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The Chosen One Unknown	By : Britt_601 Category: +A through F > Devil May Cry Views: 3033 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the DMC series nor is any money being made off of this.

Chapter List
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The Story: This little piece of fiction has an OC in it as well as Vergil...and Dante...and small appearances from the other cast of the DMC series. And other OC's as well. So please, if you are the type to hate every OC in the existence of writing, use the back button to find another story. Thank you.

Story Tidbits:What better way to solve problems than through violence (that was sarcasm).

Stats:Beta-Leslie. 12 pages written/ 8 pages typed.

Final Word: I'm not really feeling Vergil's sheathing animations in DMC4: SE. It looks...sloppy.

Let Me Explain

That was an interesting conversation. He did not think it would go so well. It went so good that Dante hurriedly slammed the door in his face without saying a word.

His alert being could not seek rest, energy swimming in his veins after withdrawing the nourishing liquid from that woman's throat. After her collapse to the floor, he examined the odd symbols on her neck, nothing from his fragile memory gaining familiarity about the marks.

From his wavering observations, the woman seemingly cannot handle someone touching the sensitive spots, her senses overloading to unconsciousness. His mind struggled to recall any text explaining restorative properties, thoughts unwittingly blocked by his captivity, reminding him of his abundant shame.

Pushing those thoughts away temporarily, he wondered if his brother had any ties to this woman, what with her magical abilities and all. It remained a possibility she was a sly demon hiding under the guise of a human, intent to harm him now out of the clutches of that sadistic, blonde little cockroach.

Still, it seemed unlikely Dante―he presumed―would allow an enemy into his office, leaving them unattended to roam through his belongings. Perhaps she stayed here for another reason; did Dante pursue her as a romantic interest?

Regardless of what or who she is, she carried an invaluable mystic power, one he deemed a suitable necessity that enabled him to stand on two feet. It welcomed a calming feeling, retiring his dependency on others to provide diminutive necessities when he could now strengthen his resolves―physically and mentally―to reclaim his assets; to annihilate his sworn enemies.

He stared over her prostrate form, eyes swallowing a lax figure that once reminded him of his imprisoned self. Helpless. Restrained. Able to do nothing except vow to return the treatment placed upon him with wrathful vengeance, holding onto his diminishing sanity and withering determination to see them dead.

However, it will do him little good to go after his detractors, unable to wield a blade in continuous stamina, practically walking around with an 'assault me' sign on his back.

It would also do him harm if Dante found her on the floor, ruining his chances to harbor such an amazing commodity for himself. He half-picked up, half-dragged her slack form to the couch, touching her birthmarks once more, sensing nothing prickling his weathered fingertips, retreating back to the room. However, an uncontrollable tingle shook deep inside him at the moment, a gnawing enemy growing in strength until it penetrated the deepest recesses of his soul.

And he knew just the weapon to slay the beast.

With legs still unaccustomed to movement he stood from the bed, weary form taking slow steps to build his stamina. The main room's silence made his ears pick up a door's creaking hinges downstairs after he walked out of the bedroom, watching the mystery woman step in jerky strides to the front door.

Hm, so she has recovered. It is safe to assume that Dante willingly let her be here, but what is she?

After she exited the office he steeled his lanky frame to quicken his pace, preparing to silence the howling beast devouring his soul from the inside―via nourishment from the kitchen.

Rising clamor pitched in high tones from the outside, his facial expression rigid with concentration to hasten back into the room. In a manner of reflection it sickened him, relying on another from his lone warrior status; a memory so distant it formed an alien concept. Surreal. He did not think himself whole.

His o-katana created a missing void within him yes, but his controlled mindset and subsequent death under Mundus' reign had changed him. He had been stripped of his natural birthright, altered into a mockery of his powerful demonic heritage as a possessed Black Angel. Even then, his supposed 'feats' as the Dark Prince's general are vague; a mirage of flashing pictures illustrating his trials before a morose depth severed his memories.

The chime above the door rang, leaving Vergil little time to find himself suitable replenishment, opening the refrigerator to grab the closest things he could (a cold can of tomato juice and two kiwis) and left the kitchen. It wasn't a favorable action to let Dante see his wilted form, thin and sunken, a former shadow of himself looming thick on their minds to neglect conversation.

Their silent talks shouldered a bigger distance between them than when they believed in their opposing ideals. Swallowing the bitter pill of his dishonored and crumbling pride he trudged out of the kitchen, nerves steeled solid against the awkward tension bound to pile up when Dante confronted him. Instead he saw her.

Bi-colored eyes widened under rose-tinted glasses, mentally inhaling a sigh of pained disbelief, images resurfacing to remember anguished hatred guiding vehement goals. Her past resurfaced in swift arrival, surrounded by her potent emotions, firing a bullet straight in line with his heart.

How pathetic. A notion so long ago, he would have deflected the projectile with a flick of his wrist, barely shifting his stance. Now his hollow being scooted around in failure, a scorpion without its stinger, a dragon without its fire. The energy from that woman charging his vitality seemed to partially heal his sluggish human side, leaving his demonic powers untouched.

Perhaps it was the angle he held the cold can to let the bullet pierce the casing, sloshing the scarlet fluid onto his thin torso, flashing him back to his imprisonment.

'I want you to say it!'

Pale blue eyes glanced downwards, vision fixed on the soppy trails skimming down his waist.

'You should praise him for piecing you back together, so do it!'

His mind suddenly blanked, foggy images soon gathering to unwillingly remember his rebirth in Hell, brought upon by the splattered juice.

'I said praise him, you cretin! I can spill your blood a thousand times over before I'm bored.'

A knife engulfed in a bale of molten fire pierced into his chest, gushing falls of blood blanketed his front after Nievella dragged the sword across his deltoids, Vergil unable to insult her, only twitching his mouth as pain ricocheted through his nerves.

Sitting on a throne fashioned out of skulls sat the self-proclaimed King Mancer, orange eyes brimming with a sadistic gleam over Vergil's being; over his possession to have a worthy object on his way to claim Hell's kingdom.

'Open your mouth you son of a whore! Speak!'

Vergil's disillusioned mind could not comprehend his new surroundings, eyes able to open long after his defeat as Mundus' Black Angel, what seemed like years to awaken from to repeat a damned cycle. Through her screaming tantrums, Nievella told him his physical form had been pieced back together, a puzzle that took a year to complete following Nelo Angelo's collapse thanks to her father.

'And you'll be his pet for everyone to see when he takes the throne!'

His vision had blackened into nothingness after his flesh tore open, defenseless to accept the sword plunging through his chest. Her voice cackled a demeaning laughter, his own blood the last thing his eyes fell upon before a dark veil obscured his sight.

Vergil lurched forward cradling his head, feeling the heat of a passing bullet fly near his face. A sharp flash of pain stabbed through his memory, letting go of the comestibles with his jarred knees connecting to the floor. Images detailing the indignant trials placed upon him like some regenerating doll pulsed into his past's recollection, seeing damned faces laughing in savage mockery at his heritage, at his weakened form. So powerless, able to do nothing but watch his tormentors tear him apart, a show for the spectators to sneer in victory―to gloat at a son of Sparda held in Mancer's captivity.

Though temporarily relieved from his eternal imprisonment, he faced an evil he, daresay, contemplated on going back to the Underworld to avoid a sound worse than Hell's screams―the incessant nagging from a woman.

“The fuck do you think you're doing?” Lady shook in stilted rage, voice high in disbelief after Dante stopped her from halting every breath this demon took.

“Lady-”

“No fuck that! Why is he here?” Her VZ61 Uzi appeared in her left hand, targeting the nightmare that shouldn't be alive. A floodgate of repressed feelings swam to her mind's forefront, letting it consume her emotions to see this worthless speck dead.

Dante held both of her armed wrists above her, knowing it to be a pointless intention to reason with her when she wanted something dead. He could see the brimming fire flashing strongly in her eyes, her face contorted into anguished concentration.

He supposed luck ran out of passes to spare him, leaving fate to wave her tricky hand and expose his secret to those he tried his hardest to keep away from.

Vergil continued to clutch his head in pain, long and scraggly hair obscuring his face, but his trembling hands told of his ache. His brother, proud and noble with a confident air stood, or rather fell, to a depth so low he felt a thick wave of pity settle in his stomach.

So bent on destroying everything around him, his goals pulled a caul over his eyes, blinding him to the true enemy in all this: himself.

“Let go of me,” Lady snarled, pulling her arms away from his tight grip, resisting his touch to finish the job he hesitated to do.

This was his true secret then, the reason he ditched those jobs because he stayed at home tending to this job that reaped no rewards... for anyone? Nothing Dante said stuck in her mind, memories flashing to her then-teen years where she climbed that demonic tower, focused to put down the one demon that murdered the innocent part of her, birthing this hard-bitten woman to see all things evil perish.

“Calm down, Lady,” Dante bore his eyes into her, adamant to lessen her rage enough to snag control of the situation.

He could envision what problems are bound to come his way with his brother alive, weeding through dark secrets and lies to determine what his future would hold; quick to lend his brother a hand to reclaim his worth or to grab his sword and end him―for the third time.

Her voice darkened, a violent calm before a storm. “You have three seconds to let me go-”

“Just listen to me all right! Yeah, I'm guilty-”

Bang!

Maisha's piercing screams filled the office, shining eyes wide with terror upon seeing a thick mass of red catapult from the back of Dante's skull; her shrieks soon lessening, covered by her shaking hands after Dante still... stood on his feet.

He hunched over to his side, cradling his head after the gun-toting female aimed the reticle at the crouching loon, then her head jerked to the side after a sneak attack.

Mark had entered inside the office, striking a blunt jab to her jaw from behind, his fist making hard contact to her chin. Maisha had received a taste of his violent nature once, when he shook her senseless after she experienced one of her 'episodes', coming under a rough whiplash when the hallucination unraveled from his purposeful hands, soon losing consciousness.

He wrestled with the brunette woman, locking her head in a vice grip, hitting her on her ear after he wrangled the semi-automatic into his hand. A brown boot delivered a hard stomp to his foot, the same leg rising in the air to punt him in the face. Mark recoiled from the blunt pain, covering his injured nose after he raised the gun at the woman.

Enlarged sapphires glared in dangerous rage, breath stiff and forced upon his humiliating injury, caution thrown to the wind as his mouth tightened, ready to pull the trigger.

Maisha felt her heart skip a beat, unable to hitch her breath when she saw Mark cry out in pain, eyes changing from murderous contempt to dazed fear. Her savior (who remained alive) rushed over to crush Mark's hand, lifting him above the ground with one arm, steady in his strength. Watery brown eyes glanced over to the woman, palming the area where Mark hit her, her cool gaze, for the moment, returned on the long-haired man.

“I thought I told you to leave,” Dante said with a tight voice, rubbing the bloodied spot on his forehead, “Who told you to come in here?”

“What the fuck,” he cried out, eyes bulged in horror because he knew that white-haired man got shot, saw the blood splatter. “What the fuck are you?” he twisted his limbs to get away, wondering what freak show he stumbled upon.

Without another word Dante let go of his grip, grabbing a hold of the gun as Mark 'plopped' down to the floor, turning around to see Lady focused on his twin.

Vergil rose, standing up straight―as much as his body withstood―and returned Mary's harmful glare with just as much intensity. He cared less about Dante calling her 'Lady', but it would seem his brother had an affection towards her, because a 'lady' did not suit her personality well. It would appear this woman bore a grudge that had not yet dwindled, letting her hatred consume her actions... and making Dante feel her wrath through a bullet to his head.

The mysterious woman dared not move, shaking in thick tremors with her eyes fixated on Dante. He wondered if her intuition tipped on the verge on insanity, refusing to digest what her sight gathered.

Cool iceberg blues briefly touched pale ones lit in a blaze, gritting his teeth over the annoyance chewing through his nerves. He desired no one to look at his form and think of him in shame, to take pity on him, hiding behind masks of concern when none of them could stand to see him breathing. Except for Mary, if Dante had not stopped her, she would have enjoyed his death herself.

A numbing throb originated behind his eyes, pulsing in tempo with his erratic breaths brought upon by his vile reflections. He had had enough of these chaotic simpletons, bound to their flailing emotions, tactless in the childish ways they communicated, or didn't, with each other. How odd it seems. After all this time of his enforced enslavement, he presumed his brother to have matured by now, Mary too.

Sentiments born out of an emotional fervor served only to distract; the opponent then allowed victory. If her embittered rage had concentrated on him, his heart would no longer pump blood to his small veins, should the bullet have reached the intended target. With slow steps, and an empty stomach, Vergil traveled to the downstairs bathroom, needing a moment to himself.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Lady aimed her glock at Vergil, only to have her gun swiped by Dante's blurred hand.

“No one is doing any more shooting tonight,” Dante said, words tight with strain, jaw muscles ticking as he held both of her guns. Tired white-blue eyes saw the bathroom door close, giving him a minute to curb Lady's rational hate.

“Let's go Maisha, we're leaving!” Mark had collected himself off the floor, body nervous with tension walking near her.

It was surreal with everything that happened Maisha thought, words running through her mind to voice out her understanding, or lack thereof. Dante got fucking shot in the head. The bullet ejected from the back of his skull. A splatter of blood stained the floor. Why isn’t he lying on the ground motionless? Why did she shoot him?

Her hands hadn't left her mouth, eyes wild and distant with uncertainty, watching Dante stand unperturbed since his attack. She took no medication to have its side affects alter her vision, but perhaps she should look in her back seat and grab her pills so the medicinal properties can numb her thoughts.

“I said let's go! Fucking crazies need to be put down.” Mark's fingertips touched the fabric on her arm before a firm hand grabbed the back of his shirt, weightless in the air until he collided with the door.

Maisha scooted away when Dante approached her, curled into herself, face withdrawn with quakes wracking her form. “How are you... did you... you're not real,” she mumbled, then a hard sob escaped her throat, shaking her head in denial.

“Ah geez,” Dante sighed, forgetting he mentioned nothing about what he is to her, not that he had to, but he'd probably have to say something to her on it eventually. “Come one now, no crying. Like the saying goes, 'big girls don't cry', remember that?”

“Move away from her you fucking―AH!”

Dante hated repeating himself, thinking this pudgy bastard didn't get the memo to leave, so he moved to convey the message more clearly... by shooting the watch he wore off his wrist.

“Oh look at that, your watch is broken. I guess it's time for you to get another one, right?”

Angered sapphires glared into stern iceberg blues, unsure of what this building offered in terms of business, but he knew Maisha wouldn't leave from here alive, judging how they battled each other freely with guns. Even if he had to wrangle with this white-haired freak with his injuries so be it, he wasn't leaving until he left with Maisha.

He had trouble standing, wobbly with his stance and his bleeding nose, eyes blurred over his bodily aches. Mark looked over in Maisha's direction, taking one step towards her, outstretching his hand. A sharp groan rattled his ears when the big guy crushed his wrist, dragging him outside then letting him go. Mark landed chest-first on the pavement, the wind forced out of his lungs, gasping for air with his shortened breaths.

“The next time you put your hands on a woman, it better happen when you're flipping through a magazine.” Dante said, voice hard and clear piercing the stillness of the night, heading back inside the office.

Mark wheezed out coughs, turning on his side to increase his air flow, holding his wrists as it pounded without mercy. Thoughts raced in his mind, wondering if Maisha risked severe injury or if she set him up, planning with these crooks to rob him but he still had his wallet and truck. Perhaps coming over here thwarted whatever plans she made with these people, yet he couldn't figured out why she was over here.

No matter, he'd find out her reasons soon, after he made sure he gathered enough strength to get on home. That white-haired asshole and that brunette bitch had assaulted him when he acted on his instincts, aimed to save Maisha in case a stray bullet hit her. He'll return to stop whatever shady practices occurred in this scummy district, and if Maisha played a part in this foolishness, then he'll bring her down too.

Dante found himself in front of the downstairs bathroom door, rocking on his heels because... he was at a loss about what he should do. Lady, he presumed, had softened her heart enough to help Maisha back to her room, but even that might be a bad idea; he heard her muffled voice no doubt interrogating the woman, which left him little time to talk to Vergil.

Perhaps see if he can clean up his spill for starters?

His hand hovered above the door, balling into a fist then stopping, clueless on what to say. Bad blood hadn't thinned between the two, Vergil alienating the one person he should have known he could trust.

Right now, he knew that prideful son of a gun wanted to hide somewhere like an ostrich, stowed away until he found a chance to redeem himself. But he would not dare state his helplessness aloud, holding onto whatever faltering reputation as a last stand to validate his worth.

Internally sighing, he brought his hand down to knock on the door when it abruptly opened, coming face to face with a blanket of stringy hair and cold eyes that burned with life, like an angry neighbor peeking through his curtains who scared children by his looks alone.

Nothing of a coppery, metallic scent wafted from the bathroom, letting him know he screwed up Lady's aim on his brittle half, unintentionally having the bullet plant inside his forehead instead.

Years have passed since their last interaction, leaving unspoken words and sentiments to blend with a plethora of wishful thoughts; how it could have been if all the hidden secrets and fatal goals didn't crumble in on themselves and make Vergil fall off that cliff.

With conversations needing to flesh out over a few days Dante lowered his palm, thinking to lift the verbal burden within his throat by saying the first thing on his mind.

“You look like one of those crazy cat hoarders.”

Okay the second thing on his mind.

Briefly he skimmed over Vergil's gaunt physique, the tomato juice's residue doing little to aid in his slender build. When Vergil first came here he could barely stomach anything, sometimes skipping what small entrees he brought to him for days. Whomever had his twin in their clutches wasted no time with their sadistic instruments trying to disembowel him, as proof by the wide scar he stitched up on him.

“Look, uh...” his hands shot to the back of his neck, his voice leaving him to convey his uncertainty through his eyes, flitting everywhere except in front of him, “I don't know what just happened, but I guess you just surprise―”

“I feel I would not share any similarities with a cat hoarder if you had scissors available,” he said, voice thick and dry.

“Oh,” Dante pursed his lips together, slowly nodding to agree, not registering he kept nodding until Vergil cleared his throat.

“I am tired.”

“Uh yeah, I guess coming down here took more out of you than you could handle... with your legs wanting to rest more and whatnot,” Dante mumbled, moving to the side to let Vergil pass. Jumbling thoughts fought with each other, clashing and sifting through mental debris to get his brother talking until a question slid out of his mouth, letting their conversation flow.

“Wait, how are you able to stand?”

“Your guest thought it was a good idea to present herself unannounced.”

“But she said you were hacking up your guts. She brought you some water and you yanked her neck.”

“Naturally. The last time a woman offered me something to drink my throat disintegrated,” he said with a calm tone, continuing up the stairs without looking back. “Do you think it unwise if I am wary of those who try to bring me fluids?”

Dante noticed Vergil's quick answers, as if he predicted what questions he would ask, having prepared for them beforehand. His brain wouldn't be this sharp if he felt groggy and tired. And all this awareness came from a woman startling him?

“Well, I'm always offering you something nowadays. I don't see you choking me.”

The barest tense in Vergil's shoulders scanned through his sight, stopping his movements mid-way up the stairs, balling his fists by his side. He knew he couldn't stand having someone else in his debt, blood-related or not. It ate at him to admit his lacking strength, swallowing the fragile pieces of his pride to offer his gratitude. Not to mention the elephant silently tramping in the room, only thing required to get that topic started is the right word.

“You are not using me for leverage to Hell's throne, nor are you letting your daughter use my blood for her facial mask.”

Well damn, he guessed the elephant can rest a little longer.

This time he kept on walking until he entered the room, closing the door to leave Dante on his lonesome.

Dante scratched his head, reeling over this bombshell and the insight it provided. What demonic asshole vied for the throne, and what daughter did he have that used Vergil to keep her looks intact?

Perhaps Vergil's mind wasn't all together there yet, telling him a potent detail he'd normally keep to himself. Or maybe he purposely told him that information so he could be left alone, leaving Dante to mull over the intel; going to seek his contacts and pry into what they knew about Vergil's neighbors in his ex-residence. Then talking it over with each other when their broken fences mended... somewhat.

Whatever the case, he had to practice caution. Even now after all these years he didn't trust Vergil, knowing his brother thought of schemes to enact on those who hurt him. The question remained whether Dante held blame for causing the pain placed on him to begin with.

A/N: I really wish we'd get another DMC anime, the one we did get left a lot for the imagination, especially with Baul and Modeus.

So yeah, Lady is not too happy that Vergil is breathing and even less happy that Dante kept that secret away from her, so eating a bullet is her way of saying how mad she is at him :D Vergil isn't happy he's not strong enough to bathe in his enemies blood yet either, but there will be a time and place for that too.

And Maisha. I'm sorry my dear but it seems like the stories you've been told about things that go 'bump in the night' have come true, at least according to demons.

You know, I always that DMC2's enemy designs were cool, especially the necromancers. It's wishful thinking on my part for them to re-make that game but at least we can take the enemies and play with them some more, somewhat.
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The Chosen One Unknown