Chapter Text
In a small, dirty bar, a white-haired demon hunter sat, drinking from his beer with a small grimace.
“Nightcap, Nero,” the demon hunter asked for another beer, receiving a small glare from the barman. “Can you even pay?”
“That depends, does the demon behind me cover the expenses?” He asked, drawing his gun, Blue Rose, and shooting a man behind him before anyone could say anything. The carcass twitched before the flesh was torn away, allowing a mixture between man, ant, and bat to rise.
Before the thing could do anything, the son of Vergil jumped and drew Red Queen, with a somersault, he beheaded the demon right before his feet touched the ground.
“That should actually cover the night, yes…” The barman blinked, his eyes resting on the young demon hunter, who smirked, before glancing backwards.
“Look who’s finally decided to join the party. So, took you a while to get here, Morrison…” The old man smirked, taking off his cap and sitting in the chair previously occupied by the demon, ignoring the bloody corpse by his side. “So, care to tell me why you called?”
“A job,” hearing the young man groan, he smirked. “I know you are on your vacation, but this is important.”
“Care to tell me what’s so important that couldn’t be said on the phone?” Seeing the quiet man, he groaned and glanced back at the barman. “Hey, Edgar, care to give us a moment?”
Sitting across from him, Nero waited while Morrison tried to collect himself. He idly wondered what could have the old man so spooked, certainly not a demon.
After the whole Urizen fiasco, Morrison took over Devil May Cry and, since he needed a formal job, as well as honoring Dante’s wish, Nero worked for the guy, and in the five years he was employed, he never saw him this… skittish.
“I have found another that shares the blood of Sparda.”
“So, what? I have a half-brother?” He snorted, remembering Vergil and how the man was obsessed with power. “Sorry, but I’m not interested in playing babysitter.” From what he heard, his father was supposed to be in the demon world by that time, so…
“Well, don’t worry about it. This one is fairly capable… For a teenager.”
“Excuse you?”
“And he’s not your brother… more like a younger cousin.”
It all happened too fast. First, Morrison closed his eyes. Next, he was against the wall, with a very angry demon breathing down his neck. Its skin was a pale blue, its eyes were red, like hellfire, and the very air it exhaled was as hot as such.
“Where?”
Across the blue skies of the human world, far beyond the west sea, there’s a place where one could just disappear.
It was north of Mallet Island, close to where Hell’s Gate was. It was said that, before Mundo’s influence carried over to the human world, the castle belonged to a noble who oversaw the whole city.
It was thanks to Dante and Trish that this city could be rebuilt.
Vice and sin, however, still reigned there, and this village hated demons more than anything. Such irony that thanks to a demon, they had their freedom back, but they hated him and his kind.
At least that was the general gist of what Nero managed to get from one of the degenerates that lived in this place.
A city spiralling in grudge and lust. Where, without a guiding light, they lost something… He wondered what that “something” was, maybe a question that V would be delighted to answer, if that part of his father was still kicking around.
What would his father think if he knew of this assignment, Nero wondered.
Would he be disappointed at his son for turning his fangs against one of their own, or would he just not care?
Nero believed that, knowing how dysfunctional his family was, Vergil would actually applaud him for stabbing his cousin.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.” Morrison's words resonated in his mind. The thing here is, he was sent to judge whether Dante’s kid would be an asset or a danger to humanity.
His gut was telling him that there was more there than Morrison led on, but he chose to keep himself quiet, knowing full well what went above his pay grade.
He exited the ship and walked towards one of the locals, carrying himself with the ease and confidence that he, himself, did not feel.
When he was close enough, his nose picked up the scent of powder, and he instantly turned sideways, his hand going to his gun, but he instantly relaxed.
Fireworks? In this time of the year? Curious, he asked another local what they were commemorating.
“Oh, that? We’re celebrating the birthday of our lord, Raguel.”
“Raguel?”
“Yeah! After that dreadful demon filth, Mundus kicked the bucket, and he came and rebuilt the entire place from scratch. In just under three months, the entire city was functional once more.”
“He alone?”
“Aye, it sounds crazy, but it's the truth. So, since he reclaimed the land of our ancestors from that filth, he’s our savior.”
Interesting. That wasn’t on the debriefing…
Nero chose to look around, using the guise of a tourist to learn more about this so-called Raguel.
He had a feeling that this man was somehow connected to Dante’s kid.
Meanwhile, in another location, inside an old, abandoned church, a black-haired young man was reading a black-covered book while resting on one of the benches, his casual clothes befitting that of someone who was at home, rather than in a place of holiness.
His eyes casually read the last line of the book while his mind conjured images of all the adventures the main character went through. The book was about a hero who went on a journey to slay a dragon and save a princess.
A classical trope, but one that never failed to amuse the youth. He always wanted to be like the characters of his books. To move forward, regardless of the storm that came.
Unfortunately, however, he refused to leave this place.
So, he could only read those old, dusty books, waiting for a miracle that refused to come. Closing the pages, he glanced at the sky, his gaze going towards the dusk that preluded the night, and he immediately sighed.
Rising from his position, he stretched himself and walked towards one of the many glass panels, broken and forgotten amid the buzzing city. His gaze was caught between himself and another thing.
“Took ya long enough! I almost slept through the boredom.”
“You should, dear brother! Otherwise, you’ll sleep during your shift.” As he talked to his reflection, his dark eyes became cerulean blue, and his hair turned white as snow.
Looking at the reflection, the other one glanced at his younger brother, Atreyu, who was making some quick calculations.
“Please, Falkor, keep in mind we’re on a tight budget.”
“Already told ya to call me Gmork, Atreyu,” he said, turning back and walking away from his troubled reflection, which chose that moment to go to sleep.
“And I already told you that’s a stupid name,” he shot back, a grin on his face, before disappearing into the mirror.
Falkor was walking through a crowd, smirking with confidence while the humans around him murmured, shooting him angry stares.
He knew he wasn’t welcome in that part of the city; the locals made sure to remind him of that. And he even agreed somewhat with their reasoning. He was a magnet for lesser demons to try their luck…
However, he was so fucking bored.
So, checking into the flipperama, he paid the counter, ignoring the warning look the cashier threw in his direction.
He quickly went to play a shooting game, one of his specialties. Grabbing the pistols with familiar ease, he began shooting the mass of zombies. He kept playing for a while; however, at that moment, a woman's shriek broke his concentration.
Turning away, his eyes caught the sharp end of a scythe, and, in a move of pure skill, he dodged, kicking the aggressor away.
“Well, well, would ya look at that…” His voice was calm, even with the numerous Hell Prides filtering in. The game he was playing lay there, ruined and forgotten. “Looks like some new toys decided to come out and play!”
With a grin, he dodged another slash and punched. Using his demonic power to enhance the strike, he tore open a hole, forcing the demon to become sand.
Then, he ran ahead, drop-kicking another one, and kicking it while in midair, for good measure. After flipping himself in the air, he eyed the rest of them and, then, his gaze caught sight of the beheaded cranium of the one he just kicked.
Smiling, he calmly walked a couple feets, dodging the strikes that tried to reach him. Then, as he got closer, he kicked the head upwards, juggling it like a ball.
Coating the head with demonic power, he shot it. Instead of simply impacting one of the Pride’s, it blew up in contact, taking out at least five of them.
“Strike! Score for me!” Following that, with a feral grin, he crossed the arcade and weaved through the slashes, his fists crackling with white light. He kept boxing them, his speed unmatched, and, in a few seconds, it ended with a bunch of corpses and a growing pile of ashes.
However, that did not go unnoticed, and the police soon arrived. His gaze followed them, seeing the trailed weapons in his direction.
“Alright, demon-boy, hands where I can see ‘em!”
He growled, clenching his fists, energy crackling with sheer strength. However, before he could cross a line he would’ve regretted later on, his gaze caught the expression of his twin in the reflection of a broken glass.
“Don’t do it, Falkor!”
“And what, let them arrest us for helping? We already have enough on our list as it is…”
“And prove them right? You think Raguel would approve of that?”
He felt the anger that had kept him running fading away, turning the fire in his veins to ashes, and his muscles slackened. Raising his hands, he allowed himself to be taken in, all while his white-haired cousin observed it from the sidelines.