Warnings: Rated M, just in case. This isn't twincest, though you can think whatever you want. ;) Semi-dark fic. Written in the spirit of celebrating Halloween, horror style. Contains swearing, angst, violence, some horror, gore, mutilations, mention of torture, graphic descriptions, disturbing contents, etc. Promise it's not as bad as it sounds. Probably.

Broken Fingers

The circus is a funny place, full of desperately vibrant colours and cheers as if trying to convince someone— anyone— that it is what it tries to look like.

Just a funny place to kill time in.

Kids scramble around the striped tents, screaming like happy banshees as they drag their exasperated parents around. There are game stands, candy stands, gift stands, shady stands, stands that look like it is sentient, stands that look like it can eat you alive, and more rows of flags than a damn man can count. A clown at the entrance distributes funny balloon animals to everyone that comes in, make-up drenched face smiling like a serial killer from a horror movie.

After staring intensely at the yellow balloon shoved into his hand for thirty long seconds, Dante concludes that it's supposed to be a puppy.

With three extra limbs, and half of its side missing.

"Damn it. I knew I shoulda just gone straight back." He glares at the bright yellow thing as if everything is its fault. Two fingers pinch the mutant puppy's cheeks— or where the cheeks are supposed to be, anyways— squeezing harder and harder until the head explodes with a cheerfully audible pop.

It traumatizes a nearby kid into bawling like the world is ending, but the devil hunter merely shrugs, flinging the rubber carcass into a nearby garbage can. The kid can bawl his eyes out all he wants, but Dante's booking it before the creepy clown throws another chimeric balloon at his face.

Venturing deeper into the circus doesn't make the impression any better, and the shoddy appearance of the place only becomes even shoddier. What used to be uneven tiles gives way to mud and earth, as if they're not even pretending to look nice anymore. A few squiggly dolls on display give him the heebie jeebies, those beady eyes looking a little too real and a little too dead for comfort.

It reminds him all too well of the job he just killed, fresh two hours ago.

The demon this time was an aspiring artist, or so it deluded itself into believing. It liked to pluck the eyeballs off humans and sew them into strings of necklaces, and young children's pupils are the brightest. These freak "art pieces" were marvelled at as they circulated around the black market, selling for the highest prices to collectors. It didn't occur until later that something was going on, when the exotic orbs began rotting as demonic preservatives rubbed off.

The demon liked to laugh at the horror on the collectors' faces, especially when one realized that he was holding his own daughters' bloodied eyes in his palms.

Receiving the call from two cities over, Dante hopped over just in time to witness the "plucking" of another batch of kids. The bile in his throat is a vivid reminder of the grotesque scene. The horrifyingly pale faces. The smell of blood. The squick of the sclera rolling a slimy trail along the ground. Yeah, he slayed the fucker. That demon was more of a sadist than a killer— more of an artist than a fighter. But by that time, the room has turned so red and smelled so bad that he thought his breakfast was never going to agree to stay in his stomach ever again.

The devil hunter came across the circus on the road home. And hell, why not? He needed to let loose a little, and he nearly drove his precious baby into a catastrophic mess at 70 miles per hour more times than he would like to admit. Never mind the warning bells going off like trodden landmines in his head, Dante figured it's all paranoia. Watching a brat blubber for her mommy as her last eye is swinging left, right, left, right... in front of her face, attached solely by a tendon, can do that to you.

While Dante doesn't do trauma, it's pretty damn hard to call that shit anything else.

This is a bad idea.

He has suspected it the moment he saw those ugly letters that spell out "DEVIL'S FANFARE," has his suspicions repeatedly confirmed by the inside of the place, but none of that has deterred him. Dante doesn't mind bad ideas. Hell, he's down with bad ideas. The majority of his lucky breaks comes from these reckless endeavours that Lady is always bitching at him about. Trish usually just shakes her head, as if to say "no hope". But she does the same thing for "clean your goddamn pigsty" and "please tell me that's not the fossil of a sandwich in your fridge," so he just gives up on deciphering the hieroglyphics that is women all together.

"What is this place, anyways?" He mutters, but nobody hears in the excitement.

That's understandable, even as he barely avoids barraging into the ice cream of a running kid. Hearing the shrills of laughter, he can almost remember vignettes of swirling memories, the gentle smile on her lips, the protective presence of a tall figure that he didn't used to hate, the identical fingers intertwined together...

Almost. Because that's history now, and fuck if he hasn't learnt his lesson.

The invisible scar on his hand burns, but he ignores it.

A faint but putrid scent invades Dante's nostril, and he wishes he isn't so familiar with it— wishes he doesn't know the origin, so he can turn a blind eye to it. It makes his hair stand on its ends. But since the half-devil does know it, does smell it with his enhanced senses, he can't just ignore it. Damn it all, but he has to investigate.

Following the smell, the albino traces a path across the clearing. The crowd thins gradually as he manoeuvres around crates of supplies, until he's standing beneath the largest tent. Red and white cover the wall, which is tattered with more variety of flags than there are colours in the rainbow. By now, he is all alone.

Or not quite.

"Looks like this is turnin' into a real freak show," Dante comments cheerfully as four large humanoid shadows fall on the striped pattern of the tent. He swerves around, dodging just in time as an axe plummets towards where his head used to be. Stepping on the head of the axe, he grins cheekily at the four newcomers. "Nice toy, Sparky. Gonna impress the ladies with that?"

The meaty man growls, struggling to pull the axe back up. "The hell are ya doin' outside? I thought we locked ya in—"

"Wait!" One of the men's eyes widen at the sight of Dante's face. "I fink we got t' wrong—"

The albino retracts his foot.

"—person."

Yowling in pain, the first man tumbles to the ground, clutching at the wound on his forehead. Getting an axe to the skull probably doesn't make his head very happy, because he's bleeding a fountain there. They're humans, but Dante isn't sorry. He's seen worse wounds before. Plus, the bastard practically did it to himself by pulling at the handle with so much force. What goes around comes around. Literally.

"Shit, man. We gotta get 'im t' the doctor," The one with the red rubbery nose says. But when his companions remain stunned, he snarls at them. "Ye deaf? I said get t' it!" Broken from the spell, the remaining two hastily drag the beefy man up.

"Boss." The thin blue-haired punk peers at Dante. "Yer right! He ain't that monster."

"Right. Tha' beast's half dead. He ain't it." Turning to Dante, the clown flinches at the flash of gunmetal in the sunlight. One corner of his mouth twitches nervously into what is probably supposed to be a smile. A third of his teeth is missing. "'M sorry, sir. We din't mean ya no harm. Thought y' were someone else."

"Someone else, huh?" The albino twirls Ivory in the air nonchalantly. "Who'd that be?"

"Ain't nobody important."

Pointing the handgun at the four, he pulls until the trigger makes a click.

"Just some freak our ringmaster picked up!" The blue-haired boy bursts out in hysteric, startling the silent man with the stitched Glasgow grin standing beside him. "A danger! A monster! A rarity in the market! What everyone comes to see! We gotta smash its head once inna while, put it behind bars, or it'll kill us all—"

"Idiot! Tha's a secret! D' ya want t' boss t' skin us?" The red-nosed man punches the boy. Then glaring back at the albino, he says, "Pump us fulla bullets or let us go. We ain't tellin' ya no more."

They scramble away like the bats from hell, but Dante just shrugs, re-holstering Ivory. The safety has been on the whole time.

What peaks his interest more is this monster of a person that they've mistaken him for. Sure, he's figured the circus doesn't exactly deal with the right side of law. But human trafficking? This kiddie wonderland is just getting shadier and shadier.

At this rate, the albino might as well kiss his entire weekend goodbye. Lady is gonna blow a gasket, because like always, he owes her money; the sun rises in the morning, and Dante owes Lady money. The wads of bill which happened to be in his pocket right now, actually. It's light; the customer ripped him off, he's sure. But hell, a few banknotes aren't that big of a deal. He has to give it to the man for even remembering to pay, after reuniting with his kid.

It'd be a tear-jerker, if only there are actually any tears left in either of them.

Banishing the images from his mind, he snorts. "Ha. So much for relaxing."

Dante ducks inside the tent.

The smell is worse in here— a mixture of filth and death. Animal cages are stacked upon one another to the ceiling, like the workers competed to see who can build the tallest tower without the lions and tigers biting their fingers off. He tumbles blindly over a pile of chains and other weird performance apparatus, nearly catching himself face-first into a solid wall. Something rips off, and—

...Wait. The hell is this?

Squinting, he rubs his fingers. It burns. Circling the thing twice, the albino concludes that it's some sort of large metal box, fashioned like a prison cell of a criminal. Or the cage of a dangerous animal. Each side towers a few heads over him, with only one glassless window on the top. And the paper that got ripped off...

Blood-inked letters greet him.

Demon warding.

Sharply, Dante glances up. He didn't notice it before, but the entire structure is practically weaved full of these papers. What he thought is old paint peeling off turns out to be rotting sheets, and newer ones are evenly distributed everywhere.

A demon...?

Then he remembers how they had mistaken him for some monster they caught somewhere, and...

It can't.

Eyes widening, Dante jumps onto the top of the cage and drops to his belly. He pulls himself over the side to peek through the window, ignoring the way the wards burn his skin like acid.

Hell no. It just can't be...

The inside is dark. But his enhanced eyes adapt easily, so they instantly land on the body lying in the corner, the sole occupant of the empty cell. It's tattered with so many scars and bruises that no place looks fully right, and more than a few bones are poking out where they shouldn't be. A wide gap is sutured into where its heart is supposed to be, drawing attention away from the strings of old scars drawn on its chest.

It looks abused. It looks dead. It should be dead. But the collection of skin and bones suddenly stirs, and shackles jingle.

Dull blue eyes blink open to stare right back at him.

Fuck.

Recognition flickers through the eyes, and the body shakes as it lets out the ghost of a laugh, like there's anything worth laughing about in this situation. But if it is who Dante thinks it is, that man has always been a psycho. The few times where the other expresses emotion, he shows all the wrong ones.

Just like this time. Just like any time.

The corner of the thing's lips twitches into that familiar icy smile of his nightmares, and it makes Dante want to hit something. Makes him want to snap, shout, cry, collapse or do everything at once. The devil hunter doesn't know how he finds the strength to utter the next word. But swallowing the bile that threatens to chew through his insides, he manages.

"Vergil."

Dante says the name like it's the bitterest thing he's ever tasted.

"Dante."

Vergil says the name like it is a joke, his own personal entertainment, the most hilarious one in his twisted and unfathomable world.

A plethora of emotions assaults Dante at once, enough to overwhelm him— cripple him until he feels faint. So, for distraction, he says:

"You look like shit."

Wouldn't that be the understatement of the century? His brother looks more like a corpse than a living, breathing being. And for one confusing second, the albino wonders if his brother really is breathing. Those ribs poking into his lungs aren't making it any easier to believe. Maybe he dreamt all of it up, because the other is supposed to be dead. Deader than dead. Nelo Angelo kind of dead, and the devil hunter is good at making things dead.

"You don't... look much better yourself."

Dante watches in morbid fascination as Vergil shuffles, broken fingers struggling and grinding against the blood-caked floor until he manages to slump into a sitting position against the wall. Eyes loll up for one moment, but the haze clears. And consciousness is back along with the glacial glints.

Crazy fucker. Trying to retain his dignity even at a time like this. Always gotta be so much better than Dante. Always gotta be so far away.

"You always choose the worst places to hold these reunions." Hundreds of questions tumble around in the devil hunter's head, but nothing seems to come out right. Forcing on his usual grin, he asks, "So, how did Hell treat ya?"

No response. While his brother has never been a talker, this is setting a new record for motionlessness. The silence is unnerving; he'll never understand why the other likes it so much.

"Nice room you got." He taps the metal wall. "Could use some furnishing though."

Silence. Stillness. It bestows Vergil with an eerie corpse-like quality that Dante suddenly desperately wants to destroy.

"Conquered any parts of the world yet? Raised anymore towers? Burnt down any villages? Hatched any evil plans? Anything to say after all these years? C' mon, you gotta do your part to keep the convo going."

Finally, an eyebrow raises.

"Are you harassing me just to make small talks?"

The voice is raspy and soft, like it hasn't been in use for months. And maybe it hasn't— or maybe it has been used far too much. Dante doesn't like to think about that. Rather, he should give the other a pat on the back for talking with a glaring hole through the stomach.

Fucker's made up of tough stuff, alright. A regular, sane guy would be dead, a long time ago.

"Naw, I'm just playin' catch up." Pause. "Thought you were dead an' stuff."

Vergil's head droops down, as if a simple action of maintaining eye contact is draining him. But the steel will is still there, and this time when he speaks, his voice rings even and clear. "Then allow me to apologize for not meeting your expectation, especially since I don't intend to do so any time soon for your satisfaction."

Good. "My bad luck then."

Silence.

Damn this is awkward. But what did the devil hunter expect, really? His mind is still desperately trying to grasp the idea that Vergil is still alive. More than half dead, maybe. But still alive. Still talking. Still acting cold and distant, a bridge-less chasm between the two of them.

That's good enough for him.

"How did you end up here?" He finally manages to spit out the question. That seems to drill a tiny crack in his restraints that crumbles into a channel, and a whole flood of questions storms out. "How long? How did you... survive? And just who the hell did that to you?"

Blue eyes idly regard his outburst, as if it doesn't interest Vergil whatsoever.

"Which do you want to know first?"

Without missing a beat, Dante asks, "Who did that to you?"

Because he has been forced to deal with the other for years, the devil hunter knows how to read the other's subtle body language whether he likes it or not. This time, he can tell that Vergil is surprised, then annoyed. Though why, he hasn't got the faintest clue. "It's none of your concern."

"The hell it isn't! You're my bro—"

"I never asked to be your brother."

Stunned speechless, Dante nearly falls off the side of the roof, but reflex honed from years of close calls with demons sets in. Pulling himself back, he leaves the window to gather his thoughts. That shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did. It fucking hurts. Talking to Vergil hurts like getting stabbed in the heart repeatedly by knives.

"You think I deserve it."

"...What?"

The half-devil leans down again to see his brother holding a trembling arm up. Chains coil around the sickly pale flesh, along with some familiar sigils. So that's why the half-devil isn't healing. With so many seals placed all over this place, a demon might as well suffocate.

"You think that this," Vergil gestures at himself. "All this, is mere retribution for what I have done. You asked me how I survived, because you thought you killed me. You thought you can finally get rid of me, get rid of our past. Well, dear brother, you thought wrong."

"What the hell are you blabbering about? I never thought about any of that! You're the one who's always tryin' to—"

"You don't care for our... legacy. No, you're always... trying to run away," he continues as if he isn't interrupted, the ghost of a smirk hanging on his lips. "Little cowardly Dante, always afraid of the dark, never realizing... that the darkness is inescapable, that it's a part of us, that it's in our blood."

"You're crazy," Dante snaps, suddenly irritated. "It's always 'bout our legacy this, our legacy that. Well here's a newsflash for ya. Dad's dead. Grow up, move on."

"You—," abruptly, the words cut off with a gasp. There's a gurgle, and Vergil's entire body shakes, uncontrollably coughing out splats of blood.

Alarmed, the devil hunter jumps through the window and lands a metre beside his brother, crouching down to eye level.

"C' mon. Fuck that shit. We can bitch at each other later. I'll get ya outta here," he says, thoughtlessly reaching out for those broken fingers. By the time the faint recognition of déjà vu hits him, it is too late to retract his hand.

Both of them stiffens.

Slowly, Vergil gives him a pointed look, and Dante finds himself frozen in the motion. His arm weakens, the vivid sensation of cold steel and the rain flashing through his mind. By the time he jolts from the memories, the other has already regained composure. It's at times like this that he envies Vergil. While the body appears broken beyond repair, the strength in the other's conviction never fades.

Monster is what those circus freaks called his brother. It's a fitting description, in a way.

"You're the one who's trapped in the past," Vergil says evenly, staring straight in his eyes. "Let go."

Dante would be lying if he says that didn't hit a nerve.

His arm drops to his side, as if slapped away. Blue eyes narrow, but he disguises the anger behind a smirk. "Don't want my help? Fine," he shrugs, abruptly standing up. "You can just stay here then. It'll be your grave, but whadda I care."

From above, Dante leers at his brother's battered from. He expects to see defeat, maybe regret, or even the broken shell of what used to be that bastard's fucked up notion of pride— not the fire of resilience in those blue eyes, like looking through a mirror. It infuriates him even more.

"Since you're so high and almighty, how's it feel to be trapped by the 'inferior' humans that you hate so much?" He comments with a falsely light tone, wanting to elicit something, anything out of the other. But Vergil just looks at him knowingly, and says:

"I would rather stay here than take your hand."

Fucker always know how to say what hurts the most.

"Well I hope you enjoy rotting in here," Dante snarls and swerves around.

The eyes, solemn but mocking, follow him as the albino jumps out of the metal cage. "Run away like you always do, coward," Vergil hisses, but there's a cruel smile in it. The fading voice chases after the tail of Dante's coat as he disappears out of sight. "Everything is different now, and it is about time you accepted that."

Like he needs to be told that. Dante storms out of the tent and across the busy stalls, ignoring the curious glances and indignant yelps. At the entrance, the demented clown attempts to shove another balloon mutant at him, but the man falters visibly when he turns around.

"N-Nothing. Have a nice day, sir."

The invisible scar on his hand is searing now, threatening to eat the rest of his flesh and sanity away.

Angry, he slams that hand against the nearby brick wall, in a feeble attempt to replace the phantom pain with a real, physical one. Blinking and disorientated, he awakens at the sight of red liquid dripping down the back of his palm. He vaguely realizing that two pedestrians are gasping, pointing in his directions and making gestures of calling for first aid.

Vergil's right, he notes with a hint of clarity. I am running away.

Growling, Dante flips out the stack of bill in his pocket and flops into his car. He violently steers out of the driveway, no longer caring about crashing and getting flattened into a scarecrow. Fuck that. Vergil doesn't know shit.

Change of plan. It's time to hit the local watering hole.

"Damn, I really need a drink." Dante turns the volume knob until the entire car is beating to an old rock and roll song. The music pulsates loud enough in his ears to drown away all of his thoughts on the monster in the circus that he's leaving behind.

A/N: TBC. Just realized that I've been lurking in the DMC fandom for almost a year and never published anything. So here's my first and very late contribution. I don't know if anybody will even read this. Oh well.

This was originally intended to be a one-shot, 'til I wrote too much and decided to split it into segments. So now, it'll probably be a two-shot or a three-shot. I'll finish this when I have the time to write again. Happy Halloween! I know I'll be enjoying all my future cavities.

-Edge (31/10/2012)