[New Notes in the Manifest]


Okay, so this was my first fan fiction story. It's riddled with errors. THIS IS NOT THE REBOOT CONTINUITY.

Are we clear? Good.

I will also be using a world based on my own thoughts, so expect nothing to be like the Devil May Cry games.
There'll be nods to the series, but don't expect it to be worshipping of it. Think of this as a lot of video game characters inside a crime thriller.
I'm restless, creatively speaking, so there are dalliances with other genres as well. Basically, this won't follow much of the established canon. This is it's own thing.

For clarifications sake, that means this is a fresh start for DMC. My rules, different things go.
Don't take anything from pre-established continuity going into this, because it won't mesh.


The day was hot, a searing stew of vacant emotion and meandering thoughts. Inside a business building, a business-mind spun out.


Hard to believe it'd been six years.

Six entire years since the last time a tournament was held.

A man named Rig surfaced, whoever that asshole was. He was hellbent to destroy DOATEC, the son of Victor Donovan, one of the company's ex-CEOs, also ex-living.
Now that man's boy was running MIST. Just another terrorist organization, but if you ask them, saviors to mankind. Don't know how you call killing people en masse being a 'savior.'
The gang was a sore spot; they caused all kinds of havoc across the world, playing to their parent company's worst enemies. They'd grown, using vast swaths of heartless clones, abominations.
Eventually, they found themselves a nice little island to settle on. All their bureaucratic power was consolidated into a micro-nation. No one even thought they had bureaucratic power.

It was a bit of a joke, at first . . .

What a damn mistake that turned out to be, thinking they were a joke.

Meanwhile, stateside, DOATEC failed. Hard.

Their commercial appeal weakened as competitors out-manned their base.

Ratings for the fifth installment were so disappointing it wasn't even funny. Advertisers cut their support and left the company without any major sponsors.
Victor's reputation still tainted there business operations, so no one trusted them anymore.

Nothing but depression in an email.

Helena herself had nearly died on a company power plant to the hands of assassin Christie, her absurd mortal nemesis. Why does anyone need a mortal nemesis anyway?
Yet, while she was mulling all this over in her head, thinking about all those people, and how infuriating the last few years had turned out, she realized something.

". . . Those days are repeating themselves." Things were bad, but in a sense, they'd always been this way.

Sitting in her office, she was tired from a long day of work. Years of skullduggery just drained her energy. How she stayed in shape was beyond her.
The woman draped over her leather chair, positioned behind her dark oak desk. It was some fancy, ornate thing. Whatever, it made the room look professional.

The blinds were drawn shut and the lights turned off. It was the end of a weeklong heatwave.

A few simmering rays of sunlight peaked through from between the shades.

The woman felt a headache coming on, so she doused herself in crisp darkness.

Helena pressed a button on the intercom at her desk and spoke into it.

"Bayman, my office."

The burly Russian soon entered the room with a powerful presence.
His temples were graying and his voice was smoother, deeper than in his youth.

He briefly touched his face, running his thumb down his scar as he recalled for a fleeting moment the pain of receiving it.
The man could still remember what it was like that day, the smoke in the air, the choking heat. That cloaked monster.

His defacement cut into his mug diagonally.

Running his thumb across the mark, above on his forehead, he trekked down through an eyebrow, across his nasal bridge, and ended on his cheek.

It ran deep all to his roots. Strangely, he never forgot that day. Must be unaddressed PTSD.

But he quickly moved his hand away, back down to his side, presenting himself as the model security soldier.

"What do you require, miss?" Bayman always spoke gentlemanly towards her. How else would he show respect?

Since the last tournament in particular, he had become chief of Helena's staff. His knowledge regarding the company's political standing was rather important.
He'd done work as a former 'short-term freelancer.' Working with this new version of the company was gratifying . . . gave him a chance to make up for past mistakes.
Once, he'd been paid to kill this woman. Money always changes the sides of course, but those days mattered little to the modern front.
A bit tired, he was curious as to what she was going to ask him, considering that it was never in-character for her to call on him on a weekend.

She kept to herself, and he acknowledged that.

There was a tense silence.

Her face had a look of anger, resentment. Hopefully, that wasn't for him.

"Is there something bothering you?"

Helena raised an eyebrow, "Bothering me? What gave you that impression?"

"Uh, ma'am, you never request company. That and you're just . . . staring at me. You aren't sending me out on a mission this early in the year, are you? Because that just occurred to me."

She chuckled a bit. It was a kind of cynical, light thing. She found it genuinely funny, and he didn't quite know how to take that.
He wasn't sure on her mental state, it was hard to tell if she was floundering or toying with him. She made him feel uneasy.

He'd never heard her laugh like that.

"No. No normal mission today. Nothing is going on."

"Okay. What is it?" He asked.

"You know the company has been facing financial problems in recent years, due to the 'cloning controversy.' The media loves hysteria.
I've been able to cutback the losses and rebuild by branching out into weapons and clothing. I've also spent time purging the company of corrupt assets, but we're still losing money every quarter.
We've lobbied for multiple governments to consider giving a bail-out to help recuperate, but after the recent threats of another Alpha, all answers have been a resounding 'no.'"

Bayman wondered why she'd bring up business with him, it wasn't his place.

For the most part, she seemed to just be reviewing the past, flipping over failures mostly.

"At one time, we may have been able to offer our services in handling an Alpha, but with our connection to the Mugen Tenshin Clan now strained, we couldn't afford it.
I'm feeling alone. The world is burning and I don't know if I'm the person who can stop it. There's so many mistakes that need correcting. What should we do?"

"Pardon?" He stood slack-jawed.

So, she'd lost faith.

"You cannot sit aside and let the current state of affairs continue on. Donovan's dead, yet his operations have been taken over and strengthened.
This is not a powerhouse company anymore. Christie remains intent to tear my throat out, it's only a matter of time. I'm doing what I can, but with so much isolation, I feel I can't perform as CEO."

He stared at her blankly.

"I'm retiring." She said, her beautiful face sullied by misery.

"Don't be negative." He said sarcastically.

"If things continue like this, the company might implode again. If we're gone, MIST wins, they always win. You're a soldier, you know war. What do we do?" Helena was serious.

She remained stoic, as always. What a paradox. She just readily confessed to her subordinate that she didn't know how to deal with her responsibilities.
Perfect timing on a perfectly shitty cake of bad luck and shame. Was it common to feel excessive rage? No, probably not. She thought about seeing a therapist for that.
The mercenary gave her a good, hard stare. Bayman realized that she was exhausted; no . . . deeper than that. Wounded.

She'd been wounded from a long time of constant work and frustration.

She thought she was a failure and she believed it.

"Ma'am, rest. Now's not the time for war."

She thought him over.

"When will it be? We all can't keep doing this game, this cruel parable. We're all on a sinking ship and the way forward is a dark one.
I'm not a good leader. I was probably never meant to be, my father wished a different career path. The company needs someone new, and far more ruthless than I."

His face straightened.

"War . . ." That was his 'thinking voice,' "What is it good for? A struggle is on the horizon, I can feel it."

Her head lowered itself.

"Don't think about it. I'll make a path for us," He told her, "Everything will work itself out."


Meanwhile- In the sprawling, crime-ridden city Edgemere, a devil returned to his wares.


A white-haired man walked into a poorly lit, gothic office study behind a black desk. As he sat down, he propped up his feet on the wood surface.
The walls were lined with paintings and an old bookcase. On other portions were the bare walls, bleak and barely renovated.
Each partition was painted dark, while one was composed of simple brown bricks. It sat next to the glass entrance that overlooked a luscious courtyard.
It was the only life growing in this twisted city. The panels all possessed barely visible stains on them, indeterminate in color.

Out front, the garden was unkept and slightly overgrown. The owner was pretty lazy, after all.
In the center was a little stone fountain that sprung it's fresh waters into the surrounding pool.

It never grew stagnant, always flowing like it were Spring.

To the left of his workstation was a warm old-style bar, like a new England pub. It was stocked with various liquors; gin, whiskey, cheap wine and other stuff like that.
Despite the fact it wasn't worth drinking all that, he kept it for guests. Maybe they'd get a buzz. He couldn't, but it looked nice. One of the many jobs he had in the past was as a bartender.

He was always a quick learner, a few brief glances later and he was golden.

But, for the most part, the cabinet was devoid of any other goods.

A lone exception was the mini freezer/refrigerator, where the man stored some vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries.

He was wearing a black red long coat that came down slightly below his knees.
The crimson coloring on his lapels also extended onto his shoulders and formed a thick stripe that ran down the outside of both arms.
At the end of the sleeves was an inch-and-a-half-long cuff of identical pigment that met and conjoined with the beam design.

All other portions of the coat were a stark stygian shade. Beneath, he wore a maroon button-up dress shirt fastened only halfway.
And, beneath this, he had a gray long-sleeve tee along with faded brown cargo pants, a black pleather belt, fingerless gloves and dark biker boots that came up to the shin.

He liked to keep things stylish, and he did look good.

His hair was styled mid-length and his face was a pleasant mixture of rugged male features.

His chair was comfy, even if pressed up against his shoulder blades.

"Huh, this is nice. No jobs for the weekend. I can just kick back and relax." He said to himself.

He grabbed a magazine of questionable content and began casually flipping through.

After five minutes of this . . .

The phone rang. It was someone familiar. He banged his left foot on the table's edge, and the handset flew off the receiver.
He caught it with his right hand as he put the magazine flat on it's back. He spoke into the phone uninterested, knowing who it would likely be.

"Yo."

"Dante, I'm sending someone in for you. She's uh . . . -She's different." The handler spoke.

His partner leered to himself.

"She give ya a hand-full?"

"Not exactly. She seems . . . unique; 'refused to speak with anyone else but you."

"What're you thinkin'? Trouble?" The man said.

There was a brief moment of silence.

". . . Yes, there's something off about it. Keep your head straight."

"Heh, gotcha, thanks for the tip." Dante snickered.

"Good luck."

"Of course, Morrison. I'll be waiting." He almost groaned as he threw the phone off to the side, like he didn't care.

Somehow, it landed right back on the receiver, as if he'd aimed for it.
Well, now it was just time to wait. Ever since he'd taken up normal private-eye-type work, his business had grown healthy.
He liked the way cash rolled in, it was a different kind of work he enjoyed. He leaned back to enjoy peace and quiet.

He fiddled about with the floppy book some more, waiting on end for about twenty minutes.

The woman hadn't arrived yet. Odd.

"Haah, okay. That's starting to get boring." He groaned, closing the catalogue and tossing it on the desk.

As he did so, he took his feet off the desk, leaning forward to wipe off the marks he left behind.

"Pfft . . . Ppppppppl . . ." He began making sounds with his mouth, rolling his lip as he stared at the ceiling for another twenty minutes.

He kept trying to make sounds but he soon tired of this as well.
The man stared at his non-existent watch, then glared at the clock on the wall.
Forty-five minutes. Okay . . . this is getting annoying. He hated waiting a lot.

Who was this person anyway? He'd find out soon enough, he supposed.

A half hour went by. He'd fallen asleep, but when he came to, the woman had still not arrived.
The smells hadn't changed, nothing was disturbed.

God damn it.

He sat awake for ten minutes, fiddling with a drawer handle.

Still, no one.

"Oh my god, you kiddin' me?" He muttered aloud.

When Morrison calls, the client arrives within twenty-five minutes. So what the hell was taking so long? God damn, she better be here soon.
His wish was instantly granted when an exceptionally beautiful platinum-haired woman wearing a black dress walked through his front door.

Upfront and center was the woman's chest.

The bells clanged about playfully, and with a British accent she said, "There's no need to look so dreary, sweetheart."

"No one's lookin' dreary on purpose ma'am, just my immense apathy boiling over. Speaking of which, what can I do for you?" He smirked.

At least the wait was worth it.

"I'm looking for a real man, someone who can help me. You don't know where I could find one, do you?" Her retort gave him temporary pause.

A 'real man?' Maybe brits are just behind the times.
Nevertheless, he did his best to accommodate.

"Look no further babe, whaddya need?" He leaned back in his chair, both amused and bemused.

Dante felt secretly curious as to why someone with her looks would bother with this part of town.

It wasn't a very good area to begin with. He lived in an urbanized environment, where proud thugs and gangsters ran amuck.
Not to mention the complete corruption in the police department, many an unsolved murder case fluttered his way. Such is life.

This crime would stop eventually, he'd see to that.

"Good boy, I knew you looked up to the task. I heard through the grapevine that you're a talented hit-man. You can make bad people . . . 'undesirables,' disappear. Is that true?"
She mentioned it lovingly.

Ironic that she's playing the seduction card while casually mentioning murder.
Still, he kind of liked her allure. There was something about her . . .-er, teeth.

She had very lovely teeth, yeah.

"Uh, sure. I do hits from time to time. It depends. Who you got suckin' up useful air?" He leaned forward. Murder was a strange game he rarely played.

It was beyond seldom when he killed a human. That was only if someone was totally, completely corrupt; an irredeemable person. Then, it seemed somewhat okay to him.

Even so, he tried hard to reserve judgment. The attractive visitor knew she had him hooked though. His eyes wandered.

"I want you to take care of this rather unpleasant duffer who used to be my husband."

"What'd this guy do to you, and frankly, why? Good lord, why?" He semi-seriously cracked wise.

She chuckled, "Your sweet."

His office was rather gloomy, though it appealed to her. It was odd, looking gothic like something back in England.

Advancing towards him, she naturally sat on the desk next to his legs.

Of course, go for the easy route.

She leaned in, knowing that this way, he could see her generous cleavage.

Size double d. Spectacular.

Despite the physical facets, her perfume caught his attention rather quickly. It reminded him of a dead time, something he'd rather forget.
Though they were pleasant, numerous memories flooded his mind in an instant. Some were happy. Some weren't for rebroadcast.

Some ended badly.

"I caught the bastard cheating with a French hussy . . . I want you to put a bullet right between their eyes, one each. You'll do it, won't you?" She pleaded.

The man thunk hard on that request. Something felt wrong, like Morrison had said.

He couldn't place it but-

"Well, what are one hooker and a jag-off to me? Lady, you got a deal." He began thinking to himself, 'Let's see where this goes.'

She gave a smirk of her own, "I knew I could count on you! You're such a selfless man. But, of the cost."

Now he knew she was just strokin' him.

"Ah, right. How much you got to burn?" He returned to focus, caught up in her subtle ways.

Actually, he quite enjoyed looking at that face of hers, so much so that the strangeness of the encounter made him completely forget about payment.
Eh, he could live a little. Not every rule was made to be followed. He was known for not following them anyway.

"Well, I don't have much. He spent most of what I had." She struck a sad, pensive look downwards.

God, it was like syrup on a pancake, he was just eating it up.

Checking her out, he said, "Um, I'm sure we could work something out. Where're you staying? You're not lonely or anything, right?"

He was kinda joking, the situation just a bit too cliched.

"Very." She said as she peered back up at him.

Jesus Christ, she had a lustful eye. That thing could strip the bra off a nun.

Roll with it.

"I think it'll be just fine." At this, Dante gave his charismatic smile, "I'm good at problem-solving."

She rubbed her palm slowly on his inner thigh, moving in rather unexpectedly. He didn't anticipate this, not today.
Since she was so inviting, the man caressed one of her dangling full-figured legs. Christie's calves were well defined and her skin was uncommonly smooth.
The woman leaned further in, deciding to seal the deal. She planted a soft kiss, setting his lips on fire. Sometimes, that's just the way the cards rolled.

Right now, he was a violin and she knew how to play every string.

After a moment, she smiled and her breath fluttered. The bombshell licked the inside of his lips, pressing her labellum on his.
He was semi-surprised by the use of tongue. She explored every space, mating their flesh together. Did she treat every stranger this way?
In truth, it didn't really phase him, he almost preferred it. Many women he'd barely known occasionally did much the same.

But, that was then, this was now.

Before their faces parted, she playfully bit his lower lip.

The man's hand moved further up into her dress, near her bottom.

Her chest beat faster.

She must have really liked that.

"What's your name?" It was a bit ridiculous that he didn't know by now.

"Christie."

"Dante." The man spoke it clearly.

"I didn't ask." She giggled.

Though willing to go out of his way for a pretty girl, he had no intention of killing anyone. Well, not until he made sure, at the very least.
Some dirtbags just deserved it. Who would step out on a girl like this anyway? Something wasn't adding up here, the more he thought about it.
It was just obvious, the story. Then again, when she looked the way she did, you really couldn't waste time thinking.

This was a bit different than his ordinary work.

Usually, his jobs consisted of helping track down missing persons, beating up jerky boyfriends or sniffing out cheaters.

Okay, so it wasn't that far off from his usual work, but she wanted him to jump straight to murder; no further details, just flirting, request, then done.

Interesting.

The sympathetic ones usually avoid death. They'd ask him for down-to-earth things, like a broken jaw or a repoed loan.
Usually, loss was enough for them, unless they really had it in for their former associate. Hell, maybe she did.

The only times it got more interesting than this was when the cases took on paranormal aspects. He loved that, dealing with paranoia, abandoned buildings, urban legends, ghosts or even Cryptid hunts.

A few cases of MIB's even came through occasionally. He took them mostly for shits and giggles.

Other work occasionally included solving crimes police had botched or wouldn't touch for other odd reasons.

His business, however, once carried a significantly darker lining to it.
Ever since a few years back, the work pool changed for the better, with these . . . 'More violent' cases becoming virtually nonexistent, eventually ceasing altogether.
That being said, he's always felt some kind of stain remained. Maybe there were still some hiding out there, lord knew he'd dealt with possession cases too often.

"What're their names, if you don't mind me asking? That's a kinda crucial step to this whole hit-man thing."

Christie smiled almost sadistically when she said, "Bayman and Helena Douglas."


To be continued


Reviews are encouraged. Thank you.

Oh, also check out the stories i've beta read for. You can find them on my profile page, so just click away, they're interesting.