Chapter Text
Striker's eyes, cold and reptilian, gleamed in the dim, neon-lit alleyway. His serpentine form coiled, ready to strike. Moxxie, ever the loyal companion, stood protectively in front of Blitzø, his small frame trembling with fear and rage. A guttural growl escaped Striker's throat as he lunged, his claws extended. Moxxie, though valiant, was no match for the seasoned assassin. A swift swipe of Striker's claws tore through Moxxie's chest.
His heart pounded in his chest as Striker turned his attention to him. The hitman's eyes were filled with a sadistic glee as he approached Blitzø, his blade raised high. Blitzø, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, dodged the attack. He rolled on the ground and scrambled to his feet and he glanced back at Moxxie's hurt form. A wave of grief and anger washed over him, but he knew he had to fight.
Striker, infuriated by Blitzø's defiance, unleashed a flurry of attacks. Blitzø fought back with all his might. He dodged, weaved, and countered, but Striker's skill and strength were overwhelming.
With a final, decisive strike, Striker disarmed Blitzø. The smaller imp was defenseless, his body battered and bruised. Striker approached him slowly, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Striker glowers, hissing madly, as he eyes Moxxie, clutching his chest as he starts to stand, from the corner of his eye. A scowl formed across his face as he looked back down at Blitzø.
'I’ll deal with him later. But first~'
A sharp cry escaped Blitzø's lips as the blade pierced his side, the cold steel sunk deep into his flesh. The pain was excruciating, a fiery agony that shot through his body.
A look of sheer horror flashed across Blitzo’s face as Striker turned his gun on Moxxie. The gun went off hitting him point blank in the head. Blood splattered the grimy pavement. Blitzø, horrified, watched in slow motion as his friend fell. The small imp's body crumpled to the ground, a grotesque tableau of spilled life.
Blitzø is pressed up against Striker’s body as the snake Imp twists the knife deeper. Blitzø grips onto Striker’s arms, slumping to his knees.
He pulls out the knife and watches Blitzø's limp form fall to the ground. The outlaw grins sadistically, and licks the blood soaked weapon. Blitzø clutched his wound, his breath ragged. Striker relished the sight of all the suffering.
Moxxie's body lay unmoving; eyes wide, pale skin and all the blood.. Blitzø inched closer to him, cringing as his side drained him of more blood.
"M-Moxxie.." He trembled out and grabbed his cold, wet hand.
Striker laughs, placing the gun back into his vest. Striker’s barbed tail wrapped itself around Blitzø’s waist, he let out a painful scream as he was dragged away from Moxxie. Striker hisses, throwing the red imp towards the wall, his back hitting against it. Striker briefly examines the red blade, twirling it in his hand before stabbing Blitzo in the shoulder; his yellow eyes glowing and swirling with sadistic pleasure.
His breathing hallowed out before everything went black.
—-
The world spun, a dizzying blur of darkness. A sharp pain lanced through his side, a constant reminder of the violence that had befallen him. His head throbbed, a dull ache that pulsed in time with his ragged breaths. Slowly, his vision began to clear, revealing the cold, sterile confines.
The dungeon was a nightmare frozen in time, a place where the walls seemed to breathe with the weight of centuries. The air was thick with the stench of decay and fear, clinging to Blitzø like a second skin. His body bore the marks of Striker's cruelty—bruises that blossomed into dark flowers, and stab wounds that oozed blood with every movement.
Blitzø's mind was a foggy wasteland, where reason and madness waged an eternal war. Each moment was a blur of pain and humiliation, respite that only deepened his despair. He had lost count of how long he's stayed there. Time had become a cruel joke, stretching and contracting at Striker's whim.
He lay on a cold stone slab. The room was dimly lit by flickering torches, casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls like demented puppeteers. Blitzø's eyes were half-lidded, his vision blurred from exhaustion and malnutrition. He could barely muster the strength to lift his head, but he forced himself to do so. A wave of fear washed over him as he tried to sit up, his body protested with every movement. His side throbbed, a constant reminder of the pain inflicted upon him. Panic seized him as he tried to recall the events that led to this moment. His heart sank as the horrifying truth dawned on him. The last thing he remembered was…
“Moxxie..”
The name echoed in the silent room, a painful reminder of a life cut short. Blitzø's heart ached, a heavy weight settling in his chest. His best friend, his partner, his brother-in-arms, was gone.
Murdered.
The realization struck him like a thunderbolt, a wave of grief washing over him.
Tears streamed down his face, blurring his vision. He could still hear Moxxie's laughter, see his infectious smile. He could almost feel his warm hand on his shoulder, offering comfort and support. But now, all that was left was a haunting silence.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. But the images were too vivid, the memories too painful. He saw Moxxie's lifeless body, a stark contrast to the vibrant life he once possessed. A sob escaped his lips, a sound of raw grief and despair. He clutched his side, the physical pain a mere echo of the emotional turmoil that consumed him. In this cold, desolate room, he was utterly alone. A prisoner of his own sorrow, trapped in a nightmare from which he could not awaken. The future, once filled with hope and promise, now seemed bleak and uncertain.
Suddenly, a heavy metal door creaked open, casting a long shadow across the floor. Striker, his face illuminated by the dim light, stepped into the room. his features twisted into a grotesque mockery of a smile. He paused at the entrance, savoring the sight of his prisoner, then slowly approached the slab where Blitzø sat.
"You're awake," he said, his voice low and menacing.
—--
The air was thick with tension as Blitzø emerged from the damp, dimly lit cellar. The sudden burst of sunlight blinding him, forcing him to squint. Striker stood nearby, a strange, almost gentle expression on his face.
"I've prepared lunch" Striker said, his voice softer than usual. "Join me."
Blitzø hesitated.
He knew better than to trust Striker, but the offer of food was too tempting to ignore. His stomach rumbled, a stark reminder of his hunger. With a deep breath, he followed Striker into the dimly lit dining room.
The table was set with a fine cloth and silverware; a stark contrast to the squalor of the cellar. A steaming bowl of soup and a loaf of fresh bread sat in the center. As Blitzø sat down, he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease set in. He picked at the food hesitantly. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, while Striker observed him with a mixture of concern and something akin to fondness.
"How are you feeling?" Striker asked after a moment, breaking the silence.
Blitzø swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.
"Better," he managed to say, his voice hoarse.
Striker sat beside him, his presence comforting. He smiled, a genuine smile that softened his usually stern features. He glanced around the room, taking in the safety and comfort that surrounded him, and wondered how long it would last.
"Why are you doing this?" Blitzø asked, his eyes meeting Striker's once more.
“You know," Striker began, his voice low, "I was once in your shoes. Captured, abused, and left for dead.."
Blitzø raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. Blitzø wanted to believe him, but the lingering doubt in his mind made it impossible to fully trust.
“And you expect me to feel sorry for you?”
Striker chuckled, a bitter sound.
"No, I don't expect your pity. But I do understand the pain, the fear, the loneliness." He paused, his gaze intense as he moved his hand to cover Blitzø’s.
"I would have given anything for a kind word, a warm meal, a shred of human decency..” Striker's expression faltered for a split second before he recovered. “And now, I have the chance to offer that to someone else."
Blitzø was silent, his mind racing. His heart skipped a beat at the admission. He didn't know what to believe. He couldn't deny the flicker of hope that ignited within him, but the fear was a constant shadow. Was Striker sincere, or was this just a ploy to manipulate him? He looked down at his plate, his mind racing conflicting emotions. He knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down but would it benefit him to just go along?
"We don't have to talk about this now," Striker said, sensing his distress. "Take your time. We have all the time in the world."
Blitzø nodded, grateful for the reprieve. But as he pushed his plate away, the gnawing uncertainty remained.
—---
The warm water enveloping Blitzø's aching body was a revelation. He sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat seep into his bones, melting away the layers of pain and fear that had taken root within him. Striker stood nearby, his expression unreadable as he watched Blitzø relax for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
"Do you need anything?" Striker asked, his voice soft and devoid of the usual malice that Blitzø associated with.
Blitzø shook his head, unsure if he could trust this sudden change in behavior. Yet, the warmth of the bath and the gentle touch of Striker's hands as they washed his skin spoke volumes. For now, he allowed himself to be pampered, to indulge in the brief respite from his torment.
After the bath, Striker wrapped him in a thick towel and led him to a cozy bedroom. The bed was piled high with blankets, promising a comfort that Blitzø hadn't felt in years. Striker tucked him in, his movements practiced and caring, before sitting on the edge of the bed.
"You should get some rest," Striker said, his eyes meeting Blitzø's for a moment before he looked away. "I'll be here if you need me."
Blitzø nodded, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling though that this was all too good to be true.