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

Entry tags:

[ 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

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.

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?"

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.

Drift's relieved that the guy doesn't argue -- he wouldn't really have blamed him. The sheer trauma of being held captive for certain lengths of time does things to the mind, and this guy looks like he's been through the wringer. He can see the scars, knows that they're ritual in nature even if he doesn't recognize the specifics, and he grimaces as Wash skitters across the room. He's going to have to do something a little more thorough than setting a few curtains on fire.

Without hesitation, he draws the sword at his back and brings it down in a heavy swing, cleaving through the chains with a sharp snap of metal. "Thought it'd take too long to pick the locks," he says as a halfway apology, offering a hand to help Wash up as he sheathes his sword. The thick smell of smoke starts to waft into the room. "Can you walk?"

Okay, that worked.

Wash takes a moment to try to gather his thoughts, because they're running all over the damn place and he gets the feeling he'll need his wits about him if he's going to get out of here in one piece. Wordlessly, he grabs his rescuer's proffered hand and hauls himself with some difficulty to his feet. He manages a few steps towards the open door before he staggers and drops to his knees with a frustrated hiss. Yes, he can walk, but not nearly well enough to get out of here before the fire - because that's smoke he's smelling now, and that's not good - reaches the room they're in.

This would be humiliating, if he could summon the energy to feel it in any capacity.

Ah, hell. This guy is in really bad shape, and Drift wonders if he should take him to Ratchet -- but Ratchet isn't really suited to dealing with supernatural injuries. And while Drift is loath to leave any business here unfinished, his priority has to be saving the victim here.

"Don't worry," he says, just as he scoops Wash up and over his shoulders in a fireman carry without any apparent effort. He feels a bit bad -- this can't be great for Wash's dignity -- but it's the most expedient solution. In the blink of an eye they're heading down the corridor. "I'm gonna get you out of here -- just hold on."

Except they seem to be moving in the direction towards the fire, and there are definitely footsteps up ahead and a whole lot of shouting. Some very unhappy cultists.

The concern about his dignity would be appreciated, had Wash known about it, but unnecessary - Wash hasn't had any of that in a good long while. Not since he broke down and begged for his freedom through a locked door.

He grunts as the stranger scoops him up and his ribs impact the stranger's shoulder - there's not much padding left on him, which makes this hurt more than it needs to. Still, he's silent, holding still as best he can and trying to make things easier on his rescuer, right up until he hears footsteps and very familiar, very unhappy voices.

Oh, no. No, no, no, he's this close to getting out, he can't stop now, he can't go back in there-

"Can I worry now?" he manages, trying for a joke and falling very short. His voice still sounds awful, and it doesn't mask the fact that he's shaking, but dammit, he's trying.

Drift steadies his grip on Wash's arm, a reassurance, and he huffs out a laugh.

"Not just yet." It sounds like four, maybe five of them coming up the hall, some shouting, some coughing; Drift focuses and he can sense their auras, all of them incensed, all of them tainted with something far darker than an ordinary human soul. His body tenses as he moves a little more slowly now, bracing himself. Even Drift acknowledges how irresponsibly stupid it would be to try to use his sword in close combat with a hostage around his shoulders, but luckily he's resistant to some types of magic. Fortunately, he's pretty sure none of these cultists are carrying holy water.

"Okay, now I need you to really hold on. I'm gonna need both hands free for this." He flexes his hands, cracking his knuckles. "Anything you can tell me about these guys before they start flinging spells or something? And -- hey, what's your name, by the way?"

He's...he's going to fight. He's going to fight, and you can't fight while you're carrying someone like this, but he's going to try-

No. No, that'll get them both killed. Wash summons what strength he has left and rolls off his rescuer's shoulders, thumping heavily to the floor. He scoots towards the wall, staying low (as though he has a choice otherwise). "I don't know anything that'll help." Just that they're all monstrous assholes. "Kill them and come back for me." It's their best chance of survival, and if Wash doesn't make it out, well, that's fine.

"And...it's Wash."

Drift doesn't feel great about the idea of leaving Wash on his own, but he can't deny that it's less risky than the alternative. Maybe he should've let Percy finish explaining about the cult before he'd bolted out the door. Some knowledge about just what kind of magic these cultists are working would be helpful right now.

Oh well.

"Looks like I'll get to use my sword after all," Drift murmurs as he draws it again, glancing back at Wash with a totally inappropriately cheerful but confident smile. "Sit tight, Wash. I'll be right back."

Except it turns out he doesn't have to go far at all, because a few of the cultists burst through the smoke at full tilt towards Drift. He's really not a fan of killing humans, but -- the vanguard looks like he has a nasty spell at the ready and he shows no signs of backing down. Drift's eyes flash with an unnatural light as he lunges forward, running the cultist clean through with his sword. He pulls back, turning to face his next opponent, but one of the cultists pales, his eyes narrowing, lips drawn taut.

"Deadlock," he hisses, hurling a spell at Drift that seems to ignite the air itself, sending sparks flying. Drift barely ducks in time, smelling burned hair, and his expression flattens.

"Deadlock's retired," Drift says, and cuts him down with another heavy swing of his sword.

Wash has seen combat before - more than most normal people, at least - but this is new and different, and not necessarily in a good way. For now, he keeps his back against the wall and his eyes on the fight not too far away from him. He's useless as an ally, and it rankles, but at least he can call a warning to...Deadlock? was it? if need be.

The two cultists fall (and Wash tries to ignore the swell of vindictive schadenfreude that washes over him with the smell of blood - he's outlived these fuckers, and he'd never thought that option was on the table) and Wash's eyes flicker to one in the back- their palms are glowing, and the skin on his back crawls, and that can't be good-

"Glowing hands, at your ten!" The yell leaves his throat raw, and the choking smell of encroaching smoke doesn't help, but at least he's done what he can.

More cultists are arriving, coming in through both ends of the corridor, and Drift doesn't want to bring the action too close to Wash, but hell if he'll let the guy get captured again. Glowing hands sounds bad, and there isn't enough time to thank Wash for the warning. Drift just whirls around, no thinking this time, just letting go and moving with the flow of it, and his eyes glow brighter, some dark energy crackling around his sword. His horizontal swing just about cleaves the cultist in half.

The smoke is growing thicker now, but Drift's got this. This place is going to burn down, but not with them in it. There are only a few in the way of a good exit strategy, although the growing crowd on the other side has started chanting in unison. Demonic cult changing is never a good sign.

"Time to move," he says, hauling Wash up by the arm. Some fiery spell connects with his back, burning clean through his jacket, and he hisses in pain but just keeps moving forward. It's not really a one-handed sword, but Drift seems to have the strength to swing it with enough force to cut down the two cultists left in front of them. Drift's grip tightens under Wash's arm with fingernails more clawed than blunted as they had been before.

It looks like his warning worked, but something is wrong - underneath the smoke, Wash can smell that thick, cloying scent that he's come to associate with the cult's activities, always at its worst when the circle was active. It's coming from the chanting cultists that have flooded the hallway behind him, yes, but it's also coming from his rescuer in choking waves. The energy humming on the sword and the glowing eyes hadn't been there earlier-

What is this person? Was he being rescued by a demon? Was this just out of the frying pan into the fire, or-

Which is when his rescuer - if he is that; Wash can't be sure any longer - grabs him and drags him to his feet. For a moment, Wash is dead weight, expression blank as panicked thoughts chase each other around his brain. It's hell around him, it's been hell for weeks and he just wants out, but he doesn't know if that's even an option anymore, not if his rescuer is one of them-

And then his rescuer takes a hit in the back from the cultists, and that's his decision made. Wash gets his feet under him as best he can, though he's not going to be the one leading this charge by any stretch of the imagination. "Go!"

Drift doesn't need telling twice -- he sheathes his sword and lifts Wash bodily off the ground again, this time throwing him over his shoulder, because they really need to move. He knows Wash has to be in pain, judging by the ceremonial scarring all over him, but he doesn't have time to be gentle right now. The fire's starting to sweep through the whole building, and Drift can feel the heat through his clothes, too close for comfort. But they're almost out. Almost there --

There's another cultist between them and the stairs leading up to the street level, this one brandishing a staff and wearing a hell of a lot more tacky jewelry than the rest of them -- their leader, maybe, or just some high-ranking priest. He brandishes the staff at Drift, energy crackling at both ends, but Drift, really not having time for this, yells and delivers a punch to the cultist's face that slams him to the ground with an unpleasant crack without breaking pace. That guy might not actually be dead, but he will be soon.

There are probably more still in the building, running to catch up, but Drift breaks out into the cool night air with Wash over his shoulder and pivots sharply, digging something out of his pocket and hurling it down the steps to the cultists' basement. It explodes in a massive flare of flames and Drift stops to catch his breath for just a moment, watching the stairs to see if anyone else makes it out.

"Magical grenade," he says to Wash, adjusting his grip so that hopefully the other man is a little less uncomfortable. "Shouldn't spread to the other buildings. You alright?"

Wash has been in pain for weeks. A little more isn't going to kill him.

He holds on as best he can as his rescuer rushes out of the building, and he all but snarls at the fallen cultist as they finally make it outside. Oh, yeah. He recognizes that guy.

Then they make it out, and the whole building goes up in flames, and Wash can't quite find it in himself to worry about anyone's well-being. Good riddance to the lot of them. "Yeah," he manages, "I-"

He stiffens, words cutting off in a pained noise as his back begins to burn. For a moment, he thinks the fire has spread to them-

No, this isn't that. He knows what this is. Evidently a bunch of cultists chanting together can accomplish something, even while the building is burning down around them. He writhes and screams, but he can't fight back, and that horrible, familiar sensation of being torn from his own body washes over him. He floats, helpless and reeling, as whatever had taken over his body drives an elbow into his rescuer's ribs. "They weren't yours to take, Deadlock," it snarls, guttural and sibilant, as though it's not used to speaking with a mouth this size and shape. "We'll settle up later."

And then Wash opens his eyes, hanging limp, back still throbbing. It didn't last long, but that didn't change the fact that it still happened. For a moment, all he can do is breathe, shallow and slow.

It wasn't over. He'd gotten out, and the cultists were burning, but it still wasn't over - not when that thing could reach out and take him any time it wanted-

This is his life now. What's left of it, at least.

"You should've let me die." The words are barely a whisper, but they're out there nonetheless. A life that isn't his - a life that's out of his control, at the whim of some hellish creature - a life where he will never be free again - is not a life worth living.

The possession catches Drift totally off his guard, and even his superhuman reflexes don't manage to avoid the blow to his ribs, damn near dropping Wash to the ground right there. The hiss in his ear -- it's hard to tell if he recognizes the voice when it's coming through Wash's mouth, but whatever it is apparently recognizes him enough to at least know his name. He really needs to follow up with Percy on this one.

"Sorry, not my style," Drift says, wheezing only slightly, and he doesn't want to admit it, but his skin is absolutely crawling. He knew this guy was being used for some kind of ritual. He just didn't realize it was as a conduit. That's...bad.

That doesn't mean Drift's about to give up on him, though. He spares only one last glance at the burning building before ducking through an alley, holding carefully onto Wash. He'd considered taking Wash to Ratchet straightaway, but after that possession mini-episode, he's not so sure bringing Wash to a normal human doctor is the best move right now. His own apartment, at least, has enough wards to repaper every wall. That should be fine. It'll totally be fine.

"Look, exorcism isn't really in my wheelhouse, but I know a few people who might be able to help you. In the meantime, though -- " Drift hops up onto a ledge, and then from there to the top of the next building over with inhuman ease. "Let's at least get you patched up and hydrated. I'm guessing they weren't feeding you too often in there."

Sorry, Wash, you are being rescued whether you like it or not.

He'll punch a cultist in the face so hard it breaks their damn jaw, but won't leave their broken tool to die. Hell of a style.

Wash doesn't have the energy to argue - the demon puppeting him had drained the very last dregs of what he had, and it's a miracle he's even still awake. He just makes himself as still and small as he possibly can, until they arrive at...wherever they're going. His rescuer's promised help; he's not entirely sure he's not being taken to another cult. Nothing he can do about it now, regardless of where they're going.

Drift’s apartment might look a tiny bit like a cultist hideout, with the wards plastered over most available wall space and various supernatural esoterica scattered around the place. But the studio apartment isn’t really big enough for any real cult activity, and the wall space not taken up by magical wards is covered in a variety of posters, most of them from action movies, and there are a few swords mounted on the walls. And the assortment of amulets, charms and talismans are only a small part of what is undeniably the pure clutter of someone not particularly prone to organization or home enough to bother fixing the problem.

There isn’t much furniture in the apartment, just a few mismatched bookshelves, a futon shoved in one corner for a bed and a low-slung, beat-up couch opposite a TV and a few game consoles that evidently see a fair bit of use. There’s no table except for the coffee table between the couch and the TV — the tiny kitchen doesn’t have room for much else besides a fridge and microwave. It doesn’t look like he does much cooking anyway.

He sweeps some of the clutter off the couch with one foot, a few books and some (clean but unfolded) laundry, and lays Wash down as carefully as he can. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap and a bottle of ibuprofen — probably not strong enough for whatever Wash is feeling right now, but it’s there if he wants it.

“Here — you probably need water.” Drift’s not so discreetly checking Wash over for any other obvious injuries, or at least any he can help with. He hasn’t had a chance to wash the blood off his sword (or...the rest of him), but he’ll get to that in a minute. “You’re safe now.”

None of this helps Wash feel better. He's still being hauled somewhere unfamiliar by someone who reeks of demon. His rescuer has been kind so far, but he wouldn't be surprised if that kindness is hiding a trap.

He sits up on the couch and hunches over, shivering from cold and fading adrenaline and the edges of trauma seeping into his brain. The scarring on his back is clearly visible: a mass of interconnected circles and symbols stretches from shoulder to hip, very clearly centered around and connected to a trio of deep scars that look like they were made by claws in the center of his back. It's all very intricate - some of the cuts look fine enough to have been made with a scalpel - and some of them are fresher than others, recently cauterized and still an angry red.

He stares dolefully at the water, not bothering to reach for it - given how hard he's shaking, he doesn't trust himself not to drop it. "Am I?" His tone is deadened and hopeless.

Drift cringes a little at the scars on Wash’s back, and his expression darkens as it really sinks in that this isn’t just the work of a bunch of human zealots. Whatever had taken hold of Wash before, however briefly, must’ve had an active part in this too, judging by the shape of the scars. He doesn’t let his gaze linger too long, though, grabbing a throw blanket off the back of the couch and draping it over Wash’s shouldered without a word. Maybe he can lend Wash some spare clothes, at least for the time being.

“I’m here to help, not hurt,” Drift says, offering a small smile of reassurance. “And the wards on this place mask auras. That should make it a lot harder for that thing to get a hold of you again, at least for now. And like I said — I have friends who specialize in this sort of thing. Exorcisms, purification...”

He doesn’t know for a fact that they can do anything, but he has faith in his friends. They at least have to try. Drift eyes the water, frowns, and then hops over to the kitchen and digs out a paper-wrapped straw that looks like it came from a diner or fast food place.

"But I should probably introduce myself. My name's Drift." He sticks the straw in the water and holds out the cup to Wash. He can hold onto the glass if need be, but the guy really should drink some water. For someone who reeks of demon, he seems like a pretty friendly guy.

The explanation makes sense - at least as much as anything in the past two months has made sense, at least - but it doesn't make him feel better. The fact that he might need a goddamn exorcism is not something he thought he'd ever have to deal with, and nothing's really sinking in like it should be.

He needs that water, though. Drift - evidently that's his name - had been right in that the cultists hadn't put too much thought into caring for him. As long as he was still breathing, who gave a fuck?

He grips the water carefully but firmly, which helps quell a bit of the shaking, and pulls it closer. He drinks in slow, measured sips - because the last thing he needs to do is upset his stomach and lose it all over the floor - until the glass is empty. Only then does he look back at Drift. He's still exhausted, gaze deadened, but there's a little life coming back into his eyes. It's a start.

"What are you?"

And possibly an end, depending on how well that question is received.

Ah, well. Drift should've expected that question sooner or later, especially from someone who'd been held captive by a cult for...a while, it seems. But it's an easy question to answer -- easier than if Wash had asked about Deadlock. Drift sort of hopes Wash was too out of it to remember that.

"Human, like you. ...On my mother's side." He drops down into a cross-legged sitting position next to the couch and his smile turns slightly sheepish. "Demon on the other side, as you've probably guessed. Didn't really know my dad's side of the family, though."

It's kind of a weak joke, but the situation seems delicate. Wash seems a little delicate. Drift absently shreds the straw wrapper between his fingers. "I'm a hunter. I take out demons who hurt innocent people. I don't usually go after humans, but..." He frowns. "They were doing some pretty demonic stuff."

His lip curls at human like you - don't you lie to him, dammit - and eases as the rest of the explanation is forthcoming. Half-demon. The sword and the energy and the eyes all make sense now, though the smell isn't nearly as present when Drift looks human. It's there, if he concentrates, but it's not hitting him in the face like it had back with the cultists.

"I noticed," he says flatly, reaching forward to set the now empty glass on the coffee table. It looks his sense of humor isn't completely dead. That's something, at least.

He looks at the glass, then shifts his gaze to Drift. He has questions - way too many of them for him to handle right now - and he's slowly sorting them into Handle and Can't Handle piles. He picks one off the Handle pile and lobs it at Drift, because silence is definitely something he Can't Handle.

"Why did it call you Deadlock?"

Drift bites back a wince. Maybe lapsed memory was hoping for a little too much. No, he has to be prepared to answer these kinds of questions when he rescues someone from a demonic cult. Wash doesn't really owe him anything for his rescue, not in his book, but Drift does owe him a few answers.

"It was a name I had once." He gets up from the floor to refill the glass. "But I don't go by that anymore."

Wash's gaze follows Drift as he gets up with the glass. Evidently Drift has his own Can't Handle question pile. Good to know.

The realization processes slowly, and Wash pulls the blanket a little tighter around him, wincing as it rubs against the cuts that haven't quite healed yet. He should..he should be doing something. Anything. He needs to do something so he doesn't have to think, because once he goes down that rabbit hole he won't do anything, and that...he can't afford to think about that. (He can barely manage to think as it is; starvation, dehydration, and exhaustion are a heady combo.)

He waits until Drift returns before speaking up again. "Now what?" He honestly has no idea what to do next; hopefully Drift will know, or at least be able to keep Wash's mind busy.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject