Chapter Text
Yamato pierced his abdomen, splitting open his guts and barely missing the spine, exiting from the back, nailing Nero to the pavement. Hurts. But it was a thousand times worse realizing — if Mundus is the one wielding Yamato, then Vergil must already be dead.
"I see you've already realized, little worm, that no one is coming," Mundus's maw opened wide, but behind his teeth there was nothing but all-consuming darkness. "But you… you won't get off so easily. Oh no-no-no," Mundus smirked malevolently, "I have something far more... interesting planned for you. Far less mundane and far more painful than death."
And Nero believed him.
This bastard had already killed Vergil and Dante. He had already brought Hell to Fortuna. His family had already been eaten alive right in front of him while he lay powerless in a pile of his own entrails, futilely trying to regenerate faster.
Now Mundus loomed over him - defeated, doomed, drenched in tears and blood - baring his needle-like teeth and licking them, promising nothing but endless terror.
"It can all be different," whispered a quiet, barely discernible voice in his head. Nero flinched at the recognition. He'd heard this voice before. Once, long ago, it had asked him: "What does your soul scream for?"
"How?" Nero mentally asked through the pain.
"Just surrender to me. And you will die."
"What? No!" Nero mentally roared. "Just give me the strength to kill this bastard!"
"It won't work. You have nothing left to love or protect here. This battle is lost."
"No!" Nero exclaimed incredulously.
Mundus laughed, but Nero paid him no mind. All his attention was on the blade. On Yamato buried in his gut, calling for death.
"Yet there is still a chance," Yamato continued. "My master gave me the power before his death to send you to a place where there is still a chance. Surrender now to win another time."
Mundus began pulling the blade towards himself, extracting it from Nero's insides.
"Decide quickly, descendant. There may not be another opportunity."
Nero didn't want to admit that it was over. He refused to believe everyone was dead, that there was nothing left. He refused to believe the strength of two sons and one grandson of Sparda wasn't enough to defeat even one — albeit an extremely powerful — demon.
Nero didn't know how to surrender. And Vergil had only once reproached him for it.
Months after they returned from Hell, after dozens of joint missions, when Nero finally gathered the courage to invite them over under the pretext of help with demons. That rainy gray evening, staying for dinner at his and Kyrie's home — very reluctantly judging by his sour expression — Vergil said something that still pissed Nero off to this day:
"You are remarkably persistent in your desire to put together what has been shattered beyond repair."
Nero clenched his teeth, barely holding back from spitting out, "Well, go to hell then!"
"And... perhaps this time it might work, I... beg you not to lose vigilance due to arrogance. This stupid trait almost killed me once. Don't let it pull the same trick on you."
Damn Nero if Vergil wasn't talking about this exact moment. So, before the blade fully left his gut, cursing everything: his father, his grandfather, Mundus, and this cursed legacy, Nero surrendered to the will of the blade.
The first breath was more painful than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He screamed at the top of his lungs. Someone immediately caught him, started patting him, pulling, pushing, wiping him down. In the background, other annoying cries could be heard: a woman's and a child's, and some other voices. Many different ones, all unfamiliar.
Then they finally laid him down. On something warm, soft, beating evenly and soothingly. Like a strong heart.
Nero opened his eyes. Through the blurry haze in front of him, he couldn’t make out a face, but he distinctly caught the scent. It was familiar, homely. Like Vergil would smell if Nero allowed himself to think about it for a moment—but softer, more delicate.
"Enough, Maria," a female voice said nearby. "It's time."
"Just one more minute," another woman—Maria—whispered tiredly. "Please."
"I’m sorry, but we can't. We need to get rid of him as soon as possible."
"Get rid of him?!" Maria shrieked.
"Calm down. I'll take him to the orphanage as planned. On my way back, I’ll stop by the brothel to deliver the rest of the payment. You understand, Maria, no one must know that all this time you've been carrying a child from a stranger."
"But Vergil isn’t a stranger!"
"Did he leave you pregnant after just a month, then?" came the reply, laced with disdain.
"He didn’t know. If I had told him..."
"He would have killed you. He would have cut the baby out of your womb and devoured it."
"You don’t know what you’re talking about, Christina," Maria sobbed weakly.
"I’ve seen the eyes of that young man. He’s not human, Maria. And this pregnancy… this child. It’s a miracle you survived. It’s time."
"My sweet little baby," Maria whispered into his ear. "I love you so much, endlessly. Forgive me, my foolish heart."
Nero was lifted again, torn away from the warmth and the steady beat. And suddenly, through his pain-addled consciousness, it dawned on him exactly when Yamato had sent him.
"No! NO! MOTHER!" he screamed, reaching out with his tiny arms toward the warmth and the scent fading in his blurred infant vision. To him, it was nothing but an irritating, helpless cry.
"Calm down, baby. This is how it has to be. To protect your mom," Christina whispered.
"Take his scarf," Maria said wearily.
"Huh?"
"Vergil's handkerchief," she mumbled barely audibly. "The smell will soothe him."
"How do you know?" Christina scoffed as Nero struggled to move his weak, uncoordinated body.
"He told me," Maria replied softly.
And then the scent of Vergil enveloped him. Under the protection of the warm, dark cocoon of that black fabric, exhausted from the shock, Nero let himself drift off to sleep.