Disclaimer: Devil May Cry, Devil May Cry 3, Dante, Vergil, and all relevant persons are the property of Capcom and this humble piece of fiction is only my own contribution to one of the greatest games ever made or played.

Summary: My version of Code 2: "Vergil". I've always wondered what he was up to before Devil May Cry 3…not, in any way, related to my other fic, Brother Never Cry. Standalone.

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DEVIL MAY CRY

NOT KNOWING WHAT TOMORROW BRINGS

CHAPTER THREE:

THE SECOND MEASURE

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The stone jaws of the hellhound clicked shut barely inches from his face. The eyes glowed with fiery, unnatural animation. The back of his head scraped against the uneven stone of the floor as Vergil fought to keep his hold, his hands clamped around the rough-hewn neck of the beast, keeping it at bay. For a living statue, its breath felt incredibly realistic—hot, brimming with sulphurous fumes, sharp and scalding on his skin.

His strength prevailed. Vergil rose unsteadily, maintaining his death grip around the mastiff's throat. The crimson eyes glared into his with blind hatred, its stone teeth gnashing together ineffectually. Its hind legs dug furrows into the floor as it strained forwards, long tail lashing against his limbs. Vergil matched its seething rage with a sneer of contempt and hurled it at the silent ring of watchful sentinels. It cleaved a path through them with a grinding crash and skidded to a stop on the floor in the darkness, beyond the circle of light. Its aura failed, and the otherworldly creatures that surrounded Vergil hissed in unison, bright red luminance flickering in their dead, flat eyes.

There came a whisper, borne to his ears, it seemed, by the restless beating of the dragon's wings. The serpent-like creature coiled itself snugly around a stalactite and spat at him, its long teeth gleaming like polished daggers. Who are you—what are you—to come intruding—

The presence of the sentience wavered, shimmered, sputtered, as it fled from one living statue to another, and its words came to Vergil in barks and growls and hisses, ancient words whose meaning was long lost to time, the dark, burning language of the demons. Vergil knew them all, the words twisting themselves into recognizable forms as they reached his brain—some sorcery he knew not of. The sentience was old and powerful, and what means of communication it possessed transcended the boundaries of comprehension. In any case, what mattered was that Vergil understood its words, and it understood his.

In answer he drew his blade and held it up. The strange light glimmered off the well-honed edge of his inherited sword, drawing the eye to it. In terms of beauty and prowess it was probably unmatched in the world. There could only be one sword like Yamato in the mortal plane, and the sentience probably knew this, from the sharp intake of breath that was immediately followed by a howl of anger.

YOU!—I know you now—blood traitor—blood traitor—his blood—SPILL IT!

The words seared through Vergil's mind, every syllable thick with compressed loathing and fury. He stumbled back, momentarily disoriented, and it was his undoing. A long, scaly body coiled around his foot with sudden force, jerking him backwards. He fought to keep his balance, cutting viciously at the snake that dragged him inexorably into the shadows, its ruby eyes glittering maliciously—

A flash of movement, to his right. Vergil spun and drove back a hooded-eyed sphinx with a series of slashes, but the retaliation cost him. As he was distracted, the snake squeezed tighter still, and he fell to one knee as his equilibrium shifted. His blood circulation cut off, his foot was beginning to go numb. The magical menagerie of monsters became bolder, ventured further into the circle of light. Vergil, despite the haze of pain clouding his mind, nevertheless noted how the luminosity of the sculptures' eyes faded and intensified whenever the spirit moved through them, how they did not move in unison, but raggedly, in twos and threes. Interesting, he realized, it is the will of the guardian that animates them, and it can't control all of them at once. Instantly, his agile brain began working on a solution. At least the odds aren't too impossible.

Many years ago, by human reckoning, the second guardian snarled, crazed, into his ear, the great devil-knight Sparda betrayed our Lord and caused his downfall. With his sword he gathered up the legions of darkness and returned them to Hell. Those he did not he bound here to keep watch over the Gate for eternity. As I was. The sentience laughed bitterly, insanely. I have no choice. I cannot let you pass. The eyes of the statues flared. But I shall take immense pleasure in ripping you apart, spilling his blood. What would he think if his son were to die by his own hand? The voice purred. Oh, I forgot—but he is dead. But I imagine he would be very angry—angry and disappointed, hmm?

Anger welled up within Vergil, cleared away the lingering fog of confusion the guardian's earlier mental attack had caused. "You know nothing of me," he grated through stiff lips. He set to work with Yamato, chopping viciously away at the snake that bound his leg. The snake reared, spreading his hood around its sinuous head. It struck. Vergil's hand snaked forward, caught it just behind the head. Yamato shrieked as it broke off a huge chunk of stone. Sparks rang off the stone. Vergil broke off the rest of the head easily. The rest of the body wavered, then collapsed, shattering as it hit the ground.

The mastiff was back. Its molten breath registered on his senses a split second before he twisted and received its fangs on his shoulder instead of his head. The hellish canine jerked its head sharply upwards, and Vergil almost passed out as bone grinded on bone and snapped. He almost dropped Yamato as pain lanced through his entire arm. The stone teeth, as sharp and strong as steel, tore through muscle and flesh. Wet, hot blood ran down his elbow. Vergil thrashed, but it was more than an instinctive reaction than anything else, his mind cold and calm as ever, studiously ignoring the frenzied signals his body was sending to him. He concentrated.

A clear, ringing sound, accompanied an instant later by a long-drawn cry. Blue-tinged phantom blades materialized out of thin air, sinking into the dog's body without visible resistance before exploding into glassy shards that spun away and out of existence. Lines of weakness spread around the hellhound's body, compromising its stability. Vergil kicked wildly, and his boots connected with the hellhound more often than not. Rock fragments rained upon him as the monster eventually disintegrated.

Then the agony came, like a starburst in his mind. The blood was spurting now, from the ragged wounds left behind by the hellhound's assault. He chanced a look at his shoulder and wished he hadn't—its lasting impression was a kaleidoscope of red and black and white—red like the bloody meat in a butcher's shop and white where the bone contrasted against the torn edges of skin. Exhaustion roiled over his body in waves—he shouldn't—he knew he shouldn't—but then he would die—wearily he stretched out his hand and called forth the demon.

It came eagerly, as it always did, as though it waited patiently in the wings of his soul for a chance to go out and play. He was tired, incredibly tired, and the demon picked up on it straight away. It was exhilarating, and horrible at the same time, to know that the demon was him and not-him, and even though they shared the same body, it seemed a separate entity entirely, all rippling muscle and raw power. Vergil sometimes wondered what would happen if he would ever lose control, of all that power, a double-edged blade that could cut his own hand.

The demon roared, a cry of defiance, at the creatures of the guardian. Overwhelmed, Vergil tried to wrestle back control, but his other, more feral self, was not listening. I am the demon, he thought distantly, somehow removed and far away from himself. And yet why is there this conflict? Human blood, always there, a gaping chasm between him and his rightful heritage…not that he had not loved his mother, he had loved Eva more than life itself, but there were times too when he hated her with a terrible passion for leaving him this legacy. Subconsciously he realized that there was no true division at all, only a deep-buried desire to be removed from the monster he was—and so his personality had split into twain, born out of a wish to escape and be ensnared at the same time.

The demon charged, Vergil's orderly thoughts scrambling up and jouncing around chaotically in a creature now designed to kill with brawn rather than brain. The stone effigies hurled themselves at his armored body with no avail. More like a spectator than a fighter, one part of Vergil's mind calmly evaluated, calculated. His body had not been in good shape to begin with, and even the demon was trembling slightly as it battled the sentience's bodies one-armed. Luckily, the dragon had not joined in the fight yet. It watched, as Vergil did, from its position.

You can't win, the dragon said.

What was it that the guardian had said? Bound here. A grizzly bear came spinning past, struck the wall with a sickening crunch. The demon growled in irritation at the set of claw marks across its arm. It turned to punch at a griffon, and a strange octopus-snail hybrid came oozing up from behind to spit acid into the demon's back. The demon yowled, its and Vergil's voice combined, as the volatile liquid ate unerringly into the scaly flesh.

Once, the guardian said, resentment bubbling through its not-voice like the acid—I was strong and powerful. Once, I flew in the vanguard of His Majesty's army. The dragon made a growling sound deep in its throat. But HE ripped my soul from my body and imprisoned me to do his own work for him—ah, the pain, the humiliation—death is far too kind a fate for you.

The demon wasn't happy anymore. It staggered as it stood, shaking off the griffon. Like a petulant child whose favorite toy has cut him, the demon retreated into the depths of Vergil's mind, despite his vehement protests. As scales receded into flesh and the wings retracted, Vergil looked up to see the enormous fist of a golem coming right his way. The titan smashed him backwards, and Vergil landed with an audible crunch. He shook his head muzzily, already moving by the time the griffon's hooked beak swung past and smashed into the wall where he had fetched up again.

He swung about and avoided a swing from a harpy crouching half-hidden in an alcove halfway up the wall. Monstrous, forerunners of a world long locked away, they looked like the escapees of a zoo from Hell. Vergil's mind had long frozen itself against the horror of the creatures, but he could still appreciate their deadly beauty, the fineness of stonework. They could have been the living creatures themselves, brought here and locked into a prison of stone.

And most beautiful and dangerous of them all was the dragon. Cradling his wounded arm to his chest, Vergil bent and retrieved Yamato from the cavern floor even as a projectile whizzed past, brushed against his cheek, leaving a gash in the soft skin beneath his right eye that wept tears of blood. Whatever it was scattered in pieces harmlessly beyond, but Vergil did not notice that—he was too busy hurling himself aside as more bony missiles targeted him, spraying shards of bone that cut his face and hands.

He tightened his lips against his pain. He was his father's son. He would not fail, even if he had to spit in death's face to do it. "You want me?" he said through gritted teeth, staring into the smoldering orbs of the curled dragon. "Come get me." He took a few steps back, held Yamato ready. "That isn't just a body, is it?" he continued unerringly, keeping his gaze fixed on his foe. "That's your real persona, the one Sparda destroyed, by petrifying it. He then trapped you here, to keep your precious tower from being raised again…"

The dragon bristled, the spines on its back shivering as it tried to keep its composure. Any idiot could surmise that from what I told you, betrayer's son, the dragon whispered venomously. Goading me won't work. I am above that.

But you aren't above revenge, are you? Vergil thought with a smirk he kept carefully concealed, noting the sharp, brittle edge in the dragon's mind-voice. Prodding usually wasn't his thing, it was more Dante's style, but it was a tactic he would have to employ here. He stepped back as the harpy landed in front of him, the feathers of her beautiful wings quivering in rage, matching the maddened look in the sentience' s voice. Good. Vergil parried her spear thrust with Yamato, and for a second both of them stood locked in a stalemate. The winged woman's lips curved in an empty smile, bright fires flickering in the blank sockets of her eyes.

Vergil stepped aside and let the griffon, head lowered to charge forth at his original position, barrel into her. He turned a decidedly contemptuous smile on the dragon. "You shouldn't trust in your extensions too much, wyrm. Don't you want me for yourself?" While the two creatures were thus engaged in extricating themselves, he whacked at the statues repeatedly with Yamato's hilt using his good arm—a crude method his warrior's spirit winced at, unfortunately a necessary action—while keeping up a steady barrage of phantom blades. Midway, his ghostly projectiles abruptly changed target, warning him of a new enemy presence. He focused, narrowing his gaze at a far corner—

And then he was no longer there, but in the niche he had concentrated his energies at, gasping with pain as his ruined shoulder collided with an overhanging stalactite, jostling it, sending waves of jagged, blazing pain spiraling out from that point. He was tempted to just tear the useless limb away and unburden himself, but there was something repugnant about the idea of simply discarding a part of himself that had served him for so long away, even if a new one would just grow back. Vergil did not have the luxury of arguing with himself, so he just let the issue pass.

The sentience had taken possession of a new body, that of an eagle, or what an eagle might be with lashing snakes for a tail and fire licking at the edges of its hooked beak. Its clawed feet, outstretched, grasped only at empty air. With a disappointed screech, it changed course and came hurtling right at him, spitting fire and brimstone. Even the green, red-striped snakes were hissing at Vergil, small black tongues darting in and out of their mouths. Behind it, abandoned by the dragon's spirit, the harpy and griffon crumpled to the ground, shells discarded at whim. Vergil put his damaged arm protectively over his eyes, Yamato poised and waiting in the other hand. The other statues joined its fellows on the ground; the eagle's aura intensified, its power rippling into all the planes available to Vergil's sight. The guardian was channeling all its hate and desire for vengeance into its host's body, using it as a focal point.

An audible thrumming filled the air as the eagle dived. A spasm twisted Vergil's face, his teeth gritted as he dropped his sword and grabbed his arm. His lips were white with the strain. The guardian, through the eyes of the eagle, saw fear blossom, sweet to watch in its agonizing slowness. The guardian loosed a burning, horrible shriek of triumph—

Vergil was gone, and so was Yamato. The half-demon could move very fast when he wanted, though it had cost him. The eagle relaxed its dripping talons, and three bloodied fingers fell to the floor. With another unearthly cry, the eagle spun about frantically, followed by the monstrous host of demons, their walk ungainly and awkward, as the guardian exerted its maximum power over them. The dragon's sleek head snaked back, mouth open in a fierce snarl. But it was too late, and Vergil was too near—

The blade was buried up to its hilt in the dragon's neck. With a wince, Vergil uncurled his ruined hand from Yamato and looked almost ruefully at the bleeding stumps of his fingers. Blood stained Yamato's previously pristine hilt and blade, pooling together with the black fluids seeping from the wound. The dragon writhed, its flat eyes igniting with fresh hatred, silver fire brimming in its gaping jaws. Vergil stepped forward, ignoring the thrashing tail, and twisted the blade viciously. The dragon let out a wail, and drooped. Its long body slithered away from the stalactite with a suddenness that startled Vergil. He seized Yamato with a white-knuckled grip and hung on for dear life as the dying dragon dropped to the ground. Even in its dying throes it was magnificent, its ruby eyes rich as jewels, its form smooth and beautiful for a creature capable of such destruction. More fire bubbled through its throat, aimed with malicious intent.

Vergil extricated his sword, and drove it into the roof of the guardian's mouth. The guardian screamed again, thin and anguished, as the fire remained trapped in its throat, blocked by pain. Vergil withdrew Yamato, and his actions born of a fury he had not known he possessed, he attacked the flailing body ruthlessly. Chips of rock flew under his assault. After a while, when the dragon had stopped moving, and its motion was due only to the force with which Vergil hit it, the living statues stood transfixed. Stricken by an invisible hand, they disintegrated to dust in the blink of an eye. When Vergil re-opened his eyes to the world again, the cavern was covered, cloaked in dust and ash, and the second measure lay sundered, revealing a dark portal that beckoned invitingly.

Vergil laughed. He laughed until he had to sit down and draw breath from exhaustion. Still, the echo of his laughter came back to him, victorious, triumphant. Darkness reached out to claim him, and he fell headlong into its soothing embrace, grateful and worn beyond belief.

His wounds would mend, his body would recover. All that mattered now was that he was one step closer to accomplishing his goal.

end of Chapter Three.

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Hope ya have enjoyed it! Sorry for the lack of updates.

Yours, T. Axile. )