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, the weird wax demons and assorted OCs.
A Word From the Author: 31/8/05: Today's the day-before-Teachers'-Day holiday, so I figured I ought to make an attempt at churning out the fifth chapter. Hopefully I'll be able to post it up by tomorrow…and if so this will be the absolutely LAST post I'll make before November.
Thanks to:
zeroray: Glad you like it! I certainly will (keep up the good work, that is) in response to such encouragement. How's your own fic going?
Pyromanica: Keep the reviews coming and I'll write even better!
Seeker: Nah, it's alright, I really appreciate it. Anyway, I would say that this is the chapter you're looking for. Truthfully, this story is already drawing near to an end. According to my drafts, maybe only one or two chapters left…
Laylah: The wax nasties deserve only one chapter. I actually only created them for the purpose of, you know. Anyway, I'll be waiting for your update. 'Mazing story you've got there, you've converted me into a VXL believer. (While not a fan, I can now believe in the possibility.)
ShadesOfBlood: Great you feel that way :)
SaiyAsianMaki: Yeah, they sure do…great minds do think alike, hee.
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Chapter Five: Playing With Fire
It was dark.
Here, the blackness was cold and oppressive, lifted only at intervals only by bright points of dancing flames that, at closer glance, formed a broad pentagon that nearly filled the whole room. It was seemingly empty save for the tall man who stood at a corner in much smaller circle. In his hand was a book, but the man seemed to have no need for it. His eyes were closed and he was murmuring harsh, guttural words that resounded in the enclosed chamber. They were chill and whispered of dark imaginings; made the listener think of the far away time when light had yet to fill the universe and the demons ruled supreme. Before Genesis, when God had said, "Let there be light." Before humans had come into the equation.
For they were old, these devils—not demon-spawn which had been formed of wild magic and dark spells. They had been there since the timeless eternity before the first day and would be there when the sun was sundered and the Earth dead and frozen. They could never be destroyed; they were the whispers of temptation that made the husband kill his wife, the feather rape his daughter, the two friends murder each other. Humans gave them a name: 'Satan'. For centuries they and the light had been locked in a struggle for dominance. So far, neither had won. Perhaps they were never meant to.
He had known, since he was a young man in the clergy, that there was where the power lay, power he intended to harness. As a priest, he had coolly, with the analytic detachment of a scientist, studied the hearts and minds of his future enemies, as he foresaw. He could be very charming when he wanted to—the charm of an adder—and it was in those years he married his wife. Not for love, but for her heritage. She had loved him, imagined he loved her. He had let her believe in the lie, until the end, when she had become ill and nearly thwarted his plans. But she served her purpose. Before her death, she bore him—a baby girl.
The man opened his eyes. They shone through the darkness with eerie luminescence. He had waited, patiently, and now the little girl was grown up, and so were the sons of Sparda. His plan, long thought out, could be put into action. He had little doubt it would succeed, for his strategy had been honed and perfected by years of doing little else but brood over his ambition that burned before his eyes like a star. It was just beyond his reach now, but very soon…
In the pentagon, the fire flickered and nearly went out, but soon calmed and burned sullenly. An unnatural darkness shrouded the chamber, almost engulfing the blazing candles, and in the center of the pentagon indistinct shapes spun into existence. The man waited, as he trained himself to do over the years, and eventually, the darkness coalesced into two shapeless outlines that flickered as though unreal and constantly shifted shape and position. The man was not impressed by their pathetic attempts to try to intimidate their master.
One of them spoke, mind ti mind. He let them, vaguely amused and curious as to what the spawn were thinking. Master, we have killed the woman for you…set us free… one moaned in what was his opinion a whiny 'voice'.
…you promised… chimed in the other one.
The man's smile tightened at the last comment, and he intoned a word. The two shadow creatures he controlled screamed and writhed as the spell of pain took effect. Unruffled by the echoing shrieks that assaulted his brain, he addressed them blithely, "Remember…you do as I say. Always." He paused for effect. "Don't presume to order me around, or you could end up worse next time. Understood?"
…Yes, Master! Please…stop it…we shall obey…
He let them contort about a moment longer before he lowered his hand, releasing them from the curse. "See that it remains so. As it is, I have one last task for you."
We serve you, Master. Speak your will.
He told them. For a moment, both specters began thrashing in agitation, but sensing his steely eyes on them, they stilled. He smiled, dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. "You may go." He did not add that he did not expect them to come back. Their purpose was served, they could rot in hell for all he cared. When they were finally, reluctantly off on their task, he stepped out of the circle.
Absently, his thoughts drifted to his daughter. Now, that was a face he had not seen in years, ever since she had called him a bastard and walked out when she was nineteen. No matter. He would see her as early as next year. Once she heard about what he was doing (from a convenient source provided by him) she would rush over here faster than a horny tom on a tabby. It was amazing how terribly predictable she could be.
He smiled to himself in the darkness. Suddenly, he found it extremely ironic that he had named his daughter after the woman who had given birth to a savior of man when she would bring about the end of humanity.
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(…a couple hours before…)
The cell door was tested, then ripped off its hinges. His shadow loomed large over the two men who looked up, startled, from their sleep and blanched at the look on his face.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the stockier one, his wide eyes straying back and forth between the intruder and the stolid door, crumpled up like a piece of paper and lying against the wall. The visitor took no notice and stepped further within. His lip curled in a sneer. "So…" he said, almost as if her was talking to himself, "Here you are. Trapped like rats in a hole." His voice was well modulated and mellifluous, but his eyes were dark, narrowed. Deranged.
The skinnier one noticed first. Unlike his companion, he did not stick around to talk, but let out a squeak of sudden terror and bolted for the now unbarred exit. The visitor's hand moved, quick as lightning, and the prisoner was squirming frantically in an iron grip. The other man backed away, mouth opening to call for help…
A cerulean glow filled the little room, bringing to mind the blue of frozen lips, stark winter skies, and deep, impenetrable oceans. The stones vibrated, as though they too feared, as the men cowered before the visitor as his mouth peeled back in a snarl. He lurched forward—
"NO!"
Tortured screaming…boots pounding up the steps…
Then, there was silence.
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(…present…)
Dante pushed open the door to the house slowly, Burgess' words still ringing in his head. Would this insanity never end? The youth suddenly felt a flash of resentment against his mother for dying…her death had released an avalanche of events that was rapidly spiraling out of control. He quickly shook his head to dismiss the ridiculous thoughts from his mind.
"…Vergil…?" he said hesitantly into the cold silence of the house.
For a moment, only the sound of the clock chiming out the hour broke the heavy stillness. Dante sighed, his shoulders slumped. He slowly wended his way through the living room and up the stairs. Halfway, he paused, cocked his head curiously to one side, as though to hear something.
The reverberation of breaking glass shattered whatever illusion of tranquility the house might have had. Jolted into action, Dante ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The crash had come from the direction of their rooms, and unhesitating he headed towards them. Finding that his room was fine, he turned towards Vergil's. The door was locked. Worry and fear for his twin knotted his heart tightly. Without thinking of the consequences, Dante smashed the door inwards, splinters driving themselves painfully into his curled fist. The door swung inward, and he followed it, skidding to a halt at the sight that met his eyes.
"Vergil!"
The older twin lay face down, his prone form outlined from behind by the brightly burning orange streetlamps that beamed through the window. Most of the glass had relocated themselves to various positions on the floor and below Vergil, with only a few shards still holding on tenaciously to the frame. At the moment, Dante didn't care; the only thing that mattered was Vergil, and the ugly red stain on the floor where Vergil had slid before coming to a stop.
Dante crouched before his brother, terror making his mind numb. What would happen to him if he lost his brother? Dante foresaw days of bitter loneliness, without family, and eventual despair, and its near reality frightened him, when his brother was so silent and still before him.
"Vergil," he said again, pain lodging in his throat. His brother moaned and stirred, but remained sunken in his unconsciousness. He gently pushed a few strands of white hair out of Vergil's face, still pressed firmly to the floorboards, and gingerly turned him over. Dante wasn't sure what he expected to find…horrible, gaping wounds, perhaps, but aside from a few deep cuts on his face and torso, where the clothing had been ripped away by…claws…?…he seemed whole enough that the huge amount of blood soaked into his clothing was completely unjustified. Vergil was literally splattered in the stuff. Dried patches clung to his jawline, his eyelashes were clogged with blood. Even his hair had become a becoming shade of light pink.
Dante sat back onto his heels and blew a breath, relieved to find that Vergil was fine. Now that his concerns had vaporized, though, new, disturbing suspicions took their places. How the hell had Vergil come through the window? Thrown through? Flown through? Dante was about to laugh at the utter absurdity of the thought when he was suddenly reminded of the fact that he and Vergil were far from ordinary people. Sparda was a devil. He had wings. And he sure had some powers, or he wouldn't be legendary.
And they were his sons.
His legacy. His…inheritance.
Dante's eyes went wide and he shook his head in denial. No, it couldn't be. Not Vergil. Confused memories of happier times came to him—mock pillow fights, sparring with wooden swords, eating chocolate cake on their birthday, a lifetime of shared secrets and brotherly love. Then his wandering thoughts took a darker path. Hurting words. Cold eyes. His brother's back as he walked away. And now this, lying on the floor in a pool of blood that was not his. Dante looked upon the figure stretched out before him and it was as though he was gazing upon a stranger. Longing for simpler, uncomplicated times filled him suddenly, causing his eyes to sting painfully.
His own words, and Burgess', came back to him, spoken rashly and without thought, less than an hour before.
"Those men, they were…they were ripped to pieces."
"By what? A chainsaw? A wild animal? How could either of that get into their cell?"
"You and your brother…are right smack on the top of the list of suspects."
Dante, slowly and surely, began to believe.
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He was flying…it was glorious. The feel of the wind whipping against his body, the sheer power of it all…it intoxicated him, made him dizzy.
"I wish I could fly like that, mummy!" The little boy ran onto the porch, eyes bright with pleasure and longing as he pointed at the sparrows winging across the sky.
Eva came up behind him, stroked his hair. He felt his mother's arms encircle him. "One day you will, darling," she assured him softly. She smelt of hazel and something warm and indefinite. Vergil loved that smell and he loved his mother.
"Really?" he asked with childish innocence.
Eva laughed. "You're a very special little boy, Vergil." He thought he saw her eyes grow sad but he didn't understand. "When you grow up, you'll know."
Vergil pouted. "You're always saying that."
Eva smiled slightly. "Maybe because it's true." She tickled the little boy. "It's getting late, let's get back inside before Dante finishes off all the cookies."
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Vergil slowly woke up. His head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton wool and it made him feel irritable. Slowly he planted his arms and pushed himself upright so as not to aggravate his aching head.
You're awake," said a voice flatly.
Vergil started and wheeled around so fast his head spun. Barely keeping his insides in check, he fixed his patented cold stare on his brother, whose voice was flat and devoid of the usual pathetic pleading tone that had replaced his previous sardonic humor. Vergil felt resentful at the fact that he had let Dante catch him at a weak moment. The emotion only surprised him a little. Dante had caused Eva's death, and that was enough to condemn him in Vergil's eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked rudely. His attitude jolted no more emotion out of Dante than before, though it did receive a response, a cool one that could have come from Vergil himself, at that, "This is my house too, you know."
Vergil successfully attained a stable position and for a moment the brothers stared hatefully at each other. Suddenly, Dante spoke. His voice was shaking, not from sorrow, Vergil was surprised to note, but from rage. His little brother was growing up at last.
"You killed them. Didn't you?"
Vergil smirked and tilted his head to one side. "Of course. I couldn't let my mother's murderers go unpunished, could I?"
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Author's Ending Note: 31/8/05: Whew! Finished same day, in two hours of supreme effort and to the accompaniment of 'The Riddler' and 'Sleeping Sun' by Nightwish. Anyway, hope you guys liked the latest installment, and that nobody was too offended by the religious stuff (you guys should have realized by now that I'm a Christian) and my assumption that you-know-who was a priest (I always thought so cos of that book he was always lugging around and quoting 'verses' from, maybe it's a demonic version of the Bible). Goodbye to everyone until November.
T. Axile.
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