[There, over a small campfire that's burned low, sits a pretty nondescript pot. The same pot, in fact, viewers might remember from the time Vergil decided to slice his own arm up and boil down to the bones in. Yet it looks rather innocuous where it sits, bubbling sluggishly, steam rising from it in a light mist.

And there's Vergil, having stolen ( Read more... )

[There's a smugness in Vergil's voice, despite the clipped nature of the message.]

That takes care of that.