Stiles runs into a little trouble on the road from Beacon Hills to La Push, courtesy of an unknown werewolf...
Friday, September 11, 2015 - 11:43 PM
Somewhere in Oregon...
Along US Highway 101, Somewhere in Oregon
The blue 1980 Jeep CJ-5 pulls into a tiny little gas station at the edge of Nowheresville. The engine cuts, and the door opens. The red sneakers of one Stiles Stlinski hit the gravel, and he trudges over to reach for the gas pump, only to find... it's not working? The hell?
Wandering around the gas station, Stiles finally spots a placard. Incredulous, he reads aloud, "Coming soon! Per HB3011, starting in October this station will offer self-service gas pumping from 6 PM to 6 AM." He groans loudly. Of course. In Oregon, it's illegal to pump your own gas. What's up with that crap? And the lack of an attendant means he can't even get someone to fill the tank for him. Or even go in to use the restroom.
It's been a long day. First school, then Scott got hung up in town, and Stiles had to hit the road for La Push, Washington, by himself. He'd been on the road pretty much straight through, but he needed a pit stop. He needed gas. He needed food. He really needed to pee.
So, grumbling, Stiles walks around behind the gas station, looking to see if there might be someone around. Nobody. He tries the door of the outdoor restroom--locked. Finally, frustrated, he just stalks past the building, up to the tree line behind the place, and... takes advantage of biological male privilege. Relief floods across his features as he finishes, and he says to nobody in particular, "No bitching that I didn't wash my hands. I've got sanitizer in the Jeep." Now he just has to find an all-night diner or something and wait for the stupid gas station to open up.
He's just thinking about this, turning back toward the car, when the pair of glowing red eyes appears behind him, over his shoulder. He barely feels the breath on his neck, barely has time to turn and see the enormous man-wolf looming over him... and then it's too late, the creature's jaws close over him, from the neck to the upper arm, engulfing his whole shoulder.
Nobody's around to hear his scream.