Dante was not a man that went about his business unprepared. If anything, in contrast to popular belief, if his plan A did not work – shoot until it moves – he always had a plan B, C, occasionally even D up his sleeve. Come hell or high water, demon kings, crazed mages, zombies, or zombified helicopters. And since they usually did, he learned the significance of being prepared, even if generally the guns solved most issues. If they didn't, there was always Rebellion.

But what the morning brought him left him slightly baffled with a healthy amount of shock served as side. In short, he was not prepared for that.

To start with, mornings were never his favourite part of the day, therefore when the doorbell rang – who knew it still worked, after the numerous beatings it got, and to think that there was someone who actually bothered with it? – he contemplated for a minute whether he should just throw the chair that stood on the opposite side of the room out through the window and be done with it.

Deciding that if it was, in fact, someone looking for help, the toilet, or maybe the neighbour, it would not prove to be the preferable course of action, he peeked outside.

Not that it helped. Whoever it was, wrapped himself in a large brown cloak from head to toe, and the direction of the view made it impossible to see the face itself.

The doorbell rang again, then once more, for good measure.

"Don't get your panties in a twist," he said to no one in particular as he yanked his trousers and the well-worn boots on. He'd have to buy a new pair sometime.

The mystery visitor seemingly decided at that moment that he had enough. Dante heard the hinges of the entry door creak under the strain of the banging.

Not good. At this rate, a replacement would be coming on fast, and that was not among his planned expenses for the month.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," he said, turning the lock, "What seems to be…"

His voice got stuck in his throat. His early morning visitor gave him a levelled cool glance, that could have frozen anyone else in place. One could maybe have called it even dignified, but it was all put off by the sheathed sword in his hand, raised to be brought down again on the door.

"Vergil."

"Dante."

"What a pleasant surprise." He crossed his arms and fixed himself in the middle of the entrance, standing immovable like a statue. "Little known fact, you can use your hands to knock. What brings you here?"

"Wouldn't courtesy dictate that you invite your brother in?"

"Hah – nah. Brothers and vampires don't get invites. What's with the getup, anyway?"

As if on cue, the brown cloth started moving around. A tiny hand grabbed the edge after a few attempts and pulled it away to reveal the slightly flushed face of a young boy. He looked to be no older than five. He was sporting a familiar sour expression that looked funny on such a young kid. And the hair...His hair was silver.

The boy turned to Vergil and pulled on his coat.

"Where are we?" he asked in a whisper.

"That's your uncle Dante. He'll be taking care of you."

That was all it took for Dante to shake off the stupor. His hand sprang upwards, pointing his palm towards Vergil's hand.

"Hol' up. Who is the kid?"

"He is…" If Dante didn't know any better, he would have thought that his brother, who survived so many years among demons, mercenaries, and other sort of lowlifes, was flustered. The same man who killed most of those demons, mercenaries, and lowlifes. "He is my son."

"Ha," he forced out a chuckle as he shook his finger at the man, "Almost had me. Almost."

"I tell no lies. Not to you."

"Are you kidding? Have you forgotten about your entire stint as Gilver?"

"What about turning over that new leaf you talked about? Let bygones be bygones?"

"Whatever," Dante said, running a hand through his hair in exasperation, "So what is it you want, exactly?"

"Take him," his twin answered without hesitation.

"No."

Vergil gritted his teeth. The younger twin could see his eyes bulge slightly, with the veins standing out on the neck of his skin as he forced out the next word.

"Please."

"Let me think about it. No."

"I can't take care of him."

"Can't or won't?" Vergil did not answer. Dante sighed, "Serves you right. Ever heard of protection? Or do you want to have the talk now."

"I was…"

"I am not interested in the details!" the slayer exclaimed, throwing up his hands quickly, before his brother could get into any of the juicier details. "But if you were, then you got swindled, brother. Look, I can offer you a place to stay. Got a couple of extra rooms upstairs. On the condition that there is no fighting or attempt at murder inside the building."

"That is rather specific."

"Necessary caution. It's quite enough when someone's demons for hire mess up the place."

"I believe I already apologised for that."

"That's not how apologies work, Vergil." They were looking at each other like wolves about to fight for dominance would. "Another condition – you need to take care of your son. I got a business to run, and it's not called daycare. If you had any other plans, I suggest you take him back to where you brought him from. Might be better for him to grow up in a family. A normal one."

Dante could not help but notice with a pang of guilt that hearing his suggestion, the boy hugged his stuffed tiger closer to his chest. Whether it was because he wanted to go back or the opposite, his face did not say.

"His mother cast him off or died, I know not," Vergil's voice was strangely soft, but did not lose its proud edge, "And as a carrier of our father's blood, the family that took him in would have been in mortal danger once his heritage is inevitably discovered. Something you told me I should care about?"

Well, he got him there. Even if he did believe that it would benefit the kid more to be raised by a human family, if any of the devils running amok in the world caught even a whiff of his existence, the same people would be good as dead.

Their father's blood. A blessing and a curse, especially for one so young.

Neither seemed to notice as the boy slipped from Vergil's grip and walked past Dante.

"You should not care about things because I tell you to, but because it's the right thing to do. What's his name?"

"Nero."

"Good enough name. Slightly pyromaniac, but nothing is perfect. The question remains. Do you agree to my terms?"

For a moment that seemed entirely too long, they looked at each other, calculating what could this mean for either of them, or the boy. Then, slowly and barely perceivably, Vergil nodded.

There was the sound of clattering in the office followed by a heavy thud, much like when something large and heavy falls.

"Uh-oh," a tiny voice yelped. Dante darted inside, getting the Force Edge away from the child, then put it on a shelf, safely out of grabbing distance.

"Hey! No! Kid, do not mess around with that! These are not toys! Bad! Bad Nero!"

"I'm a kid, not a dog," the boy retorted with dignity.

"Yeah, well, that is still not for kids. So, no chewing on it, or playing with it, or skewering someone with it, or anything, got that?"

Nero looked at him, his blue eyes darting from the sword to his father, then to Dante's face. One could see the gears in his brain whirr and turn, probably planning some plot to get his hands on the weapon again.

"I understand."

I'll be damned if he is not trying to figure out the limits he can go to already, Dante thought to himself. Just what did I agree to?