Disclaimer: Nothing new here. I haven't suddenly gained ownership of Devil May Cry since the last chapter, so don't get excited.(So therefore don't be expecting a Devil May Cry game with the name of "Hell's Frontline" anytime soon...)

Joe: Right…back again. It's been a while, but you guys know what to expect by now.

Okay, I realise now that the last chapter wasn't up to scratch by comparison to my other chapters. But hey, there's not an awful lot you can do with an office, cut me some slack. But, then again, as Gromit says, I have to show Dante's ability to screw up a normal job, he can't keep getting bizarre ones, otherwise his ineptitude would be less obvious.

Also: Shut your trap and be damned pleased that I'm writing anything. Just joking. No, really. Any criticism is well received, so long as it's got some grounding. As requested, I'm trying to put some more slap-stick into, as like before. I'm actually glad that somebody was okay with telling what was wrong with my fic. If I'm not told there's no way I can improve, is there? Just tell me and I'll try (Yes, Gromit, I can most certainly take a shower...but I won't).

One more point of interest: this isn't Hell's Frontline, I'm perfectly happy with putting DMC4 characters and references in this. In fact, I may have gone and featured characters in here. Just to let you all know.

Chapter 13: Accessory to Blunder

"Dante! Long time no see!" Enzo Ferino roared in violent delight as he gave Dante a winding bear-hug.

Yes, Dante's agent was back, and could resume his job in finding Dante demon-slaying missions. Dante could hardly contain his delight; he might finally be able to afford living again.

Yet, Dante could only give a timid smile in response until Enzo released him from his tight clasp. The half-devil then took a seat on the couch by his desk and beckoned for Enzo to join him. Fairly recently, a local branch of the St. Vincent-de-Paul charity discovered the sociological and engineering mystery that was the remains of the Devil May Cry. Helpful hands were offered, and more importantly, so were building supplies.

So it was that Enzo found nothing particularly different with Dante's office than before, and sighed pleasantly after taking a seat on the couch by Dante.

"Where the hell've you been?" Dante asked him in a slightly accusatory tone, stroking his stubbly chin "You went on holidays – what was it – five years ago?"

"Oh, that..." Enzo laughed, waving it off distractedly "Nothing big. Got into...some difficulties on holidays."

"Difficulties that stalled you for five years," Dante countered cynically.

"Mhm. Turns out that the Mexican authorities don't take a shining to prostitution – male prostitution, at least." Enzo explained absent-mindedly, surveying Dante's wall of weaponry.

"You decided to become a hooker while on a two-week vacation?" Dante retorted loudly in disbelief.

"Er...not exactly..." Enzo mumbled.

Dante had inadvertently alarmed Trish upstairs, who's footsteps could then be heard heading downstairs to uncover the reason for Dante's outburst. As Trish entered, she shrieked "Enzo!" cheerfully.

The subject was dropped.

"How've you been keeping, hun?" she asked, her voice about an octave higher in her female ecstasy, planting a kiss on his cheek before hugging in a similar manner as Enzo had to Dante.

"Just brilliantly," Enzo replied.

Trish didn't notice the sarcasm and offered him tea or coffee. Enzo replied that he didn't (-the correct answer, seeing as there was no tea or coffee. They had a repaired house, but still had no money) and he asked them how things were at the Devil May Cry while he was gone.

Dante and Trish exchanged grim expressions.

"You tell him," Trish ordered.

"Oh?" Enzo remarked with surprise.

"Well..." Dante started, then paused uncertainly "...ahem. Yeah...ahem. You see...things haven't been so good for us lately."

"Really?" Enzo said with concern. Trish placed her hand gently on his shoulder and requested that he wait until Dante was finished.

"Really." Dante confirmed sadly "We haven't had much money coming in...had to see a financial advisor, even. He told us to take up a second job – said that Devil Hunting wasn't "consistent enough a profession". Didn't seem to like the idea of it at all, probably one of those idiots who don't believe in demons. So, that's what we've been doing lately. Keep getting fired and sued, though -"

" - okay, pause there." Enzo interrupted "You've been taking this advice from a man who knows nothing about the job you already have? How could he have known the advantages of quitting devil hunting? There are none for you two, as far as I can see. The industry itself more or less depends on you!"

"What else could we do?" Trish inquired.

"Exactly what the public think you're doing," Enzo answered simply "The paper advert says 'odd-jobs' as one of your duties. Right beside 'extreme pest exterminator'," he added with a grin.

"Advert?" Dante stated with a frown.

"The one you've been paying for these years," Enzo explained.

With a hollow laugh, Dante shook his head.

"I haven't been paying for any adverts lately," he told a bemused Enzo.

"No wonder you've been getting no calls!" Enzo exclaimed irritably "And you've been sitting here doing nothing but feeling sorry for yourself this whole time! You're not gonna get any jobs if nobody knows you exist! We're putting that advert back up immediately. You'd be surprised the difference it makes."

The man knew what he was talking about. He had been running the devil hunting industry throughout the city before his...break.

His advice did not disappoint, and shortly after his return visit to the Devil May Cry and the setting up of an advertisement in the local paper, they received a call, as he said they would. It was from a motel experiencing staff shortages. Quite frankly, they all were quitting, refusing point blank to do their duties. They didn't mention exactly why on the phone.

Dante stared at the Foxhole "cheap 'n eazy" Motel with a grimace from the outside. It was the clichè Motel – one reception, and a terrace of rooms along a veranda.

However, this was not a new sight to him. The Foxhole Motel was notorious among the city's filth as a place to lay low or do business. The proprietor was well aware of it – hence the title. He was an elderly man who decided against retirement, and if the police or other authorities challenged him about the title "Foxhole", he gave a (practiced) indignant retort that it was reference to the years of his life spent serving the country in Vietnam and North Korea. The police officer in question would drop the matter – veterans were not to be pissed off, a social taboo; they would make no friends shutting down an old ex-soldiers Motel.

And so it stood, albeit barely.

Many windows were shattered and lay in jagged fragments along the veranda. There were splotches of congealed blood where people once stood on the glass or where people had attacked others with it. Nobody had cleaned it up.

Dante strode casually into the reception, where the flabby old man himself was seated behind a desk reading a magazine featuring a picture of a scantily dressed woman on the cover.

The room itself looked almost as old as he was. It was composed entirely of wood; a shack of some description. The paint was peeling off the wall in sizable patches, cobwebs adorned every corner, and an old-fashioned phone was placed on the table. There was also a large oil central heating tank situated in one corner.

Dante cleared his throat. The man looked up from his magazine and stood up, seeming unperturbed that he had been caught reading such a magazine. Maybe he was too old to be embarrassed.

"You're the handy man, then?" the man wheezed.

Dante sniffed. The man had an overpowering smell of stale tobacco about him, and the front of his overfilled tank top bore the scars of countless meals – all of which, it seemed, consisted of either baked beans, or brains.

"Yeah, that'd be me," the devil hunter replied, suddenly getting a feeling of power he had not felt in a long time. He was called by the man to do a job, as opposed to being employed. He could be as impolite and demanding as he pleased.

The old man did not seem put off by Dante's appearance in the slightest bit. Then again, being the proprietor of such a Motel, he was accustomed to strange people, or even just had learned not to show surprise or ask questions.

"The name's Bill," he said, extending a hairy arm, then retracted it before Dante could shake it "...er – no it's not. Begins with a 'b' in any case...Brendan? Bryan?...Bob? Bob? Is that my name?"

He looked at Dante uncertainly, as though requiring Dante to confirm. Dante merely shrugged.

"Jus' call me Mr. B, then," said the man "S'pose my name's not important. Anyways – you're wonderin' why in the sam hill I called you in, eh?"

Dante remained silent.

"Well, y'see, I 'aint got anymore staff. Maids all quit. Said something about refusing to clean up bodily contents, or sumthin' like that. Too much brains on the wall, or spleens..."

The man zoned out, lost in his own world. Dante cleared his throat but Mr. B was too far out. His eyes uncrossed, and his mouth sagged open. Strangely enough, something crossed the man's mind that made him lick his lips, and Dante could only hope it wasn't the thought of brains or spleens splattered across a wall.

The man's eyes focused again, returning to earth, but his mouth remained open with his tongue lolling out. Mr. B shook his head vigorously, his tongue flapping wildly about. Mr. B reached for the magazine on the desk, rolled it up, then proceeded to beat himself about the head with it until he regained control of the muscles in his jaw.

"...right, anyways!" he finally resumed his original track of thought "I was thinking about a bit of a renovation! Spruce this place up a bit, make it flashier. Might make the money flow in, then I can get some staff back. I called some interior design company, but when they came and saw the place, they refused to do anything. Then I saw your advert, and it said 'fearless', so I figured that if anybody would, it'd be you..."

Dante put his hand to his chin, putting on a show of contemplation – placing him in a position of power, showing that he could refuse if he wanted.

"Okay, then...but it's gonna cost you," Dante stated vaguely "A place like this won't be easy to fix up. Plus, the materials will come up on the bill."

"Sure, sure, whatever," Mr. B replied with a slight smile, delighted that Dante would actually do it "You can start whenever you're ready."

They shook hands. Dante wiped his against his coat when Mr. B looked away.

Dante told Mr. B that he'd start right away, then set off to look at the state of the rooms.

The Motel had no current occupants. If the scum of the city did not even wish to lodge here, Dante could see the man's dire need to renovate. What made it even more obvious was the actual state of the rooms.

The first room did indeed have some sort of meaty substance splattered against the wall. To Dante it didn't exactly look like brains, or indeed spleen, but rather; that some person got a blender of sorts, then inserted into it some fungus, orange juice, a houseplant, some spaghetti and a cat, then attempted to do the renovating themselves with the mixture.

The rest of the room was pristinely clean, funnily enough.

When Dante stepped into the second room, it was as if he collided with a train composed entirely of smell. Flies were everywhere, but the room appeared reasonably clean. The bed was made, and the floor was scrubbed, yet the smell remained. Upon opening the wardrobe, Dante uncovered a long-dead human body accompanied by an open bottle of pepsi.

Half an hour after that was spent informing the police about the body, answering questions about the body, describing how he found it, swearing upon his mother's grave a second time that he did not kill the man, then insisting that he would have no motive or desire to do such a thing, then signing some forms, then irritably swearing again that he had nothing to do with the man's death.

Then Dante resumed inspecting the place, and had to chase a goat out of the third room.

Room four was mercifully faultless, save for the paint starting to peel from the walls.

Room five actually had some brains and spleen. Dante could tell, because there was a sticky note affixed to the mess with the message; "(brains and spleen)".

That was enough for Dante for the time being. He would start off with these rooms. But firstly, he needed to call Trish, the only person he could think of who might actually have some skill with interior design (bar Vergil).

Dante felt safe in doing so, because, for the first time in many years, he himself was not hired to perform a job; Devil May Cry was hired, and at the end of the day the payment would go towards Devil May Cry. Whether or not Dante did all the work was irrelevant.

Trish arrived shortly by taxi. She departed in even shorter a time by the same taxi (Dante figured it was the brains).

The devil hunter was not surprised. He was pushing his luck just by calling Trish up. He could not honestly expect Trish to clean up a mess of those proportions – the damn woman even freaks out when pizza cheese gets on the floor.

Even so, he still needed help. But, he could not figure who he could rely on. Lady, even though more macho and brave than Trish, possibly as a result had less aptitude with interior design (she also slightly scared Dante, although he would never admit it). Enzo was busy setting back up the demon-hunting system in the city. Who else was there?

Even if there were others, who could Dante, without remorse or regret, put through the hell of clearing up this place...

"So, let me get this straight," Nero said as he scrubbed off the horrible mixture from the wall of room no. 1 "I get half the payment, right?"

"No talking." Dante ordered sharply, then resumed reading his magazine while lying on the bed.

"Hey," Nero responded with badly contained annoyance, turning round to glare at Dante "Don't talk to me like that. I came all the way over here to do this, didn't I?"

"Just be pleased I'm not making you lick it off," Dante told him, unusual pleased with himself.

Nero grumbled to himself, then said;

"But I do get half the payment, right?"

Dante didn't answer. Nero naively assumed that he would get paid and continued working.

Mr. B stepped hurriedly into the room from outside; it was raining heavily, drops could be seen falling from the shabby ceiling.

"How's progress?" he asked, shaking slightly.

"Just fine," Dante answered "We're just clearing up this...stuff before renovating."

"Aha." Mr. B eyed Nero curiously before remarking;

"Is it uniform to have white hair?"

Nero turned round to exchange a glance with Dante, who lowered his magazine to inspect Nero.

"No..." Dante said slowly with a frown "...the kid just can't develop his own style. He has to adopt mine."

"That's not true!" Nero retorted defensively "My hair's always been white!"

"Your eyebrows are black," Dante pointed out reasonably.

"Well your face is ugly!" Nero shouted, admittedly less reasonably.

His face red, he quickly spun round to continue working.

The other two raised their eyebrows at each other, then both choosing to disregard what just happened.

"So, what are you thinking of doing then?" Mr. B inquired.

"Er..." Dante froze. He actually hadn't thought of that. Once the cleaning was done he would call Trish again. But for the time being he had to at least act professional and pretend he knew what he was doing "...well, first of all he's gonna – we're gonna repaint all of the rooms, and then..."

"What paint?" Mr. B pursued with interest.

Dante sat up and stroked his stubble.

"The paint that I'm just going out to get, that paint. Any preference of colour?"

Mr. B shook his head. "Whatever you feel is best. It's all up to you."

Dante got to his feet and checked his watch.

"Sure. I'll be back in about half an hour or so. And kid -" he turned to Nero " -be sure to finish clearing up. If you finish with this, move on. Don't rely on me to tell you what to do."

With a mock salute, Dante departed, running as he exited to seek refuge from the rain for him to hail a taxi, or hop on a bus if there was a stop outside.

Mr. B hung around to inspect Nero's progress with mild interest for a while, then got bored and told Nero to keep it up before leaving as well.

10 minutes later, outside:

A man in a gothic blue hood inspected the Motel with vague curiosity from the cover of darkness; the sun was beginning to set. He was in need of a cheap, secure place to stay, safe from the public eye.

As the rain subsided, the man removed his hood to reveal a head of spiked white hair.

Yes, Vergil Sparda was experiencing financial difficulties, and required the services of the cheapest Motel available. He had received no money since that incident a few weeks ago where he jumped a priest in demon forming, proclaiming himself an angel, and that it was God's wish for the priest to donate money. Being a priest, he wasn't exactly comparable a swiss banker, but he had enough to get Vergil by, for a short while at least.

Vergil strolled nonchalantly to the reception, where he encountered an old man behind a desk admiring naked ladies in a magazine. Vergil tried to hide his contempt.

"I require a room," he spoke quietly.

The man looked at Vergil with interest, wondering whether white hair was a new trend the youngsters were getting into.

"I'm sorry, but we're undergoing renovations," Mr. B told him.

Vergil promptly slammed a wad of cash on the desk.

"Although, room number four should be fine," Mr. B added, snatching the money greedily, then reaching back to retrieve the keys for Vergil, then flinging them at him. Vergil caught them in one hand, nodded his thanks, then headed for his room.

As he proceeded along the veranda, Vergil discovered the open the door room number one, and halted immediately. He sensed something. He knew what it was. And Jesus, did it piss him off.

(Yes. It did.)

He stepped inside quietly, analysing the back of the white-haired youth wiping the bloodied wall clean. But, Vergil could feel something more to him. Something that belonged to him. But, it was somehow concentrated into the young man's arm.

Nero, sensing that somebody was watching him, turned slowly around to discover Vergil with his arms crossed.

There was silence for about a minute.

"Dante?" Nero stated incredulously.

Vergil shook his head slowly, then started approaching Nero.

Nero, being sensible enough to detect that something was amiss, pulled up his sleeve and attempted to sock Vergil in the face with his Devil Bringer.

Just when Nero thought his arm collided with Vergil's jaw, he gasped as he realised that Vergil had caught it in his own hand, and was inspecting it with a raised eyebrow.

"What the hell is your problem?" Nero asked Vergil nervously "And who are you?"

Vergil didn't answer, and sniffed Nero's devil bringer. He recoiled instantly, spluttering.

Nero took this chance to seize his arm back.

"Okay, answer my question! Who're you?"

"Who are you?" Vergil asked in response.

"Me?! Nero. Now, what about you?"

"Nero?" Vergil repeated contemptuously "Nero? Black? Okay, that has to be the worst name I have ever heard, and my name's Vergil. Okay, I'm sometimes known as Nero, but only as Nero Angelo – and that at least makes sense together."

Nero frowned at Vergil, starting to slowly retreat from him. He didn't know who Vergil was, but he certainly knew who Nero Angelo was – the demon the Order of the Sword used to bake their home-made demons.

"Anyway, to the point," Vergil said, stepping towards Nero again, backing him into the wall "Care to explain why you have my sword?"

"What are you talking about? I'm unarmed." Nero replied with confusion.

Vergil pinned Nero up against the wall by his neck.

"Don't play dumb. Give it to me." he hissed dangerously.

"Knock knock," Dante declared as he entered, holding several cans of paint.

He froze upon seeing Vergil, accidentally dropping the paint.

"Okay, explain." Vergil demanded, nodding his head towards a breathless Nero, who was gesturing feebly towards his throat with his hands.

"Oh, him?" Dante actually managed a laugh "That's Nero."

"Yes, that much I got from him. Why has he my sword?"

"The sword? I felt that he could hold onto it for the time be-"

"You felt? It's my sword and -"

"Air..." Nero croaked.

"Don't interrupt," snapped Dante.

"Yes, well, you were unavailable to contact at the time," he explained sarcastically to Vergil "So I used my own judgement."

"Badly!You gave my sword – Yamato – to this, this, this – child! He's probably gotten it all sticky!"

"Well, what are you yelling at me for? Just take it back!"

Vergil relinquished his grasp on Nero, who crashed audibly to the floor, gasping for breath and coughing pitifully.

"Okay, then, Nero," Vergil announced "Cough up."

After regaining his breath, Nero stood up, and, shivering, looked from son of Sparda to son of Sparda, both of whom had their arms crossed and were looking at him expectantly.

Making a quick decision, Nero bolted out, successfully managing to evade the twins who did not suspect his fleeing. He looked back for a moment to laugh – then promptly tripped over the goat who had returned.

Nero gave a small roar of irritation, clasping his sore knee, when he looked up to see Dante and Vergil on either side of him.

Dante fired a warning shot from Ebony.

"Now, kid. Give it to him."

Nero remained silent, staring at each of them in turn, silently beseeching them to let him keep it.

He was rescued, funnily enough, by Mr. B having a violent Vietnam flashback. He had been zoned out while this was happening, and it's likely that Dante's warning shot had clicked something out of place in his already unstable mind.

The actual repercussions of this was that he bounded out of the reception, brandishing an old M16 assault-rifle, letting loose a hail of bullets, the recoil overpowering him resulting in him firing anywhere and everywhere. That meant that nobody was in any immediate danger, but it was safer they regarded him as a threat.

Now, three things entered the trios minds.

Firstly, the likelihood of this ever happening.

Secondly, and probably more importantly, how they ever let him retire from the army with his service rifle still in his possession.

Thirdly: Shit.

The three dove for cover into room one, Dante slamming the door behind them, then backing up against it to barricade it.

"What the hell?" Nero exclaimed.

"Oh, well said, Nero," Vergil remarked with a small grin.

"Shut up."

There was a small pause.

Vergil smacked him.

"Any suggestions as to what we do now?" Dante asked as Nero rubbed his cheek.

"We could take him easy," Nero said confidently.

Vergil smacked him again.

"It's not our safety that's the issue," Vergil told him, then shook his head towards Dante, who was evidently formulating a plan; a smile widening across his face.

"But, since you're so eager for action," Dante said with a meaningful smirk "I'm sure you can act as decoy."

"Decoy?" Nero repeated.

"Decoy." confirmed Dante "You run out, he opens fire, then me and Vergil here restrain him while he's distracted"

"I like it." Vergil stated.

"Well, I'm not doing it," Nero said simply.

"Wrong answer," Dante said, gripping Nero by the scruff of the neck, lifting him up, opening the door, then inviting Vergil to give him a parting kick, which Vergil performed with aplomb.

Nero landed on his ass outside, and Mr. B, who had been firing wildly at nothing in particular, noticed Nero and concentrated fire on this new target.

Nero, needless to say, ran like hell.

Dante leaned in the doorway with a self-satisfied grin.

"You aren't going to go out and stop him?" Vergil queried.

"Nah," Dante responded with a small chuckle "Let's just wait and see what happens."

Vergil shared his grin, and stepped out to get a better look.

Nero was leaping behind what cover he encountered – a tree here, a car there, and then Mr. B would fire continuously, unperturbed that his bullets were having no effect.

It stands to reason that if the military overlooked the fact that Mr. B left with his M16, then they would also be indifferent to the fact that he brought home a ridiculous amount of ammunition.

Whenever Mr. B reloaded, Nero would run out of cover and head somewhere else.

Eventually, Nero, stupidly enough, ran into the reception. The largest piece of cover available there was of course the central heater. Another stupid decision.

Mr. B naturally followed him in and opened fire relentlessly.

Nero was safe enough behind the boiler, but there was now no way he could escape unscathed. He only hoped that Dante and Vergil would hurry up.

After a few minutes good firing, the consistant spray of bullets pelting into the boiler caused it to burst open, unloading it's contents. Being an old-fashioned boiler, there was a large amount of oil contained within it.

Unfazed, Mr. B did not cease fire, firing without any second thought – if he was capable of thought at that moment.

As luck would have it, the recoil caused him to shoot the light bulb in the ceiling, showering the room with sparks.

You don't need telling what happened next, but for the benefit of the slower readers I'll explain: Sparks hit wooden floor; wooden floor slowly catch fire; fire reach oil; big boom.

Nero, luckily having two bars of health, was relatively okay. But, Mr. B was far from it.

"NERO!" Dante bellowed as he slowly approached the wreck of the reception "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"You blew the motel up?!"Trish shrieked at Dante, who was lying on the couch reading his magazine.

"No! Of course not!" Dante answered, looking at Trish as though she were an idiot "Nero did."

"Oh," said Trish, calming down "...so what happened to him?"

"Well, it's kinda strange..."

"How so?"

"You see, it turns out that the cops never really liked the place anyway, and were actually kind of relieved that it was finally gone. And when the kid contested that the man was trying to kill him, they just took his word for it so they could close the matter as quickly as possible."

"That's hardly just."

"Tell me about it," Dante sighed "If it were me, you know how it would have gone."

"Lawsuit?"

"Duh."

"They must have gone easy on him because he's pretty much just a kid."

"Maybe they should have sent him to Juvenile Hall," Trish joked.

Dante gave out a bark-like laugh.

"I'd have loved to see that. Still, some good came out of today."

"I wouldn't jump to conclusions..." Trish mumbled in response. Dante ignored her as Vergil stepped in from downstairs, dripping wet and wearing a towel (sorry girls).

"Shower's broken. Fix it."

Dante and Trish exchanged glances.

"Well, don't look at me," Dante stated evasively "I'm not the one who spent all day on my ass."

With a burdened sigh, Trish rose and headed for the door upstairs. She paused as the phone rang. She spun round on the spot, hardly believing her ears. Two in one day?

Dante looked at the phone as he might a bomb, then he slowly approached it and gingerly picked it up and answered it.

"Devil May Cry?"

"Jackpot" the person on the other end said cryptically.

Dante could hardly contain himself, and he put the phone to his shoulder as the other two awaited an explanation

"It's a caller with the password!"

Trish gave a scream of delight and hugged Vergil, who hadn't a clue what was going on.

Dante listened to the caller, then informed him that they were on their way.

He threw the phone onto the receiver in that spinning way he was notorious for, then reached for Ebony and Ivory, then slung Rebellion onto his back.

"I freaking love you, Enzo," he announced as Trish gripped a sword from the wall.

She headed for the door, but was blocked by Dante's outstretched arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked her, fluttering his eyelashes to indicate innocence "You've got a shower to fix."

Before Trish could react, Dante kicked open the door and raced out laughing, no longer caring about the expense of a new door.

Devil May Cry was back in business.

End

Joe: You read correct; end.

I'm sorry to say it, guys, but that's it.

I couldn't just keep leaving it the way I was. A story needs an ending at some point.

And, no, well spotted, I don't like Nero.

I'd just like to say thanks for all those who reviewed, and especially to those who gave in suggestions. I apologise wholeheartedly to those who's ideas I never got round to carrying out, really and truly.

That's it, ladies and gentlemen; you've been a great audience. ;)

Ciao.