A/N: This is a slow burn story focused on realism, lore, and long term character development.
Do you accept the contract?
Yes.
You aren't allowed to help him.
I know.
Even though he'll suffer?
...
Even though.
So be it.
Find your way back to me...
From the hell you call paradise.
*****
13th October 2004:
A frail-looking young boy with black circles under his eyes made his way through steel gates, passing by a multitude of graves until he stopped at a rusted stone column. He cradled a cup of coffee in his hands — not the cheap ones that orphans like him would usually buy but extravagant enough that they would be reluctant to spend.
But it was always on this particular day that Vergil would indulge in something so expensive.
After all, this would be the last time he would greet his mother.
"I'm sorry," he grimaced quietly. "There's nothing I can do to stop it."
Silence.
He didn't expect an answer, the chilling breeze brushed against his face — eyes fluttering to a close.
Slap!
His hand collided with his cheek. A wake-up call that had become instinct. The only warmth he found in the monotonous area was his drink. He raised the cup tentatively taking a sip before letting out a relaxed sigh.
"Bitter as always," he laughed, glaring at the remaining liquid. "Can't let it go to waste I suppose," he whispered, forcing himself to drink some more.
Vergil finished the coffee, his hands brushing over the rotting monument. Even if it didn't look like one. "Can't believe the orphanage is closing down."
Vergil's first memory wasn't of his mother, but the orphanage.
Rotten. Corrupt. The director embezzled money, leaving the kids with only the bare minimum.
He could remember times he would fight and steal food from others to satiate his appetite.
"Study, it's not like we're going to be chosen," his younger voice echoed in his mind. "I decide my future, nobody else will."
He moved towards the bin, tossing it from a short distance. He watched as the cup wedged itself between the lid. With a sigh, he moved forward pushing it inside.
"Hope is such a cruel ideal to be given to the hands of a child." He smiled, moving back towards 'mother.'
His forehead met stone, tears dripped from his eyelids. "I'm sorry for not being good enough," he whimpered.
"For being so average."
The black sky shuddered. Then rainfall. His eyes met the grey clouds that hovered, reaching to grasp nothing.
'As long as the winners existed, the losers would too.' The words came from a friend. The memory of his appearance had vanished, but the words remained in his heart.
After a brief moment of silence, he stood up — brushing the eroded name. "Even though I know where you rest, why don't I know your name?"
"But even so, I will love you. Don't worry too much." His face reddened as he bowed.
Although he wasn't living a comfortable life, he was grateful for being born. That was all he could ask for.
The only response was the sound of rain striking harder. When he opened his eyes, he saw a warped image of himself staring back at him in a puddle. His messy black hair had almost reached his shoulders.
Splash!
Vergil didn't bother looking back.
The footsteps drew nearer. Soft yet deliberate. Then— silence.
All that remained was the cold breeze creeping up his spine.
'Mm–! Mmmph!" A gloved hand covered his mouth, dragging him backwards. The stone pavement scraped his white cloth. His body thrashed in every direction.
Hissss!
A cool sensation entered his body. His eyes paused, slowly closing. Embracing darkness.
****
Cold.
Vergil's eyes fluttered open, his upper torso stripped bare, lying against a metal surface. He tried to move his arms, only to be met with resistance.
Clang!
His arms strapped to the table with duct tape. His eyes squinted in response to the light shining above his face with a buzzing irritation. Metal clinked on the tray next to him, housing a variety of equipment only used by doctors.
"His body is a match for the transfer." A steady voice spoke. "Blood Type O and all organs are healthy."
A surgeon? What's going on.
His eyes focused after a few minutes, widening at the situation.
"Someone's awake." A figure loomed over him, dressed in a black tuxedo, a tattoo drawn from the neck down of a red dragon.
Another figure dressed in white, wearing a mask approached. "We're starting the procedure."
"What?"
The figure in the tuxedo looked at the boy's eyes. "Your father has been really nice," he chuckled. "Giving you up for his debt."
Vergil stared. Stunned at the revelation.
Father? After leaving me alone, this is what he does!?
Silence.
His heartbeat slowed. Everything felt so unreal to him, his memories flashing before his eyes.
And then—
A twisted laugh tore through the room, echoing from his throat.
Another figure stepped in, his hands shaking in his pockets. "Boss, don't you think we should think this over." He lowered his head. "It's not like—"
Bam!
The figure stepped back, before dropping to the floor with a loud thud.
"You know better than to speak out loud," he spoke, blowing the barrel of his pistol. "Don't you remember what 'they' did?"
The other figures in the room moved backwards at the sight, watching the blood slowly pour out. Each one nodded reluctantly, shaking.
He glared at the boy, staring at the fluid laying on the tray. "Is that anesthesia?"
The figure in white nodded.
The man called Boss picked it up, before crushing it in his hands. "He doesn't need this, put him under and get this over with."
He struggled bitterly as the needle bit into his neck, the liquid entered his bloodstream, putting his body flat against the metal surface.
His face whitened as the scalpel touched his skin, cold at first, then it burned. Then it slid deeper.
He had once imagined dying peacefully. But the pain he felt was indescribable. I don't accept it... "Please... kill me." He tried screaming, but his body refused.
The squelching of flesh and the humming of electricity filled his ears, eyes staring into light.
Badump. Badump.
The sound filled the room, carefully taken out of his chest. Each beat slower than the last. His vision slowly fading.
No, no, no. This can't be how I die.
Darkness slowed him. Yet what came back wasn't a prayer from God, but a lingering regret that stayed till the end.
I want... to be more than just average.