He opened his eyes. Closed them. It made no difference. Darkness enveloped him regardless. He only knew that he was 'looking around' simply because he'd decided to turn his head to do so and wound up seeing more of the same. He couldn't tell where he was, but wherever this place happened to be, he was afloat in it. He couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet, nor walls around him. The room was gone.

He reached for Ivory where he knew it had to be – in his holster. His fingers failed to grasp a thing. No gun. No holster either. Rebellion and Ebony were nowhere to be found. Where exactly was he?

He called out in the darkness, but no sound came out of his mouth. He raised his hands to his face and couldn't see them. Brought them together and heard nothing. He was deprived of his senses, and he knew why, recalling when the mimic had taken his form and forced him into the darkness. Here, he had nothing.

I am nothing.

The thought came to him then, detached from any emotion. He was expecting anger, he wanted to feel anger, but instead a strange acceptance washed over him. . . . . No, not acceptance. Apathy. Not only had he been stripped of his senses, but his capacity to feel anger, confusion, pain, or pleasure. The thought of that caused a ghost of discomfort to flit by in the back of his mind.

This shouldn't be happening.

He thought it once, then again and again, a quiet mantra with an urgency missing underneath all its repetition, but if he said it enough times then perhaps it would be true. He would regain his body, his senses, and be placed back where he was. The demon couldn't have escaped from the room in his form, not without a visible exit. He could still fight the mimic, defeat it, and fix this mistake, if only he could find a way out first.

Before he could think of anything more, his thoughts were thrown about and scattered. Colors and shapes burst along his vision, and the fact that he could suddenly see anything at all confused him. The newly-regained sense brought with it a sickening loss of direction; just when he tried to make out what he was seeing, the colors melded back together into an incomprehensible mist, brighter than the ink-black darkness from before but no more clear than that.

All he could see was a haze in front of his eyes, broken by the occasional sliver of bright light. His eyes shot open and he sat upright, but there was a pain at his side that stung. He reached towards it instinctively. A bruise was there that hurt to touch.

"Owww... where am I?"

"What do you mean 'where'? We're in the middle of training."

He looked to the source of the sound and saw his brother standing by his side, arms crossed and a frown on his face.

"You've been on the ground for all of a second, Dante, I couldn't have hit you so hard that you'd forget things, unless you've gotten weaker since yesterday. Now get up. We've done this before, so it shouldn't be so confusing for you. Go get your sword."

Dante shook his head quickly as the words sunk in- yeah, they were training, and he had to get ready for another round. Annoyance flit past: he was not weak. Just tired! But he'd show his brother.

He crawled over to his wooden training sword and gave it a quick inspection. A little worn down, sure, but still useable. (Small enough for a child to wield, and appropriate for him.) He got up to his feet and took his stance. He convinced himself that he was ready.

Vergil advanced first, in the way he always had: a slow walk meant to intimidate. There wasn't a single sound as he moved towards Dante, as if a phantom of flesh and blood. He gave off the impression that he was in no hurry to beat his twin down to the ground. No hurry to prove his superiority. He was too sure of himself to rush.

Dante knew that it was meant to make him lose his patience. Vergil gave off the impression that he was better than Dante in order to draw out the side of the younger twin that wanted the spar over with. It would make him charge forward, desperate already to prove Vergil wrong, but he'd cause his own undoing. Vergil had the taunt down to a fine art, but Dante was just a bit tired of falling for the trap. Instead he waited, knowing how the trick worked and more. He knew that even phantoms left their marks.

The older twin vanished from the younger's vision. Dante felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. The very air shifted. He could tell where Vergil was coming from. He spun, swinging his sword out in an arc that would catch Vergil in its path. Instead he felt his brother's weapon hit him across his back.

He learned this way that there was a vast difference between merely thinking oneself ready, and being it. To his credit, his strikes were almost close, just like his parries almost effective, and dodges almost successful – but 'almost' was never good enough.

"Is that all you have? You can do better than that, or can't you?" That was the only sound Vergil made as he nimbly sidestepped or spun, swung, struck Dante each time.

Dante's pulse quickened. He tensed and bared his teeth and kept swinging his sword with more fervor, determined to land a hit. He was sure he could beat his brother, yet Vergil quickly proved him wrong with a well-timed sweep kick that sent him to the ground.

Vergil sighed in annoyance. "We've been doing this for days now, and you still haven't improved! I don't have time to keep holding your hand through this."

"So what? I'm not like you, get over it!" Dante tried to restrain himself but his voice was shaking and he spit the words from his mouth as if they were a curse. He was hurt and angry and confused at himself and he couldn't believe his brother was this high strung about their training no matter how right he was. "I don't learn as fast as you do, 'cause I'm not trying to impress Dad! I'm not going to apologize for not making him proud the same way you want to!"

Vergil had kept his mouth pursed into a barely-there flat line as he heard his twin. His answer to those words was merely a raise of his own sword and a caustic, "This isn't about trying to impress him. Now quit making stupid excuses and actually try to beat me this time."

"Fine then!" Dante scrambled back up to his feet and rushed back into battle.

He didn't fare any better than he did just minutes before. As much as he didn't want to lose, desire wasn't enough. There was still no way he could win. Vergil was still faster, still stronger, still capable of proving he was better than his twin and deriving a pleasure from that, and that smirk on his face only made Dante's blood boil with anger.

Somewhere in the mess of noise, buried under quick breaths and heavy footsteps and swords whipping through air, Dante could hear something urging him to give in, and he listened.

He was tired of losing. Tired of being humiliated. Tired (even now) of having to measure up to some father that disappeared before the children even knew what he looked like. It was that and his anger that made him lunge forward, his sword aimed right for Vergil's throat.

He noticed too late that a red aura covered it and the edge itself was much too sharp for their training.

When he came to, he found himself face-down on the ground and a weight bearing down on him.

His breathing was heavy. He was shaking from head to toe. He struggled to push himself off the ground and get up, but a sharp prick of pain at his neck made him freeze. He turned his head instead and noted first that his brother's own blue-shrouded blade was close enough to cut his skin. His gaze trailed up along that and settled on eyes that were just as fearful as his were.

Vergil was gulping in breaths as if air was running out . He couldn't keep a steady grip on his brother and fumbled, grabbing a fistful of Dante's shirt and pressing the katana closer to restrain his twin that way.

"Dante?" His voice lacked the condescending tone he usually clung to. It shook with a tinge of disbelief.

The younger twin tried to look for a way out, but spied from the corner of his eye that the sword he'd held before was far beyond his arm's reach. An eerie, blood red aura radiated from it but faded away, and it changed as well, finding no more energy channeling through it and losing the sharpness of before.

Dante shut his eyes, lowered his head back to the ground, and murmured a small, "...Yeah?"

No response.

The silence hung still in the air like a mist threatening to suffocate them both. Eventually the sword was drawn away from Dante's neck. The aura that enveloped it had faded and returned the wooden sword to its original form. Vergil backed away and allowed Dante the space to move.

The younger twin tried to stand, but his legs were still quivering and unsteady. He fell back down and tried a second attempt, rolling onto his back and planting his hands and feet firmly on the solid earth. He only made it to a sitting position when he paused, staring at what was ahead of him.

Vergil had held his hand out. He had no weapon in the other. The look on his face was solemn, and pitifully so, as if an 'I'm sorry' was at the tip of his tongue.

Dante wasn't willing to test how true that was. He scrambled back to his feet and ran away, stumbling with every stride.

"Dante, wait!"

He knew Vergil was following him but he didn't look back. Didn't want to. He just kept running home, berating himself the whole way. What was that back there? Did he really turn that measly training sword into such a scary weapon? It even had a skull on it! No, no, it wasn't a sword he wanted to wield, he would never have that in his hands. Never ever!

He saw a silhouette of a person – a woman – go past the window, obscured by the curtain. A few seconds later, the door opened and he saw the woman in full, come to greet her child with the warm smile he remembered.

He rushed to Eva, clung like his life depended on it. He didn't know what to feel. She asked him how the training went. What response he came up with was muffled against her shawl, and he preferred it that way or else he would have bawled about how close he was to making Vergil bleed all over the field because of some stupid remark.

(While Dante wasn't looking, Vergil had entered the house. What he saw made him look relieved, but he said nothing.)

Dante let go of his mother and picked up a fascination with looking at the pictures on the stand; he wanted something to distract his mind with and they tempted him, invited him to take a look and lose himself in whatever memory brought the picture about.

(There wasn't a single creak coming from the stairs; silent as ever, Vergil had gone up ahead to their room. The stairs didn't have time to make a noise from how quickly he'd ascended. Was he in a hurry?)

Dante ran his hands along the table and across walls, his fingers danced along the drawers, he took silverware and raised them and put them down, went to the living room and tugged at curtains and felt the fabric. His mother had called out for him to clean up after himself and he heard the footsteps coming towards him. It was enough to have him come to his senses and run away.

He skittered away past the opened drawers and disheveled table mats, sped up the stairs and past the other rooms and headed straight to the one that he and his brother shared in order to hide.

(The loud steps came as a warning to Vergil. He found it hard to ignore the sound of pattering feet coming at him a mile a minute, and it only made him more desperate to finish what he had on hand and conceal it.)

Dante rushed into the room and quickly shut it behind him, pressing his hands to the door as if he were a decent enough barricade for if his mother had followed. Vergil's head snapped up at that noise and at the sight that met him, he held his tongue and kept his expression blank to give nothing away of his thoughts. He shut the drawer but remained where he was. "Yes?"

The younger twin jumped and realized suddenly who he was in the room with. He'd, ah, wanted to avoid this. "Uh... hi." Dante snuck a quick glance at Vergil, but a sudden interest in staring ahead at the door won out so he focused on that instead.

The corners of Vergil's mouth twitched. "That's it?"

"...Yeah."

"... Are you alright?"

"Wha-? …. Yeah, I'm okay."

Vergil got closer to him, and he'd caught a glimpse of the shadow (what was that?) just within his line of sight before his twin leaned right into his personal space. It was inevitable that they look each other in the eyes then.

"Are you sure?"

"Uh? No? Wait, yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Dante was trying to tear his gaze away but he couldn't, not at seeing the concern in his mirror-image. What more could he say?

There was silence.

Dante saw a brief flicker in Vergil's eyes before they shut. The older twin seemed hesitant of something, really pondering it, but then whatever doubt he had was cast aside for a split second, just long enough for him to pull Dante to a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry for what happened." His voice was quieter than normal and laced with the solemnity Dante had seen from him earlier.

Dante kept staring ahead, tense and wide-eyed and not knowing what to do. He returned the hug after a moment. "Sorry for what? I should be saying that, not you."

"Really. Now what would you be apologizing for?"

"For whatever it is that got you so upset right now."

"And if it was my fault?"

"Then I'm not holding it against you."

Vergil sighed with a bit of resignation and mussed up Dante's hair. Forgiveness came much too easily to him. "Oddball."

"Worrywart. You're gonna turn into Mom one day, I swear."

"Will not."

"Will too!"

"You'll be thankful for it," Vergil warned. "Someday, Mother will run out of patience with you and I'll have to take up the slack anyway. Weren't you supposed to clean something up downstairs?"

Dante jumped up at that and looked back to the door. He twiddled his thumbs nervously at the thought of the reprimand coming his way for the disobedience.

Vergil opened the door, motioning for Dante to go out and face it. "Better you than me," he said with a smirk. "I'll have to go downstairs too, anyway. Have to go get our training gear from the field."

"Yeah." Dante nodded. He went downstairs first, and Vergil followed after and slipped past to the outside. Thankfully, the most Dante got was a stern look from his mother and very clear instructions to pick up after himself. The tinge of disappointment in her voice made him feel terrible, all the more reason to do his task well. He didn't want to hear that tone.

He wouldn't have wanted to hear what came next either.

The sound of his brother screaming caught his attention. He ran to the door to see Vergil running towards home, his voice strained with panic as he shouted a warning to his family. It wasn't long before the reason why made itself known and the demons caught up to him. A scythe embedded itself into his back and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Dante was wrenched away from the sight before he could see what more had happened, but he could imagine the rest of it just the same while he was being pulled away to the living room. He tried to blink away the burning in his eyes. His throat ached with words he wanted to say and couldn't- that they had to save Vergil, they had to, they couldn't just leave him!- but there was little time.

The cover to the false air vent came open with just the right amount of pressure, and Eva pulled Dante up to the crawlspace. "Hide, quickly. Whatever happens, don't come out!"

Dante nodded and tried not to let the fear show on his face any more than it did. Whatever happened? But, they were going to be okay, right?

The cover went back up as if nothing, and the boy heard the soft murmur of words as his mother cast wards over his hiding spot, spells to keep the demons blind to it. Dante kept a hand over his mouth and tried not to make a sound as Eva got a pair of pistols and left, off to fight the demons herself.

He sat and listened.

He heard his mother's voice, "Get away from him!". Gunshots. Shrieks and howls cut short. Less and less of them now as they died, yet as the demonic ranks were whittled away, so did his relief dwindle and dread took its place.

(It wasn't supposed to be this easy.)

He curled up tighter and wished and hoped and pleaded that everything was alright and that the demons were really gone, but he should have known by then that he wouldn't get what he wanted.

There was a loud thud, followed by another- something tossed onto a surface not meant to hold it but strong enough to resist. A low groan. Quiet resistance broke under muffled impacts. Held-back shouts dissolved into shaky breathing.

His brother cried out: of pain or shock, he didn't know, but the voice was quickly strangled quiet. He heard the gasps, the chokes, the struggle for air, and the slow but sure crack of bones.

Dante screamed then. He couldn't hold it back. Something out there was hurting his family. He called out for someone, anyone to come save them. He beat against the cover of the vent to no avail. Still he kept going. Even if it didn't work and it only alerted the monsters to his presence, he kept screaming until his throat ached, striking at the cover until his hands were red, desperate to have the demon stop attacking his mother and brother if only for a moment.

Where was his father? Where was he when they needed him? Dante had known a life without a father but the loneliness that washed over him during nights spent huddled in his mother's arms and listening to nothing but a memory of the man paled in comparison to the emptiness that would come if he lost the only family he had left. That Sparda was never there when he wanted him to be didn't matter anymore. He had to come, he would come, and this danger would be gone and everything would be forgiven and the family could be whole again.

Such a comfort would never come. Long shadows stretched out before him, coming closer. There was the rustle of something being dragged across the floor, and his mother's body came into view as she was unceremoniously tossed into her son's line of sight. There she lay, unmoving. Blood and grime caked her hair from the wound at the side of her head.

The other shadow approached the lifeless body. The shapeless mass receded, defined now by vaguely human proportions to reveal that it was tall, its dimensions pointed, angular.

The sick sense of dread returned and Dante tried to pull his eyes away but he couldn't. As if a force held his gaze and kept it transfixed upon the monster, he stared at the deep-red scales, the black, bony wings… the sword on the demon's back, the steel skull gleaming with malice as it rested on the hilt. That was not the only thing that gleamed.

A frightened gasp tangled itself in Dante's throat. The monster saw him. Saw him and let show its brilliant fangs. The cover to the vent was pulled apart from its fastenings. Claws reached for him, his feet, anything. He crawled away, wanting to kick and restraining himself from it - Can't let him catch me, can't let him catch me

Claws raked down his leg. Pain seized his muscles. The demon crawled into the space with him and he could feel the air being forced out of his surroundings. Pressing him in, crushing him. Cold seeped into his bones. Numb, he was numb, no longer knowing where he ended and the monster began as it got closer and closer and when it revealed rows and rows of fangs hidden in its jaws splitting further apart he screamed

and then the room echoed with his cries as the light tore him apart. He tried to cover his eyes, his face, anything he could. He just wanted the burning to stop!

The mimic looked absolutely smug. "Too caught in your daydream, huh? Glad I pulled you out of there when I did."

In desperation, Dante leapt towards the void at the top of the room. The dark was so welcoming there- it held him and didn't let go. He could feel himself reforming as the wounds healed. The fire racking his every nerve ebbed away.

A vantage point now. He could see below him. The mimic was in his body, peering up as if they had all the time in the world and nothing hanging in the balance.

"You gonna come down from there, or do I have to get you myself?" The mimic wound up his fist. Light swirled up from elbow to knuckles. The steel of the lightbeast's gauntlets took its place. That smirk never left the demon's face as he beckoned the shadow forward with the other hand.

Rage swirled. The shadows peeled back to reveal rows of teeth, clenched like the claws emerging from the black. The deep voice from before rumbled in the back of his mind. Give in. Give in.

But it was never the mimic's voice telling him to do it.

The ground broke apart from the force of his landing. Dark tendrils swiped at the doppelganger. The doppelganger dodged and sought refuge in the light, but that was fine. Light served only to define the darkness, to sharpen its deep-red claws and teeth and allow it to spread its wings. The steel skull of his sword's hilt gleamed, mouth open as if jeering, ravenous.

The mimic smirked. "Heh. That's more like it." He was going to be a good sport. He was going to put the gauntlets away, draw his sword. He motioned for the darkness to come forward. 'Come and get me, if you can.'