Saturday, March 12th. No School.
Jackson was dead. Unfortunate— for those that cared. Unfortunate for the one who's constant screams endlessly ripped through Beacon Hills with an eerily magical essence. Unfortunate for those with weaker constitutions like Stiles who vomited all through the night when the bad dreams didn't bind him in his sweaty sheets.
But unfortunate for Marco? No. Unfortunate had grown an intimate relationship with him much earlier. And he never let a toxic ex linger. Just like he never let a weakness fester.
Plus. He had work.
Work much like the old work at home. The home across the ocean and under a clearer sun. Lavished in desert plains and lush grasslands. Where beasts roamed and Shifters dominated through protection and harmony.
It was his time in Deacon's Veterinary Clinic that he felt closest to home.
Even now, as he wrapped the paw of a Cat that had gotten it caught in a metal fence, he could remember the first time he'd done the same for one of his Leonine brethren over a decade ago. The Lions, Leopards, Rhino's White and Black, and even the True Grey Lion's that could assume their quadrupedal form. His kind protected them all against the Warlock's that led and funded poaching units all across Africa.
Marco redid the bandage, perfection was an option he chose willingly.
All the while he strolled through the pleasantries of memory lane. Inside quiet clinic calmed as the sun peaked in through the windows and warmed the metal operating table.
Not the gory and violent memories either. Those of help and care. One of the aspects the Shifters in the western lands forgot somehow.
Full Synthesis was more than just war and hunting. It was connecting. Bind yourself to the wild— to your wild, and it will return the favor. It will bind you in its power. So many Wolves of North would never have been a problem to one weak Kanima. If they were Fully Synthesized with their Beast. If they could connect to their land.
He'd only hoped he could make them into that memory he had of the WereWolves in time. With their endless stamina and crushing jaws that all Shifters feared. Fang and claw cold enough to freeze a glacier.
Speaking of claw, the tawny furred cat he worked on hissed and swatted at him as he accidentally nicked the felines wound with his bandage work.
Marco grabbed the young cat by the ruff of its neck and looked into its eyes. As if the light in the room dimmed, it's irises slimed and the green around brightened.
Marco's eyes mocked the action, like pools of gold that sucked the creature into a shared trance.
"Respect me as I respect you."
The faint territorial hisses faded and turned into purrs as he scratched its head.
"If only making the others listen was so simple." Marco commented as he let the cat roam around the room following its wound dressing.
"Maybe it's not that they need to be made into obedient Shifters…. Marco." Deaton said from the doorway.
He wore his usual green polo and white overcoat.
"Why do you even try to sneak around this place, Druid? Nothing gets past me. Not from man." Marco commented as he wiped cat hair off the table. The muscles in his arms twitched like severed cables beneath his undersized work shirt.
"All we can do is try." Deaton smiled and shrugged.
"That feels connected to your initial statement." Marco said.
"Well what do you think? Can these young men be made into these illustrious… Wolves of the North you keep mentioning?" Deaton questioned as he crossed his arms. He usually only did that when he was really focused on something.
"It's not an option. They have to be or we all die. They all died for nothing…" Marco said the last portion as if he were referring to people in particular.
Deacon nodded and ran a hand over his salt and pepper colored goatee, "I see. Let me offer you a new perspective. You're blunt, Marco— like a hammer. You have your skills and you use them, you work at them religiously. Like a builder smashing— hammering, his nails into his handiwork to keep it all together…"
"How poetic." Marco growled.
"And to stay on the topic of building, you were built for this. All of this. You are made for war. You've been at war since birth. You grew up in a family of martially trained Shifters hunting down and detaining poachers all over Africa— something your kind has done for generations. But Scott? Scott comes from a divorced household with barely enough money to stand. Stiles lost his mother and is left with a father who's only just getting his grounding. Isaac is something much worse. These young men don't have the same footing you do. Deaton explained.
"So what is your point Druid? Roll over a die?" Marco questioned.
"There's that bluntness…" Deaton chuckled before shaking his head, "My point is, patience. I have no game plan set in stone for you. Or an algorithm that will spit out well trained and perfectly beastial warriors. I am only an adviser and all I can advise is patience. They get stressed, they feel pain, they can break under your pressure. But like a muscle they can grow back stronger in time. They just need patience, Marco."
The alarm buzzed on the spotless white counter behind Marco signaling the end of his shift.
He pushed himself off of the table and held his hand out. A orange colored blur moved up and landed on his hand. The cat meowed and sat as he lifted it up to its cage.
He never liked cages. Poachers kept broken lion cubs and de-horned Rhino's in cages.
He left it open just like he did for the rest.
"Stay." He said while running a finger across the exit to cover it in his scent.
Then he turned back to Deaton, taking his dreads out of the bun to let them fall around him. The silver beads jingled silently.
"Patience….. the Warlocks and Argents wont let us."
He left afterwards.
"But you could." Deaton replied. And despite Marco being gone, he knew he heard him.
If he listened? That was entirely out of his control.
***
"I really need a car." Marco thought for the first time as he walked down the busy streets leading to a quieter suburb as the fifth car honked at him, reeking of fear and lust.
It seemed the modern western luxuries of life were getting to him. Deaton was infectious in the worst ways sometimes.
The memories of such discomforts faded as he enter the street leading to his location. According to the work contact list at the Veterinary Clinic. Address's were simple when you had a matching scent to follow.
And Scott's scent was stronger than ever now that he was an Alpha. It was electric. It pulled at Marco's skin and made his blood hot like every facet of his body was forcing him to notice.
An Alpha was near.
Very near as he approached the door of the faded ocean green McCall house. Old, Victorian era styles intermingled with modern American simplicities.
He knocked on the door. His scarred knuckles hit the painted wood like a baseball bat.
Footsteps moved down the stairs and came to a stop on the other side of the door. Not Scott.
The door flung open. A woman no older than forty stood in the doorway. Small, but not frail. He could see Scott in her face, but less Eurocentric in facial features. Her skin was bronze, sun kissed and then some. Her hair was black and curled. Must've been his mother. But it wasn't her face that said such. Not at first. It was his lack of influence on her. She wasn't terrified. She was discomforted, but she stood tall. How familiar.
"Hi. How can I help you?" Scott's Mother said as she took her hands out of her running jacket.
"I'm a classmate of Scott's. We also both work at the Vet." Marco explained.
He could tell his mixed accent confused her but she didn't let him see it as she smiled.
"Oh how nice! My name is Mellisa, I'm Scott's mother." She held out her hand.
Marco nodded, "I assumed as such, Marco Mihos." He shook her hand.
She laughed a little, "I gotta say. I've never seen someone like you around here. Are you new?"
"I am." Marco replied. He didn't say anything further.
Mellisa nodded and fought off the impending awkwardness by speaking once more, "Well, would you like to come in? Scott's a little under the weather and I'd appreciate it if you spoke to him."
Marco nodded. It seemed saying they were acquaintances was all she needed. That or she was desperate. Mothers could be that way about their children sometimes.
Soon after he was climbing the stairs to Scott's room.