Chapter Text
In hindsight, having Dante teach him how to conjure bullets out of nothing was a smart move on all their parts. Not that it made a difference here, but having to buy ammunition after this nightmare would’ve proven quite the financial pain in the ass.
Nero slid out of the way, a ball of flames bursting behind him. He and Dante were fast, but no amount of demonic super-speed could keep them ahead of this devil. It flashed in and out of existence, balls of fire and lightning disturbing the devil hunters’ ability to see in the dark. Such things hadn’t stopped Vergil (of fucking course) but Nero was slower to adapt. His lack of practise in these circumstances made him bitter.
A demonic tentacle snapped back into existence. It smacked Vergil to the ground, Yamato clanging against the ground. Bright blue eyes closed, his face scrunching. He tried to push himself back to his feet… but he barely moved an inch. Another inky black tentacle thrust down, impaling Vergil into the ground. He choked on his own blood.
Holy shit. Vergil was down for the count? How?
Ebony and Ivory were like machine guns. Dante’s rapid fire echoed off the forest trees, and would be heard for days. Mussel flashes were no longer flashes, but a long stream of yellow light, almost like torches in the darkness. They were no good to see the demon – striking purple eyes zipped through the air and disappeared again — but the light shocked the demon off of Vergil, freeing the dark slayer from impalement. He remained on the ground, body trying to heal the fist-sized hole in his abdomen.
The demon materialised in front of Nero. He acted on instinct. Blue Rose in his hand, he squeezed the trigger. He didn’t hear his own shots, but he felt each bullet leaving the revolver.
One two three—reload.
One two three—reload.
One two—shtick.
Time stopped in the single second he inspected the revolver. The purple eyed dimension hopping tentacle demon leapt for him. A flash of red barrelled him out of the way; Dante slid on his feet, coat sweeping the ground behind him. He brought his self-named sword up, abandoning his firearms for the moment.
The demon paused, sizing Dante up. Dante took it as an opportunity to get back onto the same page with Nero.
“We can’t beat this thing ourselves.”
Nero’s eyes widened. He struggled to his feet. “Then what do we do?”
“Our swords are useless against this thing. We need something explosive…” Dante swore under his breath. "Take Yamato. Get Lady. We need her firepower.”
“I’m not leaving you-”
“If you don’t, we’re both gonna get shish-kabobed,” Dante snapped. “Firepower is a requirement here – and yours just jammed. Yamato doesn’t respect me as its wielder, but it will respond to you. Now go!” He kicked Yamato over to him. “Get back here with Lady as soon as you can!”
Yeah, get Lady, Nero snarked to himself, snatching Yamato from the ground. Dante stood in front of him, Devil Sword Dante in a ready position. Nero unsheathed Yamato and turned. Dante bounded forward for the demon.
Why did Blue Rose jam? Was it even a jam? Had Vergil’s knock-down distracted him somehow? Sure, Nero could go after Lady, but she was more fragile than all of them. Nero had only ever seen her in action a handful of times, if that, and her practise was to remain on the sidelines to take potshots at demons. Her aim was no better than Dante’s. She was human. Humans bleed – a lot.
Nero braced himself. The power of Yamato coursed through his veins. It was a drug he hadn’t tasted in months. The sword slashed through the air, making clean cuts. He re-sheathed the weapon-
“Nero!”
-the demon smashed into the back of his head. He fell through the portal, losing his footing entirely. His skull hit something cold, hard, and wet.
He heard himself groan, only for his eyes to close.
So much for only humans being frail.
His nose crinkled. Water dripped right onto its tip. Once. Twice. Nero frowned in his sleep. Was there a leak in the ceiling again? Didn’t he fix that?
The droplet rolled down his nose to his cheek. He rubbed the side of his face into his pillow. It squelched under the weight of his head.
His eyelids cracked open, blue eyes still hazed over. White noise muffled the crack of thunder overhead. A rusted blue wall, ridged in the middle, extended past his view, casting a light shadow over him. A bug crawled down his arm.
Where was he?
Nero sat up with a groan, shaking the bug off his arm. His hand pressed into a black plastic bag, something inside poking into his palm. Something smelled horrendous.
Wait a minute. Was he in a dumpster?
Where’s Yamato!?
Strength returned to his muscles. Adrenaline fueled his frantic search around the dumpster, only half-filled with assorted rubbish. He pulled bags out from their place, throwing the trash around. It was fruitless. He couldn’t hear Yamato sing.
He leapt out of the dumpster, brushing off the waste clinging to his jacket. Rain greyed out his surroundings, but they looked vaguely familiar. He pressed a light hand to the back of his head – it ached, but not seriously. He scrubbed at his face, wincing slightly when his hand rubbed over something tender.
Did he have… gravel rash? Had he seriously fallen face-first into the road? He growled at himself as he did up his jacket. He needed to find Lady. And if there was at least one good thing to come out of this experience, it was that this looked like her neighbourhood.
He didn’t often find himself wearing his hood. Usually he reserved that kind of thing for the cover of darkness, staking out a demon hive in the pitch black of night, his eyes glowing to spark fear into cold devils.
How dramatic of him.
The back of his coat whipped against his legs in the ice-cold wind. Nero took to crossing his arms over his chest, the hunch of his shoulders helping keep the hood over his head. He recognised the street – more of a ‘back-end road’ on the outskirts of the city. It was home to low-income earners, a trailer park vibe emanating off the chain-link fences. Most of the homes here were cream, sporting flat roofs – built fast and on a budget. It was a dust-bowl, and usually one or two scruffy, dirty kids would ride bikes down the road, carefree of any cars. A safe, but questionable neighbourhood.
He didn’t recall so many bars bolted onto the neighbourhood’s windows, though. Perhaps he’d overlooked them, only seeing them now because he was stuck walking down the street in the cold rain. On a typical day, they’d have driven to Lady’s place. The pathway to her door was peppered with dirt, remnants of someone having kicked her plants out from their beds. Nero frowned at this oddity; Lady had hired a gardener in recent years as a favour to one of these families. She must be mortified by this.
He rapped his knuckles on the door, staring briefly through the peer-hole before looking elsewhere. Lady’s motorbike sitting on the porch near the door caught his eye while he waited – it was shiny, almost too clean.
Telltale foot thumps stomped around inside. They paused for a moment, before he heard Lady’s muffled voice as she undid the deadbolt locks on her door. “Dante? What the hell have you done to your-”
Before Nero could correct her, she swung the door open to see him, the youngest of the Sparda bloodline. But she didn’t greet him with a surprised ‘oh, hey’ like usual. She threw the door back into his face, leaping behind the wall. By the time Nero processed what was happening, the door was open again, and he had a shotgun pressed against his nose.
“Who the hell are you?”