Chapter 5 ~ Symptoms
The sun had risen across the city, painting the jagged skyline in shades of gold and sapphire.
Winding shadows on the blacktop snaked through the remaining neighborhoods, surrounded by mountains that towered into the cloudless sky, stretching toward the first faint glimmers of the sun. That soon changed, as, slowly, clouds gathered. Vergil might have appreciated the view somewhat more if he wasn't so damn tired. Körperlich und geistig— sturm und drang. He'd made it to Dante's shop, sure, but he wondered how he might continue on like this, down the path he felt sure was a dead end. There was no secondary plan.
Becoming his brother, stealing his life and answering his calls, as if the two of them were one. Could he really make it? At least insofar for a short time.
The mercenary kept walking under a reticent sun, half-shrouded by a silky gray screen of moisture. He was actually glad to be back in a city. Despite the severe uncertainty and frustration, it felt right to be here, to be weightless in a sea-like machine. There was an odd feeling of pointlessness to the places he'd been before. A big bustling city didn't have that sense of emptiness.
"It was clear just half an hour ago," Vergil muttered.
Surprised that a change in the weather would make him wonder, it occurred to him, had it been that long since he left the human world? It had. It most definitely had. There was no trace of the tower at all, or was that a different city? He didn't really know anymore. It all kind of blended together like misshapen creatures of memories.
At the same time, Vergil pondered of what his younger twin did during his free time.
The red mercenary's black boots echoed in the empty streets. Both Vergil's hands explored the coat pockets to discover it had a leather finish that served to offer some protection.
He smirked to himself at how Dante would dedicate so much to personal comfort above cost. His bangs drifted over his left eye, so he blew them out of the way. They revealed a sight he recognized.
The neon lights of Dante's studio.
Home.
His double doors creaked open as the humble dark-interior office somberly resonated with him. The chestnut wood flooring and the lack of overall furniture didn't help at all though. Vergil figured that the next time he got paid, he would get something to decorate the place. Where had all of Dante's usual trappings gone? He expected at least a pool table or chairs. Perhaps a replacement jukebox. Maybe get something that spoke of the ol' 50's? Absurd.
Dante would never want something so dull. So if he wouldn't, neither should Vergil.
But this place needed to look more professional. Maybe some signed posters of some obscure rock bands? Perhaps, for that indie 'cred.'
Oh! He could swap out music in the jukebox for something that matched his own tastes, any number of classical artists from Wolfgang to Camille Saint-Saëns. It would be suspicious of a meathead such as Dante to become a sudden erudite music listener with a penchant for the finer things. He would need to preserve continuity, at least for now. He did so dislike placing himself into uncertain situations.
Vergil skimmed through the possibilities as he removed the full-laced leather gloves and brushed his red coat off his shoulders, revealing a long-sleeved black shirt beneath.
The light of the sun illuminated everything inside, the barren walls holding nothing for him of interest.
With nothing else to stare at, he crashed onto the chair and placed his head upon his arms, across the desk.
His dead body felt tired and heavy, almost too sleepy for someone like himself. He was always in shape, the stand-up-and-fight type, hold that prideful stance like it really means something and never let your back hit the ground. But not this time. Maybe it felt strange because he actually could rest, whereas before . . . injuries need time to fully heal, perhaps someone like him wasn't an exception after all.
Vergil contorted his face to a vexed expression. He was frustrated again.
The humiliation he went through would not soon be forgotten.
It rung in his head, he the loser, who so fell before the likes of turgid Dante.
'I will make all demon's pay if I cannot ever fight you again. I wanted to defeat you . . . with my own hands.'
His eyes caught the sight of Sparda's sword, still in its pure form, hanging there. The power he always desired right there before him. He stood up and walked to it.
Vergil's sight lingered here, wondering what destruction he could sow with its terrible power. With this, he had within arm's length the object of his ultimate desire, power.
But . . . he couldn't bring himself to use it.
Something stopped him.
Why did he feel like this now? Why didn't he feel free of the burden and shame that hung on his shoulders? Couldn't he be proud of the fact that the sword and all its might could be his to claim, for now and forever? It was all he ever searched for, years and years of research and knowledge, hatred fueling his charred heart to scavenge on and on for the answer to his demonic dilemma. And yet, this would never, ever, at all replace what he had lost in return.
Dignity.
Might controls everything, and without strength, you cannot protect anything, let alone yourself.
Right . . . ?
Vergil slowly turned and felt his bones ache ever so subtly.
He decided to stretch himself out, straightening up as he heard several cracks and pops out of his joints. For now, he made up his mind to hide the weapon somewhere here, somewhere within the shop, to be safe from anyone who might try to steal it, and he knew there were many, many thieves. Come to think of it, that might be why there's not much furniture. Although he did see some peculiar marks on the walls, as though there'd been a fire inside once before. He noticed patchwork paint jobs and the smell of weeks old hardware supplies dissipated through the air. Seems whatever Dante had kept here went up in flames. Nothing a little labor wouldn't fix. Anyway, the Cambion never took reckless chances. The front door was without a key, and so he was unsure how 'safe' it really was yet.
It was just so foreign to him.
Dante would've been ready for anything that would impede his path, that much he knew.
Vergil, however, couldn't decide if this irritating recklessness was at the core of his brother, or maybe he was just protecting himself with some spell.
There's just no way, he could not have been that reckless!
Vergil touched the hilt and felt a shiver run down his spine. For a moment, his eyes stared at the reflection in the red jewels. Their perfect amulets united at the hilt, built into the living weapon just behind the metal of the great blade.
'Even a devil may cry when he loses someone he loves.'
The old woman's words rattled his mind nonstop. 'Your father had the same look when his comrade died during the days of the great war."
"No, I'm not nostalgic," he shamed himself.
At that, he left the room looking to explore the other parts of Dante's shop.
Between life and death, there's never been certainty, but for the grey twin, he walked both their paths as one now
A cold sweat dripped upon her head. Not the sweat of a workout, or the sweat of running, but sweat from anxiety.
Her heart pounded like a drum. She flickered her eyes uncontrollably. Was it there? The girl thought she saw something moving, but . . .
It was just her imagination.
Then it was there again. Winding around in the darkness, gently rapping at her floor . . . looking at her. She wiped her eyes so she could see straight.
Suddenly, something creaked in the small room, it made her heart bolt twenty beats. She felt that she wasn't alone. Two shadows collided in front of her eyes and created something new.
A pair of yellow, discordant orbs stared her down shrouded in scarlet.
Tears streamed down her face.
"No!" she screamed and ran away, her blonde hair lost in the dark.
The girl didn't care about where she was going. Her life was the goal.
Crooked steps followed her close behind, slowed and dragging. She didn't dare stop to think of what it was. Running outside, her legs led her to an exposed dumpster nearby. Against her better judgment, she chose to jump in and hide. Thankfully, there was nothing in it. The metal bin was fairly clean, all thing's considering, though there was an indeterminate stain on the opposite side of the bunker.
She chose not to sit near it.
Just hide. Hide for now, until it's safe to leave and return to that room.
It was still the early morning, so there weren't many people awake.
The girl brought her knees close to her chest and held them with her crossed arms. Breath caught in her throat, the dread choking her like a thick fog, blocking all rational thought. Her boots remained rooted to the spot, unwilling to move. The only thing she could hear was her own breathing, which came in shallow gasps. She never felt this way before. So, she clasped her hand over her mouth in the hopes it would silence the noise.
Now all she could hear was her heart beating.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
It kept on drumming irregular, like an amphetamine pumping razor rivulets of adrenaline through her veins.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Further still it continued, discordantly rhythmic, speeding along like a bullet, pounding her head. She was deathly afraid of the broad silence, not even its distinct footsteps within the range of her hearing.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
Thump thump.
She couldn't stop herself.
Seconds went by, like long painful hours. No young girl could keep living under this pressure, faced with absolute unreality in the darkness. Her mind would sooner break than give into the death of an impossible creature, the torturer sent to destroy her child mind. The heartbeat became her worst enemy, filling her ears, rocking through her wrists and shaking her soul. The incessant pulse served a reminder of her impossible situation.
And yet it was still happening.
Her voice broken, she whispered, "Why me?"
"Patty!" A smooth, friendly male voice called out to her, "Are you in there? It's okay."
The girl's face brightened as she jumped out and ran toward the source of the voice.
"Martin!" she embraced him in tears. "Someone's been following me."
She cried uncontrollably, terrified of her surroundings, feeling trapped under ice. Freezing out of her mind and body, she grasped onto the man for any kind of solace he could offer.
Patty felt the man take hold of her shoulders and kneel down to look at her, "What's going on? Why are you out at this hour?"
She wiped her eyes and tried to think of what to say.
"I was- I thought I- . . ." she stuttered. "Never mind."
Something about the way Martin would scan his surroundings with his eyes put within her a comforting warmth, as if he could see everything for miles and miles and miles. Patty looked to the ground ashamed. She felt like a fool. It were as though the monster chasing her simply vanished into thin air. Certainly she'd been followed by something, she heard those steps. Those horrible, horrible steps.
"Is- . . . was there someone chasing you?" he asked her.
"I- No. Not a man," she said.
"We have to go home, now," Martin put his hand on her shoulder and began to lead her away quickly.
"Okay," she said.
Patty Lowell was nine years old, but a free thinker. She was greater than her contemporaries at the orphanage out in the countryside. The city was no place to raise young children. They found Martin's car and drove off for quainter pastures, hopeful and holding. The orphanage wasn't too close to where she'd been. Martin had seen her run out, alone. Why had she chosen to run away? And how had she ended up so far out here? Whatever happened, it was not natural.
As soon as they parked, her chest fluttered. Hoots and cheers suddenly abounded, the sleepy crowd fully awakening and aware. Rapidly, reporters and cameramen from a few multimedia agencies pushed and prodded at each other, nearly stomping over themselves to get at her.
Half stood, and the other half just had to sit to get a better view of the girl.
"There she is! Lucky child," she heard someone call, and their cameras started flashing over and over. Martin held the girl close to him and hurried towards the entrance.
The fact that she'd gone missing had caused quite a stir, even after what had already supposedly been done to her.
"Go home, all of you. She doesn't need this!" the man shouted and rushed the front mahogany door. The young blonde fell inside, but she didn't wait for a moment.
"What's going on?" she bombarded him with a series of questions as two women waited to close the door behind them.
Beyond the front room stood a desk, and behind that sat a middle-aged man. He was wearing a grey suit and a hat.
Next to him was a woman with short blonde hair, more yellow than Patty's, welcoming the young girl with a smile. The handler of the orphanage left her desk with a gentle smile gracing her face.
Nothing good would come of this, the girl felt.
And she was right.
"Patty, there you are. Oh dear, I hate to see you leave, but it's for the best."
"What!?"
"Ahem!" Morrison cleared his throat. "Miss Lowell, my name is Morrison. It's nice to meet you."
He was an older gentleman, roughly six feet tall, hair graying and full. Seemed once she got a better look at him, he came to life with more energy, though he was no less drab in nature.
The man came forward, "This might seem sudden to you, but . . . you're going to leave this place at once. It seems to be that the recently departed Morgan Lowell has left his estate to you, and as such, you are immediately adopted into its care by the statute of his will."
"Why are you here?" she asked him, confused.
"Yes, well," he began, then cleared his throat and took a drink of looked like whiskey from a glass on the desk. "You see we've all become aware that someone as valuable as you would . . . well let's just say that the road ahead on your own would be rather dangerous. I was tasked with finding someone who'd take you to your new home safely."
"Uh, my new home?" the young girl replied.
"Ah yes," he unfolded a document and checked it over. "If I've read this correctly— yes, you're new home. You've inherited a mansion."
Patty was breathless. A mansion? She needed a moment to process that information.
"Are you serious?" Patty blinked several times while she absorbed the information. Much of what happened earlier felt as though whatever questions she had were ignored.
"My dad?" she blinked, " . . . He died?"
"Oh sweetie," the middle-aged woman came to her. "I know that must be a hard pill to swallow."
"Actually," Patty placed her hand on the woman's shoulder. "I'm not that hurt. I barely knew him."
There was an awkward pause.
"Ah, er- right. I'm sorry," she said.
"No, it's okay. Thank you for worrying about me. Thank you for always worrying."
The woman smiled at the young girl, "It was always my pleasure."
"How did he die?" she asked the man.
"A brain hemorrhage, or so it looks. The toxicology report has yet to be reported and the coroner can't rule out anything just yet," Morrison replied. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief he kept in his old coat's front pocket. Beside him, on the desk, was a briefcase he continually oversaw as he spoke to her, searching and scanning periodically for details and such.
"Are you gonna be taking me to the- . . . the mansion?" she asked.
Morrison raised an eyebrow, "My apologies, little lady but I'm merely the middle man here. I have my own agency through which I was contacted to provide aid, being here in person is a formality to ensure the client is happy as can be. I won't be the one to escort you, that'll be another man, a good friend of mine I've known for many years. He should be around shortly, although he's running late today it seems."
The old woman raised an eyebrow, "still? He was supposed to be here an hour ago."
Morrison grimaced, "I know. I called him and left him a . . . 'polite reminder' several minutes ago, he should be on his way."
"I can wait," Patty chirped. "I've kinda always been waiting on things."
"Well, I'm glad you're used to that," Morrison said. "Waiting's an important skill we'll both need today. Just one thing I'll need you to understand: whatever you see, whatever you hear from him, my friend, don't take any of it to heart, it's merely the way he is."
Footsteps stalked the halls and caught their mutual attention. They were slow and foreign, strong and measured. Her heart began to race as a crimson figure approached the glass door of the office. She nearly screamed as she felt the same stalking presence that had been in that room before, where she'd run off to earlier that day when no one was awake. The doorknob turned and slowly it opened to reveal who stood on the other side.
He looked different than she expected, his silver hair catching her eye off-guard.
"G'morning Dante. Nice of you to finally join us. I have a very special job for you," the middle-aged agent spoke casually.
Patty relaxed herself and deflated on the spot, a small smile emerging on her face, and she waited for the man to say something.
"Yes?" he replied simply.
Morrison was silent for a moment, a bit surprised by the complete lack of reaction. Perhaps it was simply a slower start of the day for him than it was others.
"Got ourselves a Cinderella, she's the heiress to the Lowell-fortune. Handlers for the estate have hired you through me to protect her on her way to her new home," the manager said.
He was confident in the appeal of the job to Dante. It wasn't often he turned down easy jobs like this. One would have to be explicitly unintelligent or utterly stupid to turn down money like this, and this particular merc never was. And yet, 'Dante' did not respond. He didn't even speak. His face retained a perpetually pinched look, and his eyes were freezing. He'd walked in and merely said one word.
He stared at the girl then returned his gaze to the man before him.
"All apologies, but no," he shook his head. "My job is to investigate any strange entities that create problems in the world. I do not babysit."
And he turned to leave.
Patty felt worried suddenly. Any sense of security was immediately erased.
The old woman almost gasped and looked at the man's handler incredulous.
"What?" Morrison asked. "I don't believe I heard you correctly."
'Dante' stopped and turned around.
"You called me in the middle of the morning with an offer to escort this juvenile prison sentence waiting to happen to her new home. It isn't worth my time," the slayer replied.
The girl turned to him and objected, "I'm not a prison sentence!"
The man looked down at her, mockingly surprised, "It speaks."
Her cheeks reddened, "How rude!"
Morrison looked exasperated with the man, "She's not wrong."
"Spare me your managerial grotesqueries," 'Dante' said. That he knew was a step too far.
Morrison scrutinized the man up and down unflinching.
"I- uh . . . ya know, cut the bull-" he almost didn't say anything as he realized the child was in front of him, "-craaaap . . . pally."
They all stared at him silently.
Morrison shook his head and stood, "excuse me and my associate, we've got to have a word in private real quick."
The manager ushered the slayer out into the corridor and as the door closed, they all heard minute, frantic whisperings, not quite as quiet as Morrison had hoped, but silent enough they couldn't make out roughly half of what he said, and the hushed tones turned to moderate talking before quickly returning to a hushed timbre, and as they lowered their voice, the door eventually opened again, in coming the two of them side by side, Morrison giving his best effort to smile professionally as he stood and returned to his briefcase while the slayer returned with a lowered head and a scowl like no other.
"What's your problem?" he asked the girl.
She stared at Morrison and he winked at her knowingly after a comic shrug.
"I— Well, it's sort of a long story. For the past three days, I've been haunted by a strange . . . thing."
The man in red leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, pulling up a chair and sitting reluctantly in front of her. He leaned forward and crossed his hands, resting his chin on both as he appeared to suddenly freeze up. 'Dante' clenched his hands as though he were experiencing pain somewhere and he stared at her with an unknown observation on his mind.
After a moment, he swallowed and said, "What kind of strange thing?"
"Wha-" she was taken aback by his demeanor. "Uh, uhmm-uh . . . w-well, sometimes I hear someone calling me, and when I try to find the voice . . . I see just shadows. I can't make out what they look like, I'm too afraid to. Sometimes I get a strange feeling in my eyes, followed by this feeling like I'm just floating in water. Right in front of my bed I see something red with yellow eyes, watching me when I try to fall asleep. I think- . . ."
She struggled to finish that sentence, "I-I . . . I think-"
Morrison spoke up, "Hey, relax. You can trust him alright? You're in safe hands now."
"Thank you," she said, looking back at him for a moment before returning to Dante. "I . . . think it wonders what it wants to do to me, planning it out. I don't know what it is. It's just there and it knows my name. It scratched it into my bed-frame at the orphanage."
The man's eyes widened.
"Please . . . please, please, please help me," she nearly cried.
The youthful warble in her voice was so prevalent it almost seemed as though it were going to give out right then.
He leaned back into his chair with a sigh.
"Right. Do you have a scar on your right arm?" Dante said.
Patty rubbed her forehead for a moment.
"Yeah," she said shifty as she lifted her sleeves and showed her designated forearm to him.
Near her elbow, there was a long, spindly crack of dark lines. He knew exactly what it was.
"Miss Lawlor,"
"Lowell," Morrison corrected.
"Lowell, if they didn't bring you to me, you would have been in serious trouble," he left the chair and came around to her.
"Um, you came to us," the old woman said.
"Same difference," he said with a casual dismissal, not even bothering to look at the old caretaker.
Kneeling down, he examined the scar more closely, telling her, "You're marked. And it will not stop. It will never, ever stop until it catches you, judging by the size of it. Your description also fits exceptionally well the necessary parameters."
"What description is that?" Morrison asked for her, confused.
"A child of influence, one who is heir to a prominent power."
That didn't really sound anything like Dante, and yet Dante just spoke those words. Same as before, it was just wrong to the old man's ears. Morrison scratched his head, but he rolled with it. He was willing to see if Dante had changed since that last job overseas or wherever he'd gone. Seems he'd become a tad forgetful recently, if this itself wasn't already a prime example. Patty just stood there watching him, mouth slightly ajar. The dark slayer touched her forehead.
"You have a fever as well. Rest on the couch."
"There's no couch in here," she replied.
"Then rest on the floor."
"Are you serious?" the old woman interjected.
"As the black plague," he replied.
'Dante' tilted his head and signaled the girl to move. Vergil caught something in the girl's face for a moment, he could swear red color flashed inside her cheeks before nodding her head and walking over to the couch. Curious. He knew then for sure what it was. The only question was, would she be ready to confront it? To confront her worst possible nightmare? She sat down on the floor and laid her head back on the tile, innocent to the letter.
Morrison pulled 'Dante' aside again.
"What's this all about?" Morrison questioned him, uncertain of what the man was doing. This wasn't Dante's style by any means, so he eyed his partner carefully.
"What?" Dante shrugged, "This is the job."
Well, that was a little more like it, he guessed. The red mercenary went past his agent to the desk, "I'll take her back to my shop, but she can't leave there till I figure out who marked her."
Morrison rubbed his temple.
Dante was a tough one to figure out, "Are you feeling well today, partner? Seems like you're in a little more . . . eccentric mood."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Now give me the address. We can't waste a single second," Dante took out the notepad from Morrison's briefcase and pulled a pen off the desk.
Morrison shrugged, "Alright."
And he gave the man what he asked for, a simple series of words and numbers that were ultimately meaningless to his addled mind. Still, he supposed that it wasn't any better than hell's zip codes. Because there weren't any. So they were even.
"Have they sent the payment?" Dante asked as he set the pen down.
"Hm? Yeah, five grand, then twenty more when this is over. I'm countin' on you," and he gave a small brief wave goodbye. "She's gotta be home by tomorrow night. You have a two-day deadline."
'Dante' nodded back to him.
And so they understood each other.
"Goodbye and good luck, Patty," the man said as he returned to the desk, 'Dante' grabbing his note and folding it, slipping it into his pocket comfortably.
The young girl looked over to the mustached man and stayed still for a moment before nodding her head. Her caretaker had so much left to say, but this was as good a send off as anyone deserved, a warm hug and a kiss on the forehead. They stayed embraced for a time, Patty not ready to leave yet, and the slayer waited impatiently till she finished her business.
"I'm going to miss you, honey. Go on now, don't forget about us, okay?"
Patty felt tears threaten to roll down her cheeks again, this time out of lost companionship.
"I won't I promise," and the two hugged one another once more.
Finally, when they parted, she stared back at Dante and saw his unemotional eyes glare back. Though she dreaded it, they started walking together. He walked by her and opened the door, clearing the path for her to walk. Once the door closed behind her, awkward silence fell between the two. Dante stared at her briefly and then began walking on through the hall, out towards the front entrance. Patty gazed back at those she'd grown up with one last time. The trio of women waved goodbye, and one of them blew her a kiss.
And finally, they came to stand before the great hall's two great doors, standing almost like a cathedral's Victorian stained glass arch.
"When I open that door, we run to that car, you understand?" Vergil demanded.
Though anxious, she was ready, "Yes."
With a stilted breath, the man pushed open the wooden barrier and, immediately, shouts filled the air.
"Miss Lowell what can you tell us?"
"Over here, just one picture please!"
"How incredible does it feel to go from being an orphan to a millionaire?"
"Miss Lowell, can we get an exposé on the conditions of the orphanage?"
"Is there a connection between your escape-attempt and the recent passing of your biological parent?"
Several of the orphanage staff stood in the way of the crowd. The constant flashes of light made it difficult for her to walk in a straight line. Martin was there waiting. He and Dante shoved journalists out of the way and kept her close by. Patty kept her head low and darted toward the light blue car with her friends. Martin opened the door, and she jumped in, and he quickly scurried into the drivers seat. Photographers nearly swarmed Dante as he stalked around to the other door on the opposite side. Seemed he caught their attention pretty well. He shot them a glance as he opened the door, and they felt stricken by his scrutinizing silver eyes.
"No comment," he growled at them before entering his car. The subsequent drive was mostly silent. Patty rested her head against the window and observed the ever-changing street.
It was hypnotic to watch the transformation of greenery to concrete and all the lights that came with it, and so she eventually began to fall asleep. Visions clouded her mind, vague hints of the past and its many doorways to her present. Her mind circled around one though in particular. Dante paid her no mind, grumbling to himself over Morrison's stern words and his own foolish actions. He'd gotten himself into this predicament and now he'd play the part, routine and all.
"Mommy?" she whispered half-awake.
He glared at her as she sat away from him, back turned. The girl wanted nothing more than to know the truth of what happened to mother. Why was she left behind? Why wasn't she good enough for her father to be loved? Why had she been excluded from her family all these years? Knowing now of her relation to a wealthy man was even more troubling, that she'd been excluded from a pleasant life.
Eventually, a second car began following closely. She recognized Morrison as the driver when his vehicle passed theirs.
Lost in contemplation, she didn't even realize the ride was over till Martin opened her door.
"We're here," the slayer said, unfeeling.
Patty stepped out past the metal door and stared at the building before her.
The neon sign flickered ever so often with the logo of a woman holding two guns.
"Devil May Cry?" she said loud enough for both men to hear.
"Yep. Come on in," 'Dante' said, though his voice hardly conveyed genuine attachment. He invited the child inside as he walked the steps to the front door, Martin following behind them.
They stepped inside to the barren studio and 'Dante' walked off to his desk, not minding where the door would shut when he let go. Martin barely managed to get his hand on the door before it nearly struck Patty. This 'good friend' of Morrison's sure was as big a jerk as any she'd met. He seemed to be unbothered by her disappointed expression, but he himself didn't look quite right. His gut seemed to be giving him struggles, so he loosely fell in place in his chair, almost dropping from his stance into the cushioned seat behind him with a tired sigh.
He seemed to be rather uninterested much of anything, not just herself, as loose articles laid on his desk scattered.
"Well . . . this is where I leave you," Martin said.
Vergil glared at him from his vacant vision and grumbled some distaff affirmation.
The man hugged the girl goodbye and soon was gone again, car motor rumbling off in the distance back to the orphanage, to safety. She wished it were him that would take her to the estate, not this man, his icy gaze doing much to dissuade her from speaking for a long time. She sat on his couch and shrunk in place primarily wondering if she were dreaming in some way.
The minutes seemed like hours.
"I know about monsters," Patty broke the silence. "You don't have to hide it from me. I know they exist."
'Dante' stared at her, not letting any emotion creep to the surface. He didn't say anything at first.
Why should a mere childe know anything about them? The world's falling to perdition, he supposed.
"I surmised that from our first talk. A child like you shouldn't have to be subjected to something beyond their understanding," he said. "A young girl such as yourself should be concerned with other things, other places, and ideals, mayhaps a life of nobility if you could consider yourself so lucky."
She glowered at him, "Really?"
The man looked back at her sternly but then thought better of it.
"One thing I despise most is dishonorable means to achieve something: cheating— you just so happen to be the subject of such a predicament."
He could sense there was something foul at play and he'd make them pay, whoever it was pulling the strings on them. Ideology that the eldest son of Sparda truly believed in.
". . . You're cool," she told him.
"Uhhh . . ." the man replied at first, unsure what to make of her words."Thank you."
"My first name is Patty. Don't forget that either, okay?"
Dante avoided looking at her and just returned to check the things upon the desk. Praise from a human? There was a first for everything.
"I have to be home soon," Patty said.
He looked back up at her and chuckled under his breath, "Don't fear, you'll get there one way or another."
To Be Continued
Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this. Please leave a review with your thoughts.
Nothing much to say on this, it was one way and now it's better, way better I think. Hope you enjoyed it! :)