Author's Note: Right, so here we go again, this story. Round 2.
First thing's first, ground rules: This is a story set in my own continuity I've been working on, that means my rules, my style, and inevitable differences between the original games and what is presented here in the work. You must understand that both DMC and DOA as properties pretty much can only work in their original execution as video games, and for the purposes of writing a crossover story that also makes sense and isn't eye-gouging-ly dumb; that means having to make dramatic changes in certain instances to provide logical workarounds and stronger plotting.
As well, I wanted to explore an alternate timeline and I also wanted to do a retelling of DMC V. So, that means this'll be a strong AU story that marches to its own beat, I cannot make that clear enough. By virtue of the medium, it's a necessity to rewrite the world to its new context to make things work, at least for me, considering unlike the games, I don't have any gameplay to make up for shortcomings. Along with that are changes made from personal grievance as well. And those are many.
While we're at it, there's just one more thing. It's a retelling of DMC V, right? On the subject of the nature of how much deviation there will be, I don't want to spoil the mystery, but—
"That day, if our positions were switched . . . Would our fates be different? Would I have your life, and you mine?"
Hopefully that prepares you for what's to come in the long haul. I've explicitly warned you. Therefore, without further adieu:
Mission 01 — The Wait
This city bred evil and arsenic corruption like a leaky faucet. The shit was so bad it got on your skin like grease from one of those auto-repair places, wouldn't come out for a long time. One man, a man who was rather tired, knew that fact all too well, himself an old expert in the ways of Edgemere's blankly neglected backstreets. He returned home from a hard day's night, working himself raw just trying to catch a simple burglar.
It'd been the result of a long private investigation that he'd only just recently come back to his office. Edgemere was a crooked place, just a bunch of playing cards with no dealer, a sprawling mess, industrial nightmares and complex labyrinths of a particularly olden ilk. The white-haired man walked into his poorly-lit gothic study, trudging on further behind a black desk. As he sat down in his oversized chair, he propped up his feet on the wood surface. The walls were lined with paintings and a few old bookcases. At other points, the simple bare surface laid naked, bleak and barely renovated. Each partition was painted a drab color he didn't care to memorize, while one was composed of simple brown bricks. It sat next to the glass entrance that overlooked a luscious courtyard.
Luscious in the sense that it was overgrown. It was the only life growing in this crooked city.
Out front, the garden was unkept and slightly excessive. The owner was pretty lazy, after all.
In the center was a little stone fountain that sprung its fresh waters into the surrounding pool.
It never grew stagnant, always flowing as though it were Spring.
Behind him to his right, an old metal stairwell led upwards to another area altogether, one where he could find greater sanctuary if noisy intruders were bugging him.
He'd just gotten done with another case today. Someone called in looking for him to bust the head off an apparent jewel thief. Easily caught, as predicted.
His back was sore, and he didn't know how. It was just worn. Maybe, it was all the running and jumping. He'd gotten that bastard regardless, hauling him into the local station without a word.
All the evidence to put the guy away was there in a box, filed and ordered haphazardly.
To the left of him was a warm, old-style bar reminiscent of the midwest. It was stocked with various liquors; gin, whiskey, cheap wine and other things like that. Despite the fact it wasn't worth drinking all of it, he kept them for guests. Maybe they'd get a buzz. He couldn't, but it looked nice. He'd come in past all that and poured himself a glass of water. He supposed he kept all of it around as well for nostalgic purposes. One of the many jobs he'd held in the past was a bartender, so he just sort of knew these things. He was always a quick learner, a few brief glances later and he was golden, but for the most part the cabinet was devoid of any other goods. A lone exception was the mini freezer-refrigerator, where the man stored some vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries. It was an infantile obsession he had, but he enjoyed the treat anyway whenever he had the time to make it. Perhaps he'd have some in a few moments.
His appearance was not exactly what you'd call normal. He was a tall one, wearing a black red long coat that rested comfortably on his shoulders and came down to knee height. 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. On the back, the crimson continued down solid and ended roughly just above his waste-line. Silver buttons and pins signaled a gothic calling, and he seemed to embrace that notion with the silver pendants and other odd antiques he'd stashed on the old shelf units.
Beneath the stygian coat, he had on a red button-up, fastened only halfway, and a navy blue undershirt. Faded brown cargos shaped out his legs. Nothing fancy but they got the job done.
Fingerless black gloves adorned his steady hands, and dark biker boots met up with his shins.
The devil inside him was a stylish savage, and on these streets, you had to dress to kill or you were alone.
A black pleather belt completed the ensemble. Classy.
He liked to keep things simple, and he did look good. If ever anyone stared and asked about his hair, he simply said he greyed early. It helped him look distinguished. People liked a sense of humor, he found. He was one hell of a guy, usually. Persuasive, impelling of character; insidiously likable and good-humored and imperturbable. Sometimes, he was found to be somewhat obnoxious, but if the party was right, he killed.
His face was a pleasant mixture of rugged male features. Good looks came honestly from his father. He seemed tired, disinterested in most of what was going on outside.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, the empty glass resting on the table beside his feet.
His chair was comfortable, even if it pressed up against his shoulder blades.
"Ah," He sighed, closing his eyes, "no jobs for the weekend. I can just kick back and relax," he said to himself.
He grabbed a magazine of questionable content and began casually flipping through.
He sat there scanning each page slowly, sometimes revisiting ones he liked the look of, spending five minutes staring blankly at the glossy pages.
The phone rang. It was someone familiar, he knew that. He banged his left foot on the table's edge, and the handset flew off the receiver. He caught it with his right hand as he put the magazine flat on its back. He spoke into the phone dispassionately. It could only be one person.
"Yo."
"Redgrave, I'm sending someone for you. She's, uh . . . -She's different." The handler spoke.
His partner snickered to himself, "She give ya a handful, Morrison?"
"In a manner of speaking. She's just . . . rather unique. You'll see what I mean. She refused to speak to anyone but you."
"What're you thinkin'? Trouble?" The man spoke into the receiver.
There was a brief pause. Seemed like he was having trouble thinking what to say next.
But the answer did come, ". . . Yes, there's somethin' off about it. Keep your head straight."
"Hm, gotcha," Dante replied, "Thanks for the tip."
"Good luck."
"I'll be waiting."
He almost groaned as he threw the old landline off to the side, like he didn't care. Somehow, it landed right back on the base, as if he'd aimed for it. And now, it was time to wait. And did he ever hate waiting. It was a life of waiting, this dumb game he played. Since he'd taken up private-eye work, his business had never been healthier. He liked the way cash rolled in, it was a different kind of work from what he'd done before, but he enjoyed it, the new income let him start saving up for things. Bye bye, debt.
He leaned back to enjoy the peace and quiet.
Fiddling about with the floppy book some more, he kept waiting on end for a long twenty minutes.
The woman hadn't arrived yet. Odd.
"Haah, okay. That's starting to get boring," he complained, closing the catalogue and tossing it on the desk.
As he did so, he took his feet off, leaning forward to wipe off the marks he left behind.
"Pfft . . . Ppppppppl . . ." He began making sounds with his mouth, rolling his lip as he stared at the ceiling for another twenty minutes.
He kept trying to amuse himself but he soon got tired of that as well.
The man stared at his non-existent watch, then glared at the clock on the wall.
Forty-five minutes. This was becoming annoying. He hated waiting. A lot.
Who was this person anyway? He'd find out soon enough, he supposed.
Another half hour went by. He'd fallen asleep, but when he came to, the woman had still not arrived. The smells hadn't changed, nothing was disturbed, so no one had come and gone.
God damn it.
He sat awake for ten minutes, fiddling with a drawer handle. Up and down he pried at the old metal thing.
Still, no one. He looked at that same clock above the front door.
Yep, the amount of time passed was exactly what he guessed.
"Oh my god, you kiddin' me?" He muttered aloud.
Whenever Morrison called, the client was usually right around the corner, no exceptions. It was healthier for their business relationship. Morrison knew not to piss him off, lest he wanted to pick up what was left of his car at the scrap heap. It would take between five to fifteen minutes usually. The handler was professional like that. So, what in hell was taking so long? God damn, she better be here soon. Instantly, like damn magic, his wish was granted when the doors chimed open, bells ringing. Exceptionally beautiful, platinum-haired, and all woman from head to toe, she was wearing a black cocktail dress as she walked into his humble abode. Upfront and center was the woman's chest slung freely in that low-cut sleaze he gorged on.
The bells clanged about playfully, and she spoke to him, "Well, you're looking quite dreary, sweetheart."
His ears defined the accent as British. Skipped across the pond, had we?
"No one's lookin' dreary on purpose ma'am, just my immense apathy boiling over. Speaking of which, what can I do for you?" He smirked.
At least the wait was worth it.
"I'm looking for a man who can help me, someone who knows their way around a gun." Those words gave him pause, and she asked him, "You don't know where I could find one, do you?"
Mental note checked, Morrison had a good point.
Looking for services rendered payable on death was a bad investment here.
He leaned back in his chair, at once amused and bemused together at the sight before him, and he said, "Look no further babe, whaddya need?"
"Good boy, I knew you looked up to the task. I heard through the grapevine that you're a particularly talented hit-man. You can make bad people . . . 'undesirables,' disappear. Is that true?"
She mentioned it so lovingly.
As she strolled towards his desk, he wondered why anyone with her looks bothered with this part of town. It wasn't a very good area to begin with. It was an urbanized development, where proud thugs and gangsters ran amuck, and every cop you saw was on the take, guns bought and sold. Many an unsolved murder case fluttered his way. In fact, they comprised half his work load if the season was just right. Such is life. Even when investors tried reforming the neighborhoods, crime just stuck around like a bad hangover, a hazy needle plucking away at the good deeds attempted, till nothing but racism and target practice remained. It just wasn't a good part of town, at all.
What was an uptown girl from out of state doing here?
Cautiously, he answered, "Uh, sure. I do hits from time to time. Just depends. Who you got suckin' up useful air?" The man leaned forward.
Seduction and murder went hand in hand like silver and gold, they were the oldest partners of the trade. He adored her allure, everything about her was enticing. She was stacked well, built like a brick shithouse on 45th and Main. Even still, the mention of death bothered him. Murder was a strange game he rarely played. It was beyond seldom when he took a life not demonic or otherworldly in nature. The soul in question had to be totally, completely corrupt; irredeemable in the eyes of god, sick to their core. Then, and only then, would he bend on that rule. The attractive visitor knew she'd hooked him though, like a wide-eyed fish. He'd known many a scumbag, and he hoped that's all it was: a scumbag.
His eyes wandered her body.
"I want you to take care of this rather unpleasant tosser who used to be my husband."
"What'd this guy do to you, and frankly, why?" He cracked wise half-heartedly. "I'd kill myself if I made someone like you want me dead."
She chuckled, "Oh, you're sweet."
She looked around his office. It was gloomy, though it appealed to her. It was a tad strange, looking almost like something back home, old-fashioned and rugged. Advancing towards him, she naturally sat on the desk next to his legs. She leaned in, her generous cleavage becoming exorbitant. Size double d. Spectacular. She was filled out as well, evenly proportioned. And that face. A face like hers came around only once in awhile. Last time he saw anyone like that was a pin-up model in the fifties, gorgeous. What it was that her husband disliked about her, he really couldn't see. Despite those killer looks, her perfume was what caught his attention next.
It reminded him of a long-gone time. Numerous memories flooded his head like a whirlpool of distilled time. Some were happy. Some ended badly. Some weren't for rebroadcast. The most glaring thing was that it was a nearly flawless scent. He'd never found anything as sweet, as rich, as moderate, and balanced, within any other woman he'd ever met. Whatever she was doing in the morning as her routine, it was working.
Thoughts at large, he almost forgot she was still there, and she spoke to him again, "I caught the bastard cheating with a French hussy in the apartment we shared in New York City. Some blonde whore I'd met once or twice at a party upstate. They were in bed together under my own sheets, in my own room, naked and smoking," she told him, "I asked him what he was doing with her and he-" she paused and chuckled, "He said he was only 'inspecting her arts.' He didn't even try and hide it."
"Oh jeez," He hadn't expected her promptness, "What else did he do?"
"Take your pick, he did them all. Ignored me, beat me, drugged me, and he lied to me. He lied to me so very often."
"So the usual shittery." He raised an eyebrow.
"Afraid so. It never ended with him and now I'm destitute. He had all the money you see. Kept it locked up in an account and held onto it tightly, both the money had before him and what I made with him. The law won't do anything about it, and I don't have any money to pay for a lawyer, conveniently. So I've just spent my time feeling humiliated and deprived . . . I want them to suffer, I want them to burn, I want them to feel what I've felt. Can you understand that?" She asked him.
He nodded, "Yeah, I believe I can. When exactly did you find out?"
"About the whore? I caught him with her on our anniversary, of all days it could've been. He told me I was better off dead like all the other coke-addicts on the row. I threw a stiletto at him. That's when he struck me. I just left, I didn't know where to throw myself. So I came here, hoping someone with such a reputation as yourself could help me," she said.
She glowered off at the wall just thinking about it. Good acting skills.
"My reputation, eh? Guess I'm still a regular ole celebrity in some places."
She snickered at him, and they shared a smile, "Just once, I want him to feel pain. I want him to understand exactly what he put me through. And when he thinks that's the end, I want him to suffer more, both of them. I want you to put a bullet right between their eyes, one each. I'd rather see him dead than ever hear his fat-headed voice again."
She singularly harsh and focused. He'd heard more than a dozen stories like it before. Shit-head partners needed straightening out.
Perhaps it was just an immutable element of the universe: women were destined to be trampled on and abused by the men who wanted them.
"Gotcha . . ." He didn't know what to add. "You sure you want 'em dead? I do get what you've been through, I just want to make sure. Once you cross that line, there ain't no comin' back."
Her gaze came back to his eyes and paused, smiling, "But my dear, that's exactly the point."
Dante could see it in her, conviction stood strong. He understood, "Okay. You got a deal."
She crossed her arms in satisfaction, "Yes . . . I knew I could count on you."
"Now, uh, on the matter of my fee." He'd almost forgotten
"Right," She said, striking a pensive look down, "Well, as I said, I don't have much. He spent most of what I had."
"That's unfortunate." He remarked, "I'm afraid I don't take jobs like this unless there's payment."
She glared at him, "You have to understand, I'm desperate."
"Yeah, I feel ya and all, but I'm sorry," He said, and he folded his arms, "Can't take the job unless you got the cash. It goes against my rules, if you catch my meaning."
The woman reached out her palm and touched his inner thigh. It caught him by surprise, especially on a day like today. She soothed his discontent gently and came close to his face. With a peck of his nose, she drew him in and pressed her red lips against his, closing her eyes as she did. God, it was like syrup on a pancake, sweeter than caramel. Absurd, though it may have seemed, she planted a kiss on his lips and drew back soft breaths.
"Please," she asked kindly.
Well, he could live a little, he supposed. Not every rule was made to be followed. He was known for not following them anyway.
"Um, well-" he began to fumble, "Ah, I'm sure we could work something out. You got a place to stay, or you just passin' through?"
"I can't afford a hotel room." She said as she peered back up at him.
Jesus Christ, she had a lustful eye. That thing could strip the brassiere off a nun.
Roll with it.
"I think it'll be just fine." At this, Dante gave his charismatic smile, "I'm good at problem-solving."
Leaning back, she dangled one of her full-figured legs out over his lap and brushed the ball of her foot on his leg. Christie's calves were well defined and her skin was uncommonly smooth. She welcomed his caress like an old flame in the fireplace. She ran her foot towards the center of his legs, planting it firmly over his swollen friend downstairs. Sometimes, that's just the way the cards rolled. He was her violin and she was playing every string. After a moment, she smiled and his hands reached her calf. Did she treat every stranger this way? The man's hand moved further up into her dress, near to her curvy bottom. Her heartbeat quickened.
Women always enjoyed his touch.
"What's your name?" Ridiculous. He still didn't know.
"Christie."
"I'm Tony." The man spoke it clearly.
"I already know that, silly," she said, "Your boss told me on the way in."
"Yeeeaah, he's really not my 'boss,' he's more of a-" and before he could finish his sentence, she kissed him again.
Some dirtbags just deserved it. Who'd step out on a girl like this anyway? Something wasn't adding up here, the more he thought about it. So many times he'd known similar women, and when he thought back on them, more often than not they'd done it to themselves. Then again, when she looked the way she did, you really couldn't waste time thinking. What did she want trouble with him for? Something about it was just . . . 'different' from his ordinary work. Usually, his jobs weren't so rosy. He'd be stuck tracking down missing persons, or looking into things people didn't quite 'understand.' On the off-chance a local girl couldn't get her shit together, he got passed along these kinds of jobs, beating up jerky boyfriends or sniffing out cheaters.
She certainly played her cards well enough, but he knew there was more she wasn't saying. Something about the story she told just didn't seem . . . right. He wasn't a psychologist, but he was pretty certain she'd be considered a partial psychopath, at the very least. He wished she would've ask him for something down-to-earth, like a broken jaw or a repoed loan. Usually, loss of any magnitude was enough, unless they really, really had it in for their former associate. Hell, maybe she did. Maybe that was just his paranoia talking. In truth, the only time he really enjoyed this job was when the cases took on paranormal aspects. He loved that, dealing with paranoia, abandoned buildings, urban legends, ghosts, or even Cryptid hunts, as evidenced by the case earlier in the day.
A few reports of MIB's even came through occasionally. He took them mostly for shits and giggles.
A part of him always wondered if some stain remained of the time before now, years ago.
He stared at her, and sighed, "Oh by the way, what're their names, if you don't mind me asking? That's a kinda crucial step to this whole hitman thing."
Christie smiled to herself almost sadistically when she said, "Bayman, and Helena Douglas."
The day was hot, a searing stew of vacant emotion and meandering thoughts. Inside a business building, a business-mind spun out.
Hard to believe it had been seven years. Seven entire years had passed since the last time a tournament was held.
Victor Donovan— one of the company's ex-CEOs, also ex-living— had been hellbent to destroy DOATEC. And a man named Rig surfaced, Victor's son. By all accounts, he was a meat-headed drone who really was focused much more on fighting than thinking, yet somehow, that boy was running MIST. Just another terrorist organization, but if you asked them, saviors to mankind. Why were the psychos always 'saviors?' Don't know how you call killing people en masse being a 'savior.' The gang was a sore spot. They caused all kinds of havoc across the world, playing to their parent company's worst inhibitions. They'd grown like a parasite, using vast swaths of soulless clones to commit crimes, robberies, themselves abominations of nature. Eventually, they found themselves a quaint little island to settle on off the coast of Africa. Forged a partnership with the surrounding territories, promising stronger agricultural returns on a shoestring budget. All their bureaucratic power was consolidated into a micro-nation.
Politics galore, a few broken systems manipulated, and then they joined the UN.
Once that was done, wasn't much else she could do to 'em. That was all she wrote.
What a damn mistake that turned out to be, thinking they were a minor threat.
Meanwhile, stateside, DOATEC failed. Hard. Their commercial appeal weakened as competitors out-manned their fanbase, soon there were many tournaments setting up shop. The appeal of their brand didn't seem to have that same old magic anymore. Ratings for the fifth installment were rather disappointing. They lost money. It was not exactly the best-put-together company to begin with.
That kind of failure bred competition in an open market system like America. It was about the only sector left that hadn't fallen prey to corporate monopolies.
Advertisers cut their support, running off to other companies that alleged safer bets, and that eventually left the company without any major sponsors.
Victor's reputation alone still tainted business operations, the ratings failure only heightened the use of that excuse, so the logic of the day was no one trusted them anymore. Nothing but depression in an email chain. Helena herself had nearly died on a company power plant to the hands of assassin Christie, her absurd mortal nemesis. Why does anyone need a mortal nemesis anyway?
And now, word through the grapevine was that, in lieu of there being no major Dead Or Alive World Championship, MIST would be hosting one of their own.
Anything to create more chaos.
"Damn," she said to herself.
Sitting in her office, she was tired from a long day of work. Years of skullduggery seemed to be wasted, so now they just drained her energy. The woman draped herself over the leather chair, positioned behind her dark oak desk casually. It was some fancy, ornate thing. It made the room look professional, and looks were what really mattered. The blinds were drawn shut and the lights turned off. It was the tail-end of a weeklong heatwave. A few simmering rays of sunlight peaked through from between the shades. The woman felt a headache coming on, so she'd chosen to douse herself in the crisp flood of darkness. The lone source of light was a cool-toned deep blue that emanated from the entire ceiling itself, made up of a robust series of calming low-light fixtures installed across the plain domed roof of the executive office suite. They worked to give the illusion of it being cold on a day when the air conditioning wasn't enough.
Helena pressed a button on the intercom at her desk and spoke into it, "Bayman, my office."
The burly Russian soon entered the room with a powerful presence. He briefly touched his face, running his thumb down his scar as he recalled for a fleeting moment the pain of receiving it. The man could still remember what it was like that day, the smoke in the air, the choking heat, that cloaked monstrosity. His disfigurement cut across his rugged mug diagonally, starting above on his forehead through an eyebrow and across his nasal bridge, ending on his cheek. His temples were graying now. Age will do that to you.
But he quickly moved his hand away, back down to his side, presenting himself as the model security soldier.
You weren't allowed to show weakness in this business. Most especially not in front of your corporate boss.
Since the last tournament in particular, he'd become chief of security staff, training new people as he aged. His knowledge regarding the company's political standing was rather important. He'd done work as a former 'short-term freelancer.' Her version of the company was structurally far more sound. To him, she was a good employer, somebody he respected well and felt to be competent.
Yet still, there was a tense silence.
Her face had a look of anger, resentment.
Hopefully, that wasn't for him.
"Yes, ma'am?" Bayman always spoke gentlemanly towards her, a show of respect. His voice was deeper now than it had been in his youth, "Is there something bothering you?"
Helena raised an eyebrow, "Bothering me? What gave you that impression?"
"Ma'am, you never request company. That and you're just . . . staring at me. You aren't sending me out on a mission this early in the year, are you? Because that just occurred to me."
She suppressed a chuckle. It was a kind of cynical, light thing. She found it genuinely funny, and he didn't quite know how to take that. He'd never seen her laugh. She crossed her fingers and maintained the austerity that defined any successful executive.
"I'm afraid so, actually."
"Yes ma'am," he affirmed and kept his eyes forward.
"Do you know anything about this 'tournament' MIST is organizing?'"
"Pardon?" He stood slack-jawed.
He figured it wasn't his place to know business like this.
"They haven't announced it publicly yet, but several sources close with us claim it's going to be happening at some point on their 'island nation,' as a way of 'promoting their culture and prominence on the world stage,'" she told him, a real disgust present in the words, and by the look on his face, Helena knew he had no knowledge on it whatsoever. She knew she could trust him, but it wasn't smart to ever leave any room for doubt.
"We cannot sit aside and let the current state of affairs define the future. Donovan is dead, yet his operations remain active, no doubt the product of his apparent heir. This is not a powerhouse company anymore, sad to say. We just don't have endless piles of money we can pull from. Christie remains intent to tear my throat out, it is only a matter of time. I am doing what I can elsewhere, but with so much isolation, I feel another, more tactical path, is required."
He stared at her blankly, unsure what to say. Should he even say anything?
"So, they're holding a tournament and you are going to sabotage it."
Now he understood.
"Yes ma'am."
"You are to enter the tournament's line up under the guise of a falling out of relations with this company. That won't be a problem, you are not a public figure. So, you will remain undercover while on location, and compete. Laying low won't be an option, so a false termination of employment report will be made, just to enhance the illusion and prevent suspicion. You're a soldier, you know war and you know espionage. This won't be difficult for you." Helena was serious.
She remained stoic, as always. So their sworn enemies would be holding a martial arts competition? Perfect timing on a perfectly shitty cake of bad business this year. Was it common to feel excessive rage? No, probably not. She thought about seeing a therapist for that. If she ever found the time, she'd get right on it. Bayman was known as a good listener at least, maybe he'd be up for talking later, but she knew it would be grossly unprofessional of her. Better, then, to keep it locked away for the foreseeable future, as unhealthy as that may be. In business, it was a smarter idea to keep most at around you at arms length, or so she'd learnt from her father.
Fame had been a complicated man. The company he built was still profitable, at least, just underwater. It wasn't her fault that the economy was taking an extended crash.
"Yes ma'am." He repeated.
"You will be on your own for a large majority of the time, but once we've gotten past their security measures undetected, we will be there with you."
"Yes ma'am," he said once more, "I'll start preparing."
Her head lowered itself and she stared off moodily at the door, "The event will begin in two months, judging by our intel. So, for the time being, you will head underground and train."
The man shuddered, "Very well."
"I've had arrangements made for you. The task starts immediately." She said, and the man nodded.
To Be Continued
Reviews are appreciated, thanks for reading
Buuuuuuuuuuut another author's note first:
So, couple of things: number one, for those of you that remember, I've rewritten this series entirely and tried my best to move away from the original version due to its severe plot-related issues, mostly related to inexperience, taking on too many suggestions, trying to counterbalance instead of rewrite and edit, and attempting to please everyone. I'm strictly writing for the sake of undoing the mental block this thing caused me wayback when, so I'm excising a lot of the things that I felt were very dumb, things I didn't want to do, things I no longer connect with or feel are necessary, as well as the mistakes made from youthful immaturity.
This story was quite ill-conceived at first, I wrote without an outline. Thought I could fix that with hard work and determination. Boy, was I wrong. So, just been focusing on rewriting the existing material into a new outline I've made, provisionally focused on brevity for the sake of wanting to avoid fanfiction stories that just go on forever. I know it'll be long, cause there's just a lot, but it will not be insanely long or serialized. I like stories that actually have an ending in sight.
I'm dead certain of the direction the story is going in, and as a result of that, this story (I'm telling you now) is basically going to hang on the mystery. If that ain't your thing, sorry.
Anyway, that's all for now. Hope you enjoy the story.