#i am violently ripping out my brain and shoving this au in its place oh my god | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

libermachinae · 4 years

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Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

~*~

Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

~*~

No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

~*~

“This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

~*~

He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

~*~

“I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

~*~

Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

~*~

He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

~*~

He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

~*~

He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

~*~

Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

#maccadams #transformers #idw #whirl #abuse tw #death tw #my writing #oneshot #drops in a bucket #tbh im just so glad this is done #put too much time into it

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peaches-of-1 · 6 years

Text

Demon AU: 666 So Fresh- Chapter 1

I have tried to tag everything I think should be tagged. If there’s something else that you’d like me to tag, anything, please let me know. If you want more warning tags here at the beginning as well, please let me know. The last thing I wanna do is trigger trauma for anyone.

Warnings: Attempted rape, attempted suicides (by a member), violent scene descriptions

Type: Angst, fluff, romance

Taehyung (V), Yoongi (Suga), OC Zula

Summary: College sophomore Zula is a demon. Yoongi is a Demon. Taehyung is a demon. Well, sort of. Two of them are half demon and have gotten into some deep trouble recently. This trouble helped them to find each other and more importantly, their freedom from human confines. What will they do with this freedom? Read and find out. Bonus points if you get the reference, aka the basis for this story.

Zula knew she should have just stayed home. This was her first time at a frat party, and everything sucked. If only her roommate wasn’t fucking in their dorm right now. She decided to sit on the porch in her short tennis skirt and a crop top with The Beatles on it to catch her breath.

“Want a sip?” A familiar voice asked her.

Zula looked up and it was one of the frat brothers who offered her a red solo cup filled with something strong in smell and blue in color.

“No thanks, Jungkook. I don’t like to drink. Dulls the senses too much.” She turned her attention back to the campus scenery.

He sat next to her, “Your loss.” He drank the liquid and then looked at her. “I see you around campus all the time, but you mostly keep to yourself, don’t you?”

Zula nodded in reply. “If I were a brand, I’d be the Anti Social Social Club.”

Jungkook laughed, “You’re such a girl next door, but like, with an edgelord twist. I like it.”

“Thanks,” she chuckled.

Jungkook was called away and some Frat Bro took his place talking to Zula. She wasn’t interested. He was a joke of a human. Laughable.

“What are you into?” He asked, drinking out of a green bottle.

She tapped her daggers-shaped earrings, “Knives. I think they’re cool.”

He started talking about his knife collection. “I live here at the house, so we can go up to my room if you wanna see them.”

Zula said she would go up to see the knives and nothing more. He put his arms up in mock surrender and promised it would only be for the knives.

Yoongi knew he shouldn’t have used his powers in public especially when his targets were also demons. He had just shown his horns for intimidation. Either way, it didn’t work and now he was being chased by humans and demons that looked like humans.

It was just his wallet this time. They were stronger Spawn than him, so he ran. He had to lose these guys. Yoongi bolted down the new pathway only to be blocked by a wall, so he turned around. They were already there. Fuck this shit.

Yoongi just laughed as an inhuman hand grabbed his collar and another punched him. Survival instincts kicked in, and his Demon form came out. The others couldn’t keep their human forms either and revealed their true selves in their scaled glory. The actual humans ran away screaming at the sight, hoping to blame it on the alcohol come morning.

“Run, run, fast as you can!” Yoongi giggled until he passed out from pain.

Taehyung’s fascination with death had always been. Not all death. His death. Ever since he was young, people always called him a sick freak because of all his attempts and now refused to help him. Maybe if they hadn’t written off his terrorizing of girls as liking them, he would have gotten help. He would have been normal now, not this laughable shell of a human.

He sighed. Welp, it was too late for that. Time for death. What would be today’s method? He looked at the options before him.

He’d suffocate by putting a plastic bag over his head. Yeah, that seemed cool. He used tape to secure it to his throat. This version of death felt so cool. This version of leaving this planet. And yet like every time before, it wouldn’t come. Taehyung was forced into this place that acted as a sort of in between, it was like–

Ripping the bag open, he returned to the world of the living. Well, another attempt failed. He sighed and used his dead mother’s lipstick to make a mark on the horizontal mirror on the wall. There were hundreds of marks in different shades of red and orange that had accumulated over the years.

“I’ll go for a walk.” He said to himself. Maybe if he got out, the world would finally crush him.

Frat Bro took the knives out of the closet, and she ran her fingers over their curves. Noted the colors. He placed his hands on her hips.

“So, is it sexual?” He pressed himself against her back. “Your knife thing. Does it get you off? If that’s what you’re into, we can do that.”

She furrowed her brows, “I’m not. No! Get off of me!” He caught her arms as she turned and tried to push him away. “I said I just came for the fucking knives, I’m not the type of girl you want.”

Her body twisted as she tried to get free. His hands slid over her sides.

A dirty smile on his lips, “I just have to have you, though.”

“I said, NO!” Her whole body felt ripped apart. She blacked out. The music covered the screams, so no one bothered to intrude.

Yoongi woke up alone and in pain around dusk. Had he spent the day passed out in an alleyway? Hell Spawn healed quickly, so a good stretch, and he was good to go.

He thought it’d be the usual routine. Sneaking into bars. Stealing stuff. Drinking. However, when he got to the bar, the devil in him got a bit too excited and wouldn’t be satisfied with a wallet or two.

Not tonight. He needed a ride. Which idiots left their keys out in the open? Two chicks at the bar, dressed up in sequins and smelling like an entire bath bomb. Bingo. He acted rowdy and threw both arms over them.

“Ey, pretty ladies, which one of you wants a good time with me?”

The two shoved him off, “We’re girlfriends, asshole!”

“Sorry, sorry, my bad. Cute couple!” He backed away after grabbing their keys and heading to the parking deck to see which ride they belonged to.

Zula woke up and looked at her throbbing and wet hands. Why were they red? Blood. The walls were covered with it. The floor was dyed with its hue. Oh fuck oh fuck. There’s no way she could have done all of this. Zula tried to clean up the mess. She wasn’t strong enough to do this on her own.

So, Zula grabbed one of his zip up hoodies, put it on, and ran. She always had a bunch of stamina, so she ran for a while. She had to get away, far away from this place. The more distance there was, the less they’d suspect it was her. Walking was better for thinking though, so she slowed her pace.

What happened? What would she tell the cops if she was found out? The truth: He tried to rape her. Lured her to his room with the promise of knives. Didn’t he deserve sex then for showing her something she liked? No, no, that’s not how it worked. People don’t deserve sex for being nice. Besides, she only went with him because he said he wouldn’t try anything.

Wait, where was she? Didn’t matter. Wherever she was, it was awful quiet for a Friday night. She was trembling so much that she couldn’t feel her legs.

She looked at herself in a shop window. Her eyes looked more reptilian, more gold than their regular hazel. Not possible. It was just Zula’s brain freaking out. She was just in shock. Obviously. That’s all it was.

The girl stopped in the middle of the road and looked at headlights. There was also a face. It wondered what the hell was she doing. It was the first human she had seen in a while.

The owner of the face opened the door and called out to her, “Are you gonna stand there all night, or ya gonna hop in?”

Nodding, Zula got in the car and the two drove off. She was waiting for his questions. He surely had to have a few. She was a mess, but he looked sort of messy too. Now she had questions, but no one said anything. He just handed her a beach towel that was left in the back seat.

After a quick glance, she took the towel and wiped her hands of the still wet blood. Why was he acting so ok about this? Zula was about to ask when a figure stepped in front of their car.

Taehyung wandered empty streets. Bright headlights caught the corner of his eye. A car. He’d never tried that before.

Tae smirked and stepped out in front of it. The gravel sharp against his skin as he tumbled across the road. Maybe a few broken bones if he was lucky. A new sensation. This was the most he’d felt in a while.

Someone grabbed the front of his shirt and was screaming something.

“What the hell was that, dude? What sort of demon just walks in the middle of the road in front of a car like that?” Yoongi yelled, pushing his face into the road.

Demon?

“Demon?” It seemed like the girl he was with was trying to hold him back, but he pushed her away.

“Yeah, Demon. You’re one. I’m one. He’s and idiot, but he’s a demon too.” He spoke as if it was obvious. “Why else would I have let a person looking like you in anywhere near me? You’re covered in blood, for Lucifer’s sake!”

“Demon’s don’t exist, you crack pipe!” She screamed.

A deep voice filled with glee spoke, “Am I really a demon? How would you even know if I was or not?”

Yoongi looked at the stranger in his grasp, “Your eyes are a dead give away. Not to mention you’re Hiding yourselves right now.”

Zula spoke. So it wasn’t just her mind playing tricks on her, “My...my eyes? What do you mean Hiding?”

He looked at her then back at the man who was smiling and bleeding, “Are...are you serious? You really, you guys really don’t know what you are?”

“Hopeless.” V chuckled.

“A sophomore in college who is way in over her head!” She paced in the middle of the street and put her hands on her face.

Yoongi stood and put his hands on his head, “Oh my Hell. Just get back in the car. We’re taking him with us. I can’t have two demons who don’t know they’re demons acting crazy and outing us like this.”

Zula did as told while the first stranger lifted the crazy stranger over his shoulder and put him in the back seat of the car. He was crazy attractive too. He didn’t say anything more, just sort of watched. Yoongi got back into the driver’s seat.

“What year where you guys born?”

“1995″ He said.

“1998″ She said.

Yoongi nodded, “That explains it. From ‘95 until 2000, there was a spike in Spawn who fraternized with humans. You guys are Demi-Spawn. Like Hell Spawn, aka Demons, but half.”

Neither believed what they were hearing. It explained so much about them. According to the strange man, going through times of high emotion would activate a Demi-Spawn’s powers which depended on where their parent came from.

Zula spoke up, “So, one of my parents came from Hell?”

“Right.”

“And I killed a guy using demon powers? My demon powers.”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind me asking, what was he doing that made you wanna kill him?”

She swallowed and folded her arms, “He tried to rape me.”

“Lust, thought so. The highly negative but sexual encounter awakened you.” Yoongi’s eyes flickered to the back seat. “As for you, your mom or pop is probably from Wrath.”

“And you?” Taehyung asked.

“Greed.”

V spoke up, scratching the lower part of his mullet, “So, should we tell each other our names or something?”

“No, no names. Once we get to the middle of nowhere, you're gone. I can't--”

“Please.” The husky voice said. “Let’s stay together. I’ve been searching for this all of my life. You can’t just drop us.”

Yoongi set his jaw, “We’ll see.”

They drove all night in silence. Yoongi looked at them. Unlike him, those two needed sleep. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they stuck together.

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