Chapter Text
If anyone asks, 234 does not have any soulmates.
Soulmates are for people. People like the scientists and civilians. 234 often saw people like this with writing on their arms, little notes of love or endearments, reminders, or day-to-day updates. Sometimes whole paragraphs marked the skin in tiny scribbles or large looping cursive he could barely read; all professing not just words, but a connection. A connection to another soul out there somewhere in the vast world beyond the metal walls he knew.
Most often, these people met, got to know each other, and became important parts of each other’s lives. Sometimes it was romantic; he’d see people holding hands, sharing lunches, kissing. Other times it was platonic; just being good friends, kind back and forth banter, supporting each other in whatever life throws at them.
That’s what soulmates are. Romantic or platonic, soulmates are people you could rely on, people you could trust to help and support you no matter the circumstance.
But all of that is for people, not MT Units.
MT Units are machines. Objects. Things created in a lab. Their only purpose being for research and war. They are not supposed to have souls, or what the lead scientist calls "ego."
If an MT Unit was ever found to be writing on their skin, they disappeared. During the inspections, the scientists would command them to confess if they’d seen any writing on their skin. The first MT Unit 234 knew that had admitted to it was gone the next day. 234 had seen them later, their body strapped to a metal table, long dead and left to cool.
So, years ago, when scrawled inked words started appearing on his skin, 234 thought it must be a mistake. He wasn’t supposed to have a soul, or soulmates to write to. He'd trembled in the darkness of his containment pod each night, staring in disbelief at the scribbles on his arms that he couldn’t even read.
More than that, he thought the words were to be his death warrant. For months after the first words appeared, he lived in fear of the next inspection.
(Some part of him questioned that, if he was a machine, if he was supposed to feel fear.)
Thankfully, the scientists, or anyone apparently, are unable to see what a person's soulmates write on their skin, only what the person writes on themselves.
234 only found this out one day when his whole troop was forced to strip for a surprise inspection. His soulmates had been bickering back and forth all morning. Lengthy conversations absolutely covered every speck of space on his pale arms and a some of his torso, so he thought for sure he was going to die. He was surprised they didn’t take him in immediately, the writing was so obvious. But they worked their way down the line of assembled MT’s, and when they got to him, the scientists lifted his ink-covered arms and didn’t bat an eye.
“Unit 234, have you seen or read any writing on your body since your last inspection,” the scientist had droned, clearly bored and unaware of 234’s internal panic.
They… they can’t see it? He wondered, briefly baffled before snapping back to the question. He was supposed to tell them. It was an order, he… he couldn’t refuse an order. A machine couldn’t refuse. But in his mind he saw that other MT Unit, strapped to a table, their dead eyes pleading with him to keep quiet.
“Negative,” 234 intoned blandly, proud of how his voice didn’t tremble. And it was only a half-lie, as no MT Unit was able to read.
(A machine shouldn’t be able to tell a lie either, a small voice reminded him.)
The inspector just checked something off on their clipboard and continued to the next MT, leaving 234 shocked and heart thundering in his ears.
Four MT Units were taken that day for having or admitting to writing on their skin, only to disappear into the depths of the facility.
So, no, if anyone asks, 234 does not have any soulmates.
That was years ago now, and his reading skills have improved a bit thanks to his chatty soulmates. It is safe to read their banter, if he is careful to do so out of sight. Only... he could never write back. It was simply too risky, the scientists and soldiers as watchful as they are deadly. Besides, 234 isn’t confident in his ability to write anyway, having never held a pencil nor drawn so much as a line his entire life.
Late at night, using the dim slivers of light that filter through the seams in his containment pod, he slides off his gauntlets and reads through the script that had been etched onto his skin that day.
Sometimes it's drawings: bored little doodles of other people or creatures he’d never seen before. Often with a "Pay attention to your studies, Noct," somewhere nearby.
Other times it's appointment reminders, or complaints, or jokes. One of them, "Specs" he thought their name was, enjoyed puns. They used them only occasionally, but his other soulmates complained every time. 234 likes them for their clever wordplay, though he doesn’t always understand the context.
One of his soulmates, "Gladio," would sometimes rant on and on in whole paragraphs about whatever book he was reading. Reading books is forbidden for MT Units, so 234 enjoys these rants the most, especially when Gladio quotes the stories word for word. He spends a long time memorizing and learning new words this way, as his normal vocabulary is fairly limited.
Once, "Noct" got so annoyed with Gladio’s book that he wrote out the entire script to something called a "movie" he’d watched (something about bees?) to take up the rest of the space on his arm. It left 234 endlessly confused, but the absurdity of it made getting through the next few days much more bearable. Thinking about insects suing the human race was somehow very satisfying as he was forced to scrub down the blood from the research rooms.
For all the research done in those rooms, 234 could never figure out what the scientists were trying to solve with their tests. He’d grown used to it and assumes it's to win "the war." It's all the researchers talk about. Better weapons, better airships, better machines. All for some distant fight in some far-off land 234 knows nothing about. All he knows is tests and training, as his entire troop had been designated not to be deployed, but to test improvements for those that were.
It's an endless cycle of experiments, some more extreme than others.
One day, 234 found out just how extreme they could be.
“234, 237, and 245, report to Research room B-7,” a scientist wielding a clipboard whisks into the training room where 234's troop has been practicing drills. Interruptions like this are not uncommon, so 234 doesn’t think anything of it as he and the two other MT Units move to obey.
The room is clinical and clean like the multitude of other similar rooms, but that’s not what gives him pause. Three metal tables have been set up, scientists bustling around them preparing an absurd number of tools. The instruments are far, far too sharp for his liking.
Beneath 234's armor, a cold sweat forms on his skin, and he chews his lip to bleeding behind his mask.
MT Units don’t feel fear, he thinks, desperately. We’re machines. I’m a machine, an unfeeling tool for the Empire.
He doesn’t quite manage to convince himself before the lead researcher himself, Verstael Besithia, steps in. The metal door closes behind the man with a clang, sealing 234's fate without even the courtesy of a coffin, abrupt and final. His fear only jumps ever higher, and 234 knows immediately that he is going to die.
The three of them are strapped to the tables, and 234 thinks a little frantically about that other MT years ago that died for confessing to his soulmates’ writing. They'd been strapped down, just like this, dying cold and alone. Had the researchers somehow found out about 234's soulmates, too? He’d been so careful; had never touched a pen or dared to write back because of the danger of being discovered.
He thinks now that maybe he should have, if only so his soulmates could know of his existence. He's going to die here, and they’ll never know how much he likes Noct’s drawings, or Specs’ jokes, or Gladio’s stories.
They would never even know he existed.
234 wants to beg for a pen, even as the scientist nearest him strips him down and disinfects his skin. He wants to write a goodbye, or maybe a thank you, for all their words that got him through the tougher days. He wants them to know how much he loves them.
He doesn’t want to die.
Cold metal touches his thigh, and he has all of a second to glance down to see a circular blade set against it, before it turns on.
He blacks out.