Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

An Empusa Queen. 

She could smell its blood-laden scent heavy against her nose. Crouching behind the rocky cliff, she slinks closer, adrenaline spiking as her mouth waters in anticipation. 

A meal. 

Why an Empusa was this deep in the Underworld, she does not know. All she cares about is that such a creature was not poisonous to eat, something she has not come across for many days.

Weeks?

She can’t remember. 

Her fingers tighten around the sword’s leather grip. The gnawing hunger in her gut spurs her closer despite the pain flaring in her leg. Wounds have long since stopped healing, left with nothing to fuel her dwindling magic. She’s careful not to shuffle, not wanting to scare her prey. Starving was not an option.

The Empusa Queen raises its head, its mandibles clacking. One of its scythed forelegs looks to be broken, the carapace shattered near the first joint. 

Perfect.

She creeps closer, making sure to keep downwind. 

The demon’s head twitches.

Her feet pound on the desolate earth, aching muscles propelling her forwards and vaulting her into the air. The Empusa turns, only to reel back screeching as her blade pierces through its back. Grim satisfaction blooms within her, the scent of fresh blood egging her on. She happily obliges, tearing her claws through the creature’s hide. The Empusa screeches again, trying to throw her off. 

Snarling at the beast, she latches one hand around the top of its head, plunging her sword into its shoulder. It throws its head back to create some distance—

Crunch!

A gargled wail of pain grates her ears as she bites down again digging deeper into the creature’s throat. Blood drips down her chin, as a chunk is hastily torn out by her jaws. She doesn’t have time to scarf it down as the Empusa bucks again, throwing her off. She tumbles and grunts as her shoulder impacts with a rock. 

She dives out of the way of another attack. Her focus remains on the Empusa’s forelimbs, despite the evident weak point in the creature’s hind leg. Another glancing blow fuels her frustration. She ducks under another swipe and….

Crunch!

The leg snaps. Chitin shatters. 

Crack!

Steel bores into flesh. 

The Empusa wails, a final twitch as it falls to the ground dead. She feels the exhaustion in her bones as she shuffles over to the fallen demon, panting breaths ringing in her ears. A clawed hand tears through the Empusa’s tough hide, revealing its messy innards. 

She shivers, the putrid taste of demon meat assaulting her tongue. Another chunk is torn off, snapped down greedily. Fresh blood dribbles down her chin, as she takes another hefty bite. A tendon snaps, sinew tearing from its host and her stomach churns as she bites into a particularly slimy bit. Nevertheless, she can feel her wounds beginning to stitch back together, finally receiving the adequate fuel to do so. 

Her guard drops, too focused on sating the gnawing hunger that has plagued her. She misses the beat of leathery wings growing ever closer. 

A draconic tail smashes into her side and she wheezes as one of her barely healed ribs snaps again. A nightmarish screech pierces through the air, the ground shaking as something lands on the Empusa’s corpse. Stumbling upwards, she makes a concerted effort not to look the creature in the eye. The Cockatrice flares its feathers, the quills scattered throughout gleaming with a sinister light. Its leathery wings curl above the Empusa’s corpse, razor-sharp talons gouging deeply into the chitin. The comb on its chicken-like head shares the deep red currently pooling around the stolen prey. It crows triumphantly. 

Mockingly. 

She snarls. 

Maybe if she catches it off-guard. Lure it away from the Empusa. Then she could—

A cough rattles her frame, toxic gas swirling through the air. It burns her lungs, strangling her despite her gulping for air. She’s running, fleeing from the Cockatrice’s poisonous breath. It’s only when they reach a grove of twisted trunks that she collapses onto her hands and knees, heaving for breath. Hacking, blood speckles the ground beneath. 

The air swirls with demonic energy. She sidesteps the Hell Juddecca’s attack. Her mind blanks, drowned in a flood of bloodlust. Her blade cleaves off one of the Juddecca’s tendrils. Blood spurts from the wound, splattering on her face. 

Thud!

The Juddecca’s head follows soon after. 

A careful sniff. 

Poisonous…. 

She walks away, a slight limp hindering her left leg. 

Left, right, left, right…

Time passes. She’s not sure how long.  

…left, right, left, right…

Screech!

Thud….

…left… right…

Her steps begin to falter and she limps in the direction of a carved outcropping a few meters away. She needed rest, she needed….

She stumbles, barely catching herself on the cold stone. Taking a shuddering breath, she lowers herself onto the ground, tucking into the cramped space. The blade she carries stays clutched in her claws, a feeble shield from the dangers lurking about. Her back covered from both the elements and any pursuers, she lets herself close her eyes for a moment. 

Her dreams are… strange. 

Flashes of destruction, a chorus of war deafening to all who hear. Every fiber of her being yearns to flee, yet something within her revels in it, taking wing amongst the fire and bloodshed. She was meant for this, to burn and ravage, unleashing nightmare after nightmare upon all those who would oppose her. For that was her purpose, was it not? Was she not born to wreak havoc with her kin? 

But just like a balm on a burning wound, she drifts to dreams far more pleasant, with surroundings that she knows should be familiar. Yet, she can’t quite place them. She looks down at her arms, too human to be hers. A voice calls her and she looks down to find a mousy-haired boy with piercing green eyes. She knows him. She knows his name and yet…

She can’t remember. 

Her skull pounds as she opens her eyes, the world too loud despite only being greeted by the howling winds above. Clutching her head, she tries to keep herself from screaming as it threatens to split in two. A violent haze settles, one that she knows should feel wrong, and yet it feels so familiar, so right . The desire to hunt, the craving for the violent sensation that came with ripping out the Empusa’s throat, the tender flesh of downed prey. Maybe if she lost herself to the bloodshed, she wouldn’t hurt anymore, she wouldn’t have to suffer. Maybe if she just let go…

No, no, no, no, no!

Her shoulder impacts a wall.

Focus. She needed to focus. Blood wells at her fingertips, a sharp prick at her scalp. If she was lucky, she could find another demon, another opportunity at a meal. As long as she focused and—

Agony. 

Agony tears through her head, thrumming deep within her skull. She stumbles, catching herself on the rugged cliffside. Something presses up under the skin and she howls in pain as it suddenly pierces through. Blood slicks her hair, splattering onto the ground. Her knees buckle, having her land in a heap. The world fades and she does her best to stay conscious. The pain has lessened, but she’s tired, so, so tired. 

Let it end. Please just let it end. 

She attempts to raise her head, the weight feeling unbalanced. Blood drips down her face. Her eyes slip close before she can figure out why. 

Chapter Text

With a wave of his hand, bright blue blades materialize at his side. The decision draws dangerously on the precious magic reserves he has left. But what choice did he have, with a monster ready to tear at his brother’s back with eager violence? Vergil hurls them forward, the song of spectral steel hitting its mark, a screeching ballad following soon after. The demon lands with a meaty thump, Dante unscathed by the creature. Letting out a deep breath, he’s ready to lecture his little brother on his carelessness, only to have a flaming blade shoot past his head. 

He had not seen the beast behind him, poised to rend his throat. He had been so focused on…

“Didn’t take you to be so careless Verge. What happened to ‘staying vigilant’ and all that?“ There’s no real bite behind the comment. If anything there’s a hint of concern. Vergil scoffs, flicking blood off of Yamato’s edge. She trills in his hand, the same concern lacing her song.

“If you made sure to watch your flank, I wouldn’t have to.” He retorts. Just like his brother, there is no real malice behind the comment. They were both exhausted, just, neither of them would admit it. 

“Oh, please! Don’t make me remind you how many times I’ve saved your ass on this little hell vacation.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to count high enough the number of times I’ve hauled you out of harm’s way.” To which Dante snorts. 

The banter has become a normal but bittersweet; a relic of simpler times and far more innocent ideations. He tries not to think about it too deeply, such sentiments are only a burden in the unforgiving Underworld.

“So, how much longer to your so-called escape exit?” Dante asks. Devil Sword Dante disappears in a flurry of sparks. It allows his little brother to shoulder their pack of dwindling supplies higher upon his back. This area of the Underworld was a danger for many reasons, one being the lack of resources. Food and water were just as scarce as he remembers. 

Or, somewhat remembers. Memories were a tricky thing at the moment. 

“Not far now, if there are no further interruptions,” Vergil answers, striding ahead. “And of course, you don’t slow us down.”

He can sense his brother rolling his eyes.

“Me, slow? Pfft, yeah right!”

They continue to march, his brother’s nervous energy flitting through the air. Vergil can tell something is on his mind, yet, he has yet to speak up. He knows it’s only a matter of time. 

“So, about this demon you’re so fixated on, you still hellbent on finding it?” Dante finally asks. If he didn’t know any better, he would have assumed it was a ploy to continue to annoy him. But the genuine note of curiosity tells him differently, causing him to raise his guard. 

He wasn’t sure of what his brother knew yet. He couldn’t take any chances. 

“If time permits,” Vergil answers carefully. “Those remains were... unique, meaning, it would be of our benefit to investigate. It could be a powerful asset and a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands.”

About a month into their stay in the Underworld, they had stumbled upon the bloody remains of a massive serpent, decayed and stripped by nearby scavengers. It had been an impressive sight, the carnage surrounding it evidence of a vicious battle. But something in particular had caught his attention, something he hopes his brother might of missed.

The scent of kin.

He had found jagged claw marks at the beast’s crown as if something had forced its way out of the monster’s skull. The deep gouges tell of untold desperation, bits of charred bone adding to the image of the unknown creature’s struggle.

Was it possible that…?

Dante heaves a sigh.

“Again with the power stuff. Hi, I’m Vergil and I want power. More power. Blah, blah, blah.”

He doesn’t retort, knowing doing so would only bring more questions. While his priority was to find a way to escape the Underworld, he was still a man of his word. If Nero was so certain that the girl lived, he could only assume she would head towards a way to escape. 

He had done the same at one time.

Nevertheless, he still grants his brother an answer. 

“Power is all that matters in this world. It is absolute.”

And, predictably, his little brother waves him off.

“Sure, sure. Whatever floats your boat. As long as it’ll keep you from destroying any more cities. What is up with you and towers? Seriously? You compensating for something?”

Vergil rolls his eyes. And perhaps summons a few swords behind him. Admittedly, a waste of energy, but it efficiently gets his point across.

“Alright, fine. Fine! Don’t have to get all touchy about it.”

If his estimate was correct, it has been six months of this. They’ve continued to wander the Underworld’s endless expanse, slaying any demons on their nebulous path. To his surprise, Dante has not once complained about their time trapped, at least, not in earnest. Vergil could tell something was afoot, his brother’s too chipper of an attitude raising some questions. 

What did he know?

“I spy with my little eye, something red.”

Vergil sighs, again, shaking his head. Dante had taken to using childish games to pass the time, despite endangering them to any unseen threats. They were in a vulnerable state, a fact which he despised. 

“Dante, we’re in hell. Red is everywhere.” Which garners him an offended squawk.

“That’s not true! That spot over there is a dark brown.” Dante protests, pointing to a nearby pile of demonic remains. “That corpse has some green on it.”

Vergil barely contains a groan.

“After all these years of trying to avoid you….”

His comment earns him a shark-like grin. 

“Yep.” Dante chirps. “And trust me, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. You’re stuck with me!”

Another sigh.

“Like a leech.” Vergil deadpans. 

“An extremely handsome and charming leech.”

“More like a delusional one.”

Dante lets out a bark of laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief despite how ragged they feel. They continue their journey, Dante fully aware his antics are an unneeded distraction. His annoying little brother continues his senseless game for thirty minutes much to the detriment of his waning patience. 

“I spy with my little eye something…?” Dante suddenly falters. “Um, Vergil?”

He ignores his little brother, hoping he’ll drop whatever nonsense he’s attempting. Maybe he would finally get the peace he so craved.

“Vergil!”

Vergil growls, for once, dropping the cool façade. He’s tired, starving, and attempting to concentrate so that he can lead them to safety. His patience snaps and he whirls around to face Dante.

“Dante, how many times do I have to tell you?! I don’t want to play your stupid games!”

However, the fury quickly dissipates as he finds Dante standing over a suspiciously fresh splatter of blood. At first, he worries that Dante had been hit, an injury suddenly showing its true colors. But at his haunted expression, Vergil knows there’s something else, something just as dire. His brother had a tendency to cover his torment with a smiling mask, a trait that seems to have only grown worse in their years apart. It was something that he knew they should discuss; among other things…

But, when was that ever an easy task?

“Uh, no Verge.” His voice wavers, eyes glued to the soiled ground. “I really think you should look at this.”

Dante crouches over the blood. His brother carefully dips his finger into the crimson pool, giving it a sniff. His eyes widen, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

“This is one hell of a breadcrumb trail, don’tcha think? And there’s something, off about it. Does this smell demon to you?”

As much as he dislikes Dante sticking his grimy finger in front of his face, his curiosity gets the better of him. Following his brother’s example, Vergil takes a careful sniff. His brow furrows.

“That’s…”

“Human.” Dante agrees, wiping his hand on his coat. “Or at least mostly.…” 

Vergil inspects the area once more, finding more blood coating a nearby boulder. It’s as if whatever left the trail had scrambled over in a hurry, as if being pursued. Taking a closer look, he finds divots in the stone that seem to have been carved with clawed fingers. Claws that could easily belong to a Devil Bringer. 

And the only one he knew with such claws was….

“C’mon!” Dante encourages, already dashing ahead of him. “We won’t know for certain unless we check.” 

Perhaps Nero was right.

They follow the bloody trail, climbing over rocky outcrops and fallen trees. Dante pauses, his hand hovering over a nearby stump. A red stain smears on the bark, a very humanoid-looking handprint pressed against it. Dante’s pace quickens, almost frantic. 

“Vergil…!”

It’s Dante’s fearful tone that gives him pause. Cresting the hill, he joins his brother to observe the valley below.

His blood runs cold at the unmistakable sight of Mundus’ faithful servant, flanked by a battalion of Angelos. Slowly but surely, they close in on their target, blocking the unfortunate soul who they have been tasked to hunt. Vergil watches with a mix of horror and curiosity. Legion only hunted the most ambitious of prey. 

Adorned in a tattered cloak, the fabric obscures the majority of its smaller frame, only its scaly forearms visible. A grim encrusted blade is clutched in its left hand, its accompanying scabbard on its back. A demonic hound chases right at its heels, only to lunge and pin it to the ground. It—no, she, he realizes—struggles, throwing the demon off of her, only for another to tackle her again. The demon is young; he can conclude that by the panicked screeches of what would be considered a nestling. 

A mighty roar of fire erupts around her, the demons incinerated in an instant. Staggering upwards, she continues to flee, her escape impeded by her bleeding calf. A jagged metal spear suddenly rips into her shoulder, eliciting a choked scream. Its barbed edges dig into her flesh preventing her from pulling it free. She struggles like a speared fish, thrashing and fighting to get away. Scudo Angelos march forward, heavy chains jangling in their hands. They swing them, flinging one end towards the struggling youngling. Like metallic vipers, they snap forwards, coiling tightly around her limbs. Even from here, Vergil can feel the evil taint of Mundus’ power. 

Her blade is forced from her grasp, and she is quickly dragged away from it kicking and screaming. One of the Angelos goes to pick it up, a mistake that draws the demon’s ire. She fires a jet of flame. The violent blast scorches the demon’s armor, melting a portion of its helm. It’s enough to catch it off balance only to be dragged forwards with a violent yank. Even its comrades can’t stop the grisly demise that befalls it. Fresh blood drips from the feral creature’s chin. 

The darkness creeps over his vision, but he holds on, he holds on to his birthright. He would not yield! He would not…!  

The spines pierce his back, gnawing into his already ragged flesh, stringing him up like a lamb for slaughter. But such mercy was not in his future. No. Death would be too kind of a fate from the monster staring down at him.

Yamato slips from his grasp as he’s yanked upward, towards the emotionless stone face of Mundus. He reaches feebly for her, her broken blade slowly sinking into the muck below.

No! Come back! Plea—!

Another pained screech draws him from his fog. Another barb lodges into her arms. This was a losing battle even before it began.

Why wasn’t his brother moving? How could he not see the danger they were in if it caught them, the suffering they would endure?

The hood is torn away as one of the chains snakes around a stubby horn, yanking her head to one side. Grimy grey locks dangle in front of her face, the blood crusting her scalp painting a macabre scene. Her right side has been consumed with crimson scales, her pupil drawn into a reptilian slit. She snarls again, displaying a set of sharp fangs residing in her maw. Yet, Vergil can’t help but stare at the familiar blue eye. Although void of soul, wild and mad, it was an almost perfect reflection of the eyes every descendant of Sparda carried. A cold blue, intense and unyielding. 

It couldn’t be. 

The crane flutters weakly in the confines of his coat pocket. He can sense it resonating with the struggling demon. 

His niece, he realizes. Or whatever is left of her. 

Dante stands there, staring at the chaotic scene, watching as his daughter struggles against her captors. He recognizes that look in his brother’s eye. The one that always followed with him doing something foolish. The air shimmers, a dimly luminous sheen forming on the tepid air. Of course, of all the places the veil has thinned. Vergil can sense it is weak enough to breach but that had to act swiftly. 

Meaning… the child was a lost cause.

It pained him to allow one of Mundus’ pawns to defeat one carrying the blood of Sparda. It felt disgraceful. But, watching the girl struggle, snarling like a mindless beast, he knew there was nothing left to save. While the child was his kin, she was only in blood, not soul. To save her would needlessly endanger them, a risk they could not take. He didn’t know her. She meant nothing to him.

But Dante, Dante would not share such sentiments. 

The thought of losing his brother has Vergil opening his mouth to speak. He attempts to appeal to his brother’s senses, despite knowing it will have little effect. 

“Dante, she’s too far gone. There is no use trying to save her. Any shred of humanity she might have had has been worn away by her time here. If we wish to escape we must go! Now!”

He barely remembers the time right before he sundered his soul into V and Urizen. Mostly, it had been a haze of pain, his mind set on one goal and one goal only. 

Survival. 

Nero had been the solution to that. And when he had finally reclaimed his birthright, he had a new goal. 

Power. 

Shearing away his humanity was the key to that, and with a one-track mind, Yamato had been ready to grant his plea. 

And then the girl had interfered. 

The snarling remnants before him were the result of a sloppy cut. So caught up in the desire of throwing away his humanity, Yamato had bestowed his wish on the wrong soul. He does not know why she hesitated, or why she did not complete her cut. A blade that was able to shear through the fabric of reality did not dull in such a way. 

But that did not matter now. 

Brandishing Yamato, he focuses, blocking out the screaming soul echoing from the valley. The seldom memories he has of the human realm flood his mind and he subconsciously raises his arm to cut a path back to sanctuary. A path away from screaming nieces and heartbroken fathers. 

The air rends, swirling with dark miasma. 

“Dante! Move!”

Yet, his command falls on deaf ears. Frustration rallies him to act, grabbing his brother’s arm to drag him away. He needed to get him away, lest—

Dante grabs his wrist. 

Vergil prides himself on his agility, his quick reflexes a weapon that few could contend with. So, when he goes to flip Dante’s grip, to shake his brother off, he’s shocked to find his brother is faster. 

“Sorry, Vergil.” His little brother shakes his head with remorse. “Say hi to Nero for me, would ya?”

No! No! He wouldn’t allow it! He wouldn’t allow his brother to be torn from him again!

“Dante you f—!” He starts to snarl. Vergil lashes out, Yamato’s saya aimed at Dante’s head in hopes to knock him unconscious. He would drag him away from such danger if he had to! 

Vergil misses because of course he does. He lunges in for another attempt, but he knows it’s too late. There’s a sudden flare of demonic power, the signature red glow of Dante’s Royalguard. The flat of Dante’s palm impacts his chest, eliciting a harsh wheeze. He’s falling before he knows it. 

Dante gives him a sad smile, sorrow radiating from the soft gaze. Vergil realizes he had planned this from the very start. They were never going to leave together. 

Was this what he had felt? Did Dante experience such betrayal when he had fallen?

Darkness creeps into his vision, his only answer the unending cacophony of the veil. 

Chapter Text

The portal closes behind him with a sharp crack , his brother’s protests cut short by a solid shove and some demonic bullshit.

Well… damn. 

Vergil was gonna be so pissed, but at least he was safe. One family member out of danger, now another to drag out of harm's way. Dante sighs. He just hoped the kid wasn’t as stubborn as Nero. 

But this was his kid, so maybe there was some hope. 

He slides down the slope, trying to ignore the blood-curdling screeches of the young devil hunter.

Thrashing against the chains, Skylar snaps at the approaching demons, baring her teeth with a feral snarl. The Scudo Angelos hold her in place, pulling her in the opposite direction every time she barrels at them. Sparks crackle off her arms, but other than a short light show, she seems unable to summon anything else. As one of the zombified hounds stalks closer, she hisses and steps back a few paces. The Scudo Angelos make that difficult, dragging her back to her original position. She hisses again, fear dripping from the noise. A hearty yank of her shackles and she crashes forwards, colliding with the ground. Despite her heaving shoulders, she struggles weakly, angrily growling at the approaching hoard.

“Nowhere left to run, angel!” The demons chorus. “Nowhere left to escape.”

Skylar snaps at them again, but her trembling form speaks that she’s reached her limit. Blood leaks from her wounds, trickling onto the dry earth.

“Look how you’ve fallen! We told you, angel. We told you the chase wasn’t over.”

While Dante doesn’t have a plan on how to get her out of this mess, he knows he has to do something before it’s too late. 

First thing first, create a distraction.

“Don’t think she likes that nickname all too much.” He quips, gesturing widely toward the hoard. “Better quit it before she drops another one of you.”

For a moment, Skylar is forgotten, the demons turning in unison to stare at him. 

“Oh, Dark Knight! A pleasant surprise.” Voices echo around him. Could demons sound this pleased? “It seems we were right; a nestling’s screams will always have their sire come running. Tell us, Dark Knight, what do you think of your little one? Quite rambunctious, is she not?”

One of the Scudo Angelos tugs one of the chains, eliciting a howl of pain as the barbs dig deeper into Skylar’s back. His devil roars, ready to break loose and wreak havoc on those who would dare attack his kin. But, Dante battles it down, knowing acting rashly could get the kid killed. He needed to think this through.

The creature knew that they were related. That was already a dangerous fact. 

“Kids are like that. Always getting into trouble, but that’s the fun part of being young.”

Dante scans his surroundings, attempting to formulate some sort of escape plan. His options don’t look promising, nothing but barren wasteland as far as the eye can see. He’s alone, nothing to grant him any aid.

“So what, wanted to get to me through her? Pretty by the book if you ask me.” He attempts to stall. He needed more time, time he knew he nor Skylar had.

C’mon, think brain, think!

“Yet, here you are.” The voices reply smugly. “A successful plan despite such predictability. One that you fell for.”

“What?!” Dante balks. “Are you calling me dumb? Wow, that’s a pretty low blow, even from a demon.”

That garners a hissing laugh.

“Perhaps. But we do not require your intellect nor your little one’s cunning. Blood is all that matters. And with you here, we wonder if your precious nestling is even needed anymore. Would our master miss one small whelp in exchange for such mightier prey?” 

One demon sends Skylar a strange look, its bulbous eyes flicking between him and the young devil hunter. An expression of renewed fear washes over the kid’s face and she shrinks away as best she can. He’s wary of the demon’s words, whatever it could be alluding to spelling bad news. 

“And that master would be…?” 

The grins grow wider, more pleased, more sadistic, tearing at the corners of many a maw.

“Well, that would just ruin the surprise. Why don’t you accompany us and find out?”

The chains are wrenched back a final time and it's finally enough to force the kid unconscious. Or at least, he hopes unconsciousness. Either way, the sight of her frail, bleeding form is enough to have him disregard any bullshit planning. His Sin Devil Trigger crashes over him and he barrels the hoard in reckless abandon. For once, he doesn't resist his devil’s vicious chant for blood.

Devil Sword Dante materializes in his hand, roaring with his anger. He swings, cleaving the nearest demon in two, only to whirl around to lock blades with an Angelo. Another takes the distraction to attack his flank, which he repels with a furious swipe of molten blades. His wings snap open to buffet a lunging hound.

Around him, the demons hiss and snarl, disturbingly pleased with his whirlwind assault. Dante ignores their taunting jeers, firing off a blast of demonic power. The wave incinerates a group of wretched creatures, allowing him to grab Skylar’s sword. The Devil Arm hisses angrily in his hand, a slight burning sensation radiating through his palm and up his arm. Yet he ignores it for decapitating another incoming foe.

The world blurs and flickers as he dashes forward, slashing the Devil Sword in a wide arc. Blood splatters, dripping from eviscerated remains, but he pays it no mind. His focus is solely on his child, still and silent amongst the chaos. Snapping the chains binding her, Dante gently scoops her into his arms, careful of the jagged piece of metal jutting from her shoulder. She’s small in his claws, a tiny and frail thing that should have never had to suffer such a fate. 

But she’s breathing, and at the moment, that’s all he cares about.

His hands now occupied, Dante materializes four blistering summoned swords, primed and ready to defend the precious bundle in his possession. He ignores how exhausted it leaves him, lifting his shuddering wings in a display of dominance. Despite his ragged state, the demons know they are outmatched, and that any challenge would spell their doom.

And yet, they continue their senseless crowing, lunging at him with vigor. 

He is ready to cut them down, ready to stand his ground and fight. But for the first time in a long time, every instinct, human and demonic, screams at him to run. They needed safety, home, no matter temporary. So for once, he takes the hint, swallowing his pride, and snaps open his wings. Curling Skylar closer to his chest, he takes to the air. 

“Yes! Run Dark Knight! Flee!” The demons jeer below, their calls growing fainter with every beat of his wings. “We shall hunt you down just like your little one! You only delay the inevitable!”

He continues to fly despite his growing exhaustion. Hell had taken its toll, the once simple task of flying wearing him down far too quickly. But, they needed to create as much distance as possible. If that thing was so keen on a chase, Dante really wanted a head start. They needed time to regroup and lick their wounds.

The flight is peaceful for a good twenty minutes. However, Skylar seems to have other plans, choosing to finally wake up from her impromptu lapse of consciousness. To say she loses her shit is an understatement.

“Woah kid, stop!”  

Her struggle catches him off balance, sending them tumbling through the air. A quick snap of his wings is all that saves him from slamming into the earth. Unfortunately, Skylar is not so lucky, crashing into the ground with a meaty thud . Dante winces, letting his Devil Trigger fall away. He limps over to her. 

“Kid? Skylar?”

He barely jumps back in time as she lunges at him, an angry, snarling mess of teeth and claws. The kid’s magic had already been unstable when they had first met, freshly sundered by Yamato. But it had been at least kept under a tight hold, the kid consciously fighting against whatever was attempting to unravel her. 

That was no longer the case.

“Hey! Remember me!” He shouts as he ducks under another swipe. “You’ve gotta calm down! I’m only trying to help!”

Using Royalguard to mitigate some of the force, he dances around her, trying his best to break through to her. He’s surprised at her speed, despite her wounded state. But it’s impossible to miss how she’s slowing, that sudden shot of adrenaline waning swiftly.  

“You’re safe now! C’mon kid you’ve gotta listen to me!”

She snarls at him, her lip curling up to reveal a sharp row of teeth. Not a moment later, those same teeth snap at him, closing around empty air. It seems taking her weapon had been a good idea after all. With any sort of family reunion, he always ended up stabbed through the chest….

Rebellion. 

He slows, his mind pondering the horrible idea. Dante already hates it.

While Yamato could separate man from devil, Rebellion could meld the two. And while Rebellion was no longer whole, his blade still carried the Devil Arm’s essence. There was no way he could be certain that she would survive such a wound. Her healing was already screwed up and–

But what other choice did he have?

“Sorry Skylar, this is gonna sting a little but it’s for your own good.”

Skylar doesn’t seem to register his words, instead lunging at him again with an angry snarl.

With a heavy heart, Dante waits for an opening and—

Blood drips from the Damascus steel edge, Devil Sword Dante piercing the young devil hunter through the chest. Her eyes glaze over, a faraway look frosting over her face. For the first time, the world is silent, the only sound catching his ear being his own haggard breaths. 

This had to work.

This had to work!

He’s scared to move, scared that one wrong move may kill the youngest of his family. Dante’s hope ebbs with every passing moment and with every drop of blood splattering onto the ruined earth. There’s one final twitch and Skylar’s eyes flutter close, breath stolen from her lungs. His heart plummets. 

All he can do is stare at the frail form at the end of his blade. For a moment, the crumbled form of Nelo Angelo, the shell of his brother, flashes before his eyes. His sword drips with his blood, curling down the length of the edge, splashing on the smooth stone floor of Mundus’ twisted palace. 

Monster! How did you not recognize your own brother?! Your own twin?! 

Murderer! Murderer!

Dante grits his teeth, his hands shaking. This was why he pushed Nero away for all those years. This was why he could never have a family! How could he when everyone who got near him got—?!

In a flurry of sparks the Devil Sword disappears. Nothing to hold her up, the kid drops like a sack of potatoes. Dante is too stunned to react, searching inside himself for the Devil Arm bearing his name. 

For once he finds nothing.

“The hell…?” He breaths. His eyes wander to Skylar's still form. Crouching down, he gently places his fingers against her neck, relieved to find a weak but stable pulse. The wound from Devil Sword Dante has seemingly vanished, only leaving behind fresh blood on the kid’s already stained shirt. 

Hope flickers in his chest, unwanted but there all the same. 

Dante gently picks her up, pausing momentarily in case she awakes. She’s unsettlingly light in his arms, her bony frame tucked carefully against him. He adjusts her, making sure not to jostle the spear still lodged in her shoulder. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure what to do with that yet.

“C’mon, Skylar. Let’s go and find some shelter.”

Chapter Text

Fenrir plods just ahead, dipping under the brush, his dark coat melding with the inky shadows. There had been recent reports of demon sightings, demons that, if not taken care of quickly, could spell trouble for the nearby city. After Red Grave, it was a grim reminder of all the demonic bullshit that had happened in Fortuna. Nero was determined to not let anything slip by him.

There’s an eerie growl, almost human, but he knows that’s not the case. No, this was something far from human, and the idea that one of these creatures was so close to his home fills him with dread. It wasn’t every day a Nobody tore through the veil, a fact that he was more than thankful for. 

Not only was fighting them a bitch, but they also creeped him the hell out.

Not much farther now and sure enough, he finds the demonic intruder stalking through the undergrowth. There are two of them, much to his despair, twitching and writhing together in some nightmarish duet. 

With a swing of his blade, he crashes their little dance party. 

“Mind if I step in?” He asks, twirling Red Queen with a flick of his wrist. The pair of Nobodies screech, the sound grating his ears. But he blocks it out, in favor of revving Red Queen’s Exceed to drown out some of the noise. Her fire burns bright with the eager chant thrumming in his veins. 

“How about I show you some moves?!”

He dives straight into the fray, a whirlwind of fire and steel. Dipping under a wild swing of mutated flesh, Nero jams his arm into the socket of a waiting Overture and quickly doses the beast with a blast of electricity. It shudders, muscles spasming, allowing a certain canine to tackle it to the ground. 

“Oh yeah, hope you guys don’t mind the extra company.” Nero snarks. “Can’t skip bring-your-dog-to-work day!”

That garners a resentful growl from the Garmr, much to Nero’s amusement. Has he used that joke too many times? Probably. Will he stop? No, never. So, Nero decides to simply grin in response. 

They step around each other, swift and skillful as ever. Nero has no reason to worry about harming Fenrir with Red Queen’s scorching bite, the demon practically fireproof. The Durandal’s blade roars with flame and he creates an opening for the wolf to pounce. It works perfectly, the Nobody rearing back. Fenrir dives for its throat. It falls, scorched as Nero swiftly slices it in twain, gore staining his blade and the ground beneath. 

It was so easy to fall into rhythm with Fenrir, remnants of a bond tempered by countless battles reawakening after months of absence. 

He doesn’t like to think about it. It reminds him too much of what he’s lost. 

The second Nobody takes advantage of his musings, clocking him in the gut with its arm. Something snaps and he’s thrown into a nearby tree, the bark splintering at his back. Overture shatters, its remnants sparking. Nero quickly yanks the prosthesis free with a hiss. His right arm slowly reforms. 

“I’m fine! Keep going!” He shouts when Fenrir pauses and sends him a worried glance. Carefully he rises, using Red Queen to support himself. He tugs on his magic summoning his Devil Bringer and the wings flare behind him. If that bastard thought a simple gut shot was going to be the end of him, it was sorely mistaken. 

With a yell, Nero uses his swiftly growing anger and wings to launch himself back into the fight.

Wham!

A brutal blow from Red Queen sends the Nobody staggering back. Nero follows it up with a strike from his Devil Bringer, the spectral claws latching on to his prey to prevent it from escaping. It struggles in his grip, but he refuses to let go. 

Red Queen tears a meaty chunk out of the struggling Nobody, Fenrir still latched onto its leg. The Garmr’s molten claws tear into the demon’s flesh with renewed vigor. It goes to swipe at his back with its twisted arm, but Nero is faster, swiping at the base of the appendage gouging it. The Nobody screeches in pain and Fenrir takes the opportunity to twist his body, flipping the struggling creature to expose its vulnerable underbelly. 

A snap of his jaws and the monstrosity falls silent. 

Taking a deep breath, Nero cradles his aching ribs. Already, he was certain there was a nasty bruise spreading across his skin, another on his lower back. Fenrir gives his hand a careful lick to which, Nero returns the kind gesture with a hearty scratch behind the demon’s ear. He watches with a grin as Fenrir’s tail wags wildly. 

With both warriors still standing, they tread carefully around the dangerous woods, looking for any more demons lurking nearby. For some time, it seems quiet. For a fleeting moment, Nero thinks that their hunt is over and that they could finally go home and rest. Since Red Grave, he’s been swamped with jobs, ranging from lesser demons to terrifying devils. At first, he welcomed the challenge, using the work as a way to make some extra income and to keep his mind busy. And it did, for a while, until he realized that every hunt he chased felt lonely despite Nico’s snark. 

He had handed the rest of the jobs off to Lady and Trish and told Morrison to primarily give him nearby gigs. 

After nearly four months of constant work, he needed a break. He was tired in more ways than one. 

An alien warble draws his attention past the dense tree line. He and Fenrir share a glance, already making their way to the source of the disturbance. At first, he expects more demons, his hand hovering over Blue Rose at his hip. But instead of another gang of monsters, they’re met with a tear through the literal fabric of reality. 

And as if the day couldn’t get any weirder…

“—ing fool!” Comes a nasally snarl. 

There’s a flurry of red and blue and echoing thud. The portal snaps shut, the air becoming deathly still. 

Nero blinks, frozen in place as he stares at the being that had been spat out of the portal. He’s not sure what he should do, his father collapsed on the ground in a puddle of blood, his coat smoldering. Nero takes a few uncertain steps closer. However, such uncertainty doesn’t linger, as Vergil chooses for him,

Yamato tears through the air at a deadly velocity, and it’s only Nero’s superhuman reflexes that prevent him from losing another arm. Fenrir snarls, an attack on his companion instantly drawing the demon’s ire. Since Skylar’s disappearance, the Garmr had become extremely protective of him and his family, a silent sentry on almost every hunt in Fortuna’s vicinity. It had been irritating at first, but Nero had grown accustomed to the wolf’s constant presence.

And damn, did the Garmr make his presence known. There’s a crackle and snap of flame, and before he knows it, Fenrir is at Vergil’s throat. 

He didn’t know what to expect if- when everyone came back. It was certainly not this. 

“Off beast!” Vergil snarls. He braces against Yamato’s saya, the only barrier between him and Fenrir’s snapping jaws. 

Nero makes out the words disgrace and coward before Yamato swings for the Garmr’s neck. Thankfully, Nero is faster, barely blocking the vengeful strike with the flat of Red Queen’s blade. He swallows nervously, realizing a second later that Fenrir would have lost his head. But, his interruption seems to have caught his father by surprise. Vergil’s eyes suddenly focus as if he’s noticing him for the first time. Nero notes his father’s almost sickly appearance, a cut on his forehead refusing to mend, loose strands of hair obscuring his eyes.

“Nero…?” Vergil breathes. The way he says his name is surprisingly soft as if he doesn’t believe he’s present. But, that gentleness quickly vanishes as he lays eyes on the lupine demon behind him. Vergil stalks forward, evidently set on vengeance. It’s only when Nero moves to block him that he addresses him again.

“Nero, move! That creature needs to die!”

Nero mimics the deep scowl directed at him. 

“No! No one’s dying! Everyone needs to calm the fuck down before someone gets hurt!”

Fenrir snarls at the idea of peace. Nero rolls his eyes, letting loose a weary sigh.

“Fen! You’re not helping!”

“He is a traitor to his father’s legacy! A creature without honor!” The demon rages. “He mauled you! His kin! He is no Son of Sparda!” 

And suddenly, for the second time in six months, he’s the mediator of some demonic squabble. Before Nero can let out another sigh, Vergil all but growls at Fenrir.

“I dare you to say that again, beast! You know nothing of my father!”

Fenrir lunges once more, but Nero’s ready this time. Spinning on his heel, he grabs the demon’s scruff, holding him back from another attempt at violence. There’s an angry growl, Fenrir baring his teeth. Yet, he doesn’t struggle, allowing himself to be held back by Nero. 

“Both of you, shut up!” He commands, looking between the two of them. “Fen, I get it. My old man’s an ass, but that’s my problem. Okay?”

Vergil shoves past them, garnering another snarl from Fenrir. But his father pays him no mind, instead pacing around the surrounding thicket. Eventually, he pauses. In a blink of an eye, Yamato is drawn and he slashes the air in quick succession. 

Nothing happens. 

“Why isn’t this working?!” And for a moment, Nero thinks he can pick out panic rising in Vergil’s voice. “It shouldn’t have sealed that quickly!”

Vergil swings Yamato again. And again. Memories of the garage and the Qliphoth rise to the forefront of his mind, those same strikes resulting in a nebulous portal. 

“Well, maybe it's because you just got spat out from who knows where. Ever think of that?” 

Vergil whirls around to face him, an angry scowl etched on his face.

“You dare question my ability?!” He snaps. It almost sounds defensive, if not how confrontational the half-demon is. Nero rises to his challenge. 

“I’m not questioning shit! It’s called an observation, dumbass! Now will you stop for a minute and tell me what the hell is going on?!”

Vergil scoffs, lancing him with a cold glare.

“This doesn’t involve you.” He sneers. “This is between Dante and I.” 

Nero crosses his arms and taps his foot. His patience is running dangerously thin. 

“And Dante is where exactly? Because he’s not here!” 

And then he notices it, the strange glow still permeating from his father’s chest, still smoldering with Dante’s unmistakable magic. At first, Nero believed it had been remnants of the portal or Hell. 

“Where is he?!” He hisses and to his surprise, Vergil silences. His father shifts, as if ready to turn and walk away. Nero grabs his shoulder, despite every instinct screaming at him not to. It was dangerous, especially with his current track record of missing arms. 

But right now, he couldn’t give a shit. 

“Oh no, don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare!” He threatens. “Tell me, Vergil! Don’t you fucking walk away from me!”

His grip is roughly shaken off. 

“And tell you what?!” Vergil bellows. He towers over him, a full head taller than him. It takes every fiber of Nero’s being not to flinch back. “That my foolish brother decided to stay despite my warnings? All to save a child that is lost to madness! A lost cause!”

Nero stops in his tracks, the single word ringing in his ear. 

Child. 

Damn, she would resent being called that.  

“Wait… are you saying that…?” Nero stammers out, disbelief holding his tongue. It was a false hope that he didn’t want to fuel any further. But that was impossible. 

Vergil scoffs. 

“That your bullheaded cousin is alive? Yes, if you could consider it that way.” 

Fenrir tenses at his side. They share a quick look in shared disbelief. 

Skylar….

She was alive!

A part of him almost couldn’t believe it. Six months of searching, six months of hope slowly dwindling. It hadn’t been for nothing. 

“Cousin… so she’s…” Nero brushes past the realization that he has a cousin, that Dante had a kid. “Details Vergil! Is she okay? Did you talk to her?”

He wanted to know everything, every possible detail that could get him closer to seeing her again. He didn’t care if he sounded desperate as long as it could help him find a way to get her home. Fenrir seems to share that desperation, leaning closer to hear of his pup’s whereabouts. But Vergil severs that hope faster than a swing of his blade.

“You can’t talk with a mindless beast! Do you wish to know her fate?! She is nothing more than a creature of instinct; rabid!” Vergil hisses, venom dripping from his declaration. “And now Dante is trapped in the Underworld because of foolish fatherly sentiments.”

A chill runs down Nero’s spine. 

Vergil had abandoned her. After months alone, wandering a literal hellscape, his father had judged she was a lost cause and abandoned her. What had happened in those six months? Had she been tortured? Has she had to run, hunted by demons despite believing she was finally safe?   

But no, that didn’t matter to his father! Because protecting those you cared about was foolish! Fucking foolish fatherly sentiments!

If Nero had been in the same position, would Vergil have abandoned him? Would he have left him to suffer and die from a fate that he had inflicted? The thought frightens Nero, to be abandoned again. 

But he already had, right? Tearing off his arm with no regard for his well-being. Would he have still done it if he knew of their connection?

His Devil Trigger scratches beneath his skin, itching to be let loose. But Nero fends it off, fighting the beast away to shove it back into its cage. Despite how badly he wanted to pummel the heartless bastard before him, he knew it wouldn’t be a fair fight. No, when he kicked Vergil’s ass again, he wanted to do it fair and square. There would be no excuses that his strength wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough. 

However, that doesn’t stop him from sharing his sentiments with the deadbeat.  

“You know what?! I’m glad Skylar isn’t my sister!” Nero roars. He feeds every word with years of anger and resentment. “At least she doesn’t have to deal with a selfish, uncaring, deadbeat father!” 

And for a moment, Nero swears the uncaring mask slips. Maybe his words had hit their mark, but he can’t know for certain. For as quickly the mask had cracked, just as quickly had it repaired, leaving him with a blank unblemished surface. No longer able to deal with such bullshit, Nero turns and storms away. 

“Nero…!”

He stops himself from turning to look at him, despite the whisper of his name. It’s solemn, gentle in a way he would have thought impossible from someone who stole his arm. But the pleading that it holds…

It almost has him turning around. 

But he doesn’t. He refuses to. Nero continues his march home and…

Thump!

Nero heaves a sigh.

When he finally turns around, he finds the crumpled heap which is his father, slowly leaking blood all over the muddy ground. Despite his less-than-favorable opinion of him, Nero winces as he spies a particularly nasty cut on his back. Unsure of what to do, Nero prods him with his foot.

“Uh, Vergil? Old man? You doing alright?”

No response.

He sighs again.

What was his life? What did he do to deserve this bullshit?

Gingerly picking up the unconscious half-demon, Nero notes that his father is still breathing, much to his unspoken relief. Although Vergil did not hold any favor from him at the moment, Nero didn’t want him dead. He couldn’t let all of his hard work on top of the Qliphoth go to waste. 

Adjusting him more comfortably on his back, Nero begins to walk, but after a while, pauses. Where the hell was he supposed to bring him? There was no way in hell he was bringing him back to his house where Kyrie and the boys were. He could bring him to Nico’s apartment but… that didn’t sit right with him either. No way in hell he was going to put that type of responsibility on her. 

As he’s pondering his next move, Fenrir nudges against his side. It takes him a moment to understand what the demon is suggesting, 

“Nu-uh! No way!” He vigorously shakes his head. “I can’t do that to you. Not to her.”

The Garmr huffs, sharing his sentiments. And yet, he stays steadfast on the path, turning once again to give Nero another expectant look. Despite the silent war of wills, Nero can’t argue it’s the best option. 

It doesn’t stop him from hating it. 

But, eventually, he caves. 

“Lead the way Fido.”

He hasn’t done the walk in more than two months. It’s strange, the once beaten trail through the forest, created by their constant trampling traffic, faded and overgrown by grasses and weeds. But that didn’t deter Nero, he knew the way by heart, path or no path. But what did deter him…

All too soon, they breach the clearing, Skylar’s cottage still silent and dead as when he left it. Fenrir was the only one who occupied it, but even that was temporary. No, it seemed as if even the Garmr couldn’t stand seeing the house empty despite his effort to keep it protected. Having a home meant a lot to Skylar and Nero couldn’t blame the demon for trying. 

The wards warble as he passes the gnarled oak before the porch. They let him enter without fail, along with the unconscious Dark Slayer on his back. Nero had been a bit worried about that, having tried to plan how they could get Vergil through the protective barrier. A small victory, to say the least. 

Fenrir slips through the sizeable doggy door to his left, leaving Nero to struggle with the front door. Using his Devil Bringer to balance Vergil on his back, Nero fishes his keys from his coat pocket. His fingers hover over a lime green key, adorned with painted ladybugs, scratched and worn from years of use. Nero takes a deep breath, inserting the key into the lock and finagling it so it doesn’t stick. A hearty clunk and he pushes the door open. 

It’s cold. 

It’s the first thing he notices after two months away. The next is how quiet it is, the absence of the radio’s soft tune or Skylar sassing one of the Shadow cubs for being a nuisance grates on his nerves. Nero flicks on the lights, trying to ignore how bittersweet it is being here. He tries to ignore the small details, like how the majority of the plants are gone, moved to their house for better care, or how the door to her room is closed rather than cracked as it always is. 

Nero pushes past those feelings, those painful little details, and adjusts Vergil again.

Now… where to put him?

At first, he goes for the couch, quickly realizing that his father was far too tall for the cramped leather hand me down. He inadvertently looks over to the closed door of Skylar’s room.

Yeah, no fucking way.

He eventually settles on the spare bedroom. Admittedly, it was more like a study, with books, and knick-knacks perched on many a cramped shelf. The bed was an afterthought, allowing for an extra spot to sleep after many a late-night hunt. It was still made, just as he left it. 

And so he sets Vergil there, careful of his injuries. Fenrir cautiously observes from the doorway, distrust heavy in his gaze. It garners an amused snort from Nero.

“What? You scared he’s going to jump up and get you?” To which Fenrir stares at him like he’s an idiot. “Oh c’mon, it would have happened by now.”

Still, Nero leans Yamato on the opposite wall, making sure the katana was out of reach.

It only takes him thirty seconds of staring at Vergil’s unconscious form to know that he is way out of his depth. Pacing the small room, his hand wanders to his pocket where his phone is stored. He sighs, sparing Vergil a final glance before exiting. He keeps the door cracked, just in case anything were to happen. 

Plopping on the couch, Nero stares at his lock screen. A picture of Kyrie and him smiles up at him, the two of them wearing matching scarves on a cool autumn’s day. The golden hues from the surrounding trees are almost as glorious as his beloved. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t burden her with this! She already did so much for him. Besides, she probably just got off of work and—

But she’d want him to call. He remembers how betrayed she was when he had left for the Qliphoth without her knowledge. He wouldn’t do that to her again, never again. 

So, he calls, holding his breath as the phone rings. He’s not sure if he wishes her to pick up or not. 

“Hello?” Eventually comes Kyrie’s crystalline voice from the muffled microphone. Nero unconsciously relaxes.

“Hi, meadowlark.” He sighs. There’s a shuffle on the other end of the line as if Kyrie was shifting her phone closer to her ear.

“Nero? Are you okay? You sound… stressed.”

He sighs again, shaking his head. 

“Kyrie I- he’s…” Nero pauses and runs his hand down his face. “I found him, Kyrie. Vergil, he’s back.”

There’s a small gasp on the other end of the line. But after a beat of silent contemplation, Kyrie speaks again.

“You don’t sound happy about that. Did something happen?” At his silence, her tone grows more worried. “Nero, please. Let me help.”

“I- I just don’t know what to do, Kyrie. He just appears in the woods all pissed off, and then he tells me that Sky—“

“Oh, Nero, don't tell me…!” All of a sudden, she sounds heartbroken. Nero quickly corrects his mistake. 

“No, no! She’s not dead. She’s alive.” He elaborates. This conversation would be so much worse if…. “Fuck, I should be happy about that! But hearing it from the old man, I just… she’s not doing well Kyrie. She’s in a lot of danger and I can’t do anything about it.”

The swear slips from him by accident. He never liked to swear around Kyrie; she was too good for such crude language. But at the moment, he’s just too overwhelmed. Just imagining how Skylar might be suffering because of how stupid and rash he had been and— 

“But she’s alive. Focus on that. Where there is life, there is hope.” Kyrie soothes, bringing him back to the present. “You’re going to bring her home, Nero. I know you will. Take a deep breath. Everything is going to be okay.”

And he does just that. While it doesn’t fix anything, it does center him a bit.

“I- yeah. Yeah.”

“Where are you now?”

Nero nervously scratches the back of his neck.

“Over at Sky’s. It was Fen’s idea. I’m not sure how much I like it but, there was no way that I was bringing him back home.”

He hears Kyrie get up, the click of the coat closet catching his ear. 

“Make sure he’s comfortable. I’ll be over as soon as I can.” 

Of course, he protests. There was no way he was going to trouble her in such a way. 

“Kyrie you don’t need to—!“ 

“Nero.” She interrupts a tinge of steel. Nero immediately silences. “We’re in this together, remember? You’re my family. And whatever happens, I’ll be right there with you.”

It takes him a moment to respond, his heart aflutter at her declaration, warring with his will to protect her from harm’s way. But he knows she’s right. 

“Yeah… we are. I know that. Thank you….”

He can almost hear the proud grin on the other side of the line. 

“You never need to thank me for that. I’ll see you soon. And Nero…?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. Always.” 

He smiles despite the looming trouble. It’s the first genuine smile he’s worn all day. 

“I love you too, Kyrie. Please, be safe.”

He receives a fond, featherlight laugh and a promise before hanging up the line. Fenrir sits at the end of the couch, pretending as if he hadn’t listened to their entire conversation.

“Fen, could you do me a favor and go walk with Kyrie? I know Nyx is probably with her, but with everything going on, I’m worried.”

The Garmr nods, standing from his spot on the floor with a big stretch. However, before he leaves, he stops to press against Nero’s side. The supportive gesture garners a second smile, albeit more somber. Nero ruffles the demon’s fur in return. 

“I know. We’ll find her.” He promises while scratching Fenrir’s chin. “Thanks, bud.”

He receives a good-natured huff. Fenrir turns to leave, but Nero has one final thing to say. 

“Hey, how about I grab you a treat the next time I visit the butcher? That sound good?”

Fenrir perks up, responding with a chipper bark. He leaves with a subtle skip in his step, his tag wagging as he exits through the doggy door. Nero fondly shakes his head. Some things never change. 

It takes him a bit to figure out his next course of action, but he eventually settles on going to the bathroom for supplies. There was a first aid kit in one of the cabinets, at least, if his memory served him right. It would probably be useful along with whatever Kyrie brought over.

Nero rummages around the cramped bathroom, guilt pooling in his gut all the while. It felt invasive, going through Skylar’s stuff without her permission. But with the current circumstances, it was the best he could do. 

He would just have to apologize to her later. 

Eventually, he does find the first aid kit. It’s barebones at best, which makes sense for someone who can heal supernaturally fast. But after the incident in the garage and the blurry memory of bleeding out on the concrete, he makes a mental note to stock it a bit better after they finished with it. 

Better safe than sorry. 

Setting the first aid kit on the counter, he snags some washcloths and a towel from under the sink. Vergil was still covered in blood, dirt, and who knows what. But there was no way that Nero was bathing him. He has seen enough horrors in his lifetime and he doesn’t want the image of his father in the nude to be another one.

Just the thought has him gagging.

Eck!

The tap runs freely, the sound of running water filling the silence. It takes a moment, but the water finally warms to a desirable temperature. Nero dunks a washcloth and wrings it out, placing it aside, only to soak another one under—

Every bone, every muscle, every fiber in his body burns with unbearable pain, scorching his insides and leaving him paralyzed. But nothing compares to the blade lodged in his chest, dripping with his blood. He can’t move, hell, he can’t breathe, and he’s slipping fast, the world around him fading into a muddled swathe of red. There’s another person, someone responsible for his end, but he can’t quite make out their face. 

A part of him wants to give up. He’s too tired to continue fighting. Too tired to run anymore. 

But he fights despite that; claws at consciousness with frenzied determination. Because no way in hell is he going to die now, not after everything he’s been through. Because the blade’s not killing him, not really. His own strength is the culprit, betraying him, and tearing him apart from the inside out. 

And he was damn ready to rectify that.

The sword thrums with energy and gently reaches out despite its overwhelming aura. At first, he’s guarded, but as he continues to dive into oblivion, he knows it’s his only chance at survival. He grabs hold despite the weak protests of that hopeless part of him and drags the shattered pieces of his soul back together. 

And with herculean effort, he finally breathes. 

He comes to with aching slowness, the sound of rushing water pounding against his ringing ears. Nero heaves a desperate breath, coughing as it catches. The ensuing coughing fit grates against his ribs, foiling his every attempt to catch his breath. It takes a few moments to regain composure, but when he does, he places a shaking hand on his chest. His heart races still panicked. But it beats, unlike a few moments ago.

Pushing himself off the floor, Nero eventually reaches the sink, running his hands under the still-gushing facet. He stares at them, watching the water glide off his fingers and swirl down the drain. No longer are they stained red, dripping with blood. He runs his thumb over the back of his right hand, feeling the muscles tense under his skin. They feel real, the water feels real.

But dying had felt real too.

It had felt too similar to being back in that madman’s lab. That desperation, that helplessness… it had been too much, all of it too much.

Cupping his hands, Nero splashes water onto his face and revels in the coolness. Eventually, he shuts off the facet, plunging the bathroom into silence. Much to his regret, he’s left alone with his hushed breaths and swirling thoughts. Because despite having regained some composure, he was still without an answer to what happened to him. 

First, his father returning, then learning Skylar was alive, and now this? Was there something wrong with him? Was he unknowingly crumbling under the pressure? Everything seemed to be happening at once, there was so much change in a single day. After six months of silence, it was a lot to take in.

He hears the front door open. The shuffle of feet follows soon after.

“Nero? I brought some things that I thought might be useful.” Kyrie calls. The door closes behind her. “Nero, are you here?”

Nero takes one final deep breath, shoving down any roiling emotions still burning inside his gut. Panic was certainly the strongest among them, the ring leader to their sudden rebellion. But, he didn’t have time to quell the sudden insurgence nor come to any sort of negotiations. 

He would just have to endure.  

“Uh, yeah Kyrie. I’m just grabbing some stuff from the bathroom. Just place it on the table for now. I’ll be right there.”

Swiftly, Nero grabs what he needs and hurries into the living room. There were more pressing matters at hand, one in the form of an unconscious half-demon in the spare room. 

One problem at a time, he reminds himself.

One problem at a time.

Chapter Text

She feels at ease for the first time in what feels like forever. 

With that in mind, Skylar knows there must be something wrong. 

Days, months, years? She’s lost track of time. All she knows is that her insides aren’t screaming anymore, her consciousness not waging an eternal war against itself with her being the only casualty. 

It’s quiet. Too quiet. There has to be something wrong. 

Her eyes still closed, Skylar takes inventory of her surroundings. Admittedly, her senses are a bit muffled from the combination of exhaustion and the impromptu nap. She’s pretty sure she’s in a cave, the stone floor digging relentlessly into her side. There’s a slight echo every time she exhales, and there is most certainly a cool draft creeping in from the outside. It chills her, eliciting a shiver. 

Worryingly, she can still feel the beast in her blood lurking just below her consciousness. The thing that had robbed her of her speech and free will. Many a time, she had been a spectator in her own body, suffering from every mistake that creature made. But that was the problem. During those moments, she had been able to rest, letting instinct take the reins and hopefully lead her home. There had been moments when she had wanted to surrender to it, to free her from her suffering.

To free herself from Legion. 

But that would have been too easy and she knew she couldn’t let that wretched thing win. It had attacked Nico. She had almost hurt the people she cared so deeply for. 

It wasn’t like she liked constantly feeling like she was being ripped in two; that every thought that had crossed her mind had been so full of bloodlust, the constant chant of survive, survive, survive ringing over and over in her head day in and day out. But she continued to fight as long as she could.

Until she couldn’t. 

The memories grow foggy after that, yet all of them are filled with the same endless rage and toxic desperation. It had been suffocating, dragging her deeper and deeper into the strangling miasma that had been her broken mind. Peace had been a fantasy, a foolish hope for her drowning consciousness. 

And yet, that’s what she feels now. Peace. At least, some semblance of it. 

Was she dead? Dying? Had Legion finally captured her? Not knowing terrifies her to no end.

Something shifts outside the cave, the click, click, click of talons tapping on stone. Demonic power bounces off the walls, radiating into the cramped interior of the cave. Skylar tries to keep her breathing even, which for some unexplainable reason is an easy task despite her mind screeching at her of the imminent danger.

After being driven by instinct for so long, it feels alien for it to stay so at ease. 

Nevertheless, the human part of her brain screams at her. 

Get up! Now!

The demon shuffles to a stop, dropping something on the ground. 

Springing to her feet, the world tilts and spins in nauseating loops. Somehow Skylar powers past that, pushing off one of the walls of the cave and sprinting for what she imagines is the exit. Somewhere in her blurring vision, she picks out the demon that had just entered. Her breath catches.

Oh, she was so dead!

A few steps away is the equivalent of a demonic furnace, fire burning between its ashen scales. Its head is crowned with two massive horns; two sets of draconic wings settled on its back. Burning coals act as its eyes, scorching her as she stumbles past. In one of its massive clawed hands seems to be…

Her sword! It had stolen Ragnarök! That son of a—

Skylar crumbles to the ground, her legs betraying her. To her utter despair, a pained wheeze escapes, the impact having jarred her injuries. If the demon didn’t notice her by some miracle, it surely did now. Sure enough, she hears its heavy footsteps drawing closer. With the last of her strength, she tries to push herself up and continue to run. But it’s no use, her body refuses to listen.  

This was it. 

She was going to die. 

A desperate laugh bubbles from her chest, escaping strangled and harsh. Of all the ways to go, it wasn’t shocking that a demon was going to do her in. She had expected it. But never had she imagined she would die with so much regret, that there were people that may miss her. All her life she had continued to live out of spite. She had lived, because Legion wanted her dead. She had lived because she didn’t want to abandon Fenrir. She had lived, or so she thought. 

But that wasn’t living, was it? 

No, the cozy little house in Fortuna proved that. The angel named after the Lord’s mercy and the children under her care proved that. Her newfound friends, human and demon alike proved that.

Her brother, as impossible as he may seem, both in existence and for her sanity, proved that. 

Skylar lets out a shuddering breath. If she was going to die, at least she wanted to die fighting. Or at least standing. She gets to her hands and knees, her body trembling from the simple task.

Maybe this was for the best. From what she could tell, this demon had no connection to Legion. If she died here, the hunt would be over. Legion would fail and hopefully would never escape to the surface ever again. And if it did, hopefully, it would leave Nero and….

Skylar dips her head, staring at the grime-encrusted bracelet wrapped tightly around her wrist. She’s happy she didn’t lose it, just the sight of it gracing her with a few final happy memories. But… that’s not right. Her Devil Bringer was her right arm, not her left….

The demon draws closer.

It doesn’t matter now. Nothing will matter in a few moments. For one final time, Skylar steels herself, using the last of her magic to prepare to defend herself. Tears well up as she realizes this is goodbye. The young devil hunter braces herself for the inevitable vice grip around her neck. Hopefully, the demon would make it quick and she—

“Hey, woah, no passing out again! Geez, you’re almost more trouble than I was at your age. And that’s really saying something!”

A flinch is all she can muster when something rests on her shoulder. Looking to her left, she slowly realizes it's a human hand. 

What…?

Crouched in front of her is a man sporting a red coat. Embers flutter through the air, the remains of the demonic visage he had been wearing earlier. Her mind stutters to a halt as she recognizes him.

“Dante…?” Skylar rasps. She cringes at how rough her voice sounds, cracked and dry. But she has more issues than her destroyed voice. Particularly the Qliphoth and…

Shit! Nero! What happened to Nero?!

She tries to ask but ultimately fails, a coughing fit stealing her words. Every spasm sends more burning pain through her body to the point that she just wishes she would pass out again. Anything had to be better than this, right? Eventually, the coughing subsides. 

She’s surprised to still be sitting up, and even more surprised that Dante is supporting her. But he looks relieved, his shoulders relaxing as if an unknown weight had been lifted. The sight worries her, remembering that this was a man that never wore his true emotions. This was the same man who had ghosted Nero for nearly six years without an explanation. 

“Easy Skylar.” He hushes with surprising gentleness. “You’re not in the best shape. C’mon, let’s sit you down somewhere.”

Carefully he slings her arm behind his neck, lifting her to her—

“Hey!” Fingers snap near the tip of her nose. “What’d I just say?! Eyes open!”

How had she…? 

Skylar leans against the cave wall, her left side pressing against the rugged stone. Cold air nips at her neck and something wet dribbles down her back. Her eyes narrow, her expression twisting into what she hopes is a scowl. Dante shakes his head.

“Ah yes, the iconic Sparda sneer. Nero must have tutored you on being a sourpuss.”

She ignores the verbal jab.

“Where…?” 

Her head dips despite her struggling to stay conscious. Dante shakes her, garnering a hiss of pain.

“Sorry, sorry.” He quickly apologizes, yet continues to rest his hand on her good shoulder. “But stay awake, alright? I need to pull that out, I think it’s draining your magic. Once I do, you need to focus and seal up the wound. If you don’t you’ll bleed out.”

Skylar sends him a confused blink in response. 

“…what…?”

Dante tenses, suddenly looking nervous… or at least more nervous than before. There is no sign of the cocky smile she had seen in the office. No, this was serious. He was serious. 

“Uh, shit, I thought….”

She slowly looks to her right, sluggishly realizing why she felt so cold. Impaled in her shoulder is some sort of spike, gleaming with a sinister light, oily in a way that she imagined was impossible for metal. It pulses with the beat of her heart, chilling her further with every rhythm. 

“You still got smaller bits stuck here and there, but we can deal with those later,” Dante explains. “If we don’t fix that now, it’s gonna become a problem.”

If we don’t fix this, it’s going to kill you, she translates.

It’s not like she has a choice. Any remaining energy sapped, she simply dips her head in resignation. Carefully, Dante maneuvers around her trying to find a good leverage point. The spike shifts as he adjusts his grip, eliciting another pained hiss.

“Happy thoughts, kid. Happy thoughts. I’ll try to do this as quickly as I can. Just focus on staying awake.”

Skylar gives him a weak nod. His hands shift, finding their final station.

“‘Kay, on the count of three.” Dante prompts. He takes a nervous breath. “One, two—!“

Everything rings. She chokes, the breath she took moments ago lodged in her chest. It escapes in a ragged scream, tearing at her throat. Blood slicks down her back, dripping onto the floor. It takes every ounce of her willpower to focus on the gaping hole in her shoulder, focusing the remaining flicker of power into the wound. It’s a struggle and for a moment, she panics; her magic having run dry. She desperately reaches deeper, searching for any remaining scrap of power that could save her. The world dims and her limbs feel numb.

What had she been thinking? She was never strong enough to survive.

There’s a flicker, and Skylar senses a warm crackle of magic rise to meet her. As if awoken from a deep slumber, it swirls lazily around her soul, testing the bounds of its newfound freedom. Instinctually she knows it, ancient as the stone she bleeds on.

Ragnarök.

And yet, there was something else—someone else—humming along to the amorphous melody. It's a familiar tune from a familiar voice and she strains to hear the words. Yet, she can’t make them out no matter how hard she listens. Only the flutter of wings ghosts against her ears. 

She doesn’t have time to dwell on such things. She’s desperate. Desperate to live, desperate to survive. Reaching out, the magic doesn’t draw away, if anything, it creeps closer. Skylar grabs hold and—

Her shoulder burns and she clenches her teeth as she feels the ragged flesh knit itself together. Slowly but surely, the stream of blood trickles to a halt leaving her gasping for air. The strange presence retreats back into some unknown corner, leaving her shivering once more. A groan breaks through the ringing in her ears. Dante pushes himself off the ground, brushing dust and soot from his coat.

“Damn, kid! Where was that a few hours ago?”

She doesn’t grant him a response. The question forms at her lips and—

“Hello?! Kid! Kiddo?! Skylar! Hey!”

Someone shakes her shoulder again and she does her best to shove them away. When that doesn’t work, Skylar cracks open an eye, only to find Dante kneeling next to her. He shakes her again, only stopping when she weakly bats away his hand. 

“Leave me alone…” She slurs, resting her head back on the floor. Honestly, she’s ready to drift off again. Everything hurts and she really doesn’t want to deal with whatever bullshit was inevitably coming next. “…’m tired.”  

And yet, despite her words, Dante continues to yammer on to keep her awake. 

“No can do. We’ve got to deal with the rest of those wounds before they get worse.” 

Skylar groans, curling away from the obnoxious devil hunter in hopes to drift back to sleep. Why won’t he just leave her alone? He ghosted Nero for five years, what was five minutes? Skylar drapes her arm over her face to make her point. The long-suffering sigh that follows grates her nerves. 

“Oh, don’t be like that! Who knows what gross stuff you wallowed through the last few months? Don’t you want to make sure that—?”

That snaps her awake. Whirling around, she stares at him in horror from her spot on the floor.

“Months…?!” Is all she can wheeze.

Dante’s eyes widen as he mouths a silent “Oh”. 

“You didn’t…?” He whispers before looking away. “Sorry ‘bout that. I… thought you knew.”

Skylar shakes her head. Staring blankly at the roaring campfire residing at the center of the cave, she tries her best to digest the news. The short tremble in her frame reveals that she’s failing, but at the moment she couldn’t care less. Months? It had been months that she’s been gone, months lost to madness. How many months? Her thoughts begin to spiral, worst-case scenarios seeding more doubt and despair. Did time move differently in Hell? Would everyone she loved be gone if she returned? Had they given up on her by now? Did they think she was dead and gone?

“Know what? Don’t think about it right now. There’s plenty of time later.” Dante announces interrupting her internal panic. “How do ya feel about some grub? I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

She latches onto the distraction. A quiet nod and Skylar does her best to sit up. Eventually, she leans against the cave wall, ignoring the anxiety still roiling in her gut. 

“You found something to eat?” She asks, unable to hide her astonishment. Almost everything in Hell seemed to be toxic. There’s an attempt to clear her throat, which ultimately fails, resulting in a soft cough. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of water, but just like edible food, water was another rare commodity.

“It’s nothing special, just some demon jerky from a while back. We can look for something better once we get a lay of the land.” Dante calls over his shoulder as he rummages through a battered rucksack. “Does that sound good to you?”

Skylar doesn’t answer and instead watches him with suspicion. Why did he care? They both knew that she would only hinder his escape. She was a burden, a liability that would be the death of both of them. Unless he needed her for something, she was of no use to him. But maybe that was it. Maybe she was some sort of sacrifice or a pawn to be traded away.

Despite initially pure intentions, betrayal was commonplace when it came to survival. 

Dante tosses her a dried portion of demon flesh and she fumbles to catch it. It sits in her lap, silently taunting her. Despite her howling insides, she schools her features and scoots her portion away from her. Skylar does her best to ignore it. 

But despite her best efforts, Dante sees right through her façade. 

“Oh c’mon, I’m not going to poison you!” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, my cooking is pretty bad, but nothing worse than anything you’d find down here. See?” Dante takes a chomp of his portion, the stringy tendons easily snapping under his teeth. He chews slowly as if to make a point, but Skylar can see the disgust creeping onto his expression with every chew.

“Wow, I never thought I could miss pizza more than I already did. I was so wrong.” 

Skylar continues to ignore his offering.

“I’m not hungry.” She huffs. Does she sound like a petulant child? Unfortunately, yes. Does she care? No.

That garners a scoff from the older devil hunter. 

“And I’m the King of the Underworld. C’mon Sky, you’re just being stubborn at this point.”

She glares at him at the use of her nickname. Dante merely shrugs, much to her annoyance, and continues gnawing on his own meal as he leans against the wall. Despite feigning disinterest, he watches her out of the corner of his eye, glancing at her every few seconds to check if she’s taken a bite. Her internal struggle prevents her from doing so, but eventually logic rules over. 

And well… maybe a bit of hunger.

Skylar sighs, plucking the sad, withered piece of meat from the floor. 

Whelp… she’s certainly had worse.

Taking a cautious bite, she has to stop herself from immediately scarfing down her portion. Skylar takes a few quick bites, unable to stop herself from humming happily. Just tasting something besides the dull grey of saliva or the occasional split lip raises her spirits just a bit. Every few bites, she tries to savor the extremely gamey flavor and the subsequent sour aftertaste. It wasn’t a good taste by any means, but she had long since grown used to it. 

“Woah! Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you being a picky eater.” Dante chuckles, catching her by surprise. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there, so focused on sating her appetite. A blush crawls up her neck, ashamed at the sudden display of weakness. However, much to her relief, the devil hunter doesn’t comment on it. 

Instead, he offers, “I can grab you some more if you want. You could probably use it.” To which, she shakes her head.

While she was certainly still hungry, they needed to ration their supplies. It was enough to keep her alive and already she could feel some of the smaller wounds beginning to seal. Besides, she still didn’t know Dante’s intentions. She couldn’t afford to indebt herself to him any further. 

Still, her meal is gone much faster than she would have liked. Skylar does her best to ignore the gnawing sensation in her gut. And she does forget about it for a moment; the moment she looks down at her hands.

“What the…?!”

She hadn’t noticed it at first, so focused on the fact that she had been trapped for months in the Underworld. But with her hands now free and mind slightly clearer, she stares in abject horror at her left side. Instead of human skin and the dull nails she was used to, she finds scales and sharp talons. And to her horror, it doesn’t stop there. The patchwork of scales climbs her forearms. Skylar tugs on her jacket collar, only to realize that they continue past her collarbone and up her neck on her right side. 

She touches her face and…

“Are you doing okay there…?” Dante asks, but the question is distant and muffled in her ears.

Her hands fly to her head, grasping at a pair of newly budded horns crowning her silver mop. Feeling the base of them, she realizes they are connected to her skull. 

They… they had grown from—!

“No, no, no—! This can’t be happening!” Her breaths escape her in strangled bursts. “I- I don’t want to—! I don’t— I can’t be—!”

She’s fifteen again, bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, protecting the mangled remains of her arm from the monster that has haunted every waking moment of her existence. No one is there to save, no one other than Fenrir and even he is nowhere to be seen. No, she was alone, alone as she’s always been from the very start. 

And now, she’s alone again, with no Fenrir and no Nero to save her. Her right arm blisters, a ghost of the pain she had endured when the scales had punctured through her mutilated skin. It had been an attempt to save herself, one that had resulted in years of isolation and self-hate. 

Gripping one of the horns, Skylar wrenches it to the side in an attempt to snap it off. She feels a deep, resonating pain, but she doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter. All she wants is to rid herself of these cursed things, these reminders that Legion had hurt her again despite everything she did to escape. Because every time she thought she was ahead, that she had rid herself of that monster, it always seemed to come back. And slowly but surely, it was transforming her into the monster it wanted her to be.

She wouldn’t let that happen. Not like this.

Skylar yanks at the stubborn horn again, the sturdy keratin groaning at the sudden force. She fails to accomplish her quest, as someone grabs her wrists and pulls them away from her head.

“Let go!” She demands and struggles with who she knows is Dante. “Let go!” 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he carefully guides her hands away from her head.

“Hey, hey! Skylar, look at me! Look at me!” It takes a few attempts to coax her to look up, but eventually, she folds. The expression she meets is one far too soft, far too sympathetic. It almost has her breaking down again if not for her failing pride. Skylar tries to draw her hands away but Dante gently blocks her escape. He continues to hold them despite her weak attempts at freedom. They tremble in his grasp. “You’ve gotta stay calm. I know how scary this must be, but you’ve got to stay with me, alright? We’ll figure this out.”

“Calm?!” Her voice cracks. “How the hell am I supposed to stay calm?! I’m a monster! I—!”

She couldn’t go home. 

The realization forces out a choked laugh that quickly transforms into a pitiful sob. She was stuck in Hell even if they found a way out. If she were to return she would only be endangering everyone she cared about. It had happened before in the garage, that slip into the deepest, darkest part of her psyche. A slip that almost cost Nico her life.

How did she know it wouldn’t happen again? How did she know this wasn’t Legion’s plan in the first place?

In an attempt to hide the tears rolling down her cheeks, Skylar tries to turn away. If Dante already didn’t find her weak and pathetic, he certainly would now. It’s a useless attempt with the reality of her being trapped in the Underworld fully registering, dragging her deeper into despair. 

“I can’t go home…!” She whimpers, no longer fighting against his grip. It’s quiet, other than the rushing wind outside and the soft echoes of clattering pebbles. Eventually, she inadvertently looks the devil hunter in the eye, finding something she did not expect. 

Unwavering resolve. 

“You will Skylar.” He promises her, his tone warm, determined. “Whatever happens, I’ll make sure of it.”

And he’s not lying. The mask is gone, the supposedly untouchable Legendary Devil Hunter with it. All that remains is a tired soul, one that has seen far too much hardship over his lifetime. Surprise from such a stark contrast interrupts the flow of tears. 

“But… how do you know? I could snap again, hurt someone. I shouldn’t go home.” She feels like a child, seeking out false hope from the ever-wiser adults. She had learned quickly that such wisdom was a myth. 

Dante is silent, weighed down by some unknown sorrow. It’s as if he’s mourning, but for who or for what, she does not know. Eventually, he sighs.

“I’ve been in this business a long time. Practically my whole life. I’ve met plenty of monsters, kid, and I can assure you, you aren’t one of them.” 

Maybe it’s his sincerity or the look in his eye that screams that he understands. Maybe he does; Skylar remembers the hulking demon that entered the cave, only to find out it was a familiar face. He carried the same blood, a fellow descendent of Sparda, the son of the Dark Knight himself. How couldn’t he relate? 

But, why did he care?

Was it because of Nero, his son, who he had obviously sacrificed himself for in the Qliphoth? It’s obvious Dante cares for him, his desperation at the sight of him when they faced the demon king. Was she simply a means to try and fix their broken relationship?

A part of her is scared of the answer. Reality was often unfair, ruthless in its decree. If knowing the truth meant she was to be alone again, she didn’t want to, at least not now. Let her live in the illusion just for a bit more, just to remember how it felt like for someone to care. 

Just a little longer. Didn’t she deserve that much?

“I hope you’re right.” She says instead. There’s a soft sniffle as she tries to compose herself. “Thanks… I- I mean it.”

Dante gives her a sad smile and a careful clap on the shoulder.

“Not a problem. I’ve got a pretty good sense for this type of stuff. Now, enough chit-chat. The faster we get you cleaned up, the faster we can get some rest. I’m already missing my daily quota of cat naps.”

A soft chuckle escapes her despite the dark atmosphere. 

“Smartest thing you’ve said all day.”

“Shit!”

“My bad. My bad.” Dante apologizes. Despite her evident discomfort, he tugs free another shard of demonic metal from her leg. Skylar hisses but doesn’t protest further. She doesn’t have the energy for it. From the lacerations scattered across her body to the remains of the barbs still embedded in her flesh, it was obvious that it was going to take her some time to recover. 

“I can finish this up. You don’t have to waste your time. Go and take your nap or whatever you wanted to do.”

She receives a puzzled look, a raised eyebrow that is quickly smoothed out by an easy-going shrug. Dante waves a dismissive hand as he continues his work. 

“Nah, I got plenty of time for that later. Besides, I’ve been told I have a stellar bedside manner. You don’t want to miss that!”

Skylar scoffs. 

“I’ve already been dealing with your bedside manner for what, three hours? And look where that’s got me. Probably be better off without it.”

Skylar tries to focus on the amused glimmer in the man’s eye instead of the burning pain radiating up her leg.

“Bit longer than that. But you were out for most of it so I’ll give you a pass. Now stop being so dramatic. If you seriously don’t want to waste my time, focus on staying alive. I don’t need to give Nero another excuse to kick my ass.”

That garners a huff. 

“How is he?” She can’t help but ask. It was a question burning in her mind since the moment she woke up. Luckily, Dante seems to be in the sharing mood.

“Alive, at least the last time I saw him. Got his arm back, stepped up, and saved the day, the usual.”

She tilts her head, furrowing her brow as she ponders his words.

“His arm?”

Dante pauses from his work. He shakes his head.

“Right… you missed that part. Yeah, he finally unlocked his Devil Trigger, his real one. His arm grew back as an added bonus. Almost couldn’t believe it myself.” 

Skylar’s thoughts wander to the vision she had at the start of all this madness. Nero, the Qliphoth, the ghostly meetings with long-lost loved ones. There was no way that it could be a coincidence, right? Or maybe it was just hopeful thinking on her part, a coping mechanism at the time for her guilt. Either way, the idea that he no longer suffered from her mistake brought her some comfort.

Unfortunately, that comfort is short-lived as Dante tugs at the last remaining shard. Skylar yelps, eliciting a flurry of hushed apologies. 

“That’s in there pretty deep.” He comments, not helping her racing heart. They share a nervous look and Skylar gulps.

“Can’t it just… stay? Ignore it? Maybe it’ll fall out on its own.” She knows it’s childish to even suggest, but she couldn’t help but hope for such naivety to be true. Dante shakes his head.

“I think we both know that’s not how it works.”

Skylar sighs.

“Worth a shot.”

He clicks his tongue, carefully inspecting the offending metal. 

“Hey just think, this is the last one. Then you can get some rest.” He tries to assure her. “You’ll be up on your feet in no time!”

“Woohoo….” Skylar deadpans. She waves her arms in mock celebration, eliciting a surprised bark of laughter. Dante shakes his head again, but this time, it speaks of unspoken fondness. 

“You know, I was wondering how Nero became so quick with the comebacks, living in Fortuna of all places. Guess it helps having a sparring partner.” There’s a strange mix of respect and distaste in his expression. “Kid’s got a mouth on him though. I don’t think I’ve heard that many f-bombs in my life.”

Skylar tilts her head. 

“Means something really must have pissed him off. Yeah, Nero has a temper, but it’s rare he gets truly angry. It must have been one special occasion.”

Dante scoffs. 

“Oh, it was a special occasion alright. He met his old man for the first time. It was one hell of a father and son reunion.”

Wait, wait, wait!

Father? Son?!

“What?!”

Dante yanks the large shard jutting out of her leg in one swift motion. Skylar bites back a yell, claws scratching at the unyielding stone floor. As the shrapnel is haphazardly thrown to the wayside, its metallic clatter ringing against her ears, she can slowly but surely feel the wound attempting to stitch itself back together. 

“Yeah, turns out Urizen and V were halves of my long-lost brother.” Dante continues talking as if to try and distract her from the pain. She does her best to listen, despite everything growing foggy. Skylar barely notices him tearing off another large strip of her discarded cloak. There’s a sharp sting as he secures it around her leg. “One was the demon half while the other was the human half. Eventually, they ended up getting pieced back together and well, Vergil returns to the land of the living.”

There’s genuine happiness at the mention of his brother, the grin on his face spreading as he reminisces. He continues to chatter on despite her confusion.

“Which means, my favorite nephew got to kick his old man’s ass at the end of—!” 

Dante snaps his mouth shut, realizing he’s said too much. But the damage is already done. Despite her precarious state, Skylar’s mind reels at the connotation of his last words.

“Nephew…?” She whispers. “Then if he’s… where do I…?”

Everything spins in a vortex of vertigo. Her question dies on her lips as red continues to soak through the bandage. She idly notices Dante rise from his spot to scrounge up more supplies from the rucksack. However, she panics as the world continues to grow darker and darker. 

Skylar grabs his wrist without thinking.

“Please… I…!” 

She’s scared. 

After so long wandering Hell’s landscape, afraid every step of the way, the last thing she wants is to be alone. Despite her still muddled memories, that instinctual fear is unmistakable. Yes, there are secrets the devil hunter is obviously hiding, but right now, he’s the only other person here. Skylar continues to cling to his wrist, silently praying he won’t abandon her. While his initial reaction seems almost irate—his arm twitching as if he was ready to pull away—his expression softens. He sits down next to her, his shoulder barely ghosting against hers. 

“Just rest kid. I’ve got you.” Dante assures her. He hesitates before taking her hand and giving it a comforting squeeze. “I’ve got you.”

There’s a soft sob of relief. Despite his lies and deceit, despite every reason she should not trust him, Skylar does. She believes him. 

Why?

She doesn’t receive an answer, as it’s her last thought before consciousness slips from her once more.

Chapter Text

It’s dark when he opens his eyes again, the quiet drone of crickets outside. His hair obscures his vision, and he’s just about to check in with Dante to swap shifts when—

Vergil freezes. The Underworld did not have crickets.

His eyes quickly adjust to the cramped, dim room, memories of what he hopes is the day prior swirling in his mind. Nero and the Garmr had found him, his idiot twin had pushed him through the tear in the veil and…

…the girl. They had found Dante’s spawn being pursued by Mundus’ prized hunter. 

Slipping off the covers, it takes him a moment to balance himself, the trials of the Underworld coming back to haunt him. Checking himself over, he’s obviously missing his coat and boots, their whereabouts unknown to him. Vergil looks down at his arms and he can make out an attempt at trying to clean the stubborn layer of grime off his skin. The stained linens are a clear indication that such a quest resulted in failure, having given up and simply laying him in bed. 

When was the last time he slept in a proper bed?

Vergil sweeps his hair back, cringing at the oily slickness it carries and the stray bits of carrion peppered throughout. While an unpleasant sensation, it’s nothing to linger on. 

However, Yamato’s absence is. 

There’s a jolt of panic and Vergil desperately looks around the room for his precious blade. His fear is only quelled at the sight of her leaning against the wall, unharmed. Quickly he gets to his feet and reclaims his oldest companion. Only when she is back at his hip does he somewhat relax. Yamato chimes, as if trying to comfort him, assuring him he is safe. 

Vergil doesn’t believe her.

He pads silently into what he believes is a living room. Despite being the only one in the house, a part of him fears any noise may break the serenity, shattering whatever this illusion may hold. 

The space is alien in a way he can’t quite place. Maybe it’s the faint smell of Nero focused on the right side of the couch, or the random plants and books scattered around the space. It’s lived in, something that he realizes he is not exactly comfortable with. Or at least it was until he destroyed that as well, a voice that sounds too much like V reminds him. Because the truth is, he knows who this dwelling belongs to. He can smell it on the furniture, in the walls, the scent that reminds him too much of Dante. 

He isn’t supposed to be here. He has to leave quickly. With careful steps, he slinks across the space in search of his boots and coat. 

The front door suddenly unlocks. Vergil ducks into a crouch, melding in with the room’s muddled shadows. He holds his breath, hand hovering over Yamato’s tsuka. This could be a trick for all he knew, he needed to be on guard. But, to his surprise, Nero strolls in, his ghostly wings carrying two heavily loaded grocery bags. Closing the door behind him, he flicks on a light. Vergil has to blink a few times to allow his vision to adjust. 

“Ah, you’re up. Good, that’s good.” Nero nods, obviously trying to ignore the fact that he was about to ambush him. Instead, he transfers the bags into his corporeal hands. “I didn’t know what to do with your coat so it’s hanging up in the closet. Your boots are there too. Saw that they had the same enchantments, or well, at least similar ones, so I tossed them in the washing machine. Hope that was okay.”

Vergil stares at him for a moment, trying to pick out any ill intent. His son, having set the grocery bags on the counter, fidgets under his gaze. At first, he wonders if such nervousness is from some sort of deceit. The thought is quickly dismissed, the hopeful flutter in Nero’s magic telling. 

“No harm in it.” He sends him a curt nod. There’s a mixture of relief and disappointment that flits across the boy’s face. It’s foolish to desire approval, even though he had desired the same recognition from his own father. Nero appeared to be a quick learner, he would understand soon enough. Such attachments only brought despair. 

“So uh… you want something to eat? I picked up some groceries while you were out. There wasn’t really anything in the fridge, and I wasn’t sure what you liked so I just picked up a little bit of everything.”

Vergil holds back a scoff. He didn’t require such frivolous luxuries. And he’s ready to make that known. But, the clatter of cookware and the shuffle of various ingredients has him holding his tongue. This wasn’t an obligation, Nero wanted to do this. His son wanted to cook for him. Vergil was not accustomed to such generosity. 

What was the harm? Besides, he could use a meal. It would be beneficial before he was busy trying to save his foolish little brother from his own mistakes.

Hopefully, the boy wouldn’t poison him.

And so, Vergil nods. It’s only then that he notices the unspoken tension radiating in the room, dropping as a relieved grin washes over Nero’s face. For a moment, Vergil stares, trying to analyze the warmth spreading in his chest at the genuine care his son held. 

“Great,” Nero replies, obviously trying to hide relief and surprise. There’s another awkward beat of silence as if Nero hadn’t expected this to happen. He clears his throat. “Uh, I’m guessing you probably wanna get cleaned up before eating. Probably doesn’t feel great having all that shit on you.”

Nero rummages through another bag, one that Vergil had only just noticed sitting on one of the kitchen chairs. From it, he pulls out a bundle of clothing, including what he can tell is a pair of plain black sweats and a navy blue crew neck. He is handed the unexpectedly plush bundle and gestured towards a door down the hall.

“Bathroom’s over there. Just make sure to run the tap for a bit. The shower takes a bit of time to heat up. And, uh, let me know if you need anything. I’ll just be in the kitchen.” 

The Dark Slayer does not flee for the bathroom. It’s a tactical retreat and he would argue with anyone who believed differently. 

Shutting the door behind him, Vergil doesn’t bother turning on the lights, his vision easily adjusting to the dim space. He does his best to ignore the dark silhouette in the mirror, his reflection still strange and foreign to his own eyes. He had seen a brief glance of it in the Underworld—they had stumbled upon a shallow pond of water, much to his dismay—and had deemed it a conundrum he would wrestle with later. 

There was already too much to process. He didn’t need the existential struggle that came with lost time. 

It takes him a few minutes to peel the grime-ridden clothes from his skin, but eventually, he manages, plopping them in a neat pile in the corner. Having heeded Nero’s advice, he had run the tap in the meantime. Not that such things mattered, but he couldn’t deny the allure of a warm shower.

Water rushes over his head and Vergil allows himself a moment of respite, losing himself to the warmth sinking into his skin, easing many an ache and pain. It garners a content sigh, a sound that if anyone else were to hear would result in their immediate demise. But luckily, he is alone and no one has to lose their head. 

Slowly but surely, the grime breaks apart and he’s left staring at pale skin. Scars ghost his torso, smaller ones nicking his arms and legs. However, it’s the one on his chest that has him pause, deeper than the rest, etched from one side of his torso to the other, sharply dipping to his belly button. Despite his foggy memory, he remembers the blinding pain that had inflicted it, the catalyst for his devil trigger. And yet, despite the agony, the demons that had inflicted it had unknowingly given him his greatest weapon. 

Looking back now, after all the pain and misery he had endured, was it worth it in the end? 

Yes , a part of him hisses. He was untouchable with the power he possessed. No longer would he have to worry about watching his back or jumping at every bump in the night. He had power. Power beyond his wildest dreams.

And yet, he couldn’t save Dante, another part of him reminds him. He was alone again, just as he had the night of the fire. All the heartache, all the struggle, all of it was so he could be protected and loved. Has power achieved that? 

Vergil scrubs his hair, dislodging what he discovers is a tooth from the muck-stained locks. It clatters on the tub’s surface, bouncing just as chaotically as the thoughts in his head. Pressing his hands against the cool tile wall, he exhales a deep breath. 

Why did humanity come with so many contradictions? There were so many needless feelings and useless sentiments. Yet, here he was, clinging to such sentiments like a man shipwrecked at sea. Because, just in the other room, there was a young man that defied all logic. Passionate yet ever patient, brash yet gentle, stubborn yet kind. A walking enigma. 

An enigma in the form of his son. 

It would be wise to simply take Yamato and leave; safer for everyone involved. Nero had proven he was a capable hunter, strong enough to create and protect a life for himself. However, he couldn’t deny he was curious, his vague memories as V only fueling that curiosity. Maybe Nero was the answer he had been looking for. 

“ That day, if our positions were switched.… Would our fates be different? Would I have your life, and you mine?”

There was only one way to find out. 

Vergil abruptly shuts off the tap, immediately missing the warm cascade of water. Ignoring the chill ghosting over his skin, he works on making himself at least somewhat presentable. One such step includes toweling his hair and swiping it back to its rightful position.

At the very least one thing hasn’t changed. 

Dawning the offered garments, Vergil pauses, running a hand over the soft fabric. So different is it from, well, anything he has worn in his waking memory. Even his memories from V only contain that ghastly leather coat and those impractical sandals, both not the most comfortable of articles to fight through an apocalypse in. He had only kept them because there was nothing else to wear, he lies to himself. They had been efficient when summoning his familiars. Not because they made him look roguishly stylish and mysterious.

Eventually, he picks up Yamato and opens the door; at which, he’s hit with the heavy scent of eggs, meat, and sautéed vegetables. Soundlessly, Vergil creeps back to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to quietly watch his son. Nero has yet to notice his presence, a fact that he should scold him for. Such a lack of awareness quickly resulted in death. 

He decides to hold his tongue, knowing that their relationship was already in treacherous waters. Vergil instead quietly stands there, drinking in the atmosphere. Nero cracks an egg into a glass, tossing the shell over his shoulder into the waiting trash bin. He repeats this two more times, softly humming all the while. The contents are stirred vigorously, a dash of what Vergil recognizes as salt and pepper added as well. Added as well are a few more spices and whatnot, but he can’t identify them.

However, the word “ omelet ” comes to mind, 

“You know, you don’t have to lurk,” Nero comments. He looks directly at where he’s standing. “You can sit down if you want.”

Vergil tilts his head. 

Maybe he wasn’t as clueless as he thought. 

The chair makes an unholy screech, breaking the peaceful atmosphere, as he drags it away from the table. He sits down, leaning Yamato against his leg.  

“Anything you don’t like? Allergies or whatever?”

Vergil blinks. He doesn’t understand his question. 

“I’ll take that as a no then.” Nero continues awkwardly at his silence. Carefully he rotates the pan, evenly spreading the egg concoction across the sizzling surface. Vergil watches as he skillfully and efficiently adds a variety of different vegetables, tossing in bits of some sort of meat and a hearty amount of cheese. He’s intrigued at Nero’s cooking prowess, the brash, hotheaded devil hunter seemingly lacking any patience for such a mundane and time-consuming task. 

Nero flips the omelet with a final flourish, sliding it onto a waiting plate. He offers Vergil his culinary masterpiece, which he takes with some hesitation.

“I’ll grab you something to drink. There wasn’t anything really good at the store so water is just going to have to do.” 

With Nero’s back turned, Vergil inspects the offered food, giving it a careful sniff and poking at the fluffy yellow shell. It doesn’t smell of any treachery, nor does anything seem to be amiss. And so, despite years of betrayal haunting his conscience, he tears a piece off and takes a ginger bite. Vergil’s eyes widen as he stares in silent dismay. 

It tastes… good . 

It’s been too long since he’s had something that was at all palatable. He partially remembers the meals he scrounged from war-torn Red Grave, picking through grocery stores when time permitted. That nuisance of a familiar Griffon would often tease him, or V in that case. 

Why did he still feel so filled with loss? It was just some foolish demon, his nightmares given flesh.

However, this was something different. It was not the stale remainders of the deceased, the rotting remains of some lesser demons. It felt like a cruel trick, but Nero makes no move to try and steal his food. Instead, his son continues his search for what he assumes is some sort of glassware. Vergil quickly chomps at the omelet, all the while shooting his son untrustworthy glances. 

He’s about halfway through his meal when the dull clunk of a mug interrupts him. A hand twitches toward Yamato, only to stop when he realizes it’s Nero. 

“Glad you like it. It’s not Ky-, the best cooking, but it’s better than nothing.” There’s a pleased smirk that could be mistaken as infuriatingly smug. But again, his tone is too kind, too genuine, too hopeful. It’s familiar, a light teasing mixed with sympathy. “But, I think it’ll be a bit easier to eat with a fork.”

Nero doesn’t hand him the utensil, instead placing it on the table next to him. His movements are swift, skittish. He pulls his hand away a bit too quickly, as if fearful if he were to linger it would be snapped off.

Vergil doesn’t comment.  

Instead, he resists the temptation to lick his fingers, instead wiping them on a provided napkin. He picks up the offered fork with a nod. 

“A fair point.”

The Dark Slayer consciously slows his movements, clumsily picking at his food. It’s only then that he realizes how much he needs to relearn. Hell had taken many things from him, some more unexpected than others. 

The burner eventually clicks off and Nero takes a seat next to him with his own plate of scrambled eggs and burnt toast. Vergil tenses, not used to such a blatant invasion of his space. His son seems to notice, freezing and giving him a quick glance, his hand reaching for a small red bottle labeled Hot Sauce . 

There’s a strained silence. 

A faint tremble runs through Nero’s arm and Vergil can hear the boy’s breathing pick up ever so slightly. It takes him a moment, but the realization crashes into him like a tidal wave.

Nero is… afraid. 

Everything, from the small talk to the cooking has been a distraction from the truth. The truth that Vergil mauled him and left him for dead in his own home; his own father, despite not knowing it at the time. He should have known such a scar would not heal so easily. 

And now, here he was, sitting an arm’s length away. 

So Vergil does what he’s never done; that every part of him screams is wrong. 

He drops his guard. 

Or at least, he makes it seem like he does. Vergil consciously relaxes his shoulders and continues to eat as if he never saw the flash of fear on the young devil hunter’s face. It takes him a few moments, but eventually, Nero snags the bottle, drowning his scrambled eggs in the spicy-smelling flood. There’s another tense silence as Nero stabs at a chunk of egg. 

Vergil takes a moment to observe out of the corner of his eye. The boy looks… tired. He hadn’t noticed it at first, so overwhelmed with waking up in a strange new place and the idea that Dante was still trapped in the Underworld. Dark circles beneath Nero’s eyes contrast heavily against his pale skin. His earlier exuberance seems to have worn off, the confident front all but withered away. Nero keeps stealing mournful glances at the room across the living room as if it held some sort of curse. It takes him a moment, but from the dulled scent of earth and ash, Vergil quickly realizes why. 

The girl’s room….

“If it is so painful for you to be here, why continue such torment? I am capable of caring for myself.” Vergil finally says, breaking the silence. 

While he doesn’t know Nero in the slightest, it was apparent the amount of pain it brought him being here. Maybe it was because he could pick out the worried furrow in his brow, the pinched expression radiating with his displeasure. He had seen it many times in the mirror from the fragmented memories of his youth. 

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? V knew him. In turn, didn’t Vergil know him as well?

“Pfft, sure. Says the guy who forgot forks existed.” Nero jokes instead. However, it lacks the vigor it held earlier, the act disregarded with his weariness. “I don’t know what Hell is like or wherever you’ve been all these years, but shit’s different now. And besides, you just came back after disappearing again. You think I’m going to let you off the hook that easily?”

“You plan to keep me here against my will?”

Nero seems taken aback.

“Hell no! I’m not your jailer. But I’m also not gonna let you run around loose after all the shit that happened in Red Grave.”

There’s evident distrust lingering in his answer. Vergil attempts to curb any suspicions of malice.

“If you are concerned about any plans of… destruction, then you should be pleased to hear that is not my intent.” He states. “At least for now.”

Nero nods hesitantly.

“Good, good. I think…?”

Vergil continues to eat his meal in the ensuing silence. Nero in contrast picks idly at his food, simply moving around his plate. Every so often, he receives a side-eyed glance, which Vergil ignores despite how it grates on his nerves. He’s aware Nero has questions, but he wishes to avoid answering them for as long as possible. 

Unfortunately, Nero’s patience is far from infinite. The boy sighs, tossing his fork onto his plate with a clatter.

“Fuck it. Let’s just rip off the bandage then. Get this over with.”

Vergil looks up, dread seeping into his gut. He had imagined Nero would want to postpone his questioning. Hoped he would. But with the determination settling on his son’s expression, Vergil knows what is to come next.

“And that would mean?”

Nero scoots his plate to the side, swiveling to face him. He seems to hesitate for a moment and fiddles with the necklace dangling around his neck. He takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“Did you know? When you broke into my home and…” Nero swallows thickly, losing his nerve for a moment. “…and tore off my arm. Did you know that I was your son?”

He waits with bated breath for his answer. What he is looking for, Vergil is not certain. All he knows is his son is going to be sorely disappointed.

“No. I did not.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“That’s all you’re going to say?” Nero balks. “Not ‘sorry for ripping off your arm’ or anything?”

“What would you like me to say? The truth? Because that is the truth. I will not apologize for being alive.”

“But if you knew, would you have done it?”

That causes him some pause. After everything he has sacrificed and been forced to endure, would he have thrown it all away for a stranger? A stranger that just so happened to be his son? His own flesh and blood?

“I cannot say.”

Rage burns in Nero’s eyes, his left hand ghosting past his forearm. And yet, despite his rage, betrayal swirls strongest in the storm of emotions. Vergil does not understand why.

Nevertheless, Nero solemnly shakes his head.

“You’re a heartless son of a bitch, you know that right?”

Vergil flinches, some unknown revulsion writhing in his gut. His skin itches and burns under the soft crew neck, ghosts of torment coming back to haunt. Everything feels too dark all of a sudden, the shadows closing in to drown him, suffocate him, steal his voice, just as they had before. 

“And if the heart is a weakness?” He asks, his voice rougher than he would have liked. “Doesn’t discarding it make one stronger?”

His son is surprisingly quick to respond.

“I don’t know where you heard that load of shit, but no, it doesn’t.” Nero retorts. Vergil is envious of the resolute nature of his decree. “Having a heart is what saved your sorry ass up on that stupid tree. It allows me to protect the people I care about even when times are tough.”

“You judge me as if you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Vergil receives an incredulous scoff. 

“I wouldn’t have. I would have found another way.”

There is no doubt in his words, much to Vergil’s dismay. 

“Then you are naïve.” He berates. “When it comes to survival, sometimes there is no other way.”

And yet, he’s still met with unwavering defiance.

“Is that what you thought when you destroyed Red Grave and killed all those people?”

“I did not think. I merely acted. Red Grave was an unfortunate means to an end.”

Unfortunate, truly unfortunate. V had tried to mitigate the damage his demonic half had wrought, helping citizens whenever their paths would cross. He remembers a little girl, crying for her mother, scared and alone just as he had once been. What he wouldn’t have given for a V to come and save him in his time of need. 

And when the girl had found her mother, a mother that had searched for her, that had not abandoned her child in favor of another…

Why had he been the one left behind? Dante had insisted that Eva had looked for him, perishing in the act. But how does he know it wasn’t a ruse to stop Urizen? After all these years, why had his brother stayed silent? Why did he remain silent?

He was a fool to ignore such questions during their travels. A cowardly fool.

He would not make the same mistake twice. 

So, Vergil stomps down his pride and lightly clears his throat.

“In light of current circumstances, I have a… proposition.”

That garners attention. 

“A deal with the devil?” Nero questions. Sarcasm drips with every word. “Great, just what I need.”

But he doesn’t protest, instead leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He stares at him with his full attention and Vergil takes full advantage of it. 

“It seems we share the same goals.” He states. “And while I am perfectly capable of rescuing my troublesome little brother from the Underworld, I am uncertain I will be quick enough. That is not a risk I am willing to take.”

“Wow, so you actually do care.” The boy comments with more sarcasm. Vergil resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“No. I merely wish to settle our score. I will not have him perish before I learn which one of us is stronger.”

Nero does roll his eyes. However, his interest has not seemed to wane.

“So what? Help you break Dante out of Hell and save Skylar in the process? Is that it?”

“If she is still alive, yes. You want to save the girl, you are going to require my help.”

For some reason, that earns him a bristling glare.  

“That ‘girl’ has a name you know.” His son snaps. “You could at least give her that much respect.”

Vergil weighs his words with his options. Without a name, she was just another faceless casualty. Less to get attached to, less guilt to carry. He did not know her and she did not know him. It was most likely best left that way. 

But, at Nero’s silent snarl, it doesn’t seem he has much of a choice. 

“You misunderstand. I hold no ill will towards…” Nero raises an expectant eyebrow, at which Vergil sighs. “…Skylar. But it is unwise to ignore the facts. She is young, inexperienced, and is being hunted by an unwavering foe.” 

There’s a moment of silence, the devil hunter chewing on his words. Nero tenses, a fearful look in his eyes. 

“Wait. Unwavering foe…?” He pales. “…fuck, do you mean Legion?”

Ah yes, Skylar had mentioned the monstrosity after meeting V in the forest. Worrisome news indeed. 

“You know of the beast?”

Nero nods, still obviously shaken at the realization. 

“Yeah. It’s got some vendetta against Skylar. Been a pain in her ass for more than a decade. W- I helped her banish it about a year and a half ago and we thought that was the end of it. Should have known better.” Nero shakes his head. However, Vergil is suddenly met with suspicion. “But the more important question is, how do you know about it?”

To know simultaneously too much and yet still too little infuriated him. Mundus’ lapdog had an infamous reputation for good reason. To hear it still hunted the blood of Sparda on its own behalf was worrisome. 

Not that he says any of these things out loud. 

“Hive minds, especially powerful ones, do not go unnoticed,” Vergil answers instead. “I would be foolish not to know of it.”

Thankfully, Nero seems to accept his answer with little skepticism.

“Great. As if shit couldn’t get any worse.” He mumbles, before shaking his head, obviously conflicted. “Look, I know you don’t give a shit about Skylar, but she means a lot to me. She’s family. You admitted it yourself.“

Vergil opens his mouth to correct him, but Nero quickly cuts him off.

“I know she’s alive. You think I’m stubborn, well she’s equally so. If she’s survived six months alone down there, she’ll survive until we get her out. And if what you said is true, she’s got Dante with her now. Who knows? Maybe with the two of them working together, they’ll find a way out by themselves.”

“You know you are referring to Dante, correct?”

Nero contemplates his words.

“Oh shit…!” He finally grumbles. 

Nero snags a piece of toast and chomps into it, chewing thoughtfully. He waves it haphazardly as he speaks. 

“Those two are going to kill each other before we even get to them.” 

Vergil allows himself a soft snort, shadowing his son’s bitter amusement. Nero seems to relax at his kindred sentiments, taking another bite of the charred piece of bread. 

“Alright, Vergil. You’ve got yourself a deal. We’ll have to set some ground rules later.”

Vergil hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath, silently fretting over Nero’s final judgment. It was not in his nature to worry about such things; the opinions of others did not matter in the pursuit of power. Was there something wrong with him? Perhaps he needed more time to recover than he first thought. Such a suggestion frays his nerves. 

That, however, becomes the least of his problems at Nero’s next words.

“So uh, I’ve got a few more questions. About my mom…”

Vergil sighs, silently cursing the stars above and Cocytus below. Brilliant, more things he did not wish to discuss. 

This was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Dante considers himself a patient man. Yes, Lady and Trish would often rib him for whining about late food deliveries or if a client was running behind schedule. But, as with many things, it was an act, a façade that at times even he started to believe.

He beats his wings again, gaining a bit of altitude. The following day, he began surveying the landscape, chasing off any dangerous demons that crept too close. He hated to admit but there was no way he could fly them both to wherever the next breach was. With no idea in what direction to go, wandering aimlessly would simply get them killed. 

Or worse.

The cave he had found made for a perfect hiding spot; out of reach to any demon that couldn’t fly or scale the treacherous cliffside. That wild part of him actually enjoyed conquering land, the sense of ruling the dense woods surrounding the rocky lair very appealing to the power-hungry demon inside him. He remembers watching a documentary on wolves when Lady was over one day, learning how they marked their territory. It disturbed him how natural it felt, gouging the gnarled bark of fallen trees, scorching high-traffic areas to warn others to come no further.

It had been years since he’d been down in the Underworld and admittedly, his past stint had only been for a few months. This was something different, especially with something chasing them.

Hell was unpredictable and the ways it was influencing him even more so. 

He despises it. 

But, with them stuck for the time being, it would be wise to get an idea of their surroundings. It was going to take some time for the kid to recover enough to travel again and if he was being honest, he was spent as well.

Dante adjusts the collection of dry leaves and branches in his arms. A disadvantage of being up so high was the harsh temperature drop at night or at least Hell’s version of night. While it didn’t affect him too much, the kid shivering in the corner did. The sound of her chattering teeth had spurred him into action, leaving at dawn in search of supplies.

One final beat of his wings and he silently lands at the cave’s entrance. He didn’t want to scare her again. Any other time he would have found it hilarious, but any mirth he could have found from such a scene was quickly destroyed by Skylar’s fearful reaction. She thought she was going to die. She was ready to die.

It had broken his heart when he thought his heart could no longer be broken.

The whole idea of being a father was still sinking in. 

Slipping inside, his devil trigger fades with every step, casting a dim glow on the dark stone. He stumbles at the sudden absence of power, leaning against the wall as he tries to catch his breath. Swallowing thickly, Dante tries to ignore how the saliva sticks to the top of his mouth and the dryness in his throat. He clears it before continuing deeper into the cave.

Still curled up in her corner, the young devil hunter hasn’t seemed to have moved since he left. Admittedly, he was starting to worry. After a full day of nothing but silence, he wonders if she was going to wake up at all. He tries not to think about it too much and continues to latch onto any semblance of false hope.

Kicking the stray debris from his makeshift fire pit, he fills it with a quarter of his tinder, shoving the rest in another corner for later use. If the kid was anything like him, a little extra heat wouldn’t hurt. Yet, despite his immunity to most natural fire, it still didn’t ease his turmoil when he watched the dancing flames, a childhood long lost rising to the forefront of his mind.

So ironic that he wielded something that still often haunted his dreams.

With his hands now idle, he looks around the cave for something else to do. He eventually spies Ragnarök still sitting in the corner. Gingerly, he picks up the long sword, granting him an annoyed growl. But the Devil Arm quickly settles down, resigning himself to his handling. Dante draws the sword, cringing at the muck-coated edge. 

Well, there was something he could work on. 

He ends up sitting on the floor, a makeshift whetstone in one hand and Ragnarök in the other. Running the whetstone down the length of the blade, the sword trills happily in his hands. It’s a bit of a somber affair, tending to a blade that was not his, yet feeling so familiar in his hands. 

Of all the weapons Vergil could have broken. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dante soothes. “The kid was trying her best. Can’t blame her when she was already having a rough time taking care of herself.”

There’s another metallic warble. Dante knows he understands. 

In the last couple of days, they had come to some sort of truce. No longer did Ragnarök lash out at him, resigning himself to his handling with an annoyed hum. Never had Dante met a Devil Arm so finicky and bullheaded. Even Yamato, Vergil’s beloved Devil Arm, accepted him as a worthy wielder despite her many critiques. In comparison, it felt like Ragnarök was a second from trying to take off his hand. 

Dante never thought he would have to worry about pissing off a sword. But, apparently, there was a first for everything.

Damn, he missed Rebellion. 

He’s not sure how long he works, trying to lose himself in the task to keep his mind busy. There already wasn’t a lot to do in Hell and while he was used to lounging about in his office in the off hours, at least he had something to read. Too quickly does he finish sharpening Ragnarök’s edge back to a shining silver gleam.

The fire begins to dim, having eaten up all of its tinder. Dante rises from his spot, returning the Devil Arm to his scabbard, which he then slings onto his back. He stretches before wandering over to the pile of fuel. As he throws more in and stokes the dying flame, he notices a weak shuffle of movement.

“Oh, hey!” He greets in surprise and barely contained relief. “You’re actually up. And I thought I liked to sleep in.”

Skylar gingerly raises her head, her eyes attempting to focus in the dim light of the cave. To his surprise, some of the scales on her face had receded, the reptilian eye disappearing with them. Most likely a good sign. However, most of the demonic mask stubbornly persists, the horns on her head probably not about to disappear anytime soon. It’s a grim reminder of what lurks just below the surface.

“How’re ya feeling?” He asks a bit awkwardly. Probably like shit, after everything she’s been through, but Dante keeps those thoughts to himself. 

“I’m not dead.” 

Carefully, Skylar sits up, taking inventory of her condition. She pats herself down, checking her pockets for what extra supplies they might be hiding. It doesn’t seem to be anything of interest to her, the only thing that’s removed being a sturdy revolver. Dante remembers her using it during the battle against Urizen. 

The young devil hunter carefully checks it over, idly spinning the noticeably empty cylinder. It clicks close with only a little resistance. She stares at it for a while, using her fingers to idly rub away any stray muck coating the sleek metal. Her work pauses as she reaches the barrel, her thumb ghosting over what he realizes is an engraving. 

“So….” Skylar finally drawls. Dante sends her a questioning look. 

“So…?”

Her lips twist into a scowl, her brow furrowing with bubbling fury. Skylar doesn’t pin him as an especially angry person, which made this whole situation all the worse. Dante already dreads what she’s about to say next.  

“So are you going to explain to me why you never told Nero he was your nephew despite knowing for six years?” 

Dante blinks. He curses silently to himself. 

“Wow, straight to the point.” He says instead. 

Skylar’s eyes narrow.

“Answer the question.” She threatens. The revolver is carefully stashed away as she stands. Dante attempts to stall.

“I mean when you put it that way….”

“There is no other way to put it! Do you just think you can stroll into someone’s life, drop a bomb like that and then just fuck off like nothing happened?!”

“Skylar, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Then when Dante?! Because it’s long overdue! You know something and yet you continue to say absolutely nothing!”

“ Sky…! ”

The young devil hunter takes a threatening step toward him. Malice radiates from her in waves. 

“Don’t ‘Sky’ me! You have no right to call me that after all the bullshit you’ve pulled!” A growl escapes her. “You know what?!”

Skylar’s stance shifts to one that Dante is all too familiar with. She flexes her fingers, her newly acquired claws shining in the dim light. He tenses, not looking forward to what violence he knows comes next. 

Cautiously, he tries to wave his hands in a placating manner. 

“Kid, I don’t think you should be up after—!”

Skylar is fast, scarily so. Dante Tricksters under the whirling strike aimed at his head, razor-sharp claws whizzing through the air. There’s an agitated growl and Skylar adjusts her footing, swinging again. As he retreats back to put some distance between them, she catches the tail of his coat, tearing the thick leather. The ominous glow of dancing flames fills the cave, the temperature rising with her evident anger. 

Ah, shit. This is exactly what he wanted to try and avoid. 

“Can’t you see how much you hurt him?! How much doubt you seeded in his head?! He looks up to you! He respects you! And all you did was abandon him!”

There’s another slash of claws. Dante can feel the blistering rage radiating off of them. Skipping out of the way of the ensuing hellfire barrage, he tries to explain himself. 

“I was trying to protect him!” He protests. 

The temperature spikes even higher. 

“How can you protect someone when you’re not around?!” Skylar rages. “Do you know what it feels like to be abandoned?! To think that you weren’t good enough and have no clue why?! Because he does!”

I do! Goes unspoken. And Dante relates all too well. 

“All he’s ever wanted was a family!” She continues to yell, a scattershot of fire bolts zipping after him, burning with her fury. They are promptly met with the force of his Royalguard. “All he’s ever wanted were people that would love him unconditionally! And when you left, do you know what he assumed?! He assumed that he was a failure! That he wasn’t living up to the great Devil Hunter Dante’s standards!”

There’s a burst of sparks and they both look down to find her suddenly holding Devil Sword Dante. They stare at him for a moment equally stunned. 

“Huh, that’s where he went….” Dante comments, finally breaking the silence. 

Skylar looks between him and the Devil Sword in her possession. However, after a moment of silent deliberation, her fingers tighten around the hilt. 

“Okay…. I don’t know how I did that.” Determination settles on her expression. While the Devil Arm is a bit big for her, she still twirls him with effortless grace. She shifts, readying herself to attack. “But, I’m not complaining.”

The blade swings faster than he can speak. Instinctively, Dante draws Ragnarök, cursing as the sword tries to scorch his hand. Luckily for him, such rebellion only results in a twinge of pain radiating up his arm. A nuisance, sure, but bearable. The devil hunter parries Skylar’s attack, despite the screeching protests of the angry Devil Arm.   

They dance, a wild clash of fire and ash. It’s far different from when he fought Nero for the first time, the icy nature of the young Devil Hunter’s power a replica of Vergil’s. It was true they all carried the same magic—all descendants of Sparda did—but the manifestation of that power was something warped by experience. Twins they were, shorn from the same cloth, but torn and sewn back together in unimaginably different ways.

And that change seems to be heritable. 

Several times, he tries to summon Devil Sword Dante back into his possession, every attempt foiled by some unknown resistance. Maybe it’s the kid’s anger keeping the sword firmly in her grasp, or perhaps a part of him feels as if he deserves this, retribution for his sins. Either way, the energy that rolls off his daughter is much too familiar, an echo of his own, a scorching inferno fueled by heartache. 

A blast knocks him off balance. Spectral swords snap to attention, blocking an incoming helm-breaker. Dante flips his grip, smashing Ragnarök’s pommel into Skylar’s gut. There’s a hardy thump , the force of the blow sending her careening through the air, only to collide with the wall.

Dante releases a sigh of relief, hoping their senseless battle is over. If he was lucky, it was enough to cool her off so he could go back to evading questions he didn’t want to answer. 

He should have known to not drop his guard. Of course, he was never that lucky. 

The ensuing blast is terrifyingly fast, a javelin of flame that steals away any quip he had been planning. It zips through the air, smashing into his chest with brutal accuracy. It doesn’t hurt per se, but it does off-center him enough for the kid to charge with little to no defiance. Devil Sword Dante is hauntingly absent.    

Summoned swords materialize before him, shielding him from the incoming swipe. To his surprise, Skylar feints back and instead slams feet first into the barrier. It shudders under the force. The spectral surface doubles as a springboard, as the kid launches herself into the air. She soars dangerously close to the ceiling.

Devil Sword Dante materializes and—

There’s a crunch of bone, a sickly squelch of flesh.

He’s impressed at the sudden maneuver, not expecting Skylar to suddenly hurl the broadsword with such titanic force. She must have taken notes from Nero. It was his fault for underestimating what pent-up rage could accomplish. 

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me three times and well… hopefully he’ll never find out. 

  Admittedly, he should have checked to make sure he had adequate space to dodge, the cramped cave a horrible arena. But, that was hard, his focus split between the battle and not hurting his kid. This wasn’t like when he fought Nero. This wasn’t toying with his nephew, riling him up because he was a moody teenager with anger issues. This wasn’t battling with his brother’s son, trying to cling onto times long lost. 

This was his daughter, suffering from his mistakes. 

He doesn’t believe she stabs him on purpose, her earlier attacks meant to maim but not kill. It’s not a surprise in her rage and the heat of battle that some instincts can’t be curbed. Dante is sent stumbling back, the cave wall colliding behind him, Devil Sword Dante plunged through his chest. He’s pinned to the wall before he knows it, similar to his sorry state six years ago during his visit to Fortuna. Skylar pants, her hands trembling as the battle rush slips from her grasp. 

Soon, the bloodlust bleeds away, the realization of what she’s done finally settling in. Her eyes widen and she takes a hasty step back. While a part of him wants to shrug off the wound and assure the kid he’s fine, another comes up with a mischievous plan to stop all this fighting. The Devil Sword now plunged in his chest, Dante awkwardly slumps against the wall, keeping his eyes closed and feigning unconsciousness. The kid’s panting breaths bounce around the cramped interior of the cave and he can hear her uncertain steps shuffle closer. 

“Shit…!” Skylar whispers, panic creeping into her voice. 

He waits for her to get close enough to spring his trap. Only then does he choose to open his eyes, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at the shocked devil hunter. Skylar stares at him, her concern twisting to alarm.

“Oh shit!” 

She turns to flee; to put any type of distance between them. Unfortunately for her, Dante is quicker. Devil Sword Dante melts into his chest, an explosion of power radiating from within him. He tries to keep it under control, their precious supplies most likely not able to take a fiery blast of demonic power. It’s still enough to cause the kid to stumble, halting her retreat. He takes her fumble as an opportunity to rush forward, his Sin Devil Trigger fully consuming him. Dante snags the back of Skylar’s jacket, only to turn on his heel and bolt from the cave. They’re in the air in a blink of an eye, his arm extended with Skylar dangling upside down from his claws. Dante makes sure to keep a careful hold on her leg so she doesn’t fall. 

A fall like this probably wouldn’t hurt her, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

They hover a few meters away from the cave mouth, the rocky cliff a sheer drop below. If the circumstances were different, it’d actually be a pretty neat view, the surrounding expanse dotted with demonic trees and the unfathomably tall mountains towering in the distance. However, the ever-stubborn quarter demon struggling in his grip makes enjoying any sort of view impossible. 

It’s a full ten minutes of this before she eventually stops. 

“ Are you done? ” He sighs. 

Skylar growls at him, an angry snarl that would send many a human or demon running. But to him, it’s surprisingly adorable, reminding him of an angry kitten. He coos instinctively, a noise that even he’s not familiar with. It only seems to piss the kid off further. 

“ What do you think?! ” She barks at him in Infernal. She’s surprisingly fluent, especially with the litany of curses that follow. 

Damn, what was with these kids and cursing?

She struggles anew as if just to spite him. He’s admittedly impressed with her determination, such bullheadedness comparable to his youth. If he were any other person, she might have triumphed. Unfortunately for her, he is just as equally stubborn and luckily still has energy to burn. He wouldn’t lose this war of attrition, not to his own kid. Dante chuckles to himself.

Maybe it was the human side that was the stubborn part.

“Dante! I swear if you don’t let me go right now I’m going to—!” Skylar stops, quickly realizing her mistake. But the damage had already been done, a plan already formulated in his mind. The young devil hunter swallows nervously.

“Wait! I didn’t mean it that way!”

Too late. 

Dante is quick to dive for his free-falling nestling, snapping his wings shut and swiftly gaining momentum. Luckily, Skylar has some common sense, flattening herself out like a skydiver to slow her descent. He casually falls next to her, the demonic mask hiding the smug grin on his face.  

Despite her current death plunge, she shoots him another icy glare.  

“Dante you ass!” She shouts over the howling winds. The unseen grin grows wider. 

“ A bit of payback for stabbing me. ” 

Dante grabs the back of her coat like the scruff of a cat, roughly halting her descent. Skylar yelps at the sudden change of velocity, but doesn’t struggle. He holds back a snort as she freezes, dangling from his grip like one of the fluffy little critters. 

Man, of all the times to be without a camera.

The devil hunter swiftly ascends the rocky cliffs, his stubborn nestling in tow. They make it to the mouth of the cave in little time, at which he drops the kid albeit a bit roughly. There’s a frustrated huff, another attempt at an attack. Dante dashes back, continuing to hover at the mouth of the cave. A part of him hisses, displeased with the younger hybrid’s insubordination. It demands respect; its kin still young and inexperienced. He silences it. Tensions were already running high enough. 

Eventually, Skylar gives up, collapsing against the cave wall to glare at him. If looks could kill, the Devil Sword would have been the least of his worries. Instinctively, his wings flare behind him as if to reassert his authority. He hates how the kid stiffens, that demonic hindbrain of her’s obviously fighting with the pissed-off human behind the wheel. But, he goes with his gut, wanting to avoid any more unneeded violence. A growl resonates from his chest for good measure.  

For once, fortune smiles upon him, the kid lowering her head in reluctant surrender. The motion pleases the demonic part of him, the beast within rumbling happily. It was weird dealing with its sudden strong paternal instincts, the urge to collect the angry little quarter-demon in his arms and check her for injuries. It’s only made worse wearing his demonic form and he realizes that he’s unconsciously trying to catch the scent of fresh blood from any miscellaneous scratches from their scuffle. Dante stamps down those instincts, no matter how much his demon whines in worry for its supposed nestling.

  He can guarantee the “nestling” in question would not appreciate being coddled. 

Instead, Dante releases his demonic form, only to lean at the cave’s mouth and catch his breath. He wasn’t hurt, not in the slightest, but the sudden rush of regaining a piece of himself in the form of his blade was an unexpected adrenaline high. Trying to relax and calm the power thrumming in his veins, he eventually sighs and turns to face his sulking daughter. 

“Look, Skylar. I know I screwed up. I didn’t mean to hurt him, that was never my intention. But there are something’s that are best left buried. Vergil, Nero’s dad, was one of them.”

Despite still stuck sitting on the floor, tarnishing her already failing aura of intimidation, her rage is tangible. Such anger has him keeping his guard up.  

“But he still deserved to know!” Skylar protests. “You had no right to make that choice!”

Dante scowls.

“And put him in danger from everything that comes with that knowledge?! Do you think I want to be the one to do that?!”

“Danger found him anyway! He lost an arm! How much more danger does there need to be?!”

Dante sighs again, running a hand down his face. He’s tired and just wants this all to be over. 

“You don’t get it, do you?!” He snaps, to which garners an incredulous scoff. 

“Apparently not! Probably because you’re still hiding things!” The young devil hunter protests undeterred. “What are you so afraid of?!”

More than you know….

Rejection, loneliness, spite. But most of all, hurting the people he cared about no matter how hard he tried not to. That was the curse he carried, he had witnessed it firsthand. First, his mother, slaughtered by demons that hated his very existence despite only being a mere child. Then there was Nell, strong and wickedly clever; family in every way but blood. Maybe in another life, he would have been lucky enough to have her as an aunt or a godmother. Of course, such a fate was too good to be true. Of course, she would suffer because of him. 

And then there was Vergil…

“Skylar, when your luck is as bad as mine, there’s a point that you decide to stop testing it. And if you do, well, you just expect the worst.” 

She’s silent at that. He’s surprised when the kid gestures to the spot next to her, a silent invitation to sit down; a peace treaty. Cautiously, Dante moves from his spot at the cave’s mouth and takes a hesitant seat. 

“Even if the odds don’t look good, there are some risks that are worth taking.” She presses. Her words no longer hold a harsh edge. There’s sympathy; solemn empathy. “You never even picked up the damn phone.”

“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t easy, you know? There were so many times I was tempted to, just to check in, hear how he was; how everything was going. I would get occasional updates from Morrison, my broker, but that just made it worse.”

“Bowler cap, has a thing for cigars?” Dante nods at Skylar’s rough description. “Yeah, we’ve met. Doesn’t have the best taste in locale.”

That catches him by surprise. Morrison had never eluded to Skylar’s existence. He’s not sure how to feel about that, but Skylar doesn’t give him a chance to shift through such conflicted sentiments.

“All he wanted was one phone call.” Skylar stresses. “One conversation. What’s the harm in that?“

So much harm. Conversations brought questions, and questions required answers. Answers the worn devil hunter wanted to leave buried and forgotten. 

“And tell him what?! That his father killed thousands of people?! That he was so obsessed with power that it didn’t matter that his own brother stood in his way?! That I—?!” Dante stops himself from spilling his deepest darkest shame to someone he barely knew. Instead, he shakes his head grimly. “It’s not as simple as you think Sky. Nothing is. Especially with this family.”

“But that’s when you talk.” She insists. “Okay, you didn’t want to tell him that his dad was a literal supervillain. Fine, I get that. But what if answers weren’t the only thing he wanted? After growing up, thinking you were alone, wouldn’t you want to get to know your family?”

Dante takes a moment to collect his answer.

“Do you know how hard it was to look at him sometimes? Every single time I did I was reminded of what I’ve lost. From his power to his stubbornness, they all reflected a brother I thought was dead.” Dante sighs. “And I was scared that if I was around, that’s all I would see. He doesn’t deserve that.” 

He remembers seeing Nero’s pseudo-Devil Trigger for the first time; how his nephew seemingly channeled the spirit of his lost father. The phantom at his back was hauntingly familiar to Nelo Angelo. He had wondered, was it a warning? A warning that if he got too close, the same fate may befall his nephew. Dante never wanted to find out. 

“But he’s not his father. And you would see that if you got to know him.”

He knew that. He did. And yet, despite how many times he reminded himself of that fact, his heart never believed him. Skylar seems to sense this turmoil.

“He’s someone that’s crazy about spicy food and coffee.” She says out of the blue. Dante tilts his head, but she continues despite his confusion. “He’s someone whose favorite animal is the shark because he can relate to how misunderstood they are and how it feels to be irrationally feared. And despite that, he’s someone who gives people second chances, even though he’s been burned before. It’s why I’m standing here now. He wanted to know you just as I know him. In the end, blood doesn’t matter when it comes to family. It’s the connections you make with the people you love. And yet you chose to shut him out, without explanation.”

And for once, Dante is without a snarky quip or comeback. Skylar takes advantage of his stunned silence.

“I get it. Caring can be terrifying, but it’s worth it. They are worth it. The family I made on this wild ride taught me that caring is not a weakness. It’s a strength, a reason to fight ten times as hard to keep everything you love. That’s how Nero unlocked his Devil Trigger. That’s how he regrew his arm.” 

He watches as Skylar dips her head in resignation. She adjusts herself, eventually folding her legs to her chest, only to rest her chin atop her knees. Her next words are spoken to the floor, but Dante knows they are directed toward him. 

“We should not have to carry the sins of our fathers, but sometimes, we don’t have a choice. In the end, it’s up to us whether we let them consume us or fight to make the best out of what we’ve been given.”

It’s only then that Dante realizes that she’s no longer talking about Nero. 

“Kid….”

She doesn’t look up, only hugs herself tighter. 

“I’ve lived twenty-three years clueless of what I am or where I came from. I gave up searching because I thought the answers didn’t exist. The only reason I started looking again was because of Nero. He’s got his answers and yet, I’m still looking.” Her voice quiets to a hushed whisper, sad and small. “Don’t I deserve an answer too?” 

They sit in somber silence, both fearful to speak. 

“You do.” He finally says. “I’m sorry Sky.”

She tenses, but eventually raises her head to look at him. Dante is unsure if he prefers the sudden scrutiny or not. 

“Sorry for this whole shitshow or being an absent father?”

Oof...! Way to go for the throat. 

“Both.” He replies instead. 

A single word, a single admission, and yet it hangs heavy in the air. Skylar takes a deep breath, obviously attempting to sift through the turmoil that came with such knowledge. 

“Did you know about me?” She finally asks. “Did you know that I was your… daughter?”

The way she stumbles on that delicate title is far too relatable. 

“No. I didn’t. I only figured it out when you stayed that night at the office. I should have said something, but with everything going on, I didn’t think it was a good time. You didn’t need another thing weighing on your mind.” Dante sighs. “But sometimes I wish I had. Things would have gone a lot differently.”

Better? He’s not sure. But certainly different.  

“Is there ever a good time? It just sounds like another excuse to not tell me.” Skylar scoffs. There’s surprisingly little heat to it. A dark laugh follows. “Can’t blame you though, seeing that I’m just another product of your bad luck.”

Just by her tone, he can sense her bitterness. Yet, it’s not directed toward him, instead laced with a tinge of self-loathing. The realization settles over him, sinking in its claws, dripping with dread. She believed she didn’t deserve an answer. Maybe it’s because it hits a little too close to home, but for now, all he knows is that he has to prove her wrong. 

“I won’t lie, you were far from planned. Yes, I made a mistake, but it doesn’t mean that you are a mistake. You seem like a good kid with a good heart. If anything, I actually got lucky for once. You probably turned out better than I could have raised you. I hate that we had to meet under such crappy circumstances.” 

She seems uncertain of his sincerity, quietly processing his words. 

“If you had known, when I was younger would you have…?” Her sentence is cut short, but he knows what she’s trying to ask. “I mean I—“

“Yes.” He blurts out, faster than his mind can process. Despite the sudden answer, he knows he’s telling the truth. “Probably would have been a horrible dad, but yeah, I would have raised you.”

If Dante is sure of anything, it’s that he would never wish what happened to him on his own child. Demon, human, or in between, no child should walk the world alone with no one there to protect them. He knew firsthand what that was like. He knew the sting of betrayal in his own father’s absence. 

Never again, he swears. 

Never again. 

He would end the cycle of abandonment right now—something he should have done countless years ago. 

No more fear. No more excuses. 

“How about we start over? A fresh start? Yeah?” He turns to her, holding out his hand in wordless greeting. Skylar tilts her head, unable to hide her confusion. 

“Are you serious?” 

“You said it yourself, it’s the connections you make that are important. And I want my connection with my daughter to start off on the right foot. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.”

Something must have swayed her, Skylar’s expression softening, a mixture of disbelief and wary hope swirling in her eyes. Hesitantly she takes his hand and shakes it. 

“Uh, hi Dante. I’m Skylar.” She pauses. “Nice to meet you?”

There’s a moment when he’s about to respond in turn, but then he realizes something. This was a once-in-a-lifetime moment, one that he never thought he would be privy to. Should he? Would it ruin the moment? He was the king of bad luck, he had said so himself. But it’s just too good to pass up. 

Against better judgment, Dante tries his luck.

“Hi Skylar, I’m Dad.”

He waits with bated breath for the joke to land and when it finally does…

“You did not just—!” Skylar balks. By the strained nature of her words, it’s obvious she’s trying to hide her escaping laughter. She fails miserably. “I’m not sure who I should be more ashamed of. You making that joke or me falling for it.”

An easy grin tugs at his lips, one that he knows is purely genuine. Dante allows himself to share in her mirth. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to say that.”

Skylar shakes her head, however, Dante recognizes the fondness behind it. She’s far more relaxed, far different from the desperate devil hunter he met in his office. 

“You know I’m still mad at you with the whole Nero situation, right? I’m not letting that go.”

It’s Dante’s turn to laugh. 

“Wouldn’t expect anything less. Stubborn runs in the family.” Dante pauses, wondering if he should push such boundaries–if it was too early. The last thing he wanted was to make Skylar feel uncomfortable.

But despite the risks, he takes a chance. 

“You are my kid after all.” He adds with a soft nudge. 

The nervous, yet lighthearted smile he receives makes it all worth it. For the first time in forever, Dante lets that flutter of hope he thought was long dead flicker and grow.

Chapter Text

There’s a frustrated huff as he scratches a straight line into the stone wall. Or at least, what he’s trying to get to be a straight line. He readjusts his arm, angling his talon to dig deeper into the left side of the ragged divot. He’s rewarded with a smooth line, which he works to connect with another jagged zigzag. Behind him, he hears a long, suffering sigh.

“There’s a reason I stopped warding the shop after a decade. I forgot how time-consuming it is.”

He turns, bewildered, to stare at Dante who’s currently carving into the wall with what seems to be a large, sharp rock.

“Are you serious? No warding? Nothing?” He asks. The words slip from his tongue, alien, uncontrolled. Yet somehow, a part of him feels as if it’s natural, the voice familiar, but different as it hums from within him. It sounds like….

Dante shrugs in return.

“Well, it’s different when you’re on top of the food chain.”

A scoff hisses from his lips as he shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Yeah, no kidding. Well, maybe this will be a good reminder of what the smaller fish have to deal with.” There’s a tinge of annoyance at the devil hunter’s lax nature. It only grows as he inspects the messy spellwork. “And maybe this’ll help you brush up on your warding skills. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sigil that crooked.”

“Ah, c’mon! It’s not that bad!” 

There’s another scoff. 

“Please. My twelve-year-old nephew can do better than that.”

There’s a clatter of the stone as Dante drops the stone he had been holding as he whirls around to look at him.

“Hold up! What do you mean nephew?!”

They stare at each other for a moment, equally confused by the other’s sentiments. The awkward stare-down is only broken by his own awkward laugh. It sounds strange against his ears, the pitch wrong to be his own. It’s then that he realizes how exhausted he feels as if even the simple task of sitting up has his muscles groaning in protest. The gnawing in his stomach does nothing to help. 

And yet, despite all of that, he flashes an easy smile to hide this discomfort. 

“Sorry, force of habit.” He eases, trying to hold back another laugh at the devil hunter’s distress. Now that was a priceless expression. “Don’t worry, I don’t have a sibling, at least to my knowledge. But you’d know that better than me.”

Dante shakes his head, pointedly turning back to his work. 

“Trust me, you were a one-time thing. And thank goodness for that. You’re killing me, kid.”

He scoffs and shakes his head with silent amusement. But even with the older devil hunter turned away, he can tell that he’s watching him from the corner of his eye. Dante’s stare burns into his back and the overwhelming sense of self-consciousness grates his nerves. 

He heaves a frustrated sigh.

“What?”

Dante averts his gaze as if he wasn’t staring.

“What do you mean ‘what’?”

He rolls his eyes.

“You’re staring and it’s weird. If you wanna say something, say it. It’s something called communication. Try it sometime.”

Dante opens his mouth to reply, only to snap it closed once again. Of course, why should he be surprised the guy doesn’t want to talk? He never has, at least not until recently. And that was only because he was forced to.  He had been backed into a corner with no way out; he had used his shock to leave him behind and continue the stupid rivalry he had with his brother. 

Of course, he was still pissed about that. How couldn’t he be? He…

-ro…?

“Did you say something?” Nero tries to ask, but his lips don’t move. He tries again, yet nothing happens. There’s a swell of panic in his chest, his mind finally realizing he’s been a passenger in his own— 

No wait, that’s not right. That’s the problem, he’s not… where was he? How…?

N… 

Ne…  

“Nero….?”

Slowly but surely, Nero pries open his eyes, squinting at the bright light assaulting him. A familiar face swims in his vision, one with the eyes of sparkling ambers and a heart more breathtaking than all the stars in the night sky. For a moment, Nero wonders if he’s still dreaming, such a beautiful sight an absolute wonder to wake to. Kyrie’s expression sours, confirming that indeed he is awake. He hates to see her worried.

“Nero? Nero honey, are you okay?” Concern laces his name as well as every subsequent word. “You were mumbling in your sleep?” 

Shaking himself awake, Nero regards her with some confusion. 

“Kyrie…? What’s got you up this early?”

The soured expression deepens, worry creasing against her brow as it furrows. 

“Nero it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. You’ve been asleep for a good part of the day.”

He freezes only to snap his gaze over to the simple alarm clock sitting on their nightstand. Sure enough, the loathsome little device burns “2:13 PM” in bright red. It takes him three times to read it for the truth to finally sink in.

Yes, there were times he overslept, but nothing like this! 

“What the…? I swear I set my alarm.” Nero grumbles, trying to suppress the shame welling in his chest. After years of the Order’s strict morning schedule, he was an early riser most of the time. 

Most of the time.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wake me.” He adds.

Kyrie adjusts her position on the bed, scooting closer to him. 

“I considered it, but you didn’t wake when it initially went off. I thought you could use the extra sleep and it seems I was right. Are you feeling well?” Kyrie presses the back of her hand against his forehead. “Maybe you’re coming down with something?”

Nero gently shakes his head. 

“I don’t think so. I’m tired, but that could be from sleeping for so long.” Gently, he removes her hand still pressed against his forehead.  Clasped in his own, he presses a soft kiss on her knuckles. “Sorry about missing out on helping you this morning. I honestly didn’t mean to.”

With winter break at its end, Fortuna’s barebones school system is back at work. There were moments that Nero wished they could transfer the boys to some nicer, mainland elementary school, one that was not struggling with the remains of fanatical doctrine and a lack of funding. Unfortunately, that meant moving, which meant money. Money that, Nero was only just starting to bank. In addition, he was only able to save so much thanks to Kyrie and her family home. 

So, for the time being, he tried to be optimistic. After so long, the city was starting to heal. The people seemed to finally be opening their eyes to the outside world, accepting its oddities and the other people who came with it. It also helped that the many denizens of Fortuna understood how it felt to have their home ravaged by the demonic. As of late, there have been many outreach efforts to help those affected by the Qliphoth. 

He had seen this all in action during his time in Red Grave. And while it was great to see such compassion at work, he had missed many moments at home. 

And now, he had missed another to sleep and strange ass dreams.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Of course, Kyrie can sense his guilt. She sends him a soft smile. “Besides, the boys were quite excited when Nico picked them up in the van.”

Now that catches him by surprise.

“How did you manage that? She’s barely up at eleven, even when we have a job.”

There’s a mischievous sparkle in Kyrie’s eyes. 

“She may or may not have had a bit of an incentive. I did promise to make tiramisu.”

Nero barks out a laugh.

“Kyrie Eleison, are you telling me you bribed Nico to wake up at six in the morning just to drive the kids to school?”

Kyrie grins.

“I was trying to be efficient. The boys needed some motivation to get out of bed and Nico’s driving is much faster than the bus. A win-win if you ask me.”

He continues to chuckle, in awe of his beloved’s creativity. 

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Nero asks with undisguised awe. “Nico following safety laws... that’s something you don’t hear every day. Maybe I should bring some tiramisu over to the old man. Your incredible cooking might force him to finally give me a straight answer.”

At the mention of Vergil, the lighthearted atmosphere noticeably dims. 

“Perhaps,” Kyrie remarks. Nero doesn’t miss the bittersweetness in her tone. He carefully cups the side of her cheek, suddenly worried.

“Meadowlark, what’s wrong? Is it what I said?.”

Kyrie shakes her head, leaning deeper into his touch. She releases a short sigh.

“No, no, you’ve done nothing wrong.” She hesitates, but at his silent plea, she caves. “I’m just worried for you, that’s all. I don’t want you to be hurt again, by words or by actions. I can’t bear to see you…”

She swallows nervously.

“He hurt you, Nero. He almost….”

Undeniable fear drips from her words. A part of him worried about this, the wound Vergil had inflicted yet to heal. If anything, it’s festered, creating doubt and unease in their little household. Nero despises it, despises how it haunts his family. 

“Say the word Kyrie and I’ll tell Vergil to leave. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, you are my family.” Yes, the offer pains him, to toss away this piece of himself, but he doesn’t care. He would endure anything for the love of his life. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Kyrie laughs, soft and sad. 

“You see, this is what I fear most. Despite everything that you’ve endured, you continue to have such a kind heart. I fear that someday it may be broken. And now, we are talking about a man who believes that having a heart is a weakness and sometimes I just…” Kyrie places her hand over his. “Please Nero, don’t let your father be the one to break it.”

Nero shakes his head, allowing himself a small smile. 

“I think the only one capable of that is you.” To which, Kyrie fondly smacks his arm. “But, I’ll try my best. By the way, the offer to tell him off is still on the table.”

“No. Despite my less-than-kind sentiments towards Vergil, I will support you. I know how important this is to you. I won’t get in the way. Besides, if there’s any chance that he can help rescue Skylar and Dante then my distaste matters little. No matter how you are related, I consider Skylar family too.”

Kyrie ponders for a moment, her expression souring.

“Now in regards to Dante… I have some choice words for him.”

Nero pauses, his mind wandering to the strange dream he had. He had never seen the devil hunter so awkward. It had been kind of satisfying to watch the man squirm for once instead of holding onto the cocky, surefire mask he always wore. Maybe his subconscious silently wished for some sort of payback. Scratch that, Nero knew he and his subconscious wanted payback, so maybe it was something else.

“Damn. Almost feel sorry for the guy.” Nero comments, to which Kyrie disagrees with. 

“You shouldn’t. At least, not until I’m done speaking to him.”

Nero snorts, the image of Kyrie scolding Dante as the man cowers before her a pleasant picture. It grows funnier when he imagines his beloved holding one of her favorite frying pans, ready to smack the man over the head with it. His inner devil purrs happily when that frying pan is replaced with Red Queen and for once, he agrees with the bloodthirsty part of himself. 

It’s quite a pleasant image, interrupted by Kyrie’s equally pleasant voice. 

“Now, I think it’s about time you got up sleepy head. You’re meeting with Vergil today, correct?”

Her words spur him into action, a grumbled curse on the tip of his tongue. Nero springs from the bed, racing to snag his clothes and get ready for the day. When he can’t find them he starts an anxious search around the master bedroom. 

“Crap!” 

His panic is only halted when Kyrie hands him a pile of neatly folded clothes.

“There’s some leftovers in the fridge and your coat is laundered and in the closet. Your boots should be there too.”

Nero looks at her, wondering how he got so lucky to meet this saint of a woman. 

“You’re the best Meadowlark.” He plants a kiss on her cheek before rushing to the bathroom to get ready. 

Breakfast—or lunch, in this case, he seriously hated waking up this late— is a quick affair. It's not long before Nero is scanning through his messages, deleting and blocking the various spam alerts and obvious scam artists that somehow found his number. He’s getting tired of all the telemarketers trying to sell him what’s practically “demon insurance”; a concept wild in itself. Shaking his head, he tries to loosen the absurd notion from his mind and continues to scan through his missed calls. One call stands out in particular from a certain walking arsenal he hasn’t heard from in a while. 

Snagging his boots from the closet, he plops down on the couch and hits dial. It rings a few times before being picked up.

“Hey, Shocker! It’s been a while!”

Nero grins at the familiar voice despite the weird day he’s been having. 

“Hey Lady, how’s business going? Still busy in Red Grave?”

In the background, he can hear the roar of a motorcycle and the whistle of wind. At the speed at which he imagines she’s going, Nero can guess she’s still in the dilapidated city. 

“You know it.” She says, confirming his suspicions. “But things have slowed down in the last couple of weeks. Seems like things might finally be calming down. I don’t want to jinx it though.”

Nero adjusts the phone as he begins tying his left boot. 

“Morrison not running you into the ground?”

Lady laughs.

“He wouldn’t dare. Doesn’t want to lose his best asset. No offense hot shot.”

“You know, aren’t I technically your boss now? Better watch it with the attitude.”

“Keep dreaming Shocker, keep dreaming.” Her words are light and teasing, however, she pauses. “Uh, by the way, Trish was wondering, any news about you-know-who?”

Ah, that’s the reason she called. 

Nero shouldn’t be surprised. He had always found Dante and Lady’s relationship a bit strange, not that he knew much about it. But after going through some of the office’s financial statements and seeing how much Dante owed her, it started to stir up some questions he didn’t know if he should address. He liked Lady, but he still didn’t know much about her. It had him keeping his cards close to his chest and his wallet even closer. 

“Maybe, but I can’t say for certain yet. It’s a… strange lead but I’m looking into it.”

That grants him a soft scoff.

“The one time that he could be making serious bank and he’s traipsing through Hell with that douchebag brother of his. Typical Dante.”

He doesn’t comment past that, unsure of what outcomes it might bring. Did Lady have a history with Vergil? Hell, how did Dante even meet Lady? What was the whole thing about killing fathers and regret in the van? Again, he’s left with too many questions and not enough answers. Nero only wanders back to the present when Lady speaks up again.

“Well, if you’ve got anything interesting to share, don’t be afraid to reach out. Can’t have the doofus slaking off while he still owes me.”

While her words are uncaring, her tone speaks otherwise. It seemed as if the “Walking Arsenal” was worried about the missing devil hunter. It was times like these that Nero wished he had more insight into what had happened. Dante’s past was already nebulous enough, he didn’t need any more mysteries to add to its already tangled state.

“Will do Lady,” Nero says instead. Looking at the clock he winces. It was going to be a bit close, but if he hurried, he could still make it. “Hey, it was nice chatting with you but I’ve gotta run. Say ‘hi’ to Morrison for me.”

“Right back at you Nero. And let Nico know that next time I see her I could use a tune-up. My girls are seeing a lot of mileage lately.”

At that, the line goes dead. Nero stashes his phone back in his pocket to finish lacing his boots. Snagging his coat from the closet, it is swiftly tugged on, a task much easier with two hands. 

Swinging open the garage door, he strides over to the locker decorated with a collage of different children’s drawings; the newest addition is a hammerhead shark by Julio. It’s a nice distraction from the dark stain on the concrete, barely visible in the dark confines of the garage. But Nero knows it’s there despite Kyrie’s relentless scrubbing. Maybe they should get a rug or paint the concrete. Anything to hide the remnants of that haunting day. 

He robotically undoes the lock, lazily spinning it around his finger as he uses the other to pull Red Queen from the metal confines. Slipping the lock back into place, his gaze lands on the locker next door, decorated with an equally impressive collection of doodles. Many of them showcase a familiar black wolf, others a few pigeons or lopsided-looking flowers. The sight of Carlo’s most recent art piece—a squiggly drawing of a puffin, one of the little guy’s newest favorite animals thanks to Julio— has him tearing his eyes away. The lock is quickly secured and he leaves through the side door without a second look. 

The boys didn’t know about the newest breakthrough of their adopted aunt’s whereabouts nor did they know about Vergil’s sudden appearance. 

And for now, he would keep it that way.

Nero is just about to unlock the door and walk in as he’s always done. Skylar’s was a place of constant traffic, a home of many a feline and canid demon, an after-school study place for his charges, and a stomping ground for a certain eccentric gunsmith. A simple knock usually sufficed before entering, the fiery devil hunter not being very sensitive when it came to personal barriers. 

But Nero stops because the cottage’s main occupant is not the friendly face he had come to know. He’s glad he does, as the door swiftly unlocks and Nero is met with the slightly disgruntled expression of his father, donned in his usual attire. 

“You’re late,” Vergil states plainly, stepping aside to let Nero inside. 

The young devil hunter can’t help but roll his eyes.

“By fifteen minutes. In comparison, you’re late by twenty-four years.”

Nero walks past him, subtly watching for the man’s reaction. At his retort, Vergil silences… or at least silences more than usual. 

Was that even possible? 

Well, it seemed so at his father’s shift in posture, the minute tense of his jaw, how his sword hand twitches ever so slightly. The surrounding air flows with what feels like a weak electric current, dancing nervously around him. If he hadn’t spent so much time with Fenrir and the Shadows, he probably would have missed it. 

Nero tucks the reaction away for later analysis. 

Shucking off his shoes, he does a quick survey of the living room. Strangely enough, the space is unchanged from the last time he’s been over, down to the open books scattered across the coffee table. He didn’t like moving anything, just the thought of it stirred up all his guilt. This wasn’t his home, what right did he have to change anything? Perhaps Vergil shared the same sentiments, a fact that Nero wasn’t sure of. He assumed whatever stunted emotion the man was feeling was something akin to uncertainty. Because, if he didn’t know any better, Nero would have assumed the house was still vacant, not a single page turned, not a speck of dust out of place. It was still frozen in time, a snapshot of the life here before that cursed tree. 

Before everything went to hell.

Nero never had the heart to break the illusion, but, maybe it was time to change that. 

Shuffling some stray papers, Nero doesn’t miss how Vergil tenses, confirming his suspicions. He continues his work nevertheless, folding the bundle into a lone notebook and putting it to the side to store away. Collecting a few stray pencils that had been scattered over the coffee table, he’s surprised when his father finally speaks up. 

“I imagine she will not be too pleased about my stay here.”

Nero pauses. The way he speaks is hopeful as if she’s alive and not the lost cause he had earlier claimed her to be. A smile tugs at Nero’s lips and he makes sure to turn away to hide the expression.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll smooth things over when she gets back. Sure, she’ll be miffed for a bit but she’ll get over it.”

He’s not granted a response, which isn’t a surprise. However, the atmosphere almost feels calmer, the flit of magic so similar to his own relaxing from its defensive coil. Nero continues to reorganize the books back onto the shelves, pausing to wipe away a light layer of dust from the surface. It’s only then that he notices the dent behind the bookcase, a large tome having been hurled at the wall. He hadn't noticed it when they had relocated Skylar's collection of plants for safekeeping. The book still juts out of the wall, covered in what seems to be a bit of ash and flakes of drywall.

Odd. Skylar was usually very careful with her possessions. Even more so if it was part of her collection of lore. 

Tugging the book free, he wipes off some of the dust stuck to it. The cover is a tad scorched, however still intact. Flipping it open, he scans through it for a bit, not finding anything of interest. It was some dictionary of wards and defensive magic, or at least, that’s what it looks like to him. He’s just about to snap it shut and reshelve it with the rest of Skylar’s library when he notices some scribbling in one of the margins. 

He skims over the red scrawl and what he finds has him stop and read over the writing that had been left there. 

"Reread page 57"

"Find failure point, can’t let it happen again"

A sense of dread begins to form in the pit of Nero’s stomach. He flips to page fifty-seven, only to find more notes. 

He does not like what he finds.

"What went wrong??? How did you fuck up so badly?! HE ALMOST DIED!"

"Needs more complexity so it’s harder to break. Maybe change spell work to deny all demons except him. Won’t be able to visit anymore but they’ll be safe. It’s worth it. It’s worth it!"

"Ask Nico??"

The last note is scratched out so much that he can barely read it. At one point it seems the pen has torn a bit of the page. 

Nero snaps the book shut after that, unable to read anymore. Wordlessly, he stashes the book back onto the shelf where it belongs. He doesn’t remember much after his arm was ripped from his body, just a lot of pain, a lot of fear, and panic. So, when Nico had begrudgingly informed him Skylar had attacked her, he almost didn’t believe her. But the haunted expression in the gunsmith’s eyes was undeniable and after hearing the story from Kyrie as well….

Most demons are pack hunters and when one of their own is hurt…. 

The room feels strangely cramped all of a sudden, almost claustrophobic. Vergil hasn’t commented anything about his find, at least he doesn’t think he has. He had been so focused on what may have been Skylar’s final thoughts put to paper before she—

Maybe he should open some windows and get some fresh air racing through the stuffy space. Marching over to the window, Nero opens the blinds. Inadvertently, the amusing vision of his father hissing at the sunlight like a vampire crosses his mind. The half-devil certainly reminded him of one, from the prime and proper attitude to the pale complexion. 

He tries to use that image to rid himself of the self-loathing and rage that filled those written words, blood red as the pen they were scrawled in. 

The window creaks open with little fanfare, letting the cool breeze from the outside flood the room. While winter still dug its icy claws into the land, it was mild in comparison to the month prior. Already, nature was beginning to awaken from its deep slumber, preparing to bud for the coming Spring. A tad bittersweet, being here, in this house. 

Spring was Skylar’s favorite season.

“It wasn’t her fault.”

Nero turns around in surprise. 

“What?”

Vergil doesn’t look him in the eye, seemingly interested with… well, Nero isn’t sure, but he’s damn well sure not looking at him. Despite that, his father answers. 

“Your distress is obviously a result of something you read in that book. A book which, was thrown with enough force to be embedded into the wall. If I were to guess why such an item was thrown, I would predict it was due to a sudden feeling of anger, most likely due to failure. Failure which probably stemmed from my unauthorized intrusion of your home.”

“That’s… one way to put it. Okay… so is this an attempt at an apology or…?”

That causes Vergil some pause. 

“As we established before, I will not apologize for my continued survival. The circumstances, while unfortunate were still a means to an end. I did what I had to do.”

Surprisingly, Nero can hear a tinge of uncertainty in his father’s words. It had been absent when they had discussed that first day, causing Nero to storm out of the house to cool off. He had hoped that he would’ve at least received a simple, “Sorry for ripping off your arm and traumatizing your whole family”. 

Something…! Anything! 

Vergil had simply looked at him with an air of indifference as Nero slammed the door behind him. In reality, it’s probably him trying to cope with the fact that his own father didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy in mutilating him. 

Yeah… unfortunately that was probably the answer…

Vergil continues to explain, oblivious to his son’s conflicted sentiments. 

“Since we’ve established I will be staying here for the time being, I took the liberty to bolster this dwelling’s defenses. While a majority of them were still intact, they’ve still been neglected for far too long.”

“And, what did you think? Of her spell work, that is.” Nero can’t help but ask, given how critical Vergil seemed of… well, everything. The answer he receives isn’t as unforgiving as Nero expected it to be. 

“Acceptable for someone of her age and experience. Her knowledge of the demonic runes is decent, however, how she utilizes them is mediocre at best. She made the same mistake here as she did at your home, allowing entrance to anyone carrying the blood of Sparda.”

Nero furrows his brow. 

“Uh, I just thought you said it wasn’t her fault you broke in.”

Vergil gives him a noncommittal shrug. 

“It wasn’t. At least in regards to knowing of my existence. However, if she was truly insistent on protecting you and your family, she should have been better prepared. Even if she held such knowledge, I would have been able to break through her wards even in my decrepit state.” 

“Oh, bullshit! How the hell does that even make sense?!” There was no way of winning with this guy, was there?! Nero's voice raises with his anger.  “Are you seriously trying to blame her for your fuck ups—?!

Vergil suddenly holds up his hand to silence him.

“There’s something outside,” Vergil states, abruptly cutting him off. 

“What?!”

Vergil ignores him, already striding to the back door, Yamato in hand. He doesn’t stop to wait for him to follow, instead he swiftly unlocks the door and promptly exits. 

“Hey, I wasn’t finished talking, asshole!”

Nero curses, quickly snagging and tugging on his boots. He grabs Red Queen and bolts outside after the Dark Slayer. Jogging to meet his father’s relentless pace, he finally catches up with him, only to be met with the unmistakable scent of sulfur. 

Fuck! How did he miss that? Were these from the same hoard he’d faced with Fenrir? Hell, why hadn’t the wards warned of a demon being so close? 

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that concerning fact, as he’s soon met with three Nobodies chanting in a carved circle, swinging their bodies to some unknown rhythm. Nero goes to grab Red Queen’s hilt, but Vergil stops him. When he shoots his father a questioning look, he simply nods to the disturbing creatures before them. And while Nero is still certainly confused, he backs off, his own curiosity getting the better of him.

The grotesque hands reach over the creatures' backs and…

Snap!

With a twist of the fleshy appendage, the demons drop lifelessly to the ground, having snapped their own necks. In his shock, Nero wordlessly watches as the circle glows to life, blood rupturing and draining from the monsters’ corpses. It pools, coagulating into some unspeakable mass of gore. From it rises a towering figure, grotesque in the way only demons can be, crowned with three heads—a feline, a snake, and a devil. The creature looks down upon them, crossing its muscular arms looking astonishingly causal. Vergil mirrors the creature, Yamato neatly tucked in his hand. 

“Haborym.” Vergil sneers.

“Dark Slayer.” The demon’s hisses, three separate heads speaking with disturbing synchronicity. “It’s been some time.” 

It reminds Nero of one of those old Western movies, the wind whistling through the old rickety buildings as two duelists face off. In this case, the buildings are towering trees, the duelists two devils of unimaginable power. And Nero, well, maybe he’s the tumbleweed rolling past, trying to mind his own business, hoping that he won’t get his head blown off by a stray bullet.

Unfortunately for him, he can’t flee the scene like the humble tumbleweed. So instead, he speaks up. 

“Uh, does anyone want to fill me in on what’s happening right now?”

The devil’s multifaceted gaze turns to him, staring down at him with a surprising mix of intrigue and delight. It dips down to get a closer look at him. Every fiber of his being screams to release Red Queen and lash out, only made worse when the devil reaches a clawed hand out as if to touch him. Luckily, the property’s barrier seems to prevent any sort of physical interaction, a talon hovering just before the sturdy wards. Knowing that Haborym is unable to reach him is the only thing that allows him to keep his cool.

That and how his father has stepped purposefully in front of him, shielding him from the devil’s view. While Nero can’t see Vergil’s expression, his body language speaks novels on how another twitch would spell the creature’s doom. The action stirs something in the young devil hunter’s heart, a bit of hope that maybe his father did care.   

Nevertheless, he hates the attention he’s receiving, only just stopping himself from jumping when the creature speaks again. 

“Hail, Heart of Jörmungandr.” Haborym addresses him with a surprising amount of respect. It looks past Vergil to meet his gaze. “It has been far too long since I’ve met one of your kind.”

Uh… what? 

“Uh, Heart of what now?” 

Haborym tilts its three heads, confused at his response.  

“You were chosen, yes? Although an impractical choice, the old wyrm’s power thrums in your veins. You smell of dragon’s blood, young one.”

Nero doesn’t understand a word Harborym is blabbering. And yet, he can’t deny something deep within him preens at the title, gleeful at the recognition it has desired for so long. It baffles him, sustaining so much joy from something he knows nothing about. Something that could only be a misunderstanding. 

Right? 

Nero shoves the emotion away. Now wasn’t the time for such doubts. 

“Age must be affecting your senses.” Vergil interrupts. The Dark Slayer’s frosty glare turns frigid. “Such creatures are of fairytales. They no longer exist.”

Harborym scoffs. It seems almost… amused?

“You believe I am mistaken?”

“I know you are mistaken.” Vergil retorts, his hand tightening around Yamato’s tsuka. “The last dragons were slain two millennia ago. My father made sure of that.”

Haborym tsk’s, as if disappointed. 

“If you say so young usurper. Pity for you then. A dragon’s power is a mighty one.”

At this point, Nero is fed up with all the cryptic talk. Despite his better reasoning, he speaks up, again becoming the center of attention. 

“The hell do dragons got to do with the Qliphoth?” He asks. 

To Nero’s surprise, the devil barks out a laugh.

“You do not know?” It shakes its many heads in disbelief. “Maybe I am mistaken. A true dragon wouldn’t be this dull.”

Nero scowls.

“Oh, keep talking ugly! The only thing that’s gonna be dull is my sword after I’m done slicing you to bits!”

Haborym leans forward, its many eyes piercing through the protective barrier. A mocking grin twists on the face of its humanoid head. 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

A snarl rips past Nero’s lips, all but ready to cross the barrier and tear the demonic piece of shit to shreds. Unfortunately, Vergil stops him with a chilling glare. He’s ready to protest when his father speaks up again.

“You continue to speak of kings and dragons and yet speak nothing of real substance. The Qliphoth rose and fell, just as it did more than two thousand years ago. This is not a new occurrence in the grand scheme of time and yet you ramble on as if the tree still stands. Quite the foolish notion.”

Vergil’s subtle taunt reigns in his temper. Demons liked to talk and this one knew something they didn’t. It would be in their best interest to wring out every drop of information possible. It wasn’t likely but, maybe, just maybe it knew something about their trapped family members.

“And quite a fall it was.” Haborym seems to reminisce. “All that power, an army of demons at your beck and call, and you threw it all away. A waste if you ask me.”

“I have no need for your approval as well as for the help of that useless rabble. I can and will fight my own battles.”

Despite the comment not being directed at him, that kind of hurt Nero’s feelings. He had hoped his father saw them as a team after everything that had happened. But then, he had to remind himself, Vergil wasn’t V. At least, not completely. 

Haborym seems amused by such an answer. 

“So you say Dark Slayer. That still doesn’t explain your blatant disregard for such power. You’ve changed and not for the better. Where has your ambition disappeared to?”

Despite such taunts, Vergil doesn’t rise to the bait. 

“Nowhere. I simply wish not to waste it on something as feeble as you.”

At this point, Nero’s patience is growing thin, the roundabout banter getting them nowhere. He didn’t have time for fancy-schmancy demon politics or whatever this was. So, instead, he decides on a different strategy; be as blunt as possible. 

“This is a lot of talk for someone who still hasn’t explained what the hell they want. So what is it? Because if you're looking for the touristy areas, you’re in the wrong spot pal.”

Vergil tilts his head, looking a tad annoyed about him butting in. Luckily for them, Harborym seems keen on talking. 

“Simply to observe the competition, to inspect the odds,” Harborym explains. “Two thousand years is a long time to wait for another contender. I required a reminder of what Sparda bloodline had to offer.”

Not surprising but hey, at least they had an answer now.

The demon leans down as if to scrutinize them more effectively. He can feel the creature’s acrid breath puff against his face as it levels its gaze with them. Nero can’t help but cringe at the grotesque details of the devil’s face, a bone-chilling amalgamation of man and monster.  

Uhh, okay… where did his personal space go?

After a few moments of staring, the devil speaks up again. 

“From what I’ve observed, I am not impressed.”

Vergil scoffs. 

“There is no contention. The throne is mine by right, I just choose not to take it. I do not wish to rule you swine.”

A brow on the creature’s humanoid head raises.

“Are you sure about that Dark Slayer? As whispers from below tell of a different story. One that speaks of war on the horizon.”

It’s so subtle that Nero nearly misses it, but he catches Vergil’s minute flinch, his sharp inhale.

“With whom exactly?” Vergil is strung taut. Despite his question, it seems he already knows the answer to it.

The devil grins as if to confirm Nero’s suspicions. It slinks closer, a hair’s breadth away from the wards. 

“You already know. Deep down, you knew this day would come. It was inevitable the moment you consumed the Qliphoth’s fruit.”

What follows is a tense silence. 

“Am I missing something here?” Nero asks in an attempt to draw some heat away from Vergil. Unfortunately, it seems it’s too late for that, the devil leaning in close, the barrier crackling and snapping at the errant demonic presence. The snake head’s tongue flicks, scenting the air. 

“Time is running out usurper.” Harborym’s voice drops to a mere whisper. He looks knowingly at Vergil. “I would start believing in fairytales if I were you.”

Vergil says nothing. Not in his usual closed-off sort of way, Nero wishes for that. No, his father is afraid- terrified. He can sense it in the air, that electric hum of the half-devil’s magic a small skittish thing unlike Nero has ever felt before. It leaves him speechless as the devil grins, rising from its crouch. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Son of the Dark Slayer.” Harborym turns to address Nero one final time. The look he receives sends a shiver down his spine. “I’ll be sure to remember your name when I slaughter you on the battlefield.”

The devil’s form seems to liquefy, sloshing into an inert puddle. Blood splatters onto the ground, soaking the frost-touched grass and painting the ground red. It slowly crystallizes only to shatter into a fine dust. Nero and Vergil stand there for a moment, Nero unsure what to do next. Wordlessly, Vergil turns on his heel and simply walks away. It takes a moment for Nero to comprehend what just happened, but quickly shakes his stupor and again rushes after his father. This time, however, he stops the man, blocking his path back to the house.

“What is with you and just walking away after shit like that?! Kings, dragons?! Hell, a damn war?!” Nero gestures with his hands as if to portray the gravity of the situation. “You gonna elaborate on any of that?!”

For a second, he wonders if Vergil is going to tell him to mind his own business. Fortunately, he eventually signals Nero to walk next to him. Nero hesitantly complies, keeping a careful eye on him in case he may try to escape. 

“The Qliphoth, as you know, is an organism from the Underworld that is meant to bear a fruit to be consumed by a powerful devil. This event usually happens every thousand years, the Qliphoth sprouting once more and providing power to one worthy soul.”

“That’s why it called you a usurper, right? You snacked on the forbidden fruit and became, what? King of the Demons?”

Did Vergil just cringe? This was already way too weird of a day. 

“To be king was never my intent. I only wished for the power that came with the Qliphoth’s fruit, not the responsibility that it carried. I care nothing for the title, less so for the rabble of the Underworld.” Vergil sighs. “But yes, by consuming the fruit, I am their king.”

Nero lets out a slow whistle.

“Wow, so twelve-head wasn’t kidding. Technicalities are a bitch.”

Vergil glances over at him.

“And by technicality, you are their crowned prince.”

At first, he thinks he’s joking, but then Nero remembers who he’s talking to. Nero shivers, dread and a bit of disgust seeping into his veins. He had just come to peace with having demonic blood, at least, for the most part. Being demonic royalty on the other hand… no thank you. Not in a million years. 

“Yeah… okay, I think I get it. So if you don’t want to rule then what’s the problem? Can’t you just, I don’t know, hand over the title? Step down? Take an early retirement?”

Vergil scoffs. 

“If only it were so simple.” His father shakes his head. “No, unfortunately, an ‘early retirement’ is not in the cards. There can only be one rightful heir to the Qliphoth’s power, which is decided by trial by combat. The victor not only has rightful dominion over the Underworld for the next thousand years, but more importantly strips the loser of their power.”

“A.k.a. a death match, winner takes all.”

“Precisely.” 

There was something Nero was missing, some unspoken history. It was all so infuriating, being so in the dark, answers seemingly just a question away. In reality, they were a miracle away; his father locked away such enlightenment behind steely silence. It was a slow and monotonous task plucking the truth from their short, strenuous exchanges. Not that such a challenge was going to stop him. What worries him is the way that Vergil holds himself, so tense, so anxious. It sits… wrong with him. It reminds him of how Skylar behaved whenever Legion was mentioned; an instinctual fear that was impossible to hide. Whatever he was supposed to go to war with was something of nightmarish proportions. Something that Nero was sure he wasn’t about to get any answers about anytime soon, despite how important such knowledge was. 

So Nero attempts to sate his curiosity in another way, already knowing any attempt to breach the subject was worthless. After all, there were still many other things to ask about.

“Alright, so then what about the whole ‘Heart of Jörmungandr’ thing? Because last I checked, I’m stuck being the ‘Son of the Dark Slayer. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

Nero tries to keep his question ambiguous, hoping the title may invoke some long-lost memory. It was obvious that there was some sort of amnesia at play despite his father’s attempt to hide it. He recognized it from when he talked with Fenrir, the wolf missing massive gaps in his memory, struggling to remember simple things like where he was from or how he came into possession of Ragnarök. Maybe it was simply Vergil's unwillingness to answer, but something just didn’t sit right.

Especially when Nero had asked about his mother. 

It had resulted in nothing, at least nothing of substance. It was almost as if Vergil had forgotten, the lack of any substantial details about her eerily missing. At that point, Nero had suspected that he was the result of a one-night stand. It would make sense, a fling that resulted in his existence. But the pain on his father’s face at the memory of her, or in his case the lack of memory, spoke of something far different. The emotion was there, what little his father showed. Heartache. But the reason behind it was not, as if it was stolen from him.

Nero shudders at the thought.

Was it an accident? Had his father cut the memories away from him just as he had with V, his humanity? Had they been lost? Or was there something more, something Nero was not aware of?

Maybe… they had been stolen.

“Jörmungandr was a demon of ancient times, one of the first of a demonic lineage lost to time.” Vergil answers, shaking Nero from his thoughts. 

Good, at least this time he would get an answer. Hopefully.

“Not much is known about the beast,” Vergil continues as if citing a textbook. “only that its descendants are inherently tied to the rise and fall of the Qliphoth. Yet, how those descendants come to be is a mystery. Especially with the creature being dead for countless millennia.”

Nero tilts his head, evidently confused.

“What do you mean that Sparda killed the last one? I never heard that piece of the lore before, and trust me, I’ve heard enough about Sparda for multiple lifetimes.”

That garners him a strange look, but Vergil answers.

“When Sparda rebelled against the past demon king, he made sure to destroy all points of strength. That included slaughtering the two dragons that served as his adversary’s generals. How he did so is still unknown, but it was enough to cripple the demon king to defeat him.”

As always, there seems to be more to that story than Vergil is letting on, but Nero doesn’t push his luck. Besides, he already had enough information to chew on and even more questions to add to the gargantuan pile. However, he does voice one of them that comes to mind. 

“And it’s bad that these things haven’t shown up yet?”

Vergil’s brief lapse of silence does not garner any confidence despite his next words.

“Not necessarily. I do not require others to fight my battles for me, much less fanciful creatures such as dragons. Haborym is simply trying to seed doubt. A senile fool that should be ignored.” 

Nero is very tempted to call him out on his bullshit but he decides to hold his tongue. No, this wasn’t pride at work, this was something much more complicated. Because it was always complicated, what in his life wasn’t?

Instead, Nero sighs.  

“Yeah, no shit. I think I would have remembered if I saw a giant flying lizard.”

But he had seen one in the Qliphoth during his first face-off with Urizen. Skylar’s doomsday device, the one that saved them both from being bloody smears on the wall. The specter that had emerged from it was unmistakably draconic in form, from its sharp reptilian snout to its lashing tail. 

Was that what Haborym meant about dragons and kings? 

Nero shakes his head trying to loosen the thought. Right now, such things didn’t matter, not when she was still stuck down in the Underworld. They would figure out what all this meant when they somehow dragged her and his dumbass uncle out of there. 

There’s a strange twinge in his chest, a flutter of excitement that shouldn’t belong to him; knows doesn’t belong to him. Yet it’s there nevertheless, this eagerness to take wing and go to war. He despises it, shoving it down hoping it’ll never surface again. But Nero knows such a thing wouldn’t be that easy.

It was never that easy.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” 

Skylar sends Dante a hesitant look; clad in his Sin Devil Trigger, he has ducked into a crouch so she could easily climb onto his back. Without wings, hitching a ride would be the fastest and hopefully safest way to the ground. However, the sharp spines make her pause. She would rather not test her luck in getting stabbed again. 

The Legendary Devil Hunter shrugs, his wings slightly tilting with the motion. His voice rumbles with a demonic timbre. 

“Well, unless you feel like climbing down or taking your chances jumping, this is the best way.”

Skylar continues to hesitate resulting in more words of encouragement. 

“C’mon! It’ll be fun! We need more father-daughter bonding moments! Heck, I could carry you down by your boot like before.”

She scowls at the memory of her being swung around like a rag doll. It’s only made worse that despite the demonic visage, she can tell the man is grinning at her. 

“I’d rather test my luck with gravity.”

Dante chuckles or at least she thinks he does. It’s more akin to a rumbling chuff, similar to the noise Fenrir made whenever he laughed. It’s to be expected; the lack of lips or any human features in his demonic form translating abnormally. 

However, the sudden reminder of her best friend sours any possible enjoyment she could have gleaned from their current banter. At the sudden howling wind that rushes by, Skylar sighs and carefully climbs on Dante’s back for the strangest piggyback ride of her life. She adjusts herself as best she can in case of any drastic maneuvers while airborne. With one hand gripping his shoulder and another braced against one of the spines jutting out from his back, she tenses for their inevitable lift-off. 

“This is humiliating….” She grumbles to herself. 

Of course, he notices how her grip tightens when they take off. 

“You’re not scared of heights, are you? ”

“No!” She squawks, further embarrassed at her anxiety. “It’s just last time we were in the air you dropped me!”

Dante lets out another deep, rumbling laugh as he shakes his large head. 

“And you stabbed me. Call it even.”

The ride is uneventful, a blessing after everything they’ve been through. If anything, it’s surprisingly peaceful, the world below drowned out by the swirling wind. Now having gained a bit of altitude, the currents seemed to have stabilized allowing Dante to catch a strong thermal updraft and calmly soar through the unoccupied skies. At this height, Skylar feels untouchable.

She suddenly realizes this is the first time she’s been this high up. It’s not like she’s ever been able to fly on a plane when she was younger, already having a hard enough time sneaking Ragnarök and Fenir onto random buses. And even the brief stint on the helicopter to the Qliphoth hadn’t been exactly memorable, her nerves having overwhelmed any possible enjoyment. 

Much to her surprise, a bit of envy stirs in her heart, wishing for her own wings to fly her up and away from harm. A part of her has always craved for the skies, a fact she always made light of in regards to her name. She always thought it was her craving for adrenaline, the thrill of dancing on the line of danger. But now knowing more about who and what she was, maybe it was simply in her nature. Like how fledgling birds would toss themselves from the nest to eventually take to the air.

Did Nero feel the same way? She regrets never asking him.

Steeling herself with grim determination, Skylar promises to ask him when she sees him again. She’ll find her way back to her makeshift family no matter the cost if only to make sure they all know how much she cares for them and to tell them she’s sorry for leaving them. Now, this was more than a fight for survival; she wished to defy every odd against her. 

Dante dips his wings and slowly begins to descend. So far, there doesn’t seem to be any impending danger with the scarcity of any living creatures for once advantageous. Skylar leaps off before Dante can touch down and lightly lands on the barren soil. A bit of dirt kicks up on her boots, dusting the already grime-covered leather with more filth. Not that she cares. If anything, it would probably do well to disguise her scent. 

In a display of sparks, the hulking devil transforms back into the one and only Legendary Devil Hunter. He seems at relative ease with his surroundings, something that Skylar is not sure if she should be concerned about or not. Already she feels exposed despite having a highly skilled hunter at her side. She knows nothing about this man, let alone how he fought. 

And that worries her.

With Nero, she knew that he liked to throw his weight around, swinging Red Queen with a brutal strength that Skylar could never hope to match. For once, his time in the Order was beneficial, his training resulting in a surprisingly strategic combatant when his mind was clear and his temper wasn’t being tested. But, Nero often got caught up in that momentum, focusing his attention on one opponent he had a grudge with and diving headfirst into the fray. 

It got him into some trouble once or twice, especially when he underestimated an opponent or said opponent struck at something close to home; the Qliphoth being a gleaming nightmarish example. 

Fortunately, Skylar knew all of this. 

So when Nero was surrounded by all sides and didn’t have space to finish a combo without getting hit, she would push back the hoard and give him space to rip and tear to his heart’s content. And when Skylar was starting to get overwhelmed or came face-to-face with something she couldn’t crack, Nero would barge in and allow her room to breathe and recollect. While chaotic on the surface, it was a system they were acutely familiar with. In the heat of battle, those seconds decided between life and death.

Keeping her head on a swivel, she spares Dante a glance, wondering if he’s thought about such things as well. Probably not, from what Nero has alluded to. Skylar just hopes he’s enough of a team player to not get them killed.

“So… you got any questions for me?” Dante interrupts her thoughts. “About… stuff, you know like…?”

Had he seen her observing him? Most likely, as she was doing the same.  

“Like what?”

“You know like…?”

He trails off as if she understands what he’s referring to.

She does not. 

Dante releases a long, suffering sigh as if the current conversation is causing him physical pain. 

“Your mom, Sky.”

Skylar blinks. 

Oh…

“Oh…!”

Dante shrugs. 

“I guess it’s just if I was in your shoes, I’d probably be asking every question that popped into my head. And yet, not once have you asked me about your mom. That’s a pretty important question, don’tcha think?”

He wasn’t wrong but it was much more complicated than she first expected. Despite being a few days after Dante’s grand reveal, she still didn’t quite know how to feel about knowing who her parents were, let alone meeting them. Skylar considers his words before attempting to deflect. 

“After your grand reveal with an ‘I’m Dad’ joke? Yeah, no thanks.”

“Oh c’mon! It wasn’t that bad! You laughed!”

“It was a pity laugh because it was so horrible.”

That elicits a scoff.

“Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that kid.”

They walk in silence once more. After a few minutes, a sigh escapes her.

“Look, I- damn it…! How do I put this? I don’t know if I want to know, at least not now.” Skylar admits. She can’t quite bear to look Dante in the eye so she just stares ahead, occasionally looking at her animated hands. “I mean, she left me in an alleyway. I wasn’t born in Fortuna like Nero was where the best contraceptive they had was celibacy and religious shame. Shit happens, I know that, but….” 

Her words trail off and she doesn’t quite know how to continue. She gathers up her courage and looks up at the older devil hunter only to see an uncharacteristic look of patience and understanding. 

“I’m not trying to pressure you kid. I just wanted to give you the chance in case you wanted to know.”

That was… thoughtful?

“I know, I know. And I appreciate that.” Skylar fiddles with the broken zipper of her jacket. “But, for now, I still have so much racing through my head, that I think anything else would break it. You know what I mean?”

Dante huffs.

“More than you know. Alright, I’ll drop it for now. Maybe when things have calmed down a bit we can revisit it. Sound good?”

And in fact, he does seem fine with dropping the subject. Not in an avoidant sort of way that she’s quickly identified, but in a surprisingly respectful way. The absolute duality of this guy was baffling. Skylar completely understands why Nero is so frustrated with him. 

“Yeah, that does actually.”

They continue to march across the desolate landscape silence settling upon them once again. However, Skylar is relieved that it doesn’t feel as strained. Awkward? Yes, there was no escaping that, but at least it seemed the lines of communication were starting to open. 

A few stray claw marks in the dirt suddenly catch her attention, causing her to slow her pace. Skylar kneels down, wincing when a muscle in her back spasms. She ignores how her body screams for rest and carefully traces the marks with her index finger. Flipping through her mental bestiary for what they might belong to, she finds she is worryingly short on answers. Dante notices she’s stopped and walks over. 

“Whatcha got there Sky?” He asks, looking over her shoulder with his hands on his hips. 

Skylar continues to analyze the track, trying to not think about how a devil hunter with decades of experience who just happened to also be her father is watching her. 

Yeah, no pressure Skylar…!

She frowns. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. At first, I thought it might have been a Faust, but… these are too short and broad.”

With a soft hum, Dante crouches down next to her and inspects the trail. He takes a bit of the soil and rubs it between his fingers before giving it a sniff. After a few moments, something seems to click in his head. 

“Kyklops. Four, maybe five of them.” He says before brushing his hands clean. 

Skylar can’t help but stare as she tries to process how in the actual hell he ended up at that conclusion. 

“Wait, really? How do you know for sure? I thought they liked to bury themselves. Why would they running above ground?”

She’d only encountered such a demon once in her lifetime and even that had been a brief encounter. Fenrir and she had been scouting out a cave to spend the night in when one of the nasty critters had jumped out of the darkness, scaring the living daylights out of her. Only thirteen and not sure how to use a sword yet, she had booked it out of there quicker than she would like to admit. 

“They do,” Dante says, interrupting the memory. “But, every once in a while the area runs out of things to hunt or a bigger, badder Kyklops wants the current resident’s hidey hole and evicts them. Which means, these little buggers gotta run around and find a new one. And a good place to settle has to have…”

Dante breaks off a chunk of the course soil and Skylar suddenly understands.

“Soil that they can dig beneath. A migration of sorts.”

Dante grins.

“Exactly! Nice going kid!”

Skylar pauses, not having expected the sudden praise. She makes sure to play it cool with a nonchalant shrug.

“Well, at least we know what to watch out for now. Hopefully, it’ll do us some good.”

She continues walking after that, making sure Dante doesn’t see whatever pride she’s wearing. A simple acknowledgment shouldn’t spark so much joy. Nero would be making fun of her right now; she’s sure of it. 

Curse humans and demons for being social creatures. 

Despite her attempts to now ignore the other devil hunter and come to terms with her six months in social isolation, Dante awkwardly clears his throat. Much to her despair, it seems as if the line of communication has opened up enough for Dante to want to continue talking.

“Hey, uh, Sky. I’ve been… meaning to ask you.”

A sigh barely escapes her. Skylar, unable to curb her curiosity, turns to look at him with a tilt of her head; a habit that she knows she picked up from Fenrir. Already, she dislikes where this is going. 

For a man who disliked talking about his past, he sure liked to ask about hers. 

“To be honest, I’m surprised you weren’t adopted. I mean big blue eyes, white fluffy hair. You probably looked like a little ang—,” Dante abruptly stops talking, probably realizing what he was about to call her. “Ah, ya know.”

Skylar cringes, but ignores the cursed nickname Legion has insisted on using all her life. She knows Dante didn’t mean any harm, but she still hated being called that. While she doesn’t like to talk about her childhood or the horrors that followed it, she’s curious to hear Dante’s response. 

“You would think, but in reality, it was the opposite. I was kind of a shrimp growing up, all gangly, kind of clumsy sometimes. With the addition of the white hair, every couple that saw me thought I was some sickly little kid. That… well, and that I was trouble. Once I was around seven and I started to get into stuff, the staff just kind of gave up.”

Dante’s shoulders slump as he shakes his head. 

“Yeah, that’s when Verge and I started getting into trouble too. Always getting into things, creating havoc wherever we went.” Dante recounts. “Mom always had her hands full with the two of us. If we weren’t messing with something we shouldn’t be, then we were bickering nonstop. Looking back now, I have no idea how she dealt with us.”

Not expecting him to talk about his brother, let alone his mother, Skylar is taken aback. Not that she’s complaining. Despite Skylar’s silence, Dante continues to speak; stuck reminiscing about bittersweet memories. There’s a sorrow in his words despite the seemingly fond memories. Nevertheless, the young devil hunter is enraptured by the sliver of information about her extended family. 

“Oh, but she would have loved you,” Dante comments after a while. “You and Nero. Probably would have spoiled you rotten as kids, heck even as adults. She used to love to bake and when Vergil and I turned eight she….”

Realizing that he’s been talking aloud the entire time, Dante falls silent and shakes his head once more.

“Sorry, you probably don’t wanna hear this old man reminiscing about the past. All that sappy stuff must be pretty boring to listen to. Let’s change the subject to—“

“Wait no!” Skylar suddenly blurts out, before backtracking. “I mean….” 

Dante turns to her with surprise. Again the center of attention, Skylar fumbles for the right words. 

“I, uh, would like to listen if that’s alright. I mean, she’s my grandma, right? Why wouldn’t I want to learn about her?”

She never even imagined having a grandmother, let alone learning about her. There was so much she wanted to know. Dante heaves out a sigh, a grumbled addition to the defeated exasperation she almost misses. 

“I’m not drunk enough for this….”  

Skylar freezes. 

Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not one of them. Her memory drifts back to that holiday night when Nico was able to concoct a drink that actually had enough kick to it that it was able to affect Nero and her. Now, despite Nico's eccentricities, Skylar knows that she would never try to harm either of them, at least on purpose. So if it took a splash of holy water to get her drunk then...

A pit forms in her stomach and her mind flicks back to the Qliphoth. To an impossible fight. To a man who, despite the jokes and bravado, was ready to die.

She works to click together the pieces she’d been given so far; the story of a broken family. Her broken family. The Legend of Sparda, the attacks on Fortuna and Red Grave; all connected to the Sparda bloodline. There was so much more to this than she first realized, so much unspoken history. There’s a twinge in her heart that she had not expected, especially amongst all the animosity she carried for the man for cutting Nero out of his life. The amount of guilt Dante seemed to carry was something she could relate to. But guilt about what? The death of his mother? That’s probably part of it, she obviously didn’t pass away of natural causes. But there is more to it, much more…

“Kid? Hello, anyone home?”

Dante snaps his fingers in front of her face and she startles back. Quickly gathering her composure, she awkwardly clears her throat. There’s so much still running through her head, but in that moment she decides not to pursue it.

“Right, sorry just… thinking.” Skylar shakes her head to further clear it. “Anyways, forget I said anything. We should probably try to make more ground before the day drags on. Who knows if those Kyklops are still around.”

Dante seems surprised at her sudden lapse in interest, sending her a suspicious glare. However, he doesn’t argue, his attention swapping back to their surroundings. His posture seems to relax again despite the possibility of demons being around. 

While Skylar was curious, she wasn’t about to pressure Dante into talking about something that clearly distressed him. Yes, this was her grandmother and yes, she wanted nothing more than to learn about the woman who somehow found her way into The Legendary Dark Knight Sparda’s heart. But just as Dante had given her a choice in talking about her mother, Skylar was going to give him the same respect.

This was a much more delicate situation than she first thought. It required a tact that she hoped she had. To finally be allowed answers in good faith, not out of guilt or demand.

Did she still have a billion questions? 

Yes!

Was Dante still hiding a shit ton of stuff from her? 

Double yes!

Did she deserve such knowledge? 

Probably. Hopefully?

Either way, the middle of the god-forsaken Underworld was not the place to have such a conversation. Skylar sighs, kicking a stray rock. 

Why’d everything have to be so complicated?

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stand up on edge, her Devil Bringer buzzing with that familiar warning sensation. 

Move!

A massive arachnid erupts from the earth. All muddy chitin and scuttling legs, Skylar immediately recognizes it as a Kyklops. The demon breaches the soil, landing roughly on the barren wasteland. Dante, having also leaped back in time, stands next to her to watch five more of the demons surface.

“Well, speak of the devil… or demons. Whatever.” Skylar mumbles to herself. 

Drawing Ragnarok from his scabbard, she readies herself for war and bloodshed. Her mind back in mostly one piece and her consciousness in the driver’s seat, she was ready for some twisted normalcy in her life. 

This was her job after all.

One, two, three, four, five, six of them! And they were quite the intimidating opponent with their armored carapaces and green glowing eyes. They’re much bigger than the one she had encountered in her youth and faster too. This was going to be one hell of a fight and she was so ready to—

And they race right past them.

“Hey, what gives?!” Once again, the ground rumbles beneath her feet and the air fills with the sound of thundering hooves. An oppressive aura bears down upon her. Skylar looks up, her eyes widening. “Oh… crap!”

It’s hard to miss, the beast barreling towards them reminding her of some sort of rhino; if said rhino was some mutated monstrosity hopped up on steroids. The thing is built like a tank, with chitinous growths on its flank and sides, two sets of massive curling horns atop its head, and a scythe-like one crowning its snout. Its mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth and its glowing red eyes front and center, this thing was certainly not a herbivore. 

Skylar clicks her tongue. 

“I’ve… never seen one of those before….” 

Looking over at Dante, he seems to be taking in the creature as well. 

“Me neither. But, should be a good warmup for whatever we’re bound to encounter out here. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

With no warning, he strides forward. Realizing he’s completely serious about battling this monster alone, Skylar hurries after him and blocks his path. 

“You can’t be seriously thinking about fighting that thing by yourself.”

Dante shrugs and walks past her. 

“Better to strike while the iron is hot.” The devil hunter rolls his shoulders, warming himself up as if he were about to compete in a boxing match rather than a death match with a demon. “Seriously, you can sit this one out, kid. Probably, could use the extra rest. Besides, wouldn’t want you getting in the way.”

Get in the way?! 

Skylar knows a challenge when she hears one. Did he think she couldn’t keep up with him? Yeah, she was a bit rumpled from her trek through the Underworld, but that was not going to hold her back. Ragnarök at the ready, poised to counter anything the enemy has in store, she spares a glance at her fellow hunter. 

“No way! If you think I’m sitting this out and letting you get trampled, then you’re out of your mind!”

She doesn’t expect Dante to cringe, the reaction quickly smoothed over by a self-confident grin. 

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he didn't care and the "masks" were in fact reality.   

“If you say so, Skylar.”

The ground shakes with a surprising amount of force as the creature approaches. Pushing down the pre-fight jitters that always came with facing a new foe, Skylar stokes the fire of bloodlust that always dwelled within her. Grinning despite the juggernaut barreling towards them, Skylar pulls on her magic, heating Ragnarök’s edge to a scorching glow. 

Three…

Two…

On—

“Hey! What the—?!”

Just about to swing the blade forward, Dante charges without warning and blocks her line of sight. Skylar falters, scowling as she is forced to redirect the magic she’d been storing in Ragnarök’s blade. Chaos erupts in front of her as Dante dances around the demon at dangerously close range. He taunts the beast, jeering loudly and obnoxiously. The demon swings its mighty head, the horn scraping against the barren soil and kicking up dust. 

“Sorry kid but you’re gonna have to be quicker than that to keep up!” He calls over the madness. A double-barrel sawed-off shotgun cracks through the air and echoes over the empty valley. 

Great, this was exactly what she feared. Refocusing, Skylar races along the sidelines, trying to find a good moment to step in. That’s hard with the creature wildly swinging around its mighty head causing more dust to swirl into the air. She loses Dante in the chaos for a few moments, only for him to suddenly reappear with his coat in one hand and shotgun in the other. 

“C’mon, big guy! You can do better than that!”

With a wave of his arm, he flourishes his coat, dangling it at the demon’s eye level. Dante dips out of the way of the ensuing charge, his coat whipping in the wind like a matador’s cape. He spins on a dime, easily evading the jagged horns atop the creature’s head. All the while, he takes potshots at the monster and slowly but surely breaks through the armor. It was a slow and arduous process that became more precarious the longer the fight dragged on. The devil hunter was testing his luck with the creature’s every pass and it was inevitable that he would eventually get hit. 

Seeing a small opening to step in, Skylar attacks from the monster’s right side, hoping to make a dent in its armor. With a sharp swing of her blade, her eyes widen when her blow harmlessly bounces off the rough plating. Despite the reflected force uncomfortably radiating up her arm, she swings again hoping a second blow would at least leave a dent. Unfortunately, Skylar doesn’t get the chance as Dante forces the beast to turn, forcing her to back-peddle.

A frustrated growl escapes her as she continues to find another way into the fight, made even more difficult by the demon’s wild bucking and Dante’s obvious interference. Did he just want to show off? Hog all the glory for himself? Maybe, but something didn’t feel right. Why did he keep glancing back at her like that, as if he was checking her position to make sure she was safe…

Oh.

She wants to kick herself for how long that took her to put together; how she doubted her earlier judgements. Of course, the guy who avoided his nephew like the plague for six years in the name of safety would push her away from any conflict. Whether it was because of guilt or some sense of duty, Skylar has no clue. What she does know is that avoidance was this guy’s bread and butter. It made sense that he assumed that if she wasn’t in the fight, she couldn’t get hurt. 

While he insisted on calling her “kid” more than half of the time, she was far from that. She was going to remind him here and now. 

Circling again, the young devil hunter searches for an opening; any weakness she could exploit to turn the tide of battle. Dante makes that task all the harder, his flashy fighting causing the beast to twist and turn. All she finds from her survey is armor, armor, and more armor. This thing was a tank, a fact that becomes progressively more worrisome as the battle drags on. 

And yet, Dante continues to block her from engaging. 

Boom!

The creature keeps its head low despite the large amount of buckshot being blasted in its face. It stares defiantly at Dante, a sinister gleam growing in its spiteful gaze. Swinging its mighty head, it suddenly pivots, catching Dante by surprise. There’s a flash of red as Dante raises his arms to guard against the blow; the force of the collision causing him to skid back a few paces. The demon swings its head again, the horn atop its snout colliding with Dante’s sword in a dangerous block. 

At that, Skylar searches faster. 

A demon this large shouldn’t be able to maneuver that easily covered completely in armor. There had to be a weak spot… but where? 

Pausing to think for a moment, for some reason her mind wanders back to sitting on the couch with Kyle and Julio, reading a book about dinosaurs. She had snagged it from a used bookstore while out on a job, knowing both boys would appreciate it. It was hard to find things they both liked at that age. They had flipped to a page describing the Ankylosaurus, a juggernaut of a dinosaur with a deadly clubbed tail. Covered in so much armor, it would have been a tough meal for any carnivorous dinosaur.

“But what if it got flipped over?” Kyle had asked when Julio had claimed a Tyrannosaurus Rex had no chance against it. “It’s not like a turtle. It doesn’t seem to have any armor on its belly.”

The boys had begun to bicker after that until Skylar had insisted pterodactyls were the coolest dinosaur. She was quickly double-teamed by two passionate dinosaur lovers and quickly educated that pterodactyls were not dinosaurs.

Flip it over, huh?

The demon readjusts again, forcing Dante to take a hasty step back. Its jagged horn swipes the air where he had been standing moments later. Beads of sweat trickle down the devil hunter’s forehead, months of constant battle slowing him down. If Skylar was going to make her move she needed to do it now. Sheathing Ragnarök on her back, she attempts to hype herself up for what she knows is going to be incredibly stupid and dangerous. 

Screw it. This was the Underworld. Dangerous was the realm’s defining trait. 

Skylar waits for Dante to duck away from another swing before conjuring a flash of bright flame between the two combatants. Dante, having been turned away, doesn’t get the full brunt of her makeshift flash bang but curses nevertheless. While it doesn’t seem to affect the demon all too much, it’s enough to stun it for a second.

That’s all she needs.

Skylar charges the demon trying not to think about how reckless of an idea her plan is. Leaping as high as she can, she directs a bit of magic to her feet to propel herself higher. 

Just a little more and–

Crashing roughly on the demon’s back, Ragnarök is quickly drawn. Unfortunately for Skylar, the demon seems to have shaken off the effects of her diversion. Now royally pissed off at the hitchhiker atop its back it shakes wildly. The creature roars and begins to try and throw her off. 

“Skylar! What the hell are you doing?!”

Dante is somehow able to shout over the raging demon. While she can’t see him she can certainly hear the distress in his voice; that slight waver of uncertainty. 

Oh yeah, definitely worried. Wish he would have communicated that sooner and that she wasn't so blind.

“Teamwork makes the dream work…!” Skylar shouts over the roaring beast. “Or whatever! Anyways, get going and— woah!”

The demon kicks its legs back and for a moment she loses her balance. With one hand she precariously dangles off the creature’s side, claws digging into the chitinous armor for dear life. For once, she’s thankful for her new demonic features and makes good use of her claws to drag herself back up the demon’s side. 

Finally getting a stable enough grip, Skylar twirls Ragnarök in her hand and with all her might, rams the blade deep into the demon’s back. There’s a sickening crack as Skylar quickly finds resistance from the plated scutes. Despite half of the blade buried in the demon’s armored flank, she sees no sign of blood. It screeches, not in pain like she would have preferred, but in anger. 

Well, that works too. Damn… this thing could take a T-Rex and win every time. 

The demon bucks violently and Skylar clutches onto Ragnarök. With the Devil Arm jammed in the creature’s back, she’s at least able to stand and briefly look down to see a dumbfounded Dante staring up at her.  

“Don’t just stand there!” The young devil hunter exclaims. “We’ve only got one shot at this! Don’t waste it!”

Fortunately, her words seem to spur the devil hunter into action. In a flash of fire, Dante is suddenly adorned in a demonic-looking pair of gauntlets and greaves. Even from atop the demon’s back, she can sense the sheer power radiating from the Devil Arm, only made more potent by Dante’s titanic strength. 

“Hey, kid! You’ve got to force it to stand up!” Dante shouts from below. 

If she had the time or energy, Skylar would be rolling her eyes.

“What do you think I’m trying to do!?”

Bracing her back against the flat of Ragnarök’s blade, Skylar grits her teeth and yanks the demon's horns towards her. Every muscle in her body groans in protest as she fights to combat the demon’s strength. However, it seems to be working if the strained growl from the beast is anything to go by. Having her own horns now, she can imagine the bone-deep discomfort that comes from the action. She was still trying to come to terms with the strange extra weight atop her head and how every time she bumped them into something the sensation radiated throughout her skull. 

“Come on,” she grunts. “upsy-daisy!”

Fortune smiles upon her for once. With one final pull, the great beast shakes its head and rears onto its hind legs. Skylar honestly doesn’t know if this plan will work, but it was too late to back out now. What she does know is that she only has a few seconds before—

Acrid heat suddenly fills the air and she can sense the sudden surge of fire magic. But it's not one she’s familiar with, a Devil Arm that she’s not encountered. Despite her curiosity, she knows she needs to haul ass before she’s an extra crispy splatter on the ground. Yes, she was fireproof but did she feel like testing the limits of that right now?

No. No, she did not. 

“Lift off!”

Dante’s exclamation spurs her into action and she kicks her legs out, shoving the demon into whatever terrifying attack the devil hunter was unleashing. Using that same momentum, Skylar catapults back, twirling in the air and deftly grabbing Ragnarök on the way. There’s a moment when she feels the blade catch and admittedly, she panics. Thinking quickly she heats it, melting a bit of the rugged armor and allowing it to slide free. 

Her feet touch the ground and she hears the sound of bones crunching and lungs collapsing. Looking skyward, Skylar watches the colossal demon soaring overhead, enveloped in flames. Her jaw drops as it crashes behind her and she can’t help but stare for a few seconds and inspect the carnage. Sure enough, the soft underbelly of the beast was no match for such a brutal attack, gore and viscera leaking out of the gaping hole in the creature’s lightly scaled stomach. 

Looking over her shoulder, she’s met with a glare that freezes the blood in her veins, only to be boiled at the genuine anger burning behind it. Dante’s footsteps quick, he trudges towards her with barely contained outrage. 

Oh, he looks kind of mad. Oh shit, yeah he was mad! That wasn’t good.

“The hell were you thinking Skylar?!” It’s the first time he’s raised his voice at her, and she’ll admit, he’s scary. She almost feels sorry for any demons that have truly pissed him off. “I had everything under control!” 

A good head or two taller than her, Dante looms over her, an unexpected anger burning within him. Still equipped with the set of demonic gauntlets, their amber eyes glare down at her with a look of disapproval she doesn’t quite like. Anxiety swirls in her gut and just like before in the cave the desire to shrink back is overwhelming. But she doesn’t, standing her ground against the pissed-off devil hunter and devil arm. Instead, Skylar makes sure to send the gauntlets a quick glare before turning back to the matter at hand. 

“Maybe, but now is not the time to play hero. We had numbers on our side, an advantage that we should be taking any time we get.”

An eye roll and a scoff.

“What can I say, I’m just not a team player.” Dante defends. “Hard to be when you’re a one-man army.”

That cocky attitude again! That mask he so easily slipped into place every moment he got. She was starting to hate it, not only because it was a pain in the ass to deal with, but what it represented as well. It made her question if he had even an ounce of respect for her despite his words. That doubt worms into her head even as she speaks up again. 

“Uh huh…. So the two other hunters with you at the Qliphoth were there for, what? Eye candy?” 

Dante looks disgusted, physically reeling back.

“Absolutely not! They are some of the best fighters I know. Hell, probably some of the deadliest women in the world.”

At the very least, Skylar is happy to hear her father isn’t a complete sleaze bag. The respect that he holds for his companions seems genuine, along with a hint of fear there as well. While she didn’t know much about the two huntresses in question, from what Nero mentioned about them, there was good reason to fear them.

But that was more questions for later. 

“Ah, I get it. I’m not good enough then, is that it? Said it yourself, I can’t keep up so why try to work together in the first place? Just deadweight.”

She earns a wince at the familiar insult; his desperate ploy to get Nero out of dodge and out of the Qliphoth. But knowing Nero and his insecurities, Skylar is certain he hasn’t let that go. She can’t blame him, with her own self-doubts swirling around her at the moment. While rehashing it is a low blow, she feels it’s a necessary one if she wants Dante to listen.

“Look, I know that in reality, you’re just trying to make up for years of not being around.” Skylar interrupts Dante when he tries to counter. “Trying to protect me and stuff. But as cliche as this sounds, I’m not a kid despite your insistence on calling me one. I’ve navigated the Underworld by myself for six months. You’ve gotta trust me to be able to handle myself as I trust you to do the same. Might not seem like it sometimes but I do know what I’m doing, at least most of the time.”

When she’s not granted a response, Skylar clears her throat and adds with a shrug, “If I don’t then that’s when you can step in and play hero like you always do.”

He stares at her, a parade of different expressions flickering across his face.

“You know, you’ve got quite the sharp tongue there.”

That wasn’t the comment she was expecting. She wasn’t quite sure if it was the right one; memories of settling many an argument with weapons and bare hands alike appearing not a moment later. However, comparing herself to her current competition, the Master at Deflecting Dante….

“Should I be offended or…?”

At that, Dante barks out a melancholic laugh and shakes his head. 

“No. Not at all. It’s a compliment and a pretty damn big one. Seems like the women of this family have a way with words.”

Skylar pauses, thinking back to their earlier conversation about mothers. 

Was he referring to…?

Instead, she clicks her tongue and scoffs, for the second time today, turning away so Dante doesn’t see the smile spreading across her face. While she can’t be completely sure that’s who he’s referring to, it’s still a genuine compliment. Again, that strange giddiness stirs in her chest, the one so attention-starved and insecure that even simple words can create unfathomable glee. A part of her hates it, having thought she had come to terms with her fate as an orphan. 

But on the other hand…

It might be a rough start, but they were getting somewhere. It was his way of apologizing, albeit indirectly. But it was a start nonetheless, an olive branch that maybe in time, more secrets would be revealed and new understandings discovered. They both had their issues, that was for damn sure, but maybe that was an inevitable blight for their bloodline.  

As she figured before, the curse wasn’t devil blood, it was trauma and bad luck.

But, curses were meant to be broken. Maybe there was still hope for all of them, if of course Dante and she made it out of this nightmare alive—

Thump!

Skylar whirls around at the confident crowing and subsequent snapping of flesh and bone. Her jaw hangs open for a few seconds, her shock culminating into an enraged yell. 

“You cock-a-doodle-dipshit!”

So consumed by their conversation, she hadn’t noticed the party crasher currently munching away on their recent kill. The Cockatrice looks up at her, a chunk of flesh stuck on its beak, a smug look gleaming in its predatory gaze. Despite having her mind torn into two warring factions, despite being constantly hunted and on the brink of death, despite everything that had happened in the last six months, she remembered this creature. This feathered menace had made her living hell even more hellish. 

The Cockatrice simply clucks at her, lashing its spiny tail. 

“What are you…?” Dante looks over to the new intruder. “Ah, now that’s just rude! Couldn’t just have waited for us to leave or take our— Woah, woah woah! Kid, what do you think you’re doing?”

She was going to slaughter the beast. Sword in hand, intent on getting her revenge for all the extra horrors the beast had caused, she was going to gut this monster just as she had done with countless before it. 

With a flap of its webbed wings, the demon rears back and hollers out a victory screech. Its caustic saliva dribbles from its beak, splattering upon the slain demon's corpse. The flesh sizzles, turning a sickly green color. Sometimes she hated understanding demons so well. Even if the Cockatrice wasn’t capable of complex thought or speech, she knew it was taunting her. 

“Give me three minutes and I will make it regret even landing!”

Dante continues to block her path. He heaves another long, suffering sigh. 

“Maybe I need to retract my earlier compliment. This is just dumb.” Skylar attempts to shove past him but he blocks her path again. “C’mon, it’s no use arguing with the demonic chicken. You’ll get him next time.”

Logically, Skylar knows he’s right. This was a stupid one-sided feud that was only made more bitter by every subsequent failure while on this long-lasting nightmare. Unfortunately, the ravenous demonic blood boiling within her was not at all pleased with such logic, and every fiber of her being itched to ignore Dante’s warnings and charge in. 

More clucking. 

Was it seriously calling her a chicken now?!

It would be worth it. One less enemy to dog your steps. One more victory to add to the list. Maybe it would finally prove that she was strong enough, that she was worth a damn. However, that causes her some pause. This was Mister Showboat telling her to lay off. A man that, she could hardly imagine backing down from any challenge let alone from one paltry Cockatrice. He knew something that she didn’t, saw something she didn’t see. 

But what was it?

Skylar shakes her head to clear such thoughts. Gritting her teeth, she breathes harshly through her nose. Staring at the cockatrice for a few moments longer she finally comes to a decision. 

Squeezing her eyes shut, Skylar forces herself to turn around and walk away. 

Despite the endless jeering from the Cockatrice, she continues to retreat, her pride tarnished but her body intact. It’s the right decision, all things considered. Dante’s boots crunch next to her, the chaotic flicker of his magic calming for the first time since the beginning of the battle. When she’s far enough away and knows that she won’t fall for any more of the demon’s taunts, she takes stock of her surroundings. It’s only then that she sees them, the six pairs of arachnoid eyes staring up at her from the torn earth. Their gaze flicks between them and the carcass a few meters away.

Skylar swallows thickly.  

If she had taken the bait then…

“You know Sky, I have a feeling we just might survive this after all.” Dante declares. The comment catches her by surprise. Only once she knows they’re not on the Kyklop’s menu does she address him.

“You had doubts?” 

The devil hunter had sounded so confident in the beginning. Had that been a lie to give her a sense of false hope?

“Eh, I mean not really, but you know, stuff happens. I’d be more worried if you had a chip on your shoulder like a certain someone I know.“

It was a test, she realizes. A test to see if she was genuine in her stance. Despite the test of faith, Skylar snorts.

“Don’t let Nero ever hear you say that.”

Dante barks out a surprised laugh, the corner of his eyes crinkling with mirth. 

“Heh…! I was thinking more along the lines of my brother, but that works too.”

For a moment, Dante hesitates before carefully patting her on the shoulder. It’s an awkward motion but a genuine one. Nowhere does she see that arrogant mask from earlier. 

“We’ll get ‘em next time. Not going to let some chicken bully us down here. After all, I have a reputation to uphold.”

Skylar snorts. 

“Uh-huh. And what reputation would that be? Never heard of you until I met Nero.”

Dante gasps and dramatically clutches his chest in mock offense. 

“You wound me Sky! I’ll have you know that I am a very successful and well-renowned devil hunter! Legendary even!“

Skylar tilts her head. 

“Well, I mean I heard about that hunter ‘Lady’ before you so I mean in terms of reputation…”

“I will ditch you down here! Don’t test me!”

Skylar does not in fact end up being left at the bottom of the cliff. Instead, they make good time back to their temporary home base, only encountering a few Hellbats on the way. Dante does a barrel roll at one point which results in a slew of curses. Dante simply laughs as he readies himself to whirl in the air once more. One of these days she’s tempted to just fling herself out of the cave in an act of spite. The guy has been stabbed in the chest many times, he could take a heart attack.

Soon they’re settled once more, Skylar having relit their extinguished fire pit to protect them from the steadily dropping temperatures outside. Normally, cold weather didn’t bother her all too much. Not to say she was a fan of it, never in her life had she missed Fortuna’s sunny beaches so much, but this cold had to be supernatural. Even sitting right at the fire’s edge she can still feel the frigid fingers of the coming night seeping under her skin.

How did Dante stand it?

She eventually decides to lie down, the chaos of the day finally catching up to her. Resting her head against her left arm, she idly listens to Dante moving about the cave. Admittedly, she has no idea of what he’s doing as there wasn’t much to do other than sit around and wait out the night. 

Or talk. But, she had a feeling that wasn’t happening anytime soon. 

Baby steps Skylar, baby steps.

“What was her name?” Skylar suddenly asks.

Dante looks up at her. 

“Who?” He replies, but he already knows the answer.

She hesitates for a moment before forcing herself to respond. 

“My… mother. If we’re going to be encountering any more life-or-death situations, I should probably know that at least.”

At that, Dante hums and abandons his work. Instead, he leans against the cave wall, silent, as if uncertain of what to say. He looks far away as he seems to recall that fateful night. For a second, Skylar isn’t sure if she’s going to get an answer. 

“Claire.” He eventually answers, as if he’s testing the name out after decades of being unspoken. “Her name was Claire.”

Skylar nods, unsure of her expectations. For a moment she tries to imagine what her mother might have looked like; to put a face to the name. Had she had the same taste in style? The same crinkle in her brow when she got annoyed or frustrated? Was her expression kind? Her heart? 

Was she still alive out there?

Did she know she was alive?

Eventually, the young devil hunter gives up. Still looking at the fire dancing before her, she clicks her tongue. She can’t look at Dante right now. 

“Claire, huh?” Skylar lets out a soft breath, realizing she had just spoken the name of her mother for the first time. 

“Not a bad name.”

Chapter Text

The storm had appeared unexpectedly. One minute, the outside was its usual muddied skies and occasional clouds. The next, it’s pouring cats and dogs, and even standing anywhere near the cave’s mouth would get you drenched with rain.

Well… if you could call it rain.

It was more of a sleet, if you could call it that, and some nasty sleet at that. 

The sleet pounds against the rock face, and Dante listens to it slowly eat away at the weathered stone with a malicious hiss. The extent of the damage it could do is still unknown, but Skylar and he had agreed to not test their luck unless it was strictly necessary. To get caught in such foul weather could spell their doom; Mother Nature’s devilish twin was an opponent he did not wish to try his luck against. 

Clicking his tongue, Dante decides to return to the innermost chamber of the cave. It made for a decent home base with its sloping ceilings and winding corridor, allowing the smoke from their fire a way out while keeping the heat inside. Flying over it the first time, he had almost missed the obscured opening amongst the jagged cliffside.

Hopefully, all of this wouldn’t be in vain. 

Just about to round the corner, he hears a whispered exclamation deeper within.

“They survived!”

Dante pauses to see Skylar proudly holding up a worn envelope. Her expression confirms that she hasn’t noticed him yet, and he stays where he is to keep it that way. The earthy brown paper is splotchy in some areas, the corners stained. And yet, the absolute glee radiating off the kid is something he’s never seen before. With careful hands, she flips it open and checks its contents. There she pauses, her expression flitting between relief and grief. 

Curiosity gets the better of him, so he casually turns the corner as if he hadn’t been there the entire time. In her excitement, she still hasn’t noticed him watching, and he’s starting to feel guilty for snooping. The moment she sees him, the envelope is shut abruptly, the contents hidden from his view. Skylar looks up at him, protectively clutching it to her chest. While he understands the distrust, it saddens him to see it directed towards him. Yet, the action is justified; he hasn’t given her any reason to trust him apart from having a shared goal. 

“Whatcha got there?” Dante asks, despite already knowing he won’t get an answer. 

Skylar hesitates, looking between him and her prized possession. After a moment, she pulls out her journal and stashes the envelope within it. 

“My notebook.” She acts as if the envelope never existed. “I’m a bit surprised it survived this long, but I’ll take any bit of luck I can get. Who knows, might have something useful in it.”

After another pause, she nods to the space next to her, a silent invitation for him to sit down.

Dante does so, shifting awkwardly on the unforgiving stone floor. It was their unspoken way of trying to get to know each other, both too awkward and prideful to ask any meaningful questions. One of them would find something interesting, the other would always be curious, despite the actual importance of it. It could be something as dumb as a weirdly shaped rock, but it was an excuse that they could both latch onto to break the insufferable silence between them. And then they would sit there, idly chatting about things of little substance. Eventually, someone would bring up something that hit a little too close to home, Skylar, and the other, Dante, would clam up. 

But it’s something, so Dante tries to make himself comfortable. This ends up being a difficult task, of course, stone floors are not meant for sitting. While he’s not one to complain all too much about amenities—his office case in point—the empty inhospitality of the cave makes him feel… anxious? That’s a new one, but he couldn’t deny the desire to spruce up the place a bit. Furniture was an impossible dream, they barely had enough to eat each day. Maybe some blankets and pillows, something soft? Weirder stuff got dragged into the Underworld every day, there was a small chance he could find something that fit the bill. Just something comfy. The kid would probably appreciate it, and it would keep her warmer at night. 

Safer. The devil within him purrs. Dante ignores it despite how much he agrees.

If anything, his joints would thank him despite his regenerative capabilities.

“Didn’t pin you to be someone with a diary. Got a list of secret celebrity crushes in there?”

Skylar looks up at him, appalled.

“No! Besides, it’s not a diary. It’s a research journal.”

“So a research diary. Got it.”

She rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. It does little to hide how jittery she is, her nails turned claws carefully tapping on the cover.

Looking over Skylar’s shoulder, he’s met with the sea of scribbled notes and miscellaneous scrawlings littered across the pages. Her lopsided print dips at a sharp angle, the harsh script smudged in some places, softening the lines. There’s a menagerie of different things written down, lists, reminders, facts, dates. It seems to be a catch-all for the young devil hunter’s thoughts, a snapshot of what had been on her mind that day. Dante glances up at the corner of the page where a date from around three years ago is printed. 

“Wow, you’ve had this thing for a while.”

Skylar shrugs.

“I try to take good care of my stuff and buy things that are made to last. I’ve always had to travel light, so this was where all my research about demons or anything I found interesting went.”

Flipping through a few more pages, Dante’s eyes widen at the variety of ink drawings filling the entire space. Some of them are mere doodles, while others are fully detailed diagrams complete with notes and references. Dante recognizes almost all of these creatures, barring one or two. How the young devil hunter captured such details of many a man-eating beast was impressive in itself. He doubted any of the demons filling the pages had posed for her. 

“Didn’t take you for an artist.”

Skylar takes a moment to respond. She almost seems embarrassed. 

“Yeah, not bad, I guess. It gets the job done, and it’s a fun pastime when things are slow. Photos would be more helpful, but you know how that is.”

Dante hums, idly nodding his head. There was a reason why he was able to stay out of the public eye for so long; supernatural beings were notoriously hard to photograph. Something about magic and technology clashing. That extended to his mixed heritage, many digital photos of him being blurry or slightly distorted in some way, just from a well-timed pulse of magic. There were some exceptions, but he never took the time to look into them. 

The last thing he needed was seeing his face on the walls.

“You really like wolves…” Dante comments, scanning the many doodles across the pages. It seems to be different drawings of the same wolf, if the scarred muzzle is anything to go by. 

He receives an amused snort.

“Oh, that’s Fenrir. He’ll adamantly deny it, but he loves to model. Adores the attention.”  

“Wait…“ He looks at the drawings a bit closer and quickly realizes this isn’t just some random mutt. The kid did a good job of capturing the glimmer of intelligence in the demon’s expression. “Is that a demon?! Even worse, a Garmr?”

Of all the demons for the kid to befriend, a Garmr was probably one of the worst. Like Shadows, they were cold with humans at best and at worst saw them as prey. However, unlike Shadows, they ran in large groups, each a powerful foe by their lonesome. Rare and elusive topside, he was fortunate to have only crossed paths with one or two that wandered away from their pack when he was younger. Still, the ensuing fight was one he would never forget.

At his inquiring stare, Skylar idly chews the inside of her cheek. She eventually answers.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I’ve never met another demon like him, so…. But he’s super sweet! My best and uh, only friend for years. I mean, that is, until I met Ny- um, I mean, Nero and Kyrie. Anyways, he’s saved my hide a countless number of times. Even taught me the basics of how to fight and survive.”

“You were literally raised by wolves?”

She barks out a surprised laugh. Dante is unable to ignore the ironically harsh wolfish tone to it. 

“A wolf. A demon wolf but….” She chuckles to herself as if she never realized the dark humor of her upbringing.“Yeah! I guess I was.”

A wistful smile spreads across her face, a soft expression that he’s never seen on her before. 

“We got into so much trouble. If anything, I was the responsible one of the two of us when it came to any shenanigans. But when it came to caring for me and keeping me safe, he was always there for me. Kind of like the big brother I never had.”

Dante’s heart sinks at that remark. If he had only known, things would have been so much different. 

The smile fades far too quickly, replaced with far too much regret.

“I miss him a lot.” Skylar remarks. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to him before all of this happened. There’s a part of me that’s scared of what he might think of me now. I wouldn’t blame him for being angry, I mean, I didn’t tell him what I was planning. One moment I was there and another….”

Dante winces.

“I could see why he’d be pissed. But, if it’s anything, it’s not like you planned for any of this to happen. If he’s still mad when you get back, I’m sure he’ll be pretty quick to forgive.”

Skylar mulls over his words.

“I hope so. Sounds like I’ll be going on an apology tour. I’m not looking forward to that, but it is what it is. But, uh, Fen’s the reason I started researching Sparda in the first place. Apparently, he roamed the land with him after his big call to justice two thousand years ago. He doesn’t remember much, but it sounds like he was honorable, curious about the human world, just like he was. They got into trouble too, so I guess some things don’t change.”

Skylar adds that last part with a chuckle, her smile lingering. 

Dante doesn’t remember his old man having a dog around, let alone a massive wolf. Were there more demons and devils out there like Skylar’s lupine friend, old allies of his father? Much to his despair, his father’s late apprentice, Modeus, comes to mind. If only he had done more to save him. He hadn’t wanted to kill him, he had held no spite for either demonic twin. And despite killing Baul, Dante doesn’t believe Modeus hated him either. Looking back, that fact probably made it worse. 

  Maybe it was a good idea that he didn’t go looking for any ghosts of his father’s past.

“What about you?” Skylar turns to him and asks. “Those two hunter friends of yours must be worried.”

Dante clicks his tongue, disliking the sudden attention and looming questions. But it was only fair to say something after the kid had been such an open book.

“Eh, who knows. Lady is probably grumbling that I’m being lazy, and Trish, well, she’s always been a bit of a wildcard. Either way, they’re probably not all too worried about me. I’ve had a little tumble down here before, and I got back just fine. That’s probably what they’re assuming will happen again.”

“You’ve been trapped in Hell before?”

Dante nods.

“For a short stint. Nothing like this. Probably helped that I was on the upper layers too, it made getting out a whole lot smoother.”

That had been a dark time in his life. While the journey wasn’t exactly taxing, there had been a few times that he had contemplated not returning to the surface, to live out the rest of his days roaming the underworld as his brother did. A sort of retribution, penance for his sins. Somehow, he had come to the conclusion that he needed to return to the surface despite his self-imposed exile. He’s still not entirely sure why; maybe it wasn’t the punishment he had imagined for himself. Maybe he could feel more bullshit brewing and his sense of duty couldn’t be helped. 

Or maybe, upstairs was the true Hell.

Nevertheless, he did return and, a few years later, learned the truth that he had a nephew. A living, breathing copy of his brother. 

Of his failures. 

Of his guilt. 

Yeah, that was truly Hell. 

“Would have been great if that stupid tree had plopped me up there.” Skylar grouses. “But no…! Had to toss me rings down and make things difficult. Figures.”

She continues to grumble and idly flick through her notes. The lapse in conversation spurs Dante to ask a question that has weighed on his mind for some time now. 

“What do you actually remember? I mean, six months isn’t a short amount of time.”

Skylar tenses, the leather of the journal creaking slightly in her grasp. Dante wonders if he’s overstepped. 

“More than I would have liked.” She finally answers. Her words are stilted, her voice slightly wavering. “Lots of fighting, lots of killing, lots of… regrets. I’ll be the first to admit I have some more demony tendencies than the average person; it just comes with the territory. But that… that was something completely different. At times, it felt like I was simply a passenger in my own body, like I had no say in my actions despite being aware of them. I… never want to experience that again.”

Despite her best efforts to hide it, Dante can tell she’s scared. Scared of what happened, scared of herself. To be alone, trapped in your own mind for more than half a year, would drive even the strongest of will insane. Yet, Skylar had prevailed despite all odds. It’s something at the very least to be proud of, but unfortunately, he doesn’t believe the kid sees it that way. 

“But I’m alive, yeah? I guess I should be grateful for that at least. At one time in my life, that used to be enough for me.” She bitterly concludes. “Maybe I’ve become selfish.” 

Dante isn’t sure how to respond, but luckily, he doesn’t have to. Skylar, continuing her musings, throws a daunting confession out to him. 

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I knew that it would keep everyone I cared about safe. Without them, home means nothing.”

A certain katana-obsessed twin comes to mind. They hadn’t talked about it, about anything really, despite traveling together for six months. At times, Dante wondered if his brother even remembered anything that had transpired; his betrayal, his death, his rebirth. Those doubts were quickly vanquished by Vergil’s brief quips about their past battles and the even more seldom comments of their mother and father. He hadn’t missed the forlorn nature of his retellings, the tinge of envy when Dante brought up something that his brother couldn’t remember.

His mind wanders back to the kid’s earlier comment. To willingly throw yourself in harm’s way for another was an act of love overshadowed by few. His mother had done the same, all those years ago when she hid him in the closet….

Had that been Vergil’s intent?  

His lust for power had been a reckless gambit to defeat Mundus and to rid their lives of his nightmare. Was his power-hungry nature in reality a frenzied desperation to finally feel safe after years hiding in the shadows?

Dante idly traces his thumb over the cracked leather of his glove. 

He had been right to stop his brother. It would have been what his father wanted. It wasn’t right for Vergil to throw away his humanity, their mother’s gift to them. To do so was an insult to her legacy. 

But maybe… maybe he should have done more to save him. If he had jumped into Hell after his twin, then maybe….

“You okay?” Skylar asks. 

Dante nods, despite being the opposite of okay. It’s clear Skylar knows he’s lying, and for a moment, she seems like she’s going to push the issue further. Bracing for the inevitable questioning, he tries to come up with all the ways he could avoid tearing open old wounds. He wasn’t ready yet; maybe he would never be ready. Skylar hums, and he prepares himself and…

Nothing.

The questions don’t come.

It’s strange. Unlike, well, almost everyone he knew, the kid didn’t try to pry into his past. Even Lady, probably one of the people he’s known the longest, would try to pressure him into spilling his guts from time to time. Maybe it was the fact that he had lost Vergil the same day she killed her father; a twisted kinship that he wanted no part of. Lady had given up on Arkham long before she pulled the trigger. In her mind, he had died ages ago, the act of shooting him a formality despite the emotional toll it took. In contrast, Dante had just found Vergil again, he still had hope that he might be reunited with his brother.

And like everything good in his life, that was torn away as well. 

It was something he believes Lady still doesn’t grasp after all these years. He doesn’t blame her, he barely understands what he’s feeling half of the time, amongst all the regret and self-loathing. But it doesn’t make it any less difficult to navigate, stressing their already unorthodox friendship even further. 

Every second, he’s just waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for Skylar to demand answers that, admittedly, she has a right to. And yet, not once has she asked him about that fateful night when his childhood burned in the flames of an ancient grudge, nor why he had a blood feud with his twin. Nor why he carried such guilt; why he still hated himself for unintended fratricide.

I didn’t know! Vergil, I swear I didn’t know it was you!

And as intuitive as he was beginning to learn his daughter was, there was no way she didn’t notice all of this. Nero had, he had counted on it to try and distance himself from his nephew. And it had worked for some time.

Speaking of the short-fused hunter, Dante is curious to see if she would answer more of his questions, despite gaining nothing in return. People always wanted something. It was a fact he had learned early on. At least this would move the conversation forward and away from the topic of himself.  

“How’d you and Nero even end up crossing paths?” Dante eventually asks. “Heck, how’d you end up finding Fortuna? I hadn’t even heard of it until being dragged out there by Lady and Trish.”

Not entirely true, but he most certainly avoided it like the plague. He shouldn’t be surprised that his twin did the exact opposite. He watches Skylar to gauge her reaction. 

“A lot changed after the whole nightmare with the Order. The news was all over it, trying to decide if it was a natural disaster or aliens. Of course, after learning more about it, I knew demons were involved. The destroyed hell gates were what truly drew me there in the first place. I had thought it would be a safe place to hide with all the crazy demonic energy flying around.” Skylar shrugs. “It was just a bonus that the libraries were chock-full of lore on Sparda. Not that much of it helped. Most of it was religious ramblings.”

She regales him about her first few days in Fortuna, camping out in abandoned buildings and trying to ignore the wary stares of the locals. Eventually, she made it to the outskirts of the city, only to find a tiny cottage with a worn “ For Sale ” sign. It sat on acres upon acres of demon-infested forest and was so rundown that multiple generations of raccoons had made their home there.

It had been perfect.

It took some time, but she got things to a livable state. She got a job, found some actual stability for once in her life. 

Then she met Nero. 

Of course, the two of them hit it off like a lit match and a powder keg. They had beat the shit out of each other the second they met. But instead of blasting away any common ground between them, creating a lifelong feud with what remained of their tiny family, there was peace. Dante can hear the admiration Skylar has for Nero, a deep-rooted love and respect for someone she still considers her brother. And he knows such feelings are mutual, the brief encounters he had with his bullheaded nephew during their climb of the Qliphoth resulting in fond comments for his missing cousin and an unwavering will to rescue her. 

To bring her home.

How did Nero hold onto so much hope? How did he march onwards in the face of despair, his head held high, his resolve unbroken? Dante had given up on saving his brother long ago, violence the only result of their encounters. He was tired of it, tired of the ceaseless fighting. And yet, despite everything, Nero had stopped what Dante thought was fated for eternity. 

It was more than sheer stubbornness. It was more than unbreakable willpower. 

Hell, Nero had regrown his arm! Dante didn’t even know that was possible!

And from what he was discovering, Skylar had that same spark. 

After years of work, she had made the little ramshackle cottage her own. She had told fate to go and kick rocks, despite the many ups and downs that came with it. Her voice fills with pride as she tells him about the first rain the roof didn’t leak or when the wisteria in the front had their first bloom in ages. She tells of the first time Nero and she had spotted a fox in a nearby clearing, after decades of the woods having been wiped clean by the area’s ever-looming demonic threat. 

She had been so determined and still was. It disturbs him to look back at when she first woke up in the cave, when she had resigned herself to death, and had given up. Dante can’t count how many times he’s given up. At times, it was only his sense of duty that kept him going. But with Nero now protecting the world, was he still bound to such a duty? 

What then? 

What now?

“You should come over for lunch one day!” Skylar chirps, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Dante notes the nervous edge to her words. “There’s a great deli downtown that bakes bread every day. I can pick up sandwiches beforehand and then give you a tour.”

The devil hunter remembers her comment about ‘home’, how much it meant to her. Did he deserve to be a part of that dream? Thinking back to his own office, he wonders if that justified being called a home. Yes, he lived there; it was where he hung his coat after a long hunt, where he drank his sorrows away from the prying eyes of the world. But a home? No, despite the memories being painful and faded, he remembers what a home was. His mother, his brother, heck, even his pops when he was around. His heart aches for those days, that feeling of safety, of love. He thought he had steeled himself from such anguish, hurt so much he couldn’t hurt anymore. 

He had been wrong.

With his brother by his side, the Underworld had even become a home. At least, for those few months.

It had reminded him of what he’d lost.

Did home include Skylar? Did it include his short-tempered nephew or stubborn brother? Maybe that’s all she wanted, to include him in that precious idea of home. Hell if he knew, but he didn’t want to get her hopes up. His luck, he would suddenly get cold feet and decide he couldn’t go through with his promise. 

Or worse, she would learn the truth and hate him for it. 

He should treat this as any other job. Get the kid back safe and sound despite whatever challenges he encountered. Business as usual. She was just another client. All he had to do was make sure not to get too attached. 

That shouldn’t be too hard… right?

“Uh, yeah, we’ll have to see about that. Fortuna isn’t very… fond of me.” Dante scratches the back of his neck, pushing his fingers past the long locks. “Especially since I shot their pope and all.”

Her disappointment is palpable, Skylar wilting at the rejection. Of course, she tries to hide it, a dismissive wave of her hand followed by a noncommittal grunt. 

“Oh… yeah. Don’t worry about it then. It’s no big deal.”

She’s a bad liar. It is a big deal, an invitation for him to set foot into her world and experience it with her. Skylar’s eyes stay glued to the open page of her journal. While she stares intently at the words scrawled there, Dante can tell she’s not reading anything. Instead, she finds any excuse not to look at him. Regret pools in Dante’s chest, but he says nothing.

He hates hurting her like this, committing the same sin he had to Nero but on a smaller scale. It’s cowardly, but he keeps trying to remind himself of the plan he has in place. Keep her at an arm’s length so that if anything happens to him, it wouldn’t hurt her as much. Treat her like any other client. You can’t miss something you don’t know; someone you don’t know. 

It was for her good. It was…

No.

Maybe it had always been about protecting himself, everyone else’s feelings be damned. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to find out. 

The silence yawns between them, a tension that Dante knows is entirely his fault. He hates silence, hates that ringing in his ears from the stillness, hates being left alone with his thoughts. He tries to distract himself by returning to reading over Skylar’s shoulder as if nothing had happened.

It’s a lot of lists, a tally of resources and supplies that dwindles with every page. Alongside is a mass of tally marks that Dante soon figures out are days with sporadic notations detailing an account of a demon attack. Looking at the date, he realizes it’s a month after the Qliphoth was summoned. They seem to stop counting by the third month, margins upon margins riddled with marks of five.

At one point, there seems to be an attempt at a map. 

A dark smear of dried blood puts an end to that, only for the ensuing pages to fall into chaos. 

What follows are jumbled words and scribbles that Dante can’t make sense of. Many pages are ripped or stained in some way, while others are simply torn from the journal’s spine. There’s a smear of blood on one of them that looks far too much like a thumbprint. 

“I just hope everyone is doing okay.“ Skylar suddenly mutters. “Six months is a long time to be gone.”

She makes it a point to flip to a clean page, her pen hovering over the blank sheet of paper as if unsure what to write. Instead, she starts doodling something at the corner of the page, the lack of activity seemingly fraying her nerves.

“Same here, Sky. But as long as my dumbass brother doesn’t grow anymore crazy demon trees, I think everything should be alright.”

“I sure hope he doesn’t. I don’t feel like re-enacting Jack and the Beanstalk , even if it’s our ticket home.”

He can still hear the pain in her voice from earlier, his dismissal of her olive branch still a fresh wound. However, as he’s quickly learning about the young devil hunter, she’s tenacious in more ways than one, much more patient than her cousin. Dread seeps down Dante’s spine, knowing the kid wouldn’t forget this conversation anytime soon. He would have to face her true sentiments at some point.

They talk idly, going over the basic facts they’ve both learned from their stay in the Underworld. Skylar jots down a few notes on the clean page, scribbling down any observations he makes that might be useful for later. Dante is not entirely sure how she decides what’s important or not, but he can tell the young devil hunter is making connections in her head that he is not privy to. There’s an efficiency she has that Dante didn’t when he was her age. The confidence with which she takes inventory of their supplies and plans on how to replenish them is impressive; her adaptable thinking is practical yet surprisingly creative. At one point, Skylar brings up the demon they slew a few days prior. While most likely picked clean of anything edible, the curved chitinous plates on its back could be utilized for short-term water storage, when, of course, they found any.

The idea isn’t a bad one, and they spend some time discussing a plan on how to haul something that cumbersome back to the cave. And by the end, they have a surprisingly solid plan with even a backup plan and the works. By the end, the Legendary Devil Hunter’s head spins with everything they discussed. He hasn’t done this much planning in years.  

Born out of necessity or a natural inclination, Dante isn’t quite sure. But from the new pages she’s filled in her journal with their scouting plans for the next few days and ward adjustments, he knows one thing to be true. 

When given a mission, that Sparda stubbornness was a force to be reckoned with. 

This goes on for a while, long enough that the storm outside rages with renewed fury. The crack of lightning pierces the air, the roar of thunder following soon after. So focused on watching the kid scheme, he doesn’t notice the slight dip in the cave’s temperature. It’s barely perceivable, a change in the wind being the most likely culprit. Yet, it persists, and he slowly realizes that the steady hum of warmth radiating off of Skylar has diminished.

It’s only when he watches the light dim in between her scales and her skin drain of warmth that he knows something is wrong.  

“Hey kid, are you feeling alright?”

Skylar sends him a quizzical look. 

“For the most part. Can’t complain.”

Contrary to her words, as the glow in her Devil Bringer continues to fade, Dante watches her start to shiver. In an impulsive display of worry, he places the back of his hand on her forehead to note her temperature. She’s cold, far too cold. It takes him a moment to catch up with what he is doing and internally scolds himself for it. Just as he feared, it was getting harder to distance himself and not grow attached. 

Skylar’s head snaps up, and she pushes his hand away. 

“Dante, I’m fine! Nothing I can’t handle.”

That guardedness has returned, and Dante regrets his earlier comment more and more with every passing minute. Not that he should be surprised. Still, it was clear the kid wasn’t doing well, and even if she hated him, he was going to look after her. It was something he should have been doing decades ago. 

“I’m not saying you can’t. But you’re still recovering. Can’t I be allowed to worry just a little bit after everything that’s happened?”

Maybe it’s the sincerity in his plea, or maybe Skylar is truly that tired, but her expression softens ever so slightly. 

“I…. Sorry. Despite everything, I’m still learning that it’s okay to ask for help. It’s hard to remember since I don’t have Nero here to call me a hypocrite.”

Dante allows himself a sad smile. 

“Well, I’d gladly take over the job if there’s a vacancy. Don’t have a lot of work coming my way at the moment.”

That garners an amused huff from the young devil hunter. 

“Ah, but you see, there’s a catch. If you get to call me a hypocrite, I get to call you one in return. It’s just how it is.”

“Now you’re making me rethink this whole caring thing.”

“I don’t make the rules. It’s just how things are.”

“Didn’t take you for the rule-following type.”

“I prefer rule-bending over rule-breaking. More plausible deniability.”

Her words taper off into an anxious silence. Taking advantage of their lapse in conversation, Dante shrugs off his coat and offers it to her. Of course, she doesn’t reach for it, observing it with hesitation. 

“Just take it, Skylar. Coats are meant for when you’re cold, right? I’m not, so it’s not serving a purpose right now.”

For a moment, Dante wonders if she’s going to accept it or not. It takes some silent deliberation, but eventually she reaches out with a shaking hand and carefully takes the coat. There’s a certain gentleness to her movements, a respect that he wouldn’t have considered. Placing her journal next to her, she slings the coat around her shoulders and pulls it around her. It swims on her, the sleeves too long, the shoulders flopped over with little to fill them. Unconsciously, Skylar snuggles into the worn leather and curls the lapels closer to her body. 

“Thanks.” She mumbles, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry to cause you trouble. If you get cold, let me know and I’ll give it right back.”

“You’re fine, kiddo. I stay pretty toasty in general, so it’s no skin off my back. Just a coat.”

Skylar snorts at his pun, a quiet trill of amusement. It is something that he’s beginning to enjoy the more he hears it. 

“Well, I guess I owe you one. Owe you a lot, really.”

The last part of her statement is only above a whisper, as if she had not meant to speak aloud. Despite this, Dante brushes it off. 

“Nah, I’m the only one allowed to be massively in debt. You’re already halfway to stealing my look, I can’t have you taking that as well.”

Skylar huffs, wavering between wake and sleep. Dante frowns, missing her earlier exuberance and quick wit. Something was wrong, something beyond her six-month journey through the Underworld. 

“Get some rest, Skylar. Sounds like we have a long day ahead of us.”

For a moment, she seems to fight to stay awake.

“Wake me if… anything….”

”I will kid. Won’t let you miss out on the fun.”

He receives a soft hum as Skylar’s eyes flutter closed and she falls to sleep. It’s far from a peaceful rest, her face pinched in a pained grimace, sitting at attention against the cave wall despite being dead to the world. 

But it was rest, nonetheless. 

Once again, raising his hand, Dante rests the back of it against her forehead. He ignores the twinge in his heart when Skylar presses up against it, her expression relaxing ever so slightly. Why did she have to be so trusting? Why did she want someone like him in her life? He actively tries to push her away, and yet here she was, still trying to make an effort to know him. 

Why didn’t she hate him?

As if to spite him further, she leans in closer, instinctively searching for comfort.

Dante shakes his head. 

Focus Dante. She’s just looking for warmth. Nothing more. 

Again, he’s met with cold skin, and Dante reaches out to quietly investigate the broken essence of his daughter’s power. Worry stirs in his gut at the lack of energy swirling around her core; that blazing intensity that he has grown used to in the last few weeks. So full of life, swirling with a radiance that hummed with resolve, it was disturbing to find it so dull and meek. 

Attempting to thread a bit of his own magic to feed the frigid soul, he observes as it is greedily integrated into the chaotic mess, only to be stolen by some unseen force, swirling away into some unknown ether. He tries it again, granting the same effect, much to his dismay.

Was she fighting some sort of parasite? Or perhaps the metal they pulled out was still affecting her?

Dante spends the next hour pondering, every so often trying to gift his daughter a bit of his power to counteract whatever is ailing her. Did he mess something up when he stabbed her with the Devil Sword? Probably not, the two parts of her soul were at least somewhat repaired. Yes, there was still a lot of damage, but day by day, it continues to slowly stabilize and hopefully mend. 

Now, if they could get a proper meal and rest, it would probably go a lot faster. That was easier said than done. 

His thoughts are only interrupted when he senses a new flicker of strength. Checking again, sure enough, the unstable power that is Skylar’s magic crackles and sparks with new vigor. It spits a few sparks like a live wire, slowly sputtering back to life. While not as strong as he wished, it’s far better than the smoldering husk he had observed for the last hour. Racking his brain, he tries to figure out what had changed in such a short period, coming up with nothing. Letting out a frustrated grumble, he goes back to his searching in hopes of being at least a bit useful. 

Entrenched in his thoughts, Dante doesn’t notice the solemn song humming beside Skylar. Lost in his self-loathing, the devil hunter doesn’t hear the ghostly flutter of wings echoing from within the ancient steel of Ragnarök.

Here, in the dark confines of Hell, they fall on deaf ears. 

Yet, in another land, where the sun shines brightly and where peace has had a chance to take root, it is heard. 

And someone listens. 

Chapter Text

Damn Sin Scissors!

If there was a demon that ranked top ten on Nero’s Most Hated Demons tier list, they were at least in the top five. Maybe three… but it depended on the day. They were creepy for one; those blank human masks always made him feel uneasy. And those weird, bony arms that were connected to who knows what. Nico always bugged him to try and grab samples of any he fought, but he was already a little busy trying to stay alive. 

It didn’t help that the only thing left was a mask and a massive pair of fucking shears.

But he knew he was still going to hear Nico bitch about the lack of new demonic shit to “play” with and he wasn’t in the mood to hear it. The constant demonic shrieking and ringing of parried steel was quickly grating his nerves and messing with his focus. It’s not long before he ends up being hurled into a stack of wooden crates, packing peanuts littering his hair. With a groan, he forces himself up, idly focusing on his body trying to undo the damage. The demons mock him from above, swirling lazily around the shipping yard as he continues to brush himself off.

It was a difficult adjustment fighting without an ally at his side. Years ago, it would have been a non-issue, only knowing how to fight alone, but he’s quickly realizing that’s been ruined for him. He blames himself; he shouldn’t have become complacent and latched onto that lifeline of fighting alongside family. Credo, and subsequently Skylar, had changed how he approached battling the scum of the Underworld. 

One of the demons draws in close, forcing Nero to readjust and fire a shot from Blue Rose. The ensuing blast gives him a chance to step back and strike again. Red Queen’s scorching blade screams against demonic shears. 

A part of him wishes he had asked his father to tag along with him. An idea that their recent conflict had quickly dismissed. If his behavior was anything to go by, the Dark Slayer probably didn’t know how to work as a team. Already, he told him jackshit about anything he found regarding Skylar and Dante’s rescue. Hell, weeks later, and Vergil has said nothing about Harborym’s unexpected house visit. It drove Nero insane; he could barely get the man to talk, let alone read his cold expression. For all he knew, Vergil was going to disappear again, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Nero wanted to trust his old man. He really did. Just the basic acknowledgment from him had sparked so much joy; it was pathetic. The way Vergil had stood by him when facing the three-headed devil was something he missed so, so much. 

But, fuck … he was terrified.

Jumping back, Nero barely dodges out of the way of snapping shears. He gasps, the taste of blood flooding his mouth as something slices into his back, nicking his left lung. Ducking and rolling, the wound continues to bleed, sticking to his shirt and staining his torn coat. It’s a struggle to breathe, but he holds his ground as he wills his body to stitch itself back together. The demons circle him again, chittering eagerly that one of them had landed such a blow.  

His Devil Trigger silences them.

The rush of energy still steals his breath away despite having slowly adapted to the change. Unlike his first Trigger—the ghostly sentinel hovering behind had been a controlled burn of power—this felt like an explosion that continued to crackle and burn within him until it inevitably burned itself out. Some days, despite himself or anyone around him being in mortal danger, he could feel his demonic blood pacing the confines of his soul, hissing and snarling at some unseen enemy. It was as if the beast was unsettled, anxious for reasons still unknown to him. 

And that makes him anxious, too.

That feeling worsens as the transformation completes. A snarl escapes him, a deep, hair-raising warning. He hates it, hates how simultaneously powerful and weak he feels; the dichotomy having worsened as the months have passed. And it continues to do so, if how he instinctively flares his wings is anything to go by. He knows he’s powerful, more than capable of tearing through these chumps. 

So why did he feel so vulnerable?

Maybe it was because he knew something was troubling him, despite his false bravado. Although he wouldn’t admit it, not with so much on the line, not with Vergil judging his every move. His relationship with the old man was tense at best, and with the half-devil treasuring might above all else, he wouldn’t think too highly of his anxious offspring. Nero still confided in Kyrie from time to time; after the Qliphoth, she had made him swear to her to keep her in the loop, no matter how insignificant the detail. And for some time, it helped, especially in the beginning when wounds were fresh and regrets open and weeping. This, unfortunately, was something new, something that he didn’t know if anyone could help him with. 

The last thing he wanted to do was burden his Meadowlark more than he already did. 

He ducks under another swipe, another snarl crawling up his throat. Blue Rose materializes in his hand, and he fires a few rounds into his opponent’s companion, the demonically supercharged rounds melting a few holes through its shears. His wings snap backward and slash at the unsuspecting specter, hurling it into a nearby wall. The monster, semi-corporeal, smashes headfirst into the concrete, its shears clattering against the unforgiving ground. 

The final Sin Scissors before him hesitates. It wails out a haunting call, only for the walls to spin and warp, four more pairs of shears materializing from the ether. 

Surrounded and his patience dwindling, Nero lets out a rough scoff. He holsters Blue Rose and pulls on the power within him. Despite how his Devil Trigger still uneases him, he knows it’s a weapon he needs to hone and master.

As of now, he was far from that goal. 

Nero’s magic snaps to attention with violent eagerness, eliciting a strangled gasp. His nerves feel as if they have been set alight, the burning heat beneath his skin causing him to grit his teeth. Spectral claws dig into the abused floor, creating large divots. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches embers shed from his wings as ghostly wisps of flame lick the crackling feathers.

This wasn’t the boost of energy he experienced at the top of the Qliphoth, nor the following months cleaning up Red Grave City. Then, he had at least a semblance of control despite still learning how to navigate a true Devil Trigger. It wasn’t like he had anyone to guide him, again being forced to figure things out by himself, like everything in the past.

But this was different. This was… wrong!

Gritting his teeth, Nero tries to ignore the bone-deep agony. He’s a reactor on the verge of a meltdown, holding his ground as steam billows from his mouth. It swirls up into the cool winter air, filling the room with the scent of ash. 

The demons click nervously and float farther away. 

Dropping to his knees, fingers tearing into the unforgiving concrete, Nero feels his control slipping. The panic continues to build, and it’s then that he decides to cut his losses. Despite how vulnerable it would leave him, Nero attempts to dismiss his Trigger to no avail. He continues to burn from the inside out, the power he had summoned, his power, broken. It’s a mangled mess of energy, entropy destroying any sort of order, devolving into a spiraling monstrosity of untempered magic. Nero can sense it attempting to take shape and reform into something new, something that was still him, but—

His ears ring as the world slowly comes back into focus. Letting out a soft groan, he blinks a few times, trying his best to clear his vision. Ash gently floats through the air, covering his now-repaired coat in a thin layer of grey, the crumbled concrete beneath him still warm to the touch. Taking a steadying breath, he pushes himself off the ground and ignores how much his body protests. Liquid fire in his veins, he looks around the destroyed shipping yard and….

Nero stands in the center of a crater, the rubble still smoldering, the demons nowhere in sight. Confused, he looks around, stopping when he finds a strange burn mark staining the ground, as if something had been blasted with extreme heat. Gingerly crouching down, his confusion only grows when he brushes his fingers against it and finds no ash staining them. The charred mark burned into the concrete is still hot to the touch, and as he continues to look around, he begins to spot more of them. 

Five to be exact. 

The same number of demons he had been fighting.

A pit forms in his stomach. He couldn’t control it. All this power, and he couldn’t control it. Even now, he feels his Trigger crawling beneath his skin, restless as ever. Pressing the flat of his palms against his eyes, he tries to center himself as best he can. 

What was he going to do? 

How was he supposed to protect everyone like this? 

How was he supposed to save Dante and Sky?

How was he supposed to face Vergil? 

He looks down at his hands, soft-fleshed, calloused from years of handling the tools of war. They were human… or at least seemed to be. Despite having his new right arm for over six months, Nero still wonders if it’s real. A real arm didn’t dematerialize on a whim; it didn’t sparkle with almost unnoticeable flecks of blue. It didn’t disappear on days that he was exhausted from hunting or when the nightmares were just too much to handle. 

Nero can still feel the concrete crumbling under his claws as he had struggled to breathe beneath the overwhelming force of his own renegade power. That heaviness still weighs on him, exhaustion settling in his bones to rival the emotional turmoil he has wrestled with. 

“Have you ever wondered if… if something were to push us over the edge, would we end up the same way? Would we become monsters as well?”

Those words still haunt him to this day; Skylar’s hypothetical that didn’t feel so hypothetical anymore. 

Every day, he feels like he’s slipping further into the dark; that he’s fumbling with the keys that keep the beast within him locked away and incapable of harming anyone. Dribbles of panic, fury, and desperation dousing his mind with a constant sense of paranoia. It had only grown worse in the days following his father’s unexpected arrival. For some time, he wondered if the deadbeat demon king was the cause of his silent suffering.  

He was proven wrong the moment he had summoned his Devil Trigger in the ensuing days. It was then he knew something was truly wrong. 

That boiling in his blood had appeared, that red-hot agony that came with what was supposed to be his power. Like most problems he encountered, he had ignored it, pushing through with hard-headed determination. And it worked for a while….

Until it didn’t.

The day was coming that he would slip, and he wouldn’t be able to fight it any longer. One day, he would drop the keys to the cage, and the devil rattling at the bars would break free. He would give in to his base instincts and commit atrocities he didn’t want to think about. 

Just as his father did before him. 

Because as much as he still feared it, that devil, locked under lock and key, was a part of him. It was him, to a certain degree. 

“And if I become a demon, so be it, I will endure the exile. Anything to protect her.”

Did he still carry such sentiments? It was a complicated answer. Yes, he would do anything to protect Kyrie, to protect his family. But to throw away his humanity, his very soul? They were parts of him, just as his demonic blood was a part of him. One could not live without the other, and Nero was very keen on existing. To become a demon was to throw that all away. The capacity to love, to be kind and forgiving. Fenrir, the Shadows, inhuman in shape but kind in heart, were not true demons. They carried compassion for his family and those they saw as family. 

True demons, true monsters , were not capable of that. 

Nero tries not to think about that cursed day, the day Vergil tore off his arm. It’s not exactly hard; he doesn’t remember all that much, only blinding pain. From what Kyrie and Nico unwillingly divulged, he’s glad he didn’t, or else it would fuel his already rampant guilt.

Skylar had attacked Nico, battled against Nyx and Fenrir in a desperate frenzy that still hurts to hear about. She had lost her sense of self while he bled out in his garage, helpless to do anything. 

All to protect him. 

“Then why?! You rather risk it all for one person?!”

“Yes! When that person is family! When that person is you!”

If he had learned anything over the years, it was that devils and demons alike were protective of their own; they were social creatures that often ran in packs. Outsiders were treated as a threat, unknown variables quickly slaughtered to protect the pack’s ranks. Nico had been an unknown despite everything they had been through. Nyx, hell, even Fenrir, hadn’t been saved from her desperate assault. She had lashed out at anyone who wasn’t her blood kin. Kyrie had only been spared because of his scent, his blood protecting her in a macabre twist of fate. 

It wasn’t love. It was instinct. A selfish desire to surround oneself with the means to survive. 

The regret that Skylar must have felt after everything. He had seen it in her notes, in her forced smiles and anxious mutterings in the Qliphoth. 

She had unwillingly taken that plunge into darkness, dragged herself out of such madness, only to be forced to endure it again. 

Rabid, wild, driven solely by instinct.  

That’s what Vergil had said.

If he continued like this, would he be forced to take the plunge with her? 

Or worse, would he fall in step with his father? Follow his path of destruction, sacrifice everything for his self-centered ends?

Nero exhales a shaking breath. 

They would fight again; it was inevitable. Nero had to prove to his father he wasn’t weak. He had to prove that he wasn’t “deadweight” for the sake of all he cared about. It would be the only way the Dark Slayer would respect him. 

And maybe, just maybe, it would prove that they were not the same. That Vergil and he were not cut from the same cloth of obsession. It was a desperate hope, but as of late, desperation was becoming a familiar sensation. 

With grim resolve, Nero turns away from the scorched battlefield and makes his way back to the van. Despite a successful mission, it doesn’t feel like a true victory. 

“What the hell is up with this traffic?!” Nico lays on the horn, much to Nero’s chagrin. “C’mon! Fuckin’ move already!”

Nero leans his head back on the headrest and closes his eyes. Just an hour and a half more, and he’d finally be home and would be able to get some peace. Every bone in his body aches, the muscles in his back screaming from some unknown torment. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to test his newfound powers on small fry, especially when he didn’t have any backup. It was easy to forget, after years of Skylar being his snarky shadow on the majority of his hunts.  

He heaves a sigh when Nico honks once more. 

“Nico, just cut it out already. It’s obvious no one's gonna move. We’re on a bridge, there’s nowhere we can go.”

The horn continues to blare. 

“Not with that attitude!”

Nero rubs his temples, trying to ease both his temper and growing headache.

“Let me correct myself, nowhere we can go… legally and without endangering the general public.” Nero grouses. “Look, I hate traffic as much as the next guy, but you constantly honking and swearing isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

He can hear Nico shift in her seat to look at him. Cracking open an eye confirms this. Nico stares at him with a strange intensity.

“Who are ya and what have you done with Nero?”

Nero opens his other eye to make sure she sees him rolling them.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Nico scoffs.

“We’ve been on plenty of roadtrips and I can’t think of another person who has flipped off more shitty drivers than you. So unless you’ve been brainwashed or some shit, something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just tired of hearing you complain. I’m not wrong and you know it.”

“Well, you’re no fun…!” The gunsmith pouts. “Look, if you’re gonna be all grumpy, then maybe you should catch some z’s before we get there. Don’t want ya being a little bitch because yer tired.”

Despite her flippant tone, he hears an obvious tinge of concern as she searches him up and down for anything wrong. Nico is far from stupid, and sooner or later, he knows his facade is going to crumble. 

But not today.

Nero scoffs. “I think you need to get your eyes checked again. But if it’ll save me from your squawking, by all means.”

With the horn no longer assaulting his ears, Nero’s eyes slip close. He barely registers the radio turning off with a soft click as he quickly falls into a restless sleep.

It’s quiet.

Lying flat on his back, the hard floor uncomfortable beneath him, it’s the first thing that registers in his mind. Devil hunting was not only a messy business, but a loud one. His ears almost ring at the silence, not accustomed to a total lack of stimuli. Opening his eyes, Nero is met with a swirling void overhead, darkness only broken by the briefest glitter of light. It’s akin to being submerged in a sensory deprivation tank, the world absent in all totality. 

He hates it. 

Sitting up to rub his eyes, he takes a look at his surroundings. Or, the lack of surroundings. Nero is met with a yawning expanse of void, a darkness that he’s only encountered in this haunting house of mirrors. Because he’s been here before, in this very same spot.

  Standing up and stretching, he casually strolls through the endless plateau of shadows. He takes his time, knowing that there is only one destination he could end at, and he’s not eager to arrive there. 

It’s far too quickly that he sees a familiar glimmer of steel, and he groans. 

“Not this again…!”

Nero glares at the familiar longsword impaled in the center of the dark arena, its razor edge glistening in the pale light. With an annoyed sigh, Nero approaches the Devil Arm, ignoring how the inky darkness around him seems to go on forever. Even the surface he walks on seems to swirl and churn, an amorphous surface of shadow. He’d been through this song and dance a handful of times now, with it ending the same way every time. 

“You know, I thought we were supposed to be friends. Is this payback or something?”

Ragnarök thrums a solemn chord. 

The last time this happened, he had spent what felt like hours wandering the darkness surrounding this spot. Yet no matter how far he traveled, he would eventually end up right back where he started, right here before Ragnarök. Or wherever here was. He was aware he was dreaming. Nero remembers falling asleep, but something about this felt tangible, far too real. While he had complete autonomy, the world didn’t shift in unexpected ways as with other dreams. It didn’t bend to his will nor warp into some psychedelic experience. 

It just… was. He still didn’t know how or, most importantly, why. 

“I never should have grabbed you from that locker. Sky was right; you are a pain in the ass.”

He receives an indignant rumble but little else. Even from where he’s standing, he can hear the echo of distant screams and ragged sobs. They seem to echo from within the demonic steel, ringing throughout the empty space with a warbled dissonance.

The devil hunter takes a steady breath, mentally preparing himself for the worst. 

“Fine… let’s get this over with.”

Nero grasps the Devil Arm’s hilt. A sudden flicker, and the void around him is suddenly a snowy forest clearing. Ragnarök chimes and disappears in a swarm of sparks, the earlier screams fading with them. The air freezing against his skin, Nero ignores it, along with the bloody drag marks staining the freshly fallen snow. That wasn’t what he was here for; he had learned that early on. No, he needed to find the source of such carnage. 

His boots crunch on the muddled snow as he treks through the woods, following the occasional splatter of blood. The light of a distant town grows brighter with every step. Breaking the tree cover, Nero inspects the road he’s found himself standing upon. This wasn’t a place he was familiar with, at least, one that he had never been dragged to for a job. Despite that, he can tell it’s someplace rural, if the many mom-and-pop stores lining downtown are anything to go by. He hears the howl of sirens in the distance but knows he’ll never see a single police officer. 

They wouldn’t find anything. By the time law enforcement got to the scene, the blood would be gone, crumpled to dust as it always did. And any they did find, demonic or otherwise, would be a jumbled mess of a sample that, unless you knew what you were looking for, would be impossible to comprehend.

At least, that’s what Nico explained to him at one point. 

Paying no mind to the faceless people murmuring around him, he continues to walk Main Street without worry. Having walked this street several times now, not once has anything of note changed. He’s concluded this must be a recurring nightmare playing out the same way again and again. 

Well, most of the time.

Stepping over to a nearby newspaper stall, Nero keeps his head down and idly flips through the day’s news. None of it is legible, but that matters little for his purpose. He can feel its eyes upon him, the hairs of his neck standing up on end. 

It’s not from the cold. 

He’s never seen it, only glimpses from the corner of his eye. Something within him knows it’s dangerous, a titanic monster creeping through the stillness of the dream. Its eyes ever searching, Nero can sense them glide off his back, pausing for a moment before roving the rest of the crowd. No one around him seems to acknowledge the looming threat, ignorantly going about their lives. They are ghosts of memory, the fading remnants of normalcy in this living, breathing nightmare. Without weapons or any substantial way to defend himself, Nero has made it a point not to engage the terror given flesh. Yeah, he might be a bit hot-headed from time to time, not thinking entirely before he acts. Despite that, he even knew that confronting the creature stalking his dream, real or not, would spell bad news. 

Letting the threat pass, Nero continues his journey down Main Street, eventually dipping into the residential area and subsequently the town’s outskirts. It feels all too quick, the distance traveled not aligning with his lax pace. Yet, the world around him still smears around him as if he’s racing at a breakneck sprint. 

There it is again.

Like a lighthouse in the center of the turbulent sea, the rickety barn stands amongst the swaying frozen firs. Its sloped roof shows signs of rot and decay, the paint chipping from the wooden paneling adding to its dilapidated appearance. Yet, amongst the snow and ice, it is a haven like no other, Nero’s feet drawn there with an almost magnetic pull. Hopping over the corpse of a snow-covered tractor, he makes note of the amount of rusty debris scattered around the abandoned structure. It was probably a breeding ground for tetanus, not that it had ever been an issue for him. Hopefully, none of the local kids found this place and decided to make it their personal playground. 

He knows he would have. 

Nero slips past the ajar barn doors, the heavy metallic scent of blood assaulting his nose. Despite his familiarity with it, the scent still sends him reeling. It was one he dreaded, one that he found himself unconsciously searching for after every battle, so similar to his own. The blood of Sparda, mixed with ash and smoke. Such a scent still seeds dread, a physical sign that he’s failed to protect his family once more. 

Was this supposed to be a nightmare to condemn him for his failures? At this point, he was surprised that a ghost of Credo didn’t appear.

He hoped that didn’t happen. 

Pausing, he knows that his next step would end this recurring horror. Ready for this guilt session to end, Nero braces himself for the inevitable darkness to take him and for the uneasy oblivion that has haunted his dreams.

And…

And… he’s still standing there. 

He blinks a few times, still aware of the whispering winds outside.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The muffled sobs continue, echoing throughout the ramshackle barn. Nero takes another cautious step. It takes a few moments to fully grasp that he’s still standing there. 

Quickly shaking himself out of his stupor, he tries his best to muffle his approach. His eyes roam the empty horse stalls, searching for any sign of an ambush. Promptly finding nothing, he continues to slink through the barn.

The crunch of glass ruins his attempt. 

The sobs stop, the abrupt silence putting him on edge. 

Walking past the empty stalls, he makes it to the wooden door farthest from the entrance. The scent of blood thickens, the smell of fear all-consuming. Something within him growls with displeasure, anxiety spreading through him as he lifts his hand to rest it on the door handle. Unsure of how to proceed, he braces himself for battle. 

This could be a trap for all he knew. 

In one swift movement, Nero wrenches open the door. Something wizzes through the air, shattering behind him, before another object follows. He dodges it as well, getting a glimpse of a…

…a mason jar?

“What the…?”

He sputters at the clump of old hay that smacks him square in the face. Luckily, it’s not covered with any animal shit, but it still leaves him sputtering.

“Eck! Gross!” He spits to the side, trying to clear some gritty strands off his tongue. “I got some in my mouth! What’s your fucking prob—?!“

Another jar flies at him, which he effortlessly plucks from the air. Whirling around to face his assailant, he growls in frustration as one final glass projectile smacks him in the shoulder. 

“Will you quit it?!”

He’s rendered speechless when he meets the wide cerulean eyes peering up at him, glittering with tears. Nero recognizes them from the many Polaroids pinned in his sist- cousin’s room, depicting adventures he would never have a chance to be a part of. 

That… that was….

“Stay back! I-I’m warning you!” The young teen threatens. 

She can’t be more than fifteen, a small scrappy thing, adorned in a torn winter coat that’s far too big for her and a silvery cropped haircut that hangs just above her ears. Leaning against the back of the storage closet, she holds what he recognizes as Ragnarök, still locked in his scabbard. The blade is far too large for her, taller than she is, as she struggles to hoist it up with one arm. She trembles under the blade’s weight.

And yet, she continues to stare up at him with an unmistakable defiance. 

Nero raises his hands in a non-threatening gesture, slowly placing the mason jar on the rickety wooden floor. The young Skylar watches his every move, twitching as the jar clinks on the ground. Strung taut as a guitar string, her fingers further tense around Ragnarök’s hilt. Distrustful of him despite hearing his voice and seeing his face, Nero lands on one disheartening conclusion.

She doesn’t recognize him. 

Nero inadvertently sighs but quickly regrets it when something as simple as an exhale causes Skylar to jump. Waving his hands in another placating motion, he lowers his voice into a calming hush. The floorboards creak beneath his boots, and he crouches down to her level. 

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you. I heard you crying, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She says nothing despite her eyes being red with tears and her nose still sniffling. Nero bats down the urge to comfort her, knowing it would only spell disaster. 

“I’m Nero, by the way. What’s your name?”

Despite the stupidly redundant question, a part of him hopes his name would spark some sort of recognition. However, he is quickly disappointed as he continues to try to gain the young devil hunter’s trust, not receiving the warm reunion he had hoped for. Although it made sense, this wasn’t the Skylar he knew, and he questions what this all meant. After all, this was a dream, regardless of how real it felt. 

Again, Skylar doesn’t answer, still watching him with distrust. Nero quickly realizes the reason why. 

“I’m not part of the thing that’s chasing you.” He eases. “See? No rotting, no freaky extra eyes.”

Turning his arms around for her to get a better look at him, he ignores the ragged scar around the base of his right elbow. She watches him carefully, falling silent as if to listen for something. Nero doesn’t speak, knowing the concentration it took to listen for someone’s heartbeat. 

After a few moments, Skylar stares up at him, guarded. 

“Ho-how do you know about that?” 

“Legion seems to have a grudge against cool devil hunters. It was only a matter of time.”

Initially, Skylar flinches at the name, her eyes darting around the room as if even muttering it would summon the monster. Eventually, her brow furrows, a soft scowl quirking her lips. It’s similar to a pout, a fact that Nero is tempted to rib her about. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and lets her digest his words.

“Devil hunter…?”

Skylar fidgets, her shoes shuffling against the tarnished boards, kicking stray, muddied hay off her makeshift bed. 

No, not mud. The moonlight filtering into the small space makes him certain of that.

Blood. 

It’s then that Nero notices the source.

“You’re hurt…!”

Bloody and bruised, Nero spots the beginnings of a black eye, the slight swelling traveling to just above her cheekbone. He spots the angry red skin around her neck, where he knows Legion had pinned her down and mauled her. The blood soaking her shirt is too bright to be from a demon.

But her arm….

Ruby rivulets stream down her shredded arm, eerily glittering in the pale moonlight. It’s a horrible sight to behold, chunks of flesh in the process of regenerating to try and stem the constant stream of blood. Where blunt fingernails used to be are now replaced with sharp talons, the surrounding skin starting to crack to reveal unyielding scales. They pierce through her ruined arm, climbing until they pepper her elbow. There, the skin is split and weeping, the beginnings of sharp spines starting to form.

Despite having similarly gained his own Devil Bringer, the gory nature of Skylar’s injuries are nauseating to look at. Maybe it’s because it’s attached to someone he cares about, or perhaps it aggravates old memories he wishes would just fade away. Either way, the sight causes Nero to tense as he finally realizes where and when he is. 

Skylar’s breathing picks up as he scrutinizes her condition, attempting to tuck the soon-to-be demonic appendage behind her. Taking a few steps away, her back soon bumps into the wall behind her. She trembles from exhaustion, from the cold, from fear? Nero guesses all of the above. 

He tries his best to soothe her, using the same tone he often used when one of the kids woke up from a nightmare.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to be scared. Nothing is going to hurt you.”

That garners a skeptical look, to which Nero can’t blame her. Almost everything wanted to hurt them; why should some stranger be the exception? But she doesn’t run and instead holds her ground despite her evident fear. 

“I’m going to sit next to you, alright? I promise, no tricks. No bullshit.”

Skylar doesn’t move from her spot against the wall, watching him with a hawklike gaze. Moving slowly, Nero makes his way further into the storage closet, the door shutting behind him with a soft thud. The soft glow of the moon filters through the adjacent window, allowing him enough light to see. With every measured step, she continues to observe him with veiled intrigue. Now, out of the doorway, it would be easy to see the similarities between them. 

From the bewilderment twisting across her face, it's obvious Skylar has noticed.

Eventually, Nero settles down on a dry pile of hay. Leaning his back against the wall, he casually looks to the rafters, noting the remnants of the muddy makings of swallow nests. He keeps his attention on them until he hears the rustle of hay and nylon. Looking to his left, he’s met with the sight of the tiny Skylar, rummaging through an oversized and battered green backpack. A variety of items tumble out: a large water bottle, some cans of soup, packages of jerky, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and gauze. She grumbles something beneath her breath, too muffled for him to hear, but at her annoyed huff, it’s obvious she’s frustrated being limited to one arm. 

Nero relates all too well. 

Despite her obvious discomfort, she continues to dig through her pack, eventually pulling out a travel-sized bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Propping it against her leg, she works on uncapping it with her good arm, muttering soft swears the entire time. Skylar pays him no mind, other than a cursory glance every once in a while. 

She trusted him, a fact that, despite the strange circumstances, still warmed his heart. With him there, she didn’t have to keep watch. She could let her guard down and lick her wounds. 

However, that heartwarming moment is quickly extinguished when Skylar looks between the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and her arm and goes to dump its entire contents on the shredded appendage. 

“Woah! Hey, what do you think you’re doing?!” 

Nero is able to stop her in time, snatching the bottle from her. Despite being barely half his size, she openly scowls at him and makes a grab for it. Using his height to his advantage, he holds it above his head and out of her reach. If the situation weren’t so dire, he would absolutely be teasing her. 

“Cleaning it. Now give it back!” 

“You’re going to waste the entire bottle.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have time! If you found me here, then it could find me at any second and…!”

Nero sighs, but he does see her point. 

“At least let me help you. Trust me, doing stuff one-handed can be a pain in the ass. Besides, you don’t want to end up with an infection, right?”

Skylar freezes.

“Isn’t that what this is?!” Skylar raises her right arm, the panic creeping back into her voice. “Right?!”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to; his silence is an answer all in itself. 

It’s at this moment that Skylar’s arm starts to glow, the weak glimmer centered around her forearm. It radiates like lava, trickling down the length of her arm as her body continues to try and repair itself from Legion’s ambush. Skylar stares at it with unfiltered horror as she quickly connects what all this means. Humans didn’t have scales. They didn’t have claws or glowing arms. 

Alone. Shunned by society. Trapped in a self-made prison of solitude with no way to escape. That’s how it had been for both of them. It had stayed that way for far too long.

Nero wouldn’t let her spiral again. Not on his watch.

A soft blue glow materializes within the cramped space as Nero’s Devil Bringer cautiously unfurls behind him. His heart breaks when Skylar jumps back, her eyes briefly flashing with betrayal. However, his expression must have caused her some doubt; the genuine sorrow he felt at the sight of her being scared of him. She pauses, fear and curiosity warring against each other. 

Nero shuffles a bit awkwardly in his seat, gathering the courage to speak.

“Look, I’m a little weird too.”

His words seem to soothe her, Skylar’s posture relaxing, straying further away from the ingrained desire to flee. 

Her eyes grow wider as she gazes at the spectral wings, her earlier trepidation dissolving as she raises a curious hand. For a moment, she hesitates, distrust dusting her features before shying away. Observing this, Nero slowly raises one of his claws, only to playfully boop her on the nose with it. He stifles a laugh as she goes cross-eyed to stare at the spectral appendage. Still, she looks on in awe. It repairs any earlier damage dealt to his heart.

Hesitantly, she reaches out and holds the clawed “hand”, the claws alone engulfing her own.

Under the light of his wings, Nero begins to treat Skylar’s wounds, the pint-sized devil hunter distracted by the spectral wings. She sends him an uncertain look when he takes her water bottle and cracks it open. However, he only receives a flinch as he carefully washes her eviscerated arm of the excess blood. The ground pools with diluted viscera, soaking the dry hay. Inspecting the wound, Nero silently curses to himself at the mangled flesh and broken scales. Even with her partial transformation, this would be a wound that would take time to heal.

Using the hydrogen peroxide he snagged from her, he soaks some clean gauze pads and takes a deep breath. This wouldn’t be pleasant, but it was necessary to make sure the wound stayed clean. Dabbing the gauze across a particularly gruesome laceration, Skylar jumps, her body tensing, a pained hiss escaping her despite her clenched teeth. Nero prepares for the teen to bolt, but to his surprise, she stays firmly in place, her expression hardened into something far too intense for a fifteen-year-old. 

Nero makes sure to work fast. 

Eventually, he applies a bit of medical tape to the carefully wound bandage, securing the dressing from coming loose. Having been able to get the majority of the bleeding under control, he unfortunately used all the medical gauze stored in her backpack. But Skylar’s demonic healing had been her saving grace. Without it, she would have bled out, and history would be very different. 

Given enough time, she would make a full recovery and gain a constant reminder of this horrific night.

Kind of a shitty deal, but it was hard to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Skylar gingerly turns her arm, inspecting his work. While still in pain, there’s a hint of relief at the realization that the bandages also hide the ongoing demonic transformation of her arm.

“Thanks…” She mumbles. 

Skylar hugs herself, her knees drawn up to her chin, her freshly bandaged arm resting carefully atop her leg. Every so often, she glances over at him as if still unsure what to make of him. Nero doesn’t blame her; he would be suspicious too if a stranger who looked a little too much like himself suddenly appeared like a guardian angel. Yet, with everything that has transpired, it’s not long before he watches the unbothered mask start to crumble, the emotional trauma of the day starting to catch up to her. 

Nero lets out an exasperated sigh, too familiar with her undaunted act. He opens his arms and gestures to her. 

“C’mere.”

Even he’s surprised how fast she moves, one moment sitting next to him, the next clinging to him like a shipwrecked sailor floating on a piece of driftwood. Her face buried in his side, his heart breaks as he listens to the muffled sobs escape her trembling form. It reminds him of the first time he truly saw her cry, so many years ago that it feels like a distant memory.

Deep down, he knew this wasn’t reality. Skylar had recounted this tale to him during one of their long walks home from a local gig; the creature they had hunted sparking bitter memories. A rare demon, the same kind Legion had worn as a mask when it had shredded her arm. Alone, no Fenrir to save her, she had escaped with the precious few belongings she had to an abandoned barn at the edge of town. She had stayed there for hours, hiding from the nightmare that hunted her, as she watched in horror as scales and claws replaced bits of her treasured humanity. No one had come to her aid. No one had been there to comfort her when she believed she was turning into the thing she feared most. 

Gently, Nero rests his hand atop her head in an attempt to calm her, careful in case she flinches away. And while she does initially, she doesn’t shy away as he slowly runs his fingers through the short, snowy locks atop her head. If anything, she leans into him, drinking in the kind touch. The deep-seated sorrow returns as he recognizes that longing for genuine affection, having felt the same throughout his life. 

While Skylar had freedom in her childhood, it had still been a lonely existence. Distrust at every corner, the constant sense of being watched. She had Fenrir, yes, but a home, a true sense of belonging?

It was something that they had quickly connected on early in their friendship. He had never met another who truly understood such isolation, such desperation to be accepted, to be loved. So he feels every broken sob, every tear shed from the child clinging onto him for dear life. 

He sees himself simply wishing to be protected and loved. 

Was that too much to ask for?

Hushing her with soft words that he saved for only his little ones, Nero summons a spectral wing and drapes it over the exhausted teen. They sit like that for who knows how long, the sobs slowly dwindling into soft hiccups. The barn does well to protect them from the bitter winds and falling snow outside. The chill still permeates through the air, but with the presence of two quarter devils in the cramped space, it’s warm enough to be tolerable. Despite her small stature, Skylar still ran hot like a radiator. 

After a few minutes of silence, Nero carefully raises his wing to check on the little devil hunter. Still curled up against his side, her fingers twisted in the loose part of his coat, she meets his gaze with tear-riddled eyes. Her face still stained from crying, she at least seems to have regained her composure. 

“You doing okay? You’re not in any pain, are you?”

Skylar shakes her head; however, at her averted gaze, Nero knows she’s not telling the truth. That stubborn nature they both carried persisted no matter the age. With the severity of the wound, it would be impossible for some disinfectant and bandages to fix everything. And while it was the best he could do at the moment, there’s a part of Nero that wishes he could do more. 

Yet, she doesn’t complain, and it pains him to know that this would not be the worst of her injuries in her lifetime of battle. She would become accustomed to the pain, just as he did. A knife wound would soon become trivial to a gunshot, a gunshot nothing compared to being impaled on a sword. So on and so forth, the curse of their blood forcing them to adapt to the horrors that came with it. 

She was a kid! A kid shouldn’t have to endure that! 

They shouldn’t have to endure that!

“Thank you, Nero.”

The hushed thanks draws him out of his spiraling thoughts, grounding him back in the ongoing nightmare. 

“Anytime, Sky.”

Out of habit, he gives her shoulder a light squeeze, an unspoken oath to watch each other’s backs. To Nero’s surprise, he receives a soft squeeze of his hand in return, another thank you, and a sign of solidarity. He doesn’t say anything, unsure what it might mean. After a while, Skylar begins to doze, her featherlight breaths evening out in the depths of sleep. Surprised once again by the display of trust, Nero takes it upon himself to act as her sentry, only pausing from his task to reorganize Skylar’s emptied backpack. A grin plays on his lips as he spots a dusty plushie of a mallard duck amongst the hay. He remembers seeing it on a shelf in Skylar’s room. 

Eventually, he returns to his thoughts, the uncertainty of what is going on still nagging at him. This stunk of magic, old magic, if his years of dealing with demonic bullshit were anything to go by. Was this a warning? Or perhaps condemnation because he failed to protect his family? 

Maybe this was payback for dropping Ragnarök in the lake that one time. For a Devil Arm, he could be extremely petty. 

Probably not. There were bigger issues afoot. 

Whatever it was, it was unnerving. That feeling only grows when he hears the creak of barn doors down the hall. Skylar freezes, abruptly shaken from her slumber, sitting up completely alert. Nero can faintly hear her heartbeat quicken, her fight-or-flight instincts kicking into full gear. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

No, Fenrir was supposed to find her before sunrise. They were supposed to escape the town, slipping back into the woods without anyone the wiser. It would be weeks before they saw another human being, and it would be one of the few times that Skylar would steal despite her morals. 

Yet, there it is. He can smell it on the breeze, the scent of rotten flesh and decay. Noiselessly, Nero rises to his feet and grabs Ragnarök. Unsheathing the blade, the silver steel glints dangerously in the dim moonlight. The Devil Arm feels different in his hands, as if it were an echo of the weapon he knew. He tries not to dwell on it too much as he adjusts his hands, muscle memory reminding him how to handle the temperamental weapon. It was a sword, something he could kill with. 

It was going to have to do.

Skylar hugs her backpack close to her chest, her eyes wide with terror. Nero waves for her to stand behind him, and she does so, scampering over to him. Trembling, she slings her backpack on her back and locks her eyes on the door. The air spikes a degree, and Nero watches a few sparks dance across her left hand as she crouches into a defensive stance. 

The corner of his lip quirks upward into a soft smirk. 

No matter the time or situation, Skylar was determined to stand and fight beside him. 

They stand there cornered, silently listening for any signs of the beast. An eerie clicking fills the air, the floorboards groaning in protest as something squeezes its way into the barn. There's a snap of wood, a snuffle of debris, before it is discarded with a resounding crack! Skylar jumps at the clatter, just barely muffling a scream. Nero pulls her closer to his side in an attempt to comfort her. Despite trying to look brave, she shakes like a leaf in the wind. 

The creaking continues, growing closer. 

Closer.

Closer. 

Nero readjusts his grip on Ragnarök’s hilt, the hammering of his heart filling his ears. A draft slithers out from behind the door, sending a chill down his spine. It takes him a moment to realize it’s not a draft, but something far, far worse.

The monster breathes in, inhaling their scent, their fear, their loathing.

It clicks, ever so pleased with itself.

“There you are!”

The door bursts open, taking a chunk of the wall with it as massive teeth tear through—

“Hey, Nerd!” Something solidly smacks him in the face. “Up and at ‘em! We’re ‘ere.”

Nero springs awake, ready to defend the tiny devil hunter at his side. An animalistic snarl twists from his lips as he goes to swing Ragnarök at the monstrosity tearing through the walls, only to find his hands empty and Nico pressed against the driver’s side door to create room between them.  

“Woah, d-dude what the fuck?!” She anxiously stutters. Nico adjusts her glasses. “C-calm it!”

Blinking a few times, he looks around at his surroundings, albeit a bit disoriented. No longer was he trapped in a cramped storage closet with a monster tearing through the walls to steal his family. No longer was there the ghost of Skylar’s past clinging onto his coat, petrified by fear. Instead, he’s met with the weathered interior of the van, Nico staring cautiously at him from the driver’s seat. The offending magazine is still in her right hand, primed to smack him again if she so desires. 

“Well, stop hitting me in the face with that damn magazine!” He answers as if nothing happened. The guilt is already rearing its ugly head. “Talk about a rude awakening.”

Glancing out the window, he’s met with the familiar streets of Fortuna, the silhouette of his house stark against the setting evening sun. It was a clear day, a rarity in the recent winter months.

“Or what? Expectin’ a smooch like Sleepin’ Beauty?” Nico jests, trying to hide her earlier trepidation. 

Nero makes a disgusted face. 

“Ew, I’d rather take the magazine to the face again. Kyrie’s the only one allowed near these lips.”

“Good, ‘cause I'd rather kiss the van’s tires after a romp through Red Grave. Although I’d take a kiss from that goddess any day.”

Nero lances her with a glare, telling her to back off, to which he receives a mischievous smile. 

Good, some normalcy. 

Standing up from the passenger’s seat, he stretches, wincing as the muscles in his back spasm. Keeping his movements slow, he tries to ignore the strange pressure near his spine, pretending as if every movement didn’t tug painfully. Maybe the seat was breaking down.

Great, just another expense to cover. 

Nero can feel Nico’s eyes burning into his back as he moves around the cabin, grabbing bits and pieces of his gear. It had been the same thing every hunt they went on; they’d banter back and forth, teasing each other like they usually did. Unfortunately, it felt hollow, the empty seat behind the driver’s seat a grim reminder of their missing teammate. It was the little things he missed, like arguing over the passenger seat; Skylar and he would play rock, paper, scissors for it almost weekly. Or the time that Skylar nearly gave Nico a heart attack when she flung herself out of the van while they were barreling down the road at breakneck speeds. Nero had nearly died laughing when the cigarette Nico had been smoking dropped from her mouth and onto the floor. They’d had to circle back two blocks to retrieve her, finding a pleased Skylar and a bunch of dead demons.

He tries to distance himself from such memories, collecting the last of his gear. Bitterness sits heavy in his heart as he wonders if he’ll ever get to live such moments again. It’s only when he collects Red Queen and is about to head out the door that Nico speaks again. 

“Are ya sure yer okay? I don’t know… you’ve just seemed off. I mean, if you really aren’t feelin’ good, I could always call Lady or Trish to cover for the next—“

He doesn’t hear the rest she’s saying, the bitterness from earlier bubbling into frustration. The look of concern does nothing to soothe his nerves. If anything, it aggravates him further, the encounter with the echo of Skylar fresh in his mind. He wasn’t the one who needed help; he wasn’t the one who was being hunted day in and day out. 

He hadn’t been the one to suffer from his mistakes; he didn’t deserve the kindness that came with worry. 

“It wouldn’t be a problem.” Nico continues, oblivious to his internal conflict. “I mean, Lady might try and get ya to pay a commission fee, but that gal is just so business savvy that—“

Helpless.  

“Nico…”

“—I probably should take some notes from ‘er. But then Kyrie doesn’t like that type of business, so I mean I'd rather not invite that kind of trouble. And that just makes us different from the main branch, so maybe that’s a good thing? Anyways, with so many jobs, you’d probably be fine givin’ away a few. Take a bit off your plate and—“

Weakling.  

“Nico…. I…!”

“—Just focus on stuff at home. Hell knows how much shit it goin’ on and you look like absolute—“

Deadweight. 

“I’m fine, Nico!” Nero roars, honest to god roars, his voice echoing with a slight demonic timbre. “Just drop it already!” 

Nico jumps at his outburst, her eyes wide, the scent of fear worming its way into the cabin. That little part of him adorned in scales and claws tips its head curiously, such fear usually accompanied by prey. Disgust bubbles in his chest at even the thought, stomping down the devilish sentiments. He hadn’t meant to snap at her, but his patience was already running thin. The ensuing look of betrayal makes it so much worse. 

Dumbass, she isn’t demeaning you! She’s worried!

What the hell was he thinking? Nico has only helped him throughout this entire fucked up mess. The countless hours he knew she spent digging through archaic lore, trying to help him bring his estranged family home. No matter what he put her through, she always had his back, whether it be a new invention or something as simple as a ride. 

Nico was family, too! When had he forgotten that?! 

“Nico, I…” He stumbles trying to find the right words, but Nico interrupts him.

“L-l-l-ook, I know yer under a lot of stress with tryna find Sky and Dante and the whole t-thing with your old man, but I’m not the enemy. So don’t go takin’ my head off, alright? It’s bullshit.”

She’s not angry with him, which he can’t understand how she’s not. Nero wouldn’t blame her; she was just concerned about his well being and yet, here he was, yelling at her. 

“Yer not the only one who lost someone, Nero. Sky wa- is my friend too.”

Nero remembers the following weeks, when he would quietly open the van door to check on Nico’s progress with the aptly named Devil Breakers. Usually, he would barge in, with little account for the equally rambunctious inhabitant of the van. But that was before a new apocalypse was upon them, and the stress of the looming deadline of the end of the world. Sleep was an impossible wish, so Nero made sure to enter quietly in case, by some miracle, Nico was getting any. 

Unfortunately, that came with many dangers. Dangers such as walking in on his friend having a mental breakdown. Finding her in her workshop, her back against a cabinet, surrounded by her creations that she made to help him, trying to sort through the trauma and grief that came with this fucked up situation. 

All because he decided to chase after revenge like an idiot. 

“You’re right, Nico. I’m sorry, it’s just… can we drop it for now?”

A part of him is fearful he’ll say something he’ll regret. He could be shit with words when it really mattered, despite his quips and jabs whenever he fought Hell’s worst. Nico stares at him for a few more seconds, an analyzing stare that causes Nero to shuffle his feet. He hates this kind of scrutiny, like he was a kid again facing one of the matron’s lectures. The problem was, he cared about what Nico thought of him. This was his friend, not some old crone who had a vendetta against him. 

Nico collects herself and eventually sighs. She waves her hand dismissively. Fuck, he screwed up when she doesn’t give him shit for admitting she’s right. 

“Go. Jus’ make sure yer not bringin’ that attitude back to Kyrie or the kids. ”

Nero silently grimaces as he slides open the van door. About to leave, he pauses. 

“Thanks for the ride, Nico.”

Thanks for everything….

Stepping out of the van, Nero tries to ignore those eyes still burning into his back as he slides the door shut. The van doesn’t immediately start up like usual and peel out of the neighborhood at unholy speeds. Instead, it sits there as he makes his way to the side yard and continues to as he unlocks the door and enters the garage.