Chapter Text
As Vergil slices through another fodder demon that haplessly enters his field of vision, it becomes abundantly clear that something is wrong with the Yamato.
She is still lethal, still just as restrained and deadly as he has honed and learnt after a decade with her by his side. But there is a seed of doubt in his mind, some strange inkling that tells him that there is something wrong, unfixable with the Yamato in her current state. She has felt this way ever since they raised the Temen-ni-gru, but Vergil cannot voice this concern to Arkham. He doesn’t need this to complicate his job, when he’s already waiting for a prime opportunity to ditch the old windbag. Arkham cannot know that Vergil is weakened in any capacity.
Not that he is necessarily weakened. Yamato still heeds his call, but there is a resistance to her he has never felt before. Like another hand bracing against her blade before letting up. Even when he puts slightly more strength to a strike than normal to break through this barrier, the resistance doesn’t dissipate. It feels like someone else is also grasping her grip with him, just annoyingly out of sync with his own rhythm.
At the very least, she is not fighting his command—just yet, his traitorous mind adds. When he finally gets a period of peace from any random hellbeast or that pest Arkham, Vergil takes a moment to pull the blade out from her saya. He runs a finger along her surface like he has done so many times before, and he finds a slight crack in her thin metal he has never seen before.
The crack bisects his blade clean across. The cut is not deep enough to sever, but distinct enough that he wonders how he has never caught it before. But he knows his sword well enough, where she is part of him, and he has never felt this crack before. It feels like an impression, like another blade with that same crack impressed into his own intact sword.
Unconsciously, he verbalises, “What form of sorcery is this?”
The blade doesn’t move, unaffected by his concern, but instead another voice speaks up, “Should’ve figured you’d notice.”
Vergil’s head whips around in response. The offending voice has no face to match, but it is not one he has heard before either way.
The voice continues, “Hey, down here.”
Vergil complies against his better judgment, but it takes him a second to realise where the sound is even supposed to be coming from. It's only when his shadow's left hand, the one not clutching the Yamato, moves of its own accord to rub against his shadow’s face that he realises what must be happening. A shadow cannot be fought so easily, but even intangible demons can be bested. He must bide his time. His eyes narrow at the invader and he voices, “Who are you?”
There’s a slight pause, as the shadow tilts its head. Finally, it replies, “The name’s Nero. And don’t scowl too much, it makes you look older than you are.”
Vergil only scowls harder. “Perhaps I should’ve made myself clearer. What are you?”
“Geez, just as pushy as ever,” the voice, Nero, grumbles. But it starts to paint a strange picture in Vergil’s head, one he was so sure was never possible. Not with what he has planned for tonight.
Nero continues, “To keep things short, you and I were on a hunt together. Something went wrong, you handed me the Yamato, and now I’m here. Strange to be spectral like this for once.”
This Nero enjoys dropping cryptic hints, Vergil realises. But he seems to be forthcoming with the answers. Whether the veracity of his answers can be trusted, that he isn’t sure of. Vergil probes, “You and I? I know no one named Nero.” The other half of the question remains unasked. Just who would he ever pass the Yamato itself to? The blade has been his only companion, no matter everything he has endured. She is as important to him as his life itself, a physical reminder of the legacy he deserves to hold in both hands. He doesn’t think he would let even Dante hold her, let alone a complete unknown like this Nero.
The shadow flaps its other hand—at least they only seem tethered through the Yamato, none of Nero’s other movements affect how Vergil holds himself, and the resistance on the katana goes both ways. Almost as if Nero himself is taking great pains to restrict himself, to not accidentally jostle Vergil around by the blade, despite the general restlessness of the rest of his body language. He’s not so sure what to think of that.
“Well, technically, you don’t. Not now,” Nero responds. “I only met you when you turned 44.”
Ah. That starts to explain some things. “So you aren’t from this time,” Vergil says.
“Nope. It’s weird seeing you like this,” Nero easily admits. Vergil wouldn’t voice his own thoughts on the matter—but he does find it strange that conversely, he can’t see Nero. It feels silly to talk out loud like this to his own shadow, even if his shadow is being inhabited by someone else. Not just silly, it’s more…revealing. If Arkham walked in on this, he’d be done for.
He’s running out of time, he thinks, before Arkham asks to reconvene. Vergil asks, “So how is it we know of each other?”
“Nah, I’m not answering that one. You’d freak.” Nero must see the face he’s making because he continues, “You definitely would.”
Vergil grumbles, “I would not.”
“Agree to disagree, yeah?” The voice is amiable, disengaging. It sounds like someone used to talking like this, like Vergil’s being dealt with as an unruly child. It only irritates him further, but he sets the topic to rest. Not much time left now.
He thinks he doesn’t sound quite desperate when he asks, “How are you here?” He elects to not add ‘Can you leave?’ because it would be too petulant. He can work around Nero if he has to, all his previous encounters since the tower grew a testament to that, but he would simply prefer if Nero wasn’t a literal parasite on his most important possession.
His shadow’s other hand goes up to his neck and he sounds sheepish when he replies, “Like I said, no clue. My right hand’s just grafted to the Yamato, I can’t let go. And before you ask, I’m not about to try. Seems I’m stuck for the ride, huh?”
Vergil says, “You will not reveal yourself to Arkham.” It’s a demand, really, and Nero takes it as such.
“Yeah, don’t worry your little head off. I’m not in the habit of revealing myself to evil sorcerers. I’ll only speak if we’re alone.” His response is just as placating as in their previous topic, which Vergil elects to ignore for now. Apparently it is all Vergil will have to go off of, but Nero has no reason to reveal himself either. No leverage, no position, nothing. Not even a physical form to affect the world, and Vergil always keeps a hand on Yamato, so he can always push back. He still doesn’t know what Nero is exactly—a human? A demon? He rarely associates with anyone who isn’t instrumental to his quest or his plans. Even those he… well, even they once helped in one way or the other.
He is saved from having to wonder too much about his future by Arkham making his presence known, and he follows the older man to the top of the tower, waiting for Dante’s arrival.
Once the door closes, Arkham’s cooling corpse on the other side, Vergil finally hears from the other voice. “I was starting to think he was never going to shut up. Good thing he isn’t even a human anymore.”
Vergil doesn’t think too hard about this statement, he’s not sure what Arkham’s species has to do with anything, but he stops in his tracks and holds the Yamato up to his chest. Nero had been so quiet the past few hours, he was starting to think the other would lose his grasp on reality. But any time he started to harbor any doubts, he would have to use the Yamato again, and he would feel that phantom pressure push back slightly against his weight. He didn’t think it’d feel like it, but it’s become somewhat comforting, that someone else is holding the katana with him. They’d had a short conversation, but he… It was a nice change of pace, he can, at the most, admit. He shakes these thoughts away before responding to Nero.
“Yes, I just needed a moment of hesitation,” he shares. It is easy to talk to this faceless nobody, surprisingly easy. Vergil would not hand this information out so willingly to anyone else, but Nero’s predicament uncomplicates things.
“‘Pesky fatherly love’ huh?” The voice seems to taunt. Vergil ignores this. Nero must know he is a son of Sparda, given his knowledge of the Yamato itself. The shadow hasn't made it explicit that he knows of Sparda's disappearance, even if that is the insinuation, so Vergil lets it slide. Sparda himself is not so important as his legend, that's Vergil's stance on the matter. He left, but he left behind the Yamato and enough clues for him to reclaim what should be his.
The walk up the Temen-ni-gru is still quiet, but different to the absolute silence of his wait with Arkham. Nero isn’t quite talkative as he is incisive; rather than make conversation, he prefers to make one-off statements or ask questions. Simple things about the low-level devils they face, or Vergil’s relationship to Dante, which he ignores. Vergil seems to be doing a lot of that lately, but Nero takes all his answers, whether verbal or not, in stride too.
He wonders for a moment just how well Nero knows his own version of himself. Vergil’s future plans have never been anything more substantial than reclaiming his power, which is only starting to seem a little troublesome now, for he can’t imagine ever meeting someone like Nero. He reminds him a little of Dante, flippant but not so hot-headed. And Vergil has enough of Dante from Dante, but he clearly must…trust Nero enough to willingly hand him the Yamato. He must have some kind of connection to Nero, otherwise the other wouldn’t have reacted so strongly, but that seems to be the only topic Nero will be tight-lipped on.
Instead, Nero continues to make inane comments like “You really weren’t holding back against Dante, huh? It took all my strength to keep up with you.”
Vergil smirks slightly, not one to miss an opportunity. “I’ll do well to simplify my abilities for you next time.”
“Ah, not for little old me. I’ve impaled Dante before too, y’know,” is the only response he gets.
Again, Nero’s pacifying responses only serve to rile up Vergil. And this time, he doesn’t have the distraction of that eyesore Arkham weighing him down, and he’ll have ample time before Dante decides to show his face, even a Dante that must be slowly getting a hang of his actual demonic powers. “You’re still not very skilled with the katana. It’s quite obvious.” This is not entirely the truth, because Nero is skilled enough to mostly keep up with Vergil. But there is something else to it, he's sure, different from Vergil's constant training.
Nero, as always, does not rise to the bait. Instead, he says, “Nah, I have my own sword, shame it isn’t here now. You’ve probably seen Order swords before, right? Similar, but I’ve made some modifications since.”
“An Order sword?” Vergil questions. “Order of the Sword? You’re from Fortuna?”
“Born and raised. Was an Order guard for a while,” Nero shares. This is the most information Nero has willingly shared about himself until now and it’s nothing to scoff at. The Order is made of fools who either don’t know the true story of Sparda or are too ‘pious’ to accept the truth.
He needles, “Today must have been a rather abrupt wake-up call about your Savior.”
Nero laughs. It sounds like he’s laughing straight in Vergil’s face. “I learnt about Sparda years ago, ever since I met his idiot sons. Besides, Fortuna isn’t so religious anymore.”
Vergil bristles at the jab, more so at how Nero lumps him in with Dante. He stays silent, to prevent embarrassing himself further, and finally Nero continues, “But anyway, you and Dante made me learn some kata, but that’s about it. I just try to follow your lead.”
Privately, Vergil thinks that for one with little training, Nero understands his moves just as deeply as Vergil himself does. He could just be somewhat like Dante, he reasons again, one that the weapon itself yields to with little effort. Unlike himself, who’s had to fight and train for anything to translate to actual skill with the sword.
Or maybe it's something to do with the Yamato herself. Nero mentioned earlier that his situation is at least partly due to Yamato's influence on his previous battlefield. For some stranger to curry her favor like that? Well, Nero must not actually be a stranger. Outwardly, he asks, “Dante made you learn kata?”
“You only think he’s a slob because he wants you to think it,” Nero informs him. “He’s good with weapons.”
This may be the most aggravating thing Nero has said to him. Of course Vergil knows this. He remembers it quite vividly from their childhood. “Do not presume to understand my own twin.”
Nero’s left hand raises in a half-surrender. “Touchy subject, sorry.” For once, Nero actually sounds apologetic. Vergil lets him stew in silence for a moment.
He opens the next door, and sees the deep grooves inlaid onto the floor, leading to a central catchment altar space. He’s seen this exact design in the journals he’s slaved over, and knows he’s finally reached the end of his journey. This is what he’s been waiting for. He starts to walk towards it, ready to receive the Force Edge and rejoin the worlds, but he’s interrupted by a growl from behind.
He turns to see a beast lumbering towards him on all fours, lion-headed and one-eyed. One horn sits right on the top of his head, and four wings sit unfurled on its back. Beowulf, he thinks. One of the demons his father imprisoned in the tower when he’d first created the seal. It growls out, “I found you, seed of Sparda. I told you I would remember your rancid scent!”
Nero seems to grin as he suddenly says, “Show him what you’ve got, old-timer.”
At that, Vergil flips up on Beowulf’s head, and executes a series of slashes with the Yamato, Nero barely providing any drag on his slashes anymore.
Vergil can’t see Beowulf’s face anymore, but he would imagine it reduced to a pitiful expression. It screams, “That smell…You are not the one I faced before. There are two of them! That excrement Sparda,” —here, Vergil puts the creature out of its misery— “had two sons!”
Vergil jumps off its back as its face sloughs off in 8 equal parts, beheaded neatly. To Nero, he says, “Don’t call me that again.”
Nero blusters, “Hey, it’s true to me. You’re almost 50 now.”
This is another fact of the future that Vergil elects to ignore. Instead, something in him calls out to Beowulf’s still corpse, and he holsters the Yamato, raising his other hand out towards Beowulf. Its dormant soul itself sparks from inside the corpse, and rapidly travels up into his hand. Vergil clenches his fist as the light materialises into gauntlets around his arms, and greaves at his feet.
A quick test on the eyesore of Beowulf’s body, and Vergil finds the new weapon sufficient in its ability. Feathers rain down around him from Beowulf’s shredded wings.
“So that’s where you got these,” Nero says in the silence.
Vergil lets the gauntlets dissipate as he walks towards the centre of the room, briefly asking, “I continue to use this?”
“Yeah, you’re not really about the weapon variety like Dante is,” Nero explains.
Sensing that the conversation is already over, Vergil sets the Yamato on the floor next to the altar, watching out of the corner of his eye as his shadow detaches from himself to sit cross-legged on the floor with his katana. He pulls out both halves of the amulet, and watches as they fuse and sink into the white abyss within the altar.
Suddenly, Nero says, “Your plan doesn’t work, by the way.”
Vergil, half in the process of kneeling, stops short. “No.”
“This stubbornness will be the death of you.” Vergil finishes kneeling and looks at his shadow, where Nero has his left elbow rested on his knee and his face in his palm. Even without the detail of his face or most of his body language, he looks bored. It makes it sound like this is a game Nero’s played before, and like always, it stings at Vergil’s skin. Before he can rebut, Nero continues, “You don’t like talking about the Temen-ni-gru much, but it’s pretty bad, Verge. This doesn’t go the way you think it will.”
If Vergil snatches the Yamato up with too much force, dragging Nero along with him, as he cuts a thin line against his palm and lets the blood soak into the altar, that’s no one else’s business. “You do not know me.”
Vergil doesn’t check his shadow to see where Nero has ended up, but he does hear a despondent, “Well, it’s your funeral.”