Every morning, Derek's hit with that same sense of dread: what kind of bullshit is he going to have to deal with today? What kind of crazy is going to break out in the Complex in this particular twenty-four hour period of time? It seems like it never fails, so he's learned to accept it as part of this place. Much like supernaturals are a part of Beacon Hills, ridiculous bullshit is a part of Alpha Complex. He's going to have to learn to deal with it, but he thinks it'd be a hell of a lot easier if he just had his werewolf abilities. Of course he doesn't, because that would be too easy. And here, he doesn't even have any guns to protect himself. At least when he'd lost his abilities back home courtesy of Kate Argent, he had Braeden to show him how to use weapons and loan him a gun to keep himself safe in the mean time. Here? Not so much.

Last night, he'd gone to the Commissary and bought himself and Buffy gas masks. He's kind of hoping that they can start their journey of knowledge in this place, putting together the pieces of the puzzle that they've been discussing, but haven't really had much of a chance to work on. It's not like he cares about the credits. So it cost him a fifth of his salary. Worth it to have someone to stay up and figure this place out with. It's better than doing it alone and he'd almost gotten one for Stiles, too, except that he remembered at the last minute that Stiles had been here longer and it was entirely possible that he already had one. He made a mental note to ask next time he sees Stilinski and he has every intention of doing just that.

For now, he's just settling at one of the tables filled with RED level Alphas and he's going to try to choke down some of this Soylent bullshit because with his metabolism as fast as it is, Derek tends to get hungrier faster than most and when he runs out of food in his system, he shuts down a lot faster, too. It's something that doesn't ail him right now, but has become habit since he's dealt with it his whole life up until recently.

While a mediocre art show sounds like a real blast, Derek's opted to check out this fight he keeps hearing whispers about. The guys at troubleshooter duty were talking about it all day and Derek can't help his curiosity. Why humans feel inclined to fight for fun is beyond him, but maybe it won't suck to watch someone else lose a fight for a change. Usually Derek's the one fighting and losing. Badly, at that.

So after he eats, he heads to the R&D sector where his fellow troubleshooters had directed him earlier in the day. He's more than a little surprised to see a familiar face in the ring and Derek stands, ignoring the fact that he's drawing attention to himself, in an attempt to get a better look. "...Jackson?" he wonders aloud, the sound of his voice nearly lost in the midst of the crowd. If someone was sitting close enough to him and paying even a little bit of attention, they'd hear it, but other than that, he doubts anyone is actually paying attention. Well, other than the asshole behind him shouting at him to sit down. Reflexively, he looks back to glare, but the menacing glow of his eyes and fangs in his mouth don't come like they usually do. Finally, he turns around and sits back down.

There's no way that's Jackson, is there? Why would Jackson Whittemore ever choose to go into a fight like this? He'd probably be terrified that someone might bruise his perfect, stupid face. And, beyond that, he hasn't seen or heard Jackson's name at all in any of the buzz he's caught surrounding this. "...who are you...?" he thinks aloud, narrowing his eyes in thought. What the hell?