Doubt

Rated M for language, violence, and sexual themes. Implied (very slight) Dante x Lady, eventual Dante x Nero. Set post-DMC4. I don't own DMC or any of its characters. I do, however, drink too much.

Chapter One: City of Grief

It seemed to Nero that he got more than his fair share of shit jobs. And it wasn't as though they just fell mysteriously into his lap, either. He was pretty sure that Dante dumped them there on purpose. Not overtly, of course, as that would've cut into some of the elder hunter's valuable sleeping-under-magazine time. It was more of a passive resistance on Dante's part, allowing the natural entropy of the universe to get under Nero's skin. A few more empties on top of the bar, a few more pizza boxes scattered in the general vicinity of the trash can; these things were largely ignored by Dante. He knew that Nero would cave long before he did, and with a lot of grumbling and cursing, would take care of them.

And this was how the Ex-Knight found himself, far too early on a crisp autumn morning, trudging bleary-eyed through the rough and dirty city that Dante called home. They were out of holy water, which didn't surprise Nero at all, given the way he'd seen Dante liberally dose a pack of etins a few months back. The young slayer pulled his overcoat more closely around him and scanned his surroundings.

Capulet City was nothing like Fortuna. His home town wasn't even seedy out on the dockyards; Dante's city seemed to revel in slums and ghettos, red-light districts and dives. Large blocks of buildings seemed mostly abandoned, and he was sure that ruined tower looming on the horizon wasn't entirely of human origin. Nero hated everything about the city; the filthy, trash-filled streets, the smog-choked air, the scattered trees stripped to skeletons by the season's wind and rain. He longed for bright sunshine and warm breezes, cool marble and night-skies filled with starlight.

He stayed in this hell-hole for three reasons: the Devil May Cry agency was here, providing work of the type that he preferred (namely, kicking demonic ass). Dante was here, and he wanted to stick close to the one person he'd met that was even remotely like him, even if said person was an asshole and a slob, and would never provide any assistance with his more existential questions about life, the universe, and everything. Not that he had many of those, and not that he'd ask Dante anyway. And thirdly, he could not go home to Fortuna. Ever.

Nero shook off his thoughts and continued on. The grey haze of dawn blanketed the streets and softened the edges of the worn-down buildings. His boots scuffed through fallen leaves and damp newspapers as he wandered past the homeless sleeping in doorways. No one came near him, no one accosted him, but Blue Rose was tucked into a shoulder holster, carefully out of sight, just in case. The slayer tugged the sleeves down on his coat, hiding his demonic arm, as his goal came into sight.

When Dante had first told him, he'd thought the elder hunter was messing with him. In Fortuna, holy water was created through an alchemical process, purified until its resonance disrupted demonic auras. Spring water from ancient, sacred wells was lovingly collected and sent to the laboratories for distillation. It was carefully crafted, blessed, and bottled. Dante, apparently, just stole it from a local church.

This is probably blasphemy, or sacrilegious, or something, Nero thought, quietly slipping up the steps to a building that looked just as old and tired as the rest of the city. He pushed at the door, surprised that it wasn't locked, and took a quick glance around the interior before stepping inside. His demonic senses didn't seem to work very well in the church, but he could still see a blurry-red human glow working in a room at the back. He figured it was the priest or something, and, ignoring the way his feet and legs and back ached with each step, headed towards the font.

Nero could tell it was holy: it hurt to look at it. The font was pale imitation-marble, and the blessed water was pooled in the shallow depression on its top surface. He quickly filled the flask Dante had sent, quietly cursing the older man's lazy ass but taking care not to spill a single drop. The ache in his back slowly worked its way up to the base of his skull, and feeling nauseous, Nero fled the church.

Arriving back at Devil May Cry, Nero found the shop still dark. It didn't surprise him: it took an emergency to get Dante out of bed before noon, and Dante's definition of emergency was quite a bit different than everyone else's. He left the flask on Dante's desk and headed to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. A few months ago, he wouldn't have braved this lost and forsaken land of linoleum floor and enamel countertop and utterly disgusting refrigerator, choosing instead to follow Dante's lead and subsist entirely on pizza. That had gotten old fast, and so Nero had managed to make the kitchen serviceable. Kind of.

The teen opened one of the battered cupboard doors and rummaged around till he found one of the three chipped mugs that Dante had managed not to break yet. Further searching revealed a can of coffee grounds, and an intensive sweep of the cabinet drawers turned up a few tiny packets of sugar that Dante had probably nabbed from the cafe down the street. The coffee maker had spewed its last drop of sludgy tar into Nero's cup, and Nero had accepted this gratefully, 'cause honestly, beggars couldn't be choosers, when the door slammed open.

It was Lady, of course. Not even Dante kicked doors in with such regularity. Nero padded softly into the main office room, hoping to make it to the couch before the huntress spotted him. He was never that lucky. The brunette's senses were carefully attuned; neither he nor Dante had even once managed to sneak up on her, despite the latter's seemingly constant attempts. Dante thought keeping Lady on her toes was a great game; Nero thought it was an easy way to get shot somewhere sensitive.

"You're up early, kiddo," Lady smirked, knowing he hated the nickname. It was only slightly more tolerable than Dante calling him 'kid' all the time. These two must discuss these things when I'm not around. Assholes, he thought. Nero had to admit though, Dante and Lady, and even Trish on the rare occasions that he saw her, had been nothing but kind to him since he'd arrived a few months ago. Dante was happy to have help at the shop, and Lady was pleased that the bills sometimes got paid. And if they were curious as to why the Hero of Fortuna was suddenly on their doorstep with nothing more than the clothes on his back and his weapons, well, they didn't say anything about it to him.

Nero sat down on the couch with his legs tucked under him. He eyed his coffee dubiously. "Got a new hobby."

"Yeah?" Lady unslung the Kalina Ann and sat it gently on the pool table.

"Petty theft."

The slender woman snorted, taking a paper from her pocket and heading towards Nero. "He's getting pretty bad if he won't even steal his own holy water. Lazy ass." She sank gracefully onto the couch beside the ex-Knight. It was a wonder she could even walk with all those guns strapped to her. "How's the coffee today?"

"Getting better. I'm not choking on it nearly as much," Nero grinned, feeling his mood improve simply by Lady's presence. It was a rare feeling; Lady was pissed off most of the time, usually at Dante, and by association, him. He'd watched her fight though, all bullets and swiftness and cunning, and he knew why Dante chased her. Not just for her lips or her legs or her breasts, but for her strength of will, for the fire that blazed in her mismatched eyes just before she shot something in the head. And for her scars. He'd seen Dante trace each one lovingly with his fingertips, on one of the rare occasions that she'd let him touch her, caressing over her thighs and arms and across the bridge of her nose.

Neither he nor Dante scarred at all. Lady, like all humans, wore time on her skin. Nero was suddenly envious.

"All right, Nero?" Lady's voice echoed beside him, bringing him out of his musings. "Your eyes went a bit red there for a second."

"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine," the teen laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Lady was still sitting casually on the battered leather sofa, but Nero noted that one hand had dropped to clutch a gun. His coffee was spilt on the floor. "That's been happening a bit since I got here, weird little things. Sorry."

"It's okay," she assured him, slowly relinquishing her grip on the pistol. "Listen, I've got to get going. When Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up, give him this." Lady handed him the paper and took her sunglasses out of her pocket. "It's a mission that will need some planning. You might have to break it to him gently; you know how he hates anything involving fore-thought."

"Yeah, I'll tell him. Maybe get him drunk first." Nero scratched at his nose, still trying to hide his embarrassment. He'd almost lost it there, for a moment.

"That's the spirit." The young woman stood up and stretched like a cat, weapons and ammunition glittering in the dim light. "You could ask Dante about these 'weird little things' you know. He's not a complete idiot when it comes to this sort of stuff."

"Hmm... Maybe." Nero murmured, obviously not committing. It wasn't like he and Dante ever sat down and talked about being partly demonic, or what exactly it was that made them different from others, or anything like that. All Dante ever wanted to do was fight, and drink, and score. If he ever thought about how huge and strange and confusing the world was, he didn't share such musings with Nero.

Lady rolled her eyes at his response. "Men," she muttered, picking up her bazooka and heading towards the door.

Nero watched her leave, sunlight moving across the room as she went through the much-abused door. He stayed on the couch. There was no way he could talk to Dante about this; there was no way he'd ever understand. He wasn't even sure what was going on himself. Maybe it was the effect of being in this awful city, surrounded by concrete and chain-link fences and garbage. Or the weather: the change in the seasons was more drastic here than in Fortuna, it could be messing with his head. He stared at the spilt coffee, claws tapping the arm of the sofa, wondering what the hell was wrong with him.

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