Archive of Our Own

Red Grave City.

What a nostalgic, depressing town.

It was unfortunate that his searches brought him back here. Vergil would’ve preferred to never have returned, but for the sake of his plans, he bit the bullet. Rumors of demonic presences and cult texts tucked within the city had fully changed his mind. He expects the thin air of Red Grave may also prove useful for paving the way into the Underworld.

What he doesn’t expect are traces of an otherworldly aura and a tiny fragment of the Yamato on a lone street.

The rancid stench of demons had brought him to the desolate area, and within seconds he noticed the dusting of hellish remains across the street. There are shreds of fabric clinging to a garbage can and scattered over the road. Vergil crouches down, pinching dust between his fingers. Without a doubt, it’s the essence of Hell. He theorizes demons had disguised as humans, and whoever it was, had been capable of seeing through it and promptly rid them of this world.

For a moment, Vergil thinks he has memory loss. He knows he hasn’t been here before, yet a shard of the Yamato glitters amidst the dark texture of asphalt. To anyone else, they would pass it off as glass, or not even see it all, but Vergil’s senses are highly tuned to the ethereal.

He carefully cradles the sliver. It’s not very powerful, although its minuscule size doesn’t help. It lacks the liveliness of the Yamato. As far as he’s aware, a shard of the heirloom sword is enough to open a human-sized portal; this piece could hardly make a slit in this dimension’s fabric.

Confusion morphs into anger. Who is out there carrying a counterfeit Yamato!? The utter disgrace!

Pocketing the fragment for safety’s sake, Vergil leaves the scene. He won’t let such an enemy get away.

“What a guy, huh?” Enzo nudges Tony. “He’s a total newbie to the game, but he came in here and rounded these hyenas like he’s a zookeeper.”

In the far corner, Gilver is using his hands to command who speaks and who doesn’t, shushing them when needed and crisscrossing needs with wants for jobs.

“Anyone with good skills and a nasty glare could do it,” Tony replies plainly.

“Why don’t you, then?” Enzo fires back.

“Why would I? I like to be on the sidelines. No sense in taking charge.” Tony sips his whiskey, letting the alcohol burn away his worries. It sates him for the time being. “What would I even get out of it? A sense of status? Accomplishment? Nah.”

Enzo scoffs. “You know what that says about you? You’re just as much of a scavenger as the rest. You’re a vulture.”

The bewildered look Tony gives speaks, ‘What are you talking about, and why does that matter?’

“And you know what else!” Enzo gestures with his pointer finger, disregarding Tony’s look.

“What, Enzo?”

“I think,” the middle man says confidently like he’s onto something, “You’re jealous of Gilver.”

Tony picks up one of Enzo’s empty glasses. “How many drinks did you have?”

“Not a lot, excuse you! Anyway, I’m serious! I think you are!” Enzo’s rant luckily isn’t heard due to the commotion on the opposite side of the bar. “Ever since Grue complimented him, you’ve been givin’ your partner the cold shoulder!”

“What does Grue have to do with this?” Tony unknowingly proves Enzo right by swerving his body away from him, loudly sipping his whiskey.

“You know how he does! I see more than you realize, Tony!”

Tony snorts. “Apparently. The strength of your prescription contacts must’ve been increased.”

Enzo shakes his head. “Why do I even bother with you! You’re an asshole.”

“You bother with me ‘cause I pay your way into those strip clubs.”

Enzo chuckles, his demeanor doing a 180 when he claps his merc on the back. “That you do, Tony! You’re a good man, deep down! I mean, really deep down. Almost hard to find, but it’s there.”

Today is not the day to kick his stool over. One day though, Tony promises, it’ll come.

Dropping his irritation, he preps for the handsome man heading his way. Enzo greets Gilver first, rambling in his ear about opportunities, but he’s ignored in favor of Tony. A slip of paper is thrust his way.

“You and I have a job tomorrow at 2 AM sharp.”

Tony rips the paper from his hands, reading over the summary. “How much for each of us?” Tony asks, uncaring about the danger of the job itself. Whatever it is, he can handle it. Besides, Gilver is aware of his "hard no's" regarding missions; he knows Tony’s taste rather well.

“10 grand each.”

The creeping smile on his partner’s face is all Gilver needed to see. “Alright, what’s the job exactly? This says we’re just stopping the transport of a shipment.”

“A ferry coming from the North Atlantic is carrying illegal cargo. Some of the containers are filled with supposed artifacts, while another is filled to the brim with blow. They’re hoping to dock after midnight and switch the containers onto a lorry for transport.”

Enzo’s gaze flicks between the two men as they converse, highly interested.

An entire ship container with nothing but blow? That’s for flippin’ chickens, for sure. Tony pops the question, “What are we supposed to do with the contents?”

“We don’t do anything with it.” Gilver smirks. “We sink it.”

Tony sucks air in through his teeth. He should’ve known. After this happens, the community will be tossed into chaos due to the wrath of whatever bigshot drug lord ordered that cargo. It won’t be a pretty sight, and Tony expects a job of mafioso whack-a-mole shortly after this one. Gotta keep those streets clean, after all.

“Great. Okay, it’s a deal. I’ll meet you near the harbor tomorrow night.” Tony throws some crumpled bills on the table, but shockingly, Enzo grabs them and shoves them back into his pockets.

“Don’t worry about it Tony, I’ll pay for your last round!” Enzo fishes his wallet out, dramatically reaching in to slip out a wad of cash.

Tony cocks an eyebrow. “That so? Well, be my guest.” He lazily waves at his informant and partner, heading toward the exit. Right as Enzo empties his wallet, the merc shouts as he leaves, “Don’t call me up this weekend asking for singles, Enzo.”

The man jerks in his seat to Gilver’s amusement. “I-I wouldn't dream of it! I-I got all the money in the world, see!”

Gilver peeks over and finds that statement pathetically wrong. For the portly man’s pride though, he says nothing and bids Enzo goodbye.

“Good luck on your job, boys!”

At 1:15 AM, Gilver shows up at Tony’s front door in a signature pressed suit and his sword gripped tightly in his left hand. Tony, not expecting such a visit, scrambles out of the front door with his shirt untucked and his scarlet jacket hanging off his shoulders. Silver accessories dotting his coat jingle as he fumbles over his words and demands an answer for Gilver’s early arrival.

“I wanted to ensure we wouldn’t be tardy. There’s a small window of time for us to invade the ship before containers are lifted off.”

Tony fixes his unruly hair repeatedly, his bangs falling into his face no matter what he does. “I’m always on time! You could’ve waited.”

Gilver shrugs.

“Whatever, are you ready?” Tony slams the door behind him and locks it using the complicated deadbolt on it. Overkill it may seem, it’s wholly required.

His partner nods, “As long as you are. You have the explosives, correct?”

“Yup.” Tony pats his heavy coat pocket, then brings out a rectangular remote taped over numerous times. “Got these from Dyno, a friend of a friend. We can trust his handiwork.”

“Dyno?”

Tony grins. “Like dyno-mite, you know? He picked it out.”

“Cute.” Gilver deadpans.

Off on the streets they go, stalking through alleyways and heading to the western dock of Red Grave.

At the aforementioned dock, standing on a platform next to a shivering man in black is Vergil. Looking out over the sea, he checks his pocket watch once more. 1:32 AM.

He sighs loudly, sending the man further into anxiety. “When is this ferry supposed to dock?”

“2 o’clock, sir.” The man bounces on his heels, the sea breeze chilling his bones whereas Vergil is still as a statue. “It’ll have exactly what you need, trust me.”

“This better not be a ruse.” Vergil thinks many of these situations are.

“No, no, not at all!” The man hurries to reply. He checks out Vergil’s dark circles and the lengthy sword in his hand. Why in the world would he try to piss a man like that off!? He already looks as if he’s a ticking time bomb. When Vergil spots the man’s wandering eye in his periphery, the man sharply turns and changes the subject. “Look! I think that’s a boat heading this way! That’s probably it.”

Vergil sees a dim light far out over the water. It’s hard to differentiate it from the lit-up buoys lining the ocean but that was likely on purpose. He taps his foot out of impatience; if this supposed effigy from Vie de Marli isn’t genuine, or if this is a lie altogether, he’ll hang this man’s corpse from the flagpole clinking behind them.

Suddenly, there’s a tingle on his skin, buzzing and creating goosebumps.

Vergil cranes his neck, looking past the man’s anxiety-ridden expression and to empty spots between various wooden crates. No stench, but there’s an aura loitering the area. He grips the hilt of Yamato tighter.

The man follows his line of sight and then snaps back to him. “What? Do you see something?”

“No.” Vergil rasps. “It’s nothing.”

1:45 AM.

“So, where on the ferry are we going to break in?” Tony whispers, crouched behind a shipping container.

Gilver is peering around the corner, watching a group of sailors converse. One of the men, though superficially similar to his friends, has an air about him that signals he’s the odd guy out. Gilver suspects he’s the connection between the shipment unloading and whatever mafia he’s a part of that wants it. The rest may be innocent, but they can’t take any chances.

He then answers Tony’s question. “We can sneak onto the back of the ship and make our way into the hold. We plant the explosives, and let it sink.”

Tony hums. “What about the people on board?”

“If they’re not taken down by us, they’ll sink too. Simple as that.”

He hums again. Gilver looks back at him quizzically, but drops it; his partner seems to be getting cold feet, but it’s much too late for that.

Though, he can’t reject the presence of an ominous sensation drifting over the harbor. There is something or someone here that shouldn’t be. They don’t yet reek of danger, but Gilver filed their general location in the back of his mind just in case. Their aura is strikingly similar to his, dark and looming while retaining a wisp of harmlessness— they feel human. Despite this, they contrast Tony, a hybrid of the two. What are they?

“They’ve moved,” Tony announces. Gilver returns to the present and verifies his partner’s statement. The dock men have stopped socializing and are preparing for the incoming ferry.

The rush of waters and revving of trucks alerts the duo that the clock is ticking. Sneaking around one side of the container, they move to a new hiding spot and continue the cycle until they reach the end of the pier. A mid-sized ferry then breaks through the haze of sea mist, slowing down as it reaches the dock. Right as the anchor is released, Gilver points to a small ledge toward the back of the ship. Inconspicuous, and it’ll let them climb upward to infiltrate.

Tony can’t help his curiosity. “How did you know that was there?”

“It’s called studying for the test, Tony. You should try it sometime,” Gilver retorts, a scant bite to his words.

Tony rolls his eyes and mocks his partner under his breath, leading Gilver to hoist him up by his arm and hurry him along. Without a warning, Gilver gets a running start and leaps off the pier, grabbing ahold of the anchor chain and using it to swing onto the ledge. Tony stares at him, somewhat impressed.

“Okay,” he sighs, sarcasm tinting his voice. “I think I’m gonna ask for 20 grand when we get back. If we do..”

Gilver calls for him.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” Tony, with less of a running start, jumps off the dock and traces his partner’s steps.

Men are unloading crates off of the ferry, stacking them like they’re playing a game of Tetris. Vergil is off to the side, his arms still tightly crossed and a scowl tugging at his cheeks. The man Gilver had previously suspected of criminal activity swaggers toward him and the shivering informant.

“Freddie! Who’s this guy?” He questions, eyes raking Vergil from head to toe.

Freddie sputters, “He’s a customer wanting to browse our products, Damon. We can trust him.” That’s a lie, and even Vergil knows it. All three of the men trust each other as far as they can throw them; which for Vergil, doesn't mean much but the phrase stands regardless.

The unblinking glare Vergil has dissipates Damon’s bravado. He lets it go, and focuses on counting the stock from the ferry.

Vergil watches the process. “Do all of these containers hold your product?”

“No.” Freddie zips his mouth shut.

After they’ve waited for what feels like forever, Vergil reads his pocket watch for the umpteenth time: 2:23 AM. Does it take this long to unload cargo? He just wants the stupid effigy and to be free of these people. He has better things to do!

Damon has the same sentiment; he obnoxiously bitches about the slow workers aboard the ship. Some of the dock men that went to retrieve crates have yet to return, an odd turn of events. Damon tells the truck driver to be patient while he runs across the walkway and inside the ship.

It’s barely a minute later when a fiery explosion tears apart the hull of the ship. Freddie, terrified for his life, cowers to the ground. Vergil looks back, eyes wide at the clouds of smoke billowing into the air and the fire licking at the water. The ferry is rapidly sinking, metal screeching as its main support is compromised.

“What is this about!?” Vergil growls at Freddie.

“I don’t know! This wasn’t supposed to happen, I swear!”

Of course, this would happen. Every lead Vergil gains are for naught, and every day he ends up further back than where he started. Stressed out, Vergil runs a hand through his hair, slightly tugging at the locks. He’s had enough of this!

Freddie suddenly pulls a gun on Vergil, believing he may be struck down for being a “liar”. Poor thing doesn’t stand a chance, but at least he’s saved from excruciating pain; Vergil easily swats Freddie’s weak aim and severs his head from his shoulders within seconds.

The workers on the dock shriek at Freddie’s decapitated head, reminding Vergil he had an audience.

“Things are never simple, are they?” Vergil quizzes out loud to no one in particular. “I’m sorry, but you men were at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Meanwhile, Gilver clutches Tony’s wrist as they traverse the obstacle course of the sinking ferry. The worst had happened and their entire operation went to Hell in a handbasket. The first explosive detonated prematurely, leaving them and the workers aboard fighting for their lives. Tony had frozen up; unable to move as water soaked his ankles and fire burst from behind him. He didn’t need to second guess his next plan of action. Gilver had grabbed his partner and practically carried him up toward the deck. The thought of losing Tony struck him with such grief he nearly froze up himself; those emotions aren’t part of his.. programming... His.. objective.

None of that matters. What does is getting his partner to safety.

Passing howling men and shifting containers, Gilver finally reaches the deck. He hears Tony gasping, either from the smoke, from panic, or maybe he’s crying. Why does his heart hurt? Is this normal? He’s heard of humans having heart attacks; a fierce pain that resonates through their limbs and renders them immobile until they die of their ailments. Is he.. dying? No, that can’t be it. It’s impossible for a being like him to have human afflictions.

With nowhere else to go, he flings both of their bodies over the railing. The burning in his chest is relieved when he’s drenched in the icy ocean.

His vision blurs, his momentum lost as he pops up to the surface. Gilver frantically searches for Tony’s white locks amidst the blaze and smoke, his fear then squashed by the sight of his soaked partner crawling onto the pier.

As he gulps air he doesn’t require, Gilver realizes he’s fine. Tony is fine. Their mission? Utterly fucked, but he couldn’t care less.

A word Tony rarely uses is boomed and it echoes through the now empty harbor.

“FUCK!”

Gilver glances up to his partner wrecked with emotion.

“We almost died!” Tony paces while wringing his clothes, squeezing frustration and seawater out of his person. “That dumb bastard messed up! I should’ve known his shit is worthless!”

Gilver stands on wobbly legs, not giving a damn about his ruined bandages.

“I’m asking for 30 grand! 10 grand isn’t worth shit when we almost burned to death or drowned! What the hell?” A thump and the sound of a hard object rolling diverts Gilver’s attention.

A decapitated head is the first anomaly, then comes the massive splatters of blood and mountain of sliced up corpses.

Sliced?

“What is all this?” Tony quietly says. “Wait, were we duped? Was this all a setup?”

Although he wishes to blame somebody, Gilver denies the theory. “I don’t think so. One bad incident led to another rather than this be the results of a contrived set-up. These corpses, I believe, have nothing to do with the sinking ship.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Tony notices it too. Not a single bullet hole, and barely signs of a struggle. Whoever this was was out for carnage, and carnage alone. The thought of a monster paroling the streets is infinitely worse than a mafia sticking a target on his back.

Now calm, Tony assesses the remaining portion of the sinking ship, the tip of it barely grazing the waterline. Flames reflect in his glassy irises, along with the memories of a traumatic past. Back to Gilver, he murmurs, “You saved me.”

Gilver flounders for a response.

Tony doesn’t care. He crosses the distance between them, his voice soft, “I could’ve died back there, but you whisked me away. I froze up, like an idiot, and you— you saved me.”

Since when has talking become difficult? “What’s so surprising about that? We work together, and I prevented my partner from suffering a lonely death.”

“You say that, but anyone else would’ve left me. Saved their own ass.”

“I’m not like them.” Gilver fires back.

“No you’re not,” Fondness tints Tony’s words, and the ache in Gilver’s chest makes a nasty return. “Grue was right. I think you are special.”

“I—”

Gilver’s cut off by Tony pulling him in for a hug. He fumbles with his hands, unaware of what to do with them.

It lasts an eternity yet not long enough. Tony unhooks his arms from Gilver’s wet body and pats his shoulder. “I, uh, think I’m gonna go home. Our job is technically done, anyway.”

He blurts, “Let me walk you.”

The warmth in Tony evaporates. “No thanks. I need some time alone. Head on home yourself.”

Gilver swallows the desire of asking when he’ll see him. It shouldn’t even matter. “Of course.” He awkwardly stands, letting Tony go on his own.

The blaring police sirens alert him to leave, and he finally does so. On his way out, he fails to notice the pair of eyes watching his every move.

It’s been days since he’s last seen Tony. He’s not at the bar counter slouched over with whiskey in his hand, nor is he at the local diner shoveling sundaes into his gullet.

Gilver doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s both lonely and concerned. Yet, he can’t bring himself to visit his partner’s home. It would be effortless: knock, ask a few questions, and leave. Though Gilver isn’t a champion at playing therapist, Tony might appreciate the gesture regardless.

So, on the street he lingers, at a halfway point between Tony’s home and Bobby’s Cellar. It’s midnight, a perfect time to visit the night owl. According to Enzo, Tony hasn’t accepted any jobs, therefore there’s a likely chance he’s home.

Just do it. What’s there to lose?

There’s plenty to lose, he thinks; although what does that matter if he’s already strayed from his path?

He hasn’t even realized that he made the choice minutes ago, his legs carrying him straight to Tony’s apartment.

His thoughts are disturbed when he picks up the sound of footsteps occurring between his. Someone is here with him.

Continuing to walk, Gilver cautiously unsheathes his sword by an inch. Their footsteps quicken, and right when he hears the shing of a weapon, he swivels on his heel and blocks the incoming attack.

Out of all the possible attackers, he didn’t expect this one. He assumed he was being mugged, or maybe a mafioso coming to seek revenge. He assumed their weapon was a pitiful dagger, not the full length of an extravagant katana, one just like his.

What hits the hardest is the pretty visage, one identical to Tony’s... In turn, a face identical to his.

Gilver wipes his face clean of shock, maintaining a poker face as their clashed swords spark. The bandages have never been more useful than now.

“I hoped you would be stupid enough to not sense me, and I could’ve ended your games without a break of sweat. It seems I’ve underestimated you.”

“You did,” Gilver replies. “I don’t know what games you’re referring to, though.” This sneaky bastard cloaked his aura, he had to have. Up close, the boy’s true colors are clear as crystal; he was the one at the docks.

Vergil uses his hand to aid his sword in pushing Gilver back. “Do you not see it? You’re carrying a poorly crafted replica of my treasured Yamato. You are nothing but a farce. For that, I would consider you to be playing petty games.”

The words don’t sink in as Gilver focuses on parrying Vergil’s next onslaught of deadly swings. Gilver is both apprehensive and giddy— he hasn’t fought such a worthy opponent since his training days and this fact encourages his innate bloodthirst. On the other hand, this opponent is not to be taken lightly, and one wrong move will have his head rolling on the asphalt like that poor sap back at the docks.

Luckily, he’s durable unlike that boy.

“You’re from the Underworld?” Vergil asks, his voice crisp above the shrill of singing blades.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gilver aims for Vergil’s side and misses. He gains distance, watching Vergil orbit him with a predatory gait.

Vergil, to Gilver’s surprise, had sheathed Yamato. Is that supposed to be an insult to him?

“Let me rephrase that. You are from the Underworld.” A row of neon blue swords materializes above Vergil’s head, the sight of it putting Gilver on edge. “Somehow, my likeness has been used for a foot soldier of Hell. I think if you were in my place, you too would be disturbed.”

“Are you sure that is not actually the case?” Gilver goads. “Maybe you are the one that’s a copy of me.”

The self-assured scoff and smug smirk from his opponent boils Gilver’s blood. “Not only are you an imitation, but you’re delusional.”

Blades pierce the ground Gilver stands on, his feet dancing across the street to avoid being turned into swiss cheese. The barrage doesn’t stop, a blade or two soon stabbing his shoulder and stomach. He grunts, but the injuries are nothing to him. Blood spills, though that is the true facade here; a means of looking human, while his inhuman body heals grievous wounds.

A summoned sword cleaves a streetlamp in half, the pole crushing a parked car and triggering a noisy alarm.

Holes are poked into brick and windows shatter as the swords ruthlessly follow Gilver. “What happened to your stealthy approach?” He calls out. Vergil responds with a quick draw of his sword.

A swirl of energy catches him off guard, his reaction late to a Judgement Cut dicing his lower body. Gilver crumples, his back hitting the pavement with bruising force. The armor under his human flesh stitches together, pulsing neon veins replenishing his blood supply.

“As I had assumed,” Vergil tips Gilver’s jaw up with the tip of the Yamato, piercing blue irises meeting savage red. “You’re filthy scum from the dregs of the Underworld. Your Master is the Prince of Darkness, isn’t he?”

This time, Gilver is unable to hide his shock.

“Since he is, here’s your moment to pray to him— with the pitiful hope he may grant your soul mercy, as I won’t.”

Someone shrieks behind them, and a gunshot echoes along with Tony’s name.

“This is for sinking our cargo, you piece of shit!”

Blood abruptly spurts out of a bullet-sized hole in Vergil’s forehead, the stream splitting at his nose. The half-demon hesitates for milliseconds before turning to the assailant. A man clutching an AR-15 screams at the “undead man” stomping toward him.

“I-I shot you in the head! What the fuck!?” The man backs up, shooting at Vergil but misses each time. “I knew you weren’t human!”

Vergil expertly bats away flying bullets with his blade. “It seems these streets are rife with scum.”

Gilver isn’t the type to run with his tail in-between his legs, but he won’t let this opportunity go; he can admit he’s not prepared for this whatsoever. He breaks for it, the gurgled scream of a dying man heavy in his ears.

Though he slows down once he’s safe, his mind continues to run at a million miles an hour once Vergil’s words have sunk in. Doubts that he has held since his birth have now grown from their tiny seedlings, and he can’t stop the various thoughts from branching out.

Is this all he is? A replacement meant to fill Tony’s void so he could take advantage of him? In his soul, he always knew that to be the case. This was his objective from the beginning, although his increasing adoration for his target has dulled his memory.

Mundus had described to him the tragedy that he incurred onto the twins, but he was told Vergil had perished. Gilver retrieves the amulet tucked underneath his collar. This, Mundus stated, was the real one Vergil wore the very day he “died”. This sword, the Yamato, was also supposedly stolen from the manor. Is any of this truly his?

He was told his likeness was constructed from Vergil’s corpse, and his abilities extracted from battle data of the late Sparda.

Yet, while they were dueling, he and Vergil had techniques almost as identical as their visages. Vergil has been alive all this time, and the data they took must’ve been recent.

Why would his God lie?

He surmises he wouldn’t get an answer if he wanted one. His God is a cruel one.

Worse than the lies, the real Vergil is presently breathing, and in that vein, a threat to his very existence. He can’t have this… No, he can’t be replaced. He can’t have someone take Tony from him.

Tucking his amulet back into its spot, Gilver steels for the storm that will surely occur. He won’t let Tony become collateral damage, and he won’t let Vergil wipe his existence.

If he has to kill Vergil to inherit his rightful place, then he shall.

A day later.

The second Gilver spots Tony in his corner of the Cellar, he darts toward him, pushing drunk mercs out of his way. Enzo greets him, but again, he’s ignored in favor of Tony.

“Tony,” Gilver smiles, uncharacteristically bubbly. Once Tony twists back to see him, Gilver’s heart sinks.

He tries to push away the dread of gazing at an identical face; it’s never bothered him before, but now it serves as a reminder that this man has an other half, one alive and well. The harsh ache in his chest slowly fades as Tony doesn’t seem to have noticed, or at least doesn’t care. He doubts Tony, as breezy and lackadaisical he is, hasn’t picked up on the resemblances hinted at between his bandages. How pathetic that they both find comfort in delusions.

“Hey, Gilv!,” Tony is buzzed at best, though he sings out the nickname as if he’s a jolly old drunk. “Nice to see you here.”

Gilver sits down, his knee bumping his partner’s, a gesture that evokes a smirk from him. “I could say the same. You’ve been absent for some time.”

“Yeah,” Tony waves off the concern. “I dealt with a few things. Some demons, if you know what I mean.”

Oh, Gilver knows.

Enzo decides to pipe up then, “I tried to cheer him up with a visit to some honey’s, but he was a wet towel! You used to be so peppy about seeing the bunny girls!”

“Guess tits don’t fix everything, huh, Enzo?”

His informant huffs, and instead of chuckling at his expense, red hot jealousy blooms within Gilver. It’s petty, yet he can’t help the possessiveness. Sneaking a hand over Tony’s knee and rubbing the smooth fabric of his leather jeans, Gilver asks him if he received his check for their job.

Tony cracks a grin. “I sure as hell did. It wasn’t 50, but I got an extra 20 grand from him. He gave you that much too, right?”

“He did.”

“Good.” Tony leans on his elbow, cheek in palm as he gazes at Gilver. “I was hoping he would, that skimp.”

Enzo suddenly gags, the mercs whipping to look at him. “I can’t stand the way you two look at each other. It's sickening. It’s kinda cute, but it’s sick. Like two little puppies, I swear.”

“Are you upset that your bunny girls don’t look at you this way?” Gilver speedily retorts.

“You—!”

Tony pulls Gilver to stand with him and downs his last shot simultaneously. “How about I take you up on that offer of walking me home? It still stands, I hope.”

“Of course.”

As revenge, Enzo shouts to them as they leave, “Enjoy your walk home, boys! And remember, wrap it before you tap it!”

Tony internally cheers; the day has finally come!

He retracts his steps and swiftly kicks the legs from underneath Enzo’s stool, the plump man then skidding across the alcohol-soaked floor. It starts a domino effect, other drunkards tipping over one by one. The duo closes the Cellar doors on a chorus of curses and broken glasses.

The walk to Tony’s apartment is rather quiet in contrast to the flirty behaviors they exhibited earlier. Together, they soak up the cool breezes of the late evening, shoulders bumping and Tony using his “exhaustion” as an excuse to hold onto Gilver’s forearm. It isn’t until they reach the front door to his apartment that Gilver breaches an important topic.

“Tony, there is something we need to discuss.”

“What?” Tony clumsily faces him. Gilver rejects the urge to stable him... Now isn’t the time for lovey-dovey affection.

“I did some investigating while you were holed up,” The lies slip off his tongue easily. At least, he hopes they do in the drunken ears of his partner. “That—that ferry incident was a setup.” The high raise of Tony’s eyebrows eggs him on. “It’s a long story, but they were hoping to take us down then and there.”

Then, Tony’s brows furrow, and Gilver can tell his gears are turning. Before Tony responds, he continues, “I can’t tell you what to do, but I think it’s best if you—”

Stay near me; is what he wants to say, and yet…

“—stay home or under the radar. It’s not safe for you.”

Tony scoffs. “Are you serious? I’ve been in this business longer than you!” Whether it’s the blow to his ego, or the alcohol heightening his anger, Tony begins to lose his cool. “I’ve had plenty of targets on my back, and not once have they succeeded! I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not saying you need one. I’m suggesting that you watch your back, Tony, that’s it. Back on the ferry, you froze up, so who’s to say that won’t happen again?”

His partner’s voice darkens. “Don’t you dare use that against me.”

Gilver regrets it, immediately dropping it. This wasn’t about pissing him off or making Tony feel inferior. He wants what is best for him! Why is Tony so stubborn?

“I’m sorry. I—I just.. I’m trying.. I’m trying, okay? I’m trying to just— keep you from.. “

Him.

There it is. Gilver becomes a malfunctioning robot, his consciousness overrun with emotions. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, what he’s supposed to say, and no matter the path he takes, he’s lost. He didn’t come with a manual, no guide as to how to navigate situations like these. His Creator never warned him of human emotions, and his lackeys never even knew what these beautiful emotions felt like.

A towering wave crashes into him, beating the truth that he is in love with Tony into him.

And because of that, for the first time in his short-lived life, he curses his God.

Tony nudges his shoulder, “Hey, you alright? Gilver, hey, you with me?”

The usage of his name snaps him out of it. “What?” He sees Tony’s concern in his warm blue irises, and with every fiber of his being, Gilver refrains from pulling him in close.

“You went to outer space or somethin’ for a second,” Tony jokes. The tension has dissolved now due to the tug of his lips, and Gilver feels right back at home. Maybe he is in outer space; Tony’s smile puts him on cloud nine, and it’s akin to looking at the Sun itself.

The flick of his beautiful eyes down to Gilver’s visible lips tears down the barriers Gilver had built.

As quick as a draw of his sword, Gilver cradles Tony’s face and crashes their lips together. He indulges in the linger of sweet-flavored chapstick, and the warmth of his tongue when he slides it in Gilver’s mouth.

The breathy moan Tony releases has Gilver bringing their bodies closer, and Tony inscribes his desires with a wrap of his arms around Gilver’s waist. Tony’s back hits the door, his left hand fumbling with the knob of the door. His artificial heart skips a beat, and he can’t catch his breath between the kisses. It’s the unlocking of the deadbolt that jerks him away from Tony. Wiping at the saliva moistening his lips, he attempts to calm down.

“What’s wrong?” Tony whispers, keeping his partner caged in his embrace.

“Is this really happening?” He replies in disbelief. A newfound tingle at the back of his neck unnerves him. Something isn’t right, and yet, he finds he doesn’t care.

“Gilver,” Tony coos, “Come inside with me.”

There are no barriers of his left up, and so just like that, Gilver nods.

He lets Tony tug him inside, shivering in anticipation. Tonight, their bodies can join and their souls will meet, something that bastard has never done with him. He’s Tony’s genuine other half, and he will prove it.

Gilver’s first time is marked with the messy removal of clothes, plump lips on each other’s cocks, teeth nipping at skin, and the bliss of claiming Tony by being buried inside of him.

A dead-end to his research and a painful bout of nostalgia leads Vergil somewhere he thought he would never return to.

Why would he? It’s a tomb for both his Mother and happy memories. It signifies the metaphorical death of him and his twin. That day they had risen from the ash like phoenixes and began lives anew. And phoenixes don’t look back on the what-ifs and the has-been’s; they move forward, burning their plights and carving a path to the future.

Yet, here he is— moving backward by strolling on a path directly to the past.

The walk up to the estate was shorter than he remembers. Back then, they felt isolated from the world, like they existed in their own little bubble, yet it took a measly half-hour to reach the manor from the city limits.

Under the beams of moonlight filtering through brushstroke clouds, he identifies the burnt remains of his childhood home.

The gates are wide open, the implication stirring his gut but he lets it be. It's to be expected, in fact. Although, he dearly hopes the one piece of memorabilia he came for hadn’t been pilfered.

He distinctly ignores the rusted playground and the glimmer of a lake Dante had loved.

Crackled wood snaps under his boots, the sound harsh in his ears. Half of the opulent manor has crumbled, the elegant foyer and living area the only part standing. To his left, a wardrobe is untouched. Odd.

Right on cue, a stream of the moon’s glow breaks through the clouds and lights up the family portrait hanging on the back wall.

Vergil stares at it, his mouth agape. He nearly believes supernatural forces had to have intervened for such a miracle, but he knows life has its peculiarities. Life also has a sense of irony, as his Father’s face is the most damaged, his face completely scratched out due to the blazes.

Next, his brother has the second worst damage, though he’s visible through the markings. He and their Mother are relatively untouched.

The longer he gazes upon it, the stronger his resolve. There’s an improbable chance Dante, or should he say Tony, would agree to his plans, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try. It’s worth testing his chances when a doppelganger is out there, soaking up the attention and ruining his life.

Anger flares up; what doesn’t that buffoon understand!? It’s him, Vergil, that is on that portrait, not this Gilver! He has been there from the start, alongside his twin until tragedy tore them apart. The absolute gall of that copy to think he’s an original, or even an excellent replacement.

An image from the night before burns into his eyelids, adding fuel to the fire.

Tony had tugged Gilver closer, pressing their lips together.

It’s what he gets for eavesdropping; he should’ve known better. In a twisted way, Vergil’s happy he saw it, for now, he realizes the extent of mockery. Tony is Vergil’s reason for gathering power, and Gilver is threatening to rip that from him.

“You’ll rue the day you were born, Gilver,” Vergil growls.

It’s time for the phoenix to return to its ashes and be reminded from whence it came— with a brighter light, he’ll carve a new path to the future.

All good things come to an end.

Gilver has heard the saying repeatedly since he’s become a mercenary. Every drunkard shouts it whenever their binges are cut off by the bartender, they reminisce over deceased partners with it, and even Tony has uttered it, once.

Now, it’s his turn to say it.

He had opened the door of his hideout to be greeted with Vergil sitting on a raggedy couch. His legs are crossed, the Yamato perched on his knee; the pinnacle of elegance and restrained aggression.

“Welcome home,” Vergil taunts. “Were you caught up with your jobs, Gilver? You’re usually home earlier than this.”

Gilver stays planted near the doorway. “I was, I had quite the nest to exterminate. I hope you didn’t wait long.”

“Patience is a virtue, one that I’ve practiced well.” Vergil stands, albeit makes no move toward Gilver.

“Is that so?” He isn’t interested in the slightest and focuses on Vergil’s insulting act of showing his back as he looks around the bare living room, going as far as to wipe dust off the mantle. Funny how he admonished Gilver for playing games, yet he seems to be the master of them. “Patience is important for a stalker, after all.”

Vergil snorts. “Call me what you wish. I did what I had to do to understand why a demon is walking around with my face.”

They face each other now, Vergil slightly lifting his chin as he addresses his doppelganger. “As part of my research, I found something rather peculiar about you, Gilver.” Gilver stares him down, and Vergil takes it as a sign to continue, “You put on a good show of believing yourself to be an original last time we met, but I have found that to be awfully wrong.”

Gilver’s jaw clenches, coaxing another smug smirk from his opponent.

“The mirror in your bathroom is smashed to smithereens.” Vergil slowly closes the distance between them, each step another nail in the coffin. “You wear bandages to conceal the most vital feature of your identity... Tell me, do you have a difficult time accepting yourself, Gilver?”

His response is stinging and spills faster than he should’ve let it. “I don’t.”

“You don’t? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I know who I am, and I’m comfortable with it. What about you?” Gilver inches to the side, widening the distance.

“This isn’t about me.”

“Oh, but it is,” Gilver bitterly retorts, “I find it peculiar that a man who left his twin brother and mother behind to perish in flames now wants his glory back.”

Right as Gilver intended, his words hit a nerve. The purse of Vergil’s lips and the narrowing of his eyes are pleasurable to Gilver. Vergil hisses, “Shut. Up.”

“That’s all you can say? It’s the truth. Do you have a difficult time accepting that you no longer deserve a spot next to your brother? Maybe if you swallowed your pride long ago this wouldn’t be an issue.”

Gilver cooly reflects Vergil’s scratching strike; the sparks birthed from their clashing swords light up his dark humble abode. Cornered, Gilver holds back Vergil’s violent swings.

“If it wasn’t for your Creator, I would’ve never been separated from him in the first place!” Vergil snarls.

“My Creator didn’t tell you to leave him behind for years. You could’ve reconciled at any time, but you didn’t.” Gilver rebukes.

Something psychotic flashes in Vergil’s irises, and he suddenly skids back from Gilver. “There! You said it!”

Gilver furrows his eyebrows, at a loss until Vergil explains with the nature of an unhinged scientist. “You were created, Gilver! Created! You’re a fake, an imitation! You know it deep down, but you refuse to accept it!”

Whether it’s the push and pull of their jeers or the growing instability of Gilver’s psyche, his mask of calmness finally cracks. “Why does it matter!? I was made to be you because you were gone! You were supposed to be dead!”

He gestures with his Yamato, his knuckles white as bone. “This! This is mine! It was given to me! And this!” Gilver desperately yanks the amulet off his neck, the ruby gemstone glittering. “This is mine! They belong to me! They’re part of my identity!”

“They’re counterfeit!” Vergil mocks, his voice rising to a gravely yell. “Just like your identity, they’re imitations.”

His mask having crumbled to the floor, Gilver attacks Vergil like a rabid animal. Swords meet and tear up the apartment; a couch is sliced in two, pillows ripped open causing feathers to descend beautifully while they wreak havoc. Glass from the overhead light shatters, and the few decorations Gilver had are broken into innumerable pieces. The wallpaper is torn, and blood splatters on every surface of the room.

The cramped space doesn’t give Vergil enough breathing room to utilize Judgment Cuts, a fact Gilver takes advantage of. Without his tricks, he relies on brute strength. This ends with Gilver having a bloody nose and split lip, and eventually, his bandages are shed by a wobbly swing of Yamato.

They both have white locks draping over sweaty, bloody faces. Gilver chuckles, spitting blood onto the cracked tiles of his kitchen. “You must hate having an enemy you can’t push around. One that you can’t chop the head off of and call it a day.”

“As always, you misunderstand my thoughts.” Vergil uses his soiled hand to style his hair back. “If anything, I prefer my doppelganger to be representative of me.”

Gilver chokes out a laugh. “Is that a compliment I hear?”

“It’s the most you’ll ever get from me.”

The shallow niceties are tossed away as they resume their battle to the death, swinging fists and carving deep cuts into the other’s body. Gilver enhances his skin with the blackened armor of his breed and fractures Vergil’s shin with a well-aimed kick. The moment Vergil’s knees thump on the floor, Gilver grips Vergil’s hair and slams his hardened knee into Vergil’s skull, an audible crunch resounding.

With his opponent wheezing on his back, Gilver retrieves his sword and lunges, aiming his sword downward to pierce Vergil’s throat. Vergil, not yet down for the count, stops it within centimeters of doing so, his palms gushing blood. Gilver drills it down, but their matched strength puts them at a standstill.

“You—! Why won’t you die already!?” Gilver roars through clenched teeth, “You aren’t me. You don’t, and will not ever, live up to my standard! You’re worthless! You should’ve become dirt for the worms!” ” He uses all of his muscle to try and override Vergil, the flesh of his hands becoming a stringy mess of gore. “If you had, everything would’ve worked out... Don’t you get that your mark will be left in this world through me? Tony loves me, not you. You can die peacefully now, if you just comprehend that I’m everything you never were!”

Vergil unwraps his fingers from the blade and lets the weight of Gilver fall onto him. The tip of the sword unexpectedly stabs the hardwood flooring, and with Gilver now in his space, Vergil raises and bites into the flesh of his neck. Gilver yowls as Vergil’s Devil Triggered fangs tear out a quarter of his throat.

He keels over, clutching at the fountain of blood spewing out. More of his essence bubbles up out of his lips, his screams of pain distorted by the liquid. Oh, this fucking hurts.

Vergil manages to stand and gags at the taste of Gilver’s blood, the flavor reminiscent of gasoline; horribly metallic and tinged with acidity. “I almost pity you.” He also retrieves his previously discarded Yamato, looking down on his healing opponent. “You should’ve stayed a mindless slave. A life without pesky emotions is a smooth one. If only you had realized that sooner.”

“Pesky emotions, huh?” Gilver slips on his own blood, and Vergil actually allows him time to regain his bearings. “You say that because you don’t care for Tony. This is all about pride, you bastard.”

“You don’t know me.” Vergil unsheathes his sword. “And I have no obligation to explain myself to you.”

Through the holes in his suit, Vergil spots the undulations of Gilver’s true flesh shimmering into existence. He was right, as expected— this doppelganger is another one of those armored, angelic demons that have been attempting to end his life for years. The Prince of Darkness isn’t very creative, he thinks. Instead of building a masterful warrior, he created a faulty husk of a man. Humans have little grasp on emotions and love, so what was going through Mundus’ brain when he crafted his replica with the ability to think for himself?

A pity, indeed.

“I’m going to end your misery, Gilver. Maybe in another life, you’ll have what you deserve.” Vergil points the Yamato at Gilver’s chest.

The words instill despair into Gilver, the demon lashing out in a last-ditch effort to save his life.

Their swords end in each other’s stomachs, both of them gripping the other’s wrist. Back against the wall, Vergil begins to DT, his pupils constricting and scales lining his arm. To counter him, Gilver releases portions of his demonic form, the neon veins pulsating in his face and his arms.

“It would be so easy,” Gilver murmurs, his voice robotic and empty. “Rip your heart out and it would be like you never existed.”

Gilver plunges a clawed hand into Vergil’s chest as the Yamato shifts minutely upward to split Gilver in half. The sound of blood pitter-pattering on the floor is the song of their demise. They breathe harshly as the two beasts are set in a deadly lock.

Vergil’s nails dig into Gilver’s wrist. “Just let go,” Gilver leans to whisper. “Accept your fate.” He gains purchase around Vergil’s ribcage but is stopped momentarily by his sternum being cut by the Yamato. He groans, fighting the traumatic agony in his body— he can’t heal anymore. A tear glistens at the edge of his eye.

Vergil gasps, grinding his teeth through the pain, “Not in a million years. This is goodbye, Gilver.”

Gilver chokes on his blood, straining a sad smile. “Goodbye.”

Simultaneously, Gilver squeezes the organ in his claws as Vergil yanks the Yamato upward.

Tony sighs. Another day, another dollar.

Strawberry sundaes haven’t filled him with joy, whiskey doesn’t burn the same way it used to, and bouncy tits sure aren’t helping. Enzo had joked he’s sad about his loverboy being busy, and honestly, he’s right. It doesn’t help that their last encounter involved sex; does Gilver regret it? Does he hate him?

Grue has been inexplicably busy too. What’s a man like him supposed to do without his partners?

Well, eat another sundae and wash it down with Bobby’s vodka. Third time’s the charm, as they say. Maybe he can get Bobby to combine the two! Now, that would be something.

Lazily sauntering up to the hidden Cellar doors, he mentally preps for another lonely evening. Before he turns the knob, he hears the click of shoes in the alleyway. When he spots a familiar figure in his periphery, the strawberry sundae concoction is forgotten. Tony happily greets his partner. “Hey! Where have you been? You missed out on some crazy jobs.”

Under the dim lighting, the man’s white bandages reflect a ghostly appearance. “I bet I did.”

Tony looks him up and down, whistling. “Nice suit, you splurged on this one!” Once his partner is in reach, Tony touches the cufflinks and traces the gold outline of the sleeve. “No more green, huh? Well, navy blue is a nice change of pace for you. I think it suits you better.”

Gilver smirks. “I think it does, too.”

His mood now the highest it's been, Tony slings an arm around his partner’s shoulder. “We got a lot to catch up on. Plus, these hyenas haven’t had their zookeeper; they’re going to eat you up. You ready?”

He leans into Tony’s embrace and opens the door for the two of them. “As always.”