Nero had reached the point where he was driving everyone- himself included- crazy. His shadows had still not returned, but Shalua nonetheless declared that he had made a full physical recovery. Without his shadows, there was no point in reapplying for the Turks. No one said so, it was simply understood. It wasn't that he couldn't do the work- he could, or would soon be able to- it was that he was too visually obvious. His looks made him stand out. Even with makeup, there was no getting around his eyes. Colored contacts could not correct black sclera. He would only have to be seen once for someone's memory to be instantly branded. Therefore, he returned to what he knew.
The percentage of native Deepground troops had turned out to be much lower than anyone had expected. Most, it seemed, were imports like Shelke. A number had been kidnapped as small children, but the vast majority seemed to have been abducted as teenagers or young with working memories of the surface had managed to integrate back into their former lives reasonably well. However, those who had been too young to have solid memories or who had been born in Deepground were proving a challenge. It had been months now since they'd been rescued, and not all of them were happy to be above ground.
It wasn't that he'd forgotten about them, there had just been so many other things that kept on happening. Now finally deemed fit to return to duty, Nero's first instinct was to see to his men, or what was left of them. There were fewer than fifty who had not had any luck at all with integrating. They could only be trusted with each other- and sometimes not even then. Something inside Nero cringed at the armed guards watching the holding area where the surviving troops were being kept.
He must be getting soft. There was a time when armed guards and snipers on the catwalks would have registered as mere footnotes; something so commonplace it was barely worth noticing. It also reminded him of a second rather painful truth: he was defenseless. No weapons were permitted, and his shadows had not come back. Although Nero was reasonably sure he could take any of his men in a first fight and win, he didn't especially want to. He didn't think he would have to, but the nagging fear was there all the same.
He had asked the guards to treat it like an inspection; to have his men ready and waiting in formation. When he entered the detainment area, all of them stood ready in their old uniforms. Their helmets had been taken, but he could have identified each soldier even in full armor. Instinctively, he counted heads, tallied rank, and tried to be glad that the men before him were still alive. He could mourn those who were missing later.
He'd worn his respirator despite not needing it. His men had never seen him barefaced and might not have recognized him without it. His mako suit was gone, so he'd scavenged a Deepground uniform in his size and added the correct insignia. Hopefully they wouldn't think he'd sold out.
All of them watched him with eager, disbelieving eyes. They'd not been told anything since Nero and Vincent had descended into Deepground to lead them to the surface. For all they knew, their commander had been killed. None of them would ever dare to speak out of turn, but the question was plain enough without words.
"At ease," Nero told them. "It's me."
Nero had anticipated this would be difficult, but found himself unusually tongue-tied. Normally he had no issue addressing his troops, but this was somehow different. Best to start with the truth.
"It's alright," he assured them. "I'm not hurt."
To demonstrate, he unhooked and removed his mask. There was a collective intake of breath. They'd all seen him gag for air, chained to the Punishment Pole. All of them held their breath as Nero dropped the mask to the floor.
"I don't need it anymore."
None of them had ever seen his face and they all gaped for several minutes. Surprisingly, a cheer went up, all of them shouting and jumping in place. Once the initial spike of alarm had subsided, Nero found himself smiling and fighting back a sudden lump in his throat. After they had calmed down, one of them asked the obvious question:
"Where are Immaculate and Crimson?"
Nero was silent for a long and uncomfortable moment.
"I couldn't save them. I'm sorry."
The dead silence was a marked contrast to the joyful shout. Nero took a deep breath, and did his best to explain.
When Nero returned from his first day with the surviving Deepground troops, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Veld and Vincent had only ever seen glimpses of the general Nero had been in Deepground. Perhaps it was the difference made by knowing others depended on you, of having responsibility for lives not your own. Either way, Veld wondered if they'd seen the last of the shy, frightened kid that had tried to follow his family into the dark.
Nero gave them a short, to the point report on his men if asked, but otherwise kept the details to himself. Aware of their "leave work at work" policy, he usually didn't bring up how his troops were doing unless asked. Although Nero had been quiet and subdued ever since his misadventure- even Veld tended to think of it in euphemism- there was subtlety to his stance, posture, and expression that spoke of determination and not despair. For a while, anyway.
In some ways Nero was as easy to read as the headline on a newspaper, in others it took the time of exposure and familiarity to recognize the unique tells that indicated a change in mood. Veld had thought he had a pretty good inventory of Nero's emotional quirks, but apparently it wasn't yet complete. Perhaps it was because he was living without his respirator that a Turk-level poker face seemed to have taken up permanent residence on his features. When it didn't shift, Veld dared to ask him about it.
"Something on your mind?"
Nero's features didn't waver though he did not meet Veld's eyes right away. "I had to cut Henson down."
Veld blinked, unsure how to take that. Nero went on.
"He'd rigged his bedsheet to a support in the ceiling. He's the third one."
This was the first time Veld had heard of this. "Gods kid, I'm sorry."
Nero just shook his head and shrugged. Like ask not, this was something that had occurred with disturbing frequency in Deepground. Also…
"I know why they did it," Nero said quietly. "I just...I wish I'd gotten to them sooner."
"Yeah," Veld told him, reaching to pat his shoulder. "I know."
There was a fight in what the WRO regulars had dubbed 'the prison yard'. This was, of course, the holding area where the Deepground troops were being kept. Even Nero had no idea what it had been about- it was possible the troops didn't know either, sometimes just being pent up like prisoners made men vicious in a way they might not normally be- but at the end of it, five men were dead. Nero scratched five more score marks into the fragment of concrete they'd salvaged from the pit. He and Shelke both sat with the remaining troops and held vigil.
As the weeks turned into months, Nero continued to lose men. Like him, these were people who had grown up in Deepground having never known love or kindness. Some of them cared for each other after a fashion, but only in the subtle, stunted sense that would have gone unnoticed by the Restrictors. Having been thrust into an alien culture, they were now expected to adapt and accept the new rules and regulations of surface life and to somehow square the fact that everything they'd ever known was wrong. Of course Nero didn't phrase it like that, but pretty much everyone else did whether they realized it or not.
Three more men died for no discernable reason. There was no indication of an obvious physical attempt by themselves or anyone else, no suggestion of foul play, and their tox screens were negative. The coroner suggested they'd died of a broken spirit. Had Nero the language, he might have corrected him: his men had died of a broken heart.
Although Veld had finally convinced Vincent to put the baby monitor away, it was apparent Nero wasn't sleeping well. Too often they'd both start awake at a muffled shout and realize a few heartbeats later that it was Nero awakened by a nightmare. A couple of times, Veld caught him in the laundry room with his sheets and blankets. Nero acknowledged him, but did not meet his eyes. Veld simply nodded and moved on. Trauma made children out of even the most hardened warrior, and Nero had been through more than most. There was no point in embarrassing the poor kid further.
Of course Nero didn't spend every night at home. He tended to leave the door open out of sheer habit, and some nights his room would be dark and his bed perfectly made. Usually he remembered to tell Vincent and Veld when he would be out, even if he didn't tell them why. He didn't need to. Any time he didn't sleep in his own bed usually meant he'd be sleeping in Max's. Veld wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that. He'd known Max since she was very small, and some part of his brain refused to give up the image of her as a pigtailed eight-year-old. On the other hand, she and Nero were both adults and it wasn't any of his business. At least he could rest secure in the fact that neither of them would hurt the other.
As he had so often while still in the hospital, Nero had fallen asleep on her. Max smiled and stroked one hand over his hair as the movie played on. Nero's head lay heavy on her shoulder, his chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths. She waited until the credits had finished before carefully wriggling out from under him and maneuvering him to lie down on the couch. Nero did little more than start half-awake at the movement, but quieted at her gentle reassurance. She hated to wake him, and there was no way she could carry him on her own, but she doubted he would mind one night on the couch. Kissing his hair, Max crept to her room.
A ragged wail started Max awake from a sound sleep. Panic shot through her, making her sit bolt upright. Her first thought was that someone had broken in, the second that Dalton had brought a date home and they were being noisey. The cry came again. No. She knew that voice.
"Nero!"
Throwing back the blankets, Max rushed into the living room. What she was going to do unarmed and wearing pajamas in the event of an intruder or a monster, she did not bother to consider. Nero was alone in the darkened room, writhing on the sofa. He let out another half-swallowed wail.
"Nero?" she asked, reaching to touch his arm. Was he ill? Had he relapsed? Could he breathe? Nero started at her touch, tumbling to the floor. At first she thought the short fall had knocked the wind out of him. He coughed, gagged, his whole body lurching as he retched a small puddle of bile onto the carpet.
"Nero?" Max asked again genuinely alarmed. "Nero are you okay?"
He did not answer right away. Shaking himself, he blinked blearily at her.
"Max?"
She reached to switch on the lamp and knelt down next to him. "Nero, what's wrong? Are you sick?"
At first he seemed confused, until he noticed the puddle of sick pooling among the carpet fibers. Darker gray flushed his throat and cheeks as he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm okay." With one hand he subtly pulled the afghan over his lap. "Nightmare. That's all."
"Must've been a pretty bad one." She stroked his hair gently. "Lie down on the sofa again, okay? If your stomach's upset, I can make you some ginger tea. Think you could handle that?"
"It's nothing," Nero insisted shakily. He climbed to his feet, still clutching the blanket. "I'll...get some paper towels."
He wandered off to retrieve the item in question, returning to try to sponge the mess from the carpet. Max tore a few off to help.
"It's not nothing," she challenged quietly. "What's the matter? Please tell me?"
"It's stupid," Nero muttered. "I'm okay."
"You're not. Either you're sick, or you're scared, or something." Hesitantly, she touched his arm, and watched his resolve crumble.
"I just...keep having this dream," he began. "Chaos. My brother and sister… My men… He's killed them. Killing them. Drinking their..." He gagged and swallowed hard. "I know...I know that's not what happened. I know it isn't real but…"
"Don't talk about it if you don't want to," said Max. "Has this been going on since you got out of the hospital? No wonder you look so tired all the time."
He shook his head. "It happened a little then. The dreams sort of tapered off and I hadn't had them for a while, then I had to take command again and…" He sniffed and swallowed hard, forcing back tears.
"I keep losing them. I can't help them. I don't know what to do."
Sitting down on the sofa, she tugged his arm until he sat next to her. "Nero, I think you should talk to Cissnei. She can help you work through stuff. Ciss won't hurt you. She isn't like the doctors you had in Deepground."
Perhaps because the dream still lingered raw and real, Nero shivered. "I...I know that. Mostly. I like her okay. She's nice. But...but she'll want to fix me," he stammered. "If she can't do it herself, she'll pass me on to someone who can and...and…" He clapped a hand over his mouth, visibly forcing back the acid that had surged into his throat.
"I'm not broken," he gasped. "I'm not. This will go away. I'll be fine."
"Oh, babe, it doesn't work that way!" Max leaned against him, knowing he'd accept that more readily than a hug. "She won't do that. I promise. Once she accepts a patient, she's committed to helping them herself. The only reason she might refer you to someone else would be if she thought you needed more help than she could give, but it would still be totally up to you. And of course you're not broken!"
Max put a tentative hand on the side of his face, turning him to face her. "Everybody needs help sometimes, Nero. You've been through so much. And it hurts. Whatever you need, I'll help you find it, okay?"
Nero often had difficulty deciding between the many choices offered by Surface life. With that in mind, Max took his hand in hers and held it tightly. "Would it help if you come sleep next to me? And then tomorrow we'll go see Ciss together. Just for a little while."
"I… I don't want to wreck your bed," he murmured, avoiding her eyes, yet gripping her hand hard enough to hurt.
"I'll put a bucket next to the bed," said Max, trying for a lighter tone. "Besides, the blankets and sheets will wash. I like having you next to me. It's lots warmer."
She stood up and held out her other hand. "Come on."
Nero hadn't really been intending to put up a fight, and followed her without a word.
Once they were in bed, Max snuggled up close to him. "How's that? We don't have to do anything else if you don't feel like it. Not that I'd say 'no' if you want to."
Nero blushed fractionally at that. "It'd be the first time on dry land."
"Hey, there's a first time for everything." She rose on one elbow and leaned over to kiss him. "I'm so glad you're out of that tank, you have no idea. You'll be fine. It's just gonna take a little time."
"Mm," Nero responded, kissing in return. "Me too. Believe me, I wish I knew how to shut it off. I know it's irrational, but try telling my stupid subconscious that." With one arm, he pulled her close. "Thank you for putting up with me."
"My pleasure, babe." She winked. "And yours."
Taking that as an invitation, Nero reached and briefly groped in the drawer on her nightstand. It was nice to have someone next to him. Veld and Vincent had stayed with him early on, when he was half-mad with grief and terrified of everything. As he'd stabilized, they'd retreated to their own room again. While he understood why, the bed they'd given him continued to feel cold and too big. The empty spaces on either side of him just reminded him of how alone he was. The warm weight of Max's body against his was soothing, calming nerves he had not realized were frayed.
He smiled in the dark as she stroked a hand over his hair, petting him the way he might pet Ned. Shifting, he nestled his face in her throat. Max didn't wear perfume, but she smelled exotic to him; of soap, and growing things, fresh air and sun, with just a hint of oil and metal from her beloved machines. She was soft and fragile in a way that he wasn't used to. In some ways she reminded him of Shelke; delicate, but fierce and determined. Just because she wasn't physically imposing didn't mean she wasn't dangerous.
It felt strange to be confined by gravity, to swim in layers of soft cotton instead of dark mako. There were barriers up here; her pajamas, the dimensions of the mattress, the worry of ruining her bed. Max didn't seem bothered by this, or at least knew the work arounds. Trust her to show him how yet another thing worked on the surface. Everything about her was intelligent, deft, precise. She was so much smarter than he could ever hope to be; her hands and lips knew just what to do. Those clever fingers removed barriers even as he hurried to put one in place.
How long had it been since they last became lost in each other? Before...before things he didn't want to think about had happened. Those things were gone, would never come back, but Max was still here. Had been there from the beginning. It occurred to Nero that he'd never thought to thank her. Hopefully, this would be enough. Something like that wasn't the sort of thing he'd ever be able to put into words, anyway. Pulling her close, he tried to show her how grateful he was.
There were so many things he wanted to tell her, but for which he did not know the words, didn't even know how to ask. How could anyone explain what did not have a name? He could never speak what he felt; all the things filling his chest to bursting because of her. Without his shadows, all he had was two hands, but it seemed to be enough. He felt her gasp, a warm breath soft against his ear, ribs expanding against his, and then her lips had covered his. If it was possible to drown in another person's heart and soul, Nero would have happily done so.
They broke the kiss and the surface with a gasp. Wait. Surface?
"What the hell?" Max asked, fingers clutching him in alarm.
Nero blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster. Wait a minute… How the…?
"We're in the cave," he answered blankly. "How…?"
"You must have warped us. There's no other way we could have gotten down here."
"But...my shadows," Nero insisted. "They're gone! Or I thought they were."
"Didn't you tell me Cissnei thought part of the reason they hadn't come back was because you've been so down?" Her smile was a bright crescent of white in the darkness. "Guess you're feeling a little better now, hm?"
Nero didn't try to stop the heat racing up his throat and into his face. "Yeah."
"I'm so happy for you, babe," she said, leaning in for another kiss.
"Yeah," he smiled against her lips. "Me too."
"Think you could get us out of here? I mean as much as I missed the cave, I do kinda have class in the morning."
She didn't say it, but Nero got the implied meaning. Hopefully he had the power to get them back. If not… He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Taking a deep breath, he reached.
Manipulating the shadows had always been natural, instinctive, no more complicated than breathing. His shadows had always been a part of him; a natural extension of himself. Losing them had been like losing a limb. Nero held onto Max and stretched, feeling the ether warp around them. When he dared to look up, Max was still in his arms, the two of them dripping a purple puddle onto her bedroom carpet.
"You did it!" Max squealed, and lunged at him. They fell to the floor in a heap, a laughing, smiling tangle of arms and legs. Nero didn't have words for this either, so he caught her face with one hand and kissed her. She understood. She always did.
