Title - Cry, Devil, Die Author - misanthropic shade Archive - Rating - R Warnings - death, violence, action, horror Disclaimers - I do not own Devil May Cry in any way, nor do I make a claim to. The same applies to The Crow enterprise. No profit, no harm done.

Slow shadows crept across the street, silent melody to the dance of refuse. Dante watched the shadows for a few moments, transfixed by something that he couldn't quite put a finger on until the obviousness struck him - the shadows were wrong. He strolled down the stairs of his dilapidated office to catch a glimpse of the moon hiding behind a thick cover of fast moving clouds. He waited with the patience of an immortal until the clouds finally retreated, affording him a view of what he knew he'd suspected the first time. A dark halo encircled the moon, muting its color almost imperceptibly, but noticeable to Dante's heightened vision. Uneasy at the view he thought he'd seen somewhere before, he mentally brushed aside the sense of foreboding in favor of heading home.

An appreciable distance to the city Dante had landed in - almost literally - the darkened moon's light fell upon a dismal body of water. The light reflected tiredly as if it barely had the energy to strike the water, let alone reflect from it as well. Near the water's shore, a tree stood, gnarled with age or weariness at being ensconced in such a desolate landscape. The previously calm water churned suddenly, sending ripples across the surface toward the farthest shore. The first ripples had barely begun to settle when a fresh set of bubbles broke the surface, churning the water into a frenzy until something white glistened in the midst of the fury. Fingers that had once been smooth curled bitterly, as if the muscles beneath had atrophied and might snap were the fingers to do more than bend. Moments passed and soon the wrist gave way to mottled grey flesh of a forearm, closely followed by a mate. The posture might have suggested raising one's hands to the heavens in prayer had anyone been close by to bear witness to this unholy birthing. However, no one was present, save for the melancholy moon and the swift clouds that preferred that their shadows cast elsewhere.

Once the elbows had crossed the threshold of water, they bent and the hands gripped the sides of the churning liquid as if it were solid. In defiance to nature, the water held the weight of person working itself free of its watery grave. A head pulled itself free next, opening its mouth to let loose a painful wail. Water invaded the mouth and the owner gagged reflexively, spitting out the excess with a sorrowful moan. Strings of black hair matted its head, swaying against the white flesh and dripping heavily with water. From beneath the clotted bangs, ebony eyes peered, first with confusion and then sharp hatred. The man, unmindful of his naked state, pulled himself up out of the water and his gaze rose to the dark moon.

The black halo seemed to pulse in response and from its edges something broke free. Black wings fluttered strongly, sending the messenger closer and closer until it lighted on the tree close to the shivering man. The crow squawked, restlessly moving on its perch as it peered with dark eyes at the sopping man. The man tried to ask a question, however nonsensical, and croaked in response. He threw his head back and suddenly laughed, delighted at the heavy sound of dead lungs pulsing with air. The crow took flight, circling above the man and struck off in slow flight toward lights in the distance. Unperturbed at his state, the man gathered himself up, grimacing at the pain that wracked his body and instinctively followed the bird.

The image of the moon haunted Dante as he slumbered enough that he awoke time without count during the night simply to verify the light of the moon was the same and not a dream. When dawn finally threatened, he scowled to himself, unable to see the moon any longer and threw himself against the couch instead. It wasn't important, he admonished himself. It was an odd occurrence and nothing more. Convincing himself of the notion was impossible, he gave up on sleep altogether. Hours later, he gazed at the sky from his balcony, anticipating seeing the same image rather than the rising sun. In the light of a new day, he knew that the previous night's oddities hadn't been merely incidental, but rather the beginning of something. With pursed lips, he wondered how this would bode in the near future. Lady or the Tiger, he thought with a wry grin. Good or bad future, good or bad deeds to come. Oddly excited that something of such magnitude had just begun, Dante whistled on the way to work.

*just because it comes from the mind of a wacko, doesn't necessarily mean it's insane*