Disclaimer: DMC and its character aren't mine, but Alastor's a**hole personality is.
Did I take too long? Not sure if this chapter falls under angst this time, largely due to the fact that it is also somewhat darker.
- Lunatic Pandora: If anything, Dante and Alastor will learn to respect one another, but I can't see them being anymore than that.
- M. Wilson: Glad you like. Dante's personality was easy to get into 'cause I like him so much. As for Alastor, I've always favored the sword in the game, and so I've had a while to come up with a convincing personality.
- Zellychan: There are things in the game that were never explained. You know this. Now, insert those 'unexplained' quirks into the real world, and see the consequences? I enjoy having Dante puzzle out the inconsistencies where they shouldn't be. *grins*
- Claudia, Bluemizu, Orin Drake: Glad that you all like the conversations between Dante and Alastor. Two stubborn individuals butting heads can be very entertaining I think!
Beyond the doors was a decidedly different atmosphere. Where the air should have been stale and humid, a thin, dry haze filled the hall, graying anything more than fifteen feet away. Where everything should have reeked of water and aged stone, the distinct odor of sulfur invaded here. Even through cloths soaked in muck-water could he detect warmth in the new air, and not the chill dankness he had come to associate with the waterways. The white glow of the ever-present lamps did not exist here, instead, was replaced by a bright shade of orange light. Dante thought it curious that the illumination didn't touch every dark, shadowy corner. Light even failed to penetrate the few inches of water lapping about his feet, as if sediment had been stirred in, and had yet time to settle. Dante noticed all this with a practiced eye, vaguely wondering if he had finally found the illusive gate into Hell....on second thought, he doubted it.
The Gates of Hell couldn't be this subtle, he thought, thinking of the let-down if it was.
Somehow, he just couldn't picture those terrible gates being anything less than awesome in their perversion. He scanned the walls and ceiling of the cul-de-sac he found himself in, listened for anything ominous, and, satisfied he wasn't in any immediate peril, made for the short corridor's only outlet. The rhythmic slosh of his own footsteps were the only sounds to be heard, and, unlike before, the hunter chose to exercise caution. It was very possible he was not alone, though he couldn't sense the taint of actual hellspawn. It was more a general feeling of foreboding, like an insistent pressure in the back of his mind.
Or it could just be the creepy atmosphere.
As such, he rounded the ensuing corner expecting nothing, though with Alastor ready at his shoulder, just in case. No thing, or things, jumped to greet him. The long stretch of tunnel - another major waterway - spanned so far so that the massive portcullis at its end was barely discernible, and muted of color.
He sniffed at the misty air. Yup, sulfur stench was more potent here. Dante was half-convinced that something was, in fact, waiting for him, but he kept hold of his doubts. The wiles the Underworld could create often allowed for little certainty, and much suspicion. The Sin Scissor posing as a harmless portrait, the Shadow in the lion statue, even his own reflection in a mirror had proven nothing more than a ruse, a disguise for devils and demons waiting to pounce.
Even then, Dante had never truly accepted what he saw on the surface, resolving to call it "harmless" only after he'd killed it, or some hard evidence appeared to prove its innocence. He was on Hell's front porch, and that left him at a disadvantage, though it hardly bothered him.
He liked a challenge.
And speaking of challenges... He never liked Alastor, though he found himself grudgingly accepting the spirit's presence a little more each passing minute. The sentient sword was good to have in a fight; always watching his back, often granting him precious seconds of forewarning. Beyond that, however, only insults and invectives. "I've been thinking...." said Dante casually, gently tapping the blade against his shoulder, making a show of nonchalance to any hidden foes.
No sense in giving away his wariness, after all.
"Thinking, eh? An effort on your part, I'm sure," piped Alastor after a beat, evidently having developed some hesitancy after its master's cutting remarks. Dante had to admit the spirit was hiding its tentativeness well, so he decided to give it a break, and let its retort slide. "You hate my guts, I hate yours," he said easily, as if he had just stated that fish swim, and birds fly. "But what do you think about my line of work?"
A moment of doubtful silence, then, "I don't follow, mongrel. Are....you asking me how I feel about the killing of my brethren?" Then, in menacing tone, "If this be a trick...."
"No trick."
Alastor grunted noncommittally, but the hunter could tell the lightning spirit was relieved.
"I feel no remorse," the wraith continued with mounting confidence. "My world is eternal anguish to the weak; only the strong know how sweet true power is. There are countless many, all seeking greatness while crushing the hapless beneath their heels. What your weapons offer is merciful compared to the agony suffered by those that are too feeble to defend themselves."
Then, in growing bitterness, "Why do you ask this of me? Am I damning myself - my kind - even further in your eyes? Did your family's murder inspire that insatiable thirst for blood? You live day by day for the hunt; am I adding to the dark vengeance in your heart? Or perhaps fueling an even darker, savage desire -
"Enough!"
- one that only your diabolical half can know? -
"I said enough!"
- Poor mommy....poor Vergil...."
Alastor let out an involuntary yell as Dante swung the blade into the ground with tremendous force. A dull, yet profound ring, like that of a giant bell, rang out in all directions. He couldn't see the fractured stone beneath the water's surface, though the bubbles told him of the air pocket that was already filling. The hunter could feel his heart pounding uncomfortably fast. He had to swallow a lung-full of air - hold it, let it out slowly - to rid himself of the knot in his chest, the butterflies in his stomach. He didn't think to move from his striking stance - legs apart, both hands on Alastor's grip, the sword point still grinding against the submerged stone floor before him. When he opened his eyes - when did he close them? - it was almost a convulsive action that he wrenched the blade from the ground. He stood regarding the unnatural weapon at arms length, watched dirty droplets caress a path down the metal's reflective face, its edge.
The hunter was badly stunned. His distress came from at least two sources: Why - how - had he allowed Alastor to influence his emotions when he knew of the devil spirit's manipulative nature? And: Why had he even cared what the lightning wraith thought about his actions toward its kin? For a second, the red clad hunter feared that by opening up his thoughts to Alastor - and he was quickly becoming certain that he had done just that - that he had given away too much of himself. Never had he told the spirit - mentally or aloud - of the deaths of his mother and brother, let alone the revenge he quested after. Though his own actions could have betrayed that very desire, he doubted Alastor had had enough time to make the connection. The half-devil regarded the blade, home to a conniving, opportunistic resident. He could hear it chuckling, low and malevolent.
"Son of a bitch," he half-whispered, anger stealing away some of the sting of Alastor's words. "I can't give you even the slightest inch without you screwing with my head."
"I gladly suffer your company for moments such as this," chortled the deceptive devil wraith. "What did you expect?" it asked with scorn. "After the disrespect you showed me! "An eye for an eye", did you know that is the gospel truth where I come from? What is the matter? You wanted to know more about me only a moment ago....?"
Dante was livid. He was mortified. Anger, at both Alastor, and his own carelessness, seethed, burned in the blood that threatened to make him flush crimson. No way was he giving the little bastard spirit the satisfaction of making him blush. He had opened up enough of himself to the unruly spirit for it to take a cheapshot at him. It had immediately preyed upon his hidden weaknesses, even twisting his own desires into something wholly wicked and vile, instead of the necessity they really were, the right he felt owed to himself. Dante spoke with lethal calm. "Go ahead, push me a little further. I am within a millimeter of burying you hilt deep up the next demon's ass I see, and leaving you there to rust!"
"Hah! Idle threats!" jeered the arrogant sword. "If you leave me anywhere it would be to your disadvantage. A normal blade of steel, like the Force Edge, would be hard pressed to slay any of the real threats I'm sure that are to come your way. Admit it! I win this bout, mongrel fool!" Alastor resumed its hardy chuckle. Unfortunately, the red clad hunter had to admit defeat in that aspect. He had been wondering - during the evil spirit's rant - the reason for his moment of foolishness. He decided it wasn't an attempt to understand Alastor's personality, or opinions, but to understand its race as a whole. Dante resolved, even as Alastor finally shut up, that he was only trying to make sense of the death of his family. Overall was his need to avenge them, and himself, of the injustice, of the cruelty they suffered. It was natural - wasn't it? - to strive to understand the motive for their deaths, so that it did not appear as senseless as it had to his young eyes. He wanted their sacrifice to have meaning, a motive behind the deed - no matter how sick and perverse, as long as it wasn't by chaotic chance, or capricious Fate - and what better way to understand the enemy than to ask one? But, it seemed, he would get nothing from this particular devil.
Dante took a deep breath that hissed between his teeth. It took him but a moment to steady himself back to his usual cool self. The sentient devil arms - which he, curiously enough, no longer felt anger towards - was placed onto his shoulder once more, and he resumed his walk.
"Will that be all, then, mongrel?" Alastor queried in mock boredom, obviously enjoying the game. The devil hunter smiled, then, a small thing that inspired a rumble of laughter deep in his throat. It was a quiet sound, and for some reason, Alastor did not feel all that superior anymore. "I win," snapped the spirit. "You can say nothing. You cannot take away my victory. I've put you in your place."
It sounded like a plea.
Dante passed beneath an archway of crumbling stone blocks, temporarily putting out of his mind yet another service tunnel leading into the wall at his left. "Yeah, okay, fine," the hunter said, completely in agreement. "You really told me a thing or two, alright....a lot of interesting things...."
"...What do you mean by that?" rasped Alastor in undeniable spite. The hunter could easily picture the devil wraith backing into a corner as it spoke.
"Nothing, I'm in total agreement with you," Dante said lightly, innocently. "I can't discard you. I need you to put down Hell's top bruisers. You're an asset. Of course Force Edge would be nearly ineffective for the job, that's why your presence is so necessary."
"No..." breathed Alastor, finally understanding its folly.
Dante's smile widened, knowing exactly what his words meant to the desperate spirit. "I guess your freedom will just have to wait until I defeat all of the Underworld....but wait, didn't you say there were "countless many" of you? Tch, tough nuts, pal."
"NO! You are a mortal worm! Weak, and prone to mortal weaknesses! There will be one of the Underworld that will slay you, there must!"
"But when will that happen, do you think?" Dante asked in a most pointed fashion, enjoying this dark game of cat-and-mouse. "A decade, two. What if I die of old age, huh? Maybe I'll have you buried with me?"
Alastor's cry trembled in horrified denial. Its hissing/crackling pitch rose painfully sharp, making the hunter wince, though it never diminished the satisfaction he felt. The unnatural howl was fully one of helpless defiance, tinged with impotent rage, colored by raw hate. Alastor knew, that in preying upon its wielder, it too, had revealed too much of itself. Never had its ultimate want - to be free and wreak evil in the proper hands - been so laid bare, so savaged by the harsh reality of its station. It was a slave to righteous fury in the possession of a half-breed so obviously against its very existence. As the incoherent cry faded into deep misery, Alastor knew defeat, felt it intimately.
Dante's leisurely gait had taken him well beyond the point of entry, and the fog before him parted steadily with every step. When his searching gaze came to rest upon objects entirely unrelated to the waterway environment, he stopped.
Chasm: Don't cliffhangers just rankle the nerves? Though I have to say, this one is mild compared to some others I've encountered. I kinda felt sorry for Alastor after this one, same with Dante too. Doesn't pay to screw with either of their minds, huh? I'm a little surprised no ones been curious enough to ask questions, like: What's the difference between devils and demons?
I'm fine with that, though. If readers feel they can fill in the holes themselves that's just fine, I'm content by simply posting good material for others to read, then getting feedback. There should be action on the way, so no worries.