A Devil May Cry 3 prelude
A Devil May Cry 3 prelude
Vergil thought Dante would fall easily, but now it's time to take matters into his own hands. Short, quick prelude to Devil May Cry 3. No pairings, mature themes. One-shot.
The soft creak of leather pierced the quietness that lay over the large, sprawling city.
For a Saturday night, Los Angeles was surprisingly still, little moving and even less breathing. Street lights and electric billboards glared tonelessly on carless roads and empty sidewalks as the stars sparkled overhead like little havens of safety planted deep into the cold stretches of space; where there was darkness in the city there was also an unsettling sense of winter pasted in both the air and on surfaces and it was not unusual to see entire buildings layered thick with rime.
The quietness also brought a guttural hum with it which was more like a low background noise in the ears rather than an audible sound, but it made the hair on the back of the neck prickle, a soft hum hum hum that struck through the spine and put a person on edge; the sense of abnormality increased the closer to the sea, which hadn't raged for a long time. No longer did the tide hug the concrete barriers protecting the land, instead prowling over a mile out. Its swish and hiss was no better than the humming of the dark winter.
The only sign of life was a devil. He was stood tall on the lip of the beach against the horizon with the orange light of the moon bathing him completely; the blue of his coat and his eyes burned with the gleam of ochre as he stared out, unblinking, towards the quiet sea. He inhaled lightly, tasting salt and something else. The sea, he realised, wasn't sleeping; it was waiting. It was hunting.
At his side there lay a sword of power, one which had been used over the years for many different ends, but always passed among hands whose ambitions were always blindsighted and always disastrous. He couldn't fathom how the others had ever kept it for more than five minutes: it didn't alarm him that it had changed hands so much, but he seemed to have got it right; the sword didn't thirst for chaos and disorder or even power in the most remote of senses. It demanded respect, honour and honesty. The devil had given it that and more, he had given it love and pride, and in return it had never sung its siren song for anybody else ever since. The sword, the Yamato, had become the soul mate of the devil Vergil.
There was the chaste breath of another living being half a mile down the long stretch of beach. Vergil pulled his eyes from the serene, sombre sea to the outline of a figure dragging itself from the black water. He watched it fall over into the sand, the sea swishing over it quietly, and then there was a low screech like a child in pain, a baby wraith gasping for air. Vergil tightened his hand on the long, plaited hilt of the Yamato and shimmered out of focus into a stroke of blue paint that slithered over the dusty sand. He stopped several metres before the moaning figure and took human form again, looking down through an intense glare at the huddle of cloth before him. The sea retreated back, knowing its prey was lost.
Those were the only words that Vergil spoke as he looked down through his nose at the creaking pile of bones twisting its head to turn its skeletal face up to him. Black holes for eyes, nose and mouth filled with gas gaped up at him, screeching. As it spoke, the black mass of its body hissed around it like gassy plumage fanning out to defend itself. Vergil stood statuesquely, stoically, silenced by disgust. The creature reached out a bony hand to him, revealing a long sweeping scythe in the most violent shade of purple. Vergil turned on his heel and stepped away, hearing the pleading hiss of the monster as it gathered itself up into a towering stance that was twice his own height and width.
"No," he said coldly, "you failed, and the sea took what was left of you. Two years you sent the winter like a plague and for two more years Dante has slayed your kind with little imaginable effort. You present your person in a revealing light. Now die."
A thin shimmer of air sailed through the air as Vergil pulled the Yamato from its sheath and flicked the blade behind him. It swooned elegantly in the air, slashing through the current of the wind and danced through the agonised face of the creature before the purple sickle vaporised into thin air. The wraith cry filled Vergil's ears and then there was nothing but quietness once more, tinkled with the soft falling of sand fluttering down to lay with the other sand on the beach. Vergil didn't bother to turn around to regard the mess. The mistake had been made, and he had made clear the price of failure. He would have to go this journey alone. Nobody else was adequate enough.
"Go back to the sea," he said, and then replaced the Yamato in the sheath with a satisfying click. Los Angeles could reawaken now; he was done here. Dante was waiting for him.
Author's notes: This is a little too fancy for my liking: too much descriptive language for things that don't really need to be described. Take into consideration that this piece is several months old and I've only ever had roleplay experience writing as Vergil, not fan-fiction experience. But, yes, this is it. Hope you enjoyed.
FanFiction.Net page for this piece: Here.
On my FanFiction.Net profile page you'll find fiction for Harry Potter, True Blood and Devil May Cry—home to the "forum famous" fan-fiction, Chimaera, a Harry Potter fan-fiction.