Vergil was falling.
Wind howled past his ears briefly before being replaced by a complete nothingness, an absence of sound and light smothering him, all of his senses flailing in the dark, adrift.
His midsection still burned and throbbed fiercely, the only thing keeping him from being lost in the void surrounding him as he continued to plummet into the unknown.
He had lost.
Dante had won.
His brother, his only living kin, had raised his blade and with determination and resolve cut him down. The battle replayed in his mind like a sick highlight reel on repeat, leading up to his tumble over the edge of the abyss. And yet, as Vergil fell he saw Dante reach out, a look of desperation on his face as he rushed to stop him.
Dante was always the more emotional of the twins, but the fact that despite everything, he still stretched out his hand to save Vergil… it caused something unpleasant and rancid to twist inside his stomach.
Why? What had Vergil done to deserve a sibling like Dante? One so brazen, so boastful and cocky...
One so forgiving.
Even as a child he was never mad at Vergil for long, no matter how often they fought. It was always infuriating how lackadaisical he was in everything, his complete opposite in all regards.
So why did his chest constrict so painfully when he thought about his brother now? Why did his grip on his Mother's amulet tighten?
The void gave no answer, merely tearing away at his mind and body as he continued to fall, leaving Vergil to wonder where he might end up. He had lied when he said that he was staying in Hell, as the space he and Dante had fought in was not quite the Underworld. It was between the folds of reality, a non-space surrounded by the void between worlds. The Underworld was connected to multiple different realities, bubble universes that Hell fed on indiscriminately. Vergil could end up practically anywhere.
That is, if he was lucky. For all he knew he could continue to fall for eternity until he mercifully starved to death or the abyss devoured his psyche, leaving him a hollow, empty shell.
Thus the eldest son of Sparda, bloodied and shredded coat flapping in the wind continued to fall for an indeterminable amount of time, the burning in his midsection and the cold sheath of the Yamato his only grip on reality, his Mother's amulet clutched tightly in his other hand like a lifeline.
He refused to fade away like a weakling.
Never again.
AN:Thanks for reading my random story intro I thought up at 2 AM! Don't expect another update any time soon, there's a good chance I won't continue this story but hey, yell at me enough and I might get motivated enough to do so.
See what I did there?
Heh.
Anyways, if I do end up continuing this I have practically no idea where it'll go but in my head it seemed like a there was potential for a good crossover here. Lemme know what you think in the reviews.