#helluva bombproof

"Ma's convinced everyone's gonna starve if she doesn't cook for twice as many people as we got," Sallie May commented, stealing a piece of bacon from a plate. "Been that way since Millie left."

"I just like making sure everyone's fed properly," Lin defended, swatting at Sallie May's hand. "And you hush about your sister. She's doing important work up in Pride."

"Didn't say she wasn't." Sallie May grinned at you. "Just saying Ma goes overboard on the food front."

You helped plate up the breakfast—biscuits, eggs, some kind of hell-meat that you'd learned not to ask too many questions about. The farmhands would eat inside with Joe and the boys, but Striker and Chet were already out in the far field working on something.

"Someone should bring them plates," Lin mused, loading up two generous portions.

"I can do it," you offered quickly.

Both women looked at you with knowing smiles.

"Of course you can," Sallie May said, far too innocently. "Make sure Striker actually stops to eat. Man works himself half to death if you don't make him take breaks."

You felt your face heat but took the plates anyway, balancing them carefully as you headed out toward the dry field where you'd seen them working earlier.

The Wrath sun was already climbing, promising another scorching day.

You found them near the fence line—Striker and Chet working on repairs, shirts already sticking to them with sweat despite the early hour. Tools were scattered around, and Bombproof was grazing nearby, keeping a lazy eye on the proceedings.

"Breakfast!" you called out.

Striker looked up, and something in his expression softened when he saw you picking your way across the field toward them.

"You're a wonder," Chet groaned, immediately abandoning his work. "Been up since dawn and my stomach's been complainin' the whole time."

He took his plate with a grateful nod and settled onto the ground in the shade, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in days.

Striker took his plate more slowly, eyes tracking over you like he was checking for... something. Making sure you were okay, maybe.

"You eat yet?" he asked.

"I picked while we were cooking. I'm fine."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "That ain't the same as eatin' a proper breakfast."

"I'm really not that hungry—"

"Uh-huh." He didn't look convinced.

You looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't the dusty ground and spotted the fence—round posts thick enough to perch on. You climbed up carefully, settling onto one with your legs dangling.

Striker moved closer without being asked, positioning himself between your knees. At this height, you were almost eye-to-eye with him—a novel experience when he was usually looking down at you.

"Better view from up there?" he asked, mouth twitching.

"Better than staring at your belt buckle all the time."

He huffed a laugh and started eating, using his hands in that efficient way people did when utensils weren't worth the trouble. It was a little gross—grease on his fingers, crumbs in his mustache—but undeniably him.

He wiped his hands on his bandana between bites, tail swishing contentedly.

You were watching him eat when you realized you were squinting against the sun—it had shifted just enough to be directly in your eyes now.

Before you could move or adjust, Striker reached up and pulled his hat off, settling it on your head in one smooth motion.

The hat was too big, sliding down slightly, but it blocked the sun perfectly. And it smelled like him—leather and smoke and something sharper.

"Striker—"

"You were squintin'." He adjusted it slightly, tilting it back so you could see properly. "Can't have you goin' blind on my watch."

"But now you don't have a hat."

"I'll survive." He went back to eating, seemingly unconcerned.

You touched the brim self-consciously, hyperaware of wearing something of his. Something he wore every single day.

He glanced up at you, and something warm flickered in his expression. "Looks good on you."

Your face heated. "It's too big."

"Didn't say it fit. Said it looks good." He broke off a piece of biscuit, held it up. "Now open up."

You blinked. "What?"

"You said you ain't hungry, but you also said you didn't eat a proper breakfast. So I'm makin' sure you eat somethin'." He waved the biscuit slightly. "Open."

"I can feed myself—"

"I know you can. But my hands are already dirty and you're sittin' there lookin' all clean. So humor me." His eyes were steady on yours. "Please?"

The please got you.

You opened your mouth, feeling ridiculous. He popped the biscuit in, fingers barely brushing your lips before pulling back.

"Good girl," he murmured, going back to his own food.

You nearly choked.

He fed you three more bites before you insisted you were actually full, and he finished the rest himself with obvious satisfaction. When he was done, he wiped his hands one more time and tipped his head back to look at you.

"Farmhands are headin' into town later. There's a faire—whole thing with events and such."

"A faire?"

"Yeah. Animals, food stalls, competitions. Gets pretty rowdy but it's fun. Whole ranch going apparently." He rested his hands on the fence on either side of your legs—casual, but effectively caging you in. "We should go"

"Okay," you agreed, very aware of how close he was. "I'd like that."

"Good." He didn't move back. Just looked at you with those yellow eyes, hat still sitting on your head, the morning sun painting everything gold.

"Uh, boss?" Chet called from his spot in the shade. "We gonna finish this fence or you gonna keep makin' eyes at your girl?"

Striker's tail rattled in warning, but he stepped back, giving you space. "Get back to work, Chet."

"Yes, sir," Chet laughed, clearly not intimidated in the slightest.

You climbed down from the fence, reaching up to take off the hat.

"Keep it on," Striker said. "I'll grab it back once I get to the cabin."

"Are you sure?"

"Darlin', if you don't stop askin' me if I'm sure about things, I'm gonna start thinkin' you don't trust my judgment." But he was smiling. "Keep the hat on."

You ran your fingers over the brim and headed back toward the house with the empty plates.

Behind you, you heard Chet say something too quiet to catch, followed by Striker's sharp retort and the sound of good-natured scuffling.

The faire was loud, crowded, and completely overwhelming in the best possible way.

Stalls lined the main street of the settlement, selling everything from food to weapons to things you couldn't identify. Demons of all kinds moved through the crowds—imps mostly, but other species too. Music played from somewhere, mixing with the general din of conversation and laughter.

"Stay close," Sallie May instructed, linking her arm through yours. "It's easy to get separated in this mess."

Rusty walked on your other side, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. "First faire?"

"First one I can remember," you admitted.

"Oh, you're in for a treat. They do these a few times a year—usually someone dies, but it's all in good fun."

"Someone dies?"

"Rusty, quit scarin' her," Sallie May scolded, but she was grinning. "He's exaggerating. Mostly."

They led you through the crowds, pointing out interesting stalls and explaining the various competitions. There was going to be horse racing later, some kind of roping contest, and—

"Rodeo!" Rusty announced excitedly. "Bull riding. Always the main event."

"With actual bulls?"

"Hell-bulls, yeah. Mean bastards, every one of 'em. Takes real skill to stay on for more than a few seconds."

You thought about the cattle Striker worked with every day—the massive, aggressive creatures with horns like weapons. The idea of someone voluntarily climbing onto one made your stomach turn.

"Come on," Sallie May tugged you toward a section with pens and enclosures. "Let's check out the animal yards."

The yards were full of creatures in various stages of adorable and terrifying. Baby hell-chicks—fluffy despite the small flames along their wings—chirped and tumbled over each other in one pen. You couldn't help but smile at them.

"They're cute now," Sallie May commented. "Wait till they grow up. Mean as hell and twice as loud."

There were other animals too—hell-pigs, some kind of lizard thing with too many legs, a pen of what looked like rabbits if rabbits had horns and glowing eyes.

And then you saw them.

The hell-bulls.

Massive didn't begin to cover it. They were the size of small buildings, all muscle and rage, with horns that could gore a person without trying. Their eyes glowed red, and when they snorted, actual flames came out. One of them slammed against the reinforced fence, making the whole structure shake.

You took an involuntary step back.

"Terrifying, right?" Rusty said cheerfully. "Those are the ones they use for the rodeo. Meanest of the mean."

"People ride those?" Your voice came out higher than intended.

"The crazy ones do. For glory, prize money, bragging rights." He grinned. "Your cowboy's ridin' in it later, actually."

Your blood went cold. "What?"

"Oh yeah. Striker and Chet both signed up. Should be a hell of a show."

You stared at the bulls, watching them ram the fences and breathe fire, and felt sick.

Striker was going to ride one of those?

A arm settled around your shoulders—warm, familiar. You turned to find Striker himself, looking amused.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin'."

"They said you're riding in the rodeo." You gestured at the bulls. "Riding those in the rodeo?"

"That's the one." He didn't look concerned. If anything, he looked excited.

"Striker, those things are monsters."

"They're just animals. Angry ones, sure, but still just animals." He squeezed your shoulder gently. "I've handled worse."

"You could get hurt—"

"I'll be fine." He tipped his hat back. "Done this kinda thing before. I know what I'm doin'."

"But—"

"Hey." He turned you to face him fully, hands on both shoulders now. "I promise, I'll be fine. Gonna win that competition and make the whole ranch proud. Including you."

"I'd rather you just be safe," you muttered.

Something soft flickered across his face. "I'll be both. You'll see." He glanced past you at the stalls. "Now come on. Let's enjoy the faire before the events start. I wanna show you around properly."

He offered his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it.

Sallie May and Rusty exchanged knowing looks behind your back.

Striker walked you through the stalls, pointing out interesting things, handing you a skewer of something sweet and spiced that was better than it had any right to be. He was relaxed, happy even, in a way you'd rarely seen.

You tried to enjoy it. Tried to focus on the here and now instead of worrying about what was coming later.

But every time you saw those bulls in the distance, your stomach twisted.

The stands were packed—rough wooden bleachers overlooking a dirt track that circled the main faire grounds. You'd found spots near the middle, giving you a good view of the whole course.

The atmosphere was electric. Demons shouted and laughed, placing bets with each other, passing around drinks in clear violation of several safety rules. It felt alive, chaotic, dangerous in the way Wrath always felt.

"First race is starting!" Rusty announced, pointing toward the starting line where hell-horses were being wrangled into position.

You watched the first race with mounting excitement—the horses were beautiful and fast, flames streaming behind them as they tore around the track. The crowd roared with every turn, every near-collision.

The second race started.

You were cheering for a horse Sallie May had pointed out when something caught your eye. There, at the starting line for the race—

Bombproof and Striker, both looking perfectly at ease—

"He's racing!" You grabbed Sallie May's arm, pointing. "Look!"

"Oh yeah, did I forgot to mention that ?" she said casually. "Reckon your cowboy'll do pretty well."

The starting bell clanged.

The horses exploded forward.

You were on your feet immediately, leaning over the railing, screaming Striker's name like your voice could somehow make them go faster.

Bombproof was in the middle of the pack at first—letting the other horses tire themselves out in the early sprint. But as they rounded the first turn, you saw the strategy unfold.

Striker leaned low over Bombproof's neck, and the horse surged forward. Flames blazed brighter, hooves barely touching the ground. They passed one horse. Then another. Striker was grinning—you could see it even from here—looking like he was having the time of his life.

They came around the final turn in second place, neck-and-neck with a massive black stallion. The crowd was deafening. You were screaming yourself hoarse.

Bombproof's flames flared one last time, and he pulled ahead—just barely—crossing the finish line half a length ahead of the stallion.

The crowd erupted.

"HE WON!" You were jumping now, shaking Sallie May's shoulder. "DID YOU SEE THAT? HE WON!"

"I saw, I saw!" Sallie May was laughing at your enthusiasm. "You can congratulate him yourself—he's comin' this way."

Indeed, Striker was walking Bombproof toward the stands, cooling the horse down. He was covered in dirt and sweat, grinning wider than you'd ever seen.

You didn't think. Just leaned way too far over the railing, waving frantically. "STRIKER! THAT WAS AMAZING!"

He looked up, spotted you, and that grin somehow got bigger. He guided Bombproof closer, stopping just below where you were leaning.

"Hey darlin'," he called up. "Havin fun?"

You reached down to scratch Bombproof's neck "That was incredible! You were so fast Pretty boy! And that was—" You stopped, nose wrinkling. "Oh my fuck, Striker you stink."

He laughed—full and genuine. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you work up a sweat."

"It's so bad—"

"I'll clean up after the rodeo." He patted Bombproof's neck, and the horse preened, absolutely basking in the attention. "You proud of us?"

"So proud," you said immediately. "Even if you smell terrible."

"I'll take it." He started to turn away, then paused. "Oh, by the way—me and Chet are up for the rodeo next. Should be startin' in about twenty minutes."

Your smile froze. "The... rodeo."

"Yep! Bull riding. Should be fun." He said it so casually, like he wasn't about to climb onto a literal monster.

Sallie May leaned over beside you. "Can't wait to watch! Try not to get trampled!"

"I'll do my best," he called back, already leading Bombproof away.

Sallie May saw your expression "Aw, he'll be fine." She patted your arm. "Besides, even if he does get thrown, they got medics standing by. Probably."

"Probably?"

Rusty leaned around Sallie May, grinning. "The trick is not to think about all the ways it could go wrong. Just enjoy the show!"

You were definitely going to be sick.

The rodeo arena was smaller, more contained—a circular pen with reinforced fencing and what looked like an escape route for riders who got thrown.

Which, based on what you'd seen so far, was everyone.

The first few riders didn't last more than a couple seconds before being violently launched from the bulls. The crowd loved it—cheering when riders got thrown, groaning when they didn't get trampled, treating the whole thing like entertainment instead of the life-threatening event it clearly was.

"Chet's up next," Sallie May announced.

You watched with your heart in your throat as Chet lowered himself onto a massive gray bull. The creature was already bucking in the chute, clearly furious about having something on its back.

The gate opened.

The bull exploded into the arena like a natural disaster—twisting, bucking, trying to scrape Chet off on the fence. Chet held on with grim determination, one hand in the air, the other death-gripping the rope.

He lasted maybe six seconds before the bull gave a particularly vicious twist and sent him flying.

He hit the dirt hard, rolled, and scrambled toward the fence as the bull turned to charge. The safety riders—imps on fast horses—cut in front of the bull, giving Chet time to climb to safety.

The crowd cheered anyway. Six seconds was apparently decent.

Chet limped out of the arena, waving to acknowledge the applause. He was going to be bruised tomorrow.

"And now," the announcer's voice boomed, "we got Striker on Hellfire! Let's see if he can beat the current leader!"

Your hands clenched on the railing.

Striker appeared at the chute, settling onto a massive red bull that looked even meaner than the others. The bull's eyes glowed like coals, steam rising from its nostrils.

Striker looked calm. Confident. He adjusted his grip, nodded to the gate operator—

The gate opened.

The bull launched itself into the arena with a roar that you felt in your chest.

Striker moved with it—anticipating every twist, every buck, staying centered even when the bull tried to scrape him off. His free hand was high, his body loose but controlled.

It was terrifying to watch.

The bull spun, whipped its head back trying to gore him. Striker leaned away at exactly the right moment.

Five seconds.

Six.

Seven.

You couldn't watch. You turned, burying your face in Rusty's shoulder, hands clutching his shirt.

"What's happening?" you asked, voice muffled.

"He's still on! Holy shit, he's still—DAMN! What a move!"

The crowd was going absolutely wild.

"Is he okay?"

"He's—wait—"

A bell clanged.

Eight seconds. The required time.

The crowd erupted into deafening cheers.

"He did it!" Rusty shook your shoulders. "He stayed on! He won!"

You looked up just in time to see Striker leap from the bull, landing in a crouch and sprinting for the fence as the safety riders corralled the enraged animal. He climbed the fence with easy grace, then turned to the crowd and raised both arms in victory.

The cheering somehow got louder.

Your knees felt weak with relief.

He was okay. He was alive. He'd won.

Striker's eyes found you in the stands, and even from here you could see his grin—wild and triumphant and so alive it made your chest ache.

He tipped his hat to you.

And you burst into tears.

Not sad tears—overwhelmed tears. Tears of relief.

Sallie May pulled you into a hug, laughing. "He's fine! Look at him—he's more than fine!"

"I know," you hiccupped. "I know, I just—that was fucking terrifying."

"But he won! That's what matters!"

You watched through blurry eyes as Striker collected his prize—some kind of token or certificate—and made his way toward the stands, still grinning like a fool.

When he reached you, sweaty and dirty and victorious, you wanted to hug him and hit him in equal measure.

"You're insane," you informed him.

"But I won." He was practically vibrating with adrenaline. "Did you see that? Eight seconds! New personal record!"

"You could have died!"

"But I didn't." He reached up and wiped a tear from your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Hey hey. I'm okay. See? Not even a scratch."

"This time," you muttered.

"You really were that worried ?" He was still touching your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"Of course I was worried! You were riding a monster!"

Something in his expression went soft. "Well, I'm sorry for scarin' you. But I meant what I said—I know what I'm doin'. Trust me?"

You did. That was the problem.

"I trust you," you said quietly. "Doesn't mean I have to like watching you putting yourself at risk."

"Fair enough." He stepped back, looking at the group. "So! Prize for winnin' is a bar tab at The Rusted Pitchfork. Enough for all of us, if you're interested."

Sallie May's eyes lit up. "Hell yeah! Drinks on the champion!"

Rusty whooped agreement.

Striker looked at you, raising an eyebrow in question.

After everything—the races, the rodeo, the emotional rollercoaster—you needed a drink.

"Okay," you agreed. "Let's go to the bar."

His grin was blinding. "That's my girl."

•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•●•

The faire was winding down as evening settled over Wrath. The crowds had thinned, stalls were packing up, and the music had shifted to something slower, more contemplative.

Someone had built a large firepit at the edge of the faire grounds—a gathering spot for people to decompress after the chaos of the day. Your group had claimed a section of log benches, sprawling in comfortable exhaustion.

Chet was complaining about his bruises. Sallie May was recounting the rodeo with enthusiastic exaggeration. Rusty was half-asleep, hat tipped over his face.

You sat between Striker and Sallie May, shoulder pressed against Striker's, watching the flames dance and crackle.

"Today was..." You trailed off, not sure how to finish.

"Overwhelming? Terrifying?" Striker supplied helpfully.

"All of that. But also... fun. Really fun." You smiled up at him. "Thank you for bringing us."

"Anytime, darlin'." His arm was stretched along the back of the bench behind you—not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth. "You did good today. Handled the crowds, didn't panic when things got wild."

"I definitely panicked during the rodeo."

"That's different. That's acceptable panic." His mouth twitched. "Can't believe you really cried?"

Your face heated. "Shut up."

"Ain't makin' fun. It was..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "It was nice. Knowin' someone gave a damn whether I made it out of that ring."

"Of course I give a damn—"

"I know." He squeezed your shoulder briefly. "I know you do."

The fire popped and crackled. Around you, the others chatted and laughed, but it felt distant somehow. Like you and Striker were in your own little bubble.

"So," he said eventually, voice carefully casual. "About that bar tab."

You looked up at him.

"Prize for winnin' was enough to cover drinks for all of us, plus probably some food." He glanced at the group, then back to you. "What do you say? Feel like celebratin' with some proper drinkin'?"

You thought about the bar—rowdy and probably dangerous, but also new. An experience. Something normal people did in Hell.

"Okay," you decided. "Let's go."

Striker's grin was immediate. He raised his voice, addressing the group. "Alright you degenerates! Who's ready to drink my winnings?"

The response was immediate and enthusiastic.

Sallie May whooped. "Finally! Been waitin' for this!"

Rusty sat up so fast his hat fell off. "You're serious? We're actually goin'?"

"I'm serious." Striker stood, offering you his hand to help you up. "But there's rules. We stick together, nobody wanders off alone, and if things get rowdy we leave. Clear?"

A chorus of agreement.

"Then let's go." He pulled you to your feet, hand lingering in yours just a moment longer than necessary. "Time to show you what a proper bar is like, darlin'."

You weren't sure if that was a promise or a threat.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty finally decides to rejoin the land of the livin'."

You turned your head—too fast, vision swimming—and there he was.

The Cowboy. The creature from... before? How long ago was before? Everything was fuzzy, fragmented, like trying to remember a dream after waking.

He was leaning against the far wall, one boot propped behind him, arms crossed over his chest. That wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face, but you could see the glint of yellow eyes watching you with lazy intensity, like a snake sunning itself on a rock.

"Where..." Your voice came out as barely a croak. Tried again. "Where am I?"

"My lair." He pushed off the wall with unhurried grace, moving closer. "Which you've been freeloadin' in for the better part of a week, by the way. You're welcome."

"A week?"

He grabbed something—a tin cup—and filled it from a canteen before holding it out. When you just stared, he rolled his eyes.

"It ain't poisoned. Already had plenty of opportunity to kill you while you were out cold. Drink."

You took the cup with trembling hands. The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but it was the most amazing thing you'd ever experienced. You drained half before he pulled it away.

"Slowly. You want to throw up everywhere, be my guest, but you're cleanin' it."

"Sorry," you whispered automatically.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to read. He set the cup aside and crossed his arms again, studying you like a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.

"Now then." He tilted his head, yellow eyes narrowing. "How 'bout you start explainin' what the hell you are and what you're doin' in my territory."

"I don't... I don't know." You pushed yourself up on shaky arms, the blanket pooling around your waist. Your clothes were still torn and dusty, dried sweat making the fabric stiff. "I don't know how I got here. I just—I was falling, and then I woke up in the sand, and—"

"Uh-huh." His voice dripped skepticism. "And before the fallin'? Where were you?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried to remember and found nothing but fuzzy static. "I... I can't remember. I don't—" Panic crept into your voice. "I don't know. Why can't I remember?"

Striker watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable. His tail continued to sway and you realized it was moving in time with his breathing—unconscious, like a heartbeat.

"You hit your head?" he asked finally, voice flat.

"I don't know. Maybe?" You touched your scalp gingerly, feeling for bumps or blood, but found nothing obvious. "Everything's just... blank."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a creative string of curses. "Fantastic. Just what I need—a amnesiac crash-landin' in my backyard." He dragged a hand down his face, then seemed to collect himself. "Alright, fine. You got a name, at least?"

You told him. It was one of the few things that came easily, solid and real in the fog of confusion.

He repeated it slowly, rolling it around in his mouth like he was tasting it. "Huh. Weird name. But then again, you're a weird little thing, ain't ya?" He straightened his hat. "Name's Striker. Welcome to Wrath, I guess—though if you were hopin' for a resort, you landed in the wrong ring."

"Wrath?" You looked around the sparse room—weapons on the walls, hellfire lanterns, everything sharp edges and volcanic stone. "Is that... where is that?"

His eyes sharpened. "You really don't know nothin', do you?" He leaned back against a table, studying you like a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. "Wrath. One of the seven rings of Hell. You know—fire, hell-beasts, eternal fuckin' heat, all that fun shit."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. "Hell? Like... actual Hell?"

"No, like the fake Hell they put in them theme parks." His voice dripped sarcasm. "Yes, actual Hell. Where the fuck else would you be?"

You stared at him—at the horns, the slitted pupils and rattling tail. At the lanterns burning. At the reality of it all crashing down like a landslide.

"I'm in Hell," you whispered.

"Gold star for the amnesiac." He straightened his hat. "And before you ask—no, I don't know what the hell you are or where you came from." His tail rattled softly. "But seein' as my horse threw a fit about abandonin' you, I guess you can stay till you get your strength back. After that..." He shrugged. "We'll figure it out."

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process any of this.

"Rest," he said, already moving toward the door. "You've been out for a week. Gonna take time before you're back on your feet. Don't do anythin' stupid while I'm gone."

"Where are you going?"

He paused, hand on the doorframe. Didn't turn around. "Out. Got business."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the dim lair with more questions than answers and the sinking realization that you were very, very far from anything resembling home.

The next few days passed in a haze of sleep and waking. You were weak—embarrassingly so. Just sitting up left you dizzy. Walking to the privy out back required resting halfway there.

Striker came and went with no pattern you could discern. Sometimes he was gone for hours. Sometimes he'd return smelling like smoke and something copper-sweet that made your stomach turn. He never explained where he'd been or what he'd been doing.

You didn't ask. Some instinct told you that questions wouldn't be welcome.

But he always made sure you had what you needed before he left. Water canteen full. Food within reach. Blanket adjusted just so.

"I'm headin' out," he'd say, checking his things with practiced efficiency. "Might be gone till tomorrow. You need anythin'?"

"No, I'm okay."

"You sure? 'Cause I ain't turnin' around if you suddenly remember you needed somethin'."

"I'm sure."

He'd grunt acknowledgment and leave. And you'd hear him outside, talking to his horse—that massive, flaming creature who'd been so gentle when you first woke.

"Keep an eye on her, would you? Lost little thing can barely stand without fallin' over. Last thing I need is comin' back to find she cracked her skull open."

The horse would nicker, and Striker would mutter something else you couldn't quite catch before the sound of hooves faded into the distance.

By the fifth day since waking, you could walk without feeling like you'd collapse. It was progress. Small, but real.

You tried to make yourself useful—cleaning up the lair, organizing the few supplies Striker had, attempting to do something that justified taking up space in his home.

That's when you discovered you had a shadow.

Bombproof—Striker's horse—had appointed himself your personal guardian. Every time you stepped outside, he materialized from wherever he'd been resting. Those four glowing orange eyes would fix on you, and he'd follow at a distance of about ten feet.

At first, it was unnerving. Then it became almost comforting, having this massive presence watching over you.

Until you tried to actually interact with him.

You'd been attempting to carry water from the collection area—a task that should've been simple but left you winded and frustrated. Bombproof had followed, as always, and when you set the bucket down to rest, he'd moved closer.

Lowered his massive head. Nudged your shoulder gently with his muzzle.

You froze.

He was on fire. His mane flickered and danced with actual flames, orange and gold, beautiful and terrifying. Heat radiated off him in waves.

"Um," you said intelligently. "Good... horsie?"

Bombproof huffed—clearly offended by your tone—and nudged again. Wanting something. Attention, maybe?

You raised a shaking hand toward his neck, then stopped inches away. The flames licked higher, and even though they didn't seem to be burning anything, the idea of sticking your hand directly into fire went against every survival instinct you had.

"I can't—I'm sorry, I just—"

The horse made a sound that was almost a whine, pushing his nose against your arm insistently.

"No, really, I can't—fire is ... fire—"

"Oh for fuck's sake."

You spun around to find Striker standing there, with that swagger that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining. He looked thoroughly exasperated, but there was definitely amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"He's waitin' for you to pet him."

"He's on fire!"

"And?" Striker stopped beside Bombproof and, without even looking, reached up and shoved his entire hand into the horse's flaming mane. The flames parted around his fingers like they were nothing. "See? Not burnin'. Not even that warm."

"That's—that's not—"

"Ugh, quit bein' a baby." He grabbed your wrist—firm but not rough—and started pulling your hand toward Bombproof's neck.

"No! Wait—" You tried to pull back, heels digging into the dirt. "Striker, I really don't think—"

"You really don't think what? That hellfire works different than regular fire? Newsflash—we're in Hell. Everything works different." He kept pulling, relentless. "The horse ain't gonna hurt you. He's been followin' you around like a lovesick puppy for days. Least you could do is give him a damn pat."

"But what if—"

"What if nothin'. You really think I'd let you touch him if he was gonna hurt you?" He raised an eyebrow, yellow eyes glinting with challenge. "Give me some credit here, darlin'."

You opened your mouth to protest again, but he'd already pressed your palm against Bombproof's neck—right through the flames.

The fire parted like silk. Beneath it, the horse's hide was warm—almost hot—but not burning. Solid but surprisingly soft.

Bombproof made a sound of pure contentment, leaning heavily into your touch.

"See?" Striker's voice had gone smug. "Told you. You're bein' dramatic about nothin'."

"It's still weird," you muttered, but your fingers were already moving, tentatively scratching. Bombproof's back leg twitched in happiness.

"Everything in Hell's weird. You gonna have a crisis every time somethin' don't make sense by your standards?" He released your wrist, crossing his arms as he watched. "Because I gotta tell you, that's gonna get real old real fast."

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You definitely were." But there was no real heat in his voice. Almost teasing, actually. "Next you're gonna tell me you can't eat hell-pig because it's got too many eyes or somethin'."

"How many eyes do they have?"

"Not the point." He turned to leave. "Point is, Bombproof's been waitin' on you to stop actin' scared of him. Now you know he ain't gonna roast you, maybe try bein' grateful instead of skeptical."

Bombproof huffed agreement, nearly knocking you over with the force of his head-bump.

"Alright, alright!" You laughed despite yourself, using both hands to scratch behind his ears now. "I'm sorry I was scared. You're a very good horse. A very good, not-at-all-scary horsie."

"That's better," Striker called back, already heading toward the lair. "And quit babyin' him! You're gonna make him soft!"

But you caught the faint smile on his face before he disappeared inside, and something warm settled in your chest.

Maybe being here wasn't so bad after all.

A pattern developed over the following days.

Morning: you'd wake to find Striker already up, checking weapons or preparing to leave. The sound of his tail was usually what roused you—that distinctive rattle as he moved around the lair.

"Headin' out," he'd say, not looking at you as he loaded his rifle. "Back by sundown, probably."

And then he'd pause. Glance at the supplies.

The canteen would be full—you'd swear it had been half-empty the night before.

The food tin would have fresh jerky on top—the good kind, not the boot-leather stuff.

The hellfire lantern would be topped off with oil.

You never saw him do it. Never caught him in the act. But every morning before he left, everything you might need was somehow... taken care of.

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he'd add, already heading for the door.

"What counts as stupid?"

"If you gotta ask, it's proably stupid."

Then he'd be gone and you'd spend the day trying to be useful.

You'd started noticing other things too. The wood pile by the door that never seemed to get low, even though you used it for cooking. The way your blanket was always draped over the cot just so when you woke up, even though you were sure you'd kicked it off during the night.

Small things. Practical things. Things that could be explained away as coincidence or habit.

But they happened every day. Like clockwork.

You didn't mention it. Weren't sure if you should. Striker seemed like the type who wouldn't appreciate being called out on... whatever this was. Consideration? Care?

So you just accepted it. And tried to return the favor in your own small ways. His spare clothes, folded. The lair swept clean.

He never commented on it either.

But sometimes you'd catch him pausing in the doorway, looking around like he was taking inventory. And his tail would do that soft rattle that you'd learned meant he was pleased, even if his face didn't show it.

Striker had a job. A real one—something that would take him overnight, maybe longer.

He prepared with meticulous care, cleaning his rifle, checking ammunition, sharpening knives you tried not to look at too closely. His spurs clinked softly against the floor as he moved around the lair, gathering what he needed.

You watched from the cot, pretending to fold the last of the laundry, but really just... watching.

He moved with such efficiency. Such purpose. Like violence was just normal to him, and he was very, very good at it.

It should've scared you. Maybe it would've, if you'd known what he actually did out there.

But you didn't ask. And he didn't tell.

"Gonna be gone a few days," he said, not looking at you as he checked his rifle one more time. "Maybe three."

"Okay."

He paused. His tail rattled once—short, sharp. Agitated.

Then he walked back inside, spurs announcing his approach. Moved past you to the shelf. Grabbed the canteen, checked it was full. Grabbed the food tin, added more jerky. Checked the oil in the lantern even though he'd just filled it that morning.

You didn't say anything. Just watched him work through his mental checklist.

"Medical supplies are in the chest by the door," he said finally, voice gruff. "You remember where?"

"Yes."

"And you know how to use 'em?"

"You showed me twice."

"I'm showin' you a third time." He crossed to the chest and started pulling out supplies. "This is for cuts. This is for burns. This one's if you get bit by somethin'—"

"Striker." You stood up, moved closer. "I'll be okay. I promise."

He looked at you then—yellow eyes searching your face with an intensity that made you want to look away even as you felt like you couldn’t.

"You don't know that," he said quietly. "Things happen. Especially out here."

"Then teach me what to do if they do."

Something flickered in his expression. Then he nodded once and spent the next twenty minutes running through every possible emergency scenario, showing you where everything was, making you repeat it back to him until he was satisfied.

Outside, Bombproof whinnied—impatient.

"Yeah, yeah," Striker called back. Then, quieter, to you "Bombproof's stayin' here."

You blinked. "What? But—don't you need him?"

"I can walk. He's better off here, keepin' an eye on things." On you, he meant, but didn't say. "Anything happens—anything at all—you get on that horse. He'll come find me."

"How will he know where you are?"

"He always knows." Said with such certainty that you didn't question it.

Finally, there was nothing left to check. Nothing left to prepare. He grabbed his gear, headed for the door.

Stopped.

Didn't turn around.

"Be here when I get back."

It wasn't a question. Wasn't even really a request. Just... a statement. An expectation.

"Where else would I go?" you asked softly.

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Right. Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't."

He left then, the sound of him fading into the distance, and you realized, standing there in his lair surrounded by evidence of his care disguised as practicality, that he'd left his horse—his closest companion—to watch over you.

The target was dead. Clean shot, no complications. Professional.

Striker wiped down his rifle, packed it away, and collected his payment without fanfare. The client barely looked at him—just handed over the cash and scurried off like Striker might change his mind and add him to the body count.

Smart.

He should've headed to the next job. Had two more lined up, both good money. Could keep the momentum going, stack up some serious funds.

Instead, he found himself at a supply station, staring at a shelf of preserved foods.

She'd need more than jerky. Couldn't live on dried meat alone—too hard on the stomach, especially for someone still recovering. Maybe some of those fruits. And that grain stuff that could be made into porridge.

His hand moved toward them, then stopped.

What the heaven am I doin'?

She wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't his problem. He'd done his part—kept her alive, gave her a place to stay till she got her strength back. That was more than most would do.

He grabbed the supplies anyway. Told himself it was just practical. Couldn't have her wasting away on his watch. That'd be inconvenient.

The vendor gave him a look that Striker ignored.

Then came the walk back.

The long, solitary, horse-less walk back through Wrath.

His rifle case dug into his shoulder. The supply sack seemed heavier with each mile. And his spurs—his goddamn spurs that he'd worn for years without issue—suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

"Left my horse," he muttered to himself, adjusting the rifle strap. "Left my perfectly good, perfectly functional horse to babysit some stray who can't even remember her own damn story."

A dust devil swirled past. Striker kicked at it irritably.

"Could be ridin' right now. Could be halfway home. But nooo—had to leave Bombproof behind 'cause what if somethin' happens? What if she needs help? What if—"

He stopped himself, scowling at the empty desert.

"This is ridiculous. She's got food. Water. Shelter. Medical supplies I spent twenty minutes explainin' even though she's a grown-ass adult who should be able to figure shit out. She's fine."

His boots crunched on volcanic rock. The heat made the air shimmer.

"And even if she ain't fine, that's what Bombproof's there for. Perfectly logical. Tactical decision. Leave the horse, travel light, get the job done faster."

Except he wasn't traveling light. He was hauling extra supplies he'd bought specifically for her. And he wasn't going faster—he was going significantly slower because he was on foot like some kind of amateur.

"Satandamn sentimental—" He shifted the supply sack to his other shoulder, spurs jingling with each irritated step. "Next time she's gettin' left with a canteen and a 'good luck.' Not my damn horse. No babyin'. She wants to stay in Hell, she can learn to survive in Hell."

A hell-lizard skittered across his path. He barely noticed.

"And another thing—why the hell am I buyin' grain? I don't even eat grain. Tastes like shit. But oh, she might need somethin' soft, somethin' easy on the stomach, can't have her chokin' on jerky—"

He was talking to himself. Out loud. In the middle of the Wrath desert. Like a crazy person.

"This is what happens," he told the orange sky. "This is what happens when you let strays stick around. They make you soft. Make you stupid. Make you leave your damn horse behind and haul supplies through the desert on foot like some kind of—"

He stopped.

In the distance, barely visible through the heat shimmer, he could see his lair.

And standing outside it, was a figure. Scratching Bombproof's ears. The horse's flames were clearly visible, and even from here Striker could tell he was leaning into her touch, shameless as ever.

Something in his chest twisted.

"Temporary," he reminded himself, resuming his walk. "Just temporary. Soon as she remembers where she came from, she's gone. Back to normal. Back to just me and Bombproof and no fuckin' complications."

His spurs jingled steadily as he walked, marking time, marking distance.

Marking the gap between what he told himself and what he was starting to suspect was true.

"Shoulda left her in the desert," he muttered, but there was no conviction in it anymore.

Just resignation.

You were fine when he got back. Of course you were. Standing outside the lair in the fading light, scratching Bombproof's ears while the horse dozed contentedly.

You looked up when you heard his approach—the jingle of spurs carrying across the distance—and your whole face lit up. "You're back!"

Something in Striker's chest went warm and uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Job's done." He said, trying to look casual as he checked you over from a distance. No visible injuries. Moving fine. Color in your cheeks. "Everything okay here?"

"Everything's fine. Bombproof took good care of me." You smiled at the horse, who preened. "We're friends now. Real friends. I even brushed his mane."

"Course you did," Striker muttered, but there was no real bite to it. "You eat?"

"Yes."

"All of it, or did you ration like I ain't comin' back?"

"...Most of it?"

"Uh-huh." He shot you a look over Bombproof's back. "You ain't gotta waste away to nothin'. Next time, eat the damn food."

"Yes, sir," you said, but you were smiling.

He wasn't sure why that made his tail rattle, but it did.

"Stay out of trouble?" he asked

"Define trouble."

He paused. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing! I just... reorganized your clothes? They were all mixed up and I thought it would be helpful but maybe that was—"

"Thought I told you not to touch my things."

Your face fell. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll put them back how they were—"

"Relax." He hefted the sack supply sack to sit higher on his shoulder. "Did I say I was mad?"

"...No?"

"Then quit apologizin'." He moved around Bombproof to face you properly, and hell if you didn't look up at him with those wide eyes like he'd just done something miraculous instead of just not yelling at you. "Probably needed organizin' anyway. Just warn a man before you go reorderin' his shit."

"I will. Next time."

Next time. Like you were planning on sticking around. Like this was just... normal now.

He should probably address that. Set expectations. Make it clear this was temporary.

"Good," is what came out instead.

You stood up, brushing dust off your clothes—his spare shirt, actually, the one he'd given you because you'd had nothing else. It was a bit big on you, hanging off one shoulder, sleeves rolled up multiple times.

Something curled in his chest at the sight, he shoved it down hard.

"I'll make dinner," you offered heading back toward the lair, then paused. Looked back at him, backlit by the lantern inside. "I'm glad you're back... Safe, I mean."

Striker stilled glad he was back. Glad he was safe. When was the last time anyone had said that to him? Cared whether he came back at all?

"Yeah," he said, voice rougher than he'd intended. "Thanks."

You smiled—soft, genuine—and disappeared inside.

Striker stood there for a moment, just staring at the doorway you'd vanished through.

"She ain't stayin'. Can't stay. Soon as she gets her memory back, she'll leave, and things'll go back to normal."

Bombproof gave him a look that clearly said keep telling yourself that.

"I'm serious. This is temporary. A... a situation. That's all."

You cracked your eyes open just enough to see flames. Not fire consuming you, but a mane of flickering orange licking up from a horse's neck. The creature was massive, dark gray hide striped black like cooled lava, lower body glowing with that same molten underglow. Four orange eyes stared down at you—two sets, unblinking, curious rather than hungry. It nudged again, muzzle gentle but firm against your shoulder, as if trying to say get up, stupid.

You managed a weak whimper. The horse huffed, tail swishing flaming tail, actually—how was that not setting the sand on fire?, then turned its head and whinnied—sharp, demanding.

Somewhere distant, a voice answered—raspy, low, edged with irritation.

"Bombproof! Where the hell you at, boy? I ain't got all mornin' to chase your sorry hide!"

The horse ignored the call, instead lowering its head to nose at your arm again, almost protective. You tried to push yourself up—arms trembling, head spinning—but managed only to roll onto your side. The movement sent fresh pain through your cracked lips and sunburned skin.

Hooves approached—slow, deliberate, spurs jingling faintly. A shadow fell over you, tall and lean.

"Well, shit."

The voice was closer now—deep, drawling, with a Western twang that carried over the empty desert like a whip crack. You forced your eyes open wider.

He was not a person—pale skin stretched over lean muscle, ivory hair messy under a wide brimmed hat. Horns striped black and white, jagged like lightning. Yellow eyes with green-ringed slits narrowed down at you, one golden fang glinting as his lip curled. Black mustache, sharp teeth, red bandana loose around his neck. Cowboy looking creature—vest, boots, the whole damn look—but something predatory in the way he tilted his head, sizing you up like meat left out too long.

You were dead—dead adjacent? High or drunk, possibly just crazy—that must be it your addled brain decided in the heated haze as you blink at this cowboy looking... thing ?

The horse, 'Bombproof' apparently—let out a satisfied snort and stepped aside just enough to let the cowboy get a better look.

Striker crouched slowly, elbows on his knees, tail rattling faintly like a warning. His serpentine face tilted, eyes flicking over your form—clothes torn and dusty, no weapons, no hellborn features. Nothing that belonged here.

"What in the seven rings are you?" he muttered, more to himself than you. His voice dropped lower, raspy drawl thickening with disbelief. "Ain't no imp, that's for damn sure. Too soft. Too... breakable-lookin'."

Bombproof nudged him then—hard—right in the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. The horse circled back to you, lowering his flaming head to lip gently at your hair, as if checking you were still breathing.

Striker hissed through his teeth. "Quit it, you overgrown spark plug. Whatever this thing is, it ain't our problem."

The horse didn't budge. Instead, he planted his hooves and stared Striker down—four glowing eyes unyielding. Tail flicked once, embers scattering across the sand.

Striker stared back for a long beat, jaw working. Then he let out a long, put-upon sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Satandamn it. Fine. You win this one, you sentimental bastard."

He straightened to his full height—and reached down. One clawed hand closed around your upper arm—not rough, but firm. The other slid under your knees. He lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest with surprising care for someone who looked like he'd sooner shoot than help.

Your head lolled against his shoulder; you caught the faint scent of gun oil, leather, and something sharper. His bandana brushed your cheek as he adjusted his grip.

"Don't get any ideas," he muttered, voice low near your ear. "I'm only doin' this 'cause Bombproof's got a soft spot and I ain't in the mood to drag a corpse around my property. You die on the way, that's on you."

Bombproof nickered—almost smug—and fell into step beside him as Striker started walking. The horse's flaming mane flickered in time with his strides, casting shifting orange light across the sand.

You were too exhausted to protest, too dazed to do more than let your eyes drift half-closed. The sway of being carried, the steady thud of hooves, the low rumble of Striker's occasional grumbling under his breath—it all blurred together.

His lair came into view eventually—a low, rugged structure carved into a volcanic outcrop, half-hidden by rock and scrub. Door heavy and reinforced with iron, a small corral off to the side. Striker kicked the door open with one boot, ducking inside without breaking stride.

The interior was sparse—cot in the corner, table cluttered with weapons parts, a few lanterns flickering. Cooler than outside, at least. He carried you straight to the cot and set you down with more gentleness than his tone suggested, propping your head on a rolled-up blanket.

Bombproof stuck his head through the doorway—too tall to fit fully—watching with those four glowing eyes.

Striker shot him a glare. "Happy now? Got your stray inside. Now git before you set my damn roof on fire—again."

The horse huffed once, then backed out—but not far. You could still hear him pacing just outside, tail swishing.

Striker turned back to you, arms crossed, tail rattling softly. His yellow eyes studied your face—searching, calculating.

"Alright, little lost...thing," he drawled, voice dropping to a husky, dangerous murmur. "You gonna wake up and explain what the fuck a soft whateva you are is doin' passed out in my backyard? Or am I gonna have to start guessin'?"

You managed a weak, raspy breath—barely a whisper.

"...your...werid looking."

He blinked. Then snorted, one corner of his mouth twitching up in something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Ain’t never seen a critter shaped like you, either."

But he didn't walk away. Instead, he grabbed a canteen from the table, unscrewed the cap, and held it to your lips—careful, almost reluctant.

"Drink slow," he muttered. "Ain't got time to nurse you back from dehydration."

Outside, Bombproof snorted approval.