Disclaimer: I don't own DMC. Well, I own a copy of the game, but I don't actually own the whole thing. Capcom does. Capcom, if you're reading this, shoot all your translators. Now. They suck. I am making no profit off of this, don't sue, etc, etc, you know the drill.

Irony
A Devil May Cry fanfiction by Sage of Hairspray


Reasonably un-muddy feet/boots assembly on desk... chair under butt... box of 12 pre-sharpened yellow #2 Ticonderoga pencils in left hand... Right. Lean back... and stretch... ooh, that felt good.

Dante Sparda contemplated the water-stained ceiling of his 'office' as he recuperated from his latest job. The nightclub owner had been understandably opposed to the extermination taking place during business hours, so Dante had done this particular bout of demon-beating during the day.

Funny, blood didn't blend into his coat in decent light nearly as well as he thought it did.

He reached into the box, and pulled out one of the pencils. Make sure next coat is slightly darker. He threw the pencil at the ceiling, and the point bit into the soft, undoubtedly asbestos-laden material with a little 'thunk'. Dante stared at it as it stuck there, casting about for the other important things he remembered trying not to forget.

Coffee maker is broken. Toss. Thunk.

Out of spaghetti. Toss. Thunk.

Need to cash check. Toss. Thunk.

Garbage day is tomorrow. Toss. Thunk.

Should restock ammo soon. Toss. Thunk.

Six pencils. He could handle six pencils. It rarely got worse than ten, because then he was usually running around the city like his hair was on fire, too busy to stop and poke holes in the ceiling.

Of course, fewer wasn't always better. A one-pencil day could be one of the easiest or one of the hardest days of his life, depending on whether that pencil was 'pick up date at seven' or 'find large miracle very quickly'.

Oh, one last thing: Ensure family line is intact in 2000 years. Dante stopped with his hand poised to send the seventh pencil up to its brethren, and instead slumped further down into his chair, and started thoughtfully gnawing on the eraser end. After about a hundred generations, would there be any real demon left in the Spardas? Would it take that many generations? How long would he live, anyway? His father had lived for nearly two thousand years on Earth, and probably far longer in the Underworld. So maybe, Dante figured, he'd get a chance to send Mundus' ass packing in person for a second time. Perhaps even a third.

But still, two thousand years! The date would be in the 4000's by then! Twenty years was still a long time to him. Two thousand years! God, how the hell had his old man kept busy? His mother had told them that his father had nudged history towards relative peace, had deeply shaped western civilization. It made sense, in a way, Dante supposed. Two thousand years ago was about the start of good ol' A.D., the fall of Rome, etc. Sparda had been there for all that stuff, then, and the dark ages and the Renaissance or whatever. What exactly had he done, though? Given Gutenberg the plans for the printing press?

Dante was struck by a thought.

Sparda would have come to the human world around 0 A.D., after fighting a war on behalf of the humans that he cared enough for to forsake his own species. Then an oddly charismatic man preaches pacifism, universal love, and rises from the dead after suffering wounds that should have slain a human - including impalement.

Nah, it couldn't. Could it...?



A/N: Hey, I actually finished a story! Figures it would be a one-shot. My deepest apologies to anyone who was offended, although I did warn you... If I got the historical/religious details wrong, feel free to correct me. Of course, Dante's not exactly the most erudite of scholars, so I'm probably justified in my inaccuracies, but tell me anyway.
Do what's right! If you've read, please review. Pwease? No reviews makes baby Sparda cry.