During I.M.P.'s visit to Dis, Striker returns to the place he grew up in to get some closure.
Most of the building's windows were now boarded up and barred, but the doors had long been broken by homeless people looking for a roof under their heads, and maybe somewhere to hide during the annual Cleanse. The sign was covered in moss and overgrown plants, but the place's name was still somewhat readable.
St. Lamia Orphanage
Striker stared at the sign for a while. Living here wasn't amongst his favorite experiences, yet something lured him into the threshold for the first time in decades. As expected, everything had long fallen into disrepair and decay from years of disuse. The rotten, creaking wooden floor and whatever furniture remained housed hundreds of termites. Striker glanced at the front desk.
What's your name, shrimp? Nevermind, I don't really care. Your room is upstairs, go and stay out of my hair for the rest of the day.
Striker found himself walking up the dust-covered staircase, wood creaking under his weight. He silently walked down a corridor lined with boarded up, fallen, or missing doors. Eventually, he arrived at the last one at the end of the corridor. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out for the knob, but he composed himself and creaked it open.
His old room.
To his surprise, it still looked the way he remembered it sans the dust and spiderwebs. Striker sat on the dusty mattress. It looked so smaller now, but it was as hard as always. He'd cried himself to sleep in this bed so many times.
Oh, look! The baby Imp is crying for his mommy!
He briefly wondered what became of the other orphan demons that would pick on him. Probably got publicly executed or got killed by the Exorcists or something like that. Part of him wished it wasn't the case, however; he'd like nothing more than to put a bullet into their skulls himself, to rub in their faces the fact that he was more than what they could ever be.
As he returned to the inn later that night, he was instantly greeted by the sight of Jake sleeping peacefully, suckling on his thumb. Striker smiled sadly as he tenderly stroked the little one's head.
He was lucky. He didn't know what it's like to grow without a loving parent; what it's like to cry himself to sleep on a cold orphanage bed; what it's like to lose his innocence at a young age. And Striker would make sure that it stays that way.