Chapter 7: Requiem, K. 626: Lacrimosa | Black Car

"Whistle to a friend, gentle 'till the end."

A/N: This chapter is heavily inspired by "Just For You and Me" The fanfiction that inspired this entire story. All similarities are intentional, but greatly changed from the original.

For sake of clarity, I'll remind everyone that Moxxie's thoughts have consistently been italicized with only one apostrophe on each side. 'Like this.'


Moxxie was in a void, visually at least. If he had to describe it, he'd just say it was pitch-black. If he wanted to be more accurate though, he'd go on to describe how some animals aren't born with eyes. Sight isn't lost to those animals, but was rather never even a consideration to begin with.

It's not that it was dark, but rather sight isn't something that existed here. It's a void, sure, but there's things here. Voices, people, smells, ideas, never the same for more than a second. Chronology doesn't matter here.

That's how his dreams always were. He was pretty sure this was a dream. It was vivid enough for him to describe how it looked—if he remembered them—but never visual in the first place.

Where he was didn't matter, it always shifted. What mattered was that he was listening to someone perform a song he didn't much care for. And, someone was behind him. They were imposing, powerful. At the same time however, Moxxie knew they weren't a real threat. Whatever power they did have, it didn't put him in any real danger.

They watched on from behind, judging not the performer, but Moxxie.

It felt unfair, it's not like he chose to listen to this song. Then again, maybe that's not what they were judging him for. He had a gnawing suspicion as to who it might be, but he didn't want to think anything for certain quite yet.

"A lonesome star, in a bitter sky."

"I hear the hungry ghosts, calling out in the night."

"Just a couple victims of this brutal reprise."

"Am I strong enough to let things just die?"

The performer was a human, they sang with a somber voice, regretful. They were good, but it just wasn't his taste. It was too much like what everyone else in Wrath liked. But their lyrics were clever. Not too flowery or complicated, but it had just enough depth to keep him engaged, regardless of enjoyment.

"A shadowy hand turns the page. A dark theatre, move across the stage."

"Teeth like a cone, scrape across the sky. Feeling alone, in a room full of life."

"Stealing a few extra moments, and fighting against time."

No one had a guitar, but there was a guitar playing. There was production too. It must've been something he'd heard for real once. He had no idea where, but it was a distant memory, probably nothing worth revisiting. Just something that stuck with him, buried deep within his subconscious for one reason or another.

"Pushed on, and pushed aside."

"I've changed my song to match each story, I've changed sides."

"Can I watch 'em as they fall when they finally try to stand?"

"Redeem myself for everyone I've buried with these hands."

Hearing it again in his own dream, he was getting a good idea of why it stuck in his mind despite neither enjoying the song, nor remembering where it came from. It was the emotional charge. Not in the lyrics, but in the voice. Their vocals weren't especially impressive by any means, simple, almost flat even. But, there was something just under the surface. Something that hurt enough for it to show

"I fight, I fight. Just to keep the spark alive."

"But if there's nothing on the other side,"

"Why can't I leave well enough alone and go to the light?"

There was applause, more of a whimper than a roar. Moxxie didn't hear it, but it had happened. He was supposed to be alone—aside from the figure—but eh, dreams were nothing if not inconsistent.

"What a peculiar song for you to think of now," The figure behind him said. They were a woman, and their voice was disdainful. "You don't even like it, do you?"

That wasn't good, no one ever spoke in his dreams. They'd have said things, and he would know what they said, but he'd never heard them say it before.

'I remember it though,' Moxxie thought. The figure behind him heard him say it, not that he did. Why could she speak, but he couldn't? It was his own mind, his own dream, he should have the most control here.

"I imagine due to all the insufferable self-pity you and he share. It's pathetic."

Moxxie didn't have a response for that.

"Do you think that feigning regret will somehow absolve you of your sins? You're Hellborn—even if you are just a runt—you should know such naive hope is for humans, not you. It makes sense you would care for their music too then, the scum."

'What does it matter? They make good art.'

"Of course you'd think so. I've seen your memories; I know your mind. You play at nobility by listening to human music and learning of human arts. You thought that would make you like a Goetia? Are you truly so gullible?"

Oh, it was Caim standing behind him, wasn't it?

'I thought you hated the Goetia, hated their elitism? You're doing the same thing with humans—'

"You understand nothing. I hate those noble fools because they don't live up to the name of Goetia, they shirk the burden the power that name brings, and waste their time on frivolous things."

'That doesn't explain why you hate humans so much.'

"Their continued worship of a hateful God spits in the face of our true lord."

She was starting to sound like a Mormon. Those were always annoying, especially when they were confused about why they ended up in Hell anyways. As if what religion they subscribed to had anything to do with it. He never cared about the pissing contest between Heaven and Hell, almost no one in Hell did except nobles or Goetia. It was the one thing he could just never understand about them; one of the things he tried to ignore when reading about them as a kid.

'Oh shut up already, I don't care.'

"Of course you don't, you worship human art like it means something."

It did mean something to him. They wanted it to mean something when they made it, he did too. It had nothing to do with them being Human either, he felt the same regardless. It just frustrated him to no end that it felt like no one else took the extra step he did. Maybe that's where all the soulless crap came from, a collective sigh of artists giving up when no one ever listened. Why bother trying if no one listened?

"You're like an insect, worshiping animals."

'Just leave me alone.'

"You have no right to ask anything of me after what you did."

'No—I didn't mean—They made me do it, it wasn't my choice.'

"Yes, it was."

'What was I supposed to do? I was roped in, by the time I knew what was happening I couldn't turn back.'

"Not quite. You never had any reservations about killing me, just betraying Stolas in the process. Even then, you never stopped. You never made an attempt to try something different. You had one of the most powerful beings in Hell listening to you, and you never even tried to get his help. You think a pathetic little crime syndicate could overpower him?"

'I don't know, I didn't think of that—'

"Because you're a pushover."

'Because I was scared!'

"You're always scared. I've seen your memories, you've lived your whole life scared. Of being weak, of being forgotten, of not mattering. All things that are true, and so easy to manipulate. As long as someone gives you even a little approval, you'd do anything for them, let them do anything to you. You're the worst kind of pathetic, you're a doormat. At what point has your life mattered without it being in service of someone else?"

'Shut up already!'

"You don't deny it."

'I—You know what, screw this! I don't have to listen to you, I'll wake up any second now.'

"Go on. I'll be there, too."


Moxxie woke up with his horns resting against the passenger window, surprisingly cold to the touch. Even with the occasional volcanoes and lava, most of Wrath's heat came from their faux sun, leaving the nights to be pretty chilly. Not cold, just chilly.

It was hard to remember exactly why he came to. His freshly woken mind was still separating the blurry vestiges of whatever dream he had from reality, but even in all that, even before he'd fallen asleep, he knew something was off.

He'd done his best to ignore it. It had started only minutes after they fled from Aamon's palace, but it was fainter then. Every so often he'd feel an extra presence enter the back of his mind, like he could feel a new door to his consciousness being opened. And something would quietly walk in. It wouldn't introduce itself to him, but he could feel it there, the uninvited guest in his mind. Sitting. Waiting. Watching.

Then, he thought it was just part of his dream, but it was too sentient. It didn't wane like his thoughts did when his mind got lazy. It practically hijacked his cognition, latching on and heckling him at every corner of his mind.

And now, it had woken him up.

"You ignore me still?"

There it was. Her voice.

Moxxie had fallen asleep about as soon as he and Huey were on the road, entirely missing whatever secret mobster bullshit had gotten them from Pride to Wrath without leaving the car. Truth be told, he wasn't that curious either. It was hard to care about anything when you were struggling to think about anything other than the voice in your head. The one that didn't come from his frontal cortex.

If his dream was to be trusted, the voice belonged to Caim. The Goetia he had killed, chopped into little pieces, and bagged in the trunk of the car he was in. Apparently, she was one of those rare demons whose powers persisted in death.

Maybe that's why she was in his dream, sleeping was just practicing death after all.

"How petty. Respond or don't, it makes no difference. I know you can hear me, Imp."

She said "Imp" like the word tasted vile in her mouth.

Moxxie decided to finally open his eyes. It wasn't much brighter than if he'd kept them closed, Wrath was terribly dark at night. The headlights from the car were all they had to illuminate the road ahead of them, but all it ever revealed was more road, and more fields of corn or wheat surrounding them.

A welcome sight however, was Huey in the driver's seat. Eyes ever transfixed on the road ahead, slouched posture leaning far back into his seat like it was a lounge chair. Huey was never much of a looker, but he appeared in his element right now. It made Moxxie feel equal parts proud and ashamed.

"Rise and shine, bro." Huey said, not looking away from the road.

Moxxie rubbed the sleep from his eyes, "How long was I out?"

"I wasn't countin'"

"Alternative question; how close are we?"

"Close-ish."

Moxxie sighed. He should've figured they both had no idea how much longer, he just hoped Huey was going the right way. Moxxie didn't even know where exactly they were going, just that it was some farm out in the boonies that belonged to a friend of Jackie's. Some married couple named Joe and Lin.

"Anything out of the ordinary happen?" Moxxie asked.

Huey held his tongue for a second. He doesn't usually do that. "Well, for starters, you're a loud sleeper."

Moxxie raised a brow, "Really?"

"Ain't like you used to be anyway. You were dead quiet back when we bunked. But yeah, you were tossin', turnin', mumblin' 'n shit. Snored too."

"Well, I didn't sleep too well."

Huey nodded slowly, his laid-back demeanor shrinking away. "...Is it 'cause yer hearin' the voice too?"

'Not him too.'

"Yes, I am. You too?"

Huey only nodded.

"What is she saying?"

"Don't matter."

Huey was being unusually quiet. He'd always been loud, like getting to speak scratched an itch for him. Instead, now he seemed afraid to speak. His eyes fixated on the road, but focused on nothing at all.

"You did this to him, you know."

Moxxie almost responded out loud, before remembering she was only in his head. He just had to ignore her, push her out of his mind, stay vigilant and keep the door closed.

"This is how he's been for years. That joy, that dumb grin, that only happens when he's around you. It's fake."

It was hard for Moxxie to imagine Huey in any other way than the laid-back guy he knew. Never letting anything keep him down. This being his natural state seemed so wrong. Every passing second Moxxie noticed something new about his posture. Something that had always been there, but he never noticed. The bags under his eyes Moxxie had never thought twice about, the slouched posture he never had before, the bruises.

He didn't look relaxed or laid-back, he looked exhausted.

"Always running away, you two have that in common."

'Shut up.'

"Huey, are you—"

"Seriously, Mox, it's not sayin' anything that matters." Huey insisted.

Moxxie felt the familiar urge to back down, but he pressed on anyway. "Are you okay?"

Huey almost forgot to breathe for a second, "I—I'm fine."

Moxxie watched him sitting there, tensing up until he was stiffer than a statue.

"You think you can just ignore him for your whole life, and turn it around with one question?"

'Mind your own business.'

"I've seen into both of your minds, both your memories. I know both sides. Even Stella is a better sibling than you."

'He's not my brother. He knows that, I already apologized.'

"Blood is not what mattered to him, you know that."

'We were just bunkmates, we hardly ever got along that well—'

"Only to you. He always loved you, saw you as family even though you always pushed him away. All because he was too crude and dirty to play the fancy charade you clung so tightly to."

'Shut up.'

"It was never going to work. Take it from me, I married my way to nobility. Yet still, I was severed and made an outcast. You were never going to be one of them."

'Why do you even care?'

"Because you're going to run from this too. You took my life, I'll make sure the rest of yours is spent in misery. You will never change, you'll always be alone because you do it to yourself."

'Just stop, stop talking.'

"This is who you've always been. Look at him."

Moxxie didn't mean to obey, but he did. Huey's eyes were drained of the youth and joy he had as a kid, practically lifeless. Moxxie'd been imagining it still being there for these recent meetings, perhaps seeing faint flickers of what was left, and just holding on.

"You did this to him."

He did, didn't he? He wished he could just attribute it to her trying to mess with him, but she was smarter than that. He was too. Moxxie had always tried to distance himself from Huey, sever any relation to him. And she was right, it was because it hurt his self-image of being some aspiring noble. Which, obviously, he wasn't.

And, in truth, he always had some inkling of how that made Huey feel. But they put on a smile anyway, so it was never too hard to ignore.

It felt like the car was a cage now. Black leather seats, inky black night outside, tinted windows, nothing but the void closing in on him. Why was everything always so claustrophobic?

"Huey, I'm sorry."

"You think a simple apology is going to fix what you've done?"

Huey almost seemed to snap his attention onto Moxxie. His rigid posture loosened just a bit. He was still staring at the road, but he was listening.

"Sorry fer what? You ain't done nothing but sleep—"

"Just, please, talk to me. What is she saying to you?"

Huey let out a sigh, "She's sayin' there ain't no one that wants me."

"You're avoiding the subject, like you always do. Keep running, it's all—"

"Is it because I always pushed you away?" Moxxie asked. He had been so terrified to say those words, like he thought Huey would shoot his head off as soon as he did. But they were just words.

Huey glanced at Moxxie, surprised. "Yeah, actually. Kinda. Can you hear what—"

"No, I can only hear what she's saying to me. I just…"

"Mox, man, don't listen to her."

"No, Huey. I'm sorry. What she said to me is true."

"Mox, we already talked about this. I know you never saw me as a brother—"

"I always looked down on you, I tried to separate us as much as I could, I was horrible to you and all you ever did was just be my brother. It's my fault you're like this."

"He'll never forgive you—"

Huey finally looked at him, his face was tired, empty, sure. But his eyes had never been more gentle.

"Moxxie. Dude, not everything in the world is your fault. You ain't that special."

"What?"

"I know you never meant it like that. You just wanted to get adopted, you were trying to be all clean n' fancy, proper folk type a' shit. You thought it'd make people want you more. An' I was never anythin' like that, I hurt your image, so you cut me off."

Moxxie let out a chuckle. Not happy, but amused. "Trying to make all the grown ups think I'm fancy, get them to adopt me that way," he quoted. "You had me figured out so fast."

"I…I know you ain't never meant to hurt me. But, it hurt, man. It really did."

"I'm sorry."

"I know, and I forgive ya. We were kids, not very mature ones either. Besides, I did plenty to fuck up my own life."

Moxxie wasn't sure he heard that right, "What do you mean by that?"

"I joined the fuckin' mob cause I watched a dumb movie too many times as a kid. We all make stupid choices comin' into adulthood, but jeez. I picked one I couldn't back out of." He dumped it all out at once, all the things he'd wanted to say for a long time. "I let people walk all over me just to be involved, no self respect. All I wanted was to be like you."

How could he want that, how could anyone want that? Moxxie didn't want that, he spent his whole life trying to be something else.

"Why would you want to be like me? No one respects me either, they walk all over me regardless! I was horrible to you, I just second-guess myself constantly, I couldn't even get into theater like I wanted! I've been living off scraps for the last four years, I'm a failure!"

"You knew what you wanted to be! Maybe it hasn't worked out yet, but you worked so hard just to try. I never wanted to be anything, the mafia shit just fell in my lap." Huey clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. The missing ring finger was hard to ignore like that. "An' people did respect you, Moxxie. The things I'd do—the things I have done—just to try and get Jackie to look at me the way he looked at you. I wanted to be you so bad."

"I don't get it. You've always been a better person than me. I've just been—up five of—five up—what was it you said about Stella?"

"Five feet up your own ass?"

"Yeah," Moxxie chuckled. "That."

Huey laughed a little too, "Nah, yer more like one or two feet up. Still got plenty a' time to change too. What I hear about that Stella chick though…"

"She's hopeless."

"She did order two assassinations just because of some elitist shit."

"And I carried out the second one." Moxxie added.

Another sigh from Huey, "Man, I ain't all goodie two-shoes either. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, I needed help, and I missed you, and I thought maybe it'd be fine, I didn't mean to—"

"I'm the one who agreed to it. I could've said no."

"You could've not pulled the trigger."

"Maybe. No one does anything for a single reason, I don't know what yours were, and you don't gotta tell me."

In truth, Moxxie still didn't know why he showed up for it.

"You need someone else to allow you to be proud. I'll tell you now, you shouldn't be. Not before, and most certainly not ever again."

Maybe she had a point.

"Here's what I do know though," Huey perked up. "You care too much 'bout what people think. But it don't matter what anyone says, yer the most capable person I've ever met. Sometimes anyway. Yer smart, brave, artsy, and yer a damn crackshot. Seriously, I ain't ever seen you miss a shot. Ya just just get caught up in your own little world sometimes."

Moxxie felt his gun in his holster, the Beretta.

"You mean well, Mox. Sure, you fuck up. We all do. Doesn't mean you ain't a good person. Especially in Hell of all places. Ya gotta have more confidence, man."

"Huey, I don't know what to say."

"You don't gotta say a thing."

"No, I…I wish I treated you like a brother before. Maybe things would've been different for both of us."

"Could'a should'a would'a. I told you, I forgive you. I. Forgive. You. I still love you, man. We are brothers, fights included, that's how we do it."

"After this is all over, I'll make it up to you."

"You ain't gotta be like that, but I don't think I'd mind if you just talked to me every once in a while."

"I can do that."

Moxxie looked at the window, the faintly visible corn stalks whizzing by. Everything had always felt like it was closing in, but maybe it was more like a tunnel.

"We're gettin' close I think." Huey said.

Moxxie spun the knob on the door, rolling down the tinted window. It wasn't much brighter out than it looked, but it was enough. Not a dark void, not more than any other quiet country night. Without it being harvesting season, there wasn't a moon to light up the fields. But the headlights of the car and the occasional rivers of lava illuminated things here or there. It was a rolling wasteland at best, with the farms being some kind of impossible feat of stubborn Imps. Pushing through all the odds and becoming the biggest food source of all the Rings in Hell.

He'd never been this far out from Wrath's city before. The fields seemed to go on forever, and the air was the cleanest he'd ever smelled. In all honesty, it was kind of nice out here.

In a weird way, despite having never been here before, it felt nostalgic. A long night time car ride through the Wrath countryside. Probably déjà vu.

In the distance, Moxxie could start to make out a house visible just past the crops. That was probably their destination.

A faint reflection in the side mirror caught Moxxie's attention. There was a car behind them, headlights off, a fair bit away.

"Huey, behind us."

"Yeah, I just noticed it too."

The distance between them was closing rapidly. Moxxie sat still, hand on his holster. "They're getting really close…"

"Mox—"

"On it," he said, already pulling out his gun. "The rear window is tinted too, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Good."

Moxxie propped his arms up on the backrest of his seat, steadying his aim to adjust for the road. With tinted windows, there was no chance that they'd be able to see him aiming at them.

"I'll pay you back for the window," Moxxie said.

"Wait what—"

The moment before pulling the trigger, the right wheel of the car rolled over a pothole, shaking Moxxie's aim off completely. But his finger was already pulling back, the trigger was pulled, and out from the barrel shot a bullet, shattering the rear window and entirely missing the car behind them.

"Oh come on!"

"What the hell! Warn me next time!"

"Shit! Maybe they don't have any guns?"

As if to answer the question, a round flew between them both and punched a hole right in the windshield.

"Shit! Step on it!"

"I know!"

Huey swerved, trying to throw off their aim any little bit he could, Moxxie taking potshots from behind his seat at their driver and tires, but he couldn't line anything up with all the movement. Huey's driving only got worse. He tried to aim properly again and—

Pop!

The back of the car dropped and the sound of metal rims against concrete screamed out. The car swerved hard, throwing Moxxie against the window frame.

"What the hell was that?!"

"They got our fuckin' wheel, man!" Huey yelled.

Moxxie leaned out of the window of the passenger door, keeping the seat belt around him and looping it around his right arm to try and steady it as he aimed his sights on their driver. There wasn't any way to line up a perfect shot, but the seat belt made it a lot easier to try. This was the best chance he was going to get, so he pulled the trigger.

The shot went off with the accompanying sound of shattering glass as it burst through their windshield, landing right in the head of the pursuing car's driver. Instantly, the car skidded, let out a long honk as their limp head fell on the wheel, and hurtled towards them.

Moxxie barely managed to scramble back inside the car, "Huey, watch out!"

Wha—"

He never had a chance to respond before the cry of colliding metal screamed out. Moxxie felt his body lurch forward, then everything went black.


From the first moment of returned consciousness, Moxxie couldn't tell if it hurt more to keep hanging his head the way it was, or to lift it. Both seemed to make his temples scream and his skull split. Something near him was hot enough to fill him with the urgency to open his eyes and try anyway.

The first realization he had was that the liquid he felt on his body was only partially sweat, the rest being his own blood. The second was that he was hanging in his seatbelt, suspended only a foot or two above the roof of the car. Third, was the fire, raging fire. All he could strain himself to see was dancing light. It wasn't inside the car, but something was on fire and that something was very close by.

Dazed, he tried to get his bearings. Hanging mid-air in an overturned car that wasn't going to help him do that. He wriggled out of the mess of a seatbelt, inching his chest out of the mess until all at once he slid right out.

He yelled, trying to catch himself while tumbling out of his seat and all the way down to the driver side door. The sudden pressure on his forearm was a very special level of pain that he'd only known once before. The sudden, surging ache accompanied by a symphony of daggers all along his arm.

Also known as putting pressure on a broken bone.

Instinctively, he pulled his arm back, falling right onto his shoulder against the shattered glass strewn all over the inside of the car. Rolling over onto his side, groaning, he tried to rub out the pain in his arm like a sore muscle. The sensation was so sharp and concentrated it felt like the world's worst strain, like if he just massaged it the pain would all go away. But even the gentlest touch was enough to set it off. He couldn't so much as even move his wrist without his forearm screaming at him.

Slow inhale, hold, slow exhale.

That was just about the best—and only—method he had to cope with the pain. It was all he could think to do. Judging from the way his head was aching like his forehead was threatening to simultaneously cave in and burst, he must have hit his head against the dashboard. Or the glass. Either of which would explain why he had seemingly blinked and suddenly found that he was laying on the remains of the shattered driver's window, with the car on its side, in a corn field, which itself was on fire.

Whatever he'd smashed his head against, it was sturdy enough to break skin. The steady leak of blood, from the impact somewhere along his hairline, had a vendetta against his right eye. He couldn't turn his head any which way without getting half-blinded. Based on what his non-dominant eye could see though, it wasn't missing out on much.

Moxxie found himself greeted by fire, ash, gasoline, and voices. Huey was nowhere to be found. The voices though, those were no doubt the same people who rammed their car from behind, here to finish the job. He rolled onto his side, trying to reach the back of his waist with his good arm, feeling for the leather holster. Empty.

Right, he was holding his gun when they crashed. He scanned his immediate surroundings, patting down everything he couldn't see to feel for it. His hand felt a familiar grip, and pulled it out from under the headrest. His gun, good. Fighting the gun with his good hand and the car seat, he pulled back the slide. One bullet loaded. He released the magazine, empty.

Only one bullet.

The voices were distant, he couldn't really tell how many people there were. But it sounded like more than one, and that meant he was already outnumbered. He pushed the magazine back in with his thigh before gingerly dragging himself out of the shattered windshield and onto the concrete. The shards of glass embedded themselves against his elbow, earning him fresh nicks and cuts with each movement.

Moxxie was no action hero. His arm was broken, and he had no idea what miracle let him escape that car crash without a concussion. The chances of him being able to aim steady with a splitting headache, a bad eye, and only one good arm were slim to none. He had to escape, now.

Getting up without being able to use his dominant arm proved more difficult than he expected, no thanks to the countless other scrapes and bruises he'd have to treat later. Standing made the headache even worse, gravity's grip on his skull got tighter with every additional inch of distance from the ground.

Slow inhale, hold—

The nauseating combination of burning corn and gasoline in the air didn't agree with his lungs or his nose. He coughed. Only a couple times, but strong bitter coughs, enough to make his face red and his eyes teary. Or maybe that was the smoke.

"What was that?" Someone said.

"Will you shut your fuckin' mouth already?! I'm tryna exchange some final words here!"

Moxxie froze up, struggling to keep back the need to cough more. He could tell the voices weren't far, behind the car. Through the crackling fire, it was hard to hear anything clearly, just that they were still talking.

He inched over, trying to get a look at who they were, how many of them there were. Trying to stay behind the flipped car to hide. Beyond it, was the car that had chased them, utterly destroyed, off in a ditch, on fire, burning into unbelievable plumes of smoke faster than Moxxie thought was possible. Just past that, barely visible through the smoke, were three standing figures, and one on the ground. Two Hellhounds, and two imps, all in suits. One Imp stood above the other, gun pointed.

Moxxie froze, staring at them. It was Jackie, it had to be Jackie. Why was Jackie here? Why was he aiming a gun at Huey?

"Jackie! The other one's standing!" one of the Hellhounds shouted.

Jackie's head turned immediately, him and Moxxie locking eyes.

"Well?! Get him!" Jackie said.

Bang! Bang!

Moxxie's ears rang from the gunshots, but he could barely even register them as such. At first, he thought they had shot him, but all he saw was the two Hellhounds breaking into a dead sprint after him. Moxxie couldn't think, he just turned around and ran, ran as fast as he could. The broken arm, the glass, the bleeding, the pounding headache, the soreness everywhere, he ignored it all and just ran.

There was only one place he could possibly have a chance, hounds were faster, he was hurt, they had guns, he needed cover. He darted right off the side of the road and into the burning cornfields.

Closed in again, like always. He just ran in whatever direction he could, there wasn't any distinction anymore. Wherever there was the widest opening between stalks, or the least smoke, wherever the fire wasn't, that's where he went. Whatever direction it took him. He tried his best to stay quiet, but every terrified breath turned into bitter wheezing. Violent coughs forcing their way up his throat as he panted from how out-of-shape he was.

He could hear the hounds chasing behind him.

"After him ya fuckin' mutts!"

Jackie too. Why was he trying to kill him, what did they do wrong?

Bang!

Another gunshot, nowhere near him.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

More. They were firing blind, just shooting wherever. One bullet whizzed past Moxxie's head only a few feet away. He let out a yelp, immediately biting his lip and forcing himself to keep running. No matter how tired and hurt he was, he had to keep running.

This, along with the assassination, had been the first time he'd ever been shot at in his life. Every hit he ever did growing up, it was always from behind. Backhanded, dirty, no sense in fair play if your only goal was to kill. Honor means nothing to the dead. Shoot from behind, always. That's how the mob did it, that's what came to him naturally.

He kept running aimlessly. They all were. He was just as likely to die from burning alive in the fire of the fields as he was for a bullet to hit him by pure chance. These were his best circumstances.

Stalks hit his face and his broken arm, sparks of pain for him to push through. He never knew how stiff these plants could be, the leaves were sturdy. He had a reminder of that under his left eye, a cut right across his cheekbone. He had no idea at what point he'd gotten it. It didn't matter, it was just his luck.

That's how this whole operation had been for him. Strokes of luck, one after the other. He was just lucky that lying came easy to him, that everyone found him so unassuming, unthreatening. He was lucky he could just ignore the voice in his head saying 'This is wrong' and just lie to Stolas, lie to everyone, stab them in the back.

Suddenly, his foot landed on concrete.

He had to do a double take, spinning around a little too fast for his dizzy head. He couldn't recall whatever path he'd taken, but it somehow looped all the way back around to the road again.

He was right back where he started. He looked behind him, listening, the hounds and Jackie chasing after him were a long way from the road. He guessed so at least, judging by the distance of the voices, the screams.

The pungent fumes of burning corn and smoke were more than enough to overstimulate the hounds, stopping any chance of them sniffing out Moxxie's location. They were just as aimless as he was in there, likely to die burning alive in the fires.

Which meant, as far as he could hope, Moxxie was safe. For now.

More luck. Or lack thereof.

His heart felt like it was going to burst from how fast it was beating, he couldn't breathe fast enough, nor find any clean air. But none of that mattered. His mind descended from pure survival, back to basic awareness, and he remembered two gunshots that scared him more than anything.

They hadn't shot him, and there was only one other person here.

"Huey!"

Moxxie spotted the wrecked cars down the road, and ran towards them, past them. Where he last saw him.

Huey was still there. Laid out on the concrete, not moving a muscle until a violent cough seemed to rip him from the quiet. "...Mox?" He groaned. He sounded like they were bunked again, half-awake at five in the morning to make sure they got their share of breakfast before the other kids.

Moxxie ran to his side, getting down instantly and tossing his gun to the side.

"Huey! No no no, how bad is it?!"

"It's…fuck, it's cold, man. When did it get so cold?" He mumbled.

Moxxie tried to find the entry wounds amid the rest of the red-stained shirt. It had soaked the blood in everywhere, sopping wet with warm liquid. Moxxie found the two holes, right above Huey's waistline. How much blood had he already lost? Too much for comfort.

"Huey, just—just breathe, okay?! You're delirious from the bloodloss. We need to stop the bleeding, please—"

"Stop it," Huey repeated, barely pronouncing each word. "You gotta…"

"I know, I know!" Moxxie panicked. He needed something to compress the wound with. Moxxie grabbed the sleeve of his suit over his broken arm. It was already ruined, the seams splitting. He tore it off, flinching at every little brush against his arm. Using the one hand, and pinning the end of the sleeve under his knee, he tried to wrap it around Huey's gut, struggling to get it under him.

"Don't tear it up man, you…you looked so hard for a suit like this." Huey's groans got louder, pained. Sputtering between coughs and pained shouts. "Stop it…Moxxie."

The pain only got worse, the bleeding wouldn't slow. Moxxie couldn't tell if his eyes stung from the smoke, or something else. He pushed the thought back down.

"I'm sorry! I know it hurts, I'm sorry! Just stay with me!"

Huey lazily swatted at Moxxie's hand, "No, Moxxie, stop it…You gotta…"

"Let me help you! You're gonna be okay, Huey! I just have to—"

"I said stop it!" Huey's faltering voice managed to get one shout out between coughs.

"I can't! You're gonna—"

Huey grabbed at him, missing a few times before latching his hand around Moxxie's wrist. He spoke calmly. "You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, Moxxie."

He froze.

Huey just coughed, letting go of Moxxie's wrist. "You deserve better."

Moxxie didn't know what he was supposed to say or do. He reached for the sleeve again, desperate to tie it and stop the blood. Huey gripped it in his hand, tight, and pulled it away. He picked Moxxie's gun off the ground beside him, held it by the barrel and held it out. "Promise me…you'll stop…"

"Huey, please—please just—" Moxxie stopped, choking on his own voice. He couldn't handle the way Huey was looking right through him, a million miles away. The raging fire was nothing more than a flicker in his eyes, the same look he'd always give Moxxie when he was up to no good.

"You…gotta promise, Mox."

Moxxie wasn't sure if he could fit the words out his mouth if he tried, it was like his throat was caving in on itself, it felt so tight. If he opened it, he wasn't sure what would come out. He didn't want to lose his grip in front of Huey like this, he couldn't let him see that after everything. No, he could, couldn't he? If there was anyone in the world that could understand, it'd be him.

Moxxie grabbed the gun from Huey's hand. "I—" his voice cracked, choking on sobs he didn't dare let out. "I promise, Huey."

The tiniest smile in the world creeped its way onto Huey's face, not even enough to be called a smirk. His hand let go of the gun, weakly patting Moxxie's hand once before dropping. After that, his gaze became just a bit more hollow.

The fire kept raging around him, it was the only thing Moxxie heard. If it weren't for the fire, it'd be so quiet. Quiet enough to hear Huey's breathing stop.

The urge to scream crawled up Moxxie's throat, clawing the back of his mouth. But he swallowed it down like everything else. So instead, his eyes stung.

Moxxie didn't want to think about or do anything. He just sat there, soaking it all in. His fingers ran over the barrel of his gun.

It was the soreness in his broken arm that took him out of the malaise. The ambient pain only got worse as the adrenaline wore off. Like the broken bone was a vial, cracked open and letting a poison seep out inside him. It was such a sharp ache, all along the entire length of his forearm, he hated every second of it. But he kept thinking about it, it was something to focus on.

The sound of the fire had been drowned out in his own mind entirely, the entire world around him had fallen silent, until a distant thought that didn't belong to him so rudely snapped him back.

"You did this to him."

Moxxie's head snapped to the source, glaring back towards Huey's crashed 1970 Continental.

'Shut up.'

"Struck a nerve, have I?"

'I said shut your fucking mouth.'

"I'm only reminding you, this is no different—"

'No different than your dead husband? Was Orias' death your fault too?'

"How dare you—"

'I just made a promise to the only family I've ever had, and now he's gone. Whatever you have to say, whatever you think you can convince me of, I don't care.'

Moxxie looked at Huey's empty gaze for only the split second he could manage, before choking again.

'A lot of things are my fault. This is not one of them.'

Caim never responded.

Suddenly, Moxxie heard a rustling in the crops left of him.

The pain all over his body waned as the rush of energy came flooding back. Weaker than before, but enough to get him on his feet. Moxxie stood, almost too fast to keep his balance, and held the gun out. Searching for the source of the noise.

"Who's there!"

There was only more rustling before Jackie stepped out of the crops, arms raised, a garish, overly-modded pistol in his right hand. His suit was scuffed, covered in ash, his face cut up with little nicks everywhere from the cornstalks.

"Easy now, kid. Just let me explain—"

"Explain what? Why you killed my brother?! Why you tried to kill me?!" Moxxie yelled.

"You killed my men, I'd call us even—"

"I don't care about even!"

Jackie stepped closer, clearly not too concerned over Moxxie's gun aimed at him. "Emotions are runnin' high, I know. But orders are orders. He had a loose mouth, he dragged you into this. You're an outsider, as far as he's aware anyway. Boss found out I had you two doin' work for me way back, told me to clean up my mess." Jackie looked at the road for a moment, suddenly reminded of a nostalgic wish to move out to the countryside. "Crimson doesn't tolerate loose ends. And you are a very, very loose end."

Moxxie squeezed the gun in his hand, aimed right for Jackie. He put his finger on the trigger.

"Woah there kid," Jackie said. He still wasn't taking him seriously. He stepped closer, slowly putting his hand on the gun. "Don't do somethin' you're gonna regret."

"I won't."

Bang!

Jackie staggered back and fell back into the dirt, curling in on himself as he sputtered. "Fuck!…fuck fuck fuck, you little shit!"

Moxxie wished he had more bullets left, but he'd make this work.

"Some crackshot you are! Couldn't get a headshot at point blank!" His attempted mockery didn't do much to hide the panic in his voice. The bullet had torn through his guts, blood pouring out the gaping exit wound so fast he already felt the numbness creeping in.

"I wasn't aiming for your head," Moxxie muttered. He had already decided that Jackie deserved something slower. Besides, the gun itself, its weight, that was all the weapon he needed. He shuffled it around as he walked up to Jackie in the dirt, holding his gun by the barrel now, handle pointed out.

"The hell are you—Agh!"

Moxxie dropped onto Jackie, straddling him against the dirt and brought the stiff handle of the gun down on Jackie's face, yelling with every hit. No words.

Again.

Again, harder this time.

And again.

The seething breaths through Moxxie's teeth grew into grunts, then shouts, now screams.

Moxxie couldn't hear the sound of Jackie's cries over his own yelling. Their beaten face became more deformed with every strike, bludgeoned until it was beyond recognition. A pulpy flesh coating the handle as Moxxie caved it in on his face until the skin tore. Years of bottled frustration, all the guilt he felt finally coming out the form of violent beatings.

Jackie wheezed, spitting out blood and teeth just to try and breathe. Moxxie grimaced at the mess on the gun now, wiped it on Jackie's suit and holstered it. But he didn't stop yet. He had one good hand, and he shoved it right against Jackie's throat, squeezing down as tight as he could with one arm, his fingers pressed against the arteries, and shifted all his weight onto his grip.

Jackie stared up into Moxxie's eyes, equal parts mesmerized horrified by the rage he saw. He wheezed out the only thing he could think to say.

"His eyes and everything…" he struggled, barely louder than a whisper, "You're the spittin' image of your father…"

"I don't care." Moxxie growled.

"No loose ends, right?" Jackie muttered weakly.

He would've had more to say if he had the breath to speak anymore. But he didn't, and in a few more seconds, he was gone.

Moxxie didn't let go until all the rage that fueled his grip was drained. He removed his hand slowly, panting. He'd never felt such a strong release in his life. Equal parts exhilarated, terrified, scared, and proud.

Is this how it felt to kill for yourself?

There was so much to take in. Only moments ago it felt like the only thing that existed for miles was fire. Now, Moxxie felt everything. He smelled the smoke and corn in the air again, he felt the sweat on his skin, the blood on his hands, his heavy breaths slowing down. The adrenaline dying down for good this time, the pounding headache and broken arm both throbbing back to the forefront of his mind. Stinging cuts and scrapes all over.

In the distance, the sound of an approaching truck. Getting closer, and gunshots not too far away. And a growl. A Hellhound's growl.

Moxxie didn't even have time to look at where that noise was coming from before he felt himself suddenly in the air. From the fields right in behind him, a clawed fist grabbed his throat, and then another collided with his face, sending him flying to the road. His face slamming into the ground, his headache now infinitely worse, his vision wobbly. Before he could even try to stand, he felt the hand wrap around his neck again, and push him against the ground. His nose felt hot, a bulky sting across the bridge and a wetness leaking out the nostrils, probably broken from the punch to the face.

This was definitely one of Jackie's Hellhounds. They'd probably heard Moxxie shoot earlier and came running this way.

"Your turn, you little fucker!" they growled. Their grip on his neck tightened, it felt like his windpipe was going to collapse and flatten against the road.

He was too exhausted and too beaten to resist in any meaningful way. Moxxie grasped at the hand on his throat, he couldn't even hope to pry it off. He tried to reach for his empty gun, his vision was already fading.

And then, all the air he could ever want to breathe entered his lungs.

He gasped, swallowing as much of that sweet oxygen as he could while rolling over, trying to kick himself away. The blurred triples and doubles in his version slowly focused into a clear image. He froze, just to look at it.

He looked just in time to watch as an Imp—a complete stranger—pulled back the blade of her dagger at the Hellhound's throat, slicing his head clean off. The body collapsed, the stranger standing on top of it like a toppled giant.

Moxxie was in awe; they were just another Imp like himself. Only as tall as he was, yet she killed a Hellhound like it was nothing. And it couldn't have been the first, or the last. Her jeans were tattered with rips all along them, each subtle blood stain indicative they were earned in a fight rather than added for aesthetics. She had short black hair, tossed over one side. Stray groups of her wild hair cut shorter than the rest, likely earned in fights just the same. She flipped her dagger by the blade in one hand, and her eyes locked onto Moxxie's.

There was fire in her eyes, more than just reflected. Energy in even her most subtle movements, but not so much she wasn't in control. She was thrilled to have just fought that Hellhound, and appeared almost disappointed there wasn't more.

Wiping off the blood from her dagger on her pants, she strolled up to Moxxie, eyeing him on the ground. Squatted down beside him, and held her knife under his chin, lifting his head.

"Ah'm gonna need a reeeal good reason not ta' kill ya right now," she said. Her voice was like warm honey, stretched out in a heavy southern drawl.

Moxxie drew in a raspy breath, in a weak voice he tried to speak. His voice was muffled to his own ears, and he passed out before he managed to say anything coherent at all.