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

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

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

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."

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."

"It's Drift now."

His voice rings a little flat, but he watches Rico turn around -- aside from a few new trappings, he's the same Rico that Drift remembers. Always with the gold, and always willing to go a little too far to get it. Honestly, Drift doesn't really get it, but it does make Rico dangerous enough to be reckoned with.

"Let's not insult each other by playing stupid, Rico." His voice is calm, his hands still empty for now. "A gang as esoteric as this one sweeping through town at this rate? I tend to notice that kind of thing. And I tend to get a little suspicious when I find you right smack in the middle of their territory. Mind telling me just who sold you those fancy trinkets?"

Rico throws his head back and laughs.

"Sold?" he asks, mockingly. "When do I ever need to buy things? These are mine."

Well. Mine now, is the unspoken answer.

"And it's Drift now, but for how long?" Rico asks, slyly. He twists a ring on his finger, holding out his hand in front of him and admiring the way it gleams in the moonlight, speaking absent-mindedly. "You can call yourself that all you want, but I remember. And we're all waiting."

Then he cocks his head to the side, a hidden laugh in his words. "But who says I'm involved? You can't underestimate human ingenuity. They could have managed this all by themselves."

Edited 2017-11-28 05:45 (UTC)

"For good," Drift says fiercely, taking a step closer to Rico. Maybe it's time this demon was properly dealt with. "I remember too, and that's why I'm never going back -- not to Megatron, not to any of it. I'm finished with Deadlock."

The sad thing is that he's right about humans. They might have souls, but they seem equally capable of horrible things. At least Drift's always had his demon side to privately blame for all the bad he's put into the world. He sighs, shaking his head, and locks his gaze on Rico's face.

"The blood, Rico. Whose is it?" And can I still save them, Drift thinks, rolling one shoulder, then the other. "If you really want me to believe that you have nothing to do with this, then convince me. Tell me what you know, and I might even let you walk away in one piece."

Rico smirks at Drift's question, taking a broad step forwards and rolling his shoulders languidly.

"A woman. Two blocks and ten minutes ago. She wasn't wearing red, and that was reason enough. It was her necklace that caught my eye, but she had this sentiment in her heart that I just couldn't resist." Rico says, wistfully. "I wanted it. So I took it."

Rico pauses.

"Well she sure as hell is wearing it now." And this time, there's no pretending that there are too many teeth in his mouth. "Definitely too late to help her, though. And you caught me." He gives up the charade with a blithe attitude. "A prince must have his tithes. And order in the streets, at that."

Edited 2017-11-28 06:14 (UTC)

Definitely too late to save her. That gets a reaction out of Drift, a flicker of expression, more than he'd like. He feels inexplicably guilty for the death of a woman he's never even seen, would never even have known about if he hadn't decided to take a shortcut through this neighborhood instead of taking the train home.

"This isn't order, this is a power play. And a really bizarre one at that."

Human affairs aren't usually his wheelhouse, he usually lets the actual human authorities handle those, but this is just a little too much. He's not sure the local gang task force is ready for anything like this.

"I could take you out here and now, Rico, and there'd be one less thug on the streets preying on human emotion and...their jewelry." Alright, the threatening tone of that line might have been undermined by how lame it sounded. "But the truth is, guys like you are small fish in a city like this, and if whoever's running this neighborhood is letting you walk around, I'm betting you aren't their only patron. So here's the deal."

Drift's hand lashes out to close around the thick gold chain attached to Rico's collar, his eyes flashing, a hint of the good old demon side that he's been working so hard to keep in check.

"You start giving me names, and I don't rip this thing out of your chest right now."

That had to be cool enough to make up for the lame lines. The cool factor is important. Does he need to start practicing his lines at home again? He can just hear Rodimus's critique on how just important one-liners are to demon hunting.

"What's the difference, really?" Rico starts with a low drawl, about to wax poetic about how the lines between power and order aren't so clear cut, when his hand closes around the chain. And in the center of Rico's black, black pupils, a little white spark responds to the look in Drift's eyes, and flashes back.

Rico's voice drops two octaves lower, just barely a contemptuous rumbling in his chest. "Work on your one-liners, Deadlock. All that's going to do is tear the seams on my human suit. And then we'll have that fight you're spoiling for. We'll see if I can't paint half this town red before you stop me."

Is it a bluff? It's possible. The chain almost seems to reverbate under Drift's fingers, but whether that's his imagination...

"Though I gotta wonder why you're so convinced there's somebody else behind this. It's been a long time, after all. I've been eating, and eating. Who says I don't run this neighborhood? What do you want me to say?" Suddenly, Rico widens his eyes and puts his hands up defensively. "Don't hurt me, it's Megatron! Your old master is behind all this, and I'll take you right to him!"

Unable to keep a straight face for too long, he bursts into a fit of laughter. "Is that what you wanted to hear? I'll bet it is."

Drift is starting to feel like he may have misassessed the situation.

His fist closes tighter around the heavy chain even as he feels it vibrate in his hand, his gaze staying locked on Rico's face. Rico's right -- it has been a long time, and Drift had had Megatron behind him then, and he'd felt invincible. It would be easier if Megatron was behind all this, if Drift could pin it on him. It would be simple. He's been trying to step back and see the bigger picture, but apparently not far enough.

"What I want to hear is the truth," Drift says levelly, "but I guess I've let my memory slip, because I forgot what a complete waste of time that is with you. Because right now, it doesn't matter who's running this neighborhood. I should've taken care of you a long time ago."

He doesn't know if Rico's bluffing or not, but the demon has power, and this conversation is leading to a fight one way or another. So hey, what the hell.

"I think it's time to correct an oversight."

Feeling much better about his one-liners, Drift gives Rico's chain a good, hard pull.

The chain crumbles to pieces in Drift's hand, splitting his collar apart. A tiny row of jagged teeth erupt from under his skin, snapping at the traces of Drift's touch, stitching themselves into existence from the hollow of his throat down to his navel.

"Oh now look at what you've done. That was my best shirt..."

Rico lets out a long, happy sigh as his posture changes, turning into breathless laughter as his bones splinter and warp in nauseating, painful ways. But Rico embraces it, breathing to life the fire and hunger burning in his gut that's consumed him since he remembered what it was like to own something.

What remains is left distinctly humanoid, but his shoulders and heart protected by a gleaming, golden exoskeleton. His bladed, whiplike tail lashes out behind him as he looks out at Drift from behind the twisted crown-like helmet that makes up his face, skin cracking and peeling from the neck down to reveal a gleaming, oily black surface underneath. He flexes his spiked knuckles, covered by a leathery green hide.

He opens his gaping maw in a smile, and the entire lower half of his face changes to accommodate. His voice is almost too deep and rumbling to make out, but the sentiment is still very much clear.

"Like I said, Deadlock. It's been a while."

Not, as it turns out, a bluff.

Drift jerks his hand back as Rico's teeth snap at his fingers, jumping back with an only slightly unnecessary backflip to put some distance between himself and the real Rico. He lands in a crouch, skidding back a few paces before he finally comes to a stop.

"Yeah, it has," Drift agrees readily, drawing his sword with a long scrape of metal against metal. "I also forgot how ugly you are."

He comes at Rico at a dead run, swinging his massive sword with the intent to cleave from the side.

"Oh Deadlock," Rico growls, with long-suffering patience. "You've been away too long. Hit your head too many times. You're nowhere near as good without your better half."

Rico shifts his weight, tension in his shoulders and fists clenched with the implicit promise of violence. He has a significant advantage of range on him, which means that he has to get in close, now, before that unsubtle slab of metal takes his head off his shoulders. And he has zero intention of going out so pathetically any time soon.

His movements are surprisingly calculated and efficient for somebody so emotional. He's fast for a demon his size, ducking under the blade and lashing out with his tail to wrap around the arm holding it. A risky move, if Drift can turn his hand in time.

Drift has always regarded Rico as a thug, a predator, feeding on the weak and the helpless, because humans aren't equipped to deal with someone like him. He wasn't expecting Rico to be so fast.

He only has time to try and switch his sword hand before that tail wraps around his arm, biting into his jacket sleeve, but while he's a lot of things, he is not ambidextrous. He just barely fumbles the hilt of his sword and it clatters heavily to the ground beside him, leaving him unarmed and at a disadvantage. Well, shit. At least he's got more going for him than just a fancy sword.

"Never left, Rico," he says, gritting his teeth a little as he tries to wrap his hand around the tail in turn to get a grip on it, "just changed hats. But then, going by your favorite shirt, I don't think you ever had much of an eye for fashion."

HIs eyes gleam with a blue light, too bright to be just human, and he pulls, hoping he'll throw Rico off his balance enough to give him a good throw. This fight is starting to feel a little like tug-of-war.

It's not an uncommon revelation. Just because Rico likes picking on easy prey doesn't mean he's not capable of so much more. A bully and a brute he might be, it hides a sharp intelligence and technical expertise. Greed may be his first indulgence, but pride comes second - and while Rico may have an inflated sense of self-worth, his arrogance isn't entirely unfounded. He always puts his money where his mouth is.

Also, he's far too fond of eating his own kind to stay rusty for long.

Drift's remark about the shirt seems to be the first thing that actually affects Rico in any meaningful manner. With a guttural snarl, his tail suddenly contracts hard enough to bruise. "Big talk coming from that stupid jacket. That cost three thousand dollars-!" he snaps, raising his fist to drive knuckles into now defenseless guts and meat, only to be interrupted by an unexpected yank that sends him clear backwards off his feet. Not a hard hit by any means, but it gives breathing room and some time to capitalize on it.

Rico hardly intends to let him. He springs up from where he's half-crouched to tackle him to the ground, outrage in his eyes.

"Three thousand dollars?"

The choked sound of Drift's voice is half from incredulous laughter, half from the tight pressure of Rico's tail around his arm, the bladed edge biting into his sleeve. Alright, cool, he's got a hideous demon pissed off and off his feet -- but no time to reach for his sword when Rico lunges at him, taking him down hard to the rooftop. If he'd been a normal human, it'd have knocked the wind out of him, maybe broken a few things, but Drift has that advantage at least. He's always careful about keeping his demon side in check, always worried about losing control, but this really isn't the time for restraint. Dark patterns begin to swirl under his skin, only faintly detectable in the moonlight.

"Hey, at least I got this jacket at Savers," Drift shoots back, grunting as he tries to grapple with Rico. He gets one arm free enough to draw back and drive a solid, demon-strength-enhanced punch right at Rico's jaw. If he's lucky, it'll buy him enough time to get back on his feet.

"Yes, three thousand dollars!"

Rico's hands scrabble for purchase, scratching and tearing where he can. At least he's ripping that disgusting excuse for a jacket to shreds in the process, even if he can feel the phantom memory of bone snapping and muscle tearing like paper under his fingers and it's something he wants so bad. It's hard to get a grip on this slippery little bastard, but he can almost see the blood -

Rico's jaw slams shut, the force of the blow snapping his head to the side. A crack appears at the impact, oozing a black viscous fluid that burns on exposed skin. But he still holds onto Drift, lunging forward as the teeth at the hollow of his throat yawn open to bite at him.

"Now this is more like you, Deadlock..."

Drift lets out a hiss as whatever passes for Rico's blood bites at the skin on his hand, but thankfully he heals quick. He shakes it off and twists under Rico, avoiding a potentially mortal blow, but the teeth tear into his shoulder instead. Ow, that hurts, and Ratchet's probably going to chew him out if he doesn't get this looked at later, but it allows him at least to get his feet under him.

"I told you," he grunts, feet finding purchase against against Rico's abdomen, "it's Drift now."

He kicks, hard, enough to send Rico pitching off of him so he can get to his feet and maybe have a chance at getting back his sword. He flexes his fingers with a series of cracks, blunted fingernails starting to grow clawed, and he looks down at his shredded jacket in dismay. "Man, I'm going to have to hit Savers again tomorrow."

Rico's thrown clear, hurled far enough that he lands near the edge of the rooftop, bouncing once. He clambers to his feet, shifting agitatedly. He's too far to prevent Drift from reaching the sword in time, so he figures it's time to try another approach.

"Drift," he spits. "Deadlock. Doesn't matter. You'll always know what it feels like to have bone splinter under your fists, to split flesh and skin. You're one of us." He jerks his chin to the growing claws. "You'll come back after this fucking hippie tantrum. Maybe I just need to push you a little more."

He starts to lunge forward as if to re-enter the melee, but suddenly stops in his tracks and cocks his head to the side.

"Oh, I've got a better idea." A pink tongue flicks out and licks off the blood in the hollow of his throat. "I'm feeling pretty hungry actually, and since you're not sitting still, I think I'd rather look elsewhere. What do you say to that?"

Edited 2017-11-29 04:27 (UTC)

Hippie tantrum? Rico shouldn't be able to get a rise out of him, but Drift can still feel himself bristling at those words. He sheds what's left of his jacket, skidding over to grab his sword as Rico makes his little speech. It's true he'll never forget those things, or how good it had felt, how much he'd reveled in it and let himself become addicted to it. He wraps a hand tightly around the hilt of his sword.

"Be careful what direction you push me in," he starts, and then his expression goes unguarded and alarmed for a moment as Rico suggests turning this into another kind of hunt entirely. There's nothing he can say to stop Rico, he knows that much, and talking will only delay so much. So instead he just leaps at Rico again, this time swinging from above. If he can do enough damage on a first hit, he can at least slow Rico down.

Rico laughs, low and relaxed at the expression on his face. Gotcha. He turns his back on him to bolt down over the side of the building, and consequently Drift's sword cuts a burning path down his shoulder blade. The only thing that saves him is the exoskeleton on his shoulder that deflects most of the initial force.

He half-falls, half-scrambles down the edge, swinging from ledge to ledge and leaps over to the next building. The injury slows him down, stretching his back in uncomfortable ways. But Rico pushes the pain to the back of his mind, tasting the air for potential victims. The night air is cool on his true skin, and it feels wonderful to be unmasked again.

But there's no real reason to bother. Should he scuttle down into the alleyway, drop down on the first person he sees there? Or clamber into one of those open windows, and see if anybody's home? So many options, so little time.

It slows him down, but not nearly enough. A regular sword blow just isn't going to cut it with Rico. Drift really needs to stop underestimating him.

But he can't let Rico get away from him -- the demon's already killed at least once tonight, and if he gets anyone else, it'll be on Drift. It'll be because he failed to stop Rico in time. His grip adjusts on the hilt of his sword, energy crackling between his fingers. He sets off at a dead run and jumps off the ledge, clearing over Rico and landing on the other side.

"Not another step, Rico!"

This time, when Drift comes charging at him, his sword is lit up with demonic energy, dancing over the surface like sparks of electricity. The bright blue gleam in his eyes is a much more familiar look, a callback to his Deadlock days, and so is the way he throws his weight into the blow.

The instincts that have been relentlessly drilled into him until they're second nature, the techniques and moveset of a past life demands that he dodge to the side, and counter with a well-executed palm strike. Grab his arm and twist it out of its socket, popping the cartilage. Can't wield a sword with one hand, as he'd evidently demonstrated earlier.

But fuck, something inside him screams back, demands that he stand his ground, reach out with both hands and show this little upstart what he's really made of. How much power and influence he's accumulated since they'd last met.

His bloodlust is tempered by the burning reminder that he's not invincible, but even so, Rico has been guided by his temptations too long.

"If that's what you want!"

He pushes his arms out, meeting the blade with the palms of his hands and closing his fingers around it. It's a strong strike, bearing Drift's full weight and momentum alongside with it. The toughened hide over his hands and arms protects him better than his skin, the edge sinking into his flesh just before it hits bone. But it's the energy that really, truly hurts. Hurts in a way he hasn't had to endure in a while.

With clenched teeth and a guttural roar, he swings his upper body around and lets go, right at the building edge.

Edited 2017-11-30 02:14 (UTC)

Well, fuck.

It's already too late to change trajectory by the time Drift realizes what Rico is doing, and his expression is wide-eyed and a little shocked when Rico grabs hold of the blade. That has to hurt, but that's about all Drift manages to think before he's tossed off the side of the building.

Falling fast, gotta think fast -- he thrusts his sword into the side of the building and jams it in as hard as he can. His weight and momentum keeps him going, the sword tearing through layers of brick and stone and insulation until he manages to come to a stop, his feet precariously perched on a ledge a few stories down. There's a woman half-leaning out the window next to him, watering her window planters and staring. Drift holds onto the hilt of his sword and gives her a tight smile and a wave.

"Don't worry, I'm pretty sure your landlord's got insurance," he says, wrenches his sword free from the building, and leaps off the ledge, kicking off against the building across the alley to give him the boost he needs to get back onto the rooftop with Rico. He just hopes he's quick enough.

By the time Drift makes his way back to the roof, he'll find that Rico's disappeared. Although his trail isn't exactly difficult to find. It doesn't take a genius to notice there's a small pool of black blood mingled with gold where he last stood, splashed across the floor and leading right over the opposite edge.

If he follows it, he'll see the flash of a tail slithering into an open window, a path of disturbed laundry and potted plants behind it, flicking it shut after him. The dark figure inside pauses as if sensing eyes on him, then turns around to give him a cheery wave from where he's crouched inside the apartment, with a grin to match.

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