outsiders | omega extranet.

[ Maybe Independence Day is Coach Finstock's favorite movie for a reason. All Stiles knows is, at first he was in his jeep, dropping Scott off at home - and then he was in a shuttle, with some nasty-looking dude with six eyes staring at him.

He may have shrieked in a totally manly way and sat on the bench furthest away from him.

Anyway the shuttle - space shuttle, space ship - had set down, and he'd been herded out and dumped on a launch pad in some serious need of scrubbing. Some dude with actualfax fucking mandibles had tiredly told him that he was supposed to go to Zeta district and help with repairs if he didn't have anything better to do. He did not field any other questions. Stiles has been flying by the seat of his pants for the last few hours.

That first hour may have involved hyperventilating.

Regardless, he knows how to work this omni-tool thing now and he's using it thanks to ingenuity and possibly some passerby help. His face fills up the entire screen. ]

So aliens are real. Big, giant huge wrinkly aliens that look like they want to eat my face, and blue space babes. Okay, that's cool, we respect all of the species in human-land. Totally cool bros here.

[ A teenager's very determined expression of resolve goes here, though. ]

What we don't respect is kidnapping. Which I'd say is what just happened, you know. But I've got questions. If any of you see a five foot three girl with fair skin, green eyes, and strawberry blonde hair, or a five foot ten dude with tan skin, brown eyes, brown hair and an uneven jawline, you're gonna tell me, okay?

And if any of you touch a hair on that fine lady's head, I'm going to go Will Smith on your butts.

[ Scott can handle some heat. Stiles turns the video off, then switches it back on suddenly. ]

And the dude you're telling is Stiles!