The headlights of the van were as bright and blinding as desert sunlight; it was the only thing he could see, that white nothingness that made his eyes burn. Even after he held his arm up over his face, Dante felt like the guilty suspect from every cop show he had ever watched; sweaty and tired and about to be interrogated.

But so far no one had said a single word; the only noises that he could hear were the buzzing headlights of that van and the low, smoking rumble of Pandora underneath him.

He swallowed dryly, and realized right then that he had probably scared them; trailing after them for as fast and long as he did. But he couldn't help himself, one brief look at that flashing blue sign (neon, miraculous, familiar, and more miraculous still) He took off like Hell was still on his heels, following them for what felt like days.

That sign, his gift to the Kid. He was actually using it? Dante couldn't believe it.

From the inside of that van, Nero squinted right back at him. His brow furrowing as he poked his head out of the window to get a better view, knowing that his face was obscured by the high beams. He was quiet as he gazed at this strange man in front of him, looking wild and dangerous on that motorcycle that growled and glowed like a living thing.

That looks just like—

"Don't know what he's ridin', but it sure as hell ain't a hog." Nico's words came out in a spider web of smoke, eyeing Dante through the windshield. She didn't know who he was, she just thought he looked like some kind of washed up rock star; fresh out of rehab and smelling worse than yesterday's trash. The kind of guy that you could take one look at and see as plain as anything that he was hanging onto his glory days by less than a thread.

She glanced over at her partner, at his twisted mouth and unreadable face, knowing that whatever emotion he was feeling at the moment was drowning just below the surface of his blue eyes, ready to crash through like a brick through a car window. She hated it when he looked like that, carved from stone and just as cold to the touch. He didn't look like her partner at all...

(But somebody else)

The Devil Breaker (her baby) had more life in it than he did at that moment.

"So what's your call, Nero? He's been on our asses for a while. I've tried every twist and turn but I can't shake him. You think he wants something?"

There was a pause, thick and hot and tingling with uncertainty, like syrup riddled with ants.

"Turn off the brights." For as long as they had known each other she was always surprised at how cold his voice sounded when he got like that, so far off and away. Any other time, he was friendly and full of smart-mouthed jokes, maybe even nice. But the tone he took now had a razors edge to it; ready to slice and cut and draw all the blood from the nearest living thing.

Nico could only shrug her shoulders in response, and with a flick of her yellow-tipped fingers, the lights were shut off.

"Stay here." Nero said in the same tone as he leapt out the window and into the hot empty street, feeling his heart beat so fast that he was sure it was trying to slam its way out of his chest. He tried not to notice how his human hand began to shake and sweat and shake some more, whilst the other (that cold metal replacement) simply curled its fingers into a hard fist and stayed that way.

After all this time…

After everything…

As the lights died off, Dante lowered his arm with a heavy sigh of relief, blinking dumbly at the newfound darkness of the night, dull white splotches still dancing across his vision like dusty ghosts running for cover. He took a quiet moment to rub his eyes before focusing on the person walking up to him, not a teenager, but still much younger than him. Moon-bright hair so short, it looked like he had cut it himself with his eyes closed, black boots scuffing along the pavement with each step he took. And a—

Is that…?

Dante thought to himself, (fixated, numb, stupid, unblinking) Feeling his dead-skinned lips twitch as he slowly dropped the kickstand of Pandora down to put it to sleep, not knowing what else to do.

Kid?

He watched as the Kid stopped dead in his tracks like he had just heard that long-forgotten nickname, though the both of them knew that nothing had been said. It was the red trench coat that made Nero pause, the long tangled gray hair, all of it familiar; all of it unmistakable. (Painfully so, like a punch to the gut or a slap across the face)

Everything was quiet now.

This is a fantasy. Dante thought. A fantasy. It was a nasty trick played on an old man's starved mind. He'll blink and look and the sign on the van will say anything else. (Maybe it isn't blue. Maybe it isn't even there) This isn't the Kid, this is somebody else. A stranger that had stolen Nero's eyes and hair color and unmistakable walk.

Hell was real but this is not.

As Dante closed his eyes, a hard weariness scratched its lines deep across his face, like a hunting knife taken to a basement bar countertop. He wanted to say something but he did not know what. Hello? Hey there? What's up? How's it goin'?

I'm sorry?

None of them sounded appealing or like they would do any good. It would inevitably end in violence; maybe Nero would smack him or kick him. (he deserved that) Or kill him. (he deserved that too) Any other time, Dante could have handled whatever the Kid threw at him with ease, generously tossing around smiles and taunts like handfuls of colorful parade confetti.

But today,

tonight,

now;

After everything, he just wanted to kick back and relax. To sleep until he was dead.

Nero looked at the battered man in front of him, and he felt his lips purse tight like a still-healing wound. It felt like if he opened his mouth to speak; his skin would tear and bleed. He watched this man, (this old, old man with his long gray hair and rugged vagabond beard) before turning away silently, his ragged heart still pounding in his chest. He walked calmly back to the van, where his partner sat waiting in the driver's seat; curious and bright-eyed and wondering just what the hell all that was about.

"Uhhhhh Nico…" Nero said quietly as he leaned casually into the driver's window, his voice having lost its sharp edge, sounding completely drained and so dull it couldn't cut water. She took a nervous drag of her cigarette before leaning in to close to him, wanting to talk and ask questions just as much as she wanted to hear what it was that he had to say.

Dante could only watch, feeling almost helpless as he dismounted Pandora and transformed the devil arm back into its more portable form, the briefcase; which he slung carelessly over his shoulder like an overnight bag. He watched Nero closely but was unable to catch a word of what was being said. (Was his hearing starting to go?) It made Dante feel anxious; it made him feel excluded. He wondered if he should walk right up and introduce himself or stay right where he was and just let whatever happen… happen.

Then he heard a scream.

But it was not a fearful scream, not bloodcurdling or agonizing; like someone was being attacked. It was a happy scream; fanatical and girlish. The kind of scream that brought to mind teenagers and popstars and lip-syncing boy bands.

"Him!?" A woman he had never seen before poked her head out of the window of the van, brushing her long dark hair out of her face to get a better view of him, the few nearby streetlights reflecting bright off her glasses.

"Yeah, Nico that's—"

"That guy right there?!" She pointed at him with the fervor of a small child looking at who they thought was Superman or Santa Clause, starstruck and completely in awe.

"That's Dante?!"

She said that her name was Nico, and that she was an expert weapons crafter, as well as Nero's business partner at their particular branch of Devil May Cry. And then right after that she told him to hop on in and make himself at home.

She was the talkative type, Dante decided as he hunkered down in the back seat, Pandora set down safe near his feet, Rebellion nestled behind him. (though he still wore his guns, he always wore his guns)

He could tell that she kind of woman who was eager to speak to both willing and unwilling audiences, regardless of the circumstances or if she was even being listened to. The southern hospitality of her voice rang as sweet to his ears as the music from his old jukebox.

Even the smell of her cigarettes managed to bring him comfort, the smoke curling and staling the air of the van, pressing in on everything like a gray wall closing in fast. Lung-rasping, tar-coating, cancer-causing; it was perhaps the most human smell that there ever was, and Dante was glad for it.

"I've always wanted to meet you, ya know." Nico said as she lit another cigarette, hazel brown eyes gazing at Dante through the rearview mirror, still filled with such startled warmth, like she couldn't believe that he was actually real. "I mean, not to sound like a creep, but it's true."

Nero sat silently beside Dante, his mismatched hands resting corpse-stiff on his thighs, his mouth shut tight like he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words, like what he actually wanted to say could be articulated better with a scream or a kick; if he could only muster up the energy.

After Dante got in, the brief exchange between Nero and his partner had been wordless, with Nico casually tilting her head in Dante's direction and mouthing something that Nero seemed to understand perfectly. Dante watched as the Kid lowered his gaze with an exasperated sigh, and then rolling his eyes before climbing into the backseat, obviously being forced to do something that he did not want to do.

After he sat down, the younger kept his eyes trained out the window, his face turned away from Dante like he couldn't stand the sight of him. The Kid was quiet; too quiet. The kind of quiet where you couldn't tell what they were thinking; only that it was bad and that it was about you.

It made Dante realize that there was a chasm in between them now, made wide by his careless abandonment back in Fortuna, then wider by his absence. Impossible to cross, impossible to shout and have your voice heard on the other side. The emptiness between them swallowed up everything; it made words and gestures worthless.

Without any sort of warning, the van rumbled to life, speeding off down the street and into the night; so fast that all three of their heads jerked back. Nico drove recklessly, paying attention to pretty much everything else except the open road in front of her.

Sensing the tension like an axe about to fall, she smoked habitually and fiddled with the dial of the radio, somehow managing to find a song she liked after two turns of the knob. She sang along loudly to classic rock and heavy metal, cooed to the acoustic guitar strum of country songs about battered women that shot their husbands and took off deep into the night. Nico filled the silence of the van (and that insurmountable chasm) with a steady river of words, music, and the constant click of her disposable lighter colored cotton candy pink.

She blew smoke rings as easy as she would a bubble or a kiss.

Then she started talking again, calling Dante baby or honey, even though he was certain that he was old enough to be her Dad. Asking him a few scattered, harmless questions and then not waiting for his answer. Her mouth seemed to run away without her, but Dante did not mind; not one little bit.

As Dante half-listened, he licked his cracked lips before looking over at the Kid, who glared at him through the reflection of the window, his brow furrowed in silent irritation like he had just been insulted. Dante's eyes flickered down to Nero's prosthetic arm and stayed there, feeling a sudden stab of pain deep in his chest, tingling cold down his own arms, even though he was not the one who had been hurt.

Kid, what the hell happened? Who did that to you? He wanted to ask, but then didn't.

"That's my handiwork right there." Nico beamed at him through the mirror, her proud smile dimpling her cheeks. Dante seemed taken aback; he didn't know that she was paying attention to him, catching him staring like that and—Wait a minute, she…what?!

…

Oh. He thought after a moment, wanting to slap his forehead.

She meant the prosthetic.

"You made that?" He questioned as he struggled to compose himself, though he was genuinely astonished. She gave him an excited nod in response, her dark curls bouncing like coiled springs around her shoulders, happy at having impressed him.

Dante turned his gaze back to the arm that looked completely futuristic, like something out of a science-fiction movie. "Made it specifically to kick all kinds of demon ass. He sure can put on a show! Ain't cheap though, I will tell you that. Made it in several separate parts, he can do all sorts of wild shit with it. Can't you, Nero?"

She looked at her partner through the mirror, who turned and gave her a grin, painful and forced; his teeth clenched tight under his pressed pink lips. He did not look at Dante.

"It's a gift I was born with." Nico continued, ignoring his sour expression. "Passed down through blood; got it from my grandmamma. '.45 Caliber Works.' That rings a bell, don't it?"

The name went off like a gunshot inside of Dante's skull, loud and ringing and far too recognizable. He sat up in one swift movement; and his eyes, though dull and in desperate need of sleep, went wide with clarity. "Nell?" He said the name like how he'd say 'Mom'.

"Nell Goldstein? The Nell Goldstein? You're her…" His voice trailed off.

"Granddaughter." Nico confirmed as she tossed her cigarette out the window, giving a bizarre sense of genuine finality to her words.

Dante could only slump back down into his seat, hands dangling loose in his lap, unsure of what to do except grin warmly at surfacing memories of the woman who had given him one of his greatest gifts.

Good ol' Nell Goldstein, born when God was just a baby.

He looked over at the Kid who seemed to barely acknowledge what was being said, as nothing moved behind his face, his eyes unblinking and numb. Geez, lighten up Kid. You're worse than your dad. Dante thought bitterly, and then he yawned and stretched, loud and animated like an old cartoon character dressed in their pajamas and ready for bed.

Feeling beaten down, drugged and in need of that elusive mistress named sleep. (He's seen too much, done too much, been told too much) Dante's shady blue eyes narrowed as the beams of passing vehicles flashed by his vision, zooming in the opposite direction; away from wherever it was that they were heading. He could feel his surroundings beginning to fade, along with those he was with. He felt Nico drifting away, the sound of her voice trailing off as if being carried by a cold, cold, wind; down to a deep place where he could not reach.

The Kid was gone too, he was long gone.

Gentle, almost hesitant, and completely stupid as well as thoughtless, Dante laid his head against Nero's metal shoulder. His gray hair falling long in front of his eyes, obscuring passing street lights and shop signs in one shimmering neon blur. It felt like a lightshow was being performed just for him as he rested his cheek against what felt like a sledgehammer. A cold, hard tool that's only purpose was to destroy. (Isn't that all devil hunters are anyway?)

…Where were they going?

(Those cars, those people, he himself)

Someplace new? Maybe someplace better? Safer?

(Is there such a place anymore?)

(Anywhere in the world?)

"Nero, you need to be nice." Nico said quietly after Dante had fallen asleep, taking on the soft tone of a Sunday school teacher asking her class to bow their heads for prayer. Nero turned his head to look at her, his eyes going dark; then darker when Dante started to snore.

"What are you talking about? I'm being nice." His voice quaked as he spoke, like water beginning to boil, fuming with a warm steam, not quite scalding, not yet. She could only look at him.

"I'm being so fucking nice right now. This bastard is slobbering all over my shoulder and he still gets to keep all of his teeth. I haven't run him over with the van or kicked him out to die in a ditch. So yeah, I'm being nice." Dante's breath, hot and sour; tickled the side of his neck. Nero could only turn away and look out the window, his muscles pulled tight like they were ready to tear at any given moment.

As far as he was concerned, he was a goddamned saint.

"What'd he do to you, Nero? You never talked about him. He doesn't seem so bad." Nico questioned softly, wanting him to open up. Pausing to take a long, sweet moment to light another cigarette; giving him a few heartbeats to gather his thoughts.

Nero only shook his head as he brought his human hand up to his mouth to chew on his finger nails. "That's just the thing, Nico. He didn't do a single fucking thing."