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.

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Rico looks back bemused, and responds airily. "Preferably splitting your belly open and yanking your own guts out. But I'm a simple man - I don't want much. All I was doing was minding my own business, until you came along."

He then lowers his hostage by an inch, and the man takes in a giant wheeze of air to start chanting 'what the fuck' under his breath, staring at a spot two inches over Drift's shoulder. But Rico keeps him firmly in place, between him and Drift.

"But if you haven't got the patience for negotiation, I suppose you could run him through to get at me." he suggests, cheerfully. "It'd probably work too. Your sword's certainly long enough."

Drift feels cold. This is a bad situation, and Rico undoubtedly has the advantage. He adjusts his grip on his sword, wrapping careful, tight fingers around the haft.

"Not gonna happen, Rico. You know that."

Not killing the hostage, not killing himself -- although Ratchet had argued that Drift's entire mission was just slow-motion suicide, with how reckless he gets. In this moment, he's inclined to agree: this was pretty fucking reckless. Drift holds up his empty hand, palm out, as he slowly crouches to lower his sword.

"And you know I don't kill innocent civilians."

He doesn't break eye contact as he crouches low, making a careful and deliberate show of laying his sword slowly on the ground. And then, before he's even finished, his other hand goes to his hip to draw a pistol and fire it right at Rico.

A water pistol. Filled with holy water, naturally.

"You really have changed," he remarks thoughtfully as he watches Drift lays his weapon on the ground with wary eyes. "There was a time where that wouldn't have phased you for a second."

And then Drift is aiming a gun at him, and Rico lifts the body in front of him higher to take the bullet but it's not a bullet-

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

He staggers backwards, swallowing the scream of rage and pain, every instinct in his body screaming at him to get out. It burns where it lands on him, electrifying like a cattle prod but utterly repulsive. He hunches lower and bounds towards a window, but not before giving his hostage a vindictive shove towards Drift with a grunt, raking his claws deep over his back and splitting his flesh open as he does.

There had been a time when Drift had reveled in that, had held a human hostage of his own so delicately in his hands, drunk on the power one could have over the balance of someone's life. Now, it makes him sick -- but right now he's relieved that his holy water gun trick worked. It actually worked. Percy owes him ten bucks now.

The shove of the civilian is a predictable enough move, and Drift catches him and tries to see how bad the damage is -- it's bad and it's bleeding, but it's not fatal at least. "You're going to be fine," Drift tells him, "but, uh -- call an ambulance anyway."

He'll be fine. He'll totally be fine. Drift has to make sure Rico doesn't cause any more collateral damage. He snatches his sword off the ground and lunges into a flying kick, hoping to tackle Rico to the ground before he can get to the window.

Too focused on his single-minded escape, Drift's foot connects, sending Rico crashing into the coffee table. But his arm darts out and latches onto his leg, winding his tail around his waist and bringing him down with him and rolling on top of him.

His jaw cracks open impossibly wide, and Rico's voice is warping under his own anger, breaking apart like a ship in the ocean, a dark, slick oil spill staining the air and spilling out from his mouth.

A FUCKING WATER GUN? ARE YOU LAUGHING NOW?

He cocks a fist back, muscles tensed, ready to drive in his spiked knuckles, utterly unheeding of the way it leaves him open to attack.

Well, this is terrifying. Drift's seen a lot of horror, he's been that horror, but there really is nothing quite like a demon with a full-body zipper made of teeth to freak you out.

"I was aiming for your ugly hide, but hey, if I gouged your pride in the process, that's just a bonus." He can't stab up through Rico like this -- not enough room for his admittedly really, really big sword. But he does have enough strength to make a one-handed swing -- straight through Rico's raised arm.

Rico recognizes that he's lucky that all Drift went for was his arm, and not something more important. But it's too late now, and even as Rico drives his fist down, it cleaves through his flesh easily, getting wedged in the bone with a wet crack. And with a split second of resistance, it breaks through the bone, severing his arm at the elbow messily.

His arm falls away to the side and Rico suddenly drops forward, unbalanced. But he catches himself with his other hand, landing squarely around Drift's neck, squeezing for all he's worth, his palm still glistening wet and caustic from the gash inflicted earlier.

"You're going to look so much uglier when I'm done with you."

Drift hisses as Rico's hand closes around his neck, the acidic whatever-it-is burning into the much more delicate skin of his throat. Shit, that hurts, like, really hurts, and Drift drops his sword and claws at Rico's hand to try and loosen his grip. He's running out of options -- his water gun is across the floor and mostly empty, his sword useless in close quarters like these, and he has made a series of potentially fatal bad decisions in underestimating just how powerful this demon's gotten since they last crossed paths. He's only got one card left to play

He hates doing this. There's always a risk he'll lose control completely, succumb to the side of him that gets a thrill out of watching the life drain from someone else's eyes. Even now, as he starts to unspool the careful self-restraint he's built up over the years, all but letting go, there's a heady rush that comes with it, with the power. Within seconds, Drift no longer looks nearly as human -- his skin mottled with dark, swirling patterns, his teeth fanged and his claws sharp, and his eyes are a bright, electric blue, flashing bright. He bares his teeth at Rico, more than just an echo of the old Deadlock.

"Let. Go," he snarls, and with renewed strength he starts pulling at Rico's fingers -- he'll snap them clean off if he has to.

The delight on Rico's face turns apparent, sliding over the anger like a mask. His attention immediately caught by the sliding patterns over his skin, he laughs at the sight, fascinated. He can almost feel Drift shedding his humanity, and it gives him such a vicarious thrill in his belly to see it again.

"Attaboy," he says fondly, baring his teeth back in a parody of friendliness like they've just met for the first time. "I knew you were in there somewhere, Deadlock. I was wondering what it would take."

His fingers flex with anticipation and he clamps down harder, his grip like iron bars closing in, but inch by inch, his fingers are slowly pried away from Drift's neck. Rico redoubles his efforts to hold onto his prize, but the loss of his arm has left him weaker.

Drift doesn't usually let himself give into anger. But right now it fuels him, and that look on Rico's face only makes him angrier. A guttural sound emerges from Drift's throat as he pries Rico's fingers away with one hand, the other going to Rico's throat. His turn now, he thinks, and as soon as he's free of Rico's grip he throws his weight forward, rolling onto his feet and pinning Rico to the wall.

"It's Drift," he growls, and shoulder-checks Rico with his full strength -- right through the wall.

If Drift had underestimated his opponent before, now it's Rico's turn to come to the same realization. Pressed suddenly up against the wall, Rico has just enough time to think that maybe, just maybe, this was the wrong direction to push.

"Shit."

And then they're both sailing through the air, pulled down by gravity. Wings, he thinks, somewhat desperately. Wings would be good for next time. Entangled together as they are, the only thing he can do is buck his hips, his remaining hand fisted desperately in Drift's collar and dragging them around so that he's on top of him. But in the confusion and struggle, it's difficult to maintain that status as he braces himself for impact.

This may not have been Drift's most well-thought-out plan, but now he's kind of committed.

He grapples furiously with Rico as they plummet down towards the alley, his sword abandoned up in that poor schmuck's apartment. Fuck. He'll have to go back for it later. But right now, his main problem is Rico, and how badly he'd like to tear that demon apart with his bare hands, but that's a little hard to do midair. He tightens his grip around Rico's neck, trying to kick away the demon's grasp on his shirt, but not to much effect, and they're falling quickly -- and while Drift is tough, he's not sure how easily he'll get up and walk away from a fall this high.

His hand lashes out to grab at the railing of a fire escape, and it creaks and bends under his grip and their combined weight. Drift tries to use the momentum to swing and slam Rico against the building, but the fire escape finally gives under their weight and they're plummeting back down to the alley.

At least the little bastard is going to feel this too, he thinks with vindictive glee.

And then the ground finally rushes in, and Rico isn't feeling so vindictive anymore.

Impact.

His limbs crumple underneath him, even with his efforts to use Drift as a rudimentary meatshield. Even a guy like Rico who has a reputation for laughing in the face of beatings has his limits. Limits that are very harshly and abruptly met.

Everything goes black. And what seems like an eternity later, his consciousness returns to him with a distinct sense of Déjà vu, and Rico hisses as sensation returns with it. It's all he can do to roll over from where he's face-down on the ground, his sole arm feeling far too numb and broken, looking up at the sky. This is pathetic. Unable to do much else, Rico starts laughing hysterically. Croaking, wheezing gasps of air that splutters out from the cracks in his face, a spiderweb of weak points and stresses.

"That was ballsy. You fffucking- the wall. You didn't think that through at all, did you?"

Drift doesn't weather the fall all that well, either, even if he had managed to slow it down a little. The impact knocks the wind out of him, leaves him gasping for breath on the pavement not far from Rico. A couple of broken ribs, at least. They'll heal, but it hurts like a bitch. He grunts in pain as he slowly picks himself off the ground, breathing hard, and no less furious than before. The collected calm is long gone -- no more smirking one-liners, just a commitment to stopping Rico. Beating the living hell out of him in the process doesn't seem like a bad side effect.

"I don't need to think that hard about what I'm going to do to you," Drift snarls, kneeling over Rico, and drives a fist into the cracked side of his face.

Rico curls his fingers in, one by one, through the pounding pain in his head. He's never felt so disconnected from his body in his un-life, and it sends a shiver through the back of his brain. Strength of will is everything. Control the pain. He lifts his arm to catch the blow but it lands anyway, whipping his head to the side.

"Oh, now that's true," he wheezes. A sliver of his mask shifts and dislodges to the ground with a light clink. Rico feels it like his skull is shattering all over again. "I alwayss got the impression that you never - really thought that hard about it at all. Too busy getting off your face to care," he spits, woozy.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Drift demands, his voice a guttural growl even as he grabs Rico by the next for another blow. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows his grip on himself is starting to slip, that he's in danger of going too far if he doesn't check himself. But Rico is exactly the kind of monster he hunts. The world doesn't need this kind of demon hanging around -- killing demons like Rico, that's what he does. So he doesn't wait for an answer before he punches Rico in the head again, no gentler than the first blow.

"Don't play dumb, Deadlock." Rico slurs, somehow still maintaining his haughty contempt even on death's door. Being choked doesn't make him shut up any more either, having two mouths to talk through. He can feel his connection to Hell calling, pulling at him. It's coming soon. "You know exactly what I mean."

The next blow whites out all the thoughts in his head, and he's distantly aware of more shards pattering to the floor. Rico pulls through. This is important, he thinks. He needs to get the words out.

"Like right now. Never thinking passst the bloodlust and how good it feels for - bones to break and skull to shatter. All the people you killed. Didn't think about it at all." Rico starts laughing, spluttering his words. "An' lets not forget doing all the dumbest shit I could ever think of for a hit."

He needs Drift to forget the sword, finish him off with his fists. And Rico knows plenty well about how to piss people off.

Rico's words rip through him, and now guilt twists in with the rage, and it only makes him angrier. He reaches for his self-control but it seems to slip away from his fingers -- unlike the demon beneath him, on whom Drift has a very firm grip. His eyes burn, teeth bared.

"I'm sending you back to hell where you belong, Rico. And when you get there, you can tell them..." Drift's voice drops to a ragged whisper, his fingers closing more tightly around the demon's neck. He braces one knee against Rico's chest, pinning him to the ground, and leans in, drawing his fist back. "You can tell them that Drift sent you."

The knee pinning him to the ground is nothing compared to the blinding pain in his head. Oh well. It was worth a try.

"Sure you're never going back to any of it?" Rico murmurs his earlier words back at him through a mouth full of bloodied teeth. "Kind of doesn't seem like it."

And with that, he slashes out with his arm, one final attack even as Drift finally lands the final blow that shatters his face. The pieces of his face give one last reluctant shiver, then fall apart. There's a glimpse of a warm brown pair of eyes, and a shock of black hair, then it's swallowed up by the rapid decay of his ribcage, spreading outwards.

Drift can't pull back enough in time, and Rico's last attack catches him in the face, down his neck. He hisses in pain, but Rico's already dead, disintegrating quickly under him, and he rolls away on his hands and knees, the anger and the guilt and the adrenaline all catching up to him in one nauseous rush. He hangs there for a second, waiting to heave, but it doesn't come, just leaves him drenched in a cold sweat. The demonic traces fade from his skin, leaving him feeling cold and drained and empty, and for a second he feels like an addict in withdrawal all over again. He'd lost control there, and Rico had known it -- antagonized him, provoked him -- but he can't be wholly to blame. It was Drift who let go first.

His sword is still up in that tenth story apartment, and so is Rico's arm, come to think of it. Can't leave those there. He's bleeding from Rico's last attack and the jagged bite in his shoulder has gravel rubbed in it from the fall, and on top of that the broken ribs are making it hard to breathe -- Ratchet. He'll go to Ratchet's. But not before retrieving what he left behind.

At least Rico's dead.

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

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