Chapter Text
As far as anyone knows, Stiles is a C-class guide, and he’ll swear it on his mom’s baby-blue jeep if he has to.
The only people who would know otherwise are his dad and Scott. His dad, for obvious reasons. And Scott, because the two of them had awakened at the same time four years ago.
He looks over to where Scott stands stationed at the door of one of the Esper Center’s guiding rooms. Scott peers back at him from under his shaggy hair, his big brown eyes conveying sheepish sympathy.
Stiles is neither amused nor mollified, because it’s Scott’s fault he’s getting his guiding class re-evaluated in the first place. Not to mention the fact that he’s also getting match tested with Peter Hale—an S-class esper perpetually on the verge of rampage.
He shifts uncomfortably in the plastic chair, and Peter growls at him from across the table.
“Peter,” Talia Hale admonishes. She drops a hand on his shoulder, and the growl subsides to a low rumble.
Stiles barely holds back an eye roll. It’s irresponsible, the way the Hale Pack has allowed one of their espers to decline into such a feral state. Even if Peter was an S-class, there were more than enough guides at the Center to settle his energy, at least to manageable levels.
But from the heavy waves—sickly and bitter—drifting in Stiles’ direction, he supposes Peter is holding back the worst of the impending rampage pretty well.
There’s a knock on the door, then Deaton steps into the room with a manila folder in his hands. “Espers Hale. Esper McCall. Guide Stilinski.” He nods in greeting. “I hear you’ve requested a class evaluation and a match rate test.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose. “I don’t—”
“I don’t need a guide,” Peter snarls past sharp fangs.
Stiles shoots him a blank stare. It’s the baldest lie he’s ever heard, but far be it from him to refute it. It’s not like he wants to be Peter’s—or anyone’s—guide partner in the first place.
Stiles shrugs. “I got evaluated when I awakened at fifteen, and then re-evaluated a year ago when I turned eighteen,” he tells Deaton. “The results were C-class both times.”
It’s not a lie.
Deaton smiles placidly. “I remember. You and Esper McCall caused quite a stir with your awakenings.”
Stiles glances over at Scott by the door. Their awakenings weren’t the typical sort. Most people discover their abilities in their late teens or early twenties, but he and Scott were sophomores when it happened.
They’d been at the park when a rift appeared, the fabric of reality ripping to unleash what was later categorized as a B-level monster. Chaos followed as everyone fled to a nearby safety shelter. He and Scott nearly made it too, but Scott’s lungs gave out when they were halfway to the doors.
Stiles had refused to leave him behind, and when the monster loomed over them, venom dripping from its sharp teeth, he hoped his dad wouldn’t be the first to arrive at the scene and discover his body ripped to pieces.
But right as the monster raised its talons to land a deadly swipe, Scott let out a deafening roar and leaped forward, his newly emerged claws tearing through the beast’s stomach. The ensuing fight was bloody and brutal, but Scott managed to take down the monster before the Center’s espers could arrive.
Stiles’ dad—Captain of the Specialized Esper Force—was the first on scene, and Scott had attacked him in a frenzy too. His awakening was too abrupt and traumatic, and the lingering adrenaline and terror left him on the cusp of rampage.
And when Scott had tried to eviscerate his dad, Stiles flung himself forward, his own guiding ability bursting out of him in an explosive wave that knocked out both espers.
His dad was only unconscious for a few minutes, coming to his senses right before Espers Talia and Peter Hale arrived. Scott remained unconscious for three days as his body adjusted to the awakening.
Scott was then evaluated as a B-class, and it was deemed a miracle that he managed to kill the monster while relying only on his instincts. And as a shifter-type esper, he was quickly inducted into the Hale Pack.
Stiles, on the other hand, was in a state of disbelief when his evaluation results concluded that he was a C-class guide. His dad had even requested a second test, but the answer remained unchanged.
But later at home, as Stiles nervously placed his hand in his dad’s, he felt the swell of power sweeping over both of them. He watched as his dad’s eyes widened, his expression morphing between shock and concern, before settling on wondrous relief.
Stiles’ guiding had swept away every last trace of toxic esper energy that had always lingered in his dad’s wavelength after his mom died. His dad had barely managed on the guides at the Center, but he hadn’t felt this relieved in years.
“Well,” his dad choked out. “I don’t think you’re a C-class.”
Now, Deaton levels him with a searching look. “I’ve always been curious to know how a C-class guide was able to subdue a newly awakened B-class esper on the edge of rampage,” he says.
There’s nothing necessarily wrong with being a C-class, and there are plenty of them at the Center. But considering the number of B-class and above espers working in the field, it would be more efficient for them to receive guiding from matching classes.
When a higher class esper can’t find a matching guide, it becomes a matter of quantity over quality, and they’d have to receive guiding from multiple C-classes.
C-classes are barely passable when an esper is particularly desperate for guiding, but they’re overall unremarkable and often a last resort, and Stiles likes it that way.
Stiles smiles flatly. “The world works in mysterious ways.”
Deaton’s gaze lingers for a moment longer before trailing over to Scott. “Esper McCall, could you please explain again what happened at the Hale compound?”
Scott’s shoulders rise up to his ears and his cheeks flush pink. “W-well,” he stammers, “Stiles told the receptionist, and—I mean—I think he could probably tell you better—”
“I’m sure,” Deaton says mildly. “But I’d like to hear from you as one of the involved parties. I was told you were near rampage when Guide Stilinski stepped in.”
“Right…” Scott replies, glancing anxiously at Stiles.
“And Esper Peter Hale had been there as well,” Deaton prods.
Talia clears her throat. “Peter was assisting in Scott’s training.”
Deaton makes a humming sound. “I see,” he says. “And you’ve recently been re-evaluated as an A-class, is that correct, Esper McCall?”
Scott’s expression brightens, and his lips stretch into a lopsided grin. “Yeah!”
Peter snorts, an unimpressed sneer appearing on his face.
Talia sighs. “It’s been a challenging adjustment following Scott’s new class awakening, but he’s been doing well until this incident.”
Deaton glances down at the folder in his hands, and reads, “‘Esper McCall began to show signs of rampage during training. When Esper Peter Hale attempted to forcibly subdue McCall, Guide Stilinski performed radiation guiding, resulting in both espers becoming remarkably less agitated.’ Does that sound right?”
“Well,” Talia says, her eyes flitting over to Stiles. “I’m not exactly sure myself. Guide Stilinski says he only intended to guide Scott.”
Deaton nods. “And there was no one else present? It’s unlikely for a C-class guide to have such a significant effect on an A- and S-class esper. With radiation guiding, at that,” he says with skepticism.
“No one else was there,” Peter says, glaring at Stiles. “It could only have been him.”
Stiles slouches in the plastic chair and shoots him a lazy smirk. The conclusion that he’d guided two high class espers without a touch and from a distance was so ridiculous that it would be near impossible to prove.
“Esper McCall,” Deaton says. “I see you have Guide Melissa McCall listed as your primary guide, and Guide Stilinski as your secondary.”
Scott’s head bobbles in a nod. “Yeah, my mom is B-class.”
“And do you find their guiding sufficient?” Deaton asks. “You haven’t been visiting the Center. It’s rather dangerous for a newly re-awakened esper to neglect guiding from a matching class.” His eyes dart between Scott and Stiles.
Scott glances helplessly at Stiles. “I mean—I don’t…” he trails off, looking down at his feet.
Deaton raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment on the matter any further.
Peter exhales sharply. “Can we get this over with? Regardless of the results, I have no intention of having another guide partner.”
“Peter,” Talia admonishes. “You haven’t received proper guiding in two years, and this is the best state I’ve seen you in since Sarah—”
Peter snarls, a harsh sound, and he spits out, “I am entirely aware of my condition, Talia. You needn’t remind me of what I’ve lost.”
Stiles straightens in his seat. “Two years?” he chokes out in disbelief. “You’ve basically been living in your own toxic energy for two years?”
Peter shoots him a menacing glare. “Are you volunteering to guide me? With such a big class difference, you’ll be guiding me on your back.”
“Peter!” Talia scolds, scandalized.
Stiles clamps his mouth shut, face hot with rage and humiliation.
Guiding is an intimate experience on its own—an intoxicating mix of energy waves heightened by sharp senses. Guiding by touch is often preferred, with more explicit acts being the most effective.
But Stiles has long ago perfected radiation guiding, a touchless method in which he directs his own guiding energy toward an esper from a distance. He never uses touch guiding with anyone, aside from his dad and Scott.
And the fact that Peter is implying that Stiles would have to engage in the highest and most intimate level of guiding to bring him down from a near rampage state is insulting.
Especially considering he could guide Peter to zero percent toxicity without a single touch.
Stiles does feel some pity, of course. The whole state of California knows about how Peter lost his guide partner two years ago in a fight against a horde of monsters that emerged from a sudden rift appearance in San Francisco. With so few S-classes in service, the event made headline news for a week.
And Stiles has seen firsthand the lasting devastation after an esper loses their guide partner. His dad still only accepts guiding from Melissa or Stiles himself.
But Stiles is still petty enough to land a kick against Peter’s shin under the table as he shifts in his seat.
Peter’s eyes flash red.
Talia sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “At the very least, we’d like to know for certain if Guide Stilinski has a good match rate percentage with Peter. Even if he is a C-class, a high percentage could go a long way in holding back a rampage.”
Stiles doesn’t bother hiding his eye roll. Of course they’d only think of him as a tool to fix their precious esper.
Even though espers can’t live without guiding, guides are treated more like disposable batteries than people. The greater the esper’s class, the more guides they drain. And if there’s a high match rate, guides can find themselves bound to an esper like a personal charger.
A frisson of fear runs down his spine. He may be able to control his guiding output, but there’s no way for him to fake a match rate percentage.
“Even if we do have a high match rate, that doesn’t mean I’ll agree to guide him,” he says shakily. “Guides still have the right to refuse, you know.”
It’s ridiculous that guides had only been able to reject espers for the past couple decades. Before that, all guides were essentially forced to serve espers as soon as they awakened, because it was too dangerous to leave espers unguided and run the risk of rampage.
These days, all that’s required of guides and espers is registration and a willingness to help in times of crisis.
Talia frowns, as if she’d never considered the idea that Stiles would deny the chance to guide an S-rank esper. “We’d pay you, of course.”
“That’s a given,” Stiles snaps back. Of course she’d think money would solve everything. “But that’s not enough of an incentive for me to even consider guiding someone near rampage.”
Talia looks at him in disappointment. “Peter is one of the few S-class espers in this county. Wouldn’t you want him well enough to fight against the monsters that come through the rifts? Wouldn’t that make things easier for your father?”
Stiles bites the inside of his cheek. It’s a low blow, but he can’t say he’s surprised that someone as entitled as Esper Talia Hale would be the type to resort to emotional blackmail.
If his dad was there, he’d tell her to kick rocks. But since Stiles is nineteen, he has to fend off the Hales on his own. He never would have agreed to meet for a re-evaluation and match rate testing if the Center hadn’t forced it.
Finding matches for S-classes was imperative for the safety of the population—if only to prevent rampages and to have a better defense against the rifts. And since Stiles was an unbonded guide who reportedly managed to stabilize Peter’s esper energy, the Center heavily suggested that he do as the Hales ask, unless he wanted his field guide permit revoked. And being a field guide was the only sure way he could be assigned as his dad’s guide when he’s out on dangerous scenes.
Peter taps his claws on the table. “For fuck’s sake, Talia. Don’t be a bitch.”
Talia’s lips flatten in a thin line, but she backs off.
“Let’s just start with Guide Stilinski’s re-evaluation,” Deaton suggests. “Then we can consider if we’d like to continue with the match rate test.”
Stiles shrugs and holds out his hand for the evaluation device—a small machine that measures the output of his guiding waves.
After a few moments of trickling a controlled amount of guiding into the device, the machine beeps and a large “C” blinks on the screen.
Scott’s blatantly relieved look makes Stiles want to strangle him. Luckily, the others are too focused on the results to notice.
“Third times the charm,” Stiles drawls. “Guess I’m still C-class.”
Talia shakes her head in dismay. “We should still do the match rate test. We’re all already here.”
Stiles’ refusal sits on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t voice it. There’s no guarantee that the Center would let him keep his field guide permit if he denies the Hales’ request.
Instead, he surrenders as Deaton sets up the match rate device and sticks wired electrodes along his left arm. Soon enough, he’s hooked up to Peter’s right arm via the corresponding leads.
“Alright,” Deaton says. “If you two would please initiate contact.”
“I don’t do contact guiding,” Stiles says firmly.
Peter’s eyes narrow. “I’ve seen you contact guide Scott every time you accompany him to training.”
Stiles gives him a deadpan look. “I don’t do contact guiding with people who aren’t registered with me,” he corrects. “I don’t even do it when I’m working the floor at the Center. You can ask Deaton.”
Talia glances at Deaton for confirmation. “Then how are we supposed to know if this will work?” she demands.
“It’s fine,” Deaton assures. “The test determines the match rate percentage based on energy compatibility, not intensity.” He fiddles with the buttons and dials on the device. “Guide Stilinski, if you could release a wave of guiding,” he directs. “And Esper Hale, please gently meet the energy with your own.”
Stiles lets a small stream of guiding flow from his core, to his left arm, and across the leads connecting him to Peter. He feels the moment when his guiding waves meet Peter’s toxic esper energy.
An oily and almost burning sensation sweeps over his skin. He can nearly taste the corrosive tar of Peter’s energy on his tongue. It’s nauseating and bitter.
He weakens the flow a fraction, just for a moment of relief, then winces when there’s a piercing pain in his chest. Peter’s energy pulls, tugs, and yanks at his guiding waves, swallowing the tendrils and demanding more.
Panic swells as his guiding is sucked into the corrupted pit of Peter’s core. He needs to break off the connection before Peter takes more than what a C-class would be capable of.
He closes his eyes and focuses on their entwined energies. There’s nothing he can do about the tendrils that Peter has latched onto. He’ll just have to snip them off. With a hitched breath, he snaps the connection between their energies, ripping the tattered ends of his guiding back to his core.
Stiles inhales sharply, his mind returning to the room and its occupants. He shoots Peter a dirty look. It’s rude for an esper to try to take over the guiding process. It’s a guide’s right to initiate, control, and terminate the procedure. The fact that Peter, near rampage or not, tried to drain him is infuriating.
Stiles opens his mouth, prepared to tear into Peter, but he’s staring wide-eyed at his hands—now devoid of claws.
Talia stares at them in shock as well. “Peter, you—” she utters. “Your claws haven’t receded in almost a year.”
Too stunned to respond, Peter clenches and unclenches his fists.
Talia whips her head toward Deaton. “I’m telling you,” she says with urgency. “Guide Stilinski is capable of guiding at a higher class.”
Deaton frowns. “He’s had three evaluation results of C-class. It’s highly unlikely that his abilities exceed that. But perhaps their percentage…”
And as if to punctuate the tragedy that is Stiles’ life, the match rate device chirps and pings.
They all lean in to peer at the results on the screen.
Esper-Guide Match Rate Compatibility Percentage: 88%
Stiles feels the blood drain from his face.
Among all classes, a match rate percentage of more than seventy percent is a rarity. The highest percentage he’s ever had is sixty-eight with his dad. His rate with Scott is only fifty-three. Even espers and guides of the same high class might only match up to eighty percent.
“Dude…” Scott whispers.
Peter barks out a laugh. “Of fucking course,” he spits, not even trying to hide the vitriol in his voice. “Of course I’d be chained like a fucking dog to a C-class guide.”
Stiles rears back. “Excuse—”
“Peter…” Talia says with a long suffering sigh. “Please do not fuck this up.”
“There’s nothing to fuck up because I don’t need a guide.”
Talia ignores him and turns her attention to Stiles. “We’ll extend an official offer to register Peter as an esper under your care.”
Stiles gives her an incredulous stare. “I’m not looking to add more espers onto my roster. I’m already zapped out working the floors at the Center.”
“We’ll make sure you’re more than fairly compensated,” she says with a political smile.
“Money isn’t the issue here.” Stiles tries to sound firm, but money is definitely an issue sometimes.
“You’ll barely have to see him,” Talia steamrolls. “You won’t have to go out on the field with him.”
Obviously! Stiles wants to shout. He has no desire to see what kind of dangerous jobs S-class espers are going on. It’s nerve wracking enough to know that his dad goes out on scenes that are considered too minor for S-classes.
Talia must see the stubborn refusal on his face because she peers at him with an almost desperate expression. “Whatever your conditions are—whatever requests you have—we can make it happen.”
Peter growls. “For god’s sake, Talia. You don’t need to negotiate my dowry. It’s clear the boy isn’t interested. Nor am I, for that matter.”
Talia shoots him a withering glare. “You need guiding, Peter. I don’t care how or from who, but you better accept it.”
“I don’t—”
“You nearly killed Laura!” Talia shouts.
A deafening silence settles over the room, and Stiles doesn’t dare to move or speak.
Even Scott stares uncomfortably down at his shoes.
Stiles glances between Peter’s pained expression and Talia’s look of indignant rage—neither of them willing to argue further or back down.
After a long moment, Deaton clears his throat. He begins removing the wired electrodes from Stiles’ arm. “We’ll register these results with the Center. Should either of you decide to move forward with an esper-guide assignment, please notify the Center at your earliest convenience.”
Peter stands and rips off the electrodes before shouldering his way past Scott and storming out of the room.
Talia lets out a tired sigh. “We’ll send you an official offer,” she says again, digging through her purse to pull out a business card and shoving it into Stiles’ hand. “Please think about it.” And with that final demand, she strides out the door.
Stiles remains seated, his eyes trailing back to the screen of the match rate device.
88%
“Dude…” Scott repeats, resting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Are you gonna be okay? Because you’re…you know…”
Yeah, he knows.
He knows he’s a broke college dropout in desperate need of money.
He knows he’s tired of fending off grubby espers when he’s working at the Center.
He knows he’s making his dad worry about what would happen if Stiles isn’t careful enough.
He knows he’d have significantly more opportunities in life if he accepts the Hales’ offer.
And he knows he has an eighty-eight percent match rate with Esper Peter Hale.
But most importantly, he knows that if he decides to become Peter’s guide, the truth could very well come out—
Stiles is an SS-class guide.
He buries his face in his hands. “I’m fucked.”