Demon Hunters-R-Us

An Initiative-like organization is created, because the military cannot ignore the existence of any threat once it has become aware of it. But no one ever said that the demons had to cooperate with that sentiment. Part 1 of "Nomen Vampyri Rex." Rated M for language, possibly disturbing imagery, and implied m/m relationships; vampires, don'tcha know.

Story is complete, and will be posted spaced out over several days.

A/N:This story has actually been in the works since sometime in the summer of 2010, although I didn't sit down to actually start writing it until late July of 2012. The basic story for it was "played out" in discussions between my roommate (and beta), Jake, and I, usually late at night when we both should have been sound asleep. Without her able input, it would never have been written. Started 7-29-2012; completed 8-20-2012.

A/N2: This starts several years post-NFA, and is 98% Original Characters. The Badges for parts one and two are original works by me, and do not represent any actual military units to the best of my knowledge.

Disclaimer: (applies to all subsequent chapters; I'm not gonna write this over every time.) All rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Any Humans and Vampires that you might recognize are his. All others are mine; I'll put his back without too much damage when I'm done playing with them. Some situations referred to are taken from both Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the Series, but I'm too lazy to go looking them up to specifically footnote them. If some item or situation sounds like something you wrote, please understand that I didn't intentionally take what was yours; it just apparently made enough of an impression to really stick in my brain.

Prologue

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, Stu; I know this is a… delicate… topic."

"Delicate!" General Stuart Durgan snorted in disbelief. "Delicate? It's political and career suicide, is what it is. After what those egg-headed imbeciles tried to do the last time…"

"And I'm not proposing anything like that," General Mitchell Payne cut in over the other man's objections. "You have to admit, though, that we can't just totally ignore the facts, either. Demons are out there. Yes, many are harmless; we'll just have to determine which are the innocuous types—those Watcher chaps can tell us that. And the only scientific types I'm proposing… Well, read for yourself." He paused to pass over a slim folder to his fellow officer.

Durgan reluctantly accepted the file as it slid over the polished mahogany surface of the conference table. His scowl faded, although not by much, as he skimmed through the first few sheets of the proposal.

He looked up after about ten minutes. "Just a medical staff, huh? That's what went wrong the last time, Mitch: the damned 'scientists' and their butchery."

"The only thing they'd be there for would be to support our human personnel, Stu… and implant those behavior-modification chips. We have no reason to slice-n-dice the demons to be used as hunting beasts; we've got the backup files of the old Initiative for that sort of thing." General Payne leaned towards the table, urgently trying to sell his idea. "We have to do something, Stu; the aggressive demons aren't going to just go away. Plus we don't have access to any super-powered people—I won't even try to suggest dealing with those… 'Slayers,' I believe they're called. I don't want to expose our boys to that sort of danger without giving them some sort of edge."

"And just who is supposed to deal with these so-called 'tame' demons, Mitch? Who is going to 'acquire' our startup stock, hmmm?" Slowly General Durgan let the aggression melt from his muscles. It wasn't really that bad a proposal, as far as it went. He could see several potential problems, though. "Just how are you going to ensure that we don't… lose any of our hunter-demons out in the field? GPS locators?"

"We could implant those at the same time as the correction chips. And enough of the Spec Ops boys from the Sunnydale debacle survived that we can use them to obtain our starting stock. After that? I figure military dog-handlers, for the hunters." He let his enthusiasm loose a bit more, but then suddenly sobered. "We have to do something, Stu. It's still small, but there's a new Hellmouth opened up, just northwest of St. Louis…"

Chapter 1

The base was set up in an old, long-abandoned missile site from the bad old days of the Cold War and the Cuban Missile Crisis. Reconditioning went nearly unnoticed. St. Louis' mayor and city council were told that it was to be a training base for counter-terrorist groups and that units might be seen who were training against urban terrorists. When concerns were voiced about the Army's known practice of running live-fire exercises, they were smoothed over with reassurances that only non-lethal weaponry, such as Tasers and rubber bullets, would be used. No exercises would be announced in advance, but any units seen wearing black uniforms should please be ignored and, if possible, avoided.

After a brief initial furor, the general populace decided that this might actually be a good thing after all, since soldiers in the area meant more paychecks to be spent. There was little to no protest against their presence, especially since strange things had started happening in the area several months previously: pets and the homeless disappearing, odd break-ins… who really knew what the real reasons were for the decision to reactivate the old base? The conspiracy theorists had a field day with all the rumors, but things soon settled, and then the first patrols could be glimpsed occasionally at all sorts of odd hours.

~oOo~

"Hey, Cap'n, you ever figured t'be doin' this again?"

Captain Graham Miller, US Army, former Ranger, now Special Operations, looked thoughtfully at the young sergeant who'd asked the question. Had he? "No, not really, Sarge," he answered slowly. "Truth be told, I kinda hoped I'd be done with demon-hunting after our stint in South America. You missed out on that one, lucky you."

Sergeant Joe Reardon looked back in surprise. The dim red "ready" light in the van made it hard to see his captain's features clearly, but it seemed as though Miller just looked… disgusted? "But I thought…"

"No, it wasn't a great adventure, Joe," Miller cut off his squad sergeant's thoughts. "It was hot, dirty work that didn't really do anyone any good. Most of the 'hostiles' we found and took out were actually harmless types. It was like taking out civilians; nothing to be proud of. At least here, we're going after vamps." Miller looked around at his men, catching each one's eyes. "Vamps, and only vamps, unless something else attacks us first. Remember that. Clear?"

"Yessir, Cap'n," muttered replies came back.

Miller sighed once more. Most of these men had been down in South America with him; Reardon had still been in the infirmary, recovering from the takedown of Adam and the old Initiative. They'd been sickened by the slaughter and would follow orders now, even if only to avoid a repeat. He'd just have to keep an eye on Reardon.

The windowless van was slowing now, on the outskirts of a run-down industrial section of the city, finally stopping to let the high-tech hunters out to seek their prey. Black-clad figures alighted, scanners sweeping the area in search of "cold" bodies, suspicious activity having been noted in this general area. In the predawn darkness, vamps still at large should be straggling back to their lairs, to sleep and wait out the daylight hours; the plan was to track them back and, hopefully, capture a whole group instead of wasting time and effort just picking off individuals.

Finally, a lone form was detected. The group's sniper carefully aimed, then fired the special round. It hit the vamp's back, dusting his jacket with the special tracking powder. The target jumped at the slight impact, looking wildly around in all directions. Apparently finding nothing, not even the scent of a possible threat, he hurriedly dropped down an open manhole into the sewers and out of his stalkers' sight.

"Tracking now, sir," Polinsky, the surveillance tech, quietly announced over the squad's comms. "Signal loud and clear; target still moving in the same general direction as before tagging."

"Very good, corporal; let me know when he settles." Miller hated this, but at least their superiors were being more intelligent about things this time. Vampires could be tamed — Hostile 17 was proof of that — once they accepted the limitations imposed by the chips. Harnessing their strengths to use against other aggressive hostiles made sense, sort of. Hopefully, this time the so-called scientists could be kept out of things — it still sickened him to recall some of what they'd discovered those white-coated butchers doing back in Sunnydale — leaving him still with some doubts and reservations about this operation.

Twenty minutes later, Polinsky reported the target to be stationary; the location, a moderate-sized factory, was identified, and the squad pulled back to await daylight and a carefully planned mid-morning raid. Blueprints were studied, all possible exits located, and two extra squads brought in. The vamps should all be sleeping by then, or at least groggy; Tasers would bring the nest's occupants down relatively unharmed.

The raid went off without a hitch, netting seventeen vampires in good condition, and liberating six humans who were found chained in a storeroom, all bearing wounds in evidence of feeding by the vamps. The targets were all carefully bagged and tagged, and loaded into closed cargo vans for transport to the training facility. There, correction chips would be implanted first thing; then, a few days later, handlers would be assigned, and the training would start. Once again Miller hoped that they weren't making another huge mistake. It was out of his hands, though. With a final sigh, he watched his men load up for transport back to the base. There would be reports to write up now, and a debrief and critique of the mission to do, and then, at last, they could all get some chow and shut-eye.

Mission over; all back safely. This one was a success, and now Graham Miller could go home and forget about vampire-hunting as much as he could.

~oOo~

Slowly memory returned, along with consciousness. He ached; every muscle in his body felt like one huge bruise. He could hardly remember the last time he'd hurt so badly—perhaps the time he'd nearly drained his Sire's—Master Zachary's—favorite Pet? Or was it… He cut off the thought as he became more aware of his surroundings.

Glaring white seemed to penetrate his closed eyelids. He tried to turn his head, only to realize that he lay on a cold, hard surface… and was so heavily restrained that he could barely move.

And then he remembered the humans invading the lair where he and his three Childer had planned to pass the day, before moving on. They had been assured that they would be safe there… Obviously not. He remembered the stories he'd heard from California, of a human "project" that had captured and tortured demons, and worried for the well-being of his Childer.

Gradually his eyes adjusted to the painfully bright light. He looked around cautiously, trying not to appear conscious. The situation did not look good at all. He was lying close to what appeared to be the back wall of his… cell, he supposed. By the pressure around his neck, he guessed himself to be secured there, no doubt by a very short chain. The wall was white—some sort of tile. It felt like he was lying on a similar surface… and they'd taken all his clothes, the bastards. That would make it harder to escape, but he knew he'd eventually manage to, and find his Childer. And then they'd pay. No human could be allowed to treat a master vampire like this.

The sound of footsteps and fast-beating human hearts drew his attention away from where he lay and towards the front of his cell. Several stopped before reaching him; several others, in unmarked military-style uniforms, walked past before one stopped at his cell. The man did something to the wall beside the opening; a huge sheet of glass slid half-aside, leaving a true opening. He hadn't even realized that glass was there; what had they done to him?!

"'Mornin', Hostile 386V," the human said, approaching him confidently. "I've got your breakfast here… and no, I'm not breakfast. It's human, though, and, if I were you, I'd be good and drink it before it gets cold, because I doubt you'll see too much more human blood served up here. They'll feed you, but it'll be animal blood—cow or pig, most likely."

The human was trying to act confident, but he could see the tension in the body that crouched down next to him. He could smell the man's nervousness, although he was controlling himself very well. Rex lifted a lip around the edges of his gag, showing his fangs. He growled… and a bolt of lightning shot through his brain.

"Oh, hell," he heard the human mutter in disgust as he closed his eyes, riding out the pain. What the hell was that? Rex wondered, trying not to panic.

"Easy; just try to relax, or you'll just hurt yourself more," the human said, trying to soothe him, but not laying a hand on him. "You can't hurt any of us," the man continued, sounding unhappy. "You have a correction chip implanted in your brain. You'll get zapped any time you try, or even think too strongly about trying. I'll talk to 'em; I don't think it's supposed to be that harsh, not for a mere warning.

"Look, don't try to bite me, okay? I've gotta take that gag off so you can eat. Don't know how those idiots expect you to be able to feed, otherwise. But you'd best not try to talk. I heard some of 'em trying to recommend that you vamps be 'muted,' as they so cleanly called it." The sarcastic sneer couldn't have been missed even by another human, much less a vampire. "We've got 'em talked out of that for now, but you don't want to give 'em any ammo, okay? Hold still, now."

The soldier reached forward carefully, clearly aware of how fast a vampire could move and strike with his fangs. Rex shifted his jaw as the gag fell away, easing his jaw muscles. Similar instructions had obviously been given in other cells, but not as successfully, for Rex could now hear sounds of pain as others tried to bite despite the warnings given. And then he heard a voice rise in threats and curses, one he knew very well. "Edward: Be silent!" he called, using Sire's Voice, risking it once to save his oldest Childe. He said nothing more, staring at the human in challenge, but it was enough. The other voice fell silent, and the human grinned.

"Thanks," he said, then offered the bag of blood he carried to Rex. "This, you can bite," he added with a grin, "Just don't try imagining that it's me. It's still kinda warm."

Rex let his features shift fully into his gameface, his fangs dropping now that the metal plate of the gag no longer prevented it; with a snake-quick lunge, he sank them into the proffered bag. The human paled a bit, but he didn't flinch. A brave one, that. But Rex was hungry, so he just concentrated on his meal until the bag was empty—much too quickly. It was good—very fresh—despite being bagged, but he wondered just how long he'd been out, to be so hungry. Done, he eased back and looked up at the soldier, wondering what came next.

"Okay," the man said, taking a deep breath. This told Rex that he wasn't going to like what he would be hearing. "I've gotta put the gag back in. Would you, ummm… go back to your human face? You'll be more comfortable that way. The gag's gotta be on, and I'd rather not have to Tase you again. Rather keep this on a nice professional level, you know what I mean? You'll be getting your actual handler in another day or two; I'm just here to feed you until he gets done inprocessing. So change back and open up, all right? I don't want to have to hurt you."

Rex looked at him as he considered the situation. He was helpless at the moment, and, as much as he hated to admit it, the human was trying to be decent. He let his human mask slide into place, holding the man's eyes. Keeping his voice carefully lowered, he said, "I'm not 'Hostile whatever-you-said;' my name is Rex, Childe of Zachary, of the line of Whittington." Then he opened his mouth and held still for the gag with as much dignity as he could still muster.

~oOo~

"Sir, Sergeant Taylor reporting as ordered, sir."

The colonel sitting behind the desk looked up sourly at the young staff sergeant standing at rigid attention before him, holding a crisp salute. "At ease, Sergeant," he muttered, shifting his gaze back down to the jacket on his desk. He continued reading a few minutes longer, then sat back in his chair with a sigh. "So. Two tours in Iraq. What made you decide to sign up for this, Sergeant Taylor?" he asked, looking over the young man more carefully.

"Sir, they asked for dog handlers," Taylor slowly explained. "I'd just lost my bomb-sniffer to a sniper a couple of months back; there's a waiting list, sir. I wanted another dog, so this Spec Ops group sounded like a good idea, sir."

"Well, you sure got a Special Op, Sergeant," the colonel not-quite-sneered back. "This group's… animals… are to be trained to seek out and destroy hostiles. They're attack animals, not bomb-sniffers or drug dogs."

"That's not a problem, sir," Taylor said when the colonel paused, obviously waiting for his reaction.

"Yeah, well, you won't be getting a friendly pooch here, Taylor. They're intelligent and vicious; you can't turn your back on 'em or trust 'em too far. But you're here now; get your quarters assigned and drop off your gear; briefing is at 1900 in the mess hall. You'll get your animal assigned then. Dismissed."

Robert Taylor stared in disbelief as Colonel Heiser rose from his seat and walked out of his office without another look in his direction. What the hell was going on here, anyway? he wondered. That colonel seemed pissed about something—almost as if he didn't approve of this assignment. Whatever was wrong with these dogs? Having no other options, he left the office also, meeting back up with his escort to find his quarters, as ordered.

"Quite the charmer, ain't he?" the escort snorted as they headed down the corridor.

"Umm, sour like that a lot, is he?" Taylor cautiously asked.

"Oh, yeah. A real ray of sunshine. Here's your room, Sarge; I got a base map for you, so's you can find the chow hall. At least the grub is good." He handed over the folded page and started to leave as Taylor opened the door to his room.

"Hey, hold up a mo'; what's wrong with the dogs, that the Old Man's all with the warnings?" Taylor asked, letting his concern show.

"Those beasts ain't dogs, Sarge… but you'll find out at the briefing." Without a further word, the escort left, leaving Robert Taylor more confused than ever.

~oOo~

He was at the mess hall at 1730, and not the only one early, either. It was easy to tell who the new animal handlers were; they were the ones with an assortment of patches and rank insignia on their uniforms. Almost everyone else had, at the most, name tags on theirs, at least here on base. Taylor recognized one or two that he'd seen before leaving St. Louis this morning for the trip out here; they'd been in standard ACUs(1) then. He suspected now, though, that their unit patches were not the actual ones they should have been wearing.

It seemed as if the more he learned, the more questions he had. Hopefully those questions would be answered soon. Hiding his concerns, he joined the line for dinner. He could only hope for the best and wait to see what was going on.

~o~

By 1845, the only ones left in the mess hall were Taylor, the other new handlers, and about six of the guys dressed in the same all-black uniforms he'd been issued on arrival here.

Silence fell as a major walked to the front of the room, looking grim. "All right, men; take your seats. You're all here, so we may as well start. My name is Major Greene; I'm in charge of your training. You have all signed non-disclosure agreements, correct?" He paused until he'd seen each of the new men nod in affirmation. "We have a lot of material to go over; none of it is known to the general public, and most of it will sound too fantastic to be true. We wish it weren't true, but, unfortunately, it is, so we are left to deal with the problem.

"I know that most of you have come back very recently from combat zones overseas; you may not be aware of some recent events here in the States. A few years ago, there was a disaster in California; a small town by the name of Sunnydale was swallowed up by a large sink-hole. That, at least, is what was reported to the press. The town did fall into a huge hole; it was totally obliterated. It was not, however, the natural disaster that was reported.

"Our government has known for quite some time that the human race shares this world with a number of other intelligent creatures." Major Greene paused to watch his audience as numerous confused looks were exchanged among the men; everybody knew about dolphins by now. "Gentlemen, your attention, please!" he snapped, drawing every eye back to the front of the room. "A good many of the people in charge tried to deny their existence; others tried to claim that they are just "dumb animals." The fact remains that demons do exist, they are intelligent, and a number of types are a threat to mankind. Our job here is to hunt out the dangerous ones." He paused again to let the muttering among the men die out once more before continuing. "These creatures are, in many cases, stronger, faster, and possess better senses than humans do. They are frequently harder to kill. Some can even pass for humans; most, however, cannot hide their differences, so they haunt the night. We have specialized equipment to help detect these beings, and weaponry that is fairly effective against them, but the most effective approach is to use another demon to take them down.

"After careful study, it has been determined that the species most readily available and trainable for this task is the vampire."

Voices were raised in loud protest around Taylor over this supposed hoax, but he wasn't so sure it was a hoax. He'd heard some rumors the last time he'd been home; he'd known that strange sightings had taken place in and around LA that couldn't be waved off as just movie stunts. But… vampires?

The next thirty minutes were taken up viewing classified videos taken in the now-defunct Sunnydale. A number of different demons were shown, including several that looked like men with very distorted faces. These, they were told, were vampires in their natural appearance, or "gameface," as one of the black-clad soldiers called it.

Yeah, Taylor thought wryly, those guys sure as hell aren't dogs. Vampires… who'd'a thunk!

At last Major Greene declared that there were to be no more questions. Two of the men requested reassignment; they were told that they would be given other duties, but they would not be leaving the base until the others had finished their training. Taylor was glad that he'd kept his mouth shut, as he'd seen the major carefully noting who made the most objections during the briefing.

He followed after their escorts with the rest of the group, and, oddly, he felt his curiosity and excitement increasing. They were going to get their "animals" assigned now—living, breathing vampires… well, un-living, non-breathing, anyway. He grinned at his own humor, wondering what they would be like.

"Men, understand," the major continued his lecture as they headed towards an outlying area of the underground base. "These vampires have had control chips implanted surgically in their brains. They receive an electrical shock, should they attempt to attack or otherwise harm a human. They can still hurt you if you become careless or complacent, because they may be fast enough to get one strike in before the chip incapacitates them.

"It will be up to you to get your hostile to obey, and to hunt on command."

"Sir?" Taylor interrupted in concern. "I don't think we should refer to our vamps as hostiles. That's what you call the enemy; if we're to be working with these beings, we will need to establish some sort of rapport to be effective. Perhaps a better term for them would be 'Hunters'?"

"You're… Taylor, yes?" Major Greene inquired. "You're one of our experienced dog-handlers?"

"Yessir, and yes, I do understand that these are not dogs, sir," Taylor responded, anticipating what Greene might say next. "Still, sir, any animal with even a modicum of intelligence responds better when treated with some degree of respect. Any lion-trainer will tell you the same thing: You don't yell or curse at something you have to work with, especially if you know it's dangerous and can eat you instead of doing the 'trick' you want it to do."

"A good point, Sergeant," Major Greene acknowledged softly. "I will take your suggestion for a change in their designation into consideration, perhaps to go into effect once one becomes operational. Good enough?"

"Yessir," Taylor agreed, knowing when not to push further.

By this point they had arrived at a long corridor of glaringly white tiles, lined along one side with glass-fronted cubicles—more like small rooms, Taylor thought. The first they passed was empty, but the next contained a naked young man, chained hand and foot, a chain around his neck and a metal gag in his mouth. The man next to Taylor started to mutter unhappily until a startling change came over the chained captive's face. There was an odd crunching sound; then the man's brown eyes turned a vivid yellow, and the teeth elongated and became ragged-looking.

"That's a gameface," one of the escorts said in explanation. "All the vamps do that before they bite; they don't have to shift if they're just gonna beat you down."

"Some of the older ones can just drop their fangs; they don't have to go into full gameface," another black-clad soldier continued the explanation. "If you're feeding them bagged blood, they can keep their human mask to drink it, especially from a mug or glass, but most prefer to change, I've been told, the better to savor the flavor."

There some quiet groans at his attempt at humor before the major continued, "These are all males; it was decided that it would be too dangerous to use females for this. Too much chance of one of you forgetting what you were dealing with and just seeing a 'poor defenseless girl,' or some such rot. We've collected nearly two dozen of these things; go ahead and look at 'em. See if any one catches your eye particularly. I'll make assignments after that if no one has a preference."

Taylor wandered up the corridor with the others, gazing in at the occupants. The vampires seemed to range in age from late teens to perhaps early-to-mid twenties. There was no way to tell, just by looking, how old they really were. He went the length of the occupied cells, then started back, studying the vamps more carefully. Midway down he paused, noting the particular level of intelligence showing in the green eyes of that vampire. He glanced at the keypad to get his designation and was mildly surprised to see a Post-It note beneath the official title of H386V, with the handwritten notation:

Rex
Childe of Zachary,
Line of Whittington.

Taylor looked back down the corridor. "Major Greene, sir?" he called. "Can I have this one?"

"Something about him particularly strikes your fancy, Sergeant?" Greene asked.

Taylor wasn't sure he really cared for the tone of the major's question. "Yessir," he answered anyway. "I like the look in his eyes."

Notes

(1) Army Combat Uniform, more commonly known among civilians as BDUs, though that term is no longer used in the military.