Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Nell Goldstein is a character in the novel. The novel was rendered AU of the game series by DMC3 (although DMC3 contradicts DMC1 on one thing, too), but I like it so I'm incorporating an AU version of the AU novel into my ficverse. Novel takes place when Dante is 16, I outlined the rest of it in Rebellion's chapter.
I love Nell. She rocks so hard. Dante sees her as kinda a surrogate mother. She's old and takes nothing from no one, and she cares a lot about Dante. She's the one who made Ebony and Ivory. While she was bleeding to death and there was a fire… but I'll get to their chapter when I do. And at one point she puts on a monocle to help her see to work on a gun, which just made me squee when I noticed it.
In any case, I'm having to work Luce & Ombra's existence in Dante's possession to give to Trish into the novelverse too… Seeing how many of Capcom's plotholes I can close.
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The first time she saw him she had to blink for a second, because aside from the white hair he looked just like her son.
She'd looked up from the bench where she was working on a Beretta, extending the range, prepared to snap at whoever had the bad timing to interrupt her when she was on a roll. It wasn't some idiot mercenary (or so she'd thought at the time) or wealthy collector but a kid, just Rock's age when he'd died, and moon-pale.
She'd dropped the gun.
It took her a second to realize he wasn't a ghost (the nose was different, the eyes were different), and then she felt even more irritated because she'd reacted like that. He was blinking at her, puzzled, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that told her he'd mock her, mock anyone, given the chance.
Her eyes darted to Rock's photograph and then back to the boy. He was about fourteen, but that was just a boy to her. "Why didn't you knock?"
He just shrugged. "This is a business, right? And I brought business. I hear you're the best in town, old lady, and I want you to make me some guns."
"I don't make guns anymore. I only repair and rebuild." Hadn't he seen the sign?
He was walking around her office like he owned the place. He stopped in front of her sign. ".45 Calibur Art Warks? Hey old lady, your sign's misspelled."
"I know that." Rock had carved it when he was just learning how. "I don't have any patience with people who just stand around and look. Go home, boy."
He ignored her, taking two guns out of a bag and wagging them in her face. "I want guns like these, old lady. Do you think you can do it?"
"I already told you I don't make guns anymore, boy." But her eyes were drawn to them, and the boy grinned and put them down on her workbench.
She'd never seen guns quite like these before. They were large and heavy, obviously expertly made .45s. But they had an air of antiquity about them, and why on earth would anyone set jewelry into guns that were obviously not just for show? These had seen use, she knew, as her hand felt the wear in the grip. "Luce and Ombra," she read, fascinated despite herself. "For Tony Redgrave." Where had she heard that name before?
"They were my father's, and then he gave them to my mother. I want guns that can do what they do." He took other guns out of the bag. "I don't want to use these two but when I use other guns they fire too slow and break. I heard you're the best, old lady. I can pay." He took a roll of money out of the bag next.
"I set my own prices, and there's not enough money in the world to pay me to make new guns again." She looked at the new guns, picking one up. "The way this has been mistreated, no wonder it broke." Her eyes drifted to the first two again. Those were museum pieces. Her fingers itched to take them apart. Wait a minute. There was something familiar about that name. She heard so much gossip in this business: hitmen were worse than old women like her. "I'm not going to put work into a gun just so it can be mistreated by an amateur, boy." She pushed the guns back at him.
He didn't pick them up, looking offended. "I'm not an amateur! I can shoot just fine! It's not my fault I can't find good guns!"
Ah, that was where the name was from. "Your father should teach you how to take care of your weapons. You can't be a mercenary if you don't take care of what earns you your dinner. Go hungry growing up, boy?" A new mercenary, silver hair, Tony Redgrave. Must be this boy's father.
"My father never taught me anything!" He glared at her.
Like a little kid's glare was going to have any effect on her. "I bet you stole these guns from him. When he finds out he'll tan your hide, boy. If I were you I'd run on home damn quick." She laughed.
"I didn't steal these guns! Well, I took those ones from people, but I'd kicked their asses so that's fair!" He pointed to the other guns.
"You?" Those guns had also seen a lot of use over time. He'd beaten hitmen? Ha. "Stop wasting my time, I've got guns to work on." She turned away from him. "Go on home and give your father back his guns."
"My father's been dead for years. These are my guns."
"Oh? Then how come I've heard of a Tony Redgrave? Tosh. If he can take out six men at once he can haul a punk like you home and put you over his knee." She snorted in contempt.
"I'm Tony Redgrave. I beat those guys. That's how I got all these guns." He pulled more out of the bag.
"You expect me to believe that? I'm old, I'm not senile. I think I'd have heard about it if the new man in town was a kid." A kid in his dad's clothes. A red leather trenchcoat? That was new. The silver amulets she shrugged off, everyone in this business was a little superstitious. It had obviously rubbed off on her. Seeing ghosts, ha. Rock would have laughed just like this boy would laugh if he knew what had startled her.
She heard someone coming up the steps and there was a knock at the door. "Come in!" she called. "Now go home, boy, I've got a customer."
A customer who froze, eyes widening when he saw the kid glaring at him. "She's busy with me now. Come back later."
"Sure, sure Tony." The man went away.
She looked at the boy, who was smiling, vindicated.
Good job, Nell, now you do look like an old fool. This boy was a mercenary? Everyone was just getting younger and younger, it seemed like.
"Well, old lady? Will you build me my guns now?"
"What's the problem with these ones?" She gestured at those spread out on her workbench. "I don't want to put my heart and soul into a piece of art if you're just going to bust it like you have all of these poor things."
"I didn't break Luce and Ombra. I want you to build me guns that are like them and won't break," he explained as though to a senile old lady.
"How do you keep breaking them?" She asked, examining one. Breaking so many guns, when he'd just won them off hitmen? They kept their weapons in good condition.
"They keep jamming when I shoot them," he explained, lounging against a wall.
"Do you know why?" She took one apart. There was an odd sort of wear… "Come on then." She stood up. Why was she doing this? Was it just that he'd caught her being a fool and she didn't want to lose any more face? She should be telling him to get lost, like she would anyone who tried to get her to build a new weapon. Those days were over.
"Where are we going?"
"Put those back in your bag and follow me." There was a vacant lot nearby. She grabbed some cans. "I'm going to have to watch you shoot."
The neighbors wouldn't be alarmed: they were used to hearing her try out the guns she was working on. Though if the shots came from any other direction they would head for cover. This wasn't exactly a good neighborhood.
She'd been held up exactly once. Guns were valuable, after all. She'd shot both of them in the head. She'd had to go up before a court for that, but it was ruled self-defense. Damn waste of time. After that they stayed away.
She positioned the cans and stepped back behind Dante. "Okay, shoot like you normally do."
A hail of bullets disintegrated the cans, guns out of the bag and back in with almost a seamless movement.
She undropped her jaw before he turned around. "You're pulling the triggers too fast. Guns aren't built for that." That was much, much faster than she built her guns for, and she had years of experience. She'd never heard of anyone being able to shoot that fast. Pieces would grind together, explaining the odd wear. "You don't need me, you need to slow down."
"Luce and Ombra can take it." He showed them to her. "I need other guns that will."
"Why don't you just use those two?" They were masterpieces.
"I don't want to." He shrugged. "So, can you build me ones that'll work or are you overrated, old lady?"
She shook her head, short silvery blonde hair swaying. She'd considered dying it, but she was an old lady now. No point in being vain. Though it was nice to see someone with whiter hair than hers. It made the boy look a little older, if you didn't look at his face.
Looking at his eyes made him look even older. A trickster, no doubt about it. Not like Rock. He'd been such a good, serious boy, wanting to follow in his parents' footsteps.
"Are you deaf? I already said I won't build new guns." But she waved for him to follow her as she headed back to her office.
"You're the one who's deaf, old lady."
She snorted. "You know, I'm not sure I want your money enough to take your mouth."
"I've got a job tonight. I can just use my sword, but I need guns. If you won't do it I'll have to find somebody else."
"No one in town's good enough to lick my boots." Wait a minute. "Sword?" She turned around and raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." He blinked at her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She'd heard of people using swords, but none of them had ever come to her gun shop. She didn't see the point of them, herself. Swords couldn't deflect bullets, so a sword was useless in a real fight. Just big knives you couldn't conceal. "Hhmph."
"I'm good with it," he objected. "Want to see?"
"If it doesn't throw bullets I don't give a damn about it, young man."
"Okay, old lady." She smiled a little at that, getting down a paper bag.
"Let's see the color of your money first."
"I've got enough." He took out the bill roll and handed it to her. She unrolled it. Sometimes people would stuff these with ones but it looked like hundreds all the way through.
"So you want me to rebuild these so you can use them like loose cannons." She took out the ham sandwich and chomped on it. His eyes followed the sandwich instead of replying. She swallowed."You hungry?"
"I just got paid, and my last money all went to finding a place." He shrugged. "I'm fine."
"Here." She tossed him a sandwich. He snatched it out of the air.
"Thanks." It was gone in two bites.
"Oh, you'll pay for it."
"So you'll take the job?" He brightened almost visibly, smiling, eyes shining.
"Some of these you won't be able to use even with my tinkering. And if you don't slow down your firing they'll break eventually no matter what I do. You'd need a weapon designed from the ground up to fire like that. And no, I'm not going to build you new ones."
"It's a racket. You're just going to make me keep coming in to get them fixed."
"Not if you treat them right. Think if the money I'll take out of your hide as an incentive to learn how to shoot right." She took another bite.
"I know how to shoot right! You saw."
She'd seen, all right. He hadn't been in a firing stance or anything, he'd just taken out those cans. This boy was good, he'd fired those shots like lightening and he'd actually aimed them.
It wasn't just a matter of how fast someone could pull the trigger. It was a matter of how fast someone could fix in a new target. There hadn't even been an instant's pause in the firing when he'd switched to the next can after shooting the hell out of the previous one. This boy was good, and she'd seen some real sharpshooters in her day.
"I saw you have no respect for precision instruments, that's what I saw. Want another sandwich?" She wasn't that hungry.
"Thanks." This one was gone in two bites as well.
"Show me what guns you've got."
He took them all out of the bag except for the two she wanted to see. "I said all of them."
"Pushy old lady…" he muttered, talking out Luce and Ombra.
She looked at them and handed him back three. "These're no good for you. I'll take them, though." She could strip them for spares.
"What do you want Luce and Ombra for? I'm not going to use them." Though he'd used them on the cans to demonstrate his shooting. They were obviously the best guns for him. Why didn't he use them?
"Because they're the only pair of guns I've seen like them. I'll take a little off your bill if you let me take a look at them and give them the tune-up they deserve." She brushed a bit of dust out of the corner of one of them. They'd lain unused for a while. "You don't have any trouble firing like you do with these?"
"No." He shook his head. "But I don't want to use them." He looked around her shop, eyes lighting on the massive shotgun with appreciation. He obviously liked guns, even though he didn't treat them right. No, that wasn't fair.
"These were custom made." She started disassembling them. Redgrave, Redgrave, the name was dimly ringing bells. Or was it just déjà vu? "If I study them maybe I can figure out how to fix others so you can shoot the hell out of them." Huh? It was ready to fire but otherwise unloaded.
How many shots had he fired at the cans? She hadn't seen him reload.
Six cans, and he'd fired… he should have needed to reload. "How old are these?" She'd heard stories, but they were just myths, right? Guns made with black magic that never needed to be reloaded.
She briefly considered the idea that she'd miscounted. No, she wasn't senile. She'd take them to the firing range later.
These weren't ordinary guns. They had been taken care of very badly for the past few years but... and they had names, and jewelry, cameos with pictures of young women set into them.
She knew guns, she knew when something wasn't right.
"I don't know." He shrugged.
"And I bet you don't know who made them," she grumbled. "Beauties like these… you should be put up against the wall for treating them like this. I've half a mind to…"
"They were made by..." he paused, looking like he was trying to remember something. Then he shook his head. "Sorry, old lady."
"If I fix these up I'm going to put my mark on them," she warned him. "I always do."
He shrugged. "I'm not going to use them, so I don't care. You can have them if you want them."
She stared at him. "You're crazy."
"Yeah!" He grinned, and she stared.
Not like Rock. For a moment there he looked like the kid he was. Yet, somehow, he still reminded her of Rock, how he would grin when he shot a buck or finished a piece… she realized that was why she hadn't kicked this kid out on his ass, well, besides the gorgeous guns. He reminded her of her son.
She was even feeding the kid! She, the crotchety old bitch. He just made her melt. Well, as melty as she got.
"These are heirlooms, right? Probably belonged to your grandfather." Amazingly well preserved, except for recent damage. What had he done, let them lying on the ground outside? "You should take better care of them."
He clammed up. What was it about these guns? Why did he hate the little darlings so? These were queens of guns, with the pictures of the ladies on them. Normally she hated useless ornamentation, anything that distracted from the fact that this was a gun, a deadly weapon, not a toy, but these two beauties just seemed right somehow.
"Hey, old lady!" A hand waved in front of her face.
"My name's Nell. Nell Goldstein."
"When can you have the guns ready?"
"I can have a pair of them done by tomorrow evening." She had other clients. Screw them. Couldn't have a kid going out with only a sword. "You use guns with both hands, right?"
He nodded.
She finished off her sandwich, which had lain almost forgotten while she examined the twin guns. She wished she'd built them. But those days were gone, dead with Rock. She'd never build guns again.
She handed him two of them. "Show me how you fight."
"In here?"
"Don't actually shoot, you idiot." She froze. "These are unloaded, right?"
"Some of them are. Why?"
"You were carrying loaded guns around in a bag in public?" She hit herself on the forehead. Then she thought better of it and hit him.
"Ow! What was that for!"
"You don't show guns the proper respect! You could have killed somebody, you jackass!" All jumbled up like that? It was a miracle. "I oughta turn you in!" she said, shaking her fist at him.
"You wouldn't do that."
"Why the hell not?"
"I'm too cute to rot in jail?"
God, he was just a kid. This was the newest mercenary who had come out of nowhere everyone was talking about? He was going to get himself killed. The thought made her blood run cold and she inwardly made a quick prayer.
The boy was a killer, but she didn't want him to die. This was the first time in years she'd cared about someone. This was the first time in years she'd cared about anything. How could she create when her greatest creation was dead?
How could one of the scum she'd fallen to providing with weapons to kill be sent as some sort of redemption? She felt like this was some second chance.
She shouldn't let him get to her. He was young, but already hard. He'd just use her. Sure, he seemed to have a core of goodness, but probably seeming innocent was part of his stock in trade. She tried to harden her heart. "You're not treating any guns you get from me like clubs!"
"Sure, sure!" He backed away, hands up and eyes laughing.
There was another knock on the door. "Scram! I'm busy!" She yelled. Whoever it was had the sense to bug off. "If I ever hear of you accidentally shooting anyone I'll tear you a new one, you hear me?"
He laughed, though there was some respect there. Good. He'd better listen to this elder. "Yes, Mother."
Mother. "Don't you call me Mother! I'm sure the one who spawned you has already suffered enough because of you without you ignoring her! I'd like to meet this woman, anyone who could handle a brat like you has my respect."
Another of those grins. Why? "She would have liked to meet you too."
He could talk about his dead mother and grin like that? Was it something she said? "Little hellion."
He laughed again. "You act all tough but you're not, old lady."
"I'll show you tough." She tore off some of the roll of bills and tossed it at him. "Get yourself something to eat." She could tell he was still hungry from the way he'd looked at her sandwich. How long had it been since he'd eaten?
She wasn't his mother. It wasn't any of her concern. He was just a customer.
He shouldn't even be a customer. "Now shoo, I have work to do."
"Okay, okay."
She closed the creaky door behind him and went back to her workbench, already planning how to convert the simplest two of the weapons he'd given her into something worthy of her workmanship.
He pushed open the creaky door behind her. "Thanks, old lady."
She snorted. "Like you can talk about people's ages, whippersnapper."
"Whippersnapper?" He laughed.
"Shut your piehole and get going, or you can wait a week for them."
"A week?" He pouted like the kid he was.
"Be a good boy and they'll be ready tomorrow evening, like I said."
"Okay! See ya, old lady." He shut the door and bounded down the stairs.
"And quit calling me old lady!" She yelled after him.
She thought she'd have some peace to get work done then but it turned out the client who had gone away before had just been waiting. No rest for the wicked.
As she worked into the night (she barely needed any food or sleep, which was good because she didn't enjoy either) she kept thinking of young Tony, and the memories of Rock he raised in her mind.
As the .45 Calibur Artist, all she cared about was guns, not those who used them or the uses they were put to. She especially didn't care about criminals and their infighting, except that it put tasteless food on the table.
But she went to bed relatively early, waiting for the next evening.
