Devil May Cry - Series Fan Fiction ❯ By Blood Connected ❯ The Beginning ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

I woke up that morning feeling good. Not just good; in fact, I felt better than I ever had, God knows why. There was no plausible reason for me feeling that alive that morning, but nonetheless I felt wonderful. That receptive joyfulness hit me like a train when I woke, though if getting plowed down by a freight engine really DID feel that good, I would’ve done it long before then. Everything felt new that morning; it was as if I had never once drawn air into my lungs, never once woke up to the start of my junior year—

Oh yeah, right, that. THAT thought sure brought me back to earth. My good mood evaporated as I trudged down the stairs from my room, flicking on lights as I went.

The kitchen was like it always was– pale pink tile, blush coloured wallpaper bespattered in crimson rosebuds, humming appliances, and immaculately clean counters. I glanced out the window mounted above the kitchen table as I passed on my way to grab a bag of pop tarts.

“It’ll rain later...” I said to no one in particular, surveying the angry looking sky through sleep-clouded eyes. As I waited for the pastries to finish toasting, I stumbled blearily into laundry room which had been recently serving me as a closet.

“Ah, yes,” I mused, rubbing the grogginess from my eyes as I surveyed my options of dress. “So... the black skirt... or... the black skirt?”

I chuckled at the joke, however lame it was. I’d always been a sucker for corny jokes, and had an annoying tendency to laugh at them even when I was the one making them. Sighing, I put on my uniform starting at the top, as was my habit: black cotton blouse, red tie, black pleated skirt (hemmed short, as I liked them) black knee-socks, and a pair of low top-converse. Shoes were the one item of dress that was not school-regulated, and I was not one to miss out: I had airbrushed flames onto the plain-white toes for a bit of flair.

I heard the toaster pop in the kitchen. I retrieved the pastries, slipped the hot confections on a plate and poured a glass of milk. I ate quickly. When I had finished, I left the plate and glass in the sink and took the stairs two at a time up to my room.

My room was quite different from the kitchen downstairs. It had one red wall and one black while the rest were left white, though the fact that they were coloured hardly mattered, seeing as how almost every square inch of them was covered in some form or another by posters and the like. There was an empty closet and an adjoining bath, which I promptly entered. It had a colour scheme that matched my room, though without the posters.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a moment before pulling my nondescript brown hair up into a high ponytail. I had bangs which fell lightly over my forehead, nearly obscuring my eyes. I brushed them out of the way impatiently. The afore-mentioned eyes (which were badly in need of eyeliner) were a bright amber-green that clashed horribly with my uniform. I hated putting liner on them, however: they were set at a hard to work with downward slant, looking almost Asian. My skin, however, shook off all thoughts of me being of Eastern-descent: it was very pale, made more so by the black in my clothing, and was slightly translucent.

I applied the eyeliner then brushed my teeth. Morning routine complete, I walked out of the bathroom then out of my room itself, picking up my book bag as I went. I flitted down the stairs and walked back into the laundry room off the kitchen. My school-issue jacket, black, as always seemed to be the case, was hanging on a peg by the back door (located in the laundry room), and I shrugged it on before stepping outside into the brisk September day.

I rummaged in my bag until I found the house key, at the same time double checking for my (thankfully present) umbrella, and locked the door behind me. I slipped the key back into my satchel, then reached up and made sure the spare was securely fixed to the door jamb with a piece of tape. It was there, as always. Satisfied, I walked down the side of the house, a little brick two-story with a few shrubs and a massive oak tree in the yard, until I hit the street. I turned a hard right, setting off for school.
~~~~~~~


The normally half-hour walk only took about a quarter; I had double timed to make sure I wouldn’t be late in the event of any unforseen obstacles or detours. I arrived at the ivy-hung school gates at 8:10, nearly 50 minutes before the first class started. I pushed open the gates with a hand and stepped onto the school grounds.

The J. L. Tyler Academy (or, as the locals and students simply put it, “Tyler’s”) was a prestigious boarding school for the rich, influential, or genius. Acting a military academy for boys and a college preparatory school for girls, the place had a reputation up there with some of the finest ivy-league colleges, and tended to produce America’s generational crop of doctors, lawyers, CEOs, and congressman. Three presidents had attended Tyler’s in the past, only adding to its prestige. Its fencing program was one of the best in the country; they had taken home nationals almost 20 years running. The school itself was nearing its hundredth birthday, not that any of the students cared.

The buildings themselves were imposing at best: stone, cold, forbidding, ivy hung in secretive folds on all the walls, creating a think tapestry over much of the school’s structures. The grounds consisted of spacious, manicured lawns, fringed on the outside by a high brick wall, also hung with the ever-present ivy. There were two gates set into the wall: the student gate and the faculty gate, located on opposite sides of the compound.

Students could either live “in town” with family, or locate themselves in the dorms on-campus. I, personally, had family who lived in the village during the summer, a kindly aunt and uncle (beneficiaries of the school, as well as my ticket to attending) who were more than happy to allow me a room of my own (they’d even let me paint the walls my colour of choice!) and free reign over the house during their seasonal absence, as long as I didn’t put holes in the wall and kept it clean.

But back to the school. The inside, in stark contrast to the outside, was lovely. It sported rich, glowing wood floors and walls, hundreds of classrooms, and a library twice the size of my house. It was to there I wandered as I waited for the assembly where I would receive my class schedule.

The library was an integral part of me. I’d always loved books --fairy tales in particular– but my true love was history. In all honesty, my love of the past had stemmed from a fairy tale. I had been reading “The Knights of the Roundtable,” enthralled with Arthur’s quest for the Grail, the magicians, the dragons, and had cried at the book’s end. Seeking more of Arthur and his gallant company, I had turned to a history book.

I poked my head in the double doors, and finding the library’s familiar, high-windowed foyer empty, entered and shut the door quietly behind me. I practically skipped towards the front desk, located about twenty feet inside, and slid to a stop on the marble floor as I reached it. I lifted a hand and picked up a small velvet-tipped mallet laying next to an ornamental gong set on the mahogany surface, and rang the tiny thing. Its light, singing peal echoed up into the Library’s rafters, and reverberated throughout the hall, disturbing the utter quiet. I turned around, propped my elbows up on the desk behind me, crossed my legs at the ankle, and faced the smaller set of double doors set to my left. They burst open as I watched.

“Jira!” I winced, hating the sound of my odd-ball name, but glad to finally hear a familiar voice. The woman who swept forth from behind those doors was the utter personification of the word ‘librarian.’ Tall and imposing, she had hawk-like features and a long, skinny figure, giving her the appearance of a bird of prey who got caught in a taffy-puller, though she was bony rather than putty-like. Her voice, however, was a warm soprano that was set completely at odds with her image. She had a full head of silvered hair, pulled back in a tight bun, and was dressed in a simple black dress; long-sleeved and conservative. Her eyes were slate coloured and clear. Her face was wrinkled; she looked to be sixty, or there-about.

“Jira!” the woman repeated, spreading her arms wide for a hug as she strode over to me. “I missed you over the summer! We just got in a new history anthology from Harvard last Tuesday that I know you’ll simply love!”

The woman, though waspish in appearance, was quite kind. She and I had been friends ever since my Freshman year when I, the insatiable book-worm, had spent most of my waking moments in the library and her company, which was surprisingly pleasant.

“It’s good to see you, too, Ms. Saxen.” I said warmly as I accepted her embrace. “Care to show me that anthology?”

Her face darkened slightly at this.

“Well, Jira, I haven’t unpacked all the boxes yet... You see, I had been hoping you’d help me sort and shelve them after school today, --I need all the help I can get right now, I’m so busy!-- But only if you’re not assigned too much homework, of course.” Her face was set sternly at this last remark, but her shining eyes and the excitement colouring her voice betrayed her true wishes.

“I’d love to.” I said, unable to keep from grinning. Her moods were infectious.

“Are you staying for very long? I have some new books to catalogue, but you have awhile until the assembly.”

Every new year, the students were to meet in the assembly hall, or the auditorium as it was more commonly called, in order to hear the start-of-term speeches and be issued agendas and lockers. It usually took about an hour and a half, more if there were any other major announcements to be made. I looked up ay her; she was quite tall, possibly six feet, dwarfing my 5' 6. I smiled:

“I think I’ll putter around the classics for a bit, then head out. I’ll be so quiet you won’t know I’m here, so go ahead and get ‘em done, ‘kay?” Saxen smiled, said an ‘if you’re sure’ or two, then swooped off to finish her work before the library became flooded with the days students.

I turned and began to meander through the books, running my fingers down their spines as I passed. I was there mainly to center myself in familiar surroundings before facing the day, rather than find new reading material. I took comfort from their familiar covers and musty smells as I paced the deserted rows.

When I had wandered my fill, I left, book bag across my shoulders. I glanced at my watch; fifteen minutes until assembly. I turned and began to walk down the hall, passing a student every now and again. I was about halfway to the auditorium when I heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Out-take!”

‘Out-take’ was a little nickname I had earned filming, well, out-takes for the yearbook committee’s year-end video celebrating the school’s achievements. I turned to my caller, raising a hand to wave.

The one who called me was a girl in my year named Sarita Moore. She was a casual acquaintance I didn’t particularly care for (we’d been on the year-book team together, hence her use of the nick-name), but was a good person to have a distracting, frivolous conversation with. Standing at a scant five feet, she sported black hair and eyes and olive skin. She had lost weight over the summer, I was pleased to note; she was now voluptuous as opposed to the chubby she had been previously.

“You look great.” I said as she jogged to catch up with me. Her dark eyes flashed a thank you as she cracked a comment about how pale I was. I retorted with a jab at her height.
~~

Our mild-mannered banter continued into the main hall. The auditorium was filling up- about half of the five hundred-odd students had arrived. We took a seat in the fifth row or so, still chatting. The stage at the front of the room was occupied by a podium and twelve chairs, one for each department head. The red curtains were pulled back to either side of the stage area, secured in place by a gold tassel.

We were eventually joined by several other mutual classmates. Promptly at nine o’clock, the lights dimmed, signaling the beginning of the assembly.

Principal Clark was the first to come on-stage. He was a tall, slightly over weight man with a tawny, walrus mustache, shining bald cranium, and basset-hound eyes. He was, to those who knew him and managed to stay on his good side, strict, meticulously clean, and had a tendency to good-natured-ly bellow at those he liked. To those who managed to piss him off, he was nothing but severe, quick to punish, and unsympathetic. The buzzing auditorium fell into silence as he cleared his throat into the microphone.

“Class, welcome to a new school year. It brings me great pleasure to announce...” His booming baritone echoed through the room, and, since the speech was more or less repeated every year and I had already heard it twice, I tuned him out. This little skill of mine was nearing perfection; images didn’t even manage to register anymore. I thought of nothing at all as he announced the department heads and let them take their seats on stage, didn’t take in a single word. I only awoke from my self-induced stupor when the students rose and applauded, then began shuffling out of the auditorium to go to their grade-level offices to receive their schedules.

I had gotten about 3 steps away from my seat when I heard her voice calling me. I grinned, turned around, and was immediately thrown to the ground by the force of the bear hug I had been wrestled into. I fell on my back with a loud *THWUMP*, only narrowly missing a crowd of senior boys. Winded, I sat up, attempting to catch my breath and extract myself from my dearest friend’s embrace.

Ami Ross and I had been friends since freshman year. We met in the library, and were instantly inseparable. Her love of books and friendly nature, as opposed to my hot-headed and aggressive one, contrasted nicely. We each covered the other’s faults and brought out each other’s better qualities; a dream team. While she was timid, I was assertive; while she was sensitive, I was blunt. She was a tall, slim girl with long blonde hair and brown eyes, and a killer figure to boot (though she didn’t seem to notice , or much care). She was also clam-shy, but when she DID like something, she let it show, usually in the form of a massive tackle-glomp and shining eyes.

“I missed you, Jira!” Her eyes practically danced, showing off their rich, warm brown.

I stood and helped her to her feet, my grin widening. She grabbed my hand and began to tug me down the aisle at a run, dodging clumps of milling students and chattering a mile-a-minute.

“Oh Jira I-went-to-France-and-met-this-boy---youwouldreallylikehim—and-now-we- write-to-each-other-but-anyway-do-you-know-where-we-get-our-schedules-becau se-I-was-late-to-the-assembly-and-didn’t-hear...oh-right-you-tuned-it -out-didn’t-you-you-need-to
stop-doing-that-its-going-to-get-you- in-trouble-one-of-these-days-but-anyway-we-should-ask-a-teacher-or-someone- about-it—“

”AMI – SLOWDOWN WE’RE GOING TO RUN OVER SOME ONE!” I yelled, digging my heels into the carpet. She stopped right then and there and I crashed into her from behind; luckily we were able to keep our balance. She turned to me, blushing.

“I’m sorry, Jira.” she said good-naturedly. “I was just excited to see...” she drifted off, looking at the floor but still grinning. I sighed. This was old hat by now.

“C’mon,” I said pulling her towards the doors. “Let’s go ask a teacher where we go.”



Well hello, all, how did you like it? I promise that it’ll pick up sometime soon..... DMC-ness will enter the picture in about late ch. 2 or early 3. Don’t get impatient with me! I feel the need to set the scene.
Oh, and to those who are expecting an action-packed fic... Its not going to be that way until WAY, WAY later. It’s going to be full of drama for now. It will get actiony though, mark my words. It’s just going to take some time. The plot-line I’m setting up is rather different to say the least, and yes it is VERY supernatural. That just won’t become apparent for a while.

Leave me comments with critiques and hello’s, guys! I love them to death!

This is also on fanfiction.net under the same pen-name and story title.