Foreword
Hey there, this is an alternate universe series. It's got nothing to do with any of the games.
Think of it as a what-if where DMC 3 just never happened, and uh, a few other things too. Dante's personality will be as it was in the first game.
Enjoy.
Mission 00: Back To the Meaning
Clawed nails scratched aged concrete; the feet they grew from galloped a furious pace.
Furry, blackened skin ran through the inky night. The malicious presence leapt over steel piping and old brick like it was a playground. This was a mockery of nature.
It moved past gargoyle brethren, flexing it's diseased tendons. Desperation filled most movements, it was like an abandoned animal. The arm of a small boy fell from it's mouth.
A grim trophy.
But it was not this hideous creature chasing prey; rather, something else seemed to be prowling after the beast instead . . .
The scurrying steps were loud, clanging upon the metallic-stone sheets of the city's plentiful rooftops. An evil grace it so displayed as it swung between gothic towers.
Shadows appeared and fell, a barrage of savage ways only the darkness could filter through did unto him a bad manner.
Sowing threads of chaos into the universe was just a natural conclusion to this hidden beast. Time was like a fuse, burning fast.
Not enough to stop the thing.
Two shapes bounded 'cross the course of these old grunge-laden structures.
Taking no effort, both entities shot from one building to another, never stopping nor breaking pursuit. Not once did they cease; everything was inhumanly fluid.
The silhouettes were the only signs of life, scraping high above the less fortunate districts.
The overall cityscape presented modern day horrors alive, slowly passing along their timeless fears to those that would inherit it's oblivion.
It was almost mournful, the gray skyline and the magic man chasing the satyr. Not even the sands of eden could spawn elegies to distract them.
Woe to this beast, of the earth's twisted-norse throne, it's own number burned brightly for all to sin.
But now was not the time for prophetical doom.
The chase was on.
So it went that they devoured one another in time, psychologically.
A raspy shriek cut through nightfall. A devilish cry screeched from the chase's forerunner.
Its long arms flailed savagely, unmitigated by human growth.
Try as it might, the creature failed to gain any distance over it's assailant. Those scarlet eyes zeroed in on it's back. A taller building lay before them.
Rushing towards the edifice's edge, it flung itself suicidal, far across the chasm between the two structures and far from the world of you and I.
It recalled the shaking of the ground, the construct was quite a bit taller than the one it left. Nevertheless, cryptids must try.
The thing felt a drag on it's billy horns, fighting back the air itself. Sad to say, it simply wasn't built for this. The forest was it's natural home, and the hunter knew that too well.
He didn't care, so long as the beast was his.
The man drove it from the woodlands, no remorse.
That alone would not satiate his appetite, nor his job description.
Desperation had caused the beast to misjudge the gap and it landed fierce against the building's wall. Time to tear it down.
Those icy fingers grasped deadly at the concrete, legs lacerated by shattered glass, until it's hands found purchase at the very ledge.
Those worn, barren feet tried to gain traction on the stone wall, hoping to hoist itself up. The roof was it's safety, close but ever so out of reach. Steadily, it neared . . .
A loud bang accompanied an abrupt puncture through it's chest.
One bullet tore these aspirations asunder.
The monster shrieked recklessly, wearing its anger like a badge. So, it fell a few stories.
Wind rustled by it's shaggy hair till the beast came crashing upon solid, serious earth.
An alleyway; crime's birthing grounds.
Rats scampered away from the repulsive figure. It wasn't still but a moment.
Springing to life instantly, it took no time to recover from it's plummet, the creature standing upon its grisly-clawed hooves in mere seconds.
Convulsing, it spat black blood upon it's goaty beard. Pond scum seemingly surrounded itself, trash from humanity discarded back there.
Those bright, reflective orbs, it's truly consuming eyes, searched the dark for any signs of . . . Him. It couldn't wait for the chance to deliver retribution. The enemy's spirit would pay.
It's spindly digits twitched eagerly, lusting after his blood.
The sharp claws scraped against one another every so often.
But the alleyway was silent, eerily lacking all sound.
It could feel so much as a pin drop, and yet . . .
Nothing.
A sound came from somewhere off to the left. Like a whip, it cracked it's gaze off to that direction.
Like before, the air was still.
It delayed a little while longer, awaiting it's predator to emerge . . . But he didn't show himself.
The monster hissed, vehemently longing for the flesh of a Cambion. Greedily, it prepared itself to charge into the dark and strike down the dark one.
Yet another sound jangled in it's warped ears.
A whizzing noise; the sound of something skidding through the air.
Before it had any chance to take action, a projectile pierced its torso; the ornately grotesque blade pinned the braying fiend to the brick wall of a downtown business building.
It had been trying to jump this new prison only a few moments ago.
Cries of inhuman anguish ripped through the air; a squalid Goat Man squirming, agonized.
The sound of bored footsteps approached.
"The darkest places in Hel are reserved for devils like us. I suppose you're going there first." The man said, his shadow looming.
It glared down its enemy with scorching hate. What greeted this was chill of winter's yearn.
First, he was only a murky moving shape in the dark. Then the shape became an outline of a man in the moonlight.
His strong jaw and ideal nose spoke of his borderline sadistic, rugged elegance. Ever so often, the light would catch his frigid sapphire eyes, beneath a canopy of snow white bangs.
He was wearing a black red long coat that came down slightly below his knees.
The crimson coloring on his flared 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.
Silver buttons and pins signaled a gothic calling, and he seemed to embrace that notion with the black screaming skulls on the hilt of his thrown sword.
All other portions of the coat were a stark stygian shade. Beneath, he wore a dark green button-up dress shirt fastened only halfway.
Below that was blue-tinted black long-sleeve shirt, and his pants were drab gunmetal gray cargos. Fingerless black gloves adorned his chaotic hands, and dark biker boots up to his shins.
The devil inside was a stylish savage, and on these streets cousin, ya had to dress to kill. And he was the master of death, or at least at one time he was.
His soul was frostbitten with a ruthless darkness, and this frozen history scarred him so.
He leisurely strolled toward the demon, now that his target was confined.
The ebony tails of his bi-chromatic coat swayed in a similar fashion with his movements. Swagger was king.
Endlessly, the beast swiped at the nothing unbound, and fidgeted with the sword still plunged through it's chest.
Step by step, the devil drew nearer.
It became more frantic and despaired, the lost one here to reap that which it had sown.
Scrambling harsh enough, it managed to pull the sword a few inches out from the brick wall.
Now that this prison was through with the beast, it hobbled for a moment's disgrace.
The hunter smiled.
"What's your rush? I thought we were gonna get to know each other better."
Almost like it knew it was being mocked, a roar erupted from that animal-mug: A twisted howl meant to curdle the blood of children. Innocent children.
"Aw, I'm hurt. Since ya don't wanna be friends, guess I'll have to finish things up early."
Out from the depths of his trench coat came the muzzles of two guns, one of black metal and the other glistening silver, but both custom designed.
On the sides of the barrel were special engravings and insignias that imparted these weapons with a sentimental value as well. They were mementoes.
Just as he took aim, the man began to notice something 'different' about his target.
The limbs elongated and became gangly, trying to grow larger at the expense of it's own mass.
It's head grew disparate, enlarging and bubbling out. The hair fell out to reveal cracked and blistered flesh.
By the sheerly mangled shape of it's head, the skin that stretched began to tear away.
It's eyes grew colorless and big as saucers, the lids totally receding as the creeping orbs popped forward. Tentacles mutated from it's sores, covered in strange, pus-like mucus.
Those fingers began to deform like tree branches, and it's screams grew harsher.
A set of spider pincers burst from the entity's neck, which soon too began to grow longer and ridged.
From it's hips, a flurry of fried limbs stabbed out of it's own flesh. These charred members wiggled around with no master.
Slowly, it came away from reality, revealed for the true thing that it was.
Thousands of feelers erupted from it's mouth plentiful, the jaw becoming square as it almost tore away.
The head-heavy nature made it squat on all fours, permanently bipedal. An unholy grin creased across it's leathery 'face,' if you could call it that.
It's legs changed too, becoming thick like trees, and retaining their woolen nature. The hair thickened, becoming like a sea otter's, resisting any toxins that might seek to poison.
Despite it's size, the depraved organism slithered forward with a gleeful abandonment of physics v. anatomy. If the man let his guard down, it could wriggle through his innards like a tapeworm.
No.
Not this time.
Quickly, the silver hunter unleashed a maelstrom of gunfire; pulling the triggers of both his handguns in rapid succession.
The attack was haphazard, aiming more for crowd-control than deliberate precision. Some bullets hit the creature in its stomach, others tore through the rotten flesh of it's many limbs.
Those forgotten simply passed by and embedded themselves into brick. Despite the metallic lead-shower, it didn't seem to be hindering the inevitable act of the creature's malformation.
By now, everything had contorted so wildly out of proportion that the devil couldn't exactly tell which parts he hit.
It wheezed it's stretched lungs and began to screech at the stars.
It tried to maintain this transformation, this dark eyesore.
The sound?
It was like nothing else in this world.
The revolting croaks felt like a cascading river of roaches and needles grinding through his ears, begging to crawl under his skin.
Ebony and Ivory trained themselves on a single point – his blasphemous sword, the rebellion.
Riotous waves of slugs struck the handle of his weapon, one after the other, perfectly stacking themselves, and forced the entity back against the cinder block barrier.
Following up with more shells, his next salvo targeted the demon's wrist. In almost an instant, it's festered forearm had been riddled with enough holes that the entire hand crudely severed away.
Falling to the floor, the blood sizzled into the pavement, stinging and stiffening to stone.
The thing wailed from simulated-agony, feeling genuine anguish, before seeing a flash.
In a blur, the hybrid moved to the monster's oversized face, and put one last shot into it's skull.
Smoke blistered up into the trashy air.
But the monster would not die. Not yet.
Crawling, the gurgling sound it made as he ruthlessly put bullet after bullet into it's twisted brain could stay with anyone for a lifetime. He had plenty of those kinds of memories already.
One more would keep them company.
There was a lot of gray matter to get through, but he pulverized it all, one cartridge at a time. This twisted man wasn't afraid.
Not anymore; not for a long time. Fear did no one any good, most certainly not one touched by the sad wings of destiny.
The splatters on the wall made such a soul-crushing splash.
It prayed for cavitation; he delivered unto the beast this ghastly desire. To think, he'd timed himself at only five minutes.
After the destruction of the nervous system, it's mind finally broke away into shards of cosmic glass, then began to putrefy.
Rapidly, it's entire structure began to dust away, becoming nothing but ash in the wind. He took care to preserve what he needed.
The hand.
He walked to it, preparing what he would need to do.
Crouching down, he held out his hand and a rune of some sort appeared in front of his fingers.
The man began to mumble aloud some old verses of Romanian text he'd memorized.
A golden light engulfed the severed thing, flashing a strange light that froze it in human time.
Now, through this old power, the hand was bound by the laws of human decomposition.
The only other thing it's slain keeper left behind was an echoing, horrid howl, imprisoned within a vermillion crystal fashioned from it's own blood: Its last trace on the mortal coil.
That was how demoniac biology worked, the destruction of the body brought about conservation in a crystalline method.
It could do nothing to humans, their physiology wouldn't accept it. Hold these 'leftovers' bore no consequence, but not so for the Cambion.
Made from demon and human flesh, they could consume this 'leftover,' retrieving power held within, as could any other demonic creature.
Lord knows the other remains were worthless, decomposing instantly.
Alone now, the man sighed.
The quiet, and for all others, peaceful night, enveloped him. Silence was good sometimes, it gave him the tranquility he needed to stamp out the usual visuals.
"Another day, another child murderer . . ."
Natives getting restless now.
He ran his right hand back through his snow white hair, retrieving his blade from the wall. Dante placed the weapon on his back, and it clung there without a holster.
It was a magnetic attraction, like it needed him to survive.
"At least I got what I came here for."
With that, he snatched the wretched extremity from the ground, and wrapped it in a dirty cloth he'd used many times before for the same purpose.
The object galvanically shifted and merged with him as he grasped at it, crushing the object inside his right hand. The rush was addictive.
He briefly glanced up at the crescent moon that hung in the sky. A small wave of clouds rolled past it to darken the world, for now . . .
A machine revved to life, guided by a steady hand
When it returned to glow, he'd long left behind that quiet avenue. The summer night's air was still balmy, even as Dante sped through the city streets on his motorcycle.
Hardly surprising that he had plenty of room to do as he pleased, being that barely anyone was out and about at this time. This part of town wasn't known for being safe.
The engine of the maroon power-cruiser roared as he hammered on the gas trigger; only slowing down just enough to turn a corner here and there.
It was about the only way he could gleam any excitement. He'd felt in the past few months, along with his most recent endeavor, that the nocturnal life round here had gotten a bit hazardous.
The small weight of the shot-off demon paw tucked inside the cloth, tied to one of his belt loops, was a reminder that even that wasn't the same.
Still, he tried to enjoy the feeling of the wind rushing against his face, and brushed the rest of his thoughts aside.
'I hope she doesn't mind the extra bit of blood.'
That thought alone was enough to make sure his attempt to enjoy the ride failed.
His tires shrieked as he drifted to make a left turn at the intersection. Just when he was about to speed up, he looked ahead to see a long line of cars, deadlocked in traffic.
He rolled his eyes as he braked, the front wheel squawking against black tar, and the bike ground to a halt. A ripple of smoke trailed behind him.
His tire lightly bumped the back of a blue automotive in front of him. He was able to stop just in time. The driver yelled some inaudible expletive out of the window.
Dante smirked in response as he drove around. He even waved back as he passed.
His cockiness quickly faded as he groaned, "Well, this evening's going great. Now she's gonna know I'm late, too . . ."
He managed to pull up behind a different steel-blue car in a more comfortable space. A cop had seen him and wagged their finger 'no.' Perfect.
Now, all he could do was wait.
And wait.
Aaand wait. . .
The slayer leaned forward as he rested his chin on the right handle grip.
Though only a few moments had gone by, to him it felt like hours, and he was already becoming restless.
He glanced back up at the cobalt car in front of him; neither it nor the traffic ahead had budged an inch.
There was nothing he could immediately entertain himself with as he sat in the traffic jam, living more like a regular citizen than a merc for hire.
He could feel it, the other demons that walked the Earth . . . they were lesser now. Just a little more would do it.
His blue eyes casually scanned back and forth at the scenery before him.
Still the same as before; yet suddenly, the sidewalk adjacent presented a golden opportunity.
Pedestrians walking along had spaced out enough that he could easily drive on it.
Well, you know what they say, 'Fuck Tha Police.'
Without hesitation he pulled his cycle up over the curb and almost instantly took off. Once again he was en route to his destination and feeling the rush.
Though the sidewalk was not as preferable as the asphalt road, he was much happier now that he was in motion. He swerved around random people walking.
He laughed a little as he heard their screams of shock and fits of rage in his wake, before it dissipated into the dragging gusts behind him.
It wasn't long before he'd managed to clear a few city blocks using his improvised method.
By that point, he was already passing the small car wreck that had created the hold up a few blocks back.
Two men argued over whose fault it was, as they'd collided head-on in the middle of an intersection.
Idiots.
The cops were helpless to stop him, bound by the size of their vehicle. Oh well.
It wasn't like he really needed this little cycle, but for the purposes of looking human, he maintained it's use.
Once he was in the clear, his untroubled mindset returned, as if he hadn't had any delays at all.
In command, he directed his vehicle back onto the asphalt.
After a few minutes of swerving in and out of different streets of the more commercial shopping districts, Dante eventually began seeing more upscale residences.
These were city homes, meant for the upper and middling classes while they were away on business from their suburban and country estates.
He grew irritated at seeing the neat rows of terraced houses that were only broken up by the occasional lavish and more modern apartment structure.
It was only on rare occasions that he'd tolerate taking on work for rich clients, even raising his fee to an exorbitant rate in attempts to deter them.
Certainly, he desired to travel to their homes even less than that.
Yet, for the past year, he'd been coming to this particular neighborhood for one client alone, Madame Alaïs de Goyon.
Despite what her lofty title might suggest, Madame de Goyon was not pretentious or difficult in the least.
On the contrary, she was like a dark and motionless pond in a garden; calm and inviting, and yet still mystifying.
Out of all the wealthy elite he'd taken on jobs from, he could safely say that she was like none other.
For one, all the tasks she requested of him were intriguing and almost always a challenge, but it was probably the woman herself that also kept him returning to her doorstep.
She was graceful and sure of herself without arrogance, and despite her sense of propriety, she was never shocked or close-minded about anything.
In this kind of cynical world, that was a god-send, if there was a god.
The latter trait was probably aided by the fact that she was a medium of sorts.
From the moment she requested his services, Dante knew the Madame had an ethereal presence about her. It was just one of those things he could 'sense.'
She never flaunted her 'talents;' only using her skills when it seemed necessary, and it was always in the interest of others.
It had taken some time, but Dante had forged a kind of friendship with her, and he found himself enjoying time outside of missions for the first time in a long while.
The solitude of his shop took a toll on him after so long.
He'd listen to stories of her childhood and the things she'd seen. He'd hear of her kind gestures from other people visiting.
They were happenstance, he only knew because her reputation frequently preceded her. Though he wasn't much for intellectual talk of philosophy and art, she found a way to make it seem interesting.
He was almost sure she could make anyone feel at ease.
However, the fact that she was cursed by this creature wasn't. He was the only one of the mercenaries she'd hired that had taken care of that beast.
He turned away from his thoughts as he came upon another series of homes; row houses and walled-off estates styled in Gothic Revival and Queen Anne fashion.
Strange sights for such an industrial city as Crow Castle. That was the local name for it anyway.
He turned his motorcycle left and began slowing down. He approached his favorite client's terraced house.
It was probably just as old as the city itself, at least.
Although it was essentially the same as the other four houses that it was connected to, Madame de Goyon's house was kissed by a growth of ivy, scaling it unlike any other barren flat.
Apart from her residence, the whole rest of the building, and all other structures in this district, were untouched by any plant life at all. Of course, any growths were chopped away.
But not her house.
Dante parked his motorcycle in an empty space in front.
When he approached the front steps, the white door opened before he even walked them.
A slim, white haired gentleman greeted him with a slightly disturbed smile.
"Good evening, Mr. Redgrave."
It was the butler, Mr. Grimswell, though his surname did not suit him by any means.
"Evening, Reaps." He replied with a smirk of his own.
"Madame is waiting for you in the parlor room."
Despite how kind the man might have been, there was always just a little something off about those eyes.
After he ushered Dante inside, he offered to store his weaponry away. The slayer snapped his fingers, and his items disappeared. Probably would have been smart to do that on the ride over, he realized.
Ah, no matter, he was going too fast for anyone to see anyway.
Grimswell immediately turned and walked away to carry on his duties.
Dante walked out of the small foyer and looked into the open reception. Madame de Goyon stood in the middle of the room, expecting him as usual.
She was wearing a long blue dress that stood out amongst the dark wood antique furnishings; it glistered like a jewel when the light hit it.
Her chestnut brown hair was usually flowing free, but tonight she had it pinned up; probably just returning from some gala event earlier in the night.
Her face kept a hint of rouge as she smiled upon seeing him.
Though she was considerably older, Dante wasn't quite sure how old she truly was.
She was either younger than most would assume, due to her graceful beauty, or older than one would assume, due to her vast knowledge and regal manner.
Reminded him of his brother at times, actually.
"Good evening, Anthony. It's a pleasure to see you again." Her accent betrayed her foreign title as she spoke like any of the other upstate wealthy class.
Her tone was never haughty or offending, unlike some other pricks in suits he could name.
"Likewise, Alice." The demon hunter could never get the hang of pronouncing her first name, and she didn't mind his substitute.
He held out the wrapped parcel to her, the cloth coming slightly undone in the process. A few clawed fingers exposed themselves.
The smell of sulfur and gritty sand mixed with the warm fragrant scents of the house. No matter what, it smelled awful.
She approached him, placing an envelope with his payment in his left hand and taking the goat's 'paw' from the other; unwrapping the parcel fully to examine it, just for a moment.
She didn't seem to be bothered by the foul stench that emanated from it since she held it up to get a better look.
The madam observed it within the light of the ceiling lamp overhead.
When she was satisfied she smiled, "It is indeed what I was looking for. I can always count on you, Mr. Redgrave."
Her lack of criticism and that gracious expression somehow made him feel worse than if she'd just insulted him.
Normally he'd be able to brush off his inner emotions, but it seemed pointless with her.
So, he grimaced openly, "You know I was late. I was messy . . . People saw me."
Alice lightly chuckled.
"Don't be so critical. You did your duty to the letter. I have what I need, and I've received it in enough time that I am able to use it for what is needed.
I'm confident you'll aid me again when next your services are required. At the very least, the people of this city are less skeptical now."
The reluctant hybrid remained stoic, staring off a bit.
"You have my word, next time."
He stuffed the envelope into a pocket of his coat.
"Very good!" She replied before summoning a maid, "Detra!"
A young woman promptly entered the room.
"Yes, Madame?"
"Take this to my study, and be ready for tonight."
As she took the strange, blood-stained hand from her, the young girl's brown eyes steadied for a moment. She knew exactly what that meant.
Although her look of full understanding quickly disappeared after she began to turn away, the revolting smell distracted her.
Her youthful maid was gone within a second.
Dante had an inkling of what was intended, a hex broken with a counter-curse or something, but did not inquire further . . . Even if he was somewhat curious.
Alice had invited him to watch a few of her mystic proceedings, but it was a rare occurrence.
Clearly she had her reasons for being cautious, for sometimes her evenings were simple alchemic experiments, and other times, complex, esoteric rituals.
Despite the danger, these forays into the world of the supernatural were often for the benefit of others. It wasn't far off from what his own job, but her type of paranormal was different than his.
It was a world of magic and fringe sciences; Werewolves and Leprechauns, or some such shit.
He didn't know if she demanded payment for those she helped, like he did, though she obviously wasn't in dire need of any more money.
That was probably one of the many reasons Dante continued aiding her, it wasn't about profit. Though their methods were different, they had a very similar perspective on how they handled their 'jobs.'
The smells from the kitchen were beginning to fill the room, even all that way into the parlor.
'Alice' took a sniff and smiled before addressing him, "I believe dinner is almost ready. I trust you're quite hungry after your excursion. You will dine with me tonight."
Hmm, that was new. He hoped she didn't get the wrong idea about him.
Even if he wasn't hungry, which he definitely was, he'd have no choice in the matter.
The first few instances of their business transactions, he tried to decline her generous gifts on top of the payment, but she had a way.
Sure enough, he wound up standing in her dining room somehow. Her table was beautiful, a charcoal-mahogany woodcut.
She looked out the window into the bay.
"Would you accompany me on a brief stroll while they're finishing up in the kitchen?"
He was a bit hesitant.
"Hmph. Alright, lady." Dante replied as he semi-bowed, mocking a gentleman.
Alice acknowledged his teasing with another little smirk and grabbed a white pashmina shawl that had been draped over one of the armchairs in the left side of the adjoining study.
After wrapping it about her shoulders, she wasted no time in walking towards the front door, but stopped just outside of the parlor room and looked at him as if she were waiting.
He scoffed, amused by her own little joke, and marched toward the front door himself, opening it for her and half-bowing again. He continued his stupid ruse of playing the gentleman.
She nodded, "Thank you, kind sir. Perhaps I'll have you ready for courting high society girls before the year is over with."
Now there's an idea he could get behind, "Fine by me."
It didn't take them long before they were enveloped in the warm air of the city, their shadows trailing behind them as they moved in and out of the illumination.
The streetlights that dotted the sidewalks created a few good hiding spots in these wealthy parts, though no criminals trekked here. Not yet anyway.
It had been some time since Alice had wanted to go on an evening stroll. Dante was at least a little bit thankful for the opportunity, even if his stomach was begging him to say put.
As much as he hated the pretentiousness of the wealthy, there was something about walking along the picturesque locale, especially since there was hardly anyone out this night.
Only a few others had a similar idea to take a stroll this late, and Alice always greeted them with a brief but courteous hello as they passed.
Finally, they began breaking off from the main throughway and into the side streets of the community. They saw no one at all among these roads.
Now was the time to speak more openly of their individual roles in the arcane and the unknown, respectively.
Though mediums like her were often not respected at all, she was sane enough never to discuss these matters openly.
Only a woman like her could amble into the night and still speak of demons and magick.
"How are things in your part of town? Have you seen any more activity than usual?" She asked him as they passed beneath the warm glow of a lamp.
"Pretty boring. If I didn't have TV and red light shenanigans, I'd almost hate the time off." He replied, empty.
"I suppose my money has been well spent then." She joked.
"You bet. I even paid a guy to fix the furnace after all this time." Dante held his head a little higher.
Chortling, she retorted, "Well I suppose something good has finally come out of all this then. Many demons slain and one furnace repaired."
"Always lookin' on the sunny side." He said, a hint of darkness behind his eyes.
They continued their shoptalk as they walked on, until they reached the river that ran through the heart of the city and separated it in two.
A gold and marble bridge stretched across the dark water in front of them, illuminated by small lampposts, similar to those that had lit their way on the walk.
It shined brilliantly through the dusk.
Alice walked over the street, picking up her pace just slightly as she went to see it, and Dante following just one step behind.
Halfway across the length of the bridge she stopped, gazing out silently at the murky body of water.
Dante stood next to her, but turned his back and rested against the solid railing, not caring about the view.
She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. There was a cool tiny breeze coming off the water that briefly washed the thick air.
When she opened them again, she clasped her hands together and focused her eyes forward.
"Thank you for coming with me. I love the sound of water." She said to him.
He shrugged casually, "We both know you don't need me to take an evening stroll."
Alice held back a small chuckle, "It's still nice to have the company."
Her eyes still followed the gently flowing water.
"I know it's not as beautiful as the views on the Dalion, or as grand as the towers of Gedain, but there has always been something special here for me."
Dante turned around and leaned over to rest his hands and chin on the railing of the bridge, finally looking out at the water as well.
He couldn't help but be swayed.
"Hey it doesn't have to be glitzy to be special."
They both were silent as they watched the winding river. It passed through the many bridges down stream, beside the streets and spires of the city.
All the buildings looked grandiose, so big . . . Sometimes he wondered why anyone would need a structure so large.
There had to be a reason.
He broke the silence, "I guess it is kinda pretty."
"I've come here off and on for many years and something about it never ceases to change, despite what goes on around it. I admire that kind of perseverance."
Dante felt there was something bittersweet in her words.
He didn't even get to broach the subject, even if a part of him wanted to, as she asked him rather curiously, "Have you heard from your brother?"
Dante stood up straight as he looked at her, somewhat thrown off by the change in subject.
"Vergil? No. It'd be a miracle if I do."
There was a twinge of disgust in his voice.
Alice looked down at the ground, "Oh? Have you lost tou-"
"He's dead."
. . .
The silence was that kind of tense, awful feeling, like someone just made a really bad joke at a party.
She didn't know.
She'd only heard a story or two, on the few occasions he shared any details of himself.
Now it seemed all was lost and nothing gained. She heard spirits calling, annoying her.
"I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry." She said, a pained look in her face.
The demon hunter brushed it off.
"It's all right. I knew you were curious. He fell in with the wrong crowd, put it that way."
She nodded.
"Yes, your brother is well known for his rebellion in supernatural circles. Even still, you fought together a long time ago. That must mean something."
"It used to. It used to mean a lot." He replied.
Why did she even ask him if she already knew about it?
Rich people.
There was another long, protracted silence before they did anything.
Dante didn't feel like sharing anymore.
Alice took another long look out at the water. It was known as 'the Emerald River' to natives, holdover from the 1930s depression-era gangsters.
She finally said, "Right . . . We should head back."
They both turned and left the scene behind them.
The walk back to her complex was even more uneventful.
They saw only two ladies passing by, and never conversed with them, or themselves, once.
When they returned, Grimswell greeting them at the front door, speaking kindly "Welcome back, Madame! Dinner is ready."
Maybe Dante had him wrong.
Perhaps good ol' Reaps was just as he looked, a dedicated, sweet old man that adored his employer.
Well, he still gave him the creeps. With that, both followed him to the dining room, and sat as they were served the piping hot meals.
They ate.
He left.
Time passed, the air grew still, and he traveled home
Home, to Devil May Cry
The slayer returned to his old shop on tired wheels.
He walked to the doors; there it stood.
Devil May Cry.
It was a neon-lit sign: The first one he could afford. It looked stylish, but a bit barren.
He flirted with the idea of putting up the busty silhouette of a female, armed with guns next to it, but he didn't want to give people the wrong impression here.
He wanted his profession to at least be somewhat respected.
Strolling in, he snapped and brought back his weaponry.
Placing the weapons in their familiar areas, he banished them with another click, then removed his fingerless gloves.
He tossed them on his umber desk, and walked into his bathroom.
After about a minute, he came back out, hands washed and his eyes exhausted.
He'd been awake for four days planning his hunt for that thing.
He sat at his desk and propped his legs up, the wood a dependable old friend.
Tilting his head back, he crossed his hands in his lap and almost started sleeping.
Almost.
He would have fallen practically comatose . . . had he not realized someone was sitting there, staring at him.
Two people, actually.
Dante looked back down, and on his black couch sat Enzo, alongside a woman he'd never seen before.
"Oh . . . Um, hi." He said, unsure.
"Heya." Mr. Ferino replied.
Silence.
It was a bit bizarre, just sort of sitting there uncomfortably.
Both parties didn't really like the feel of the other, though they were nice enough.
". . . What's up?" Dante finally said.
His portly Italian agent didn't really say anything, despite speaking.
"You know, the usual."
More silence.
"M'kay . . ." Dante replied.
He tilted his head back.
They sat like this for another minute.
Guarded, the agitated slayer returned his gaze to them.
"Sorry- why are you here at two o'clock in the morning?" Finally asking the pertinent question.
Enzo gave him jobs, in fact, he'd given him the initial venture with Alice.
But that didn't explain why he was here now, with a strange looking woman, who got stranger and stranger the more he actually looked at her.
She had scars all up and down her curved figure, not so noticeable as to be grotesque, but present enough to warrant some questions.
"Right. 'Tony,' this a client. She wants to meet you." He said, a notable New-Yorker accent coming through, loud and proud.
"Uh-huh." The halfling replied.
"Yep."
" . . ." Continued silence.
They could do this all night if he kept up this vague kind of bullshit.
"I'm being polite here. I'm being very polite right now letting you two sit here, I'm very pissed at you." He said, letting a little bit of anger leak.
"Right. Ri-Right. This bi- gal! This gal is interested in your services." He blurted out, then had to suffer not only Dante's cold stare, but the woman's look as well.
Was he about to call her the b-word? Not radical.
He squirmed a bit as he motioned for her to tell her story.
She didn't seem to really acknowledge this.
Dante looked her over and finally realized the 'something' that was very peculiar.
One eye was amber, the other was blue. Beneath that black fringe, she had heterochromatic eyes.
That's a bit odd, considering amber eyes are super rare, to the point of non-existence.
"Okay, never mind him. What do you want?" He said, pointing at her as he took his feet off the desk.
"Me?"
Dante cupped his face in his left palm and sighed, "No, the wall."
"I'm pretty sure walls don't speak." She replied.
It made him less happy than he imagined it would. Her face was just as combative as her personality let on.
Now, if only she would be able to answer his question, then he wouldn't hate her at all.
"Okay then, you, what's your name?" He inquired.
"I don't have a name."
He groaned under his breath, 'Oh my god, you kiddin me?'
"Well then, what do you want? What's the reason?"
"I want you to kill my dad." She said.
The demand hit him like freight train.
"Say what?" He replied.
"I want to pay you to kill my dad. I want you to kill my father, and I'll pay you." She repeated twice.
For some reason.
He just gave her this long stare, his vacant, frigid eyes unnerving her mortal heart.
"Why?" Was all he could think to ask initially.
"I'll cut straight to the point with you. I'm after revenge. He screwed me up, and a whole mess of other people . . . And that's all you need to know."
Well, this wasn't going in any sort of good direction.
Dante stared her down, and the two became incredibly hostile.
In this moment, she didn't exist. He didn't exist either.
All there was, was hate. Hatred of each other, hatred of the way they dressed.
The pretension that she could just demand him to erase a person without any sort of justification drove him to a maddening dislike.
So, he told her exactly what she should know.
"I don't do contract kills." He said flatly, "Now, get out of my shop."
Her face scrunched down, becoming a frown.
"What? You're a mercenary. What do you mean 'no?'"
"I mean: Get out. You're barking up the wrong tree, lady."
At the mention of that word, she gave him a cold, furious stare.
It occurred to Dante that she was actually quite strapped with weapons right now.
Like, a really ludicrous amount.
"Who do you think you see right now? Who is it do you think you're talking to? I'm not some DayGlo prostitute you can push around to feel tough.
Is that who you think I am? How dare you tell me to 'get out,' like it's your place. I will not be bullied by some pretentious pretty-boy!"
She'd raised her voice and stood.
"Do you know what I've been through!? No! You couldn't begin to understand. I want to stop an insane monster from hurting any more people, and you want to sit there, all full of yourself!"
All bad signs.
"Get off your high horse! You're no better than the rest of us." Her words smoldered into his chest.
The outburst was rather beyond what he'd expected.
Why? There was no source of this intense anger . . . Had she been repressing this?
He read somewhere that people suffering from shell shock often had anger issues.
". . . Are ya done?" He replied.
"Yeah, I guess." Her voice was dismissive and it had an incredibly rude undercurrent, like she was toying with his intelligence.
"Oh, good. First off, it is my place. I own this building I'm so kindly letting you stand in. Second, take your attitude and walk." He pointed at the door, remaining seated.
His response was stark, catching her off-guard.
Guess she thought the 'tough girl' approach would work.
"Walk?"
"Turn around, and walk your loaded ass out of my shop."
His voice had gotten gravelly, having this really deep baritone quality. Her head tilted to the right.
She was angered by his further indifference, perhaps it was time to change strategies.
Then again, she could try taking her father on, hoping that the years of rage pent up could push her through.
On the outside, she grabbed her forearm.
As soon as he clued into it, she began to argue with Enzo.
"You told me he was good." She said.
The man quickly tried to defend himself, "Y-Yes, well, I did say you have only a slim chance, he might take on a hit, but he's really not that kind of merce-"
She interrupted, "Of the files you gave me, I wanted him because he has the highest success rate!"
Dante cracked an eyebrow.
"W-Well, yeah, technically he's my best guy, b-but-"
"No! I want your very best. He has to be the best! I can't settle for anything else with my dad." She was playing it pretty coldly, to the point Dante was actually kind of curious, in that morbid sense.
He sat back, amused.
"Alright, alright! Look," Enzo broke away, concentrating on Dante again, "Could you maybe bend your rules just a little, tiny bit for our young starlet here?"
Dante actually scoffed.
"Don't look at me, I want nothin' to do with it." He said, leaning back with a half-smile.
He looked back at the girl.
She had this strange sort of pin-up look to her. The elongated bob cut with a slutty school-girl outfit. Classy.
Her boots were biker-military, made for combat. Dante sometimes wondered whether he was living in purgatory or Los Angeles.
At this point he'd say they were actually pretty close; too close to determine, certainly. This place wasn't anywhere close to L.A.
He kept watching them bicker as the woman finally took her brown-gloved hand and threatened to smack Enzo.
"Hey!" The merc yelled, getting her attention, "Did you mishear me? Get. Out."
He pointed to the door again, haphazardly.
She finally deflated, resting her hand by her side and getting back up. She walked away to the front doors, seething with anger. Her lips got pouty.
Enzo glared at Dante, disappointed.
He threw his hands up in the air, not really caring.
Before they had enough time to react, the woman turned around, drawing out one of her pistols at him.
She kept the trigger aimed. The slayer's face changed back to dead seriousness.
"I don't think you get how this works. You're going to help me kill that son of a bitch, one way or another! He's a demon-freak, hellbent on raising the dead! I think that should concern you, shouldn't it!?"
She told him off.
Dante slowly stood, calm as ever.
He walked towards her and she found herself convinced to take one step back. He was close now, very close . . .
The slayer placed his forehead at the tip of the barrel.
"You wanna see what happens when you use one?" He told her, and pressing into the muzzle just a bit.
With a dirty smirk, she pressed the trigger immediately.
In a miniature explosion, the bullet rocketed forward into his brow and knocked his entire skull backward.
A spray of red covered the air like sprinkler mist. Dante lurched back some and remained still for a moment, his head facing the ceiling.
Unexpectedly, he began vigorously rubbing the wound on his forehead, continually swearing under his breath.
Then, he looked back at her.
". . . Ow!?" He exclaimed, almost ridiculing her shocked face.
He might as well have said, 'get a clue!'
The woman was completely flabbergasted.
"Are- Are you okay?" She asked, almost more out of curiosity than concern.
"Ya shot me in the head!" He said, digging the shell out from his crumpled skin.
"Wh- You told me to!" She retorted, more mad at his indignant response.
What was he? She'd never seen a man survive that before.
"I didn't think you'd actually do it! Christ!" He said as he kept rubbing the afflicted area. He eventually managed to pick out the reddened cartridge, and held it in his palm.
Looking at Enzo, he just saw him shaking his head to himself.
"Bullet for your thoughts?" He asked the young courier, dropping the casing into his garbage can by the desk.
Enzo just kind of stood there silently, annoyed that the woman even tried shooting the man.
In a few moments the wound had completely sealed itself. With that, the secret was out.
They all knew what he was now, despite Enzo's weak precaution. Well, Enzo already knew, but still.
"Thanks, I'm gonna have a headache for a few hours." He said, then added, "Would you get out now? I have to clean up my blood."
"You. You're one of them, aren't you? You're a demon." She looked at his face.
It appeared to darken, and his head hung slightly low.
So, she was smarter than he gave her credit for.
How else could he survive? It was a dead giveaway.
"I should've known. I should've-" The woman couldn't stomach this truth, "You're just like him . . . Don't get in my way."
It didn't matter to him.
"On your best day, you couldn't touch me."
"I just shot you in the head."
"And you honestly believed it hurt?" His eyes held no fallacies.
She sank, a sad mixture of different emotions.
Defeated, the woman turned and walked out the doors, slowly descending the steps to sit upon the stairs outside.
What a bastard! He was supposed to be able to help her, or so she thought.
Now, she didn't know if he could even be trusted, good looks aside. Still she wished for some kind of release.
Perhaps in this instance, it just didn't matter.
So, he's a demon? She'll just kill him anyway at some point. She'll kill them all . . . Each insufferable, soulless beast.
Inside, Enzo began to deliberate with him.
"You know, that wasn't cool!" He told him, "She really was counting on you."
"Yeah? Take note next time. I don't kill . . . Even scarred-up idiots like her." He replied, Enzo not really bothering about that.
"Dante, how old are you?" The handler pried.
He just sighed.
"I'm twenty-eight."
"Exactly, you're on the verge of thirty here man! You gotta take some responsibility! How you gonna pay off debts and keep this place if you can't get it together to kill, like . . . One dude?" He asked.
Dante just stared at him like he wasn't a real person.
Enzo scrambled for something better to say, but the words wouldn't come to him.
"I'm going to hurt you." The slayer replied.
Enzo got the hint.
The shop doors swung wildly open, and the young man flew out into the street, past the frustrated vixen.
The woman flinched at the wind and looked back.
She saw the professional.
"Your dad; he got a name?" Dante said as he stared on at a limping Enzo.
Standing in his doorway, he looked kind of cinematic in a strange way.
It was like a picture frame. She stood up and straightened her clothes.
"Arkham." The woman replied.
"I'll look into him. We'll see how far this goes, but don't expect anything." Dante's cynicism struck her as a tad bit depressing.
Of course, she just put a bullet into him.
Enzo hobbled over to his car on the sidewalk, clutching his lower back.
"Jesus Christ, I coulda broken my neck, asshole!" He yelled.
Dante chuckled to himself.
"If I wanted you to, you would've." He replied, "I like ya too much. Now get outta here, thanks for the work."
Ferino entered his car, cradling his side.
He started the vehicle up, and waited, motioning for his guest to join him again.
"This ain't a taxi service!" He yelled.
She nodded, but continued talking to Dante.
"Let me know when. I'll get ready, and we'll do this together. We need to do it together. But, we'll have to find him." She explained.
The slayer looked her in the eye for the first time this night.
"We'll see."
The feeling wasn't good, and Dante really wasn't in the mood.
"Oh, do you have a card?" The thought hit her.
"Why would you need that?"
". . . How would I get in touch with you?"
She tried to rationalize his methods, after all, they'd need to be in contact if he was seriously considering it.
"If I accept, and only if; shortie will call you. Then we'll talk."
He was smooth, but it wasn't very happy.
Still, she liked the terms. Any sliver of chance was a hope she wanted to count on.
By no means would she rely solely upon him, but, until further options presented themselves . . .
This was okay.
So she left, ready to prepare other plans.
Enzo was glad to get out of there.
Dante was a good guy to know if he wasn't angry at you. Other than that, business only.
Sleepily, the silver hunter locked up for the night, and then prepared to doze off. He'd need at least a day to himself. The man had that kind of schedule, considering his work ethic.
What did he get himself into giving a girl like that hope? The only reason he considered it was thanks to it's apparent supernatural aspects.
She was right, it was something that concerned him, or so it sounded. He needed to confirm that, hence the request for information.
To him, he just wanted to take out any and all demon's, be they formerly human or otherwise. Perhaps she was a kindred spirit in this regard.
Little did he know her true thoughts.
All tasks for later.
And after locking up, he flicked the switch.
The lights went out.
To Be Continued
Afterword
That was this chapter. Lengthy author's note follows.
I want something different for this series, and this is my first official post after a lengthy period of beta reading, but I just wanted to put something out there again.
I hope this goes well, I'm proud of this for being so different from my other stuff, and I really wish you could still check out the inspiration for this story.
Gemina Divinatio, if you don't know, was this really great horror story about DMC. Sadly, it was taken down shortly after I made this homage, at the time it just hadn't been updated.
It was pretty good, bit of a shame it no longer exists. It just had a real great atmosphere, and sums up the kind of 'gothicness' DMC exuded and that I want to continue.
Anyways, thought I'd try my hand at more of a strait-laced horror this time. I found out the Junji Ito collection got released. Spoilers: It wasn't very good.
So, in light of that, I figured I'd flex my style and go for a story that pays homage to his visceral type of horror. Some of his concepts might pop up here and there.
Keep in mind, this chapter is establishing multiple things at a time, so it's not as scary as I intend to make future ones, but, ya know, there's also gonna be action.
It's DMC, you gotta have levity to break up the darkness.
This is an anthology, each chapter will deal with something different from the last. No continuing plot? Yeah, that's the direction.
Anyway, review or whatever, I don't really care. Everyone is welcome.
Oh yeah, I'll also be working on a playlist for this series as it grows, music is important to my creative process, and I often don't like the soundtracks from the games.
So I make my own. Maybe you can throw out a few suggestions if you feel like it. I'll have to see if they fit the overall tone/idea/concept, whatever. If the lyrics are literal, bonus points. It's all good.
That's it for this chapter, have fun.
