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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: I'm silent for once :D
Stats:Beta (Leslie) 10 ½ pages written. 8 pages typed.
Final Word: Devil May Cry 4: Special Edition

Chance Meeting
“That's a nice stain you left.”
A strong, burnt sewage smell soaked the bedroom after Dante entered through the window, seeing the untouched house since their departure. In the middle of Maisha's hallway a scabbed, black blotch ruined the copper brown carpet. The ice beast's body had melted into the floor, leaving a mottled grave in its wake. In his line of work pungent aromas were the norm, but this is another level of Hell's stink.
While scouring her home he came to appreciate the homey yet upscale decorum. Even if he made enough money he could never decorate his place in such lavish elegance. But where did she get the funds for this stuff working at a grocery store?
Curiosity drove his theories to investigate her belongings. Minus the urge to find proof of additional income he needed to see if she hid anything to attract demons. Cursed jewelry or a picture with evil ghosts inside may be lingering inside the house. It's happened before on stranger missions.
Ten minutes later and his search turned up nothing, save for two spare keys to her truck. He found a few bank account statements and paycheck stubs. Bringing home $550 every two weeks raised a few thoughts in his head, his brain scouring to make sense of Maisha's dilemma.
Her monthly rent, as she mentioned, was $500, leaving her $600 to pay her utilities. Supposedly that was enough to survive on but what about the fancy shit adorning this place? Where did the money for that come from? Could she have stolen some of these goods? Does the upscale decorum warrant suspicion for a demonic attack?
“There are petty assholes around here if she did, but I doubt it,” he sighed, taking one spare car key as he left the way he came in. Perhaps he will find more clues where he found her first.
Outside there was a darkened stillness invading the neighborhood, broken shadows created split lines of disfigured images moving along the walls. Not too long ago a dark being stood in the same spot, stalking its prey using the environment for cover.
“Where did you run off to Mr. Trench Coat man?” he whispered, jumping from the second floor to the ground, landing with a soft thud. Is it possible that this elusive figure was in connection to the Scouts? Mangled bodies of a mystifying presence populated the late night news, nearing the time these converted tattletales presented themselves in his territory. What damned creature trailed after this woman and what were its intentions?

“Ah shit! You're messing up my crime scene!”
Dante stopped in the middle of the street, brakes grinding the tires into the road. Three stray dogs made a meal of the human puzzle piece, intent on devouring every last particle of frozen meat. He rushed out of the still-running car, making fanning gestures to shoo the animals before he had no leads to go off on.
A hefty liver and tan German Shepard with matted fur lowered his head, pressing his weight into the floor. Deep growls rumbled in his chest, blood pouring out his stained mouth with sharp teeth on display. The two tucked their tails and backed away, heads and ears drooped in submission.
“Hey, I don't want your dog chow, I just need to see something real quick.”
The stray continued its defensive streak, snarling and barking in rage, its spine arched and poised to strike. Dante still approached unfazed, shoulders rearing back and eyes narrowing in focus.
He knew the animal was following its nature, trying to survive by feeding on scraps, finding strength in numbers from his comrades. Though it seems he didn't like sharing food, given how plump his form is compared to the other two.
Muscles gathered in the dog's hind legs, springing forward to charge in fury intent to save his meal. A prickly spike bubbled in Dante's throat, delivering his own warning by a sharp, distorted scoff. Ice-tinted eyes flashed red in an instant before returning to their natural color, the hound too slow to stop in his onslaught and tumbled to the ground.
The investigator moved to stand near the body, the pieces of the man's head, left arm and torso already inside the pack's stomach. Scented blood lingered over the morsels, the musk of Maisha's perfume long since dissipated into the atmosphere.
“You guys wasted no time, huh? Just picked apart the poor bastard without letting me look at him again.” Dante turned to the leader, lips upturned and his forehead scrunched. The dog let out a whimper, laying down in the same manners as his pals, who scooted far away after Dante's little 'threat'.
Looking back to the brittle corpse he wondered why he turned into ice cubes and Maisha escaped unscathed―with minimal scars. Did he try to help her or was he in the line of accidental crossfire? It would explain his presence here, but did the once-human trail after Maisha for sex-related purposes?
“Why else would you be out here in your drawers? She said she had no boyfriend. A fuck-buddy maybe?” The assumption made sense... after what he discovered in her purse.
Dante looked around the apartments, seeing no lights on in any of the homes. Crickets and a light gust of wind passed by his hearing, leaving him without nosy neighbors poking about. He knew they heard the pinging of gunshots and the unnatural howling of the gremlin, so why weren't they out here and where was the police?
The hunter lifted and tilted his head to the right. Extending his hearing past human ranges a familiar siren registered in his mind a few miles off, heading in this direction... after nearly half an hour.
Dante faced the dog, balled into himself and whimpering soft cries. “I guess you can finish your meal now, there isn't much of him left anyway,” he exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair upon his search yielding no results, getting inside his car.
After he carried Maisha to the room upstairs at the office he searched through her belongings, caring to leave everything as it was before. Looking at her driver's license he could see she just turned 24, had type AB blood and didn't have a middle name. Things got interesting when he discovered a thousand dollars and the wrapped condom in tissue. It didn't take long to figure out where and how she obtained the extra valuables in her home.
It shed a new light about her, uncovering a veiled secret known only to him. Did she fuck a demon once and then called it off, gaining what she wanted―or was it needed―from him? Was that demon in the trench coat a former fling and it sprouted physical envy when he saw Maisha hanging out with that guy?
“Somebody's going to have some heavy explaining to do when I get back,” Dante said, seeing the lead dog crawl over to the bloody, splattered pieces.
He parked his car behind the only Lexus on the street, heading to his trunk to grab tow rope, making quick work of hooking the two vehicles together. As he climbed into her truck he adjusted the seat to fit his tall frame, pulling off to make a left at the next corner as the police made a right to respond to a call about a disturbance.
A disturbance mostly inside the dogs' stomachs.
Questions plagued his thoughts, full of loopholes and potholes expanding the pit with vacant answers. Something pitted in his gut told him that her and Vergil's issues overlapped with each other, leaving him with a mounting weight settling on his shoulders. He wondered if he could shake off the building pressure before he collapsed under its invasive presence.

She walked the ancient African plains through a busy city, of a time long since past. The sun beamed down in yellow streaks, adding to the jovial atmosphere the townspeople basked in. Women chatted with each other, watching children run around in humored delight. Males worked hard in building homes, using the natural environment to support the foundation.
Everyone ignored her, going on about their lives without a glance to her. She was an invisible section of space that wandered on in silent curiosity. Maisha felt a sudden, pulling sensation deep within her core, a veiled map driven by instinct to follow in its lead.
Upon a barren hill she trekked alone, sensing a light brush of wind lick over her skin. The city once alive with bustling people disappeared in seconds, the bright landscape changing into a darkening and bleak graveyard. Mangled trees towered above her, branches curved downwards to trap a poor soul in its twisting boughs.
Decayed body parts sprawled out of the ground, fleshy weeds angled to grab at the living. She hugged herself, nerves tense and quivering as a jolt inside her ran in circles, walking through the bed of death. “Keep going and look ahead. Stare at nothing else,” she admonished to herself, holding in a scream of fright.
A dense fog encased the hill in a thick, milky blanket, Maisha making out an outline of a female with her back to her. The quirky reflex nearly burned her, having to clutch her stomach to gain her bearings as the pitted gut feeling crawled to her neck. Her timid legs resumed their pace with the woman coming clearer into focus, standing over a rotting corpse.
Luminous, dark brown skin donned a white ceremonial dress, decorated with gold jewelry sporting symbols in direct fashion to the marks on the side of Maisha's throat. On her chest the woman wore the twisting symbol of Nkyinkyim, her exposed right breast shining the honey-toned necklace's reflection.
In the nearing distance Maisha heard muffled voices rising in a frantic and rushed clamor, wanting to turn to the source but her legs ceased to move, staying rooted where she stood.
The mystery woman bent down to the gray-toned cadaver, his body oozing clear pus and sporting gangrene sores. On top of her bald head lied a gilded headdress adorned with vibrant diamonds, a large pendant of a lion gracing her cranium.
One hand rested over the twisting symbol, the other hovering over the dead man. Maisha watched in awe of the female, the two trinkets she wore pulsing with an emerald luminescence. The essence encased him in the ivy-hued radiance, seeping into his form in rapid settlement.
Tube-like tendrils ignited in a magical light through the man, streaming in his veins with increased movement. Ten seconds later skin shrunk the open holes, reconnecting to each other in crisscross patterns. His gray complexion lessened, reverting to the corpse's deep and natural skin tone.
The woman stood to her full height, tall and bold as her brown eyes penetrated into Maisha's. The fog thickened around her, enveloping the enigmatic being to blend into the milky cloud.
Words caught in Maisha's throat, wanting to call out to the lady but it never came. Who was she and why did she sport the Adinkra symbols? Was she a priestess? Did it have something to do with that psychopath shocking her earlier when Maisha herself witnessed a green liquid flowing in him?
Muffled voices reached her ears, coming through the hazy fog in a clear and succinct tone.
“Run... Move now!... Leave this place!”
She couldn't turn her body to the voice's source, too busy focused on where the elusive woman disappeared to.
Eyelids opened to reveal blood-red irises, sclearas full of black veins protruding in tiny, thick lines in his eyeballs. He stared at her, vacant in their appearance yet swelled with hollow anger. The body she assumed to lie with death twitched in small increments, turning over on his stomach, beady crimson orbs never leaving her.
His lips parted to reveal cracked, yolk-hued teeth, tongue black and decayed as he spoke. “Make me have strength.” He crawled to her, limbs digging into the soft clay, wheezing its desire to grab onto her, but why? And what power did she have that he wanted?
The mystery voice came to her again, louder and persistent, urging her to heed the demands. Only someone insane would be crazy enough to stay here, Maisha using the sunken feeling in her belly to jerk herself into movement.
The twisted forearm she saw earlier extended its reach, Maisha descending to the ground in a rapid blur, landing on her side. Her hands pressed into mushy earth, wanting to push her momentum forward but long fingers clasped around her throat, scratching into her birthmarks.
Slow, jittery motions focused to her right, the body parts once sticking out like fleshy weeds now accompanied by moving bodies harvesting maggots and molded flesh. They crawled to her, ghoulish faces in agonized profiles barely seen through her hazy vision. Distorted voices groaned to her, “Give me life... nourish me... free us from pain...”
Maisha's screams floated in her throat, clawing and squirming on the ground, mimicking the wriggly movement the worms falling out of gaping wounds made.
Was this a trap? Did the woman lead her here to have her killed? How is it that she brought that man back to life with that peculiar light? Is he the catalyst which spawned the others to attack?
A rising dread filled her insides, heavy coarse breath straining to gasp for more air. With growing numbers the decayed enigmas advanced upon her, crawling on her legs and torso. Horrid faces whispered their desperate demands, eager to have a piece of her to themselves.
“Free us from pain... nourish me... give me life...”
The warped voices overlapped, smothering Maisha in Hellish words her hearing couldn't block out. Stressed limbs were dead weight when she moved them, anchored to the ground under the dead's pressing hold.
Something pierced her throat, eyes twitching in rapid shakes as a hard jolt spiked through her, succumbing to a sea of darkness that frightened her more than the demonic visages. She struggled to fight the obsidian wall but it was too late, a pulling grip yanking the scared woman to its unrelenting source.

“Whoa there! Don't knock my teeth out!”
Maisha's eyes bolted open, the first thing combing through her sight was her hands held in a strong grip. A thudding beat drummed in her ears, hearing harsh breaths echo in the main office area. The ceiling fan cooled the heated droplets lining under a sweaty hairline, her nerves calming in absence of her monster-less bearings.
“I've been shot and stabbed by women before, but going toothless would have been a first.” Dante smiled, gently letting go of her wrists. Shaking palms wrapped under his arms, followed by a quivering torso clinging onto him.
He tensed, mildly wondering if she would sob into his shoulder with howling wails from her horrid nightmare. It's been a while since a woman clung to him... out of fear.
Dante returned from his adventure, briefing with his lieutenants on any disruption near his premises. When all was well on the home front he instructed them to stay on their posts, his lieutenants showing their appreciation with vocal enthusiasm. Their eager chatter wore his nerves thin, silencing their commentary with a sharp, “Enough already!”
Letting the ward down then re-sealing it he hurried to the living room with the sound of Maisha whimpering in distress. Confusion graced his profile of her presence on the couch. Was the bed she slept in uncomfortable? Did she prefer the lumpy and soft cushions to the body-hugging mattress? Or maybe coming down the stairs ached her legs too much to trail up them again?
“I guess you just woke up from a fun dream?”
Maisha burrowed her face in his shirt, inhaling his thick strawberries and leather musk. Images flooded her mind of her adolescent years to when she awakened in a cold sweat after having a demented nightmare. She sought comfort to quell her nervous sentiments, crawling into Masozi's bed to tear away from the crazed dream, smelling her sister's apple-cinnamon aroma from her shampoo.
It calmed her, easing the coiled tension taking root deep inside her. Masozi ran small fingers through her sister's locks, holding her trembling hand until she fell asleep. How peculiar would it be to ask Dante to hold her like her sibling did after a bad dream, petting her hair and cradling her as a mother does to her child.
A slow breath eased through her lips, feeling Dante relax his brief but reassuring hold. She pulled away with eyes held downcast, vision picking up the well-worn burgundy couch she slept on. Now, how in the world did I get here?
Pieces of distorted pictures dripped into her mind. Angry ice-blue eyes. A hand grasping around her neck. Green light flowing inside a skinny, veiny arm. White matted hair veiling a sunken face. Erratic breathing from a knife held to her throat. The images gathered into a pool she did not want to swim in anytime soon.
It's too bad Dante dove right on in.
Strong fingers lifted her chin, his face losing the serene look, soon replaced by a cold, stern expression.
Soft hues of cappuccino played a trick on her, believing that the psychopath sat next to her.
The cashier drew away, feeling a hard shiver run down her spine as his harsh eyes drilled into her. Maisha couldn't tear away from his sight, her mind registering an odd sensation probing her insides like he was looking into her soul. And he probably was, what with the abnormal eye color an all.
“Did you read the note?”
Maisha nodded, wanting to shrink into herself.
“So you went into the room anyway?”
“Not on purpose!” She rushed her words, still shaken over the eerie incidents from the tormented dream and now his chafed look. “He had this severe cough attack that went on for like... ten minutes. I thought he was going to die.”
Turbulent orbs of hardened Alice blue so unlike her attacker with empty rage yet so similar in focused intent gazed into her irises, unblinking in their scrutiny, deciding if she told the truth or not. With a silent exhale Dante looked away, Maisha doing the same but hers bordered on sounding like a whimper.
Dante left her side, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck to think on her statement. Ever since he and his brother... what's the right words―reunited in silence―they haven't conversed on anything. It ate at him, wondering when the opportunity will present to him the chance to re-introduce himself to his twin. Their parting ways was not of conventional circumstances. Dante witnessed a part of his soul, his heritage rise into the air surrounded by thick blue vapors after his sibling's defeat as Mundus' soldier, vanishing into the atmosphere.
Now how is it that Vergil talked to her before him?
“Did he say anything to you?”
“He said a lot of things that made no sense!” She sat up on the couch, hugging herself because she didn't feel safe here, not even if Dante was here to protect her from that loon... wherever he went. “Who is he?”
As he stood before her there presented a striking similarity between the two, other than the pristine hue of hair. A resemblance lingered in their facial structure, though Dante's was full and strong while the other's sunken, gaunt face lacked the warm glow. Are they related? Cousins perhaps?
“What did he say?” The hunter crossed his arms, leaning on the edge of his desk as his eyes narrowed, attention solely on her.
Maisha assumed she wasn't getting an answer with his defensive pride, resigned to tell him what happened... to a point.
With heat crawling up to her face because of his haunting vision she told him of the crazy man's coughing fit and how he choked her for offering him water. She defended herself to get away, then wanted to head outside and call her friend when he came after her again. The sword entered in her retelling with detailed facts, the cashier speaking in earnest about how Dante should hide his weapons better if anyone could pick one up and hold it against her throat.
“You sure that's all you did?”
She bristled, eyebrows pulling to the center of her face, incensed over whatever he implied she might have done. But her eagerness to defend herself lessened its drive, the scene of her stranger and the mysterious green light shuffling to the forefront of her mind. How can she tell him what happened earlier when she wasn't sure of the surreal event herself?
Maisha probably hallucinated about that ivy-toned brilliance after her oxygen nearly left her. Added to her doubtful beliefs was the odd dream with that eccentric woman and her zombie-awakening powers, not to mention she sported symbols in direct likeness to Maisha's birthmarks. So what did all of this mean?
I should start my meds again. I can't make sense of any of this.
Swallowing her uprising protest to keep her other-worldly sentiments to herself she nodded in vigor, wary of Dante's distrustful leer. She didn't have a clue if her attacker would tell him the whole truth of the accident but she will lie about the altercation if need be, avoiding the subject of the green liquid and pinning it on her aggressor of his vivid imaginations.
The PI observed her discomfort rising, head slightly bowed with her face dissolving into a blank canvass. He knew his stern demeanor scared the girl and he should maintain a lenient approach to her well-being but he needed to practice caution. He had to guard Vergil's secrecy and he didn't verify her trust. For all he knew she could be a spy, working with the Scouts to lead the devils to his brother's hideout.
Dante blinked, deciding to watch her actions with more vigilance when his eyes trailed to his bedroom door. He wondered how Vergil was well enough to walk around, let alone harm the girl if his body had trouble regaining strength. Hell, his older brother couldn't finish the meager meals provided for him, so when did his legs stabilize the brittle muscles to get up to confront her?
Perhaps Dante's naivety shielded him from the truth. He assumed his crippled sibling was weak, unable to stand like the prideful being he wore like a second skin. After all, they indulged in conversations of the wordless kind, spending time in each other's company as a hyena would do in an injured lion's presence―it was extremely brief.
But what if Vergil played him? Only feigning weakness to rise strong when Dante looked away? The extent of the elder twin's suffering filled the demon hunter with possibilities, believing his captors abused the dark warrior's form into near uselessness. Their father's demonic blood living inside his veins should have knocked out his ailments but this was not so. His wounds healed on par with that of the average human.
With dull motions of scattered thoughts flowing through his head he released a hard sigh, moving from his spot on the desk to trail up the stairs. Something about the girl's claim seemed off. How is it that a hundred and something pound weakling left that bad a bruise on her neck if the arm wasn't able to move much with that much force?
Slow and light steps connected to the floor, approaching his bedroom door to validate the inaccuracies of her accusations. Vergil couldn't have done that to her, so she lied to cover up her curiosity after he told her not to go into the forbidden room.
A moist tongue ran over his bottom lip, ignoring the jumpy nerves sudden to tumble in his gut. Dante grasped the doorknob, turning it in a swift gesture to free the door from the latch. His eyes swept over the dark flooring, then his wall unit and later his bed.
A calm expression froze, pale orbs widening from their cool state to adjust to the figure of a once-broken man sitting on the edge of his bed. Long, white and unruly locks hung over the still-broken man's face, a gaze matching his own blazing in silent fury. He'd seem alert, stern and yearning for something Dante couldn't place in his body language.
To spit in the face of fate. To hunger for his enemies blood. To reclaim his broken pride.
Or maybe it was simpler than that, to indulge in a concept substantial yet ineffective to his person―talk.
Shit.

A/N: I don't think their verbal reunion will be settled over a piece of chocolate cake :D
(Rant Incoming) I've been told that I should have included Greek themes in the story rather than African because of my character's complexion and to “make it white” and I'm like: (in Big Sean's voice) “You lil' stupid ass bitch I ain't fucking wit' chu!!!!!!!!!
I understand the concern and the not-ordinary approach I am going with this story, but comments like these are usually based off of prejudices and typecasting, which my story will not be. I like writing about a character's issues and problems, regardless if they are Black, White, Latino, Asian, Polynesian, Bi-raical, Gay, Straight, Lesbian, Male, Female...
Why is it now that people don't want originality and want the same story told?
I think I'll make a small series of this anyhow and really expand on the Adinkra culture with werewolves and demons and witches thrown in the mix...
Different cultures have been mixing and mingling with each other for thousands of years folks, this is nothing new. So if you want to go along for the ride then please do so and if not, sorry it wasn't to your liking. We're just starting the story, there's a lot to be said and done, ain't that right Vergil?
As usual, thank you to those of you that have reviewed!
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The Chosen One Unknown