Disclaimer: I don't own the Devil May Cry franchise nor the characters.
"Will you please just come over?"
"All right, all right! Jeez don't get your panties in a wad, Kyrie."
"Thank you, Dante. Please hurry."
With that the other line went dead. He roughly replaced the receiver back to its cradle and released an audible sigh, wondering what course of action he should take besides making haste to Nero and Kyrie's place. As much as he's a spur-of-the-moment kind of guy, he knew better than to take things for granted. Dante leaned back on his old, rickety, oak chair, and placed both feet on the table, allowing himself a moment of solace while his eyes trained on the almost-collapsing ceiling fan above him.
Going there all guns and blazing won't do anybody good, but he has fuck clue about the situation and he's quite certain no one else knows what to do either. Oh well, worrying won't make jacksquat of a difference, might as well bring his whole damn arsenal in the events that circumstances get fucked up beyond recognition.
Having made his decision, the red-clad demon hunter abruptly got up from his seat and went about searching for a bag large and inconspicuous enough to fit all his devil arms for the journey to Fortuna.
Nero woke to the sound of euphonious singing; the voice that has been his ever constant companion since the Saviour incident two years ago. The song was familiar, a melody that he's heard probably a thousand times, if not more, but it never failed to enchant and beguile him. It reminded him of his days serving in The Order with Credo, and that brought a pang of mournfulness in his heart. Though Credo might have aided in the Saviour project, it was Credo who ultimately sacrificed himself to save Kyrie, and Nero couldn't fault the man at all. They were all fools, pawns of his Holiness, or what Nero preferred to call him behind his back, his Cuntness. Whatever. The old fart's probably rotting in the inner sanctum of hell for his bullshit. Bastard got lucky that he died instead of getting stoned or tortured by the towns people, hell if he were alive Nero would rip that beard off his face and shove his Devil Bringer down the old fart's throat and pull out all hi—
"Oh you're awake! I was beginning to worry about you. How are you feeling?"
Kyrie, cheery as ever, walked towards the king-sized bed where Nero was still lying in, her hands holding a tray of assorted food.
"Much better, feel more rested too. How long was I out?"
"About a day I think. You just dropped onto the floor like a log, so I took the liberty of calling Dante. I was so worried about you… Both of you."
Nero gave a nod of acknowledgement, sat up on the bed while Kyrie placed the tray of food in front of him.
"And what about our…"
"I put him in the guest room. He still hasn't stirred, if that's what you're wondering."
The young demon hunter seemed to sense Kyrie's apprehension towards the uninvited guest, but he knew she's too compassionate to kick the unconscious man out, not at least in his condition. The woman was too kind for her own good at times, but that's what made her, well, Kyrie. Nero glanced at the tray of food placed on his lap, and leisurely picked up a fork to eat his meal while Kyrie sat on the corner of the bed, watching Nero attentively, in case he needed help.
"Are you friggin' serious, old man?"
"C'mon kid, don't tell me it hasn't occurred to you that it might be a possibility."
"No goddamn way. That's just ludicrous. How drunk are you?!"
"Listen punk, as much as I think we have a better chance of seeing the Pope in a strip joint pole-dancing than this shit happening, I am telling you, it's a pretty solid explanation, and if you have a better justification then by all means kid, the floor's yours and I'm all ears."
The old man had a point there. Everything seemed to be leaning towards that direction, but Nero can't help but doubt Dante's theory. As much as Nero wants to believe it, but something in him says otherwise. If there's one thing life has taught Nero, it's knowing that the universe is NEVER as straightforward as it seems. Everything has to be convoluted, filled-to-the-brim with drama, unexpected twists, hardships and tribulations. What Dante suggested was downright…boring, and predictable to say the least. The younger male just stared at Dante, racking his brain to come up with a rebuttal to Dante's naive explanation. The son of Sparda merely had his shit-eating smirk, matching Nero's gaze, as if daring the kid to do better.
The two white-haired demon hunters were sitting in Nero's cozy living room, adorned with knick-knacks from the nearby Fortuna town, and strange, foreign-looking artifacts that was definitely not man-made. It was clear that the room was decorated by two people of differing tastes, but strangely enough the disparity worked harmoniously, creating some sort of chaotic order. Of course this didn't matter to Dante anyways, he did not take a 4-hour train ride, jumped out of a wobbly raft across a river just to get into yet another dingy boat to reach this place to discuss interior design with Nero.
"Okay, how bout this, we wait until he's awake and ask him what the hell does he want and what relation does he have with me. Sound good?"
Nero was at his wits' end, and frankly, he expected Dante to settle this issue since it IS Dante's goddamn problem, not for the giant oaf to come over and spin some Spanish soap opera sob story.
"Kid, how are you so patient? If it were up to me, I'd kick down that damn door and shoot him till he wakes up and ask him the million-dollar-question. I mean for real, aren't you the least bit curious?"
"Of course I am! I just think it's not a good idea to do that. God knows what he's been through and shit, what if he's a basket case and decides to off us all in his mad scramble for reality or something? He's been in my goddamn arm the whole fucking time, Dante. How the fuck would you feel if you had to squeeze your whole goddamn soul into a person's arm? I know I'd be pissed as hell."
As if to prove his point, Nero lifted his right hand, which, for the first time since arriving, Dante realised, was replaced with a pale, normal, human hand.
"You're no fun at all. But in all seriousness, you should think about what I said, because in case you haven't been looking at a mirror lately, you really do look like me when I was younger. Now I'm no geneticist, but I think I know enough biology to tell that we're definitely related one way or another, last I checked I only have a twin, and you're definitely not the product of my promiscuity(which Nero dry-heaved at this) cause I damn well sure that I'm no fool and I wrap my tool before doing the deed, so the only logical explanation would be—
"You're a complete moron and I swear Dante and whoever the hell is talking to my dim-witted brother, if you two do not keep quiet this instant so help me I will go out there, rip out your tongues and vocal chords, slice your writhing bodies paper-thin, and defenestrate what is left of you from this house. You two make enough noise to wake the half-dead!"
Just as sudden the muffled scream fest from the guest room began, the whole house abruptly fell back into silence, leaving both Nero and Dante aghast, their heated discussion long-forgotten. The two sat still like titans bound to a rock, neither dared move lest the sound of moving furniture wakes up the murderous psychopath sleeping in the other room.
But then again this was Dante, and Dante does not take shit from anyone or anything. While the younger male has more common sense than the more-seasoned demon hunter, the younger sibling of said psychopath was undeniably the ballsier one between the two of them. It was obvious to Nero that, Dante may be more experienced, but he certainly wasn't the sharpest sword in Sparda's collection.
As if to prove Nero's point, Dante brusquely got up from where he was sitting and maneuvered his way towards THE room.
This is not good, NOT GOOD at all. Nero shot up from his seat, vaulted over the coffee table and sofa to cut the old man off before the idiot managed to barge into the room.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" The young demon hunter hissed.
"What the hell does it look like? I'm trying to solve our little problem," Dante whispered back.
"Are you actively trying to get us killed? YOU were the one who said your brother nearly killed you when you fought him in Mallet Island and NOW you're just gonna waltz into the room and wake him up when he literally just threatened to slaughter us if we made any more noise?"
The red-clad half-breed stood, as if lost in his own thoughts, his hands crossed in front of his chest, while his left foot was gently tapping the floor. Just as Nero thought he had finally got through the thick skull of the old man, in less than a millisecond Dante's right fist was repeatedly pounding on the door like a woodpecker. Through the incessant pounding, Nero could only think of Kyrie and her reaction when she returns home and find a scene of a massacre. The poor woman would probably spend months cleaning the house and not to mention she'll have to get heavy industrial bleach to scrub off bits and pieces of guts and a shit load of blood. Hell, assuming that there will still be a house to clean.
"That's it, we're dead."
"Jeez kid, can't you be a lil more positive? What happened to the cocky punk I met two years ago? Back then you wouldn't even hesitate to kick a dude's ass, but now you're pussyfooting in your own house. What gives?"
"Well gee, excuse me for valuing my life and avoiding unnecessary confrontation, and let's not forget, SOME of us happen to be human, and some of us will DIE if we get our tongues and vocal chords ripped out, diced and thrown out of a window. Oh, and don't forget I still have Kyrie's safety to think about. How the fuck am I supposed to keep her out of harm's way when I'm no longer…"
Nero trailed off, his eyes held a twinge of sadness, and he lifted his arm once more to show Dante, which was missing a familiar Devil Bringer, a sight that Dante seemed to never be able to get used to.
Dante turned his attention from the door pounding to Nero, still contemplating on his actions, but he reckoned he's already poked the beast with a stick, might as well go big or go home.
"Don't worry kid, I promise you no harm will come to you or Kyrie, I just need to talk to Sleeping Beauty, that's all."
Of course, nothing ever goes according to plan when it comes to Dante because as soon as the younger son of Sparda finished speaking, he found his right fist being held in a VERY TIGHT grip; in fact, so tight that he could have sworn he heard bones cracking, and unfortunately for him, he wasn't wrong, for the receptors in his brain flared to life and Dante felt a shooting pain from his knuckles rocketing to his head.
The older demon hunter nearly gave himself a whiplash from turning his head too quickly to see what was crushing his fist, only to be greeted with a swift, oncoming, pale fist before his vision went dark.
Author's Note: I figured it's time to explore alternative theories besides playing the whole Luke-Skywalker-and-Darth-Vader angle. I get that a dude who worked on DMC4 confirmed the rumour, but to hell with that. Until Capcom comes out and says so, everything's fair game. This story will most probably be either a two-shot or three. Anyways, please feel free to review if you like. Thanks for dropping by~