Hello all, this is something new. At first, i wanted to just make this a spin off of Devils Like Us, but it morphed off into it's own thing.
This is now a stand alone story set in a classic-styled universe with an emphasis on crime thriller and the paranormal.
In particular, it's set between DMC 3 & DMC 1.
I still have plans for a SR/DMC crossover set in the same setting as Devils Like Us, it just won't be today.
Anyway, some notes before jumping in: I gave Dante the same appearance as his TGS 2005 trailer, which if you haven't seen, is the same as the cover art. I'm not gonna lie, it looks pretty cool. I always wished Capcom had used that for his DMC4 outfit instead of what we got. The trailer is pretty cool,
like a little slice of what culture was like twelve years ago. I tend to forget how ingrained in the Matrix the Devil May Cry series is/was.
Oh! And Dante DOES NOT have the facial appearance of the trailer. I'll be ambiguous about what he looks like, so just imagine which ever version you prefer of the man, dressed in those clothes.
Please note that this also blends a myriad of different genres. I wanted to select humor and horror additionally, but the two genre limit prevents that.
Well, that's it for now. Reviews are appreciated. I really want feedback on this.
Update: If anyone's confused as to the tone of this, don't go in expecting it to be Saints Row 3 or 4. THIS IS PRE-SAINTS ROW 2 . . . Dumbass.
The Devil May Cry Office
Dante sat in his chair with his legs propped up on the desk. It was his trademark by now.
Unusually, he was wearing opaque sunglasses that blocked out any sunlight. The blinds were drawn anyway.
His office was dark and spacey.
The walls were decorated with various little things he'd collected over the years, and there were comfy couches off to the sides for visitors to use when they came by.
To his right was a cozy little fridge set up with some cheap alcohol.
It was just for show, he couldn't get drunk off the stuff. He couldn't get drunk ever.
So he just didn't drink.
Next to it was a pool table he used, often for novelty more than legitimate competition.
At least the whole area could be called safe. It was connected to a small studio apartment that he lived out of in back.
There was an upstairs level too, but that was for other things.
The man was decked out in a vermillion leather coat, under which he wore a black zip-up sweater over a gray button-up shirt.
His pants were a smudgy brown, heavily faded from their vibrant days. The boots were taller than normal, solid black up to two inches under his knees.
They were leather and made for high impact. He'd also stopped wearing gloves after a while. They started to really bother his grip.
On to his physical appearance, he looked generally handsome, and his familiar snow-white hair drooped lazily in it's trademark cowlick.
His belt buckle was a four-sided axe. Silver in composition. Unruffled, his jacket usually came down to match the edges of his lace-less boots.
There was a bit of an equilibrium there.
It soon became evident that the sunglasses were meant to hide something. There was a semi-annoying, little rumble coming from his mouth every few seconds.
He'd fallen asleep on the job. Tsk, tsk.
The front door jingled open. A woman with high-heeled boots strolled in.
They were brown and biker in style.
She wore a mocking, white pinstripe suit without a bra, letting her chest dangle liberally. She never had a nip-slip.
Not so that you'd notice.
She had a perfectly feathered hairstyle and a blocky fringe that covered her forehead. Her shade was naturally onyx, and so reflective off the light of his dingy ceiling lamp-fans.
Across the bridge of her nose lay a pair of sunglasses colored a dull grey. They hid a now-not-so-visible scar, of which she had many elsewhere.
On her back was a bazooka of all things, among a cavalcade of other guns, somehow hidden from sight, all over her gear.
"Wake up, prick." She said.
How lovely.
" . . ." He didn't really react at first. In truth he'd been awake the moment she parked her motorcycle outside.
"I said wake up!" She sarcastically yelled, slamming her hands down on his mahogany desk.
The man abruptly shifted into a blur. He threw his own specs in the trash. They were cheap-oes.
Dante grasped both her wrists and forced them up in front of her chest, all while stepping around his desk.
This whole thing occurred within a solitary second.
She wasn't expecting such a rush of air.
"Hey, that desk's older than you." The slayer said rather lazily, releasing her from his light grip.
"Well good morning to you too." The lady stared at him blankly for a moment.
"It's three o'clock . . . in the morning. What is it this time?"
"Someone downtown heard you deal in the paranormal. They put the word out they wanted to talk to you." She explained.
The man glared at her for a sharp minute. She was so odd. Both of her eyes were a separate color; one blue, and the other amber.
In some places, where the scars used to run deep, she'd smoothed over and grown away from them.
They'd faded away as time went on, leaving her skin mostly unblemished, and making her wispy face increasingly alluring. Men do notice these things too, even though Dante was technically only half.
"A guy wants me at three?"
Why did he even bother asking sometimes?
She gave a wry little smirk, which was common whenever she felt superior to him.
"Oh, not just anyone. It's a case of . . . Ghosts." She said, apprehensive of how he might react.
She was tough, and had a good, relatively thick physique, but she knew what kind of things this man was capable of.
He cocked an eyebrow up, "You mind repeatin' that?"
"You heard me."
"Yeah, I just didn't like what you said. What d'ya mean 'Ghosts?'" The man retorted, blithering in kind.
"I mean, I called up Morrison, and he set up a meeting in thirty minutes for us at the Club Obsidian." She was dead serious.
"Okay. I give up. Lets go." He said and grabbed two guns scattered on his desk.
The man holstered them quickly after giving both a good-luck spin.
There was a weapon sticking out of the wall next to his studio. It was the trusty Rebellion, fully awakened and emanating raw power.
He grabbed the impractically sized weapon and placed it inside a guitar case, then strapped it on his back. The blade itself was about five feet long and a solid inch thick, width wise.
The depth of it, in general, was around four inches.
He didn't have a sheath. Instead, the weapon just seemed to cling to his back magnetically, like it needed him to survive.
Déjà Vécu.
"After you, your heinous."
She gave him a hard scowl for that one, "Uh huh, charming."
Outside The Office
Outside, she got on her cycle and then beckoned him to join her. When he refused, she glared out of confusion, asking, "Why not?"
"That thing is slow. With the way this city is, you'll get stuck in traffic." He told her.
"Okay, smartass, how are you gonna get there then?" She felt him out as arrogant, often believing him to be full of shit.
"I'll run." There was a slight degree of facetiousness across his face.
This wasn't lost on her.
"That a fact? I'll beat you there with this 'thing,' how about that?"
"Your funeral." He said and departed with a slow walk.
Ooh, that was a bit too jerky. She revved up her engines and fired off into the night, leaving him behind, submerged in darkness. It was a bit of a long drive.
Most buildings were shut down until later in the morning. The only thing open at this time of night were specialty stores . . . and strip clubs.
They were supposed to head to the latter. It was both a lap dance joint and a place for drug deals. It wasn't a usual meeting ground for Dante, that's for sure.
The woman sped down the open streets. Everyone who pranced around during the day was asleep inside their red-light homes.
It wasn't a great area to begin with.
The silver slayer had just moved there.
She felt the breeze blister by. It had been cool and forgiving when standing still, or walking, but traveling at eighty miles per hour made it as frigid as an ice storm.
Lo and behold, the woman was forced to break hard. Unexpectedly, there was a swarm of cars clogging up the road.
She observed that there was enough oncoming traffic that she couldn't even cut around it all.
What rotten luck. A whole ten minutes went by of cruising at a whopping five miles per hour. And it started to rain. Brilliant.
After about twenty humiliating minutes, the woman sped along through the traffic, breaking numerous laws to successfully clear the block.
She continued down the road and eventually reached the parking lot of the Obsidian
It was dark and cold, though cozy lighting and the smell of cigarettes and shame leaked outside.
She hastily found a parking spot underneath a special canopy in front of the joint.
There were hardly any parking spots not taken up by cars. This was the witching hour for sex.
Club Obsidian
She turned off the engine and managed to keep herself in order. There was barely enough lighting to allow her to see.
Glimpsing a sidewalk, she chose to traverse it to her left.
Thankfully, that was the direction of the doors. They were brown and classy, most likely made of an impressive sounding wood, though she had no interest.
The architecture to the place was astounding for a downtown club.
It was almost gothic; like a real stylish building from upstate New York in the thirties.
Big Greek blocks made up the smooth sidewall she used as a guide while hobbling over. There was a single light above the doors.
From inside, she heard beat-driven music that sounded like hip-hop, but she couldn't be sure.
Standing across from her, beneath the opposite black awning, was a man most familiar.
"So, that 'thing' ain't working out too well, huh?" Dante was a bastardly one when he wanted to be.
She got angry and ruffled her clothes back into place. She righted many of her holsters but lacked her bazooka.
Rightfully, she chose not to take the massive weapon, leaving it back at Dante's place.
The thing was too high profile for someone to be carrying around, even at night.
The cops could let a lot of things slide, but a rocket launcher basically begged investigation, or else they'd get fired.
No one carries that kind of thing around unless they're gonna use it.
"Just go inside." She said, vexed from the ordeal.
He smirked and gave a little chap of the lips, placing one hand on the door and effortlessly pushing it forward, strolling into the club.
She'd been right; it was hip-hop. Specifically, Snoop Dogg.
She wasn't a fan, so she couldn't say what track it was, but Dante seemed to be grooving into it, so she did what she could.
If the exterior was ostentatious enough, then the interior was even more over-the-top. It resembled some Vegas bar, like something out of the Luxor.
The whole building had a dim lighting to it, there were food and beverages constantly shuffled to it's occupants, and on one side was an elevated dance floor in the middle.
A sturdy pole, marked up with smudges, stood in the center. The music still played but it appeared the scheduled dancer had already performed.
The place was filled with African American men and women, all dressed in yellow. Odd, considering the kind of job they'd been approached with.
In fact, they quickly realized they were the only white people in the entire place.
The difference made them shine like a neon sign further downtown. Almost every single person glared at them oddly.
The slayer was confident in spite of this.
Taking it all in stride he stood relaxed and scanned the area. Eventually, he spotted the only other white person across the room; Morrison.
He was seated at a large booth across from a more classily-dressed gent. This man had a tight buzz cut and looked to be in his mid-to-late-thirties.
Like the many people that inhabited the area, he was wearing something yellow; a business shirt, alongside a black tie and blazer.
They assumed his pants were also dark, even though they couldn't see them. Looking the most important, he was also black, unsurprisingly.
Meanwhile, Morrison looked as he usually did; middle-aged, handlebar mustache, sandy hair, a white shirt, and a black vest with brown slacks.
They appeared to be deep in conversation. A bizarre sight, this was not the usual type of client he tended to accrue for them.
Nevertheless, they entertained the situation, with the lady being mostly shielded by Dante's pure charisma like an energy shield.
He began closing in on the two.
She dared not leave his side.
The gang looked ready to kill them at the slightest provocation, and whereas her friend was beyond death in a technical sense, she was still only mortal.
After a tense minute, they reached the table.
" . . . They usually cover cases pertaining to anything involving supernatural phenomena. But they're also prepared for other kinds of cases, yes."
Morrison was explaining the general nature of their business to the man.
"What about protection? Bodyguard kinda stuff?" The immaculate client said to their manager. His voice was uncommonly deep.
"It's a full service, mostly geared towards client request, though if the respective agent assigned chooses to refuse the work- Ah, Dante, Lady.
I'd like you all to meet Mr. King! He owns Kingdom Come Records-" He was cut off.
King, interrupting, "Much, much more than that. You could say I'm an entrepreneur."
He was serious but lighthearted at the same time, an odd old mixture.
"Eh- right, he also owns a majority of other powerful businesses downtown and throughout the city." Morrison dressed it up, but the man was a lot more criminal than he let on.
Dante was smart enough to tell.
"So, a kingpin?" He said nonchalantly, casually putting his hand and leaning against the booth's tall border wall, next to Morrison.
"Heh hehe. You brought me someone smart, man. I like it." King was unusually open about it.
"Dah, well- So-. . . S-So Mr. King has decided to contact you about a peculiar business matter." The man struggled to maintain his copacetic.
"A ghost. I heard. What's that all about?" Dante cut to the chase no matter what.
"Alright, you don't mess around. Warren, tell him." He spoke to a confidant sitting next to him.
This one was dressed the same as, but inverted from, the boss.
After some hesitation, " . . . Aw right, check it out, okay? Some of my homies said that when one of their friends was gettin' married, the day before, the soon-to-be found her man in bed wit a white bitch. Instead of callin' off the wedding, this bitch pulls out a fuckin' glock and shoots herself on the fucking spot."
He was reluctant to tell this story.
"Okay . . . aaaand what? She came back from hell three days later? That's happened before, ya know." The snowy hybrid really didn't care.
He was promised a god damned ghost.
"What happened was, she blew out her brains. There was a panic, don't really know the specifics o' what happened after that, but . . .
Round' the record building, people started seein' some stuff go in n' out, like the power; lights especially. Also, some of the recording tech.
That shit all started goin' crazy; flickerin' and cutting off at weird times, playin' tracks and weird sounds nobody worked on.
People're goin' paranoid, next thing I know, I try to handle dis shit and I see it . . ." Warren inexplicably paused.
It pained him to remember.
"You saw 'the soon-to-be?'" Dante easily guessed. He knew he was right.
Warren lit up a cigarette, though on closer inspection, it was actually a pre-rolled joint. He took a huge puff and his eyes reddened.
"Yeah. This-. . . whatever the fuck it is, it's startin' to really screw with the workflow. If I can't get the music scene down, the Vice Kings is gonna be shit."
He finally said.
King himself visibly looked down on the man for his reckless toke. Why did it have to be right now that he had the hankering for it?
The worldly crime lord decided to finish the story for him.
"Normally, I wouldn't believe it myself, but she turned up when I came for a visit. It's . . . real. She's real all right. The bitch is costing me money.
So, I need you to go investigate, and find out what the fuck is goin' on." King was a commanding presence. It wasn't good to make him mad.
After years of loyalty, he'd grown accustomed to getting what he wanted, whenever he wanted.
There was a minor silence. The duo hadn't even been invited to sit down.
Morrison broke the quiet, "Well, we'd still need to draw up a contract, but Mr. King says he'll pay cash. I'd likely take that as concrete, if I were you."
Why was the man giving them a case related to such a criminal?
He was literally a boss of the underworld; Dante hated taking jobs from anything related to that scene.
Ben King, leader of the Vice Kings; not really someone either of them wanted to associate with.
Cooler heads prevailed.
"What's in it for us?" Lady finally spoke up to question the man.
"For starters? You get to walk out of here alive." King said, calm as usual.
The threat was so stock, so clichéd, Dante just couldn't help but let a laugh slip out. The man grimaced at him.
Uh oh.
"Somethin' funny?" He asked, deeper and grittier than before.
"Uh . . . that's just a- . . . it's a bit unoriginal, don't ya think?" The slayer was bored by him.
" . . . I suppose so." King thought about it for a moment. It was a pretty generic threat.
The slayer looked at the food on the table: burgers, beer, garlic bread and a host of other things that really didn't belong on the same surface together.
He swiped up a piece of the garlic toast and took a bite.
"So then, lets try it again. What do we get outta the whole thing, if we uh, do a little exorcism for ya?" He munched his way through the statement, not really bothering to finish before speaking.
Their proud, potential client was stone-faced for what seemed like forever.
Finally, he cracked a smile and said, "Whatchu lookin' for, man?"
To Be Continued