I don't even care about the format anymore. Does any of it matter?
I'm an idiot and this site gets just that much more frustrating every minute.
Anyway, this is the next update I guess. Notes moved to the Manifest, usually.
Dante's Apartment/Shop
"No chance I could tell ya I was really close to finding em, eh?" Dante sarcastically asked, hope filtered with it.
"Oh, sweet boy. I had bright things planned for you. I really hoped you would've at least killed one of them." She spoke as she delicately stroked his chin.
"Ah, I thought not." He replied.
"But you didn't even make it halfway there. You got sidetracked." She played with his hair, admiring his features, "Then you gave up on me. That's a big no-no." She continued.
Dante was put through the gutter for the past twelve hours. He was having absolutely none of it.
"You know, I bet you thought ya had me fooled, didn't you?" He said in a suddenly serious tone.
"What?" Christie asked.
The swarthy interiors played into his unexpected change.
"You. I bet ya really thought you were smarter than me. Just wave your chest and I suddenly lose my brain.
Those two people you wanted me to kill; two people you lied about. When you left outta here I-uh, I 'overheard you,' lets say. I heard all about your pathetic rivalry.
Humans like you are so petty. You just love doing your work for . . . what was his name, Giggles?" Dante said.
As he kept speaking, Christie irked herself up.
Her face twisted into an increasingly disturbed, manic expression.
"Rig." She said, flat and deep in that signature, sultry voice, covered in a posh accent.
"Yeah, that prick. What I found funny was you actually expected me to kill them. I was going to ask em' what I should do about you, figuring you had to have had some history.
Killing's not my bag, unless the victim's beyond redemption. But that doesn't stop you, does it? You're psycho."
Her face scrunched, the fist tightening around the pistol grip.
"Even if it turned out you were telling me the truth, I probably wouldn't have killed them. Maybe only've roughened em' up.
Told the one to disappear and maybe broken the other's wrist or somethin'. . . Well, either way, I can't see how ya got any leverage now." He said.
Her lips winced, even though she had a gun pointed directly at his head.
He wasn't scared at all. In fact, he was mainly apathetic, barely caring she was there.
Christie's cross expression and twitching face creased into a smile as she considered their positions.
"I don't have leverage? Darling, you are a barmy one. You may be invulnerable to broken bones, but you're not bulletproof!" She segued into a shout as she pressed the trigger.
He disappeared beneath her in a blur.
The bullet pierced the pillow.
"What the-?" Looking around, scanning like a drone, she saw him standing across the room, fully clothed.
He was decked out in virtual replicas of his earlier garb, save his coat, which was propped up on his desk chair.
"I'll be straight with you. Being together like that was the best time I've had in a while, but I know better. Ya never even had a chance walking through that door." He remarked.
She spun around and fired off two more rounds.
The bullets went straight through the wall.
He reappeared behind her in the adjacent corner, next to his bed.
Dante crossed his arms.
"Want some tips for next time? Get ugly." He casually spoke.
She jumped up off the bed in a lunge, intent on snapping his neck.
Her snaking combat style was effective at this type of kill.
Alluring, the assassin was fast, extremely fast; almost inhumanly so, but she wasn't fast enough.
Dante somehow raised his arm up and smacked her across the face with a backhanded strike downwards.
Crashing into the floor, she stumbled around.
"I'm tired and worn out. You're not worth killing. But hey, maybe if you came here, it's a sign I wasn't meant to sleep it off. I can keep going.
I was gonna deal with this 'demonic-return-thing' in the morning after about three hours of sleep. It's no fun when your sleepy.
Then again, if a Japanese demon couldn't bring me to my damned knees, I wouldn't be so angry. Speaking of which . . ." He grabbed the barely conscious woman up by her hair.
She snapped, rather vexed, and began striking his handsome mug.
It wasn't working, but never cross a pissed off brit.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, though she punched his wrist, knocking it away.
Christie cuffed the slayer in the mouth three times, each one having little affect, as she kept at it.
She must've punched this guy over a hundred times, using her zigzag arms and slithering knuckles to batter his face.
All of it failed.
There came a few more defiant attacks, none very powerful.
Eventually, she gave up after a few minutes or so, breathing heavily.
She threw a final fist that barely moved his jaw.
Exhausted, she collapsed on her heels, having to grab the wall behind her to stay upright.
"Did you send Ryu?" He said, stern.
She took a long, truthful look at him. She revealed much about herself, such as that she didn't really want to be here. In the Cambion's eyes, she saw pure rage, a black wolf's insane glower.
It raged on, what had he been through?
"How do you know that name?" She panted, confused and shrinking.
"Oh, a little mermaid flopped in front of me and blew off my face with magic fire." He stabbed the words in her ears.
His voice held an intensity he'd not used in years.
She laughed at him.
"Did I send Ryu after you? Only in a perfect world. Lord knows he's an unstoppable beast now. . . the ideal weapon." She said with a rather erotic grin.
He forcefully clasped her shirt, readjusting his grip, and flung her up on her feet.
Her back hit the wall.
"Too late to go the sexuality route, babe. If you didn't send him after me, who did? What demon lord employs you?" The silver-haired man plied her.
"Demon-what? That's a new one. Rig's been called many things before but-." He smacked her across the face as she was talking.
She spat a small amount of blood on his carpet.
"Misogyny much?" She said.
. . . Silence.
"No, Rig didn't send him after you. And whatever you just said, he isn't that either." Christie explained.
She stared at his face and recalled their moment of intimacy together. She couldn't explain why it popped back into her head, but it was there.
Fondly, the woman remembered the many sensations he was able to induce in her. Sometimes you just needed to be held.
His devilishly striking manners lay before her again; she couldn't help but feel captivated with his new, more aggressive attitude towards her.
Sadomasochism was something she rarely dabbled in.
If it were something she tried, she wouldn't exactly mind doing it with him, somehow.
Dante chuckled.
"Heh. You're pretty hard up right now. The pheromones just kicked into overdrive, I can sense it. . . smell it." He said gloomily as he, too, couldn't help but feel attracted to her.
At 6'3, he dominated over her 5'10.
"Hit me-. . . Hit me again." She said.
Lost in her gaze, he felt pulled.
Complying, he swatted her across the face. She made a noise that seemed to be a mixture of pain and pleasure. All the while, she ran her leg up through his thighs.
He kicked the gun she dropped across the room and forced her further up against his apartment's dark wall. Their faces grew closer and she could feel him pressing up against her.
Gasping for air, she moaned.
She then whispered in his ear, "Screw orders. I'm having you right here, right now and I don't care what he says about it."
His face only an inch away, he outright closed the distance with a fervent kiss.
A warmth spread over her chest, straight up and down her chemistry. This wasn't some weak romance, or any endless love-type crap.
The assassin's cheeks burned red, and between her legs she grew weak.
Her arms wrapped themselves around his chest.
He advanced to her neck, continuously pressing his lips with a bleakly expressed verve. He was feeling nihilistic today, so he grabbed her and squeezed, a careless whimper escaping her.
Christie was wearing a somewhat-short skirt and a lovely white blouse. The idea was to be as inconspicuous as possible when approaching the target.
She placed her hand on her breast and tore open her shirt, exposing her black bra to him as he shifted farther down south.
Keeping her brassiere on, he moved the actual cup down to expose her to himself. She held the back of his head as he worked and shifted herself further against him.
He grasped all her curves, maintaining their amorous envelopment. She scratched him, he spanked her. Returning his interest higher, they reunited, staying interlocked with one another.
That is, till the woman precociously pushed him back. She gave him a coy look, straddling her hand over the bulge. He licked her lips, she slapped him back.
Those were almost fighting words, though she grabbed his hair and pulled him back in for another round. She bit his lower lip, shoving her tongue through. His hand grasped her rear, and she giggled.
Her right leg rubbed against his calf, wrapped around the back of his leg. She moved her pelvis forward, pushing on his front as she kept her lingua down his throat.
She broke away from him, unexpectedly.
The girl violently pushed away, and led him to the bed. As he watched her climb on, she moved to the foot of it and began bending over.
Christie placed her fingers on the bed, and let her skirt hang higher.
She motioned for him.
Then said, "Hit me."
There was nothing more to understand.
The man complied, providing her the smack she yearned for.
She bit her lips, curling her body out of reflex while preparing for the second.
There it came, just as good as the first.
He repeated the practice six more times, each time earning him a carnal gasp from her as he made them more frequent.
After this, he switched sides, really alternating more or less, using the same hand for both. He went faster and faster, and she enjoyed every second.
Each twisted groan elicited electric pleasure between them, each little wiggle she gave him granted excitement.
He could've lived without it, but would he really want to?
After reaching a nadir, she moved her tail back into him, pressing her physique against his.
She ground her thighs in a circle, swelling him up.
He reached around, his hands gloveless, and worked on her blouse.
She grabbed her thigh, wanting to jump straight to the fun now.
Dante groped her chest, moving himself down to her back. When in Rome. . . His hands brushed up to her lingerie, his breath heating her neck.
Eventually, she twisted around in place, wriggling back towards the top of the bed. She picked her left leg up to rest on his shoulder. She was ready, that's for sure.
He grabbed her lifted limb, soothing her silky flesh with a warm palm, supporting her wispy, robust figure.
Tilting back, she held her head back as she pulled him to her neck. She was quite flexible, her profession demanded this.
His touch felt blazing.
She pushed up so she could put her hands behind her back, going to unlock the strap.
It loosely paraded over her fingers.
Sly devil already undid it for her.
So she moved her focus back to him. She pulled him all the way down, removing his red button up.
The man threw it aside, and she threw her own onto the desk chair.
Christie brought the straps down her arms and kept her chest covered as she moved the loosened bra away from her body.
Revealing her bust in all its veinless glory, she slipped her undergarment off, moving her hips in a rhythmic pattern that he couldn't look away from.
Laying there, her powerful feminine physique was something to be envied.
Her arms were thick and toned. The abs were of a deceiving nature, lean but powerful.
Her iron core gave her that terminal edge a femme fatale needed.
Rolling him over beneath her, she removed his undershirt, and grasped his chest with both hands.
In this manner, their conflict was settled.
-Elsewhere in the city-
Akira, screamed in horrible agony as his own energy, once locked safely away from the surface, continuously punctured through his body.
It sliced open his skin, destroyed his clothing, and warped his prison, this dimension he was trapped in. His flesh gouged itself apart.
At least over a few years of unending agony had gone by now.
Of any of the preposterous things that had happened to him, this took the cake, easily.
Trapped in a pocket of space time that's dying, much like himself. His fear, his hate; all took shape as whatever it was that was inside him.
The monster wouldn't let him live normally, not that he would choose to live here.
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't breathe. He was kept in an absolute, constant state of near death.
Demonic surges felt to him like something continuously was trying to claw its way out from all sides.
More time passed. Minutes stretched into hours. The hours inflated into days, and eventually, time lost complete meaning for his addled mind.
All that kept happening was anger.
Without interruption, he felt undying rage. It kept on stinging his soul, his mind, his every little cell.
At one point, he swore that his skin scorched itself out, burning off from his smoldering fury, but it regenerated.
Well, that's what he thought anyway.
"What the hell did you give me!?" He screamed at the top his lungs, over and over.
His pain wouldn't relent.
Various phrases and curses spasmed out of his throat.
But as the time stretched beyond, he began to become used to it.
It was a strange sensation.
Though it was the same level of pain, it simply began affecting him less and less and less. Brought to the pinnacle of it, he finally quieted down. It's like his tolerance had intensified.
His nails were just destroyed, broken off and revealing the bloody bed beneath them, and his fingers broke from the furious scratching. It had itched and burned so badly, he didn't know what else to do.
The fractured man began balling up out of human biology, only for the tears to boil away on his reddened skin.
Akira's resistance to the hurt began to instead emphasize his ire inward.
He was above this.
He could beat it if he tried hard enough.
The vocal cords wrecked, he sputtered a broken meditative mantra and began focusing as much as he could, speaking it repeatedly.
In his discipline, he was taught that he could overcome physical wounds if he meditated. If he was having trouble doing so, he could use a mantra to give himself a leg up.
So, as more time passed, he uttered the mantra constantly. Droning.
The previous sensations began evolving. Not only did it affect him less, he could somehow 'feel' every nerve and fiber of his being.
This was the farthest he'd ever taken his body.
That entity Sparda, he'd said he was a last minute solution. He wondered what for? Obviously he'd just been the right person at the right time, it could have been anyone where he was now.
But only he had the mantra. Perhaps the other's he'd spoken of had died, though there were apparent successes he also mentioned. Where were those successes now?
Where had all the people with Sparda's fragments gone?
He experienced numerous new senses that he was unaware of before.
Almost overwhelmed by it, the mantra kept him on course.
Over and over: the same phrase.
His damaged sanity rationalized the situation and he returned to a form of normalcy for a little while.
Most notably, he regained awareness of time passing by.
His aura calmed itself, becoming tempered after it had flamed out of control for so long.
The little that he'd been given was enough to kill the barrier on his own power. Whatever was hidden beneath the surface came roaring out.
It bestowed upon him numerous basic abilities.
First, and foremost, he possessed an inhuman spatial awareness.
He could hear the dimensional plane, slowly but surely shifting.
Secondly, and most alleviating, he could feel himself healing. Every little cell repeated, their lifespan growing.
To what limits could that take him?
The only instance of healing like this he'd ever seen was those old X-Men films.
His brain, once poisoned with fire, had cooled and cured.
Slowly, reality began to sink back in.
His memory returned.
The tormented visions, the slow, dreaded clawing on his insides, eventually ceased altogether.
His body repaired, this time permanently. Soon, he came back to a quiet peace.
He became aware of the dimension's layout. It had numerous exits and entrances, though never simple fixed points. In addition to the spatial awareness, he experienced growth of his perception.
The feeling of being two places at once returned and he saw Kasumi frozen in time, able to see her in the real reality as well as this own strange one.
As he came to realize the flimsy, deteriorating mechanics of this frayed pocket universe, he recalled his clothing and it suddenly appeared on him.
Entirely undamaged, and with all his belongings present, he observed what had happened in the time he had been gone.
-In Reality-
She felt cold.
Footsteps came nearer. As Kasumi looked around, she saw Akira was missing.
"Huh? Where did-?" she said aloud.
After about ten seconds, a sudden hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder.
"Dah!" she let out a yell of shock and abruptly vanished from the building.
The barred doors burst open as police rammed through it.
They inspected the destroyed furniture and the strange lack of presence.
"Search the building. I know I heard them!" The lead officer said as the confused men and women all shuffled off in different directions.
-The Pocket-
"Ah! What was that!? What-. . . where are we?" She found herself saying unexpectedly, noticing the differences in an instant, "You did something to me! Where are we?"
The Shinobi pressed him, rather insistent that the man explain the bizarre assault on her senses.
"Let me explain." Akira paused without altering his expression, then said, "No, there is too much; let me sum up." He continued,
"I was pulled into this place that exists outside of our own reality. Time flows differently, and the ghost of the guy in the painting we looked at brought me here.
Now that that's that, we have to leave so i can find his adult son." Akira finished.
"Wha- Wait, wait wait, What- What the hell did you just say? Stop rushing me! If time is different here, can't we- The ghost of who?!" She said, wildly confused, bouncing from topic to topic.
"This place is on its last legs. I don't know how much time we have left.
There isn't anything keeping this place open anymore. We need to get out before it crumbles in on us. Fair?" He surmised.
"Uhm- okay?" Kasumi said, supreme frustration clear in her tone.
Akira proceeded to grab and drag her along with him.
"Hey-Whoa! Slow down! I'm not an object, you know!" She said, angry at his adamance on pulling her.
Rounding a few halls, they traversed the strange dimension together. It was creepy, every wall infected with a pulsating, black ooze. It looked like some form of bacteria.
The air outside hung like death, invading their throats without any recourse.
Yuki's every muscle ached, and he could still feel the pain everywhere, yet his super-tolerance suppressed it.
Odd how that happened. Would he retain any of that invulnerability? Another time.
They came to a dead end.
She huffed at him, exasperated.
"Look up." He said.
Reluctantly, she complied. Up above, the hallway made a complete, abrupt curve into the sky.
As soon as she saw this, they suddenly began rocketing upwards, the perception of gravity changing in on itself.
Akira and Kasumi fell through a window and out into a courtyard.
He shielded her from skidding on the ground, feeling the jagged, uneven bricks shear into his back.
A trail of red went in their wake.
When he got up, their wasn't even a scuff on his coat.
Above, the sky was a deep, cobalt blue, and the environment was hazy. Various particles of frozen dust, clumped together, all hovered around, passing through them.
Though she didn't see it, a glaring doorway made of a flowing gold light shimmered into existence. He shoved her into it and quickly stepped in himself.
They re-emerged in reality, not even a few milliseconds after the police burst through the doors.
The two almost immediately ran through the gates of the real courtyard.
A few police lay up ahead, but Kasumi grabbed his arm tight and used her ninpo to zip them to a rooftop a mile away, leaving behind pink flower petals.
They zipped across the sky, tearing through the air. She sat, exhausted.
Akira, who was indeed rejuvenated, lay on the ground, flat. He could breathe completely clearly.
The wasting effects of leprous aging undone, he felt far and away better.
The cancer was gone from his lungs.
"God I'm happy that's all over. I have just one question, though." Akira said.
Kasumi perked up, "What's that?"
"Why didn't you do that before we got cornered?" He yelled.
-Meanwhile-
A tall man watched the city from the roof of a skyscraper.
"Dante . . . I'm disappointed." His voice was dark, cynical, "So weak and simple-minded. If this keeps up, everything will fall into place faster than even I anticipate.
There's just one little annoyance that seems to have popped up."
The man was wearing a dark blue coat with three tails and a carmine coloring its inside.
In his left hand, he held a powerful weapon, the Yamato.
With silver hair and eye's stained red, the man bore a striking resemblance to Dante.
He held his right hand up and summoned a ball of energy in it.
He then crushed his fist closed, and the power dispersed, summoning a glowing gate.
A blackened figure stepped forward out of it.
"Ah, Thrergon. Nice of you to show, you pest." The man growled.
A familiar, pale demon, with straps bound to his face and a scythe in it's hands, lumbered forward.
"Lord! I-did . . . as you-'ve asked! But, there w'as . . . a slight . . . complication" Thrergon said.
The man remained bemused.
"You, at least, told him what I wanted him to know. Do you have any idea what happened when Ryu appeared?" He unsympathetically told it as he raised his hand, preparing to smite it.
"But Ver-gil!" It whined in it's shrill hiss, "You-must-. . . list en to me! Dan-te . . . is'not . . . entirely deeeead. One . . . of my spy's re'ported to me-." It was interrupted.
Vergil, within the span of no time at all, decapitated Thrergon without moving a muscle.
It's head fell to the ground and rolled in front of Vergil, staring directly at him, distressed and in horrid pain.
"Yes, I'm aware." Vergil said, adding, "The problem is that shows me he is so much more frail than he was supposed to be."
He then returned his thoughts to Ryu, who presented a major snafu to his plan.
"That cur. He stays in hiding for years, then, decides he doesn't like Japan anymore? I will turn that tasteless worm to ash. How dare he disrupt my plans!" Vergil raged.
An indigo-tinged, black aura emanated from his clenched fist. His brown gloves crackled with electrical surges as his wrath soared.
His hair, spiked upwards and swept back, while one lock remained down in front of his forehead, began to come loose, swaying straight up.
The darkness of his energy produced feelings of dread in the still-living Thrergon.
It was unlike demons to become scared of anything.
"Mas-ter. C-control . . . your anger. There is still . . . a way to fix this." It's head tried to reason, somehow managing to make sounds despite lacking proper organs or any bodily systems to do so.
Vergil relented and his hair fell down.
When left in a loose state, his silver bangs made him appear identical to Dante.
He swept it back into place again and relaxed.
"Yes, what is it?" He scorned.
"There seems to be . . . someone who hates Ryu . . . even more-, than you do." It said.
The man leered over him.
"Oh? What of this person?" He asked.
"I have heard mention . . . of an organization. You-know them as well. MIIIIIIIIIST." It dragged out the word, for whatever reason, "Their leader . . . is at odds with . . . him."
Thrergon really was appallingly longwinded.
Each speech continued on the trend of demented breathing as it spoke.
"A human like him, I would assume he has more than just the two of us as his enemies." Vergil stated.
Upon saying this, he realized that he was right.
Ryu did have many enemies.
" . . . You may have stumbled onto something there. If I culled together enough of his enemies, I could use them . . . Manipulate their hatred of him as a tool for my own ends." He said.
A disturbing glister leaked into his eyes.
"I could-be your plant. I'd . . . interact with them . . . and bring t.h.e.m togeth-." Vergil stomped his boot over its mouth.
"No, you've done enough. This requires a more delicate touch, not another of your missteps. You're a flawed construct: I have much to fix about you." The silver lord said.
His words were vicious and negative.
Each time he spoke, he contained so much malice that it sounded like he was enjoying a massacre.
"Perhaps this time, I require a deposed princess's charm." It's blue master stated as he waved his hand and Thrergon rolled away into the shadows.
A swirling, unnervingly silent vortex opened, and from it descended a gothic being of ancient power.
She possessed green hair and skin-tight purple and black clothes that appeared from nowhere.
On her back were gigantic, ebony bat wings.
Her face was striking and evil, yet more beautiful than most women dream of becoming.
"You summoned, dark lover?" She exhaled as she hovered slowly to the roof grounds, her chest tilted to the sky and slowly moving forward into accordance with her lower body.
She had a velvety voice doused in a seductive Scottish accent.
Her cleavage immensely risqué, her black boots spiteful and searing, she appeared truly sinful.
"Morrigan, I have . . . a proposal for you." He said, his tall, brown boots steadfast in the wind.
Her face lit up as she prepared to deliver dreamy chaos unto the surface of earth once more.
-Meanwhile-
She climbed off of him.
The bed was a mess. A picture that hung on the wall had fallen, and an aroma of perfume, men's body wash and sweat pervaded the room.
A devil man and a platinum-dyed beauty lay side by side.
Breathing was the only thing breaking their silence.
For minutes on end, the two sat without speaking.
Finally Dante sat up. He said, "I have to go."
"Where?" She asked.
He looked back with a charming smile.
"To make sure it's still safe to live in this world." He remarked as he grabbed his clothes. She watched him dress, grabbing his second coat.
He sprayed his preferred scent on himself before he left and put the duster on.
It was mostly identical to his first, albeit it had slimmer lapels and longer coattails. It was also made of leather, rather than cloth.
A perfect gunslinger's choice. The lapels themselves were pointed, and though read, they flared out, with buckles at the collar.
He grabbed another pair of black boots, fastening them on.
They were laced instead of zip-ups, as opposed to the earlier ones he'd used.
Shin-high, they made good replacements for the destroyed pair he'd been forced into throwing out.
He left his shop again, this time, more confident.
Maybe she'd altered the chemicals in his head: Women.
Just before leaving, he stopped and stared at something hidden. It was an object of power. . .
It was an orb of green flame, resting itself atop an invisible pedestal. Both couldn't be seen really, not by humans anyway.
Right. He'd severed that from himself, deciding not to risk carrying around that level of power.
For fear he might hurt someone. There was always that fear. . .
This once gave him a power, a great skill, most useful in a bind.
Perhaps the next he'll meet that man, he'll be able to use it.
Placing his hands around the Greek fire, allowing it's stinging touch to embrace him again. He lifted it up off the stand, clutched between his fists.
The slayer forced his palms into his chest, and the sphere pierced his heart.
It burned like nothing else.
And so it was bonded with him again.
He left.
Stepping out, his eyes flashed emerald, then glowed a dark crimson.
The afterburn faded back to his frosty blue as he kept walking, determined.
-Back Inside-
Inside, Christie sat in contemplation, her legs curled up and her arms clasped around them.
She saw the television in front of the bed, but didn't bother touching the remote.
Instead, she stayed still and thought about things.
Dante took her by surprise. Why was he so magnetic?
How did he do those things? What about him completely overwhelmed her? She'd never been outright thwarted during an assassination.
Her musing was cut short by the ringing of her work phone.
She answered. A voice spoke to her.
"Hello, hello . . . ? I know you're there. What have you been doing? I trust you killed him as instructed, yes?" Rig asked.
"Hmph. The bastard was too fast. I fired at him and he fought back. Rather a shame.
He got away and he wasn't even hurt. He bashed me against a wall a few times. I don't know what he is, but he isn't human." She said into the phone.
A kernel of truth could be found in her statements.
She began looking at her feet, and noticed that the nail polish had been chipped.
The bottom soles were damp, having retained some perspiration.
"You sound groggy. He knocked you out, I presume . . . God damn it. Is he really that good?!" He rhetorically asked.
She cracked a naughty smile.
"There has to be a file on him. There's no way my father let this man come so far without keeping some kind of tab on him. What was his name again?" Rig asked.
"Dante." She said clearly and distinctly.
There was some silence on the other end.
". . . -That's it? Oh, let me guess! Another mononym?" Rig asked angrily, having not forgotten about her previous sexual tryst with him.
"Let's see, let's see . . ." He said as he due diligently searched, "Oh . . . fuck."
He blurted uncontrollably, affected with what was probably a mixture of fear, frustration, and something similar to self-loathing.
"What is it now?" She asked.
"He's Sparda's kid." The militant supervisor stated the words without emotion, "Get out of there. We need to regroup and rethink our strategies."
She didn't like that, "Wh-Are you sure?"
On the other end, she heard him breathe heavily. She rolled her eyes.
"Until I tell you different, stay in hiding: you're good at that. Find some info we can use, if it occurs to you, then get your ass back here." He continued.
The man refused her acknowledgment.
"I'll get right on that." She said after he finished.
Her voice grew deep, filling itself with frost.
He hung up, she put the phone down and continued sitting motionless.
After hearing all of this, all the peaces fit together.
Sparda was reportedly one of the only people in the world that DOATEC could not control or influence through any power was far beyond humanity's.
Considered by Donovan to be a god who wouldn't govern the people, the man attempted to gain his friendship, but instead. . . Earned his wrath.
So, his machinations greatly suffered for this.
Christie had come to know of Sparda because Rig often compared him to Ryu. This was strange for her.
She had no concept of this person, whoever he was, but if Dante was anything to go by. . .
Someone who wished to live out their life silently, but willing to protect humans when directly called upon. Admirable.
But this was a cruel world, not one meant for the heroic types.
They were so exceedingly similar, apparently. . .
Or, it was more of Rig's bullshit.
But, that would explain why Dante wasn't easy to exploit. That's why he could do all those feats without breaking a sweat.
He really wasn't human.
She didn't know what Sparda was exactly, but she new anyone related to him was far from normal.
While mulling this over in her head, she felt so much smaller in comparison to the politics of the world. . . Her world at least.
She deeply pondered going to leave the man's apartment, or staying and waiting for him.
If she waited, she would risk losing her position with MIST, which afforded her many amenities; even her life. But she wondered how things might turn out if she did decide to stay.
Would something more than sexual develop between them?
'Perhaps.' She thought.
Would they live together? Would they even get along?
Difficult questions purveyed her conscience. The hedonistic tendencies within began to scream out.
'Take the easy option!'
It wouldn't leave her alone.
'Go back, don't stay!'
What was this feeling?
This phobia of losing something important, it conquered her. She struggled to come up with a proper solution.
Ten minutes later, no one was left in the building.
-Meanwhile, Downtown-
Dante walked into a medium sized bar, his equipment hidden. He strolled over to the brown counter, then sat down.
The stools always sucked here.
All the walls were lined with bricks, giving it a real lived-in, Chicago-esque feel.
From the outside, it looked like one of those old midwest pubs.
The bar patron directly next to him acknowledged his existence with a nervous smile.
"H-hey. What brings you down here, man?" He said in a hushed tone.
The guy didn't really have a clue.
"Hello Roger." Dante said in an equally low timbre. "There's something I need from you."
Roger was a rather chubby, middle-aged man. He was balding and had a graying goatee, wearing casual clothing.
The man had helped him before, but it was in limited cases.
Primarily, he was a psychic of sorts.
Often, he used his ability to help locate demons and drive them into extinction, but that was before.
He was also capable of finding humans quite easily, but the last time the two did business, things went very badly. Neither would bring it up, but it left tensions high.
This had forced Dante to begin taking a different approach to finding his targets.
"Hey man, I can't really help you right now. It's late and I'm a little busy here." The man said, his trepidation growing.
Dante gave him a firm scowl.
"Don't play with me. Right now, some big 'things' are brewing. I got my skin flayed off by a Japanese demon after I beat a mentally-disturbed grim reaper into the pavement.
The latter of the two could only talk in weird moans, which was just damn frustrating. The thing told me about my own father.
That's the first one in a few years to show up, it even killed people in public. Remember the last time they did that?" He said.
Roger was a little shocked.
"They're back? In public? You're sure?" He asked.
The older man was given an insulting expression. The scowl remains the same.
"All right, you're sure. Well, come with me to the back and let's see what we can find." Roger reluctantly stated as he went over to a black door on the right of the serving table.
It didn't have any signs. He knocked on it and it cracked open a slight bit.
A figure in the shadows conversed with him for a small minute. The door then closed and a clicking sound was heard.
It unlocked itself.
Opening up, there appeared to be no person standing there.
They stepped through the corridor into a stark-white, clean hallway, devoid of life. The duo walked through, coming into a small, oval room that contrasted with the white passage.
Alternately, the room seemed as though it was a tidied, warm office.
Roger went to a bookshelf and grabbed a strange dark brown tome.
When he opened it and began scanning through, he slipped a pair of reading glasses on.
"Grim reaper type? Hmm. I remember you ran into a few of those. . . But from what you're telling me, it sounds different than them." He said as he looked down for a picture.
Dante suddenly reached into his pocket and produced a cut out piece of paper from one of his own books.
"You're looking for this. All I have is the illustration. The name is worn out on mine. Not a very good copy." The hybrid said plainly.
Roger looked over, staring long enough for his eyes to refocus.
"I recognize that kind. Looks like this one's a bit more souped-up than the others. . . Ah! Here, that about right?" Roger exclaimed as he turned the book around.
Lining up both images side by side, the resemblance was mostly all there.
They were different interpretative drawings of a robed demon, and a human-like face contorted by any manner of devices.
There were several examples of the different sub-types. One displayed mechanical gears, another had lacerations and wires that pierced and stretched it's face.
Gruesome, grizzly. . .
"Yep, there it is. A face only a mother could love." The devil hunter quipped.
"Says here that this is a Jinn-type. It doesn't have any shape shifting powers, just really strong.
Also has better intelligence than most demons. Didn't give you much trouble, did it?" The aficionado asked casually.
"No. It was the one after that. Is there anything here about 'ninjas?'" Dante pressed him for more.
He flipped throughout the book.
"Afraid not, then again this isn't about Japanese demons. I'll try another." Roger said as he grabbed a different volume with embroidered gold character symbols from the Japanese alphabet on it.
Again, no luck here.
Instead, he showed his friend a picture of all the shinobi-related creatures featured across it's pages.
None of them matched the one he fought.
"It couldn't be something new. . . right?"
"They're demon's. There hasn't been anything new since plants started growing in the ground. . . Does it say anything about whether or not you can make a Jinn?" Dante responded.
The man scanned through the book.
"Hmm, yes, but you'd need a human soul to do it."
Immediately, this shot the entity's words back into his head. 'Infernal Threshold Gate.' What did that mean?
He hadn't even heard the term before.
"You got anything on an 'Infernal Threshold Gate?'" The slayer asked, going out on a limb.
He pecked and searched again, but Roger couldn't find anything related.
"I'll check the 'Resources and Enchantments.'" He replied.
Another game of hunting high and low.
Nothing.
"No luck man." He said, closing the book and setting it down on a coffee table.
Well that was worrisome. This thing wasn't even in a book. What the hell was it?
"There's one more thing I need you to do then." Dante decided.
For some reason, Roger looked pale at this.
He nervously tried to sidestep what he knew the man was going to ask.
"Oh, you know man, I don't really know. That didn't go over so well last time we did it." He said.
"That was last time." The silver haired man pointed out.
"Yeah, but that was very dangerous. It was only a few years ago." He grew increasingly nervous.
Continuing, "Besides, I've got a killer cramp in my side and a huge headache, the doctor said it might be stress related so, you know, I can't-." He was cut off.
"I have been thrashed through a building, stabbed and shot, fallen over a hundred feet twice, and I've been incinerated. At this point I'm not really interested in arguing, bud.
So please, just this once. Don't procrastinate about it. I need you to find the location of someone named Helena Douglas." Dante said.
He figured that if anyone could help him find something out, his first clue could be with the people who sparked it all. He needed to know who this Ryu was, demon or not.
So, rather than tax the medium to find two people, why not kill both birds with one stone and only focus on the single?
The coordinates he got from Christie were destroyed anyway and he hadn't enough time to memorize them.
The talented ESPer hesitantly looked forward, reluctantly agreeing.
He took out a large piece of paper and some paint, then laid them on the desk.
Drawing a specialized insignia, he then muttered some kind of incantation while placing his hand openly on the paper.
The older man began using his unique ability to summon information that was not his mind's right to acquire.
The marking he made began glowing a bright purple.
And, almost immediately, trouble began.
The entire building started vibrating. When he ascertained the location of the woman, images of an attractive blonde female entered his head.
Other facts about her came into his knowledge as well, such as her height, weight, age, and place of origin. After he dragged up the necessary details, he finally gained the critical piece his friend desired, the location.
He exited the confines of his mind and the vibration ceased.
He collapsed backwards.
Dante caught him and noticed new grey hairs.
Loosely, through his hazy stupor, he managed to tell him what he needed.
"She-! Ah-She's-. . . She's at the DOATEC HQ in New York City."
Roger then gave him a snarky comment.
"Wow man, you really know how to pick 'em. Your luck with women change or somethin?'"
"Well, I have been meeting some different kinds of people lately." He retorted.
"That's about all the humor I can muster for now man. You gotta get out of here." His friend said, as urgent as you can when you're exhausted.
Managing to force himself to remain awake, he tried to explain to his friend.
"Aw, what's up? No time to share a drink with an old friend?" The silver-haired man said.
"No . . . no, it ain't that. They got to me man. When I was putting myself out there, a scout interloped me. They know we're here . . ." He faded away, body strain taking his consciousness to rest.
As he passed out, his friend laid him on the couch.
"Well, that's a problem." Dante said to himself as a new tremble swept over the building.
Loud crashing and violent banging occurred as the shaking ramped up. He turned and looked at the hallway door.
Solemnly, the man trudged forward and opened it, overhearing a pack of demon's crash forward through the bar roof.
Eventually, one burst its way in through the other entrance to the hallway.
It had a dominant chest and was inhumanly tall, with legs cocked backwards, as if it were an anthropomorphic, hairless werewolf.
It's head looked like a zombie.
The lips were pulled back by a metal clamp around its mouth, leaving raw, crimson gums.
It had dark tan skin and concrete muscles larger than any body builder.
Gleaming red eyes shined hostility, and immense, seven inch long claws replaced the fingers.
Rags that used to be clothes shrouded the beast's lower body, and on it's elbows were short, dulled spikes.
Held in it's massive hand was the head of the bartender, stuck; frozen in a state of morbid suffering.
"You look happy." The huntsman remarked.
He snapped his fingers and his weapons appeared.
The demon squashed the head into bloody chunks of grey matter and skull fragments.
It roared and stormed forward as he grabbed the Rebellion, but kept it holstered, running forward through the white hall himself. Eventually, he released the blade from it's resting place.
He slashed forward and cut its chest.
Though a thick, long wound, it acted as though it was merely a surface scratch and the big behemoth continued forward, attempting to pinch his head and neck in its long grasp.
Flipping back over it, the man fired two shots with Ebony as he went.
Both bullets impacted it's eye and encroaching hand respectively, stifling the monster for a brief moment.
Rolling through the air, he completed his descent.
He landed and pushed all of his strength to his front.
Propelled off the ground toward the creature, the slayer-inertia slashed at its neck.
The mindless, roaring beast attempted a pinching claw against him. However, it mistimed the attack, only catching the edge of his coat.
It's head sliced clean off.
As it was projected into the air by a fountain of blood, he pointed Ebony back and shot a solitary, charged bullet.
The electricity-coated projectile blasted its way through the stream and right into the skull of the creature.
Disintegrating on contact, nothing but it's blood remained, staining the bright halls with vivid cherry paint. Hell was worth all that?
This, too, disappeared. It turned to ash, blowing as dust in the end.
From it's degenerated corpse spilled a crystallized orb with a face of pain etched in.
Dante cracked an eyebrow up. The other's hadn't dropped anything.
Nevertheless, he approached the object with confidence and familiarity. He outstretched his hand forward and seemed to absorb it into his body as soon as his fingers reached the oval object.
A crackling surge of power come over him. He walked out through the destroyed, clawed-up door into the desecrated tavern.
Dead bodies were crunched into the ceiling corners, suspended in place by sticky masses of human mulch around them.
Intestines hung from the fan blades above.
Mutilated corpses and ripped-open faces stared back at him.
The abominations in the room were all of the same ilk as the one he'd slain. Brutes.
They were eating pieces of human gristle and shoving organs into their foot-wide jaws.
He acted indifferent to the emetic scenery.
"Seems like you guys have no respect for privacy. This is the second time I've caught you doing something in a public forum. You wanna get after me that badly?" He asked in an insulting tone.
Derision was his middle name.
The gorilla-sized creatures looked at him with strange zeal.
Their teeth were bloodied by the feast. Smaller human body parts stuck out between each razor point.
"There's the enthusiasm I like! Let's rock!" He said as they all charged at him.
Dante defended with a flurry of gunshots, then sliced through the first demon's waist, swinging with his right hand. The blade stopped halfway through, causing the angered Brute to swipe at him.
He blocked this with his left arm, gun still clasped in hand. The claw-fingers impaled his forearm but he bore the pain with calmness. If there was anything mom taught him, weather the storm.
Veins pumped with tranquil fire, sucking darkest clear. His mind remained cool.
The demon visibly reacted with slight confusion, using what little intelligence it had.
Dante readjusted his grip and twisted the thick brand, causing the demon to hiss and spit gore.
It staggered back and the second monster attacked, but the man forcibly moved his arm backward, causing the talons to begin shearing through his limb.
This also dragged the demon he was tussling with forward.
The second monster wound up tearing into the first's bicep.
The fibers were weakened enough that the slayer was able to rip it off entirely, just by using his weight.
It howled.
He then looked at the second monster and gave a smirk as he fired another suffused shot through it's forehead. Striking it mid-swing, completely shearing off the scalp and obliterating it's brain.
Subsequently blown back on top of its charging ally, the third creature stumbled away.
The preceding monster's body dissolved and another orb poured out.
Dante was prevented from snatching it by the now-one-armed-demon when it slashed his right shoulder.
He grimaced as it dug its other claws through his flesh to the bone. With bloodshot eyes, he shook loose the detached limb and drove Rebellion up, cutting up through the savage's chest.
He let go of the handle and batted off the spike embedded in his upper back before shooting it in the shoulder. With it distracted, he then plunged his right thumb into it's eye, gouging it out.
The slayer almost took pleasure in it, driving the finger in and tearing at the lens' surface first, then making it further in till he reached the optic nerve.
Scraping his fingernails against the side of it's head, he gnashed his teeth.
The creature reared its head back and roared in pain. It stood straight up and he was lifted off his feet, supported by only his hand, burrowing into the side of it's skull.
Dante moved his thumb slightly and caused its head to twitch to the right, swinging him around to kick the encroaching fourth beast in the neck.
The first kept staggering to the right while he shot the fourth in the same spot, through his own foot.
The pain was excruciating for both, but at least he was satisfied that the bullet lodged itself inside it's sensitive throat.
The first flailed it's remaining arm and attempted to rip him off, but the demon hunter brought himself back in and put his feet on the handle of his own sword.
He pushed off with all the strength he had, and he ripped his thumb out it's socket, kicking the Rebellion completely throughout and into the third creature's abdomen.
It was lifted off it's feet and blasted into the wall, struggling to pull itself off.
The demon killer was still amid the air, shifting his knee into it's face.
He rammed his joint so hard he knocked it down on it's back.
It struggled to get back up with only one arm and a smashed jaw bone.
The knee force them apart, and the slayer went flying.
Dante landed on a table, and was immediately attacked by the fourth and fifth beast's.
Brute's were annoying, as much as they were fairly durable grunts.
He blocked the fifth's strike by shoving the barrel of his pistol into the palm of it's barbed fist and pulling the trigger.
Blood spatter into the thing's face.
It backed up, it's hand smoking with a new hole.
The man stepped over and dodged the fourth's downward, two-handed crush, which destroyed the right side of the table instead, and he drew Ivory within an instant.
He pointed it at the Brute's temple before it could readjust it's gaze.
Bang.
Pieces of bloody encephalon, cystic sludge and demon skull plastered itself against the wall.
The fifth returned but suffered a boot in the side.
Refusing to move, however, it instead grabbed him by his left shoulder in retaliation.
Jostling him up off the teeter-tottering, destroyed table, it threw the man at the wall. He hit the enclosure and fell on his side.
A broken beer bottle lodged itself in his ribs as his head cracked on the hardwood flooring.
The fifth rushed at him and attacked with a leaping stomp maneuver.
He brought up Ebony.
The man fired off a round through the foot.
The bullet passed into its knee and he rolled back into the wall when it's leg collapsed from the full-weighted impact against the injury.
It shifted instinctively into a crouched position clutching the joint.
Dante shoved his silver gun into its mouth.
It's entire crown burst open, smoke trails billowing out of the burnt crater following the electric blast.
He stood on his feet and wrenched out the bottle.
The first Brute, having finally gotten to it's feet, tooled around through the human bodies before taking another swing.
Dante ran, throwing the remains at it's face as he slid on his knees, underneath its rough attempt.
He twisted around into a smooth stance, continuing to slide a few inches more before coming to a complete stop, the back of his heel bumping a disfigured carcass.
He pointed both guns and fired relentlessly at the demon, its regenerating body being chewed through inch by stubborn inch.
Eventually falling to its knees, it collapsed, half it's physical form liquefied into soaked meat.
Yet, it still drew breath.
The third demon finally pulled itself free and tried to attack Dante from behind. It was met with a sudden roundhouse kick from the hybrid.
His boot was so strong, it completely broke it's mandible clean off.
The detached jaw was sent flying behind the bar.
Seizing the sword, still in its stomach, he flushed the weapon up.
The top half of the creature bisected in two, turning as he did to face the last beast standing.
Rebellion's tip relaxed on the floor, held once more by it's master.
Every demon dropped an orb or two.
Pointing the blade at the remaining Brute, its lower legs were reduced to mere bone fragments and mounds of rotted, flesh-covered muscle.
Both of its arms were now missing.
He didn't think twice.
Until next time
Gave this a little tweak. I realized the manifest thing is a bit dumb as it just takes empty space now. It'll serve as the epilogue one day, as well as a receptacle for my trashy notes.
Other A.N. entries in the manifest, thank you.
