Chapter 1: Worthless
Notes:
This is going to be pretty long. Somewhere around 300k words or so. The story is going to be very different from canon and covers pre-canon/Brotherhood all the way up to the end.
Also note that 2 of the 3 ships that are tagged happen a lot later in the story. Shipping is also not a major focus early on.
I've pretty much taken a blowtorch to the canon narrative here, so very little is going to happen as it did in game. I've taken pains to keep characterization as close to canon as possible except where the plot dictates a difference (which is only really relevant for one character).
Hope you enjoy! 💙
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I carry you with me,
A ghost inside
And in these shattered arms,
You're still alive.
I carry you with me,
A holy shrine
And dogs and angels follow
Right behind.-Walking Higher, Heather Nova
The first time it happens, Prompto is eight. He spills a glass of milk at the dinner table, and watches in horror as the opaque liquid spreads across the particle board and soaks the placemats. His father goes still, his face turns red, and his eyes shift from indifferent to murderous.
"You're worthless, you know that?" he says and cuffs Prompto across the cheek. "Can't do anything right."
It leaves a mark that lasts for days. Prompto lies to his teacher and says he tripped. He's just clumsy. Happens all the time.
He feigns trips and falls at school, drops things on purpose to hide the bruises and prove that everything is fine. No one asks questions when they think it's his fault. The teachers shake their heads and smile. Poor chubby, clumsy Prompto. Little butter fingers, trips over his own two feet.
By the time he is eleven, the lies become a habit. His father comes home before bedtime less and less often, but when he does, he leaves his marks in places the teachers can't see.
The only thing that keeps his head above water in the years that follow are Luna's letters and the long silences between bouts of violence.
Someday.
Someday, he will be worthy.
Ignis rubs his temples and pretends not to be bothered by the shouts, giggles, beeps, bloops, mechanical whirring, and pops of simulated gunfire. He's no fan of arcades and their aura of barely controlled chaos. There's too much noise, too many people. Most of the patrons are under the age of sixteen, not that he has anything against that, but they're all gorging on unhealthy snacks and too-sweet sodas and wound too tight for any of this to be a safe environment.
The ever-flashing lights are giving Ignis a headache, the overwhelming scent of burnt popcorn turns his stomach, and the noise triggers his anxiety. He's only holding it together for Noct's sake, though barely.
Noctis loves coming here and he chose it for his first supervised outing with his new school friend, Prompto. Ignis is thrilled Noctis has made a friend, but his feelings about the friend himself are mixed. Prompto is loud, energetic, and lacks the social graces expected of a consort of a future king.
It's not that Prompto is impolite, only that he seems unaware decorum is the default among royal associates. He slouches, complains, shouts, and laughs too loud, his manner unrestrained and uncouth.
"I don't trust that kid," Gladio says. "He's way too familiar with Noctis, and way too common. Doesn't even bother to address him properly."
"This country is built on the backbone of her people," Ignis reminds him. "It will be good for Noctis to be seen not as an untouchable, but down to earth enough to befriend a commoner."
"I know, but I still don't think he's the right friend for a Prince," Gladio says. "And he gets on my nerves."
"The truth reveals itself."
Gladio shrugs and slurps on his giant-sized cola.
"Give the boy a chance, Gladio," Ignis says. "I for one, am relieved Noctis is coming out of his shell."
Across the way, the boys punch buttons on a console. Prompto cackles and shouts at the screen. Noctis elbows him, a slight smirk on his face. Nearby, a pair of girls watch their game and giggle behind their hands.
Gladio, always on alert for a threat, steps closer, as if they might be a pair of teenaged assassins disguised as school girls. Ignis follows out of habit.
"Hey, check it out," Prompto says. He nudges Noctis in the ribs and angles his head toward the giggling girls. "We've got an audience."
"Yeah? So?" Noctis says and thumbs the joystick rapidly. "What about it?"
"There's only one reason girls come to arcades," Prompto says.
"Yeah? What reason is that?"
"To play games! What else?" Prompto says. He turns and waves at the girls. "Hey, ladies! Care to join us for the next round?"
Ignis shakes his head at Gladio as the girls wander over, each eyeing Noctis with star-struck adoration. Noctis, as usual, is oblivious.
"So, how we gonna team up?" Prompto asks. "Ladies versus Gents, or Peasants versus Royalty?"
The girls giggle. Gladio crosses his arms over his chest.
"See? That's what I'm talking about," Gladio says. "No respect."
Noctis' classmates treat him either like a celebrity or with extreme deference. Prompto does neither of those things and instead behaves as though Noctis is no different than anyone else. Ignis finds that rather charming, even if Prompto's manners could use some work.
"He's going to be a King before he knows it. Time he starts acting like it," Gladio says.
"All the more reason to let him have his fun now," Ignis says.
"When he starts skipping out on training and tutoring to hang out with his new pal, don't say I didn't warn you."
Prompto takes a small camera from his pocket and snaps photos of Noctis and their new friends. Gladio grumbles under his breath.
"Did you look into the matter?" Ignis asks.
"Not much to find," Gladio says. "Father's a low-level accountant for the Ministry of Economy and spends a lot of time at the bar after work. Mom cleans houses and volunteers."
"Rather benign," Ignis says. "Anything else?"
"Well, the kid's grades aren't good enough to earn him a scholarship, and his parents don't make enough dough to pay for an expensive prep school, so there's that."
"Perhaps he has a benefactor," Ignis says.
"Not that I found," Gladio says.
"Dig deeper," Ignis suggests. "What of the boy himself?"
"Never been in trouble," Gladio says. "B-average student. Absent without an excuse a couple times in grade school. Once wandered off the playground to take pictures of birds."
"Sounds like a bloody hell-raiser," Ignis says and casts a glance sideways. "Cor tells me the Argentum's are loyalists to the Crown. If Cor can vouch for them, I have no concerns."
"Kid bugs me," Gladio says.
"And yet Noct is smiling."
Gladio grumbles and holds Ignis' gaze a second too long. Ignis notices the stubble on his jaw, two days worth, or so and thinks Gladio, who is only a year older, could pass for 25. He also notices how attractive he finds it and quickly shuts it down.
The game the boys and their new lady-friends are playing lights up and makes a series of beeping sounds. Noctis and Prompto both lift their arms in a victory pose and slap their palms together.
"Who's the man?!" Prompto crows. "Oh, yeah!"
"I demand a rematch," one of the girls declares. "Except, we switch up the teams so it's a fair fight."
"You're on, baby," Prompto says with a crooked grin. "Noct? You up for round two?"
"Oh yeah," Nocits says. "You're going down."
Gladio rolls his eyes, but Ignis can't recall the last time he saw his charge so at ease.
Prompto is reluctant to say goodbye to Calla and Nancy, but he has homework and Noctis is bound for his afternoon training session with Gladio and his lessons with Ignis.
He casts one last glance at the girls and waves goodbye. They giggle and titter behind their hands.
"Not sure which one I like better," Prompto says as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "They're both kinda awesome."
"Calm down. They're just girls."
"Yeah, but girls are amazing," Prompto says. "They're all so pretty. And they smell so nice."
Prompto pauses when it hits him that his friend has never expressed any interest in girls before. He's friendly and kind, but he doesn't go nuts in their presence the way Prompto does.
"So... you're not interested in dating or anything?"
"What's the point?" Noctis asks. "In a few years, my father will tell me who I'm supposed to marry, and that's that."
Prompto never considered Noctis might have no choice in the matter.
"That sucks," Prompto says. "But, doesn't mean you can't have a little fun before you walk that plank."
Noctis snort-laughs and claps Prompto on the shoulder.
"I'll let you have the fun for me," Noctis says.
A fluffy black and tan dog trots down the sidewalk toward them, something strapped to its back. Noctis' face lights up. He kneels as Umbra sits at his feet, and offers the dog a gentle greeting and a scratch behind the ear.
"You know this little guy?" Prompto asks and crouches down to give Umbra a scratch of his own. They're old pals, but he didn't know Umbra paid Noctis visits, too.
"Yep."
Noctis unstraps the bundle from the dog's back and tucks it under his arm.
"Tomorrow," he tells Umbra, gives a final scratch, and the dog trots away.
"So... You're not going to tell me what that's about?"
Noctis shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs. "He belongs to a friend of mine. She doesn't live in Insomnia."
"Ohhh. She's a pen pal," Prompto teases. "Does she have a name?"
Prompto already knows her name, but Noctis' reaction is weird.
"Luna."
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No. We're just friends."
"Luna and Noctis, sittin' in a tree..."
"Cut it out."
"K-I-S-S-ooof!"
Prompto rubs his ribs where Noctis elbowed him, but he laughs at his friend's red cheeks.
"Maybe I could write to your good friend Luna," Prompto says. "Send her a picture or two."
"Why would you?"
"I dunno," Prompto says. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, right? Gotta let her know someone's looking out for you."
"That's what Gladio's for."
Prompto rolls his eyes. That wasn't what he meant and Noctis knows it.
"Come on. Let me send one little picture? Pretty please?"
Noctis heaves a sigh, but he shrugs.
"Fine. One picture."
"Woohooo!"
Dear Prompto,
Thank you ever so much for the photograph. It warms my heart to see the two of you have become such close friends. It is so good to see Noctis smile, and I trust you share my desire to see him happy. He's not one to send photos of himself, and I must say, he has grown a great deal since the last time I saw him. I'm also pleased to finally see your face as well. Some day, I hope we can meet in person.
Though my days are busy, it can be very lonely, as I am not necessarily in the company of friends. Your correspondence is always welcome, Prompto. Never think I'm not pleased and honored to receive your letters. I look forward to them, and you are welcome to write as often as you wish, and I will cherish whatever photographs you choose to send in the future, including those of yourself. I promise.
All I ask is that you continue to stand beside Noctis and support him through the coming years. His burden is great, and childhood will soon be at an end. I know he does not say it, but he values your friendship dearly, and you have my gratitude for being there to brighten his days.
Yours,
Luna
Dear Luna,
Yay! I'm so happy you liked the picture! It's pretty hard to get Noctis to pose. Never met anyone who hates having his picture taken more than him, so sometimes I have to be sneaky about it, but sometimes, those stealthy pics are the ones that turn out awesome, so I'm not gonna complain. He's getting better about it. Guess having strangers follow you around taking pictures is kind of a downer, and I guess it would be pretty annoying. But, I'm his buddy so that's different, right?
Anyway, the pics I'm sending this time are from the fishing trip Gladio took us on last week. Fishing's not my thing, but Noct really digs it. I was sort of bored by the whole thing. You just sit there and wait for something to bite. It's the worst, but like I said, Noct's into it and the guy's gotta have a little fun every now and then, you know?
Sometimes I worry about him. He doesn't talk about the stuff that bothers him but I know it weighs on his mind. Heavy lies the crown, I guess, but I'm doing my best to keep his spirits up. No worries on that account. I got this end covered. You can count on me!
Gotta run, but give Pryna a scratch for me, okay?
Your buddy,
Prompto
"So, you wanna hit up the arcade on Saturday?" Prompto asks.
"Can't. Got a volunteer thing at the children's hospital," Nocits says. "Then some dinner thing with my dad."
"Oh, right. Cool," Prompto says. "Hey, you think I can tag along? I'm pretty good with little kids."
Noctis shrugs. "That really how you want to spend your day?"
"Why not? Sick kids need to have fun too," Prompto says.
"They're sick. It's not fun being sick."
"Yeah, I know, but we can make it fun."
"Sure, if you want," Noctis says.
"You don't mind?"
"I don't mind if you don't," Noctis says. "They can always use extra help."
They part ways on the sidewalk outside school in front of a sleek luxury sports car that costs more than everything Prompto owns a hundred times over.
"Sweet ride," Prompto says. "Your dad's?"
"Birthday gift," Noctis says.
Prompto's gift of a collectible Justice Monsters action figure suddenly pales in comparison. Noctis seemed pleased, but what was a cheap plastic toy in comparison to a car?
"Um, can you drive yet?"
"I'm learning."
Ignis gets out of the driver's side, polished and poised as always.
"Hey Specs," Noctis says. "You ready to do this?"
"After our last lesson, I'm content to drive you myself until the day you die."
"That bad?" Prompto asks with a laugh.
"Worse."
Prompto cackles and shoves Noctis' shoulder.
"Think you drove him over the edge, dude."
"Indeed," Ignis says. "It gives new meaning to the phrase hell on wheels."
Prompto cackles again. For as stiff as Ignis usually is, Prompto enjoys how salty he can be. Especially when it's directed at Noctis.
"We'd offer you a ride, but I fear you won't make it home alive."
"I'm not that bad."
"It's all good," Prompto says. "Gotta stop at the market on the way home anyway. Nothing in the fridge but wilted lettuce and soy sauce."
"That does leave something to be desired," Ignis agrees, but he looks at Prompto for a minute. "Perhaps you could join us for dinner, if your family is still out of town. I'm making Lucian Bass with grilled squash and roasted potatoes."
Prompto's stomach rumbles at the thought. He should stay home, just in case, but he can't resist Ignis' cooking. He's tried bites of Noct's lunch every now and then and the man has a gift.
"Never tried it, but it sounds good," Prompto says.
"Squash?" Noctis asks. His lip curls. "You trying to kill me?"
"Merely trying to diversify your tastes."
"Count me in," Prompto says.
"It's settled then. We'll pick you up at six," Ignis says.
"Sure. I'll meet you at the usual spot, okay?" he says. "See ya!"
Prompto picks up a few items from the grocery anyway, in case his parents actually come home and feel like eating. Loaded down with bags, he trudges through the gate, unlocks the door, and is surprised to find his father on the couch.
He can't remember the last time anyone was there when he got home from school. Most days, no one is there when he goes to bed.
His father's eyes are bloodshot and he smells of alcohol. Prompto cringes at the memory of the last time his father stumbled home drunk and angry about something that wasn't even Prompto's fault.
"What'cha got there, kid?"
"Just some groceries," he says.
"Spendin' all my money is what you're doing."
"No, just the household money," Prompto says. "It's one of my chores. Remember?"
"Buyin' junk and crap."
"It's just salad stuff and some toilet paper. Honest."
His father stands and Prompto swallows around a lump in his throat. He's never seen his father look at him with so much hatred before.
"Never should have taken you in."
He grips Prompto by the wrist and drips off the athletic band that covers the tattoo Prompto has no explanation for. All he's ever known is that it makes him an outsider, that he has to hide it. He drops the grocery bags and goes still.
"You know what you are?" his father asks. "You know what this means?"
Prompto pulls his arm away and receives a backhand slap in return. It stings, and Prompto's eyes cloud with moisture.
"It means you're a Niff, kid. I'm harboring the enemy in my own home, and what thanks do I get for it?"
"I'm not," Prompto says. His voice shakes. "You're lying."
"That's what the Niff's brand their robots with. You know that?"
"No."
His father twists his arm, and Prompto goes to his knees as a bone in his wrist snaps. The first blow is to his gut, the next his ribs. He can't breathe and he curls up into a ball on the floor and waits for it to end. He loses count of how many times his father strikes him, but if he moves, it will get worse.
"Never should have agreed to this," his father says. "You're worthless."
He's been told this his whole life, that he's worthless. That he will never be good enough, never measure up, never truly belong because of that stupid tattoo. He's been told to hide it his whole life, but he never really knew why it matters or what it means.
Maybe there are different answers to the questions he's not sure how to ask, but he's not sure he wants them. Those answers might ruin his life and maybe even get him killed.
His wrist and his ribs are on fire. They throb in time with his heartbeat and every breath is hell. The final blow knocks him out cold.
Ignis pulls up to the corner where he usually drops Prompto off when they give him a ride, but he isn't there. He waits for a few minutes to allow Noctis to send his friend a text.
There's no reply and Ignis begins to worry. Prompto, for all his irritating habits, is a good boy, and he's always on time for outings with Noctis.
Noctis calls when there's no answer to his text, but it goes to voicemail.
Ignis circles the block, then stops in front of a house.
"Stay here," he tells Noctis.
"You don't know where he lives," Noctis says.
"I have an address," Ignis says.
"Why?"
"You don't think I did my homework?" Ignis asks. "It is my job, after all."
Ignis gets out of the car and approaches the door. It's slightly ajar, and the room beyond is dark. He knocks and calls out, but there is no answer from the other side. He pushes the door open and peers into a small living room. He notices nothing amiss at first, then a body lying motionless on the carpet.
Ignis pushes the door all the way open and invites himself in to find a semi-conscious Prompto curled into a ball, his arm clutched to his chest. Grocery bags are scattered on the floor around him and a selection of produce has escaped their trappings. A tomato here, a cucumber there. It might be comical, if not for the broken boy they encircle.
He kneels down and gingerly turns Prompto onto his back. Prompto has one hell of a black eye, a busted lip, and if Ignis isn't mistaken, a broken wrist. Ignis pries his arm away from his chest, and spies something etched into Prompto's skin. At first glance, it appears to be a tattoo of some sort, though Prompto is far too young to have obtained one legally.
A closer look reveals a barcode and a pair of numbers that send a wave of loathing and anger through him.
Ignis has seen this before, in the weekly intelligence reports regarding the war with Niflheim. It doesn't make sense, but he knows what it is.
There's no point in asking questions now. That can wait until Prompto is able to answer.
On the floor a few feet away is the athletic wrist band Ingis has never seen Prompto go without. He takes care not to injure Prompto further when he replaces it.
Prompto's phone rings and Ignis answers when he sees it's Noctis.
"Come inside," Ignis says.
"What's going on?"
"Come inside, Noctis," Ignis says impatiently. "Your friend needs your help."
Ignis only has one potion on him. It won't be enough to cure Prompto's wounds entirely, but it will take the edge off the pain until he can get Prompto to safety. He doesn't trust whatever happened here won't happen again. There is only one choice to make and that is to offer Prompto the shelter of his spare room for the time being.
Ignis gathers the groceries from the floor while the potion does it's job, and carries them to the kitchen. He notices on the way there are no photos of Prompto, nothing that suggests a teenage boy lives here. The furnishings are drab, well used but clean, and there's little on the walls except a handful of bland landscapes akin to those found in any two-star hotel in the country.
He returns to the living room and attempts to help Prompto sit, but when he does, Prompto's cries out and Ignis rethinks that decision.
"I'm sorry," Ignis says. "Lie still."
"You're not supposed to see me like this," Prompto says, his voice soft but full of gravel.
"Will you tell me what happened?" Ignis asks.
"Fell," Prompto says.
It's a blatant lie, but Ignis doesn't push for answers.
Noctis arrives and stands in the doorway, aghast at Prompto's sorry state.
"Who did this?"
"He says he fell."
"What, from a ten story building?" Noctis says. He storms over to Prompto's side and joins Ignis on the floor. "Prompto, who did this?"
Prompto covers his face with his uninjured arm and shakes his head.
"He'll tell you when he's ready," Ignis says. "Now is not the time."
Noctis opens his mouth to disagree, but Ignis shuts him down with a look.
"Perhaps you could pack him an overnight bag. Clothes, toiletries, et cetera," Ignis suggests. "Enough for a couple days, at least."
"I can do that," Noctis says. "Anything you want me to grab, Prompto?"
"Just my camera."
Noctis brushes a hand over Prompto's sweat-damp hair. Prompto's mouth trembles and he hides his face from the both of them.
"Gotcha covered," Noctis says. He catches Ignis' eye. "We'll take care of it."
The ride to Ignis' apartment is nearly silent. Prompto sits in the back, the worst of his injuries on the mend, but his pride has taken a massive hit.
They weren't supposed to know.
He leans against the door, his still-swollen eye against the cool glass, and he thinks about what his father said.
Could it really be true? If the Niff army is branded this way, what does that mean for him?
More important, did Ignis or Noctis see it?
If so, does that mean he can't be Noct's friend anymore? If he really is one of them, would Noctis even want him as a friend?
The thought of losing Noct's friendship is somehow worse than all the rest.
"You'll stay with me for now," Ignis says. "I'd feel better knowing you're somewhere safe."
"You don't have to do that," Prompto says. "It's no big deal."
"Humor me," Ignis says.
Prompto tries to nod, but it hurts. He closes his eyes against the light and hopes he'll never hurt like this again.
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Comments and Kudos welcome!
Chapter 2: Shadows, Light
Notes:
Holy shit, guys. Thank you for all the kudos, comments and whatnot. I'm overwhelmed at the response to this. I expected a lot less attention, and I just, wow. As such, I felt the need to thank you by posting the next chapter early. Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Text
Even on a good day, Prompto complains a lot. Bugs. Rain. Homework. Gym class. All the little minor annoyances warrant a sometimes comical, sometimes annoying triad about the inconveniences of daily life.
Noctis expects the usual whining over the pain and discomfort from the beating he took, but Prompto sucks it up and stays quiet. He submits to Ignis' mothering as Ignis tends to wounds that look even worse in the light. Prompto's freckled cheeks blaze red and his eyes remain downcast. He suffers in silence, with only the occasional grunt to betray him.
Whatever happened, Prompto didn't fall.
From time to time, Noctis noticed unexplained bruises. He bought Prompto's excuses of clumsiness and believed the stories about tumbles down the stairs and trips over cracks in the sidewalk.
They've only been friends a year, but Gladio and Ignis aside, Prompto is his only real friend. He appreciates that their friendship is not one that comes with strings or duty attached. Prompto is not there to act as a bodyguard or an advisor. He doesn't have an assignment or an obligation.
Now, as he watches his friend suffer so quietly, he feels as though he's let Prompto down. The signs were in front of him all along, and he ignored them.
"Is that too tight?" Ignis asks as he secures a splint on Prompto's wrist.
"It's good," Prompto says quietly. He doesn't sound at all like his usual self. "Uh, and, you know. Thanks."
Noctis sits on the end of the bed and he can't bring himself to look Prompto in the eye.
"You wanna talk?" Noctis asks.
"I don't know where to start."
Noctis glances at Ignis and tips his head toward the door. Ignis gives a nod of understanding.
"I'll go start dinner," Ignis says. "Let me know if you need another potion."
Noctis gets up and sits next to his friend, his back against the headboard and his knees drawn toward his chest. Prompto, propped up by Ignis' collection of decorative pillows, keeps his eyes on his splinted arm.
"I know we don't talk about the big stuff," Noctis says, "but if there's ever anything you need to get off your chest, you can tell me, you know."
"I know," Prompto says.
"I don't think you do," Noctis says. "You can trust me, Prompto."
Prompto plays with the edge of the bandage, his posture slumped and the corners of his mouth down-turned.
"You get mugged on the way home or something?"
"No."
"Was it...?" Noctis begins. It isn't an easy question to ask. "Was it your dad?"
Prompto hesitates, his eyes shimmer with tears, but he shakes his head no.
"I just make him mad sometimes."
"And he hits you for it?"
"It's not that big a deal."
"But he does hit you."
Prompto's nod is almost imperceptible, but it still counts. Noctis has his answer, the one he suspected the second he walked into Prompto's apartment.
He's not sure how to offer comfort, or how to make it right. He takes comfort in knowing Prompto is safe for now, but he wonders how much pain his good-natured friend his hiding behind that smile.
Noctis pats Prompto's shoulder and climbs out of the bed.
"Get some rest. I'm gonna give Iggy a hand."
Gladio and Iris are in the kitchen with Ignis, who stands at the counter whisking something in a bowl. Iris beams at Noctis, and Gladio greets him with a nod.
"That thing that happened earlier?" Noctis says to Ignis. "It was his father."
Ignis pours the mixture from the bowl over fillets of fish laid out on a baking sheet.
"I suspected."
"We gotta do something about that," Noctis insists. "Might kill him next time."
"There won't be a next time if I have anything to say about it."
"Yo, what are you two scheming about?" Gladio asks.
"Fill him in, while I start the squash?" Ignis says. "Iris, do be a dear and peel the potatoes, if you're still willing to help?"
"Sure," she says. "Just point me to the potato peeler."
Noctis takes Gladio aside. Gladio's expression darkens the more he hears, and Noctis senses Gladio is itching for a fight.
"How long's this been going on?"
"I don't know. A while, I think."
"I'll take care of it."
"I want in," Noctis says.
"No way," Gladio says. "Can't have His Highness, the Crown Prince Lucis involved in the beat-down of a Lucian Citizen."
"You're nobility. What's the difference?" Noctis says.
"I won't be King someday."
Noctis doesn't want to be King. He sees what the job does to his father, his body aging and failing and his free time too limited to enjoy being alive. Not that Noctis seeks his own joy. He'd rather sleep, but his father doesn't even do that, even when he's exhausted.
"I'm not going to stand aside and let you have all the fun," Noctis says. "If anyone deserves a head-bashing courtesy of the Royal line it's this guy."
Gladio shakes his head, but Noctis digs in.
"I owe it to Prompto to make sure it doesn't happen again," Noctis says. "Take me with you."
"Don't blame me if it winds up in the papers."
Noctis claps Gladio on the arm.
"Then we'll make sure it doesn't."
Prompto sleeps through dinner. When he wakes, it's to the smell of bacon and coffee. Ignis is seated beside the window in an arm chair with a stack of documents in his lap and a plate of breakfast on the small table.
"Would you like something to eat?"
Ignis doesn't wait for Prompto's answer. He leaves and returns with a plate and a mug of coffee. Prompto doesn't drink coffee. He's energetic enough without it, but he accepts it and digs into a healthy portion of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and crispy bacon. When he finishes every last bite, Ignis offers him more.
He's tempted but declines. Overeating has always been a struggle.
"Perhaps you'd like to freshen up?" Ignis says. "Then, I'll take a look at your injuries."
Prompto sits up and grunts at the stiffness in the muscles of his back. A dull pain shoots through his side, but otherwise he feels better. The curatives have healed most of the damage, but the healing itself is its own sort of ache.
He limps to the adjacent bathroom, where Ignis has laid out bath towels and toiletries for his use, and he wonders how much trouble he will be in when he goes home. He's not supposed to be out after eight or stay over with friends without leaving a note, and he's definitely not supposed to skip school. When Prompto's not there for roll call, the school will call his parents, and its a sure bet one of them will be waiting for him at home after the final bell.
The hot water soothes his aches and clears his head. His father's ire over missing school is the least of his worries. Now he has to do damage control.
He emerges from the bath clean and dressed to find Ignis still beside the window with his stack of documents.
"Better?"
"Loads," Prompto says.
"I imagine you're still a little sore," Ignis says. "I've taken the liberty of contacting the school regarding your absence. Noctis will bring you your assignments."
"Thanks," Prompto says and eases down onto the edge of the bed. "How did you guys know where to find me?"
Ignis' smile is enigmatic. "We have our ways."
"Oh, yeah. Guess you guys would have to vet Noct's friends pretty well, huh?" Prompto says. "Guess you didn't find anything sketchy or else we wouldn't be able to hang out, right?"
"Indeed," Ignis says. "Though I hear you used to fly the coop to take photographs."
"Heh. Yeah, guess I did," he says with a weak smile. "I was in my own little world back then."
"As you are now," Ignis says with a kind smile. He holds out his hand and gestures at Prompto's arm. "May I?"
Prompto reluctantly turns over his arm for Ignis' inspection. He unwraps the bindings and gingerly investigates the spot where the bone broke. It's still a little swollen, badly bruised, and tender to the touch, but Prompto can move it without much pain. In a day or two, all evidence of the injury will be erased.
Ignis turns his arm palm down, tugs away the athletic band before Prompto can stop him, and eyes the barcode with great interest. Prompto withers under his scrutiny and pulls away.
"May I ask where you got that?" Ignis asks. "Poor choice at the tattoo parlor, perhaps?"
Prompto could lie. He could laugh it off and agree, but he doesn't.
"I've had it as long as I can remember."
"Curious."
"I don't even really know what it means, you know?" Prompto says. "Just something my family told me I had to hide. So I did."
"With good reason," Ignis says. "Though it's missing a production date, this looks very much like the serial numbers assigned to the Empire's Magitek Troopers."
Prompto feels sick. It's as bad as he feared.
"I'm not one of them," Prompto says. "I'm not a robot."
"Indeed. I see no evidence of that," Ignis says. "It appears, given the lack of a date you may have been among the first batches created by the Empire."
"Batches?" Prompto asks.
Ignis explains that the Niffs are suspected of conducting human trials in order to create bio-weapons, though he's not sure if those trials have anything to do with the Magitek Army. It sort-of confirms what his dad said, but Prompto refuses to believe it's true. It can't be and if he hears any more, he's going to throw up.
He holds up his good hand and shakes his head.
"No more, okay? I can't right now."
"If you wish," Ignis says. "However, I fully intend to look into the matter of how you came to be here. I understand you were adopted by the Argentums as an infant. I expect there's a great deal more to the story than a working-class family willing to take on a foreign war orphan out of the kindness of their hearts."
Prompto lowers his head.
"If this is real, it means someone took you and brought you here," Ignis says. "I intend to find out the reasons behind it."
Prompto's not sure he wants to know. He's had enough truths for one day, and it's hard enough to get his head around the idea that he might not be entirely human.
"Does Noct know? Did he see it?" he asks after a beat.
"No," Ignis says. "For now, this stays between us unless you choose to share it with him, though I'd use caution until we know more."
Prompto's eyes sting and he breathes a sigh of relief.
"Thanks, Iggy," Prompto says. "Appreciate it."
"It's no trouble," Ignis says. "For now, continue to keep it covered and I'll update you on what I learn."
He binds the splint again and offers Prompto another potion, which he refuses. Another potion won't cure the worst of his troubles and he can live with sore muscles for another day or two.
Dear Luna,
Think you could spare a prayer or two for my friend Prompto? He's the guy in the photo I sent a while back. He's going through a rough time and could use all the help he can get. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
Sending along a clipping from a gossip column, too. Thought you'd find it funny. I sure as hell do.
Yours,
The Prince of Tentacles
Noctis barely pays attention in class. He flips through a tabloid that someone discarded in the lunchroom and entertains himself with half a dozen wild theories about the nobility, himself, and the King until the final bell rings.
He doesn't normally read this junk, but it's a distraction from the cold anger over Prompto's plight. It's also hilarious to think someone spent time coming up with this garbage. There's even "proof" in the form of a poorly edited photograph depicting himself with octopus tentacles and large alien eyes.
He clips it and tucks it into Luna's notebook for laughs and pens a quick note to send along with it. Then, he watches the clock and pretends he hears what the instructor is saying. Sometimes, he wishes his warp ability could speed up time, too.
It's Gladio that picks him up instead of Ignis. They drive across town to a seedy bar tucked at the back of an alley in a neighborhood Noctis has never visited before.
He's aware there is poverty in Insomnia, but this place goes beyond what he imagines when he hears that word. Though homelessness is minimal according to the numbers Ignis makes him study, he sees a different story written on these streets.
They're mostly refugees, displaced citizens from Lucian territories overtaken by the Imperials that have nowhere to go but here. They were offered safety within Insomnia's walls, but Noctis sees there's no safety here, and no refuge.
He vows to do something about that. Whether his father will listen or not. These people were loyal to their King, and Lucis isn't protecting them. It isn't enough to open up the gates and let them in without a safety net to help them begin again in an environment where foreigners were met with elitism and mistrust. It isn't their fault they're here, and it isn't their fault the natives have turned their backs.
"Goddamn," he says to himself as they pass a young mother with two young children huddled next to a dumpster. Their dress suggests they are from Galahd. "Great job, dad."
It only fuels the anger that has weighed him down all day. He reaches into his pocket and offers the woman all the cash in his wallet. It isn't much, but should be enough for a meal.
Gladio frowns and shakes his head, but Noctis ignores him. The woman whispers her thanks and clutches the smallest child closer.
"Get a move on, Noct," he says. "This isn't a part of town you want to loiter in."
"Yeah, I got that."
They join a man and a woman outside the bar. Noctis recognizes their faces, he's seen them around the Citadel, but he can't recall their names. Both look like they've seen their share of battle.
"Thanks for coming," Gladio says to the woman. "I owe you one. Maybe I can take you out for a drink sometime."
"I only drink with comrades," the woman says with a smirk. "And only top shelf."
"I'd never let a lady drink swill."
"You're barking up the wrong tree," she says and her smirk grows into a smile. "I'm definitely no lady."
"No, but I bet you're always in charge," Gladio says with a flirtatious smile.
Gladio thinks he's smooth and Noctis rolls his eyes and sticks a finger down his throat. The man accompanying her chuckles.
"And I bet you're not used to being told no," she says easily. "What are you, like 19?"
The man behind her grins and slides an arm around her shoulders.
"That was a good try, but you've gotta work on your game a little, Amicitia," the man says. "Takes a lot to impress a girl like this, considering how you Crownsguard don't see much battle outside of a training center."
"Yeah, yeah," Gladio says. "Laugh it up, Hero. How's gate duty treating you? Hear Drautos wasn't so pleased about that stunt you pulled."
"Ah, he's just jealous."
Noctis fears it's going to come to a fight, but all three laugh and offer friendlier greetings.
They salute and bow in deference when Gladio introduces him. Noctis waves them off. He hates the attention his title draws, and it's definitely not a good idea to make it known here, of all places.
"Noctis, this is Nyx and Crowe," Gladio says. "Of the Kingsglaive."
"It's a pleasure," Noctis says.
"So, what kind of mess are you in that the Crownsguard can't handle on their own?"
"The kind that no one needs to know about," Noctis says darkly. "This guy beat the hell out of a friend of mine. We're going to remind him what happens when you step on a consort of the Royal family."
"Your friend can't fight his own battles?" Nyx asks.
"If you saw him, you'd understand."
"He's puny," Gladio supplies. "Not a fighter."
Noctis is inclined to disagree. Fighting doesn't always involve muscle, and it's clear Prompto's been fighting a long, hard battle on his own.
He feels guilty for not seeing it. For not questioning why Prompto refused to take off his sweatshirt when it was too hot to wear one. The way he sometimes jumped out of his skin at the slightest bit of contact. The look of panic when Gladio playfully swatted at him. It was all there in front of him and he missed it.
"It was his father," Noctis says.
Crowe frowns, a bit of pity in her eyes.
"Damn," Nyx says. "Count me in."
"You guys are here for intimidation only," Gladio says. "But I'm not going to lose any sleep if maybe you slip and his face falls into your fist a few times."
Nyx grins. "Understood."
Gladio leads the way, Noctis brings up the rear. They're careful to avoid the security cameras and they keep their backs to them when they can't. Noctis' fury swells as they approach a man at the bar.
There are seven empty beer bottles in front of him, an eighth in his hand. Hebeto Argentum has already consumed more than his share and it's not even sundown. He's a large man, broad shouldered and probably as tall as Gladio. Even if Prompto fought back, he wouldn't stand a chance.
Gladio grabs the man by the collar of his dress shirt and hauls him to his feet. The man takes a wild swing, but Gladio pins him face-down against the wooden bar top. Nyx and Crowe flank him.
"So, you think it's fun to beat up on kids, huh?" Gladio says.
"I didn't do anything. He fell, okay? He's a klutz!"
Gladio tightens his grip. The man struggles to free himself, but Gladio doesn't let up.
"You're what, three times his size?" Gladio asks. "And at least hundred pounds heavier? Tell me how that's a fair fight."
"Kid's a liar!" Argentum says. "Lemmie go!"
Gladio lifts him up off the bar and drags him out into the alley, kicking and flailing the whole way. He's the same size as Gladio, and about the same height, but his girth is not due to muscle mass.
"You want to fight someone, give me a shot instead," Gladio says. "You, me. Right here, right now. We'll see how tough you really are."
Gladio shoves Argentum away. Argentum stumbles but raises his fists, ready to fight and defend himself. Nyx and Crowe block him in, his back to the wall.
"Listen, I don't want any trouble," he says and drops his fists. "I'm not looking for a fight."
"Too bad. You got one," Gladio says.
Gladio steps back and allows Hebeto Argentum to see Noctis. Argentum's eyes grow comically wide and he shakes his head.
"I bet your son wasn't looking for a fight either," Noctis says and takes a step closer. "And you hurt him anyway."
"This is all a misunderstanding," he says. "I didn't lay a hand on him. I swear!"
Noctis is not the type to get into brawls outside of training. He's never hit anyone who wasn't a sparring partner. He's not a fighter by nature, even if brawling has been drilled into him, a necessity required by his position. Faced with a drunken, helpless opponent, he hesitates.
It isn't a fair fight, but then again, Prompto didn't get a fair shot either. He thinks about how scared Prompto must have been all these years.
Noctis fights back against his conscience and delivers the first blow. Not with a weapon, but his bare fist, just the way Gladio taught him. His punch lands against the man's side, the impact and placement designed to bring about maximum pain. He swings again and his fist collides with the man's face.
Argentum howls and hunches forward, a hand pressed to his bruised ribs. Noctis feels nothing but cold vengeance.
"Okay, okay," the man wheezes. "Maybe I knocked him around a little. Won't happen again. I swear."
"That wasn't the first time, was it?" Noctis asks.
"He asked for it!"
"Nobody asks for that," Noctis says. He looks to Gladio. "I don't think he's getting the message."
The beating Argentum receives is short, but brutal. Noctis gets in a couple more hits as Gladio holds him still, then stands back and watches while Crownsguard and Kingsglaive work together to deliver his sentence. If Noctis has any regrets, it's that he didn't understand Prompto's plight sooner.
It explains too much about why Prompto doesn't talk about his family, and about why he's always reluctant to go home.
When they're finished, Hebeto Argentum lies in a heap on the dirty cobblestones with a bloody nose, two black eyes and a few broken bones. Noctis kneels down beside him, takes his arm and twists until he feels it snap. The man's scream is pure agony, but Noctis feels no sympathy.
"Prompto is under my protection," Noctis says. "Do you understand?"
"...yes."
"Good."
Noctis is shaking as they leave the man in the alley. He's half-sick over what he's just done, but full of vengeful blood-lust and vindication on Prompto's behalf. Maybe the way they went about it was wrong, maybe the man is owed due process under the law, but a cold kind of justice has been served and Noctis doesn't regret it. If anything, the man got off easy.
"Never would have guessed you had that in you, Highness," Nyx says and claps him on the shoulder. "This kid must be a good friend."
Noctis nods. "The best."
Dear Prompto,
Your last letter was unusually terse, and utterly devoid of photos. I've almost come to expect them, so imagine my disappointment when I opened the envelope to find a few short sentences and no new photos to add to my collection.
Really, Prompto. That is unacceptable. What shall I do with myself if there are no new awkward photos of Noctis petting stray cats to make my long and lonely days bearable?
All kidding aside, I hope you don't feel your correspondence is unwanted. As I've said, it is always welcome and always appreciated. I don't mean to pry or upset you, but I worry about you as much as I worry for Noctis. I also understand if circumstances prevent you from writing at present, but know that you are more than welcome to share your troubles with me if you wish. I'm too far away to gossip, after all, and anything you tell me will be kept in the strictest of confidence.
You're in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope to hear from you soon.
Yours,
Luna
Dear Luna,
I'm just going through some stuff. I'll tell you about it some other time. The good news is I'm staying with Iggy, and Gladio thinks I should train to become a Crownsguard. I won't just be that weird kid that follows Noct around with a camera anymore, I'll actually be able to do something useful. How cool is that?
So now, after school every day I'm supposed to train, and I'm actually looking forward to it, even though I'm not crazy about the idea of killing things. But hey, whatever I need to do to serve my future King, right?
Anyway, today's set of pictures is from the visit to the children's hospital. We had a great time playing with the kids and you know, Noct is pretty good with them. You'd be proud. Oh, and the weird one of me crawling around on the floor is me pretending to be a chocobo. Yeah, I'm that guy. I gave them all rides. It was a blast, but man, does my back hurt! I think I'm going to keep going back to see them when I can, even if Noct doesn't come with me. I feel like I did something worthwhile, you know? Sometimes I can't see the forest for the trees, so it helps to remind me that no matter how bad my own troubles seem, they're small chicobos in comparison. I mean, I got it pretty good when I think about it, so if there's anything I can do to make it better for those who don't have it so easy, it's worth doing.
Thanks for thinking of me, Luna. Sometimes I forget I have some really awesome friends and that I'm lucky enough to call someone like you one of them. I mean, you don't have to take time out of your busy day to keep in touch, but you do, and I'm humbled that you think someone like me is worth your time.
Your buddy,
Prompto
P.S. Noct really does love him some stray cats. Wanna make a wager about how many he adopts once he's King? I mean, the Citadel's a pretty big place! He can house a bunch and I doubt anyone would even notice.
Dear Prompto,
I shall take you up on your wager. I say 100 stray cats, all of which he will name after characters from the games he so loves and I have no clue about. Henceforth, Noctis shall be known only as the Crazy Cat Lady, or CCL for the purposes of our letters.
I'm not one to make bets, but a cash wager seems rather boring. If I win, I will require that you take a place in court in Tenebrae, should we ever achieve our independence from the Empire. You shall be the official court photographer and Master of Something-or-Other to make it sound official. If I lose, I will steal away from my hosts for a time and finally pay my dear friends in Insomnia an overdue visit. Does that suffice?
I'm so pleased to hear you wish to continue volunteering at the children's hospital. I spend a great deal of time healing and visiting the ill wherever I am, and it is quite rewarding and humbling to see all the everyday heroism that goes unnoticed. Though it is my duty as Oracle, it feels good to give back and to know something I've done has eased someone's pain, even if for only a short while.
And please do your best to dissuade our Crazy Cat Lady from encouraging rumors of his unfortunate, otherworldly birth. Seems he's quite amused by some silly story regarding extra appendages. While I also find it amusing, perhaps he could take it down a notch? Word has spread that the future King of Lucis is, in fact, an alien, and unfortunately there are those foolish enough to believe in such things.
I hope you're doing well, and I will keep you in my prayers so that whatever burdens you carry will be lifted and you will find the joy still to be found in this troubled world we live in.
Yours,
Luna
It takes Prompto a few days to adjust to his new, if temporary home. His injuries heal, and slowly he begins to trust that his father won't come storming in to take him back. As the weeks and months pass, his good humor returns, his test scores improve thanks to Ignis' help, and he spends every afternoon training with the Crownsguard recruits. At the end of each day, he collapses into bed, exhausted but with the sense that he's finally on his way to changing his fate.
The only thing that still weighs heavy on his mind is what he could be, and where he's from. Ignis digs into the subject, but there's little information to be found beyond what they already know. It's precious little comfort in the face of what he stands to lose.
He looks forward to Luna's letters. A playful sense of humor begins to reveal itself, and Prompto grows more and more comfortable revealing truths he can barely share with Noctis. He doesn't tell her a lot, but more than he dares say to anyone else. She is always kind in her response, empathetic in ways that his friends are not.
Nearly six months pass and Prompto finally returns to his old home to retrieve the rest of his belongings. He doesn't tell anyone he's going. It's a risk, but he's stronger now. He knows how to fight back. He knows he can.
His key still works and as expected, no one is home. It's the same as he left it. Bleak and unwelcoming. Empty, but looks like it hasn't been cleaned since he left it. Take-out boxes litter the counters and the trash overflows. Roaches scatter at his approach and he cringes, disgusted by the thought that anyone could live this way.
His belongings have been packed up, the posters removed from the walls. He's surprised there's anything left.
He sorts through the boxes but discovers there isn't much he wants anymore. He packs some of his clothing and a few sentimental items, his favorite comics and his photo albums, but the rest doesn't matter. This room and these things are part of his old life.
It's life he's ready to leave behind. He will be an outsider no matter where he goes, and he's not sure he belongs at Iggy's, but he knows he doesn't belong here.
He's never belonged here. They will never welcome him home or celebrate his successes. They will never see him the way he needs them to see him.
He exits the bedroom just as the front door opens. His mother steps inside and freezes at the sight of him. It's hard to tell if she's afraid or angry or surprised or some combination of the three. Prompto watches her from the doorway, his heart aching for her to finally be the kind of mother he always wanted and needed.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Getting my stuff," he says. "I'm on my way out."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good."
Prompto wants to ask a thousand questions, but she's just as much a stranger now as she was before. She's unmoved and her indifference hurts.
"Why?" he asks because it's the only question he can manage.
"I tried, Prompto. I tried, and it just didn't work."
"What didn't work?"
"It's hard to love a thing you hate so much," she says softly. She gestures at his covered wrist. "I tried, and I couldn't."
This is so much worse than his father's fists. It hurts a thousand times more. He wants to ask why he wasn't worth loving. Why they took him in. Why it was so hard to care. Why a stupid mark on his arm made him so unlovable.
"It's not your fault," she says. "You were a good boy. I'm just not a good enough person to get past it."
She shakes her head and rushes past him to the kitchen. She turns her back on him at the sink and leans both palms against the dirty counter.
"I'm sorry I failed you, Prompto. I should have tried harder," she says.
The truth sucks. His throat tightens and his eyes burn. He wants to forgive her, to ask her to try again, but if after all these years she doesn't have it in her, there's nothing he can do to change it.
"You should probably go. He'll be home soon."
"So, that's it then?" he asks. "You wash your hands of me?"
"It's probably for the best," she says. "I can't protect you."
He needed her protection, but more than that, he needed her love, and he never got it. All because of the mark the Empire has left on him.
Prompto leaves without a proper goodbye. He takes the bus back to Ignis' apartment, numb and tired and his heart in bloody shreds.
Ignis greets him from his place at the table, an endless stack of books and paperwork before him, and Prompto nods back. He stashes his bags in his room and returns to the kitchen, where a kettle of hot water is warming for tea. Prompto stares at the bright red coil, mesmerized by the opportunity it offers.
A new brand might cover the old one, or maybe obscure it enough that it won't be recognizable for what it is. He could burn it away until it disappears, a scar a better option to what is already there.
It's worth it to try. A few minutes of agony might buy him a future where he doesn't need to hide. A future where someone loves him for who he is instead of being denied because of where he might be from.
He strips off the athletic band and drops it on the counter. It's now or never, while Ignis' back is turned.
Prompto removes the kettle from the burner, takes a deep breath, and presses the branded skin against the glowing ring on the stove.
Chapter 3: Blindspot
Chapter Text
Ignis looks up from his studies as a thin but pained cry rises from the kitchen. A moment later, he smells burnt hair. The sound comes again, louder this time, and Ignis rushes into the kitchen to investigate.
Prompto stands at the stove, his arm pressed to the fire-red burner. His face is contorted and the tendons of his neck stand out. His lips are pressed together to hold back a scream. Sweat beads on his forehead.
Ignis forcibly removes his arm from the stove, turns off the heat, and reaches for one of the potions he keeps in the drawer specifically for kitchen mishaps. He breaks it against Prompto's burn and is rewarded with a whimper of relief.
As the burn heals, Prompto squeezes his eyes shut and his face collapses. Twin rivers spill down his cheeks and he covers his face with his other hand to hide his shame.
Ignis is not big on hugging, but he draws Prompto into his best approximation of a motherly embrace. Whatever brought this on requires it.
Prompto lets out a loud, barking sob as Ignis folds him against his chest and the sound of it tears Ignis apart. For all his complaining, the things Prompto actually complains about are not the things that really bother him. Those things, he holds back. That's never been more clear than it is now. There is a world of pain in Prompto's hacking wails, years of pain, and far more than Ignis ever realized.
"It's all right," Ignis promises as he clasps the back of Prompto's neck and holds him tighter. "I understand."
Ignis wonders if that so-called family of Prompto's ever bothered with this sort of nurturing. Prompto clings to him, desperate and pitiful, like he's never been held before in his life.
"I'm sorry," Prompto moans through hiccuping sobs. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Ignis says. "Let it out."
Prompto's tears soak through Ignis' dress shirt and his body burns like he's come down with a fever. Ignis can't remember the last time he cried himself, but he sheds a tear or two on Prompto's behalf.
Perhaps if the others were around, Ignis would handle this differently. Perhaps Prompto would, too. But they are alone, and there's no need for pretenses or restraint.
Prompto eventually pulls away and wipes angrily at his wet cheeks. His eyes and nose are red and his mouth shakes with the effort to stop crying. He slips to the floor and sits with his back to the oven with his head against his arms and takes long, slow breaths to calm himself.
Ignis joins him on the floor and lays a hand against the back of Prompto's head. He ruffles Prompto's hair and rubs his neck, the way he used to do for Noctis when he was a boy. Noctis' outbursts were rare, but they happened.
They all like to joke that Ignis is a mother hen, but he feels a protective, paternal sort of fondness for these boys in his care, Gladio included, though he's barely a man himself.
Though he knows his job is necessary, sometimes he feels like a glorified nanny. But who else will guide these boys, if not Ignis? The King is often too busy for Noctis, as is Gladio’s father, and Prompto's family seems to have neglected and abused him all his life.
Ignis would trust no one else to do the job as thoroughly or with as much nuance as himself. Yet for all his dedication, there is nothing he can do to ease this kind of pain except be there. His offering is precious little in comparison to the hurt that drove Prompto to this in the first place, but it seems it's far more than he's used to.
"I'm sorry," Prompto says again. "I didn't mean to lose it."
"Don't apologize," Ignis says. "I myself have been wondering if that might work."
Prompto holds out his still-healing wrist. The code is still there, plain as day beneath the fading burn, the numbers legible and the lines perfectly straight.
"Guess not," Prompto says quietly.
"Pity. It would have been an effective solution to the problem."
"Should have known it wouldn't be that easy."
"Indeed," Ignis says. "Perhaps in time we'll find another way. It's too soon to give up hope."
Prompto sniffles and wipes his eyes.
"Hey Iggy? You don't have to keep helping me out," he says. "I know I'm in your way."
Ignis rubs Prompto's back like he's a small child. In some ways, perhaps he still is. His chin quivers and his eyes begin to leak again and he looks very much like a young boy in the midst of a scolding.
"I rather enjoy your company. It can get lonely by myself," Ignis says. "But, I must admit it's also nice to have someone to feed who doesn't turn his nose up at half of what's on the plate."
Prompto sniffles again, but almost smiles.
"Your food's awesome, Ig. I'm happy to be your taste-tester," Prompto says. "But I mean, I'm not picky like some people we know. I'll pretty much eat anything you put in front of me."
"Indeed," Ignis says. "May I tell you a secret?"
"Sure," Prompto says.
"I occasionally sneak vegetables into Noctis' meals," Ignis says. "And he eats them. Without complaint."
"Yeah? How do you do that? He doesn't notice?"
"Of course not," Ignis says. "I shred them finely and mix them into whatever dish I've prepared. For example, my marinara sauce contains both carrots and green squash. Sometimes spinach as well. I tell him it's basil, which is not a vegetable, no matter how green it appears."
"No kidding," Prompto says. He smiles, for real this time. "Dude, he'd be so mad if he knew."
"Which is why we're not going to tell him," Ignis says. "Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss."
"Must be nice though, to pick and choose what you eat," Prompto says. "If I ate as much crap as Noct does, I'd weigh a ton."
"Moderation is key," Ignis says. "But, you're allowed to indulge every now and then."
Prompto goes quiet and folds his arms over his knees. He rests his chin on his forearms and stares at the cabinets across from them.
"Next time you feel the need to maim yourself," Ignis says, "speak with me first. I know it's tempting to make rash decisions when you're upset, but we'll find a solution together, and that requires a cool head and some consideration beforehand."
"Yeah," Prompto says. "Okay."
"On a different note, some mail came for you today."
"I'm getting mail here?"
"So it seems," Ignis says.
He pushes to his feet, gathers the mail from the table and hands an envelope to Prompto. Prompto stares at it for a second, then tears it open. Inside is a debit card and a folded sheet of paper.
"What is this?" he asks and examines the card.
"I assume it's your pay."
"For what?"
Ignis smiles. Of course Prompto would join the Crownsguard without the expectation of compensation. Recruits always received a stipend for their training time. The fact that Prompto is ignorant of this says a lot about Prompto's reasons for doing it.
"You're a servant of the Crown now," Ignis says. "That does come with some benefits."
Prompto looks over the included statement and his eyes widen.
"Are you kidding me?" he cries. "I've been saving my change for three years and it's not even close to this! Are you sure this isn't a mistake?"
"No mistake," Ignis says. "Perhaps you should treat yourself. One little splurge, and then you'll put the rest in savings for the future."
Prompto stares at him like he's speaking a different language.
"Go get cleaned up," Ignis says. "I have a sudden and uncontrollable craving for ice cream. And you have some money to spend."
"Oh! Yeah, sure. I'll treat you to some ice cream if you want, seeing as I just got paid!" Prompto says, a bit of his former energy creeping back into his voice. "It's the least I can do after, you know, everything."
Ignis laughs and helps Prompto up off the floor.
"You misread my meaning," Ignis says. "The ice cream is my treat. And then you will purchase something expensive and completely unnecessary for yourself because you can."
"Expensive and completely unnecessary?" Prompto asks with a cautious smile. "Like what?"
"Isn't there anything you've wanted and can't afford?"
"Well..." Prompto begins. "There was something, but it's probably gone now."
"Then we best go find out."
Prompto strolls along the sidewalk in the shopping district, Ignis beside him. He hasn't completely recovered from his meltdown, and the athletic band chafes the still-healing burn, but the fresh air, ice cream, and activity help lift his spirits.
It was stupid and impulsive to do what he did. He knows that. He just wanted the barcode gone for good, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.
It didn't help anything. He's still branded, still a thing everyone will hate if they find out.
He's glad Iggy was there, but he's embarrassed by the way he reacted. It's been a long, long time since anyone hugged him, and he didn't know how starved for it he was until Ignis offered.
That was the worst part. That desperate feeling, the incredible need to be held and comforted, and how easily he fell apart when Ignis gave him both.
Prompto peers into window after window, but nothing really strikes his fancy. In this part of town, there are a ton of clothing shops, and places to buy kitchen gadgets, electronics and jewelry, but Prompto doesn't see anything close to what he's looking for.
Ignis buys himself a new tie, some expensive hand lotion, and ink refills for his fancy fountain pen. Prompto checks price tags and winces at how much they want for basics like socks and t-shirts.
"See anything you like?"
"Not really," Prompto says. "The thing I was thinking about isn't in this part of town."
"Then lead the way," Ignis says.
"Let's take the subway. It'll be faster."
Ignis makes a face, but he follows Prompto. A few paces away from the stairs to the station, a young woman is selling watercolor paintings on the sidewalk. Prompto stops to admire her work.
Each one is beautiful, most of them landscapes in bright colors, but it's the painting of a sylleblossom in vivid blues and violets that captures his interest.
"I want that one," he says and hands over his card.
The artist is pleased he likes her work and thanks him profusely for his patronage. She wraps it in paper and Prompto pictures Luna opening it, wherever it is she might be.
"A fine purchase. Both expensive and unnecessary," Ignis says as they walk away. "Though, I am surprised by your choice."
"It's not for me," Prompto says. "It's a gift."
"Do tell," Ignis says. "A young lady, perhaps?"
"Um, well, uh, she's, you know, an old friend," Prompto says as a blush creeps up on him. "Her birthday's coming up. I think. Maybe."
If Ignis' curiosity is piqued, he doesn't show it.
"Then it will make a fine gift," Ignis says. "You have excellent taste, and I'm sure she will appreciate it. But do be sure to purchase something for yourself as well."
They take the subway to Prompto's old neighborhood. He hadn't planned on coming back here. Not on the same day his mother admitted she felt nothing for him. Nor ever, but he also didn't plan on a sudden windfall. There's more money in his account than he's had in his entire life combined. Luna's gift aside, there's only one thing he really wants, and for the first time since he laid eyes on it, he has more than enough to afford it.
The store he seeks is in the opposite direction of his old apartment. It sells second-hand household items and clothing, but also a selection of electronics, jewelry and musical instruments that people have sold to make ends meet.
A block from the store, Prompto runs into a kid that lives in his old building.
"Prompto? Is that you?"
"Yep. It's me."
"I haven't seen you in forever!" Caine says. "After your dad got beat up, I thought something happened to you, too. You kinda disappeared on us."
This is news to Prompto. His father can be an intimidating man, and it's hard to picture him laid low. By anyone.
"My dad got beat up?"
"Yeah, says some foreign dudes kicked the crap out of him on his way home from the bar," Caine says. "Figured you knew."
"I don't live there anymore," Prompto says. Saying it out loud stings, but it's also liberating. "I'm, uh, with the Crownsguard now."
"Really? That's awesome, dude!"
"Yeah, it kinda is," Prompto says. "Anyway, if you see my old man, you let him know that, okay? Tell him I'm gonna be one of Prince Noctis' personal guard."
"Bet he'll be proud to hear it," Caine says. "Gotta run. See you around, buddy!"
He watches the kid go. It's a strange duality, to have one foot on either side of the line. He tries to picture Caine, who is not so unlike himself, as a commoner that hung out with some of the most powerful people in the city. It's hard to imagine, and he wonders, not for the first time, how he even got here.
The Lokton is still in the window when they arrive at the store. He stares at it from the sidewalk and thinks of how many times he's stood in this same spot and daydreamed about it.
"Ah. I see," Ignis says, sounding pleased. "Are you sure you don't want something more modern? I saw several new ones in the shopping district."
"Nope," Prompto says. "It's old, but the pictures it takes are way better than any of those fancy new ones."
"You're the expert," Ignis says. "Shall we go inside?"
Dear Prompto,
I was surprised and delighted to receive your gift, and I am humbled that you thought of me. It's lovely and I will cherish it always. Sylleblossoms are, of course, my favorite. Thank you so much for remembering.
I am pleased to hear you are enjoying your training, though it sounds as though your days are quite full. Be sure to take time to rest and enjoy being young as well. Go outside and take your photographs. Stand in the sunshine. Laugh with your friends. The duties of adulthood leave precious little time for relaxation and there will be plenty of years ahead of you to work. For now, be what you are, take your time, find yourself, and you won't look back on these years with regret.
How fares our Crazy Cat Lady? His letters are often short and contain no mention of his well being. I often find myself scanning the lines and picking apart his words to determine his state of mind, but always come up without an answer. I understand his father is not in the best of heath and this endless war drags on, so perhaps he is preoccupied. Please do ensure he also takes time for himself, so long as it doesn't involve extensive and excessive napping.
Thank you for the beautiful painting, and I will continue to keep you in my prayers.
Yours,
Luna
Dear Luna,
We're coming up on our university entrance exams, and Iggy's got the pressure on the CCL right now. It's stressing him out a little. Heck, it's stressing me out too, and I'm not sure if I wanna go to University or not. Cor and Gladio think I should go full time with the Crownsguard after graduation, and I kind of wanted to maybe possibly do something with my photography after I graduate. Maybe open a studio or sell prints to travel magazines. I'd have to do some traveling to make that happen, but I can't do that if I'm stuck in class. I mean, my grades are good enough to get in, thanks to Iggy, but I'm just not sure if higher education will give me much of an advantage if all I want to do is take pictures. A few courses at the technical school might be a better option.
And I'm not sure what happened but Noct and his dad aren't seeing eye to eye right now. There's been some tension and Noct won't talk about it except to say he finally did as his dad asked and stepped up, and he's getting some grief for it. All I know is he gets this weird look whenever you mention it.
Stuff's going on in the city, too. You can feel the tension when you walk around. I don't usually notice stuff like that, but it's starting to bleed into everything. There's a lot of violence happening in the outer neighborhoods, a lot of crime, and people are blaming refugees for it. Iggy says it's scapegoating, but I'm not sure what's true because the news says something different. Makes me nervous, you know? I guess it's the war and all. Everyone's on edge. Iggy says it's gotten to the point where Insomnia is basically an island surrounded by hostile cannibals just waiting to eat us alive. Meanwhile, people who don't want to live under the Empire's thumb come to Insomnia for protection with barely more than the clothes on their backs.
You probably already know all this. I'm only now paying attention to news and politics because Iggy makes me watch broadcasts and learn about this stuff in exchange for getting to sample his latest culinary creation. It's a fair trade I think. I don't feel so dumb when people talk about what's going on, and I get to eat all these great things I've never tried before.
I'm gonna take pictures of Iggy's meals and send them to you. They're works of art. He has a gift, but I swear, either my pants are shrinking or there are a lot more calories in his food than he admits to. Which is not good for me, the reformed over-eater. But Gladio says some of the extra mass is muscle, so I guess I shouldn't worry too much. I just don't want to go back to that place. I worked really hard to get healthy, so I sort of get hung up on every pound I gain. That's probably not healthy either, but I felt really bad about myself when I was a kid, and I don't want to feel like that ever again.
Hope you're doing well. I saw you on the news a few days ago and it was so weird to think that after all this time, and after all these letters, I feel like I know you, but we've never met in person. Maybe someday we can fix that. Maybe, if I become a super famous photographer, I can come visit. I'll be the guy taking your picture for the papers!
I think CCL would really like to see you again, too, even if he never says it. You should see the look on his face when Umbra shows up with your notebook! Maybe I'll get a picture of it and send it to you. I'll have to be sneaky about it, and he'd kill me if he knew, but it's like he's a different person for a minute.
Look at me, rambling on. Maybe I'm trying to make up for the CCL's short, boring letters. I'll stop now, but give Pryna a belly rub for me, okay?
Your buddy,
Prompto
"You've come a long way, Prompto," Cor says as Prompto wipes his brow and holsters his training pistol. "I have confidence you'll be ready should the need arise."
Prompto's cheeks warm and he bows his head at the compliment. Cor does not throw out praise often, so when he gives it, he really means it.
"T-thanks," Prompto says. "I won't let you down, sir."
"That said," Cor says, "you need to work on your confidence. You're an excellent shot, you're fast, and you're at the top of the curve when it comes to completing the timed trials. There's no reason to second guess yourself."
Confidence has always been an issue. His troubled childhood, combined with the sense that he's an impostor in this world tends to undermine him. He is eighteen, he's grown stronger, and he's got the approval of the Marshal, and that should be enough, but he still doubts himself in a thousand different ways.
"Thank you, sir. I'll work on it."
"And watch your six," Cor says. "Always be aware of what's behind you. Not checking your blind spots can get you killed."
Prompto nods. "Gotcha. I'll work on that, too, sir."
"Good," Cor says. "Report to Monica tomorrow afternoon. She'll oversee your self-defense and first-aid training twice a week from now on."
"I will," Prompto says. "And, you know, thanks."
"You said that already," Cor says with a hint of a smile. "Confidence, remember?"
"Yeah. Confidence."
Cor pauses and looks Prompto over.
"I trust you're doing well outside of training?"
"I'm doing great," Prompto says. He pats his stomach. "Though Iggy's doing his best to fatten me up. My grades are good, and I'm graduating soon."
"Glad to hear it," Cor says. "I'll see you next week."
Prompto heads home, showers, and gathers his stuff for his usual weekend at Noctis' place. He spends most weekends there now, to give Ignis a break and to hang out with his best buddy. They don't do much but watch movies and play games, and Prompto still visits the children's hospital on Saturday afternoons, whether or not Noctis goes too.
On the table is a package with his name on it. He tears the paper off and opens the box to find a graduation cap and gown inside.
"Woohoo!" he cries and holds it up to see if it will fit.
Included in the box are a set of announcements. He runs his fingers over the thick, cream-colored paper and reads his name on the inscription inside.
Luna's the only one he wants to send one to, but he's proud just the same.
"There's nothing I can do at present," King Regis says. "I understand where you're coming from, but we've been over this Noctis. We are at war, and our resources are stretched thin as it is. I cannot do anything until we are able to regain control of our territories. Until then, sacrifices must be made."
"So you're just going to let the refugees starve on the streets?" Noctis says. "They're your people. You were supposed to protect them."
"So I was, and I have failed," Regis says. He limps across the parlor of his suite and takes a seat by the window. "You do not know what it's like to watch our territories fall one by one and not be able to do anything about it."
"Then take them back," Noctis says.
Regis sighs and shakes his head.
"You are young and know nothing of war. You do not know the cost of upholding the wall. It takes it's toll. I'm tired and I can only do so much."
"What's the point of being King if you don't have the power to change things?" Noctis asks. "Or maybe, you only care about those from Insomnia and everyone else can fend for themselves."
"I have to take a meeting, Noctis," Regis says tiredly. "We'll discuss this later."
Noctis throws his hands up and storms from the room. They've had this same argument for some time now, and it always ends the same way. His father, the King, the most powerful man in the city, can do nothing. Noctis, his successor, can only show up to volunteer or hand out cash from the Citadel's coffers when he has it. It isn't enough.
He still thinks about that woman and her children in the alleyway. Had he not gone off to avenge Prompto, he would not have known Insomnia wore a veneer of wealth and power that hid the undeniable truth that the city was not what it seemed. Had he not seen her, he'd probably still be content to sit in his apartment and play games or sleep until Ignis forced him out of bed.
That part of town is known by the refugees as the Waiting Room. It's where the most in-need people gather to wait for either death or salvation. Jobs are few, people live in one room apartments where every spare inch of floor is dedicated to bedrolls. There are no shelters or soup kitchens. There is only the long wait for something to change.
Noctis wants to help in any way he can, but there's no easy solution. In a city as prosperous as Insomnia, there shouldn't be a problem, but there is. Maybe, if his father was willing to pass a law that prevented employers from refusing to hire outsiders, it would be a start. Maybe, if the only way to get work wasn't to join the Kingsglaive, they would prosper.
He drives to meet Gladio for training, and weaves in and out of traffic, his foot on the gas pedal, and his mind everywhere but on the road. Horns blare and a few people give him the finger, but Noctis doesn't care. Ignis isn't here to reprimand him.
The first few minutes of his session are intense as Noctis takes his frustration out on Gladio. He warps around the room faster than Gladio can track and lands hit after hit until Gladio holds up his hands to signal the end of the fight.
"What's got you so worked up?" Gladio asks.
"It's nothing," Noctis says. "Are we done here, or do you wanna go for round two?"
"We still got plenty of time," Gladio says with a smirk. "Do your worst, Highness."
For over an hour, Noctis pummels Gladio with the best he's got until he's spent and panting on the floor. Gladio nudges him with his boot.
"You know, if you trained like that everyday, you'd be years ahead of where you are now," Gladio says. "I like the hustle. Keep it up."
"Yeah, great," Noctis says and sits up. "We done here?"
"You need to get something off your chest?"
"No," Noctis says. "I just want to go home."
Noctis' cupboards are bare, save a lone Cup Noodles and a stale bag of chips.
"Dude, there's nothing to eat."
Prompto takes the chip bag from the cupboard to dispose of it. Ants spill out of it and Prompto yelps as they crawl up his arm.
"Dude! You've got ants!" Prompto complains and flails around the kitchen to get them off. "Ugh! I hate bugs!"
Noctis looks up from his place on the couch and pauses his game.
"There's some spray under the sink."
Prompto stares at him for a second, incredulous. Then, he shakes his head and locates the can of spray and hoses the cabinet and countertop down.
"So, did Ignis forget to go grocery shopping this week, or what?"
"I forgot to give him my grocery list," Noctis says. "He's teaching me a lesson about being responsible for myself. Hence, ants and no food."
That sounds like Iggy. Prompto opens the refrigerator to find a single egg in a carton, a take-out box so old he can't identify what it was, and a bottle of ketchup. He closes the door and scratches his head and looks to his friend for an explanation.
"How long ago was that?"
"Monday."
"Did you, I don't know, maybe make a list when you figured out he wasn't going to do his part until you did your part?"
Noctis shrugs and goes back to his game.
"Okay, then," Prompto says. "Take-out it is. What are you in the mood for?"
"Don't care."
"You say that, then I order something spicy -"
"Get whatever you want," Noctis says. "Not really hungry."
"You mad about something?" Prompto asks. "You want me to go?"
"No, I don't want you to go," Noctis says. "Just... it's this thing with my dad. It's not you."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Same thing, different day," Noctis says. "Go on and get something to eat. Maybe grab me some chips and snack cakes while you're out."
"Sure you don't want something else?"
"Nope."
Prompto calls a take-out restaurant a few blocks away and orders their spiciest stir-fry with plain rice and an order of pot-stickers for Noctis, just in case he changes his mind. If he knows Noct, he will.
"Back in a jiffy," he says as he heads out.
The evening is warm and the street is lit up with neon signs that advertise banks and movies and cleaning products. Cars move at a crawl and the sidewalk is crowded.
Prompto loves the bustle of downtown. All these people, going about their lives, all that activity and urgency. Sometimes, he wonders where they're all going.
A few blocks ahead, across from the convenience store, a small parade of people march in a circle outside the subway. They carry signs that demand equal rights for refugees, equal pay and equal opportunities for jobs.
He feels for them. He's heard things around town and seen things on the news about how difficult it is to survive here as a refugee. The media portrays them as lazy layabouts who prefer lives of squalor and crime to honest work. Prompto doubts that's true.
They shout at him from across the street and wave their signs. City Police hang back on the fringes, batons at the ready in case they get out of line, but to Prompto, it looks like these people just want to be heard.
He ducks into the convenience store for Noct's snacks. He browses the isles until he locates Noctis' favorite chips and snack cakes, and grabs a couple of colas from the cooler.
As he approaches the counter to pay, two men burst in, guns drawn.
"Open the cash drawer," one of them demands. "Now!"
The terrified clerk gapes at them, but doesn't open the drawer. Prompto freezes, unsure of what to do.
There are two men in front of him with guns. There are police right outside. He's trained for the last two years to fight and defend. He's a member of the Crownsguard. He needs to act.
Cor believes in him. He just needs to be confident.
The cashier draws his own weapon from under the counter, and the robber's finger twitches on the trigger.
Prompto stops thinking and acts instead. He lunges forward and tackles the man to the ground before he can shoot the cashier. A blast of gunfire ricochets through the store as something sharp and hot stabs at Prompto's side on the way down.
He's practiced this in training, but it never got his heart pumping like this. He's never been this scared. He uses elbows and knees to injure and subdue, and they knock over a rack of peanuts as he and the robber fight for control of the gun.
The other man and the cashier are in a silent stand-off with one another, neither willing to let the other out of their sights, and neither willing to pull the trigger.
Prompto gains control of the gun, wrenches it away from the first man and turns it on the second.
"Drop it," he says and pushes to his feet. "Put it on the floor and kick it to me."
The perp is unsure of who to aim at. The armed cashier, or Prompto.
"You've got two on you, dude," Prompto says. "You're not gonna win. Put the gun down, okay? Whatever he's got in the register isn't worth it."
The cashier, in a panic, turns to aim at something behind Prompto and pulls the trigger. The blast is deafening and Prompto is knocked backwards as the round hits him square in the chest. He meets the cashier's shocked, wide eyes as he falls. The bullet was not meant for him.
Prompto forgot to watch his six.
Big mistake.
It knocks the breath from his lungs and he can't seem to draw another. His vision goes fuzzy and unfocused. Colors melt together like watercolors in the rain. He struggles to get up but his body won't cooperate. Rivers of something warm and wet spill down the sides of his ribcage and he smells gunpowder and warm copper and floor cleaner.
Beside the cooler, a strange looking man wearing too many layers for the warm weather tips his fedora and smiles. Tears of black spill down the man's cheeks and his eyes are bottomless holes darker than the ink in Ignis' fountain pens. He kneels beside Prompto and passes a hand over Prompto's face, then removes the band from his wrist. Prompto tries to protest, but he's too weak to fight back.
Fedora-man presses his palm to the wound in Prompto's chest and something nasty slithers into him and begins to writhe beneath his skin like a serpent. There's a sickly, wet rattle in his lungs and his thunderous but unsteady heartbeat drowns out the rising sirens in the distance. He's never been this cold in his life.
The man caresses his face again, smiles, and stands.
"I've given you a gift," the man says. "Sleep well, dear sweet Prompto."
Ignis takes his car keys from the peg by the door, assures he has his briefcase, and steps out into the hall. He's on his way to dinner with his Uncle at a swanky new restaurant downtown he's heard good things about. Eager to try the new cuisine, Ignis does not notice the pair of Kingsglaive at the end of the hall until they're already near.
Their dress and posture convey they are here on official business. He stays where he is, expecting them to stop at one of the other doors in the hall, but as they draw closer, it becomes clear their business is with him.
"Might I help you gentlemen?"
"Are you Ignis Scientia?"
"I am."
"Put your hands up. You're under arrest for aiding and abetting an Imperial fugitive, and conspiracy to commit treason."
Chapter 4: Steel and Brass
Notes:
Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kudos and comments guys! I'm still astounded by the response to this, and I'm so happy you're reading!
Chapter Text
Noctis is dozing on the couch when his phone rings. He opens one eye and checks the time on the display before he looks at the number, sits up, cracks his neck, and fumbles for the answer button.
It's been almost three hours since Prompto left to get food. It's not unlike Prompto to get distracted and lose track of time, but three hours is a new record. Noctis wonders what's keeping him as he answers Gladio's call.
"Where are you?" Gladio demands.
"At home. Where else?" Noctis stifles a yawn and goes to the window to look out at the city lights. "What's up?"
"I've got some real bad news," Gladio says. "Prompto's been shot and Iggy was arrested an hour ago."
Noctis freezes. He's not sure which part to address first.
"Shot? How did he get shot?" he asks. "And what do you mean arrested?"
"I don't know a lot, but it ain’t good," Gladio says. "Heard through the grapevine Ignis is being accused of treason. Prompto apparently tried to stop a robbery and got shot in the process."
"Treason? Is this a joke?" Noctis says.
There's no one more loyal to the Crown than Ignis. Noctis can't picture straight-laced, polished, by-the-book Ignis stepping a toe out of line, let alone plotting a conspiracy.
Prompto, well, he's the guy that walks elderly people across the street and carries groceries for overburdened mothers. As worrisome as it is, Noctis can almost picture how it played out.
"Is Prompto all right?"
"They won't tell me nothin' and they're not letting anyone near him," Gladio says, "but you better get your ass down here. It ain’t looking good."
"All right," Noctis says and goes off in search of his trainers. "Be there as soon as I can."
Noctis arrives at the hospital to find Gladio in the waiting room. He stands against the wall, arms folded, so lost in thought he doesn't see Noctis approach. Gladio takes him aside, down an empty corridor so they can speak privately.
"What's up? Any news?" Noctis asks.
Gladio scratches his chin.
"Nothin' good. Turns out your good buddy Prompto's a Niff," Gladio says. "Iggy knew. That's why they arrested him."
"I've known Prompto since elementary school," Noctis says. "He's not a Niff. There's no way."
"They're saying they got evidence to prove it," Gladio says. "Won't tell me what it is, but it looks like Prompto was a spy."
"Prompto?!" Noctis laughs because if he doesn't, he's going to scream. "Are you kidding me? He's literally the most sincere person I've ever met."
"Yeah, well, maybe that's just part of the act," Gladio says. "You don't think it was suspicious how he was always following you around with a camera? How he just one day decided he was going to be your friend and wormed his way into your life? How a kid from a working-class neighborhood wound up not only your best friend but a member of the Crownsguard?"
"If it was so suspicious, why didn't you stop him?" Noctis demands. Gladio has a fair point, but Nocits won't acknowledge it. There's no way any of this is true. "Why did you let him hang around?"
"I couldn't find anything to justify chasing him off," Gladio says. "And believe me, I looked."
Fuming, Noctis steps up to Gladio, toe to toe.
"What about Ignis?" Noctis asks. "You don't trust him either?"
"Maybe he got roped into something he couldn't get out of," Gladio says. "And yeah, he made himself suspicious, too, when he took in an up-jumped commoner who turned out to be a Niff spy out of pity."
"How dare you," Noctis says and shoves Gladio. "You're going to eat those words when I prove you wrong."
Gladio shoves Noctis back, and Noctis stumbles. He's tempted to take a swing, but he's no match for Gladio if it comes to blows. Noctis is pissed off, but he's not stupid.
"You think I want to believe all this? About either of them?" Gladio growls. "They're saying they have proof, Noct. Get your head around that, accept it, and figure out what we're gonna do, because before long, they're going to start asking questions, and you're gonna have to answer them."
Noctis steps back and bows his head. He leans against the wall and considers what kind of proof they could possibly have. It has to be more than Prompto following him around with a camera, but nothing stands out as particularly suspicious. Prompto, for the most part, is an open book. Besides the thing with his dad, Noctis has never really known him to hide anything.
"It has to be a mistake," Noctis says.
"That's what I'm hoping," Gladio says. "Guess we'll have to wait and see."
Ignis sits in an interrogation room inside the Citadel and waits for someone to come for him. He's cuffed to the chair and the table, though he surrendered without a fight. They know he's exceptionally skilled at combat, and they know he's spent a lifetime studying strategy. They're not taking any chances.
He has no doubt this has everything to do with Prompto, but he does not believe the charges. Prompto is no spy, and Ignis is prepared to accept the consequences of keeping his secret. He knew the risk and took it anyway out of compassion. It is now his duty to convince him they are wrong.
Ignis watches the clock and waits. It's an intimidation tactic meant to break him. The longer he must wait, the more on edge he will be, and the more likely he is to fall apart. Ignis is prepared for this, and he is unperturbed by the wait. He spends the time considering unusual but complementary herb and spice combinations for steak, and whether or not a currant sauce would enhance the flavor of grilled fowl.
It's another hour before anyone comes to speak with him.
She breezes into the room, Titus Drautos in her wake, and she takes a seat in the chair across from him like a regal and haughty swan upon a calm lake. She smooths down her helmet of snowy white hair and looks him over like she would rather be anywhere but here. Drautos greets him with a curt nod and stands behind her, a glorified body guard.
"Good evening, Mr. Scientia," she says. "Do you understand why you're here?"
That's a loaded question. Ignis understands in the intellectual sense but he's unsure of the circumstances that led to his arrest.
"Perhaps you could explain," he says.
"Tell me about Prompto," she says instead.
"Not much to tell," Ignis says. "He's a classmate and friend of Prince Noctis and a recent inductee into the Crownsguard."
"So I understand," she says. "And, he's been staying with you for the last two years?"
"He has," Ignis says.
"That's quite unusual."
Ignis gives a wan smile and a shrug. "I suppose it is."
"Do you make a habit of taking in common, underage boys?"
Ignis tenses and narrows his eyes. This is not the direction he expected this conversation might take, and he's disgusted by both the question and her tone.
"What exactly am I being accused of?" he asks mildly.
"It's just a question, Mr. Scientia," she says. "I'm trying to understand why a person from a noble family such as yourself would invite a boy his age into his home."
"It's not that difficult to understand," Ignis says. "Prompto's father was abusive. I merely offered him a refuge after a particularly nasty beating, and I don't appreciate the insinuation that I may have had an inappropriate relationship with a minor."
"Rather defensive answer, Mr. Scientia."
"Rather strong accusation."
"I accused you of nothing."
Ignis temples his cuffed hands together. By law, he isn't required to disclose any information unless he's under oath or his lawyer is present. He has all the power here, though she believes otherwise.
"I didn't get your name," he says.
"Anima Comedentis," she says. "I'm the lead investigator for this case."
"I see," Ignis says. "In the future, it's probably best to start with that. Might I speak with my lawyer?"
"No, you may not," she says.
"Then, anything I say is strictly off the record and inadmissible in court, is it not? Nor am I required to answer your questions."
Comedentis is thrown, but she reassembles her former bored expression in an instant.
"We're just trying to piece together why a prominent member of the Citadel's staff harbored a spy."
"Prompto is no spy," Ignis says. "The very idea is laughable."
"We have evidence, Mr. Scientia."
"I assume you mean the bar code on his arm."
"So you admit you knew about it," Drautos says.
"I did," Ignis says. "From my understanding, Prompto came to Insomnia as a very young child. He has no memory of it and no ties to Niflheim that I am aware of, and quite honestly, he knew nothing of its origin. I was looking into the possibility that he'd been kidnapped or rescued from one of the Magitek facilities as an infant. It would explain why he's here and why he was never told where it came from or what it meant."
"That remains to be seen," Comedentis says.
"Have you asked him?"
She smiles. "I plan to. If he survives."
"What do you mean, if he survives? Has he been harmed?"
"Prompto was involved in the attempted robbery of a convenience store downtown," she says. "The clerk says Prompto attempted to disarm and diffuse the situation and was shot twice. The paramedics discovered the bar code, alerted authorities, who lead us to you. He's currently in surgery, but the doctors don't expect him to live through the night."
Ignis bows his head and says a silent prayer for Prompto. It's a struggle not to let his feelings show. This is not the time or place for it, nor is grieving too soon appropriate. If he's still alive, there is still hope.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," he says. "He is a good, kind boy."
"He could prove a valuable source of information on the Empire's secret intelligence network within the city," Drautos says. "We would prefer him alive."
"How compassionate of you," Ignis says. He lifts his head, collects himself, and looks Comedentis in the eye. "I have said all I have to say."
"The more you cooperate now, the more likely we'll be able to reduce your sentence," she says.
"If you expect me to lie to save myself, you'll be sorely disappointed," Ignis says. "I'd like to speak with my lawyer, if it's all the same to you."
"You're not doing yourself any favors, Scientia," Drautos says.
"Be that as it may, I have nothing more to add without legal representation, as is my right under the law."
"You face execution," Drautos says. "These are very grave accusations."
Ignis flashes a placid, benign smile and folds his hands on the table.
"You will not intimidate me into disclosing anything else. I'll speak with my attorney."
"Fine. Have it your way," Comedentis says. "Drautos, have him taken to lock up. Give him our finest cell."
Prompto floats in and out of consciousness, a steady beep and a mechanical hiss the only sound to keep him company. His body is numb and he can't lift his head. The only thing he can see are ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights.
There's something over his face and mouth and he wants to take it off, but his arms are tied down with bricks.
When he sleeps, his dreams are full of darkness, of monsters bleeding from the earth, of light fading from the world. Sometimes, he is the darkness that poisons everything he touches.
It's four days before he's able stay awake longer than a minute or two. When he does, no one will speak to him. Not the doctors. Not the Kingsglaive at the door. It's like being invisible, like he's not really there, and he starts to wonder if he's already dead and his brain hasn't noticed yet.
His friends don't come visit. Not Noctis. Not Ignis. Not Gladio. No one.
It's another two days before he starts to piece together what happened. Not because anyone tells him, but because of what he remembers. Because of the missing band on his wrist.
They know.
That's why none of them have come to see him, why not even the doctors will look him in the eye.
Prompto's feared this for so long, nearly every thought and interaction has been censored for fear of the truth coming out. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop for so long, it's almost a relief that it has. Even if his heart is broken, and hope has abandoned him, there are no more secrets, no more lies, and he doesn't have to hide anymore.
As soon as he can get out of bed on his own, he's transported to the jail. He expected nothing less, but the gravity of the fate awaiting him doesn't hit until the door slams behind him, and he's left to a small four by six cage with a thin cot and a toilet.
Then, there's nothing to do but wait.
He sleeps sitting up, his back to the wall, eats the bland meals they bring him twice a day, and tries not to think about his friends or what they must think of him now that they know the truth.
For two days, he sits alone in the quiet cell and waits for the inevitable sentence to be passed.
When someone finally comes, it's the man he saw in the convenience store as he lay on the floor bleeding out. There are no black tears on his cheeks this time, and his eyes are amber instead of bottomless pits.
Prompto thought the man was a product of blood loss, a hallucination and nothing more. He sits up as the man drags a fingertip across the bars of the cell door. His smile is pleasant, but Prompto's skin crawls at the sight of him.
"Tell me. How do you like your new home, Prompto?" he asks. "The food good? The bed soft? The atmosphere to die for?"
Prompto doesn't answer him. He doesn't know why this guy is here, or what he wants, but it's seriously giving him the creeps.
"Poor little Prompto," the man says. "All your friends have abandoned you, and for what? A silly little mark. What good, loyal friends they all must be."
The man laughs and grips the bars of the door. In Prompto's chest, something slithers, and a steady throb, like a second heartbeat, pulses in his eardrums, out of sync and way too loud. His skin grows hot, then cold, then hot again. His vision clouds and the ground around the man's feet is a swirling black chasm.
"Who are you?" Prompto asks. He tries to sound tougher than he is, but his throat is dry and he hasn't spoken out loud in days. That second pulse beats in his parched tongue. "What do you want?"
"Who are you? What do you want?" the man mocks. "So many questions."
"Cut the crap, dude," Prompto says. "Just tell me why you're here."
"I do hope you're enjoying the gift I gave you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your life, of course," he says. "If not for me, you would have died in that store, all alone."
Prompto shivers and pushes himself as far against the wall as he can, but here's nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.
"I understand what that's like, dear Prompto. I know how empty and powerless you feel," he says. "All alone and forsaken by those you trusted."
"Shut up," Prompto says under his breath. "Just shut up."
"So ungrateful," the man says. "But, I have another gift for you."
He holds something in the palm of his hand, something that glitters gold in the dim light, and extends it through the bars. Prompto stays where he is, and the man tosses it across the room. It lands on the mattress at Prompto's feet with a soft thump.
"The bullet that nearly took your life. Amazing, how something so small can cause so much damage." He tips his hat, smiles, and bows dramatically. "Do take care Prompto. Till next we meet."
He walks away, trailing darkness in his wake. Prompto blinks at the spot where he stood, but the concrete floor is just concrete. He notes the absence of retreating footsteps, the silence around him too absolute for his visitor to be real.
A hallucination, then. Maybe his wound isn't as healed as they thought. Maybe it's become infected and he's having fever dreams.
He shivers and wraps an arm around his middle, and that weird double beat in his chest fades away. From the mattress, he picks up the bullet and holds it between his thumb and forefinger. It looks pretty real to him.
They treat him like he's dangerous when they come to take him for interrogation. Four guards with guns, a man from the Kingsglaive, and a woman in a smart pantsuit escort him to a brightly lit room upstairs and cuff him to a chair.
"Hello, Prompto," the woman says. "I finally get to speak with you."
He doesn't know who she is, but she reminds him of a snake. She appears bored, but her eyes are sharp, watchful, and hungry.
She introduces herself as Anima Comedentis, her companion Titus Drautos of the Kingsglaive.
"You're in some serious trouble, Prompto," she says. "Do you understand what you're being charged with?"
"Nobody wants to tell me what the charges are," he says, "so no."
"In short, you stand accused of being an Imperial spy," she says. "Your parents have confirmed you are not of Lucian birth."
"What are you guys going to do to me?" he asks.
"That depends," Comedentis says. "Come clean and tell us how you managed to fool the Prince and his associates, who you're passing information you've obtained to and how it was communicated, and maybe we can cut you a deal in exchange for your cooperation."
"I never never meant to fool anyone," he says. "I have a hard enough time just being me."
Prompto stares at the mark on his wrist. He should have known it would come to this. A secret this big couldn't stay hidden forever.
"Who is your contact?" Drautos asks.
"I don't have a contact."
"How do you communicate with the Empire?"
"I don't."
"Electronically? A double blind, perhaps?"
"I don't even know what that means," Prompto says. "I'm telling you, I'm not a spy."
"Is it someone in the Crownsguard?"
"I don't... I'm not passing information on to anyone," Prompto says. "I swear."
"Who are you sending the photographs to, Prompto?"
"No one!" he cries.
"Tell us the truth," Drautos says. "You're not helping yourself by lying."
"Dude, I didn't ask for this!" he shouts and holds up his wrist. "I don't really even know it means or why it's there!"
He's shaking. That slithering thing from before threatens to come out and he fights it, short of breath and afraid he's going to fall apart. The still-pink scar on his chest throbs and burns, and that second heartbeat pulses in his limbs. He's sick and hot and scared, but he's not going to cry in front of them.
They keep firing questions at him until he slams his palm against the table. He grits his teeth and sits forward, desperate to be heard.
"I'm not a spy. I just wanted to be a normal kid with a normal life, and I don't know anything about the Empire except what I hear on the news," Prompto says. "I can't tell you anything more than that because there isn't anything else."
"Just tell us the truth, Prompto," Comedentis says. "Tell us the truth, and all this will be over with."
"I'm telling the truth," Prompto says and ducks his head. "All I wanted was to be Noctis' friend. That is the truth."
Ignis requests he be allowed to wear his best suit for the hearing. After all, a man should endeavor to look his best in public, and it would be a crime to be sentenced to death wearing drab prison blues.
To his surprise, his wish is granted. On the day of the hearing, they allow him a shower and a shave and return his glasses to him. He's escorted to an empty cell to dress in his favorite tailored three-piece Westwood suit. Someone has taken care to starch the shirt. A pair of gold cuff links shaped like daggers are in the pocket of the jacket.
There's also a note, folded into a small square no bigger than a postage stamp.
He unfolds it and recognizes Gladio's handwriting. All capital letters, each one boxy and precise.
WALK TALL. YOU GOT THIS.
Neither of his friends have been allowed to visit. He hasn't seen either for more than a week, his last conversation with Noctis a discussion about taking responsibility for himself. The last meeting with Gladio concerned the security detail for Noctis' upcoming graduation.
He understands why he's been isolated. King Regis would want Noctis to be kept as distant as possible from the scandal. He knows both Gladio and Noctis have been interrogated, but he doesn't know the outcome of the questioning. He knows Prompto is somewhere down in this hole with him, but whether or not he lives or dies is still up in the air. Ignis also knows they have been unable to prove anything, except that Prompto is tattooed in a manner similar to the MT's.
What that truly means, no one knows.
Once dressed, Ignis is marched from his cell by four armed guards and Titus Drautos. They leave him free of handcuffs and Ignis assumes this is due to the four rifles at his back. He does not speak or show any outward sign of distress, though on the inside, he is less secure in his belief this will end well.
They pass several empty cells, but Ignis stops when he sees Prompto. The boy sits on his cot, his back to the wall and his chin against his knees. He meets Ignis' gaze and stares back with empty eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches downward and betrays his attempt at stoicism.
Ignis is sorry it has come to this. He is sorry Prompto must suffer through this alone. He is sorry he didn't find out where Prompto came from or what he was, and the boy doesn't deserve any of this.
Over time, Ignis' fondness for Prompto has grown strong, and that paternal instinct to protect and defend is stronger than his instinct toward self-preservation. If there is anything he can do to ensure Prompto's life is not at an end, Ignis will do it, even at the cost of Noctis' comfort.
Noctis will be fine without him. Considerably less well fed, but fine. Prompto's fate, however, hinges on Ignis' testimony.
He only has a second, but he slips Gladio's note from his pocket and flicks it through the bars.
"Are you well, Prompto?" he asks.
"Hey, eyes forward, Scientia."
"It'll all work out," he says. "You are not alone."
"Hate to get blood on that fancy suit of yours, Ignis," Drautos says.
"He's just a scared boy," Ignis says calmly. "I'm merely trying to offer a little comfort."
"He's a Niff. There's no sympathy for Niffs around here."
Ignis is hit in the back with the butt of a rifle.
"Move it."
"Indeed," Ignis says. "I've been made to wait far too long for this as it is. Shall we, gentlemen?"
The hearing takes place in a small board room inside the Citadel. Ignis maintains his air of calm as everyone is seated. He has a plan. It's a risky one, but if Ignis excels at anything, it is strategy. Sometimes, the best strategy is the long shot.
It begins when King Regis takes his seat at the far end of the table, Clarus Amicitia at his side. Investigator Comedentis is to Ignis' right. King Regis clears his throat and levels Ignis with a long, disappointed stare.
"The accusations against you are grave," he says. "If found guilty, they carry the heaviest of sentences."
"So I understand," Ignis says.
"Do you deny these accusations of treason?"
"Wholeheartedly," Ignis says. "I deny them."
"You have admitted you knew the young man was a branded Niff and that you harbored him anyway."
"That is correct," Ignis says.
"At any time did he request your assistance in the passing of information along to the Empire?"
"No. He did not."
"At any time, did you consider the consequences of harboring such a person."
"Yes, I did."
"Explain."
"You are aware of Prompto's home situation?" Ignis asks. The King nods. "I merely chose compassion over prejudice. As far as I know that is not a crime."
"Did you consider the possibility the boy might have injured himself to gain your pity?"
"Never," Ignis says. "He might have been able to orchestrate a black eye and a few bruises, but it's quite difficult to break one's own bones, especially in the manner his were broken."
"I see. And following that?"
"I offered my home as a refuge and my skills as a researcher to assist him in discovering the truth of the matter."
"What truth?"
"The origin of the bar code, of course. It's purpose and meaning," Ignis says. "He said he'd had it since he was young and was only told that it had to stay hidden."
"And what did you learn?"
"Precious little that could help us understand what he is and where he came from."
Regis temples his hands under his chin and considers Ignis' testimony.
"He's just a boy, Your Highness," Ignis says. "A kind-hearted one at that. He's done nothing wrong, I assure you."
Beside Ignis, Comedentis smirks and exchanges a glance with Drautos. It's a loaded look, but one Ignis can't make out the meaning of.
"This is a difficult position you have put me in, Ignis," Regis says. "I trusted you to keep my son safe."
"I understand. I am prepared to accept whatever the consequences."
"Are you prepared to see your own career ruined for this impostor?" Comedentis asks. "Or give your life for him?"
"However he came to be here, Prompto is a loyal citizen of the Lucis. He is loyal to his King and to Noctis, and I am aware that you can produce no evidence to the contrary," Ignis says. "So the answer is yes. I am prepared to accept your judgment."
Regis looks at Ignis like a father who has been let down by a son. It stings, but Ignis maintains his visage of calm. He can't allow them to see him falter.
"So be it. Ignis Scientia, you are stripped of your title and relieved of your duties as advisor to the Crown Prince. I hereby sentence you to five years probation for your crimes."
Ignis expected worse, but it's bad enough. It's a black mark against his family and his name, but not one that can't be washed away in time. Regardless, he will continue his research in the hopes that Prompto's name will be cleared as well, dead or alive.
"And what of Prompto?" Ignis asks.
"Likely he will be executed."
That is unacceptable. Ignis will happily take his punishment, but he will not quietly accept Prompto's fate.
"You intend to execute a boy who has done nothing wrong," Ignis says. "Beyond a mark on his arm, you have no evidence he has plotted against the crown."
"We can not take the risk."
"Do it, and your son will never speak to you again."
"You are not to concern yourself with Noctis' well being. It is not your duty any longer."
"It's far to late for that, Your Highness," Ignis says. "I gave up my own childhood to ensure your son was cared for in your absence. Forgive me if I can not turn off my feelings in that regard, but do not doubt, if Prompto is put to death without concrete, absolute proof of his crimes, you will lose any and all faith your son has in you."
"You are out of line."
"I raised him!" Ignis shouts. "Not you! I fed him and and tended his scraped knees and taught him to shave! I held him while he cried, comforted him when he woke from nightmares, and where were you?! I know him, Highness. He will not take this lightly."
The room is completely silent in the moments following Ignis' outburst. No one speaks and no one dares move. Ignis does not break eye contact with his King. If his harsh words earn him a harsher sentence, then so be it. He will not stand for a knee-jerk reaction to that which they do not understand.
"If I may, your Highness," Clarus says.
"What is it?"
"Perhaps an alternative might be considered," Clarus says. "Perhaps we might return him to his homeland as a gesture of good faith."
"Return him to a place he has never been, to the people who created him?" Ignis asks. "That's rather like giving back their confiscated weapons after a battle, don't you think? The Empire will either put him to death, or use him for their intended purpose."
"Then what would you suggest?" King Regis asks.
"Give him a chance to prove his loyalty to the Crown. He is, or was, a trained member of the Crownsguard, after all," Ignis says. "In the meantime, look into how it came to be that a one-year-old with an MT code print was brought here in the first place."
King Regis holds Ignis' gaze across the table. Uncertainty flickers behind his eyes, and Ignis knows he has won.
"I'll take it under consideration," the King says. "Your sentence still stands. You may go."
Titus Drautos paces the hall outside the conference room and considers the best way to approach the King with his proposal. Had this boy been anyone but the Prince's best friend, his execution would have been swift. No one would question whether or not the boy was a traitor.
This presents Drautos with a rare opportunity. He knows exactly what the boy is, though how he came to be here, Drautos can only speculate. He has suspicions, but no proof.
It doesn't matter. The threads are already unraveling. The unrest in the city will tear at the fabric of the King's power and prove the catalyst for his undoing. Every pull of the thread brings him closer to ending this.
Whether this Prompto is a spy or not, Drautos can use him. The boy is close to the Prince and his advisors and could prove a valuable source of information, either willingly or by his own ignorance. Drautos would prefer it if they were on the same side, but if not, he can work with it.
Scientia's insubordination was the edge Drautos needed. It planted a seed of doubt that Drautos can use. That outburst deserved applause, and Drautos struggled to keep a straight face. They all played their parts so well.
"Could that have gone more perfectly?" Comedentis whispers in his ear.
Drautos turns to face her and smiles. She's more harpy than woman, but Drautos respects that about her.
"We should be grateful for Scientia's moral compass," Drautos says. "He didn't disappoint."
"He should be commended for his loyalty," she says. "Though I've got to say, he must have balls of solid steel."
Drautos' smile broadens. "You sound jealous."
"Steel still melts when you put it to the fire," she says. "We'll see how he fares without his charge."
Scientia and his future are of no concern to Drautos. The young man was just a stepping stone, a puzzle piece that fit nicely into the bigger picture.
"Shall we see if the King has a spare moment?" Drautos asks. "Perhaps we can appeal to that soft heart of his."
Anima Comedentis smiles. She's gotten her first real taste of blood, and she wants more.
"Lead the way, Captain."
Prompto unfolds the note once Ignis and the guards have gone, and his heart hurts at the words written on the paper. It's a sign that maybe his friends haven't abandoned him, that there's still hope to be had of a reunion, but Prompto is hesitant to allow hope to creep back in. The worst could still happen, with or without their support.
A meal arrives and Prompto eyes the contents on the plate. Some kind of meat. Mushy, overcooked peas. A paste-like substance that could be potatoes if he squints. His appetite is gone, but he takes a bite of the meat and immediately spits it out. It's gone rancid.
He tosses the tray on the floor, flings himself back onto the cot to wait until the next tray of rotten food arrives, and tests the weight of the bullet the visitor gave him in his palm. It's cool against his skin and he catches a whiff of gunpowder and brass.
Weird, to find comfort in such a dubious offering, from an object that almost killed him.
They come for him before his next meal. Four guards and Titus Drautos. They cuff him and shuffle him out of the cell. No one tells him where they're going, but he guesses this is the end. He starts to sweat an his throat gets tight. As bad as this sucks, Prompto isn't ready to die yet.
"Hey guys?" he says. "If you're about to kill me, you think you could make it quick? I'm not big on pain."
"Shut up."
The muzzle of a rifle pokes him in the back and Prompto resigns himself to his fate.
They take him to a room where King Regis waits. Prompto sees not the King, but Noctis, older, tired and beat down and he wonders if the father's fate is the future that awaits the son.
The guards push him roughly into a chair and Prompto tries not to wince. He keeps his eyes on the table in front of him and resists the temptation to fidget with the cuffs around his wrists. That odd, out of time pulse beats in his fingers and toes and he tightens his fist around the bullet in his hand.
"Prompto Argentum. Your stand accused of treason," the King says. "How do you plead?"
"Not guilty." He almost chokes on the words.
"Do you have anything to say in your own defense?"
"Nothing I haven't said before," Prompto says. "Sir. Your Highness."
"Your friends all vouch for your innocence," the King says. "And it has been pointed out to me that we uncovered no hard evidence of wrongdoing on your part, other than hiding what you are."
What is he? That's the question, isn't it?
Is he just a kid who got a rough start? Or something that by its very nature poses an enormous threat to everyone around him? The fact that he's here suggests he's the latter, but he can't seem to convince anyone it isn't true. It's enough to kill the last remaining shred of hope he'll make it out of this alive.
"I would be derelict in my duties as a father and a King if I didn't take your origins under consideration. It is my duty to take potential threats seriously," the King says. "You may be ignorant of what you are, but it's possible that you've been feeding the Empire information all along without even knowing you were."
Prompto nods, though the second part is something he never considered.
"Am I going to die?" he asks. "Just tell me if that's what's going to happen, okay? I don't want to draw it out. Just get it over with, you know?"
The King sighs and folds his hands on the table.
"My son is quite fond of you," King Regis says. "He doesn't have many friends, and it pains me to have to make this decision. No matter what I choose, Noctis gets hurt. As a father, my instinct is to protect him. As King, it's my duty to protect the Kingdom."
Prompto holds back a groan. He just wants this over with. No speeches, no lectures, just a resolution, one way or another.
"My council and I have decided that execution is not the answer," he says. "Instead, we are prepared to offer you the opportunity that could help us defeat the Imperial Army. If you are, as you say, a loyal citizen, then you have a chance to prove it."
Prompto blinks at him, and he struggles to understand the King's declaration.
"I'm... I'm not sure how I can help with that," Prompto says.
"All will be explained to you," the King says, "should you agree to my terms."
Prompto sits up in his chair and struggles to keep the swell of hope at bay.
"So what do you want me to do?"
"You will be remanded to the custody of Titus Drautos of the Kingsglaive," King Regis says. "You will train and fight with them. Prove yourself worthy, and you may even become one of them. And make no mistake, if there is any indication of the charges named here today, you will be put to death."
Prompto opens and closes his mouth, blinks and sputters but can't come out with anything coherent.
The Kingsglaive? Those guys are nuts. In a good way, but they're still nuts. Prompto can't imagine himself surviving even a week of their training, if the rumors are to be believed.
"There is one other stipulation. From this point forward, you are to have no further contact with my son. No phone calls. No messages. No clandestine meetings, no communication by proxy," the King says. "Is that understood?"
No Noct? No Iggy or Gladio? No more delicious food, no games, no hanging out at the arcade. No more terrible puns, no more take-out on a Friday night. He won't graduate alongside Noctis or stand beside him whenever his father decides who he's going to marry.
He's alive, but is a life without his friends a worthwhile one?
"Do you agree to these terms?"
Prompto has no idea why the Kingsglaive would want him, or what he can do to help, but it's a better option than death.
He looks up at his King and sees nothing but sorrow in his eyes. Must be tough, being a King, forced to sacrifice his son's happiness for the sake of the Kingdom. In exchange, Prompto can sacrifice his own happiness to ensure Noctis has a future.
"This... what you want me to do, it'll help keep Noctis safe?" Prompto asks.
"We believe it will."
Prompto tightens his fist around the bullet and takes a deep breath.
"Then... yeah. I'll do whatever you guys want. For Noct."
Chapter Text
Ignis returns to his apartment, tired, lost, and desperately in need of a stiff drink. He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair at the dinner table, removes his cufflinks, and rolls up his sleeves.
On the table, Prompto's graduation gown is folded neatly in its box, the cap laid out beside it. Ignis runs his palm over the fabric and sighs. He doubts Prompto will be allowed to walk with his class. Perhaps, he won't even receive his diploma.
Shame. The boy's grades improved significantly in the last two years under Ignis' tutelage. He deserves to enjoy the fruits of his labor.
Behind him, Gladio tosses his leather jacket over the back of the sofa and hands him a bag from the grocery down the street.
"You about to have a meltdown, or what?"
It's not an ideal outcome for either Ignis or Prompto, but far better than it could have been. Still, his heart is heavy and he wonders if there was anything more he could have done to spare everyone involved.
"I'll be alright."
In the kitchen, Ignis sets aside the groceries, takes a pair of crystal tumblers from the cabinet and pours a measure of whiskey into each. He hands one to Gladio and they drink without speaking until their glasses are empty, then Ignis pours another.
"Goddammit, Iggy," Gladio finally says. "Was it worth it?"
Ignis sips his drink and considers the question.
"Someone had to stand up for the boy."
"What are you tryin' to say?"
"Nothing at all," Ignis says. "I did what I believed was right."
Gladio helps himself to another drink, bolts it down, and wipes a hand down his face.
"Noct know yet?"
"I'm sure he does by now."
"He's gonna be lost without the two of you," Gladio says. "Hell, I'm gonna be lost without you guys around to keep things interesting."
"I'm sure they'll find him a suitable nanny," Ignis says. "Prompto, however... I suppose those are some big shoes to fill."
"Don't sell yourself short," Gladio says. "Noct depends on you. He's not going to take it very well."
Ignis nods his agreement. Noctis will struggle without Ignis there to look after him, but he'll learn to manage on his own. Ignis is confident that Noctis will be fine in the long run.
"It isn't Noctis I'm worried about."
Gladio pours them both another round. Ignis leaves his glass on the counter, untouched. No sense in overindulging. It won't help anything.
"Kingsglaive is gonna eat that boy alive," Gladio says. "He's gonna wish he was dead."
"Perhaps it's for the best," Ignis says. "He might learn to stand on his own two feet."
"Kid does fall down a lot." Gladio smiles a little, sips his drink, and shakes his head. "Man, it's gonna be quiet around here without all that complaining."
"Is that your way of saying you're fond of him?"
"He grew on me."
Ignis takes a package chicken cutlets from the grocery bag and puts a skillet on the stove. He heats oil, adds some garlic and basil, a pinch of salt and pepper, and stirs until the aroma fills the kitchen. The chicken sizzles when it hits the hot oil and he starts a pot of water for pasta. He's not hungry, but there's comfort in maintaining a semblance of order and normalcy.
"Staying for dinner?" he asks Gladio.
"If you're making enough for two."
"Enough for three, plus seconds."
Ignis prepares a salad and whisks together a light vinaigrette. The water starts to boil and he adds a box of pasta, turns down the heat, and places a lid on the pot. To the chicken, he adds a jar of marinara sauce.
The front door bursts open and Noctis storms inside, his face a picture of rage. Ignis can't remember the last time he saw Noctis this worked up about anything.
"Tell me it isn't true," Noctis says. "Ignis. Tell me."
Ignis stirs the pasta, puts the lid back on the pot and turns to Noctis. He looks his former charge over, at his rumpled school uniform and incorrectly tied tie. Out of habit, he reaches for the tie, then stops himself.
"You shouldn't be here, Noct."
"Ignis. It's not true, right?"
"It's true," Ignis says with a heavy sigh. "I am no longer you caretaker."
"And Prompto?!"
"Also true."
"I need to talk to him," Noctis says.
"You can't," Gladio says. "Part of the terms."
Ignis straightens the lapel of Noctis' rumpled jacket, unable to resist the need to tidy him up. Noctis brushes him off and his face flushes.
"Why?" Noctis asks. "Why didn't either of you tell me?"
"I suspect you know the answer to that."
"He didn't trust me enough," Noctis says.
"I doubt his reasons had anything to do with a lack of trust," Ignis says. "As far as my own part, it wasn't my secret to tell."
Gladio pours Noctis a glass of whiskey, then hauls the boy to the table and pushes him down into a chair.
"It's done, Noct," Gladio says. "Drink up."
Noctis wraps his hands around the glass and closes his eyes.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye."
It pains Ignis to no longer be allowed to comfort his former charge. He looks so young and wounded and so in need of guidance.
"Neither did we," Ignis says. "At least he's still alive."
Noctis tastes the whiskey, makes a face and sets it back down.
"This is all my fault," he says. "If I'd just gone with him, or made that stupid grocery list like you asked-"
"Stop," Ignis says. "Prompto doesn't blame you. He blames himself."
"That doesn't help," Noctis says. "He doesn't deserve this."
"Most don't get what they deserve, good or bad," Ignis says. "But better that he's alive, Noct. Your father could have made a very different decision today, for the both of us."
"My father..." Noctis mutters. He lifts the whiskey glass and downs all of it in a single swallow. "I guess he didn't have much of a choice, huh?"
"Quit your moping," Gladio says. "Your dad had a hard decision to make today. He made the one that would hurt you the least, so stop crying about it and thank the Six it wasn't worse."
Noctis closes his eyes, leans his forehead into his palm and sighs. Gladio grips the juncture between his neck and shoulder and squeezes.
"Time to step up, kid," Gladio says. "You owe it to them."
Ignis checks the pasta, removes it from the heat and drains it. From the cabinet, he takes three plates.
"Join us for dinner, Noct," Ignis says. "After all, this may be the last meal we share for some time."
Prompto is transported to the Kingsglaive barracks and training ground, no longer cuffed, but with nothing more than the prison uniform on his back and the bullet clutched in his palm.
The bullet is a talisman. A reminder of how close he came to death, not once, but twice. It's all he has to keep him from freaking out.
He listens to the radio in the transport van and learns that Ignis has been relieved of his post. Noctis has lost not one, but two friends today, thanks to Prompto's secret.
It's his fault. All of this is his fault.
He should have cut all ties when Ignis discovered the bar code. He should have walked away right then and gone home with his tail between his legs. As much as it would have hurt, it would have been the smarter choice for everyone involved.
They arrive at the barracks and Prompto is taken inside. Others give him a wide berth as Titus Drautos escorts him through the hall, and they look at him like he's a daemon walking around in daylight.
Prompto is not taken to a cell, but to the training yard where several uniformed Kingsglaive spar. One attempts to warp and crashes face-first into the wall. He wonders if Noct ever did that by accident, smiles as he pictures it, then pushes the thought from his mind.
He can't think about Noct anymore.
Drautos takes him by the arm and motions to a man in his late twenties or early thirties. The man approaches with a wan but amused smile like he's sharing a private joke with himself. He comes to a stop and stands at attention before Drautos.
"Sir."
"I told you to stop calling me that," Drautos says. "I've brought you a new recruit."
"Really sir, you shouldn't have."
Drautos crosses his arms and glares at the man.
"I'll put him with the other seven. Sir," he says with a smirk. "Come on, kid."
"Not yet," Drautos says. "There are things that the three of us need to discuss. In private."
"We're in the middle of training. You know what happens when I turn my back on them."
"Leave them to Crowe for now," Drautos says. "I'm sure she can keep them in line."
"Sure, if you want them to learn how to strangle a man with a bra."
Drautos heaves an exasperated sigh.
"Thin ice, Ulric," he says. "I need you to take this seriously."
"I'm absolutely serious, Sir," Ulric says. "She once killed a man with just the underwire. Had no idea how effective a stabbing tool it could be until then. Even you would have been impressed."
Prompto bites his bottom lip until the urge to laugh passes. Drautos might be uptight and scary, but at least this guy has a sense of humor.
Ulric smirks until Drautos' scowl breaks, then he turns to Prompto and offers his hand.
"Nyx Ulric, at your service," he says. "Just call me Nyx."
"Prompto."
"So you're the MT."
"Do I look like a robot to you?" Prompto fires back.
Nyx looks him over, feigning serious consideration and gives a half shrug.
"Point taken," Nyx says. "Can I see it?"
"What?"
Nyx tips his head toward Prompto's arm. Prompto shivers, but turns his wrist over, the bar code on full display.
"Huh. I was expecting something different. If you've seen one, you've seen them all, I guess," Nyx says.
Just like that, the source of Prompto's shame is dismissed like it's a garden variety, run of the mill tattoo. Like it's no big deal, and some of Prompto's tension eases.
Nyx calls over a woman with dark hair tied up in a messy bun. She's tall and lean and gorgeous, her smile wry, and the way she walks says she could kill him with just her pinky finger and feel no remorse for it. Prompto's already half in love by the time she arrives at Nyx's side.
"Keep an eye on the kids for me," he says. "Teach them something fun."
"What did you have in mind?" she asks.
"Warp wedgies are always a good time," Nyx says seriously, and Prompto has to repress laughter a second time. "But, it's ladies choice today."
"You asked for it," she says, flashes a smile, and leaves them to join the recruits in the training yard.
"Uh, what's a warp wedgie?" Prompto asks. "Just, you know, for future reference."
Nyx grins. "I'll show you sometime. But not today. We have important things to discuss. Shall we?"
"Ten minutes ago," Drautos says. "There's a lot to cover and most of my day has already been wasted on hearings."
They descend three flights of stairs into what Prompto can only call a dungeon. He shivers at the drastic change in temperature, and that double beat in his chest flares up for a moment before it dies off and leaves him with an unsteady but mild tremor in his limbs.
They enter a lab of sorts, where a dozen or more MT's in various states of disrepair are housed in secure glass boxes. Some are missing limbs. On a table in the center, one is being dissected by a technician.
"Well this isn't ominous at all," he says under his breath. "It's got a nice mad scientist vibe that really sets off my iatrophobia."
Nyx gives a soft snort of agreement.
At the table, the technician disassembles the elbow joint of the MT. He expected flesh and bone, but it's all metal and wire inside.
"You know Plebe, they do kinda look like you," Nyx says. "They've got your eyes."
"No they don't," Prompto says. "For the last time, I'm not a robot!"
But, there are similarities. Enough to make him sick to his stomach.
"I don't mean to sound, you know, ungrateful or anything," Prompto says, "but, uh, why are we here? I mean, you're not going to turn me into one of them or anything, are you? Or try to put the parts..."
"It occurred to me during the investigation that you could prove useful," Drautos says. "Being what you are."
"Yeah, um, I'm still not sure how I can help."
"It's simple. You assist us in understanding how these things work, and you earn your freedom back."
"What makes you think I know how they work?" Prompto asks. "I'm not like them. I keep telling you guys that."
Drautos picks up a small rectangular bit of plastic from the tray beside the MT. He holds it up for Prompto to see.
"Do you know what this is?" he asks.
"Looks like a microchip," Prompto says.
"Correct," Drautos says. "Every MT unit we've salvaged from the battlefield has one. You don't."
Prompto's stomach twists and he shakes his head.
"You're not putting one of those things in me," Prompto says. "No way, dude!"
Drautos rolls his eyes and sets the chip down. He looks to Nyx, then back to Prompto with an expression of exaggerated patience.
"You owe me your life. You agreed to help us," Drautos says. "What makes you think you're in any position to say no?"
"It's my body, and I don't want that or anything else that has anything to do with those things implanted inside of it!"
"You are only a hair away from execution, boy. Don't think that it can't still happen."
"Drautos, take it down a notch. You're scaring the Plebe," Nyx says. He turns to Prompto. "What the Captain is trying to say, is that we want to figure out how these things communicate with each other and how they receive commands. So far, the techs haven't been able to figure it out because we can't get any of them up and running again, even though their chips still work."
"So what's that got to do with me?"
"Well, we want to sync one of these newer chips up with your code so that we can pull data from it during battle."
"During battle?"
Nyx laughs and pats him on the arm.
"What, you thought you were here for a nice, relaxing vacation in our dungeon?" Nyx says. "Trust me kid, the prison at the Citadel is a five-star hotel in comparison."
"We're prepared to make the chip wearable," Drautos says. "No surgery required."
Prompto didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. He takes the chip from the table and holds it up. So long as they don't plan to cut him open and stick it inside his brain or something, he's not opposed to the idea if it helps beat down the Empire.
"If it stays outside my body," Prompto says, "I guess I'm okay with it."
"I understand you trained with the Crownsguard for the last two years," Drautos says. "That should give you a solid foundation on which to build, but make no mistake. We are not the Crownsguard. We fight real battles against real adversaries outside the wall, and the Empire's army is massive and relentless. If you don't have the stones for it, speak up now."
Prompto looks from the MT on the table, to Drautos, to Nyx's encouraging smile.
"You're not going to dissect me or something, you know, afterwards, are you?"
"Can't promise they won't if you die," Nyx says with a grin, "but you're a lot more valuable to us alive, kid. And as luck would have it, we're desperately in need of a marksman who can actually hit a target. Leonis says you're the best he's seen in a while. So what do you say? You up for it?"
It's one thing to spar in a training center. It's another to enter into actual live combat. He's a good shot, but he's doubted all along if he can bring himself to shoot a living thing for real.
"Guess I don't really have another choice, do I?"
"Well, you do, but it's not the one I'd pick."
"At the end of this," Prompto says. "If I prove myself, I go free right? The charges get dropped?"
"If you live that long," Drautos says.
Prompto summons what courage he has left and turns to Drautos.
"Okay, but I've got some terms of my own."
Drautos laughs and shakes his head.
"You're in no position to make demands, kid."
"The way I see it? I kinda am," Prompto says slowly. "You need me more than I need you. I already came to terms with, you know, dying and all, and I don't have anything left to lose."
Nyx smirks, but Drautos' dark expression goes even darker.
"State your terms."
"If this works, Ignis gets his name cleared and his job back," Prompto says.
"I can't promise his job," Drautos says. "That's up to the King, but I'll see to it he is cleared of the charges so long as nothing else damning turns up, but I'm going to expect you to toe the line and do everything we ask of you without question or else. Is that clear?"
"You have yourself a deal," Prompto says. "Sir."
Noctis stares inside his empty fridge and sighs. There's nothing but a handful of ketchup packets, a pair of take-out boxes with dried-out rice and an egg that's been in there only the Gods know how long. Without Ignis around to take care of it, his fridge will remain empty until Noctis decides to do something about it. It's been a month since Ignis was relieved of his duties, but today is not that day.
"Quit staring at it like some magical food fairies are going to pop out of the unused vegetable drawer and conjure up a pizza, Noct," Iris says. "It's just not going to happen."
Noctis sighs and closes the door. Iris is right. He keeps expecting to find something in there he can eat, though he knows there's nothing.
"Maybe we can go out and get something," Iris says. "Come on. It'll be fun."
"Not in the mood," he says and drops onto the couch. "Not really hungry anyway."
Iris perches on the arm of a recliner and makes doe eyes at him. Noctis pretends he doesn't see it. She's thirteen, makes no secret of her crush on him, and he doesn't want to encourage her.
"They find a replacement for Iggy yet?" she asks.
As if Ignis can be replaced. As if just anyone off the street could or would do the job as well as Ignis could.
"Nope."
"That sucks," Iris says. "Bet you really miss him, huh?"
That's an understatement. He didn't realize how much he depended on Ignis until he was gone, for both domestic things and for his company.
Gladio emerges from the bathroom and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. "You're out of hand soap."
"I know."
"Then do something about it instead of moping," Gladio says. "You're not helpless."
Annoyed, Noctis stands up, reaches for his wallet and stalks toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To take care of it," Noctis says. "So everyone can get off my back."
"Don't do it on my account," Gladio says. "Do it for yourself. By the way, you're out of toilet paper, too."
Noctis sighs. "Fine."
"Iris, you okay to hang out here for a bit?" Gladio asks.
"Sure. I've got some homework," she says, "and maybe some snooping to do..."
"Snoop away," Noctis says. "Nothing to find."
Iris rolls her eyes. "I was kidding."
They walk to the grocery on the corner, and Noctis browses the aisles, unsure of what else he's out of or how much of it he needs. He tosses a couple bottles of hand soap in the cart, two big packs of toilet paper, some paper towels and an economy sized pack of Cup Noodles for good measure. That should keep him a while.
Does he have shaving cream? Was the shampoo bottle a little light this morning? He's not sure, but he finds the brands Ignis always buys and throws a couple of each in along with the rest. From the frozen foods section, he selects a trio of pizzas, and grabs a few boxes of snack cakes and chips from the rack beside the ice cream.
Gladio just stands back and watches him.
"You really have no clue, huh?" he asks as Noctis pushes his cart toward the register.
"About what?"
"Anything," Gladio says. He takes the excess merchandise from the cart and returns it to the shelves. "You don't need seventy-two rolls of toilet paper."
"Ignis never took me with him when he went shopping," Noctis says. "I'm doing my best, alright? Back off."
"Keep it down," Gladio says. "I know this sucks, but you're just going to have to deal with it. And maybe stop running off your caretakers just because they're not Iggy."
Noctis slumps against the cart and sighs.
"That's the problem," he says. "They're not him. Not even close."
"I know," Gladio says. "Don't know what you've got till it's gone, huh? By the way, you need to talk to your dad. I know you're still pissed, but giving him the silent treatment isn't going to help anything."
His tense relationship with his father isn't something he likes to think about. He understands his father's burdens, and he worries about his health, but Noctis isn't over losing two friends in one fell swoop.
"I don't have anything to say," Noctis says. "Not like he listens to me anyway."
Gladio takes him by the arm and leads him down an empty aisle.
"Here it comes," Noctis mutters. "Look, I don't need your lecture."
"You're gonna hear it anyway," Gladio says. "I don't think you understand the gravity of the choice he had to make."
Noctis pushes away from him, but Gladio blocks him in.
"It sucks that they're gone," Gladio says. "Believe me, I feel it too, but there was no way for him to let them off without looking weak. Everything he does, every choice he makes is under a microscope. As it is, he's taken a lot of flack for letting them live. He did that for you, Noct, because he knew you wouldn't forgive him otherwise. So stop acting like he murdered them in cold blood and be grateful they got off as easy as they did."
"You think I'm not?" Noctis asks.
"I think you're wallowing in self pity," Gladio says. "Wake up, Noct. Some day, you're gonna have to make those kinds of decisions too, and it's going to tear you apart. The least you can do is stop thinking about yourself and look at the bigger picture."
Gladio pats his arm and gives him that big brother look Noctis only hates when he's getting taken down a peg. Noctis brushes him off and returns to the cart.
"We done here?" he asks.
"You should probably get some dish soap, too," Gladio says. "Not that you ever clean up after yourself, but the housekeeper might like to have some supplies."
Noctis locates the dish soap and is momentarily baffled by all the options. It comes in all colors and sizes, and the bottles boast of various cleaning properties. He picks the yellow one, but Gladio puts it back.
"Isn't it all the same?" he asks.
"No, it isn't," Gladio says and takes a bottle of electric green liquid off the shelf. "Trust me on this."
"Guess you'd know better than me."
Noctis pays for his purchases and they leave the store laden down with bags.
"You hear from Iggy lately?" he asks.
"Talked to him a couple days ago," Gladio says. "He's hanging in there. Starts work at the library on Monday."
"Library, huh?" Noctis says. "That sounds like a dream job for a bibliophile."
"I'm the bibliophile," Gladio says. "Anyway, gives me a legit reason to see him more often."
Umbra is in the lobby and paces in confused circles in front of the elevator. He whines when he sees Noctis and wags his tail, but doesn't hurry over to make his delivery.
Noctis drops his bags on the floor and finds not Luna's notebook but an envelope. He takes it out and opens it.
Dear Prompto,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, if not in the best of spirits. I miss our correspondence, and though I know your circumstances have changed, I still consider you a dear friend. You are always welcome to write me, so if this reaches you, know that you're in my thoughts and prayers and I'm eagerly awaiting your next letter.
Yours,
Luna
Noctis stares at the letter for a long time before he folds it and places it back in its envelope.
"Luna and Prompto were writing each other?" he says.
"New to me."
Noctis' first instinct is to feel betrayed. It's another secret kept from him, another deception to add to the rest.
It's not what Prompto might be that bothers him. He can empathize with Prompto's fear of being discovered. It's the fact that he didn't have enough faith in their friendship to be honest, that he hid so many parts of himself from them, out of fear he'd be turned away.
"He could have told me," Noctis says.
"Maybe he was afraid you'd be pissed he was writing your girlfriend," Gladio says.
"She's not my girlfriend," Noctis says.
Noctis can't help but wonder if there's anything else Prompto hasn't shared. All he knows is that he's let his friend down by not being accessible enough.
The more he considers it, the more grateful he is that Luna was kind enough to write to Prompto. It's not such a terrible idea, the two of them sharing private correspondence. If they were ever to meet in person, they'd be fast friends.
"Why couldn't he trust me?" Noctis asks. "Why did he keep so many secrets?"
"Oh, like you're an open book all the time," Gladio says. "I'm sure he had his reasons."
Noctis gives Umbra a pat and considers writing his own letter to Prompto at the bottom, but if Umbra is here looking for Prompto, that means he can't find him.
He borrows the doorman's pen and writes Luna instead.
Luna,
Umbra brought your letter for Prompto to me by mistake. Didn't know you guys were in touch, but I'm glad for it. Hope he didn't send you too many embarrassing pictures, but if I know him, you've got a ton. They're probably all of me petting cats or something.
I don't think Prompto can be reached right now. The Kingsglaive compound is locked down pretty tight, and I doubt they're letting him out for afternoon walks. Getting in touch with him might be tough for a while, and I'm forbidden to see him.
I'm worried for him, Luna. Keep him in your prayers.
Always,
Noctis
For two months, Prompto does nothing but train. From sun up, to sun down, sometimes even in the middle of the night, he trains until he's ready to fall down.
Twice a week, he reports to the lab and submits to whatever tests they ask of him. Blood tests, brain scans, x-rays, MRIs, stress tests and they make him pee in a cup a lot. They poke and prod and ask questions about bones he's broken in the past, about his diet, his home life and his daily fitness schedule until they know him inside and out. He's little more than a science project that may or may not help the cause.
The other recruits keep clear of him. They know who he is and they're afraid, but he doesn't bother to cover the brand anymore.
Prompto retreats into himself the way he did when he was a kid. He has no friends here. He eats his meals alone, and goes to bed without participating in the conversations going on around him.
He hasn't cried since the first night he was here, but there are times when he wants to break down. Most of the other recruits are all taller and stronger than he is. He gets the crap kicked out of him daily in hand-to-hand combat, and unlike the rest, he can't warp to save his life. They were chosen because of an inborn affinity for magic. Prompto's only talent is good aim and a steady hand.
Once the others realize he's not much of a threat, they make fun of him, first in quiet whispers that cause them all to erupt into laughter and look at him, then more openly, then to his face. They call him a crybaby, a robot, a Niff.
Sometimes, Prompto wonders if he hasn't reverted back to that chubby little boy, but back then, he wasn't teased much. He was just ignored.
The teasing turns to pranks. The laces of his boots go missing. Holes appear in the seat of his cargo pants. Every single pair of socks he has wind up soaking in the latrine sinks.
Three of the seven refrain from participating and one of them is a victim of their torments as often as Prompto, in spite of his size and his natural skill in combat. They call him Mute, and poke fun at him because he never talks. It takes Prompto weeks to realize it's because he can't.
Prompto notices Mute eats alone too and decides to join him one day at lunch. The boy stares at him with wide, horrified eyes, gathers his meal and takes off, leaving Prompto alone.
"Kid's from some little town in Accordo," Nyx tells him later in the lab. "Got his throat crushed by an MT."
"That sucks," Prompto says. "But I wish everyone would stop thinking I'm one of them."
"If these guys are afraid of you, it's for good reason," Nyx says. "It's not personal, but you gotta understand, we've all lost our homelands to the Empire. Some of us lost our families and friends. It's not easy to get past that, even when you're fighting for the same cause."
It always comes down to this, the Empire distilled into a mark on his arm.
Every day is the same. Up before dawn, full days of training, meals, an hour of free time in the evening to shower and wind down. Every night, Prompto falls into bed exhausted, but sleep doesn't always come easy. Some nights, he burns with fever. Some nights, he shivers from a chill that finds its way into his bones. Every night, he dreams bad dreams and wakes before the others, shaking and breathless and reaches under the mattress for the bullet he hides there during the day.
One night, six months into his training, he wakes to muffled laughter. For a second, he's not sure where it's coming from, then sees several shadows in the hall outside the barracks door. He almost goes back to sleep, but someone curses and another cries out, and he's wide awake.
He climbs out of bed and follows the sounds and arrives in the hall in time to see the shadows disappear into the latrine. There's laughter now, the mean kind, and Prompto tenses as he creeps down the hall toward the door.
Inside, all the showers are on full blast and Mute lies on the floor, curled into a ball as the others torment and kick him. A thin trail of blood snakes toward the drain and Mute's face is contorted in a silent scream.
They laugh at him, a boy who can't even call for help.
"What's the big idea?!" Prompto shouts and rushes toward Mute. He puts himself between them and faces off with the ringleader, Asa. "Four against one? What did he do to deserve that?"
"Get out of my face, Niff," thr one named Asa says. "Or you're next."
"Look, he's gonna cry again," Lyros says. "I didn't think robots could cry. That something they taught you in the Crownsguard, crybaby?"
Prompto thinks about all the times his father left him on the floor this way, curled up and waiting for it to end, and something in him snaps.
He shoots forward and smashes the heel of his palm into Lyros' nose. The boy reels away in pain, but Prompto isn't done. He grabs a fistful of the boy's hair and brings his head down against his knee, just like Monica taught him. Lyros falls to the floor, clutching his face.
"Leave him alone," Prompto says and turns on Asa.
Prompto's fist connects with Asa's jaw, and Prompto is grabbed from behind, by either Septos or Baston, and dragged to the floor. His head smashes against the tile and he sees stars, but grapples with his attacker and kicks out at another.
A boot smashes into his face and his nose breaks. Blood flows down the back of his throat and out his nostrils and he gags on it, but Prompto keeps fighting until a shrill voice cuts through their laughter.
"You little shits," Crowe says from the door. "Goddamn, I hate bullies."
Baston lets Prompto go and dashes for the door, but Crowe has him on his back and a blade to his throat in a flash.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asks.
She makes all four kneel face-first against the wall with their hands locked behind their heads.
"Nyx is gonna be really pissed that he has to get out of bed for this," she says. "Hope it was worth it."
She kneels beside Mute as Prompto sits up and spits out a mouthful blood. He touches the bridge of his nose and winces. Definitely broken.
"Help me get him up," Crowe says.
Mute is in bad shape. Prompto got off easy in comparison. His face is a mess of welts and bruises, his lip is split in two places, his nose is bleeding and it looks like he bit through his tongue. There are probably other bruises in places they can't see.
"They taught you first aid in the Crownsguard, right?" Crowe asks. Prompto nods, and she hands him her satchel. "Get him patched up while I deal with these little assholes."
Prompto opens the pack and retrieves a couple of elixirs. He breaks one open and watches in fascination as the swelling in Mute's face goes down. He uses the other on his own nose, then mops up the blood with some gauze.
Mute signs, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Prompto says.
The boy blinks at him in surprise. It takes Prompto a second to understand why.
"I, uh, used to volunteer at the children's hospital," Prompto says. "Some of the kids there signed. I might have picked up a few words here and there."
Mute stares at Prompto's bar code, but looks away when Prompto catches him.
"It's okay," Prompto says. "You can look at it. But, I'm not like them, you know."
He pauses to clean up the empty potions and soiled gauze, then sits back down.
"What's your real name?" Prompto asks. "It can't really be Mute."
Instead of signing the letters, Mute draws them in the air.
"Mateo?"
He nods and offers his hand. Prompto takes it and smiles back. After six months without a single ally besides Nyx, he's desperate for a friend.
Later, in the training yard, Nyx has some choice words for the group. Prompto stands at attention beside Mateo, who still bears evidence of of the attack. He struggles to stay still. He's tired but keyed up and that weird double heartbeat is back again.
"The Kingsglaive is a Brotherhood," Nyx says. "Doesn't matter who you are or where you're from. We're all here for the same reason."
He stops in front of Asa and stares at him until the boy looks away.
"We're a team. We depend on each other to make it out of battle alive," Nyx says. "If you mistreat a brother or sister, they may not be there for you when you really need them."
Nyx steps back and turns away from them to look up at the wall above, where Crowe and his friend Libertus watch. Libertus is smiling, but Crowe's expression is sour.
"Some of you don't seem to understand how important that is," he says. "If you were to go into battle tomorrow, most of you would die, if not all of you, because some of you don't know how to put aside your differences and work together as a team."
He turns around and faces them again. He's as serious as Prompto's ever seen him, and his eyes follow the line of recruits. His gaze lingers on Mateo the longest before he turns to Asa.
"Step forward," Nyx says.
Asa takes a step forward and lifts his head in defiance. "Sir."
"I'm not even going to ask for an explanation," Nyx says. "I don't like being woken up in the middle of the night to hear my recruits are ganging up on one of their own."
"He's weak, sir," Asa says. "We were trying to toughen him up."
Nyx laughs. He scratches the corner of his mouth and looks the kid over until his cocky expression fades.
"You don't know what tough is, kid," he says. "I could show you, but I don't pick on weaklings."
"I'm not weak!"
"Strength is more than just kicking the shit of somebody who can't fight back," Nyx says. "I'm not going to waste my time explaining the difference to you. You're out. All four of you. Get your crap and get out of my sight."
Prompto struggles not to smile as the four boys are escorted out of the yard. He nudges Mateo, but his new friend just looks ashamed.
"The rest of you, ten miles," Nyx says. "First one to fall out cleans the latrine for a month."
For the first time since he arrived here, Prompto has hope.
It's been eleven months and the development of a special device for Prompto to carry into battle is almost complete. It looks like a bracelet, made of thick leather, and preliminary tests have positive results. Drautos is pleased, though Prompto doesn't quite understand the value of the information it'll provide. He's not sure why it matters, but he's not the one in charge.
Once he passes his final trials, he'll be sent into battle to see if it really works. If it does, and he proves himself, he'll be able to pay back some of the debt he owes. If it doesn't, who knows what will happen?
One sleepless night, a week before the trials, Prompto gets out of bed and goes to sit on the wall above the training yard. There's a full moon and the sky is clear enough to see a few stars in spite of the city lights.
He's thinking about Luna and how much he misses her letters when a hand clamps over his mouth and he's dragged to his feet.
"Don't scream."
Prompto doesn't think, he just reacts. He drops his weight and throws his attacker over his shoulder without missing a beat. The young man lands on his back with a grunt and rolls onto his side with a hand clutched to his shoulder.
"Quit it," he says. "It's just me. Geez."
It's only then that Prompto recognizes him.
"Dude! Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Keep it down," Noctis says as he sits up. "It was hard enough to get in this place without getting caught."
Prompto helps Noctis to his feet and dusts him off, then takes him by the wrist and down a corridor off the main hall.
"You're not supposed to be here," Prompto says. "What's the big idea?"
"You want me to go?"
"You being here could get me killed, Noct," Prompto says and pushes Noctis inside the equipment room, where he flicks on the light and faces his best friend.
"Goddamn," Noctis says. He wraps a hand around Prompto's bicep. "Look at you."
"Heh, yeah," Prompto says. "It's pretty weird, right?"
They stare at each other for several seconds before Noctis steps forward and throws his arms around Prompto in a tight, brotherly embrace. Prompto returns it and squeezes back the urge to cry. Noctis pats him hard on the back and releases him.
"And here I was worried about you," Noctis says.
"You were worried?"
"You in the Kingsglaive?" Noctis says. "Of course I was."
"Oh ye of little faith," Prompto says. "Amazing what eight hours a day of training will do. Look, dude! I have abs!" He lifts his shirt to show off his muscles. "See?"
"Jealous. Gladio kicks my ass every day and I still look like a twelve-year-old," Noctis says. He reaches out and tugs a strand of Prompto’s hair, which falls to his shoulders now. "And eight hours a day? Seriously?"
"Sometimes more," Prompto says. He pauses and goes to the door and listens for a second. They're still alone as far as he can tell. "It's good to see you, Noct, but you really shouldn't be here. I'm kind of under a no-contact order, and..."
"I know," Noctis says, "I just wanted to make sure you were all right."
"I'm good," Prompto says. "Really."
Noctis looks troubled and takes a seat on a crate.
"They're, um, sending me into battle soon. After I pass my trials," Prompto says. "I'm scared shitless."
"Outside the wall?"
"Yeah," Prompto says. "Outside the wall. Where there are monsters and MT's and Imperials everywhere."
"Don't you go dying on me," Noctis says. "I don't think I'd get over that."
"I'll try not to disappoint," Prompto says. "But enough about me. How are the guys doing? Iggy okay?"
"I don't get to see him much," he says. "Not really supposed to, but Gladio sees him every couple of weeks. He got a job at the library as an archivist. Gladio says he likes it."
"I can see him as a librarian," Prompto says. "And the big guy? How's he doing?"
"He's the same, except he's on my ass all the time, about everything," Noctis says. "Even though I'm trying. I mean, Ignis was all over me too, but it's different when Gladio does it."
"Yeah, I guess when you have people doing stuff for you your whole life, it's kinda hard to adjust to having to do for yourself," Prompto says.
Noctis is wounded and Prompto sighs.
"I didn't mean it like that," he says. "It's just that Iggy made everything so easy for you, you didn't really have to worry about any of that stuff. Guess it would be pretty hard to replace him."
"No one's worked out so far," Noctis says. He flicks Prompto’s hair again. "Do they not let you get haircuts here?"
"Haven't really thought much about it, honestly," he says. "Why, does it look bad?"
"I'm just not used to it."
Noctis takes off his backpack and unzips it. He removes a black case and passes it to Prompto.
"Figured you might want this. You left it at my place."
Prompto gets misty eyed as he opens the case and takes out his Lokton. He hasn't thought about taking pictures since the start of this whole mess. He figured it wound up in a box in storage somewhere, if not in the trash with the rest of his things.
"Thanks," Prompto says. "But, I can't keep it. They'll want to know where it came from. I'm not allowed out, remember?"
"Oh. Right," Noctis says. "I didn't think about that."
Prompto puts it away and hands it back to Noctis.
"Keep it safe for me," he says.
"You better come back for it," Noctis says. He stashes it in his bag and hangs his head. A full minute passes before he speaks again. "Prompto, why didn't you tell me? Did you really think it would make a difference?"
Prompto looks at his hands and nods.
"Yeah. And, I mean, didn't it? Look where it got me and Iggy."
"Still should have told me," Noctis says. "I wouldn't have turned my back on you."
Prompto almost starts crying. He should have known better. He should have known Noctis wouldn't care.
"I just thought everyone would hate me."
"You were wrong."
Noctis pulls an envelope from his bag and passes it to Prompto. It's from Luna, and Prompto's cheeks turn red.
"Busted," Prompto says. "Way to go Umbra."
Prompto takes the letter and out habit, smells the envelope. Sylleblossms, like always.
"How long have you guys been writing each other?"
"Since way before you and me were buddies."
"You could have told me that, too," Noctis says. "I wouldn't have been mad."
"Didn't think you would be," Prompto says. "It just never came up."
"You never brought it up," Noctis says. "You pretended you didn't know Umbra the first time."
"Yeah," Prompto says. "Guess I did. I don't know why. It was a nice secret to have for a change, you know? Just wanted to keep it to myself."
"Yeah. I get it," Noctis says. "She's worried about you."
"Tell her I'm okay."
"Tell her yourself," Nocts says.
"It's not like I can write her back, Noct," Prompto says. "I can't leave the compound. It'd be real nice if you passed it along until they let me out."
"Okay."
Noctis zips his bag and watches Prompto carefully.
"No more secrets," Noct says. "If we're still friends, that is."
Prompto's tempted to tell him they can't be friends anymore, by Royal decree. It wasn't just a strong warning, it's his life on the line here. If he's caught, it could mean death.
He should tell Noctis to get lost, to never come back, for his own good, but Noctis took a considerable risk of his own in coming here. The fact that he's here says everything there is to say.
"Till the very end, dude," Prompto says. "No matter what."
Notes:
Transitional chapter, gets weird next chapter. :)
Thank you all for reading, especially youz guys who left kudos and comments! Really, really flattered by your support and thank you so much for reading!
Chapter 6: Field Trip
Chapter Text
It's hard to say goodbye to Noctis, but Prompto feels a thousand times better after seeing him. Maybe, some day in the future, they can be friends again for real. For now, he's content to know Noctis doesn't hate him.
He returns to his spot on the wall and contemplates his future as he stares at the bullet. Six days to the final trials. Six days, and if luck is on his side, he'll wear a uniform he can be proud of. He's not confident he'll pass. He still can't warp, and he still flinches when he gets hit, and hesitates to hit back, but he's fast and he almost never misses a target.
Prompto sneaks back to the dorm before sunrise and runs into Nyx by the stairs.
"You shouldn't be wandering around," Nyx says.
"I was in the latrine."
"Latrine's the other way, Plebe."
"Right, well, see there was this noise and I went to check it out," Prompto says. "Turns out it was just a bird... you know, a night bird..."
Nyx holds up a hand.
"You should probably stop talking now."
"You gonna report me?"
"Nah," Nyx says. "Go get dressed. We're going on a field trip."
"Really?" Prompto asks. "Wait, it's not the lab is it? I really don't need a case of the willies this early in the morning."
"Nope," Nyx says. "Heading out to Leide to pick up a part. Drautos thought you could use some fresh air."
"Well, that's nice of him," Prompto says. Nyx hands him the leather bracelet with the chip in it. "Oh. Test run, huh?"
"You guessed it," Nyx says. "We need to see how far the range is."
Prompto puts it on. It could pass as a fashion accessory instead of a tracking device, and he's okay with that. As a bonus, it covers the tattoo nicely.
"I'll meet you by the gate in ten minutes," Nyx says. "Bring your weapon. If we have time, we'll practice your skills on some monsters."
"Woohoo!" Prompto says with mock enthusiasm. "We get to kill things!"
In the barracks, he dresses in his tactical pants and a Kingsglaive t-shirt. He owns nothing else. He does his best to style his hair in the latrine, but without product, it lays flat around his face, a wasted effort.
Nyx is waiting for him at the gate and they head for the garage.
"You know how to drive?" Nyx asks.
"Iggy taught me a little bit," Prompto says. "It didn't go so well."
"When we get outside the city, I'll let you take the wheel for a while," Nyx says. "Get you some practice."
"Sure," Prompto says, "But don't say I didn't warn you."
The drive out of the city takes longer than Prompto expects. Traffic sucks and Nyx grumbles expletives at other drivers under his breath until the congestion clears. They pass the library and Prompto can't help but think of Ignis. Maybe, once he's been patched in, a full fledged member of the Kingsglaive, he'll be free to go visit.
By the time they hit the city gate, the sun is up. Nyx shows the gate guard a pass and they're waved through ahead of several other vehicles.
Prompto's never been outside the walls of the city, and he's stunned by the ruined world around him. Bombed out buildings and rusted, blown-apart cars, abandoned equipment and machinery, blast marks in the ground. Here and there are bones, human and beast, picked clean by scavengers and left to bleach in the sun.
"What the heck happened here?" Prompto asks.
"War. Long time ago," Nyx says. "You ready to drive?"
"Now or never, right?"
Nyx pulls the truck over on the shoulder and Prompto gets out. Something in his peripheral vision shifts and he turns, expecting a fight, but it's not a monster, it's Umbra.
"Hey, buddy!" he cries at the dog. "Oh, man, I missed you."
Prompto kneels down and gives the dog a hearty pat on the side. He scratches behind Umbra's ear until Umbra's eyes glaze over.
"Yours?" Nyx asks.
"Uh, no, he belongs to a friend."
"Better not be the Prince, Plebe."
"Nope," Prompto says and finds a letter in Umbra's satchel with his name on it.
"Who the hell sends letters by canine messenger service?" Nyx asks and crosses his arms over his chest. "Just text, like everyone else."
"It's more fun this way," Prompto says. "Besides, she doesn't have a phone."
"No phone? Where does this girl live, the moon?"
"I don't have a phone," he points out.
Prompto's reluctant to say anything else. He can't tell Nyx about Luna. She's in the custody of the Empire. She's a close friend of Noctis'. It could look really suspicious if he isn't careful.
"Let me see it."
Prompto stands up and takes a step back, the letter clutched tight against his chest.
"What? No!"
"Come on, kid," Nyx says. "Ease my mind, okay?"
Prompto hasn't even read it yet, but he hands it over. Nyx smells the envelope. His smile is sad and wistful.
"Sylleblossoms," Nyx says. "Smells like a love letter, Plebe."
Prompto's face turns red and he shakes his head to deny it. Nyx laughs, opens the envelope, and scans the contents. Prompto remembers too late that Luna writes on monogrammed stationery.
"Lunafreya Nox Fleuret," Nyx mumbles. "You've got to be kidding me."
Prompto bites his lip. He shouldn't admit it, but it's not like he can hide the truth now.
"How the hell does a Plebe like you befriend a Prince, all his associates, and the Oracle, too?"
"Dumb luck, I guess," Prompto says. "Can I have it back now?"
Nyx hands it over and Prompto reads it.
Dear Prompto,
I hope this letter finds you well. I've been unable to reach you, but will continue to try until I receive word by your own hand that you've not been stashed in a dungeon somewhere and left to rot. Please write when you can, even if only to tell me you don't wish to keep in touch any longer.
I will continue to offer my prayers up to the Gods for your health and safekeeping.
You are always in my thoughts and my prayers, Prompto.
Yours,
Luna
It's pretty similar to the one Noctis gave him, but Prompto is grateful she's still trying to reach out to him. He tucks the letter into his pocket and wonders if there's time to scribble a quick note in return, just to let Luna know he's okay.
"Hey, uh, you got some scrap paper in there? And a pen?" he asks. "I haven't been able to write since I was shot. She's probably worried sick."
Nyx crosses his arms and considers Prompto for a minute.
"I swear it's not crazy spy stuff, okay? I just need to let her know I'm still alive," Prompto says. "Pretty please?"
Nyx gives in and opens the truck door, roots through the glove box, and hands over a hot pink flier for a restaurant in the art district, and a crayon for marking maps.
"Best I can do, kid," Nyx says, "but you know you're going to have to let me read that before you send it."
Prompto sighs. "If you must."
He uses the hood of the truck as a writing surface. The crayon makes his handwriting look like a five-year-old's, and the hot pink paper stings his eyes, but he's glad for the chance to let Luna know he's okay. Even if there's not much he can write about.
Luna,
I was barely outside the city when Umbra found me! We stopped for just a second, and there he was. Man, that dog has a good nose. Bet he's been going crazy trying to find me. Poor little guy. Wish I had some treats to give him for being such a good boy!
It killed me not to be able to write and let you know I'm alright and that you don't need to worry about me. I'm in good hands. Can't say much more than that, but things are better than they were.
I hope you're doing good, too, Luna. You always tell me to take care of myself, but make sure to take care of yourself, too, okay? Do something fun when you get this letter, something just for you.
Thanks for always keeping me in your prayers, Luna. You're in mine (when I actually remember to pray, that is – bad, I know). And give Pryna some extra pets from me, okay?
Your buddy,
Prompto
He hands it over to Nyx for his inspection and waits for him to read it.
"What kind of love letter is this?" Nyx asks as he scans Prompto's scribbles.
Prompto's face colors and he snatches the letter back, folds it and tucks into the satchel on Umbra's back.
"It's not a love letter," Prompto says.
Nyx searches his face for a second. "Alright."
"You gonna tell the Captain about this?"
"I should," Nyx says. "But, no, I'm not going to."
"So you don't think this is some deep-cover, secret espionage stuff?"
Nyx chuckles. "If it is, you're the worst spy that ever lived, kid."
He hands Prompto the keys, and Prompto gives Umbra one last scratch.
"Take care, buddy," he says.
Nyx lets Prompto drive the rest of the trip. It isn't far, but Prompto has a tough time focusing. The passing landscape is starkly beautiful and the rock formations fascinate him. He wishes he had his camera and the opportunity to take pictures. Who knows when he'll be back?
"It's just up ahead," Nyx says.
Prompto would have to be totally blind to miss the Hammerhead Outpost and Garage. A huge sign rises toward the sky, visible for miles, but the place is also the only thing around besides rocks and rusted cars. He pulls in and parks, then has to re-park because he's slanted across two spaces.
"How did I do, boss?" he asks.
"Well," Nyx says and slaps his shoulder. "The good news is we didn't die."
"I wasn't that bad!"
"You know those lines on the road? You're supposed to stay between them."
"Oh, whatever dude," Prompto says. "Hey look! A diner!"
Nyx climbs out and Prompto follows him across the lot to the open garage door. Inside, a woman is bent over the engine of a clunker that's more rust than car. All Prompto can see of her is a mile of leg, but when she straightens, he knows he's in the presence of a Goddess.
"Wow," he breathes.
Nyx chuckles and pats his shoulder.
"Well howdy, y'all," she says. "Good to see ya again, Nyx."
"You too, Cindy," Nyx says. He elbows Prompto. "Say hi, Plebe."
All Prompto can do is smile like an idiot. She's beautiful.
"Cindy, this is Prompto," Nyx says. "Prompto, Cindy Aurum, head mechanic."
"Well, hey there, sweetie. Nice to meet ya," she says. She turns back to Nyx. "Y'all are recrutin' kinda young, don't you think?"
"I'm older than I look," Prompto says and puffs out his chest. "I just turned nineteen."
Cindy smiles at him the way girls smile at puppies and Prompto's palms start to sweat. It's not just that she's sexy as hell, it's also the wrench in her hand and the grease on her nose. It's her kind eyes and confidence and the fact that she clearly knows her way around an engine.
"Y'all are here for the alternator, right?"
"Yeah. Pelna called it in," Nyx says. "Said we could pick it up today."
"Got a problem, then," Cindy says. "My guy delivered the wrong one. I can get you the part, but the driver can't get here until this afternoon. I tried to call but the phone service 'round here been somethin' awful lately."
Nyx scratches his chin. "This afternoon, huh?"
"Said he'd be here 'round two if y'all don't mind waitin' on him," Cindy says. "Real sorry for the inconvenience."
"We don't mind," Prompto chimes in and nudges Nyx. "Right, buddy?"
Nyx crosses his arms and casts a sideways glance at Prompto.
"Guess we could grab some breakfast and then go find us a Dualhorn for target practice," he says.
"I could eat," Prompto says. "No rush on the target practice, though. Seriously. I'm good."
"You need all the help you can get, Plebe."
"Dude! Could you not?" he hisses as they walk away. "Ix-nay on the eeb-play."
Prompto steals glances back at the garage in the hopes of catching another glimpse of his Goddess.
"Someday, I'm going to marry that girl," Prompto declares. "Think she'd go out with me?"
"Geez, kid," Nyx says. "You really do aim high, don't you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Nyx says. He smiles and ruffles Prompto's hair. "Come on. Let's eat."
As much as Ignis likes the system and order of the library, every day is the same. The work is as unexciting as watching Noctis spend hours upon hours punching the screen of his phone, but that sense of chaos and disorder that surrounded Noctis gave Ignis a purpose. As frustrating as it could be, it was good to be needed.
Anyone who could read and count past ten could do this job and Ignis gets no satisfaction from the continuous fetch and return. The only benefit is that it pays a decent salary, the hours are ideal, and he has access to books and files that give him a starting point for his research into the Magitek Infantry and Prompto's possible origins.
He meets Gladio for lunch and is warmed by his long-time friend's smile. These days, Ignis has precious few he can rely on, and he's grateful Gladio did not heed the strong suggestion to cut all ties.
"Sounds pretty boring," Gladio says of Ignis' description of his job duties.
"Mind-numbing is more appropriate," Ignis says. "How is Noctis?"
"Eh, he's hanging in there," Gladio says. "Trying to convince me to convince his dad he doesn't need a college education. Wants to drop out."
"He most certainly will not," Ignis says. "I hope you're not considering broaching the subject with the King."
"Hell no, but his grades so far are shit," Gladio says. "And the way things are going, his Majesty would probably let him have his way."
"And he'd spend all day playing games until his brain turns to mush," Ignis says. "Have they reconciled?"
"Depends what you mean by reconciled," Gladio says. "They're on speaking terms again but it's still tense. At least he's doing his own shopping now. Sometimes he even cleans. I mean, he doesn't do a great job, but you gotta appreciate the effort."
"Thank the heavens for small miracles," Ignis says. "What of his new caretaker?"
"Clueless," Gladio says with a chuckle. "He basically lets Noct do whatever he wants because he's terrified of offending him. Hasn't figured out Noct needs to be taken down a peg or two every now and then."
It's petty, but Ignis takes perverse satisfaction in knowing he's not truly been replaced, but he's saddened by the fact that Noctis is the one who must pay the price for his absence.
"So, how's the research going?"
"Nothing significant," Ignis says. "Every road leads to a dead end."
"Why are you chasing this anyway?" Gladio asks. "Crowe tells me Prompto's doing pretty good."
"Peace of mind," Ignis says.
"Yours or Prompto's?"
"Both, I suppose."
"Maybe it's best to just let it go," Gladio says. "I know you want the truth, but I'm not sure it'll do either of you any good."
"It can't be easy for him, not knowing what he is."
"Just be careful," Gladio says. "Maybe there's a reason it's been kept a secret."
"You know what they say about locked doors," Ignis says.
Gladio grunts.
"Yeah, yeah. Just don't get yourself locked up again in the process," he says. "So, you want some company tonight? Or are you too wrapped up in your research to hang out?"
Ignis sips his coffee and considers the question. There's a hint of jealousy in his tone. It's true he's kept his distance, but it's for Gladio's sake that he does. He survived the inquisition by the skin of his teeth, and it's only by the King's grace that he is a free man. He doesn't want to chance the same banishment Prompto received.
Still, Ignis is lonely without anyone to cook for or look after.
"Certainly," Ignis says. "Bring Iris as well, if you like."
"Nah, she's got some school dance thing tonight," Gladio says. He brushes his hand against Ignis' forearm. "Be nice to hang out, just the two of us. Dad gave me a good bottle of whiskey last week and I sure as hell don't want to drink it all by myself, if you know what I mean."
"Steak sound alright?" Ignis asks, perplexed by what, exactly, Gladio means, or why his hand is wrapped lightly against Ignis' wrist. "Perhaps roasted potatoes with rosemary and sea salt?"
"You know I'll eat whatever. You haven't disappointed me yet," Gladio says and flashes a winning smile. He gathers his briefcase and pockets his phone. "See you at seven."
"How come I can't warp?" Prompto complains. "I don't want to be the only one in the Kingsglaive who can't."
He surveys the dead reapertails all around him while Nyx wipes the blades of his Kukris. It wasn't as bad as Prompto thought it would be. Not his favorite thing in the world, but it's lot easier to shoot something that's trying to kill him than it is to fire at the other recruits in training.
"Some just don't have an affinity for it," Nyx says, "but trust me, you're not the only one."
"Yeah, but it's so unfair," Prompto says. "It looks awesome."
"Focus on staying alive," Nyx says. "Being alive is pretty awesome, too."
Prompto holsters his gun and looks around at the landscape. In the distance, the husk of a house crumbles in the sunshine. Here and there, tufts of crunchy brownish grass sprouts up from the cracked earth, and the only vegetation that thrives are ugly, scrubby bushes.
"Can't imagine anyone would want to live out here," he says.
"The big city's not for everyone," Nyx says. "Besides. Not like they had a choice when the wall went up."
"Yeah, about that," Prompto says. "How come Insomnia's protected but no one else is?"
"The Empire is legion," Nyx says. "And their reach is far. The King can only do so much."
He thinks about Noctis' unspoken worry for his father's health, and of how every time Prompto sees King Regis on the news, he looks older and more gray and weathered than the last.
"What happens if he can't keep the wall up?"
"Then Insomnia will fall, and the Empire wins."
"What do we do if that happens?"
"Well, if it does, it probably means we're all dead," Nyx says. "If not, we keep fighting until we are."
Prompto swallows hard and tries not to picture the city, his home, crumbling to ruin like this dry, deserted place.
"That's not depressing at all," Prompto says. "You think it can really happen?"
Nyx sheathes his blades and looks off into the distance. He gives a slow nod and turns back to Prompto.
"I've seen it happen," he says. "Most of us in the Glaive have."
"Oh, man," Prompto laments. "That sucks."
"You have no idea kid," Nyx says. He checks the time and angles his head toward the road. "Come on. Let's go see if Cindy has our part yet."
Back at the Hammerhead, Cindy's got the rusted clunker torn apart and the engine on a lift. He watches from the door of the garage as she examines the engine block. There's grease on her chin, and her hair lays in sweaty tangles against the back of her neck, but Prompto's never seen anything so lovely in his life.
"Cracked," she says to herself and draws a gloved fingertip over a spot on the engine. "That's what I was 'fraid of."
She turns to them, smiles, and Prompto's heart beats out a double-time rhythm. The good kind. Not that dark, shadowy weirdness that keeps him awake at night.
"Hey there, boys," she says. "Sorry to say, he ain't showed up yet."
"Got an ETA?" Nyx asks.
"He was s'posed to be here an hour ago," she says. "Don't know what's keepin', him but I'm real sorry about the inconvenience. I know you got things to do."
"We don't have anything to do," Prompto chimes in. "Nothing at all! We can wait. Or, you know, fetch tools for you or something. Right, Nyx?"
Nyx snorts.
"That's mighty sweet of you, but it shouldn't be much longer," she says. "If you want, I'll service your truck while you wait, for your trouble and all."
"Not necessary," Nyx says. "You got a phone I can use? Need to call the boss, and I'm not getting any service out here."
"Sure thing," Cindy says. "Got one in the office. Help yourself."
Nyx thanks her and disappears into a small office. Prompto looks around the garage to avoid looking at Cindy, but his eyes are drawn back to her again and again.
"So, uh, Cindy," he says, "how long have you, you know, been fixing cars?"
"Most of my life," she says and shines a flashlight into the cavity of the clunker. "My Paw-Paw, Cid, taught me everything I know and then some."
"Nice," Prompto says. "So you run this place yourself?"
"Paw-paw's still around," she says. "His hands and back ain't what they used to be, so he mostly sticks to smaller projects, but he's still the boss."
She returns her attention to the engine on the lift and inspects something on the side.
"So, um, when I'm a full-fledged member of the Kingsglaive, I was thinking I'd get me a set of wheels," Prompto says, though the thought has just occurred to him. "Think you might be game to service it for me when I do?"
"Well, sure," she says. "It ain't too often I get my hands on a fancy city car. But you don't gotta bring it all the way out here. Probably plenty of mechanics a lot closer behind that wall of yours."
"I guess so," Prompto says. "But, I mean, there's a reason the Kingsglaive uses you guys instead of some place in Insomnia, right?"
"Official purveyors to the crown," she says. "If you're ever out this way, I'd be happy to take care of her for you. Y'all got stuff I ain't never seen. Always a challenge to learn somethin' new."
"You've never been to Insomnia?"
"Never had cause," she says. "Besides, they don't let us in without good reason. Easier for y'all to get out out here than it is for us to get in. Makes getting stuff kinda hard unless we got it lyin' 'round somewhere."
"That sucks," Prompto says. "You'd love Insomnia. Tons of cool cars, everywhere!"
Nyx steps out of the office.
"So? What's the verdict?" Prompto asks.
"We wait," Nyx says. "You bothering Cindy?"
"He ain't no bother," she says and Prompto beams.
"Come on, kid," Nyx says. "We've got time to kill. Let's check out the shop."
The part doesn't arrive until just before sundown. Nyx glances at the fading daylight and then his watch. He curses and climbs into the driver's side. Prompto waves to Cindy as he gets in the truck, but she's already halfway under the broken car. All he can see of her are her legs.
"So, I'm not driving this time?" Prompto asks as they pull out onto the road.
"Gotta make tracks," Nyx says. "Sun's going down."
"And?"
"And there are Daemons after dark," Nyx says. "Even if I haul ass, we might not make the city gate before they're out."
"Should I be worried?" Prompto asks.
"Yeah," Nyx says. "Take a look around, kid. You see anyone else on the road?"
Now that he mentions it, Prompto does notice there aren't other motorists out and about like there were earlier in the day. There are no headlights behind them, none ahead of them.
Nyx's edginess infects Prompto, and he grows tense as he watches the dark landscape in the headlights. If Nyx is worried, then it must be a big deal.
Out the passenger side window, Prompto notices things glowing in shades of red and violet and his skin prickles.
"Are those...?" he asks.
"Yep," Nyx says. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "Maybe we should cut our losses and make camp for the night. There's a haven up ahead."
"Camp?" Prompto says. "Like... sleeping on the ground?"
"You see a tent and sleeping bags in the back?"
"No."
"Then yeah," Nyx says. "Exactly like sleeping on the ground."
"Can't we, I don't know, just run them over if they get in our way?"
"Smaller ones, maybe," Nyx says. "But most of them? Not so much."
Something that shimmers like wet tar in the headlights shambles down the center line of the road and Nyx swears under his breath. He steps on the brake and puts the truck in reverse, but the creature gives a roar that rattles the floorboard and stomps toward them.
"Dude! What is that?!"
"Bad news," Nyx says. He glances in the rear-view mirror. "Son of a bitch. They're out early tonight."
"What now?"
"More bad news."
Prompto turns around in his seat. There's another one behind them and it brought friends.
"We're going to die, aren't we?"
"Probably," Nyx says.
"How can you be so calm?!"
"Take a deep breath," Nyx says and puts the truck in park. "We're going to have to fight 'em, Plebe,"
"What?! No way!" Prompto says. "Can't we just wait for them to leave?"
"They won't. Not until we're dead."
Prompto checks his weapon and undoes the clip on his seat belt.
"I soooo didn't want to die a virgin," he laments.
Nyx chuckles.
"Win some, lose some kid," he says. "You ready?"
"No."
"Good. Let's go," Nyx says and throws open the door of the truck. "Stay out of their reach and pick off the small ones while I'm busy."
"Got it."
Two hulking giants with blazing swords and a pack of imp-like creatures surround the truck. Prompto shakes as he draws his gun. He's never seen anything like this in his entire life. The grainy images he sometimes saw in the papers didn't do this horror justice.
He fires at the imp closest to Nyx and it shrieks. It flies at him and he unloads on it, backing away to avoid getting struck. Nyx starts warping faster than Prompto can track, landing hit after hit on the largest one. The other gives a ear-drum splitting roar and brings its weapon down less than two feet from Prompto.
It advances on him and he keeps firing, his heart in his throat. The imps circle around him and Prompto has nowhere to run.
"Nyx!" he yells. "Got a little trouble over here!"
Nyx is too busy with the other daemon to help out. He flits around it, warping to and fro like a persistent and demented wasp.
The daemons are close now, so close, Prompto could reach out and touch them if he wanted, but none of them attack. His skin grows hot and his heart thunders out a deafening rhythm, that second pulse louder than the first. He feels it in his eyeballs and his lips, in his fingers and toes, and he's sure he's about to die of heart failure.
The giant one leans down and stares at him, a low rumble in its throat. Waves of blackish smoke roll off its shiny skin and its breath stinks of rotten garbage and spoiled meat. Prompto whimpers and his hands shake so hard, he almost loses his grip on his gun.
It's going to kill him. Swallow him whole. Eat him alive.
He closes his eyes and prays for a swift end.
The beast howls and Prompto jumps, his eyes opening in time to see Nyx swoop in and slice at it with his blades. It takes a swipe at Nyx, catches him in the stomach and flings him away. Nyx hits the ground and rolls, but he doesn't get up.
Something in Prompto's chest swells and he feels like he's going to burst apart. The smaller Daemons back away from him, chirping to each other as they cower like kicked dogs. The ground around his feet turns black, and spirals of violet light twine up his legs. He can hear nothing but the dual drumbeat of his heart.
Heat tears through his torso and radiates out from the bullet scar on his chest. Twines of purple-black smoke twist over his forearms and something alive and inhuman gnaws at his insides.
It wants out, whatever this is. It's hungry. Alive. The source of that second heartbeat.
He's not sure what's happening to him, or what this is, but the giant daemon backs away with a whine of uncertainty, then leans in again, its face inches from his. It sniffs the air around him and Prompto sees his own fearful face reflected back in its bottomless eyes.
Whatever this strange magic, and Prompto has no other name for it than that, it fills him with a sense of power. It calls for blood. It wants him to destroy.
"What the fuck?" Nyx murmurs. "Plebe?"
Everything stops. The daemons freeze in place and the breeze stills. Nyx is frozen in a half-crouch, one hand on the ground, his Kukris in the other. His eyes are fixed on Prompto.
Prompto takes a step back and almost trips over a halted imp as Pryna emerges from the shadows and sits before him. He hasn't seen her since she was a puppy, but he knows it's her. In the darkness, her blue eyes glow a heavenly shade and she nudges his hand.
"I don't understand," he says. "What the hell is going on?"
Pryna vanishes and in her place is the mystery man, a placid smile on his face.
"I give you a gift, and this is how you use it," he says. "You disappoint me, Prompto."
"What?" Prompto asks. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't you hear them calling to you?"
The man smiles and a fiery shock courses through Prompto's body. He looks down at himself to make sure he's not on fire, and instead of flames, sees his body altered. His hands curl into claws and his skin blackens and shimmers.
"There," the man says. "That's better."
Prompto closes his eyes and shakes his head. This can't be real. It can't be.
"Do you hear me now, Prompto?"
Everything starts moving again as a blast of white-hot light bursts from Prompto's chest. He screams as it knocks him back and he hits the ground as the daemons shriek in pain. His skin hurts all over and his heart beats so fast, he's sure it's going to explode.
The night is silent and all he can hear are his own panicked breaths and the sputter of his heart. His cheeks are wet and his mouth is dry and tastes of sand. He's spent. He can barely lift his head. Whatever just happened sapped the last of his strength and he can't get up on his own.
He opens his eyes at the crunch of gravel and Nyx crouches down in front of him. He tugs Prompto into a sitting position and stares at his face. There's a bleeding abrasion on Nyx's chin and a look of fear in his eye.
"What the hell was that, kid?"
Nyx grabs him lightly by the chin and turns his face from side to side.
"I dunno," Prompto says and pulls back. "Never happened before."
"You ever seen a daemon up close?" Nyx asks. "Before tonight?"
"No," Prompto says.
"Never been in contact with one?"
"Daemons? In the Crown City?" Prompto asks. "Pretty unlikely, don't you think?"
"Unlikely, but not impossible." Nyx stares at Prompto's eyes and turns his face from side to side again. "Happens every now and then."
"Dude, what are you doing?"
Nyx lets him go and sits back on his heels.
"How did you make them back off?"
Prompto blinks at him.
"They could have killed you ten times over and they didn't. Tell me what you did."
Prompto bites his lip and struggles to stand up. Nyx helps him to his feet. His legs shake and his stomach fells like it's full of moths.
"I don't know," he says. "I don't know what I did. Everything just got weird all of a sudden."
"You've got magic in you, kid," Nyx says.
Prompto shakes his head to deny it, but his body still shakes from the effort, and the scar on his chest still burns around the edges.
"Don't believe me?" Nyx asks and grabs him by the back of the neck and steers him toward the truck.
He pushes Prompto's head toward the side mirror and switches off both flashlights.
"Take a look."
His face is in shadow, but there's no mistaking the gas-flame blue glow of his irises, the only light in the darkness.
Chapter 7: Icarus
Chapter Text
"You outdid yourself this time, Iggy," Gladio says and pats his stomach. "Best steak I've had in ages."
"It's nothing special," Ignis says and gathers the dishes from the table. "Just a bit of seasoning."
"You're too damn modest," Gladio says. "You put those supposed five-star joints to shame."
Ignis doesn't do so well with compliments, and Gladio's laying it on thick and grinning like a fool thanks to the four glasses of whiskey he consumed before and all through supper.
Gladio stretches and gets up to help and together they make short work of the mess. Ignis makes a plate from the leftovers for Gladio to take to Noctis, whom Ignis doubts is eating much besides junk food.
"He'll appreciate the steak, at least," Gladio says. "I'll appreciate the rest."
Gladio reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the counter and pours another measure into both of their glasses. Ignis has already consumed more than he's used to, but he accepts the drink. Gladio's fingers brush against his as he takes it, and a spark of heat sends ripples of want through his whole body.
Rattled by his unexpected response to something so innocent, Ignis steps back and turns away to wipe at imaginary crumbs on the counter.
It must be the whiskey. Gladio is his friend. They've known each other since childhood, they shared important duties with respect to Noctis, they've trained together, but it has never once occurred to Ignis to consider Gladio a potential partner in other ways. Not once has physical contact with the man inspired lust. How is it possible that just the mere brush of fingers against his own sparked such a conflict?
"Damn, you're tense," Gladio says. "When was the last time you got laid?"
It's been six months, and the encounter is only notable for it's utter lack of passion or chemistry. Just a visiting scholar from Lestallum whose only appeal in the end was that he was easy on the eyes.
"A while ago," Ignis admits.
"Hmm."
"Don't judge," Ignis says. "I've had more important things on my mind than my own gratification."
"Call it friendly concern."
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine," Ignis says.
Gladio falls silent, the only sound the ice rattling in his glass as he takes another swallow of whiskey. Ignis turns around to find Gladio watching him with an odd look.
"Don't you get lonely?" Gladio asks.
Without a purpose, Ignis' days and nights are no longer full. He tries to fill the hole in his life with study, but it isn't enough. He's spent the majority of his life in service to Noctis and the Crown. Without that, he's drifting and aimless. He's been conditioned to be needed, and without a sense of purpose, he's floundering.
"All the time."
Gladio sets his glass aside and moves forward. Ignis instinctively retreats, but there's nowhere to go. He bumps into the counter behind him as Gladio invades his personal space, reaches out and pushes strands of hair from his eyes. His hand brushes against Ignis' cheek on the way down and lands on his hip.
Ignis can't breathe. The alcohol has dulled his senses and slowed his reaction time, and all he can do is stare back at Gladio's hooded eyes, confused by the abrupt switch in mood and by the unexpected desire to let Gladio do as he pleases. He should push Gladio away. He should laugh or mock him for this, for pretending to be such a ladies man when he's clearly anything but, but Ignis stays quiet and still and waits for something to happen.
"Tell me no and I'll back off," Gladio says.
When Ignis can't bring himself to say no, the hand lifts from his hip and curls around the back of his neck. Gladio's mouth descends upon his, his lips hungry and demanding and Ignis forgets all the reasons why he should put a stop to this.
He's not used to this sort of thing. Previous encounters began with hesitant, introductory kissing and fumbling, uncertain touches, with men like himself who were just as inexperienced and unsure. Gladio doesn't pull his punches. He does not hesitate or second guess himself. He knows exactly what he wants, and he knows exactly what he's doing. And Gods, does he know how to kiss.
Ignis is sure this is a mistake, that if they allow this, it will ruin a lifelong friendship, but a heady combination of lust and whiskey drowns out his ability to think about this with a clear and rational head. In the moment, Ignis is too lost, too lonely, and too full of need to truly consider the consequences. It feels too good to pay attention to reason or logic.
Gladio paws at Ignis' dress shirt and fumbles with the buttons, grows impatient with his own alcohol impaired fingers and grabs a handful of fabric instead. He tugs hard on the shirt and buttons pop, one-two-three until Ignis stays his hand and undoes the rest himself.
"That was my favorite shirt."
"I'll buy you a new one," Gladio says.
Ignis is about to scold him for it, but Gladio palms him through his trousers, and Ignis forgets what he was saying. He forgets about the damaged shirt and all the reasons why they shouldn't do this. He wants more, Gods does he want more, and he leans into the counter for support. Gladio grips him firmly, squeezes, and smiles at the low moan he receives in response.
"We're not doing this in my kitchen, where I prepare food," Ignis hisses. "I have a bed, you know."
Gladio laughs at him, but something in his expression softens and his next kiss is much gentler than the first.
Ignis is almost disappointed. He's not used to being manhandled this way, but he rather enjoys Gladio's bold and rough approach. Perhaps this is what was missing from previous encounters, this element of raw physicality. Others were perhaps too intellectual and as prone to overthinking things as Ignis.
"I don't recall telling you to slow down," Ignis says.
"So it's like that, huh?"
Gladio's laugh is low and throaty and he bites down on Ignis' lip, almost hard enough to draw blood.
Clothing is shed on their way to the bedroom, a piece at a time, and Ignis surrenders himself to pure sensation without thought. For a while, he forgets about the boredom and loneliness of his days, about the choices that led him here, he forgets about Noctis and Prompto, and even his own lost status and failures. For a while, there's nothing to think about but finding release, something Gladio seems more than willing to give him.
When it's done, Ignis leans his forehead against the wall above the headboard, panting, breathless and trembling. Gladio's body, sticky with sweat, stays pressed against his back his arms wrapped tight around Ignis' torso, and he leaves a trail of soft kisses from the base of Ignis' neck to his shoulder.
It's sweet. Almost loving. And strange, after such an intense and physical experience.
It's only then that Ignis wonders what possessed Gladio to come onto him in the first place. Ignis is not exactly Gladio's type, and he never has been. Gladio is certainly not his type. Ignis prefers lean, pretty, intellectual men, though Gladio is far more intellectual than his outward appearance would suggest. And though Gladio is an attractive man, Ignis has never once found him attractive in this way. Not until tonight, anyway.
With a satisfied hum, Gladio kisses Ignis' shoulder once more, then releases him to flop down into the pillow.
"Damn, I needed that," Gladio says.
"Same," Ignis agrees.
He pushes away from the wall and joins Gladio, the pleasant ache of satisfaction still humming in his veins. Whatever stresses he carried are temporarily silenced, his frustrations on hold.
Long strands of hair stick to Gladio's face and neck and Ignis dares to brush them away from his cheeks.
"You are sorely in need of a haircut."
Gladio laughs and settles into the pillow, his eyes soft and glittery in the amber lamplight.
"That's all you have to say to me?" he asks.
"You could also use a shave."
Gladio frowns. "Seriously?"
"What do you want me to say, Gladio?"
"I dunno. A little praise would be nice."
Ignis sighs and rolls onto his back.
"You've never needed to be told when you've done a good job. Why start now?"
"So... I did good?" Gladio asks with a slow grin.
"Yes, but your ego is about to ruin it," Ignis says. "You've no need to be so insecure."
"Yeah," Gladio says and the grin falls away. "You're right. Sorry about the lamp, by the way. I'll replace it."
"I would expect so," Ignis says with false irritability. "If I'd known this would involve the destruction of my personal property, I would have thrown you out after supper."
Gladio slides an arm around Ignis' waist and his kiss this time is sweet, slow, and appreciative. Ignis reciprocates. A part of him wishes they could stay like this, forget the world, forget duty, and just... be.
"Mind if I crash here?" Gladio asks.
"It's a big bed," Ignis says. "We can share."
Nyx puts the pedal to the floor the rest of the drive. It's risky to keep going. If he was smart, he wouldn't have left Hammerhead, Drautos be damned, but he hadn't anticipated the Daemons showing up so close to dusk.
Prompto is only only half with him, and may prove useless if they need to fight again. The kid sits slumped against the window, his arms wrapped around his middle, and he stares at his reflection in the side mirror. His eyes aren't glowing anymore, but that doesn't stop Nyx from checking.
Whatever happened back there, whatever that magic was, it took every last daemon down, all at once. Nyx has never seen magic that powerful before. Not even Crowe, the most gifted of the Glavie's mages, is strong enough to take down that many deamons in one go, by herself.
The way the kid looked before he cast his spell concerns him. It looked daemonic, but the magic that came out of him was something else entirely.
"You okay, kid?"
"Fine."
"We're almost there," he says. "Hopefully, they'll let us back in."
"What do we do if they don't?"
"We wait until morning," Nyx says. "But, it's well lit, so there's not much chance of another attack."
"Good to know."
They fall into silence again and Prompto leans back in his seat, no longer interested in the mirror. Instead, he stares at his hands. Opens them, closes them, and looks at them from every possible angle.
"That magic earlier," Nyx says after a while, "part of it looked like something I've only seen in daemons."
Prompto casts Nyx a weary glance and his hands drop back to his thighs.
"First I'm a spy, then I'm an MT," Prompto says. "Now you think I'm a daemon? Next you'll tell me I'm secretly the Emperor of Niflheim."
Nyx can't fault his bitterness. The kid's had a rough go of it, and it started well before he was accused of being a Niff.
"They say MT's used to be human," Nyx says. "That were infected with starscourge."
The boy looks at his hands again and falls into silence for a minute or two.
"But they're just robots inside," Prompto says. "Not people."
"Some part of them must have been at some point. Or they experimented with building them using infected humans."
"You think they did that to me?" he asks after a while.
"That's a good question," Nyx says. "But I don't know. Maybe."
Prompto sighs and wipes a hand down his face. He turns his gaze back to the night, where daemons roam just beyond the road.
"After all the tests they've done, wouldn't they know if I was?" Prompto says. "Besides, aren't daemons afraid of light? I don't know if you noticed, but I don't melt in sunshine."
"Fair point," Nyx says. "You've never done anything like that before?"
"No," Prompto says quietly. "I didn't even know I could."
The gates are closed when they arrive at the wall. Due to increased daemon activity, they're not letting anyone in until dawn. Nyx parks the truck under a spotlight, switches off the engine and rolls down the window.
"You can bed down in the back if you want," he says.
"I'm good here," Prompto says. "Probably won't sleep anyway."
Nyx considers the kid for a minute. On paper, he's suspicious all the way around. There's the codeprint, his friendship with the Prince and the Oracle, the letters, the sneaking around after hours, and now this daemon-like power.
Yet, if he's more than just a goofy kid who lucked into unlikely friendships and a job with the Crownsguard, he's done a bang-up job of fooling everyone. He's almost sickeningly honest, he wears his heart on his sleeve, and those wounded puppy eyes evoke sympathy in even Drautos, as jaded and bitter as he is.
In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Nyx does not believe the kid's a fraud. He can't say why when there are so many signs that he isn't what he says he is. Maybe it's because there's something sad and vulnerable and sincere about him. Maybe it's because he's busted his ass to prove himself, with so many odds stacked against him. Maybe it's because he's fought so hard to keep up with the others.
Nyx is a sucker for an underdog. He's also a sucker for lost and broken kids who don't believe in themselves.
Crowe was one of them, once upon a time. She came to the Kingsglaive a skinny, dirty, sad little mess. Shunned by her village for what she was and what she could do, called a witch and even a daemon, assaulted, abused, shamed and starved for affection, Crowe had little hope of ever being okay. And she wasn't, for a long time. She didn't trust that the uniformed men and women around her had good intentions. Not even Libertus, who rescued her, was spared her distrust or her wrath when she was afraid.
Prompto and Crowe couldn't be more different on the surface, but they have a lot in common. Both had the deck stacked against them from the start. Both are outcasts for what they are. Both are kind-hearted, though Crowe only shows it to close friends, children, and people she senses are as wounded as she is. Both suffered childhood traumas and abuse, and both are deeply vulnerable in their own way, Crowe is just much better at hiding it.
They're also both fiercely determined and no matter how many times they get knocked down, they dust themselves off and get back up.
Crowe no longer needs Nyx and Libertus to look out for her, but Prompto definitely does. Nyx figured out months ago the man they beat up down in the Waiting Room was Prompto's father.
It's left scars on him. It's why he hesitates to fight back in training, why he flinches when he gets hit, and it's what will get him killed out there beyond the wall.
He needs someone to build him up. Someone to trust that he is what he says he is and nothing more. Someone to see beyond the jokes and sarcasm, beyond the codeprint, past his bleeding heart, to the kid who's a fighter, a survivor, and a loyal citizen of Lucis.
If Nyx doesn't do it, no one else will.
"Hey kid?"
"Yeah?"
"You did good out there," Nyx says. "Shitty driving aside, you did good."
Prompto looks at his hands and nods.
"Thanks."
Noctis slips out of his apartment while Rhys, his current advisor-slash-nanny is busy handling the aftermath of a small kitchen fire caused by Noctis' attempt to cook for himself. Grilled cheese didn't look that complicated when Ignis made it.
He's not sure where he's going. His plan to escape extended as far as sneaking out. If Ignis was still around, Noctis would not have made it out of the apartment. Now, he finds himself on the sidewalk outside the building without a destination in mind, only the desire to go somewhere, anywhere, as long as it isn't his place, where he's constantly reminded of his obligations and of what is missing from his life.
It's not that Rhys is unkind or even inept. The guy tries hard to win Noctis over and he does a decent job looking after him. He wants to befriend Noctis and earn his trust, but it isn't the same. Ignis has been by his side since they were both children. Ignis has seen him at his worst, through stomach viruses and bad dreams, through good days and bad. Rhys is a stranger who probably won't last, just like the others.
At times like this, when Noctis desperately needed escape, Ignis understood and allowed him his occasional adventure. Ignis usually took the blame if they were caught. Absconded was the word Clarus used, and Ignis never disagreed, even when Noctis tried to tell the truth.
Noctis gets on the subway without a plan and rides it around the entire city as people come and go. He wonders what his life would be like if he was like everyone else. Not the son of a King, but a regular person.
He pictures himself in a small 6th floor walk-up apartment somewhere miles away from downtown, Prompto his roommate, their furniture cobbled together from thrift stores and cast-offs. Maybe he'd work at the coffee shop on the corner, or maybe in the mail room of some corporation. Prompto would get a job at a camera store or in a portrait studio and they'd struggle to make rent, but there would be no obligations, no shadow of his father's crown hanging over his head, no specter of past Kings, nor a future of self-sacrifice for the good of the Kingdom.
It's a pretty picture, this imagined freedom. One that grows more and more appealing by the day, even if deep down, he knows it wouldn't be as easy as his fantasy suggests it is.
They all act like he doesn't understand what awaits him. Like he doesn't take it seriously, but he does. He's almost too aware of how the strain of upholding the wall is rapidly aging his father. He sees it in his salt and pepper hair and in the lines on his face. He sees it in his father's heavy limp and hears it in his tired voice. The crystal bleeds the life out of him, one day at a time, and someday, not so long from now, Noctis will stand in his place and die slowly too, all for the sake of his Kingdom.
Gladio tells him to grow up and learn to take an interest in the office he will someday hold, yet he hasn't really been brought up to be a King. He doesn't participate in wartime planning or negotiations. He's not expected to meet diplomats, or be involved in political and military decisions the way his father and his grandfathers were when they were his age. They were brought up to rule. The only thing he's expected to do is train. Otherwise, his father leaves him to his own devices.
If Regis were to die today, Noctis wouldn't know where to start. Without Ignis around to guide him, he would surely fail.
He gets off the train at a station somewhere far from downtown. The street above is full of activity, music and people. The architecture and the way people are dressed suggests this is a working-class neighborhood, but the atmosphere is festive. A band plays on the terrace of a nearby restaurant and colored lights are strung between the lamp posts along the street.
No one would know there was a war on, at least, not on the surface. It's only in the graffiti in the alleyways that Noctis notices a bit of dissent against the Crown.
What good is a King who can't protect his people?
He catches a whiff of something delicious and looks upon the nearby row of street vendors and cafes with appreciation. From a food cart, he buys some unspecified meat on a stick that's seasoned to perfection and utterly devoid of vegetables. He savors it as he continues down the street and takes in the atmosphere.
A man in a Kingsglaive uniform catches his eye and it reminds him of Prompto. He follows for a while and thinks of Prompto going to war. The Kingsglaive see actual battle, and they're definitely no joke. Prompto, for as fit and healthy as he seemed last night, is more fragile than he lets on. War and bloodshed will not have a positive impact on him without some friends around to rely on.
Noctis can only hope he's made friends who will look out for him on the battlefield and keep his spirits up when they're not.
He takes out his phone and scrolls through numbers until he finds Prompto's. Noctis doesn't know why he's calling. It's not like Prompto can answer.
"Heyaz, leave a message!"
Noctis hangs his head and sniffles as the line beeps. He hits the end button and wipes his eyes as a wave of sorrow crashes over him.
"I'm sorry," he says to the night. "For everything."
Ignis wakes to a shrill ring from the nightstand beside him. He reaches out to silence it, but the time on the digital display reads 4:26, and his alarm is set for six. Beside the clock, Gladio's phone buzzes against the wood and flashes an obnoxious blue light.
He nudges Gladio with his foot and reaches for the phone.
"Wake up. It's Noctis."
Gladio grunts into the pillow and covers his face with his arm as the phone continues to ring.
With a sigh, Ignis takes the call.
"Why're you answering Gladio's phone at four in the morning?" Noctis slurs. "I call you by mistake?"
"Never you mind," Ignis says. He sits up and shakes Gladio's shoulder. Gladio grunts and turns his face away. "What's wrong? Where is your caretaker?"
Noctis laughs, then sniffles.
"Probably doesn't even know I'm gone," he says.
Ignis sighs.
"Tell me where you are."
"I...I don't know. I think I'm lost?"
He sounds intoxicated, but the word lost implies he's facing more than a mere directional challenge.
"Everything's shit, Ignis," he says. "It's all shit."
"Where are you?" Ignis asks gently. He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and flicks on the light. "We'll come get you."
"Subway station," Noctis says.
"Which one?"
"East Cross. I think."
"Stay where you are," Ignis says as he gathers the remnants of the broken lamp from the floor. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Okay."
Ignis hangs up and sets the phone aside. He tosses the broken glass in the wastebasket in the bathroom and tries not to think of how and why it broke. When he returns to the bedroom, he shakes Gladio again, harder this time.
"Wake up," he demands. "Noctis is in trouble."
"Huh, wha?" Gladio asks and lifts his head from the pillow. "Wadda 'bout Noct?"
"Get up or so help me, I will drag you out of that bed by your ankles."
Ignis dresses quickly and is buttoning up a clean shirt before Gladio even manages to wrench himself into a sitting position. Only then does Ignis notice the bruises on his wrists and wonders what other marks Gladio left on him. Not that he's complaining.
From the kitchen and the hall, he gathers Gladio's clothing. He avoids making eye contact when he returns to the bedroom and tosses Gladio’s belongings onto the bed.
Whatever happened between them tonight, Ignis is unsure about it and where it will lead, if anywhere at all. For now, he'll blame it on the whiskey, boredom, and loneliness, and hold onto hope that it hasn't wrecked their long-standing friendship. For as enjoyable an experience as it was, Ignis is not sure it was a wise choice.
Gladio rubs his eyes and reaches for his pants as Ignis puts on his shoes. Ignis is no longer intoxicated himself, but Gladio seems to be suffering the ill-effects of overindulgence.
"Up, Gladio," Ignis commands. "You have a duty to attend to."
"Yeah, yeah," Gladio grumbles. "I'm up."
Gladio curses as he shoves his legs into his pants, stands and hitches the denim up over his hips. It's hard not to stare, and Ignis turns away, adjusts his glasses and runs a hand through his bed tousled hair.
They don't discuss the night's events on their way to the station. They don't talk about anything of importance, and Ignis struggles to make small talk. Gladio responds with grunts and monosyllabic answers, and he too, seems to want to avoid eye contact. Ignis gives up and lapses into silence as they ride the train to East Cross station to rescue Noctis from his own bad choices.
Noctis sits on the steps, halfway between the platform and the street above. He's slumped against the wall, eyes closed, and he smells like he bathed himself in liquor. Ignis crouches down and slaps his cheek. Noctis bats his hand away.
"Quiddit."
"Noctis, can you stand?"
"Specs?"
Noctis opens his eyes and peers up at Ignis, looking much closer to a boy than a man. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot as though he's been crying.
"What have you done to yourself?" Ignis says, but not without sympathy.
"I don't know how to fix anything," Noctis says. "I'm no King."
Ignis doesn't doubt Noctis will someday make a good King, but at the moment, he's a drunken, pathetic mess.
"Let's get you home, before you make the morning papers," Ignis says and helps Noctis to his feet.
Noctis sways and turns to Ignis with tears in his eyes. He throws his arms around Ignis in a brief, rare, but welcome embrace. Ignis returns the hug and holds onto Noctis until his tears pass.
It makes him feel whole again to be there for him. He's not supposed to, and it would have been more prudent to send Gladio alone, but Noctis needs him and Gladio is unlikely to allow him this moment of weakness.
Both his boys are gone, and Ignis needs to be needed. Is it any wonder he turned to Gladio for comfort?
Noctis stumbles a few times on the steps, and when they board the train bound for downtown, he slumps into the first available seat with a mournful sigh.
There aren't many passengers on the train at this hour. Most seem to be either on their way to work or in the same sorry state as Noctis and the keep their eyes averted or closed against the harsh light. Gladio remains standing, one hand grasping the handhold above as the train starts to move, but Ignis seats himself next to Noctis and drapes a supportive arm around his shoulders.
"I shouldn't have gone," Noctis says. He slumps against Ignis and closes his eyes. "It only made me miss him more."
"Gone where?" Ignis asks.
"Can't tell you."
"If you went to see Prompto, that was a real stupid thing to do," Gladio snaps. It's the first complete sentence he's uttered since he woke up, and his voice is still thick with sleep and intoxication. "You tryin' to get him killed?"
Noctis shakes his head, but he doesn't open his eyes. Ignis meets Gladio's stare with one of his own. It's a loaded look, one that says Gladio holds him responsible. For not being there. For landing them in this situation in the first place. For what Gladio sees as Ignis choosing Prompto over his duty to Noctis.
His decisions were not quite that simple, but Gladio has never quite understood that he did it not just for Prompto, but for Noctis, too.
"This behavior cannot continue, Noct," Ignis says. "You are not a boy anymore and you are too old for adventuring after curfew. And furthermore, you put yourself at risk by wandering off alone. I know you are not fond of your new advisor, but you will show him proper respect, do I make myself clear?"
"Forget it," Gladio says. "He's not listening."
Noctis' head lolls into Ignis' shoulder and his mouth is slack. He's either already asleep or halfway there. Just like old times.
When the train stops downtown, Gladio lifts the dozing Prince to his feet and holds him there until he wakes up.
"Leave me alone," Noctis says.
"You're gonna walk," Gladio says. "Start moving."
It's only a few blocks to Noctis' apartment, but it takes twenty minutes to get there. Noctis stops every few feet and latches onto anything he can grab hold of to lean against. After the sixth time, Gladio grumbles and hauls Noctis up over his shoulder and carries him the rest of the way.
"Wait here," Gladio says to Ignis at the door. "I'll just be a minute."
Ignis waits on a bench across the street. He's tired, a little uncertain, and feeling very guilty about what Noctis must see as abandonment. Ignis is only twenty-one, yet he feels ancient for all the responsibility thrust upon him at so young an age. He's failed in those responsibilities and misjudged Noctis' ability to cope without him.
He's let Noctis down by not teaching him how to stand on his own or care for himself and now Noctis is drowning. He does not have the tools or the will to save himself without Ignis and Prompto by his side.
Gladio returns a few minutes later and crosses the street to join him. He sits and assumes a relaxed posture, legs stretched out, arm draped along the back of the bench like he owns it.
"Don't beat yourself up," he says.
"Easier said than done," Ignis admits. "If I were there, he wouldn't have made it past the hall."
"That's because you know him," Gladio says. "These others, they don't have a clue, and they don't know what to do with him when he starts acting like a brat."
That doesn't make Ignis feel any better about the situation. He sits back, cleans the lenses of his glasses on his shirt and settles them back on his face, unsure of where to go from here.
"You think he really went to see Prompto?" Gladio asks.
"Perhaps," Ignis says. "Though I can't imagine how he might have gotten into the compound without being detected."
Gladio grunts his agreement. He shifts forward and leans his elbows against his knees, casts Ignis a sideways glance.
"So, can we talk about what happened earlier or are we just gonna blame it on the whiskey?"
Ignis is annoyed by the suggestion. He is annoyed by Gladio's casual tone.
"The whiskey certainly helped it along," Ignis says.
"I usually reserve that excuse for one-night stands," Gladio says.
Gladio suppresses a yawn. Ignis fights back something that feels like betrayal. It's clear it meant nothing to Gladio, and though it shouldn't mean anything to Ignis, it does. He's not the sort of man who generally enjoys casual encounters the way Gladio's does, and he's certainly not used to being so easily dismissed.
He pushes to his feet, brushes imaginary dirt from his pants and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Let's call it a moment of weakness, then," Ignis says. "Or perhaps mere convenience."
Gladio shrugs.
"Alright."
Ignis ignores the anger building inside him, says goodnight, and returns to his quiet, empty and lonely apartment and sits awake in the dark with the smell of Gladio's cologne still on the sheets, wondering if there isn't something more to it, or if it really was just a one-time drunken mistake.
Prompto doesn't sleep a wink, though he tries. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees daemons, the stranger, Pryna, and the darkness that wants to eat him alive. He alternates between chill and fever, mild anxiety and repressed terror, unsure if the crawling sensation under his skin is real or imagined.
At dawn, the gates to the city open again. He half expects the rising sun to burn him to ash, but it only chases the chill from his bones. He doesn't watch the city pass outside the window, but stares at his hands as if they're going to become something else if he looks away too long.
They're just his hands, and nothing more.
There are no answers to be found there, nor in his reflection in the side mirror.
It's another hour before they're back at the compound. There's no pep in Prompto's step and he keeps his eyes on the ground as they return to the main hall. Drautos greets them, and angles his head toward the stairs to the basement lab.
"Took you long enough," Drautos says.
"Wasn't by choice, Sir," Nyx says.
"Cut the sir crap," Drautos. "What happened?"
"Ran into some daemons on the way back," Nyx said.
Drautos flicks his eyes toward Prompto.
"How did that go?"
"Daemons are always a good time," Nyx says. "But I swear, they're getting stronger."
"That's because they are," Drautos says. "Meldacio reports there are more than there used to be."
"I can see the Empire exploiting that somehow."
"That makes two of us," Drautos says and turns to Prompto. "How did you hold up out there?"
"Still alive," Prompto says.
"Good. You got in some real-world experience," Drautos says. "That'll help."
"Yeah," Prompto says without enthusiasm. "Guess so."
"Let's see how the chip held up."
Prompto scowls and covers a yawn, but he follows Drautos to the lab without the usual complaints. Once behind the closed door, he takes a seat and holds out his wrist. Drautos unfastens the bracelet and connects it to a computer.
The screen fills with scrolling data. Prompto watches it, but it's going too fast and what he does catch makes no sense to him. It's just random strings of numbers and symbols that don't mean anything. He gives up, leans back in his seat, and fixes his eyes on an MT inside its protective box across the room. It twitches every now and then, still alive, though disabled.
If they really are made of people, he wonders if they can think, if they have feelings, or if their humanity is crushed by what they were made to be. He wonders, if left alone, if they'd be normal people with normal wants and needs.
It's tragic to think this might have happened to them against their will. It would be one thing if they volunteered for it, if they gave up their humanity to serve a cause they believed in, but everything he knows about it says the opposite. The more he sees them, the less afraid he is. The more he learns, the sadder it makes him.
Maybe he really is like them, but by some stroke of luck, was spared from the same fate. Someone brought him here to keep it from happening, or maybe just to study like an experiment. If the latter is the case, he's still an experiment, just one of a different kind.
"Excellent," Drautos says. "The range extends farther than we thought."
"Great," Prompto says. "So what now?"
"You continue to train," Drautos says, "and prepare for the upcoming trials."
It goes unspoken that if he passes, he'll be sent into the next battle, to fight and maybe die. It seemed so abstract before, the idea of being on the front lines of war, but with the prospect looming in the very near future, the reality is finally dawning on him.
"You guys think I'm ready?" he asks.
"Yeah, kid," Nyx says. "I think you're gonna do just fine."
The week passes too quickly. Prompto is a ball of nervous energy, between preparations for the trials and concerns about what happened in Leide. The only thought he has to cheer him is that maybe, once this is all over, Ignis' name will be cleared and the charges against him lifted.
In the training yard, he fights seasoned members of the Kingsglaive and only sometimes gets his ass kicked. He tracks the others as they warp around the training yard and sometimes even wings them. He runs ten miles in the mornings, works his way through the agility course over and over until he knows it by memory, tries to warp again and again and fails. During breaks, he patches up the other recruits, and practices hand-to-hand with Mateo in the afternoons. His self-defense is still lacking, but he's less hesitant to hit or be hit. In the evenings, they play cards and listen to the radio.
He doesn't sleep much. His dreams are full of terrible things when he does, and more than once, he's wakes convinced he's covered in miasma, and out of breath with that second heartbeat a steady pulse in his ears.
It's enough to crush whatever confidence he gained during the day's activities. No matter how strong or competent he's become, there's still a strong possibility he's compromised.
The morning of the trials, he gets out of bed before the others and savors a long, hot shower in peace. It calms him, but only for a while. When he returns to the dorm, his stomach turns at the thought of the day to come and he feels like he's going to vomit. The others are awake, but only Mateo notices his anxiety. He shoots Prompto a questioning look and Prompto forces a smile.
"I'm good," he lies. "Just need some food. I'm starving."
Mateo pats his stomach in agreement. Prompto can't stand the thought of eating, and he picks at his breakfast for fear of spewing it all over the training grounds later.
The actual trials are not as bad as he imagined, and rather like training on any other day, except he's being judged. As expected, he fails to warp and is met with a chorus of laughter from the small audience of off-duty members of the Glaive. He knew he wouldn't be able to, but it kills his confidence and he botches the first part of the agility course he knows so well, and he's positive they're going to throw him out.
"Relax, Plebe," Nyx says during a break. "You're your own worst enemy, you know that?"
"Can I get a do-over?"
"So you fell down a few times," Nyx says and pats his shoulder. "You'll make it up somewhere else."
He tracks a warping Nyx around the training yard and manages three hits on him, which is a new personal record and two more hits than anyone else got. He's met with a round of applause as Nyx shows off his wounds like a proud big brother and messes up Prompto's hair.
"That one actually hurts," Nyx says and sticks his finger in a trench in his arm. "Good job, kid."
There are only a few trials left, and the last one is a sure bet he'll make a spectacle of himself, and not in a good way. How is he supposed to defend himself against Crowe when he's developed a bit of a crush on her? She's tough and unforgiving in training, but he doesn't want to hurt her. Even if she will forgive him for it, even if she is a soldier who signed up for this, it's not in his nature to hurt girls.
"You can't think of her as an ally right now," Nyx says as Prompto prepares for the fight. "If you go easy on her, and she'll kick your ass twice as hard. Not just because she can, but because she's disappointed in you."
"Ugh," Prompto complains. "Somehow, that makes it even worse."
Nyx chuckles and pats him on the back.
"Focus on defense," Nyx says. "The goal is to avoid her attacks, not to take her down."
For the first ten minutes, Prompto doesn't do well. Her first barrage of fire hits him and sends him sprawling, covered in flames and he rolls in the dirt to keep from getting burned.
His nerves are shot, he's jittery and that strange heat starts to build in his chest as he dodges the next set. The only advantage he has is speed, but as fast as he is, she lands more hits than she misses because his focus is off.
He chances a glance to the sidelines and sees disappointment in Nyx's face, and an odd sort of satisfaction in Drautos' cold smile. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he's reminded not of the Drautos he's come to grudgingly respect, but the one he met in the interrogation room. The one who scared the daylights out of him.
Prompto can't afford to fail. He can't afford to let his nerves get to him. He has to see this through, no matter what. For Iggy. For Noctis. He can't quit. There's no option to give up.
He wipes sweat and soot from his brow and prepares for the next round, resolved to do whatever it takes to prove himself. He dodges the next series, hits the ground and rolls away from three consecutive blasts of fire.
As he pops back up and fires on her, an agonizing sensation tears through his shoulder blades, like his bones are splintering apart. He drops his gun as his feet lift off the ground and a rush of wind surrounds him. The muscles of his back scream in pain and he soars toward the sky, propelled by a force he doesn't understand.
Everything stops, as it did before in the desert. Everyone below is frozen in place, their faces upturned and their eyes fixed on him. Crowe, Nyx, Mateo, even Drautos wear matching expressions of awe, mouths agape and eyes unblinking and shining like glass in the sunlight.
The stranger stands on the wall above the yard. He tips his hat and gives a slow clap, but his face is stained in streaks of black and his mouth twists into a nasty grin.
"Take care not to fly too close to the sun, dear Prompto," the stranger says. "Wouldn't want to get burned, now would you?"
The edges of his scar start to burn and Prompto begins to panic. They can't see this. They'll know he's more than what he says he is, something different, maybe something demonic, but panic only feeds it. Power swells and courses through his limbs like electricity and his body is wrapped in light. Not miasma this time, but a pure white that obscures the view of the grounds below.
He doesn't know how to stop it and he has a split second to think of Crowe and her safety before the magic explodes from his chest and the world starts moving again.
Crowe cries out in pain and Prompto echoes the sound with a whimper of his own as he lists to the side, thirty feet in the air. Whatever force held him aloft gives way and he crashes to the ground. There's a sickening crunch of bone as his ankle snaps on impact.
He looks up to the wall as he slumps into the dirt, but the stranger is not there anymore. Pryna sits in his place, still as a statue, her eyes bright blue flames in the sun.
Something soft and warm covers his body. A blanket, he thinks, until he sees snow-white flight feathers laid against his arm. He glides his fingertips over one of them and it tingles all the way to the muscles of his back, as if the feather is as much a part of him as his hands or toes.
Uncomprehending, he looks up at Nyx and Mateo, who crouch before him with matching expressions of astonishment.
"You okay?" Nyx asks.
Prompto can only blink at him. He's too shaken and disoriented to speak or make sense of the question. He's not even sure if he knows what okay means anymore.
Crowe is still on the ground only a few feet away, still and unmoving, her hair unbound and tangled. Blood pours from one of her nostrils and her hands are singed and covered in ash. He's wounded her. Badly.
"What did I do?" he whispers, his throat too tight to speak out loud.
"She's alright," Nyx says. "Just knocked out."
Prompto touches the feathers again and they evaporate into shimmery dust under his palm. He stares at his hand, spent and shaking as the phantom wing dissolves. His injured ankle starts to throb but his toes have gone numb inside his boot. He's so tired, so tired he doesn't have the energy to be afraid anymore.
Drautos looms over him, his expression sour, and Prompto wishes he could curl up in some dark corner and sleep forever.
"Get him up."
Mateo helps Prompto to his feet, but he can't put any weight on his wounded ankle. He's still disoriented and now he's dizzy, too.
"Where the hell did that come from?" Drautos demands.
Prompto looks up at him and his vision blurs. There's not one, but two of him, one clad in gleaming armor, the other in Kingsglaive black. The sunlight is too bright and his double heartbeat drowns out every other sound.
"Still think I'm a robot?" Prompto asks, then his eyes slip shut and he slumps back to the ground with a heavy thud.
Prompto wakes in the infirmary. His ankle is splinted and bandaged and there's a tube in his arm attached to a bag of clear fluid on a stand. On the bed next to his, Crowe is asleep. Nyx and Libertus are seated in chairs beside her.
"Welcome back, Plebe," Nyx says.
"Is Crowe okay?" Prompto asks. He rubs his gritty eyes and sits up. "How bad was it?"
"She's fine," Nyx says. "Just resting."
Nyx gets up and moves his chair to Prompto's side.
"How's the ankle?"
"Good, I guess," Prompto says. "Can't really feel it."
He wiggles his toes to make sure they're still there. They respond like they should and Prompto leans back into his pillow, too tired to be relieved.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"For what?"
"For messing up today," he says. "And for what I did to Crowe. I didn't mean to hurt her."
"You didn't mess up," Nyx says and smirks. "And she's not pissed at you. You impressed the hell out of her, actually."
Prompto blinks at him.
"Impressed? I... why?"
Nyx rubs his hands together and his smirk drops away.
"It's not often you see a Plebe sprout wings and fly."
Fly? When did he fly?
Well, maybe that explains the feathers, but it explains literally nothing else about this. Not where the magic came from, or what it was, or why he has no control over it.
"How do you think you wound up thirty feet in the air?" Nyx asks and pats his leg. "Never seen Drautos speechless before. Made my day, kid."
Prompto cringes at the mention of his name. He's going to have to answer for it, and he doesn't have any answers to give.
The only thing thing he can say is that maybe the stranger did something to him in that convenience store. Poisoned him or infected him or something. But if he talks about that, he's going to sound crazy.
"It was Holy," Crowe says, her voice hoarse. She sits up, clears her throat and turns to him, her dark eyes serious and a little afraid. "The magic you used. It's called Holy."
Prompto bites his lip and bows his head.
"I didn't mean to... I couldn't stop it," he says. "I'm sorry."
Her smile is crooked, but warm. She looks to Nyx and Libertus and angles her head toward the door.
"Give us a minute?"
"Sure," Nyx says. He stands, squeezes Crowe's shoulder and ushers Libertus out. "Let's go get a drink, Lib."
Crowe climbs out of bed, her movements stiff and her eyes bright with pain. Prompto has hurt her worse than she's letting on, and he almost tears up over it, but then she sits at the end of the bed, cross-legged and draws his bandaged ankle into her lap. She pinches one of his toes and frowns.
"This is too tight," she says. "It's cutting off your circulation."
Prompto blushes furiously at the contact. He's never had a pretty girl, let alone a beautiful woman, be so familiar outside of a stolen kiss or two back during his school days. It's almost motherly, the way she unbinds the bandage to examine the bruises and swelling left behind.
"Magic like that, what you did today? It's very rare and very powerful," she says. "If you use it right, you could take down an entire regiment of Imperials in one go."
"I don't know how to use it," he says. "It just happened."
"That's because you're afraid of it," she says and clears her throat again. "I used to be afraid, too. When I was a kid, they called me a witch and..." She takes a deep breath. "The first time it happened, I accidentally killed someone. I was eight."
Prompto's anxiety is immediately replaced by sympathy. He can't imagine what that must have been like.
"I was afraid for a long time. Afraid of myself, of other people, of everything. But then I learned how to control it, and I've learned to accept that it's part of who I am."
She tests his ankle, supporting his heel in her palm as she gently moves his foot. It's stiff and there's a dull ache when the joint is turned inward, but the worst of the pain is gone.
"You'll learn, too," she says.
"Yeah," Prompto says. "If Drautos doesn't lock me up forever for sucking so bad."
Crow smiles as she begins to bind his ankle again, looser than before but still tight enough to keep it immobile. The feeling in his toes slowly returns.
"You didn't suck," she says. "Your only problem is a lack of confidence. That's the only thing holding you back."
It's an echo of what Cor said, not so long ago. It feels like a lifetime since then, but it's been less than a year.
"But I also know, it isn't easy to get over the things or the people that destroy your confidence," she says. "That stuff stays with you, years after it stops, sometimes forever."
There are ten thousand secrets in her eyes when she looks up at him, and he feels an unexpected kinship with her. He sees his own pain reflected in her, but also warmth and understanding.
"It's not going to get any easier," she says. "So whatever you've been through, I want you to take all that fear and pain and anger that you're trying so hard to hide and use it like a weapon. That's the best advice I can give you."
"Does it make it go away?" he asks in a small voice.
"Not completely," she says. "But is sure as hell helps make it not hurt as much."
She finishes binding his ankle and stands up, pats his leg and returns to her own bed.
"By the way," she says as she settles down into the blankets. "Welcome to the Kingsglaive. You earned it."
Chapter 8: Puzzle Pieces
Chapter Text
Dear Luna,
I made it, baby! I'm officially Kingsglaive and I'm free! Sort of. Still on restriction until they decide I can be trusted for sure. It's been a long, tough road, and I thought for sure I was a goner a few times, but I survived more or less in one piece. Wish it meant I could see Noct again, but I'll have to settle for getting Iggy's name cleared. Better than nothing, right?
I wish I had my camera so I could send you pics of my uniform. The Crownsguard uniforms are pretty awesome, but the Glaive uniforms are so rad, I feel like I grew a whole foot when I put it on! Can't help but wonder what the guys would think. Bet they all doubted I'd make it. Heck, I doubted I'd make it.
But it also means I'll have to go out there and fight, and to be honest with you, I'm scared to death. If this whole thing has taught me anything, it's that I'm not ready to go yet. I thought I'd made my peace with dying and all, but I really want to live so I can help Noct, even if it's only from afar. If I have to fight the Empire to make sure he stays safe, then that's what I gotta do.
Anyway, there's something I need ask you, and maybe it's going to sound crazy, but have you sent Pryna to look after me? I keep seeing her at the weirdest times. I mean, everything's a little weird with me right now (and I don't even know how to explain all that without sounding like a nutcase) but I just wanted to check because it's really starting to freak me out.
And thanks, Luna. For being my friend all these years, for your prayers, and for not giving up on me when I couldn't answer your letters. It means a more than you could ever know.
Your buddy,
Prompto
Prompto grins at his reflection in the mirror and smooths his palms over the fabric of his uniform jacket. He can't get over how awesome it looks on him or how tough he feels wearing it, like he could take on half an army by himself.
Next to him, Mateo is doing the same. They're the only two of the bunch that made it and they have a right to be proud. Only about six recruits a year make it this far. Give or take.
"Can I borrow your hair gel?" he asks Mateo. "This uniform demands a way cooler hairstyle."
Mateo gives him a thumbs up and flaps his arms gracefully.
"There are worse things you could call me," Prompto says. "I'm big on birds."
"Not just a bird," Mateo says. "A Chocobo."
"Chocobos can't fly," Prompto says as he applies a handful of gel to keep the front of his long hair out of his face. He considers just pulling it back, the way the others do. "You ever seen one? Like, up close?"
Mateo shakes his head.
"Me neither," Prompto says. "I used to take pictures of pigeons when I was a kid. Wonder if Chocobos mind getting their picture taken."
He straightens and turns to Mateo, his hair forgotten.
"I just had a great idea!" he says. "What do you say someday you and me go find that chocobo ranch in Duscae and go riding? C'mon, say yes! It'll be awesome, dude!"
"We can race," Mateo says.
Prompto grins and high-fives him.
"That's what I'm talking about!" Prompto cries. "Chocobos, here we come!"
"Are you two done preening?" Nyx asks from the doorway.
Prompto narrows his eyes at Nyx.
"Dubious choice of words there, buddy."
"Nice hair, Plebe."
"We're not Plebes anymore," Prompto says and puffs out his chest. "We graduated. Or whatever."
"You're a Plebe until I say you're not," Nyx says with a smirk. "Come on. It's about to start."
Prompto puts the final touch on his hair and follows Nyx and Mateo to the training yard. He shouldn't be so nervous about this, but he he is. The next phase of his life is about to begin, and it's not a life he would have chosen for himself, but he finally sees an opportunity to be stronger and braver than he ever dreamed he could be. He has hope that whatever path the Gods have set him on will eventually put him back in touch with his friends.
The gathering in the training yard is large. More Kingsglaive than Prompto's ever seen at one time are assembled along the walls and the edges of the grounds. Among them, he spies the Marshal and he lifts his hand to wave. He wonders what Cor is doing here, but he hopes he reports back that this is for real.
The Glaives are all in uniform and Prompto's hit by an unexpected sense of family as they line up to watch the proceedings.
He thinks about his own family and of how they wouldn't have come to see him graduate high school, even if he still lived at home. Most of these people don't even know him, but they've showed up to see him patched in. They cheer for him once he's said his oath, pat him on the back, hug him, and welcome him like he belongs.
But as he receives congratulations from his new family, he clutches the bullet in his gloved palm and wishes Noctis, Iggy and Gladio were here, too.
Gladio watches Ignis through the small window of a private gymnasium, impressed as always by the way he moves. The time away from daily Crownsguard training has not robbed him of his strength or skill. He knows his own body, and what those long, limber limbs can do.
It's beautiful, like a perfectly choreographed dance. Gladio envies him. No matter how hard he trains, his body will never move like that. Gladio is pure power, but Ignis is all grace.
For over a week now, Gladio has struggled with what happened between them, or why it happened at all. For over a week, he hasn't been able to summon the courage to call or text. He's no longer sure what he's supposed to say.
It complicates things. Though Ignis has not been explicitly forbidden to be in contact with himself or Noctis, it's been suggested they break ties. Ignis has been named a possible traitor to the Crown, and it doesn't look good for the Prince's bodyguard to consort with the enemy. Besides that, Gladio isn't sure where Ignis stands, and it's put a strain on their friendship. Ignis said they'd call it convenience, but it didn't feel like convenience at the time.
All that aside, Ignis is no traitor. There's no one in the world who loves Noctis more, not even his own father. Ignis would give his life to keep Noctis safe, and Gladio is only now figuring out that saving Prompto was an extension of that.
Prompto. Gladio still has mixed feelings about the kid, but he's more fond of him than he'll own up to. He might be a bad influence in some ways, but he's the only friend Noctis ever kept, and the only one that drew him out of his shell. Without him, Noctis sleeps too much and has lost interest in the things he used to enjoy. He's angry and broods about things beyond his control, and in the end he does nothing to change it.
Gladio's reasons for being here today are more professional than personal, though by no means a Crownsguard sanctioned visit. He has two pieces of news that Ignis needs to know. He could text both, but it's a good excuse to see Ignis in person.
He opens the door as Ignis executes some kind of twisting no-handed flip that's impressive as hell. Noct's been working on that one too, with far less success. If the two could coordinate that into some double assault link-strike, it would be deadly as hell.
Ignis sticks the landing, then startles at Gladio's unexpected appearance. His face registers surprise, then shame, and Gladio wants to know why. What does he have to be ashamed of?
"Hey, Ig," Gladio says.
"Gladio."
The greeting is formal and curt, all his former warmth gone.
Gladio closes the door and takes a couple steps inside. Ignis' posture is stiff. He removes his glasses and cleans them on the hem of his shirt, then replaces them.
"What can I help you with?"
Gladio rubs his chin and paces a circle around the room. He stops near the window, glances outside, then turns to face his friend.
"Got some good news and some potentially interesting news," Gladio says. "Thought you might want to know."
Ignis relaxes minutely. Sweat beads on his forehead and his hair sticks to it. Glaido wants to reach out and brush it away, but he stays where he is.
"Prompto got patched in yesterday," Gladio says. "He's officially Kingsglaive. Crowe says he did real good, and trust me, if she says he did good, she means he killed it."
Ignis' face softens. He almost smiles.
"That is good news. I'm glad to hear it," Ignis says.
"I didn't think he'd make it that far, to be honest with you," Gladio says.
"He's stronger than you give him credit for," Ignis says.
"You'd know better than me."
A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between them. This is more upsetting than anything. There's never been a time when silence was a problem.
"What's the rest?" Ignis asks.
"You and me are having dinner with Cor tonight," Gladio says. "My place."
Ignis' posture changes, no longer insecure but all business, like Gladio's used to.
"You got him to talk?"
"Not yet, but he agreed to sit down with us," Gladio says. "Don't worry about food. I've got that covered."
"I somehow doubt that," Ignis says. "I will not allow you to serve the Marshal doctored-up Cup Noodles for supper."
Gladio chuckles and pats Ignis on the arm, but his laughter dies away when Ignis flinches and a steps back.
Goddamn, that hurts. All the way down to his bones.
"Let me handle it," Ignis says. "I'll pick up some steaks on my way home."
Gladio planned on some take-out, but it's hard to turn down Ignis' cooking.
"You don't gotta do that, Ig," Gladio says. "I said I got it covered."
"I insist," Ignis says.
"If you insist," Gladio says. "You're too damn stubborn for your own good sometimes, Iggy. I just want you to know that."
He meant it as a joke, but there's a flash in Ignis' eyes, a split second of hurt, and Gladio kicks himself. He thought maybe they could just go back to being buddies, but it's obvious they've crossed some line they can't easily step back over.
There's a long silence between them. Gladio shifts from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say now or how to broach the subject of their strained friendship. They need to talk about it if it's brought them to this, but Ignis is far more sensitive than he lets on, and Gladio's afraid anything he says is going to make it worse.
"How is Noctis?" Ignis asks.
"Hanging in there. He's gone to some thing at school. New retainer's with him."
"And his grades?"
"Shitty," Gladio says. "I think he's doing it on purpose."
"I wish there was something I could do about that," Ignis says. "But here we are."
"Quit feeling guilty. Noct's a big boy. He can make his own decisions."
"And if those decisions lead him astray?"
"Then he'll have to face the consequences, just like everyone else," Gladio says. He pauses and looks Ignis over. "What about you? Are you okay?"
Ignis flushes and casts his eyes toward the gym mat. Gladio doesn't want him to be ashamed, not of what happened between them, and not because he chose to protect a boy who couldn't protect himself. Even if Gladio doesn't agree with it, he understands why Ignis did it. Whatever Prompto turned out to be, he was the reason Noctis started smiling again all those years ago.
Gladio forgets himself again, steps forward and drops a hand to Ignis' shoulder. Ignis flinches, turns redder, and steps back.
"Please don't."
Gladio's hand falls to his side and he curses himself for everything that brought them to this place in their relationship.
"We're not okay, are we?" Gladio asks.
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Your reasons for doing it in the first place."
Gladio sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets. He's not clear on his reasons either, but he thinks about that night and how much he loved making the notoriously straight-laced, uptight Ignis Scientia come completely undone. He thinks about how much he would enjoy doing it again.
"Why did you let me?"
They're at an impasse. Neither is willing to give any ground on the subject, neither willing to admit there could be more to it than convenience.
"You're my best friend in the world, Ig," Gladio says. "Whatever happened, I don't want to lose your friendship, and the way I see it, we've got a few choices here. One, we keep ignoring each other until we're not friends anymore. Two, we go with our original decision and say it was the alcohol and move past it, or..."
Gladio sighs. He doesn't know how to handle this. He's not sure if he's ready to give it a shot, nor is he willing to wreck a friendship over a failed attempt at a relationship, but damn does he want to find out if there's more to this than just alcohol and bad decisions. Ignis in bed might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"I don't want you to stop being my friend just because we got drunk and fucked one night, alright? Let's just let it go, move on, and pick up where we left off, okay? Can we do that?"
"Certainly," Ignis says. There's a frosty edge in his voice. "Was there anything else?"
Dear Prompto,
I am so relieved to hear from you, and congratulations! I never doubted you'd do well. I know you don't think much of yourself, and I know we've never met in person, but I've always gotten the impression that your will is strong. I've no doubt, that strength will carry you through the battles to come, and I will pray for your continued safety.
I've not personally sent Pryna to visit, but if she's come to you, then perhaps you share a bond with her similar to my own, perhaps due to your kindness when she was wounded. I should like to know the circumstances, if you're willing, so that I might understand better. I'll assume for now that she came to you in a time of need, to aid and support you and lend you her strength. Without further details, I cannot say otherwise.
You must have gathered by now that Umbra is more than just a pet. The same holds true for Pryna, though their respective talents are quite different. Obviously, Umbra is capable of traveling great distances quickly, unimpeded by geography. Pryna is more of a spiritual guide, for lack of a better explanation. She exists somewhere between our world and the world of the Gods and Astrals. I know that's an insufficient description of what she's capable of, but it's the best I can do. There's much more to it, and more they're able to do besides travel, but I'll leave it at that for now.
Things in Tenebrae are tense at the moment. I am home, but the older I get and the longer the Empire stays, the less it feels like home. It pains me to see how our people suffer at their hands and be able to do nothing about it. I am only allowed certain freedoms because I am the only one capable of holding back the darkness. Every day, I see more and more people afflicted with the scourge, and it is my duty to heal them. If not for that, I fear the Empire would have disposed of me long ago.
That said, the darkness is coming. I will continue to do my duty, but I fear, it won't be enough. Already, the days grow shorter, the nights longer. I am only one woman, and there are so many afflicted that I'm unable to reach. It pains me to know so many are suffering and that there is nothing I can do to help them.
But enough about that. I'll pray for you, Prompto.
Yours,
Luna
Prompto's first assignment is not a battle, it's gate duty, at the border. Crowe is his assigned babysitter, though Drautos calls her his mentor. He knows the Captain doesn't trust him, but Prompto hasn't given him a reason not to. So far, he's done everything asked of him. He's submitted to every test and trial without complaint.
But he's still some form of MT prototype or some weird Imperial science experiment, and that makes him half an enemy.
Now that he's an official member of the Kingslaive, his training has doubled, not relaxed as he hoped. He spends his mornings in combat training with experienced Glaives, and his afternoons with Crowe and the other mages. So far, the latter has proved pointless. Prompto shows absolutely no skill at handling or using magic unless it's in a flask that he can chuck at something, and so far, he's been unable to replicate the Holy magic he used on the day of the trials.
His first day of guard duty, he and Crowe take the subway out to the eastern checkpoint. They're in uniform and get odd looks from some of the other passengers. Some faces are full of fear. Others, hate.
"Most of the Kingsglaive are immigrants," Crowe explains. "Or people like me. They only tolerate us because we're the ones going out to fight beyond the wall. If not for us, the Empire would have taken the city years ago, and they know that."
"Why do they hate immigrants so much?" Prompto wonders.
Crowe shrugs. "They're afraid."
"Of what?"
"A lot of things. That they're spies. That they'll be a drain on the city's resources. Or that maybe they'll bring the scourge."
"Has anyone given them a reason to believe any of that?"
"Every now and then, yeah," she says. "But less often than rumor would have you believe."
The train stops and Prompto glances out at the familiar platform. It's just like the others, but different because it was his stop, back when he still lived at home. The only difference now is the advertisements have changed.
It's the familiar face that steals his breath away and he goes completely still as a man boards the train and chooses the empty seat directly across from him.
There's a scar on his face that wasn't there before, directly below his left eye. Kingslaive or not, just the sight of his father causes his heartbeat to double and his palms to sweat. He wants to look away, but he can't stop staring. That dark thing starts to crawl beneath his skin. He's hot and cold at the same time.
Crowe notices and casts a curious glance sideways. She blinks at him, turns his chin toward her, and shakes her head.
"Cool it, kid," she says.
"What?"
"Your eyes."
"What?" he says again.
She takes a compact from her bag and opens it up. Prompto shivers at his own reflection.
His irises are shocking, bright blue like a gas flame, lit from inside and as noticeable as a flashlight beam in pitch darkness. His double-time heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. He's short of breath. His palms itch.
By now, he knows the signs. If he doesn't get off this train, he might hurt someone.
Crowe closes the compact and returns it to her bag, then slips her hand into his. It calms him, marginally, and he focuses on breathing, the way she taught him. In through his mouth, out through his nose.
His father has noticed him now. He stares back at Prompto, unable to mask his fear. Whether it's the glowing eyes or the uniform or the woman beside him, Hebeto Argentum is afraid.
It's the first time Prompto's ever seen the man show anything besides annoyance or anger, but it doesn't bring any satisfaction. He's too scared he's going to sprout wings and blast the entire train car off the rails.
"Ah, I get it now," Crowe says.
Her eyes are fixed on his father and her lips curve into an almost cruel smile.
"What?" Prompto asks.
He swallows down the salty taste in his mouth, a flavor he knows is adrenaline, and one he's long associated with fear. He doesn't understand what's going on. He gets the feeling there's some subtext he's missing.
Crowe's eyes are fixed on his father, and she grins until he looks away. She laughs softly and tightens her grip on Prompto's arm.
They have history, these two. He can feel it as strong as he can feel the power surging through his veins. They've met before, and somehow, she knows who he is to Prompto. She doesn't have to say it for him to know it.
Hebeto Argentum's face is bright red. He stares at some point on the floor, unable or unwilling to look Prompto in the eye.
Prompto's terror turns to sorrow, and then to anger.
"Why couldn't you just be kind to me?" he asks out loud. "That's all I ever wanted."
His father meets his gaze for a split second, then looks away like Prompto is blinding sunlight. Like he can't bear to look too long.
"It's okay, kid," Crowe says gently. "You've got a new family now."
It's loud enough for his father to hear. The man winces, stands up, and flees the car. Prompto watches him until he disappears into the mass of people and through the door to the next car and out of his sight.
The throb of magic subsides and with it, all of Prompto's energy. He doesn't ask questions and Crowe doesn't offer answers. He's already put the pieces together.
Crowe and Nyx know Gladio. Foreigners jumped his father. It's all right there, plain as day.
He only has one question:
"Who asked you to beat up my dad?"
Crowe squeezes his arm.
"Was it Gladio?" he asks.
"He was there."
"Not Noctis."
"He was there, too," she says.
Prompto swears under his breath and that old fear bubbles up, along with a resurgence of magical energy. He struggles to suppress it, and he doesn't want to go into freak-out mode here, of all places, but it's coming. He feels it. It's just underneath his skin, aching to get out.
"Hey," Crowe says. She takes his face between her palms and Prompto searches his memory for a time when his mother comforted him this way. He comes up empty. "It's okay. He can't hurt you."
Over her shoulder, just past the door, the stranger leans against a pole and smiles his benign smile.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and the man is gone, but that unhinged feeling is still there. His shoulder blades start to tingle, his fingers and toes too.
"Crowe, I'm gonna-"
And she drags him into her arms, a hand pressed to the back of his head to draw him to her shoulder like he's a child. He doesn't hear what she's saying, but the sound is soothing. It quiets the swell of violence and satisfies some deeper, more desperate need in him, after months of almost no physical contact besides combat and the occasional pat on the shoulder and a single hug from Noctis.
He almost falls apart the way he did in Ignis' kitchen so many years ago. It's only the threat of showing what he is in public that keeps him together.
At the next stop, Crowe tugs him to his feet. It's not their stop, but Prompto doesn't question her choice to get him off the train before it's too late. She leads him to the family restroom, locks the door and seats him on the toilet. At the sink, she wets paper towels and presses one to the back of his neck and hands him the other.
It helps. The tingling dies off, the double rhythm of his heart subsides, and his breathing slows, but it's a while before he finds his voice again.
"It only comes out when you feel threatened, or afraid?" Crowe says. "Is that it?"
Prompto shrugs.
"It's only happened twice. Unless you count this."
"It counts," she says. "But I can work with that."
Prompto hopes so. Until he can control it, he's a ticking time bomb. And from the way Crowe's looking at him, he suspects she knows that, too.
Ignis arrives at Gladio's apartment an hour before Cor is scheduled to arrive. Rock music plays at a low volume from hidden speakers throughout the living room, not to Ignis' taste but soft enough that it isn't irritating. Gladio takes the grocery bag from him as Ignis removes his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack.
"Want something to drink?" Gladio asks. "I've got a bottle of that red you liked."
Ignis does not intend to indulge tonight, lest there be a repeat of the last time he drank too much. Gladio's made it clear his position on things, and Ignis is prepared to accept it. However, if it happened once because they were feeling loose and needy, it could potentially happen again and that would only exacerbate the problem.
"Thank you, but I'll pass."
Gladio sighs. "Alright."
Ignis ties Iris' frilly magenta apron around his waist. It's the only one Gladio has now that Ignis is not a regular visitor, and immediately sets about preparing the meal. Thick steaks, creamed potatoes with chive, and pan-seared white asparagus with a dilled lemon sauce, as he's heard it's Cor's favorite. It certainly can't hurt to indulge the man, after all.
Gladio sips on a glass of whiskey and watches him work.
"I'm sure there's something on the television you can watch until Cor arrives," Ignis says.
"Damn, what crawled up your butt?"
Ignis drops his spoon and turns a sour glare on him.
"Perhaps it's being given no notice of a dinner engagement," Ignis says, "or simply because we got drunk and fucked one night and I'm not allowed to be confused about it."
"That's what's bugging you?" Gladio asks.
"That and much more."
Gladio drops a hand to Ignis' shoulder. Ignis shrugs it off.
"Don't touch me."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Gladio asks. "I thought we were on the same page here and now you're acting like a jealous girlfriend."
Ignis picks up his spoon and turns back to his marinade.
"Forgive me if I have a difficult time understanding why you bothered coming on to me in the first place," Ignis says. "Nor do I understand your ability to brush it off like it means nothing to you."
Gladio rubs his chin and sighs.
"C'mon, Iggy. I don't want to argue."
"Nor do I," Ignis says. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to let me work."
"Fine."
Gladio storms out of the kitchen, and a moment later, cheers and howls erupt from the television as Gladio tunes into some sporting event.
Ignis braces his palms against the counter and leans into them with his eyes closed. He takes a slow breath and tells himself he's being unnecessarily sensitive and childish about the whole thing. It was just sex. That was all. No need to be salty about it, and he'd be wise to let it go, otherwise he's in danger of losing his closest friend.
Cor arrives ten minutes early and Gladio turns off the television. Back in the kitchen, he offers Cor a drink and pointedly avoids speaking to Ignis. Cor ignores his offer and drifts over to the stove to peer into the frying pan in admiration.
"That smells incredible, Ignis," he says.
"Thank you, Marshal. I hope it will taste incredible as well."
"If what I've heard about your cooking is true, I'm sure I won't be disappointed," Cor says. "Truth be told, I haven't eaten a decent meal in weeks."
"Why is that?" Ignis asks idly.
"Busy. You've seen the news."
"Indeed, I have," Ignis says. "This is almost finished. Gladio, if you could make yourself useful and set the table?"
Gladio mutters something under his breath.
"What was that?" Ignis asks.
"Yes, sir," Gladio says, his voice heavy sarcasm.
Ignis doesn't bother to acknowledge him this time. No sense in arguing in front of Cor.
"Marshal, how do you prefer your steak?"
"Bloody."
"Good man," Ignis says. "Nothing worse than a well done cut of quality meat. Overcooking destroys the more subtle flavors."
But nobody cares to hear him elaborate about the finer details of food preparation. Gladio is poring Cor a drink, and they've already moved onto sports. By the time the meal is served, they're in the midst of a discussion of goings on at the Citadel, a topic that Ignis can't contribute to, even if he wished to.
Ignis doesn't speak for the majority of the meal. He's pleased with the way the dilled lemon sauce turned out, even if the asparagus are a tad overdone. Against his better judgment, he indulges in a glass of wine to ease his tension, and by the time he serves dessert, his irritation with Gladio has died down to a dull roar.
"So," Gladio says as they sit down to enjoy an after dinner drink, "you said you'd give us the goods on Prompto."
Cor sips his drink and nods thoughtfully. Gladio shifts in his chair but Ignis gathers the man is not reluctant to speak on it, but attempting to organize his thoughts.
"What I say here doesn't leave this room," Cor says. "I need your word."
"But of course," Ignis says. "It's only for Prompto's benefit that we ask."
Cor smiles a little and sits forward.
"I saw him get patched in last week," he says.
"How did he look?" Ignis asks.
"Like he belonged there."
Ignis is relieved to hear that. It's one thing to get word third-hand from Gladio, and another to hear it from an eye witness that knew a thing or two about trainees and potential.
"Glad to hear it," Ignis says. "I gather you have some special interest in the boy?"
Cor scratches his forehead and sits back.
"I do," he says. "He was about a year and a half old when a Niff woman arrived the border begging for refuge. They called me to help determine whether or not she was a spy."
The story Cor tells is a heartbreaking one. The woman, named Celine, and baby Prompto were taken into custody. Celine claimed to be a pediatrician at a Magitek Facility on the outskirts of Gralea. She told him about a project they were working on, one that involved genetically engineered clones to be used as a basis for a mechanized army. At the time, no one was aware that MT's existed, as the first wave of functional soldiers had yet to be rolled out.
The baby in her arms was supposedly one of them.
Celine told Cor she was only a caregiver that handled monitoring of the infant's overall health and wellness, not a participant in the experiments. She had reservations about the project from the beginning, but did not learn the children in her care were to be made into weapons until later when she was showed a prototype.
It wasn't until one of the children in her care was slated for termination that she began to really question what she was doing there. Though Prompto was the smallest of the batch and there were concerns about his vision, he was a healthy, robust, and happy child. He was more verbal and laughed more than the others and responded better to music and colors, but those things were unimportant to those in charge.
The Niffs required physically perfect specimens for the project, and Prompto didn't make the cut.
Celine, who became a doctor to protect life, not destroy it, couldn't abide the euthanization of a perfectly healthy baby simply because he was at the bottom end of the physical development curve. Especially when he seemed so far ahead of the others from a cognitive perspective. She ignored orders, bundled the boy in several blankets stolen from the ward and absconded with him.
She had no plan, only to get as far from the Empire's reach as possible, and found herself several months later, at the gates of Insomnia with an eighteen month old child that she'd fallen hopelessly in love with due to his sweet disposition and big blue eyes and hearty laugh.
"They were both half starved and in need of rest and a good meal, but the baby was strong and healthy and damned if he didn't have a smile that could melt even Shiva's heart," Cor says. "I couldn't turn them away."
"They were cleared, then," Ignis says.
"Yeah," Cor says. He stares into his drink. "Celine was very fond of him. Probably would have given her life if it meant he was safe."
"What happened to her?" Gladio asks.
"She died suddenly about eight months after they arrived," Cor says. "Hit by a car at a crosswalk downtown on her way to pick Prompto up from the sitter."
"And how old was he then?"
"Just over two," Cor says. "She named me as an emergency contact, and Prompto was placed in my care. I wanted to raise him myself, but my duties and the risk of doing so made that impossible."
Ignis can't decide whether or not he's furious with Cor, or extremely grateful. The answer to that, he supposes, lies in the answer to his next question.
"And the Argentum's?" Ignis asks. "How did they end up caring for him?"
"Hebeto was an acquaintance of mine," Cor says. "He and his wife were unable to have children of their own, and he owed me a favor for bailing him out of some trouble. They agreed to take the boy in hopes of starting a family of their own. I made them promise to keep his origins secret in exchange for financial help in raising him."
"What sort of trouble?" Ignis asks, though he suspects he already knows the answer.
"Drunk and disorderly charges,. At the time, I believed it was an isolated incident," Cor says. He drops his gaze to his shoes. "I never thought he'd raise his hand to a kid, though. If I'd known, i would have mad a different choice."
"So you knew the guy beat the hell out of him?" Gladio demands.
"Not until he started to train with the Crownsguard," Cor says.
"He told you?" Ignis asks, surprised. It's not something Prompto talks about.
"He didn't need to," Cor says. "It was the way he acted during hand-to-hand training, and the fact that he was living with you at the time. It was pretty obvious."
Ignis decides he can forgive Cor's decision to place Prompto with the Argentum's. They did their duty insofar as keeping his secret. Had that come to light earlier in Prompto's life, perhaps he would not be alive now.
"There's one thing I'm not sure I understand," Ignis says. "Did you recognize the barcode from the start?"
"Not until a few years later, when we actually had to fight those things," Cor says. "Back before the Kingsglaive took over the ground assaults. The first time I saw it, I knew exactly what project Celine was talking about, and what Prompto was. It broke my heart."
"Why the hell didn't you say any of this when Ignis and Prompto were locked up?" Gladio demands. "You don't think this information would have helped?"
"I don't," Cor says. "Just imagine the shit-show it would have been. I doubt Regis would have been able to justify sparing our lives."
"The hell he couldn't," Gladio says. "You had a bigger hand in this than anyone, and they're the ones who paid for it."
Cor nods at Gladio, then turns to Ignis.
"I am sorry for how things went down," he says. "It means a lot to me that you tried to protect him."
It dawns on Ignis that Cor must care for Prompto. In training he never showed it, but he's looked out for him all these years. He paid for his school and a few extras where he could. The plea for forgiveness in his eyes now is not that of a man who's been caught doing wrong, but of one who believes he chose the best possible course of action. Ignis is inclined to believe he has.
If Cor had spoken up, very likely, it would have looked as though a greater conspiracy was at work, the Citadel infiltrated by traitors. Cor was nearly as close to the King as Prompto to Noctis. Everyone would have come under fire, including Regis himself for allowing so many traitors in his midst. Already, the King faces the growing disillusionment of his people, both within the city and from the Lucian territories he is no longer able to protect. It's likely something that big would have brought him down.
"I understand," Ignis says. "By keeping silent, you were trying to avoid a bigger scandal."
"Wait, you're just going to forgive him for keeping his mouth shut? This ruined your life, Iggy."
"No," Ignis says. "His silence saved it. And the life of our King."
Guard duty at the wall is boring as hell. For hours, Prompto walks a repetitive circuit along the perimeter, on the lookout for threats. There isn't much to see besides wildlife and the occasional vehicle.
He struggles to keep his focus, and he wonders if this isn't punishment for something. Nyx gets sent to the Citadel for gate duty whenever he's pissed Drautos off. Maybe Prompto did something without knowing it. Maybe Drautos didn't like his little magical outburst on the day of the trials. Maybe, it's because he's still sort of useless. He's a good shot, but not much more.
Still, it's not a battlefield. Prompto's okay with that.
He's not dismissed until nightfall, and it's Nyx that comes to collect him. As if he couldn't find his way back to the compound on his own.
None of the others have an escort. Mateo is allowed to report for his patrol at the Citadel on his own.
But then, Prompto's the only one branded by the enemy, and the only one who wears an expensive piece of technology on his wrist. They're just protecting their investment.
"How'd it go, Plebe?"
"Boring."
"Oh come on, guard duty's a thrill a minute," Nyx says with a grin. "I mean, it's my absolute favorite way to spend my day. You get to stand there and mean-mug everyone within a ten foot radius and get harassed by the City Watch for not being Lucian. How can that not be exciting?"
Prompto removes the magazine from his rifle and stores it away in his pocket.
"I'm a Lucian," Prompto mutters.
The more he says it to himself, the less he believes it's true.
Nyx claps him on the shoulder, and though he still wears that sardonic smirk, there's a hint of sympathy in his face.
"What do you say we go grab a bite to eat, Crown Citizen?"
"I could eat," Prompto says, "but are we talking the mess hall at the compound or something else?"
"How do you feel about spicy food?"
"I'm big on spicy food," Prompto says. His mood lifts a little at the thought of flavors of the non-bland variety. "But, it's gotta be pretty warm to impress me."
Nyx laughs, slaps his arm, and they walk to the subway station. Prompto expects a downtown restaurant, somewhere near the compound, but they go the opposite direction, to an area of town not so far from where he grew up.
When they get off the train, he knows right away they're in the Waiting Room. It's lively and loud, and the faces they pass on the street speak of other, far away places and struggle.
This is a part of town he's been warned against since he was a kid. Dangerous, crime-ridden, dirty. Not a safe place for a kid. That might have been true for a Lucian teenager, but he and Nyx are both still in uniform, and they receive nods of respect as they pass by vendors and pedestrians who all assume they too are immigrants.
Nyx stops at a food truck, tucked halfway into an alley brimming with garbage. Mingled with the delicious scent of roasting meat is the odor of rot. It nearly turns Prompto's stomach, until hunger wins out and Nyx presents him with a paper tray of skewered meat and vegetables. The smell of spices and fat overpower the foul reek from the alley.
He breathes it in and closes his eyes and thinks of Ignis. He would love this. Prompto always meant to introduce Ignis to street food and to all the unique flavors found only in the darker corners of the city, but there never seemed to be much time for that.
Someday, he's going to do just that. Once things have settled and Ignis' good name is cleared, he'll take Ignis on a food truck tour of the city, just the two of them.
As he takes his first bite and his mouth and throat warm from the exotic spices and hot pepper, he decides they'll start here. He takes another bite and moans happily as the heat builds and he feels the burn in his sinuses. It clears his head and his mind and he feels somewhat normal again, like he's spending an evening with Noctis just hanging out.
"Too hot?" Nyx asks.
Prompto shakes his head and takes another bite. Nyx laughs and digs into his own meal.
"What is this, anyway?" Prompto asks.
"Chickatrice with ginger, green curry, and Galahd pepper," Nyx says. "It's not totally authentic, but close enough to make me homesick. Want a beer?"
Prompto shakes his head. "I'm good."
"What kind of nineteen year old refuses alcohol when it's offered?"
"The kind that grew up with an alcoholic in the family," Prompto says between bites.
"Doesn't mean you'll be one," Nyx says. "But I get it. No pressure."
"Thanks," Prompto says. "Hey, um, you know anything about Crowe and my buddy Gladio beating the crap out of my dad?"
Nyx's eyes glitter and crinkle at the corners. It's not quite a smirk. His expression is a little too serious for that, but he nods, licks the grease from his fingers, and sits back.
"You were there, too, weren't you?" Prompto asks.
"I was," Nyx says.
"Why?"
"Because I don't like hearing a grown man beat the shit out of a sixteen-year-old boy who was too puny and weak to fight back," Nyx says. He looks at Prompto thoughtfully. "Not so puny now, though, are you?"
Prompto's only an inch taller than he was then, but nearly a year of training has left him lean and muscular and perfectly capable of fighting back. Compared to Gladio, he's still puny, though.
After this morning he's not sure if confronted, he'd be brave enough to defend himself. That old fear has never quite left him. Just the sight of his father was enough to leave him paralyzed and on the verge of a meltdown. He might just curl into a ball and wait for it to be over, like he used to.
"You guys didn't have to do that," Prompto says.
"Maybe not," Nyx says, "but when the Crown Prince asks you to avenge his best friend, you do it. No questions asked."
Nyx has confirmed what Crowe hinted at. That Noct was there. It makes him emotional, the thought that Noctis cared enough to ensure it never happened again, but he doesn't like the idea of Noctis taking part in something like that. He doesn't know why. Maybe because it's out of character, or because it was on his behalf.
Nyx's phone rings. He takes it from his pocket, frowns at the screen and answers the call.
"Hello, Sir."
There's a long pause. Nyx glances up at Prompto and pushes his empty tray away.
"Yes, sir. We'll be there in thirty."
Curiosity piqued, Prompto wipes his hands on a napkin and sits up straighter.
"Good news, kid," Nyx says as he pockets the phone. "You're about to see your first real battle."
Chapter 9: Bombs Away
Summary:
Man. It's been a looooooong time.
Chapter Text
Ignis cleans the kitchen after Cor leaves. Gladio moves in to help. It's his kitchen and Ignis did all the work, but Ignis just shoos him out and methodically washes the dishes one by one and places them on the rack to dry.
He's too quiet. His posture is stiff.
Was Cor's story enough to give Ignis the peace of mind he was looking for? Gladio can't tell. There's something sad in his posture, but Ignis wears his poker face like armor.
Gladio pours himself another drink. He's had too many tonight, and maybe that's why he can't figure out why Ignis isn't pissed at Cor. He should be. He should be furious that Cor didn't speak up, but he's not. If Gladio was in Iggy's shoes, he would have had a real hard time not knocking the man out for keeping his mouth shut when it would have spared both Ignis and Prompto.
It isn't right. Iggy's life was destroyed by Cor's secret. He doesn't understand what Ignis meant at the end, but now isn't the right time to ask. Not with the specter of everything else hanging between them.
He’s not even sure why Ignis is so angry with him and he wishes Ignis would look at him. The long standing trust between them has been broken, and Gladio doesn't know how to repair it. It's too late to take it back, but he wishes he could.
It's then that he remembers he owes Ignis. He sets his drink aside and goes to the bedroom for a pair of boxes from the closet. He sets the smaller of the two on the bed and slides off the lid.
The shirt inside is neatly tucked and folded and wrapped in tissue paper. The collar is stiff and crisp with the cardboard still tucked under it. He touches a pearly button and there's a pull in his chest at the memory of the shirt's counterpart and the way those buttons popped loose in his grip.
He replaces the lid and closes his eyes. It was stupid. He shouldn't have crossed that line without thinking of the consequences, but he never expected Ignis to be so conflicted about it. He never expected to be so conflicted himself.
Clutching the boxes, Gladio returns to the kitchen. Ignis barely glances over his shoulder.
“I, uh,” Gladio says. He doesn't know how to do this. “I said I'd replace your stuff, so...”
Ignis turns off the water and his posture straightens, but he doesn't turn around for a long, torturous moment. When he does, Gladio can't tell what he's thinking.
“You didn't have to go to all that trouble.”
“I'm a man of my word.”
Ignis wipes his hands on a dish towel and the seconds tick by like weeks. Gladio stands there, waiting. He never realized just how cold Ignis could be. He's always been on the inside, one of the few people Ignis ever showed his many facets to, and there's so much more to Ignis than the blank, cold man standing in front of him.
“Thank you,” Ignis says.
He takes the boxes and opens the lamp first. It's an exact match. Gladio made sure of that. Ignis nods his approval and moves onto the next box.
“That damn thing was harder to find than the lamp,” Gladio says. “Lady at the shop says they're made to order. Hope it fits. Said they had your measurements on file.”
Ignis' fingers trail over the collar and his shoulders slump.
“Did I get it wrong?”
“No. It's perfect.”
Ignis sighs and puts the lid back on the box.
“I had the shirt repaired,” Ignis says. “It wasn't necessary to replace it.”
Gladio's close to anger, but he's not sure what he's angry about. It could be the frigid winds swirling around his dearest friend, and the frosty, disconnected look in his eye that he doesn’t understand.
It could be Gladio senses Ignis is slipping away from him and he can’t abide that.
“Want me to take it back?” he asks.
“These are rather expensive.”
“I don't give a damn what it cost, Iggy,” Gladio says. “Goddammit. I'm sorry, okay? For whatever I did or said to piss you off.”
Ignis leaves the boxes on the counter and returns to the sink. He turns on the water.
“Why are you being like this?” Gladio demands. He steps up beside Ignis. “Stop shutting me out and talk to me.”
“It's not always about you.”
“Then what is it about? Tell me, so I can stop feeling like I fucked up so bad we can't be friends anymore.”
Ignis stares at the water in the sink. He turns the faucet off. Everything about his posture screams defeat.
“It's probably for the best that we aren't,” Ignis says. “All things considered.”
The blood in Gladio's veins turns to ice as Ignis pushes away from the counter.
“No,” Gladio says. “You're not doing that.”
Ignis doesn't answer. He's headed for the door.
Gladio crosses the room and blocks his path to the exit. If Ignis walks out now, nothing will be the same. He has to fix this now.
“Gladio, please,” Ignis says. “It's late and I don't have the will to argue.”
“I don't want to argue with you,” he says. “I want you to talk to me.”
“What is there to say?” Ignis says.
“I can't read your damn mind.”
“I don't expect you to.”
Gladio steps forward and lays his hands against Ignis' cheeks. Ignis pulls back and there's a flash of hurt so deep, Gladio can barely comprehend it.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
Ignis' mouth presses into a thin line and he steps away. He turns his eyes to the floor.
“Iggy?” Gladio asks. “What did I do?”
Ignis won't look at him.
“I'm the problem,” Ignis says. “It's not your concern.”
“Don't lie to me,” Gladio says. “This is about you and me and what happened.”
He knows that's true. Ignis said as much in the kitchen before Cor arrived. He said it without saying it at the Gym earlier in the day. He's saying it now by avoiding the subject.
“I said I don't wish to discuss it further,” Ignis says. His posture straightens and he pushes his glasses up his nose. “I bid you goodnight, Gladio.”
Ignis reaches for the doorknob. On it's own, Gladio's hand shoots out and clasps his wrist.
“Gladio, what is the meaning -”
Gladio cuts him off with a kiss. Ignis' growl is muffled, and then he's kissing back, kissing like he means it. Gladio backs him up against the wall and his hands wander down Ignis' rib cage, wanting to rip the shirt from his back so he can feel bare skin against his palms.
“Gladio -”
“No.”
“Gladio.”
Gladio tugs at the fabric of Ignis' shirt.
“Take this off, or I'm gonna owe you another.”
Gladio doesn't know what the hell he's doing, or why he's doing it, after the first time turned out to be such a mess. All he knows is that he wants this. He suspects Ignis does too.
“Gladio. Stop.”
He pulls back and looks at his old friend, at his flushed cheeks and his soft, beautiful mouth. Ignis is panting and Gladio detects a tremor in his jaw. He can't tell if the look in his eye is fear or lust.
“Sorry,” Gladio says. He backs away and hangs his head. “I'm sorry.”
Ignis adjusts his shirt and stands straighter.
“Perhaps you need time to sort out your own feelings,” Ignis says. “You don't seem clear on what you want from me.”
Gladio doesn't know what he wants long term, but at the moment, all he wants is to make everything right again.
“You're also intoxicated,” Ignis says. “Which seems to be a catalyst for whatever it is you think you're doing.”
“You kissed me back.”
“So I did,” Ignis says calmly. “I bid you goodnight, Gladio.”
He takes his coat from the rack and reaches for the door. Gladio doesn't stop him this time. He wants to. He's halfway to trying anything to keep Ignis there.
But he doesn't. If Ignis doesn't want to stay, Gladio wont make him.
Ignis turns the knob and steps into the hall. The door slams behind him, leaving Gladio with the sense that he'd royally fucked up this time.
Gladio doesn’t know what he was thinking. Coming onto Igins again, while he was already pissed off, was impulsive and stupid. Coming onto him in the first place was a bad idea and he should have known better than to treat it like a casual thing. He should have known better than to treat Ignis like a one night stand but he thought that’s what Ignis wanted too.
Ignis is right about one thing. Gladio doesn't know how he feels about it and he doesn’t know how to talk to Iggy about it. The damage has been done.
Gladio heaves himself down onto the couch just as his phone chimes.
He knows this sound. It’s not his usual message chime. This sound is an official bulletin, and it means something serious has happened.
Empire staging assault on border. Kingsglaive deployed.
Gladio thinks of Prompto. Not of the newly patched-in warrior Crowe says he is, but of that puny kid who took years of beatings in silence without fighting back. He thinks about that battered kid lying in Ignis' spare room with his bones broken and his pride in tatters. The scrawny kid who was brave enough to take a bullet for a stranger.
Gladio shoots to his feet and heads for the door, flinging it wide open, hoping to catch Ignis before he’s gone.
Ignis stands at the elevator, staring at his phone. He’s seen the message too.
“Iggy,” Gladio says.
“I know,” Ignis says. “Is it on the news yet?”
“Haven’t checked but I doubt it."
There’s a long moment of silence between them before Ignis nods and pockets his phone. He pushes the button to call the elevator.
“Iggy, come back,” Gladio says. “I’ll make coffee, see if we can dig up word about what’s happening.”
Ignis’ stare is icy cold. The elevator opens and he steps inside without another word, leaving Gladio alone in the hall.
Prompto sits in the back of the transport vehicle trying not to barf. Crowe is across from him, Mateo to his left. Neither look as scared as he feels. Underneath his uniform jacket, he's sweating and hot and cold at the same time. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through him. He's sick from fear and sure his heart is going to detonate inside his rib cage.
Crowe's eyes are closed, her hair already spilling from its loose knot. Her hands are wrapped around a bit of red-orange fabric that's attached to the back of her uniform jacket like a demi-cape.
Prompto's noticed a lot of the Glaives wear altered uniforms and helmets. Swaths of fabric, patches, insignias from faraway lands, colors, ornaments, all things that differentiate them from the rest. He wonders if it's a way to tell each other apart on a battlefield, or just a personal touch to hold onto the heritage they lost to the Empire.
If he were to customize his uniform, what would he do? There's not much of his past he would or could claim. Except his friends, and they can't claim him.
Prompto ponders this as the vehicle bounces down the dirt road and he tries to talk himself out of puking.
Dawn is less than an hour away. No one's talking and Mateo has fallen asleep in the seat beside him. The truck hits a rut in the road, and Mateo's head lolls onto Prompto's shoulder. It's been a long night of preparation and Mateo spent the majority of it helping load equipment. If he needs a nap, Prompto's happy to be a pillow.
Crowe's knuckles have gone white, the fabric balled tight in her fists.
“Crowe?” he asks. “You okay, buddy?”
She opens her eyes.
“Ready to fuck up some Niffs,” she says. “You?”
He is, but he's not. He nods anyway.
She looks him over and releases the fabric. From her pouch, she withdraws a tube of lipstick and expertly applies it to her lips without the aid of a mirror. Prompto is impressed. The road is rough, but her lipstick is perfect.
“You always wear make-up to a war zone?”
“Why not?” she says. “Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse.”
She says it like she expects to die. Like she's accepted the inevitability of an early grave. If not today, some day in the near future.
“I gotta say, you don't need lipstick for that,” he says. “You'd still be a knock-out without it.”
His cheeks warm when he realizes he's said it out loud, but Crowe smiles.
“You might be the most disgustingly sincere creature I've ever met, you know that?”
Prompto blushes harder. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Sometimes.”
Prompto ponders that, too.
He doesn't have long to think about it. They arrive at their destination and everyone is ordered to file out of the vehicle. Prompto is shaking by the time the battalion is assembled on a ridge overlooking a wasteland of broken buildings and twisted metal.
Nearby, the lights of the Empire's drop ships glow against the fading darkness and he counts the shapes of units on the ground, Magitek Troopers, assembled in formation.
He tugs at the bracelet on is wrist with gloved fingers. It makes him nervous. The technology is cool and all, but what the thing is supposed to do could also put a target on his chest.
“Prompto, to the Mages on the wall. Provide cover fire. Don't let anything or anyone get too close,” Drautos says. “Mateo, you'll join Pelna’s team on the ground.”
Prompto looks at his friend. He will be down there, fighting those things, while Prompto is kept at a safe distance. He doesn't want to go down there and fight too, but he doesn't want to see Mateo die, either.
He doesn't question the orders. He knows why he's not joining the fray. They're protecting their investment. He is data to them.
Prompto slaps Mateo's arm.
“Be safe out there, buddy.”
“Got my back?” Mateo asks.
“Absolutely.”
Libertus, Nyx’s friend grabs Prompto by the collar and pushes him back against a wall. He points to Crowe and Prompto worries for a second that Libertus got whiff of Prompto flirting and is pissed about it.
“See that woman over there?"
Prompto nods.
“She’s like a little sister to me. If anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Libertus let him go,” Crowe says. “I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.”
“I know that,” Libertus says. “I’m just looking out for you.”
“I don’t need you to look out for me,” she says.
Prompto pushes Libertus off him and sidesteps away. He doesn’t want to be in the middle of a family squabble, if that’s what it is. He busies himself with checking his weapons and ammo while Crowe gives Libertus an earful. When she returns she’s apologetic.
“Don’t mind him,” she says. “He still sees me as scared little girl.”
Prompto can relate. He’s been the scared kid before and he’d bet money none of his friends thought he’d make it this far.
“Don’t sweat it,” he says. “I know it’s coming from a good place.”
“An annoying place, you mean,” she says. “Sorry he dragged you into it.”
“Eh, no worries,” Prompto says. “Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She puts a hand on his shoulder and looks him in the eyes. Her face is sad.
“You ready?”
“Scared to death.”
“Good,” she says. “Use it.”
Things begin to happen very quickly. On the ground, something in the distance explodes. A second later, missiles fire from the walls around him as the enemy advances, and the first wave of MT’s fall in the barrage. Prompto drops to a knee and readies his rifle, prepared to provide cover fire where it’s needed.
The airships are huge and there are dozens and dozens of them. He looks through the rifle scope and sees more behind those.
It makes him sick to his stomach. Lucis has been fighting a war against the Empire for decades, yet they have no real war machines to fight back with. It makes no sense to have such an advanced city like Insomnia but no real tools at their disposal. All they have is magic and the King’s wall.
Shouts and screams carry on the wind. It's a sound that can only mean someone on their side is injured or dying. MT's don't scream, they only power down. Or so he's heard.
He says a silent prayer to the Gods that it isn't Nyx or Mateo or any of the others he calls a friend, then pushes the fear from his mind. He has a job to do. He has to hold it together. Crowe and the others need his protection. He can not think of anything else until the battle is done.
On his left, streamers of fire burst from the top of the wall as the mages release their attack. Prompto has seen Crowe cast magic a hundred times before, but never like this. She is always intense, but this is in a class by itself. She looks like a woman possessed with her hair flying in the wind, her eyes wild, and magic burning over her skin. He can almost taste the power and energy of the mage team’s combined strength in the air around him.
That power echoes in his bones like something old and familiar, a forgotten skill remembered. Like riding a bicycle or remembering the rules of a favorite childhood card game. It resonates in the scar on his chest and feeds on the magic and energy around him. That double heartbeat starts up again, hotter and heavier than ever before. He feels like he might choke on it.
“Stay focused, Prompto,” Crowe says. “Need a perimeter check.”
“All over it, buddy.”
He sounds confident, but he's already half outside of himself, the duality growing stronger and stronger by the second.
Something is going to happen. He's going to explode or collapse. Beneath his uniform, he's melting wax. His skin is turning to liquid. Everything around him has turned an alarming shade of magenta.
Focus.
Down below, the others are engaged in the ground assault. His eyes follow the telltale streak of violet sparks as Nyx warps from one building to the next. He finds Mateo, identifiable by his height and his massive sword, and sees him hacking and slashing his way through MT's like they are nothing.
They are okay. They are alive. It's Crowe and her team he needs to watch.
There is a flash in the periphery of his vision, gunfire from somewhere to his right. He turns toward it and searches for the source through the scope of his rifle.
A second flash gives him a location. A sniper, atop the building 500 meters away. He takes aim and fires. In the scope, he sees metal split apart, and then the carcass of an MT tips over the edge and bounces against crumbled wall and rock until it hits the ground.
He hates that he feels pity for it. It is no longer a person, if it ever was one. It was never allowed to know humanity or dignity. It is only a machine now.
Once upon a time, maybe it was like him. It could have lived, breathed, loved, known pain and heartbreak. It could have laughed and found comfort in friendship and family. It could have been him.
He doesn't realize he's been staring at it for too long until Crowe's voice snaps him out of it. He rises to his feet and looks over his shoulder.
Her hair flies around her face. Her eyes burn with heat and her teeth are bared at the sky, where she and the other mages are focusing their power. Prompto cannot see the target, only a subtle swirling in the clouds and a pulsing red light inside them.
The double beat becomes a trio of drums in his chest, and there is a voice in his head, a soothing voice that speaks in an unfamiliar accent, but he can't make out the words over the blasts of gunfire and shouts from below.
Nyx streaks past, a blur of black and purple, then he falters mid-air like he has been struck. The warp strike has failed and Nyx is falling.
Prompto doesn't think.
He casts off his helmet and jumps.
It's only after his feet leave the solidity of the wall that it occurs to him that he is about to die. He can not warp out of this. He never learned how.
Nyx is below him, flailing, leaving bursts of sparks in his wake. He's trying to warp out of it and failing. Prompto's trio of heartbeats threaten to crack his ribs as he plummets toward the ground.
He's going to die. They’re both going to die.
Wind rushes in his ears and his eyes are filled with sand and grit. The ground is too close. Coming closer by the second.
I don't want to die. Gods, I don't want to die.
That voice, in his head again. She's whispering. He can't understand the words and there is no time to listen. He has seconds at best.
A ripping, tearing sensation zings along his spine and through his shoulder blades, more painful than the time before, and he's sure his bones are splintering to pieces. He screams silently into the wind and prays his end will be quick.
The world stops and Prompto is suspended between heaven and hell, Nyx below, Crowe above, fire streaming from her palms.
A woman with dark hair and black and gold robes appears before him. She is familiar but he’s never seen her before in his life.
Her beauty is ethereal, almost otherworldly and her eyes are closed. He senses no threat from her, though he can feel her power. He senses, like the Stranger, she is not entirely human but he understands she means him no harm.
“The Usurper sought to take your soul," she says. "To cover it in darkness. Yet your light still shines bright. Your path is set, Prompto. Follow it to your future King.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Know your own darkness. Do not let the Usurper steal your light, or all is lost.”
The world begins to move again and instinct takes over. Everything is a blur around him, the bones and muscles of wings moving at his back of their own volition. They are a part of him. They belong to him.
Nyx's eyes are wide with awe, no trace of fear in them, though his death is imminent. Prompto does not know what he sees and he doesn't have time to think about it. He has to get to Nyx before it's too late.
He feels unimaginable strength flowing through every molecule and atom in his body. He fears it. He fears himself and this power that he did not ask for.
He has no choice but to wield it. He doesn’t know how to stop it.
Nyx is too close to the ground and he’s fallen too far. He won’t survive if Prompto doesn’t help him.
Prompto pours on the speed, his body angled like an arrow toward his mentor and friend. He reaches out as he draws close and Nyx grasps hold of his wrist a split second before they both hit the ground.
“I got you, buddy,” Prompto says. “Don't let go.”
They are soaring toward the sky, Nyx's weight a burden and a relief at the same time.
“Goddamn, kid,” Nyx yells. “That was a close one!”
Down below, a series of explosions trigger all at once. There’s some kind of four-legged mech firing missiles on the ground force. The Glaives return fire from the wall and into the furthest reaches of the MT horde. Some of the Glaives fall as others press on. Above, the mages have switched the element of their attacks from fire to lightning. The world around Prompto sizzles and cracks and he can’t tell which side has the advantage.
Bullets whiz by them, and Prompto realizes they are a target.
So does Nyx.
“Hang on tight, kid,” he says. “Gonna warp us out of here!”
Prompto grasps his wrist tighter and his wings fold into his back. Nyx throws his kukris and then they are both streaking through the air toward a brick wall.
A brick wall that he's sure they will smash right into.
At the last second, out of fear, he lets Nyx go and uses the momentum, careening upward, wheeling into the sky at such speed the world melts. He should return to the wall to protect the mages, but he is unsure of how to land without breaking himself.
“What the fuck are you doing, Prompto?” Drautos shouts over the intercom.
“No idea, Sir,” Prompto says. “Just gonna roll with it!”
“Get your ass back down to your post. Now!”
“Yes sir. I will sir,” Prompto says. “As soon as I figure out how to!”
But the tide turns in the Empire's favor as more drop ships arrive, and their forces are legion. There are too many to count and they have weapons Prompto has never seen before.
The Glaives fall back, and the sky all around Prompto lights up with small explosions. Bullets and missiles and only the Gods know what else zing by him. Something nicks his left shoulder and he lists to the side and falters, knocked off course and off balance, and he knows fear again.
That heat is building in his chest again. Crowe said she believed fear triggered it. Maybe she's right. He's shit scared he's going to be blown out of the sky before he can get himself back to safety.
“Drautos! Tell everyone to get out of there!”
“You don’t give the orders, Argentum!”
“Fall back!” he shouts. “I don’t wanna get anyone killed!”
He doesn’t fight it this time. Trails of dark vapor swirl around his hands, tendrils of magenta fire, threads of Holy light. He feeds it, encourages it, and his blood sings with heat and power. Every hair on his body stands on end and his skin prickles.
He swoops lower, toward the mass of MT's and drop ships advancing on the retreating Glaives and the magic explodes out of him, a blinding white light like before, an energy so powerful that the MT's are blasted backward like a pile of leaves in a brisk wind. It tears through the sky, sending the drop ships at the leading edge of the fleet flying off course and into others that crash to the ground, where they crumple and catch fire on impact.
There's a moment of dead silence that follows, the world not quite stopped, but moving in slow motion. Drautos is screaming words at him over the intercom. Nyx too. In the distance, something massive explodes.
He's dizzy. He's going to puke, for real this time.
The energy drains from his limbs, his skin turns to ice. At his back, his wings fold and he plummets straight to the ground.
Ignis does not sleep. He skips work, calls in sick, and as the hours pass, he paces his apartment, listening to the news on Lucis One for any word of what is happening beyond the wall. Reports are sketchy, lacking detail, but it doesn't sound good. He fears the worst will come to pass, that he will hear news of Prompto's demise by end of day.
He is not one to ask things of the Gods, and he's too practical for prayer, but he finds himself standing at the window, whispering a soft plea for the Gods to protect Prompto and keep him safe. He knows the Gods care nothing for a random teenage boy but he prays for his safety anyway.
Around noon, his phone rings. It's Gladio. Ignis almost ignores the call, but Gladio might have information about the battle that the news is not reporting. He might have informationon Prompto's fate.
“Any word?”
“Not much,” Gladio says. “Imperials sent a second wave right behind the first.”
“They're outnumbered,” Ignis says.
“Badly, if what I’m hearing is true.”
“And Prompto?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Keep me updated,” Ignis says. “As soon as you hear anything.”
“Yeah, sure,” Gladio says. “Hey Iggy? I'm sorry. For everything.”
Ignis almost hangs up on him. He does not want to discuss this.
“I shouldn’t have treated it like a hook-up and I’m sorry,” Gladio says. “You mean more to me than that.”
Ignis sits on the couch and drops his head to his palm. He's confused and tired of all of this and doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.
“Iggy?”
“Leave it be, Gladio,” Ignis says tiredly.
“You’d rather stay mad?” Gladio asks. There’s a long pause. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t mean to hurt you, okay? You were stressed out and I just wanted to take your mind off it.”
“And you thought casual sex was the best way to do that.”
“Always works for me,” Gladio says.
“I’m not you.”
Ignis doesn’t even know why he’s still angry. Though casual encounters are not something he regularly participates in, he’s been guilty of it a time or two. Unlike Gladio, he finds such relations empty and unfulfilling and is left feeling even lonelier in the aftermath.
“Can I ask you something, Gladio?” Ignis says. “Was that your first time with a man? Or is the playboy act a cover?”
Gladio doesn’t answer and there is a long uncomfortable pause. Ignis isn’t sure if the silence is a confirmation or a denial.
“Never mind,” Ignis says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You deserve to know,” Gladio says. “I got real close a couple times, but never went through with it. So, yeah, you were my first."
Gladio has never let on he’s anything but heterosexual. He brags about his skill with the ladies and dates beautiful women. Ignis doesn’t quite know what to do with this information, but for some reason, he’s angry again.
“You thought I was a sure bet. Since you were curious.”
“Goddamnit, Iggy, no,” Gladio snaps. “It wasn’t like that. You’re making me feel like I used you and that’s not what happened!”
Ignis is suddenly very tired. Tired of having this conversation. Tired of everything. But he now understands why he’s angry.
He feels used. As though he's been taken advantage of.
“If you wanted to experiment, you could have discussed it with me first,” Ignis says. “You could have gone to any bar in the city and found someone to hook up with. Instead, you chose to take advantage of my isolation to satisfy your curiosity without considering my feelings.”
“Igs, I swear I didn’t mean to make you feel that way,” Gladio says, sounding as tired as Ignis feels. “How long have we known each other? You really think I meant to take advantage of you?”
Then answer is no. Ignis doesn’t believe he did it on purpose.
He does believe that Gladio doesn’t always stop to consider his actions when it comes to sexual activity. He has his choice of partners and treats it no differently than choosing a meal from a menu. It’s the casual disregard that bothers him and Gladio should know him well enough to realize he’s a man who usually takes time to weigh his options.
“I think you were careless,” Ignis says.
“Finally, something we can agree on,” Gladio said. “Forgive me, okay? I need my best friend back.”
Ignis closes his eyes and debates what to do. He desperately misses his friends and his old life. Though he understands Gladio’s motivation, it doesn’t quite take the sting out of it. If it had been anyone but Gladio, it wouldn’t have mattered.
“You’re forgiven,” Ignis says. “But I think for now, it’s best we keep our relationship strictly professional.”
“Iggy…. No.”
His voice is soft and his disappointment is clear. Ignis has wounded him in return.
It doesn’t make Ignis feel better. He feels worse, knowing that he is about to cut himself off completely, but perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps, it’s time to move on from his life here. He needs to come to terms with his new situation instead of hanging onto the one he won’t get back, and he can’t do that if he keeps involving himself in their lives.
“You still there?” Gladio asks.
His tone is different. Businesslike.
“Turn on the news, Iggy. Something happened.”
Prompto hits the ground so hard it knocks him unconscious. When he comes to, Mateo is kneeling beside him, his face bloodied and his eyes full of worry. Prompto can feel the remnants of a potion working its way through his body, though every single bone feels broken and he can barely move. In his peripheral vision, he sees the battle is still going on. He hears the pop of gunfire and explosions.
He looks toward the sounds and the Stranger stands a few paces away, looking displeased. Miasma pools around his feet and his face is a mess of oily black tears, the way he was in the convenience store. The world stops again.
“You are not playing along, Prompto.”
“What do you want from me?” Prompto murmurs. “I didn’t ask to play.”
And then the Stranger is gone. An MT is in his place, storming toward them with its rifle pointed at Mateo. Prompto no longer has his own and even if he did, he has no strength left to defend himself.
There’s no time to warn Mateo and the MT fires, it’s bullet tearing into Mateo’s shoulder. Prompto yelps as Mateo falls to the ground beside him. He can do nothing to stop it from killing them both.
It stops and stares at Prompto, standing motionless above him. There’s a soft buzz in the bracelet on his wrist. Then the MT continues on toward the wall.
What the hell? Did it just identify him as one of them?
“Drautos, you seein’ this?”
“I am. Are you injured?”
“Pretty sure I broke something. Dunno what, but something. Mateo's down too.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll get a medic out to you.”
Prompto struggles into a sitting position, breathless with the effort. Beside him, Mateo clutches the wound on his shoulder and grimaces. Prompto scoots over to him, crawling in the dirt and trying to ignore the pain.
“How bad?” he asks.
Mateo signs that he’s okay but it looks bad to Prompto. There’s a lot of blood.
Something nearby explodes and debris rains down upon them. Something heavy and hard hits Prompto in the head and the world goes black again.
Ignis turns the sound up on the television and focuses on the screen.
“We have just received stunning video footage, captured just moments ago by our embedded reporter inside the active conflict with the Empire,” the newscaster says. “Sources say the Kingsglaive have launched a successful assault against Imperial forces, thanks to this spectacular feat by one of the Glaive's troops.”
The image of the battlefield is grainy but Ignis can make out what appears to be a white-winged Glaive hovering above the ground, covered in what appears to be both miasma and pure light. The light surrounding the Glaive grows brighter and brighter until the screen washes out and nothing can be seen but a pulsing white.
Ignis thinks something is wrong with the feed and is about to change the channel to confirm when the picture gradually returns.
On screen, Imperial drop ships spiral away as if caught in a tornado. Half a dozen or more crash to the ground and explode. MT's are blown away by the dozens and the embedded reporter babbles over the shouts and cheers of the Glaives around him.
Ignis doesn't hear a word of it. His attention is fixed on the zoomed in image of the winged Glaive, his face in profile. He moves off the couch and kneels in front of the television to confirm what he thinks he’s seeing.
The winged Glaive turns toward the camera and then drops like a stone toward the ground. Ignis loses his breath. The footage is blurry, but he knows that face. It's the face of the boy he watched grow into a man under this very roof.
“Prompto,” he breathes. “Gladio, that's Prompto.”
“Yeah,” Gladio says. “That’s him.”
“Do we know if he’s injured?”
“Gotta be, a fall from that height?”
“I don’t understand,” Ignis says. “That isn’t something the Glaives could have taught him.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Is Noct there with you?”
“Sitting right next to me.”
“Put him on the phone.”
The footage replays, in slow motion this time.
Ignis can not make sense of this. He doesn't understand where this magic came from, or even what kind it is. Unassuming, cheerful Prompto never once displayed a talent for magic of any sort. Not before, and certainly not during his Crownsguard training.
“Iggy?” Noctis says. His voice is full of emotion. “Is he okay?”
“I don't know,” Ignis says. “Have you ever seen him do this before?”
“You kidding me?” Noctis asks. “I think I'd know if my best friend could do that.”
The wheels in Ignis' head are spinning. The footage reminds him of something, but he can't put his finger on what.
“Can we call Cor or something?” Noctis asks. “I gotta know if he’s okay.”
“Even if Cor has information, he's unlikely to give it until he can,” Ignis says. “But Noctis, dead or alive, we owe today's victory to Prompto. You should be very proud of him.”
“I don’t care about any victory! I just want him alive.”
“Simmer down,” Ignis says. “There’s no use getting upset just yet.”
On the inside, Ignis is panicking. Prompto fell a great distance. The likelihood of survival is not great, but perhaps something or someone intervened.
Ignis can only hope.
Prompto wakes in the back of an ambulance with his feet elevated and his mind blank. Every bump in the road jostles his aching bones. His head is splitting and he can’t focus on anything around him.
Mateo's bloodied face appears above him and Prompto's heart gives a hard squeeze. Mateo is alive. Injured, but alive.
His friend grins hugely.
“Welcome back, Hero,” he says.
Prompto only blinks at him. He can't remember what happened or how he got here, but as far as he knows, in the Glaive, being addressed as Hero is a big deal.
He struggles to sit up and make sense of why he's here, but hands push him back down to the stretcher.
“Just rest, kid,” Nyx says.
Prompto fades out for a while and when he opens his eyes again, someone is carrying him. The entire battalion follows like it's a funeral procession. This is not good. He is dying or about to be dead. Drautos is going to execute him for his insubordination.
“Don't...” he rasps. “Don't kill me. I don’t wanna die.”
Drautos only sneers. Nyx pats his arm.
The next thing he is aware of is the infirmary. The room is full and doctors and medics flit around from bed to bed. It smells of blood and urine, vaguely of shit. This is a room for dying in. Prompto is sure of it. He feels like he is dying. Every bone in his body feels broken.
Crowe is sitting beside him and her eyes light up when she sees he’s awake.
“You are one lucky little shit.”
He doesn’t know what she’s talking about but he suspects he did something dumb. His head hurts too bad to try and figure it out what he did.
The ward is dark when he wakes again, and this time it’s Luna sitting next to him. When he blinks, it’s Nyx and they are nowhere he recognizes and his arms are strapped to something above him. His feet don’t touch the ground. Blood drips from the end of his nose and the pain in his shoulders is excruciating.
He can hear daemons and smell miasma and mold. He cannot see the Stranger but he can hear his laughter echoing through the hall beyond the bars of the door.
“Poor Prompto. They’ve all abandoned you," Nyx says.
He sleeps and when he wakes again, he’s clearer and able to move without feeling like he’s going to die. Mateo is in the hospital bed beside him, a book in his lap. His face is clean, but there is a bandage on his forehead and his shoulder, and a splint on his right wrist.
“What'cha readin', buddy?”
Mateo's smile is bright with relief. He hold the book up and shows Prompto the title. The Dragons of Duscae.
“That’s a good one. Read that a few years ago.”
“How are you feeling?” Mateo asks.
Prompto rolls onto his side and wishes he didn’t.
“Not great. What happened?"
Mateo's grin is huge.
“You flew again. It was awesome.”
Oh.
Prompto remembers now. He remembers feeling like he was being ripped apart. Falling. He should be dead, falling from that height. He doesn’t understand why he’s not.
Nyx shows up a short time later with a pair of bags from a hamburger joint that Prompto and Noctis used to go to downtown.
“Heya, Plebes,” he says. “Brought dinner.”
Mateo gives Nyx a thumbs up and digs into the bag, but Prompto doesn’t have much of an appetite. He should be starving. His last meal was hours before the battle and he has no idea how long it's been since then.
He takes the bag and eats anyway but it doesn’t taste like anything. This place used to have great food, but he wonders if the lack of flavor has something to do with the pain meds he’s on for his fractured ankles. Or the concussion he got from getting a ten pound chunk of rock dropped on his head.
“So what’s the verdict?” Prompto asks. “Did we win?”
“We won,” Nyx says. “For now. Thanks to you."
The whole thing is a blur. Prompto only remembers bits and pieces.
“We wouldn’t have lasted through that second wave if not for you. They retreated shortly after.”
Prompto takes another bite of his burger. It tastes like ash and he puts it back in its wrapper.
"I would have died if not for you," Nyx says. "I owe you one."
"I'll put it on your tab," Prompto says, feeling smug. "You're up to two now."
"Don't let it go to your head," Nyx says. "Drautos wants to see you."
"I'm concussed, dude," Prompto says. "I don't even know what day it is."
"Yeah, I'm sure that'll get you out of gate duty."
Prompto groans and settles back into the pillow. His head is pounding and everything hurts.
"I'll let him know you're still recovering," Nyx says. "Mateo, good job out there today. Come find me once you're cleared for duty."
Prompto's eyes are growing heavy. He hopes, after today, he's proved himself a loyal citizen.
He hopes it's enough to clear Ignis' name.
And he hopes the Messenger lady was right, and that the path he's now on will finally lead him back to Noct.
Chapter 10: So Far Away From Me
Chapter Text
Nyx sits alone the wall of the training yard sipping a beer and wondering what the hell Prompto Argentum really is. There’s no evidence he’s a spy and he’s definitely no MT, but he’s something. Nyx just doesn’t understand what.
He also doesn’t understand how the kid lived after falling out of the sky from such a height. His injuries are relatively minor, all things considered. He should be dead.
Nyx hadn’t been lying when he told Prompto he was the reason they won. Whatever that magic is, it's the equivalent of dropping a bomb with twenty times the range and power of anything in their arsenal, and without it, their forces would have been decimated by that second wave of Imperials. Nyx has no doubt about that, and every Glaive that made it out it owes Prompto their lives.
Drautos is coming unglued over it, and with good reason. Nyx just isn’t sure why he’s pissed instead of pleased. Whatever the source of Prompto’s magic, it saved them yet Drautos is acting like Prompto cost them the battle.
Unlike Nyx, Drautos is not yet convinced Prompto isn’t something more nefarious than he seems. He can understand why Drautos feels the wide-eyed innocence is an act, but if Prompto is acting he deserves every award there is for his performance.
Nyx sees nothing but a lost, abused kid who hides his pain behind sarcasm and a smile. He sees a kid who got caught up in the current witch hunt for spies and the only crime he really committed was being ignorant of where he’d come from. There’s nothing devious or conniving about him and Nyx doesn’t think he’s capable of being either.
There are footsteps behind him but he doesn’t turn around. He isn’t surprised when Crowe seats herself beside him. She’s been helping tend wounds in the ward for hours.
“Go home, Nyx,” she says. “You have an apartment.”
“So do you.”
He sips the beer and leans back on a palm to look at her. She’s come a long, long way over the years. That scared little girl Libertus so often speaks of is long gone and in her place is a powerful, incredible woman. Nyx is lucky to count her among his friends. She associates with few people, and of those, there are only a handful she actually likes and respects.
Libertus has never been able to let go of that image he has of her, and Nyx knows Crowe resents it. Rather than let her grow up, Libertus hangs on to the idea that he needs to shelter her. It’s caused something of a rift between them lately, as Crowe has pushed back against the idea that Libertus only wants to protect her.
Nyx knows the truth. Libertus is in love with her and knows she will never reciprocate. The adoring big brother act is just that. An act, to cover the fact he wants what he can never, ever have. It’s the only option he has. Nyx suspects Crowe knows too and her push-back is her way of discouraging it.
“Seriously, what are you still doing here?” she asks.
“Just decompressing,” he says. “Been a hell of a day.”
“You can say that again. I lost count of how many bullet holes I stitched up already.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“If it’s about Libertus, the answer is no.”
“Nope,” he says. “Prompto.”
“What about it?”
“What do you think of him?”
She shrugs.
“Come on,” Nyx says. “Honest opinion.”
“He’s a good kid and he shouldn’t be here,” she says bluntly. “He’s too nice to be here.”
Nyx agrees. Though Prompto passed his trials, exceeded any and all expectations, and is generally well liked, he doesn’t have an unkind bone in his body. There’s no killer instinct in him. A kid like him belongs in college, doing volunteer work on the weekend, not stuck here serving time for something he didn’t have any control over.
The only thing Prompto actually has going for him is a lot of luck, a big personality, and a strong motivation to prove himself, all for the sake of clearing Scientia’s good name.
“You think he doesn’t belong here?”
“I didn’t say that,” she says. "I said he shouldn't be here."
“Then what are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I don’t want to see him wind up bitter and jaded like the rest of us. I feel like he deserves better than that.”
“But you like him. You don’t think he’s got us all fooled.”
“It’s pretty hard to fool me,” she says. “You know my bullshit meter never fails.”
Crowe has a supernatural ability to know when someone is lying or trying to be someone they aren’t. Her ongoing suspicion of Drautos is the only time she's been wrong, and Nyx suspects that is based on her personal feelings about the Captain, rather than any red flags she may have picked up on.
Otherwise, if there was any deception in Prompto, she would have picked up on it already and that eases Nyx’s mind a little.
“I feel like I need to protect him from the big bad world before it corrupts him," she says. "Or we do.”
She draws her knees up under her chin and helps herself to one of his beers.
“After today, I’m not sure the kid needs any protection.”
“Just because the kid is capable of doing whatever that was, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need someone to look out for him,” she says. “He kinda breaks my heart, if you want the truth. There’s just something really sad about him.”
“I didn’t know you had a heart to break, Crowe,” Nyx teases.
“Just because I don’t wear it on my sleeve,” she says. “Hero.”
Crowe is the only person who can use Hero like a slur and get away with it. The others will occasionally use it as a put-down when they don’t like his decisions, or when one of those decisions doesn’t achieve the desired outcome. He knows Crowe doesn’t mean it the same way they do.
“So you think we can trust him.”
“Do we have a reason not to?”
“No.”
“Why are you asking me all this, anyway?” she says. “You know I hate it when you’ve got something on your mind and you get all cryptic about it instead of just saying it.”
“Just worried about him,” Nyx says. “He’s in a more dangerous position than he thinks he is.”
“How so?”
Nyx weighs his options. He knows can trust Crowe not to run to Drautos or rat him out for being a subversive. She has questions of her own and she distrusts authority in general, and Drautos in particular. He’s just not sure she’ll understand that the only thing he has is a hunch and it’s one that’s hard to explain without sounding like a paranoid nut case.
“Well, look at who he knows,” Nyx says. “A common kid whose best friend is a Prince, he’s close friends with the Prince’s advisor and his shield, he's friends with the Oracle. He even somehow convinced the King to have mercy instead of executing him. And now he’s here, he’s charmed all of us, even Drautos to a degree, and he doesn’t even get how weird that is.”
“He knows Lady Lunafreya?” Crowe asks. She clasps her knee and frowns at him. “Are you for real? How the hell did that happen? She hasn’t been to Insomnia in at least a decade.”
“Something about a lost dog?” Nyx says. He finishes his beer and opens another. “I don’t know. They write to each other. Saw one of her letters myself, so I know it’s not bullshit.”
“Does Drautos know?”
“No, and you better not tell him.”
“And what would I tell him? Prompto and the Oracle are conspiring against Lucis? Nobody would believe that.”
It could look suspicious, though. A well-connected commoner with an MT brand, who has no reason to be connected at all sure looks like a spy on paper. Nyx worries that it won’t end well for Prompto. That maybe he’s being used as a pawn without knowing about it.
Nyx isn’t one for conspiracy theories, and this feels like one, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more sinister going on behind the scenes.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll tell you one thing,” Nyx says. “There’s something not right about all of it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling,” Nyx says and sips his beer. “But I plan to find out.”
In the morning, Ignis sees a job posting for an archivist position in Accordo. It’s part of a collaboration between the University of Lucis and the Altissian Historical Society and involves compiling historical documents as well as the archiving and preserving the oral history of the Lucian continent.
He is intrigued by the idea of living somewhere completely different, and in such an elegant city. The cuisine alone would make it worthwhile. He imagines perfectly seasoned prawn dishes with exotic and unique flavors, and plates of fresh raw oyster with lemon risotto. Good seafood is hard to come by in Lucis and he’s always wanted to sample Altissian delicacies.
It’s so intriguing a thought, he briefly forgets his worry over Prompto. He knows that by some miracle, the boy survived the fall, and though he’s injured, he will be none the worse for wear in a few days.
He still can’t get his mind around what happened but the image of Prompto blasting dozens of Imperial vessels out of the sky and decimating the majority of their ground forces is something he’ll not soon forget. He spent his lunch break searching for information on what kind of magic could cause such devastation but he has only found references to Holy magic.
Holy is extremely rare. Holy that can take out an entire army is unheard of. There are no records that he can find of a regular person capable of casting it. It is strictly the magic of Oracles and their divine messengers.
Prompto is not an Oracle and he’s unlikely to have descended from one.
Ignis is baffled. As soon as one mystery regarding Prompto is solved, another surfaces.
On his desk, his phone buzzes. He’s turned the ringer off for now but he looks at the display and sighs. It’s Gladio again. He hasn’t stopped calling all day and Ignis has ignored every attempt to reach him. Ignis doesn’t want to talk to him and Gladio’s been explicitly told that if there’s news, he’s free to text. Otherwise, Ignis is sticking to his resolve to keep their relationship professional from now on. He has no other choice if he wants to move past all this.
He examines the job posting again. It’s so very tempting to apply.
“Ignis.”
He looks up and Cor is standing at the door of his office. He’s surprised by the visit, but he wonders if Cor has additional information for him regarding Prompto’s origins or perhaps an update on his condition.
“Marshal, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Ignis says and stands.
“Don’t get up on my account,” Cor says. “I was just running an errand and thought I might drop in on you. Gladio felt I owed you an apology. I'm inclined to agree.”
Ignis waves him off.
“None needed, Marshal. I understand your decision. Even grateful for it."
“May I?” Cor asks and gestures at the empty chair in front of Ignis’ desk.
“Of course,” Ignis says.
Cor closes the door and takes a seat. This is apparently a conversation Cor does not want anyone to overhear.
“I’m sure you’ve seen the news footage of Prompto by now,” Cor says.
“I have,” Ignis says. “It’s all rather unbelievable.”
Cor hums and folds his hands in his lap.
“I was wondering if you have any thoughts on what that was.”
“Haven’t a clue,” Ignis says honestly. “I’ve been researching but all I’ve come up with is that it’s some kind of Holy magic.”
“That was my first thought,” Cor says. “What else?”
Ignis fills him in on what little he’s been able to dig up and Cor seems disappointed there isn’t more. Ignis is, too.
“Prompto is Kingsglaive now, and I am no longer a servant of the Crown,” Ignis says. “May I ask why you’re asking me and not a royal advisor?”
“Because I knew you would look into it,” Cor says. “And I know you’d be more thorough in your research than they would.”
Ignis is flattered that Cor noticed his diligence. It often went overlooked and unappreciated, though that had never stopped Ignis from finding everything he could on any given topic that interested him.
“The Glaives are now in possession of an incredibly dangerous and powerful weapon,” Cor says. “One who happens to be an innocent kid who doesn't know how dangerous he is.”
“Are you afraid this complicates your position more than it already does?”
“Of course I am,” Cor says. “But my concern is for the boy.”
“Do you think he might be in danger?”
“I think he is the danger.”
“You can’t possibly believe he’s not what he says he is,” Ignis says. “You’ve monitored him his entire life.”
“He took down 27 Imperial ships and countless MT’s by himself,” Cor says. “Imagine what he could do if he were to unintentionally fall under the guidance of someone who does not have our best interests at heart.”
Ignis straightens in his chair and stares at the Marshal.
“What are you saying?” Ingis asks quietly. “Do you have reason to suspect that will happen?”
“Have you looked around the city lately, Ignis?” Cor says. “The refugees are growing more disillusioned by the day. The Kingsglaive is made up almost entirely of refugees, some of whom share that disillusionment. All it would take is one misstep by the Crown to turn our allies against us. Prompto is young and lost and desperate to belong somewhere. What’s to say he couldn’t be convinced to turn on us? After all, he has good reason to, doesn’t he?”
“No, Marshal,” Ignis says. “I don’t believe he would. He is loyal to Noctis above all else and there’s very little that could shake his loyalty.”
Cor watches Ignis for a moment, nods to himself and leans back in his chair.
“Is there something you’re not sharing with me, Marshal?”
“If there was, I couldn’t tell you,” Cor says. “More of a gut feeling, really. My spies hear things.”
Ignis isn’t sure why Cor is telling him this. He’s no longer Noctis’ advisor, therefore he does not need to be kept abreast of any potential threats.
“He’s a good boy, Cor,” Ignis says. “I’m sure you know that.”
“I do,” Cor says. He shifts forward and prepares to stand. “I have an errand to run out at the Glaive compound. I’ll try to check in on him if I have a moment. Is there anything you’d like to pass along?”
Ignis thinks for a moment. There are so many things he’d like to say. Most of all that he’s sorry, but these are things he wishes to say in person.
“Tell him that I’m thinking of him and that if he ever gets released from protective custody, I’d like to see him,” Ignis says. “If that’s alright.”
“Of course,” Cor says. “I’ll pass it along. But… Be careful Ignis.”
“I will,” Ignis says. “Rest assured, I’m aware of the consequences.”
“Good,” Cor says. “Oh, and it should go without saying -”
“Not a word,” Ignis says. “It was good to see you. And thank you.”
“You as well.”
As Cor approaches the door, Ignis stops him. A thought has occurred to him that he hasn’t considered before. It’s a trivial thing, however his curiosity gets the better of him and this might be his only chance to ask. Their paths don’t cross much these days.
“What happened to Prompto's parents? The Argentum’s?” he asks. “Were there charges brought against them for harboring a potential spy?”
Cor faces him, his face a mask.
“They plead ignorance of the meaning of the bar code,” Cor says. “They both claimed they thought it was strange but knew nothing, as they adopted him from a Lucian orphanage and weren’t aware he was anything other than a refugee. Prompto’s birth certificate says he’s from Tenebrae so they claimed to believe it was true.”
“So there were no charges brought against them.”
“Hebeto Argentum is no longer employed by the Citadel,” Cor says. “That’s the extent of it.”
“Yet they knew all along.”
“I imagine, if they’d admitted it, they would have been charged as well.”
Ignis’ honesty has been his downfall, but it never occurred to him to plead ignorance.
“Your honesty saved his life, Ignis,” Cor says. “He would have been executed if you’d lied. Don’t forget that.”
“As if I could.”
Cor bids him farewell and Ignis ponders this new information. The possibility that the unrest in the refugee community might soon reach a boiling point. The fact that the Argentum’s got off with little more than a slap on the wrist.
He cares more about both of those things than he should. He has to remind himself it’s not his job anymore.
Ignis drops his head into his hands, unsure of what to do next. His heart wants to stay close to the people he knows as family and his brain says it’s time to let go. He wishes Cor never told his truth about Prompto. He wishes Gladio never dared put his hands on him. He wishes the world wasn’t such a mess. He is powerless to change anything about his situation or the world around him.
Perhaps the job in Altissia is his best option. He will be far enough removed from the source of his misery that perhaps he will have a chance to start over. In time, perhaps the hurt will ease and his life here will be but a distant memory.
With a heavy heart, Ignis pulls up the job posting once more and begins the application.
Prompto is still in the infirmary when a nurse calls from the door, “Argentum! Visitor!”
He sits up a little, curious about who it might be. There’s no reason for the others to inform the hospital staff they’ve arrived, they just walk in and plop down in the chair next to his bed.
The man he sees walking toward him is a surprise. Prompto breaks into a smile as he approaches and he sits all the way up, ignoring the mild dizziness that’s plagued him for the last day or so. That dizziness is the reason he hasn’t been cleared for duty yet.
“Cor!” he says. Cor smiles back and comes to stand at the end of the bed with one hand on the metal foot board. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area and thought I’d check in on you,” Cor says. "I heard you were injured."
“Well, pull up a chair, have a seat.”
“How are you feeling?” Cor asks as he sits. “I saw you had quite a long fall.”
“Wasn’t the fall that got me,” Prompto says. “It was the big ass rock that got dropped on my noggin afterwards.”
Cor stares at him and Prompto can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s not sure why Cor is here. Prompto’s not a Crownsguard anymore and Cor never gave him any indication he’d grown fond of him.
“I saw Ignis this morning,” Cor says. “Says he’s thinking of you and to go see him when you get a chance.”
Prompto’s eyes get misty. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about reuniting with any of them. It hurts too much to think too long or too hard about any of them because he knows they can’t be friends anymore.
“I don’t know if they’re gonna let me out or not,” Prompto says. “I guess they think I’m gonna run off or something.”
“Will you?”
“And go where, sir?” Prompto asks. “There’s nowhere for me but here.”
Cor looks sad, but then, he always looks sad in Prompto’s opinion.
“I’ll speak to Drautos about loosening the reigns,” Cor says. “I’d like to have a private conversation with you some time soon as well. Check in and see how you’re doing."
“With me?”
“With you.”
Prompto gets a weird vibe. Why would Cor want to check in? Wasn’t that what he was doing now?
“Uh, yeah. Sure thing,” Prompto says. “I’ll hit you up.”
“It’s good to see you, Prompto,” Cor says. “Truly.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Prompto watches him leave, confused by the purpose of Cor’s visit. He doesn’t think he is important enough for Cor to bother with, not even for a minute, but maybe he just wanted to relay Ignis’ message.
He doesn’t get much time to ponder it. Nyx has arrived and after a few brief words with Cor, he joins Prompto and stares at him like he has three heads.
“What?”
“You’re buddies with Leonis, too?”
“I wouldn’t call us buddies,” Prompto says. "He used to be my boss."
“Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“Lots of people,” Prompto says. “What’s the big deal?”
“Just seems really weird that a Plebe like you is rubbing elbows with royalty and all their associates,” Nyx says.
From an objective point of view, he’s right. It is weird. He’s never been sure how it even happened. He asked himself that question every single day back when his life wasn’t in shambles.
“Yeah, I don’t really get it either,” Prompto says. “Not really rubbing elbows with anybody major right now, though.”
He thinks about Noctis and wonders what he’s doing. Does he go to the arcade by himself? Has he made a new friend? Has he moved on? Prompto hopes so. He hates to imagine Noctis sitting in his apartment all alone, brooding and sleeping too much.
He wonders how Ignis is holding up. And Gladio.
And he misses Luna’s letters. He’s not sure he’ll get to write her again. He's not allowed out much, and he's always with an escort when he is. Nyx is the only one he trusts to keep that secret for him.
“How you feeling, kid?”
“Well, I was able to get up and go pee earlier without taking a header straight into the urinal, so that’s a win,” Prompto says. “Me and gravity aren’t really buddies right now.”
Nyx laughs a little. He looks Prompto over and then grows serious.
“Drautos wants to see you,” he says. “Now.”
“Like, right now?”
“Right now. He said to stick you in a wheelchair if I have to.”
Prompto’s been dreading his visit with Drautos. He’s sure he’s in some kind of trouble and he doesn’t want to face it. Not yet.
Nyx borrows a wheelchair and Prompto climbs in. His stomach is in knots but he tries not to let it show. He wishes he could use the concussion excuse for just a little longer, but the medical staff already know he’s on the mend. They’ve probably already reported his status to Drautos and that’s why he’s being summoned. He expects to be released in the morning.
Drautos is waiting in a windowless office in a part of the compound Prompto’s never been in. The only light in the room is a desk lamp and Prompto gets a chill. It’s too dark in here and it smells like dust and old paper.
Nyx parks him in front of the desk and Prompto withers under Drautos’ cold stare.
“Nyx, wait outside.”
“Sir.”
“Stop calling me that or you’ll be guarding the King’s latrine.”
“Yes sir,” Nyx says and exits the office, leaving Prompto alone with Drautos.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and Prompto is tempted to break the silence, but the only thing he can think of to say would probably get him into more trouble. His heart is in his throat and seems to grow larger with every second that passes until it feels like he’s going to choke.
“You want to explain what the hell happened?” Drautos says.
“I don’t know, sir,” Prompto says. “It just happened.”
“You had no prior knowledge you could destroy an entire battalion of Imperial airships all by yourself.”
“No, sir.”
“I’m not sure I believe that,” Drautos says. “You warned me to have the troops fall back.”
“Yes sir, but only because I could feel something happening and I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“What does that mean, something happening?”
“I mean, I felt the same way I did the day of the trials but a lot stronger,” he says. “Like, a lot stronger, and I remembered what it did to Crowe and I didn’t want that to happen again.”
Drautos drums his fingers against the edge of the desk and watches Prompto carefully.
“If I asked you to reproduce your little feat right now out in the training yard, could you do it?”
“I don’t have any control over it, sir,” Prompto says. “I don’t know how it works.”
“Do you think any of the mages that come to us have control over their power at first?” Drautos asks.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You’ll work with Crowe, twice a week,” Drautos says. “Out in the desert where you are less likely to kill someone.”
Prompto is relieved to hear Drautos isn’t going to punish him for it and he’s glad it’s Crowe he’s been assigned to. She is the strongest and the best of them and if there’s anyone who can help him control it, it’s Crowe. The fact that she’s kind to him helps.
“Thank you, sir.”
“That being said, if you ever pull a stunt like that again, you will never see daylight again. Do you understand?”
“It… it wasn’t a stunt,” Prompto says in a small voice. “I swear.”
“I meant jumping off the wall when you know damn well you can’t warp,” Drautos says. “You were assigned to the protect the mages. You failed that assignment.”
“Oh. Right,” Prompto says. “I forgot that part.”
Drautos drums his fingers against the desk again and sifts through a stack of papers before he speaks again.
“We pulled some interesting data off the chip, what little there was,” he says. “And based on what we saw, the MT’s recognize you, or at least the chip, as one of their own. We’ll have to get you closer to the action next time.”
Prompto pretty much already knows that and he has a bad feeling communicating with MT’s isn’t going to lead him anywhere he ever wants to be. The implications scare him to death and his concerns that they plan to stick him among them are very real and more than likely what is going to happen in the near future.
“Is it enough to get Ignis’ name cleared?” Prompto asks in a small voice. “Have I done enough yet?”
“It’s not a lot of data, son,” Drautos says. “It may take a couple of encounters to get what we need.”
Prompto takes a gamble and sits up a little in the wheelchair. He steels himself and lifts his chin, sure he’s about to get himself sent to the brig or whatever place they send insubordinate Plebes.
“The way I see it, if not for me we would have lost a lot more people,” Prompto says. “That should count for something, right? Pretty sure an Imperial spy wouldn’t wipe out a big chunk of their equipment like that. Bet those airships cost a pretty Crown.”
Drautos is visibly irritated. He shifts and leans forward, his eyes narrowed, looking exceptionally terrifying, but Prompto doesn’t want to back down yet. For Ignis' sake.
“I’m not asking for my own freedom, sir. I know I probably won’t ever get it back, and I’m okay with that,” he says. “But Ignis devoted his whole life to the Crown, ever since he was a kid and he doesn’t deserve this. Me, I can adapt to whatever, but Ignis doesn’t know anything else.”
“What makes you think I care what Scientia does or doesn’t deserve?” Drautos asks. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the Nobility doesn’t give a shit about us, so why exactly should I give a shit about any one of them?”
Prompto is taken aback. It’s the first thing Drautos has said that suggests he’s less a loyalist than he seems. To openly criticize the Nobility in front of a subordinate is probably some kind of treason.
“We made a deal,” Prompto says. “If I help you, and prove myself, the charges against Ignis get dropped.”
“I don’t recall giving you any sort of time frame for this deal of ours,” Drautos says. He’s growing impatient. “Things happen on my schedule, not yours.”
Prompto blinks at him. He’s starting to suspect Drautos made the deal to placate him. He suspects Drautos has no intention of following through and he feels betrayed.
And angry. He feels his heart turn to steel and that double beat begins in his chest. His fingertips tingle.
“I did everything you asked,” Prompto says. “How am I supposed to trust you or your leadership if you don’t keep your end of the bargain?”
A wave of nausea comes over him and he gets hot, then cold. Power slithers under his skin and he trembles with both fear and fury, unable to damp it down. He wants to. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, not even Drautos, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop.
“Please don’t make me your enemy,” Prompto says quietly. His voice shakes and he doesn’t know why he just said that, but it isn’t a lie. “I don’t want that. I just want my friend cleared and that’s all.”
There’s fear in Drautos’ eyes now and Prompto can only guess why. Maybe his eyes are glowing, or maybe Drautos senses the danger, maybe it’s something else. All Prompto knows is that Drautos looks like he’s about to piss himself and there’s something deeply satisfying about that.
Prompto wonders what the magic would do in close quarters like this. He imagines it blowing the walls down, caving in the roof. The whole building crumbling all around him.
Know your own darkness.
He closes his eyes and tries to reign in his anger. He doesn’t want to destroy. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He doesn’t want anyone to be afraid of him.
When he opens his eyes, Drautos is staring at him with wary eyes.
“I’ll do what I can to clear Scientia’s charges,” he says after a long pause. “I need you to understand it may take some time to make that happen so don’t bug me about it or I’ll change my mind. It’ll happen when it happens.”
“Thank you, sir,” Prompto says. “I appreciate it.”
He expects Drautos to call out to Nyx to take him back but he only sits there in silence, watching Prompto.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Prompto asks. “I’m still feeling pretty beat up, so if we’re done here, I’d like to get some rest.”
“You haven’t asked about the restrictions.”
Prompto hadn’t dared to ask. Though Cor told him he’d talk to Drautos about it, Prompto didn’t expect much to come of it.
“I figured you’d say no if I asked for both, so I picked Ignis.”
“Kid,” Drautos says and shakes his head. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with you.”
“What do you mean?”
Drautos doesn’t answer. He’s more relaxed now and he leans back in his chair and considers Prompto for a minute.
“On one hand, based on your performance and your behavior, I see no reason to continue to restrict you to the grounds,” he says. “On the other, I think you are a live grenade. What’s to say you won’t accidentally lose control in public?”
He thinks about seeing his father on the subway and how close he came to losing it. The last thing he wants is a repeat of that and not be able shut it off. He totally gets where Drautos is coming from because he worries about the same thing.
Everybody’s celebrating but Prompto is secretly terrified of himself and the inexplicable thing inside of him. There are only questions and no answers. Only cryptic words spoken by strangers.
“Yeah, I get it,” Prompto says. “Don’t want to accidentally kill a bunch of civilians.”
“Five minutes ago you were about to kill me.”
“No, I mean, I was just pissed. I didn’t actually wanna, you know, kill you.”
“But you could have.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Prompto says. “But not on purpose.”
“Seems you have more control over it than you let on.”
He clears his throat and temples his hands under his chin.
“I propose a compromise. For now you will stay in the dorm, but you will be allowed outside the compound with supervision in your free time until we’re sure you can keep it under control,” Drautos says. “And make no mistake, the no-contact order with the Prince still stands, so don’t get any big ideas about some secret meet-up.”
“I can live with that,” Prompto says. “So, do I have leave to go now?”
“Have you been cleared for duty?”
“Not yet.”
“Then, no. You may not,” Drautos says. “But once you are, you will have a curfew and you will be expected to abide by it. Show up late and you’re back on restriction, do you understand?”
“Got it,” Prompto says, thinking of Ignis. “Thank you, sir.”
Drautos leans forward and his eyes are like chips of stone.
“And Prompto?” he says frostily. “If you ever threaten me again, I will put a bullet in your head faster than you can say Hero. Got it?”
Noctis hasn’t been to class in two days. He doesn’t think he wants to go back. There’s no point in sitting in a classroom learning about art history or language arts or math when some day soon, his father will pass away and he will be expected take his place.
He doesn’t even want to be King. He’s never wanted that. Not since he came to understand that his father will age too fast and die too young and he will meet the same end.
It doesn’t help that Gladio’s been in a mood lately. Noctis suspects he and Ignis had a falling out but Gladio won’t give him the details. Now he’s taking it out on Noctis and acting like bully.
Nothing is good enough. Nothing he does is right. He’s lazy. He doesn’t know how to do anything for himself. He needs to hit the books so that someday the Crystal can suck the life out of him too.
He thinks about running away all the time but he figures he’d be stopped at the gate. No guard worth his salt would let the Crown Prince leave the city walls without an escort. He could disappear into the Waiting Room and hide out among the refugees but he knows he’s too pampered and too privileged to cut it. He could officially renounce his title, but that would cause an international scandal and destabilize what’s left of their alliances.
There’s no choice but to follow in his father’s footsteps.
But he doesn’t want to think about that. Or anything, really.
He passes by a bar with a big screen in the back that’s broadcasting the footage of Prompto blowing the Imperial army to hell and he stops. It’s been four days since it happened and the news is still playing it on a loop as they speculate about the Kingsglaive’s new weapon. He steps inside and watches even though he’s seen it a hundred times, trying to reconcile the Prompto on screen with the one he knows.
Gods, how Noct misses him.
Sure, sometimes Prompto could be loud and annoying. Sometimes his nervous energy had driven Noctis crazy but he’s also kind and energetic and he never let Noctis wallow the way he is now. He would give anything to have that back. Noctis would give up his Crown, his title, his entire life, just to be able to be Prompto’s friend again.
He pictures that imaginary future again. The shitty apartment with its battered and ancient appliances. The lumpy third-hand couch that smells like wet dog and a coffee table made out of blocks and plywood. The two of them roughing it and living paycheck to paycheck, eating cup noodles and take-out, playing games until all hours.
Noctis wants to be there when Prompto falls in love. Not with some random girl of the moment but for real. He wants to be there when he sells his first photo, and he wants to celebrate birthdays and get drunk at bars and get mad because Prompto used all his hair gel.
There is no joy in his life now. Nothing to look forward to. Every single day is the same endless list of tasks he must complete in order to become King some day.
He winds up back in the Waiting Room and disappears into the crowds of refugees. For a while he wanders the streets, listening to conversations in unfamiliar foreign accents, and breathing in the exotic scents wafting from food trucks and run-down restaurants. There is music and life all around him. These people are struggling but they still laugh and find joy even in difficult circumstances.
That makes him feel like the spoiled, entitled rich kid he is. He has everything. He’s never gone hungry. If he wants material things, all he has to do is ask and he’s never wanted for anything except the things he can’t have. It makes him feel like shit, knowing that he’s wallowing in self pity while his citizens suffer.
He stops to consider a street vendor’s wares when he spies a group of people standing outside a nearby bar. Two of them, he recognizes. They helped him take care of Prompto’s father way back when.
When he hears a familiar laugh, tears spring to his eyes. In that small crowd, he catches a glimpse of Prompto’s face and it takes every ounce of self control he has to keep from running to him, hugging him, and never, ever letting go.
Crowe throws an arm around Prompto’s shoulders and he laughs at something she says. The top half of his hair is tied back Glaive-style, and the rest falls to his shoulders. There's a couple days worth of stubble on his jaw.
He looks so happy. Like he’s content. Like he fits in. Like they respect him.
Prompto has grown up and left Noctis behind.
Noctis is glad he’s not miserable and he’s glad they’ve accepted him as one of their own. He is glad that he’s been able to move on and find people who care about him. But his heart breaks because he isn’t a part of it. He hates that he isn't one of those people anymore.
Prompto glances his way and Noctis’ heart stops, then his eyes slide away, back to Nyx. Noctis feels forgotten.
And then he’s looking at Noctis and all the happiness drains from his face. Sorrow fills his eyes and he gives his head the slightest of shakes as if to say, stay away, if you know what’s good for you, stay away.
He turns his attention back to the group and they pile into the bar, leaving Noctis standing there praying for the thousandth time that he’d just given Ignis his grocery list like he’d asked.
Nyx convinces Drautos to let them take Prompto out once he’s been cleared for duty, with no curfew, to celebrate their victory. After all, he’ll be in the custody of multiple comrades and Prompto deserves to blow off steam.
Prompto is grateful. He’s been cooped up so long, without any fun for so long, he’s climbing the walls before he gets clearance to return to his dorm. He doesn’t even care that they’re going to a bar. He doesn’t have to drink to have a good time. If he has to, he’ll pretend, just so he isn’t pressured into having a drink.
Crowe tells him to order a beer and pour half of it out in the bathroom sink. That way, it looks like he’s partaking and he can spit any unwanted shots into the bottle by pretending to chase them with a sip of beer.
“I do it all the time,” she says. “It’s not safe for a woman to get drunk in public so I might have one or two, and then carry the same beer around the rest of the night.”
“That’s sad,” Prompto says. “That you have to do that.”
“The upside is that now the regulars believe I can out-drink any man in the room, so none of them bother to try any stunts. It’s a win-win.”
Prompto laughs and steps off the train behind the rest of the Glaives, who are loud and boisterous and call attention to themselves as they head for the exit. The mood is festive and light, and now that Drautos has loosened the reigns a little, he feels like he can breathe.
Crowe links her arm through his once they reach the street and Prompto feels proud to be the person she chose to walk with. He stands a little taller, just because he can.
The bar isn’t too far from the station but they don’t go inside right away. They stand on the sidewalk in front of it, and Prompto listens to Libertus tell a story about the time Nyx accidentally warp-wedgied Drautos instead of someone else, back when he was still learning.
Crowe drops her arm around Prompto’s shoulders and Prompto likes it. It feels sisterly and comforting.
“Drautos never did manage to dig all that fabric out of his ass,” Crowe says. “I don’t think he was able to sit for a week and he never forgave Nyx for it.”
Prompto laughs at the mental image and hopes that they will never, ever do that to him.
He glances around at the street beyond, taking in the atmosphere and his eyes pass over someone standing on the corner and then he turns back to the group for a moment.
“It was the height of my career,” Nyx says. “That’s the real reason they call me Hero.”
Prompto laughs again but his brain insists he take a closer look at the man on the sidewalk and when he does, his heart breaks.
It’s Noctis.
He’s standing there looking lost and heartbroken and Prompto’s heart breaks too. To be so close and not be able to say or do anything about it crushes him, but he can’t risk it. The threat of execution is still very real so he gives his head the slightest of shakes to warn Noctis off, in case he gets any big ideas. Noctis doesn’t seem to grasp that just him being here puts Prompto’s life at risk.
“How about we take this inside?” he asks. “Don’t know about you, but I’m getting a little thirsty.”
“First round’s on me, Plebe,” Nyx says and clasps Prompto’s shoulder. “I’ll buy you a lemonade.”
Prompto smirks but he’s sure Noctis is still watching.
“Pretty sure you’re gonna have to stop calling him Plebe, Nyx,” Libertus says. “After all, he is our little Hero.”
They keep saying that. Even the Glaives he doesn’t know have started calling him Hero, but he doesn’t feel like one. He feels like an impostor and over the last couple days, he has come to the conclusion the magic doesn’t belong to him. He doesn’t want them to count on it. It could fail when needed most. He could very well turn into a monster because of it.
He takes one last glance over his shoulder as they enter the bar and sees that Noctis is still standing there, watching with sad eyes. Prompto feels like he’s betraying him and it kills him to have to walk away, to pretend he isn’t there and that he doesn’t matter anymore.
The bar is already crowded. Someone orders him a beer that he pretends to take a sip of, then excuses himself to the restroom, where he follows Crowe’s advice and pours half into the toilet. When he returns, Nyx is standing at the bar with a pair of girls, an arm around each of them. They giggle at whatever he’s saying and when he points at Prompto, they eye him like he’s an ice cream sundae.
“Prompto, I want you to meet my friends,” he says. “This is Evie and this is Jasmine. Ladies, this is Prompto. You might have seen him on TV.”
Prompto can’t decide which one is prettier. Evie’s an an icy blond with big blue eyes and Jasmine a cute brunette with freckles and warm brown eyes. They’re both a couple years older than he is, but they’re smiling at him and he struggles to come up with a smooth greeting that won’t make him sound like an idiot.
“Uh, hi,” he says nervously. “Nice to meet you.”
“Buy us a drink?” Evie asks, sliding up to kiss Prompto on the cheek. Over her shoulder, Nyx flashes a lopsided smile.
Mateo is at the bar already, listening to Pelna rant about something when Prompto steps up to order. He gives Prompto a look that says he needs a rescue so Prompto cuts in to introduce the girls.
“Ladies, this is my buddy Mateo!” he shouts over the noise and claps Mateo on the shoulder. “He doesn’t talk much but he’s an excellent listener.”
Evie is immediately drawn to him and starts playing with the bangs that fall down over Mateo's eyes. Mateo’s grin gets bigger. By the time the bartender serves the drinks, she’s in Mateo’s lap and Mateo doesn’t seem to mind at all.
Against his better judgment, he drinks a shot of something that tastes like licorice, and then another and another, and the next thing he knows, he’s making out with Jasmine in a stall in the women’s restroom. He’s more drunk than she is and he kind of likes the warm, calm, heady feeling the alcohol gives him.
She has more than kissing in mind.
When they emerge from the restroom, Nyx finds his way to Prompto’s side, grinning. Prompto is grateful for the dim lighting so Nyx can’t see his flushed cheeks. It doesn’t matter either way because Nyx’s look is knowing and his grin says Prompto doesn’t even need to say a word.
“She make a man out of you, Plebe?”
Someone hands Prompto a beer and he takes it, trying to hide his embarrassed grin as he takes a swallow.
He doesn’t think sex is what makes someone a man. Sure, it’s a rite of passage and it’s something that used to be on his mind constantly, but it’s not like he’s been transformed now that he’s done it. It felt amazing for the pathetically short amount of time it lasted, and he definitely wants to do it again, but he’s positive that it has little to do with what it means to be a man.
“You were in there for a while,” Nyx says and wiggles his eyebrows. “What were you doing?”
“A gentleman never tells,” Prompto says, trying to play it cool.
He won’t tell Nyx that she showed him where, what, and how to touch so that she enjoyed it too. He won’t tell Nyx that he liked that part just as much as the actual act.
“That’s the correct answer, Plebe.”
Jasmine slithers up beside him and kisses his cheek. Prompto’s blush deepens.
“This guy,” she says drunkenly, poking at his chest, “this guy could teach all of you a few lessons on how to treat a girl, Nyx.”
“Oh yeah?” Nyx asks. His eyes flick to Prompto, who has covered his face in embarrassment. “Do tell.”
She just smiles and goes looking for Evie, who, along with Mateo, seems to have disappeared.
Prompto can’t help but laugh at Nyx’s expression. It’s a cross between awe and disbelief.
“What am I gonna do with you, kid?” he says.
Prompto doesn’t really have an answer to that because he doesn’t know what he means. It’s the same question Drautos asked.
A glance at the clock behind the bar tells him it’s still early, earlier than he thought it was, and suddenly he doesn’t want to be here. It’s too loud and too crowded and there’s something he knows he has to do.
“Hey Nyx?” he says. “I’ve got a big favor to ask.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I wanna go see Iggy.”
Chapter 11: Riot
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ignis stands in his kitchen, opening and closing cabinets one by one, considering the scope of a move to Altissia. Most of his belongings will have to go into storage, as managing an entire household move across the sea is a lengthy and daunting project. If he is hired, he will be leaving his life behind, taking only the essentials with him. It would truly be a fresh start.
He’s not one to count his chicobos before they hatch but it doesn’t hurt to plan ahead. It will save him an enormous amount of time in the long run if he knows exactly what needs to be done.
Either way, perhaps it’s time to reassess. Clean out and organize closets. Donate anything he no longer needs. Perhaps look into finding a smaller, less expensive apartment. He’s one man and he doesn’t necessarily need this much space.
There’s a soft knock at the door and anger boils up in the pit of his stomach. Gladio has called eight times today and clearly he still hasn’t gotten the message. Ignis stands there in the kitchen, torn between ignoring it and giving Gladio an earful about boundaries.
When the knock comes again, Ignis storms to the door, prepared to make a scene.
“Gladiolus Amicitia, do you not understand what leave me alone means?” he says as he flings the door wide open. “You cannot come here -”
The words die in his throat as he stands there, unable to believe what he’s seeing.
“Prompto?” he murmurs.
“Hey,” Prompto says shyly. “It’s, uh, been a while.”
Ignis can’t help himself. His arms go around Prompto and he squeezes, too hard perhaps, but he has to make sure this isn’t a figment of his imagination. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and something inside him feels a bit less broken than before.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Ignis breathes.
“Missed you too, buddy.”
Ignis can smell alcohol on him. That is a surprise. He’s never known Prompto to indulge, but he is a Glaive now. They have a reputation for drinking as hard as they fight and there’s certainly nothing wrong with a drink after a hard day. As far as Ignis knows, the Glaives have more hard days than not.
Nyx Ulric is behind Prompto, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s clearly uncomfortable being here and Ignis hopes that he hasn’t brought Prompto without permission. Ignis doesn’t want any more problems for Prompto. Or for himself.
When Ignis finally releases his friend from the embrace, he greets Nyx and invites them in.
“So, what did Gladio do to piss you off?” Prompto asks as Nyx closes the door behind them.
“Never you mind,” Ignis says. “Would you like something to eat? I’m sure I can whip something up.”
“Naw, you don’t gotta go to all that trouble,” Prompto says. “We can’t stay long anyway.”
“You’ll have to come back when you do have time,” Ignis says. “You were always my favorite to cook for.”
That is the truth. Gladio enjoyed and complimented his cooking, but he is rarely appreciative of it the way Prompto is. Noctis turns his nose up more often than not. But there was never a time when Prompto wasn’t grateful for a meal, regardless of quality.
“I definitely miss you cooking for me,” Prompto says. “Nyx, you wouldn’t believe what this guy can do with a couple pieces of fish and some spices.”
“So I’ve heard,” Nyx says. “You ever had Galahdian food?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Ignis says. “Though I would certainly like to try it some day.”
“Couple of places in the Waiting Room you might wanna check out,” Nyx says. “Not totally authentic but close.”
“Oh, yeah, Iggy. You’d love the food there. So many different flavors!” Prompto says. “Maybe we can do a tour some day and you can try everything out.”
That area is dangerous for non-refugees and Ignis is concerned until he remembers that Prompto is Kingsglaive and likely visiting while in the company of his comrades. It's very likely he's welcomed with open arms.
He hopes that perhaps some day Prompto will be able to take him, but Ignis knows it probably won't happen.
“I’m always interested in trying new cuisine,” Ignis says. “Are they feeding you well at the compound?”
“Meh,” Prompto says. “It’s fine, I guess. Pretty basic.”
Prompto looks strong and healthy. He’s put on muscle and he’s grown a couple of inches. Or perhaps it’s that he’s stopped slouching.
He wears his hair long and it seems he may be growing a beard. There is color in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eye and confidence in his smile.
He’s benefited from his time away, it seems.
It also appears he’s befriended a high ranking and well respected member of the Glaive. For that, Ignis is grateful. It means someone important is looking out for him.
“Can I at least offer you refreshments?” Ignis asks. “I feel as though I’m neglecting my duties as a host.”
“I’d rather hear about you, Iggy,” Prompto says. “How are things?”
Ignis pours three glasses of whiskey and offers them to his guests, more to satisfy his need to serve them than anything else. They both accept a glass and the three take a seat at the table. He notices that Prompto is merely pretending to drink the whiskey.
He wishes Nyx wasn’t here but he understands Prompto may still be under supervision. There’s no telling what sort of arrangement they’ve made in order to ensure Prompto is not a danger.
As if he ever was.
“As well as can be expected,” Ignis says. “I work at the library now. It’s rather dull but I manage to find interesting subjects to research from time to time.”
He can tell Prompto wants to ask about Gladio and Noctis but he’s smart enough to know the subject might get him in trouble. Ignis doesn’t know how close a watch they keep on him, but he’s not willing to risk looking suspicious or making Prompto’s life harder.
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Prompto stares into his glass and bites his lip.
“I uh, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to ruin your life, Iggy.”
Ignis’ heart hurts. He reaches for Prompto’s hand and clasps it, holding tight until Prompto looks at him again.
“I don’t regret taking you in, Prompto,” Ignis says and he means it. “I will never regret it, no matter what the consequences were.”
Prompto’s eyes get misty and he looks away, struggling not to show it in front of Nyx. He needn’t bother. Nyx is clearly sympathetic and he catches Ignis’ eye for a moment. Ignis senses he is an ally and not a threat, but he still can’t risk saying anything incriminating.
“Would you have preferred I left you in the situation you were in?” Ignis asks. “How many more bones would your father have broken if I had?”
Prompto looks away and sits up straighter. After a beat, he takes a real sip of the whiskey and tries but fails to hide a grimace.
“He probably would have killed me,” Prompto says. “Maybe he wouldn’t have meant to, but, eventually….”
“All the more reason,” Ignis says. “You’ve no need to apologize. I feel I’m the one who owes you an apology for not being able to do more to help prove your innocence.”
“You did more than anybody else. Don’t gotta apologize for that,” Prompto says. “Anyway, everyone knows now, so I don’t gotta hide it anymore. That feels kinda good, even if some people still think I’m a robot.”
Ignis smiles but only because Prompto’s tone suggests it’s something of a joke. Nyx smiles too.
“Your room is as you left it,” Ignis says. “You’re welcome to it, if you need a place to stay. I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.”
“I gotta stay at the compound for now,” Prompto says. “You know, prove I can be trusted and all.”
“Of course,” Ignis says.
He’d hoped that Prompto might be free to find his own accommodations like the rest of the Glaives. It might give Ignis a reason to stay in Insomnia. If he had someone to look after, his days would not be so empty.
“If there’s anything you’d like to take with you, you’re welcome to it,” Ignis says.
“Yeah, I might grab a few things while I’m here,” Prompto says. His face grows sad. “I think Noctis might have my camera though. I left it at his place the night I was shot.”
Ignis struggles not to wince. That night seems so very long ago, though just over a year had passed. Prompto should have been a hero but instead hea became the villain.
“Is there a restroom I can use?” Nyx asks.
The look he gives Ignis suggests they are being given a moment to speak freely.
“Certainly,” Ignis says and points to the short hallway next to the kitchen. “Right through there.”
The second the bathroom door closes, Prompto’s face changes and there’s a desperate intensity in his eyes. He grabs Ignis’ wrist and squeezes it. His grip is strong.
“Iggy, you gotta talk to Noct,” he says. “Tell him he’s gotta stay away, okay? He’s gonna get me killed.”
Ignis is alarmed. He’s assumed Noctis understood the severity of the situation. Clearly, he doesn’t.
“Has he tried to contact you?”
“He snuck into the compound a few weeks back,” Prompto says in a breathy, panicked voice. “And I saw him tonight, outside a bar in the Waiting Room. And I’m pretty sure he followed me here. You gotta make him understand, okay? Him showing up could literally get me killed.”
Ignis is aware that Noctis may have tried to see him but he wasn’t aware that Noctis actually broke into the compound or was making a regular habit of wandering around the Waiting Room. Perhaps he’s been looking for Prompto there. That in itself is alarming. His current handler is not doing a good job of keeping watch over him.
“I miss him so much, Iggy,” Prompto says. “And maybe someday stuff will work itself out. Maybe when he’s King he can drop the charges or whatever and we can be friends again, but I can’t risk it right now. I just can’t.”
There is genuine fear in Prompto’s eyes. The danger he faces should Noctis be spotted in his vicinity is very real. Ignis has no doubt they will follow through on their threats and not think twice. Prompto has only been spared for Noctis’ sake, and not because the King took pity on him.
“I’ll speak to him,” Ignis says. “I’ll make him understand. You have my word.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Prompto says. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a big deal.”
Ignis wants to ask about what happened during the battle, about the magic, but Nyx returns and Prompto decides to go look through his things.
“I took the liberty of keeping your phone on,” Ignis says. “Just in case. It’s fully charged and there are boxes in the closet if you need them.”
Prompto looks emotional. “You’re the best, Iggy.”
Nyx folds his arms on the table as Prompto leaves them. Ignis has only crossed paths with him a handful of times but he knows that he is one of the Kingsglaive’s finest. Nyx is a loyalist, and King Regis is said to be fond of him.
“I appreciate you looking out for him,” Ignis says. “It gives me some comfort to know he’s in good hands.”
Nyx searches his face for a moment. He has a reputation for being a sarcastic wise-ass but his expression is serious.
“I’m glad to know there’s someone outside the compound who cares about him,” Nyx says.
“There’s more than one,” Ignis says. “May I ask how he’s faring? Prompto excels at hiding his struggles so it’s not always obvious when he’s hurting.”
Nyx seems to know this because he nods.
“He’s homesick,” Nyx says. “He doesn’t talk about it but I know he misses his old life.”
“I suppose he’s in like company then,” Ignis says. “I’d imagine most of you do.”
“Understatement,” Nyx says. “Most of us will never see our homes or our families again.”
“Prompto never truly had one to begin with.”
“He had you,” Nyx says.
Ignis is grateful that Nyx understands.
“Am I to assume he’s found a new family in the Glaive?”
Nyx nods and a small smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“He’s got quite a few of us wrapped around his little finger.”
“It’s rather hard to say no to him, isn’t it?” Ignis says, knowing.
“It is,” Nyx says but he looks troubled.
“Is there something I need to worry about?”
“We all need to be worried,” Nyx says. “The Empire’s not going to back down.”
Nyx isn’t telling Ignis anything he doesn’t already know, but he hasn’t answered his question either.
“I meant as far as Prompto is concerned.”
“He can hold his own,” Nyx says. “And he’s not as fragile as everyone thinks he is.”
Ignis respects Nyx for being able to see that. Prompto’s strength is a quiet strength, and even Ignis has been guilty of underestimating him.
Prompto emerges from the bedroom with a box in his hands. He sets it on the table and Ignis sees he’s only packed a handful of things – his photographs, a few articles of clothing, a bundle of letters, and his phone.
“I can’t take too much with me,” Prompto says. “Shared space and all.”
“Take what you can,” Ignis says. “It’s no bother.”
“We should head back,” Nyx says.
Prompto’s face falls, but he nods, picks up the glass of whiskey and finishes it.
“Nyx, would it be inappropriate if I visited Prompto at the compound sometime?” Ignis asks.
Nyx shrugs. “As long as it’s supervised and in a common area and Prompto’s not on duty.”
“Excellent,” Ignis says, thinking perhaps he might bring Prompto a home cooked meal every now and then. “I’ll be sure to drop by.”
At the door, he hugs Prompto one last time. The visit has been too short, and they only had a moment to speak frankly. And still, he’s grateful. It’s more time than he ever thought he would get.
Prompto’s grip on him is fierce and he’s trembling. One hand grips the back of Ignis’ shirt like he doesn’t want to let go.
“Take care, Prompto.”
“You too, Iggy,” Prompto says. When he steps back and his eyes are red and watery. His face is flushed. “And thanks for everything, buddy.”
When they’re gone, Ignis sits down at the table and cries.
When Prompto asks if he can go see Ignis, Nyx wants to say no but that innocent, hopeful face looking up at him is impossible to say no to.
They take the train and when they get off, Nyx becomes aware of someone following them. The young man keeps his distance, but there’s no mistaking it. The guy isn’t exactly trying to be discrete, but he’s not trying to make it obvious, either.
At the corner, across from Scientia’s apartment, Prompto seems to notice him too. He frowns at the street behind him and worry lines his face. Nyx wonders if someone at the bar threatened him and that’s the real reason they left, but he can’t recall anything but excitement from his young friend up until now. He’d practically been glowing after Jasmine had her way with him.
“Somebody you know?” Nyx asks.
“I don’t think so,” Prompto says but it isn’t convincing.
The young man is gone now. Disappeared into an alley or an apartment building. Maybe Nyx is imagining things. Maybe they both are. Maybe it’s his anxiety over his growing suspicion that there’s something going on behind the scenes. Maybe he’s just being paranoid.
In the end, Nyx is glad he agreed to let Prompto visit Ignis. He sees nothing but a solid friendship between them. Nothing shady or suspicious. It’s clear the former advisor cares deeply for Prompto in a brotherly or maybe even a paternal way.
Nyx feels like a total shit for having to supervise but it eases his mind. The kid isn’t up to anything and neither is Ignis.
Prompto breaks down in the elevator as they leave. It only lasts a second but it cuts Nyx to the bone. The kid tries so hard to hide his grief and this is the first time he’s really let it show. All Nyx can do is give his shoulder a squeeze. He doesn’t want to embarrass him by acknowledging it any further.
He’s recovered by the time the reach the lobby. The only evidence is the redness around Prompto’s eyes and the hangdog look on his face.
“You wanna drop that stuff off and head back to the bar?” Nyx asks. “Or go grab a bite to eat?”
“I could eat,” Prompto says. He stares into the street across from them and then rubs his eyes. “Not really up for celebrating anymore.”
“Me neither,” Nyx says. “Know any decent places around here?”
“There’s a curry shop like three blocks up,” Prompto says. “Used to go there with… used to go all the time.”
“Curry it is.”
But Nyx sees the young man from before, peering from an alley just across the street. He recognizes him this time and glances at Prompto, but he hasn’t noticed they’re being watched. His gaze is lost and far away.
Nyx needs to put a stop to this, right now. Before it turns ugly.
“Prompto, I need you to go back in the lobby and wait for me.”
“Why?” Prompto asks, confusion written all over his face.
Nyx debates whether or not to let Prompto in on it or not. He doesn’t want there to be a scene, and he doesn’t want there to be any question about whether or not Prompto was aware of Noctis the whole time.
Best to keep him in the dark.
“Just go inside.”
Prompto’s worry returns but he follows Nyx’s direction and steps back into the lobby.
Nyx isn’t supposed to warp within city limits unless there is danger. He considers this dangerous. He’s across the street in less than a heartbeat with the Crown Prince backed against a wall before him. The boy’s eyes are wide but he’s summoned his own weapon, either to attack or warp away before he can be attacked.
“Highness,” Nyx says. “Why are you following him?”
“I...” Noctis takes a breath and his weapon disappears. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”
“He’s fine.”
Noctis relaxes and he sags back against the wall. There’s a dark anger in his face and defiance in his eyes.
“Is he happy?”
“Nobody’s happy, Highness,” Nyx says. “Look, I know you broke into the compound to see him, and I know you’ve been following us. If you care about him, you have to stop. It’s going to get him killed.”
Noctis’ eyes flash and there’s a wild look in them for a second. Then it fades until the Prince’s expression is as lost as Prompto’s.
“All it would take is the wrong person to see you near him. You wouldn’t even need to speak to him,” Nyx says. “And it’s all over for him if that happens.”
It’s as if the young Prince is only now realizing how very real that possibility is. He shakes his head to deny it but the reality is sinking in.
“I need you to understand that you being here right now puts him in danger.”
Noctis’ jaw trembles. He won’t look Nyx in the eye.
“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!”
Nyx takes a step back and considers his words carefully. Noctis might be a teenager, but he’s still the next in line for the throne. The last thing he wants is to alienate the future ruler.
“If you care about him, you have to leave him be,” Nyx says. “That’s the only choice you have right now.”
“The second I become King,” Noctis says through clenched teeth, “I’m lifting the order.”
“I wouldn’t expect any different, Highness,” Nyx says. “But for now, staying away is the only way you can keep him safe.”
Tears spill from Noctis’ eyes and Nyx is reminded of how young he is. How young they both are. The boy looks tired and beat down and too young to carry the burden of the Kingdom on his shoulders. Should King Regis pass, Nyx isn’t sure if Noctis is ready to take the reigns.
Noctis takes a slow, shuddery breath and straightens his posture. He wipes his eyes and collects himself. Nyx relaxes a little. The Prince is just a grieving kid. He’s not handling it as well as Prompto is, but Prompto hasn’t been pampered his whole life. He knows how cruel the real world is.
“You’re looking after him?” Noctis asks.
“I am.”
“Thanks.”
“No thanks needed,” Nyx says. “Oh, and do yourself a favor and stay out of the Waiting Room. It’s not safe for you there, Highness. Things in this city are changing. There are a lot of people who are angry.”
“I know.”
“Then you must also know some of those people might be angry enough to hurt you.”
His expression says he isn’t aware that it’s gotten that bad.
“What do I do about that?”
Nyx doesn’t have any good answers and there is no simple fix beyond destroying the Empire itself. Lucis doesn’t have the manpower or weaponry to make that happen. It’s hard to compete with mass produced robots and airships.
“I’m just a soldier, Highness,” Nyx says. “Politics aren’t in my wheelhouse.”
Noctis searches his face for a second and then seems to collapse in on himself.
“Go home, Noctis,” Nyx says. “Where you belong.”
Prompto isn’t himself for days. Seeing Ignis has made him ache for his old life, for the easy, comfortable world he used to inhabit. He goes through the motions and does what he is told to do without complaint. He puts on his brightest smile and pretends everything is fine.
But something is wrong and he doesn’t know what it is. Something is wrong with him.
It’s not just sadness. There’s a creeping dark inside him, slithering around like some tentacled lake monster from a B-horror movie. As if he’s been scourged. And he’s having nightmares again.
The dorms are lonely now. Mateo found a small apartment a few blocks from the compound and Prompto envies him. Now he’s by himself with three new recruits and the two that didn’t make the cut the first time. They’re friendly but they’re not his friends.
His evenings are spent running laps around the upper training yard wall until his legs want to give out. Running feels good and it clears his head and lifts the dull gray boredom that enshrouds his daily life.
He’s been assigned to guard duty at the wall with Mateo for the time being. Prompto’s glad for a friendly face.
The Lucian gate guards are jerks to both of them but Prompto and Mateo get their revenge by communicating entirely in sign language. It pisses the guards off but there’s not much they can do about it.
Prompto’s gotten good enough at signing that he thinks he could get a second job as an interpreter. He thinks that’s a job he might actually enjoy doing if he wasn’t here.
Guard duty is the highlight of his days. His nights are too long and too lonely most of the time.
Crowe invites him out to get food, and he goes. He laughs at her stories and pretends to have a good time but it’s all a ruse. He knows that she knows he’s faking it, but she doesn’t call him out and he’s glad for that. He doesn’t have any way to explain his melancholy.
They go to the desert, too. Just to the wall, where Prompto sees a sea of destroyed machines stretching out as far as the eye can see. He shivers at the memory.
Try as he might, the magic won’t come. He thinks about things that make him angry or afraid. Crowe tries to provoke him with magic and mean words. Nothing happens.
“Maybe it was just a fluke,” he says. “Maybe I used up what I had and now it’s gone.”
That isn’t true. It came so easily in Drautos’ office, itching and crawling inside him and begging to be let out. It’s still there, he just can’t seem to summon it at will.
“Maybe,” she says but she sounds doubtful. “Magic doesn’t usually work like that, though. Could be you just need to recharge your batteries.”
He’s not sure how to do that either. At night, he feels that double heartbeat when he’s trying to sleep. He hears the stranger’s voice in his dreams, speaking in an ancient language that sounds like a curse. It’s still there and it wants out but he suspects he’s not the one in control.
“What’s the point if I can’t just summon it up whenever I want?” he wonders aloud.
“I don’t know, kid,” she says. “We’ll figure it out. We just need to find the trigger.”
Prompto looks away and wonders about all the broken machines down there. He assumes they’ve already salvaged what could be salvaged but he imagines rebuilding and reprogramming them and using them on the battlefield, robot versus robot. No need for lives to be lost.
Reprogramming and rebuilding wouldn’t work. He already knows that from talking to the technicians. Lucis doesn’t have the technology and their attempts to recreate it consistently fail. There is something besides circuitry powering them. Something Prompto suspects is a lot darker than anyone realizes.
They return to the compound and Prompto changes into sweat pants and trainers and goes for a run. The sound of his shoes hitting the stone is rhythmic and soothing.
He’s completed ten laps when Luche steps out of the shadows with his arms folded and a funny smirk on his face.
“Hey, kid,” Luche says.
“Hey,” Prompto says and stops. He’s only a little out of breath but his voice is husky. “What’s up? We get an assignment?”
Luche seems offended.
“Do I have to have orders for you to talk to me?”
Prompto shakes his head to deny and wipes the perspiration from his brow. He knows of Luche but they’ve never had a real conversation before. Prompto’s a little afraid of him and he isn’t sure why.
“Why don’t you come out with us Friday?” Luche says. “Have a couple drinks. Get to know people outside of your little clique.”
The offer is friendly enough but Prompto’s not feeling it. Not because he doesn’t want to socialize with the other Glaives but because he’s still feeling blue. He doesn’t think being pressured to drink with people he doesn’t know well is a good idea when he’s fighting off such a dark mood.
“Can I get back to you?” he asks. “Gotta get permission from Drautos anyway.”
“No worries, kid,” Luche says. “I’ll talk to him for you.”
He doesn’t want these people thinking he can’t fight his battles on his own and he shakes his head.
“Nah, I got it,” Prompto says, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. “I’m sure he’ll be fine with it, just gotta get him to sign off. No big.”
“Sure, hope to see you there," Luche says. "And let me know if you want a running partner. I've been looking for one."
"I'm here just about every day," Prompto says. "Welcome to join me."
"Might do that."
Prompto watches him go and resumes his run. He loses count of how many laps he’s run and only stops when the daylight has completely faded from the day. In the dorm, he showers and considers writing Luna.
But days pass and he doesn’t write a word. What is there to say?
It’s only when Ignis shows up the following afternoon with a pair of covered containers that his bleak mood lifts. Libertus is his babysitter today and the plan was to run out and pick up a few items, but Prompto’s been putting it off for a couple hours. Libertus doesn’t seem to mind. He’s been telling Prompto all about how sad and pathetic Crowe was when they found her. Again.
“Someone’s here to see Argentum!” someone in the hall shouts.
Prompto’s on his feet and down the hall in an instant and the second he lays eyes on Ignis, the world rights itself just a little.
“I brought you some Green Curry Soup and some Spicy Lucian Bass with garlic potatoes and green beans,” Ignis says. “I wasn’t sure which you might be in the mood for so I made both.”
Gods. Bless Ignis. Prompto’s mouth starts to water, just thinking about how delicious it’s going to be.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Prompto says. “I mean, I totally love that you did, but you didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
There’s a lump in his throat and an ache in his chest when he hugs Ignis. Prompto’s not stupid. He knows how much effort Ignis puts into his cooking.
He takes Ignis to the far side of the training area, where there are picnic tables and fewer people. Libertus tags along but refuses when Prompto offers to share his food. He plops down at the next table, uninterested in either of them, and pokes at his phone as Prompto uncovers the soup.
“I took care of that thing we discussed,” Ignis says as Prompto takes his first spoonful of the soup. Gods. It tastes like home and the rich flavor brings a tear to his eye. “I hope there have been no further incidents.”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Prompto says. “But I haven’t been out much. Gotta have a chaperone and I don’t really wanna put anybody out on my account. How did he react?”
“Seems someone already gave him a thorough talking to,” Ignis says and lifts a brow.
That must have been why Nyx made him go back in the lobby of Ignis’ apartment the other night. He hasn’t explained what happened afterward but it looks like it was as Prompto suspected. Noctis had been following them.
Good thing it was Nyx with him and not someone else.
“Maybe if he hears it a couple times, he’ll figure out it’s not a game,” Prompto says. It comes out more harsh than he intended. “Sorry. I’m just really on edge about it.”
“As you should be,” Ignis says. “I’ve also got Gladio on it, so hopefully there will be no more unsupervised nocturnal adventures through dangerous parts of town.”
“That too. It’s the last place he needs to be by himself,” Prompto says. He takes another bite of the soup and savors the spicy, creamy flavor. “Iggy, I think this might be your best batch ever.”
“It most certainly is not,” Ignis says. “Institutional cuisine has clearly ruined your palate.”
Prompto laughs. He’s not wrong. He can’t complain about the cafeteria food, but he can’t say anything nice about it either. It’s hot, nutritious and is served regularly. And that’s all it is.
He won’t have to eat it tonight. He plans to save the fish for dinner and what a treat that will be.
“There was something I wanted to discuss with you,” Ignis says. “It’s of a more personal nature.”
Prompto glances at Libertus, wondering if he can be trusted. In case what Ignis wants to discuss is sensitive. But Libertus isn’t paying them any attention. He’s playing King’s Knight and muttering under his breath at the characters on his screen.
“I’ve accepted new a job,” Ignis says.
“Yeah? That’s awesome!” Prompto says. “Something more exciting than the library I hope?”
“Not in particular but the pay is generous,” Ignis says. The look on his face tells Prompto there’s bad news along with it. “The job is in Altissia.”
Prompto lowers his spoon.
Slowly.
“Like, across the ocean? That Altissia?” Prompto asks. “What about your probation?”
“It still stands,” Ignis says. “The King allowed a special dispensation. I’ll be required to check in with the Lucian Consulate monthly, of course. And any violation will send me straight to an Altissian prison, where they will leave me indefinitely.”
“Altissian prison is probably way better than ours,” Prompto says. “Probably no mold on the food, either.”
“Indeed,” Ignis says. “But I don’t plan to find out.”
“They must have really wanted you, Iggy, if they went through all that trouble.”
“I suspect Lucis was more than glad to be rid of me.”
Prompto is upset but he’s trying desperately to keep from showing it. He wants Ignis to be happy, even if it means he has to move across the ocean.
“Can I ask why you wanna leave?”
“Well, If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t have a purpose here anymore,” Ignis says. “And I’ve never really known what it’s like to do something just for me. Every decision I’ve ever made was for someone else’s benefit.”
Prompto hates everything about this. Ignis leaving means he has even fewer ties to his old life. He has no place to call home anymore.
But he understands. Ignis needs to find himself. If it means he has to go to Altissia to do that, Prompto respects it, even if he doesn’t like it.
“If that’s what you think you need, buddy,” Prompto says and swallows around the lump in his throat. “I kinda wish I could leave sometimes. You know, start over.”
Ignis looks guilty and he stares at his folded, manicured hands.
“Thank you for not being angry with me.”
“Have you told Gladio yet?”
“You were my practice run.”
Prompto laughs in spite of himself.
“Hoo boy. To be a fly on the wall.”
“It won’t go well,” Ignis agrees. “We’re already not on the best of terms at the moment.”
Ignis’ cheeks flush and he averts his eyes. Prompto has never seen Ignis blush before. He’s being downright cagey and Prompto wonders why.
“It’s just Gladio being inconsiderate of my feelings,” Ignis says with a sigh, “and me being too much of a stubborn bastard to forgive him.”
Prompto bites his lip again. He doesn’t believe in staying mad, not even over big things. Prompto’s only 19 but he’s already learned that you never get the time you had back. That you never get enough time with the people you care about. Wasting what little time you do have on staying mad is a total waste.
“Unless he drugged you and sold one of your kidneys on the black market or something, you should forgive him, dude,” Prompto says. “Might not get a chance later, you know?”
“I’ll be sure to clear the air before I go,” Ignis says. “I’m just not quite ready to speak to him yet. Mostly because I’m also angry with myself.”
“You wanna talk about it?” Prompto asks. “I’m not great at giving advice, but I’m a pretty good listener.”
Ignis shakes his head and sits up straighter.
“The whole thing is silly,” Ignis says mildly. “Not even worth all the drama it caused.”
Prompto doesn’t believe him. His tone is all wrong. It’s too passive. There’s a flicker of emotion in his eye that tells Prompto how truly hurt he is and he can’t help but wonder what Gladio could have done to upset him this much.
It’s tempting to tell him about his deal with Drautos, if it means he might consider staying, but he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t want to stand in Ignis’ way if it means he’ll be able to start over and find whatever it is he’s looking for.
He also doesn’t want Ignis to think he’s made a sacrifice for him. Ignis is too stubborn and proud to accept a helping hand and he always has been. And anyway, Prompto doesn’t know how long it will take for the charges to get dropped. It could be tomorrow or two years from now. He doesn’t want Ignis waiting around in limbo, wondering.
“When do you leave?” Prompto asks.
“Two weeks,” Ignis says.
“That soon?”
“That soon, and there’s so much to do, I find myself at a loss where to start,” Ignis says tiredly. “It’s rather daunting.”
So don’t go, Prompto thinks. Don’t leave.
There’s real sadness in Ignis’ face when he takes Prompto’s hand and gives it a squeeze.
“I am going to miss you, Prompto.”
“I’m gonna miss you more, buddy.”
When Ignis breaks the news of his impending move to Gladio and Noctis, it doesn’t go well. Noctis storms out and doesn’t come back. Gladio berates him for giving up. He doesn’t want to hear Ignis’ reasons.
Ignis allows him to rant. He allows Gladio to be upset. He has a right to feel how he feels, and Ignis can’t change his mind. When he finally runs out of steam, Gladio sits on Ignis’ couch with his face in his hands.
He might be crying.
“Why, Iggy?” Gladio asks. “Is it because of what happened?”
“No,” Ignis says. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“You say that but I know you. You’re still pissed at me.”
Ignis isn’t pissed at him. Not anymore. Ignis knows he’s at least partially responsible for how badly it blew up.
“If I told you I wanted to be with you, would you stay?”
Ignis chest tightens and he is wary. This feels manipulative. But when Gladio finally lifts his head, his expression is sincere. His eyes plead with Ignis to change his mind. Ignis doesn’t allow himself to think about that night, nor will he think about the possibility of a different sort of relationship with Gladio.
“It would never work between us,” Ignis says as kindly as he can. “We slept together one time and look how badly that turned out.”
Gladio stands up and storms toward the door, stops and then turns around. He’s angry again and Ignis readies himself for round two.
“We’ve been friends our whole lives, Iggy,” Gladio says. “How can you turn your back on that? How can you turn your back on Noct?”
“I am not responsible for Noctis anymore,” Ignis says. “By Royal Decree. A directive which neither of you seem willing to abide by or understand. I cannot do anything from the position I’m in, not even counsel him.”
“That’s a damn selfish way to look at it,” Gladio snaps.
“I spent my entire life catering to everyone else’s needs before my own,” Ignis says. “I was the one who raised Noctis, and what thanks have I gotten for it? Noctis certainly hasn’t been grateful for anything I’ve done for him in years. And how dare you call me selfish when you aren’t any better than Noct.”
Ignis struggles not to explode but there’s a dark desire within him to tear apart the last threads of his relationship with Gladio. It would certainly make leaving easier. A clean start. All the loose ends tied up in a neat little bow.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Gladio says. “The hell I’m not grateful!”
“You’ve never respected the enormous amount of responsibility on my shoulders,” Ignis says. “I’ve been Noct’s mother, father, brother, nurse, counselor, playmate, tutor, chef, chauffeur, maid, warden and punching bag, on top of the hours upon hours of training and administrative work required of me. And the first thing out of your mouth most of the time is, Hey Iggy, what’s for dinner?”
His anger is about to boil over. If he doesn’t get himself under control he is going to say something he regrets. He takes a breath and counts to ten before continuing.
The look on Gladio’s face is one he’s never seen on the man.
Fear.
What he fears, Ignis does not dare ask.
All the repressed rage drains out of Ignis and now he’s the one sitting with his head in his hands.
“I just want something for me,” Ignis says. “For once in my life. Why is that too much to ask?”
“I didn’t know you felt that way, Iggy.”
“Of course not,” Ignis says. “You just assumed.”
“C’mon,” Gladio says. “Am I supposed to read your mind? You acted like you had everything under control.”
“When was the last time you asked me how I was and actually bothered to hear my answer?”
Gladio looks away guiltily.
“I’ve been taken for granted by both of you for years,” Ignis says quietly. “I endured it because it was my duty. Because I grew to love Noctis like he’s my own blood. I would have given my life to keep him safe.”
“So why the hell are you leaving?” Gladio asks.
“Because I no longer know who I am without Noctis to look after.”
And there it is. The truth. The whole truth.
Gladio sits beside Ignis and slumps back into the couch and folds his arms across his chest. Ignis ignores the way his tattoos seem to ripple and twist of their own accord like a nest of serpents.
“I know who you are, Iggy,” Gladio says. “Even if you don’t. Whatever this is, it’ll pass. You just gotta pull yourself up by -”
“If you are about to give me the bootstrap speech, thank you, but I’d rather hang myself with them.”
Gladio scowls. “Goddamnit, Iggy, are you having a breakdown or what?”
“Of course not,” Ignis says irritability.
“Cause if you need help -”
“The only help I need is help packing.”
Gladio drops his head into his hands again. This time, his shoulders shake and he is crying. Ignis finds himself unable to offer comfort. He doesn’t have the energy. It only lasts a moment anyway. When Gladio lifts his head, his eyes are watery and there is moisture on his cheeks.
“You tell Prompto yet?”
“I have.”
“You told him before us?” His tone is angry but his face remains grief-stricken. “The hell, Iggy?”
“I told him first because I knew he would understand,” Ignis says.
“You know, it’s starting to look like you care more about him than you do us,” Gladio says through gritted teeth. “You burned down your whole life for him.”
“Do you think Noct would have forgiven me for ignoring the abuse?”
“I don’t know, but everything bad that’s happened? It all started with him.”
“You know that’s not true,” Ignis says. “None of this is his fault. He can’t help how he got here or where he came from.”
Ignis rubs his eyes and stands up. He considers pouring himself a drink.
“Prompto’s the only one of you who has never asked me for anything,” Ignis says in a measured, controlled tone. “He’s never expected anything of me, and he is grateful for even the smallest act of kindness. Can you say the same of yourself? Or of Noctis?”
Gladio shakes his head. The fear is still there. Ignis’ words are finally getting through to him.
“You’re right,” Gladio says quietly. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.”
Ignis decides he does want a drink and pours two. He hands one off to Gladio and goes to stand by the window, looking out at the city. This is the only home he’s ever known and this view is the one he’s looked out upon for the last five years. In two weeks time, he will be looking out at the canals or into the alleyways of Altissia.
Gladio joins him at the window and takes a slow sip of the whiskey. His eyes are on the Citadel, three blocks away, shining bright above the neon streets below.
“You really sure you want this?” Gladio asks.
“I am.”
He turns to Ignis and leans a hip against the sill, studying him.
And then, he crushes his mouth against Ignis’, kissing him deep and hard but the hands on his body are gentle and almost cautious.
Ignis doesn’t fight it this time. He doesn’t want to. And he thinks, perhaps this will be his final goodbye to Gladio. One last kiss, before he moves on.
Whether he looks back or not remains to be seen.
Noctis’ whole life is coming apart at the seams. Ignis is leaving. He’s leaving Insomnia. Leaving him. There is no explanation Ignis can give him that will make it okay or right. He’s leaving and nothing will ever be the same.
Once he’s gone, all Noctis will have left is Gladio and that doomed future that awaits him. He can feel those long, lonely days closing in on him like a vice.
As usual, Noctis doesn’t know where he’s going, but he’s feeling defiant and angry. He wants to do something stupid and reckless and as he rides the subway around the city, he thinks about running away again. Running as far from here as he can get. There has to be some way out of the city. A secret tunnel or a supplier he can pay to smuggle him out.
His latest retainer, Colton, is probably freaking out. Noctis doesn’t care if he is or not. He barely knows the guy and the guy sure as hell doesn’t know him. He’ll probably quit before he gets to know him anyway, just like all the others have.
He gets off at a random stop, paying no attention to where he’s ended up. It doesn’t really matter. One place is as good as the next and he plans on getting lost for the hell of it.
Noctis takes the steps up to the surface and finds himself outside the Kingsglaive compound. He shouldn’t be anywhere near this place. Ignis and Nyx both gave him an earful about putting Prompto’s life in danger and he can’t afford to be spotted here.
Until Nyx had accosted him in the alley, it hadn’t really sunk in that Prompto’s life actually was in danger, and now he’s terrified of being seen. He couldn’t live with himself if his stupidity got Prompto killed. No matter how crushing his loneliness, it’s not worth the risk.
He considers finding a bar, picking a stool and getting blind drunk with a bunch of strangers. Instead, he finds a liquor store four blocks away and buys a bottle of something cheap and guaranteed to give him a wicked hangover. He takes swigs of it as he walks around town letting his fury build.
The more he drinks, the angrier he gets. The angrier he gets, the more he wants to destroy something.
Though Gladio threatened a complete lockdown, Noctis finds himself wandering the now familiar streets of the Waiting Room again, listening to the exotic accents and music, smelling exotic smells and avoids the gaze of the locals. He doesn’t know what it is about this place that keeps him coming back. There is nothing here for him and if they knew who he was he wouldn’t be welcome here.
Why? Why does Ignis feel like he needs to leave? Prompto’s off limits. Gladio is distant and angry. He barely ever sees his father. He is completely alone. He feels totally abandoned in this city full of people he has no authority or power to help.
Noctis drinks and walks and his misery only grows. It’s past midnight now. He’s expected that Gladio would call and demand to know where he is and what he’s doing, but there are no missed calls. No missed calls from Colton, either. He checks again and again but there’s not even a text. He’s drunk and wandering the streets and nobody cares. Most certainly not his father, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in days.
He wants to light a match and watch everything burn. Maybe if he sets himself on fire, they’ll pay attention. He’s been depressed for the better part of a year and it’s so much worse than those awful, dark months before Prompto came into his life.
Gladio calls it pure laziness. He doesn’t understand not being able to get out of bed. He doesn’t understand how it feels to start his day already defeated and with nothing to look forward to.
There’s a part of him that’s still rational that tells him he’s being stupid and childish. It’s time to let it go and grow the hell up. He has duties and responsibilities. This will be his Kingdom some day and he needs to wake up and face the music.
That voice sounds a lot like Gladio.
Well, fuck Gladio. And fuck the Kingdom too.
As he rounds the corner he sees the bar where Prompto stood on the sidewalk two weeks ago and something inside him busts wide apart. It steals his breath and stops his heart and he screams those words into the night.
Fuck the Kingdom. Fuck the King.
Once he’s said them, he can’t take it back. The denizens of the Waiting Room hear him and they recognize him.
Some of them shout back, go fuck yourself.
Some of them echo his words.
Without thinking, he warps straight through the wide glass window of an abandoned business across the street from him. Glass slices into his arm as he busts through it and huge shards rain across the debris laden floor.
This is what he feels like on the inside. He’s full of dust and broken glass and rotting debris.
He does it again and smashes through the second story window of the flophouse on the opposite corner. Blood spills in warm rivers down his arm and drips from his fingertips. His hand is slick with it but he doesn’t feel any pain.
There are shouts from below. Dozens of people spill out onto the street at the commotion. Noctis stares down at them and takes a swallow from the bottle. He considers the remaining amount, which is less than expected, and finishes what's left. He tosses the empty to the street and watches it explode against the cobblestone. The people standing closest curse at him.
“Hey!” he shouts. “The King has forgotten you!”
There are grumblings and murmurs from the gathering crowd. Noctis has their attention. The lights and their faces all blur together in a colorful haze. He can’t focus on anything down there so he keeps his eyes on the blinking sign above them that says Buy, Sell, Trade.
“How about we send him a message?” he yells. “How about we let him know you’re all still here and he didn’t keep his promises?”
The shouts are louder now, but they’re agreeing with him.
“Fuck the King!” he shouts and they echo it back to him.
He warps through three more windows in rapid succession and this is the best he’s felt in a century. The sound of glass breaking is a catharsis, purging him of the pain and the ferocious, violent anger he’s suppressed for too long.
The next thing he knows, he’s standing in the middle of a riot. All around him, people are fighting and breaking things. Something is on fire and they’re chanting his words into the night.
Blood streams down his arms from wounds he doesn’t feel. The world goes a fuzzy blue-white and it’s getting hard to breathe. He’s spinning and the ground comes up to meet him, forcing the breath from his lungs. Something smashes against back of his head and he hears the tinkling of glass again. The back of his skull feels wet but his head is as numb as the rest of him.
The face of a friend is hovering over him now. There’s terror in his blue-violet eyes. He’s so close, Noctis could count all his freckles if he wasn’t too drunk to remember how to count, and his normally platinum hair is a halo of hot pink and blue.
Noctis reaches for him. “You look like a circus clown.”
“Just stay still Noct,” Prompto says. His voice shakes. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Noctis murmurs. “Gladio’s gonna kick my ass.”
Unconsciousness is creeping up on him. Noctis has never been to the ocean, but this is what he imagines getting caught up in an undertow might feel like. He’s being dragged under the surface, feet first.
“Prompto, you need to go,” Nyx says. “Now.”
“Dude! I’m not leaving him here to die!”
“I said now! That’s an order, Glaive.”
Everything is bathed in red flashing lights. It sounds like the world is ending. Things are breaking and people are screaming and something heavy and big throws Prompto to the ground. Noctis struggles to sit up but he’s too drunk and too dizzy and there is fire all around him. He wonders if he’ll catch fire too, if the alcohol running through his veins will burn blue-violet like Prompto’s eyes.
Nyx curses and shouts something Noctis doesn’t understand. It’s too loud and there’s a rushing sound in his ears.
And then, there is nothing but darkness for a long, long time.
Notes:
Thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and comments!
Chapter 12: Whiplash
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prompto ends up going to the bar with Luche and Tredd. He doesn’t really want to, but he also doesn’t want to damage his relationship with them by seeming standoffish. He tells himself it’s a team building exercise, that it will do him some good to get to know them.
The bar isn’t as busy as it was last time, but there’s still a good crowd of people. He hopes Jasmine will show up but he makes a point not to look for her. He doesn’t want the guys to tease him for having a crush.
They play darts and Prompto wipes the floor with both of them. Tredd gets pissed off when he loses twice in a row and abandons them for the bar but Luche is a good sport and challenges Prompto to another round, which he gladly accepts. Prompto wins that one too and tries not to gloat about it too much.
“You got a good eye, kid,” Luche says. “Probably shoulda figured. Crownsguard teach you to shoot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Prompto says. He tries not to mention them. The Glaives think they’re soft and privileged. Sometimes Prompto thinks they might be right. “I trained with the Marshal.”
“I think he’s the only one of ‘em these days that’s actually seen battle,” Luche says. “The rest of ‘em, though? Never fought anyone outside of a training yard.”
Prompto doesn’t know what to say to that. Luche probably isn’t wrong.
“Yep, there’s a reason they call him the Immortal,” Prompto says. “Don’t know him well but he’s a pretty good guy.”
“You up for another round?” Luche asks.
“You betcha.”
He’s glad for it. He’s running out of things to talk about and he’s sticking to club soda tonight.
When Nyx, Crowe, Libertus and Mateo arrive, Nyx immediately finds them. The rest go to the bar to order drinks.
“Making new friends, I see,” Nyx says and hooks an arm around Prompto’s neck. “Went by the compound to see if you wanted to grab some food but they told me you’d already gone.”
“Luche invited me out. Figured why the hell not?” Prompto says and tosses a dart. It hits dead center. “Oughta get to know everybody at some point, right?”
“Goddamnit,” Luche says and throws up his hands. “Nyx, the kid’s ruining my reputation.”
“How many times has he beat you?”
“Four.”
“And you keep going back for more?”
“Damn right. Rematch, Argentum,” Luche says. “You can’t win every round.”
“I mean, if you really wanna,” Prompto says with a laugh. “I can do this all night, dude.”
“Not sure your ego can handle it, Luch,” Nyx says. “How about we play a round and I’ll let you win so you’ll feel better about yourself?”
Prompto looks at Luche who just shrugs. He doesn’t seem mad. Not like Tredd who keeps glaring over his shoulder at Prompto like he did something wrong.
“You’re on, Ulric.”
There’s a commotion outside and Nyx pauses mid-throw. It sounds like shouting or chanting. And glass breaking. Nyx and Crowe are on the move and the rest follow behind.
The street outside the bar is total chaos. Prompto follows Nyx and Crowe into the street where people are smashing car windows and overturning trash bins and hurling large objects through storefronts and fighting with each other. The small immigration sub-office is ablaze and an alarm is going off.
And there’s Noctis, standing in the middle of the chaos, empty eyed and swaying like he’s been enchanted. Blood streams down both of his arms and his head lolls like he’s having trouble keeping it up.
Nyx has seen him too. The look on Nyx’s face keeps Prompto from running to him.
“Luche and Mateo,” Nyx says. “Round up whoever we got and get all the civilians off the street. Women, kids, old people, anybody who’s not looking for a fight. And Tredd, call for some back-up. Crowe, Libertus, Prompto you’re on medic duty. None of you engage unless you don’t have another choice.”
Luche’s face hardens for a split second but he gives a curt nod and heads in the other direction. Prompto waits until everyone but Nyx is out of sight and then breaks rank and dashes over to Noctis, who slides to the ground with a heavy thud before Prompto can catch him.
He stares up at Prompto with unfocused eyes and he smells like he took a bath in cheap vodka. There’s blood everywhere. More blood than Prompto has ever seen in his life.
Nyx steps away to break up a fight between a restaurant owner and a pair of attempted looters. Prompto hopes everyone they know is either gone or too busy to see him in the company of the Prince.
“The hell are you doing here, Noct?!” Prompto hisses. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You left me,” Noctis slurs. “Iggy’s leaving. Got…. I got nobody anymore.”
Prompto curses silently to himself and carefully inspects the wounds on Noctis’ arms. There are dozens of cuts, some deeper than others. Bits of glass stick out of his skin here and there and there’s more in his scalp.
Two of the wounds are worrisome. The first isn’t as bad as it looks upon inspection. It’s deep and it’s going to need stitches, but it won’t kill him.
The other is bleeding heavily, and Prompto worries it’s life threatening because there’s so much blood. He unbuckles his belt so he can use it as a tourniquet.
“Fuck the King,” Noctis says. “This whole damn… this whole damn city too. Just fucking burn it”
Prompto is shocked to hear him say that. Noct and his dad have not always seen eye to eye, but Prompto’s never heard him talk this way. It scares him, but he doesn’t really have time to question him about it and Noctis is way too drunk to give him an answer that makes sense. He needs to stop the bleeding and get him out of here before someone recognizes him.
“Fuck the King!” Noctis says, louder this time and punctuates it with drunken laughter. “Fuck’em!”
“Stop that,” Prompto hisses but Noctis only laughs. “What’s wrong with you, Noct?”
Noctis reaches for him. “You look like a circus clown.”
“Just stay still,” Prompto says and slides his belt over Noctis’ arm. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Noctis murmurs. “Gladio’s gonna kick my ass.”
“If he does, you deserve it, you idiot. You're gonna get me killed.”
"I love you so much," Noctis says. "It's like... you're the only person... you get me. I hate everybody. 'Cept you."
Prompto's chest tightens and he wishes he could give Noctis a hug, but Noctis is incredibly pale and his eyes are gleaming, unfocused half moons beneath drooping lids. He needs to get him to safety.
“Prompto, you need to go,” Nyx says. His nose is bloody and he looks pissed. “Now.”
“Dude! I’m not leaving him here to die!”
“I said now!”
Prompto’s never seen Nyx this angry. He doesn’t know if he should ignore the direction or do as Nyx says. Noctis’ life is in very real danger and Prompto is willing to sacrifice his own life if it means Noctis is safe.
On that, Prompto is not willing to budge.
His own life is worth nothing in the grand scheme of things. He’s just a commoner and will probably wind up as cannon fodder on a battlefield some time in the near future. His name will be forgotten when he’s gone. Noctis is the only heir to the throne. If he dies, there is no future for Lucis anymore.
“That’s an order, Glaive,” Nyx says.
It’s the first time Nyx has pulled rank on him, and Prompto takes that to mean Nyx is dead serious.
Someone crashes into Prompto and throws him to the ground. His head smacks the cobblestones and he sees stars. His attacker is big and heavy and he struggles to throw him off. A fist connects with his jaw and it hurts enough to stun him.
When the man draws back his fist again, Prompto deflects the punch, sits up and headbutts him. It makes the pain in his head worse but it startles the guy long enough to get out from under him and back on his feet.
He’s not really sure why this is happening but it’s clear this place and these people have reached a boiling point. This is a dangerous situation but he’s not looking to hurt anyone if he doesn’t have to. He’s reluctant to even draw his weapon because he doesn’t want to be seen as a threat.
The man lurches toward Prompto again and Prompto dances backward a couple steps with his hands up.
“I’m on your side, okay?” he says, even though he doesn’t know or care about sides right now. “I’m with you.”
“Fuck the King!”
“Yeah,” Prompto agrees and looks around for Nyx. “I’m gonna get outta here, though. Cops are probably on their way.”
“Cops are all Lucian pigs. Fuck them too!”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. “Fuck the cops.”
He spies Nyx in an alley across from him, tending Noctis. Prompto backs toward it, his hands still up, just in case the guy gets any ideas, but the man is already moving on.
“I told you to get out of here,” Nyx snaps. “You never saw him, okay?”
“Is he alright?”
Noctis is a scary shade of pale. His lips are slightly blue under Nyx’s pen light and his eyelids have turned gray. He looks dead and Prompto gets a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“He won’t be if I don’t get him to a hospital,” Nyx says. “Now get outta here before it’s too late. Go help Crowe.”
Prompto takes out his phone and calls Crowe to find out where she is.
“Kinda busy. What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“South Eos,” she says. “Where are you? We a few got injured over here.”
“Sorry, got jumped by some drunk,” Prompto says. “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
It’s only a few blocks, and when he gets there, Crowe is stitching up an elderly man with a nasty looking head wound and Libertus is bandaging the foot of a little girl with dark, scared eyes. Three others cower beside a shuttered food truck in various states of disrepair.
“Med pack is over there,” Crowe says and angles her head at it. “Not a lot left in it but do what you can.”
“On it,” Prompto says and jumps in to assess the injuries.
There is a chorus of shouting a few blocks away and in the distance, Prompto hears the wailing of emergency vehicles. He doesn’t allow himself to think about Noctis. He can only hope that Nyx was able to help him in time. He has to focus on this, the here and now.
Fire crews and police and emergency services begin to roll through the streets. Stragglers scatter when they realize those vehicles aren’t going to stop, but Crowe waves down an ambulance and asks for supplies.
After a few minutes of negotiation, Crowe and the paramedic team set up a triage inside the bar and the three of them spend the next four hours tending minor wounds while the paramedics handle the more serious injuries. They’re grateful for the assist. There are too many injured and not enough hands to manage them all.
Most of the injuries aren’t that bad, but it’s the kids that bother Prompto the most. They had no part in the violence that’s happened here, and they don’t understand why it’s happening. He does his best to calm them. For some of them, all he’s able to do is quiet their tears. Others, he manages to get a smile, maybe a laugh if he’s lucky.
He treats injuries that range from minor scrapes and bumps, to burns, deep lacerations and broken bones. He only speaks to his comrades to request supplies or assistance if the patient is combative. Libertus and Crowe do the same.
For a while, there’s a lot of noise. Inside the bar and out in the street.
They don’t stop to take a breath until all the fires are out and there’s no one left to patch up. Prompto grabs a water from behind the bar. Crowe sits in a booth and rubs her tired eyes. Libertus pours himself a drink.
“Want one, little Hero?”
“No thanks,” Prompto says. The last thing he wants or needs is a drink. “I’m gonna start cleaning up.”
He’s tired and he reeks of sweat and blood. His face and hair both feel greasy. All he wants is a shower and some sleep, but they have orders to stay put until Drautos tells them to return to base.
Prompto gathers and packs up the remainder of the supplies, which isn’t much, and then goes to the maintenance closet and finds a broom to sweep up the bits of packaging and bandages left behind.
The door of the bar opens and a familiar but very unexpected face steps inside. Prompto is so surprised, he doesn’t know what to say.
“Not gonna say hi?” Gladio asks.
“I, uh, hey.”
It’s been so long since Prompto’s seen him, he’s forgotten how massive and intimidating Gladio is. And though Prompto’s definitely put on muscle of his own, Gladio’s forearms are still thicker than Prompto’s thigh. As usual, he feels pathetic and small compared to him.
Gladio looks him over, then reaches out and puts a hand around Prompto’s bicep.
“Damn,” Gladio says. “Not so scrawny now, are you? Heard you got patched in.”
“Betcha thought I wouldn’t make it, huh?” Prompto says.
“I was more worried they’d eat you alive,” Gladio says and sends a smirk Crowe’s way. “These Glaives are feral.”
Crowe gets up and slips an arm around Prompto’s shoulders. Her gaze is cool and vaguely threatening. Gladio looks mildly amused and he eyes her up and down like she’s a steak dinner. Prompto goes on the defensive.
“Better feral than pampered,” she says. “Surprised to see you here. You get lost on your way to the gym?”
Prompto worries they’re going to brawl but Gladio breaks into a friendly grin and Crowe does too.
“Cor sent the Crownsguard to assist,” Gladio says. “I was actually looking for Nyx. Heard he might be here.”
“Actually, we haven’t seen him since the whole thing kicked off,” Prompto says. “Not sure where he ended up.”
There’s a look on Gladio’s face that Prompto doesn’t like. It says there’s bad news coming.
“You think I can have a word with Prompto in private?” Gladio asks.
“Sorry, big guy,” Prompto says. “Gotta have witnesses. You know, to make sure I'm not still a super robot spy and all.”
Gladio’s laugh is humorless and his expression is dark.
“What a load of bullshit,” Gladio says. “Fine. They’re gonna hear about it eventually anyway.”
Gladio pauses and seats himself on a bar stool. Prompto joins him and Crowe returns to her booth.
“Noct’s in critical condition,” Gladio says. “Apparently he was here when it went down and he got hurt pretty bad.”
Prompto is careful to keep his expression innocent and shocked. He can’t give away the fact that he’d seen Noctis or that he knows he’s been injured.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nyx is the one who found him,” Gladio says. “Just in time, too ‘cause he woulda bled out.”
“Is he gonna be okay?” Prompto asks.
Gladio nods and pokes at the inside of his cheek with his tongue.
“Hey, Libertus, you think I can get one of those?”
Libertus passes Gladio a beer and Gladio places the cold bottle against his jaw and closes his eyes. After a minute, he lowers the bottle and Prompto sees the ugly bruise on his cheek. Prompto suspects it’s been a long night for him too.
“Any idea why he was here?” Gladio asks Prompto. “Did you see him at all?”
“Naw, dude,” Prompto says. “Don’t know why he’d come out here. Not really his crowd, you know? And anyway, you know what would happen if we were seen together.”
Gladio stares at Prompto for a second. Prompto can only assume Ignis talked to Gladio about Noctis showing up in places where he wasn’t supposed to be.
“Yeah,” Gladio says cautiously. “I’ve been made aware.”
Prompto wonders why Gladio didn’t personally babysit Noctis after Ignis talked to him. It pisses him off that maybe Gladio didn’t take it as seriously as he should have. Gladio’s entire purpose is to protect Noctis and in Prompto’s eyes, maybe he’s not doing such a good job of that.
“How come you weren’t with him?” Prompto asks. He’s tired and feeling mean. “You know, if you’re aware.”
Gladio bristles and he sets the beer aside. He can’t say anything without incriminating the both of them but Prompto gets his point across.
“Can’t watch him twenty-four hours a day,” Gladio asks. “His handler’s supposed to be looking out for him too.”
“Guess nobody’s as good as Iggy.”
“Not by a long shot.”
Gladio’s face falls and he turns his gaze to his boots. Prompto can practically feel Gladio’s grief, and the meanness he felt moments ago fades.
“Man, I’m gonna miss him,” Prompto says. “Iggy’s been more of a father to me than my own dad ever was.”
Gladio nods and the sorrow in his face grows more intense and then slowly changes to guilt. Something big happened between them, and it’s clearly hurt them both. It couldn’t be more obvious.
“Did you guys make up yet?” Prompto asks. “Iggy told me you weren’t getting along.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Are you kidding? Iggy’s a vault,” Prompto says. “Keeps all the personal stuff close to the chest.”
“Maybe that’s why you two get along so well,” Gladio says. “Neither of you speak up when something’s wrong.”
Prompto supposes that’s true, though he shared a lot more with Ignis than anyone else. And by degrees, Ignis had opened up to him a little. Mostly small stuff. Nothing deeply, truly personal.
“I’d say that applies to all of us,” Prompto says. “So, what happened? What did you guys fight about?”
Gladio glances at the other two Glaives, but Crowe is snoring softly into her arms in the booth and Libertus is fully invested in his phone. They might as well be alone.
“We, uh, hooked up a while back,” Gladio says quietly. He starts peeling the label off the beer bottle. “And I messed it up by being too casual about it afterward. I mean, he was kinda acting the same, you know, but I guess I said some stuff that made him feel like I used him. And you know Iggy, he won’t come right out and tell you about it until he’s had time to get good and mad.”
Prompto couldn’t be more surprised if Gladio had revealed that he was the spy all along. All he can do is stare at Gladio and try to process this information. Prompto knows Ignis prefers men but Gladio has always been proud to be a ladies man and is a shameless flirt. He’s never even hinted that he might be into Ignis, or any guy for that matter.
“You. And Iggy,” Prompto finally manages. “You serious?”
Gladio nods and continues picking at the label.
“Well, was he right?” Prompto asks.
“He was right about me being too casual. I just figured he needed to blow off some steam,” Gladio says with a shrug. “Neither of us really handled it like an adult.”
“You guys are okay now, though, right? It’s all good now?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Gladio says and sighs heavily. “But, I might have gone and caught feelings like an idiot. And now he’s leaving.”
“Oh man. That sucks,” Prompto says sympathetically. “You know, I kinda like the idea of you guys together, though. Wouldn’t have thought of it myself, but I dig it. It’s giving a fire and ice, opposites attract kinda vibe.”
“Just wish there was a way to convince him to stay,” Gladio says.
“Me too, but,” Prompto bites his lip, “I think he needs some time to figure some stuff out. I hate it but I’d rather let him get it out of his system, you know?”
“What if he never comes back?”
“Then I guess he found what he was looking for.”
Gladio looks at him like he’s never seen him before.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Gladio says. “You just seem different. Grown up.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice, dude,” Prompto says and he’s suddenly sad because he’s realizing that childhood is over, for real. “But hey, I can still be an immature moron if you want. For old time’s sake.”
“Nah. Kinda like you better this way,” Gladio says, offering a smile. “Now we just gotta get you laid so you don’t die a virgin.”
Prompto can’t help his smug smile and Gladio’s eyebrow lifts in disbelief.
“No way.”
“What can I say? Ladies love a man in uniform.”
“Yeah, that’s gotta be it.” Gladio shoves his shoulder and laughs. “Can’t see any other reason a girl would wanna get in your pants.”
“Okay there, big guy, I know you’re just jealous they think my uniform is cooler than yours.”
“Those boots are pretty badass.”
“I know, right?”
They fall silent for a minute. The only sound is Crowe’s light snore and the distant wail of a siren.
“I know you got railroaded,” Gladio says after a while, “but it kinda seems like joining the Glaive’s done you some good.”
Prompto folds his arms against the bar. It’s been a tough year, but it it’s easier to let them think he’s adjusted to his new life without hardship. Even if he misses them every day, he’s going to put on a smile and power through it. He doesn’t have another option.
“Can I ask about that magic you did?”
He’s never talked about what happened in that convenience store, or the stranger who supposedly saved him. It sounds too crazy to be real and he doesn’t think Gladio will believe him either. He’s not even sure he believes it. He might have even decided it was the product of an oxygen and blood starved brain if not for the things he sees when the magic does show up.
“You can ask, but the answer is, I don’t know,” Prompto says. “All I know is it started after I was shot and it scares the hell out of me. Works great on daemons, though.”
“You fought daemons?” Gladio asks, incredulous. “What was that like?”
“Scary,” Prompto says. “Some of ‘em are really freakin’ big, dude. Like, way bigger than you think they are.”
Prompto rubs his eyes and fights back a yawn. The sun will be up soon.
“Anyway, Crowe tells me it’s some kind of Holy magic,” he says. “I’ve only been able to do it like three times so far. I don’t know how it works or how to control it. It just comes out when it wants to.”
“That’s wild,” Gladio says. “Never seen anything like it in my entire life. And I sure as hell couldn’t believe it was coming out of you.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Bet the flying part was cool as hell.”
“The falling wasn’t,” Prompto says. “Broke both my ankles. But they call me Little Hero now, so I guess that’s good.”
“Little hero, huh?” Gladio says and chuckles. “Well, I guess you did win that last battle for ‘em. Shame they still act like you’re the enemy.”
“It’s not everybody, just Drautos.”
“Can’t stand that guy,” Gladio says. “Thinks everybody’s out to get us.”
“He’s alright,” Prompto says. “Most of the time.”
Prompto’s never really been comfortable talking one on one with Gladio until now. They’d never found common ground before and Prompto always felt inferior. Gladio was the scary badass with the big muscles, big sword, and a tough guy attitude, but now it almost feels like they’re equals.
Gladio could still beat his ass and twist him up like a pretzel, but Gladio’s never set foot on a battlefield or fought daemons in the desert.
It’s a strange feeling and it blows his mind to realize that he has a bit more real world experience than Gladio does. He’s seen and done things Gladio has never done. Things he might never do.
Gladio’s phone chimes. He reads the text and frowns at the screen.
“Update on Noct,” Gladio says. “Acute alcohol poisoning, severe concussion, dislocated shoulder, 70 stitches, maybe more ‘cause they’re still working on him.”
“Shit. That sounds bad,” Prompto says. “Alcohol poisoning? He hardly drinks.”
“I know,” Gladio says darkly. “Makes me wonder what the hell he was doing.”
“You don’t think he was trying to, you know, hurt himself or something, do you?”
“Hope not,” Gladio says. “But he didn’t take Iggy’s news well, and he’s acting real depressed, so I don’t know, maybe.”
Gladio gets up and rubs his eyes and Prompto remembers how tired he is too. All he wants is to go back to his dorm and sleep. He’ll have to save his worry over Noctis being depressed for the morning. It’s too complex to think about when he can barely think about anything but crawling into bed and shutting out the world for the next few hours. Noctis is being cared for and is out of danger. That is good enough.
“I should get to the hospital,” Gladio says. “I’m real glad I got to see you, Prompto.”
“You too, big guy,” Prompto says. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? Maybe come have a drink with us some time.”
“Yeah, I might take you up on that,” Gladio says. “So long as your big sister over there is fine with it.”
Prompto blushes a little but he laughs. He supposes she has stepped into that role but he’s glad for it.
Gladio hugs him and Prompto tears up without warning. Gladio’s been the one he misses the least, if only because they were never close. But it feels like they could be, in time.
After Gladio leaves, Prompto dozes with his head on the bar as they wait to get the order to return. He has a semi-lucid dream about chasing Drautos through the city while glass rains down on him and Noctis warps back and forth across the sky.
The chime of a message wakes him and he sits up as Libertus checks his phone.
“Drautos wants us back at the compound.”
Prompto wakes Crowe and they head out in silence into a deserted street. Evidence of the riot is plain to see and it’s even uglier in daylight. It looks like a tornado hit. There’s glass everywhere from busted windows, burned cars, and overturned trash cans. The sandwich shop down the block looks like it got cleaned out and the chairs and tables that used to sit on the sidewalk are broken to pieces.
There are only a handful of undamaged businesses.
It’s horrific and the more Prompto sees, the more upset he gets. He understands that many of the refugees feel abandoned by the city that was supposed to protect them. There aren’t many opportunities for them and a lot of businesses won’t hire them.
He even understands this kind of rage. He’s felt it himself a time or two but he’s always managed to keep it buried because he doesn’t see any advantage to giving in to it. He knows all too well how anger can drive someone to hurt everyone around them. He’s been on the receiving end of that anger enough to know how destructive it is.
What he doesn’t understand is what set it off. Something must have triggered it. The gasoline was already there, but what was the spark?
The sun is all the way up by the time they get back to the compound and Prompto is dead on his feet. Drautos is giving orders to assist with clean-up to some of the Glaives who weren’t present last night. The ones that were are looking beat up and tired.
Prompto doesn’t see Nyx anywhere. He worries he was injured while trying to calm the crowd. Mateo is there, and aside from a black eye, he’s fine. He, like Prompto, just needs a shower and some sleep.
“Those that responded last night,” Drautos says. “Good work. You’re dismissed for now. Except for Argentum. My office. Now.”
Prompto’s skin grows cold and he notices the dark looks exchanged among the others.
They know something he doesn’t.
Ignis has been at the hospital since two this morning, waiting for news on Noctis’ condition. He’s tried to wrap his head around what Noctis is accused of and he can’t process it. He’s seen the videos and heard the words and it’s still not registering that Noctis, the Prince of Lucis, is responsible for starting a riot that caused 9 structure fires, dozens and dozens of injuries, vandalism, and looting.
Noctis is very lucky no lives were lost, though half a dozen people are currently in critical condition, including two police officers and a member of the Kingsglaive, so that number could change. As it is, the damage to the Waiting Room is significant, and their trust in the Crown has been broken beyond repair.
Ignis feels guilty, too. He should have sent Gladio after Noctis last night instead of trying to explain himself. He underestimated the depth of Noctis’ anger and thought perhaps he just needed time to cool off. He feels guilty for not being there for him this last year, for clearly Noct needed a firmer, more familiar hand to guide him.
For a while, Ignis dozes in the chair but he’s unable to sleep. Between hospital announcements and the guard’s radios, he’s woken again and again until he gives up and refills his coffee cup at the nurse’s station.
When he returns, King Regis has emerged from Noctis’ room. His eyes are red-rimmed and he’s shaking. Gladio’s father, Clarus is with him, and they’re both seated near the door.
“Can I get either of you some coffee?” Ignis asks. “Some water, perhaps?”
“Thank you, but I’m alright,” Regis says. “Clarus?”
“I’ve had more than my fill, but thank you.”
“How is he?” Ignis asks as he takes a seat across from them. “Has he woken?”
“He lost so much blood, he should have died,” Regis says. His voice trembles. “I don’t understand why he did this, Ignis. We had our disagreements about it, but I never imagined -”
Regis breaks down and it’s a few moments before he regains his composure. Ignis sips his coffee and waits for him to continue.
“I should have listened to him,” Regis says. “He must have understood something I didn’t.”
Ignis isn’t sure what Regis means. He can only assume the refugee situation was something Noctis has discussed with his father prior and the discussion hadn’t gone well.
“Did you have any idea he was planning something like this?” Regis asks.
“Of course not,” Ignis says. “I’m no longer his advisor, Highness.”
Regis looks confused and searches Ignis’ face. It seems to take him moment to remember that Ignis was fired over a year ago.
“I’m sorry,” Regis says. “I’m tired and it’s been a very long night.”
“Indeed. Perhaps you should go home and get some rest.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“Would it be alright if I sit with him for a while?” Ignis asks. “In case he wakes?”
“Of course,” the King says. Clarus helps him to his feet. “He’s so fond of you, Ignis. I think he loves you more than he loves me. But, why wouldn’t he?”
Ignis is concerned for him. He seems particularly frail and perhaps a little lost. Clarus’ expression reflects Ignis’ worry.
The Kingdom is in a precarious position and Ignis is very aware that should something happen to Regis, Noctis is not ready to sit the throne. Noctis very well may be facing criminal charges, and a King cannot rule from prison. If they lose the support of their allies, they may lose their hold on the Kingdom altogether. It’s even possible their surrender to the Empire is imminent.
He enters Noctis’ room and takes a seat next to the bed. Noctis is pale and both of his arms are heavily bandaged, there are stitches in his face and in his scalp, and his left shoulder is in a brace. There are tubes snaking out from underneath the bandages on his arms, and from his nose and his mouth.
Ignis gingerly takes his hand. It’s cold and waxy and his skin looks bloodless. He was told Noctis’ blood alcohol level upon admittance was .4 percent, which was very close to a lethal level. And for a young man who rarely drank to begin with, Ignis wonders if Noctis was even conscious of what he was doing.
“I’m sorry we’ve all let you down,” Ignis says and smooths the stringy bangs away from his forehead. “But I don’t understand why you’d do something so monumentally stupid, Noct.”
He looks so young and fragile. And clearly something is broken inside him and there is no one paying attention. Ignis regrets that. He regrets that he didn’t try harder to reason with the court’s decision. Perhaps, he could have appealed to the King for reinstatement. He should have been allowed to train his replacement, at the very least.
“You were supposed to learn to stand on your own two feet once I was gone,” Ignis says. “Perhaps Gladio was right. Perhaps I was too easy on you. I should have done a better job teaching you how to care for yourself. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so difficult for you when I wasn't there.”
Ignis remembers the old days, when they were both still just children. Back before the chore of serving Noctis got in the way. Before their respective roles changed from childhood friends and brothers to caregiver and charge. Before Noctis became his entire responsibility.
He had adored Noctis and Noctis had adored him. He wishes Noctis still felt that way but as he’d gotten older, he viewed Ignis as an overbearing mother hen, while still depending on him for everything.
He remembers the day Noctis realized the Crystal was slowly killing his father. And he remembers the day when Noctis realized a slow and early death would also be his fate. He remembers how the sweet, vibrant boy Noctis had been had vanished before his very eyes. It was as if he gave up, and the only thing that brought that spark back was Prompto.
He’s disappointed. In Noctis. In Gladio. Regis.
Himself.
They have all let Noctis down.
They’ve told him that Noctis probably won’t wake up for a few days. The trauma he has inflicted on his body nearly ended his life. Between the alcohol and the blood loss, he needs nutrients and hydration and rest.
Ignis would be wise to go home and get some rest as well, but he stays for a while longer listening to the various beeps and clicks of the machinery in the room. It’s almost hypnotic.
So hypnotic, he almost doesn’t hear the soft tap at the door. He turns around and Gladio is peeking in through the small glass window.
Ignis joins him in the waiting area and Gladio hands him a fresh cup of coffee from a fancy coffee shop downtown.
The coffee is rich and delicious and welcome after a long night. He has a long day ahead and it will give him the boost he needs to get through it.
“Any change?”
“He’s stable,” Ignis says. “They tell me he may be asleep for a few days.”
Gladio looks like he’s had a difficult night. Ignis sees no visible wounds besides a bruise on his cheek, but he looks exhausted. They both sit and Gladio stretches his legs out and leans back, letting his eyes drift shut.
“I saw Prompto,” Gladio says. “They had him on Triage.”
Ignis is glad he wasn’t in the middle of it. It means it’s less likely Prompto will be blamed for aiding the Prince. So long as Noctis wasn’t actively found to be seeking Prompto’s company. So long as they weren’t seen together.
He prays not. Prompto does not need another strike against him.
“I’m sure that kept him busy,” Ignis says. “The news is reporting at least fifty injured.”
“Probably more than that,” Gladio says. He sits up and yawns. “Had a bunch of bad actors show up. Not even from the Waiting Room, just a bunch of assholes decided to jump in and start shit. Ended up bein’ a whole lot worse because of ‘em. Probably started it.”
Gladio clearly hasn’t heard the news or seen the video. Ignis doesn’t want to be the one to tell him but if not him, who will?
“Noctis is the one who started the riot, Gladio.”
Gladio stares at him and shakes his head, denying it.
“I don’t know where you heard that but that’s gotta be bullshit.”
“There’s footage of him screaming Fuck the King and warping himself through windows,” Ignis says. “It’s very, very real.”
Ignis takes out his phone and plays the video for him. Gladio continues to shake his head as though he refuses to believe it’s true. Ignis hadn’t wanted to believe it either, but there it is, for all the world to see. And from multiple angles.
“I get that he was pissed about you leaving but this ain’t okay,” Gladio growls. “I don’t know what the hell he was thinking, gettin’ people all riled up like that!”
Gladio is visibly angry now. If Noctis was conscious and unharmed right now, Ignis suspects Gladio would give him a sound verbal thrashing. Perhaps a physical one too.
“I suspect he was talking about himself,” Ignis says. “The King has forgotten you.”
“You think he did it to get his dad's attention?”
“It’s possible,” Ignis says. “I doubt he planned for it to go as badly as it did.”
“Still not an excuse.”
“I was merely offering an explanation,” Ignis says with a sigh. “We won’t know more until he wakes up, will we?”
“Guess not,” Gladio says. “I don’t care what his reason for it was, it was a damn stupid thing to do.”
“I agree.”
Gladio runs a hand over Ignis’ forearm and Ignis pulls back. A thrill goes through him, but he’s glad they were interrupted last night, before they could further complicate things. Though Ignis is now questioning his decision to leave Insomnia, he doesn’t want to start a relationship he won’t be able to maintain, nor does he want it to get in the way.
Even if he does find himself increasingly drawn to Gladio.
“What to you think they’re going to do about all this?” Gladio asks.
“I don’t know,” Ignis says. “I doubt the public will allow it to go unpunished, nor should it, but I imagine imprisoning or executing the only heir to the throne would have dire consequences.”
“You really think they’d do that?” Gladio asks.
“If it were anyone else,” Ignis says, “the punishment would be severe.”
“You think….” Gladio begins and then stops. His posture collapses and he rubs his eyes. “You think maybe Noct is sick? Like my mom was? You think maybe he was tryin’ to do what she did?”
Gladio’s hasn’t spoken of his mother in years. Not since her funeral, when he was fourteen.
The official story is that she died of a pulmonary embolism in her sleep. The real story is that she chased a handful of painkillers with a bottle of vodka after struggling many years with an extreme form of depression. Gladio had been the one to find her.
Which is why Ignis has never understood Gladio’s firm stance that depression is a symptom of laziness and not the other way around. Gladio’s own mother struggled for years and ultimately took her own life due to a lack of understanding of the disease and a lack of effective medications that might have helped.
Gladio has made it very clear over the years that he thinks Noctis is just spoiled and lazy. He gave Ignis push-back when he suggested taking Noctis to a doctor. Ignis did anyway and the doctor concluded Noctis was a normal teenage boy and suggested he find a hobby. Gladio thought that proved he was right, but learning to fish didn’t fix the problem.
“I’ve been trying to tell you there's a problem years, Gladio,” Ignis says.
“I know,” Gladio says. “Maybe I knew it and just didn’t want to see it.”
Ignis holds back a biting comment about not seeing it until it was too late. It would be a cruel thing to say.
“What’s done is done,” Ignis says. “You’ll have to see to it that he gets help once he wakes up.”
“Yeah, if he’s not stuck in a jail cell the rest of his life.”
Ignis’ phone rings and he’s surprised to see it’s Clarus Amicitia calling. He stands and answers, wondering why the man is calling him and not Gladio.
“Would you have time to come speak to me today, Ignis?” Clarus asks. “It’s a matter of great importance.”
“Of course, but may I ask what it concerns?”
“What else? Noctis. And what he did last night,” Clarus says.
Ignis finds himself annoyed. It’s as if they’ve forgotten the entire last year. Clarus was in on the decision to exile him and should know better than anyone that Ignis had no part in or control over Noctis’ behavior.
“I’m no longer his caregiver, Clarus,” Ignis says. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Just come by and see me. We’ll discuss it then.”
“Certainly,” Ignis says. “I’m on my way.”
Drautos could not have planned this more perfectly. He’s been working to quietly undermine the system for a few years now, but the Prince has single-handedly ignited a firestorm beyond anything Drautos imagined at this stage of the game. From what he sees, it didn’t even take that much to set the whole thing off, and Drautos realizes the anger he’s been feeding ran much deeper than he suspected.
The less support Lucis has from their allies, the easier it will be to bring down. With any luck, the Kingdom will be left without an heir. Without a successor, it will be very easy for the Empire to move in and take what’s left of Lucis. They may not even put up a fight.
He sits in his office watching the tired, bloodstained Prompto view the footage of the Prince inciting the refugee community to violence. Drautos enjoys the growing horror in Prompto’s eyes as it dawns on him that the boy he put on a pedestal caused the near destruction of an entire neighborhood.
“What do you have to say about that, Argentum?” Drautos asks.
“I didn’t know he was there, sir,” Prompto says. “I swear. I was there with Luche and Tredd.”
Drautos already knows this. He’s asked Luche to befriend Prompto, to keep an eye on him. Nyx is a good soldier and a loyal comrade, but he’s too loyal to Regis to bring into the fold. If Luche can persuade Prompto to believe the Crown cares nothing for him or the people of Lucis, then Drautos will have an incredibly powerful ally when the time comes.
If he can’t, then he has an enemy capable of destroying the Empire.
“What do you want from me, man?” Prompto asks tiredly. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“I gave it to you, okay? I haven’t seen Noctis since the day I got shot.”
“Did you pass any instructions to Scientia when you visited with him?”
“What?!” Prompto cries. “Of course I didn’t! You can ask Nyx and Libertus. They were with me. All we talked about was food and Ignis’ new job. None of this has anything to do with me!”
Drautos doesn’t believe for a second that Prompto is a spy. He never has. He doesn’t believe Prompto had anything to do with the riot. Nor does he believe Scientia is anything more than a bored librarian at this point. All of this is for show and the Prince has provided a perfect opportunity to shake Prompto’s faith.
“You understand why I have to ask you these questions, don’t you?” Drautos asks. “You understand how all this looks.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know he was going to be there,” Prompto says. “I swear on my life, I didn’t. I don’t even know why he would do something like this. It’s not like him at all.”
The boy is close to breaking down and Drautos fears pushing him too far. He knows what the kid is capable of, and maybe some time in the future he can use it to his advantage, but here in his office isn’t the time or place.
“At any point, did Nyx help you pass messages to the Prince?” Drautos asks. “Did he ever help conceal a meeting between the two of you?”
Prompto wipes his hands down his face. His fingers leave tracks in his dirty skin.
“Dude, you’re acting like I’m some kinda criminal mastermind,” Prompto says, incredulous. “I mean I’m flattered you seem to think I’m way smarter than I am, but I don’t have anything to do with it. Neither does Nyx, or Crowe, or Ignis anybody else you feel like throwing under the bus. I’m really not that smart.”
Drautos stares at him for a moment, just to get under his skin. To keep him talking, in case he accidentally says something Drautos can use, either against the Kingdom or the kid himself.
“Back in the day, I couldn’t even get Noctis to decide what restaurant to eat at,” Prompto says. “What makes you think I could influence him to attack his own people? I mean, really?”
“Be that as it may,” Drautos says. “You are the common thread, aren’t you? Why else would the Crown Prince even be in that part of town?”
“I don’t know!” Prompto cries. “I don’t know what he was doing there!”
Drautos purposely puts on a skeptical expression. He stares at Prompto so long, the silence becomes excruciating for the boy and he slumps back in the chair with his hands to his face.
“I can’t win, can I?” Prompto asks bitterly. “Not even when I’ve done everything you’ve asked and more. You’re always gonna think I’m up to something.”
He looks at the wall above Drautos’ head and there’s defeat in his eyes.
“If you’re gonna kill me, just go ahead and do it,” he says. “I can’t live like this.”
If he turns out to be an enemy, Drautos will kill him eventually, but today is not the day.
“You may return to your dorm for now,” Drautos says mildly and just to throw the kid off. “I’ll need you to report to the gate at six tomorrow morning. I’m sending you on a little errand.”
Prompto’s expression is wary and very confused. “What?”
“You will accompany Cor Leonis out to Hammerhead in the morning,” Drautos says. “We can’t seem to make any progress on figuring out how the MT’s work, so we’re going to let Cid and his granddaughter have a crack at it.”
The boy turns red but he’s definitely interested.
“You’ll be gone at least two days, more likely three,” Drautos says, “so pack accordingly.”
“Yes sir,” Prompto says. “Anything else I need to know?”
There is plenty he needs to know, but Drautos has no intention of sharing. The whole errand is a ruse anyhow. Drautos has no interest in finding out how the MT’s work, and he knows that Lucis has no hope of ever making them work to their advantage.
But, he has to keep up appearances.
For now.
Gladio’s about to crawl into bed when there’s a knock on his door. He thinks about ignoring it but his gut tells him he shouldn’t.
It's Ignis and he's pissed. Gladio ushers him inside and closes the door behind him, wondering what happened.
“I spoke to your father.”
He spits it out like it’s a dirty word and Gladio wonders what the hell his dad said that could have Ignis breathing fire like this. Ignis is actually shaking and his fists are clenched at his side.
“What did he say?”
“He offered me my job back.”
His voice breaks and Gladio thinks Ignis might be about to lose it. He doesn’t understand why Ignis is so upset about it.
“I’m missing something here,” Gladio says. “Why’s that a reason to be upset?”
“It’s not the job I’m angry about,” Ignis snaps. “It’s how it happened in the first place and why they want me back.”
Gladio leads him to the couch and Ignis collapses onto it. Gladio chooses to sit on the coffee table facing him, worried Ignis is on the verge of snapping.
“They were so quick to remove me from service when they thought I made them look bad,” Ignis says. His eyes flash. “And I was treated as though I was disposable.”
“You said you understood why they had to,” Gladio says.
“I understand their reasons,” Ignis says, his tone as sharp as one of his knives. “But, it seems since Noctis has royally fucked up, they’ve come to the understanding that they’ve made a terrible mistake in removing me from duty. Suddenly, I’m invaluable again. It’s insulting.”
Gladio not really surprised they’ve decided to go this route. Nobody so far has been able to manage or guide Noctis the way Ignis did. He figures it was only a matter of time before they begged him to come back.
“I have been loyal since day one. I have given my life in service to the Kingdom and our future King,” Ignis says. “Yet their loyalty is only dependent upon my usefulness to them.”
“Iggy,” Gladio says and drops a hand to his knee. “They’ve always known your value. I get you’re pissed about the timing but this is the best possible outcome, ain’t it?”
“I haven’t gotten to my second point,” Ignis says. “I’ve been cleared of all charges and my titles have been restored. The investigation turned up no evidence of wrongdoing and the case has been officially closed.”
Again, Gladio isn’t sure what’s bad about that. When Ignis looks at him, there’s pain behind his anger and his eyes are watery like he’s about to cry.
“They had no plans to continue the investigation after the trial. All charges were supposed to stand,” Ignis says, “but Prompto apparently made some sort of deal with Drautos.”
This news to Gladio. He wasn’t aware cutting a deal was even an option. And he has to wonder what Prompto could have possibly used to negotiate.
“What kind of deal?”
“I don’t know,” Ignis says and his mouth trembles. “But it seems Prompto sacrificed his own freedom to clear my name. It was the only reason they were even able to offer me my job back.”
Gladio is dumbfounded. He’s known for a long time that Prompto, for all his irritating habits, would give the shirt off his back to someone in need. And it’s no secret how fond of Ignis he is, but Gladio is completely floored that Prompto would give up his own freedom to give Ignis his life back.
For the first time, Gladio feels an enormous amount of gratitude and respect for the younger man. It’s Prompto’s way of repaying his debt to Ignis, even if he doesn’t necessarily owe Ignis anything.
A tear slides down Ignis’ cheek and Gladio moves to the couch to sit beside him.
“He could have negotiated a deal in his own favor,” Ignis says. “And he didn’t.”
“Did he get cleared too?”
“He is to remain with the Kingsglaive,” Ignis says softly. “And away from Noct.”
Gladio was hoping maybe things could go back to the way they were. Maybe Noctis would snap out of it. Maybe Iggy would relax.
“I’m furious with him.”
Leave it to Ignis to be indignant about someone doing something nice for him. But this is a big deal. Prompto likely made a deal with the devil to ensure Ignis' future.
“He did it ‘cause he loves you,” Gladio says. “Bet you would have done the same if you got the chance.”
Ignis bursts into tears. It says something that he came here, and that he's able to let it out in front of Gladio, instead of going home and sitting in his car crying for an hour the way he used to when Noctis pushed him to his limit.
Gladio puts his arm around Ignis’ shoulders and for a few minutes, Ignis shakes with silent sobs. His glasses fog up and he takes them off, then grinds at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
He’s always sort of known Ignis was more sensitive than he ever let on, and he’s always known the professional, calm, collected demeanor is just a veneer. But even at his most emotional, Ignis has never lost his composure like this.
Gladio figures he’s probably just overtired and stressed out from everything that’s happened in the last 24 hours. Gods know, Gladio has gone back and forth between wanting to go back to the hospital to wake Noctis up so he can knock some sense to him, and passing out where he stands.
“You should get some sleep, Ig,” Gladio says. “Been a long night. For both of us. We can talk about it later.”
Ignis shifts back into business mode and Gladio is amazed as he always is with how quickly Ignis can switch off his own emotions. Gladio’s never known if that was a good or bad thing but it is impressive.
“You’re right. I should be getting home,” Ignis says.
“How ‘bout you just stay over?” Gladio suggests. “You know you’re always welcome.”
“I suppose your couch is much closer than my place,” Ignis says. “But I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re only imposing if you sleep on the damn couch,” Gladio says and tugs Ignis to his feet. “Come on. We can share the bed. No fooling around. Promise.”
He expects Ignis to refuse but he doesn’t. He follows Gladio to the bedroom where Gladio immediately strips down to his boxers. When he turns around, Ignis is watching him and he blushes when he’s caught.
“It’s alright,” Gladio says. “Look all you want. I ain’t shy.”
He leaves Ignis in the bedroom to go wash his face and brush his teeth. When he returns, Ignis is folding his own clothes into neat squares.
Gladio is too tired to even consider initiating sex, but he can’t help admire how appealing Ignis looks without a shirt on and he hugs Ignis from behind. Ignis rewards him with a soft sigh and a shudder. Gladio can practically feel the tension melt out of him.
“There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer,” Gladio says when he pulls back. “Toothpaste’s in the cabinet.”
“Thank you,” Ignis says. “I’ll be right back.”
Gladio climbs into the bed and stretches out. He’s bone tired and his face is starting to throb. Some idiot chucked a brick at him but he didn’t think it was that bad so he didn’t bother treating it. He's too worn out to bother now.
Ignis emerges from the bathroom and hesitates at the edge of the bed. Gladio moves over to allow him space and he slides beneath the sheet with a weary sigh.
“So, you said yes, right?” Gladio asks. “To the job?”
Ignis turns over to face him. His jaw clenches and a little bit of anger flickers in his eyes.
“I truly wanted to tell your father to go fuck himself.”
Gladio laughs. Ignis doesn’t use foul language often, and he’s done it twice tonight. It means Ignis is really worked up over it. He has the right to feel that way, but it’s still funny hearing him say it.
“Yeah, I said that to him once,” Gladio says and rubs Ignis' arm. “He called me a foul mouthed little shit and then kicked my ass. Made me do about a thousand push-ups and then I had to go run drills with Cor for two hours after that. The bastard.”
Ignis’ anger melts away and he laughs softly. “I wonder what my punishment would have been.”
“I dunno. He likes you more than he likes me,” Gladio says and tries to hide a yawn. “He’d probably just take away your cuff links or something.”
“Savage.”
Gladio chuckles and brushes strands of hair away from Ignis’ forehead. It earns him a sigh and a soft, tired smile. Ignis’ hand travels down Gladio’s forearm and stays there. It sends a shiver through Gladio’s whole body.
He likes this. Being close to Ignis like this.
He also likes the shape of Ignis’ mouth and the vibrant green of his eyes and the way his long, lean body looks under the sheet. He could get used to falling asleep next to him.
“So?” Gladio prompts, “Did you take the job or not?”
“Of course I took the job. You don’t exactly say no to the King, now do you?” Ignis says. “But I didn’t do it for them. Or for me. I did it for Noct. And because saying no would have invalidated what Prompto did for me.”
Gladio thinks about how Ignis said he wanted something just for himself. And how he didn’t know who he was without Noctis to look after. How he felt like he had to run away to Altissia just to figure out what he wanted.
And it breaks Gladio’s heart. He can’t imagine feeling that way. Even if his whole life has been about learning to protect Noctis, it was never so deeply ingrained in him that he wouldn’t know who he was if all that went away.
“Hey Iggy? You know how you said you wanted something just for you?” Gladio asks after a few minutes. “I know it’s not what you meant, but… I’m all yours. If you want me.”
Ignis doesn’t hear it. He’s already sound asleep.
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! 💋
Chapter 13: Come See
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prompto meets Cor at the gate at ten minutes to six. Cor’s got a familiar black bag slung over one shoulder and a gym bag slung over the other. He smiles a close-lipped smile when he sees Prompto and offers him the smaller of the two bags.
“Gladio asked me to pass that along to you. He thought you might like to have it back.”
Prompto takes it and thanks him. He’s nearly forgotten about his camera. He’s nearly forgotten about his dream of someday becoming a photographer. All of his focus now is on getting through his days unscathed. There hasn’t been room for anything else.
It’s been so long since he’s taken a picture. He doesn’t even remember the last one he took. But it’s all he can do to keep his composure when he opens the bag and takes it out. It still fits perfectly in his hands, the weight of it so familiar, it feels like it’s still a part of him, the way it used to be.
“Any word on Noct?” Prompto asks as he follows Cor to a plain, unmarked van parked outside. “How is he?”
“He’s still in critical condition,” Cor says. Cor stops and looks Prompto over and there’s real concern in his face. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve got all my limbs and I haven’t turned into a robot yet, so I’d say I’m doing alright,” Prompto says. “You, sir?”
“Glad to be getting out of the city for a few days.”
Cor climbs in the driver’s side door and Prompto jumps in the passenger side. Cor focuses on driving and doesn’t say anything else, except to mutter curses at other drivers, so Prompto turns the camera on and starts scrolling through the images.
The last pictures he took feel like they happened a thousand years ago. There’s a selfie of him and Noctis outside the arcade. Noctis is smiling and Prompto can’t remember looking that young or innocent. He doesn’t feel that young or innocent anymore. He feels like a totally different person.
The farther back he goes, the harder it is to look and he puts the camera away.
Maybe the past needs to stay in the past.
“Cor?” he asks after a while. “Why did you ask for me to come with you? Lots of others better than me.”
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about,” Cor says. “In private. I also thought you might need a break, given the givens.”
“We can talk now,” Prompto says with a shrug. “We’ve got time.”
Cor is silent. Prompto thinks he’s going to save it for later, but once they’re through the city gates, Cor pulls over near a campsite, where there’s nothing but a wrecked billboard and some rusted out cars.
“I know how you ended up in Lucis,” Cor says. “Would you like me to tell you about it?”
Prompto desperately does, and he also does not. He’s scared Cor’s story won’t ease his mind, only make it worse. He’s afraid deep down, he is some sort of monster. But he has to hear it because then there will be no more questions or doubts.
“Yeah,” Prompto says. “I wanna hear it.”
Cor tells him about Celine, the woman who stole him from the magitek facility because he was scheduled for termination. He tells Prompto about how Celine loved him so much, she crossed Gralea on foot to protect him. And he shows Prompto an old photograph of her, holding Prompto in her arms.
Tears come to his eyes as he looks at it. Celine was a beautiful woman with kind eyes and a bright smile. She’s the mother he sometimes imagined in his daydreams when he was a boy, and it steals the breath from his lungs to know she was real and not someone he made up.
He imagines what his life might have been if she’d lived. Maybe he would have grown up knowing what it was like to be loved.
“Keep the photo if you like,” Cor says. “Maybe it’s a small consolation against the bigger picture but maybe it can give you some peace of mind.”
Prompto sniffles and thanks him. It does give him peace of mind to know that at some point, he did have a mother who cared for him. He wasn’t always worthless.
“I am sorry, Prompto,” Cor says. “I would have placed you with a different family if I’d known how the Argentums would treat you. I thought you were going to a family who would love you the way you deserved and I regret not choosing more carefully.”
“It’s okay,” Prompto says. “You couldn’t have known.”
Prompto takes one last look at the picture and then tucks it away in his camera case. He thinks maybe he’ll buy a frame and put it on his nightstand in the dorm. That way he can look at it whenever he’s feeling forgotten.
“I’m extremely proud of how far you’ve come, Prompto,” Cor says. “I know how much you lost in the process but you’ve turned it around in your favor. Your comrades speak highly of you.”
Prompto’s embarrassed by the praise. He’s not used to being told he’s doing a good job by people who he idolizes. Hearing it from Cor boosts his ego, while also making him feel like a fraud.
“I’m just trying to move forward, you know?” he says. “It’s the only choice I’ve got. Might as well make the best of it.”
“You’ll go far with that attitude,” Cor says. “But I want you to know, you can reach out to me if you ever need anything. Even if it’s just to talk.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
Cor is on his side and Prompto feels good about that.
He wishes Drautos had half of Cor’s chill. He was so sure he was going to wind up in the dungeon, accused of treason and executed for what Noct did, but he’d switched gears so quick it had given Prompto whiplash. As if he was just going through the motions or something.
Prompto still feels weird about it.
Cor starts the van again and pulls back out into the road. For a few minutes, Prompto just watches the landscape pass. He notices again how ugly this place is, but it’s the kind of ugly that edges into beautiful in the right slant of light. He’s betting he could get some really amazing shots first thing in the morning or just before dark.
His mood lifts when he spies the Hammerhead sign in the distance but he doesn’t dare let his excitement show. He doesn’t want to act like a lovesick fool in front of Cor but by the time they pull into the lot, Prompto’s heart is racing and he cranes his neck, searching for his Goddess of the Garage.
And there she is, waving at Cor with a big, bright smile on her lovely face. Cor stops the van in front of the garage and she slides up to his window.
“I’m gonna have y’all back in,” she says. “Gotta be careful the locals don’t see what you got back there.”
Prompto watches her in the mirror as she guides Cor into the garage. She looks so serious and focused and so pretty with the grease smear on her cheekbone.
He’s just a stupid kid who doesn’t stand a chance. A woman like her would never look twice at someone like him. He knows all of that, and it doesn’t stop him from falling head over heels anyway.
As soon as they’re parked, Prompto hops out to help unload their cargo.
“Hey!” she greets. “Good to see you again. Prompto, right? You were here with Nyx a while back.”
She. Remembers. His. Name. She remembers him.
Prompto thinks he might die right on the spot.
“At your service,” he says, grinning like a dope. “I guess you already know my buddy Cor?”
“Oh, I’ve known Cor since I was a little thing. He’s one of Paw-Paw’s best friends.”
“Speaking of Cid, where’s he at?” Cor asks.
“Givin’ Takka an earful about leavin’ the garbage out. Woke up to a bunch’a critters out back this mornin’,” Cindy says. “He’ll be back as soon as he gets it out of his system.”
“Alright then,” Cor says. “Let’s get them unloaded.”
“Lemmie get the door and we’ll get started,” Cindy says and she presses a button that closes the big garage door. “Gotta keep the top secret work secret and all.”
It takes Prompto, Cor and Cindy to drag each of the broken MT’s out of the back of the van. They weigh a ton and they’re awkward, since the joints still move in a very human way. Prompto hates touching them. To him, it’s like touching a dead body.
They’ve brought three, plus extra parts, for Cid and Cindy to try and figure out. Prompto hopes maybe they can get at least one of them up and running. If they can do that, maybe they can use the technology to build something that can help keep the Empire at bay.
But he has his doubts. The techs have already tried and failed, but who knows? Maybe Cid and Cindy can come up with something nobody’s thought of yet.
“What do you need me to do?” Prompto asks, eager to help and even more eager to hang out with Cindy. “I’m pretty good at mechanical stuff.”
“Grab a screwdriver, then,” she says. “Toolbox is right over there.”
Prompto brings the whole toolbox instead. He’s not sure what size to grab, or if there are any other tools they might need. Cindy’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and Prompto sits across from her with an MT between them.
“Hard to believe what they say about these things. That they used to be people,” she says darkly. “If it's true, it ain’t right, turnin’ a person into a weapon.”
Prompto bites his lip and looks at her shyly. She has no idea how close to home that hits.
“Yeah, it’s pretty shitty,” he says and feels stupid for letting sympathy to creep into his voice. “It’s not like they volunteered for it.”
“You probably fought some of these things, huh?” she says. He guesses she hasn’t seen the footage of him, and he’s sort of glad for it. “Are they tough to bring down?”
“It’s not so hard when you’ve far away and have a rifle with a good scope,” he says. “They’re still scary though.”
“I’ll bet.”
Cindy looks the thing over and sighs. “Well, let’s get started.”
They don’t come apart easily.
After some tinkering, Prompto figures out that most of the plates have small, hidden release catches that can be flipped with a pair of pliers. Once he realizes that, they make short work of dismantling the outer armor. Within two hours, they’ve got the thing stripped down to it’s metal skeleton and the plates laid out neatly on the floor.
“I don’t think I’m gonna remember how this all goes back together,” Prompto says. “I should have taken pictures.”
“I got a good memory,” Cindy says absently. She pokes at some wiring that isn’t attached to anything. “I thought there’d be like, a whole person inside here.”
“Glad there’s not,” Prompto says, even though he already knew there wasn't. “I don’t think I could handle that.”
“Makes two of us,” Cindy says. "Maybe they ain't people after all."
She leans back on her palms and Prompto can’t look at her. She’s so pretty with that sheen of sweat on her flushed cheeks, he can’t handle it. And she’s looking at him in a funny way, like she’s trying to figure him out.
“You’re a doll for helpin’ me out,” she says. “Seems like Paw-paw and Cor got lost somewhere.”
“Eh, let the old guys catch up,” Prompto says. “I don’t mind helping. Way better than killing stuff, anyway.”
“You don’t like killin’ stuff but you’re a Glaive?” she says, looking him curiously. “You just real patriotic or you got some other reason?”
“It’s a long story,” Prompto says.
He doesn’t want to tell her how he ended up a Glaive, or how he could have been one of these things if circumstances were different
“I got time if ya feel like sharin’.”
“I, uh,” he begins but there’s no way to explain it without making it sound bad.
Her curiosity turns to sympathy.
“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it,” she says. “The Gods know, I got plenty of my own stuff I don’t like talkin’ ‘bout.”
It’s Prompto’s turn to look at her. He never would have guessed she might have bad memories or trauma in her past. She’s so cheerful and enthusiastic, it never crossed his mind.
“You never know what a person is goin’ through, you know?” she says. “But life’s too damn short to feel sorry for yourself. That’s the way I see it. You just gotta dust yourself off and keep goin’.”
Prompto smiles. “I feel the same way.”
“I figured,” she says. “You got that look about you. And I can see you got your heart broke too, but you ain’t lettin’ it slow you down, are ya’?”
That cuts right through him. Is it that obvious? Does it show? Or is she able to see it because she knows what it looks like?
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” she says. “I just get it, is all.”
For a second, Prompto sees her heartbreak too. There’s just a flash of it as she pushes to her feet. A bright, cheerful smile replaces her sorrow and she offers her hand to help him up.
“What do you say I buy you a milkshake?” she says. “And then we’ll go find out where our help went.”
It’s after dark by the time Prompto and Cindy have the MT completely dismantled. The pieces are laid out on the floor in a rough approximation of how they go back together and to Prompto, it looks like a poster from anatomy class.
Cindy’s baffled by how many components there are and how there seems to be no reason they can’t get them working again, even without the magitek core.
“They gotta have some kind of back-up power source,” she says. “Don’t make no sense there ain’t no battery.”
Prompto suspects he knows why. Though the general assumption is that MT’s are somehow humanoid, he suspects the magitek core might both the fuel and the battery. If that’s true, then there’s no point to this unless they can figure a way to operate them without a functioning core.
“I guess we should call it a day,” Cindy says. “If I start tryin’ to put it back together now, I’m gonna be up all night.”
Prompto’s tired, but he’s game to stay up if she is. He likes watching her work and he’s learning she’s as sweet and smart as she is pretty.
He tends to keep a distance from the girls he’s infatuated with. To keep them above reproach, so they stay goddesses. To keep them from getting close enough to find fault in him.
So they don’t break his heart.
“I should probably grab a shower,” he says. “And something to eat.”
Cor and Cid have spent the majority of their day shooting the shit and occasionally poking at one of the other MT’s. Prompto’s not mad about it. It means he can hang out with Cindy by himself. The more he gets to know her, the more he likes her. It’s awesome to see a woman who has a passion for what she does. She knows exactly who she is and he finds that quality incredibly attractive.
He showers and then grabs a bite to eat at the diner. He picks the jambalaya, which Takka warns him is really spicy, and he’s not disappointed. It’s got just the right amount of heat and flavor to be satisfying and he wonders if Ignis could duplicate it.
Cor and Cid are still at the table outside the garage drinking beer and they seem to be having a deep conversation, so Prompto grabs his camera and goes around back to see if he can get some good night time shots of the desert with the low light setting. He seats himself on the wall and peers through the view finder at the low hanging moon and the hills in the distance.
He snaps a couple shots and then shifts his focus a bit more to the left and sees something glowing in the darkness. Something liquid black and magenta and violet, undulating like snakes along the ground.
Daemons.
He’s horrified but fascinated as he watches things rise up from the earth, making strange shapes in the darkness. He zooms in as close as he can get and snaps a few photos, even as every hair on his arms stand on end.
Inside his chest there is a strange pull toward these terrifying creatures. Like they’re calling out to him to come join them. He can hear their whispers inside his head.
Come see. Come and see.
Their call is so powerful, Prompto is halfway down the embankment heading into the darkness of the desert when Cindy’s voice cuts through the siren song of certain death.
“That’s a real bad idea, darlin’,” she says. “Them daemons’ll rip you apart.”
Shaken, Prompto stops and turns around. His heart is in his throat and he’s freezing and nauseous all of a sudden.
“You alright?”
Prompto can only nod.
“I think the heat done got to you,” she says. “Why don’t you come on back? I'll get you somethin’ cold to drink.”
“I’m okay,” he says but his voice cracks. “I was just taking some pictures.”
“Pictures? Of the daemons?”
He returns to the wall and shows her.
“They’re scary but kind of beautiful,” he says. “The way they glow and move.”
It sounds stupid to his own ears, but there is some sort of twisted beauty in them that he’s drawn to. He can’t explain it in a way she might understand. He’s not even sure he understands it himself.
“You ever seen one up close?” Cindy asks. Her expression is guarded. “Like right in front of you?”
Prompto nods.
“You weren’t scared?”
“I was terrified,” he says, “but… just because something’s deadly doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful too.”
She’s skeptical but she sits on the wall and looks out at the ultraviolet lights undulating in the distance.
“Guess I never thought about it like that,” she says. “I done seen people get killed by ‘em so it ain’t so easy to see any kind of beauty in it.”
“That had to be awful,” Prompto says. “I can’t even imagine.”
“It sure messed me up for a while.”
“It would mess me up too,” he says. He sits down beside her, feeling stupid for trying to be all poetic about it. “If daemons really used to be people, I kinda hope they don’t remember it. You know, being human.”
Cindy is silent but she’s watching him. He pretends he doesn’t notice and looks through the viewfinder again. Something big moves through the night, it’s skin rippling like inky black liquid in the moonlight.
“There’s a whole lot more out there than there used to be,” she says. “And if they ever stop bein’ afraid of the light, we’re all done for.”
Prompto shivers. “I definitely don’t want that to happen.”
He snaps another photo and then turns to her, wondering if she’d mind if he took her picture but the daemons are whispering to him again. Their pull is hard to resist. Their voices echo in his bones, calling to him to come dance with them. Come and see.
“I, uh, guess I should turn in,” he says and fights back a chill. “It’s getting late.”
“Wanna have a beer with me and Paw-paw before you head to bed?”
“I’ll hang out for a bit,” he says. “I don’t really drink, though.”
“I’ll getcha a cola, then.”
As they walk away, he swears the daemons are singing to him and it’s hard to resist turning around and walking out into the darkness to meet them.
In the morning they’re back at it, but this time Cindy decides to see if she can rig up a battery to replace the dead magitek cores. Cid’s working on the wiring for the battery and Cindy’s got Cor fetching parts while she and Prompto work side by side to reassemble the one they took apart the day before.
Prompto loves this.
It isn’t just that Cindy’s amazing and hanging out with her is a dream come true. He genuinely likes this kind of work and he feels like he’s pretty good at it. Maybe, he can be great with a little practice. The Kingsglaive isn’t the place for that necessarily but maybe Drautos will let him work with the techs when he gets back, instead of sticking him on gate duty.
Cid has a battery ready by lunchtime. Prompto fiddles with the third MT while Cindy and Cid figure out the wiring. He pops the magitek core in and out of it, more out of anxiousness than anything else, but he thinks maybe it’s something they can do on the battlefield. Easy way to take them out without wasting energy or bullets.
Cor sits down beside him and there’s a funny look on his face as he watches Prompto inspect the inactive core.
“Gladio just told me Ignis has been reinstated,” Cor says. “All the charges against him have been dropped.”
Prompto breaks into a huge grin. He figured Drautos would take his time getting it sorted and he feels a lot better knowing he’s kept his word. And now Ignis is free to sort himself out, without the specter of a criminal record hanging over his head.
“That’s awesome!”
“He seems to think you had something to do with that,” Cor says. “Something about a deal?”
“There might have been one,” Prompto says evasively, and pokes at the wiring on the bottom of the core. “The important thing is that Iggy’s good name got cleared.”
“What about you?”
Prompto sits back on his heels and shrugs.
“I’m not anybody important.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Cor says. “You mean a great deal to the Prince. And to Ignis.”
Prompto bites his lip and slides the magitek core back into the unit. Then he pops it back out. He can’t talk about Noctis. He’s trained himself not to dwell on it, and his feelings are all mixed up after what Noctis did in the Waiting Room.
“Is Noct awake yet?”
“Only for a few minutes at a time,” Cor says.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“I don’t know.”
Prompto doesn’t want to think about that, either. He doesn’t want Noctis to have to go through what he went through, but what he did was messed up and he can’t imagine there won’t be consequences.
But what kind of consequences do you give the only heir to the throne?
“Why do you think he did it?”
“I don’t know that either,” Cor says. “But I know he’s changed without you around.”
There’s a sharp ache in Prompto’s chest and he shoves the magitek core back into the unit with too much force. It snaps back into place with a loud click.
“I don’t wanna talk about Noct,” he says. “That part of my life is over with, Cor. It has to be. I hope he’s okay, but all I can do now is help keep him safe.”
The look Cor gives him is sad but he nods.
“I understand.”
Unexpected anger bubbles up inside Prompto’s chest. How could he possibly understand?
Prompto stands up and pushes his hands through his sweaty hair. He needs to go walk it off before it triggers the magic or something.
“How about we pick up a hunt from Takka?” Cor asks. “Go blow off some steam?”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
Cor picks an easy one. Just some reapertails, but picking them off one by one with his rifle helps quiet down the anger back-building inside him. Finding them in the scope and then patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity for a one shot kill gives him something to focus on. Once the hunt is done, Prompto feels better.
He sits on a rock for a few minutes, letting the blazing sun beat down on him and he breathes in the warm, dry air of the desert. Prompto’s a city boy, but he decides he likes it here in spite of the heat and the sand. It’s beautiful in a stark and ugly and dangerous way.
Cor sits with him in silence until he decides he feels better, and he lets Prompto keep the bounty since he did all the work. It’s not a whole lot, but it feels good to have a little money in his pocket. Everything he earns with the Kingsglaive goes into the bank. He doesn’t spend much. The only things he really wants can’t be paid for in cash.
Back in the garage Cindy has gotten one of the MT’s to power on but all it does is stand there. Prompto isn’t surprised. The way he understands it is that they’re issued commands through their chips. Without the chip and whatever command codes the Empire uses, maybe the best they’ll be able to do is get them powered back up. It’s not like they have a way to control them.
Again, he wonders why they had to come all the way out to Hammerhead to figure this out. Not that he minds being here at all, but he’s sure the technicians have probably already tried something like this.
He gets a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach that he can’t shake, but he can’t figure out if it’s his own head making something of nothing, or if he needs to be worried that things aren’t what they seem. He thinks about asking Cor but he figures Cor knows more than he does.
It isn’t his place to ask, anyway.
That evening, after he’s eaten and showered, Prompto sits at the table outside the caravan. The radio on the table is playing old standards. It’s the only station he’s able to pick up out here besides news. It’s not his favorite music, but it’s not bad and it’s better than nothing.
For the last twenty minutes, he’s been looking at the photograph Cor gave him of Celine. If he closes his eyes, he can see the life he might have had if she hadn’t died.
He pictures birthday parties with pretty cakes and balloons and packages tied up with colorful bows. Holiday celebrations with decorations and parties. He can see her cheering him on at a soccer game or a track meet, waving a flag with his jersey number on it. Her buying him his first camera and proudly displaying his photos on the walls.
He imagines hugs and bedtime stories and goodnight kisses, and being tucked in before he falls asleep and knowing without a doubt that he is loved.
All those things he never got.
Maybe he would not have eaten his feelings until he hated his body and himself. Maybe he would have believed in himself enough to approach Noctis back in elementary school.
Or maybe they never would have met at all. Maybe he’d have different friends, got to a different school, be on a totally different path.
His eyes are misty and his heart hurts and he wonders why the Gods are such assholes. He wonders why he wasn’t worthy of that life.
“Is that your mother?” Cindy asks.
He jumps and turns around. He didn’t hear her approach and now he’s embarrassed to be caught getting emotional. All he can do is nod.
“She was real pretty.”
Prompto agrees. She was beautiful.
“I don’t remember her,” he admits. “She died when I was two.”
Cindy takes a seat and looks as sad as he feels.
“I remember my parents a little bit,” she says. “I was little when they passed. It's just me an’ Paw-Paw now.”
“I’m sorry,” Prompto says, sympathetic. “What was it like, being raised by Cid? He seems like kind of a hardass.”
“He did real good,” she says. “He could be tough sometimes, when I deserved it, but I never doubted he loved me. And, he taught me everythin’ I know about cars, and how to be independent and not take no guff off'a nobody.”
Prompto smiles a little. For as sweet and friendly as she is, he suspects she can handle herself.
“So you was raised by your daddy?” she asks. “After your momma passed?”
“I was adopted,” he says and picks at his fingernails.
“They weren’t very kind to you, were they?” she asks softly. "The folks who adopted you?"
“More like indifferent,” Prompto says. “Dad was a drunk. Mom did the bare minimum.”
He has no idea why he’s opening up to her like this. He doesn’t talk about these things with anyone. His friends only know because they figured it out but he never gave many details. He has to turn this conversation around because he doesn’t want to sit here feeling sorry for himself.
“But, that’s the breaks, kid,” he says and forces the smile. “Life ain’t always easy, right?”
“Well, that’s for damn sure,”she says. “You know, you done real good helpin’ me out these last couple days. I think even Paw-Paw was impressed.”
Prompto blushes.
“Glad I could be of service,” he says. He slips the photo of Celine back in his camera bag. “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Well, I ain’t sure how to make ‘em move,” she says. “I ain’t real knowledgeable about computers but I was thinkin’ maybe I could figure a way to operate ‘em by remote control.”
“It’d be like Big Battle Bots,” he says with a smile. “Except on a real battlefield.”
“Battle bots? What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s this competition thing we have in the city, where people build robots and fight them against other robots. Last one standing wins,” Prompto says. “It’s mostly just for college kids and the robots are pretty small.”
“Sounds like them college kids got a lot of time on their hands,” Cindy says.
“Some of them do it to learn how to build them for their college programs,” Prompto says. “The rich ones who don’t have to work to pay their way just do it for fun.”
“That don’t seem fair.”
A slow song he knows comes on the radio. It’s an old one but he likes it.
He’s feeling bold because she came to find him and stayed to talk. He doesn’t dare believe she’s into him, but it does feel like she at least wants to be his friend.
“Heya, Cindy? You… wanna dance?”
She looks at him uncertainly.
“To this?”
“Why not? It’s a nice night. It’s a great song,” he says. He pauses to look at her perplexed expression. “You never slow danced? Not even in school?”
“This place was my school,” she says. “Ain’t had time for that other stuff.”
If he’s not mistaken, she’s blushing.
“Well, that is a tragedy,” he says and holds out his hand. “May I have this dance then, m’lady?”
She laughs and his heartbeat goes double-time when her hand slips into his.
“Well, alright, since you asked so nice and all,” she says, smiling. “One dance ain’t gonna hurt nothin’.”
Oh, but it will, Prompto thinks.
Because he’s going to go back to the city heartsick and in love, while she stays here outside the gates and he won’t cross her mind until his next visit. He knows it’s stupid and she’s totally out of his league, but that’s not going to change anything.
He keeps a respectful distance but he’s hyper-aware of her hand on his shoulder, her other hand in his. Her eyes are trusting and kind as he teaches her the basic steps, which are just a hair more complicated than swaying.
“So all you city boys dance to slow music like this?”
“Kinda. Not really, though. I don’t know,” he says. “It’s a thing, but it's not like we do it every day.”
He searches for a way to explain, since it seems this isn’t all that common here.
“So, when we’re in high school we have these events where everybody gets dressed up and we drink punch and socialize and dance,” he says. “Some people bring a date but most people just go with friends. And everybody’s got a crush on somebody, and if you’re lucky, you get to dance with them.”
“Oh, like in the movies,” she says, understanding dawning on her. “I thought all that stuff was made up.”
“Yeah, like the movies,” he says. “But they’re real, though. Most schools in the city do them like, twice a year. The big fancy ones, anyway.”
“I always wished I could go to one when I was little,” she says. “They always looked like so much fun.”
“They’re never as fun as the ones in the movies,” Prompto says. “They’re pretty awkward, if you want the truth.”
He thinks back to his first and only dance. He’d asked Iggy to teach him the basics, just so he’d be confident enough with the steps that he didn’t have to worry about stepping on a girl’s feet. But when the time came, Prompto chickened out and watched his high school dream girl dance with another boy.
Gods. It felt like that was so long ago but it’s only been two years.
“I bet the girls were just lined up ‘round the block to dance with you,” she says with a kind smile. “Bet they all thought you were a real sweetheart.”
“Not really,” Prompto says. “Who am I, next to a future King, you know?”
Her eyes turn soft and sympathetic but he doesn’t want her to pity him.
“The funny thing is, Noctis didn’t even want to dance with anybody,” Prompto says. “He just went to keep me company.”
“Sounds like he’s a good friend,” she says. “I ain’t got many of those myself, but the ones I do got put up with me goin’ on about car parts even when they ain’t actually interested.”
“I could listen to you talk about car parts all day,” he says with a smile. “It’s awesome that you love it so much.”
She’s definitely blushing now and she looks away.
“Most men don’t feel that way.”
“Then they’re idiots,” he says sincerely.
Cindy looks up at him again and she bites her lip. Prompto thinks he might die of happiness, right here on the spot.
“How come some nice girl ain’t snatched you up already?” she asks.
Prompto can’t tell her it’s because he sabotages himself. The girls he falls for are girls that will never look at him twice. Girls that will reject him because of what he is and where he came from if they knew. It keeps him from getting hurt.
He wonders how Cindy would feel about it. Would she hate him for it?
“Just shy, I guess.”
“You ain’t been shy with me.”
He has been, she just doesn’t know it.
The song ends and she pulls back. Her smile is so warm and sweet Prompto falls in love all over again.
“Thanks for the dance,” she says. “Guess I can cross that one off my bucket list.”
Prompto laughs but he doesn’t tell her it’s something he can cross off his bucket list too. He never did manage to work up the courage to ask any of his classmates to dance.
“You’re welcome,” he says. “See ya in the morning?”
She kisses his cheek and Prompto thinks this might be the happiest day of his life.
Prompto wakes to the sound of voices calling to him in a language he doesn’t recognize. It’s so irresistible, so alluring, he can’t fight it.
As quietly as he can, he pulls on his clothes and his boots, grabs his camera, and leaves the caravan, taking care to keep the door from slamming on his way out. He doesn’t want to wake Cor.
There’s no one around to see him walk out into the desert all alone in the middle of the night. He feels like he’s sleepwalking or in a trance as he leaves the safety of the lights behind him.
It’s like he’s watching himself from a distance. It’s not really him willfully walking into danger, not him courting death. But he can’t make himself stop, turn around, and go back to the outpost.
If he listens close, it sounds like the daemons are singing to him again.
The deeper he goes into the dark, the louder they are. They’re calling to him, come see, come and see. Calling him into the darkness. Calling him home where he belongs. He closes his eyes and listens.
In the back of his mind, he knows this is absolutely crazy. He doesn’t want to die. But it’s impossible to resist.
He opens his eyes and they are all around him. The earth at his feet has turned slimy and dark and viscous like spilled tar. Wispy black and magenta tendrils slither toward him but he doesn’t fear them. Something in him resonates with that serpentine dark.
“Do you hear them, Prompto?” that now familiar voice says. “Do you hear how they call to you?”
He senses the stranger behind him but he doesn’t turn around. He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the imps dancing at his feet. He lifts his camera and takes pictures of their malformed bodies and their perpetual grins, their shiny, leathery skin. He can’t help himself. They’re so beautiful.
“You see the beauty in the darkness,” the stranger says. “And you feel the darkness inside you, don’t you? You feel the gift I gave you.”
The stranger’s hand lands on his shoulder and Prompto allows him to turn him around to face him. He feels drunk and drugged and rooted to the spot. There are three heartbeats pulsing inside his chest and the song of the scourge in his head.
He doesn’t mind when the stranger strokes his cheek lovingly. A big thumb brushes against his lips like a kiss.
The sensation is almost erotic. It makes his insides turn to liquid and his knees go weak. He’s under some sort of spell.
He wants to run away from this, but the urge to give himself over to the night is so much stronger. He’s surrounded by danger, but he’s not afraid. There is death inside him and it recognizes the death inside the stranger. They are the same.
“Yes, that’s it, sweet boy,” the stranger says. “Give yourself over to it. It’s what you were always meant to be.”
The imps are touching his legs and they pluck at the laces of his boots. His whole body trembles with excitement.
He can free himself of his sorrow. Become like them. It’s so tempting to let go of the grief inside him. Letting go means no more pain or heartache or longing. It means not hating himself or fearing what he might or might not be.
It would be easier. To let the darkness take him.
The stranger is still touching his face but he doesn’t like it anymore. Prompto can’t stand the feel of that rough, calloused palm against his skin. He steps back in fear and he takes his pistol out of the armiger.
“Stay back,” Prompto says, pointing the weapon at the stranger’s face. “Leave me alone.”
The stranger’s smile is cruel. Ink black tears slither down his face. Prompto smells death on the breeze.
“The harder you fight it, the harder it will be to resist, you know,” he says. “Come with me. Come see what I have to offer.”
“I don’t want it!” Prompto shouts. “I didn’t ask for this!”
“I could just take you,” the man says. His voice is much harsher than it’s ever been. “And return you from whence you came. To serve your original purpose. The process of being distilled into daemonified energy is quite excruciating, from what I understand. Would you like that? To become like your bretheren?”
Prompto takes another step back and shakes his head. He’s not entirely sure what any of that means. He has an idea, but he’s not going to think about it. He can’t think about it without imploding.
He closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. The blast is deafening and it ricochets through the landscape for what feels like forever.
And when he opens his eyes, the stranger is gone.
Prompto gets up around sunrise and goes to the cafe to grab some breakfast. He’s shaky and feeling incredibly uneasy about his adventure last night. It felt like a nightmare, but it wasn’t. He’s got pictures to prove it.
He’s glad there aren’t daemons in the city. He’s not really sure if he’d be able to resist if it happens again.
Cor is already at the counter, sipping on a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper.
“Morning,” Prompto says and hops onto the bar stool next to him. “So what time are we heading out?”
“Probably around noon,” Cor says. “We’ll start loading up once you’ve finished your breakfast.”
Prompto orders a sausage biscuit and an orange juice. He tells himself his shaking hands are just low blood sugar. It’s just the heat.
“Any word on Noct?”
“More or less the same,” Cor says.
“Should we be worried?”
“Ignis doesn’t seem to be too concerned. They’ve moved him into his father’s suite for now.”
“That’s good,” Prompto says. “Probably nicer to wake up at home than in some hospital room.”
Cor nods. “I agree.”
They head over to the garage when Prompto is finished eating. Cindy’s sitting at the table outside with Cid, tinkering with the arm of one of the MT’s.
“Well hey, ya’ll,” Cindy says. “You’re up early. Y’all grab breakfast yet?”
“We did,” Cor says. “What are you working on?”
“I was fiddlin’ with this electrical box here,” Cid says. “Ain’t sure what it is or what it does.”
“Drautos said to let you keep whatever components you like,” Cor says. “In case you have any ideas after we leave. I can leave a whole unit with you if you want.”
Cindy gets up from the table and hands Prompto a blue paper bag. The kind used to give gifts.
“What’s this?” he asks and his cheeks get warm.
“Just a little somethin’ to remember us by,” she says. “Appreciate all your help.”
He opens the bag. Inside is a Hammerhead trucker cap, just like the one she and Cid wear.
Prompto almost hugs her. Instead he puts on his brightest smile, thanks her, and tugs the hat on.
“How do I look?” he asks.
“Like you belong here,” she says. “How ‘bout we get a picture?”
Prompto gets his camera out and snaps a couple pictures with her, taking care to get one with the Hammerhead sign in the background.
“Well, ain’t we a pair?” Cindy says with a smile when he shows her the pictures. “One more for the road?”
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
From the corner of his eye, Prompto notices a flower delivery van drive by. He wonders who gets flowers delivered all the way out here, and how much that might cost.
It makes him uneasy and he doesn’t know why, but Prompto turns his attention back to Cor and Cid.
“It’s a shame we wasn’t able to get none of ‘em workin’ for ya, Cor,” Cid says.
“I appreciate you trying nonetheless,” Cor says. “I should get the van so we can get them loaded up.”
As he turns toward the parking lot, Prompto sees the flower van drive by again, going the other direction, slower this time. It looks like the driver is wearing a mask, and the muzzle of a rifle pokes out the window.
Prompto doesn’t think, he just reacts. He shoves Cor out of the way, just as three flashes of muzzle fire erupt from the van.
He shoulders his own rifle and returns fire. It kicks hard, but he stays focused, looking through the scope for a second passenger. The driver slumps sideways and he van goes careening off the road, crashes through the guard rail, and smashes straight into a boulder.
And he waits. The van doesn’t move. No one gets out.
It’s over in less than thirty seconds. He hasn’t even taken a breath. Cid is yelling and Cor is struggling to get to his feet and Prompto’s ears are ringing.
Prompto turns around and sees Cindy hunched over, clutching her side. Blood is all over her hand.
“Let me see, darlin’,” Cid says. “I gotta know how bad it is.”
“I’m alright, Paw-Paw,” she says. "It ain’t nothing to worry about."
Prompto goes to her side and kneels next to her, but he keeps his eye on the road to make sure there are no more threats.
“Hey,” Prompto says. “Let me see.”
“It’s just a scratch,” she says and tries to hide the fact that she’s shaken up. “Hurts like the dickens, though.”
When she pulls her hand away, Prompto sees that she’s right. The bullet has grazed her, just above the hip. It’s not deep, but he’s sure it’s painful, but not nearly as bad as he feared.
“Cid, you got a first aid kit and a potion?” Prompto asks.
“Should have somethin’ in the office,” he says. “Why don’t we get her inside?”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. Just in case,” Prompto says. “I’ll be in in a second.”
Prompto looks around for Cor, who is still kneeling on the ground. His hand is pressed to his collar and there’s a grimace on his face. When Prompto approaches he sees Cor isn’t okay.
“Hey,” Prompto says and crouches down beside him. “You get hit?”
Cor lifts his hand away and Prompto sucks in his breath. There’s an entry wound just below his collarbone and it’s bleeding freely. He can’t tell how bad, though, because it’s hard to tell with black clothing.
“I’m alright,” Cor says. “It’s not fatal.”
Prompto’s only seen bullet removal. He’s never done it himself but there are no hospitals or infirmaries out here, and Cor needs attention. All he has to do is stop the bleeding long enough to get him somewhere they can fix him up.
He helps Cor to his feet and guides him back into the Garage. Inside, Cid is placing a bandage on Cindy’s side with shaking hands. If Prompto’s not mistaken, there are tears on his cheeks and his heart goes out to the old man. The way he understands it, Cindy’s the only family he has left and this must have scared the hell out of him.
“They getcha, Cor?” Cid asks.
“They did.”
“Welp, we’re gonna have’ta get that bullet outta ya,” Cid says. “My hands ain’t what they used to be, though.”
He looks at Prompto and eyes him up and down.
“Cindy, get the boy some pliers. Make sure you sterilize ‘em first.”
“What? No-”
“You see any hospitals ‘round here, son?” Cid asks. “Could take three hours or more to get him back into the city. Best to just go on an’ take care of it.”
Prompto does not want to be the one to do this. He’s gotten used to blood and injuries and stitching up wounds, but he has no idea what he’s doing, and he doesn’t want to make it worse because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“I’ll talk you through it,” Cid says. “This ain’t our first rodeo.”
Cindy roots through her tool box while Prompto decides where he’s going to do this.
“Best to just lay down on the floor,” Cid says, as if reading his mind. “Cor, you know the drill.”
Cor and Cid exchange a look that tells Prompto they’ve done this a few times before and Cor looks really, really reluctant.
“Go on, get yer jacket and shirt off so the boy can fix you up.”
Cor pales as he strips off the jacket and then the shirt beneath. It’s bleeding pretty bad, but Prompto thinks Cor got lucky. An inch or two lower and he might not be breathing right now.
“You’re gonna have to sit on his chest, son,” Cid says as Cor eases himself down onto the floor. “I’ll get his arms.”
“What?”
“Diggin’ out a bullet hurts like hell,” Cid says. “And Cor here likes to fight ya’.”
Cindy hands Prompto a pair of sterilized pliers and Prompto resigns himself to the task. He straddles Cor’s chest and tries not to think about anything but taking care of the wound.
The old man gets a good grip on Cor’s wrists, and the second Prompto sticks the pliers in, Cor tries to throw Cid off. The more he moves, the harder it is. And Prompto understands. He knows it hurts.
He also knows, eventually he’s going to find out what this is like and he’s not looking forward to it.
Prompto tries to work as quick as possible, but the bullet is lodged in there a bit sideways and it takes a couple tries to get a good enough grip on it to pull it out all the way. Cor grits his teeth and tells him to hurry the fuck up, but Prompto doesn’t take it personal. He wants this over with just as much as Cor does.
As soon it’s out, it starts to bleed heavily.
“Motherfucker,” Cor says and sits up. His face is red and sweaty and he’s pissed. “I forgot how much that shit hurts.”
“Thanks for not punching me this time,” Cid says with a laugh. He pats Cor on the head like he’s a kid. “These old bones can’t take a hit like they used to.”
“Sorry that took so long,” Prompto says to Cor. “First time.”
“Don’t worry about it. You did fine.”
Prompto uses a potion to make the bleeding stop. It won’t heal the wound completely, not without a member of the royal family present to enhance the healing properties, but it’ll take care of the worst of it.
Once Cor is back on his feet, Prompto takes a breath. He hasn’t allowed himself even half a second to process what happened and when he does, his knees get a little weak.
“You alright, darlin’?” Cindy asks.
He can tell she’s shaken up, too. She’s trying her best to hide it, just like he is.
“I’m good,” he says. “You?”
“No,” she says. “Ain’t never had nothin’ like that happen here before. I didn’t even see ‘em until you was already shootin’.”
The whole thing is a blur. He’s not even sure what it was that raised his suspicions in the first place but he recalls acting totally on autopilot. His brain identified the target and he reacted. That was all.
“I guess you Glaives must practice stuff like that, huh?” she says, sounding a little breathless. “Respondin’ quick and all.”
“It’s part of the training,” Prompto says. “Pretty much daily for me.”
“Wish we lived in a world where nobody has to know how to do that,” she says. “But I’m real glad you do. Who knows what would have happened if you wasn’t here?”
Prompto wonders who the target was. It seems random, maybe, and maybe he’d believe that if Cindy hadn’t said things like that don’t happen out here.
Cor comes back and waves Prompto over.
“Clarus is sending a unit out. In the meantime, we need to secure the scene.”
“The scene?” he asks. “Shouldn’t we be getting you to a hospital?”
“I’m fine,” Cor says. “We need to find out who was driving the van.”
It hasn’t hit Prompto that he might have just killed someone until now. That thought makes his stomach turn. It hits him so hard, he gets dizzy and has to sit for a second. Cindy pushes his head between his knees and puts a cold bottle of water against the back of his neck. It feels nice. Especially when her fingers gently thread through the hair at the back of his head.
When it passes, he thanks her and drinks the water at her insistence.
Then, he reluctantly he follows Cor across the street.
The front end of the van is smashed in but the engine is still running. There’s blood spattered all over the shattered windshield and Prompto freezes. That sick feeling comes over him again and he fights it back.
Cor opens the driver side door and there’s blood all over the interior, too. The shooter is slumped over the console, a puddle of blood beneath his head. Prompto’s aim was dead-on.
When Prompto realizes who it is, he steps back with a gasp, and then goes to his knees to vomits up the water and what’s leftover from breakfast.
Cor is quiet and after a moment, he crouches down at Prompto’s side, a hand laid between his shoulder blades.
“First time you’ve ever killed someone?” Cor asks.
Prompto nods and sits back on his heels to wipe his mouth. He keeps his eyes closed because he doesn’t want to see the blood or the body.
“It’s always rough the first time.”
Prompto shakes his head. It’s not just that he’s killed a human being. It’s who he killed.
“You know him?” Cor asks.
“Yeah, I know him,” Prompto says. His voice is hoarse and his throat is dry. “He’s a Glaive.”
Notes:
Thank you so much to those who were kind enough to leave comments and kudos! Knowing people are reading and enjoying keeps me motivated to continue!
Chapter 14: One of Us
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ignis has made himself a workspace by the window of Noctis’ childhood room in the King’s suite, where Noctis is recovering in his childhood bed. He’d prefer to work somewhere he’s not distracted by the hourly visits from the nurse attending to Noctis, but he wants to be here when he is finally fully awake and able to talk. So far, he’s only woken for a few minutes at a time, and though he’s spoken a little, he’s only asked for Prompto.
The doctor took Noctis off the sedative last night and Ignis expects he’ll wake soon with a clear head. Once he does, Ignis hopes he’ll be able to provide an explanation for his actions. Not that Ignis can see any way he might justify what he’s done unless he’s had a serious mental health crisis, in which case he’s in desperate need of care.
Ignis has spent his morning messaging the King’s legal team and the public relations department regarding Noctis’ actions. The PR department is working overtime to do damage control, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that Noctis is going to be charged for his crimes, though what those charges are remain somewhat unclear.
An official statement was issued the morning after the incident, followed by a public apology in Noctis’ behalf given by Regis himself. He’s promised to investigate the city’s shortfalls regarding immigrant policies and stated that Noctis himself strongly empathizes with the refugee community, and meant no harm.
To Ignis’s annoyance, the King stopped short of actually addressing the problem. He finds it a rather halfhearted attempt at placating the public, but it isn’t his place to say so.
The media is denouncing Noctis’ behavior as a deplorable act committed by a spoiled, ignorant child. The King’s official statements have been poorly received as well, and the political analysts have spent the last two days picking them apart.
Ignis responds to the legal team’s request for a status update, then he reads a forwarded message from Prosecutor Comedentis, who is calling for the strictest of punishment due to the number of people injured in the incident, as well as the structural damages to the community. His mind boggles at the estimated cost, which is slowly creeping into the hundreds of millions of crowns as damage reports are filed.
It’s not looking good, that’s for certain.
Next, he reads through a message that includes a link to an interview with Lucis One News, and finds a small shred of hope in the footage.
It seems a curious thing has happened. Something that Ignis certainly hasn’t anticipated.
The refugees themselves seem to have sided with Noctis, in spite of the damage his actions have caused their community. Many of them are placing the blame for the bulk of the damage on bad actors, and several community leaders state they support Noctis, in spite of his actions. Some even praise him for recognizing and bringing attention to the problems the community faces. Whatever anger they have is directly aimed at the King himself for ignoring them.
Ignis finds it rather baffling. He and everyone else expected the fallout to be far worse. The news has nothing but harsh words to say, as do the people of non-immigrant communities, and yet the anticipated withdrawal of support from their allies has not yet happened. In fact, they’ve been rather silent on the subject so far.
He’s not sure what to make of this development or how it will play out, but he knows both Noctis and the King will need to address the root of the problem before that support turns to anger. Statements are fine but they’re meaningless without action. The refugee community needs to hear a real plan, one that will better their lives in Insomnia, rather than the empty apology they were given.
Ignis believes Regis is waiting for Noctis to wake up before moving forward. As they all seem to be.
Gladio arrives with a bag from a deli down the street. Ignis sets down his pen and sits back, trying his best to hide his irritation at being interrupted.
“Want some lunch?” he asks as he joins Ignis at his makeshift desk.
“Is it that late in the day already?”
Ignis glances at the clock. He’s surprised to find it’s well past noon and he’s been working non-stop since before seven this morning, trying to keep up with all the legal-speak and PR spin.
He accepts Gladio’s offering with thanks and settles in to eat the club sandwich Gladio has brought him. He keeps an eye on his inbox for anything that may be helpful, but for the moment, it’s silent.
Gladio has been almost annoyingly thoughtful of late. Ignis appreciates the effort but it’s almost too much. As though he’s trying to make up for taking Ignis for granted. It’s complicating things further, as Ignis is having a harder time resisting Gladio’s obvious efforts to charm his way back into his good graces and his bed.
Noctis must be his first and only priority for now. Any romantic relationship must come second, and must be carefully weighed and considered. He can’t afford to allow himself to be be distracted, even if the idea is tempting.
“Heard back from Prompto yet?” Gladio asks.
“I left word with Crowe for him to get in touch. It seems he’s been sent on an errand outside the city.”
Ignis stopped by the Glaive compound two days ago to give Prompto a sound verbal thrashing for whatever deal he made to secure his freedom, only to discover he’d been sent out to Hammerhead. He supposes it’s turned out to be a blessing, as it’s given him time to cool off. He’s still upset with Prompto, but a great deal of gratitude has replaced his ire.
He can’t imagine how poorly Noctis' last advisor would have handled this situation, considering he couldn’t even manage to keep track of him and Ignis is glad he's the one in charge again. He would not be here without Prompto.
“Glad nobody tried to pin Noct’s bullshit on him,” Gladio says. “I was kinda worried about that.”
“As was I,” Ignis says. He folds up the wrapping from his sandwich and places it in the empty bag. “What do you think of the refugee's support of Noctis? Seems rather odd, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Gladio says. “But with or without Noct, it was only a matter of time before it boiled over.”
“The King would be wise to address the actual issues sooner rather than later,” Ignis says. “It will be worse next time.”
“You think there’ll be a next time?”
“Without a doubt,” Ignis says. “They’re angry and they have every right to be.”
Gladio leans back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and he eyes Noctis' still form in the bed across the room.
“He’s got a lot to answer for.”
“Indeed,” Ignis says. “Starting with taking some personal responsibility for his actions.”
“That and a swift kick in the ass,” Gladio says. “I ain’t gonna go easy on him.”
“Nor will I,” Ignis says. “He has a great deal of growing up to do.”
“Glad we’re finally on the same page,” Gladio says and bumps Ignis’ foot with his own. “I like it better when you’re on my team.”
Ignis detects something deeper in that statement but he chooses to ignore what’s being implied. It’s best if he focuses on his duties, and that includes coming up with a plan that both allows Noctis to keep his title, and ensures whatever punishment he faces is fair and appropriate. He suspects Comedentis will not be satisfied with putting Noct on house arrest, nor will the general public. It’s very likely Noctis will serve time, though how long has yet to be negotiated.
“I got the afternoon free,” Gladio says. “Anything you need me to take care of? I can help out here or run some errands if you want.”
Ignis has nearly everything taken care of except for a handful of domestic things and those are somewhat contingent upon Noctis and whatever sentence he may be given. Even if he somehow manages to avoid prison time, Noctis will no longer be allowed to stay in his apartment, which will mean his belongings will need to be packed and moved to his room at the Citadel some time in the near future.
But that will be a task for a different day.
“Not that I can think of,” Ignis says. “But perhaps you can drop by his apartment and check on the state of the place? Make sure there aren’t any science projects in his fridge and whatnot. With any luck, the housekeeping staff has already handled it, but I’d rather not find any nasty surprises when we move him out.”
“Yeah, sure. I can get someone out to give the place a quick once-over, too. You know, dusting and stuff,” Gladio says. He stretches and gets up. “Just hit me up if you think of anything else.”
“Of course,” Ignis says, though he doesn’t intend to do any such thing.
Once Gladio is gone, Ignis returns to his work, trying his best to not be distracted by the nurse when she comes in to check Noctis’ vitals. She’s cheerful and kind and he does his best to make polite conversation until she leaves.
Twenty minutes after her visit, there’s a gasp from the bed. Ignis is on his feet and at Noctis’ side in a flash.
Noctis’ eyes are wide open, darting around the room with confused terror and he paws at the sheets like they’ve trapped him.
“It’s alright, Noct,” Ignis says. “Simmer down.”
The face looking back at him tugs at his heart. For a moment, Noctis looks like the little boy he grew up with, not the petulant, moody teenager he’s become.
“What?” Noctis croaks. “Ignis?”
Ignis smooths Noctis’ hair away from his forehead and perches on the edge of the bed. Noctis kicks out at the sheets again and Ignis stills his feet. The stare he gets in return is confused and angry.
Noctis is far more alert this time, in spite of his agitation. There’s life in his eyes and Ignis thinks that’s a good sign.
“Do you recall what happened?” Ignis asks.
Noctis shakes his head slowly but there’s a look in his eyes that says he might.
“You don’t remember what you did to land yourself in the hospital?”
“I don’t know,” Noctis says in a dry, cracked voice. “I don’t remember.”
“Do you recall leaving your apartment without an escort and going to the Waiting Room, in spite of being told repeatedly you are not safe there?” Ignis asks.
Noctis looks away guiltily.
“Well? Do you?”
Noctis folds his arms over his chest. His lips press into a thin line.
“Yeah.”
“Do you recall what you did while you were there?”
Noctis shakes his head. His gaze is fixed on the wall.
“You drank an entire bottle of vodka and warped yourself through multiple windows in the refugee quarter, while shouting Fuck the King,” Ignis says sternly. “Do you recall that?”
Noctis’ lips part but no sound comes out.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Noct?”
“Yeah.”
“Then answer me,” Ignis says, taking care to keep his voice even and calm. “Do you recall that?”
“I don’t know,” Noctis says again. “I remember Prompto.”
“Prompto,” Ignis says. In spite of himself, he’s getting angry. “Is that why you were there? To see Prompto?”
Noctis shakes his head.
“I don’t remember,” Noctis snaps.
“Noctis, this is not a game,” Ignis says sternly. “I need you to understand that you are in a great deal of trouble.”
Ignis knows he’s being harsh, but he desperately wants to understand what would motivate him to do what he did and why he would continue to jeopardize Prompto’s life, as well as his own.
“Yeah? So what?” Noctis says. “It’s not like anybody cares.”
Ignis is pissed now. By his belligerent tone, and by his refusal to look him in the eye.
“You started a riot,” Ignis says and gives Noctis a run-down of the damage his actions caused. “You are very lucky no one died. And between the alcohol poisoning and the blood loss, you are lucky you didn't die.”
Noctis’ chin quivers and he closes his eyes. A moment later, he shakes his head and his expression turns mulish.
“I don’t remember,” Noctis snaps. “But maybe my dad should have listened to me. Maybe now he will.”
Ignis turns Noctis’ face towards his and holds his jaw to force him to look him in the eye. Regardless of whether or not Noctis is struggling with depression, he refuses to sit here and take the smart-ass tone or the flippant attitude. He has to resist the urge to slap some sense into Noctis for being so blatantly dismissive.
“You have done an enormous amount of damage, Noct,” Ignis says. “Not only to your own reputation, but to those you claim you want to protect. People were hurt. Their livelihoods went up in flames, and you have the nerve to act as though your father is somehow to blame. What is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry,” Noctis says, but he doesn’t sound sorry. There’s defiance in his eyes and he’s sneering. “What do you want me to say besides that? I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sorry won’t cut it,” Ignis says. “The public is calling for your head. Were you not the only heir to the throne, you would be likely be executed in short order. As it is, you likely won’t escape punishment.”
Noctis wrenches away from him and throws an arm over his face. Ignis winces at the sight of dozens of fresh scars on his forearm, all of them pale and silvery in the lamplight.
“If I’m to help you, I need you to tell me exactly what you were doing there,” Ignis says. “I need everything you can recall, and I need it without the attitude. Your future depends on it.”
Nyx drives Clarus Amicitia out to Hammerhead in one of the Glaive’s meat wagons. He’s trying to wrap his head around what exactly happened, but it’s not making sense. That only feeds into his growing paranoia that something major is going on behind the scenes.
He hadn’t believed it when Prompto called him saying that Tredd had attempted to assassinate Cor Leonis. He hadn’t believed it when Prompto told him he had to blow Tredd’s brains out.
Something isn’t right.
If Tredd was compromised, it means there are probably others. Nyx does not like the idea that he can’t trust his comrades. He didn’t like Tredd much, but there has never been a reason to believe he might turn traitor. He’d been a good soldier and a loyal comrade.
He tries to call Drautos again but it goes straight to voicemail. Frustrated, Nyx drops his phone in his lap and shakes his head. Of all times for Drautos to disappear. Nyx isn’t even sure he’s gotten the message about what’s gone down.
The Hammerhead parking lot is a ghost town. The main garage door is closed and both the cafe and service station appear to be closed. Across the street, a flower delivery van is roped off with yellow caution tape and orange cones.
“They’re probably inside the garage,” Clarus says.
He’s right. Cid and Cor are seated at a table inside while Cindy is tinkering with the engine of a beat up pick-up truck, looking like a girl from a pin-up calendar. Prompto is nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell happened?” Clarus demands of Cor.
Cor tells the same story Prompto told Nyx. The flower van rolled up, the driver fired three shots, Prompto returned fire, killing the suspect. There are no embellishments and no other details, except one.
“I owe Prompto my life,” Cor says. “If he hadn’t pushed me out of the way, I doubt I’d be standing here.”
“Where’s he at?” Nyx asks.
“Out back,” Cor says. “He’s taking it pretty hard.”
Prompto’s sitting on the ground in the shade, knees pulled toward his chest with his back against the wall of the garage. The sleeves of his t-shirt are rolled up and a Hammerhead trucker cap is pulled low over his eyes. Long strands of blonde hair stick to his flushed cheeks and he passes something from one hand to the other, back and forth like a pendulum.
It looks like he’s been crying.
Nyx doesn’t say anything as he sits down beside him. He looks out into the dead, dry landscape beyond the garage, already regretting the heat.
Prompto doesn’t say anything either.
“You okay?” Nyx asks after a while.
Prompto just shakes his head no and the object goes back and forth, from hand to hand.
Nyx gets it. There’s a big difference between killing an MT and killing a person. He imagines it’s even worse when it’s someone you know. Someone you were supposed to trust.
Sometimes he forgets how young Prompto is. He forgets that he’s never really seen death up close. For all his troubles, he’s led a comparatively sheltered life, and he’s a good kid with a big, soft heart.
He doesn’t bother trying to offer empty nuggets of wisdom or words of comfort. He knows how useless those things are.
If Prompto was a drinker, Nyx would get him good and wasted and let him cry it out, but he isn’t, so Nyx suffers the heat in silence beside him. Sometimes, just being there is the only thing to do.
They sit there so long, Cindy comes outside bearing a pair of water bottles.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Y’all been out here a while. Thought you could use some refreshment.”
There’s genuine worry in her face as she crouches beside Prompto.
“You’re all red, darlin’,” she says and hands him a bottle. She passes the other to Nyx. “Maybe you should come inside for a bit? Get cooled off?”
“I’m okay out here,” he says. “Thanks for the water though.”
“Don’t stay out here too much longer,” she says. “It’s real easy to get overheated if you ain’t accustomed to it.”
“I won’t,” Prompto says. He cracks the bottle of water open and takes a swallow. “I’ll be in a bit.”
“I’m gonna come get’cha if you don’t,” she says.
She gives Nyx a look that says she means business but it softens when she flicks her eyes to Prompto and back to Nyx. Nyx gives her a little nod to let her know he’s got it.
When she leaves them, Nyx drops an arm around Prompto’s shoulders and gives him a quick, brotherly squeeze. It’s too hot for anything more. Prompto bows his head and grips the thing in his hand.
Nyx takes his wrist.
“What is that?” he asks.
Prompto opens his palm. It’s a bullet, minus the casing.
“This is why I’m here,” Prompto says. “Everything started with this.”
Nyx doesn’t really understand until Prompto presses his other hand to his chest. He’s seen the scar and he knows the story.
“Why did you keep it?” Nyx wonders.
“I don’t know,” Prompto says. “Maybe so I don’t forget.”
If Nyx was in his shoes, he thinks maybe he’d want to forget. Memories of his own traumatic moments come unbidden, unwanted, and at the worst of times. Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to erase that memory. The intensity of the guilt he feels sometimes crushes him.
“Is Drautos pissed at me?” Prompto asks.
“Don’t know. He’s not calling me back,” Nyx says. “Probably won’t be, though. You did what you had to.”
“I keep telling myself that,” he says. “I still feel like shit about it, dude.”
“It was either him or Leonis. Or you,” Nyx says. “Truth be told, I trust Leonis with my life. I couldn’t say the same about Tredd.”
“What about the rest of the guys?” Prompto asks. “Do you trust them?”
“A year ago, I would have said yeah,” Nyx says. “Now I’m not so sure who I can trust anymore.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know that, kid,” Nyx says quietly. “You’re on a pretty short list, though.”
Prompto takes off the Hammerhead hat and wipes damp strands of hair back off his face. His cheeks are burning red and his skin is dotted with beads of sweat. Nyx takes note of how long his hair has gotten.
“Where’d you get the hat?” Nyx asks. “You buy it at the gift shop?”
“Cindy gave it to me.”
“So when’s the wedding?” Nyx teases and nudges Prompto’s shoulder. “Can I be the flower girl?”
Prompto lays his chin on his folded arms and smiles a little. Nyx is glad to see it. What he isn’t glad to see is Prompto losing his innocence.
It was bound to happen, but Nyx still doesn’t like it.
“We should go inside kid,” Nyx says. “Before your future ex-wife comes out here and beats me with that big ass wrench for letting you get heat stroke.”
Prompto laughs, but in an instant, he grows serious again.
“I didn’t get a chance to say thanks for looking out for Noctis the other night,” Prompto says. “I know what he did was really stupid, but I really appreciate you making sure he didn’t die.”
Nyx stands up. He has feelings about the Prince and most of them aren’t good, but he knows that Prompto considers him a friend. He knows that Noctis considers Prompto a friend, too, based on his almost incoherent rambling in the ambulance that bordered on obsessive. Leading Nyx to wonder if it’s more than just friendship for the Prince.
“Protecting the Prince from himself apparently comes with the job,” Nyx says. “Anyway, Gladio already sent me a bottle of expensive whiskey as thanks, so it’s all good.”
“Still, thanks,” Prompto says. “And, you know, for looking out for me, too.”
“No sweat, kid.”
Back inside, Nyx is grateful for the cool air blowing from the AC unit in the back. Prompto takes off his hat and stands in front of the big shop fan with his eyes closed. His hair is soaking wet and he looks sunburned.
“No word from Drautos?” Clarus asks.
“No sir,” Nyx says. “Nothing.”
“Alright. For now I’ll defer to you on how we’re handling this,” Clarus says.
Nyx is technically Drautos’ second due to seniority but it’s never really felt like he had any real input or control over decisions, even when they do collaborate. On the battlefield, it’s a different story. Nyx does what’s needed, regardless of orders. It gets him into trouble, but it also gets the job done.
Drautos likes to keep him in his place. Nyx gets why and he doesn’t really care. Sometime he really does need his ego checked and Nyx has never really wanted or needed a leadership role. His only goal is to protect the Kingdom and the King that saved him twice.
He doesn’t mind stepping in to do what needs to be done, either. If he has to.
“Let’s go ahead and process the scene and get the body in the meat wagon,” Nyx says.
He turns to Prompto, who is fiddling with a professional-looking camera over by the shop fan. He doesn’t want to ask what he’s about to ask, but it’s necessary.
“You feel up to taking some photos for evidence? We’ll make it quick.”
There’s something heartbreakingly bleak in Prompto’s expression but he nods.
“Alright. We’ve got about three hours to sunset,” Nyx says. “Let’s get this done so we can get out of here before the daemons come out.”
Noctis only remembers bits and pieces of what he did, and none of those memories are very clear. Ignis is getting frustrated and angry with him, but Noctis can’t talk about what he doesn’t remember.
Ignis shows him a video, but he has absolutely no memory of warping through windows or saying the things he said.
There’s no doubt it’s him. There are several clear shots of his face and he recognizes his own voice. But it’s still like watching someone else do it.
There’s also no doubt he said those things, whether he remembers them or not. They’re things he’s been thinking ever since he saw that woman and her children in the alley. It’s been on his mind since he saw the graffiti proclaiming the same. It’s the same thing he thinks whenever he’s in his father’s company.
A cold bitterness settles over him as Ignis questions him. If only his father had heard him the first time, or the fifth time, maybe this would not have happened. Maybe if his father hadn’t banished two of the most important people from his life, maybe he wouldn’t have cracked. And maybe, if his father put him first every now and then, they wouldn’t be in this situation.
Something inside him has broken, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t want this burden. The weight of the Crown he will inherit is proving too heavy for him to carry. He’s not strong enough or motivated enough to bear it, and frankly, all he wants to do is close his eyes and go to sleep for the rest of his joyless life.
“Noctis, are you listening to me?”
“Tuned you out five minutes ago,” Noctis says, doing his best to sound bored. “Anyway, what are you even doing here? Didn’t you get fired?”
Ignis sits up straighter and his glare is hot enough to melt steel.
“You can thank Prompto for getting me reinstated,” Ignis says stiffly. “Though, if you’d prefer I not resume my duties as your advisor, I’ll inform your father you no longer want me to look after you.”
Noctis doesn’t know which part to address first. Of course he doesn’t want Ignis to leave. He’s struggled for a whole year without him there to keep him from falling to pieces. He wants to tell Ignis this, but his curiosity gets the best of him.
“Prompto got you reinstated? How?”
“He made some sort of deal to clear my name, at the cost of his own freedom,” Ignis says. “I don’t know what it entails but it means I’m able to be your advisor again.”
“What?”
“As I said, I don’t know the details.”
It’s just like Prompto to put himself on the line for someone else. It’s not a surprise that he would think of Ignis first, but he can’t wrap his head around what kind of deal Prompto could have made. He’s enormously grateful for it, especially if it means Ignis is staying, but it’s unfair that Prompto has to remain in exile.
A bubble of resentment swells inside his stomach at the thought that they still can’t be friends. He’s never believed Prompto did anything wrong, and he does not believe Prompto would ever do anything to undermine the Kingdom.
“So you’re not going to Altissia?”
“No,” Ignis says. “I will remain here. Someone needs to guide you through the mess you’ve made.”
Ignis turns his glare back to Noctis. Noctis does his best to keep from shrinking beneath his gaze.
“You do realize the seriousness of what you’ve done, don’t you?” Ignis asks. “Your actions have caused a great deal of damage to the homes and livelihoods of those you were supposedly speaking up for. There will be a reckoning, Noct. Do you understand that?”
Noctis is already tired of hearing about it, even if he does feel guilty. Ignis keeps repeating himself, like Noctis doesn’t get it, and it’s starting to piss him off. It’s not like he can take it back or make a public apology and things will be okay. And it’s hard to apologize for something he doesn’t remember doing.
He might feel different if he could remember, but at the moment, he can’t connect the events in the video to what he actually does remember. Everything after getting a bottle of liquor is either fuzzy or completely gone, except for a brief memory of Prompto hovering above him and fire all around him.
“Noct? Answer me. Do you understand that there will be consequences?”
“I get it,” Noctis snaps. “Goddamn. Get off my case!”
Ignis goes very, very still. He leans in and grips Noctis’ arm. Hard.
“Prosecutor Comedentis is calling for imprisonment,” Ignis says. “Is that what you want? To spend your days behind bars? Because I can guarantee you, it will be unpleasant. All of the luxuries you take for granted every day will be taken away from you. You stand to lose everything, including your title, if the prosecutor has her way.”
Noctis yanks his arm away and refuses to answer. He doubts his dad will let them actually lock up the heir to the Kingdom. Not with the Empire looming just beyond the wall.
“They’re not gonna send me to prison. Quit being so damn dramatic.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ignis says. “So far, you haven’t shown an ounce of remorse for what you’ve done, so perhaps prison time is exactly what you deserve. And if you continue to behave this way, they will have no sympathy for you, and you’re likely to get the maximum recommended sentence. Is that what you want?”
None of this sounds real. None of it feels real. It’s like a dream he can’t remember, and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel remorse if it’s like something he saw on a MoogleTube video. Anger is the only thing he feels with any real clarity, and there’s no room for anything else.
“Your may well lose your royal standing, and all your royal privileges,” Ignis says. “Leaving the Kingdom without an heir.”
“GOOD!” Noctis shouts. “They can keep the Crown! I don’t want it anyway!”
Ignis’ face turns a furious red. Noctis can’t say he’s ever seen Ignis look this angry before, and he’s definitely never seen him this close to blowing a gasket. Ignis gets to his feet and looms over the bed with his fists clenched at his sides. For a second, Noctis cringes, anticipating a fist to the jaw. If it was Gladio standing here and not Ignis, it would have been a guarantee.
“If you’re not willing to grow up and accept responsibility,” Ignis says, “there’s nothing I can do to help you. I might as well pack my belongings and go to Altissia and let you deal with the consequences on your own, you spoiled, ungrateful little shit!”
Noctis is shocked by Ignis’ outburst. Ignis has never spoken to him this way, not even when Noctis made him truly angry.
When Noctis doesn’t respond, Ignis storms out of the room without another word, leaving Noctis scared to death that he’s not coming back this time.
Prompto follows Nyx into the Kingsglaive compound with his eyes fixed on the black bag containing Tredd’s body. Others have gathered at the mouth of the delivery entrance, watching in silence as Tredd is wheeled inside. Prompto pulls the Hammerhead cap low over his eyes, hoping to avoid the stares of the Glaives who may have known and liked Tredd. He suspects a fair few are furious with him.
He feels a little better when Crowe joins them and walks at his side until they reach the morgue. Nyx goes in behind the body, but Prompto stays outside. It feels disrespectful and he has no reason to see face of the man he killed again. There are already three dozen pictures on his camera.
“Why don’t you pack a bag for a couple of days,” Crowe says. “And your uniform, just in case.”
“Why?” Prompto asks.
“We think it might be a good idea for you to stay with me until this blows over,” she says. “I don’t think you’re in any danger here because they’re all afraid of what you can do, but I don’t want to risk it. Just in case he wasn’t acting alone.”
Prompto hasn’t even considered someone might try to retaliate. He gets why they’d be pissed at him. Tredd was their friend, but that friend also tried to take out one of the highest ranking members of the Crownsguard and maybe Prompto himself.
He didn’t have a choice. If he hadn’t acted, Tredd might have killed all four of them.
In his dorm, he throws things at random into his gym bag and grabs his boots and uniform, then meets Crowe at the front gate.
“What about Drautos?” he asks.
“He’s still MIA,” Crowe says. “Nyx is in charge until he turns up.”
Crowe’s apartment is only two blocks from the compound. It’s just the sort of place Prompto might have rented if he’d gone to college. It’s small but cozy, and there’s a window that opens to a fire escape that looks as though it sees regular use, judging by the small collection of empty beer bottles and an ashtray littered with butts.
“Go grab a shower,” she says. “And toss your dirty clothes out the door so I can wash them.”
Prompto does as he’s told, though he’s exhausted. The shower feels nice, though. Unlike the caravan at Hammerhead, there’s good water pressure and the water is almost scalding hot. He takes his time, letting it wash away the sand and grit and sweat, letting it ease the tension in his tired muscles.
When he emerges, clean and dressed, Libertus is sitting on Crowe’s couch holding a pair of black cases on his lap.
“Nyx said to give you a haircut,” Libertus says.
Prompto pauses and runs his fingers through the long, wet strands of his bangs. He hasn’t put much thought into his hair. Not the way he used to. He’d planned to visit a barber soon, but he hasn’t made it a priority.
Though he definitely needs it cut, he’s reluctant to let Libertus touch it.
“I do Nyx’s hair all the time,” Libertus says. “Some of the other guys, too. I can have you lookin’ like a proper Glaive in no time.”
Prompto decides to be brave. He sits in Crowe’s small kitchen trying his hardest not to cringe at the buzz of the electric clippers next to his ear.
“You better clean that up this time,” Crowe tells Libertus. “My kitchen isn’t your beauty salon.”
“You want a trim while I’m at it?” Libertus asks, plainly ignoring her tone. “I can fade in that singed spot if you want.”
“Fine,” she says. “Just a trim, though. No layers, no fancy stuff.”
Libertus bends Prompto’s ear about his adventures with Nyx when they were both kids. Prompto learns they both come from an ancient line of hunters who once worshiped nature and animal deities and tattooed themselves to mark milestones and accomplishments.
When Libertus is done, Prompto looks at himself in the mirror, and it’s not at all what he expected.
Actually, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe a toned down version of his high school style or something, but Libertus has given him the traditional Galahd hunter style, complete with shaved sides and a few braids wrapped in dark purple thread in the back.
“You like it, little hero?”
He does. He likes it a lot.
But.
“Won’t the other guys be mad?” he asks. “I’m not from Galahd. And I’m definitely no hunter.”
“But I am, and I gave it to you,” Libertus says. “So it ain’t a problem.”
“Thanks, man,” Prompto says and runs his hand over the top. “It looks so badass.”
And he means it. It looks super intimidating and with a baby-face like his, he needs every ounce of help he can get.
“Now you just need some tattoos and everyone’ll think you’re a native.”
“Native is definitely an upgrade from being a robot,” Prompto says with a small laugh.
“So how ‘bout it?” Libertus cocks an eyebrow and tips his head, his finger drumming on the other case. “I can tattoo you. You earned ‘em.”
“I don’t know what they mean, though,” Prompto says.
Libertus gives him a run-down. The crow’s foot is specific to the Kingsglaive. Arrows are for the King’s magic. Lines are for loved ones. Marks on fingers are for loved ones that have been lost. Dots and triangles are for battles and victories.
Prompto thinks about it for a minute. The tattoo on his wrist has been something he’s kept hidden most of his life. It’s a symbol of his origins and something he’s long been ashamed of. The Glaives from Galahd wear theirs with pride and they mean something. Prompto’s bar code is only a designation and a production number. It doesn’t mean anything else and it isn’t who he is.
“Let’s do it,” Prompto says. “Nothing on the face, though.”
Libertus tattoos the crow’s foot behind Prompto’s left ear, with three dots behind that, side by side along the hairline. He also gets a star on his trigger-finger for Celine, a single line on his ring finger for his old self, and three lines over the top of each ear to represent both his Glaive family, and his Crownsguard family.
“There you go,” Libertus says. His smile is full of pride. “Now you’re one of us.”
One of us.
If that’s true, why does he still feel like he doesn’t quite belong?
Ignis is in the sitting room of King’s private suite, awaiting the King’s arrival. He had to all but demand this meeting, and he’s irritated that His Highness has not yet visited Noctis, though he’s been informed Noctis is awake.
He’s served tea and a plate of finger sandwiches, which he ignores. He’s not here for a friendly chat or a social visit.
The King arrives ten minutes later, looking tired and stressed and Ignis sets his tea down to stand and bow. Regis waves him off and apologizes for the delay.
“I’m so very glad you’re back with us, Ignis,” the King says as the both take a seat. “I’m not sure I could manage Noctis’ situation on top of everything else going on these past few days.”
Ignis damps down his anger and bows his head in deference. He cannot show his ire here, no matter how frustrating the situation is. It's bad enough he lost his temper with Noctis.
“It’s been quite an eventful day already,” the King says. “As I understand it, an attempt was made on Cor’s life this morning. Clarus and Nyx have both left the city to handle it so I’m having to juggle my duties as well as Clarus’. Drautos is also indisposed, it seems.”
Ignis forgets his own concerns for a second.
“Was he injured?”
“He was, as was Cid’s granddaughter. They’re both on the mend,” the King says. “Clarus has informed me that Cor owes his life to Prompto. That it was his quick thinking that prevented the shooter from carrying out what appears to be an attempted execution.”
“Prompto,” Ignis says. He’s surprised that Prompto is with Cor, but not surprised he jumped in where needed. “I suppose we should be grateful.”
“We are,” the King says. “Very grateful. Cor is valuable and we cannot afford to lose him.”
That much is true. Though Clarus is in charge of the Crownsguard, it does not run without the Marshall’s leadership.
“Enough about that,” the King says. “What is it you wish to speak with me about so urgently?”
Ignis picks up his tea and takes a sip. His throat is suddenly dry and the things he needs to say feel as though they’ve caught in his throat.
“I have concerns, Highness. About Noctis,” Ignis says. “At present, he’s refusing to acknowledge any wrongdoing on his part and flat-out dismissed the idea that he may face severe punishment as a result of his actions. I feel perhaps a wake-up call is needed in order to drive home the severity of the situation. I wanted your input on the matter.”
Regis blinks at him but sits as still as a statue as he processes what Ignis suggesting.
“One of two things is happening here,” Ignis says. “Either Noctis believes he’s above reproach because of his title, and due to inadequate guidance and supervision over the last year, has come to believe he can do what he pleases, or-”
He pauses to sip his tea, purposely choosing to draw it out for dramatic effect.
“Or, perhaps his behavior is a cry for help,” Ignis continues. “I suspect he’s become profoundly depressed and feels isolated and abandoned. He certainly feels that no one around him is listening, and he may be acting out because of it.”
The King leans forward slightly, his arms braced against his thighs, and bows his head.
“His compass is spinning, Highness. He’s lacked direction and guidance and that has bred a great deal of anger and resentment and it must be dealt with. I fear he may continue to act out, or the Gods forbid, do something else to harm himself.”
“I understand.”
Ignis wonders if he does. He wonders if he realizes how profoundly lost Noctis really is. Or how entitled he’s been behaving.
There’s a long, drawn out silence. Regis looks incredibly guilty and he bows his head. Ignis reads it as an admission of guilt. The King is well aware he’s neglected Noctis’ emotional needs. And yet he’s done nothing to rectify that.
Ignis understands it isn’t entirely the King’s fault. He knows Noctis has pushed his father away time and time again. He knows that royal duties must take precedence over and above all else. But perhaps he could have done more to connect with him, especially in Ignis’ absence.
“What sort of wake-up call did you have in mind?” Regis asks.
“Perhaps we should embrace the likely sentence, Highness,” Ignis says. “Rather than try to fight it, we instead offer a guilty plea and negotiate a deal with the prosecution. Legal tells me if it goes to court, we will lose and Noctis will face a much harsher sentence than if we settle the matter out of court.”
It’s Ignis’ turn to go still. He waits, motionless, for the King to respond. It’s a risky thing, to suggest voluntarily throwing the only heir to the throne behind bars, especially when that heir is clearly struggling to function on his own. But, perhaps drastic measures are needed to make Noctis understand the gravity of the situation. Perhaps it’s what’s needed to make him take responsibility for himself and his actions.
“You want to imprison him?” Regis finally says. There’s just a hint of incredulousness in his tone. “Or just scare him straight, so to speak?”
“I’ve already tried the scare tactic, Highness,” Ignis says. “He told me I was being dramatic and that he does not care if the Kingdom is left without an heir.”
“I’m aware that he has mixed feelings about ruling the Kingdom,” the King says. “I felt the same way, at his age. He’ll grow out of it.”
Ignis sighs. He’s already frustrated by the King’s lack of engagement with Noctis, and his dismissiveness certainly isn’t helping.
"There's more to it than that, Highness," Ignis says. "He has a serious disdain for the role he's expected to play. And he blames you for his behavior."
"Me?"
"He feels you have dismissed his concerns about the immigrant population," Ignis says. "And that you don't care about him."
The King is stricken. He shakes his head to deny it, and then seems to collapse in on himself.
"I admit, I haven't had much time with him. When I do, he wants to argue or doesn't engage at all, so I've not made it a priority," the King says. "I assumed he wanted his independence and wasn’t interested in spending time with his old man. I thought he'd eventually come around."
Ignis supposes he can understand his perspective. It doesn't excuse his lack of involvement, but it does give a clearer picture of where the rwo stand with one another.
"So what do you suggest, Ignis? You say you've been corresponding with legal on the matter," the King says. "What is our best option?"
“I know he’s your son, but there must be consequences. Whether we like it or not.”
Regis bows his head.
“Perhaps you’re right," the King says. "Perhaps we can avoid a long, drawn out scandal. Something long enough for him to get the message, but not so lengthy that it leaves the Kingdom without a ruler, should my end come sooner than expected.”
“I can assist you with with the negotiations,” Ignis says. “I’m sure Prosecutor Comedentis remembers me, though I can’t say she’ll be thrilled to see me again.”
“That woman is a thorn in my side,” the King says. “But, she is very good at her job, and there’s a reason she’s been appointed.”
“When can I expect a meeting?”
“In an hour,” Regis says. “I set up an appointment this morning to discuss her terms.”
Ignis is not looking forward to meeting with her again. His intuition tells him not to trust her, and his experience says the same. He has no evidence of any wrongdoing, only a gut feeling, but she strikes him as an opportunist rather than a loyalist. She knows the law, and how to use it to her advantage, and that makes her dangerous. She could prove very dangerous to the realm if she chooses to be too dogmatic in her pursuit of justice.
“Should we have Noctis present?” Ignis asks. “So that he’s aware of the situation?”
“Having him there will only complicate things, if he’s being as surly as you say,” Regis says. “Besides, it may be his last night of freedom for a while. I’d like to be able to enjoy it with him.”
Gladio’s taking a cup noodles out of the microwave when there’s a knock on his door. He sets the noodles aside and answers, unsurprised to find Ignis on the other side. He knows just by the stiff set of his shoulders he’s upset.
“Come on in,” Gladio says. “You hungry? I can warm up some noodles for you.”
“Thank you, but no,” Ignis says.
Gladio grabs the cup from the counter and sits on the couch, inviting Ignis to join him with a wave of his hand.
“What’s up?”
“Noctis will be arrested in the morning,” Ignis says. “Provided he can get out of bed on his own.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
"It was inevitable," Ignis says. "Cutting a deal was our only option, and regardless, His Highness and I agree he must face the consequences."
“About time you got tough on him. Didn’t expect you to get that tough, though,” Gladio says. “But at least it’ll keep his ass out of parts of town he’s got no business in. And away from Prompto.”
“Please. I’m in no mood for an I told you so.”
Ignis takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. No doubt, this wasn’t an easy decision for either of them, and maybe it’s just a stunt to wake Noct up, but Gladio can’t disagree with making him face the music. Being drunk and depressed is no excuse.
“How long?”
“Comedentis wanted a minimum of five years,” Ignis says. “After some discussion, we’ve settled on a guilty plea, six months, with two years probation and community service. Noctis keeps his title, so long as he doesn’t re-offend once he’s released. In the meantime, the King has agreed to meet with the refugee community leaders to address the problems that led to this, as well as make it illegal to refuse to hire based on citizenship status.”
“That ain’t a bad start,” Gladio says. “Noct’s in for a world of hurt, though. You think he’s gonna survive ten minutes without his phone?”
Ignis frowns and rubs his eyes again.
“I feel awful about this, Gladio,” Ignis says. “All of it.”
“Hey, he made his bed,” Gladio says. “Just ‘cause he’s gonna be King some day don’t mean he can do what he wants.”
“I know,” Ignis says. “But perhaps it’s not entirely his fault. Being raised the way he was, perhaps he never truly learned actions sometimes have real consequences.”
Gladio disagrees. He knows Noctis is aware of consequences. And he’s not a stupid kid anymore, he’s an adult who should have known better. It wasn’t like nobody warned him about going to that part of town. It wasn’t like he wasn’t told to stay out.
“He’s old enough to know right from wrong, Iggy. Don’t make excuses for him.”
“I’m not,” Ignis says. “But the only consequences he’s ever faced have been the revocation of game systems and car keys.”
“Well, if he doesn’t understand it now, he’s gonna learn,” Gladio says. “Sometimes you gotta learn shit the hard way, you know?”
“I agree,” Ignis says. “I’m just concerned there’s an underlying mental health issue at play and that incarceration will only exacerbate it.”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” Gladio says. “If he really does have a problem, he’s got plenty of resources.”
Ignis slumps back into the couch and closes his eyes. He’s really struggling with this decision, and Gladio is willing to bet it’s because he thinks he’s let Noctis down. He’s betting Ignis thinks he’s made the wrong decision and is second guessing himself.
“You made the right choice,” Gladio says. “Royalty or not, what he did was fucked up.”
“He doesn’t even remember it.”
“So what? He’s still responsible for getting wasted and trashing a neighborhood he shouldn’t have been in the first place. Don’t matter if he remembers, he still did it,” Gladio says. “No different than somebody getting drunk and plowing into a pedestrian. Doesn't matter if they remember it, they're still responsible.”
Ignis is quiet for a while. He’s so still, Gladio thinks he’s fallen asleep. He takes his glasses out of Ignis’ hand to set them aside, only to have Ignis sit up and take them back.
“I should go,” Ignis says. “I have an early start tomorrow. I assume you will as well. I have a feeling you’ll be needed.”
“Sure you don’t wanna stay?” Gladio asks. He feels stupid for asking, but he liked sharing his bed with Ignis. He liked waking up next to him and he definitely wouldn’t mind making it a regular thing. “It’s still early. Could watch a movie to take your mind off it. Have a drink or two.”
“Perhaps some other time,” Ignis says.
Gladio’s disappointed but not surprised. When Ignis gets inside his own head like this, he isn’t easily distracted. Once things calm down, Gladio will try again.
Though Ignis said he was going, he stands between the couch and the door, unmoving. His shoulders slump and his head bows.
“Iggy?”
“I wasn’t very kind to him, Gladio,” Ignis says. “I said some harsh things.”
“Did he deserve ‘em?”
“Yes,” Ignis says. “But I shouldn’t have said them.”
Gladio gets up and hooks a finger under Ignis’ chin. He tilts his face up so that he can look him in the eye.
“He needed to hear it,” Gladio says. “You don’t gotta feel bad about that.”
“I’m supposed to protect him, Gladio,” Ignis says. “I’m supposed to be on his side. I recommended the guilty plea. I recommended he serve time. I feel as though I’ve betrayed him.”
Ignis has always been fiercely protective of Noctis. Back in the day, Ignis took the blame for Noctis a lot, even when everybody knew Noctis had been the instigator. From drawing on walls with crayon, to taking off to explore at three in the morning, to staying out past curfew, Ignis has always shouldered the blame. In Gladio’s opinion, doing so allowed Noctis to think Ignis would continue to shield him from responsibility. And maybe Noctis expected Ignis to shield him this time too, but it's high time Noctis grew up and took responsibility for himself.
Gladio doesn’t say the obvious I told you so. He doesn’t scold Ignis. Ignis is doing a good enough job of blaming himself without Gladio’s input.
“You are protecting him,” Gladio says. “And you can’t always fight his battles for him, Iggy. He's gonna have to learn eventually. And anyways, he’s getting off easy.”
“Then why do I feel so bad about it?”
Ignis’ green eyes are wounded and Gladio wants to fold him up in his arms. He doubts Ignis will accept comfort at the moment so he just shrugs.
“Cause you care about him,” Gladio says. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that. But you did the right thing, so quit beatin’ yourself up over it.”
“I hope you’re right, Gladio. I truly do."
Notes:
Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments! 💋
Chapter 15: Connections
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prompto wakes in Crowe’s living room with the sense that someone is watching him. He can feel a presence that shouldn’t be there and he jumps off the couch, ready to fight.
By the door, a massive, shadowy figure leans against the frame. Prompto recognizes him immediately and his blood runs cold.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Prompto whispers.
“What sort of welcome is that, my boy?” he asks and he straightens up, holding out his hand for Prompto to take. “Never mind. Come, I have something to show you.”
It’s on the tip of Prompto’s tongue to tell him he’s not going anywhere, but his feet shuffle forward on their own, as though he’s incapable of disobeying. The Stranger’s eyes glow magenta in the darkness and the double heartbeat starts up inside Prompto’s chest. It’s loud and relentless and it drowns out everything else until it dies down.
The Stranger opens the door to the hallway and Prompto follows, but it’s not the hallway he finds himself in, it’s a massive warehouse. It’s bitter cold inside, like the inside of an industrial freezer, and it’s filled with rows and rows of glass tubes arranged around long, narrow metal catwalks. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of these tubes, and if Prompto’s not mistaken, it looks like there are people inside.
A chill passes through him and he plants his bare feet, unable to follow the Stranger any farther. He doesn’t want to look at them. He doesn’t want to know what they are, and some part of him knows this will change everything.
His eyes refuse to see, his mind resists comprehending, but he recognizes them nonetheless. They’re too familiar to deny what they are.
“Come, meet your family,” the Stranger says. “I’m sure they’re dying to meet you.”
“They’re not my family.”
“Of course they are. The same blood runs through their veins, identical to yours,” the man says. “Come.”
As before, his feet move on their own and he follows the man down a row of occupied tubes. The faces of the pathetic beings slumbering inside are painfully familiar. He sees the same face in the mirror every morning. The same freckles, the same mouth.
“You see, you are but one of many,” the man says. “It’s only through a twist of fate that your destiny changed.”
He turns with a flourish and waves his hand at them.
“This could have been you, my boy, if you hadn’t been deemed imperfect,” he says. “Your destiny was to become a weapon of war, you know. Created to die, and in such a painful way.”
Prompto shakes his head to deny it, but he already knows the truth, deep down inside. It’s been lingering in the back of his mind for days. Weeks, or even months, maybe. Ever since Cor told him how he came to Lucis, for sure. Ever since he held the empty Magitek core in his hands. Maybe even when he was bleeding out on the floor of the convenience store with the stranger’s sludge-stained face smiling down at him.
He knew.
“Aren’t you a lucky one,” the Stranger purrs. “You’ve escaped certain death so many times, haven’t you?”
He’s not wrong. He should have died before he was able to talk. His father would have killed him eventually. Maybe not on purpose, but it was more likely than not.
He should have died in that convenience store. Or when he fell out of the sky. When the daemons surrounded him behind Hammerhead, they should have torn him apart.
“Perhaps there’s a greater purpose for you after all,” the Stranger says. “You’re so very blessed to have me as your guardian angel.”
It sounds so ominous and his tone is laced with something dark and foreboding. Something inside Prompto prickles and his hand twitches at his side as if to summon his gun. Whatever this man is, he’s no angel. He doubts his intentions are anything but malicious.
His reasons are beyond Prompto’s comprehension. He doesn’t understand the point of any of this, or why he was spared, or why he was given magic he can’t control or use on command. If he could ask those questions, he would, but words fail him when one of the copies in the tube to his right begins to twitch violently.
It’s looking at him. Its lips part and its face twists in a silent scream. One of its hands slams against the glass, fingers curling against it like it wants out, like it wants Prompto to save it.
He looks for an opening or a hatch to release it, for some way to free it from this awful prison and sees nothing that can help it escape this hell-hole.
What sort of monster condones this? What lunatic created them, only to destroy them?
Prompto’s heart breaks for them, for their suffering, for the fact that they will never get to see the sunshine, or chocobos, or anything good in this world. All they know is this.
“Come. There’s more to see.”
And Prompto follows, unwillingly but compelled to keep going, under whatever spell this is.
The further down the row they go, the more degraded the copies of him become. Blackish blotches cover their skin and the solution inside the tubes is murky at the bottom. Some of their faces are frozen in silent agony, their flesh black and peeling away from their bones. Some, their eyes are open and they glow the same magenta he’s seen in daemons.
Oh, fuck.
Prompto knows.
He knows what’s going on here and he wants to run as far away from this as he can. He can’t bear it. Not the horror of this fate and not the pity he feels for these poor, tortured things.
“Yes, that’s right,” the stranger says, as if reading Prompto’s mind. “They’re being daemonified and distilled into pure daemon mist to create Magitek. Brilliant, isn’t it?”
Prompto can’t imagine calling it anything but inhumane. The ones in front of him are clearly in pain. All he sees in their magenta eyes is misery.
“It’s cruel,” Prompto says. “Those are people, you sick fuck.”
“Are they?” he asks. “If they’re mere copies, repeated thousands of times, with no thoughts of their own and no knowledge of what it means to be human, can they truly be called people?”
The tubes at the end appear empty, but upon closer inspection, there’s a thick, black sludge at the bottom of the tank. Tendrils of magenta mist flow into tubes at the top.
“What about you, Prompto? Can you truly be called human? Knowing that you are but one of many, just the same as them?”
He’s had dozens and dozens of tests done over the last year to prove that he is human. X-rays and blood tests and physical exams. All have proved that he’s no different than anyone else. He would know if he was any different. He wouldn’t be alive now if he was different.
“I’m human.”
The Stranger seizes his wrist and slides the cuff away from what it hides.
“This tells a different story, does it not?”
Prompto yanks his arm away and takes a step back. The Stranger’s touch makes his skin crawl and he wants to leave this place and never see it again. If it’s a nightmare, he wants it to end. Now.
And then it does. Everything around him fades and he finds himself in the hallway outside Crowe’s apartment, shivering from cold that isn’t there.
The Stranger is nowhere to be seen.
Ignis arrives at Noctis’ suite at a little past seven the next morning, dreading the day to come. The Crownsguard on the door gives him a curt nod and greets him. Ignis returns the greeting and then stands beside the bed, where Noctis is, as expected, asleep.
He shakes Noctis awake and gets an annoyed groan and a glare in lieu of a good morning. Ignis expected no less, and he feels a little bit bad for waking him, but he supposes it’s something Noctis will have to get used to. He doubts the correctional facility will allow him to nap or sleep in.
“Good morning,” Ignis says again, a little louder, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
Noctis turns onto his side and tugs the blanket over his head. Ignis tugs it back down.
“Noct, we have some very important things to discuss,” Ignis says firmly. “I need you to get up.”
“It’s too early.”
“You’re going to be arrested in about two hours,” Ignis says. “I need your full attention to explain to you what happens next.”
Noctis turns back over and sits up with wide eyes.
“What? What do you mean arrested?”
“Were you not listening to me yesterday?” Ignis says. “When I told you there would be consequences?”
Noctis stares at Ignis, uncomprehending. Ignis sighs and rubs his eyes. He’d known this would not be easy, but it’s much harder than he anticipated. This outcome is the best of the options they were given, and there’s not likely to be another.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Noct,” Ignis says. “You will be arrested and taken before a judge, where you will admit guilt and accept your sentence. You will then be taken to the maximum security wing of Insomnia Correctional Facility for your own protection, and there you will serve your time.”
“What?!” Noctis cries, fully awake now. “I’m not doing that! That’s not happening!”
“Yes, you will, and yes, it is happening, whether you like it or not,” Ignis says. “Any other choice will lead to a longer, harsher sentence. I am sorry. It’s not ideal, but your father and I negotiated the best deal we could get. All things considered, it’s a rather lenient one.”
Panic starts to set in, and Noctis’ expression turns to wide-eyed fear.
“You cut a deal? Without even asking me?” Noctis says.
“We did. It was in your best interest, as you were not exactly willing to cooperate.”
“And what if I don’t agree to the deal?” Noctis says. He throws back the blanket and sits up. “Neither of you have a right to decide for me. I can make my own decisions.”
Ignis has anticipated this response, but he has to force himself to remain calm. Upsetting him further may have dire consequences and an outcome that suits no one.
“The decisions you’ve made are what landed you here, Noct. Forgive me if I don’t trust your ability to choose the right course of action,” Ignis says.
“I was drunk!” Noctis shouts.
“That’s not an acceptable excuse,” Ignis says. “And you need to understand, the alternative was a five year sentence, two years probation, and the loss of all your titles. And that is the best case scenario. And before you suggest a not guilty plea, you have no hope of winning and would be at the mercy of a jury’s recommended sentence, which would likely be far harsher than the prosecution’s recommendation.”
“And if I agree to your deal, how long are we talking?” Noctis asks.
He’s trying to sound tough and commanding, but it’s undercut by the tremble in his jaw and the terror in his eyes. Ignis feels pity for him, as his entire life is about to be upended in ways he can’t yet comprehend. This is the last thing he wants for Noctis, but Prince or not, justice must be served. There’s no other way around it.
“A mere six months, two years probation, and community service,” Ignis says. “And you will remain the heir to the throne, so long as you stay out of trouble while incarcerated.”
“Six months?!”
“Would you prefer five to ten years?” Ignis asks. “You should be grateful it’s only six months.”
Noctis shakes his head and he stares at the carpet like it will save him.
“I need you to get up and take a shower,” Ignis says. “I expect Gladio and your father will arrive shortly.”
When Noctis doesn’t get up, Ignis takes his arm and hauls him to his feet. Noctis pulls away from him with a petulant look and storms off to the bath. The door slams behind him and a moment later, Ignis hears the shower come on.
Satisfied, Ignis removes the suit he’s chosen for Noctis from its dry-cleaning bag and lays it on the bed, along with a pair of socks, underwear, and a tie. Ignis hasn’t bothered with embellishments or Royal adornments, as those are likely to disappear when Noctis is processed and booked into custody.
Noctis is just emerging from the bath, wrapped in a towel, when Gladio arrives carrying a paper tray of fresh coffee from the kiosk downstairs. He hands one to Ignis and looks Noctis over before offering a greeting, which Noctis does not return or even acknowledge.
“Good morning to you too, Princess,” Gladio says darkly.
The only response Noctis gives is a sharp glare before returning to the bath with his clothing.
Gladio sets the tray of coffee on the table and unbuttons the jacket of his own suit before sitting down. Ignis notes how well tailored it is, and how well the dark gray compliments his complexion. It’s not the first time he’s seen Gladio in a suit before, but it’s hard not to admire how good it looks on him.
He mentally scolds himself and covers his interest with a sip of the coffee. Now is not the time, and he has no business thinking about this anyway.
“The coffee’s good this morning,” Ignis says, to fill the silence.
“Sprang for the Lucian roast with an extra shot for yours,” Gladio says. “Figured you might need the extra boost.”
“Thank you,” Ignis says. “I most certainly do.”
Gladio takes his own coffee from the tray and rubs his clean-shaven jaw in contemplation of his spit-shined shoes.
“So this is really goin’ down, huh?”
“Indeed. I was up most of the night looking for any alternative or argument that might change the course, but this sentence is comparatively light,” Ignis says. “Others in the past have faced life or even execution.”
“Damn,” Gladio said. “How did he take it?”
“Not well, but not as bad as I anticipated,” Ignis says. “Though, I don’t think reality has set in yet. I’m not sure he even realizes what he’s done.”
“He will. The second they stick him in a cell.”
“One would hope.”
The King arrives next, his expression grave and his posture one of defeat. Gladio gets up and offers him his seat and a coffee, and then pounds on the bathroom door to urge Noctis along.
“Hurry it up. Your father’s here.”
There’s a thump and then the sound of glass breaking. Ignis is on his feet in an instant. The door is locked and he knocks on it, calling out to Noctis. Gladio moves in behind him.
“Open the damn door, Noct,” Gladio shouts. “Don’t make me break it down.”
The door opens and a red-faced Noctis glares back at them. Ignis gives him a once-over to ensure he’s unharmed, and then peers into the room behind him. The mirror over the vanity is shattered and shards of glass litter the floor around it. The toothbrush holder is in the sink, in pieces. Likely the weapon Noct used to break the mirror.
“Is everything alright son?” the King asked.
“I’m fine,” Noctis snaps. “Back off.”
Ignis struggles to keep from exploding on him. At his side, Gladio’s fists clench.
Noctis steps out of the bathroom and brushes past them. At least he’s dressed for court, and that’s a small relief. The only thing missing are shoes, which Ignis dutifully provides.
“Noct -” the King begins but Noctis cuts him off.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Noct, please,” Regis tries again.
“Let’s just get this farce over with,” Noctis says. He buttons his jacket and turns for the door. “Let’s go.”
Ignis exchanges a glance with Gladio, who looks like he’s a second from knocking the daylights out of Noctis. He shakes his head at Gladio, signaling now is not the time, no matter how frustrating Noct’s behavior is.
He hopes Regis will step up and put Noctis in check, or at least offer comfort. Anything at all. Anything besides the silence that follows Noct’s outburst.
But he doesn’t, and therein lies part of the problem.
Noctis doesn’t believe for a second that he’s really going to jail. This is all some sort of tough-love scare tactic designed to make him see the error of his ways. That’s all it is, and he’s pissed they’ve carried it this far, but whatever. He’ll play along.
It’s not like he doesn’t feel like shit about what happened, and it’s not like he ever intended to hurt anyone. He even accepts that it’s his fault people were hurt and businesses were burned. He’s not sure how he can make amends for that, or how his father plans to address the problems, if he even plans to at all. He’s sure jail time won't fix a damn thing.
Last night, when his father came to dine with him, none of this was discussed. Not his supposed sentence, not his behavior, not what can be done to fix things. Instead they talked about Noct’s childhood, or rather his father did.
If this was for real, his father would have mentioned it. He would have warned him, not spent the evening talking about nothing for the sake of reliving the good old days.
Right?
He’s not prepared to be taken directly to the courthouse, and he’s not prepared to have to sit next to a lawyer he’s never met and never discussed his own case with. Uneasy, he sends a glance back to his father, then to Ignis and Gladio and Cor. His father looks like he’s on the verge of tears. Ignis, too. Gladio’s face is oddly blank, but as usual, he can’t tell what Cor might be thinking.
At the prosecution’s table, a steel-eyed woman in her 50’s watches him, her hair a perfect helmet of silver. She’s the only one in the room who looks pleased. Noctis doesn’t know who she is, but he already doesn’t like her. She reminds him of a snake.
When the judge enters the courtroom, everyone rises until he is seated. No one bows to him or his father, as is custom everywhere but here, apparently. Not that Noctis cares at all about that, but it stands out to him for some reason.
“Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, you have been charged with nine counts of vandalism, public intoxication, and inciting a riot which resulted in the damage of thirty-two structures and the injury of seventy-one people,” the judge said. “How do you plead, Your Highness?”
He glances back at Ignis, who gives him a slight nod.
Noctis knows what he’s supposed to say, but everything in him wants to plead not guilty and fight the charges in court. That makes more sense than this, even if it is a joke.
“Highness?” the judge prompts.
“Guilty of all charges, Your Honor.”
“Let the record show the defendant has pleaded guilty to all charges,” the judge says, and at the prosecutor’s table, the steel-eyed woman smirks. “Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, you are hereby sentenced to six months in prison, followed by two years probation and 1000 hours of community service.”
Noctis’s stomach tightens and he expects one of them, Ignis or his father maybe, to stand up and tell him none of this is real. That it’s just some stupid gotcha to teach him a lesson. His heart is pounding as he waits for that to happen, but it doesn’t. No one says a word.
“Highness, you may have five minutes to say your goodbyes, then you will be remanded to the custody of the Insomnia Correctional Facility to serve out your sentence,” the judge says. “This court is adjourned.”
In a daze he stands and turns to his father, who really is crying now, and he shakes his head. This can’t be happening for real. They can call it off now. It wasn’t funny to begin with and its definitely not funny now.
The longer they go without saying anything, the more it starts to sink in that this might actually be happening, and Noctis starts to panic. His eyes dart from face to face, and at the regret he sees in each one, and it hits him. This was never a joke.
He’s actually going to prison.
“Ignis, you have to do something,” Noctis says, now fearful of what lies ahead. “See if they’ll settle for house arrest or something.”
“I’m sorry Noct,” Ignis says. “I’ve done all I can do.”
“Dad?” Noctis says and turns to his father. “You’re the King. Do something!”
“I’m sorry, son. This is the only way we could guarantee that you remain the heir to the Kingdom.”
Noctis looks at all of them, and he feels betrayed. They’ve all abandoned him now. Every last one of them.
“We don’t have much time,” his father says and holds out his arms to embrace him. “Let’s say our goodbyes for now.”
Noctis steps back and shakes his head, furious that no one is willing to step up or come up with an alternative.
The hell with them.
“Keep your crown,” he says. “I don’t want it.”
He turns to the guards that are waiting to take him to lock-up. Fury bubbles up inside him and he has the briefest flash of standing above a small crowd, neon lights bathing the street below. Prompto’s face above him.
“You can’t be here, Noct.”
“Son, wait,” his father pleads.
“You don’t have a son. Not anymore,” Noctis says. “I’m done. With all of you.”
Dear Luna,
It’s been a while, huh? Sorry I’ve gone MIA for a while. Not many opportunities to send letters, since I’ve been more or less under lock and key for the last year, but man I miss hearing from you.
By now, you probably know our cat lady is in a lot of trouble. The news is saying he’s going to jail, which is totally crazy to think about because he’s the only heir, you know? At the same time, I was there when the whole mess started and I saw the aftermath and it was really bad. I don’t really know what to think, though. He wasn’t really in his right mind when he did it, but a lot of people got hurt.
I wish I could talk to you in person, Luna. There’s stuff I can’t put in a letter, and there’s so much to tell you, it would be a whole novel if I ever tried. Poor Umbra wouldn’t be able to “fast travel” or whatever it he does with all that weight on his back!
Do you have cell service where you’re at? If you do, my number is 0098-36-2727. Shoot me a text if you have a phone, okay? As much as I love doggo delivery service, my situation probably won’t change any time soon and I really wanna stay in touch with you.
Thinking of you, Luna. Hope you’re well.
Your buddy,
Prompto
Prompto sees Umbra outside Crowe’s apartment on his way to his shift at the city gates. He stands on the sidewalk opposite, tail wagging but doesn’t approach. Prompto calls out to him, but he stays put.
Mateo shows up a couple minutes later, his escort to the gates, Prompto assumes. Nyx must still be in charge, otherwise it would be a more senior member. Prompto’s fine with that. They’re both going the same place anyhow, no need to interrupt someone else’s day to walk him to the gate like he’s a little boy who needs his mom to walk him to school.
He pens a quick letter to Luna on the subway train while Mateo listens to music through his earbuds. When they exit, Umbra is there, waiting for him. He doesn’t have a letter for Prompto this time, just a postcard of the palace in Tenebrae with a quick note scrawled on it.
Hope all is well,
Luna
It smells of sylleblossoms and it takes Prompto back to childhood, when he received his very first letter from her. He doesn't miss those hard, lonely years, but he does miss being that innocent.
Duty at the wall is the same as it always is. The city guard treat them like shit, as usual, and they both ignore it or mock it behind their backs. Prompto’s sort of on autopilot today anyway, so it doesn’t really annoy him as much as it usually does. All he can think about is the Stranger’s visit and he’s still not sure if it was real or just a nightmare.
He desperately wants to talk to someone about it, but he’s not sure who he can talk to. Nyx knows a fair amount about MT’s, but Prompto gets the feeling he won’t believe it. He’s willing to bet Drautos knows a lot more, but Prompto doesn’t trust him even a little. And nobody knows about the Stranger and the whole thing sounds like a crazed fever dream, something he hallucinated as he lay dying, and not something that actually happened.
Ignis might believe him, maybe. Or Cor. Definitely Luna, if he can figure out a way to tell her without literally writing a book. If anyone knows about this stuff, she’s his best bet.
Umbra meets him at the subway station on their way home. Prompto’s overjoyed to get a reply so quickly. He’s long suspected there’s some magicky stuff happening with all this, and this just confirms it for him. There’s no way Umbra could make it to Tenebrae or wherever so fast without some kind of magic.
He kneels down and gives Umbra a scratch, then takes the letter out of the satchel on Umbra’s back.
Dear Prompto,
I’m so happy to hear from you! You’ve been on my mind a lot lately, especially since I saw some astonishing footage of you on the news recently. That was you, wasn’t it? I assume this may be what you wish to speak to me about? If so, I’m not certain I can give you an answer, but I’m happy to discuss it, should we ever get the chance.
We do have cell service, however I don’t have access to a phone. It isn’t necessarily that I’m not allowed, it’s that they’re difficult to obtain and not commonly used in Tenebrae, except by the occupation. I would love to speak with you as well. I suspect we have much to discuss.
As far as Noctis is concerned, it’s been some time since he’s answered my letters. I am afraid for him, Prompto. The world is changing very quickly, and I’m seeing more and more people afflicted with the scourge. He has a duty and a destiny to fulfill, and I fear he’s found himself on the wrong path. I know you’re not allowed to see him, but I ask that you do what you can to support him from afar, if at all possible.
You’re in my thoughts and I will continue to keep you in my prayers.
Yours,
Luna
Mateo gives him a strange look as he folds the letter and places it inside the pocket of his uniform.
“Is the dog a spy?” he asks.
Prompto laughs and gives Umbra a pat on the head.
“He’s the goodest boy,” Prompto says. “Aren’t you, buddy?”
Umbra wags his tail and leans in for another scratch.
“He belongs to a friend who lives outside the city,” Prompto says. He hands over the postcard he’d gotten earlier for Mateo’s perusal. “It’s just kind of a fun thing we do since she doesn’t have a phone, and Umbra’s real good at finding me. Kinda like…” he considers what lie he’s going to tell. “Kinda like search and rescue training. Nothing crazy.”
Mateo looks at the post card and turns it over, then hands it back with a shrug.
“Cool,” he says. “I need to run some errands if you want to come with me.”
Prompto agrees. He’s put off too many of his own errands lately just because he doesn’t want to put anyone out, and he’s also considering sending Luna a phone. He’s got plenty of money in his account, but he wonders how suspicious it will look to buy a second phone and then attach it to a messenger dog. He doesn’t think Mateo will turn him in or anything, but he doesn’t want to do anything that seems weird either.
While Mateo tries on jeans in the fitting room, Prompto slips away to look at phones.
He chooses the same phone he has, and adds a line to his plan at the kiosk in electronics, after ensuring it will work in Tenebrae. The clerk advises him to get an adapter to charge it, since Tenebrae apparently has different electrical outlets than Lucis.
Prompto doubts Luna knows anything about music streaming and probably very little about social media, but he does know her access to outside information is limited to what she sees on the news, and what the Imperials decide to tell her. A phone will at least let her look up information on her own, along with being able to stay in contact with him and anyone else she may want to communicate with. It’s a win-win, he thinks.
He finds Mateo poking through a rack of dressy button-down shirts and Prompto realizes why they’re here.
“Hot date, buddy?”
Mateo doesn’t even try to hide his grin.
“Cute barista,” Mateo says. “At the Starbar Coffee on South Eos. Asked her out and she said yes. She knows how to sign, too, so we can actually talk.”
“That’s awesome, dude,” Prompto says. “Where are you taking her?”
“To see Fall of Solheim. Then dinner.”
Prompto pulls a face. He’s seen the trailer, which is full of fancy camera work, but the subject matter isn’t to his tastes. He’s not big on historical epics unless they have a great story. And after having all things Solheim shoved down his throat in high school, he’s not exactly itching to see it.
“She’s into history, I like action,” Mateo says. “Works for both of us.”
Prompto is happy for his friend, if not a little jealous. Dating isn’t even on the table for him right now. He’s not allowed out on his own, and it’s not like can bring a girl back to the dorms. But what he wouldn’t give to be able to meet a cute girl he can take to dinner and the movies.
Maybe he’ll luck out and Drautos won’t come back. That would mean Nyx would be in charge, and he won't have a problem with Prompto getting his own place.
He’s not that lucky, though. Nobody knows where Drautos has been, and if they do, they’ve kept quiet about it, but Prompto knows he’ll be back eventually.
Mateo leaves him at the entrance to Crowe’s apartment and Prompto wishes him luck on his date. He makes a show of going inside, then sits on the step to unbox the phone, which he plugs in to charge, then sets up and programs numbers into the phone book, in case Luna needs help. Who knows what the future holds, and he’s aware she’s more or less a hostage. Anything can happen and he’d rather know she’s got ways to reach out if she needs them.
He puts her new number in his phone and then keeps an eye on the street for Umbra while he pens a quick note on the back of the instruction booklet. When the phone is charged, he packs it back into its box, along with the adapter and waits.
Right on cue, there’s a soft scratch and a bark at the door. He opens it and lets Umbra in.
“Make sure this gets to Luna, okay?” Prompto says and gives the dog a scratch behind the ear. “Might be a while before I see you again, buddy, but you look after her, okay?”
Umbra licks his hand and allows him to secure the phone inside the satchel. As soon as he fastens the closure, Umbra is at the door, waiting to be let out again.
With any luck, he’ll soon get to hear Luna’s voice. Maybe even tonight, if he’s lucky, and he can hardly contain himself as he lets himself back inside Crowe’s apartment.
She’s already there, watching the news with a beer in her hand.
“Hey,” he greets. “Any word on Drautos?”
“None,” she says. “But you might want to sit down and watch the news with me.”
“Why? What happened?” he asks as he takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of the door. “Something big?”
His question is answered by the newscaster.
“His Highness Noctis Lucis Caelum was taken into custody today and sentenced to six months for inciting a riot in the refugee quarter,” the newscaster says. “The Citadel has yet to issue a statement on the matter, but Prosecutor Comedentis stated in a memo this morning that she is satisfied with the outcome and that justice has been served.”
Prompto sits on the edge of the couch and processes this information. His heart breaks for Noct, but he knows it could have been so much worse. Noct is lucky Comedentis is satisfied with just six months. Prompto feared it would be longer and the punishment more severe.
He has to grudgingly admit Noct earned it, but he still feels bad because he knows exactly what he’s about to face. He suspects Noct is going to have a much harder time than he did. Unlike Prompto, he’s not used to going without.
Crowe doesn’t ask him for his opinion. All she does is pat Prompto’s shoulder and get up to get herself another beer.
The news story on the screen changes to a view of Altissia’s old Parliament building. Prompto almost looks away, but then a familiar face freezes him in place.
It’s the Stranger, smiling benevolently at the President of Accordo. He’s wearing the same collection of strange, mismatched clothing and the same amused expression. Prompto’s blood runs cold and he feels the chill of the warehouse of horrors swirling all around him. He doesn’t hear what the newscaster says. He only sees the chyron at the bottom of the screen.
Niflheim Chancellor Ardyn Izunia arrives in Accordo.
Chancellor? Niflheim?
What. The. Fuck.
Lunafreya is dozing on a lounge by the window when Umbra returns to her. Her most recent trip to Cartanica has left her weak and exhausted, as the trip itself was lengthy and the number of people in need of her care was great. Far too many people for her to care for in the amount of time allotted for her visit. She’d stayed three days beyond the scheduled departure to ensure everyone who needed help got it. And now she’s paying the price.
She tries her best not to show how much it takes out of her, and she tries not to let on the toll it takes on her body. Gentiana is the only one who truly understands.
Ravus understands to a point, but over the last year, he’s become distant and less sympathetic. These days, he’s a willing acolyte of the Empire’s generals and the Emperor, thoroughly convinced that Lucis is the true enemy in spite of the abuses they were both subjected to by the Empire in their youth. He has lost sight of the fact that they are both hostages and has begun to see himself as one of them.
Luna has no friends here, nor does Ravus. She is a hostage in her own home and she suspects the only reason she’s still alive is that she’s the only thing holding the scourge at bay.
Umbra nuzzles her hand, bringing her fully awake and she sits up on the lounge to welcome her messenger home. She doesn’t check the satchel, as she doesn’t expect a second letter from Prompto. She’s just glad to have finally heard from him, and glad that he’s in good health, if not in the best spirits.
His letters have been deeply missed. Though they’ve never met, she considers him a friend, and she knows Pryna was not wrong when she chose Prompto as a companion for Noctis.
When Umbra places his paw on her thigh, Luna wonders if maybe there is something in the satchel. Umbra usually greets her, and then finds a spot in the sunlight to nap after his journey.
Curious, she opens it and finds a narrow box the size of a paperback book, with an embossed Lucis Technologies insignia on the outside. She opens it up and finds a phone with a charger and an adapter inside.
She presses a hand to her mouth and glances around the room. She’s alone, but she’s always aware that she’s never truly alone and must take care not to raise suspicion. There are MT’s stationed outside her door, and she cannot move about the house without being followed.
On the back of the instruction manual is a note:
Call me.
It isn’t signed but she recognizes the handwriting immediately. She clutches both the phone and the manual to her chest, feeling so much gratitude for Prompto’s gift.
It’s not just a way to communicate, it’s a lifeline.
She turns in on and sees it’s almost fully charged, ready to be used.
Luna isn’t completely ignorant of technology, though she’s never had access to a cell phone. She has a tablet she uses to read during long trips, but it can only be connected to the internet when she has permission from her captors. No one has ever explicitly said her activities are monitored, but she’s not stupid. They keep too close a watch on her for it to be otherwise.
She experiments with it and quickly finds it’s not so terribly different from the tablet. The touch screen works the same, and some of the built-in apps are similar. There are a few things that are new, but she can explore those later.
Relieved that she does not need to read the entire manual before using it, she immediately finds the settings and turns off all sound. She does not want to alert the Imperials she’s in possession of unauthorized technology or access to the outside world beyond the access they already give her.
The phone vibrates in her hand and the screen alerts her there is a message. She clicks on it and it opens up to a picture of a grinning Prompto, who looks very grown-up compared to the last picture she received from him.
It only takes her a moment to locate the camera on the phone, which is conveniently identified by a camera icon. It takes a bit longer to figure out how to take and send a picture back to him.
Instead of a picture of herself, she takes one of Umbra napping in a shaft of sunlight by the windows.
Prompto responds almost immediately with a heart.
This small, inconsequential interaction lifts her spirits enormously. For a few minutes, she ceases to be swallowed whole by the weight of her responsibilities, or by her exhaustion, or by her worries over Noctis. She has an outside connection. A friend outside the walls of this prison. A confidant who has no ulterior motives.
Are you free to talk? she asks.
He responds with a thumbs up. The phone vibrates in her hand again, and the screen lights up with the message: Incoming Call From Prompto.
“Hey!” he says cheerfully when she answers. “I can’t believe I’m finally talking to you!”
“Same. I’m so happy to finally hear your voice,” she says. “Thank you so much for this, Prompto. You didn’t have to.”
“Totally wanted to,” he says and adds a small laugh. “So, how you been?”
“Busy,” she says. “On a much needed break at the moment.”
“Must take a lot out of you, huh?”
“It does. Traveling in particular can be tiresome,” she says. “So how are you?’
“Good,” Prompto says but she hears something in his voice. Not a lie, exactly. Worry, perhaps. “I just heard about Noct.”
“I’ve heard the news,” she says. “It’s regrettable, but not unexpected.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Coulda been worse.”
Noctis is dear to her, though she hasn’t seen him since he was a boy. To know he’s found himself on such a dark path worries her. Things in the near future will change very quickly, and if he isn’t prepared, he may not be capable of fulfilling his destiny. Nor will she, if he should refuse or fail.
Luna moves out onto the balcony and pushes the doors partially closed. She doesn’t want to be overheard, nor does she want to be left without warning of an unexpected visitor.
“I don’t understand what’s going on with him,” Prompto says. “It’s like he’s a totally different person.”
“I don’t either,” Luna admits. “He’s barely stayed in touch and he doesn’t like to share his troubles with me. I want to help him, but it’s difficult from afar.”
“Yeah, he always did kinda keep it to himself,” Prompto says. “I feel like some of it’s my fault. You know, for everything that happened this last year. I think he got lost without me and Iggy to keep him on the straight and narrow, you know?"
"It's not your fault," she says.
Luna does not know all the details of what led to the situation they're in. Noctis didn’t explain what happened, and whatever it was, it did not make international news. All she knows is that Ignis and Prompto were both removed from Noctis’ circle and it’s had a negative impact on Noctis’ well-being.
“Tell me everything, Prompto,” she says. “If you have the time.”
“It’s a really long, weird story,” he says. “I’m not sure it even makes sense.”
“Tell me anyway. I’ve been kept out of the loop, but perhaps if I knew the truth, I might be of some help. If not to Noctis, at least to you,” she says. “You mentioned there’s something unusual happening with you.”
There’s a long pause and Luna moves to the partially open door to listen for any sign she may be interrupted. All is quiet except for Umbra’s soft snore.
“Prompto?” she asks, thinking maybe the call has been lost. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says. “Just trying to figure out where to start.”
“At the beginning,” she says.
There’s another pause and the Prompto asks a question she does not expect to hear.
“Do you know who Chancellor Ardyn Izunia is?” he asks.
She does. She’s met him several times over the years and her impression of him is not a positive one. There’s something dark and poisoned in him, as though he’s scourged and on the verge of turning but shows no visible signs. She suspects that he’s something more than mortal, something ancient and malevolent, but she has no proof, only that sick feeling she gets while in his presence.
Perhaps if he allowed her to touch him, she might see him for what he truly is, but he seems aware of this. He’s always stopped short of touching her and he avoids getting too close. And the way he looks at her fills her with disgust. It’s some combination of lust and loathing and it makes her skin crawl.
“I’ve met him,” she says.
“I think he did something to me,” Prompto says and his voice goes husky. “I’m not sure what, but he was in the convenience store when I was shot. I know it sounds crazy, ‘cause what would the Chancellor of Niflheim be doing in a random Lucian convenience store, right? But there I was, bleeding out and he put his hands on me and ever since, there’s this weird other me or something and I can hear its heartbeat sometimes. Like there’s something trapped inside me.”
Luna struggles to make sense of the story he tells. It’s almost too unbelievable to be true, but she believes him. She believes every word because it lines up with what she’s only sensed about Ardyn Izunia. If he’s capable of moving about in the same manner as her messengers, perhaps he is one too.
Or perhaps he’s something else entirely.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me Luna, or why he keeps showing up, or why the daemons and MT’s don’t try to kill me,” he says. “Do you think he made me one of them? Am I going to turn into one? I mean, I was tested a whole bunch to prove I wasn’t a robot, so something would have come up if he scourged me, right?”
She can’t say for sure, but she doesn’t think he’s scourged. She doesn’t know what this is, or what it has to do with the Holy magic she saw on the news, but they seem linked somehow. All she can do for now is look in her mother’s library, to see if there are any historical references to this sort of thing.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she promises. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Thanks, Luna,” he says. “And thanks for believing me. I know how wild it sounds.”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s the least I can do.”
“You know, it’s kinda weird, but it feels like we talk on the phone like this all the time,” he says. “Even though we never have.”
Luna agrees. It feels very familiar, like they’re old friends that call one another up to chat for hours. She wishes they could meet in person, as she suspects it will be much the same.
“Oh, I saved some numbers in your phone, just in case,” he says. “You’ll probably never need to use them, but if something happens and you need help, you can call any one of them, okay? They’re all good people. And Noct’s number is in there too, for once he’s out of jail.”
She feels blessed that not only has he done this kindness for her, he’s also thought ahead and given her resources she didn’t have before. She hopes that she will never need to reach out and never be in a place where she has no other option, but things are changing. Day by day, the situation grows more precarious. There may come a time when she needs to run, and it’s good to know there are people she can rely on if it comes to that.
“Thank you,” she says. “Truly.”
“Hey, friends look out for each other, right?” he says. “Anyway, I should go and let you get some rest. Bet your probably pretty wiped out.”
She does need rest, but she’s reluctant to end the call. Until now, she hasn’t realized how starved she is for human connection. Gentiana is a good listener, and her council is always welcome, but it isn’t the same as talking to another person. Messengers don’t know what it’s like to be human. Ravus talks only of war and vengeance these days. Everyone else dismisses her the way they do a child.
They say their goodbyes and Luna returns to the lounge. She stashes the phone beneath the pillow for now, with plans to find a better hiding spot for it later. She’s just gotten settled in when there’s a loud knock on the door, which opens a split second later. Ravus strides in, and Luna fears he knows she’s managed to get her hands on a device she should not have.
“Luna,” he says formally. A pair of MT’s flank him.
“Has something happened?” she asks.
“You’re needed in Ulwaat. There’s been another outbreak.”
Luna drops her face into her hands as Ravus dismisses the MT’s. He knows she’s been working overtime to stem the tide, and he knows she’s only been home a day. Her body is weak and her magic is depleted and she needs time to restore if she’s to continue helping others.
These outbreaks are increasing. She must continue doing her duty, regardless.
Ravus kneels before her and takes her hand. For a moment, he is her brother, not the pawn of the Empire he’s become. She sees his concern, and his love for her.
“I know this is difficult, Luna. If you’re too exhausted, I’ll tell them so,” he says.
“It’s alright,” she says. “It’s my duty.”
He searches her face and Luna doesn’t flinch or waver. It’s only because she’s not letting it show that he nods and pulls away.
Luna pushes to her feet. If she’s to go so soon, she must pack a bag, in case Ulwaat is in the same sorry state as Cartanica.
“You might as well know, your Prince has ruined His Imperial Highness’ plans to barter you for peace,” Ravus says. “Talks among the Imperial Council of wedding you to Noctis have stalled.”
Luna turns around. She wasn’t aware that either peace or a wedding were on the table. She’s always known they plan to use her for some purpose beyond healing, but she was not informed that this was ever discussed.
She’s also never expected to be wed. To anyone. That Noctis is considered a candidate causes her heart to flutter at the possibility. If there’s anyone in the world she might have entertained as a potential match, it’s Noctis. Though, at present, that’s the last thing he needs to concern himself with.
“You didn’t know?” he asks and sneers. “I must say, I’m relieved. I’d rather see you dead then turn you over to the Lucians.”
“Ravus,” she scolds. “Truly.”
“You can’t still believe they care about your well being. They’ve left you here all these years,” he says. “To be kept like a bird in a pretty cage.”
Luna’s ire rises and she turns on him. She has never blamed King Regis for leaving her behind. He’d understood in that moment that she had to stay. It had been the best way to protect both her brother and Noctis.
“I’m not the one who refused to leave when he had the chance,” she says.
“And I’m not the one who turned herself over to the occupation.”
“Do you think I should have left you behind?”
“If it would have spared you all this? I don’t know,” Ravus said. “I do know that Lucis abandoned us both, and it sickens me to think of you marrying that pathetic child.”
“Well, you just said it wouldn’t happen, didn’t you,” she snaps. “You’ve gotten your wish.”
Ravus does not know or understand who or what Noctis is. He doesn’t know that this is preordained, that Noctis has been chosen by the Gods, and there is no defying the Gods.
One way or another, she will have to find her way back to Lucis, and to Noctis.
The Empire and Ravus both be damned.
Notes:
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Chapter 16: Shackles
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As soon as Noctis leaves the courtroom, cuffs are placed on his wrists and ankles, their connecting chains in some configuration that lets him walk, but only allows him to take short steps. He doesn’t expect to be sent directly to the prison, but he’s loaded onto a van with four others. He’s the only one who has a guard, and the only one wearing a suit.
No one talks to him, except to issue orders.
His stomach twists as they approach the correctional facility. The building is a soulless gray cinder block, surrounded by a double fence topped with razor wire. Noctis has only ever driven by this place and barely noticed its drab, institutional construction. Now that he’s staring at his future, he takes it all in: the armed guards in the towers, the prisoners walking an endless circuit on a dirt track, the height of the double fence. The aura of foreboding.
This will be his home for the next six months.
He thinks that maybe execution would have been better. And maybe that’s dramatic, but he thinks he prefers death to atrophy. He will waste away in this place. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. He can already feel an emptiness settling into his bones.
Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum does not exist anymore. Inside those walls, the last of the future King will be washed away. He will cease to be heir to anything, and it doesn’t even feel all that bad.
At the end of this, he’ll get a job and an apartment. He’ll live that life he fantasized about. There will be no one telling him who he can and can’t see, or where he can or can’t go. He’ll give Prompto a call and they’ll go to the arcade, for old time’s sake. They can be friends again, without restriction.
He’s taken to processing and made to strip. Everything comes off. Clothes. Socks. Shoes.
Every crevice and cavity is checked with medical gloves, like he’s some specimen in a lab. It’s uncomfortable and invasive and humiliating but he endures it in silence and thinks about freedom instead. Six months isn’t all that long. He can take it.
The neon green shirt and pants he’s given to dress in are too big. The foam sandals are too thin to cushion the soles of his feet and he might as well be walking barefoot on the cold, concrete floor. He accepts a stack of bedding, and in a daze he breathes in the faint hospital scent in the air around him.
It’s triggering. It takes him back to childhood. To the surgeries to fix his back and legs. The nurses and doctors flitting in and out of the sterile room and his father’s worried face peering down at him from the side of the bed, so much younger and his body so much stronger than he is now.
That memory lingers. His father’s dark hair, not yet shot through with more gray than black. His unlined face. The sharp and intelligent ferocity in his eyes. He’d been fun and quick to smile, free with his affection. Noctis is sure that version of his father loved him unconditionally.
That man is long gone. The man he knows now is tired and worn down and he’s losing a battle against time. He’s forgotten who he is, and how much Noctis still needed him.
The Noctis his father knew is long gone, too.
The Crownsguard stays with him until he’s taken to his cell and something shifts inside him when he’s turned over to the custody of the prison guards.
“Home sweet home,” one of them says. “Luxurious, huh?”
Noctis’ closet is bigger than this room. It’s more medieval than he expected, with cinder block walls painted a dim gray. The floor is unfinished concrete with a drain in the middle.
The purpose of that is something Noctis can’t think about without going crazy.
There’s a narrow bed with a naked mattress against one wall. A weird toilet-sink combination with the bowl, sans seat, on the bottom and a sink where the tank should be is bolted to the back wall. The remaining wall has a desk with a handful of shelves. Everything is bolted down in a way that seems excessive, and it smells a lot more like hospital cleaner in here than it did in the corridor.
His first night in his new home is miserable. He tosses and turns upon the hard, thin, and unforgiving mattress, bundled up in the scratchy, stiff blanket. Every sound echoes through the long corridor of cells beyond the bars. At some point, a guard yells at him to uncover his head. Apparently that’s not allowed.
Just outside his cell, the guards have conversations off and on all night. Sports, the war, him.
They’re amused to have an actual Prince in their custody, and somewhat amused that he isn’t above the law. They call him an entitled brat. A freedom fighter. Spoiled. Courageous. They argue about whether or not his actions were childish or enlightened for over an hour.
Again and again, huddled beneath the blanket and with his back screaming in pain from the pathetically thin mattress, he tries to retrieve things from the Armiger without success.
It’s still there. He feels it there, lingering somewhere in his consciousness, brimming with resources he could use in here. Something is blocking his access to the objects collected inside. Again and again, he reaches for his phone to pass the time, only to meet with a barrier that stops him from reaching it.
Breakfast comes too early. The lights come on at five and the cell block fills with the sounds of the other inmates rising from their bunks. There is laughter and raised voices, jokes and insults. Someone calls his name and suggests he needs to be broken in.
Noctis chooses not to respond or even think about what that implies.
He eats in his cell, just like the other inmates, and he sits at the small metal desk. Nothing on the plate is appetizing and it doesn’t look like any breakfast he’s ever had. He’s not even sure what it is, but he sees diced carrot and peas and bits of broccoli in it. Mushy noodles. Some sort of meat. He does his best to pick around the vegetables but it’s a wasted effort. The bits of broccoli have permeated the dish.
Without thinking, he reaches for his phone again and gets a sharp reminder when the Armiger refuses him access.
Yesterday, on the way here, he convinced himself that he welcomed this change with open arms. This was the first step toward the freedom to be like everybody else.
Today, he’s less sure of that. He has no friends here, and for as annoying as Gladio had been this last year, and as inept as his handlers had been, and for as distant as his father was, he was never really alone. There was always someone around who knew him.
Here, he has no allies. No safety net. In his stupid, juvenile defiance, he’s poured gasoline all over his life and set himself on fire just to prove a point he’s not even confident in anymore.
Yesterday, that felt good. Today, it feels like a mistake.
As he stares at the plate of uneaten breakfast and tries to picture dealing with this for the next six months, a quiet panic starts to set in.
Noctis is afraid. Most especially of what he did to land himself here. He can’t remember much of anything except being angry, and what scares him most is that it wasn’t purely outrage on behalf of the refugee community. He was pissed at his father. He wanted to teach him a lesson.
And he hurt people instead. There’s no apology that can make up for that.
A guard comes around to collect the meal trays and Noctis gets up and deposits his in the slot in the door as instructed.
“Something wrong with the food, Princess?” the guard asks. “Not fancy enough for you?”
“Not hungry,” Noctis mutters.
The guard collects the tray and laughs at Noctis like he doesn’t believe him. This guard knows he didn’t eat his baloney sandwich last night. He was the one that collected the tray then, too.
“Hunger strike ain’t gonna get you caviar and steak tartar, fancy pants,” the guard said. “You eat what everybody eats, or you don’t eat at all.”
Everything about this sucks, but nothing is worse than the realization that he’s messed up, and this is not going to be as easy as he thought it would be.
He returns to the bed and contemplates taking a nap. Before he can settle in, a second guard arrives.
“Yard, one hour,” he says.
Noctis doesn’t know what that means but he gets up like he’s told. The guard unlocks the door and ushers him into the corridor behind two or three other inmates. He follows until they exit the building into an outdoor pen that’s mostly dirt, surrounded by a two-story brick wall topped with armed guards and spotlights. It’s dull and bleak and has nothing to offer but a track worn into the dirt along the fences.
The other inmates start walking around the dirt track, some in pairs, some alone. He counts twenty others, including himself.
“What’s the point of this?” he asks the guard.
“Exercise, Princess. Get a move on.”
With nothing else to do, Noctis walks the track behind the others and fantasizes about escaping and running as far away from this place as he can get. He imagines himself creeping through dark alleyways and hiding in the back of an unsecured transport truck headed outside the city. He pictures rebuilding his life in some desolate place near a good fishing spot. Furnishing an abandoned shack with odds and ends salvaged from other abandoned shacks. Having to re-learn combat without the aid of his father’s magic.
Surely, that life would be better than this. Or anything in his life this past year.
It’s a stupid fantasy.
If the last twenty-four hours have taught him anything, it’s that he didn’t appreciate how good he had it. Being next in line for the Crown was its own sort of prison, but he’s never wanted for anything except his father’s time and attention. Even with Ignis and Prompto taken from him, he’s never gone without or been denied anything he needs or wants. Here, his basic needs will be met, with nothing extra to make the days bearable.
The hour is simultaneously the longest hour of his life, and the shortest. When its done, he follows the other inmates inside without a word and ignores the way they’re looking at him. He ignores the innuendos and the outright threats and the jokes about dropping soap.
Instead of returning to his cell, they’re herded into a pathetic looking library. Noctis chooses a table by himself and sits down instead of browsing the aisles like the others. If he was smart, he’d pick something to read, something to fill the hours upon hours that lay ahead, buy he doesn’t care enough to bother. He just sits there, staring off into space with his last words to his father echoing in his head.
He hadn’t really meant it, but it’s probably too late to take it back now.
Nyx and Prompto go out to the wall with Pelna and Sonitus. He’s friendly with Pelna, but he doesn’t think he’s ever exchanged a single word with Sonitus. The man was close with Tredd and Luche and Prompto can’t decide if he’s just reserved or actively chooses not to associate with him. This is his chance to get to know him, but on the drive there, Sonitus stares out the window and doesn’t engage.
Prompto’s getting a weird vibe off him and he thinks maybe he’s pissed about Tredd. He wouldn’t blame him if he was. He doesn’t think it would be easy to forgive someone who killed one of his friends, even if it was in self defense.
Drautos is still MIA and it’s a pretty bad time for it, but Nyx seems to be taking it in stride. He’s a good leader and Prompto definitely prefers his leadership style to Drautos’.
The Glaive’s spotters have reported back that Imperial airships are amassing at three different bases outside the wall. Another attack is inevitable, and if the intel is correct, it’s going to be a bad one.
Today’s excursion is a scouting mission. Nyx has said he wants to do something different this time around. Instead of just meeting them on the battlefield when they show up, he wants them to meet obstacles every step of the way.
“Sonitus is gonna show you how to rig explosives today, Plebe,” Nyx says. “Think you can handle that?”
“I’m totally not opposed to blowing the Empire’s shit up,” Prompto says. “Count me in.”
He spends half the morning sitting in the shade of a ruined building, constructing improvised landmines with Sonitus, who speaks only to give him instructions. Prompto thinks he’s a pretty quick study, but they’re not hard to build, either. By the time they run out of supplies, they’ve each got a pile of fifty or so in front of each of them.
“So what now?” he asks.
“Now we test one,” Sonitus says.
Prompto follows him out into the dead landscape, which is still littered with scraps from the last battle. Sonitus buries a mine in a shallow grave and sticks a small white flag in the ground above it.
“Back on the wall, Argentum,” Sonitus says. “When I give you the signal, shoot the flag.”
Prompto climbs back up and draws his rifle. Through the scope, he watches Sonitus bury one last mine and then retreat to safety behind the carcass of a rusting drop ship. He turns to Prompto and holds up a hand.
Next to Prompto, Nyx crouches above a map, murmuring something to Pelna.
“Fire in the hole,” he tells them.
He takes aim, finding the flag in the scope, and pulls the trigger.
Down on the ground there is a series of explosions, one after another, running left to right across the landscape. Beige dust billows up behind the explosions, obscuring the view of the desert beyond. Sonitus gives him a thumbs up.
“That was fun,” Nyx says with approval. “Tell Sonitus I want the whole field rigged up.”
Prompto frowns. If Nyx was Drautos, he wouldn’t bother to speak up, but Nyx has made it pretty clear he wants their input and their ideas.
“That sounds like a really bad idea, dude,” he says. “Like a good way to blow up our ground force.”
“Not if we hold the line while they’re advancing.”
Nyx gestures at the dissipating dust and puts a hand on Prompto’s shoulder.
“Start fifty paces back from the ones you just set off,” he says. “Six lines from end to end, all the way to the spot where the road bends. No matter where they insert on that field, whatever direction they go, they’re gonna hit resistance. Can’t advance, can’t retreat.”
Put that way, it’s not a bad idea, but it’s not enough to take out all of the Empire’s forces. And it won’t do shit to the drop ships.
“It’ll knock out the first wave, if we’re lucky,” Prompto admits. “What then?”
“Me and Pelna are working on it. Think divide and conquer,” Nyx says. “But, it would be awesome if you could give us a repeat performance.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I can. Still don’t know how it works,” Prompto said. “I definitely wouldn’t count on it. Never mind that breaking my legs isn’t really a party, dude.”
Nyx doesn’t hide his disappointment, but he gives Prompto a brotherly pat on the shoulder and sends him back to Sonitus. He relays Nyx’s orders and they spend the rest of the day burying the mines.
Prompto’s hot, tired, and covered in sand by the time they’re done. Sunset is still a couple hours away, and Nyx isn’t in any hurry to head back. He tosses Prompto a bottle of water and sits down on the wall with his legs dangling over the edge.
“We’re going to split our forces this time,” Nyx says. “Including the mages. Drautos wanted you on the ground this time, so that’s where you’re going to be.”
Prompto pulls a face. That’s the last place he wants to be, even if he knows why that decision’s being made.
“Look, I know it doesn’t make sense to put a ranged combatant on the ground, but you’re the only one of us who can get close to those things without getting killed,” Nyx said. “Plus, you know more about them than any of us do.”
“Why, because I got branded as a baby?”
“Because you’ve actually spent time tearing them down, so you now more about how they work than the rest of us,” Nyx says. “Cor told me you figured out how to pop out their cores. Even our techs have a hard time with that.”
He did do that. Repeatedly. Out of boredom. At the time, he didn’t think it was that big a deal, and he still doesn’t. It’s not like the others can benefit much from that knowledge.
“So you want me to run around popping their cores out?”
“No. I want you to take control of one of their mechs and use it to blow their shit out of the sky.”
Prompto blinks at him. He has to be joking. That’s the craziest thing he’d ever heard.
“Just because I took a couple of their robots apart doesn’t mean I know how to drive a mech, dude,” Prompto said. “I can barely drive a car.”
“Drive the mech like you drive a car and we’re gold,” Nyx says, grinning. “Just, you know, shoot stuff while you’re at it. And don't stomp any of the good guys.”
“You know this plan is insane, right?”
Nyx scratches his chin and shoots him a sideways glance. Prompto thinks for a second he’s about to get a dressing down, but Nyx cracks a smile and nods.
“That’s why it’ll work.”
Ignis has been despondent since Noctis was taken into custody the day before. He’s not showing it, but Gladio sees it, and there’s not a damn thing he can do to make it go away. He’s been stuck in training drills all day and his dad is all over his ass because his focus is off, but all he can think of is Ignis’ empty expression and the defeat that radiates off of him.
Things have been hush-hush since the courtroom yesterday, when Noct decided to renounce his title. Gladio’s not sure if it’s gonna hold, or if Regis is gonna do anything about it, but it burned him to hear Noct be so flippant about it, and it really pissed him off to hear him say they were dead to him.
After everything Ignis went through, after Prompto’s sacrifice, after Gladio took up the supportive big brother role to the best of his limited abilities, to have Noctis disregard everyone who cared about him made him want to whip his ass all the way to Altissia and back.
He’s not sure what, if anything is gonna happen. Noctis acted like a child, and much like a child, what he said when he was pissed was to be taken with a grain of salt. Astrals know, Gladio said plenty of things when he was a kid that he didn’t mean when he got upset.
During a water break, Gladio messages Ignis. He doesn’t want to be pushy, but they could both use a night out and there’s a new place he wants to try.
He doesn’t expect Ignis to say yes, but he does.
After training is done, Gladio slips out before his dad can find him and chew him out some more.
Ignis messages back that he’ll have to meet Gladio at the restaurant. The council is holding an emergency meeting about an impending Imperial attack, and without Drautos to lead the Glaive, there’s some grumblings about their ability to respond with force.
Gladio, like everybody else, has been wondering where the hell Drautos is. He’s been MIA for a while now, and nobody seems to know what happened. And if they do, they’re not talking.
That makes Gladio uneasy. For all his jokes about the Glaives being feral, he’s not really that far off. Without a solid leader, in this political environment, they could easily end up failing to protect the city and wind up going rogue. If the Glaives fall, so could Insomnia.
He calls the restaurant and pushes the reservation back thirty minutes, just so he’s not standing outside alone too long.
In his apartment, he chooses black slacks and a white button-down shirt. Over it, he tugs a charcoal sweater Iris got him a while back. He hasn’t had a chance to wear it, but it’s soft to the touch and fits him like a dream. The place he’s picked is on the casual side of fine dining, but he figures he might as well make an effort to look good.
The restaurant is only a couple blocks from his place, so he decides to walk.
It’s a nice night, if a little on the cool side. Feels like fall’s coming a little early this year and he’s looking forward to the cooler temperatures. If he’s lucky, he might get a chance to steal away for a weekend to camp at the preserve before it gets too cold, and he wonders if he invited Ignis, he’d be willing to go.
Knowing Ignis, he would cite too much work to catch up on. He’s been gone a year and he’s been fully engaged with reports he’s missed in that time.
Gladio doesn’t see any need to go back that far, since most of those reports come out quarterly with updated information. The exception are the intelligence reports, which come out anywhere from weekly to twice a day. Gladio tried to remind him that a six month old dossier on employment rates isn’t relevant anymore and Ignis ignored him.
The restaurant Gladio chose has only been open two weeks but it’s gotten great reviews. It used to be a dinner theater place that Iris loved when she was nine because it was medieval themed and the entertainment was meant for children.
From what Gladio recalls, the food had been mediocre, since it also catered to kids, and way overpriced for what it was. After it closed, the new owners turned it into a jazz and tapas place that features unusual high-end appetizers, like scallop ceviche and peppered tuna tartar. There are no entrees, only appetizers and desserts.
He’s still out front, with fifteen minutes till the reservation, when Ignis rushes past him without so much as a glance. He looks a bit blank, a little frazzled and a lot less well put together than usual. Gladio hopes it’s not because everything’s about to go to shit.
“Iggy,” he calls out, stepping away from the tree he’s been hanging out under for the last twenty minutes. “Hey.”
Ignis stops and turns toward the sound of his voice, obvious stress shining through his mask of professionalism. Most people wouldn’t spot it, but Gladio’s known Ignis too long to be fooled.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Ignis says. “Cor called the meeting just as I was about to head home.”
“You’re right on time,” Gladio says. “I pushed the reservation back.”
Gladio can see the stress bleed out of him, leaving him looking tired and far too young for the burdens he carries.
“You look nice,” Ignis says and touches the sleeve of Gladio’s sweater. “Cashmere?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Gladio purrs. “Shall we?”
The interior has been completely redone. The last time Gladio was here, the walls were painted in a childish approximation of a castle with a moat and fire-breathing dragons scattered throughout. Now it’s classy, done up in plush navy with gold accents and dark wood. On the stage where actors used to perform in tacky costumes and recite bad dialogue, there’s a band playing modern jazz.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of jazz,” Ignis says after they’re seated.
“I like some of it,” Gladio says. “Especially some of the fusions. Older stuff, not so much.”
Ignis turnes the menu over, his brow furrowed.
“I think mine’s missing a page. There are no entrees.”
“They don’t serve entrees,” Gladio says with some amusement.
“That’s blasphemous.”
“Surprised you didn’t look the menu up ahead of time, Iggy,” Gladio teases.
“No time,” Ignis says. “But what sort of restaurant serves only appetizers?”
Gladio chuckles and explains the concept to Ignis. He’s a little surprised he’s never heard of this style of dining, but maybe he missed its rise in popularity by being away from the Citadel for a year.
“Trust me, you’re gonna love it,” Gladio says. “What do you say we order the quartet and share? I pick two, you pick two?”
Ignis agrees and picks out a wine to pair with their meal. Onstage, the band launches into an old standard with updates. It sounds like a mash-up of jazz and club music. Gladio likes it.
Gladio watches his old friend, longing to step over the wall Ignis has thrown up between them. He thinks about what Ignis said about wanting something just for himself and he wishes Ignis had heard him volunteer to be that thing. He won’t say it again, but his feelings haven’t changed. Ignis needs something, or someone, to stop him from falling headfirst into work. Otherwise he'll shacke himself to it like he did before.
The food is really good. Ignis apologizes when he takes a couple of notes on flavor profiles and murmurs something about recreating a couple of the dishes. Gladio dismisses his concern. Ignis knows he's always happy to taste test.
There’s a long lull in conversation as Gladio struggles to find something to talk about that isn’t work. Ignis doesn’t seem in the mood for holding up his end of the conversation, and Gladio doesn’t want to talk about Noct because that’s all he’s thought about for days. Ignis can’t discuss whatever went on during the council meeting in public and it’s so awkward, Gladio excuses himself to the restroom just to break up the drawn out silence.
It occurs to him that all they have in common these days is work and Noctis. To Gladio, there’s an obvious mutual attraction, in spite of Ignis’ reluctance to move forward with it. Besides that, what do they really have? Their entire relationship is based on duty, with a handful of shared interests.
Ignis doesn’t have time to read anymore and their tastes are at opposite ends of the spectrum, so they can’t discuss that. Movies and TV shows are off the table too. Anything to do with governing or politics is too close to talking about work. Ignis isn’t into sports or the outdoors. His entire life is the job.
Gladio wants desperately to give him a reprieve. It’s not healthy to be so single minded. Duty is one thing, but the job has eaten up Ignis’ entire personality, and Gladio knows there’s much more to him than that.
When he returns to the table, Ignis has refilled his wine glass. He offers a weak smile as Gladio sits back down. Gladio knows he’s only half with him and he tries not to be hurt by the fact that Ignis’ mind is on work and not him.
“So, how is Iris?” Ignis asks. “I haven’t seen her in quite a while.”
“She’s good. Joined the drama club so I don’t see her much either thanks to rehearsals,” Gladio said. “Can you believe she’s turning fifteen?”
“Already?” Ignis asks. “I feel like we were just celebrating her thirteenth.”
“It’s goin’ too fast,” Gladio admits. “In my head, she’s still five.”
“Does she have any special plans?” Ignis asks.
“Roller skating with her friends,” Gladio said. “No boys allowed, not even her big brother.”
“She’s just asserting her independence,” Ignis says. “I wouldn’t take it too personal.”
“I remember being fifteen, so I don’t hold it against her,” Gladio says. “I’ll probably take her out for ramen or something.”
“She’d like that.”
There’s another lull, but it’s short lived. The waiter brings the check and Gladio takes it before Ignis can and sticks his card in the sleeve before handing it right back.
“Gladio-” Ignis protests.
“It’s my treat. You can get the next one.”
Gladio’s assuming there will be a next one. He hopes anyway. He’s not ready to give up.
In spite of the awkwardness of the evening, Gladio doesn’t want to call it a night yet.
“Wanna come over?” Gladio asks. “Maybe watch a movie? Take your mind off things?”
He expects Ignis to beg off, but he agrees. Once inside Gladio’s apartment, some of Ignis’ tension eases a little. Gladio’s not sure if the wine has kicked in, or if the very public date proved too much for him. Not until they’re seated on the couch, feet propped up on the ottoman and a documentary about Altissian fishermen that’s more interesting than it sounds, does Ignis bring it up.
“I’m sorry for not being present tonight,” Ignis says. “But I appreciate the invitation more than you know.”
“You gotta get out more, Iggy,” Gladio says. “Figure out how to step away, you know? I see you headed right back to doin’ what made you unhappy in the first place.”
Ignis nods and shifts toward him, drawing his knees up onto the couch. He doesn’t look angry. He looks ashamed and tired.
“Can we discuss something else?” Ignis asks. “I’m well versed in my own shortcomings.”
Gladio feels like pushing the issue, but it would lead to another fight and Gladio doesn’t want to fight with him. He wants Ignis to relax. He wants Ignis to trust him enough to let him in.
“What do you wanna talk about?”
“I just want to shut off my brain for a while,” Ignis says. “If that’s alright.”
Gladio leans back into the arm of the couch and stretches out. He’s taking a risk when he beckons Ignis to him, but he’s willing to chance it. He wants Ignis to have a soft place to land, and he wants to be that place.
Ignis doesn’t get a chance to decide one way or another. They both get an alert from the Citadel.
ALL ACTIVE DUTY CROWNSGUARD: ASSEMBLE AT THE KING’S GATE 05:00 AM PREPARED FOR BATTLE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
They look at each other. Ignis does not look surprised.
“You knew,” Gladio says.
“I knew.”
“You mighta mentioned it.”
“I wanted to enjoy the evening,” Ignis says, looking guilty.
Gladio sits up and leans his elbows against his knees. Beside him, Ignis is still and quiet and Gladio infers that what’s coming must be bad. He’s surprised he wasn’t called into the council meeting himself.
Maybe he would have been if he hadn’t avoided his father.
“There’s a good chance our services will be needed on the battlefield,” Ignis says. “Our spotters have reported the Empire’s forces are double what the Glaive faced last time and they seem to have an unknown weapon with them. Without our assistance, the Glaive’s forces will be decimated. And if the Glaives fall, the only thing between us and them is the Wall.”
Gladio wipes a hand over his face, a sick feeling in his stomach.
“You really think they’d send us in?” he asks. “Noct ain’t gonna be in jail forever.”
“It’s a risk they’re willing to take.”
Ignis’s gaze is as sharp as one of his daggers. Gladio reads between the lines. If the Empire wins, everything they know and love will be gone, including Noct, and there won’t be anything left to protect. Meeting the Empire on the battlefield might be the only way to keep Noctis, and the city, safe. Should either of them die on that battlefield in the process, they can be replaced. The city, and Noctis, cannot.
“My dad joining in, or what?” Gladio asks.
“He’ll stay with His Highness,” Ignis says. “Cor will lead us at the wall. Nyx has the Glaives.”
“Will it be enough?”
“I don’t know,” Ignis says. “Nyx says he has a plan. A good one.”
“Think it’s Prompto?”
“I don’t think it’s wise to count on his ability. It would be helpful, though.”
Gladio’s overwhelmed all of a sudden. Not because he’s going to fight tomorrow, and not because he could die. He can live with that, if it means Noct is safe.
It’s everything else. All those things he might never get to do. All the places he might never see.
And Ignis. He can’t tell Ignis how he feels. If he dies and Ignis doesn’t, he doesn’t want Ignis to have that memory weighing on him, but he doesn’t want to go to his grave leaving anything unsaid, either.
Maybe he’s not in love, but he does love Ignis. As a friend and a brother. He has an enormous amount of respect for him. He wants him to have everything he deserves and more, and to give something back for all the ways he strives to make their lives easier.
He reaches for Ignis’s hand without looking at him. Their fingers lace together as if they’ve done it a thousand times before. Ignis must be feeling it too. The uncertainty. The fear. He doesn’t let go of Gladio’s hand, and his grip is warm and reassuring.
“We’ve always knew it might come to something like this,” Ignis says. “We’ve been trained for it.”
He’s right. Ignis is always right. They’ve both trained their whole lives for this and it’s foolish to believe they would never have to put it to use.
“Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”
“That makes two of us,” Ignis says. “But I must say, I’m eager to put my skills to the test.”
“I just wanna fuck up some Niffs.”
There’s a pause and Ignis’ fingers tighten in his.
“You’ve been a good friend, Gladio. If something happens -”
“Don’t do that, Iggy,” Gladio says. “We ain’t saying goodbye, so whatever it is, save it. When the battle’s over, if you still wanna, you can tell me then.”
Ignis exhales a soft puff of air that Gladio somehow feels in his soul and Gladio finally looks at him.
The man looking back at him isn’t the advisor of the future King. He’s not the stoic, straight-laced, uptight chamberlain or even the deadly warrior Gladio knows he is. He’s just a twenty-one year old scared to death he might die on a battlefield tomorrow. Just like Gladio.
That vulnerability is more than Gladio can take. He tugs Ignis closer, needing comfort and physical contact and Ignis doesn’t resist. It’s Ignis who kisses him this time, climbing into his lap and pinning him back into the couch cushions. Gladio’s arms go around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them.
“Gladio.”
“Hmm.”
“Take your clothes off.”
Gladio doesn’t need to be told twice.
The first snow of the season has fallen on Tenebrae and the air is sharp and crisp and fresh. If Luna closes her eyes, she can smell the snow up here on the balcony, something Ravus has long insisted is a figment of her imagination. Snow doesn’t have a smell, he says. No more than wind has a smell.
But it does. It smells clean and cold, like moisture and atmosphere. She loves the way it blankets the mountains and valleys, and the way everything gets quiet, and how under moonlight it seems to glow.
This year, it feels ominous, preventing full delight in it. It’s painfully early. Not even September yet and the first snowfall normally waits until October.
An ill wind, as her mother would have said. An omen.
Luna wraps her shawl tighter around her nightgown and shivers in the cold. She’s not appropriately dressed for this and she should have gone to bed more than an hour ago, but she was drawn out to the balcony by the moon and something far more powerful than intuition.
“You should rest,” Gentiana says. “Your body is weak.”
“It’s the human condition,” Luna says. “We’re such fragile vessels, aren’t we?”
Gentiana moves to her side at the railing and mimics Luna’s posture. She tries so hard to behave as though she’s human when she’s anything but. It’s never been needed in Luna’s presence, but Gentiana persists. She says Luna would not like her true form.
“Something’s coming, isn’t it?” Luna asks. “Something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen, and everything’s changed.”
“Yes.”
The visions of the future Luna’s had since childhood have shifted and become muddled. Where once, there was a single clear direction, and only one way forward, there are now many. She sees several ways this journey might end and they diverge so wildly, it’s impossible to tell with path is the truth.
In all but one, she dies in Altissia upon the Altar of the Hydrean. She cannot see the means of her death, only the aftermath, and she’s prepared to accept her fate because it is her calling. Nothing and no one will stop her from awakening the Astrals to aid the King of Light.
That is her duty. As it has been ordained for centuries.
In the vision where she does not die in Altissia, Noctis dies in Insomnia with the city in ruins around him.
Perhaps dies is the wrong word. She sees him in a cage, infected with the Starscourge, thrashing at the bars as his skin crawls with shadows, beyond salvation. A daemon cannot bring the light, nor fight the darkness. Death would be a better, kinder end.
“I don’t understand what’s coming,” Luna admits. “Or how to stay on the right path.”
“The way forward is no longer clear,” Gentiana says. “There are pieces missing. I can no longer see, when the Prophecies do not apply.”
“What do I do?” Luna asks. “If the prophecies no longer hold?”
“I cannot say.”
Luna supposes this is how the rest of the world feels, not knowing what lies ahead, but it’s not something she’s used to. Her whole life, she’s had a purpose and a clear vision of the future, and now her compass is spinning.
“You have company,” Gentiana says. “I’ll take my leave.”
There’s a knock at the door and Ravus enters a second later, appearing tired and bedraggled. He’s dressed in fatigues rather than his formal Imperial uniform. He spies her on the balcony and stalks across the room to join her outside, his mouth twisted in a scowl.
“Are you trying to catch sick?” he demands. “Come inside.”
“I’m not one of your troops, Ravus,” Luna says. “You don’t get to order me to do anything.”
“You should be in bed.”
“If that’s true, then why visit me so late?”
Ravus casts his eyes to the hilly mountains beyond and the corners of his mouth turn downward. He wears a perpetual scowl, but this is deeper and darker than his usual frown.
“We launch an attack on Insomnia in the morning,” he says. “I’ll be leading the charge.”
“Ravus.”
“They nearly took us down last time under Ulldor’s command,” Ravus says. “The Emperor will not allow another defeat. We will win, and take the city by sundown tomorrow.”
Luna searches his face, seeking any shred of the brother she loves dearly behind the stern mask. What comes to her is not a vision exactly, but a sense this mission is already doomed before it starts. She sees misery and death in his countenance, and this may be the last time she sees him alive.
“Lucis is not our enemy, Ravus.”
“They’re certainly not our friends.”
They’ve had this conversation or some variation of it since childhood. Ravus cannot be convinced Regis did the only thing he could do when the Empire attacked their home. He had no choice but to flee with Noctis. Going back for Ravus meant certain death for the both of them.
Deep down, Ravus knows this is the truth, but he’s never forgiven the King. Not for leaving them, and not for his failure to protect their mother. Neither of which Regis was responsible for.
“Do you see our victory, Luna?”
“No. There will be no victory.”
Ravus’ purple eyes search hers and he steps closer. A shiver passes through him, either fear or cold, and he looms tall above her. His presence is threatening, his anger clear.
“You will fail, Ravus. You and your army will not last until sundown.”
Though Luna cannot see the battle or its outcome, she can feel it in her bones. She’s not certain the Lucians will emerge victorious either, but she knows all the way through that Ravus’ army will suffer heavy damage.
“Impossible,” Ravus says, his arrogance swelling. “We have a weapon this time. One their forces cannot defeat.”
“You will fail, Ravus.”
Luna leaves the balcony and Ravus follows, closing the doors behind him. He stands in the middle of the room as Luna sits on the edge of her canopied bed, watching his form shift from human to daemon and back.
“Then give me your blessing, sister,” he says. “That I shall not fall in battle.”
“You know I cannot.”
“If I fall, there is no one left to protect you,” he says. “I’m the only thing standing between you and the Empire. Should I die, there’s nothing to stop them from doing as they please with you. How do you help your pretty Prince then?”
She sees it. A dark cell in the cold depths of a Gralean military base. Daemons lurking around in the dark beyond the bars of her prison. Her body bruised and used and her gifts the only thing keeping her from being killed.
“So be it,” she says and lifts her chin in defiance. “They doom themselves and the world.”
“We’re trying to save it!” he shouts. “The Caelums keep the tools to do so locked away behind the Wall, protecting only themselves while the rest of the world suffers! You know this is true, Luna. One Prince is nothing in comparison to all the other lives that roam Eos.”
“That Prince is the only thing that can stop what’s coming,” Luna says, as she’s said for years. “I cannot give you my blessing, Ravus. It doesn’t work like that. It will not protect you from anything.”
Ravus’ face vacillates between rage and sorrow and Luna hurts for the wounded boy inside him. His intentions are good, but he’s allowed himself to believe in the might of the Empire over and above the will of the Gods.
“Then at least give me your prayers.”
Luna softens at his plaintive tone and holds out a hand. Prayers are only a wish. A bit of comfort in dark times and nothing more. They are granted or denied on the whims of the Astrals.
She says the prayer, Ravus’ cold, calloused hands in hers as he kneels before her. For a moment, he is only her brother, and not the High Commander who is actively working against a calling that should be shared between them.
When it’s done, Ravus stays on his knees and bows his head into her thighs like a child seeking the comfort of his mother’s lap. She can feel the conflict inside him, and all the questions and doubts he’s struggling with. There’s nothing more for her to say, and she cannot make him listen, but she tries one last time, before it’s too late to bring him back.
“I cannot stop, Ravus,” she says. “Not until my heart beats its last. I would rather have you at my side as my brother and my protector than have you become an obstacle standing in my way.”
She purposely does not use the word enemy. No matter where this road leads, Ravus will never be her enemy.
“Help me fulfill my duty,” she says. “As mother would have had you do.”
Luna has never used their mother against him before. In his mind, their mother is flawless and untouchable, a saint among daemons. She could do no wrong in his eyes, and the loss of her has informed his every choice since her death.
Luna knows better. Their mother was as flawed and imperfect as any other. Gifted and blessed and kind, but also mercurial and demanding, leaving no room for anything but perfection from Luna.
Ravus was never on the receiving end of mother’s ruthless side. He was not the one chosen by the Gods to carry on the line, but he was the one she doted upon. Perhaps to make up for the birthright that traditionally went to the oldest child, but was denied him by the Gods when no in-born ability was detected. Or, perhaps she simply favored Ravus over and above Luna. Perhaps it was both.
“She would want you at my side. And if not at my side, she would want you to aid me in completing my mission,” she says. “It would make her sick to see you siding with those who stole our home and our titles from us, and have kept me a prisoner and you as their puppet.”
Ravus shifts back, still on his knees. He keeps his head bowed.
“Do you not see?” he asks. “I am aiding you, Luna. As best as I can.”
Luna is about to take a huge risk in saying what she says next. It could cost her, and dearly.
“Then help me,” she says. “See me safely to Lucis. I am needed there.”
“I will not.”
“Then you are against me, Ravus,” she says.
“No. I’m trying to keep you alive. The Gods are liars and we are only toys to them,” he says. He meets her gaze, and she can see he’s firm in this belief. “And you will die, and for what?”
“We all die,” she says. “I’ve made my peace with it, and the only regret I will take to my grave is that you had so little faith in me that you chose to fight for our enemy.”
Ravus gasps as if she’s struck him. She looks upon his face, almost certain that this will be the last time she will see him in person, unless he changes course. That she cannot see. In some of the futures she can see he’s still alive. In some, he falls outside the King’s Gate in Lucis. In some, he is a monster, twisted and deformed by scourge.
She cannot save him. He can only save himself.
“I’m weary, Ravus,” she says. “Leave me be.”
He stands and looks her over, gives a short nod, and flees her room without so much as a parting word. If Luna wasn’t so drained, she might shed a tear, but Ravus has made his choice.
Tears will not change it.
If he will not help her find safe passage to Lucis, then she will have to find it on her own.
Notes:
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Chapter 17: Part 1: The Devil's Playground
Summary:
Hostages are taken. On both sides.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ignis arrives at the King’s Gate twenty minutes before five. He notes that only half of the Crownsguard are there, and Gladio is not among them. Perhaps he should have stayed to ensure Gladio was awake before he left, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb him if he didn’t have to. Now he worries Gladio might oversleep or miss his alarm.
He calls Gladio as he watches Cor, who is conferring with Nyx at the gate. Anxiety ripples through him as the phone starts to ring.
“Mornin’,” Gladio grumbles.
“Are you on your way?”
“Be there in five,” Gladio says. “You shoulda woke me.”
“There was no need for you to be up so early,” Ignis says.
“We okay?”
“Of course,” Ignis says. “But we can discuss it later, if you like.”
Ignis doesn’t feel the same sort of regret he did the first time. It hadn’t felt the same. Like being with a completely different man. Their respective motivations were different this time, too. Either of them could potentially die today, and it was only natural to seek comfort and distraction in each other. Whether that would be something worth pursuing in the future remained to be seen.
“I’ll see you when you arrive.”
He secures his phone in the Armiger and notices a group of Glaives to the left of the gate. Among them is a familiar smiling face, who laughs heartily at something a tall, stocky young man is signing at him. Ignis approaches, hoping to have a word before all hell breaks loose.
Prompto glances up and his smile grows huge when he sees Ignis.
“Iggy!” he cries.
He’s changed even more since the last time Ignis saw him. He truly looks like a Glaive now, with his hair cut into a Glaive style, complete with braids, and there are several small tattoos on his ears and neck that were not there before. It would be shocking if it didn’t suit him so well.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Ignis says sternly. He crosses his arms over his chest for effect. “What, exactly, did you do to get my charges dropped?”
Prompto flashes another grin, this one sheepish, but his eyes sparkle almost mischievously.
“It’s no big deal,” Prompto says. “I’m just helping with a big project.”
“According to Clarus, you didn’t ask to have your own charges dropped, you asked for mine.”
Prompto steps a few paces away from the others and crosses his arms over his chest. In his posture, he finally sees a bit of the old Prompto.
“Care to explain why?”
“Noct needs you more than me,” Prompto says. “And he’ll need you to guide him when everything falls apart. More than he’ll need me. Besides, you’re not the one with the brand. They’re never gonna totally trust me, no matter what I do.”
Ignis gets choked up. He doesn’t believe that’s true. Noctis needs Prompto, too. For different reasons, but he needs him.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Consider it me returning the favor, buddy,” Prompto says. “For everything you’ve done for me. No thanks needed.”
Ignis reaches out and pulls him into a tight hug. Gods, he misses the way things used to be. He misses the days when the worst thing he had to worry about was Noctis leaving messes everywhere he went.
“You ready for this?” Prompto asks when he pulls back.
“As I’ll ever be,” Ignis says. “I kept up with my training, for the most part.”
Prompto looks incredibly calm. He looks confident. Ignis knows how good Prompto is at hiding his real feelings, but it gives him a measure of comfort to see there’s no apparent fear in him. He’s not fidgeting or picking at his cuticles.
Ignis has to remember, Prompto has been through this already, and he has a very powerful weapon at his disposal.
“Ah, listen,” Prompto says. “If you see me doing crazy stuff out there, don’t freak out, okay?”
“Such as?”
“Just – I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“Is this about the magic?”
“No,” Prompto says and scratches his chin. “It’s just, me and Nyx got a plan, and it’s kinda nuts, or it’s gonna look nuts, but it isn’t, I swear. Well, it is, but I just need you to trust me. Okay?”
“I assume that means you’ll be putting yourself in danger,” Ignis says.
“So much danger,” Prompto says but his grin is bright. “But it’s okay, ‘cause it’ll keep the city safe if we can pull it off.”
Ignis can’t even imagine what they have planned. He doesn’t get the chance to ask. Cor calls everyone to gather around and Ignis follows the stream of Glaives and Crownsguard over to the gate. Gladio arrives just as Ignis makes his way up to the front.
There’s a scowl on his face but his hand brushes against Ignis’, a big thumb sliding over his palm. A ripple of excitement washes through Ignis at the contact, and an unintended gasp wrenches past his lips at the memory of Gladio’s lips trailing soft kisses down the centerline of his body, how gentle his hands. Gladio’s gaze lingers on Ignis’ face for just a second as if he’s looking for something. Reassurance or confirmation that Ignis isn’t angry, perhaps.
Gladio is nervous. More nervous than Ignis has ever seen him in all the years they’ve known one another. Ignis can’t publicly offer comfort but he acknowledges Gladio’s anxiety with a discreet brush of his pinky against Gladio’s. The touch seems to ease Gladio’s tension and he hooks his pinky around Ignis’ for just a second. It might be affectionate, or it might be a show of solidarity.
“Talked to my dad,” Gladio says. “Asked why I’m not with Noct. Said I would be if Noct hadn’t gotten himself in trouble.”
“I imagine he’s heavily guarded,” Ignis says.
He has his own reservations about Noctis being left in the custody of prison guards in the face of such a massive assault. If by chance the walls are breached and the Empire invades, Ignis puts on faith in their protection. It’s not a choice he would have made, but there’s no sense in questioning it. Neither he nor Gladio are in charge.
“They ain’t his shield,” Gladio says. “Dad blames me. Says I let Noct wander the city and it was my job to put a stop to it.”
Ignis won’t say it to his face, but Gladio did play a role in that, by not taking it as seriously as he should have. Ignis warned him. He urged Gladio to keep a closer eye on Noctis’ wanderings, but Ignis can’t say Gladio should shoulder the blame on his own. King Regis, the various advisors, even the Crownsguard assigned to him, they all failed in their own way to ensure Noctis wasn’t out wandering the city alone.
“No sense in dwelling on it,” Ignis says. “What’s done is done.”
“Yeah, but he’s right. And so were you. I let Noct down.”
“We can discuss this later over a well-earned drink,” Ignis says. “In depth, if you like.”
Nyx and Cor climb up into the bed of a transport vehicle and the crowd around them stills. There is something under a tarp behind them. Ignis catches sight of Prompto near the front standing between Crowe and a plump man he assumes is Libertus Osteum. A large rifle is slung across Prompto’s back.
“Listen up!” Nyx shouted. “Intel’s saying the Niff Army’s about two hours out and we’re looking at the largest force they’ve ever sent. Word is, they’re being led by High Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret this time, so obviously they’ve decided to stop playing with us.”
That is news to Ignis. He shoots Gladio a glance, who looks as surprised as Ignis feels.
“First thing,” Nyx says. “Do not set foot on the field until I give the order. You’ll see why once they start their approach. Second, we’re splitting up our forces this time, including the mage teams. We want them trapped on all sides.”
Nyx beckons to Prompto, who hops up into the truck and tugs the tarp off an MT unit.
Ignis has never seen one in person, only photographs.
“Third, if you find yourself pinned down by one of these rust buckets, Argentum here learned a neat little trick that could save your life,” Nyx says. “Prompto? Do the honors.”
Prompto points to something round on the MT’s chest..
“This is what powers them,” he says. “Pop it out and it’ll totally stop trying to delete you. Like so.”
He demonstrates, pulling a tab on each side to release it. It slides out easily and he holds it up, then puts it back in. He does it a couple times, pointing out the tabs each time.
“How the fuck does he know that?” Gladio wonders.
“He’s always been good with technology,” Ignis says. “I’ve heard the Glaive has a team dedicated to finding out how they work. I suspect he’s been working with them.”
“Definitely good to know, but I don’t plan on lettin’ any of them get that close.”
“Moving on. If you see a white flag on the field, steer clear of it,” Nyx says. “It’s a mine. It probably won’t kill you if you step on it, but do you really wanna take that chance?”
Prompto moves to hop back out of the truck, but Nyx scruffs him and keeps him there.
“Last, pay no attention what this kid is doing out there today,” Nyx says. “He’s got a mission separate from yours. The only thing you need to worry about is if he gives the order to fall back. If he’s on the com saying to move your ass, you move your ass, no questions asked. Is that understood?”
Ignis and Gladio exchange glances. Gladio lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
“Alright, team assignments are as follows,” Nyx says and begins to rattle off names.
They both wind up on ground assault, but on opposite ends of the field. Only then does it dawn on Ignis that they’re going into a real fight, and they will both be on the front lines. There are a thousand things he wants to say to Gladio, but there’s no time to say them. He’s loaded up into a large transport truck, shoulder to shoulder with Glaives and Crownsguard.
He takes a calming breath as they exit the King’s Gate, leaving Gladio and Prompto behind. Cor is in the vehicle behind theirs.
Along the edges of the battlefield are the remains of past battles. Rusting drop ships and machines, MT’s and broken down vehicles. The field itself is dotted with small white flags placed at odd intervals. The mines Nyx spoke of.
He understands now why Nyx said not to set foot on the field until ordered. If Ignis’ estimate is correct, there are likely hundreds of them spread out from one end to the other.
It’s smart, if not dangerous. One false step, one failed mine, could injure or kill their own people.
Ignis’ heart is in his throat as they unload and are sent to their positions. He’s stationed behind the walls of a crumbling building with five or six others. On the partial wall above, several mages are stationed, awaiting the first wave of the Empire’s forces.
It feels like forever before the first drop ships arrive and Ignis holds his breath as they open up and a dozen or so MT’s drop to the ground. There are dozens of ships behind those and Ignis watches in horror as the field is very quickly filled with hundreds of MT’s, all lined up in formation, banners flying.
When they start to march toward the gate, Ignis expects the order to move but Cor reminds everyone to hold position. His heart is pounding, watching these machines advancing on his home, his hands slick with sweat inside his gloves.
It’s only when the front of the MT formation reaches the gate that something happens.
“Prompto,” Nyx says. “Go.”
A single shot rings out and it’s followed by a series of explosions, one after another, each one triggering the next for what feels like several minutes. The air fills with dust and smoke and the sound of crunching metal is all that can be heard among the blasts. Prompto’s bullet must have triggered the mines, which must have been rigged to explode in succession.
It’s genius. If only they could take out the remaining waves of Imperials with the same ease.
Ignis dares to peek around the edge of their shelter when the blasts stop but there’s nothing to be seen but a wall of khaki-colored dust.
“Hold,” Nyx says.
The arrival of the next wave goes the same, with ships dropping MT’s onto the field, heedless of the loss they’d just suffered. It doesn’t bode well in Ignis’ mind, that the loss of two-hundred or more of their units hadn’t phased them at all.
This time, mechs are dropped at the back of the formation. Six, by Ignis’ count and they’re mounted with some very large, impressive weaponry. He can’t tell if they’re manned or fully robotic like the MT’s but he supposes it doesn’t matter. An enemy is an enemy.
“Ready,” Cor says. “On three.”
Ignis tenses, his daggers held in a tight grip and his blood singing for action. Though he’s not in agreement with Clarus’ decision to send him, or Gladio, he’s itching for the chance to prove himself, after so many years of training. They’ve taken flack from the Glaives for being soft and inexperienced for as long as he can remember, perhaps today he can change that.
Prompto looks to Nyx as the fighting begins on the ground. His heart is pounding, thinking of Ignis and Gladio down there with the rest. He can’t think about either of them dying right now. His own mission is about to begin, as insane as it is.
“Ready?” Nyx asks.
Prompto nods and takes hold of Nyx’s belt. The plan is for the both of them to commandeer a mech, after Prompto argued that one wouldn’t be enough. Neither of them are sure Prompto’s chip will shield the both of them from MT detection in the midst of the fight, but it’s worth a shot.
Nyx warps away from the wall, Prompto holding Nyx’s belt for dear life and fighting back nausea, until they’ve reached the closest pair of mechs. Both have focused their fire on the ramparts above the field, where the mages are stationed. Prompto says a quick prayer for Crowe and her team, but it’s cut short by a blast of fire to his left that sends both of them to the ground.
There are MT’s advancing and Prompto braces himself as he backs them both up against a boulder, taking care to keep himself between them and Nyx. They march past him, heading toward the gates and Prompto lets out a breath. Unconsciously, he reaches for the bracelet with the chip in it and realizes it isn’t there.
“Shit,” he mutters and glances around, hoping against hope it’s nearby. “Fuck.”
“You hurt?”
“Chip is gone,” he says.
Yet the MT’s continue to march past him, Nyx at his back, still undetected.
“Retreat?” Prompto asks.
“Nope. We’re close enough,” Nyx says. “I’ll take the one on the right. You get the one on the left.”
Prompto’s got a bad feeling about this, but Nyx is right. They’re only a few yards away from their respective targets and having to fight and warp their way back would suck a lot more than having to fight off the handful of MT’s between them and the mechs.
“On three?” Prompto says.
“Your count.”
Prompto doesn’t bother. He dashes away from Nyx and circles around to what he assumes is the driver’s side of the Mech on their left. There are hand and foot holds on the side next to the door and he swiftly latches on. Nyx moves away from the boulder and does the same with the Mech on the right.
He takes a breath and pops the latch and is confronted by a very human looking driver. Prompto wastes no time and draws his Calamity, pressing it against the man’s temple.
The guy can’t be much older than he is, and Prompto notices his coloring is eerily similar to his own. He hasn’t expected the Mech to be manned, and he’s not excited about having to kill another person but he doubts this guy would spare his life if it came down to it.
Still, it’s not so easy to just pull the trigger. This young man is angry and sneering at him, but underneath the hostility is fear and that fear makes him seem much younger. He’s just a kid, really.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Nyx chuck the driver of the other Mech out the door without ceremony. There’s a scream as the driver gets caught up under the legs of the Mech. Prompto doesn’t look to see what happened to him.
“You wanna live, get in the passenger seat,” Prompto says. “Now.”
The young man’s lip curls and Prompto figures he’s going to put up a fight, forcing him to shoot, but he doesn’t. After a pause, he slides over and Prompto wastes no time securing his hands and ankles with a pair of thick zip-ties before buckling him into the seat. Safety first and all.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” the young man growls. “Or what you’re about to face.”
“Pipe down, peanut gallery,” Prompto says and looks over the console. “I’m not the one being car-jacked right now.”
He tests out a few of the levers and peddles until he thinks he’s got a handle on it. In the other Mech, Nyx has begun firing on the drop ships.
“What’s your name?” Prompto asks as he maneuvers the mech around to face away from the gates. “I’m Prompto.”
“I don’t give a shit who you are.”
“Suit yourself,” Prompto says and pulls something that feels like a trigger that’s located on the back of the steering mechanism. Gunfire erupts from the cannons mounted on the mech and Prompto giggles. “This is totally like a video game, dude!”
The young man scoffs and mutters something about ignorant Lucians. Prompto ignores him and clumsily aims the cannons at the nearest drop ship, bouncing in his seat as he watches the side of it light up with blasts of fire. It takes a minute, then it begins to smoke before it bursts into flames. A moment later, it’s careening out of the sky and straight into the cliffs behind the ramparts.
“Best idea ever,” Prompto says to Nyx.
“Ye of little faith.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Buy you a lemonade or something.”
“Better be something harder than lemonade, Plebe.”
“That’s Little Hero to you, buddy.”
The young man gives a disdainful laugh and Prompto shoots him a glance. He notices a bar code on the outside of his wrist. The batch number is different, but it looks just like his.
“Hey, we’re twins,” Prompto says and holds up his arm. “You get baby-napped, too?”
“What?” the young man snaps. “Of course not.”
There’s a fresh wave of MT’s on the ground, so Prompto refocuses his attention on them. He mows them down, taking delight in how easily they fall under heavy fire. For as technologically advanced as they are, they don’t really stand up so well against their own technology.
“So this is like your whole job?” Prompto asks the young man. “You sit in this thing and shoot at stuff? Cause I gotta say, this is pretty awesome.”
“I wouldn’t expect the likes of you to understand.”
Some of the fight has gone out of him and Prompto spares him a glance before refocusing on an approaching drop ship. He opens fire on it once it’s in range.
“Whatever, dude. Coolest job ever.”
“Tell me why the hell Lucis has a specimen fighting for the Glaives,” the young man demands.
The way he says specimen pisses Prompto off. Like he’s a thing instead of a person. A stupid bar code doesn’t mean he’s something less than human.
“Tell me your name first,” Prompto says and lets out a whoop with the drop ship starts smoking. “That’s two! Leveling up over here!”
“Loqi. Tummelt.”
“Which is your first name?”
“What does it matter?”
“Just tryin’ to make conversation,” Prompto says. “As far as why I’m here? I was raised here, dude. I’m a Lucian and this is my home.”
“Not for long.”
“Whatever you gotta tell yourself,” Prompto says. “Looks to me like we’re winning.”
Tummelt’s eyes glitter and his cold smile is knowing, as if to say they haven’t seen anything yet. It sends a chill down Prompto’s spine, but he can’t pay it much mind because there’s another wave of MT’s coming their way.
“Prompto, who the hell are you talking to?” Nyx asks.
Prompto realizes then that he’s left the com open.
“Got me a hostage, sir,” Prompto says. “Does the name Tummelt mean anything to you?”
“No fucking way.”
Prompto sends Tummelt a glance. He figured this guy was probably just a standard grunt but maybe he’s a bigger deal than that. His uniform is on the fancy side for a grunt. He doubts the Empire would spend much money on uniforms for the infantry.
“Lemmie status with Cor,” Nyx says. “And don’t shoot him unless he doesn’t give you another choice.”
“Roger that, boss man.”
“And Prompto? Good call.”
“Aww, thanks buddy.”
Prompto resumes his assault on the drop ships for a while, giggling with glee as another goes down in flames. It’s so much fun, he’s almost forgotten this is war and not an extremely realistic video game. His passenger is silent and refuses to make conversation or answer any questions, no matter how hard Prompto tries to draw him out.
“You know talking to me makes it a lot harder for me to kill you, right?” Prompto asks. “You’re not doing yourself any favors by being quiet, buddy.”
“If I’m killed, there will be consequences.”
Prompto snorts at that. Not because it’s funny but because the way he’s said it is so hilariously arrogant, Prompto figures this guy must think he’s really hot shit. And maybe he is, but being snobbish in this situation seems pretty stupid of him. If it were Prompto, he’d be doing everything possible to make his kidnapper like him.
“What consequences? Like death?” Prompto asks. “Looks to me like you guys wanna do that anyway. And no offense there, but if you’ve got a bar code like me, I’m betting they consider you dying collateral damage. Probably thousands more just like you, wherever you came from.”
That gets under his skin. Tummelt’s sneer is full of anger and resentment and Prompto figures he’s just hit a nerve with this guy.
“We’re one of many, right?” Prompto asks. “Disposable tools of war? If you die, they’re just gonna put another in your place.”
“Shut up.”
Something slams into the passenger side of the Mech and Prompto swivels toward the source of the attack. Libertus’ head pops up over the edge of the windowsill, grinning like an idiot. A second later, he opens the door.
“Came to collect the hostage,” Libertus says and reaches for Tummelt’s neck. “Come here, you.”
“Dude, what are you doing?” Prompto asks. “He’s kind of an asshole but he’s been cooperative.”
Libertus tugs something from beneath Tummelt’s collar and looks at it. Dog tags if Prompto isn’t mistaken. Libertus looks satisfied.
“Good job, Little Hero,” Libertus says, then turns to Tummelt. “Come quietly and I won’t hurt you.”
“You might as well kill me,” Tummelt snaps. “You’re not getting any information out of me.”
“Who says I want information?” Libertus says. “And we got ways of making you wish you were dead, but we ain’t monsters. Play along and we’ll be nice. Might even feed you if you're a good boy. Up to you which way it goes.”
“You might wanna decide quick, dude,” Prompto says to Tummelt. “He’s not the most patient guy in the world.”
Libertus doesn’t wait for Tummelt to make a decision. He drags him out of the cockpit and slams the door behind him, then there was a muffled scream as Libertus warps away with their captive.
By Prompto’s count, he’s taken down four drop ships and two separate MT squads. He thinks it’s looking pretty well in their favor, but he can’t be sure. There’s fighting going on all around him and the mages are unleashing a steady stream of magic that’s directed toward something he can’t see beyond the bend.
“How are we doing, Nyx?” Prompto asks.
“Got the third wave rolling in now,” he says. “Looks like we’ll have a mech versus mech showdown, and there’s something behind it our spotters can’t identify, but it’s big. Get ready kid. It’s about to get ugly.”
Yesterday, Gladio thought he was a badass. A wall of muscle and strength that was nearly impossible to take down, but he’s getting his ass handed to him by the sheer number of MT’s the Empire has sent. Every time he thinks he’s made progress, there are more, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he had the ability to warp. It’s never looked like a good time to him, but he’s surrounded by Glaives who can and they’re doing a hell of a lot better than he is.
They, at least have the benefit of being able to get out of the line of fire long enough to catch their breath. Gladio doesn’t have that luxury being earth-bound. Even with all the other tactics they have in place – the mines, the mages, the teams at the other end of the field, it’s relentless.
His muscles are screaming with the effort of swinging his massive blade over and over again and his body is slick with sweat. He’s used to winning fights through brute force, not endurance, and he realizes way too late that his endurance is dog shit. Beating the enemy into submission only works if there are only a handful.
If he goes down, it will be his own fault.
If he goes down, he’d better die, because he doesn’t want to face the ridicule of others for being too weak to make it through. The Glaives face this every time the Empire shows up.
If he goes down, he’s not fit to be a Shield. So he’s better off dead if he does.
He feels himself slowing down, and his blade gets heavier with each swing. He needs a break, a bottle of water, but neither are an option when they keep fucking coming. This isn’t training. There are no water breaks or do-overs.
In the distance, a drop ship goes down and there’s chatter on the radio in his ear and cheers from the wall behind him. He briefly wonders what the Glaives are using – magic or something else, but he doesn’t get to think about it very long. He’s surrounded by four MT’s, all taller than he is, with bigger swords than his.
One takes a swipe at his head. He ducks to avoid it, but he feels the bite of the blade against his temple and he fumbles it, winding up on the ground with more advancing on him.
He pulls his shield from the Armiger just in time to avoid the blade of a second. It crashes down on him, glancing off the thick metal with a violent shriek, and Gladio can feel the force of the blow reverberate all through his left arm. He takes a breath and rolls away, scrambling to his feet just as a Glaive streaks past and crashes into the MT’s. The Glaive’s blade is nearly as big as his own.
The Glaive motions with his free hand, something that looks like sign language, and gives Gladio a thumbs up. Gladio doesn’t know what it means, but he doesn’t care. He’s glad for the assist. So far, it’s been every man for himself out here.
“Thanks kid,” Gladio says. “You saved my ass.”
There’s no time to commiserate, because the other MT’s are undaunted and continue their relentless march forward. Gladio gives his sword and his arm a rest and uses the shield instead. It gives him a sorely needed break, though exhaustion is starting to set in. It helps that the kid’s sticking with him and he’s pretty good.
Another drop ship goes down, and then a third, and Gladio nearly gets his arm chopped off thanks to the distraction.
Gods, he hopes Ignis is alright. He might have kept up with his training, and he might be just as deadly as Gladio, but Gladio’s not confident it will be enough if he’s getting overwhelmed by MT’s like this, too.
He thinks about last night, and about how good it had been, about how beautiful Ignis looked in the lamplight. He thinks maybe he’s in love, or falling in love, and maybe he should have said it last night, but he didn’t want to be that guy. If either of them dies, he’s gonna regret keeping it to himself.
All the more reason to live through this. He’s exhausted, but he has to keep fighting. For Noctis. For Ignis. For Prompto, who seems to be smack in the middle of this, with his magic and his special mission or whatever. They all need to survive.
Gladio has to dig down deep to find some reserve within himself or he’s not going to make it. And he has to make it.
Just when he feels like he’s going to collapse, there’s a break in the enemy lines. A fourth drop ship explodes in the distance and Gladio stops to catch his breath.
“Hostage confirmed,” Cor says over the com. “Detaining with Elshett.”
“Copy,” Nyx says. “I think we might actually win this one, Leonis.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Cor says. “Spotters have two more waves incoming, one unidentified weapon. Sixteen mechs.”
Gladio wonders who the hostage is. Historically, the Glaives only take prisoners if they’re high-ranking Imperials. Historically, the big-wigs don’t set foot on the battlefield. He’s curious but there are mechs incoming. Behind them is another wave of MT’s.
He takes a breath and readies himself for it, praying to the Gods that they all survive this.
Something to his left explodes and he’s hit hard in the ribs, sending him to the ground. He can’t see anything through the cloud of dust, but there are screams and shouts and debris rains down on him.
His face is pushed to the dirt, the weight of something heavy bearing down against the back of his skull and grinding into his scalp. It’s hard to breathe and his mouth is full of sand and grit. He fights, but whatever is holding him down is strong and heavy and the more he struggles, the less air there is.
Gladio stops fighting, his lungs screaming for oxygen. His vision grays out and his grit-filled eyes burn with tears. He thinks of Ignis and his beautiful, soft mouth, of how good it felt to make him gasp. Gladio wants to go back to last night and curl up in his arms and fall asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in his ear. He wants to be safe and content, not drowning in sand on a battlefield.
Ignis’s emerald eyes are the last thing Gladio thinks of before the last of his oxygen runs out and the world around him fades into nothing.
Ignis has been fighting for what feels like hours. So far, he’s done well, he thinks, but the MT’s keep coming in waves. He focuses on efficiency, knowing that he might be fighting for hours to come, and it doesn’t take long to discover the MT’s are particularly weak at the base of their head. One good stab and they go down. The joints, too, are particularly weak. He can pop an arm off with a well placed stab, or take the out at the knee the same way.
He never expected to enjoy the fighting so much. He’s spent a lifetime studying tactics and strategy and it feels good to finally be able to apply that knowledge. It feels like the best workout, both physically and mentally, that he’s ever had, and it’s exhilarating to feel the blood rushing through his body and his mind calculating his next moves five steps ahead of his opponent.
It’s hard to tell if the ground assault is going well or not, but drop ships are falling out of the sky and from what he can tell, at least two of the mechs have been commandeered by the Glaive. It’s rather ingenious, to use their own weaponry against them, and he wonders why the Crown has never considered building heavy weaponry of their own. Magic is well and good, but it’s no match against missiles.
He moves through one line after another, his blade stabbing into the weak spots, and he’s lost count of how many he’s left disabled on the field. Ignis is almost as much of a machine as they are – cold, efficient, calculating. His body sings with the activity, executing kill after kill like a well choreographed dance. Had the MT’s been living things, he would be drenched in their blood.
Something sharp and cold pierces Ignis’ from behind. It punches into his lower back on the left side, above the hip, next to his spine, gouging deep into soft tissue. The blade twists on the way out with a sticky, wet sound. There’s no pain, only a telling numbness and the throb of his heartbeat. He can’t tell how bad it is.
Warmth floods over his skin and into the waistband of his pants and he spins with all the momentum he can muster, brandishing his lance in the face of the attacker. He expects an MT but he’s confronted by a flesh and blood human. Late 40’s, early 50’s, high-ranking, judging by his uniform. His face is arrogant and victorious.
His lance has cut a trench in the man’s face and blood streams over his cheek and down his neck. There’s hate in his eyes as he advances, brandishing a lance of his own. Ignis steps back, ignoring the injury and the growing dampness in the fabric below it. The man smiles cruelly a split second before Ignis knocked to his feet by something behind him.
Ignis lands on his back with a cry of pain. The tip of a long, sharp blade is pressed to his throat.
The man standing above him is someone else, someone clad in strange armor that gleams and twists like liquid metal in the morning sunlight. The other man kneels down beside Ignis and rips the dog tags from around his neck. The metal of the chain cuts into his skin, and for a second, Ignis thinks he’s been garroted.
“Scientia, Ignis S. ID number 137756,” the first man says. “Shall I dispose of him?”
“This one is valuable,” the armor clad man says. “Take him to Highwind. The High Commander will want to interrogate him.”
Ignis has been trained for this. Though he never expected that the training would be needed, he knows exactly what will happen next and he isn’t looking forward to it. The Niffs are not kind to their hostages, particularly not Lucian hostages of standing. They will do enough to make him suffer as a means to make him talk, but they will stop short of killing him.
At least for a while. Should Lucis have nothing to bargain for his life, or should they be unwilling to strike a deal, then his life will be forfeit. Until then, he can expect them to inflict as much pain as he can tolerate, and then some. They will use every tactic in the books to make him talk, up to and including those that are supposedly banned.
They will make him wish for death before it’s over.
If Ignis had less confidence in his ability to endure it, he might force them to kill him now, but leaving Noctis that way is unthinkable. Even in his current predicament, there will come a time when Noctis needs him. Ignis intends to stand beside his future King, come hell or high water, Ignis will be there until Noctis breathes his last.
Ignis assumes the man in the armor is none other than General Glauca. He does not know what the general looks like, but he recognizes the armor. He peers up at him, taking care to keep his expression as neutral and as calm as possible. Glauca's laugh is a low rumble inside his armor.
Then he kicks Ignis in the side, right next to the wound that’s steadily growing more painful by the minute. Ignis struggles not to react with more than a grunt, but gods, it steals his breath away. The numbness fades and the heartbeat-throb is edged with the beginnings of what he suspects will swiftly grow into excruciating pain.
Ignis doesn’t fight when he’s turned onto his back and cuffs are snapped tight around his wrists, and he’s lifted off the ground by a pair of MT’s and set on his feet. A third MT stands behind him with the muzzle of a rifle pressed into his spine. If he thought there was a possibility of getting free, he would fight this, but he’s starting to worry his injury is worse than he thought. The entire back left side of his pants feels soaked to the knee and he’s a bit light-headed.
There are potions in the Armiger but he doesn’t dare take one out for fear of being shot in the spine. Ignis will comply until he sees an opportunity to escape or fight back. Dying here and now is not an option.
Ignis is feeling extremely weak by the time he’s frog marched into the cargo bay of an unusual looking airship. It’s crimson instead of the usual galvanized metal and it’s empty inside.
He’s shoved to his knees and nearly blacks out from the pain, which has become a lot more intense, but he fights through it with clenched teeth and shallow breaths. The shackles around his wrists are attached to something behind him as the bay door closes.
A woman crouches down in front of him and lifts his chin with a crooked finger.
“So you’re the one I’m babysitting,” she says.
She sounds and looks bored, and she’s clearly annoyed that he’s been placed in her custody. She’s very, very pretty, and he hopes for a moment that there’s some kindness in her, that perhaps she’ll give him some sort of curative for his wounds at the very least. All he sees in her face is irritation.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Scientia,” he says. “Ignis Scientia. Advisor to his Royal Highness, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.”
They already know who he is, so there’s no sense in evading the question. If she knows his name, if she sees him as a person, perhaps she will be less likely to mistreat him.
“The Lucians sent the future hand of the King into battle?” she asks. “They trying to get rid of you, or are you guys really that short on manpower? Seems like a pretty big risk to take.”
Ignis doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He simply stares back at her until she notices the small puddle of blood forming beneath his knee. If he’s not mistaken, there’s a flicker of sympathy in her face before her expression turns shrewd.
“Sit tight, Scientia,” she says and rises to her feet. “I’m under orders to get you to the High Commander.”
“I assume he’d like me alive,” Ignis says. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for something to stop the bleeding? I’m afraid my wound might be rather grave.”
“I can’t do anything I wasn’t ordered to,” she says. “Which means I’m not going to stop you from using the stash you probably have in your Armiger.”
Ignis lifts an eyebrow.
“Does that include accessing weapons?”
“So long as you don’t try to use them on me,” she says. “My orders are to take you to the High Commander. Nothing more, nothing less. I haven’t been paid for anything extra, but I will defend myself if I need to. Otherwise, knock yourself out.”
“Thank you,” Ignis says. “I assume you’re a mercenary, then.”
He summons a potion into his palm and breaks it open as close to the wound as he can get. It doesn’t give instant relief, and it doesn’t heal it entirely, but it’s enough to slow the bleeding for now. He considers using a second, but he thinks it’s best to save it, just in case.
“Aranea Highwind,” she says. “At your service. Sit back and enjoy the ride, Ignis.”
She retreats to the cockpit and Ignis gets his phone out of the Armiger. Perhaps it’s risky, and perhaps he shouldn’t trust that she won’t break his fingers for it, but it’s certainly worth a shot if she’s being lenient. He might not get another chance.
He tells the phone to dial Cor’s number and sets it on the floor, leaning as close to the speaker as he can so that he can both hear and talk without being noticed.
It doesn’t even matter. The mercenary fires up the engines and the volume alone is likely enough to cover any noise he might make. He can speak freely.
“Ignis,” Cor says.
“I don’t have much time,” Ignis says. “I’ve been taken hostage by General Glauca. I’m injured and I’m currently being transported for interrogation.”
“Fuck. I told Clarus this was a bad idea,” Cor says. “Where are you now?”
“In an airship. It’s red, not standard Imperial, and operated by a mercenary named Aranea Highwind,” Ignis says. “I’ve been informed I’ll be interrogated by the Imperial High Commander. I haven’t been told his location but it’s safe to assume I may not be in Lucis long.”
Cor curses again and something sounds like it’s exploded in the background.
“You know protocol,” Cor says. It’s not a question.
“I do.”
Cor does not make any promises that they’ll get him out. Ignis knows that’s because he can’t.
“I’ll let Clarus know,” Cor says. “And may the Gods be with you, Ignis.”
Ignis closes his eyes and lets weariness creep up over him. It’s the best goodbye he’s likely to get, and it tells him that Cor does not have high hopes for his safe return.
“Godspeed, Marshal,” Ignis says and his voice is far more steady than it should be.
He ends the call and sits back up. He returns the phone to the Armiger and leans back against the metal wall behind him.
Ignis tries not to think about what lies ahead. He tries not to feel fear for what he knows is coming. To do so will only undermine his determination to survive.
And Ignis very badly wants to survive.
Notes:
I'm so excited for the next few chapters, y'all. It's about to get crazy. I wish I could just upload the content straight out of my head instead of having to write and edit it, but sadly it doesn't work that way. 😭
Thank you guys for reading and for sticking with me. I appreciate every comment, kudo, subscription and bookmark! Engagement definitely feeds the muse so special thanks to those that have left such lovely and encouraging messages! 💋
Chapter 18: Part 2: Wallbreaker
Summary:
A hostage escapes, another interrogated.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Fenestala Manor is unusually quiet in the wake of Ravus’ departure. Luna, who privately laments the way her home is always filled with MT’s and various ranked members of Niflheim’s military, is unnerved by how abandoned it feels. For so many years, only a door separated her from a dozen or more captains and commanders and MT’s, but at present, the household staff outnumber them.
The gardens are deserted except for a lone MT standing statue-still at the entrance. The only sound is the wind in the trees beyond the stone walls.
She hasn’t been here for a while, and there’s no real reason to be here now. The cold turn the weather has taken has killed off what’s left of the fall foliage, and the last of the leaves have turned from orange and gold to dull brown.
Snow blankets everything – the benches, the birdbaths, the path – and the air smells crisp and clean. It should give her a sense of peace, but it only heightens her anxiety. It feels like an ill omen, that it hasn’t melted away yet. Winter is here, and it seems intent on staying.
Nothing is as it should be. The path she’s been so sure of since she was a child continues to blur into something indecipherable, and Noctis is a dark spot that she can no longer see. She tells herself this doesn’t mean his path is so altered that he will not fulfill his destiny, but she fears that’s exactly what is going to happen.
No. It only means the future isn’t as set as she once believed. It’s her duty to steer the ship and guide it to their destination. Whatever storms they must weather, whichever way the wind blows, Luna must remember that she is the captain, and she cannot doubt her course.
So why does it feels like it’s all wrong? That there are questions she’s not asking herself and should be?
She doesn’t get the chance to consider what that might mean. There are footsteps on the pathway behind her, sharp and purposeful in spite of the snow. She turns toward the visitor and her stomach bottoms out when she sees who it is.
There is no love lost between Luna and Caligo Ulldor. There is also nothing good about his presence here.
Her instinct is to take a step back as he approaches, but she doesn’t. She meets his gaze and holds it. This, she knows, is an act of defiance.
Ulldor struck her the first time he met her, for standing up to him when she was twelve. Ravus wanted to murder him in his sleep for what he’d done, but he’d been a boy then and incapable of defending even himself. She knows, if he ever got the chance, he still would, but for now, he punishes Ulldor in other, smaller ways now that he out-ranks the man.
What she doesn’t understand is why he is the one Ravus chose to leave behind to look after her. There are snakes Ravus trusts more than he trusts Ulldor.
“Lady Lunafreya,” he greets. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”
“General Ulldor,” she says cordially but coldly. “Is there something I can help you with?”
His eyes are beady and cruel. His smile is mean. No good can come of being alone with him. His intentions have never been above board as far as she is concerned.
“Checking up on my charge,” he says. “Making sure you remain on palace grounds like you’re supposed to.”
“Where else would I be?” she asks. “This is my home.”
He steps closer, emanating a malevolence that turns her blood cold. A hand shoots out and seizes her by the wrist.
“If it’s occupied by an army, is it still your home?”
“It will always be my home,” she says. “Occupied or not.”
His grip is too firm and it will leave a bruise, but Luna doesn’t flinch or pull away. She will fight him if she has to, but she would prefer not to. She’s not as strong as she might be if all her energy wasn’t being expended so often healing the scourged, but she has tools at her disposal if she needs them.
“I imagine my brother informed you he expects me unharmed upon his return,” she says. “You would be wise to let me go.”
“He’s not here to protect you, is he?”
“I can protect myself.”
His hand unclenches from around her wrist, but just as quickly finds its way to her throat. He is far too close for her liking and his grip is not gentle.
Luna does not think, she just responds. She smashes her knee between his legs as hard as she can and he drops like a stone to the ground with an agonized yell. Her Trident materializes in her hand and she lifts his chin with the pronged end of it, forcing him to look her in the eye.
He cowers before her, furious but obviously afraid. He did not expect her to remind him of his place.
In that instant, Luna understands why Ravus has left him to look after her and not someone else. He’s given her an opportunity to escape. If he’d anticipated Ulldor’s misbehavior, she can’t say, but the lack of supervision and guards cannot be a coincidence. The blame will not fall on Ravus, but Ulldor for his incompetence.
This may be her best and only chance to escape.
A plan forms in her mind in an instant. This is what she’s been preparing for, and she knows exactly what she must do.
“On your feet, Ulldor,” she says.
“I don’t take orders from you.”
She lifts his chin higher and looks directly into his cold, angry eyes.
“I am the Oracle, and my brother is your Commander,” she says. “You know what your disobedience will cost you.”
Pryna and Umbra are with her now, baring their teeth at him. Surely he remembers the chunk of flesh Umbra peeled off his calf when she was twelve.
Ulldor’s eyes flick from one to the other and his face fills with fear.
“On your feet,” she says again. “And do not order the MT’s to apprehend me, or you will pay with your life.”
He rises slowly, his hands raised next to his head in surrender.
Luna marches him back inside and locks him in the cold and drafty root cellar beneath the kitchen. Maria watches, aghast, as she drags a barrel over the door for good measure. It’s unlikely to keep him in there forever, but it should hold long enough to make her escape.
“I need a favor. It’s urgent,” Luna says to Maria.
She instructs Maria to go to the pharmacy and purchase temporary hair dye, the mousier, the better, and a one-way train ticket to Altissia on the evening train.
“What shall I tell your brother, mi’lady?”
“Thank you,” Luna says. “If you see him, tell him thank you. He’ll understand. And thank you, too. For all you’ve done for me over the years. I shall miss you deeply.”
Maria searches her face, sorrow turning the corners of her mouth downward and deepening the lines etched in her skin. Luna might ask her to accompany her to Lucis, if not for her family. She has children and grand children who need her a great deal more than Luna does.
“You’ll not be returning, will you?”
“No. I’m afraid not. Now go. I must make haste.”
Luna hurries upstairs to her room, her footsteps echoing like gunshots in the empty, lonely halls. She has no concerns for the remaining MT’s. They won’t do anything they weren’t ordered to do, and with Ulldor locked in the root cellar, there’s no one here to issue any.
Luna’s bag is already packed. She planned ahead long ago in case she needed to run on a moment’s notice. She has time, so she adds treasured, sentimental items to her bag. Her photo album of pictures from her childhood, Prompto’s letters and photos, the painting he sent her, the journal she shares with Noctis, her phone, and her mother’s jewels. All gets packed away in her Armiger for safekeeping.
When Maria returns, she helps Luna apply the hair dye. It turns out an ashy medium-brown that washes out her complexion horribly. With different make-up and something to darken her brows, she may easily escape recognition. Clothing she wouldn’t normally choose will help as well. In her public appearances, she favors white, as it is the color of her line. Darker, less stand-out colors will help her blend.
She changes into jeans and a warm charcoal-colored sweater and warm winter boots. Maria helps her into a casual teal peacoat that belonged to an aunt she never met, and she smooths her weathered hands over Luna’s shoulders.
“You look like a different woman,” Maria says sadly.
She takes Luna’s hands and squeezes them in her own. They’re warm and soft, despite how thin they are, and despite how many years of hard work they’ve endured. Luna can’t remember her own mother’s hands being so gentle or loving.
“May the blessings of the Gods rain upon you, Lady Lunafreya,” she says. “And may your journey be swift and safe.”
“May they keep you and protect you and yours, Maria,” Luna says. “And thank you again. For all you have done.”
An hour later, Luna boards the train and books a private bunk with a view of the manor. She sits by the window watching her home disappear into the distance, certain that this will be the last time she ever sees her beloved homeland again.
Gladio is dragged back to consciousness by his ankles. He kicks at whatever has a hold of him, but his face smacks against the hard, rocky ground. His eyes are full of grit and he can’t see through the clouds of dust. His throat and lungs burn with it, but he can breathe again.
He doesn’t know if he’s being rescued or dragged off to his death, but he decides he’s not going to fight it until he gets his bearings back.
The movement stops and hands lift him into a sitting position. He can only assume by the care being shown that this is a friend, not a foe, but his eyes are watering from the sting of his sand-scratched sclera and he can’t tell who it is. He scrubs at them with his palms, but it only makes it pain flare through his side at the movement, suggesting bruised or broken ribs.
Hands pass over the back of his head, probing gently at a sore spot. He can’t tell if the sticky wetness back there is sweat or blood. All he knows is that whatever held him down felt like it was crushing his skull.
His companion gives him a potion, which takes the sting out of his head and his ribs, but it doesn’t do much to clear his vision. There’s still sand in his eyes and the dust billowing all around them isn’t helping matters any. He coughs a little to expel the grit from his lungs and spits more out of his mouth.
The Glaive that came to his aid earlier lifts his hood and gives him a thumbs up and a questioning look. Gladio notices that in spite of his size, this guy looks really young.
“I’m good,” Gladio assures him as he pushes to his feet.
The boy grins and pats Gladio on the arm. Then he makes an exaggerated gesture like he’s wiping sweat from his brow. Gladio wonders if the kid is deaf or it’s a Glaive thing.
“Can you hear me?”
The boy nods and touches his throat, then his lips and shakes his head, indicating that he can’t speak.
“Got it,” Gladio says. “Thanks for the assist, kid.”
The kid gives him another thumbs up paired with a big, bright grin.
Gladio surveys the battlefield and sees that the majority of the action has moved toward the other end, though there are still plenty of MT’s to mop up. The commandeered Mechs are still firing on airships and the Mages seem to be focused on something beyond his view. From where he stands, it looks like they’re winning.
He gets to his feet and rubs his gritty eyes, the motions for the kid to follow. He figures they can handle the strays and then meet up with the rest.
Along the way, he catches himself checking the vicinity for dead and wounded. There aren’t as many as he expects. A handful of Crownsguard, even fewer Glaives. None are Ignis or Prompto.
“Amicitia, status,” Cor says.
“All good, boss,” Gladio says. “What’s up?”
“Checking in. Haven’t heard you on the com.”
“Been kinda busy tryin’ to stay alive down here,” Gladio says.
He would really like to tell Cor to punch his dad in the mouth for him, but he’s not going to complain, no matter how much this whole thing fucking sucks. Far be it from him to bitch about being sent into battle unprepared when everyone else is in the same boat.
“Start making your way toward the road on my end,” Cor says. “We’re going to cut them off at the pass.”
“Old-school bottleneck, huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
Gladio readies his sword and hopes Cor’s plan will redeem him. He’s still not sure what took him down, and he figures he probably won’t know, but he can’t let it happen again. He’s an Amicitia. He’ll be expected to live up to the name.
He and the kid work their way through the remaining MT’s a handful at a time. There aren’t as many now, and from what he can tell, the majority of the action is at the other end of the field. It’s hard to tell how intense the fighting is, but he hates knowing Ignis is already somewhere in the middle of it.
“What the fuck is that?” someone says over the com.
“Don’t care what it is, we’re taking it down,” Nyx responds. “All mages to the outer walls, stat. Prompto, you got incoming.”
“Yep. Got it covered,” Prompto says.
A second later, missiles strike something on the field and it explodes. Gladio ducks behind a burned-out drop ship to avoid getting hit by shrapnel, and drags the kid with him.
“You good, Prompto?” Cor asks.
“All good, sir,” Prompto says. “I could do this all day. This is fun.”
He sounds so gleeful, Gladio can’t help but think about the old days. Back when Prompto would obliterate them all in shooting games. He supposes nothing’s changed, except that it’s for real now.
Gladio hasn’t been paying attention to the radio at all so far, but he is now, now that he’s not at risk of getting his head cut off every ten seconds. He hopes to hear Ignis’ voice, just so he knows he’s okay. He’ll feel better knowing they’re all still kicking.
“I’m gonna go get that big one,” Prompto says. “It’s got flamethrowers.”
“You’re having too goddamn much fun with this, Plebe,” Nyx says.
“Hey, if I’m gonna die, I might as well look like a badass doing it,” Prompto says.
Gladio snorts. He can’t resist chiming in.
“Hey Prompto, less talking, more killing.”
“If you got time to lean, you got time to clean, Big Guy,” Prompto says.
Gladio doesn’t know what that means, but he laughs at it anyway. If someone had asked him a year ago if he thought Prompto would survive Glaive training, his answer would have been no. He’s glad he was wrong.
He looks to his silent new friend and angles his head in the direction of the heavier fighting.
“You wanna go bash some heads?”
The kid grins and nods eagerly. There’s something about him that reminds him of Prompto. Maybe it’s the enthusiasm. Maybe it’s the easy smile. He can see the two of them being friends and he hopes they are. Even though Prompto seems to have been adopted by Nyx and Crowe, Gladio figures he could use a friend or two his own age, too.
Together, they mop up the stray MTs which are a lot easier to handle when they’re not coming at him ten or twelve at a time. The extra pair of hands helps, too.
Gladio’s ribs are on fire by the time they make it to the far end of the field. The road ahead is clogged with Crownsguard and Glaives, fighting shoulder to shoulder against what’s left of the Imperial ground forces. There are more drop ships in the distance, being fired upon by a massive mech that Gladio suspects Prompto got a hold of based on the radio chatter.
His foot catches on something on the ground. The toe of his boot sends the object flying and Gladio dismisses it at first, but his eyes are drawn back as it spins in the dirt, glinting in the sunlight. The shape of it is almost intimately familiar and he knows it almost as well as he knows his own weapon.
He picks it up out of the dirt, contemplating the dried blood on the edge of the blade.
MT’s don’t bleed.
Means Iggy must have encountered something human.
With little time to think about it, Gladio stashes it in his Armiger. He’s willing to bet Iggy will want it back once the fighting is done. Gladio’s looking forward to getting it back to him and celebrating living through this with a stiff drink and very little clothing.
There’s a vibration beneath Gladio’s feet, something mechanical and unnatural. He feels it in the soles of his boots and something about it sets his teeth on edge.
An instant later, something cuts through the sky like electric fire, brighter than the sun. It blinds him and he turns his face away, his eyes burning. Black spots cloud his vision. There’s a lot of chatter on the radio but his ears are ringing too loud to understand what anyone’s saying.
The kid grabs his arm and drags him behind a chunk of a destroyed airship, as if that will shelter them from whatever the fuck this is. He’s gesturing wildly at Gladio with wide eyes, but Gladio isn’t sure what he’s trying to tell him.
“Sorry kid, I don’t know what that means,” he says.
The kid drops to a knee and with a gloved finger, he writes WALL in the dirt.
Wall?
Gladio peeks around the edge of the airship. The light, which is more like a beam than he first thought, is focused directly on the magic dome that protects the city. There’s a discordant humming in the air that makes his inner ears itch. The kid notices it too and he grimaces as he presses his hands to his ears.
Whatever the hell the Niff’s have, there’s no question they need to take it out. Even if Gladio’s sure the King’s magic can withstand it, there’s always a chance it can’t. The King isn’t as spry as he once was. And if the Wall comes down, the Niffs could take the city.
He turns back toward their destination as a cascade of lightning magic rains down into the pass from the broken walls above. Blasts of high caliber gunfire erupt and echo across the battlefield at the same time and Gladio pours on the speed, his entire side on fire, his lungs burning and his heart a thunderous, angry thing inside his chest.
There’s a loud crackling sound behind them, but Gladio doesn’t look back, afraid of what he’ll see.
“Fall back!” Prompto says. “All units fall back and take cover!”
“You heard the man,” Nyx says. “Fall back and double-time it.”
Gladio doesn’t even have a chance to find substantial cover. There’s a blast that sends him straight to the ground beside the kid, followed by a wind so strong it leaves his skin feeling scraped raw.
It comes, again and again and again and when it stops, the world is pitch dark and completely silent.
Noctis is in the prison’s pathetic excuse for a rec room, half-heartedly sorting puzzle pieces with shaking hands all by himself. He ignores the rumble in his stomach and the weakness in his limbs. The puzzle is supposed to be a distraction from thinking about food, but it’s becoming harder and harder not to. He’s barely eaten since he got here.
Breakfast this morning was mostly cold canned pork and beans with some stale, un-toasted bread. He might have salvaged the bread, if not for the spots of mold all over it. Last night’s meal was pea soup.
He’s going to starve to death in here. He’s sure of it. The guards think he’s being a spoiled child and they make fun of him for refusing his meals.
Maybe he is. Maybe he’ll waste away.
Or maybe he’ll get so hungry, the thought of pea soup and broccoli goop won’t make him gag. It’s anybody’s guess at this point, and Noctis is too numb to really care.
He hoped someone would have come to visit him by now. Ignis, at least, but no one has, and not a word from his father.
What did he expect, though? The last words he spoke to any of them probably put them off seeing him. He’s being punished for his behavior, and now that he’s had too much time to think about it, he’s not sure he would want to speak to someone who said that to him either.
He has a lot to make up for. A lot of apologies to make. For his lack of gratitude. For all the damage he’s caused. For pushing everyone away instead of asking for help.
For a few minutes, Noctis lets himself think about the good times he’s had with his father, though it’s been a while since they’ve done anything fun together. His father taught him to fish, and indulged his tendency to build cities and mountains out of the vegetables he didn’t want to eat. Regis had taken him chocobo riding and learned to play racing and fighting games so they could bond over it. His father sucked at those games, but he'd tried.
He taught Noctis to swim, how to tie his shoes, and how to shave.
It’s true his father doesn’t have time for him anymore, but Noctis isn’t a kid anymore, either.
One of the guards changes the channel on the ancient TV, from cartoons to the news, and a pair of them stand in front of it to stare at the screen. Noctis tunes it out and focuses on the pile of puzzle pieces. The last thing he wants to see is the news, in case they’re still talking about him.
“Must be bad if the Glaive called in the Crownsguard,” one of the guards says, tearing Noctis’ attention away from the mundane task of sorting. “Glaives ain’t never asked for help before.”
Noctis looks up at the television, where grainy footage from a battlefield beyond the wall is being broadcast. He can’t say he’s ever seen so many airships at once, and it’s impossible to tear his eyes away from the screen.
“A source from the Citadel has confirmed that all active duty members of the Crownsguard joined this morning’s fight, including some high-ranking members of the force,” the newscaster says. “Only non-combat operatives and the King’s personal guard were exempted from today’s conflict. The Citadel has stated the City Watch has called in every available body to protect the citizens, along with several reserves.”
Noctis wonders if that means Ignis and Gladio stayed behind to guard his father, or if maybe they’re somewhere nearby, protecting him here. He waits for mention of his own team or himself, but the newscasters have moved on to images of airships being shot out of the sky.
He prays that it doesn’t mean what he thinks it means. He hopes they’re both safe inside the city walls. If not, it would mean that three of the most important people in his life are in danger while he’s stuck behind bars, unable to lend a hand or help keep them safe.
“Heard the Niffs sent everything they had at us,” a second guard says.
“Least they got Marshal Leonis out there. That guy’s been around the block a few times.”
That doesn’t make Noctis feel any better. Cor is important to him, too. He’s even more important to his father, and his immortal status might be a little exaggerated and more luck than anything. If Cor dies, it will devastate them both.
His ears begin to ring and all the hair on his arms starts to stand on end. He looks around the room to see if anyone else is affected, but the others are engaged in their card games and magazines and aren’t paying any attention.
There’s an a-harmonic hum that Noctis can feel in the floor beneath his feet and it sends a spike of adrenaline through his veins. An intense pressure builds behind his eyes and he can feel his pulse in his temples. He wonders if this is what it feels like to have a stroke. Whatever’s happening, it’s just happening with him. Nobody else seems to notice anything is wrong.
Something inside him feels like it’s come unzipped and there’s a prickling sensation all over his skin that feels a lot like the magic that allows him to warp. It's different, though. It's more uneven, like an unsteady radio frequency, there and then gone again.
Noctis has never felt anything like this before. Something is coming, and he’s trapped in here.
He’s drawn to the barred window and he ignores the guard’s instruction to sit back down. That weird sensation is getting stronger and the sound is getting louder. If they’re yelling at him now, he can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears.
He can’t see much out the window except the razor-wire topped wall and a sliver of sky, but it looks like the King’s magic is faltering. The barrier that protects the city ripples in a way he’s never seen before, distorting the clouds beyond, and he feels his father’s struggle to maintain it all the way to his bones.
“You deaf, Caelum? I said get away from the damn window,” a guard says and a hand clamps down on his shoulder, hard.
“Something’s happening,” Noctis says.
For a split second, the Armiger opens wide, giving him access to all the things he has stashed inside. There’s his phone. Potions. A bottle of water. His weapons. The open bag of chips he stashed for later, a week or more ago.
He has a wild thought about the chips attracting ants, and he wonders if the Armiger would accommodate them. He pictures a whole colony, or whatever a bunch of ants is called, marching in neat little lines inside of it like a well-trained army. Not that he’s ever seen the inside of the Armiger, he only knows what it feels like.
It closes again with a disconcerting shudder before he even considers taking anything out. Then, it feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, folding up like an origami swan as his father siphons magic from all available sources to maintain the Wall's integrity.
The guard is next to him, staring out the window in horror. Whatever is causing the barrier to falter has intensified and there are loud cracking sounds from outside, like windows being smashed. It reminds him, vaguely, of warping through windows screaming Fuck the King at the top of his lungs and of blood streaming from open wounds he caused himself. And Prompto, bathed in pink and blue lights, wide-eyed and scared, you shouldn't be here.
A moment later, spidery cracks thread across the sky and he holds his breath, knowing that his father is fighting to keep it intact.
He wishes he could lend a hand. Somehow. There must be something he can do.
“Lockdown,” one of the guards calls. “Everyone back in their cells. Caelum, you’re with me.”
“What?” Noctis says distantly. “No. I have to help. My dad needs my help."
There’s a massive rumble, an explosion somewhere in the distance, and a blinding light in the sky that obliterates everything. A concussive blast cracks the window pane in front of him and he jumps away in surprise.
Have the Niffs broken through? Are they in the city?
It’s always been a possibility, but one he’s never really taken too seriously. Every attack on the city in his lifetime has been swiftly shut down, so it’s never really felt real until Prompto wound up in the Glaives. Even then, Noctis was far removed from the fighting and his concerns had not been for the city but for Prompto.
For Noctis, the danger has never been inside the city walls, but outside of them. His memories of the world beyond are tainted by violence. Now that they’re at his doorstep, and he's locked in a cage, he feels as helpless as he did as a child.
He doesn’t need to be here. He needs to be defending his people and his home.
A guard’s hand lands on the back of his neck and everything starts moving again. He allows himself to be dragged off to a different section of the prison, away from the others, where he’s left alone in a cell just like the one he’s been staying in. He expects this means Ignis and Gladio are coming to take him somewhere safer, or that his father needs him to join the fight. No matter how angry he is at his father, or how his father feels about what he did and what he said, this is his home. It's his duty to defend it.
Maybe if he can do his share, he’ll have a chance to make it up to everyone. To talk to them and ask their forgiveness.
No one comes. As the minutes tick by and the silence stretches on into hours with no news, he realizes that he has been forgotten.
And it’s his own fault.
Prompto doesn’t know what the hell the machine in front of him is, but the massive weapon attached to its front end doesn’t look like it’s meant to be used on people. It’s some combination of a large cannon and a turbine engine, and when it starts turning, the sound makes his eardrums feel like they’re being shredded and his teeth feel like they're coming loose from their sockets.
The mages are raining lightning down on it, but it keeps moving forward, totally unaffected by the assault. Glaives are steadily warping into it like a swarm of angry wasps, and Prompto’s aiming a steady stream of bullets from his newly acquired mech straight into the turbine, and nothing’s happening.
Whatever the hell this thing is, it seems like nothing short of a massive bomb will take it out. Prompto sort of wishes he’d stashed a few of the mines he’d made with Sonitus for later use. Maybe throwing a few in its path would do the trick.
Prompto switches tactics and turns on the flame throwers, issuing a warning to the Glaives to stay away from the front, where he’s directed his attack. Nyx adds his own stream of bullets, but the damn thing is totally impervious to whatever they throw at it.
The cockpit of the Mech is getting hot, and the flamethrower turrets are starting to glow a concerning red. He backs off for a minute and switches back over to bullets. The last thing he wants is to blow the thing up with him inside.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Prompto says. “What else we got?”
“What else? This is it, Plebe,” Nyx says. “This is everything we got.”
A ball of something like condensed electricity begins to build in front of the turbine-cannon, growing larger and brighter by the second. Prompto gives it all he’s got, sweat rolling down his face and his hands in a death grip around the controls.
It does no good. There’s a brilliant, blinding pulse of light and Prompto ducks as he anticipates an explosion, shielding his eyes against both. The explosion doesn’t come, but there’s a singing sound and a heavy mechanical vibration that isn’t from the Mech.
Carefully, he sits up, his eyes still shielded against the light.
It’s so bright, he can’t see anything outside the cockpit.
“They’re trying to take down the King’s Wall,” Cor says. “We have to take this thing out, now.”
“Got any suggestions?” Nyx asks. “We’ve got everyone and everything we have on it.”
Cor curses and Prompto decides maybe ramming it with the Mech might break it, or at least knock it off course and direct the beam into the nearest boulder instead of the Wall. He shifts the unit out of park and hits the throttle, aiming straight for the back end of the thing.
The Mech bounces off the back end of the machine, but he feels it give just a little. He hits reverse and does it again, turning on the flamethrowers as he makes a second approach. He can’t tell if his pounding heart is all his own or that other thing that lives inside him. All he knows is that it feels like it’s going to break his ribs if he doesn’t chill.
“Prompto, what the hell are you doing?” Nyx asks.
“Demolition derby, baby,” Prompto said. “Wanna play?”
“What the hell. Got nothing to lose, right?” Nyx says.
Nyx rams the front, Prompto focuses on the back, but they only manage to move the machine a couple of feet. It doesn’t do anything to stop it from doing what it’s doing, either. He punches the yoke in frustration and wracks his brain for another way to put it out of commission.
For a second, he considers driving the Mech right into the beam, but he’s pretty sure he’ll get incinerated if he does that. Getting burned to ash for nothing doesn’t sound like a fun time. He sits back and considers their remaining options.
There’s someone operating the thing. That much he can see from where he sits. If he could get inside, he could get control. At least he thinks so.
Prompto puts the Mech in park again and hops out, his rifle at the ready.
“The hell are you doing now, kid?” Nyx yells.
“Something really stupid and dangerous,” Prompto says.
“Is it gonna get us killed?”
“Yeah, probably. Cover me?”
“You got it.”
Prompto dashes over to the passenger side of the machine and Nyx opens fire on the back end. It’s a lot higher off the ground than the Mech, but there are hand and footholds to climb. Prompto scrambles up them and finds the door is locked.
He already knows the windows must be bullet proof, so there’s no busting them out to get in.
So much for this plan.
He’s about to climb back down when there’s a beep and a green light appears next to the door handle.
There’s a code reader. His stupid bar code unlocked the door.
"I'll be damned," he mutters to himself. "Good for something after all."
He wonders what else the bar code can do as he flings the door open, but he doesn’t have time to think about it too hard. He has more important things to do, like stopping the Niffs from taking the city.
The driver is human, but his uniform is a lot like more like the MT’s than like the hostage he took earlier. Prompto swings into the passenger seat, his rifle aimed at the guy. On the dash is a computer generated image of the King’s Wall and the beam’s location on it.
“You wanna live, get out,” Prompto says.
Prompto doesn’t give the guy a chance to decide. There's no time for that. He leans over him, opens the driver’s side door, and shoves him out. The guy hits the ground with an agonized howl. Prompto doesn't hive himself a chance to think about that, either.
“I’m in, buddy,” Prompto says over the com.
“You better know what you’re doing,” Nyx says.
“Totally winging it,” Prompto says. “I just gotta figure out how to turn it off.”
He hears loud cracking sounds from outside, like breaking glass. He shoots a glance at the Wall, and then the monitor, which is now displaying numbers. If he’s reading it right, the King’s Wall is at 60% of it’s usual strength and its integrity is slowly but surely being compromised. Prompto assumes the longer the beam stays focused on the Wall, the more it will weaken.
There’s a sharp throb in his chest and that double heartbeat kicks in for real. He’s burning hot and icy cold at the same time, his skin prickling and his hands tingling.
It’s coming on fast this time. He can feel it welling up inside him dangerously quick.
“Nyx,” he says thickly. “Get out. Now. Get everybody out.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Prompto’s about to repeat it but he sees the Wall’s integrity has dropped to 55 percent and his chest starts to feel like it’s going to explode under the force of the second heartbeat. He can barely breathe.
“Give the order, Plebe.”
He sucks in as much breath as he can. It’s not as much as he would have liked, but under the circumstances, it’s enough.
“Fall back!” Prompto barks, and his hands start to shake. “All units fall back and take cover!”
“You heard the man,” Nyx says. “Double-time it.”
There are no wings this time.
No stranger, no Pryna, no mysterious woman. Time does not stand still.
The magic tears out of him, ripping the very machine he’s sitting inside apart like a pile of newspapers in a strong breeze.
Ignis is not taken far. He’s sure about that. Though he has no way to tell for sure, he’s certain it’s only been an hour or so when Highwind lands the airship. He expected to be transported out of the country, somewhere far enough away that a rescue would be considered impractical. This is likely only a layover, as it would be foolish to keep him so close by.
The wound in his back throbs and it’s still bleeding. He uses the other potion in his stash while Highwind remains in the cockpit. She says nothing to him, and he says nothing to her.
He notes that she seems a capable pilot, and her armor suggests she’s no stranger to combat. For now, her ability is not something Ignis wants to test, at least, not in his current state. He suspects she’s formidable and he would be wise to behave himself in her company. Though she implied she wouldn’t do anything she hadn’t been paid to do, he understands she can and will kill him if he makes himself a threat.
Ignis will bide his time, for now.
The engines power down and Highwind leaves the cockpit. She crouches beside him, one knee on the floor, and she looks him over. Ignis takes care to keep his expression calm and unbothered, but hers is one of sympathy.
“This is where you get off,” she says. “The High Commander wants to see you.”
“Of course,” Ignis says. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Highwind smirks and shakes her head in disbelief.
“Do they train you to act like you don’t give a shit, or are you for real?” she asks.
“A little of both,” Ignis admits. “I’m well prepared.”
“If you say so,” she says. “Good luck, Scientia.”
She opens the bay door and a tall, slender man with pale hair and a long, mournful face climbs the ramp. He’s flanked by a pair of MT’s. Ignis maintains his passive expression, even when the man crouches before him and grabs hold of his chin to force Ignis to look him in the eye. Ignis complies, though the commander’s grip is fierce and sure to leave bruises.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asks.
“Imperial High Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret, I assume,” Ignis says.
“Correct,” he says. “And you are Lord Ignis Scientia, steward and advisor to the future King of Lucis.”
Ignis hasn’t heard his title used since he was much younger. The title is more or less honorary these days, as his family lost their lands and station when the Empire annexed Tenebrae. As did the Nox Fleuret’s. Both Ravus and Luna would be dead, if they’d not been descended from the Oracle’s line.
By all rights, Ravus should be a King, not a Lord in name only. If he had any sense, he’d be part of the resistance, not the commander of the army that killed his mother and stole his lands and title. Ignis can only assume Ravus has been brainwashed by the Imperials. By all rights, he should want every last one of them dead.
“I’m no more a Lord than you are,” Ignis says. “No need for titles, eh? So, let’s cut to the chase. What is it that you want from me?”
Ravus doesn’t answer him. He signals to the pair of MT’s and Ignis is lifted to his feet and marched off the airship. From the Armiger, Ignis removes a small throwing knife that he tucks into the waistband of his pants. He’s likely to be caught at some point, but he’d rather face whatever punishment that comes with it than be without it.
It seems he’s been taken to a base somewhere on the continent. He’s surrounded by high concrete walls and razor-wire and military equipment. The heat suggests Leide, but they could also be near Cauthess, where the heat of the meteor can exceed even Leide’s hottest temperatures.
Ignis is under no illusion that he will stay here. There’s not much point in attempting to contact Cor until he knows his final destination.
If he’s able to contact him at all. He has no idea what they plan to do with him, and he’s well aware that is death may be imminent. They could very well decide he’s not valuable enough to keep. There’s little he could be traded for, unless a prisoner swap might be arranged, but he’s not aware of any high-value hostages in Lucis’ custody. His life certainly isn’t worth trading the country’s freedom for.
He’s also aware that Lucis will not be coming for him unless they can safely and successfully extract him from Imperial custody.
Fleuret leads him to a small concrete building that is separate from the hangars and control booths. There’s nothing inside except a bedroll on a cinderblock platform, an O-ring bolted to the wall with a chain attached, and a bucket. The walls are bare but both on the walls and the floor are stained with dark splatters in places. Ignis puts the stains out of his mind immediately. He can’t think about what they are or what they mean. It’s difficult not to.
His cuffed hands are immediately attached to the chain by the MT’s. Ignis doesn’t fight it. Perhaps he might be able to take out the MT’s and Ravus, too, but he’s under no illusions they are alone here. His hands are bound and he’s injured. Best to bide his time until he understands his situation better. Best to wait and watch for lapses in security.
Ignis seats himself on the concrete slab he assumes will be his bed for the time being. Fleuret stands in the doorway, looming over him, silent and menacing. Ignis counts backwards from 100, waiting for him to speak. Finally, at 19, Fleuret steps further inside, eyeing Ignis with a superior gaze.
“Don’t bother trying to contact your handlers,” Fleuret says. “There’s an anti-magic field that will prevent you from accessing your Armiger.”
“Of course,” Ignis says. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Tell me about this weapon the Glaive is in possession of,” Fleuret says.
“I’m not aware of any weapon,” Ignis says, though he suspects they mean Prompto. “To my knowledge, the Empire is the one making weapons, are they not? Human infants used as test subjects, magitek research, humanoid soldiers, machines to fight your war for you.”
Fleuret is visibly annoyed and he steps closer, purple eyes narrowing into slits.
“And yet you have something capable of taking out entire battalions,” Fleuret says. “Tell me what you know.”
Fleuret seems unaware that it came from a person, not a machine or a weapon. Ignis is inclined to keep that to himself, if he doesn’t already know. He doesn’t intend to give them a single scrap of information if he can help it. Ignis has been taught to do his best to sabotage these interviews by speaking on irrelevant topics, and that’s exactly what he’ll do.
“As I said, I’m not aware of any weapons of Lucian origin,” Ignis says. “I can, however, give you a recipe for a lovely mushroom risotto. The trick is in the type and quality of the rice. It should always be a short grain with high starch content, like carnaroli. Anything else will result in sub-par fare.”
The baffled look on Fleuret’s face makes his ramblings worth it for the split second it lasts. The back of Fleuret’s hand meets Ignis’ cheek a moment later, the crack of skin against skin echoing in an eerie way in the relative silence. His glasses go flying into the corner, out of reach and Ignis resists the urge to go after them.
It stings and Ignis expects it will leave a bruise, but so be it. A mere slap won’t be the thing that breaks him. It also won’t be the worst thing that happens to him while in their custody.
There’s a chime and Fleuret withdraws a slender phone from his pocket. To Ignis, the technology looks ten years behind what’s available in the Crown City, but the Empire is a technological powerhouse. For all he knows, this comparable to Insomnia’s next generation, just in a different form.
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Fleuret growls into the phone. “You were there to guard her. You’re telling me you’re not capable of handling a single woman? One who has little combat training?”
Ignis feigns indifference and makes himself as comfortable as he can on the bed. He wants to project that he’s unbothered, even if his face throbs where Fleuret has struck him.
“How is it possible for a man in your position to be so utterly incompetent, Ulldor? I gave you one simple task, and you’re not even capable of doing that,” Fleuret says, and there’s a pause. “She won’t get far without being recognized. There will be reports of her whereabouts before long, and you will track her down yourself or you will face the consequence. Is that understood?”
Fleuret steps out, his fingers pinched against the bridge of his nose. He seems to have forgotten all about Ignis.
“She’s likely headed to Altissia, and then Lucis if she gets that far,” Fleuret says. “How do you not know that, you idiot? I swear to all the gods, I’m surrounded by absolute morons. Just find her. We cannot afford to let her find her way to the enemy.”
If Ignis isn’t mistaken, it sounds as though Lady Lunafreya has escaped her Imperial guard. He can’t say if her destination truly is Lucis, but it makes sense that it would be. King Regis is an ally, and she, unlike her brother, has remained an ally of the Crown, in spite of it all. She and Noctis have grown close over the years through their letters. It makes sense she’d attempt to seek refuge among friends.
Fleuret is visibly upset by the news. And it’s rather foolish of him to discuss it in front of a prisoner who has been trained to use information as leverage. Surely, Fleuret knows that about him. He should know it, if he’s at all educated in negotiation and interrogation tactics.
“Family squabble?” Ignis says mildly.
“It’s not your business,” Fleuret snaps. “Tell me about the weapon, Scientia. Chancellor Izunia confirms you have one.”
Ignis has never personally met Chancellor Izunia, nor has anyone else he knows. There’s no way Izunia could confirm what weaponry Lucis has, seeing as he’s never set foot in the Crown City, let alone had access to the armory. Not in Ignis’s lifetime, anyway. A visit from a foreign Chancellor would have been a major event and one that required a great deal of security. Nor would that Chancellor have been allowed anywhere near any of their military operations had it ever been the case.
“For the third time, I know nothing of a weapon,” Ignis says. “Might I offer you tips on wine pairings for official visits? Something to really impress your superiors?”
Ignis’ face meets the back of Fleuret’s hand a second time. He’s struck hard enough to see stars this time, but he laughs in spite of himself. It’s absurd, really. How angry Ignis’ lack of compliance makes him. It’s something Ignis can easily exploit if it comes down to it.
His laughter makes Fleuret even angrier. The third blow is not the back of his hand but a closed fist. It’s delivered with such force, blood explodes from Ignis’ nose and he chokes on it as it runs down the back of his throat. The pain blinds him and he comes close to blacking out, but he fights through it. Staying conscious is imperative in this situation.
And still, Ignis laughs. Fleuret doesn’t need to know it isn’t out of amusement. It’s because Ignis is on the verge of hysteria, and he can’t contain it.
Fleuret is close enough now that he’s in Ignis’ personal space. If Ignis’ head wasn’t swimming, it might bother him more, but he’s more concerned with staying awake.
“Hit me all you like,” Ignis says thickly. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”
The final blow knocks Ignis out cold.
Notes:
As always, thank you so much for reading! And many, many thanks for all the kudos and comments! Knowing that people are reading and enjoying helps feed the writing monster. 💋💜 Appreciate ya!
Chapter 19: Part 3: Betrayal
Summary:
Nyx learns there are traitors among them. Gladio demands some answers. Noct gets a visitor.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The instant the machine rips apart, Prompto feels like he’s being ripped apart, too. His body goes weightless, sharp pinpricks of pain racing up and down every single inch of his skin. The light around him is all-encompassing, brighter than the sun, but colder and more dangerous.
A shadow passes over the world, it’s shape like the paintings of Angels and Oracles in the Citadel’s gallery. A Goddess. A daemon. Life and death combined. Something more powerful than the Gods themselves. Nature, the sky, the universe itself. It loves him, it hates him, it’s indifferent to him. Makes no difference. He’s but a means to an end, a speck of dust in what amounts to infinity.
The light, and the daemon goddess are gone in an instant and he’s sucked sideways with a violent jerk, and it feels as though his body is being slurped through a straw. Like warping with Nyx, but so much worse. Bones and joints and soft tissues feel like they’re being forcibly rearranged and reorganized, and it’s going to kill him if it doesn’t stop.
It spits him out somewhere cold and dark, his head bashing against hard, unforgiving metal and his face sliding against a grate. Wherever he’s ended up, it’s quiet and the air feels heavy, frozen, and stagnant, with a medicinal tang like a hospital. There’s a mechanical hum beneath him that vibrates his bones and his heavy breaths echo through the metal room.
Exhaustion weighs him down, and everything hurts. He wants to get up and go back, to help with the fight but the effort of lifting his head off the ground feels impossible. He’s not sure he’s even in Lucis anymore. It doesn’t feel the same. It doesn’t smell the same.
Something warm and wet slides across his cheek and dips into his ear. He shudders at the sensation as it calls to mind bullies in elementary school smearing spit-coated fingers inside the folds of his ear. He brushes whatever it is away, but his palm meets soft fur and he relaxes.
A cold, wet nose nudges at his neck and he opens his eyes, letting his fingers curl into the fur.
“Hey, Tiny,” he murmurs, as her real name has escaped him for a moment. “Good girl.”
He’s still on the battlefield, but far away from where he started. It smells like a hospital, like machine oil. There’s no sand beneath him. It’s a metal grate that digs into his skin. A glass tube lays on its side next to him, a mirror image of himself slumbering peacefully inside.
“One of many,” it says to him. “All the same.”
Nyx is in his ear, asking his location. Prompto’s throat is too dry to answer with more than a whisper. His mouth is full of sand and the effort of reaching for the button to speak is more than he can handle.
It’s so dark, he can’t see the city walls. He can’t tell if he did what he set out to do. If he’s failed, he doesn’t think he wants to know. He doesn’t want to be the reason Insomnia falls to the Empire. He fears whatever he did blasted a big hole in the Wall instead of stopping it and his imagination runs wild as he lays there, conjuring the worst of scenarios. The King killed, Noct taken hostage, the Crystal stolen, the city in ruins, the citizens slaughtered, Luna executed, his friends killed.
It could happen. It might be happening right now and here he is, stuck between worlds and realities, incapable of doing anything to stop it.
Prompto closes his eyes, sure he’s about to die. When he opens them again, it’s daylight, and there’s an Angel kneeling beside him. She lays a hand against his cheek and he leans into it, glad for the warmth of her touch.
If there’s Miasma curling around the edges of the world, he ignores it. If there are daemons dancing around in the sunlight, he pretends they’re not there. If his hands are ink-black and gnarled with gleaming claws, no, they aren’t. And if the Chancellor is grinning at him with black tears streaming down his face, it’s just his imagination.
It’s all an illusion. He’s delirious. He hit his head too hard. The only thing that really exists is the pain and the Angel cradling him in her arms in the warm sunshine, telling him everything will be fine.
Nyx gets to safety, barely, wedging himself into a gap in an outcropping of rock just seconds before the world around him explodes. The blast literally sucks the breath from his lungs and he has to shield his face from the brutal wind that follows. If anyone is on the com, he can’t hear it over the mighty roar of whatever’s happening beyond his hiding place.
It feels like forever before it stops, and when it does, the world is shrouded in darkness. There is no moon, no stars, just an inky, undulating blackness overhead that makes it hard to see more than three feet in front of his face. There’s no breeze, and no sound, as if the magic sucked every living molecule out of the universe.
“Leonis, check in,” Nyx says.
“The fuck did he do, Ulric?” Cor asks, his answer full of static and shrieks and pops. “Machine’s gone.”
Nyx slides out of his hiding place and surveys the narrow pass for casualties. Glaives and Crownsguard alike are emerging, dazed, from their own shelters, as uncertain of the darkness and the stillness as Nyx is.
It’s unsettling. And nothing like the aftermath of Prompto’s last battle. There had been a sense of victory that time, but this time, there are no cheers or congratulations.
Nyx expects to find the machine blasted apart, just a heap of shredded metal, but it’s as Cor said. It’s gone. Not a trace of it left, and there’s a shallow crater in the sand where it stood. As if it vanished into thin air.
There’s no sign of Prompto.
The darkness has started to fade, the light changing from thick ink to an awful bloody red. Goosebumps raise along his arms and legs and the hair on his scalp prickles. A sick feeling comes over him as he searches the landscape for any sign of the kid.
There’s nothing. Not a scrap of fabric, not a drop of blood. No trace of him at all.
He hopes to all the gods that the idiot didn’t vaporize himself to save everyone else, but Prompto is and always has been the sort to do just that. The kid pretends to be a coward and whines like there’s no tomorrow over minor things, but he’s never actually been one when it matters.
“Argentum,” Nyx says into the com. “What’s your location?”
He’s met with silence.
“Anyone got eyes on Argentum?” he asks.
No one answers, leaving Nyx to wonder if the weird shroud of darkness is messing up their communications.
There’s something gleaming in the red light, something round and silvery that he can’t look away from. It’s shaped like a helmet. Nyx picks it up and examines the strange folds of shiny metal and tests it’s unusually heavy weight in his hands.
There’s only one person who wears armor like this. Someone he’s wanted to face for half a decade now.
Nyx drops it to the ground and goes off in search of the helmet’s owner. Confirmation of the death of Imperial General Glauca will be a huge blow to the Niffs, and a huge victory for them. If he’s dead, and Prompto is responsible for that, hero won’t be big enough an honorific. He’ll be a legend.
He picks through dozens of fallen MT’s and warped pieces of Mechs until he finds what he’s looking for.
Pinned beneath the twisted leg of a Mech is the rest of Glauca’s armor. The breastplate is crushed, the metal turned concave against the wearer’s chest. Another piece has pierced straight through the armor at the shoulder, nailing him to the ground. Blood leaks into the sand beneath it.
Nyx stands frozen, waiting for any sign of life inside of it and he draws his kukris in anticipation of finishing the job. There’s a low groan that’s both muffled and amplified by the armor, and Nyx steps closer.
The eyes that meet his are familiar. Too familiar, and Nyx heart is filled with bitter betrayal well before his mind acknowledges what he’s seeing.
“It was you,” Nyx says.
It’s the best he can do. He’s too stunned to say anything else. His trust in the man hasn’t just been broken, it’s been pulverized into a million tiny fragments like the sand beneath his boots.
“Ulric, where are you?” Cor asks.
“Dealing with another hostage at the mouth of the pass,” Nyx says, and his voice is scratchy, barely above a whisper. “You need to get over here. Now.”
The armor Drautos wears is sparking at the seams. Magitek powered, no doubt, and failing from the damage it took. Drautos groans again, struggling weakly against the weight pinning him down. Blood trickles from his nose.
Daylight is slowly coming back, and Drautos looks awful in the odd light. It takes everything Nyx has to keep from cutting his throat out of both fury and pity.
“We trusted you,” Nyx says. “We put our lives in your hands. They burned your home. Killed your family. So why?”
Drautos seems unable to answer. He opens his mouth and blood coats his teeth and tongue. One armor-clad hand shifts toward him, almost pleading with him. All Nyx can do is stand there and watch, paralyzed by the scope of just how deeply they’ve been betrayed.
Behind him is a shout, a warning, and then the clash of metal against metal. Nyx turns, weapons drawn to join the fight. He expects a random MT or two, but it isn’t. It’s another fucking betrayal, he just can’t tell who it is doing the betraying.
As he moves to step in, Cor shoves the blade of his katana deep into Sonitus’ gut and rips it out with a dark, savage snarl. Blood spills out of the wound, the flow heavy and spurting in time with a heartbeat. Sonitus staggers toward Cor, a dagger held out limply, and Cor finishes the job with a quick, brutal slash across Sonitus’ throat.
Sonitus goes down in a heavy, graceless heap, blood pooling rapidly beneath him, only to be absorbed by the dry, thirsty earth.
Nyx has known Sonitus for years. He might not like him, but he trusts him as far as he can trust anyone. He’s always been a loyal, solid comrade. One who always had his back in a fight. His mind sees not an enemy, but an ally, and his first thought is that Leonis must also be a turncoat.
Cor turns toward Nyx, blood dripping from his blade, and his face and clothing are smeared with more. Nyx assumes a fighting stance in anticipation of an attack. He’s angry and confused that after everything, it’s come to this. If two of the highest ranked members of the city’s defense are compromised, they don’t stand a chance.
“Why?” Nyx demands again.
“Get down,” Cor orders. “Now.”
There’s a throwing star in Cor’s hand and Nyx has only a second to duck. There’s wretched scream behind him, and he sees a young Glaive, a recent graduate, go to his knees, clutching his throat.
“What the fuck, Leonis?” Nyx breathes. “The fuck is going on?”
“You’re welcome,” Cor says.
Cor pushes the button on his com, his expression intense and his eyes blazing.
“Any other traitors wanna take me on, come meet me in the pass.”
Nyx’s mind is reeling. His gaze flicks among the two dead Glaives and the leader he’d put his trust in for the last decade. When they find Cor again, Cor is watching him passively, but not without sympathy.
“Looks like you’ve got a big problem on your hands,” he says.
“It started there,” Nyx says and points to Drautos. “Right at the top.”
Cor moves to stand over Titus Drautos and his shoulders sag. Nyx can’t say the two were ever friends, but he knows they shared the same kind of mutual respect that Nyx thought he shared with Drautos all these years. Cor doesn’t say anything, he just shakes his head and radios for back-up.
Crownsguard only.
Nyx hasn’t had the urge to cry in a long, long time. Not since he watched his home burn from the back of a transport truck, knowing that his sister lay dead at the bottom of a ravine because he wasn’t strong enough to save her. But he wants to cry now.
This is a blow he’s not sure he’s going to get over. The man he looked up to, the man he served without question has double-crossed them.
Several Crownsguard show up, including Amicitia, who looks like he’s definitely seen better days. He walks with a hunch that says he’s got a few broken ribs, and there’s blood trickling down his temple and over his ear. Cor orders them to move the Mech that pins the traitor to the ground.
“Anybody get eyes on Prompto yet?” Amicitia asks. “Or Ignis?”
“Nope,” Nyx says, and he notices the way Cor turns away. “Not yet.”
He steps away to collect himself, unable to process the level of absolute insanity that’s happened here today. If Tredd plus these three have turned, there are bound to be more. That means there are only a handful of people he knows for sure aren’t in on it. Which means he’s going to have to root out the rest of the traitors before its too late.
“A word?” Cor says.
Nyx joins him, taking care to keep one of his blades drawn, just in case. Right now, he can’t really trust anyone, not even Cor.
“Did you know?” Cor asks. “About Drautos?”
“No. Didn’t even suspect,” Nyx says, but that’s not quite true. He knew something was going on behind the scenes, but he didn’t expect this. He tells Cor so, after struggling to come up with the words to explain himself.
“It should go without saying, you’re now permanently in command of the Glaives,” Cor says. “Choose a co-captain you trust.”
“Easier said than done,” Nyx says. “I don’t know who the hell I can trust anymore.”
Cor pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.
“Clarus is going to shit himself. He personally chose Drautos to lead the Glaives.”
“We sure he’s not one, too?”
“Positive,” Cor says and turns back to Nyx. “Let’s get him into custody and start rounding up any casualties. And watch your back.”
Nyx nods and hopes that Prompto won’t be among them.
Gladio is exhausted. The effort of moving an actual ton of metal off of Titus Drautos’ armor-clad body, even with help, saps the last of his strength. It’s not as late in the day as he thought it was, but by his estimate, they’ve been out here for over five hours and it’s not even noon yet.
He’s having a really hard time reconciling the idea that Titus Drautos is a traitor. He’s always seemed loyal to the Crown, to the city and its people. His father trusted Drautos. He trusted the Glaives. Now that their loyalty and alliances have been called into question, Gladio can’t help but look around, and wonder if any of these others are dirty, too.
If Gladio had his way, Drautos would already be dead. If he had his way, he would have cleaved his head in half and not felt an ounce of regret, but Cor and Nyx want him alive, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He understands why it’s necessary, but a brutal death is exactly what Drautos deserves.
The young Glaive who fought with him hands him a canteen of water and sits down in the dirt beside him. Gladio takes it with gratitude and swallows half of it at once. It’s warm, but it tastes sweet, and it soothes his sandblasted throat.
“What’s your name, kid?” Gladio asks.
The kid spells it out in the dirt. MATEO.
“Mateo,” he says like he’s testing it out. “I’m Gladio. You did real good back there. And thanks, for savin’ my ass.”
Mateo pats his shoulder and smiles. He seems like a really good kid and Gladio hopes he’s not compromised, too. He hopes like hell the corruption doesn’t go so deep that it affects the majority and not just a select few.
He’s worried about Ignis and Prompto. From what he’s overheard, Prompto’s MIA after blowing up the Wallbreaker thing, which isn’t a good sign. There’s nothing left of it, not even a scrap, and he hopes that doesn’t mean there’s nothing left of Prompto either. Gladio would be gutted if that happened, and he’s pretty sure Noct won’t take it well, even if Prompto died defending the city.
And Ignis. Gladio hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him. Not a word on the com, either. He hopes Ignis is off doing something else, like tending the wounded or searching for casualties and is too busy and too focused to bother with a check-in.
After a couple minutes, Gladio pushes to his feet, his legs shaking in exhaustion beneath him. He turns to the kid and offers a hand to help him up. There’s still shit to be done before any of them can go home and rest.
It’s another hour before Gladio gets a chance to speak to Cor. The man looks even more worn out than Gladio feels and he’s splattered head to toe in blood. Some of it looks like his own, but most of it isn’t.
“Hey,” Gladio greets. “Seen Iggy around?”
Cor looks away, and there’s a shitload of guilt in his normally blank face. Gladio’s stomach clenches and his heart gives a painful throb. He’s prepared to handle a lot, but the one thing he knows he won’t be able to take is news that Ignis didn’t survive it.
“What?” Gladio demands. “Whatever it is, say it.”
Ignis can’t be dead. Gladio’s sure he would know it somehow. From the look on Cor’s face, he’s almost positive that’s what Cor is about to tell him, and he shakes his head to deny it before the words can come out.
“He was taken hostage,” Cor says without looking at him. “The Empire has him.”
Gladio doesn’t react. The words aren’t making sense. Hostage. The Empire has him. The Empire, who will torture him for information. Beat him. Starve him. Make him wish he was dead.
He knows Ignis. Almost too well. Ignis would rather make the Imperials kill him than give them any information. Hell, Gladio’s pretty sure when questioned, Ignis will give them a recipe for pound cake and explain the difference between a white zinfandel and a moscato, just to be contrary. Gladio’s seen Ignis do this in person in social settings to get rid of someone he’s not in the mood to talk to.
But it can’t be true. Ignis is somewhere nearby, they’ve just overlooked him. That’s all.
“I spoke to him personally,” Cor says. “He managed to make a call from the airship.”
“Who are we sending after him?” Gladio asks. “I volunteer if you need bodies.”
Cor doesn’t answer him, which is answer enough, and Gladio’s worry turns to a searing and bitter rage. He’s not going to let them abandon him. Gladio’s just a human shield, a sack of meat that can be replaced by another less loyal sack of meat, but Ignis is important. As if his year-long absence wasn’t evidence enough of how much he mattered to the future King of Lucis, his death could easily be the Kingdom’s downfall.
“I swear to the fucking Gods, if we don’t get him back -”
If they don’t get him back, what? Will he quit? Walk away from the whole thing, from his duty to Noct? He’s always known there was a possibility that they might lose someone along the way, someone they care about, and he always thought he was prepared, but this is Ignis. He’s not just some foot soldier or low-level accountant.
“If they take him out of the country, as he seemed to believe they were, getting him back may be impossible,” Cor says.
“So what, we do nothing?” Gladio roars. “You know what they’re gonna do to him.”
“I know,” Cor says.
Rage so pure it makes him see red wells up from the very bottom of his soul and he resists the urge to deck Cor right in the face. But Gods, he wants to. And his father, too. Maybe even Noctis, for not growing up and learning to stand on his own.
There’s no arguing about it. Not with Cor, who takes his orders from Clarus. Gladio will have to go straight to the source. And he will. As soon as he can get off this godforsaken battlefield.
“Whoever was looking for Argentum earlier, I found him,” a woman says over the com. “We’re over by the factory ruin.”
“Is he alive?” Nyx asks and Gladio doesn’t miss the genuine hope in his voice.
“Yeah. Unconscious. And he’s pretty banged up, but he’s definitely alive,” she says.
Gladio is filled with relief to hear her say it. He’s not as close to Prompto as Noct and Iggy are, but he still considers him a friend. It’s a small consolation that at least one of them is safe, if not unharmed.
“Stay with him. I’ll be over in a second,” Nyx says.
Gladio goes too. Cor follows.
He can’t figure out how Prompto got all the way over to the crumbling factory. It’s more than halfway back to the city gate, but there he is, lying on his back, his face one big ugly freckled bruise. There’s blood on his lips and in one hand, there’s what looks like a piece of a steering wheel. It’s the only evidence so far that the Empire’s machine even existed.
The woman treating him is no more than twenty, and her uniform suggests she’s a mage. Gladio can tell she’s already started patching him up by the scent of the potion in the air. Nyx kneels beside him but he sends Gladio a glance, then Cor.
“Let’s get him to the infirmary,” Nyx says. “Hadley, you stay with him and keep up the curatives.”
“Yes, sir,” she says. “But I don’t think anything’s broken, he’s just knocked out. His face is the worst of it.”
Gladio snorts back a laugh.
“Amicitia, you wanna ride back with him?” Nyx asks.
Gladio’s glad to be offered a good excuse to get the hell out of here. If he can’t deal with losing Ignis right now, he might as well lend support to another friend in need. It will keep his mind off it until he can unload on his dad.
And give him time to come up with a plan to rescue Ignis, no matter how far away they take him.
Prompto is in and out of consciousness, pulled between the blistering sunlight and an oppressive nothingness. He’s convinced there’s an Angel watching over him, soothing the pain that’s consuming his body. He alternates between a deep, swirling darkness and the Angel’s kind green eyes and soft words. Every now and then, Tiny licks and nuzzles his hand to remind him she’s still there.
No. Pryna. Not Tiny.
The Angel has freckles like him. Ashy blond hair and bright green eyes like Ignis. Her hands are gentle and her words lull him back to sleep when the pain gets too intense.
Everything hurts. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes. It feels like he’s been crushed into a million pieces and the world around him is rocking like a ship tossed on rough seas.
There’s another voice, a deep and familiar rumble that makes him think of distant thunder, and a much bigger hand resting against his forehead. When he opens his eyes, it’s not the Angel above him, it’s Gladio, and his amber eyes are worried and tired and there’s blood on his face.
“You’re hurt,” Prompto croaks and Gladio laughs at him.
“Ain’t no big deal,” Gladio says. “Worry about yourself.”
“Everything… sucks,” Prompto says.
He meant to say everything hurts, but Gladio gets the picture. His face softens and the big hand on his forehead smooths back his dirty, sticky hair. He had no idea the Big Guy could be so gentle. He hopes Gladio handles Ignis with this much tenderness when it matters. Iggy deserves to be loved on.
“I know,” Gladio says. “But Hadley’s takin’ good care of you."
He recognizes the girl now, the one he thought was an Angel. She’s a mage under Crowe’s command. They’ve never spoken before, and he didn’t know her name until now, but she’s being just as gentle and careful as Gladio is.
It’s nice, being cared for. Even if the pain is all sharp spikes and bright needles all over his body. He’s pretty sure most of his bones are broken and he’s just goop sliding around inside a skin suit.
“Least I didn’t break my ankles this time,” he mutters. “That totally sucked.”
“We’ll make sure nothing’s broken when we get to the infirmary but I think you’re still in one piece, just bruised,” Hadley says, then pauses, scrutinizing his face with her pretty green eyes. “Maybe a concussion.”
“Oh, good. It’s been weeks since I had one of those,” Prompto says with an unhinged-sounding giggle. “I was starting to miss having my brains scrambled.”
She offers a bright smile and a laugh as she bandages a wound on his arm that stings like fire. He smells potion on the gauze.
“You’re pretty,” he tells her and Gladio’s deep baritone laughter mocks him. “You sure you’re not an angel?”
“Definitely not an angel,” she says. “Far from it.”
“You look like one,” Prompto says, knowing he’s making an idiot of himself but totally unable to stop himself from being an idiot. “Green eyes are so pretty. They’re my favorite.”
“Smooth,” Gladio says with a laugh. “You should probably start with buying her a drink before you lay it on that thick, shorty.”
“I’ll buy all the beers ‘n drinks. I already owe Nyx a lemonade,” Prompto says earnestly. “You want drinks, Big Guy?”
“Maybe later,” Gladio says. “Just relax, alright? And try not to talk.”
“I can talk if I wanna,” Prompto says. “But I kinda wanna sleep. Can I sleep?”
“Probably a good idea,” Hadley says and Prompto notices she’s blushing. It’s pretty on her. “You’ll heal faster if you get some rest.”
“Okay,” he says agreeably and he sighs as Gladio’s huge hand strokes his forehead. “That’s so nice. Keep doing that. I hope you do that for Iggy.”
Gladio makes a choking sound and his face turns red. Prompto grins and then stops because Gladio looks sad. Like, really sad.
“You guys fighting again?”
“Naw,” Gladio says. “Thought you said you were goin’ to sleep.”
“Right,” Prompto says. “Is it okay if I sleep?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Prompto snorts. “Already did that, Big Guy.”
Hadley sticks a needle attached to a tube in his arm. Prompto whines in complaint and tries to tug his arm away. Gladio holds it steady.
“I hate needles,” Prompto complains.
“Just when I think you’re some kind of badass, you go and prove me wrong,” Gladio says.
“Cursed is what I am,” Prompto murmurs. "Izunia put a daemon in me."
"The hell does that mean?" Gladio asks.
"I got pictures."
"Pictures of what?"
"The daemons."
"How about you just relax and we'll talk about that later."
He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he’s in the infirmary and his head is a lot clearer. There’s a tube in his arm with clear fluid in it. Nothing is too heavily bandaged from what he can tell, but his face hurts and his eyes feel like they’re full of grit.
Mateo is sitting beside his bed and his grin is huge when he realizes Prompto’s awake. He looks more or less fine, except for some scrapes on his jaw and a healing cut down the edge of his right eyebrow.
“You look like a grape,” Mateo says.
Prompto touches his face and winces. The skin there is tender and swollen. His eyes in particular.
“Quit touching,” Mateo scolds. “How are you feeling?”
“Getting real tired of waking up in hospital beds,” Prompto says in a scratchy voice. “Something’s gotta give, man. I feel like a punching bag for the Astrals.”
Mateo just grins and pretends to throw a punch.
“I met your friend. The big one.”
“Gladio?” Prompto asks and struggles to sit up straighter. “Hope he wasn’t an ass.”
“He was awesome. We fought together.”
Mateo is beaming like they’ve become the best of friends. Prompto’s glad for it. He’s glad they had each other’s backs. He can even seen them becoming friends in real life, or at least sparring partners. Both are big guys who use comically large swords.
“Everyone else okay?” Prompto asks. “Nyx and everybody?”
Mateo’s face falls and he shakes his head. Prompto immediately worries one of his friends didn’t make it.
“We have traitors,” Mateo says. “Sonitus. Garvin.”
He pauses and chews his lip.
“And who else?” Prompto asks, afraid of the answer.
“Drautos,” Mateo says. “He was working for the Empire. He’s in custody.”
“What?” Prompto asks, shocked by this news.
He figured if Tredd was a traitor, there were others, but he never suspected Drautos. Sure, he was a dick, but Prompto figured that was because Drautos was afraid of what he was and what he could do, and because it was his job to be a dick. Prompto’s sure it’s not easy to lead a bunch of angry, wayward refugees with lousy attitudes and poor people skills.
To know Drautos has been working for the Empire, after leading the Glaives for years, is crazy. He can imagine all the intel that’s been compromised.
But now it all makes sense. The trip to Hammerhead that seemed so pointless was pointless by design. It was a way to get Cor away from the city so he could be eliminated. They just never counted on Prompto being so quick on the draw. He wonders if that’s why Empire staged an attack the day after Noct was sent to prison, knowing King Regis might be distracted.
It also sort of says that the Empire isn’t as solid as they seem to be. Even with intel and their robot army and their scary weapons, the Glaives have been kicking Niff ass for years.
Maybe that’s by design, too. To trick them into underestimating the Empire’s army, so that when the real fight happens, they’re not prepared.
“That sucks,” Prompto says. “Does that mean Nyx is in charge from now on?”
“He hasn’t said, but probably. Who else would it be?”
Hadley waves from across the infirmary, and Prompto blushes at the memory of the things he said in the ambulance. Mateo notices and pats him on the shoulder, causing Prompto to wince at the jarring motion.
“Sorry,” Mateo says, then flicks his eyes to Hadley. “She’s cute.”
“Yeah,” Prompto says. “She is.”
He thinks about Cindy, about his hopeless crush, and how the chance of seeing her again anytime soon is low. And how the chance of her ever returning his interest is even lower than that. It’s such a long-shot and he’s heard long-distance things don’t last, and even though he would worship the ground Cindy walks on, he’s dumb to hang onto something that will never happen.
“You should give it a shot,” Mateo says.
“Yeah, maybe,” Prompto says.
He probably won’t, though. He can admire from afar, like he always does.
Besides. He’s got bigger things to worry about.
Gladio goes home and takes a long, hot shower. The only thing keeping him vertical is rage. He needs sleep, but he needs to confront his dad more than he needs rest, and he knows he won’t sleep until he knows what the plan to rescue Ignis is.
The wound on his head stings when he washes the dried blood out, and it’s the color of rust when it swirls down the drain. There’s grit underfoot from the sand caked in every single crevice of his body.
If he never sees sand again, it will still be too soon. He could do without another battlefield, too, but he suspects his days of simply training for battle are over. From here on out, he’ll need to step in and fight, whether he likes it or not. The Empire’s not playing with them anymore. They’re escalating, and next time will be worse.
His chest starts to hurt, tightening until he can hardly breathe, and his heart beats so fast and so hard he feels it in his throat and his eardrums. Slowly, he lowers himself to the bottom of the shower, on hands and knees as he gasps for breath. The pain in his chest is made worse by the ache in his ribs and it feels like he’s having a goddamn heart attack.
All he can think about as he crouches on the shower floor is Ignis and what he must be going through. If he’s even still alive. The thought of Ignis being gone forever makes his chest hurt even more. They were trained for the possibility of capture, but training and reality are wildly different. Today proved that. Real battle was nothing like his training. He never had to fight to stay alive in training. Any hostages taken during training were released after the module was over.
Gladio’s about thirty seconds from climbing out of the shower for his phone to call emergency services when the pain starts to subside.
It leaves him gradually. The vice around his chest loosens, though his ribs still hurt, and his heart is still beating too fast. He sits back, letting the hot water cascade over him as he struggles to catch his breath. He’s still winded and his chest still feels tight, but he’s less convinced it’s a medical emergency.
A panic attack, then. A combination of exhaustion and his worry over Ignis’s fate. He’s too tired to manage his feelings the way he usually does. That’s all it is, and it’ll pass. He’ll handle his business, get some sleep, and wake up tomorrow with a clearer, more solid head on his shoulders.
He doesn’t get out of the shower until the water runs clean and he’s positive he’s not about to fall over dead. He dries off and tugs on a pair of track pants and a hoodie. He doesn’t bother to dry his hair and tugs a ball cap over it as he goes off in search of his wallet and keys.
There’s a message from Iris on his phone, asking him to check in to let her know he’s okay. He calls instead of messaging back.
“Hey kiddo,” he greets. “What’s up?”
“Gladdy!” she cries. “It’s so good to hear your voice. Dad told me he sent you to fight and I’ve been so scared something bad was going to happen to you.”
“I’m fine. Just worn out,” Gladio says tiredly. “You with dad right now?”
“Kind of,” she says. “He’s in the other room with the King. He’s not looking good, Gladdy.”
“Who, dad?”
“No, King Regis,” she says. “Dad told me the Empire attacked the wall and it took a lot out of him to hold it. Guess he collapsed and passed out after. There’s a bunch of doctors in and out.”
Gladio pauses and plucks his keys up off the coffee table. It hasn’t occurred to him the toll it might have taken on the King. He knows the strain of upholding the city’s shield is draining him slowly, but he never considered what it might do to him if he had to fight to keep it intact.
“I’m on my way now,” Gladio says. “Need to talk to dad.”
“About Ignis?”
“You know about that, huh?”
“I’m not supposed to,” she says. “I’m supposed to be doing homework, but it’s hard not to overhear when Cor’s yelling at dad in the room next door about it.”
At least Cor is on Gladio’s side in this. Gladio’s still not sure why Clarus made the decision to risk both Ignis and Gladio today, and why they weren’t sent to the prison to keep an eye on Noct. If Prompto hadn’t managed to take the machine down, there’s a really good chance the Empire would have taken the wall down completely, leaving the city, and Noctis, vulnerable to an invasion.
All in all, a really stupid move. His dad’s not usually one to make stupid decisions.
“Have you eaten?” Gladio asks. “I can grab something on my way.”
“I’m okay,” she says. “One of the King’s retainers keeps bringing finger sandwiches and little salads and pastries and stuff. I’m only one person, so if you’re hungry there’s enough for five more of you, and dad too.”
Gladio hasn’t thought of food, and he’s not sure he can keep anything down right now. Every time he thinks about Ignis, he feels physically sick.
“Sounds good,” Gladio says. “What was Cor saying?”
“Something about Drautos, stuff about a rescue team, blah blah so irresponsible, dumbshit numb-nuts idea, stupid fucking idiot, they both could have died,” Iris rattles off and Gladio tries not to wince at the swear. “I’ve never heard him this mad before, Gladdy. Cor’s scary on a good day, but this was something else.”
“Yeah, well, dad kinda deserves it,” Gladio says. “So heads up, I’m letting him have it when I get there, too. Might wanna plug your ears. Don’t want you to learn any more swear words.”
“I’m not five, Gladdy,” she says. “And I live with dad.”
Right. Clarus doesn’t exactly censor himself and never has.
It only takes him twenty minutes to get there on foot, but it feels like the longest walk of his life. His legs are heavy and sore and his ribs are on fire again, even though he’s done what he can to take the bite out of it. It’s not so bad he can’t power through it, but it’s bad enough to be annoying.
When he walks into the King’s sitting room, he can hear his father and Cor arguing somewhere nearby. Gladio’s never personally heard Cor raise his voice outside of training, and only when someone does something monumentally stupid. This is on a whole other level, and based on what Iris said, it sounds like this is the second round, maybe even the third.
Beneath Cor’s shouts is his father’s low rumble, his irritation at being schooled by a subordinate obvious, but for now it doesn’t sound like Clarus is putting Cor in his place. Probably because he knows he’s wrong.
Iris is in a huge wingback chair by the window, her Earth Science textbook open in her lap, but she’s obviously not reading it. She jumps up when Gladio enters the room and throws herself at him. Gladio returns her hug, more fiercely than usual. This morning, he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to see her again, and he’s grateful that he’s still around to be her big brother.
“Was it bad?” she asks when she pulls away. “The fighting?”
“Yeah. It was rough,” Gladio says. “Still standing, though.”
“I don’t know what I would have done if something happened to you, Gladdy,” she says. “I’ve been a wreck all day.”
Gladio kisses her forehead like he used to do when she was little. The last time he did that, she scowled at him and told him to quit being weird, but she accepts it this time without a single complaint. She even smiles when he pulls away. That tells him how scared she must have been, sitting here waiting for news of his fate.
“I guess I gotta go in there and break it up before it turns into a fist fight,” he says.
“I think it might have actually come to blows earlier,” Iris says with a shrug. “Sounded like it.”
“Great,” Gladio says. “Wish me luck.”
“Give him hell,” she says and returns to her seat.
Gladio steps into the King’s private office without knocking. The place looks like it’s been razed. There’s papers and books on the floor, along with a desk lamp and a couple overturned potted plants. Pictures have been knocked off the walls and there are pens scattered across the desk.
Clarus is sporting a black eye and Cor’s lip is bleeding. Gladio kind of wishes he’d been around to see that. Not many people have the balls to stand up to his dad, let alone throw hands.
They both turn toward him, red-faced and startled to see him.
“What’s goin’ on?” Gladio asks, trying to sound casual.
“I was just explaining to your father why it’s important that we get Ignis back,” Cor says. “He’s not listening.”
Talking to Iris had calmed Gladio’s ire a little, and he planned to be reasonable when it came to talking to his dad, but his fury comes back full force as he confronts his dad, standing there looking like he’s not going to budge an inch. Gladio’s anger boils over and he steps closer, so very tempted to throw a punch of his own and blacken the other eye.
“What the fuck were you thinkin’, sending us in like that?” Gladio demands. “Do you have any idea how close we were to being invaded? If they’d managed to get in, their first stop would have been the prison because they probably knew you left Noct unprotected!”
“They couldn’t-”
“I guaran-fucking-tee they did,” Gladio says. “You know as well as I do Drautos probably passed that info along, just like he’s probably been tellin’ ‘em every move we make for years!”
“I didn’t have a choice, Gladio,” Clarus says. “We needed every single body we had to stop them.”
“And now Ignis is gone,” Gladio says. “And you better have a plan to get him back, because I will never forgive you if we could have saved him and we didn’t.”
“What would you have me do?” Clarus asks. “Send out a search party? We don’t even know where they’re taking him.”
Of course they know. Everybody knows. His dad’s an idiot if he can’t figure it out on his own.
“Bullshit.”
“You know it will take over a week to even get to Gralea,” Clarus says and he sounds defeated. “By then, it might be too late.”
Too late.
Too late means dead. Too late means Ignis will cease to exist.
That’s unacceptable.
“Don’t say that,” Gladio says quietly. “We need him. Noct needs him.”
I need him.
“You owe him, dad,” Gladio says. “You owe me. I can understand needing all hands on deck, but you put Noct’s life in danger. Our job is to protect him, and you kept us from doing that today.”
“I’m sorry, Gladio,” Clarus says. “But unless we know for sure where he is, it’ll be like trying to find a snowball in Leide. And we can’t spare the resources for one man.”
“He ain’t just one man,” Gladio says through clenched teeth. “He’s worth more than fifty others, and you fucking know that.”
That crushing pain in his chest comes back, sharper and meaner than before, but he’s not going to back down.
“What would you have us do, Gladio? I know how important he is to Noctis, but we can’t spare the resources.”
“Fuck that. Trade him,” Gladio says. “We don’t have any use for Drautos once he's questioned, and now that he’s compromised, he’s as good as dead if he goes back to the Empire. So let them take care of it.”
“The Empire doesn’t do prisoner swaps,” Clarus says, quieter. “You know that.”
The pain in his chest intensifies and Gladio sways, grabbing hold of the desk to stay upright. He’s not getting enough air. His father’s hands are on him and he fights them, his eyes watering from the effort of trying to catch his breath.
“You’re okay,” Clarus says and pushes him into a chair. “Breathe with me, count of four.”
Gladio can barely hear his dad’s voice over his pounding heart. All he can think about is Ignis, and how much he must be suffering right now. The Niffs won’t go easy on him. They’ll keep him alive for a while, but they’ll make him want to die. Few prisoners have made it out alive, and the ones that did all reported the same thing. Abuse, starvation, filthy conditions, torture.
He doesn’t want Ignis to come back to him broken. It’s killing him to think of him enduring it all alone, knowing they’re not going to come looking for him.
For Noct’s sake, Gladio has to get Ignis back. He’s pretty sure Ignis is the only one who can get through to him. He’s pretty sure Noct won’t want to fight whatever’s coming without Ignis at his side. He’s already lost Prompto, and he’s not going to survive losing Ignis for real. Gladio isn’t sure he will, either.
Little by little, Gladio regains control of himself. His father is still crouched down in front of him, his hands gripped tight around Gladio’s forearms. Gladio looks into his father’s eyes and sees all the regret and worry there, and it makes no difference. Regrets and worries won’t save Ignis, or the Kingdom.
“Would you be saying the same thing if it was me? Or Iris?” Gladio asks him. “If it was one of us, would you still be saying there’s nothing you can do?”
Clarus looks away because the answer is no. He doesn’t need to say it. It’s there, in his face.
“That’s what I thought,” Gladio says. “What a hypocrite. Well, you know what, dad? Ignis is family, too. Blood or not. He’s my family.”
“Gladio -”
“You owe him,” Gladio shouts. “You need to make it right, and if you can’t, then I’m gonna do it for you.”
“You’d abandon Noctis to save him?” Clarus asks. “You’d abandon your duty?”
“You were willing to sacrifice my life today, and you’ve got the nerve to ask me that?” Gladio asks and pushes his father’s hands away. “You know what? Fuck that. And you too.”
Gladio stands up and storms out on quivering legs. He bypasses Iris, who gets to her feet, her face contorted with worry, and out into the hall, feeling like he needs to hit something. Better a wall than his father.
There are footsteps behind him, and he spins on his pursuer, ready to fight, but it’s Cor, not his dad. Gladio relaxes a little and continues on until he reaches the walkway between buildings, where the view of the city is one of the best there is. Down below, it’s business as usual. As if there wasn’t an actual war right on their doorstep just a few hours ago.
“I’m sorry, Gladio,” Cor says. “I tried to get through to him.”
“Thanks for trying,” Gladio says. “You know, I can forgive being sent in with the infantry if that’s what was needed. But he left Noct unprotected today, and they came real close to getting in. Looks real suspicious from the outside.”
“Are you suggesting your father’s compromised?” Cor asks, incredulous.
Gladio shrugs and looks out on the city. From where they stand, they can see a sliver of the battlefield beyond the King’s Gate. From here, it doesn’t look any different.
“He made a bad call, Gladio,” Cor says. “That doesn’t mean he’s a traitor.”
Gladio’s not sure what he’s supposed to think. It’s hard to wrap his head around his father’s reasons, but it does look suspicious. Could be he’s paranoid. Could be his dad just didn’t think it through. It’s hard to trust anyone right now.
“Look, it’s not much, but I’ve got our technicians keeping tabs on Ignis’ phone,” Cor says. “They’ve set up an alert if his line pings off any towers. It won’t give us an exact location, but it’ll give us a vicinity. He had access to the Armiger long enough to call me, so maybe he’ll have it again in the near future.”
“You think that’s actually gonna happen?” Gladio asks with a bitter laugh.
“Unlikely, but you never know,” Cor says. “Ignis is smart. If he gets a chance, he’ll turn his phone back on, even if he can’t call. For as long as the battery lasts, that is.”
Gladio nods his agreement, but even if Ignis takes care to preserve the battery life, Cor’s talking about days, not weeks.
“And he’ll take full advantage of lapses in security,” Cor says. “They’ll let down their guard eventually. I’m banking on him finding us before we find him.”
“Think so?” Gladio asks distantly.
“Hoping,” Cor admits. “He’s smart and deadly. If he can escape, he will.”
Gladio’s glad Cor sees it. Others, who don’t know Ignis outside of his administrative role, tend to underestimate him. His mild, agreeable persona in the office is totally at odds with the man he is in training. Gladio sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up against him for real. He might survive it, but not without taking heavy damage.
“Thanks. For backing me,” Gladio says. “Good to know someone’s in my corner.”
“Ignis is valuable. Your dad knows that,” Cor says. “Regis' time is coming sooner rather than later. Without Ignis, I don’t see Noctis living up to his potential as a leader.”
Gladio agrees with that. Without Ignis, Noctis has crumbled. Not even Gladio’s motivational bullying can get through to him the way it used to.
“Think you can get me in to see Noct?” Gladio asks. “Preferably today? Someone needs to tell him what happened.”
“Let me step away to make a couple of calls. I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
Gladio stays put and watches traffic on Citadel Boulevard move at a snail’s pace. He doesn’t want to think about what might have happened today, if Prompto hadn’t done… whatever it was he did.
There’s still no good explanation for Prompto’s newfound skill. It’s almost god-like, what he can do, and he wonders if that’s why Prompto, who has never struck Gladio as particularly brave, has become so fearless and reckless. He’d treated the whole damn mission like a video game, like his own life wasn’t on the line.
However it came to be, they all owe Prompto big time. The King owes him too. He saved Cor from an assassin, and the city from the Niffs twice now. Anyone who still believes he might be a traitor is an idiot.
Maybe Gladio can lobby on Prompto’s behalf to get his charges dropped. At the very least, he deserves a visit with Noct, and he makes a mental note to talk to his dad about it, once they’ve both calmed down.
Gladio doesn’t turn around when Cor returns, but he acknowledges him with a glance.
“Noctis is in solitary,” Cor says. “Apparently he ignored orders earlier during a lockdown.”
“So I can’t see him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Cor leans back against the rail, facing away from the view. It might be a casual pose, if not for the tension in his shoulders.
“You should probably pass along that the King doesn’t have much longer,” Cor says. “Palace physician told me the strain of trying to keep the Wall from failing took years off his life. We’ll be lucky if he makes it to spring.”
“Shit,” Gladio breathes. “What happens if they come at us again with something stronger?”
“You know the answer to that.”
Gladio’s not sure what they’re supposed to do at this point. Noctis is in no way ready to rule the Kingdom. He’s not even sure if Noct wants that, and if he isn’t willing to step up, they’re totally fucked.
“I’ll try to get it through that thick head of his,” Gladio says with a sigh. “This is more Ignis’ wheelhouse, though.”
“You should get going,” Cor says. “Your appointment is in thirty. If you’re late, they won’t let you in.”
Gladio doesn’t need to be told twice.
Noctis stares at the plate of mushy rice in front of him. It’s laced with mushrooms and peas and some unidentifiable meat. His stomach growls angrily, demanding food, but he’s not sure he can choke this down. If he doesn’t eat it, he’s going to pass out. If he eats it, he might puke and then pass out. Lose-lose situation.
He’s still in the cell he’d been taken to earlier in the day, far from other prisoners from the sound of it. Things seem to have calmed down, but nobody’s telling him what happened earlier. No one speaks to him, not even the guard posted up outside his cage.
With great reluctance, Noctis tries a bite of the mushy rice. It’s cold and thick and the texture alone is enough to make him gag. The flavor of the mushrooms and peas only makes it worse and he spits it out, his stomach screaming at him in protest.
He’s never been this hungry in his life, and he’s pretty sure he would burn the whole city down for a single bowl of Ignis’ cheesy mashed potatoes. If this keeps up, he’s pretty sure he’s actually going to starve.
A guard he doesn’t recognize joins the other, murmuring something Noctis doesn’t catch. They both turn and look at him with disdain. Noctis stares back, expecting a lecture for turning his nose up at his meal again.
“Got a visitor, Caelum.”
One unlocks the cell door, the other steps inside and orders him to hold out his wrists.
“Why?” he asks.
“You want me to tell your visitor to leave?”
“No.”
“Hands out.”
Noctis complies, but he’s still not used to being ordered around. His whole life, everyone deferred to him. Except for Ignis and Gladio. But even they knew where the line was. The guards here talk to him like he’s just another criminal, and he should be happy about that, but he isn’t. It reminds him of what he did and all the bridges he’s burned.
He’s marched down a long hallway and up a set of stairs and into a large, empty room that reminds him of the cafeteria in high school. There’s a pair of guards on each door, but there’s no one waiting for him inside.
As he sits, he hopes this isn’t some kind of set-up to take him out. It would be really easy to pull off, if someone was so inclined to assassinate him.
That makes him question the logic of keeping him imprisoned here, instead of somewhere the Crownsguard can watch over him.
He’s feeling paranoid enough about it that he’s about to ask to be taken back to his cell when Gladio steps into the room. Noctis’ heart starts to pound at the sight of him and his eyes involuntarily fill with tears. He’s so grateful to see a friendly face, even if the face staring back at him is tired and unsmiling.
Gladio looks completely drained. His eyes are red and puffy, and there’s none of his usual confidence in his step. He walks with a slight hunch like he’s in pain.
Noctis knows before Gladio even sits down that he’s not here with good news, nor is he here just to visit with him.
“Hey,” Gladio says.
“Hey yourself.”
Gladio’s folds his arms on the table and his shoulders slump. He’s not looking Noctis in the eye, he's looking at the cuffs around Noctis' wrists.
“So, how’s it going?” Gladio asks.
“Sucks.”
“Figured it would.”
There’s a freshly healed cut on the side of Gladio’s head, just above his ear. Looks like he got into a fight recently. A training accident, maybe.
“So, what about you?” Noctis asks. “How’s the real world?”
“Sucks,” Gladio echoes and finally looks at Noctis. “I got some bad news, so I’m just gonna say it.”
Noctis has never seen Gladio look this upset before. Whatever it is, it must be pretty bad if it has Gladio on the verge of tears, and Noctis is genuinely afraid to hear whatever it is.
“Imperials got Iggy,” Gladio says. “He’s now officially a prisoner of war.”
A prisoner of war? Ignis? No way. No way in hell that’s real. Gladio’s gotta be pranking him, but the look on his face says otherwise.
“That’s not possible,” Noctis says slowly. “Did the Imperials get into the city or something? Is that what happened earlier?"
Gladio chews on his lower lip and shakes his head.
“Imperials attacked this morning. Me an’ Iggy were assigned to the infantry. Not sure how it went down ‘cause nobody saw it, but they got him,” Gladio says. “We don’t know where they’re takin’ him.”
Noctis doesn’t know which part of that to address first. Ignis can’t be gone. He can’t be in the Empire’s custody. Ignis isn’t some foot soldier, and he can’t imagine why he would ever be on the frontlines like cannon fodder.
“Why were you in the infantry?” he finally asks.
“It was a bad one,” Gladio says. “They sent thousands of MT’s and a bunch of mechs and shit. And some machine that almost took down the Wall. Glaives needed all the help they could get.”
Noctis can barely process this. He’s hearing the words but they refuse to sink in. Ignis cannot be gone. It doesn’t make sense. He needs Ignis. He can’t be gone.
“It’s gotta be a mistake,” Noctis says. “He -”
Gladio lifts a hand a waves him off with a dark look.
“It’s not a mistake.”
Panic starts to set in. He imagines Ignis in a dark, cold cell, battered and bloodied. He pushes back against that thought and it’s replaced by the memory of Ignis calling him a spoiled, ungrateful little shit.
If there’s anything he regrets more than the rest, it’s letting Ignis down and taking him for granted. For wasting the last year moping around. For not asking for help with the depression that’s held him down for most of his life. For letting it take over and for lashing out instead of handling it like an adult.
This is all his fault.
If he hadn’t fucked up, he wouldn’t be here. Ignis and Gladio would not have gone to fight at the Wall. They would have been safe, and it’s all his fault they weren’t.
“But they’re looking for him, right?” Noctis asks. “We’re going to get him back.”
Gladio looks at the table, at his hands, at the cuffs again, everywhere but at Noctis.
“Gladio. Please tell me we’re sending someone to get him back.”
When Gladio fails to answer, it hits him full force. The Empire has Ignis. The same Empire that murdered Queen Sylva in front of her children and burned entire cities full of civilians in Galahd.
They will show Ignis no mercy. If he’s even alive.
If Noctis felt betrayed before, that’s nothing compared to what he feels now.
“So they’re just gonna leave him to die? You know what they’ll do to him, Gladio. We have to get him back!”
“Me and Cor are working on it,” Gladio says, and the emotion in his voice almost takes Noctis out. “Don’t know where they took him, but when we find him, we’ll figure something out.”
“And if you don’t?” Noctis demands.
Gladio shrugs one shoulder. The ball cap he wears hides his eyes, but he’s pretty sure Gladio’s crying.
That doesn’t make sense, either. He’s only seen Gladio cry for real once. After his mother’s funeral.
“Somethin’ else you should know,” Gladio says. “The doctors are sayin’ your dad’s in pretty rough shape. Havin’ to hold up the Wall against that machine drained the life outta him. If Prompto hadn’t taken it out when he did, it woulda killed him, for sure. As it is, he may only have a couple months left.”
Months? He knew his dad’s time was coming soon, but not that soon.
Every last drop of blood drains from Noctis’ body as he thinks about never seeing his dad again. Maybe he’s still mad at him, but he doesn’t want him to die. He doesn’t want to be stuck in here when he does. He wants a chance to apologize, to make it right, to say goodbye if the end is coming.
Gods. He has so much to make up for, doesn’t he? And now he’s running out of time to fix it.
He doesn't want to have to face losing another person he loves.
“You need to get your shit together, Noct,” Gladio says. “There’s no halfway, no feeling sorry for yourself, no more mopin’ around like a spoiled little kid. Those days are over, so you gotta make a decision right now. You’re either gonna step up and lead, or you’re gonna step aside before it’s too late. Otherwise, the Empire is gonna take away everything and everyone we love, and there ain’t gonna be anything left when they’re done.”
It’s Noctis’ turn to look away. His whole life, he’s been told it’s his destiny, that he’s the chosen one. No one’s ever explained what he was chosen for or what that destiny is. It’s never felt real. It’s never been a priority. His father wanted him to live as close to a normal life as possible for someone in his position, and it’s always been hard to picture his future as King of anything.
Gladio used to joke that he wasn’t fit to reign over anything besides the couch. Noctis thinks he might not be far off. Before this, he’d barely been able to take care of himself. How’s he supposed to take care of an entire Kingdom?
“Noct, this is serious shit,” Gladio says. “And sittin’ around feelin’ sorry for yourself ain’t gonna fly. So what’s it gonna be?”
“I have to decide now?”
“Yeah, you have to decide now,” Gladio says. “You say you care about the people of this city, then man up. It ain’t all about you anymore.”
“And what do you expect me to do in here?” Noctis demands. “Which by the way was a really stupid idea. Any one of these guards could take me out while the others look away. Nobody here to stop them.”
Gladio sits up straighter and one of his eyebrows cocks upward.
“Someone givin’ you a problem?”
“No, but there’s literally no one looking out for me here.”
“I’ll discuss it with Cor and my dad,” Gladio says. “So what’s it gonna be, Noct?”
“If I say I’m in, am I getting out?”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” Gladio says. “Not unless your dad’s health deteriorates even more.”
It’s a gut punch that Noctis doesn’t expect. He’s only getting out of here early if his father can no longer maintain the integrity of the Wall. Or if he dies.
“And if I say I’m out?”
“Then we all die. Every last one of us.”
Notes:
Ugh. Sorry for the monster chapter but it just didn't want to end. 🫠 Sprinkled a couple of breadcrumbs in this one, though. Subtle ones but they're there.
Thanks so much for the kudos and comments last chapter! Appreciate ya!💕
Chapter 20: Hunger
Summary:
Food is very important.
Notes:
Mentions of suicide in the first section. If you don't wanna read it, skip the part where Gladio starts thinking about the word "sorry." And pick back up where the dialogue begins again.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s been three days since the battle, and there’s no sign of Ignis. Not a single blip on the tracker, not a single word from the Empire.
Gladio’s going out of his mind with worry. The longer he’s gone, the less likely they are to recover him, but Gladio’s got hope that Ignis is already on his way back to them. He just has no means to make contact yet.
Ignis is smart. He’s resourceful. He’ll find a way home, if they don’t find him first.
He hasn’t spoken to his father since their blow-up in the King’s office. Clarus has called and texted but Gladio’s ignored any attempt to reach out. The only communication he’s had at all is strictly through Cor.
In the meantime, Gladio has focused his training on endurance. If the battle taught him anything, it’s that being the strongest guy in the room isn’t always enough. He needs to be able to withstand an onslaught that lasts more than a couple minutes and he’s gotta be in it for the long haul. So, he extends his morning run by a mile and adds another cardio session to his schedule. In his regular training, he pushes himself harder and spends more time on defense than he ever has before.
He’s visited Noctis every day, usually in the afternoons, after his obligations for the day have been met. Noctis is still his charge, and he’s an obligation, too.
When Gladio arrives at the prison, there’s a small group of people on the sidewalk out front carrying picket signs. Most of them read Free Prince Noctis. If Gladio were to guess, he’d say they’re from Galahd, though some look like they may be from Tenebrae.
Ignis mentioned the refugees were on Noctis’ side, but he didn’t know it was still a thing. He figured the news cycle had moved past it in favor of broadcasting the gory details of the battle and the details of Drautos’ betrayal that are slowly trickling into the narrative.
None of that bodes well for the immigrant population. He has a feeling the news that the Glaives have traitors in their midst is going to make the discrimination the refugees already face even worse.
Gladio goes through the now-familiar process of visitation and submits to the standard pat-down, stows his belongings in an assigned locker, and follows an unfamiliar Crownsguard and a regular prison guard to a private visitation room. Because Noctis is a high-priority inmate, and Clarus has arranged for extra security measures and extra protection, he doesn’t take visits in the common area with the others.
Not that Gladio minds. It’s easier to talk when they have privacy
Noct looks like shit. He’s pale and he’s lost some weight already. He was skinny to begin with, and Gladio doesn’t think he can afford to lose much more, even if it is just muscle mass from lack of activity.
“You eatin’ alright?” Gladio asks. “Gettin exercise?”
“Not really,” Noctis says.
“Why the hell not? Aren’t they feeding you?”
“Define feeding,” Noct says, and there’s no energy in his voice at all. “The stuff they serve barely qualifies as food.”
“Suck it up and eat what they give you,” Gladio says. “You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
“The food makes me sick,” Noct says. “The bread is always moldy. Can’t tell what it is half the time. Dinner’s usually pea or vegetable soup.”
“You’d actually rather die than eat a vegetable?” Gladio scoffs.
Noctis scowls at the table and picks at his fingernails. It looks like he’s been doing it a lot.
“Stop talking about food.”
Gladio sits back and looks him over. He can’t tell if Noctis is being a drama queen, or if it’s more serious than that. What he does know is that keeping him in a cell twenty hours a day isn’t doing him any good.
“What about exercise?” Gladio asks.
“Does pacing my cell and walking around in a circle for an hour count?” Noctis says.
Gladio frowns at his tone, and at the lack of physical activity he’s allowed. He knows maximum security has to limit inmates movement and their interactions, but Noctis is going to waste away if he can’t keep up his training in some shape or form. They need Noct in top form, and he doubts they’ll have time to rebuild him once he’s out. The Niffs are gearing up for something big, and it’s coming sooner rather than later.
“How’s my dad?” Noctis asks.
“A little better. Heard he got up on his own yesterday and went to the gardens,” Gladio says. “With a walker, but still. It’s progress.”
“That’s good,” Noctis says. “He’s still gonna die, though, right?”
“It’s lookin’ that way,” Gladio says. “Sorry.”
Gladio wishes he could offer words of comfort, something besides a half-assed sorry. Sorry never helped anything. It didn’t heal his own wounds or kill the betrayal he felt over his mom’s choice to end own her life. Sorry didn’t erase the memory of her lifeless body lying tangled in the sheets or the feel of her cold, rubbery skin beneath his hand. Sorry doesn’t bring her back or change the fact that things were bad enough for her that she thought her only way out was a handful of pills.
He’s heard people say it’s easier to handle a loss when a death happens slowly. That there’s time to make peace with it before it all ends, but Gladio’s not sure that’s true. He imagines it might be harder, to have to watch someone you love deteriorate slowly, right before your very eyes, knowing you can’t do a damn thing to stop it.
That’s what his mother did, though Gladio didn’t know it at the time. For him, her death was sudden and unexpected, but in all honesty, he’d been mourning her for years. For her absence, even though she was just down the hall. For her disconnection from everything around her. For not being there when he and Iris needed her.
It’s taken a long time for Gladio to forgive that. He understands better now, but it wasn’t sorry that got him there. And it won’t get Noct anywhere either.
“I’m gonna talk to Cor and my dad about re-starting your training,” Gladio says. “And getting one of your dad’s advisors in here to get you up to speed. Don’t get your hopes up just yet, but I wanna keep you in the loop. In case, you know?”
Noct’s face is totally blank. Gladio realizes he hasn’t committed to anything yet. He hasn’t expressed any real interest in taking back what was said at his sentencing, and it occurs to him Noct has totally checked out. It pisses him off and worries him at the same time.
“What is this?” Gladio asks. “Why’re you looking at me like you don’t give a shit?”
“It’s just a lot,” Noctis says. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for… any of this.”
“Then what the hell am I doin’ here, Noct?” Gladio asks. “What did I train for my whole life? And Iggy. He gave up his childhood and his own freedom. For you. You dip out now, all that’s a waste.”
Noctis looks away, guilty. Gladio wants to smack the petulant pout right off his face. He wants to scream at him for not getting how serious this is, or how hard he’s trying to figure out a way to get them on track so they can prepare for what’s coming without Ignis around to help.
If he could knock the sense back into Noctis, he would, but raised voices will bring in the guards and get him escorted out and possibly banned from visiting. That’s not something either of them can afford.
“I don’t think I can do this without him,” Noctis says softly.
Gladio’s heart breaks for what feels like the thousandth time and he drops his face into his hands. He wishes like hell Ignis was here. He would know how to snap Noct out of this. He would know what to do. What to say. Gladio’s out of his depth and he’s getting nowhere.
“You ain’t the only one missing him,” Gladio says. “I ain’t sure I can do it without him, either, but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna give up.”
Noctis looks away, his posture defeated and his eyes fixed on a poster about prison educational programs.
“You’re lettin’ Iggy down if you’re just gonna sit here and mope instead of getting off your ass and handling your business,” Gladio says. “And it goes both ways. We can’t do shit without you, either. Ain’t no point in that.”
Noctis wipes his eyes as tears spill over and Gladio thinks maybe he’s finally gotten through to him.
“And what if I can’t handle the responsibility?” Noctis asks. “How the hell am I supposed to shoulder that burden when I can’t even remember to brush my teeth without someone reminding me? I don’t even wanna get out of bed most days. I’m stuck. Here. So what do you expect me to do?”
“First of all, you ain’t carrying the burden alone,” Gladio says. “But I ain’t gonna carry it by myself, either. We’re in deep shit, Noct. The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the better.”
Visiting time is almost over, and Gladio feels like he hasn’t made any progress. For the first time, he wonders why he’s even bothering. His job is to protect, not advise, and Noctis is obviously not receptive to what he’s saying.
Why that is, Gladio can’t say. He’s not a doctor or a psychologist, and he’s certainly not here to comfort Noctis and tell him what he wants to hear. That’s not his job, but Noctis is totally uninterested in doing his own job.
“You wanna sit there feeling sorry for yourself, so be it,” Gladio says. “But I ain’t comin’ back to see you if all you’re gonna do is mope.”
“Fine, don’t come back. All you do is lecture anyway.”
Gladio stands up, trying to damp down his anger. If there weren’t any guards around, Gladio would knock the shit out of him for not taking it seriously.
“I don’t know what it’s gonna take to wake you up, Noct, but it’s high time for you to face reality,” Gladio says. “Nobody’s commin’ to save us. We gotta do it ourselves, and if you ain’t on board, then I’m out. They can find you another sack of meat to guard your scrawny-ass body.”
Noctis answers him with a glare, his lips pressed into a thin line. It pisses Gladio off so much, he delivers the death blow.
“Iggy was right. You are an ungrateful little shit,” Gladio says and stands up to leave. “I’m outta here.”
Noctis calls out to him as he storms from the room, but Gladio doesn’t look back.
He should know better than to let Noct’s attitude get to him. Noctis knows exactly what buttons to push to get a rise out of him. Gladio took the bait, but he’s worn down and tired and scared for Ignis, and he doesn’t have his usual defenses up to deflect it.
Besides, Gladio will be back. Maybe not for a few days, just let it sink in, but it’s not in his nature to call it quits.
From the prison, he walks to Cor’s office. The walk gives him a chance to cool off, and he does feel better after getting some sunlight and fresh air.
There are more protesters outside the Citadel’s gates. A lot more than he saw at the prison. He thinks the King would do well to address this situation and at least try and satisfy some of their demands, even if he has to do it from his bedchambers. The realm definitely can’t afford to let this boil over.
Cor is finishing up a meeting when he arrives, but he greets Gladio cordially and lets him know he’ll be free soon. Cor’s secretary offers him a cup of tea, which he accepts.
Gladio waits in a comfortable chair by the window, where there’s a view of the steps to the throne room. He can’t imagine having to sit in an office all day, and thinks it would be even more oppressive to have to look out at that lifeless concrete view all the time.
He’s finished his tea and drifted off into worries about Ignis when Cor finally invites him into his office. Gladio shares his thoughts about getting Noct a therapist, a retainer to do daily briefs with him, and a trainer to help keep him fit.
Gladio doesn’t volunteer himself for the job, if only because he’s still smarting from Noct’s behavior earlier. He’ll wind up in charge of it anyway. It’s one of his duties to ensure Noct is battle ready and he wouldn’t be doing his job if he left it to someone else.
“I’ll coordinate with the Warden and see if we can take care of some of that,” Cor says. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s more worried about the food than the fact that he’s months away from taking the throne,” Gladio says.
“I assume that means your visits with him have been unproductive?”
“Can’t get through to him,” Gladio says. “He needs Ignis and I ain’t him.”
Cor looks him over, too damn canny for his own good. Gladio’s no open book, but Cor reads him anyway.
“Something you want to get off your chest?”
“I’m at the end of my rope with him,” Gladio admits. “Seriously considering just walking away. Feels like I wasted my life on someone who doesn’t even give a shit.”
Gladio thinks back to his conversation with Ignis, before he was reinstated, about feeling unappreciated and taken for granted. He hadn’t understood where it was coming from, but he does now.
He knows Noct isn’t doing it on purpose. It’s more complicated than all that, he just wishes he could somehow get through to him and make him see the seriousness of the situation. He wishes he’d listened to Ignis about getting Noctis into therapy, because there’s clearly something he’s struggling with, be it depression or something else, and Gladio’s not capable of helping him through it on his own.
“Noct needs more than I can give him,” Gladio says. “I don’t know what it’s gonna take to motivate him, but it ain’t me.”
“I understand,” Cor says. “I’ll talk it over with your dad and see what action he and Reggie want to take. For the time being, I’d like you to give Nyx a hand training some new recruits if you’re up for it.”
Gladio bites back a groan. There’s nothing he hates more than dealing with recruits. Doesn’t matter if they’re Crownsguard or Kingsglaive, they’re always cocky little assholes, and while knocking them down a few pegs is always a good time, his current ability to tolerate the bullshit is severely lacking.
He supposes he can use the extra training as another way to build his endurance and focus on his defense. Even if he’d rather just take them down a peg or two, simply for being obnoxious little assholes.
“Yeah, I can pitch in,” Gladio says. “Not a problem.”
“Good,” Cor says. “Anything else, regarding the Prince?”
“Yeah, actually,” Gladio says. “Ignis was supposed to handle putting money in his canteen. I ain’t got access to those funds, or I’d handle it myself.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Cor says. “What else?”
“Well, I was wondering if maybe Prompto would be allowed to visit with him,” Gladio asks. “We all know he ain’t no traitor. And maybe Noct could do with being reminded of how many people there are out there fighting for him. Might help snap him outta his funk.”
Cor sighs and Gladio’s pretty sure he’s about to be told no. As long as the decree stands, legally Prompto and Noct are to have no contact.
“I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
“That’s all I ask,” Gladio says. “While I’m here, anything new on Iggy?”
“No,” Cor says. “But Monica came up with the idea to put a tracking device in his Armiger. We haven’t deployed it yet because it’s still being tested for battery longevity, but once it is, it should activate the moment he’s outside of any anti-magic barriers, even if he doesn’t access it.”
Gladio perks up a little at this news. The second they have a location, Gladio plans to go find him. Doesn’t matter if he’s ordered to or not. Doesn’t matter if his dad’s got another plan, Gladio’s going, one way or another.
“It’s not foolproof,” Cor says. “It needs about thirty seconds for our trackers to pick it up once it is activated.”
“How do we get it into his Armiger, though?” Gladio asks. “I thought we couldn’t put stuff in someone else’s.”
“The King has his ways,” Cor says, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “In his youth, Reggie put a bunch of fish heads in your father’s Armiger after they had a fight. To this day, your father swears he can still smell it.”
Gladio laughs in spite of himself. He’s heard plenty of stories about the antics Regis and Clarus got up to in their youth, but this is a new one. If he ever speaks to his dad again, he plans to complain of smelling fish at random. Just to fuck with him.
“I know things are unsettled right now, and I know you’re feeling Ignis’ absence,” Cor says. “But I promise, we’re working on it. I’ve got a couple of contacts in Gralea looking into it for me. One of them is on the inside. If he’s there, we’ll eventually hear about it.”
Gladio’s shouldn’t be surprised Cor has spies in Niflheim. He shouldn’t be, but he is. It speaks to a level of political intrigue and foresight Gladio himself hasn’t considered. He’s not even sure how one would go about setting up that kind of espionage. That’s more Ignis’ territory.
It makes him feel a little better to know somebody’s looking into it and not just sitting on their asses twiddling their thumbs. It’s still not enough, but he reluctantly agrees that it would be stupid to storm into Gralea, guns blazing. If that was at all feasible, Lucis would have done it a long time ago and the Imperials would be a distant memory.
“You hear anything, you let me know first,” Gladio says. “I don’t care if it’s four in the morning, you call me.”
“Is there something I need to know?” Cor asks.
Cor doesn’t need to elaborate. Gladio knows exactly what he’s asking.
It’s not like him to pry into people’s personal business, but maybe Gladio’s making it obvious enough that it could become a problem. Romantic relationships aren’t explicitly forbidden, but they are frowned upon, especially in Gladio’s situation, where it might call his loyalty into question.
“He’s my best friend,” Gladio says. “And we ain’t gonna make it without him.”
The ferry arrives in Altissia, the late afternoon sun bathing the city in soft pastels. It’s all peach and pink light, violet and blue shadows, reminding Luna of summer sunsets in Tenebrae. She disembarks, breathing in the scent of the ocean mingled with the sweet perfume of the flowers that line the city’s streets.
Though Luna has visited Accordo multiple times over the last year, she hasn’t set foot inside the city. Her duties never take her to the more populated areas, only the small towns and forgotten places where the scourge festers in darkness. City lights seem to repel it, and outbreaks are rare where the lights stay on all night.
It’s just as beautiful as she remembers, but it feels less welcoming. Perhaps because she’s a fugitive, and there’s no delegation to greet or escort her to the Embassy.
Along the journey, she considered seeking refuge and assistance at the Embassy, but she’s decided the fewer involved in her escape the better. Accordo might self-govern and do their best to maintain some semblance of neutrality with the rest of the world, but they are still occupied by the Empire. Even if Luna has allies here, and the first secretary is one of them, she knows if it came down to it, Secretary Claustra would give her up if it meant protecting her people.
Luna cannot blame her for that. It’s the price she has to pay to keep the peace and her citizens safe.
True neutrality is difficult, if not impossible in these trying times. Publicly, Luna must maintain neutrality of her own, but her interests and her heart lie with Noctis and the Kingdom of Lucis. Her calling has aligned her with the Caelum line. For her, there is no other choice if peace is to be found.
She bypasses the Levelle, choosing instead a smaller, less luxurious hotel near the fishery where there’s significantly less pedestrian or tourist traffic. Should the Empire be looking for her, the Levelle is the first place they’ll check.
The room is tiny, with a single narrow bed on a metal frame and a small table with a single chair by the window. The only decoration is a crude painting of the sea, and the bath only slightly bigger than a closet.
She’s stayed in worse places. Rooms barely big enough for a single cot and bedding that reeks of goat. Filthy rooms above taverns, lecherous men lurking just outside the door, their darker impulses held back only by the penalty they would face for harming the Oracle. Places with leaky roofs and creaking pipes and rotting wood floors that crack under the slightest shift in weight. Even under the stars, at Havens, in tents and without.
A bath is her first priority. Two days at sea have left her skin feeling salt-crusted and her hair crunchy and she’s glad to wash it off. The water pressure is decent enough to leave her feeling invigorated and refreshed, and that’s a blessing she didn’t expect.
Food is her next priority, though she’s reluctant to leave the room. She should have handled it before she bathed, but it’s too late now.
Reapplying her make-up is a pain, and she’ll have to wash it all off again before bed, but the last thing she wants is to be recognized. She has sequestered herself for the majority of the journey, away from curious eyes, but here, with so many people, even on the backstreets, the risk of being spotted is far greater than it was aboard a train or a ferry.
She finds a vendor near the fishing docks selling fried clams and thick-cut fries. It’s the closest and best option she has without returning to the more populated areas. Though perhaps she wishes for something lighter, she long ago learned to eat what was available to her and to be grateful for it.
Back in the room, Luna eats her meal and pulls up the ferry schedule for Galdin Quay. There are only two departures tomorrow, one at dawn, the next at 10 am.
The sooner she finds herself in friendly territory, the better. So dawn it is.
This is the first time she’s traveled on her own but it reminds her of the loneliness of her youth and her training. Back then, she’d spent days on her own, sequestered in prayer, fasting to prove her worth to the Gods. There were times when she’d gone weeks without speaking to another soul.
She’s lonelier now than she was then, and less sure of where this road will lead. Once she’s made it to Insomnia, she will go to the King and offer her assistance and seek his guidance on how to move forward. For now, she must focus on the journey.
Pryna nuzzles her hand as though to remind her that she has friends in Insomnia, numbers she can call for assistance. At the moment, she’s not in need of assistance, but she could use a human friend.
That will have to wait. She must pray and rest.
She utters the words that will bring her the council and wisdom of the Gods, on her knees in supplication on the battered wood floor beside the bed.
For the first time, the Gods do not answer her.
Prompto hasn’t been cleared to return to duty yet, so Nyx gives him the task of befriending their hostage, Loqi Tummelt, in hopes of getting some info out of him.
Tummelt isn’t playing along, though. He’s hostile. He’s arrogant. He’s overly fond of using Lucian swine as an insult, and for the first two days of his stay in the compound’s holding cell, Tummelt insists Emperor Aldercapt will order his safe return and there will be hell to pay if they don’t release him.
It’s honestly annoying, but Prompto’s game to give it a shot. The Crownsguard and City Watch have taken over the Kingsglaive’s regular duties for now, and it’s not like he has anything better to do with all regular operations suspended until they can root out all the rats.
Worst possible time for that, too, from the looks of things. Word has gotten out about the traitors and the news is having an absolute field day with it. There’s been a sharp uptick in violence committed against refugees, the refugees are demanding the King step in and do something about it. And there’s a weird split happening that involves public opinion about Noct because of it.
There’s a conspiracy theory that’s getting a lot of traction saying Noct is a collaborator who enabled traitors to infiltrate the Kingsglaive, while the refugees are planning protests and calling for the immediate removal of King Regis in favor of dropping Noct’s charges and putting him on the throne instead.
He’s heard the King is in pretty bad shape, and he wonders if that second part will happen sooner than anyone expects. And if it does, he hopes like hell Noct is ready for it.
Presently, Tummelt is examining his nails, and doing his best to ignore Prompto.
“I was hoping you’d play a round of cards with me,” Prompto says. “But if you’d rather pretend your hangnail is more interesting than me, that’s cool.”
“Just checking to make sure this place hasn’t given me fungal infection,” Tummelt says with a dramatic sniff. “It smells like mold in here.”
It doesn’t smell like mold, it smells like bleach. It might be damp and dark and cold down here, but they do take the time to clean every day.
“Then again, maybe isn’t this place that smells of mold,” Tummelt says with a mean look. “Maybe it’s the company.”
Prompto just rolls his eyes. If this guy thinks he’s going to get under his skin, he’ll have to try harder.
“Sick burn, bro,” Prompto says dryly. “You know, we could be treating you like the Imperials treat their prisoners, but we’re not. I mean, is that what you want? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure we can arrange a few torture sessions and only feed you moldy fruit or something.”
“Yes, you’ve been very kind,” Tummelt drawls and resumes his examination of his nails, though not as thoroughly. “Tell me, why didn’t you just shoot me?”
Prompto shrugs and rubs the barcode on his wrist idly. Tummelt notices and fixes his eyes on the dark lines carved into Prompto’s skin.
“I don’t really like killing people,” Prompto says. “I will, if I gotta, but you weren’t really a threat, were you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t try to kill me.”
“I was trying to kill your comrades.”
He has a point but Prompto doesn’t feel like conceding it.
“It’s kinda weird they don’t give you weapons,” Prompto says. “You should have a sidearm, at least.”
“Obviously, our superiors didn’t anticipate you Lucian Pigs having the balls to commandeer our mechs,” Tummelt says. “I’m sure they’re currently reconsidering that assumption.”
“Oh, no doubt. Probably won’t be getting away with that one again,” Prompto says with a laugh. “How do you feel about them leaving you without any defense, though? You ever question that?”
“Do you question your leadership?”
“All the time, dude,” Prompto says.
“Must be nice.”
Tummelt shifts sideways on his cot and leans into the wall behind him. Prompto just watches him, aware of his shift in tone. He’s swapped arrogance for bitterness, and that’s progress.
“Do they treat you well?” Prompto asks. “The Imperials? Like, do they take care of you and give you good benefits and stuff?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Curiosity, mostly,” Prompto says. “Just because my barcode says I’m from there doesn’t mean I know much about it.”
Tummelt runs a thumb over his own barcode and sucks his teeth. Prompto’s not sure if he’s wearing Tummelt down, or if Tummelt starting to question his own loyalty to the Empire, or perhaps their loyalty to him.
“I get room and board, weekly pay, the opportunity for advancement,” Tummelt says.
“So not all the clones are part of the magitek farm?” Prompto asks. “Like, some of you get to just be regular people with jobs with pay and promotions?”
The look Tummelt gives him is one of pure, undiluted fury. He doesn’t move from the cot, but he’s practically vibrating, like he’d strangle the life out of Prompto if he got the chance.
“What do you know about the magitek project?”
“I know you guys are daemonifying clones,” Prompto says. “That’s what powers the magitek, right?”
The anger melts out of Tummelt and his gaze turns to the wall across from him. He chews his lip and picks lint off the blanket beneath him. Seems like this is a sore spot with him and he doesn’t confirm or deny.
“So you’re like me?” Prompto asks. “Made in a lab?”
Tummelt nods, his lips pressed into a thin line like he’s trying to keep his anger inside.
“How come we don’t look the same? The ones in the tubes all look like me.”
“And how do you know about that?”
“I just know, okay?” Prompto says.
Tummelt is quiet so long, Prompto thinks he’s not going to answer. He sits back in his chair and reaches for the bag of gummy toads he’s got in the pocket of his hoodie. He makes a show of opening them, ignoring the sideways glance Tummelt sends him. The immediate area fills with the scent of imitation peach.
Prompto pops one in his mouth and makes an exaggerated show of inspecting the back of the bag. On the cot, Tummelt shifts with an irritated huff and folds his arms over his knees, resting his chin on them. He looks a lot younger like this. Maybe closer in age to him than he originally thought.
“Want one?” Prompto asks and shakes the bag. “They’re pretty good.”
Tummelt definitely does, but he’s trying his hardest to resist temptation. Prompto shakes the bag again and hums at him around the gummy in his mouth.
“What are they?” Tummelt asks.
“GummiBo! These are the best ones,” Prompto says. “Do they not have gummy candy in Gralea?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Tummelt says with a note of disdain.
“Dude, you’re so missing out,” Prompto says and shifts forward to hold the bag through the bars. “Try one.”
It’s a show of trust on his part, and maybe a big gamble. Tummelt could grab his wrist and break it if he wanted to. He suspects Tummelt knows that, by the way he flicks his eyes to Prompto’s wrist, and by the way his hand twitches as it reaches into the bag.
Tummelt withdraws a gummy toad from the bag and gazes at the green and blue mottled candy with a perplexed expression. He gives it a squeeze, frowning as it squishes slightly between his fingers.
“This makes no sense,” he says. “Why should a toad be flavored with fruit?”
“Don’t ask me. All I know is they’re the bomb dot com,” Prompto says and pops another into his mouth. “Go ahead. Try it.”
Tummelt sticks it in his mouth hesitantly, his dubious expression quickly morphing to surprise. Prompto grins at him, enjoying this tiny victory.
“Pretty good, right?” he asks.
Tummelt just nods and accepts Prompto’s offer of another. For a few minutes, there’s no sound but Tummelt’s methodical chewing and the faint echo of water flowing through a pipe in the ceiling.
“I don’t look like you because we’re not the same,” Tummelt eventually says. “I was part of a different project, from a different group of parent cells.”
“What was the project?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me, yeah. It does.”
Tummelt shifts toward him again, feet on the floor but slumped forward with his head hanging in a posture of defeat. Prompto doesn’t expect him to open up about it. It’s not like there’s any trust between them, and he sure as hell wouldn’t tell his captors anything, no matter how nice they were.
“I suppose it hurts nothing to tell you the truth,” Tummelt says. “Most of it’s common knowledge in Gralea anyhow. I’m sure your leadership is already informed.”
“Yeah, probably. I know we stole a bunch of info back in the day,” Prompto says casually. “Never looked at the details myself.”
He doesn’t know if what they stole was anything they could use or even decipher, but Tummelt doesn’t really need to know that. Whatever they got, it’s classified, and probably not something the general public will ever be privy to.
“So then you must be aware the first batches were made from the cells of our chief scientist’s son who died in infancy,” Tummelt says. “We were supposed to have genetically enhanced senses, higher endurance, greater intellect. A way to staff the army without sacrificing civilian lives. What isn’t so well known is that most of us died before our second year and those that lived yielded disappointing results. Only three of us remain.”
Prompto moves his chair closer to the bars, eager to hear more. He didn’t figure giving Tummelt candy would make him spill the beans like this, but he’ll take it. The more he knows about his own origins, the more he might learn about his own background and how that might contribute to whatever is going on with the magic stuff.
“So your batches were allowed to stay human?” Prompto asks. “They were just going to train you from childhood as soldiers?”
“More or less, but the project was deemed unsuccessful and they turned to other means,” Tummelt says. “And started the magitek project, this time using the tissue of the chief scientist himself.”
“So the ones like me, they were never commissioned as soldiers, right?”
“Correct.”
It dawns on Prompto that he’s looking at an actual blood relative. Something he thought he’d never find outside of a lab. He wonders if this has crossed Tummelt’s mind, or if he regards it with less reverence. To Prompto, blood relations have been the one thing he’s always figured he would never find.
“That means we’re family,” Prompto says.
Tummelt sneers and the look he gives Prompto is so full of acid, it could strip paint off the walls.
“We aren’t family. We aren’t anything.”
“We share DNA.”
“That doesn’t make us family.”
“It totally does. Do you have a family?” Prompto asks. “People who care about you?”
“I have no need for all that. I’m a soldier in the Imperial Army.”
“What about friends?”
Tummelt’s eyebrow quirks upwards but he doesn’t answer the question.
Prompto sighs. He feels sorry for this guy. Really sorry. He can only imagine how lonely growing up in that environment must have been. It’s no wonder he’s so bitter.
“That sucks,” Prompto says. “I don’t think I would have survived without my friends.”
“You mean your comrades.”
“Them too. But friends got me through some pretty hard times. Especially when I was younger.”
The door behind him opens and Nyx pops his head in. He looks stressed and tired and Prompto wonders if he’s had any sleep at all in the days since the battle.
“Heya boss,” Prompto says and offers him the bag of gummy candies. “Want one?”
“Do they have caffeine in them?”
“No, but there’s a shitload of sugar, if that helps.”
“Yeah, actually it does,” Nyx says and plucks two out of the bag.
Prompto offers Tummelt another. He accepts, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Nyx while he helps himself. Hostility bleeds off him and he sits up straighter, wary of Nyx’s presence.
“You good?” Prompto asks Nyx. “Need help with something?”
“Just checking in,” Nyx says. “And trying to avoid Comedentis. She reminds me of a snake. I hate snakes.”
Prompto laughs because he remembers having a similar impression. He also remembers how hard she tried to railroad him.
“If I never run into her again, it’ll still be too soon,” Prompto says. “She was foaming at the mouth to see me executed.”
“Weirdly enough, she’s less enthusiastic about seeing Glauca pay for his crimes.”
Prompto looks up at him and offers him more candy. Considering how aggressively she’d pursued Prompto’s own punishment, he finds that hard to believe. Drautos, or Glauca, or whatever the hell his name is, did something way worse than anything Prompto did. Prompto’s only crime was not knowing what he was. Drautos betrayed the country that gave him asylum and sided with the one who burned his village to the ground.
“Yeah, that is weird,” he says and shoots a glance at their prisoner, wondering if this is a conversation they should be having in front of him.
Nyx pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s trying to compose himself, but after a second, Prompto sees it’s just exhaustion.
“When was the last time you got some sleep, buddy?” Prompto asks. “Or ate a decent meal?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, how about we go grab a bite to eat, and then you grab a nap somewhere that isn’t the dorm?” Prompto asks. “I’ll buy you that lemonade I promised.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Nyx says. “I gotta run up to the office, but I can meet you outside in fifteen.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Prompto says. “I’ll wrap up here.”
“Don’t forget to log it.”
“Will do, boss man.”
Tummelt has been observing this interaction with a bit of incredulity that registers in his furrowed brow. Prompto offers his last gummy, which he takes and chews in quiet contemplation.
“Your superiors allow you to speak to them that way?”
“Yeah, I mean, Nyx is my boss but he’s also my friend,” Prompto says. “He totally had my back when I first joined the Glaive.”
Prompto’s curious about how things are done in the Imperial army. It sounds awfully formal and rigid, which probably explains why this guy is the way he is.
“And you’re allowed to socialize?”
“Yep. We all go out, play darts, have drinks,” Prompto says. “I’m guessing you guys don’t?”
“The Emperor would never allow it.”
“Yeesh. Sounds like the Empire isn’t a whole lot of fun,” Prompto says. “Do they ever let you cut loose?”
“We’re expected to maintain a dignified and respectable presence. Not that you would understand that.”
“Man, I feel sorry for you,” Prompto says, and he means it.
“You’re the one who deserves pity,” Tummelt says with an arrogant sniff. “You’ve allowed them to convince you that you’re one of them.”
“That’s ‘cause I am,” Prompto says. “Lucians aren’t monsters, no matter what your superiors told you.”
He stands up, unwilling to continue the conversation. He has a feeling, if he does, whatever progress he might have made, whatever seeds he might have planted will be ruined by a disagreement. Better to walk away and let Tummelt think on it for a while.
“I gotta run,” Prompto says, “but I’ll pop in and see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” Tummelt says with a sneer.
He flops back onto the mattress and glares at the ceiling, but Prompto doesn’t miss the sideways glance or the sigh of defeat as he walks out the door.
The heat in Ignis’ concrete cell is oppressive. He’s positively soaked with sweat, but the industrial fan set into the wall near the ceiling isn’t doing a thing to cool him off. The air it’s blowing into the room is just as hot as the air inside of it.
He’s been provided water, but he hasn’t eaten since the morning of the battle, four days ago. He would commit murder for a single slice of the buttered toast he ate on his way out the door that morning.
Obviously, they want him alive, but weakened. They want him to be crippled by hunger. Which he most certainly is. He knew the pangs would be uncomfortable but he never imagined they would feel as though there was a tiny daemon inside his stomach, trying to tear its way out.
This might be the way they break him.
There’s only so long a man can survive without food. A month, on average, perhaps longer for a man with higher fat stores. Ignis is lean, his body fat on the low side of what’s considered healthy. Meaning he may have less than a month.
He hasn’t seen Fleuret since the first day. Nor has he seen any other human. Just the MT’s that arrive to replace his jug of water and switch out the bucket he uses as a toilet.
They haven’t moved him elsewhere, either. He’s certain he’s still somewhere on the continent, but without a view of the landscape, there’s no way to know exactly where he’s landed. It would be good to know, should he get a chance to escape. That way he would at least have an idea of where to find the closest port in this particular storm.
Though, in his current state, he’s not likely to make it far. He can barely stand for more than a few minutes before he grows too dizzy and his legs shake too hard to stay vertical.
At some point, probably immediately after Fleuret knocked him out, they removed his shoes but not his belt, and his hands were unbound, the chain removed from the o-ring in the wall. He hadn’t understood why when he first woke without the cuffs, but now he understands they expect him to be too weak to make a bid for freedom.
It’s a lapse in judgment, as far as Ignis is concerned, though it might not matter if hunger incapacitates him any further.
So, to conserve his strength, he chooses not to move much and spends a great deal of time lying completely still, listening to the faint sounds of things happening around him. Sometimes, he thinks about Gladio. Others, it’s Noct that’s on his mind.
The first couple of days, he slept so he wouldn’t feel the hunger so acutely, but sleep is no reprieve. Asleep, he has vivid dreams about thick steaks served rare, and plates of salmon fillets, sushi rolls and cheesecake, fresh baked bread with honey and melting butter.
It’s enough to drive him mad.
Every now and then, he hears voices outside, so he knows he hasn’t been left entirely in the care of the MT’s. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he wishes he could. He needs information and context so he can formulate a plan.
And every now and then, he feels the anti-magic field fluctuate. It’s never long enough for him to access the Armiger, but it tells him the barrier might not be quite as strong or solid as he thought. He’s paid attention over the last day or so, and though he has no sense of time beyond day-night cycles, he estimates it fluctuates about once an hour.
He counted eleven times yesterday between sun up and sundown. It’s fall and the days are getting shorter. So, hourly. Give or take. By his estimate, it is currently around three o’clock, and it’s been four days since the battle.
At some point, the hunger pangs will stop. He remembers that fact from his studies, and he’s looking forward to a reprieve from the daemon gnawing on his guts.
The worst part isn’t the hunger. It’s the knowledge that a rescue is unlikely, unless he can somehow access the Armiger and turn his phone back on. He’s certain they’re tracking it because it’s the very first thing he would do if it was one of the others.
Around four, the door opens and an MT enters carrying a fresh jug of water and something wrapped in butcher paper. A human guard, the first person he’s seen in days, is close behind it. Ignis stays where he is with his hands placed against the concrete cot to show he’s not a threat. He notices immediately the guard has left the door open.
It might be the only opportunity he gets to escape.
He’s on his feet in a second and executes a front snap kick that hits the guard in the chest hard enough to knock him into the concrete wall behind him. He slides to the ground with a dazed, empty look as Ignis draws the throwing knife he’s kept hidden against the base of his spine and drives it into the joint at the back of the MT’s head.
With both disabled, Ignis grabs the butcher paper wrapped item the MT delivered, hoping it’s food, and checks the perimeter outside the building. There are two guards near a building that appears to be a hangar and another on the catwalk across from him. He’s not sure where the exit is, but if he’s cautious and he takes his time, he’ll find it.
He closes the door behind him and decides to go to the right, where there seems to be a great deal of cargo where he can hide and observe. The sun is bright, but sinking toward the horizon, casting shadows that will help conceal him.
The base is quiet. As if it’s staffed with a bare minimum of personnel. If so, he can use it to his advantage. The fewer guards or MT’s he has to fend off, the better. In his current state, he assumes more than two at once will be the death of him.
Now that he’s gotten a taste of starvation, fighting might be a better way to go.
He starts to run out of steam by the time he reaches the cargo, and he ducks behind a pile of crates and takes a breather. His legs are shaking and his heart pounds and the heat is not helping.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, but he’s committed to it now. He’ll just have to go slow and take no chances.
He takes the opportunity to unwrap the butcher paper and is relieved to see it’s a baloney sandwich.
Baloney is near the top of his list of inedible foods, and under different circumstances, doesn’t consider it food at all, but he’s literally starving. It could be dog food and he would eat it without hesitation.
It’s a struggle to eat slowly when every instinct tells him to inhale it before he gets caught. The rational part of him knows eating too fast will make him sick. He needs to keep every single calorie the sandwich will provide, so he can’t afford to waste it.
Voices and footsteps draw closer and he freezes, scarcely daring to breathe.
“I heard Highwind told him to go fuck himself. I’m surprised he didn’t kill her.”
“He probably would if she wasn’t so damn good at what she does.”
“Yeah, but still. Izunia’s scary as hell. Not sure I’d have the balls to cross him.”
Ignis tunes out the chatter and takes another bite of the sandwich as he listens to the sound of their footsteps retreat into the distance. He knows he needs to move again, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the guard sounds the alarm.
He carefully wraps what’s left of the sandwich and places it in the pocket of his shirt. Just to be safe, he tests to see if it makes noise when he moves but it’s wrapped tight enough that the paper only crackles when he touches it directly.
Then, he moves on, skirting around behind another building similar to the one he was being held in.
He wishes he’d been able to make his escape in the dark. He feels incredibly exposed in the daylight, but he must press on. Hesitation will only up his chances of getting caught.
Little by little, he moves from crate to crate, hoping he’s moving in the right direction. If the gate is on the opposite end of the base, he’s truly screwed. The sandwich has provided some fuel, but he’s four days into a severe calorie deficit and it won’t last long.
The sun is settling low in the sky when he hears the crackle of a radio, belonging to a guard he didn’t notice standing just feet away. The guard’s back is to him but if he turns around, Ignis will certainly be spotted.
“All units, be advised, the inmate has escaped,” a voice says over the radio. “All units, initiate compound search protocols and begin sector sweeps.”
The guard walks away without a glance behind him, but there are more on the catwalks now, both human and MT. Ignis considers finding a spot to hunker down until dark, but the section he’s found himself in is devoid of a place that might offer concealment long-term.
His only choice is to keep moving.
With great caution, he moves among a series of armored vehicles, taking care to only proceed when the guards up above are looking the other way. He stays quiet and still when they’re facing in his direction.
Up ahead is a chain link fence topped in razor wire, to his right a concrete wall. He crab walks forward and peers around the edge of the vehicle he’s hiding behind to see if there’s a break in the fence.
There isn’t. To get through it, he’ll have to either climb or go through the only opening, which appears to be a checkpoint with four MT’s on patrol.
In perfect health, Ignis could easily pick them off one by one, but he isn’t anywhere close to being in top form. This little adventure has already sapped his strength. His only choice now is to turn back and find some place to hide until he can exploit another lapse in their security.
He slowly returns to the area with the shipping crates, his clothes soaked through with sweat and sticking to his body like a second skin. It feels like it takes hours but in reality, it’s probably only been half that. He hasn’t felt the anti-magic barrier fluctuate yet.
It would be very convenient if it came down long enough for him to retrieve his phone. As far as he knows, the barrier doesn’t block cellular transmission. Fleuret used his phone the first day. If he could get to it and turn it on, his chances of being rescued would be much greater. He’s far less confident he can make it out of this on his own.
There’s a shout behind him and the heavy and rapid thud of boot soles against the concrete nearby. A radio crackles with static and the distorted, excited voice of a soldier.
“Got him.”
Something strikes the back of his neck and he hits the concrete face-down, the rough surface biting into the skin of his jaw and his elbow. A big metal hand presses his head against it and a weight drops onto his lower back.
His hands are cuffed behind his back as he feels the Armiger open wide for a second. Wide enough to summon his phone or a weapon, but it’s too late for that. Neither will do him any good now, and they would be confiscated in a second anyhow.
There’s the scrape of a boot near his head, the click of a heel against concrete and the briefest wisp of something like ozone. Someone kneels next to him.
Ignis expects Fleuret or one of the other human guards. The man before him not someone he recognizes.
“Well, hello there,” the man purrs. “Mr. Scientia, I presume?”
Ignis chooses not to answer. He eyes the man’s heavy layers of mismatched black clothing, wondering how he can stand it in this heat. He doesn’t look like an Imperial and he isn’t dressed like one.
The man brushes a calloused fingertip against Ignis’ lips and smiles in amusement. Ignis cringes from his unwelcome and threatening touch, his skin crawling.
“Did you truly think that would work?” the man asks.
“It was certainly worth a try,” Ignis says. “Your guard all but left the door open for me.”
“So he did,” the man says. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ardyn Izunia, Chancellor of Niflheim, at your service. You may call me Ardyn.”
“Shall we cut to the chase, then?” Ignis asks. “Tell me what it is you want from me.”
Ardyn laughs and sits back on his heels, his golden eyes glittering with mischief. There’s something about him that Ignis finds repulsive, over and above the veiled threat in his touch and the fact that he is the enemy.
“You are but a means to an end,” Ardyn says.
“You know as well as I do, the Lucians are not coming for me. So whatever end you’re seeking, you won’t find it.”
Ardyn pinches Ignis’ chin and gives a hearty laugh.
“Your loyalty is so admirable, Mr. Scientia,” he says. “Even after you’ve been done so very wrong, and you have every reason to turn your back on the King and his spoiled little son, you remain so devoted. Tell me, how do you feel about being abandoned?”
Ignis has feelings about that, but he’s barely able to acknowledge them on his own. There’s no way he’ll admit his faith might be a bit shaken. Not to this man, not to anyone, not even Gladio.
“I have no opinion, as I am aware it’s protocol. I agreed to that protocol when I joined the Crownsguard,” Ignis says. “I do, however have an opinion about Queen Crespera Lucis Caelum, known as the Rogue Queen. There’s a multitude of evidence that until King Mors’ reign, she was the most prosperous and ruthless ruler the Kingdom of Lucis has ever seen, and she did it all from the shadows. Did you know it’s now widely believed that she suffered from agoraphobia?”
Ardyn’s smirk does not reach his eyes.
“It’s true that she ruled in a time when women were not permitted to govern, and she faced a great deal of backlash, but some of the writings recently uncovered indicate an intense fear of the outside world unrelated to misogyny,” Ignis says. “She feared daemons in particular and made sure those attending her were inspected for signs of the scourge daily.”
“What is the point of this little history lesson, may I ask?” Ardyn says. “A weak attempt at distraction, perhaps?”
“I find her story quite compelling,” Ignis says. “Being able to lead a Kingdom so competently with such a debilitating condition and without the support of the nobility is quite miraculous, don’t you think?”
Ardyn motions to the MT holding Ignis down. Ignis is lifted to his feet, and only then does he get a clear picture of this man’s size. It seems he’s only a bit taller than Ignis, and broader of shoulder, though that might be the illusion created by the excessive amount of clothing he’s wearing.
“You would be wise to play along, Ignis,” Ardyn says in a low, threatening voice. “I would hate to have to resort to more crude means to gain your compliance.”
Ignis has no doubt more crude means will be used regardless of whether or not he complies. It’s all theater, packaged as some sort of bargain. He can read between the lines and see it for the threat it is.
“Do as you wish, Mr. Izunia,” Ignis says. “It matters not what you do to me. It will not change the outcome.”
Something tar-like leaks from the corners of Ardyn’s eyes, bleeding over skin that has turned an alarming shade of deathly pale.
“Well then,” Ardyn says as his golden eyes shift to a deep, bottomless black. “I do believe I’m going to relish the sound of your screams.”
Notes:
Thanks for reading! Big thanks to those that left kudos or comments last chapter! Appreciate you!💕
Chapter 21: Dirge
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gladio heads home after a long, exhausting day of training Glaive recruits. They’re exactly as cocky and obnoxious as he figured they would be, but there are a couple that seem like they’re worth the effort in spite of their lousy attitudes. Time will tell, he supposes but he thinks Pelna and Nyx managed to pick some good ones.
Twenty minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of Ignis’ door, his hand raised to knock, staring at the brass number plate fixed below the peephole.
He doesn’t remember coming here. It’s like his body and brain switched to autopilot the second he walked out of the Glaive compound. Instinct or longing drew him here, instead of his own apartment, as if by coming he might manifest Ignis out of thin air.
Gladio should turn around and go home. There’s nothing for him here. Ignis isn’t in there and he won’t answer if Gladio knocks.
Gods. Wherever he is, Gladio hopes like hell he’s okay and not being too badly mistreated. He prays that Ignis takes any opportunity to escape and that they’ll get a blip on the tracker.
He uses Ignis’ spare key and unlocks the door, feeling like he’s doing something wrong as he steps inside. Like he’s invading Ignis’ privacy just by being here.
Something floral covers up the staleness in the air. Not Ignis’ cologne. More like an air freshener or an aroma diffuser.
It’s nice. Maybe gardenia, maybe orange blossom, but not strong enough to be overpowering. But beneath it is the reminder that the air has been undisturbed for days.
Gladio looks around at the familiar space, left untouched since the Empire stole him. It’s as tidy as it always is, nothing out of place except a suit jacket laid over the arm of the couch and a stack of files on the dining table. It’s as if Ignis has just stepped out but will be back in a few minutes.
He wanders into the living room, noting that there’s a light coating of dust on the coffee table. Then into the hall and the bedroom beyond.
The bed is made. Only a handful of things in the laundry hamper. Suits zipped into a bag to be sent for dry cleaning. Suits and shirts in the closet arranged by color, shoes lined up neatly by style, from dressy-formal to athletic.
Gladio can feel him here, like his ghost is watching him from some dark corner. He’s not spooked by the thought. It gives him a bit of comfort to feel near him, but it also makes his absence hurt more.
In the bathroom, things are a little less tidy. It’s still clean, but Gladio can tell Ignis rushed through his morning routine. The bath towel is draped haphazardly over the bar and a handful of grooming stuff is left on the vanity. Stubble litters the sink and the shower curtain has been left open rather than pulled closed to avoid mildew.
He picks up the bottle of cologne from the vanity and takes a whiff. It smells a lot better on Ignis’ skin than it does in the bottle, but the fragrance still stirs enough desire in him to make it feel like he’s stepping into dangerous territory.
Gladio sets it back down and returns to the main area with a vague idea about cleaning out the fridge and watering the plants. He could get a cleaning service to do it, and he probably should, but he decides he’d just rather do it himself.
For a guy that’s such a skilled cook, there’s not much in the fridge. A handful of tomatoes that have already gone bad. A pair of apples that haven’t. Leftovers of something in a glass container. Gladio tosses everything that can’t be salvaged, leaves an assortment of condiments that will keep a while, and packs up the things that can still be used.
He puts those items by the door alongside the trash, and returns to the kitchen to fill a pitcher with water for the plants. There aren’t many, but they’re all looking a little thirsty, and he takes his time, picking off dry leaves and rotating each pot a quarter turn, the way his mom taught him before she got swallowed up by depression.
Back in the kitchen, he rinses out the pitcher and leaves it on the rack to dry. When he turns back toward the living room, he realizes he’s standing in the same spot he’d been in when he decided it was worth making a move on Ignis.
He still can’t quite pinpoint what it was that brought it on. Only that he’d realized earlier in the day that Ignis was an extremely attractive man. Sitting there in the sunshine, with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, casually sipping his coffee, Gladio suddenly saw something in Ignis he hadn’t seen before. Seducing him hadn’t even been the plan until it was.
Looking back on it, maybe there had been something more to it than he wanted to believe. Ignis was and always has meant more to him than any casual hookup ever did. Maybe at the time, he’d just been lying to himself, thinking it would just be a one-time thing.
If Ignis makes it out of this, Gladio’s going to make sure his feelings are crystal clear. No dancing around it like they’ve been doing. If he gets shot down, then so be it. Nothing worth having is without risk.
That pain starts up in his chest, like a vice around his rib cage and he sinks to the kitchen floor, struggling to keep it together. He leans his head against his knees and does his best to focus on his breathing, but this feels a lot like grief, and it’s crushing him. He can’t deal with the thought that Ignis might not come back to him.
If it’s not love, then what else is he supposed to call it?
When it starts to recede and his throat stops feeling like it’s strangling him, Gladio takes out his phone and opens his messages to the last one he got from Ignis, telling him he was running late.
That feels like it was so long ago, but it’s only been five days. But those five days have been some of the longest of Gladio’s life.
He types message after message that he doesn’t send before finally settling on one that doesn’t sound sappy and emotional.
As soon as we know where you are, we’ll come for you.
We need you Iggy. Hang in there.
If you see this, call me.
There’s no chance Ignis has access to his phone. There’s an even slimmer chance there’s any battery left, even if he turned it off, but Gladio can’t give up hope. He has to believe at some point, he’ll be located, but the longer they don’t hear anything, the harder it is to believe he’s ever going to see Ignis alive again.
Luna arrives at the ferry before dawn, eager to be on her way. There are only a handful of people at the ticket kiosk, but she hesitates as she notices a pair of Imperials standing off to the side scrutinizing the boarding passengers.
One of them is Ulldor.
Of course they would be monitoring the ferry. She should have thought of that and made other arrangements. There are only so many places for her to go, and Lucis is the most obvious choice.
Instead of turning around to head back to the hotel, she continues on and takes care to keep her eyes averted, lest she make eye-contact with Ulldor. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her, but perhaps he would, and she doesn’t want to take the chance, however slim.
She finds herself in the shopping district, which is nearly deserted at this hour except for a vendor selling coffee and pastries. It’s tempting to stop and buy something, but just in case she’s been spotted and is being followed, she won’t take the chance of being caught. She’s made it too far to turn back now, and the punishment for running is likely to be severe and far more restrictive than before.
Her best chance, she thinks, is to return to the fishing docks and ask around to see if she can hitch a ride on a vessel headed to Galdin. Another option would be to rent a small personal vessel, but she has never even driven a car, let alone a boat. Given enough time, she’s sure she could learn, but that time is not now, when she’s being pursued by the Empire.
She hears the ferry’s departing horn as she returns to the street adjacent to her hotel. No doubt, Ulldor and his companion will remain there until the 10 am ferry, and she wonders if she should just wait it out, until she’s certain they’ve stopped looking for her at the port. She does have enough cash stashed away to cover several nights, but it will leave her with nothing to spare once she arrives in Lucis. Accommodations won’t be much trouble, as there are plenty of Havens scattered about, but food might be an issue.
At the fishing docks, most of the commercial boats have already left for the day. Only a handful of smaller vessels are still docked, but appear to be preparing to leave. She inquires about passage at the closest and is swiftly rebuffed. The second, she’s ignored.
“You know there’s a ferry, don’t you?” an older, weathered looking woman says. “It’s just up that way.”
The woman looks her over with sharp, canny eyes. Her gaze lingers on Luna’s face, and she prays that it isn’t because she’s seen through her disguise.
“You running from something, honey?”
Luna nods and approaches her, assuming a submissive posture to signal both fear and that she’s no threat. Perhaps this woman might help her, or at least have an alternative Luna hasn’t thought of. She’ll have to bend the truth some, but she’ll stick as close to it as possible without compromising her cover.
“The man I’m running from is waiting at the ferry,” she says. “I can’t let him find me. Is there another way to get to Galdin? Something less public?”
“Say no more,” the woman says. “You had breakfast yet?”
“I haven’t, but I’m alright.”
“Nonsense. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” the woman says. “And from the looks of you, you could use a bite to eat.”
The woman ushers her aboard a small vessel and Luna takes a look around at the deck before ducking inside the cabin. There’s an older man at a tiny stove, pushing something around in a skillet, and the scent of sausage and butter fills the room.
Luna accepts an offer of coffee and a seat at a small table that’s bolted to the floor. The pair bicker affectionately back and forth as plates are piled with scrambled eggs, toast and sausage patties. It reminds her of the days when she was a child, before her parents were killed. Her father would commandeer the manor’s kitchen and make breakfast for anyone who wanted to be fed, engaging in some light teasing with Maria the whole time.
Ravus hated these gatherings. Too many people. Too many voices all talking at once. He’d never understood why their father bothered with serving the servants, but Luna knows he missed it once it was gone. Perhaps even more than she did.
“Here you go, honey,” the woman says as she places a plate in front of Luna. “There’s plenty more, so eat up.”
“Thank you,” Luna says. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Lucy.”
“I’m Dondra, and this here’s Piet,” the woman says and seats herself at the table. Piet waves and takes his plate outside. “Don’t mind him. He always eats his breakfast up top so he can share with the seagulls. You ain’t imposing.”
“I appreciate this,” Luna says. “This is very kind of you.”
“No trouble,” Dondra says. “So this man you’re running from, he the violent sort?”
“Yes,” Luna says and it’s not a lie. Ulldor would happily murder her if it got him back in the Emperor’s good graces. “I have family in Lucis who can protect me. I just need to get there.”
“Well, me and Piet are heading to the Quay in about an hour. We’ve got some business there,” Dondra says. “You’re welcome to tag along if you like.”
“That would be wonderful,” Luna says. “I can pay you for your trouble, of course.”
Dondra waves her off and gets up to refresh their coffee. Luna accepts it with gratitude and offers up a silent prayer for them, with hope that their kindness will be repaid tenfold. Whether the Gods hear it or not, is in question, but it doesn’t stop her from trying.
Luna insists on helping clean up the dishes, and takes the leftovers out to Piet, who is surrounded by squabbling seagulls and pigeons all fighting for scraps of toast. She stands back and watches, entranced by the fluttering of wings and their adorable little hops upon the deck, like their legs are spring loaded.
“Cute, ain’t they?” Piet says.
“Quite,” Luna says. “You feed them every day?”
“Unless it’s pourin’ down rain,” he says and tosses a handful of eggs on the deck. “I come out but they don’t.”
“I suppose they don’t enjoying being wet so much.”
“They enjoy it, just on their own terms.”
He has a soft face and soft eyes beneath the leathery, sun-baked wrinkles. Luna is glad men who enjoy feeding the birds exist. It’s a small kindness in an unkind world. The act of it seems to bring him peace, or at least a moment of quiet.
She returns the plates to the kitchen, and dries them once Dondra has washed them.
“We’re about to head out,” Dondra says. “If you need to call your people, let ‘em know you’re coming, I’ll give you some privacy.”
Luna is left alone in the cabin, listening to the call of the gulls and the bumps and thumps of Dondra and Piet preparing to sail. She looks at her phone, wondering if she should at least give the Marshal a call. She assumes border security is tight, especially after the most recent battle. It might be difficult to get through without someone to vouch for her.
She’s about to call the number Prompto programmed into her phone when a man’s voice cuts through the relative quiet of the morning. His tone isn’t angry, but it is commanding and Luna goes on guard in an instant.
“We’re searching for someone,” the man says. “A woman, early twenties, pale blonde hair, blue eyes. Have you seen anyone matching that description?”
“Only half the continent, sonny,” Dondra says. “You gotta be a little more specific. But we ain’t seen anyone under the age of forty this morning. Not exactly the place for young ladies.”
Luna slips into the room behind the door to her left and finds herself in what must be Dondra and Piet’s bedroom, just in case their visitor decides to check the cabin. Her heart is pounding as she leans against the door, trying to hear the conversation outside. She does not want these people to get into trouble on her behalf. If it comes to that, she’ll turn herself over to the Imperials to spare them.
She can’t tell what’s being said, but there’s a back and forth that goes on for a painfully long time. She can tell by the tone that it’s a bit contentious before it ends with jovial laughter and lighter words.
The silence that follows stretches out into infinity while she holds her breath. Then, there are footsteps on the other side of the door and a soft knock.
“Lucy? It’s me,” Dondra says.
Luna lets out that breath and opens the door a crack, in case they’re behind her, ready to take her into custody. She’s alone and behind her, she catches a glimpse of Piet dragging a rope across the deck.
Dondra is looking at her a little differently now, scrutinizing her features a lot closer than she was before. Luna’s heart sinks, fearing she’ll need to come up with another plan or deplete her funds while waiting out the Empire’s canvas of the port.
“I suppose this was a bad idea,” Luna says. “I won’t trouble you any longer.”
“Nonsense,” Dondra says. “They’re gone. You’re in no danger, and Piet’s about to start the motor. Sooner we leave port, the better.”
“Thank you,” Luna says, relief making her knees weak. “I’m grateful.”
Dondra smiles and bows low at the waist.
“The honor is all mine. Lady Lunafreya.”
Noctis has spent the majority of his morning in a visitation room with one of his father’s advisors. She’s an elderly noblewoman with a personality so dry, he’s having trouble staying awake. He’s so bored, he’s already forgotten her name, even though she’s old enough to have served his grandfather.
So far, they’ve delved extensively into negotiations, which she’s made clear he will be quizzed on tomorrow. He does his best to take notes, but he’s too unfocused to ask questions about the things that are beyond his level of education.
Dinner last night was edible. Cold, greasy grilled ham and cheese. Breakfast was oatmeal, which he might have managed to choke down, except it tasted bitter and rancid, like it was a week old. It’s not doing much for his state of mind, and the atmosphere is definitely making things worse. It only drives home the fact that he took so many things for granted, just as Ignis said he did.
He expects to be taken back to his cell when the lesson finishes, but the guards tell him to stay put. Gladio told him he’d try to make some arrangements, but he expected training, and he didn’t expect to be kept so busy with policy stuff.
Not that he isn’t glad for it. Even if the negotiations lesson was mind-numbing, it’s still better than sitting in his cell wasting away.
There are voices in the hall and Noctis sits up straighter, figuring it’s probably another retainer, here to give him his next lesson. But when the door opens, it’s Clarus Amicitia, followed by his father, who is relying heavily on a walker.
His father, who once stood tall and broad-shouldered and strong now stands hunched over and frail. His hair and beard have turned completely white and his face has aged twenty years.
Noctis is so shocked by his appearance, he can’t move or breathe. When Gladio told him his dad was bad off, he assumed there were injuries or that he was just exhausted from protecting the city. He hoped Gladio was exaggerating, but this is so much worse than anything he expected.
Clarus helps Regis into the chair across from him, bows to Noctis, and then leaves them. All Noctis can do is stare at his dad, unable to believe how small and old he looks.
The pain it causes is physical. He feels it all the way through his body, premature grief acting like poison in his blood.
“It’s good to see you, son,” he says. “I’m sorry I haven’t come sooner.”
Noctis doesn’t even know what to say. He just sits there gaping and fighting back tears.
Seeing the damage the crystal does sends him into a tailspin. This is his future if he does what is expected of him. This is the fate that awaits him. And it’s not fair. Not for his father, and not for any of the Kings that came before him. His father is only 50 and he looks 80 and he’s going to die well before his time.
“You look unwell,” his father says.
“So do you,” Noctis chokes out and promptly bursts into tears. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m so sorry.”
“I am too, son,” Regis says. “For so many things, but most of all for neglecting you. I didn’t understand how badly you needed me.”
If only that was the entire problem. There’s more to it than that. He could have managed without him if he hadn’t been completely and totally isolated from everything he cared about.
“You’re not the only one I needed, dad,” Noctis says and wipes his eyes. “You let them take everyone away from me.”
His father bows his head and he nods at his folded hands.
“That was beyond my control,” his father says.
Rage boils up within him because Noctis knows better. A King can circumvent the laws if he so chooses. Countless Kings before him have done it, consequences be damned.
“Bullshit. Neither of them were traitors. Neither deserved it.”
“Some day, you’ll have to make hard choices, too. Ones that might hurt the people you love,” his father says. “And they will be beyond your control. It’s the price we must pay as rulers, lest the people rise up and behead us.”
“And you wonder why I don’t want it.”
His father lifts his head, his green eyes bright and young and set in a face that screams that death is coming for him, and soon.
“You’ll be happy to know I spent my morning speaking with the leaders of the refugee community,” his father says. “We’ve come to an agreement that I think you’ll appreciate.”
Noctis has avoided thinking about any of that since he was brought here. He feels too much regret and guilt over what he did, regardless of what he does or doesn’t remember. He never meant to do more harm than good, though his reasons for doing it at the time spawned from personal slights and not some need to do good.
“I’ve signed a decree, giving any refugee the opportunity to become a citizen if they choose to,” his father says. “And we have formalized an agreement that prevents employers from rejecting qualified candidates based on their status. The City Watch is also expected to handle any violence or mistreatment of our refugee community the same as they would a native.”
Noctis thinks that’s a good start, but it’s exactly what he’s been asking for this last year. His pleas on their behalf had gone in one ear and out the other, and now his father gets to take credit for fixing it.
“You know, if you’d listened to me, I wouldn’t be sitting here, dad,” Noctis says.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” his father says. “I have no excuse for choosing not to hear you.”
It doesn’t make Noctis feel any better to hear that. Everything his father has done or agreed to do since the day Prompto stepped in to help a stranger has cost Noctis something he loves.
“I hope you can forgive me for that, son.”
“I’m not sure if I can,” Noctis says. “I’m not sure I can forgive any of it.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Noctis demands. “Do you have any idea how hard this last year has been for me? I have never felt so alone or invisible in my entire life, and that’s saying something. And you just ignored it. You enabled it. And now you expect me to step into your shoes and shoulder a burden I’m not even cut out for.”
His father looks at him, and the pain and sorrow in his eyes is almost more than Noctis can take.
“I’m sorry I’ve let you down, dad,” Noctis says. “But you let me down, too.”
“Do you love this kingdom, Noctis?” his father asks. “And its people?”
“What kind of question is that?” Noctis asks. “Of course I do.”
“Would you stand up and fight for them if it came down to it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you understand that the day will soon come that you will have to do just that?” his father asks. “It’s not an if, it’s a when, and I will not survive it if they attack the wall again, which they will do because they know now that they can. I am simply too weak to withstand it. If that happens, Insomnia will fall and the people we love and are charged with protecting will die. What then, Noct?”
The looming specter of the Empire has long hung over Insomnia’s future like an anvil on a fraying rope for as long as Noctis can remember. Every impending attack has been a potential end that never came to pass, but seeing his father like this drives home the reality that they’re running out of time.
“It’s not as though I can just name another heir, Noctis,” his father says quietly. “If I could take the burden off your shoulders so that you could live the life you want, I would do it in a heartbeat. I tried my best to give you as much freedom as your station allowed, and I truly wish you weren’t chosen for the destiny that awaits you. If it were possible, I would trade places with you, but it was you the Crystal chose.”
Noctis’ throat tightens again and he can’t look his father in the eye anymore. He’s heard about this fate, this destiny that awaits him, his whole life. Luna told him about it when they were children, though he still isn’t clear about how it might be different from his father’s fate. He only knows the Crystal chose him when he was too young to know what it meant and there was never an option to refuse.
“If you love Lucis and this city and your friends, you will do what’s right, as you always have,” his father says and takes his hand. It’s warm and dry but it doesn’t look like his father’s hand anymore. “No matter how great the burden.”
“And what if I don’t live up to your expectations?” Noctis asks quietly.
“You know the answer to that,” his father says. “But I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you. Even when I wasn’t hearing you, I knew your heart was in the right place.”
Noctis suddenly feels totally drained with the weight of this burden pressing down on him. His father isn’t long for this world, and he can see the shadow of death lingering around the edges, creeping up on him like tendrils of miasma.
“The future of the Kingdom is in your hands,” his father says. “Whether you accept the burden or not.”
“And what happens if you die before before I’m released?” Noctis asks. “Am I supposed to rule the Kingdom from in here?”
“I’m hashing out the details with Comedentis, though she’s tied up with Drautos’ betrayal at the moment,” his father says. “If we can’t come to an agreement, you can always pardon yourself if I go to meet the Gods before your time is served.”
His father laughs, but Noctis doesn’t see the humor in it. He’s lost too much to make a joke of losing his father, too.
Noctis wants to push back against all of this, to fight against the tide, but his father has made it clear just how little choice he has. Turning away from his duty means turning his back on everything and everyone he loves. It means letting the Empire take everything that matters. It’s either stand up and fight back, or live with the guilt of letting it happen.
He’s always known this, but until now, it’s been an abstract idea, something that might happen in some distant future. It’s always been an if, not a when.
Now that it’s staring him in the face, there’s no turning back.
Prompto’s just leaving Tummelt’s cell when Nyx calls him up to his office, which used to be Drautos’ office. He’s still smarting a little from their lunch yesterday, where he found out about Ignis when Nyx brought it up in passing. He’d heard a Crownsguard had been taken, but in the chaos that followed the battle, Prompto hadn’t pursued that Crownsguard's name. Everyone else assumed he already knew.
It’s not Nyx’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. He just wishes he’d known and how he feels like shit about it. He’s scared, worried, and sick to his stomach over it, and he spent the last half hour asking Tummelt about how the Imperials treat their prisoners. What he learned isn’t good and he’s terrified.
The only bright spot is that the Crownsguard is trying to track him, and Nyx agreed to let him be part of the rescue team if he’s found. Prompto hopes maybe that’s what this is about, and he’ll be able to help bring his friend home safe.
Nyx is sitting at the desk when Prompto arrives, surrounded by piles of paper and empty paper coffee cups. There’s a technician next to him doing something with the computer, brow furrowed as he stares at the screen.
So far, Nyx and Cor have rooted out four more turncoats, who currently sit inside cells somewhere in the bowels of the Kingsglaive compound awaiting their likely executions. There’s no telling how many more there may be and that makes Prompto nervous.
An educated guess tells him the tech is looking for any information or communications to identify more, but he figures Drautos and his traitors would be stupid to use technology to aid their plans. That sort of thing leaves a trail, even if deleted.
“Hey boss,” Prompto says. “News about Iggy?
“No, sorry. Nothing yet, but Cor said he’d notify you directly,” Nyx says as he adds another stack of paper to the largest of the piles. “I’m giving you the next three days off to find a place of your own.”
Prompto’s taken aback. Of all the things he expected to hear, this definitely isn’t one of them. He’s still crashing on Crowe’s couch for his own safety, but he figured once the panic died down, he’d be back in the dorm. A place of his own is something he’s totally given up on, so it throws him off to hear it’s allowed.
“Are you sure that’s okay?” Prompto says. “What about my punishment or whatever?”
“The only part of it that’s still in place is the thing with the Prince,” Nyx says. “And it’s not like they’re gonna let you see him. Besides, I don’t think it’s safe for you in the dorms anymore and I need you alive.”
“Why? Because I’m a human grenade?”
“Because you’re on a very short list of people I trust,” Nyx says “And because I still owe you.”
“How many is that now, anyway?” Prompto asked. “Four?”
“Who’s counting? But feel free to knock one off the scorecard,” Nyx says and hands him a business card. “This guy owns a bunch of buildings in the area and he’s friendly to Glaives. Give him a call, he should be able to help you out. Might even be able to get you in today if you’re lucky.”
Prompto pockets the card and thanks him. Nyx waves him off and chucks one of the stacks of papers in a copy paper box.
“So what’s all this?”
“Trash, mostly,” Nyx says.
“How’s it going with Drautos?”
“Refusing to speak.”
“I don’t get it,” Prompto says. “Why would they side with the people that killed their families and took their homelands? If I was them, I wouldn’t believe a word they said.”
“It’s complicated,” Nyx says. “And it’s easy to convince the disillusioned that it’s the Crown’s fault for not protecting them and not living up to their promises.”
He doesn’t understand that either. Lucis fought to protect Galhad. And while it’s true Lucis has done a piss-poor job of caring for its immigrants, they’re safe inside the city walls. That’s better than being left to the ruins of the world outside, where monsters and daemons roam free and the only opportunity to survive is hunting or farming.
Prompto thinks he’s got more of a reason to turn on the Crown than they do, but maybe he doesn’t understand because he isn’t in their shoes and hasn’t lost what they’ve lost. Maybe he’ll never understand it, and he kinda hopes he won’t ever know that pain.
“Don’t sweat it, Plebe,” Nyx says. “And go on. Get outta here.”
Prompto ducks out of the office and calls the number on the card.
He’s in luck. The landlord, Mr. Voltas has a studio available in the building across the street from Crowe’s apartment, and he’s able to meet Prompto there.
It’s not the nicest place, and the cracked plaster walls have been painted over so many times, it looks like the walls have veins, but it’s furnished and it’s only two blocks from the compound. He can see himself coming home to this tiny studio everyday, making basic meals, playing games with Mateo, and maybe even finally dipping a toe into the dating pool.
“I’ll take it,” he tells Voltas. “When can I move in?”
“It won’t be ready for a couple days. The girl that lived here before left a bunch of stuff I still gotta clean out.”
“Stuff like what?” Prompto asks.
The landlord opens the cabinets and drawers and shows him. It looks like a full set of kitchen stuff. All of it looks new or at least, barely used, and all of it matches. There are plates, bowls, glasses, mugs, pots, pans, even a fancy pizza stone. There’s silverware and cooking utensils in the drawers and cleaning products under the sink. Stuff that he can use, and it seems like a waste to throw it all out.
“It’s cool,” Prompto says. “If I can move in today, I’ll take care of this stuff for you.”
“There’s more crap in the bath,” Voltas says.
"No biggie,” Prompto says. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Alright. Let me go grab the keys and the lease.”
“No application or background check or anything?”
“You’re a Glaive, ain’t ya?” Voltas asks. “No need. You already been vetted, just pay your rent on time and there won’t be a problem.”
“Awesome. Your number attached to Mooglepay?”
“Yep. Be right back.”
Two hours later, he’s carted the last of his belongings from the dorm and from Crowe’s place into his new home. For a minute, he stares at the empty bed frame, which sits on a slightly lofted wood platform next to a pair of windows and the fire escape, wondering how he’s going to get a mattress in here. He already knows delivery costs almost as much as the mattress itself.
Maybe Nyx will let him borrow a vehicle to transport it home. Or maybe he can convince Libertus to help him carry it. It’s only six blocks and Libertus is easily convinced to do stuff if paid for his trouble in beer.
He could just sleep on the couch tonight and figure it out tomorrow, but it would be amazing to go to sleep in his own bed tonight, in his own apartment.
He’ll have to do some shopping, to make it livable. He needs food. Bedding. Towels, a shower curtain to replace the slightly moldy one in there already. Maybe a cover for the couch. A couple of plants. Maybe even a beaded curtain, which he knows are stupid and tacky but loves anyway, to separate the bed from the rest of the room.
It feels good to not have to sleep on Crowe’s couch, or listen to the six other recruits in the dorms bicker over card games until lights out. He’s especially glad that he won’t have to live with the constant scent of dirty socks and body odor and industrial cleaner anymore.
There is no curfew anymore, either. He can go to bed whenever the hell he feels like it. He can have people over, and he won’t have to worry about getting his food stolen from the community fridge at the compound. He can walk around naked in just his socks or watch TV in his underwear and there’s no one around to judge.
He’s about to head out to grab some of the stuff on his list when his phone rings. It’s Gladio, who has never called him in all the years they’ve known each other. Gladio’s never been the sort to call when he can just send a text. And he’s seen him at the Glaive compound a few times over the last couple days, but it looked like he was busy training, so they weren’t able to do more than wave at each other.
“What’s up, Big Guy?” he asks, hoping that there’s good news about Ignis or something.
“Just checkin’ in,” Gladio says. “You good?”
“Can’t complain,” Prompto says. “You?”
“Hanging in there,” Gladio says.
He doesn’t sound like himself. There’s no energy in his voice. Prompto’s first instinct is to cheer him up, even if he’s not feeling too cheerful himself.
“Hey, I’m off the next couple days,” Prompto says. “You wanna get together, maybe get some food or a drink or something?”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Gladio says. “What are you doin’ right now?”
“Nothing too exciting,” Prompto says. “I just got my own place, so I’m heading out to grab a few things.”
“Finally out of the dorm, eh?”
“Finally,” Prompto says. “I’m mostly a free man, baby.”
“Want some company?”
Prompto’s surprised by the offer, but it tells him Gladio must need a friend, or at least someone who isn’t Crownsguard. Maybe he just needs a break from it all, something to distract him from his worries. Prompto’s happy to oblige. It’ll distract him from his own worries, or at least give him an outlet to share them, since their worries are probably the same right now.
“Come on over, buddy,” Prompto says and gives Gladio the address. “I’ll wait if you’re close by, if not we can meet up at Cromer’s Grocery by the compound.”
“I’m like ten minutes away.”
“I’ll stick around then,” Prompto says. “I should probably make a list anyway, so I don’t buy a bunch of junk I don’t need.”
When Gladio shows up, he’s looking run-down and kinda haggard. Prompto can relate. He’s been heartsick over Ignis since he found out yesterday, even though he hasn’t let it show. He didn’t sleep well last night, either. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured Ignis locked up in a dirty cage somewhere cold, all alone, afraid and suffering. Tummelt’s descriptions of Niff prison has only made his fears worse.
Gladio looks around the apartment and Prompto expects him to be judgy about how small and basic it is, but he nods and hums his approval.
“You should put some of your pictures up,” Gladio says. “Really make this place yours.”
“Yeah, I planned to do that tomorrow. Gotta get some prints made first, and some frames,” Prompto says. “Along with figuring out how to get a mattress home without spending a fortune.”
“You know I got a truck, right?” Gladio says. “It’s right outside, if you wanna go get one. I got time.”
Prompto never imagined he’d be going mattress shopping with Gladio, but less than ten minutes later, that’s exactly what he’s doing. There are a lot to pick from and the prices range from not awful to stupid expensive, and the features are between might-possibly-be-stabbed-by-a-spring, to fully-motorized-and-WiFi-capable.
He’s not sure why a mattress needs a WiFi connection, and he doesn’t ask. They’re insanely expensive and he just needs something in his price range that isn’t going to ruin his back.
Gladio’s a better salesman than the salesperson on the floor and winds up talking Prompto into getting something nicer than he planned on getting. It’s more expensive, but he can’t deny it’s like laying on a cloud.
“Pillowtop is the way to go,” Gladio says. “Worth every Crown. Trust me on that.”
Gladio’s used to the nicer things in life, so Prompto takes him at his word and buys a pillowtop double mattress with the box spring. Together they load it up, strap it down, and take it home.
Wrangling it up six flights of stairs is no easy task. It involves a lot of cussing and maneuvering, but they manage.
Now, he just needs linens and food and he can comfortably spend his first night in his new apartment, in his new, comfy bed.
“What else you need to take care of?” Gladio asks as he twirls his keys around a meaty finger. “I’ll take you, if you don’t mind the company.”
They spend the rest of the afternoon knocking out Prompto’s shopping list, stopping at the grocery last. Gladio doesn’t talk all that much on a good day, but he’s especially quiet today, and Prompto figures out while they’re in the produce section that Gladio is lonely. Between Noct’s incarceration and Ignis’ capture, Gladio is really, really lost and it shows.
Prompto grabs a frozen pizza, the same brand Ignis used to get when he didn’t feel like cooking, and a six pack of beer to entice Gladio to stay for dinner. Gladio’s willingness to hang out only cement’s Prompto’s suspicion that Gladio needs a friend.
Back in the apartment, Prompto doctors up the pizza the way Ignis did, with extra veggies and cheese, and then makes up his new bed while Gladio sips on a beer at the table nearby.
“So I guess there’s no word on Iggy yet?” Prompto asks.
“Cor’s got a couple irons in the fire, but nothin’ yet.”
“You think he’s okay?”
“If he’s still alive, he’s probably hating life right now.”
That’s what Prompto worries about most. He loathes the thought of any of his friends being in pain or suffering. He can’t imagine how terrifying it must be, to be in a situation like that. He’s not sure he would survive on his own. Not for long anyway.
Ignis is tough, though. If he’s alive, he’ll burn entire continents to the ground to get back to Noct.
Prompto drapes his new comforter over the bed and turns back to Gladio, whose face is flushed bright red and screwed up in a grimace, and his fist is balled up against his chest.
“You okay, big guy?” Prompto asks.
“Can’t breathe.”
It only takes Prompto a second to figure out Gladio’s having a panic attack. Prompto’s no stranger to them, even though it’s been years since he had a bad one himself. Not since before he moved in with Ignis, anyway. The ones he had afterward were a lot less intense, and a lot easier to manage.
Prompto kneels down in front of Gladio and takes Gladio’s free hand and brings it up to his own chest, letting his big palm rest against him. He lays a pair of fingers against Gladio’s wrist, feeling the rapid throb of his pulse against them.
“Hey, look at me,” Prompto says.
Gladio eyes are wide and scared. Prompto’s never seen Gladio look like that before, not in all the years he’s known him. Until now, he wasn’t sure Gladio was afraid of anything, but something’s got him spooked, and Prompto’s willing to bet it’s got a lot to do with Ignis.
Prompto makes a show of taking slow, deep breaths and urges Gladio to focus on how his breathing feels under his palm. It’s not foolproof, but it used to work for him, the handful of times he sought out the school nurse when it got too bad.
“I used to have bad anxiety when I was younger,” Prompto says conversationally. “And someone taught me a few things to help get through it. Maybe it’ll work for you, if you wanna try?”
Gladio’s still got a fist balled up tight against his chest, and his breathing is still too fast and too shallow, but he’s paying attention and that means he’s not so deep in it he’s checked out.
“So the way it works is you picture all the bad feelings as a poisonous fog. You know, all the stuff that’s making you angry or scared or whatever, think of ‘em as something toxic you have to get out,” Prompto says. “And that toxic stuff is a color you really hate. Like for me, it’s sinus infection green. Icky color, you know? Totally gross.”
Gladio smiles a little at the description and Prompto thinks that’s a good sign. Half of this is the distraction of just talking to him. As long as Gladio’s focused on his words and not on how scary it feels to not be able to control his own body, it will pass. Prompto knows from experience, redirection, in whatever form, is helpful.
“You pick a color?” Prompto asks.
Gladio nods.
“What is it?”
“Orange.”
His voice is dry and scratchy, but it’s a word, and that’s good too.
“Okay. Orange. So now I want you to imagine every time you exhale, you’re pushing that nasty orange fog out of your body,” Prompto says. “And when you breathe in, I want you to imagine it’s something clean and refreshing. You know, like the way the forest smells or the beach or some other smell you like. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the scent?”
“Dirt, after it rains.”
“That’s not a surprise,” Prompto says with a laugh, and notices Gladio’s already calmer and his breathing is evening out. Still shallow and fast, but not the great gulping gasps of earlier. “Alright, count of four, wet dirt in, orange fog out. Try to match your breathing to mine, and remember, you’re pushing all the bad stuff out, okay?”
After a few minutes, the flush in Gladio’s cheeks fades and his breathing returns to normal. For a minute, Gladio hangs his head and focuses on four-count breaths, timing them against Prompto’s, even though he’s not in trouble anymore.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” Gladio says. “Thanks.”
“No prob. Been there, totally know what it feels like.”
Gladio sits back and wraps a hand around the beer bottle but doesn’t drink. He fixes his gaze on the floor instead of Prompto.
“That’s a meditation technique,” Gladio says after a long silence. “The thing with the fog. Dated a girl who was into meditation therapy who told me about it once. She called it mist, though. Same thing, I guess.”
“School nurse taught it to me a long time ago,” Prompto says. “Back when I was about thirteen, maybe fourteen.”
Prompto doesn’t tell him about how they started after his dad lost his job and was home all the time, ready to blame him for anything and everything that went wrong. Or how he hadn’t wanted to go home after school because he didn’t want to get yelled at or smacked for existing. And how the thought of going home to that was enough to trigger a panic response bad enough to cripple him for more than an hour sometimes.
He gets up and checks the timer on the pizza, then peeks into the oven. He hasn’t eaten all day and he’s starving, and it feels like it’s taking forever. Gladio could probably do with some food, too.
“Was that the first time that’s happened?” Prompto asks and turns back around.
“Had a few, the last couple days,” Gladio admits. “Happens when I start thinkin’ about Iggy.”
Prompto doesn’t have any sage advice to offer on how to stop them from happening. He wishes he did.
Gladio takes a sip of his beer and eyes Prompto, the hangdog look fading from his face.
“Can I ask you somethin’ not related to this?” Gladio asks.
“Hit me with it,” Prompto says.
The oven beeps and he takes the pizza out, letting it rest on the stove top to cool a little. He ignores the way his stomach growls in anticipation and leans back against the counter, waiting for the question Gladio seems to be mulling over.
“What did you mean the other day, when you said someone put a daemon inside you?” Gladio asks after a long silence. “You said you had pictures.”
Prompto could lie. He could tell Gladio it was just crazy talk brought on by smacking his head on the ground too hard. He could pretend he doesn’t remember. Pretend ignorance. The truth sounds insane and Gladio’s not one to indulge irrational nonsense. Even if he has proof, Prompto’s not keen on sharing it if it means Gladio will think he’s a lunatic.
“I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Prompto gets out his camera and scrolls through the more recent photos until he gets to the ones he took among the daemons. He hasn’t looked at them since he took them, afraid to acknowledge it really happened.
Looking at them now, it’s still hard to believe it was real. The close-ups of the imps, the images of them tugging at his boot laces, they’re so much scarier now than they were that night, when he’d felt such a strong pull to be near them.
Thinking about the kinship he felt sends a shiver down his spine. How easily he’d been drawn in, and how tempting it had been to let go and let them in.
He hesitates for a second before handing the camera over to Gladio. He doesn’t want Gladio to think he’s scourged or dangerous, or see him any differently, even if everything about this makes him different.
Prompto explains as best as he can, about being called into the darkness outside Hammerhead, and about how the daemons recognized him as one of their own.
Gladio looks skeptical until Prompto puts the camera into his hands, and then he looks horrified. His eyes flick from the screen to Prompto’s face, and that makes Prompto fear he’s just ended their friendship.
“They didn’t try to kill you?” Gladio asks.
“Not even a little bit,” Prompto says with a nervous laugh. “MT’s don’t fuck with me either.”
Gladio sits the camera down on the table, contemplating the label on his beer bottle with undue interest. Prompto closes his eyes and waits for Gladio to say something, anything, even if it’s a hearty fuck off or a dismissal.
When he doesn’t say anything, Prompto tells him about that night in the convenience store and everything that followed. The Chancellor popping up at random like a stalker. Everything he’s already told Luna, everything he didn’t tell Luna, things he forgot to tell Luna.
Gladio listens without asking questions, but Prompto notices his expression switches back and forth between disbelief and concern. Likely for Prompto’s mental health. Because it sounds totally batshit insane, and if someone told him a story like this one, he would think they’d lost the plot, too.
“So you think the Chancellor of Niflheim put a daemon inside you,” Gladio says skeptically once Prompto stops talking. “Like an actual daemon.”
“He did something to me,” Prompto says with a shrug. “And whatever it was makes daemons and MT’s think I’m one of them.”
Gladio strokes his chin thoughtfully, his face still full of doubt. Prompto kind of wishes he’d lied about it, because now he feels like a freak.
“All this magic stuff had to come from somewhere. It’s all tied together somehow,” Prompto says. “And everybody thinks it’s a good thing because of how much damage it does. But what if it isn’t? What if it’s not coming from a good place?”
“You think it’s evil?”
“I don’t know,” Prompto says. “But the first time it happened, Nyx said it looked daemonic.”
“And you’re sure you ain’t scourged?”
“I’ve been tested like a hundred times,” Prompto says. “When they were trying to make sure I wasn’t a robot, I had every test known to man. Anyway, Luna was looking into it for me. I guess she hasn’t found anything yet.”
Prompto checks the pizza and finds it cool enough to serve. He cuts it into slices, his stomach growling, and gets out two plates, then joins Gladio at the table with their meal.
“The Chancellor hasn’t ever come to Insomnia as far as I know,” Gladio says as he picks up a slice. “We’d all know if he came for a visit. Security briefings and shit. I don’t even know what the guy looks like.”
“Yeah, I know, but I swear it’s the same guy,” Prompto says. “About threw up when I saw him on the news ‘cause it freaked me out so bad. And Luna says he’s a creep.”
Gladio eyes him and sips his beer.
“You and Lady Lunafreya talk a lot these days, huh?”
“Lately, yeah,” Prompto says. “I, uh, sent her a phone.”
“Kinda dangerous for her, isn’t it?” Gladio asks. “Havin’ Lucian technology she ain’t supposed to have?”
“Might be more dangerous for her if she doesn’t,” Prompto says. “I gave her a couple contact numbers, in case she’s ever in trouble.”
“Yeah, guess the Crown would spare no expense to rescue the Oracle,” Gladio says, and his expression turns dark. “Good idea, with all this shit going down.”
Prompto feels bad. He knows where Gladio’s head is and what he’s thinking about because he’s thinking about Ignis, too. He’d give anything to have a way for Ignis to get in touch with them. He’d give anything to be able to figure out a way to go and rescue him.
“If Iggy called, or we figured out where he is, you know we’d go get him, right?” Prompto says quietly. “Like, without question.”
“I know that,” Gladio says. “And I get it. The Oracle is way more important than any of us anyway. I ain’t mad about it.”
“You know, I don’t really think of her as the Oracle,” Prompto says. “She’s just Luna to me. Kinda like I never really thought about Noct as royalty. He’s just Noct.”
“Right now he’s a royal pain in my ass,” Gladio grumbles. “She got my number? If not, you can give it to her. Just in case.”
“Yeah, if you want.”
Prompto grabs them both a second helping and another beer for Gladio. For a few minutes, neither of them speak. Gladio seems to have withdrawn, and Prompto’s not sure how to draw him back out.
“So how is Noct, anyway?”
“Not great,” Gladio says. “That’s my problem to deal with, though.”
“That doesn’t make me worry less, dude,” Prompto says.
“He’ll be alright. He just needs to face reality,” Gladio says and shrugs. “Hard to do when he ain’t in the real world and he ain’t seein’ what’s goin’ on.”
“He know about Iggy?”
“Yeah. Took it about the way you’d expect,” Gladio says. “I’ll get him through it. Even if I gotta bully him until he wakes up.”
“I wish I could see him,” Prompto says. “Most days I try not to think about it, but man, I miss him.”
Prompto misses more than just Noctis. He misses the days when neither of them had to worry about anything but school and games. He misses not having to worry about the Empire or being slaughtered by defectors. Or about whatever Izunia did to him and what it might mean. Or the darker future looming on the horizon for all of them. He wishes he didn’t have to think about these things. He wishes Noctis hadn’t lost two of his closest friends, and he wishes he wasn’t about to lose his father, too.
After all, Prompto understands how hard it is to keep going when everything you care about is gone.
Ignis knows he’s in trouble when Ardyn has an MT bring in a stockpile of potions and phoenix downs. Ardyn makes a show of lining them up side by side on a metal cart as he hums an ancient hymn that’s rarely heard these days. Of all the things that have happened so far, this song, echoing through the hangar like a lament, sends a chill up his spine.
Because this hymn, it’s an elegy, a dirge, historically sung only at the funerals of the nobility and the royal family. Ignis wonders how a Niff would even know it.
Ignis has been placed on his knees in the middle of the hangar, his wrists bound with cuffs that suspend his arms above his head. His shoulders burn and his legs have gone numb. He’s been here since yesterday, in a close approximation of this pose and the pain is immense. No doubt, it’s going to cause permanent damage to his joints and nerves that cannot be undone by a potion.
He tries his best to ignore it. He ignores sting of the welts and cuts on his bare back, too. Ignores the trickle of blood over his inflamed skin, and the itch of the blood drying in the oppressive heat.
Ardyn didn’t dole out this punishment himself. He ordered an MT to deliver the blows, using Ignis’ own belt as a weapon.
The MT hadn’t hesitated, and it didn’t stop until ordered to. All the while, Ardyn paced around him in a circle, as though inspecting the aesthetic qualities of a new car, and he spoke only to order the MT to strike harder.
Ignis has not given him what he wants. He’s barely made a sound, and certainly nothing above a close-mouthed whimper, but at this point he’s beyond exhaustion. The hunger pangs have returned as well, after his body used up whatever calories the half sandwich provided.
His only reprieve is the memories of home, and of better times. Noctis as a bright-eyed, curious and adventurous child, before his injuries made him fearful, cautious, and withdrawn. Noctis, his life-long charge, companion, friend, brother, and future King.
He thinks about how Noctis could so easily convince him to evade the guard to go play adventurers in the palace gardens. They would spend hours in some dark corner digging for imaginary treasure and fighting imaginary raiders, gleeful with the knowledge they were unsupervised.
Neither of them ever realized that they were heavily monitored anyway, nor did they realize they hadn’t actually gotten away with a thing.
It was that illusion of freedom that allowed them to continue exploring every inch of the Citadel when they should have been studying. Ignis knows now it was always an illusion, but he wonders if Noct ever realized their every move was tracked.
Belatedly, he feels the bite of something against the battered flesh of his back and he fails to hold in the sound of his distress. The cry brings a twisted smile to Ardyn’s face and he draws closer, seeming to relish whatever emotion is plainly on display for him.
It could be pain, or fury. Grief or resignation. He feels all those things and doesn’t know which has manifested for his captor. It doesn’t truly matter. Ignis will endure it, forever how long it lasts, and if it kills him, so be it.
“Again,” Ardyn says to the MT. “Harder than last time, please.”
The MT strikes again, and whatever weapon it’s using isn’t the belt. It feels thinner and sharper, the sting of it cutting across his flesh like pure fire. That, Ignis supposes, doesn’t matter much either.
“You might as well kill me,” Ignis says. “I have no information to give.”
“It’s not information I want from you,” Ardyn says. “I already know all I need to know.”
“Then what is the point of this?” Ignis asks.
Ardyn chuckles and squats in front of Ignis, taking his chin in his hands the way a lover might. The way Gladio did, their last night together.
Ignis would give anything to go back to that night. He wants to wake up and find this was all just a nightmare, with Gladio snoring beside him without a stitch on. He wants the tenderness and comfort Gladio gave him, and he wants to be able to appreciate it more than he did at the time.
“I don’t want you dead,” Ardyn says. “I want to take you apart and then return you to your Prince completely and utterly broken. I imagine he has no use for broken toys.”
“You’re a year late, I’m afraid,” Ignis says.
“Your exile might have been painful to endure, but it didn’t put out your fire, did it?” Ardyn asks and his smile is knowing. “You still love him, beyond sense or reason. As if he was your own flesh and blood. Regardless of how poorly you were treated.”
“Do what you will,” Ignis says. “It changes nothing.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Ardyn nods to an MT, which comes to stand at his side.
“Break his wrists for me, would you?”
Ignis can’t fight the restraints, nor does he have leverage or range to fight the MT, and he doesn’t try. He braces himself and lets his mind wander back to childhood, to Noctis’ unrestrained laughter over Ignis misjudging the distance between flagstones in the pond at the Amicitia Estate and falling into it, emerging soaked and muddy and angry. He remembers the look on Noctis’ face when he slung a handful of mud at him in response and how the both of them wound up thoroughly coated in it. How Gladio laughed when Clarus hosed them both off, and how furious his uncle was on the way home.
It’s not enough to block out the agony of his ulna snapping in the MT’s grip. He has the most absurd thought, about the MT not knowing the difference between an arm and a wrist, and then the other one is snapped too, the pain so blinding he nearly loses consciousness. His skin grows cold and clammy despite the heat, and nausea wells up from his core, though he has nothing but acid in his stomach to expel.
He can’t control the whimpers or the thunderous galloping of his heart, which he can feel with painful accuracy in both of his arms. Sweat rolls down his forehead and into his tired, burning eyes, mingling with the involuntary tears spilling down his cheeks.
Death feels like a mercy, if this is to go on much longer. Being tortured is one thing, being mocked while it happens is something else. Ardyn is enjoying this, and his expression is reminiscent of a man who’s just been presented his favorite meal. He’s getting off on this, a sadist of the first order, and there’s no point to any of it other than for him to revel in Ignis’ suffering.
“Fingers next,” Ardyn says. “One at a time, please. Start with his right index finger.”
The MT obeys and the consciousness Ignis is tenuously holding onto fails for moment, his mind plunging into darkness, until the MT breaks his middle finger and he’s shocked back into existence.
His breaths are ragged sounds, and shallow with suppressed moans buried deep within them. His heart is beating far too fast and his fingernails are turning blue.
Ignis knows the signs of shock, but he can’t hold onto a thought for more than a second before it goes spiraling off and is replaced by another. It’s all a flash-forward of his life as it was. The late nights and long meetings. The taste of fresh, quality coffee, the smell of it wafting from a mug as he sips it. Noctis, so small and broken, in a hospital bed, his poor little back and leg a shredded mess held together by staples. Prompto’s flushed face and the burn on his tender skin as he tries to erase the brand that marks him as an enemy.
The whiskey on Gladio’s lips. The thrill of fighting for real for the first time.
The sting of a blade piercing his back. The hunger and the heat.
And Gladio again. The softness of the gray cashmere sweater beneath his hands. The brush of his pinky against his own. The look in his eyes that promised there was more than mere lust between them.
Ardyn grips a handful of Ignis’ sweaty, filthy hair and yanks his head up, staring at him as if he’s searching for something in Ignis’ face. There’s an intensity there that is far more terrifying than anything else in this room.
“Stay with me, Ignis,” Ardyn coos. “We have hours of fun ahead of us. Can’t have you nodding off when we’re just getting started, now can we?”
Hysterical laughter bubbles up and spills out of Ignis’ mouth, but it sounds far away, like it isn’t really him, not really now, but days ago when Fleuret struck him. And maybe it is. He can’t be sure.
It could just be a memory, an attempt to retreat to a pain-free place inside his mind. He wants to be present and aware of everything around him, but it’s safer, he thinks, to let himself sink into the comfort of the past.
His ring finger cracks under the force of the MT’s grip, and that’s it for him. He sags in his restraints, allowing unconsciousness swallow him up.
He doesn’t fight it. He welcomes it.
After all, there is no pain in the darkness.
Notes:
As always, thank you to those who left kudos and comments last chapter! You guys keep me motivated to continue, and I appreciate it so, so much! 💋
Chapter 22: Wounds
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Prompto’s first night in his new apartment is awesome. Even though he can hear the upstairs neighbor walking around all night, and every noise in the hall bleeds through the door, it’s still way quieter than the dorms. It’s been so long since he’s been able to sleep in, and the pillowtop is so comfortable, he lays in bed for almost an hour after he planned to get up. It’s not even late, only going on nine, but he has things to do, and zero motivation to do them.
He might have laid there longer, but his phone starts ringing and it’s Cor. He answers as he jackknifes to his feet, hoping it’s good news about Ignis and he’s being called up to go get him.
“Morning, sir,” he greets.
“Did I wake you?”
“Not at all. What’s up?”
“I just received a call from Lady Lunafreya,” Cor says. “She’s asking for asylum in Lucis.”
Prompto has to stop himself from letting out a yell of excitement. If she’s asking to come to the city, that means she got away from the Empire, and he might even get the chance to finally meet her in person.
“That’s good news, right?” he asks.
“It is, though it may escalate tensions with the Niffs,” Cor says. “Did you know about this? She says you’ve been in touch.”
“She didn’t mention it, Sir,” Prompto says. “I mean, yeah, we’re buddies, but she didn’t mention any plans.”
“I assume she got my contact info from you?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Stupid of me, I know,” he says, realizing he probably should have asked first. “I just wanted her to have an escape route if things got too dangerous for her or she needed to run or something.”
“Smart thinking, but you should have given me her number as well. I hung up on her twice, thinking it was a prank,” Cor says, but he doesn’t sound mad. “We’re going to have an envoy meet her in Hammerhead. Nyx says you’re on leave, but I want you to accompany me.”
“Me?” Prompto squeaks. “Yeah. Okay. Absolutely, Sir.”
Not only will he be getting to see Luna for the first time ever, he’ll get to see Cindy again, too, even if it isn’t for that long. He can hardly wait. He wants to be there five minutes ago.
“Meet me at the Glaive compound at noon. Formal dress. Plan to stay overnight. And don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there. Sir.”
“And Prompto? It should go without saying, not a word of this to anyone,” Cor says. “We need to keep this quiet for now, until we know how the Imperials will respond.”
“Yeah, sure. Not a word.”
Prompto grabs his gym bag and dumps it out on the bed, then packs a couple changes of clothes, pajamas and toiletries, his heart pounding at the thought of finally getting to meet Luna in person.
Leide is way too hot for formal Glaive attire but he’s willing to suffer through it if it means Luna gets to see him in it. Her first impression won’t be of the goofy commoner he is, but of a soldier capable of protecting her. He thinks that’s a good thing. He hopes it is, anyway.
Prompto’s got some time before he needs to report to Cor, so he runs out to pick up the prints he ordered from the photo lab last night. He picks out some inexpensive frames, too, though he won’t have time to hang them until he gets back.
When he returns to the apartment, Hadley’s at the mailboxes in the lobby. She has a key in her hand, so he assumes she must live here or know someone who lives here. He hopes so. It would be cool to have a friendly face in the building.
“Heya stranger,” he says.
“Prompto!” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“Just moved in. You?”
“Guess that makes us neighbors,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m on six.”
“No shit? Me too!” he says. “I’m in 6F.”
Her smile gets bigger and Prompto feels his cheeks start to burn. She’s really cute, especially when she smiles.
“I’m in 6G,” she says. “Right across the hall from you.”
Prompto’s gotta play it cool, he doesn’t want to seem too eager, so he just nods and angles his head at the stairs.
“Walk up with me?” he asks. “Or are you headed out?”
“Just got in,” she says. “Nyx has me guarding the traitors.”
“Yikes. How’s that going?”
“It’s weird,” she says. “Knew a couple of them pretty well. And now they’re the enemy.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Prompto says. “I mean, I worked with Sonitus the day before the battle. Never even suspected, and then he tired to stab Nyx in the back. Crazy, you know?”
They climb the stairs together, and Hadley fills him in on the residents on their floor. By the time they get to their respective doors, Prompto’s feeling good about his new place and even better about his new neighbor. It’s nice to have a friendly face in the building.
“Hey, uh, about anything weird I might have said the other day,” Prompto says. “I hope I didn’t upset you or anything. I’m pretty sure most of it was crazy-talk.”
The look she gives him is coy, making Prompto’s stupid heart skip a beat. He knows what he said. Most of it anyway. It’s what he doesn’t remember that worries him.
“So green eyes aren’t actually your favorite?” she asks.
Prompto slaps a hand over his face, his cheeks burning. He definitely doesn’t remember that, but of course he said something dumb in his concussed state. Not that it was a lie, but apparently head injuries interfered with his ability to censor himself.
Hadley laughs at him and pats his arm.
“It’s not like you offered to motorboat my boobs,” she says. “Or pretended your penis was injured and in need of a massage.
Prompto’s face burns at even hotter at the mention of boobs and penis. Because apparently, he’s still a dumb twelve-year-old boy at heart.
“People have actually done that?” Prompto asks. “That’s so gross!”
“They have,” she says. “Being told I’m pretty is a nice change.”
“I’m still sorry,” Prompto says. “My mouth totally wasn’t connecting with my brain.”
“Don't worry. It was cute,” she says and then shifts her grocery bag from one hand to the other. “Hey, I’m making lasagna later. I always end up making too much. If you want some, I can bring you a plate.”
“Sounds awesome, but I got called up for a thing,” he says. “I’ll be back tomorrow, if you still have leftovers to share, though. Not much of a cook, myself.”
“You got an assignment? I thought we were on hold.”
Prompto can’t tell her what it’s for, but he can skirt around the truth and make it sound benign and boring.
“Just a little fetch quest,” he says. “Gotta go pick something up for Cor.”
“Leonis must like you,” she says. “If he lets you call him by his first name.”
"Never thought about it like that,” Prompto says. “He was one of my trainers in the Crownsguard, and most of the royal guard call him Cor, so maybe that’s why.”
“Could be,” she says. “Well, now that I’ve talked your ear off, I’ll let you get back to it. I’m sure you’ve got places to be.”
“Yeah, I gotta get going,” Prompto says. “But, uh, I’ll see you around, neighbor.”
Prompto gets changed into his formal uniform and double checks his bag to make sure he grabbed everything. Nothing seems to be missing, so he heads out, knowing he’ll be early, but early is way better than late.
He arrives at the compound fifteen minutes before the meet-up time. Cor is already there and he’s chatting with Nyx. Luche is with them, but he’s looking bored and annoyed until he spies Prompto.
“Hey, kid,” he says. “Heard Nyx let you out of the dorms.”
“Yep. Just got a place right up the road.”
“Where at?”
“Place called Cornell Tower,” Prompto says. “Not really a tower. Just a building. It’s across the street from Crowe’s.”
“They always give these shit-holes fancy names, don’t they?” Luche says with a snort-laugh. “Mine’s called Camelot Palace. It definitely ain’t a palace unless they’re talking about the mice.”
“So, are you going with us?” Prompto asks.
“Yep. Pretty awesome to be chosen as the Princesses’ personal escort, huh?”
“Yeah, totally,” Prompto says. “I finally get to meet the Oracle.”
It’s weird hearing Luna called princess. He guesses that some must still use her former title, from before it was taken away, and Luche must be one of them. Cool to know some still see her as royalty, regardless of the politics.
But he wonders why Luche is going. With all the drama and treachery, Prompto figures Cor would select somebody from the Crownsguard instead. Maybe because they’re all busy, with the Glaives still under suspicion of sabotage. The City Watch and the Crownsguard have both been pulling double duty since the battle, so they’re probably just short-handed.
In all honesty, Prompto would rather have Crowe as a road companion instead of Luche, but she’s busy training the new recruits with Gladio. He’s hardly seen her this week, even when he was still sleeping on her couch.
They get on the road in short order, Cor driving, Prompto in the back and Luche in the front. Prompto’s practically bouncing in his seat, even though he knows it’ll be hours before they arrive. He’s got the butterflies and a bunch of pent-up energy that makes it hard to sit still.
Cor gives them a briefing while they’re stuck in traffic that doesn’t seem to have moved so much as an inch for over an hour. Prompto can see police and ambulance lights up ahead, and whatever happened is blocking the road. He finds himself uncharacteristically annoyed by the delay.
“We should arrive around the same time the Oracle does,” Cor says. “She’ll be transported from Galdin by an associate of Cindy’s named Holly. To protect her identity, Cindy will ensure she remains inside the garage, in case the Niffs have spies out looking for her.”
That’s good to know, but he laughs a little, trying to picture Luna and Cindy interacting. The devout Oracle and healer of men versus the Goddess of the Gears, healer of vehicles He guesses they might actually have some stuff in common and he likes the idea of them being friends. He hopes they will be. Luna needs a few more friends in her corner, and Prompto knows female friends are in short supply for her unless he counts Gentiana.
With Luna coming to Lucis, Prompto wonders how she’ll handle her pilgrimages to help the scourged. The Scourge happens in Lucis, but not nearly on the scale that it’s reported to happen in Imperial territories. Even Altissia is rumored to have daemons appear in the city from time to time, and Accordo seems to have regular outbreaks with up to a hundred infected folks showing up for her help.
He supposes the logistics of that aren’t anything he needs to worry about unless he’s assigned to a detail or something. It would be kinda awesome, traveling around Lucis as Luna’s bodyguard. Even though he’s not really fit to guard anyone’s body unless the enemy is at 100 yards and he’s got a good, clean line of sight.
The snarl in traffic puts them almost an hour and a half behind, but Cor doesn’t seem to be too worried about it. He’s not saying much, but he seems relaxed enough. For a while, Prompto and Luche talk about some hockey team Prompto barely pays any attention to, then Luche switches the topic to the refugee protests and the King’s response to them.
“You know, I heard there were some bad actors involved in the riot that night,” Luche says. “Girl I know works at a bar on the main strip, says there were some rich kids from Caelum Heights in the bar that night looking to stir up some trouble. All of ‘em natives. When it all went off, she says she saw them start smashing car windows and picking fights.”
“Which bar?” Cor asks.
“You know the Drunken Vesper?”
“Can’t say as I do,” Cor says. “She report that to the authorities?”
“I don’t know, but I can ask,” Luche says. “All I know is, the people who were there aren’t blaming the Prince for it, they’re blaming the rich kids, saying they were the ones busting up businesses and starting the fires.”
Cor hums and shoots Prompto a glance in the rear view. Prompto can’t read the look, but he takes note of it.
“Explains all the protesters,” Prompto says. “Saw a bunch of ‘em with signs that said Free Noctis and stuff.”
“Yeah, there are a bunch that don’t think he did anything wrong and don’t think he should have to serve time for calling attention to a problem that everybody ignored,” Luche says.
“What do you think?” Cor asks.
“Off the record?” Luche says. “I think it’s complicated. People were frustrated. They got angry. And all he really did was say what everyone was thinking. Don’t know if you’ve ever been down there, sir, but it’s been a pressure cooker for a while. His highness just made ‘em feel seen.”
“And officially?” Cor asks.
“Vandalism’s still a crime,” Luche says. “Six months is a little steep for a drunk and disorderly charge and some broken windows, though. But, I get it. It’s more complicated than all that and the Crown has to show their own people aren’t above the law.”
It is complicated, but knowing there may have been bad actors changes things a little. If true, maybe Noct’s serving time for something he didn’t actually start.
“Tell that friend of yours to call my office,” Cor says. “I’d like to speak to her.”
That’s the end of that conversation and Prompto’s glad for it. The less he thinks about Noct and what he did, the better. He wants to remember Noctis as a video game playing nerd who likes junk food and sleeps too much, not as a drunken instigator.
He just hopes Noct makes it out of prison with his head back on straight. Things could go downhill fast, and without warning. The last thing they need is a country without a leader.
Ignis wakes with a start from a heavy and exhausted sleep as a blaze of fire lights up across the frayed skin of his back. A warm, wet cloth dabs at his flesh and there is a sizzling, bubbling sensation that sends pinpricks all along his nerve endings, all the way down to his toes. He tries to push himself into a sitting position, the hard concrete digs into his naked hip and elbow, but he only manages to make it halfway.
A gentling hand rests on his arm. He jumps at the unexpected but soothing touch and cranes his head around, not sure what to expect, but he’s certain it isn’t the Chancellor. Izunia would never bother showing kindness or tenderness without following it up with immense cruelty.
Ravus Nox Fleuret kneels beside him, a bloodstained cloth in hand. He’s out of uniform, opting for a flowing tunic that looks like he stole it right off the back of a fairy tale prince. It’s open at the collar in a deep V that reveals more pale flesh than seems decent or appropriate. In another setting, Ignis might find that intriguing, but his first encounter with this man ended in violence that rendered him unconscious. He is an enemy, not a potential lover.
“Lie still,” Fleuret says. “The Chancellor was a bit overzealous during your last session and failed to heal you before returning you to your cell.”
Ignis suppresses the urge to laugh. He doesn’t want to waste his energy, and he’d prefer to not get knocked out again.
Fleuret’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a distinct undertone of disapproval in his voice. As if he has no issue with the torture, but is opposed to leaving open wounds behind.
“How kind of you to tend to me, Lord Ravus,” Ignis says tiredly. “I wouldn’t expect that it matters whether my injuries are left to heal on their own or not.”
“Of course it does,” Fleuret says. “Leaving them untended will lead to infection. I need you as intact as possible.”
Ignis suspects Ardyn is more interested in breaking his will than anything else. Once he does, Ardyn will have no need of him. Whatever game he’s playing will be over -- it won't be fun for him anymore, but Fleuret clearly wants him alive. For what purpose, Ignis can’t fathom.
“Scars are fine, though. Correct?” Ignis asks as his strength wanes and he drops back down onto the concrete. “Just so we’re clear?”
Fleuret doesn’t answer. It’s rhetorical anyhow.
The scent of something medicinal fills the air, and a moment later, fire splits across his skin again as Fleuret dabs at another wound with the abrasive cloth. Ignis hisses but otherwise doesn’t react, though this might be more painful than receiving the wounds in the first place.
It’s a strange way to treat injury. Ravus could just give him the whole thing and he would heal on his own. So either the Niffs are running short of curatives and cannot waste a drop, or Ravus is deluded enough to believe carefully tending him this way will build trust between them. Or, perhaps he just wants to see himself as a good guy.
“I’ve word my sister may have sought refuge in the Crown City,” Fleuret says. “I intend to negotiate a trade.”
“For what, exactly?”
“You, of course.”
Ignis laughs, though it causes him a great deal of pain to do so. As if that would ever happen. Ignis thinks Fleuret must be out of touch, or perhaps misinformed about Ignis’ status.
“The Crown will never trade someone of my position for the Oracle,” Ignis says. “You greatly overestimate my worth.”
Fleuret dabs at a wound a little too vigorously, causing Ignis to flinch away. The concrete abrades his hip and the corner of his elbow, opening up existing, scabbed-over wounds.
“I have it on good authority that you are a highly valued member of the future King’s retinue. I imagine your Prince, being in his current situation, and so close to ascending the throne, would be in dire need of your council,” Fleuret says.
Ignis isn’t quite sure what he means. It’s true the King’s health is in decline, but he expects the King will be around for a few more years at least. Fleuret must be misinformed about Ignis’ current rank, then. Ignis must set him straight, just so there are no misunderstandings. He’d rather not bear the brunt of Fleuret’s anger should things not work out the way he expects.
“Unless you have another high-value prisoner in your custody, your sister and I are not, and will never be, a fair trade,” Ignis says. “Our lives do not hold the same value in the eyes of the Crown.”
“We shall see about that,” Fleuret says.
“Have you opened up negotiations with the King, then?” Ignis asks.
“I have not.”
“You’ll only be wasting your time,” Ignis says with a tired sigh. He turns his head to look Fleuret in the eye. “But I can assure you, His Highness will treat your sister with kindness. She will not be harmed.”
Fleuret’s eyes are blazing with anger and his mouth is set in a thin line as he continues to tend Ignis’ wounds, though not as gently or carefully as before. As if he’s taking out his frustration on Ignis. Just as Ignis anticipated.
“What is it that you fear, Lord Ravus?” Ignis asks. “That she’ll be treated the way I’ve been treated?”
Fleuret’s lack of answer tells Ignis all he needs to know. This is exactly what he fears. Part of Ignis wants to reassure him that Lady Lunafreya will be both welcome and safe, but he doesn’t want to give him too much leverage. Perhaps that is a fear that can be exploited if needed.
The washcloth dabs at another cut on Ignis’ back and he holds back a hiss of pain. This one feels deep.
“You have another option, you know,” Ignis says. “It’s my understanding the only reason you joined the Imperials was to protect yourself and your sister. I imagine that means your loyalty to them is shaky at best.”
“They’ve done a great deal more for me than Lucis ever did.”
“Yes. They killed your parents, stole your homeland and your titles, and held you and your sister hostage,” Ignis says. “I suspect the only reason either of you are still alive is due to the fact that you’re descended from the Oracle, and not because they value your loyal service to the Empire.”
“Shut up,” Fleuret says. “You know nothing.”
“Perhaps not,” Ignis says. “What I do know is that Lucis would offer you asylum as well. All you have to do is ask.”
Fleuret makes a scoffing sound and rinses the cloth in a small bucket before reapplying it to wounds at the base of Ignis’ spine. He grits his teeth and does his best to lie still.
“You would not be harmed,” Ignis says. “His Highness was fond of your mother. He would ensure you were protected.”
“His Highness is not long for this world,” Ravus says. “Perhaps he might be trustworthy as you say, however I have no faith in his spoiled, lazy son.”
There it is again. The suggestion that Regis is unwell. Ignis desperately wants to ask what this means, but he doesn’t want to give Fleuret any leverage or open up any quid quo pro scenarios.
“Should that be the case, I can assure you, Noctis would still offer you refuge,” Ignis says. “While it’s true he has been spoiled, he’s also a compassionate and intelligent young man. And he’s considers your sister a dear friend. By extension, you would be welcomed if you were no longer our enemy.”
Fleuret dabs at the wound more aggressively, as if he’s choosing to inflict pain at the mere suggestion of a close friendship between Noctis and Lady Lunafreya.
Neither say anything for a few long minutes. Fleuret moves from wound to wound, bringing both pain and relief, while Ignis drifts into memories of a much younger Noctis’ excitement every time Umbra showed up with Luna’s notebook. He remembers buying sheets of stickers to tuck into the pages for her. Unicorns and sylleblossoms and cats. Shimmery stars and rainbows and so many moons.
“You’re suggesting I defect,” Fleuret says. “To the enemy.”
“Lucis never wanted to be your enemy. It’s your own choices that have made you one.”
Fleuret stands and picks up the bucket. He opens the door and dumps the soiled water outside. Ignis closes his eyes, thinking of how good a bath would feel, and he pictures himself sinking into warm almond scented water, scrubbing away the salt and stench of his sweat, washing away the grime of this place from his body.
Something is dropped in front of his face. Something wrapped in butcher paper. Ignis eases himself into a sitting position and he reaches for it, hoping it is what he thinks it is. He hasn’t eaten anything since that half sandwich during his attempt at escape, and hunger has continued to gnaw at him since.
He unwraps it as Fleuret watches from the open door. It’s a baloney sandwich, like before.
And Ignis doesn’t care. He tears off a corner and shoves it in his mouth, heedless of manners or decorum. He’s so desperate to have something in his stomach, he barely chews it. A second bite goes down the same. Gods, he wants to shove the whole thing down his throat, all at once.
“Slowly,” Fleuret says. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Ignis knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from taking the third bite, and a fourth.
Fleuret steps toward him and crouches down, looking up at him with pity. Ignis wishes he had the strength to kick him square in the face for looking at him that way. He is not a thing to be pitied for the torment that’s been inflicted upon him.
“I assume you have a phone in your Armiger,” Fleuret says.
“I do,” Ignis says with a full mouth. “What of it?”
He sets the remaining half of the sandwich down on the butcher paper, determined to save it for later. Who knows when his next meal will be? But he fixates on it for a moment, so very tempted to finish it now.
Later, perhaps. Or tomorrow. The baloney is so cured and processed, it will keep for a week and dry out well before it goes bad.
Fleuret tosses a plastic object with a cord onto the platform. It lands with a clatter, but Ignis’s attention is still on the sandwich. It’s only sheer will power that stops him from stuffing the remaining half into his mouth.
“I imagine the battery is dead by now,” Fleuret says.
“What?” Ignis asks and looks at him. “What battery?”
“I’d like to offer you a deal,” Fleuret says.
“I’m not certain I’m in any position to make one,” Ignis says.
“I can arrange for the magic barrier to be taken down temporarily for maintenance, allowing you to access your device, charge it, and contact your handlers,” Fleuret says. “If you can promise me your King will not turn me away at the gate.”
Noctis spends his morning with his father’s advisor, recapping negotiations and role-playing various scenarios. He hates role-play and he honestly feels stupid pretending to be something he’s not, but it’s better than sitting in a cell. At the end of the lesson, he’s informed that tomorrow’s lesson will be trade agreements.
The guards return him to his cell to eat lunch. It’s some sort of noodle casserole that’s full of diced carrots and peas. The texture of it disgusts him. It’s cold and slimy and whatever creamy stuff they put in it has curdled.
But he eats it. Even if it triggers his gag reflex, he eats because he’s not going to be able to survive on a slice of lunch meat here and a piece of moldy bread there.
It’s awful, whatever it is, but he plugs his nose and chokes it down, bite by bite, until it’s all gone.
He expects to be taken to the activity room with the others afterward, where he will either stare blankly at the television or sort puzzle pieces of a puzzle he will never put together. But he isn’t. He’s led away from the small group exiting their cells, and down a different hallway to a large room with mats on the floor.
Dustin is waiting for him.
“What’s this?” Noctis asks.
“Training.”
“Am I allowed weapons in here?” Noctis asks and looks around. He doesn’t see anything that can be used as a weapon and he doubts they’ll let him access his Armiger.
“We’ll be working on hand-to-hand today, your Highness,” Dustin says. “Gladio tells me you’ve become overly reliant on warp-strikes and would like you to spend some time getting back to basics.”
“Gladio said that, huh?” Noctis says. “Sounds like him.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” Dustin says.
“No offense taken,” Noctis says. “Where is Gladio, anyway?”
“He’s assisting the Glaives with training recruits this week,” Dustin says. “He should be able to resume daily training with you soon.”
Noctis wasn’t aware of any daily training, and he wonders with all this extra stuff, why he can’t just be on house arrest.
Optics, he supposes. It has to look right from the outside. But what he wouldn’t give for a comfortable bed and food that doesn’t make him want to die.
The session only lasts and hour, and only because Noctis tires out too quickly. The combination of not eating and being mostly sedentary has left him with less energy and stamina than usual. And without the magic boost he gets from his father’s magic, he’s no different than any other twenty-year-old. It’s a rude awakening to realize how weak he is without it.
Afterward, the guards escort him to the showers. This is the first time he’s been allowed to shower alone, and he’s glad for it. Showering with other people is uncomfortable, and he doesn’t like the things they say to him about his body or the things they want to do to it.
One of the guards stays inside, next to the door. The other is posted just outside of it, giving him a bit more privacy than he’s used to. Too bad he’s not allowed to take his time washing up. He misses long showers with good-smelling soap. And shampoo that doesn’t make his hair feel like straw.
He’s rinsing off when the door opens and a second guard steps inside. He whispers something to the other. Noctis turns off the water and reaches for his towel, assuming his time is up.
They’re both on him in an instant and he’s shoved against the cold tile wall with both his arms twisted behind his back. It happens so fast, he doesn’t even get a chance to fight or try to slip their grasp. His bottom teeth dig into his lower lip and he tastes blood, sharp and salty on his tongue.
He hasn’t done anything that he can think of to deserve getting his ass kicked. If it’s about getting special treatment, he figured it would come from other prisoners, not the guards.
“Traitor,” one of them says in his ear. “You should have been executed.”
Noctis’ gaze fixes on the smear of blood on the wall next to his face, and then the droplets of crimson steadily landing on the tile at his feet. He can’t manage to summon the outrage he should feel at being attacked, even knowing what these men are doing is treason.
One of them grabs a fistfull of his hair and yanks his head back. The blood from his lip is now streaming down his neck and he starts to struggle, sure that they aim to kill him.
He’s shoved against the wall again, an arm pressed hard into the back of his neck, and something cold slides along the inside of his left forearm. There’s a painful throb, and then a river of something warm spills down over his wrist and palm and drips off his knuckles. A knife clatters to the floor at his feet, next to a growing pool of blood that definitely isn’t coming from his split lip.
They let him go and he slides to his knees. There’s a deep, long, diagonal cut across his forearm, blood pulsing out of it in time with his heartbeat.
That’s bad. He knows that’s bad. It means it’s arterial blood. If he doesn’t stop it, he’s going to bleed out.
He reaches for the towel, which is now half-soaked from landing in a puddle of water on the floor, but something hits him hard in the back. A boot. Then it slams into the back of his neck, and he tips onto his side, clutching a hand tight over the wound, trying to stop the inevitable.
The door opens and Noctis sees several pair of boots enter the room.
“What hell is going on in here?”
The room is spinning and Noctis is freezing all of a sudden. He croaks out a plea for help, but it comes out a pathetic whimper. The towel around his arm is soaked.
“He tried to kill himself, sir.”
There are hands on him and Noctis shakes his head to deny he’d done this to himself. Someone ties something around his arm and lifts him up from the floor.
“Gods, he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Let’s get him to the infirmary.”
He’s so cold. Everything feels numb. The lights in the hall are blurry and too bright and whoever is carrying him isn’t being gentle.
“Hang on, your Highness,” a familiar voice says. “Stay with me.”
He wonders where he’s supposed to go and he laughs a little at the thought of trying to escape when he’s naked and bleeding out.
“Someone call Amicitia. Now.”
Gladio. Gladio’s going to be disappointed. All that training and he couldn’t even fight back.
How’s he supposed to be a king if he can’t even protect himself?
“How many of these losers you think are gonna make it?” Gladio asks Crowe as he uncaps his water.
“Maybe half,” she says. “I already know a couple of them aren’t going to make it to the end of the month.”
Gladio agrees. He’s never done the Glaive trial himself, but he’s seen it, and he knows it’s pretty rough. Way tougher than the Crownsguard trials, for sure.
As much as he would prefer to be doing something else, he can’t deny this has been good for him. It’s been an eye-opener, for sure. As a bonus, he goes home every night too tired to do anything but fall into bed, exhausted. Without time to worry about Iggy, the moments of crippling panic are fewer and less intense.
“You wanna grab a drink later?” Crowe asks. “Some of us are meeting up at the pool hall around eight. Prompto and Luche are out on assignment, but Libertus and Pelna’ll be there, so it might not suck.”
Gladio stashes his blade in the Armiger and something brushes against his knuckles. He touches it and realizes it’s one of Ignis’ daggers. It takes the wind out of him and he forgets for a second that Crowe asked him a question. He focuses on his breathing before it can get out of control.
“You alright?” Crowe asks.
Gladio just nods and shoves it out of his mind. He’ll deal with it later, if he has to.
“Prompto and Luche are on assignment?” he asks. “Thought y’all were in a holding pattern.”
“It’s just an errand or something,” she says. “So you coming out?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “Let you know?”
“Sure,” she says. She laughs a little. “You know, it hasn’t been so bad working with you, Amicitia. I figured I was gonna have to shoot you in the face with a fireball at least once for hitting on me, but you’ve managed to surprise me.”
“Eh, you had your chance, Altus,” Gladio teases. “I’m taken.”
“Yeah?” Her eyebrows shoot up. “Someone’s actually willing to put up with that big ego of yours?”
Gladio flashes a crooked smirk, even though he’s dying a little on the inside.
His phone rings. It’s his father. He considers not answering but his dad is calling on the official line, so he figures it’s work related and he doesn’t want to hear about dereliction of duty later.
“Gotta take this,” he says and takes the call. “Amicitia.”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop and report to the prison immediately,” Clarus says. “It’s an emergency.”
“What’s going on?” he asks and grabs his bag. “Something happen to Noct?”
“It’s not clear what happened yet,” Clarus says, “but he’s been seriously injured. Dustin is with him now.”
Gladio waves a quick goodbye to Crowe and heads out, worried that Noctis did something stupid like pick a fight or try to escape. Or worse, tried to hurt himself.
“What did Dustin say?” Gladio asks.
“Just that there was some mix-up with the Crownsguard we assigned to look after him. Someone gave them conflicting orders and they weren’t where they were supposed to be whenever whatever happened, happened.”
“Shit,” Gladio says. “Anything else?”
“Just that he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Seems like that’s becoming a thing with him,” Gladio grumbles.
“We don’t know if it’s his fault or not,” Clarus says. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Alright. I’m ten minutes away. See you when I get there.”
Gladio parks his truck in one of the spaces reserved for the warden and his administrative staff, not caring if he gets a ticket or not, and hauls himself up to the checkpoint. He’s annoyed that he has to go through the whole pat-down dance, and it seems like they’re taking an extra long time and paying undue attention to his nethers.
He’s directed to the infirmary, where his father and Dustin are conferring just outside the door with a pair of Crownsguard Gladio assumes are the ones assigned to Noct’s detail. Clarus looks like he’s about to blow a gasket, but Dustin is hard to read.
“Hey. Any news?” he asks.
Dustin gives him the rundown.
He’d ended his training with Noctis early, due to Noctis’ obvious exhaustion. The two Crownsguard that were supposed to accompany him to the showers had been called away to deal with some paperwork mix-up at the front desk. They had gone to the administrative offices, assuming the training would last the full two hours, and that Noctis was perfectly safe in Dustin's custody.
Dustin was not made aware of this until they arrived at the rec room ten minutes after Noctis left, at which time the three of them went to the showers and found Noctis bleeding out on the floor. There was a knife on the floor beside him. According to the prison guards who escorted him there, Noctis had hidden the knife in his prison uniform and cut himself. When they tried to stop him, he fought.
Gladio listened, but he wasn’t sure he bought this story. For starters, where the hell would Noctis get a knife sharp enough to cut that deep? Sure, contraband was a thing in prisons, but Noctis didn’t have anything to trade, and as far as Gladio knew he didn’t even have money in his canteen yet to buy stuff worth trading.
It was true that Noctis was depressed. He’d been depressed enough to fling himself through a series of glass windows. Or maybe angry enough, depending on how Gladio looked at it. But Gladio wasn’t convinced he’d done that because he had a death wish. And he wasn’t convinced of it now.
“How the hell would he get a knife like that in a max security wing without access to the Armiger?” Gladio asked.
“Guards think it might have happened when the Niffs were attacking the wall,” Dustin says. “We all felt the Armiger open up, and I’m sure he did too. Might have given him a chance to get in.”
“Noct wouldn’t grab a knife, he’d get out his damn phone,” Gladio says. “Has he weighed in on this yet?”
“He’s still unconscious,” Dustin says. "He lost a great deal of blood."
“How confident are we this wasn’t an attack?” Gladio asks. “All this shit, having traitors in our midst, how do we know it’s not just the Glaive that’s compromised?”
So far, Clarus hasn’t said a word, but his level gaze says he’s already considered this. Gladio wonders how deep the betrayal goes. If there are Crownsguard and administrators and aristocrats and prison guards in on it, too.
“We’re definitely not ruling it out,” Dustin says. “Monica and Chase are questioning the guards now, but we’re not going to know what really happened until we can speak with his Highness.”
Gladio is furious that this has happened. With all these eyes on Noctis, all the time, it shouldn’t have even been a chance of it happening at all. He's been assured it's safe, that both the guards and the newly-assigned Crownsguard would protect him.
“So what now?” Gladio asks. “We still think this is the best option?”
He’s looking at his dad when he says it. Between his father and the King, they’ve made some pretty bad calls. This is obviously another.
“I’ll have to talk it over with Comedentis,” Clarus says. “I doubt she’ll relent.”
Gladio wonders if she’s compromised, too. She was chomping at the bit to execute Prompto and Ignis, but she’s still dragging her feet on Drautos from what Gladio’s heard around the compound. She should be foaming at the mouth to make him face a firing squad, but she’s being cagey about it, and Gladio wants to know why.
“Somethin’ ain’t right about this,” he says. “I can feel it.”
The look Clarus gives him says his father is on the same page, for once.
They arrive at Hammerhead two hours later than planned. Prompto’s practically bouncing in his seat in anticipation as they pull into the lot. Luche is oblivious, but the look Cor is giving him in the rear-view is almost amused.
Excited doesn’t even cover what he’s feeling. His heart is pounding and he’s got a whole swarm of butterflies flying around inside his chest. His palms sweat inside his gloves.
He throws the door open and climbs out even before Cor shuts the engine off, impatient to head into the building so he can finally meet Luna in person.
The side door opens and Cid steps out, offering Cor a friendly greeting, then greets Prompto warmly.
“Good to see you again, son,” he says and pats his arm. “Your friend is inside waitin’ on ya, so you just go on in.”
Prompto doesn’t waste any time. He steps into the garage, where Cindy and Luna are sitting at a plastic table, each with a beer in hand. Luna’s hair is darker, but he recognizes her and he breaks into a huge grin. Tears come to his eyes.
After all this time, it’s a dream come true. The best thing that’s happened to him in more than a year.
“Prompto,” she says and stands up, arms outstretched to hug him. “It’s good to see you.”
Prompto doesn’t hesitate. He sweeps her up in a tight hug, half lifting her up off the ground, struggling not to cry happy tears. It doesn’t even matter because she’s crying too with her face buried in his neck.
It’s a long time before she lets go, and when she pulls back, she’s smiling and her cheeks are wet, her nose is red and it’s the first time he’s ever been glad to see a girl cry. He wipes away his own tears with a laugh.
“Look at you,” she says. “You’ve changed so much since you last sent pictures. You look so grown up.”
“You look great,” he says.
“I look awful,” she says with a laugh. “But it’s kind of you to say so.”
Cindy slides up next to him and slips an arm around his waist, giving him a side-hug. If Prompto didn’t know better, he’d think maybe she was a little jealous that he's giving Luna all his attention.
“I gotta say, this uniform is somethin’ else,” Cindy says. “Them Glaives sure got style.”
“You likes?” he asks, puffing his chest out.
“I think we both like,” Cindy says and tips her head at Luna. “Ain’t that right, Lady Lunafreya?”
“I do believe we agree on that. It is hard to resist a handsome young man in uniform.”
“You got that right, darlin,” Cindy says and clinks the neck of her beer bottle against Luna’s.
Prompto decides they’re both drunk, but he’s definitely enjoying the attention. Two pretty ladies fawning over him is not something that happens everyday.
“What about me?” Luche says from behind them.
He’s grinning a cocky grin and Cindy rolls her eyes. She hooks an arm around Luche’s neck and gestures at Prompto with her beer bottle.
“Well, now, see this guy saved my life last time he was out here,” Cindy says. “And he taught me to slow dance, so you gotta do better’n that if you wanna catch my eye.”
Prompto’s face turns beet red. He can’t see it but he knows he’s flushed from his chest all the way up to the top of his head. He covers his face, laughing in embarrassment. She’s just taking the piss out of Luche, but it’s making him blush just the same.
The look on Luche’s face is worth it, though. He’s completely gobsmacked by the attention Prompto is getting. It would be hilarious if Prompto wasn’t totally gobsmacked himself.
Because Cindy might be flirting. The Goddess is flirting, or at least propping him up, in front of a guy who so completely outranks him. And that’s definitely never happened before.
Cindy guides Prompto over to a chair at the table and waves Luche over to join them.
“Can I get you boys somethin’ to drink?” she asks and drops a hand to his shoulder. “A cola for you, right darlin’?”
“Yep,” Prompto says. “Luche?”
“I’ll take a beer.”
“So, how have you been, Prompto?” Luna asks. “I understand there was a battle recently.”
“I’m alive so, you know, it’s going okay,” he says.
Luche snorts and shoots him a look of disbelief.
“Way to downplay it, kid,” Luche says. “This guy is absolutely nuts. Maybe even crazier than Nyx, and that’s sayin’ something.”
“What does that mean?” Luna asks.
Prompto feels his face heating up again and he covers it with his hands.
“He stole a mech and started shooting dropships out of the sky,” Luche says. “And then he hijacked the machine they were using to attack the wall and blew it up while he was still inside it.”
“Is this true Prompto?” Luna asks while Cindy’s sort of gaping at him.
“Yeah,” he says. “But to be fair, I didn’t know how else to stop the stupid thing from taking down the wall. Figured if I killed it, it would be worth dyin' for.”
Luna looks like she wants to say something but thinks the better of it. Now isn’t the time to talk about whatever might be going on with him. Not in front of Luche. Or Cindy.
“So how do you two even know each other, anyway?” Luche asks. “Through the Prince?”
“Yes,” Luna says. “Prompto used to send me pictures, since Noctis didn’t like to send them himself. I would send letters in return. We got to know one another quite well. This is the first time we've met in person.”
Prompto’s glad she didn’t mention just how long they’ve been communicating. A connection through Noct is a lot less suspicious.
Cor steps inside and observes their gathering, with Cid right behind him. He greets Luna formally, and she dismisses it with a laugh.
“Tonight, I’m not the Oracle or a former princess,” she says. “If that’s alright with you, Marshal.”
“As you wish,” he says. “Luche, let’s do a perimeter sweep and get some food for everyone. Prompto, I’m entrusting Lady Lunafreya to you. We’ll discuss sleeping arrangements and watch assignments when I get back.”
“Got it,” Prompto says. “The ladies are safe with me, Sir.”
He relaxes a little with Luche gone. Cindy hands Luna another beer and opens another for herself. He thinks it’s funny the two of them have been sitting here getting drunk together for the last couple of hours. He wouldn’t have guessed Luna even liked beer, but what does he know?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Prompto asks.
“Because I wasn’t sure if I’d make it,” she says. “As it was, I came very close to being discovered in Altissia. It’s only thanks to the kindness of strangers that I’m here at all.”
“It’s a real small world, though,” Cindy says. “The Gods must have been lookin’ out for you when they sent you to Dondra and Piet on account of them knowin’ Holly and all.”
“I am eternally grateful to them,” she says. “They're a lovely couple.”
“And Holly?” Cindy asks. “What did ya think of her?”
“I think lively is appropriate,” Luna says with a cheeky smile.
“You got that right,” Cindy agrees.
Prompto sits back and soaks it in. His brain still hasn’t registered that Luna is here. She’s here and tomorrow, he’ll escort her to Lucis and present her to the King so he can officially accept her plea for asylum. He’s excited and nervous and he hopes that once she’s in the city, he can visit with her.
Cor an Luche return with food. Luche looks shame-faced like he got scolded, and Prompto assumes it was getting caught drinking a beer while on duty, but he doesn’t ask. He tucks into his plate of Jambalaya and notes that Cor must have remembered he likes it extra spicy.
“Cindy has graciously offered her room to Luna for the night,” Cor says. “Three of us will work in shifts to guard the door. I’ll take first watch. Prompto, you’ll sleep on Cindy’s couch. Luche, you and I will share the caravan.”
“I’m perfectly fine with a cot,” Luna says. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
“Ain’t no trouble,” Cindy says. “Most nights I sleep on the cot in my office, so you ain’t puttin’ me out or nothin’.”
“Only if you’re sure,” Luna says.
“I’m sure,” Cindy says.
“Good, then we should get settled in for the night,” Cor says. “I imagine Luna has had a long journey and could do with some rest.”
Prompto follows Cindy and Luna out of the garage and into the alley. He’s always sort of wondered where she and Cid live but didn’t put much thought into it until now. She leads them to a door at the back of the alley, behind the shop, and unlocks it. Inside is an area that looks like a small storeroom and a set of stairs. Cindy leads them up the stairs and into a short hall with a couple of doors on each side.
She unlocks one of the doors on the left and ushers them both inside.
Prompto’s surprised to find himself in a cute little apartment with comfortable-looking furniture and dark wood paneled walls. Sure, it’s a little dated, but he thinks that suits her, and this place. It’s not like Leide is on the cutting edge of the big city trends, and he already knows access to that is nonexistent.
He likes that there are photos on the walls of classic cars, and photos of Cindy and Cid through the years. Little Cindy was adorable, with freckled cheeks and an upturned nose and a wild mane of curly blonde hair. There’s grease on her face in almost every picture and Prompto thinks that’s adorable.
Cindy ushers Luna to the bedroom and points her to the bath. She brings Prompto some linens for the couch and lays them out, as if he’s planning to sleep right now.
It’s cute, watching her play good host.
“Can’t believe I’m actually hostin’ the Oracle,” she says to Prompto, full of pride. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Cindy steps closer, into his personal space, and turns his head left and then right. Prompto’s soul leaves his body for a second. She’s touching his face, and her stare is curious.
“They definitely got you lookin’ like one of ‘em now,” Cindy says. “You got the hair, the tattoos, the war stories. Guess you’re a bonified soldier now.”
“Something wrong with that?” he asks.
She shakes her head, but there’s a little bit of worry in her eyes.
“You looked like a little kid the first time I met you,” she says. “And it ain’t even been that long ago.”
“A lot’s happened in the last few months,” Prompto says.
“That ain’t it,” she says. “Somethin’s different.”
He wonders if she can sense that other thing inside him. Maybe it’s more obvious than he thought.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks, quieter this time.
Cindy’s eyes search his face, but she shakes her head, no. His heart pounds for no good reason, except that she’s in his personal space and she’s looking at him so closely. The tension was so thick, it’s making him anxious.
“I ain’t sure yet,” she says and steps back, her eyes still fixed on him. “I’m gonna leave you to it. Make yourselves comfortable and help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. I’ll be in the garage if y’all need me.”
Prompto’s thrown off by the abrupt change in her tone, and he’s not sure what any of that meant or how to take it. He shakes it off and strips off his uniform jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door, among a collection of Hammerhead ball caps in various states of wear.
Luna emerges from the bedroom, her hair wet and dressed in soft-looking pajama pants and a t-shirt. She looks like a normal person instead of the poised, elegant woman he sees on TV sometimes. It’s weird seeing her like this, but he likes it. It reminds him of the Luna he got to know through the letters, and not the icon everyone else sees her as.
“Is there anyone else here?” she asks.
“Just me.”
“Good. I was hoping we might get a moment alone to talk,” she says. She sits on the couch and pats the space beside her. “Sit with me.”
Prompt does, wishing that he’d thought to take his boots off. His feet are hot, but he figures it would be rude now, to take them off in front of the Oracle, even if they are friends.
“I’d like to see if I can get a read on this magic of yours,” she says. “If that’s alright with you.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says.
He’s eager to have a name for it. An explanation. Anything that can help him make sense of it. When she takes his hand, the contact gives him a jolt and he reels back, his skin tingling where she touched him.
She looks just as surprised as he does, her eyes wide, and she’s looking at him almost the same way Cindy looked at him earlier. As if she sees something other in his face that he didn’t know was there.
“So, am I a daemon?” he asks.
Luna shakes her head and holds her hand out for him to take again. The jolt comes again, but this time she holds on. Her eyes flutter closed and her grip tightens and Prompto’s head is suddenly filled with images that flicker in and out too fast for him to make sense of.
There’s a burning sensation behind his eyes and his heart starts up that phantom beat. He doesn’t like this. It’s not going to end well. He’s sure of that.
Luna lets his hand go with a gasp, and she’s staring at him, shaking her head in disbelief.
“What?” he asks. “What is it?”
“You’ve been marked by the Gods,” she says. “But there’s definitely something like scourge there, too.”
Prompto feels sick. His skin grows cold and clammy. There’s no cure for the scourge. It’s a death sentence and all Luna can do is give comfort and temporary reprieve from the sickness.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “It shouldn’t be both. It can’t be, and yet it is.”
“What does that mean?” he asks. “Marked by the Gods?”
“I suspected when Pryna returned to me safe that the Gods favored you,” she says. “That perhaps they’d blessed you somehow for caring for their messenger. I thought that meant they might answer your prayers, or look out for you in some way, but this is something different.”
Prompto can’t fathom what this means. If the Gods were looking out for him, they had a weird sense of humor. He’s been blessed with good friends, but most of his life has been a struggle. To have it all end with scourge is the opposite of a blessing.
Luna stands up and starts pacing the living room, wringing her hands and whispering what sounds to Prompto’s untrained ears like a prayer. He can’t make out the words, and for all he knows, they’re in a totally different language.
“So, am I gonna die?” he asks.
Luna looks at him, startled, like she forgot he was in the room. She blinks at him a couple times, then returns to the couch. Her hand slips into his, and it should be reassuring, but it feels ominous, like there’s more bad news. The last thing he wants is confirmation of his imminent death. He’d really rather not know. If he’s going to die, he would prefer it be quick and unexpected.
She holds his hand in both of hers, but she shakes her head no. Those images come at him again, flashes of things, bits and pieces of his past and present, battles, daemons, a future him, a heavy and poisoned dark, miasma bleeding from his fingertips, wings upon his back, surrounded by spectral beings, gods, goddesses, and a terrible darkness enveloping a ruined world.
“I want you to show me this magic,” she says. “If you’re able. I must see it for myself.”
So, at three AM, with Luna standing under the safety of Hammerhead’s security lights, Prompto walks into the desert alone.
Notes:
Struggled a lot with this chapter. Ugh lol.
Big thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments last chapter! 💕
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