allison. ( @mcgneticism )
HER MOTEL WAS STARTING TO LOOK like the bedroom of none other than stiles stilinski himself -- an array of newspapers, highlighters, post-its, and a series of books covered the extent of her room. not to mention a ball of red string she’d found in her car. lydia was going to find out what exactly brought her to this town, and she sure was not about to leave until the answer arose. for the meantime, the redhead was very much in dire need of a latte to keep herself functioning. having spent majority of her morning trying to look through old newspaper articles for any sign of supernatural activity in the past events of the town, her brain was starting to get overwhelmed. having thrown her red prada purse over her shoulder ( to match her shoes, of course ) lydia steps out of her motel room to make her way down the street. the banshee barely had to consider her steps, the route to the coffee shop becoming more and more routine for her the longer she remained resident in cherryville. which gave her perfect opportunity to observe her surroundings as she stalked across the street, that is, until she’s forced to a stand-still. DISBELIEF overwhelms her, she can practically feel herself go pale under a layer of blusher and foundation. as though she had just saw a ghost, because she swore that’s exactly what had happened. it was her head messing with her, it had to be. suddenly, she’s off again, this time a quickened pace as the redhead attempts to catch up with the figure she’d caught sight of, the familiar silhouette she could never forget. “all -- “ barely able to get the name past her lips, the thought of calling it out to an actual living person seemed all too much. she’d spoken of her in past tense, to scott and the rest of the gang, in her own room as she begged whatever power she had to try and find her, to find some way for her to communicate. but never again, did lydia martin ever anticipate calling allison’s name out to a living person. “ALLISON ??”