Chapter Text
Striker gripped the reins of his horse, Bombproof, as he rode through the streets of the Wrath ring. Though, calling them 'streets' was a bit too generous. They were really just poorly made sand paths, since Wrath was mostly desert.
Anyway.
He guided Bombproof carefully through the shifting terrain, the sharp clop of hooves on dry ground echoing harshly in his ears. His snake-like yellow eyes stayed fixed on the path ahead, occasionally darting to the sides to scan for danger. So far, everything seemed fine.
Now, you might be wondering why Striker was acting so cautious. After all, he wasn't the type to play it safe.
The answer was...!
Uh.
Well, it wasn't exactly a simple one...
Riding behind him—more like clinging to his back—was none other than Princess Stella, a high-ranking Goetian demon. She shared the saddle with him, gripping the back of his jacket like she was seconds from tearing it to shreds.
And yeah, you’re probably thinking: What the actual hell is a Goetian princess doing riding through Wrath with Striker, of all people?
Fair question.
Truth was, Striker wasn’t entirely sure himself. Somehow, she’d managed to talk him into letting her tag along on his mission to assassinate her husband, Stolas.
He remembered getting a call from her late one night. As his client, that wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was her demanding he meet her immediately at her brother’s castle. When he got there, she scolded him for failing to kill Stolas again, accusing him of being reckless and impulsive. She claimed he couldn’t stay focused on the mission, that he kept deviating from it to chase other distractions.
Which, for the record, was complete crap.
Striker always got the job done, and he didn’t waste time. But somehow, every damn time he got close to finishing off that blue-blooded bastard Stolas, the stupid I.M.P. association butted in and ruined everything.
Still, Stella didn’t care about excuses. And before he could even argue, she declared she was coming with him. Said she wanted to make sure the job was done right, and that she needed to see it with her own eyes.
At the time, Striker had been too tired to think clearly. So when she offered to pay him double to take her with him, he agreed without hesitation. But now, with her sitting behind him on Bombproof as they rode through the desert, he was starting to realize it might’ve been the dumbest decision he’d ever made.
First off, she was a Goetian princess. She didn’t know the first thing about assassinations or how to survive in Wrath, let alone blend into it. Second... she was literally a Goetian princess! Did anything else need to be said?? What the actual FUCK had he been thinking?
How was he supposed to get anything done with her breathing down his neck like this? She probably didn’t know the first thing about stealth, and with the way she carried herself, she’d end up blowing their cover in five minutes flat. And when that happened? It wouldn’t just be her in danger, he’d go down with her!
She was going to get them both killed!
Ugh.
Unfortunately, it was way too late to back out now. She’d already paid him, and there was no way he was handing that kind of money back. He needed it. Badly.
So, for the sake of the money, Striker would just have to put up with this, and hope he didn’t end up with a bullet between his eyes in the process.
At that thought, the cowboy's throat tightened, and he let out a long sigh. He gave his head a small shake, then turned his focus back to the road ahead. As he rode on, he noticed the villages he passed were growing more and more rundown, each one poorer than the last.
He clicked his tongue in disgust, not at the struggling imps and demons forced to live in such harsh conditions (he knew that life all too well), but at the royals who let it happen. The ones who had everything, who sat in luxury while turning a blind eye to the suffering demons beneath them.
He hated this kind of injustice... the way the rich lived in comfort while the poor were forced to fight for scraps just to survive. It was unfair.
Striker’s claws dug into his palms, nearly tearing through his gloves and scraping against his calloused skin. He was close to drawing blood until a small tug on the back of his jacket snapped him out of it.
The princess. Right.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, then turned his head just enough to glance back at her, scowling.
But she didn’t seem to notice. Her gaze was fixed downward, locked on the leather saddle beneath her. Her face was contorted into a tight frown, and her entire posture was tense like a coil wound too tight, ready to snap.
“How much farther until we get there?” Stella asked, her voice slightly strained.
Striker blinked. It was a strange sight seeing a royal look so uneasy. And... what was the word? Anxious? Yeah, that one. But why was she acting so tense in the first place? Was it because she was sitting way too close to someone like him, an imp, and she couldn’t stand it? Probably. In her eyes, imps were nobodies...
Or maybe she just wasn’t used to riding a wild steed like Bombproof.
Whatever the reason, it annoyed him. She was the one who'd asked to come along on the assassination. If she was regretting it now, that was on her. Honestly, it served her right. She was probably used to mingling with the elite, riding around in some fancy carriage or whatever it was royals used to get around.
Now she was getting a taste of how the lower class lived... rough rides, rough company, and no special treatment.
The cowboy clicked his tongue and pulled Bombproof’s reins, making a sharp turn to the left. For a brief moment, the princess let go of his jacket but quickly wrapped her arms tightly around his torso, holding onto him as if she were afraid of falling. The sudden contact made Striker stiffen, his eyes widening slightly. He almost let go of the reins. Almost. He wasn’t stupid or unskilled enough to do something that reckless.
The half-imp drew in a sharp breath and exhaled shakily. Of all the things he might have expected, this... whatever the hell the princess was doing now... was definitely not on the list.
Ugh, what was it he’d thought earlier? That the princess looked so uneasy because she couldn’t stand being close to someone like him? Yeah, that one. Well, he could go ahead and cross that off the list, because right now, she didn’t seem to mind at all that she was practically pressed up against him.
Oh, what the hell?
Striker couldn’t understand this woman… or himself, if he was being honest.
He was a man committed to professionalism, experienced in all sorts of situations. He wasn’t the type to falter at the touch of a woman, especially not this woman. A royal. Someone he was supposed to hate. No, someone he did hate. A corrupt noble with no morals and no care for anyone but herself.
Exactly.
So he needed to pull himself together. Damn it.
In an attempt to regain his composure, the cowboy gave his head a quick shake and straightened up, fixing his eyes on the path ahead. He also gave the reins a subtle tug to slow his horse down, but not for the princess’s sake. Nope. That was purely for him. The trail was getting a little too sandy now, and, well… he just didn’t want Bombproof to trip or anything. Yeah. That was all.
The duo continued their journey, venturing deeper into the rougher parts of the Wrath Ring. Gunfire and distant screams occasionally echoed through the air, but Striker paid them no mind. To him, it was normal. He calmly guided his horse through the noise and chaos until they reached a quieter area, where small houses and run-down motels were scattered across the empty land.
With a light tug on the reins, Striker brought his horse to a stop in front of one of the motels. He dismounted, tied the reins to a nearby fence, then turned to the princess.
“All right, we’ve arrived, ma’am.” he said, offering her a hand to help her down. She didn’t seem like someone who could manage on her own since she was probably used to having people do everything for her. And as much as he would’ve liked to watch her struggle… he had been paid, and he figured acting halfway decent was part of the deal.
Ugh. The things money made him do.
But to his surprise, the princess just looked at his outstretched hand… then swatted it aside with a sharp flick. With an annoyed huff, she swung her leg over and leapt off Bombproof by herself. Once her feet hit the ground, she placed a hand over her chest and let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“Finally, I’m off that untamed beast.” Stella muttered under her breath, fanning her face as she straightened her dress and adjusted the feathers around her hair.
Striker took a step back, doing his best not to feel insulted by the comment about his horse. He watched as the princess glanced around the area, then turned her attention to him.
“What the hell is this?” she asked, her bright pink eyes flicking between the assassin and the rundown motel.
“A motel.” the half imp responded flatly.
At that, the princess’s face twisted into a scowl. Her brows furrowed, and her glowing eyes narrowed.
“I know what a motel is, you idiot!” she snapped, motioning toward the building. “What I’m asking is why we’re here, when we should be focused on finding my husband and making sure he dies.” she crossed her arms with a bitter edge to her voice. “That is what I’m paying you for… or has that little detail not made it through your thick imp skull yet?”
Ok. Yup. He totally hated her.
“No ma'am, i'm aware of what my job is.” the demon responded through clenched teeth, flicking his tail in annoyance. It was taking a hell of a lot of effort not to lash out or curse at the royal.
"Then why the fuck are we here?!" the swan furiously demanded.
Striker stayed quiet for a moment, then took a deep breath to calm himself before meeting the noblewoman’s gaze.
“Because I need time to come up with a plan to kill that blue-blooded bastard,” he said, reaching up to pat Bombproof’s head. The fiery creature let out a content sigh. “He’s probably expecting a third attempt on his life, which means he’s more prepared now,” the snake demon explained as he continued tending to the horse. “So I can’t use the same tricks I’ve used before. I need something smarter, more precise, to make sure the job gets done right.”
The princess’s frown softened slightly, but her expression shifted to one of confusion. “Okay,” she said slowly, nodding. “I understand that. But you still haven’t explained what we’re doing here—” she pointed at the motel. “—at this awful place!”
Striker rolled his eyes at the princess’ disgust before replying, “My old hideout was destroyed a while ago, and I need somewhere quiet to think and make a plan,” he said, clenching his jaw at the memory of those stupid imps from the I.M.P. association ruining the hideout he had worked so hard to build. “So this place is just a temporary spot where I can work until I find a new refuge.”
The half-imp expected some harsh, demoralizing comment from the woman. Maybe something about how pathetic he was for failing to protect his own home. But instead, there was only silence. He frowned slightly and glanced at her, looking for any trace of judgment. However, all he found was… surprise.
Huh.
“Refuge...?” Stella asked quietly, tilting her head to the side. “Why would you need a refuge?”
Striker blinked at her words, a little lost, before it hit him. Oh, she had no idea that assassins couldn’t have homes of their own, that they had to lay low, or else risk being hunted down and killed, either by the families of their victims seeking revenge or by rival assassins looking to cut down the competition.
Perhaps she knew the lower classes had it worse, but she clearly didn’t understand just how harsh things could be, or how much a demon’s life depended on where they were born and what they did.
The snake demon paused, thinking over his words, before lowering his head with a tired sigh. “When ya’ve got a reputation like mine, living anywhere other than a hideout pretty much means ya've got a death wish.” he said vaguely. It wasn’t enough to make her understand his situation fully, but it was enough to make her drop the subject. Hopefully.
“I see...” the swan said quietly. She didn’t say anything more, and Striker assumed the conversation was over. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off before he could get a word out. “Isn’t this kind of life... lonely?” she asked suddenly, then added, almost as an afterthought, “For you?”
When he heard her question, the assassin wasn’t sure why, but it felt like his heart skipped a beat. No one had ever asked him something like that before. And honestly, he didn’t know how to answer or if he should answer at all.
The life he lived was... lonely. He had no friends, no one to rely on. Just him and Bombproof. Sometimes, he caught himself wishing things were different. Wishing he could live a life surrounded by demons he trusted, ones who actually cared about him, and he about them. But he always shut those thoughts down. That wasn’t the life meant for him. It wasn’t the one he’d been given.
There was no way he could tell the princess any of that, though. Why would she even ask such a question? As if they were friends. As if she actually cared about how he felt. She didn’t, just like he didn’t care about her feelings. She was probably just asking that to get under his skin.
“Why do ya care?” Striker retorted, shooting the royal a sharp scowl.
Stella’s expression briefly shifted to surprise before she frowned and looked away. “I don’t,” she replied quickly, crossing her arms. “I only asked to be polite, since you clearly lack the manners to hold a proper conversation. I couldn’t care less about you or your life.”
And there it was. He’d called it.
“Good,” the half-imp said, brushing off imaginary dust from his jacket. He took a few steps toward the princess, stopping once he was standing right in front of her. “Anyway,” he continued, “I've got things to take care of and an assassination to plan, so I best be on my way.” he motioned toward the motel.
Stella’s eyes landed back on the awful building, her face twisting in a mix of disgust and disbelief. “I hope you’re not suggesting I go with you… in… in that!” she said, stumbling over her words and raising her eyebrows in shock.
“Well, ya're the one who said that ya wanted to see me get the job done in person...” the snake demon stated, a small smirk making its way across his features. “...and quite frankly, this is part of my job.”
The Goetia winced at his words and turned her head away. It was clear she was disgusted by the idea of stepping into a motel, especially given her status.
Honestly, Striker hoped the princess would just give up and leave him alone. He didn’t want to spend his planning time with an entitled royal who was more likely to boss him around than actually help.
Striker waited a moment for the princess to respond, but when she remained silent, he cleared his throat and spoke again. “I don’t have the luxury to waste time, so I’m heading in,” he said, walking toward the motel's entrance. “Ya don't have to follow along, I know that your kind doesn't like to mingle with the rest of us, so don't force yourself,” he added, stopping just before the door and turning his back to her. “Ya’re far too frail to handle it anyway.”
With that, Striker reached for the metal door handle and started to pull it open. But before he could, a sudden flash of pink in the corner of his eye made him freeze. What the hell was that? It looked like... magic? Or whatever strange spellwork the royals used.
Was the princess using magic? That would be a problem... it would draw a lot of unwanted attention. But what if it wasn’t her?
Quickly, he turned around and slipped into a defensive stance. Though, what he saw before him left him utterly stunned.
Instead of the Goetian royal, wearing her fancy attire, stood a regular female imp, clad in rugged clothing, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the princess.
Striker stood frozen, confusion and suspicion swirling in his mind as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. His eyes darted around, searching for the princess, but she was nowhere in sight. What the hell? His gaze eventually returned to the female imp, and he gave her a confused look. Whatever was going on, he didn’t get it, and judging by the way she rolled her eyes, she knew that. Without saying a word, she started walking toward him.
Instinctively, Striker stepped back, only to bump into the door behind him. He cursed under his breath, annoyed at himself for letting his guard down. Before he could react, the other imp closed the distance, standing so close he could practically feel the warmth radiating off her.
“The fuck, woman!?” the assassin blurted out, feeling more disoriented than ever and fighting the urge to push her away.
Who was this random woman getting all up in his face like this?! And where the hell was the princess?!
The woman shot him a sharp look and hissed, “I'm not frail.” Then she placed a hand on the cowboy’s forearm and shoved him aside, making him stumble and mutter a curse under his breath. In the next moment, she yanked the motel's door open and stepped inside, leaving a stunned Striker standing outside, staring after her.
To say the cowboy was shocked would be an understatement. He was completely thrown off. He couldn’t decide what surprised him more: the fact that the princess had just changed forms so casually, like it was nothing (Could all royals do that? That was actually kind of impressive… and useful), or that she’d cornered him and proven him wrong. Honestly, that part was kind of embarrassing. He wasn’t supposed to get startled like that.
The snake-like demon blinked a few times, then dragged a hand down his face to pull himself out of his thoughts. “I'll be damned,” he muttered quietly. “The princess' got spunk.”
With a soft whistle, he straightened up and stepped into the motel. His eyes swept across the room. It was in rough shape, no surprise, but definitely not the worst he’d seen. Satan knew he’d survived far worse, in places that were downright hellish. Compared to those, this was manageable. As long as he had a bed and maybe a table, he could make it work.
His gaze moved slowly across the dusty lobby until it landed on the small reception desk in the center. There, leaning against it, was the princess, in her imp disguise, holding a pair of shiny keys in her hand.
When she saw him, she threw the keys at him without a word. The assassin caught them quickly and slid them into his pocket. He watched as she walked across the lobby toward a narrow staircase on the left side that led to the upper floor.
The cowboy didn’t waste any time and quickly followed her up the stairs. As soon as he caught up and they were out of hearing distance from anyone else, the disguised royal spun around to face him, her expression sharp and serious.
“I better see Stolas’ head on a fucking platter tomorrow for what I’m doing for you!” she hissed, jabbing a clawed finger into his chest.
At that, Striker gave her a flat look. What SHE was doing for HIM? What the hell was she talking about? She was the one who insisted on tagging along. She wasn’t doing him any favors. Honestly, if he thought about it, she was probably just making his job harder than it already was.
He wanted to snap back at her but quickly held back. The money. He reminded himself. Just think about the green you'd spend when this was over.
That thought calmed him down. He rolled his eyes, swatted her hand away, and pulled the key from his pocket. Looking at the number etched on it, he walked down the narrow corridor to the matching room. Sliding the key into the lock, he twisted it and heard the satisfying click of the door unlocking. With a gentle push, the snake demon opened the door, revealing a worn-down motel room.
The room was small and simple, with a worn wooden table showing peeling paint, a faded carpet full of patches, and two beds set far apart. A poorly placed window sat in one corner, and next to it was a door that likely led to the bathroom, which was probably just as shabby as the rest of the space, if not worse.
“Home sweet home…” the cowboy muttered quietly as he stepped inside. He took off his hat and tossed it onto the table before walking over to one of the beds. Without hesitation, he flopped down, sprawling across it and sinking into the soft comforter, letting out a tired sigh.
Damn, he was exhausted. He was always so alert that he never really realized how tired he actually was. The exhaustion only hit him once he finally lay down and let himself relax.
Striker was just seconds away from falling asleep when a sharp voice suddenly echoed through the room, jolting him wide awake and ruining his moment of relaxation.
“Ugh! This room is so filthy!” Stella exclaimed, her voice dripping with disgust.
Oh, come on, the snake-like demon thought, gritting his teeth and burying his face in the mattress with a frustrated groan. Of course the princess had to complain. He should have expected it. She'd probably never stayed in a motel before. But did she have to be so loud about it? Couldn't she keep it to herself and let him rest? He really needed sleep if he was going to wake up early tomorrow, plan the assassination, and kill her stupid husband. There was no way he could do any of that without a good night’s rest!
With a heavy heart, Striker reluctantly sat up, his wary eyes fixed on the restless woman. He noticed she had shifted back to her original form, the only difference being that her fancy dress had been replaced by the ragged clothes she had made for herself.
The swan had a white handkerchief draped over her mouth, holding it tightly with one hand while keeping the other close to her chest. It was as though she feared getting poisoned if she were to touch anything.
The assassin kept a calm, unreadable expression as he watched her careful efforts to avoid touching the furniture, especially the other bed, which she looked at with clear disgust.
“Ya know, it’s not going to kill ya,” he said flatly, nodding toward the unused bed. “It’s just a mattress with some pillows.”
“Yes it is! It's unsanitary!” the princess snapped, glaring sharply at him.
Striker just stared at her, disbelief written all over his face. “It’s a motel,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What did ya expect?”
“Well... uh... I don’t know!” the swan exclaimed. “Something decent, I guess!” she added angrily, tossing the handkerchief to the ground in frustration.
“Decent? Here in Wrath?” the half-imp asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t make me laugh,” he added with a breathy chuckle. “This place is anything but decent.”
“Yes, I can tell.” the princess replied, letting out a sigh of exasperation. With an annoyed look, she walked over to the other bed and hesitantly sat on its edge, quietly muttering 'Ew' as she felt the mattress beneath her.
The cowboy couldn’t help but be a little impressed by the woman’s determination to see Stolas dead. Her hatred ran so deep that she was willingly putting herself through the kind of rough life Striker lived, something she absolutely didn’t have to do, just for the chance to see her husband die. As much as he couldn’t stand her, he had to admit she had her priorities straight. He respected that… not that he’d ever say it out loud. Hell no.
With a long sigh, Striker said, “Ya do realize ya don’t have to stay here with me, right? Ya can head back to your fancy palace and come back tomorrow once I’ve got a plan worked out.” he noticed the way Stella’s expression shifted from discomfort to thoughtfulness, like she was actually considering it.
“I'm aware...” she finally replied, her tone laced with hesitation.
Despite her words, the royal didn’t move. She just stayed seated on the bed, staring quietly at the floor.
The assassin narrowed his eyes, slightly confused. What was going through her head right now? She knew she could go back and sleep comfortably in her fancy castle, yet she chose to stay. Was there more to this than just her hatred for Stolas? Some other reason she was so determined to stick around in the worst motel imaginable? Not that he cared, of course. He was just... curious. And curiosity was, after all, man’s greatest weakness.
He stayed quiet, watching as the princess moved away from the edge of the bed and scooted closer until they were sitting face to face. She clasped her hands together in her lap, fingers fidgeting slightly.
The half-imp glanced down at her hands, then back up at her face, tilting his head. “What is it?”
The swan opened her beak to speak, then closed it again, falling silent for a moment. When she finally tried once more, her head was bowed, eyes fixed on her hands. “Do...” she began, hesitating. “Do all imps live like this?”
Striker was taken aback by her question, causing him to flinch slightly. He blinked several times, hoping he’d misheard, but the question hung in the air just as he’d heard it.
Why would someone like her ask about the lives of imps? It made no sense. There was no clear reason for her to ask something like that... unless she was trying to taunt him. But judging by her guarded stance and serious expression, that didn’t seem likely.
Oh, what the actual hell?
Honestly, he wished the princess had come with a manual, one that explained what was really going on in her head, and why, despite her hatred for imps and lower classes, she was asking questions that made it seem like she actually cared.
After a moment, Stella slowly lifted her eyes and met his, raising an eyebrow. Oh, fuck. He’d been silent for way too long. Uhhhh, talk! He needed to talk!
“Well, uh,” Striker hesitated, stumbling over his words before clearing his throat and going on. “I mean, not all imps live like this. Most of us struggle and live in poverty, but some... those born into wealthy imp families, actually have good lives…” he paused. “Though, that’s a minority.”
“I see...” she said quietly, averting her gaze from him once again. Her expression shifted slightly into a... sad look?
Striker’s eyes widened slightly, and his body went rigid. There was no way the princess was actually feeling bad about his situation. Things didn’t work like that between the rich and the poor. She was supposed to laugh at his words, maybe even mock him and say that he, along with the rest of the lower lives, deserved all the suffering they were going through. She wasn’t supposed to look so... regretful. It felt wrong.
His throat went dry, and he swallowed hard. Even after years of staying strong and hiding any trace of vulnerability, there was one thing he couldn’t handle: pity. By definition, pity meant feeling compassion for someone’s misfortune, and Striker... he wasn’t used to compassion. It was like a foreign language he had never learned to speak. So when someone showed him pity, even on rare occasions, it made him feel sick to his core.
Satan.
He felt like he was about to throw up.
At least if this pity had come from someone of his own status, it might have been different. But it was coming from a noble—a selfish one who had no business feeling sorry for him.
Wrong. This was all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
He needed to change the subject, or he was actually going to hurl.
Taking a shaky breath, he fought to steady himself before saying, “Don’t tell me ya’re starting to feel sorry for me.” his voice came out sharper than he intended.
Hearing him, Stella's sadness quickly disappeared, replaced by her usual cold and angry expression. “Of course not!” she exclaimed, looking him in the eye. “I was just asking out of curiosity,” she added, crossing her arms. “Your personal struggles hold no interest to me whatsoever!”
Now that was familiar territory, something Striker was accustomed to and could understand—anger and dislike.
Phew.
“Good.” he stated approvingly. “I almost thought ya were going soft on me.”
The princess just rolled her eyes and scoffed. “You wish,” she muttered, a pink aura glowing around her hand as she snapped her fingers, dimming all the lights in the room. “Have a dreadful night!” she exclaimed, then turned away from Striker.
“Ya too...” he replied casually, a wave of relief washing over him. Tossing himself back onto the bed, he stared up at the cracked ceiling, thinking over the day's events. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all. It was the first time a client had come along on a job, especially a royal one. Strange, yes, but somehow... comforting not to be completely alone. Not that Striker would ever admit it, his ego was too big for that.
Though, if he had to be honest, he really couldn’t understand the princess, or even himself, when it came to how he was reacting to her strange words and actions. Ugh, damn it. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of this. It would all be over tomorrow anyway. The princess would get her revenge, and he’d get to enjoy the money he’d earned. After that, they could both return to their normal lives and pretend they’d never crossed paths, as if they were complete strangers. That’s how things were supposed to be between the privileged and the unprivileged, nothing more, nothing less.
Closing his eyes, the demon pushed the lingering thoughts deep into the recesses of his mind and focused on the most important task: getting some rest. After a while, he finally fell asleep, dreaming of pink eyes and castle gates.