Chapter Two: Concussions Kinda Hurt
His head hurt.
Not, like a little bit. But a shitload. Like someone was constantly stabling it for fun kinda hurting. He just wanted it to stop, wanted the pain to disappear.
That's probably why it took so long for him to notice his surroundings.
He was sitting- definitely sitting- on the ground too since his legs were splayed out uncomfortably in front of him. And his hands- they were…oh, they were in…shackles? Okay. Yep, they were in shackles up above his head, he guessed, by the slight pressure on his wrists and the way his arms dangled. He also couldn't pull them, down when he tugged.
Stiles was telling all of this by feel alone- he couldn't open his eyes, his head was swimming tool much already, and even though he could tell he was somewhere pretty dark- his eyes felt like someone had made him look at the surface of the sun for an hour. He was so not opening them any time soon.
Where was he though? He was shackled to a wall, with his arms above his head…but where, and who had done it?
The Argents wouldn't do something like this- not to a human- and not to one of Allison's friends, even if they were bastards. So that put them out. That just left every other supernatural/who knows of the supernatural being out there…so, basically anyone could have been the one to put him here…great.
Where was he though?
What had his dad always said- if you're blind, just use all your other senses. That was easy in words- not so much in practice.
The place smelt terrible- and it wasn't from him. It smelt like rotten meat, sweat, dirt, mould…and worst of all blood. Stiles hated the fact he'd become so accustomed to it that he knew it's smell- but there was an unmistakable odour of blood all around wherever he was.
He could hear his own breathing, the tell-tale signs of wind against window panes and creaky wood. At least that was something- he was in an old house/building, and it was in an open enough area to feel the brunt of the wind.
Stiles listened harder. He could hear faint rumblings, like the sounds of muted voices coming from up above him. Upstairs. He must be in a basement then. That is so cliché.
His headache was starting to lessen a bit- it still hurt a shitload, but he had gathered enough resistance to it to open his eyes.
He was in a basement.
A gross…stinky, mouldy basement. And he was chained to a fucking broken-down water heater, like in some serial-killer slasher film. This was just great. He was going to die a virgin, and without having told everyone about the mole on Scott's butt! Arg!
The basement looked about as big as the Argent's-which was bringing back some memories Stiles would rather not think about when he was already on the verge of a panic attack.
If he was in a basement- with an obvious concussion, and restrained, what were his chances of getting out alive? Or at least no more injured than he already was?
How long had he been missing? Had his dad noticed- of course he would have by now- he's probably called Scott, who's called Derek, who's done…whatever he does- Stiles mused.
This was bad.
He didn't know who had taken him- but whoever had most likely wasn't going to be gentle when they decided to show their kidnapper face.
And life decided to take Stiles' thoughts and run with them, so it seemed, as he heard the door to the top of the basement stairs open, and heavy footsteps start to descend.
Stiles started sweating, praying to whatever was out there to please, send someone to help him quick.
It was eight PM and the Sheriff was FREAKING OUT.
He'd harassed Mr Harris over the phone for nearly half-an-hour, when he'd finally given up, accepting the teacher didn't know anything about the sudden disappearance of his only child.
It was too much like last time, too much like the time at the lacrosse game. Which he had only JUST FOUND OUT was actually Gerard Argent, and involved his son's best friend, Scott McCall being a werewolf.
When Stiles had told him that it had been a bit of a shock.
But it also gave him a perfectly good reason for why he was angrily pinning Derek Hale against his son's Jeep, and glaring him right in his criminal face.
"This is your fault!" The Sheriff yelled, pushing Derek into the Jeep's side, "If my son wasn't caught up in your shenanigans, none of this stuff would be happening!"
Scott was standing back, looking as if he wanted to intervene- protect his alpha, but he went against his instincts, knowing his best friend's dad couldn't actually hurt Derek.
Derek was frowning, but not in anger.
"I know it's my fault sir. I take full responsibility for that, but taking it out on me right now isn't going to help. You need me and my pack to help track down the people who took Stiles- once we get him back we'll talk okay." Derek said calmly.
The Sheriff huffed, glared at Derek once more and let him go, turning around to Scott with a face of pure composure.
"Is there any scent?" He asked, completely ignoring Derek.
Both Scott and Derek said no. Whoever, the blood on the jeep obviously indicated that Stiles was taken, but whoever took Stiles didn't leave a scent- and Stiles scent trail didn't move further than the parking lot.
Finding him was going to be a lot harder that they had originally planned.