Partially to get the mess out of the foyer before the morning shift came in, and partly to avoid a more serious chew-out from Veld, Vincent put a mixed team of WRO and Turk staff on clearing away the files he and Nero had retrieved from Deepground. There were over a hundred boxes neatly stacked, as near as he could tell, in the exact order they'd been sitting on the shelves. Nero had transported them all exactly as they'd been. The whole business sent a thrill of foreboding from deep in his guts up his spine. He wondered if that was what Veld felt every time he looked at Nero. The same chill shivered through him every time his eye caught the gateway. Vincent had taken a "Do Not Enter" standing sign from the nearest janitorial closet and placed it in front of the doorway, but no one had taken much notice of it yet.
As expected, Reeve was one of the first people to show up, strolling through the tall glass doors at 7am and stopping short to stare at the two-dozen storage boxes still sitting in the middle of the foyer. Eyebrows climbing, he took a sip of coffee and turned to Vincent.
"Should I ask, or should I wait for a full report later?"
"I...did a little spelunking in the crater," Vincent confessed. "Nero went with me," which wasn't untrue. "We retrieved some sensitive documents. There's more down there, but we just grabbed the most important stuff first."
Veld might have grumbled at him for not following procedure, for potentially putting both Nero and himself in harm's way. As it was, Reeve simply nodded, knowing better than to argue with Valentine logic.
"Is it safe to send teams down?" Reeve asked, choosing to follow a less fraught topic.
"Well, we were safe enough, but we're hardly what you'd call 'normal'," Vincent began. "Nothing's on fire anymore, but the structural integrity of the upper levels is shaky at best. I'd be happy to scout the area a bit first. I'm sure Nero would like to help." Or would once he woke up.
Reeve nodded and proceeded to the elevators, not even glancing at the sinister new service lift embedded in the near wall. "Take care of it."
"Sir," Vincent replied, resisting the impulse to salute as Reeve disappeared behind the elevator's shiny metal doors.
There was, oddly enough, nothing terribly exciting or dangerous about the lock boxes themselves. The crates stamped with Nero's serial number were boring, standard issue, metal footlockers of the kind frequently distributed by the military. There weren't weapons or ammunition inside them, well, not mechanical ones, anyway. Nero had been bred to be a weapon, and while Vincent had a whole new appreciation for just how potentially deadly the boy could be, it was hard to imagine how someone who had grown up in hell could turn out so sweet.
The first few folders might as well have been written in ancient Cetran for all the sense they made to Vincent. Statistics, metrics, and page after page of medical mumbo-jumbo. Maybe he'd show it to Shalua and see if she could make heads or tails of it. Vincent did his best to at least keep it in the order he found it. Not until an old-fashioned Polaroid tumbled to the floor did he find something solid.
Picking it up, Vincent squinted at the photo. Putting on his reading glasses didn't help much. The photo was old, and badly degraded. It might not have been very good to begin with; it appeared to be a picture of a box full of tar. And then he noticed the two dots of gold peering up at him through the murky colors. He tilted the photo a bit, trying to catch the light better, and suddenly the image resolved. It wasn't a box, but a small tank, possibly a repurposed aquarium. The shot had been taking looking down into it. At the bottom, Vincent could just make out the vague outline of a tiny human: a baby.
Writing had been scrawled on the margin of the photo, Nero's serial number and the words "eight weeks". Feeling his brows crease into a frown, Vincent stared at the photo for a long moment, unsure what to think or feel. Turning back to the folders, he eventually found the stack of papers the photo had been clipped to. These were a bit closer to layman's terms and seemed to consist of various work arounds the lab had had to employ in order to keep Nero alive. Wearing a mask and mako suit was bad enough as an adult, Vincent couldn't begin to imagine trying to cope with such specialized needs in an infant.
Someone by the name of D. Este had logged most of Nero's reports. They must have been his primary caretaker at the time. There were endless lists of incident reports, accidents, and near disasters as far as Nero's own health and safety were concerned. As he got older, Nero's statistics appeared on a graph next to those of two other children. Vincent recognized the serial numbers as those belonging to Weiss and Rosso. Compared to his siblings, Nero's scores were pitiably low. His keepers felt he was somewhat dim compared to the other children bred to be SOLDIERs- Vincent wondered if Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis were being included in this- lacking in the aggression and competitive edge displayed by his older siblings. Having never met Weiss or Rosso- wait, no. No, he had. Damn it, the memory was right there... It flitted away like a bat, and Vincent fancied he heard mocking laughter. Never mind.
Shaking himself, Vincent tried to refocus. He could look at Nero's biography later. What he wanted was most likely in that first stack of gobbledygook that he'd set aside for Shalua. Separating it from the rest, he went through it page by page, scanning the contents until his eye snagged on some familiar words.
Although he'd expected Nero's parents to be listed only by serial number, it was still disappointing. Whether or not their names were still on file somewhere was anyone's guess. If Nero really was his, Vincent's own records might well have been relocated to Hojo's personal cache, and that had probably gone up with the Shinra building. Turning to the other jumble of letters and numbers, Vincent thought he might actually have better luck there. Perhaps if he could learn her identity, he could track Nero's mother down. There wasn't a person on Gaia who could hide from a determined Turk.
It wouldn't do to take these too far. He'd have to visit the copy machine and give the duplicates to Shalua. With any luck, she could decipher this foreign language of blood and biology. Gathering the papers together, Vincent stood and went to do just that.
"You want me to what?" Shalua gaped.
"I need you to tell me if Nero and I are related," Vincent repeated.
"Vincent…" Shalua began, glancing at the stack of copied papers he'd given her. "Even if I knew what this was, I'm not sure I could tell you anything helpful."
"Why is that? You've got his mother and father's statistics right there."
"Yes, but look here." She pointed just below the two serial numbers to a name: JENOVA.
Oh.
"Nero was conceived with Jenova's cells," Shalua explained. "Like Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis, he'd have type J blood. Jenova overrides most of the genetic markers I'd use to plot someone's individual traits. Even if that wasn't the case, I wouldn't have anything to compare it to. You've had a lot of work done yourself. I doubt your blood now would match a sample from back then. Do you know if there are any legitimate samples of your blood or tissue still on file?"
Vincent had to think about that. "I had to give a blood sample back when I signed on as a Turk, in case of a medical emergency." Not to mention all the time he'd spent in Hojo's lab, but nothing from that misadventure was likely to be left out in plain sight.
"Do you think Tseng would still have that on file?" The look on her face said she thought this unlikely. However, Vincent knew for a fact that Veld- and Tally before him- had never thrown anything away.
"Hey, I'm a Turk," he told her with grin. "If it exists, I'll find it."
He might have been too optimistic about finding a decades-old blood sample, or paperwork related to it. Reeve let him into the archives kept in the WRO's lower levels, wherein much of the documents rescued from the demise of Shinra had been stored. Most people had no idea this much still existed. Vincent could wish there was a little less.
Granted, the Turks' section was generally well-organized. Facts, after all, were their stock in trade. The tricky part was digging far enough into the past to find the relevant records, and then locating anything relating to himself.
The boxes were labeled chronologically, with the most recent closest to the door of the storage room. After shifting what felt like about a hundred of them, Vincent finally found the ones he wanted. His own files were near the bottom, still labeled "Missing: Presumed Dead."
Well. That was disconcerting. Also mostly true - but only mostly.
He sat on one of the stacks to flip through the records. The medical files were still unintelligible to him, but there were copies of letters that had been sent to his personnel file, summarizing the details. He'd been in excellent health, right up until that final assignment to Nibelheim.
Wait. Nibelheim?
Mentally kicking himself, he piled up the boxes, more or less as they'd been, and hurried back to Veld's office.
"You're going where?" For a moment, Veld stared at him as though he'd just sprouted horns. "Vince, you hate that place."
"I know. But you're always after me to be logical, Veld. This is the logical place for the stuff to be, if it's anywhere. What Hojo did - he did there, in that lab. He may have sent some copies of records back to Shinra, but he was off the rails by then. Keeping secrets was his MO. They probably never knew the full extent of what he did."
"Yeah, I get that. But, still." Veld let out a frustrated sigh. "Why don't you ask Tseng to send someone?"
"It's my problem," said Vincent. "And I would know what to look for. They wouldn't."
"They're Turks," Veld pointed out. "Tseng trained them. They would know."
Vincent shook his head. "Still. It's my responsibility. If you and Reeve can spare me, I'd rather do it myself."
"I could go," said Veld, very quietly.
"Thank you for offering. But again, no."
Veld didn't often lose an argument, but he could recognize inevitability when he saw it. "Okay." He waved a hand at the door. "Be back by Monday, will ya?"
"I'll be back before then," said Vincent with a decisive nod.
Although Chaos had returned to the planet, Vincent had retained the ability to borrow his form. It was both more convenient than taking a commercial flight (or a WRO plane), and less irritating. He wouldn't have to put up with crying babies or seatmates pushing into his space.
He would, however, have to talk to Hellmasker.
Gigas, he didn't mind. As long as nothing threatened him, the berserker could be mild as milk, and a decent conversationalist. He wasn't able to help Vincent with memories of the lab, though.
"I am sorry, Vincenz," he said, his dark eyes mournful. "I cannot recall what was done. We were none of us in our right mind at the time."
"True," said Vincent. "Thank you."
Galian wasn't much help, either. He could speak, when he wanted to, but he understood little beyond hunting and guarding. The outside world was not his natural habitat. Any mention of Hojo tended to upset him. He growled in denial, and retreated into the recesses of Vincent's mind.
Vincent sighed. He avoided the inevitable for a while, concentrating on flight. He'd crossed the sea about an hour ago, and was currently high over rolling hills, dotted here and there with the lights of houses and farms. Air rushed under his wings, cold and damp. The updraft made his eyes water. Next time, he'd borrow a pair of goggles, dammit.
Might as well get it over with. "Hellmasker. Wake up."
No response. That was typical. Vincent turned his attention inward, hoping his brain could fly on autopilot.
"Mask! Come on out, I want to talk to you."
"Eh what? What you want now? Was sleeping." Mask's red eyes loomed out of the shadows, blinking.
"Tell me something. Do you remember what Hojo did? Specifically, what, ah-samples he took from us?"
Mask grumbled, muttering curses. "Nasty Man. No! Nothing! Blood and bone is all."
"You're contradicting yourself," Vincent said. "Do you remember or not?"
"Just remember needles and knives," Mask hissed. "Is bad enough. Don't poke the past, Valentine!"
Generally good advice, just not very helpful in this context. Vincent gave up questioning his headmates and returned his attention to his destination. He should be there before dawn.
Time had not been kind to Shinra Manor. Dust and cobwebs outnumbered the rats. The monsters had fled, leaving the old house to be claimed by birds, insects, and ivy. At least half of the roof had fallen in, and a hemlock tree now grew in the grand foyer. The once-elegant rooms were hung with empty shadows, the overall atmosphere more sad than sinister.
There was no point exploring any of the upper floors. Anything of value had long since been stripped from the mansion. Vincent went straight for the basement. The main laboratory, too, was empty of the worktables, mako tanks, and varied esoteric equipment of its heyday. Galian's keen sense of smell picked up the scent of stale mako and old blood, and the wolf whined, his distress underscored by Mask's hissing and Gigas's basso moan.
Vincent, nerves strung tight as a piano-wire garrote, halted in the middle of the room. "Quiet down, you lot! I can't think."
"Blood and bone, blood and bone," Mask muttered. "Old brick, rotten stone."
"Can the nursery rhymes," Vincent snapped. "If you can't be useful, shut up."
Mask retreated in offended silence. Finally.
If Hojo had hidden anything, it wouldn't be in the main lab. Vincent located the door to the sub-basement, and took the stairs downward. Every step required an act of will, while his instincts screamed at him to flee.
At first glance, his enhanced eyesight revealed nothing he hadn't expected. The exam table lay smashed to kindling, draped in dust and spider webs. Tangled wires hung like old roots from the ceiling, bits of glass crunched underfoot, and slime marked the ancient brick and stone walls. A rusty scalpel lay at the foot of the stairs. Vincent kicked it away, and it struck the wall with a clang, bouncing off of a protruding stone. Vincent blinked as memory flashed, blindingly bright one moment, gone the next. Dammit.
No file cabinets here, either, and a quick search of the remaining shelves revealed nothing but woodworm. Another dead end, unless…That elusive memory refused to settle. He pressed fingers to his temple, reaching, straining…there.
Intense light, burning pain, panting for breath around the leather gag in his mouth, a tall figure in a white coat retreating, bending, pulling a stone out of the wall, bony hands shoving something small into…
A hole in the wall, marked by a protruding stone.
The scalpel tip broke off as he jammed it into the crevice around the stone. No matter; he'd worn the gauntlet for a reason. Calling on Gigas's strength, Vincent gripped the stone and twisted, turning it right and left like a combination lock. Another twist, he pulled, and it popped out. He reached into the hole, finding it deeper than he'd expected, talons scraping bare dirt.
Brass clinked against something metallic. He pulled it out. A base metal lockbox, green-tinged with corrosion. Too anxious to wait, he pried it open with the scalpel.
A thick sheaf of yellow papers, covered with faded, crabbed handwriting, lay atop a small collection of flat glass squares, each one in its own glassine envelope. Microscope slides, dark with samples of something. He shivered, having a damn good idea of what that something was. There was also a small vial filled with a dingy liquid. Inside floated dull white fragments of what could only be bone.
Blood and bone, old brick, rotten stone…Mask had told him what he'd wanted to know.
Dammit, he hated it when Hellmasker was right.