Hi everyone (: I'm back!
I know it's been a while, but with school restarting (worse than ever- uni sure kills you) I doubt I would be able to update as often as I used to. ): NOT abandoning anything though so please stay tuned (:
This may be a little weird cause I wrote it in 3 distinctly different situations (in my life).. lol.
Thanks so much for all the reviews, they really keep me going. And thank you so much for reading!
ONWARDS!
She took another step in the foreboding darkness, her pace steady; the sound of her leather heels echoing loudly as they struck the cold cement. The dingy back alley was filled with the stench of rotting garbage and urine, smells that told endless stories of the neighbourhood's inhabitants, that caused her to crinkle her nose in disgust. For once in her life she cursed her superior sense of smell.
Though the stillness of the air and the unnerving silence set off alarm bells deep within her, she continued her path, never allowing a trace of uncertainty to be shown on her face- her head still held high and her hips still swaying as seductively as ever. She had to be here. She was already out of leads- this was her last hope.
Her tired feet carried her to the end of the road, where all that stood was a tall brick wall, a dead end. She scanned the area in the deathly silence, her eyes glowing enchantingly in the night. There was no one in sight. It did not make any sense; she had followed him there, despite her instincts telling her to do otherwise; yet, there she stood, alone in the empty alley, accompanied by a symphony of unpleasant smells.
It did not make any sense; but through all her years of living, she had learnt that very little did.
A small, sly smile graced her lips as she grabbed the Sparda, swinging it behind her effortlessly. A yell of pain was heard; and then there was silence.
She turned to face her victim- hooded, and robbed of life.
She knew she would be meeting them again.
Hundreds of footsteps broke through the night. Weary from her fights and worn from travel, she pulled Luce & Ombra from their holsters, ready to get to work. She sighed, hoping, wishing for her efforts to bear some fruit.
She needed a lead. Every second she wasted could be Kyrie's last.
She could not keep track of how many she shot, or how many she took down with a single swing of the Sparda, but they kept coming, and she kept killing. She knew what she would do. Keep one alive, as she always did. Get the answers she needed.
It was a simple formula.
Though she could feel the exhaustion pulling her down, she kept going, not a sign of weakness visible on her face, on which she wore a blank, bored expression. They were no match for her. She did not understand the point of this exercise. It was exhausting.
Unless..
Her eyes widened with a sudden realisation as she scanned the area frantically, her skillfull hands still firing accurate shots, targeting the swarm of hooded demons.
'No,' she thought. 'No.'
A burning pain seared through her body as it ate into her flesh; the malicious flames burning each miniscule fibre in her being. In her moment of weakness they struck without mercy- hundreds upon hundreds of them feasting hungrily on her sweet flesh. She struggled to regain herself, managing to kill a few of them despite being pinned to the ground by their greedy stampede.
She cursed under her breath as she willed herself to push harder; to rid them from her. She placed her hand on the ground, bracing herself.
Large bolts of lightning emanated from her hand, killing the demons around her.
For a moment, none of them touched her. She looked up, watching as they took a few steps back, seemingly in escape.
And then she saw him. Clad in his dark leather, cold metal chains hanging ornately from his armour; his cruel face made more menacing by his grotesque scar, twisted by his deep scowl. She reached out her hand, ready to strike him with lightning. He grabbed her wrist in a swift movement and twisted it, releasing the white-hot flames that engulfed her once more.
She whipped her head back in pain. 'Fuck.' She cursed herself mentally. She knew she was tired. She knew she was weak. She knew this was a bad idea. Yet there she was.
He grabbed her by her neck, his steely grip asphyxiating her. She raised her hands to his, trying her best to pry his cruel fingers apart, but to no avail, only causing him to tighten his hold around her. She struggled to breathe; she felt like she was drowning, cruelly robbed of breath by his hand.
He threw her to the brick wall, cracking the solid brick with the impact form her form. She heard a sickening crunch as she felt a warm, sticky liquid trickle from a gash in her head, caressing the smooth skin of her face, forming droplets of deep red on the ground before her. The searing pain in her neck left her helpless, unable to move her head. She grunted. Something was definitely broken.
With her head hung low, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching as a pair of black leather boots appeared before her. She looked up as far as her eyes could. His cold, unsmiling face stared down at her, his dark eyes burning with a maddening rage yet filled with an insatiable lust. She felt a sudden, deep pain as kicked her squarely in the gut, watching with pleasure as she spat thick volumes of blood from her red-stained lips.
Time. She needed time. Time she knew he was not willing to give.
She tried to reach for the Sparda, but no matter how hard she willed it to, she could not move her right arm. There she lay, broken and helpless at his feet; like a ragdoll, left unkept, waiting to be played with. He smiled a despicable smile, straddling her hips, pinning her hands down with his knees. She bit her lip, trying her hardest not to scream in pain as he roughly forced her head up to face him. His smile widened as he heard her grunt and saw the flash of pain in her expression.
Slowly, he lowered his head to her neck, and bit into her tender flesh. Her pained cry filled the depths of the darkness.
"What's wrong, Trish?" he asked, his hand still cupping her face. His voice was cold, cruel, and dripping with hatred. "Does it hurt?"
Gritting her teeth, she glared into the icy coldness of his eyes, refusing to give in. She spat in his face, hitting him between the eyes.
He growled in fury, angered by her defiance. Roughly, hurriedly, he rid her of her leather corset, exposing her soft skin and full breasts to all who stood in the quiet alleyway, hooded and waiting for commands. Grabbing her by her hair, he shoved her to the ground, blade in hand.
Her anguished screams pierced through the silence of the night.
Oooo
Dante sat up in bed, his head pounding and his heart racing. He was drenched, beads of sweat soaked his hair and trickled down his bare chest. He found himself panting heavily, struggling to remember where he was and what had happened.
Asleep. He had been asleep. Dante squinted as he stared into the dark interior of his tent.
What time was it?
"You alright, old man?"
Dante turned to see Nero looking straight at him, genuine concern evident in his eyes. "You were thrashing about and sweating buckets. Bad dream?"
Dante stared at the younger man for a few moments, silent. He brought his palms to his face, rubbing his eyes as he groaned. "Y-yeah. You could say that."
He grabbed his shirt that lay by his sleeping bag and used it to wipe the sweat off his face.
"Wh-What time is it, kid?"
"I don't know, 3? Maybe 4-"
"T-Trish." Said Dante, cutting in. "Where is she? Is she back yet?"
Nero raised an eyebrow at the older man, unable to comprehend his sudden surge of worry. The unsettled tone of his voice and the genuine fear in his eyes betrayed his usually calm demeanour, and lacked his usual playful charm. For the first time, Nero saw the Son of Sparda being serious.. and genuinely afraid.
"N-No," said Nero cautiously, eyeing Dante down. "She's not. Was she-"
Dante jumped up before Nero could finish his sentence, running out of the tent without bothering to get dressed.
"Dante!" called Nero, running out after him.
Nero caught sight of the older man staring out into the distance, moving restlessly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Dante-"
"I got a bad feeling kid." Said Dante, running his hand through his sweat drenched hair. "She should have been back. She should have been-"
He broke off suddenly, seemingly catching sight of something in the distance. Nero followed the demon hunter's gaze.
A lone figure staggered in their direction in the distance. Through squinted eyes, Dante managed to just make out the familiar silhouette.
"Trish!" he called, running in her direction. Nero followed after the older man, struggling to keep up with him.
Dante felt a lump in his throat as his watched the woman before him, his heart racing faster than it ever had in his life. Each step she took seemed to be a painful struggle, as she held on to the Sparda for support, limping, dragging herself along; her hips no longer swinging the way that drove Dante absolutely mad, her stride no longer confident and alluring. The soft, warm breaths that secretly kept him up at night were now jagged and sharp, as though each inhalation brought her immense pain, her laboured breathing a result of what Dante feared must have been a set of broken ribs. Streaks of blood framed her once flawless face, staining the sides he once caressed and the sweet mouth he often longed for. Her once soft, silky hair was a mess, the long strands of gold he adored now mixed with the sticky red of her own blood. Her shoulders were no longer symmetrical as her right arm lay limp and useless by her side.
"D-Dante.." she whispered, her voice hoarse, her head hung low.
Dante ran to her side, afraid to touch her, longing to hold her.
For a brief second, she glanced at her right arm, frowning, annoyed at her inability to move it. She forced herself up to an upright position with her left hand, using her beloved sword for support, quickly releasing her grip on the weapon to reach for the lightning-shaped zipper on the front of her ensemble. The leather corset fell effortlessly to the ground, revealing many a man's fantasy, framed by her golden strands.
"Trish. What the-"
Dante paused; his eyes adjusting to the vulnerability of her form. Though it took him some time, he noticed the faint bruises on her full breasts, the redness of her ribs, the deep scratches down her body, violated by another's hand. In a swift movement, she fell to her knees, supporting herself with her hands as she exposed her back to him.
"There," she whispered. "She's there."
Dante looked down in silence, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. Nero could have sworn he heard the man growl under his breath.
As she pulled her hair away, Dante caught sight of the deep gashes, red liquid flowing freely from them. For a moment he stood at a loss for words, unable to comprehend her words, wondering why she hadn't recovered, unaware of how deep the wounds had been hacked into her flesh.
And then he saw it. Carved into the she-demon's back was what appeared to be a set of block-like numbers, formed by straight lines and jagged ends.
"Nero,"he called over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. His voice was gruff and hurried. "Run to the tent and grab the pen and paper from Kyrie's bag."
Nero moved quickly, retrieving the necessary stationary and handing them over to Dante, who quickly scribbled the numbers down, shoving the piece of paper into his coat pocket. Swiftly, he collected the woman who lay at his feet, cradling her lovingly in his arms, watching as the pale moonlight caressed her sleeping form.
"Grab Sparda for me will ya,"said Dante as he walked away, his gaze transfixed on the treasure in his arms, never facing the younger man. Nero watched as the man made his way slowly to the warmth of the campsite, whispering softly to the woman in his embrace, revealing just a hint of his fear and relief despite his best efforts.
"Sure," muttered Nero, as the man drew further and further from sight. He felt the weariness sink in as he reached for the weapon that lay abandoned on the ground. He wished the games would come to an end. He was tired of being toyed with; tired of being a mere play-thing in the larger scheme of things. He gazed and the weapon before him and sighed.
'Kyrie.. Where are you?'
Feeling the presence of at intense gaze burning at the back of his head, Nero whipped himself around, scanning the area for any unwelcomed guests. His eyes met with the eerie glow of three orbs in the sky, burning a deep purple, its presence distinguished from the stars scattered in the darkness.
Nero frowned, reaching his hand out as though to touch the orbs that glowed so high up, giving in to his first instincts. To his surprise, warmth tickled his fingers as they danced across the purple light.
He jerked his hand away reflexively, a deep furrow forming in his brow as he eyed the mysterious light. Consciously forcing himself not to look away, he called for his companion, his voice echoing eerily in the silence.
No reply came.
Nero tried again, louder still, and again he was met with no answer. He continued to stare into the light, his eyes beginning to tire as he felt the weight of his lids ever increasing. Though he fought his hardest not to, he finally gave in to the basic human reflex, allowing his eyes to close briefly in a quick blink.
The significance of the orbs that burnt before him was lost on Nero; little did he understand what the being was made of, what it was doing, and what it wanted. Though Nero was now certain that this light was alive rather than inanimate he would never know of the things it had seen in its life, nor the things it longed for now. He would never know of the night it watched his older companions lose themselves to passion, never know of the hatred that burnt in its violet glow.
When Nero reopened his eyes the night was still and quiet in all its normalcy. The sky was dark once more, lighted only by the stars that swam endlessly in its deep blue seas.
As the reader reached the end of the page, he/she noticed a button unlike any other. Suddenly, inexplainably, he/she felt a deep longing to click it and leave a review , allowing the world and the author a glimpse of his/her true awesomeness.
constructive critiscism is welcmed too (: