Well, here I am, updating another story. Much different than the ones from before, actually. This is a rather... odd retelling of DMC3, with a certain detail missing. As usual, all disclaimers apply.

This girl understood nothing.

Perhaps it was the smell. It wasn't just the tinge of copper or iron. It was horrible, nauseating, something else entirely that made her stomach flip.

…No, that couldn't work. She couldn't have understood it all from just one sense.

Perhaps it had been the sight.

Slightly familiar person, wielding an unfamiliar weapon, stuck in an all-too-familiar person.

The blade swung out, a trail of blood arcing along the floor. Why, that was the only thing keeping the hapless victim together, but too late.

The body fell to the floor. Blood pooled, a hand extended, a last reach for the girl; but the girl still didn't understand.

Had it been the sound? The blade did make a long, drawn out shiiiiiing, but it was too far embedded into the person to make a clean noise. They would all have to make do with the sound of flesh being cut through, again, the body falling with a thud to the floor in a semi-conscious heap, the feeble gasps for air as it clung on to life as much as it could, but then as the hand extended, that last reach for her, the girl, there was a faint whisper; "Mary…"

And she understood.

Mary understood perfectly.

She couldn't hesitate. Another second and she would die. Even though she wondered just how she had even survived long enough to procure her gun, much less aim it.

The man—no, murderer— turned to look at her as she pointed the loaded CB-97B pistol at him. She held it with both hands, trying to steady it, but she was aware she was shaking. Her hands, her entire body— she couldn't keep either steady.

He knew it as well, but he just didn't seem to care. He looked on impassively. She really thought she could shoot him, didn't she? It wouldn't hurt to put her to that test.

He strode towards her, his advance slow, flicking the blood from his sword.

This made her back away. She tried to maintain a firm grip on the gun, keep it aimed. She'd wanted to curse him, threaten him— "I'll shoot you right where you stand!" but her body betrayed her, and instead she whimpered pitifully, her weapon useless in her trembling fingers until she let it go altogether.

Just like that, she'd lost. She fell to her knees, weakened. So much for the adrenalin rush getting her through it. She couldn't pull the trigger— couldn't pull the goddamned trigger. There was nothing left for her but to die, presumably, to this monster. She closed her eyes, too scared to look at Death or even its shadow as it loomed.

Surely, when someone was facing their last moments, they had something to say; a confession, or a plea, or something witty, something that was appropriate. Something that was better than what she could say, what her word was; a hushed, "Why?"

For all it was worth, the question was met with laughter. Not of the overly loud or cheerful kind, but a slow, amused chuckle. The bastard actually found it funny. Not that it mattered, as it died down. Her life was coming to an end.

She waited, and she was not dead, but cold, and instinctively held herself to keep warm. Pretty sure death was more painful than anything, she opened her eyes. He was gone, a gust of wind rushing into the room from the open window. He left her alone.

And she was left to look at the body. Nothing but the body. She wanted to look away— make it less real, perhaps, if she'd ignored it— but… the two-toned eyes, same as hers. They didn't stop staring.

"Father," she sobbed, the rage and fear ebbing away to next-to-nothing as despair took over. She cried for him.

The candle light flickered overhead, casting odd shadows across the room. It gave the impression that he was still moving, still alive. If only he was. It didn't happen, no matter how hard she wished. Instead she was left with his empty shell, his eyes the same as hers, staring, pleading, 'Why didn't you shoot? Why didn't you avenge me?'

"I'm sorry," she bawled, but 'sorry' wasn't enough. 'Sorry' wasn't going to bring him back. It wasn't going to kill his murderer, least of all.

A scream; Mary looked to the doorway. Tears blurred her eyes, yet she could still make out the shape of the woman, her mother, standing there, shrieking in hysterics. No, not then, not then. Too soon, she wouldn't understand. Why then?

Mary got up to explain, but her tear streaked face, her stained hands, the gun that clattered to the floor ages ago, they didn't help. None of it helped.

To think, she wanted to be a good girl.

--

Kalina Ann was sick; some sudden illness struck and left her bedridden. Mary wasn't taking care of her as often as she'd liked, leaving that to her father, Arkham. It wasn't her fault; she'd almost feared walking into that room at times, seeing her mother there, no longer the strong woman she'd admired, more ghostly than anything.

Kalina saw things in her delirium, cried constantly about things that weren't there, demons, and the like. Mary didn't want to hear any of it, yet it was so much scarier when her mother was quiet. It meant nights upon nights of Kalina sobbing to herself under the covers, whispering to these 'demons' to leave her alone, leave her alone, let her live.

Seeing her mother like that made her hate their home. She hated that mansion, choosing better to avoid it, finding any excuse to stay out. Although she failed to figure out which was more tedious; staying at home with her ailing mother, or be her friend's keeper every single night she went and got herself drunk. The drunken friend seemed easily the better choice; they could stay the night in that bar down in 13th Avenue. Or at least, she would. Mary wouldn't.

Still, she couldn't avoid it. Kalina had only gotten worse day to day, seeing more things, her pleas making less sense.

Once, just once, she'd summoned up the courage to see her. By herself. She sat on her mother's bedside, watching her.

Kalina's lips moved, murmuring something unintelligible under her breath, her eyes darting across the ceiling, following something there. Mary looked up; she knew there was nothing, yet…

"Mary… Mare…" Kalina Ann grasped her daughter's hand as best as she could, maintaining a fixed gaze on her all the while. There was no paranoia in her eyes, no madness in her voice. No fearful plea. "I… I don't see you often, do I?"

Mary tried to keep herself from looking. Guilty, too guilty.

"You're never home."

The tears welled up. "…I know," she finally replied.

For her mother, she would be a good girl. Arrive earlier, stop being so afraid, take care of her like she was supposed to in the hopes she would get better.

She hadn't expected one night to find Arkham murdered, or her mother to finally rise from the confines of her room and be met with such a sight.

Mary's only hope was that Kalina would think this too was a hallucination. The sight of her daughter and dead husband, the truth, would have broken her completely. Mary tried for what felt like an eternity to ease her mother back to her room and get her to sleep. Kalina had to rest. Rest, and forget. Maybe by the time she got better, it would all be over. The devil that ruined all their lives would be gone, forever. For that, she had to gather her resolve… but who was 'she'? Mary? No, Mary was weak, hesitant, a fool. She couldn't be that girl anymore. She had to be stronger; stronger for her mother's sake; for her father's sake; for her own sake.

Mary… Her father gave her that name, but she didn't deserve it if she couldn't avenge him.

Speaking of, imagine her surprise when she found his corpse was gone the next moment.