Considering that Vergil has spent more time in the underworld than the human realm, what are the odds he's forgotten some simple words and only knows them in a demonic language?
At a family dinner:
Vergil: Could you kindly pass me the ...
Everyone waits expectantly, but he doesn't say another word, only cycles through different expressions from mild confusion to deep frustration.
Nero: *rolls his eyes* Just spit it out already.
Vergil: ... the *infernal screeching noises*
Everyone at the table: *visibly disturbed*
Dante: ... you mean the salt?
Vergil: Yes, precisely. Sometimes these words evade me.
In the Devil May Cry novel, there's Gilver—a fake copy of Vergil created by Mundus. Gilver gets up to no good, messes with Dante and eventually tries to kill him.
That got me thinking... What if Mundus played the same cruel trick on Vergil? What if he made a fake copy of Dante?
At some point after the Sparda manor fire, a young, traumatized Vergil finds his 'little brother' alive and well. After losing everything, Vergil is overcome with relief. He doesn't care about their past bickering, he's just happy to hold onto the only family he has left. So they become inseparable.
Vergil gets to be an older brother again and becomes fiercely protective of 'Dante', always looking out for him. He opens up, lowers his guard and cares for him in a way he would for no other.
Vergil trusts him. And it makes it all the easier to drive a dagger into his back.
When demon attacks get more frequent and aggressive, Vergil doesn't think twice. It makes sense, the twins are together so the demon scum don't have to split up their efforts to pursue them. He has no idea he's being tracked from the inside.
Eventually, the trap is sprung.
The 'Dante' he has bled for, fought for, and loved with everything he had left turns its blade on him. All that warmth Vergil allowed himself to feel is turned to ash. He is forced to fight his way out of the ambush and kill his brother's mimic.
After the dust settles, Vergil—bleeding, broken and completely hollowed out—gently slides the clone's empty eyes shut.
"Fierce. He's a fierce fighter and a fierce protector. Fierce in anger, fierce in love. Fierce with words, with feelings. If there ever was a word that encapsulates my son, it would have to be fierce" - Vergil
"Every once in a while you'll meet a lady so kind people call her a living saint. Well, I can safely say that in all my years on God's green earth, I ain't never met a girl that fit the bill like this here Kyrie" - Nico
Well, season 2 was a mixed bag as expected. Though I'm not here to bash it or any new fans. I'm tired boss.
Just wanted to point out a cool detail I couldn't unsee, how in some shots Dante looked a hell lot like Eva. Kinda wholesome...
It makes sense since Dante is more in touch with his humanity.
And I'll stretch that extra mile and say Vergil looks a bit like Sparda. The guy is embracing his demonic side so the animators chose the resemblance. Cool stuff.
As far as Dante was concerned, this was the golden hour. The office was currently graced by the presence of a cheesy, circular masterpiece: a large pepperoni pizza. He glanced at the side order: a smaller, separate box containing a thin-crust mockery of true greatness topped with olives and sun-dried tomatoes.
It was Vergil’s, of course. Dante had noticed his brother still struggled to adapt to the human world, especially the concept of eating for pleasure. Even now, Vergil was merely pecking at his food, looking more like he was dissecting a specimen than enjoying a meal. Dante decided to help end his misery, even if there were olives involved.
“You gonna eat all that, Verge?” Dante asked, his hand drifting lazily toward Vergil’s box. “Even olive infested pizzas deserve to be eaten warm.”
The reaction was instantaneous.
Before Dante’s fingers could even hover over the crust, a low, vibrating sound rumbled through the room. It wasn’t a verbal warning; it was a visceral, guttural growl that started deep in Vergil’s chest and ended with a flash of white teeth bared in a feral snarl.
Vergil’s pupils didn’t just blow wide; they sharpened into needle-like slits, dark and predatory. They locked onto Dante’s hand as if guarding a fresh kill from a scavenger. For a split second, the polished Son of Sparda was gone, replaced by something that had spent a decade eating flesh and demon marrow in the dark.
Dante froze. He didn’t pull back—that might trigger a strike—he just stared. He’d seen Vergil do a lot of things, but watching his stuck-up and stoic brother go full lizard-brain over a slice of pizza was a new level of heavy, twisting his gut in all sorts of ways.
Clearly the Underworld was a harsh teacher. In the pits, if you didn’t fight for what you wanted and guard what little you had, you didn’t survive.
“Whoa,” Dante said, slowly raising his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Not messing with your food then.”
The tension snapped like a tight band. Vergil blinked, the predatory haze in his eyes clearing as he realized, with a sickening jolt of self-awareness, that he was currently baring his fangs at his brother over a piece of bread. He straightened his coat, an embarrassed flush creeping up his face. The growl died in his throat, replaced by a cold, suffocating silence.
“I... am no longer hungry,” Vergil muttered. He pointedly pushed the box of pizza aside.
“Suit yourself. A lil’ leftover never hurt anyone,” Dante tried to joke, but it fell flat. He felt a pang of guilt; he’d accidentally tripped a wire he didn’t even know was live.
They spent the next twenty minutes talking shop, because nothing buried tension quite like work. It was the usual grind: a high-level demon sighting by the docks, another lesser nest in the sewers, and the soul-crushing reality of debt and utility bills. Vergil was clearly back in his comfort zone, speaking in clipped, professional tones, but he never once looked back at the food.
When the business was concluded, Vergil stood up with his usual, practiced grace.
“I’ll see to the harbour job,” Vergil said, eyes drilling into his brother. “Do not laze about, and do not let the clients negotiate the fair pay downward. If I have to start supervising your contracts like a toddler, I will simply hand the work over to Nero.”
He turned on his heel to leave, headed off to sulk in his own way.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, father of the year,” Dante teasingly called after him.
As the front door shut, Dante sighed, reaching for a slice of his own pizza only to realize the box was empty. As he pulled back in disappointment, his hand stopped mid-air.
There, on the edge of the desk, sat Vergil’s box.
Vergil hadn’t just left it. He had pointedly slid it across the table, nudging it firmly into Dante’s territory. It was a silent, prideful apology. The demonic equivalent of: ‘I recognized you as a threat, but I remember now that you are pack. Feast.’
Dante looked at the vile olives, then at the door, and shook his head with a small, lopsided grin.
“What an over-dramatic idiot,” Dante whispered. He picked up a slice of the pizza, flicked off the offending olive, and took an appreciative bite.
Vergil, the firstborn of Sparda, eldest of the bloodline, and keeper of Yamato, was currently engaged in the most grueling battle since his return from the Underworld.
His knuckles were bone-white. His face was a mask of murderous, vein-popping intent. In his grip sat a jar of stuffed olives that remained simply... unconquerable.
“Yield,” Vergil hissed at the glass.
“Give it up, Verge,” Dante called from the desk, not even looking up from a dirty magazine. “The universe is clearly trying to tell you something. Those little demons belong behind bars.”
Vergil’s grip tightened, blue sparks of devil trigger energy dancing around his fingers. “It is a matter of principle, Dante. I will not yield to a jar of perfectly normal, if not delectable, snacks.”
“Sure, sure. Unleashing horrors upon this world has always been your thing,” Dante teased. “Whenever you’re ready to call it a day, you can toss the jar in that perfectly normal, if not delectable, bin over there.”
Vergil eyed the overflowing trash can with great scorn. “You were supposed to empty it before it reached this state of filth.”
“And yet, I’m still giving you the option of making it worse with your disgusting olives.”
Vergil paused. He looked from the bin to the jar, then back to his brother with a predatory glint in his eyes. Dante knew that look; it was the most dangerous thing his brother could do—actually use his head. With a scheme in mind, Vergil set the jar onto the desk between them.
“I propose a wager. Whoever opens this jar is proven to possess the greater prowess. The loser handles the bins—without complaint—for the remainder of the month.”
Dante kicked his boots off the desk. As much as he hated the idea of vile olives entering the world, the idea of getting one over his brother was all the sweeter. Since it was an easy win by his books, he pushed the deal. “Tempting. Add laundry duties to the pot and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“As you wish,” Vergil replied coolly. “Since those duties shall be yours.”
“Bold talk for a guy who couldn’t even make the lid budge in the past twenty minutes. Step aside, peasant.”
Dante cracked his fingers, rolled up his sleeves and grabbed the jar. He twisted it with all his might.
Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
The jar didn’t even creak.
He shifted his stance, braced his boots against the floor, and gave it his all. Not a nudge.
What followed was a spectacle of frustration and desperation. The jar repeatedly traded hands as the two half-devils employed increasingly ridiculous measures. Dante was seconds away from popping devil trigger just to chew the lid off with his razor-like teeth, until Vergil protested the ‘vile contamination’ of his brother’s drool. Vergil then proposed using Yamato to open a miniature rift and portal the contents out, but Dante shot the idea down as blatant cheating—the bet was to open the jar.
“It’s enchanted,” Dante grunted, sweating and defeated. “A real solid seal between those hellish things and the human world. Maybe it’s for the best they stay where they are.”
“Even your crude, mulish strength cannot force it,” Vergil panted, looking equally disheveled.
The stairs creaked. Nero stumbled down the steps, looking thoroughly bedraggled with a mess of white hair sticking up at odd angles. He stopped dead, staring at the two legends huddled over a jar of olives like they were fighting the greatest of battles. And they were losing.
“Hey, kid. I’d stay back if I were you,” Dante warned, his face red from exertion. “This is a code red situation, class-S threat. This thing cannot be defeated.”
Nero raised a single, heavily disappointed eyebrow. He wordlessly shuffled into the kitchen, returned with a simple kitchen knife, and—before either twin could protest—slammed the tip through the center of the lid.
Pfft.
The sound of escaping pressure was the loudest thing in the shop. In the absolute silence that followed, Nero unscrewed the lid with two fingers and set it back on the desk.
The twins exchanged a long, stunned look.
Dante reached out, poking the pierced metal with a finger. “Witchcraft,” he whispered.
Vergil crossed his arms, staring at the jar with an expression trapped between murderous intent and a childlike pout. “Clearly, our combined efforts had already loosened the lid.” He shifted his weight, glancing at his son. “But your assistance is much appreciated, Nero.”
“Sooo,” Dante drawled. “What about the bet?”
“What damn bet?” Nero asked, rubbing his eyes blearily.
