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Wild Kratts: Can't Fight the Moonlight	By : DoritoZombie Category: +S through Z > Wild Kratts Views: 7107 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Wild Kratts does not belong to me and certainly no one would pay me to do this! All characters are presented as fictional. Title is a joke that may only be funny to me.

Chapter List
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It was taking far too long, tagging all of the devils in Tasmania. The early spring air was heavy and fairly crackling with warm rain as the two brothers crept through the forest, the last rays of daylight glowing orange and red through the foliage.
“Well, I've decided,” Martin piped, giving Chris a good-natured pat on the back,“being nocturnal sucks. Remind me again why we're doing this?”
The smaller man tried to glare in response but it was hard to look threatening through his wide yawn. For three days they had slept through the day and worked through the night, cataloguing and tagging a variety of endangered animals- particularly the infamous tasmanian devils.
“Maybe it would be going a little faster if someone I know was actually meeting his quota,” Martin mumbled.
This time Chris did glare, if only to hide what a troubling remark it really was. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but thanks to one lousy Tasmanian devil bite his work was near impossible to get done. Luckily Martin hadn't noticed, since the two had decided to split up when the work got overwhelming, but Chris kept finding himself in bizarre situations-like waking up cozy against a chewed up two-day old carcass or in the middle of a screeching match with a tasmanian devil with only a vague memory of how he got there.
It had finally occurred to him that it had something to do with the damage done to his suit. Too bad he was too nervous-and embarrassed- to tell Martin that he was running around like a were-devil every night instead of tagging.
Still, he'll probably find out eventually, Chris thought. But what if I bite him?
Not to mention the distant feeling somewhere in the back of his mind that getting to be a wild animal for a while was, well, satisfying. Even if it made his memory kind of fuzzy.
“Want me to take the south section this time?” Chris asked his older brother, trying to sound apologetic.
Martin just grimaced. “If you really want...” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “I'm sure it's still crawling with snakes, though."
Luckily none had been terribly venomous, but Martin still had a couple of conspicuous bandages from his run in with a white-lipped snake.
“Sure, why not? I guess I owe ya one,” Chris said, looking sheepish.
Martin tapped his chin, squinting at Chris suspiciously. Why was he volunteering for such an unpleasant job? “Well, if you insist, I guess I won't fight it. Just be careful, okay?”
Martin's scrutiny was making Chris nervous and nerves were making him jitter. He turned and marched off without much further ado.
“Okay, will do, see you later, have fun!” Chris said, a little too fast and a little too high as he trotted off, getting lost in the overgrown foliage.
Martin just hummed to himself a moment, watching Chris retreat before skulking off hesitantly in the opposite direction.
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It had only been two hours since he left but at the onset of darkness, like clockwork, Chris' suit had buzzed, flared green and transformed him into the Power Suit's interpretation of a tasmanian devil- slightly larger, clawed, fanged and much, much more feral, though still basically human in appearance.
With the change having (suddenly) taken place again, he had dropped his tagging supplies and instead darted off, growling and sniffing around for food on all fours. Other devils scattered as he crashed conspicuously through the underbrush, letting out an awkward combination of human voice and tasmanian screech.
He was hungry. At first that was all his simplified brain was aware of- food. As he ran along though, picking at a few sad kills lying around and gnawing on a few abandoned bones, he felt a strange sensation, somewhere along his spine. The feeling was heavy, urgent- activated somewhere in a purely primal part of his brain- made accessible by the curious power of the broken suit. It was like a strange pressure in his blood and simultaneously a rare, exotic scent that he couldn't place but felt familiar with. Even excited by.
The small part of him that hadn't given over entirely to instinct, that let him speak and reason in some capacity, had the good sense to panic.
“Mating season,” he growled, raising his voice to meet the shriek of a nearby male challenger.
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Wild Kratts: Can't Fight the Moonlight