PART I

It all begins with Laila Hendricks and her nightly jogs in the woods. Seriously, Stiles couldn't give a rat's arse about her beauty and health routines, especially since it was what got all of it started. Nobody should ever go for nightly jogs alone in Beacon Hills. You might think people might have thought better of it after the first couple of thousand mysterious maulings and disappearances, but no, Laila Hendricks just had to burn some extra calories at 2 AM.

And shit, now he feels bad for being such a douche. Of course nobody expects to get bitten by a fucking troll. Nobody has that coming for them. Apart from Derek. Or possibly Peter. Especially Peter, come to think of it. With that kind of karma deficit, he's got a lot of things coming for him.

But he digresses. The thing that started with Laila Hendricks was the troll invasion. Yes. Trolls. Real, big-ass trolls. Who apparently followed her from the nature reserve just out of Riverdale, back to Beacon Hills. Well, scratch that. Not followed, but hunted, and then pounced, and then bit one of her feet off. Because apparently, trolls are into that. They also seem to have issues with spray-tan, which Laila Hendricks dosed them in before passing out. It was most likely what saved her life. The spray-tan. So there's that.

It is sad that the only chick in Beacon Hills worthy of Bay Watch should be crippled, but it would have been very, very sad no matter whom, actually. Because losing feet is always a very bad thing indeed. But after having had to try to pry what happened out of her, Stiles is fairly certain she is dumb enough not to suffer too much from it. He is in fact not entirely certain where the hardcore painkillers the doctors have dosed her with ends and her personality begins. Lydia is accompanying him in the interview, and although she's this close to tearing her head off as well, they seem to be speaking the same language, i.e. sassy bitch talk. Stiles kind of digs it. It's also terrifying.

"Laila, can you tell me what you saw? Never mind how crazy it might sound, just tell us. We won't tell anyone else," Lydia promises harshly, in a fit of normal people English that doesn't involve saying "giiirl" and "like" every other word.

"It was like, huge, you know? Kinda like an elephant or something. Gray. And it had one of these super-tacky gold chains, kinda like a mafia boss? And a tail. It had a floofy tail. The anathe… the anstae… stiologioist — oh, fudge — the sleep doctor says it's just the drugs talking, you know? But I know what I saw, okay?"

"Totally," Lydia and Stiles fills in, in unison. It's the best response to about 75% of what comes out Ms. Hendricks mouth. It's a constant stream.

"And, like, doctor Shara… Shopar… Shaparova said they didn't have prosthetic feet with, like, stiletto heels, and I'm thinking, that's going to be like really hard for me, you know?" Lydia winches at that, not feigned, because apparently that is a real problem. Girls, Stiles figures. Girls and their weird-ass thing for uncomfortable shoes.

But still. It's been two days since the accident. Stiles is torn between calling the Darwin Awards jury and being genuinely impressed with Laila Hendricks' ability to cope. Because that is some Zen-master levels of coping. After being confronted with the existence of supernatural beings and losing a limb, she's slightly worried about her stiletto heels.

When they get out of the hospital room, Lydia turns to him and states the obvious.

"It's a troll. It must be. Did you even know they existed?"

"Nope. I had no idea. But at this point nothing really surprises me. Up until last month there was no such thing as dragons either. I mean, it's in Harry Potter, why shouldn't it be real?" There is no arguing with that logic. Lydia shrugs.

"Well, I hope you find out what to do with it, because I'm done," she says. How does she manage to look so cute, even when she's pissed off? "You have no idea how humiliating it is to be used like this for interrogation. You can tell Derek he owes me for this."

"I thought you and Laila bonded over the stiletto prosthetics? Hey, could you tell Derek that we think it's a troll? He'll never listen to me… Hey, Lydia!" But she's already swished her hair in defiance and is well on her way of power walking out of the hospital. Damn.

Stiles sends a one-word text message to Derek. Better keep it short. It just might be easier for Mr. Alpha Caveman to comprehend and actually listen to something Stiles says.

"Troll."

The reply is immediate and makes Stiles strangle the air and make his little 'I'm so frustrated and disappointed' dance that involves strangling the air and kicking it to hell. The attending nurse in the room across glares at him like he's escaped from the psych ER. The reply consists of one word as well.

"No."

"Derek. It's fucking trolls," he says. Tonight there are more important things than 'Hello' or 'Get the fuck out of my fucking room, you creep'. "We've got motherfucking trolls on our hands."

Derek leans again his dresser, arms crossed in a way that makes the worn leather jacket strain over his muscular shoulders. He probably thinks he looks badass like that, the little fucker. Attitude seems to come with the black leather and smoldering stubble. Okay, okay, he does look pretty badass. Stiles can verify that he definitely could drown in those blue eyes, if it didn't literally mean he'd die a horrible death by self-loathing, and possibly mauling.

Still, Derek should know better than to climb into Stiles' room through the window after 3 AM. Because that is the beginning of either a horror flick or a sappy rom-com. And Derek's got no business to look that much at home in Stiles' room, leaning against stuff like that. He has abandoned lurking outside the window, invaded the far corner, and now the dresser. Soon he'll begrudgingly occupy Stiles' chair, and after that it's only the bed left. Oh god. That is sending mixed signals that Stiles would give his soul, a kidney, and possibly a small part of his liver, not to have to interpret. Can you develop Stockholm syndrome for your pseudo-abusive werewolf-stalker? Is it normal to want to climb that someone like a tree and lick his body? Is that even a thing outside of True Blood?

Okay. He needs to stop staring at Derek's throat. Focus. Focus on what Derek is saying.

"There are no such things as trolls," Derek growls. Because The Nile? Yeah, that's not just a river in Egypt. And apparently, not just for Stiles.

"What else is big as fuck, looks like rock and likes to chew on people? This is some Lord of the Rings shit, okay? It talked in Russian to our local Bay Watch chick. Hit speed-dial D for Deaton before bad gets worse. There is a fucking troll in the dungeon. I thought you should know."

Derek glares at him, but then he quickly looks away, shaking his head. If Stiles emotions towards Derek couldn't be summed up as FUBAR, and thus extremely biased, he'd say that Derek looked genuinely worried. He's even using his inside voice like a normal person, and so far he hasn't even thrown Stiles against a wall.

"You're not getting involved this time, Stiles. I don't care if it's trolls or whatever, you need to stay the hell away from this. You need to stay safe. Go to school. Keep your head you do, don't go looking for it. I don't want you hanging around when…"

Stiles snorts and turns to check his computer. Of course he's going to help out. When Bay Watch chick lost a foot on their territory, shit got personal.

"Yeah, good luck with that one," he begins, but when he turns around again, Derek is already gone. Shit. Stiles leans out of his window, but the werewolf is already out of sight.

"Hey, Lydia says you owe her big time!" he calls after him. He knows Derek can still hear him. Damnit, why is everyone running away from him? And why, oh why, does he have to clean Derek's muddy footprints off his carpet at 3 AM on a Tuesday?

(Part one of five, will update soon. Please, comment and spread the love!)