This is my first DMC fic, so please don't flame it too badly. But please revew!

The sun shone an eerie red through the windows of the waiting room as Dante Sparda paced back and forth. The red light painted the room with blood; bring back the horrible visions that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Vividly the scenes replayed themselves, so vividly that he could still smell the blood, and feel it slick on his hand. Looking down at his hands, he found impossibly that they were clean, they were clean, but he could still feel the sticky warmth on them. Was he losing his mind? But what difference did that make, sane or insane, it was still his fault.

He hadn't expected them to attack Devil Never Cry, why would they when he had walked purposefully into their trap, he had given them their damn victory. He would have died to save his family. But that had not been enough for them. Why? He didn't know. All he knew was what he had gotten from the Priest, something about balancing the scales. Total nonsense and giving absolutely no explanation of the brutal act that led him to the hospital. Damn it all, he just wished he had something to kill. Marionettes, Sins, and Goats he could handle, but the things humans could do were a thousand times worst. He had to admit he was ready to leave the human race to its own devices should more demons arise.

"Dante Sparda." asked a voice from behind the devil hunter. Quickly Dante spun to face the source of the voice, the man that had first addressed him when he brought her in. A middle aged, salt and peppered doctor by the name of Smith.

"Yes?" Dante replied, not really acknowledging that the raspy croak of a word had come from his throat.

After Dante's reply, Dr. Smith took a moment to steady himself; which constituted in him taking a few deep breaths, cleaning his large circular glasses, and blinking a few times. Then once steadied he signaled Dante to follow him, and he took off through the waiting room doors. Keeping pace with the 5' 7" doctor, Dante sighed out of frustration and deeper still, sorrow, because a doctor does not take one away from the waiting room for good news.

After the longest three minutes of walking in Dante's life, the doctor stopped outside of a room with a heavy iron door and fumbled hopelessly for his keys, until Dante reached out with a hand and tried the knob, which left the door gaping.

"Thank you."

Dante sat after entering into the room, or rather doctor's office. The latter of which Dante deduced by the décor of numerous certificates, diplomas, and other educational paraphernalia that exclaimed the competence of Dr. Roger Smith. Besides these adornments and the chair in which he sat Dante made brief notice of a rather rickety aluminum desk filled with papers, pens, paperweights, and other bobbles. Taking his seat behind the desk, the doctor took a few more breaths.

"Mr. Sparda," he began, taking a breath "we have tried all that we can to stabilize your wife and have been quite successful."

For a moment he simply let the words hang there, with all the comfort, compassion, and yes even pride with which they had come out. Then when he saw that the man's expression had not changed he knew there was no reason in keeping up pretenses.

"The truth is this Mr. Sparda, we have stabilized your wife, but the bullet has caused enormous internal damage, damage that given her condition could be life treating if she goes through with a natural birth."

Years seemed to pass by as the doctor found himself searching the face of Dante Sparda, a face that looked young, maybe in his late twenties, but had eyes that looked ancient. All the sorrow, doubt, and yes even fear in the two glacial orbs was that of age, which could only be expected in the current circumstances, but made the doctor nervous none the less. They made him even more nervous when they locked on him, freezing his blood.

"Doctor, what did she tell you?" Dante asked in the same raspy croak the doctor had heard earlier.

"That she wants to have the children and something about your family's children not being able to survive an unnatural birth. Any truth to that?"

For a moment Dante was compelled to tell him everything, about his being a half devil, about his wife being a pure breed, and about the tendency devil or demon children had to die when removed from the womb rather that being born, but he resisted. It would have made things easier, maybe, but it would take too long to prove the existence of devils gathering the energy to trigger, and anyway a hospital wasn't the best place for such an act. So he decided against it and instead simply answered.

"Yeah, there is a lot of truth to it."

"Well then Mr. Sparda, that makes our options extremely limited." Dr. Smith sighed, a genuine sigh that made Dante think a little bit better of the medical field in general.

Once again the uncomfortable silence fell on the room, uncomfortable for Dante because he could imagine a thousand things going wrong in her care and uncomfortable for Dr. Smith because it gave him time to run over the information he had to relate to Dante.

"Mr. Sparda," Dr. Smith said once again to catch Dante's attention, then took another steadying breath "as I have just said she wants to have the children, but-" He didn't finish as Dante cut him off.

"But the final choice is mine right?"

The doctor nodded in consent. It was then that reality hit Dante Sparda, a reality harder than Phantom's backside, the reality that he would have to pick between the lives of his wife and his yet to be born children. With all that, Dante couldn't help but fall back into his earlier anger and hatred. The hatred of those who had done this, the hatred of the Protectors of Dumary Island.