Chapter Text
The only light in the room was the one above the operating table, casting long, distorted shadows on the cold, sterile walls. The rest of the space was swallowed by darkness, untouched and still. Rows of gleaming surgical instruments rested quietly on a nearby tray, some already stained with dark, scarlet blood.
The doctor flicked through the pages of a report, his gloved fingers pausing over the lines scrawled by his colleagues on failed experiments, observations of demon physiology. He adjusted his glasses, the faint gleam of his eyes hidden behind the lenses, before setting the report aside and turning to the table. The patient, an unrecognizable heap of demonic flesh, lay perfectly still beneath the harsh overhead light. With deliberate care, he selected a scalpel from the tray and hovered over the patient's body, eyes narrowed with concentration.
Before the blade could make its incision, the silence was shattered by a single, sharp knock at the door.
The doctor sighed, his shoulders stiffening. He removed his gloves and mask, folding them with an air of irritation before replying, “Come in. It’s open.”
The door creaked, and a figure stepped inside—tall, armored, and exuding an air of military authority. The general's eyes flicked to the operating table, and for a brief moment, a flicker of discomfort passed over his face.
“Did I... interrupt something important?” the general asked, his voice low, yet edged with curiosity.
The doctor looked at him, unfazed. “No, not at all.” His tone was flat, though his eyes never left the disfigured body. “I assume you're here for that matter?”
The general hesitated, his gaze still lingering on the demonic carcass. He shifted his weight uneasily before replying. “I’m afraid I have to break your enthusiasm, doctor… Sparda’s sons… they’re gone.”
The doctor’s frown deepened, his fingers tracing the edge of a vial containing a viscous, glowing substance. “Gone?” he repeated, almost incredulously. “Impossible. They are too strong to fall. Perhaps it’s connected to the Qlipoth. I would imagine those roots are still buried deep in Hell, and... those two are busy digging them out.”
A pause hung in the air, thick with uncertainty, before the general spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “...So, what do you intend to do?”
The doctor glanced back at the still body on the table, his eyes gleaming with something darker, more calculating. Then he smiled—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Like their father before them, they, too, have left something behind.”
The general’s brow furrowed, confusion settling in. “...Forgive me, sir. I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
The doctor’s smile grew sharper. “Their offspring. Bring them to me.”
—
The shrill chime of her phone alarm broke the stillness of the room, loud and merciless in the early morning quiet. It had the same jarring punctuality it always did, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Under the blanket, Beatrice groaned and buried her face deeper into the pillow, as if sheer willpower could smother the noise into submission. She turned over, facing the opposite wall, holding out hope that ignoring it might make the world pause for a few more precious minutes. It didn’t.
With a dramatic sigh of defeat, Bea threw off the covers and sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before slamming the damn thing shut. The chill of the room greeted her skin, and her back cracked gently as she stretched her arms over her head in a wide arc. Another day. Another borrowed bed.
She looked around. The room in Fortuna wasn’t bad—spacious enough, clean, kind of bland—but nowhere near as cozy as her place back at Devil May Cry headquarters. That apartment, with its mismatched furniture and familiar clutter, had soul. Here, everything still smelled like someone else’s cleaning products.
Still, she’d tried to make it hers. A few framed photos sat on the nightstand—her and Mom, a blurry shot of her with Nero mid-battle, and an old one of Dante holding her as a baby, smirking like an idiot. There were a few posters here and there, and her schoolwork was scattered on the desk.
It had been two weeks since she arrived on the island. Not long, but long enough to feel homesick.
She shuffled toward the closet, putting on some cargo pants and a shirt, running her fingers lazily across the row of jackets she’d brought with her. Her gaze settled on the pink leather—her signature piece. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but subtlety wasn’t really in her blood.
Just as she pulled it free, her phone rang again—this time not an alarm. The name glowing on the screen made her smile.
“Hey, Mom,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she slipped one arm into her jacket sleeve.
“Good morning,” came Lady’s voice, warm but tired, the familiar metallic click of a gun being loaded audible in the background. “Did I wake you?”
“Nah, I’ve been awake for, like… a solid one hundred and twenty seconds,” Bea deadpanned, her lips twitching into a grin.
Lady chuckled. “Thought so.” There was a short pause before she asked, “How are you finding Fortuna?”
Beatrice let out a breath, flopping back down on the bed with a soft thud. “Not bad. A little too quiet. The city's kind of boring, honestly. But no complaints.”
“Quiet is good. Quiet means you’re not being shot at.”
“I said no complaints, not no temptations,” Bea teased, earning another laugh from her mother. “What about you? How are things on your side?”
On the other end of the line, Lady’s voice softened. “We’re just wrapping up here. It shouldn’t be long now before we head back. Though I think Morrison has a few more jobs lined up for me and Trish.”
Bea heard the hesitation in her mother’s tone before she even spoke again.
“I hate leaving you alone there.”
Bea was quiet for a moment. She hated it too. Being stuck away from home while Lady was God-knows-where and Dante was still missing with his brother in some layer of Hell wasn't exactly comforting. But she knew better than to let that show.
“Don’t worry about me. Nero, Kyrie, and Nico are taking good care of me. I’ve got homemade pasta, a cool mechanic, and a half-demon with anger issues. What more could a girl want?”
Lady snorted on the other end. “Just be good, Bea. Don’t get into trouble. We’ll be home soon. Promise.”
“Trouble is my middle name,” Bea quipped, then hesitated. Her voice dipped quieter, gentler. “Hey… before you go. Any word about Dad?”
There was a long pause. Beatrice could practically feel the shift in her mother’s mood through the static.
“Not yet,” Lady admitted. “I miss him too, sweetheart. But your father’s not the type to just… disappear for good. He’s stubborn as hell. I should know.”
Bea nodded to herself, curling a strand of hair around her finger. “Yeah… just keep me posted, okay?”
“Of course. I’ll call you when I can.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Beatrice. Be safe.”
The call ended with a soft beep, and Beatrice stared at the screen for a moment before setting it down beside her. The silence returned, but it was heavier now, humming with the things left unsaid.
Beatrice’s stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her with perfect timing that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. She groaned under her breath, standing up and stretching, her limbs feeling stiff from too much time in bed. The day had barely started, but it already felt like it would drag on forever.
With a soft sigh, she made her way down the stairs of the small house, the wooden steps creaking under her feet. She expected to find Kyrie in the kitchen, probably whipping up something for breakfast as usual. But when she rounded the corner, the kitchen was eerily quiet, empty except for a single piece of toast placed neatly on a plate.
The note beside it made her smile: For Bea. Nero, don't touch it. Kyrie. There was a little heart drawn next to the signature, a simple gesture that always made her feel warm inside.
Beatrice picked up the toast, taking a bite as she scanned the quiet room. Kyrie was a saint, honestly. Not only did she have to deal with Nero—who could be impossible at times—but she also helped run the town orphanage and managed to keep up with Nico’s chaotic nature. Despite all that, Kyrie had been the first to suggest that Beatrice stay with them while her parents were away on their mission. The woman had a heart of gold, and Beatrice often wondered how she managed to juggle everything so effortlessly. Maybe there was some secret to all that kindness, something she could learn.
She carefully washed the plate by hand, drying it before putting it back in the cupboard. The smell of the fresh air outside reached her through the open kitchen window, and without much thought, she grabbed another bite and headed toward the garage.
Inside, she found Nero lying under Nico’s van, his arms covered in grease as he tinkered with something mechanical. The sound of his muttered curses was a familiar comfort. He rolled out from under the van when he heard her approaching, giving her a look that was half teasing, half gruff.
"Good morning, you're taking it easy, sleepyhead," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Do you think you're on vacation or something?"
Beatrice laughed heartily, leaning against one of the nearby workbenches as she took another bite of her toast. "Technically, I am. So, where are Nico and Kyrie?"
"Kyrie’s out shopping," Nero replied, giving the van one last look before standing up fully. "Nico’s at the hardware store down the street. My turn to ask questions: anything from beyond the grave? Literally."
Beatrice’s smile faded slightly, her gaze drifting as she chewed. "Nothing. Same as always." She shrugged and wiped the crumbs from her fingers. "What, can’t wait to see your daddy again?"
Nero rolled his eyes, groaning as he wiped his hands on his pants and leaned back against the garage wall. "I’m not in a hurry for that, trust me," he muttered, though there was an undertone of something unspoken in his words. "But… are you worried?"
Beatrice hesitated, swallowing the last of the toast as she stared at the floor for a moment. "No, it’s just..." She trailed off, the words not coming easily. "I mean, after the battle with Urizen, my father seemed so... angry at me. And we didn’t even get to say goodbye. It was like—like he just left everything behind."
Nero shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing. "You went into the Qlipoth even though he told you not to," he said, though immediately regretting it, his voice softening as he added, "But, uh. What I mean is... I don’t think he’s still angry. I think he was just worried about you. You know how he is."
Beatrice’s lips pressed together tightly. She wasn’t sure if she agreed with him, but she didn’t want to argue. She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the heaviness that seemed to settle in her chest every time she thought about it.
"I'm not six, Nero," she replied, her voice flat but tinged with something deeper. "I know how to handle myself. But—that's not even the point. The point is..." She trailed off, her eyes flicking briefly to Nero before looking down at the floor again. The worst-case scenario lurked just beneath the surface of her thoughts, and she hated the idea of voicing it.
Nero exhaled sharply, then sat down beside her on the workbench, leaning his back against the cold metal of a shelf. "Hey," he said, his tone gentle now. "He’ll come back, trust me, Bee. You think some evil roots are enough to kill your old man?"
Beatrice blinked at the nickname. "Will you stop calling me 'Bee'?" she said, trying to sound annoyed, but the smile tugging at the corner of her lips betrayed her.
Nero just shrugged. "I don't think so."
"Okay, deadweight."
"Beatrice, quit it."
"Sorry, sorry."
"In any case," Nero said, hopping down from the workbench with a thud, "don’t get too down. Dante knows what he's doing."
But his attempt at reassurance barely scratched the surface. Bea was still sitting there, hands fidgeting idly in her lap, her thoughts miles away. Nero sighed under his breath, wiping his hands on a rag before grabbing Blue Rose and setting to work cleaning the barrel. He hated seeing her like this—Bea was usually all fire and stubborn energy, not this quiet, lost thing.
After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Nero glanced at her again and shook his head. If her parents knew what he was about to suggest, they'd probably hunt him down with pitchforks—and honestly, he'd deserve it.
"...Alright, that's it," he said, setting the gun down with a clatter. "You need something to cheer you up. You got plans today? Studying? Homework?"
Bea finally looked up, quirking a brow at him suspiciously. "Uh... technically, yes? But also technically, no? I mean, it’s not like Red Grave Academy’s gonna open again anytime soon, so…" She waved her hand vaguely. "Not a huge rush."
Nero laughed, shaking his head like she’d just confirmed his hopes. "Perfect. 'Cause I need a hand with something."
Bea sat up straighter, suddenly more interested. "What kind of 'something'?"
"Small job. Minor mission out near the edge of Fortuna," Nero said, as casually as if he was suggesting a grocery run.
Bea stared at him, open-mouthed. "You're kidding. You’re actually kidding, right? If my parents find out, they are going to murder you. I mean it. Like, no body left to bury, full-on obliteration."
"Relax," Nero said, grinning. "They won’t find out. And I trust you not to rat me out."
He hadn’t even finished speaking when Beatrice practically launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck in a quick, fierce hug. Nero stumbled back half a step, laughing as he caught her.
"You're the best!" Bea said, beaming up at him before pulling away.
"Yeah, yeah. Keep your enthusiasm in check, Bee," Nero said, ruffling her hair as he steadied himself. "It’s nothing fancy. Reports of weak demonic energy, probably a bunch of pests. No big bosses, no epic showdowns. Just clean-up duty."
Bea's excitement dimmed for half a second, but it roared right back, stronger than before. "Still counts as a mission!" she insisted, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Nero smiled despite himself. Her energy was contagious sometimes. "Right. But listen carefully: you're only coming if you follow *everything* I say. No improvising, no rushing ahead, no ‘but I thought it would be cool’ excuses."
He strapped Blue Rose to his hip and walked over to Red Queen, revving the sword once for good measure. The garage filled with its mechanical snarl, and Bea’s eyes lit up even more at the familiar sound.
"Rule one: stay close to me at all times," Nero said, counting on his fingers. "Rule two: if you have to split off, you make damn sure I can still see you. Rule three: if I say run, you run. No questions, no heroics."
"I get it, I get it," Bea said, rolling her eyes. "Stick close, obey orders, don't die. Not rocket science."
"I’m serious, Beatrice," Nero said, voice firm but not harsh. "You're tough, I know that. But you're not invincible. I want you back in one piece, and I really don't wanna be explaining any injuries to your parents."
He crossed the garage to a nearby rack, grabbing her weapon—a sleek, pink-and-black chainsaw with jagged teeth that gleamed under the fluorescent lights—and tossed it lightly toward her.
Bea caught it with ease, saluting smartly with her free hand. "Yes, sir!"
"Good," Nero chuckled, adjusting Red Queen on his back. "Go wait outside. I'll grab the rest of the gear."
Bea turned and sprinted out of the garage without missing a beat, practically vibrating with excitement.
Nero watched her go, shaking his head fondly and scrubbing a hand through his hair as he made the final checks before heading out. Spread across the counter in front of him was an array of Devil Breakers—sleek, powerful prosthetics designed by Nico just for him. Some were made for heavy combat, others had everyday uses. Practical stuff.
He hovered over them for a moment, weighing his options. In the end, he reached for Overture, locking it onto the mechanical socket on his arm with a solid click. It was a simple job—no need to bring out the big guns. Satisfied, Nero grabbed his gear and headed toward the garage door, boots thudding lightly on the concrete floor.
He only hoped—prayed—that Dante and Lady would never find out what he was doing. Especially not after last time, when Bea had charged headfirst into a fight with Urizen like she had something to prove. She’d nearly gotten herself killed, and Nero could still remember the way Dante had exploded afterward—white-hot fury, the likes of which Nero hadn’t thought Dante was even capable of anymore.
Protective didn’t even begin to describe how Dante and Lady treated Beatrice. Hell, they had practically written the book on overprotection. From what Morrison had let slip, the two of them had always wanted Bea to have a better, normal life—one free from demons, bloodshed, and the ghosts of their pasts. Reasonable, Nero thought. Even admirable.
But this wasn’t a big deal. Just a quick sweep, a couple of weak demons sniffing around the outskirts of Fortuna. No major threats. And she wouldn't be alone—*he* would be there. Watching her back and keeping her safe. As far as Nero was concerned, it was no more dangerous than a stroll in the park... with chainsaws. And a lot more swearing.
They’d be gone a few hours, tops. Everything would be fine.
As he stepped out into the sunlight, Bea was already there waiting, arms crossed, a spark of excitement flickering in her eyes.
"Got everything?" she asked, rocking back and forth on her heels.
"I think so," Nero said, giving his gear a quick once-over. "We’re good to go. Just stay close to me and—"
"Blah blah blah," Bea cut him off with a grin. "You already gave me the lecture. Can we please get moving now?"
Nero snorted, shaking his head in exasperation. "You sure are impatient, huh?"
Bea just grinned wider, bouncing a little where she stood, chainsaw slung easily over her shoulder like it weighed nothing at all.
Nero chuckled under his breath. For better or worse, there was no turning back now.
—
"So what exactly are we supposed to do again?" Bea asked, hopping over a pile of broken bricks that had crumbled across the path.
They were deep in the outskirts of Fortuna now, in what used to be a quiet residential suburb—if you could even call it that anymore. The place was a graveyard. Rows of skeletal houses lined the broken cobblestone streets, their windows shattered and gaping like empty eyes, their doors hanging loose or missing altogether. Roofs had caved in, walls split and crumbled, and nature had started reclaiming the ruins with weeds and moss. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you were being watched even when you were alone.
Perfect territory for demons to hole up in.
"Nothing complicated," Nero said, leading the way without even glancing back at her. His boots crunched through the gravel with slow, deliberate steps. "Couple reports of demonic activity. We sweep the area, find whatever's nesting here, and clean it up before it becomes a problem."
Bea wrinkled her nose, casting a wary look at the ruined buildings on either side. "It looks quiet."
"Yeah," Nero said dryly, "and that's usually when things get interesting."
He kept moving ahead, hand resting casually on the hilt of Red Queen strapped to his back, completely at ease. Bea, on the other hand, stayed light on her feet, her chainsaw held loosely in one hand. Her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, half-expecting something to leap out at any second.
But... nothing.
No growls. No scratching noises. No flicker of movement from the corners of her vision. Just endless silence, heavy and suffocating.
Bea slowed a little, scanning the crumbling facades. Every broken window looked like a mouth ready to spit something out. Every doorway felt like it was hiding something just out of sight. A cold breeze stirred the loose debris at her feet, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Where were they?
Then—a sound.
Soft. Subtle. Like something shifting against wood.
Bea froze, her heart giving a tiny, involuntary skip. She whipped her head toward the noise. A warehouse sat a little ways off from the main street, its rusted metal doors wide open like a gaping wound. The sound had come from there, she was sure of it.
Bea glanced at Nero’s back. He was still walking, maybe fifteen, twenty feet ahead, calm and oblivious.
He had told her to stay close. Not to wander...
But it wasn’t like she was leaving him, she reasoned. It was just a quick check. She’d peek inside, see if anything was lurking, and be right back before he even noticed. Besides, it could be important, right? She couldn’t just ignore it.
Nero kept moving, boots grinding over cracked stone, his focus locked ahead. He didn’t notice that the footsteps behind him had gone quiet. Didn’t realize that Beatrice hadn’t been following him for some time now.
The silence was thick. He shrugged it off, assuming she was just dragging her feet.
Then—movement.
A flicker of shadow along the rooftops. A scrape of boots against broken tiles.
Nero’s instincts flared. His hand flew to Red Queen’s hilt, and he spun around, scanning the ruins with sharp eyes.
"Bea, run!" he barked without thinking, his voice cracking the heavy stillness like a whip.
The first figure dropped from a rooftop without a sound, landing in a low crouch before lunging at him. Nero barely sidestepped in time, dragging Red Queen free and slashing outward in one fluid motion. Sparks flew as metal met metal—his attacker had drawn a blade at the last second.
"Demons?" he thought wildly—but no. Something was wrong. Demons didn’t fight with that kind of precision. They didn’t wear armor.
Another came from the left. Then two more from the right. They moved fast, coordinated, not wild and frenzied like demons, but disciplined. Trained.
Soldiers.
A low snarl ripped from Nero's throat as he threw himself into the fight.
The first soldier rushed him with a short baton crackling with electricity. Nero ducked under the swing and slammed his Devil Breaker into the man’s ribs, sending him sprawling with a grunt. Before he could catch his breath, two more closed in.
He fought brutally, the way he always had—no wasted movement, no mercy.
Red Queen roared to life as he revved the blade, carving a wide arc that forced his attackers back. He lashed out with a vicious kick, knocking one off his feet, then pivoted to drive his sword into the shoulder of another, sending him staggering.
But they kept coming.
They moved in waves, always trying to encircle him. More dropped from the rooftops, rushing him with stun batons, tranquilizer guns, and combat knives. Nero dodged and countered as best he could, but they were smart—working together to wear him down, chipping away at his defenses.
A sharp sting at his side—someone had grazed him with a blade.
Nero growled in pain, twisting around to backhand the attacker with his Devil Breaker, sending him flying into a crumbling wall.
Then he saw it—a glint of silver in the hand of one of the soldiers closing in. A needle. A damn syringe.
Realization hit him like a slap.
He slashed at the man holding it, cutting him down before the syringe could touch skin. But another soldier tried the same, lunging at him with a hypodermic aimed at his neck.
Nero grabbed the man by the wrist and crushed it with his Devil Breaker, hearing bones snap like twigs. The soldier screamed and dropped the needle.
"Humans," Nero thought bitterly, finally understanding.
Whoever they were, they weren’t demons. They were people—hired guns, soldiers, maybe worse.
But he was getting tired. Bleeding from shallow cuts. His muscles burned from the constant movement.
He was just about to rev the Red Queen for a wide clearing strike when a sharp whistle pierced the air.
All at once, the soldiers froze.
One of them—he couldn’t tell who—gave a quick, sharp hand gesture.
Retreat.
Without a word, the soldiers disengaged. They backed away quickly and efficiently, disappearing into the ruined alleys and broken buildings like shadows melting into the night. Within seconds, the street was empty again, as if they had never been there at all.
Nero stood alone, panting heavily, blood dripping from a cut above his brow. His grip on Red Queen tightened, ready for another attack, but nothing came.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Still breathing hard, he turned around, scanning the area.
"Bea?" he called, his voice rough. He limped a few steps forward, Red Queen dragging slightly in the dust. "Beatrice, where are you? You okay?
No answer.
A cold knot formed in his gut.
He spun in a slow circle, searching every doorway, every rooftop, every shadow.
"Bea!" he shouted louder this time, the panic threading into his voice.
Still nothing.
Nero staggered forward, the heavy weight of Red Queen slipping from his fingers with a dull clang onto the cracked ground. His boots crunched over the debris, but he barely heard it. His heart was hammering against his ribs, deafening in his ears.
"Bea," he rasped again, but it came out like a broken breath.
He spun around once more, desperate eyes scanning every shattered window, every gaping doorway, every rooftop black against the overcast sky. His breathing grew faster, sharper—like he couldn't get enough air no matter how hard he sucked it in.
Nothing. No footprints. No blood trail. No scent, no sound, no lingering presence of demonic energy. Not even the rustle of movement in the ruined streets.
She was just—gone. Like she'd been plucked off the face of the earth without a trace.
The panic slammed into him all at once, a brutal, cold force that stole the strength from his legs. He stumbled, caught himself against a crumbling wall with his Devil Breaker, the metal scraping against the brick. The sting of wounds, the ache in his side—it was all background noise now, drowned out by the crushing realization blooming in his chest.
It had been a trap.
The whole damn thing—a setup from the beginning.
The "weak demon sightings," the deserted suburb, the silence too complete to be natural—it hadn't been about clearing a nest.
It had been about luring them.
Both of them.
A sick, furious snarl twisted Nero's face, but even that rage was buried under the sheer terror coiling tighter and tighter in his gut. He clenched his fists so hard the broken plates of his Devil Breaker groaned in protest.
Why only take Bea? Why not him, too?
He pressed his forehead against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, the cold stone biting into his skin. His thoughts raced, chaotic and splintered.
Because she was an easier target.
Because while they hammered him, while they threw everything they had at him to keep him busy, she'd wandered off alone. Maybe they'd seen it happen. Maybe they'd planned for it, counting on her youthful stubbornness, her impulse to prove herself.
And he'd been too blind to notice.
Too slow.
He let out a sound—half a gasp, half a raw scream—and pushed away from the wall. His body moved without thinking, boots dragging through the broken streets as he searched, searched everywhere, for some sign she might have run, hidden, fought back.
But there was nothing.
Just the ruins, hollow and still.
"Bea!" he screamed again, his voice tearing itself raw, echoing off the empty shells of buildings.
Silence answered him.
He staggered into another alley, searching between collapsed beams and shattered bricks. His breath hitched in ragged bursts. Every empty doorway mocked him. Every rooftop seemed to leer down at him.
He called her name again, and again, until it wasn't even a word anymore—just a desperate sound clawing its way out of his throat.
Nero sank to his knees in the dirt and rubble. The pain in his body throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the crushing weight on his chest.
How the hell was he supposed to go back now? How the hell was he supposed to face Dante and Lady?
What could he possibly say?
He pressed his bloody hands to his face, dragging them down roughly as if he could wipe away the horror gripping him. His shoulders shook—not from the cold, but from the flood of helpless rage, fear, and guilt that tore through him in waves.
He should've been faster. He should've paid more attention. He should've protected her.
This was his fault.
A hoarse, broken sob escaped him before he could stop it.
There would be no way to explain this. No way to make it right.
He had lost her—and he didn’t even know who had taken her, or where to start looking.
The city loomed around him, broken and dark.
Beatrice was gone.