What did one do with a refugee from Deepground? Especially when said refugee was one of that organization's most formidable soldiers, and had powers that no one in the WRO understood?

The name he'd given them was Nero, and he appeared to be about eighteen to twenty years old. Tall and long-limbed, he was also clearly starving.

"This is the mysterious 'wraith' that's been stealing from stores and restaurants?" Veld asked Reeve, observing their guest through the security window. The young man sat quietly in the interrogation room, his slender shoulders drooping, his eyes half closed. Some sort of mask covered about two-thirds of his face. Despite the bright overhead light, shadows rippled over his torso, up and down his arms and legs.

"I don't know that I'd call it stealing," Reeve said. "He seems to have mostly just rummaged through the dumpsters."

"What about the delivery guy who swore a demon appeared out of nowhere and stole the pizza he was carrying?"

Reeve shrugged. "Okay, I guess that was theft, but, Veld, l can't say I blame him. Have you ever seen anyone that thin?"

"Only once." Veld glanced at the notes he'd taken while listening to the boy being questioned. "He gave us his name and rank readily enough, told us where he came from, and what he's been doing in Midgar."

"Trying to survive, I imagine," said Reeve.

"He let the doc examine him; other than being a bit malnourished, he seems healthy, though it remains to be seen whether he's carrying any diseases we ought to be worried about. I guess a period of quarantine will tell."

"That...might be a problem."

Veld glanced at Reeve. "How so?"

"Those...shadows of his," Reeve said, gesturing to the fluid darkness moving over the young man's body. "Something startled him in Medical, and he just sort of melted into them. Now I know how that sounds," he added, as Veld's eyebrow climbed toward his hairline.

"Some sort of illusion? Magic?"

"No." Reeve shook his head. "He was gone. The doctor actually felt the exam table, even looked under it, as silly as that sounds. Nero wasn't there. You can ask the doc and the two security guards. They'll back me up."

"I'll do that," said Veld, more for the sake of being thorough than anything else. He had no reason to doubt Reeve. "But he's here now, so how did that happen?"

"Well, he came back. He even apologized for disappearing. Seemed anxious about it. In fact, he's been on edge since then."

"Looks pretty beat down now," Veld said, glancing through the window again. "Could be faking it, I suppose. The whole thing could be some kind of set-up to infiltrate the WRO. Could even be a suicide mission. He might be waiting for something, or someone."

"Is that likely? Deepground's been gutted. Most of its troops are dead, and the few who weren't killed surrendered unconditionally."

This was true. The Restrictors, Jenova's puppets who'd apparently been running Deepground, were dead. Veld had verified that fact himself. The fighting had been ugly, but the WRO and its allies had won. Deepground's HQ had been blown wide open, much of its underground facilities destroyed. A good two-thirds of the place was no more than smoking rubble.

Chaos had done that, and Vincent was now sleeping it off. Veld didn't expect to see him rejoin the living for another day or so, despite that it had all happened nearly three weeks ago.

Revenge? Could this Nero be out to exact vengeance for the destruction of Deepground? If so, he told a rather remarkable story.

He'd claimed he was looking for his brother and sister, lost in the battle, appearing genuinely disheartened when assured that no one fitting their descriptions had been found. At that point, his energy seemed to desert him, and he'd answered a few more questions in a quiet monotone. Tseng, ever the professional, had wrapped things up and stepped out to await further orders.

Even though he'd been listening in the entire time, Veld still took Tseng's summary of the boy's answers, and his opinion of the situation. Now Tseng had gone on his way, leaving Veld and Reeve to decide what to do with Nero.

"Do you really think he's a danger to us?" Reeve asked. "The doc said he's dehydrated and exhausted, as well as under-nourished."

"Of course he's dangerous. He can apparently come and go as he wants."

"He's not carrying any weapons, though."

Veld snorted. "D'you really think he needs any? If he can slip in and out of a place via shadows, then he can improvise. Grab what he wants and use it against us."

"Wouldn't he have done that already?"

Reeve had a point. If Nero's object was to plant a bomb, assassinate someone, or spy out information, why not do it and go?

He'd been carrying nothing, neither weapons nor communications equipment. He and his clothing and mask had all been very thoroughly searched. After an equally thorough physical examination, the doctor had assured them that both respirator and suit were medically necessary.

Even knowing he'd been caught stealing food, they'd offered him only water, which he'd accepted. He'd asked for nothing.

Sitting there alone in the interrogation room, the boy seemed to be conserving his strength; even the shadows had stilled. As Veld watched, Nero slowly slid from his chair to the floor, knees drawn up with his crossed arms atop them, and laid his head on his arms.

Maybe he knew he was being watched, and this was all an act.

Veld's gut said otherwise. He trusted that feeling; it had kept him alive long past the time most Turks would've been gone to dust.

There were things that didn't add up, and something nagging at the back of his mind that begged for his attention. He'd get no rest if he didn't address it.

"You mind if I take it from here?" he asked Reeve.

Reeve waved a hand. "You're the expert, be my guest. It's late. I'll check in with you in the morning."

Veld called the security guards who were waiting down the hall. With them at his back, he stepped into the room. Nero at once clambered to his feet, blinking, crossing his arms over this chest. His hands shook as they gripped his shoulders.

"Nero," said Veld, "we're going to take you to a cell. You can sleep there tonight. We'll talk again tomorrow."

The boy inclined his head. "Sir." For a youth, he had a surprisingly deep voice.

"One more thing." Veld studied him, noting the oddly-familiar way he moved, his height, the ragged black hair and long, slender fingers. "I'm told that mask is a respirator, that you need it to breathe."

"Yes, sir," Nero said, twitching just a bit. Veld had the distinct impression the boy had had to stop himself taking a step back.

"I'd like you to remove it. Just for a moment." To be clear, Veld himself stepped backward, out of arm's reach so Nero might consider him less of a threat. "Will you do that?"

Nero hesitated. Though most of his face was hidden, his eyes still managed to convey dismay and suspicion. "O-okay."

Veld waved the guards back. "Go outside. It's all right." They obeyed. Veld turned back to Nero.

"Go ahead."

Taking a deep breath, Nero reached up and slipped the mask off of his face.

Veld's heart missed a beat. He blinked hard, but in that brilliant light he could not be mistaken.

The parchment-pale skin, the narrow, aristocratic nose, the shape of his mouth - Veld had seen them before. Saw them every day; even, most mornings, woke up next to them. Oh, the shape and color of the eyes were a little different, gold on black instead of dark red; and the jaw was squarer, but other than those minor differences- that was Valentine's face.

Nero could almost be Vincent Valentine's twin.

He was much too young to be Vincent's brother, though, which left...

Well. That was going to be a most interesting conversation, as soon as Vincent woke.