"I'm so much better than you~"

Striker's eyes widened and he turned to the other, giving off a rattle of surprise. His tail hung between his legs as he smiled at the ridiculously tall Goetia. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Ah. Well. You see, there was a little bit of a scuffle. As it turns out, one of the farmhands had plans to kill ya off. Thankfully, we got there just in time. Had a funny feeling about them, you see."

Please buy it, please buy it.

Striker was sweating bullets, and not because of his condition, though that was partially it. He still maintained a calm expression.

Fuck. Was he- wrong? Wrong about the other? No- no he couldn't be. This had to be some sort of trick.

But he sounded so sincere.

Striker was confused and starting to doubt himself. Something he hated. His world view was shaking, and he didn't like it.

Panting softly, Striker sat down on a large pumpkin. He wheezed, struggling for air. Damn it. He'd thought he'd have more time.

Leaning back, Striker's mouth hung open. He needed water, but his limbs seemed to be refusing to obey him.

"Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine. Everythin's fine. Trust me."

Striker's eyes widened and he turned to the other, giving off a rattle of surprise. His tail hung between his legs as he smiled at the ridiculously tall Goetia. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Ah. Well. You see, there was a little bit of a scuffle. As it turns out, one of the farmhands had plans to kill ya off. Thankfully, we got there just in time. Had a funny feeling about them, you see."

Please buy it, please buy it.

   Stolas might not have been surprised, but Striker only just managed to hide his own at the other’s tacit defeat. He knew he wasn’t the only assassin Stella had hired, she had made that all too obvious. But was Stolas really already that used to it?

   “Aw, it’s fine. You ain’t have to do that.” Striker remarked, waving a hand as a added gesture to ensure the other wouldn’t be concerned. 

   Surely this was a front? Maybe Blitzo had told Stolas, and Stolas was only leading him on like some sick joke? Yeah... Yeah, that had to be it. No way Stolas would actually care about someone he perceived to be so far beneath him.

   Striker huffed, continuing to massage his arm, careful not to roll the bandage loose. It was a ridiculous sort of thing, Hell Kitty, but the Princess of Hell had been gracious enough to supply the shot that necessitated the bandage, so he’d taken it without complaint. Well, okay, he might have mumbled a little snark, but other than that? Nothing.

   Panic briefly flit through Striker when Alastor hinted towards his wealth. Shit. Did he know about the rifle? He tried to surreptitiously gaze at the other to see if he knew via his expression, all the while keeping his own calm.

   “Why wouldn’t I want to stay here? There’s food, shelter, protection from the dangers of Hell. Not to mention, I’m not charged out the ass for certain- accommodations.” 

Panting softly, Striker sat down on a large pumpkin. He wheezed, struggling for air. Damn it. He'd thought he'd have more time.

Leaning back, Striker's mouth hung open. He needed water, but his limbs seemed to be refusing to obey him.

   “Course I am. Doin’ fine. Everythin’s fine, Mitz. I’m just resting a bit. It’s hot today, ain’t it?”

"Fine. What did you want to know?" He grumbled, hoping he was getting across just how much he didn't want to do this while staying relatively respectful.

"It's Striker. Around 2 syllables. You put like 10 on that sonnuva bitch." He snapped. His hand tightened around the hell phone, threatening to break it.

Slipping his phone into his pocket, Striker narrowed his eyes up at the other. How he longed to bring him down to his size, but that would be signing his own death certificate.