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Striker always made sure to be thorough when planning a hit. His (sadly failed) attempt on Prince Stolas’s life had taken weeks to prepare for. He’d scoped out the area around the Festival for the perfect sniper’s perch. Then he’d carefully arranged an accident for Joe and Lin’s hired hand, stepping up a day or two after the job posting to not seem overeager or suspicious. During that time, he’d carefully studied up on Joe, Lin, the five children that still lived on the ranch or close by, and their absent daughter Millie. He read up on spouses, friends, coworkers, any bit of data he could get his hands on to know how to blend in with them.
That of course led him to the Immediate Murder Professionals, the startup assassination business Millie worked for. Striker took extra care when investigating them. True, the ragtag group likely wasn’t anywhere near as competent as Striker himself, but getting sloppy in this business was a literal death sentence. By the time the foursome had arrived at the ranch, Striker had a plan for dealing with each and every member. Hell, he might even be able to rope himself a partner in Blitzo.
And then came the Harvest Moon Festival when everything went straight to the tenth Ring of Hell.
Moxxie was supposed to be the easy one. The weapons expert was incredibly skilled but also an intellectual. Cultured and well-educated in ways abnormal for the average Wrathian imp but physically weaker. He was small and quick but easily overpowered. Striker knew that the best way to deal with him would be to strike directly at his self-confidence by showing up every skill Moxxie tried to use. It had so thoroughly rattled Moxxie that he’d neglected to use any weaponry he’d had on him during their first fight.
But just when Striker had thought he’d thoroughly cowed the little imp, Moxxie somehow managed to overcome it, seeming to draw strength from his wife and friends needing him. He’d handled the rifle like an absolute pro, firing a warning shot that Striker could deflect without any more serious injury than a few small blessed burns. The hellhound had done Striker a favor by showing up when she had. If she hadn’t, he probably would’ve been a corpse with a blessed bullet in his skull.
Striker had grossly underestimated Moxxie. He’d gone back a few years in the other imp’s history, but there must’ve been some key detail he’d either overlooked or not gone back far enough to see. So as he prepared and planned for a follow-up attempt on Prince Stolas, he went back to the records to try and learn more about Moxxie.
Moxxie’s life up until IMP had been quite unusual. He had a rather successful music career in the Lust Ring as a songwriter, one of his songs even going gold. It was a feat unheard of for an imp much less one so young. Striker listened to his published songs -- all of them performed by other demons -- and had been surprised at both classic and modern styles being blended together to form something new. He even managed to dig up some of the original demo recordings, the songs even better when performed by Moxxie himself. The first demo had even taken advantage of the obviously-outdated recording equipment that had been used, making the somewhat tinny quality seem purely intentional. More than once Striker found his feet tapping along.
He hadn’t listened to the other’s music before. Hearing it now, he realized it had likely been the adoration of the crowd that had wounded Moxxie’s pride more than his own performance. Striker knew he was good -- the crowd’s reaction more than proved that -- but if Moxxie had decided to take the stage to challenge him? Well, Striker almost hated to admit that Moxxie would’ve crushed him. For whatever reason, Moxxie had left the music industry of the Lust Ring at the height of his career, but hearing the crowd’s adoration of Striker must’ve reminded him of the glory days that he’d either walked or been thrown away from. The audience probably didn’t even remember his music anymore as they heaped praise on a musician of lesser skill but more rugged ability and appearance.
Honestly, the knowledge that it wasn’t his performance that had been the final nail in the coffin of Moxxie’s self-esteem was a huge blow to Striker’s own pride.
Now thoroughly familiar with Moxxie’s professional career, Striker turned to the background report he’d used some of Princess Stella’s money to obtain. Both of Moxxie’s careers hadn’t provided the answer to how Moxxie had managed to overcome Striker’s strategy. Even the almost sickeningly-loving marriage to Millie had provided no answers given that Moxxie was perfectly happy to let his wife lead the charge, backing her up with both emotional and ballistic support. How did a spineless little wimp who avoided taking charge manage to step up right when he was most needed?
Striker turned to the page that should have held more of the little imp’s past and stared. Then he growled and dialed the number of the investigator.
“Hello, this is -- ”
“The fuck is ‘All Previous History Unknown’ supposed to mean?!” Striker’s tail shook, rattling in warning.
“Oh, shit. Why did it have to be you?” The imp on the other end audibly shivered.
“Answer the question before I put a bullet through you,” Striker snarled. “I’m already lining up my shot.”
That was a lie, but the other imp didn’t know that.
“All right! All right! Just...you’re not gonna like it.” Striker could hear the investigator shutting the blinds of his office and moving away from the window just in case. “My hounds did their best, but the trail went completely cold when they went through the records. He’s of Wrathian descent, but he could’ve come from any goddamn Ring at this point!”
“So have your hounds check the records of all of them. I didn’t pay you for me to have to tell you how to do your job.”
“Look, jackass, I had them check every hospital from Pride to Sloth. No records of birth anywhere. They looked for every scrap of intel they could to see if maybe he just changed his name or even a goddamn credit card receipt, but until his big debut? There is no Moxxie!”
“He couldn’t have just manifested out of thin air! He’s an imp, not a sinner!”
“Maybe he is! Who knows at this point?! Some sinners look like us, you know!” A pause. “And before you ask, yes, we checked that angle as best we could. Fuckin’ sinners don’t keep records of who manifested when unless you’re a complete psychopath like the goddamn Radio Demon. Mostly because it’s an even bet on whether or not a sinner will last their first Cleanse. Regardless, we would’ve found at least one bill he was supposed to pay before Lust, and there’s nothing!”
To be fair, checking the possibility that Moxxie was a sinner and not a true imp was pointless. Not even powerful sinners like the Radio Demon could venture outside of the Pride Ring.
Still, the Hellborn kept records of births, name changes, marriages, adoptions, and so on. It was how Striker had gotten so much intel on Prince Stolas and most of IMP. Moxxie was a bizarre anomaly, someone who had been kept completely off the grid for most of his young life until he’d struck out on his own.
“Could he have been raised by a sinner?” Striker wondered aloud.
It hadn’t been intended to be a question for his informant, but the other imp answered, “Possibly. If that’s the case, we’ll get nothing without knowing which sinner or sinners took him in. Sinners don’t typically adopt when they get down here, too busy trying to raise a little Cain before the Executioners come. Despite that, we checked all the orphanages in all the Rings, and none of them have records of an impling matching Moxxie’s description ever setting foot in them. If a sinner did adopt him, they probably stole him if he wasn’t sold to them by his birth parents.”
Striker’s tail rattled in frustration. “So this is all you’ve got?”
“My hounds and I did our best. It’s why we delayed getting you the full report twice to make sure we’d exhausted every possibility. For all intents and purposes, Moxxie didn’t exist before his time in the Lust Ring.”
“...Fine. You won’t have to worry about a bullet this time.”
A sigh of relief from the other end. “I got a meeting with another client in two minutes, so I’m hanging up if there’s nothing else…?”
Striker hung up without bothering to give a farewell. He picked up a photo he’d had taken of Moxxie after the Festival, a copy of which had been given to the investigator to aid in his hounds’ search.
The little vermin was smiling, guitar in hand as he serenaded his bandaged and recuperating wife who gazed adoringly back at him.
Striker ground his teeth together. He had a job to do, and this unexpected wild card was going to make things difficult to properly plan his already incredibly-difficult next attempt on Prince Stolas.
“Tough luck, kid,” he grumbled to the photo. “If you’d just stayed in that cellar like you were supposed to, you could’ve lived.”