Britz-Well viewers what can I say? If you haven't read me mate Elcolo9's Antimorphs saga, well sure you could still read (and maybe even enjoy this) but you'll scream and curse that it's not in the right category, not even close, and I suppose it isn't really (and yet where otherwise to turn?) Well if you read and enjoyed Antimorphs (and I know you're out there) well read away, you'll understand the start at least, other wise consider this if you're the type who likes Sci-fi and can accept a bizzare beginning.

Disclaimer-Animorphs aren't mine, but for once that isn't an issue, surprise I know in an Animorphs fic, this story was inspired by a piece written for 'The Antimorphs Saga' by Elcolo9 and based on an idea from Elcolo and Ryan Griffin.

Moonbeam's War

Chapter One

THERE IS STILL MUCH LEFT TO PLAY. EVEN YOU CAN SEE THAT.

"NOOO!!!" Wailed Puck, "IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S NOT FUCKING FAIR!"

To little to late, Taggert was gone from the void. Whistler's move was against the rules, those that had never been written or ever really spoken, those acknowledged without real agreement by either side.

Still, what could Puck do? Sue him?

The void tore into flames at Puck's rage, he cursed in the languages of a million different sentient species, some unpronounceable with the tongue of mankind, all still obvious in their intent, rage, a rage so pure and great it would drive mortals insane to experience it.

But hey, immortal life's a bitch, milk gets spilled and you deal with it.

Puck was a demon of action, so what action should be taken? With Taggert? He already had and could do it again but with that meddling Orff what was the use; he was breaking the rules now and would break them again if Puck gave him the excuse.

So what else was a good move? 'Life's like a bad cigar babe,' ran through Puck's devious mind 'it stinks and then it's over.' David Moonbeam's last words.

Moonbeam? Well if that bloody Orff was going to bring back the dead maybe he'd do the same, maybe dress up his universe and give him some more, opportunities.

With a thought Puck was at the crossroads at the time of Moonbeams choice, there was the road to the machine, surrounded by fire and ash, and the soft blue light of the road to paradise.

Moonbeam appeared in featureless black, he looked at his choices, the two paths, "Fuckin' A" and without hesitation started down the road of fire and ash.

Puck grabbed him and flew him further into the void, "Oi buddy, hands off the material!" Moonbeam protested and laughed drunkenly.

Puck set Moonbeam floating in the void, "I've got a proposition for you Moonbeam."

"Well gee, I got nothing in my day planner, shoot." Moonbeam replied offhandedly, he seemed to be taking death awfully well.

"I want to bring you back Moonbeam, give you life again, a better life even, a life of chaos and adventure." Puck sold his proposition with all the zeal of a used-car salesman.

"All the power you dream of, power to destroy." He could see visions of Moonbeams hometown, Utopia, burning down in his eyes. "You'll be stronger than before, faster, more resilient, your body alone will be a powerful weapon."

"What's the catch?" Moonbeam asked.

"Just that you fulfil your urges and use all your power to do so, create the chaos you've always dreamed of, all over the universe."

Moonbeams grin widened till it looked as if it would fall from his face and shatter on the floor, it was not the grin of a person with all their screws tightly wound, "Might I ask how I'll be able to do these wonderful things you suggest?"

Puck smiled "means will be, provided if you are smart enough to take them, a space ship will be needed, you'll soon know how to get a capable one, your posse will be, reinstated, weapons, coordinates, information are all there you just have to fill in the blanks."

"Space ship huh? A universal force for Chaos." Moonbeams eyes glazed over thoughtfully and he stuck out his hand, "Mr demon motherfucker, you got a deal."

Puck's smile widened as he took Moonbeam's hand "Please, call me Puck."

Chapter Two

Like most graveyards Utopia's was a dank and unpleasant place, graveyards were only reserved only for criminals and sinners, the good were, of course, cremated so that their soul could go into the afterlife, just quaint old superstition these days of course, but still traditional.

Most of the epitaphs read like jail-records, exposing the inhabitants of the graves as murderers, rapists, Kenny Rogers fans.

There was a collection of six matching gravestones of plain dull grey in a row, the graves were not fresh but not old, three months dug at the most, each of the epitaphs under their names were very plain "Member of the Moon Beam Posse." as if that said enough.

Grave number two stirred first, Rachel Stantford 1964-1981, a feminie but muscular arm clawed it's one out of the dirt, followed by the head and shoulders of the blond beauty, gasping for air.

Miguel Vasquez, better know to the people of Utopia as 'Roach' was next to rise, a short Hispanic teen at 5'2" tall and a voice that rasped like sandpaper, despite his diminutive stature only the brave or foolhardy would take him on, something that most people saw in Roach's hard, cruel face made them think twice about wether they could take him.

Next Sigourney "Siggs" Delotoya, a buxom southern redhead with a deep throaty voice ploughed upwards, she coughed loudly and spat as soon as her head broke the surface, typical wakeup ever since she started smoking a pack a day at fourteen, her hands clutched at the side of the grave, subconsciously searching for a crumpled pack of Marlborough unfiltered that wasn't there.

She pulled herself from the grave and arched her back, popping some obscure joint in her spine, she was wearing a low cut white T-shirt with a Confederate flag, stretched out of shape by her very generous bust, on the front.

The two end graves broke through the dirt simultaneously, but in different ways, it suited the people who were in the graves, they themselves were as different as, well as black and white.

Francis Powell (His real name finally exposed on his gravestone, he was far better known as Taz to friends and enemies) broke the surface with a skyward punch that sent clods of dirt flying and determinly clawed his way up.

Taz was the product aimed for with WASP breeding, he stood ramrod straight at 6'3" with a broad, very muscular frame, he had blond hair, blue eyes and a square chin Roger Ramjet would be proud of. He looked like a statue carved from a giant block of marble with all the pale colour, chiselled muscles and personality that entailed.

Richie Cortes came out of the grave one finger at a time, scared, nervous. Richie was an African-Utopian with a scrawny build and a plain, unremarkable face, Richie had been way over his head when he died and as far as he was concerned coming back from the dead had only gotten him deeper.

He was the only sixteen year old, all the others were seventeen when they died (although Sigourney had been getting close to eighteen) he'd been nothing more than a small-league drug pusher before he'd met Moonbeam who, for his own strange reasons, had taken a shine to Richie and made him part of the posse's inner circle.

He was a very unlucky guy was Richie, life had not been good to him, he didn't think death was going to make his luck any better.

The five inner members of the Moon Beam Posse stood and stretched, brushed away the grave dirt that clung to their clothes, they were all wearing the outfits they had on the day of their deaths but they were no longer bloody or sewn with bullet holes, happily neither were they themselves, the posse looked to the grave of their leader.

It was as plain as the others, David J. Moonbeam 1964-1981 "Leader of the Moon Beam Posse." The grave was as quiet as graves tend to be.

Several beats of awkward silence flew by, they knew what had happened, why they were here and alive but didn't know the real words of Moonbeam's conversation with Puck, they couldn't remember death, only the very end of life, couldn't remember the paths or their choices but were ingrained with the knowledge of why they lived yet.

But were confused as to why Moonbeam did not.

"Fuck this" Roach said finally, "Where the hell's Dave?"

"Fucked if I know sugar." Siggs replied and wished for a smoke while she waited, "Maybe we should dig him up."

"Lets do that then." Taz said, he was a very basic man of action, standing around a grave, waiting for something to happen didn't strike a chord with him, if the dead didn't rise, go in after them.

The posse got to their knees and begun to dig.

"This ain't usually how you 'work' on your knees, eh Siggs?" Roach rasped

"Fuck you honey" Siggs laughed, "You wish, I have to get on my knees to just look you in the goddamn face."

Rachel snorted loudly, Roach hissed his harsh laugh, Taz was silent, he didn't come with a sense of humour, Richie was quiet and stayed out of the way as always.

Chapter Three

Meanwhile, elsewhere, about the time that Rachel Stantford's sleek yet muscular arm pounded through to the surface of her grave an explosive flame roared from the parking lot of a seedy downtown bar known as 'The Crater'.

Unfortunately there was no one to see it's demonic beauty as it burned briefly, the number '666' danced within it's depths for a second and it went out, leaving behind an unharmed well-built naked young man, wrapped in the foetal position.

Moonbeam collapsed spread eagled on the pavement, "Wow! What a rush!" He grinned, he looked around the lot, it was sometime in the middle of Utopia's artificial night, the lot was full of bikes and cars, the bar full of patrons.

As he picked himself up a stumbling drunk made his way from the bar and came through the lot towards Dave, making a twisting beeline to his bike.

He saw the naked teen and scraped a hand down his unshaven cheek but decided he was to drunk to give two short shits and continued on his way.

Dave stepped in front of him and looked him up and down, at his faded denim jeans and his tatty leather jacket, the guy looked about his size, slowly dawning the drunk sensed a fight and raised his fists. He never stood a chance.

Moonbeam grabbed the poor guy around the throat and lifted him till his feet dangled more than a half-foot off the ground, he was momentarily surprised at how light the guy seemed but that didn't stop him from quoting. "I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle."

Dave laughed till complete confusion replaced the fear in the drunk's eyes and then squeezed hard and to the right, cleanly snapping the poor fellows neck.

He threw the limp body to the ground and starting taking off its jacket, the drunk was still breathing, but it was shallow and probably wouldn't last much longer.

Dave stripped the drunk of his shirt jacket and jeans, mildly annoyed that the drunk had gone commando today, he found a set of keys in the pocket of the jeans and begun looking at which bike they fitted when three bikie types exited the bar.

First was a black man with the shoulders of a line backer and biceps the size of baked hams, his head was dented and scarred, a cranium forged by a life of fighting.

The second bikie, despite being white was a dead ringer for Mr. T; he didn't have the traditional mohawk (instead his hair was long and greasy) but had the beard, the height and muscles of the infamous A-team Sergent.

The third was an older, career bikie. His head was shaved down to the skin but his bread grew, slightly greying to his chest, he bulged with beer muscle, looking fat but a contender against him would be wise to note the way no fat jiggled when he walked, his singlet was covered in so many stains it looked like an alien's road map, he was the first to see Dave.

"Oi! That motherfucker's got Leo's jacket!!" He yelled.

That stalked towards him, "That motherfucker's got Leo." The black guy said and pointed to the ground where the now dead drunk lay, naked with his head at an odd angle. "Get him!"

They ran for him, Dave didn't move, "Time to see what this new improved body can do." He muttered, the black guy swung and he grabbed his wrist and broke it in one swift movement, using him as a human shield against Mr. T and the fat cue ball he pounded fist after fist into his ribcage.

The guy was shocked, the pain didn't even register before Moonbeam let go of his wrist and ploughed both arms into the black fellas shoulders, shattering his collarbone, Moonbeam shoved his broken chest and the guy fell back, cracking his head on the ground and sending him to sweet unconsciousness or even sweeter death.

This turn of events didn't stop Cue ball and Mr. T they moved in from both sides, Mr. T swung a plank of wood he'd found somewhere along the way, Dave blocked with his left arm and the wood broke in half on it, he grabbed Mr. T's right wrist and twirled him around, dislocating his shoulder and giving a couple of solid punches to the kidney while his back was exposed.

His right arm dangling limply Mr. T looked to Moonbeam in fear before the roundhouse kick connected with his jaw, to Dave the kick seemed like it went in slow motion for a moment, he saw and felt the bikies jaw shatter on the heel of his boot, a couple of his bottom teeth went spiralling through the air, Mr. T fell down and didn't get back up.

Cue ball had stopped his attack, he looked like he didn't know weather to cut and run or stay and fight, Moonbeam didn't give him the time to decide he punched for the beer muscle gut and flew another into Cue ball's nose, pulverising it.

Dave backed away to watch Cue ball stagger briefly, fall to his knees, and collapse to the ground; he watched him for a moment and kicked into the aging bikies jaw for good measure, shattering his teeth.

He tried a couple of bikes before he found the right one, he swung his leg over the purring machine and took one last look back at his first kills as a reborn anti-Christ.

He'd destroyed them, grinded them under his heel and it had been so easy, fun really, he felt a surge of pleasure in his veins, second time around he thought life was going to be even more of a blast than the first.

He gunned the bike's engine and hit the road, he knew where his posse would be, Puck hadn't told him, Moonbeam had actually thought they'd arrive the same way as him, however that would be.

The graveyard, he could feel it, he pulled up at the gates and sniggered at a piece of graffiti of the wall nearby 'When Hell is full the dead will walk the earth' How apt he thought, how wonderfully apt, it was a sign from the irony gods! His grin was that of a tiger stalking it's prey as he walked through the gravestones.

Chapter Four

"It's empty." Roach told the others gruffly as he stared into he cheap wooden coffin that should contain, at the very least, the earthly remains of their leader.

A motorcycle growled past the cemetery and for a moment they froze, "What do you mean empty?" Hissed Rachel.

"As in not full, what do you think I mean ya dumb bitch!" He retorted angrily.

"So that leaves us...where?" Richie asked to an answer of silence.

"Maybe he came out and left a while before us?" Siggs asked.

"And what?" Taz said, "Fixed up the grave and coffin for us to find?" They slumped.

"He must have been, I dunno, resurrected in a different way or something." Rachel said.

A snapping stick behind them interrupted everyone's thoughts, Taz whirled around to attack and received a punch to the abs, they were solid abs, forged by a countless number of sit-ups but from the force of that punch they crumbled.

David Moonbeam stepped past the gasping Taz and into the circle of his inner posse. "Hey kids." He said, "Daddy's home."

***To Be Continued***

Britz-And rather quickly I might add, I've been rather slack with posting but not with writing so I'm a fair way ahead, but I want reviews before I start posting away with little regard for my own shelfish needs, also nI have it on good authority (Okay, Elcolo's authority) that the next bit is much better than this one, hey good news for all of us.