Between all the... everything, about those two days with Ez, especially when it had gone south from both their ends, and the meltdown he'd had on Kathy a few weeks back-- it was beginning to occur to Dante that maybe he wasn't as okay as he'd been playing at for the past. Oh.

Year? Two years? Was it the first time he'd killed Vergil that the pit at the heart of his being had been born, or the second?

Whatever it was, Dante had elected to deal with it the way he always dealt with things when they were at their worst: he'd taken off to this universe's Baltimore, played at his favorite open mic place until his voice was raw, and gotten completely shitfaced. He wasn't sure how he'd wound up back on the island, in the park, but it had happened... somewhere along the line?

Whatever it was, the Dante who'd passed out in the grass near the duck pond was not the Dante who woke up in that same place, the sensation of a sword cleaving through the air right by his head still in his skin, and a low, dry, and painfully familiar voice ringing in his ears-- "I know how stubborn you can be. I thought it might be the only way to wake you."

He lurched upright, hand shooting up to feel the stubble on his chin. Wait. That wasn't stubble. That was on its way to a fucking beard. "...What day is it?" His eyes shot open. "...And am I late for the reunion?"

[[ open ]]