Title: Devil May Cry: Sons of Heaven
Author: Backdraft
E-Mail: crimson_midnight@hotmail.com
Genre: Action, Sci-Fi, Supernatural, Drama.
Rated: R, for violence and language.
Summary: A" movie-style" prequel to the first game, Dante is caught in between the war within an agency of demon hunters, where he is the key device to a traitor's plot.
Disclaimer: Dante, the characters mentioned in the prologue, and the prologue itself (though remixed and added upon), are property of Capcom. All other characters, monsters, weapons and locations (except Dante's office, and Ivory and Ebony) belong to me...so :op
Author's note: There will be times when these lines ( ~~~ ) will appear. That will often indicate a change of scenery. Plus, look out for a few clues as to what else may be going on within the story that are linked to other Capcom games.
I guess that's about it, at least until I release a commentary at the end. Until then, I hope you all enjoy this more finalized version of my first DMC fan fiction.
PROLOGUE
Two Milleniums ago, a demon prince was conceived within the pits of the land known as the Underworld. This being, known only as Mundus, felt his powers grow faster than any being within the realm's history. Monopolizing on this anomaly, he took over the Devil Throne, and was quick to claim himself the emperor of all the dark realms. Mundus' next wish was to invade the world of humans, where demons once roamed freely, before the light drove them back.
Though many were enthused by their wayward ruler's mission, there were few demons that took pity on the brief transient lives of the humans. Among them was a powerful demon knight known as Sparda, who would lead his sympathizers against all of the Devil's armies, and face the king until his imprisonment into a vault of light.
Those that survived the fateful battle abandoned the Devil Kingdom and led human lives, including Sparda, who married a human woman, and fathered two children, Virgil, and his younger brother, Dante.
Even as a human, Sparda continued to fight the darkness, until his untimely end. It was only a matter of time before his wife and Virgil were taken as well by the unnamed, unforeseen force, leaving Dante alone in the bitter world.
In time, as he grew, his father's power and mother's compassion had passed and grown with him. Because of that power, he has become to be known as the most feared class of slayers in any existence. More or less, it was a way to find the murderer of his family, so they, as well as he, could finally rest in peace. Which leads us to now…
~~~
The rain was clear when it fell, until it touched the soiled and bloodied earth where the dead rested from a cause older than time. Inside the fortress where it all came to be, everything was far more explicit. Blood was smeared along all corners, in every room, and without question, on the broken surface, where others still bled until they found peace or malice, magick making some dissolve from sight.
Others, who had yet to, were even posted on walls by way of sharp weaponry, or hung from the ceiling by any which way they could have. This tainted piece of the world showed the price many paid for the freedom of others, but death would never be as soothing once towards those who dared to take that freedom away.
Amidst the massacre lied the lone survivor, who sat on the floor covered in tears, blood, and entrails. Most of the three, being his own. He was a thin, well-toned male, wearing black stealth gear resembling the ensemble of most of the fallen. He was frozen in his place until he found the strength to slay his fears, and stand as best as he could. From each step he took, he found a new reason to lay and die, since the pain bore too great of a burden. Every muscle was damaged, with a flaring feeling within his body that added more to his distress, even more towards a scar on his right forearm that surrounded the tattoo of a beautiful flower. The arches of his feet ached as if he walked over the sagitate blade of Thanatos itself, and his eyes were blurry and multiplied by what may have been poison from any one of the oppressors.
As he took careful steps over the remaining bodies, his vision became clear enough to see a man with long, majestic black hair come before him barely stepping over the attrition, wearing a silver trench coat of a unique design covered with black henna decor. As the man came to his side to help carry him out, the male pushed him away with the little strength he had, as the fancy male stood without a piece of shock.
"Why," the beaten man spoke in confusion.
"Because you're weak," the fancy one answered, before he assisted him despite the dark man's struggle.
He kept oscillating between states of consciousness, feeling as if he were traveling forward through time, because what could have been a ten minute trod of agony, felt like three long seconds that put a smile on his face, until he was given full awareness of his surroundings. That what he had just survived was far from a dream and far worse than a nightmare.
He was now outside and on his knees, where dissolving bodies gave way into the mud and weighing rain, if they didn't lay on a broken vehicle, or charred and beaten concrete. The silver clothed male, who stood outside with him, seemed untouched by the downpour, as he smiled and spoke with his back to the broken man with a calm sense of justice.
"So, evil triumphs when good men do nothing. What is it when good men do something? Your answer lies around you. You people, always ready to take part in affairs that are far deeper than the human or half breed mind and soul will ever comprehend. I hate to see this end with you this fragile, and after you placed such a delicious display of power against the others, and myself. Just know that if we meet again, under any circumstance, I won't hesitate to make you see where you came from…and I will see you again. That is, of course, if Fairuza doesn't beat me to you."
He petted the man's head before he walked away, and saw one of his own limp to him a hurry, ready to beg for blessed renewal of his life. What the amalgamated minion gained for his loyalty was a swift snap of his neck, as the apathetic man in silver walked into the darkness carrying another body over his shoulders. He smiled, as the man in black stayed set on his knees, closing his eyes in wishes that he was still, of all things, alive.
Four Years Ahead…
The business that is known as Devil Hunting is based on commission with both worldly clients, and those that are of a higher existence, the latter being the toughest to gain the flattery and compensation of. Each kill to some in this profession is a chance for them to cleanse their soul deathly held low by sin. For others, it's an excuse to shed blood that is not their own, even if the victims turned to the darkness were at one point human, or close to the assailant.
Others, however, are in it to discover themselves. Somehow, their past is in tune with the monstrosities they force their lives upon from sunrise to set, and there is often no escape from it. It is only because there is always a darkness to everyone's past and present, simply because darkness takes interest in anything the light does, and the light takes interest in everything. That fact holds more iron especially if it's the product of an intimate engagement between the two worlds.
A bustling super market was an afternoon's venture for a man in his late thirties, who looked calm and relaxed in his navy blue business clothing, and pressed white polyester/cotton shirt. He pushed the cart along and picked up every item on his mental list as if he had been in the store enough times to know where everything was. Most of it consisted of meat products and orange juice, and with each time he picked up a new item, he looked over his shoulders, with the feeling that he were being watched by someone far off. He shook away the paranoia once he began to check out the items, while catching the eye of the female clerk. After they threw multiple innuendo at each other, a late night invite to the man's estate was issued and accepted.
The man went onward to his fancy car with a gleam in his eye and a wedding band back on his finger. Once it did, the feeling returned that someone was nearby, waiting for him to screw up to his or her liking. He knew that it'd come to this as this night came on this exact day. Now that it was here, it was only a matter of time to see if his dreams would come to fruition, or a sudden, abrupt divine intervention. Though greed drove him for one, what was still pure prayed for the latter.
Night had finally come for what was planned, as the man came home with more items of an occult nature, with sheer joy that his wife was out of town, and he'd be inside his next mistress. As he exited his car with bags in hand and a beaming smile, he sensed it again, only it was stronger, and understandingly darker, as if the force he felt was behind it couldn't wait any longer for him to finish his deed.
No longer with a sunny façade, he took small steps to his front door, as he looked all over the area, anticipating someone rushing towards him with a murderous mindset. Instead, there were only crickets and fireflies, if not the dance music blaring away a few houses down, which had bass rifts as fast and sporadic as his heart rate. After noticing the music, he even questioned why the two neighboring houses on each side seemed awkwardly lifeless. With shivers that quickly came and went from the sights and feelings, he placed the key into the socket, while questioning why such frigid air came from the bottom crack of the door.
He opened the door without stepping in, just to see if anything looked wrong at first sight. As the door hinged all the way to the opposite wall, he was glad to know that no one awaited him behind it. Still with careful steps, he entered his home, and took full effect of the cold air within, quickly chilling his blood and making his jaw vibrate. His eyes focused on anything he could allow himself to find that was indecent in his house, but everything seemed in place, save the fact that his air conditioner was in the shop.
As his senses came back to him from a brief loss of clarity, he began to hear something that sounded like a slow, bellowed breath that shook the house to a soft rattle. From there, he took blunt notice of how much his thin shirt added little protection from the icy air, to the point where he had no choice but to drop the groceries at the same time he focused on the living room in fright. Surprisingly, it wasn't the sword embedded inside the middle head of his three-headed guard dog that got his attention. The man noticed that second to the person that clearly owned the weapon, who sat mostly in the darkness, but was moonlit by a window to his right, enough to make out a red trench coat, light skin, and a tuft of white hair.
"You must be Brandon Corvo," the man in red identified with a calm voice.
Brandon nodded, "W-w-who are you?"
"Let's just say that someone up there's on your side," the shadow replied, as he stood up and revealed himself in more visible light while taking his sword out the dead beast.
The man's jacket was entirely red, its design sleek and techno-gothic, for lack of better words, covered an equally unique black and red vest. His face was handsomely structured and, though youthful, had the markings of someone that had seen more tragedy than any one person could ever bear. Brandon, however, was about to have it easier by premonition, though tonight he almost lost something that can't be returned so easily. Then again, as the platinum blonde man looked deeply into his soul, he realized that, in essence, Brandon lost that long ago. All he did was shake his head and viciously take Brandon by the arm outdoors, who tried to struggle out his grip.
"You know what I don't get about you people," the man started, "lack of careful planning, but everything's starting to make sense. You've been making offerings to a demon with women you were cheating with, simply because you're tired of them. This happens every September."
"I'm one more away from getting what I want," Brandon hissed into his face, "it offered me power…more than I already have!"
"She doesn't think so," the man titled his head back to the house
As he looked over, Brandon noticed a slender, familiar figure coming from inside, shaking a red container that formed a clear fluidic path of its content. More than praying that the woman wasn't holding and pouring gasoline, he prayed silently and deeply that the woman holding it wasn't his wife.
It was.
"Men," she growled with baseness, "can't live with 'em…"
She ignited the flame of Brandon's Zippo lighter.
"…but you can enjoy watching their things burn without 'em."
After knocking out Brandon with the can swung at his temple, she gave the red man the canister to close. Once the can was secured, she threw the lighter on the liquid path. As it went on its way, she smiled towards the white haired male and wanted to make love to him right there in front of her easily proclaimed, though violently sedated ex. To hold herself back in case future debris halted the event, she only spoke in a sultry voice.
"I can't thank you enough, mister…"
"Dante," he spoke softly with a glance to her, "and don't thank me yet, Cara. The best part's coming up."
Once the fire reached its set destination of more inflammable items inside the stove set to leak gas, the entire house was soon enveloped in the flames and explosions that were meant to be. People raced out their homes and stood wide-eyed at the heated event, not one noticing the trio across the street. Though it seemed all over in the mind of Cara, Dante knew otherwise, which made him run towards the house, just in time for the demon to accept its sharp, swift, and multiple rewards.
Moving its last before it was stabbed in the neck, no one that looked didn't know what to make of the brief fight, except the one that ended it. Cara, who looked ahead declaring her single status, watched one hot thing deserving the other, ready to show the most explicit PDA she could to the unique and enigmatical detective. As for Dante, he looked deeply into the fire, and smiled at multiple things at once. Among them all, was the feeling that he was on the right path to find what all life hopes for. Happiness, if not for himself, then for those that were robbed of sharing it with him.