Devil May Cry - Series Fan Fiction ❯ War of Minds ❯ Chapitre Trois ( Chapter 3 )

A/N: I'm planning on (maybe) entering a writing competition soon, so WOM will be put on hold till then (the comp. ends August 31). And even if I don't enter, I have so much homework and other stuff that I really can't concentrate much on this. D: It is not making me a happy little bubble of pleasantness, I can tell you that.

 

Also (still making excuses for delays) I'm planning to change the story from what I originally had; add another OC into the mix *narrows eyes* this will, however, mean I have to go through my timeline and rearrange things without screwing up the events of the current chapters.

 

Dante to Capcom, etc. etc.

 

Please read and review!

 

 

Running was hopeless, the logical part of her knew that, but she was past thinking with her head by then. Carbrey's feet were doing the thinking, and their thinking was something along the lines of, "RUN!" After half a mile, however, their thinking had toned down to something more along the lines of, "…run…" and so Carbrey was forced to listen to that voice in her head again.

 

Well, that was a nice little escapade, princess. Are you proud of yourself? Thinking of entering a marathon, are we? The growling rumble that had shaken the ground reappeared, louder and undeniably closer. Nowhere to run now, princess, chipped in that voice again. Carbrey whimpered, knowing she was cornered. She could hardly walk, she was in the middle of a street in plain sight and she had a voice in her head. Why had she gotten out of bed? The mist made it hard to discern anything further than an arm's length away, but the growling was closer, and louder, and sounded pretty damn hungry. Breathing heavily from her run and the fear, Carbrey staggered towards the nearest door. Strangers' buildings seemed to be her refuge far too often recently.

 

She could hear heavy breathing just around the corner. Breathing that didn't sound too comforting. The door wouldn't open. Her breath caught in her throat, and her hands were shaking so much the doorhandle rattled unnervingly loudly in the cold morning air. No. Please. No. Help. No. God. No. Her hand slipped as the handle turned and she stumbled in. It didn't lock from the inside, so she just barred it with a broken piece of wood, and turned around, pressing against the door.

 

The house was once lavishly decorated in a Victorian sort of style. The furniture was all broken now, cobwebs heaping up in piles over the wrecks. Dark stains were everywhere; the putrid smell of something disgusting wafted from the elegant stairs. Carbrey firmly stayed in place. No way would she go up there, except that the voice was arguing again, and winning, again. She toed the first step, half wanting it to fall beneath her weight so she could say, see, it's not safe. No deal.

 

Unfortunately, it supported her weight perfectly fine. She continued, all tensed up, hands protectively clutched close to her chest. She reached the top of the steps, stuffed her fist in her mouth and fainted.

 

------

 

When Carbrey woke up again, her first thought was that she was doing this far too often for her liking. She sat up cautiously, her head pounding. This might be explained by the fact that she was sitting at the bottom of a flight of stairs, stairs that curved, too. Well, at least you helped a bit with the dusting, was the only input from that darkly humorous voice in her mind. She touched her head; there was something warm, sticky, behind her ear. Her hand, it was smeared with red. She blinked, thinking fuzzily for a moment, the carpet must have melted. Then, blood, she could taste it, making her throat close up. Her knuckles, her red right hand, it was torn and bleeding.

 

At least it matches my hair, she thought light-headedly. She felt so light, felt like floating away, away from the darkness clouding her vision. Then there was a rumble, and the very house shook. That body, that mangled body that couldn't be, was never human, that body tumbled down the stairs, eyes wide open. Eyes open forever, black holes of open, open, openness. Carbrey couldn't take it anymore. She screamed, screamed, froze in place like a statue. Screaming. She pressed her palms over her eyes, watched the lights dance behind her eyelids. There was a hand, a cold, cold hand, cold as ice, as death, pressed against her waist. Chill, baby, the voice said, whispered, struggling to be heard. Carbrey rocked back and forth, head in hands, hands against knees, pressed into herself. Holding herself together, keeping herself alive. Warm, alive. Dead, cold, pressed against her back, ice, frozen finger digging into her spine.

 

She almost screamed again when a hand touched her shoulder. Dead people didn't come back to life, this hand was warm. She couldn't think, couldn't cry, because her fist was stuffed in her mouth, keeping the screams contained.

 

"Don't…touch me," she forced out, breath cold and cloudy in the air. "You're dead…not allowed to…"

 

"I'm dead? Must've missed the memo," said a voice, sarcastically. "This yours?" Carbrey's eyes opened. Geez, babe, took you long enough to wake up there. She couldn't tell which was in her head and which wasn't. They sounded the same. Don't start me with that shit, spat the voice. Now stop being so rude, he's waiting for an answer.

 

"…Answer?" she whispered to herself, then looked up. She almost screamed again, but that fist, o treacherous fist, it was in the way again. She disentangled her teeth from her hand, then took a deep breath. No screaming, she promised herself. This isn't a horror movie, you're not a damsel in distress. "I…my crowbar!" she said brightly then, seeing it in the stranger's hand. She tried to stand, hurriedly, but stumbled, her legs all cramped up from sitting there for so long. The stranger, the stranger with her crowbar, caught her. Her crowbar.

 

"This? Found it in the street, figured someone must've survived. Obviously not this sod," he said, gesturing to the owner of the cold hand, with her crowbar. She grabbed for the piece of metal, but the stranger carelessly waved it out of her reach. "Oh no, babe, you're not gettin' this back 'til you've told me just who you are and how you managed to survive the little beastie out there." He slowly looked her up and down. "And give me your number while you're at it."

 

Carbrey scowled, and crossed her arms primly. "I don't see why I should be telling you anything. For all I know, you could be behind…this…the…I…" She turned pale as she remembered the 'beastie' outside. "The…the monster!" The stranger chuckled.

 

"Forget about him, babe, I already took care of that," he said carelessly, twirling the sword he carried. It was covered in blood, ugly thick slimy stuff. She couldn't bear to look at it. "Now go on, start talking, or I'm pretty sure I'll be convinced you're one of them, too." That shiny, slimy point was uncomfortably close to her neck.

 

"Okay, okay, don't hurt me!" she gasped. "My name's Carbrey. I, uh, Carbrey Nolane." She paused, raising her eyebrows nervously. The stranger shrugged, as if to say, what? Dante, dear, the voice informed her bitterly. He's Dante, legendary demon hunter, part demon. Not very interesting, though we might want to chat about his brother later, babe. Carbrey paused. This voice might even be useful, she thought as she continued. "I was away, I mean, I was working, and when…I came back, there was no one."

 

"Really. What a coincidence," Dante said, in a way said he wasn't entirely convinced. Affronted that he thought she would lie (and why bother? There was nothing to protect), she opened her mouth to say something, but was quietened when he just handed her the crowbar without another word. I feel so much saner now, she thought, and started as she realised the stranger--Dante, that is--was leaving.

 

"Hey, where are you going?" she asked worriedly, trotting after Dante as he left the house. "You're not leaving me all alone, all here with these things around? They'll kill me, kill me! Dead! Dead!" She could hear her voice rising in pitch. He seemed not to hear her. "Dante?"

 

She flinched as he spun, looking like he was going to hit her or something. "That's funny, isn't it, babe. I never told you my name." The sword edge was alarmingly close again.

 

"I...no, I…it...you…" Carbrey stammered, unable to make an excuse. After all, 'I have a voice in my head and it told me your name' didn't sound like a very legitimate reason. "Don't hurt me!" she squeaked. "Please, it doesn't matter; just don't leave me alone here. I'm scared; I don't know what to do." She was almost sobbing, and she could just feel disgust and scorn radiating from that presence in her mind, which had just gotten her in trouble with the only other living being she'd seen for the past day or so. There was that demon yesterday, too, you know, the voice mentioned casually.

 

Dante stared at her for a few more moments before lowering the sword. "Fine, whatever. If you can keep out of the way, do whatever you like." Carbrey nearly collapsed with relief. She wasn't alone! The particular company was perhaps not the most pleasant, but at least there was no more worrying, thinking, is this read? Am I dead? Not to mention she had her crowbar back. She was quite attached to the crowbar by now; it had been there the whole time, always there, solid and cool and iron and there. Carbrey felt like she relied on this crowbar, relied on the solidness, the always-there-ness. She needed it, however pathetic it sounded.

 

Pathetic, echoed that voice in her mind as she trotted to keep up with Dante. It's just a piece of bent metal.