Chapter 33: Bang-Bang-Kiss-Kiss
Striker sat in the dimly lit room, his arms bound to the chair with thick ropes, his usual cocky demeanor slightly shaken but not defeated. Bloodied and bruised, he sneered at the gathering of people in front of him, refusing to show weakness even though his body screamed for rest. His eyes locked onto each of them, calculating, sizing them up with cold, ruthless precision.
Stella was the first to speak, her voice trembling as she stood beside her husband, her arm protectively wrapped around Stolas. She couldn't hide her shock—this wasn't the man she thought she'd hired. An assassin. A professional. A monster. She clung to her husband, her grip tightening with every passing second. "You... You were supposed to be someone I could trust."
Striker just chuckled darkly, his eyes narrowing at her. "Trust? In Hell, lady, the only thing worth trusting is your own damn survival instinct." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve after spitting at Verosika. "And that one, she's nothing but a trashy excuse for a queen. Just like the rest of you."
Millie and Moxxie stood nearby, eager to extract the information they needed, their expressions hard and focused. Millie cracked her knuckles, a grin creeping onto her face. "You know, we don't need to play nice. We can make you talk the hard way, sugar."
Moxxie, always more composed, took a step forward, his voice steady but dangerous. "You've got no idea what you're up against, Striker. You've already made the mistake of trying to hurt Loona. If you think that's all we're pissed about, you're wrong."
Striker scoffed again. "Hurt her? That's rich. That pup of yours doesn't scare me. None of you do." He looked over at Barbie, still twitching on the couch, her body a tremoring mess from the tranquilizers he had shot into her. His lips curled into a malicious grin. "Didn't think the little clown girl would be the one to chase me down, though. Funny how that works."
Loona, still visibly rattled by the encounter with the Wild Bunch, stepped forward, a furious fire in her eyes. She'd been shaken, but not broken. "You think you can just waltz into our lives, take shots at me, at my family, and just leave us to pick up the pieces?" Her voice was low and venomous, a threat masked beneath the calm façade. "Why? What's your game, Striker?"
Verosika, standing at Loona's side, turned her intense gaze back to Striker, fury flashing across her features. She stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his. "What were you doing here, Striker?" she asked, the words laced with an icy undertone. "Please, just tell me. Tell me why you wanted to hurt Loona. What did she ever do to you?"
Striker's expression darkened at the question. He leaned back in the chair and laughed coldly. "Hurt Loona? I don't need a reason. Some jobs are just...personal. Like I said, I'm a professional. I don't have to explain myself to you."
Verosika's fists clenched at her sides, but she controlled herself, stepping back to allow Stolas to step forward. The tall, regal demon flipped open his grimoire with a flourish, his fingers gliding over the ancient pages. "I could crack his mind open like an egg with a spell," he said, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Might leave him a quivering, babbling mess on the floor, but that's an option."
Striker's eyes flickered to Stolas, and he actually seemed to take a brief moment to assess him, before shaking his head. "Nice try, but that's not gonna work. I've survived worse than mind tricks, demon."
Meanwhile, on the far side of the room, Barbie Wire was laying on a couch, her body twitching sporadically as she tried to fight off the effects of the tranquilizers. The drugs coursed through her veins, dulling her senses and making it nearly impossible to focus. Barbie's muscles were tight with the effort of staying conscious, her eyes fluttering, but her clownish grin never fully faded. Despite the overwhelming sense of heaviness, she still managed to grumble, "I don't need no damn nap...I'm Barbie Wire, damn it. I'm tougher than this."
Her usual vibrant, chaotic energy was barely a flicker now, but there was no denying it—Barbie Wire was tougher than any imp had a right to be. Her body might be a jumbled mess from the tranquilizers, but her resolve remained as steel-hard as ever.
Stolas looked over at her with a mix of concern and admiration. "I wouldn't mind giving her a little magical aid, but it seems she's holding on just fine."
As the rest of the group continued their interrogation attempts, Barbie's eyes lazily flicked between them, listening in on their conversations. It was almost comical how well everyone had adapted to the chaos. Even now, despite the dire situation, they maintained their unyielding attitude. The I.M.P. was a family of misfits, but in the end, they were strong because of it.
Eventually, after a few moments of silence, Moxxie, ever the strategist, pulled back from Striker, glancing at Millie. "We should just take turns keeping watch. If we wait long enough, he'll slip up. He'll get tired of playing tough guy and start spilling the details. For now, we need to stay sharp."
Millie nodded, her eyes still locked on Striker. "Ain't no way we're letting this one get away. Not this time."
Everyone else nodded in agreement. As the hours passed, the group took turns standing guard, all while keeping their eyes on the assassin tied to the chair. But the longer they waited, the more the tension in the room grew. Striker, despite his silent defiance, was becoming less and less able to keep his cool. The I.M.P. wasn't known for their subtlety, and Striker had underestimated the power of persistence.
As the clock ticked on, one thing was certain: this was far from over, and Striker's stubbornness would only drag him deeper into the web they were weaving.
And in the back of the room, Barbie Wire's twitching slowly subsided as the drugs wore off, her focus sharpening. She wasn't done yet. Hell no. She was about to make sure Striker learned just who he had pissed off.
The wildest of rides was still ahead.
Barbie stumbled to her feet, her body still sluggish from the tranquilizers, but her resolve was as sharp as ever. Sweat glistened on her forehead, and her movements were unsteady, but there was a fire in her eyes—a fire that Striker had learned to fear. Despite the drugs still making her head spin, she managed to push herself up, her breath labored but controlled. With a deep grunt, she crossed the room to where Millie was keeping watch.
"Millie," she called out, her voice rough but insistent. "Go. I'll handle this."
Millie hesitated, her eyes darting between her mentor and the dangerous assassin tied to the chair. She wanted to protest, but Barbie's usual fiery energy was there—despite the weak tremors in her hands. Reluctantly, she nodded and stepped away, giving Barbie the space she needed.
Barbie wobbled back to Striker, her steps faltering as she dropped down onto the floor next to him. She placed her hand on her forehead, rubbing it with a frustrated sigh, trying to shake off the last of the drug's effects. Sweat beaded on her brow as she focused her attention on the man in front of her, his eyes narrowed in confusion. She looked at him, almost like she could see right through him.
Striker, still tied to the chair, couldn't help but look her up and down, his eyes narrowing as he tried to figure out what was happening. He'd shot her full of enough tranquilizer to put out a demon for days, but Barbie... Barbie was still here, still alive and kicking. Her presence felt both confusing and ominous, like something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
"What the hell are you talking about, girl?" Striker spat, trying to ignore the growing sense of discomfort gnawing at him. "You've been doped up to the damn hilt. You're barely standing. Don't try to play any games."
Barbie simply shook her head, pulling out a cigarette from her pocket and lighting it with a small I.M.P. branded lighter—a gift from Blitz a while back during their first Sinsmas together. As she took a drag, the smoke billowed from her lips in intricate rings, which strangely began to take shape in the air—stars, crescents, hearts, and even a skull and crossbones, dancing in front of them. She exhaled slowly, her scarlet pupils gleaming with something dark and wild as she spoke again, her voice eerily calm.
"Your skills, Striker," Barbie started, her tone dripping with disdain. "You think just 'cause your boss gave you the best toys you were meant to come out alive? You were cannon fodder from the start. And look at you now... alone. Your crew bailed on you. They didn't give a damn. You know why? 'Cause real crews, real families don't abandon each other. They ride or die. And you, cowboy, you're the waste."
She took another drag from the cigarette, the rings of smoke lingering in the air, swirling like ghosts around them. Striker watched her closely, trying to understand her words, but the confusion only deepened. He didn't know what she was playing at. She was rambling, she was disoriented... but there was something in her voice, a hidden truth.
Barbie exhaled one final puff of smoke, the ring taking on the shape of a crescent moon, before she stood up, her trembling legs finally steadying. She gazed into Striker's eyes, her expression shifting from exhaustion to something much darker. It was as if a switch had flipped inside her, and for a moment, Striker saw something dangerous—a clarity that cut through the haze of the drugs. She wasn't just Barbie Wire anymore. She was family.
Her scarlet pupils gleamed with intensity as she crouched down in front of him, her face inches from his. Striker's heart skipped a beat, unsure of what was coming next. She was looking at him now—not like a clown, not like a mindless follower, but like a predator staring down its prey.
"You want to know the truth, Striker?" Barbie asked, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "The waste... is you. But I'm grateful for what you did. You started something that day—two years ago. You shot me, sure. But you didn't just take my blood. You set something in motion. You made me a part of something—our family."
She reached for the blessed knife hidden at her side, her hand steady despite her physical weakness. Striker watched, wide-eyed, as she pulled it out, the blade gleaming in the dim light. Barbie's movements were deliberate, slow, almost theatrical as she gazed at him with a knowing look.
"You see, Striker, you were the catalyst. You've brought Verosika, Blitzø, Loona... me... closer. And since then, this family has only grown bigger. We are stronger now."
Her words hung in the air as she slowly raised the knife, the sharp edge catching the light. The tension in the room thickened, and Striker couldn't help but feel the weight of her gaze on him. He had no idea where this was going, but a strange part of him began to wonder if Barbie was offering him a choice.
She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear, and she kissed him—soft and slow. It was a kiss full of strange, twisted gratitude, an unspoken acknowledgment of everything that had led to this moment. Striker's eyes widened in shock, the kiss not what he expected, but it had power—a strange, unsettling power that he couldn't explain.
And then, without warning, Barbie swiped the blade across the ropes binding Striker's wrists, cutting him free. The ropes fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving him momentarily stunned, his hands now free. She tossed the knife between them, landing it within his reach.
Barbie straightened, looking down at him with that same burning intensity. "So, what's it gonna be, cowboy?" she asked, her voice smooth and deadly. "You gonna high-tail it outta here, or are you gonna run me through like the professional you claim to be?"
Striker, his mind swirling with the chaos of the moment, stood there for a long moment. His pride, his experience, and the hard edge he'd built over the years told him to fight, to escape. But something was pulling at him, something more dangerous than all the threats he had faced before. The allure of family—their family—was stronger than he had expected.
Barbie stood tall, watching him with the cold, unwavering gaze of someone who had survived it all. The choice, now, was his to make.
The knife lay between them, glinting in the dim light, an unspoken challenge. Barbie's arms were outstretched, almost like an offering. Her posture was relaxed, but there was a fire burning in her eyes—fierce and unforgiving. It wasn't the posture of someone who feared death. No, it was the posture of someone who had made peace with it long ago.
"You're the one who started this family, Striker," she said, her voice a calm, cold whisper that seemed to fill the room. "You shot Verosika on that stage, shot me outside. You didn't just pull a trigger—you changed things. Now take responsibility for that, cowboy. You made us a family. So, what's it gonna be?"
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unwavering. "You can keep running—like the wild beast you are, always alone, never part of anything. Or you can pick up that knife and end this. End me. Prove you're still the same heartless bastard. But remember, you'll have to live with that choice. Forever."
Barbie didn't flinch. Even in her weakened state, even as her body trembled slightly from the lingering effects of the tranquilizers, she didn't raise her guard. Her confidence was almost maddening. She knew he had the upper hand, knew he could finish her off in a heartbeat, and yet, she still stood before him, offering him a choice, a moment of reckoning.
Striker was torn, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. He had three choices.
The first: he could kill her. It would be easy. A swift strike, and she'd be gone. No more messy decisions, no more complications. He could go upstairs, finish the job, and be paid handsomely for it.
The second: he could run. Escape, regroup, and try again later. After all, he was Striker. He was the one who didn't let anyone hold him down. He could get away, lick his wounds, and maybe come back stronger.
And the third: this. Barbie's offer. The thing that rattled him the most—the thing he didn't want to acknowledge but could feel gnawing at him. Join this twisted little family she was talking about. Be part of something bigger than himself, something that had started the moment he pulled the trigger. A family of killers, outcasts, and misfits. It was a gamble. It was insane. But maybe... maybe that was the point.
Barbie was offering him a choice, but it wasn't just about survival. It was about purpose. For once, Striker wasn't sure if it was the right choice, or if it was the only one he could make to truly understand what he had started.
He stared at her, his dark heart heavy with the weight of the decision. His jaw clenched as he glanced down at the knife between them, then back up at Barbie. His pulse raced in his ears. His mind flashed back to the killshots he had taken, to the job he had been given, to the endless loneliness he had always felt, even among his so-called "family" of hired guns. No one ever truly cared. He was always the one left to clean up the mess.
But this... this felt different.
"You're crazy," Striker muttered under his breath, his voice low and rough, more to himself than to Barbie. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his thoughts racing, his dark mind refusing to slow down. But the answer was already there—he'd known it from the moment he had walked into this damn house.
His eyes flicked to the knife one last time before meeting Barbie's gaze once more. He could see the defiance in her expression. She wasn't just daring him to take the shot—she was challenging him to step into something more than just the killer he had always been.
With a grimace, Striker slowly stood up from the chair, the ropes falling to the floor in a loose heap. His movements were calculated, deliberate. He could still feel the anger rising in him—still feel the old instinct to tear apart anyone who got in his way. But the weight of Barbie's words hung heavily in the air, and it made his blood run cold.
"Fine," he said finally, the words slipping from his lips like a curse. "I'll play your little game."
He reached down and grabbed the knife, the cool steel solid in his grip. But instead of turning it on Barbie, he walked past her, his boots scuffing against the floor as he moved toward the open door she had offered him. His back was to her as he stepped outside into the night, the cool air hitting him like a slap to the face.
Barbie's eyes followed him, her posture still relaxed, but the quiet glint in her gaze told him she wasn't quite done with him. And, for the first time in a long while, Striker wasn't sure if he was walking into a trap... or stepping into a new chapter of his life.
But as he turned to look at her one last time, something shifted in him—a strange, unsettling sense of belonging.
"Don't keep me waiting," Barbie called after him, her voice carrying with the weight of her challenge. "We're family now. And family always has a place."
Striker didn't look back as he disappeared into the shadows, but the thought lingered. Family...
The dark heart inside him had made its choice.
The door creaked shut behind Striker, and Barbie stood there, motionless, staring at the place where he had been just moments before. Her heart was a confusing mess of emotions, none of them clear, none of them easy to understand. She had offered him everything—an escape from his endless cycle of violence, a chance at something beyond the solitude and chaos.
But he had walked away.
It wasn't just rejection. It wasn't just the sting of betrayal, though there was a part of her that wanted to feel that way, a part of her that deserved to feel that way. No, this was something deeper, something she couldn't quite put into words.
Barbie had opened herself up to him, and that wasn't something she did lightly. She had always been the strong one, the rock, the one who protected her family—her real family. But for a fleeting moment, with Striker, she had felt something different. A connection. Something beyond the bonds of blood and violence, something she had never allowed herself to feel before. Something more.
And now, just like that, it was gone.
She let out a long, tired sigh, her chest tight. She walked over to the kitchen island, her steps slow, deliberate. Her reflection stared back at her in the polished surface—a tough, battle-worn imp, her red eyes dulled from exhaustion and her body shaking with the remnants of the tranquilizers. She reached up, her fingers brushing against her forehead. She had been so sure, so confident in her actions, so certain that this was the right moment, that she could change him, pull him into her family, make him a part of them.
But he hadn't stayed.
Her breath hitched as she stepped closer to the island, the cold marble pressing against her skin as she leaned in. The reflection in front of her was like a stranger now. She saw the crack in her own heart for the first time, the raw spot she had buried so deep, so far beneath the surface, that she hadn't even realized it was there.
With a sharp movement, Barbie slammed her forehead onto the smooth edge of the counter. The impact was hard enough to send a jolt of pain through her skull, but it was controlled, calculated—she wanted to feel the pain. She wanted to feel something. She let the sharpness of it distract her from the emptiness inside her.
She gasped out a breath, blinking rapidly as her head spun.
That's it, she thought bitterly. That's what I deserve.
She hadn't even flinched as her head hit the counter. The physical pain was fleeting, but it served as a mask. A mask to cover the truth that burned deeper than any bruise or cut. Barbie had let him go. The man who had changed everything, the man who had torn her world apart, who had broken down every wall she had carefully built around her heart. She had let him go.
Her chest tightened further, and she knew there was no way to explain it to anyone—not to Verosika, not to Loona, not to Blitzø. They would never understand. They couldn't.
I chose him, even after everything, Barbie thought, feeling sick to her stomach. I let him go. I let him walk away...
Her breath caught again as her red eyes shone with unshed tears, a coldness settling deep within her heart. She had to keep it together. She couldn't show weakness. The family needed her strong. They needed her tough.
She needed to stay tough.
But the truth was like a shadow in her mind. Striker had been a reminder of everything she had ever avoided. The violence, the blood, the loneliness. And despite everything, she had seen something in him—something that mirrored her own loneliness, her own need for connection. And when he had left... it felt like a door had closed on a chapter she didn't want to let go of.
She straightened up and wiped away the dampness that threatened to betray her, forcing a smile onto her lips—a false, brittle smile. She glanced around the room, knowing that in a few moments, her family would be back. They would see her, and they would think everything was fine. They had to think everything was fine. Barbie couldn't afford to show them the crack in her heart.
In a quiet voice, she muttered to herself, "I can't let them know. Not this time."
Her hand gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white, as she forced herself to steady her breathing.
She had played her role. She had protected them. She had protected her family. And that was all that mattered. What she felt, what she wanted, didn't matter. She would carry it on her shoulders and bury it deep, just like everything else. No one would see the crack. No one would see the weakness.
Barbie stared at the empty kitchen, the silence echoing louder than anything else. And for the first time in her life, she let herself ask the question she would never speak aloud: What if I was wrong?
To be continued…..