Dante had called his feelings guilt, but Vergil begged to differ. He had never felt guilt before - so why now? Especially with his supposed humanity missing? Returning from the Underworld to walk amongst a world he'd only recently had fresh experiences of -- and even then, those memories of asking his brother to help were peculiar. Off. Misplaced. Like he'd observed, but not physically been there; akin to watching a movie played back on a glass screen - yet it was intangible before him. It had been his belief that he had reabsorbed the two halves split from their original self, up until Dante had let it slip that - yeah, the man clad in leather and inked with nightmares, had still been around after driving his cane into Urizen - though had hurried off quickly as he was too weak to aid in the conflict.
Vergil wondered if that was the reason he'd returned. If he was still missing a piece of himself - or if that part of humanity he had shunned and neglected in favour of his more feral side had broken off out of pure desperation. The fact that he was a different man to the one who drove his own blade into his heart unequivocally true. As for the reason? Vergil was still searching. Local libraries were redundant; holding barely any content on demons, let alone the intricate nature of severing souls in two.
From Dante's account - his humanity had been crumbling as he shambled and limped away - so the fact that he could still be alive was a slim possibility to him. Yet that posed more questions. Occam's razor; his humanity was still alive, yet the nightmares had been slain, and Vergil needed to hunt him down to try and answer the slew of uncertainties that had been crawling around in his head, not unlike the roots that once covered his frame. If he found his humanity dead, then he, for once in his life, was at a loss. Take it on the chin, grit his teeth, and moved on - as he always had.
Leaving Devil May Cry for purposes outside of work was unusual for Vergil, but the small room he had been offered was claustrophobic. Too many questions and not enough answers were birthed when he was lying in his single bed with scratchy linen sheets. Before, his prideful self would have refused to sleep on anything less than cotton; but he didn't have such a choice, and gruelling stints of sleeplessness in the Underworld broke his preferences down to where newspaper was a godsend.
Thus, as his feet brought him towards the shattered remains of his family's home, where he made the barrier between the two parts of his soul physical, he wasn't surprised. It was the only logical place to begin. Dressed in a modest, cream button-up shirt and slacks with a dark-blue woollen jumper for warmth - his vest and coat were, to be frank, ruined, Vergil inspected the remains before him with confoundment. Footprints led inside - fresh and disturbing the decades-old settled dust, ash and soot that the wind had not yet swept away. What was more disturbing, was the fact that the back of his head had a pull in it - like a fishhook had been stuck in, and yanked - a sensation which he had felt thousandfold when severing the two halves of himself.
