[Even the vague idea of eating at the moment unsettles his stomach. With a shake of his head at the server, Stiles instead directs his attention to what his companion ordered. So, the joke about vegan poutine may not have actually been a joke. He frowns at himself, irritated; just how many details about this man has he dismissed from a bad read on Cyram’s sincerity? Again, the note draws his eye, though he refrains from bringing it up for the time being.

Even distracted by his own dissatisfaction, the teen recognizes the beast lurking behind Cy’s seemingly innocuous tone.]

This place is sick, [he remarks, not bothering to lower his voice despite the potentially dangerous opinion aired in a public venue—a choice that has nothing to do with lack of foresight and everything to do with defiance.] But you know what really gets me?

The guests.

[And he spits it out, a snarling kind of disgust. Because, in the end? He expects to be abused and manipulated and tortured by higher powers. All par for the course, really. But the other victims?]

Check the network lately? You’d think we were on fucking vacation. These brainwashed nutjobs are all way too happy to accept the situation here. It’s like we’re starring in a The Stepford Wives sequel. I mean, how is nobody talking about the grand design? We’re not trapped in this place for our benefit. It’s gotta be for some freaky ritual based on sex magic. And what happens when the Powers That Be get what they need from us?

[Incensed, he sits back heavily to aggressively draw from the beer.]