Dead or Alive
Lady Mars
Disclaimer: I do not own Devil May Cry or Wanted Dead or Alive nor am I making any money off of this escapade.
I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride,
I'm wanted dead or alive.
And I'm a cowboy, I've got the night on my side,
I'm wanted dead or alive.
Bon Jovi – Wanted Dead or Alive
The air moaned down the street causing anything without significant heft and that had an unimpeded path to flitter away from its resting place in a symphony of rustling plastic and paper complimented by the occasional clank of rolling aluminum. But he didn't notice. To him, the air that encompassed his body was dead. Nothing living stirred the silence; the pained crooning of agonizing deaths had finally ceased. Everything that had once threatened his well being had met a salient demise at the hands of their surreptitious prey. The hunted had fallen from the sky with grace and silence rivaled only by Death itself. With the fury of a vengeful god, the hunter had disposed of all of his would-be assailants, leaving only him and the hulking carcasses in the deserted street.
The wind rankled down the street again, tossing his white hair into his eyes. With a deft toss of his head, the silky mass settled back into its normal resting place, though he knew that it would drift back into his filed of vision soon enough. For now, at very least, he could see and asses the damage he had caused in his ambush. His chosen job or not, it was always harder to come down on other hunters than it was to tangle with the normal underbelly that crawled up from the depths of hell. His hunters were just doing their respective jobs, much like he was when he was hired out. But, as much as he appreciated the tenacity of the other hunters, he liked living his life more. His ambitious foes met with swift, unforgiving deaths. It was such a waste.
He had become accustomed to colliding with hunters who sought the glory of being the one to kill a Legendary Dark Knight, but some of the unlucky ones tonight were barely out of their greenhorn period. They were kids playing in the world where being a big dog was not just a figure of speech. The Underworld could produce assailants far more fearsome than any man that would ever walk the Earth and these rookies thought that they would be able to run alongside with them. He snorted softly; whoever hired these kids out would be receiving an unexpected visit from a man with capricious temper. No kid deserved a fate like this, not even the lowest of the low. And, with a small degree of luck, the presence of the Dark Knight himself at the boss' door would make the sleaze think twice before sending anyone after him again.
Even with the bosses that plagued the Earth mollified, the leaders of the Underworld would still lash out in an attempt to show him the fate they believed he sorely deserved. Fortunately, he had fewer qualms with killing their minions. For every one demonic sycophant that he killed, there would be three more that rose up in their fallen brother's place to vie for the special place in their leader's eye. The demons were worse than cockroaches; there was an endless stream of them and no way to stop the impeding tides. No threats, no appearances, nothing stopped them from trying to drag him down. And even as they pressed on, undeterred by his show of brute force and wily skill, he pressed back harder, faster, deadlier. He knew the nature of those creatures that hunted him and he didn't fear them. He was more than capable of taking out even the largest assassins that the Underworld threw at him.
He hefted the massive, blood-soaked blade from its resting place at his side and returned it to its rightful resting place, nestled carefully between his shoulder blades. The ancient blade served not only as a symbol of who he was, but as one of where he had come from. It was one that could strike fear in the soul of any creature well versed in the lore of the demons. Many had seen the blade before, but in the hands of a different master, a master just as feared as he had become. The blade was his legacy and he rose to the challenge of upholding that legacy every time he pulled the steel from between his shoulders. He never failed. The bodies fell as easily under his guidance as they did under the blade's previous master. The steel hadn't dulled over the centuries and still spilled the blood of his nemeses with mortiferous lethality. With every successful hunt, he made his name more feared and upheld his father's tradition of unhindered, indisputable control over his weapons and his enemies. He had taken the family name and turned it into more of a challenge, more of a threat than it had ever been before. And there was something satisfying about that.
He waded through the carcasses and gore carefully, heading back in the direction that he had come from. He wanted to get back to his bike and get back home before someone else tried their hand at taking his life. The night had been bad enough before the ambush and wasn't improving his mood much either. He wanted to get home and drink his memories of this fight into oblivion. Once he was done there would be no street littered with bodies, no blood dripping off of his limbs, no gore clinging to his clothing; it would be just him and oblivion.
"Holy hell…" He snapped around, hands instinctively flying to the cold steel of his guns, every muscle tense and alert. A new form had entered the area, taking in the death strewn along the seldom traveled road. The man seemed surprisingly unphased by the caliber of destruction that littered the asphalt. His gaze drifted over the nearest corpse then to the armed hunter. "I assume you're the one who caused this," he continued cautiously. The other man didn't respond, still sizing up his opponent. "That would make you Sparda then, wouldn't it?"
He smirked a little. "That would make me Dante." The other man eyed the red leather clad demon cautiously. "You here because you missed out on the fun?" He snorted softly.
"I heard one of the sleaze-bags had put out a dead or alive call on the Dark Knight. I was trying to warn off anyone that dared think they could match wits with a knight, a man, a demon like you. I've seen what you're capable of and there is no mortal that can stand up to that. Looks like I'm too late though."
Dante smirked a little. "Just a little. But you can do me a favor." The other hunter arched an eyebrow. "Tell anyone else who thinks about answering that dead or alive call what you saw here and make it damn well convincing. I don't want to have to kill any more kids because they're not smart enough to know what a Legendary Dark Knight is fully capable of doing to them." The other hunter nodded. "I'll be leaving you to your mission then." He silently slid his guns back into their holsters and, putting a lot of faith in a man he had just met, turned and walked away.
The other hunter remained rooted in his spot; hefty reward or not, taking on the Legendary Dark Knight Dante alone and when he was in a mood was not something he had ever aspired to do. He knew that the half-demon could easily kill him before he had a chance to draw his weapon, so there was no reason to even try and fight him. Plus, he felt a little safer knowing an outlaw like him was roaming the streets. If nothing else, it proved that some measure of good still remained in the world even if that good came masked in the guise of a drunken, bitter misanthrope.
The other hunter sighed and slowly walked back to the bar he had come from. "No one is going to believe I survived an encounter with the Dark Knight Dante…"