The sun shone an eerie red as Dante Sparda paced back and forth. The red light painted the room like blood; it brought back horrible visions that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Vividly, the scenes replayed themselves, so vividly that he could still smell the blood, and could still feel it slick on his hands. Looking down at them, he found that they were clean. They were clean, but he could still feel the sticky warmth on them. Was he losing his mind? What difference did that make, sane or insane, it was still his fault.
He hadn't expected them to attack Devil May Cry, why would they when he had walked purposefully into their trap. He had given them their damn victory. He would have died to save Hailie...But that had not been enough for her. Why? He didn't know. Damn it all, he just wished he had something to kill. Marionettes, Sins, and Goats he could handle, but the things humans could do were a thousand times worse. He had to admit he was ready to leave the human race to its own devices should more demons arise.
"Dante Sparda," came a voice from behind the devil hunter. Quickly, Dante spun to face the source of the voice, the man that had first addressed him when he had brought her in. A middle aged, salt and peppered doctor by the name of Smith.
"Yes," Dante replied, not really acknowledging that the raspy croak of a word had come from his throat.
After Dante's reply, Dr. Smith took a moment to steady himself; which resulted in him taking a few deep breaths, cleaning his large, circular glasses, and blinking a few times. Then, once steadied, he signaled Dante to follow him, and he took off through the waiting room doors. Keeping pace with the 5'7" doctor, Dante sighed out of frustration, and deeper still, sorrow, because a doctor does not take one away from the waiting room for good news.
After the longest three minutes of walking in Dante's life, the doctor stopped outside of a room with a heavy iron door and fumbled hopelessly for his keys, until Dante reached out with a hand and tried the knob, which left the door gaping.
"Thank you."
Dante sat after entering into the room, or rather, doctor's office. The latter of which Dante deduced by the decor of numerous certificates, diplomas, and other educational paraphernalia that exclaimed the competence of Dr. Roger Smith. Besides these adornments and the chair in which he sat, Dante made brief notice of a rather rickety aluminum desk filled with papers, pens, paperweights, and other bobbles. Taking his seat behind the desk, the doctor took a few bore breaths.
"Mr. Sparda," he began, taking a breath, "we have tried all that we can to stabilize Hailie, and have been quite successful."
For a moment, he simply let the words hang there, with all the comfort, compassion, and even pride with which they had come out. Then when he saw that the man's expression had not changed, he knew there was no reason in keeping up pretenses.
"The truth is this, Mr Sparda. We have stabilized Hailie, but the bullet has caused enormous internal damage. Damage that, given her condition, could be physically threatening to her if we don't find a way to rid her of the separation in her spinal cord. But if we proceed, the chances of her living are 40 to 60."
Years seemed to pass by as the doctor found himself searching the face of Dante Sparda, a face that looked young, maybe in his late twenties, but had eyes that looked ancient. All the sorrow, doubt, and even fear in the two glacial orbs was that of age, which could only be expected in the current circumstances, but made the doctor nervous none the less. They made him even more nervous when they locked on him, freezing his blood.
"Doctor, what did she tell you?" Dante asked in the same raspy croak the doctor had heard earlier.
"That she wants to be able to walk again," was all the doctor could say.
For a moment, Dante was compelled to tell the man to proceed with the operation, but he couldn't be so careless with Hailie. He couldn't just make a decision that could possibly result in her dying, nor could he make a decision that could cause her to be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of her life.
Dante nodded briefly in response, relaying the fact that he could give the operation some serious thought.
"Mr Sparda, our options are extremely limited," Dr. Smith sighed, a genuine sigh that made Dante think a little bit better of the medical field in general.
"But the final choice is mine, right?"
The doctor nodded in consent. It was then that reality hit Dante Sparda, a reality harder than Phantom's backside, the reality that he would have to choose between Hailie's life, and Hailie's physical well being. With all that, Dante couldn't help but fall back into his earlier anger and hatred. The hatred of those who had done this, the hatred of the Protectors of Dumary Island.
The city of Angel Falls, New York was a small town. Well, small city, about a four hour drive from N.Y.C.
Looking at it, any visitor could only wonder why anyone would want to live in the God forsaken place. It was dirty. On the verge of dilapidation, with each of the buildings showing signs of rust, weathered paint, and cracked or stained window glass. The streets were likewise shabby, boasting an abundance of pot holes, cracks, and graffitied street signs. And as if that wasn't bad enough, there were the strange occurances. Unpredictable storms and winds. The strange howls and moans at night. And worst of all, the numerous disappearances. So yes it was God forsaken, but that was the reason many of its inhabitants lived there, including Dante Sparda.
At the moment, Sparda was in the Angel Sanctum Hospital, the area's one and only hospital that was unfortunately located on the other end of town from Devil May Cry. Unfortunately, not only because of the night's transpired events, but because at that moment Dante couldn't possibly have known about the two motorcycle engines as they died outside of his front door.
The room temperature dropped drastically, or at least it seemed that way to Dante Sparda, because how else could a block of ice have formed in the pit of his stomach. And why else could he have felt a chill at the doctor's "I'll give you some time to think about it Mr. Sparda." But if the temperature had dropped, it seemed Dr. Smith hadn't noticed because he was sweating profusely, even as he stoof from his desk and once again motioned for Dante to follow. This time it took "Mr Sparda" a few moments before he could follow and when he did, he found that his demonic senses had kicked in.
He could smell, hear, and sense every inch of the ER, and it did little to ease his mind. This was another reason he disliked hospitals, though normally it wouldn't have been a problem to simply seal the insanely acute senses away, but for some reason he couldn't now. It brought back memories of his mother, and of the hospital in which he believed she had died. He had been unable to control his senses then, as well. He had felt the pain and misery of nearly everyone in the ER. And he had felt his mother's death.
Now it was once again all the same, the pain, misery, and awash in the sea of others was her. She was in pain, the painkillers they had given her were nearly ineffective against her immune system, and there was nothing he could do for her. The last of these, being pure realization. Then to Dante's suprise, he picked up three energy signals that couldn't have been more out of place among the sea of pain, three signals that held none of the weakness or despair that permeated the place. Three very familiar energy signals that brought the most miniscule and unconscious wisp of a smile to his lips.
It wasn't long after Dante had felt their presence that he and the doctor returned to the waiting room. And in the waiting room, he found them there. Three figures sitting patiently, two men and a woman, all with the same expression of concern. Of the three, the taller of the two men spotted him first and responded accordingly by getting to his feet. As he approached, Dante forced a smile for his benefit, and sat in the waiting room chair closest to the door from which he had entered the room. The man, who was roughly the same build and body type as Dante, took the one beside him. But first, he slid off his trench coat to make sitting easier.
"How is she??" the man asked softly.
"Not good," Dante answered curtly.
The man nodded in understanding and brushed a bit of flaxen hair out of his emerald eyes, which immediately locked onto Dante. Which brought Dante to wonder just how much he understood, But then, it didn't matter. When dealing with this man, Dante knew he should never assume anything.
"So how did you find out?" Dante asked, trying for a casual conversation, which was only a common courtesy.
"Specter called us after he left you," the man played along, indicating the other man across the room who was still seated with the woman.
"But you're wearing-" Dante began, but was cut off with a wave of the man's hand.
"Yeah. We were fighting," the man confirmed, explaining the donning of his very Dante-esq combat garb. This included his silver trench, like wise silver leather pants, black button shirt, and black combat boots.
Dante assumed he had left his sword and fun outside, like he himself had done.
"What was up?" Dante continued, now finding himself stretching to keep the conversation away from where he knew it was heading.
"Nothing much, just some Sins and an Abyss Goat terrorizing the citizens of New York City," the man replied as casually as he could muster, also trying to keep the conversation away from the reason they were there.
This, however, could not last, and both knew it. So it was Dante who spoke next, getting to the heart of the matter.
"Merrick," he said, addressing the man, "She's in really bad shape. They say that if she undergoes the procedures, she could walk again, but there's a 40% chance that she'll live. But if they don't, she'll never walk again."
"What does Hailie have to say about it?"
"She says she wants to walk again."
With the words out, Dante felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. But from the look on the man's face, it seemed that it had merely been moved from his chest to Merrick's head. But the look of shock and pain didn't last long, and instead faded into a look of compassion. A compassion that was suddenly littered with very familiar mannerisms. Ones that Dante recognized from his brother, Vergil.
It was then that, for the first time, Dante saw a large part of his brother, other than physically, in the White Lighter Merrick. Merrick was, in actuality, a fusion of soul and angel, a White Lighter, a kind of divine devil hunter that balances the scales of good and evil. Merrick was created when his brother Vergil had agreed to atone for his evil actions by merging with the Angel Sisyphus. A fusion that, as far as Dante knew, would last until their time on Earth was up. This, of course, had only been a story to Dante until now, but looking into the emerald eyes of the White Lighter now, he had no doubts about the claim that Merrick had made to him. He was talking to his brother.
"Is there anything else that they can do?" Merrick asked.
"Yeah. They can ask me to choose between Hailie's life and her physical well being," Dante said bitterly, and not caring about his sour tone.
This caught Merrick off guard. So much, in fact, that it was a few moments before he spoke again.
"I'm sorry, man. I mean-" Merrick began but he was cut off.
"If you guys had been there, it wouldn't have made a difference. Trust me."
From the cold certainty in Dante's voice, he did believe him.
"Still Dante. I wish that I could do something."
"Like what?"
"I could try healing her with my white light."
"Will that work? Fix the separation in her back so she could walk again, I mean," Dante asked, having seen Merrick use his other form only once on a dying human girl.
"I'm not sure. And anyways, if it works or not won't be up to us," Merrick replied, not bothering to explain who it would be up to as he looked upward.
