Vincent had been told to take as much time as he needed to be with Nero. However, now that Nero was recovering in the non-critical ward, Vincent wondered if he ought to at least attempt to go back to work in some capacity. His desk was probably lost to a mountain of incoming paperwork, and he didn't even want to think about his email.

"Non-essential issues are going on the back-burner, anyway," said Reeve, "until we've finished processing the rest of the Deepground survivors. If we absolutely require your input on something, we'll call you at the hospital."

That was fine, but for one problem: Nero didn't want to see Vincent.

"I'm sorry, Vincent," said Shelke when he came to inquire, as he did every day. Her small face was pale, her eyes shadowed. "I know you've been waiting, it's just...too soon."

"It's not your fault," he said, because it wasn't. It was his. "I understand."

Why would Nero want to see the person who'd killed his family? He was ill, physically weak, vulnerable. He wouldn't want Vincent, or Veld for that matter, anywhere near him. The only Surface people he tolerated were Shelke, Shalua, and the unavoidable medical personnel who helped to care for him. Vincent ached to be among them, but Nero wouldn't allow it.

The small affinity Vincent had for shadows was worse than useless. He could travel via shadows from place to place, but he hadn't Nero's skill at hiding in them. If he could have mastered it quickly, he'd have used it, without shame or hesitation, to keep an eye on his son without Nero knowing he was there. But he was no mage, and never would be.

"Will you call me or text me once in a while?" he asked Shelke. "Just to let me know how he is?"

"Of course I will."

He had to be content with that. It didn't stop him from hanging around in the hall, or looking in on Nero while the boy slept, and that was better than nothing.

Unable to shadow Nero, he shadowed Veld instead, in the mundane manner of sticking as close to his side as possible whenever he wasn't at the hospital. After three days of nearly tripping over Vincent every time he turned around, Veld had had enough.

"Valentine," he snapped, "if you were any closer we'd be wearing the same pants. What the hell is is going on?"

"Nothing." Vincent backed up a few steps. "I just…I mean..."

Veld's eyes narrowed. "Spill it."

"I don't want to be alone," Vincent mumbled.

The scowl on Veld's face melted away. "I'm not going anywhere, spook. And neither is Nero. He's going to be fine."

"I know," said Vincent, thoroughly unconvinced, but trying to fake it. "It's just that...he doesn't want to see me." There was more he could have said, but his throat closed, and he was too old to keep breaking down at every setback, dammit.

"Yeah, I know," Veld sighed. "He'll get over it."

"Sure," said Vincent. What was that old saying about when pigs fly?

"Look," said Veld, putting an arm around Vincent's shoulders, "why don't you talk to Tseng about setting up a wake for Weiss and Rosso, hmm? I know you want to do something for Nero. Why not that?"

He hadn't thought of that. "Do you think they would?"

"I don't see why not. Nero's a Turk, or nearly so. That's close enough in my book. But if they balk, tell 'em it was my idea." Veld winked.

Vincent mustered a wan smile, and left to seek out Tseng.

Tseng, rather like Veld before him, seemed to have teleportative abilities that allowed him to be wherever he was needed with virtually no notice. At present, he was behind his desk and a mountain of paperwork. He did not seem surprised to see Vincent.

"Valentine," he said, rising, as if Vincent outranked him, and not the other way around. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"Tseng." Vincent waved a hand. "Sit. Gods, you don't have to...never mind." He stopped to get his thoughts in order, and pulled a chair over to sit down. "I wanted to talk to you about holding a wake for Nero's sibs. He's in no shape for it right now, but as soon as he is...I hoped we could set something up."

"Absolutely," Tseng said with a nod. "I was going to suggest such a thing myself, but wasn't sure this was the best time to do so. As you said, Nero's still recovering. There's no sense in holding one if he can't attend. I'm sorry I haven't been down recently to see him myself, but I didn't feel it would be appropriate. How is he?"

"He's in rough shape," said Vincent, dancing around the fact that he hadn't actually talked to Nero himself. "Getting better, but still weak. I have every confidence in Shalua and her team. It'll probably be a few weeks before she releases him. In the meantime, I thought we could get the ball rolling."

Tseng nodded. "I can pencil something in, alert his cadre. Forgive me, is there anything to be laid to rest, or will this be more symbolic? Also, I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with Deepground death rites. I'm assuming there is such a thing."

"I'll have to ask Shelke about the details. Nero just...collapsed the ruins over their bodies. I could search...see if there's anything left. Personal effects, perhaps." Gigas could help, he supposed. Possibly Ned could, as well, if he could pry him from Nero's side.

"Very good," Tseng agreed. "Please let me know if there's anything else I can do for you. You and Veld are still family, and Nero's as good as. You have only to ask."

"Thank you," said Vincent, touched. "That means a great deal. I'll get back to you."

Shelke left Nero's side only when she had to. Vincent hated to inconvenience her, but this wasn't a conversation to be had by phone, whether voice or text. Having observed her schedule, such as it was, he timed his arrival to intercept her on her way back from lunch.

"Shelke." He kept his voice down, certain that if Nero heard his voice, it would upset him even more. "Can I talk to you for a minute, please?"

"What? Oh. Sure." Shelke rubbed at her face and went over to the waiting area with him. Nero might be spending most of his time asleep, but it was clear Shelke was not doing the same.

"What's up?"

"The Turks would like to hold a wake and funeral for Rosso and Weiss." Perhaps, if Nero didn't think it was Vincent's idea, he wouldn't reject it out of hand. "It's an old Turk tradition. But Tseng needs to know about Deepground rites. There was...only so much Nero could do when we found them."

The memory of Nero taking the prayer Vincent had recited, reshaping it into something with meaning for himself and his siblings, still burned bright in Vincent's memory. It was a place to start, but no more than that.

"Can you fill me in on some details? Is there anything special we need to obtain, or to say…? We don't want to offend you and Nero."

Shelke's features creased in concentration as she thought. "There's not much to tell, really. Something like that had to be kept low key so as not to attract the Restrictor's attention. If someone died, their squadmates gathered up their stuff and distributed it to those they thought should have it. Nobody was allowed much in the way of personal effects, but it was better to pass it on than to have it confiscated and thrown away. Weapons were different. Those were usually deliberately broken if they weren't already, and then thrown into the reactor well. The idea was that they wouldn't be used again to hurt anyone. Those who wanted to could share memories about the person they'd lost. After that, you'd say goodbye, and speak their name for the last time. From that point on, they'd be just another tally on the Wall."

It sounded plain, stark, even for a military society, but Vincent didn't dare to criticize it. He'd learned that lesson, at least.

"A Turk wake usually involves telling stories about the deceased," he said. "So that's not so different. I don't know if I can find their weapons, though. I guess I could look."

He thought about her explanation for a moment. "What's this Wall? A list of the dead?"

Shelke nodded. "Something like that. There are no names, just five line score marks. The COs were in charge of keeping count. I don't know about the others, but Nero could name every person under his command, living and dead. He usually made the marks himself if it was someone in his unit." She shivered, rubbing her arms a bit. "He always took it hard during Tsviet trials. I never understood it myself. It seemed like such a waste."

"It was." Nero had explained the trials during his inquiry. It was just one more thing about Deepground that had appalled both Veld and Vincent, but it had also given Vincent insight into Nero's character. He was proud of him, whether or not it made any difference to Nero. He only hoped he'd be able to tell him so, someday, and have him understand.

"Thanks, Shelke. I don't think we should say anything to Nero about this yet. I don't want him worrying about it. How is he today?"

She shrugged. "I'm no doctor, but I do live with one. Shalua's stopped crying in her sleep, which I've taken as a good sign. Nero's tired, and I know not being able to shadow is freaking him out, but at least he's too exhausted to really think about anything, which is probably just as well."

Vincent winced. "Tell Shalua I owe her the most massive favor in history. I swear I'll find a way to thank her for saving my son. And you, too, for keeping him company, since I...I can't. I'd hug you, but...I know you probably wouldn't want me to."

"I don't mind, so long as I know it's coming," Shelke told him with a tired smile. "I think Shalua's just as happy as you are that Nero's on the mend. She's had a hard time trying not to let his case get to her. She feels like she owes you for bringing me back to her. She considers this a partial deposit on a debt she thought she could never repay."

"Oh. Well. That was...Shelke, I'm not a particularly modest person, so I'm not going to say it was all in a day's work. But as far as I'm concerned, if Shalua or you owed me anything at all, it's been repaid a thousand times over. We're even on that score."

He knelt down and opened his arms. "I'm willing, if you are?"

Smiling, Shelke closed the distance between them and threw her arms around his neck. It was a surprisingly vulnerable little squeeze, and she held onto him for a moment, perhaps to comfort herself as much as him.

"I'm sorry Vincent," she whispered into his collar. "I know it doesn't help much but...he doesn't hate you. He doesn't know what to think or feel right now. Just...he needs time."

"I know. I want to believe that, Shelke." He leaned back, letting her go. "Thank you for being his friend. And mine. Try to get some rest, all right? Ask him if he's willing to have Max sit with him. She won't judge or even ask questions, if he doesn't want to talk. You need a break."

"I'll ask," Shelke agreed wearily. "He doesn't feel safe around people right now, but I'm sure he'd make an exception for her."

A week and a half later, Nero wasn't much more recovered than he had been. He suffered the medical staff's ministrations, and visits from Shelke, Max, and occasionally Veld. Although Vincent hovered continually outside his door, Nero could not bring himself to meet his father's eyes.

"It's not just you," Shelke tried to reassure Vincent. "He's like that with everybody right now."

Although intellectually he recognized that this was probably true, Vincent couldn't help taking Nero's rejection personally. Nero had every right to hate him, even the sight of him. It crushed him, but Nero's pain was more important than his own. He needed to lay his family to rest. Maybe then Nero could work on emotional recovery to go with the physical.

Tseng booked the hospital chapel for a wake and funeral service. He'd consulted Shelke on what to prepare. Nero wasn't a full Turk yet. He and his late siblings had been SOLDIERs, Tsviets, and should receive the appropriate rites and honors.

There were a few Turk touches for the wake: alcohol, incense, and snacks for the vigil. There was no priest to lead sutras, no table for gifts for the deceased. Nero's Deepground family would be leaving this life as they had entered into it: with nothing. All Vincent had managed to find- with Ned's help- were some broken weapon fragments and Argento's helmet. The shards of twisted metal lay on the altar at the front; a grotesque contrast to the pewter candlesticks that stood on either side.

It was not a terribly large gathering, but there were more people present than Vincent had originally anticipated. There were plenty of Turks present: Tseng of course, with Elena at his elbow. Reno, as Nero's mentor, had come, dragging Rude along with him. Nero's cadre had turned out down to the last man, as had his SOLDIER friend and a few others from the training simulator. Shalua and Shelke were also present, as was Max. Veld nodded approvingly at the turnout; enough to show Nero that he was loved, but not enough to overwhelm him.

Nero barely paid attention to any of them. Lost deep in his own grief, he sat silent as a shadow, nodding distractedly when anyone offered condolences. The black button down shirt and dress pants that Vincent had bought for him seemed too large without his mako suit underneath. Although strong enough to stand, to dress himself, to walk, Nero's lung capacity was still severely limited. Shalua had pushed his wheelchair to the chapel herself, with Shelke serving as escort.

As per usual, there was food, and an abundance of alcohol, but the mood was uncharacteristically subdued compared to most Turk wakes. Then again, Vincent reminded himself, these weren't Turks who had died, they had been Tsviets. The rules were slightly different.

No one was talking much, unless one counted those assembled mumbling quietly amongst themselves. Without a priest to conduct the stages of the wake, to lead chants, everyone seemed slightly at a loss as to what to do. Nero sat in the wheelchair, parked where Shalua had left him near the shrouded altar. Beneath a plain white cloth lay the mangled remains of his family's weapons. Shelke pulled a chair over to sit next to him. Vincent longed to do the same, but Veld kept tugging him back by the elbow, maintaining the buffer of space around Shelke and Nero.

Nero sat inert, head down, unmoving. If Vincent hadn't known better, he would have thought the boy had fallen asleep. He tried not to stare directly as Shelke leaned and said something to Nero. Miraculously, he turned his head fractionally to look at her and nodded.

"No one...no one here knew Nero's Deepground family," she began, her small voice magnified by the silence. "It was my family too. For as long as I was down there they looked out for me, kept me safe."

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. "Azul used to call me 'little sister'. I think that's how he saw me, as the youngest of the three children he already had. We were his kids. There wasn't anything he wouldn't have done to keep us safe. It was hard for him down there. Like me, he and Argento remembered what life was like on the surface. They never completely forgot the warmth of the sun, that people could be warm too. That got them into trouble sometimes…"

Shelke paused, took a deep breath. "It wasn't easy for them to remember to hide their feelings, to withhold the affection they felt for us. You know, it's funny," she said, looking up at last. "I never received a hug or a kiss from either of them, but I knew without question that I was loved."

Nero rested all his weight on one elbow, leaning a bit towards Shelke. She tilted fractionally in her seat so that their upper arms just touched. Several of those gathered had found seats so that they could listen.

"Weiss and Rosso...it took me a while to get to know them. They didn't have the same sensibilities I did, but they weren't cruel the way so many people were down there. They loved each other, they loved Nero, and they came to love me too."

She had to pause, push her hair back, and Vincent realized she was struggling not to cry.

"They each saved me countless times. I could never repay them for all they did for me. I did my best to look out for them as their spotter, but…" Shelke drew a deep breath, a soprano version of Nero's sob. Unable to hold her tears, two glistening lines cut down her face. "I couldn't help them this time. There was nothing I could do to save them. I wanted to save them, to save all of them. I thought I could help… I thought…" her voice broke and she looked down, struggling for composure.

"Wasn't your fault," Nero rasped. "I know you tried…"

"Shall we pray for their souls?" Tseng asked after Shelke had managed to collect herself a bit.

Nero shrugged as if to say "if you want".

"That wasn't something we could do down there," Shelke explained. "Normally we just...sat up, waited until dawn so that they wouldn't be lonely their first night dead."

Tseng nodded. "We're not a particularly religious bunch, but we look after each other, even after one of our number returns to the planet. Nero," Tseng turned to him, "your family were not Turks, but you are. Will you allow us to honor your family?"

Nero swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing with the motion, and nodded. "Okay."

Fishing in his jacket pocket, Tseng produced a string of beads. Folding his hands over them, he spoke the first words of the sutra, the other Turks joining in.

Nero remained silent, drinking in the words. Perhaps still fearful of presenting affection in public, Shelke gripped the arm of Nero's wheelchair. It seemed to be enough for them. For his part, Vincent gripped Veld's hand, for once glad of metal fingers that would not snap under his unnatural strength.

Perhaps an hour before dawn, everyone fell silent. Nero and Shelke sat quietly, waiting, as they all were, for the first fingers of sunlight to brighten the stained glass of the chapel windows. Colored streaks stretched across the carpet, seemingly reaching for Nero's wheelchair. He looked up, staring at the now glowing colors of the windows. Without a word, everyone rose.

For a long moment everyone stood silent as the sun filled the windows, making them gleam. Shelke turned to Nero, a question in the tilt of her head. He nodded and she stood. Going up to the altar, she drew back the cloth to reveal the ruined weapons. In the middle lay a broken chunk of concrete. Folding the shroud, Shelke stepped back.

"We're here to say goodbye," she began, only the slightest quaver to her voice. "Omega carries them away from us on the rays of the sun, back to their homes, to the people who love them who've gone on before. We say goodbye, speak their names one final time, and let them rest."

Nero stood and walked toward the altar, steps remarkably even. Even from the back of the room, the labored crackle of his respirator was evident. A mix of stoicism and stubbornness kept Nero from leaning on the altar table while he caught his breath. For a long moment he just looked at the broken chunk of concrete, at the rusty railroad spike of a nail. Although the fragment of wall was only slightly larger than a dinner plate, there was evidence of countless score marks all along the edges. The nail was nearly six inches long and badly bent, but its lethal point was still intact. After several minutes, Nero wrapped his long fingers around it for the last time.

"Argento," he rasped, the harsh whisper accompanied by the sharper shriek of iron meeting concrete as he gouged a tally mark. A handful of voices murmured the name along with him.

"Azul."

More joined in this time, but not enough to cover the screech of the second tally.

"Rosso."

His voice cracked. Shelke's girlish tone was strangely obvious among the chorus of voices. The concrete screamed.

"Weiss…"

The repeat had been loudest, fullest with the final name, but Nero's voice had broken.

"Deepground."

It was no more than a suggestion of a whisper, virtually obliterated by the industrial keening of iron and cement as Nero slashed a fifth and final line through all four.

The nail fell from his hand to the carpet with a muffled 'thud'. Nero stood there, hands clenched into fists, his entire body trembling as he tried in vain to hold back tears. He heaved a huge breath, the same inverted sob Vincent had heard what felt like a lifetime ago when Ned had gotten into his and Veld's bedroom. Nero pulled in a second rasping breath, his whole body rippling with the effort. His long legs shook, folded, dropping him to his knees. Shalua stood, poised to act, but Vincent was already at his son's side.

Vincent checked his urge to scoop Nero up like a child. That would only embarrass him. Instead, he leaned down just a little, and laid a hand on Nero's shoulder. He said nothing, silently praying that just this once, Nero would overlook the fact that his father was at least partly the reason they were gathered here to mourn Nero's family.

Nero did not look up, all his efforts focused on trying to breathe through his tears. It wasn't working very well. Maybe he was in enough pain that he didn't care; was glad of the presence of a (nearly) living, breathing person, even if it was his family's killer. Either way, Nero clutched at Vincent's hand and leaned against him. Without thinking, Vincent put an arm around him. As soon as he'd done it, he froze. Nero, however, didn't seem to care, exhaustion forcing him to rest more and more of his weight on his father.

"Come on, son," said Vincent, gently hauling him up to his feet. "You can do it." He walked Nero slowly back to his chair and lowered him into it, taking the seat next to him. There he intended to stay, come hell, high water, king behemoths, or even Nero telling him to go away.

Shalua came up behind Nero's wheelchair, ready to push.

"I think he's had enough," she said gently, taking the handles. Nero did not protest, but Shelke bit her lip and turned to look at the altar with the crushed weapons. She opened her mouth, but got no further. Reno had appeared at her side, an empty packing crate in hand. It had once held rifles, it would suit well enough as an ersatz coffin for the symbolic corpses. With great solemnity, Shelke placed the ruined weapons inside and closed the lid. Reno set the crate on the altar, stepped back and saluted before returning to his seat. Shelke took a long look at the plain wooden box before mimicking Reno and raising her hand in salute.

Though no one had told them to, everyone gathered saluted as well. Shelke turned to take her seat again and stopped, arrested by the sight. For a moment she stood, staring, before her stoic mask cracked and she crumbled into tears. Leaving Nero in Vincent's care, Shalua flew to her sister's side and gathered her close. There was nothing to say, nothing more to do. Only Shelke's muffled sobs intruded on the heavy silence that had fallen. No one said a word as Vincent pushed his son out of the chapel, followed closely by the two sisters.

Nero spent the next few days in bed, shut away from the rest of the world. The wake and funeral had left him emotionally drained, and he had nothing left to offer. The only silver lining was that this allowed him several hours of deep, dreamless sleep; the nightmares unable to penetrate his exhaustion.

At first Vincent hovered at the door of Nero's room, as he had before, but that didn't last long. Nero had been rendered virtually catatonic; conscious but barely aware of what went on around him. He did not respond to anything; speech, touch, nothing seemed to affect him. Nothing seemed to matter. Vincent knew this feeling all too well.

The room had a reclining chair that could be used by a patient who was well enough to sit up during the day. Vincent dragged it over next to Nero's bed and settled into it for the night. He didn't expect to sleep. Despite emotional exhaustion, he was too keyed up. It lasted perhaps an hour, before his eyes closed and he was dead to the world - more so than usual.

It started with knives. It always did. That, and the smell: Old blood, formaldehyde, a suggestion of mako. Blinding light, the mirrored surface of the blade as it sliced into his flesh, the scream that died in his throat, held back by the leather strap over his mouth.

He fought, he always did, but he never succeeded, never got free. Panic made it hard to breathe, he swallowed air, and tried again, tried to force the scream out, and he couldn't, he couldn't…!

Nero stirred, prodded to awareness by the muffled cries and whimpers nearby. He did not want to open his eyes and face what came next, but he did anyway. It took him a moment to orient, to remember where he was, and it all came crashing down on him again. For a few precious hours he had forgotten, had gone beyond the pain. He might go past it, but there was clearly no escaping it. Apparently Vincent could not escape either.

Sitting up required more effort than Nero had thought possible. Taking the three steps from bed to recliner felt like a half marathon. Rather than prod a sleeping Turk and get a fist in the face for his troubles, Nero called out as best he could.

"Sir?"

Vincent struggled to rise, to escape the straps holding him to the table. His body was too heavy, the straps too strong. The knife came at him again, and the long, vicious needle that would take away his will to move. Sharp pain, and the world went black.

He was on his knees, waist-deep in dark mako, his heart hammering, breath coming short. A weight in his arms, pale face so like his own, golden eyes rolled back.

"Nero! Nero, no, don't, no gods, please….!"

"Vincent?" Nero rasped, struggling for volume. It still hurt to talk and took far too much air. Cautiously, he touched Vincent's shoulder.

Vincent gathered Nero closer, the long body limp, hair trailing in the mako pool. He was dying, or already dead, black blood bubbling from his mouth.

"No, Nero, please, don't! Stay with me! NERO!"

Vincent cried out in fear and anguish, too deep asleep for the words to be intelligible. Nero thought he caught his own name somewhere in the jumble of syllables. Nero shook him, not so weak that he couldn't do this much properly. He didn't care if he was attacked, waking Vincent from his nightmare was more important. Sucking in air, Nero shouted:

"Dad!"

The voice shouting in his ear used a word he'd never expected to hear. His eyes shot open, blinking in the harsh light of the hospital room, to see Nero standing beside him, while the word echoed in his head.

"What...what did you say?" Vincent grabbed Nero's arms. "What did you say?"

Nero stood panting for a moment, trying to get his lungs to inflate again. The single word had cost him a lot of energy.

"Dad," he managed at last. "S'what you are. Right?"

Vincent had used the word often enough that Nero had assumed it was the title he wanted. The gut-clenching thought that he had overstepped his bounds, or assumed too much washed over him.

"I am," said Vincent, his voice shaking. "Yes. I am."

One hand reached up to touch Nero's face. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

He took a moment to breathe, to get his heart to stop pounding. Carefully, he slid out of the recliner, arms around Nero, and guided him back to his bed. "It's okay now. You can sleep. Everything's okay now."

It wasn't okay. Nothing would ever be okay again. Everything was over, although the rest of the world hadn't gotten the memo yet. Standing was starting to feel like way too much work, and though the touching still weirded him out a little, Nero let Vincent steer him back toward the bed. For a moment he lay flat on his back, just pulling air in and out. Omega materia or not, Shalua had said it would take time for his lungs to heal. Nero hated being caught somewhere between death and health, but that was where he was stranded for the foreseeable future.

Looking up, he noticed Vincent- his father- watching him struggle to breathe. Images overlaid themselves in his mind: discovering his dying siblings, and Vincent scraping his inert body off the concrete. It had not occurred to Nero until that moment that Vincent might be taking this mess just as hard, if in a slightly different way. It was still hard to look at him, to reconcile the man who said he loved him, who shared his blood, with the demon who had killed his family and destroyed his world.

"I'm sorry," Nero rasped. "I didn't… I just wanted…" It was too much; too many words, not enough oxygen and his apology dissolved into a fit of coughing.

"Don't apologize," said Vincent, "you haven't done anything wrong. I was just...surprised to hear you call me that." He reached over Nero for the call button. "Let me get Shalua or somebody to check on you."

Nero caught his hand as Vincent reached, and held it. Unable to reply, he shook his head.

"S'okay," he gasped. "I just… I just wanted it to stop…" Vincent had told him not to apologize, but it was all he had. "I'm sorry, dad."

"You're forgiven," Vincent said. He turned his hand in Nero's, so that his fingers gripped his son's. "I know it's hard to believe, but I've been there. I wanted to die...but I couldn't. I slept for over twenty years. When I woke up, I found that there was still somebody who wanted me to live. I don't expect you to accept me, but I want you to know that I'm glad you're still here."

Letting go of Nero's hand, he took a step back. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Yeah," Nero breathed, the word mostly static. He couldn't process the words, couldn't think about it now. His mind buzzed with exhaustion, numb from overload. Maybe later. It had to start making sense again some time- as much sense at the surface ever made. Vincent was trying. Nero supposed he ought to make an effort too.

"...but I want you to come back."

"I will," said Vincent. "I promise."