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Prime Evil	By : Camaro Category: +A through F > Devil May Cry Views: 3509 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Devil May Cry game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A/N: Hi there! Hopefully some are enjoying this story as I am trying to update a lot more frequently these days! Just wanna say thanks for reading and uh..... not to be rude but is this site like totally dead or what?

After the truce with Hero, the routine of his environment began to change. Rather than the reoccurring theme of fights that had, for a solid week, plagued the house, a calm, welcome change slowly wandered in and Montoya was loving it.
The man now referred to as “Dante” realized quite quickly that the Mexican man seemed at peace more now than ever, fretting about the house and showing them some “style” with regards to his immaculate cooking. “Dante” was pretty sure if he’d tried anything like it in this life or the last, he’d certainly would have remembered it.
Rather than the regular dirty fried fish they usually ate, with Hero in the house, Montoya’s time was freed up to explore his favorite interest, the house filled to the brim with scents that “Dante” couldn’t even describe.
His time now was spent mostly with Hero, learning much about his past, or, as much as she felt comfortable telling him at present. Her sentences were short and abrupt and left nearly nothing for questioning but despite this, “Dante” remained in his respectful silence mostly, allowing the bits and pieces of her story to sink in.
She told him that more or less, he wasn’t entirely human, something he’d already known yet hadn’t been explained. She told him the smallest amount about his mother, though she assured him, even her knowledge of that topic was limited because he (Dante as she had known him) had refused to ever speak of it.
He’d sighed aloud at that, admitting to her that it’d been a stupid decision considering his current situation.
She’d only numbly agreed, not pressing the topic.
Hero also began a training regiment for him and herself, insisting that he looked slightly gaunter than his usual self and needed to get stronger.
“No rest for the wicked,” She’d playfully smacked his arm, long, red hair flying as she turned her back on him.
He’d been unsure if “the wicked” referred to the demons they were constantly having to fight or if he was “the wicked”. The thought made him grin and he hid it from her, letting her quaintly lead him into a gym that she insisted an endless amount of devil hunters used when visiting Ireland.
Of course, there was a lot he initially hid from her and Montoya, his sly grin at the sound of the word “wicked” being one of them. Quite simply, there were many feelings and thoughts and even dreams he was now hiding, the amount becoming more and more vast as he slowly began to feel his body become stronger.
Aw but yes, he hid many many things from his lovely little friends, the most prominent of these being the fact that he absolutely knew he was not Dante.
As his body and strength slowly began to renew, due to his working out with Hero, he knew that parts of his mind were healing, tiny bits of his personality creeping through.
For instance, he hated the color red- (save for Hero’s hair of course)- though she insisted he wore nothing to the contrary. He hated the look and the feel of that atrocious color, even when she presented him with an expensive gift of red leather pants and a jacket. Though he wore it when he knew he absolutely MUST hide the distain on his face, he cringed when he’d crept the jacket over his shoulders, grinding his teeth when he’d had to look at the reflection in the mirror.
Also, perhaps more importantly, the new “Dante” absolutely hated humans. Hated them. Despised them. Worthless, chaotic little fiends, he hated the sheer feel of their sweaty flesh when they’d bump him as they passed his way, the salty, spongy substance coming in contact with the steel of his body.
Ugh.
Pigs, he decided. They were all just measly pigs in the end. Fat, dirty little monsters, sliding up each other in a dismal cage, awaiting the slaughter with no thoughts in their empty, fat, fucking heads that they even had a CLUE how haunting their fate would be.
His eyebrows would lower when he’d feel the eyes of one them run up and down his body, knowing their dirty little thoughts in their dirty little heads behind their dirty fucking eyes.
He truly desire nothing more than to kill them just as surely as he killed their little demonic friends.
But of course, he thought with the sweetest of smiles, he never told Hero or Montoya this.
He never told his adoring little Hero that his sexual temperaments were changing dangerously, his eyes staring at her behind his hidden smile as she’d bend and thrust her body through the movements of her work out. Ah but she was so terribly unaware of his thoughts, smiling softly and sadly at him, not knowing the fiendish ideas playing out like a sick porno through his mind.
His thoughts often seemed outlandishly X rated and despite the fact that he’d found it disgusting when humans pawned at each other during sex, he found yet another secret all of his own; he loved fucking humans himself.
Sex. Could you even call it that?
It was a sick, demented, depraved love affair he indulged in, hunting them like a vampire, waiting for his stupid stupid prey to give him just one glance of appreciation.
He’d venture out when he heard the unquestionable sound of his “friends” deep breathing as they feel into R.E.M sleep, his feet never making even the slightest of sounds as he’d breathe in the darkness of the outside world, no stars in the sky as they seemed to sink away from him behind the fog.
He’d go as far as he cared to, warming up inside a posh little pub or two, thoughtfully sipping whatever beverage he felt like that night. And he’d watch the females slowly come in, knowing with out knowing why, that his appearance must have truly been something they’d never really encountered before. Such silly little pigs they were, he’d smile softly, hiding the fangs that always seemed sharper in his mouth when his hunt would begin.
Sweet little doe eyes under obnoxious bangs, the nameless girl would blink at him, caught in his blank stare as she swallowed hard at the sight. He knew, as he lowered his head, the thoughts that began to swim in her mind. Always the same thoughts.
Aw yes little one, I love you. Aw yes sweet one, I’ll love you forever. Sure, you’re special. Sure, you’re all I’ll ever need.
She’d leave the pub, his hand in hers, dragging him into her home before he’d engage in one of his new favorite hobbies. He knew at times he hurt them. He knew at times he went too far, making them do things he knew they didn’t rightfully want to do.
And he didn’t care.
He loved to plunge inside them, love to hear their hushed little whimpers when they tried to be brave, when they tried to pretend they liked it. He even loved the “oh yeah baby” that would come when they bite their own lips in pain, knowing his eyes were closed in the delicate pleasure of tearing inside of them.

Only, he was bit dismayed to learn that Ireland was, indeed, just as small as he’d originally thought, coming too close for comfort when he’d nearly bumped into one while in the company of Hero and Montoya.
It disturbed him later to think of how easy it had been, how thoughtless it had been, when he’d dragged the former conquest to the cliffs, listening with a very demented pleasure as she begged and pleaded with him.
Nameless, as he decided to label her in his thoughts, even tried pathetically to tear at his hands as he pulled her along the ground, twisting and turning and squealing, just like a pig. Her blonde hair was blood streaked from her own sad attempts to free herself, her wrist torn and gushing red fluid as she attempted to pry it away from his grasp.
He’d even laughed while he did it, holding her over the cliffs as she was screaming and pleading for her life, spitting out sentence fragments about her name and her child and her being “all he has”. With no effort at all, he just dropped her, laughing at the look of shock in her eyes, as if she really truly believed he wouldn’t do it.
He’d sighed with pleasure three days later as the humans had still never recovered her body and his sweet little secret was still safe from Hero and Montoya, though why he cared, was again, a mystery.
His strength aided in his nihilism towards human life, as he knew he was becoming stronger and untouchable to all that surrounded him.
Quite simply, he kept Montoya around for reasons still basically unbeknownst to him and Hero, for all the secrets she could POSSIBLY possess about his origination.
He would admit to himself, yet not aloud of course, that perhaps he endured them because he didn’t exactly mind their company. Montoya provided PROFOUND sustenance and conversations with Hero were often revealing and educational.
He even thought it was “nice” that she believed in something in this truly awful world, her conversations usually laced with her own morals and those she claimed Dante had always possessed.
Dante had always loved humans. Dante had always fought for them. Dante would protect the human world at the price of his own life.
That was rich, the man had thought blandly.
It was after such a discussion with Hero that “Dante” had sat in his bedroom, staring at nothing and wondering a thousand things.
This Dante obviously had had something in common with him yet he doubted very much they were the same person --unless of course some unspeakable revelation had changed the old Dante dramatically into the after-birth that was him.
She’d told him of how important it was to protect humans, to respect women, all the things he had no real intention of doing. She told him of courageous stories of unbelievable acts Dante had done in order to save but one human boy.
Courage, selfless, wonderful old Dante, the man had mused bitterly. Then why exactly did she hate the bastard quite so much?
His thoughts then went to Nameless, her high pitched squeals still in his mind when he’d dropped her to her death. Shouldn’t he feel bad for that? Shouldn’t he confess on his knees in some God forsaken church, pleading out to no one for forgiveness?
He searched his soul and found no repentance. Quite honestly, he just didn’t care.
He cared something for Hero, something he rightfully could not define or grasp and he cared if Montoya was suddenly to be vacant from his existence but that was all he could truly admit to.
As though awakening from a dream, he’d stood suddenly, curious eyes searching his room. He felt coldness around him, a pleasant feeling he seemed to understand, his eyes going quickly to the side as he realized he was standing in front of his full length mirror. His own eyes seemed to search him, a curious fact as it was like staring at someone else.
He noticed something quite disturbing suddenly and realized that the clothes he was adorning in the mirror were not his!
The figure in the mirror stood tall and strong, facial features carved like granite, blue eyes burning into him as the head was lowered. A strong mouth, lips perfectly chiseled out of what seemed stone, opened just slightly, as if breathing for the first time in a long time. Shoulders were stretched out in blue leather, the coat sinking down to the floor, just barely gliding over brutal looking black boots.
The silvery white hair was tucked back, a few pieces grazing over his eyebrows, seeming as though they could quite easily have been singed off with the fiery look in the figure’s eyes.
“Dante” though, just as easily glared back, lowering his head to stare fiercely into the apparition that was himself.
“You…..” The figure’s voice came, oddly soft for such an intimidating looking creature. “You’re not Dante.”
The man smiled at this, lowering his head with a smile all his own.
“I know.” He answered.
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Prime Evil