Into The Devil-Verse
Author's Note: So, this is my take on a plot-bunny hat popped into my head while watching Into The Spider-Verse and then later again after playing Resident Evil Village. This is my most flagrant Alternate Universe fiction yet, as it tackles the idea of the Multiverse, so, please be mindful of this when going into it, as I'm intentionally showing different universes with dramatically unfamiliar elements and incarnations of well-known characters and settings.
I must also note that this will probably be an 'Epic Length' fiction and it'll be long; thus, it'll have a slow start, and characters' motives (and why they behave in a certain way) won't become revealed immediately—it'll be a gradual process. The story starts at a certain 'point in time' and things proceed on from there. I built everything upon the first dozen (or so) chapters—consider them the first 'build-up arc' of the entire story. (This build up will also use a broad variety of familiar tropes, done to function as a distinct form of deconstruction.) This story will explore a multiverse: I've written it in a manner that it's at once both a similar DMC universe, but it's also a weird universe at the same time. This might seem paradoxical, but the canon-lore is molded (and elaborated most times) to fit the constraints of a multiverse of different DMCs and Resident Evils.
To simplify, I'm going to be distinguishing universes between different games and characters, i.e. one character comes from this universe and the other comes from a different one and experienced such-and-such game's events, etc.
Last but not least, put your expectations aside and read this with a clean slate. Do not walk into the story expecting Romance, or Yaoi, or twincest—you'll experience grave disappointment.
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Mission 01: Prologue
Nero walked his way home from school. The Fortuna school was homely and rather quaint, though it was one of only two on the island. His parents lived in an eastern house down by Old Providence, near a small inland lake. Fitting an abode such as theirs would be near to water; a thing the boy enjoyed on those hot, hot days. Their home beside the shore was small but seemly. It was a simple cottage that looked French in distinction, so his father said. The man was a stern disciplinarian and a lover of philosophy and history, while Nero knew his mother he knew to be a wonderful woman, sweet and kind. They often perfectly complimented one another, so the boy thought. Air of summer fell upon the island, its golden sun shining brightly on their quaint haven like dew from a carnation's red tips. It had been a nice day, a time for choosing what books to read, as there was little else to do beyond physical exercise and talking with friends, apart from exploring Fortuna's old infrastructure.
And for that reason of quaintness, Nero believed today to be just as normal as the last.
Walking home was no trouble unless he met certain children a year older. He pushed past those school bullies; didn't have time for them today. The twelve-year-old boy whisked himself down the lanes to his family abode. Today was special to him. His father would usually sit and read to him poems from William Blake. It was a treasured childhood memory they still occasionally practiced whenever Vergil was around at least. Sadly, the boy's father often felt distant. Their seminal haunts belied the fact his old man often traveled, and traveled widely, collecting old rare books such as the 'Hunter's Guidepost.'
But father would be home today, come back while he had been at school.
And that was a precious thing to him, confirmed as he stepped through the front door.
"Father!"
"Nero," the man said with warmth, and knelt down to hug his son.
"It's so good to see you!"
"Yes," he replied. "How was your day at school?"
"Well, not the best, but definitely better than yesterday."
"What happened yesterday?"
"Ah, I don't wanna talk about it."
Father looked at him with a stern glance. "What did we discuss about enunciating?"
The boy looked down with an 'aw-shuck' manner. "Always pronounce words fully."
"Precisely. Now, what happened yesterday?"
"Nothing."
The man scrutinized the boy from head to toe.
Just then, mother walked in.
"I told you, he just doesn't want to talk about it," she said as she hefted a wicker basket onto the kitchen counter behind them and called back to the boy, "Hi, sweetie!"
"Hey mom!"
Vergil grumbled, but noticed the boy's shoes were different.
"What happened to your shoes?"
"Huh?"
"Your shoes. They're different. What happened to the Nikes I brought for you?"
". . ."
His mother cut in, "Oh, um, nothing. It was just a minor incident. Boys being boys."
The man glanced back at her. "What did they do to his shoes?"
"Nothing," the boy repeated.
"Nero," the man spoke sternly as he soothed the boy's shoulder. "I always know when you're lying to me. Tell me what happened to your shoes."
". . . some classmates took them."
"And?"
". . . they cut them up."
The man drew a haggard sigh and took the boy close to him, arms sheltering his small child with a great big hug. "I'm sorry, Nero. I'll bring you new ones next time."
"It's okay. I think they'll just cut them up again, anyway."
"Nonsense," the man replied jovially, hand ruffling the kid's hair. "The next time they try, you'll take care of it, because I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself."
"Really?" the boy said, his eyes lighting up. "Awesome!"
"Oh, that's . . . great," the mother said.
"Run to your room, I'll be there in a moment, alright?"
"Yes, sir!" And the boy left for his quarters.
And he heard the woman sigh.
"What?"
"We talked about this."
"The boy's old enough, he's ready."
"You can't teach him how to beat up people, that isn't good for him."
"Should I do nothing while others take his belongings and vandalize them? He shouldn't live in fear."
The woman sighed. It had been their 4th time arguing about it. "So long as he doesn't become a bully himself, then fine."
"You have my word."
"Promise me?"
"I promise."
Emilia Reed was a case study in exceptionalism. She was first assistant librarian to the citizen's public library. Violet, star-flecked eyes, stared intently at his frigid blue, and she frowned. They were a pale sort together, her lightly tanned skin a deeper shade than his Viken white, and her loose-curled dark hair and sharp cheekbones contrasted well against his silver hair and rugged, punch-addled jawline. A remarkable specimen by any standard; they often looked at one another with an odd, emotionless fascination. A match made in heaven. A contention made in hell.
"All right. I'll start dinner. Dont be long," she said.
(*.*.*)
The devil's manner had changed remarkably and felt more controlled and confident than at any former time. In a fashion almost businesslike, he laid before the boy a pile of manuscript which he stated the boy must study. The familiar click of his feet on the ground as they warmed up in the backyard aided somewhat in dismissing the apprehensions of vague evil Emilia scorned, and Nero could almost smile at the recherche and terrific information comprised in his father's notes, which dealt mainly with formulae for the acquisition of unlawful power. Even so, beneath Vergil's reassurance, there was a vague, lingering disquietude that tore at the lady's heart indoors.
They sparred evenly for a while, child learning from his maker the eccentricities that made the man from the boy.
When Nero had tired, Vergil calmly raised a hand, "that's enough."
He took the boy inside, and Emilia shuttered the door locks closed.
A silent storm calmly breezed above.
"How was I?" the boy asked as he walked towards the couch and plopped himself down.
The man hesitated, but spoke, "It was your first time. Adequate, but you will need to be better."
"But I've got promise, right?"
"Right."
The boy smiled and spoke to himself, "yes!"
"Dinner!" Emilia called.
"Coming!" Nero said as he ran excitedly to the table.
Vergil walked in tow behind him. Rain pattered the windows and the overhead chandelier hung plainly over the oak dinner table. Beside them, the fireplace crackled warmly. She already had set the table. Rack of lamb for dinner. Juicy and finely cooked. She cut as much meat off the bone as possible for Nero, who disliked the traditional style. They said grace and prepared to eat when a mysterious thunder clapped across the sky, unusually violent, one which Vergil noted could not have been made by the calm storm above.
Thunder again, this time shaking the entire house. The flame in the hearth went out. A monster's horrid growl rattled low, muffled outside.
"What's happening?" Nero asked.
"I do not know," the slayer replied, and paced towards the door as he heard many footsteps. Many, many footsteps.
"Is it—" she began.
"Yes," the slayer replied. "Demons."
Vergil held out his hand and within his grasp appeared his blade, a Katana of a certain craft that glowed for a moment before the fine work came concretely. Yamato. He held it close by his side, near his dark jacket as he tightened his vest and prepared to step outside the doors. He pushed open to his front porch and closed the wood behind him. There surrounded the house evil beings of black uncreation. They were gray-skinned and eyeless, hulking creatures with horns, red-tinged saliva dripping from their black-toothed jaws.
The dusty sand path was brown and damp, occupied by the creatures swarming for him. And they pounced.
The slayer took to his blade and slashed the air, violent particles breaking like tsunamis across their lunging skin. That took down a majority of what he saw, but there was more, plenty more. Whips cracked once, reverberating all around him. A man's cries bayed through the darkness of the land. Power crumbled before him, slashing at flesh, perforating creatures as kicked and beat and cut and sliced, but death spared no expense. The creatures bit back just as fiercely, leaving his arms and his leg bleeding badly, and when he thought he'd beaten back their forces, more came still.
He cut them down, masterly as a samurai, tearing demon flesh apart with the lashing of his blade, sending orbs of hate and summoned swords like missiles.
And still monsters rose and lunged, cutting into him, battering his body till his regeneration nearly could not stand to take much more.
Then, another man in black came and he ended the stalemate. Boot crashed into Vergil's chest and sent him rocketing against the frame of his own house.
He pulled himself to his feet, breath rendered hoarse and terrible.
"Who are you?"
"You're a hard man to find, Vergil. You're a long way from home."
"Who are you!" he demanded.
"I am," the man chuckled, running his fingers through slick blond hair. "I am Wesker."
"What do you want?"
"Oh, you already know the answer to that."
"Whatever you seek, I do not have it."
"Don't play games now, Vergilius. I want the Grimoire of Apollyon."
That silenced the man. The Grimoire was a tome of ancient power. Terrible, terrible power. Mysterious and evil, ancient as the tides of old darkness. For the man to be seeking such a thing; power beyond reason. Apollyon's lifeblood, Gehenna's black savior. Twisting and corrupting. The purity of malice in Wesker's voice told Vergil all he needed to know, and he resolved his steel, warning the stranger that with might he would drive him back.
"I do not have it."
The man smiled and chuckled a foul laughter.
In a blur, he vanished, and suddenly Vergil became smashed against his home, wood logs splintering as the invader growled, "Yes you do."
And he threw the man back against the weakened wall into his own home. The ceiling drooped at the loss, but the structure stayed standing. And that was when Nero struck. He bashed his wooden sword against the stranger and saw it splinter against him, unmoved by his effort. The man in black looked at him, head turned up in fascination. And then he smiled as he saw the family resemblance. Katana drove forth into the man's chest as Vergil growled. Demonic power triggered, but it was no use. The stranger's eyes grew scarlet, and he grasped the wrist of the slayer. With one forward push, his other hand punch through the devil's stomach and sent him racked against the wall.
"Weak," the man said. And he looked at the cowering boy. "I think we should get to know one another, boy."
In an instant, he grasped Nero by the throat and held him over himself.
"Wait!" he heard the slayer say. "Let him go!"
"Give me the Grimoire, and I won't snap his neck," Wesker said.
Hesitation wracked the man with silver hair.
Wesker's grip tightened.
Though it pained the slayer to do so, he revealed the Grimoire to the man, appearing within his free hand a black and silver thing, bound in old Gothic fashion, screaming skull transfixed upon its cover. He held it before the invader, and with a grin, they took it and kept hold of the boy as they examined the book. It was indeed the genuine article. He threw Nero aside and walked out into the night air. Vergil lunged for the boy, leaping over his table to catch his son. He crashed down on the floor and felt the power of the book emerge. The man was reading from it those terrible words, summoning with that crooked conviction its horrid power.
Vergil ran from his house and charged at the man, screaming in pain then when the crushing brutality of his demonic minions overcame him and held him to the ground.
"Stop!" he shouted.
But the man kept reading.
"Stop!" he growled through pained breaths as the claws scraped through him.
Still, the man kept on his recital.
The sky filled with luminescence not of the moon's luster, but of a brilliant array of many colors out of space, and soon the surroundings changed, becoming a vast desert soaked with grief and torrential trains as their house left Fortuna behind. Pyramids of Horus stood in the distance, constructed in vast configurations far more grandiose than the slate of Egypt, and the bright lights in the sky became a swirling void as Wesker continued to read. Emilia held onto Nero as the house violently trembled. The boy felt a pain in his right arm. Children, rendered savage and blind, crawled from holes across the dust bowl. The weeping man hung crucified from a giant wood post in the shape of the southern cross.
He bristled and cried out for no man's sky, feeling the loss of innocence a horrible mark of the wicked.
Vergil focused on his blade, still stuck within the man's chest, and summoned his demonic wrath. An explosion tore apart the creatures that held him down, and from the wreckage he stood, majesty in his stance as the blade wrenched itself free mid-verse and left the man in black in horror; his torso severed from his abdomen up to his collarbone. The blade came to Vergil's grasp, and he struck at the book, but met resistance as he drove the steel down.
He pushed on and on. Reality fractured around them.
Flying snakes swallowed light in the sky, and in the dark void above came a rapturous flow of golden lifeblood.
One body to rule all.
And then, release.
All kingdoms stronger beyond obliterated, and the boy saw a universe streak across him as he rose and ran from his mother's side toward his father, Yamato fractured in two by the Grimoire's destruction; the fabric of all he knew tearing asunder, and a bright rainbow enveloping all he saw, carrying him, carrying him off to somewhere else—he was not him—he had no body, no blood, no bones; he was but a thought. His father himself had no existence; he was but a dream—your dream, a creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me. I am perishing already; I am failing; I am passing away.
In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever—for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams in that gloaming feeling, and better!
(*.*.*)
Dante stepped up his office steps, Trish not far behind.
"I can't believe we actually killed them in five minutes!" she said. She was quite the beauty, a natural blonde that stood 5'10 to his 6'3. Even taller with heels. That body was a killer; hourglass and black combat leather, twin pistols on sinful-round hips and a giant crimson broadsword shaped like a crescent on her back. The legendary devil sword Sparda, birthed from the Force Edge and the uniting of twin amulets.
"I told you it was more than enough," Dante replied with a grin and grasped his door knob. He was a tall one, wearing a red long coat and a black shirt beneath a suit vest; red pants, black holsters and black boots on his legs, black full-fingered gloves on his hands; and an electric sword on his back. His powerful jaw and ideal nose spoke of his borderline sadistic, rugged elegance. The light above his front archway caught his frigid sapphire eyes, held beneath a canopy of snow white bangs. Long cheeks filled out his robust face. Good for taking punches. He had on him his own blade and pistols, an electrified broadsword known as Alastor, which sprung forth from a dragon's winged maw designed as the hilt.
"I tell ya what, though," the man replied. "After all that, I'm jonesin' for a slice. You down for pizza again?"
"I'd really like to eat something else this time, if that's alright with you," she said sardonically and he laughed.
And then a bright light cracked the sky open.
"What the—" was all Dante had time to say as the light spat out an object that crashed through his concrete ceiling and burst the glass of his windows.
He burst through and saw black smoldering fumes raise from the smokey hole pillared in his recently restored business.
"God damn it, I just had this place fixed," he said.
And then his face went pale as he saw a young boy lying in the crater on his hard-wood floor, bleeding and unconscious. His right arm was a glowing blue thing, freshly scaled and demonic, and yet that face seemed to be troubled by emotion, much more quaint than anything a devil could conjure. Emotion of loss and pain, this despite the boy's lack of wakefulness. His silver hair struck Dante oddly, the same as his own. But those clothes spoke of a unique culture, something vastly different from the inner-city, what smoldering scraps remained of them.
Trish stared, both her and the hunter wide-eyed in silence till she finally said, ". . . someone you know?"
To Be Continued