Disclaimer: I don't own the Devil May Cry franchise nor the characters that appear in the story
Let it be known that contrary to popular belief, hell isn't just all hell fire and brimstone. Nor does the overpowering stench of sulphur is constantly present. What every living mortal doesn't know is that hell, is versatile. It adapts, morphs, transforms, and evolves. Which explains why each religion's version of hell is slightly, if not very much, varied from one another; because in truth, hell is personal. It changes itself according to a person's fears, trepidation, discomforts, and that becomes the reality of said person. The elder son of Sparda, had learnt this the hard way.
Despite the many ancient tomes and transcripts that he had read, nothing prepared him for the torments that Mundus had in mind for him when he had lost in their fight. Of course, as expected, the first agenda for Mundus was to break Vergil physically. Mundus knew this particular son of Sparda had a penchant for his pride, so the demon lord decided to take that away from him; by stripping him permanently of his immaculate clothing and repeatedly violating him then displaying him post-coital for all to see. After he deemed that Vergil was adequately shamed and then some more, he moved on to ensure that Vergil receive the wrath of all the demons in hell that Sparda has wronged or enraged because of his betrayal. So they took turns, flogging him, impaling him, grazing him, feasting on him, and leaving him in an Iron Maiden for an extended period of time. Mundus, the ever-present adjudicator, would make sure that the boy be beaten to an inch of his life, but not more.
Finally, when the demon king sees the defiance in Vergil's eyes slowly dissipates, Mundus knew it was time to mould the boy into the most lethal weapon he could wield. To make sure that the elder son of Sparda is thoroughly broken beyond repair and ready to be reassembled, Vergil had the honour of becoming the first soul to experience a hell that was created by Mundus especially for him, and Vergil, bless his violent-tempered, spitfire soul, somehow managed to tap into the very reserves of his being and proceeded to do the most Dante-like thing to the dark lord: flipping the lord of the underworld off. The last thing Vergil heard before his conscious failed him was the sound of Mundus' mirthless laughter.
When he came to, it felt no different from being dead or asleep. He doesn't know if he's blind or deaf or had some sort of nerve paralysis, but he is acutely aware of the lack of stimulation around him. It then occurred to him that he couldn't even hear the beating of his own heart; it was just… silence. Deafening silence. He couldn't feel his own touch when he raised his index finger and pressed his forearm. He screamed, he willed his body to move, tore at his own skin in a vain attempt to produce a stimulant, he rubbed his eyes till they teared but to no avail. There was nothing. No touch, sound, sight. Engulfed in an abyss of nothingness, a blank, empty vacuum, left alone with only his memories and train of thoughts, damned by Mundus in this hell-like suspended animation. His greatest innate fear, oblivion. For the first time since his descent to hell, Vergil felt a very human fear blossom within.
He doesn't know how long has passed, after for what seemed like days, the cerulean devil gave up trying to find any semblance of senses. He had folded into himself, replaying memories from his childhood, the death of his mother, the day he was impaled to a gravestone by demons when he was still a defenseless babe running away from a massive demon attack that took away his mother's life, and the fights and disagreements he had with Dante. Oh Dante. His sweet imbecile of a man-child brother, who in his naivety believed that Vergil had wanted to raise hell and claim his birthright that is Sparda's power to rule humankind. It was such a shame that Dante had the maturity level of a goddamn golden retriever puppy and the attention span of a tree stump, and even then, that's offending to compare Dante to a tree stump because clearly tree stumps have a longer attention span than his retarded brother, but he digress. What Vergil's trying to point out is that if Dante could see further than he could throw, his human-loving brother would know that Vergil did all that to protect what he cherished; his only living family member. Despite Vergil's disdain towards those neanderthals, he had no intention to conquer or destroy the human race, and frankly, he is miffed by the fact that his brother held to that assumption. It'd be too easy for him, like playing chess with that stupid cartoon character who was a pink star fish from a show that mortal children seem to be enamoured with; and Vergil did not do easy. The elder son of Sparda, exhausted and drained, sighed; feeling the creeping numbness, taking root within him. It was inevitable, the emptiness of the this dimension he is caged in would devour him, just as it would to all things, and if or when he is released from this purgatory, his intuition told him that he would be reborn, an empty slate, waiting to be corrupted. He knows that whatever Mundus has planned for him, nothing could be worse than this current limbo.
Days, years, perhaps even centuries passed, he doesn't know, nor does it concern him. In the void, time held no dominion, what feels like a lifetime could well be only a year in the world of the living. He doesn't remember his name, how he came to this… predicament, his thoughts elude him, his memories, fuzzy to say the least, and he wasn't able to distinguish between what really happened and what was only the figment of his imagination. Maybe he did have some sort of a relative, or in truth he's related to Chewbacca, he honestly, can't for the life of him, remember. He, no matter how strong, would fall prey to the maddening void that gave nothing, held nothing. The only solace he had were his memories, but they too, warped beyond recognition. After a while, everything is just a wad of jumbled up clusterfuck for Vergil, his thoughts, memories, all formed an incoherent scene, like TV channels switching as if someone were sitting on the remote control.
Then one moment, within the vast darkness, he saw three glowing orbs, slowly growing. Ablaze like a blazing supernova, the resplendent orbs illuminated a path towards them. Vergil's eyes watered. His hands, on reflex held up to shield his vision after prolonged disuse, unfamiliar to light stimuli and the sudden exposure. A voice, commanded him to come forth, and he, hesitant like a child forestalling an impending punishment, took petty, unsure steps, towards the three peculiar glowing spheres. When he was a few feet across them, silver hairline cracks appeared and spread all over the atmosphere, and shattered; with that, the emptiness, the black abyss, broken like pieces of glass. All at once the sensation that Vergil had thought he lost, overwhelmed him, his synapses blaring into overdrive, and he fell; knees met marble tiles of ebony and ivory, head clutched in a death-grip between his hands. He shut his eyes, hoping that the massive headache will pass. When he felt like his head was no longer in agony, Vergil deliberately opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. In front of him stood, a magnificent statue made of marble, and beside it, a female humanoid who provoked feelings that Vergil never knew existed. Mighty like a sequoia tree, wise-looking like what a mentor archetype would resemble, its wings majestic like an angel…maybe it was an angel. And with a thunderous voice, loud, omnipresent, it called him Nelo Angelo, and he believed it because it was the statue who freed him from his confines.
Author's Note: It was supposed to be a much longer story, but I decided against it because I have no idea whether I want to continue this or just leave it like this. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it and thanks for giving it a shot! Please feel free to review if you feel inclined to~