Chapter Text
Total transparency: Blitz had been shot before.
Blitz had been shot many times in his life. At least a dozen or so. Part of the whole assassination career field gig. Stray bullets were just an occupational hazard.
Usually, the shots came from the marks I.M.P. was trying to hit. Sometimes, if the asshole had money and hired some guards, he might find himself with a few grazes of lead. Once or twice he got it good enough that even Millie told him to keep his ass home for at least a day or two.
As a resident of Hell, stray bullets were like butterflies, only with razor-sharp teeth.
He was used to getting shot.
To be very clear, Blitz did not like getting shot. Getting shot fucking hurt. Imagine just living your life, and then suddenly: new hole. Not even a fun hole. No, bullet holes burned like a son of a bitch, and if it wasn’t a clean shot, you had to dig the little fucker out. Moxxie was good at it, but he got queasy. Loona wouldn’t even bother. Millie was usually the one digging the bullets out of bodies. What a champ.
Blitz did his very best to avoid it all together by being good at his fucking job.
The big oopsy-daisy at the Harvest Moon Festival wasn’t so much a mistake of planning but just an error in…well, Blitz wasn’t sure, but it was a fucking mistake.
A work-free day of fun, Stolas had said. Fine, a work-free day of fun. Blitz was going to pet a horse. He was going to eat junk food. He was going to embarrass Moxxie in front of his in-laws. He was gonna bang Stolas behind the barn.
The pebble in his cowboy boot: Striker, that sexy asshole, turned out to already be an assassin and he was targeting Stolas. Blitz didn’t really get the full details, except Striker was pissed off at rich bluebloods and also wanted to….become one? He truthfully wasn’t sure what the long con was, but Striker had a smooth cowboy voice and a goddamn horse. And yes, of course, Blitz already imagined Striker and him doing the do in the saddle.
Don’t lie and say you hadn’t imagined it.
So yeah, it sucked Striker wanted to kill Stolas because Blitz very much needed Stolas alive. Because of his business. Only his business.
The thing with Stolas, the purely business thing, was how I.M.P. was staying afloat. Killing Hell’s citizens was fine, but it didn’t pay well. Literally, demons paid dirt to do a job that was a mere inconvenience for them.
Killing humans was where the big bucks were made.
Perhaps if he hadn’t pissed Verosika off, Blitz might have been able to snag an Asmodean crystal. Maybe. Probably not. Succu-bitches didn’t like giving those out. The stupid crystals were apparently important, rare, and psh, whatever.
Hence the book. The only thing that could get him from Hell to Earth was the whole schtick.
No Stolas equaled no book. That was it. Nothing more. Why the fuck is everyone making this a bigger deal than it is?
Anyway.
The fear that forced him to move when he saw the Carmine-Crafted Blessing-Tipped Rifle pointed at the Goetia prince was purely assassination-job-focused passion.
Nothing personal.
Blitz could have played it easy when Moxxie had found him hiding away in the horse stable. He could have followed the plan. Moxxie was an intelligent kid and an even better shot. Blitz was a smooth talker and a good distraction. Blitz could catch Striker in a convo, and Moxxie would come in with the big guns. Simple. Smart.
Nah, instead, he shoved Moxxie to the side of the horse stable the exact second the plan came out of Moxxie’s mouth and ran his tail off to the upper floor of the family farm. Sure as shit, he found Striker, gold tooth cocksucker, pointing the rifle at…
Yeah, no, not happening.
“Excuse me, the fuck?”
The toothy motherfucker turned around, and while weird-scary horny was pretty standard for Blitz, he really wanted to shoot him.
“Blitz, I thought you were at the ceremony?” Striker grinned like a snake.
This whole thing was planned, wasn’t it? Okay, so Blitz didn’t mind a little white lie here or there; he was especially good at them, but come on! He offered this guy a job! They shared some cheese on a stick together! You don’t just fuck up another guy’s life after you shared a cheese on a stick.
“Who are you pointing your fancy gun at, you slithery prick?”
“Heh, Blitz, you sound upset.” Striker lowered the gun from the window. “You and I are not like those losers cheering that feathery yellow-belly on. We work for all we have. Why would you, of all people, be kissing the ass of the royal waste?”
“If you tasted his ass, you would understand.” Fuck, no, that wasn’t what he meant to come out. “What I mean is–-I mean not like that–Stolas is just–”
Then Striker was up, and his rattled tail was shaking something horrible. Dizzyingly, as if sucking Blitz’s face to it.
“You got a lot to say about a bird you don’t give a shit about,” Striker’s voice was low, accusing. “Would bring one to think you do give a shit about him.”
Blitz let the air escape between his lips and shook his head. “Now you are talking silly, hot shot. I care about the money. Moo-lah, the green. So, in turn, I need the owl alive. Why would you think I liked him? I don’t like him. No feelings at all. None whatsoever. Just a job fucking. Simple as that, no feelings involved.”
“I didn’t say anything about having feelings for him,” Striker snarled. “You know, I really thought we were more alike. We could have been a dangerous duo, Blitz.”
“I’m already dangerous without you, you overly confident shitstain.”
“Only with the bird’s permission.” Striker rolled his shoulders back as he sighed. “Pathetic.”
Was he only dangerous with Stolas’ permission? Uh, no, course not. He had been punching assholes before he ever had the damn book. He didn’t need Stolas. Before Stolas came back into his life, he was killing targets in Hell. He didn’t need the book for that. Striker didn’t know what he was talking about. Blitz didn’t need Stolas. Well, yes, he needed Stolas’ book, but he was still deadly without the book. He was dangerous with Stolas and without Stolas. He didn’t need Stolas. Striker could shoot Stolas now, and it wouldn’t matter. He didn’t need Stolas.
But he couldn’t stand the thought of letting Stolas get hurt.
With big-iron-on-his-hip style, Blitz drew his pistol and took the shot, but Striker was slippery as a snake and ducked just in time. Before Blitz could attempt another, Striker bounded into Blitz’s middle, pushing him down to the ground and forcing Blitz’s pistol to skate across the wooden floorboard and to the furthest corner of the room.
Using his teeth, Blitz tried to tear into Striker’s arm, his neck, his face, whatever he could to get Striker off of him while still keeping Striker from the window. Moxxie would be there soon. Blitz just had to buy time while staying alive. Easy.
Blitz managed to swing his legs over Striker’s shoulders and propel himself up enough to twist to Striker’s back. From that angle, he was able to use his body weight to press the asshole’s arms down.
“Got you, you pri–”
Nope, Blitz didn’t have him, Striker managed to get back up to his feet with Blitz hanging on for dear life. In a move much beloved by flashy wrestlers in Hell and illegal everywhere else, Striker threw himself backwards to the floor, simultaneously slamming into Blitz’s chest, while Blitz’s head slammed into the ground.
Dazed and with the wind knocked out of him, Blitz kept his eyes closed and his body still. Striker, obviously not feeling movement, removed himself and chuckled.
“Back to business,” Striker announced, as Blitz heard him take up his rifle.
Very carefully, Blitz listened to Striker’s movements and tried to come up with a plan. Moxxie was still not here (taking your sweet time, Mox.) Blitz quietly rose to his feet, and although the figure was so far away, Blitz could make out the Goetia Prince from the window. Striker could see him too, and his sight was aimed right to him.
Turns out Blitz’s plan wasn’t a plan at all. It was a reaction fueled by an emotion he couldn’t name. Using his tail, he pulled Striker back, startling him enough his quiet shot (um, weird?) went sideways and through the roof of the farmhouse.
Growling, Striker tried to pry Blitz’s tail off his waist, but the fucker didn’t know Blitz spent too many hours on the trapeze to not have a killer hold. Striker pulled out his knife so, thinking fast, he tossed Striker back as far as he could and ran to the window to do…what? Scream for Stolas to get down? Blitz was loud but through the noise of cheering honkey-tonks, it wasn’t going to work.
“Move!” Striker hollered, the rifle pointed up to Blitz. “Don’t think I won’t blast a new window out of you!”
Blitz turned, using his small frame to cover as much of the space as he could.
“You shoot me, you are going to have one very pissed off Goetia on your hands,” Blitz threatened.
“You think he actually cares about you that much?” Striker asked, his gold tooth glinting “What would he do? Go through the trouble to kill me? You think you are worth the effort? Blitzy?”
Was Blitz worth the effort?
Striker grinned. “If you ain’t convenient, he could always find another imp fuck. Dead ain’t convenient. I know it. Your bird knows it. I think you know it too.”
Blitz’s stomach churned and he did his best to hold Striker’s glare, but he couldn’t.
“Move on over,” Striker told him. “I ain’t got all day.”
Smart thing would have been to move over. Blitz was usually much better at making decisions fast, decisions that would save his life, but yet…
If he left the window, it would be the end of Stolas. If he got shot, it wouldn’t matter, Striker could just try again. As long as Striker had the gun, Stolas’ life was in danger.
“Your call, boss,” Striker sighed and aimed the rifle.
It was risky, but Blitz went for it. He charged, ready to pounce on this cowboy asshole, ready to take the gun, but Striker was just as quick as Blitz feared he would be.
There was a quick click of the chamber, but the gunshot made no noise, of course. But you don’t get a Carmine-Crafted Blessing-Tipped Rifle without having a fancy silencer. Blitz smelled the deep, smokey metallic zing before he felt the burning pinch. Then the pinch grew sharper and deeper, and the pain spread like fireworks in his stomach.
And uh, yeah, yeah, that was a lot of blood on his beautiful cowboy attire.
“You shot me!” Blitz tried to take a step forward but found himself falling sideways. Fast. Ass straight to the floor, the left side of his face smack dab on the floor.
He tried to cover the wound with his hand but found his shirt was quite quickly being soaked with a very warm liquid…oh, yeah, the blood.
Well, shit.
This was different from how he predicted today would go. When he woke up, he thought he would do the cutesy little Harvest Moon Festival stuff, maybe get to ride a few of the horses, and if Stolas was feeling up to it, bang him behind the barn. That is what county folks did, right? He didn’t really know; he wasn’t really a country folk. Well, they could still do stuff behind the barn anyway. It's not like they couldn’t, right?
Wait, no, he had been shot. That definitely meant no doing stuff behind the barn.
Stolas was going to be so disappointed.
“We could have been something good, Blitz, but you chose to suck on that disgusting Goetia teet.”
“Owls don’t have nipples, you stupid fuck,” Blitz mumured, maybe, he wasn’t quite sure if words were coming out of his mouth. He doubted Striker heard him anyway over the very loud, clearly not Carmine-Crafted Blessing-Tipped rifle-with-a-silencer gunshots from somewhere in the room.
“Sir!” Moxxie’s voice was in his head. Wait, no, it was in the room. The issue was his vision was getting blurry, and it was hard as shit to tell what was going on. “Striker got you!”
“I figured that one out,” he said to the wooden floor plank, and then to the shiny shoes approaching him. "I think I’m bleeding a bit here, Mox.”
“I’ll get help!” Moxxie’s voice was shaky and more anxious than usual. “Just hold on, sir!”
Was this actually serious?
“Maybe start with a bandaid?” Blitz called out even though Moxxie’s footsteps were long gone. “Like a massive one. Or just grab a couple of small ones. We can make this work.”
Yeah, they could make it work. Loona was super good at that stuff. She had to stitch him up all the time.
“Loona, sweetie, daddy needs some help over here.”
A dark stain began to form in his line of vision. Not good, this was not good.
“Millie, can you find us some duct tape?”
Moxxie wasn’t answering. Loona wasn’t answering. Millie wasn’t answering.
“Stolas…”
Wait… why would Stolas answer him?. Stolas was doing his royal bird stuff at the festival, not in this quickly darkening room. Not with Blitz. Blitz wasn’t worth the effort.
Stolas probably didn’t even know he was bleeding out on the floor.
Fuck, he was suddenly super tired.
...
…
…
He had wanted to bang Stolas behind the barn. It would have been a highlight of his life, probably.
…
…
…
Shit that made Striker right.
…
…
…
But Blitz already knew that, didn’t he?
…
…
…
He really wished he wasn’t alone for this.
…
…
…
He wished Stolas was here.
“Sir!”
Oh, thank Satan.
“Moxxie…did…”
He coughed and tasted something metallic. Not good, that was not good. Mumbled talking surrounded him. He couldn’t hear anything. A high-pitched voice, a lower voice, a whine, a cry- was there a party happening? Lots of feet, just barely in his vision. Boots. Paws. Talons. Were they throwing a party without him? Rude.
“Mox?” Blitz called, but then he was being lifted off the ground.
He was in someone’s arms. Moxxie’s? Nah, too high up; Moxxie was a short little guy. Maybe Loona, just not as puppy dog soft. Whoever had him held him tightly, and although his vision was blurry, he felt safe.
Then it hit him. Not another bullet, but worse…a realization.
“Shit…I’ve never taken a bullet for someone before,” He said to the room's darkness. “First time for everything…”
The someone holding him squeezed him just a tad tighter, not enough to hurt but enough to acknowledge his confession. “Shhh, Blitzy, dear, save your strength.”
“...but don’t tell Stolas, horny fucker will never let me forget it.” Blitz requested of his faceless savior before falling unconscious.