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'It’s like this,’ Vergil thinks as he strolls down the sidewalk. Nero’s hand is grasped in his, small fingers trembling while his eyes flash to every gleaming surface and follow the towering skyscrapers to their tippy tops. Floods of people draw a wide berth around them, some chatting on their phones, others simply scurrying along to their next engagement, almost all of them shooting the duo a double-take when they see the matching dark cloaks cascading over their figures.
To his child, this place must seem like a haven for misfit crowds of all kinds, especially as Nero points at a woman with spiky, neon green hair and squawks like a parrot. To Vergil, this place is a suffocating death trap, perfect for swaths of demons to seclude themselves in until the inevitable hunt after sundown. It’s too-tall buildings and few patches of blue sky seem to curl around them, twisting inward and over like the bars of a cage. Vergil struggles to suppress the involuntary shudder fighting its way up his stomach and spine. He wants to travel through here as quickly as his abilities will allow, eager to be on the road to the next small town again.
A deep, quiet rumbling floats into the air via the tiny gut right next to him.
Right, first things first.
“Are you hungry, child?” Vergil asks, his brain automatically switching from the bitter, calculating thoughts of prey that’s escaped far too many times to the tangled knot of impromptu fatherhood.
“Starving!” Nero says, purposefully dragging his feet to give emphasis to his words.
‘It’s like this.’ Supplies are short, they’ve gone hungry since the night prior. Nero is anywhere from six to seven years old and can’t go without food for the same stretches of time Vergil can without risking collapse. After the first time—Nero’s pale face, shivering in his sleep, huddling close to his father’s side as Vergil planned, desperately, obsessively. He needed to find food and shelter for them as soon as possible before the howling, screaming demons descended on them with a thirst for blood and vengeance.
Vergil shivers and breathes out, gradually regaining control of his composure before anyone can attend to it.
He can’t stand the thought of seeing Nero in such a helpless state. There is no living creature on earth he fears, but his son teetering on the precipice of death is not a situation he would like to be plunged into again.
Gearing up for the crowds, as he’s wrought to do whenever he travels, Vergil strengthens his grip on Nero’s hand, gently tugging him towards the center of the city where countless vendors from cultures all over the world have set up food stalls and Nero can gorge himself to his endless satisfaction and delight. It’s with a slight jolt of fear he lets Nero break free of his hold and tear off to the nearest stall, insistently begging for a taste of seasoned meat on a skewer.
‘It’s like this.’ Vergil quietly observes as Nero devours everything offered to him, carried away in a torrent of mouth-wateringly delicious tastes and smells. He’s a vortex, inhaling jumbo pretzels and corndogs and gyro and crepes and a sandwich containing shredded pork and pickled vegetables that neither have ever tried. Vergil nibbles on his food, thoughtless of what he’s eating so long as Nero can pack his stomach and they can collect rations for the road, only relinquishing his facade whenever his boy smiles at him. His soul swells with joy each time, soothed by the reality that his boy is healthy and safe, enough so that he can launch off into yet another story of his meal’s flavors. It's in moments like this that Vergil knows he’d kill to keep that smile—so vibrant and full of life, brightening even the darkest nights—on Nero’s face.
Of course, as is when you’re a Son of Sparda, a spell of bliss never lasts long.
Vergil feels them before anything else, the creeping chill of a demon’s presence crawling up his back. Dancing in the edges of his periphery, his darting eyes catch their shadow in the alleyways. He tilts his nose upward, sifting through the thick, mingling cloud of sweet and savory that falls over the city’s center, and much to his overprotective instincts, finds their faint putrid stench: sulfur.
His gaze slips over to Nero, who’s enthusiastically bouncing up and down while licking a cone full of gelato. 'Er, scratch that,’ Vergil says to no one but himself as he gratefully takes the wet rag proffered to him by a sheepish vendor. Nero is enthusiastically splaying his gelato all over his face. Vergil crouches down with the wet rag, hardly deterred by Nero’s panicked expression, before cleaning his son’s face and hands until they’re completely free of the intruding stickiness. Nero shoots him a damning pout of betrayal which Vergil refrains from cackling at. He can’t get distracted here, he reminds himself. The sound of a demon screeching is rapidly covered up by the cacophony of chatter and shouted advertising.
“Nero, listen to me,” Vergil says with the utmost urgency, the din fading around them as his pulse drums against his ears. Everything slows, the fragrances, the sounds, the euphoria, as if they’re only allowed to exist in a dream, waning away over father and son as the danger infringes on their short-lived sanctuary. He cups his son’s cheeks, turning his full attention toward him. His heart pangs at the innocently oblivious eyes meeting his. “I need you to stay right here. Do not move from this spot. Do not go with any strangers. Wait until I come back.”
“You’re leaving?” Nero asks, his high voice tinged with the beginnings of hysteria. It stings, especially when paired with the knowledge that he’s only had Vergil to love and cherish him over the years.
“Just for a moment,” Vergil promises. Another demonic screech pierces the air, quickly swallowed up by humanity’s cheerful and loud ignorance. Nero goes rigid at the sound, his whole body taken by a fearful flutter. “I will come back. But I need you to stay where I can find you.”
“Is it-” Nero chokes through the tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. “Is it the demons?”
“Not for long,” Vergil says. “I’ll handle it. Stay here.”
‘It’s like this. Always like this.’ Vergil stands, whirls, and slips from the crowd to the nearest and strongest pinpoint oscillating its demonic presence. He pushes the thought of Nero, pale and withering under the squall of demons, away from his head, desperate to focus on both of their survivals. Demons have followed Vergil for ages, by now they’ve certainly connected the bloodline between him and Nero and ache to spill both of their blood for the King of the Underworld. It fills Vergil with a vehement, screaming rage that knows no bounds, respects no barriers, shreds every threat with never a second thought. Vergil knew what he was getting into when he found his blood, his son, wandering the streets of Fortuna. He knew he’d be painting a target on Nero’s back if he did yet selfishly took Nero under his wing anyway. He is still choleric beyond words that their pursuers would continue to dog them.
The sunless shade of the alleyway washes over him as the demons click and clack and tick-tick-tick, maws wet with hunger. Vergil knows these demons, knows their mandibles, horns, and weapons, how big their hunting pack can grow to be, and expects more and more to slowly sneak into the vicinity, crawling out of cracks and crevices, slinking down the walls.
“Feeble,” Vergil mocks them.
The fight launches off in a flurry of screaming. Yamato sings in his hands as she tears through each of their pointless attacks. A primal, lurching fury rushes through the both of them as he warps from one end of the alley to the other, luring them further away from the people, from his son. He keeps each slice and stab as measured and deliberate as possible, recalling every practice session from his rare and peaceful moments. He doesn’t anticipate the black lance that punctures through him nor the blades that cut him down when he least expects it. He doesn’t realize there are far more demons here than he initially thought.
It’s no matter. Vergil yanks the lance out of his body and spins, destroying the offender, tearing through them with viciousness. A barrage of summoned swords flickers into existence above them, coming down in a torrent of glass and shattering magic that put a small chunk of them to death. His healing triggers on instinct alone, along with the demon within as navy scales scour up his arms and legs, silver plating juts out of the side of his head, slivers of demonic energy course through him hot and burning. He forgets pain exists in that moment, only the image of Nero’s smile and how it renews his will to fight.
He pushes off the ground, onto a wall, ripping another demon to shreds as he goes. Lightning and fire crackle around him. He grits his teeth, summoning his power forth as he lunges for one demon that dare hiss a taunt at him. He beheads them, dismembers another with his bare hands when he’s a fraction of a second too late to drag Yamato out of her sheath. He snarls and roars, drenching their audacity in his lust for vengeance, matching every assault no matter how hard it punches through him.
As the fight slowly begins to dwindle, so does Vergil’s patience and the adrenaline that once chugged through him. The dawdling enemies are no match for him, he barely bothers to light them ablaze or do more than a lackluster finish on their corpses. He brings Yamato down on the last demon, reveling in their shrieking as they squirm and writhe under his blade. His scorching glare vows torture of a less clement sort if they ever threaten him or Nero again. It’s only when the last demon finishes dissipating into an ashy splotch, when he can no longer sense the encroaching presence of hell, when he’s certain the battle is over that Vergil lets himself relent. His inner demon fades away, crawling back into the dark crevice of his soul where it always hides unless he calls upon it. It’s then it dawns on him that his injuries are far more serious than most ambushes inflict upon him.
His foundation disintegrating, a winded chuckle escapes him as he heaves himself to the side of the alley. As soon as his back touches the nearest wall, he slides down into a crumpled heap, suddenly aware of every throb of pain in his body. He sucks in a breath as stabbing agony ricochets across his frame at dizzying speeds. The sharp, pungent taste of blood deluges in his mouth as he takes stock of everything that’s happened. It’s with a fleeting note of lucidity, after his vision stops spinning for a moment, he sees himself blanketed in more crimson than he’s been in a while. It overcomes the sleek blue colors he wears.
It’s…
It’s almost too much to bear.
“Dad?”
Nero’s weak voice touches the air with such fragility, Vergil almost doesn’t notice he’s there.
“Nero,” Vergil says through the mutilated remains of his throat. “I told you to wait for me.”
His son only sniffles, crystalline tears tracing clean trails down his cheeks as he breaks away from the entry and crashes straight into Vergil’s chest, forcing him to ignore the agony as it climbs and peaks with the force of his child colliding into him like a shooting star.
‘It’s like this,’ Vergil thinks as he protectively curls his body around Nero’s trembling form, strangled sobs pouring into the deathly quiet air. All his frustration and sharp edges retract, an instinctual urge taking over where his fighting spirit would otherwise be at a loss. Vergil isn’t the father nor the life Nero deserves but Vergil has never considered himself the generous type, so he heedlessly clings to his boy like he’s a lifeline, tethering both of them to this freezing, suffocating instant in the alleyway. He clings to the small, weeping light that needs him more than anything else in the world.
“It’s okay,” Vergil shushes him gently, cradling his son in a protective hold. He prays the nightmares will be light and few tonight despite how futile his prayers always turn out to be. “It’s okay, Nero. You’re safe.”