One could say literally anything about Dante. One could call him a useless idiot who only survived on pizza without olives and strawberry sundaes, who was completely incapable of handling money properly and who never managed to repay Lady. But there was one thing that had to be admitted. Something that everyone knew about the demon hunter. He does not cry. Devils don’t cry, they never do. At least in public where they’d risk being seen by someone. Behind closed doors, however, that was a different story. When the door to Dante’s room in the living quarters above his shop fell shut and he was left alone with his thoughts, the mask he instinctively put on every morning fell.

Dante’s eyes locked onto the picture frame on the night stand next to his bed. Even in the dark he could still clearly see the photo, worn edges already yellowing and the image of two seven-year old boys with snow white hair and bright blue eyes grinning into the camera slowly fading away.

He could never bring himself to put this one next to the one of his mother on his desk in the office. When he was working – or at least busy with his version of working – he liked to have the warm smile of his mom greet him whenever he looked in her direction. A silent reminder that whenever he did take a job, he helped to make the world just a little bit safer. That his work was important.

But that was also the reason he could never put the picture of him and Vergil in the office. It would just remind Dante that because of his work his brother was dead, slain by his own hand. He didn’t need that.

Dante sat down on his bed quietly, not moving for a moment before extending his hand and allowing his gloved fingers to close around the wooden frame, bringing it closer to him. A feeling of nostalgia bubbled in his chest as the memory of that day resurfaced in his mind. It had been a warm day in late spring bordering on early summer.

He and his brother had spent the entire day outside, splashing each other in the river. Their childish giggling and laughter had filled the air while their parents watched from beneath the shadows of the great oak tree in their garden. Their mother had taken the photo after their father had tried and failed to operate the camera. He never did get the hang of human technology.

When they were children, Dante and Vergil had been each other’s closest confident. No matter how hard, long or often they fought, they always stayed together.

Too late did Dante notice the tear rolling down his face to stop it from dropping on the photo. It wouldn’t be the only tear and it certainly wouldn’t be the last night Dante spent like this.

Vergil is a strong warrior. His sword skill are flawless, his techniques fast and deadly, filled with precision, ruthlessness, and life-like coldness.

But... is Vergil really strong?

He is a grown man, well-trained, with physical abilities far superior than any other human being. But that's only the outside.

Let's ask the simplest question: who is Vergil?

"A Son of Sparda", he would answer without any hesitation, but it's just a cover, a swiftly turned reality. Who is he, ma frens?

A witness of a murder, an orphan, an older brother, a poet...

Nelo Angelo,

and a father.

All those titles, all the names he could take, but at his quest for power, he could not appear weak. A future ruler of Hell cannot bare a name associated with being a victim; he wants to evoke fear, respect, he wants the biggest demons to tremble before him...!

  Venturing away from Fortuna was quite a feat for the youth as he ventured down the busy streets of Redgrave city.  It had been several months since the fall of the Order of Sword, and slowly life had begun to settle for Nero and Kyrie; however, there was something the youth needed to know, and the only person who he knew who could help him was a certain demon hunter.  Thus upon entering the doors of the Devil May Cry, Nero couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy in the unfamiliar territory. 

“There’s a reason you trusted me with this,” he held out the Yamato, icy pools peering directly into familiar azure hues. 

  Shifting, he had rehearsed in his mind what he would say; however, in the face of the older demon hunter he found himself mute.  A small sigh of frustration escaped the older teen as he allowed the Yamato to be swallowed back by his Devil Bringer, averting his gaze as he gazed down at the wooden floorboards of the shop.  What was he even doing here? 

“I want to know what I am,” he stated as bluntly as he could.  “And I think you’re the only person who can answer that question.” 

                                           The heat was sweltering. 

  Standing in the shade of the garage, Nero toiled away at the van he had procured for himself and Kyrie.  Standing on his step stool, Nero was hard at work repairing the engine, trying to make the vehicle work to some degree.  Ever since the fall of the Order, the couple had slowly begun to pick their lives up, dedicating themselves to the restoration of Fortuna as well as to making their own paths without the burden of the cult upon their backs. 

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, Nero let out a small, content sigh, gazing down at the old motor.  It wasn’t fancy, by any means, but it was a home away from home of sorts.  A van scrapped at the last city that had called for Nero’s aid in dispatching demons.  Hell, it had been Dante who mentioned the job to him, though why he didn’t just just take it made no sense to the young man. 

  There was a lot about Dante that made him an enigma. 

  Shedding his newly bought denim jacket, Nero ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.  Perhaps he should consider cutting it, it was getting too long for his liking, after all.  Slicking his hair back, the sound of footsteps venturing closer caught Nero’s attention, causing him to turn to face the sudden intruder. 

“Huh, long time no see,” Nero felt the edges of his lips curl into a smile.  “Got business in Fortuna, Dante?  Or are you just happy to see me?”

  The scent of smoke enveloped the night air like a thick blanket, coating their surroundings and suffocating the view of the night’s sky.  Golden embers erupted from nearby establishments, the heat of the flames was engulfing as fiery tendrils reached for the two men venturing onto the scene, the destruction that lay before them already so great within the demon’s wake.  Turning to look at the senior slayer, Nero couldn’t help but feel a little heated at the situation, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade as he took a step forward. 

  This is what it meant to be a demon slayer. 

“Guess we’re on the right track,” Nero glanced down to his arm, deep trenches of azure glowing with confirmation of the demon’s presence.  A bitter laugh escaped the teen, shaking his head as he tried to dismiss the entropy that surrounded them.  “I got this, you can hang back...---”

  Nero rolled his shoulders, taking a step forward as he looked back at Dante with a small, wry, grin.  Ever since joining the Devil May Cry agency, Nero had been itching to go on an actual mission.  With the clean up of Fortuna underway, when Dante had called him to join him on his first mission, Nero had practically jumped on the opportunity. 

  It was finally time for him to draw his blade once more.

“And leave this to me.”

  It had been some off months since the fall of The Order.  Fortuna, still seized by the occasional demonic attacks, had slowly begun to settle, life had seemingly returned to the way it had been so many years before.  It was almost a somber sight, the decaying remains of the church, not since touched since The Festival of the Sword.  Perhaps there were aspects of time that were best left to fade away into the past. 

  Nero had been toiling away, aiding where he could with the reconstruction of Fortuna.  Of course, there were some aspects of the town that would never be the same, he had accepted that, but he still had to make the city right for the kids to grow up in.  Throwing his jacket to the side, Nero pushed aside some rubble with the help of his Devil Bringer, sitting back with a huff as he rubbed sweat from his brow. 

  Just as he was about to take a break, a burning pain resonated through his arm, bringing his attention to the deep groves of cerulean that glowed with an ephemeral light.  Someone, or something, with high amounts of demonic energy was near.  It was secretive, calculating, causing the argent haired teen to quirk a brow before studying his surroundings. 

“You can come out, Dante,” he huffed.  “I know you’re here!”