Devil May Cry - Volume 1 - Chapter 3.3

Phase 3.3

The earth continued to cut its elliptical path through space. 

Its inhabitants went about their business much as before, oblivious to the subtle changes that were taking hold each day. 

The mercenaries at Bobby's Cellar were more oblivious than most. The fighters had little care for the world around them, unless they were paid to take an interest. Trading stories and squabbling over job offers proved too compelling for the hungry warriors, and so discussion of Grue was as absent as the man himself. 

A stout middleman was handing out jobs from his perch atop a table. “Gilver is the most popular guy tonight! Too bad he's only got one body. The rest of you hyenas better listen if you want his leftovers!” 

Gilver had been requested for fifteen of the sixteen jobs on offer, but his usual habit of buying rounds ensured that the other mercenaries weren't baying for his blood. Everyone was also aware that a single man couldn't handle that many jobs in a night – even one of Gilver's caliber. 

“Gilver! Where are you?” The middleman whipped his head around until he located his prized client. “Pick the one you want. I'll divvy up the rest to the other guys.” 

Gilver strode across to the middleman and glanced through the folders. The bandages cover his face seemed to have also migrated to his hands, so that now no flesh was visible at all. He looked like a mummy. 

Tony and Enzo had hunkered down in a dim corner, watching the daily ritual unfold like anthropologists in the field. The agent had lost his role as star middleman and was happy to complain about it to anyone who would listen. That meant Tony more often than not. 

“How is this a fair distribution?” he moaned. “Think about it.” 

“Stop whining,” Tony said blandly. “Real men don't fuss over little things.” But Enzo hadn't built up his business without learning to read body language, and he knew Tony was just as irritated. The silver-haired warrior continued slurping down a strawberry sundae, feigning indifference. 

“Just look at yourself. I can't take you seriously!” Enzo sniffed. 

Tony wiped the clowning smear of ice cream from his mouth. 

“To think the day would come when some nobody gets to hand out jobs instead of me,” bellowed Enzo, returning to his favorite theme. “Speaking of which, you should be out there getting half of those jobs.” 

“I'll wind up paired with Gilver anyway,” Tony predicted. 

“That's not the same thing.” 

“Adversity breeds character. Besides, it gets boring always being top dog. This way I'll appreciate it more when this fad winds down and I'm first pick again.” Tony looked over at Gilver, who was hoisting his sword theatrically. The new middleman pointed in his direction. 

“Gilver's partner is Tony again! Y'all better sharpen your skills and catch up to these two, or pretty soon you'll be out on the street living like bums!” 

Tony grinned at Enzo. “See? I did nothing and still work came to me. This is how real men do things.” Tony swept across the Cellar toward Gilver, his coat trailing behind him. 

Enzo considered the mercenary's words for a moment and then leapt from his chair. “Hey! Tony! Wait a second! Wait for me! What about me? Hey!” 
 
Even Tony was surprised by the devastation he had wrought. 

The mercenary stood amid a pile of dead mafiosi. The surveying soldiers slipped and slid on the bloody ground, eyes wide at the sight of Tony and his dripping hands. The mafia had unleashed dozens of infantry, but none of them were adept at melee tussles. 

Tony had neutralized the soldiers by washing the combat zone with liquid gunpowder – anyone who fired a shot would ignite an inferno that would consume them all. He was in his element, literally punching through the ranks with ease. But the mafiosi – renowned for their marksmanship – were useless without their weapons. 

It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Blind fish. Blind fish in a coma. 

“Come on, I don't have all day!” Tony gestured to the remaining soldiers, who were advancing uncertainly. Each footfall produced a squelching noise that echoed through the warehouse. 

The gunpowder meant that Tony couldn't use his sword. The clash of metal on metal might spark a conflagration. But he was strong enough to tear limbs off his opponents, or plunge his fists deep into an enemy's stomach and rip out their spine. Tony thought it was somewhat disgusting. 

“I said come on,” Tony said, mustering his most theatrical growl. “If you can't hear me, maybe I should come to you?” He stepped forward, sending the soldiers scurrying in the opposite direction. 

A wave of realization washed over the gangsters. They would never be able to take him on without weapons, no matter how many of them rushed him at once. 

Finally, someone in the back broke ranks and fled. It was the trigger. Within moments, the mafiosi were hoofing it away from the mercenary. 

“It's barely worth the effort.” Tony sighed. He casually shoved one of the retreating soldiers, who crashed to the ground in a panic. The remaining men darted toward the doorway like a school of fish avoiding a predator. 

Tony had been expecting this. 

“Argh!” 

The three men at the front of the fleeing pack screamed in unison, watching with astonishment as their intestines slipped out of their bellies and onto the ground. A bandaged man with a moist sword had slashed the trio as they passed the threshold. 

The mafiosi at the back of the flock hadn't realized they were trapped and continued to push their peers in the front. But the effort simply threw more soldiers in to the path of Gilver's blade. Realization slowly dawned on the survivors. 

Tony and Gilver had cornered the soldiers in a pincer movement, the silver-haired warrior pummeling from the back and Gilver slicing from the front. 

The bandaged man swung his katana lightly, severing four heads with a single stroke. Gilver tore through the victims as though they were made of wet paper, advancing into the warehouse. Before long, the last of the mafiosi died. 

Gilver wove a trail of bloody footprints as he approached Tony. He had continued to use his weapon inside the warehouse despite Tony's gunpowder trap, confident that he could avoid sparking a fire. 

“You took them all out?” Tony asked. He didn't bother to hide the disgust on his face. 

“That was the order.” Gilver wiped the blood from his blade with the detached serenity of a psychopath. “They came here, so I had to kill them.” 

But Tony wasn't listening. He stared at the glistening carnage around them, but his thoughts were elsewhere. 
 
“Did you hear?” 

“Yeah. Fifty people. And only a sword, too! It was a massacre.” 

“It's about time a real mercenary came here to show some of these guys how it's done.” 

The patrons of underworld bars rarely stopped talking about Gilver, but the mafiosi massacre was already becoming the stuff of legend. The bandaged enigma had already generated a reputation for accepting any job put before him. His kill rate was unparalleled, and he was armed only with a sword, to boot. 

“That's how it was in the old days.” 

“Before we all got influenced by Tony. 'Unnecessary killing isn't cool.' Who did he think he was, our big brother?” 

Gilver's skyrocketing reputation was in large part a reaction to Tony, who had revolutionized the freelance underworld by popularizing mercy. His success had shamed those who enjoyed violence and death, but nobody was confident enough to take him on. 

The mercenaries had taken to Gilver immediately, gleeful for a return to the days of wanton destruction. The mysterious newcomer slaughtered without regard for taboos or self-restraint, which inspired certain professional killers who considered their work more like a hobby. 

“Must be rough, Tony. Not only is Gilver swiping your business, but he's becoming one of those types you hate.” Enzo handed Tony a fresh beer. (For a change, the two men were hunkered down at one of Bobby's competitors'.) 

“Let me just say this, “ Enzo continued, ignoring Tony's sullen face. “Just because you're no longer top dog doesn't mean you can't drink.” 

Tony nursed the drink glumly. Instead of his typical strawberry sundae or gin, he had ordered a golden beverage made from cheap, rotting hops. It was Grue's drink of choice. 

He missed his old partner. 

“If I'd seen it coming, maybe I would've changed fields along with Grue,” Tony muttered. 

Enzo tossed a marinated octopus into his wide mouth and spoke while he chewed. “Grue, huh? I've heard rumors about him recently. Apparently his oldest daughter was hospitalized. The treatment was so outrageously expensive that he's been taking on some ugly work to pay the bills.” 

Tony whipped his head around to look at the agent. 

“Jessica? What's wrong with her?” 

“I have no idea. But neither do the doctors, from what I hear. She seems to be hallucinating about demons or something... Tony? Hey Tony!” 

Tony had erupted at the mention of demons, kicking his stool away. His face had contorted into a mask of fury. 

“Hey, Tony! Calm down, man. Don't get so worked up.” 

“Where is she? What hospital was she taken to?” 

“What does it matter? There's nothing you can do any– “ 

Tony's arm whipped out and lifted Enzo into the air. “Just tell me, Enzo. I'm running out of patience.” 

“Okay, okay! I'll tell you! Put me down already!”