By Blood Connected
folder
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
14
Views:
2,526
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+A through F › Devil May Cry
Rating:
Adult
Chapters:
14
Views:
2,526
Reviews:
16
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Devil May Cry game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Demon
By Blood Connected
A Fanfiction by Vir M.
Chapter 14:
“Demon”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
As I sat quietly in the back seat of the car, mind numb, I observed Aeneid’s knuckles grow white from the strength he exerted to grip the steering wheel. He didn’t maneuver the car with the sleek grace he normally possessed, but rather drove the car with a hasty, almost frantic urgency. It soon became apparent even to my unobservant, insensitive eyes that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
We had just pulled out of a sharp, jerking turn in which I had slid halfway across the slick leather seats when I finally got the nerve to ask:
“What the bloody hell is going on?”
Aeneid didn’t answer me, just pulled into another vicious maneuver that sent me skidding across the leather again.
“Aeneid!”
I saw his eyes steal over to me in the rearview mirror, then flick back to the pavement. He finally spoke:
“I’m getting you out of here.” His voice was flat, and I bristled.
“Why? What the hell’s wrong?” I glared at him as best I could. “And what do you mean ‘out of here?’ Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer me, and I swore. For the next few minutes or so we sat in silence.
Well, actually, that would be a lie.
It would be more correct to say that HE sat in silence, while I fired off every damnation I could think of. I got bored with that eventually, and began to crack out all the insults I knew of... in alphabetical order, no less. I had gotten to (not to mention stuck on) the letter ‘q,’ when he at last pulled the car into the driveway.
He didn’t speak to me as he killed the engine; simply leaped out of the car with surprising speed, bolted to my door, opened it, then hoisted me out, jaw set in a firm, rigid line. He closed the door with his foot, then jogged us over to the back door. He set me on my feet when we reached it. It was his next action that shocked me out of my steady stream of curses that hadn’t let up for a moment since I had been so rudely carried to the door:
He put me down, then reached up one of his black gloved hands to the door’s upper frame. He felt along it for a moment, then ripped the hidden key from its anchored, taped spot, pulling off paint chips in the process. I stood there, speechless, as he opened the door.
When he moved to lift me again, key in hand, I backed away, holding up my hands to ward him off.
“Dude, how did you know I had a key–?”
“We don’t have time for this, Jira!” Aeneid snarled, suddenly fierce. “We need to leave! Now!” I began to shake my head, not comprehending.
“What are you talking about, ‘leaving?’ Why are we–?”
He promptly grabbed me by the upper arms, pulling me forward so that we were face to face, so close it was almost painful.
“I need to get you way from here– far away!” His beautiful, smoldering eyes were brimming with fevered fire. “I’ll explain when we get there.”
“Get WHERE!?” I cried, frustrated. He was about to answer me, but checked himself, and released his vice-like hold on my arms. I rubbed the places where his fingers had dug into my flesh, but didn’t say anything. I somehow sensed that saying something wouldn’t mean much at this point, nor would it garner me an answer. I decided it would be in my best interest to play along-- for the time being, anyway.
Seeing my new-found play at silence, he took advantage of the situation and turned from me, then made his way into the house. I followed him into the laundry room, then into the kitchen. He walked across the living room quickly, and then proceeded up the stairs and walked straight into my room.
//How the hell did he know where my room was?\ I thought angrily as I tromped up the staircase, pounding my frustration into the carpeted steps. //And more importantly, how the hell did he know about the frickin’ key?\
I swallowed my questions for the time being as I stepped into my room. He turned to me as he reached the center of the space, eyes flashing.
“Where do you keep the suitcases?” He asked, face blank. I noticed that his hands were clenched into fists.
“Under my bed.” I said automatically, still staring apprehensively at his tense looking hands. “There’s three.”
I mentally kicked myself; why was I helping him?
“You’ll need all of them.” He said plainly. He then promptly turned, bent, and dragged out the three large containers. He unzipped the first one, then said:
“Start packing.”
“What?” I asked, snapping my attention away from his actions and back to his words.
“Pack. Everything. Don’t leave anything you’ll ever want to see again.” His voice and eyes were emotionless. “I’ll get your books.” He immediately turned and began to hastily pull them off the shelves and sling them into the suitcase. Finding it best not to argue, I went along with it, stepping over to my closet and pulling out all the clothes I owned. I didn’t bother folding them or sorting them, just chucked them into the case haphazardly.
“Are you moving me to the dorms?” I asked suddenly. The notion was quite plausible. “So I won’t be totally alone with the ‘Stalker’ out or something?”
He neither ceased packing nor looked at me.
“Just pack.” He said, hands flying.
Taking that as a ‘maybe,’ I obliged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My room looked decidedly bare when we had finished. The only sign of my recent habitation was the presence of the untouched posters on the walls, as well as the rumpled covers on the bed. My books, mementos, clothes, and shoes were crammed in suitcases, with other miscellaneous items dispersed throughout. I stood over the travel bags after I forced the last zipper shut, and ran my fingers through my bangs.
Aeneid didn’t say a word to me; just picked up the two heaviest bags, one in each hand, and started down the stairs. I began to laboriously lug the last down after him. I made it to the kitchen when he re-entered the house, then was relieved of my burden. I wordlessly followed him out of doors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The trunk of the sleek black car was surprisingly spacious, and I could see the other two cases inside it with ample room to spare. I also noticed another suitcase not belonging to me, as well as a long, sturdy wooden box. Aeneid fit my suitcase inside with a shove, then slammed down the lid with a pop. He turned to me.
“Get in the car.” He said, voice as flat as always. It was then that my stubborn side took over.
“No.” I said defiantly, drawing myself up to my full height, which wasn’t much to speak of.
“What?” He growled.
“Tell me where we’re going first.” I said, squaring my shoulders. I was proud to note that my voice didn’t shake. “Tell me what’s going on.” He glared at me.
“What don’t you understand?” He whispered, voice dangerously low. “We need to get out of here-- NOW.” His voice rose on the last word. “We’re almost out of–“
Then he stopped, staring over my shoulder with wide eyes. ( Well, wide for Aeneid’s calm persona, anyway.) I glanced behind me to find what he was staring at, and felt my knees weaken.
An apparition straight out of a horror film was standing in the driveway about thirty yards away from us. The nightmare creature was massive, stretching to almost twelve feet in height, and, even from this distance, smelled like rotting carcasses. Sand fell from its skeletal joints as it moved, and its huge, taloned hands were gripping a violet, glowing scythe.
A scythe stained with blood.
It wore a tattered, oily black shroud over its body, and a hood covered its head. A moment passed, and its hood fell partially away from it as it lumbered towards us, revealing its face. The face was the stuff of ancient horror: bone dry leather for skin, a wide, gaping jaw grotesquely stretching past its withered chin, and an empty, V-shaped broken hole where a nose must have once resided. But its eyes were the worst.
They were lidless, sunk into the monstrosity’s face and overhung by a jutting, decayed brow. They glimmered with an evil, neon-violet light; a staring, pulsating glow that I am sure will haunt me until my dying day.
It screamed then-- a high pitched, keening cry that was all at once hateful, mourning,
–and predatory.
It screamed long and loud, and a pane of glass on one of the front windows of my home shattered into a million mirror shards. It took a step forward, then vanished into an oily, swirling black cloud of cloak, only to reappear about twenty yards from us, scythe swinging blindly as it sought flesh.
I was looking at my first demon, though at the time I didn’t know it.
I turned to Aeneid.
“Okay.” I said, clearing my throat. “Into the car it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR TIME
As for that demon... think a Hell Vanguard.
I’m going to be killed by giant, radioactive sporks, I’m sure of it...
Ah, the joys of a good, nail-chewing cliffy. Anyway, I had typed out this whole chapter and the next as one chapter, and it was astronomically long (LONG ASS CHAPTER, PEOPLE) so I split it into two parts: ch’s 14 and 15 (14 being the shorter of the two). Worked out better that way, I believe. I was free to name this one “Demon,” as I had been longing to do, and free to name the next one the PIVOTAL CHAPTER NAME. But you’ll just have to wait to see that one...
And also, I want all of you to realize that sarcasm is Jira’s natural defense mechanism. Porcupines have quills, skunks have stink, and Jira... has a wide, biting vocabulary. Touche, Darwin, touche. Natural select THAT, why dontcha?
As always: Thanks to my reviewers/favers/alerters! You guys all rock!
VIR M. Is the creator of JIRA & CO.
CAPCOM is the creator of the entire DEVIL MAY CRY franchise.
A Fanfiction by Vir M.
Chapter 14:
“Demon”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
As I sat quietly in the back seat of the car, mind numb, I observed Aeneid’s knuckles grow white from the strength he exerted to grip the steering wheel. He didn’t maneuver the car with the sleek grace he normally possessed, but rather drove the car with a hasty, almost frantic urgency. It soon became apparent even to my unobservant, insensitive eyes that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
We had just pulled out of a sharp, jerking turn in which I had slid halfway across the slick leather seats when I finally got the nerve to ask:
“What the bloody hell is going on?”
Aeneid didn’t answer me, just pulled into another vicious maneuver that sent me skidding across the leather again.
“Aeneid!”
I saw his eyes steal over to me in the rearview mirror, then flick back to the pavement. He finally spoke:
“I’m getting you out of here.” His voice was flat, and I bristled.
“Why? What the hell’s wrong?” I glared at him as best I could. “And what do you mean ‘out of here?’ Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer me, and I swore. For the next few minutes or so we sat in silence.
Well, actually, that would be a lie.
It would be more correct to say that HE sat in silence, while I fired off every damnation I could think of. I got bored with that eventually, and began to crack out all the insults I knew of... in alphabetical order, no less. I had gotten to (not to mention stuck on) the letter ‘q,’ when he at last pulled the car into the driveway.
He didn’t speak to me as he killed the engine; simply leaped out of the car with surprising speed, bolted to my door, opened it, then hoisted me out, jaw set in a firm, rigid line. He closed the door with his foot, then jogged us over to the back door. He set me on my feet when we reached it. It was his next action that shocked me out of my steady stream of curses that hadn’t let up for a moment since I had been so rudely carried to the door:
He put me down, then reached up one of his black gloved hands to the door’s upper frame. He felt along it for a moment, then ripped the hidden key from its anchored, taped spot, pulling off paint chips in the process. I stood there, speechless, as he opened the door.
When he moved to lift me again, key in hand, I backed away, holding up my hands to ward him off.
“Dude, how did you know I had a key–?”
“We don’t have time for this, Jira!” Aeneid snarled, suddenly fierce. “We need to leave! Now!” I began to shake my head, not comprehending.
“What are you talking about, ‘leaving?’ Why are we–?”
He promptly grabbed me by the upper arms, pulling me forward so that we were face to face, so close it was almost painful.
“I need to get you way from here– far away!” His beautiful, smoldering eyes were brimming with fevered fire. “I’ll explain when we get there.”
“Get WHERE!?” I cried, frustrated. He was about to answer me, but checked himself, and released his vice-like hold on my arms. I rubbed the places where his fingers had dug into my flesh, but didn’t say anything. I somehow sensed that saying something wouldn’t mean much at this point, nor would it garner me an answer. I decided it would be in my best interest to play along-- for the time being, anyway.
Seeing my new-found play at silence, he took advantage of the situation and turned from me, then made his way into the house. I followed him into the laundry room, then into the kitchen. He walked across the living room quickly, and then proceeded up the stairs and walked straight into my room.
//How the hell did he know where my room was?\ I thought angrily as I tromped up the staircase, pounding my frustration into the carpeted steps. //And more importantly, how the hell did he know about the frickin’ key?\
I swallowed my questions for the time being as I stepped into my room. He turned to me as he reached the center of the space, eyes flashing.
“Where do you keep the suitcases?” He asked, face blank. I noticed that his hands were clenched into fists.
“Under my bed.” I said automatically, still staring apprehensively at his tense looking hands. “There’s three.”
I mentally kicked myself; why was I helping him?
“You’ll need all of them.” He said plainly. He then promptly turned, bent, and dragged out the three large containers. He unzipped the first one, then said:
“Start packing.”
“What?” I asked, snapping my attention away from his actions and back to his words.
“Pack. Everything. Don’t leave anything you’ll ever want to see again.” His voice and eyes were emotionless. “I’ll get your books.” He immediately turned and began to hastily pull them off the shelves and sling them into the suitcase. Finding it best not to argue, I went along with it, stepping over to my closet and pulling out all the clothes I owned. I didn’t bother folding them or sorting them, just chucked them into the case haphazardly.
“Are you moving me to the dorms?” I asked suddenly. The notion was quite plausible. “So I won’t be totally alone with the ‘Stalker’ out or something?”
He neither ceased packing nor looked at me.
“Just pack.” He said, hands flying.
Taking that as a ‘maybe,’ I obliged.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My room looked decidedly bare when we had finished. The only sign of my recent habitation was the presence of the untouched posters on the walls, as well as the rumpled covers on the bed. My books, mementos, clothes, and shoes were crammed in suitcases, with other miscellaneous items dispersed throughout. I stood over the travel bags after I forced the last zipper shut, and ran my fingers through my bangs.
Aeneid didn’t say a word to me; just picked up the two heaviest bags, one in each hand, and started down the stairs. I began to laboriously lug the last down after him. I made it to the kitchen when he re-entered the house, then was relieved of my burden. I wordlessly followed him out of doors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The trunk of the sleek black car was surprisingly spacious, and I could see the other two cases inside it with ample room to spare. I also noticed another suitcase not belonging to me, as well as a long, sturdy wooden box. Aeneid fit my suitcase inside with a shove, then slammed down the lid with a pop. He turned to me.
“Get in the car.” He said, voice as flat as always. It was then that my stubborn side took over.
“No.” I said defiantly, drawing myself up to my full height, which wasn’t much to speak of.
“What?” He growled.
“Tell me where we’re going first.” I said, squaring my shoulders. I was proud to note that my voice didn’t shake. “Tell me what’s going on.” He glared at me.
“What don’t you understand?” He whispered, voice dangerously low. “We need to get out of here-- NOW.” His voice rose on the last word. “We’re almost out of–“
Then he stopped, staring over my shoulder with wide eyes. ( Well, wide for Aeneid’s calm persona, anyway.) I glanced behind me to find what he was staring at, and felt my knees weaken.
An apparition straight out of a horror film was standing in the driveway about thirty yards away from us. The nightmare creature was massive, stretching to almost twelve feet in height, and, even from this distance, smelled like rotting carcasses. Sand fell from its skeletal joints as it moved, and its huge, taloned hands were gripping a violet, glowing scythe.
A scythe stained with blood.
It wore a tattered, oily black shroud over its body, and a hood covered its head. A moment passed, and its hood fell partially away from it as it lumbered towards us, revealing its face. The face was the stuff of ancient horror: bone dry leather for skin, a wide, gaping jaw grotesquely stretching past its withered chin, and an empty, V-shaped broken hole where a nose must have once resided. But its eyes were the worst.
They were lidless, sunk into the monstrosity’s face and overhung by a jutting, decayed brow. They glimmered with an evil, neon-violet light; a staring, pulsating glow that I am sure will haunt me until my dying day.
It screamed then-- a high pitched, keening cry that was all at once hateful, mourning,
–and predatory.
It screamed long and loud, and a pane of glass on one of the front windows of my home shattered into a million mirror shards. It took a step forward, then vanished into an oily, swirling black cloud of cloak, only to reappear about twenty yards from us, scythe swinging blindly as it sought flesh.
I was looking at my first demon, though at the time I didn’t know it.
I turned to Aeneid.
“Okay.” I said, clearing my throat. “Into the car it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AUTHOR TIME
As for that demon... think a Hell Vanguard.
I’m going to be killed by giant, radioactive sporks, I’m sure of it...
Ah, the joys of a good, nail-chewing cliffy. Anyway, I had typed out this whole chapter and the next as one chapter, and it was astronomically long (LONG ASS CHAPTER, PEOPLE) so I split it into two parts: ch’s 14 and 15 (14 being the shorter of the two). Worked out better that way, I believe. I was free to name this one “Demon,” as I had been longing to do, and free to name the next one the PIVOTAL CHAPTER NAME. But you’ll just have to wait to see that one...
And also, I want all of you to realize that sarcasm is Jira’s natural defense mechanism. Porcupines have quills, skunks have stink, and Jira... has a wide, biting vocabulary. Touche, Darwin, touche. Natural select THAT, why dontcha?
As always: Thanks to my reviewers/favers/alerters! You guys all rock!
VIR M. Is the creator of JIRA & CO.
CAPCOM is the creator of the entire DEVIL MAY CRY franchise.