Disclaimer: DMC and its character's aren't mine, but Alastor's a**hole personality is. Rated R for language.
Burryk: Won't it be awkward if I do continue? I started in the middle of the game, after all. Truth to tell, I've BEEN thinking about going all the way with this, but only in the order of my favorite missions - meaning I wouldn't be writing every mission, but the ones I do write will be in order. The very thought of it is intimidating enough to make me hesitate, though.
Author's Note: Dante still has the Guiding Light, and his devil trigger has puttered out.....that's not good.
The aura, the armor, everything vanished, and with it, the stalemate between knight, and key.
The shock was like flipping on a hundred-watt bulb after a lifetime of darkness, the pain as eye opening as a knife in the back. The muscles in Dante's chest inexplicably constricted, shortening his breath into painful gasps. The shotgun slipped from fingers suddenly moving to clutch the hot ball in his sternum. That hundred-watt bulb flashed behind his eyes again, and with it, came the headache.
At first, it was a miniscule thing on the periphery of consciousness, but with each beat of his heart, it became more insistent, scrabbling with claws that were at once sharp and as dull as polished obsidian stone. Alastor trembled in its master's white-knuckled grip.
"Wanton slaughter aside, mongrel," it gritted tersely. "Quit dawdling!"
For once, the hunter agreed; the beastie in his head was having a field day clawing the backs of his eyes and temples. He lurched to his feet - couldn't remember falling to his knees - and concentrated on the arduous chore of moving.
There, fixed on the wall not ten feet away was a large, six-foot diameter runic disk. Like a double-layered tablet, with a smaller disk stuck in the center of its larger twin - resembling a pupil within the iris - the rough stone bore runic carvings all around the outer rim. At the center of the smaller tablet were a series of slashes cut by zealous hands, creating a rune ten times larger than its brethren. That uneven mark of fanaticism, and those smaller runes of equal dementia, shone bright, bloody red with sacrificial light. Pulsing this light slowly like an unholy, sluggish heart, the carvings bellowed taint at such a degree it was a wonder it didn't disturb the air around it.
Dante swayed closer, to within sword reach.
Every time he accessed these glowing chicken scratches from Hell, he was thrown into a physical confrontation, or left to grind his wits into solving a puzzle. There didn't seem to be any practical use for them, other than making his day a hairy bitch.
Simply put: The disks were a delaying mechanism, something to keep him busy while the Underworld steadily worked to overflow its boundaries. Ironically, it was the largest rune - written in the nether tongue - that roughly translated into "strife", but also meant "reward". This, the devil hunter knew from books of demonology, and the few tomes of the Underworld his old man had left behind.
Guess there was a fine line between pain and pleasure in the daily life of hellspawn.
The disk's "stone" face yielded to Alastor's blows with the consistency of a thick, viscous pudding. Crimson runes flared brilliant white as the hiss of power - like steam under pressure - pierced loudly the air of the staircase tower. Dante felt, more than saw, the unnatural stone-flesh heal, even as Alastor tore free, leaving not a flaw or anything resembling a scar.
The rune of strife darkened to a malignant red pulse.
Weary of the Guiding Light's mental, and physical assaults, the devil hunter slashed again and again with deliberate strokes. One, two more times, watch the blood-like rune eat up the abuse, then -
- gorged off his efforts, the runes activated for its only earthly purpose.
It blazed with excess power and white Saint Elmo's fire, but Dante ignored the light show for another. Submerged, but visible in the middle of the floor, a three-foot diameter ring of pale light sprang to life. By shear force of will, the half-devil turned a deaf ear to the screams of his past, viciously shoving away the ghosts the Light persisted he confront. Stomping down a fit of the shakes, he squared himself off to complete the last leg of this pointless journey.
...Busting his hump, reliving a painful past, putting up with everything in general....for a key!
Never mind it was killing him, the indignity alone royally pissed him off. Dante wanted to chuck the key off the nearest cliff, maybe plug a few holes in it with Ebony and Ivory before it hit the ocean, but nooo. If it were that simple, he wouldn't be feeling like he'd gotten donkey-kicked by a fucking elephant, now would he? And that bit of inescapable logic made him want to tell his better judgment to go screw itself ten times till Tuesday, and let him act immature for once.
The bonfire in his chest was gradually consuming his heart and lungs, working its way down with agonizing slowness, like a form of napalm given voracious life. Stubborn pride battled the pain, inching it to the fringes of his awareness. As of now, his focus was solely on getting from point A, to point B.
Striding as if the most irritating part of his day were the sad state of his clothes, Dante venomously dared the soul-sucking Light to take a stab at him again. Standing within the shimmering ring, the devil hunter felt the inevitable shudder vibrate the ground beneath his feet. The ashen light flashed as the obelisk - the top of which he stood - powered straight up. Dante grunted and clenched his teeth at the unexpected effort to keep himself upright.
He knew that the suddenness of the obelisk's ascent was sufficient enough that, if any normal man had tried to remain standing, he would've experienced the unique sensation of both kneecaps popping from their cartilage bindings, and the cushions between his vertebrae compressing. Dante suffered no such disabilities.
However, if the G-forces were affecting him now, when at first they had not....
The obelisk shot passed the lower flight of stairs, blurring their outline enough for memory to jot them down in the subconscious, but making it difficult for the active mind to later summon precise details.
"Too slow, too slow..." Alastor muttered with deep worry, though not for its master.
Yes, it would finally absolve itself of the sharp-spoken half-breed, a thorn in its side forever removed. But in doing so, it had failed to foresee that it was flinging itself into time's fickle care.
To be forgotten was not acceptable.
At the very least, it would be forced to wait for another would-be owner, or some semblance of one. Alastor's spirit cringed at the mere thought of a witless Nobody "wielding" it in battle.
...All that wild swinging and graceless hacking....ugh!
With a mental shudder, Alastor dismissed the horrid image and turned its silent, vindictive attention toward the one person threatening its future. Damn that mongrel for dying too soon! How inconsiderate!
Passed, beyond the platform leading back into the fountain room the obelisk went. More stairs sped by, more gray-green stone walls, and the few lamps bolted within, eerily alighting the way to the top.
With the clarity of an epiphany, Dante now noticed that his monster headache had gone, as well as the force prying at his memories. Breathing came easy again, the molten ball in his chest had cooled with the slackening of pectoral muscles -
- but in its place, disquieting unease. He felt fine, his mind insisted. Fine, damn it! So why the sudden stab of dread? Even his ire - not an easy thing to soothe at times - had been snuffed out like a torch held to a gale, only to be replaced with this feeling. That worried him. A lot.
There was a popular saying among humans: ...The calm before the storm.
The obelisk quaked to a stop fourteen-feet above the desired platform. Acute concern was developing into grave foreboding as the hunter freed his hands of Alastor, and hopped onto the platform below. Without missing a beat, Dante "opened" the mahogany double doors with a shoulder, and all his weight. Antique doors flew wide with the sharp crack! of varnished wood.
Harried eyes briefly scanned the familiar room - four-post bed on far left, a Watcher on its right, dresser to its left, the mirror, and impaled bust of a screaming woman to his right and -
- the sun emblem!
The Guiding Light was already in hand when quick steps brought the red clad hunter before the sun motif. He hesitated.
"What are you waiting for, mongrel?" Alastor pestered. "Finish this business now!"
To the spirit's fevered nagging came a semi-hysterical retort. "Aw gee, and I really wanted to own a life-sucking souvenir from the castle-that-time-forgot....you know, for posterity...?"
Then, "No shit, you satanic glow stick! But you see a keyhole anywhere?"
It was true. Alastor reached out with powers that were the ocular equivalent to sight, and found no obvious mechanism to insert the Guiding Light. Still, the arrogant spirit was never one to admit defeat, especially if it could lay the blame of failure on another. As pride forbade Alastor from accepting the folly of its actions, so did the spirit totally ignore the waning disposition of its master.
"N-no excuses!" Alastor brimmed with molar-grinding selfishness. "I have no intention of keeping your corpse company until Mundus-knows-when, you hear! I will not suffer for your mistakes, ham-fisted, slow-witted, mongrel half-breed that you are!"
Frustration at having salvation so close, yet remain unattainable, had severely taxed Dante's patience. Now, with Alastor's last word, he felt his temper snap like a thin, brittle twig.
"That's it, you egotistical bug-zapper from Hell!"
His hand found Alastor's hilt, then swung the sword from its place on his back. The spirit never had a chance to breathe its astonishment as its master pivoted towards the balcony doors, and launched the devil arms like a living spear with a parting, "Adios!". The sword punched cleanly through the wood above the door's handle, the sharp screech of metal imbedding in stone some distance below floating up seconds later, and the only indication of Alastor's fate.
Unable to keep the frame of mind to properly enjoy the deed, Dante returned his heated attention to the sun emblem.
Bloody hell! There was only so much a half-devil could take! There were things like peace, and quiet, and privacy that the hunter held particularly sacred. And if anybody broached hollowed ground - repeatedly - just two special words: Ebony. Ivory. Alastor had been a special case, and so had received a special form of silencing.
Where-where-where? circled the million-dollar question in Dante's head. He searched with eyes and hands for the elusive keyhole, becoming dismayed with his lack of luck. A greasy cold feeling sent ghost-fingers tickling up and down his spine. The Light followed up with a numbing weariness - like before, but no BSing this time - that robbed much of his manual dexterity.
...blows. This really blows!
Dante wanted to curse aloud, but saw no use in wasting his breathe. For reasons unnamable, he found himself thinking of the life he led, of the risks, its rewards, and the curve balls that sometimes smacked him in the face. This was one of those instances, but not one he could've seen coming from miles away.
He viewed the Underworld like a hitman, that once it knew the face of its mark, it would never relent until that mark lay dead, or worse. He figured that if it didn't happen in his prime, then the end would find him old and gray, but not without Ebony and Ivory in hand. This was the reality he had chosen to live by, and he had come to accept it long before a certain lightning spirit had tried to rub his nose in it.
It was sad, and probably made his life's work seem like a pointless endeavor to anyone with an iota of sanity. But depressing of all was not the grim future he had painted for himself, not the solitary lifestyle it entailed, nor the tragic loss that ended his innocence that eventually led him down the road of a devil hunter. No, the most wrenching twist was death - not by devil or demon, or, God forbid, something mundane - but by something much, much worse.
An inanimate object with a hex.
Dante was thumping his forehead against the wall in frustration, his eyes tightly shut against any admissions of resignation. Dante tried, but failed to ignore the weakness in his limbs. He badly wanted to close his eyes, and not think about the consequences. The last of his will was ebbing, taking with it his ability to save himself...why didn't he care about that? He could barely feel the Guiding Light throb with stolen warmth in his hand, and that didn't seem to matter as much, either.
It would be so easy to just -
- And then came the spark of remembrance, of all the Light had inflicted upon him, of the memories, in particular. A tidal surge of defiant hate that even Alastor would have praised temporarily scoured the lethargy consuming his mind. Like a dagger he gripped the offending key, tight, until the pent-up strength in the coiled muscles of his arm jerked up to stab.
No keyhole, huh? Dante mentally growled. Then I'll make one.
The Guiding Light came down hard, punching into the bronze forehead of a jolly sun.
Chasm: Alastor got a free flying lesson! Whee! One more chapter left to end this mission.