Oddly enough, there was no bullet hole in the ceiling. Veld would have bet money he'd taken out the overhead lamp, but it was still whole and intact once daylight had brightened the interior of their bedroom. It was a little disconcerting to know Nero had snuck into their room via shadows. How long had he been there? What had he seen? Veld decided it was best not to think about it too hard and turned his mind to the matters of the day.

When he entered the kitchen, he found both a bullet and a spent shell casing sitting in the spoon rest. Picking up the bullet between finger and thumb, he looked at it for a long moment. A smear of black streaked one side; blood from where it had nicked Nero's temple. That could be valuable. Grabbing a sandwich baggie from the cupboard, Veld deposited both bullet and casing inside. What he would do with this evidence he didn't yet know, but it never hurt to be prepared.

Nothing terribly unusual happened during the day, for which Veld was profoundly grateful. Vincent generated enough small-scale drama on his own. Nero was adding to his potential Valentine credentials by escalating things even further. To be fair, he wasn't doing it intentionally, but it did make for a long day after a sleepless night. Perhaps Vincent felt slightly guilty about this, for he showed up a few hours later with take-out coffee from the cafe around the corner.

"Have I mentioned that I love you?" Veld mumbled, pulling off the plastic lid and sipping coffee strong and hot and black as the mouth of hell. It was glorious.

"Not recently," Vincent said with a grin. It only took about ten minutes for a round trip to the cafe, maybe fifteen if there was a line. Vincent had been gone nearly half an hour.

"Where were you?"

"I went to check on Nero," Vincent admitted.

"And?" Veld prompted.

"I didn't talk to him, he was in class. Some sort of civics lesson, I think. Everyone's eyes were glazed over except for his."

"So he's doing well?"

Vincent shifted awkwardly and sighed. "Academically? Probably. Socially… Well, if he is mine, he's already at a disadvantage. Maybe we're used to looking at him, but seeing him against...I don't want to say 'normal people'. Non-SOLDIERs? Veld, he doesn't just look like a fish out of water, he's more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. There's at least one empty seat around him in every direction. He's all by himself at the back of the room, and not just because he's tall. The other students are terrified of him."

"Well, if it's all Deepground survivors, they were afraid of him before this. Stands to reason."

"I guess the counselors can't be expected to know that," Vincent grumbled. "Especially not if he's been giving them his clueless teenager act."

"You think it's an act?"

Vincent thought about that for a moment. "I don't think so? I don't know. I could understand a certain amount of culture shock, a lack of pop-culture knowledge, but..."

"But?" Veld asked, one eyebrow raised.

"It's hard to put into words," Vincent said, frowning in concentration. "I just can't reconcile the two sides of him we've seen. How can he be a cold-blooded killing machine and be so...innocent?"

Veld thought 'naive' might be a better term, but sipped more coffee rather than reply. He already knew what he'd be serving for dinner, but conversation was also an important element of even an informal dinner party. Coffee igniting his brain cells to life, Veld began a list.

There was a shout and a scuffle outside. Wondering what had set off the neighbors this time, Vincent went to the front door and looked outside. Nothing. With a shrug, he closed the door. He was about to sit down again when someone knocked on the back door. It had better not be the little hoodlums up the street were testing their luck, Vincent went to the back door, prepared to summon Chaos, but stopped short.

"Oh. Nero," Vincent blinked, surprised, and only mildly confused.

"I knocked," Nero said by way of a greeting.

"Yes, you did," Vincent agreed, summoning a smile instead.

"I was going to try the front door," Nero explained, "but I think I startled your neighbor."

Vincent laughed at that and ushered him inside. "That's okay. It's good for 'em. Builds character."

"Yessir."

Evidently Nero had plundered the WRO rag bag in an attempt to dress for dinner. The Oxford shirt almost fit him; the sleeves stopped short a good two inches above his wrists, though it didn't drown him the way the sweatshirt had. The dress trousers might have been black at one time, and were likewise too short for his long legs. A tie that looked as if it might have come out of Vincent's own closet twenty years ago was knotted about Nero's neck. Eyeing this valiant attempt at business casual, Vincent decided maybe he'd send Nero home with a few of his old things. If nothing else, the kid needed pants that fit.

Nero wandered down the hall, staring curiously at the decor; pictures, light fixtures, furniture, and the few knick-knacks arranged here and there.

"You have a lot of doors," he remarked, nodding at the half-open entryways to the guest bedroom, bathroom, and master bedroom. Given Nero's previous experience in doors- or lack thereof- perhaps it might be wise to tell him what was restricted and what wasn't.

"Only the master bedroom is off limits," Vincent told him, pulling the door completely shut to demonstrate. "The bathroom is fair game, though you should knock first if the door's closed." Perhaps this was insulting his intelligence, but it never hurt to remind anyone of the niceties.

"Yessir," Nero said with a nod, and followed him toward the kitchen. There was no door here, just an open entryway. Veld turned briefly from what he was doing and waved.

"Hello, Nero. Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea-" Veld paused, looking more closely at Nero. "Not sure you're old enough for booze. We do have soft drinks and juice. What would you like?"

"Um," said Nero somewhat blankly, a bewildered look evident beneath his mask. Rather than answer, he asked: "How old do you have to be for booze?"

"Twenty-one, I think," said Vincent. "Not that it ever stopped me, but I'm trying to set a good example here."

"Oh." This didn't seem to help Nero much. Noting Veld was still waiting for an answer, he fidgeted a bit where he stood. "I don't mind?" he said hesitantly. "Anything is good. It doesn't matter."

"Tell you what," said Vincent, catching a look from Veld. "How about sparkling grape juice? It's non-alcoholic."

He snagged a goblet from a table setting, and filled it with the juice from a freshly-opened bottle. "Here. Sit down, you don't have to stand."

"Yessir," Nero said, apparently in answer to both, and dropped into the chair. Looking at him, one would not have expected Nero to have more than the most rudimentary of manners, but any uppercrust boarding school would have been proud of his ramrod posture and folded hands. Hesitantly, he drew the glass toward him by its foot and just studied it for a moment, tilting his head to one side to watch the bubbles rise.

"It's pretty," he commented quietly. Rather than raise it to his lips, however, Nero left the glass on the table and withdrew his hand, curling it tightly in his lap.

Vincent eyed him. "What's wrong? Is it too hard to drink with the mask..? I'm sorry, I can give you a straw if you want. It's a little weird with the bubbles and all, but it will work."

"Oh, well, um, that is, it's no trouble, please don't-" But Vincent had already retrieved a drinking straw and plopped it into Nero's cup. So as not to be rude, Nero unlatched the lower portion of his mask and edged the straw beneath it. He blinked, squinting his eyes briefly at the sweetness and the fizz of the bubbles.

"It's good," he decided, setting the glass down again.

"Nero," said Veld quietly from the kitchen doorway, "you can go ahead and drink. We don't stand much on ceremony here."

"Yessir," Nero mumbled and took another sip. With an air of one who wasn't sure what else to do, Nero stared intently at the table top. Despite his best efforts to conform to what he undoubtedly thought was proper mess hall etiquette, he couldn't help sneaking glances at what Veld was doing out of the corner of his eyes.

Vincent sat across from him, hoping to put him at ease. "So how are the classes coming? Are you thoroughly confused yet?"

"No, sir," Nero answered simply. "I understand the material. It's useful. I didn't know much about the surface before this, just what- " he stopped short at this, a flicker of alarm flashing in his golden eyes. He paused for a moment, staring at the table top before lifting his eyes to meet Vincent's.

"...the Restrictors are dead?"

"Yes," Vincent nodded.

"All of them?"

Vincent blinked. "How many were there?"

"Four. You're sure all of them are dead? All of them?"

Vincent had a flash of memory - more Chaos's memory than his own, but there it was - and just managed to suppress a shudder at the remembered feeling of necks snapping, the crunch of bones grinding against each other. "I'm sure. They're all dead."

Nero nodded and took a shaky breath that rasped oddly through his mask. "Azul used to tell us about the surface sometimes. It wasn't much. That's all I knew before this."

"Didn't your superiors teach you anything about the surface? Seems like it would have been useful for SOLDIERs to know."

Nero shrugged. "Cities, geography, locations. We knew about electrical grids and urban combat. Didn't teach us much of the customs, Sir. We weren't intended to blend in with the locals."

He had a point. Deepground's goal had not been integration with surface society.

A thousand questions ran through Vincent's mind, but he couldn't choose between them. Nero was so obviously uncomfortable, or perhaps just anxious at being in a social situation he wasn't used to. Vincent could relate to that.

"Well, gentlemen," said Veld, saving Vincent from another attempt to draw their guest out, "dinner is ready. Vince, help me get this on the table?"

In a few minutes, steaming platters of fish and vegetables, along with a small army of sauces in bowls, were laid out on the table, and Veld took his seat.

"Dig in, boys," he said.

"Here." Vincent, seeing Nero's expression - what could be seen behind the mask, anyway - served him a generous portion of fish. He added veggies and pointed to the sauces. "Mild, medium, hot, and - what's that last one, Veld?"

"Well, last time, you called it 'Hot Damn,' but I dunno if that's appropriate."

"Right. Well, take your pick, Nero."

Nero looked at the array with something that closely resembled alarm. Below his mask, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. After an oddly tense moment, he looked up and asked:

"What would you suggest, Sir?" It was arguable if he was addressing Vincent or Veld.

"Well, I'm the fire-eater," Veld commented, helping himself to the 'hot damn' sauce. "Try them all. Why not work your way up, starting with the mildest? You're welcome to as much as you like. I know kids your age tend to have big appetites."

Nero nodded, visibly relaxing a bit. "Thank you, Sir."

Shadows snaking along his hands, Nero very carefully and deliberately spooned a small portion of each sauce onto his plate. Separating a bit of fish with knife and fork, he nudged the meat into the mildest sauce before tucking the bite behind his mask. A small whimper escaped his throat and he closed his eyes as he savoured the mouthful.

"Good, huh?" Vincent commented.

It took Nero a moment to register the remark, swallow, and nod.

"It's amazing!" he breathed, without a hint of sarcasm. "It's really, really good. We never got food like this in Deepground. Mostly it was cafeteria food, or MREs. The Mothers supposedly ate good, but we just got the usual slop."

He cast a quick glance at each of his hosts and quickly turned his eyes back to his plate, hastily stuffing another bite into his mouth. Veld got the impression this was as much to stop further speech as it was to taste the next variety of sauce.

Vincent waited while Nero cleaned his plate and, encouraged by Veld's nod, helped himself to more. Nero added a large dollop of the hottest sauce, at which Veld gave Vincent an "I told you so" glance.

Vincent ignored him and said to Nero, "So I understand you had Amy Dixon in your squad in Deepground. She told us a bit about the JANEs and the Mothers, and Shelke explained a little, but I'm still not clear on how it all worked."

Nero finished chewing, considering, before attempting to explain.

"All females are divided into two categories," Nero began, "JANEs and Mothers. Those able to bear children are added to the breeding program to become Mothers. Those unable are put into ranks as soldiers, or JANEs. It stands for Jenova Augmented Natal Exemption.

"Dixon started young," he went on. "She was able to tolerate the mako treatments, so she became a JANE straight away. The same thing happened with Shelke."

"OK," said Vincent, "but...where did the Mothers come from? Were they brought in like Shelke was….kidnapped?"

Nero nodded. "Yeah. All the women have to be imported. Just about all the children born in Deepground are boys. Not sure why." He might have been commenting on the weather, or the selection of books on the shelf. The unconcerned, offhanded tone clashed violently with the actual content of what had been said.

"So they were all unwilling participants." Vincent's voice had dropped even lower than it normally was, with a distinct, underlying growl. "And the Tsviets? How did they come up with you and your siblings? What were they trying for, with you?"

"The Tsviets are part of the SOLDIER program," Nero replied, skipping the first half of the question. "We're the elite troops; commanding officers. As with the Jenova and G projects, we were all born using Jenova's cells. My brother Weiss was given regular mako, so was Rosso. I was the only one given dark mako."

"And the Restrictors made all these decisions? They were your CO's?"

Without waiting for an answer, Vincent exchanged a look with Veld. "I think I want to kill them again. And a couple more times after that."

"They were in charge?" Nero hedged, looking warily back and forth at them. "I don't know if they made the original decisions over me and my siblings, but they made most of them from the time I was really little. I don't remember them ever not being around. They never actually led troops, but they definitely called the shots."

"What about the Jenova cells?" Veld refilled Nero's glass with the sparkling juice. "How recently did you have an injection?"

"I was born with Jenova, Sir, I don't need more Jenova, just mako. We never did injections, it was external only." Nero briefly pulled one sleeve of his mako suit to illustrate. "The others never needed as much as I did."

"I see. Well, that's reassuring, in a way. Don't you think so, Vincent?"

Vincent muttered something, short words with sharp edges. Veld's fingers brushed his shoulder, the brief contact lightening Vincent's scowl.

"So you were in a position of command," Veld said to Nero, "and you clearly have extraordinary combat skills. Any idea what you want to do now that you're no longer in Deepground?"

"Er…" said Nero, panic flashing briefly in his golden eyes. "I...I haven't really decided," he stammered. "What would you suggest, Sir?"

"Well, we know the WRO troops are not a good fit. There's another division that might be interested in someone with your, ah, unique skills."

Vincent looked up at that, but stayed silent.

"Vince and I used to work for Shinra," Veld went on. "Our division was known as the Turks - not our official name, but the one everyone used. They still exist. Pretty sure your shadowing abilities, as well as your fighting skills, would be appreciated there."

"I...huh?" Nero asked, fear fading to honest confusion. He shook his head minutely, as if to clear it, and asked with an air of decided skepticism: "They would?"

"He's right," said Vincent, pushing fish around his plate with his fork. "Hell, Tseng would have an or-er, he'd be thrilled to take on someone with your skill set."

"Tseng is the current chief of the Turks," Veld explained. "He's always looking for new talent."

"What do they do?" Nero asked.

"Mostly security and law enforcement, these days," said Veld. "Sometimes covert missions. I suspect you'd be quite good at that."

Nero did not respond right away. The fearful look had not left his eyes, but had taken on a suspicious edge. For a long moment he stared at Veld, taking his measure as much as Veld had been taking his.

"What if I hurt somebody?" Nero asked into the silence. "What if I kill somebody?"

Half a dozen equally unpleasant questions followed silently: Are you just setting me up to knock me down? Will you kick me out again? Arrest me? Lock me up? Slice me up for research? Kill me? Nero had grabbed his own shoulders again, but he stared down Veld as if the two of them were the last ones standing in a game of Junon Hold 'em.

"Sometimes," said Veld, his voice level and soft, "that's part of the job. But you wouldn't be just thrown to the wolves, as it were. First, you'd have to go through trials to test your skills. If you pass, and Tseng offers you the job, there's a probationary period. There's training, which you'd certainly need. All of this would happen before you were ever put into the field, plus you'd have a mentor - someone with years of experience to guide you."

"He means you wouldn't work alone," Vincent said. "You'd have a partner, at least for a while. That person's word is law. And so is Tseng's. You wouldn't be on your own for probably a couple of years."

Nero nodded slowly as he took in all the information. Vincent could see the wheels turning in his head as Nero stared at the table top and thought. It wasn't as if he had many other options. It was still a risk- for them, for himself- but it was better than nothing.

"Alright," Nero said at last, looking up. "What do I need to do?"