Author's Note

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When this was first published, I was seriously depressed, the following is an amended intro

I've decided to embrace the darkness wholeheartedly here. I don't care anymore, be fickle about it if you want. It's meant to be that way, so deal with it.

Any references to drug abuse are from personal experience, the way it makes you feel and experience things.
I've dealt with addiction myself, specifically heroin and others I won't mention, so the use of those themes here are a reflection of what I personally know of the human condition. It's a personal message of how dark things can get, because trust me, it gets skull-fuckingly bad.

A healthy dose of cynicism lies ahead, so you've been warned.

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-Years Ago-

A man in a simple black coat sat inside a bustling alleyway. He was quite the tall one, but so very damaged.
It'd been some time since he'd seen that detective. He knew nothing would come of it. As he waited, seemingly for hours, a solitary thought rung in his mind.

It's getting colder, and he craved more.

He needed something to take away all thought, all pains. It drove through his veins like hypodermic needles.
That was the weapon of choice for now, for it transmitted the signals he so desired. He locked it all in a place no one knew.

The wrong path lay out in front of him; his future once seemed to glisten brightly. Now it laid bare, all the suffering growing colder, his life becoming numb.

It was a nightmare made flesh; made human flesh.

A world that cannibalizes itself. So stupid. No one was coming home tonight.

Kindness had faded away, replaced by scars that ran deep to his roots.

His gloves seemed to be made of stitched-together pieces. Whatever the man could find, he used.
His brown boots were lazily tied to his feet and his pants were torn; jagged holes steadily growing.
They were an indiscriminate grey-black.

Legs had been sprawled out, but traffic forced him to pull back a little. No one paid him attention, instead hurrying around or avoiding altogether. Persona non grata.

This realm worked so funny, ignoring those in need for the sake of selfish demands.

'Not in my backyard,' they'd say.

Bull.

Dying peace in him and you, yet no one's going to get anywhere, not for now.

Beneath his coat was a simple shirt that had been darkened by grime. He sat there with his hood up, the line of sanity thin as it's thread.

Beside him was an empty syringe he'd discard on the ground, an elastic band loosely draped nearby.
How low did one have to go to hit smack? A shattered family would do it. Vergil wasn't even around anymore; off burning somewhere in Gehenna.
He didn't even know why he did it, the man just knew that as long as his blood felt like a waterfall, rushing a million miles an hour, then his head was perpetually clouded.

Cloudy was good.

Cloudy was what he needed right now.

It didn't last long like it did inside humans, giving him a great surge for about an hour before he needed another large dose.
17 years old, and it was just a fuckin tragedy. Sitting alone in his head, locked in a place where no one could go.

And that stupid cop.

Who did he think he was, promising to help? He didn't help, he just put him through the foster care system, like he needed that.

Life was pain, and Dante reveled in that for a while. It didn't feel so good anymore.

He laid there, unable to process how he was feeling.

It felt utterly destroying, what happened; why it even happened . . . His mind; an empty shell that crumpled in on itself.
It was like glass fucking shattered through his throat, the most simplest of tasks becoming an arduous, enraging command to complete.

Dante was strong, so much stronger than any person around him.

Yet he chose to run from that name, giving himself the pseudonym 'Tony Redgrave,' after his father's love of grim crime films.
Human conventions fascinated Sparda, and he sought to feel closer to his father. Now more than ever, he longed for someone like that, a father.
As a child he adored dad, though he wondered where he went.

Truth be told, he didn't know him all that well.

At this point in his life, there wasn't much left of him to tell, except a city that hated his guts.

So, Tony hated it back.

Getting up off the ground, youthful rage exploded from his eyes, an anger-filled cry to the heavens bellowed through these twisted buildings.
Their overbuilt character swallowed him, and so his attempts at freedom from this construct failed.
Darting to the street, he shoved down an old man. Bewildered, the cripple looked on this bastardly young boy in disgust.

"Watch where you're going!" He yelled.

"Fuck you!" He screamed back, putting his fist through the blue metal of a mailbox. The old man scuffled against the pavement, doing what he could to get out of there.

A cop car pulled around the corner, flashing its lights at him.

Soaked in red and blue, he held his middle finger up to them in a salute of anger.
Ambling around incoherently as the officers approached him, they pulled over to the side, and attempted to take hold of the situation.

"'Scuse me sir, sir? Sir." The one said, a good 200 pounds heavier that Dante.

He was caucasian, covered in hair and the sickening odor of pure sugar.
The young slayer could smell the donuts on him.

Dante kept walking on, unhindered by the two zealots.

The white police officer looked to his latin partner, and they agreed.

Heading around him, they placed themselves together side by side, forming a black wall of authority.

"What is this? Get outta my way."

"Sir, you flashed an obscenity towards us in a public forum. We're gonna need to check your eyes." The caucasian told him.

They suspected he was high on something. He looked like a street rat, it was plausible despite him being white.

Holding up a flashlight, Dante backed away, propping his left hand up between them.

"Hey- whoa, get that thing away." He replied.

Bright light hurt.

"Sir, if you don't do as we say, we will take you into custody." The hispanic officer said.

He stared at both men; this was clear and present judgement based on his appearance.

No, he wouldn't take it from em'. Who were they to tell him what to do? He was beyond them.
Weaklings, they could go away right now. It wouldn't bother him any longer.

"You put that thing in my face, I will break your teeth." He retorted to their demands.

"Ahehe, okay buddy we're goin' downtown." Spoke the overconfident donut fiend, moving forward to put the man in cuffs.

He got as far as a foot near, when his ribs met a fist. His chest broke apart, cracking in ways beyond comprehension.
The spirit of the law crumbled inside him, it's red-white-and-blue blood gushing out of his lungs, impaled by ribs and arteries out of place.
Despite his size, the white cop fell down, resembling a heaving gorilla with his meaty arms crouched in front.

His horrible wheezing filled the air.

Before the other could react, the young man shoved him off into the brick wall of a building.

He slumped unconscious, the mans back breaking open from the unmitigated impact.

The bricks stained red: A woman screamed nearby.

Dante stepped back as he held his left wrist, the hand covered in blood that wasn't his. If he hadn't killed them, he'd come close.

That wasn't good, he was forgetting his rules.

It wasn't good to keep those things away, he'd need them for the cruel road ahead.
The future was bleak. Most everything he came across felt that way nowadays.

How'd he get here?

On the run from police; on the run from his past; on the run from the spectral foe.

They were so annoying, each little demonic entity that followed fueled a squelching anger inside his chest, burning for him to exterminate every last one.
If he could help it, none would survive him. There was a creature worth fearing far more than the boogeyman: It's name was Dante.

His brother was gone now, no partner in crime anymore, not that he would have helped anyway.

Those thoughts were dark, just like his kin's had become.

Mother was gone, though her job seemed mostly over anyway.

Father . . . Well, father had been gone for quite some time now, he didn't remember how long. He had a vague memory of a grown man with light hair, somewhat similar to himself.

But that was about it. Eva always told him Sparda was a little like both of the boys. Funny and charming; regal and dark. A perfect mix of the two siblings.

He took off running; he ran and ran, miles and miles away.

No matter how far he got, the city wouldn't end.

Maybe he was looking for clues; answers, anything.

Maybe he was just a scared kid.

Honestly, he didn't really care.

There had to be a way to get out of here, a way to just leave all this misery behind.

And yet, all he came across were brilliantly-crafted concrete caverns, bustling with people who wouldn't give him the kind of emotion he needed.
The postmodernist surface of the buildings made him mad with longing, a longing to see nature of some kind.
There would be no greenery here, not since he was a mere child. The plants growing from between the cracks of the insidious constructs were hacked and cut away.

It was a dead city, devoid of life beyond people.

Sure, there was a park, but what good would that do for him? It was a false simulation of the wild, only allowed to grow because the corruption sought control.

Barring this point, he'd settle for anyone's company.
In a place like this, crushing loneliness was his second best fiend.
The young man just wanted someone to hold him.

He wanted someone to want him back at least.

Charismatic as he might be, Dante wasn't very skilled with ladies, at least not anymore.

There was one, once.

But now that dream is gone from him, locked in a place that no one goes. . .

He wanted to be lost, to be gone from this world. Whomever was the master of this reality, the generations of confusion created nothing but a hellish nightmare.
That nightmare was his reality. No locked doors, no barred windows; nothing to hide his scarred brain from the masses.
And here he was, on the road again. Pretending that it didn't bother him was truly pointless. He just wanted to explode. Widowed.

The lovers of porphyria kept him tied, as they thought it made him well.

They were wrong.

Those infernal orderlies: An asylum was not the 'mandated care' he required.
They fed him pills, as if that would solve his 'visions of demons.'
They gave him a straight jacket, like it could truly hold the monster that he was.
They kept him locked up in a cage, told him where to go to bed; believing that would actually make them go away somehow. Nothing is real but pain now.

That demon-infested building deserved to burn to the ground, and he was glad to do it.

One fortunate thing he managed to do was let the other patients escape, though they were screwed to begin with.
It was one of those old-timey, over-crowded psychiatric hospitals that should've been destroyed years and years ago.
Stuck inside his mind like a third degree burn, he couldn't let it go: Any of it.

In all that running, he felt the city grow hollow and devoid of aim.

Even the restless sounds had ceased. He felt empty.

"Now the world is through with me; I'm in mourning for my humanity." He whispered aloud.

He stood atop an empty apartment complex, watching the sun beat down.

It was just a town now, seeming like a rundown, destroyed ghetto.

The only plants remaining were sick and dying, looking more like cancer patients than nature.
Withering did no one any good. Rage. . . Rage, against the dying of the light.

There were people crying, others using narcotics of choice, people having sexual affairs in secluded areas, lives breaking into tiny pieces.
These talking monkey's act so silly, blind to the fact that the ones they hurt were you and me. Still, life pumped in that he was forced to feel.
The sights and smells all rammed into his head like a squad car.

He felt to scream, the contradictions just gave him a headache.

So many years of decaying but trying to live just piled on top of itself. This mess of death held no quarter for the innocent.

The ultimate sins taken shape, this life of deluge fear.

That was to be expected in a big city like this though.
Industrial towns were hell-holes to the miserable majority, soul-sucking even.

Nevertheless, a despotic heaven to those lucky few.

Running through a diseased alley, he found the way out to a parking lot. It was a dump, littered with sleeping vagrants and drug addicts.

Almost like home, he supposed.

He was technically both those things, there wasn't much left over now.
He had to get to 'home,' wherever that was now. Destitute methods rendered him less than able.
'Home' was actually rather close by.

He'd been forced to shack up with a group of guys close in age.

They all lived in a crummy apartment, and he needed to take an industrial elevator to get up there. It was slow as hell, but he wasn't stopping.

The four guys had girlfriends, but only three of them had relationships.

The females didn't really like Tony.

He didn't care.

The man kept to himself and didn't bother them, wanting to get back into the apartment to load up on his stash. Living with a dealer made getting it a little easier.
He got into the lobby, crashing through the double door entrance. Down the hallway he went, passing by roach infested pillars. In the 20s, this old place was really something.
At the end of the corridor stood a freight elevator.

Redgrave stood there waiting, enraged.

The dumbwaiter took it's sweet fucking time, and he was in a rush. Some pain flooded his side, unexpectedly. He hadn't healed all the way from his fight with Vergil, he supposed.

Some lingering phantom pains plagued him continually.

Honestly, there wasn't a purpose to bother, he despised people right now.
No one was fucking reliable, often dropping out of his life without a care.

Sometimes, Dante really did wish he was able to stomach putting a hole in someone's chest, feeling that it might make life easier.

No.

Hard times doesn't mean he should lose his principles. Perhaps he just needed a little sunlight to take away the darkness. On the whole, his general feeling was hopelessness.

No matter how hard Dante tried, he couldn't keep himself above ground. The depression, the loneliness always settled back in.
It made him weak, left him open to dark thoughts. He didn't know what he was doing anymore, where he was going.

He gloomily thought to himself, one of these days he should just take Ivory and put the barrel in his mouth.

Hell, no one was here to tell him otherwise.

What good was his father's legacy if the family to support it was DOA? Life is torture, perhaps it wasn't worth that hassle anymore.
The entire thing felt like a rigged game against him. Sweetness was a taste he couldn't feel anymore, gone insane from the pain that he surely knows.
But the demons wouldn't let him die, not anymore.

Sometimes, he just needed to know if he was really still human in this quietly agonized existence.

Then there was the rut. He wanted this cyclical idiocy to stop.
Sure, he was hooked on drugs himself, at least at this point in his life, but it was for the purpose of taking the edge off his misery.
Would it ever really stop? Would his hatred ever go away? He was still alive and ticking, but did he even deserve to be?

The doors finally opened.

No cop car in sight. Good.

He stepped inside and his mind fluttered out, wandering through a void of endless fear and paranoia.

Great, the withdrawal symptoms.

Those lasted just as long as they did in anyone else, he wasn't special there. It was something mental, intrinsically separate from his physical self.
He wanted to make an expression of rage, he had to get it out of himself. The hell he felt, imprisoned from all sides. . . Poetic justice was a joke, there was no art to be found.

It took twenty five minutes to get to the apartment.

What a fucking joke.

Cynicism was a good friend now, it made his sarcasm cruel and vicious. Long ago was the happy-go-lucky Dante, for now he was a wretched, practically homeless adolescent.
This little place was a rotting coffin, despite the supposed 'company.' Dead end friends, thats all they were. Fuck poetry, and fuck the common man.

All they could do was stare at him as all human feelings died.

Perhaps they echoed his anguished cries, or they didn't need him around. Not the best crowd to get involved in. All the things they said turned to ash in his ears.

The barriers of brain had a gentle collapse, and he started to trip out, like he was on acid almost.

A bad trip makes things so bad.

The reason he took the damn substance was to get a moment of euphoria out of a contemptible life, why did the drawbacks include losing his mental health?

But things didn't always have to be so horrible.

It had occurred to him sometime recently, that with abilities like this, he didn't have to be restricted by society's idiotic conventions.
The best medicine to a bad situation is desperation. Sometimes it generates the most creative thought. A spark of brilliance? Possibly . . . If only.
People above others low on the spectrum tend to waste all others away, its the way the scale of power worked.

The slayer had power, and his brother often valued this concept more than anything.

Maybe Dante could get himself to a different city. Hell, a different state would suit him just fine.

Most importantly, this existential crisis was happening in an elevator. People could understand the need for relief, right?

It was winter anyway, the skies would be perennially grey for another two months. No sunshine here. The light continued to die within.

It started raining outside, he could feel it.
The smells seeped into the walls of this old, grungy place.

In front of him, the doors finally opened.

Before him stood an organized, if dingy-looking home. It had been a pigsty prior to the women's arrival. They at least made the place smell nice, as well as clean.
He appreciated the less-blemished environment as he walked along the carpeted floor. Well, more like padded rugs atop steel grates.
Thats what happens when a factory gets turned into a shitty apartment complex. Or was it an old hotel? Maybe both, earthquakes and world wars tend to destroy that kind of information.

In his way were three other men, all dressed slovenly like him.

He exchanged angry gibes with each one as he made his way back to his room, engrossed in shooting up again.

The darkness within these halls was crippling, locking him into a space where no one could pray. And his room was empty.

Empty as it can get, considering that each compartment was separated by cubical-style walls.

They hung drape over the ceiling to close the gap; otherwise, you could look over and see exactly what someone was getting up to.
They were Dante's idea, mostly because the other four were dicks. The silver-haired man mocked their every step, and outside, the dogs of doom howled evermore.
Colossal rains filled the streets, an unanticipated flood. An evil deity must turn the wheels of despair, a world so cold couldn't be made from love.

Wallowing on his sterile bed, he noted that today, the women had done laundry, having stripped every man's bed. So, he could see every shameful, disgusting stain on his little mattress.

Some were his, most of 'em weren't.

Shame made him cruel.

On the whole, it was a terrible place, feeling more like a basement than a twelfth floor residence.

The windows that should have let in sunlight had been patched over with a black film, as the previous occupants used this place as a laser-tag court.
All of them were too lazy to scrape it off, least of all Dante. He'd probably shatter the window if he tried.

He felt drowsy now, the call to sleep stronger than his flesh and blood.

Seven days without rest was impressive, but his soul ached for siesta.

The heater was broken, so the building remained frigid.

Perfect, no blankets either.

He removed his jacket temporarily, and flexed his fingers. The grueling pull in his stomach from a lack of food made things hurt more.

To his own ends, he grabbed a spoon. The plastic shine flaked away to reveal a dull grey. He took however much of the stuff he needed, scooping it out to get a full load.
Once he'd ensured it was the proper amount, he flicked out a lighter from his pocket. It was a mandatory now, the habit was so bad.
He rolled his thumb and flickered the light into existence. Holding it underneath the spoon, he let the substance above dissolve into a sugary-yellow fluid.

It slopped around as he shakily stirred it with the other end of the needle, taking care not to stab himself since he was holding the point.

After he ensured no crystals, he sucked the spoon dry, drawing every last drop up into that syringe.

Wrapping the band around his bicep tightly, he tapped the tied-off vein to make sure it was good.
He had to remember if he'd used this one already today. Of course, he healed up from the stuff far faster than the lesser species, so he guessed it didn't matter.

It was good to go, so he plunged the thing in.

The puncture stung the surface, and the deep stab burned into his nerves like nothing else.

Did it always hurt this way? Every time.

He didn't have an explanation for why, but perhaps because he mentally viewed it as a weakness, he registered pain there.
Maybe it was because he couldn't take the severe low he'd come to, so he imagined the torture to deal with his guilt.

Honestly, it had no wherewithal to even matter.

Then came the injection.

A simple push, and that molten tar surged through his veins, pushing into every nook and cranny as it swept through.
Endorphins flooded his brain, the heartbeat slowed, and his skin lightened.

Rational thought left, leaving behind a temporary, half-hour shell of a man.

The back of his skull felt like it came away, releasing an onslaught of vibrant colors and ideas taking literal shape, as his blood bubbled up like a bath salt.
Every little minute detail faded, and his senses blurred. The onslaught of all sounds and smells evaporated into nothing.
He dulled in favor of his head lighting up. It brightened the room itself, making it look like a white contrast had been turned up on a camera.

And sooner or later, he was off to the races.

They say heroin dreams are fun, letting you go fly away on some weird shit you'd see in an acid trip, so long as you didn't lay on your back. Left side it was.

He enjoyed this dream, as it left him feeling like a dew drop in the ocean, a cascading flow of warm energy all around him.
This paradise was nothing new, feeling familiar and welcoming. Perhaps he'd encounter something apart from the all-consuming hum of radiance.

The violet light and it's radial vibrations felt like he was being pulled into an intense vortex, representing the key of life.

But the paradise got tired of him.

It faded away, to blackness, as many things do.

No more was the lonely cloud. Now, he was surrounded by disparate feelings, his emotional turmoil rearing it's battered head.
Now sleeps the crimson petal, the telling of beautiful, but untrue things was the aim of his ruinous hobby. Hopelessness as a concept was bleakly beautiful.

He woke up a few hours later, annoyingly recharged with complete clarity of this toilet world.

Next to him was a pile of sheets and blankets he'd been delegated.

Joy.

He spent the next ten minutes making the bed as he had an unexpected visitor. Looking at the clock, it read four-twenty-six in the morning, give or take.

Despite clarity, the symptoms of withdrawal set in yet again, his head beginning to feel as though it'd been crushed beneath an eighteen-wheeler.
The truck must have also backed up over him, as he'd been unfortunate enough to have that actually happen, but it didn't hurt as bad as this.
No, this pain was new, it was a strange visitor in this world that he despised.

A stomach churn and a burning sensation preceded a blackened, crimson outpouring of vomit.

It splattered the insides of a metal bucket Dante used for other purposes, and his fluids stained the floor.
The smell was putrid, almost like a dumpster fire, but a rotted corpse was left inside.
Sticking to his fingers, the substance was thick with stomach acid. He felt horrible, like someone forced a spiked auger down his intestine.

The room felt like hospice care, waiting for him to die.

Those curtains seemed as though they were funeral drapery.

Dante labored through the halls and stumbled towards the window frame. Ripping the window up off the sill, the slayer hurled the bucket out the side of the window.
It crashed on an abandoned car some tweaked jerkwad was trying to sell to a young college drop-out.
It splashed out of the crushed metal, and the liquid splashed over and drenched the two, leaving the reddened figures to shriek.

He closed the window instantly, not thinking so much about them as he trudged his way to the bathroom.

His legs wavered, and he collapsed to the ground.

More came, painting the bowl a sickly scarlet.

It felt awful, the more and more he tried to fight it, the more painful it felt.
Each surge of dark red came with a raunchy headache, and the man found himself yelling through the exertion.

Five minutes went by, and he lost enough blood to lose consciousness.

Life, so it seemed, was fading away. It was drifting farther and farther from him. This was the end of his natural way.

Fear and addiction twisted his mind, smashed his dreams. . . It was his master, pulling every string attached as if he was some puppet. It wasn't right.

Tony's head hit the the rim of the seat, splitting open as he lay there on the floor.

And he laid there.

And laid there . . .

And laid there.

The world stopped for him as his vision faded to black, a humanity-sucking inertia pulled the man into the most depressing slumber.
In this tattered land, he was alone, broken and scarred forever. He fed it once; now it was here to stay.
Such was the nature of addiction, it's stygian fear coursing through the minds of the strong. Tearing it down wouldn't work.

His right fist tightened, and a fuming hatred emerged.

He was a hero among men. . . What was he doing here?

A sudden spark of fury entered his chest. How could he let himself fall like this? His father had a legacy he'd left for him. He could choose to embrace his savage side, or-
Dad was a knight, revered in countless legends. Not caring didn't work, and not taking action drove him insane. That was it, if the demons would come after him, then he'd murder every last one.
The sociopathic fun of old burnt itself out, replaced by a renewed sense of self.

Self.

Self. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

-Within the Present, Time Returns-

Dante laid there within the industrial tube. As a prison, it was certainly barren.

It was just simply the way the metal box was handled by his captors, or the horrible fact that he knew what his fellow hostage had undergone that reminded him of those days.
But for some reason, his head felt like it was pounding, and his abilities were strangely still sealed. What was it that had happened to himself on that roof?

It felt great, but it was disturbing.

Almost like he was becoming soulless for the price of power.

Though it was greater in scope than him, the events he'd become roped up with had become confusing. Out of pure chance, he'd been led on a path to demons? No, that's not right. . .

Someone planned all of that.

He didn't know how, nor why, he just suddenly had the feeling that someone had to have been manipulating everything before him, even his capture.
But why? Who was it leading him on, controlling his every move by merely knowing how he would react? It couldn't be Vergil, he'd killed him . . . He was sure.

Was it someone else he knew? Perhaps.

It could have been some demon he'd wronged; plenty of those.

And yet, in the bleakest corners of his mind, the slayer couldn't really put his finger on who it would be. All doors were sealed, at least as far as he could tell.
The demons he's faced have all so far been constructs. They'd been made from humans themselves as sacrifices, as true demons leave behind far greater power.
Of course, not every death stroke is a clean cut. Sometimes it happened, sometimes nothing.

It was weird how this system worked, considering he was far from his former level. Even though there were rules to account for how these things happened, you couldn't truly rely on that information.

Even at this level of strength, he was considerably more rusty at his skill.

That had to be the reason for his shut down, he wasn't used to this yet.

He was surprised he was even half alive, given the molecular shredding his genes had been through. Of mice and men, he was a monster of gothic proportions.
Derision was what he felt, like a caged animal as the bunker kept rattling through the air. The clock struck whatever time it was; now, he supposed.
To be a rising star that only gleamed felt like burning out more than falling. His flame seemed so dim now, only coming to represent the failures of what he'd seen.

There was a lot of pain in this world, that much was certain.

He was awake now at least, this time much longer than last.

He could still hear her whimpering, left beaten and violated.

They would pay for that, one bloody punch at a time.

The aircraft ceased movement, bustling to a stop. All he heard was a stilted creaking afterward. Nothing could drown out Helena's quiet cries. His fists tightened, but the worst part of it was. . .
He didn't know whether he had the strength to get them out of here. Would it even matter to her? She wasn't the first woman to be assaulted near him, he normally had an answer for those at fault.
The silver walls kept him in a state of hopeless dread, his inability to move a muscle made Dante numb to what was around. The fire burned on inside him; however dark, it was still there.

He heard men enter.

The creeps handled her violently, he could easily ascertain that. Muffled screams made it impossible to ignore.
His question was simple, did they have a true aim towards the two, or was it another manipulation of events?
Once again, he questioned himself. . . Who could have the ability to force all these people and things to an exact design? Intimidation had to be a field-factor.

There wasn't much left of him to tell, not that what was left had anymore to give.

His day just kept getting worse, the more he thought about it.

Beneath him, he felt motion again.

So, they were moving him now. He wondered where? Contrary to popular belief, you can't really use anything in your environment to determine your location if one of your sense's is blocked.
Latches activated, pinning his limbs in place as they sprung around his flesh. Experiencing a sudden panic, his chest beat up and down rapidly. The doors clicked, moved one centimeter, then 'exhaled.'

It was a mechanical sigh, a release of air and pressure.

The doors before him swung open, and his eyes were blinded briefly. The tube was so dark. Nevertheless, he adjusted relatively quickly, all things considered.
In front of him lay a giant bronze hall, machinery lining the tables all around as he was greeted by a confidant, but shocked man.
He took one step forward, a hood releasing backward to reveal his face.

Rig shook his head.

"You. . . Tsk, tsk, tsk, my friend. You're an evasive mother, you know that? Now there isn't a whore to protect you from me."

Dante's head still reeked of haze.

He couldn't get the fog to clear.

"Perhaps you'd prefer I test your mind. How long can you really hold out mentally when you see this little blonde tootsie get ripped apart by machinery?" He asked the slayer.

The silver-haired man looked and saw her strapped to a metal table.
The environment was sterile like a hospital, but less immutable. There was something sinister about it.

Rig leaned in.

"One tendon at a time, Dante."

"How do you know me?" The slayer responded.

"Oh, I've known about you for a while now. You're an insect, birthed from demonic royalty, that about right?"

So the man was smarter than he looked.
Rig had that real meat-head attitude going on.
It probably served him well to throw off others.
Who'd suspect he was intelligent?

"I suppose so." He replied, "What about you?"

Rig smirked at the man, confident his poker face was unrivaled. There wasn't a thing this man could tell from him now, not even a detail.
At least, he shouldn't have been able to. . . The slayer upset the man a bit.

"So, you like blondes? That assistant of yours might explain your fetish, though she's not the only one you galavant with."

"Excuse me?"

The executive twisted his head at his hostage.

Dante made an exaggerated sniff, breathing in hoarsely through his nose.

"Stacy, I believe. Maybe she's the reason you beat and raped my friend."

The slayer's eyes grew dark, his scarlet stare becoming just as soul-sucking as his brother's.
Rig took notice, he was a bit shocked at the resemblance, but Vergil had payed him another visit just to be sure.

"Oh, her? French bitch had it coming, I promise you. Do you even know why I've brought you here?"

He tried to keep the conversation on track.

"Can't say I do." Dante grumbled.

His captor laughed at him. In a preposterous situation like this, every moment counted. So it was important that Dante extracted every bit of useful info before he passed out again.
He could feel it, the pull of slumber seeking him once more. The wounds on his spirit would take long to heal, as all astral things must.
So many times he'd been destroyed by his enemy, he'd just bounced back. What made now so different? He set the question aside for the time being.

"Well, I guess I'll just keep you in suspense. Needless to say, your visit here will be long term."

"You think I'll crack in a place like this? I've been in every asylum you can think of, there's not one I haven't destroyed."
The slayer retorted, chuckling tired.

Rig turned back at him.

"Oh, this isn't an asylum. This place is destiny. My destiny; and yours, as seen fit by your keeper. But you know what I most enjoy about this place?
Fun doesn't seem to be something I ever consider when torture's involved. But, I'll admit . . . This does put a smile on my face."

He pressed a button on a tablet some assistant handed him.

Dante felt something disturb the skin on his temples.

Two drills made their way into his skull, and bore into the carbon fillings.
The sensation was unbearable, as if leeches were squirming under the surface of his skin.
He moved for the first time, wrenching around as the device seemed to pierce his tolerance.
His teeth tightened, the pressure growing further and further.

It kept getting more and more intense, the feeling intensifying until he could swear his head was being crushed by a shark in the water.
He was circling the drain now, it hurt so bad. The insidious scalpels making artwork of his skull.

His eyes turned red, and he began to struggle further.
The metal holds began to buckle, more and more of his strength wore itself in. Despite the damage, this pain made him summon anything he could muster, this brawn came from nowhere.
The knives dug further, growing ever larger as his resistance mounted. The pain was impossible to describe now, his face becoming something beyond life.

In one movement, he shoved his chest out, and the steel restraints tore away.

The piercing instruments in his head tore themselves out past his hair, and though he was still kept attached to the prison, his head screamed forward.
He bellowed in Rig's face, teeth razor sharp, and his eyes curdled the man's blood on the spot.
In that moment, Dante's unrestrained nature peaked the surface, and the human was left horrified.

Stumbling backward, he pressed a button that electrified the devil's heart.
The slayer crumpled back in his chair, his eyes restoring blue. The drills receded, leaving him.

He sat, an empty, glacial stare looking right through Rig's face.

What in the hell was that!?

His captor moved back into confidence.

"Dipped in holy water. What do you think? Pretty effective, don't you agree?"

'Oh, son of a . . .'
The slayer thought to himself.

First the ninja, now this cretin.

The man lifted his right hand, and grasped Dante by the chin. Holding his head up, he crushed his cheeks in together.

"We'll have plenty of time to discuss 'divine purpose' later. I have a world to master."

And with that, Rig waved his hand, and the tube closed back up.
His cylindrical prison sealed him in the darkness again.

But, he'd grown used to this.

He'd lived in the dark for a long time, it felt old and tired. So it goes.
Now, as time flew, he could only remain trapped, and waiting was all he could do. So that's what he did.

He waited for as long as he could stand, locked in a place where no one could reach.

Dante was a patient man, surprisingly.

But, no matter how long he waited, he always had that feeling with him that said, 'Hurry it up, will ya?'

His mind slipped into a deep subconscious, deeper than he'd ever fallen before. In the recesses of his mind, he began to fall fast. It was a rush, just like before, only . . .
No, there was no ground to hit. Not a real one this time. He may have been imagining it, but here he was again.
The frigid waters below with god-knows-what swimming around in it. Sculptures of old standing around, all dressed in gold and silver.

Helheim.

It was a place he'd not been to in years.

Or was he really here at all?

It was certainly dream-like, in a way he'd not experienced before. Yes, this was a dream. It felt different, the cold didn't sting as much, the icy ground not as numbing.
His fingers felt warmer, and he could still feel them. The cold here wasn't as severe, and the snow felt artificial.

Across from him, in the wading frost was a lone figure most familiar.

It stepped forward, a grin of malice painted upon his face.

Spiked silver hair and an old black coat, it had to be only one person.

"Greetings, brother. I've been waiting . . ."

To be continued

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Author's Note

So I decided to rewrite this as it was a bit rough around the edges. If you want to know what my personal feelings on this chapter were initially, go read the manifest.

Here I'm going to give you an update.

So it's been a long while since anything new has come out. My personal situation has changed for the better and for the worse, and this has affected my output severely.
First and foremost, click on my profile page to see my other work, and the stories I beta read for. They deserve some love too. Secondly, this is a chapter most didn't really get to see at first.
The reason for this was the ill-conceived story manifest, which, while a good idea, mainly confused people because it was always the latest chapter and most people didn't care.
So, in order to preserve continuity with the reviews for each chapter, and to ensure the latest chapter is always the first thing people get to see, the manifest has been moved to chapter 15 for now.
I made this change to ensure that the manifest would still be apart of this story, but wouldn't domineer the main releases. When the series is complete i will take it's place as the epilogue.
Also, let me explain the nature of hell in this universe I'm writing.

Gehenna is the proper name I've chosen to assign to hell, as in the hell dimension that demons reside in. It is attached to earth, and so the type of demons that invade it are from this dimension.
Now, Helheim is not a typical hell dimension, and instead acts as a realm where human souls are trafficked for judgement. Think of it as being different dimensions for each race.
I'm toying with the idea of adding more hell dimensions in the future, such as Shale or Yomi (the japanese world of darkness), but lets keep it simple for right now.

I'm currently in the process of rewriting chapter 12, which is a bit of a long involved task considering I have to remember all that I've changed so far. Additionally, work is very time consuming.
You gotta pay the bills, right? Anyway, that's just to let you know what's going with me. I promise chapter 20 and 21 will come out some day, and the meandering plot points you're seeing in the background will come to the forefront. The plot will make sense! It better damn well made sense or I've wasted all my time.

Anyway, I'm sorry for the consistent delays, and I know a lot of you are probably not happy that I keep updating without posting anything new.

Trust me, I'm making large changes right now. Have faith, it will come.

Alright, I've rambled enough.

I hope you enjoyed, those of you still left (I noticed a dip in favorites). Sad, but I suppose that the updates bring in new eyes.
Anyway, reviews are appreciated, I'll see you all later.