Disclaimer: I don't own Devil May Cry or Paranormal Activity. You're shocked at this news, I'm sure.

Notes: This chapter is rated M for language, but in future chapters the rating will be for violence and gore, blasphemy, and sex. Pairing is Dante x Lady. This isn't in the crossovers section, as I'm not using characters from Paranormal Activity. I'm taking themes from the film and using them as a backdrop to explore the friendship/relationship between Dante and Lady. Set between DMC3 and DMC1, about 10 months after the end of DMC3. I apologize for the suckiness of this prologue; it's slow and the style's kind of fighting me.

Oh, and I do recall reading one other DMC fanfic that brought themes from PA into the DMC universe, but I cannot for the life of me recall its title or author. Props to you anyway, lol. :D This was written while listening to Mt Eden Dubstep and Deftones and Wild Strawberries (whose lyrics to "I Don't Want to Think About It" begin this) but if you wanted something spookier, I'd suggest "Don't Go to Sleep Without Me" by The Creatures, haha.

Hail Mary

You rendered me conscious
You cut my innocent face
I'm not really bitter
Then again I'm not amused
I just want to kick you till you cry
I loved I really loved you

She woke up drowning, flailing in the darkness of her room for a light and a gun. A thrashing arm knocked the lamp off the nightstand and onto the floor, the sound of glass splintering into a thousand pieces barely registering in her mind. Her breathing was too fast, but she was still half-asleep, running on auto-pilot and unable to focus enough to slow it down. Blood pounded in her ears as she fumbled in the pitch blackness, her bed-sheets entwined around her. Trembling fingers swept under her pillow, meeting cold steel and clutching at it desperately.

Even ten seconds out of a deep sleep, it wasn't difficult to slide the safety off the M-9 pistol and become utterly still, waiting. The silence of the room was oppressive, and she took a shuddering breath. Nude save for a thin pair of panties, Lady forcedly suppressed a shiver at the room's chill temperature. Her hands, clasping the Beretta carefully, never wavered. She couldn't see, but that wasn't an impossible obstacle. She could kill in the dark as well as any of the hell-spawn she hunted.

A moment later, Lady's mind woke up enough to catch up to her body's reflexes. She realized she'd been dreaming, probably of something nightmarish, given the way her sheets were wound around her bare legs. Still, years of being attacked by hideous monsters lurking in dark rooms made her hesitate. She trusted her intuition, and had faith that sometimes her body and subconscious mind worked together to process information and plan a course of action before she'd even realized there was a problem. Dante teasingly called her a ninja, and although her reflexes sometimes appeared preternaturally fast, Lady knew it was only practice, and luck, that had kept her alive all these years.

The young woman remained in place for another minute, counting her heartbeats to keep the time. Demons were impatient creatures, driven to slake their thirsts without hesitation or remorse, and would not be able to out-wait her. Figuring that she would have at least been drooled on by now if there was anything else in the room with her, Lady leaned forward slowly, leaving the pistol in her left hand and feeling for the nightstand with her right. Deft fingers found a drawer handle and softly tugged it open. Pushing aside pens, paper, and other debris without a rustle, she located a flashlight, and holding it carefully, eased back into her original position.

The click of the flashlight turning on was unsettlingly loud, and Lady stifled a flinch at the sound. She scanned the room swiftly, illuminating each corner in turn. No grinning hell-beasts to her left or right, no slime-covered half-rotten angels cleaving to the ceiling. And as her bed was little more than a box-spring and mattress placed directly on the floor, she was certain no horrors lurked beneath her, either. It was almost a little disappointing, really.

The lithe huntress heaved a sigh, untangling her long, scarred legs as best she could. She snapped the M-9's safety back into place, turned off the flashlight, and tucked both under her pillow. Stretching the tension out of her aching back, she settled back down into the bed, tugging the sheets up over her. Just some sort of fucked up dream that bled over into wakefulness… A waste of time. Lady relaxed swiftly, drifting down towards a deep slumber as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She was nearly there, almost completely enveloped in the languid ocean of sleep, when the glass on the floor moved. It was a subtle, tingling sound, as though a piece of the lamp had cracked, yet had hesitated to fall apart until this very instant. Or if a draft had caught a sliver poised to fall and pushed it over the edge. Lady tensed immediately, caught her breath and held it, waiting.

Nothing. The room was quiet, devoid of sound. Lady silently mocked herself for being such a goddamn baby, and fell asleep.

The morning sun seeping through the blinds was hellishly bright, and Lady winced and wiped at her bleary eyes. She sat up and surveyed her room dismally, her mismatched eyes drifting over the soft green paint and simple furniture. Stark, Zen Buddhist artwork adorned each wall, complementing her minimalist style. It would've made for a picture of serenity, had it not been for the shell-casings and spare ammunition that littered every available surface, and the bloodied clothing and body armour tossed over the back of a chair.

The remains of her lamp still glittered on the floor, and Lady scowled, reaching for her combat boots. Jumping at nothing. Dante will get a good laugh over this. She laced on the footwear and trudged through the glass to the bathroom, gazing wearily at her reflection.

Constant activity, usually in the form of gruesome slaughter, kept her lean. She wasn't tall, but she liked her long legs and graceful curves. Her scars had long since ceased to bother her, and she considered them a natural hazard of her chosen profession. The huntress took a moment to tease a knot from her dark, glossy bangs, noticing for the first time four angry red scratches across her clavicle. It almost looked as though someone had dragged their fingernails over her flesh, raising welts in their wake. Must've scratched myself when I was rolling around last night. That's a piss-off.

Sighing softly, the young woman kicked off her boots and stepped out of her panties, walking leisurely towards the glass shower stall. She paused at the sink to offer water to a half-dead houseplant that sat on the countertop, wondering why she bothered trying to keep it alive. Lady gave it a week, tops, before it ended up in the compost where its six predecessors had met their ends. She failed at domesticity, but she could hit a thrown penny with a pistol at two-hundred-fifty yards, and that was all that mattered.

Lady climbed into the shower and started the water running. It was hot nearly instantaneously, and she stepped into the stream. She relaxed as the soothing liquid cascaded down her body, flowing in rivulets along her scars. Steam, scented with a darkly floral soap, filled the small room and fogged the glass of the stall. Lady was rinsing the last of her shampoo from her hair when the water went icy, shockingly cold.

"Goddamnit," she hissed, reaching down to turn off the taps. With a screech, they twisted in her hands, shutting down the water. Lady shoved at the glass door, only to have it refuse to open. There's no fucking way I'm getting stuck in my shower. She applied more pressure carefully, not wanting to damage the glass and end up having to replace it. It declined to move. Lady resisted the urge to simply put her fists through it, and paused to consider the situation. The door must've warped in its frame, or something.

She slid her fingers over the glass carefully, checking the seals and edges for any changes. The door was still fogged from the steam, and there were handprints on the glass that did not belong to her. Lady felt a jolt of adrenaline streak down her spine; what would've sent many other women into fits of terrified crying merely exhilarated the huntress. She'd only passed up one fight in her life, and then not by choice. The prints were puzzling, though. They were clearly fresh, but one swipe of an elegant hand confirmed that they on the inside of the glass. With her.

Well. This one's new. A quick glance around the shower stall, floor to ceiling, revealed nothing but pale tile surrounding her. Lady twisted her hair in her hands to wring it out, calculating her next move. She was turning to try the door again when the pipes gurgled, and scalding hot water shot from the shower, dousing her before she could crouch out of the stream.

"Mother fucker," she winced, fumbling with the taps which were, to all appearances, still turned off all the way. The metal was soon too hot to touch without raising blisters on her already calloused fingers, and it was becoming uncomfortably warm inside the stall. The huntress inhaled slowly, steam threatening to sear her throat. Stray drops of nearly boiling water flicked onto her pale skin, and Lady decided she'd had enough of this game.

She drew back her fist to hit the glass, wondering if she'd be able to put enough weight into the punch for it to be effective. Dropping her shoulder into it would leave her neck too vulnerable, and as her job demanded mobility, risking a kick was out of the question. Before she could smash the glass, the pipes rattled again, the flow of water stopping abruptly. Lady immediately tried the door, and it slid open easily at her touch.

All sense of relaxation having long since fled, Lady hastily towelled herself dry. She didn't scare easily, and she wasn't afraid now. Demons occasionally tried to follow her home, but she'd always blown their brains out before they could catch her. It was intensely irritating to be toyed with, she mused, yanking a comb through her dark hair with a little too much force. But maybe it wasn't a demon at all. I could just be over-reacting. The door might've just stuck on its own, and this is an old building, with old pipes. I'm making something out of nothing.

Deciding her shower escapade was the result of an over-tired mind and bad plumbing, Lady gracefully sauntered back to inspect the glass door. She could not find any prints on it but her own, and satisfied in her theory, she went to get dressed for work.

Uh, yeah. Kind of an epic fail; this did not translate from my brain into words very well. I'm thinking the flow will be better once Dante shows up; I'm finding it extremely difficult to write Lady all by herself. Hopefully someone's interesting in seeing where I'm going with this, otherwise it will just remain on my laptop, being lame with all the other crap I'm too embarrassed about to post. So review, or flame, or something. Please. :)