Brother Never Cry
Summary: My take on how Vergil becomes bad, Dante becomes responsible, how the events of DMC3 transpired. Ignores DMC1 completely due to ignorance of the game.
Disclaimer: Capcom owns everything I'm writing about except the plot and the weird wax demons.
A Word From the Author: Nuthin' much to say, really…
Thanks to:
zeroray: Try a plot pyramid. Hey, anything that works, right?
Laylah: That must have been gross. Experiencing the 'wax-like, putrid stench', I mean (lol). You're welcome!
Sessol Seeker: Thanks for the long description, though I did know most of it except the more intricate details and the fact that Eva died so early…but then, if I had stuck to the DMC1 storyline, I wouldn't have a story, as you will see.
CrazyParty: Then I apologize, though the plagiarizing was completely unintentional, and pretty much impossible since I haven't read any of your stories.
ShadesOfBlood: Cliffies are good. (hums cheerfully)
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Chapter Four: Threads Unraveling
"Vergil?" Dante's hesitant voice came tentatively through the crack of his brother's room. He felt terrible. There had been a time (was it just yesterday? Felt like eons…) when he would have just burst through, to his brother's amused annoyance, but something—perhaps the empty, cadaverous look on Vergil's face when he had finally returned late in the morning after their mother's death—told him that his twin wouldn't tolerate anything cheeky at the moment.
There was a short, unreadable pause that stretched out into eternity as Dante waited, fidgeting. At last there was a creak, soft steps, and the door was pulled open from within. Dante pulled back slightly at the sight of his brother. It had been ten hours since the horrible discovery that had changed their lives forever, but his clothes were still splattered in demon gore, normally slicked back hair falling in disarray over his eyes. In short, he didn't look like Vergil at all. Dante swallowed a sudden sick feeling in his throat and asked quietly, wincing at the unfamiliar awkwardness in the air, "Um…hey. You up for the funeral? It's…tonight."
Vergil sighed and looked away. "No thanks. I'm just going to stay here and wallow in my own misery. I can't stand any company right now." He looked pointedly at his brother. Dante got the hint, but was not going to back down so easily.
"I want to talk to you," Dante said forcefully, pushing past Vergil despite the sudden narrowing of his brother's eyes—a sure sign that Vergil wasn't just angry, he was seriously pissed off. Vergil followed Dante into his room and slammed the door hard behind him. Dante, in the process of seating himself on the room's only chair at a desk at the window, grimaced at the loud noise. This was bad, all right, for Vergil to lose control like that.
"So. Talk," Vergil said without preamble, throwing himself on his bed and staring at the ceiling. Dante attempted to make himself more comfortable, but it was impossible to do so in the atmosphere, grown so thick with unspoken words that he could have cut it with a sword.
"They've been caught," he blurted out.
"Who?" Vergil tensed slightly.
"Them. The people who…k-killed Mother…" Dante got the words out with difficulty, owing to the sudden lump in his throat. When Vergil remained silent, Dante took that as a signal to continue, "The police just called. Didn't you hear the phone?"
Vergil lifted his shoulders in the universal 'I don't care' expression, which he pulled off remarkably well considering that he was currently horizontal. Dante did his best to ignore that. "Yeah, well, it was weird. They just popped up on the steps of the station and confessed…the fingerprints on the doorframe matched theirs, so the police have them under custody…"
Vergil continued his dumb act. He could have been a dummy lying there for all the sound he was making. Suddenly angry, Dante got to his feet and shook his brother. Vergil's eyes flew open wide; he looked almost comically surprised as Dante screamed in his face, "Stop it! Stop acting as though you don't care! Because you do care about Mother, she wouldn't have wanted you to be like this—"
The older twin held still for a moment, then shoved Dante away. He stumbled back and fell against the table as Vergil loomed over him, rage in every line of his face. "Shut up! What would you know what she would have wanted? It was your fault she died!" he yelled, face taut as though struggling to contain his emotions. Dante froze, shocked, as he stared into the crazed eyes of his brother and felt something he had never sensed before: fear.
"You…blame me?" he asked in a pitiful whisper.
"Yes," Vergil hissed. "If you hadn't gotten yourself into trouble—again—I would have been at home—I could have helped her—damnit, she didn't need to die!" His eyes bored mercilessly into Dante's, every word he uttered tore a piece of Dante's soul away. The younger twin sagged against the table, his lips barely moving as he murmured, "I didn't know, Verg…"
The older twin snarled wordlessly. The sound of his stomping footsteps trailed away, ending with a slam that rattled Dante's eardrums. Dante sank to the floor, listening to the empty silence that echoed with his brother's hurtful words.
He didn't think it could get much worse, but it would.
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Later, more composed, Dante arrived at the police station. It was gray and soggy, suiting his mood perfectly, which didn't make him feel much better. Dressed in a black windbreaker over a long-sleeved shirt tucked into flaring trousers, he listened moodily as the Spardas' lawyer, a family friend, recited to him a list of the procedures he had to follow in the trial.
"Look, I don't need to tell you that this case is a little odd," said the middle-aged man, whose name was Jeremy Burgess. He looked gray and tired, and there were lines in his face. "Criminals, they usually flee from the police, not go back to them and own up. These guys could escape with the manslaughter charge 'cos of that and just get slapped with life imprisonment."
Dante scowled. "They did this to my mother. I'm not letting them get away alive."
"Well…" Burgess said uneasily. "Looks like those nutters have a good chance of doing just that." He swiveled the file in his hand towards Dante. Dante leaned forward to read it; the page showed particulars for two ordinary-looking men, one burly and bearded, the other thin and mustached. Neither man looked much like murderers, or murderers of Dante's mother for that matter, but they were.
"Harold Trotters, Kenneth Dawson." Burgess said, waving a meaty hand at the younger man. "Homeless, unemployed, with mouths to feed—desperate. They claim that the killing of your mother was accidental, and that the robbery itself was unplanned. In that case…" Burgess sighed. "These men weren't criminals, Dante. I understand how you feel, but they committed a crime out of sheer hopelessness, not out of vice, or greed, or anything that can be defined as evil."
Dante remained silent. Then he said, very softly, "I know. But it doesn't make me hate them any less. I'll see you later, okay?"
"I'm very sorry, Dante," the lawyer said gently.
The other man did not reply. Donning his jacket again, he headed back into the foggy day, with no clear thoughts where to go.
Home was definitely out; he could not live within its walls without seeing the ghost of Eva roam around, talking, laughing, and thus suffering. Not to mention he was afraid of meeting Vergil later. It pained him to feel such a way about his brother, and he hoped that once Vergil recovered from the hurt, he would forgive him. Nevertheless, Dante knew deep down that their relationship would never be the same again.
Hermissa, he thought blankly. His girlfriend. Right now, he was in need of some serious comforting. His confused thoughts clamed down somewhat by having a defined direction to go, he shrugged his shoulders deeper into his jacket and trudged down the street.
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Footsteps.
Burgess looked up from his files, still preoccupied with the expression on Dante's face; guilty, pained, vengeful. He glanced absently outside in the direction where the youngest Sparda had disappeared, then blinked as he thought he caught a glimpse of white hair. Hadn't Dante left ten minutes ago?
He blinked, and the flash was gone. Shrugging, he bent back to his work.
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It was raining again, as it had the night she had died.
Sheets of rain hurtled downward towards earth, shredding the fog and drenching the heads of the small group of people huddling miserably around the grave. In her previous life as a mortal, before Sparda had changed her life, Eva had been a woman of the cloth, and the church held many fond memories for her. Thus, in her will, she had requested for her body to be buried here, in the backyard of the small Catholic church, the greenery already dotted with numerous white crosses.
Eva did not have many friends; the Sparda family had done their utmost to prevent their secret being discovered, and consequently had adopted a secretive and reserved demeanor, a tactic that earned themselves the label of 'anti-social'. However, what few she did have had roused themselves to suffer the horrible weather to watch Eva's coffin being lowered into the muddy ground, her grave already filling with water. A portly clergyman awkwardly stuttered out a eulogy before diving for the shelter of the church, while a few adults murmured condolences, clumsily patting Dante's arm. The white-haired youth endured this in silence, bleakly wondering where Vergil was.
He should be here, he thought, the rain disguising the few tears that pooled maddeningly in his eyes. He blinked them away with a supreme will of effort. Eva's circle of friends had already began to leave, uncomfortable in the midst of tragedy, leaving only Dante and Hermissa. The girl had not known Eva very well, but for Dante's sake she had come. Now she gently pushed sodden hair out of Dante's face and slipped her arms around his neck. She didn't say anything, but her large doe eyes told Dante that she would be there for him always.
He didn't say anything either. Just lowered his face into her fragrant hair, his heart aching, and let himself bask in her warmth, a sharp contrast to the frozen void inside himself. He had told her everything, even about Vergil. (Though not about the wax thingies, for obvious reasons.)
After a while, he said, "This is all my fault."
"How could it be?" she asked, compassion in her voice. Dante had told her that he had gotten into a fight and Vergil had arrived to bail him out, thus causing both of them to be absent at home when their presence might have saved Eva. Close enough to the truth, at any rate. "You loved your mother…you wouldn't have let anything happen to her…"
"Vergil said…"
"He was upset, he didn't mean it," Hermissa said firmly. "If you're worried about him, you can come to my house. We're going to catch pneumonia if we stand here any longer…"
You didn't see the look in his eyes, Dante thought sadly. He meant it, all right. Not wanting to argue, he sighed and acquiesced. "Sure. Thanks so much for everything, Hermissa." He hesitated, added, "I love you." The words sounded awkward on his tongue; he had never been any good at expressing himself. Hermissa blinked in surprise, then a smile spread slowly over her face. "Me too."
Hands clasped, the wet couple walked slowly from the graveyard. It was a ten-minute walk to her home, a very nice terrace with a small garden in the front yard. Both of them entered the warm, snug house gratefully, where Hermissa's mother, a petite woman of middling years, clucked in sympathy and gave them towels to dry themselves. To tell the truth, she had never been rather approving of Dante, but one look at the young man's woebegone expression melted her heart. After all, he had just lost his mother. Promising to make them a cup of hot chocolate each, she bustled off to the kitchen.
The two were just sharing a comfortable silence when Dante's cell phone rang shrilly, making them jump. Hastily, Dante fumbled in his pockets, his wet hands making his grip slippery, and got it out. He checked the number on the screen, hoping against hope that it would be Vergil, and his heart plummeted when he saw the number. It was from Burgess. Dante did not want to be reminded of their less than cheering conversation earlier that day. Sighing, he was about to snap it shut and ignore the call when it occurred to him that the lawyer might have some important information for him. Screw him. He shoved the phone back into his pocket as Hermissa's mother reentered with a tray.
"Thanks, Mrs. Harris," Dante smiled weakly as the woman set two steaming mugs in front of them.
"It was nothing, dear," she said kindly, patting his shoulder in sympathy. "Drink up while it's still warm." As she headed back to the kitchen, Dante turned to Hermissa and said almost bitterly, "You're so damn lucky. So was I…and I never realized it before."
The girl did not reply.
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An hour later, after refusing Mrs. Harris' offer to stay for dinner with some reluctance, Dante went back home. The rain had slowed to a slight drizzle, and tiny droplets clung to his clothes like silver gems. Dread dragging his footsteps, he looked at his brownstone and wondered glumly if Vergil was at home, and whether he was going to throw another fit. With a sudden sense of alienation, he realized that it did not feel like home anymore.
I think I'll move out of here.
As Dante moved towards the front door, a dark shape hurtled at him out of the night. Dante let out a startled gasp just as the blurry features of the figure resolved themselves into that of Jeremy Burgess. "Jim, you scared the hell out of me!" the young man sputtered, slumping as his adrenaline spiked.
The lawyer seized his arm in an iron grip. "Dante, why the hell didn't you answer your phone earlier? It was urgent!" the man demanded.
"Jesus, man, my mother just died and you're asking me that?" Dante flared at the lawyer's accusatory tone.
Burgess' face softened and he let go of Dante. "I'm sorry, it's just that…" the man was silent, then spoke in a rush. "There will be no trial."
"What! You'll telling me that those bastards are gonna be released?"
"Well…they have been released, in a way." Shifting uneasily under Dante's death glare, the lawyer elaborated. "Somewhere between this afternoon and night, those two men were attacked by something in their cell. They're dead, and dead men can't be tried."
"Something attacked them?" Dante echoed in disbelief. "What exactly?"
The lawyer raised troubled eyes to Dante's visage. "...We don't know." He took a deep breath. "Those men, they were…they were ripped to pieces."
"By what?" A chainsaw? A wild animal?" Dante almost howled. "How could either of that get into their cell?"
"The clincher is that…" Burgess winced. "You, and your brother, definitely had the strongest motive…both of you are right smack on the top of the list of suspects."
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Author's Ending Note: 20/8/05: Okay, I kept my promise. It isn't the end of August yet. Unfortunately, from now on, I'll have some trouble updating because end-of-year exams are looming on the horizon. Expect to see the next update coming your way in November. Cheerio.
Yours, T. Axile.
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