Chapter Text
Moxxie goes into work early on Wednesdays to look over IMP’s financial legers. While he can’t stop his bosses’ tendency to spend loads of company money on random fancies, he finds that adding a financial calendar to the leger improves the companies’ chances of coming out of the month above the red.
It was getting easier to handle each week, business was good.
This didn’t have to be done before work hours, Satan knows there was enough time on slow days for him to get paperwork done. But an early start ensured Biltzo wouldn’t be around to bitch about his calendar, and his boss was way too lazy to change the calendar once it was already made up.
It's a nice little arrangement.
Moxxie unlocked IMP’s office door and stepped deftly over the ankle high string trap. Humming an upbeat ditty Moxxie disarmed the trap and made his way to the faculty kitchen/breakroom, he was eyeing up that coffee maker something fierce.
With coffee brewing, peaceful silence filled the room.
Moxxie smiled to himself, all pointy and pointless, as he was the only one in the room, but sometimes it was nice to just be happy for the sake of itself.
Today was going to be a good day.
Striker stepped around the corner, one arm up and even with his forehead as he leaned it casually against the corner beside him. He smiled, his grin his own version of broad and pointy. The grin only broadened at Moxxie’s drooping face.
“Vermin,” he said calmly.
For a professional the act of pulling a gun out and aiming, is a single motion. Moxxie halved that, shooting with an odd wrist-twist down near his ribs where one of his guns was concealed, never bothering to raise his weapon to aim.
Striker chuckled as he twisted gracefully back behind the corner. Hissing his anger Moxxie gave chase, right before he turned the corner himself Moxxie stopped and jumped on the wall, gripping it with his claws. Then he climbed, he didn’t stop until he’d scuttled high enough to tower over Striker’s head. Taking one hand off the wall to grab his gun, Moxxie aimed around the corner.
Striker wasn’t there.
“I just wanna talk Vermin,” said a voice, heavy in Wrathern drawl and Striker-like inflections. “No sense in shootin’ up the place before ya hear me out. Cause if I gotta hold your scrawny ass down to make ya listen, well… we both know I’ll have no problem with that.”
His new height likely blown Moxxie dropped back to the ground and hugged his corner. The bastard was hiding, fucking typical.
“Speak then,” said Moxxie with ears on high alert for signs of snakey freaks.
“See that’s what I like ‘bout ya shortstack. Ya may not be a man worth a damn, but having a sense of reason is nothin’ to laugh at.”
Moxxie growled.
“I’ve got a proposition.”
“And I have a boss,” Moxxie snapped, “take it up with him.”
“If this offer was for him runt, I’d talk to the Imp himself.”
Moxxie heard a hiss and rattle from the other room, he crouched lower and leaned further back on his heels, his ass almost touching the floor. A perfect position for shooting with his hands while pouncing with his legs.
“Nooo,” Striker breathed, the hiss to his voice almost making the word unrecognizable, “this deal, is all for you.”
“Just say it.”
“I want ya to help me with a kill. A big man kill. A challenging kill. A kill that this third-rate, human hunting, team of yours can actually be proud of.”
Moxxie felt himself relaxing just a bit in thought, in confusion. “This—this doesn’t sound like something Blitzo would be against.”
“Oh, but I’m not payin’ ya with money.”
“There it is,” Moxxie’s face fell from its already retreating grimace into a deadpanned frown.
“Tha’s right, instead, I’m payin’ ya with a new way to get to the human world.”
Moxxie perked right back up, his mouth open and eyes wide, “A-are you serious?”
A chuckle from the other room. “Deadly.”
Moxxie’s teeth unconsciously bared in worry, his brow furrowed. “If that’s true, then my team would gladly help. I mean, as long as it wasn’t anyone too important. But It’s a good deal. My boss, uh Blitzo, wouldn’t definitely agree. I’m just going to call—”
“I said this wasn’t for them!” It was a shout, a whispered hate-filled warning, “I swear vermin, if you repeat yourself one more time about bringin’ in anyone else, I’ll make sure your team comes back to your bloody remains ripped apart and decoratin’ that break room.”
A tail, just a tail, whipped around the corner and wrapped around Moxxie’s gun. It went off, hitting nothing, before the appendage ripped the weapon from Moxxie’s hands. As it ripped a clawed hand struck out and grabbed two small-imp wrists, both arms having been oh so conveniently close together from Moxxie’s doublehanded grip.
Moxxie fearfully squeaked as he was yanked around the corner fast enough for the room to turn into a sudden blur. When the world stopped moving Moxxie was looking at the smirking face of Striker.
While the dramatic effect of this was impressive, Moxxie had to stop himself from laughing at how high Striker needed to raise his arm to get Moxxie at eyelevel when dangling by his wrists. No matter Moxxie’s slight weight it must be killer on the shoulders.
“Let go, let go of me!” Moxxie yelled, hooved feet kicked out without ever hitting snaky flesh.
Striker laughed, not loudly, but it's quick and satisfied. “Now no need to be feisty little one. Everything I have said so far is true. I’m not gonna kill ya. If ya don’t piss me off.”
Moxxie heard his gun thump lightly against the carpet behind him as Striker tossed the weapon aside. With one hand and his tail he began searching Moxxie’s body, dipping fingers in pockets and under cloth.
Moxxie’s glare filtered into a look of shocked concern, though he went back to hissing at the contact quickly enough. Arm muscles working and elbows bent, the smaller imp pulled himself up to bite at the arm holding him captive.
Striker, his free roaming hand having found another handgun in the back of Moxxie’s pants, smacked the smaller imp in the nose with the butt of his knew prize in one casual swing.
Moxxie hung back down with a cough, his stinging nose bleeding freely.
“C’mon now, all this strugglin’ isn’t helpin’ anyone, and ya can’t be thinkin’ I’m dumb enough to leave weapons on ya? Hardly my fault you’re packin’.” Striker turned an eyebrow up at his tail pulled out a rifle from Moxxie’s jacket. “And I gotta admit, you're packing a lot. If I knew all this hardware wasn’t your only line of defense, why, I’d almost be impressed.”
Moxxie huffed and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of Striker’s tail rubbing up and down each leg, making sure it got the last of his weapons. Striker found all of them, even his cell phone, which the dick snapped in half. Striker tossed away the broken bits of phone with a flick over his shoulder. He smiled back at Moxxie, his tail settling itself comfortably around the smaller imp’s waist.
“Nooow, back to business,” Striker said, every s in business drawn out by delighted hissing.
“Fuck you.”
“Only if you beg.”
Moxxie shrunk back as Striker leaned in closer, his eyes nothing but swirling yellows of fucking crazy.
Moxxie sniffed back up the last of his blood and looked away.
“But seriously,” Striker said, leaning back and calm, “I need you to help me kill Jeronomo Strego.”
“Jeronomo,” Moxxie whispered, he scrunched his face trying to put the name to a demon. Moxxie wasn’t bad at knowing who ran what in Hell, better than Blitzo anyway. Knowledge is power and all that. “doesn’t he work for Velvet? Helps her run Tweeter or something?”
“Pronounced Titter ya innocent dumb fuck,” Stiker happily informed, “but yesss, him.”
Moxxie’s glare returned, “This is a big target, if Velvet finds out IMP would be in a world of hurt. The reward is nice, but we already have a way to the human world. I can’t just decide to change how our company operates all by mysel—hrrk”
“Shut.” Striker growled. “The fuck. Up.”
Moxxie squirmed and keened with the last of his air as Striker’s tails tightened further, and further. Striker relaxed his tail muscles suddenly, only smirking more as Moxxie coughed. A thin trail of drool hung from the small imp’s lips, and Moxxie twisted his head to wipe the offending mouth-liquid onto his coat. His breaths still sounded harsh and wheezy to all ears.
“I didn’t finish talkin’,” Striker said simply, “at least let me finish telling ya your prize before your stupid enough to refuse me, or once again mention the rest of your patched together team of screw-ups.”
Moxxie glared for a moment, but soon enough settled on a sigh, “Fine.”
“Goood,” Striker cooed. “Now I know your company of misfit toys already has a way to the human world, and I bet your boss just loves being that bird’s fucktoy to make it happen.”
Moxxie bit his lip. “I think he’s beginning to lik—”
The tail around his waist tightened, just a tad. Moxxie squirmed, just a tad, and closed his mouth.
“Well, isn’t that easy for you to say, ‘he’s beginning to like it,’ isn’t that sweet?”
Moxxie said nothing.
“I’m sure this arrangement works perfectly for you, and heck, maybe it even does for Blitzo. What I’m offerin’ ya, what ya could give him, is a choice. Because right now, your boss doesn’t have one.”
Moxxie looked back at Striker, eyes wide and mind blank, yet, somehow, still intrigued.
“Sure everything is working out for IMP, for now. But what happens when that prince of his gets mad? Couple spat ya know? What will happen after the two of them get into their first fight? Oh, wait, that won’t happen, can’t happen. Because Blitzo can’t afford to fight. First time it happens and Blitzo knows he’s fucked, he’ll have to come crawling back, show his belly like the submissive dog he’s made himself become. And you know he’ll do it, for this company, for the sake of y’all.”
The fearful look on Moxxie’s face had nothing to do with the hands trapping his wrists or the tail about his waist.
“Go on, vermin, tell me I’m wrong.”
He isn’t wrong, Moxxie doesn’t say it out loud.
Blizto didn’t like Stolas, and then he did. Sometimes Blitzo talked about him in anger, sometimes in apathy, sometimes in joy, though mainly when the Prince offered money. Moxxie couldn’t figure out the relationship between those two, or Blitzo’s real opinion.
But did it matter when Striker was so right? What could be more important to give to your boss, your friend, than a fucking choice? Even if, even if Blitzo would never take the chance to give such a freedom to himself.
Once, just last week in fact, on a drug-induced stage atop an imagined mountain, sitting side-by-side near a very nice looking piano, Moxxie had promised to be a better friend. Is this how that’s done?
Striker lips pulled back, teeth ever barer, “That’s it. Told ya it was a good deal. All it takes is not being fuckin’ selfish for two seconds to see the bigger picture, eh? And tell ya what, you can work in disguise, I got a nice one for ya. Not that ya need it, with just you and I workin’ it’s unlikely any kill will be traced back to IMP, no one knows ya smalls. Besides, even if it does, I’ve killed men of Velvet’s before, she doesn’t give a shit. Expects her higher ups to protect themselves ya know?”
“If—” Moxxie swallowed roughly, “if that’s true, how would we, hypothetically, kill him if he’s so guarded.”
Striker shook his head and lowered Moxxie from his face, though his feet still didn’t touch the floor. “Not guarded little one, warded.”
With a stride to his steps Striker crossed the office, Moxxie could hear his spurs tingle with every step in the clichéd noise of the booted cowboy.
“Take a look.”
Upon the desk was a map, no doubt of Jeronomo’s manner. Seeing it made Moxxie grumble under his breath. The snake man had been so sure of himself, so positive everything would go his way, that he placed a goddamn map of his target on their companies’ front desk before Moxxie even arrived. It was discouraging how right he was to be cocky.
“See this,” Striker said pointing to a squiggled symbol in red ink hovering over the schematics for Jeronomo’s front door. There were other symbols around the drawn house, on every wall, and a few over every window, all in red.
“This is a ward stopping anyone uninvited from enterin’. This one over yonder,” Striker dragged his finger to another symbol covering the closest windowsill, “this one freezes anythin’ coming faster than 500 Kilometers an hour from making it through the glass, which is clearly way slower than a bullet from even an average gun. This one next to it hurls whatever was just thrown, or shot, back at whoever tried. And this one, oh this one gives off the best tracker signal in Hell I’ve ever seen. If this baby is activated, it will lead Jeronomo and his cronies right to the shooter.”
Moxxie frowned at Striker. Sounded a lot like he, who would apparently shoot this man, would conveniently be in the most danger.
“Here’s the thing, only one gun would have enough horsepower to muscle its way through one of these windows, and that’s a blessed sniper rifle. Good thing I happen to have one.”
Moxxie looked incredulously at Striker, “How do you keeping getting these rare—”
“Hush, not yet.” Striker interrupted. “As I was sayin’ my rifle can make it, but in order to avoid gettin’ a tracker powerful enough to light me up so big and obvious that even Velvet might think it easy enough to take a try shot at my sorry ass, I need to be at least 4 kilometers away from the target when making the shot.”
Moxxie looked at him, confused.
“I can’t shoot that far,” said Striker.
“You can’t?” Moxxie questioned, genuinely surprised. Too bad genuineness does nothing for Striker’s temper.
Moxxie let out another grunting squeak as Striker tightened his tail, “No, I can’t. Most demons can’t vermin. But I know you can.”
This last part was said softer, kinder, and Striker loosened his grip about Moxxie’s waist.
“Why,” Moxxie coughed, “why tell me all this? Why not just have me shoot the guy and get a target on my back?”
Striker smirked, though whether he was amused Moxxie asked or simply happy to reveal his answer the little imp couldn’t tell.
“Because I can’t tell how the damn spell works. Jeronomo’s ward-man built it himself, and the guy ain't talkin'. Does the mystery target attach only to the shooter? What about the gun’s owner? What about the bullet’s owner? In some ways I don’t know shit, and it already cost me my good arm and leg getting that much information on these damn wards.”
Striker lifted Moxxie back up to eyelevel by those truly stupidly small wrists, “I’m a damn professional, ya got that vermin? That means I don’t take stupid ass risks or waste more money than I have too. I need to be certain my shot comes from at least 4 kilometers away, end of discussion. You can do that for me, that’s all there is too it. Do this, and after that social media totting lacky is dead I’ll take ya to his summer house, which will be less heavily warded when he’s gone. Most wards except the basic emergency alert ones will be deactivated upon the fool’s death. I know exactly where a safe is in that home that holds another free ticket to the human world. A ticket that no one will miss after Jeronomo is dead.”
Striker leaned in closer. “Join me Mox, for once do something useful for that boss-man of yours. Do it, and maybe someday IMP and I can work together instead of apart. Do it, and maybe I’ll have it made enough to ignore those insistent requests to kill your companies’ beloved mascot of a Prince.”
“Unless,” Striker continued with a lean back and a shrug, “you ever want me to kill him. I mean, who knows how mad he’ll be after Blitzo doesn’t have to be his fuckboy anymore.”
Fuckboy. Moxxie closed his eyes, knowing it was true in a lot of ways. He lowered his head, knowing he caused problems in a lot of ways. He sighed, knowing he actually kinda sucks, and maybe, in a lot of ways, Blitzo never should have hired him.
They don’t even do a lot of sniper hits. No one else on his team preferred them. He’s good at it though, damn good, and maybe, for once, that’ll actually be relevant.
“O-okay.”
The door to IMP was kicked open by a single, heeled, nicely shined black and red boot.
“Heya Mox, you got that paperwork done? I just had three cups of, so-bitter-it-kicks-ya-in-the-dick, coffee and I am Jazzed as fuck for those fucking ledgers!”
In the doorway Blitzo looked around IMP headquarters, no Moxxie, no sound. Shrugging Blitzo made his leisurely way to the companies’ breakroom and pulled out a bag of beaned coffee from a cabinet.
Back at the entrance Loona walked leisurely inside, eyes glued to her phone.
“Blitzo,” she said, head and pace never shifting, “stop drinking that coffee, you’re gonna be fucking annoying later.”
“I’m never annoying sweetie. More coffee just means more me to go around!”
Loona sat herself at her desk and promptly ignored the green light flickering on and off in front of her.
A bang was heard from the other room, Loona mustered up an entire ear flick in response.
“Hey guys, you ready for a great day of work?”
Coffee in system and bagel in mouth, Blitzo peeked out from the breakroom. “Goddammit Millie stop breaking my door!”
“Oops,” hand up in a gasp Millie examined the damage. She noted indents in the walls where the door had hit multiple times after being flung open. The door itself was covered in cracks that proved this piece of wood had seen abuse and could barely say it made it out alive. Most notably, perhaps, Millie’s gaze lingered on a black scuff mark in the shape of a perfectly heeled boot on the door, almost certainly from someone who has done their fair share of damage to the poor wood.
Millie’s smirked, “Sorry about that Blitzo.”
With a flip of his head and face Blizto flung the bagel from his mouth and into the sky, it hovered just a moment before falling back down and into the jaws of a hungry imp’s mouth.
“Eh,” Blitzo said still chewing, “as long as it works.”
“Right-o Blitzo,” agreed Millie as she made for the couch. By this time Moxxie was usually dozing on the upholstery, tuckered out from the early morning rounds of number crunching. With all the noise they are making he was probably up.
“Oh Moxxie,” she sang, poking her head into the main room of their headquarters.
Nothing.
Lips puckered into a thinking pout Millie considered where her husband could be. There weren’t many options as he rarely left the office once at work. The area around their job was a particularly rough part of Hell, and her Moxxie, being small, skittish, and an imp, wasn’t suited for Hell’s roughest streets. It was why Millie knew picking up local food and drink for IMP was one of the few medial jobs Blitzo only allowed Loona or her to do.
But maybe he simply wanted some nice Café breakfast and didn’t feel like waiting for her, there’s a first time for everything.
Millie happily brought out her cell phone and speed dialed her love.
It ringed, ringed some more, and more, and more.
Millie felt her smile fall.
“This is Moxxie, leave your message after the beep.”
Millie felt a little stiff throughout that beep.
“H-hey Moxxie,” she started, “just, ya know, wondering where ya are. I’m at the office and I think ya were supposed to be here doing some paperwork. No big deal that you’re not. I mean, I haven’t even checked the bathroom or anything. Heh, silly me. But you know, give me a call if you get this, bye hun.”
Millie hung up and hollered, “Blitzo, is Moxxie in the bathroom?”
“Nooo,” there’s munching from the breakroom, “the shitter’s door is wide open!”
“Thank you!”
Loona looked up from her phone having heard the whole thing. Already she could feel her annoyance of the little drama race through her brain, all but forcing her snout to scrunch and eyes to thin. And Millie was just standing there, biting her nails, flicking her tail.
Ugh, so useless, that lame-brained husband of hers will be back any minute. It’s like they couldn’t handle being apart for more than three goddamn hours, it’s so dumb.
Her eyes wondered past the blinking green light on their way back to her phone. Loona paused, taking another, more considering look, at the light. Clearly someone had left IMP a message on the answering machine. This early in the morning she would normally ignore these calls until at least ten, which was when work should actually start since no one with any sense or value would be up beforehand, but, it could be Moxxie. Normally she would expect a handwritten note from an imp with the same sense of fun as an old man, but she supposed voicemails were old-fashioned enough for Moxxie too.
Another glance at Blitzo’s girl assassin still frozen dumb and useless in the middle of the room, then Loona sighed, lifted the office phone, pressed the button, and groaned for good measure.
“Uh, h-hey everyone,” Loona heard Moxxie say through the phone, “so no big deal, but…”
Loona listened, then placed the phone down. “Guys,” she called out, “you might want to listen to this.”
From near the couch and in the break room both resident imps gathered around as Loona pressed the replay button and put it on speaker.
“Uh, h-hey everyone,” Moxxie’s static-filled voice covered the room, “so no big deal, but a client just came in and wants me to get a job done for them today. I-I know it’s last minute, but the payoff will be worth it, trust me. I’ll explain everything when I get back so don’t wor—”
“You done yet vermin?”
It was another voice, deeper, southern drawl prominent despite the static. Millie and Blitzo froze, Loona rested her chin upon her palm, having already heard it all.
“Goddamnit, you did that on purpose. Hey give that back, stop recording! You’re causing trouble, I’m deleting this message.”
“Hold your horses there, partner.” A loud rattle was heard, though what Striker’s tail was doing was anyone’s guess. “Just wanted to say to your boss here that we’ll be taking care of that pigeon problem you got, don’t you worry.”
“Stop it, you’re going to give them the wro—”
Click.
There was nothing more, looked like Moxxie failed to delete this message. Which said something all on its own.
“Oh, that limp-dicked ass!” screamed Blitzo, his voice grew louder as he spoke until the screeched ass left Loona’s ears ringing.
“Who are you even talking about? Normally I’d say Moxxie, but it’s not like he’d have much of a choice if ‘ol cowboy wannabe got the drop on him,” Loona pointed out.
“They both suck, goddamn Mox, now we gotta go form a rescue mission.”
“Blitzo,” Millie whispered.
Blitzo turned to where Millie was a moment before, only to find her gone. With quick, unnecessarily large, flicks of his head about the room Blitzo found her standing a bit away near a corner.
“Oh geez, uh, you alright there, Mils?” Blitzo questioned, his face already grimacing at the comfort he might have to start doling out.
Millie faced Blitzo, both hands curled together and pinned to her chest. Slowly she opened her palms. The broken pieces of Moxxie’s cell phone almost blended into the black of her fingerless gloves.
“Fuck,” whispered Blitzo.
Millie took a deep breath and pulled her hands back against her body, then she glared, the type of glare that takes over every part of a face, “I’m gonna kill him, slowly.”
“Hey now,” Loona interrupted, “hate to be the voice of reason. No seriously, I hate it, get it the fuck together. But is there actually a reason to worry here. I mean, no matter what that Striker guy said it doesn’t look like they’re going after your owl boytoy.” Blitzo’s startled 'He’s not my…' was ignored. “They seem to be working together, Moxxie could have gone willingly. I mean, he seemed like he didn’t totally disagree with Striker in… whatever this is. He probably just broke Fatty’s phone because he’s an asshole. Maybe we should just lie back and wait.”
“We aren’t waiting!” Millie snarled. “Who knows what he told my baby! Striker could have forced him to do what he said, or that dead motherfucker plans on betraying him after they’re done with… with… whatever they’re doing! You just want a reason to be lazy and ignore our problems. Doesn’t bother you any since it’s not your daddy-Blitzo on the line.”
Loona growled, clawed hands slamming against her desk, “Hey watch it you monogamous obsessed slut.”
“Try me bitch.”
“Wait.”
Loona and Millie paused at Blitzo’s voice, who was rubbing his chin in thought. Suddenly he snapped his fingers with a grin. “I know how we can get more information!”
“What? How? Blitzo please,” said Millie, hands raised up in a plea below her chin, eyes round and wet.
“Weeell,” singsonged Blitzo. With a flare of his arms, he sidestepped into his office. The sound of file cabinets opening, closing, and random objects banging against the floor filled the room. Loona and Millie looked at each other skeptically, which only grew as a vinal record was tossed out of the room, followed by a rubber band ball, an abstract painting of a horse, and three baseball bats with happy faces painted crudely on their wood. “Ah-hah!”
Blitzo strutted back into the main room holding up a camcorder. Millie and Loona looked on blankly. After another minute of no one moving Millie sighed “What’s with the camcorder Blitzo.”
“I’m glad you asked Millie,” said Blitzo, “you see I have hidden cameras littered throughout this place.”
“You what?” shouted Loona. In truth she couldn’t think of any reason why she should object to cameras watching her, it’s not like she masturbated at work, but it was the principle of the thing.
“Of course, we get some weirdo clients, I need to keep tabs on those freaks.” Blitzo also enjoyed listening and watching M&M get it on when they thought no one was around, but that part could be kept to himself. “Let me just plug in the camera hidden under the couch to this here camcorder and we can see exactly what happened to our idiot specialist.”
One scramble under the couch and one data transfer later, and all three IMP members stood huddled around the small screen of the camcorder. Blitzo brought the footage to around when Moxxie usually came in on Wednesdays, and pressed play.
For the first three minutes, which Blitzo slowly fast-forwarded through, they saw nothing but the boots of Striker’s feet as he entered the office before Moxxie.
Loona stared at Blitzo, blank-faced. “And you thought it was a good idea to hide the main lobby’s camera under the couch because?”
“Shhhh, not now Loony. We don’t need to see more than their feet to get what we want anyways.”
“That’s what she said,” smirked Loona.
“Who said—”
“Shut the fuck up both of you,” Millie growled.
They shut up.
The three heard everything, though saw little. In fact, Moxxie’s feet never entered the picture until he finished convincing Striker to let him leave a message. Eventually Striker and Moxxie left, Blitzo paused the video, the two girls looked at him, brows furrowed in concern.
Blitzo turned away, his happy demeaner from before gone, leaving him looking slumped, sad.
“Uh, Blitzo,” said Loona.
“That—that, baby-dicked bitch!”