Through a Mirror, Darklu

(from the 2004 Yaoicon Anthology)

Devil May Cry A/U VxD - June, 2004

Jo Asakura

Canto 1 - New York City, August, 1936

“Hotter’n hell, ain’t it?” The Checker Cab’s driver asked as he stopped in front of the Metropolitan Museum.

The man in the back seat was disinclined to answer, handing wilting bills to the sweaty little driver with as great an effort to not touch the man as was possible and still not show it. “Keep the change.” He said without looking, and slid out into the oppressive heat.

As much as Vergil Sparda appreciated New York’s qualities, the city in summer ranked roughly on par with being covered with spoiled durian fruit and monkey dung in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

His neatly-slicked silver hair defiantly began to slide out of place on the brief walk into the marginally cooler stone depths of the museum, even as Vergil felt as if he were melting to protoplasm inside of his lightweight suit.

(Hotter than hell?)

After all, Vergil Sparda was ostensibly a curator of ancient religious art. In truth, he was the western world’s foremost expert on occult history. In even deeper truth, he was something more than that.

A devil hunter.

Hotter than hell, indeed.

Inside, the marble halls echoed with the dull static of muted conversation broken by the sharp punctuation of heels, and the persistent thwapping of fans stirring the heavy air.

“Good day, Professor Sparda.” Even the receptionist’s crisp cotton-lawn dress was sagging in the humidity. “You have a visitor.” She said the last word with an almost-imperceptible purse of her lips. A subtle disapproval she used for ruffians and socialites. “A woman.”

Vergil blinked. “Unexpected. Thank you, Rose.” He pushed his glasses, which had fogged up from the heat, up his nose, and made his way to his office. Unexpected visitors usually took the form of moth-eaten representatives of the Vatican or the odd wild-eyed refugee bearing some sort of ancient and usually cursed artifact. Women, especially Women Rose Disapproved Of, were exceedingly rare.

He allowed himself a moment of vanity, catching his reflection in the glass of a display case bearing an Egyptian figure. Vergil’s features were not unlike the serene, regal face captured in gold and gems thousands of years before.

He had overheard someone describe him once as “the very image of good breeding.” That always made him laugh. (If they only knew.)

He smoothed back his hair once more and pushed open the door to his office, assured that he did not look as uncomfortable as he felt. And for several long moments, Vergil Sparda just stared at the woman perched elegantly on the edge of his desk.

It wasn’t so much the fall of unfashionably long golden hair, or the perfect and severe cut of her black suit that gave him pause, but the penetrating stare meeting him from under the brim of an extravagantly veiled mourner’s hat.

He had seen those clear blue eyes, that beautiful face, before. Every morning, in fact, in the family photograph that sat on his desk. He didn’t make mention of that, although he could assume that the woman had noticed it herself when she came in.

“Professor Sparda, I presume?” She had a kitten’s voice, a honey-sweet purr that rasped like the silk on her legs as she uncrossed them, sliding off the desk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out a perfect hand and shook his like a man before perching in the chair opposite his desk.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Miss..?” Vergil sat down in the protective embrace of his big leather chair and steepled his fingers, looking at her over the tips. Around them, the glaring faces of ancient gods looked down from their trophy-like mounts on the wall.

“Trish. You can just call me... Trish.” She gestured to a fat manila envelope on his desktop. “I brought you a present.”

“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentis” Vergil murmured as he picked up the envelope.

She laughed at that, a rich peal of sound. “Ah, but I’m not a Greek, Professor.”

Vergil glanced up at her. “No. Your accent sounds more as if you’re recently from, perhaps, Vienna?”

“Recently.” She agreed, offering nothing else as he sliced open the envelope.

There was the musty stink of parchment as a brittle map slid out, along with a stack of black and white photos. Carefully, Vergil opened the map, scanning the elaborate Italian calligraphy and painstakingly drawn coastlines. “Isola del Maglio” He read the legend and traced a finger over the fanciful monsters drawn about the island. “Like Hy Breasil or Atlantis, the île de maillet is a fairytale, Miss Trish.”

“To the contrary, Professor. It is a very real wellspring of demonic potential.” She smiled faintly. “One that certain parties are looking to... exploit.”

Vergil chuckled and sat back. “Then perhaps this is something that should be brought to the attention of perhaps... a government agency... and not a dusty professor in a dusty museum.”

“Perhaps you should examine the rest of the evidence before pronouncing judgment.” She offered, reaching into her purse for a cigarette. Vergil was about to offer her a light when she simply snapped her fingers, igniting the end of her pall-mall. She took a long drag and breathed out a curling dragon of smoke. “It’s very interesting.”

Vergil allowed a small bit of surprise to show through. He was usually quite sensitive to even the most subtle of sorceries. “Well played, Miss.” He said quietly, picking up the stack of photos.

Amid elaborate gothic ruins stood rows of vacuum tubes, coils of wire, boxes adorned with gauges and switches the purpose of which Vergil couldn’t discern. Men in crisp, dark uniforms and others in white coats seemed busy in each one.

“They have succeeded in contacting a power in one of the deep kingdoms of the Underworld. The monarch of that realm is imprisoned in his own palace, sealed away by a demon who rebelled against him.” Trish’s calm voice was in counterpoint to the faint tremble that had begun in Vergil’s hands. “But the Demon Lord has sent his son and his generals in his stead, to prepare Maillet Island to be the door which opens unto freedom for him. These... men... are providing the materials and the manpower at the place of sacrifice, and in return, they believe that the Demon will grant them great dominion over the earth.”

“This Demon Lord.” Vergil’s eyes, pale chips of ice, looked over the rims of his glasses at her. “Mundus.”

“Yes. I thought you might be familiar with him. Your... father... the Dark Knight Sparda. Was the one who sealed him away, no? And twenty years ago, you lost your mother and brother to his minions.” She sat back in her seat, satisfied.

Vergil mechanically sorted through the photographs until one fixed him like a gorgon’s stare. “This picture...”

“Is ostensibly Lord Mundus’ son... He is known as The Black Angel.” A slow Cheshire smile spread across her face as she stood. “There is a ship bound for France that leaves in the morning. I will be waiting for you on board, Professor.” Her hair shone in the dim light as she turned. “Good day. I’ll see myself out.”

When Vergil was able to tear his eyes away from the picture, she had gone. Carefully, he laid the image down on the desk and stood up, turning to look out the window at Central Park.

In the photograph, his own face looked back at him.

It couldn’t be. It had to be…

Dante.

~~~~*~~~~

Whatever expectations Vergil had about his transit to France were shattered as the car Trish had sent 'round for him deposited him at the Normandie's gangplank, the Manhattan sky still the dim grey of pre-dawn.

He allowed himself a touristy gape. The biggest. The most luxurious. The *fastest* thing on the water. "Very well played." He murmured, watching a porter struggle with the heavy case he'd brought.

She was waiting in his cabin, dressed in black silk. "Only one trunk, professor? You're a light packer." The smoke from her cigarette drifted lazily as Vergil opened the trunk with a snort.

"Tell me everything that you didn't yesterday...Trish?" he pulled out two handguns - one a bright lunar silver, the other black as night. Guns made by a mad polish alchemist for the express purpose of destroying demons. Luce and Ombra. He held them up, checking the sights before setting them on the bed.

"So direct. You don't trust me?" Her tone was mocking but her eyes watched him closely.

"No." There was a tuning-fork hum as Vergil unpacked Yamato, the ancient blade crackling with a storm-god's angry hiss. One of Sparda's swords. But not one of *the* swords. Vergil thumbed it out of the black lacquer scabbard, examining the shimmering steel for a moment. Not the swords he'd always hoped to find. The Hellswords. The swords that bore Sparda's own name and had borne him to victory against Mundus two thousand years before. "The way I see it, and forgive my rudeness, you've got quite your own agenda for this little adventure. And one excellent possibility is that this is a trap." he snapped the blade back down and brought the sword to Trish's throat in a blur of motion.

Her blue eyes didn't even blink. "And yet here you are." She quirked a smile and took a long drag on her cigarette.

"Yes. Now, if you don't mind?" The sword danced away, an unconscious flick of non-existent blood from the blade, and Vergil sat down.

Trish laughed and opened her purse. "How dull. Here. The rest of the story." She tossed him a twin to yesterday's packet. "They're called the Illuminati." She paused, watching his face. "I see you didn't expect the usual political suspects, then?"

"I have very little interest in the affairs of human nations, Miss. Mankind seems to be perfectly capable of bollocking up it's own affairs without the presence of demons." He thumbed through the photos and documents. "These Illuminati...”

"Are playing all sides against the middle. They're led by a man named Arius. He's a fool, but a dangerous one. He's no mere dabbler in the black arts."

"I see." Vergil came to another photo of the Black Angel, flanked by two men who had as much business being around the fragile, white-coated scientists as wolves would at a dog show. "These men with my... with the Black Angel..."

"His Aides. The one with the glasses is Gryffon. The other is called Fantôme. I have no information to give you on them." Trish pursed her lips and puffed out a perfect "O" of smoke. "But I suspect they are quite dangerous."

"How helpful." Vergil sighed, reading the documents.

"Mm. I'm going to enjoy the Normandie's dining room, Professor. Would you accompany me?" She rose with a graceful whisper of silk.

"Thank you, no. I have some catching up to do on my reading." He said brusquely. "Good evening, Miss."

Her only reply was a small smirk and the fading scent of sweet smoke as she left.

~~~~*~~~~

He was dreaming of fire, the sooty memories of childhood on his tongue when a chill seeped into his pores, startling him awake. Vergil had fallen asleep in his chair, the Deus Absconditus strewn open on his lap.

He blinked once, and gingerly closed the book. It was a heavy, dank sensation, oozing like fog through the ship.

"Damnit. Sargasso." Quickly, he pulled his holsters on, slinging Yamato over his back as he pushed open the door to see the mist drifting through the elegant corridors.

"Professor..." Trish's voice was soft. "We appear to have picked up some... ah, stowaways..." She pulled her wrap closer, peering out of the door to her own room.

"The ship's sailing right through a nest of the bony bastards." Vergil swore. "Find the captain. Tell him to make haste..." He closed his eyes. "I'm going to find the Queen."

Trish followed him down the hallway. "And do what?"

"The Sargasso will drift away if their Queen is destroyed. They're imbeciles." He closed his eyes and listened. "Damnit. It's already on board. The dining room. What are you waiting for? Go find the captain before it starts devouring the other passengers!" He turned on her and she started, then saluted with a smirk.

And then she was simply gone. Vergil swore again, and crept through the hallways to the massive dining room, its crystal walls glowing with soft light, hazy in the thickening mist. The other passengers drifted past, dreaming under the weight of the fog as a gigantic, ghostly skulls drifted past them. The Sargasso were waiting for their Queen to feed first.

There was a distant rumble, the Normandie's massive turbines picking up speed. Then he heard it. Clack. ClackClackClack. Bony chatter spread through the Sargasso hive.

They'd noticed him. "Damnit." (Just my luck to sail into a hive with a couple of bright ones.) Then the tone changed, the Queen picking up the clacking, floating above a grand piano, glowing in the faint light. "Time to go to work, my dears." Vergil unholstered Luce and Ombra, squeezing off a few rounds of thunder in the room.

The charged bullets cut through the fog and passed through the skull, shattering the Lalique panel behind it. "Oh. Bollocks." He looked at the guns for a moment as the skulls clattered idiot laughter at him. "Right then. New plan." The Queen clacked it's bony jaw at him, mocking as a waiter sleepwalked towards it.

Yamato hissed in the cold air as Vergil hiked off one of the chattering skulls to launch himself at the Sargasso Queen, kicking the waiter clear as the blade sliced down. The demon felt like thick gelatin as Yamato slid through and halved the piano beneath it. The piano died a minor chord death as the remaining Sargasso wandered stupidly away.

The cold mists faded as the Normandie pulled out of the hive's territory, the other passengers blinking slowly awake.

Vergil beat a hasty retreat before anyone woke enough to notice the mess.

~~~~*~~~~

"Only one priceless crystal panel and a piano? I'm sure that's not a personal best, Professor. I heard about the Vatican Incident in '31" was Trish's only comment the next morning.

Vergil made a point to not speak to her again until they reached France.

He had other things to worry about anyways.

Spread out around the room were the photographs Trish provided. For now, he was not looking at the brooding, beautiful face of the Black Angel. He was looking at the two men shadowing him.

Elegant, scholarly Gryffon.

Dark, glowering Fantôme.

He traced the brittle pages of the Deus Absconditus absently and sighed.

Beneath his finger, faded monkish Latin surrounded the fantastical illustrations. A giant eagle with seven heads. A spider made of flame. The horned Dark Knight bearing keys of thunder and flame. The three sons of Mundus, Lord of Caina Cocytus -realm of Blood Betrayal.

Gryffon.

Fantôme.

Sparda.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Dante." He picked up the nearest photo and pressed it against his chest. "I'm coming. Wait for me this time."

~~~~*~~~~

Canto 2 - Île De Maillet

Angelus half-dozed as Gryffon’s nails lightly scratched runes against his back, faint red welts fading into the skin. He rolled over like a lazy cat, dull black chain slithering across his throat as he scanned the older demon’s sharp face. “Gryffon. What’s got you so disturbed?”

Gryffon settled against the Black Angel, the press of flesh one of the few things he found enjoyable about the vulnerable man-shape, stroking the runes scratched earlier into the young man’s chest. “These so-called Illuminati worry me, Highness.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Angelus tugged on Gryffon’s fine brown hair. “They’re pathetic little meatbags. Useful right now, but just until we free my father.” One leg slid lazy over Gryffon’s drawing them closer. “Father said I could kill that idiot Arius however I please when we’re done. I’m getting some really great ideas.”

Gryffon’s response was cut short by a brusque knock and Fantôme’s even brusquer entrance. The Spider Lord leaned against the doorframe, black eyes glittering under a fringe of brilliant red hair. “Gryffon, it’s your fault he’s so lazy.” He grumbled, tossing a crisp uniform in the Black Angel’s direction. “I just came from our host. That simpering fool is asking if the Prince will honour him with his presence at supper. AGAIN.” There was no room for misunderstanding the loathing in Fantôme’s voice.

“I think the best idea is that I’m going to let Nightmare have him and devour him from the inside out.” Angelus muttered as he caught the uniform. “He’s incredibly boring.”

“Yes, well, we need him until the rituals are complete, to free Lord Mundus.” Gryffon’s voice was soft, distracted as he combed through Angelus’ snowy hair. His sharp yellow eyes flicked up over the Prince’s shoulder to briefly catch Fantôme’s.

“We don’t need him. He’s expedient.” Fantôme muttered, folding his arms. “He’s just expedient.” He added again, pushing away from the doorframe. “I’m going to wait downstairs.”

Angelus watched him leave. “I would’ve thought the two of you would me more pleased with this situation.” He murmured as Gryffon fastened his buttons. “You’ve both been... irritable... since we came here.”

“I find myself thinking greatly of... betrayal.” Was Gryffon’s soft reply.

~~~~*~~~~

Palais de Maillet was little more than an impressive collection of rubble. That fact had done nothing to deter Arius from fêting the visiting Demon Lords as if he were the Sun King at Versailles.

Gryffon kicked the Prince’s leg under the table more than once as a naked man and woman writhed on the cold stone floor with an enormous serpent, Arius’ idea of demon-pleasing allegorical entertainment. Angelus blinked awake and pushed his foie gras around his plate. “Fabulous. I mean, really...” he babbled, his irritation visibly on the rise with each fawning gesture.

“We are SO very much anticipating the UNION of our forces under Lord Mundus, my Prince.” Arius refilled Angelus’ half-empty wineglass. “Dee’s Mirror is in place, and we simply await the upcoming planetary alignment to activate it at the Place of Sacrifice.” His beady eyes darted across the other faces of the gathered Illuminati, who all quickly nodded.

Gryffon felt Fantôme stiffen next to him and gave him a sharp kick as well, ignoring the Spider Lord’s virulent gaze. “Arius. You do understand the significance should you fail us in this, correct?” He asked imperiously, yellow eyes bright and predatory. “I do hope you’re planning on… exceeding our expectations.”

“Oh, yes.” Arius sat back, toying with the fur collar of his ridiculously ornate robe. “But please, let us not forget my devoted…service to our mutually beloved Lord Mundus.” He added unctuously, watching the Prince intently. “My dear, dear Lord Angelus, would you do me the honour of joining me on a tour of the Operations this evening?”

Angelus rolled his eyes. “Great. I mean… yes. Certainly. I’m sure they’ve made enormous progress since LAST night.” He added, suppressing a small grin at Fantôme’s sudden choked off snort.

~~~~*~~~~

The Mirror was perfectly smooth and concave - a gigantic bowl, really, carved of pure, gleaming darkness. It sat suspended over a glowing wound rent in the earth of the castle’s courtyard, massive cables snaking from its frame to generators and arcane devices festooned with gauges, antennae, and vacuum tubes.

The Mirror’s construction had been detailed in the musty tome Arius carried tucked under his arm. It was a surprisingly small book, the Deus Resurgam, reportedly based on notes from an insane monk and complied by an English sorcerer. The book was also a source of intense boredom for Angelus every time Arius attempted to discuss it with him. To the Black Angel, the only thing that mattered was if it was actually going to work.

He yawned as the whitecoats scurried about like little mice. Adjusting. Arranging. Fidgeting here and there. He’d expressed to Gryffon several times in the last several days that all of them would be providing Sacrifice for Mundus.

Things were seeping out of the pit. The furtive shadows of low-level demons slipping through the fissure. There was not enough energy built up in the mirror yet to truly open a gate, but it was enough to crack open a tiny sliver. The creatures gave the three Demon Lords a wide berth, but an echoing scream from down one of the palace's ruined hallways told that perhaps some of the Illuminati's foot soldiers weren't going to be so lucky.

Fantôme kicked a rock at a enormous fly buzzing off into the darkness. "Great. It's like the Slums of Dis." He muttered. "Lowlifes. Next thing you know, we'll get a Sargasso hive in here."

Arius seemed nonplussed by the whole affair, even as some shadowy beast came loping past with the head of the unfortunate soldier in it's mouth and dropping it at Angelus’ feet proudly. "Well. At least we can count this as a successful...test run." He pawed at Angelus' sleeve as he spoke, looking startled when the Prince jerked his arm free.

"Opening the door for Hell's trashpickers is hardly a success." He turned an icy glance on the man. "Your rewards will only come if this gate of yours will hold the way for Lord Mundus. Good Evening." He spat out the last sentence, turning sharply on his heel.

Gryffon only paid half-attention to his charge's words, face lost in thought as he watched the shuddering air around the pit.

~~~~*~~~~

Canto 3 - Île De Maillet

The island lay off the coast of Algiers, shrouded in a cursed mist that even the hardiest sailors refused to enter. Trish, exchanging her elegant clothes for more mannish ones, didn't suffer from the same fear and proved a surprisingly expert pilot on the turbulent sail from the south of France.

The Normandie had been fine, Vergil thought. It was so huge, you lost track of the fact that you were on the water. Not so in the tiny boat Trish guided towards the craggy coastline suddenly looming out of the haze at them. The ocean was not an element generally friendly to those with demon blood. It didn't matter that Vergil had discovered accidentally years ago that he could survive underwater without air, the seawater itself sapped a demon's life force. Being in a tiny, fragile shell riding a magical current in the middle of the Mediterranean gave him a peculiar sense of mortality.

He'd left his trunk and nearly everything in it on the Normandie. He wouldn't need suits or slippers where they were going. He'd exchanged them for the "working clothes" folded neatly at the bottom - leathers of shifting black, the long coat snapping in the sea breeze. Luce and Ombra were tucked under it, and Yamato hummed on his back. The Deus Absconditus was a musty weight inside one of his many pockets.

Trish stretched, fluffing out the long tail she’d pulled her hair into. “Now, all we can do is wait for the cover of night.” She sat down and produced a thermos seemingly from out of thin air. “Coffee, Professor?”

“No, thank you.” Vergil murmured absently, watching the Île De Maillet’s jagged teeth before them. “I must say. You continue to surprise me, Miss Trish. I... don’t suppose you’d care to tell me your plans in this affair.”

She took a sip of the coffee. “I’m honoured by the compliment, Professor. But a girl doesn’t like to brag.” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and glanced at the red-gold setting sun. “I’m more interested in that book you insisted on bringing with you.”

Vergil smoothed the front of his leather coat absently, pondering the request. “The Deus Absconditus… it’s quite ancient… at least the various tales in it are. It was copied in the Tenth century during the height of Sparda’s veneration as a cult figure, before the church fathers decided that demons couldn’t possibly be redeemed.” Vergil shook his head. “Legend has it that the monk who worked on it went out of his mind because of it. Funny, it’s the closest thing I have to my father’s life story.” He chuckled. “I... barely remember him.” Vergil grew quiet. “Ah. It’s the best source of information I have on Mundus, as well.”