In that moment, his brother came to mind. That man was always prone to such theatrics. His concentration faltered for but a moment. His speed waned, it was insufficient to overcome gravity’s fall. And he fell. Try as he might to avoid them, or to intercept their course, the bullets found his body yet again and burrowed into his flesh, ground into his bones, or passed through one end of him and out the other entirely. The heavy metallic racket slammed against his eardrums. He tried to get up, but with little avail. A procession of lead punctured his skull and dug into his gray matter. Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. Retreat. Heal. Reassess.

Vergil teleported just shy of the alcove and took another half-a-hundred-or-so-odd bullets on his trudge back in. As he entered, his vision resolidified just enough for him to read a sign on the wall:

Hell’s most patriotic penitentiary! We put the U.S. in TARTARUS! Enjoy five fun levels of American punishment!

LEVEL 4: BULLET HELL. FLEX THAT SECOND AMENDMENT.

PUNISHMENT CLASS: SISYPHEAN. PUNISHMENT SUBCLASS: TANTALUS

Vergil collapsed against the wall. Sisyphus and Tantalus. There is no greater torture than gratification just out of reach. For each bullet that strikes the prisoner, that which he desires shrinks further into the distance. Which thus increases the likelihood that at some point a bullet will strike the prisoner. Circular. Pointless. Stupid.

Vergil held a hand to his temple and winced. The holes were healing slowly but surely. If he had Dr. Kratos, this wouldn’t be a problem. But they were just as far away as the Yamato. He groaned. He hated how much he wanted the Defibrillators of Chaos, like a crutch.

- Ragnarust Round 3