Archive of Our Own

The ritual had plagued Pocket’s mind for months before it started. It was their one opportunity to overtake their father and all of his power, money, and status; of course, it consumed their every waking moment. Ever since the Hidden King recruited them, they’d been preparing for it, making sure they knew every alley and corner in the city, making sure their aim was on point, researching every participant they heard rumors were joining.

So, naturally, they were pleased when the Hidden King’s Court reached out to them and their fellow ritualists to inform them of the hideout, a haven for everyone to meet and plan, veiled from the public by the Court’s magic. They counted 17 people at the first meeting, excluding themself. It was an interesting cast to say the least, and it made Pocket’s stomach turn to imagine trying to work with all the different personalities standing on the concrete of the unfinished landscape of the hideout.

Luckily, they had time to get used to it. And they had a woman so admirably motivated to get everyone’s shit together, Pocket almost forgot she was a fed who assassinated people in their sleep. With Haze’s direction, they managed to create the bones of a plan that could sustain through the many variables of the night that would be the Maelstrom. They’d work loosely in pairs of two until The Archmother’s first line of defense was breached. The goat-headed man called Billy complained there was no way they were using the buddy system for the summoning of eldritch gods, but Pocket had an inkling his moaning had more to do with the fact they’d all resigned to listening to a government agent. They, for one, were relieved. They liked working alone and didn’t doubt they’d be slipping away from their partner’s line of sight every so often, but it was reassuring to have someone to rely on, at least in the beginning.

The group then went on to assign partners; there would be an even nine pairs. Pocket’s eyes had immediately darted to Mo and Krill’s, who had already established they were a package deal. Working with them would be ideal, but they weren’t going off of preference, here. They held an open conversation, going over everyone’s capabilities and who’d work best together strategically, including such questions as, "Could Ivy carry the hundreds of pounds of steel that is Bebop?" “Who do we pair the 5-year-old chimera with?” “Could Graves bring us back faster than our patron?”

It was long after dark when the duos were finally settled on. Unfortunately, Mo and Krill had been paired with the vengeful spirit Vindicta once Krill had shown the rest of them how his rifle could hold someone in place—the opportune time for Vindicta to place a bullet between their eyes. The two had later told Pocket they were equally as disappointed not to be paired with them, but couldn’t deny that the force that was Mo was good protection for their sniper. Pocket, instead, ended up with Haze. It was one of the pairs that was left over. Mo and Krill were tactically better elsewhere, and so was Haze’s choice of partner, who she revealed to them had been the little chimera boy. They supposed it made sense; the kid had called her mom the entire meeting. But taking a noisy toddler with her as she went invisible to try and stealth behind the opponents didn’t seem wise.

Pocket was fine with this. She was sensible and definitely better than getting paired with some of the other people here, like the obnoxious showboat Lash or Billy, who seemed dedicated to being the biggest contrarian alive. Pocket thought they could hold their own and keep up with her just fine. Things were looking up until, of course, the spectral fortune teller who’d notified them all of the Hideout’s whereabouts informed them that a member of their little meetup never showed up. 19 ritualists were serving under the Hidden King. With stress already so high about the ritual, this only made everyone groan. The meeting had been going on for hours at this point, after all, and an uneven number meant there had to be either a group of three or a soloist. Haze reassured everyone that they’d surely show up eventually, and they could alter the pairings once they met them. The fortune teller promised they’d continue to ask for their presence, and the Court of the Hidden King’s first meeting disbanded shortly after.

Days passed, then weeks, and then it was the night before the Maelstrom, and still, this mysterious 19th member hadn’t shown up. The fortune teller never saw their 19th pass through like many of them often did, taking advantage of the area for testing magic and aim training (and for many of them, hiding from one thing or the next). A missing member only heightened Pocket's anxiety over the whole endeavor. They didn’t want to be down a member when they still didn’t know how many people the Archmother had.

Not everyone was at the Hideout that night. They’d be meeting tomorrow anyway, with ample time for thorough preparation and discussion, so many opted for sleep. Haze sat at the fireplace, holding her forehead like she was about to snap, and Pocket could relate to the irritation. Must be worse for the one who’d stepped up and taken a leading role in all this shit.

Pocket gently sat down on the armchair across from her and cleared their throat to grab her attention. She looked over expectantly. They tried not to show their own unease as they spoke, “...They’re still not here, huh.”

Haze heaved a breath, “No shit,” and then paused for a second, features softening slightly, “...Sorry. But yes—they clearly don’t care about the team.”

Pocket felt bad for her, but they don’t think she’d care too much for useless sympathies. They got to the point. “Have you thought about where we’ll put them?”

“I don’t think I can reorganize the groups. We’ve spent the past month getting used to each other, and I have a feeling our teamwork is going to make this victory.” She starts, then her eyes narrow like she’s thought this over a hundred times. “That being said, if I make this 19th person roam alone and they’re not suited for it, we could be permanently down a teammate anyway.” She shakes her head, and Pocket admires for a second how the smoke that radiates off of her twirls in the air.

“So… we should have a team of three?” They ask.

Haze sighs. “Maybe. Depends. I think Abrams and Geist could handle a wildcard. Even then… God, what if it’s some recluse who’s never been on a battlefield in their life and they hold them back?” She rubs her forehead harder, face tightening in frustration. “I’m overthinking this.”

Pocket gnaws on their lip in thought. Both of them were, probably, overreacting. Even though it sucked, they couldn’t help but think it was a good show of Haze’s character. Caring this much made them think she actually fought for the better ideals of her job, that she wasn’t just in it mindlessly because she was told to. They could respect that, even if imagining her body count made them sick.

“No, I get it. We’re all volatile right now. A surprise change in plans could snowball into something worse.” They say, watching the fireplace and Haze’s smoke flicker. An idea comes to them, “You know… if you want to roam, I can partner with them. Then we’d still have even teams, and you could do what you do best.”

Haze raises a brow, silent for a moment as she considers the offer. She looks more conflicted than anything, and Pocket wouldn’t be surprised if she’d already considered it but put it out of her mind for their sake. After all, Haze would be the best suited for solo work. Getting caught alone would mean certain death, and there was no doubt she had the lowest chance of being found. “You think you can manage? You don’t strike me as exactly the… friendly type.”

Pocket scoffs a laugh. “Yeah, from what we know? I don't think this mystery person is, either.”

They almost see a smile on her face. She shifts on the couch, “Fair. Still…”

“I can adapt. If we meet them tomorrow and it’s really that bad, we can improvise them elsewhere.” They say.

Haze inspects them. “You’re being awfully considerate.”

It’s simple. “I need our team to win.”

Her gaze is understanding as she nods. “I appreciate this, Pocket. We’ll finalize this tomorrow night. I’ll keep an eye on you two during the ritual if you do pair up.”

Pocket returns the gesture before standing up. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon, Haze.”

They’re comforted that she looks more relaxed than she did before the interaction, her shoulders just a tad less tense. They pick their case up and leave her back to her brooding as she nods goodbye. The streets are emptier than usual. With the ritual coming up so soon, many of the richer class had already evacuated to safe houses or left the city. General anxiety around the event led people to hole up, as the news recommended they do so all of tomorrow night.

Pocket goes back to the tunnels. If things go awry during the summoning, they want their last day to be spent with Mo and Krill.

As promised, they met Haze the next day. And like they expected, they’re both among those who showed up early. The fortune teller, speaking on behalf of the Hidden King, had informed them that the patrons would slip the veil between planes around midnight, when the mystic energy of the storm peaked. That was when they’d start their siege on the enemy, and they’d have only a few hours to banish The Archmother before both patrons faded into their own worlds once again.

This time, they’re not at the hideout, but rather a dilapidated factory downtown, where they’d been directed. Why the Hidden King would be conjured into their reality here, Pocket didn’t know, but they didn’t care much. About half of them mull around the building currently, watching as the spectral assistants of the Court drew a circle of runes on the ground. The clock was only at 9:00, and the streets were wholly devoid of human life. Pocket was sure every normal citizen in their homes had their ear to the radio, peeking between their blinds in anticipation.

Haze looks extra squared away tonight. They’d never seen her without her uniform, but the knives and ammo strapped to her torso were new. They thought the smoke she emitted seemed more intense. They wouldn’t be surprised if whatever magic made that happen was being affected by the buzzing energy that seemed to fill the air. It’d been ramping up all day, and the frogs were restless in their case.

“Guess they’re really cutting it to the last minute,” Pocket said as they approached her, watching as she took apart her gun and cleaned it, though it already looked pristine to them. She shrugs, mind clearly resigned elsewhere for now.

“Yeah,” She says, lifting her head for a moment. They expect more about their missing member, but that’s not what they get when she continues, “You ready for this, kid?”

Pocket’s brow furrows. “I’ve told you, I’m not a kid. But I’m ready.”

“Good. Try not to think too much about your partner, alright? I’ll try to be in your two’s area in case it gets bad.” She ignores their remark about not being a kid completely, but the rest of it is assuring enough that they don’t even notice.

“Thanks. I will,” They say, taking a deep breath and deciding it’d be better to do what everyone else is; preparing their gear, getting used to the factory that’d be their base for the night, and discussing drills with the rest of the team.

The next few hours went just like that. They’d made sure 12 times over the enchantments on their coat functioned properly, had gone into the case and warned the frogs what’d be happening tonight (they talked to the souls a lot, but they still weren’t exactly sure if they could understand), and had thoroughly spoken to some of the Hidden King’s followers about every detail they knew of the ritual so far. The followers, who had spent their time stacking wood as high as they could, as if they were setting up a bonfire.

Now, they were helping Krill comfort Mo’s nerves. Apparently, on their way here, they’d run into a performer Mo knew from Coney Island, who said she'd be serving The Archmother, and he was feeling guilty about the whole thing. All of the team had arrived by now, all except their mystery-ritualist, and the fortune teller had informed everyone that the Maelstrom would reach its apex any time within the next hour. Pocket could feel everyone’s suspense filling the air.

And that was when the figure appeared in the open garage door. His face was obscured by dark hair and the brim of a newsboy cap, but the skin they could see was deathly pale. He was freakishly tall, with broad shoulders and massive hands that were stained red. Once he lifted his head, they could see his eyes were the same color, bright and piercing in a way that made Pocket shiver. His features were sharp, and ominously, of all, he wore a wide, unfaltering smile that showed off fangs, the tell-tale sign of vampirism.

For a moment, his gaze made them freeze so hard they didn’t process that he was their last participant, like he couldn't be anything but a threat coming to kill them. Pocket swallowed hard. They got the urge to reach out and grab Mo’s hand, maybe hide their face in his fur like they used to do when they were 18 and clinging to the only comfort they had. Luckily, they didn’t need to, because they felt Mo’s hand on their shoulder, pulling them closer defensively as he and Krill saw the vampire as well.

Not everyone had noticed him yet, but those who had didn’t know what to do. Pocket tried to calm down. Despite his terrifying gaze and the easy, dangerous confidence he emitted, he was on their side, right? It’s not like he’d done anything yet.

Still, they couldn’t bring themself to say anything as he approached, whistling when he saw the high ceiling and the massive rune circle. His smile widened pointedly at the attention he had now. "Ain't this somethin'? Some of these sigils I ain't seen in centuries…"

The group exchanged glances between their most trusted. There's an inkling growing in Pocket's chest cavity that they might know who this man is—but they don't know for sure. Stories of a vampire so old that not even the Vampire Nation knew his true age, let alone his true name. A man who left victims unrecognizable, the story that many parents scared their children with to make them obey curfew. The Drifter was a legend, and Pocket had largely thought he was simply that. A serial killer who'd taken one too many bodies in the past and had since then been blamed for similar cases and copycats for generations to follow. But this guy's sheer presence had their gut telling them to run, and it made them think if there was a Drifter walking this Earth, it'd be him.

With all the shit Billy'd been talking about tearing this 19th participant a new one when they finally decided to show up, he looked just as scared as Pocket felt. Luckily, Haze's composure was barely shaken. She did, however, glance at Pocket with concern before she spoke to the man.

"You're late, if you haven't noticed," She said, her usual smoky hiss of a voice singed with ire.

He inspected her like she was some sort of specimen. "Well, I had business to attend to, miss!" The tension between the two is palpable to Pocket even standing meters away. "Now ain't you mighty interesting. A sandman, right?"

She doesn't let his casual tone irk her. "You'll call me Haze. Who are you?"

"Ah… names," The man says, bringing his gaze lazily in a circle around the room, and then back to Haze. "I think you know who I am, miss. You tellin' me the OSIC don't got a file on me, or somethin'?"

Haze's brow twitches. "So you are the Drifter."

"Exactly. Nice to meet you, Miss Sandman." He says, his voice satisfied and smooth. The confirmation makes multiple faces in the room pale. He seems to revel in it."So, what'd I miss, friends?"

"Stop making a scene of yourself. I'll tell you the plan." She sounds fed up with his bullshit, and Pocket is impressed and relieved she can so effortlessly deal with such an intimidating figure. They suppose that if the OSIC had tabs on him, it made sense she'd be prepared for this.

Drifter chuckles. "Bossy." He says, but he obeys, walking to Haze. It diffuses the tension somewhat, but everyone is still a little distracted.

"Jesus… just glad he's on our side," They hear Abrams mutter.

Krill looks down at Pocket, and Mo squeezes them tighter. "That's… who your partner is supposed to be?"

"Yeah… guess so," They say, gently setting their own hand on Mo's big paw. "I'll be okay. Don't worry about me." They were sort of terrified about being left alone with someone like him, but they could be strong… they had to. It wasn't like he could hurt them, unless he wanted to sabotage their chances.

"Pocket…" Krill says.

"Hey. It's fine. Focus on yourself, okay? We won't be in pairs that long, anyway," They reassure them, and take a deep breath as they look back to Haze, who has her arms crossed as she talks to the beast of a man they've just been saddled up with. They can't hide from this forever, and despite their fear, they know they should talk to him, as well. They'd prepared everything else extensively; they couldn't let some nerves stop them now.

They come over quietly, trying their best to square their shoulders and not be intimidated as they get closer. He's even bigger at this distance, with easily a foot on them. He smells pungently of death and old blood.

"We should expect their patron to have the same amount of defense we do, so—" Haze pauses as she notices them. Drifter speaks before she can.

"And who's this li'l 'ting?" He says, looking down at Pocket patronizingly, like a child who dared to speak with the adults. Besides that, there's a weird sparkle in his eye that they don't understand.

Pocket's eyes narrow, and they hope he doesn't see them bristle. "I'm Pocket. I'll be your partner for the first phase of the ritual."

Drifter looks amusedly back at Haze, who is squeezing the bridge of her nose between two fingers. "Oh? That so? I thought we was partners, miss?"

Now it's Pocket's turn to look at her. They're a tad offended and a little confused. "Haze?"

Haze sighs deeply. "Sorry, Pocket. I was going to work with him and have you join Mo and Vindicta's group, it seemed simpler—"

"Now why can't the kid work wit' me?" He says, every word intentionally dense to annoy Haze.

It's working; she's clearly tired of being cut off. "Just thought we'd work better together. You wanted to be with Mo and Krill anyway, didn't you?"

Pocket knew she was worried for them. They didn't need her pity; they hadn't been a kid for years, and they were sick of being treated like one. "But you wanted to work alone. We both agreed that'd be best." They say, unable to resist standing their ground.

Drifter looks endlessly humored by the two as Haze grits her teeth and responds, "Right, but Drifter could hold his own in a pair, so I can roam alone even if we're partnered—"

She's interrupted again. Pocket can't believe her. "You think I can't hold my own? Haze, a group of four, and a pair that splits more often than not? You know that's clunky, we already talked about this!"

"Yeah, miss, come on, why don't ya let me and the kiddo here work together?" Drifter adds, smiling at Pocket. He's supporting their point, but God, his tone sure isn't comforting.

"Pocket…" She says, sounding exasperated. "If… if you think you can handle it."

"This'll work better for everyone, Haze. It's okay." They confirm.

"Right." She says, more than a little put off by Drifter's enthusiastic expression as they both agree.

"Why don'tcha leave him and me alone for a bit? Let us discuss our strategy and whatnot?" Drifter says. Haze shoots them a look that's clearly asking what they think first. The kind of concern that cares about their input, the kind they would've much preferred a moment ago. Pocket nods at her. They'd have to get used to being alone around him, anyway.

Haze sighs. "Fine. Pocket, scream if you need anything." And with that, she marched off to Silver to confiscate the flask she was currently drinking from.

Being alone with Drifter made their spine tickle. That Cajun drawl drew their attention from Haze, and they found he was all too close behind them as he spoke. "Pocket, yeah? Cute name."

Again, that patronizing tone. "Yeah. And you're… just Drifter?"

"That's right. Heard of me?"

They didn't know what angle he was taking, but it made them feel like they had to be careful choosing their words. "Once or twice… thought you were a myth, but I guess I was wrong." They eye him suspiciously. They can't believe this was the flake they and Haze had been worrying over for weeks, given how ominously friendly he was acting. They'd always imagined some shut-in who was too busy speaking to spirits they'd summoned, or something, not a centuries-old serial killer.

They shiver at their own wording. It sinks in just how much he's done, the horror stories they'd heard back at Blackmore when the coolest thing kids could do was talk about the deepest corners of occult secrets. They clear their throat awkwardly and hope Drifter can't sense their unease. "I-Is there a reason you haven't shown up until today?"

"Oh, well… when you're as old as me, boy, time simply evades you sometimes! Hell, I remember the last Maelstrom like it was yesterday." He says, wholly nonchalant.

The excuse is feeble, to Pocket, but they're not about to say that to the vampire with claws made for gouging eyes out. They debate whether or not they should correct him on the 'boy' out of that fear, as well, but they have to have some respect for themself. They were partners, and Pocket was a grown adult. They wouldn't let themself submit totally to fear.

"Well, you missed all the preparation. And, um. I'm not a boy, so you know." They correct, trying to sound firm.

They expected maybe a scoff, given just how old he is, but perhaps that age comes with the wisdom not to care about frivolous things like gender, because he just looks at them with intrigue and that same smile. "Oh? You prefer 'miss', then?"

"…No. Neither."

"Well then, 'cher' works just as well."

They shouldn't be grateful for the bare minimum, but they are. "Thanks. B-but, anyway. Did Haze tell you everything about the plan?"

"'Nuff. Somethin' about breaking each line of defense, the patron's healin', bringin' us back… yadda yadda… I'm more interested in that case o' yours, cher. Why don'tcha tell me about that, instead?" Drifter says, his red eyes now locked onto their worn satchel, inspecting all the shallow carvings in it, runes, some of which are from Pocket and some that were there since they found it.

Pocket holds it tighter. They'd told everyone beneath the Hidden King the simple sum of the frogs, that there were spirits inside the case that they'd use to fight when it came to that. Something about Drifter's gaze, though, was unnerving, like giving him that information was playing into his hands.

"There are frogs inside," They say after a still moment.

"Frogs?" He says, at first with amusement, before something dawns on his face. He looks pleased as he leans in a bit closer to Pocket, "That's why you look familiar, kid!"

They'd intended to tell him more about the case if he asked, but he seems to have totally forgotten it as he inspects their features like someone fondly finding a once-lost childhood toy. They take a step back, instinctively pulling on their collar to veil some more of their face. Did he know who they were? None of the other participants had figured out they were Arin Fairfax; they thought their story had been all but forgotten by the public eye. "What? I don't know what you mean—"

He lets out a laugh. "I've met your old man! Or, no, it's been longer than that, huh? Old Walt must be your granddaddy, at least, yeah?"

Pocket freezes. A wave of disgust goes through them that they looked enough like their grandfather that this man could recognize them by it. What were the odds their ritual partner had personally known him? What were the odds he was old enough to even do that?

There's no use denying it, so they just suck in a breath and speak quietly and quickly. "Don't say my name. Not out loud."

"Oh, please, cher. I don't know it. I know your family's rich an' all, but the only reason I knew Walter was those damned frogs. They hurt like hell, y'know? Really slow my healin'," He chuckles.

Pockets' brows furrow. "What? How long have they been around? Do you… Do you know how my grandfather got his hands on it?" They ask, unable to hold back their curiosity. When the case had saved Pocket, they'd done nothing but look for information on it. On frog symbolism in history, on the occult weaponry McGinnis manufactured, every bit of arcana, every hex they could find out about.

"Well, I don't know those details, kiddo, but I've seen those things cause dozens of minor and major plagues. Curious someone's caught 'em in one tiny briefcase…" He says, eyeing it with more questions. They'd refrain from telling him about the pocket dimension. Drifter raises his head with new interest, this time in Pocket themself, "But why ain't your daddy tell you that, if these frogs some kinda family heirloom, now?"

The story was too long and personal for them to tell him, even if he already knew more about their life somehow than any of their close friends. "My father thought I was too soft. Doesn't exactly associate with me anymore."

"Ahh, well, that explains why you're dressed like a li'l waif instead of some millionaire's kid. Black sheep of your family, ain'tcha? Poor thing," He says with a fangy smile. They're reminded again that this man is a murderer, a vampire, and not someone they should be opening up to like this. And they still hate that tone of his.

"Is that what you're wishin' for after all this?" He continues, "Daddy's love?"

Pocket grimaces. "Don't mock me. We don't have time for this, anyway, and you know it."

"Oh, froggy, I got all the time in the world. And you're interestin'…" He says.

The attention is activating that flighty instinct in them, the one that told them to get away and stop letting him think things about them. Their nerves buzzed in their gut as they realized how distracted they'd gotten with the case and this man. The ritual was rapidly approaching. They had to focus.

"Stop it. Listen, you—you should've been here, there's—we made a plan, we can't—do you even know where we'll be going when it starts?" They hiss, stammering as they try to get back on track.

"You worry too much, cher. Ain't all that what you for?" He tilts his head at Pocket like an animal.

"That's—"

Pocket is interrupted by the voice of the fortune teller, the whole room's attention turning to the center where he stood. The tall pile of wood, they realized, had become the bones of something like an idol, a humanoid figure with stag-like horns at the head.

The fortune teller called to them, "Silence, children of the Amber King! He comes to us, for the ritual has begun!"

Orange light flickered across Pocket's wide eyes (and Drifter's all-too excited ones) as the messy idol caught flame. It wasn't a normal blaze; the fire spun and lifted the wood higher, glowing through the gaps with an immense presence. The outer circle of the runes caught, too, a ring of fire forming before them. Emerging from the burning idol's smoke came a shadowy figure, its tremendous size stretching to the high ceiling of the factory. The image of the Hidden King was that of a man with the same twisted horns the idol had, but Pocket knew this was no man. The weight they felt as the towering figure shifted into existence was visceral, rooting them in place as they watched. It was similar to the fear they'd innately felt when Drifter had first presented himself, and it made them dizzy to think what the god's true form would do to them.

The Hidden King was overwhelming. His eyes were pricks of yellow, and his hands, with their long, spindly fingers, glowed the same color; golden like ichor. The room was quiet when an unfamiliar voice filled their head.

Disciples! The time has come! The Hidden King beckons you—for your dreams are within reach! Crush the Guided Hand, and your god will be eternally grateful.

The crowd exchanged looks. That mutual 'holy shit, we're doing this,' they all shared internally.

Now, go! Take their names and complete the ritual! Together, you shall usher in a new era!

They didn't have to be told twice. After the first pair nodded to each other and ran off, headed to Manhattan, the rest got the hint. Shoving a choking amount of nerves down, Pocket turns back to Drifter, who still looks feral with glee.

"Lead the way, then, partner," He sneers.

They shouldn't have trusted a serial killer. They should've listened to Haze. They could've been chasing the enemy with Mo and Krill right now as Vindicta lined up her shot from afar, safe and happy and with partners that would actually listen to them. But no, of course they had to be a stubborn bastard and believe in whatever stupid mutual-goal, I-can-handle-this, it's-my-responsibility bullshit they'd told themself. That was why they were hiding for their life, bleeding from about 7 different places as patches of their skin burned and screamed at them.

They had led Drifter to their assigned position, a street in Broadway they'd spent a lot of time getting to know before the ritual. For the first maybe ten minutes, the two of them took out the Archmother's pawns, the chess-piece soldiers that mindlessly walked at the Hidden King's own. When they'd gotten their first glimpse of the opposing ritualists, just slight human movement from afar, they knew Drifter could hardly contain himself. And shortly after, they'd turned to find him, and he'd escaped Pocket's sight entirely.

It made them anxious, but they'd known they were going to be alone sometimes. It wasn't a big deal; they could do this. They dealt with the pawns themself and kept out of sight, waiting for communications from their patron and the fortune teller. If Drifter was going to abandon them, so be it. They just had to slip away from the enemy efficiently until someone else came to help take their patron's first line of defense. Surviving was their strong suit, anyway.

That's what they thought, at least. They'd run into a man while the god's troopers fought. If you'd told them the bartender at their favorite drinking spot in the city was participating, they wouldn't believe you, but there he was. He didn't pull shots even when recognition crossed his face. Their shotgun couldn't do much at this range, so they'd darted away from the magical streaks of fire that zipped by them. If he got any closer, he'd surely lose, alone and under the wrath of their case, so they waited around the corner of an apartment building.

His footsteps echoed down the alley, and their mind was already anticipating the fight. He'd walked into their bait; they would win this.

That was when the sharp crack of metal cutting concrete hit the floor behind them, and the long thwip of a rope snapping to its point of origin after being released. They watched with horrified eyes as they saw who was holding onto that rope: a tall woman with a steely expression, flying towards them, very threateningly, holding an unsheathed katana.

Pocket barely rolled out of the way for the sword not to pierce a terribly vital organ, the blade ripping skin from their side instead. Blood oozed from the cut, and they winced. Their mind raced at the disturbance in their plan, but the woman was unrelenting, tackling them to the ground as they tried to recover. Pocket barely jerks the suitcase between them in time to block a stab the woman lifted and intended for their heart. As they're worried about that, they feel sparks from afar landing on their shoulders and chest like pricks of acid. But they can't worry about that yet, not with the assaulter on top of them who is undeterred by the case and keeps lifting and pushing her sword down again and again.

They fight to block every cut with the case (thank god for the heavy-duty protection it's been enchanted with a dozen times over). Still, it's far less nimble than her sword, and she stabs a wound into the inside of their thigh, then the case again, then their shoulder, then their arm, but while they're defending from the next strike to what seems like their chest, they realize what her real angle was as she flicks the direction, the blade pointed above their face. Terror, like the kind they'd experienced on their 18th birthday, flashes through their mind. They jerk the case open as far as it'll go right now, clasps undone for easy access, and as soon as they reach a hand inside, they're sucked in, matter warping in a way they'd gotten very familiar with.

They hear cursing outside, and the frogs croak in a concerned symphony as they tumble to the grass of the spirit marsh inside. They're panting, and they realize now their coat is on fire as the cuts in their body pulse with agony. They look up to the sky in a panic and pat the flames down, mind racing with their options. They couldn't stay in here forever, and they were sure Infernus was getting closer, too, now, and that magic of his at point-blank, plus the swordswoman…

Pocket looked down at one of the souls hopping about, and their decision was made. They yanked their cloak off as they withdrew from the case, their body in that abstract form again for a moment as they left. The swordswoman had pulled a different blade, a smaller one much more fit for the grappling they'd just done, and Infernus was, as predicted, waiting outside the case, too.

The two were completely unprepared for the outburst of frogs, spilling from the briefcase in a distracting explosion and covering Pocket's opponents in their plague.

"What the hell—!" Their bartender exclaimed in surprise, the two stumbling back. Pocket had to take this chance. They flung their coat past him, the imbued magic taking it further as they grabbed their case and picked their shotgun back up.

The swordswoman snarled in anger. Pocket could see her flesh blackening from the affliction already, and she dashed at them with her blade drawn. Infernus had recentered, as well, and more fire began to patter them and burn holes into their button-down and sweater vest. They couldn't avoid the slash, this time, not as they recovered from picking up both of their weapons. A scream tore from their throat. It hurt, a clean slice down the center of their chest, and before she could follow it up with a thrust through their stomach, they popped the spell attached to their coat, and they found themself tumbling across a different road.

Their body wouldn't let them forget how bad everything hurt, but they had to get to safety. They lifted their head and got up clumsily, once again inside their trench coat as they scanned the area to figure out where the hell they were. This was what all their time mapping and exploring the city was for, but unfortunately, all it told them was that they were only a street down from where they had been, which means Infernus and that woman could still find them.

They clutch at their chest where blood is oozing. Pocket quickly tightens their coat around their waist, trying to stop the blood from dripping and leaving those two a convenient trail as they stagger off the road and into an alley. It was a ways away to the factory where their patron could heal them, and the nearest pair (which they were pretty sure was the teenage girl, Darcy, and the zombie-man, Victor). Their thoughts were interrupted by the irritated voices of their opponents.

"Where is that child?!" The swordswoman said.

They could hear their footsteps, now. They felt deafening in the quiet street. "How the fuck should I know? All I know is I saw them throw that coat this way. Why didn't you stab them when you had the damn chance?" Infernus says, voice sharp. Seemed like they were about as happy with their partnership as Pocket was.

Pocket sank to the floor slowly, hiding in the shadow of the alley. They wished Haze would come out of thin air like she'd promised when she said she'd watch them. The thought of hiding in their case crossed their mind, but the clatter it made when it snapped shut would surely draw their attention. They put a hand over their mouth and didn't dare to peek out at them.

They listened to the two get closer. The woman's voice is bitter and pained as she speaks, "You're useless. Stupid bartender thinks this child has teleported with a coat."

"Oh, what, like you got a better explanation?" Infernus snaps, "You think they were jus' throwin' that for fun and then disappeared? Unbelievable—"

Their argument is cut short by a creaky ribbit. They both go silent. Pocket's heart drops as they look down at the suitcase in their lap. It's childish, but they want to cry. The spirits inside couldn't have known; it wasn't their fault, but it doesn't make it any better as they hear hurried footsteps coming towards them. They could hide in the case, or run, but it'd only prolong the inevitable. They could try to use their cloak again, but they know they exerted too much of their spirit, and it wouldn't get far enough, anyway. It'd be faster for their patron to bring them back. They ready their shotgun in hopes of taking one with them.

Before their certain doom, a whistle cuts through the air from a direction Pocket can't discern, and the footsteps stop for a moment. Then Infernus screams, and Pocket hears his body thud to the ground as he curses, "Get off of me, what are you—!"

The swordswoman's voice is panicked, but Pocket doesn't understand why, "What- what?! Bartender! Where are you?" Her words are layered on top of the gut-wrenching noises of Infernus's strangled screams and the guttural ripping of flesh. Pocket trembles, deathly still. The next few minutes are more of the same, except her screamed words were in Japanese.

Pocket's heart is beating in their throat. They're frozen and disturbed and dizzy, and their whole body still hurts when the newcomer thunks over to them. That's what they see, his boots first, before raising their gaze from their place on the ground. The Drifter is nightmarish. The night sky paints a suffocating darkness behind him, his smile wide and blood-soaked, his eyes tiny flecks of red. They don't even process it's the man they'd spoken to just an hour ago. All their brain can think is 'I am going to die'.

"Froggy, why ya look so scared?" He says, voice amused as he wipes his face with one of those big hands. They're more like a beast's paws. They still can't speak until he crouches down, resting his wrists on his knees. "They fucked you up real bad, cher. Can you believe that lady brought a sword?" He juts a thumb back towards where they must've just been.

Pocket swallows hard. "Y-you k-killed them."

"That's the name of the game, ain't it?" He brings a hand to Pocket's collar, yanking it to one side to try and get a better look at the wound that had soaked their coat there. The glistening red on his hands makes their stomach turn.

"You… w-where… where were you? Why— you left." Their thoughts are too scrambled. They don't know what to say or do, now. Drifter was right, Pocket was ready to kill, too, and they knew those two's patron was bringing them back as they spoke, but… that didn't mean they could forget the sounds of flesh tearing and blood spattering while Inferus tore his own vocal cords.

"My apologies… caught scent of an old friend, and got a little excited," He chuckles.

"I don't… you… but…"

"I killed 'im, if it makes ya feel better. Look at that, three bodies for the Hidden King already, ain't that nice?" He says, reaching up and patting their head twice. They let him do it blankly, even though blood gets in their hair. "Good job survivin' alone that long, froggy. Your plague made it real easy to kill those two."

He's smiling at them like everything's fine, and they don't really know what to say. Their eyes are glossy with tears of pain and panic, still, and they're out of breath when they speak, "R-right. Thanks. Um. Y-you saved me."

"Aww, that's what teams are for, no?"

"B-but… you saved me," They say breathlessly, their twitchy eyes flicking all over his hulking form, all the blood, his face this close.

"Course I did, partner. You think you can get back alone?" Drifter says, and now he's opening their coat up without any hesitation. He sees the pool of blood on their vest. "They did fuck you up…" Then, without warning, he rips the sweater vest in half, shearing it in two before pulling their undershirt apart as well, making a button pop clean off.

"H-hey, stop—" They start, mind foggy and confused.

"Don't worry, mon petit agneau…" He chuckles as the cold air hits their bare skin. They suck a breath through their teeth, crying out lightly as he presses a finger beside the wound. "Hoo, you're lucky this ain't deeper."

"I-I j-just gotta g-get to the patron, h-he'll heal m-me," They say, tilting their head away as he inspected their chest. Their delirious mind had them focusing on the way his hands were giant against their torso, and that they were embarrassed for him to see them any amount of naked.

Drifter chuckles, "You can't walk. Not with all this." He moves their shirt farther and sees some of the fresh burns above their hip. They want to protest, but he isn't wrong.

"How bad this hurt?" He says, pressing down cruelly into the taut and angry skin. They yelp, tears prickling in their eyes. Drifter is unfazed by their sounds of pain, and he sounds wholly remorseless as he says, "Poor thing."

"I-it still b-burns, d-don't touch," They say, tone almost begging. Obviously, it still burned, but Pocket was just operating on instinct, words barely sensical in the first place.

Drifter looks up at them with a wicked smile. "I can help, ya know."

They blink at him, lashes wet. "What-?"

He licks his lips and leans closer to their chest, right in front of the wound now. "Ya know how vampire bat saliva numbs the skin, so the bats can feed easy? We got that spit, too. 'S why I work more wit' my hands."

Pocket stills. Surely he wasn't implying what they thought.

"It'll also stop it from scabbin', but that ain't a problem since we got the patron 'round the bend…" His grin is practically splitting his face. "It'll make you feel a lot better, cher."

"That's not—but— we n-need to—the ritual…" They stutter, face going pink.

"I'll be quick," He says simply, and then leans over Pocket's body, shoving their case out of the way before bringing his face to their wound and dragging a lick vertically up their cut. Pocket squeaks out a disturbed sound, eyes going wide as the warm sensation crosses their cold skin and the hot cut. At first, it hurts, and they lift their arms to his shoulders to push him away. Then they feel it numb, and their brows furrow in confusion. It worked fast, and he kept lapping at the wound until their whole chest felt like it was static.

"You taste good, froggy…" Drifter says as he pulls back. Their blood has added to the mess on his face, and he looks delighted. Pocket is limp and panting against the wall. It's half-relief, and half overwhelmed-stupor. "Let's try a burn, shall we?" He laughs before diving into their collarbones, where circular burns stung their skin. The reprieve from the itching pain there actually made them moan—the sensation turning into a strange tingling behind their skin that made them squirm.

"H-holy sh-shit," Pocket's voice is small as they grasp at Drifter's coat. Their heart is pounding, and they feel each pulse of blood in each cut on their skin (except the one on their torso). Drifter smirked against their skin as he wordlessly moved onto the cut on their shoulder. They let their eyelids flutter as he dragged that big tongue across their bloodied body, lapping obsessively like a big cat. "D-Drifter, ah—god, it f-feels so w-weird, oh…"

He stops taking his time, adjusting their body to lean against him so he can reach the burns on the other side of their shoulder. Their head hits his chest, and they just let him engulf them with his body. They know their wounds are still leaking blood everywhere, but they can't feel it, and the sensation is making them woozy, but maybe that was just the blood loss.

Drfiter leans them back, their body lightly shaking. "That all?" He says, looking the open-shirted Pocket up and down. They breathe heavy, not knowing what else to tell him. They had taken more burns and cuts on their arms, but they didn't feel like stripping their coat. They were wasting time as it was, and they should be yelling at him to stop so they could fucking win, but Pocket's brain was preoccupied with how sweaty and heavy their bodies were. How Drifter's bulk blocked the moonlight from reaching them, how he was speaking to them in that deep, smooth-liquor voice.

As Drifter scans them, a rumbling chuckle comes from deep in his throat. "Oh, here's another one."

Pocket's eyes follow his, and they see the injury he's talking about, a patch of blood on their thigh still growing. They choke on the thought, "H-hey…"

Drifter pulls them down a little closer to him, and then he goes to unbutton and unzip their pants. They should be grabbing at his hands to stop him, but they keep them where they are on his shoulders, watching as he yanks their trousers down enough to see the wound. Their face is red, but their feeling of shame is somewhat dulled by the fact that Drifter's been sucking and licking at their wounds for the past five minutes. Their pale thighs are trembling as he grabs them both, one in each hand, and spreads them, lifting their knees so their legs are in the air. They note with sick interest that his fingers and thumb almost touch around each thigh.

The position is now undeniably lewd, with their disheveled clothes, chest out, and now only their underwear covering their finer bits. Their gaze is transfixed on Drifter's face, and he knowingly stares back, smiling. The cut on their thigh veers dangerously close to their crotch, but Drifter doesn't care. He brings his mouth to that lifted leg and licks a wide stripe up the bleeding cut. Pocket lets out another moan, long and drawn as the pain is felt and then numbed.

"D-Drifter!" They yelp as they watch him dip his tongue a little too deep into the wound. He just grins coyly.

"What, can ya blame me? You got such sweet blood… nothin' like those two's…" He laughs deeply as he raises his head. His smile gets more sinful, somehow. "Besides, looks like you like it…"

Again, Pocket looks for what he's seeing, mind processing things a beat behind. Their eyes widen in horror. They were hard, straining against their underwear, as Drifter held their thighs apart and sucked on a wound there.

"O-oh, my god…" They whimper. "Th-this is— I'm disgusting…"

"You a little pervert, ain't ya, froggy?" He says, taking another wet swipe at their blood. Pocket wants to argue that he's the one licking them all over, his nose brushing their crotch as he suckles at them, but they're desperately embarrassed. He sets their legs down and slowly stands up. "Ya think ya can walk now?"

Pocket groans, squeezing their eyes shut in disbelief. They were trembling all over, half numb, still bleeding everywhere, and he wanted them to walk? "N-no!"

Drifter rolls his neck and licks some blood from his hand. "Well then, guess I'll have to carry ya. Don't fall off, yeah?"

"W-what?" They say, before Drifter picks them up and throws them over his shoulder. They shout, startled at the sudden movement. "L-let me fix my clothes..!" They start, but Drifter is already running, vampiric strength letting him hold them like they weigh nothing. They squeeze tight, hands full of their weapons, and quite scared they will fall off.

They get to the Hidden King's base after a bit, and Drifter drops them in front of the god's idol and his followers. Pocket immediately scrambles to fix their clothing, humiliated, as the Hidden King's Court looks at them with confused and vaguely disgruntled expressions. The King himself, though, doesn't seem to care at all, because their wounds mend themselves quickly, their burned skin relaxing, threads of tissue closing their cuts. Even the cuts and holes in their clothing are healed, the bloodstains seemingly evaporating. They're still dizzy, and the healing by no means feels good as it's happening, but they're glad to not be aching. The numbness is gone, too.

"D-Drifter, you…"

Drifter stops them, already on his way out, a bloodthirsty look in his eye. "Gotta make up for lost time, cher. I'll see ya soon."

Pocket takes the silence to catch their breath and silently thanks the world that none of their fellow ritualists were here to see that as they collect themself and get to their feet.

A week after the ritual, Pocket finally found the time to think about all of that again.

The ritual had been a success, even if at the time they'd been sure a certain vampire had been sabotaging them. They had tearfully hugged Mo as the Archmother fell, the relief palpable amidst the 18 of them (not Drifter, who seemed almost disappointed the fighting had ended). Of course, for many of them, they weren't out of the woods yet. The wish was monumental, but it didn't solve everything. At least that was true for Pocket, who had to go into hiding right after.

They'd prepared to take down their father for years, but the fight was still close. They'd gotten their wits and magical capacity from him, after all. But they'd succeeded, and their father was imprisoned, like they'd always thought would happen. The newspapers were struggling to fit all the headline-worthy events that came about after and during the ritual on their pages, but Arin Fairfax's return, with "his" father being arrested for war crimes and a multitude of other charges, was certainly a popular one.

The fight with their father happened two days after the maelstrom. After that, they slept for 14 beautiful hours. Then, they locked themself in their father's mansion and promised themself they wouldn't leave until they finished their most important priorities. Or, at least, writing up the official documents and orders to do so. This included the dismantling of Eldritch Tactical Solutions, firing Maggie McGinnis (who had certainly been a surprise to see serving The Archmother), drafting a statement for the papers to publish to the public, contacting the rest of their family, and their personal endeavor to contact their fellow ritualists.

The ritual and the months prior had introduced them to so many different people, and the event itself had given Pocket a whole new admiration for them. That night had changed them so much, and they felt they owed everyone an explanation after all they'd gone through together. They personally wrote and signed each letter, Arin Fairfax, and stamped it with the Fairfax frog sigil. To anyone they thought still needed aid, they offered it. They wrote one for Infernus, too, offering him help once they'd learned his wish had been good-natured. Also, partially because they felt very awful about the gore Drifter had inflicted upon him.

Drifter, unlike their other occultists, was a unique subject. Given the circumstances of what he'd done to them during the ritual, they hadn't really had time to process it. After all, the fight had kept chugging, the battle of their life raging around them right after they'd had a man licking all over their thighs. After that, they'd been busy too, but once all of this endless writing they'd been doing started? Their mind had time to wander.

They couldn't stop replaying the scene over and over in their head. Drifter ducked between their legs, sucking on their wounds while they lay limp before him. How he'd swooped in and saved them when they thought death was imminent. His silky voice rumbling in their ear. He invaded their thoughts, and they'd be lying if they said it didn't make them hot and bothered a few times. There was work to be done; they couldn't be thinking that sort of thing, especially not about a twisted man whom they knew had done a myriad of what they could only describe as crimes against humanity.

That didn't mean they didn't want to thank him for what he'd done, though. He'd saved them, and they were sure that without his merciless killing and berserker endurance, the Hidden King's success would have been much, much more unlikely. They shuddered when they remembered it, his careless glee when the fighting got intense. And, the Hidden King had allowed them to make their wishes in privacy with him, so the media and other participants couldn't hear. They'd been pulled into a sort of mental conference with the god, but when Pocket had finally gotten out of that state, Drifter was gone. They didn't get to address what'd happened, or thank him, or ask what his wish could be before the whirlwind of events and emotions whisked them away, leaving them curious and unsettled.

Pocket thought they were more emotionally intelligent, wise enough to handle their own temptations and think logically about these sorts of things, but they couldn't deny it. They wanted to see Drifter again.

He could just kill them. He had no obligation to leave anyone alive anymore; the Hidden King's contract with them had been fulfilled, and his bloodlust during the ritual seemed damn near insatiable. That being said, he looked to enjoy the process of it, toying with his prey even when it'd be more efficient to end them. Perhaps that was what all that shit was with licking their wounds, just toying with Pocket. Maybe he'd want to do it more. Maybe he'd let them pry more into the case's past, or into the stories and perspective that came with his immortality, satiate their macabre fascination with him and how he held himself.

They were thinking too hard about this, far too attracted by the conversation and the physical touch he had given them, despite him being a murderer. But then again, Pocket's hands weren't clean, either. Everyone in the ritual was technically a murderer. They hated themself for it, but they were intrigued. They wanted the monster's respect, to play that game of probing information out of each other, of the restrained words and the hanging threat of his power as they did.

Still, it wasn't like they could see him. He didn't come to them after the ritual, so clearly he didn't care about tying up the loose end that was stripping Pocket and slobbering all over them mid-summoning. Not like he had an address they could send a fancy letter to. They sighed and put their pen down. It was impossible to function properly like this; he was driving them crazy.

Their gaze swept their stupidly luxurious bedroom as they sat in the silence. It was barren of personal items, save for the case. Despite how badly their body craved sleep, they still had much to do. Things they simply couldn't accomplish with Drifter on their mind. Their eyes settled over their window, next to their bed, which offered a view of the garden below.

Vampires couldn't enter one's home without permission. But it was true that an open window counted as an invitation. There were plenty of tales of poor fools who forgot to close the window they'd cracked for a breeze and ended up a corpse in the morning. They imagined Drifter had reaped the rewards of that many a time in his day. They gnawed on their lip as an idea took root in their head. It was stupid—if Drifter hadn't talked to them then, there was no reason he would now. For all they knew, he could be miles away from New York by now. Still, with childish visions, they got up and opened their window halfway.

If he came, he came, even if the idea was stupid and the chances were low. There was no other hope to contact him, unless they wanted to beg the Baxter Society or the Vatican for information, which they were sure they wouldn't get after what they'd done to Grey Talon and one of the Venators in the ritual. Having any odds at all to see him, doing what they could, might calm their thoughts enough to get some of their to-do list done. No use worrying about someone they couldn't do any more to see again.

After getting a cup of Earl Grey from their cold, empty house kitchen, they settled back into their work. The decision eased their mind enough, and they managed to write more than they thought they could manage. Still, their overworked body stood no chance against the soothing tea, the chill of the midnight air, and the late hour, and before they realized it had happened, the weight of sleep had pulled their eyes shut.

When they woke, it was to the voice they'd been imagining all day.

"Rise 'n shine, li'l froggy," The raspy drawl says. Pocket's mind hasn't quite caught up, yet, as they raise their head and look over their shoulder. There he is, like a shadow, looming and dark behind them.

They can't believe it for a second, eyes widening as their consciousness loads. Their heart nearly stops, with not only the fluttering surprise that their silly idea worked, but that primal fear he seems to incite every time he appears.

Pocket sputters over their words for a moment, scanning his body like he might be their imagination. Eventually, they speak softly, managing words: "You came."

He chuckles, tilting his head at them and motioning to the open window. "Course I did, cher! You set up a welcome mat jus' for me!"

"How did you know where I was…? That you could get in…?" They ask. Something inside of them wanted desperately for their interest to be mutual, and the thought that Drifter sought them out made their insides squeeze.

"Was keepin' tabs on everyone I find interestin' in New York while I'm here. Your scent's been all muffled these past days. Imagine my delight when it got stronger. Figured ya finally came outside, but this works jus' as nice." He says with a wide smile, showing off those beastly fangs.

Pocket's brows furrow. "Tabs?"

"Mhm. Once I get a taste of someone, it's real easy to discern their blood. Even in a city as big as dis one." Drifter says, lazily looking over Pocket and their new, nice clothes. "Got a few more kills I wanna make, maybe play wit' a couple friends… you made it on my list, froggy."

Their blood is cold. They wet their lips and say cautiously, slowly. Their fingers twitch at their side where the case lies against the leg of their desk. "The… the latter, I hope?"

Drifter barks a laugh. "Aw, course! You a fun li'l ting, I wouldn't wanna get rid of you jus' yet!"

"Y-You keep saying that. That I'm 'fun'. What the hell does that mean?" They can't help the frustration that seeps into their tone.

Drifter barks a laugh. "Means I like seein' you squirm. Like the noises you make. You a li'l more fascinatin' than my average victim." He eyes them with that shit-eating grin before adding, "Plus, I ain't forget what happened at the ritual. You gettin' excited like that…"

Their breath hitches. Shame makes their cheeks bloom red, but they try not to let it show. "That's not— forget that ever happened."

"Aw, why?" He says. "Ain't that what you invited me here for, li'l Pocket..?"

"Absolutely not! I— I just wanted closure!"

"Sure you did. C'mon, don't be embarrassed, you can't help it if you a freak," Drifter says.

His smugness makes Pocket regret all of their longing to see him. They hiss, "You're the worst. Can something like you even get it up?"

Drifter looks pleasantly surprised with the bite in their voice, his eyes narrowing as he leers into their soul. "You gettin' brave for somethin' as defenseless and alone as you are, don'tcha think?"

He's right, and Pocket stiffens. "I d-didn't mean it like that—"

He interrupts them with another laugh, "Oh, I'm kiddin'. And so ya know, vampires can."

Given the existence of dhampirs, Pocket should've figured that. They hadn't thought that far, and the mental image makes them blush. "It was a rhetorical question."

"You seemed like ya wanted to know."

"I didn't."

"Right. So, 'closure'. On what, cher?" He says with a half-scoff, leaning against the fancy end board of the bed all too comfortably.

Pocket swallows hard. What do they even ask? They hadn't prepared for him to agree so directly. It'd be easier if they started with something he wouldn't be willing to answer, and work their way from there. "What… what did you wish for?"

As expected, Drifter only chuckles and shakes his head. "Ain't tellin' you that, froggy. Wish wasn't my goal with the ritual, anyways."

"Fine. So why did you, y'know, t-touch me like that? L-lick me. Back there, when I was hurt and…" Pocket trails off. They didn't need to keep speaking; that little interaction was clearly the elephant in the room.

"Maybe I was a little high off the bloodshed I'd gotten jus' before," He says, clicking his tongue. "Wanted to make the most outta the ritual as I could, ya know? That's the fun I'm talkin' about."

Pocket frowns. "I thought the- the killing was the fun part."

"Oh, that too, 'course. But I get ya squirmin' and beggin' either way," He says, and it makes Pocket's whole body shudder.

"So you w-were just fucking with me."

"A li'l bit. But it felt nice when that pain disappeared, no?" He's terribly cocky and, unfortunately, right.

"Still doesn't make it okay!"

"Nothin' anyone did during that eclipse was okay, froggy," Drifter laughed like they were a misguided child. It irritated them, and irritated them even more so that he was right again.

They bite the inside of their cheek as they think. "Maybe so, but I used the power it gave me for good. That's the best we can do—and I have faith the others did, too."

Drifter smiles and rests his chin on his knee as he hitches it up. "Yeah? You know what that ghosty-lady's doin'? You think she was that good a shot without practice on movin' targets?"

Pocket stiffens. They'd liked Vindicta—she was kind and quiet and sensible, but wasn't afraid to snap at certain members of the team when they'd said something stupid to her. "What? Are you saying she's some sort of murderer?"

"Sayin' you're naive. If you think half the bastards we worked with didn't wish for whatever selfish garbage their li'l vain hearts desired, then you're wrong."

Their brows furrow as an unsettled feeling twists their stomach. They don't want to think about that, especially not after they'd just written personal letters to each one of them, waxing poetic about their experiences and wishing them the best. "I don't think they're all saints, but I know they're not evil. I got to know all of them, and they're—they're good. There was something good in all of them."

Drifter rolled his eyes as he lazed on their bed. "You jus' like to think that stuff so you can make sense of this silly goal of yours."

"What's that supposed to mean?" They snap. They barely even know him. What does he know about their aspirations?

"You think you can sell weapons and be some big-shot CEO with that soft heart? They gonna walk all over you." Drifter taunts, every word laced with a venom that they know is meant to rile them up. It's working. "Those morals are useless if they're gonna break in the first week."

"You're wrong. Someone has to believe in the good of humanity. I can really change things. You wouldn't understand, you don't even—!" They rant, pausing after enough time has passed for them to realize how heated they've gotten. They scowl.

Drifter loves it, cocking his head. "It's cute how much you care. That's what I like about you. Fun."

Pocket narrows their eyes, sinking back into their chair by a degree, feeling their face heat up. "Stop that."

"I'm serious, froggy!" He raises his hands in surrender.

"I should've known you were just here to fuck with me again." They frown.

"Thought that was the mood! You tellin' me you didn't want that? Me pushin' an' proddin' while you act like you ain't likin' it?"

Pocket knows that somewhere inside them, they did want that. They'd been thinking about his head between their thighs for way too long to be normal— about the pain and the weird numbness and the gore he'd inflicted mere moments before. How honest he was, how no one else spoke to them as he did. But that wasn't all, it couldn't be. "I didn't— no! I told you, closure! And— and I wanted to thank you."

Drifter's smile falters just a bit before growing even bigger. "Oh? Now why would you be thankin' me, cher?"

"You saved me."

"I was jus' bein' a good teammate, you don't gotta thank me. You already did, besides." He says, voice a long, pleased drag. "Thankin' a monster like me. You really serious about these silly morals, huh?"

They huff. "I'm not a liar."

Drifter rises slowly, his size once again dawning on Pocket. For a moment, they felt like they were in the alley when he'd turned the corner and towered over them all over again. His eyes are the same as they were in that moment when he said, "You're so… human. I like it, froggy."

Their voice is caught in their throat as he keeps getting closer. They crane their neck to look up at him as he reaches down to their face and takes their chin in his massive hand. His fingers are as big as they felt around his thighs last time as he turns their face side to side slowly, taking in every pore. They let it happen.

"I wasn't lying either. I like your little heart. A human who tries so hard to care, but who's so ruthless on the battlefield. A natural killer." His tone is hushed now, intense as they study his face in return. Those deep red eyes are entrancing.

They grimace at his words, still. "I'm not a killer."

"Course you aren't, froggy. Cause you jus care so much, you're just so sweet, aintcha?" His sarcasm melts into them as he smiles, brushing his clawed thumb down their bottom lip. "It's addictin' to watch," He says, and then leans closer slowly so Pocket can truly process what he's doing as he presses his lips to theirs.

At first, it's chaste, experimental. Giving Pocket more time to know that they could stop this if they wanted—that they were choosing to let it happen. When Pocket doesn't protest, Drifter deepens it naturally. Their heart pounds in their chest as he licks into their mouth, messily making out with them. He's kissing the corners of their mouth and nipping at their lips, one of those big hands threads its way into their hair before they realize it, bringing them closer.

They moan softly between the connections, feeling conflicted and hot all over despite his cool touch. He braces an arm against the chair so he can kiss them harder, hungry for the contact. Pocket reaches up to his shoulders and squeezes tight, the adrenaline of intimacy with him hitting them the same way it did during the ritual. There's that semblance of guilt again, kissing a murderer like this, but not enough to stop.

Drifter pulls back, a hazy look in his eyes, a string of spit keeping the two's lips attached for a moment. He smiles and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I like you," He says, voice raspy, overshadowing them as he leans forward with his wide frame. He gets closer again, slotting a knee on the chair between Pocket's thighs for more leverage as he moves his head to the crook of their neck. He inhales deeply, sighing contentedly at the rapid pitter-patter of their heartbeat. He teasingly presses an open-mouthed kiss on the soft skin there. "Say, froggy… how'd ya like bein' a vampire?"

Pocket stills, eyes fluttering open as part of their reasonable mind came back. "…What..?"

Drifter rubs at their scalp as he licks a stripe on their neck. "Imagine it. You, travelin' with me for a li'l while… livin' life the real way. The things we could do, it'd be like the ritual all over again, forever. All that potential of yours…" He huffs their scent again. "God, it'd be beautiful."

Their face strained with disdain as they caught their breath. "I t-told you. I don't enjoy killing, or power, or any of that."

The vampire tilts his head at them, his slit pupils trained on their face as if he could see the truth. "You don't gotta kill anythin'. Just come roam wit' me for a bit… you'll understand so much more through immortality."

Despite their words, there is something deep inside of them that's infatuated by the idea of that sort of power. That knowledge. Still, they swallow hard and say, "New York needs me."

That draws a laugh from Drifter, his lips pressing into the top of their trapezius. "New York don't need you. There's no shortage of weapons here, Pocket. Never has been."

They already know he thinks their dream is naive. They scowl even though they're still putty in his hands. "I'm not arguing about this."

"That stubbornness again…" Drifter murmurs. "It'd be a shame to see you go so soon. You don't gotta come wit' me, froggy… but wouldn't eternal life be nice?" His breath wanders to their ear. His voice is so deep, rumbling through their whole body as they slump into their chair. "You can't change much in— what, 60 years? But imagine what you could do with centuries."

Drifter pauses, giving them time to digest it. Pocket pauses like he thought they would.

"You could rule Fairfax forever… change society… make it safe, make the whole world safer! I mean, hell, wouldn't you be happy jus' to not force this on the poor kiddo you'll need to have? You wouldn't wanna be like your daddy to your poor heir, wouldja? You wouldn't even have to knock up some random wealthy girl ya don't like. Ain't that sound nice?" He says, and licks their neck again, fangs hovering over their pulse point.

They shouldn't be tempted. They know he's just saying anything to convince them, but the idea worms its way into their head nevertheless. Being an heir, trying to satisfy their parents had been torture. They didn't know if they could avoid that, raise a child right—what stable, smart parent would be sitting here letting themself be fondled by a monster? They'd tried to be better than their father for so long, more considerate, more moral, more human, but here they were, in power because of violence, like every other Fairfax.

But that was perhaps exactly why they couldn't accept, of course. They had to prove themself wrong. They couldn't be a coward.

"I can't do that." They say softly, "I'm better than my father. I'll find a better way."

Drifter heaves a sigh and pulls his fangs back from their neck. He's still as close as ever, looking Pocket straight in the eyes now. They hold the contact with a sure expression. "You really won't let me sire you, froggy?" He puts a hand on their face again, brushing their bangs back so he can see all of them. "I know there's that urge in you somewhere. That itch for strength, for more. To see how far you'd go…"

They gently shake their head, even if his words penetrate them somewhere deep, somewhere they don't want to address. "Maybe if you ask again in twenty years, I'd agree." It's mostly a joke. They can't bring themself to give any stronger of a no. Not after he just put his tongue down their throat, not after the ritual they'd shared.

Still, something close to hope, that sparkling intrigue they saw when they met, fills Drifter's eyes again. "Yeah?" He pulls back off of them a bit. He looks excited. Pocket supposes twenty years to a vampire isn't nearly as long as it'd mean to a human. "I'll come see ya next time I'm in town, then, froggy. I'm sure you'll understand how borin' playin' martyr is by then."

He dismounts them, standing up with those smooth, bobcat movements. Pocket realizes how disheveled they are and hurriedly straightens their button-up. "Good luck, then." They say, as confidently as they could manage.

"I can't wait to see how your flavor changes in a few decades." He licks his teeth and looks Pocket up and down once more before turning to their still-open window and hitching a leg up there. "You'll come 'round eventually, Pocket."

They choose not to respond to his foreboding words. "Thanks again for what you did in the ritual, Drifter."

"Don't mention it. You didn't need my help killin'." He says, with that big, face-splitting, fangy grin.

They don't have a response when Drifter promptly turns and jumps from the window into the veil of the night. They stare where he once was. Their head panged in sync with their quickened heartbeat as a hundred thoughts about the ethics of that encounter and their moral integrity and what they'd do moving forward and an heir and more and more, but they could deal with that later. First came the shameful tent in their pants.