[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

[auramatic]

DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II
Part I (extremely NSFW) (it's very gross) (I'm sorry about everything)
Part II (NSFW post)

IT'S BACK, BABY

Imagine, if you will, that Drift is not a robot, but a gratuitously tropey half-demon hunter roaming around Boston killing demons in order to atone for his as a, well, killer for the demons. For all intents and purposes you can just assume this takes place in the same universe as Buffy (or something like it) for the sake of using a conveniently existing lore that I already really like. Maybe with an extra side of Kabbalah. whatever

HERE ARE SOME FACTS ABOUT DEMON HUNTER AU DRIFT:

• Drift is half-demon on his father's side. He never really knew his dad, idk he like fucked off or got slayed at some point when Drift was young and he was mostly raised by his mother, who died of cancer when he was a teenager. It was real sad and Drift had no money and got pretty promptly kicked out of his mom's apartment shortly after her death. This made Drift a TRAGIC TEEN ORPHAN who was homeless on the streets for a while, and given his ~UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA~ it wasn't really very long before he fell in with a bad crowd. A demon crowd
  
• Tragic teen orphan Drift got into drugs, specifically orihalcon, a potent substance derived from the refined blood of certain types of demons, because regular human drugs don't quite cut it for him. He was pretty knee-deep in the local demon community, partly because he didn't fit in anywhere else, partly because some of them knew his dad.
  
• Drift spent a while as a homeless addict, barely scraping by, until he was recruited by Megatron, a powerful demon lord who saw much more potential in Drift and his untamed demon powers. He offered Drift a place in his ranks even though he was half-human, and helped him hone his terrifyingly natural talent for violence. For a while Drift mostly did it to feed his habit, but he began to enjoy the rush of violence and of releasing his DEMON SIDE way more than the drugs and eventually got clean.
  
• He also inherited this sweet demon sword from his dad that Megatron apparently had handy. It is powered by his DEMON SIDE
  
• Eventually though Drift's taste for violence got a little out of control and after pissing off some of his superiors for wildly disobeying orders in favor of MORE VIOLENCE, he fucked off and went into hiding. It was at this time that he met a witch named Wing from a smug hippie witch cult based in San Francisco. Wing offered him sanctuary and to teach him to better control his demon side by being ~~more in tune with the spirits~~. Drift took the sanctuary because he had nowhere else to hide, but wound up begrudgingly coming around to Wing's way of seeing things, at least enough to grow to care about him. Unfortunately for the both of them Drift's UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA led Megatron's forces right to the Wing's door and he got horribly murdered. Drift managed to get away but he was so tragically torn by the untimely death of his spiritual sensei that he swore off working for Megatron and decided to USE HIS POWERS FOR GOOD
  
• Since then he's discarded the name Megatron gave him and returned to Boston as the newly-reformed demon hunter Drift. He lives in a tiny, shitty apartment in Southie and fights demons by moonlight in order to help people out and atone for his murder-filled past. He has fully embraced his former mentor's spirituality with a level of enthusiasm that, tbh, should probably be worrying. He believes (or hopes, at least) that what Wing taught him will not only help him keep his demon side in check (he is pretty much always concerned he will LOSE CONTROL), but also lead to his eventual redemption. Unfortunately Drift is still learning how exactly to have real faith in something because he is the world's biggest faker
  
• He is Jewish because I know what I like and oh boy does he ever dabble in Kabbalah and a lot of other magical spirituality bullshit that mostly drives other people up the wall
  
• Being half-demon has a lot of perks, SUCH AS: super strength/reflexes/stamina, accelerated healing, and being able to jump way higher than any human. He's obviously not as powerful as a full-blooded demon, but plenty powerful enough to be able to take them head on. He's also really good at fighting shit. Drift's swordsmanship is pretty solid, having been trained in Megatron's demon army, but also he has studied very seriously from a lot of kung fu and action films
  
• He literally owns fourteen swords

PREVIOUSLY ON DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU:

• Rodimus is this AU's equivalent of the Slayer, and Ultra Magnus is her Watcher. She and Drift are best buds who also make out a lot. Ultra Magnus STRONGLY DISAPPROVES of Rodimus spending time with someone with Drift's substantial murder past but Rodimus believes wholeheartedly in Drift's turning a new leaf.
  
• Perceptor (Percy) is a talented witch and physicist who also serves as Drift's go-to for information about demon lore and magic. They go back a long, long ways, and is one of a handful of people Drift trusts implicitly.
  
• Dealer was, predictably, Drift's orihalcon dealer when he was living on the streets. There were some bad (good) (bad) times that Drift would really love to never talk about, and Dealer loves to hold over his head.
  
• Ratchet is a trauma surgeon whose family was killed by demons around the time Deadlock was active. After patching up Drift a couple of times, they fell into an undefined sort-of relationship that nearly came to an end when Ratchet found out just who Drift used to be. After taking some time and talking to just about everyone else Drift knows, Ratchet decided he still wanted to know Drift as he is now, though things between them are still uncertain.

Comments

ratchet

[auramatic]

Drift just wanted to do something nice for Ratchet.

It seems like the very least he could do, after everything that’s happened lately. Ratchet has explicitly forgiven Drift — for not telling him about being Deadlock, anyway — but somehow it doesn’t feel all right again. Things between them still feel weird and tentative, and Ratchet’s given him so much and Drift so little in return. It seems so much more selfish than he wants to be. He’s ready to try giving something back.

Which is why he’s invited Ratchet to meet him once the surgeon is off shift. Drift doesn’t exactly have a ton of money, but he does odd jobs and makes rent, and last week he dusted a vampire who’d apparently just left an ATM, so he’s set for dinner for two. He waits for Ratchet outside the restaurant, a dingy little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place lighting up the dark sidewalk with neon signs, hands deep in the pockets of his long jacket. His sword is strapped to his back, because he apparently never goes anywhere without it.

[asafepairofhands]

Ratchet is punctual, like always, shaking his head as he catches sight of Drift and the huge bladed weapon on full display.

"I have no idea how you haven't been arrested yet," he says, but his voice is strangely warm as he stops very close to Drift, his eyes intent on Drift's face. "Not that I'm complaining. I guess I'm at the right place."

[auramatic]

"I expand my aura to deflect attention away from it," Drift says, completely straightfaced, and his eyes light up in a smile as Ratchet steps in close. A little apprehensive, maybe -- is he nervous? Does this count as a first date? Does he even get first date nerves? "It seems to work on most humans, as long as nothing's directly drawing their attention to it."

He reaches for Ratchet, hand hovering uncertainly for just a second before he opts to squeeze Ratchet's arm and then open the door for him. The sign on the awning reads GOLDEN BOWL II over a line of Chinese characters, hovering over a short flight of steps to the sub-basement-level restaurant. It's dim and half-crowded inside, the decor esoteric and cheap, but the air is thick with the smell of really, really good cheap Chinese food.

[truefaceofthelaw]

A gang has been operating in a forgotten part of town. Hardly anything out of the norm, but they've been expanding suspiciously fast, swallowing up their territorial rivals. What makes this truly strange are the tithes they demand from shopkeepers, residents, and victims in alleyways.

Not just gold objects - which they do take. Strange, arbitrary laws passed down with harsh punishments if they're not adhered to. Wear red on weekends. Hop on one leg down a particular street. Complete silence from 10 to 11. And then a body surfaces, torn to shreds by what looks like fingernails. All together, fairly suspicious.

Rico isn't a difficult demon to track. Handprints of gold splashed against alleyway walls in the moonlight if you know how to look for them, followed by bootprints of blood. And there he sits perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking over his little slice of the city, and smiling.

[auramatic]

Gangs are an inevitability in a big city, demons or no, and it's really not Drift's territory. He doesn't interfere with human affairs for the most part -- this city has enough of an otherworldly pest problem that he generally has his hands full. But when local gangs are exhibiting distinctly demon-y activity? That's where Drift starts worrying.

The gold is a big enough giveaway, and the boot prints are familiar enough to Drift's eye that he's pretty sure he knows what -- and who -- he's dealing with. This demon hasn't done enough to outrank the bigger threats on Drift's radar, but he knows enough to know that this is Rico.

He lands on the rooftop behind Rico with a surprisingly light foot, his jacket fluttering in the breeze. His sword is strapped to his back, still sheathed, but he can move fast enough if he has to.

"You're working with gangs now, Rico? I didn't realize you were getting so ambitious these days."

[truefaceofthelaw]

At the sound of Drift's voice, Rico stands up slowly and turns around to face him, and it's hard to disprove his guilt when it's evident he's wearing every single one of those ill-gotten gains. Necklaces, bangles and rings positively drip from his neck and wrists, delicate against the giant clanking chain attached to the collar around his throat and threading through his heart.

"Who said I was working with gangs? You know me. Humble to a fault." Rico grins, just a little too wide to pass for human. And he spreads his arms to match, in an innocent who, me? gesture. "It's so nice to see you, Deadlock. It's been an age."

[unrecovered]

Life sucked.

Though honestly, Wash wasn't sure if he should have been be calling it life anymore, given that he'd been more thing than person for the past few weeks. People had lives. Things didn't.

It had been, by his estimation, ten weeks since he'd survived being attacked by whatever thing had murdered his entire squadron. Eight weeks since he'd been honorably discharged and returned home to recover from his injuries and follow whatever cover story he'd been given - which hadn't really helped with therapy, because lies never do, but fuck it, he'd been discharged but was somehow still under orders and that was hard to shake.

Four weeks since someone had gotten their hands on information they should not have been able to obtain and kidnapped him. He'd been grabbed at the door to his apartment complex and knocked out, and he'd woken up in chains with burning pain searing across his back. He didn't know what they'd done to him - it was goddamn impossible for him to get a good look at his own back - but he could see new scars, cauterized and purposeful, curling up over his shoulders and around his ribs, and he was certain they were connected - to each other, and to the scarred-over gouges that the creature that had attacked him had left on his back.

They'd dragged him into their circle nearly a dozen times since then. They would light incense and candles, and chant, and the circles they'd drawn on the floor using God only knew what would glow, and his back would light up in agony, and he'd...lose himself. He'd still be in pain, but he'd be disconnected from his body nonetheless, floating and exhausted. Every time he came to, he'd be back in chains, locked up again, waiting for the next time he'd see that damned circle.

He'd screamed, and threatened, and begged, and even broken down and cried. It made no difference - to them, he was no longer human, if he ever had been, and he knew it.

He might not have been human any longer in the traditional sense, either. He could see in the dark now - there was little in his locked room, but he could make out details nonetheless. He could smell things he was fairly certain didn't have a smell - cloyingly sweet and thick, like rot in the back of his throat - magic, or demons, or some other supernatural bullshit he hadn't been attuned to before. And he remembered everything past a certain point, in awful, unyielding clarity. Whatever they were using him for - whatever they were trying to make him into - was changing him, and not, he was certain, for the better.

He didn't know what their goal was. He didn't know what they wanted. Hopefully he'd die before he ever found out. Wouldn't that be nice.

But they wouldn't let him, and so he was here, chained in a room that hadn't seen daylight in weeks-

Until the door burst open, faster and louder than any of them had ever opened it. He scooted backwards on reflex alone, pressing his aching back into the wall. "Fuck off," he growled, voice guttural with disuse and disgust. It never worked, but that never stopped him.

[auramatic]

Generally, Drift doesn't interfere in human affairs. There's little moral ambiguity about killing demons when they're hurting innocent people, but things get murky when you throw souls into the mix, and he's trying not to put any more bad into the universe. But when they stray into distinctly unambiguously demonic territory -- when they start taking innocent humans as their own victims -- that falls under Drift's purview, and he's been hearing rumors he can't ignore. It's Percy who helps him find the real lead, an actual location to track down. He'd run out before Percy had finished explaining what it is these cultists are trying to do, which may later prove to be a mistake, but he didn't really feel like he had time to waste.

He damn near kicks the door off its hinges, light streaming into the room, and nothing he was really expecting had quite prepared him for this. He can't blame a captive for being skittish, but it's only a matter of time before the cultists figure out that the drapes in their ceremony room didn't just spontaneously catch on fire. Drift offers him what he hopes is a disarming smile, gaze flicking to the shackles keeping Wash bound to the room.

"Not a chance, friend. Cavalry's here. Hey, you mind stepping back from the wall a bit?"

[unrecovered]

What the fuck is happening.

Wash had honestly figured he'd die in here - either he'd waste away to nothing but bones and scars, or the cultists would get a little too overzealous and he'd either die from shock or bleed out. Rescue hadn't crossed his mind for weeks, and he's having trouble getting his head around it now.

But this guy - whoever he is - has opened the door, and is calling himself the cavalry, and has a fucking sword-

And that's what gets Wash to move. With rescue on the table, his survival instinct roars back to life. Obey the guy with the blade, because he's not a cultist and he might actually get you out. It's a sound enough strategy, and given that Wash is too weak from weeks of imprisonment and torture - because that's what it's fucking been, torture - to come up with any other ideas, it's the one that he follows. He scuttles away from the wall and presses close to a different one, chains dragging behind him as he moves.

[truefaceofthelaw]

Rico's ready for a night out. The weather's nice, the heavens are dark, and it's the perfect time to visit a bar for a drink. He takes his time deciding what to wear, settling on his new nice outfit and visor, the collar that he usually wears to keep him constrained in his human form tucked underneath to keep it from clashing.

He rumbles up to the bar on his massive black motorcycle, letting everybody know he's here with a final rev of the engine that grinds right through the background noise. Relishing in the looks as he slowly dismounts and struts up to the entrance, he notices something of a commotion already happening at the entrance.

Oh look, it's him. What a wonderful coincidence. The scrawny little thing he likes to bother - in the way Rico considers anything smaller than him scrawny - having a spirited discussion with the bouncer who is looking increasingly unamused and likely to resort to violence. This looks like it could be fun. Rico grins and strides up behind him, slinging an overly-friendly arm over the teen's shoulders with a little squeeze of warning, in case he tries to speak up.

"What's the problem here, buddy boy?" Rico interjects, leaning forward. "He's with me."

[auramatic]

Drift looks like he's had better days. Pale, haggard, palms slick with cold sweat. He's strung out enough that there's a moment's delay before it registers just who has an arm around his shoulders. Drift ducks away from Rico, shoving himself back a step or two. Oh, no. Oh, hell no.

"No I'm not," Drift says, glaring at Rico. His voice is hoarse, dark circles under his eyes, and he rubs his shoulder, as though Rico had left some greasy psychic stain on him. The bouncer gives Rico a look of barely masked contempt and rolls his eyes.

"Kid's underage. He's not getting in -- doesn't matter who he's with."

"I told you, I just need to talk to somebody," Drift says heatedly, turning back to the bouncer. "I know he's inside, just -- come on. I'm not even going to try to buy anything. I don't even have any money."

"Yeah," the bouncer sneers, "that's not really helping your case."

[truefaceofthelaw]

Rico doesn't mind that he shrugs away from it. He'd pretty much expected that anyway, and he watches Drift rub his shoulder with thinly-veiled amusement. He's certainly seen better days, but these specific kind of days is guaranteed amusement.

"Come on," Rico says with a disarming smile (although with a friendly hint of how it could lead to the literal), stepping forward to the bouncer. "Let the poor boy in. Think of him as a charity case. Like he said, he just needs to talk to someone. Or if money's the problem..."

Rico pulls out his wallet and casually flashes out a one hundred dollar bill from between his fingers, waggling them enticingly and not at all subtly.

[truefaceofthelaw]

Life was good. Real fucking good.

Leaning back in his Jacuzzi with a flute of champagne in one hand and the other curled over the cool marble rim, Rico couldn't think of how his life could get any better. Surrounded by the best things money could buy, doing whatever the hell he wanted. No more restrictions, no more laws and constraints, just what he could claw and scrape for himself. More than just property, more than just what he was molded to be.

He owned his life, and just about anything else he wanted.

Rico grins and sinks further into the water, feeling thoroughly warm and content, when his ruminations are interrupted by a sudden noise.

Sighing, he puts down the glass slightly harder than he should, rises and changes into his undergarments, shrugging on a bathrobe. Idly tying the knot around his waist, he kicks down the door to his main area of his penthouse just slightly harder than he should. What the fuck was that?

[auramatic]

The front door to the penthouse has been kicked clean off its hinges, along with some chunks of the door jamb. Standing on top of it in steel-toed boots is a face Rico might recognize -- although not much else. This sword-toting half-demon isn't the same volatile, skittish, strung-out homeless kid Rico used to make a hobby out of back in his street junkie days. This is Deadlock.

And he isn't alone, either. There are couple of other demons with him, all of them equally looking like they are here to fuck shit up. Deadlock bares his teeth in a grin as he steps off the door and kicks it back against the wall with a heavy thud.

"Hey, Rico. I let myself in." The demons move in alongside him, all of them grinning viciously. "Thought it'd be more entertaining."

[truefaceofthelaw]

What the hell is going on?

Rico's hand stills as he takes in the scene with a flick of his eyes and a sense of utter confusion. But his physical presence is still proud and unaffected as he lets his hands fall away to his sides, gaze flickering from one demon to the other, sizing them up. The figure standing in his doorway should not be existing in this situation. It's comically ill-fitting, and he's unable to reconcile this with the reality in his head to see this burned-out junkie teenager standing in the remains of his door.

Rico does something extremely uncommon for him.

He frowns.

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?" he asks, baffled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

ratchet ii

[auramatic]

That fight with Rico had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Turns out even after all these years Rico still knows how to get under his skin, and technically Drift had won the fight, buyt not in the way he'd like. He'd lost control of himself for a little while there, let the demon side and the rage take over and drive him to do even more fantastically stupid things than usual. Rico had gleefully provoked and antagonized Drift, egged him on, but to lay the blame entirely on the demon wouldn't be right. It was Drift who had chosen to let go in the first place, when he'd felt like there was no other option. But there always was another way, wasn't there?

Well, no matter how dead Rico is, it doesn't change the beating Drift took in the process. He texts Ratchet to make sure he's home and makes the agonizing climb back up to the tenth story to retrieve his sword from that poor guy's apartment, traded for a whole host of apologies that probably does nothing for the tenant's nerves. Drift takes Rico's arm, too; he's not entirely sure what to do with it, but he can't just leave it there.

He takes the slow way to Ratchet's -- walking, mostly, because jumping and running too much hurts, and he can't take the T with a severed demon arm. That's just pushing it a little. It takes him almost an hour on foot, far longer than usual, and when he gets there he doesn't hesitate letting himself in.

"Ratchet?" he calls, his voice hoarse and just slightly wheezy. Ugh, his ribs hurt. He kicks off his shoes at the door, though he's not really sure what to do with the arm. Just hold onto it for now, he guesses. It'd probably be rude to put it on the table.

This isn't the worst he's looked coming into Ratchet's apartment, but it's not his best look, either. The clear signs of a fight are there, the scrapes and bruises that are already starting to heal, but he's missing his jacket, and there's something about him that seems slightly off. A bad mood, but cut deeper. He feels a little sick with himself, honestly. More obvious are the bigger wounds -- the uneven cut that runs from his cheek down to his neck, and the nasty gash on his shoulder, which had been bad to start with, but his fall had embedded gravel in the wound and it hurts like hell. He pokes gingerly at his side with his free hands and winces immediately. Those ribs are almost definitely broken.

[asafepairofhands]

"One minute," Ratchet says before he pushes out of the bathroom dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, both washed soft and pale. He pulls the towel down and opens his mouth to say something else before he actually registers that Drift is injured and holding a severed arm and he starts moving without real conscious thought, going to the cabinet with the nearest first aid kit.

"Sit," he snaps, his voice taut as he pops the kit open on the table and points at the arm Drift is holding. "Put that down, I'll deal with it later. Anything too serious?" His hands are already on Drift before he answers, checking for broken bones or internal damage. He feels those ribs, but the cuts and scrapes and bruises are painful, not life-threatening, and he begins to relax immediately, exhaling on a shaky sigh.

"Here, let me bandage your neck and then I can start cleaning out that mess on your shoulder. How are you otherwise?"

[auramatic]

Drift feels enough off his balance that he flinches when Ratchet snaps at him -- there's no malice behind it, but it seems to trigger a twitch of a reaction from Drift anyway. He abruptly does as he's told, dropping the arm on the spot and directly into a chair. This, at least, is familiar in a good way.

"Ow," he says plaintively when Ratchet does the same thing he was doing literally thirty seconds ago, except more professionally. He rubs at the unscathed side of his face, looking tired. Well, it is kind of late, and he did just get done fighting an irritatingly tenacious demon. He slumps a little in the chair, blowing out a breath.

"Fine," he says, which almost always means the opposite. He turns his face so that Ratchet can better treat the cut, which looks worse than it is. "Just had a nasty fight with an equally nasty demon. That, uh. That's his arm."

[isthelaw]

Somebody's come calling to Boston.

Judge Joe Dredd makes his arrival in his usual unapologetic fashion, heavy boots first, stamping an impression on the underbelly of the city. And when he wants to find a demon hunter by the name of Drift, who may or may not have recently sent a demon called Rico back to Hell, he really doesn't give a damn how subtle he is. It doesn't matter how many people he needs to ask - some more forcibly than others, and some not exactly people - as long as this Drift hears back.

And to pass the time, he cleans up the streets. He'd come here for a reason, but that didn't stop him from doing his job when he saw the need for it. Which is why he patrols the streets in the early morning and late night on his Lawmaster, his bright red helmet and black jumpsuit a very visible warning and symbol to those who had reason to be cautious of him.

[auramatic]

Drift keeps an ear to the ground. He always knows when someone's asking around for him, and usually it's bad news. But not this time. This time, it's only one of the coolest demon hunters he's ever heard of. He kind of doesn't believe it at first, but a few other friendly (ish) demons corroborate it, and he totally won't admit it to anyone (except Rodimus, when he gets a chance to tell her about it) but he is just a little bit giddy over it. But he's gotta play it cool. Like always. Drift's always cool. Definitely.

He doesn't know what kind of physical description Dredd's gotten of him, or if he's like, looked him up on Instagram or anything, but when they do meet, Drift will make sure his identity is unmistakable.

He's familiar with the usual demon haunts in Boston and then some, and it doesn't take him long to run into Dredd on a patrol, especially since Drift's been keeping an eye out for him. Then he sees Dredd's extremely cool motorcycle, which is even more amazing in person than the admittedly sort of sketchy third-hand descriptions he'd heard. This is probably the coolest thing to happen to him this year. Maybe this decade. Does Dredd do autographs? Shit, he totally forgot to bring a pen. Or anything to autograph. Oh, shit, maybe Dredd would sign his sword? Ugh, but then it'd probably get washed away in all the demon blood...

A sound skates past on a breeze, drawing Drift's alert attention down the street. He can make out the dark silhouette of something monstrous heading straight toward Dredd. Oh, man, this is his moment.

Drift launches off the roof as he draws his sword, driving the blade down the back of the monster's neck with perfect accuracy, with so much force that he cleaves straight through the thing's neck and sends the head toppling. Drift hops nimbly to the ground, shaking demon blood off of his sword, and smiles at Dredd. He manages to keep it from looking too giddy.

"I heard you were looking for me."

for ratchet

[pharmacidal]

The surgery had taken eight hours. It had gone badly for a little while there -- they'd stabilized the patient, wrapped up the surgery, but it had added another two hours onto the procedure. Once they pushed over the six hour mark, it probably would have been advisable for Pharma to let another surgeon step in, but aside from a few quick breaks, she'd insisted on seeing through the entire surgery. Eight hours? Nothing at all, especially when it was at the end of her shift. She'd been at the table for longer before, under worse circumstances.

It leaves her feeling strung out and tired, but she stopped by the lab anyway. She had biopsy slides to go over, and then she'd discovered that the sample for another patient she'd handed off to the techs still hadn't been placed in the centrifuge. Profoundly irritated, she'd snapped at the tech until she fled the room. That's fine, Pharma decides. She'll do it her own damn self. She has some paperwork to go over, but that'll have to come afterward. Genetic tests take time; she's not going to wait on an answer.

Once the sample is in the centrifuge, she finally seats herself at one of the microscopes, carefully placing one slide under the scope. A lock of hair falls into her face as she leans forward, and she tucks it behind her ear impatiently. She's tired, but she's still alert. This won't even take that long, most likely.

[asafepairofhands]

Fortunately for everyone involved, Ratchet bumps into the tech as she's making her retreat, catching the look on her face and scowling tremendously as he guesses the cause. He takes a moment to reassure her, then sets his shoulders and walks into the lab, scowl still firmly in place.

"You were out of surgery over an hour ago," he says, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the side of a workbench. "You need to go home, Pharma. Get some actual food and actual rest--even you'll make mistakes if you're stretched thin enough. Come on."

for tarn

[iudiciumdifficile]

Something is going on around the hospital.

Pharma doesn't know what. Nobody really seems certain. Gang activity, maybe, but it's not really the right place for it. But there's been a noticeable uptick in attacks in the area, even murders, and while Pharma might not work in triage, she's heard from the nurses about some of the strange injuries on incoming patients, sometimes in too-hushed whispers. There's a weird air of secrecy about it, like some of them know something she doesn't. It makes Pharma's fingertips itch.

Hospital staff have been advised not to walk around campus alone at night. Try to stick together -- walk together to your cars, or better yet carpool or catch the same cab home, or find a buddy to walk to the nearest train station with. Pharma has not taken any of those precautions, at least partly because she doesn't really have many friends these days. Not since things with her and Ratchet imploded so fantastically.

Besides, she has mace.

She's worked late tonight. Decided to pull lab duty after hours of surgery -- not necessary, but she likes precision in her work, and some lab techs just don't get it. So by the time Pharma finally leaves the hospital, it's well past midnight, and she's more tired than she ought to have let herself be. She'd forgotten to take off her lab coat before leaving, which was fortunate because she'd also forgotten to remove her access badge to put back in her purse.

It's barely chilly outside, though, and the night air is crisp as she strides across campus toward the parking lot. It's empty, and her low-heeled shoes beat a hollow clack on the walkway that cuts through the field of carefully manicured grass. She's not daydreaming by any means, but she's tired, and she doesn't realize what an easy target she makes for anything a little more than human.

[sparkwhisperer]

He's been watching.

For weeks Tarn has been circling this hospital, stealing snacks as necessary from weakened patients, and occasionally overconfident hospital staff. However, the stolen meals leave much to be desired. Tarn knows that it's an unsustainable solution with four other mouths to feed. His cadre is hungry.

A more in depth plan is necessary. He has to find a source inside to facility-- access to the blood bank. Fortunately, he is nothing if not resourceful. Finding a doctor to trap should be easy enough.

In fact he doesn't have to wait long before he hears the clack of heels on the sidewalk. Tarn watches the figure of a woman cross the campus from a shadowed gap between buildings. With unnatural quietness, he pursues. Stalking his prey proves easier than anticipated. She's distracted-- senses dulled by exhaustion. In fact she may not even notice him until he's right upon her, large hand encircling her wrist.

Red eyes shine brightly beneath his hooded jacket, scarred face partially obscured by a dark mask. His lips curve into a smile.

"It's awfully late for a young lady like yourself to be wandering around alone." His voice is disarmingly smooth, almost entrancing. "Didn't you know the streets are dangerous?"

for wash

[iudiciumdifficile]

Pharma hates doing post-op follow-ups. She avoids them where possible and within an acceptable margin of responsibility, foisting them off onto her peers or subordinates and claiming work overload, which isn’t not true. She has a tendency to do nothing but work. But patients, after they were out from under her knife—after she’s performed her surgical wonders and claimed another achievement—held little further interest in her if there was nothing left to investigate. There’s no reason for follow-ups in those cases except as a kind of emotional next-steps, some kind of post-op feelings counseling that Ratchet is much more cut out for than her, despite his apparent gruffness. A simple surgery like this one would hold little interest for her once she was finished; Wash would just be a name on a patient chart, already forgotten.

Except for what she found. It appeared on the X-rays as an opaque disk, obviously a foreign object and potentially toxic, given how ill he’d been when he’d first come in. People swallowed stupid things all of the time; normally, there was little intervention necessary. Most people would pass the object through their systems on their own with little harm done. So imagine her surprise when all tests on the foreign object they'd extracted had all come back negative. Not even so much as a trace of lead. At which point Pharma's colleagues had swiftly moved onto something more interesting, but it nagged at her mind. There are things she knows that her colleagues don't, clues that tell her this was no ordinary coin—the fact that it's pure silver, for instance, or that the runes stamped on it aren't just Halloween store-brand decoration. Her knowledge of the occult might be limited, but she's fairly certain she knows it when she sees it.

And she thinks the patient knows this, too. This could get her somewhere, if she played it right. There could be power at the end of whatever trail this marks. So she books that post-op follow-up, and she waits behind her meticulously neat desk in her meticulously neat office for the receptionist to wave the patient in. He might have heard her called by her almost-official hospital nickname, but the placard on her desk says DR. JENNIFER AFENZAR. She gives Wash a cool smile over the rims of her glasses when he enters, gesturing to the chair across from her.

"Please, sit."