The Commute

[Simon]

Continued from Dante's return in the Nexus.

Much time passed after Dante's first and only yet visit to the Imperial city. Unlike the present situation, that last appearance happened on a whim; the devil hunter of the past lacked direction and intent, and so came here out of eight choices at random. At that time, he would not have even begun to comprehend the depth and expanse of the extra-dimensional world that currently held him.

That all seemed so silly now. It always did, though- as they say, hindsight is 20/20. Times changed, and like many adventures before, Dante proved himself all the stronger and wiser than he lived yesterday. The Stormtroopers flanking the gate were as cautious as ever to Dante's approach, following the norm. Without skipping a beat, the red-coated, silver-haired mercenary putted his machine to a stop before them and explained himself coolly. All the gears clicked into place as the troopers looked up "Tony Redgrave," to find his profile free of any ill marks. The satisfaction of the acceptation set in soon afterward, like being an honored guest at a club.

The devil hunter, at least abiding to the common law, carefully cruised through the checkpoint and onto the streets respectfully. Perhaps he didn't play quite as careful as he could've best done- the geared-up appearance and the noise pollution from his rough ride made Dante's presence as apparent as a hangnail. In spite of that, the hunter remained without concern. If there existed any significant reason for law enforcement to stop Dante, then the half-man half-devil wouldn't have gotten into this place without every white-suited soldier knowing about it and looking out for his handsome head.

Ultimately, Dante seemed allowed in this city without repercussions. That being said, the devil hunter decided he wouldn't be quite in the clear for a while yet. In the vein of a superstitious fellow on the wrong side of town, he did his part to remain inside the lines and hopefully inconspicuous. The red-coat even cut the engine of his bike as he took a transit elevator down to the second tier, pulling out his Dataverse Device to productively kill the time of the trip. While in this spared moment, Dante made an effort to figure out just how deep a mercenary might have to go in order to host their business.

Only later on would it tick with him just how fortunate he was, that the trip down took as long as it did to figure out the use of the Dataverse. Though the process involved a bit of fumbling through sites and menus, Dante managed to find his way to the information he wanted to see. Not moments later, the dull roar of the elevator's ominous passage slowed, coming to a lurching, muted halt.

"Tier 2," sang the computerized female voice overhead. The mercenary had been hoping to cobble together a vague idea of where one should start looking to set up their certain brand of business, but that would have to pause momentarily. Dante slid out of the opening doors alongside the chatter of others, not paying the most attention over how many pairs of eyes might have been glancing or staring at him. He followed the convenient public signs towards the next elevator, trying not to waste time but avoiding cutting corners.

Dante hadn't been paying much attention before as he merely ghosted through streets, but now that he was actually on a different Tier for once, he spared a glace or two about. Ultimately, it didn't look majorly different than how he recalled the surface, the architecture and atmosphere much the same as the upper level. Only the transit shafts poking into the digital sky gave any indication this place lived truly underneath a greater one.

What was truly notable, however, was the distinct lack of obvious patrol squads and military chokepoints. From what the mercenary had read of the supercity's structure, this would be the beginning of the notable downward trend in terms of military presence. That is to say, the farther down one went, the less solders around to keep the peace. With that in mind, Dante established an important rule for himself- stay out of the bottom-most tiers, except on business. The last thing a devil hunter like himself needed was the harassment of no-good punks and druggies on the daily.

Alas, there might've been a certain irony to that declaration, if Dante bothered to notice any of the judging gazes as he slipped into the next elevator.

[Simon]

Dante didn't really tune back into the world proper until he reached Tier 4. That transition back might've been mostly on the behalf of the storm of neon lights and grandiose volumes assaulting his senses. As opposed to the reasonable time of day projected just a couple hundred meters above, this section of the layered metropolis played out as the dead of night in a lively downtown. Whatever bigwigs behind the management of this level clearly wanted their citizens to be blinded by the staggering amount of glowing signs and advertisements on display.

That might explain the crime. There lived people here wanting to get rid of the light-tube attractions, and either replace it with the same thing of their own design, or merely leave it so they could get some damn sleep.

Shaking off any more thoughts of sign-related conflict, Dante set out into the consuming contrast of Tier 4. The devil hunter plodded aside the main streets, though to presume he did so out of security would be a misnomer. Dante simply didn't know the layout of the city so well, and so meant to commit the area's primary arteries to memory. He pressed on, back straight, hands calmly at his sides, coat-tails softly billowing with every wake of air a passing vehicle generated.

Anything capable of knocking a veteran Prime down to size wouldn't merely settle themselves in some grubby passage where the infectious illumination didn't quite reach. The half-blood knew from experience that one specialized in an art does best in their own element. Only low-down thugs would remain in a low-down environment, leaving the greater spaces for the masters.

A gravel-lined voice spoke up as the cacophony started to blur: "Hey, mop-head."

That beind said, Dante held no illusions that trouble might not find him. Knowing devils, however, trouble's worst would not dare come looking for him personally, instead sending the smaller fry in vain. To an experienced hunter, it didn't serve much more than an inconvenience.

"Hey, I'm talking to *you*!" The voice accompanied his emphasis with a firm hand- unwashed, bedazzled with jeweled rings, and bulging with flesh as it gripped the mercenary's shoulder.

Dante whipped about, smacking the beefy limb away with a back-handed strike. "Sorry, I'm not having what you're selling," came the decisive reply as his azure eyes locked onto his inconvenience.

Looking like a second-rate body-builder with entirely too much blood in his body, the perpetrator's arm fell limp, and his other came up in response. The other thick hand clutched tightly around the handle of a cruddy blade, seeming entirely redundant considering how the veins bulged around his popping knuckles. Between his hairless head and sharpened ears, a pair of prismatic eyes stared from behind a layer of murk. His set of engorged lips opened up, every movement oozing a clear ichor from between them.

"Your phone, your cash, now," the threat lurched from his throat as if the muscles struggled to say it. The dull orbs of his vision made no indication that he even registered Dante's retort. Reasonably enough, the evil hunter tried again-

"Look, I try and keep a policy not to hurt humans-"

"Wha did you say-?" The thug seethed out, his throbbing arm lurching up to nearly gut Dante under the chin. It would've connected, had the mercenary not caught the scraggly shank with his gloved hand. Dante did not look impressed, or even curious as to this behavior, but the low-life explained it regardless: "Don't you dare lump me with those ass-haired apes, you baby-faced ingrate!"

After a mere moment of consideration, Dante agreed.



A small group of preppie humanoids walked along, freshly disheveled from a session of partying. That club on the midway certainly had a way with their drinks, they agreed, and the lasers and strobe-lights weren't bad either. The primary show had just been the one alien girl, but boy did she know how to swing her stuff around. This was discussed much to the jealousy of a couple males in the company not close enough to get the full eyeful.

The crack of bone sounded from beneath the bruising of flesh as they passed a certain alley. Whatever party-goers didn't immediately snap to attention were instead jostled from their trance by the figure collapsing on the concrete. Both of the low-life's burly hands clapped over his scrunched face, streams of tears and blood leaking from the same grasp that muffled his cries of agony. The young adults were reasonably horrified in witness of this event, many of them standing by with mouths agape.

One of them finally started turning the gears, shouldering past a fellow knife-ear to glance over the set of rings on that hand. "L-Lazarus?!" He exclaimed, as if even his own words were incredulous to his thoughts. Surely, it had to be coincidence that the six rings on this individual's hand were identical to the ones his dear friend wore, not even a month back when they still knew each other. Had their falling out really allowed some grotesque, drugged up monster to take his place?

"You-!" Lazarus's old friend pointed an accusing finger at the man with the red coat, currently grimacing at the fluids he had inadvertently smeared over the sleeve. His silvery hair and honed face had those rounded ears suited to mud-bloods, and the elf drew the obvious conclusions from the smear on his clothes. "What have you done to him?!"

Dante looked up, and without skipping a beat replied honestly, "Probably broke his nose, with an elbow like that."

The elfin male did not look very satisfied with that answer. The rest of his fellows kept looking on in mixed disgust and horror as he took another step forward to confront the assaulter. "I'm sure you think you're hilarious, *human*," the young man laced that final word with venom, as if saying it meant to stick a dagger in the mercenary's heart. "Don't mess with me. Tell me what you did!"

A brief look of confusion creased the devil hunter's face, and he looked between the knife-eared humanoid and the still-writing mass of disproportionate muscle on the ground. His own mental gears soon clicked into place, piecing together the scenario- and what the elf thought the scenario was. Dante couldn't resist releasing a breath of dissatisfaction.

"I told you, I cuffed him across the face," the red-coat repeated, holding out his arms. Clutched in the gloved creases of his hand, the macabre blade could only have been more apparent if he were holding it by the clothed-up handle instead of the crumbling edges. "After he tried to stab me, of course."

A couple of the people in the elf's company redoubled their shock, a couple of other pedestrians throwing the scene some sidelong glances. Above the moaning Lazarus, his friend attempted to formulate a defense despite being in witness of the smoking gun, metaphorical as it were. Why was he attempting to help this sniveling freak, anyways? Could it even be possible at this point that there might lay some dormant measure of his old friend in this bloated husk of an elfin- especially after how their bond ended?

"It's okay- this was clearly a misunderstanding," Dante held his hands up, palms open in surrender; the knife fell from his lost grip and clattered to the concrete earth, the tip of the lame weapon chipping off on impact. The elf realized he had been caught in his thoughts, the fallen blade bringing back to the now. The young man found himself at a loss for what else to say, merely looking down at the remains of his lost ally. That pained howling had gradually transitioned into s sort of half-drowned tantrum, groans and cries of frustration bubbling through his scarlet-soaked face.

"Julius, we should get going-" One of the party-goers tugged on the elf's arm, trying to coax him out of this trance. He pulled free in defiance.

It felt just wrong to leave Lazarus here, but what could even be done for this shell of a humanoid? Julius became faintly aware of the red-coat tromping past them, apparently on his way. He looked up all of a sudden, glancing over to zero in on the parting figure.

"Wait-"

The devil hunter did not wait. The elf wanted to say something more, but found himself unsure of what answer he craved at this moment. It was unlike him, to be so indecisive, and the closer ones among his entourage found this concerning. The others were already starting to shuffle on, the mood considerably doused by this happenstance.

Dante sighed again. That whole scene proved a shame, really. Whatever put that guy under the influence must've been some tough stuff, but it certainly didn't make him any tougher. Some kind of steroid, the mercenary had to guess, yet bearing a huge addictive quality- to the point of dependence, most likely. Whatever the case, nobody deserved to have the stuff in their veins as long as that elfin thug did. And what about that friend he left behind?

It might have been cold or dark, but Dante just couldn't put himself in the position to help right now. There were bigger fish to fry, and the devil hunter still needed to kindle the fire.

[Simon]

With occasional glances at his device for digital navigation, Dante soon reached a drink bar; the structure couldn't compare to others with a meager one-floor construction and a basic road-sign-sized neon board just below the dilapidated sign board. It didn't come close to the well-worn classical impression Dante found himself hoping for from this outing, and for the most brief of moments he considered checking another place.

The interior of the place held notably more polish than the dilapidated skin of the outside. It meant that the management clearly put priorities in place, even if they happened to be a bit skewed in practice. Several moody lights drew barely-flickering attention to the bar, the side rooms, and the bare stage. The pallid drone of the armfuls of patrons forced itself over the slow startup of a rock song he couldn't quite put a finger on; this, and the migration of several folks from the stage-side to the bar, indicated Dante must've just missed a show. Considering the polished metal pole set firmly as the center of a circle of bars, the kind of show wasn't hard to imagine.

Bartenders knew things. What they didn't know, their patrons oft did instead. The devil hunter strolled up against only a couple of judgemental stares, several simply resuming their other conversation moments later out of disinterest. He left an empty bar stool between himself and the surly-looking shirtless man to the right, then ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels. The tough guy took note with a glance. He must've been offended, or maybe suspicious, of the red-coated newcomer's generously-provided amount of space; after a few moments, the guy shuffled into that adjacent stool.

"What wind blew you into this joint, pretty-boy?" asked a level, but gruff voice from that immediate right.

Dante wanted to sigh, but refrained. "I'm not offering services."

"That's not what I asked, boy," he spoke again, lacing his tone with poison. "There's nobody who knows this part of town that comes into here without packin' serious guns."

As the bartender came back with the trademark alcohol and a shot glass, Dante coolly leaned on the counter with his left arm, Ebony laid on its side with a loose grip. The mustached server glanced at his index finger, propped safely over the finger guard, and proceeded to act no differently as he deposited the order without a word.

"That, there, is the kinda attitude that'll get you in fat trouble, boy-"

"You can start by not calling me that." With his free hand, Dante grabbed the neck of the bottle and popped the cork with his thumb, tipping the hard beverage into the icy glass. "At least I have the grace not to call you 'knucklehead' every two seconds, huh?"

The opposing male's brow furrowed over his shaded circle glasses, the intense creasing pulling down the hem of his bandana with it. It was almost remarkable how that forehead resembled his similarly-clenched knuckles on the table. "Fine, then. New, reckless, and lookin' for a brand of trouble to deal with. I wager you're a fresh Prime."

"Ha." First wrong assumption, take a shot. Dante exhaled as he set the glass down, only a single drop of the alcohol trailing down from the rim. "Certainly not past the expiration date," he remarked, taking his hand and pouring out the bottle again.

"Right," the man's fists tightened themselves pale, failing to keep the sight of his gnarled teeth grinding together behind his sharp lower lip. "Could've fooled me, with how much of a dumbass you're being."

Got insulted, take a shot. How unfortunately predictable, the red merc lamented, wiping his lips with the joint of his thumb. He breathed out sharply, beginning his involved retort, "This is a fairly low-profile place, on a road that doesn't get a lot of public traffic, in an area that isn't under the watching eye of any big names. And you said it yourself: you gotta have big guns to come in here. Double meaning, much?"

The burly man, as well as several others who managed to overhear Dante's little declaration of discovery, hesitated in what they were doing. That feeling of a dozen eyes scrutinizing him came back, stronger than before. Satisfied with the reaction, the devil hunter gave himself a knowing smile and slid his handgun off the counter, back into its holster.

His left hand came back up to reach for the bottle when finally, a new voice spoke up somewhere: "Just how much do you know?"

"That's it, really. You kinda nailed it, otherwise," Dante admitted flatly, presenting his empty hand to the burly guy to offer him some credit. As he finished pouring himself another shot, he missed the guy's gnarled look of confusion over this newcomer.

"Really? Boy, I'm about nail your head to the-"

"Give it a rest, Sandford," That other voice, clearer, demanded from the other side of the man in question. The half-blood didn't turn around just yet, but he heard Sanford slump back, presumably in resignation. Close enough to an insult, Dante decided, and took the next swig of alcohol down his throat. He had to clear his throat a bit after the sudden refire of that familiar burn.

"I'll make myself clear," spoke the shirtless punk, now known as Sanford. "You're not wanted here. Whatever you're doing, do it somewhere else." His free arm reached behind him quietly. The other voice emitted a tobacco-riddled sigh. Dante looked over finally, and behind those tinted glasses, Sanford narrowed his eyes in anticipation for the next attack.

It did not come yet. He grabbed the bottle by the neck, leveling out the bottle to pour out another shot. "And why is that?" Dante asked, fairly legitimately. His hand deposited the Jack Daniels upright again, then leaned on the counter. He never broke eye contact.

Sanford scoffed. "You think I'm just gonna tell you that? Forget it. Last chance for you to get out."

Dante expected that other person behind Sanford to pipe up again, but another puff of cigarette smoke seemed to imply he wanted none of the crap that would shortly ensue. A pair of other punks from one of the round tables stood up. One with a rippling scar traced diagonally across his roughed face cracked his knuckles under a set of brass ones. The other unhooked a chain whip from a belt that barely held the hem of his jeans above his undershirt. The devil hunter remained completely unfazed.

"Look," Dante leveled out, trying to sound more reasonable. "You're not really gonna attack me, are you? Because, really, that's just a dumb thing to try and pull on someone like me." His fingers drummed on the table next to the shot glass, his idle form holding a bit of sway to it. Sanford's tough facial muscles narrowed around his circular lenses again. Was the red-coat drunk, or just trying to goad everyone into thinking he couldn't see a fight coming? The poker face on this guy seemed top-notch, and it infuriated the free agent all the more.

The bartender came aside Dante and Sanford again, still remaining professionally silent. This establishment, despite the wear and tear, had managed to go quite a time without a fight for once; the creased look on the man's mustached face said he was not eager to have this streak broken so suddenly.

"Since when am I the voice of reason...?" The guy behind Sanford mumbled, taking a pensive drag on his cancer stick before standing form his seat and blowing the smoke out of his nostrils. His plain black sun visor didn't quite obscure his narrowed eyes or the copious amounts of bandages wrapped around his cranium. The smooth jacket he wore tight with a heavy-duty utility belt was shown by the ambient lights to be lined with all sorts of pouches, holsters, and gear mounts. Hands at his side, he spoke up, "Just why are you here, anyway? It can't be just to blab about the place."

Dante's expression curved into the slightest smirk in recognition. Finally, someone talking sense. It only took - how many - three shots? Or did he take four? No, he had just poured the fourth one out, not taken it yet. "I'm just looking for a place to set up shop," The devil hunter very plainly admitted, shrugging his shoulders. "Not saying it's gotta be here, I just thought someone would know their way around better than myself."

A couple of doubtful voices muttered out above the dull volume of the overhead song. Metallica, Dante realized, that's what it was. The two thugs that had stood up shared a glance between them, while Sanford glanced back to his partner with a more forceful glare. The guy glanced down, hiding his face under the visor, and gave a more subtle shrug of his own, like a child who didn't know what he got in trouble for.

"Well," The bandanna punk looked back forward, releasing his hold on the weapon behind his back, "You picked the wrong place to look."

Dante scoffed, and downed that prepared swig of alcohol. As if the guy hadn't made that statement sound obvious enough. "You don't even know what I do- besides be a pain in the side, and all."

Sanford found his retort caught in his throat, mouth hung agape at the realization that his line had been stolen. He snapped his lips shut as Dante's own curled up again. The merc crossed his arms, sitting back with stern resignation. One of the other standing punks started to pull out his chair again, while a lone guy in a booth sidled out to make for the doors. The bartender walked aside to serve another Bloody Mary to a wiped-out soul on the far end, still on guard. Finally, Sanford found his words: "Whatever. It doesn't matter. We're not obligated to hear you out just because you walked in acting smart."

The red-coat's brow got a bit more cross, and he found himself perching his jaw on his hand, with his elbow leaned on the counter. "Okay, fine. Just gimme a place to start, and I'll go. That's all. No need to get angry over the new guy, alright?"

Sanford's apparent accomplice leaned himself back, lazily falling into his seat again with a puff of smoke. The eyes behind those round lenses judged Dante just a while longer before shooting across the room. "Hey, Hammer!" He called out, an open hand next to his lips as if it would magnify his shouting, "You free for the evening?"

A bald-headed man with a full circle of facial hair and a jungle-camo jacket piped up from his cold bottle and his losing hand of cards. "And what if I am?" He called back, the rumbling voice deeper and yet less obliged than Sanford's own.

"You've still got one of your spots on the far-side, right?" Dante sat back as Sanford worked, eschewing the glass entirely to just drain the bottle idly from the source.

"You mean, one that's not compromised?" Hammer turned in his seat, folding his fan of cards face down. The shirtless muscleman to the right of him raised, tossing in eight blue chips from the pile he had amassed in the hour.

"Doesn't matter, any of 'em will probably do. He's just looking for a shop to use."

"Well, damn," The camo guy grunted as he pushed himself upright from his chair, "He'll have to work for it, then."

"Long as it's not an escort mission," Dante butted in, draining the bottle. He slammed it back down, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a handful of Imperial coins he had duplicated during the second elevator ride down. Sanford just rolled his eyes over his glasses and turned back to the counter as the bartender walked back up.

Hammer walked up, his gray vest on display between the lapels of his camouflage overcoat. A pair of loose cargo pants terminated in clomping combat boots, giving the impression of the man being military brass. Maybe before, Dante figured, considering the military here didn't exactly have nearly as much taste for subtlety. The devil hunter deposited the coins on the counter, not waiting to see whether or not the bartender accepted them before standing up himself.

"You must be the guy, huh?" Hammer guessed aloud, looking over the red coat strapped up with his quite various loadout of weaponry. "I guess I can lend you a place. Won't come cheap, though."

Dante just rolled his shoulders, readying himself for another bout of walking. "Depends on what you're asking. Let's burn that bridge when we get to it, huh?"

The bald man didn't respond with anything more than a knowing nod, and strode out into the urban air with his customer in metaphorical tow. The bartender thought to speak up about the coins, but decided he was just thankful the bar would remain standing for another day, and so shrugged it off for once.

[Simon]

The other disadvantage of the monopoloized sky became apparent soon after the mercenaries had left the bar behind them: no more of the quickest way to judge the current time. It felt like an hour or so had passed since the devil hunter had come down here, but he wouldn't be able to tell that by looking up into the sky. Such a thing just got you a view of a digital void made starless by the light pollution of the living city; there wasn't even a view of any sort of moon. Rather, if there was such a view, the towering buildings that dominated the skyline made said sight indistinguishable.

Strickly speaking, did time even matter in a plane of existance where several different dimensional spaces lay tethered together?

That thought was decidedly too heavy, in Dante's mind. Stopping on the corner of Kuiper Street and 13th Avenue, the red-coat absorbed the immediate surroundings for a moment as Hammer punched a button on a traffic post. Various vehicles, traditional and hover-based, roared along to the tune of the bustling buildings flanking the streets- though they did so more sparsely compared to crammed city center. On the opposide corner from the two travelers, a lone Stormtrooper had stopped their patrol momentarily to harass an individual shaded under a too-large hoodie. Down the street just ahead was the suggestively-colored "Love Planet" - the neon tubing that outlined the shape of an exotic female offered as much of an advertisement as one could need.

Dante found himself wanting to know the time. He fished out his Dataverse Device, after patting the wrong pocket twice and being concerned that some deft rat might've swiped the thing. The digital readout spelled out 17:36- four hours after noon. Between the constant night sky and the endless stretches of brilliantly-lit buildings, Tier 4 served as a textbook example of a city that never sleeps. It reminded the devil hunter of that one long eve back home, but with significantly more life as opposed to unlife. He unfortunately got the dread feeling this might end up becoming another one of those nights. But with a reasonable goal finally in sight, the devil hunter firmly stepped forward- as the crossing light turned white, of course.

Hammer led the way down a couple more city blocks, the distinct chill of a breeze suddenly taking hold. If a least-populated area of the Tier-4 city existed, this had to be it- though the fair abundance of vehicles and vibrant adverts still overdid any modern city Dante lived in before. The idea, Dante would realize later, proved astounding, in the scope of this being only one later in the grandoise megatropolis that called itself Coruscant. This world existed as if it held the highest population of all the other Verses combined, and perhaps that thought was even fact- Dante didn't care to find out just yet.

The mercenaries waited at another corner, the crosswalk leading to the flat head of a T-shaped intersection, with a meager two-story building on that side of the path. "So," Dante spoke up, for the first time since they had left the bar behind them, "Anything big that I should know about if I stick around here?"

The bald veteran looked over at Dante, arms crossed, scrutinizing the hunter's light face. That tone didn't sound like the kind to be making small talk just for the sake of conversation. "This side of town is watched over by a big-name boss. Calls himself The Lord," Hammer replied, humoring the red-coat's request. "Major hand in the drug trades. He's awful strict on stuff like traffic and real estate through his 'zone', but I honestly couldn't tell ya why."

Dante scoffed at that description, cocking his head as he averted his gaze across the street. "Doubt he can pay attention to everything at once," came the ensuing remark, right on time. The ex-soldier proved less than impressed with the cockiness on display, but said display also bore a good point worth elaborating upon.

"Not at once, maybe," Hammer interjected himself after Dante, "But he's uncanny. He's got ways to track everything in the district. God knows how he manages it, but he does." The veteran shakes his head for a moment, looking merely overwhelmed by the idea of what he had said- or perhaps trying to shrug off some unseemly thought from the brain. The next crossing light flared white, and the two mercenaries began to cross.

"It's not like the Empire's stuff, either- those guys are not even subtle about it, just suffocating streets with their sight and planting trackers and bugs in everything." Dante nodded at Hammer's explanation, starting to see the juxtapostion before it was made clear. "Lord, though, you wouldn't even know. You could be living in a lead-lined bunker, and you'd still get a knock on your door and a pistol to the head. It's like, freaky-"

"Or magic," The devil hunter piped up, taking the first step onto the last sidewalk before their destination. Hammer almost forgot to follow Dante, to which the latter turned back with a curtly-raised eyebrow. "What, you don't think that's impossible, do you?"

The bald man couldn't form an immediate answer. He seemed to mix several responses behind his mouth, coming close to speaking a few times but holding back at the last moment. Perhaps the simplest answer he could offer would just say, "I hadn't considered that." However, keeping in mind what had made him resign from the military before being dragged into this crazy world, it would be awfully remiss of him not to consider the use of magic... somehow.

Finally, Hammer came up with something reasonable, but also true: "It's just, well, nothing I've ever seen before." Dante, already standing with a hand ready to push open the double doors, shot a glance back. It was an acceptable answer, yes, but the time it took to reach that conclusion left various doubts in the air like unsettling wisps.

"...Are you gonna just stand there, or show me the place?"

Snapping up, the soldier rolled his shoulders and straightened out his coat, and quickly jogged up as Dante leaned into the door and gave way to the docile interior.

[Simon]

"So, that's pretty much everything. Not much to it, but..." The bald man trailed off, unsure of where that train of thought had departed to.

An uncomfortably long bout of silence followed- Hammer waited for Dante to say something, while the red-coat killed time fiddling with the mechanisms on Ivory. He sat there idly on one of the corners of an antique wood desk, the old work creaking with every shift of his weight on the improper seat. His thumb pressed the magazine release, and his other hand caught the mag by the grip as it slipped from the pistol. Dante brought the left side of the magazine up so it almost consumed his whole field of vision, firmly inspecting the fine grooves of the container.

There really wasn't much else to say about the shop, indeed. The age of the shop hung clear in the inside air's slight mustiness. The room they sat in now was the main one of interest, an open square area housing all but one of the furnishings of the place. The desk Dante sat on felt like something out of the 19th century, and the grand total of two chairs were both part of a classical set, strictly rectangular in design. A thick leather couch probably past its lifespan sat against one of the walls, left under the cleft of the stairway leading to the overlooking balcony. One cot with a springy, disused mattress lay in the upstairs master bedroom, next to a completely bare office room. The downstairs rooms had a bathroom on the left (that worked, despite everything else) and a former lounge on the right, the latter used as a storage room for boxes full of whatever.

Overall, it was clear nobody had really properly lived in this place for a long time. The plain plaster of the walls, the unpolished floorboards, and at least one wiring hazard all spoke for that testament. A handful of different parties had probably operated out of this place, though, due to the hodgepodge upkeep of the different rooms. Dante suspected that Hammer knew - at the very least - one of these parties, though the devil hunter didn't presently concern himself over that brand of information.

"Yeah, it's kind of a fixer-upper," Hammer finally figured out something, anything, to break the agonizing silence, "But it's not exactly in bad shape. There's no asbestos, or leaks, or vermin- at least, I haven't seen any vermin. Point is-"

"Sure, I'll take it."

Dante's sudden interjection into the explanation caught Hammer off-guard- partly because he hadn't been expecting it so suddenly, and also because the red-coat hadn't said a word for the past ten minutes. By the time Dante had lined up the magazine's gooves and slid it back into the handgun, the former militant finally articulated a response: "Huh?"

"It's got all that, and running water. That's fine by me." The devil hunter leaned forward, slipping off his seat and onto his feet with a final groan of the desk. His boots clomped twice, one after the other on the sturdy floorboards, as he started twirling Ivory around his index finger. "I can just take care of the rest myself."

"Yes, well-" Hammer spoke up again, one of his big hands arching up behind his head to rub the back of his neck. "That's not exactly my problem, you being a Prime or whatever. It's, well..."

His gesture of concern continued, his hand hooking around the back of his neck while his elbow jutted out. Dante's gun lost its spin, running out of momentum and dangling by the trigger from his finger. The white-haired man turned his head slowly to meet his averted gaze, as his expression twisted in a show of his inner turmoil. "Err... how do I say this?" the bald-headed man mused aloud. His mouth turned crooked and frowned half-open, exposing his clenched teeth with his defeated eyebrows sagged on his brow.

Dante's forearm dropped down, his hand taking the opportunity to re-grip the pistol fully. "What, do I need to sign a deed, or something?" The devil hunter said, trying to speak the ex-soldier's thoughts- and to get him to stop making that weird face, seriously.

Hammer finally pulled his hand back down to his side, shaking his head. "Well, the thing is, first off, I don't own the place-"

The devil hunter snorted immediately at that. "No kidding," he exasperated, turning on his heels to point around with his handgun. "If you did, I'm sure you'd go though any amount of trouble to keep it tidy." That comment got an unimpressed look out of Hammer and his frown, and a smirk from Dante in kind.

"Look, remember what I said about that guy, The Lord?" The veteran snapped, crossing his arms and adopting a more blunt tone.

"Oh, so *he* basically owns the place. Got it," Dante looked away. He spun Ivory in a couple more loops around his trigger finger, before swiftly holstering the gun.

Hammer started to say something. Like what happened outside, the words got caught in his throat. Unlike what happened outside, the man merely huffed out after a moment and accepted the bluntness. "Sure, let's go with that," he decided aloud, the new pitch in his voice revealing his exasperation over this conversation. So, Dante thought, all that thinking was for trying to find a nice way to say that? If that was not the case, then he possessed something more different on the brain, and Dante couldn't imagine what the thought could be.

"Alright," the devil hunter shrugged, "You gonna tell me how to deal with that, or-?"

There came a foreboding shake of the head in response, and Dante's mouth left itself ajar, caught in midst of words he could no longer say. "Sorry, but I can't help you with that," Hammer explained simply, then elaborated after a moment, "I just- well, can't."

Dante snapped his mouth shut, raising a suspicious eyebrow very obviously. With that kind of vague struggling tone, that explanation seemed to come more from the realm of refusal, rather than inability. As the man before him offered little more than a shrug of his camo coat, Dante thought to bring this up, but at the same time doubted he would receive any sort of helpful explanation. If anything, it would probably be better to leave the guy out of this anyway, lest be end up as a casualty somehow in the event things got ugly.

"Not at all?" The red-coat asked instead, taking a step forward to face Hammer fully, coming face-to-face with the grizzly-looking fellow. "Not even a name, or a place?" When the ensuing twist of his bearded frown came, perusing his options, Dante dug in just a bit further- "You wouldn't just leave a guy to the dogs, now, would you?"

That seemed to turn the knife in his gut, like a key in a lock. His eyes, formerly sunken in with suppressed intentions, wrenched back open. He didn't want to consider that angle, but Hammer would have to accept that he would sooner or later, and it had just become sooner. Dante bore a good point, and while the veteran hated that, he found no other good choice but to respect the new merc's gall. Maybe, just maybe this Prime might have what it would take to do some proper justice in these parts.

Hammer looked around for a moment with renewed vigor. The walls, the pipes, the floor- they should be all clear. Last time he checked wasn't long enough ago that The Lord's men could've gotten into it. "The Underworld. Tell the man up front you need a deal with Diabolos," Hammer spoke in hushed breath, leaning in close for only Dante to hear it. He pulled away, and Dante could practically feel the man's heart throbbing a bit faster. "I'm sorry, that's all I've-"

"Ah, ah-" The devil hunter piped up suddenly, jabbing his index finger over Hammer's goatee-flanked lips. "Say no more. I think I can handle the rest." That curt smile Dante wore as he said that brought the ex-soldier even more stress, and he became afraid not of what the gang would do, but of what the Prime might do. Knowing one's fate could be bad enough, but to have that uncertain premonition of something terrible, without an idea of the full extent- it showed Hammer true fear.

Dante, in the meantime, walked back to the desk. He kicked up one of the classical chairs, steering it behind the desk upright. When the devil hunter plopped down in the chair with a reverberating creak and propped his boots on the desk cross-legged, the noise snapped Hammer from his momentary trance. "I think that'll be everything," Dante concluded, kicking back and propping his hands behind his head. "You can go ahead and hit the road; I don't wanna keep you from your business."

For a bated moment, the soldier-turned-supplier felt rather hesitant as to whether this was a matter worth seeing through or not. It did not take long for him to make a decision - that is, that Hammer very much did not want anything to do with this - and turn tail out the door, back into the cacophony of the city.

Dante smirked. Nothing against the guy, but it would be better without him for the time being. Besides, he would be needing some peace and quiet for the next few hours...