Count your fingers

3. Somewhere else

Trigger warning: panic attacks, mentions of self-harm (unintended)

Stiles opens his eyes to a grey concrete ceiling not far above him. There's pictures stuck to it, cut from magazines. One depicts a beach with the sun setting just below the horizon, giving the sky an orange glow. The one next to it shows a hiking trail disappearing between the trees. The forest is lush and green, reminding him a little of the Preserve. The third and last picture is of a winding road, shot from above so you have a good view of the green hills the road is curving around. In the lower right corner there are three letters visible, in a large white font: Ire.

"Ireland," he whispers to himself before the question of why he is lying in the top bunk occurs to him. He doesn't own a bunk bed and neither does any of his friends. Still, he has been sleeping in it, the remnants of sleep still crusting his eyes. He rubs his fists in them, willing himself to wake up more. Something isn't right and it is not the disturbing dream that lingers on the edges of his consciousness. His brain made up some fucked up shit and his breathing becomes shallow again when he thinks back to the horror and panic he felt. It wasn't real, he reminds himself sternly and pushes up to sit.

His eyes fall down to his outfit, which is not uncomfortable but certainly not his own. He's wearing a white non-descript T-shirt, on top of grey joggers and on his feet are white tube socks. At the end of the bed is a navy blue sweatshirt with white letters on the back. He's sitting on top of the covers, which in this case is a slightly scratchy blanket in dark grey. It's all very basic, no sign of luxury or anything homely; except for the magazine clippings stuck to the ceiling, maybe. If he's still dreaming, it's an odd dream. He can't remember ever dreaming up a situation like this.

It's all very strange, but the most disturbing thing is the fact that there is a heavy metal door with a small window closing off the room that he's in. The space is lit by a single tube light on the ceiling, encased in sturdy metal. Stiles also sees a metal toilet with a sink in the place where the tank usually is. The toilet doesn't have a lid. There's an open shelved closet mounted to the wall, kinda like two highschool lockers next to each other but without the doors.

"I'm in jail?!" The words fly out of his mouth before Stiles can check himself. He throws his legs over the side of the bunk and jumps down.

"Watch it," someone calls out behind him, making him jump.

He turns around to find Jackson lounging on the lower bunk, one leg hanging over the side, close to where Stiles landed. "Jackson? You're in jail too?"

The other watches him warily from over the book he was reading. Stiles idly notices it's a crime novel, some cheap paperback edition that is starting to curl at the edges. "Are you off your meds again?"

"Am I?" Stiles wonders out loud. "I don't know. Do they allow you to take Adderall in jail? I don't feel jittery or anything. When I forget to take my meds I usually can't sit still anymore, like, I really have to move, like, all the time. And my mind races, but that's pretty much a given, even when I take my pills. I talk more without my pills. Am I talking a lot? I feel like I am. So maybe I'm off my meds. I don't know. I could be. What is this place? What are we doing here? Are we really in jail? Why? Is this some kind of prank? Or an Escape Room? Are we in an Escape Room? I've never been to an Escape Room where you had to change your clothes."

"Stilinski," Jackson cuts him off. "Shut up."

Stiles forcibly closes his mouth, his teeth clacking together. His fingers find the hem of his shirt and start rolling it up, just a few inches and then back down. And up again. Okay, so he hasn't taken his Adderall in what? A day or two? Maybe more?

Jackson turns his attention back to his book, ignoring him and offering Stiles a chance to give him a proper look over. Jackson is dressed in a similar outfit as Stiles, although he is wearing the navy sweater over his T-shirt. It has a nametag velcroed to the chest, saying J. Whittemore. Jackson is also wearing shoes, navy loafers with a white sole. Stiles sees another pair sitting on the floor by the wall, they're probably his. He moves to put them on, the chill of the concrete floor is seeping through his socks uncomfortably.