It was an unspoken rule in their house, that work was not to be brought home. Joking about an incident did not count, nor did going over the day's events, or reminding one another of meetings and so forth. Discussing cases, or the intricacies of a pending op, however, were most certainly forbidden. Therefore, both Veld and Vincent were silent as they went home. Neither spoke as they abandoned their suits for more casual clothes. Vincent was not a cook by any stretch, but he often sat in the kitchen while Veld worked dread alchemy with knives and saucepans. Preparation of tonight's dinner had a meditative quality to it as Veld sliced vegetables and measured ingredients. Vincent got the impression that while food was foremost in Veld's mind right now, it was not the only thing simmering away.

Vincent could not decide what to think, what to feel. If he were handling this professionally, he should not feel anything except perhaps intrigued. Stepping back a bit might allow him to treat the whole thing as an exceptionally horrible sociological exercise. However, he couldn't make himself hold Nero at arm's length, and he could not have even said why. Even if the kid had his face, they didn't know for sure. Shelke's testimony had not made things any easier or clearer. She hadn't been able to provide any real specifics or insights as to what went on inside Nero's head. Unable to help himself, Vincent let out a frustrated sigh.

"Me too," Veld said, not lifting his eyes from the cutting board.

"Can we just talk about it and get it all on the table?" Vincent asked. "You like to tell me you can hear me angsting from across the room, but I can tell you're thinking about him too."

"Thinkin' about both of them," Veld corrected, "and how their stories match up."

"They don't," Vincent groaned. "I mean I feel bad for both of them, but what Shelke told us doesn't help us much, and I get the impression that if I were to ask Nero, he wouldn't know how to respond."

"You're probably right about that," Veld agreed, scraping herbs into a pot. "There's things he's not getting, and things we're not getting."

"What I can't reconcile is the sweet, slightly dim kid that's been sitting in the brig for the last few days, and the First Class SOLDIER who put half his cadre in the hospital. The two dead patrolmen I could see. They attacked him. Why did he go for blood during a training exercise? Why doesn't he just waltz out of his cell through the shadows? We know he can."

"Damned if I know," Veld shrugged. "I kinda wonder how much is going on upstairs. Maybe he only knows enough to follow orders; has trouble thinking for himself. It'd explain why he did such a lousy job fending for himself."

Vincent shook his head. "I don't know, but I don't think that's it. You saw him with Shelke. That's the first time he's presented anything other than a perfectly straight face. Well, figuratively. He barely batted an eye, but you could tell he was glad to see her, that she was important to him."

"Did you notice she adopted the same body language as he did?" Veld pointed out. "Kept her hands close to her body, hardly cracked a smile, didn't even make eye-contact, but her voice…"

"You could tell there was something deeper going on there," Vincent agreed. "Maybe not romance, but something."

Veld was stirring the pot with a wooden spoon. Vincent always half expected to hear him muttering incantations under his breath whenever he did this.

"So is he an idiot, a sociopath, an incredibly good actor, or some combination thereof?" Vincent asked. Veld did not answer, but went on stirring.

"Why did Shelke tell us about her experience?" Vincent continued. "It was incredibly brave, it couldn't have been easy, so why divulge all that to two old men? How is her confession supposed to help us figure out Nero?"

"We've got more questions than answers," Veld agreed.

"Is it wrong that I almost wish he'd get a couple months in the pen?"

Veld turned to looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he's not good on his own, Veld. We both saw that with our own eyes."

"I don't disagree, but it's not our problem to solve, Vince."

"I know that," Vincent grumbled unhappily.

"Look," Veld said, turning off the stove and coming over to place his hands on Vincent's shoulders. "He's safe behind bars until after his hearing. The judge may save us the trouble of figuring out what to do with him. Until then, there's no sense losing sleep over it."

Vincent sighed and laid one hand over Veld's. "You're right. You're always right, damn you." He smiled up at his partner and Veld returned it. "I just wish I could do more for him. I know he's an adult, but it's got to be strange for him up here. At the very least, he shouldn't have to figure everything out all by himself."

"That's what we did," Veld reminded him. "The school of hard knocks makes for a solid education."

"He's already been through the mill, Veld," Vincent said, looking up at him. "Isn't it enough to have grown up in hell? Doesn't he deserve better?"

Veld's smile was soft and sad. "Everyone deserves better," he said, leaning briefly to kiss the top of Vincent's head, "but life isn't fair. We just do the best we can with what we have."

I have you, Vincent thought, and Shelke has Shalua, but who does Nero have?

"Nero Sable, the court finds you not guilty of murder and aggravated assault. However, you will be required to enroll in the WRO Deepground Reestablishment program. You will be placed on probation to ensure that you make a peaceful and successful transition to surface life. Court adjourned."

Nero blinked, looked at Vincent and Veld seated on either side of him, then looked back at the judge.

"Ma'am, what...how am I to be punished?"

Vincent's elbow nudged him, as the judge repeated, "Punished?"

"Ah, let me explain it to him, ma'am," said Vincent. Turning to Nero, he continued, "There won't be any punishment, Nero. The evidence shows you didn't do anything wrong."

"But I killed two people, and injured others."

"Only because they were trying to kill you. You're allowed to defend yourself. So, no, nobody's going to punish you for that."

Nero seemed to consider that for several moments. Vincent couldn't see most of his face behind the respirator, but the frown lines and narrowed eyes seemed to indicate disbelief. Still, he nodded, and finally looked at the judge. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome. Do please stay out of trouble, won't you?"

Their next stop was at the adjunct Refugee Assistance Office that Reeve had had set up at WRO headquarters. The Deepground civilians and other survivors had been asked to register here, both to allow the WRO to get an accurate headcount, and to make it possible to receive what assistance the WRO could provide.

Each person who registered was given an identification card, along with a voucher which they could present at the medical wing if they needed treatment, and at the cafeteria twice a day for a meal. Housing was another matter, and a complicated one. Some of the survivors had been given beds in the WRO troop barracks, but that wasn't advisable for all of them. Nero was a case in point.

Despite the evidence which showed he hadn't struck the first blow, quite a few survivors - not to mention Avery's and Chen's families - still thought he was a homicidal maniac, a monster who would kill again and enjoy it. Nero didn't pay much outward attention to the dirty looks and hissed curses as they moved through the office, but his eyes noted every movement, while shadows rippled round his arms and shoulders.

"It's less crowded here than I expected," Vincent said, looking at the groups of women, children, and a few men gathered in the office. Most of them were seated with WRO personnel, filling out forms, listening to instructions, and going over paperwork. A few stood off to the side, waiting their turn.

"They've been going through them as quickly as possible," said Veld. "Some - like Dixon - were fairly simple to deal with and have already moved on. It's mostly women with children, and a few stray singles, that are still going through the process."

Vincent studied the signs pointing to individual areas, each one spelling out its purpose: Identification, Housing, Food, Medical, Sponsorship...Wait.

"Veld, look at that." Without waiting for an answer, he led the way toward the Sponsorship desk, trusting both Nero and Veld to follow.

The clerk at the desk explained the concept briefly. "You can sign up to sponsor a DG refugee. You'll be financially responsible for them for a set period, and you help them get integrated into society. Are you interested?"

"Yes, yes I am. I can do that! I'll sponsor him. I mean, we-uh…"

Vincent turned to Veld. "Please?"

Veld just looked at him silently, one eyebrow up to his hairline, and then shook his head. "All right. Go ahead."

Vincent turned back to the clerk, who handed him a folder full of papers.

"Here's the materials," she said. "Fill everything out and bring it back here, and we'll get the ball rolling."

Almost as an afterthought, Vincent looked at Nero, who'd stood by with a mystified expression on his face.

"Are you okay with this, Nero?"

"You don't have to," the boy said, not quite mumbling. "I can look after myself."

Vincent exchanged a look with Veld, whose only comment was a wry chuckle.

"Absolutely not," said Vincent. "Let's get this started."

It took a couple of hours, but Vincent managed to fill out the paperwork for his and Veld's sponsorship of Nero in time to return to the Assistance Office before they closed for the day. Many of the details had to be guessed at, such as Nero's birth date, and as for ID, he simply didn't have any. That wasn't unusual for a Deepground survivor. For most of them, the WRO was going to have to take people's word at face value. Vincent did get Shelke to sign a statement saying that Nero was, indeed, Nero Sable - his surname now, or at least until he'd established himself aboveground and decided otherwise.

The one sticking point was Nero's residence. Staying in the barracks was out of the question. Veld put his foot down on having Nero live with them, and Vincent understood. They still really didn't know who Nero was. The killing machine who'd decimated two squads of patrollers didn't match up with the hesitant, gentle young man who'd sat talking to Shelke.

The clerk at the Assistance Office tapped her pen on the application. "I have to put down something for residence. You can't live on the street, you know."

Nero sat quietly for a moment, then took the application back and scribbled something in the address box.

"Nero?" Vincent leaned over, trying to read the form; Nero's handwriting was only marginally neater than his own.

"It's okay," Nero said. "I have a place to stay."

"Well, that's it then!" The clerk gathered the forms together before Vincent got a clear look at what Nero had written.

"We'll let you know," she said. "Don't worry, they haven't turned anyone down yet. There are more refugees than sponsors."

Nero rose, having recognized a dismissal when he heard it. "Thank you."

"Okay," said Vincent, "you've got your meal and medical vouchers, and...somewhere to sleep?"

"Yes. I'll be fine."

Vincent didn't want to pry. He had no right to ask where, exactly, Nero was going to stay, at least not yet. The program required Nero to report in once a day to his sponsors; things were moving along. He couldn't help being curious, though.

Before he could press the point, his phone rang. He knew the number well. "Veld?"

"Everything all set?" said Veld.

"Yeah, we just have to wait for the official answer."

"Good. Then can you get your butt home, please? We've got a meeting early tomorrow, remember? We can't put off going back to work any longer."

He'd forgotten that. "Be there soon."

He ended the call, and only then realized that Nero was gone. That worried him, briefly, but Veld was right. They didn't need to babysit him. He had the basics now, the rest would come later.

Taking Veld's advice, Vincent put it to the back of his mind, and headed for home.