Disclaimer: I do not own Devil May Cry nor do I own RWBY. Credit for the cover pic goes to Tin Nijigen. I'm not sure if I'm imagining it but these days, whenever I hear about Rooster Teeth, it sounds like they got themselves in some deep shit. I may just be looking at this with rose-tinted glasses though, so anyone feel like breaking those glasses for me?
In a shady backstreet of Vacuo's most lawless region, it was said that one would find only the most tenacious of people.
The law was to the strong.
Those who lived were survivors.
Those who failed… well, the desert billowing with sandstorms existed for more reasons than one could imagine.
And it was in this region that a certain hunter in red stirred awake with a migraine from an endless night of booze, blackjack, and booty. And by booty, he meant money. Or was it? He could also mean getting laid. It could mean anything at this point. The migraine was a real bitch to handle. He would not have had to wake up either, if the wall of the house he had been sleeping by caved in and landed on him. There was also his motorcycle, Cavaliere, which was not in his house a moment ago, appearing trashed as though someone had thrown it into the house, but that was not the important bit.
"Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, what is it this time?" The man groaned underneath the rubble.
What WAS important was that someone decided they had to try and total Cavaliere, all while waking him up with a hangover at the same time. And that just won't do.
"Your time is up, fuckwit! I'M the boss of this place, and I will not have anyone disrespecting MY authority!"
He dared to open his eyes to the blistering light of the sun that now occupied the majority of his room. If it were up to him, he would go and blow up the sun. But that was not nice at all. People relied on that thing to live. The thought that he was being threatened did not even faze him.
"Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not buying. G'night." He tried to tuck himself back in. The sound of guns cocking made him realize that no, he was not going back to sleep. That left him irritable and a tad bit murderous.
"Don't think you can get away from this! You think you can get away with cheating us out of our Lien?! You rigged that game! I know it!"
No. He really did not. He could safely say that he did not cheat. They just had crappy hands and did not know when to fold in blackjack. In fact, they sucked so much that his bad luck managed to capsize itself and become good luck for that particular night. It was not his fault they decided to gamble away all their money. It was in his humble opinion that anyone living in this shithole – or immigrated to this shithole – were either suicidal or moronic. Or both. Has the idea of maybe staying in school ever crossed anyone's mind before? Some of those brats don't even look like they scrape past their teen years! And what happened to things like common decency and manners? Respect for the elders and all that? Was everyone around just a muscle-headed idiot pumped full of aggression?
If there was anything good about Vacuo, it would be that they at least have a sense of humor. Calling sand the 'local spice', since it always seemed to make it into people's food? Classic.
…Right. Maybe it was time to move on and find another place to lay low. He tried to recall how to talk again. First, a polite greeting. Next, give a name. Then, if it was an option, mention a relevant personal link. Finally, manage expectations.
Without a word, he tossed the blanket – and the rubble on top of it – covering him up and rolled off his bed, kicking it towards the gang. Within seconds, the bed was decimated by a rally of bullets. Within that infinitesimal moment of time, he had grabbed two familiar handguns, one black and one white, that were flying in the air and spun them rapidly.
As the dust settled and the last of bullet cartridges tinkled away, the gang that had tried to ambush one man were shocked that their quarry did not die. In fact, he did not have a single touch of harm on him at all.
A tall man who was supposed to be middle aged stood with poise, complete with a flamboyant pose. Despite his age, his naked upper body betrayed any notions that he was aging, appearing battle-scarred and purposed for fighting the long fight. White hair ruled his head and stubble littered his face, giving him a grungy, washed-out appearance that gave off a roguish charm.
"Time to go to work, boys."
Ebony and Ivory, his long trusted companions in the forms of modified black and white M1911's, spun in his fingers, having deflected all bullets that had flew his way. Behind him was an immaculate contour of the pose he was striking, created by the hunter deflecting the hail of bullets exactly where he wanted them. It was an artwork of the highest order created with the most expensive material, all of which was freely given to him. Soon, the twin handguns settled on the ragtag group that had finished their barrage.
He spoke out to the stunned crowd with the cockiest smirk that Remnant had ever known,
"Hello. My name is Dante. You destroyed my wall, tried to total my motorcycle, and woke me up with a hangover that will last me for a long while. Prepare to die."
Nailed it. Morrison and Inigo Montoya would have been proud of his vernacular.
"You son of a bitch!" The guy at the front, who was clearly compensating for something with that volume, screamed. He was all bark and no bite. "You think you're hot shit?! Get 'im, boys!"
Discarding their spent firearms, the gang all switched to their melee weapons and charged at him. Some of them even had mechashifting weapons. It was as though they did not even remember that he just used their entire stock of ammunition they liberally donated to him to create a piece of fine art. Then again, he did not expect them to have the accumulated IQ of a vegetable, to begin with.
His smile became fierce, lit with delight.
Dante had learned much from this world. Aura and Semblances were one of the main weapons the people of this world use. Dante had to separate the ones who used Aura from the ones who did not. That way, he could have more fun with the ones who could take more. Who would have thought emptying an entire magazine into a person without them dying was fun? Thus, one majestic jump into the air, and he was raining bullets faster than an anti-vax killing future generations. The ones that had flickers of color rising from their body were his targets. The others fell pretty quickly. People tended to do that when they get hit by .45 ACP rounds. They would live; he only hit their limbs or shoulders or stuff.
He landed on one's head and balanced on him like a gymnast. Everyone around him all clobbered at the guy's head, causing Dante to laugh as he fell and began using the guy as a weapon, swinging the poor sap like a sack of soda cans by his legs at anyone within his reach. Soon enough, he threw the guy in his hands high into the air. It was not a light throw either. The guy was screaming as he learned how to fly.
Ivory was raised to block a blade and Ebony in seconds shot the blade out of the opponent's hand. Both bashed against his skull, cracking his Aura, and Dante flew up to dropkick him, while also shooting at another behind him. Landing on his stomach, he contorted up and avoided attacks to his limbs, flipped and shot. Then he started breakdancing, shooting his guns while he was crossing between flaring and airflaring. He landed on his feet and spun on his heels and ended it with another immaculate pose, which coincidentally dodged all of the weapons that stabbed and slashed his way. The entire scene would have made for a nice stock photo if anyone were to visit Vacuo.
"Aww yeah. That's gonna last me a while." He commented as the others were trapped between shock and awe. The whole routine would have been a lot better if he had put on his Faust hat, too. Shame he forgot to do it. He would have to do that later on.
With that, he gave a loud whistle and held out a hand. One of the thugs was unfortunately standing in front of where his arm was outstretched and subsequently got struck and strangled slightly by a flying red coat and hat from behind. The hat was caught and thrown straight into the air. The coat was flung around circularly by Dante, arms slipping into the sleeves seamlessly, and secured right as the hat perched itself on his head. Once it did, a scarf made of luminescent red formed and wrapped itself around his neck.
Then against all odds… Dante started dancing. It was an absolutely normal routine for him. As for the others, they were both confused and insulted that he was dancing, thrusting his hips, moonwalking, kicking at nothing, and otherwise mocking them. But that stopped when he took the hat off and kicked it. The hat transformed into a red saucer that sliced through them. It returned and Dante snapped his fingers to the beat of a song they did not know, twirled his hands and began shooting from them. His hands were shooting red orbs at them. They dispersed, screaming in confusion at the violation of logic in front of them.
And to put salt on their wounds, back in the ruined base, the motorcycle that was assumed trashed roared. It righted itself up and sped away and towards the crowd of retreating targets that were so eager to get shredded by its iron sawblades of a pair of wheels. Once within distance, it jumped up and split into a pair of buzzsaws that was delightfully rotating.
In case no one had noticed yet, Cavaliere was essentially a motorcycle with chainsaw wheels.
If the saps had not learned anything when it came to Dante before, they were learning now. And a bit too late. Loud noises tended to make people remember how to think, it seemed. Especially if said loud noises came from a chainsaw, or in this case, a pair of chainsaws. It helped that getting hacked slowly, bit by bit, by multiple spinning blades was not a good way to die.
"He can shoot out of his hands AND has a chainsaw motorcycle!?"
"Oh shit! He has a chainsaw!?"
"He's got TWO chainsaws! Fuck this shit, I'm out!"
Cavaliere howled yet again. Dante slammed one of its wheels down, and it took him to town. And everywhere else. And through a lot of people. The other wheel acted like counterbalance, revving away and letting him feel like Leatherface on a field trip through a group of gunless Texans. Thankfully, most of them were already running away, so that meant there was little chance of anyone kicking the bucket.
The two buzzsaws came together and transformed back into a motorcycle. The Devil Arm revved its demonized engines and like that, Dante was off and away, leaving behind a mess of bodies that were full of screams, which mostly consisted of whimpering, great deal of complaining, and tales of sprained deltoids. Just the way he liked it. Oh yeah, and he nicked all of their money – or what was left of it – as well. He had to be compensated for his time, somehow.
And so, his fun came to an end for today. It's just another day at work… except this time, in a strange world with a shattered moon.
A/N: Well, it was going to happen sooner or later.
Introducing, a DMC x RWBY crossover fic. Viewer discretion is NOT advised. Obviously. A short chapter for this one, mostly because I honestly don't know where to start the story. I can write either before or after the Fall of Beacon, or even way before RWBY canon. Basically, I can either play it safe and stick to RWBY canon, or I can diverge and create a timeline for RWBY. Decisions, decisions.
Either way, look forward to it.
-DarkAkatsuk1, starting a new story