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Striker didn't know why he got invited to this stupid thematic party. Were the Goetia siblings out of their minds? He was their employee, not their friend, let alone their servant. He would rather die than to be a servant of any Goetic demon. Well, technically, Striker would try to murder them first if that was the case. He would never be a servant under any circumstance. At least, in his current status as their paid assassin, he got really good money out of it. It was a decent job with questionable employers, but that only had brought him closer to them. However, any of that explained the reason why he was in an enormous ballroom surrounded by demons he hated and hated him equally.
Everyone around the cowboy was dressed up. He guessed it was the etiquette of the party. However, the theme per se eluded him. Striker supposed they had to be dressed as something scary, if the Goetia siblings honored the Day of the Dead, but Striker couldn't really know. Those birds had feathers for brains most of the time. As Striker looked around, he saw that most guests wore costumes that were walking clichés. Urgh. Money couldn't buy creativity or so Striker thought. However, he utterly despised the idea of some of those rich bastards being disguised as homeless demons, low-class assassins or even imps. Striker's blood boiled. Poverty was no costume and his job wasn't either. Were they making fun of other races they deemed inferior to them?! What was wrong with those posh demons?! Those rich bastards were absolutely the worst of Hell, no doubt about it. Striker would kill them all. His bows were only reaffirmed with each time Striker spent around those noble scum.
Then, out of the blue, all the lights went out, leaving the ballroom in complete darkness. Maybe the siblings had invited Striker to act as bodyguard. Did they think they were in danger? Were they aware of a planned hit on them? Well... Technically, only the Goetia brother would be aware, because he was much more intelligent than his sister... In any case, it made sense that someone wanted to end them. Maybe, someone who sympathized with Stolas or wanted revenge on his behalf. The smartest move would be to attack during the party, because most of the guests were wearing masks or heavy make-up, which would make the identification of the perpetrator a very difficult task. It was the perfect occasion. The cowboy assassin readied his gun. Nobody would kill those bastards, bit him. Little did the perpetrator know that Striker could still see in the dark. Being a hybrid had some advantages, even if the noble scum would never see it.
However, no gunshot was heard when the spotlights focused only on the Goetia siblings. It would be the perfect opportunity, but somehow they missed. Despite their extravagant outfits, Striker had no doubt those two silhouettes on top of the stairs were the Goetia siblings, because they still wore their signature colours, light pink for Stella and icy blue for Andrealphus. Striker guessed they were dressed as some sort of assassins or hitmen, but he couldn't place who they were supposed to be or where they came from. The siblings were dressed too nicely to be just simple goons, so they must have represented some boss or someone with a lot of money. Their costumes were cool and impressive, even Striker had to admit it, and, oddly enough, they weren't mocking anyone with them. Of course, both of them were also wearing masks to cover their faces, just like almost every guest, but Striker.
The siblings had a speech prepared like the good hosts they were, but Striker couldn't care less about what they would say. He could imagine their pompous empty words in their head. Striker looked around to distract himself from the speech, but he was also looking for potential killers. However, as the siblings went down the stairs talking about how the festivities could start, something caught Striker's eyes. Andrealphus was covered in what Striker assumed was fake blood, whereas his sister was immaculate as ever. Striker had to applaud the peacock's commitment, because he never thought he would see a Goetia getting dirty by their own volition. Stolas didn't count, because it hadn't been his choice, but Striker's. The cowboy had enjoyed making the owl suffer, even if the initial plan of ending his life had changed in the end... Whatever. Striker did what his employers wanted, even if it didn't make sense at all... He had been so close to ending a Goetia. So close! Stupid posh birds!
Striker caught himself staring at Andrealphus. He had been looking at him even when his mind had wandered off. The peacock's costume was perfectly tailored for him. It fitted him nicely in all places, specially the vest and trousers. It was refreshing and nice to see him out of his usual long dress. Nice?! Him? What?! Fuck! Striker needed a drink. Something strong. The stupidity of those rich demons was rubbing on him and he couldn't allow that. He needed a beer or whatever they were serving around here. Striker couldn't be thinking about how the jacket made wonders to the peacock's silhouette. Fuck. Without a doubt, he needed something stronger than a beer. Though, he really doubted these people would even have a bottle of beer laying around, but at this point anything would do.
Striker had lost count of how many strange colored drinks he had. In his defense, they weren't very strong and they made everything around him more bearable. He wasn't as awfully aware of the pedantry around him as before, which was a relief. It also didn't help that the servants were offering him a drink everytime they passed by him. The lights in the ballroom were dimmer, but bright colored which made the hosts' costumes pop up even more. Their costume colors changed depending on which specific lamp they were under. It was distracting, too distracting and dangerous, like a moth drawn to a flame. Striker couldn't stop staring, even if he wanted to. The Goetia brother and his fake blood had all Striker's attention. His tipsy mind was too tired to make excuses, so he just enjoyed the view from his vantage point. Striker could see everything that happened in the room from where he was leaning against the wall, next to the hallway door.
Wait! Was that a revolver? Was Andrealphus carrying a gun with him? Were his eyes deceiving him? The peacock surely didn't need it. As much as Striker didn't want to admit it, Andrealphus was powerful, really powerful. So, the revolver he had made no sense. Was it useless? Was it for show? Or worse... Was the peacock mocking him in some way he wasn't understanding? Was that the reason behind the blood on his clothes? It wasn't fair that it made him extra hot... What?! Fuck! Striker's mind was going places he didn't want it to go. Of course, Andrealphus was objectively beautiful, tall and attractive, but that didn't mean... Fuck. FUCK! What in the Seven Rings of Hell was in those fancy colored drinks?! Striker wasn't like that at all! All the Ars Goetia were stupid posh pricks that had to die. Being pretty wouldn't save him! Argh! Fuck. FUUUCK!
"Why are you not wearing a costume?" The voice the demon Striker wanted to see the least brought him back to reality too harshly. Striker would need to keep his thoughts at bay in front of Andrealphus. He would not make a fool of himself in front of him.
"Didn't know I was supposed to wear anything special." Striker replied, shrugging his shoulders, dismissing the peacock's question.
"That is the whole point of the party!" Andrealphus exclaimed with a hint of exasperation in his voice. Luckily or unluckily for Striker he didn't know, the peacock was still wearing his mask, which was more impressive up close. So, the cowboy couldn't make out the expression the other was doing.
"So, all of you can laugh at people like me or just at me?" Striker retorted angrily. He didn't like being the laughing stock. He had a reputation, he was feared, yet here no one seemed to care. Well, when they finally cared, it would be too late, no one would save them. "Is that the twisted reason why you invited me?"
"It was Stella's idea. I had nothing to do with it." The peacock leaned towards Striker in a superior manner. They weren't exactly face to face, but closer than before, which was more distracting for the cowboy assassin.
"The gun was her idea too?" Striker replied with a question of his own. He needed answers and he needed them now, before his tipsy brain did something stupid.
"What? Oh, you mean this? No, of course not." Andrealphus drew his weapon to show it off. Just as Striker thought, the Goetia didn't need it. It was mere atrezzo for him. He could tell by the way the other was holding it. He was not used to firearms, his expertise was in magic. "Even if I find weapons vulgar, revolvers have some finesse to them. Blunt and dangerous, yet gentle." To Striker's surprise, the peacock's grip on his own gun changed completely. It was a feathery touch, light and suave, like a caress. Was the cowboy imagining things? Was he really that drunk? "I thought that out of everyone in this room, you would understand what I mean."
Striker observed the details engraved across the revolver. Snowflakes... The level of refinement in the work was outstanding and truly impressive. Andrealphus revolver was a work of art, it suited him perfectly. Deadly and beautiful, just like him... Fuck. Shit. FUCK! Striker couldn't be certain if the peacock really meant what he was saying or not. Was Andrealphus flirting with him? No, he couldn't be, right? But then, what did he mean by that? Was he making fun of him? Was he serious? Damned mask! It was in the way! In his frustration, Striker lifted Andrealphus' mask slightly from the peacock's face in a movement more delicate and intimate than he had intended.
"It's a shame that you cover your pretty face with a mask. I can't be sure if you are lying or not." Striker whispered as he looked at those icy blue eyes that were close, too close. It took him a moment to realise what he had done. Why did he whisper? What was he doing? Did he just say...? Fuck! FUCK! FUCK! In a swift but aggressive movement, Striker put the mask back over Andrealphus' pretty face. Fuck! "I guess you were wrong. I don't understand. Now, I'll be out of everyone's faces. I am no laughing stock."
With that definitive statement, Striker slipped into the hallway, disappearing into the darkness not to be seen again that night. In his haste, he missed the Goetia's subtle shift in his stance and how he adjusted his mask as if nothing had happened, as if their little conversation had never transpired. Striker was paid to kill, to protect even, but he was not paid to be laughed at. He would blame the crazy colored alcoholic drinks for his stupidity and recklessness, but the Goetia siblings were to blame as well. This whole mess was their fault!! Stella's for inviting him in the first place and Andrealphus' for... The vivid image of what Striker had just done came to his mind to haunt him, as well as to embarrass him. Those impossible icy blue eyes... Fuck! It was the peacock's fault for whatever he was doing to him! It was absolutely and undoubtedly his fault!