Another creature falls, porcelain head shattered under the weight of her heels. Number five, over a dozen more remain. They scream and wail in a way the Nevi never do, their voices bounce off the walls and make her ears ring. Kat hurls more rubble their way, but even if they fall, they get back up, undeterred. There’s a roof caging her in, thick concrete that she can’t bust through while rusty blades swing at her from below. Her light attacks won’t cut it here, not against this number.

Kat heads for the far upper corner of the room, tucks herself into it with her feet down, and switches to Jupiter style. She charges up, knowing full well that she’s weak from being tossed through a portal, and this attack will leave her exhausted, but doesn’t let it stop her. 

Her impact with the ground shakes the entire building. Her enemies fly off to the far walls, where most shatter on impact. Those that don’t immediately perish are maimed enough to stay where they are, so that chunks of ceiling raining down from above can finish the job for her. The room is flooded with dust, and when it begins to settle, it reveals the gravity queen down on her knees, breathing deeply through her scarf.

“Hm.”

Noncommittal, undecided yet indifferent. It was not sudden thought that prompted a hum, but the realization that his brother had begun slipping from reality. Lucid though he may have no longer been, he’d at least still have enough cognizance to determine whatever it was his twin was bound to argue with. That was, if anything, Vergil’s understanding, and he felt all too secure in the accuracy of his interpretation. “You want us to be private eyes? Holmes and Watson—is that it?” He played along mildly, partly for the sake of amusing himself at the expense of an inebriated Dante. “You might be thinking about being vigilantes. Now that’s an idea,” he quipped with a smirk. “Regardless, I’m certainly not going up a tree for any damned cat. You don’t exactly call that a business, Dante. You shouldn’t call it anything but a shit idea.” There it was, laid out flat and in the open. His opinion shared, he stood idly only feet before Dante, wearing the most unenthusiastic of expressions. “Put yourself to bed before you come up with something you’d make us both regret. Don’t think I can’t smell what’s on you.”

A calling had drawn her to Limbo City.  It pulled her closer like a moth to a flame, igniting her need to be there and understand what it was she had been feeling.  Her Mother’s suicide had left a heavy weight on her shoulders, and there was so little to lift the pain from her that it drove her all the harder to try to understand why.  Had those strange ripples she saw around her Mother been the demons she had prayed would go away?  Had the world really gone mad, and unleashed hell on earth? 

But there was something else.. A power that seemed to burst into existence that she could feel all the more strongly when she reached Limbo City.  She asked if anyone else felt it, but no one seemed to understand. 

During the day she was searching, stopping only to help those in need, and help herself by not starving herself or depriving herself of much needed sleep.  If she were going to find the source -- she needed to remain strong and vigilant.

     Though he always knew he would shed no tears for his king’s downfall, never — never would he have imagined such a... sudden turn of events.

     He had only ever been of a mind to watch on, of course, from the shadows, to keep a reasonable distance from Mundus’ unraveling. It was to be expected: the past few hundred years, especially, have seen his own role in his monarch’s machinations dwindling, the once-esteemed demon king devolving into little more than a fool drunken with power, consumed, blinded, by rage. No, the fall of Mundus comes as no great surprise to the seasoned tactician.

     And then, there’s the matter of the boy.

     Ignis remembers Sparda, oh, yes he does. For its worth he never forgot the man’s strength, the raw power in his possession, even in the midst of a betrayal so grand. But the nephilim children he’d spawned had been nothing more than a footnote for most of Ignis’ own life following, an afterthought. He understood his master’s paranoia but considered it little more than just that, the ravings of a demon confronted with the worst of his fears, the loss of his control.

     Even one with such considerable foresight as himself would not have seen a son of Sparda laying claim to the throne, to whatever might be left of demonkind’s fractured monarchy. And as the tensions among warring factions climb steadily towards their climax... Ignis cannot help but wonder just what this new king of theirs plots from his earthly palace.

‘ don’t you have a tiny blonde wife you need to pay attention to? go away. ‘ features wrinkle with feigned disgust and irritation, tails swaying, tip flicking, ears twitching. anything to make it appear he was annoyed. the truth of the matter was, he just... didn’t fucking care.