The Ferris wheel's rusted frame creaked in the midnight breeze, a hollow sound that carried across Amusement Mile's abandoned grounds. Moonlight spilled over decaying carnival attractions, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. To most Gothamites, this forgotten corner of the city was just another casualty of economic decay. A place to avoid after dark.
To Tony Redgrave, it was hunting grounds.
He perched on the roof of the derelict funhouse, white hair gleaming in the moonlight, leather coat billowing slightly as he surveyed the scene below. His ice-blue eyes narrowed as he spotted movement near the carousel. Too fluid to be homeless drifters, too purposeful to be common thugs. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.
"Showtime," he murmured, reaching for the custom pistols holstered at his thighs.
The weight of Ebony and Ivory felt right in his hands as he rose to his feet. Without hesitation, he stepped off the edge of the roof, coat flaring out behind him as he dropped three stories. He landed in a crouch that would have shattered the legs of any normal man, the impact barely registering as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders.
"You know," Tony called out, voice echoing through the empty park, "most people pay admission before enjoying the rides."
The shuffling figures near the carousel froze, then turned. In the moonlight, their features became clear. Grey skin stretched too tight over elongated faces, eyes glowing a sickly yellow, mouths filled with needle-like teeth. Seven of them, emerging from behind broken-down rides and rotting game booths.
Chapter 1: The Devil's Playground
The Ferris wheel's rusted frame creaked in the midnight breeze, a hollow sound that carried across Amusement Mile's abandoned grounds. Moonlight spilled over decaying carnival attractions, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. To most Gothamites, this forgotten corner of the city was just another casualty of economic decay. A place to avoid after dark.
To Tony Redgrave, it was hunting grounds.
He perched on the roof of the derelict funhouse, white hair gleaming in the moonlight, leather coat billowing slightly as he surveyed the scene below. His ice-blue eyes narrowed as he spotted movement near the carousel. Too fluid to be homeless drifters, too purposeful to be common thugs. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.
"Showtime," he murmured, reaching for the custom pistols holstered at his thighs.
The weight of Ebony and Ivory felt right in his hands as he rose to his feet. Without hesitation, he stepped off the edge of the roof, coat flaring out behind him as he dropped three stories. He landed in a crouch that would have shattered the legs of any normal man, the impact barely registering as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders.
"You know," Tony called out, voice echoing through the empty park, "most people pay admission before enjoying the rides."
The shuffling figures near the carousel froze, then turned. In the moonlight, their features became clear. Grey skin stretched too tight over elongated faces, eyes glowing a sickly yellow, mouths filled with needle-like teeth. Seven of them, emerging from behind broken-down rides and rotting game booths.
"There's a two-for-one special on lead tonight," Tony said, spinning Ebony around his finger. "Who wants the first taste?"
The creatures hissed in unison, a sound like steam escaping a pressure valve. The largest one lunged forward, covering twenty feet in a single bound, claws extended toward Tony's throat.
A gunshot cracked through the night. The demon's head snapped back, black ichor spraying from the perfect hole between its eyes. It crashed to the ground, sliding to a stop at Tony's boots.
"Not much for conversation, are you?" He sighed dramatically. "Story of my life."
The remaining demons attacked as one, spreading out to flank him. Tony's expression shifted from casual amusement to focused intensity, though the smirk never quite left his lips. He moved with impossible speed, ducking under claws that would have disemboweled him, weaving between attackers with fluid grace.
Ebony and Ivory roared in perfect harmony, each shot finding its mark. Two demons fell, their bodies already dissolving into ash. A third managed to rake its claws across Tony's back, tearing through leather and drawing blood.
"This coat," Tony growled, whirling around, "was expensive."
He shoved Ivory against the creature's chest and pulled the trigger. The force of the shot sent the demon flying backward, crashing through the ticket booth in an explosion of rotting wood and ancient popcorn.
Memory flashed unbidden through Tony's mind. His mother's voice, warm and gentle. "Tony, be careful on those rides. You're only seven, remember?" Her laugh, musical and bright. Then, overlapping, her scream as shadows with yellow eyes burst through their home's windows. The splash of red across white walls.
The momentary distraction nearly cost him as another demon dropped from above, landing on his shoulders. Claws dug into his flesh, seeking purchase. Tony grunted in pain, reaching back to grab the creature by its throat. With a show of inhuman strength, he flipped it over his head and slammed it into the ground hard enough to crack the pavement.
Before it could recover, he stomped down, crushing its skull beneath his boot.
"Two left," he said, blowing a strand of white hair from his face. "Don't suppose you'd consider an early retirement package?"
The remaining demons backed away, hissing. Something had changed in their posture. Wariness, perhaps even fear. They glanced at each other, communicating in some primitive way. Then, with startling coordination, they turned and fled, scrambling up the side of the defunct roller coaster.
"Oh no, you don't." Tony holstered Ivory and reached behind him, drawing the massive sword strapped to his back. The blade caught the moonlight, gleaming with an inner fire that didn't seem entirely natural. "Running spoils the fun."
He crouched, muscles tensing, then launched himself upward with explosive force. His jump carried him thirty feet into the air, bringing him level with the demons as they reached the top of the coaster's first hill. They shrieked in surprise as he landed on the track in front of them, sword held casually over one shoulder.
"Now," Tony said, his smile widening to reveal teeth that suddenly seemed a bit too sharp, "where were we?"
The blade, Rebellion, sang through the air. One demon lost its head, the other its arm. The wounded one howled, clutching at the stump where its limb had been. Black ichor poured between its fingers.
"What are bottom-feeders like you doing in my city?" Tony demanded, pressing the tip of his sword against the creature's throat. "Who sent you?"
The demon's yellow eyes widened. "S-son of Sparda," it gurgled, voice like gravel in a blender. "He said... you might be here."
Tony's expression hardened, playfulness vanishing. "Who said? Who sent you?"
Instead of answering, the demon began to laugh, a wet, bubbling sound. Its body started to convulse, skin cracking as light poured from within. Tony swore and leapt backward just as the creature exploded in a shower of ichor and bone fragments.
"Suicide run," he muttered, wiping black fluid from his cheek. "Somebody's getting creative."
He sheathed Rebellion and took a moment to survey the amusement park. The bodies of the demons had fully dissolved, leaving only scorch marks on the pavement. Nothing to tie back to him. Nothing to raise questions from Gotham's already overtaxed police force.
The wounds on his back had already stopped bleeding, the skin knitting itself back together with unnatural speed. By morning, there wouldn't even be a scar. One of the perks of his... unique heritage.
Tony checked his watch. 1:37 AM. Still early by his standards. He made his way back through the abandoned park, vaulting over a broken fence and landing in the alley where he'd parked his motorcycle. The custom machine, as red as the jacket he wore, gleamed under the streetlights.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled up in front of a converted warehouse in Gotham's East End. The neon sign above the door flickered intermittently, spelling out "Devil May Cry" in blood-red letters. Half repair shop, half private investigation office, and a convenient front for his real line of work.
Tony parked his bike and unlocked the front door, flipping on lights as he entered. The space was sparsely decorated. A desk and chair, a battered leather couch, a jukebox in the corner, and an array of weapons mounted on the walls. Some conventional, others... decidedly not.
He shrugged out of his torn coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. The clock on the wall read just past 2 AM. Too wired to sleep, he dropped into the chair behind his desk and propped his feet up, reaching for the half-eaten pizza in the box beside him. Cold pepperoni. Breakfast of champions.
As he chewed, his mind turned over the demon's words. Son of Sparda. He said you might be here. Someone was looking for him specifically, and that was rarely good news.
The phone on his desk rang, startling him out of his thoughts. Who would call at this hour? Tony wiped his hands on his pants and picked up the receiver.
"Devil May Cry," he answered, voice deliberately casual.
There was silence on the other end, then a woman's voice, low and measured: "Are you the one who deals with... special problems?"
"Depends on how special, and how much you're paying," Tony replied, reaching for a pen.
"Money is not an issue. But discretion is essential." A pause. "I represent certain interests at Wayne Enterprises. We've had... an incident."
Tony sat up straighter, feet coming off the desk. Wayne Enterprises meant money, but it also meant visibility. Attention he didn't necessarily want.
"I'm listening," he said.
"Not over the phone," the woman replied. "Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock. The Morrison Building, penthouse office." The line went dead before he could respond.
Tony hung up, drumming his fingers on the desk. The Morrison Building was in the heart of Gotham's financial district. A long way from his usual hunting grounds. Wayne Enterprises, demons, and mysterious phone calls in the middle of the night. Whatever was happening, it smelled like trouble.
He grinned. Trouble paid the bills.