#wildsqueen

[inuzukadogshinobi-blog]

" .....Hello....?"

Kiba glanced around, as he had thought he was alone. He looked at the girl, and Akamaru began to sniff the air. “… Hey?” He matched her questioning tone, and resisted the urge to pace around her.

[abstersivetournure]

▲

▲ for an enemy headcanon

THIS WAS HARD — I couldn’t tell what exactly I was supposed to say about enemies or if I was just telling one or more of his enemies or? so here have this

For being roughly twenty-two, twenty-three years old, Vergil has quite a number of enemies. Not even to begin with the ones he’s made himself, he is a son of Sparda, and though his father was a savior to mankind…he also betrayed and condemned his own kind to rot in Hell.

heads-up, you’re about to get flooded with a bunch of my headcanons for Sparda too ‘cause he’s pretty much my baby

That was not the intent. Sparda did not intend for his kind to be permanently banished. But at the time, it was the only solution to halt the impending genocide of mankind in its tracks — to seal Mundus (DMC Satan) and any demon powerful enough to reopen it in Hell as well as he could, a relatively tiny force of himself, a small handful of demons in the face of Mundus’ veritable military, and those few brave humans who dared find the strength to fight back. It pained him to do it, knowing the fate he was leaving them to — to suffer and slaughter one another and not to know the peace they’d never been afforded, born in a world as chaotic and merciless as theirs. To survive, for his kind, was a luxury, and he was locking them into a place that expounded their hatred and violence, for the realms themselves made life for all but the most powerful a matter of kill or die. Often, literally, eat or be eaten. While humans lived in the lap of luxury and still, still insisted on inciting war and violence and poverty on one another, his kind was damned to rot in their ignorance and the perpetual cycle. And he did not intend to leave it that way.

He meant to go back, once he knew some way to both offer his kind an option, a real option, an understanding of this peace they had never known, and still keep them from descending on the human realm like demons out of Hell. He never meant to leave them to suffer eternally. But suffer they did, betrayed and anarchic and loathing him and his pitiful, worthless humanity.

Their hatred for him, compounded for two thousand years, did not die with him. It was passed on to his family — his wife and children. Eva was slaughtered violently for it, and Vergil and Dante no less loathed.

The one who hated Sparda and his kin most of all, however, was easily and by far Mundus, slighted by the betrayal and wounded more in pride than in power by his defeat. His conquest was dismantled by the actions of a single worthless traitor, and for a demon whose name was once the most feared in all the realm… To demonkind, one’s name is one’s life. Aside from survival, standing is measured by if your name is worth bothering to speak of, in a rough manner. For Mundus, to be defeated, to be defeated a single (memorable) time no less, is to have one’s name constantly followed — to be spoken of perhaps still in fear, but then, there’s always the shadow, the whisper of his name in mockery and doubt and suddenly you are no longer the indisputable god.

Mundus was the one into whose hands Vergil fell when he opened Hell and entered. Mundus, who hated Sparda and his blood more than any other, revered for his mercilessness and…imaginative cruelty. Mundus, who would not only restore his name but exact his very personal, extremely prejudiced revenge on this powerless broken little doll now manacled in his service. Kill him? Oh, no, that would be much too easy. He’d had two thousand years and now a perfect little object to be crushed, broken down, mentally and physically.

Vergil hated him — still hates him, for his parents’ deaths and for all the misery they suffered because of it and for all the pain he suffered — but he’s also been programmed to recognize Mundus as master. He was effectively Mundus’ stress relief, entertainment, and constant ego stroker, simply by being there. Simply by giving in.

As of being kidnapped for CA — four or five years into this torment — Vergil had not entirely given in in his head, but in effect he knew he could do nothing. He had given up much of his will to fight back, save his will not to think of Mundus as his master inside his own mind. However, fear has still been drilled into him. At this point, it’s unlikely he could face Mundus without trembling. Though Mundus is his greatest enemy in a sense, it’s more accurate to Vergil’s actual emotions about the matter to say Mundus is his master and tormentor. Little provokes as much terror and hatred.

[abstersivetournure]

A man sat on a bus stop bench alone, staring intently down at an object in his hands. Some white-haired guy in unreasonably dressy clothes for just sitting on a park bench. Were one to look more closely, one might observe his thumbs jerking and tapping the screen at seemingly random intervals. He had awoken this morning -- more like in the middle of the night, really -- with this strange rectangular object resting on his chest. It was miraculous, really, that he had not rolled over and crushed it in his sleep...or awoken to catch whoever placed it there. He had no idea what it was, frankly -- his first suspicion was that someone was trying to frame him, for why else would someone reverse thieve if not to pin blame? But after quite some fiddling, he had managed to determine two things. Firstly, this was an object of sorcery. Some kind of phone, except that the screen itself was the button. It was also definitely meant for him, as his name was printed on the background (along with the date and time), but that was not the second thing. The second thing was that he was still, even after all this time, a veritable god of Tetris. A god. There was none beside him.

[abstersivetournure]

FRAGILITY

Getting lost was certainly not in the cards today. It wasn't his fault, really. The area was hardly inviting, when at every corner he felt like he'd been suddenly sucked through time and space to another era and people...without feeling anything at all to indicate such a shift. A glance over one's shoulder could confirm that this was merely an illusion, and one was only a step from where they'd been before. All the same, it was a rather disorienting effect. By some feat of great skill, Vergil had managed to find his way to a markedly less confusing area -- one remarkable only for how run down it seemed. It was no ghetto, to use the term colloquially -- not quite -- but it was not his first choice for a figurative side of town to be on. Or a literal one, for that matter. In fact, he thought he'd quite literally crossed onto the Wrong Side of the Tracks a little while ago. Whoever designed the layout of this city had a terrible sense of humor. "Hey, Gramps," someone barked over his shoulder. Vergil was aware enough to know he was practically alone now, and that knowledge was more than enough to make him stiffen up. The sight that greeted him when he turned halfway to look back was a less than surprising one. Two young men and a woman, looking at first like they owned the place -- and then, at his flat, unimpressed stare, a little more tense. All the same, the one dressed like the Fonz -- presumably his alleged grandchild, though the nose bore no resemblance to either his or Fonzie's -- steeled himself and strutted forward. "You lost or somethin', old man?" By Vergil's estimation, they were perhaps roughly the same age, but he was rather used to the comparison. "No." "No? You here donatin' some of those fancy clothes of yours?" A vague gesture toward his attire. Vergil did not have to look to know that it was unsuitably nice for a recently-kidnapped individual wandering a subpar neighborhood such as this. The Scientists had the...ahem, kindness to give him clothing suitable to his taste! How very. Thoughtful. Of them. To make him stand out like a particularly...bling-clad, so to speak, sore thumb. "I am not in the business of handouts to men accosting me for what I presume to be my money, I'm afraid." Not that he had any to hand out, but he doubted they'd believe him. He wouldn't believe him. With a faint sigh, Vergil turned to face them head-on, crossing his arms. It had been a long time since he'd had to deal with a situation such as this, but it was hardly the first time. "Nor am I in the business of beating around the proverbial bush. If your end is to assault me like the common rabble you seem so intent on resembling," he uncrossed his arms and, for all intents and purposes, stared them down, "by all means, do so." It wasn't as if they were interrupting anything, or as if they wouldn't if he didn't invite them to do so. The trio had the decency to look cowed. Unwisely, however, their disquiet was mixed with anger, and it was the anger on which the most outspoken of the bunch (he refused to call him a leader purely for all the terrible foolish stereotypes he would be walking into) elected to act. Idiot. Terribly unsurprising, but an idiot nevertheless. "Hey, fuck you, old man," he growled. His female friend -- a brunette who looked like she may have more of a head on her shoulders than either of them, if her apparent reconsideration of this plan was anything to go by -- reached out a staying hand but didn't touch him. "Are you sure this is a good idea...?" she was asking in a low voice, as though anxious that he would here. And perhaps about a few other things, too. "Late now," muttered the third. Fonz had it in him to look uncertain. Vergil refrained from rolling his eyes. He could at least persist in acting like he knew what he was doing. "Your lack of confidence gives your opponent the advantage by default," he advised flatly. That seemed only to anger the boy, crushing his doubt. That was not the intent but it would do. Best to teach him a lesson. "Fuck you," he snapped, whipping out a butterfly knife and unfolding it with a flourish. It was a familiar motion, but a testament to inexperience. Butterfly knives could be as dangerous to oneself as to an opponent in combat, by design. Over before it even started. Pitiful, really, the fact that they really felt this was a good idea. Vergil would have shaken his head if he were fool enough to be so overconfident. A knife wielded without skill was still a knife, and in his...current condition, it was best not to take such risks. Even so, to catch the boy by his wrist and violently twist his arm behind his back was ease itself. A simple disarming technique he'd picked up more by observation and experience than formal education, but highly effective. The brat all but yelped as his knife clattered to the ground, askew. Vergil torqued his shoulder a moment longer and shoved him away. He wasn't quite expecting the boy to catch himself and whirl with a fist like that. It didn't hurt him, not really, outside being a little painful. A shock of sparks through his jaw, his neck, a faint throbbing afterward. It should not have set his vision red. It should not have sent him into the blind, silent rage that it did. He latched a fist onto that ridiculous leather jacket and ("Put him down!") -- the first blow broke his lip, the second his nose with a disturbingly satisfying crunch, blood welling into his fingers. The third might have been his jaw next but -- "I said put him down!"  The tone registered, through the haze, this haywire panic induced by being hurt again. It was a threat. He spun, flung the first aside, and gripped the hilt of his Zweihander in the same motion. The poor boy had no chance to dodge, standing in wide-eyed shock as the massive blade swung in a broad diagonal arc, and Vergil came to his senses far too late. There was a sickening crunch and a gargled scream that ran together through the pulsing rush in his ears, and the body went flying like a ragdoll and lay still. There was a beat of silence. And then Vergil dropped his weapon just as the boy with the newly-broken nose scrambled to his feet and bolted. Was he --? Vergil leaned over him uncertainly, but the labored, lightly wheezing breath was audible in the silence, and as much relief as guilt flooded him. It would be a coin flip as to which was more overwhelming. He ignored both in favor of tentatively turning the boy on his back, minding the way his arm had been...twisted so unnaturally. "G-get away from him." It wasn't a whisper, but it was shaky. Vergil raised his head slowly, hyperaware of the revolver that the boy had been holding now aimed at his head. Terrified. She looked terrified. And rather like she might really pull the trigger. "...Very well," he murmured, rising carefully to his feet. Her jaw was set and trembling at the same time as she watched him back away a step, two steps, and then turn. He did not look back. But when he picked up his weapon, he paused. "His...collarbone appears to be broken." There was no answer. His spine crawled as though the barrel were pressed directly against him. Silently, he rounded a corner and wondered how hard it would be to find that saloon he'd passed earlier. Briefly, a hand fished through his pocket -- a cigarette, from a pack lifted off some poor passerby who bumped too close, emerged with it. Forget the saloon. Right now, he'd settle for a light. (And anything to hide the trembling in his hands.)

[abstersivetournure]

[Going to write for CA threads soon; for some reason this non-CA thread is ridiculously easy to write for (might have to do with the fact that my Vergil is so much easier to play when he's with people he already knows and trusts and all that), and not very time-consuming at all. Also using my dad's Chromebook instead of my heap of junk computer enables me to type at the SPEED OF SOUND.

Sorry to the CA folks who are waiting for me to reply/to thread with me, ahaha. As demonstrated, I ought to be able to do more things now and in the near future!]