Summary: Striker and Jake go through the latter's first Extermination.
The extermination always begins at 12 AM sharp. The sound of dying screams, angelic weapons slicing through flesh and spilling of blood typically starts five minutes later. As soon as the siren went off, Striker quickly took Jake and went down to the basement, locking the door behind him. All the doors and windows were boarded up and no one, be it exterminators or demons looking for a last-minute shelter, would get in. But Striker wouldn't take any chances.
The basement wasn't too big, only spacious enough to house him and Jane back before he learned of the little bun in the oven. They had agreed on making one from the beginning, not only for exterminations but also for the flaming twisters. The room was well illuminated and decorated with a sofa, a tea table, and a carpet along with other basic stuff. Additionally, there were old boxes, big and medium-sized, accommodated on the other end of the basement. They were all filled with old things and items, both Striker and Jane's, from days long past.
Jake didn't understand what was going on, but Striker knew he could tell something was off. The little impling was grasping his shirt with his little hand, face hidden into his father's neck.
"There, there. We'll be safe here, my boy." he cooed as Jake whimpered when the ground shook. Satan knows what the exterminators blew up this time.
Jake was in a very bad mood for having been awoken in the middle of his nap. Try as he might, Striker couldn't get him to go back to sleep. It was then that he realized he forgot Jake's blankie upstairs. Damn it, it's still in the cradle. There's no way he'd go back to sleep without it.
"Okay, pup, daddy's goin' to fetch yer blankie. Stay put, okay?" As he tried to place Jake in the small fencing he'd put up for him, the little one clung to his shirt with every bit of strength he could muster. When Striker finally managed to place him down, Jake crawled towards the fence wall and shook the bars wailing loudly. Striker murmured under his breath: If an exorcist heard the crying, they'd be done for.
Striker scooped his baby back up. "Alright, Jake, listen. You can come with daddy, but I need you to stay silent, okay?" He didn't really expect Jake to fully understand him, but at least he quieted down into sobs as he hid his face in the crook of his neck.
With wary steps and blessed pistol in hand, Striker snuck back upstairs into the living room. It was dark and silent except for the occasional echo of some bastard being shredded by an angel miles away. Slowly and quietly, Striker walked up the staircase towards Jake's nursery, bouncing the impling to keep him calm. The blankie was right where he left it on Jake's cradle.
Striker picked the baby blanket and examined its colorful horse patterns forlornly. Jane had knitted it for their son, but she didn't get to finish it before she passed. Jake didn't really mind that, though. He reached out his little hands for the blankie, the only memento he'd probably have of his mother.
"There, there. Here's yer blankie, my boy." Striker wrapped the blanket around Jake. The impling visibly relaxed and snuggled into the fabric. Striker recognized the smell of Jane's hair and the scent of straw and countryside that was so characteristic of her. Waves of memories returned to him as he sniffed the blanket.
Another explosion from the outside, seemingly closer this time, reminded him that they had to return to the basement.