Chapter Notes
This is a world where the Captain America:Winter Soldier did not happened yet and SHIELD is still up and running, but post-first Avenger and compliant to Agent's of SHIELD's inhuman arc and terrogenesis. So, I hope that makes sense and have at the second chapter~~ Thankyou for the comments omg and please continue to subscribe and comment and leave a kudo (it gives me so much happiness to know your thoughts) :::)))) And happy New Years Eve y'all (It's already 31st where I'm at)
Getting to New York was relatively easy enough. Stiles ditched the jeep halfway through the ride to the airport, he drove all the way out of California to Nevada and took a cab from there to the airport. That way he could buy time from the on slaught man-hunt that his dad would put out for him (maybe, he wasn’t sure whether his dad or pack cared where he went). 
One airplane flight later, he was in the bustling city of New York; the land where all dreams are made possible—a rather odd and very misleading statement; correction: New York, the land where all dreams are possible, only if you have the money, connection and face for it. 
Anyways, the first order of business Stiles made was to take the high school exam to get his certificate for ‘finishing school’, because if he went through 10 years of hell he better damn well get something out of it. Maintaining a GPA of 4.9 was a miracle in all the shit storm he’d been through, accounting that he was taking 4 AP classes. With that, he applied for a double major course in criminology and medicine in NYU, with the money from his college savings and a half-tuition scholarship. 
After all was done and well, he found a decent studio apartment above the bookstore he worked in; a special discount from the owner who he helped avoid a falling bookshelf when he was there for the first time. He barely furnished the studio, only added a bed without frames but an overload of pillows and comforters. He didn’t even buy a TV, only a radio for the local news and none of that FOX bullshit. 
Of course, he furthered his study in his magic; understanding the basics of the whole spark natural magic he had, after all he skipped everything and went straight for the hardcore against battling the  Dread Doctors. He learned a few things being in New York for the first month; he met a weird monk-like dude in a museum, who thought him the truth about Sparks and what he was. He’s always had a tether to nature, but that apparently meant he was an Elemental Spark. Who knew? 
Sad to say, he was majorly disappointed when he found out that he couldn’t have a wand or his own Dumbledore. That magic doesn’t exist. Nonetheless, he was still enthralled by his own ability to control the four elements. He excelled at controlling the earth and water; his fire and air still unstable but steadily growing. 
In the first month he’s been in New York, he’s met more magicians than he knew existed, albeit only two and one of them was his landlord-boss, the other an unknown sassy monk (which was in all the ways weird but a wonderful accident as he’d expected). Stiles visited the local New York pack to announce his presence and was offered the emissary position to which he politely declined; that pack bullshit was out of his life forever, he’s not going anywhere near that no sire. But, he didn’t want any enemies so he made an alliance with them; apparently Sparks were very well-regarded and respected in the supernatural industry, so huh. 
So far, his life was turning out to be quite the normalcy, if you discount the occasional once-week-monster-hunting (New York has an abundance of crazy wild supernatural creatures). It’s like they had a schedule of who’s going to wreak havoc next for each week of the month, it was exhausting. He's faced vampires, rogue werewolves, ghouls, succubis and incubis (a very fascinating and deadly experience, mind you), and he was finally getting use to the life he’d have built for himself in the 3 months he’s been here. 
He even has his own favorite customer at the bookstore; a ridiculously handsome and charming hunk of a blonde that had the manners of a gentleman from the 1940’s, a rare oddity but a welcomed surprise. That’s when you know you’re living the regular New Yorker life (and the occasional cursing to cab drivers who barely avoided hitting you in the sidewalk). 
Stiles was happy, and of course that’s when the world decided he’s been taking a 3-month-too-long life vacation. Because the world of the weird and supernatural extraordinaire couldn’t survive without Stiles somehow getting dragged into the middle of it. Fuck you, world. 

To be fair, in hindsight, it was technically his fault. He didn’t mean to hack into the intelligence servers of the government, but he needed to find out how much the government knows about and deals with the supernatural world. Imagine his surprise when he was abruptly abducted—no excuses, it was still an abduction, Stiles would swear that up and down to Merriam-Webster—with a bag over his head into a van with a syringe of anesthesia (he suspects benzodiazepines or ketamine with the rate that it worked at). 
He came to with a throbbing headache and a bagful of questions, starting with ‘Am I Dead’ and ‘Not-fucking-Again’, the latter directed to the beings in the sky—he’s open to religions, Stiles Stilinski is a man of respect, thank you very much. 
"Wow, the amount of treatment I am receiving is spectacularly new and fascinating, if not harsh and dehumanizing." Stiles snarked, head bag taken off of him. The metallic paneled room, or should he say holding interrogation cell, flooding his eyesight. "Do you guys have a Yelp-like system, I'd rate it a quality top score of negative 5."
His abductor was a man with a strictly pressed suit and a receding hairline, but it strangely works in an oddly charming and sleek way. “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Stilinski?” Damn, even his voice is clandestine.
“No, but I do know from experience that I have a magnetizing presence to abductors and kidnappers.” Stiles smiled, having the whole ‘kidnapping interrogation’ routine memorized down to a T. 
The agent returned his smile with a plastic one, sliding a report on the metal table, which, oh look, he was handcuffed. Fun. 
“It says here that your name is Stiles Stilinski, an outstanding student with an impressive GPA and record in NYU, majoring in two very oddly combined majors. But your real name is redacted and your records scrubbed clean, although we were able to find the suppressed large numbers of police reports connecting you to an alarmingly frequent animal attacks, deaths and bombs.” The agent read off from the report he undoubtedly broke laws to get since Stiles had classified his file as a countermeasure to hide his identity. He directed an eyebrow raise at him. “So, tell me, Mr. Stilinski, who are you?” 
"A concerned citizen with astonishingly bad luck." 
The agent blinked an unimpressed glance at him. ”You hacked national severs."
"I can neither confirm nor deny that until I am within presence of my lawyer or does the law not apply here? Do you guys work outside the law? Because I think you're an independent structure, with more a power hierarchy than the law-abiding systems.” Stiles wasn’t about to fold, he’d been beaten down so many times, it feels like another Tuesday to him. 
“It’s clear that you were trying to access documents that were flagged as confidential." Stiles winced a little at that statement, because he thought he’d hid his tracks pretty well, but the Agent saw his reaction and smiled a little bit wider. 
But Stiles is a master at ignoring the problem until it goes away, it’s his life motto that kept him alive for many years, so he evaded. ”I’m confused though, why are you involved in whatever it is you think I did?" 
The Agent, to which he still does not know the name of but is surprisingly starting to like, blinked, caught surprised by the question. ”What?” 
Stiles Stilinski, supernatural extraordinaire, folded his hands on the table as best as he can with handcuffs on, knowing he’s got the man’s attention. ”Not saying I did do what you think I did  which I completely did not do, but isn't this supposed to be handled by the direct government investigative or at least intelligence agencies like FBI or the CIA, of which owns the 'national servers' I definitely did not hack into.” The Agent blinked once, a tick of the jaw that he wasn’t sure was a suppressed smile or blatant surprise. “I’d be honored if the NSA come greet me themselves but I didn’t think this would be a matter of national security if not a mere curiosity in the unknown."
"We are the FBI." Phil Coulson flipped his badge to show Stiles his credentials. Phil Coulson, huh, never thought Stiles would meet him. 
"Huh, funny. I didn't ask to see your credentials, which yes you were trying to assure professionalism and authenticity, but masking it with an initiative of forcing me to trust you, a common trick of illogical fallacy.” His words ran out of his mouth with precise execution, as he can see the man Phil Coulson start to break away from his serious disposition. “It would've worked better if you didn't. Because that badge is a fake. Credentials aren’t supposed to have ID numbers, only badge numbers, unless its on their card which they only use in the office."
Coulson smiled, his mind racing with thrill from the fast conversation—by far the most interesting interrogation he’s had in a while. "Aren't you scared? Someone pretending to be FBI all the while kidnapping you for an information we might or might not torture out of you." 
"You won’t resort to torture.” Stiles returned a tooth filled smile at him, breaking the egg once and for all. “It’s not in the SHIELD books."
Weirdly enough, he could hear a bark of a woman’s laughter outside the walls. Coulson spluttered for a while, his mouth opening and closing with a tilt of his head and squinted eyes. “How do you know who we are?” 
“There’s not a lot of clandestine force that works outside the law handling odd extraterrestrial matters. It’s not that hard to link SHIELD into it.” Stiles waved his hands only to yelp in pain due to the metal restrictions digging into his flesh. “Plus, I’ve been following your activities as best as I can.” 
Coulson raised his eyebrow. “Why exactly?” 
“A gentleman has to have a few hobbies, how else are we supposed to live in our white supremacy?” Stiles blinked his eyes innocently, sarcasm dripping through his lashes. 
Coulson let a little grin break from his poker face, so Stiles called it a win. Establish a connection is something you’d want to do in a hostage situation. But he was sure he didn’t need it. 
“So, Mr. Stilinski, do you know what’s about to happen?” Coulson asked, the file long forgotten. He was curious to see how much this kid knows about their operation and how they worked.
“You’re gonna lock me up in some cold dark tiny room where you keep all prisoners in with a scary nondescript name like ‘the Fridge’ or ‘the Sandbox’.” Stiles winked at Coulson, enjoying the twitch in his eye when he hit the nail. “Or you’re going to let me go and hope that I’ll keep my mouth shut.” 
The bark of laughter came back, following a deep chuckle. Maybe the room wasn’t as sound-proof as he thought. Coulson let a long weary sigh escape his mouth, but he was also failing to hide his smile to the constant surprise the man Stiles Stilinski turned out to be, “There’s a third option.”
Stiles raised his eyebrows in a challenge. 
“Join SHIELD.” Coulson offered, leaning forward in his chair. “We could use someone like you.” 
Stiles almost laughed, barely containing it. “And what exactly is someone like me?” He hadn’t shown his magic or his supernatural knowledge and connections. 
“Someone with a fast wit and intelligence, a thirst for knowledge and a very adept way at talking out of trouble.” Coulson explained, the boy reminded him vaguely of a fusion between Tony and Skye—Daisy, he corrected himself—which was either a really scary horrible mix or a spectacle to behold. “Plus, I’m pretty sure you’ve hidden a few tricks up your sleeves. You’ll be an outstanding operative.”
It was his third month in New York, and Stiles admitted that he kind of missed the thrill of adventures and not-dying every second of the day, despite how taxing it was. He felt a need to help, and he knew that doing things alone would only work until a certain extent. 
“First, is this really necessary though?” Stiles rattled his hands and the handcuff with it. “I’m not a hostile, I look like someone that can barely hold up in a cage fight with white church bunnies.” Stiles could tell Coulson didn’t buy the lie for a second, the guy was even tougher than werewolves and they’re actual walking lie-detectors. 
Coulson relented, showing a leap of trust on his behalf. Stiles could see himself working next to the guy, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. “If I do accept this deal, what’s in it for me?” 
Stiles waited for the reply, expecting a threat or some greater good horse crap that everyone excuses themselves with. Coulson just shook his head, somehow reading his mind. “A fancy badge, cool toys and a hell of a story to tell your grandkids.” 
The laughter ripped from his throat in a shock of delight. Stiles liked him. He definitely likes him. He stood from his seat, straightening his hoodie. “Okay, you got me.” He waited for Coulson to stand before offering his hand. “I’m Stiles. A proper introduction is needed if we’re to trust each other, and I expect a full trust because loyalty is my first priority.” 
Coulson shook his hand, feeling a weird warmth spread through his palms. “Phil Coulson, the feeling’s mutual.” 
Stiles let go of this hands, stuffing them into his pockets while Coulson opened the doors. “I’ve got to tell you though, I’ve been through a lot so there’s nothing much that can surprise me that makes a better story than what I’ve already got.” 
The only thing he got back from Coulson was an all-knowing smile which he absolutely hates. God, he’s like another Deaton. Cryptic and enigma-like. The worst trait to someone with a deadly curiosity such as Stiles.
He figured out what the smile meant when he was lead outside the holding cell, seeing a couple of people smile at him with mirth over a touch-screen table and a huge screen that was showing the live footage of the holding cell they were in earlier. Inside a plane. 
Stiles dropped his mouth, looking to Coulson for an explanation; the smug expression on his innocent face speaking loudly to his question. 
“Welcome to SHIELD.”
That was how he got into SHIELD, completely by accident and a breach of national secret servers. It was the first domino to fall in the long run of his fate. Stiles didn’t knew it then because he was too caught up in the new excitement of being a part of the agency, but that was the beginning. Of what, one might ask? 
Everything.