After selecting what he judged a sturdy enough chair to deal with his fits of hyperactivity, Stiles dragged his unfortunate target straight to the desk and plopped himself down. He pulled his food out and closer to himself. Curly fries were the same in Marowood as they were in Beacon Hills, apparently. All grease, no health, but amazingly good.
"Beacon Hills," he said, unwrapping the questionable sandwich. The crazy dude talking about the pizza had not made him sure he wanted to tempt fate. "It's in Northern California." He looked up from his food. If any time was a good time to bring it up... "Beacon Hills is like this place's younger and possibly slightly retarded brother, based on what I've heard." Not that Stiles wanted her to think that he didn't take this new place seriously. But after what he had just been through, werewolves and possessions were a standard Saturday night.
"I mean, I know at least twelve werewolves. And a banshee. And a lizard man, which is so much worse than the encyclopaedia would have you believe." He flexed his fingers, looking down at his long, bony hands. This was more honest than Stiles had been in months. "There was an evil creature that-okay, so most humans appear to have some kind of metaphysical barrier that helps to keep evil at bay." He squirmed a little in his seat. "When something happens that tears a hole in that barrier, the person becomes a blinking neon sign that says 'hey evil, come on in and party'." He looked up, frowning. "That… happened to me. Emma, I don't want to sit on my hands and let it happen again."