Devil May Cry - Volume 1 - Chapter 2.1

Phase 2.1

There are drunkards who see the sinister shadows dancing in the night. 
Needless to say, no one believes them. But each time the day cycles into night, the number of witnesses to the sinister shadows grow. 
Although everyone laughs at the rumors about demons, doubts remain. 
People instinctively fear the darkness. 
Perhaps it is ingrained in our genetic memory – the fear that stems from fighting off creatures that once stalked the night., 
But each sundown, the mysterious shadows dance in the sky once more – there's no escaping their ghastly screams. 
Their cries are a warning, perhaps, heralding the end of our world. 

“Hey! Don't just gobble it all up, Tony! There's plenty of seconds!” 
An affronted shriek erupted from across the small table. Jessica had the officious nature of an oldest child, tempered by the innocence of her fifteen years. Her plump cheeks and chestnut curls reminded Tony of her father. 
“But, Princess, I'm starving!” Tony yelled back. “I paid for the groceries. Keep bringing them out! I can eat everything you've got!” 
“I'm gonna eat, too!” squealed Tiki, perched on Tony's leg. Nesty gurgled with delight on his other knee. 
Grue watched the unfolding scene with horror. Tony had already scarfed down seven plates of doria. His youngest two daughters followed Tony's example, 
stuffing themselves silly while bouncing on Tony's knees. 
“Tiki! Stop making a mess. Come help me out a little,” Jessica cried. But her sister was having none of it. 
“I'm eating with Tony!” 
“Abba goo!” Nesty concurred. 
Tony looked at Tiki with mock reproach. “When you have a man of my caliber over, shouldn't you help out?” He turned his attention to Nesty, who was trying to scale his head. “My hair isn't for eating!” 
Grue tried to mask his smile. “Hey, you're eating my portion!” 
“I'm the guest here,” Tony shot back. “Don't be so mean! Okay, Nesty. Open up!” He spooned some doria into her mouth. 
“What about me?” wailed Tiki. “Feed me!” 
“Good grief.” Grue sank his head into his hands. “Every single time you come over, this place turns into a madhouse, Tony.” 
Jessica brought her father a steaming mug of coffee. She was a plain girl, but seemed to know how to make people feel at ease. “Everyone loves Tony,” she pointed out. 
“Everyone?” Grue smiled at his daughter coyly, one eyebrow raised. “I thought your cheeks were looking rosy this evening.” 
“I...” Jessica was mortified. “Don't say such stupid things.” She set the mug down and fled into the safety of the kitchen to finish the next batch of doria. 
The dining room's bustle eventually faded when the younger girls rushed off to do whatever young girls do. Jessica carried a pile of dishes into the kitchen. Tony and Grue moved into the living room and slumped into a pair of old leather chairs. 
“Damn,” said Tony. “Does eating dinner always have to be such a production?” 
“They see you as one of them. You're just a kid at heart.” 
Tony sighed. “Give me a break. But it's good. Jessica's cooking isn't completely repulsive. And I like being here.” 
“As long as you like it here, that's the important thing.” Grue lit a cigarette, fanning the smoke away from Tony. “It's hard for Jessica. She should be out there playing with her friends, but since my wife passed away, she's had to step in and run the household. I can't thank her enough.” 
“And in our business, you can't just go around shopping for another wife.” 
Grue drew close to his friend, smiling mischievously. “That was why I had something to ask you.” 
Tony blinked. “Hey! I'm not the marrying kind.” 
“Shut up and listen. I was just thinking that if you have some time, maybe you can take Jessica to the movies or something.” 
Tony bolted upright in bewilderment. “What? Me?” “Yes, you. She really seems to like you, you know.” 
“A date? With a kid? I didn't know paying you back for dinner would be so involved.” 
Grue backed up. “Don't get me wrong. You get any-time ideas about touching her and I'll kill you myself.” 
“Don't worry. I can't imagine calling you Dad any time soon.” 
The two men burst into laughter. 
The evening was a brief stab at normalcy. For Tony, who had no family, this was the closest he god to finding out what those small moments were all about.
 
“Hey boys! Is anybody working tonight?” 
A familiar voice rang out above the bustle of Bobby's Cellar a few minutes after midnight. The assembled throng craned around to see who might be offering a gig. 
Enzo stood in the entrance, smiling smugly. “Don't look so cross. You might scare me into heading home.” He felt the collective gazes grow cold as he pushed his way toward the bar. It was only natural for a Thursday. 
Enzo was a Tuesday man. Bobby had an unspoken slot for agents, a daily rotation that ensured each middleman got a fair crack at the action. The shuffle also kept the work on offer fresh; each agent had his own specialty and client roster. 
As one of the bar's oldest customers, Enzo knew the rules. 
“It's Thursday,” Bobby grumbled, pushing a fresh glass in front of Enzo. “You can't just come in here whenever you want, you know. What are you drinking? Maybe I'll let you off just this once.” 
Enzo blanched, aware he had overstepped his bounds. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he blustered. “I didn't come here on business. I just wanted to introduced you to someone.” Enzo twisted around and waved toward the front of the bar. “Hey, come on in!” 
He swiveled back to face Bobby. “An old buddy asked me to introduce him to you, and I couldn't turn him down. He wants me to make sure that this guy fits right in.” Enzo might have been a tiny weasel of a man, but his unusual sense of obligation was part of what built up his impressive reputation among mercenaries and the underworld. “This guy used to be a bounty hunter. I think he wants to prove himself as a mercenary. Something like that. Anyway, here he is now.” 
A tall figure had entered the bar. 
The newcomer was oddly androgynous, slim like a woman but extremely muscular. His dark green suit, unusually stylish for a mercenary, offset by a strange sword. But his head was odder still, wrapped entirely in bandages. His eyes peered out through gaps in the cloths that concealed his features. 

A hush fell over the crowd. “This is Gilver,” Enzo told Bobby, raising his voice to make sure that everyone heard him. “I'm told he's a guy, but who can tell for sure through all those bandages? 

Anyway, he's not talking.” 

Gilver gave a curt bow with the formal precision of a gentleman. 

The atmosphere in Bobby's Cellar changed indelibly. All eyes were fixed on the stranger. Hands grasped weapons beneath the tables. Enzo darted his eyes from table to table, aware that the slightest faux pas could end in violence. It had happened before, more often than not. 

Gilver took advantage of the lull to survey the room. His face was inscrutable behind the bandages, but the tilt of his head projected a confident calm. 
Finally, he spoke. “I ask one thing.” 
The atmosphere somehow grew chiller, frowns dropping into snarls. 
“I want to take on the strongest man here. Gilver paused to let the words sink in before swiftly unsheathing his sword – a single-edged blade of Eastern design. The weapon's beauty and rarity were probably lost on most of the onlookers. 
“Let my actions be my resume. What do you say?” Gilver swung his sword slowly across the room, picking out individual mercenaries. The tension mounted, but no one stepped forward. Gilver continued his scan of the bar, finally settling on Tony. The silver-haired man was too busy gnawing away at a chicken thigh to notice him. 
 
“You.” Gilver gestured toward Tony. “I've got the feeling you're the strongest guy here.” 
Tony casually tossed the thigh aside and wiped the back of his mouth. “I'm in the middle of dinner. Think it over, newbie.” 
Gilver cocked his head to one side. “Oh. Pardon me.” Suddenly, his sword hissed down and cleaved the chicken thigh Tony had discarded. He indicated the two pieces. “It should be easier to eat like that.” 
Tony stood up, slowly. “Hey now, that's pretty good.”
 
The men between them dove into the crowd of mercenaries lining Bobby's Cellar. 

Tony grinned nonchalantly. “It's about time somebody decent with a sword showed up. I'm gonna enjoy this. Make sure you don't hold back any. I don't want you to make excuses when you lose.” 
Tony pulled his massive sword free from its sheath. Gilver gripped his own hilt with his other hand, moving with relaxed grace. Both of them knew that a single step forward would bring them within striking distance. But Gilver masterfully commanded the empty space with his sword, putting Tony at a disadvantage. 
The Cellar itself seemed to swell with pressure. Tony imagined that everyone in the room had sweaty palms, and he suppressed the urge to giggle. 
And then Gilver struck. 
“Hyaa!” The bandaged stranger darted ahead with incredible speed, closing the gap between the two warriors in an instant. 
Tony blinked with astonishment. Superhuman. 
He realized that he alone had eyes capable of tracking Gilver's movements. To most of the occupants of Bobby's Cellar, Gilver must move so quickly that he doesn't appear to move at all. 
Tony breezily knocked aside the tip of the oncoming sword. “Too easy, newbie.” 
He slashed his sword toward the ceiling, connecting with Gilver's blade and sending it flying backward. 
“Gonna go home crying to Mommy now?” Tony brushed his sword up against the bandages, confident of victory. 
“I seem to have underestimated you,” Gilver allowed. “I apologize. However...” Gilver launched himself in the air, arcing backward. A wiry leg shot out toward Tony's wrist, sending his sword to the floor with a clatter. 
Gilver landed on his feet and stood before Tony. “Now we're even. But it's not over yet.” Gilver exploded into a frenzy of kicks and punches, each delivered with a precision Tony had never before encountered. It was all he could do to ward off the blows. Each glancing impact contained enough raw fury to warn that a direct hit would shatter bones. 
“Hey, you're pretty good, newbie.” But Tony's voice lacked its characteristically sarcastic tone. 
The mercenaries watched as Gilver drove Tony backwards across the bar, step by step. Finally, he landed a clean hit. After two decoy high kicks to the head, he planted a toe in Tony's lower gut. Tony reflexively tightened his abdominal muscles and crossed his arms to guard himself, but it was too late. 
“Argh!” Tony flew back and tumbled clumsily along the floor, crashing into a table leg. The impact upturned a jug of beer, which showered over his silver hair. “You bastard! That's some kick you've got there.” 
“That makes up for my earlier defeat. Shall we settle this?” 
Tony stood up, drenched in stale alcohol. The two combatants squared off at a respectable distance. 
That's when everyone else in the room suddenly realized that neither man had been fighting at full force. Their exchanges had been more for show than anything else, avoiding vital areas. The mercenaries instinctively recognized that things would be different now and collectively slunk deeper into the corners. 
Tony's glib wit had disappeared. He narrowed his eyes to take in Gilver, whose lean arms rippled with muscles. He was definitely capable of doing serious damage. 
Enzo pressed farther back in his chair, hoping to put as much distance between himself and his contacts as possible. But the movement sent a whiskey glass crashing to the floor. 
The sound shattered the silence. 
Tony and Gilver threw themselves at each other. 
Tony dodged an incoming first and countered with a swift uppercut, dancing like a boxer in zero gravity. 
Gilver easily sidestepped the blow and jumped over a low sweep kick with a sneer. But it was a decoy. Tony pummeled his opponent's face with a devastating series of punches that should have felled a mule. 
Gilver took the hits straight on and buried a short hook in Tony's stomach. The two men broke off, catching their breath. Suddenly, each lunged for their weapons scattered on the floor. 
“Too slow!” crowed Gilver. 
“We'll see!” Tony shot back. 
The two blades collided between them, sending off a shower of sparks. Tony and Gilver were equally matched. Their instruments clinked and clanged ferociously, but neither warrior could gain ground. The deadlock only hiked the tension in Bobby's Cellar. 
“Back off!” Tony feigned a low kick and both men jumped apart, breathing heavily. The duel had been shorter than the brawl, but it had consumed each fighter's strength. 
“As I expected, you've made it this far.” Gilver nodded curtly. 
“You said it. You're pretty good for a newbie.” Tony knew there was only one thing left to do. A contest that couldn't be settled by fists or swords could only be solved by guns. Tony could see from the twitch of Gilver's hand that his opponent had reached the same conclusion. 
But then a voice rang out that made everyone in the room jump. “Okay, okay! Let's stop this.” Bobby himself had clambered atop his bar and had his hands on his hips. “If you mess up my bar any more, I'm gonna have to ban you.” 
Bobby pointed at Tony and Gilver as if they were recalcitrant schoolchildren. “Fists, okay. Swords, fine. Guns? No way.” 
A wave of relief washed over the assembled mercenaries. Bobby made his way through the crowd, dragging something behind him. 
“I think we're having a change of plans,“ Tony said to Gilver. He indicated Bobby with a raised eyebrow. 
After a moment, Bobby finally made it to the nearest table. He had been wrestling with an enormous frosted keg, which he maneuvered onto the tabletop with a grunt. 
Slamming two glasses next to the keg, Bobby stomped back toward the bar. “There's only one other way to prove who's the better man,” he said without looking over his shoulder. 
Tony and Gilver stared at the keg and then each other. 
Finally, Tony threw himself into an empty chair. He slumped in silence for a moment, looking like a deflated balloon. 
Gilver was puzzled. “What are you doing? Do you forfeit?” 
“Don't be stupid.” But it was clear that Gilver didn't know what was going on. “The rules have changed.” 
Tony poured two glasses of clear liquid and gestured for Gilver to sit down across from him. 
Drinking challenges had settled countless disputes throughout history. They were also a great way to get free booze. But Tony wasn't in the mood. 
“I'll tell you this,” he muttered. “I'd like nothing more than to settle this with our fists.”