stick from the frumpy woman at the desk. It will have all the information on it that the file contained, he knows, encrypted, and safe.
He takes the stairs, preferring them to an enclosed space like the elevator, his long legs jumping down them two or three at a time, and when he reaches the bottom, he doesn't exit, but crosses the lobby of the building, dodging businessmen and women. He opens a door labelled staff only with his coded card, that will only work for him, on this specific door, with his thumb pressed to the print pad under the magnetic strip. And it won't work if his thumb is separate from his hand, because the pad also detects the pulse in the digit.
He walks down a long corridor, unflinching as red scanners pass over his body and beep, turning green when their servers recognise that he is meant to be here.
An elevator is waiting for him, doors open in invitation, and he enters with no hesitation, relaxed and comfortable as it descends.
It dings at him, and he steps out of the reopened doors. He weaves his way through the desks, familiarly set out and orderly, and ducks in a side door that is barely noticeable, punching in a six digit code for the door that is only a foot away from the first. Security measures, he knows, but he nearly always walks into it, and it is irritating. He may have avoided it this time, but he is certain he won't be as lucky next time.
The code is sound, he shoulders the door open, and slips through, greeted by a soft wave of sound.
Typing, rustling papers, and soft murmuring fills the air, and he situates himself at his desk, tapping in the password, scanning his thumbprint and plugging in the memory stick. He waits for the computer to boot, and load, then types in the appropriate password for the data stick.
The information pops up on his screen.
"Avengers assemble!" He says, and gestures at the computer, which loads the file up on the screen that dominates one of the walls of their office.
His team shuffle to the area they have dedicated to file perusals, full of plushy bean bags and pillows. There is even a coffee machine.
"I thought we agreed we weren't doing that?" Isaac asks. Stiles scoffs, and moves on, pulling up a picture of D'Meyer.
"Target's name is Santos D'Meyer. Spanish, old money, nasty fucker. Got his fingers in a lot of different pots, human trafficking, fraud, bribery of governments, kidnapping, torture, all sorts. Clean on the surface, but once you dig a little, he's real nasty." Stiles sees Scott wince out of the corner of his eye, but barrels on regardless. "Now, he's a tricky shit, he hires thieves to steal for him, jewels, art, weapons, you name it, D'Meyer has it. So we have to get me on his radar, as a thief. Which means the next few months are dedicated to making me a master thief, and getting it noticed. That means brash, obnoxious, belligerent thefts, almost stupid, I guess. Maybe a little weird, too."
"Why do we want him?" Lydia has been steadily typing throughout his little speech, probably profiling D'Meyer, but she pauses to hear his answer.
"He's planning something. Something big, something real bad, too, to do with chemical warfare. But he doesn't have the stuff for it yet, and he doesn't have a thief picked out either, so we have to be that guy that he comes to."
Lydia nods, and taps a few more keys. A list of precious artefacts pops up.
"How's that for belligerent?" She asks.
Stiles just smiles.