A/N: Hi! I've edited this first chapter, because... because I don't feel like going through and adding a sister to all those other chapters now. So i'll just go into this one and scratch out one itty bitty sentence about this 'Maya' that I completely forgot about since I never expected Nina to actually go home so I didn't consider Maya to even be important. Oops. So anyway. No-sister problem fixed now. Oh yeah. And Katya is now .
Teenage Girls With Cameras (Slightly edited for consistency)
The Devil May Cry sign flickered on when the sun crashed for the night, its golden luminescence breaking upon the edge of the world and spreading until it soaked into the horizon. He had boasted of always being open, always taking customers and jobs at all hours - even if it meant waking up in the dead of night to chase a mark through the city. The proprietor was kind of a mysterious dude, but reknowned for getting the job done in highly non-conventional ways.
His damage control needed a lot of work.
Nina was sixteen years old. She was different from most girls her age, who weren't half so clever as they thought they were. She knew her limitations and her talents. Her biggest was stealing. She was a runaway of boredom. Her life was boring; it was like any other sixteen year old girl's life. She'd grown up among the middle-class echelon, been to one wedding where she was the ring girl, attended two funerals; her mom was a home-maker. Her dad made more money as a construction worker, which was considered pretty damn well off in her cowpie of a town. The only remotely out-of-the-ordinary aspect to this mediocre existence was that she went to a dirty high school building that had once belonged to the government serving as a military training facility.
It was fun trying to imagine that there were ghosts of highly gifted, deceased secret agents there. But then the allure was washed out by the repitetion of walking the same dull, army green corridors and going to the same, twenty-by-thirty feet classrooms to learn the same shit she learned in fifth grade. Her life at sixteen had become a series of poorly-filmed clippings by an unsteady camera man blurred together and cut between by blank rolls of film called "sleeping".
Nina finally just decided something was wrong with her to make her feel as if her life was leading her nowhere. It had to be depression, or something totally beyond her scope of existence; before she reached the decision to run away, she searched through her family's mountain of photo albums to uncover its secret.
It was impossible to imagine herself at her next birthday. Or being eighteen years old, or twenty. She was wise enough to realize that she could not sit around ruminating about her life without trying to change it. She also knew that having a boyfriend, or lots of friends, were not conceivable solutions. Most sixteen year olds had boyfriends and lots of friends. Inside, she could tell by their shallow eyes and rehearsed smiles, they were still miserable.
Nina wanted change, bigger than anyone could achive in a lifetime, and she proliferated that by running away from home. She kept running ever since. She wondered many times if this was the most logical choice of action.
Then she found out about this place.
She had learned, through various sources of the city, that Devil May Cry was weird on its own, as was its mysterious proprietor. Well, Nina admitted. It's only because he's a devil hunter, on top of being extremely attractive (according to a colorful, wild testimony of a woman who said she worked at a dance-strip joint Dante visited rarely), and a hedonistic mercenary. A mercenary! It's considered 'cool' to know a gang member's cousin in my town.
The office was its own building, sitting there, two of the letters in its neon sign blinking constantly like a painful eyesore, demanding every iota of attention with its asymmetry. It was blocky and boring, carved out of old stone, plaster, wood, and looked as though it had been rebuilt about two or three times. Some parts of the building looked new while others looked like recycled parts of other buildings. Hard to say whether she ought to be impressed or feel sorry for the insurance company.
She moved across the street from where she had been standing under a yellow streetlight. She studied the big windows on her way to the door. He could see anyone coming a mile away if he just looked outside; she wasn't sure what to make of that. All she knew was that people were saying he was more than just human to do the jobs he did.
She scuttled to the front door, bent low, almost in half, so she wouldn't be noticed. Her thick hair was tied back in a tight pony tail and it pulled uncomfortably on her scalp; a trickle of sweat tickled down between her breasts. She tried the door handle with her breath caught in her lungs, like webbed insects.
It was unlocked. Duh. She let out a breath, stole another and held it again as she scooted in through the door, squeezing her larger hips (which she often had complained were disproportionate to the rest of her), through the opening. It was dark. Maybe the guy figured no one would show up after dark.
There was an old jukebox with its own special place; an innumerable amount of records were inside the glass. Near the back wall was a desk and chair, topped with a telephone, a box of pizza and a pair of boots somehow balanced against each other. A ceiling fan was lazily swirling air, but not doing much for the temperature. Just off to the side was a billiard table, a half-finished game on the green velvet.
A kitchen tucked away out of sight, empty glasses scattered here and there. The place really needed a woman's touch; she saw no sign at all of the man, so she stood up and ventured forward across the floorboards which complained with a series of creaks.
She went to the desk, because the alluring scent of pizza - no matter how old or cold it was - needed to be addressed before she thought about maintaining her status as a burglar.
She was, of course, now a hungry burglar. Very hungry. She had her eyes on that slice of pizza and it was the thing that kept her from noticing that the boots sitting on the table were, in fact, quite attached to someone.
She was just reaching for the pizza when the man's figure registered in her peripheral vision.
Her fingertips had stained themselves on the tomato-y goodness; now she was frozen still, staring, straining not to tremble too hard.
His hair was snow white, just like folks told her. His eyes were closed, but he had strong features like people from Italy - she knew because her own grandparents had strong Italian roots.
There was a distorted noise coming from the general region of his nose. He's snoring. Somehow, it was a perfectly human thing for him to do. She quickly snatched up a ten dollar bill from next to the box and put it in her pocket. Must've been change. Mine now.
She relaxed slowly, and let her fingers find the crust of the pizza. She lifted it slowly, then took one slow step backward... then another...
By the time her anxious, strangled nerves realized her leg had come into contact with something, she knew she was in deep shit when the crash of that something hard and metallic on the wooden floor shattered the peaceful dusty atmosphere. She did the only thing she could think to do and dropped to the floor, shoving the pizza slice into her mouth to muffle her short-breathed whimpers.
She heard him wake up immediately. Something clicked and the mercenary's breath had hitched.
And then it entered into her mind that this man was a cold-hearted killer. He killed for money. She was terrified but, in the same token, she was absolutely thrilled. What a perfectly great way to die.
She stole a glance behind her to see what she had knocked over: a six-foot meat-cleaver that could have taken her arms and legs off with a crunch like cutting lettuce in even less-than-capable hands. It was cruel and the stylized skull seemed to be looking right at her as if to say, "You can't fool me." How could she not have noticed that either?
Slightly disgusted by the feeling of sticky crumbs poking her knees, she heard him move. He slid up to his feet and stepped to one side of the desk. She hid even closer. Luckily this desk had a kind of eave to hide under. She tried to make her fat hips work with her, but it was no use. She reached into her bag slowly, glad that for once, she got a bag with buttons and not velcro. Muffling the snap of release, she slid her hand into her bag and fumbled just for a moment in a panic.
Then she closed her hand on a small rectangular object with a circular-like protrusion. She pulled it out and pressed down the button for it to charge. A camera. That was the best weapon she had, and judging by how dark it was in here, maybe it could stun the guy long enough for her to haul ass to the door.
The pizza-theft victim hummed to himself. When he didn't see anything he should be pointing a gun at, he moved around the table. Nina figured he must be thinking: there was a little mouse in here. A pizza mouse.
Could he smell the pepperoni on her?
When Nina realized that, her eyes flew open and she scooted around the desk, but then she heard two prominent 'thumps' just above her head and looked up. She realized he had jumped onto the desk and knocked the pizza box off of it, placed his hands on his hips and was now staring down at her with irritation printed all over his face.
The pizza slice fell out of Nina's mouth and splatted onto the floor.
He began, "Uh, can I help--"
Nina screamed, thrust the camera up at his face and clicked the button. A bright, blinding flash permenantly pasted his slightly pissy expression on her retina when she ran for the door, fumbled at the doorknob, and then threw it open. To her complete disbelief, what she saw then was still his face. Because he was standing right in front of her.
"Hey, chill--" She raised the camera, clicked the button, flashed him, screamed again, dropped her camera, and pushed past him to gain the street.
She realized she was laughing in between frantic gasps for air. By virtue of being reasonably charged with adrenaline, she managed to escape Devil May Cry's line of sight. This is almost fun, you know, in a creepy, maybe-I'll-get-murdered-maybe-I-won't-but-who-cares way.
Her feet dragging as she staggered to a stop next to an alleyway, she panted, half-hoping he wasn't following her. Half-wondering how the hell he got in FRONT of her so fast before she had even opened the door to get away.
Once she recovered herself, she walked on through the streets of the neighborhood to which she had arrived a few days ago on the back of a fresh produce truck. Everything looked closed; it was nigh peaceful, though she was under no illusion that it was safe. She knew that weirdos and maybe even demons also frequented this part of the land. That was part of the reason she came.
When she grew tired of walking, she sought out a lit window and signs. She scampered across a street, nervous to be crossing when there were absolutely no cars to speak of. Would a mercenary call the cops on her? She DID steal money... She wondered if he noticed it was missing.
She stepped into a reasonably clean space. Round, high tables and tall stools were close to the windows. People sat there; it was quite late for a young girl like herself to be out, but strangely this one place remained open. It smelled wonderful, very much like the coffee-cakes she and her mom used to bake together. The taste of pizza had only spurned her stomach to riot in her belly all the harder and renew its rumblings when food seemed close at hand again.
Fingering the ten dollar bill in her pocket, she approached the counter and the tired-looking young man behind it. He was pretty young, with a spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had tanned skin and strong, lean arms which he leaned on when she came close.
"What'll you be having, miss?"
"Can I have ... can I have a hamburger and a cup of coffee?" she asked, feeling ratty and ugly. She hadn't seen a comb in over three weeks, much less a bath tub or bottle of shampoo.
The man nodded and flashed her a smile that almost shocked her out of her seat. It was as if... just one show of those teeth, and that glint in his eyes, drilled into her and sent an embarassing warmth through her.
She lay her head down on the counter for a minute while she waited. She couldn't believe she was still winded. But then, she thought, I s'pose running like a bat out of hell for as long as I did will do that to a half-starved runaway.
She had just begun to smell the enticing aroma of burger on a grill when she heard the doorbell jingle and footsteps.
Slowly grasping the probability of the newcomer being the Devil May Cry man, she slowly peeked from over her arm that was sheltering her head.
He wore a long oxblood jacket now. It looked heavy and stiflingly hot. Definitely big enough to accomodate enough weapons to qualify as a walking arsenal of destructive lunacy.
But he didn't look at her from beyond the fringe of snow white hair. The freckle-faced man with the delightful smile came back. He looked at Dante and seemed to freeze for an instant, like a skipping VHS. He tripped on his consonants: "C-Can I g-get you something, sir?"
"Yeah. One strawberry sundae." He smiled suddenly, moving his hand under his jacket. "You new here?"
Nina choked, panic freezing her lungs.
But the man behind the counter said, "Yeah, I'm new."
The hand came out.
But all Dante did was lay a couple rumpled green bucks on the greasy counter. She relaxed, but still refused to turn her head to look at him properly.
When her coffee arrived, she asked for an ice cube. She got two, and when she blew on the coffee for awhile Nina twisted her eyes to look at the man. She could see more clearly now that he was more closer to her age; fine features, didn't seem to mind that he was shirtless under the coat that draped over his frame and bunched up at his hips.
A plate clattered in front of her. She jumped and almost fell out of her seat a record-breaking second time.
"Bon appetite," the man said, and flashed that smile once again. He seemed to stop stammering when he addressed her. She blushed and tucked in to enjoy the meal, but before the first bite could pass her lips, she noticed that the handsome lad was gazing at Dante with barely masked hatred.
Suddenly the snow-haired guy grinned ear to ear. "That's some demon you got there."
Her world turned a brilliant shade of red. The plate, the burger - all fell under her list of 'things-I-couldn't-give-a-shit-about' when the roar of gunfire suddenly pounded against her unaccustomed senses.
She fell off the stool, blinded for a minute, and scrabbled across the floor feeling very much like an insect. She had a perfectly crystal clear view of Dante's legs from here, among a number of things: the Colt .45-looking guns strapped to his hips (one of them was missing now because it was in his hand making enough noise to make her ears bleed) and his sculpted abs, skin so tight that it sort of wrinkled a little where his body was bending.
Then his hand moved down, brushing his naked hip to free the other gun.
And the thunder continued, the second firearm adding to the mayhem.
"Stop it," she croaked, then found her voice, filled her lungs with air and shouted, "Stop that! What the fuck are you doing?!"
Tucking her dirty knees to her chest, Nina watched him get up, hook his ankle around the leg of the stool, and then flip it around and kick it into the chest of a second man who apparently was just another innocent bystander.
He's murdering these people. He's not a devil hunter, he's a goddamn psycopath!
She was about to cry out in angry dismay, but swallowed the noise at what she saw next.
Many of the men began to spastically tremble and twist, a pink foam dribbling from their slack, dumb mouths. They weren't screaming and running for their lives; each and every one of them was possessed. As if adhering to some signal, they shed their bodies - it was like watching comedians pull off fairly intricate rubber masks. Blood pumped from vessels, before the demon's true forms took shape without being hindered by their fake bodies.
Nina shut her eyes, her breath caught in her throat. And then there was the smell...
Exhaustion and hunger had taxed her. She struggled to stave off fainting until she was sure she could wake up eventually and blindly crawled over dying or dead demons - which seemed to fall to the ground everywhere. She felt Dante run past her and slam a victim against the wall which had been covered with various old prints from the 1920's and up. Now, joining the photos and bits of history were chunks of demon, which melted, then began to smoke and burn away to ash.
Nina barricaded herself behind an overturned table and hoped for the best.
But something wasn't right. She looked around, feeling for her camera. Maybe, she thought half-seriously, if I flash the demons I can get away like I did from Dante.
Too quickly she remembered she had dropped it. Her face heated up brilliantly and she panicked so hard that she dared to lift her head and see where Dante was. She needed - no, she devestatingly craved to have that camera back.
She spied Dante on the other side of the room, cleaning up his handiwork. It was loud and deafening and her head felt like it had filled with cotton; doubtless she'd be deaf in one or both ears for quite some time.
He didn't seem to take notice. In fact, he was so caught up with fighting that he seemed to forget she was even there. More than that, it was the look on his face that kept Nina staring. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Celebrating with a boyish whoop, he skated sideways to dodge the onslaught of the monstrosities. With the massive sword she'd so gracefully tripped over in the office, he sent a demon flailing up into the air; he smoothly swapped for his guns and kept the thing airborne on an endless fountain of bullets, before rising up to smash its face to bloodied paste with his boot.
Nina was so busy staring, she only felt the cold when her skin actually began to burn. By then, she cried out again and turned, shaking her arm instinctively to ward off the pain and whatever was freezing her.
"A...AAH!!! What the hell what the hell is this shit on my arm oh God God help me it's burning--" A long, rambling profanity exploded from her lips as she smacked her arm and then began to sit on it. She glanced up, begging Dante to stop and help, do something...
The cold was creeping up at her arm. She yanked up her sleeve and saw that her fingers were turning purple and her skin a pasty, deathly white.
"OH GOD!" she sobbed, when she tried to close her hand into a fist, and couldn't. She kept trying anyway, all the while working up the desire scream.
The cold had reached her shoulder. Fear had closed its arms around her now and embraced her. This wasn't fun anymore, she realized, not fucking fun at all, and she wanted to go home and wished she'd just stayed--
"It's okay," she said out loud, and surprised herself with her own voice. Calm. Decisive. "It's okay. Just shut--" She shut her eyes, trembling as the cold seemed to stop just at her collar bone. Her heart hammered, then began to slow... and blackness fell over her eyes.
Dante cooled down long enough to realize that he wasn't alone. The natural high, that hard, pumping, throbbing rush in his veins, was dwindling already. He rubbed his knuckles, and wiped at his face - which in itself was a horror, smearing some demon blood over his cheek.
"Now," he sighed. "Where's Chickie McPizzathief? Hnn." He walked over to a table and knocked it aside.
The girl was laying there, her arm clutched in a deathgrip in the opposite hand. The tips of her fingers were turning dark purple.
For a minute his expression remained nonchalant and smirking, but then - in an instant - it was wiped clean like a slate.
He sniffed. "I still smell demon."
He reached his fingertips toward the still-warm iron in the holster near his back. With a click he considered the girl who was now possessed; she was unconscious, and the pallor of her skin seemed to grow with each and every passing second he deliberated over killing her. She was a little unremarkable - though something about her eyebrows really made her face dramatic and appealing. Bags under her eyes; she was dirty, and aside from the stench of Hell clinging to her like velcro, she needed a bath.
"Sweetheart, looks like you've got it rough." He looked her over, then made his decision.
Shoving the warm pistol into his holster, he crouched and lifted the pale-looking chick by one arm; she was as limp as a water balloon, her head lolling painfully back. He smashed open the door with one solid kick. Being possessed, he knew, wasn't always an automatic death sentence. But in no way did her condition make him feel any ounce of pity. The dame had nabbed some cash and ruined that slice he was saving for a snack; she'd woken him out of a sound sleep, blinded him - twice! - and ran off screaming bloody murder.
Tomorrow morning, he'd have to make sure his neighbors knew everything was peaches and cream.
At the office, he dumped her onto the sofa. She was still out like a light; her fingertips had stopped turning purple now. But rather than being cold, her skin had become burning hot; a sure sign that a devil had invaded her body. Or she could be fatally ill. Either way, it spelled trouble.
He picked up the camera from his desk and kept an eye open for the girl in case she started to move around. He was still prepared to put a bullet right between her eyes if she started to exhibit the usual freak-signs of full-body possession. He turned the camera over, quickly bored with it, and tossed it back on the table.
The half-devil sulked over lost sleep for awhile, nursing a cup of joe. It tasted like shit, and looked worse. He was pretty sure coffee shouldn't have weird things floating in it, but, whatever. Stupid coffee machine.
"See you the morning, kiddo," he muttered at the unconscious girl; a smile on his lips, anticipating all the fun - good and bad - that would ensue.