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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
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: OC name pronunciation: Nievella (Na-veil-la)
A subscript is in the story and its definition will be in the author's notes
Stats: Beta-Leslie(Thanks 4 edits). 13 pages written/ 9 pages typed.
Final Word: I want to bite Dan Southworth's jawline. Just a quick nip.

Conflicting Problems
A frail, malnourished body lied huddled and crouched on dirtied cemented floor, bruises and deep scars littering a nearly naked physique damaged from years of abuse. A corroded chain is tied to a bony ankle, chained against a rusted stone wall. Dirt and decayed blood littered the surrounding area, filling her senses in the stuffy, briny odor.
Footsteps reached her strained hearing shortly after, filling her once, lively frame with nervous and dreaded anticipation. Her body quaked with her stomach fluttering in fear; her nightly regimen of reclusive anger would soon begin. Instead someone else walked in to pay her a visit, quelling her rushed sentiments of anxiety.
“I'm bored,” a child-like, feminine tone drawled, echoing in the damp, quiet space save for the secondly trickle of water. Through the ceiling high-windows the moon beamed into the room. Cappuccino eyes dull and curious peered upon a voice she has not heard before.
“Ew, this is the thing he keeps in here and plays with whenever he feels like it?”
The voice was cryptic, distant and without care, marinated in disgust as the broken form combed through eyes glittering like blue spinels.
The woman on the floor gazed at the small girl in curiosity, holding an interested expression. She never heard a child speak so... harmful before. In a blood-red Victorian-era dress and matching hat the girl drew closer to her, squatting to gain a better look.
“Why is this one so... ugly?” She picked a strand of strawberry-blonde hair, her fingerless, lace gloves soon letting it go after a brown stain coated her fingers. “Yuck! Come here minion and get this off of me!” she stomped her foot in annoyance..
A dark figure she had not seen previously moved within the room, dressed in navy blue S.W.A.T clothing, eyes glowing a bright yellow. An arm extended towards the little girl, quickly wiping the muddy speck off of her fingertips, using the mystery person’s clothes as a paper towel.
“Humans are such filthy creatures.” Her tone changed then to an inhumanly snarl, indignation brewing inside her because she touched dirt on this pathetic idiot, believing this dreck should pay for making her feel dirty.
“You made me feel gross!” Small fists rained upon the downed woman, crouched into a ball of defenseless flesh to cover her skull and ears from the frantic shrieks. In the midst of her raining blows the young girl noticed how the fragile prisoner let out light whimpers instead of full screams. Piqued, she straddled her back, clutching her fingers in her thick, distressed locks and tugged. Hard.
“Why are you so hideous? He's always talking about how your skin rivals a China doll.” The little girl pushed the battered woman's face into the scratchy ground, using the grip in her hair to yank her head. When she received no satisfaction from her torment she tried a different tactic. “Do you know how to scream?” The child leaned backwards, tugging the beaten woman's spine to follow in her direction. Cracked and shaking hands provided her only physical response, reaching up to clutch red wrists.
“How dare you!” she hollered, throwing the soiled head down in force. She jumped off her back and punted her, letting the dirty captive know that her worth lied beneath her, lower than dirt.
Small eyes widened when she stopped the kicks, seeing dark patches reveal itself on the left side of the bound dreck's throat. These didn't look like regular bruises but resembled symbols of some sort, and not of those created by tattooed ink. Perhaps this was a peculiar way to mark his territory?
“What are these crappy blots on your neck?”
A toneless yet modulated voice spoke up from behind her. “They are for me to know and for you to speculate.”
“Kurt,” she said, malice dripping from her tongue.
“Don't you have your own toys to play with?” Sluggish feet stepped into the room from the doorway, making a face at the mistreatment of his prisoner by someone else.
“Hah! You call that a toy?” Mocking blues briefly flashed orange to what Kurt alluded to as an item he derived joy from. “The only thing she's good for is being a rag doll.” To emphasize her point the girl in red kicked her in her stomach, watching the captive roll away in broken movements.
Kurt didn't expect a visit from her so soon, and it seemed like she barged in with a foul temper. Mindful of her limited patience, he tried to approach her on civil terms, even though she would leave here empty-handed.
“Is there something you came over here for or did you want to shoot the bre-”
“I guess being around humans has made you stupider. Daddy's getting really annoyed since you haven't delivered his prisoner back.”
“Your father calls no shots up here,” Kurt replied unconcerned, moving to the girl on the floor, hoping Nievella didn't rough her up too badly. “Besides, you're the one that allowed that mongrel to escape. Barafu was no where near smart enough to keep watch over him.”
“It wasn't my fault!” she shouted, teeth gnashing in hatred of that fateful day not two weeks ago. She begged her father to grant her permission to parade the fallen Cambion[1] around, decided to steal him when he told her no, then found out he escaped from her clutches. “If daddy let me have him, none of this would be happening so it's his mistake!” A deep scowl marred her face, lips set in a puckered sneer like... an angered child who didn't get their way.
“Whatever you say, princess.” He withdrew a key from his pocket, bending down to unlock the cuff securing the battered body in place.
This liberated mutt maintained importance because of his lineage. With the four most powerful devils vying to secure the governing seat, the devil who had this wretched soul held leverage over the other three since Mundus's imprisonment. But because the bastard escaped, thanks to Nievella wanting to showcase him on a leash, territory and power struggles waged nonstop in the Underworld. “I'll get him ba-”
“Hurry up and find him! I can't enjoy myself up here while Daddy's worried over that stupid mutt.” Nievella snapped, walking over to the mysterious figure in dark blue clothing, using the other sleeve to wipe the dirt off her fingers. “If you don't, I'll just take away your dumb toy and break the rest of it,” she laughed with a sardonic glint, eyes flashing that vibrant orange again, lightly skipping out the room followed by her helper.
“Spoiled little bitch,” Kurt muttered when he was sure she was out of earshot. He would have never extended his help to anyone unless they offered something greater in return, and in this case her father held the key to his desires.
Mundus's departure from sovereignty left his homeland weak and decadent. Because the devil prince held no successor to the throne, claiming nothing could defeat him and he didn't need one, the demons ran amok. Capturing that half-bred mongrel again would strengthen his goals, enabling him to restore and fortify Hell's army to overrun this abysmal human plane.
But first, he needed to regain his strength.
Turning his attention to the woman, he knelt by her side, seeing her reddened skin from Nievella's wrath. “Guess who I saw today?” Kurt pulled his coat off and placed it on the woman's shoulders, pulling her up by her arm when she didn't answer.
“Come here, let me look at you.”
He pushed her red-orange, unkempt hair out of her face, cupping her chin in his hand. A sunken visage met his avocado-green eyes, blood and grime decorating her cheeks and forehead from when that wretched brat slapped her around. Her once-youthful appearance looked rough-hewn and haggard. And as the condition of her body, well....
“You don't eat what I give you anymore?” His eyes trailed to the corner of the room, seeing an untouched plate of now-hard bread and discolored cheese, wasted like so many other plates before that. “Oh, that's unfortunate.” He finished yanking her up before he hoisted her over his shoulder, eliciting a startled cry she tried to keep in. “And here I thought you gained your strength back so we could have some fun.”
Compared to her sister, full of vivacity and life... and come-fuck-me hips, Masozi whittled away to nothing; gaunt, thin and barely able to move at all. Since she was fifteen, Mark kept Masozi to himself, using the mystic powers from the ancient symbols on her neck to restore his health.
As a revengeful grudge three centuries ago Nievella's father banished him from the Underworld. Catching him in a betrayal of loyalty, her father had a witch place a curse on him to drain his powers at night. Over the years Kurt has exhausted various potions, magic charms, ancient artifacts and spells to recover his vitality but to no avail. His taxing searches ended several decades later when he discovered the human entities of a rare bloodline.
Kidnapping Masozi held no hardships because of her demure and eccentric nature. Police gave a half-assed search to her disappearance, claiming her lost as a runaway. Once under his control, he used the mystical marks to fuel him, the girl becoming his personal energizer bunny by recharging his gifts through sex. She resisted of course, ranging from pathetic escape attempts to her refusal to eat but he didn't care.
She was created to be used.
For some reason escaping his logic, his battery began to run out of juice, leaving him half-empty when he supped from her. Though, he supposed he played a small hand in the situation. Her constant refusal led him to stop his... obligation to see her good health maintained. He cared less about petty human emotions and found it a waste to try and work together in that aspect. She didn't understand her role of a tool and thus, he spared no effort to her upkeep. It forced him to search to secure another member of the hard to find bloodline, remembering then that the girl had a sibling.
Long years of searching finally paid off, trailing the other sister by sending Scouts to mark her every move. He had to personally witness her well-being, watching her reach adulthood accompanied by a sound body. A sound body in which he saw her utilize to gain stability from this low-life shop owner. From further observation, he realized, she kept to herself, not having anyone as a confidant except that other woman at the store. No matter, once he got rid of that man with a heavy wallet and her friend, no one would regard her absence.
Until he found the correct moment to take her righteously, he had to make sure Masozi had nothing left in her to spare.
Bony hips rested against a broad shoulder, carrying the nearly-dead weight of her out the room. She didn't have too much energy left in her to provide him the sustenance he required. He could practically smell the stench of decay growing stronger after each release he gained from her.
But what remained had to be enough, at least for two more days, it just had to be.

“I'm in a damn madhouse!”
Maisha had run back to her room. The cuts on her legs stung in pain, stomping up the stairs to safety. She slammed her door in panic, believing he chased after her. Spiking jolts pulsed where her birthmarks lied, rubbing at the irregular sensation still coursing inside her. A scratchy throat made it difficult to breathe after he nearly killed her―for giving him water!
So, is that the reason Dante said not to go upstairs? Because a sick lunatic choked anyone who came near him? Irregardless, he should have told her he housed another occupant here. Or maybe he kept that person in quarantine in case he had an infectious disease. It seemed plausible then, recalling the scar running down his side.
Staying in here until Dante returned remained a sound idea... if only there was a lock on the door.
“Dammit,” she muttered. Her thoughts raced wildly, pondering what to do next. Maisha never asked Dante his number and she didn't see an emergency contact on the table. Asking his lieutenants would involve her going outside the room, and she wanted to stay alive. So what could she do?
She dug inside her purse, pulling out her cell to call Halima. When the phone didn't pick up any service she all but screamed, hysteria settling in her stomach because of her crisis, literally. Dante assured her safety here, however she began to have her doubts. What haven is he running where assholes strangled other people?
The cashier's heart seemed to have skipped a beat, dread filling her insides at the sound of creaking stairs. Her chest constricted, anxiety rising like a forceful tidal wave. A shaking hand covered her mouth, jittery exhales wheezing out in force, loud enough to vibrate in the room to let him hear.
Moments passed and nothing happened, silence hovering as she listened in to the noise.
Her conscious strived to soothe her frazzled nerves, making her believe the stairs adjusted themselves after her hasty exit. If he did creep up the steps, they would groan and protest during each step, or she might even detect the silent padding of his feet. As comforting the ideas, they didn't quell the rising unease buckling down on her mind.
Minutes had passed when she found the courage to open her bedroom, glancing down the dark steps to see the bottom door swinging. Shit. She forgot to close it while running to safety. Her heart thrummed in wild beats. The adrenaline pumping in her veins spurred her on, carefully hopping over a few to get downstairs quicker. A cold blast of air billowed near her legs, stopping her trek to swallow thickly in her throat. Where did that breeze come from if the doors and windows in this place are closed?
Hurry, you idiot! Her mind rushed her to shut the damn thing and truck it back to her room, to think about that bit of information later.
She made it to the last step, long and thin fingers wrapping around the door knob when the same chill tore through her frame―via a deep, tight voice sounding off to her from behind.
“What are you.”
Maisha felt her muscles jump, shouting in alarm while she lost her balance all in the same go. The impact to the floor made her cry out, the grating aches pinched her legs in anger. How in the hell did he appear behind her if there was nowhere for him to hide in the shadows? What, did he blend in the darkness, or worse, teleport?
With difficulty she hobbled to the other side of the desk, shaking in terror; her attacker came for the kill. An old rotary phone sat near her, thinking she could use it in place of a weapon if things progressed towards death―hers.
Soft footsteps reached her hearing, seeing the body it belonged to step away from the door and into the main office area. An indescribable emotion prickled around her heart, shortening her breath when she glanced upon this... this creature piercing his eyes into her.
Long, white and matted hair barely concealed his sunken face, sharp facial bones akin to a skeleton's shadow. Though his naked torso had scars and welts, it still had pronounced and defined muscle despite its severely slim appearance. Baggy, gray pants covered his legs, holding a sword by his right bony hip.
His arms seemed―wait. What is he doing holding that?
Her eyes stayed glued to his right side, seeing him grasp a black and gold Dao sword, knuckles white and firm grasping the handle. Taking in his appearance, he resembled a homeless person who discovered the sharp object and planned to use it on her. This is the 21st century. Who walks around with a sword nowadays?
“Answer me.”
His words barely registered in her brain, her heart thrumming in her ears and wobbly legs aching with unease. A threat remained that he would harm without mercy by the looks of his imposing stance.
He advanced towards her, Maisha forgetting about the ancient telephone to scuttle backwards, forcing her mouth to speak lest he slice her like a butcher. And how could she answer his question? Doesn't he mean who is she? Surely he could see the fabric clinging to her thick hips.
“I'm... Dante said that this is a safe place. Someone is stalking me.” Especially now you loon.
Brown eyes stared in uncertainty, fingers and legs shuddering with timid energy in anticipation of him attacking. What is his reason for chastising her when she didn't do anything but try to help him? Is he still mad at her for docking him in the privates? Did he want revenge for that? It wasn't done with intention of course, she worked on fleeing from his strangulation.
With unconscious trembles she brought her hand to rest on her throat, seeing the ragged man clutch the sword's grip even harder, if possible. Maisha never touched her birthmarks since her teen years, always feeling this warming pulse throb underneath them. She treated it as another anomaly in trepidation of doctors wanting to prick and probe her further, so she just let it be.
“You healed me.”
“Excuse me?” What the hell is he talking about? As far as her knowledge went, she didn't have any band-aids or chicken noodle soup. Is this guy completely off his rocker? She wondered if he stood under the influence of any medication, his words made little sense. It would seem that he forgot the blow to his genitals, he should complain about that instead.
She wouldn't bring that up though, not while he wielded a sword.
“Your neck, what's there?”
“Weird birthmarks I d-don't want.” Maisha felt a chill crawl down her spine, walking towards the center of the living room, the crazed man taking a step closer to her. Ghostly blue eyes trained hard on her every movement, like a hawk following its prey before it struck.
He was so angry. Someone must have pissed this guy off to the point where he had to expel the rage nestled deep within him. However she didn't want to be the outlet in which he channeled his anger through.
“Look, I'm sorry I hit you but you were choking me. I don't know if I startled you and you panicked but it wasn’t done on purpose.”
Her explanation fell on deaf ears. A frail yet stern form advanced upon her, Maisha's eyes damn near ready to pop out of their sockets in the act of half-running, half-hobbling to the front door.
Broken vocals gathered to shout to Dante's lieutenants but before she could open it he grabbed her. In fear for her life she began to throw her fists, scared he would kill her for bruising his ego. The spurt of stamina she used diminished, biting snips of agony making her legs unable to carry her weight. She found herself pressed against a cool window, the flat side of the sword resting comfortably against the base of her throat.
“Please don't kill me,” she whispered, her frightened exhales striving in failure to match the frantic beats of her heart. Her palms laid sweaty and flat against the window pane, eyes helplessly, hopelessly, beheld in his merciful gaze, her body shook in despairing alarm. If she took one wrong movement the chilled blade would cut into her.
Maisha would much rather be sliced by that demented gremlin than this deranged psychopath.
“I...I-”
“Shut up.”
Vergil lifted a dry and fingernail-cracked hand to her chin, watching her flinch from the contact and bang her head on the glass. Her brown eyes teared up, having it in her mind to beg for mercy, deciding against the plea at the last moment.
With the tip of his index and thumb he turned her face to the left, thrusting her red-orange locks back to scan these peculiar imprints placed on her neck. Only her panicked shudders filtered his hearing, studying the intricate symbols with reserved scrutiny.
“What are y-you doing―ah!”
He clasped his free palm over the marks, intending to verify the source of the mystic power that sent an energizing rush to his veins, nourishing his withered form. And there it brimmed moments later.
A tingling tremor originated in his fingertips, soon traveling up the shrunken arteries to pool into his solar plexus. Small electrical charges radiated within him, filling up the pieces of him that were missing for so long, having been ripped out of him by destructive forces.
Damned creatures tore at him, supped from him until he could no longer stand for hours on end. Claws shredded his skin. Fangs sawed through his exposed bones. Stubby and dirt-filled hands yanked out perfect white teeth one by one; manicured fingernails torn off in malicious glee.
After each vandalism of his soul his tormentors lied in wait, thirsting to hear his cries, his whimpers, his weakness. Battered eyes burned in hatred, unflinching in its delivery to bear the promise of harm for their depravity. A prideful mouth remained closed, swallowing the anguish and bile of defeat in defiance, refusing to submit to his failure to fuel their mockery. After every attempt they forced his body back to health, only to defile his nature once more, twice as hard. The same healing properties used to heal him gushed into him currently―all at the touch of her neck.
How peculiar for a human to acquire something of this magnitude in their possession. Vergil surmised that if she was a demon or the like, she would have revealed her true character and overpowered him by now.
Inside the bedroom presented the practical opportunity to execute a fatal stealth blow. Perhaps she came seizing the intention to poison him with the cup, Vergil stalling her plans with a surprise attack of his own. Thinking of the fluid now staining the cherry wood floor he swallowed to drench his parched throat, forming the words to question her on her presence here.
If her eyes didn't roll into the back of her head.
Vergil had never been accepting of surprises; they spurned no emotion within him. If it worked towards or against his goals it counted towards a neutral occurrence. However, how did this affect her and why? Who is she and how is it that she walked around bearing such a seemingly viable commodity? What factors made up her biological make-up? Is her stamina linked to the symbols on her neck or did he drive in the depths of draining her?
As if confirming his thoughts he felt the slight humming in his fingertips cease, touching the slightly, bumpy surface of her birthmarks. He took a cautious step backwards, watching her slump to the floor unconscious.
Soon tendrils of an unfamiliar vibe rippled over his form, bursting from his center to force him to drop the Dao. Vergil dropped to his knees betwixt the feeling of acid scorching his insides, the material in his solar plexus then sprouting to fill his veins with sentience. The pain originated where the scar rested on his side, where fragments of a soul-devouring device kept him without the use of his devil powers.
Blood trickled down his chin, broken images of various demonic devices they placed inside him resurfacing in companionship alongside bitter resentment. Those destitute weaklings experimented on him, slowing his natural healing abilities to extend their torturing implements. Vergil lost the concept of time on the grounds that his body no longer belonged to him.
His eyes took longer to determine what a spiked whip looked like. Black blood replaced the red he accustomed himself to. Pallid skin no longer contained the ability to heal on its own, requiring the aid of damned healing stones to recover his vitality.
He didn't know the full extent of the damage to his physique or what the complications may bring, weakened and dependent to be healed by the hands of another. If anything death is the certain part to be enacted, to return it on his foes thrice the times they harmed him. Once he recuperated from the changes made to his molded flesh then he could re-evaluate his goals. And if he came to the conclusion that they remained the same, among modifications, after his imprisonment nothing will stop his bloody path from reaching its completion.
Amusing. Years have passed since he breathed the polluted air in this city. And instead of reveling in the stale air here he much preferred to inhale the sulfuric air and choke his enemies down there.
Along with a multitude of jumbling thoughts and the multiple hazy faces he needed to carve from existence....
A shaky hand wiped the blood away, looking at his open left palm with a deep scowl, missing the familiar weight of the priceless heirloom. His teeth gritted, briefly recalling the stinging ache after having them ripped out by his torturers.
Stop it. Vergil took a moment to focus, face clad in seriousness thanks to a heavy weight settling on his heart. His memories remained cluttered to the events of what happened to the dark blade after his entrance into Hell.
He recalled battling hordes of the damned and his thorough irritance at their incessant interference. A bloody battle waged in fierce strides against the devil prince, anger and vengeance seething through Vergil's very core. In the middle of their spiteful confrontation Mundus had lost less than half of his health before things turned fuzzy.
The cowardly bastard ran off to heal and... Vergil recalled seeing a woman―blonde if he memorized correctly, or thought it so. He couldn't remember her familiar features, yet that split-second distraction cost him everything.
Years he will never gain back.
A reputation tarnished to the deepest pits of Hell
Yamato's essence missing in his own soul.
“Where could you be?”
A light whisper escaped thin lips, closing his eyes to flex his hands, pining for the loss of his precious katana. He couldn't entertain the idea of what or who having his sword in their possession. When his mental barriers solidified and he gathered the means to stand on his own two feet he would have to dig through old contacts to pry away vital information; if they knew anything or if they still breathed.
And the notion of talking brought up another afflicted obstacle to hurdle over. Since his arrival in this very place he hasn't spoken a word to Dante and Dante to he, soundlessly accepting the meager meals Dante left for him to eat.
Whenever the younger twin entered the room a palpable silence stretched, a desire to say something weighing heavy on his usually brash tongue but his words stayed rooted in his throat, along with his courage it seems. In response, Vergil had felt this unknown sensation burning his insides but was unclear of the particulars of that emotion. It grated on his nerves, pressing down on his conscious to morph into restless nights.
Relenting to the truth, he unwillingly feasted on the memories of his past while laying in the bed, perceiving the significance of defeat and shame burdening his soul. His mind had no problem replaying the images of besting his hotheaded brother in lieu of his father's power yet here he was, weakened beyond limit and relying on the efficiency of Dante's strength to recover his health.
On the subject of dependent, overall wellness, where did this woman come into the picture?
Tired eyes fell on her slumped form, wavy locks covering the shapes on her neck. She claimed they were “birthmarks” yet he didn't believe her. Of course there are insignias that beings of a higher nature could utilize to their benefit, but in her case he sensed a fraud. A human wouldn't and shouldn't have something so beneficial so readily at their inept disposal, allowing for anyone to access a power quite like this.
A piqued curiosity danced in his dark thoughts, momentarily shoving the more harrowing memories into his mental fog of distorted flashbacks. Dull eyes stared with interest at the sack of flesh on the floor, wondering and tempted to know more about her gift. It wasn't long now before Dante returned, Vergil's mind set in a deadlock between interrogating the apparent woman and killing her for possibly being something other than human. Could she be more trouble than her worth or are these birthmarks a matter he could calculate into using for his own needs? Did Dante already know of this woman and what she hid, or wasn't?
The strange, enriching drive within him began to ebb away, Vergil starting to fall back into the sinking void belonging to his ailing health as he stood. Weak legs shook in distress, threatening to buckle under the pressuring weight he gained from that rush of energy―from her.
There was no time now, he needed that essence from her to accelerate his faltering recovery. He couldn't be weak and defenseless anymore, not when he had to enact his vengeance to reclaim his honor after having his dignity torn apart by his adversaries.
And if this woman lost her life from him taking this mystic force, then he would take it in the interest of an acceptable loss. After all, wasn't it she who said she tried to help him?

A/N: [1] Half-human, Half-demon.
We are only scratching the surface of Vergil’s issues, and he has plenty of them, with others and within himself.
I had about 5 ideas bouncing around for what I wanted him to do, and I thought the simpler it was the better. He's not ready to outshine Dante just yet ;D Oh and Maisha, it seems, will have to face her own issues that Vergil is ready to expose. Talk about a man that's blunt and forceful XD!
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The Chosen One Unknown