Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have a job for you,” is the first thing Crimson says when Striker picks up the phone.

“I’m listening.” Striker sandwiches the burner phone between his shoulder and ear as he continues sharpening one of his many knives.

“A chance to redeem yourself for that fuck-up with the clown.” Crimson sips something: probably some fancy-ass wine. “You do this little favor for me and I’ll forget every minute of that disaster, got it?”

This is why Striker should have stuck to independent hits and never should have gotten tied into the mob. One-off clients are easy enough to off if they become problems. But a whole organization protects Crimson. It ain’t that simple to evade the mob. And if the mob decides they have a problem with you because you fucked up one little kidnapping, that the mob boss also fucked up, then there ain’t no gettin’ out of that easy. Not without leaving town and leaving contacts and leaving reliable gun suppliers. And eventually you run out of towns with unburnt bridges.

One-off clients usually can’t find out his temporary phone number. Striker is going to have to kill someone for letting his burner number slip to Crimson. And now he’s going to have to kill someone else to get himself new one with decent minutes.

“As long as that favor entails killin’ someone, I’m game,” he drawls.

“It does.” Crimson sighs. “Striker, I need an example made of my son.”

Striker grins. A nice simple single person that Crimson needs murdered? Easy. “Any preference on manner of death?”

“Doesn’t matter as long as you bring me his traitorous little head so I can mount it on my front gate. You cannot abandon this family and get away with it,” Crimson hisses.

Striker’s tail flicks. The implied threat itches at him. “You can count on me. Deadline?”

“Eh, whenever. He’s a weak pathetic piece of shit I should have stomped out the moment he turned his back on me. Should have let him be with his poor mother again.” Crimson darkly laughs. “Take as much time as you need. You won’t need much.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good!” Crimson claps. “I’ll send along the info.” He hangs up.

Striker leans back and makes a note in the journal he keeps to log his jobs. The dark crisp penned lines are coded: he tracks dates, employers, how much he’ll get paid, and any deadline for the job. Crimson shouldn’t be kept waiting, but there’s no reason Striker has to push his request all the way to the front of his decent lineup of other hit jobs.

His phone buzzes with an incoming text. Striker leans over to look at it, swiping open the message with the tip of his tail: Crimson has sent a picture of his son and other relevant details.

He snaps his pen.

That’s the vermin. That’s Moxxie.

The worst part is that the pay for this job sucks.

That’s the price Striker pays for choosing to get tangled up in a mob web, though. He gets shitty jobs for shitty pay because otherwise there’ll be someone else hired to take care of him and then Striker has to kill some random shitty hitman. And that’s just a waste of perfectly good bullets.

But Moxxie? Fuck.

Honestly, Striker would do it for free. He’s still pissed about the money, though.

And he’s pissed at himself. How the fuck did he not suspect that the little fucker had a mob background? The little imp held rifles like a gangster and had genuinely impressive mid and long-range skills. Too broadly knowledgeable in weaponry to have been taught by someone like Blitz. Too accurate, too coordinated.

He was quick and slippery in larger spaces but easily overpowered in close-quarters cramped combat. Striker can’t help the animalistic grin as he remembers pinning Moxxie down by his fragile soft throat, hearing those desperate choking gasps as he strangled the life out of him.

Striker’s smile snaps down to a growl. And then Moxxie had slipped out of his grasp. Again.

He peers through the scope of a sniper rifle, flicking his tail agitatedly at the reminder that he’s still missing the blessing-tipped rifle Moxxie had stolen from him.

His tactical assessment: avoid confrontations in wide-open spaces. End it nice and simple without the little idiot ever suspecting a thing.

If everything goes wrong and a more direct approach is required, Striker knows better than to expect Moxxie ever to be unarmed. His silly suit held a seemingly infinite number of concealed weaponry: pistols, shotguns, submachine guns, and rifles. While Striker has never seen him wield knives, he doubtlessly had at least one. Maybe down his sock? Maybe under one of those fingerless gloves?

Tactical strengths: guns, guns, and more guns.

Tactical weaknesses: everything else. The tiny critter didn’t use his tail in combat and didn’t keep it tucked out of reach: it was all too easy to yank the uncontrolled imp appendage, laughing while it uselessly flapped around Striker’s feet as Moxxie slowly succumbed to the darkness-

Striker hisses and tightens his grip. He just needs to shoot this stupid fucker in the head. Then this will all be over.

Moxxie and Millie are in an open-air antiques market of Hell. Millie is browsing antique weaponry, admiring a medieval-looking flail while her husband sifts through some sort of vintage paper ephemera. They’re mere feet from each other.

Bring back his head, Crimson had demanded. Striker sits back on his heels, claws digging into the side of the gun in frustration. If he shoots Moxxie from here, he’s too far away to get down there, grab the body, and escape. Besides Millie, who would be a problem, there are too many bystanders. It could get too chaotic. Someone could get to the body first.

No public sniping. Either Striker needs to find Moxxie alone in a secluded enough area, somewhere where very few people will see him die, or Striker needs to do it more personally.

No Millie. No witnesses. A simple in-and-out hit.

Striker’s teeth itch. He hungers for a hunt.

Chapter Text

Four days into his reconnaissance, Striker notices he’s being tailed.

His shitty motel doesn’t have horse stabling so Striker has had to keep Bombproof out of town. He visits his loyal steed daily, making sure he’s being fed the best meat money can buy. On his way back to Moxxie’s apartment, he notices a demon walking behind him a block behind.

Striker pretends to check his phone, angling it so he can see in the reflection of the black screen. His stalker is short but appears somewhat shark-like, though further details are obscured by a large raincoat.

Without looking back, Striker turns right at the next street. He doesn’t pick up his pace, strolling leisurely in the early morning rising sun.

A few streets down, he turns right again. Check his reflection: still being followed.

Another right turn, then another one quickly. Striker looks around, pausing at a street sign like he’s lost. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that same small shark.

Not a coincidence. He’s being followed, and badly.

Striker hisses between his teeth. Crimson, no doubt. What, did the mobster not trust Striker to do the job? Did he really have to have his least experienced henchman tail Striker?

This mob shit sucks.

Even though he wants to whip out the silenced pistol in his coat and put an end to this surveillance bullshit, that would only cause more problems with Crimson. They might put someone more experienced on him. Crimson might decide to call off their agreement if Striker offs one of his guys.

So he lets the tail stay.

Time to refocus on his actual goal: killing Moxxie.

The little homebody keeps a consistent schedule: he and his wife are picked up by Blitz and the hellhound in the company van. They all head to work together, where they are rarely alone. Then the couple is dropped back off at home after work, where they spend most of the night inside together doing sickly sweet lovey-dovey things together. If they do go out, it’s together.

From dawn until dusk, Moxxie is almost never alone.

So Striker needs to find some way to get Moxxie alone.

It’s easy enough to break into the Imps’ apartment. Striker stays low and is careful to disturb nothing as he creeps to the kitchen. On the counter is a fancy coffee machine. Every morning he’s been spying on Moxxie, the little critter has gotten dressed and used this coffee maker.

Striker had found the specs of the machine online, then he’d done research into what parts were most fragile, most likely to malfunction. He unscrews the cover and disassembles the coffee maker until he finds the small piece he’s looking for. He pockets the piece of shitty Greed-made plastic and reassembles it.

Now it’s time to wait. Striker gets a good early night’s sleep. He’d been able to shake his own stalker on his way back to his motel room, but he should move somewhere else soon.

He’s back observing Moxxie’s apartment five minutes before the imp gets up.

The little dude gets up, kisses his wife good morning, and gets dressed in the bathroom while he brushes his teeth, probably. Striker can’t see in the bathroom. Then Moxxie trots to the kitchen and starts the coffee maker.

The imp frowns and squints at the machine as it starts making strange noises and vibrating and-

A perfect coffee disaster unfolds.

Striker can’t hear, but he can see Moxxie’s tail wildly whipping back and forth as the Imp stumbles and tries to wipe half-brewed coffee out of his face with a kitchen towel. Millie, half-dressed, sticks her head in. She tries to help, but in the street the I.M.P van pulls up and honks its horn.

Moxxie looks apologetic. He gestures at himself, then the bathroom, then motions for Millie to go without him. She does. The van drives away.

Perfect. Moxxie is alone. Finally.

Striker quickly moves from his sniper post. He crosses the street and gets to a secluded spot in the alley outside the back entrance of the apartment building. If Moxxie hurries up in changing clothes, he should get downstairs in time for the 8:54 A.M. bus. There was a bus schedule in the apartment: Moxxie would know that if he doesn’t make that bus, it’ll be a twenty minute wait until the next one and the little suck-up wouldn’t want to be that late to work.

Striker pulls his silenced pistol and grins. Moxxie won’t be making that bus.

At 8:52, Moxxie sprints out of the back entrance towards the bus stop a block away. His hair is wet and his bowtie is hanging untied around his neck.

He doesn’t see Striker behind him point a pistol at his head.

In the mouth of the alley, a burly shark demon steps into the morning light with its own gun raised at Moxxie. “Kid-”

Striker panics. He shifts his aim and shoots the shark between the eyes.

That fucker was going to steal his kill. What the fuck game is Crimson playing?

Moxxie yelps at the demon. He whirls at the silenced gunshot, raising his own pistol.

Striker is already gone, but Moxxie fires anyways. Shit. Had Moxxie seen him? It would be a hundred times harder now that the little fucker is on guard.

Fuck Crimson. Nobody is going to get to kill Moxxie except for Striker.

This happens again that same afternoon.

Blitz drops Moxxie and Millie off at their apartment. Millie is chattering faster than a spooked horse while Moxxie looks understandably nervous. He checks the street before entering his apartment building.

Striker sighs and keeps watch: his parking garage vantage point has a good view of the inside of their apartment as well as the street. Inside, the two go about their daily routine with one exception: Millie had strained her shoulder that day at a job so Moxxie takes out the trash instead of her.

He tosses the garbage bag in the dumpster and takes a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his jacket pocket. A shitty car parks next to the alley. Another Shark, this one tall and thin, slips out of it with a loaded crossbow aimed at Moxxie-

A bullet tears through his throat. The crossbow shot goes wide as the demon falls with a gurgle.

Even though Striker’s sniper rifle is silenced, Moxxie still turns and gasps. His expert gaze, calculating despite his shock, looks from the demon up to the parking garage.

Striker ducks down. When he peeks up, Moxxie is thoughtfully staring at the building while he hurries back inside, a tiny pistol in his hand.

Moxxie doesn’t look terrified. He looks capable. That’s the power of giving that little bitch a gun and not cornering him in a dark room.

Another one of Crimson’s goons was going to steal his kill. Striker breathes heavily, rattling with fury.

Moxxie is his.

Crimson is not respecting basic assassin etiquette.

Crimson probably won’t be happy Striker just killed two of his guys.

Chapter Text

Call Moxxie crazy, but someone is trying to kill him.

Correction: multiple someones. There have been eight in the last week.

Correction to the correction: obviously his father is trying to kill him and is sending lots of shitty hitmen to do it.

Clarification to that correction: the reason they’re failing is because someone is killing the would-be killers and Moxxie has no idea why.

“Watch the car, Mox,” Blitz orders before he and Millie walk away to meet with an agoraphobic rich client who had refused to come to their office. Loona is sitting in the car on her phone with earbuds in, leaving Moxxie to awkwardly stand next to the car. It’s not a bad part of town, so Moxxie doesn’t keep a weapon visible.

On the road, a car abruptly does a U-turn. The passenger side window slides down and Moxxie sees a rifle poke out-

A muffled gunshot pierces the car’s tire. It skids. The hitman’s shot goes wide.

As natural as breathing, Moxxie draws his Colt and shoots the passenger as a bullet from across the street takes out the driver. Moxxie briefly sees a flash of yellow as his mysterious and murderous guardian angel slips away again.

“Hey!” he yells. “What the fuck is going on?!? Why does this keep happening?”

When he gets no answer, he ducks into the cover of the van.

Loona takes one earbud out. “’Sup?”

“Almost got assassinated. Again.” Moxxie checks his gun.

“Cool.” She puts her earbud in, then takes it out again. “Wait, why you?”

Moxxie huffs. “My shitty dad.” They’ve all been sharks sent after him. It has to be his father.

“Oh. Okay.” She puts her earbud back in.

When Blitz and Millie come back out, they thankfully don’t seem to notice the dead gangsters and fucked-up car, though Blitz does mumble something about people’s shitty parking skills in this city.

Moxxie should tell Millie about this. He should have already told her about this, but he knows that she’d worry. She’d already been worrying herself literally sick over Blitz after a few close calls on the last few missions. She’d blame herself. She always blames herself for things around her going wrong.

If his wife can’t protect somebody perfectly, she feels like a failure. Moxxie does not want his wife to feel like a failure. She may be strong and brave and quick and beautiful, but she can’t be perfect. Nobody can be perfect.

No, Moxxie will take care of this problem himself.

Moxxie’s plan is simple: lure one of his would-be attackers and instead of killing them, interrogate them. The people his father hired for jobs like this, if they’re failing this badly, aren’t his top tier. They’re sloppy.

His opportunity comes the next evening: after work he tells Millie he has to go meet a MammsList seller of a rare Phantom of the Opera snow globe music box. The seller has agreed to meet only a few blocks away from his apartment.

Moxxie shows up to the meeting point and leans against the wall. He holds his Colt loosely at his side, pulling out his phone with hand to stare at and pretend like he’s scrolling. He’s not paying it any attention, though, focusing only on the entrance of the alley.

Predictably, a shitty dark car pulls up and the door opens. They need to switch up their strategy if they intend to catch him off-guard. Doing the same exact thing ten times is just lazy. This demon is faster, more crab than shark. It’s not much larger than Moxxie and skitters towards him.

Moxxie raises his own gun first. “Put your fucking gun down. Put your hands up. Now.”

This assassin may have been faster than the others but he’s still just as shitty. The crab demon fumbles where it was reaching for its weapon. It puts its claws up. “Uh-”

“I just want to talk. I need to confirm some information so I know what I’m working with. Did Crimson send you?”

The crab stammers. “Well-”

He falls with a bullet between the eyes.

Even though this has happened a dozen times now, Moxxie screams and staggers back a few steps. He turns to try to see his strange savior, only for a knife to thunk into the barrel of his pistol, ripping it from his hand.

Uh-oh. This is not following the routine. Moxxie reaches for his trusty SMG. Two assassins sent at once instead of a solo?

A piercing pain strikes his arm just under his elbow. Moxxie shakes off a small purple dart and reaches again for his gun as his eyes flick down: the dart has a small cloud symbol.

Shit.

Moxxie knows these. He used to use these when he was younger, when his father needed someone brought in instead of just killed. They were highly illegal tranquilizers that could take down even a huge demon in less than a minute. For a small imp, he could be completely paralyzed in fifteen or twenty seconds.

Already the poison is making his arm lock up and his legs feel numb. Moxxie gets his SMG in his hand even as it shakes, raising it in the direction the knife had been thrown from.

The weapon is yanked from his hand by a thin lasso of rope. From the second floor of a rotting apartment building, an unfortunately familiar cowboy hitman jumps down with a perfect three-point landing.

Striker raises his head, yellow eyes staring at Moxxie and grin predatory. He flicks his rope again. “Don’t try to run, little one.”

Moxxie, no gun in hand, panics and tries to run.

He stumbles over his own limp tail, dizzy from the drugs. Purple cloud symbol on the dart meant level 2 fast-acting paralysis, not meant to completely knock him unconscious. It had a disorienting effect. He’s slower than Striker on a good day but like this?

Moxxie knows he doesn’t stand a chance.

He only gets four weak steps before Striker, lazily sauntering, catches him. Moxxie fumbles for a weapon but Striker shoves him to the ground and wrenches his wrists behind his back with his tail. Rope quickly secures them, firmly binding his arms from wrists to elbow.

“Stop fucking struggling,” Striker grumbles. He removes all of Moxxie’s jacket weapons, then takes his pocket pistol and phone. He professionally pats him down for any other weapons. “Believe it or fucking not, I ain’t actually here to kill ya. So settle. Down.”

“The fuck?” is all Moxxie can manage with the world spinning in his eyes. His heart pounds. He tries to sit up but Striker puts his knee on his back. Striker hasn’t touched his neck but still he can’t breathe. Every breath he sucks in is too fast, too tight. He tries to ineffectually kick. He’s helpless. Again.

Striker whistles. He stands and lifts Moxxie by the waist, slinging him over the larger imp’s shoulder.

From around the corner, a familiar fiery demon horse comes at a trot. In a dizzying move, Striker puts one foot in the stirrup and swings himself over. The horse, used to this mounting, increases its stride and soon is galloping down the streets of Imp City.

Moxxie groans. The up-and-down is not helping his headache as the paralysis drug keeps him as a limp sack of imp meat over Striker’s shoulder. It won’t wear off for almost an hour, he remembers. Plenty of time to get the target to a secondary location. Plenty of time for Striker to murder him.

…Why hasn’t Striker just murdered him? Why the need for the secondary location? Moxxie closes his eyes and leans into Striker’s shoulder, trying to move his jaw so he can bite Striker in the neck.

“Chill the fuck out – ow!” Striker shakes Moxxie’s teeth off him.

Moxxie’s jaw is weak. He’d managed enough energy for the bite, but not enough to hold it. Striker’s blood tastes oddly sweet. Some of it runs down Moxxie’s chin.

Striker moves him to instead of draped over his shoulder, Moxxie is sat sideways in front of him on the horse, one of Striker’s hands on the reins and the other holding Moxxie up. Striker smells like gun oil and hay. It’s not a comforting scent, instead reminding Moxxie of another dangerous situation where he found himself alone with the hitman.

They ride out of downtown Imp City and into the suburbs of the ring. Moxxie tries to keep his eyes open as Striker takes dangerous shortcuts and at one point jumps off a cliff onto a moving train. The train stops off at a station: Striker’s horse hops off the train and onto the top of a bus, following that down endless winding streets until it leads to another train, this one sleek and metallic.

All this movement combined with the sedative makes Moxxie drowsy, but he fights off sleep by reminding himself that Striker has kidnapped him. Not only is he being taken to a secondary location, he’s been taken out of the Pride Ring entirely. They’ve already passed through Wrath and Gluttony. How could he consider dozing off at a time like this?

His eyes slip closed. The next time he opens them, Striker is tying him to a chair.

Moxxie screams and kicks him in the jaw.

“Little shit,” Striker growls. He rubs his chin and switches to a low drawl. “Come on now, I thought we were past this. You were acting all good and calm before. Can’t we go back to that?”

“What the fuck! You are going to regret this, I’m going to fucking kill you!” Moxxie continues to kick and scream until Striker ties his legs down and shoves a washcloth from the motel room bathroom into his mouth.

Striker sighs and dusts his hands on his ripped white jeans. “Well, well, well. I suppose that neat little poison I gave ya has wore off, hasn’t it? So now we can focus on what’s really important.” He puts his hands behind his back. His long tail drags on the floor. “I guess I’d better tell ya why I did all this. And then maybe we can make a deal.” He toothily grins.

First, Striker leans over Moxxie. “But if we are going to talk, you gotta promise not to scream, okay?” He winks. “We’re in a part of town that won’t come running to your aid, anyways, little dude. Got it?”

Moxxie nods. He’s already heard two gunshots outside in the last few minutes. Nobody is going to care about some random imp yelling.

When Striker removes his makeshift gag, Moxxie coughs. “So my dad couldn’t kill me with shitty henchmen and he escalated to giving you the job?”

Striker throws back his head and laughs, tail rattling. “Oh, little man! Your pops started with me.” The smile drops. “And then he decided to fuck around.” Striker hisses. “And I don’t like getting fucked, Moxxie.”

Hearing Striker say his name sounds weird when normally the other imp resorts to silly nicknames. Moxxie frowns. “But-”

“But that is not how this business is supposed to fucking work.” Striker stops looming over him and casually leans against the window. Dust rises from the blinds. “You hire a hitman and that killer gets first dibs. Only after the first hitman is confirmed dead do you send another one to take over the job. You do not send other shittier goons to steal his fucking kill.” Striker sighs. “This whole gig has been a pathetic waste of bullets. And now I’ve been shaking off my own assassins all week.”

Moxxie’s mouth is hanging open. “You – you’ve been the one taking out the people trying to kill me? But – but why?”

“So that I could kill you myself, that’s why!” Striker’s tail rattles against the nightstand. “But then Crimson…”

“Didn’t like you killing his guys,” Moxxie guesses. He bites his lip, a plan starting to formulate as he sees Striker’s line of reasoning. “How much did he pay you?”

“Hasn’t paid me yet,” Striker grumbles. “Stupid job for the stupid mob. Never should have gotten into that shit.”

Moxxie shifts as much as he can. “He might not be willing to pay you now. How much was he going to pay you?”

Striker raises an eyebrow. “You really want to know?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“A thousand.”

Moxxie isn’t sure if he should feel angrier at Striker or his father. “A thousand? For his only son?!?”

“Like I said, shit job.”

“I’ll double it for you to kill my father.”

Striker turns from the window. “What?”

Moxxie is sweating. “I’ll triple it. I’ve spent more on Egoway show tickets before. Three grand, plus I’ll give you the code to his safe. If you can get to his office, whatever’s in there can all be yours. He used to keep a jade-grip revolver with gold inlays in there too. A pretty gun.”

Striker had kept a straight face, but his tail perks up. He seems like a man who would like pretty guns, based on his previous blessing-tipped rifle and revolvers. He slowly smiles. “Hm. Now we’re talking business, little one.” He paces in front of the dark window.

Finally, Striker stands still in front of Moxxie. A long red claw scratches under his chin to force Moxxie to meet his gaze. “Two thousand, plus the safe’s contents, plus you help me do it.”

Moxxie swallows hard. “Wh-What?”

“You.” Striker pokes Moxxie’s chest. “Help me.” He points at himself. “Kill your father.” He points outside.

The abstract idea of Moxxie’s father being permanently out of the picture isn’t the worst. No more threats, no more constant looking over his shoulder wondering when Crimson would finally have enough of his disobedient son and try something even more fucked-up to keep Moxxie in line. No more assassins. He’d be safe. Millie would be safe.

But that involves teaming up with…Striker.

Moxxie winces. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good.” Striker stands tall over him. “You shouldn’t trust me. Even I don’t trust me. But I want Crimson dead and you want him dead too. We have something in common. Plus, I already tried to kill your dad on my own and well…” He draws the word out in a low drawl. “That man has security so tight I couldn’t even do any fucking recon. I need someone who knows his habits and knows that house inside and out.”

“Aren’t you getting paid to kill me? Why not just do it and get it over with?”

Striker draws a knife and eyes it, turning it back and forth to catch the dim light from the window. “You’re right about Crimson. I’m not sure the deal is still on. If I have no guarantee of getting paid then there’s no point in killing you before you pay me, right? If I end you right now I might get nothing. Your business deal is a hell of a lot more beneficial than Crimson’s. So do we have a deal?”

A dusty silence falls between them. In the dark, both of their eyes faintly glow yellow.

“Fine.” Moxxie briefly raises his eyes to Striker’s. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

Thank Satan Moxxie had agreed to their little deal. Otherwise, Striker would have had to kill him and that would have been a disappointing mess. It would have been a waste of all the new planning he’d had to do to figure out some way to capture Moxxie alive without him killing Striker. How hard it was, to resist slipping a knife under Moxxie’s chin once he was in Striker’s hands, weak and helplessly drugged.

It was impossible to trust the slippery little Imp, but Striker shows his good faith by untying Moxxie. In Striker’s jacket pocket, Moxxie’s phone buzzes again.

“Your lady’s lookin’ for you,” he mentions. He pulls out the phone and holds it just out of Moxxie’s reach. “Don’t know what you should tell her, but probably not the truth.”

Moxxie pouts. Adorable. “I’m not lying to my wife.”

“Well then figure something out. She’s fierce and all, but what we need is more discretion. Her fighting style ain’t exactly screaming discretion.” Striker tosses him the phone. “Handle that. I’ll handle our loadout. Requests?”

“A gun,” Moxxie grumbles while he scrolls through Millie’s increasingly worried messages. “EMPs? For the helicopters. Maybe smoke bombs or something to deal with the inside of the house. Those sharks can’t see very well in obscured environments.” He flips his phone over. “Okay. I’m going to call her.”

Striker leans against the headboard and texts his Greed Ring weapons dealer with his requests. The dealer promises to meet him a few blocks away from the motel in an hour and a half. While he arranges their weaponry, his ears flick towards Moxxie’s conversation.

“I’m fine,” is the first thing the little imp says. Striker is impressed he’s keeping his voice so even. Every few seconds Moxxie’s gaze darts over to Striker, unwilling to let him out of his sight. Understandable. “I’m…it’s a personal situation I need to deal with alone, Mills. I promise that I-”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” He winces. “Yes, it’s about my father. I love you honey and you know I’d love to have you here by my side, but…” He sighs. “I need to do this alone. I don’t want any of you getting hurt because of my mistakes. Yes, I know I’ve had to talk to you about saying the same thing when you try to handle the whole world at once.”

He glances at Striker. “No, I won’t be home tonight. I’ll be home tomorrow?”

Striker nods.

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Moxxie promises. “I love you. I promise I’ll be safe.” He holds the phone tenderly to his ear. “I love you,” he whispers again.

After he hangs up, he stays as far away from Striker as possible.

“Guns are on the way, little man,” Striker drawls. “I got you somethin’ special.”

“Okay?” Moxxie drags the chair to the far corner. His expressive tail curls around the chair legs. “Good.”

Striker inspects his claws. He lets the silence sit until Moxxie looks like he’s going to explode from the tension. Only then does he finally speak. “Didn’t know you were a mafia boy, Mox.”

As expected, the casual use of the nickname makes Moxxie’s eyes widen. “I left. I’m not part of my father’s organization anymore.”

“You can’t leave the mob.”

“No, you can’t.” Moxxie is quiet. He looks to the side. “I guess you really can’t. But I did try.”

Striker lets the conversation drop until his gun supplier texts him. “Guns are a few blocks down. Wanna come with?”

Moxxie winces. “Um, how do you know I won’t just run away? This feels like way too much trust.”

“Aw come on, Mox. I thought we had a deal. You ain’t lookin’ to run out on me now, are you little dude?”

Moxxie stammers. “No, no I’m a man of my – my honor. It just feels suspicious.”

“Well, you wouldn’t make it very far anyways even if you did try.” Striker draws a throwing knife. He grins. “Though it might be mighty entertaining to chase you…”

“Never mind. Forget it.” Moxxie straightens his sleeve. “Guns?”

“Guns.” Striker opens the door and immediately throws a knife. It lodges in between the eyes of the demon outside who thought they’d been sneaky. Moxxie squeaks but quickly recovers.

Striker leads them at a leisurely pace down the street and through alleys. Moxxie trots at his side, trying to stay as far away as possible but forced close to Striker’s side by Striker’s long tail. The spiked appendage is curled in an arc around Moxxie but not touching. It’s at the short imp’s waist level, hovering and slowly closing in. It rattles, a threat: you can’t run.

His gun supplier is waiting in the shadows with a sack at their feet, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. A sharp imp with one crooked horn, they’ve always been reliable. While they hadn’t been the one to directly get Striker’s blessed revolvers, they’d given him the contact for buying them.

“Evening,” Striker drawls. His tail flicks, forcing Moxxie sideways almost into Striker’s legs. “Me and my business partner are mighty glad for the short notice, Friend.”

Friend is all the name Striker has ever been given. The supplier’s wary shoulders ease at hearing Moxxie is with Striker. “You’ve always been good for business.” They open the sack. “Got a few standard pieces, plus your special requests.”

A pair of revolvers. Striker gladly takes them, plus a few extra knives. Where he and Moxxie are going, they’ll need more supplies than a normal job. He takes extra ammunition for his sniper rifle.

Friend hands over a bag containing smoke bombs. “No can do on the EMPs,” they quietly explain in their soft voice. “Those are hard enough to source in normal times, but someone in Pride’s been eating up all my stock these last few months.”

Striker shrugs. “No big. We’ll deal, won’t we?”

Moxxie nods. His eyes light up when Friend pulls out weapons more in his style: small SMGs, shotguns, a semi-automatic rifle. Striker inspects each one before handing them down to him.

But the real treat is when Friend pulls out a black and red Colt. From the trigger to the barrel a piano key pattern swirls.

“Oh.” Moxxie’s eyes are wide.

Striker takes the gun with one hand and puts his other arm around Moxxie’s shoulders, leaning down to hold the custom pistol in front of the little imp’s face. “I told ya I would get ya somethin’ special, didn’t I?” His accent is thick and his voice soft.

Moxxie shivers. “It’s the same custom series as my old one.” He looks at his feet, then up at Striker, startling with how close Striker is. He glances at Striker’s arm around him. “Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it, little dude. All yours. Apologies for wreckin’ your old one.” Striker lets Moxxie take it from his hand, his claws brushing Moxxie’s wrist. He lets go of Moxxie’s shoulder and pays Friend for everything, plus a little extra for the short notice. Always good to stay on the right side of someone with access to so much weaponry, especially the beautiful custom pieces they seem to pull out of thin air. It’s more than he would usually spend, but he believes Moxxie about the safe. Someone like Crimson surely has money hidden around the rest of his house: his gold tooth alone will cover the cost of Moxxie’s gun.

Moxxie inspects the gun. “Thanks,” he tells Friend.

Friend nods at both of them, gives Striker a semi-sarcastic salute, and slips down the alley into shadows.

Striker leads them back to the motel, letting Moxxie take out another assassin on the way back to test out his new gift. Striker grins as he watches the efficient way the smaller imp works. Moxxie is dangerously elegant like this. If he fights like this tonight, this job might just be fun.

Chapter Text

Moxxie’s fingers tap on the steering wheel. He glances at Striker in the passenger seat.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” the deadly assassin drawls. “Would be a silly way to go out, gettin’ in a wreck on the way to a gunfight. Wouldn’t want to be one to tell your lady that’s how ya went out.”

“Right. Sorry.” Moxxie keeps his eyes forward, but his eyes keep catching the lazy swaying movements of Striker’s tail.

Striker has the passenger seat leaned all the way back, his feet up on the dash and his sniper rifle in his lap. His cowboy hat is tilted down: he might have been napping. The soft light of the streetlights shines off his claws and his gold fang. It’s hard for Moxxie to keep his eyes away.

“Approaching,” Moxxie whispers. He rolls down his window.

Striker rolls down his own window, adjusts his hat, and grins as he raises his sniper rifle. “You know, little dude, I should’a gotten you a little hat to match me. Would have been cute as hell. Aw well, next time.”

“N-Next time?” Moxxie stammers. There’s not going to be a next time. Striker is trying to mess with him at a time like this? He must love to see Moxxie sweat. Moxxie clears his throat. “You’re clear in three, two-”

Across the street is the front entrance to Crimson’s manor. Other than the helipad, this was the only way in or out. No back gate to sneak through. Two guards in front of the locked gate at all times of day and night. Four more at the guard station inside the wall, then two more on duty inside the front door of the house, with more further inside. One would be at the helipad in the side yard but Moxxie knows the least experienced always got that post: it was more for handling late-night helicopter operations than actual guard duty.

The long silencer of Striker’s sniper rifle swings in front of Moxxie’s face as the car slows but doesn’t stop. Moxxie swallows hard and suppresses a flinch, a small squeak jumping from his throat as Striker fires twice. Striker chuckles. All part of the plan.

The silenced shots take down the two outside guards. No alarm is raised.

Moxxie abruptly turns the car and parks to block the locked gate. He leaves the car running and hops out with his own sniper rifle in one hand and a smoke grenade between his teeth.

Staying low to the ground, Striker slithers away along the outside of the wall, staying close enough to not trigger the cameras.

After tossing the smoke grenade over the gate, Moxxie clutches his sniper rifle to his chest and sprints away as far as he can get in the same direction as Striker. He crouches just in front of the larger snake demon, both of them raising their rifles in unison. Striker crouching on top, Moxxie underneath. Together, they form one tiny dark target on a wide open sidewalk. Moxxie’s heartbeat is pounding and Striker’s tail in the corner of his eye is making him jumpy. He shouldn’t be putting someone as dangerous as Striker behind him.

The smoke grenade explodes. Guards start coughing: one swears loudly.

“I’ll fucking take care of those punks!” One of the guards shouts. The gate is mostly obscured by smoke, but Moxxie’s sensitive ears pick up the sound of it unlocking.

“First,” Striker mutters.

“Second,” Moxxie answers.

A guard stumbles out of the smoke. He falls to Striker’s shot.

Another follows, confused and tripping over his dead coworker. Moxxie gets him in the neck as he cries out. The next one already has a gun raised but is too slow for Striker. The last stays in the smoke too long and gets a wide shot off before Moxxie can take him down.

Moxxie and Striker pause, but no one else emerges. No alarm is raised yet.

“Continue,” Moxxie decides. He didn’t hear the house guards come out yet and he doesn’t know where the helipad one is.

“Cover,” Striker orders, then he’s off. Moxxie follows through the open gate of the house, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve from the residual smoke.

The front yard is well-lit by path lighting and house-mounted floodlights. Striker darts ahead in the sparse shadows he can find. Moxxie looks towards the helipad but doesn’t see the guard there. Keeping one eye on Striker and his other eye on the yard, he creeps around to the side door.

He freezes: the side door is propped open. Moxxie hears voices.

“Yeah, bet ya twenty it’s just Hank high on somethin’ again and spottin’ a lil’ squirrel,” someone slurs. “You know that fucker has the worst fuckin’ trigger finger.”

Someone else answers. “I’d better check anyway. Hank ain’t the type to shoot just once and not keep going. If he’s passed out again, that ain’t a good look and somebody’d better just make him permanently unemployed if he keeps being so messy.”

The original person laughs and opens the door wider. Smoke curls out of it.

Moxxie can see two guards lounging with a third just inside the door as they all smoke and pass a bottle of something around. Moxxie is in the middle of the yard as one of the guards opens the door and walks out.

He makes eye contact with Moxxie. He looks briefly confused, then opens his mouth to yell and raises his gun to shoot.

Moxxie dives behind the only available cover: a large potted plant. He tries to fire back but can’t get a good view with his rifle. He tosses it to the side and pulls an SMG instead, frantically trying to keep his head down while looking around for Striker as more shots pepper his meager cover.

Where is Striker? Moxxie winces as a chunk of terracotta hits his cheek from the hail of bullets keeping him from poking even his barrel out or blind firing.

“Hey!” One of the guards yells. “Another one!”

Moxxie sees Striker, staying back further towards the exterior wall, dart between large planters. He hits one of the three guards but is forced behind his own cover by the other two. More people yell and lights start to come on inside the house. But the side door is still open: as long as that door stays open, the house can’t go on lockdown.

Shit. Striker is good at close range but can’t get close enough, and Moxxie’s too close to effectively shoot. Neither can properly cover for the other. Moxxie hisses between his teeth, hands starting to tremble.

No. He can do this.

He still has three smoke grenades. Moxxie unclips one, pulls the pin, and tosses it towards the guards. He takes the risk and leans out of cover, mentally taking a picture of the guards’ placement: there are four of them now with one dead on the ground.

The guards are distracted by the thrown grenade. Moxxie downs another one before the grenade explodes.

He blindly fires: the only people in front of him are his enemies. He hears yells and grunts but can’t see. His enemies, wary of hitting each other, stop shooting.

A huge shark comes barreling out of the smoke and directly into Moxxie, tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hands. Moxxie gasps and tries to slip away but the shark grabs his tail and yanks him back. “Got one of them!” He yells, grabbing Moxxie by the arm and twisting it when Moxxie reaches for another weapon.

The shark drags him out of the smoke. Another guard raises a sword and swings it at Moxxie’s head.

He flinches, but the hit doesn’t come.

A throwing knife impales the guard’s eye. He screams and drops his sword, clutching his face as Striker lunges out of the smoke. He pulls his knife from the guard’s eye and slits the guard’s neck, then in a flash has grabbed Moxxie. He thrusts his blade through the front of the shark’s throat, glancing down and winking at Moxxie with a cruel smile.

“Careful,” Striker purrs.

He pulls both of them free from the carnage. Moxxie wipes blood from his face and surveys the scene:

A pile of at least seven bodies jam the side door open. No sign of Alessio yet; Crimson’s right-hand man must be further in the mansion with his boss.

They slip inside the side door and through the kitchen. Striker leads, Moxxie follows with quiet directions. He has his new Colt in his hand. The kitchen leads into the dining room, which connects to the living room and staircase leading upstairs.

A smoke bomb helps them make easy work of the guards in the living room. While Moxxie knew the layout of the house, the exact position of the guards changed often. They clear the first floor and circle back around to the staircase.

A quiet click is Moxxie’s only warning before someone at the top of the stairs opens fire. Moxxie shoves Striker to the side, dodging too late. A sharp pain bites his side. Moxxie stumbles and returns fire, pressing his hand to the dark blood quickly soaking his suit.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Crimson stands at the top of the stairs, a Tommy gun in his hands. Alessio is at his side with a pistol. Crimson’s eyes comically widen at the sight of Moxxie with Striker at his side furiously hissing. “…Moxxie?”

“Hi Dad.” Moxxie grits his teeth and feels his wound with his shaking fingers: he doesn’t feel a hole. The bullet might have just grazed him. “Sorry to wake you in the middle of the night.”

Striker is looming over Moxxie’s shoulder, but it doesn’t feel as threatening as it should. “Didn’t mean to disturb your precious beauty sleep, sir.” He tips his hat. “We’ll be right on our way soon as we finish our business here.”

Crimson is looking between the two of them like they just told him the sky in Greed was neon purple. “What business could you two possibly have together? Other than Striker killing you like he was hired to do? Or maybe you being a smart little bitch and taking care of him in return?”

Moxxie has never seen his father look so surprised. It would scare Moxxie, except he’s glad. He’s glad his father’s last moments will be so out of his tight-fisted cruel control. “Our business is killing you, Dad.”

He raises his Colt. Crimson turns tail and runs.

Striker and Moxxie have to duck back into the hallway to avoid Alessio, who takes Crimson’s gun and keeps steady cover. Moxxie is crouched between Striker’s knees, quietly counting down the rounds before Alessio runs out. He glances up and meets Striker’s eyes: Striker is looking at him, waiting for a signal.

Before Moxxie counts down from fifty to zero, though, the gunshots abruptly stop. Moxxie strains his ears and hears a small click, followed by Alessio swearing. A jam.

“Continue,” he orders Striker. That model of Thompson gun Alessio had wasn’t quick to clear jams.

Striker trusts him and ducks out of cover, raising his simple revolver and shooting twice.

Moxxie follows, scrambling up the stairs and over Alessio’s unmoving corpse. The door to his father’s bedroom is still open, but the one to his office is closed. Crimson wouldn’t risk keeping a door open if he was trying to run away, which means he’s in his office. “Grenades in the office,” Moxxie warns. “He’ll have had time to get to them.”

“Cover,” Striker whispers. That means he goes first and Moxxie stays back. The last thing Moxxie had wanted to do that night was hash out combat code words with an assassin who had tried to kill him multiple times and who he still thought was going to backstab him, but Moxxie is glad they’d decided on simple calls.

The worst part of this whole night is that Striker is so good to work with. He and Moxxie’s fighting styles mesh so well. Even after a harried few minutes fighting together, they walked in unison and moved together. Striker jumps forward but knows when to give Moxxie openings to hit enemies from afar. Moxxie can never trust Striker at his back, but damn if having the larger Imp crouching over him didn’t make him feel safe. Damn it all if Striker grabbing him out an enemy’s grasp didn’t seem casually powerful.

Striker pauses in front of the closed door. He fishes a small dart gun out of his jacket and hands it to Moxxie. It’s already loaded with another small purple dart. He makes a heavy footstep and curls his tail around the doorknob, turning it slowly.

Moxxie doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it isn’t for Striker to throw the door open, catch Crimson’s thrown grenade, and throw it back at the mob boss. Striker slams the door shut as the grenade explodes inside the room.

A few of the grenade fragments still hit Striker: one slices across his arm, the other one on his leg. In the room with the full force of the grenade blowing up in his face, Crimson screams.

“Continue,” Striker hisses. He shoulders the door open.

Moxxie ducks between his legs and raises the dart gun. The room is covered in blood and broken furniture but he can see his father on the ground half-behind his desk.

His father is still alive, but there’s no need for the paralysis dart. Moxxie tucks it away. He steps over broken glass and kneels in front of his father.

Crimson is in his pajamas: his only weapon is a small pistol in the shirt pocket. Moxxie removes it and stands over Crimson. The mob boss is holding his bloody chest with one arm, his other one dangling unmoving. Crimson’s white facial spots are, well, crimson with blood that runs down from a long forehead wound. More blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth, staining his gold fang.

“Moxxie…” Crimson tries to sit up. His eyes are wide.

Moxxie draws his Colt. He turns the safety off and points it at his father’s head. “This is over, Dad. No more bullshit. No more…” He clears his thick throat. The last thing he wants to do is start crying at a time like this: in front of his dad, in front of Striker. “You won’t ever be able to do anything to me or my wife again. I am done letting you push me – push us around. No more.”

His hand shakes. Crimson says nothing but just glares. Moxxie hadn’t expected him to apologize, but he expected something. Yelling, maybe. Threats. A familiar tirade about how his only son is a pathetic worthless good-for-nothing piece of shit. But Crimson is silent.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Moxxie swallows hard. His finger tenses around the trigger, but he can’t find the strength to pull it. He bites his lip. His father’s eyes look so much like his own and he’s just lying there. This would be easier if Crimson was fighting back, but it doesn’t feel right like this. It doesn’t feel honorable, it doesn’t feel clean.

It doesn’t feel like Moxxie.

He takes a deep shaky breath and puts the safety back on.

Behind him, Striker steps close. The other assassin is breathing heavily and pressing his hand to a small wound in his own side: a grenade shard  Moxxie hadn’t noticed hit him. “Moxxie?”

“I – I don’t know…” Moxxie can’t tear his eyes away from his father’s wide golden eyes. He feels tears gather in the corners of his eyes.

“Do you still wanna to kill him?” Striker’s voice is calm and thickly accented.

Moxxie sucks in a deep breath. “Yes.”

Crimson’s eyes widen in dismay. Yes, Moxxie still wants the safety that a dead mob boss would bring. If he backs down now, he and Millie will never be safe again. Crimson would probably prove a point by killing her first and making Moxxie watch. Moxxie needs to do this.

Yes, he still wants his father dead. He just can’t make himself pull the trigger. Not when it feels uncomfortably like an execution. Moxxie has never been capable of cold-blooded murder. Not like this.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Moxxie adjusts his grip on his weapon. “I need to do this.”

A large clawed hand slowly enters his vision as Striker leans over him, kneeling down and putting Moxxie’s back against his chest. His hand closes over Moxxie’s on the gun. One claw turns the safety back off. His finger curls over Moxxie’s on the trigger. “Do you wanna close your eyes?” There’s no judgement in his voice.

“Y-Yeah.” Moxxie squeezes his eyes shut. The gun rises.

He breathes in in unison with Striker. He breathes out.

Striker and Moxxie pull the trigger.

Chapter Text

There’s no way polite way to ask someone “hey, is it okay if I rip out and pawn your dead father’s gold tooth?” so instead Striker says: “I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you take a look at that safe?”

Moxxie shakily nods. The little Imp holsters his pistol. “Y-Yeah.” He looks at Striker, his yellow eyes unsure and not quite making eye contact. “Are you okay?”

“Eh, fine.” Striker shrugs. “Actually, if your pops had a first aid kit somewhere, maybe we start with that. Just to tide us over to somethin’ better. Your side ain’t lookin’ so hot now either.”

“In the bathroom.” The focus returns to Moxxie’s eyes at being given a defined task. “I’ll go get it.”

They separate: Moxxie to go further down the hall, Striker to go downstairs. He takes a pair of tongs from his pocket and takes his golden prize before dumping Crimson’s small corpse in the kitchen. By the time he gets back upstairs, Moxxie is taping a few squares of gauze to the bullet graze on his side.

While police wouldn’t take concerns of gunshots at a mob boss’ mansion seriously, eventually they’ll have to investigate the bloody scene. Striker quickly takes a compression bandage and applies it over his grenade wound: it’s small but there might be shards stuck in there that’ll need to be dug out later.

Surprisingly, they’re in relatively good shape. If those are the worst of their injuries, Striker counts it a successful mission. Moxxie’s hesitation at the end scared and confused Striker: the little dude had no problem taking out dozens of people. He kills living humans for a living. But to hesitate and nearly back down while he had a gun to his father’s head?

Striker doesn’t like surprises, and Moxxie is full of them.

“You did a mighty good job, little dude.” Striker grins and flicks his tail because it makes Moxxie adorably squirm. He’s not going to bring up the vulnerability at the end. He’ll save that for later. He’ll save that for if he needs it, for if Striker ever finds himself at the wrong end of Moxxie’s gun. He files the new important tactical information in his mental Moxxie file: Prone to hesitation if target does not fight back.

Moxxie shrugs. “We did it. I didn’t do anything special.”

Striker rolls his eyes. “You know…” He stands and makes a show of checking his revolver. “Sometimes even I get jobs too big for one person to chew. If you were ever short on cash, I’ve always got opportunities for a partner…”

Moxxie’s face goes through an impressive journey: confusion, shock, anger, more shock, wariness. Not outright rejecting the idea, but understandably nervous about the idea of teaming up with Striker. He eventually schools his face to a familiar defiant suspicion. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not going to help you kill certain royal demons, though.”

“Course not. Now, speaking of payment…”

“Right. Yeah. I’ll get the safe. And uh, cash or credit for what I owe you? I have Greedmo-”

Striker chuckles. “Naw, forget it. Just let me poke around while you take care of that. I’m sure the old man didn’t trust banks, did he? That’s what I thought. I bet he’s got even more cash stuffed somewhere.” He winks. “You don’t owe me nothin’, Mox.”

Moxxie squeaks and looks anywhere but Striker. “I’ll get the safe.”

Sure enough, Crimson has a solid five hundred in cash in his wallet on his nightstand. Under his mattress is another couple thousand. Striker slips some cufflinks and rings in his pocket and returns to Moxxie.

“Here.” Moxxie shoves a large stack of cash into Striker’s hands.

Striker laughs and takes a handful off the top. He hands it out to Moxxie. “Oh, I’m covered. You take this and take your lady out to a nice night, got it?”

Moxxie’s eyes get wide. He takes the money cautiously, like Striker is going to bite him. “You good to go?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Here.” Moxxie holds out a revolver. As promised, it’s a very pretty gun. The grip is polished jade and intricate gold inlays on the barrel shine in the low light.

Striker turns it over. It’s balanced really nicely. It feels good in his hand. “Thanks, little dude. Continue?”

Moxxie shyly smiles and leads the way out of the house. He doesn’t glance back at Striker. Striker scratches his fingers in his own tail to resist the urge to pounce. Not only is his little prey escaping, but Striker is helping him do it. Their deal is technically completed. Striker could strike now, press Moxxie’s face down into the grass to muffle his gasps. He could grab Moxxie’s swaying tail and twist it in his hands, put it between his teeth and make Moxxie scream-

But Moxxie is more valuable as a partner than prey, so Striker does nothing.

Their car is still running at the front gate. Striker lets Moxxie drive: he’s more used to horses than cars. The drive back to Striker’s motel is quiet. They don’t stop at the motel room itself, but at the nearby stables instead so Striker can reunite with his horse.

Moxxie parks the car but doesn’t turn it off. He stares at the steering wheel.

“Well, that was a night.” Striker adjusts his hat. It’s only an hour or two until sunrise. He unbuckles his seatbelt and leans sideways across the center console. He drags one claw from the divot of Moxxie’s collarbone up his throat to his chin.

Moxxie shivers. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, but he lets Striker use a gentle claw to turn his chin. His eyes are wide but not panicked: mostly tension with a little bit of fear to keep things exciting. What a thrill, knowing that despite Moxxie’s misgivings, he trusts him a little.

“Pleasure workin’ with you, Mox.” Striker pinches Moxxie’s jaw then returns his hand to his own personal space. He tips his hat. “Drive safe now.”

“It was very efficient to work with you.” Moxxie swallows hard. His eyes follow Striker’s hand.

Striker’s hands want to wrap around that skinny neck, but he breathes through his teeth and forces himself to open the car door instead and step out into the cool damp night. He gives Moxxie one last grin before turning away.

The car idles for a minute before driving away.

An hour later, Striker slows Bombproof when he hears his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checks his messages:

Made it to the elevator terminal, Moxxie has texted. So he did get the phone number Striker had left in his seat. The second text is more surprising:

As long as no jobs require me to kill anyone innocent, I’m in.

Striker whistles and urges Bombproof into a gallop. He has a few jobs lined up that would be perfect for his new business partner.