tampered | (no subject)

Current Mood: determined

(no subject)

When; February 18th, 2008
Rating; We're going to go safe and say R to MA for violence until further notice.
Characters; Nero and Vergil
Summary; Uh. Vergil senses a Nero, and Samara didn't help it any. He decides to prove he's top dog.
Log;

There hadn't been a single thing to get him to start the way this had since he arrived in the City after his first departure. Nothing. Not Lady. Not Dante. Not Samara, or Knives or his Gung Ho Guns. This felt like a shock through the spine, spreading as warmth through his entire body. The arrival caused his vision to blank for a split second, and the electrifying tingle didn't leave. It only intensified as Vergil started from Building 12 on instinct, and instinct alone.

Instinct... No. It was like he was being drawn in a particular direction like a magnet. He didn't understand what it meant, nor did he want to sit and think about it. The fool wouldn't even do the honor of giving his name. Which told Vergil, right there, if he was demonic at all, he was only partially so to be able to avoid releasing his designation upon request. But that was fine: Vergil didn't make idle threats. That creature was a bottomfeeder, as far as Vergil was concerned, and he'd beat him to his knees his first day in the City to get him to comply. Vergil was superior over him and any other pathetic excuse of a demon. All but one. Not even Dante could stand at his level anymore. Dante had forsaken that chance long ago.

He found himself drawing closer to the carousel. His hand gripped Yamato--a trinket spared his trip back home somehow--as he walked. His vision blurred on slight ocassion due to injuries still not entirely cared for. But it was getting better. It was repairing, and he'd eventually get to show them all his true power. He could only fathom what Mad Hatter would say.

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Nero had felt it, too.

It manifested a bit different for him, though - it wasn't warmth, it was more like... being submersed in acid and ice, and his right arm was throbbing like that time that His Holiness had pinned him to the Creepy Sparda Statue as if he were a dead bug under glass, and his head was pounding and he half-wished it was just a hangover so he wouldn't have to face what he figured was on the horizon.

He wasn't stupid (or naive) enough to think that Vergil wasn't coming for him, but he wasn't going to run, either.

Part of him, he had to admit, was curious. It was that stupid, suicidal curiousity that all the Sparda progeny seemed to have in some way, shape or form. The self-destructive sort, y'know? The sort that went, 'Hey unleashing hellspawn is clearly the best idea ever', or 'yeah let's take this job with this chick that looks like my dead mother' or 'sure let's fight the guy in the red coat, nevermind that he just took out thirty elite guards and I'm injured!' It was that kind of curiousity that made him lean back against the carousel, kick his legs out in front of him with a casual languidity and fold his arms and wait for somebody who could - quite possibly! kill him.

So he waited. And yawned a lot, because he hadn't slept in ... too damn long. And waited. And checked the speedloaders for the Blue Rose because like hell he was walking into this maelstrom arms open and eyes closed. And waited more. Good Christ, was he going to get action any time this century?

He could feel the Yamato, too, pulsing at the back of his mind, almost as if it sensed the return of its original master. Well, tough freakin' cookies. Dante had entrusted him with the sword - and Vergil would have to put up one hell of a fight to get it back.

Out from shadows in the darkening City, Vergil emerged. Not crowd nor cold winter weather slowed his movements as the young man, clad in dark grays, pulled from the darkness near the carousel. He said nothing, his eyes darkening slightly to a stark purple and gray as he walked. Something about this creature struck him with more anger than even his own brother.

The creature looked like them. The same eyes, the same hair. Like a hybrid between the two brothers. Messy by Vergil's standards; a nice, pretty little package compared to Dante's. He was pulsating more, and Vergil could practically hear resonating power dripping from his body. Familiar and yet beyond his comprehension.

Vergil said nothing, pacing past slowly, keeping a good two yards between them. He was skulking like a tiger in a cage, admiring its meal before it could be reached, honestly.

And then he stopped and slowly turned as he was returning back from his pace past, and gently placed Yamato tip-down as he gripped it at the hilt like some sort of walking staff. It was there, in clear and apparent view for the other just lounging there like nothing was wrong at all. Stupid child.

Vergil's eyes, never returning to their normal color, were blinked back into clarity. He leant to the side a moment, his eyes taking in the other's wardrobe. A curious blend of colors; of red and of blue.

However, there was only one thing Vergil could think to say, and it was as Vergil looked pointedly to the red hood on the back of the other's collar. "It looks like you forgot your earmuffs, precious. You better pull up your hoodie before you get an ear infection."

Okay, so. Vergil mighta been dancing back and forth like he was a big feral cat and Nero was steak on the hoof, but it was about as intimidating as Kyrie wielding a spatula in his general direction.

Yeah. Wow, much more of this and he'd be crying like a little boy in that way where he was actually laughing instead.

"Pfft." He clambered to his feet, dusted off his thighs and folded his arms, one eyebrow raised. "... are you for real?" he couldn't help but ask - because he hadn't yet gotten to that point in his life where it would occur to him that running his mouth was potentially a bad idea, especially in circumstances like this. Psh, undead, demons, legendary devil hunters - hell, legendary devils. All would bow before his ego! Or something.

But yeah, there was no mistaking he was a little underwhelmed. ... Though if he was perfectly honest with himself (that in itself a feat and a half) half his bravado was just hiding the fact that his hand (and that voice in his head wouldn't shut up wouldn't stop powergivememorepower like a chipmunk on speed and he jerked his head to one side as if he could empty the crazy out one ear and onto the ground, didn't work so well, though) was hurting and burning and making him want to cut it the hell off--

"Sorry to disappoint, but my earmuffs are busy having a torrid love affair with whatever passes as hairgel in your little world of crazy." He wriggled the fingers of his left hand as he said the word 'crazy', and the boy had a smirk like the devil himself. Or, at least, the devil's children.

He was worse than Dante. Sizing up the young man beside him, physically he honestly didn't look much different in age to Vergil himself. Of course, Vergil also had the misfortune of feeling many, many moons older than he truly was from his stay in Hell; his training and his reshaping. His body felt as old as Knives had at that point.

The power tugging at Vergil, the sensations... It was completely chaotic. Did the one before him even realize how much he was resonating? His energies felt as though he was screaming out to Vergil for attention; he overrode everything the closer he got and it was starting to drive Vergil's eyes to more a black and red as he stood there.

And that insubordinate mouth on him. Even if he was just a human with nice little gifts--that armpiece, that gauntlet, had Vergil's curiosity--he was lower than Vergil and should have been kissing the ground of the future general--of the prince to Sparda's legacy.

His feet pressed towards the nameless young man on aching knees, still wobbling slightly from remaining infection not yet completely cleared. One hand grabbed Yamato's hilt; the other, its sheath, as he swung it overhead. The two separated with the soft sound of metal sliding against metal, and it seemed as though the sound was a whistle to beckon to Vergil to increase his speed. Yamato spun in hand as it was swung around and into a better position for the speeding devilboy to impale the other with.

"You do not realize the trouble you are in." He swore he'd make him bleed for Vergil's answers, after all.

Hoi shit.

Yeah, that about summed up his thought process as things stood right now. Hoi shit and he brought his arm - the right, he wasn't stupid - up to bear. He didn't really have the time to do anything smart like dodge. But he did have the foresight to rev the Red Queen with his left even as Vergil freakin' stabbed him. The impact was hot and hard and Nero - though he'd braced himself against the ground, slid back a few inches, kicking up dust.

He'd gotten Yamato in the arm once before - it'd hurt like a motherfucker and had healed so slow in comparison with the rest of his injuries that he felt practically mortal again. Doubtless it had something to do with the whole it being a Sword of Sparda crap (so Sparda'd had the actual sword of Sparda, and then he'd had Rebellion and Yamato - did the guy seriously have three arms or was he just compensating for something?) and them packing more punch than a drunk prom date.

So anyways. Back to the whole Evil Stabbity Asshole thing that Vergil was currently trying to perpetuate. Yamato had pierced the devil bringer, armor and all, and the tip had emerged from the inside of his arm to come to rest against the fabric of his jacket, right above his heart. The flat of the blade had slid between the muscle and the bone of his forearm and if Vergil decided to twisted the blade before pulling it free for another kick at the kitty, Nero figured he wouldn't be using his go-go-gadget demon grabber for, oh, at least the duration of his fight. And seeing as how it was his greatest advantage in any given situation - no thanks.

The blood that slid from his wound like a fanciful scarlet ribbon gathered on the underside of his arm and dripped to the ground - where it hissed like hot water and wow, he hadn't actually noticed it do that before. Demonic blood was always a little on the unstable side, but this was taking things to a whole new level of the Bizarre.

Probably Vergil's fault. Nero was just gonna blame everything on Vergil until further notice. Fact that it was dark? Vergil. Nero being brought to this goddamn place in the first place? Probably Vergil. Horrible pain in his arm that was making him want to squirm like a little worm on a big fucking hook? Yeah, that was most definitely Vergil.

"So," he damn near drawled, looking up to meet Vergil's eyes. "Are we learning yet?" He'd crossdrawn his sword, red hot and raging, the liquid ignition system running the length of her blade, with the hopes of leveling it at Vergil's throat in some kind of fanciful Mexican Standoff.

By this point, Vergil's eyes were a burning red set on pitch black, and his lips had begun to darken as they widened with the beginning of his initial trigger. It was uncharacteristic for Vergil to fly off the handle so easily, and Vergil himself recognized it. But the closer he got to this creature, and to the power that seemed to tug on Vergil with a foreign familiarity more and more, and Vergil didn't exactly claim to be the most stable individual in his recent days.

Blood, agony and deprivation assured that, didn't it.

The powerful blade wielded by the young man against his neck caused him to stop from doing exactly as the other was anticipating. Twisting Yamato was such a simple motion; a flick of the wrist, but the agony acted like a relief from stress, really. In past times, that motion alone was simply a way to increase the finality of the pain he would bring against his opponents. In present days, it brought sadistic glee.

Again, the sword did make its placement as the other wanted, and Vergil tilted his head away from it although his body didn't move as a whole to get away. He wondered if it'd be worth driving in closer, to impale him to the hilt and risk injury to his neck. Taking the head was the one way to stop their kind, after all.

He did rock the blade just a tiny bit this way and that way, to show the other what he was contemplating. "Your name," he said with a clack of teeth to show his elongated canines. "Now."

What was with this stranger that made him so angry and careless? He needed his name. He was sure that would help him understand.

"Apparently I'm Sparda Redux numero tres," Nero said, gritting his teeth as Vergil tried to fillet his arm. Worse was that he could feel the flesh trying to knit back together every time he moved it, and feel it tear anew each time the blade sashayed back along its merry way.

He could feel his own trigger, too, like bursts of static coming through a radio you'd just kicked through a window and shot like a clay pigeon, weird and totally unexpected, but it was at the edges of his mind anyways, flickering - one second it was there, that great hulking presence, and the next it was gone, bled back into whatever dark place it called home. But it was in those moments, those surges, that he actually wanted to answer. Nero, my name's Nero, now fuck off--

But because Nero is two things in life before he is anything else (those two things being stubborn and contrary) - he bit his response back by sheer force of spiteful will. Ha. In your face, Cosmic Bitch Queen Vergil.

Nero revved the queen again, deepening the red of her blade to an almost incandescent magenta-vermillion so that her very touch would burn - if Vergil wanted to play with fire, man, that was a-okay by him.

"Look bud, you can either walk away now or be in a world of hurt later." He flexed the fingers of his right arm slowly, feeling the pull and the tear of the muscles beneath the sword, the scrape of the blade on bone, and fuck it all but Nero grinned.

Bravado, thy name is...

Edited 2008-02-20 06:10 (UTC)

"You refuse to give your designation to your better?" The burning was getting to him. Not in a way that he would flinch away, but it was only causing his aggravation at this bottomfeeder who dared claim relation to him, to Dante, to Sparda. His skin was giving way in waves, and coming back just as quickly under the heat, only to very literally start to melt away again. Not nearly enough time for blood to start, though the warmth of skin melting felt like candle wax dripping across his skin.

But it was a driving to cause a sick grin to cross his face. The trigger began to level where it was, dark lips wider than any human's could ever be, Vergil kept his sword where it was, as he leant in closer. His neck was allowed to slip along the blade, and it hurt, but the goal was worth the pain. "Aheh. As you wish, fairy."

Whisps of blue floated from behind him. The puffs looked like eerie, ghostly streams that could be seen dancing across old photographs. It would have been entrancing if it held that form. Unfortunately for the other, the smoky streaks stopped their dance, turning into four instantly solid forms: phantom swords, aimed to launch overhead at his opponent. His opponent went with burning. He would go with the cold, icy darkness.

He ripped Yamato free, shuffling backwards and past the phantom swords, which held station right where they'd form. He backed behind them and squared at the shoulders as he pointed Yamato at the other's face. "Let's see your dance, bottomfeeder."

"I don't--" Nero grunted with the sudden holy hand grenade of pain that spontaneously erupted in his arm, and he jumped back, shaking it like a dog, blood splattering all over hell's half acre. You could see the sick redpink slide of muscle beneath the sloughed-off armor, the old-china-white of bone beneath that. It immediately started knitting itself back together, though sluggishly, and it fucking stung.

"- See any betters here," he finished, and felt the coalescence of the devil bringer's aura at his fingertips. It was a hell of a lot weaker than he was used to it being, and even that much felt like being repeatedly punched in the head with an anvil of epic proportions.

Said anvil did, however, help clue him into one important little fact that he'd previously managed to miss.

Vergil's devil trigger form looked like Dante's. Or what little bits he'd seen of Dante's, anyways. In fact, it looked--

...it looked...

like his.

And that, right there, that was enough. His DT flipped into overdrive, and Yamato - his Yamato materialized in his right hand. Oh sure so he could barely hold it, but give it a second or ten, and what a difference devil blood could make.

It was with the odd, echoing voice that was him and not-him that he then snarled, "Ladies first."

Edited 2008-02-20 10:51 (UTC)

That was Yamato. Vergil recognized it the instant it materialized and his eyes narrowed in an angered slant. That, right there, did it for him. His brain urged for him to declare it a fake, because his was the only, and a gift from his father. Sparda. Many were owners of items that were mere imposters to the artifacts and the trinkets owned by the legendary demon, and Vergil had the ability to detect it in an instant. Something his brother could never seem to do. The true items whispered, they called out as entities of their own; with the whispers of hundreds, even thousands of those slain by their powers. The fakes were easily shattered replicas with no life, no hauntings of their own.

This one, however, felt exactly like his.

Bantering was over.

Vergil's mind released the phantom swords that hovered there, causing them to rapidly spin, tilt, and then launch directly for the younger man's arm grasping Yamato. His greed for the weapon rightfully his had him ready to rip this foolish creature limb from limb, starting with an attempt of impaling his arm with all four swords. As those were launched, Vergil was already moving in to take the katana, confident that the phantom swords wouldn't be stopped, would connect, and he'd release that sword to Vergil. None of it made sense, and it didn't have to. Lady had been bitching about time rifts, after all, so this sword had every potential of being the true Yamato as the one he held in his hand.

But as much as Nero had a Swordslinger Complex - between Yamato and the Red Queen he had badass sewn up - he'd more or less taken a leaf out of Dante's book in terms of guns. The bigger the better. Impossible calibers and recoil fit to break wrists.

And that attack that Vergil just unleashed? Why, it looked exactly like what happened when he fired the Blue Rose with his trigger turned all the way up to eleven.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, after all. Nero ain't the kind of guy to ignore physics just because he's cranky.

His revolver has six shots, fired in staggered bursts of two. Each burst was accompanied by a phantom glowy sword of its own - taking three of them down.

The last.

Well the last wasn't so friendly as all that.

But with it, and Vergil behind it, Nero didn't have a whole lot of options that weren't filled with ouch - so he did the closest thing he could think of to a solution. He threw Yamato at the last glowy sword, a roundabout motion that sent it tumbling tip over hilt and leapt backwards, landing a touch unstably on the carousel, that had started to spin.

As if it were excited. Creepy thought.

Then he pulled off three things at once - speed-loading the Blue Rose (one-handed! rock on, he'd gotten used to that in the time he'd worn a sling), sending the devil bringer to snatch his (yes his, get over it) sword out of mid-air at the moment it impacted the phantom, and... he hopped sidesaddle on a palomino pony and shot Vergil in the fucking face with a charge shot - Or made the attempt, anyways. The carousel was... feistier than those he was used to.

Mostly he was just buying some time until his arm was back to full capacity. Even the snatch gesture had made all his pain receptors fire at full, and it wasn't a picnic. He was sweating.

And his DT form was already starting to flicker like lights in an electrical storm - he hadn't had it long enough to actually get used to it, after all, and his tolerance for the whole Demonic Possession was significantly lower than Vergil's.

Which could very possibly be bad.

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