CHPT 64: Starved and Berserk
Moon Starvation was something Marco only saw once. One singular time. Before he knew the terror of the Warlocks, they moved in secret. They captured a hunting group of Grey Lions. Kept them in a cage— a holding cell somewhere.
Three months later they escaped. More than likely, the Warlocks let them out. They enjoyed torment. And torment came in waves on that full moon.
Going so long without it— the moon, makes a Shifter go insane. A Shifter works in cycles. Hunting, socializing, mating, shifting. When that cycle's thrown off, the human mind can't keep up. The feral mind blooms— spreads, like a virus. And there's no antibodies to fight off that brand of shift. They're more powerful, stronger hunting instincts, more grotesque in nature.
It's much like the starved lions they used against gladiators in Ancient Rome.
In a bizarre retelling of history— an alternate universe, if you will, the gladiators against the starved had come again.
Scott, Stiles, Deaton, Derek, Erica, Isaac, Victoria, Marco. Gladiators of the new and improved supernatural world.
And Boyd, Cora…. Plus the who knew how many bunches of Berserkers, were their very own carefully crafted starved monsters. Moon Starved.
And they got their fill as the pale predatory lights spilled into the room like a rushing flood. Biblical in its destructive and ominous intent.
Marco raised his spear and took aim at the new girl, Cora. Before he could throw the weapon, Derek blew past him, slamming her into the back wall of the bank. Cracks rippled along the marble stone.
To a human it would've seemed he was all too eager to attack his sister, but really he was trying to stop her from being gutted. His tender hand was what allowed her to kick his knee in and bite a chunk out of his neck.
Derek stumbled backward spraying blood and still growing fur.
As she took off with Boyd, Marco moved to follow— only to stop at the sound of his mothers breathing.
It almost sounded like she was standing right behind him. Intently watching. Judging. Like everyone was judging. Silently, with their breaths.
"You're putting us aside again? For revenge? For blood?"
"YOU asked for this!"
Marco shook off the encroaching psychosis like a wet dog, "Derek, Isaac, Victoria and Erica. Chase them down before they rip apart Beacon Hills."
Hesitation.
"WHAT!"
"You don't hear them…? There's gotta be over a hundred Berserkers coming."
"Only way out is through. Now move your asses. Don't you all have people to protect back home?"
The newly made retrieval squad took off, transforming with each step and leaping out the windows.
Marco centered himself with the door. He shook off the remaining tattered pieces of his clothing until he was completely naked. Completely untouched by modernity other than the cold bank floor. His left foot faced the door. The right faced the wall as he held out his spear in a circular motion.
"Give me space." Marco whispered as his arm burned like hell.
"Finally admitting you aren't yourself?"
"I haven't been myself for years." He eyed Scott, forcing the shift in him and Stiles.
The two groaned and stretched as their limbs extended, banded with muscle and fortified with harder bone.
"Why did we get drafted into the supernatural royal rumble? I'm literally the most downsized shifter here…." Stiles adjusted his vest and unsheathed a machete made of pure silver. Marco's Warlock raids were beneficial as ever.
"Deucalion wants you three. If you stay here, the chances of Derek and the others safely retrieving the Moon Starved is infinitely higher." Deaton commented from the vault behind them.
"Your schizo-typical Voltron Lion is still on his A-game it seems."
"I'd laugh…. I really would if we weren't experiencing a small scale earthquake before going to war right now." Stiles said.
"Quiet. Here they come."
The door burst open. Marco had seen Berserkers only once. When his Pride was in talks with a wandering pack of WereJaguars— Nahuals. The Alpha female gave him nightmares for months. She never spoke, and her Berserkers moved in step with her like they all shared one brain.
These Berserkers had no unity. No Nahual at the helm. Their leaders remains were smeared and splattered across the walls of the bank by Duecalion. Either they were aware, or they truly lived up to their name all too well.
Naked— like Marco, save for Shifter hides slapped across their backs for so long it seemed to merge with their leathery human skin. Where the furry old hides connected and draped over their shoulders, black veins bulged as they ran down their chests and arms. Animal skulls of multiple origins masked their faces but failed to hide the human eyes beneath. No magical glow. Just a deep maddening stare to match the heavy breathing.
RUA—
Marco threw his spear through the face of the first Berserker attempting a war cry to start it all. The silver weapon blasted through bone, skin and then bone again in a confetti show of brain tissue and skull fragments.
It hit three more behind before the final Berserker caught it as they all swarmed.
Marco fought to pull his eyes from the enemy and pounced on Stiles in a blur of black skin and a flaming red arm.
He grabbed him by the back of his neck and threw him up to the second floor.
Like robots, a section of Berserkers on the outer edges broke off and began scaling the walls to get up to him…. With their fingers.
"Why?!" Scott yelled.
He'd have to figure that out himself. Time for talking ended a while ago really.
Marco pounced again, making use of his explosive legs as he smashed into the wall full of Berserkers climbing towards Stiles. In a blur, he ripped them off the walls, throwing them back down into the chaos of the main floor.
Without a moments hesitation, he jumped back to guard the vault entrance where Scott was being backed down by a handful of Berserkers ripping into him.
Marco clamped his jaws down on the throat of one from behind, ignoring the sting of a dozen fists and primal weapons bashing against him.
He bit down and caught the other two closest by the throat. Holding them as Scott ripped punched their ribs to pieces…. Then tore into their stomachs, drawing out their intestines with foul slashes that spread his fur and expanded his muscles.
All the while, Berserker blood filled his throat in a tidal wave of pungent chaos. He choked and coughed until rich spinal fluid landed on his barbed tongue and a Berserker head hit the floor.
Job wasn't finished.
Scott surveyed the blood on his hands. The human faces shown beneath the skulls.
Marco grabbed him and threw him deeper into the swarm.
He could feel Stiles' eyes.
"Last lesson, dammit!" Marco roared as he broke a Berserkers neck and ate a fist aimed at its nose. No chance to spit the old bones. "There's people who truly need your help Scott! And it's not the Berserkers. The ones that didn't beg….BEG for this! They died a long time ago. You're fighting husks. And they'll kill everyone in here if you keep letting your moral aspirations reach beyond our reality. Kill Scott…. Kill again. Taste the blood. Be an animal. Remember what you said about the Kanima. There's no humans here anyway… "
Marco looked back into the vault, zeroing in on the bite on Deaton's arm.
No humans indeed…
He fought— they killed. Scott let loose after breaking a rib so bad it poked from his skin. Even so, anger wasn't so much the trigger as the urge to succeed— to protect was.
Marco could feel it in the air. Beneath the blood mist and decay. Progress. Synthesis. Made in leaps and bounds.
The tide of battle quickened at breakneck speeds.
Marco found his spear and didn't let go. His sisters trainings guided his movements.
Stiles took in Marco's words. His intelligence led him to all fours where his cunning could take advantage of the size difference and space.
Scott was full synthesized. Awakened In war.
He was glorious. He was the stories Marco had heard. He was the wolf of the north.
Four Berserkers remained.
He didn't need to do a thing but protect the vault.
Scott moved like a heat mirage. Something you weren't sure was real. Some fluid and everchanging.
He took down two Berserkers. Wolfish snout crimson red as all hell. Claws like daggers digging deep as he flayed and dismembered them. On one hand the veins glimmered a wicked shade of purple. The Berserkers screamed like children when they dug in.
The sounds spread the unknown power. Heated his skin to bubbly scales.
Suddenly one Berserker remained. Scott faced it at matching heights but dwarfed the thing in bulk. His ears flattened against his head. Purple sparks split the red in his eyes.
In a shattering of historical understanding, the Berserker ran.
Only for a spear to stick it to the door.
Stiles hopped down from the upper floor. Now a long legged beastial Coyote with sabered fangs.
"I think I understand why Deucalion wants you all know…" Deaton muttered.
"Good. Because I was tired of people looking at me like I'm crazy. I mean I am…. But who isn't in this line of work?"
Marco swung licked his chops. Scott let out a barking grunt as Stiles paced behind them.
Practice was over.
Game time had begun.