A/N: So, I've been telling myself that I need to write this for a very, very long time now. I just didn't see this prologue coming. So, the actual story starts next chapter. For now, sit back and enjoy as I attempt to set up the AU.

Also, I apologize in advance for any discrepancies that you might have as to character. I promise, Vergil will be back to the stoic bastard that we know and love in no time at all.

He doesn't remember much from that time, save for the hatred. It burned so fiercely within him; drove him forward, made him stronger. The various demons conjured up by another open Hell Gate took the punishment for Vergil's blind rage, but each one that was felled only served to provoke him further. Their twisted, hideous faces all softened eventually, contorting in his mind until they all resembled his brother in some minute way. Until they resembled him.

There were times when Vergil stared into Yamato's blade for hours, considering the best way possible to maim himself. Perhaps if he gave himself a few defining scars, they would look so vastly different that they couldn't be considered twins anymore. If he gouged out one of his eyes with the accursed thing, would they be separate? Was that too little? Did both eyes need to go?

Then, Arkham walksinto the room, babbling nonsense about amulets and powers and a demon named Sparda. Vergil doesn't know much of his father, so he pays these comments no heed. Still, he can't very well cut his face to pieces with the other man watching him, so he just slicks his hair back and runs off to kill whatever Arkham has directed him towards. Most of the time, he's stuck killing more faceless demons that all somehow look like him, but occasionally he gets lucky.

It starts with mere glimpses of red as they pass through a hallway, darting around corners the second that they have come to his attention. Eventually, they have to meet face-to-face, and they both know it. Vergil spends far too much time preparing for this day, sharpening Yamato until his fingers bleed. He stays up for days at a time, receiving his only rest when his knees decide to give out on him, and his eyes force themselves shut. During this time, it's not uncommon for him to simply collapse and sleep in the library, the hallways, the icy streets. Whenever he wakes up, Arkham has dragged him back into some secluded place or another. As he stands to slick his hair back again, there is always a fleeting moment of regret, of hatred directed at himself rather than his twin.

The circumstances keep lining up in Vergil's favor, saving him from eventual solitude and suicide, but he doesn't want to be rescued. Still, Arkham nudges him in all the right directions, to places where he'll be far too occupied to think. He can't let himself think; that would invite more of those hours-long staring contests with his reflection, provoke bloodshed.

He keeps moving. It's all that he can do.

When he finally manages to catch up to his other half, he can't quite remember just what he meant to do in the first place. He's been so very much like a dog in the past few weeks; he chases and chases, unsure of any goal to be achieves once he catches his target. By the look on Dante's face, he hasn't the slightest idea what his brother has gone through thus far. This invokes fury, a familiar and tight coil in his ribcage. Why should it matter, what he's supposed to be doing to his twin? All that he knows is hatred and confusion, wrath and suicide.

Then, the other man is trying to tell him something, but he can't quite make out the words. He's smiling, pacing, waving around one of his precious guns. What he says sounds like a question, but there are no answers. A beat of silence, painfully tangible, fills the air.

Vergil lifts Yamato out of its sheath, and throws it to the ground.

The motion is met with gunfire, and now he's staggering backwards, a half-moon of blood spatter forming before him. Dully, his mind conjures the image of a rabid dog as they both tumble to the floor; he is unsure just who brought down who. There are bullets, there is pain, and there's his brother. They're too close, so near that Vergil can hear his uneven breathing, smell the gunpowder when a hand comes near his face to grab at his throat.

The fight is over before it truly had a chance to begin, tossed aside along with all elegance when he gets a hold of Yamato once more, and shoves it into Dante's stomach.

Everything is a blur. There's blood on his coat, and he's not sure who it belongs to. Arkham screams in the distance: something about having all that they need. It isn't true, of course. As Vergil staggers backwards toward the imploring voice, he feels as if he has lost everything, rather than gaining it.

That night, Yamato finds its way to one of his knuckles, and he lets it do its work. When Arkham takes the blade away from him again, he's less one finger, and lying too complacently in a pool of his own blood.

It's strange, how the pain never seems to reach him. There are reminders of it on occasion, but no actual feeling. The numbness stays with him for longer than he'd likely admit, driving him through countless trials. Of course, emotion rears its ugly head from time to time, causing random outbursts of fury.

Dante just so happens to have the horrible luck to walk in on one of them.

He says something clever, something that Vergil doesn't quite comprehend; he's too busy knocking Dante's feet out from beneath him to pay much attention. Lapels are grabbed, curses are exchanged, but in the long run their eyes manage to catch each other.

It only takes a moment for fury to give way to something far more primal. This is how it always is with them- every action is impulsive, unexplainable. It is pure impulse that urges Vergil to pin his brother to the wall, instinct that forces them into too-close proximity.

Identical lips meet, and tongues begin to dance as rage gives way to desire. It is the sensation that matters, not the sentiment. They both remind themselves of this as their hips grind senselessly together, a shared gasp filling the air.

Then, Arkham opens the door, and the kiss is over just as quickly as it began. Seconds later, they're at each other's throats again, kept from mauling each other by a girl that neither of them seems to fully notice.

There are tears in both of their eyes when their world goes black, and for a moment, the thoughts shining in them are truly identical.

They can't keep doing this forever. Even now, their very lives threaten to tear themselves apart.

His vision refocuses the moment that his eyes open. The perception that they provide is eerily clear, all things considered. Vergil has been betrayed, and he knows it, not that he cares. Arkham has always been a mere tool to him; his name is stored away in the farthest depth of memory that he knows how to access, and the action gives him the chance to move on.

Still, he remains where he has fallen, the cold of the stones beneath him seeping through the fabric of his coat. It feels vaguely pleasant against his back, almost soothing. The coolness calms him enough to allow a different side of him to emerge, though there are no witnesses to the rare event.

A single hand is outstretched towards the bleak light above him, casting a spidery shadow across his face. He appears to marvel at it for a moment, though nothing significant crosses his mind. The hand is closed only when his shoulder begins to ache from the effort of keeping his arm vertical, but it is not lowered for another few beats. His nails bite faint half-moons into his palm, and he does not feel the sting they are supposed to create any more than he notes the absence of his ring finger.

The numbness is familiar, comfortable. He stands in silence, and leaves the room with the casual certainty that his brother can't be far away.

The walk through Temen-ni-gru should evoke emotion, but it only serves to enhance the surrealism that Vergil has already begun to delve into. Lesser demons pause in their mindless gambits to allow him passage, staring after him with blank eyes. The scent of gunpowder is thick, the bullet holes in the walls numerous.

Like unwilling magnets, the twins are drawn together. Doubt clouds the future; once they meet, it is unlikely that they will be able to part once more.

While one twin reflects on the certain future, another mires himself in present action. The man that is to become a hunter of demons confronts the monstrous force that is his own father with a smirk and a few snide comments. This is how he will approach his life from here on out, almost without realizing the denial that he puts himself through. The sentiment is almost as natural as Vergil's desire to kill.

Black-hearted as he is, Arkham does not see the maelstrom of emotion building behind Dante's eyes. All he knows is power, and he by no means keeps this a secret. His body is twisted by the overwhelming energy, contorted by entities long dead.

Apparently, he doesn't take into account that Dante might be as ready for the confrontation as him. Every move that he initiates is met with equal ferocity, a blazing force that no outsider could ever understand. The fight will end with one of the two surrendering themselves to fate, for their strength is equal.

Or, so Arkham thinks.

As powerful as he is, Dante is still but one half of a whole, a fact that Arkham refuses to realize. When the demon's other half comes barreling in out of nowhere, he has no choice but to struggle.

Vergil spares Dante a single glance as they both rush forward, but the sentiment is lost in action. They are separate one moment, impossibly close the next. Back to back, side to side… it doesn't matter where they find themselves. They move and breathe as a whole unit, connected on a level more intimate than they will ever understand.

It takes little to no time and effort for them to bring the power-hungry beast down, and his death is followed by complete and utter peace. There is nothing in the air but the sounds of heavy exhalations, laced with confusion. The twins are truly similar, in that manner; they've been chasing the great beast of their father's power for so long, they barely know what to do with it once it finds its way in front of them.

As usual, Vergil is the first of the two to move. The sword before them offers an irresistible draw, bringing them forward in silence, but moments later they're both falling, falling, and their last chance at redemption disappears with them.

The intensity with which Vergil regards his brother might be considered obsessive. He can hardly bear to blink, for fear that he'll miss a single movement that his brother makes. Dante's prescience is bearable, almost desirable, as long as he remains unconscious. His brother has always infuriated him, of course, but now that Dante cannot defy him, it's as if everything has changed.

Vergil paces the room like a caged tiger, both protective and threatening. He can't seem to decide what to do with his silent prey, now that no defiance is offered to him.

Even Force Edge has been abandoned in the wake of his fixation. The sword lies forgotten, abandoned in a corner of the watery cave. Yamato, of course, remains at Vergil's side. It has become like a security blanket to him in the past few days, never more than a foot or two away from him.

Slowly, his pacing slows to a mere stalk, and at last to a complete halt. The shallow water rushing about his boots creates the only sound in the room, drowning out the sound of Dante's slow, steady breath. This fact seems to bother his brother, prompting him to take a step towards the other man.

He grows closer and closer to his brother in this manner, with nearly an hour's worth of pauses between his steps. Still, despite the close proximity, Dante's breathing is shown only by the movements of his chest. A frown, and Vergil goes so far as to kneel beside him, resting Yamato on the ground as he does. He uses both hands to steady himself as he moves over to straddle his brother, though his eyes show no ill intent.

The action is curiously innocent. It displays none of their past intentions; no trace of anger is present, no hint of that old, senseless rage. There has been something horrifically primal about their past interactions. It is something darker than brotherhood that draws them together, and they both know it. Quite simply, neither of them has had the fortitude to address it.

When Vergil places his hands around his twin's throat, the action is done with such gentleness that almost all malicious intent is erased.

Despite this plan that he has worked out so perfectly- asphyxiate, leave, conquer- they are still brothers, and he can't suppress the urge for a final goodbye. Their relationship has always worked on impulse, after all, and there is no reason for this to stop.

As he leans forward, he takes the time to loosen his grip on his brother's throat. This pause will prove to be a fatal mistake, however; when Vergil lets out a shaky exhale while their faces are mere inches apart, Dante can feel his breath ghosting over his cheek. Though he is conscious, his eyes have yet to open, and so his brother is free to act out the snippet of thought that has come to him.

Their lips meet in the only truly loving kiss that they have ever shared, and both are blissfully aware of the moment.

The instant that Vergil pulls back, Ebony's cold muzzle is pressed to his forehead. His eyes close before the sweet sentiments can fade from them. There is silence once more, filled with calm moments that should not be so. The violence between them is as passive as any other interaction between normal siblings. Dante is smiling, though the expression is painfully false; Vergil shows no emotion, though his eyes have opened again. They are hollow, unrevealing.

"Show's over, pal." The words only serve to frustrate him. They're so forced, so wrong… so very Dante. "Did you really think it was gonna be that easy?" Somehow, the question is even worse. The awkwardness begs to be righted, but Vergil has never been one to counteract his brother's idiocy.

"There's still a chance, you know. That is, if you're not too stubborn to take it." Vergil's eyes narrow into a glare, at that. How can Dante possibly think that his actions are caused by such a simple idea? Is he blind to the agony behind his brother's eyes? His tears may have been shed behind closed doors, but somehow he can still bear to tell himself that Dante heard them all, and did nothing.

So, this is it. This is what they've been driven to. There is no way to stop what has already been set in motion, though neither twin predicts the events that have yet to transpire. In a way, neither of them is capable of so much as considering any of it.

"Say something. Come on, now, do you really want me to use this?" Dante grins as he speaks. To him, this is all a joke, and he assumes that his brother is in on all of it. Much to his surprise, the other man seems almost about to cry throughout the silence that follows.

Go on, just get it all over with, his eyes seem to plead. Just shut up and shoot me. The gunshot would solve so many problems, Vergil thinks, and for a moment he almost reaches up to pull the trigger himself. It would be so easy, to end it all, but his hands are shaking too badly to allow him to consummate the thoughts.

The conversation that follows transpires without a word; nothing needs to be spoken in order for their points to be made. The hand that grasps Ebony begins to tremble, though the muzzle never leaves its target. Vergil's expression is desperate, imploring. Dante's shows only confusion. Don't make me do this, he seems to beg. His only answers urge him to chase these thoughts away.

"Dante."

Bang.

Gasps of tearful disbelief fill the quiet following the shot. Vergil hits the water soon afterwards, a perfect circle of gore on his temple. They stare at each other in shock, but the terror is far from over. It will take more than one simple bullet to put down a demon, and if Dante gives his brother the chance to get up, all that is left for the both of them is another downward spiral.

The next shot sends an unbelievable amount of spatter into the air, and all is stained crimson. There is no time to reflect, no profound realizations. It is far from a beautiful death, that which is delivered.

Somewhere between the third and fourth bullet, Vergil has the sense to scream. His eyes open for one final time, shining with tears and portraying new motivation. Please God, no, I was wrong! I don't want to die! It's far too late for such sentiments; this is proved by the next squeeze of Ebony's trigger. This one silences him.

The next is the last that he will remember. Even after his heart lies still, however, three more shots hammer their way into his skull.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Dante stands in silence, in the wake of siblicide. His breathing is heavy, his cheeks wet with a mixture of his own tears and Vergil's blood. Later, he will force himself to forget the details of the murder, but this denial will not come to him for at least a year. Now, all he can do is stand and bury his thoughts in revulsion, as the images he has created engrave themselves into his mind.