Chapter One: Beginnings Are Always Messy

"So…what do you think?"

Kyrie looked past the slightly overgrown lawn unto the white house that lay just beyond it. It was a modestly sized, two-story building like its neighbors – an ordinary house in an ordinary suburb, with white-painted walls and blue-tiled roofs and even a little iron wrought gate to grant an additional measure of privacy.

"You have a nice house." She replied politely to the woman next to her, who had earlier introduced herself as Trish.

"Wait till you see the inside." Came the ominous reply. Trish was, simply put, stunning. She stood like a queen and moved like a dancer, long legs clad black-leather gliding up the walk in heels that hurt Kyrie's ankles just to look at. The unabashedly tight corset-top (in black leather, of course) clung to each curve and dip of her body, while hair that looked like it should belong on a shampoo advertisement draped a golden sheet down to her hips. Judging by the little smile that permanently played on her red-painted lips, it was clear that Trish knew she was gorgeous and was more than happy to flaunt it.

In contrast, Kyrie held none of the eye-catching glamour of the woman before her and looked almost painfully plain in comparison. Auburn hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and while she kept reasonably fit, her clothes consisted of nothing more extravagant than a pair of faded jeans and a pale cream peasant blouse in cuts that were modest almost to a fault. She was ordinary, but she quietly reminded herself that she could make the best gingersnaps in the whole town and recite pi to 31 places. That had to count for something, right?

"Here we go." Trish managed to unlock the door and ushered her in. The stench hit Kyrie without warning and she felt her lips part in wordless surprise only to shut it firmly again with a grimace.

Pizza boxes, empty tubs of strawberry ice cream, piles of books and old newspapers littered the floor with careless abandon while the coat rack on her right was overflowing with various articles of clothing- except for coats. There was a smell of old food and Kyrie wondered if it would be rude to breathe with her mouth instead.

"Come along, there's still the living room, kitchen and bathroom to see." Trish clearly enjoyed her startled expression as she nudged the younger girl over the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The living room was worse than the hallway as all sorts of items from more packages of take-out to books and various articles of clothing was strewn all around. An electric guitar was propped atop a paper-cluttered coffee table while a worn out punching bag was strung from the ceiling adjacent to a just as battered television.

"Messy, huh?" Trish nudged pizza boxes aside with a booted toe as she made her way to the windows and forced it open.

Kyrie struggled to be tactful. "Er… it looks well-lived in."

"Namely it's messy." Trish looked amused at the attempt. "The kitchen's this way…"

After Kyrie's tour of the kitchen that had more dirty dishes than a dozen restaurants put together and the bathroom, the tiles of which nursed unidentified gunk that made her stomach clench queasily, Trish gave her the keys to the house.

"Lock up at seven. Just tidy up a little- I know nothing short of a miracle can completely clean up that mess, so no pressure. Just make it mildly livable." Her eyes shone with suppressed mirth. "Poor dear. You must be regretting this heartily."

"Oh no…" Kyrie shook her head weakly. "Its fine. I enjoy challenges."

"That's the spirit." Trish glanced at the wall clock and brushed back a wayward strand of blonde impatiently. "Alright, I have to leave now. Don't forget that the second floor is off-limits—we have a rather grumpy tenant who lives there and he takes his privacy very seriously. Just lock up before you leave and pop the key back in the slot."

Kyrie straightened her shoulders with a determined nod. "Alright- I'll do my best!"

Trish gave a silvery laugh as she strolled out the door, leaving the girl alone with the mess.

Mildly livable…? Kyrie turned back at the hallway and caught sight of a moldy doughnut with a cringe.

"Lord, help me please..." She picked up a broom and attacked.

The blade was heavy with the comforting weight of well-tempered steel, folded over and over to a single hairsbreadth edge that could cleave through flesh, through bone, past marrow and out again. It was a good blade, one that had served him reasonably well since he had picked it from Dante's arsenal.

One day, Dante had burst into his room without warning, declaring that he had deemed him well - and more importantly - trustworthy enough, to be granted with a weapon. He weighed the snide comment about Lady's very vocal opinion on exactly the opposite (she had stormed in and out again some minutes ago – did they really think he could not hear them yelling like that on the first floor?), but decided against it in favour of being able to fight again. He had to concede that the younger son of Sparda had grown in some measure of maturity, if only by not presuming to choose a weapon for him.

The hilt lay comfortably within his gloved palm, fingers curled with intimate knowing around the dark leather, each notch now known and his. He swung the sword once, a swift and neat arc that ended with the sword extended in a perfectly level plateau before him, moving with such control it was as if steel and flesh were one.

The extent of Dante's arsenal was impressive – gauntlets, spears, nun chucks, shotguns, lances, running the gamut both of traditional and lesser-known weapons. He had bypassed most of them, immediately moving to where the blades were kept. Pale but strong hands drifted over the clumsier broadswords and rejected those that were energy-imbued. Only once did he hesitate over Force Edge, fingers lightly passing over the jeweled-hilt in a greeting caress before moving on.

Dante had raised an eyebrow at that, but did not comment. Again he might have to make allowance for the man's improved maturity.

He took a quiet breath and moved with such suddenness that it was violence. There were no wasted movements in each sweep and stroke – strokes precise, swings meticulous. From the soles of booted feet to the masculine arch of neck, each muscle knew where it should be and moved with controlled accordance. In his strike was the grace of years spent in worship of an art, the parry bringing his entire frame from movement to absolute stillness before a whipping riposte would send him back to flight.

Finally, he settled on a sword composed of simple steel. It was an ordinary, almost plain, blade, but when he grasped the scabbard and unsheathed it to study its keen, hungry edge, he knew he had found the blade to serve him. He resheathed the sword almost carelessly and gave the waiting demon hunter a nod.

"This will do."

He moved faster and faster and faster, tracing patterns in the air and cleaving through unseen enemies, blade chasing its own after-image as if to fight against itself, that is until muscles pushed far too much for far too long, suddenly seized up. He was sent stumbling to the ground, the sword clattering a distance away as he landed heavily on his arms and knees. He wanted to curse, to draw his fist back and slam it on the ground, again and again for as long as it took to alleviate the anger that boiled within him at his own helplessness. Pathetic, he wanted to spit out. Wanted to beat at his own flesh - so rebellious, so weak - and cow it into submission.

Instead, he rose to his feet and slowly made his way to the fallen sword, which had been waiting patiently for him. Hilt firmly in hand, he took a deep breath and resumed the opening stances.

From the top of the stairwell overlooking the training room, Dante watched Vergil train, his own fist clenched to tightness that drew blood.

Kyrie's arms were sore carrying near a thousand boxes of pizza, sorting through the piles of clothes as well as scrubbing crusted leftovers off of bowls and plates. Not to mention lugging around garbage bags, and vacuuming through several month's worth of dust. She was starting to ache in places she had not known it was possible to ache and longed for a shower and a nap – but smiled at the sight of the fruitcake muffins on the counter.

Nero.

One day, Kyrie had mentioned in passing that she had wanted to try the unusual pastry. Nero who had been tuning his bike had only offered noncommittal hums – but later that night had surprised her with a bag of the things. Every now and again, she'd come home to a cupcake or two, which always made her smile at his thoughtfulness though she hadn't the heart to tell him that fruitcake muffins were unusual for a reason.

Nibbling said pastry, she entered the living room to her older brother's pacing form. Dressed in his military uniform of white embroidered gold and scarlet, Credo cut an impressive figure. There was something hard and meticulous about him, and he had an air of someone who was used to giving orders and then being obeyed.

"Kyrie. Sit." Credo relaxed a hair's breathe at the sight of his sister.

"Is anything wrong?" She sank into the couch before biting into an overly processed cherry with a wince.

He gave a smile that was a little strained at the corners. "I was a little worried about you at taking a job like this, especially one that requires you at so intimate a place as another's home so I called the house up at the number you left on the fridge."

Kyrie watched the telltale twitch of her brother's eye. Oh dear…

"We've been through this!" She spoke firmly, sitting up suddenly. "I've been offered a great salary by Trish for a bit of cooking and cleaning and besides, there was no one in the house at all. You promised you'd trust me." She lifted her chin almost stubbornly. "I'm old enough to help you out now, Credo and I-"

Credo wordlessly clicked his cell phone and put in on speaker to a man's rather sensuous baritone.

"Yeah, yeah, you know the drill. Girls, leave your name and number. Guys, don't bother." The beep of the answering machine echoed in the sharp silence.

"…um…."

"'Um' indeed."

AN

This fic will be AU in setting, but the basic premise is for games 1 and 3, with 4 being shaken and picked at, while 2 shall be completely ignored. :D

I'm doing a lot of re-vamping on this story - so do let me know if you like what you see~