Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

46. Deadlock

Author's Note: This chapter contains violence and strong themes that may be troubling to some readers. Please proceed with caution.

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deadlock: (noun)

— a situation, typically one involving two or more opposing parties, in which no progress can be made

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"(Y/N), I want you to get behind me," Stolas said warily. "That is a blessing-tipped weapon in his hands. If he shoots you with that, you could be annihilated. I stand a better chance of surviving than you would."

My eyes darted to the white glow engraved into the barrel of Striker's revolver. I'd heard about blessed weapons, and I had seen the spears that the angels used during exterminations — but seeing one pointed only a few feet from your face is a different story. Just one shot from that weapon could annihilate me — not just destroy this body only for a new one to manifest, but actually kill me. When the thought finally sank in, I started to tremble.

It was only a little bit, but I could see the rage ebb slightly from Striker's eyes when he saw me staring at his weapon, and he took a step away from me. And considering our conversations in the past, I could see exactly what had crossed his mind.

I held my hands up in front of me. "Striker," I started. "The last thing I want to do is fight you. I care about Stolas, but that doesn't take away from my feelings for you. You . . . You mean more to me than I think you know."

Though his expression remained unchanged, Striker stood still and listened, pointing his revolver away from me and Stolas.

"Ever since I met you, I don't wake up dreading the day," I continued, a fresh set of tears pricking my eyes. "I look forward to seeing you — sometimes, it's all I can think about. Knowing you made me appreciate life more. I — I want to take care of myself now. I don't walk through the city hoping to be exterminated anymore. In some small way, Striker, you've made me want to keep going." A strained, bittersweet smile tugged at my lips. "Most days . . . I don't want to die anymore."

Striker stiffened, and we stared at each other for far too long. Slowly — slowly — I took a step toward him. Then another. And then another.

"Please," I said softly, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're better than this, Striker. I know you are. Just, please . . . Put the gun down."

Though my vision was blurred from my tears, I saw Striker hesitate. He lowered his revolver a few inches, then stopped. We both stood frozen, as if trapped in ice, seemingly waiting for the other to act. I watched Striker carefully, taking in his every movement. It looked as if a war was being waged in his mind. His eyes still burned with anger, but I could see it gradually fading. He clenched his teeth, having apparently made up his mind, and stepped to the side to circle around me.

I darted after him when I saw him raise his gun again. "Striker, don't!"

Striker stopped and let out a loud reptilian shriek as the pointed tip of my tail launched toward him and sliced a long gash into his arm, staining his sleeve black with his blood. His eyes fell on me briefly, a look of shock painting his features. I didn't give it another moment's thought. I'd hurt him, but I had to — I didn't have a choice.

Please stop. It was all I could think; I couldn't even verbalize it. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. . .

The revolver fell from his hand, hitting the ground with a clack! I quickly withdrew my tail and reached out to grab the weapon, and I wrapped my hand around the barrel of the revolver — just in time for Striker to grab it by the handle.

I staggered directly in front of him, keeping one hand over the cylinder and the other on his injured arm. He immediately tried to pull back, but I held on tight, clamping down with all the strength I could gather and pushing the barrel down toward the ground. My nails dug so hard into his arm that new black spots formed on his jacket sleeve.

Striker continued to resist me, roughly yanking against my white-knuckle grip. His tail started to rattle in his frustration.

"Let go, you idiot! You're — "

Anything else Striker may have said was drowned out by a loud bang exploding in my ears, and his glowing eyes suddenly grew wide — and I could have sworn I caught a brief glimpse of fear in them.

It was several seconds later that I felt the pain: a deep, fiery pain that rippled through my abdomen. My hand fell to my stomach, and I felt a steady stream of warm blood escaping me and dripping from my fingers. I looked down to see my hand almost completely painted crimson with my own blood, and I smelled the strong metallic scent of iron. I felt sick. It felt like someone had ignited a fire in my gut, and now it was burning me from the inside out. I couldn't make a sound except for a tiny gasp as I stumbled backward.

A streak of red and black passed in front of my eyes for a split-second before a pair of long, slender arms caught me and lowered me to the ground. I heard him curse under his breath as he lifted up my shirt to examine my wound. He wrapped his arms around my frame and began to pick me up — until I started screaming from the stabbing pain that the harsh movement sent through me.

"Put me down!" I wailed, clutching his arm in a vise-grip. My legs flailed and kicked aimlessly as I tried to resist his hold on me. "Put me down!! "

Stolas quickly set me back down, seemingly now afraid to touch me. The pain — it was overwhelming, spreading to every inch of me, like my entire body was set ablaze. I felt so hot and so cold at the same time. I couldn't do anything except hope that the fucking bullet would kill me quicker.

Through my cloudy vision, I could just make out Striker's figure frozen in place. In his shock, he'd lost his grip on the revolver, and it had again slipped out of his hand and fell to the pavement. He stared at me, his light pinkish face now a sickened pallor, his bright yellow eyes wide and panicked. I saw him take a step toward me before I heard Stolas let out an eerie screech, his form distorting in flashes of black and red. Striker stopped again, looking back at me, as if to avoid eye contact with Stolas. He staggered back a few steps, then turned, picked up his revolver off the ground, and took off running.

"(Y/N)," Stolas said frantically, taking my head in his hand to look at my face. "Speak to me. Stay with me, (Y/N). . ."

I couldn't understand anything else after that. Everything sounded muffled, like warbled noise from another room. My vision darkened, and the glow of Stolas' frightened red eyes was the last thing I saw before everything went black.