AN: New Devil May Cry story, but I would like to point out that this is based upon the new game. Yes, the one with new Dante. I do love the old series and I would really like a continuation of that one, but I am willing to give this new game a chance, despite reservations about it. And it gives me a chance to do something different, I guess. So, only read if you're interested and I will accept no flames. Just please enjoy

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Limbo City.

A place of sin, decadence and corruption with a dark, evil underbelly, mostly unknown to the many civilians that lived there. But they all knew there was something going on, some kind of wrongdoing, something…lurking in the shadows. Too afraid to confront their fears, they carried on their lives in a state of ignorance, each one trying to ignore the problems that plagued the city and plunge it further into depravity, while other men sought to increase their greed, their lust of power that continued to damn the city. But they weren't the only ones seeking power.

Demons resided within the city, seeking to turn the unknowing humans in mere pawns for their games in the race to reach the pinnacle of absolute power and perhaps even take the throne from the Demon King Mundus. Preying on the weak, demons continued to filter in from their world, infecting the city to the very core, twisting and turning it into their very own playground, their own kind their only enemy…unless one was to consider the angels as their foes…but angels hadn't been on Earth for two thousand years, content to hide away from the problems of the human race. But not all demons and angels are alike, not according to legend…

Legend has it that one demon and one angel sought to protect the human race from their kind. Sparda, the Dark Knight and right-hand man of Demon King Mundus, disgusted by how his king and fellow soldiers treated the human race, decided to do something about it and aided by Eva, said to be one of the most beautiful angels in existence, he defeat the king and sealed him in the lowest circle of Hell. Some would say he did it out of the goodness of his heart, others say he did it for love…for a certain angel who had guided him on his path of salvation.

But they were mere legends and neither had been seen in centuries, if they even existed at all, according to most, humans and demons alike, save for a few. Perhaps they had hidden themselves away from both their kind, for the union between an angel and demon is considered absolutely forbidden and will only result in death for both parties involved. If they did exist, perhaps their legacy lives on in someone else, someone who could possibly carry on the legacy in their name…or destroy it.

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The Limbo City Correctional Facility was more like a prison than its wardens let on to the public. A dirty, filthy building where prisoners hoped for death as salvation from the treatment they received, which was more like torture as the doctors sought to 'cure' their charges. A mental asylum disguised as a correctional facility. It was a complete laughing stock to the inmates, kept there like lab rats, with no hope of escaping. Any attempts were swiftly neutralised and the offending people or persons were hardly ever seen again, rumours circulating they were murdered in the solitary confinement cells, their blood painted along the corridors to serve as a deterrent to others. Not that it stopped some inmates desperate to see the open air once more.

A buzzer sounded somewhere within the building and the cells were opened, as the prisoners filed out, all under the watchful eye of the guards, all who were more than happy to subdue any misbehaving, palming their shock rods almost lovely, some wearing a look in their eyes that were begging the inmates to misbehave. As if the thought of torturing a prisoner was pleasant to them, something to be enjoyed. One prisoner, a young man of about seventeen years of age, glared furiously at the guards as he walked with the prisoners, one guard even crooking his finger at him. The teenager sneered, his body slowly healing from the beating he had received just two days earlier, bruises still patterning down the right side of his face. His blue eyes were full of hatred that was directed to the leering guards, as he joined the other inmates in the mess hall. Food was horrible and you had to force yourself to eat it, otherwise risk dying of starvation, but there was that risk of catching something potentially dangerous, not that it bothered the wardens at all. In fact, it was like they had done it on purpose, making it into a game to see who would die first of what. The young teenager had even overheard two guards crowing about how they had made a hundred dollars betting on a man who had died from stomach problems due to the food. It disgusted him how they made a mockery of the peoples' lives, viewing them as only cattle. Cattle for the slaughter, of which he was now a part of.

Brushing his short, clipped black hair over his eyes, the young teenager made his way over to the line, grabbing himself a tray and almost gagging at the foul-smelling gloop ladled almost carelessly upon the tray. With a sneer at the chef, who simply flipped him the bird while simultaneously picking his nose, the teenager moved away before the contents of the chef's nose was added to his dinner. Staring mistrustfully at the other inmates, some of which were looking to pick a fight with him for unknown reasons, the teenager located to a table that was away from the others and half-heartedly picked through the runny lumps called food. Somehow, he had managed to survive on this crap for the past thirteen days, ever since he was captured by the authority and sent here as a delinquent, which was how the police handled most cases involving underage adults. Since it was believed that he wouldn't last long, the teenager had been allowed to keep his standard clothing of a white wife-beater (no longer white, due to the dried blood stains and dirt), dark cargo pants and dark blue fingerless gloves, instead of the standard dirty blue prison overalls the other inmates wore, although he had received his own prison number. Not that it mattered to him.

Gagging on the small mouthful, the teenager brought his hand up to his neck, fingering the small red amulet, trying to think of better times when he was younger. It usually worked, helping him through the days, especially when he was beaten upon by the guards, who often did it to him and other inmates solely for their amusement.

One day, he would show them and he would see how much they liked it. He knew the truth about them, just like he knew the truth about the city, what really lay underneath.

Forcefully swallowing the second mouthful, the teenager noticed a large shadow falling over him and he looked up at prisoner 61147A, who was simply put, a very large man with anger problems. Unfortunately, his anger problems had been increased by the various 'treatments' he had been forced to undertake and now, he lashed out at everyone, including the guards, although he had been focused on the young teenager, ever since he first stepped through the doors of the facility.

"Big man, big nose," the teenager said, "Mind keeping it out of my business?"

"How is it a little shrimp like you hasn't died yet?" 61147A asked, "I've got a bet going on how long you'll last. You're making me look bad."

"You got a problem with it, you take it up with someone who cares, like the guards, because clearly, I don't give a shit."

The tray was smacked aside and the teenager was lifted up by his shirt, getting slammed on his back upon the tabletop, as the other inmates either crowded around or kept to themselves. It wasn't very often that a prisoner fought another prisoner, but it did happen and most of the time, the guards stood back and allowed it to happen, again for their amusement, only intervening when death seemed imminent.

"You have got quite the attitude," 61147A sneered, leaning close to the teenager.

"And you've got quite the bad breath," the teenager shot back, grimacing, "You often get this close and personal with your cellmates?"

"I know what you are," 61147A hissed close to his ear, "I've heard stories. To the guards, you're the biggest thing to enter this hellhole. To me, you're just an ant."

"You say you know what I am, huh?" the teenager taunted, "That'd make you an ant."

The fist smashed into his face and blood smeared 61147A's fist, the teenager's vision blurry from the powerful blow. He struggled to resist the urge to black out, especially from the second blow that cause his left cheek to swell, as 61147A drew his fist back for another blow, his eyes wild with fury. The teenager smirked, before spitting a glob of blood into 61147A's eye. He staggered, furiously rubbing his eye, as the teenager hopped off the table, as if he was completely unaffected by the attack and he responded by sinking his fist into 61147A's stomach, literally knocking the air out of him. The older man wondered how a weedy boy could do this kind of damage to him so easily, as a second blow from the teenager to the larger man's face had him smacking face first onto the opposite table, knocking him out cold. The teenager was too caught up in his easy victory to notice the guards until they were upon him, stabbing him with their shock rods and he passed out from the overwhelming voltage.

When he awoke, the teenager found himself in a small, square room, chained by his wrists and ankles to the ceiling and floor, with nothing more than a glass panel opposite him. He chuckled, recognising this as one of the interrogations rooms. Day after day, he had been brought here, often against his will and while unconscious, as the doctors attempted to know more about him, including his name. And for the past thirteen days, the teenager had refused to divulge anything, finding some satisfaction in taunting the doctors, despite the beatings he received afterwards, but he knew they were reaching their breaking point with him and he was enjoying it.

"Patient number 64432B for interrogation," came the male, robotic voice, "Day thirteen of assessment. Shall we begin? What is your name?"

"Go fuck yourselves," the teenager chuckled.

He roared when an electrical current surged through him, burning through his recent injuries, figuratively setting them alive. When it was over, the teenager hung limp, a small grin on his face. Might as well toss them a bone, even it was just a small one.

"Again, what is your name!" the voice demanded, more frustrated than ever.

The teenager smirked, "My name is Dante."

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AN: If you liked, please review and let me know if this is worth continuing. I probably will anyway, but chapters might initially be a bit slow.