Chapter Text
Pain.
Pain was the only thing he could feel in that moment. Every step, no matter how small, hurt and every breath felt like a chore that would be far easier to simply to just not do it, and honestly? Dante barely knew why he was even bothering anymore.
It would be so much easier to just stop; he knew that. Part of him wanted to let gravity pull him down and just let time end it all (wouldn't even take too long), but another part, a slightly stronger one, drove him to keep going, stupidly, towards the open portal ahead.
He had to keep going; he couldn't die before finishing what he’d started with a certain someone. He was going to resolve the agony radiating from his palms to his heart, no matter what it took, this had to end.
And he was going to see it through to the end, even if it was almost certainly the last thing he’d ever do.
The moment he stepped through the portal and felt the fresh air, devoid of the stench of rot and death that defined the Underworld, hit him full force and he began to choke, nearly collapsing to the ground.
But he could sense the Yamato nearby, and the feeling almost made him laugh; what were the odds of being so close to exactly what he needed? It just had to be some sort of a sign. A sign that he had to do what needed to be done. Dante was never the type of person that believed in signs, but at that moment he was willing to hold on anything he could.
He walked (stumbled) toward the source of the sound, where he could hear the legendary sword singing in peace.
The sound ceased as Dante drew near, as if the sword itself was shocked to sense his presence again. He stood still for a moment, his vision blurred by pain and senses that were on the verge of failing forever.
He heard a voice, one he didn't recognize, so it probably didn't belong to anyone really important; all he knew was that that person held the Yamato. And he needed Yamato. He couldn't let just anybody keep the sword, Vergil would be furious, and so would their father. "Don't... worry, I'm taking it back," he murmured, unsure if he was speaking to himself or the whoever was in front of him.
"What?" The person facing him looked confused until they noticed the energy radiating from him. "Kyrie, get back inside-!" Whoever it was couldn't finish the sentence, as Dante had already yanked the boy’ arm aside.
If he was in his right mind, maybe he would have been able to notice the stranger’s hair color, however he wasn’t.
"You... shouldn't take what... isn't yours," Dante murmured breathlessly; the simple act of tossing the guy to the other side of the room, something that once would have been easier than breathing for him, had left him exhausted. He began to cough slightly and clicked his tongue. "I... don't have time... for this..."
He could hear the guy’s shouts in the background, along with other voices, but it all faded into mere noise as he opened a portal with Yamato, which had begun to hum a mournful melody, to the only place he could think of going.
Home.
Have you ever heard the legend of the Dark Knight, Sparda?
Long ago, Sparda, himself being a demon, fought against the Demon King, sealing away the demon realm while remaining behind in the human world.
He eventually took a human woman as his wife and from that union, Sparda’s son was born.
Vergil?
No, in truth, there was another. One who had chosen the human world as his home, yet, due to turbulent family ties and decisions he would come to later to question, ended up venturing into his father's realm against his wishes.
Sparda had two sons, twins.
Vergil, the elder, who once viewed humanity with a certain indifference, ended up walking a different path because of an action taken by his younger brother.
His name is Dante; and now, as a reward, he found himself in that wretched state.
Is this story about... Dante? Partly right, but partly wrong, too.
If you were to ask the man currently struggling to open the front door of the house that was once his, he would likely say he didn't want to be a story, that he never wanted to be like his father. That he never wanted any of it, but, as always, it mattered little what he had wanted to happen.
After enduring pain upon pain, his rugged flesh, the kind that used to heal gunshot wounds and lacerations in the blink of an eye, had finally reached its limit.
Dante stopped before the portrait above what was once the fireplace; at the spot where he used to play on his mother's lap while she read in an armchair that was no longer there. He gazed at it: at the way she held her sons' heads in her hands, and at her gentle expression.
He trembled slightly and dropped his head a bit in embarrassment. He had almost forgotten what she looked like; how could he justify that? He was her son, a fact he had forgotten for so long and was embarrassed of it. "I'm sorry, Mom... I'm back," he said in a low voice and tilted his head slightly to see one of the kids on the painting better. "I'm back, Verge... forgive me... I just want it to stop..." But it was useless, there was no apology that could erase what he was about to do. "I love you, Mom... I didn't want to-" a sob cut him off; he hadn't even realized his tear ducts still worked.
Dante didn't fear death, in fact, he desired it badly, but he couldn't die now. He couldn't die like this; he refused. Not after everything.
He still had things to do and still had scores to settle. Once he was finished, he would leave this world willingly.
But he couldn't go on with those memories and with a body that was falling apart- no. To be able to keep going forward, he would have to cast everything aside, a shameful sacrifice of all the memories of suffering and everything that made him want to give up.
He drove the Yamato into his chest and felt as though his body were on fire, but instead of pulling it out, he thrust it deeper. Pain was an old acquaintance, but this specific pain came with a new purpose, and he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Dark visions of nightmares and years of slavery and pain began to pour out of Dante, but it wasn't enough. He had to rid himself of the very thing that wanted to stop him, of the voice that sang a lullaby every time he closed his eyes.
This human flesh would only hasten his death, that was the repulsive conclusion he reached in the end, but he had no other culprit for the deplorable state he was.
Tears trickled into the broken parts of his skin, making his face sting, and in response, he drove the sword deeper again.
The Yamato could separate the man from the demon, but most importantly, it could separate the power to go on from the heart that longed to stop.
What remained was a little more than just exhaustion; unfortunately for Dante, his heart was at times as stubborn as his will.
It was a part of him, once cherished by its original owner but discarded for being a hindrance in his current situation, a problem that made everything heavier and more difficult.
A stumbling block that might as well have waited for death, as it had wanted to from the very beginning, yet there was a fire in his heart that only burned brighter because he had been dismissed as a mere obstacle.
And it was this heart that now gazed in terror at what remained of his other half; the demon taking shape was... terrifying.
He tried to stand but failed. "What a piece of shit..."
He needed something to strengthen himself, yet he remained frozen before the horrifying pressure radiating from his other half. He felt... weak, but more than that, he felt powerless.
And how many times had he felt this way? When his mother shoved him into the closet of that same house he is in and walked out to a certain death, a fate he could only watch unfold.
When Morris Island succumbed to the fire of the demons screaming his name.
When Grue vanished.
When Jessica screamed in pain after he drove his sword on her chest.
When the old lady was fading away in his arms.
When Vergil reappeared in his life only to crush his heart once and for all... even in a situation like this, his human side couldn't help but grimace at the thought of his brother.
He saw two things fall from the demon and immediately knew he had to retrieve them; he hadn't given his all to protect those guns just to see them destroyed now. He wouldn't let that happen, if Mundus hadn't managed it, that thing certainly wouldn't either.
He tried to stand again but failed, so he began to drag himself toward them. He had to get them; he wouldn't let that ungrateful wretch keep the old lady's masterpieces. After a herculean effort, he managed to get close and with trembling hands he retrieved Ebony and Ivory. He knew it was futile, yet he couldn't help but aim the silver gun at the thing taking shape before him. That vile, wretched thing was the one that shouldn't exist, not him.
"Are you crazy, or what?!" A shrill voice rang out, and suddenly he was being hoisted up by claws gripping his shoulders. "If you want to die, you can do it later! I will help! But not now!"
Before he knew it, he was hurtling face-first toward the window; he barely had time to shield his face with his arms.
"Oopsie," the voice from above said, completely unapologetic, as he plummeted.
And there he was falling a long way down into a pile of trash that barely cushioned the impact.
He coughed from the impact and twisted his nose while taking a banana peel from his head. "You asshole! What the hell was that?! You said I couldn't die, but it looks like you were trying to kill me!" He aimed his gun upward and fired a few shots.
"How inconsiderate!" the bird squawked while dodging the gunfire. "You save a guy's life, and he shoots at you! What a crazy world we live in."
"You're telling me," he scowled and stopped shooting; he didn't have enough ammo for this (now he had to worry about that, didn't he? How annoying). "What did you want? A 'thanks for tossing me in the trash, feather face'?"
"Watch your tone," the bird said, circling lower. "Yes, I would like a thank-you."
He gave the bird the finger in response, and it snorted. "You're so mature. You're going to have to return the favor, and make up for that rudeness just now."
"Are you out of your damn bird mind?"
"You're the one who is, if you think you're getting out of this alone; you can barely even lift those guns." The bird drew closer and spread its wings, looking like a vulture.
He looked away, fixing his gaze on a trash bag nearby, not out of shame, but because he didn't want to admit the stupid bird was right. He wasn't going to be able to show that thing that he wasn't just a problem to be discarded like that. "Where are you getting at, feather face?"
"I'm going to ignore that last part," the bird stopped flying around him and decided to look at his face, "because I want you to make a contract with me."
"…What?" From all the things he could hear, he didn’t expect that one.
"You heard me right: a contract." The bird puffed his chest a bit.
"I don't have a pen," he said, his voice so matter-of-fact that Griffon thought it was a joke, but it wasn't.
"You sure know a lot about demons for someone who spent so long in the Underworld," Griffon pointed out, flying closer to the boy.
"I wasn't really paying attention, my bad," he replied sarcastically.
"It's not a contract involving a pen, genius," the bird began to explain, losing his patience. "And I don't want your soul, either, not like they dramatize in the movies. This is a special offer just for you; consider yourself flattered."
"Wow, lucky me." He said being literally sorrounded by trash.
"Exactly, you are very lucky..." He was cut off when the boy grabbed his beak and held Ivory close to his neck.
"You're giving me a headache with that screeching voice of yours," the boy said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you a demon? Why are you helping me? What are you?"
"So violent!" The bird exclaimed, his beak still held shut, but that didn’t stop him from talking. "Don't go thinking you're special; he didn't just throw you away. He threw away the memories, too... the nightmares."
The boy froze at those words, and an image of a broken knight flashed through his mind and he quickly released his grip on the bird's beak and buried his face in his hands.
Griffon said nothing until the boy pulled his hands away and looked back at him. "I don't really care about that part," he continued, not waiting for the boy to speak. "I can understand him discarding me, after all, nobody wants to live with their own nightmares. But the problem is, dreams only exist if there's someone there to see them. In other words, I'll vanish without a host!"
"And you want me to be that host," the white-haired boy concluded.
"Ding, ding, ding! You got more brain in you than I thought you did!"
"Why would I want to live with my nightmares?" The boy asked genuinely. "His nightmares were mine, too."
"Because in exchange for being my host, you'll have access to my services!" The nightmare did a little twirl in the air to show off. "You're no fool. You know you're basically made of paper right now; one wrong move and it's all over for you... and you've got things to do, don't you?"
The boy didn't answer, but the nightmare could see the fire in his eyes. "You want to put him in his place, right? Get revenge for him discarding you when things got tough?"
"You already know the answer."
Griffon really did know the answer; he’d seen it when the boy drew his weapon and aimed at the demon instead of trying to run.
"But how will you do it? When you've lost everything?" He asked, spreading his wings closer to the boy. "How? Without powers? That's why I'm proposing this: we work together, or we both die!"
The boy didn't answer for a few minutes, and the demon began to grow impatient. "If you just vanish or die at the hands of some weak demon, you'll only be proving his point."
"Low blow," he replied grimacing.
He knew it was. "But it's the truth," the nightmare retorted, "and you know it."
"...You're way too full of yourself." The boy rolled his eyes but didn't disagree with the nightmare. "How do we do this? You don't have hands for me to shake."
"Just say you accept the contract and open the palm of your hand." If birds could roll their eyes, he certainly would have done so by now.
"I accept the contract," he said and opened his hand without thinking too much, because if he did think about it, he'd just shoot the bird in the face again. He began to feel a strange heaviness within, accompanied by visions of torture and nights where pain was the only thing keeping him conscious; he winced. "Is that all?" He asked, slightly breathless.
"That, and a few marks on the skin, no need for such drama," the nightmare said, feigning indifference. "My name is Griffon."
"I know your name." The boy looked down at his hands, still clutching Ebony and Ivory, and then at the rest of his naked body, now marked by black streaks running across his chest. In any other situation, he would have thought they looked pretty cool; he’d always wanted tattoos, after all, but his regeneration had never allowed them to take hold.
His eyes widened for a moment as he looked further down. "…I think I need some clothes."
"That's a good idea; nobody wants to see a teenager running around naked with two guns- you'd get thrown in jail in a heartbeat-"
"What do you mean, 'teenager'?" The boy cut Griffon off.
"You are a teenager."
"No, I'm not; I'm nine-"
"You look like a fifteen year old," Griffon clarified, flying over to a trash can and pulling out a shard of broken mirror.
He set Ebony in his lap and carefully picked up the shard, taking care not to cut his hand (since the wound wouldn't heal if he did), and went pale when he saw his reflection.
He looked... he looked like a kid. He looked exactly like he had back when he was starting as a mercenary.
He blinked a few times, a part of him praying it was just a figment of his imagination, but after a moment, he convinced himself it wasn't.
It was so stupid he started to laugh; he had done everything necessary to ensure he'd never have to look back at that time of his life again. He'd changed his name back, moved to a different city, and avoided anything that might spark gossip. He did all the right things, but it hadn't been enough it seemed.
It’s ironic that he’d realize this only after making a pact with his own nightmare, isn't it?
"Have you completely lost your mind, or is the clothes thing still on the table?" Griffon asked, sounding a bit impatient.
"Of course; I don't want to be naked," the boy replied, standing up with some difficulty. "Come on- you're my sidekick, so you're coming with me."
"Sidekick? Shouldn't I be the boss?" Griffon asked annoyed by the boy's attitude, he was more powerful so he should be the one in charge!
"No, because you don't have opposable thumbs and your brain is the size of a walnut." The boy spoke as he warmed himself in the alley; he really didn't want to be seen naked.
"You offend me," Griffon said disdainfully, though he landed on the boy's shoulder anyway.
"Good," the boy replied, making no move to brush the nightmare off his shoulder.
After a while, a guy with a mohawk and strange clothes appeared and started beating up a man who had been sleeping on the street. "That one looks like an easy target," Griffon said, ready to attack, but then he noticed the look of disgust on the boy's face. "What are you-?"
The boy started walking toward the guy, who heard the approaching footsteps in the alley; his eyes went wide when he saw the naked teenager with white hair and tatoos coming his way, and he turned pale upon noticing the two guns the boy was carrying.
He instinctively raised his hands. "Ca-calm down..."
"Get away from him," the white-haired boy said, pointing his gun without hesitation. "Back off, you piece of shit, and give back what you took."
The guy didn't argue; he tossed the can of coins back and stepped away from the man, who was still lying in the fetal position, moaning softly.
He collapsed to the ground when a huge black bird with massive talons landed on the boy's shoulder. "W-what... what do you want...? Just don't- don't kill me-"
"You're going to go out and buy me some clothes," the boy replied, keeping the gun pointed at him. "And food for the guy you kicked and for me. Feather face is going to tag along, and you won't like finding out what happens if you don't do exactly what I'm telling you." He stepped closer and held the gun just inches from the mohawk guy's face. "Do you understand me, or do I have to draw you a picture?"
The trembling man shook his head, not trusting his voice.
"Good boy. Go and if you aren't back in fifteen minutes, I'll break your spine." He was bluffing, it's not like he could do that anymore, but the thing about threatening someone is that you don't need to be able to do the things you are saying, you just need to look confident enough while saying it. "You get me?"
The mohawk guy nodded and bolted down the alley; Griffon snorted loudly to show his indignation but followed the man anyway.
"Make sure it's something red!" He shouted before the man's silhouette vanished completely.
The boy sighed and leaned back against the alley's filthy wall, he didn't mind the dirt now. His hands hadn't even trembled when he held the gun near that asshole's face; his time as a mercenary had made him very good at handling situations like this.
He sat on the ground beside the homeless man, who was still trembling and groaning in pain, and looked at him. The man probably didn't even realize he was there, yet the boy could sense a faint spark of recognition.
He had been in that position before; in fact, he was in that position right now. Actually, he was even worse off, at least the man had a few coins and some warm clothes.
It’s easy to be a bully when you have an easy life; it was easy for that mohawk guy to decide he could do what he did without fearing for any consequences, but not everything that’s easy should be done.
Throwing him out was a prime example of that.
"Th-thank you," the homeless man, an elderly man, by the looks of it, murmured.
"No need to thank me, I didn't do anything."
"Faster! Come on! Run faster, or I'm gonna catch you!"
The boy heard Griffon's shrill voice echoing back down the alley, and a few seconds later, he saw the mohawked guy running with a bird following him from above.
"Did he behave?" The boy asked as the nightmare landed back on his left shoulder.
"I think so," Griffon replied. "It looked like he was about to piss his pants once or twice, but he did well enough."
"Very good." The boy turned to the guy, who was holding two fast-food bags and a change of clothes and took the bags first, placing one near the old man and the other on the ground, then inspected the clothes.
A red button-down shirt, black pants, and a pair of boxers. The boy almost laughed imagining the desperate mohawked guy grabbing underwear from some shop. "Congrats you can follow basic instructions... wait."
The asshole started trembling from head to toe. "I-I did what you a-asked! I got- I got everything!"
"My mistake, I admit it," the boy said with a dramatic sigh, looking down at the guy's shoes and grimacing. “These are so ugly, but beggars can't be choosers, right? Give me your shoes." He pointed Ivory at the man, who quickly began taking off his shoes in a panic.
When he finished, he looked humili, which was great, but not enough; the boy pistol-whipped him with Ebony's grip, sending the mohawked guy crashing hard to the ground.
"Wouldn't it have been easier to just do that in the first place and take his clothes?" Griffon asked while the boy got dressed.
"But where's the fun in that?" He shot back, grimacing at the buttons and deciding to leave them undone. He hated clothes like that.
"You're not really in a position to be having fun."
"Don't be a pain in the ass," the boy replied, rolling his eyes and picking up the food bag from the ground; it was a burger and fries. He wasn't much of a burger fan, he preferred pizza, but his stomach was so empty he could have eaten olives.
He unwrapped the sandwich and started eating too fast. "I also wasn't going to wear his weird clothes, either. And for sure not the underwear- ew." He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"You're hardly one to talk about weird clothes," Griffon pointed out. "You like walking around shirtless too... or with strip over your nipples."
The boy tilted his head in confusion. "It wasn't weird. It was stylish."
"...you're delusional." Griffon was dumbfounded.
"And you're a bird; what does a bird know about that kind of thing?"
"What a jerk!" Griffon said, genuinely indignant as he circled the boy who was eating, or rather, inhaling, his food. "You help the bastard out, and he still spouts nonsense at you. Give 'em an inch and they take a mile!"
"You're the one who wanted the contract with me," the boy said with a shrug. "Deal with the consequences."
"Oh, you'll see how I-" Griffon took a deep breath, counting to ten in his head. "At least I'm glad to hear you talking this crap; you had me worried, after all. A moment ago, it looked like you were about to kick the bucket."
"I'm tougher than I look; I'm not going to just drop dead like that," the boy replied, tossing the sandwich wrapper aside.
"Good! Because now that you've got what you wanted, food and clothes, it's time to talk about what I want," Griffon said. If birds could smile, the boy knew this one would be wearing a mischievous grin.
He sighed, but before he could reply, something foul-smelling began to sprout from the ground, it had insect claws and before he wouldn't even look twice before killing it, but things change.
It was an Empusa.
He widened his eyes, instinctively raised his weapons, and fired; unfortunately, the shot had little effect compared to what it should have done, making him grit his teeth. He was about to fire again when Griffon appeared from behind the demon; a shock field materialized around him, electrocuting the demon in record time.
"Look at that," the boy said with a small smile, "you didn't do too badly."
"I did far better than anything you could ever do!" Griffon retorted, flying back to the boy's shoulder. "And now you owe me two favors."
"Guess I do," the boy said with a sigh; whatever this was, it wasn't going to be easy. He glanced at the demon's charred corpse. "Without my energy or that stinky blood... how is it even here?"
"How do you think? That guy is the one who did this."
The teen narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. "What a pathetic thing to do. Completely pathetic."
"You're far more pathetic than him right now," the nightmare reminded its host. "He has the Yamato, and he’d be damn strong even without it! I wouldn't be surprised if he wiped this city off the map at any moment! And you have no way to protect yourself against that, let alone fight back; you need to realize this isn't the time to act like a badass, thinking just you and those two weapons are enough."
"And what’s your grand plan, oh genius feather face?" The boy asked sarcastically. "Because you aren't exactly all that strong yourself."
"Why, you-" the nightmare stopped as the demon's body on the ground began to move again.
The boy's eyes widened. "Didn't you kill-"
"-I did-"
The demon lunged at them, and Griffon had to grab the boy by the shoulders again to keep them both from getting hit; however, the boy’s eyes weren't on the demon, but on the man trying to get away, unsuccessfully, hampered by the injuries that punk caused before.
"Wait!" He shouted, drawing even more of the demon's attention.
"Shut up, kid!" Griffon summoned another lightning bolt, but it proved insufficient when the demon began hurling projectiles at the nightmare's wings, causing Griffon to lose his balance and drop the boy. "I'm out of power!"
The boy was lucky enough to land on a stall with some chairs and Griffon fell right beside him. He shook his head, and the nightmare could see the look of hatred the white-haired boy directed at the demon, which was still relatively close to the man from the street.
"It's too easy..." he muttered, teeth gritted. "Too goddamn easy!" He sprang up suddenly and charged toward the demon.
"Kid!" Griffon tried to follow, but without his power, he could barely move.
The demon tried to strike him with one of its grasshopper-like claws, but the boy managed to narrowly dodge by throwing himself to the ground; despite being human, he still possessed some instincts from an past time of his life.
Not all of them, though, as the Empusa managed to grab his foot a moment later and hurl him far enough to slam his back against a wall.
The wind was knocked out of him, and his vision blurred for a moment; as the demon advanced, he raised Ebony with a trembling hand, a futile gesture, perhaps, but one he couldn't help but make.
That was when the homeless man leaped onto the demon, grabbing its head. "Run! Run, kid, get out of here-!" He couldn't finish; the demon seized his arm and flung him back to where he’d come from. The old man cried out as he hit the ground, though the boy barely heard it.
All he could hear was a very familiar voice telling him to run if she didn't come back.
"I tried; it never worked," he said, standing up and moving toward the demon. He could hear Griffon’s shrill voice, but he couldn't make out what the creature was saying.
The demon raised a claw to strike him, but he stopped just inches away from the monster. Instead of a direct collision, he drew Ivory with his right hand and positioned it beneath the demon's head.
Sparks began to fly from the gun, and a precise shot struck the demon's head dead-on. It exploded, splattering his white hair and he grimaced in response. "It got in my mouth..." he spat on the ground.
Griffon, now with a bit more power, flew over to the boy and watched the demon's body disintegrate. "You got him."
"The guns are good, aren't they?" He said spinning Ivory on his finger.
"It wasn't the guns, dumbass. It was you." Griffon interrupted, "I'm just a nightmare; I have no substance. Even the worst nightmare is just a dream, after all, and dreams don't kill anyone. You need to deliver the final blow."
"I see- so I'm not useless, then." He said this with a hint of satisfaction, but his expression faltered as he looked at the old man sprawled on the ground as he approached him but didn't know what to do with his hands. "Is he-?"
"Unconscious," Griffon replied. "The old guy's tough as nails, it seems."
The boy looked at the bird, then at the old man, and stood up. He shoved his weapons into his pockets and ran out of the alley until he found a waitress from a nearby diner. "Miss!"
Her eyes widened for a moment when she saw the teenager with white hair, chest tattoos, and an unbuttoned shirt; for an instant, she thought he was likely trouble, just like the other odd youths who roamed that neighborhood.
"There's an old man in that alley," he pointed, "he's hurt," the boy said, stepping a little closer. "Can you call for help? Or, I don't know, do something?"
The woman eyed him suspiciously. "Why don't you do something?"
"I can't." The boy sighed. "You might not believe in me, but it's true. He helped me out and he's hurt-" he looked right into her eyes, "just call someone. Please."
The woman furrowed her brow for a moment and, without another word, walked toward the alley; she peered inside and indeed saw an unconscious man. She immediately grabbed her phone and began dialing the fire department, but when she turned back toward the boy, he was already gone.
The boy walked slowly, feeling every muscle in his newly shrunk body protest. The adrenaline that had masked the pain of the impact against the wall was fading, leaving behind a sense of fragility that he would have liked to stay in past. He looked at his own hands, smaller now, yet still capable enough.
"You went soft," Griffon's voice rang out, and the bird materialized on a lamppost just above him, its electric feathers sparking faintly. "Wasting time on an old human? You nearly let a third-rate demon kill you."
He didn't stop walking, he merely adjusted the collar of his red dress shirt, which kept slipping off a shoulder that now lacked the musculature of a grown man. "I didn't ask for your shitty opinion, flock off," the boy shot back, his voice coming out a little higher than he would have liked, which made him click his tongue in annoyance. "The old man had my back, and in my book, that means I pay it back. That's how things work, you have to deal with it if you want to work with me, but I don't expect a demon to understand."