Devil May Cry - Volume 1 - Chapter 3.1

Phase 3.1

A brief moment of peace makes people relax, possibly more than they should. 
It's kind of like a drug. People can't live under constant stress. 
But a drug's effects are only temporary. 
Tension builds beneath the surface. 
A distortion forms in the last place people would expect, resulting in suffering. 
The inhuman shadows have not disappeared from the night, nor from the darkness. 
They hide, and sharpen their claws, watching for their opportunity. 
We must never forget this. 
 
A number of weeks passed without anything of note happening. 
Tony hadn't seen any sign of the shadows since that night at the Oz Club. He tried to push the battle out of his mind, resuming his mercenary life and picking up odd jobs. 

But something that changed. Something subtle, deep in the background of the ordinary world. 

It was even evident in Bobby's Cellar. 
 
“Hey, nitwits. I've come to bless you with work. Show me a little respect.” 

It was a typical evening at the bar. 

Enzo was the first middleman to show up, surprising a regular crowd that was more used to him sauntering in well after midnight. 

“First things first. I got a job for Gilver!” The bandaged mercenary had collected a number of nominated jobs in the days since the Oz Club incident. Reports of his courage and skill filtered up through the underworld to those with the fattest wallets, and men of his caliber were always in demand for jobs. More importantly, Gilver never said no. 

Enzo beckoned Gilver over. “They want you to team up tonight. Is that a problem?” 

“Not at all.” Gilver took the documents. 

Enzo preferred giving assignments to Gilver. He was silent and professional, whereas working with Tony meant unnecessary quips and constant needling. By contrast, everyone seemed to like Gilver. 

“Your partner is also by request,” Enzo murmured, indicating Tony. 

“Nice,” Tony piped up. “I'll take it. I haven't been short on cash since hooking up with bandage-boy here.” 

Requests for the pair had been nonstop. Tony had more enemies than friends, but business was business. He and Gilver had unrivaled talents, and as a team they were nigh unstoppable. Enzo gave them increasingly dangerous jobs, yet they triumphed every time, raking in larger and larger rewards. 

The other regulars at Bobby's Cellar found this turn of events rather unfortunate. 

“Those two again? Throw us some scraps every once in a while!” 

“Business is terrible!” 

“Hurry up and give us some work! Those two aren't the only mercenaries, ya know?” 

The heckling was always directed at Tony. The other mercenaries loved Gilver, because he would treat the bar to free rounds after every job. He always insisted he had nothing else to spend the extra money on. He might be putting the other men out of work, but every cloud had a silver lining – and these clouds were lined with booze. 

Enzo eventually doled out his roster of jobs, replaced by other middlemen newly arrived at the Cellar. Tony slunk back to his regular seat, trading off between a glass of gin and a strawberry sundae. 

Only he had noticed one subtle change. 

The voice making fun of him for dripping ice cream everywhere was gone. 

The voice ordering the skunky beer at the bottom of the menu was gone. 

The man with the old-fashioned Python strapped to his hip, the man a little too old to still be a mercenary, had stopped showing up at the Cellar a few days ago. 

And nobody – not even Tony – knew where Grue had gone. 
 
“Here we go, sorry to keep ya. I'm pretty happy with the result.” 

Nell Goldstein had completely refashioned the bootleg Mauser Tony had taken from Denvers, adding so many components that any normal man would scarcely be able to keep a grip on it. The little old woman had found a similar gun at a pawnshop and presented this alongside the Mauser. It too had been doctored, modified to be a better companion piece. She caressed the weapons with a silk cloth. 

It was nearly four in the morning, but Goldstein never closed when Tony had a job on the boil. He had stayed at Bobby's Cellar for a while before heading over to the shop. 

Tony picked up the guns and kissed each like a beloved pet. “I couldn't wait to get my hands on these beauties,” he said, beaming. “It'd be a little silly for me to go to work unarmed.” 

“I've got a fair amount of cartridges, too. You'll need to use those, because typical reloads won't work after what I've done to the grips. You can use regular bullets if you want, but scale back on the gunpowder if you're planning on blazing away like a madman.” 

Tony pointed at himself with mock indignation. “Why would I do anything like that? Since you custom made it, I'll trust it, old lady.” He winked at Goldstein before tossing off a series of action poses, weapons in hand to test the weight. 

Suddenly, he dropped to the floor to avoid an imaginary barrage of gunfire, respond with a blistering counterattack. The guns had been modified to fit Tony's aggressive style and were now exceptionally heavy, but he didn't mind. He waved the weapons gracefully through the air, tracing a lethal path that would have given him numerous targets in an actual combat situation. Finally, he rolled back up to his feet. 

“I like them,” he decided. “You did a good job.” 

Goldstein looked at him reproachfully, like a teacher lecturing an errant pupil. “Lay off the firing. I redesigned the gun, but it won't last long the way you use it.” 

“Have some faith.” 

“You can use that line once you've earned it,” Goldstein snapped. 

Tony smiled. Goldstein was the only person who could get away with bossing him around. He felt especially lenient with her when she gave him new toys. He tossed a wad of bills on the table. “Here you go. See ya later!” 

“Not so fast.” 

Tony stopped in his tracks, perplexed. He turned to find Goldstein smiling mischievously. “What the hell do you want now? You're giving me the creeps.” 

“You didn't think those guns were finished, did you, ya moron?” 

“What do you mean, you old windbag?” 

“Exactly what I said. First of all, you have to get used to using them properly.” 

Tony reckoned she must have been teasing him. “I get it, lady. I'm gonna take these anyway.” 

“Okay. But...” Goldstein was suddenly serious. “I've been debating whether to tell you this or not. It's not very nice.” 

“What? You're worrying me.” 

“It's about that fellow you've started hanging  around with.” 

Tony tensed. 

“I understand Enzo brought him along on this job. But not even Enzo knows who he is or where he came from.” 
“Gilver.” Tony frowned. “We call him the Invisible Man.” 

“Word through the grapevine is that some idiot thought he'd make a few bucks by figuring out who was beneath those bandages. The guy had run up some debts and needed them paid off pretty quickly. He came here to sell a gun to get some cash to help his investigation. 

Goldstein regarded Tony. It was unlike him to not have drifted off with boredom this far into a conversation. His brow was furrowed and his left ear twitched nervously. Goldstein knew the signs of someone with something to hide. 

“Go on,” Tony urged quietly. 

“Last night, he showed up. Dead. He had been sliced open from shoulder to hip.” 

“So what?” 

“That's where my story ends. But who would have done such a thing? To die like that...” 

“I think I know what you're trying to say.” Tony sighed. There were a lot of swordsmen in town, but only one had skill approaching his own. Gilver. More importantly, if this information had reached Tony, then it had reached everyone else in the underworld. Which meant that it was probably exaggerated to the point of uselessness. 

“There are a lot of people who don't want others to know about their past,” Goldstein said pointedly. “But I've never known anyone so heartless as to murder those snooping around just to keep their history concealed.” 

“You're right,” Tony conceded. 

He left the shop without another word. 

Goldstein watched him disappear into the stairwell. “Take care Tony. The only one who knows what will happen in the end is God, right?"
 
That afternoon, Goldstein received a second visitor. 

The man wore a nicely tailored suit and obscured his face with bandages. 

“You're a strange one,” Goldstein said curtly. She was short with everyone, but those familiar with her would have detected an edge to her voice. 

“I want to place an order for a gun.” 

Gilver took a seat at the table and stared at Goldstein dispassionately. She regularly dealt with unsavory characters, but this time she couldn't suppress a chill. 

“I've got all sorts of guns,” she said. “What are you looking for?” 

“Something that can hit several targets at the same time would be perfect.” Gilver indicated a shotgun mounted on the wall. “Something like that.” Goldstein had modified the double-barreled weapon so that it could load up to ten shots at once. It was one of the few weapons she had developed that wasn't a pistol. 

“That thing was made to shoot bears, not people. The aim is atrocious. You basically have to press the barrel right against the target.” 

“That's fine. How much do you want for it?” 

“It's not for sale. I only sell pistols.” Goldstein returned to fiddling with some components she had been working on. She had a prickly reputation, only selling weapons to those who took her fancy rather than those who offered enough cash. 

“I'll choose my own price.” Gilver scattered a number of bills on the desk and reached for the shotgun. 

“Don't force it! It's sturdy, but you can't just go swinging it around like a club.” 

“Fine.” Gilver stoically ripped the mounting brace, sending plaster chunks flying. “It'll remove it later.” 
 
He examined the weapon in front of a stunned Goldstein. “I don't know much about guns, but even I can tell this is a finely crafted piece. You seem to have great skill.” Gilver removed the oilpaper that had been crammed into the movable parts and bolts. 

Goldstein was taken aback. Gilver had certainly seemed uncomfortable with guns at first. But his examination grew nimbler as time wore on, as if he was absorbing information from the firearm itself. 

“I like it. I'll take it.” Gilver slipped the shotgun in his pocket and made his way to the door. 

Goldstein sifted through the bills on the table. “Hey, wait a second. You've given me too much.” 

“Keep it. I have no use for money.” 

“Well, let me ask you one thing. What in the hell do you plan on shooting?” 

Gilver stopped in his tracks, his back to Goldstein. “Something that takes the shape of a man but isn't one.” 

Goldstein watched him go, stifling a gasp. She was less surprised with what he said than with the shape his shadow threw on the dimly lit wall. 

It didn't look anything like the shadow of a neat, suited man. It looked more like a knight in a suit of armor. 

Goldstein felt her heart race like a piston.