"Well?" Vincent asked hopefully. Shalua returned his smile, but hers was a good deal more restrained.
"I told you the results had come in, I didn't say I had an answer," she said, sliding the print-out toward him. To Vincent, the little page of colored dots strongly resembled a standardized testing sheet that had been filled out in magic marker. The overwhelming majority of the dots were colored in a vibrant neon green.
"So?" he asked. "Is Nero my son?"
Shalua sighed. "Vincent, I warned you when I ran the tests that I wasn't likely to find anything. The results were inconclusive. You can see that the Jenova in his system overrides just about everything except the most obvious markers. He's male, he has fair skin and dark hair. That's about it. The rest is just Jenova, Jenova, Jenova."
Vincent eyed the piece of paper. The image in his head had changed, and now he felt as if he was looking at one of the Wall Market scratch off lottery cards. The green Jenova dots were no more than foil to be scratched away, and then he'd have the confirmation he needed.
"So the Jenova is interfering with the test?"
Shalua nodded. "Yes. The SOLDIER's joke about Type J blood is actually legitimate."
"What if we could remove the Jenova?" Vincent asked. "Isn't Nero a risk as well as at risk as long as it's in his bloodstream?"
"Yes, but it seems to be largely dormant," Shalua confirmed. "So far the theory is that without the broader consciousness of the parasite and Sephiroth, the remaining cells are just that: cells."
"So Nero isn't likely to go off the deep end." Like Sephiroth…
Shalua shook her head. "If he does, it probably won't be because of the Jenova in his system."
"Would it be possible to remove it?" Vincent pressed. "What about Aeris' spring of healing water?" It had cured Denzel and all the other affected children. Surely it could cleanse Nero.
"It would work well enough on someone who had secondary exposure like the SOLDIER corps," Shalua reasoned aloud, "but Nero tells me he and his siblings were conceived with Jenova. It wouldn't cure him, it would be more likely to kill him."
Yikes. "Okay, so no."
"No," Shalua agreed. "So long as he's careful, it shouldn't be an issue."
"There's not any other tests you can run?"
"I'm sorry, no," Shalua told him regretfully. "The Jenova would throw the results no matter what. The best answer I can give you is 'maybe'."
'Maybe' wasn't 'no'. If Nero hadn't had to wear the respirator, people would probably be getting whiplash doing double-takes at the pair of them. Even with the dark mako affecting his skin and eye color, Nero looked enough like him to be his twin- or son.
In his heart, the decision had been made weeks ago, practically upon discovering Nero. With his family still missing, possibly even dead, the poor kid was alone in the world. The Turks would provide him with a lot of guidance and support, but he ought to have someone standing behind him. Perhaps if Vincent had been there to provide that support for Sephiroth, things might have turned out differently. That was not, Vincent decided, going to happen to Nero.
"Vincent?"
Vincent looked up, Shalua's voice startling him out of his thoughts.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"I asked if you were disappointed."
Vincent smiled and shook his head. "No. Not at all."
Although he'd moved out, Veld and Vincent were still his sponsors, so Nero reported in regularly. If nothing else, Veld's cooking kept him coming back. On these occasions, Vincent shared after-dinner clean-up duty with Nero. Nero could be trusted not to use steel wool on the Teflon, or to soak the terra cotta baking pan in soapy water. Since he didn't know the kitchen quite so well, he washed while Vincent dried and put the various implements away. Normally they did this in silence. Nero had grown up with the mandate of being seen and not heard, and Vincent rarely had anything to say.
Of late, the silence had been somewhat strained, as Vincent tried to walk the narrow path between too much involvement in Nero's life, and not enough. After the debacle of the planning meeting, he'd promised Veld that he'd back off. Then Mask had nearly killed Nero, and Vincent wanted to grab hold of his son and never let go. The middle ground was murky, and full of landmines.
Tonight, watching Nero work beside him, Vincent tested a few questions in his mind. They seemed innocuous to him.
"So," he said, trying for a casual tone, "how's your training coming along?"
"Okay," Nero said, not looking up from the dishwater. "Better than classes. I already know pretty much everything they've taught us so far."
"I guess this must seem like a step down for you, after commanding your own unit in Deepground."
"Little bit," Nero said flatly.
Wrong approach. Vincent tried again. "Do you have everything you need at the Turk barracks?"
Nero thought about that. He knew the right answer, even if the real answer was vastly different. Sleeping in the barracks wasn't the same as piling together with his siblings, but it was significantly better than being in a room by himself. Outside of that, he didn't need much.
"Yes, sir."
"Good, good." More awkward silence. Vincent still had one card left.
"How are things going with Max?"
Nero didn't freeze, exactly, didn't even break stride as he handed Vincent a dish. Yet Vincent could almost feel the walls going up, the portcullis crashing down, the windows slammed shut.
"Fine."
"Okay. That's good. Glad you're...making friends." Vincent dried the dish and set it on the counter. "She likes you."
"If you say so, sir." Nero glanced at him warily. He knew in his head neither Veld nor Vincent were likely to come after Max in any way, but it was hard to beat back the sudden stab of fear. Besides, he still wasn't sure what they were expecting out of Max and himself.
"She's...she's really nice," he managed, proud he'd kept his voice even.
"She said the same about you," said Vincent, remembering his trip with Max to the cave to fetch mako for Nero. "Did you know she wants to be a Turk herself?"
"Seriously?" Nero was incredulous. "But she's so smart! I mean…" He hadn't intended to imply that Turks were not intelligent, but it was no secret that for all their cunning, they were mostly hired muscle. Nero floundered for something to say that would correct his faux pas, but though his jaw worked, no sound came out.
Vincent blinked. Had his son just suggested...? Never mind. "Well, I think it has something to do with Veld, to be honest. He's been friends with her family for years."
Nero nodded, glad Vincent hadn't taken offense. "Okay. I just thought...she's been studying for this degree, I figured she'd stick to science. I have no idea what she's talking about half the time, but she makes it look so easy. Why go to all that trouble if you're just gonna shoot things?"
Now it was getting personal. "Education can make you a better Turk, you know. I went to college when I was her age. I earned a degree, too."
Nero hunched into his collar and scrubbed more viciously at a pot. "Yes, sir. No excuse, sir."
"Speaking of shooting things, how's your firearms training?"
This time, Nero visibly winced. To say that his stats at the range were not competitive would be putting it politely. One pistol shadowed into a toilet, another into the water cooler, and when he'd finally managed to keep hold of one, he hadn't even hit the paper.
"I suck," was all he said.
Okay, wait. A Valentine that sucked at shooting? "It can't be that bad," said Vincent.
"I've always sucked." The words were quiet, ashamed, angry. "I was supposed to use guns with the rig, but I could never get it to work right. I've never done it by hand before."
"You just need more practice," said Vincent, sure of that much. "Put in some extra time at the range. You'll get the hang of it."
"I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a cannon," Nero growled. "I could practice all year and it wouldn't make any difference. I'm just not any good at it."
"Well, a negative attitude won't help. I could give you some pointers. Or Veld could. He's a damn good shot himself."
There was brittle CRACK from beneath the dishwater. This time Nero did freeze for a second. Slowly, he lifted his hands out of the water, one half of a china dish held in each. Static made his muttered curse unintelligible as he turned to Vincent with wide and horrified eyes.
"I… I'm sorry..." he stammered. "I didn't mean… I just…"
Vincent took the china pieces from him. "It's no big deal. Did you hurt yourself?"
"Nosir." Nero didn't look as if he believed him, but let Vincent take the broken china out of his hands.
"I break things all the time." Vincent tossed the pieces into the trash can. "Just ask Veld. That's why he only buys the cheap stuff."
He turned back to Nero. "You need to relax. That's why you're having trouble on the range. Stay calm, and focus."
"Yes, Sir." The words had never sounded so much like a threat. "If that will be all?"
There were no more dirty dishes or utensils left. Nero stood stiffly in front of the sink, empty hands balled into fists at his sides. On the surface, he barely looked even mildly uncomfortable. His tone, however...
Somehow, the whole conversation had gone, like the dish, straight into the trash. Vincent couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't make matters worse.
"Yeah, sure. That's all."
Without further comment, Nero stepped back and vanished into shadow. The angry glare of a pair of golden eyes lingered before it too disappeared into the darkness.
Cursing to himself, Vincent left the kitchen, slapping the light off behind him.
Later, long after Nero had left, Veld went in search of Vincent, finally tracking him down in the back yard. Vincent slouched against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted up to see the night sky.
Veld sat beside him, taking care not to cross Vincent's personal-space boundary just yet. Silence settled around them. The neighboring houses were mostly dark, and late night traffic was rare. Sometimes Veld missed the steady buzz and clank of city noise that he'd grown used to in Midgar, but not often.
No one valued peace and quiet like those who'd lived through world-shaking crises.
On the other hand, some people lived for drama. He glanced up at Vincent, noting subtle signs of tension in the deceptively-casual stance: The stiff line of his mouth, his jaw set tight, arms tucked close to his chest. In the darkness, his pupils were wide and black, with a liquid sheen much like dark mako.
They could sit out here all night, or Veld could take steps to resolve whatever it was.
"So what's wrong, Vince?"
"Nothing."
"It's definitely something. I can hear you angsting over there."
Vincent sank down the wall to sit with his knees drawn up. "Nero. What else?"
"What about him?"
"I tried to talk to him, about his training, and Max, and it...didn't go well."
Vincent shook his head, shoulders hunched. "I realize things have been awkward between us. But I didn't expect him to be so...hostile."
Veld had seen this coming, but he'd given up any attempt to stop it. You just didn't step out in front of an onrushing train. That didn't mean he couldn't try to salvage something from the inevitable wreck.
"Your questions may have been a little intrusive, Vince. Remember what Shelke said about the Restrictors setting him up to fail?"
"This didn't scare him, Veld." Vincent leaned his head against his knees. "He was angry. And all I did was ask how things were going, and offer some advice on the one thing I actually know something about. He's my son. I know I promised not to push, but can't a father and son talk to each other?"
"And you're certain," Veld said, gently, "that he's your son? Despite Shalua telling you she couldn't be sure?"
"She didn't say he isn't. That's good enough for me."
Veld slid over close enough to rest his arm around Vincent's shoulders. "Everything's all or nothing with you, isn't it?"
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're committed to this, even though it hurts. A lot of people would have washed their hands of him at this point."
Vincent raised his head to look at Veld. "We're all the family he's got right now."
"I'm not necessarily disagreeing. As it happens, I like having him here."
"Because you can keep a close eye on an unknown quantity?"
"That, too," Veld admitted without shame. A lifetime of vigilance- not to say paranoia- had kept him breathing; and Nero's power, and potential for trouble, were too strong to ignore.
With that thought in mind, he said, "He's also a lot like you, and I like having you here."
It didn't get him the smile he was hoping for, but Vincent did relax a little, leaning against him.
"I'm a foolish old man, Veld. I'll never mean as much to him as his siblings do. Whether we find them alive or dead, I'll always just be the guy who contributed Nero's Y chromosome. I want to be more than that, but I don't know how."
"Vince, you need to give it time." Veld tightened his arm around Vincent, pulling him closer still. "You hardly know each other. Even when you're there at the beginning, it doesn't always go the way you want it to. Trust me on that one, okay?"
"Voice of experience," Vincent said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You're doing the best you can. You and Nero have to build your relationship from the ground up, yes, but as long as you're both willing, there's no reason to think you're gonna fail."
"I'm not sure he is willing. I'm just...adjusting my hopes so I don't keep tripping over them when they fall apart."
"Are you so sure they're going to fall apart?"
"They already have. Just like with-"
"Valentine, what did I tell you about that?"
"Nero is not Sephiroth," Vincent stated, like a child reciting a lesson. "That doesn't make it any easier. He's made his position plain. Never mind the DNA: I'm a stranger, and I'm not to be trusted."
"He'll come around," said Veld. "One step at a time, Vince. Let's find his siblings first. He'll settle down."
"What if he doesn't? Or if they're dead? What then?"
"Then we'll deal with it." Veld rose, reaching to give Vincent a hand up. "I do know we aren't going to solve every issue he's got in one night. Let's go to bed. You'll feel better tomorrow."
"Why? What happens tomorrow?"
"That's up to you, spook."
"No, it isn't," Vincent sighed. "It's up to Commander Sable, General, Third Division."