#ooze writes

Nero thundered across the barren patches of earth, chest heaving and nostrils flaring as he closed the distance between his father and himself. Enraged at seeing his kin in danger, whether Vergil was capable of handling the situation or not, the blood boiling within Nero's veins screamed at him to protect.

Sorry would be those who risked touching his father.

A growl rumbled in his throat, so ready to escape when he unleashed his brutal swinging and jabbing. Even if their bonds were not yet deeply rooted, the strong instincts that propelled Nero forward were enough for him to put his own life on the line to save the other's. Vergil's.

The same Vergil that, only hours before, watched idly as his own flesh and blood was beset upon by ravaging imps. He hadn't deserved to have his ass bailed out. Yet Nero seemed to forget about that small incident; besides, he got out of it no worse for wear, without help from any thing then living. And they went on as usual. Maybe Vergil knew all along that Nero didn't need the help. Maybe he was that acutely aware of the chances.

Nero wasn't the same; didn't care if he was or wasn't. He saw his father struggling, tired, and that was all that registered. The circumstances were unimportant. Whether he was half a demon or not made no difference to a concerned son. His feet pounded irrepressibly with every step and carried him right up to the scumbag of an attacker, a quadruped, that was oblivious to him; probably too engrossed with wanting to choke the life out of Vergil. Its claws curled around his soft, fleshy neck, pinning him down with its weight full on him. He was still alive, struggling but no doubt short on air.

With a sharp halt, Nero dug his soles into the brown, battle-scarred earth, a hand bringing Red Queen down to his side and flinging it with vicious ease at the target.

“Hey, ass face!”

The blade punctured through the demon's muzzle at the instant it turned its head at the call. Distracted, surprised, it howled—or shrieked; or a combination of the two—as it was flung back, tearing itself off Vergil and leaving a trail of thick dark liquid in its wake. He was barely able to catch his breath, coughing as he gasped, pushing himself off his back to sit somewhat erect. Nero knelt by him when he raced over, giving him a quick once-over to make sure the damage didn't need his immediate attention.

“You okay, right?”

The father grunted in affirmation, but this only brought on more coughing and wheezing.

“You're not getting old on me, are you?” With a smirk and a tease, Nero rose to his full height, finally relaxing as he was assured his father's good health—but said father's mood, however, was not in the least good; he'd scowled at Nero for his smart remark, and this only made the youngster feel so much better about everything. The rage that coursed through him took its leave. His father was safe now; no more worries.

“Sit tight. I'll clean this up,” he'd said as he coolly marched on, stepping mindlessly into a pool of the dark red stuff left behind.

The beast was mad with pain, with confusion, and falling deaf with its own cries. It swung its broad head around as it tried to dislodge Red Queen, and Nero took no caution in taunting it to lure it over. This, however, resulted ineffective. He lunged forward for a forceful start, gaining enough momentum to leap into the air, proximity not an issue when his two feet landed on the beast, allowing him the leverage needed to yank his sword right out of its shimmering, dark front. Even more of an ear-splitting cry erupted from the beast, which Nero thought impossible; the damned thing had been loud enough already.

He'd quickly hopped off it after retrieving his blade, and he made a point to size it up just to make the thing squeal out of exasperation. It wasn't a very formidable thing in terms of height—probably a couple of feet taller than Nero—but it was mad as hell. Vicious, too. It charged him, but failed to make an impact. Time after time it went at him, and at each opportunity it missed.

And my dad was having trouble with this freak?

The beast wanted for sympathy; it snorted, snarled, staggered; half deaf, half blind and bleeding from the face. An entity of complete powerlessness. There was no point to it.

Nero saved his breath along with his stamina. He needed only to lay in a handful of rounds from his firearm to shut the beast down for good. The same soupy liquid poured heavily out of its body, pooling all around, and Nero wrinkled his nose at the sight. He hadn't really expected it to be that easy. The wise smirk on his face faded at this revelation, but he was satisfied with the result nonetheless. He holstered his trusted Blue Rose and stowed his sword away before turning back, relieved that the air was still and silent again.

He met the unpleasant countenance of his father's, who was quite fine as he stood basically in the same spot where he'd been left. Nero knew what was coming.

“You made a show of that.”

“After I saved your ass.”

“You shouldn't waste time.”

“Ever learned to say 'thank you'?”

Vergil held his tongue then.

Obviously having defeated his father, Nero proudly stalked around him, waiting only to hear those two sweet words come out of the snake's mouth.

“I'm not—”

“Just say it and we can get going.”

They were definitely thinking the same thing.

Vergil shifted uncomfortably, averting his eyes momentarily as he summed up the guts to push aside his own ego and… show gratitude in the process. He would not live this one down. “Thank. You.” The words were crisp and clear so his spoiled brat of a child wouldn't find any reason to feign a momentary loss of hearing.

“You're welcome, Daddy,” Nero joked, suddenly laughing at his little quip. Oh, the feeling was too sweet! He quit circling his father and knocked him gently on the shoulder, saying, “I can't believe you almost died taking that thing down. Looks like a son of Sparda's losing his luster.”

Irritated, Vergil inched away and presented some of his teeth to Nero in a snarl. “You're alliterating to annoy me.”

Still smiling confidently, Nero replied, “Nah. Wasn't intentional. But it worked out pretty nice.”

Vergil fumed but could not find so much fault with the boy—he cared for his life, after all. There was some meaning behind Nero's actions which touched both his blood and his base instincts. Evidently, there was hope for the two of them, despite how hopeless they often imagined one another. Plus, no matter how annoying his bratty offspring would become, Vergil knew better than to let that behavior get the better of his fortified nerves.

He glared at his son, silent, but not with malice. He understood. He was aware of many things, had become so ever since he got to know the child. Not that Nero was much of a child anymore, but being younger than Vergil classified him as such.

It was best to put the entire ordeal behind them.

Nero could see the fire quelling in his father's eyes, and he knew then that there really were no hard feelings between them. He never meant to hurt his father's pride, though taking a stab at it once in a while was a mighty temptation hard to ignore. The man had his expectations set too high; his ego was inflated beyond a reasonable doubt. Nothing wrong in reminding him what humility meant.

“Anyway, we're done here,” the younger of the pair announced. “You can take care of yourself the rest of the way, right?”

“Nero: walk.”

Vergil took the lead this time, pushing past his son and marching on along their intended path. He would keep to the front of the party for a while, until Nero started whining again about being old enough, being competent enough, being fully suited to take care of things himself, how he was used to surviving on his own, blah, blah…

Vergil never expected any offspring of his to turn out so human.

Nero's behavior, then, was even more of a surprise than his actual identity. To think that such an impatient, aggressive, foolhardy, bullheaded, insubordinate teenager could share any possible blood relation with Vergil was a wild guess at best. On the surface, those traits clashed with his father's; but, as it happened, not everything between them was so high in contrast.

There were a handful of similarities between them, but whenever the pair attempted to cooperate when needed, there was always a spark that ignited an argument—it didn't matter on what subject—that promptly made those similarities insignificant to either side.

An observer, however, could probably see through their shared obstinacy to make the connection.

Hence Nero walking quite ahead of his father, in something of a huff, not caring about the distance that grew between them. The day had grown quite long. In Nero's opinion, it was unnecessarily long, but it had also been full; slashing demons to bits here and there, and trying to ignore his overbearing companion. What was more annoying was the way in which Vergil kept his calm. The fact that he hadn't reacted with hostility toward his son was enough to drive the boy up the wall. It was on purpose, Nero believed. He'd spent enough time with him to understand his use of provocation.

As far as Nero knew, his father just wanted to rile him up.

And it was working.

Even though the daylight would fade soon, the work he had to complete wasn't about to go away with the coming of night. The demons they slew—yes, Vergil was being useful—never seemed to understand that their presence was unwanted.

“You're putting too much force into your blows.”

“And you're seriously getting on my nerves.”

Vergil and Nero would go back and forth, regardless of how many demons opposed them. If their fighting styles hadn't scared the miscreants away, then their tempers really should have. According to Nero, however, the inferior demons were “brainless assholes”. Vergil had no comment.

Whether or not Nero asked for it, his father would help him—but more often he would watch him. A small pack of Scarecrows offered Nero the opportunity to clear them on his own, but he did so with considerable discomfort. If he hated having his daddy give him a hand, he hated even more that he was being evaluated.

He knew he'd performed poorly in the eyes of his father, regardless of getting the job done, and that was the final straw. Nero had taken all that he could from his insufferable parent for that day; Vergil didn't have to say a word.

“Damn it!” the youth cursed with a nice snarl to go along with it. “Why are you even here?”

“Embarrassed?”

“Will you be god damned straight with me for once?” The growl in Nero's voice obviously showed that his anger wanted to force itself out and slap Vergil in the face.

The adult found that all so amusing. “I would, but you hardly take yourself seriously. In consequence, I can't take you seriously.” He stepped forward, facial features never betraying the neutrality with which he mostly approached things. Another one of the many traits which irked his son.

Nero felt offended by the violation of space, though Vergil had not gotten close enough to share breathing room. The hostility in his eyes reflected his stormy emotions, and Vergil could recognize some of himself in them. He failed to recognize his own humanity, of course. That still hadn't changed.

Though Nero took on a more relaxed stance, he was by no means calmed. He curled his fists into tight balls as he glared his father in the eye, repeating, “Why are you here?”

“Guidance, companionship—wouldn't this be expected of your father?”

“You're being a prick, father,” Nero stated, making a point to mock Vergil's new paternal status—which the man was doing a poor job of, by the way.

“Don't take it personally, Nero. I'm helping you in more ways than you could ever help yourself.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

A pause, a moment in which neither of the two budged an inch or said any thing. Their eyes locked, trying to get past the surface to read whatever was hidden deeper. But Vergil had more experience in that; more experience with life in general. He could make educated guesses and form reasonable conclusions about his son, whereas Nero could not do the same for someone who was, very frankly, still a stranger. They had not known each other for more than a few months, give or take.

Unflinching, Vergil replied, “You are too human. Your emotions control you, when it should be the other way around. Control your emotions, adapt, think—but I'm afraid these things might be beyond your capabilities.”

“You really are one hell of a pretentious asshole,” Nero retorted, scoffing at his father's opinion. “I think you've forgotten that I am human, and I've been raised in a human way—in the human world, in case you didn't know.”

“That is unfortunate, I admit,” was Vergil's simple, pitying reply. “But is there anything human in that?” He nodded at Devil Bringer, which Nero was quick to hide out of habit. “Nero, I know where your loyalties lie, but you can't turn away from your lineage.”

“You're changing the subject.”

Quietly, Vergil accepted Nero's distaste and focused on his initial complaint. With a recomposed, fresh mind, he asked, “What about me bothers you, then?”

There was a wonderful opportunity for Nero to lay it all out in the open, but he decided against it. He tried to temper himself as he readjusted focus, thinking back to what was specifically bothering him that day. However, he was already beginning to want to forget about the whole thing.

He flexed his hand, trying to sort out the right words before he spoke. Without taking his eyes off his father, he explained; “You being here. You watching me. You doing it on purpose because you know it pisses me off.”

“You're just a boy, Nero. Nothing more.”

“I'm not a little kid who needs my dad to hold my hand. I don't want you to stand there and take mental notes while I'm actually pulling my own weight.”

“Your 'weight', as you put it,” Vergil remarked, “is hardly anything substantial. Is this the problem you're having?”

The way Vergil spoke gave the impression that Nero's feelings were unjustified and, as a result, completely insignificant. Although the look on his face was the same as ever, there was a new air to him that turned out to be even more obnoxious than before. If that was even possible. Nero disliked where the conversation was going—it usually ended up in the same place ever since he began trying to get along with his father. Progress wasn't there.

“For once you sound like an idiot,” Nero grumbled, giving a snarl before he began to turn away. He was finished with their talk.

Vergil had nothing to say, but merely followed with as much patience and quiet as earlier. He made no attempts to make his presence subtle, and Nero picked up on him pretty much at the instant.

“Could you just leave?”

“I could; give me Yamato, and I will.”

Nero halted, and he chuckled at those words. He turned to face Vergil again, wearing a sarcastic smile that came from all the humor of the day. “Really? Is that really the only thing keeping you on my back?”

“I've already told you,” Vergil said, suddenly gravely, “I won't leave until Yamato is returned to me.”

“Then you'll have to stick around a while longer. I'm not giving you a damned thing, father.”

Vergil was disappointed by Nero's logic. To think all their problems would have been sorted out if Nero only agreed to cooperate. The boy was too stubborn for his own good. At that, Vergil expressed his dismay. “It's a foolish thing to put yourself in such a position when you could very easily get rid of me.”

“Because I would much rather be forced to deal with you than give you what you want. We're both on even ground this way.” With that being said, Nero finally determined to end the discussion there. He turned away from his father a second time that day, resolving to ignore him more efficiently.

Vergil hadn't realized how much of a bitter young man his son turned out to be. And so human, too, as if to add insult to injury. Nevertheless, he followed Nero through the orange streets, painted so by the sun as it reached the horizon. He let out a soft exhale as he came to the conclusion that Fortuna would become more of a permanent situation for him than he originally intended.

Hell had become comforting. Hell became home. But it was such a boring place, and unappealing to the eye. It was unruly, dirty, chaotic, and clashed with his personality. Despite his newly acquired status among the other inhabitants, he didn't much care for that world. In a way, it was too easy. He'd gotten what he wanted there, but there was another half, a parallel, that mattered to him more. Ironically, the population of the same world he wanted to return to was inhabited mainly by the species he disliked. They were calling him back.

With the underworld left behind him, he welcomed himself to the place he'd been banished from. No one would miss him.

He entered the human world anew, as if for the first time; but it definitely wasn't a fresh start for him. He had history there, and remembered it. His brother, the one and the same that betrayed him so callously, remained. It was his brother who had him sent away. Now he was on Earth again, ready to take back what had been lost.

But his twin was not on that list. He would make sure to cross Dante off before finalizing his move. For the time being, however, none of these things were foremost on his mind. He realized he was still a mess of a person, not having fixed himself up ever since his trial among demons. He hadn't exactly cared about his appearance as he used to, but now feeling suddenly earthly, he did begin to mind.

He ran a hand over his limp bangs, feeling them. How long had it been since he groomed? In the sun of the day, he felt warm, and the brightness of everything was startling. But he looked around, recognizing his surroundings, and concluded that Limbo City was where he'd ended up going.

He had to admit the city was a lot more pleasing in terms of aesthetic alone.

You're not here for that.

Right. He'd come for a reason. The tiny voice in the very back of his consciousness reminded him. He found himself straightening out his clothes habitually, as if all the small things of his past life slowly reattached to him. But things were so different now; he could not be the same as he once was.

Still, he wanted to try. Some of his more human elements remained, no matter how badly Hollow had purged him. He could not kill everything. Besides, Vergil held hostility for one, not all. Not her.

And it was her he'd come to see. No one else mattered, and that was the startling thing: that someone other than himself mattered at all. That he'd go out of his way to seek her out—a human, no less—was what struck him. But he could not lie to himself, as he'd known why he thought he should do good on behalf of his conscience. Oddly, it bothered him. Hollow disagreed with all of it, but Vergil didn't care enough about what his new companion ever wanted him to think. Hollow could protest as much as he wanted, but he wasn't in control; he lacked the power, all of which lay in Vergil's hands.

How many years had it been? If it was years that passed… It felt like ages, but time on Earth worked differently. Truthfully, he hadn't felt much older. But, again, things were vastly different on Earth. He didn't know, and in the end it didn't really matter. He realized he was walking along the streets very comfortably, albeit slowly and rather curiously. He felt no threat here despite the fact that demons ran loose and on the prowl. He felt himself smirking at the end result of everything that happened.

Where is the hero now?

Vergil would not help any people in distress. They would take care of themselves. He owed them nothing. They had a savior, anyway. One who decided to take all the responsibility rather than logically divide it between himself and the brother he foolishly cast away. He was the one who'd clean up, not Vergil.

The faint, second consciousness that he carried with him sent messages meant to embitter him more. The thought of them being side by side more often than not, now that he was absent, was one in particular that he'd received, and it touched a nerve.

“Let me do this.”

He growled at Hollow, freely letting his voice ring out into the open, empty street. No one was around, and if someone had been he wouldn't have cared either way. He was just another demon invading human space, the only difference being he was intelligent enough to keep himself on the fringes of their attention. No one knew him, after all. Most people he had ever met would have been killed, anyway. Looking human helped him out so much, of course.

He really didn't know where he was going, only that he was going somewhere—and that he was searching. If she was just as how he remembered her, she'd be open to hear him out. A talk was all he intended on having.

Street after street, his ears tried to hone in on anything that remotely sounded like her. All he got were long intervals of silence, with some unfamiliar yelling, gunfire, and monstrous screeching in between. These things were further away from where he'd been walking, and he preferred to keep it that way. He wasn't in the mood for any hostile confrontation, though he could easily defend himself with his trusted blade firmly in his grasp. He hadn't even noticed it was there. He was so used to holding it, taking it everywhere.

A portion of the city that apparently had been walled off caught his attention—and tugged at his memory. He made his way through the collapsed buildings, noticing a spot in the rubble had been obviously cleared for passage. The whole damn city was still a mess, practically in ruins, and it was no different at the clearing that he'd remembered sharply. And no one was there. For some reason he expected to find someone he knew standing at the center of it all.

How he managed to navigate his way to this spot, he didn't know. His eyes darted left and right, seeing and studying. The memories were fresh here… He didn't like that.

You can almost hear him, can't you?

He brushed the thought off, ignoring the insinuations. But it was a truth that didn't need affirmation. Dante's voice, Dante's words—they were still there. Vergil frowned as he pushed himself deeper.

It was oddly quiet here, in this wide open area. The earth felt still, no winds blew, with such a loneliness to it all that even he had found it disconcerting. The loneliness and emptiness he was used to, but it was the sense of apprehension that suddenly gripped him that made him uneasy. Maybe being here, surrounded by all those memories, in such a familiar place was enough to trigger the feeling. Maybe he thought Dante would stroll right up to him and stab him in the back again—and he thought not just in figurative terms.

Regardless of the countless what ifs, he pressed himself on. He needed to find her; it wasn't a matter of wanting to anymore.

But he needn't go far to reach his end. Beyond the slow, light steps with which he moved, a sensation touched him. No longer alone in this seemingly vast, empty world, Vergil tensed as soon as the realization was made. At his back was a sign of life—Kat's life. He hesitated to turn, to look, but ultimately he had to. And he knew he didn't want to face the expression of surprise, which he'd only sensed before he gathered who it was that entered his space.

But the other didn't move; didn't approach, didn't run away. Vergil decided the best opportunity was now. So he turned, he saw— he felt again. And the memories washed over him, almost drowning him, yet he remained composed. Though he hadn't realized what his expression told her, now that they stood face to face, albeit with good distance between them.

God, her face—her entire person was as he'd always remembered it. Even the clothes she wore were the same from when he'd last seen her. That was a painful memory, now that it was reinvigorated with the mere sight of her. For some reason, his memory of Dante cleared, too, and his image burned brighter than ever in Vergil's mind. It all stung, and he frowned about it.

So far she hadn't said a word, but did she need to? He wasn't supposed to be here...

“Kat,” he acknowledged simply, indifferently, but with enough softness to show that he was not meant to endanger. His eyes were locked onto hers, perhaps helping to keep her frozen in place with the frosty look he'd been giving her. He tried breaking the ice, but his voice only seemed to floor her further.

He'd given her ample room to speak. She did not disappoint. Impressively, she managed to utter his name, though with understandable disbelief.

It was strange for him to hear that, and he almost believed someone else was present who went by that name. But he was the one and the same; he was the Vergil.

I'm Vergil. Of course.

The tension in him wavered, wanting to ease off. His frown even melted away into his features. He had no reason to feel upset toward her, he knew. It seemed that being back on Earth made some of his adopted humanity slowly creep up on him. It was… weird. Not a good thing, but not a bad thing either.

He stared at her, clueless for a few short moments while he thought about what he should say. He had so many things on his mind, really—but which of them all to start with?

“...You remember me.”

“It would be hard to forget.”

Did she include a double meaning there? Vergil shifted, noticing she loosened as the overall shock began to wear off. She was tough, he knew that. He'd always admired that about her.

Before he could get a word in, she tacked on some more of her own.

“Where did you go?” She noticed he looked run-down, and that brought some concern to her voice. “What happened to you?”

Vergil didn't understand; didn't she remember? Didn't she feel like he wasn't worth the trouble anymore? He should have been the one who'd done wrong in their eyes.

“I've been to hell,” he replied very smoothly, “or some version of it.” No, he wasn't trying to be funny, saying he'd been through hell—because he sure looked like it. “I don't know how much time has passed, but everything looks almost identical to when I was last here.”

Kat was incredulous. “You went… to hell?”

“I saw things there, Kat. My eyes were opened.”

“What happened to you?” she repeated, brows knitting in concern and confusion. “You're not the same.”

“Because I'm not. I've never been after what happened here. You should have expected that.”

Though Vergil gained confidence as he spoke, becoming sure of his words, he noticed the discomfort in Kat mounting. She stood in place, but shifted uncomfortably, and he knew he was right in telling the truth. It had to come out, she had to know, whether she believed, or even cared, or not.

“I never thought you would even come back. You looked so... defeated—“

“That was then.” His words were sharp, cutting through her own, and he could feel Hollow laughing at him. Damn, he didn't need this. He didn't need the interference. He corrected himself quickly before adding, “I overestimated myself back then. But now I'm sure: I won't have to deal with that again. I found power, Kat. The power I've been missing in the past is in my hands now. And… I have you to thank for that. In fact, I've been wanting to thank you.”

She took a step back, changing the air between them. “Wait. Stop.”

Vergil pressed himself and gradually shortened his proximity to her, but only slightly so his boldness wouldn't threaten. “I owe you a lot. You let me live; you let me find the piece of myself I've been missing.”

“No, you're not going to credit me with whatever's happened,” Kat said adamantly. She expressed some fear, backing away and denying to be thanked for anything. It was apparent in her whole being, and she so far hadn't shown any of the trust she used to have in him, way back when.

“Kat, I only want to thank you. I realize I've been unfair to you in the past. I want to tell you—“

“You don't need to,” she insisted with her head swaying left and right for emphasis. “I can't believe you, Vergil. You wanted to take Mundus' place. You turned your back on your own brother, even after looking so hard for so long to find him. I didn't want him to kill you because that wouldn't have been right, but…”

Vergil paused. He just stopped; probably stopped breathing a moment, too. She'd told him the things he didn't want to hear. The reality of it all was so different from what he believed. He thought she'd be open, that she'd perhaps be willing to let him set things between the two of them right. But she was rejecting his extension of gratitude. How could he have ever expected to still hold her trust? He should have known so much better than this. He shouldn't have been surprised.

But in his hollow heart he could feel the ache of emotion. Vergil wanted to keep Kat, not let her go—not like what he'd done with Dante.

His icy eyes hadn't ever left her, but they were lost now, along with his confidence. Something about him spelled vacancy, and his look—even his body—deflated. It was impressive how he hadn't brought himself to his knees.

Kat was strong where Vergil was weak. She was right when she'd said he had changed; he was more different than she knew. He had power in his hands, maybe in his mind, but not in his spirit. He was empty now, just as Hollow had made him, and it was safe to say that he was broken in many ways, despite his belief that he was whole.

If he could not come to grips with the reality of Kat's change of heart, how could he ever accept the state of his own miserable life?

How defeated he must have looked in her eyes. That's all he ever seemed to accomplish. He could not exactly compose himself, but he tried to fix things, tried to convince her otherwise.

“I've made mistakes, I know. But let me show you— I want you to know that I appreciate you, after everything—after what I've learned—I realized you were always loyal. I took it all for granted.”

Get to the point, you idiot.

He tightened his jaw as he pressured himself. “I can protect you now. With the things I've gained, we can go together. Just as we used to.”

“Go? Where?”

Vergil drew blanks at the question. He shrugged, showing complete honesty. “Anywhere.”

But Kat only shook her head again. “No, Vergil… Besides, I'm needed here.”

“Who needs you? The Order? It's dead. Or is it Dante?” He caught himself growling every word, but as wrong as it was he hadn't corrected himself. He might not be dead now, but—

“It's so much more than that,” she answered patiently, an expression of sympathy on her face. “If you can't see it, there's no use in making you understand.”

So, Vergil wasn't even worth the effort anymore. So much had changed, and not just in him. In all honesty, he figured she was right. He couldn't make sense of what she meant, and he probably would never have understood—accepted, maybe; not understood. That was beyond him now.

The battle was lost. There was nothing, not a damned thing, he could say to move her. He was practically a stranger to her at this point. It was time to let her go. There was no point in expending himself any further. He'd done what he needed to; he expressed appreciation regardless of her accepting any of it. The other things on his mind weren't important. She would not even believe them. Why try? No, he had enough of being made the fool.

He thought, too, that she should be spared any more vexation. He'd done enough to her. She was a trooper for merely standing there to listen to his babble. She deserved to be left in peace, once and for all.

Slowly, reluctantly, Vergil backed away. Their discourse was at an end. “You should go.” He softened, obviously trying to fortify his front but rather failing at it.

A miserable moment of hesitation lay between both ends. They watched each other with reluctance, a great sense of unease, in their quiet surroundings which seemed to make the Earth itself pause.

“Go, Kat.”

Some deliberation on her end made it harder on Vergil, but ultimately she left. Without added instruction, she turned away from his face, rejecting him outright. That's what he felt, so that's all he knew. For the second time in his life, he was pushed away. He'd become weary of this just the first time around. And he found himself alone again, in an empty world, with not a single fleck of care of affection for him.

He never needed these things, did he? After all, it was compassion that weakened him. He wanted it away from him, and he wanted his own stripped off. Of all the things he ever wanted, that was the one goal he'd been able to reach.

But the work Hollow had done was incomplete somehow. Vergil was feeling, more than he could remember while he was in Hell. He felt, he lamented, he regretted, he suffered. Being on the earthly plane had, perhaps, restored some of the emotion he callously left behind. Seeing a face he remembered with fondness only intensified those emotions, and only made them hurt all the more.

He had been selfish before, but he chose to let her walk free. He wouldn't impede her peace of mind any longer. He knew it was right to leave her be; to just let her make a choice of her own. He hadn't pressured her into anything, and that had to be the wisest thing he'd done so far. Could he find solace in that small fact?

Standing there, directionless, he wondered if coming back here so soon was a mistake. He wondered if he should bother seeking out his twin, only to make him hate him more. Damn, he made everyone turn away. The planet didn't want him.

The place was definitely not like he remembered it—not like how he wanted to remember it. But he remembered how he'd left it, though in pieces—much like the state it was currently in; broken up, torn up, a dirty, chaotic mess. Some of the walls, the contents of the building remained somewhat intact. He recognized them. Felt a touch of nostalgia.

It seemed that no one bothered to clear the wreckage. What he had worked so long to build was destroyed in a matter of minutes. And he'd done it himself—the decision was his own. And had anyone cared to at least throw the remnants away? It remained where it always stood, when it was once proud, but now a graveyard. A grim reminder.

Things went wrong.

But things always turned around. He remembered that his work was not lost in vain. He remembered he would have sacrificed her life, not believing she was salvageable, if he'd followed his own path. But no lives were lost. He wouldn't have had that outcome if—

He remembered the betrayal. Old resentment crept back as he remembered their final moments together. This was no good. He walked deeper into what was now a ruin, a relic. At least, to him, a relic it had become. Just an old thing, dusty and worthless, but worth just a little in terms of sentimentality.

But how sentimental was he? Not very. He hardened himself, thinking it wise. And after everything that passed, he'd hardened even more. What was his heart? but only a muscle that kept his cold blood flowing—nothing more.

He didn't care. He resolved not to care.

Things had changed so much in so little time.

People change.

The rough tiled floors beneath his feet were the most intact. He walked across a good portion of them, remembering when he used to walk the same floors and hallways a time ago. He could almost imagine the upright, gray architecture that safeguarded him. He had no security now.

He wondered for a moment if anyone had noticed him. Well, all the worse for them if they had. He would give no one the time of the day. No one deserved it, he thought. And thinking back, he was a fool for expending himself for others, once believing they were worth it. He exhaled a breath with a touch of sardonic amusement. Only he mattered to himself. He realized that too late.

The great walls had crumbled down. He was exposed, the wind in his face and dragging toward him that earthy smell he'd come to dislike. The smell of the earth, of the world and the animals that inhabited it. The smell of life itself.

Where he'd been, the smell of death was a constant and soon became a part of his life—if his was even considered life anymore. Was he living?

Nonetheless, it was… welcome. Even he thought that was off, but it was all he had and all he knew, and he would gladly take it over the scent that brought memories too bitter for him to stomach.

Better off without it.

He was never human to begin with. This place was never meant for him. He had to leave soon.

Then he stumbled onto the space where he spent most of his days and nights. The air was different. Still smelled of earth, but carried new yet too familiar sensations with it. He grimaced in response. This was no good; not the same. It shouldn't be. He paced around as his eyes darted from here to there, remembering exactly the placement of the things he used to keep in that space. They were all gone by now, destroyed beyond salvation.

He remembered the many monitors, the numerous books, the personal curios scattered in places which were hard to notice. Funny—he remembered those easily.

And his throne—a chair, really, but he liked to believe—at the center of the room, behind his workspace. That had all but vanished. He saw the remains of his elaborate seat on the floor, turned to dust, chips, and chunks. He could hardly make it out anymore. A piece of the fabric lay among the rubble, color dulled beyond recognition, but of course he remembered it vividly, and he saw these details in the mess. He used to sit there. He used to rule.

Well, he sort of does now. Actually, he's more acknowledged than admired. But admiration was never a goal; only respect.

It was respect he wanted, and instead he was rejected and banished. He was disrespected, shown the door, and forced out. But he came back: back through the door that was shut behind him, if only briefly. He hadn't intended to stay—no, not now—but only meant to assess the state of things.

Putrid.

This place meant nothing to him. He should hope that it never would; he'd hate to have the feelings from before. To think: feelings! No, not from him. More like sensations that bounced off his surroundings, rebounded off him, then dispersed into the atmosphere, disappearing. He observed, no more.

But it was hard sometimes.

For all that he'd done to kill his heart, he knew he was not a simple amoeba. He lived and breathed, saw and understood, reasoned and, ultimately, felt. The ability to reason went hand in hand with the ability to feel. Sensitivity and coherence were two sides of the same coin, whether he wanted to accept that or not. After all, his emotions influenced his principles, and that drove him down the path he'd taken. He was in the position he now found himself because of those feelings; those feelings which he deemed unnecessary and intrusive. They defined him.

To rid himself of what little emotion he had left, however shallow or fleeting they had been, would practically destroy his individuality. He just wouldn't be himself if he did. He would have to die. Truthfully, he felt like he had already.

He'd been through death, and he'd come back from it. He wouldn't die again.

As far as he knew, it was the rest who died. In the figurative sense, he killed them off. He didn't need them. He'd used them, it all backfired, and he cast them away. Once used, they became useless.

He wasn't aware that he'd been gritting his teeth at the time.

Dead. All of them.

But he liked it that way. The solitude appealed to him. He liked himself as he was. He liked Vergil—full demon, with assets of angel; son of no one, brother of nobody.

Only Vergil to worry about and nothing more.

And all this power he'd found— earned. It was good. Who could deny such a feeling? Who'd want anything else? It was sweet, addicting, and he wanted more. There was nothing better in the world. Nothing. No one.

He firmed his grip around the scabbard he held beside him. Ah, of course. He'd forgotten—Yamato. The only material thing that really mattered to him, the sword which made him whole. As far back as he could remember, it was a piece of him. He was sure part of him even lived within. There was no need for solitude. With Yamato, he was calm. Yamato made him Vergil.

Only Yamato.

He'd forgotten how quickly time on human ground tended to pass. He was surprised that he'd even been standing there for so long to begin with. Believing enough of his time was wasted, he gradually retraced his steps. He'd frowned when he took one last look at the rubble and the dust that collected in what was once something of a stately room. It was all stupid to him now, and he felt foolish for ever having visited. The memories that were refreshed were unpleasant, but he never expected to feel good about them anyway.

He paused once he cleared the remains of the tiled flooring. What was left to do? Here was here now, back on earth; all he had to do was take his pick. None of his options appealed to him, though. It was uncomfortable enough to exist in the same city where he felt the extension of his blood lingering. Staying any longer would be a mistake.

So it was decided then and there. He walked off, intending to leave, but to not return to where he'd come from. His path was unclear, but he was already planning ahead. For the time being, he would stay out of Limbo City.

He had a right to this world: it was his, in one way or another, and he would make it his alone. Just Vergil's world.

Yes, he was bitter. So very bitter.

There was something more Connor needed to do. On top of all that he already had to deal with, there was the small matter of bringing a ship back to working order. A brig, however comparatively small to others, apparently needed Connor's help.

And thus he became acquainted with a Robert Faulkner; another friend, and a man who knew more than his personality showed. It seemed he too had a Pokémon that worked and lived alongside him—a Samurott that appeared to have just as many years of experience and knowledge as its human. It showed good temperament; it was tolerable, patient, yet snapped the youngsters out of their loafing. It was a loyal, hardworking Pokémon indeed. A just role model for the still growing Growlithe that had yet to learn the harshness of life.

Faulkner, having begun spending time with Connor thenceforth, understood how closely he felt to his Growlithe, and also how little he knew of Pokémon—not that the older man claimed to be any expert. His knowledge came from what he heard, aside from personal experiences, and shared what he knew with the young man. He spoke largely of something called evolution; something he knew firsthand about, since he'd seen his Samurott evolve before his own eyes. Connor could not fathom what he heard, but he knew how mysterious Pokémon were to begin with. Some could evolve, some could not. Why?

Shortly after one conversation, Faulkner gifted Connor a novelty, something he'd found years ago. Neither of them knew what its use was, but Faulkner figured Connor could find something to do with it—so Connor took the translucent, orange, polished stone from his new companion. He would remember to look at it thoroughly later on.

Things had gone smoothly since repairs to the Aquila started: Connor's training advanced, and in between sessions he helped with the brig. Whenever he found the time, he taught Growlithe what he thought useful to a small dog, among other things. So as Connor grew and gained more skills, his Growlithe did as well. They learned together, rested together, and grew up at the same time with one another. There was nothing Connor found out that Growlithe didn't know about either, even if it might have understood less. All the same, it smartened up. And with Samurott's help, it learned to mature.

It seemed Faulkner's Samurott was a source of guidance to Growlithe, almost the same as Achilles was to Connor.

The difference, however, was that Faulkner taught Connor many things besides what he'd learned from Achilles. The young man was surrounded by people who could show him one thing or another. In this way, Connor had learned a few basics to sailing when the Aquila's repairs were done. It took a good six months or so by the time the ship was completed, almost as good as new. The brig was missing cannons and a few more men, but despite that Faulkner urged Connor to set aboard.

For his first voyage, he'd done well. With Growlithe right there with him, he took the helm and quickly got the hang of sailing and all that came with it. He called out commands and the crew listened; he steered almost expertly; and Faulkner never felt more proud of someone he'd half taken under his wing. It was as if Connor had already been hardwired to sail!

Martha's Vineyard was their one destination, and the trip there was smooth. What hadn't been as pleasant, though, was the stay there. Things went a bit... rough. Fortunately, the Aquila got its cannons and the officers to man them. Connor set sail again, already very comfortable with the position he'd been practicing for.

And so the days went on, Connor steadily becoming familiar with the ins and outs of sailing, and forming a sort of attachment to the brig he'd helped to restore. Their voyage had lasted a few weeks, and in that time even Growlithe developed sea legs. Plus, their confrontation with some smaller ships and a frigate helped to steel the pup's nerves against the sounds and sensations that accompanied naval warfare.

Amazingly, Connor and the crew managed to decimate the attackers. Not bad for a modest brig and an amateur captain at its helm.

Some time after first setting off, the Aquila returned to the Homestead safe and sound, with a successful seafarer in Connor and his little dog just as impressive. With their voyage concluded, Connor found himself making his way back to the manor. He hoped Achilles would not be too cross with him.

"Three weeks and not even a goodbye before you left."

Of course. He should have expected this. Guilt suddenly weighing heavily on Connor, he apologized simply as he could not find anything to say to excuse himself. But he had done so much in only three weeks. If only the old man would give him enough time to elaborate on his activities.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Just like that, Achilles led Connor to the manor's basement. He had only to make a vague suggestion for Connor to snap into obedience and trail his mentor close at his heels.

Finding a ripe opportunity as they walked, the apprentice broke the silence when he spoke. "Mr. Faulkner had much to tell me."

Achilles suddenly seemed to forget the bitterness he feigned just a moment ago when he replied, "He usually does."

"Apart from sailing, too. He talked much of... evolution."

"Oh?" Genuine interest made itself apparent in Achilles' tone. "And what of this did he tell you?"

"Many things, many of which were vague." Connor's voice trailed off as he stepped into the basement with Achilles right beside him. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim space he was by now used to. He continued: "But these were things I found hard to believe; things that did not make sense. One thing that struck me was when he said many Pokémon can evolve, but some cannot."

"Faulkner is right," Achilles replied patiently. His interest in hearing what Connor had to say allowed him to wait and listen, and to respond with calm. "All men can agree that there is no full understanding of this so called evolution. And believe me, many have tried to change that."

"But why?" Connor wondered with sincere curiosity. "Why do some not go through this, while others do? And why change at all?"

"I wish I could tell you that myself. It's just the way things are."

There lay a cloud of silence over the two, Connor's more thoughtful than Achilles', who only remained silent to leave his apprentice some room to think, and maybe change the subject.

But Connor remembered the rock he'd been given a while ago, and realized he had it on him ever since Faulkner gave it to him. He brought it out from beneath the layers of his clothing and held it out for Achilles to see. "Mr. Faulkner gave this to me, too. He did not—"

"This?" the old man echoed as he grabbed it himself, eyes wider than usual as he looked it over. "What did he say about it?"

"Nothing," Connor said frankly, a little taken by surprise by Achilles' sudden animation. "He never knew what it was for and said I should have it."

"And this is the same man that wanted to teach you how to steer a brig," Achilles remarked with a bit of amusement. "Connor, your Growlithe—he can evolve."

For a moment, Connor could not find any words to speak. He merely stared at Achilles, square in the face, almost as if he'd been doused in cold water. But he looked down at the puppy Pokémon that sat at his feet, whose behavior changed upon the news.

"Are you... sure?" the youth asked for confirmation.

Achilles nodded. "I know this."

"Then—"

Anticipating Connor's argument, Achilles immediately explained, "If you'd known back at the beginning, you'd never have gotten this far with your own progress. Besides, you had no means to make him change." With that said, he returned the stone to Connor, who took it back with a lighter touch.

"And this?" Connor wondered.

"That rock is more than a piece of earth," explained his mentor. "Now, I know less of this than I might make it sound, but with that stone, you have a choice to make."

It seemed perhaps it was fate that Connor meet Robert Faulkner; that he become friends with him, and in time receive an item from him that happened to be beneficial. He learned that a Pokémon underwent fantastic changes when evolving. So the stone in his possession facilitated that process? From what he gathered, he could use it to make the change happen—to force it upon his little friend.

Connor did not know—he could not know—what to do. In that moment of revelation, his thoughts became scattered and his attention left all things except for what he beheld in his hand. But Achilles was sure to snap him out of his trance, which he did so with a deliberate tapping of his cane. Connor's eyes darted up at the pair that stared back at him; those which seemingly looked into his mind and studied every doubt, every theory. He did not know what to do. It was not like Achilles could help, either. Opinions and advice the elder could give, but the final choice was Connor's to make—and in the end, it fell on Growlithe to accept.

"You have time to think it over," Achilles reminded. "No need to rush into making any decisions. Besides,"—he motioned at the Assassin robes that Connor had always eyed—"there is one thing..."

Scarcely believing what Achilles implied, Connor carefully stepped forward, reaching out to feel the robes. He was entranced by them that very instant, and he had almost all but forgotten what Achilles had told him.

"Put them on."

With a single glance toward his mentor, Connor finally registered what he was supposed to do. Growlithe would have barked, but felt the atmosphere in the room become quite solemn. It padded closer, however, to the two whose silence was a little more than unbearable at the time. It guessed this was important; Connor had always admired those robes, and it knew he should have felt glad upon having the chance to actually wear them. Growlithe could not believe how good he was at keeping a straight face.

It sat quietly by Achilles as they both waited upstairs for Connor to try on his new clothes; and upon his return, rose to its paws in wonder and excitement.

Connor was barely recognizable as he now wore the robes of his aspirations. It would take time to get used to the fit and feel, but nevertheless he was more pleased than he cared to show. But he also knew that he now carried certain responsibilities with him, and he understood the weight of his duties that he vowed to fulfill. For the moment, at least, he could bask a little in self-indulgence.

Growlithe was the first to walk over, sniffing its boy's boots and giving a cheery bark in response to his new appearance. Connor only nodded, and bent over to pat the tuft of fur on the Pokémon's head. He immediately looked at his mentor when he straightened out, who so far had been watching him studiously. He approached him, and after locking eyes with the man for a brief second, the other decided to speak.

"Once upon a time, we had ceremonies on such occasions. But I don't think either of us are really the type for that. You've your tools and training; your targets and goals; and now you have your title."

Something inside Connor demanded him to brace himself.

"Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor."

The impact from those precise words was more than he'd expected it to be. But he did well in coping, accepting, and reacting. His outside showed sobriety, but his inside was going through something else completely.

As Achilles turned away, he made his voice heard when he said, "There is something else."

The old man paused to listen.

"I have made a decision. I had time to think, and—" He stopped himself when he pulled the same orange stone out from beneath his layers of clothing as before, capturing Growlithe's focus with it. He knelt down, to get closer to his friend, and held the stone out to it so it could get a better, more direct look at it. "If it's all right with you," he said to the pup, "I think the time is now."

Growlithe was not sure of what to do. It didn't know if evolving was right or wrong; if doing it now was right or wrong. But Connor thought it should be done. Perhaps that would be a good thing; and to do so after Connor reached a milestone of his own. It would help them both. Growlithe would be more useful, even more of an asset to its human partner. Was there any harm in it?

But Achilles chimed in with a taste of reality. "You understand that there is no turning back after this."

Connor, anticipating Achilles' intervention, replied, "I am ready as long as he is willing. And... I believe he deserves this. We have both been through a lot since I brought him here, and I think he is ready to take this step."

"Something like you, then? To mature the same way you have and to take the same steps you have taken?"

"I suppose."

The new Assassin was hoping to hear something else from Achilles, but the old man said nothing, and the silence that followed their short exchange cemented the fact that it was all up to Connor. Some doubts floated around his head, telling him that this was too soon, that Growlithe needed more time. But more and more thoughts convinced him that there was no time like the present; that there was no better opportunity, no better set of conditions. Achilles was there, Connor became a full Assassin, Growlithe had just returned from a journey out to sea with its friend—

The pup had no way of knowing how evolution took place, but it saw the stone gleaming in Connor's hand and only guessed that touch would trigger the metamorphosis. It stretched its neck, touching lightly the stone with its nose, and that alone seemed to do the trick. Within an instant, the Pokémon glowed a bright white, almost blinding in intensity which caused Connor to narrow his eyes, almost shut them. There was no way to turn back.

He could see the Pokémon's form changing inside the light; it grew bigger—much bigger—height increasing until it reached about a foot just below the ceiling. It extended out as well, giving Achilles a reason to move aside. The light that emanated from the evolving Growlithe grew as the Pokémon itself did, but soon it began to dim, the Pokémon's new form and size fixed and eventually revealed with the dying light.

What stood in Growlithe's place was by far the largest canine Connor, and even Achilles, had ever laid eyes on. Its coloring was much like Growlithe's, but so much of the rest had changed in such a short amount of time. Instead of rounded ears, there was now a pair of pointed, angular ones at the sides of its head. Even more fur covered its body, and the fur on its tail had doubled in volume. More black markings streaked across its pelt, and the babyish look to its face had disappeared entirely.

Only then had Connor realized the stone was nowhere to be found: his hands were empty, and nothing accidentally fell to the floor. He stared on in awe at the newly evolved Growlithe—though it was not Growlithe anymore, as Achilles pointed out. This new Pokémon was Arcanine, according to the old man, and Connor found no reason to disbelieve his knowledge.

"Arcanine," Connor repeated to make sure he got it right.

His Pokémon responded to the new name with a gentle crooning. Like Connor, Arcanine too gained a new identity. Arcanine's voice became deeper, but only somewhat, with more ferocity to it. However, both its appearance and its voice did nothing to affect its personality, which remained very playful, almost childlike, the way it had always been. With this Connor was familiar, and he saw that in Arcanine's eyes. The Pokémon was only some inches taller than him, and he still had room to sprout. The two would definitely look like an imposing pair once Connor grew to his full height.

But despite the drastic change in Arcanine's physiology, it was rather unaware of anything happening at all, and actually stood quite content and steady where it was. It did, however, wag its massive tail and pad forward to joyfully lick Connor's face. Now it could give him kisses whenever it wanted; no longer did it have to wait until it was carried or for Connor to sit at ground level. The now small human accepted the affection with a bit of reluctance. He felt the heat that emanated from the giant Pokémon which was very new to him. Its fire probably burned hotter than ever before!

"My, how you've grown," Achilles remarked to Arcanine as he made his way to Connor. He felt the immense warmth too as he ran his hand against its fur. "That stone must have been absorbed during the evolution. I've heard of such a thing."

"But why? How?"

Shaking his head, the old mentor replied, "No one knows. There are only witnesses, like you and I, who have to stand and wonder."

Connor found himself unable to say anything. No words came to his mind, and he merely stood where he was as the realization of everything that passed started to soak in. He could hardly believe he had just become an Assassin; that he was now closer to picking off the Templars than he'd ever been—and he was ready for it. Plus, now having a bigger and better Pokémon, with enhanced abilities and powers to match, would aid him a great deal in his quest. Together, they would bring down their foes. The Grand Master, too, should quake in fear.

"Connor," the old man said as he spoke very frankly, "it's all up to you now. The fate of the Brotherhood lies in your hands, and even that of this country. Both are very fragile right now, both capable of falling under Templar control."

"I— We will put an end to their plot," the young Assassin reaffirmed with the purest of confidence. He put a hand on Arcanine to demonstrate that he and it would work in unison to meet their goals.

Arcanine, once out of the picture, was now a part of Connor's vision. This delighted the Pokémon. It growled to show its readiness and determination.

Achilles could think of a few things to say; he could have told Connor to exercise extreme caution, to be wary of the countless dangers he faced, to remember how to survive and adapt, to trust his better judgment and to leave said trust in the hands of only those who were wholesome. To not accidentally put his trust in a Templar. But none of these things he said. He forgot briefly that his own trust need be placed in the hands of his own apprentice. Connor would do well; he'd seen the potential in him, and the boy had such fierce resolve anyway. That alone would lead him far.

When Achilles told Ratonhnhaké:ton that he needed his help with the manor, the youngster never expected he'd find himself in such a place as Boston. That, and he'd apparently needed a new name. He didn't argue with Achilles, and so was given another identity: Connor.

But, deep down, he would always be the boy from Kanatahséton.

This new name was something that would take getting used to. Not just for Connor, but for the Growlithe that had only begun to know him as Ratonhnhaké:ton. It was likely with age, however, that the Pokémon would understand both names belonged to the same human. As it stood, he would be known as Connor for a large part.

Achilles had sent him off to buy the supplies he sought, and Growlithe went with him—just the day after they'd met. It tailed him everywhere, following closely without straying too far for too long. Quickly it had learned to stick close to the one who cared for it. The attachment had already formed, and Growlithe liked Connor anyway. It was plain to see, without the need for Connor to admit it, that they spent much time together over the past several hours.

For the time being, though, he found himself amid upheaval in the streets, and his attention belonged to Boston entirely. Crowds amassed, yelling and mixing together, growing, spreading out. Connor navigated through the angry civilians, with Growlithe confused yet still close at his heels. And there, finally, he met up with Achilles, who'd also expressed bewilderment. But they both heard; the people were complaining of unfair taxes. The British who tried to restore peace were all but spat at.

"What happened?" the boy wondered when he reached his mentor.

"That's what we're going to find out."

Not exactly what Connor wanted to hear. Yet he followed Achilles through the crowds all the same.

Anger spewed from every citizen that congregated. With the thickening crowds, the heat of their passions boiled. Connor distinctly heard one yelling, "You're right cowards, pointing guns at unarmed folk!" among a hash of others claiming they were fearless in the face of the British. He'd even heard the British themselves throwing shouts and warnings back at the people of Boston. Was this all so necessary?

But his heart stopped when Achilles pointed out someone behind the organized British line of defense. A man he recognized, a man he'd come to know as the Grand Master himself.

"Is that my father...?" Connor wondered out of disbelief. Of course he knew; the Grand Master, his own father, was right there in front of him. A Pokémon was beside him, too, Connor saw. One with a seemingly quick eye, and navy feathers and a bonnet to match the appearance of the Grand Master. It was almost as if the Pokémon was only there to complement Haytham Kenway.

Connor almost hadn't caught what Achilles instructed, but his ears hadn't deceived him as his courage, which surely had in some way. He faltered a little, reluctance creeping up as he now had to follow—dangerously closely—a man that had engaged the Grand Master's attention earlier, and perhaps fortunately kept him from noticing the boy who stared at him with more fascination than was safe.

Growlithe was inclined to follow, and actually did for the first few steps, but Connor was wise to pick up on Growlithe's presence and directed the hopeless thing to stay behind. If Growlithe was older, tagging along would have been all right, but...

Connor had managed to carry out his instructions, but unfortunately things turned sour right after he'd stopped his target. He tried to run, to hide, to not get shot and killed, and all with a helpless pup who stubbornly refused to leave. Suddenly he was alone, and just as helpless as the pup he carried.

He was hunted, believed to be the one responsible for throwing the already agitated crowd into chaos—and it was all thanks to his father, who too kindly pointed him out to a British soldier. That's when the hounds were sent upon him.

Muskets fired, people screamed, and soldiers yelled to track down the unprepared Connor. It was all very nerve-wracking, very close to disaster.

Running and hiding suddenly became two skills that needed perfecting on the spot.

Thankfully, his pursuers had eventually lost his trail. But he was a wanted child, with a price on his head. Apparently, that's what he'd learned from a Samuel Adams, who very graciously helped him cover his own tracks, and proceeded to help him return to the Davenport Homestead. It seemed from the entire mishap, Connor had gained an ally; a rare and precious thing. The boy and his pup spent a good couple of weeks out at sea before they found themselves home again. Connor's frustration when he met Achilles was understandable.

But the time he spent without guidance—on his own, with just his Pokémon by his side—gave him a great deal of insight. Additionally, he'd taken that time to bond, unwittingly, with the Pokémon he thought he wanted no association with. Growlithe turned out to be more loyal and comforting than he'd ever imagined. It never left his side, it always rose to defend him. And when threatened by Rattata in the underground tunnels, Growlithe had used its first attack to scare them away. A modest Ember impressed Connor and even Samuel Adams, and it goes without saying it was a definite surprise. Even Growlithe had not realized what sort of power it was capable of. This was a turning point in its growth, and in the growth of the pair's relationship, too.

Another surprise had waited for Connor back at the manor, as it turned out. Achilles granted him use of a pair of Hidden Blades, an Assassin staple. As Connor fitted them on, he realized he'd taken an important step on his journey to becoming a full-fledged member of the Brotherhood. There was a sense of pride in him at that moment, and Growlithe barked to emphasize that.

The snow almost went up to his knees whenever he took a clumsy step.

Ever since he sought out the symbol that presented itself in his "vision," for lack of a better word, he'd come to know a man by the name of Achilles and his association with a particular bunch known simply as Assassins. Indeed, the symbol that had burned itself in his curious mind was the very thing that identified an Assassin.

And it was an Assassin Ratonhnhaké:ton was aiming to become. Hence his trudging in the deep snow—all part of his training. He had only started a few days ago, but he was as determined as ever. The bitter cold helped to steel himself. Yet, he was still a boy in his teenage years, and all the strain he was putting on his body all of a sudden did take its toll.

He found himself alone, with Achilles back at the Homestead while he was left to his own devices as he worked himself. The weather was pleasant, considering all things; bright sun, refreshing snow, crisp air with a chill to it, and a still wind. Ratonhnhaké:ton could get the most done on a day such as this. He ventured out into the wilds that branched away from the Homestead, as he'd often done, for the purpose of bettering his newly learned skills. It seemed that the old man had put enough trust in him to just let him wander.

No matter how much trouble he had pacing through the freshly settled snow, the boy always managed to struggle his way back to where he was expected. But for the moment, he could stay out longer. It was still day, after all.

His hours were spent jumping, running, climbing—going through trial after trial, with progress hardly showing for all the work he put into his practice. Frustration began to set in, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew it was best to stop before he'd anger himself. He sunk down into the snow as he rested, not at all bothered by the cold pressing against him. With the day still so young, he felt disappointed, wasteful. But what could he do? No one could change in a day.

The quiet of the wilderness comforted him, at least. He listened to the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, the birds chirping here and there. He started to remember the day he left Kanatahséton, and the days even long before, when he survived and lived largely on his own; and he remembered even further back, when he was still so young, his mother still with him...

Rustling snapped him out of his melancholy thoughts. He heard it near, and he sprang to his feet in alert. He grabbed his tomahawk, ready to defend himself. He could feel he was suddenly not alone, but had the suspicion the presence belonged to a wild animal rather than a human. His eyes locked to a large evergreen amidst a group of smaller specimens that surrounded it. A snowbank conveniently covered some of its lowest branches. The sound definitely came from there, as he was keenly aware.

Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't moved, though perhaps doing so would have been the wisest idea. He bravely stood his ground, maybe thinking fending off a hungry predator would do wonders for his Assassin training. As he waited, he heard more rustling, watched the branches shuffle, and heard...

...a yip?

An animal emerged from behind the pile of snow: brown fur with black markings, short legs, and a round, black nose. It stared at him, curious yet unafraid, and in fact friendly. Its tongue suddenly peeped out of its mouth, its large gray eyes giving it the look of a baby. A hungry predator this was not.

Ratonhnhaké:ton relaxed at the sight of the pup. It seemed he was right about there being an animal, although he was wrong to fear for his life—apparently. Though there was every possibility the young pup's parents would be around. In any case, he put away his tomahawk and straightened himself out from the defensive stance he'd taken.

Feeling it best to let the pup go on its way, he turned to ignore it and started on his own way back to the Homestead. As his feet fell through snow, he heard heavier poofs behind him between steps. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted the young Growlithe unsurprisingly covering his tracks.

"No," the boy demanded simply. Trying his best to sound assertive and unwavering, he made it clear to the Pokémon that it should not follow.

But Growlithe only watched him.

Attempting to leave again, Ratonhnhaké:ton turned away, but Growlithe moved forward. Another "no" came accompanied by pointing in the opposite direction. The pup glanced back only to return its gaze upon the human.

His shoulders sagged, suddenly weighed by impatience. A sigh left his mouth as he wondered how to deal with a Pokémon that evidently could not understand. He wondered how Achilles was able to tame the two Pokémon that he'd been living with. Could they understand him? Was this Growlithe just too young?

The pup seemed to gather some bravery and stumbled toward Ratonhnhaké:ton, almost reaching his legs before he decisively hopped away. It looked up at him, large gray eyes seemingly reflecting sadness, and finally stirring up some sympathy from the reluctant human. He bent over, offering a hand to the pup who curiously craned its neck to sniff that which hovered in front of its muzzle. It stumbled forward, touching his palm with its cold nose before giving it a lick. The Pokémon smiled at him then, or at least it looked like it had. Ratonhnhaké:ton could only gather that the pup was aware of there being no danger, hence it putting even more trust in him. This might have been a mistake.

The Growlithe sat close to him then, ears pricked outward as if paying the utmost attention to him. Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if now it would take heed and go back to whence it came. He pointed again in the same direction as before, frowning to show how serious he felt. Growlithe didn't move, didn't even look back.

He really didn't need this.

The Assassin-in-training was nearing his wit's end. He thought of only one thing he could do. He bent over again, put his hands around the pup, and picked it up off the ground before resting it against his chest. Awkwardly, he held the Pokémon near him, and that seemed to give it great excitement. He was less joyous about the whole thing, but regardless he carried the Growlithe with him as he returned to the Homestead.

"I thought you would know what to do."

It was no surprise that Achilles had been struck with a genuine sense of confusion when he saw his charge with an unusually happy wild Pokémon standing outside the front door. It was hard to believe the tale Ratonhnhaké:ton had related, but then again Achilles had heard stranger things.

"It would not leave me alone," the boy repeated from earlier.

Growlithe was pleasantly still in his arms, panting as it looked around, finding Achilles the most interesting thing to look at. Not even the Watchog and Herdier that stood on either side of him grabbed its foremost attention.

"It's still very young," Achilles noted, but this Ratonhnhaké:ton already knew. "It might have been left behind by its family. Whatever the reason for its being alone in the woods, one thing is very clear to me: it has obviously seen you as a potential parent." There was a hint of amusement in his voice when he indicated the teenager had just become a caregiver without even volunteering. "It reached out to you, boy, and you brought it back here. You've already accepted it as yours."

"But I only mean to help it until it is old enough—"

"When that time comes, that Growlithe will have become too attached to you and the life you're offering."

There was a look of concern on the boy's face, and he glanced down at the heap in his arms as he projected himself in such a time span. "So you mean to tell me that... this is mine now?"

A silent nod from Achilles confirmed his growing suspicions. "Unless he suddenly decides he doesn't need you anymore."

"'He'?"

"Trust me on that one," Achilles replied with something of a wise smile. He added, with sudden gravity, "This is a great responsibility, so raise that Growlithe seriously."

Ratonhnhaké:ton only nodded as he listened, taking to heart everything his mentor had said.