Author's note: Ice cream, or going into battle: which is sweeter? Obviously the latter! This chapter doesn't make any sense…?

I bow down to the reviewers! Hello, Rodarian!

---Now off to eat fishies, yum---

P.S.: DMC's Capcom's (c).

CHAPTER 8: Sweet

Trish opened her eyes, and the sensation of melting disappeared. Groggily shaking her head, she sat up. Strange how her dreams were becoming. Of course, she deemed it as unimportant; she never had dreams before, until after the first day she had became Dante's side-kick. The actual thought of having such things still remained bizarre to her.

The woman grinned wryly as she recalled the first time she had a dream. The images in her head were so clear, as clear as the sky was when the two escaped Mallet Island. She had dreamed of Dante holding her, pressing his lips against hers. She was utterly bewildered when Dante's attitude towards her the next morning had not changed. It was only after much frustration and embarrassment had Dante pried out the reason why she was looking hurt, and, after initial confusion (and denial!), explained to her what a dream was. But ever since that dream, she had felt some kind of pull towards him.

Even now, she occasionally had problems separating dreams from reality. But she had no problems determining that this slightly blurred memory (although thoroughly disturbing and somehow familiar) was definitely a dream. If it wasn't, then she wouldn't be solid now!

Trish allowed her mind to nudge faded images back to the present. It was always of her somehow melting, melting slowly, but painlessly. She wasn't afraid, though. She felt like someone strong was standing next to her, holding her weakening body. And then a taste of blood, warm blood that made her tingle everywhere. And strength…and life…

Trish smiled. She somehow liked this dream, disturbing as it was. It was strange in the fact that, in the beginning, it spotted here and there, little slivers between usual dreams of total nonsense. Then it started getting more common, about once or twice a week. And now…the reoccurring dream invaded her mind almost every other day.

A sudden craving hit her, interrupting her ponderings. Trish beamed. All this melting stuff reminded her of ice cream! She jogged down the stairs, following the path Dante (unbeknownst to her) had taken 2 hours before. All thoughts vanished from her head. Her stomach was doing the thinking now.

The 'living room' was silent. Trish scanned the room for Dante, but there was no sign of him anywhere. He was probably greasing up his motorcycle again. She grabbed a spoon as she trotted up and opened the fridge.

The sight inside made her livid with anger.

"Dante!!"

The devious little bastard! Three of the five cartons of ice cream she bought were missing. No wonder he was so eager to make her fall asleep! The plain hot water was probably laced with sleeping pills, or something. Now, she fumed, the sneak was probably hiding from her.

Trish's appetite was unabated, though, so she took the remaining carton (strawberry marble! At least she knew know which flavour Dante was least likely to touch) out. She'll scold him later. Remembering her previous experience, Trish dug out a spoonful, and slowly sucked, making sure every mouthful was fully melted before swallowing. That way, there was little chance of the frozen treat giving her any aches.

The phone rang. Trish swallowed quickly, forgetting to be cautious.

"Devil Never Cry."

A panic-stricken voice started babbling in her ear. Trish focused closely on the words, and managed to pick out some fuzzy descriptions, and location of the occurrence. When the voice finally exhausted itself, Trish asked, "Hold on, sir. Password?"

The speaker hesitated. "It's… um…ahhh…"

"Sir, I can't do anything if there's---"

The voice frantically interrupted, finally remembering. Trish hung up, a smile on her face.

Picking up the Sparda sword (it was heavier than usual, she noticed), she dashed out the door, hoping to find Dante. There he was, polishing his precious bike. Or pretending to, for a spoon guiltily lay next to him.

"Ah, Trish!" Dante greeted her with a cherubic smile. "How was your nap? Feeling be---"

"Shut up, Dante, and listen to me," Trish interrupted. "I---"

Dante eyed the utensil next to him, damning evidence. "This lil' spoon was helping me measure out the oil---" he cut in, obviously mistaking Trish's excitement for anger.

"I don't care about spoons now, Dante! Password! Another heavy one!"

Something flickered in the half-demon's eyes. "A job?"

Trish nodded once. "Descriptions made me think of Shadows. A lot of them. Seems like we have a bit of hunting to do." She smiled slowly. "And…the guy sounds like the type to pay handsomely."

This time the flicker was discernible enough to recognize. Bloodlust. A faint line of red rimmed Dante's irises as his hunter instincts flared up. It was, after all, 2 weeks since they had a heavy job. Ever since Mundus had been sealed up, leaderless bands of demons and spirits had been roving around aimlessly. However, even the most pitiful evil creature had fear, Dante knew. With no sense of direction, the evil things could do naught but release their fear in the form of chaos. Therefore, they attacked only when numbers of a group grew large enough to cause sufficient damage. This explained for the numerous days of peace between jobs.

Additionally, the access to the Underworld was somewhat stemmed, so the supply of demons had slowed down considerably, making their business suffer even more. Finally some action, and a group of shadows, at that! This was going to be very, very fun.

"Lemme grab my toys," Dante grinned. Sweet…