Special thanks to my beta reader Angel wolf for helping me re-work this

Enjoy

Chapter 1 - Prologue: Of Wolf & Man

It felt like he was sick; sick with that long agony, and when the master unbound him and he was permitted to leave for mission's sake, he felt that his senses were leaving.

Nothing but the sound of the order going through his mind, nonstop.

"Kill Dante. Kill that bastard. Kill him, no matter what it takes. Kill . . . Kill . . . Kill him!" Over and over and under his skin; like pestilence from an insect.

However, the unexpected happened. The amulet . . .

It had awakened everything within him. The sight of his brother, the feeling of sorrow and hatred overflowed his senses. Everything rushed all at him at once.
So many shades and emotions across the spectrum turned to physical feelings, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening.
He was starting to burn, but wouldn't lose his will to stay. Unable to decide on which emotion to express, he chose to scream inside that cathedral.

"Help me . . . Help me! Someone, something, put an end to me!" But it came out as a growl, the festering temper of a caged animal.

He belonged to Mundus now. His freedom to speak stripped, it was almost impossible to do something by free will.

Something was wrong here, where had his strength to stand gone? Before him stood his most hated enemy.

"You're an honorable man, I give ya that much." Dante commented casually.

The man in red paced a bit, back and forth.

"You woulda been the perfect kinda guy to choose your own path, fight for what's right," He paused then motioned with his hand, "-The whole good book thing et cetera, et cetera."

Ah, that old sarcastic attitude.

Sad to say, he actually missed that part of his brother's personality.
At least that was a part of him that couldn't ever be squashed, Dante's sense of humor.

He actually almost felt like laughing, but knew it would only wrench his ears, like a wolf braying to it's hunter.

Something was at work inside his soul that he did not understand.

It was like that rebellious voice itself gave Nelo Angelo strength to fight back. A deep scream ripped through him. With all of his senses, he protested against Mundus's binding spell.
After but a moment of struggle, the helmet cracked, revealing a shining light. It was so bright. The helmet shattered in a burst of resolve, evaporating into sand, freeing his flesh at last.

It had been so long since he'd felt the wind on his face.

The dark angel stood, facing his brother for a moment of silence, his mind refusing to let go of the memory, of the bond they shared. It was undeniable, they both knew.
Recognition was the next step. He'd forgotten that feeling. What it was like not to be alone. So many years held inside a rotting place, no way of knowing if he'd ever be free, never to return to life.
The bonds of death were strong, stronger than he could ever hope to be.

Outside in the crooked trees, a raven cawed in the wind. Dante froze for a moment, studying his face.

The raindrops kept falling, the howling winds ripping against the outer walls of the old castle. And deep down, Nelo Angelo held hope that his brother knew him.

The eldest twin could see it all.

. . . Ancient thoughts rattled inside his head, begging to be remembered . . .

A little boy in a blue shirt was running, stressed and afraid, in a field. So many miles covered, and still so far from home.
Did anybody know where they were? Did anyone care? It was so cold out, the light slowly leaving them as they raced home.

"Vergil, wait!" Another kid called out from behind.

The boy in blue slowed slightly, looking to the side, and said, "Come on slowpoke! You better hurry or I'll leave you behind."

He laughed nervously. The other boy was dressed in black shorts and a plain red tee.

He began to cry as he pushed himself so hard to keep up.

"Vergil, please slow down. Don't leave me behind!" The boy stubbed his foot on a rock and lost his balance, he fell on his stomach and his head slammed harshly on the ground.
He began to bleed from his temple, staining the green a vivid vermillion. A warbled voice arose, speaking incoherently as tears welled in the corner of his eyes.

The boy in blue stopped and looked back.

"Wha- W-whoa, Dante!"

The kid in red stayed on the ground, crying and holding his head. Vergil raced over, knelt down and checked his head, but he wouldn't let go.

"H-hey, you're okay! You're alright, i just- Let me see it!" He begged, attempting to comfort the boy.

He'd always been the weaker of the two.

"No! I-it hurts . . ." His breath was damaged, stifled by manic fear.

Vergil turned his back to him and lightly lifted his small torso onto his shoulders. Dante grabbed ahold of his shirt to climb up, and stayed put.

"Come on, I'll carry you."

The older child remained stoic in the face of bad fortune, despite the other boy being less strong-willed, at least for now.
He sobbed still, frightened of the notion that Vergil would abandon him . . . The empty field stretched as far as they could see, feeling lonely to the eyes.
And still they were not safe, hunted by something with stark yellow eyes.

He soothed his brother's panic, "We have to hurry, mom's gonna be worried."

. . . Flames singed his body, and the memory burned up as he returned to eternal damnation . . .

Nelo Angelo fell back to hell, where Mundus waited for him. Returning here was not easy – not only for what he was about to endure, but for the price he had to pay.
His feet hung heavy, plodding along the lake of fire, but never charring, only enduring each scorching step with malice for the master. He did fine, before Dante came along.
Vergil felt hot chains wrap themselves to his limbs, searing into his corrupted flesh, grafted on. The sensation of heat engulfed his mid-section.
It was as though the shackles themselves were slowly eating away at him, piece by piece. Fitting he'd be tortured over a thousand-years long void.

"Useless being, begin." A deep, corroding voice enveloped him. "You know the rules, for those who fail their tasks . . . Off to the new day's mist, destroyer."

The pain splintered through his bones, tearing him apart at the seems. Mentally, he prepared himself for death.

It was all over.

The sweltering sensation rose and rose, as he felt a change, to the point he almost swore Mundus flayed him alive.

A liquid of some kind ascended from the void and covered his legs, rolling out over him.

Time had flown after his brother overcame him inside that dreaded cathedral. The memory itself remained, burning a hole in his psyche. Like twisted vines, he felt consumed by this mansion.
So, he waited for the day it would be corrected. Perhaps he had a chance to see his brother alive again, though he knew it a foolish endeavor to wish for such things.
All around his entire being, the winds of hell seared shut what became blinded eyes. He felt mutilated, made to be seen but not heard, and his reality barred from living, living blindly.
Sight was the greatest gift to receive, but he saw differently than most. Like glass shattering through his body, now more than ever his dictator overwhelmed his every nerve.

It built his fear of what was outside, where life would him afterwards, if it would even care to do so.

The darkness broke, and that cocoon lifted.

He was horrified when he recognized him. Deep inside, Vergil felt to scream, 'Why are you here!? Why didn't you run, you fool!'

But, at that moment he was thankful. Dante might give him what he wants the most; death, release from this 'life.'
Free, free of this humiliation, of this putrid existence as a decomposing slave inside the black pits of the worst hell. From being nothing more than a puppet on steel strings.
The master of him, his undying dark prince Mundus, would not let him see clearly, 'cleansing' him of shelter or affection not that it was beyond attainment through success.
In many ways, Mundus was the abusive father he'd never wanted, rewarding on achievement alone.

"Relaaaax child, I will run through you, and I will help you die." Mundus leered at him, "I will make all that you know disappear before your eyes. Crawl to the living ends, my son."

Son . . . No.

The only family he had was that man in red, the man of unshakable light that came forth to fight fire with fire.

The two of them were brothers, through anything, they couldn't have that taken.
Their flesh and blood is alike, inherently sharing something inextricable.
A truth he could not speak to Dante that night of their final showdown, atop the dark tower.

Of course, he was a different person then.

He couldn't know that day would lead to this.

That was the moment he realized Dante was stronger than him, superior in his own right. He would be fine, his place was right there in the human world.
But he, the eldest son of Sparda, needed to fly with the devils in their realm, he needed to gain the strength he always desired, far from fragile mortals. It was better this way.
They couldn't walk the same worlds, for he no longer understood the wake of humanity.

Here, in this place, this twisted paradise, he could make a name for himself among the demons; his demons, both physical and mental.

And nothing else mattered, every cost sufficient for his rickety ends. At least it was a choice by his own hand.
Then, maybe the two of them could meet again, and let this little rivalry continue. Who is the strongest child of Sparda?

He'd always wondered it aloud in his mind, and they'd put it to the test on many an occasion.

"Leave me and go, if you don't want to be trapped in the demon world. I'm staying. This place, was our father's home. Just go . . ."

That's what was hidden within these words, the choice to leave.
Knowing that he was more devil than man, that he was unfit to exist in their world.
And, deep down, he hoped Dante realized that and moved on.

Of course, Dante had moved on. Long ago, probably. Such as his nature was, he could 'go with the flow.'

An art that a man such as he, Nelo Angelo, could not understand.

Seconds turned into minutes, and those minutes to hours, and so on and so forth until he no longer thought about how long Mundus had punished him.
But he caught himself counting the appearance of his missing sibling to the milliseconds. Why?

"Trish," Vergil heard Mundus's voice, far away but still so loud, "Vergil has been defeated, you know what you must do."

He felt the grand torturer impale a flaming blade unto his chest. It stuck through his blackened heart, screaming for him to burst like a balloon.
The torture in his chest went on forever, driving this bitter man to no longer care for what pain means. It drained away all of his energy, like a leech in blood.
He could feel his core die agonizingly slow, when, out of nowhere, he felt himself teleported out of this bound misery, and his armor shattered.

Air . . .

Air . . .

He was falling.

Falling, and falling . . .

Nothing but the harsh sound of wind flapped past his ears. He couldn't see anything and, altogether, felt nothing. It was an utterly perfect darkness; a never ending abyss.
He thought he was dead. That had to be it, since he failed. A final release before ending so torturously. Eventually, he'll hit the ground. He must. Wherever he had gone to next.

Perhaps he'd break every bone in his body, perhaps it would be a realm without solid fixtures.

All he knew was that he would hit something.

Vergil had seemingly dropped out of reality into a ravenous vacuum. It was evil, every waking second felt choking.
He'd never felt so claustrophobic in his life. All at once, it was emptiness and nothingness. Perhaps the two were not mutually exclusive.

But then, he heard it, "My son, you will be fine."

The young halfling felt warm hands grace his back, ceasing his fall, pulling him close. It was an embrace of love, pure and clean.

"Mother . . . Please." The young man muttered, teary eyes wired shut.

There was no air in his lungs. Yet he coughed and gagged on his lifeblood.
His mind floundered in the shadow, before flashes of torment took control.

He slammed harshly upon cold ground suddenly, lost somewhere, every part of his body screaming for gory murder.
A scar flamed from the middle of his chest to his shoulder-blade, raging down his spine. He shivered on the stone, twisting and writhing on the floor.
Holding in a blackened roar, he thought perhaps this is another punishment for him, a cruel affliction to trick his reasoning.

The abyss closed before him, leaving him in his new destination glittering silver and white.

The young man opened his eyes.

His white hair brushed over his ear, and he spotted a black coat resting beneath him on the brimstone floor. He grumbled to himself and rubbed the crust out of his eyes.
The pain vanished, leaving him sore. He leaned forward to keep himself awake. Vergil moaned as he rolled his shoulders slowly, every inch cracking, releasing old pressures.
Constant, sharp stinging within his bones and muscles helped wake him sooner. He pulled up and made room to draw his coat out from under him.
Aching chronically, he slid his arms through and tugged at the collar to adjust it's fit. Familiar, for the most part. His old gloves were missing though.

Once his vision cleared he noticed the grey ceiling and there were six pillars of anguished salt. Three, for both sides of the hall.

On the other end, there was a large statue, towering high, similar to the pillars.

The being, carved in stone, was of his demon overlord, the terrible black angel.

Mundus.

Vergil leaned forward and lightly scoffed, spitting at the ground in front of it. 'So, I was summoned here.' His recovering mind pondered.

Although, it astounded him that he could be alive at all, Mundus doesn't take failure lightly.

No devil should have survived. Griffon was killed, awful and squalid, when the demonic king sought to prove his authority.
Vergil laid there for a long time, mentally checking off that he still had all his fingers and toes . . . He wondered if this was his original form.

It was possible he was somehow reconstituted into a form similar to his old one.

He had been released from that armor by someone.

Vergil looked up and noticed that the upper half of the statue had just cracked. Fragments were sprawled out in the hall. He widened his eyes in confusion.

A crimson figure crashed into the ground, a sonic boom raging across the entire realm

Vergil cut his thoughts short when he heard the sound of someone hitting the ground and bouncing. Turning his head, he saw they attempted to stand, but fell, then grunted.
They were familiar to him. Climbing to an upright sitting position, he saw the man laying there, having a seizure. Face down, a series of sickening wheezes wrenched through the man.

There was an oversized maroon sword next to his body.

"Dante . . . ?" He mumbled, still groggy.

Then it hit him.

"D-Dante!" He screamed as he realized who it was.

He leaned on his side, placing one knee below him for support, then sprinted up to his feet.
Bolting over to his ailing brother, Vergil's vision was gripped by fear unlike any other. Hel knelt down and held Dante . . . cradling him.

Within seconds, though it pained him to do so, the red slayer looked up at him, crunching his broken neck.

They locked eyes for a moment.

There were no tears in Dante's eyes. His lips moved in an attempt to say something but no sound escaped them.
His eyes rolled back and his grip loosened. His skin grew cold, his body went limp . . . And he moved no more. Vergil bowed and lowered his head to Dante's.
He pressed his forehead to his brother's, staying this way for a small moment. He waited, and yet . . . Nothing. There was no life. Not a breath nor heartbeat.

Just a dead corpse.

Respect filled him for his fallen enemy, a lost brother and friend. Vergil placed one arm under his brother's knees and held his other beneath the shoulders.

Lifting up, he tore a few barely healed tendons, just to carry him.

Limping through the double door, the man found himself in a bizarre room, one that looked like the inside of a monster's chest.
There was a ginormous heart in the center, beating profusely. Blood spat all over the ground. It was wounded.

By Dante? Most likely. He was on some sort of ledge that was about fifty feet from the ground.

Vergil knelt down and focused on several platforms away from him. A blue light appeared over his shoulder, and it formed into a blade, one that looked much like their father's blade.
Hovering there, it suddenly rocketed forward, and it struck the front of his destination. A blue glow replaced him as the man shot up to the platform.
Arriving shakily, he reaffirmed his grip as he repeated this process four more times. The fifth one had more distance compared to the previous jumps.

He'd need a bit of help for this one. So, Vergil placed his brother over his shoulder, sprinted forward in spite of his own ailments, and then jumped as far as he could.

Sending a blue sword out as they reached the summit of the launch, he managed to nail it to the intended ledge.
Upon connecting, the blade shattered, and both men once more appeared to teleport directly to the fifth platform from their midair slump.

Creatures screeched from below, arising from dust, eager to finish off the half-breed.

They were desperate to feed.

Vergil hiked over to the next platform, but as he did so, he lost his balance. And like that, his progress was undone, and he fell. A monster leapt for him.

His eyes glowed red, and he summoned another, stronger blade of azure light, flinging it at the beast.

It snarled as the weapon implanted itself through its mouth, carrying the beast off it's feet and pinning it to the wall. It hung there, stuck in place, struggling.

No time to finish. Vergil continued on his way, launching up to the second, grey colored door.

The next room had veins all throughout it, and in the corner, more demons.
Once he walked forward, he felt a tremor beneath him . . . A warning.

This island wasn't going to last much longer.

He kicked his heels and darted ahead, hoping he would be somewhere close to the exit.

Another room. Perfect.

It was much wider than it's uncomfortably closed-in predecessor, but it had a few small circles, a bit far from each other, woven into the ground. They seemed to reflect the colors of the Rainbow.

More entities emerged to stop him, many of them apish and warped beyond human comprehension.

"Step aside!" He shouted angrily, but they would not do so. An indigo energy erupted out of him, forcing them all backwards, lifeless, in a death-filled rupture.

He stopped for a moment, falling to his knees, his brother's body almost becoming too much. Spitting up blood to the ground, he quickly let it fall away from his mouth, hawking out the excess.
Vergil took a moment for his breath, although the floor started to shake violently. He felt something from above fall on top of him. A liquid of some kind, staining his hair and slopping all over Dante.
He scurried along, hobbling ahead through an opening, and it led him to another raised stage.

The way back to the human world.

Vergil pulled Dante down to how he held him before and he balanced himself upon the end of their small stand.

After a moment, the platform started to rumble and jerk up toward a portal in the ceiling. He felt a heaviness overtake him.
A blinding light pierced his eyes. Flinching, he closed them tightly, the man placing his arm over his forehead. Once the light cleared, he collapsed and nearly dropped Dante.

He panted heavily, though he could sense his wounds gradually cure. Vergil observed his surrounding. He wanted to make sure he knew where he was exactly.

Back in the cathedral, he could see the throne up the stairs.
The misshapen nature of this place was more than he could bare.

Looking behind him, he saw the balcony overlooking the dark skies, now lit by a rising sun, where he stood waiting for Dante in the beginning of their final encounter as rivals.

He dashed through the dark, and in the middle, several threads dropped to the ground. The marionettes were ready to attack.
Vergil placed Dante over his shoulder and kicked the first one approaching into a wall. It crashed flatly against the cement and he followed it with another kick to the head.
It broke apart into stuffing and wood.

Another launched itself at him, but he threw out a boot and shot it down. It came undone, breaking to pieces as it struck the ground.
A third one attempted a dance of slices, flinging it's macabre blades with a smile. Within a second, it careened back and splintered open.
Two swirling, chaotic double-edged blades flickered into being, encircling around a pair of more targets. Vergil continued toward his goal.

The bright blades, of the dark slayer's design, rammed through both puppets repeatedly, dicing them into quivering cubes.

Vergil burst through the decorated wood door, but stopped outside. He was shocked to see a World War I era plane. Why was it here?
No matter now, he rounded left and sprung off his feet, flinging up desperately as he managed to grasp the very edge of the cabin.

He struggled to hold on through the rumbling of the island.

Throwing his brother into the backseat, Vergil pulled himself up with inhuman strength. Strapping Dante in, the still-living twin seated himself into the pilot's chair.

Anxiety overtook him as the earths quaking mounted continually. Those propellor blades couldn't go fast enough, he was thankful there was any gas.
He knew it was a long shot to even escape at this rate, but thankfully, the machine started up. The wall before him started to collapse, crumbling into dust.

All the expensive decorations were destroyed, the whole facade of this evil place coming undone within seconds.

He saw a sizable-enough hole break through the wall.

It was now or never, and so the engine roared and the aircraft jetted forward, flying out through the castle wall. Of the debris that continued falling, he weaved in and out effortlessly.

The cavernous expanse he found himself in was depressing and long. Nevertheless, he sped through the crumbling tunnel, dodging stalactite after stalactite at blazing speed.

An entire chunk of the ceiling completely collapsed, Vergil continued through for several, grueling seconds, as his eyes could see an unbroken expanse of blue ocean.
It was the sea spray of the exit. Rocketing through the disintegrating island, he fired the turrets and broke through a boulder threatening to collide with their turbine.
The rock shattered just as they sped through the rubble, flying forward blindingly fast.

Vergil closed his eyes. The rumbling of the cave was gone. In fact, it seemed briefly that all sounds had simply ceased.

He opened his eyes.

The sunlight shined on his soul, bringing him into the realm of humans for the first time in however long. Grey clouds playfully sailed around, gliding high above the dancing sea.
A clean smell of salt water and moisture swept through his hair, and he felt his lungs open up wide, breathing in renewed life. Steadfast came the joyous feel of rushing breezes.

Out from a world beyond the devil's space and time, he basked under the crystal water skies, it's tranquility slowly removing his emptiness.

The island cracked apart, exploding in a massive fireball, leaving the ocean depths to claim it.

He adjusted some of the dials, flipped a few switches, and made a path to the closest shoreline, based off the map next to him, if that was any indicator.

Back to the Devil May Cry office . . . Reality came dreary, but a pleasant memory returned to him, marred only by the future

"Vergil, Dante! Happy birthday boys." Eva smiled while she carried a cake into the kitchen.

The two boys brightened in unison as they gazed at the baked good longingly.

"Wow." Vergil said followed by Dante, "Cool! I want the chocolate part!"

Vergil shot Dante a troubled look.

"Wait, no, I want the chocolate!" They were quite young, around 8 years old.

The bickering became physical, a brief shoving match breaking out as they argued. It was started by the rowdier Dante, but their mother walked around to them.
She placed the cake on the table and clapped her hands. At once, both boys separated and stood out from one another, facing her, adjusting their posture straight up.

She knelt down to their level.

"Now, now. Boys, what have I said about fighting?"

The two looked around, scorned, reluctantly accepting their parent's wisdom.
However, with her sincere expression, both kids exchanged knowing looks.

"No hitting over stuff." Dante answered.

"-Even if it's something we can share." Vergil crossed his arms.

Eva placed her hand over the twins' shoulders, "I'll split the chocolate up so both of you can enjoy it. That's fair. Agreed?"

Both Vergil and Dante's smiles grew back, replying "Okay," - "Yes mom."

. . .

It was an unpleasantly cold winter's night; dark, mystifying.

The moon was sheltered by the murky clouds.

This would be the night that marked when Dante, the son of Sparda, would be laid to rest. The devil hunter's shop had a shared backyard.

It was more like a courtyard, bleeding off into the large complex that surrounded it and possessing overgrown trees that blotted out any lamps.
All of them were orange trees, growing large, tangy little prizes to be picked by anyone who came back there, but most of the time, no one did.
Vergil thought this was the best place to lay him down. He placed the last amount of dirt over the unmarked grave, far beneath the roots of the largest tree.

That tree was Dante's now.

It had gone on as a symbol of life, but now it would carry the sentiment of death as well.

Perhaps, now it signified the cycle of both. The possibility of something new may come quickly. Rebirth.

He walked away for a moment, then stopped. He turned back to the tree. It looked so strong and reliable.

Just like Dante used to.

Vergil opened the door, and placed the shovel back in the shed. It was a small little cupboard, and had held the shovel previously.
There were a few other gardening tools, but they all looked good as new, often unused, no doubt. Thankfully, he'd found it in time.
Otherwise he would have had to use his hands and though he was strong himself, he wasn't sure right now if his fingers would have held up.
He coughed and took a few steps inside, rubbing his cold hands together.

There, upon the desk, Vergil had laid out Dante's sword Rebellion and his guns, Ebony and Ivory. Ifrit sat behind the blade.
He heaved a long shudder as he grabbed the sword and stared at it for a moment. From there, Vergil returned outside with the fatherly brand and firmly planted it over the grave.
Gripping the handle tightly, the man shoved it deep into the earth, taking care not to drive it through brother. Here in the dark, he felt it accompany him, the stage of denial.
Dante had given his everything, asking nothing in return. This is where it led him. His fingers vibrated against the hilt for several seconds, till he let his grip go completely.

His hand was shaking.

He stayed there for a while, unsure of what was he feeling at the moment. Right in front of him was his brother's grave.

There was a weird sensation in his chest he couldn't quite understand.

Was he really sad for losing Dante? Did he really care about him despite their rivalry? Their dysfunctional treatment of each other?
Or was it all Mundus's doing, weakening him, forcing him to remember a time where he was close to the other kind. The effects of what he endured needed time to heal.

It needed to be forgotten.

The choking horror and silent confusion of the moment was interrupted by the sound of the telephone inside.

Vergil walked back inside the office, where he came to stop and stand hesitantly at the desk's edge, but he answered it anyway.
He cleared his throat and awaited the first words he would hear. Who would be calling Dante at this hour anyway?

"I'm looking for Dante?" A feminine voice with an indeterminate accent spoke, "I heard that he does for special jobs, like the paranormal."

English wasn't her first language, she spoke slightly broken in this tongue.
He could hear that she was deliberating with someone else around her, maybe one or two other people.

"Dante is . . . Uh-" Vergil paused.

His eyes focused on the picture over the desk, the picture of mom posing with her sons. But, what had gotten his attention the most was . . . Was a slashed glove placed next to the frame.
He remembered exactly what it was, what it must be. The same glove Dante wore when they had their last, true fight, inside Temen-Ni-Gru. Youthful rivalry turned enraged familial dispute.
Those final words they'd shared were inspiring at the time, now ringing only with a sad sentiment.

'-And now? My soul is saying it wants to stop you!' The memory pained his forehead, scratching at the spot just behind his left eye socket.

He cleared his head, and suppressed the pain.

Grunting, he finally responded, "Er- I'm Dante."

It didn't sound confident at all, but it broke the silence.

"-Can you please come to Dumary Island? I will be waiting for you abroad."

"Abroad? I don't think- Listen, why are you seeking my service?" Vergil opened several of the drawers on the desk in quick succession as he spoke.

He found a notepad and several pens. Among them sat two papers, filled to the brim with cryptic writings.

The very first line was, 'I can't take this anymore . . .' He tucked it away for a bit later.
The voice on the line gave information as he clicked a pen. He scribbled what he could.

"Please, it is one emergency." The voice spoke with semblances of sincerity.

"You know, I really think that's not- *sigh*, never mind. What is your name?" He sighed, slightly annoyed by the improper usage of the language.

"My name is Lucia."

After some time, Vergil answered, "Very well, I will be there when I can. I trust you know my rate?"

"Of course, half when you get here, half after dark." She said, sounding confident in her choice of words.

"Wait no, in what context-" And click.

She hung up the phone.

All he could do was look at the receiver and grimace. He heaved a long shudder, took the glove and brought it close so he could examine it. The Yamato's mark still there . . .

It was like a scar. There, the obvious cut in the middle of the palm, it was entirely the same glove as he thought.

He exhaled and fell upon the chair.
The silence in the place gave him a renewed, horrifying sense of emptiness.

He never imagined the feeling of loneliness could engulf him, ever.

Then there was that paper. It sparked his curiosity. At last, he reached into the drawer and took out the paper.

He started reading and gulped hard:

I can't take this anymore . . . Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't help him. I tried to drag him out, I wanted him to be here with me, but he made a different choice.
I suppose I knew he was always going to do that. He'd grown to value power more than any familial sentiment. His last words were for dad, I know you stressed his reverence.
But. . . I can't let it go. I've tried to accept that he left, but it only ever comes back to haunt me. Now too, Vergil does the same.

Consider it another notch in the family's long line of bad choices. Not that Dad made a bad decision sticking up for humanity, we happen to agree there.

Mom, I miss you so much. I promise, Mundus will pay for it. No matter what it takes. I promise, I will try to find my way back to hell. I'll drag that stubborn bastard out by his ear. . .

I'm sorry Vergil.

He choked on air at the last line. He couldn't believe his eyes.

It was a letter addressed to their mother, beneath a header that said 'Anniversary.' Dante had never forgotten about her, keeping the woman close at heart.
Vergil felt an overwhelming sense of shame and guilt, he'd let her go long ago. And then there was this small note to her, a fond remembrance and lament for their split family.

Was Dante feeling guilty for walking out of the demon world without him? It seemed he even regretted calling him a 'stubborn bastard.'

Heh. Hehehe.

Vergil broke out into a strange laughter, unable to restrain himself.

He kept laughing and laughing, slowly growing silent and distraught again as the reality crashed back on him like a freight train.

"You fool . . . Why?" He said under his breath, his voice cracking as he placed the papers back in their drawer.

Sitting back in the chair felt so tiring.

"You couldn't have picked a simpler occupation? No . . . Of course not, you stubborn bastard-" Vergil choked up again, so he left the chair and paced into a hall.

Climbing upstairs, he routed around through the place till he went through a door, inside to the bedroom.
The place was small but neat. It barely had enough space for a bed and a closet, though somehow Dante put both in here.
Behind, or rather around, the armoire was a window where he could see a fire escape. Perfect view of . . . The desolately empty parking lot.
The bathroom was open and had the basic materials needed. Dante was always pretty simple.

Vergil took a pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet, assuming Dante used these to fix his hair. He was right.

Running his fingers through that overgrown mane, he messed around until it fell down over his face.

It'd been a long time since he had it cut.

The length of his hair now touched his shoulders. He heaved a sigh and started cutting, shedding and trimming, until it was quite a bit shorter than before.
Around twenty five minutes later, and a few of his bangs parted in front of his right eye. He leaned over the sink, throwing the light hair into the small trash can nearby.
So many locks gone.

"I'm in your debt Dante. I'm actually in your debt, for once." He whispered.

He leaned against the counter and placed his palm over his forehead. Sharply breathing in and out, he tried to calm his lost mind.

At last, he straightened himself, trimmed up a few rogue hairs, and walked out of the bathroom. His clothes were ragged and filthy.

So he threw them out the window, dumping them into the open dumpster outside. Closet: Next visit.

Inside was a red and black coat. The black hugged the torso, with a red trench coat overhang to the tails and sleeves. It must have been a recent development that Dante worked on.
At the bottom of the closet were several boots and pants. Vergil changed into red pants with two black belts each wrapped around his thighs.
A belt featuring a skull-themed buckle wrapped around his waist, and he wore black, old-west-like gloves with three fastened straps on each one.
Attached to his feet were knee-high black boots. The matching red sections were a deeper scarlet than he remembered Dante wearing.

With two, protracted coat tails and a black long-sleeved shirt underneath, he snapped on a black holster, meant for Rebellion, wrapping over his right shoulder and around his chest.
Two golden studs decorated the front of the strap. The harness fit well, functioning efficient also. He'd find a weapon to fit it one day, but for now it would simply have to exist empty.

Vergil returned to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.

It felt bizarre at first, completely wrong in fact. It was like Dante came to life, staring him down through the mirror.

'So that's what that felt like. . .' He thought.

Once it was done, Vergil scratched the back of his head. The place was still quiet, but it meant little.
Every footstep he made echoed throughout. The neon sign in the back flickered out as Vergil took hold of the front door handle, then closed it behind him.
The street was still quite. Everything hushed out, and no one walked the sidewalks. Here and there, there would be one or two, since it was bed time.

Not his, though.

Vergil stopped midway when he saw a familiar face.

It was a woman, with her pinstripe jacket hung so as to reveal no bra, and unbuttoned lazily.

She had short raven hair, with locks on both sides of her face and a fringe covering her forehead and eyebrows.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked this version much better.

Beta Reader here: Just a quick message from Angel Wolf, I noticed some rough edges to this and gave it a polish, allowing it to feel stylistically closer to later chapters.
That's all for now, I just did a simple rewrite, not too involved. Anyway, enjoy the rest of the story.