Dante grew up fighting. One could almost say he was born fighting. He and Vergil, they were happy until they weren't, but that's how most things went.
He'd clawed away at the world by ten, he'd killed by twelve. Or was it eleven? Much of his memory is a haze of screams and blood and sand.
Both pistols aim at the cars. In a flurry, bullets fly and hit true to their marks. Men hanging off the edges of their cars fall in a disgusting heap.
Nice and pissed, that's how he likes them. When the cars are close enough, Dante very and incredibly stupidly and almost with a suicidal streak, runs towards them.
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nestbox2015-05-25 07:39 pm
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He'd clawed away at the world by ten, he'd killed by twelve. Or was it eleven? Much of his memory is a haze of screams and blood and sand.
Both pistols aim at the cars. In a flurry, bullets fly and hit true to their marks. Men hanging off the edges of their cars fall in a disgusting heap.
Nice and pissed, that's how he likes them. When the cars are close enough, Dante very and incredibly stupidly and almost with a suicidal streak, runs towards them.