Disclaimer: DMC and its characters aren't mine. This version of Alastor's and Ifrit's persona are mine.

A/N: This's a combination of the end of mission 12, and all of mission 13.

"I am curious, Alastor...."

"Hm, what about, Ifrit?"

The spirit of the flame gauntlets hissed pensively. "I confess, that still the reason eludes me how I wound up in the possession of a half-breed. I never would've believed it possible if I weren't experiencing it, now."

Ifrit growled throatily, then, "I must be the butt of some cosmic joke. To think that my strength would fail me when I needed it most."

"Mmm-yes, a tragedy." Alastor could care less. How it wished its demonic cohort would cease its sulky conduct!

Proud Ifrit wouldn't easily forget how its half-breed master had subdued it with so little effort. The spirit couldn't just let it go! Granted, Alastor had endured its own subjugation about as gracefully as a rampaging bull in a china shop, but that was no reason for Ifrit to piss and moan anymore than it already had. It was getting old!

"But I am not without hope," Ifrit rumbled on, oblivious of Alastor's lackluster empathy. "The hunter is only mortal, and mortals are fragile. Ah, but Misfortune must be smiling on me this day, how could I forget his galling skills at combat. Oh, now this may become vexing - "

"Ifrit!" Dante didn't have time for this. "I swear to God, I'll mail you to the Antarctic if you don't drop it, now!"

"...Prick..." Alastor coughed.

Threatened once before with the tame position of "paperweight", the lightning wraith was still salvaging its pride, bit by bit. How nice it would be if it could fling itself at its master's heart, once more...but with its essence bonded to its master's into service - which was why a scabbard's use was unnecessary - freewill was something of the past. Before anymore insults could be thrown....

Griffon's baritone laughter came from on high -

"Aw, fu -"

- but dual thunderclaps drowned out the incomplete curse. Searing bright, there came twin bands of electricity thirty-feet in length. Dante had lost count how many bolts had been launched at him since the fighting began. The angry red streaks flew in horizontally - writhing like jagged snakes - and at a difficult angle to evade.

One was too low to duck under, one was too high to jump over, and the space between them was too charged to be viable. Thinking only of the consequences if he lingered a moment more, Dante flung himself away -

- a shame he had been atop the mainmast's crow's nest at the time.

It was at least a fifty-foot fall - about seventy, if he had been aiming for the water - but what nagged at the hunter most was not the sudden stop at the end. No, past experience against Griffon assured him motion was his ally. Damned demonic chicken seemed more hell-bent than ever before to fry his ass!

Nearing the end of the dive, he reached out an arm, snagging the tough cloth of a worn sail neatly bound to its yardarm. The long wooden beam bent a little too much under his weight to be reassuring, but didn't snap. Dante manipulated his forward momentum, swinging himself clear of the sail fast enough to allow another of Griffon's lightning bursts to scream harmlessly overhead.

Back on mid-deck, Dante glared needles at the monstrosity hovering high above the ship's stern.

Coiling, dark cumuli leaked off Griffon's body, its exposed core in the proud chest pulsed neon blues and indigos....then flared. Another sideways bolt, a sound like rolling thunder trailing close behind. Dante briefly imagined the wicked clothesline effect if it touched him, then turned and vaulted onto the tall platform where the mainmast stood.

This tactic placed him above the downward arc of the bolt before Griffon had time to properly intercept. Its second high voltage volley fell short like the first, and Dante winced against the brilliant flashes of both attacks fizzling out against decaying floor planks, and the side of the platform. Being the proud owner of a rebellious streak as long as the world was round, Dante jumped back onto the main deck, made absolutely sure feather-face was watching him, then flicked the demon off.

The hell-bird ground its many beaks in displeasure. What, at first, seemed a simple task, the destruction of this mortal spawn had proved trickier business than it ought to be.

If the insolent whelp wishes so badly to live, Griffon thought with resentment, then why continue to meddle in the affairs of my master?

Obviously, the mortal's cranial capacity was too small to fathom the virtues of retreat. As a Death General, Griffon vowed a particularly gruesome end for this upstart manling. It had failed once before, but not again! Powerful muscle action closed the gaping hole cradling its core -

- and Griffon dived.

Dante took in the swelling shape of the plummeting monster with relative calm, Ebony and Ivory roaring fury in his stead. Small sprays of crimson flowered along one side of the feathered chest and neck, but he might as well have been shooting at air, for all the good it did. Dante waited until the absolute last second, self-preservation kicking in when the aerial demon was less then thirty feet away.

He swapped Ebony and Ivory for Alastor, triggering the spirit's power long enough to glide away as the winged devil knight - back onto the platform. Threads of lightning stabbed down from reaching talons, searing the space he once stood.

Griffon landed heavily, driving the massive ship alarmingly deep into the choppy canyon waters. For a lasting second and a half, the ghost ship canted weirdly with its stern and middle nearly touching the waterline, the bow and its prow beam piercing skyward into the dense, surrounding fog. Anything that wasn't tied down raced to the lowest end of the vessel. Griffon dug in with talons. Dante held onto a guardrail for dear life. It didn't take a physics professor to know what was going to happen next.

Slowly, then quickly, buoyancy heaved upward with a sickening lurch.

The bow smashed into the sea, white wings of spray fanning out to either side. Again, anything not tied down - especially at Griffon's end - was tossed up and aft, as if launched by catapult. Debris ranged from rope to barrels to cannons, kinetic forces didn't seem to care what it tossed. The galleon's four masts swayed like trees assaulted by gale force winds. Every last bit of rigging quaked with the suddenness of motion, shaking loose years worth of caked filth.

Deciding he wouldn't appreciate the inevitable whiplash, Dante chose to occupy the safest part of the ship: the air. Jumping fifteen-feet straight up was enough air-time to spare him one seesaw tilt of the ship, but not the return action. He fell. Not a problem....

. . .

Around the time he acquired Ifrit, he had finally put the red blood orbs to good use. It wasn't until he proffered them to Alastor - some slight had prompted the offer in jest - did he come to understand their true usefulness. The greedy spirit had eagerly accepted the transaction, and in return, it had imparted powers it had secretly been withholding. As a weapon honed to sunder living flesh, it made sense that Alastor would want a little more blood to stain its name.

Jealous, Ifrit had immediately offered its own advanced services....for a price in blood, of course.

From Alastor, Dante had learned that flight as the triggered knight was a bona fide buzz. Not only that, the power of lightning was literally at his fingertips, he was a raider of the sky, of the air - air raid. Lunging forward with Alastor as the spearhead became another useful trick, what with its quick-strike speed, and long reach - it was quite a stinger. He had also learned that he didn't have to be near a surface to rebound, and attain superior heights....

. . .

Not a problem, Dante thought.

Long before he touched down, the air verily solidified beneath his feet. Where his heels kicked off, a disk of red, otherworldly light radiated outward like a ripple in a pond, morphing into an image of glowing, archaic calligraphy. Disappearing as suddenly as it flashed, it would've left anyone watching to wonder about the sanitation of their last meal.

Dante had to admit, it was a sensation unique onto itself. Strangely, it always reminded him of hiking in high altitudes, or rather, jumping from them. More aptly put, it was almost like hiking on thin air - an air hike, so to speak.

Below him, the vessel and all its loose odds and ends settled into discomfited swaying. A moment later, Dante landed flawlessly on the guardrail hemming the platform.

Rotting timbers groaned long as Griffon shook the kinks from its wings, and readjusted its footing. Ironically, the ghost ship's bizarre integrity kept it from failing altogether. Basically, it would creak like an old...well, boat...ready to give under time's weight, yet stubbornly resist structurally compromising damage, even while suffering the stress of a six thousand pound barnyard foul from Hell.

One vision of Griffon pecking and scratching at the ground was definitely cause for a mental guffaw. In reality, the hunter was more inclined to laugh aloud. He didn't. Not only would that appear unprofessional in the face of battling a major demon, one look into the hell-bird's many eyes assured him he had made the right decision.

For the third time since the fighting began, Dante wished for the benefit of the grenade launcher -

- amazing how quickly one gets spoiled by the biggest, flashiest toy in the store -

- only then reminding himself how Ifrit had inadvertently destroyed the heavy weapon. Who knew that the spirit's over eagerness for all things destructive would overheat the launcher enough for its ammo to explode? Lucky for him, Dante had triggered into the flame knight, taking the blast without so much as a scratch....though forced to experience a directionless flight into the dirt. Still, he'd gotten the launcher to lob one final, flame-encased explosive present before the weapon had literally blown up in his face, ending the first clash between himself and the hellkin giant, Griffon.

Now, without its aid, Dante readied plan B, a simple bait-and-blast tactic. He swung Alastor lazily from side to side before returning it to his back. Standing atop the railing, he was level with the crouching demon's bestial mug.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. All that zapping, and nothing to show for it," he said glibly. "C'mon! You tellin' me you can't hit me with all those eyes?"

The pairs of eyes crowning each of Griffon's beaks were vestigial, but did well in frightening those of lesser bearing. They blinked blindly with the demon's two functioning main eyes.

"Your words might sting, if I had a mind to care," Griffon spoke in dual bass rumbles. "You're victory before was a fluke, and I was careless. It confounds me how I ever let you live. Not again!"

One clawed foot stepped forward, and the demon rose to its full, neck-cramp inducing height.

"So...stand there, and die quickly, human. Resist, and I will deliver you to my master to endure his tortures."

"Oh yeah? His company that bad? Well, I'm trying really hard to care...." He tapped the side of his head, as if to say his lack of terror was a physical disability. "And you know what else?"

He didn't know why, but Griffon actually waited for him to continue.

"You...suck...as a minion of evil. The only reason I'm not running circles around you, is because this ship ain't big enough!"

Demon eyes glittered with inner fires at such impudence. Dante was pacing as he spoke, as laid back as could be.

"Pretender! Fraud!" Griffon was incensed. The half-devil paused, tension hidden but there. Odorous demon breath - like dog breath, but a hundred times worse - mussed his hair, and snarled his coat. The echoes had not faded before there were more angry words.

"Pretender! Sparda was not so foolish, why are you? He knew his limits, you think you have none! How can you be his son? You! Lowly human! How could someone like you kill Phantom?"

The last was spoken with a shiver. Dante noticed this, but said nothing.

Every spoken word had been plaguing Griffon's conscience for some time, now. Ever since their first encounter, it had sensed the hunter's potential as a threat, and was surprised to find power ill-suited for combating most hellspawn, never mind the Underworld itself. Despite having to retreat in defeat, Griffon had firmly believed that soon the devil hunter would trip - make a mistake - die a horrid death, with only his human heritage - his flaw - to blame.

And so the Death General had laughed.

Then it had heard the reports of Phantom's fall. Griffon managed to confirm these rumors, becoming deeply distraught that such news had reached its ears long after the fact.

"...Defeated the Phantom...Incredible power..." were the exact words of Mundus's only active spy. The she-devil could be trusted, but still Griffon struggled to come to grips with the truth behind the hunter's origin.

Faint with dread, it had reported its failure to dispose of the half-human to its Emperor. Crimson lances of light - agony given form - had only been the prelude to the real pain, since Griffon had yet to inform its master of the loss of Phantom.

The Death General was in denial.

Sparda had been respected and feared. Sparda had been wise, cunning. Sparda had been a leader, and a valued War General. Sparda had been honorable, when a quality like that was near nonexistent in the Underworld. Somehow, he had even kept his honor intact through all the deceit required to defect as a traitor. The Legendary Dark Knight had been Griffon's comrade, an ally.

A friend.

What a fanciful concept, the Death General had once thought. Now, staring down the supposed son of a legend, Griffon refused to believe. The hunter had stopped pacing, now stood casually with his arms crossed, a glint in his icy blue eyes that hinted at vague amusement, and something bordering impatience. The dumb silence in the air was thanks to its outburst, and for some strange reason, Griffon felt embarrassed.

The ghost ship creaked on. A steady, salty breeze tugged persistently on some loose tarp somewhere onboard. Cloudy waters lapped at the ships hull. Griffon imagined the air had grown dense, heavy with import. Something like the hard, critical stare of its Emperor was in the air. Or perhaps -

- the quiet judgment of an old friend.

Griffon dared to hope it was mistaken, for it had made a long ago promise it was honor-bound to keep. It set neutral eyes on its mortal opposition. The demon honestly didn't know what to expect, but it had to be something....some tell-tale clue of Sparda's blood - a gesture, a look, a word or phrase, anything. Dante made a face that was the image of languid confidence.

"Time's a wastin'," he said, tapping his imaginary watch. "Fight, run away, keel over and die, pick, I'm good with either one."

The words were not what Griffon wanted to hear, the gestures not what it wanted to see, and the look it could not bear to watch. Avian features relaxed in a combination of relief and disappointment.

So, you are not a Sparda, the demon thought flatly. You are too different. Whoever, or whatever you are...you are wasted space.

Without breaking the silence, Griffon snapped with its many beaks, snake-quick.

Dante was wondering when plan B would take effect, however belatedly, which was an unexpected wonder. Feather-face zoned out for a minute there, for what? Made no sense to get its tail feathers in a knot over his parentage. Or was it?

Dante found that pondering now was detrimental at this stage, and he followed through with his vertical leap. The hell-bird's big head passed beneath him, and by the time Griffon pulled back, it had become a mount. Screeching so loud Dante thought his ears might bleed, the massive demon dipped and bucked crazily. The ghost ship bobbed like an enormous cork.

Griffon swiped with huge talons, flapped up a storm with vast wings....literally. Even now, the air surrounding demon and hunter grew dark, with swirls of lighter gray. Dante refused to be cowed. He crawled into position, latching onto feathers - sometimes skin as tough as elephant hide - until he was merely struggling to stay in place. Charged particles hummed like ember red bees, drifting in a slow vortex around the combatants.

Griffon stilled enough to eyeball its human rider.

He looked towering from this angle, straddling the back of its skull, hovering teasingly into view above its right eye. Griffon strained, but couldn't shake the feeling it saw a resemblance.

Long ago, it had learned honor from an ancient friend...

Dante stared into the bloodshot eye, seeing it not as an orb of sight, but a target. He triggered Ifrit's power, and cocked an aura-shrouded fist -

Long ago, Griffon had promised Sparda to never harm one that was of his blood.

- and the fist came down. Gauntlet spurs and hellfire flame destroyed the demon General's eye with gruesome ease. Griffon reared in agony. Somehow, it bore the capacity to feel more pain, the searing fists pounding mercilessly against the top and back of its skull. Flesh and feathers were charred indiscriminately. Bone fractured with a sound like a splitting oak. Griffon roared forlornly, and let loose an almighty electrical storm.

Literal columns of red lightning knifed down from the dense black fog. While immune to its own attacks, Griffon couldn't properly enjoy the moment when the hunter fell from its neck. Indeed, despite being struck squarely, the flame wreathed devil knight unleashed burning retribution, Ebony and Ivory as his conduits.

Driven half mad in a whirlwind of indecision, pain, and a battered pride, the rational side of Griffon knew it must retreat in disgrace. Burning, stinging lead rounds bit into its flesh a moment more before the giant's form flashed blindingly. Dante hotfooted it out of there; the place he was standing, and fifteen-feet around that, had become a lightning rod's worst nightmare.

Like the termini of their first encounter, the monster demon devolved into pure, crackling light. It powered up on brilliant wings, flying up and away.

Griffon would heal. It would loyally report its failure to its master, and receive any punishment its due. If it survived, it would return for its quarry. The Death General swore it would hold nothing back next time, a single train of thought fortifying its resolve.

Sparda, and this human, are too different. Their blood cannot possibly be the same, and that means....

Griffon was laughing so hard it couldn't finish the thought.

Chasm: You wouldn't guess that Dante was in the middle of an important battle by listening to Ifrit and Alastor in the beginning of this chapter. That was the idea. Was I able to get the joke across without any confusion? You tell me.

Also, I thought it was more appropriate that Dante learn techniques directly from his devil arms, and not indirectly through the Watcher of Time. It makes sense, since the moves belong to their respective weapons. What do you think?