Chapter Text
One of the many caves was suffused with an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant roar of the inferno above the valley. Moxxie’s breaths were shallow, each one a laborious effort as he worked to steady his trembling hands. His injuries, though crudely tended, throbbed with a dull, relentless pain. He forced himself to focus, recalling fragments of survival shows he had begrudgingly watched with Blitzo back in better days—days that now felt like a distant dream.
Those nights, crammed into Blitzo's cluttered apartment, had always begun the same way. Blitzo would insist on watching some survivalist lunatic wrestle alligators or eat questionable berries while Moxxie rolled his eyes and grumbled about wasting time. Yet now, the memories felt strangely comforting, a flicker of light in the oppressive darkness of the canyon. And they gave him an idea.
He scoured the small cave for anything useful, his fingers brushing against jagged rocks, splintered wood, and brittle fragments of bone—remnants of whatever creatures had called this place home long before him. With determination, he fashioned a rudimentary spear, binding a sharp piece of stone to the end of a sturdy branch with strips of his shredded turtleneck. The process was slow, each movement a careful balance between precision and the agony of his injuries. But when he held the finished weapon in his hands, it felt solid, dependable—a lifeline in an otherwise hopeless situation.
Next, Moxxie turned his attention to his wounds. He had spotted a cluster of plants earlier—plants he recognized from one of those survival shows. If his memory served him correctly, their leaves could be crushed to make a makeshift balm with mild antiseptic properties. He had no guarantees, but at this point, any chance to stave off infection was worth the effort.
Gritting his teeth, he ground the leaves between two flat stones, creating a sticky, pungent paste. The process was excruciating; every motion sent fresh waves of pain radiating through his body. When he finally smeared the mixture onto his wounds, it burned like fire, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. But as the initial sting subsided, the balm seemed to ease some of the throbbing, if only slightly.
Despite his efforts, Moxxie couldn’t ignore the crushing exhaustion weighing him down. His muscles screamed for rest, his vision blurred at the edges, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. Not with Blitzo and Loona still out there, somewhere above the valley, caught in the chaos of the spreading fire.
He stared upward, his single good eye tracking the glow of the flames illuminating the cliffside. The smoke had begun to settle into the canyon, creeping downward like a living thing. Moxxie coughed as the acrid scent filled his lungs, his mind racing with worry. Were they still alive? Was there even a chance he could reach them in time? He shook his head, banishing the creeping doubts. There was no room for hesitation—not now.
Just then, his ears twitched, catching the faint sound of movement in the distance. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and all too familiar. Moxxie’s heart sank as he recognized the distinct rhythm of Striker’s boots crunching against the ash-covered ground. The man was closing in.
Fear gripped Moxxie’s chest like a vice, but he forced himself to remain calm. He tightened his grip on the makeshift spear, his knuckles white against the wood. Striker’s presence was a cruel reminder of how outmatched he was—a hunter in his element, pursuing wounded prey. Moxxie’s instincts screamed at him to run, to hide, but he knew there was no escape. Not this time.
The sound of footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the faint clinking of metal—likely the shotgun Striker carried so proudly. Moxxie pressed himself against the wall of the cave, his breathing shallow as he waited. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses even as his body teetered on the brink of collapse.
A shadow appeared at the cave’s entrance, long and menacing against the flickering light of the distant flames. Striker stepped into view, his figure silhouetted against the firelit backdrop. His hat was tilted low, obscuring his eyes, but the predatory grin on his face was unmistakable.
“Well, well,” Striker drawled, his voice echoing in the confined space. “Gotta say, I’m impressed, Moxxie. But I sort of guessed ya had it in ya.”
Moxxie swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Striker’s gaze. “You won’t get away with this,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. “You think you’re the hunter, but you’ve underestimated me.”
Striker chuckled darkly, tapping the barrel of his shotgun against the side of the cave. “Oh, I ain’t underestimated you, boy. I just know how this ends.” He took a step closer, his boots crunching against the rocky floor. “You can play tough all you want, but we both know you’re outta your league. So why don’t you make it easy on yourself and stop pretendin’ you’ve got a chance?”
Moxxie tightened his grip on the spear, his muscles tensing as he prepared for what was to come. “Maybe I am out of my league,” he admitted, his voice low but resolute. “But I’m not going to let you win. Not here. Not now.”
Striker tilted his head, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Suit yourself,” he said, raising his shotgun. “Let’s see how long you can keep that bravado.”
Moxxie braced himself, his heart pounding as he prepared to face the nightmare before him. The odds were against him, the stakes higher than ever. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t afford to give up—not for himself, and not for the ones he cared about.
The final confrontation had begun.
“You know, boy,” Striker drawled, his voice cutting through the suffocating smoke. “A good hunter always knows how to toy with his prey. Keeps things… interesting.”
Moxxie gritted his teeth, his spear clutched tightly in his hands. He couldn’t afford to make the first move. Not yet. Not until—
Striker’s hand suddenly shot upward, bypassing the revolver entirely to grip the slung shotgun strapped over his shoulder. In one fluid motion, he swung the weapon forward, its barrel gleaming ominously in the firelight.
“Let’s see how you like Charred Sanchez’s favorite piece of iron,” Striker sneered, pulling the trigger.
The cave exploded with sound, the deafening blast of the shotgun reverberating off the rocky walls. Most of the shot missed its mark, scattering harmlessly against the stone, but the impact sent shards of rock and salt ricocheting in every direction. Moxxie flinched, raising his arm instinctively to shield his face as a few stray pellets struck him. The sharp sting tore through his arm and side, causing him to stumble backward with a pained gasp.
Striker advanced, his boots crunching against the gravel-strewn floor. “Ain’t she a beaut?” he taunted, stroking the stock of the shotgun as though it were a prized possession. “That Charred Sanchez had taste, I’ll give him that. Too bad he didn’t have enough brains to keep himself alive.”
Moxxie struggled to stay upright, his grip on the spear tightening despite the burning pain in his side. His mind raced, desperation fueling his next move. As Striker leveled the shotgun for another shot, Moxxie jabbed the blunt end of the spear into the ground with all his strength, sending a plume of gravel, ash, and dirt exploding upward toward Striker’s face.
“Shit!” Striker cursed, stumbling backward as the debris hit him squarely. He swatted at his eyes, momentarily blinded by the onslaught.
Moxxie seized the opportunity. Ignoring the pain radiating through his body, he lunged forward, gripping the spear tightly as he barreled into Striker with all his weight. The impact sent both of them tumbling out of the cave, their combined momentum carrying them over the rocky threshold and into the open valley.
They hit the ground hard, rolling across the ash-covered terrain in a tangle of limbs. The shotgun slipped from Striker’s grasp, skidding several feet away, but he recovered quickly, delivering a swift elbow to Moxxie’s ribs.
Moxxie grunted in pain but refused to let go. He clung to Striker’s midsection, using his smaller frame to his advantage as he twisted and threw his weight to destabilize the larger Imp. The two grappled fiercely, the air around them thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning vegetation.
“You’ve got some fight in you, I’ll give you that!” Striker growled, his teeth bared in a feral grin. He managed to wrest an arm free, aiming a brutal punch at Moxxie’s jaw.
Moxxie barely dodged, the blow glancing off his shoulder as he scrambled to his feet. He gripped the spear like a lifeline, his single good eye locking onto Striker, who was already pushing himself up with an alarming swiftness.
“Still think you can outlast me, boy?” Striker taunted, brushing the ash from his coat. He retrieved a knife from his boot, twirling it menacingly in his fingers. “This ain’t a game you’re equipped to win.”
Moxxie’s chest heaved, each breath a struggle as the pain in his side flared with every movement. He glanced at the shotgun lying a few feet away, the glint of its gold inlay catching his eye. If he could just get to it—
Striker noticed his gaze and smirked. “Oh, you want her, huh?” he mocked, gesturing toward the weapon. “Go ahead, try and take her. Let’s see how far you get.”
Moxxie didn’t reply. Instead, he tightened his grip on the spear, his resolve hardening. “You talk too much, Striker,” he said, his voice steady despite the pain. “That’s your problem.”
Striker’s grin faltered for a split second, replaced by a flicker of annoyance, before he lunged at Moxxie with the knife.
Moxxie sidestepped, thrusting the blunt end of the spear into Striker’s stomach. The larger Imp grunted, stumbling backward but recovering quickly. He swiped at Moxxie again, the blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.
The dance of attack and evasion continued, each move more desperate and brutal than the last. Moxxie’s mind raced, searching for an opening, a way to turn the tide in his favor.
Striker’s laughter echoed through the valley, a sinister sound that seemed to mix with the distant crackle of the flames above. His golden eyes gleamed with malice as he effortlessly caught the shaft of Moxxie’s spear mid-thrust. With a twisted grin, he snapped the makeshift weapon over his knee, the sharp crack ringing out like a death knell.
“Nice try, boy,” Striker sneered, tossing the broken halves of the spear aside. He held onto the jagged end and spun it in his hand like a dart. “But this? This is how you use a weapon.”
Before Moxxie could react, Striker hurled the spear with deadly precision. The sharp end whistled through the air and embedded itself in Moxxie’s back just as he turned to run. Pain exploded through him, a searing agony that brought him to his knees. He gasped, clawing at the dirt as he struggled to keep moving. His eyes locked onto the shotgun lying just a few feet away.
Every movement was agony, but Moxxie gritted his teeth, his determination pushing him forward. He reached behind him, his fingers trembling as he gripped the shaft of the spear. With a guttural cry, he yanked it free, blood pooling from the wound and staining the dirt beneath him. He couldn’t stop now. Not when the shotgun was so close.
Striker, ever the predator, stalked forward, his boots crunching against the ash-covered ground. “Where you runnin’, little guy?” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “You think that peashooter’s gonna save you? Hell, I’ll let you grab it—give me somethin’ to laugh about.”
Moxxie’s vision blurred as he crawled the last few inches, his hand finally closing around the shotgun’s familiar grip. He pulled it toward him, his entire body trembling with the effort. Striker’s shadow loomed over him, and just as Moxxie tried to stand, Striker’s hand shot out, grabbing his tail with a crushing grip.
“You’re just makin’ this too easy,” Striker said, grinning as he swung Moxxie around like a ragdoll. The force sent Moxxie hurtling into the valley wall, his body slamming against the jagged rock with a sickening thud.
Moxxie collapsed to the ground, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The shotgun remained in his grasp, though his hands trembled so violently he nearly dropped it. Through the haze of pain, he flicked open the chamber and saw three shells still loaded. It was all he had.
Striker began to approach again, his gait slow and confident, as though he were savoring every moment. “You’re finished, Moxxie,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Why don’t you just stay down and make this easier on yourself?”
Moxxie’s fingers curled tighter around the shotgun, his good eye narrowing as adrenaline surged through him. “Easier?” he spat, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “For you, maybe.”
As Striker raised his arm to deliver another blow, Moxxie acted. He leveled the shotgun with both hands, ignoring the screaming protests of his battered body, and pulled the trigger. The first blast erupted with a deafening roar, the rock salt shell tearing into Striker’s left arm.
The larger Imp stumbled back, his grin faltering as he clutched at the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, and he dropped to one knee, the pain momentarily overtaking him. “You little—” he started, but Moxxie wasn’t done.
The second shot struck Striker square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, his hand clutching at the bleeding wound. His hat tumbled off his head, landing in the dirt as he let out a strangled growl of frustration.
Moxxie struggled to his feet, his body swaying but his grip on the shotgun steady. He staggered toward Striker, his breaths labored but his voice steady. “Enjoy that salty pain, bitch,” he said coldly, raising the weapon one last time.
The final shot rang out, the recoil jolting Moxxie’s entire body. The shell hit Striker square in the back, eliciting a guttural cry as he collapsed fully onto the ground. His body writhed in agony, the rock salt burning into his flesh.
Striker tried to push himself up, his strength failing as he collapsed again, groaning through gritted teeth. Moxxie stood over him, the shotgun trembling in his grip. “You’re not so tough now, are you?”
Moxxie barely had time to breathe, let alone react, as Striker, still writhing in agony from his wounds, rolled to his side and lashed out with a powerful kick. Striker’s boot connected with Moxxie’s legs, sweeping them out from under him and sending the smaller Imp crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of Moxxie, and he gasped as his body hit the dirt, his grip on the now-useless shotgun faltering.
Striker staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his wounds, his movements slower but no less menacing. His golden eyes burned with an almost animalistic rage as he reached for his revolver, the familiar weapon glinting ominously in the firelight. He raised it, his aim steady despite the tremors running through his body, and fired.
The first shot cracked through the air, the bullet striking the ground mere inches from Moxxie’s face. Dirt and ash sprayed upward, pelting Moxxie’s cheek as he flinched instinctively. Before he could even process what had just happened, the second shot rang out, its force reverberating through the valley. The bullet struck the shotgun in Moxxie’s grasp, shattering the weapon in a violent explosion of metal and wood. Splinters flew in every direction, some embedding themselves into Moxxie’s hand and forearm. He cried out in pain, clutching his injured arm as blood seeped through his fingers.
Striker stood over him, his chest heaving as he stared at the remnants of the shotgun. “Damn shame,” he muttered, his voice laced with mock disappointment. “A beautiful weapon like that… what a waste.” He spat on the ground, his smirk returning as he turned his gaze back to Moxxie. “Just like you, runt. All potential, no execution.”
Moxxie’s heart pounded in his chest as adrenaline surged through him. His mind raced, weighing his options. He couldn’t stay here—Striker was too close, and the revolver in his hand was still loaded. Gritting his teeth, Moxxie rolled to the side, ignoring the stabbing pain in his arm and back, and scrambled to his feet. Without looking back, he bolted deeper into the valley, his legs barely supporting him as he pushed himself forward with sheer willpower.
The smoke from the fires above had begun to descend, blanketing the valley in a thick, choking haze. Moxxie coughed as the acrid scent filled his lungs, but he kept running, hoping the dense smoke would obscure his movements. His vision blurred, the world around him reduced to shadowy shapes and flickering lights as the fire continued its relentless spread.
Behind him, Striker growled in frustration, his patience wearing thin. He raised his revolver once more, his sharp eyes narrowing as he aimed into the smoke. “You can’t hide from me, Moxxie,” he snarled, his voice carrying through the haze. “I’ve hunted bigger, badder things than you in conditions worse than this.”
He pulled the trigger, the crack of the shot echoing through the valley. The bullet zipped past Moxxie’s head, so close he could feel the rush of air as it passed. He ducked instinctively, his pulse quickening as the realization of how close he had come to death sank in. Striker’s voice called out again, taunting, relentless. “Keep running, boy! Just makes it more fun for me.”
Striker hissed as a sharp pain shot through his side, the effort of chasing Moxxie aggravating his wounds. He pressed a bloodied hand against his chest, gritting his teeth against the searing ache. But he didn’t stop. His boots pounded against the ground as he pushed through the pain, his determination unshaken. The thrill of the hunt, the promise of victory—it was all too intoxicating to abandon.
Moxxie, meanwhile, darted between rocks and sparse trees, the smoke making it increasingly difficult to navigate. His lungs burned, his legs ached, and the blood loss was beginning to take its toll. He stumbled over a loose stone, nearly falling before catching himself against a charred tree trunk.
He glanced over his shoulder, his heart sinking as he caught a glimpse of Striker’s silhouette emerging from the smoke. The larger Imp moved with an almost predatory grace despite his injuries, his revolver gleaming in his hand. Moxxie knew he couldn’t outrun him forever, but he had to keep going. If he stopped now, it was over.
The fire’s glow reflected off the canyon walls, casting long, flickering shadows across the ground. Moxxie’s mind raced, searching for anything he could use to his advantage. He spotted a narrow crevice in the rock wall ahead, barely wide enough for him to squeeze through. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
With every ounce of strength he had left, Moxxie sprinted toward the crevice, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Striker’s voice rang out behind him, laced with cruel amusement. “Run all you want, Moxxie,” he called, his footsteps growing louder. “You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Moxxie didn’t look back. He reached the crevice and squeezed inside, the jagged edges scraping against his already battered body. The smoke was thicker here, the air almost impossible to breathe, but he forced himself to press on. Striker’s pursuit was relentless, and Moxxie knew he was running out of time.
When he finally emerged on the other side, the sight before him took his breath away—though not from relief. A sprawling expanse of natural hot springs lay ahead, the steam rising in thick, ghostly tendrils that curled toward the open sky above. The area was suffocatingly warm, the heat from the springs blending with the oppressive atmosphere of the fire outside.
The walls of the cavernous space were adorned with ancient ornamentation, intricate carvings, and primitive cave paintings. The artwork depicted scenes of Imps engaging in what appeared to be sacred rituals—bathing, feasting, and even combat. The paintings shimmered faintly, the colors seemingly alive in the dark.
Moxxie’s eyes flicked to the glowing mushrooms sprouting from cracks in the rock, their bioluminescence casting an eerie green hue across the cavern. He realized that these fungi were likely the source of the paint’s strange, ethereal glow.
For a brief moment, Moxxie forgot his pain and his pursuer, his gaze drawn to the haunting beauty of the place. It struck him that this must have been a holy site for his ancestors—a place of reverence and purification, long abandoned and forgotten. The thought filled him with a strange mixture of awe and sadness.
“Imps were meant to feel pride here,” Moxxie murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the bubbling of the springs. “Not fear…”
But the fleeting moment of reflection was shattered in an instant. A sudden noise—a rush of displaced air and the crunch of ash underfoot—jerked Moxxie back to reality. Before he could react, Striker dropped down from somewhere above, his boots landing with a thunderous impact mere feet away from Moxxie. The force sent a shockwave through the unstable ground, causing Moxxie to stumble. He teetered on the edge of one of the steaming hot springs, the scalding water bubbling ominously just inches from his feet.
Striker straightened slowly, his silhouette framed by the open sky above. The glow of the mushrooms illuminated his bloodied and battered form, his golden eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity. Despite the fresh wounds and salt burns that marred his body, he radiated an unyielding, almost feral energy.
“You’re like a damn cockroach, Moxxie,” Striker growled, his voice low and venomous. He spat a glob of blood onto the ground, the stain standing out starkly against the pale ash. “No matter how many times I stomp on ya, you just keep crawlin’ back.”
Moxxie’s heart pounded as he scrambled backward, his boots slipping slightly on the wet, uneven ground. He raised his hands defensively, though he had no weapon left to wield. “I’m not crawling,” he managed, his voice trembling but defiant. “I’m standing. Fighting. And I’m not giving up.”
Striker let out a bark of laughter, his grin splitting his face like a slash. “Fighting? You call this fighting? You’re just delaying the inevitable, like a little bitch.” He took a menacing step forward, his boots crunching against the glowing mushrooms as he moved closer.
Moxxie’s mind raced, his good eye darting around the cavern in search of anything he could use to defend himself.
Striker noticed Moxxie’s wandering gaze and smirked, twirling his revolver in his hand. “Ain’t nothin’ in here that’s gonna save you, runt,” he taunted. “This place might’ve been holy once, but now? It’s just your tomb.”
With a sudden burst of movement, Striker lunged forward, aiming to grab Moxxie by the collar. Moxxie barely dodged, his boots skidding on the slick ground as he stumbled further into the cavern. He could feel the intense heat of the springs against his skin, the air thick with humidity and steam. His lungs burned with every breath, but he couldn’t stop—not now.
Striker, undeterred, turned to pursue him, his grin never faltering. “Run all you want, little guy,” he called, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. “There ain’t nowhere to hide in here. Just you, me, and the end of the line.”
Moxxie’s back hit one of the ancient carvings, and he froze for a split second, his hands brushing against the rough, weathered stone. The carving depicted an Imp warrior holding a jagged spear, surrounded by glowing mushrooms that almost seemed to pulse in the light. An idea began to form in Moxxie’s mind, a desperate plan born of sheer instinct.
“I don’t need to hide,” Moxxie said, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him. He turned to face Striker, his gaze hardening as he prepared for the fight of his life. “I just need to end this.”
Moxxie’s fists trembled as he raised them, his entire body aching from the punishment he had endured. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his single good eye locked onto Striker. He knew how absurd he must have looked, bloodied and broken, standing in a defensive stance with nothing but his own resolve as a weapon. Striker, on the other hand, looked battered but far from beaten, his revolver gleaming in the faint bioluminescent glow of the mushrooms.
Striker let out a bark of laughter, the sound cutting through the humid air like a knife. “You really are stupid, aren’t ya, Moxxie?” he sneered, spinning the revolver on his finger before leveling it at the smaller Imp. “Raisin’ your fists like you’re some kinda hero in one of those dumb plays. You think that’s gonna save you?”
Moxxie didn’t reply, his gaze steady and unyielding. Behind him, the faint shimmer of the cave painting seemed to pulse, the figure of the Imp warrior glowing faintly as though it were alive. Striker’s grin faltered slightly, his eyes narrowing as he swore he saw movement in the painting. For the briefest moment, the painted warrior appeared to raise its spear and hurl it directly at him.
“What the shitting fuck?” Striker muttered, his grip on the revolver tightening as he instinctively ducked, raising his free arm to shield himself. He stumbled back a step, his boots scraping against the slick ground as his gaze darted around the cavern. But when nothing struck him, he froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he lowered his arm and opened his eyes. The painting was still, its vibrant glow fading back to its original faint shimmer.
Striker let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Get it together,” he muttered to himself, but his voice betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. When he looked back at where Moxxie had been, his golden eyes widened in fury. The smaller Imp was gone.
“Damn it!” Striker roared, his voice echoing through the cavern. He scanned the steaming expanse, his revolver raised and ready. “You think you can hide from me!?”
The dense steam rising from the hot springs obscured Moxxie’s movements as he darted from one shadow to another, his slight frame easily disappearing into the haze. He stayed silent at first, watching Striker’s growing frustration with satisfaction. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he spoke, his voice cutting through the mist.
“You don’t belong here, Striker,” Moxxie said, his tone low and haunting. “This place isn’t for someone like you. It’s sacred.”
Striker turned sharply toward the sound, his revolver sweeping through the air. “Sacred?” he barked, his voice dripping with derision. “Don’t make me laugh, runt. There ain’t nothin’ sacred about this dump. It’s just dirt and rocks. It is the hunters that roam this valley that are sacred!”
Moxxie chuckled softly, the sound echoing from a different direction, disorienting Striker further. “You don’t feel it, do you?” he continued, his voice calm but unsettling. “The weight of the history here. The spirits watching you. Judging you.”
“Spirits?” Striker scoffed, but there was an edge of unease in his tone. He turned again, firing a shot into the steam. The bullet ricocheted off the stone wall with a deafening crack, but there was no sign of Moxxie. “Stop with your damn ghost stories, Moxxie! You’re just a coward hidin’ in the shadows!”
Moxxie smirked, weaving through the steam with practiced precision. His flair for the dramatic, honed through years of musical theater and showmanship, was serving him well now. He let his voice echo from different points in the cavern, creating an illusion of omnipresence.
“Coward? No, Striker,” Moxxie said, his voice growing more theatrical with each word. “I’m the spirit of this place. The guardian of the Ashen Valley’s legacy. And you’re nothing but a trespasser.”
Striker’s breathing quickened, his golden eyes darting around the cavern as he tried to pinpoint the source of the voice. The glowing mushrooms and shimmering cave paintings seemed to pulse in time with Moxxie’s words, adding to the eerie atmosphere. For the first time, Striker’s confidence wavered.
“Show yourself!” Striker bellowed, firing another shot into the mist. “Stop with your damn games!”
“Oh, but this is no game, Striker,” Moxxie replied, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “This is judgment.”
Striker spun in a circle, his revolver aimed wildly at the shadows. The steam thickened, blurring his vision, and the glowing paintings seemed to move again in his peripheral vision. He wiped sweat from his brow, his frustration giving way to genuine unease.
Moxxie seized the moment, his voice rising with conviction. “You’re not a hunter. You’re not even a predator. You’re just prey that hasn’t realized it yet.”
Striker snarled, the words striking a nerve. “You’re gonna regret this, boy,” he growled, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “When I find you, I’m gonna—”
“Gonna what?” Moxxie interrupted, his voice now directly behind Striker.
Striker spun around, but the mist swallowed Moxxie’s retreating form. Striker roared in frustration, his grip on the revolver so tight his knuckles turned white. The once-confident hunter was now an imp on edge, surrounded by a place that seemed to come alive against him.
Moxxie’s voice cut through the mist, sharp and mocking, tinged with a rasp from the pain and exhaustion that clung to him. “What would your father think of you now, Striker?” he called out, his tone biting and cruel. “I bet he’d be so proud, wouldn’t he? Watching you stumble around like a lost little boy, chasing a runt like me while bleeding all over this sacred ground.”
Striker froze mid-step, his golden eyes narrowing as his grip on the revolver tightened. “Don’t you dare talk about my father, you little shit!” he snarled, spinning around to locate the source of the voice. The steam obscured everything, making Moxxie’s position impossible to pinpoint.
“Oh, but I am,” Moxxie continued, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the searing pain in his body. He imagined what Striker’s father might have sounded like—harsh, unrelenting, a man who crushed dreams underfoot like ash. He deepened his tone, mimicking a cruel paternal drawl. “‘Striker, boy, you’ll never amount to nothin’. All that big talk and no follow-through. Just a failure, plain and simple.’”
Striker’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly as he whipped his head toward the sound. His finger twitched on the trigger of his revolver. “Shut up!” he barked, his voice cracking with anger.
But Moxxie pressed on, his voice echoing from the steam with calculated precision. “‘A true hunter, Striker? Please. You’re just a sad, angry little boy trying to prove himself. You’ll never be half the Imp I was.’”
Striker roared in frustration, raising his revolver and firing into the mist. The first shot cracked through the air, striking the stone wall far to Moxxie’s left. Bits of rock and ash scattered harmlessly to the ground.
“You don’t know shit about me!” Striker bellowed, his voice shaking with rage. He fired again, the second shot careening into the cavern ceiling, dislodging a small shower of debris.
Moxxie smirked weakly, even as the taunts took every ounce of strength he had left. “Oh, I know plenty,” he continued, his voice now coming from Striker’s right. “I know you’re a failure who’s never going to live up to the legacy you’ve built up in your head. And you know it too.”
The final taunt struck a nerve. Striker growled, raising his revolver for the third time. “Enough!” he shouted, firing into the steam.
This time, the bullet found its mark.
Moxxie’s body jerked violently as the shot struck him in the stomach, the force slamming him against the far wall of the cavern. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he slumped to the ground, his hands instinctively clutching at the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and warm, soaking into the fabric of his already tattered clothes. His breathing grew shallow, each gasp a struggle as the pain threatened to pull him into unconsciousness.
Striker stepped forward, his silhouette emerging through the steam like a specter of death. His boots crunched against the ash-laden ground, his revolver still clutched in his hand, though the chamber was now empty. His face twisted into a triumphant sneer as he approached Moxxie’s crumpled form.
“Should’ve kept your mouth shut, runt,” Striker said coldly, holstering the revolver with deliberate slowness. “Mockin’ a man’s father like that? On hallowed ground, no less? You’re lower than I thought.”
Moxxie’s head lolled to the side as he fought to remain conscious. His good eye scanned the ground beside him, his vision blurry but sharp enough to notice something unusual. There, partially buried in the ash and dirt, lay the remains of an ancient Imp. Its skeleton was adorned with ceremonial bracelet-like armor, the faint glow of the mushrooms reflecting off the tarnished metal. Beside the skeleton was a rusted spear, too degraded by time to be of any use, and a shield of some kind, its surface battered but still intact.
Moxxie’s fingers twitched toward the shield, though his strength was rapidly fading. Striker followed his gaze and let out a derisive laugh. “What’s this now?” he sneered, kicking the rusted spear aside with his boot. “You think diggin’ up some old bones is gonna save you? Pathetic.”
He crouched down, his golden eyes narrowing as he looked Moxxie over. “Mockin’ the dead like that,” Striker said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s disrespect. And here you are, desecratin’ what’s left of this place.”
Moxxie gritted his teeth, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his bloodied lips despite the pain. “You’re one to talk,” he rasped, his voice weak but defiant. “You’ve been desecrating this whole valley since the moment you set foot in it.”
Striker’s grin faltered for a split second, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “You’re a real son of a bitch, little one,” he said, his tone darkening. He reached for the shield, pulling it from the ash and holding it up as if to inspect it. “This what you were after? A piece of scrap metal?”
As Striker examined the shield, Moxxie’s mind raced. He could feel his strength waning, but he knew this might be his only chance to strike back.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he kicked out with everything he had, his foot slamming against the shield in an attempt to knock Striker off balance and send him tumbling into the bubbling hot spring nearby.
The impact was enough to make Striker stagger, his arms pinwheeling for a moment as he teetered dangerously close to the edge. But his reflexes were sharp, even in his battered state, and he caught himself just in time. His boots skidded against the slick ground, but he remained upright, his golden eyes narrowing in fury.
“You just don’t know when to quit, do ya, Moxxie?” Striker growled, his voice low and menacing. His grip tightened on the shield as he dipped its edge into the steaming hot spring, letting the boiling water cascade off the surface. The droplets hissed as they hit the ground, and Moxxie’s heart sank, realizing what was coming.
With a sadistic grin, Striker jerked the shield upward, sending a splash of scalding water directly onto Moxxie’s legs. The smaller Imp cried out in pain, his body twisting instinctively to escape the heat, but there was nowhere to go. His raw, blistering skin screamed in protest as he tried to crawl away, but Striker was already upon him.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?!” Striker sneered, grabbing Moxxie by the ankle and dragging him further from the edge of the spring. Moxxie clawed at the ground, his nails scraping uselessly against the stone as he was pulled back. Striker’s boot came down hard on Moxxie’s chest, pinning him to the ground and knocking the air from his lungs.
Striker’s grin widened as he held up the shield, now steaming from its brief dip in the hot spring. “You like messin’ with sacred things, huh?” he said, his tone mocking. “How about we make this real personal, then?”
He pressed the edge of the shield against Moxxie’s face, the searing metal scalding his skin. Moxxie writhed beneath him, his screams muffled by the pressure of the shield and the ground. The scent of burning flesh filled the air as Striker leaned in, his laughter echoing through the cavern.
“You hear that?” Striker jeered, his voice filled with cruel delight. “That’s the sound of your pride burnin’ away.”
The oppressive heat, the pain, and the overwhelming scent of ash and sulfur were nearly too much for Moxxie to bear. He thought this might be the end. But then, a sound cut through the haze—a voice, deep and resonant, filled with a strange and terrifying authority.
“Striker.”
The single word froze Striker in place. He straightened slightly, his grin faltering as he turned his head toward the source of the voice. The cavern seemed to darken, the glowing mushrooms dimming as a figure emerged from the shadows. It was unmistakable, the voice of Striker’s father—commanding and laced with disdain.
Striker’s golden eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like a child caught in the act of wrongdoing. “Pa?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
The apparition stepped into the faint light, revealing a towering Imp with a commanding presence. His appearance was grotesque and otherworldly, his features a blend of elegance and brutality. His wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his face, but his cold, calculating eyes gleamed from beneath it. His coat, long and dust-covered, seemed to carry the weight of centuries, and his hands were gnarled and strong, as though they had shaped the very earth itself.
This was no mere specter. This was the embodiment of Striker’s past, his upbringing, his father—the Judge of his life and actions.
“You disappoint me, boy,” the apparition said, his voice calm but cutting. It echoed unnaturally, as if the walls themselves carried his judgment. “Look at you. Scrabblin’ in the dirt like a common scavenger. This ain’t no hunt. This is desperation.”
Striker’s grip on the shield loosened, his jaw tightening as he glared at the figure. “I’m doin’ what you taught me, Pa,” he said defensively, though his voice trembled. “Survivin’. Huntin’. Provin’ I’m better than the rest.”
The Judge-like figure shook his head slowly, his gaze piercing through Striker. “Provin’? All I see is a scared pup, chasin’ shadows and clingin’ to scraps. You’re no hunter. You’re a coward.”
The words struck like a physical blow, and Striker staggered back, his boot lifting from Moxxie’s chest. Moxxie gasped for air, his body trembling as he watched the exchange with wide eyes.
Striker clenched his fists, his entire body shaking with suppressed rage. “I ain’t no coward!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “I’ve done everything you said! Everything!”
The apparition tilted its head, its gaze unyielding. “And yet, here you are,” it said simply, gesturing to Moxxie’s crumpled form. “Torturin’ the weak. Clingin’ to borrowed strength. This is what you call honor?”
Striker faltered, his confidence wavering under the weight of his father’s judgment.
The Judge took a step closer, his presence looming over both Imps. “You’ve forgotten what it means to hunt, boy. To face a challenge worth the effort. This… this is nothin’ but a disgrace.”
Striker’s hand trembled as he reached for his revolver, but the chamber was empty. He stared at the weapon, his golden eyes darting between it and the apparition. “You ain’t real,” he muttered, his voice hollow. “You’re just a ghost. A memory.”
The Judge’s lips curled into a faint, cruel smile. “I’m as real as you make me,” he said. “And I’ll be watchin’.”
With that, the apparition began to fade, its form dissolving into the mist as the cavern seemed to regain its previous light. Striker stood frozen, his breathing ragged, his mind reeling. For a moment, the air was silent, save for the faint bubbling of the hot springs.
Moxxie’s body shook as he stood again somehow, his wounds screaming in protest, but adrenaline and sheer desperation fueled him. With a guttural scream, he picked up the largest rock he could manage and hurled it with every ounce of strength he had left. The jagged stone hurtled through the air, striking Striker squarely in the face with a sickening crack. Striker’s balance faltered as his arms flailed in a futile attempt to steady himself.
The force of the blow sent him careening backward, his boots skidding on the slick ash-covered ground. Time seemed to slow as Striker toppled, his body twisting before he plunged into one of the bubbling hot springs.
The sound that followed was inhuman—a blood-curdling screech of pure agony that echoed off the cavern walls. Steam erupted from the water, obscuring Striker’s form as he thrashed violently, his skin blistering and peeling under the intense heat. The boiling water consumed him, searing his flesh as he clawed at the surface, his screams rising to a deafening peak.
At first, Moxxie felt a grim satisfaction, a vindication for everything Striker had done—to him, to Blitzo, to Loona, and countless others. He had earned this fate, Moxxie thought. Every ounce of pain, every second of torment, was deserved.
But then, as the steam cleared for a moment, Moxxie saw Striker’s face—contorted in pure, unrelenting horror. His golden eyes, once so confident and predatory, were wide with desperation and fear. His blistered hands clawed at the edge of the spring, his fingernails breaking and peeling as he tried to pull himself out of the scalding water.
Moxxie’s satisfaction wavered, replaced by a creeping sense of horror. He watched as Striker’s once-imposing form writhed and twisted, his screams becoming guttural, primal. The sight was grotesque, his skin bubbling and splitting as the water continued its merciless assault. For a moment, a part of Moxxie wanted to reach out, to help.
But he hesitated. The memory of Loona’s injured body, of Blitzo’s shattered form, of his own pain—all of it held him back. Striker had caused so much suffering, had taken so much joy in tormenting others. He deserved this. Didn’t he?
Striker’s voice broke through Moxxie’s internal battle, hoarse and desperate. “Help me!” he screamed, his words garbled by pain and panic. “Please! Don’t let me die like this!”
Moxxie remained frozen, his chest heaving as he stared down at the scene before him. Striker’s pleas for mercy grew more frantic, his voice cracking as the water began to pull him under. And then, Moxxie saw them.
The surface of the hot spring began to shift unnaturally, rippling in a way that defied logic. Ghostly figures emerged from the water, their forms skeletal and adorned with bone masks that glowed faintly, like the bioluminescent mushrooms scattered throughout the cavern. Their movements were slow and deliberate, their hollow eyes fixed on Striker.
The spectral Imps reached out with elongated, bony fingers, their hands gripping Striker’s arms and shoulders. He thrashed wildly, his screams rising in pitch as the figures began to drag him downward, their forms unyielding and relentless.
“No!” Striker howled, his voice breaking. “No, no, no! Let me go! Please!”
Moxxie took a step back, his hands trembling. The sight was surreal, horrifying, and yet there was a grim finality to it that felt almost… poetic. The spirits of the valley—the guardians of this sacred place—had come to claim Striker. They were justice incarnate, silent and merciless.
Striker’s struggles grew weaker as the bone-masked figures pulled him deeper into the spring. The water churned violently, steam billowing upward as his screams faded into a wet, gurgling sound.
The bubbling of the spring grew louder, more violent, as though the spirits themselves were feeding off Striker's torment. His screams had faded to a grotesque, gurgling rasp, his golden eyes wide with terror. And then, something in Moxxie snapped.
“No,” he muttered, his voice shaking as he took a step forward. “Not like this.”
He didn’t know what compelled him—whether it was some deep-seated empathy, a flicker of morality, or simply the refusal to let even someone like Striker face such a horrific end. Before he could second-guess himself, Moxxie lunged toward the spring, his hands plunging into the scalding water.
The pain was immediate and excruciating, the boiling heat searing his flesh as though he were being branded. Moxxie bit down on a scream, his teeth grinding together as he forced his trembling fingers to grip Striker’s charred arm. The larger Imp’s body was grotesquely blistered, his skin peeling and raw, his once-imposing form reduced to a pitiful, wretched shell.
With a guttural cry, Moxxie braced his feet against the slick ground and pulled. His muscles screamed in protest, his burns worsening as the boiling water splashed over his forearms and face, but he didn’t let go. One of the spectral Imps turned its hollow gaze on him, its skeletal fingers tightening around Striker’s other arm. Its bone mask seemed to radiate displeasure, the glowing eyes narrowing as if questioning Moxxie’s audacity.
“Let him go!” Moxxie shouted, his voice raw and defiant. He kicked out with all his might, his boot connecting with the apparition’s spectral form. The impact sent a shockwave through the water, and for a brief moment, the glowing figure flickered and dissolved, its grip on Striker releasing.
Moxxie used the opportunity to pull harder, dragging Striker’s limp body free of the spring and onto the ashen ground. The water sizzled against the stone as it dripped from Striker’s blistered form, steam rising from his ruined clothes, which had fused grotesquely with his melted skin. The air was filled with the sickening stench of burned flesh, and Moxxie collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath as his own burned hands throbbed in agony.
Striker lay there, utterly still save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His face was a grotesque mask of pain, his features barely recognizable beneath the blisters and raw tissue. His once-commanding golden eyes were glazed, staring blankly at the cavern ceiling. When he tried to speak, no sound came out—his vocal cords, like the rest of him, seemed irreparably damaged.
Moxxie wiped the sweat and ash from his brow with his forearm, wincing as the movement pulled at the burns on his hands. He stared down at Striker’s pitiful form, a mixture of disgust and pity churning in his gut. He had seen this Imp at his most sadistic, his most arrogant and cruel. And now, here he was—a broken, wheezing husk.
“Look at you,” Moxxie muttered, his voice hoarse but steady. “You spent your whole life tearing people down, breaking them, acting like you were untouchable. And now? You’re nothing.”
Striker’s mouth opened as if to reply, but all that came out was a faint, rasping wheeze. His body twitched weakly, his burned hands clawing at the ground as though trying to push himself up, but he lacked the strength.
Moxxie leaned closer, his expression hardening. “You should’ve died back there,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of sympathy. “But I pulled you out. Not for you. Not because you deserve it. But because no one deserves to go out like that.”
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. He towered over Striker, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he delivered his final words. “Live, Striker. Live the rest of your miserable life humbly. Carry the weight of everything you’ve done. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn what it feels like to be the ones you’ve hurt.”
Striker’s eyes flicked up at him, dull and unfocused, but there was no defiance left in them. Whatever fire had fueled him was gone, extinguished by pain and humiliation. Moxxie stared at him for a moment longer, then turned and began to limp away, his burned hands cradled against his chest.
As he moved toward the cavern’s exit, the glowing figures of the spectral Imps reappeared around the hot spring, their hollow eyes watching him intently. Moxxie felt their gaze but refused to look back.
The hot springs echoed with the laughter of Striker’s father, the Judge.