CHPT 15: A New Day, An Old Origin…

Friday, March 3rd….

With the madness of the seizing student and dealing with being a passenger in a broken down car with two inexperienced shifters over with, the rest of Marco's Thursday went by at its usual dragging and excruciatingly slow pace. Only it wasn't spent in irritation. The students stayed away. Scott seemed to be taken aback by Marco's unwillingness to help. Good, it kept him away as well. And the Teachers had learned to stop prying.

Most at least…

He needed a break. His social stamina was running low by the time he exited the vet hours before.

Today was bound to be different. It felt different. And he was healed.

He could feel it as he rose from his bed, hidden deep within his home just outside the small town of Beacon Hills.

Discomfort welcomed him as he rose from his sweat soaked sheet, muscles lit ablaze from another night spent in a terrible place.

His own mind.

He sat up, flinching at the screech of pain rumbling from his titanium bed frame in response to his weight.

His hands found a home on his knees as he took a series of breaths— each inhale pulled forth a memory of the dreams. Nightmares.

Inhale. Blood….claws….moonlight swallowing the sun. Screams. Death.

Exhale. Back to reality.

Repeat.

After a few minutes, he rose from his bed. The frame creaked out a thankful groan as his weight disappeared.

The polished dark wood floors beneath his feet felt cold, centering him quickly as he looked around the room.

Modesty. That was the best way to put it.

Dark monochrome colors everywhere. Plain brown curtains over large windows, in between each glass pane bookshelves lined with walls full of literature on greek history, wild animals, bestiary's, varying cultures…..and Egyptian gods. A family tradition some would say.

Within its tightly packed shelves, a spot remained open where a book was taken. It looked sloppy.

He didn't like his room looking sloppy even if there wasn't much of it.

He moved to his bedside table, topped by an ornate zebrawood lamp. Beside the lamp, one of his books lay strewn across its surface, pages fluttering silently as gusts of wind drifted in through the open window just above his pillow.

He picked it up, closing the leather book. The front cover gleamed under the sunlight. Worn and engraved with tools and materials he knew little of. Despite this he knew the name.

The book was centered around a god he knew quite a bit of. All of his family does….did.

Anhur. The Leonine Egyptian War-god. Slayer of Enemies.

He loved the stories inside as a child. He learned from them now.

With a yawn he stretched abruptly and slid the book back in its place.

His eyes fluttered to the window at the head of his bed. The sun was rising just enough to cast its initial rays into the depths of his room.

It was around four am. The usual.

He exited his room on silent feet, letting his eyes transform into their usual feline slits as he entered the shadows of his hallway and waltzed into the bathroom.

It was small. He had to duck to safely enter. As he did for most rooms.

Even so. He was relived. Walking was less of a pain than it was yesterday.

He had a hectic full moon….

He turned the light on and got the faucet running to splash his face with the icy water. It felt good. Energizing.

His eyes rose to meet the unfamiliar character looking back at him in the mirror.

He seldom looked at himself. He always looked so angry. His dreaded coils of hair only added to the expression as they cast shadows over the contours of his face.

His massive frame took up nearly all of the mirror, leaving him to view his scarred chest and bulbous shoulders. The wounds looked years old instead of days. Some stayed longer than others. Like the one laying to the side of his abdomen and the others in his vein riddled quads.

Bullets. They looked like old bullet wounds. Even an idiot could see as much. Dozens…..

Luckily. He was sturdy— and he healed fast. And sturdy was an understatement. It was a calling card of his race— only found in the males who at one time fought amongst their leading male counterparts endlessly for terrain, mating rights and dominance. The females were their hunters. Their gifts lied elsewhere.

Marco remembered how jealous that fact made him as a boy who lacked the speed and offensive efficiency of his fellow sister shifters.

There wasn't too much he lacked these days…

"Not anymore…." He whispered as his eyes drifted down to his left arm.

A place where no injuries resided. Only dark cloth wrappings that seemed to be hiding a tattoo of sorts. A tattoo colored similarly to that of bone white. It would've stood out on his almond colored skin if not for the wrapping.

He sighed and began removing it. Ignoring the heat he felt from it resting on his skin. A heat that seemed to grab hold of his soul.

Once it was off he tossed the wrappings and opened his mirror, grabbing another bundle of wrappings along with a cup of black dust.

It's individual shards glowed under the industrial lights above.

Mountain Ash. Hard to come by. He was running out.

With a sigh he began soaking the bandage in the Ash. His actions were meticulous, practiced— as if he'd been doing such a bizarre practice for a long time.

When it was all over the bandage was a smoky black. As usual. There was nothing left to do but wrap his arm once more.

A task that was more painful than it looked. Mountain Ash and supernatural creatures didn't get along well.

To put it simply, trying to bring the two together was like trying to push same ended magnets together. Only more painful.

By the time he was done, he was growling, fangs bared and eyes glowing like the sun.

He flexed his arm in the bandage. Nothing. Perfect. Everything locked within.

He was done looking at himself. He exited the bathroom promptly and headed outside to his backyard.

A reinforced wooden platform patio flanked the back of his home, bordered by a wide spread of grass and forestry.

He didn't care about that at the moment. He cared about the weights set neatly on the platform.

They'd already been used, tailored to him.

Deadlifts, benchpress, pull up bars, kettlebells, you name it.

Cardio wasn't really his thing usually.

He approached the deadlifting mat and slid six plates onto each side.

His purple hoodie began to hug his muscles as he let some of the beast to the surface in preparation for the lift.

"Morning Marco!" A scratchy feminine voice called out from his left.

He turned, aiming his glowing eyes at the woman sitting in her back patio across from him. Well, not exactly sitting. She was stretching.

For a moment he watched the flexion of her leg muscles beneath her black leggings before he replied.

"Morning, Kat." Marco replied to the woman as she executed a perfect downward dog.

He needed to get into yoga.

Her brown ponytail swirled under the rising sun as she rose to her feet and began opening up her hips with her hand resting on the punching bag beside her, "How much we lifting today?"

Marco looked down at the six plates seated on the bar and slowly looked back up at her, "two thirty-five. Maybe I'll go for three hundred pounds next week."

In comical exaggerated fashion, her jaw dropped as she looked at him from above her thick black circular sunglasses.

For a moment he simply stared at her cloudy white blind eyes and the red fissures of scaring outlining them on her tan skin. They looked like two white suns.

"Hot damn. To be so strong at sixteen. I would've had the courage to exit a few less than ideal relationships."

Marco stayed silent as she moved from opening her hips to wrapping her hands.

"So. Why don't you play any sports? Lacrosse is huge here— I'm sure you'd do great." She asked genuinely.

Marco picked up the weight, feeling his muscles open and awaken, "I'm not really a team player."

"Oh is that right?" She asked as she began bouncing on her toes and studying the bag across from her through blind eyes.

"Yes. Also two steps to the left." Marco announced.

Kat chuckled before taking two steps to the left to place herself directly in front of the punching bag. "Not a team player my ass."

Silence fell as the two began their usual morning routine. A routine that was never supposed to be.

Marco only ever came out so early to escape his nightmares and train without raising the eyebrows of his neighbors.

It seemed Kat was also looking to be alone. A blind victim of domestic violence, trying to learn how to defend herself. Despite not being able to even see what she was trying to hit. It was safe to say she was attempting to save herself from the embarrassment of failing in front of a crowd

They made it work. Marco knew combat— and for reasons unknown, he helped her. Single words, small critiques. And she gave him the news of Beacon Hills with all her upbeat chatty-ness.

In just a few weeks she had grown. Successfully unleashing a flurry of roundhouses, jabs, hooks and sporadic placements of well executed faints.

If she could see, he was sure she'd beat the shit out of whoever did what they did to her eyes. If he didn't get there first.

An hour passed in a flash. Sweat lined his exposed frame. His veins pulsed beneath his thick ebony skin. Thick and pumping with blood. He felt good.

Kat stood across from him, toned bronze arms resting on the top of the gate that split their backyards as she blindly watched him. Her thin jaw flexing as beads of sweat rolled down her exposed neck and cleavage. She'd changed since they first accidentally met. Sometimes it felt like she could actually see.

"I love your jacket, where'd you get it?"

Then she'd say something to remind him that she was in fact very blind.

"Nice try." Marco replied.

"Dammit!" She said, smacking the gate in mock anger, "I'll have you know, more and more people at work are beginning to think I can see. I'm doing that thing you told me to try— the one about trying to individualize smells and differences in sounds. I feel like I have echolocation sometimes. Batwoman doesn't have shit on me."

"Not a single turd." Marco added as he unloaded the weights.

Kat turned in the midst of walking away, "Did you just try for a joke?"

"….Blind and Schizophrenic. Rough stuff." Marco whispered.

Kat burst out laughing until she was nearly in tears. He never considered himself funny. Then again she laughed at everything. For a thirty eight year old woman plagued by misfortune she seemed eerily upbeat.

It used to irritate him because of the past it reminded him of. These days it was more so just a fact of life.

After a few minutes he'd finished cleaning up the weights. Kat did the same and tended to her garden.

"So. Heading off to school?" She asked without looking at him.

"Yea. Just have to square away some things first." Marco replied as he lifted up his purple sweater off the floor.

Kat nodded, "Speaking of that, how is your mother? Anything I can do?"

Marcos jaw clenched, "She is fine…..she will be fine. Still resting. Stable. She'll be fine...she'll be fine."

Kat nodded along, "Marco. Don't forget you're still young. Don't push away too much help and force yourself to be alone in there, ok?"

For a moment she sounded her age.

"I'm not alone. And if I need help I'll take it. On my terms."

Kat kept her soft tone of voice. Patient. Understanding somehow, "Ok. Just know I'm here. That's what neighbors are for."

Marco nodded, "I'll be leaving now. Have a good day. I'll catch you up on how Bertha is doing at the vet when I clock in tonight."

"Sounds good. Go make some friends." Kat said as he headed off.

She did the same, opening her back door to head inside.

In a flash, the sounds and smells of her home hit Marco, stopping him in his tracks.

"...the Blue Eyed Beast of Beacon has struck again in its usual inhumanly gruesome fashion. Fifteen more bodies discovered. Two officers, thirteen men in police garb with track records as long as I am tall, all ranging from illegal poaching, assault, racketeering and gang activity. This creature is no vigilante. This creature doesn't care for its victims and it leaves nothing alive. Citywide curfews will be lengthened if this continues…" The news reporter spoke from within the depths of Kat's dark home.

"Kat." He called out to her from his door.

"….."

"Why are you still watching that?"

Kat adjusted her glasses, "Because…I…I—"

"Go inside, and turn that off." Marco stated in a cold tone.

"You still haven't told me why."

"Kat. Turn that off now."

"Bu—"

"Now!" Marco snapped.

Kat jumped, her wrapped hands balled into fists that she wasn't sure what to do with.

For a moment, Marco recoiled, realizing what memories he must've been pulling to the surface within her mind.

"I….just turn it off. Please. And if anyone comes around here asking about anything in relation to that. You will close your door, lock it and call the police."

Kat was silent.

"Do you understand?"

Kat nodded slowly.

"Stay safe."

As he headed inside she spoke once more.

"You're a good person, Marco. Despite what you may think of yourself."

Marco nodded curtly and headed inside. Once inside the walls of his own home, he headed towards his Mothers room before heading to school.

He could already smell the sickness— feel the pain wafting from within the curtains guarding her door.

Only then did he respond to Kat's statement. Her statement that he was a good person. The hilarity of it could've made him laugh.

"Far from it. Very far from it…"