A Bloody Tradition
May. 4th, 2020 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerHis parentage isn’t quite as resilient as a Sparda, but most of it is due to the fact that he’s still a teenager and hasn’t grown into his full power yet. Also because Sparda was a freakin’ tank.
EDIT: because whoops, I forgot to address this. Xander also has an...interesting relationship with the fact that one of his parents was a devil and the other was a human (like Dante in DMC3). He enjoys the powers it gives him, but hasn't ever quite shaken the idea that he needs to redeem himself because without action he'd be a monster (kinda mirroring Angel's thought process there). He'd be the first to say that blood doesn't make one a monster (Spike or his other Devil Arms, for instance), but has issues connecting that to himself (partly due to the trauma). All this is the long way to say that, just like canon, Xander has a bit of an issue with hating himself. He shouldn't be using terms like 'half-breed' to describe himself (see his outburst at Giles in When a Plan Comes Together), and even kind of knows that, but still internalized some problematic ideas. He'll work his way through it with help.
also edits within main work.
Main Points:
Buffy/Devil May Cry
Chapter Summary: Xander gets into a fight with some demons.
Word Count: 920
Rating: Teen
Warning: normal Devil May Cry style violence. a slur talked about above.
Xander feels alive, breathing in the cold air, letting the darkening shadows wash over his skin, warm and comforting like his favorite jacket. (Well…he’s kind of assuming warm at this point; it’s more a feeling than a temperature in his brain because he’d been standing next to a stove one day and realized suddenly that temperature is not a thing he can feel and it wasn’t always that way.) He’s tempted to stroll casually, enjoying the beginning of the night, but he’s got to talk to his family, and Buffy at the very least isn’t the type to wait quietly. Plus he’s on the clock, kinda. So he steps up.
After one block, he suspects. After two he’s sure. Fortunately, he knows an out of the way, quiet little deserted lot that used to be parking for a grocery store that had since closed. He takes a little detour. “You wanna come out? I know you’re there.”
Human, plus not-human. Hmm. Nothing stirs. “C’mon, you’re insulting me now.”
They bleed out of the lengthening, oddly iridescent shadows, flowing into vaguely hunched, gargoyle-like forms. Shaede. Huh. He thought that felt demonic, not fae, a little more familiar, a little less weird by his standards, but still, not what he would’ve expected. Shaede were…what was it, he’s fought them before—drawn to curses, that’s right.
Maybe somebody’d cursed him? It’s not the first time someone’s tried, and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last.
Of course they’d have to jump him when he’s unarmed, though.
Well, relatively unarmed. He’s been looking for a chance to try one of his new acquisitions out, and they’re not the only ones who can play with shadows. He’s just glad he wore his boots.
He pulls the dagger out—well, to the untrained eye, it looks like a dagger. Fortunately, like a Minbari fighting pike, it’s more than it appears. “Thanks, Kalvul,” he whispers, and it lengthens as desired. It’s no Kryvi or Asmosaos, but he gets the feeling it’s curious to see what he’ll do, how well he’ll wield it.
He sinks into the shadows, reappearing behind one of them, power building for an attack, and it doesn’t have to have an expression for him to feel the bewilderment as he uses the exact same movement they do. He isn’t half Shaede. They’re not human enough, and there’s the complete lack of the whole bone-dragon thing, and the fact that as demons even to a half-breed they’re comparatively weak, but there’s similarity enough he’s sure he’s got some kind of shadow devil in the family tree. Just has to find the right one.
His new acquisition tears through the wavery shape like tissue paper, and they’re down to four. With a grin more demonic than human he flings himself backward, landing in an easy crouch, balancing fully with one hand before surging back upright, catching another one where a human gut would be just as it phases in trying to catch him off guard. There’s an easy joy to battle, and they’ve made an even bigger mistake tackling him, because he can feel them move through the darkness. In its struggles to pull itself off the sword it just does itself further damage. And then there were three.
One of them manages to catch his shoulder, but it’s nothing, just a little blood. The next two he catches with a sweep as they try to catch him from above, and unfortunately one of them manages to turn intangible before Kalvul goes through. He punches the next into the wall of the abandoned building so hard it cracks, and there’s definite blood. He steps back, blends into the shadows, and pulls himself adjacent to the stunned demon. It doesn’t have time to turn intangible before its blood, too, is staining the pavement. The last one, he feels, Mr. Intangible, has fled. Good plan.
And then, suddenly, he’s coughing and on his knees. When did that happen? He struggles to take a breath but it feels like it’s being filtered through a mask of sand, and he’s shaking from the power bubbling up inside, straining to break free.
“Mr. Davis!” It’s—right, police lady. His hands are shaking pretty badly, and she sounds really, really far away.
“S-stay back,” he manages, shaky. What had he missed? Oh yeah, Shaede can infect your shadow. Was it the one he thought had fled? Or was there a sixth? He’d stepped into the light. Just the last rays of the sun, but it’s enough to provoke it. He feels his arm move on its own, hears the fury in Kalvul’s voice as it bellows a war-cry and spears his shadow, which squeals and begins to struggle. Viciously it stabs, over and over, until suddenly the sword, now a dagger once more, clatters out of his hand. It stops moving, but the extension of shadow’s still stuck in his chest. He sighs and forces a hand up to grasp the thing.
“Don’t. I'll radio my partner, and we'll get you an ambulance," she insists, stress and professionalism warring in her voice, and he manages a bloody grimace.
“If I don’t, I’m just going to keep trying to heal around the thing,” he disagrees. This is worse than he’s ever been hurt and it’s annoying and painful, but he’s pretty sure he’ll just heal from this, too, and, well, there’s only one way to find out, right?
The screams kinda blend with the darkness, but at least it’s kind of welcoming.
EDIT: because whoops, I forgot to address this. Xander also has an...interesting relationship with the fact that one of his parents was a devil and the other was a human (like Dante in DMC3). He enjoys the powers it gives him, but hasn't ever quite shaken the idea that he needs to redeem himself because without action he'd be a monster (kinda mirroring Angel's thought process there). He'd be the first to say that blood doesn't make one a monster (Spike or his other Devil Arms, for instance), but has issues connecting that to himself (partly due to the trauma). All this is the long way to say that, just like canon, Xander has a bit of an issue with hating himself. He shouldn't be using terms like 'half-breed' to describe himself (see his outburst at Giles in When a Plan Comes Together), and even kind of knows that, but still internalized some problematic ideas. He'll work his way through it with help.
also edits within main work.
Main Points:
Buffy/Devil May Cry
Chapter Summary: Xander gets into a fight with some demons.
Word Count: 920
Rating: Teen
Warning: normal Devil May Cry style violence. a slur talked about above.
Xander feels alive, breathing in the cold air, letting the darkening shadows wash over his skin, warm and comforting like his favorite jacket. (Well…he’s kind of assuming warm at this point; it’s more a feeling than a temperature in his brain because he’d been standing next to a stove one day and realized suddenly that temperature is not a thing he can feel and it wasn’t always that way.) He’s tempted to stroll casually, enjoying the beginning of the night, but he’s got to talk to his family, and Buffy at the very least isn’t the type to wait quietly. Plus he’s on the clock, kinda. So he steps up.
After one block, he suspects. After two he’s sure. Fortunately, he knows an out of the way, quiet little deserted lot that used to be parking for a grocery store that had since closed. He takes a little detour. “You wanna come out? I know you’re there.”
Human, plus not-human. Hmm. Nothing stirs. “C’mon, you’re insulting me now.”
They bleed out of the lengthening, oddly iridescent shadows, flowing into vaguely hunched, gargoyle-like forms. Shaede. Huh. He thought that felt demonic, not fae, a little more familiar, a little less weird by his standards, but still, not what he would’ve expected. Shaede were…what was it, he’s fought them before—drawn to curses, that’s right.
Maybe somebody’d cursed him? It’s not the first time someone’s tried, and he’s pretty sure it won’t be the last.
Of course they’d have to jump him when he’s unarmed, though.
Well, relatively unarmed. He’s been looking for a chance to try one of his new acquisitions out, and they’re not the only ones who can play with shadows. He’s just glad he wore his boots.
He pulls the dagger out—well, to the untrained eye, it looks like a dagger. Fortunately, like a Minbari fighting pike, it’s more than it appears. “Thanks, Kalvul,” he whispers, and it lengthens as desired. It’s no Kryvi or Asmosaos, but he gets the feeling it’s curious to see what he’ll do, how well he’ll wield it.
He sinks into the shadows, reappearing behind one of them, power building for an attack, and it doesn’t have to have an expression for him to feel the bewilderment as he uses the exact same movement they do. He isn’t half Shaede. They’re not human enough, and there’s the complete lack of the whole bone-dragon thing, and the fact that as demons even to a half-breed they’re comparatively weak, but there’s similarity enough he’s sure he’s got some kind of shadow devil in the family tree. Just has to find the right one.
His new acquisition tears through the wavery shape like tissue paper, and they’re down to four. With a grin more demonic than human he flings himself backward, landing in an easy crouch, balancing fully with one hand before surging back upright, catching another one where a human gut would be just as it phases in trying to catch him off guard. There’s an easy joy to battle, and they’ve made an even bigger mistake tackling him, because he can feel them move through the darkness. In its struggles to pull itself off the sword it just does itself further damage. And then there were three.
One of them manages to catch his shoulder, but it’s nothing, just a little blood. The next two he catches with a sweep as they try to catch him from above, and unfortunately one of them manages to turn intangible before Kalvul goes through. He punches the next into the wall of the abandoned building so hard it cracks, and there’s definite blood. He steps back, blends into the shadows, and pulls himself adjacent to the stunned demon. It doesn’t have time to turn intangible before its blood, too, is staining the pavement. The last one, he feels, Mr. Intangible, has fled. Good plan.
And then, suddenly, he’s coughing and on his knees. When did that happen? He struggles to take a breath but it feels like it’s being filtered through a mask of sand, and he’s shaking from the power bubbling up inside, straining to break free.
“Mr. Davis!” It’s—right, police lady. His hands are shaking pretty badly, and she sounds really, really far away.
“S-stay back,” he manages, shaky. What had he missed? Oh yeah, Shaede can infect your shadow. Was it the one he thought had fled? Or was there a sixth? He’d stepped into the light. Just the last rays of the sun, but it’s enough to provoke it. He feels his arm move on its own, hears the fury in Kalvul’s voice as it bellows a war-cry and spears his shadow, which squeals and begins to struggle. Viciously it stabs, over and over, until suddenly the sword, now a dagger once more, clatters out of his hand. It stops moving, but the extension of shadow’s still stuck in his chest. He sighs and forces a hand up to grasp the thing.
“Don’t. I'll radio my partner, and we'll get you an ambulance," she insists, stress and professionalism warring in her voice, and he manages a bloody grimace.
“If I don’t, I’m just going to keep trying to heal around the thing,” he disagrees. This is worse than he’s ever been hurt and it’s annoying and painful, but he’s pretty sure he’ll just heal from this, too, and, well, there’s only one way to find out, right?
The screams kinda blend with the darkness, but at least it’s kind of welcoming.
