The second the weapon was free, Stiles sagged back on his heels. Jesus Christ, this place. This hotel. These people. Fuck it, Stiles Stilinski was so done.
He wheezed on breath for a second, gasping in huge lungfuls to steady his nerves. The last thing he needed was to have a full-blown freakout over Miss Chainmail Bikini over there. (Okay, that wasn't fair; she was wearing a lot of armour. He knew that. Still.)
He held up his hands again, spreading them wide. “Marrowood is, as near as anyone can explain to me, a place that exists outside every other place in the multiverse. It's a horrible little place where the worst of the worst not only happens, but it happens often. I work for the sheriff's station, for Emma Swan and Rick Grimes. As far as we can tell, nobody brought anyone here, or if they did, they're like crazy invisible or something. And we don't know why any of us are here. Now can you please put the goddamn sword away?”