Unspeakable

Chapter 1 : Do I know you?

Ok, disclaimer. I don't own Devil May Cry and the wonderful characters in it. But IF I did, I guarantee there will be no need for DxV paring ficcies anymore -evil smirk- But I do love Capcom any how, as long as those guys keep Vergil in one piece.

Author's notes: Oh yeah, there are a couple o things I'd like to point out. First of all; a Back Button all you homophobes, Capishe? The story starts off light, but the tension will build up, and BAM! You never know what might happen… So be warned, and don't embarrass yourself. And this fictional tale is set following DMC3, where Vergil ultimately yields to the dark side. But hey, he doesn't seem too evil here, does he? What's going on !

Italic like this is Vergil's raw and direct thinking. Used for reminiscing as well.

Well, start scrolling down and let yours eyes dance on the words, let the images unroll.

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His feet came to a halt in front of a curious bar named 'Bull's Eye'. Most of the shops were closed; quiet, latent, the streets of 66 Slum Avenue sleeping soundly under tonight's sky, the full Moon gracing it with an eerie glow. It must be late, but he had no sense of the time. No sense of anything. There was only this thirst that drove him on.

And the lone body that held some vague meanings for him was the emblem of the sky itself; the incandescent Moon against the backdrop of an endless ebony cloth. There were no stars, no haze. Forsaken and forlorn feelings shone onto him. Yes, empty but longing.

His thirst was once again reminded when he lowered his eyes onto the bar for a second time. Thirst, the sole human instinct that stopped him from going mad. Because in this blackness that kept threatening to engulf him whole, he knew of nothing, maddening nothing, but just that he had to drink, and so drink aplenty he would. It made him feel like it didn't matter if he did not know his own name, or even the reason for his existence, or why the hell he was sprawled across in front of some tower's ruins, feeling like dying from what seemed like an aeon of emptiness and defeat, taking hold of his being and crushing it mercilessly until he felt nothing. Until he was nothing.

But then…what was that tinge of something else left there amidst his hollowness? Only a glimmer in this oblivion, something so tender, something so warm; but it was indescribably sad, so very sad.

Whilst he took his first step towards the well- lighted door, aided only by the bar's brilliant red neon sign, a raging bull's head portrayed instead of the word, he thought of the builder he happened upon by chance on his initial unpromising wandering, and the words that were said to him.

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'Yeah, kid, all the shops are closed by now. But if ya really gotta quench y' thirst, tho, Bull's Eye of 66 Avenue is the place to be!' The man, husky and with a roughly shaven face, had his arms crossed at his chest then, and he leaned over, grinning, ' and if ya ever feel that sumthin' else needs t' be satisfied, jes walk thru t' a little haven called Love Planet. And bam! I gurarantee ya 'll be staggered!'

He thanked the man before he could continue his enthusiasm. To be honest, he could care less about 'love- whatever' or its 'guaranteed positive staggering'. Apart from the things that he needed, anything else meant nuisance. He had always acted in concurrence to this trait of his. Always.

Well, except for one thing.

Wait a minute, how the hell could he possiblyknow these things?

Then as he turned to pace in the direction of his new destination, a voice of seconds ago was called after him.

'Yo, kid! Go get sum rest or sumthin,' a concerned look, 'ya look beat, man.'

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It was quiet, except from the low hum of the distant traffic and the whirrs of the nearby machineries, the murmur of the mild wind. His boots broke that wonderful, monotonous silence in steady, crisp claps upon gritty cement as he caught a clump of loose hair strands and tugged it back. He paused briefly, his hand grasped at where he tugged back that mass. Standing there, he studied the stark silver tendrils closely. Mine? Never did it occur to him toexamine what Nature bestowed him with. While heading here, he'd caught glimpse of himself before; he'd notice his powerfully built chest underneath the clothing before, the legs that took his own weight with ease, the swiftness they could carry him, and his arms; their force! Earlier, drowned in confusion, his head hung low, he brought his palms down upon some large stone debris in frustration. And goodness! It shattered into little pieces!

But none of that mattered at this moment.

Vast black shadows cast off of towering buildings surrounded him, and he saw silver scatters of light from the street lamps on either side of the area. They were only a fleeting succession of blurred images when he rushed by.

A door stood before him. He stopped; jolted, before his hand could reach it. Something had disturbed him. A fleeting image. A haunted apparition in his mind. White hair so alike my own. It was when the door was pushed back did a distinct hint of pandemonium escape.

Suddenly, shouts and laughter and movements of any kind amalgamated into one big clatter as the door completely gave way, blasting and streaming out to numb him, mingling and fussy, where the sounds: the shrieks, the bawls, and the guffaws, all but added to the glamour of the place. The merriment. Blindingly vivid light bathed his body, he squinted his eyes, the sheer, pale blue orbs adjusting to the unexpectedly sudden change of light intensity. He stepped into Bull's Eye Bar.

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At once, the interactions and the engagements infusing this place seemed to be diminishing slowly, then to stop altogether. Virtually all eyes had moved to rest upon him, staring and silent. He grinned. What is this? A funeral passing? He advanced with no inhibition, uninterested whatsoever in his large audience that was scattered everywhere he looked, over to the target of his eyes he moved; the liberator of this horrid, yet blessed yearning to drink - the bar itself.

Averting his mind from it, he tried not to think ahead: what would he do after the fluid had passed into his throat? What should he be thinking the moment it rushed against his tongue, caressing it gently, liquid flowing down in a cool sensation to satisfy delightfully? Drink. And as he graced the tavern with elegance of a tiger, proud and firm, the long azure leather coat that he was adorned in shimmered, flickered in the bright lights, while he caused it to billow like a ripple with his unbroken speed. One could have sworn that this stranger exuded the aura of condescension.

The saloon wasn't all that big, only a few steps lay between him and a great hard-wood bar. It was lacquered, with several stools sitting under its long rectangular table-top. With his arms rested on its cool surface, folded neatly, he stood upright, looking straight at a woman in her late 20s behind the bar. She smiled. Fine dark skin and grey expressive eyes. Her pitch-black hair curt short, a pixie cut. Fuzzy sounds began to rise again. It seemed they had just realised the embarrassment of them all gawking at this new arrival. But he did really look misplaced here. And everything resumed to its normal engagement, the clamours mounting as slowly as they went.

"Ah, a refreshing sight for sore eyes. What can I get you for, good-looking?"

"Water, is all I necessitate."

"Right… Just a glass of water?" she tilted her head to the side, a puzzled look spread across her features. "Tell you what; I'll throw in something for you to really drink. What do you say?"

"That is without a doubt a generous offer. However, don't you agreethat you'd sink this watering hole faster than you could throw a 301 if you were to show that kind of compassion to every new customer?"

The woman laughed optimistically. "You're a funny guy. Don't worry, everyone here's regular." She, too, placed her hands on the bar, leaning over, "so how about that drink?" She looked him up and down. "Rest assured, gorgeous, I don't plan on getting you pissed out of your head so that I can grab and haul your hot, tight ass into my bedroom." A wink, "I've got a boyfriend."

"Whiskey, thank you. Just a shot," he said almost in an instant.

"Knew you'd come around," she smiled, and with that, spun around cheerily and moved to find a shot glass from the lower mantelpiece.

He was appalled. Her candid way of talking: it was something he didn't know how to properly handle. That directness. Why? Something flashed. Familiarity.

The glimmer, but it was more than just a glimmer; it was a tangle of experiences, a piece of past knowledge. Something he knew so well. Forgotten relics of departed memories. Offhandedness and flippancy, brusqueness, aggressiveness, and…A person. Yes, a piece of nostalgia… His eyes lighted up as he realized. That's it. And he saw an image misted up in his head again, hazy but warm, of a sturdy youth; his back turned to him; powerful shoulders, sensual plane of the back, smooth muscles flexed as he laughed. He had the same white hair, same length, same texture as his earlier vision's had. The colour white so much like his own. Then the boy's face turned to look at him, grinning: 'Right, Ve-…'

"Oi, prissy boy over there!" a hostile voice yelled out.

The bar quietened down again, only hushed voices could be heard.

Inhaling slowly, then exhaling, he shut his eyes, trying to suppress an intensifying anger inside him. He only turned his neck to the side just enough to address the owner of the voice; he knew it was directed at him. His eyes grew wide and tense.

"Yeah, you," the coarse, horrible voice again. He wished it would just choke up and…ahem…

"Good evening," he said. He thought it would be politer to shift his body around so that he could see this jester more fully.

He saw enough. A thug it seemed, no more than 40, brawny and evidently all boozed out, stood there, just a couple of metres in front of him. The guy's finger pointed floppily at him, his knees somewhat buckled to steady and support, his back was slightly bent backward. The mature face distorted. It was obvious that he wasn't too happy. Right behind him stood 2 men, both looked like they had a similar number of years behind them.

"I've got this, guys," one arm stretched out as if to signal dismissal. "Why don't you go back to the circus, eh, pussy?" a challenging tone towards him.

Just a self-serving fool. He smirked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, you need to grow a penis, you pussy!"

This, he arched an eye-brow at. Despite the fact that there were too many things that his brain devoid about himself, he had a male sex appendage alright, this much he was sure of. "And this is coming from you, is it?"

The older man looked shocked. But he recovered himself with amazing swiftness, laughing haughtily.

"Ah, here you go," a jovial female voice came from behindhis back, behind the bar, instantly disrupting the uneasy atmosphere. Turning around, he saw the woman bartender emerging out of the storeroom, two hands held a case of numerousshot glasses.

"Joaaaanneee!" The same gruff voice addressed the bartender, the vowels in her name stressed.

"Whaaaaat!" She answered in the same manner, mocking him. "Do you always have to be so friggin' loud, Tucker!"

Tucker. He snickered. No wonder the man's readily insecure.

The drunkard suddenly threw his glance along his direction, his eyes flaring.

"Lovely, lovely name. It's… Out of the ordinary!" His face mocked a perfect enthralled expression as he spoke.

Joanne snorted. He was not aware of the spectators since the time when he first walked in. But now, a flood of subdued chuckles encircled around him, guilt-ridden faces in humour on all sides, some just stared, concerned about the outcome. Both of Tucker's friends struggled to conceal their amusement, and ended up with a subtle grin, their lips bit down.

"I'll deal with you later, boy."

"No, you get to deal with no one to-night! I'm tired of you causing riots in my bar! You shut it right now, or I won't have your ass back in here for a week!"

"But, sweetie, you know this place is my second home! You could blind-fold me and I'd still know where to pick out every liqueur!"

"That supposed to be a good thing?" an annoyed mutter from her. Then, she raised her voice back up, "yeah, sit it back down and leave him alone,else it'll be thrown out outta here faster than you know it!"

"Sweet-bottom, is that any way to treat your boyfriend?" A gasp followed. He remembered the reason for him to cause such a scene suddenly, "But that runt! He was eyeing your every inch; he was gawking til I thought his eyes would pop out from his nasty lil' sockets! And I always keep telling you to keep the shot-glasses on the upper shelf!" It seemed that Tucker was now in a blind rage. "When you bent over, he didn't blink once!"

This drew exaggerated gasps from the crowd, as if to say: "Oh no, you didn't!"

What!

"What!" she exclaimed."Don't be ridiculous. There's only a perfect gentleman standing there."

A glimmer once more. Hmm?

So, apparently he was staring at a bartender's ass while she bent over to get something? It must've been when he had his mind overwhelmed in that prior thought. The almost surreal spell.

"Before you went to get more glasses, his eyes were plastered on your ass! Is that how a gentleman would act? Hmmm? He's just a fucking twerp!"

Clear liquid spilled from a shot-glass as she slammed it down on the bar. "I'm warning you, Tuck. Now. Sit."

"I'm not some dog that you can just boss round!" Alcohol swamping his every vein, poisoning sane reasons in its course, deluded the mind. "I'll bring this shithead down, and you're gonna watch, like a good girl should," the man named Tucker gestured his index finger to his girlfriend drunkenly.

Joanne was about to turn to the storeroom when someone grabbed her arm and held onto it firmly. Her face looked as if in deep distress. She spun around to see her arm's captive, her mouth twitched slightly. She stilled when she saw the face before her, a smirk unfolded on her face then. "Heh, I was just gonna go introduce my new pal, Remington, to my mansince Rossi resigned." Her eyes darted as she tried to read his stoical countenance. "Just don't mind him. He's hammered senseless."

Senseless

He released her limb. "Don't bother." Then he reached for that damned shot-glass on the bar, staring into the clear umber liquid. In one fluid motion, he brought the container to his lips, he closed his eyes. He knocked it back in one swig. "Leave this matter to me."

"Ooh, is somebody up for a beating then?" Left, right, Tucker stretched his neck several timesto crack knots out. His gruff, horrible voice then spoke, "you might want to summon your freak-ass monster soldiers out then, General Wacko." The older man proceeded to ball up a fist, punching it into the other palm repeatedly. He ran his eyes disdainfully down the long blue trench coat, taking in all the majestic garments.

The emptylittle shot-glass was still clasped in his hand. A devilish grin smeared his face. Suddenly, his eyes widened. Pieces of glass shot up as if in a vigorous explosion. Transparent materials bursting out like a minute firework; they caught light like tiny embers, then glistened like a rain of diamond grains, smashing into the floor finally. Blood sprayed out from his right hand, a deep red pool formed on the ground immediately, drawing several yelps and screams from the mass of customers. Some stared in disbelief. Joanne cursed loudly, but then met his reassuring gaze. It didn't hurt that much at all.

"Hey, Tuck. I think we have better things to do. Don't you?" one of Tucker's friends spoke up shakily. "Like, not in here?"

The man being addressed chuckled nervously, "Oh, so we have a sadist here, eh? Don't worry, I'll promise to bring him lotsa pain in that case." He turned back to face the challenger, "you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"I'm afraid you've already broken your promise," he continued to grin; his eyes were piercing, flaring with excitement. Sadistic pleasure. His lips stretched out into a flawlessly wicked sneer. This was just what he needed. An avid passion raged in his blood, his every vein; and he loved it, he loved this feeling so indescribably. He always had.

"Already broken? What?" anxious, the older man carried on laughing, "man, you're talking shi---

There was an azure hazy rush and a dash of sound. A loud crash, followed by a loud groan. Then there was the familiar blue coat's tails, unhurriedly fluttering down to settle on the floor soundlessly, by its owner's boots. Nobody sure what happened; not a single one of them did not gape at the sight of a striking young man, satisfaction draped his face, stood over an unconscious Tucker; stunned, no one could even manage to utter a sound. One of his knee-high leather boots rested beside the knocked-out brute.

"Rest assured. He has not departed from you."

Stillness conquered his face now, the fervour inside quiet. Towering over his fallen prey; casting the eyes down at its motionless form, he was an embodiment of feline grace. His gaze passed faces surrounding him; they were a safe distance away. He couldn't see Joanne, but he knew her eyes must be darting from him to Tucker, and then back again, and wide with disbelief and bewilderment. The crowd looked as if it had increased in size, probably because now all of them weregathered together to witness this spectacle. Stiff and lifeless they all seemed to him, frozen like crown statues. They looked deviant to him with all the colours of their forms motionless, a grossly unnatural sight.

His hands were limp against his body. He felt something different. Lifting his right palm up to his face slowly, his eyes widened; only dry blood still clung to the flesh, any tore skin absolutely no where to be found; reddish-umber, that was the only remnants of fresh blood. He flipped his hand over. Still nothing, no signs of any considerable injuries, of deep gashes. Now it was his turn to be rendered utterly speechless. Unnatural.

All of a sudden, he spun his body to meet the bar, where Joanne stood flabbergasted behind it. The glimmer. The puddle of blood was fresh even now, and transfixing, its redness seemed to be emitting some sort of radiance. Something… A sheer black boot had taken resident beside the puddle. The other, slung from a leg that crossed the one resting on the ground; the owner was slumped on a stool, back to the body of the bar, concealed eyes seemed to stare down on the floor in his direction, both elbows relaxed on the cool surface of the bar. Long red coat.His head was hung low, a wide grin began to unfold behind the unkempt white hair. White hair. Then this new stranger leisurely raised his head up, his chin up high; harsh eyes stared straight up at him.

"So, it's true what they say… The Devil never really dies. Does he, Vergil?"

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Ok, first ever fic done! Well, the story isnt completed, obviously, but yay! My first piece of writing on the net!Forgive me if there were silly mistakes!Anyway, drop me a review -googly eyes-please! Come on, you know you want to, so I would have fresh and tinkly motivation to continue it, heeheehee, you lot are my motivation -sniff-. I promise the next one wont be as long...Hope you enjoyed it!