Fandom Devil May Cry: Purgatorio [Closed]

[Lucyfer]

Another day, another dollar.

That was how it should be, but Dante audibly groaned as he looked at his drained bank account statement, standing outside by an ATM. ‘Barely enough to get a pizza.’ It wasn’t enough to get a pizza if he considered tip, and he would. “Maybe if I order from Big Brutus’s, they’re usually late, then I don’t feel bad not tipping,” that was a lie, he felt bad not tipping, but he mused about it aloud as he walked away from the ATM.

Of course, the money had gone to a fantastic investment: a Dance Dance Revolution arcade machine for his home-office, which still didn’t technically have a name, but hey! He could write off the expenses on his taxes, or at least, that’s what sold him on the idea when Enzo mentioned it.

Though he was beginning to doubt Enzo’s…understanding of taxes.

Not to mention his own.

That was a problem for next year. He’d only officially opened the business this year, after all, despite being in the demon hunting business for several years. The silver-haired half-demon was something of an expert on the subject.

Well, maybe not an expert, but his inhuman physique gave him an advantage over normal, human hunters, anyways.

As taxes ran through his mind, it was distracted with thoughts of just grabbing a slice from the convenience store near his home-office, when his cell phone began to ring, chiming with Enzo’s ringtone. Not that he really had too many others in his phone, but he still felt a need to give everyone their own theme song.

Let the bodies hit the floor
Let the bodies hit th—​

“Ah, hell,” he fished it out of his pocket and saw Enzo’s name, ignoring the looks he was getting from others on the sidewalk, “Papa Dante’s, how can I help?”

“Please tell me that’s not the name of the shop,” Enzo said.

Dante sighed, “No, still haven’t settled on one, but you gotta admit, that has a ring to it, right?”

He could imagine Enzo’s pained expression, “Look, Dante—”

“Papa Dante~,” he said in a sing-song, unable to help the shit-eating grin, even if a few of the looks his way became stranger as he continued his walk back to the shop.

“—do you want the job or not?”

His angry stomach said yes, “Yeah, yeah, what do you got for me, Enzo?”

“A demon was seen just within Paolotesta.”

“Isn’t that like, 5 hours away, and in ruins?”

“Yeah, all the more reason to check it out. Sounds like there might be a bit of an outbreak, demons using the cover of the crumbling city to mask their presence. Anyways, the client is paying $10,000 for clean-up—”

“—I can find a way for that—”

“—of which you’ll be getting $300—”

“Hey come on, I do all the hard work!”

“You owe me for wrecking my car, Dante.”

“You should have had it insured better,” Dante shrugged, but knew he couldn’t exactly argue it. Much, “Come on, at least a thousand, I just made a big purchase with the shop that was very important—”

“I know about the arcade.”

Dante clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, “I only have $12!”

“Fine. I’ll pay you $250, and buy you a bus ticket.”

Dante did argue further—but he ended up on a bus, with Rebellion packed up along with his guns in the undercarriage of it, waiting to get to Paolotesta, after numerous other stops. He didn’t arrive until 9 hours later, fueled on vending machine food, and no sleep, after walking from the neighboring town. At least once he stepped into Paolotesta, he didn’t need to hide his sword or guns anymore, though he left the carrying case on a not-quite destroyed park bench.

He'd need it to pack them back up on his bus ride back home.

He started to walk the city, whistling to himself – and to try and lure the demons out – when he finally heard the sounds of conflict. He didn’t bother to try and make a stealthy approach, but he ran towards it, skidding into sight of a conflict going on between a red-headed girl, and several gray-skinned, barely humanoid, cloaked figures with rusty weapons.

They were still faster than a human.

Still, obviously, demonic – and the girl was keeping up, but could probably use a hand.

Not to mention—

“HEY! Yoo-hoo~” Dante called out, stepping closer to the violence, “I’m here for a paycheck, and you are stealing it!” Demons started to turn his way, his red coat certainly eye-catching. He put a cheeky grin on his lips as he shifted his weight to one hip, “Not that I mind getting paid for doing nothing—”

Two broke rank to rush him, and he twirled Ebony and Ivory into his hands, and put a bullet between their eyes, barely taking a moment to aim.

~***~

The human world was a strange one to Eira Vanitas, as she sat in the back of a car, and watched the scenery fly by. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar; as a youth, she’d gone about in the train, Montague. Of course, Montague used to fly through the human realm, once upon a time. When that connection had been severed, he went insane, and no one was able to ride in the train after that.

Humans had trains – but they were mindless things. Perhaps, that was how it should be. No risk of them going insane and becoming menaces.

Humans had cars, as well, akin to smaller trains. They followed roads instead of tracks, though they had the freedom to leave the road. That would not be happening, as the car came to a stop in what seemed an abandoned lot. “If you will follow me the rest of the way, Verity, the journey must be made on foot.”

It was not her name, but the name she had given Arkham, all the same, when he asked. She hadn’t lied – the demoness simply said it was what Arkham could call her.

She did not argue with his decision, but opened the door and stepped out, much as Arkham did. Sparda’s spellbook remained under her arm; she refused to leave it behind, just in case.

Arkham wore a thin, apologetic smile when the door shut, “My apologies that we must continue in such a way, Vergil has insisted upon this location.”

Eira did not speak words to accept the apology, only nodded her acceptance of the situation, and Arkham turned away to lead. She followed, of course – no matter how off-putting Arkham was, meeting this Son of Sparda was important to finding Sparda himself, and she would not let Ira’s death and dreams be in vain.

She would not let her home rot under Mundus.

‘All of this….’ A seething rage coiled within her as her silver eyes passed over the greenery, the thriving life, of the human world. Hell had nature – wild and untamed, as gradually, their path became. And yet, it didn’t feel half as alive. The wild nature of hell felt like it was fighting for its life, as much as the denizens of hell. Here, that nature seemed to pulse with life.

They even had the luxury of gardens, and trees in pots on city streets!

It was enough to make Eira want to bring it all down, rend it into pieces, but she knew, it wasn’t the fault of the humans. Sparda would hold the blame alone. She would direct her anger towards him, and towards Mundus. There was no need to involve innocents.

Not even Sparda’s son.

Gradually, the scenery shifted, from untamed wild life, to rocky ruins and…train tracks.

Eira paused at the sight of them, at the material which was not earthly, but demonic. She knelt, and placed a hand to the track that had once let either Montague or Tolentia run their course. Tolentia had been lost to the human side, of course – Eira doubted Tolentia still lived.

“Something the matter?” Arkham dared ask.

Eira let out a breath. She should be kinder to him. She was wearing clothing borrowed from his closet. He claimed his wife had worn it, but she was gone – Eira suspected in whatever incident ruined Arkham’s face. So Eira had been allowed to pick and choose what she liked from that closet. A simple, deep purple sheath dress suited the occasion, even if it was a bit large.

“Nothing,” Eira rose, brushing her burgundy hair back over her shoulder, “this place is tied to home, that is all.”

“Yes,” Arkham smiled, that shifty little smile of his, “As I have told you, Vergil would also see the realms combined, but he does not have your…first-hand knowledge or experience. He can only see it through places such as these, where the evidence of the fracture was. Do you know this place?”

Eira shook her head, “I never ventured to the human realm when it was connected,” she said, as gradually, the ruins took shape – the wreckage of what was a train station, though she wondered if Vergil recognized it for what it was as she came into sight of the man amidst the wreckage.

She stayed upon the overgrowth, where the tracks would have continued to run, but had stopped – likely taken for material, or rusted away, in this section – as Arkham approached Vergil. A stranger in blue, but Eira saw the resemblance to Sparda all the same in the silver hair, and in his face.

“My apologies for the delay, Vergil,” Arkham retained that apologetic, deferential manner, “allow me to introduce…Verity,” his pause suggested he was perhaps more than a little aware it wasn’t a true name, but nonetheless, he extended his hand her way as he bowed, more to Vergil than to her.

Regardless, she did not speak to offer a true name, intending to let Vergil offer the first word, as she assessed what sort of person she was dealing – a half human who wanted to bring hell here. She wasn’t sure if he was noble, an idiot, or something else entirely, but she knew she didn’t know, and that kept her guards up high.

Eira preferred to overestimate others.

It did her better that way, to overestimate, and expect betrayal, at every turn.

Hell taught her that much. For all she knew, Arkham brought her here to have her jumped, so he could steal the spellbook. He was overly interested in it, after all.

 

[cursedtobeblessed]

The ruins of Paolotesta stretched out in chaotic fighting, the air heavy with the scent of blood and sulfur. Saga barreled into another demon, her emerald eyes gleaming with exhilaration, her fiery hair whipping around her like an untamed fire. Demonic blood spattered her daggers as they cut through demonic flesh and bone, each swing wild yet deliberate, every twist of her body a pure symphony of chaos.

Firelight flickered in the distance, casting eerie shadows across the gray-skinned demons that swarmed around her. Saga ducked low, driving a blade upward into the chest of the nearest one, letting out a sharp, unhinged laugh as it collapsed. The thrill raced through her veins, a living thing she clung to with reckless abandon, as though the chaos itself was her lifeblood.

She barely caught the sound of gunfire over the sound of the fight, her grin faltering only briefly as she whirled toward the sound. The sight of the crimson-coated stranger attracting her enemies away from her battle had her narrowing her eyes, irritation bubbling. Her pulse quickened, not from fear but from something closer to annoyance. This was her stage, and he was threatening to upstage her.

“Oi! Red Riding Hood!” she shouted, slamming her boot into the chest of a demon to send it sprawling. “What’s your problem? Did someone tell you you’re allowed to crash my dance party? Not cool!” Her voice rang out with sarcasm.

Saga contorted her body to avoid claws aimed for her throat, her dagger catching the demon’s neck in one fluid motion. The spray of blackened ichor onto her face barely registered as she threw herself into the next swing, her motions erratic and wild. Another demon rushed her, and Saga ducked into its swing, driving both blades into its torso with brutal precision. Her fiery hair clung to her face, streaked with grime, but she paid it no mind as the creature collapsed with a guttural snarl.

The thrill of the fight surged through her veins, her movements sharp and relentless. One demon lunged at her, its rusted weapon slicing the air near her side, but Saga sidestepped it with ease, jamming a dagger into its back. She pressed her weight into the strike, feeling the blade bite deep, before yanking it free and spinning away, her motions fluid and deliberate.

Another demon snarled, charging at her with its claws bared, and she stepped to the side, her grip tightening on her blades. She lunged forward, slashing at its knees before pivoting to slam the hilt of a dagger into its temple. The creature staggered, and Saga drove her other blade into its ribs with a sickening crack.

A particularly feral demon lunged at her. Saga ducked low, slashing its legs out from under it with impressive precision. She crouched by its crumpled form for a brief moment, her emerald eyes alight with questionable glee. “Kneel!” she declared with mock authority, her voice dripping with irreverence. “It’s time for your confession—oh shit, I’m not a priest.” She punctuated the statement with a swift strike to its throat, her blade slicing cleanly through.

She turned just in time to block another attack, her blade catching the edge of a jagged weapon. The force reverberated up her arm, but she gritted her teeth and pushed back, sending the creature stumbling. Without missing a beat, she planted a boot into its chest, kicking it hard enough to send it sprawling into a nearby wall. Her dagger followed, flying from her hand and embedding itself deep into the demon’s skull before it even had a chance to recover.

Saga’s fiery hair clung to her face, streaked with blood and sweat as she ducked into another swing, her movements sharper, faster, her energy relentless. She snatched her embedded dagger from the downed demon with a quick, fluid motion, sheathing it.

The chaos was hers, the carnage intoxicating, and no one was going to take that away from her.

~***~

Vergil lingered at the edge of the ruins, his gaze tracing the remnants of what had once been a place of transit, connection—though its purpose now was irrelevant. Train tracks fractured by time cut through the overgrowth, their edges jagged and rusted. The remains spoke of decay, of disruption, but to Vergil, they offered nothing useful. This place had no significance to him beyond its potential, a nexus of demonic energy tied to the threads of his ambition.

The air carried with it the weight of lingering tension, the kind that often accompanied forgotten places steeped in supernatural resonance. He allowed himself to take in his surroundings without haste, his pale blue eyes scanning for details worth noting. Yet for all its atmosphere, the ruins held little to capture his interest outright. The faint hum of energy was promising, but Vergil was not one to act prematurely. He would determine its worth in time, or discard it entirely if it proved meaningless.

His fingers brushed Yamato’s hilt, a motion so fluid it seemed absent of conscious thought. The katana hung at his side. It was an extension of himself, as much a part of him as the discipline and control he wielded. If there was anything of value in this place, it would not elude him, but nothing in Vergil’s gaze revealed such thoughts. His expression was as guarded as always, emotion buried beneath the icy surface.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the quiet, sharp enough to draw his attention but far from welcome. Vergil’s annoyance stirred, though he did not immediately turn. He knew the cadence of Arkham’s movement well by now—too careful, too measured, as if every step carried some calculated attempt at maintaining favor. He was a tool, nothing more. Arkham was tolerated, not trusted, and even the necessity of his presence grated on Vergil’s patience at times.

When Vergil finally shifted, his movements were precise, his gaze cutting first to Arkham with an intensity, yet it did not betray his true feelings, before landing on the woman Arkham had brought. Her presence was new, unfamiliar, but her guarded stance did little to pique Vergil’s interest—at least, not yet. “Verity,” Arkham offered the name with his usual flourish, but Vergil cared nothing for its sincerity. Names were often meaningless, masks that hid true intentions, and this one would be no different.

Vergil’s gaze lingered on "Verity," his assessment veiled behind cold calculation. She carried herself far differently from Arkham. She was most certainly stronger, and perhaps more restrained. But that was only his first impression based on what she exuded. It revealed nothing about her worth. The spellbook clutched under her arm caught his attention briefly, though he gave no outward reaction to it.

“You presume much, Arkham,” Vergil said finally, his voice low, cutting, and precise. His eyes never left "Verity," though his words were meant to remind Arkham of his place. “If this is your attempt to impress me, do not mistake my tolerance for interest.”

Vergil stepped forward, his movements deliberate, controlled, each one carrying the weight of his presence. He stopped just short of encroaching on "Verity’s" space, though the silence that hung between them felt heavy. His expression betrayed nothing as he spoke again, his tone steady and measured.

“Your name means little to me,” he said plainly, his pale eyes sharp. “Actions speak louder than words. Prove your worth.” His hand rested lightly on Yamato’s hilt, the motion calm yet purposeful, a reminder of his readiness. His gaze remained fixed on "Verity," waiting, unyielding.

Vergil offered no invitation, no warmth. Whatever Arkham had promised about her was irrelevant; her worth would be measured not in words, but in action. For now, the ruins remained quiet, the hum of demonic energy a faint presence in the background. But Vergil’s attention remained fixed on the woman before him, waiting. Let her speak—or let her prove herself. He cared for little else.

 

[Lucyfer]

Dante couldn’t help a laugh at his nickname. He didn’t exactly have a hood, but he could forgive the oversight, given the chaos of battle didn’t really give the woman much time to assess the arrival. At least she understood he wasn’t a threat to her.

“Sorry, I’m gonna have to cut in – I need the paycheck. But I won’t step on your toes!” Dante called as he twirled his guns back into their holsters now that he had the attention of some of the demons and pulled Rebellion into his hands, twirling it before cutting forward at the first demon to enter his space, and then thrusting it through the next.

He let the tidal pull of his demonic foes bring him further into the fray, turning this way and that to deal blow after fatal blow to the demons, losing himself in the familiar movement of combat, and the way the weight of his sword pulled his arms, keeping them in constant motion, letting the momentum strengthen every strike.

True to his word, though, he kept his fight from the woman’s, taking on demons who drew themselves towards him, rather than her. There were more than enough foes to deal with, which was concerning – this many demons shouldn’t have gone unnoticed for so long – but that was a problem for later.

The only problem that existed now was the rusty blades the demons had.

He was far more reckless than the woman. Blades did hack through him, even piercing or cutting across his chest. His own blood fell to the ruins – but all too soon, all that was on him, was a cut to his shirt. There was no evidence of the wound.

The strikes were too weak, and not frequent enough, to do him much damage.

“I know we’re in ruins and all, but,” he struck one of the demons in the face with the hilt of his sword, before impaling one that was in front of him, and turning back to that dazed demon, “couldn’t you all try to get better weapons or something? Was there a sale on really rusted scythes?”

The demon came howling at him, but Dante deflected the blow, leaving it open to be vivisected.

Only too soon, he and the woman were surrounded not by living foes, but a mess of bodies.

The clean-up wasn’t his problem, though he did let out a low whistle at the sight, before he put Rebellion onto his back, “So – how much are you getting paid for this anyways, lady? I might be in the market for a new manager,” he joked, assuming she had to be a paid hunter like him. She clearly didn’t just stumble onto this.

She was far too skilled for that, and enjoyed the bloodbath far too much.

~***~

Vergil was certainly not Sparda. It was evident in the first few seconds. He was too serious, too cutting, to be Sparda. Not that Sparda was a careless man, care had been what drove him, but that was absent in Vergil. Eira did not consider that an inherent flaw, but his choices certainly spoke louder as he made his first impression with a demand for her to prove herself.

While his expression remained hardened and cold, her mild interest faded into boredom and contempt. ‘Do you expect me to attack you?’ His hand was on the hilt of his Devil Arm. Likely, Vergil had no expectations. He was someone accustomed to being let down.

That would be good – Eira had no plans of humoring his inane demand. “No.” She was too old for this sort of childish nonsense. Her posture shifted, relaxing rather than tensing. He didn’t scare her, even as close as he’d stepped. If he felt like striking her for not playing along, she’d give him a quick end.

“I only followed Arkham to find Sparda. I have no interest in joining your affairs if you can tell me where he is,” it was possible Vergil would be defensive of his father and hide it. It was equally possible he was furious at his father, if what Arkham said was true about his goals. No loving son would seek to undo all their father had done, after all.

Arkham cleared his throat in the background, “Sparda is…dead.”

Eira lifted her gaze from Vergil to Arkham, a moment’s surprise passing her features. ‘Dead?’ No, no, no! She didn’t outwardly show anger or irritation, and her expression relaxed back from that surprise.

That did mean she needed the brat. “How?” Eira asked.

Arkham shook his head, “Regrettably, I do not know. He had many enemies.” Eira would count herself among them, unquestionably. She likely owed whoever did the deed a drink, at the very least. Presuming they survived the encounter, as well. It was something to look into, one day.

Instead of backing down from her initial refusal to prove herself, now that Vergil was a necessity, Eira returned her attention to the Son of Sparda and spoke calmly, but with a candor that suggested how little he'd impressed her thus far, “Arkham sought me out because I know the names of the demons your father sealed in Temen-Ni-Gru. I also understand how the ritual worked,” thanks to the book. The names weren't in there, though. That was just knowledge from history of the event, “You can work with me, or you can waste away while I unlock the tower. I do not need your participation, only your blood at the end, and I'm willing to take that if you want to be petulant and test me.” She’d also need the blood of another, and an amulet, but she could find these things in due time.

Arkham was doing his best to keep a straight face. He should have known introducing two people with egos wouldn't go smoothly.

 

[cursedtobeblessed]

Saga stood amidst the wreckage, chaos still crackling faintly in the air around her. The battlefield was a canvas of destruction, with smoldering remains and twisted debris stretching in all directions. Despite the devastation, Saga seemed perfectly at home, her vibrant presence cutting through the stillness like a pulse that refused to fade.

Her emerald eyes scanned the carnage without urgency, lingering only where her interest held for a second longer. She didn’t wear the fight like others might—no exhaustion or strain. She thrived in this.

She tilted her head slightly, the movement fluid and unhurried, her expression shifting into the faintest sly grin as she heard his question. "Paid?" she echoed, "Honey, I get knee-deep in demon guts for fun."

Saga took a few steps closer, her stride steady yet casual, as though she wasn’t moving toward him so much as claiming the space between them. Her energy was electric, still charged from the battle, but it didn’t scream for attention.

Her gaze swept over Dante as she closed the distance, flicking from the torn coat to the slashed shirt, pausing on the absence of any marks marring his skin. The oddity hung in the air for a heartbeat before she spoke again. "Not a scratch," she said, her voice a measured mix of amusement and curiosity. "Either you’re dodging like your life depends on it, or there’s something freaky going on under all that bravado."

The observation wasn’t a jab or a challenge but an acknowledgment, a puzzle piece she filed away with quiet intrigue. Saga let the thought linger between them before shrugging slightly, her fiery presence softening into something more approachable. Her next move was fluid as she extended a hand, her movements smooth and deliberate, the kind that spoke of practiced ease.

“Saga Nocturne,” she said, the name rolling off her tongue with a quiet confidence that seemed to resonate through the air. It wasn’t arrogance—it was assurance, the kind of self-knowledge that demanded recognition without begging for it. "Figured you should know who just bailed you out of that mess. You’re welcome, by the way."

Her smirk widened slightly, her hip shifting just enough to add a subtle edge to her stance. She let her presence fill the space, her energy not overpowering but unquestionably alive. "And for the record, I do take tips—cash, checks, or maybe you’ve got some spare magic tricks you’re willing to share." Her voice carried the teasing glint of someone who enjoyed tossing someone into her chaos without regret.

~***~

Vergil’s gaze remained steady, unfazed by the biting tone with which “Verity” addressed him. The faint hum of her arrogance barely registered; he had encountered far greater threats than her, and such displays were beneath his concern. Her refusal to meet his expectations was unsurprising, predictable even. He studied her carefully without expression, noting the subtle shift in her posture—the calculated ease of her stance, the faint air of disdain that coated her movements. If she believed that feigned indifference would elevate her, she was mistaken.

The ruins around them felt suffocating in their silence, a fitting reflection of his tempered resolve. The fractured remnants of the past stood as broken memories of both realms, and yet none of that mattered. This woman was no different in his eyes, simply a potential tool, but a tool nonetheless.

However, Arkham’s presence grated on him more than usual. The man’s calculated shuffle, his incessant attempts to impress, and now this—bringing him a stranger who seemed more intent on posturing than proving her worth. Vergil’s irritation simmered beneath the surface, though his expression betrayed nothing.

The mention of Sparda’s death hung in the air without consequence. Whatever emotions others might expect at the mention of his name—grief, respect, even fury—were simply absent.

Vergil let her continue however, unmoving as her words rolled past him. She spoke with candor and arrogance, baring her challenge with an air of finality, as if daring him to rise to meet her. Her directness was noted, but not impressive. When she finished, the air fell silent once again, Vergil allowing the stillness to settle as he assessed her.

After a long moment, he finally broke his silence. “Bold words,” he said at last, his tone as cold and unyielding as his presence.

“But you misunderstand your position,” he said, “You claim knowledge of Temen-Ni-Gru. You claim to understand the seals my father left behind. And yet,” his voice remained calm, devoid of inflection, “for all your boasts, you still stand here reliant on me.”

His gaze narrowed, his pale blue eyes sharp and unforgiving as they locked onto hers, dissecting every layer of her intent. He let the tension linger, his next words precise and final. “Whatever power you hope to uncover, know this: I will take what is mine. Not through bargains. Not through compromise. If you stand in my way,” his tone dropped, a note of steel beneath his calm, “you would do well to follow through on your threat.”

He stepped back, the shift subtle but deliberate, breaking the space between them without relinquishing his dominance. Let her attempt to prove herself or falter; it made no difference to him.

Vergil fell silent then, his piercing gaze unwavering as he left her standing amidst the ruins. Whatever game she believed herself to be playing, it was of no consequence. He would achieve his goals—with or without her. That much, he was certain of.

 

[Lucyfer]

Dante ‘tsk’ed audibly at Saga’s logic of getting knee-deep into demon guts for free. Not that he was about to sign her up. He was already getting jacked most of the pay, after all. She certainly knew how to recognize the odd, and as her gaze swept over him, he gave a shrug.

No time to give an answer, she swept right on by his perfect form to offer a hand, and he laughed a bit, taking it, “Dante,” he introduced, “Just Dante.” He had a surname, but he knew better than to go about spouting it. Sparda was probably a surname some normal humans adopted for themselves, but really? He didn’t need that kind of attention from someone who knew demons and already pegged him as odd, “And hey, fighting demons does require fighting for your life, so can’t blame me for learning how to survive.”

It wasn’t a lie.

He dodged when his life depended on it.

That just didn’t happen too often.

“You might want to get a bit better at it,” he joked, though he wasn’t sure how much of that blood was hers, “I think I did my fair share taking the heat off you, so let’s call this even, eh? But if you want a tip? Don’t do this stuff for free,” he thumbed back at the bodies, “there’s a guy I know who can hook you up with jobs like this. Pays shit, but it’s better than nothing.”

He didn’t have magic or money to share, so that would have to do, “Speaking of,” Dante pulled out his phone and dialed the number, turning away from Saga as he pressed it to his ear, “Yo, job’s done. I want the money wired to my account so I can get back home.” He started to walk off, to get back to the bench where he’d left his luggage.

Then he could make the trek back to the bus stop, and….

He paused, “Yeah yeah, see you soon,” he hung up and looked back, “I don’t suppose I could bum a ride off you to the bus?”

~***~

Eira didn’t like Vergil.

That did not mean she would not work with him, but the thought came anyways. He understood he was needed, and it made him cockier than he deserved to be. ‘I only need your blood.’ And he was blessedly lucky she wasn’t like Belial or even Ira, who would have cut him down where he stood and put his blood away in a bottle.

Eira couldn’t deny the temptation, though.

He stepped back with his threat, and Eira finally broke some of her façade with an eye roll, “And what, praytell, is it that you seek in undermining your father’s work to protect humanity?” as she asked, she settled the book down on the ground near her feet calmly, before straightening up and extending one hand to the side. In it, an icy greatsword formed, a blade at least as tall as she was, and wielded with ease. Of course, Eira was a demon.

Her appearance in front of Vergil was a deception if he only considered her as strong as her human form looked.

The temperature drastically dropped around her, promising ease in allowing her to manipulate the water in the air to whatever she needed.

“I’d rather not waste time if we’re to be opposed, if it is all the same to you,” she’d made that mistake before. The enemy of my enemy logic was nothing she cared for anymore, and Vergil wanted a show of something. “With Sparda no longer alive, my only goal is to return to Hell. I left a war I intend to finish, and I am certainly not about to let Sparda’s brat get in my way, either.”

Arkham resisted the urge to interject, fully aware Eira didn’t care to hear his reasoning. He just hoped Vergil had sense enough to lie if he was planning anything that would get in the way, though Arkham doubted it. Vergil had just seemed to want power, and power alone.

That didn’t get in the way of opening up Hell.

 

[cursedtobeblessed]

"Pleasure to meet you, Dante," Saga said with a genuine smile that lit up her face. She glanced down at the state of her shirt, the fabric torn and smeared with streaks of grime and blood. Her expression shifted to one of exaggerated contemplation, a thoughtful hum escaping her as she tugged lightly at the hem.

"Hm... looks like I’ll need a new shirt," she mused to herself, her tone light but carrying just a hint of dry humor. "Too bad, really, this was my favorite. I should send an invoice to hell." Her emerald eyes flicked back to Dante, and her grin turned mischievous. "Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer of yours. If there’s a paycheck in this kind of mess, I wouldn’t mind someone pointing me in the right direction."

As Dante turned to make his call, Saga let her attention wander, idly kicking at a bit of dirt on the ground with the toe of her boot. The subtle movement carried the restless energy that seemed to follow her wherever she went, even when the chaos had momentarily stilled. She let him do his thing, her gaze drifting to the wreckage of their handiwork.

When Dante finished his call and turned back with his question, Saga raised a brow, clearly amused. "Bum a ride, huh?" she echoed, her voice carrying an amused lilt. She crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly. "I’ll do you one better! How about a ride on me? No charge. I’ve got no other work lined up right now, and to be honest, I’m overdue for a good road trip."

She motioned casually toward the direction she had parked her car in the distance. "My car’s parked not too far from here. It’s not much to look at, but it’ll get us where we’re going." Her tone stayed light, keeping the playful spark that had carried through their conversation.

Saga turned on her heel and started toward the car, her stride as confident as ever. "Come on, Mr. Just Dante," she called over her shoulder, the words laced with the warmth of camaraderie. "Let’s see if we can’t make this road trip interesting."

~***~

Vergil’s gaze remained steady, untouched by the biting tone and the theatrical display before him. The icy blade did little to stir his guarded composure, though he noted its sudden manifestation with calm scrutiny. Her power was evident, as was her intent to wield it should the need arise. It did not impress him in the slightest. Strength was common among demons. What mattered was purpose, conviction, the ability to channel that strength into something greater. So far, this “Verity” offered only arrogance layered in hostility.. Her taunts which mocked his intent, dismissing him as a "brat" just passed over him with all the weight of a little gust of wind. She sought to provoke, but her attempts were futile. Words, after all, were hollow things without action to back them.

The weight of her arrogance hung in the air, a tension that threatened to uncoil into conflict. Yet he remained composed, his stoic demeanor unshaken. Slowly, his hand drifted back to Yamato’s hilt. The gesture wasn’t one of threat, nor of preparation to strike- it was deliberate, measured. Power was not a matter of theatrics; it was something held tightly, something wielded only when the moment called for it. He had no need to show his strength in such displays. His resolve, his conviction, made clear his intent without flourish or excess.

After a pause, he spoke, his voice steady and low. “Protection?” he echoed, the word carrying a faint trace of disdain. “What humanity calls protection is merely stagnation. My father’s work sought to shield them from their own failings, to preserve their frailty rather than challenge them to grow beyond it. It is not power that undermines his efforts—it is weakness.”

“What I seek is not destruction, nor chaos. It is the strength to never again know helplessness. Power is the only certainty, the only means to rise above what binds us.” His gaze locked onto hers, unyielding, as he added, “That is why I pursue what he left behind—why I will claim it. Not to undermine, but to surpass.”

Her taunts, her bravado, meant little. Vergil’s gaze narrowed slightly, his expression colder now, but unyielding. He remained silent for a time, allowing the space between them to thicken with unanswered tension. He understood the nature of beings like her—the need to posture, to assert dominance, to hide insecurity behind bluster. It was a trait he had seen time and time again. He did not entertain it. His silence was a dismissal in itself, his presence enough to press against the boundaries she sought to create.

Finally, his voice cut through the stillness, low and sharp, piercing the frigid air. “One thing I can agree on,” he said, his tone calm but resolute, “is not wasting time. So I need to know now—are you willing to cooperate?” He took a single step back, the weight of his presence receding only slightly. His hand slipped from Yamato, though the readiness remained. “You do not need to like me,” he continued, his voice unwavering. “You simply need to do your part. And I will do mine.”

With that, he allowed the silence to settle once more, his piercing gaze fixed on her, unwavering and unflinching. Her decision would determine the next course of action, but whatever path she chose, it would not alter his. Posture and provocation were meaningless, but what mattered was progress. And Vergil had no intention of allowing anything, least of all her disdain, to delay his purpose. He would achieve his goal, whether she stood at his side or was left behind in the frost. That much was certain.

 

[Lucyfer]

Dante was surprised she was willing enough to give him a ride, not just to the bus stop, but back home. “Really?” his brows were up, “Not that I’m complaining, just figured you’d want to get on home, or back to your next stop.” It seemed she meant it, gesturing to her car, “Hold on – I gotta go get my bags!”

Dante didn’t hesitate, sprinting in the direction he’d left them. He might not need them now, but he would in the future, and luggage was expensive – especially of a size to hide Rebellion. As soon as he grabbed it, he rushed right back in the direction he’d come from, and then, on to her car.

He’d load up the luggage, and even Rebellion, in the trunk, though he’d keep his guns at his hips, just in case.

Not that he expected anything from Saga, but she wouldn’t be the first pretty woman to trick him and then try to kill him. Usually, those were demons – he didn’t get the vibe Saga was a demon, at least, but it didn’t mean she might not try, “All right, we gotta head on back to Auguston. My employer’s also there, so I can introduce ya, so long as you don’t try to kill me on the way back,” he stretched in the seat, letting out a yawn.

He was tired.

And hungry.

He’d still just had vending machine snacks since starting this trip, and his stomach made that known once he’d stretched out, causing him to curl back up a bit at the brief discomfort. “Where are you out from, anyways, Nocturne?”

~***~

Vergil wasn’t quick to anger. The insult did nothing to him. ‘Good.’ However, his answer was significantly…lacking. Despite that, Eira didn’t think it was a lie. He truly thought he wanted power, and who was she to deny him? If he thought power existed for him in Hell, enough to supersede Sparda?

Well, she could use another meatshield against Mundus.

What better way to exceed his father than by going after the one his father couldn’t defeat, after all? ‘You know so little….’ Eira pitied him. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to pity him, but she did, as he expressed so plainly his desire to never be helpless again, to think power was all it took.

She had learned that lesson the hard way. She survived it, but not everyone did.

“Our goals don’t clash,” Eira said plainly, the sword evaporating from her grasp with just a twitch of her fingers, and she lowered her hand down. The chill went with the blade, “Chase power wherever and however you like, so long as you do not decide to make me its source,” ah, the allure of the Devil Arm. She would never wield one, nor become one. She’d sooner die.

She’d made that quite clear to Mundus’s army by destroying every devil arm she’d come upon in the mess of the war, making sure the demons didn’t continue on in any way. There was no hope for them if they crossed her. “Do not worry. I am versed in working with people I do not enjoy, as I presume you are, as well.”

She knelt to pick up the book, and offered it out. Not a peace offering, exactly, but, “I have no need of this any longer, if you want to examine it.” It wasn’t worthless, not by a longshot. It had magic in there that could ruin anyone’s day, but Eira was never much for ritual magic as Sparda, it seemed, had been.

Vergil might appreciate the power inherent in ritual. It was all terribly precise.

 

[cursedtobeblessed]

Saga eased the car onto the road, her grip steady on the wheel as the hum of the engine filled the silence. Dante’s offhand comment about introductions and potential assassination earned a soft scoff from her. Without shifting her gaze from the road, she replied dryly, "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have waited this long."

She gestured toward the backseat with a slight tilt of her chin, her attention still fixed ahead. "Cooler’s back there if you’re hungry. There’s water and food. Grab something before you pass out or start eyeing my carseat like it’s dinner." Her words were calm and nonchalant, but there was a faint glimmer of amusement behind them.

After a while, she spoke again, her tone steady but carrying the faintest trace of warmth. "Akureyri, that’s where I’m from. Northern Iceland. Small town. Quiet. Cold." Her voice shifted slightly, a hint of nostalgia creeping in, though she kept it subdued. "Winters are long, nights even longer. You learn to deal with the silence—and yourself. It’s not a place for restless souls."

She flicked a glance in his direction, catching just enough of his reaction before returning her focus to the road. "Somehow, I doubt you’d last long there," she added, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Not enough chaos to keep you entertained."

After a pause, Saga’s tone lightened as she shifted gears, figuratively and literally. "Enough about Akureyri," she said, her voice easy but carrying an undertone of curiosity. "I’m more interested in you. What’s your story? Seems like it’d be quite the tale."

She leaned back slightly, her posture relaxing as she let the question hang in the air. Saga wasn’t one to pry without reason, but Dante had a way of inviting intrigue whether he realized it or not. She figured if he started talking, it’d at least keep the drive interesting—and she wouldn’t mind piecing together the puzzle of what made him tick. Everyone had a story. And his? She had a feeling it was far from boring.

~***~

Vergil accepted her statement without comment, his expression as cold and impenetrable as ever. The icy greatsword dissolved from her hand, the chill in the air dissipating with it. Her declaration that their goals did not clash was noted with quiet indifference, the faintest narrowing of his eyes the only indication he had even heard her words. Whether she was sincere or simply pragmatic mattered little to him. What mattered was that her cooperation would not impede his progress.

As the book was extended toward him, he stepped forward with deliberate calm. Each movement was precise, calculated, his hand closing around the spellbook with no hesitation. The weight of it was unremarkable, yet the potential it held was not lost on him. Knowledge, precision, the promise of power buried within ritual and detail, he would evaluate its worth in time. For now, it was simply another tool, another step forward.

“You are correct,” he said after a moment, his voice even, devoid of warmth or hostility. “Our goals align. Cooperation is practical, nothing more.” The statement carried no invitation for further discussion, no illusion of camaraderie. It was a fact, plain and simple, one that needed no embellishment.

His gaze lingered on the book for a brief moment, turning it over in his hand before returning his piercing eyes to Verity. “I will call upon you once I have prepared everything necessary,” he added, the weight of finality in his tone. There was no room for uncertainty, no trace of hesitation. His conviction remained absolute, unshaken by the circumstances around him.

Turning, he began to leave, his strides steady and measured. As he passed Arkham, standing off to the side with his ever-watchful gaze, Vergil did not falter. He offered no acknowledgment, no glance, no word. The man’s presence was inconsequential, a flicker at the edge of Vergil’s awareness that did not warrant his time or attention. Arkham was a means to an end, nothing more.

His focus remained resolutely ahead as he slipped into the shadows, the book resting firmly at his side.

 

[Lucyfer]

Dante considered making a joke about how tasty the car seat looked – but it really didn’t look tasty, so he twisted his body around to dig into the cooler, pulling out a water bottle, and what looked like a sandwich with some deli meat, “Thanks!” as soon as he had it in hand, he sat back down properly and unwrapped the sandwich, devouring it in seconds as Saga explained her history.

Iceland. Boring. Needed excitement.

He understood all of that.

“Never been,” he said through his last mouthful, before washing it down with the water. “Aah,” his stomach didn’t feel the relief yet, but he was sure it would soon. “My story’s not all that interested. Grew up in a mansion, family was murdered by demons when I was seven, another demon tried to destroy my adoptive mom, so I decided to grow up and hunt demons,” Dante gave a shrug, “pretty straightforwardly tragic, typical mercenary story, really.”

It did seem to be how a lot got into the business. Most didn’t do it for fun or because they were bored.

Dante may have gone on that path anyways. It was hard to know now. Sparda had certainly taught both him and Vergil plenty.

Not enough to save Vergil…or Eva…but it still came in handy later in life, when he grew into himself.

“I’d say it pays well, but considering I’m only getting about $250 out of this job, hard to say that,” he joked, “but it’s definitely what I want to do. Can’t imagine any other life – but maybe I’ll start making enough to really travel, one day. But how’d you even learn about demons, let alone start hunting them for fun? It’s not really common knowledge.”

Something had to happen to draw her in to this.

~***~

Eira watched Vergil leave, rather than accompany her and Arkham. It wasn’t until he was well out of sight, and she and Arkham had begun their journey back to his car, that she asked, “How old is he?”

“Ah…twenty,” Arkham answered, “my apologies, his youth has some…drawbacks to working with him.” Arkham was obviously older, even the marring to his face didn’t prevent that from being obvious.

‘Who hurt you?’ Stupid question, so Eira didn’t bother to vocalize. Eira admittedly didn’t know how twenty compared to the lifespan of a demon, but she understood that twenty years to her was nothing, and it seemed to Arkham, it was also considered youthful. He shouldn’t be so…morose.

Serious.

His desire for power became more and more obvious paired with his fear of helplessness. He cut himself off from everything. Their alliance was practical, nothing more, in his own words. He feared even to have allies.

It was nothing to her, or it shouldn’t be, but she still felt that well of pity for him.

Unlike Vergil, she hadn’t cut herself off from others, and so she spent the next couple of days in Arkham’s home, studying in his library, and learning more of the human world through exposure to the television and radio.

It was there Arkham found her when Vergil got in touch not too long after their initial meeting in the ruins, music crooning from the radio.

Dream a little dream of me
Say nighty-night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me….​

“Verity?”

Eira looked up from the book she’d been reading, “Vergil is prepared to continue now.”

Eira merely nodded and flicked the radio off, but kept the book under an arm to follow Arkham out. She continued reading it in the car as he took them to join Vergil – Arkham curiously cognizant of the musical choices, and keeping a similar, older vibe on the trip. Perhaps he meant to stay in her good favor with it.

Eira didn’t mind either way, as she continued through the Sworn Book of Honorius.