Okay! This is a fanfic request-or something like it-by DomMod. I don't know how long this story is going to last (hopefully less than 20 chapters) or if I'll even finish it. But! I did say I'd give the idea presented by DomMod a twirl. We'll see huh? A couple of things/side notes: 1, there will be OC's (consider yourself aptly warned), 2, this story is solely dedicated to the anonymous reviewer DomMod (you know who you are) because it wouldn't exist with out him/her, 3, shifting POV, and finally 4, no, despite the fact that I know their shoes sizes and wouldn't mind locking them away in a closet for my own viewing pleasure, DMC and it's characters belong solely to Capcom (the stingy bastards) and not to me. And because I love A/Ns way too much, I'm going to cut this short. Enjoy the story.
Michael
The world was a cold place. Slick icelets of water poured down on his crown, slicking the dark brown hair through the thin layer of cotton his hoodie offered. Head spinning, ears ringing, ribs hurting, he pushed on. The chain leading to his empty wallet banged against his thigh, reminding him with each touch of what he was trying to get the hell away from. He couldn't feel his fingers, his throat burned from the cold with every breath. The only comfort he took solace in was the large, furry shape at his side. The steady panting and lolling tongue of the best reminded him he had a home, out there, somewhere.
'Frankie' his mother had called him when they'd found the small wriggling puppy stuffed in their trash can. His mother was nice enough, she had the same color of hair he did, but she had a god forsaken habit of taking in strays. Anyways, they named the puppy Frankie after the eternal voice of Sinatra, his mother's favorite singer. That's what she said anyways, though by now her son was smart enough to hold a few reservations about the matter. The name would come to personify the nightmare who'd tear everything apart three years after that. The dog hadn't had a single damn thing to do with nightmare either. Two years later, mom was dead, home wasn't a home and it was easier to pull up the jacks then stay. He hadn't planned on taking Frankie, but he wasn't about to leave his only friend in the hands of a bastard fuck stepfather.
Still his ribs hurt. He paused for a moment, leaning a shoulder against the rough brick of a nameless blur of a building. Obediently, Frankie stopped as well, sitting at his feet after shaking off the thick layer of ice water coating his thick matter fur. Breath frosting on the cold autumn air, the kid eyed the lights of the building across the street. He couldn't read the sign too well out of two black eyes, but it had to be a convenience store or some shit like that. Maybe it was a ma and pa place that wouldn't care if he crashed on the stoop for a night. Prodded on by the promise of heat-however little it may actually be-the kid pushed on. Anywhere was better than the rain drilling frigid holes into his bones on street corner.
Mary
The wind blew steady against the window, carrying the chilled rain in drenching sheets. For late fall, or what passed for autumn in the city, tonight was especially nasty. Damn holidays. Halloween always scared away what business there was as time encroached into the month of October. Of all the holidays, Dante gave this one particular attention, as it was one of the more hated ones of the year. Like usual there was no one about on this side of town, at least not after dark. He had no doubt the few 'people' he'd seen pass by in last hour would aid creating a headache before the night was through. A headache or two was worth a high priced job. The clock chimed midnight and still the lights of Devil May Cry stayed on, whatever rock station blaring on the speakers. Pool stick hit the white ball, knocking the solid blue ball into the far left corner. That put Dante in the lead.
"Slow night," Mary commented, bringing the bottle to her lips. Dante grunted an uncommitted sound, leaning over the pool table. Lock, shock, roll, the solid yellow joined it's brethren in the bowels of the pool pockets. The door chimed as the wind blew the door shut, the sound of footsteps pattered across the wooden floor. Dante's gaze didn't break from the next ball. One more and it was game. From her place, leaning on his desk, Mary shifted, hand subtly going for her pistols.
Michael
It was definitely not a ma and pa place, but it had heat. Most places weren't open this late. His stomach growled as the feeling returned to his numb fingers. Frankie sat down on his haunches, obediently not shaking the water from his fur. At least the dog was water proof.
"Can I help you?" a woman's voice. He squinted across the room. The smell of pizza, warm and gooey, hit his nose. The intangible hint of it hit his stomach like a sledge hammer, twisting it sickenly. The feeling made him all too aware of how long it had been since he'd last had a decent meal. Holding back a gag he reverently wished a pox on the woman-like blur across the room.
Mary
"You can start with a name," Mary commented, slightly annoyed. As usual, Dante couldn't be bothered with any customer who walked through the front doors of DMC, let alone if the customer was a kid. Judging from the growing puddle around the young man and his dog, she guessed the black eyes were there for more than decoration.
"… …. …." The boy didn't say anything. Brown hair was matted to the skull through the sweatshirt as two blank holes-for-eyes stared back at her.
"You still have a tongue right?" Mary asked flatly, considering briefly that he may in fact, not have one, before dismissing the idea. Still nothing. Annoyed Mary rose, slowly crossing the room.
"You're either going to speak or get out," she said flatly, impatient now, but coming to a stop a pace away from the kid. "Are you even listening?" She demanded, taking a final step closer to the boy, as if in some way, the physical difference would make up the miles of personal experience separating them. The dog-a wet, black short haired mutt-growled low in its throat, haunches rising and teeth bared. Both the kid and the dog looked a shade off starving. Mary drew up short, eyeing the dog quizzically. What was up with the dog? The low rumbling sound roused the hooded figure.
"Frank." The dog silenced immediately.
"Nice doggie you got there," Dante chuckled, still bent over the pool table, eyes on the white ball. The pool slide through his fingers, sending a yellow solid reeling across the green expanse of the table before falling it plunked into the side pocket. The kid didn't bother saying anything. Still chuckling, Dante stood, eyeing up the kid and his dog as he continued to laugh. He reached for his own bottle. "It's not every day a pet demon walks through the front doors."
The beer fell from her hands as she drew her pistol. Mary held the gun level to the space between the kid's eyes before her aim strayed to the dog. The kid stared at her, something flickering behind the deep brown eyes as the bottle hit the floor. It shattered, the amber liquid and glass exploded around their feet. Yipping quietly, the dog jumped back a pace. It stayed on its feet then, ears perked and alert, still growling.
"We're outta kibble and bits, but we got plenty of beer to go 'round," Dante commented, tilting his bottle back.
"Don't move," Mary barked lowly, eyes trained on the two before her.
"…Wow…a shop of phsycos..." the boy commented in a dull, lifeless voice. Turning the young man headed back for the front doors. He couldn't have been more than a few years younger than her and he had a demon for a pet? Since when the hell was she a phsyco? She didn't have a freaking thing like that for a pet. What was wrong with people?
"I said don't move," Mary snapped, thumb pulling back the pistol's hammer until it clicked quietly. The guy didn't even pause. He was pushing the door open….he was leaving? Since when did the bad guy-okay, so he was more like a kid-just up and leaves with out doing anything?
"Whatever," the kid mumbled, stumbling out the door, his black mutt at his side. A moment latter they were both gone.
"What?" Mary asked no one in particular, as she slowly lowered her pistol. Sighing, she shook her head. DMC always seemed to get the wierdest customers. She didn't doubt nearly half of them were a few marbles short. Then again, all things considered...she might be as well...
"I win," Dante commented carelessly. The pool stick sounded like thunder above the rock'n roll music as it hit the pool ball. The black number eight went rolling. End game. He'd won. It was just like him not to care. Unless it had tits, a decent way of kicking the front doors down, or zero brains coupled with demonic looks, he didn't make an effort for it. Well...not overtly anyways. Hmph...if it was serious enough, the case would come back to them. They always seemed to.
"Best three out of five?" Mary asked, reholstering her pistol. She didn't comment on the incident, just as she knew he wouldn't be bothered into bringing it up.
"You could try," Dante smirked, tossing her the cue. "Rack'em and crack'em Lady."