Title: Parallax

Summary: Vergil's had a rough day. Waking up in Hell after throwing oneself off a cliff to escape one's annoying twin, accidentally triggering a genetic quirk designed to keep demonic bloodlines going, and falling prey to the same ownership laws that Devil Arms follow can do that to you. Mostly, though, he's just pissed that Daddy dearest never explained THIS during the "birds and the bees" talk. Yeah.

Alternatively known as

The dumbest "origin of Nero" story EVER.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. You know how it is.

BORING SHIT PROBABLY NO ONE CARES ABOUT Notes: Am I seriously going to write this? Yeah, okay, here we go.

This was mostly born out... uh... Well, Capcom revealed that Nero is Vergil's weird demon baby, but they never explained how (well, okay, we know the basics of how but WHATEVER). I'm going to take a more roundabout (re: stupid, utterly implausible, and incredibly self-indulgent) route. A more... family oriented route. And then the story kind of had a mind of its own and ran off on me. Ehhhhh.

Warnings: I haven't written fanfiction in years. That should be warning enough. For the real warnings... Genderswap (also pregnancy, and what some people might see as technical m-preg), some dub-con, general weirdness, odd demon tradition world building (because lets face it; you can make whatever shit up you want for a series this vague about demon habits), attempts to remain somewhat canon but veering WAY off, so on that note this becomes a divergent AU. Uh... family fluff later on because I'm a huge sap. Probable ooc, though that shall remain to be seen. Some OCs, though they're mostly here out of necessity and some minor self-indulgence (babiessss yeee). Possible alternative character interpretation for some people. Also, serious parenthesis abuse (I CAN'T HELP IT).

Pairings: As much as I love slash, twincest, and all that weirdo goodness that is associated with Devil May Cry, the romance here is not the focus. There will be some background pairings, general fondness, and some weird retroactive slash, but no incest. This is more about fluffy weird demon familial relationships, Dante and Vergil struggling with emotional constipation over how to be a family, and Nero being an adorable little punk who finds himself in crap tons of trouble. Yeah, okay, whatever.

Also SUPER SKEWED TIMELINE.This starts immediately after the end of DMC3 → 4-5 years to DMC1 → 13 years to DMC4, with the idea of Vergil and Dante being 17-18 at the end of DMC3. I'll settle this timeline later on if anyone is (even more) confused.

This chapter starts us off with an OC who will hang around until chapter 3, so bear with me for that pls orz

AND ON WITH THE FIC, I'VE BABBLED ENOUGH.

Chapter One: First breath after coma

Did you resent her for being human, and therefor weak in your eyes? ...Or did you resent her for being weak, because of her humanity?

The two weren't mutually exclusive, you know.

Vergil wakes up in Hell.

That in of itself is not terribly unusual, considering he willingly jumped in, but what is unusual is that he still feels... moderately alive. As in, breathing, though not very well; each breath draws a wet rasp from his lungs, and he feels something punctured... somewhere. 'Moderately' is also perhaps a stretch; he can feel the utter mess that are his internal organs attempting to reorient themselves into their correct positions, hopefully where they actually belong. He remembers with a grim thought of bones that healed wrong and had to be broken again, but bones are much more manageable than organs, and he'd really rather not have to dig around in his own chest cavity to make sure everything is place.

It takes a few hours of useless crawling (not being fully attached to his lower body hampered that plan of attack rather quickly) for Vergil to realize that no, he is not imprisoned anywhere he immediately recognizes, but that he's in what looks to be some sort of forested area, with thick, heavy trees reaching upwards towards a pleasantly bloody looking sky. It's hard to tell, as demonic plants are mostly unrecognizable in comparison to those found in the human world, but if he had to guess, it looked more woodland than tropical. He'd still do well to avoid touching anything colorful. Or dull.

Really, he's going to go out of his way to not touch anything but the ashy dirt that he's lying in, and even that's wholly questionable.

Whether it's night or day is a completely different question, the bloodstained sky giving an atmosphere of everlasting twilight. He knows better, however; that some places in the demon world are pitch black, others the brightest brights, and none are more telling of their predispositions than the creatures that dwell in their depths. He's brought out of his momentary reverie by the harsh ache of his joints as they reform, suddenly reminded of how he ended up in this state.

Getting horribly thrashed by the Demon Emperor/Lord/Prince Mundus or whatever it is that he's calling himself these days would leave one thinking 'moderately alive' is a plus in the grand scheme of things, but as Vergil is still struggling to make sure his intestines are inside his body, he's going to abstain from making any further comments on how lucky he really is at the moment. Especially since the last thing he remembers after getting torn apart is being thrown off another cliff (this time not on purpose) and into a bloody ravine, and he's still not sure if all his body parts are still there.

It feels not unlike perhaps a slimy worm is moving around his insides, he thinks, rearranging things at leisure, and the half-demon is struck by the thought that Mundus might have shoved something into him that would be most... undesirable. To fester, and grow, and slowly kill off the son of his most hated traitor and enemy... It would explain how he had been able to escape much better, considering that he'd essentially handed himself on a platter to the Demon Emperor. However, a few more moments of squelching discomfort (this was disgusting, how on earth did Dante deal with this on a more regular basis) later, things seem to snap together; the feeling begotten from a particularly grievous wound completely healing over is a great relief and an old friend all at once.

(Except that Vergil doesn't have any friends, but he's not going to argue semantics over here now that his body is, for the most part, in one piece again.)

He tries gathering himself up, and hears the familiar clink of the chain that remains a thankfully heavy – and grounding – weight around his neck. It had been half buried until he'd dragged himself from his original waking spot, and covered in black, charred earth. He frowns, and with one hand supporting himself, he uses the other to brush the disgusting remains of the forest floor off from it. Momentarily a glimmer passes through the large red gem in the center of the amulet, and he catches himself gazing at it for a moment longer than necessary.

No one can have this.

Such a childish sentiment, he thought back. Defeated by his own hubris.

Still, if he's feeling up to snuff enough to be sarcastic with himself, he figures standing up shouldn't be so hard. Reigning in his fingers (also very thankfully all there), he braces himself in the dirt and attempts to push his battered body up.

One face-plant into frankly vile dirt that Vergil is now 90% certain is charred, leftover husks of lesser demons later, the blue clad devil realizes something rather alarming. Aside from the fact that standing is incredibly difficult for the time being, that is.

Yamato is gone.

A cold shiver runs down his spine, and he wracks his brain, trying to remember the feeling of it leaving his fingers. Like a phantom limb he reaches again for what's no longer there, trying to rise faster and see if it fell from his grasp sometime during his escape.

The memory returns to him after his brain stalls for a few tremulous moments, unbidden, but it is not at all what he hoped for. The sharp snap of the blade echoes through his mind, as well as the cruel laughter that followed. Mundus, shattering Yamato, and throwing him away like garbage. Unneeded.

"Is this truly what has become of the spawn of Sparda? Is this truly what lay before me?"

Useless.

The image of three glowing red orbs in the dark sky flit through his skull, surrounded by a whirling vortex of black mist. He lost. He lost badly. Bad enough being defeated by Dante – and for some odd reason there's a pang that beats through his heart, but he ignores it – but to be thrice defeated and then humiliated even further by the one being that Sparda stood against for the sake of humanity...

Failure.

He'd allowed Mundus to take one of the last things he'd had to himself. The amulet clenched in his fist weakly is a sour reminder of what he's missing, now with Yamato gone and Force Edge in Dante's possession.

He'd lost the proof of his demon lineage, and was left with the admonishing of his humanity. Silence fills him, followed by anger with himself for such weakness, and in one shaky motion, he lets out a howl filled with frustration and hopelessness, whatever energy gained previously now lost. The darker parts of him that beckon to his devil trigger seemingly go mad from the revelation, clamoring from deep within him. Rage turns to despair, and there's something within him that feels as though it is breaking, piece of piece, part by wretched part.

Something has to give.

A gibbering murmur in his mind turns to a nonsensical whisper, and that raises before becoming a cacophony of shrieking, screaming at him in the demon language. He's never seen his devil side as a separate entity, embracing it since it awakened within himself, but now it feels as though it's ripped itself from him and is speaking directly to him rather than just operating on pure instinct.

Must change-

Devil Trigger? He can't even garner up the strength for a weak transformation, let alone a full on change. Darkness swirls around his vision, and he-

-find find find nestmate-

Did it mean Dante? He vaguely remembers their father using terms such as that to describe them in their youth, even after they'd well left infancy. Though, mutely, he supposed that to a devil as aged as Sparda, they would always be infants.

-nestmate gone? Gone gone gone find mate find protector-

It all comes in a flurry, with quick, halting words spoken in the devil's tongue, brimming with vibrant rage, and the darkness crowds himself before pulling the void up to meet him.

His last thoughts are chaotic, frantic wisps of cognition that float away as consciousness leaves him.

-new mate new new will be here soon-

Vergil doesn't know how long he spends flitting in and out of awareness. He can't see, nor can he move, but there are things he can feel, other senses he can utilize; demons, possibly, moving about, but none seem concerned with him. It's as if there's a heavy, immovable weight upon every portion of his body, submerging him beneath an odd but not not entirely unpleasant cascading warmth. There's a level of constriction involved, making him well aware he can't move, but it's calming for once and the feeling is not overtly hostile.

It feels as though he's floating, but he can't be bothered to feel terribly upset because everything just feels so nice for the time being. There's a distinct feeling of something pulling him from his center of gravity... but the pull moves from his chest to his lower body, and he doesn't even have time to think of how odd that is.

There's a muted noise in the distance of this odd space; it sounds as if it's meant to be comforting, and then he knows no more.

Vergil awakens to bits and pieces of a conversation that he has a feeling is about him, but what's surprising is the soft warmth he finds himself cradled in. They're speaking in the devil's tongue, hissing words and guttural growls filtering in around him.

"-'ll be awake soon. I cannot believe your audacity, you know who this is, don't you?"

"Then go. I shall handle it."

"Fine. I shall heartily hope you enjoy explaining this."

He shifts, still not having opened his eyes, fingers curling weakly around soft fabric as the half demon attempts to calm his breathing. The demons – because what else could they be – don't seem to notice the slight movement from wherever he's situated. If he had to guess, he's in a bed (not chained, or imprisoned...), and the two voices are arguing several feet away. One voice is much deeper, as though filled gravel, the warble of Hell's creatures resonating like hell fire. Heavy steps echo as the more angered of the two stomps about, lowering in volume as they make to leave

"-put all this effort into reviving a useless Devil Arm for what, some sense of sympathy towards the-" and this next word is spoken with such vehement hatred that Vergil is slightly impressed, "-traitor's spawn? Whatever uses this one has could be fulfilled by much better candidates, brother."

"Berial. I appreciate your concern, but you are still within my territory and my bounds. Return to your fire hell that you are so fond of reminding us that you have conquered, and leave me to make my own decisions. Now go, you're charring the carpet." The other voice is firm, and one of them hisses something inaudible in response.

They snip at one another for a few more moments that reminds Vergil of his own bickering with Dante in their youth, before the heavier steps fade off and the sound of door being opened and slammed is heard.

A sigh escapes the one left. Vergil twists from within his soft prison while slowly opening his eyes, trying to gauge where the demon is. His vision meets nothing, and, while his heart is grasped in momentary panic, he realizes that there's... just a blanket covering him.

A low chuckle is heard then. He freezes.

"I know you've awakened, kin of Sparda." Shockingly, this is spoken in the human tongue rather than the guttural growling of demon-speak, perhaps in some ill-mannered attempt to seem amiable. That's a new one, Vergil muses, something much kinder than most things to be said of one related to their father and his reputation. The half-demon finds his fists clenching as he hears footsteps – much softer, near silent – draw nearer. If there's a fight drawing closer, he's woefully unprepared, both weaponless and unaware of just who his enemy is.

" I was worried that the spell would not work as hoped... I'd been saving those red orbs for a... special occasion, and I figured resurrecting a powerful being such as yourself would be worth my while. Those going through such a change can be so fragile at times."

Before Vergil has time to truly ponder on those words, the blanket shielding him from the rest of the world is suddenly (gently) pulled down, and tense blue orbs meet crimson ones.

The devil that (saved? Resurrected?) found him could perhaps be classified as handsome in the case of demons. He (and it is male, indeed) is more human shaped than most, covered in slick obsidian scales with deep violet and gold accents scattered in patterns that arc over a tall, sturdy body. There seems to be a division of where flesh that is covered by not scales is instead encased beneath a lithe armored hide, neither heavy nor cumbersome in appearance, but fearsome and decidedly not feeble looking all the same. The devil's horns seem closer in appearance to large triangular ears that are flattened against his skull and pointed back, and for a moment Vergil is vaguely reminded of the former Guardian of Ice that dwelled at entrance of the Temen-ni-Gru with the way they slightly twitch every so often.

What's most astonishing however is the expression upon his face; no sneer nor smirk in sight, merely a bland, contented smile that Vergil would more equate with someone sitting at the park on a pleasant day. While the demon's face does bring forth memories of both his and Dante's adolescent devil triggers, this is obviously an elder devil who has long since left the nestling stage. A smaller form, then, likely not the true form and instead kept as a low energy alternative.

None of this still explains what exactly Vergil is doing here and why he's not currently being flayed alive. He swallows, trying to gather his voice without sounding as though he hasn't a clue of what's going on.

"Who are you?" Is that really what he sounds like right now? How long has been he unconscious? He mentally shakes off the surprise, setting it aside for the moment as he continues glaring at the demon.

The obsidian devil quirks a grin that is not entirely awful, with a slight show of sharp teeth; most demons who attempt decidedly human shows of emotion come across as horribly mocking (Vergil would know), if not terrifying, as their grotesque maws are not always built to twist into human expressions. But this one seems practiced with the notion, and, offhandedly, Vergil thinks of his father, who fought so hard to appear human and not out of place next to his wife. He's not sure why this devil in particular has any business reminding him of Sparda, and he's suddenly angered for reasons he can't immediately identify.

"My name is Marchosias, of the Crimson Depths. You are within the walls of my domain. You may call me Marco if you so choose." The now named Marchosias freely offers, something which Vergil instantly finds rather suspicious.

Really. A devil named Marco? Of all the idiotic... But Marchosias (he refuses to call this demon by some blithering pet name) continues on, unbidden by what Vergil had hoped was an unnerving stare.

"The blundering behemoth you heard blustering about was my elder nestmate, Berial. He's a tad... proud, and rather daft... but he's an honorable sort." Oh for... he sounds almost embarrassed. This is how Vergil would defend Dante if he ever felt like doing so. Not that he would, but...

Vergil continues staring, utterly perplexed. Is this really what demons in the demon world are like? Perpetually embarrassed over sibling idiocy? Perhaps they're not too far off from the human world than previously assumed...

Seeing his expression, Marchosias seems to realize how lost the blue devil is, tilting his head slightly.

"You're probably wondering why you're here and not lying dead, tangled within the roots of an Ash-Blood Tree."

He says it so matter of fact that Vergil almost has hard time taking him seriously. Ash-Blood Tree. In a forest where the ground is made of charred remains. Somehow, he is completely unsurprised.

However, thoughts racing, he decides to play along for now until an opportunity arises to escape. Marchosias hasn't made any untoward moves, yet, but there's no need to fight if this moron is going to continue babbling and a better chance might come by later. Instead, he inclines his head slightly, both as a way to avoid speaking and for the other devil to continue. Marchosias does so almost gleefully, suddenly drawing himself up to his full height (which, okay, fine, was indeed rather tall).

"So... there I was, prowling through the forest," Vergil can't help but roll his eyes at the attempts at drama, "When I heard a most curious sound..." At this, he leans forward ever so slightly, and Vergil pushes himself further back into the soft confines of the bed, still pointedly glaring. This demon is not nearly as vile as most others he's met, but he's still weird.

" A cry filled with such pain, echoing through the trees. Then... a sudden flush of power so strong that it knocked down dozens of Ash-Blood trees – which, by the way, congratulations, those trees are terribly sturdy – and sent even some bottom feeders scurrying off. When I finally found my way to center of this oddity, I found a most delightful demoness hissing and spitting about at every demon that came near her. You were quite loud, and those that didn't flee were drawn rather quickly to you-" Wait, wait, wait-

"What."

Marchosias raised an aristocratic brow. "Well, what did you expect, giving off such a show of power directly after going through protandry-"

He was cut off by Vergil surging forward and grasping the smooth, bony protrusions around his clavicles, weak as the grip was.

"Demoness?" He hisses, and Marchosias suddenly stills, something akin to understanding dawning in those ruby orbs.

Suddenly, Vergil felt strong hands upon his shoulders; a foreign feeling, but strangely enough, not entirely unwelcome.

"You haven't looked at yourself recently, have you, my dear?" He was going to get in a parting shot for that endearment later, he promised himself, but quite frankly, he didn't want to look at himself if he what he guessed was true. Morbid curiosity won out, however, and he peered down at his (belatedly realizing he was nude) body.

Oh.

Hmm.

Oh.

"Fuck." She said.

End Chapter One

Crit is always welcome! Dante will show up within the next few chapters.