09-24-2015, 06:13 PM
As the demonic figure before Zangetsu was poised for the final blow, the power that sustained it was suddenly depleted, the devil giving a pained exhale with hellish reverb. In that same instant, a flash of dull crimson light consumed the black-armored demon and released the figure of Dante.
That was not to say, however, that Dante was left completely unchanged either. His expression was one of apathy, creases on his pale face giving the image that Dante with quite literally sick and tired of this. More strangely, the various wounds made on his clothing simply were no longer there; his transformation had mended his clothing, but anyone who didn't know that might suspect some higher power decided the half-devil hadn't been hit whatsoever. Of course, the dark red scar below Dante's eye remained like a paper cut to prove he was harmed.
Time seemed to hang like a broken pendulum. Dante didn't act, and Zangetsu couldn't afford to act. The wisps of black silently streamed from the zanpakuto's bullet holes with each exhausted breath, impatiently waiting for his foe to end the pain. Yet the devil hunter remained perfectly still, not even visibly breathing. What was happening in the half-devil's mind? Was he pondering how cruelly he could put down his enemy? Was he reconsidering his need of Zangetsu now?
"I think you've ruined me," Dante announced to the sword spirit, breaking the bated silence with a verbal kick. The grip on Rebellion's hilt tightened as he spoke, then loosened with a twiddle of the fingers when he stopped. He looked away wistfully, as in loss of something or someone valuable.
"Fighting and killing demons? That's my thing. That's all I'm meant to live for," Dante spat out in mocking of his own words, spreading his arms out in a "what the hell" pose, "But now, I don't feel anything, because it doesn't mean anything to me anymore! I was dying!" He was crying out in furious anguish now, pouring out his feelings to his worst enemy yet.
"And this- this world is... I thought it could be different. That I could be different. That I could renew my reason to live again." Suddenly, Dante whipped his sword back to Zangetsu's chest, the ferocity of the shift drawing a line of black on the sword spirit. "You. All that instinct you're made of? It's stuck in me, now. I thought, maybe, our little interaction had set me free, pulled me out of my depression. I actually felt alive again." It was strange to hear Dante talk like this, his voice caught between a boulder of anger and a wall of despair.
But it didn't stay that way.
The devil hunter lifted his blade, and with both hands slammed it down into Zangetsu's torso. Then again, and again, picking up speed and violence with every swing. "THIS- IS ALL- THAT'S LEFT-!" The half-devil screamed in unheard-of fury, punctuating each slash with his angry words. "TO FIGHT-! TO KILL-! TO WIN-! IT MAKES ME ABSOLUTELY CRAZY!"
For a brief moment, the Son of Sparda lapsed into Devil Trigger again, crying out in sheer anger and frustration while furiously hacking apart Zangetsu's long-dead body. Each new blow spattered a new layer of black substance in a new direction, painting a demon's display of death. But as soon as the devilish carnage began, it stopped, and so did Dante.
He finally found himself, panting and groaning, leaning on his sword planted in the gruesome black-and-white remains of the sword spirit's physical form. All too suddenly, Dante found himself to be as staggeringly exhausted as he looked. The half-devil gulped up heaps of new breath, his throat dry and hot with his anger and his body battered and bleeding from his fight. His weight slumped yet more forward, depending on Rebellion to stay up, his fatigue and abdominal pain almost overwhelming. Dante tried to swallow a meager helping of saliva, but choked and sent himself into a small coughing feat; it escalated to where he was hacking up several heaps of his scarlet blood to join Zangetsu's own.
Many moments passed like this, Dante slumped miserable over his own blade. Blood dripped from his mouth and seeped out from below his vest, but he did nothing to stop it. His eyes merely stared dead ahead, down into Zangetsu's glassy eyes and painful wicked smile. Finally, however, Dante began to make an effort, desperately pushing himself back to his full posture again. The black-coated Rebellion shifted in it's placed with it's owner's attempts to force himself up, but it managed to hold fast with its place in the ground. Soon enough, it followed in Dante's example as he pulled it free.
The devil hunter at last noted how overwhelming the silence was in his arduous pace back to the fountain. There was no wind, no other people; be barely even registered the ambiance of the water pouring from the cracked stone angel's possession into the tainted pool below. There was simply his footsteps, the clomping of boots on the pearl-colored void. Soon, the scraping of metal could be heard too, as Dante's strength to hold Rebellion faltered and he let it drag beside him.
With every second came another step, another foot closer to the center. The weakened man came up to where Ebony had been knocked over to; with a long groan of pain at aggravating his stab wound, Dante managed to kneel down and scoop up the handgun, lazily returning it to its holster. It was another ordeal to pull himself back up again, but he did it. Again he stepped, gradually further and further, until after what seemed like ages he finally reached the hem of the fountain.
Then, the pain-wracked half-devil turned and promptly collapsed. The dried, black-stained Rebellion fell aside him with a weak clatter as he slid into a sitting position against the stone wall, limp and moaning. Where Dante had traveled from his kill was marked by a dotted line of red and black, with one slightly more concentrated area where he had stopped to pick up Ebony.
Which reminded him, Ivory was still in the fountain. Probably bloody and waterlogged by now, even if Dante summoned the strength to bother caring about it. He was tired and done. Being stabbed hurt bad. Right now, he just wanted to sleep this all off.
And so he did, quickly and quietly drifting off into slumber to the ambiance of the eternal fountain.
How did you live, Vergil? Without emotion, craving power, drawing blood? What did you do? What do I do?
That was not to say, however, that Dante was left completely unchanged either. His expression was one of apathy, creases on his pale face giving the image that Dante with quite literally sick and tired of this. More strangely, the various wounds made on his clothing simply were no longer there; his transformation had mended his clothing, but anyone who didn't know that might suspect some higher power decided the half-devil hadn't been hit whatsoever. Of course, the dark red scar below Dante's eye remained like a paper cut to prove he was harmed.
Time seemed to hang like a broken pendulum. Dante didn't act, and Zangetsu couldn't afford to act. The wisps of black silently streamed from the zanpakuto's bullet holes with each exhausted breath, impatiently waiting for his foe to end the pain. Yet the devil hunter remained perfectly still, not even visibly breathing. What was happening in the half-devil's mind? Was he pondering how cruelly he could put down his enemy? Was he reconsidering his need of Zangetsu now?
"I think you've ruined me," Dante announced to the sword spirit, breaking the bated silence with a verbal kick. The grip on Rebellion's hilt tightened as he spoke, then loosened with a twiddle of the fingers when he stopped. He looked away wistfully, as in loss of something or someone valuable.
"Fighting and killing demons? That's my thing. That's all I'm meant to live for," Dante spat out in mocking of his own words, spreading his arms out in a "what the hell" pose, "But now, I don't feel anything, because it doesn't mean anything to me anymore! I was dying!" He was crying out in furious anguish now, pouring out his feelings to his worst enemy yet.
"And this- this world is... I thought it could be different. That I could be different. That I could renew my reason to live again." Suddenly, Dante whipped his sword back to Zangetsu's chest, the ferocity of the shift drawing a line of black on the sword spirit. "You. All that instinct you're made of? It's stuck in me, now. I thought, maybe, our little interaction had set me free, pulled me out of my depression. I actually felt alive again." It was strange to hear Dante talk like this, his voice caught between a boulder of anger and a wall of despair.
But it didn't stay that way.
The devil hunter lifted his blade, and with both hands slammed it down into Zangetsu's torso. Then again, and again, picking up speed and violence with every swing. "THIS- IS ALL- THAT'S LEFT-!" The half-devil screamed in unheard-of fury, punctuating each slash with his angry words. "TO FIGHT-! TO KILL-! TO WIN-! IT MAKES ME ABSOLUTELY CRAZY!"
For a brief moment, the Son of Sparda lapsed into Devil Trigger again, crying out in sheer anger and frustration while furiously hacking apart Zangetsu's long-dead body. Each new blow spattered a new layer of black substance in a new direction, painting a demon's display of death. But as soon as the devilish carnage began, it stopped, and so did Dante.
He finally found himself, panting and groaning, leaning on his sword planted in the gruesome black-and-white remains of the sword spirit's physical form. All too suddenly, Dante found himself to be as staggeringly exhausted as he looked. The half-devil gulped up heaps of new breath, his throat dry and hot with his anger and his body battered and bleeding from his fight. His weight slumped yet more forward, depending on Rebellion to stay up, his fatigue and abdominal pain almost overwhelming. Dante tried to swallow a meager helping of saliva, but choked and sent himself into a small coughing feat; it escalated to where he was hacking up several heaps of his scarlet blood to join Zangetsu's own.
Many moments passed like this, Dante slumped miserable over his own blade. Blood dripped from his mouth and seeped out from below his vest, but he did nothing to stop it. His eyes merely stared dead ahead, down into Zangetsu's glassy eyes and painful wicked smile. Finally, however, Dante began to make an effort, desperately pushing himself back to his full posture again. The black-coated Rebellion shifted in it's placed with it's owner's attempts to force himself up, but it managed to hold fast with its place in the ground. Soon enough, it followed in Dante's example as he pulled it free.
The devil hunter at last noted how overwhelming the silence was in his arduous pace back to the fountain. There was no wind, no other people; be barely even registered the ambiance of the water pouring from the cracked stone angel's possession into the tainted pool below. There was simply his footsteps, the clomping of boots on the pearl-colored void. Soon, the scraping of metal could be heard too, as Dante's strength to hold Rebellion faltered and he let it drag beside him.
With every second came another step, another foot closer to the center. The weakened man came up to where Ebony had been knocked over to; with a long groan of pain at aggravating his stab wound, Dante managed to kneel down and scoop up the handgun, lazily returning it to its holster. It was another ordeal to pull himself back up again, but he did it. Again he stepped, gradually further and further, until after what seemed like ages he finally reached the hem of the fountain.
Then, the pain-wracked half-devil turned and promptly collapsed. The dried, black-stained Rebellion fell aside him with a weak clatter as he slid into a sitting position against the stone wall, limp and moaning. Where Dante had traveled from his kill was marked by a dotted line of red and black, with one slightly more concentrated area where he had stopped to pick up Ebony.
Which reminded him, Ivory was still in the fountain. Probably bloody and waterlogged by now, even if Dante summoned the strength to bother caring about it. He was tired and done. Being stabbed hurt bad. Right now, he just wanted to sleep this all off.
And so he did, quickly and quietly drifting off into slumber to the ambiance of the eternal fountain.
How did you live, Vergil? Without emotion, craving power, drawing blood? What did you do? What do I do?