Fan Fiction ❯ Devil May Cry: Damned Souls ❯ Distorted Transformation ( Chapter 6 )

The devil hunter's brows lift away from his eyes, a strand of hair touching lightly against his left cheek as a whirl of chilling wind stirs from above. His mouth is slightly parted, unable to make even the slightest of sounds. All he can do is gasp at the image he sees before him. At first, he thought he saw everything there was to know. Being a devil hunter who's been around the world, hunting demons for a living, you get to know all the stuff that goes around. He's seen exorcisms take place in the eastern parts of Rome. He's seen the ghosts of General Santa Anna's dead soldiers in central Texas. He's seen the undead awaken in Palermo, Sicily. He even remembers visiting a town in southern Mexico where the infamous Mano Pachona was. But this… damn, he doesn't know WHAT to make of this.

Imp looks like a demon with large oversized wings. He's got the demon tail to match it. He's got the sharp and black claws that can easily cut through the strongest of steel. He even has the horns pierced out of the temples of his head. It's not like he didn't expect this. It's not like he thought he was the only person who could Devil trigger. After all, if both demon and human created him then the same could be done to anyone else. He can clearly even recall going to Africa a few years ago because of rumors indicating that the demons there were kidnapping the local women to mate with them in an effort to reproduce successful crossbreeds. While he never did get the chance to see them, it's been done. Lord knows, he'd be stupid to think otherwise.

However, the thing that really makes him worried is what sets Imp apart from everyone else, including himself. It isn't the fact that he can do a successful Devil Trigger. Or that he comes from a powerful underworld lord. No. That'd be too naïve to think that way. But it's the fact that he is a winged demon… made of ICE that has him on the edge.

Like the Frosts, he's made of pure ice. Ice… How can a demon be made of ice? How can that be? Aren't all true devils, dark or light, organic? Could Imp be just an upgrade version of a Frost? But wait a minute, though… Hold on… What was that thing he did before Devil triggering? He used that weird gauntlet, didn't he? Yeah. That's right. He remembers him putting a blue orb into that… THING… and it somehow activated. Shortly after, those weird tentacles popped out and Imp transformed. Just what IS that gauntlet and what is it capable of doing? Is it the source of Imp's Devil triggering?

Also unlike many demons, he notices these weird and long tentacles extending from Imp's back, moving slowly with a life of their own. Each of the tentacles contains a glowing blue ball at their tips, pumping in and out like a heartbeat. They're about the only things fleshy throughout Imp's stone hard body. Somehow, they don't appear as innocent as they look. They must be there for a purpose.

Dante continues to study Imp's overall appearance. He'll admit it right here and now, Imp has traits that signify power and strength. Not strange, considering that he comes from a powerful Devil. Nothing about Imp resembles the man he was just a few minutes ago either. About the only thing he can consider truly `human' would probably be the shape of the body. That's it. Nothing else. And even then, the overall look of Imp's body appears awkward.

"Well?" he hears Imp inside his mind, voice full with humor. "Like what you see, devil boy? Do you think I'm model material? Do you think I can make that Russell Crowe guy run for his money? Ain't I the handsomest devil in the world, don't you think?"

"How…?" Dante whispers, addressing two different things at the same time.

"We're demons, man," Imp mentally replies and flies a bit lower so that Dante can get a good look of him. His wings flap and the wind turns even more chilling. "We're brothers an' sisters, much like humans are. We're one in the same."

"I'm NOTHING like you," replies Dante with conviction.

"If you say so, devil boy. But if you weren't, then how can you hear me right now? In fact, how were you able to hear all the demons you confronted back on Mallet Island? We're all connected, you see. Each of us is intertwined to create a form unlike any other. We might have different stuff we dig, yeah, but we all come from the same brew too."

"Say what you will, Imp, but I ain't like you all."

"Sheesh, Dante, aren't you the arrogant bastard?" Imp chuckles.

Imp takes flight and twirls like a ballerina in the air, swinging Exxon back and forth high above his head while laughing wickedly. He mimics Dante's macho tone and posture in the sky.

" `I'm nothing like you'… `Say what you will, Imp, but I ain't like you all'… `Look at me, I'm better'… `Look at my so-cool retro hairdo'… `Check out my sword! My sword is bigger than yours!'… `I'm too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts'…" Imp guffaws hysterically. "Oh the drama, Dante! I just LOVE it! You truly are a one-in-a-kind devil man! Excuse me while I laugh my ass off and watch you drown yourself in your own demise! Whoa! But you already have… Yeah, right! As if! Give IT A BREAK! Stop kidding yourself, man, and stop wasting time! You are who you are and you will be more than you already are when… Whoa! Talk about a sugar rush! I knew I should've lay off the soda before coming here. But wait, what about the `self'? Do you know who you are? You'd better ask yourself this question because my old man will ask you this question at the end when he decides to… Oh yeah! Now I remember where I put my remote control! Is it a dream? Is it real? Haven't you learned your lesson yet? Crap! I forgot to turn off my car's lights before coming here! Damn!"

Dante immediately lets a bullet from Ebony fly Imp's way, having enough of the man's senseless nonsense. He isn't sure if it's his personality or if he's high on something, but whatever the case is, he seriously needs to shut this asshole up.

Imp stops talking once his demonic senses picks up the bullet. To him, it flies very slowly making it extremely easy for him to dodge it with his inhuman speed. After succeeding, he glances at Dante's direction in a bit of distraught.

"Yikes, Dante, devil boy," he mentally says through the hunter's head. "I said stop wasting time, and-some-other-shit-I-don't-remember, but I KNOW I didn't say anything about shooting at poor ole' Imp!"

Grinning, Dante points Ebony right at him. He shoots again.

"Now you're starting to piss me off!" Imp exclaims as he flies from another bullet.

He has to maneuver four MORE shots soon afterwards.

"Asshole!" he starts to say, flying up and down. Left and right. Back and forth. "You meanie! You bad, bad, bad meanie! Mean, I tell you! You're just… mean!"

"Good," a sly smile crosses Dante's face.

He fires again. And again. And again. Each shot getting closer to hitting its target.

Fifteen bullets later, and when he finally feels that Imp has had enough, Dante stops shooting. He lowers Ebony to his side and walks directly beneath Imp, waiting for the devil to descend and meet him at ground level.

Imp blinks once he realizes Dante has stopped. His face appears serious. The purple eyes of his glow a bit, carefully studying the silver-haired man below. Something in his expression appears both surprised but regretful too. Yes… Dante really is as good as his old man told him, if not more. Sparda's boy has certainly grown up to be the fine man that he is right now. He is a collage of many things. He is a lover but a fighter. He is compassionate but merciless. He is the perfect balance of light and dark. He is EVERYTHING his old man always wanted out of him since the day he was born. Of all the children he had here on Earth, he appeared the most promising of the bunch. And often, abused. If only being Dante was an easy task, Imp thinks. If only that fucking dickless-bastard-of-a-father of his realized that his expectations are too high for even him.

From nearby, Socrates gazes at Dante with an amazed look, having observed Dante `play' with Imp. Mercy, Dante really has a way to put devils into submission. And Imp! Of all people! Imp! Imp never lowered his head to ANYONE. And yet, Dante has done the impossible. He has tamed the untamed. Amazing… Dante didn't even flinch when he fired at him!

The angel slowly meets Dante by his side, seeing Imp begin to land on ground, his wings flapping once before folding back to a halt. Socrates' hand clenches onto Ivory, hoping that Imp doesn't have a trick up his sleeve.

"Now you know how I feel, you piece of bullcrap," Dante tells Imp in a silent but deadly tone. "And if you think I'm `bad' and `mean' now, Imp, it's gonna get a lot worse. I'm the fucking reaper. I eat devils like you for breakfast and ask for more. David… Mundus… Siren… you… you're all the same to me. I know how to deal with demons that have something up their ass. So, if I were you, I'd play nice and I'd start by getting Trish out of there. Comprende?"

Imp glances at the direction Dante points to where Trish's entrapped body remains frozen. He looks sideways at the frozen woman. At first, Dante and Socrates think that he's finally thrown in the towel. The look of seriousness is there, after all. Even for Imp, he's never been known to reveal such a straight face as the one he reveals to the two men. But pray as they may, a cocky grin starts to develop on the demon's lips, a grin that suggests the usual cunningness of his. That damn grin… it's practically a trademark of his.

"Sorry, beer buddies," he tells his two male companions, trying not to laugh, "but I'd prefer for her to stay like that. I mean… she's so pretty and hot… I'd like to show her off when my high school reunion comes along sometime next year."

Damn it. He just can't help it! He can't stay humorless for one second! It's just a part of his nature. He can't help it! And besides, it's just too glorious for him to remain serious. Fuck what daddy wants. He enjoys laughing at the object of his father's affection. Maybe it's jealously. Or maybe it's that pathetic little mind of his. Yeah, Sparda's boy may be tough. But the guy sure has peas for brains if he doesn't know what happens in a couple of days from now. Ha!

"That's all folks!" he mimics Bug's Bunny's voice and blows out a whistle.

Before Dante can make his move, the surrounding Frosts start to yell out a screeching sound. Each of them stands in a straight row like soldiers ready to do battle. One-by-one they extend their claws outward, making the nails longer. The sound of scraping metal-like noises fills the cool, icy air. Again, the demonic Frosts yell.

Dante curses, seeing that Imp has ordered the Frosts to begin their attacks. He draws closer to Trish's icicle tomb, preparing to defend her as much as he can, regardless of the little voice inside him demanding to take Imp out.

"Take care of Imp," Socrates says as if he's just read his mind. "I'll protect Trish from the demons. Hurry!"

"How?" Dante asks, noticing Imp taking flight again.

He sees three Frosts approaching. All three of them cause the air to turn bitterly cold. They literally FREEZE the particles within the air into place. In doing so, being made of ice, they enable themselves to glide through theses particles in such a fast speed that it looks like they're teleporting. The trio reaches the devil hunter and angel within just a second. They lung at Dante and the angel, mouths wide open with ice teeth hissing at them. Their sharp claws stretch more to make a clean swipe, hoping to chop off the flesh of their prey.

Dante immediately raises Alastor to deflect the claws. While he successfully blocks and aggressively cracks two of the Frosts' claws into pieces with his sword, the third one manages to cut open his entire stomach. The devil hunter grunts and falls to the ground, looking down at the bloody mess. His body's healing factor instantaneously starts to recuperate the deadly and fatal wound. Patches of broken blood vessels, wet internal organs, and skin connect together to become whole again. Yet, regardless of his body's efforts to undo the damage done to it, the successful Frost leaps up into the air to already worsen the situation.

A blast of light emerges out of nowhere, filling the entire area with blinding yellow light. The Frost pauses from its attack and breaks into a billion pieces.

A part of the immense yellow light showers Dante who remains on the ground. His skin begins to burn and a spark of fire even ignites from the flesh of both his hands. He yells in deep agony as the pain escalates, his once light blue eyes flashing red now. He can literally see his skin starting to peel off. Jesus! It feels like he's about to go in flames! What's going on!

The pain subsides, however, once a tower of white light rains down on him, surrounding him in a cylinder field that reaches all the way up to the sky. Comforting warmth instantly prevails over the intense heat, doing away with the pain he just suffered a second ago. His body slowly relaxes and goes slack. He lies flat on the ground, moaning softly as the feeling of wonder and reassurance invade his entire figure. The white light reflects off his body, healing the burnt wounds he just gained as well as the fatal one delivered by the Frost.

Lying flat on the ground and still in complete peace with his body and mind, Dante slowly turns his head to his side, viewing the environment outside his cylinder protection. He sees the two Frosts that failed to kill him earlier plummet backwards by the lethally yellow light, not protected by the ray of whiteness over him. They hit straight to the Earth, causing their ice to shatter and immediately melt into the soiled and muddy ground. Numbly, Dante hears the screaming of other Frosts from afar and notices how they all spontaneously combust in a bolt of flames. He looks away then, gazing amazingly upward where he sees a large tunnel of light.

Dante finds himself smiling. He never believed that anything could feel as good and pure as this. Not demon hunting. Not vengeance. Not other pleasures he also enjoys. Is… this how Heaven feels? Is this the tunnel of light those folks keep talking about? Did… he die? If only that were true. Then… there'd be no more pain. No more struggling. But most importantly, he'd realize that creatures of darkness, like his father, also have a chance to reach Heaven.

His father… He knows that he died when darkness came to claim him. But don't all the good things he did with his life matter? Didn't he somehow gain admittance? Did he make it to Heaven? Is there really a Heaven? And if he dies, say, right this moment, will he go there too?

Vergil… mother… They were both good people. He can't remember a time where either of them was cruel to any living creature. HE even thought his bro was a wuss at times since he always hated to kill such things like a mosquito or a cockroach. They deserve to go to Heaven if they aren't there already. Mater Christi, Dante thinks again very hard, they deserve to go there, damn it! It's not fair! It's not fucking fair that devils like Mundus or David can manipulate people's lives and get away with it!

Before he can go further into his thoughts, the outside yellow light slowly fades away. The protective tower over him also decreases, eventually evaporating like water under a very hot sun. Dante blinks and slowly sits up. Silent.

Dante recognizes this type of damage before. The light and the involuntarily self-combustion are all too familiar. Holy water. Yeah, holy water can do this to just about any demon. Spill it over him and watch the mother fry, that's what he's talking about. Purity, he's come to realize from past experience and battles, was always the best instrument against demons. Equally important was belief. It didn't matter if it was faith for a God, yourself, or for something else, nothing was so powerful than freewill and belief. Holy water is basically just water. Weapons are just metal instruments. Dreams are just illusions. Yet, all become empowered by the belief and faith of a certain individual, a belief that can move mountains. Faith in the self and faith in each other… these were what really mattered against demons and in life too. It was faith in love that brought Trish back from the dead.

Holy water and other things alike never affected him. He is, after all, part human. While demons will die the moment a splash of holy water spilled over them, he always came out unaffected. Sure, there was numbness over the area it dropped on him, but that was it. Up until now, he never understood the agonizing pain the demons he's killed by blessed water underwent. He could imagine. But not understand. Right now, however, he does. While this isn't a case of holy water use, the yellow light inflicted as much damage as it would.

This light… This light nearly killed him. If not for that ray of whiteness, he would've self-combusted just like those Frosts creatures. Where did it come from?

The devil hunter stands up and abruptly hears Socrates moan softly from behind. He turns around only to notice the angel slumping against Trish's encasing. He appears exhausted. Worn out. Pale-faced. It's as if he just ran a marathon. Small beads of sweat form over his blushed freckled cheeks and his eyes are shut closed. He appears to be in some kind of pain.

And then… it suddenly hits him.

"Socrates?" Dante begins. "Did you do this?"

Before the angel can give an answer, the two men hear Imp starting to laugh from above. Dante glances upward to see Imp, appearing to be unaffected by the yellow light.

"Great…"

"Go, Dante…" Socrates mutters very weakly and slowly opens his eyes. "Get to him… I'll… hold the fort here… and protect Trish. Just go…"

Dante takes a moment, looking at him in concern. Whatever wing boy did, it nearly took away all his energy. In a brotherly way, Dante places a hand on the younger man's shoulder to comfort him, thanking him as well. It's been a long time since he's ever thanked anyone, he realizes, mainly because no one ever did anything for him unless they wanted something back. Dante soon nods. He knows what he has to do now in order to live up to what Socrates has done for him and Trish. He's going to beat the hell out of Imp and put a stop to this once and for all. He's going to take out that mother. With that, Dante puts Ebony back into his jacket's pocket while readying Alastor. He leaps up high into the air to perform his task.

Socrates swallows hard as his eyes follow Dante's movements, soon wiping the sweat from his forehead and feeling a bit light headed. It's time, he thinks bitterly. Lord knows, he didn't want this to happen…

Dante grabs a part of the tip of a very high tree, successfully reaching a high peak displaying the entire forest below. Carefully balancing himself on a couple of strong but tiny branches as well as being mindful of the wind that threatens his hold, Dante looks out for Imp. His white blue eyes study the environment, trying to pinpoint the menacing creature. All he sees is a sea of green below, coming from the bunched up trees. Above is a thunderous sky.

"Wow, Dante," he finally hears Imp say inside his head, "You're a regular `Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon' man, aren't you? Or should I say, `Crouching Dante Hidden Imp'? I bet you played a lot in the monkey bars back at elementary school too, huh?"

A quick whirl of wind approaches from the north. The devil hunter turns and spots the menacing winged man behind him, his flapping wings giving his position away. Dante discovers a glow of blue sparkling from one of Imp's tentacle balls. The mischievous man flings this tentacle forward, sending a blue gush of light his way. Immediately, Dante jumps off the tip of the tree, sensing danger from it.

The blue light barely misses him and Dante comes to see it completely freezing the entire tree he was on, right down to its roots. Putting aside a surprised expression, the devil hunter quickly leaps onto another tree, hitting its mid section in order to bounce off of it to reach a tree nearest to him. He works his way up, constantly moving so that Imp won't have a lock on him. A part of him laughs, amusingly thinking of himself as Tarzan, minus the annoying yell.

Soon, blue darts appear everywhere, freezing anything it comes into contact with. Regardless of the serious situation at hand, Dante keeps his cool. He tries to reach the top again. Once he finally does, he swings to a tree close to Imp. When he sees Imp within a striking distance, he prepares Alastor.

Even Imp is caught off guard by Dante's incredible velocity and determination. In a powerful slash, Dante jumps off the tree he's on and slashes downward with his sword. Instantly, Imp's left arm is cut off, sending spurts of blue blood squirting from the open wound. Dante lands back on a tree, held only by its thick branches. He stands clear of Imp as soon as he realizes that Imp's blood is just as dangerous as the blue bolts of light. They, too, freeze anything it comes into contact with.

Imp just gazes at the loss of his arm, looking at it in both curiosity and dismay. He isn't even in pain, Dante finds. The look on his face is somehow calm. Patient. He can only guess that Imp is too much of a psycho to think about agony. Lord, his marbles aren't all in there…

Imp's fingers from the only remaining arm gently touch the exposed iced flesh that continues to eject thick, blue blood. He continues playfully probing it with a finger, softly chuckling to himself and saying something too quiet for Dante to hear. A drop of blood spills on Imp's thumb and slowly he raises his hand to lick at it. He gazes up at Dante who sits crouched on the branch he's on, ready to leap and strike again. Imp raises the cut off arm towards Dante's direction, looking at him very pissed now.

Dante chuckles, "Looks like you're gonna have to jerk off with only one hand now."

"Wise-ass. Can't you see? I'm throwing you the finger."

Imp flies higher. He moves the damaged arm to his side and suddenly a bolt of noise, like the sound of a thousand people screaming at the top of their lungs, is heard. Dante watches in silence as Imp creates an electrical force field around him. It takes the shape of a gigantic globe, protecting the mischief. Dante understands what's going on once he sees Imp's missing arm starting to extend itself in length. The bastard, he's healing himself!

Meanwhile, ten more Frosts surround Socrates and the motionless Trish. The angel glances left and right, trying to see which is the closest one. He's still weak from invoking his Spirit attack. It can take out an entire fleet of demons, provided that they're within a certain distance. Unfortunately, despite its powerful damage it inflicts, the side effects leave him nauseated and disoriented. It just takes too much effort and will to summon up his Spirit these days. This might be because he hasn't used it in a very long time.

Once he became an angel he learned that each angel had the gift to destroy all darkness with this power. It was called the Spirit. The Spirit was a part of everything living. It was a nonliving entity that existed outside the realm of Earth and was only called upon by creatures of light and dark. Of course, Dante calls HIS Spirit the Devil Trigger. Strange how each Spirit's abilities varies. Dante's Spirit can only make him transform, not invoke other extraordinary powers. Then again, Dante is half human too, right?

Two Frosts teleport behind Trish while three others flank both of Socrates' sides. The angel grimaces but keeps his cool. He charges up his Spirit attack, allowing a swirl of mysterious yellow light to dance around him in circles. His hands cross each other, soon adding a glow of energy the size of a baseball. It grows and as it does the entire area fills with yellow light.

Socrates points one hand towards Trish's direction and the other hand at Dante's. Beams of white light emerge straight from the sky, soon covering the two devil hunters. He has to be careful when using his Spirit, especially since both Trish and Dante are liable to spontaneously self-combust like the rest of the demons. While there are some human traits in them, they both contain the blood of demons. Trish is worse off since she isn't a crossbreed like Dante. She's pure demon in the form of a human. She's more than likely to explode than combust! His beams should protect them, even if it means invoking those rays of light and causing him to sacrifice a bit more energy than he's used to.

As previously, flames engulf all the Frosts within the light's radius. Socrates breathes hard, knowing well that he's overdoing it. In fact, all he hears at the moment is the sound of his heavy inhaling and exhaling. He can't hear anything else. Not the screaming. Not the pain he inflicts. Not anything. Socrates breathes more rapidly as he tries to increase the length of the yellow light's radius. Yes, he's overdoing this task but he has no other choice. The Frosts won't stop coming. New ones continue to replace the dead ones, coming in greater numbers. If Dante or him can't come up with a plan then everything is all going down.

He has to protect them, he tells himself. He has to protect Dante and Trish at all costs. Forget the stiffness forming at the back of his neck. He has to do everything in his power to accomplish his task. Strange how he feels weird, though.

His Pearl of Heaven sparkles. Through the immense yellow light, Socrates instantly studies it. Yes… he could've sworn it sparkled. It glowed, didn't it? At least, that's what he's hoping for. Could HE be… looking at him again? Socrates' face grows soft, clutching the necklace again.

"I'm so sorry…" he barely whispers, a small tear falling from his left eye.

The thunder in the sky strikes. Another tear falls since Socrates knows the answer. It hasn't changed.

In the meantime, Dante smashes straight down to the ground, accidentally letting go of Alastor. A spurt of blood shoots up from his throat. The cold and steel-strong tentacle wrapped around his ankle squeezes hard to the point where it's stopped all blood circulation. He grunts, angry with himself for being careless and so cocky. Imp is a strong man. He was able to produce another arm in a matter of seconds. Sheeit, Imp damn well looked like he wanted him to do that, the psycho. But it was his fault too, he acknowledges grimly. He shouldn't have underestimated this guy. The first thing he told Trish on their first hunt together was to never look the other way. Always watch your back because that's where your enemy is going to be.

"Had enough, Dante?" asks Imp as he flies down to reach him at ground level.

"I'm… just warming up…" Dante grits through his teeth.

He eyes Alastor not far away from him. He thinks of shooting Imp for a slight distraction and going for it, only to realize that he's already wasted all of Ebony's bullets when he was playing with Imp earlier on. The gun makes a sick empty `click' sound when he tries to fire a shot at Imp. Maybe giving Socrates Ivory wasn't such a good idea after all. Or maybe he shouldn't have played a cowboy moments ago. Damn.

Desperately, Dante tries to get to Alastor, crawling on all four and stretching his arms to reach its handle. A jet of ice shoots down between him and his sword, forcing Dante to flinch back. The tentacle around his ankle starts to pull him toward Imp's direction. Aggressively. Dante struggles against it. There's no need to go for Alastor right now. If he can just tear this tentacle off of him, then he should be in the clear. Maybe he can do it with his fingernails.

In an instant, Dante turns his nails jet-black and hard, immediately tearing at the flesh dragging him in. He curses when the skin of the tentacle doesn't budge. It's pissed strong.

"You're not thinking of hurting me again, are you?" Imp inserts as he walks towards Dante, closing the distant between them.

"No, of course not," replies Dante with ease, despite the pain around his ankle, "I wasn't thinking of hurting you at all. No… I was thinking more like smashing your brains with my fist."

Imp glares at him with a stone expression. He allows the tentacle wrapped around Dante's ankle to tighten even more. Dante sucks in the pain and tries to confront Imp head-to-head by standing and running straight for the demon. Imp isn't having it, though. Instead, with the tentacle around Dante's ankle, he flings the hunter easily up in the air. A second tentacle from his back catches Dante by the neck and squeezes tightly as it lifts him five inches off the ground.

Dante's face turns red, his cheeks turning blushed. In another vain attempt, he tries to tear the tentacle with his fingernails. As previously, it's to no avail. He might as well tear at a block of metal and concrete. His eyes roll back when the seconds add, robbing him of all oxygen needed to give life to his body. Imp is slowly sucking out his energy and nothing, not even Devil triggering, will help.

Imp casually walks to him, pulling Dante in, drawing his tentacle wrapped around his prey close to his being.

"Too bad, Dante…" whispers Imp ever so softly. "I guess you lose this round, even though you've won it at the same time, devil boy. It's a shame too. I expected more."

"Don't you ever shut up?" Dante grunts, soon choking and gagging for air, trying to tear the tentacle from him with both hands. It doesn't work. It only makes Imp happier.

"Dante!" he hears to his side unexpectedly.

Socrates…

"Let him go, Imp!" Socrates demands of Imp and clenches both his fists, as if to prepare for a boxing match. "That's enough!"

"Or what, little guy? You gonna hurt me with that lighting special effect of yours? Why don't you take out an ad in Hollywood where they could use that shit in those action and science fiction movies with that old fart, Arnold Schwarznegger, in it? Yeah. You could make a bunch, I tell you. Because that'll be all that you're good for. You may have taken out my little army but you ain't got what it takes to take out DA MAN, nerdy dude."

Socrates prepares to invoke his Spirit. He doesn't care if invoking his Spirit will lead him to go unconscious. He has stop Imp. This has gone too far. Yet, before he can execute his attack, Imp cuts him off. One of his long tentacles shoots up and sprays a jet of ice. The angel stares in horror as the ice immediately builds over his body, trapping him in.

Dante grunts, trying his best to break the hold Imp has on him. Unfortunately, all he can do is watch Socrates' body become encased by the same ice fortress Trish is captured in.

"Your turn," Imp looks back at Dante and gives him a delightful wink.

The silver haired man feels his entire body abrupt in a sensation of coldness. He looks below only to realize that his feet have been frozen! The ice quickly works its way up, reaching his entire legs to his chest to, finally, his head. Imp's tentacles finally let go of their prey, only to allow the frozen substance to capture the devil hunter in its embrace.

Despite his overwhelming and powerful strength, Dante can't move to fight. He soon feels numb all over. Great. Shit! He should've been more careful! Fucking bastard, he's going to cut him a new hole once he figures a way out of this ice. Imp is going to pay, the asshole!

Yet, even with Dante's angry glare, Imp doesn't appear to be the least concerned. Through the ice, in fact, he can see Imp smiling with that stupid usual grin of his.

"… feeling okay… devil…?" Dante can only make out, the ice preventing any noise to come through clearly.

Imp sticks his tongue out on the other side, laughing and throwing him `the finger'. Dante just blinks, angry but unable to do anything. Lord, have mercy on Imp if he gets out of here.

The demon talks a little more. No surprise there since this guy is a ongoing dishwasher machine that can't seem to break the cycle. About the only good thing here is that Imp speaks so low that there's NOTHING he can understand. All he hears is the sound of an ocean echoing through both his ears. Not bad considering the alternative.

Imp pauses from his lively attitude and shifts his focus to the left. This causes Dante to pause over the gruesome image he has in store for David's son the moment he gets his hands on him. Dante can't turn his head to view what's got Imp's focus but, obviously, it must be something important since that prick has finally shut up.

A surge of electricity covers Imp's entire body. The ice-hard devil form soon disappears, replaced by a very human body. Imp's Devil trigger has finally passed. Even more, the tentacles that came from the mysterious black gauntlet have retreated back to its resting place inside the device. The blue orb pops up when the dragon opens its eye. Imp takes it and puts it inside a hole of the gauntlet's bracelet. Imp stares at Dante. Grins. Then takes out his purple glasses from his jacket, soon putting them on. Strange enough, Imp's clothes are intact. Without a scratch.

The sound of an eerie howl is suddenly heard, even with the ice blocking much of its yell. It's close, though. It's terribly close.

Dante continues looking at Imp, noticing that whatever it is, it has got Imp's full, undivided attention. Hell, his own demon senses are going into overdrive themselves. But hold on… there's a scent around here too, awfully familiar.

Suddenly, he hears a humming melody coming from, what appears to be, a woman.

"What are you doing here?" Imp snorts loudly outside his cell. Annoyed. "Don't you have better things to do?"

"I'm checking on my investment, Imp," the woman replies calmly with a beautiful English dialogue.

Trickles of pleasure runs up Dante's spine, his manhood strangely stirring and trying to erect itself despite the restriction of the ice. His head is light, as if he's falling off a cliff and feeling gravity all around him. These sensations… They all can only mean one thing…

"Investment, Siren?" chuckles Imp, "That's a nice way of putting it."

Dante sees a part of the seductress emerging from the left side of his ice cell. By her side is an exotic creature who slowly nears his cell. It looks like a wolf but its fur is colored the blackest of an abyss, seemingly shimmering under the light of the dim sun above. Its narrow and cool eyes sparkle with a bright green hue, looking at him curiously. The black wolf howls again and then scrapes at the ice with its claws, nails two inches long and extremely sharp.

"Feral, calm yourself," Siren replies with a gentle smile, soon kneeling beside this enchanting beast and stroking its fur. Feral licks her smooth creamy colored cheek before moving away, soon guarding the area.

Carefully, Siren stands up, her eyes a smoky cross between reddish brown and green now. Each time he looks at them, they seem to change color. Smiling, Siren allows Dante to get a good look of her, understanding the sensations that are currently running through his so-heated body. Mercy, his body feels like a hundred degrees!

The devil within begs to have her, begs to be unleashed. His erection now wanting to release. It demands that its demon seed be spread into this woman. It desires this woman ever so cruelly in every sort of manner. There isn't anything he wouldn't do in order to have this beautiful creature beside him.

Lord, no, he can't, he tries to reason in the midst of things. She's a part of THEM, he also reminds himself. This is all a trick of hers. He must be under her spell. Yes, that has to be it. That must be. If he can play his cards right, he'll get out of this ice and axe this demon. He has to. She's driving his body and mind insane!

Siren playfully circles around his ice cell, a calm look on her face each time their faces meet. Even though the ice distorts many things outside, that face of hers still remains wonderful to him. Lightly does she allow her tender fingers to touch the ice as she circles around him and hums the same melody he heard her use back in the train. She moves and hums, very slowly. Very gracefully. Finally, after a few minutes or so, she stops circling and moves her hands over his cell, touching it smoothly with the palms of her hands. Siren closes her eyes, moaning softly.

"C'mon, Siren," he hears Imp in the background, his voice in a distant and very quiet. "Leave… poor… alone."

"Does… know…?" he can barely hear Siren reply.

She moves away from his cell, opening her eyes, waiting for an answer from Imp. Dante blinks. His erection literally throbs on both sides of his ears. He tries to subside this physical reaction by concentrating on what the two are saying. However, the two talk too low for him to hear well. All he sees are their mouths moving and a look and feel of seriousness in the air.

"He is…" he manages to catch from Imp, "David will definitely… pleased. I'm sure… won't have trouble at all… He noticed the… It'll only be a matter of… that he'll master it."

Damn it. What did Imp just say?

"It's kind of weird… doesn't know what happens… three days from… can you believe that?" shakes Imp's head, grinning. "For a tough… he sure… pretty stupid."

"Don't talk like that about him!" Siren demands. "He'll… everything… time. And it happens… two days from today, you idiot. Not three."

"Oh-well-excuse-me-Miss-Genius-of-the-Universe!"

Siren gives Imp a very cold glare. He reacts by rolling his eyes and turning away, soon tapping his left foot on the ground. His back facing her. Feral, nearby, growls at the irritating noise he makes. A quick glance of Feral's sharp and metal teeth forces Imp to stop. He scoffs and decides to clean his glasses with his jacket to keep from getting bored.

Meanwhile, Siren decides to return her attention to the object of her affection. The seductress places a hand on Dante's cell again. When she speaks, her words come through clear and loud enough for Dante to understand. Once more, she hums her beautiful melody to him as she talks, her eyes full with devotion and admiration.

"He's so beautiful," she softly murmurs and passionately kisses the ice where Dante's lips lie trapped beneath. If only she could feel his warmth! If only she could fully claim him! "He's just as beautiful as David told me."

"Whatever," this comes from Imp who continues wiping his glasses. Harder now.

"It is just as he promised," continues Siren who seems in a daze, looking but not really looking at Dante. Daydreaming instead. "I never knew this could be real until I saw his face. His eyes. His soul. In time, everything will fall into place. It is like a dream come true to me."

"Yeah," snorts Imp sarcastically, "Whoopee-fucking-do."

"Imagine the possibilities. I shall have the son of Sparda as my husband. I shall have the happiness that I have always wanted."

"Uh-huh. Sure, whatever you say, Siren. Be sure to invite me to the wedding," a short pause. "Not!"

"My love for him will be eternal. I will NOT let this divine love slip by my fingers. I will be his to command and he will be mines to command. I will do everything in my power to make him love me back."

"I'm crying my eyes here. Honest, can't you see? Oh, wait, that could just be one of those eye boogers causing my eyes to leak or maybe an eyelash. Don't know yet."

"He will be my charming prince and I will be his princess and together, we will love each other as I've always dreamt in my dreams. Yes. We will love each other. We will be happy."

"And I will puke since you talk as much as I do!"

"I can't wait until we make love. I can't wait for the touch of his hand on my body…"

"Enough!" Imp cuts her off and finally turns around to face her, hands frustratingly pulling out his long hair. "I've had ENOUGH! Gross! Totally gross, I tell you! Christ, Siren, why don't you keep your sick fantasies and thoughts to yourself, you pervert!"

"There is nothing irregular about physical bonding, my dear Imp. Maybe you would not be so much of a biased man if you delighted yourself in this activity as well. Dare may I ask, do I sense jealously here?"

"Whatever," he smirks and starts to sing a melody of his own in a very flat note. " `Siren and Dante, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G'… C'mon, Siren. Give me a break, you hear?"

Siren glances at him, slightly concerned and slightly curious. She takes a step forward to him, gazing at him with a warm and understanding face. "Why, Imp… you really ARE jealous."

"Jealous? JEALOUS?" rages the dark haired man and points at Dante's direction. "Jealous of THAT? Ha! You've got to be kidding! I ain't got nothing to be jealous over, Siren, girl! It's a shame that you don't know me as well as you think you do!"

"I wasn't referring to Dante, dear," Siren inserts very quietly. "I was referring to the love I mention of."

Imp looks at Siren for a long time. Hard. At first, it appears that he's about to throw another fit. But he doesn't. Instead, he keeps his thoughts to himself even though the pain on his face is apparent. Love? Ha! Who the fuck needs it! Certainly not him!

"Let's get going," Imp mutters to his companion. "Dante has a long day ahead for him and we've got a job to do. It'll only be a matter of time before your `lover boy' figures it out."

"All right…" replies Siren very sad. "But allow me to do as David ordered of us."

She approaches Dante again. Concerned. In love. Directly behind her, Imp nods in satisfaction and unveils a sharp metal object from his purple jacket's pocket. He hands the small device to Siren who, in turn, takes it.

Dante squints his eyes, trying to see what the object in her hand is but the irregularly shaped ice covering him makes the image seriously faint.

Abruptly, however, he feels something extremely sharp pinch his right arm's wrist. The devil hunter looks down as far as his eyeballs can let him. He can see the upper tip of the mysterious object piercing straight into the ice and to his wrist. He can literally feel one of his wrist's veins burst, feeling something wet spill on his palm. Blood? Just what are they doing to him? What are they injecting into him?

"I'll see you again, Dante," Siren purrs sensually to him. "I swear it. Now, go to sleep. You're going to need all your strength."

Dante feels his eyes grow heavy once Siren speaks something in an alien language that he knows he should be familiar with. Her words echo through him like a lullaby, making him extremely sleepy. His world turns black and all he can see is a trace of Siren's face. Smiling. Meanwhile, Feral howls.

It's beautiful here. The sky is bright. Cool. Bright blue. The sky is DEFINITELY fair today. What was it he said to Trish when they escaped from Mallet Island? Oh, yeah. `The sky is fair. It'll always be over people's heads, no different.' At this moment, it truly is a remarkable sight to observe with such innocent eyes. It stares down at him in its wonderful gaze, as if inviting him in to this world. It nearly grasps him so tightly that he's left breathless and in a daze, heart pumping fast and head spinning. The white clouds above calmly move about. They drift off slowly, without a care in the world. Sometimes they remain still but most of the times they transform into different shapes. If he looks closely, he can almost swear that he sees his mother and brother among them. Both of them looking down at him. Smiling. Greeting him.

Man, he feels so good right now. No. Scratch that. He feels fucking GREAT! He can't ever remember feeling this good in his entire life. Hell, it makes sex like a joke! His mind is clear. The pain's gone. Everything seems all right and all good. Gone are his everyday problems. Fears. Frustration. Questions. In their place are the good times. He doesn't even feel so trapped in life as he usually does. It's as if… a blanket just pulled over him, covering him from all of life's regrets. All he feels right now is bliss and content… all at the same time. Heaven forbid, can he actually be… happy?

He feels a cool breeze brush against his face. He feels the warmth of the sun. He feels… life for the first time. And it's beautiful. It's truly beautiful…

Dante smiles, allowing the wonderful moment to rest beside him. His lean and hard body is lay out, flat on a field of extremely bright red roses that whisper loving words to him. He closes his eyes, hearing them, WANTING to hear them. I love you, they say to him. You are my world. You are my everything. I am yours. You are mines. We will be together as one. I love you. His naked fingers gently touch their petals, reaching out to them in the same way. He doesn't care that several of their thorns prick his fingers, for he doesn't have a care in the world remember?

Surrounding him and those roses are grass green trees that stand proud and healthy. Each of them bends slightly toward Dante's direction, lifting their branches upward as if to praise him; as if he were their king and they were his servants. On each of their branches collages of brightly colored flowers consume. Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. Violet. Orange. It's as if the Holy One painted a landscape here with the stroke of his brush himself. Dante is too much in a state of bliss to acknowledge that each of the tree branches are old. Decayed. Withered.

Dante feels something lightly fall on his lip. He opens his eyes and finds a small crystal-like snowflake resting on his mouth. Carefully, he takes it into his hand, observing it from different angels and interest. The crystal flake starts to evaporate in his hands. Before he can dwell over its loss, Dante realizes that several more snowflakes are falling from the sky. He looks up, watching them descend slowly and gracefully, moving with the wind and in circles. Thousand upon thousands more take the plunge and, soon, the field of roses is covered with an illuminating and beautiful whiteness. The sun shining off of it.

Dante laughs as he stands up, watching the wonderful scenery in awe. It isn't cold at all and, yet, winter has come! He spins in circles; arms spread wide open to grasp as much of the snowflakes as he can. He feels like a child again. He feels the innocence of life drift over him, offering him a second chance at happiness. He spins around and around, letting the world become a blur to him. He only concentrates on the white field surrounding him. Not the roses. Not the withered tree branches. Not the evaporating snowflakes. Not the concerned face mother and brother make high above the sky.

Suddenly, among the descending snowflakes from the Heavens, Dante discovers a white dove. It flies, trying to maneuver around the snow but unable to since it seems to be bobbing up and down. Its right wing, Dante comes to realize, is injured. There's bright redness over its clear white feathers. Blood. Dante stops spinning, glancing at the poor creature with sparkling white blue eyes. In wonder. He can almost swear that a tear is falling from his right eye as he reaches his hand toward it, wanting to touch it. Wanting to save it.

"Dante…" someone whispers.

He blinks and looks around, turning left and right to find the source of the person calling to him. Or was that just the wind? He doesn't know, nor does he see anyone else here. All he can find is snow and, strangely enough, a dark black raven.

The raven flies in the opposite direction of the dove. It soars bravely and lands on one of the tree's branches surrounding Dante. In a vulture sort of way, the raven studies the white dove trying to remain in flight. Its cruel eyes glare at it coldly.

"Dante…" the voice says again. Gently. Beautifully. Hypnotizing.

Dante's face expresses a slight frown, certain that it wasn't the wind now. He should be alert, the back of his mind tells him. Be alert. But the roses, the snow, the trees, and the sky… they comfort him. They say otherwise. They tell him that no harm will come to him.

"Dante…" the voice says again.

The silvered haired man grimaces, not knowing where the voice comes from. In his head? From the field he's in? Where? Where does it come from?

Meanwhile, the dove continues to struggle, continues to stay in flight.

Dante takes a few steps forward, trying to locate the person also here with him. He can feel its eyes studying him from a distant. Once he nears the trees, it's then that he realizes that he's wearing clothes. But they're not his clothes. Rather, he's wearing a tuxedo suit colored dark red, a black rose inserted in the jacket's pocket. Curiously, his hands touch the velvet of the suit. They're not his. Lord, he'd hang himself before trying on a tuxedo. Yet, strange enough, he actually likes it. He likes the satin feel of it. He feels awfully comfortable in it.

The dove starts to plummet… losing its will.

Dante's line of vision catches something in white hiding behind the trees. His eyes narrow, realizing that there's someone there. Watching him. A woman.

"Dante…" the wonderful voice sings, "Come here, Dante… I have a present for you…"

"Okay…" he finds himself saying. Smiling.

What? The back of his mind says. Why'd you say that? Of course you ain't going anywhere! Stay back! Stay here!

"Hurry, Dante…" soothes the voices, "Come to me…"

The voice laughs wonderfully. The concealed woman dressed in white suddenly flees from the trees. Humming a comfortable melody.

"Wait!" shouts him and he rushes after the stranger.

The predator raven watches in satisfaction as the dove continues to descend.

Dante runs through the grass green trees, racing as fast as he can, the scenery surrounding him flashing rapidly by. The sun hides behind the field of red roses. The forest moves with life, breezing back and forth to motivate the lonesome man. The clouds turn slightly gray. The air becomes still and almost dead.

Dante's heart literally rams inside his chest, pumping blood in and out. Soon, the silvered haired man finds himself gasping for air. However, it's more out of pleasure than pain. He enjoys this. He enjoys this… hunt. In a way, him hunting this woman appears to be half the fun. If he didn't know any better, she probably knew that. He soon grins mischievously. Poor girl. Poor little, naïve, girl. You've no idea how good I am, baby. I ain't never lost a hunt in my life. Never. Once I set my agenda out, it'll only be a matter of time before I achieve it. Run all you want, little girl, I'm gonna get you. I'm gonna get you…

The trees, meanwhile, smile down at him. Happy. Pleased. When the silvered haired man reaches a dead end in the forest, the trees push themselves away from each other to create an open path for him. Without question, Dante enters it and soon finds himself near a waterfall.

The white dove finds itself down on the ground.

"There once was a love that was strong to hold," the voice appears again, echoing inside of Dante's head. "Her lover was handsome, sweet, and bold…"

Dante carefully crosses the river stream by walking on top of the large exposed rocks, hearing that BEAUTIFUL melody sing to him. Oh that song! He thinks. That song! It's so beautiful! He has to find her… He has to hunt her down! She'll be his! Yes! She will be!

"Then, alas, a storm had come with the ring of a bell," the melody continues, "It stole him away and damned her to hell…"

The raven flies off its nesting place, toward the white dove. It will claim it now, it will be the powerful of the two now.

His legs slightly ache as he pushes forward. He is a mad man running to meet his destiny as it seems. He cares little for the voice that beacons for him to stop and think, threatening to collapse if not obeyed. But Dante doesn't comply. His concern lies in finding the woman, the woman he desires to hunt down and call his trophy girl. He damn well knows that lust is a sin, but it's only human to forget that, right? What harm can be done if he has her? Fuck her? Isn't it in human nature to bond with the animal in us all? Can't we have the right to give into our desires? What can `reason' do to subside the devil that is already found in everyone? It's in human nature, damn it! It's not his fault! He's not to blame for this!

The silvered haired man finally reaches the other side of the river, running desperately to the voice. Despite all better `reason', he continues forth, searching and resuming the hunt. He can sniff her out. Oh, that beautiful scent of hers… He can smell it. He can taste it! In a short matter of time, she'll be his.

Dante hears the voice again and follows its melody. The lullaby appears to be coming near the waterfall.

He chuckles to himself. Thinking. Yeah. This was easy. This was too fucking easy. How easy? Too easy. Yes, really easy. Really, REALLY easy. Ha!

Without a care in the world, Dante strolls to the melody's location, hearing the sweet woman continue to sing. She'll be his, he insanely keeps repeating to himself. She'll be his. She'll be his. She'll be his. She'll be his. She'll be his. She'll be his…

You'll be mines the raven appears to say as it touches ground, right near the dove. The dove moves helplessly without a will of its own. It lost it a long time ago.

"She screamed and withered in deep terrifying pain, but her king promised her love and gave her a cane…"

There she is, Dante realizes, keeping the smirk on his hard face. With a couple of casual steps, he walks to her like he has all the time in the world. He finally stops when he's right near the water. In animal lust, he marvels at the living and breathing masterpiece before him. His naïve, white blue eyes slightly sparkle. Hidden in them is a darkness he's continuously denied before. There you are… he says to himself. You're mine now, little bitch.

A red haired woman dressed in a freshly made bridal gown looks lovingly at him. The bridal dress is extravagant, filled with pearls of white and rich silk. It moves when the wind twirls about, slowly. Seductively. Hauntingly. Her wild and blazing red hair rests exotically on her naked, vanilla shoulders. Part of it covers half of her face, somehow bringing out those smoky eyes of hers.

The mysterious woman remains still for the moment, holding a pocketful of black roses with both hands. Somehow, she stands in the middle of the river with her bare delicate feet, not falling in. As far as Dante can tell, there isn't a reflection of her on the river, which is odd because everything else shows up. He abruptly frowns, however, when he notices that he, too, doesn't appear on the water. There's just a blank spot. Empty.

The woman suddenly smiles, a warm and longing one. She decides to walk a step forward toward Dante's direction. The water ripples and sparkles as she does. Despite the water from the waterfall splashing down on her as she passes by its massive stream, none of it touches her. She remains dry. Untamed.

"And now a new champion has arrived this wonderful day," the woman replies quietly and ever so softly, looking at Dante. "Ha, her love will be renewed and the bitch shall play."

On that last word, the woman throws her black roses high into the sky. As they separate and descend back to her, she drowns herself into the water.

"No!" screams Dante as he realizes what's happened. Immediately, he dives in after her.

The raven dives into the flesh of the dove who shrieks in terror.

Underwater, Dante hurriedly glances left to right, trying to see where his trophy went. Damn her, the mad man aggressively thinks. Damn her to hell! That wasn't fair of her to do that to him. No, it wasn't! He won her! Fair and square! That fucking-cock-sucking-cheating-whore!

Frustrated, Dante continues to swim. Griping. Angry. It takes awhile for him to notice how awfully dark the water has become. Cold. Corrupted.

It's strange how big this river actually is, he manages to think properly. From the dry land, it appeared small and… harmless. Now? Well, now his demon senses are shifting into overdrive, indicating danger nearby. Piss off, he tells the bad vibes he's getting at this moment.

Stubbornly, he continues swimming. He can barely make out where he is since it seems endless. Except for several objects floating around him, it's rather empty here. Dead. And speaking of those `objects' surrounding him, they're rather oddly shaped and huge, aren't they?

The silvered haired man pushes his hands forward and back. Moving. Thrusting. Every ounce of him summons his strength, desiring only to find his trophy. He earned it, he keeps reminding himself. He earned that trophy fair and square. It has no right to drown itself, now, does it? He won it.

Dante nears one of the large objects. He thinks of maneuvering over it to resume his hunt but the closer he gets to it, the more curious he becomes. Finally, fed up by the nagging curiosity his mind is consumed with, he moves toward the entity. The large, bulky object gets closer and closer. Assumptions are made. Confirmations are told. Details are discovered. And finally, surprise comes knocking in.

Dante's face turns to complete stone. He has to blink to realize what it is.

Bodies… thousands of bodies float lifelessly in this underwater abyss. Each of them is naked with large gashes found on their right wrists. Pale faced. Skin peeled clean from parts of their bodies, exposing the white bone and meat beneath. They are a misfit group of rotten flesh. Motionless, like the water that embraces them lovingly. The light from above the surface showers over them, creating eerie and twisted shadows over their frozen faces.

The corpse nearest to Dante drifts a bit to him. Its eyes are gorged off and a large gap is seen where its heart is supposed to be. And yet, no blood. No look of agony in its grotesque features. If anything, it smiles. Laughing. Laughing at him.

Dante's face turns pale. Immediately, he attempts to move away from it since the other corpses appear to be FLOATING toward his direction, surrounding him! As Dante desperately moves to leave this awful place, the corpse still near him tilts a little to the left. It reveals an awkward configuration on its right forearm.

The symbol contains three outlined circles. Each on top of the other. One of the circles is large. The second one (a medium sized circle) sits inside the large circle and the third oval (the smallest of the three) rests inside the medium sized circle. Deep inside the small one, there lies a tiny point where several outlined arrows emerge from it, each pointing at all directions. North. South. East. West. Northeast. Southeast. Northwest. Southwest.

As the other corpses close in into his position, Dante comes to discover that they ALL wear this mark. What does it mean? Suddenly, he catches sight of a woman dressed in a bridal gown. She's beyond the pack of corpses, drifting away. In fact, she doesn't look like she's swimming at all. She's floating lifelessly. Mother of mercy, could his trophy be dead already?

The devil hunter shifts his body to swim to the body dressed in vanilla. The pack of corpses creates an obstacle for him, however. They surround him in all directions, their hands sticking out, as if to reach him. Angry, Dante pushes them off of him. No longer does his body fill with fright but with a terrible heat of hatred.

A fast glimpse to his left and he sees that his trophy is far away. If he could, he'd curse at these rotting bodies for preventing him from reaching it. They're seriously pissing him off now. With one hefty push, the hunter manages to thrust away the two bodies on him. Seeing an opening, he swims as fast as he can before the rest of the corpses can close the gap.

Meanwhile, the white dove tries to flee from its capturer. It tries to fight back but soon sees half of its body soaked in blood. The raven shrieks in pleasure as it manages to peck out its eyes, blinding it. Blinding it from the truth.

Dante starts to close in the distance between his trophy and him. He doesn't bother to glance back and see if he's left the pack of corpses high and dry. Hopefully, they won't be any more trouble for him. Damn bodies, he ponders hatefully. How DARE they try to stop him! If he could, he'd kill them again for doing such a mistake!

Dante allows this hate to drive him harder and faster to the body trying to escape him. He'll be damned if this will be his first time losing a hunt. So help him, he'll get that bitch.

"No…" a voice abruptly whispers to Dante inside his head, almost causing him to pause.

It's a man's voice. Deep. Calm. It's familiar to him but for some reason he can't remember who the voice belongs to.

"Turn around, Dante… Let her go. Let her die…"

No, if I do that then I won't be able to claim my trophy.

"Let her go… Let her die."

No!

More determined now, Dante uses all his might. He reaches within a meter away of the drifting white body. Then a couple of feet. Finally, inches. An exposed ankle from the body is the closest body part to him. His hands reach out to grab it. While he's able to successfully wrap a hand around the ankle, a current appears. He accidentally lets go and the body moves away from him again. No!

"Turn around, Dante…" a man's voice says. "Let her go… Let her die."

Fuck off! Whoever you are, fuck off!

"You know me, Dante… You know who I am… Listen to me… Let her go. Let her die."

The white dove screams its final breath, flapping its wings as it convulses.

Dante makes another attempt at the ankle. The tips of his fingers lightly make contact. Aggressively he lungs forward and, without daring to let this chance go by, he pushes himself forward to grab the entire ankle. Success! Eagerly, he pushes the lifeless body toward him. He has it! He has his trophy! He's won! He's finally claimed it!

Pleased by his victory, Dante proceeds to turn the white dressed figure around to face him, ready to tell it that he's claimed it. His mouth opens to scream as a bolt of realization hits, as his humanity finally begins to return to his soulless body.

But it's too late. The white dove is already dying. Its heart taken out now. The raven, it appears, seems to be the stronger of the two…

Water fills Dante's lungs, not enabling him to scream at the face he sees stare right back at him. Trish's dead eyes lock onto his…

Her features are cold. Frozen in place. Eyeballs are rolled back, in agony. Purple lips, closed. She has the face of a person who has finally met her fate. There's a long black ribbon tied around her neck. Dante doesn't dare touch it since he feels nauseated just looking at it.

The pack of corpses begins to drift toward Dante's direction, surrounding him with a vengeance. But Dante doesn't care. He doesn't care anymore. He came into this world without a care and so, he'll leave it just like that. He pulls Trish's bloody corpse close to him, wanting to breath life into her, wanting to shelter her. Wanting forgiveness. He is given neither. Instead, he rewarded with horror. His eyes widen in shock when Trish's mouth suddenly opens. A spew of blood vomits out, quickly contaminating the water. In mere minutes, Trish's blood paints the entire area into a sick red hue.

The corpses jerk to life, screaming horrible sounds to their prey. What began with Dante being the hunter now ends with him being the hunted. Dante starts to swim, dragging Trish along. He stops the moment he sees the ribbon tied around Trish's head unravel itself. Trish's head falls off. Before the silvered-haired man can claim her head the corpses grab him. He continues to struggle to break free but…

It's too late. The raven has done its damage. Now, the white dove, the sweeter of the two is dead. Things will never be the same again.

Dante's lungs fill with water and he feels like he's going to pass out. He sees Trish's headless body drifting off. Moving. Fading away. He no longer has the strength to fight them. He no longer has the strength to fight his inner demons.

The corpses begin to pull. Dante's limbs are broken. His blood mingles with the crimson color that surrounds him. Flesh is torn. Souls are broken.

"No!" Dante manages to scream, but only a gurgle sound emerges from his mouth.

Their arms continue to pull at him, tearing him apart until he, too, becomes a lifeless object among the watery abyss…

"Get off me, bastards!" screams Dante and pushes the hands touching his shoulders.

The hands try to push him down but he stubbornly refuses to comply. He kicks, thaws, and punches fearlessly, eyes closed and unwilling to see those rotting corpses. He doesn't want to see them. They're too ugly. Too evil. He can feel their arms again, moving towards his stomach. He violently pushes them away and rolls to his side, hoping that his enemies will leave him alone. He curls into a fetal position, legs pulled up and arms wrapped around them.

A drop of sweat falls from his forehead to his extremely hot, puffy cheeks. He feels his blood boiling. Heat and exhaustion fill his body, consuming it like the virus that it is. Even his stomach is doing somersaults, constantly moving and twisting into knots. It causes something to run up his throat. Dante forces the vomit to settle back down. A bitter taste comes on his tongue, making him grimace. His body trembles from a sudden wave of chill. Goosebumps emerge all over his arms and legs. Christ, he's both hot AND cold!

Once again, a hand touches him. It takes his right arm and tries to roll him to his back with it. Immediately, Dante jolts up and opens his watery eyes to finally see those awful corpses. It's not what he expected.

He's on a bed in a room that is dark with the exception of a few lighted candles nearby and a window that is currently covered by a green colored curtain. A small nightstand sits next to him where several wet clothes lie on top of it. A bowl of cool and clear water is there too. It's old by the looks of it, like an antique. A few feet away from it there's a fireplace. It gazes brilliantly through the near black interior of the room. Tiny ashes emerge from it, crackling a bit in the midst of the near deafening silence of the chamber. They fall onto the oak made floor, bursting into thin air soon afterwards. At the corner of the room, he eyes an unoccupied rocking chair.

Dream, he thinks suddenly. Dream. He just had a dream. Or was it? He doesn't know WHAT to believe anymore. Sure, he's had nightmares before, but not like this. Not this real. Not this obscene. He's never, in his wild imagination, thought of being so cold. Is this what Imp meant? Not trusting himself? Jesus… who was that HORRIBLE man in his dreams? The one who wore his same face? The one who talked like him? The one who had a dead mother and brother? It couldn't have been him. It couldn't! He's not like that! He's not like that at all! Was is it someone else? It has to be. Otherwise…

"Jesus…" he whispers to himself and runs a hand across his hair.

It's funny how sick dreams are. It's funny, that despite you knowing better, you find yourself entering a cave of untold horror. You know that there is danger around the corner. And yet, there you are. Going in. Knowing better but doing it anyway. In dreams, most of the times, you have no freewill. You just play along until something twisted breaks you to wake up. But what if that isn't the case here? Are these the things that play at the back of his mind? Can he be so cruel? Does his body possess a soul of dark potential?

Drowsily, Dante rests himself back on the bed, thinking how quiet it is here, like the insides of a church. Lying, Dante moves his eyes left to right, finding the muteness of it all somewhat irritating. He can't remember anytime being in a place so silent as this. He never liked going to libraries or churches because of that. He always needed noise, some indication that the world around him was still alive and well. Not dead.

Even though the back of his mind informs him of several life forms in here with him, he's too tired to pay any attention to them. He doesn't have the will to sniff them out, let alone fight them in this weak condition. He'll just have to hope that whoever is here with him will leave him the hell alone. He's just too weak right now to be any good.

His drowsy eyes slowly shut themselves, illuminating to him a sense of comfort and warmth if he decides to sleep. Yet, he doesn't buy it and therefore, forces them to open again, using what's left of his energy to further study his surroundings.

The chamber, itself, is made of wood. Oak. Much like the floor. Its grassy smell reminds him of the time when he and his brother went camping during the summer, sometime when they were, what, seven? Yeah. It's like he's in some kind of… log cabin.

"His fever is still strong," a man's voice, heavy and scratchy, suddenly whispers in the abyss of the room. "He must be delirious."

"Explain that to my sore face," another comments, somewhat in pain. It's another man's voice but by the sound of it, appears younger than the first.

"Perhaps we should leave him be for awhile."

"Look, old man, we ain't got all day to wait for him to wake up. He might know what the hell happened here, or who's responsible for it."

"It's too risky. We might lose him to the fever."

"And? So what?"

"Hush, boy! Don't talk like that." A pause, "I think he is coming around…"

Curious of the voices that currently whisper, Dante tries to sit up from his bed, face wet with sweat. Even his entangled white sheets feel moist. With great effort and a soft grunt, Dante props himself up with both his elbows, hoping to pinpoint the location of the persons conversing. They're not demons, he can tell. Thank Buddha. In fact, they're completely human from what he smells. Still, who are they? What do they want? And what's this about a fever?

He blinks and frowns confusedly when he notices a large white cloth wrapped around his wrist. Small specks of blood appear to have seeped through. There's another white cloth, this time, over his forearm. Before he can uncover a part of it, he feels movement.

Dante looks up and notices two shadows moving near a corner of the room. He attempts to sit more erect to get a better observation but his body hits the bed, having enough of the strain. Breathing heavily, Dante covers his eyes with the back of his hand, somewhat sick of the dull lighting in the room. Vomit creeps up his throat but again, he holds it in.

"Damn it, there he goes again," the second voice says, irritated. "Let's do him a favor and put him out of his misery. There's no way he's going to recover with that fever, especially since we no longer have our medical supplies because of the attacks. We're wasting a good bed and water on an already dead man."

"May the Holy Spirit forgive you for saying such things. This man is alive. We must treat him as such. Besides, I sense something different about this man."

"Like the woman?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause between the two. Long.

"Did you see it?" the second voice finally asks.

"See what?"

"The mark."

"Yes."

"Do you understand what it means?"

"Yes."

"It's from HIM, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"But why?"

"I have no idea, except that this man here is related to the situation and must be given our full support. He is strong, I can tell. He must've been given the mark for this reason."

"But, what if he's working with HIM?"

"I don't think so."

"But how do you KNOW?"

"His eyes. He is lost. His soul is lost. He has a damned soul."

"Do you think that's why he slit his own wrist?"

"It doesn't appear that he slit it himself."

"Are you saying someone ELSE cut his wrist?"

"I have my suspicions."

"Forgive me, but I don't like this man one bit. If HE got through all this trouble for this man here, then this man MUST be working for them."

"I don't think so. His lost eyes tell me enough."

"But the mark!"

"The mark…" a tired sigh, "That is another matter, my son."

Dante uncovers his face, silent as to not let the two strangers know that he's been eavesdropping on their conversation. He has an idea what those two men are talking about: David. Strange, that they know about David. Did they have a run in with him?

A part of his sight catches the injured wrist covered by the cloth. He glances at it for a long time. No, he remembers, he didn't slit himself. He ain't that type of guy anyway. Sure, there were days where he wished he couldn't live anymore. He even had fantasies of drowning himself to take away all his pain. But that was it. Never, once, did he take these death wishes seriously. It just felt like a huge crime to life and everything.

Once again, Dante props himself up with his elbows. Steadily, he rises more than he did last time. Sitting hunched on his bed, he slowly gazes directly at the two shadows.

"Who are you?" he can hoarsely mutter, trying to breath calmly.

The two shadows remain still, as if caught by surprise. Dante waits for either of them to approach so that he can get a better look of them. Finally, one of them does. This one walks to the foot of the bed and stops. The light of the candles creates shadows and lightness on the man's wrinkled and slightly tanned face. He looks around sixty years old and has long gray hair, some of it braided with decorative braids. He wears a heavy and dark poncho over his large, but short body. His slanted eyes are a dark color that seems to look through anything or anyone, indicating to all that he is a man with great patience and history.

"My name is Joseph," he says, more audible than before. "And this is my son, Natiche."

The remaining shadow pauses before moving. Dante can only guess that this is the one who finds him very suspicious. Not that he blames him one bit. He has good reason to believe that he might work for David, with him being part devil himself and all. Still, he or the old man doesn't have to know that.

After awhile, the second shadow finally emerges from his hiding place. He's young, probably around his mid-twenties more or less. He's tall too, with broad wide shoulders that accompany muscular, lean arms. They could probably break the metal of a car those arms! Unlike his father, this man's hair is cut short, trimmed like a buzz cut but with well defined sideburns that fit very nicely with the black patch of hair on his chin. He wears khaki pants and a white flannel shirt that is currently covered by a heavy brown colored coat.

Natiche stares at Dante, in silence. If looks could literally kill, then Natiche would be a mass murderer. His black eyes are as cruel and cold as anyone can get.

He's going to have to be careful with this one, thinks Dante. He's seen men like this before. Then again, maybe there's a valuable reason for this hostility. David might play a part in it. Who's to know for sure unless he asks? But before Dante can exchange words with the two men, the door leading to his room opens.

A blinding shower of light enters from another room beyond this one. It forces Dante to shield his still-sensitive eyes. He hears the door close softly and then the sound of footsteps coming his way.

"How is he?" Socrates' voice echoes into the room, softly and with great concern.

Socrates sees Dante huddled on his bed, covering his eyes with both hands, not seeming to recognize him due to his cruel condition. Dante's face and naked chest glistens with sweat, his complexion somewhat pale. He doesn't look too good, Socrates notes while holding a steaming bowl of soup on his hands. Some of the boiled chicken surfaces as well as the carrots and seasonings. There're also several things he decided to add in, hopefully to Dante's liking. Knowing him, however, he wouldn't know what soup tastes like since he probably lives off of pizza and, well, beer. Jeez, how many boxes of pizza and beer bottles did he find when he entered DNC this morning?

"The fever hasn't gone down," Joseph replies, returning him back to the situation. The old man turns to watch Dante slowly lie back down and shiver as a mixture of heat and cold invades his body. In a quieter voice he adds, "It seems to be getting worse."

The angel nods, continuing to observe the hunter's condition. He hears Dante softly moan and sees him shift his body to face the nightstand. The sheets wrinkle and stretch when Dante covers them over his entire body, as if to shield away the pain he's feeling right now. Socrates approaches his companion's bed, soon kneeling beside him and offering the bowl of hot soup in his hands.

"You better eat some of this," Socrates says, talking softly to him so as not to add to the pain with such loud sounds. "Drink the soup at least. It'll make you feel a little better."

Dante slowly lowers the covers from his face. A ghost of a grin crosses his pale and wet features the moment he sees a familiar face looking back at him.

"Thought that was your voice, wing boy," he inserts very weakly. "You're a sight for sore eyes. Mind telling me what happened? Where we are? How we got out…?"

Dante stops. He shuts his eyes tightly and clenches his fists when his head starts to throb with an undeniable shot of heat, like someone taking his brain and twisting it in a tight knot. His entire back flinches backwards in surprise when a jolt of coldness follows. It runs from his spine straight to his legs, arms, and chest. His breathing grows heavily and rapid, somehow unable to gain the proper amount of oxygen into his lungs. Several of his arms' veins pop up as he clenches his sheets, strained by the ejections of heat and cold. He gives out an agonizing yell.

"This feels wrong…" he barely gasps and moans out loud, "What is happening to me…? This doesn't feel like an ordinary fever…"

"Careful, now," urges Socrates and manages to slip some of the soup's contents into Dante's mouth.

Dante snaps his eyes open. Suddenly, the pain is gone. The hell…?

"Here," says Socrates and places the bowl towards his lips for him to drink off of it. "Rest and drink some of this… Save your strength…"

The silvered haired man looks at Socrates questionably. Did… did he take away the pain he just had now? He tasted some of the soup and then, there, the pain is gone. It was like he switched off a switch or something. Did the soup do that? He feels like asking him but he doesn't have the strength to. It seems as every second passes by he's running out of fuel. How long will this last, he does not know. He only wishes it to be over very soon.

Dante gazes up at Socrates whose eyes reveal a sense of urgency in them, probably because he isn't drinking up the brew of soup yet. Soup… Man, he hasn't had that for a long time. He can't remember why though. Dante notices Socrates starting to sweat, the mist of the soup reaching up to his face. Reluctantly, Dante nods and struggles to sit up, agreeing to feed on the bowl's contents. He even allows the angel to lift his head up to slurp in the soup, even if he'd like nothing else but to do it for himself. He hates being cared for, anyway. He hates being the boat, having to depend on the air and waves to drift him along. He isn't a baby, y' know. He's a man who can take care of himself. He's been doing that since mom and bro went away.

"Relax," Dante rolls his eyes as he drinks up, noticing the strange face Socrates makes, "I ain't as bad as I look. It'll take more than some prick to take me down."

"Yeah, or so you say," replies the angel rather uneasy. "C'mon now, Dante. Stop talking and drink. Your body needs to recover, even if you are…"

Dante immediately holds his hand up to cut him off. His eyes turn a little toward the two men also occupying the room. They appear just as interested in what Socrates has to say as he is. The angel, however, takes the hint and nods in understanding, agreeing not to mention out loud what kind of `soup' Dante comes from. His lips keep sealed.

Once he's had enough of it, Dante waves the bowl of soup away from his face. Any more of it and he'd be choking to death! Man, NOW he remembers why he stayed away from it in the first place. Soup tastes awful! Just awful! Awful, man! Sheeit! He's eaten better crap than this before! Then again, a humorous thought comes across his mind, it could just be Socrates has a bad cooking habit. That'll explain that nasty flavor he just tasted right now. Socrates, please, don't quit your day job, man. In fact, stay the hell away from the kitchen as FAR as you can.

As Socrates places the bowl on the nightstand, Dante studies the two silent men across his bed. The young one, Natiche, still observes him as if he were David himself. He's as hostile as ever. In fact, while he was suffering from the pain just moments ago, he could've sworn that boy was smiling. Dante glances at the older man next to him. Joseph, on the other hand, seems more understanding. Compassionate.

"So who are you two anyway?" he asks, addressing ONLY him.

"These are the Apache Indians that live here in the reservation I told you about," answers Socrates, smiling because of his vast knowledge of everything.

Dante gives the angel an annoyed look. "I was asking him, wing boy."

"Oh."

"What is there to know of us?" the old man acquires and takes a step forward, piercing Dante's eyes with his own.

"For one, how did you get us out of the ice?"

"Ice?" Joseph frowns, "What ice?"

"The ice we were trapped in," he explains and looks at Socrates. He returns his gaze back at the older man. "All of us were covered by it."

Joseph slowly shakes his head. "No. When we found you, all three of you were unconscious, resting near the edge of the river."

"But…" the devil hunter starts, puzzled. "That's… that's impossible… We were all…"

Again, the pain comes. It shoots to the back of his head like before, this time, more powerful. He grunts and closes his eyes.

"Impossible…" he manages to say before slumping his upper back against the wall behind him. "Damn, this fucking pain… Why won't it go away…?"

"You need rest, son," Joseph replies steadily, "Your fever will only get worse."

"No… I can't…" Dante struggles, "We're… we're running out of time and I…"

Another agonizing groan comes from the silvered haired man before he can finish what he has to say. Socrates tries to comfort his friend by placing one of the wet clothes from the nightstand on top of his head. Dante smacks it away, too much in pain to accept anything. Nearby, Natiche shakes his head in dismay. He looks stone-faced at the old man.

"See?" he tells him in a hard manner, only loud enough for his father to hear his thoughts. "I told you that he's done for. Look at him! The poor bastard is just delaying the inevitable."

"Son… How can you be so… cold?"

"Who gives a damn if I'm cold or not! We're wasting our resources on a man who we shouldn't even trust! We should've just left the three alone and gone on our way. We have a better chance in battling those demons out there than adding to our burdens with him and his friends. Who's to say that they, themselves, aren't like the others anyway? Aren't you forgetting the last we allowed strangers here?"

"We must put our trust in the Holy Spirit, son. I feel that this is the right thing."

"And I feel that you should reconsider, `father'. We don't need this shit right now."

"Mind your tongue, Natiche," orders Joseph, his voice growing hard.

"Mind my tongue?" laughs Natiche out of mockery, "I'm over here talking about our lives at stake and you're concerned with my `tongue'? Now who's the one that sounds cold?"

Joseph glares at his son in a displeased manner. He might not say a word but his eyes, alone, speak a fearsome thousand. Natiche responds by scoffing out loud and turning his back to him. This old man is going to get us all killed, he bitterly tells himself. These three strangers are only going to make matters worse like the others that came before. It's bad enough that each of their people is being killed one by one by those THINGS. Now… Now he's taking three potential threats into the hearts of their very homes. Why can't his father see that all this white haired man and his friends will bring to them is despair and harm? WHY CAN'T HE?

"Natiche," Joseph begins once he notices his son heading for the door, "Where are you going, my son?"

"Where do you think I'm going?" mumbles Natiche aggressively, "I'm getting out of here. And once I find a way, I'll be out of this shithole too!"

The door slams shut behind him. The loud noise causes Socrates to look away from Dante for a moment and straight to the old man's direction.

"I'm sorry about my son's behavior," apologizes Joseph shortly. "He's a bit tensed about the situation."

Socrates swallows hard, somewhat feeling guilty for having Natiche storm off. It's because of them that they've caused the remaining villagers here to be on their guards. After all, he didn't know what to make of it when he woke up, surrounded by people of beautiful dark brown skin. And then, suddenly, it hit him. The village. This was the area the Apache Indians settling in Arizona decided to locate their small tribe, near the mountains where their ancestors once stood proudly by. He remembers sighing in relief when he came to, thankful that they were still alive despite knowing that there were demons lurking about. But after glancing at the worried expressions by the people, he realized things weren't good at all.

The angel hears Dante moan again, unable to fight off the heat coming back to him in tenfold. He kneels beside him, like a brother. He brushes back strands of hair from Dante's face.

"Listen, everything's going to be all right," Socrates tries to soothe. "You'll see."

"No, it isn't," Dante replies, rather disturbed and in agony at the same time. "Damn it… Trish was right… Everything about this mission feels so wrong. This fever. My dream…"

My dream. He shakes his head, recalling the dream again. That dream, that awful dream he had before waking up. Christ… it felt so real. (Let her go… Let her die…) Trish. He can almost see her rotting corpse right now. Trish. Trish…

"Socrates," he asks quickly, hating himself for not asking the moment he woke up. "Trish… Trish. Where's my girl, wing boy? Where's my girl? Is she still alive?"

"What do you mean?" Socrates asks confused, noticing how paranoid Dante sounds.

"Damn it, man, is she alive!" Dante grabs the younger man by the shirt and pulls the angel toward him, his eyes gleaming with frustration.

"Yes, Dante!" the angel rapidly nods, somewhat shocked. He's never seen this side of him before. "Yes. Yes. She's… she's alive."

"Where…?"

"In the other cabin," Joseph answers very concerned. "Rest easy. She's awake but I'm having my friend look over her to make sure she is all right."

Dante slowly lets go of Socrates who quickly slips out of range, still pale from Dante's unexpected outrage. Dante doesn't care and closes his eyes, soon breathing in relief, grateful. If he could, he'd give Joseph a billion bucks right now. Or maybe he could hunt down demons for Joseph for free. Yeah, he could give him a year's subscription to Dante's `Kill-A-Demon-Anywhere-And-At-Anytime' special. Exorcism and witch hunting included. That'll work, he smiles.

Trish, the back of his mind says in the meantime, she's still alive.

"I'm in debt to you, Joseph," he tells the old man. Serious now.

"No need to be."

"No, I really am. I always repay favors done for me." He later smiles, "My name's Dante and I'll be at your service until I can give you back what you gave me."

Joseph looks at him, his eyes carefully studying his. Joseph takes a huge swallow, as if preparing for a speech. "Then perhaps, you CAN help me."

"Name it," the hunter immediately inserts, ready to comply.

"The attacks. The demon attacks," explains the old man and shakes his head. "We're dying and need all the help we can get."

"Go on," Dante nods to him, wanting to know the full story.

The old man takes a deep breath. He walks near the window, uncovering the curtain a bit to view outside. The mountains stare back at him in a shallow glare. Cold. Hard. Joseph feels slightly disturbed and afraid. He turns to face the silvered haired man.

"Three strangers came to our village sometime last week," he finally continues. "Two men and a woman. The woman attracted many of my men, seeing her as the most beautiful creature to ever walk this Earth. But I knew, I long well knew that she was pure evil. The younger one, with long and black hair was the same too. I knew. I knew that something was… wrong with these three, despite them saving one of our children."

"What?"

"Yes," Joseph says and takes a seat on the rocking chair at the corner of the room. "A little one was wounded when a black furred beast attacked her. She nearly died but one of the men, the oldest of the three it appeared, carried her to our village."

Joseph pauses, looking up at the ceiling as he slowly rocks back and forth in his chair. The wooden floor creaks each time he moves. The flames grow high in the fireplace. The room becomes even more quiet. Joseph doesn't pay any attention, his mind is currently replaying the entire event of the three strangers, able to absorb and retell every detail.

"I will never forget his eyes," he whispers after a long time, "I will never forget them for as long as I can live. He had the strangest ones I've ever seen. It was as if he could see through my soul, reach into it and grasp it with his gaze alone."

He exhales sharply. Then, looks back at Dante and Socrates.

"Naturally, our people gathered and greeted them. They did, after all, save our little one. There wasn't a man or woman in the village that didn't show up that day. We even gave them a grand feast the day after, constantly telling them how grateful we were to them and how they were always welcomed to our homes." Joseph stops, smirking in disgust, mainly to himself. "Despite my better judgment, I ignored the strangeness I kept feeling when I was near the oldest one. I should've listened to my voice… I should've listened to the spirits that kept haunting my dreams, warning me."

Dreams… Dante thinks uncomfortably again. Dreams…

"You didn't know," Dante replies softly, trying convince himself as well. "You had no idea who you were dealing with. You're not to blame for what happened."

Joseph glances down, wanting so much to believe that. He clasps his hands together. Tightly. His fingers tremble a bit.

"Do you have any idea why they came to your village?" Socrates asks, wondering if Joseph's fully aware of the hidden gate to hell. "What they were after?"

"No, but I know it had something to do with the mountains," he answers, a bit surprised at the red haired man. "In fact, the young man, the wild one of the three, asked me what route he should take to reach one of the peaks of the mountains. I ignored him and went on my way. The wicked boy wouldn't leave me alone, though. He kept pestering me for an answer. He must've enjoyed taunting me since he kept asking ME this question rather than going to someone else. And even then, even when I answered, the twisted man kept stalking me. He played sick pranks to the point where I almost had a heart attack!"

"Imp…" mutters Dante to himself, perfectly imagining the prick doing what Joseph just described. He shakes his head and then addresses the old man. "When did things get bad?"

"Sometime when they left, the sky grew cold. Snow would fall in the strangest of places. The thunder was constant and in our plains out there, red roses mysteriously grew overnight. I couldn't believe my own eyes when I started to see the ground begin to… bleed, as if it were dying from some disease. A disease, I've come to realize, that we've unleashed." He shakes his head, slightly afraid. "At first, we didn't think take these events seriously. We were all too scared to take action. But when some of our people started to disappear and we started to find them mutilated beyond recognition, we knew something had to be done."

Joseph takes another deep breath, he clasps his hands more tighter.

"Demons began to emerge within the forest, attacking those who dare tried to reach the mountains. My oldest son went with his fellow members, hoping to seek the three strangers out. By then, after I had a vision of them, we knew who was the cause of the distress."

"And what happened to him?"

The old man swallows hard, his mouth growing numb. "The day they went to seek them out was the day they returned… Each of their heads was severed from their bodies. Their heads were later found near the river which started to bleed blood just yesterday."

The old man looks at Dante and Socrates very hard.

"My father used to tell me stories of the evil held within these mountains. But much like my son, I did not believe the tales. Thousands of our people, many, many years ago, fought and died to battle the great evil my father once told me. They sealed its power, hoping for it to never be unleashed again." The old man blinks, now directing his attention to Dante. "During this battle, my father also told me of a man coming from the north. He had hair as white as snow. Eyes, a crystal blue. There was… this light coming from him. It was a good type of light."

Dante freezes, knowing full well about this man he currently speaks of.

"He helped them," Joseph says, still looking at Dante, "And in the end, they called him White Devil, for he possessed demonic abilities yet, used them for the good."

Joseph walks over to the window. Again, he gazes outside. He sighs. He sighs a tired one.

"And now…" he tells the two men quietly, "The great evil has awaken again… I feel that it will get much, much worse as the days go by… Each day always brings something of horror. I know HE is out there too. Waiting. Just waiting…"

Joseph turns away from the outside scenery and gazes back at Dante. He remains quiet for a long time, unable to say another word. His eyes continue to probe, seeking answers and seeking hope. Dante can read more on his face, however. It tells of anger, frustration, and… fear. It's the same emotions that dwell over his own lost soul. How long can this last? How long can this anxiety overcome them? He can't remember a day where he's waken up to a new day, with nothing except minor problems to solve. Everything seems to be crumbling down, broken into small pieces that can never be united as whole again. How long?

"You should rest," Joseph finally advises, voice very exhausted. "Your body appears to be doing better. More than I expected. Sleep and you'll recover even faster."

Dante nods, but doesn't want to sleep. (The dream.) Still, he doesn't want to disobey Joseph's wishes either. After all, he and his people nursed him back to health. He owes the guy a lot, probably more than anyone he's ever met in his life.

Dante watches the old man leave, a calm look on his face. When the door shuts behind, the hunter doesn't bother to look at Socrates, fearful of what must be acknowledged.

"I guess this explains why everyone is so suspicious of us," Socrates inserts out loud after Joseph leaves, expecting his statement to invoke serious conversation from his companion. "I mean… David and the others appeared in the same numbers and gender. Two men and an attractive woman. Like us."

Dante doesn't say anything.

"We should probably look around the village after you get some rest," continues the angel, "You know… See how bad the situation is? We'll probably have to build defenses too since we're out in the open. It'll be easy for David or the others to run us through at this state."

Again, the hunter remains mute.

"And then we've got to get moving. We need to reach those mountains as soon as possible, prepared for the worse if David has planned an ambush for us up there."

Socrates frowns, finally noticing this awkward silence coming from his companion. He walks near the bed. He's close enough to see the face that is currently bowed down.

"Dante? Um… are you all right, Dante?"

"I'm sorry, wing boy…" Dante says abruptly in a quiet voice.

Socrates blinks.

"Sorry? Sorry for what?" he asks, confused like always.

Dante now looks up at Socrates, face filled with… shame?

"For going out on you like that a second ago, wing boy. I know that I… scared you." Dante glances away. Uncomfortable. In a soft voice he adds, "I scare myself too sometimes…"

"Hey, it's understandable," Socrates just shrugs and smiles, trying to brighten his friend's gloomy mood. "You've been through a lot, Dante, and I know that you and Trish are close."

Dante keeps quiet.

"I was wondering… Is there a relationship between… the two of you?" Socrates wants to know, smiling nervously, not knowing if this question is TOO personal for his own good.

"Trish and I… We have an understanding of each other," a dry smile crosses Dante's face. "There's nothing more. What you see is what you get, wing boy."

The younger man timidly chuckles, adjusting his nerdy glasses. He tries hard not to realize that Dante's smile represents an empty feeling.

"So, do you forgive me?" Dante asks, his face serious as he glances at an empty space on the floor below him.

Socrates studies his companion before answering that question. Weird, he thinks. Dante doesn't appear to be the type of guy to apologize for any of his actions unless it's really necessary. And this really isn't. It's just a simple mistake. Common for people. But Dante looks at it like he just committed a sin. Why is he so wrapped up on it?

"Sure, Dante." He nods, a reassuring one. "Like I said, you're under stress. I understand."

Dante simply continues staring at the floor. He soon glances toward the window Joseph continued to study throughout his stay here. His mind drifts away, caught up with questions and uncertainties. Socrates looks at the door Joseph went through.

"I'd better leave," Socrates says, rather depressed. "You really DO look like you could use some rest. Will you be all right if I leave you alone?"

Dante slowly nods, still in a daze, still looking at the window.

"Right. Um… okay…" Socrates mumbles to himself, still hoping for a REAL response from the cocky man he met this morning.

He waits. Dante remains the same way. Quiet. It's strange how his face is calm but his eyes are wild. Socrates takes a deep breath. Yeah. It's better to leave him alone for now. He needs some time to himself. He needs some time to… understand the situation. He's still got the fever anyway, even if he is getting better. Socrates goes to the door. He shoots one more glance at Dante before closing the door behind him. As he does, he finds that he can't get the picture of Dante looking weary out of his mind. Lord, what is he going through right now?

Alone now, Dante sits still. He remains like that for several minutes, like a lifeless object. His eyes somewhat blurred, seeing something outside the window that isn't there. Mind wrapped up into sick, twisted assumptions and questions. He glares at the window. Harder now. The birds outside twerp and the chilling wind howls outside. Slowly and without looking, Dante reaches for the wrapping covering his forearm. Call it paranoia… but he has to know. He just has to.

Carefully, he starts to remove the hand wrapping. Still not looking. Slowly. Undoing it. Uncertain. Somewhat expecting. His face remains calm when he finally glances at his forearm. After all… he expected it.

The symbol he saw in his very dreams rests comfortably on his forearm. The same mysterious circles and arrows pointing at all directions. He doesn't need to know how it got there or what it means. At least not right now, anyway. But it's the mark all right. It's the mark Joseph and his boy were talking about. Most importantly, it's the mark of things to come.

Dante blinks, imagining the circles becoming one, forming into a shape of an evil eye. Laughing up at him.