Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Step 1: Initiate

Socialization.

            05953234 knows that word.

            05953234 remembers it from the Facility.

            There, it was not a term ever used to refer to anything related to the MT Units, it was a term reserved for the packs of guard dogs being bred and trained to serve in the civilian police forces—mostly in Gralea proper, but officially all over the vast Homeland. ‘Socialization’ was important to the dogs’ training because it allowed the humans to modulate the animals’ temperaments to suit civilian interactions.

            MTs were designed exclusively for military use, and they were meant to have no interactions with anyone outside of their Commanders and the Enemy. Commanders were to be obeyed. The Enemy was to be destroyed. No socialization required.

            But… but here… it is almost certainly being used in direct reference to 05953234.

            Which doesn't make sense.

            05953234 stands at rest by the door, straining to hear the conversation within.

            He was told to wait outside, and so he does…

            But he was not ordered to stand and not listen, so even though he was intentionally excluded from the conversation taking place beyond the door, 05953234 stills his breathing and listens. The voices are not quite angry, but they're not happy either.

            Disappointed. Tired. Frustrated.

            05953234 knows the appropriate labels for the sounds in the human vocal tones – knows them because he's faced the Facility commanders often enough to make the sounds familiar. He's faced them often enough, listened carefully as they lectured him, explicitly stating what about his failures has made them feel the way they do – disappointed, angry, tired, frustrated – to make each sound distinct in his memory.

            05953234 isn't confused right now because he has already failed his new commander enough for his problematic tendencies to be aggravating… probably enough to warrant those shortcomings being brought to a superior – that has happened frequently enough before to make it tragically unsurprising.

            He’s currently confused because the humans are using these tones with each other… a human directing their voice at another human… a commander using these tones with a superior even… 05953234 can hardly fathom it, hearing humans use these tones like this, among themselves and to humans of rank and import… these tones of disappointment and frustration – tones that 05953234 has only ever otherwise heard directed at MT units…

            He's almost too distracted by the sounds he's hearing to fully parse the words the humans are saying.

            “He’s not a normal kid, Clarus. We can't just throw him in the ball pit at the Citadel Daycare and hope he makes friends.”

            That voice belongs to 05953234’s new commanding officer – and it's the voice inside the room that sounds closest to being angry. The harshness of the growl makes 05953234 flinch.

            The commander is displeased with his performance – not an unusual occurrence by any means – but 05953234 likes this new commander… likes him so much more than any other he has ever been assigned to obey.

            05953234 does not want to be reassigned again.

            It’s only been a month. Surely, they won’t transfer him yet… He can do better. He will do better. 05953234 can prove himself to his new commander.

            He listens harder to see if he can pinpoint what exactly about his performance is most frustrating to his new commander, so he can rectify the problem. It’s difficult to understand what his new commander wants – it’s been a month of poor performances and 05953234 has not been proactively Corrected once… he has not been Assessed or Evaluated in any of the ways he knows how to perform well.

            05953234 doesn’t understand.

            He also doesn’t understand what the conversation inside the room is about, but he listens as it continues in hopes of gleaning some insight to help him perform better.

            “I am well aware of that, Cor,” another voice replies, using the intimate designation of 05953234’s commander. This voice is deeper, smoother, and further from being angry.

            “Which is why I volunteered Gladiolus for this experiment and not Prince Noctis, or some other Insomnian ward.” The deeper voice pauses briefly before continuing, “My son has enough training to protect himself from anything the MT may attempt, he has the required security clearance to be discreet, and his age is more or less within the MT's peer group.”

            Someone huffs in frustration – probably 05953234’s commander.

            He has been making that sound a lot lately and it sets 05953234 on edge – anxious about the possibility of being transferred, or even decommissioned. His other commanders used to threaten him with decommissioning every time he messed up, but his new commander hasn’t mentioned it even once. Of course, his new commander hasn’t Corrected him, either – or Assessed him, or Approved him… or even formally accepted his Commission.

            05953234 is clearly performing poorly – his commander is frustrated – so why hasn’t he been Corrected? How can he improve if he isn’t informed of what he’s doing wrong?

            It doesn’t make sense and 05953234 pushes the questions out of his mind so he can focus on listening – on trying to improve his performance.

            “I just don't see why this is necessary,” 05953234’s commander sighs, “He doesn't do well with new things and Gladio is… not like the other people he's been dealing with here.”

            “That's kind of the point, Cor.”

            After a too-long beat of silence, 05953234’s commander warns quietly, “He may not react well to such obvious difference.”

            “Gladiolus can handle it.”

            There's another too-long stretch of silence.

            Then the deeper voice – the one 05953234 thinks must be 05953234’s commander's direct superior officer – says, “You don't have kids of your own yet, so you're just going to have to take it on faith from a father of two: he needs this, Cor, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you—makes either of you.”

            05953234’s commander grumbles something unintelligible.

            “You and I can watch from the observation deck, but he needs to be socialized properly, which means without obvious parental supervision,” the high commander insists, adding, “I’ll have three Crownsguard and a Kingsglaive positioned to intervene, but we have to try letting the MT interact with a plausible peer as naturally as possible.”

            There’s another stiff pause.

            “He’s not an MT,” 05953234’s commander growls quietly – utterly baffling 05953234.

            05953234 doesn’t understand. He is an MT.

            Maybe 05953234’s commander just means that he’s not a finished MT.

            That must be it.

            05953234 is not a finished MT. He’s only a Level Two. He hadn’t even been fitted for his armor yet when he was sent away from the Facility and reassigned to this new commander.

            Maybe 05953234’s new commander was hoping for a finished product.

            Maybe he’s just as confused about how to deal with a Level Two MT as 05953234 is confused about obeying a commander that doesn’t give clear orders or instructions. Maybe the instructions wouldn’t seem so unclear if he was finished, if he wasn't merely a Level Two.

            “He is an MT, Cor,” the high commander says softly. “I know it’s hard for you to think of him like that, but he is an MT.”

            “He’s just a kid,” 05953234’s commander says, an odd note in his voice that 05953234 cannot properly identify. It’s a high sound, high and tight, and it makes 05953234’s throat tense up in a way that is distinctly uncomfortable.

            “No, Cor,” the high commander says firmly. Then he sighs and explains, “A soldier with PTSD remains a soldier even decades after they retire to civilian life, yes? This ‘Prompto’ of yours is an MT, and he is also a child, both aspects of who and what he is need to be accounted for in going forward. Both parts need to acknowledged and respected in order to be handled.”

            The casual use of his nursery name still makes 05953234 flinch, but he’s gotten better at holding in the reaction. He’s not good enough at it to keep track of the high commander’s meaning in the following sentence, but he catches and appreciates the high commander’s insistence that 05953234 is an MT.

            He may not be the properly finished MT that his commander was hoping for, but he is an MT and he can get better at obeying his new commander.

            Perhaps through this ‘socialization’ process the commanders are discussing.

            Are finished discussing.

            05953234’s commander makes one last unintelligible grumble and then huffs, “Fine, let’s just get this shit over with.”

________

Chapter Text

Step 02: Instigate

05953234 is nervous when he realizes the voices have stopped.

            The door opens abruptly and 05953234’s commander appears in the frame, stopping short when he nearly runs into 05953234 – clearly startled that 05953234 is standing exactly where he was told to wait.

            The surprise on 05953234’s face shifts quickly into confusion and his eyes dart to the side towards the row of plush chairs on either side of the hall surrounding the door.

            “You could’ve sat down, kiddo,” 05953234’s commander sighs.

            05953234 doesn’t think this statement requires a response, but his commander seems to expect one. 05953234 is saved from attempting to answer by the appearance of the high commander – who sweeps his arm out to indicate that they should all commence with moving further into the hallway.

            05953234 steps back to allow the commanders to pass.

            His movement, and the appearance of the commanders, sparks movement in the human guards stationed in the immediate vicinity. There are three of them, all with impassive faces and variegated black uniforms that indicate some system of rank and role of which 05953234 has yet to fully grasp any kind of understanding.

            It seems that their job is to guard him, which 05953234 also doesn’t understand, but they make more sense than the human commanders – behaving far more like the MTs and human soldiers 05953234 is familiar with, and asking absolutely nothing of 05953234.

            They simply sit and stand and watch and follow.

            There’s three of them in the hall, and two more emerge from the room with the high commander. All five shift into an efficient guard formation around 05953234 and the commanders as 05953234’s direct superior puts a hand on his shoulder, looks him dead in the eye with a very serious expression, and says gruffly, “We’re going to do something a little different today, Prompto. Okay?”

            05953234 gives only the smallest twitch at his nursery name and forces himself to put all his focus on the question.

            His commander expects a response to this and 05953234 know the appropriate answer – after all, he is an MT Unit and any requests to ascertain whether he is ‘alright’ or ‘okay’ or ‘ready’ all have a single allowable answer: “Yes, sir.”

            Something in the man’s expression pinches, but 05953234’s commander plows onward, patting 05953234’s shoulder and turning to stride down the hallway – following a half step behind the high commander. Two of the human guards follow half a step further behind and a full step wider apart than the distance between the commanders’ shoulders.

            05953234 is set just behind and between them, with two more of the guard humans behind him. The fifth guard human remains standing in the now vacated hallway.

            The formation moves quickly through the maze of hallways – all of them covered in shiny black and white stone with intricately geometric gold accents.

            05953234 loses track of the lefts and rights and ups and downs they take, but he's fairly certain that is an intentional outcome. Eventually, they take an elevator several floors down and then a staircase up to a flat open area where 05953234 has never been but is already intimately familiar with: a training ground.

            The recognition sends a bolt of white fear down his spine, but 05953234 does not let it make a stutter in his stride. He can't. This is too important to screw up – it’s a test, clearly, and likely one he should be familiar with seeing as it's taking place in such a typical testing setting.

            He has to do well.

            He does not want to disappoint his new commander.

            05953234 refuses to let his hesitation be visible as he steps across the threshold and his new boots touch the dirt floor of the artificial field. The training ground is well lit and built with a tremendously high ceiling, and there were structures imitating cliff faces and tall trees built in to disguise the room's walls – a much more effective facsimile of the Outside then anything he had encountered at the Facility.

            The part of 05953234 caught up in marveling at the interior allows the rest of him to move into the center of the training ground without revealing the jittery, anxious tension building underneath his skin. It's helpful in a way 05953234 is grateful for – especially as they reach the center of the field and draw to a stop.

            The commanders step aside to reveal a young human soldier – or rather they reveal 05953234 to the young human.

            Who seems unimpressed. At best.

            “That's the MT?”

            The high commander nods. Then he says, “Be gentle, Gladio. And careful. He's not like your usual training partners. I have doubled security, but even so…”

            “I get it, pops,” the human huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks 05953234 up and down. “Contrary to royal opinion, I know how to go easy on a guy. And I know better than to turn my back, just in case.”

            The sentences make little sense to 05953234, but his words seem to soothe the high commander somehow. “I know this was an unusual request, and you didn’t have much time to prepare, so thank you for being willing to accommodate this, son.”

            The young human shrugs. “Anything to protect the King and Crown, right? This kid is important to national security and our job as Shield is to serve those interests in every way.”

            The high commander nods again, and then turns his attention to 05953234’s commander, saying, “Come on, you can't put this off forever. We’ve secured and cleared the room for now, but it will be needed soon enough.”

            “Fine,” 05953234’s commander grumbles.

            He turns to 05953234 and touches his shoulder again, still wearing that same serious look from outside the small room – the ‘office' room, he called it. “You stick with Gladio here for a bit, okay? I won’t be going far, but I’m not allowed to be here.”

            That doesn't make sense.

            05953234’s commander is a commander – it seems untrue for him to say he's not allowed to be somewhere. Especially if the young human is allowed to be here.

            Unless the young human is an even higher rank… but no. He can't be. 05953234’s commander turns to him and points a finger, growling, “Don't push him. Kid doesn't get how to say no, so don't give him a reason to want to, got it?”

            “Yessir,” the young human returns with equal gravity, his eyes never leaving 05953234.

            That seems to close the conversation and the commanders – and their contingent of guards – walk swiftly to the far side of the room and disappear through another door. 05953234 takes half a motion to follow them before he remembers that his commander handed him off to the young human’s custody.

            As soon as the door closes behind the commanders, the young human audibly lets out a long breath – heavy and slow.

            “Six, kid, and here I thought my old man was over protective,” he huffs quietly – without moving his lips, 05953234 notices, so no cameras or hidden guards would be able to tell the young human had said anything at all.

            05953234 blinks, unsure of what the young human means by that and even more unsure of how to respond – or if he even should respond.

            The young human cuts off his indecision before it can compound. He shakes his head slightly and then transitions, “Well then, now that the old guys are gone, introductions: I'm Gladio. And I hear you're called ‘Prompto’?”

            05953234 focuses on memorizing the young human's designation and only gives a slight flinch at his nursery name. Unfortunately, the young human notices.

            “What? You don't like the name they picked out for you?”

            The young human's words are framed like questions, but – like so many of the questions 05953234 has been asked since receiving his new commander – he doesn't know how to answer. The words don't make sense in context of an MT Unit. MT Units don't have valid opinions – so they don’t have the kind of blanket permission humans do to overtly like or dislike anything.

            The young human – designation Gladio, he remembers – notes his failure to respond and frowns. This is a flinch 05953234 is much better at hiding – he's had a lot of practice suppressing his reaction to the disappointment of his commanders.

            “Something about the name bothers you, right?”

            It's a direct question with a clear cut yes or no answer, and the Gladio human very obviously expects an answer.

            Unwilling to defy the order requiring him to answer all direct questions – and to answer them truthfully – but also hesitant to expose that he is still so bothered by the usage of the nursery name he was supposed to have long ago forgotten, 05953234 gives a stilted nod.

            “Why does it bother you?”

            “It's not – it was not – allowed… before,” 05953234 says, struggling to explain it to a human – struggling to understand why a human who knows he's an MT wouldn't already know.

            “At your… at the place you came from… you weren’t allowed? Allowed to what?”

            “To have names,” 05953234 states, pleased he can answer this question more easily. “Or to respond to our nursery names after reaching Level Two.”

            “Nursery name? What's a nursery name?”

            “When MT Units are first hatched, they are given names like humans to make it easier for the human Nurses to care for them during their initial development stages as Level Zero MTs,” 05953234 explains. He’d been asked this once before, when his new commander had first asked for his designation and had pushed further until he revealed his nursery name.

            It had been hard for 05953234 to explain it then – even though he’d used almost the same explanation, word for word. The tightness in his chest and throat at the time had nearly made it impossible to speak at all, despite his fear of defying a direct order to answer the questions being put to him.

            It's easier – for some reason – to volunteer the information to the Gladio human of indeterminate rank than it is to answer the questions of the commanders. It hurts less, somehow… squeezes less on the painful twist trapped inside his chest.

            The Gladio human pauses for a long moment. His expression doesn’t change, and his posture doesn’t shift, but 05953234 still feels like his answer was apparently a disappointment.

            05953234 has just begun to feel anxiously self-conscious of his answer when the Gladio human moves on, asking, “What happened to your nursery name? What did they call you if you weren’t allowed to respond to that name anymore?”

            “MT Units receive their formal designations when they reach Level One and they are taught that names are for humans only,” 05953234 explains.

            “So, what is your formal designation?”

            Finally, a question 05953234 feels confident in his ability to answer. “I am an NH-01987 model Magitek Trooper, Batch 0006-0204, MT Unit 05953234, classification sniper.”

            The Gladio human blinks again, does that same sort of pause for just a beat too long thing that makes the limited confidence 05953234 had in his answer start to erode.

            “So, you're a sniper, eh? I should have guessed with those scrawny stick arms you’ve got there,” the Gladio human says in a non-sequitur that derails 05953234’s panic. “No real close combat or weight training, right?”

            “I was primarily proficient with rifleman training,” 05953234 agrees.

            He almost stops there, but he was ordered directly to answer all questions fully and honestly. And he’s pretty sure that this part of the conversation is the most important part – that this is the part that matters, that it’s the whole reason this conversation is taking place in this venue… it's an odd lead up to a combat evaluation, but 05953234’s new commander hasn’t yet formally assessed his combat abilities – an inevitable test that 05953234 has known was coming from the moment he received his new commander.

            So instead of simply agreeing with the Gladio, 05953234 adds, “But I was given a menial degree of training in other areas.”

            The Gladio nods.

            He doesn't say anything else – he just watches 05953234 until the anxious ache of being stared at and evaluated by unknown criteria makes the MT's muscles twitch with the urge to fidget. 05953234 fights to restrain the urge and thinks, somewhat bitterly, that he wishes the Gladio human would just get on with the Assessment.

            Something of his acrimonious thoughts must show on his face – he’s never been as good at keeping his expression as blank as his Instructors wanted – because the Gladio tips his head to the side and asks, “What’s goin’ though your head?”

            A bolt of terror straightens 05953234’s spine – he’s suddenly terrified that the Gladio human can read his thoughts directly and that’s the reasoning behind why he’s the human who has been tasked with 05953234’s Combat Assessment.

            “Whoa, easy now,” the Gladio human says carefully – his body suddenly tight with a loose semblance of the kind of fight readiness 05953234 recognizes from some of the few training sessions he’d witnessed with the Facility’s human soldiers. “Didn’t mean to spook ya.”

            05953234 blinks, confused.

            The Gladio’s hand are raised in a placating gesture, and his voice is soothing – a clear attempt to coax 05953234 out of the fight-ready posture he’d adopted on seeing the Gladio tense. He’d been certain in that second that the Assessment had begun and that Gladio had seen or heard enough of his thoughts to already be tallying the demerits.

            But now it seems the Assessment has not begun, and that his preparation to withstand an attack is… inappropriate. Probably not so inappropriate so as to be counted as an act of outright aggression against a human – seeing as he has not been physically disabled and none of his systems have been forcibly shut down – but it has definitely created a significant tension.

            “But… the Assessment,” 05953234 squeaks out before he manages to short out the function inside him that leads to his usual impulsive questioning of the humans whose authority to command him is absolute.

            “Assessment? What Assessment?”

            “The Combat Assessment,” 05953234 replies.

            “Who said you were getting a combat assessment?”

            “No one— No one said—” 05953234 stammers.

            Rescuing him from the flailed attempt of answering, Gladio asks gently – shockingly gently, “Then what made you think you were going to be combat assessed?”

            Helplessly, 05953234 glances around the training ground and struggles to articulate, “I have a—a new commander. A-and I haven’t been Assessed yet by my new commander’s personal criteria to determine if I’m a suitable unit for the commander’s intentions of MT usage…”

            05953234 trails off, feeling useless and ridiculous.

            Like he’s already failed the Assessment.

            “You think Cor, uh, Major Leonis, is your new commander, right?”

            05953234 nods.

            Humans have so many designations – so many names – for each other that delineate rank and role and intimacy level that 05953234 struggles to keep it all straight, but… he definitely knows ‘Cor’.

            That is the intimate personnel designation the humans use for his commander. And from the few times he’s heard the human guards say ‘Major Leonis’ he can assume that the term is the more formal designation for the same commander.

            He’s worked hard to remember this designation, because ‘Cor, Major Leonis’ is his new commander. It’s always one of the most basic tests for MTs to prove their compliance – they must accept their new commanders and respond immediately when questioned by anyone about their direct supervisors.

            “Well, Cor… Major Leonis doesn’t have any intentions regarding, uh, ‘usage’,” Gladio tells him, making 05953234’s stomach sink. “You’re not going to be assessed for that, okay?”

            “But I— but MT Units have to be Assessed before their new commander accepts the requisition, if units are not Assessed, the commanders won’t be able to determine their suitability,” 05953234 blurts, continuing, “and they won’t know if the unit should be sent back or decommissioned or—”

            “Slow down, kiddo,” Gladio says forcefully – firm enough to break through 05953234’s building spiral of panic, but also firmly enough to make 05953234 flinch again.

            05953234 looks down at his boots, mute with shame.

            “First, you’re not going to be sent back to where you came from, not ever,” Gladio informs him gruffly with some dark swirl of emotion in his voice that almost mitigates that searing burst of hope that springs up in 05953234 at the mere illusion of a world in which he wouldn’t be sent back to the Facility.

            “Secondly, you won’t be ‘decommissioned’ or whatever,” Gladio goes on, still with that dark vehemence roiling underneath a superficial calm – which is still only almost enough to quell the spike of bright hope 05953234 feels at the impossible idea of not having to worry about the possibility (or rather inevitable eventuality) of being decommissioned.

            “And thirdly, you don’t need to prove your suitability to stay here,” Gladio tells him, voice suddenly softening. “You’re a special case, but you’re a refugee now. You were a prisoner of war, but the King has granted amnesty. You’re being kept under guard for now, but we want to help you – to rehabilitate you, using my dad’s words.”

            None of that makes sense to 05953234.

            He doesn’t even understand the technical definitions of most of the words in those last few sentences, let alone how the nuanced minutia of them could apply to an MT Unit.

            Again, he glances around the training ground, feeling utterly lost and helpless, which sparks over his self-restraint functions and prompts him to impulsively ask, “Why— here, then?”

            It’s stuttered, strained, and hardly audible, but it’s still a direct questioning of the humans’ reasoning – an insubordinate act he has no right to get away with.

            Gladio frowns – and 05953234 knows the Correction is coming, probably coming with such force to account for all the other mistakes he’s made and has yet to be Corrected for…

            He closes his eyes and loosens his muscles – Corrections take many different forms, but they always cause less damage to a unit’s organic parts when the muscles are loose and soft.

            05953234 prepares for the Correction and nearly jumps away when Gladio’s voice suddenly booms brightly, “Oh, you mean why are we in a training room!”

            05953234’s expression pinches, confused.

            Gladio doesn’t seem to notice that transgression and explains, “The old guys thought it would make you feel a little more comfortable – you’ve been all cooped up in that cramped cell since you got here, and even though we can’t quite take you outside yet, they thought you might want to stretch your legs a little.”

            Perplexed, 05953234 repeats, “ ‘Stretch my legs’?”

            He looks down, wondering if his legs need to be longer for any particular reason and what that could possibly have to do with being ‘cooped up’… and he hasn’t any idea why Gladio called the place he’s been staying a ‘cramped cell’… It’s the nicest dorm 05953234 has ever been allowed to spend any amount of time inside.

            “Yeah, you know, get a little exercise, get a little blood pumping?”

            05953234 doesn’t know.

            He doesn’t know what any of that means.

            Gladio gives him a look that 05953234 can’t interpret.

            It makes something thorny twist tightly in the space between his lungs.

            “Let’s go for a little jog, then,” the human suggests, voice a little odd – like he’s forcing cheer into the sound, “See if that loosens anything up for you.”

            05953234 is still confused, but he understands that Gladio wants him to follow when the human turns towards the perimeter of the training ground, so follow he does. And he keeps following as Gladio drops into a slow run, smooth and steady.

            They lap the room once and then Gladio lengthens his stride into something more like a normal running gait and 05953234 slips into the familiar monotony. He relaxes into the muscle memory – feeling no small amount of relief that he no longer has to actively think about the proper response to make.

            05953234 understands exactly what’s expected of him here.

            He needs to follow Gladio, and keep pace, for as long as the human requires it.

            05953234 can do that.

            Out of all the most basic training drills the MT Units in his training squad had been expected to complete regularly, running had been the one he was most proficient at.

            05953234 can do this and he knows it.

            And knowing that feels good.

_______

Chapter Text

Step 03: Mediate

            The idea is brought to him at six in the morning on what was otherwise a typical Sunday – during what is usually his time as the pupil in the Citadel’s East Tower training rooms.

            Gladio knows that something’s up the moment he gets out of the locker room: Cor’s missing and none of the usual Crownsguard or Kingsglaive stand-ins are present to replace him like they typically are when Cor gets called away suddenly for a top-secret mission or such.

            He starts his warm-ups anyway.

            Gladio might still just be the Shield in Training, but he’s been doing this long enough to know how not to waste a self-study day.

            He’s just finished his warm-up routine when his father’s voice calls his name.

            Gladio jogs over to the door where the indomitable Clarus Amicitia is standing – making the trip with trepidation, but also with the wholly willing obedience expected of any servant of the Crown when called out by the Shield of the King.

            “We need to talk, son,” his dad says, his voice edged with a heavy tiredness Gladio has rarely heard from him.

            Gladio’s dad doesn’t need to specifically order him to follow when he turns away. Shield and Shield in Training travel swiftly through the Citadel to a private study with access restricted to the King and the closest associates of the Amicitia Family.

            Whatever his dad needs to talk to him about, it’s clearly highly classified.

            Gladio has one of the highest security clearances in Lucis, but there are still certain things he’s not privy too, and he’s suddenly very certain that he’s about to be read into one of those few operations that officially exist way above his pay grade.

            “Major Leonis has been part of a top-secret military operation for the last few months, pertaining directly to the field deployment he embarked on nine weeks ago,” Gladio’s dad states, getting directly to the heart of the matter at hand with minimal context. “His mission then was to infiltrate a Nif base and bring back as much information on Niflheim’s MT program as he could manage – not only did he bring data and documents, he acquired… a specimen.”

            Gladio could feel the hesitation in his father, an uncharacteristic bout of uncertainty.

            “Magitek Troopers are not entirely composed of machinery,” the Shield explained slowly, keeping his gaze trained on Gladio to trace what reaction he allowed to show on his face. “There are significant organic components to them… a daemon component and… a human component.”

            Still in training though he was, Gladio knew better than to either jump to conclusions or allow the horrors of those possible conclusions to change his impassive, attentive expression.

            Even so, his gut roiled with a visceral, wary confusion.

            “You are under oath not to repeat any of this, particularly to his Highness, or among the ranks of soldiers being sent out in the field to combat the Magitek battalions,” Gladio’s father states explicitly – cementing some of the dread in Gladio’s gut.

            When Gladio nods, his father sighs and allows himself to sink into the plush chair behind his desk. “MTs are apparently constructed of some amalgamation of machinery that has been magically fused with a human body, via what seems to be regular transfusions of daemon blood into human subjects – not all of whom, in fact, very few of whom, seem willing. And even if they were willing, none the we have seen thus far are even of an adequate consenting age.”

            Gladio’s father let him have a moment to be rocked by that – to feel the upwelling of horror and then the even fiercer reaction of rage, and to compose himself again in the aftermath of attempting to wrap his head around it all.

            Still with that heaviness in his voice – a growing heaviness, if Gladio’s honest, his dad continues, “Cor has acquired a young man who was part of the program, one of the unwillingly involved subjects. He seems possessed of an earnest disposition and may be inclined to defect, if we can make him understand what is happening. He speaks Lucian just fine, but there is a secondary issue with the possibility of his full defection being legally recognized. He is… troubled… His name is Prompto and we estimate his age to be approximately 11 years old.”

            Gladio blinks, attempting to digest all of that in any considerable way.

            Eleven years old. An unwilling soldier in Niflheim’s MT program. A kid… in a place where humans were injected with daemon blood and fused to machinery… none of it computes.

            “He’s been in Lucis for six weeks now,” Gladio’s dad tells him. “He’s been traumatized and is not entirely aware of his current circumstances – he seems willing to defect, and he clearly does not wish to return to the Empire, but he doesn’t show any understanding that he can defect… it’s been a trial convincing him he’s permitted to speak to us at all, let alone to speak freely or to interact with humans regarding any recognition that he is human, also.”

            Gladio couldn’t verbalize a response if his life depended on it, except perhaps a florid string of distraught cursing. His hands are white-knuckled fists at his sides and his spine is so straight his shoulders are beginning to ache from it.

            He can’t find a way to rationalize any part of it, to process any of it, let alone to ask why in Eos his dad thinks this is suddenly information he needs to know.

            “He won’t talk to us, Gladio,” his father says softly, “He can’t talk to us. We’re too much like his human commanders at the place where he came from for him to open up to us.”

            Us grown-ups, he means, Gladio realizes with an abrupt punch to his lungs.

            “You think he might talk to me?”

            “You’re close to his age, and you know enough about what it takes to be a soldier to understand him on some level, and you’ve been so good with little Iris,” his father agrees. “Cor and I can get him talking about his training regimen, and his orders, and his upbringing, but because he thinks we’re his commanders, that he’s still in a place as… restrictive as the facility where he was raised, we can’t get him to truly engage. We think you might have a better chance of connecting with him as a person.”

            The air slides out of Gladio’s lungs.

            He’s not quite sure he remembers how to pull more into them.

            “I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it, son,” Gladio’s father says – voice still soft and sympathetic. “This is not an order or a mission, it’s a request. Dealing with a PoW is hard enough, let alone a captive MT – especially knowing what we do about them now… and certainly Prompto is a troubling case, being so young. But I think you may be able to help, both the boy and the Crown.”

            “I’ll do it,” Gladio says, feeling detached from himself and uncertain of how he managed to say anything at all with so little oxygen in his tightly clenched lungs.

            “We’ll have security keeping close, but the idea is to socialize him with you as naturally as possible, in a setting he may find familiar and less restrictive than his cell,” Galdio’s father explains. “To rehabilitate him will take time, and meeting with you is just the first step. Prompto is still a significant security risk, so his movements cannot be planned much ahead of time. Cor has taken Prompto to visit a pediatric physician, and he has his own responsibilities to take care of this morning, but the afternoon is free. If we remove his Highness from the equation, we’ll be able to clear the East Tower training room and keep it clear and highly secured without anyone asking questions. Think you can cancel Prince Noctis’s training session today?”

            Gladio nods, a little surprised that the encounter would be happening so soon.

            His father pushes to his feet from his desk and places a hand on Gladio’s shoulder.

            “The folders on the desk contain reports on nearly all the information we currently have on Prompto,” he explained. “You don’t have to read all of it, but it may help you understand what you have to work with.”

            With that, Gladio’s father gives his shoulder a squeeze and then leaves him to his own devices to deal with the riot of his thoughts.

            It takes a moment to collect himself enough to make a plan.

            He texts Noct, canceling his training session with the prince – pleased for once with the fact that Noctis will be far too stoked with a day off to ask any questions about why.

            Then he texts Ignis, explaining that he’s got a Shield thing to take care of, so Noct isn’t lying when he says that Gladio has canceled training. It’s happened a few times before, if rarely.

            After that, Gladio forces his feet to carry him around to the chair his father vacated. He settles down heavily and reaches for the first folder – steeling himself for the worst.

            The reports are dry, clean cut and distant.

            There are achingly massive gaps in the information.

            And it’s all still so much worse than the worst Gladio could’ve possibly expected. Storage pods, feeding tubes, nutrient injections, daemon blood transfusions, and a brutal training regimen that seems more like it belongs in an archaic prison camp than a modern military…

            He has to take frequent breaks, getting up and pacing small circles in the office or even heading out into the fresh air of the Citadel terrace gardens, before getting back to the grit. It’s difficult even then to keep his temper contained, but it’s doable.

            By the time he’s finished he wants to break things. Many things.

            Imperial things.

            He can’t go bash in the Emperor’s skull, but he can go snag a few hours with a training dummy. He works off enough steam to be civil again in time to grab a shower and a few protein bars in lieu of the lunch he couldn’t possibly have kept down.

            Then he heads up to the training room where he usually works with Noct and starts working through the soothing movements of his training forms – killing time for the last half hour before the MT arrives.

            And then, at last, the door opens. Cor and his father and a contingent of Crownsguard parade in – between them, Gladio can hardly see the wisps of blond hair that indicate a Nif in their ranks. He stands as loose-limbed, relaxed and unthreatening, as he can manage and fixes his face into the courtly mask of a well-trained Shield.

            When they step aside, they reveal the scrawny, cowering child that is the integral nucleus of the daemonically enhanced super soldiers that Niflheim has used to strike fear into the hearts of hardened Lucian soldiers.

            “That’s the MT?”

            The words are out before he can think to contain them.

            His father doesn’t even give him an admonishing look.

            Instead he nods, and says, “Be gentle, Gladio. And careful. He's not like your usual training partners. I have doubled security, but even so...”

            “I get it, Pops,” he promises, reining himself back in and evaluating the kid in front of him with keen eyes and terrible understanding. The kid was a walking tragedy and two words wrong from an all-out panic attack – a breeze could topple him, and yet he could probably kill everyone in this room if they reacted to any change in his demeanor just a beat too slow.

            Gladio crosses his arms and says, “Contrary to royal opinion, I know how to go easy on a guy. And I know better than to turn my back, just in case.”

            His dad knows he’s capable and trusts his skills.

            With obvious relief and genuine gratitude as both Shield and father, Clarus Amicitia says, “I know this was an unusual request, and you didn't have much time to prepare, so thank you for being willing to accommodate this, son.”

            Reassuringly, Gladio replies, “Anything to protect the King and Crown, right? This kid is important to national security and our job as Shield is to serve those interests in every way.”

            He’s also a kid, a refugee, and one hell of a basket case that needs gentle handling.

            Lucis needs the moral high ground in this war – and admittedly, they need it not least because of how they don’t hold any other kind of high ground in the struggle. Without the Crystal… Lucis wouldn’t be a kingdom at all by now. Being browbeaten by repeated losses makes maintaining morale and motivation difficult – but if they can help this kid, if they can prove that Lucis needs to stand strong for the sake of all people, not just her own… They’ll give a kid his life back and simultaneously do a lot to sway the full support of the people.

            And the support of the people bolsters the King’s abilities, strengthens the Wall, boosts the power of the Kingsglaive…

            Helping this kid is important because he’s just a damned kid, for Astrals’ sake.

            But helping this kid is also important because it could help all of Lucis.

            His father understands. Had hoped he would draw the right conclusions… And is visibly, if subtly, proud that Gladio has managed the feat.

            Gladio’s dad nods, then turns his attention to Cor, saying, “Come on, you can't put this off forever. We've secured and cleared the room for now, but it will be needed soon enough.”

            “Fine,” Cor grumbles, sounding more petulant than Gladio ever imagined the Immortal could. He turns to his terrified charge and says, “You stick with Gladio here for a bit, okay? I won't be going far, but I'm not allowed to be here.”

            The assurance doesn’t seem to soothe the kid, but at least his confusion isn’t entirely composed of fear. The kid’s confusion only deepens when Cor wheels on Gladio.

            “Don't push him,” Cor warns with no small threat behind the words. “Kid doesn't get how to say no, so don't give him a reason to want to, got it?”

            Understanding Cor’s vehemence, picturing Iris in care of someone he didn’t trust to be careful with her, Gladio returns with grave promise, “Yessir.”

            It soothes Cor’s fears enough to let him follow Gladio’s dad outta there.

            As soon as the door closes, Gladio huffs, “Six, kid, and here I thought my pops was over protective.” It’s an attempt to be conspiratorial, to joke around and build camaraderie – to see if there’s any part of this kid that remembers how to be a kid.

            From the blank look Gladio gets for his effort… Gladio thinks it’s tragically unlikely.

            The blank look devolves slowly into a building indecision, creeping towards panic.

            Gladio bites down so hard it tips his whole head towards his shoulder in the effort it takes not to show his raging emotions. If Iris ever looked at him like that… Gladio wouldn’t rest until he could hunt down whoever was responsible for it and kill them with his bare hands.

            Forcing a measure of levity into his voice, Gladio transitions abruptly, “Well then, now that the old guys are gone, introductions: I'm Gladio. And I hear you're called 'Prompto'?”

            The kid flinches.

            Flinches.

            At nothing more than Gladio’s use of his name.

            But maybe ‘Prompto’ is not his name… maybe it’s just a random name Cor picked out of a hat for him… the files said that MTs were given numbers… numerical designations by which they would know they were being referred to by the human commanders.

            Maybe Cor and Gladio’s dad and whoever else is involved decided that they couldn’t call him by a number and just picked a random Nif name to use for him.

            Cautious, but still attempting to use the joking tone of teenagers, Gladio asks, “What? You don't like the name they picked out for you?”

            The kid flinches again, and then goes totally blank in a way that makes Gladio’s stomach sink – filled to brimming with a sickened feeling he hopes there isn’t a real word to describe.

            Gladio can’t stop the tug of a frown from shifting his expression.

            The kid notices the change and sways back slightly, face still blank but with a tinge of outright terror leaking through the mask. His chest isn’t moving with regular breaths, but is caught in a staccato cycle of suppressed pants that Gladio’s frankly surprised hasn’t got him hyperventilating already…

            Deeply concerned, and feeling like he's screwed up for getting nothing but silence from the kid, Gladio, pushes, “Something about the name bothers you, right?”

            It’s a clear cut question with a direct and simple answer – yes or no.

            It should be something the kid has a response for, should be an easy response for him and hopefully one he’s willing to give.

            There’s a moment of baited breath and tight unease, but eventually, the kid gives a stilted nod to answer Gladio’s question.

            Softening as much as he can, Gladio probes, “Why does it bother you?”

            He has to wait again, but he can see the whir of frantic thoughts behind the kid’s wide-open eyes – as bright and blue and open as the Six damned sky. He wants to answer, but is struggling to find the words for what he wants to say… possibly even struggling against the apparent conditioning he has to remain silent.

            “It's not – it was not – allowed... before,” he manages.

            No terribly elucidating.

            But Gladio works with what he’s got. Gingerly, he asks for clarification, “At your... at the place you came from... you weren't allowed? Allowed to what?”

            “To have names,” he says, slightly more at ease despite the sentence being one of the most traumatic things Gladio has ever heard a child speak.

            He has a feeling that it won’t hold the position at the top of the list very long if this conversation continues, and he braces himself for things to get worse by carefully noting that, for the kid at least, things have gotten slightly better. His breathing has evened out, even if it still looks a bit too quick for comfort.

            The kid even gives a bit more elaboration on his statement without Gladio having to ask for it directly, “Or to respond to our nursery names after reaching Level Two.”

            “Nursery name? What's a nursery name?”

            Without any hesitation or preamble, the kid says, “When MT Units are first hatched, they are given names like humans to make it easier for the human Nurses to care for them during their initial development stages as Level Zero MTs.”

            Yep.

            New thing to top the list of most awful things Gladio’s ever heard a kid say.

            Hatched.

            Sweet Six this is gonna screw with Gladio’s ability to eat ever again.

            Cup Noodles it is. For the rest of his Astrals’ cursed life.

            On the relative, but still pretty awful, upside: the kid looks much more at ease with giving over the information. His breathing is deep and even. He’s still pasty as all get out, but he no longer looks like his face hasn’t got a single drop of blood in it.

            Gladio can’t force himself to speak immediately.

            Which he soon regrets as the kid’s relative ease begins to ebb away after about five seconds too long of quiet.

            In a rush to keep talking, to keep the conversation moving with anything at all, Gladio latches onto what he hopes is the least horrific piece of information in the kid’s previous statement and asks, “What happened to your nursery name? What did they call you if you weren't allowed to respond to that name anymore?”

            He doesn’t mean to add the second question. But it’s out before he can stop it.

            The kid’s sense of almost-relaxed acceptance of the situation returns immediately, and he answers without stumbling, “MT Units receive their formal designations when they reach Level One and they are taught that names are for humans only.”

            He doesn’t want to know. He really doesn’t.

            But Gladio’s mouth runs away on him and asks without his consent, “So, what is your formal designation?”

            A heart destroying blip of a smile appears on the kids face and a genuine confidence fills his voice while he answers, “I am an NH-01987 model Magitek Trooper, Batch 0006-0204, MT Unit 05953234, classification sniper.”

            Gladio blinks – feeling slightly more than bearably sick.

            But he notes the kid’s eyes starting to dim with the fear of having so confidently given the wrong answer, and he jumps the conversation to what he prays is a better topic. “So, you're a sniper, eh? I should have guessed with those scrawny stick arms you've got there – no real close combat or weight training, right?”

            “I was primarily proficient with rifleman training,” the kid agrees. He hesitates a beat, but then willingly adds, “But I was given a menial degree of training in other areas.”

            Gladio nods, trying to figure out where to go from there.

            He needs to think of something quickly – the kid’s already getting twitchy with the silence… though, this time it looks like he’s thinking about something specific – eyes darting around the training room with a peculiar focus.

            Cautiously, Gladio tips his head to the side – ducking down just an inch to make his figure seem just that little bit less threatening – and asks, “What’s goin’ through your head?”

            Apparently, it was not less-threatening enough.

            And apparently, it was exactly the wrong thing to ask.

            The kid cuts straight to utter panic – hands twitching into fists and muscles moving into a clear combat readiness. It all looks self-defensive, like he’s expecting to be charged by a war-trained dualhorn or something, but Gladio can’t afford to be taken by surprise and readies himself for the potential of a fight. He uncrosses his arms and shifts his weight, but makes sure to broadcast a loose posture – both to soothe the kid and to placate the Crownsguard surely reaching for their weapons wherever they’re hiding.

            “Whoa, easy now,” Gladio says carefully – gently and soft, like he’s talking down a spooked police dog. This kid is tragically similar to a panicked pup – they’re both something that’s dangerous and knows it can fight, but is too scared to realize it doesn’t need to fight.

            Gladio can tell his words reach the kid’s brain because confusion filters into his face.

            “Didn’t mean to spook ya,” Gladio promises.

            The kid blinks, thoroughly confused to the point of derailing whatever thought process was driving him to prep for self-defense.

            Gladio raises his hands in a placating, reassuring gesture. He keeps the rest of him tensed and ready for anything, but he keeps his front loose and soft and hopefully calming.

            The kid blinks again at the gesture.

            “But... the Assessment,” he says, back to struggling with words – barely getting enough out to give Gladio anything to work with in terms of getting more.

            “Assessment? What Assessment?”

            “The Combat Assessment,” the kid says, explaining absolutely nothing and looking like he’d been hoping that Gladio knew what was supposed to be happening regarding the purported combat assessment he’s apparently convinced is about to happen.

            “Who said you were getting a combat assessment?”

            The kid goes unearthly still. Then he stammers, “No one— No one said—”

            Saving him from clipping his tongue clean off while he struggles, Gladio interrupts and asks gently, “Then what made you think you were going to be combat assessed?”

            Looking pitifully helpless, the kid lets his eyes roam the training ground again, as he struggles to find the right words… fighting to explain, “I have a—a new commander. A-and I haven't been Assessed yet by my new commander's personal criteria to determine if I'm a suitable unit for the commander's intentions of MT usage...”

            He trails off like the ability to articulate words has utterly failed him.

            Not at all dissimilar to how Gladio himself feels.

            The kid probably means it generally – which is an awful enough variety of abhorrent, abusive exploitation – but Gladio can’t help but link the word to a more sinister connotation…

            Gladio claws his way to calm to help the kid out as best he can while still reeling from the explanation, “You think Cor, uh, Major Leonis, is your new commander, right?”

            Another yes or no question, and the kid relaxes slightly – enough to nod.

            Still unsteady himself, Gladio promises, “Well, Cor... Major Leonis doesn't have any intentions regarding… your— erm any MT’s, uh… 'usage'…” He feels sick just saying it.

            Gladio shakes himself and focuses on the kid standing stiffly and anxiously in front of him to add, “You're not going to be assessed for… that, okay?”

            “But I— but MT Units have to be Assessed before their new commander accepts the requisition, if units are not Assessed, the commanders won't be able to determine their suitability,” the kid blurts – still clearly uncertain and on the edge of panic, as he continues, “and they won't know if the unit should be sent back or decommissioned or—”  

            “Slow down, kiddo,” Gladio barks – forcefully enough to make the kid jump.

            He flinches again. Looks down at his boots in what is far too clearly shame.

            “First, you're not going to be sent back to where you came from, not ever,” Gladio informs him immediately, voice still rough from attempting to force down the fury he felt at the idea the kid could be so convinced they’d ever even think to send him back there…

            He’s not sure he’s authorized to make that kind of promise, but at the same time, if his words aren’t already true damnit… Gladio doesn’t know… can’t think about what he might do…

            A terrifying kind of desperate hope and disbelief floods the kid’s expression.

            “Secondly, you won't be 'decommissioned' or whatever,” Gladio explains, still fighting down that burning rage. The hope and disbelief shine exponentially brighter in the kid.

            “And thirdly, you don't need to prove your suitability to stay here,” Gladio tells him firmly, voice finally achieving the soft calm and sense of reassurance he’d been aiming for from the start, “You're a special case, but you're a refugee now. You were a prisoner of war, but the King has granted amnesty. You're being kept under guard for now, but we want to help you – to rehabilitate you, using my dad's words.”

            None of that computes to the kid.

            At all.

            It’s like Gladio suddenly started speaking in Old Altissian or something and the kid’s never even heard of the language – let alone the idea that he could learn to speak it.

            Again, the kid glances around them, eyes scanning the training hall with a dismayed sense of imminent betrayal hanging on his shoulders. “Why— here, then?”

            That squeak is all he manages before words fail him again.

            Before his lungs shut down again.

            Before his shoulders slump and his gaze falls to the dirt.

            Gladio frowns – trying desperately to understand, though his thoughts feel thick and sluggish and don’t like any of the ideas they chance upon.

            Lightning strikes eventually, though.

            “Oh, you mean why are we in a training room!”

            The kid flinches again at the volume of his audible realization.

            “The old guys thought it would make you feel a little more comfortable – you've been all cooped up in that cramped cell since you got here, and even though we can't quite take you outside yet, they thought you might want to stretch your legs a little,” Gladio explains.

            Clearly, the old guys were wrong.

            They were probably hoping for nothing more than some room to breathe and a little more space – thinking any change of scenery might be beneficial after forcing the kid to spend so much time in a cell with only visits to a doctor’s office and maybe an official’s office or two.

            Utterly perplexed by the idiom, the kid repeats, “ ‘Stretch my legs’?”

            Attempting to explain something he picked up by osmosis, Gladio says, “Yeah, you know, get a little exercise, get a little blood pumping?”

            The kid doesn’t get it.

            Nothing about the idea computes properly with whatever information he’s got all swirled up in his tragically rewired brain.

            He’s got a wellspring of nervous energy jolting though his muscles.

            Exercise would definitely do the kid a world of good.

            If Gladio suggests they do something, the kid won’t say no to it – doesn’t have the capacity yet to recognize that he could say no… and if Gladio makes the kid do something he doesn’t seem to like, Cor is going to make him pay for it… in every training session between now and the day Cor dies… or, more likely, the day Cor kills Gladio…

            But Gladio knows how to watch a kid for tells, to know when he’s pushing enough to motivate and to know when the push might start to tip too far.

            He’s worked with Iggy and Noct and Iris, and he’s even done a few of those Crownsguard summer camp specials – and even a few those take-your-child-to-work days for the kids of government officials and whatnot – showing off what the Guard really does all day to kiddies.

            He knows how to train kids.

            And he knows how to train with soldiers.

            He’s watched the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive help their own – especially the ones who return from the front with pieces of their shell-shocked selves still out there in the wastes.

            This kid is both.

            And Gladio knows that a little exercise will help him.

            Forcing a cheer he doesn’t feel into the words, Gladio suggests, “Let's go for a little jog, then, see if that loosens anything up for you.”

            The kid nods immediately – relaxing with the ease of agreement that Gladio’s coming to recognize as his response to having clear questions to answer and orders to follow. It’s not great to be exploiting that to get him to relax, but Gladio’s pretty sure he can only handle one thing at a time when it comes to trying to connect with this unfortunate kid.

            It's probably all that either of them could take.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 04: Re-Mediate

            Gladio needs to get this kid to loosen up.

            Any kind of exercise would probably help, but Gladio knows that there’s nothing quite as mind-numbing or soul-soothing in any kind of exertion like a flat out run.

            Running, when done properly, is a Six-damned cathartic experience.

            He won’t be able to do quite that much with the kid just yet, but he can probably get a reasonable rhythm going that might let him loosen up enough to breathe.

            After the kid nods assent – skewed consent though it might’ve been – Gladio takes a step towards the wall, and then another, then three more in a closer set as he watches the kid carefully for any hint of reluctance to follow him. Nothing worrisome shows on the kid’s face, even as they reach the wall and Gladio drops into a slow, tight-stepped trot.

            The kid matches his stride perfectly, albeit keeping a half step behind his shoulder – seeming only the slightest bit unwilling to run as a partnered pair with Gladio. Running with partners is a long established training technique, something beneficial to any type of jogger, so it’s probably not unfamiliar to the kid – even if he is from Niflheim. The unwilling part seems to be tied to his assessment of Gladio as human – not a commander or he’d be several strides back, but still someone he shouldn’t be shoulder to shoulder with…

            In some ways, it validates the idea Gladio’s dad had of how to get the kid to interact more naturally with people. He’s still hugely awkward and he definitely doesn’t think of himself as human or worthy of running even with Gladio – but he’s definitely more relaxed with Gladio then he’d be with Cor running laps beside him.

            Gladio knows that much without a drop of doubt.

            The kid still isn’t quite relaxed per say… but he’s also not nearly that tight ball of angst and terror that he was when Cor first left him in Gladio’s care.

            They lap the room once; easy, calm, and smooth.

            The kid’s a born runner, Gladio’s willing to bet on it – and with Nilfheim’s no doubt brutal exploitation of any semblance of natural skill… he’s probably fast and strong and steady enough to more than challenge anyone in the Crownsguard.

            Gladio lengthens his stride into something more like a real run.

            The kid keeps pace beside him easily.

            He even gets closer to running dead level with Gladio’s shoulder – Gladio can see him in his periphery even when looking straight ahead, and if he turns just the slightest bit, he would be able to focus on him directly. Gladio doesn’t turn to look though – sure that if he did, the kid would notice he’d drawn even and immediately fall back.

            Instead, Gladio keeps his eyes facing front and watches the kid via careful side-eyed glances for any sign that he was tiring or feeling any hint of discomfort.

            Five laps in and nothing.

            If anything, he’s gotten even more relaxed.

            Kid has endurance for frickin days.

            He’s so calm and comfortable that Gladio dares opening his mouth again, making another attempt at forging a human connection.

            But how to connect to someone who could say things like they'd 'hatched' and they weren't allowed to have names?

            It's not like Gladio can possibly ask if he likes running… though he clearly does, it’s probably that he only likes it because it’s the thing he was the best at while consumed by the brutal training regime of Niflheim. Out of all the military drills Gladio can imagine, he can’t think of one the kid could possibly be better at… well, the kid said he was a sniper…

            Gladio hasn’t seen him shoot – likely won’t ever see it – but he’s heard the Glaives and Crownsguard joking around about the poor caliber of MT ranged fighters, so the standards the rifleman were held to may have been easier for the poor trainees to meet than those of the other specialties… but the kid isn’t just a standard rifleman, he said that he’s classified as a sniper.

            So maybe he is good.

            Either way, it’s not a safe topic of conversation to branch out on…

            And Gladio can’t even ask a basic question, like if he has a favorite food or anything…

            The files he’d read were not exactly clear on what the MT diet consisted of, but they’d been very clear on the point that, however they were being kept alive, it was utterly inhumane.

            But he has to ask something…

            He wants to… wants to do this right, get the kid to open up…

            So, narrowing the topics to things that are probably not-horrific… “You’ve been here about a month or two, now, haven’t you?”

            “Yes,” the kid replies easily – not even breathing the slightest bit heavy. And better yet, he adds without prompt, “I have been with my new commander for six weeks, four weeks of which have been spent in this compound.”

            “And you like it here?”

            The kid flinched slightly, not enough to make his stride stutter, but enough for Gladio to realize his mistake. He makes a mental note to put in his report that opinions are problematic: his questions about liking things – liking his name, liking Lucis – have consistently made the kid give that particular pinching hesitation.

            Maybe liking things wasn’t allowed for him in Niflheim. Like names weren’t allowed.

            It’s a bitter thought, sarcastic – Gladio is suddenly terrified that it might be true.

            Quickly rephrasing it into the first question he can think of that resembles the initial query, Gladio asks, “I mean, is Cor treating you well?”

            “Yes,” the kid says, with only the barest trammel of hesitation trying to squash his voice back down into his lungs. “Commander Cor is a good commander who is very involved with my welfare and upkeep, more so than most commanders.”

            There’s a distinct warmth in the kids voice when he’s talking about Cor.

            He backpedals abruptly to add fearfully, “But he is not overly involved, as would be unbefitting of his station! Commander Cor is… duly diligent in maintaining his equipment.”

            Gladio nods. Uncertain of how to respond.

            It sounds to him like the kid is trying to protect Cor… like he’s making excuses for why Cor was being nice to him… as if he’s worried that Gladio would possibly be reporting on Cor to someone higher up for being too nice to an MT.

            Plausible. But… it’s a thing that’s best not to be addressed directly just yet.

            Instead of falling down that rabbit hole, Gladio pushes the conversation onward and gingerly asks, “And the room you’ve got is… suitable?”

            Gladio winces at his phrasing, but he couldn’t figure out how else to construe a sentence that almost asked for an opinion without explicitly asking the kid to voice a distinct preference.

            “Yes,” the kid gave again, this time with no hesitation whatsoever… and a sort of almost pleasure in the tone. It took an entire three strides before his thoughts caught on something and he stuttered a stride slightly as he rushed to explain, “I did report that, as per general regulations, Level Two MTs are not rated for dorm access permissions, particularly not such nice and spacious dorms, but Commander Cor explained that this compound is not outfitted for large scale MT storage and that all residents are housed in dorm conditions at minimum.”

            The kid seems nervous about his answer, like he’s not entirely convinced Cor is right to keep him in such a ‘nice and spacious’ place as the dismal little cell Galdio knows he’s been stashed inside for nearly the last month.

            “Cor is right,” Gladio agrees. He uses the kid’s own awkward phrasing to confirm, “This… compound is not outfitted for MT storage.”

            His statement seems to relax the kid.

            Which is an entirely separate basket of wet cats for Gladio to poke at, one he won’t be investigating on any level until tomorrow morning, at least.

            Instead he asks a dangerous question – but one that’s undoubtedly of vital importance to both the potential of the kid’s future, and to the continued security of Lucis as a whole.

            “Do you know what this compound is?”

            “Yes. This compound is designated as ‘the Citadel’, location: Insomnia, Kingdom of Lucis,” the kid reports dutifully – again with that calm confidence of having a solid, definitive answer perfectly ready to supply.

            It makes Gladio want to hesitate, but he knows that if he pauses, he’s going to lose the advantage of having the kid be confident before he asks that hard questions – if Gladio waits more than a moment, the kid’s confidence in his previous answer will utterly evaporate.

            “Do you understand that being here means you are no longer under the control or jurisdiction of the Niflheim Empire?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you understand that the Kingdom of Lucis is the Niflheim Empire’s enemy?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you serve the Empire?”

            Hesitation.

            “All MT Units serve the Empire, it is the purpose for which they are created,” the kid recites mechanically. “However, MT Units do not have the capacity for independent actions of servitude and are given unto a designated commander to utilize their functions for the Empire. Any given MT Unit is to obey their designated commander, without question – commanders are authorized to utilize MTs in any way they see fit to serving the Empire. It is the commander’s job to serve, and it is the MT’s exigent purpose to obey.”

            That seems to be the closest the kid can come to saying that he does not serve the Empire and that he has no interest in serving that horrific old psychopath on the Nif throne.

            Gladio knows he might be reading too much into it.

            Knows he should be wary of the fact that, technically, the kid’s statement says that he does serve the Empire, if only tangentially through his commanders.

            Knows his duty as Shield in Training well enough to force himself to ask, “If a high ranking, well known Nif commander appeared, would your loyalty shift to them?”

            “MT Units are not ‘loyal’,” the kid responds, perplexed. “MT Units are obedient to their commanders – their direct superior has absolute authority.”

            “So, if Ravus Nox Flueret appeared and ordered you to shoot Cor, would you do it?”

            “MT Units cannot harm their direct superior, even at the behest of another commander – even one of higher rank,” the kid protests, not quite stuttering, but definitely quite alarmed at the idea Gladio thought Ravus might show up and order him to kill Cor.

            Gladio can’t tell which part of the scenario the kid is most perturbed by, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time to unpack the possibilities in a logic methodology of assessment.

            Steeling himself against the feeling of being an utter asshole, Gladio asks, “What if instead of Ravus, it was Chancellor Ardyn Izunia?”

            “MT Units cannot harm their direct superior, even at the behest of another commander – even one of higher rank,” the kid repeats, a definite quaver in his voice.

            “What about Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt, himself?”

            “MT Units cannot harm their direct superior, even at the behest of another commander – even one of higher rank,” the kid repeats, yet again – this time sounding rather strangled.

            “What if any one of those high ranking Nifs showed up and, instead of ordering you to shoot Cor, they ordered you to shoot me?”

            “I-I,” the kid struggles, sounding distinctly choked up in a way that makes Gladio bite down hard on his cheek to keep from looking over at him. If Gladio looks, he’s uncomfortably certain that he’ll be able to see tears, and if he does… he might not be able to keep pushing the line of questions he knows is vital to the safety and security of both the kid and of Lucis.

            A half-cough and a rough swallow from the kid nearly break Gladio’s resolve, but he manages to keep his feet moving forward and to keep his mouth shut while the kid collects himself enough to try speaking again.

            “I have a standing order not to harm any humans in this compound,” the kid says.

            “A standing order? From who, Cor?”

            “Yes.”

            The kid’s dropped back to monosyllabic answers, and he’s fallen back to a full stride behind Gladio. It’s not great, but he’s still talking – and the answers are coming from him much more easily than they had seemed to from the records of his more formal interrogations. Gladio hasn’t lost all the ground he’d gained, but he’s lost a lot – and he still had at least one more line of pressing questions he had to push before he could fall back on just talking to the kid…

            “And you can’t disobey that order?”

            “No.”

            “Not in any circumstance?”

            “No.”

            “So, you can’t hurt anyone inside the Citadel?”

            “Yes.”

            “Even in self-defense? Even if someone here attacks you first?”

            That startles the kid enough to make his stride stutter again – he falls back another step behind Gladio’s shoulder, until it’s a strain for Gladio to watch him without turning his head.

            “Commander Cor wants to keep this MT Unit whole and fully functional, and any human or MT who harms me will have to answer to him,” the kid recites in a quiet, unsure squeak – his words mechanical like he’s repeating word for word something Cor told him.

            “I’m not going to hurt you, kiddo,” Gladio promises thickly. “I just want to know if you might hurt someone here if they attack you first. It would cause some trouble if you did, but I wouldn’t blame you for it. Self-defense is a reasonable response to being threatened.”

            “MT Units are expendable, MT Units are not to engage in self-defense,” the kid replies pitifully, but with a less distinct edge of immediate terror cutting through his voice. “MT Units are not allowed to engage in any form of combat that is not explicitly authorized by their commander, for any reason.”

            Gladio breathes out slowly. Calmly. In control.

            He doesn’t have to ask the next question on his mind, he’s gotten enough to feel like he’s done something valuable with his time.

            But he is a Shield in Training.

            And he has a responsibility to protect Lucis, to protect the King and the Prince.

            Which means there’s one more thread he should follow before he lets the active questioning phase of this conversation close.

            “Niflheim is the enemy of Lucis,” he starts cautiously. “Which means that Niflheim would benefit from the death of the Lucian King or that of the Lucian Prince. Do you know who the Lucian King or the Lucian Prince are?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you know them on sight? Would you know them if you saw them, dressed in civilian plain clothes and no one told you their names?”

            “…No. Sir,” the kid wheezes, clearly terrified that his answer is wrong enough to be deserving of a reprimand. There’s a choking hesitation before he blurts a strangled excuse, saying, “Level Two MTs are not briefed on the War or their future Missions with visual aids.”

            “But killing the Lucian royals is one of your future missions?”

            “Potential future missions,” the kid corrects. “Missions are assigned by Commanders.”

            “But killing the Lucian royals is an underlying goal of yours?” Gladio asks, growing more nervous with trepidation. That gritty anxiety translates into a low growl rumbling in his voice as he continues, “A goal that predates and supersedes later orders, like those given by Cor?”

            “M-MT Units have no goals,” the kid manages. “MT Units obey their commanders, who have a variety of strategic and tactical goals they are not obligated, or expected, to explain.”

            Not exactly a clear answer, but it still eases some of the thorny tension in Gladio’s chest that had been writhing tight around his lungs from the moment the kid admitted to being an enemy of the Lucian royals.

            Gladio’s voice is a bit softer, but still noticeably gruff as he asked the first part of one final line of questioning to push the hard edge of the issue, “If you were told who the Lucian King is, and you identified him, would you attack him?”

            “I have a standing order not to harm any humans in this compound,” the kid says, repeating himself from earlier but now sounding distraught and utterly miserable.

            “What if you saw him while outside of the Citadel so the action would not conflict with your standing order from Cor?”

            Despondent and confused, the kid’s response is so quiet Gladio can barely hear it, “MT Units are not allowed to engage in any form of combat that is not explicitly authorized by their commander, for any reason.”

            That eases another significant measure of the tension in Gladio’s chest – a perplexing reaction, considering that it’s not the most confident or resounding assertion that the kid means to do no harm to the royalty of the Lucian Kingdom.

            Like an afterthought in wake of Gladio’s silence, and filled to bursting with worried hesitation, the kid adds in a tight squeak, “And MT Units are not capable of taking independent action, even in regards to serving the Empire.”

            The kid seems to have correctly identified that Gladio does not want him to be capable of harming the Lucian royals and this seems to be an attempt to assure him of it – a weak, confusing, and unfortunately flimsy attempt, but it still somehow works.

            “I’m not trying to scare you,” Gladio promises, letting his genuine remorse for having made the poor kid panic ring clearly though his tone. “I want to make sure that you can stay here in Lucis, but to do that we need to make sure that you won’t be a danger to us.”

            The kid doesn’t respond to that.

            Gladio doesn’t think the kid knows any way he can respond to that.

            They’ll work on that.

            In the future.

            Gladio is certain that this is not the last time he’ll be working with the kid. He doesn’t know when the next time will be, but there’s no way the circle of people read into the kid’s case is nearly large enough to have someone else stuck with him for whatever weird socialization / interrogation practice they intended Gladio to manage here.

            For now the Shield in Training wants to turn his attention back to getting the kid to trust him again – or at least to feel as easy with him as he had at the start of their jog.

            The only problem is that he doesn’t have any idea what to say to prompt that.

            He sighs heavily – which seems to startle the kid – and says, “I want to help you, kiddo, and I’m glad it looks like I’ll be able to have the chance to do it.”

            There’s a long moment of silence, punctuated only by the regular huffs of breath as they continue to run – still only a mild exertion, but enough to make them breath a bit heavy when threaded through with such emotional strain.

            “So…S-so I—um, I passed?”

            It takes Gladio a moment to understand.

            He’d told the kid he wouldn’t be combat assessed for any kind of utilization purposes, and he’d thought he’d convinced the kid of it… but apparently he still thought that there was a non-combat assessment due to take place. Apparently, he thought Gladio’s questions were a replacement for the physical assessment Gladio told him would not happen.

            The kid thought this was all a test.

            And honestly, the obvious truth of it is that the questions were a test.

            A test that the kid could very plausibly have failed.

            “Yeah, kiddo,” Gladio promises gruffly, “You passed.”

            The kid shudders with a visible ripple of relief.

            The quiet returns, but this time it’s easier – calmer and more relaxed, fully integrated into the simple actions of their continuing run.

            It lingers as Gladio ponders what to say to get the kid to open up more.

            Thinking of something to say proves far more difficult than Gladio thought it would and honestly the silence seems to be doing decently enough on its own to relax the kid.

            Gladio hasn’t found anything to say, and he’s just about to give in and settle into the silence, when the situation changes abruptly: a Glaive bursts in, slamming the door behind him, and rushes over to Gladio and the kid – who’ve both gone still in wary shock.

            “The Prince is incoming,” the Glaive explains to Gladio, gaze falling on the kid, “I can take the MT to Major Leonis, you are the one His Highness is looking for.”

            Gladio nods, barely able to focus enough to do more than realize he vaguely recognizes the Glaive as one of his father’s most trusted. He puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder and pushes it gently in the Glaive’s direction, saying, “He’s all yours. I’ll stall His Highness.”

            The kid seems to recognize the transfer of authority and allows the Glaive to pick him up and carry him out a small side door without hesitation as Gladio turns his thought towards how on Eos he’s going to distract Noctis from the alluring mystique of the situation.

            Noct is a sucker for a mystery and it’s going to be tricky to dissuade him from poking into the circumstances now that he’s already taken enough of an interest to investigate at all.

            And that’s not even counting Ignis…

            The Adviser to be is another problem to tackle and Gladio doesn’t have the foggiest idea of how to handle him. They’ve only been working together to manage the Prince’s training for about four years now, and they’ve only spent half of that directly discussing how to handle their charge with any amount of mutual respect stretching between them.

            Even so… Gladio and Ignis aren’t… friends, exactly. Not quite. Not yet.

            They could be, and Gladio knows his dad expects them to become quite close in the course of their service to Prince Noctis, but right now… they’re still just colleagues – moderately companionable colleagues, to be sure, but still just colleagues.

            Which means Ignis owes Gladio zip and Gladio knows the Advisor to be has exactly zero qualms about the potential invasions of privacy that he might commit in course of serving the Lucian Heir’s interest… something Gladio is distinctly wary of when he sees the young man in question push into the room at the Prince’s shoulder.

            Noctis has his gaze fixed on Gladio, but Ignis scans the room and – to judge by the slight squint Gladio sees on his face – he catches sight of a mop of blond hair disappearing out the door with a frantic Glaive escorting him away.

            It couldn’t have been more than a slight glimpse, but it’s definitely enough to be considered dangerous in the hands of someone as capable as Ignis Scientia.

            I do not appreciate being lied to, Gladiolus, Ignis had said way back when they’d first started to truly coordinate their efforts in wrangling the Prince, especially regarding matters of the Prince and particularly by those who are meant to protect his interests.

            Gladio can't even remember what he’d fibbed about at this point – but that wasn’t the important part of the memory. The important part was the absolute ice inside the tone Ignis used, the important part was in the honed edge of steel in his gaze.

            The same gaze that now turns itself onto Gladio, full-force.

            Gladio plants his hands on his hips, plasters a shit-eating grin on his face, and prepares to bullshit his highness into giving up the chase – fully aware that he would be answering to Ignis for it all at some point in the near future.

            For now, though, Prince Noctis is his only problem.

            And he, at least, is one the Shield in Training can growl his way out of…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Chapter Text

Step 05: Investigate

            It is not unheard of for Noct’s Shield in Training to cancel a session with him for matters of State that concern his unique position in the hierarchy, both as a trusted member of the Amicitia household and as Noct’s future protector.

            It is, however, unusual.

            Particularly for him to cancel on a Sunday, and it is rather more particularly unusual for even Ignis to be caught by surprise by the sudden gap in Noct’s schedule.

            Typically, Ignis has at least an inkling of something shifting in the shadows of the Citadel. It is his job, after all, to be aware of everything. Especially, when matters of great import were at hand – even the most pressingly secret of matters.

            So when Ignis is caught entirely off-guard at the possibility of something Shield related drawing Gladiolus away from his training session with Noct, his wariness is piqued.

            It was mid-morning when he got the text.

            He was in the midst of preparing a late breakfast for Noct and himself to share, and the prince had only just managed to rouse himself enough to stumble into the bathroom for a shower. The prince was still half an hour from getting himself dressed and reasonably conscious enough to stagger out into the sitting room area of his Citadel quarters.

            With a sigh at the interruption, but no real worry over the potential for delay, Ignis checked the message carefully.

            It was definitely from Gladiolus – utilizing his unique typing characteristics and his own individual vernacular – but it was uncharacteristically apologetic for the late-notice, informing him that he had Shield matters to attend to and he’d had to cancel training. He mentioned specifically that if Noct brought it up, Ignis should take it as the truth – Gladiolus, fortunately, was usually very explicit about that, as both he and Ignis were well aware of Noct’s penchant for trying to weasel his way out of physical exertion and matters of his princely duties.

            Ignis read the text three times before he concluded that the Shield was distracted.

            In a way Ignis had never before seen of him.

            The young Amicitia took his Shield duties very seriously and was generally excited about being called on to perform them. But this message, brief though it was, reeked of trepidation.

            It wasn’t quite alarming per se, but it was certainly worth a bit of discreet looking into.

            At least, once the gap in the Prince’s schedule had been sufficiently dealt with.

            That part should not be too challenging. Ignis had been planning to reward Noct’s last few weeks of hard work with an afternoon off soon anyway. All he had to do was remind the Prince that he did have homework due on Monday and then allow him to sit down for a campaign or two of whatever video game currently had the Prince enraptured.

            It would almost certainly hold his attention captive for the entire six hours that would have otherwise been spent training with Gladio.

            During that time, Ignis could go off alone to investigate the circumstances, unnoticed.

            That was the plan, anyway.

            The plan changed when Ignis went up with breakfast and Noctis came out into the sitting room with a grin that showed he’d already heard his training session with Gladio was canceled. The plan changed when Noctis – far more astute at reading people than anyone ever gave him credit for, including Ignis occasionally – noticed that Ignis was preoccupied.

            It changed when Noctis saw something in Ignis that betrayed how unusual the situation was and he connected it to some independent observation he’d made of an oddity in Gladio’s message to him regarding the canceled practice.

            “Something’s up in the Citadel today, Iggy,” Noct announced conspiratorially as he sat down and Ignis presented his breakfast. He shoved a bite of omelette into his mouth with only the barest second given to curling his nose at the sight of a few dark leaflets of spinach tucked inside the eggy folds. “I think we should investigate.”

            “Investigate, Highness?” Ignis asks dryly, “Whatever for?”

            “Whatever’s going on is obviously important,” Noctis mentions, distrustfully examining a cheese-covered mushroom before popping it into his mouth. “And you’re always on me about ‘taking an interest in the Citadel’s ongoing affairs, as they will eventually fall to my discretion’.”

            It was a very accurate imitation of the sentiments Ignis routinely shared with his prince.

            If only Noctis paid as much mind to the materials Ignis intended him to as he did to the passing phrases by which he presented them.

            That particular, admonishing sentiment was a practiced petulance, however – more habit than any genuine ill humor.

            Ignis knew Noct really did perform his due diligence, even if he did it when no one was looking… He knew that Noctis’s procrastination came out of the understandably paralyzing fear that if he were considered ready to rule, his father’s role as leader would be rendered less critical – and if he were considered unnecessary by the Six, they may choose to remove him for expediency’s sake in placing their purported Chosen King on the Throne.

            Though it was a State secret of capital regard, Ignis knew that the Oracle Sylva had told Regis of his son’s destiny – of Noct’s predetermined fate to be the King who fought against the Accursed One, to face down the darkness of their world and light a new path. It was a heavy burden for any child to bear, which is why no one ever even discusses the existence of a prophecy that says a Chosen King might someday exist…

            But Ignis had discovered the secret.

            He has always been doubtless that Noctis had uncovered it as well.

            So, Noctis has developed a habit of procrastinating.

            And Ignis has developed one of chastising him for it.

            Which means he can’t very well upbraid the prince now for taking an interest in the Citadel’s affairs, particularly when Ignis himself has noticed that there is something not quite right about the current situation… when Ignis also wishes to investigate the circumstances.

            “Alright then, Highness, as you wish,” he cedes. Ignis allows Noctis three whole seconds of righteous victory celebrations before he adds the caveat, “If you finish all of your homework for tomorrow, including the brief for the Council Meeting you are scheduled to attend, then we shall do a little digging into what is the cause of today’s excitement.”

            Noctis deflates immediately, but the sullen sulk he drops into is largely superficial.

            After working with his charge for a few years now, after coming to know every aspect of Noct’s moodiness and petulance by heart, Ignis can tell that there is still a fire of eager enthusiasm being nursed within the prince’s spirit.

            Noct was nearly done with his homework anyway, and requiring that Noctis review the briefing for tomorrow has only bought Gladio a few hours at most to accomplish whatever currently stood as his task. It has only bought Ignis a scant 20 minutes or so of his own discreet research into the Citadel’s current alert status and ongoing calendar archives while pretending to attend to his own homework during the moments Noctis did not require his immediate aid.

            Ignis would be remiss if he didn’t explore the possibilities before allowing Noctis to investigate. The matters of official ‘Shield business’ could be quite hazardous, even those matters concerning the Shield in training. Noctis has been excluded for a reason – even Ignis has been excluded for a reason… and that reason is not one likely to be benign.

            Officially speaking, there is very little about the State Affairs of Lucis that is so highly classified the Crown Prince’s future chamberlain couldn’t ask to be read-in, and even fewer matters that are barred to the prince himself. For the most part, King Regis Lucis Caelum and his Council counted on the children’s disinterest to keep them from meddling in matter of State.

            There are, obviously, a few matters to which Noctis and Ignis could not hope to be privy, they are still only children and Lucis is a kingdom at war. National security took absolute precedence and children of any skillset or bloodline are often less discreet than optimal and even rather isolated or well-behaved children stand as considerable liabilities.

            But those affairs have usually excluded Gladio, as well.

            Which means that this matter puts Gladio’s standing as Shield in training above that of his status as a child of just fourteen.

            And as Ignis begins to dig, he discovers that there is absolutely no accessible records regarding whatever the matter is that’s called Galdio away from Noct's training – for that matter, Ignis cannot find any evidence that Noct has been excused from training.

            The corridors in the vicinity of the training room the Crown Prince used are cordoned off as usual – if anyone other than Ignis, Noctis, or those directly involved in whatever was going on had checked, it would have looked like business as usual.

            Such could be mere oversight – a bought of carelessness, a result, perhaps of the apparent rush order behind whatever had caused Gladio to cancel – but Ignis has never known anyone trusted enough to manage the Citadel's affairs to be careless. A few out of the way halls erroneously marked restricted might not seem like much, but Ignis knows very well that the smallest things are often the most important.

            It’s a likely assumption that whatever classified happening has caused Gladio to cancel Noct's training session, it is currently taking place where Noct’s training should have been.

            Ignis has just come to the that conclusion when the prince in question declares that he’s finished with his work. It’s obvious to Ignis that attempting to dissuade Noctis from his designs of investigating the mysterious circumstances is utterly futile – the prince is crafty and determined when he wants to be, and there is little Ignis could do personally to stop him.

            While debating internally as to whether he should allow Noct to investigate or if he ought to tell the Marshall or Lord Amicitia, Ignis drills Noctis on the details of the dossier – details Ignis has long since memorized and details that Noctis, truthfully has little reason to be more than vaguely aware of; that is part of the purpose in having a Chamberlain, after all.

            Still, true to form, the prince gets all the answers right – delivers them with knowing and certain confidence. He is such a good young prince when he has a positive reason to show it… and Ignis truly does not want to reward such cleverness and keen attention by ratting him out to the few people who could forcibly mandate a further reduction of Noct's already limited freedoms, however temporary and protective that restriction might be.

            Ignis is first and foremost his young prince's future advisor, but Ignis is also Noct's friend. And Noct’s friend should not get him grounded for doing the very thing Ignis himself plans on doing. Honestly, both roles would be damaged by the betrayal of trust that would come of telling on Noct to the Marshal – for how could any King trust the support of his Chamberlain if their relationship was strained?

            Besides, Noct would likely find a way to sneak out from under the Crownsguards' noses to investigate on his own anyhow. Having Ignis there with him throughout the ordeal would be by far the safer option.

            Furthermore, whatever is happening is occurring within the very walls of the Citadel, so Ignis could hardly be convinced that it is such a dangerous matter that Ignis won’t be protection enough for his Prince as they investigate the mysterious goings-on.

            Thusly resolved, Ignis semi-formally approves of Noct's investigative endeavors.

            He does not go so far so as to offer the starting point he’d found concerning how the training room was still under a restricted access alert. Unfortunately, Noctis is as clever and canny as any young prince could be hoped to be and he quickly discerns that seeking out Gladio himself is a good start – and he logically reasons that going to his usual training area is as good a spot as any to begin seeking out his future Shield.

            If Gladio proves to be elsewhere, Noct has a search pattern in mind, but Ignis does not ask him for elaboration on it – as he knows that Gladio is very likely to be where Noct suspects.

            That lack of such questioning alone is possibly enough to prove to Noct that his suspicions are well founded, because when Ignis indicates he ought to get on with it and lead the way, the barest hint of a triumphant smile graces the Prince’s stoic expression.

            Noctis marches through his Citadel like the truly worthy heir he is to all its majesty.

            He is still very young, and shy, and has moments that cripple him with doubt, but Ignis has complete faith in the notion that he will grow into a marvelous king – far sooner and more fully than he believes anyone else yet realizes.

            Noctis strides quickly towards his goal, though his course takes them through the lesser used passages in an attempt to disguise their aim for as long as possible without sneaking thought the halls outright – and thereby admitting some measure of knowing guilt at the awareness they should not be doing this.

            They make it to within sight of the proper door before a lone Kingsglaive spots their approach – and immediately disappears into the training room without a beat of confusion or hesitation. He was a lookout with a clearly appointed task, already briefed on the possibility of Noct’s penchant for surprises causing him to investigate.

            With his cover already blown, Noct takes off running towards the door – hoping to at least glimpse whatever it is that’s being intentionally withheld from his view.

            Ignis sprints after him. His haste is equal parts a dutiful determination to protect his prince and a pointed curiosity of his own.

            They reach the door in time to get just the barest glimpse of the Glaive escorting someone out through another door – just in time to see a hint of blond hair over a shoulder as the pair disappears into the Citadel’s labyrinth.

            Now, Ignis has been trained not to jump to conclusions, and in most cases a flash of blond hair wasn’t the sort of thing able to send a stone of dread sinking through him. However, that blond – in the distinct and particular shade of pale yellow it was – and the fact that its owner was being hustled so effectively out of a potential encounter with the Lucian Heir…

            Prisoners of War were rare in the conflict between Lucis and Niflheim, and rarer still were those that the King deemed necessary to house within the Crown City. It was unheard of for one such captive to be held within the Citadel, but Ignis could conjure no other explanation for the fleeting sight his intrusion with the Crown Prince had captured.

            “So, who’s the Nif?” Noct asks, shoving his hands deep into his pockets with a sharp-edged pretense at casual inclination. It was not a wholly refined gesture of indifference, but it was difficult to fault when the act of an 11 year old put the facades of grown statesmen to shame.

            “Cannon fodder,” Gladio replies immediately – not easily, though, Ignis notes keenly.

            The Shield in training is unsettled… shaken.

            And not merely from being interrupted.

            Ignis hasn’t known the young man terribly long, but he knows him well enough to be surprised and wary of this hint of erosion at his unshakeable foundations.

            “Obviously,” Noct scoffs, “Can’t be much if you get to play with him.”

            The prince smirks, but doesn’t pause long enough to force Gladio to drum up some sarcastic aggravation for a retort before he asks, “So, what were you doing with him?”

            “Practice interrogation,” Gladio replies, tersely in his usual short and sweet manner, but the response was lacking a certain affectionate gruffness. “It’s not often a Nif lives long enough to make it back here, and when he made it through Cor’s rigmarole… they decided that I’m old enough to have a little exposure to that side of things.”

            “Here? Why not in like an actual interrogation room?”

            “A traditional interrogation is not always effective when endeavoring to acquire information,” Ignis steps in. “Particularly when it is unlikely that the skills developed during the practice will not be utilized in a traditional interrogation. Most of my mock interrogations have taken place in circumstances that mimic Royal Galas. While Gladio’s future as your Shield ensures that he will enact traditional interrogations, citizens and soldiers from Niflheim are certain to be rare subjects. I’m sure they require unique security measures.”

            Gladio gives a carefully nonchalant nod – only the slight linger of his gaze serves to convey gratitude to Ignis for running interference – and snarks, “What he said.”

            It clearly wasn’t exactly the case.

            After all, the Nif had been escorted out by only one Glaive, so Ignis knows they weren’t using this venue in order to accommodate a large security force, but it might be enough of a plausibility to placate Noct’s curiosity.

            By the measuring stare Noct shoots him, Ignis can tell his ploy hasn’t been entirely effective, but Noct seems willing enough to drop it as Gladio transitions over to baiting Noct into working through some training drills – since he’s obviously just so put out about being forced to miss his usual training.

            Ignis drifts away from them as the practice Noct had gotten out of puts itself back on his schedule. Absently, Ignis notes that he'll need to give Noct a different afternoon off later this week as his intent to use today for the little reward has clearly been waylaid.

            What has most of Ignis's attention occupied are the questions of who exactly the Nif prisoner might be and why he is really here in the Citadel – because Gladio’s answer was the flimsiest lie he has ever seen any courtier attempt to pass off as truth.

            Gladio's position is not one as dependent on an astute command of language as Ignis's own, but even so, Ignis had expected more. Perhaps however, as unsettling as the possibility might be, Gladio simply couldn’t muster up the steadiness for more – even as he dives into training Noct, he is moving with less openness and more caution than usual.

            Such is clearly not due to any sudden rise in Noct's capabilities; even with Gladio distracted, Noct's attacks are still being easily dispatched.

            No, Gladio's caution is most certainly due to his disquiet regarding the Nif.

            Which means that Ignis has more reason than ever to get to the bottom of what's going on than ever. He doesn’t like the idea of things that can shake the Shield in training being contained here without his knowledge, within the Citadel he is meant to manage one day.

            While Noct and Gladio are both thoroughly distracted, Ignis slips out the door through which the Glaive and his captive disappeared. Ignis has no real notion of whence they came or to where they have retreated, but the exit they made is his only starting point.

            Once out in the hallway, Ignis is fully prepared to take a moment to regroup and consider the possibilities of where a captive Nif might be held within the Citadel – but he doesn't even finish a calming exhale before a low chuckle behind him sets him back on edge.

            “Congrats, kid, you just won me a behemoth steak dinner.”

_________

Chapter Text

Step 06: Extrapolate

            "Congrats, kid, you just won me a behemoth steak dinner."

            All of Ignis's careful calculation and calm fly out the window at the sound of the amused voice behind him.

            Ignis turns to face Kingsglaive Nyx Ulric as the latter pushes off the wall he'd been nonchalantly leaned against. The Glaive is young for his post and already being heralded as a hero, one of the most promising young soldiers to be given access to the King's Armiger in decades – the best since Cor Leonis, even.

            Ignis has been briefed on Ulric's accomplishments more than once and is inclined to agree with the favorable idea of his considerable talent and fortitude. Hence, how Ignis knows him on sight, his reputation as rather irreverent notwithstanding.

            Currently, it is Glaive Ulric’s aggravating irreverence that has Ignis most concerned, being that Ignis finds very little more difficult than keeping a civil tongue around someone who can hardly appreciate the finer points of any argument he might give to promote his actions and yet still has the power to effectively derail his efforts by making a report to a superior who also won’t care for how valid his reasoning is.

            Ignis has his expression set in a coolly detached frown as Glaive Ulric chuckles again.

            “I thought you might be curious about our guest and I bet you wouldn’t be sidetracked from investigating, and whaddya know, here you are,” he says teasingly, approaching with slow, measured steps that put his fighting prowess on display.

            He holds onto the pseudo-threat until he's within easy reach of Ignis before he cracks a wide grin and says, “Cool your jets, Your soon-to-be Grace. I’m not here to get you in trouble. I’m here to take you down to meet the Nif.”

            It takes Ignis a moment to process that – a moment in which Glaive Ulric steps passed him and leans comically far back over his heel with one foot outstretched as a counterweight to speak over his shoulder with a painfully patronizing lilt to his whole posture, “Unless you don’t want to see what the enemy looks like beneath all that ugly armor.”

            Ignis whirls around to follow, saying curtly, “I should like to meet this enemy combatant, though I must say it surprises me that you've been allowed such latitude so as to permit a meeting, seeing as I have been systematically excluded from all prior possible instances of even learning of his presence.”

            Glaive Ulric gives a wince with a dramatized pantomime of wounding.

            “Six, kid, pull your punches, why don’t ya? I’m one of the good guys.”

            Glaive Ulric sighs heavily as he guides Ignis down the hall and says, “Though, I suppose it’s only fair. You have been kept in the dark and that can’t be very comfortable for someone in your shoes. Anyway, the big wigs have decided that keeping you out of the loop is apparently a bad idea. You know, I had orders to stonewall if you showed up with His Highness.”

            “Is there a particular reason Crown Prince Noctis isn't even permitted to be informed of the matters of his own House?”

            “Yeah,” Glaive Ulric says, suddenly quite sober. “There's a pretty damn good one.”

            He leads Ignis into an elevator without another word, kicks back against the side wall and hits the selection panel with his elbow – taking them to a level in the central pillar of the Citadel that Ignis has never visited before.

            It’s an incredibly isolated ward, Ignis notes. The whole area is a contained structure suspended within an atrium, accessible only by a trio of narrow halls with no place for anyone moving through to hide. In the center there’s only a small, circular landing surrounded by a few doors with narrow, horizontal slits of double-paned high-resistance glass serving as windows.

            The windows would be at chest height for an adult.

            For Ignis, they sit just below eye level.

            Five of the doors have windows that are left open.

            Just one is shuttered with a steel plate.

            The door itself is ajar though, and Glaive Ulric gestures to it with reserved invitation and says with quiet gravity, “See for yourself.”

            Shot through with trepidation, Ignis reaches for the door and nearly hesitates before pulling it fully open on silent hinges. The room inside is spartan – stark white walls without so much as a seam in the construction, a built-in bed with blankets that look as limp and uninviting as the knit affairs provided in hospitals, and a corner nook that appears to contain rudimentary hygienic equipment. But the room is not what Ignis should be looking at – it’s simply what his focus has attached to in lieu of any attempt to process his view of the room’s occupants.

            Because he doesn’t know how to process the sight of Major Cor Leonis kneeling down before a child – a boy no older than Noctis – with his hand on the boy’s shoulder and his usual intense gaze softened to something Ignis can’t quite name.

            The boy is the Nif in question, clearly.

            He must have been being carried by the Glaive whose exit Ignis had glimpsed earlier – there isn’t any possibility that Ignis could have seen him otherwise, nor that the boy could have kept up with such a rapid egress.

            The poor thing looks like it can hardly stand.

            Ignis isn’t prone to bouts of being overly emotional – in fact, he’s often been accused of lacking in appropriately emotive responses altogether.

            While he is entirely undeserving of the accusations, Ignis is fully aware of his usual appearance of detachment – it’s a conscious effort, after all, a method devised for the express purpose of aiding his Prince in finding clarity among the chaos within emotionally charged situations because of how Noct is such an emotionally driven young man.

            Where Noct finds it difficult to remain impartial, Ignis has trained himself to be the voice of reason, and thereby the occasional devil’s advocate, in matters of emotional strain – particularly in cases where Noct’s deep well of compassion might threaten to make him crumble.

            This, however, is beyond his abilities to compartmentalize.

            And the sounds of Cor’s voice as he speaks quietly to the boy take a few noticeably distended seconds to reach Ignis’s brain.

            “You’re not in trouble, kiddo,” the hardened soldier is saying softly, “You didn’t… fail.”

            The boy is crying, Ignis realizes abruptly – silent tears that he’s trying desperately to keep contained behind red-rimmed eyes, but crying nonetheless.

            “There was no… You didn’t fail any…” Cor sighs, head hanging heavy with something Ignis can’t rationalize as defeat, and then breathes, “You… you, uh, passed. You passed.”

            The relief and hope and desperation that barrels through the child hits Ignis square in the chest – nearly makes him stagger backwards.

            He’s never seen someone this expressive, this emotionally exposed and raw… even Noctis, who feels his emotions more strongly than anyone else Ignis has ever met, has never been able to communicate the exact depth and breadth of his feelings.

            This boy, though, he is his feelings.

            There is nothing in him that could ever imagine deceit. Or restraint, or propriety.

            “That kid? He’s an MT.”

            Glaive Ulric’s hushed admission booms in Ignis’s awareness, the sudden sound of it making him jump more severely than he wants to admit.

            “He’s a child,” Ignis retorts in a sharp whisper, indignant at being treated like a fool.

            Ulric was unaffected.

            “His right wrist has a barcode tattooed on it – ink driven so deeply it marked the bone,” the Glaive states, voice low and calm and unwavering. “Two places on his left arm, three places on his front torso, and six places on his spine had artificial biomechanical implants. We’re not sure what all of them were for, but it took us a week to teach him he was allowed to eat any kind of solid food that wasn’t a granola bar, and another week for him to learn how to hold it down… Took us three weeks to get him to tell us a name that wasn’t just a string of numbers. That kid is probably eleven years old. And he’s definitely one of Niflheim’s Magitek Troopers.”

            Ignis finds his hand has not relinquished its hold on the door – finds that his grip is white-knuckled and that most of his weight is being held up by it because of the unexpected weakness in his legs.

            Finds himself distantly surprised he’s still able to stand at all when the child’s tear-filled eyes find him as he wrenches his gaze away from Cor’s face – too something to bear looking at the soldier he can’t possibly know well enough to understand how rare it is for the man to try so hard with the emotional side of interacting with a child.        

            It only takes a moment after that for Cor to notice his arrival as well.

            A slight frown is all the emotion Cor sets aside to react to Ignis – turning immediately back to the kid with a fake smile that’s not as convincing as it needs to be, but is still more convincing than Ignis thinks he himself is currently capable of imitating.

            “I have another friend who wants to meet you,” Cor says softly, still kneeling on the floor in front of his young charge. He shuffles, rather awkwardly, a little ways to the side so he can gesture at Ignis to come inside as he says, “This is Ignis.”

            The child gives a slow nod, like he’s unaware of the motion as he focus on recording Ignis’s name to the deepest recesses of his accessible memory – like remembering the name is something of such dire importance his entire future might be riding on his ability to do so.

            Mechanically, and under no conscious order, Ignis’s feet carry him into the room.

            Move him across the floor until he’s at an appropriate conversing distance.

            He doesn’t have anything to say, though, and isn’t certain he could speak even if he had something critical to discuss.

            He stares at the child, unable to move forward in any of his thought processes.

            “Ignis,” Cor says, jarring Ignis back to focus, “This is Prompto.”

            Ignis does not miss the way the child gives a slight… flinch at the introduction, but he is rendered unable to do anything more than note the reaction’s existence.

            Fortunately, the ingrained habits of polite conversation assert themselves and Ignis automatically inclines his head and says, “It’s nice to meet you.”

            The child does not respond – does not even acknowledge having heard.

            “I was on a recon mission at an Auxiliary Magitek Facility about a thousand clicks east of Gralea,” Cor explains quietly. “We got a tip-off from an inside source about an asset in transit that didn’t rate for a security force, but could teach us more about the MT Program in ten minutes than we’ve learned ourselves in the last ten years.”

            He tips his head at the child, ceding the point that the Crown’s agents haven’t been terribly successful with gaining insight on the MT Program and indicating that the tip they’d followed has more than paid off.

            Ignis isn’t certain of how to respond to that.

            Cor climbs to his feet with visible a heaviness in his frame.

            “Clarus feels that he needs socialization with his own peer group,” Cor says, looking directly at Ignis with his usual stern severity. “He suggested letting Gladio talk to him.”

            “In order to accomplish what, exactly?” Ignis demands quietly, a building sense of indignant fury tightening inside his chest with an impetus that he doesn’t wholly understand.

            He’s still staring at the child, and therefore notices the kid flinch again.

            Ignis isn’t sure, but he thinks it’s the undercurrent of anger in his tone that caused the reaction – anger that Ignis is only in tenuous control of… And his wavering grasp on his temper must be clearly visible, because instead of reprimanding him for scaring the poor child, Cor’s stern expression softens into sympathy.

            He gives the child’s shoulder one last squeeze, looking down at him and making sure that he knows he’s being addressed as he says, “Sorry to leave you alone again, kiddo, but Ignis and I have to talk about a few things. Nyx will be outside. Just knock if you need anything, alright?”

            The child nods and attempts a mumble that sounds a bit like ‘yes, sir’.

            Then Cor strides out of the cell with purposeful steps that broadcast an order for Ignis to follow. Ignis hesitates for a longer moment than he would like to admit, but eventually he tears himself away to follow Cor into the hall.

            Nyx shoots him a sympathetic look as he closes the door on the kid and Ignis quick-steps to catch up to Cor, but it only fuels the indignant fire within him.

            The feeling builds on the silent trek to Cor’s office and as soon as the lock clicks home in the door behind them, the words tumble from Ignis’s tongue with a truly scandalous impertinence as he asks, “What is any of this meant to accomplish?”

            Cor, again, does not reprimand him.

            Instead, the major simply sighs.

            “The reason Gladio was brought in is that Clarus thought it might help us attempt to convince him that he’s human,” Cor explains.

            For the first second since seeing the boy, Ignis questions, “Is he?”

            “As far as we can tell,” Cor replies. “He had… surgical modifications when we first found him, and the psychological conditioning tied to those modifications is proving much more difficult to reverse than the physical aspects.”

            “Obviously,” Ignis retorts dryly – though he meant to keep the comment internal.

            He knows Cor isn’t just a meat-head soldier who doesn’t understand the true impact of mental conditions on a person’s very physiology. He knows. He just…

            “I get it, kid, okay?” Cor says after a beat of heavy silence. “It’s a lot to take in and you shouldn’t have to do it like this. We didn’t want to bring any one in like this, and Gladio was only told because we’re running out of things to try.”

            Ignis pulls air into his lungs and slowly lets it out in a practiced ritual of calming calculation to bring his focus back to what it should be fixed on.

            “Did it work?”

            Cor didn’t need to ask for clarification.

            “Yeah,” the major reports, “It certainly seemed to… Clarus said… well, we were hoping to give them the whole four hours together, but even what they had seemed to let him open up.”

            Ignis nods, wondering internally if the interruption he and Noctis had generated might stand as a significant setback or if the intrusion hadn’t caused Gladio to lose too much ground.

            He also wonders exactly how he’d gotten so invested in the case already.

            Wonders if it’s anything less than outright foolhardy to be invested.

            “Is he a threat to Prince Noctis? To the King?”

            “Nothing indicates such,” Cor responds, allowing Ignis to accept that much before he adds, “However, Prince Noctis cannot find out about him. If the King’s empathy is such that he could be called a bleeding heart… his son… Well, you would know better than anyone.”

            “Agreed. Noctis would not suffer it well to learn of these atrocities,” Ignis comments, steeling himself to ask, “I take it this is not the only child subjected to Niflheim’s abuses?”

            Cor nods. “Prompto speaks like he thinks he’s the average,” he says, “There were thousands of others in his facility alone, disregarding the hundreds of other facilities like it. And we can do next to nothing to save any of them.”

            The hollow behind Ignis’s lungs swells at that. It takes a few careful efforts before he manages to take another full breath.

            “We saved Prompto,” he states, feeling something like finality settle inside him with no small dose of determination beside it, “And we can help him recover.”

            Ignis has always been a caretaker.

            He’s a Scientia, a part of an old family line entirely devoted to serving their kings by taking care of the Royal House. He’s grown to love Noctis as something of a little brother, and has thrown every bit of himself into taking proper care of him.

            That habit of care taking does not seem exclusive to the Prince, however surprising that revelation may be, and Ignis knows he’s already too invested in this to let it go on without any further piece of his involvement.

            It must be kept from Noctis’s awareness, but Ignis wants to help.

            “Might I speak with him?”

            Cor settles back on his heels, considering. “I’ll make some calls.”

            Ignis nods, still unsettled, but also intensely grateful.

            “Take the rest of the day off, kid,” Cor instructs. “You still need to take care of His Highness, but I’m excusing you from all your other daily duties.”

            Ignis nods again, and bows with appropriately polite acceptance of the implied dismissal before turning on his heel to stride out the door. He makes it all the way back to his quarters and only then does he feel the bereft sensation of existing without direction.

            The prince’s dinner does not need to be readied for several hours yet and without his own classes or royal duties to attend… Ignis does not quite know what to do with himself.

            In other bouts of such doubt, Ignis had turned to his kitchen and thusly turns again.

            For Noctis, his attempt to recreate the tarts of Tenebrae had helped coax away anxieties on more than one occasion – and the cooking had soothed Ignis’s nerves as well.

            For himself, Ignis embarks on a dessert that requires a touch more elbow grease: Altissian Strudel. Between the stirring, pounding, and painstaking effort of rolling out thin layers of pastry, it’s an exhausting and consuming enough endeavor to thoroughly distract him.

            A batch is in the oven and he’s working on a berry puree when his phone chimes a quick series of text alerts.

            They serve as both an apology from Gladio, and a course to investigate the child from Niflheim – because Gladio knows that Ignis doesn’t care for empty words. If Gladio wants the apology to stick, he needs to demonstrate a willingness to adjust and move forward.

            In this case, giving Ignis an avenue to pursue questions he was previously denied is a startling effective apology.

            G: Sry bout the cold shoulder.

            G: Dad said you can be read in.

            G: Putting my report and all the notes I had access to into our shared SecServ.

            G: Don’t eat anything before you read this shit.

            G: Srsly. DON’T.

            Ignis finds he isn’t at all skeptical of Gladio’s assertion that the content of his gift is enough to turn any stomach and he isn’t keen on playing the bonehead that tries to prove the Shield in training wrong for the sake of it.

            He steps away from the kitchen and opens the folder they share between just the two of them on the Citadel’s most secure server.

            Something about having the files on his phone makes the horrors they contain less difficult to wade through than they would be as physical files or pages opened on his larger laptop – the tiny screen and the ability to shutter the face of it to an impassive black wall help the details feels more distant, allowing him to remain clinical and detached.

            Even so, it’s harder than he hoped it would be to remain level headed.

            It’s so much harder that Ignis plans another batch of strudel.

            It’s so much harder that when Noctis texts him, he reads the message through the lock screen without officially opening it.

            Ignis doesn’t want a read receipt to make it back to the sender just yet; he’ll respond within the hour, as Noctis would be expecting of him, but not just yet.

            N: So… what’d you get on the Nif after you snuck off?

            For once, Ignis doesn’t know how to answer a question from his Prince.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 07: Evaluate

            Cor says he didn’t fail the test.

            Gladio said he didn’t fail the test, too, but… if he didn’t fail the test, then why was he removed from the testing ground so quickly?

            If he passed the test, wouldn’t they simply try upping the difficulty until they found the level at which he did fail?

            The Facility Instructors had done that – they’d found the point where he’d failed, Corrected his mistakes, sent him to power down so he could process the correction and recharge in order to be ready to test again the next day.

            These questions didn’t feel like the same kind of test, though...

            It might have simply been a one-off, a level-clear kind of Assessment… There was only Pass or Fail and no retesting for the possibility of improvement.

            That must be what it was.

            And Cor says he passed.

            It’s not as great a relief as 05953234 feels it should be.

            Everyone – the Guards, Gladio, Cor – they were all very tense as the testing was brought to an abrupt end. 05953234 was carried back to his dorm, despite being fully functional and perfectly able to walk on his own.

            And then there was… the young human… the one that looked like a Level Two Scientist… 05953234 didn’t know Scientists came in Level Twos. He’d never imagined that Guards or Instructors came in Level Two either, but then he’d been introduced to Gladio.

            The Scientist… designation ‘Ignis’, 05953234 recalls… the Scientist had not been happy. It was difficult for 05953234 to tell what the Guards or Cor were feeling, and it was usually impossible for him to tell what a Scientist was thinking… but this one had been so clearly unhappy that 05953234 couldn’t even pretend he might measure up to the Scientist’s criteria.

            The Ignis Scientist hadn’t stayed long.

            Cor had introduced them and then taken the Scientist elsewhere – likely to discuss the many ways in which 05953234 needed to be improved before his performance could be deemed adequate for whatever Cor and the Ignis Scientist needed him for.

            05953234 spends the rest of that day staring at his shoes, trying to figure out what he could have done differently to make his performance results better.

            The Guard posted outside his dorm’s door eventually enters with a plate full of human food for 05953234’s evening nutrition.

            It’s been over six weeks of eating human food and 05953234 is still wary of it – not of the food itself, though it has been known to make 05953234 sick, but of the idea that an MT like him could be permitted to eat such food. It probably made him sick to start with because MT Units are not meant to be given such rich and unbearably delicious nutritional materials.

            The humans had adapted their diets for him, giving him the easier foods to keep down – foods that were no less delicious to him, though the humans seemed to think they were tragic for how bland his meals were. Toast, light soups, fresh fruit and vegetables… all of it still seems like a miraculous mistake that he’s permitted to eat any of it at all.

            Particularly the fruit and vegetables.

            Fresh ‘produce’ as the humans called the combined category, was practically unheard of within the bounds of Gralea – and utterly out of reach for anyone outside the capital city. Only the very highest ranks of human soldiers within Niflheim had any hope of ever tasting a fresh strawberry – and even they purportedly only received them as special treats to commemorate holidays or special service commendations.

            Now, with Cor as his Commander and his posting being kept within the Citadel, 05953234 gets fresh produce every single day. Usually more than once. Often with all three nutritional sessions he receives – including the unendingly surprising mid-day session.

            05953234 had thought the mid-day session was a temporary affair, considering that the human food given to him initially caused him to be sick enough that he threw up the entire contents of his morning nutrition before it could be properly absorbed into his system.

            05953234 likes the mid-day nutrition. It keeps the growly pinch in his stomach away and seems like it keeps his head extra clear in the afternoons.

            Not that he even really needs his head clear in his current posting.

            His Commander has asked exceptionally little of him since they’ve arrived at the Citadel.

            Traveling here was a predictable exception to the routine, but since they’ve arrived here 05953234 has been waking up every morning with the expectation that the tests and training would resume – or that he’d be given actual Missions to accomplish for his new Commander.

            So far, nothing like that has occurred.

            Except for today.

            Which was a strange instance of either testing or training, but it’s still the closest he’s yet come to being properly evaluated or having his performance adjusted within the walls of the Citadel like he had been at Zegnatus Keep or the Facility.

            The session was confusing, but he did learn something from it – something that might help him improve his performances here at the Citadel.

            He’s learned that the Guards and Instructors and Commanders here do not want him to be capable of harming the Lucian King or the Lucian Heir. He’s learned that the primary cause of his current overt uselessness – the reason he’s being kept intentionally inactive – is that the Commanders here have been concerned that he will act to harm the Lucian King or the Lucian Heir, despite his orders from Commander Cor not to harm anyone inside the Citadel.

            05953234 doesn’t understand why they’d think he would act against his orders, but if Commander Cor’s mission is to protect the Lucian King and the Lucian Heir – both officially considered enemies of the Niflheim Empire – then 05953234 understands why the other Guards and Commanders might be concerned…

            05953234 is an unfinished MT. He’s just a Level Two. It’s rare, but it wouldn’t be utterly unprecedented for a Level Two to go crazy and break ranks and do something of their own volition… 05953234 wouldn’t do that, he wants to serve Cor as best he can, but the Guards and Scientists that could clear him for duty have no reason to believe that on 05953234’s word alone.

            Most of the Guards who have ever brought him sustenance have been silent and cautious of him, only a few of the ones who’d been with Cor when he first became 05953234’s new commander have ever tried talking to him – the ones with the especially intricate black uniforms, with the gold bits and ribbons and asymmetric straps.

            Like the Guard that currently deposits the silver tray laden with his evening nutrition, designation: Nyx, Glaive Ulric.

            05953234 knows this Guard on sight because the Nyx Guard almost always talks to him.

            Tonight is no exception.

            “Strange day, huh, kid?”

            “Yes,” 05953234 says, because the Nyx Guard expects a response.

            ‘Yes’ is… well, it’s never the right response, but it’s also not so wrong that he earns a Correction for giving it – so while it makes 05953234’s stomach do uncomfortable flips to see the Nyx Guard’s expression crinkle with disapproval, it’s not nearly as unbearable as the sinking feeling he gets whenever he simply does not respond at all.

            “That Gladio’s a bit different than us old foggies you’ve been stuck with,” the Nyx Guard goes on, adding, “I bet it was weird working with him for a change, wasn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            This is an entirely honest response.

            It was weird.

            05953234 still isn’t sure he wholly understands what happened – is entirely sure he doesn’t understand why it happened.

            “So,” the Nyx Guard asks carefully, leaning hard to one side so that he can watch 05953234’s reaction without directly watching from head on, “Was it a good weird or a bad weird, do you think?”

            It’s almost an opinion question – 05953234 can feel it in the way his thought process stutter and struggle when he attempts to formulate a response. The Guards and Commanders here ask a lot of opinion questions – almost like they expect 05953234 to have opinions.

            Things have gotten easier, lately, with the opinion questions being cached inside more objective queries, but 05953234 still doesn’t quite understand why so many humans seem to expect that an MT Unit like 05953234 would be capable of answering opinion questions.

            Even the not quite opinion questions.

            Like this one.

            Was being with Gladio a ‘good weird’ or a ‘bad weird’?

            05953234 doesn’t know.

            But.

            He passed the test.

            And… and he felt… he felt not good at having the test with Gladio cut off so abruptly.

            And during the test itself… he felt… calm… mostly, anyway. There were parts where he felt bad and nervous and defective like he usually did when Guards and Commanders asked him questions and his answers weren’t up to par… but there were also moments when he was not worried. When the test was calm and… and… when it felt… nice. When it felt good.

            “Good weird,” 05953234 says eventually, keeping his gaze glued to the tray with his evening nutrition – respectfully keeping his hands on his knees while he talks, instead of lunging at the food like he wants to…

            If he answers poorly it’s possible they’ll take the human food away, but if he lunges at it and crams it all into his mouth he’s almost certain that they’ll take it from him… and if he eats it too quickly, he might make himself sick again, which would both waste the human food and negate it’s nutritional value.

            05953234 receives more nutrition in the Citadel than he ever did at the Facility or inside the Keep, but still… he knows how skipping nutritional sessions makes it that much harder to focus well enough to earn back his nutrition privileges.

            He chances a glance at the Nyx Guard – spots a loose and calming smile that’s subtle, but still enough to make 05953234 feel like he gave the right response.

            “I thought you might like that guy,” the Nyx Guard comments. “He’s a just a kid too, you know, so he’s sorta like you. Not exactly the same, obviously, but he’s probably easier to talk to for a kiddo like you than any one of us old guys, right?”

            Was talking to Gladio easier?

            That’s not exactly an opinion question.

            And 05953234 finds he has an immediate, objective response – a response he can supply without pausing to panic at the clear need for him to answer a direct question.

            “Yes,” 05953234 says, trying to keep the heavy notion of relief from ringing too perceptibly within his voice, “Talking to Gladio was easier.”

            The Nyx Guard nods.

            He gives 05953234 another small, calming smile that makes something settle in his chest in a manner he thinks is rather pleasant.

            “I’m glad you think so, kiddo,” the Nyx Guard says. “Eat up and get some rest. My shift is over for the night, but a couple of my buddies are gonna be right outside, as usual, so just knock if you need anything, alright?”

            05953234 nods. “Yes, sir.”

            The Nyx Guard nods again and then heads out the door.

            When it closes behind him, a chime tolls announcing that the evening routine is beginning: he has two more hours before the lights cycle down for the night. They never go off entirely, but they dim down and transition over to a reddish hue that is very easy for 05953234 to get to sleep under. It’s much easier, he thinks, than getting to sleep in total blackness.

            Especially, with the incredible softness of the dormitory’s bed.

            It’s built for humans and 05953234 practically melts into the softness of it every time he can convince himself to lie down on it.

            The first few nights, he didn’t.

            He stood in the corner of the sanitation area, propped up against two tiled walls… it was the best imitation of the storage units he was supposed to be stored in during recharging cycles.

            But without the tightness of the restraints or the compression of the steel enclosure, he’d ended up curled on the floor anyway.

            And it had made the Guards and his new Commander visibly and vocally unhappy to find him there in the mornings.

            05953234 had then transitioned to standing by the bed, but without a corner to support him, he’d ended up on the floor even faster. Worse, once he’d fallen, he usually wound up latching onto the unbelievably soft bed covering – wrapping it around himself as shielding against the coolness of the night… coolness that wasn’t even truly bothersome, let alone anything close to debilitating. The Facility’s storage pods had always been far colder than the ambient temperature of this dorm ever got close to reaching.

            But… it made the Guards less upset to see him there in the mornings, curled up with the bed cover, than it had to see him in the sanitation area.

            Some of them had even sported that same kind of subtle smile the Nyx Guard wore as he’d left tonight. They’d approved of his use of the bedcovers – his new Commander had even explicitly commented on it… And they’d brought more of the bed covers – blankets, the humans called them – and suggested that they work better for their intended purpose when situated around him while he lay out on the bed.

            The first night he’d laid on the bed, they’d been vocally approving – though it had been almost impossibly difficult to rouse himself in the morning when his Guard had swept inside with his morning nutrition.

            So now he is constantly torn between wanting to let himself indulge in that incredible softness, and wanting to be able to rouse immediately when waking was required.

            05953234 is never fully confident in his choice, whether he decides to lay in the bed or curl up on the floor beside it, but at least he understands his current orders and can follow them with a moderate confidence: Eat up and get some rest.

            So, 05953234 savors every last delicious bite of human food he was permitted, uses the sanitation area to relieve himself of the day’s byproduct waste and clean himself up so as to avoid sullying the human bed more than necessary, and then slipped under the blankets with a shuddering sigh at the eternally mind-blowing degree of comfort and warmth and softness.

            He falls asleep almost instantly and doesn’t stir again until the morning.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 08: Mitigate

            05953234 is jolted into wakefulness when the clang of the dorm’s deadbolts disengaging sounds as the Guards open the door for his morning nutrition.

            There are always two Guards outside in the mornings; one that remains mostly silent and wears a uniform that had only one or two gold bits decorating it, and one that is always bright and talkative with lots of gold bits on their uniforms. The talkative one is always the one who brought in his tray of nutrition and set it on the table for him.

            Today it is one of the very few female Guards he’d seen with the special shiny bits on their uniforms, designation Crowe, 05953234 recalls – Crowe, Glaive Altius.

            She beams at him as she sets the tray down and he struggles to extract himself from the comfort of the bed – already dressed in the gray cover-all uniform he’s expected to wear during the day. The attire is a lot like the uniform he’d worn at the Facility, but like everything else inside the Citadel it’s far softer and more comfortable than anything 05953234 could have possibly imagined prior to experiencing it himself.

            “So, I hear you had an exciting encounter yesterday,” the Crowe Guard says with a bright smile as she settles into a seat at the small table built into the wall.

            “Yes,” 05953234 mumbles, coming to stand beside the table. He hesitates there for a second, still unused to sitting at a table with a human, but knowing that she expects him to join her. As he forces himself to sit down, he also forces himself to add, “With… Gladio.”

            She smiles even more brightly at him, approving of both his decision to sit down with her and to explain his encounter to her – and for doing both without being ordered to do either.

            It’s still strange, these assumed orders he’s learning that he ought to follow. Explaining things and sitting down with humans… all of it seems strange. But like the Nyx Guard asked about his meeting with Gladio… it’s a mostly good kind of strange… a strange that makes him feel better instead of scared or sad or worse.

            “I’m glad you had fun,” the Crowe Guard says, “Because it looks like Cor has another special meeting on your schedule for today – this time with Ignis. Did you meet him at all yesterday?”

            “Yes,” 05953234 says, feeling a slow creep of trepidation, at the thought of the Level Two Scientist and his very apparent frown, “I met Ignis yesterday.”

            The Crowe Guard nods. “I hear you were both a bit shook up by it,” she says, adding with a sweet lilt to her voice, “I think today will go much better for you both, fewer surprises and all.”

            “Yes,” 05953234 replies again, at a loss of what else he could say.

            There’s a pause then that makes it seem like his reply was… not wrong, exactly, but also was definitely not right.

            The Crowe Guard sighs.

            She pushes up from the table, saying, “I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast in peace, then.”

            05953234 nods, throat too tight to attempt another verbal response – which he thinks would’ve been another tally in the not quite right column, anyway.

            The Crowe Guard flashes a sympathetic smile that makes some of the ache ease in his shoulders and then leaves him alone in the dorm.

            He eats the human food slowly, savoring each bite as he completely cleans the tray.

            05953234 has been finished for several minutes before the door to his dorm opens again, but he’s still seated at the table. His new Commander didn’t seem to like it when he stood at attention in the middle of the room awaiting orders, as he had at the Facility once his storage pod had opened for the day.

            So, instead of standing at attention, he’s taken to maintaining the position of the last order he’d received and followed. For breakfast, that means remaining at the table.

            He’s no less alert or ready to accept orders, and he must admit that it feels better to be seated during the indeterminate stretches of time while he’s left unattended. That’s probably another symptom of whatever makes him a defective MT, but 05953234 carefully does not let himself think about that or any other implications that might make him fidget like a broken toy.

            He’s sitting perfectly still and ready for orders when his new Commander enters the dorm. It’s a struggle not to jump up to stand at attention, like it is every morning, but 05953234 manages to maintain his seated stillness.

            “Morning, kiddo,” Commander Cor says.

            “Yes,” 05953234 replies.

            It is morning. It’s always morning when Commander Cor comes in to fetch him after breakfast. He wonders why his new Commander feels the need to tell him it’s morning.

            There aren’t any windows, or visible clocks, just like in the Facility, but the dormitory here cycles through day time and night time lighting schedules that inform 05953234 of the approximate time.

            It’s not a burning question, though, and not something lacking in his understanding that’s detrimental to his ability to follow orders, so 05953234 doesn’t ask about it.

            “Time for your check-up,” Cor says, indicating that 05953234 should stand, now, and follow him out of the dormitory.

            05953234 knows what ‘check-up’ means, knows that he’s going to be taken to the two people in the white lab coats who look like Scientists but are called ‘Doctors’. He has seen them every day since they arrived at the Citadel. They poke at him with hands gloved in latex, and occasionally a cool metallic object – only externally, though, and they never poke hard.

            Not like the Scientists at the Facility.

            He’s still nervous when he’s led into the room and told to change into the hospital gown, and then to hop up to sit on their examination table – the setting is just too similar to the Scientists’ labs to make him feel like the Doctors are wholly separate entities from the Scientists.

            There is a male Doctor and a female Doctor and both give him a once-over before quietly conferring with Cor about how he ‘seems healthy’ and there’s been ‘no notable change’.

            Cor has been grumbling for the last two weeks that if there’s never any notable change they should probably assume that the changes have stopped and that they shouldn’t have to come back here every single day anymore like they’d needed to in the beginning.

            05953234 doesn’t wholly understand that, but he thinks it would be nice not to have to have a check-up every day. The Doctors have been nice and gentle, but… 05953234 shivers and tries not to think about it as he lets the Doctors do their jobs.

            Today, there are mentions of some bruising and stiffness, which has the Doctors concerned – because they haven’t been informed of his Assessment session with Gladio, 05953234 realizes. Cor does not inform them of the session now.

            He simply says there’s nothing to worry about.

            The Doctors look skeptical, but Cor is a commander and they move on without comment.

            The check-up finishes quickly after that and 05953234 is permitted to change back into his grey day clothes. They feel especially soft and warm and comfortable after the scratchy paper of the hospital gown – though even that arrangement is much more pleasant than laying naked on the metal tables of the Facility.

            After leaving the Doctors’ labs, Cor lays his hand on the back of 05953234’s and gives a gentle squeeze of his nape.

            It’s a gesture that used to make 05953234 flinch, but now… now it makes the riot of bubbles in his stomach settle and lets the painful tension in his shoulders ease slightly.

            “Alrighty, let's go see Ignis,” Cor says, sounding far more relieved about the turn in the situation than 05953234 suddenly feels.

            05953234 nods though, eager to keep his new commander as happy as possible in a desperate attempt to have that relative happiness translate into performance approval.

            He follows Cor out into the brightness of the narrow, stark hallway.

            The hallways outside his dorm and outside the Doctors’ labs are the only ones inside the Citadel that is at all reminiscent of the hallways from the Facility, and even then the comparison between them is weak – the bright lighting is different, and the constant presence of the human guards, even if the tightness and the empty blankness do feel similar.

            The rest of the Citadel is very different.

            Massive hallways that feel open and elegant, with wide windows and natural lighting and intricate details built into every possible surface. And so many humans moving around, mostly Guards, but there are signs of other people utilizing these spaces, too.

            It’s been nearly seven weeks of being stationed here, and 05953234 still hasn’t gotten used to any of it. He’s mostly been able to ignore the enormity of the strangeness, because it’s easy to fixate on controlling his own performances to improve his chances of being permitted to remain within the Citadel with Commander Cor for as long as possible.

            Cor leads him – with two of the Guards in less-shiny uniforms – to a medium-sized room with plush blue carpeting, a wall that is mostly made up of windows, and two other walls lined with shelving that holds hundreds of what 05953234 has come to know are books.

            The ‘study’, as the humans call it, has a round table set in the center of the room with three spindly-legged chairs and two smaller square tables in the corners near squat cushioned seating that the humans call ‘armchairs’. The round table has a central support column with no secure storage for the humans’ files – which 05953234 has decided is the main delineation between a ‘study’ and an ‘office’, which has a large rectangular desk with locked cabinets and a singular, study chair as the centerpiece.

            This table is set with human food 05953234 doesn’t quite recognize. Amber liquid fills a lidded glass container with a narrow spout, and a tray of things that look vaguely like tiny sandwiches – but all cut in perfect triangles.

            Cor pulls out one of the chairs and tells 05953234 to sit in it, and then takes a seat of his own after 05953234 complies. The two human Guards place themselves along the wall and fade into the background – quite effectively for humans, but still not with the perfect stillness of MTs.

            Almost as soon as the Guards settle into place there is a knock at the door.

            Cor shouts to allow entry and the Level Two Scientist from yesterday appears, escorted by one of the Guards with the extra shiny uniforms.

            05953234 stiffens in his chair, trying to sit as straight and proper as possible as the Scientist gives the commander a slight bow. Cor nods and begins piling the tiny plate in front of him with sandwiches from the center tower as the Scientist takes a seat in the remaining chair.

            Then the Scientist turns his gaze on 05953234.

            It’s an evaluative, piercing gaze and the Scientist is clearly not pleased with what he sees in 05953234, though his expression maintains that eerie neutrality he knows from the Scientists he was examined by at the Facility and back in Gralea’s Keep.

            The neutrality doesn’t last, though.

            The Level Two Scientist schools his expression into something like a smile and says with a clearly forced brightness in his accented tone, “Hello, my name is Ignis Scientia. We met very briefly yesterday, and I’m afraid I did not leave you with the best first impression. I hope you can forgive me for my egregious impropriety.”

            05953234 nods – at a loss of what else to do.

            He doesn’t understand most of the words the Scientist used, or the sentiments motivating them, but 05953234 can’t even fret over that because he’s still too caught up in attempting to process the smile. He doesn't understand why the 'scientist' label come after the individual designation for a Level Two Scientist but that confusion gets lost in the shuffle of his other confused worries.

            Scientists don’t smile. Not like that. Not in a way that seems friendly and open and like the smiles humans give each other.

            Scientists only smile before something happens that hurts, or immediately after – when they discover something interesting or unique, or when the uncover something that explains his poor performances that they think they can fix for him.

            He braces himself now, waits for the hurt – knows that it probably won’t come because they aren’t in a lab or anything like where the Scientists would usually operate, but he’s still surprised when nothing happens.

            05953234 waits a full minute before opening his eyes – wonders vaguely when he’d closed them to begin with. Looking up, he searches the Scientist for any hint of answers to the questions he’s not even sure how to form inside his own head. There’s nothing to see.

            The smile is still perfectly in place, still exactly as polite and friendly as it was when the Ignis Scientist first sat down with him and Cor.

            Looking to Cor, 05953234 finds that his situation is also the same. He’s eating the stack of tiny sandwiches he’d assembled earlier, keeping his eyes mostly on 05953234 when he’s not glancing at his food or the Ignis Scientist.

            At 05953234’s look, Cor shrugs.

            “It’s your show, kid,” Cor says. “Ignis wanted to meet you and he suggested that this little tea party might be fun for you.”

            05953234 nods again, though his motion is noticeably slow as he attempts to puzzle through Cor’s explanation.

            After a long stretch of silence, the Ignis Scientist leans forward slightly – drawing 05953234’s eyes back to him. The Scientist tips his head slightly when he notes that 05953234 is looking towards him and says, “I don’t mean to make you any more uncomfortable than necessary, though I sure this whole affair must seem rather strange to you… I do apologize for that. Unfortunately, I’m not certain how to remedy the issue. Perhaps you’d like to try the tea?”

            05953234 doesn’t understand.

            Any of it.

            Scientists don’t apologize. Ever.

            And they don’t usually cache their commands inside questions that sound like requests, especially not opinion oriented requests.

            05953234 would not like to try the tea, though… it does smell nice and he is as disappointing as always in that he feels a surge of curiosity towards exploring the human food he really shouldn’t be permitted to touch, let alone taste.

            At the same time, however, the command to try the tea is an order, even if it’s cached inside a suggestion… so maybe it’s okay for 05953234 to taste it…

            He gives the scientist a nod – too stilted to be considered an appropriate response at the Facility, but decisive and submissive enough to only cost him a few demerits rather than earn an immediate Correction.

            The Ignis Scientist gives a small nod back and the corners of his polite smile twitch up slightly into a more genuine indication of approval.

            05953234 responded correctly and met the unspoken expectations of the test – which is enough of a relief to allow the tightness in his chest to unfurl slightly. It’s enough to let him sit still and tamp down on the constant buzz of panic in the back of his head as he watches the Ignis Scientist picks up the glass container with the amber liquid.

            05953234 is fascinated as Ignis gives the container a gentle swirl that makes the liquid inside spin itself into a small tornado. Then Ignis, seemingly satisfied with the results of the liquid’s swirl, tips the container’s spout over a squat cup set on a delicate plate in front of 05953234’s right shoulder. Then he does the same to a cup set before his own shoulder.

            Ignis looks to Cor and gestures with the container.

            Cor raises his hand to decline and 05953234 suddenly worries that he should have declined as well… but then Cor turns to him and says, “I’m more of a coffee guy, I need the caffeine too much to like the taste of anything without it. But you might like it.”

            “This is a red tea,” Ignis says in a tone that sounds like agreement, “It’s a blend made to be smooth, calming, and lightly sweet, an evening tea. I chose it in hopes that you would find it exotic and new, but not quite overwhelming. I am aware that your culinary explorations have been quite limited. This blend is one of my favorites.”

            05953234 blinks, throat squeezing shut as he struggles to figure out how to respond – or if a response is even appropriate.

            A moment of quiet passes without either Cor or Ignis leveling him with the kind of expectant stare that means he needs to give an answer. It allows 05953234 to relax fractionally.

            He watches as Ignis delicately lifts the squat cup of tea and breathes in the steam rising off it before taking a long slow sip.

            Ignis sets the cup down just as delicately and it clinks against its little plate.

            Only then does Ignis raise his eyes to look at 05953234, firm suggestion in his gaze.

            He wants 05953234 to copy his motion. It’s a silent command, but 05953234 still feels the command in it and he hesitantly lifts his hands to the cup. His motion to raise the cup is clumsy, but he manages not to spill any of the liquid.

            05953234 copies Ignis by breathing in the steam and his eyes flicker closed as the intense aroma hits him – the scent is like nothing he’s ever encountered before, like nothing he could have imagined before. It’s warm and cool at once, and almost woodsy somehow… it smells like 05953234 felt after his third week with his new Commander, as they trekked through the sun-dappled forests of Duscae and 05953234 realized that he wanted to please his new commander out of some sort of warm feeling in his chest rather than out of cold, biting fear.

            05953234 puts his lips on the rim of the cup and is tasting the tea before he’s even fully realized that he’s moved at all.

            It tastes even more like a warm afternoon with a low-dipped sun than it smells like one.

            05953234 holds it on his tongue as long as he can before swallowing.

            It is astounding.

            This ‘red tea’ is a magical substance, surely.

            What 05953234 does not understand is why he is being permitted to taste it, being ordered to taste it, by a scientist—a scientist who was displeased with his performance from whatever that strange test had been yesterday.

            When 05953234 remembers that part, the lingering ‘red tea’ on his tongue turns bitter.

            He glances fearfully up to check the Scientist’s reaction to his effort to obey.

            The Scientist is peering at him, face blank of emotions in that odd way of all Scientists, but there’s a light in his eyes that makes 05953234 think dangerously of approval.

            “Do you find the taste to be a pleasant one?”

            It’s an opinion question. But it’s also not. Not really. It’s an objective assessment: pleasant or unpleasant, not a question of appeal.

            The question is perplexing, but 05953234 finds that it’s not paralyzingly unanswerable.

            In fact, it’s actually quite easily answerable.

            “Yes,” 05953234 states, “The taste is pleasant.”

            The Scientist’s eyes sparkle, somehow seeming triumphant despite nothing else about his expression changing. He doesn’t look over at 05953234’s Commander, and neither does 05953234, but 05953234 is distinctly aware of Cor shifting in his seat by the table.

            “I understand that opinions are difficult for you right now,” the Scientist mentions after a moment, “But I hypothesized that a qualitative assessment of specific traits may be manageable and it seems I have been proved correct.”

            This statement does not require a response, for which 05953234 is grateful.

            He wouldn’t have any idea how to respond if one were required.

            He glances at his Commander, who is looking between him and the Scientist with an expression that almost seems… impressed.

            It’s a dramatically affecting thing.

            05953234’s belly fills with a strange warmth, a tension that feels like it’s chewing him up from the inside out… but in a way that feels… good.

            It makes 05953234 short circuit.

            Before the short can register into a full malfunction, the Scientist draws his full attention away from his Commander.

            “We wish to help you, dear one,” the Scientist says—voice soft and soothing in a way that startles 05953234, in a way that makes the prickle of anxious fear trail along his shoulders. “We simply do not yet understand how to help you.”

            The Scientist’s words are like honey, like the alluring drip of hot wax right before it pillowed onto his bare skin with a searing pain that lingered long after the wax or hot honey or whatever else they were using on him had congealed and crumbled away.

            He doesn’t trust the sound, though everything in him aches with want to do so.

            He doesn’t trust it because he can’t—can’t fathom a reason to want to trust, to even have a vague hope that such kindness might be something he deserves.

            This is a Scientist.

            A Stage Two Scientist, but still a Scientist.

            Scientists do not inspire good feelings, their role is to study and study of an MT results in very little for the subject but pain.

            “We are trying our best,” the Scientist tells him, promising, “You will never be hurt, never intentionally harmed, while you are here and if something does hurt you, be it a physical or emotional pain, you must tell us. Can I count on you to try alerting us to your discomfort?”

            05953234 frowns, confused.

            He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

            Doesn’t know what sort of response would even be appropriate...

            Fortunately, something happens that renders a response unnecessary: the door opens.

            The movement is abrupt and jarring in contrast to the previous stillness, and the Scientist’s clear alarm at the situation doesn’t help 05953234 feel any more calm about it.

            He knows what the proper MT protocols dictate he do: hold still and await orders.

            It’s easy for him to settle in to wait.

            He looks to his Commander and is not shocked to see a glower on his face. Commanders are frequently displeased when their private meetings are disrupted.

            Cor does not stand, but the Scientist does.

            “Highness—” his voice his icy as he tips his head, “—You are supposed to be in class.”

            “Yeah,” the new comer says with a shrug. “I skipped that.”

            The words are casual, and the posture gives the illusion of ease, but there’s something about the unassuming Level Two Human-something that makes 05953234 wary. He’s lean, though not as lean as any of the MT’s 05953234 has met… but still, he’s definitely not a fully developed human. He’s not a mini-Scientist. And he’s not a mini-Guard, not a soldier at all…

            There’s a fight-readiness in him, and his body is built with muscle—under-developed as it is for a grown-human, the muscle pack seems like it’s probably significant for a Level Two.

            And there’s a… a vibe… a sense of challenge, of authority that 05953234 doesn’t quite have the proper means of understanding. He's like... well... he's like a mini-Commander, if 05953234 has to make a connection. He doesn't think Commanders come in miniaturized form, but if they ever could be considered to have proto-developmental stages, 05953234 thinks they'd probably look at lot like this.

            “How did you get here?” the Scientist asks.

            With a sassy huff, the newcomer returns, “Walked, actually. Only warped twice. And that was mostly to save time. Some guards seem to actually respect the Royal order here.”

            The Scientist rolls a muscle in his jaw.

            “How did you find us?”

            This makes a smirk break out across the expression on the new comer’s face, an expression than had previously been kept extremely smooth by force of will.

            “You know that phone app you use every few months when I lose my cell? Yeah, well, you never turned it off, and that locator beacon works both ways,” the human announces.

            There’s a moment of tense quiet.

            The human bears a distinct air of victory.

            And then the Scientist sighs, cementing the sense of triumph to the new human.

            “And why are you here, exactly?”

            “I wanna talk to him.”

            The human’s cold blue eyes, sharp and calculating, cut straight to 05953234 as he speaks. It leaves no question as to who he means, and it makes 05953234’s stomach sink.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 09: Aggravate

            It’s one thing to be misled by the high-ranking old fogies in charge of the various branches of his father’s Council. Those crusty old goats were behind the times before he was born, and they’ve only gotten further out of sync with what’s reasonable.

            It’s an entirely different thing to be mislead by his own advisors.

            To be lied to, directly to his face…

            Lied to by people he was starting to believe could be his friends.

            Noctis Lucis Caelum is not just the doddering, useless teenager he projects and while it’s extremely useful for people to forget that, there are some days when Noct decides it’s time to remind everyone exactly who they have training to take the Throne.

            It starts with Gladio.

            It starts when Gladio sends him a text message to cancel their afternoon training session.

            At first, it hardly seems unusual. It’s just after 10am on a Sunday when the text comes in, and that seems normal because Gladio likes to give as much warning as possible when the schedules change, but most things able to affect the Crown Prince of Lucis’s schedule don’t give much prior notice on the best of days.

            But something about the way Gladio explains it, about the exact wording he uses to give Noct the afternoon off because he’s gotten caught up in some Sheild-in-Training business… it strikes Noct as stilted—distracted in a way that means that Gladio is more unsettled than usual.

            So, it’s probably not a typical Shield-thing that’s pulling him away from his duties with Noct. And since the things that could usually pull him away from Noct involve high-level government and military secrets that Noct can admit are occasionally enough to turn his stomach… something unusual enough to get Gladio feeling off must be big.

            Noct doesn’t really care, though.

            If it’s relevant to him, someone will eventually explain it, and if it’s not, he doesn’t really want to bother with any of it. He’s got enough of a workload already.

            Noct takes his time with rolling out of bed. And he takes his time getting dressed enough to pass Ignis’s lowest bar of daytime preparation before he wanders out into the main room of his quarters in the Citadel to see what Ignis has cooked up for breakfast.

            When he gets around to heading out there, the first thing he sees is the Chamberlain-to-be frowning at his phone.

            That is unusual.

            Not on its own, really.

            Ignis gets lots of news he’s not happy with via secure text message.

            But there’s a general annoyance kind of frown, and then there’s this kind of frown. This is the general annoyance of changing plans, but it’s layered over something more acutely irked—over something sharp and distinctly irritated… something surprised.

            Ignis didn’t know anything was up today even ten minutes before Noct did.

            It was probably Gladio’s own text that alerted him to the schedule change that was his first heads up that anything at all unusual was happening today.

            But Ignis knows everything.

            Like everything everything.

            He’s got his fingers in more top secret files than anyone but Noct suspects and he keeps all that information to himself, like a good super-spy ought to, but he always has it at hand.

            Ignis doesn’t get surprised.

            And he definitely doesn’t get surprised by anything happening inside the Citadel itself.

            That’s just basically an impossible feat by now.

            So, if Ignis was blindsided by the whatever that’s happening to call Gladio away from his training duties with Noct, then something hella big is happening.

            Something so big and so utterly tippy-top-secret that it is likely being kept from Ignis knowingly and intentionally. Which means it’s also being kept from Noct.

            And while Noct doesn’t usually care about matters of State, he does care about allowing other people to dictate what he’s permitted to care about. And if they’re all hiding this from Ignis, and therefore from him, intentionally, then somebody clearly thinks he might care enough to butt in… and whoever it is doesn’t want him to participate.

            Which, obviously, makes Noctis very keen on doing so.

            “Something's up in the Citadel today, Iggy,” Noct announces conspiratorially as he sits down and Ignis presents his breakfast. He shoves a bite of omelette into his mouth with only the barest second given to curling his nose at the sight of a few dark leaflets of spinach tucked inside the eggy folds, and pushed, “I think we should investigate.”

            “Investigate, Highness?” Ignis asks dryly, “Whatever for?”

            It’s just the standard Iggy-dissuasion pitch, meant to discourage Noct from doing something reckless and stupid simply because he hasn’t thought it through.

            But this doesn’t take much thinking to see and Noct pushes onward undissuased.

            “Whatever's going on is obviously important,” Noct lays out, distrustfully examining a cheese-covered mushroom before popping it into his mouth. “And you're always on me about 'taking an interest in the Citadel's ongoing affairs, as they will eventually fall to my discretion'.”

            There’s a twitch in Ignis’s expression that makes Noct suppress a smile by popping the mushroom on his fork into his mouth.

            Using Ignis against Ignis is the only truly reliable way to defeat him in an argument.

            It almost always works.

            Ignis argues with himself for a moment, the internal debate clearly leaning in Noct’s favor from the onset—apparently, Ignis is also curious as to what’s happening today.

            He likes having information deliberately kept from him even less than Noct does.

            Noct won this contest before he even opened his mouth, he’s sure of it.

            Which means he has a bitter bite of cheese-coated veggies in his mouth by the time Ignis sighs in defeat and Noct’s flooded with triumphant glee. The bitterness balances the victory and keeps his smile mostly neutral as Ignis cedes, “Alright then, Highness, as you wish.”

            But Ignis, of course, has a few conditions to his surrender and he lists them out while Noct fights a groan at the monotony, saying, “If you finish all of your homework for tomorrow, including the brief for the Council Meeting you are scheduled to attend, then we shall do a little digging into what is the cause of today's excitement.”

            Noct deflates outwardly, but he’s also privately relieved.

            He’s almost done with his homework—having gotten a lighter load than usual because there’s some sort of teacher-conference coming up next week—and the stupid brief for the Council Meeting is something he’d’ve had to go over eventually anyway. Getting it out of the way now means he’ll have more time, and more leverage, to use in getting Ignis to allow him to play video games during the middle of the week.

            All in all, it’s set to work out rather well for him.

            And he gets to use his Sunday to solve a mystery, which is basically a real life video game, so even with the brief today and the conscious avoidance of any mention of wanting to play later this week he gets to enjoy a little game play today.

            He takes his time getting through his homework.

            If he finishes too quickly, Ignis will want to go over every single answer to make certain that he didn’t just rush through it all.

            The other thing that going slow allows is for Ignis to do his own research into what’s up in the Citadel today. He has his own work to do as well, but if Ignis isn’t the best person alive at the art of multi-tasking, Noct will eat his shoe. And if Ignis isn’t hell bent on exploiting that talent of his to ensure that Noct won’t be walking into something truly dangerous by exploring whatever it is that’s being kept from them, Noct will eat a whole bag of green beans.

            There’s a moment when Ignis looks up at him, when he thinks Noct is concentrating very hard on a math problem he’s already solved but hasn’t written down yet, that makes Noct feel distinctly unsettled.

            Noct is the Crown Prince of Lucis, as much as he tries to ignore that fact, and the primary reason that Ignis is even in contact with him is not because they are friends, but because Ignis is being trained to become Noct’s Chamberlain. He has a responsibility to the Crown that he lives for, quite literally in some worst case scenarios, and he takes that responsibility seriously.

            While Noct wants to think of them as friends, and while Ignis has reported a similar urge and demonstrated a willingness to try despite Noct’s grumping, they are not friends.

            Not really, not in the way Ignis could be friends with anyone else.

            So, he may decide to put his duty to his Kingdom first and refuse to allow Noct to investigate whatever’s happening.

            Noct’s not sure what he’d do with that.

            Do about that… because he wants to be Ignis’s friend, but if Ignis puts his Princeliness before his Humanness… on something as little as figuring out why the grown up are hiding something from him like he’s still just a scared little kid in a wheelchair…

            They’re gonna have to deal with the fact that Noct can’t let himself be pittied like that anymore. He doesn’t want to be handled with kid-gloves, and a friend could see that. A mere retainer might not… But Ignis is… Ignis is more than that.

            He has to be.

            Or Noct… or Noct can’t be sure he can trust his own assessments of people anymore.

            Eventually, the homework gets finished, and the brief gets fully reviewed. Ignis quizzes him on all his answers, to ensure that he actually did the work and is retaining the information, but they at least don’t have to go over everything line by line.

            And as Noct’s stomach begins to twist itself up in anxious certainty that Ignis is about to call him out to Cor and get him grounded for a month, Ignis sighs heavily.

            “Where would you like to start?”

            The simple question sends a flood of relief barreling through Noct and he leaps up with excitement. His bout of raging anxiety means he actually has no idea where the best place to start would be, but he can BS a bit of confidence on the fly.

            Logically, the very first thing they should do is check on Gladio and where Gladio’s scheduled to be. Noct’s practice in the private chambers of upper practice levels may have been called off, but Gladio’s practice there may not have been canceled as well.

            It’s a place to start that sounds like he’s put thought into it, and if he doesn’t have much of a search pattern in mind outside of how he’d clear a building of enemy combatants in his current video game, he can very carefully bluff his way into pretending it’s a valid strategy.

            The walk to the training grounds gives him time to think of a better plan, but the more he thinks on it, the more he feels like his gut instinct was right on the money.

            Security is tight.

            Just as tight as it would be were Noct actually IN the training hall.

            Most of the guards smirk like it’s amusing to see him marching in so late, his advisor at his ear like he’s corralling a lost puppy. Noct lets them think whatever they like so long as they let him pass without raising any resistance.

            He does stick to the lesser-used routes.

            The ones where they’ll be sure to meet as few guards as possible and have the biggest gap between the last layer of security and the door to the room they’re heading for, but he doesn’t so much sneak as he does creatively navigate.

            They make it through the last set of doors before the empty corridor that’s always kept entirely empty when the Prince is training so that no one outside of his father’s approved training staff can get a solid measure of the Prince’s fighting abilities and Noct gives a sigh of relief. That relief is quickly sucked away as he spies a Kingsglaive standing guard. He’s tucked into the nook meant for just that purpose halfway down the corridor, which means he sees Noct a few significant seconds before Noct sees him.

            The Glaive is across the hall and ducking into the training room before Noct gets his wits together. He’s warping half a second after the Glaive disappears, but he doesn’t quite make it to the room before the Glaive’s warning lands with the occupants.

            They’re already halfway through an evacuation before Noct makes it inside.

            All he gets is a glimpse of blonde hair, and blurry look at a small body being hefted into strong arms that carry him away like a sack of very confused ducklings.

            There’s no noise from the Nif, no protest, no mocking cackle… no shriek of pain, either, though the positioning of the Glaive’s arms around him had to have been painful.

            The sight had made Noct wince, though some of the automatic sympathy was on behalf of his own back injury and the inevitable flare-ups that being carried away like that would cause.

            Regardless, that was a Nif.

            Inside the Citadel.

            Inside his training room.

            A soldier of the Niflheim Empire was here.

            And being very specifically hidden from Noct.

            That thing is still inside the Citdel, inside Noct’s home.

            A rage rises in him like nothing he’s ever felt before.

            But anger won’t get him answers, not right now. He shoves the feeling down as he shoves his hands in his pockets. He knows it’s a flimsy façade, but he tries to keep his face and tone as close to casual as he can when he asks, “So, who’s the Nif?”

            His words are biting despite his best effort.

            But that’s never been enough to cause Gladio to flinch, and though it’s subtle, Gladio definitely flinches at the question.

            Interesting.

            It’s weird, honestly, but it’s probably an unhelpful weird.

            Gladio is not about to let Noct run after the Glaive and his little Nif puppet—he’s already angled his posture to keep himself between Noct and the door.

            But he might let Ignis get away with it…

            Ignis had sprinted down the hall after Noct, and he’d surely arrived in time to see enough bright blond to know what was up, so Noct covers as Ignis leans around Gladio’s frame to follow the Glaive’s exit—leaning slightly to the other side as Gladio formulates a response.

            “It’s nothing,” Galdio barks, utterly unconvincing. “It’s just a captured peasant, found alive in a village near Tenebrae after the Glaive cleared out the Empire’s soldiers.”

            It’s an idiotically obvious lie.

            But it’s also clearly the best lie Gladio could manage.

            He’s very unsettled by what’s happening. By who that kid was, because the more Noct thinks on the brief flash he got, the more he’s convinced it wasn’t a grown-up being carted off.

            He didn’t get a good look, but he’s not stupid.

            Noct knows what he saw, and he’s got a naturally good memory and the training to make it into a great memory, so he’s entirely certain of how the prisoner was being held.

            And it was not the way a grown-up would be forcibly maneuvered.

            “Obviously,” Noct scoffs, trying to play along to test the waters of whatever this is, “Can’t be much if you get to play with him.”

            Another flinch.

            On the word ‘play’, this time—pretty distinctly.

            Yup. Definitely a Nif kid then.

            Because Gladio’s soft as a sylleblossem when it comes to kids—any kids, even Nif ones, it seems—and he’d never be able to force himself to miss the connection between ‘play’ and a kid.

            Gladio doesn’t know what he gave away, and Ignis is distracted by whatever he spotted heading out the door—and figuring out a means of tracking those subjects down, probably.

            The prince smirks, but doesn't pause long enough to force Gladio to drum up a reasonable pretense of  sarcastic aggravation for a remotely believable retort before he asks, “So, what were you doing with him?”

            “Practice interrogation,” Gladio replies, terse in his usual short and sweet manner, but the response still lacking a certain something in the gruffness. “It's not often a Nif lives long enough to make it back here, and when he made it through Cor's rigmarole... they decided that I'm old enough to have a little exposure to that side of things.”

            “Here? Why not in like an actual interrogation room?”

            “A traditional interrogation is not always effective when endeavoring to acquire information,” Ignis steps in. “Particularly when it is unlikely that the skills developed during the practice will not be utilized in a traditional interrogation. Most of my mock interrogations have taken place in circumstances that mimic Royal Galas. While Gladio's future as your Shield ensures that he will enact traditional interrogations, citizens and soldiers from Niflheim are certain to be rare subjects. I'm sure they require unique security measures.”

            Gladio gives a carefully nonchalant nod and snarks, "What he said."

            Noctis bites down his frustration and pretends not to notice the coordination between his two retainers. They’re working together now, to keep him out of whatever this is, and Noct is sure as hell that he does not like it.

            He has hope that Ignis is just playing up to Gladio, convincing him that they’re on the same side so he can get Gladio to give over the kind of privileged information he wants.

            But there’s also the possibility that Ignis has decided that this is too dangerous for Noct to be directly involved.

            Noct doesn’t let that possibility distract him.

            He shoots Ignis one last measuring look and then focuses on allowing the Advisor to escape the room more or less unnoticed.

            Noct distracts Gladio by baiting him into grousing about how if Noct’s so eager to be getting in on dealing with the infestation of Nifs they’ve got everywhere, he may as well funnel that eagerness into training up enough to actually fight them.

            It lets Ignis get away, and it lets Noct see just how unsettled whatever is happening has Gladio. This thing has gotten deep under the tough-as-nails skin of his Sheild-to-be.

            Gladio doesn’t go easy on Noct.

            If anything, he goes twice as hard…

            Like he’s afraid of what he’s learned about the Nif.

            Like he’s afraid for Noct because of it, but also like he’s just afraid—like he’s just so bluntly terrified of what he’s leaned about the Empire’s monstrosity that he needs to train himself and everyone he cares for up enough to survive something inhumanly brutal.

            Gladio goes way overboard on Noct.

            But somehow, Noct doesn’t mind it.

            Somehow it feels like Noct’s doing this shit for a reason and that reason is worth it.

            They stop before things get too out of hand. It’ll still make Noct ache in the morning, but it shouldn’t cause a bad flare-up of the chronic pain he’s suffered since his injury.

            As soon as Noct gets back to his room, he texts Ignis.

            So, what'd you get on the Nif after you snuck off?

            He doesn’t collapse into bed like he wants to, because if anything is gonna cause a flare-up it’s going straight to bed still hot and aching from his super-charged work-out. He did the PT exercises he was supposed to use to cool down, and his stroll back to his room let the worst of the acid build up work it’s way out… but he needs a hot shower that he can transition into an ice-cold bath as the tension turns over and relaxes into soreness.

            It takes an hour to manage, and then the last round of PT cool-down adds another forty minutes on to the end of it.

            When Noct finishes, he dives into bed and snatches at his phone.

            Ignis hasn’t answered.

            Ignis hasn’t even officially read his message, let alone answered it.

            Knowing full well that Ignis could read his short text through the lock screen without indicating that he’s read it, Noct feels it’s safe to assume that Ignis is ignoring him.

            There’s a convention between them—a sort of not entirely unofficial, but also very much not actually official rule—and it means that Ignis will respond to any of Noct’s texts or emails within two hours. Always. And if Noct actually calls, unless Ignis is with the King, Clarus, or Cor directly, he will pick up regardless of where he is or what he’s doing.

            It’s been almost two hours and Ignis still hasn’t even officially read the message.

            It put Noctis on edge.

            He doesn’t like things being kept from him, especially not like this.

            He’d thought that he and Ignis were on the same side here, but now that eternal doubt he has about everyone except his father is creeping back in… maybe Ignis is only friendly with him because being his friend gives him the advantage when attempting to corral him… maybe Ignis never intended to share what information he’s managed to acquire…

            Because Ignis knows.

            By now, Ignis probably knows as much about whatever’s going on as Noct’s own father does—possibly more, because the King may not have yet been briefed on what happened this afternoon… And it’s likely Ignis could understand the science-speak of any reports on the Nif laboratories that squirt of a soldier came out of better than anyone—because he could connect it to strategy reports and military assessments in a way none of Insomnia’s other scientific minds could ever hope to manage.

            So, if Ignis doesn’t tell him what’s going on, it’s not because he doesn’t know.

            It’s because he doesn’t want Noctis to know.

            And Noctis will not tolerate any of that shit from someone who’s supposed to be his friend. Someone he’s supposed to trust.

            From the very person he’s supposed to trust when he cannot even trust himself.

            He falls asleep before Ignis replies.

            And he wakes up only after Ignis has left his quarters after having prepped his dinner.

            It pisses Noct off like nothing else.

            He’s the frickin Crown Prince of Lucis.

            He will not be ignored, and he will not be avoided.

            He is not some child to be minded, some stray noble nosing into things they have no reason to poke at… He is the Heir to the last great Kingdom on Eos. He is the King-to-be that was chosen by the Astrals to save the frickin world.

            He will not be cast aside.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 10: Appropriate

            Noct is pissed and he obviously has every right to be.

            Ignis’s dinner is a clear apology.

            It’s a seafood pasta alfredo, with not a veggie in sight.

            And he left a gift of strudel for dessert.

            Strudel is one of Ignis’s go-to choices for stress-baking.

            And there’s a note with it, saying that Ignis has been swept up into some etiquette emergency nonsense by the Council. Noct will be driven to school in the morning by Glaive Ulric. And Ignis will tell Noct everything he can when he is able.

            It’s better than the answer to his text.

            That was a simple ‘Nothing of note’, and a wish for Noct to sleep well.

            BS to even the lay-est of laymen. It wouldn’t even take a liar to sniff out the shit in that statement. A stupid kid could read that much before they could even walk, probably.

            And Noct is done with that shit.

            He goes to bed. Sleeps well enough. Wakes up in plenty of time to get ready for class.

            There’d been another batch of strudel delivered to his quarters for his breakfast.

            He chomps on it angrily, trying not to let how good it tastes distract him from the fact that it’s blatant bribery at best.

            When it’s time to leave, Noct grabs his bag but doesn’t actually ensure that anything he needs is even in it before he slings it over his shoulder and marches down to the car loop.

            Kingsglaive Nyx Ulric is waiting for him at the car.

            His face is stoic and reserved like it should be for a man of his position, but his eyes have that characteristic sparkle to them that always throws his thin charade of propriety under a bus.

            Today, his eyes are sympathetic.

            It’s not pity, for which Noct is grateful, but it is… it’s uncomfortable.

            “I don’t think he’ll hurt you,” Nyx opens in a low voice after they pull out of the loop and onto the streets of Insomnia beyond the high walls of the Citadel.

            Noct knows exactly who Nyx means.

            And knows that he’s probably risking his job right now to speak so openly of it in a car that’s probably bugged up to its last weld.

            He’s speaking quietly enough, and timing it well enough to the rev of the engine, that his words might not be able to be picked up by anyone listening in, and Noct keeps his eyes on the blurry haze beyond the window to keep up the façade of no conversation.

            “If you’re gonna run, a straight course is always best,” Nyx goes on. “If you’re not being shot at, there’s no reason to evade. Straight is fast enough to get away before anyone can react even if you’re spotted en route. If you sneak, all you’ll do is give your opponents more time to react.”

            Noct squints at him, finds that Nyx is eyeing him in the review mirror with a deathly serious expression. Noct gives a nod of acknowledgement.

            “You’ll never make it unless you know exactly where you’re going,” Nyx cautions.

            “I know where Ignis is,” Not response just as hushed.

            It’s his only lead.

            If Ignis isn’t with the Nif kid, Noct is gonna be in big trouble for what he’s got planned.

            Nyx nods.

            It’s all the confirmation Noct needs.

            He gives a nod in return, his thanks as clear as he can make it.

            Nyx just flashes a smirk, but there’s worry in it. Not worry for the prince’s safety, or worry for his own job security, but for something else… Something serious.

            Noct gets the idea that Nyx is doing this knowingly, doing this intentionally so that Noct and the Nif being kept from him will have the opportunity to meet.

            He’s not really sure if that should make him feel better about what he’s planning to do, or if it should make him even more anxious with trepidation.

            They don’t speak any more for the duration of the drive.

            Nyx stops the car inside the school grounds, parking right on the curve of sidewalk that leads up to the steps of the main building. He takes his time in walking around to open the door for his Prince and he flashed Noct one last conspiratorial grin as he ducks down in a cavalier approximation of a respectful bow.

            Noct gives a nod in return, slings his bag over his shoulder, and marches into the school building with his shoulder set in proud determination.

            He feels almost like he’s walking into a Court Function at the Citadel where half the nobles are privately expecting him to fail miserably.

            Noct doesn’t pause at the lockers to change his shoes from his street wear to the indoor ones provided for his school uniform.

            Instead, he detours along the outermost hallway, the one that takes him past the cafeteria, and the gymnasiums, and the art buildings. He follows it all the way out to the back steps and then keeps walking straight towards the wall that secures the school’s grounds.

            Then, with the motion as fluid as he’s ever managed it, Noct draws a dagger from the Armiger and flings it upward in a graceful arc. Then he draws on the full power of his Lucis Caelum heritage and hurls himself bodily through the fabric of reality, fragmenting himself and reconstructing the pieces around the orientation point of the dagger he’d just thrown.

            Then, from thirty feet up in the air, he repeats the process to land, perfectly unharmed, on the ground outside the school’s thick wall.

            Once safely on the ground, Noct shoves his school bag into the Armiger at the same time he releases his dagger back to its hold, and then he takes off at a dead sprint for the Citadel.

            The route he takes leads him along the city’s upper beltway, a road-deck that closed to traffic between 10am and 2pm—opened to civilian traffic, street fairs, and often used as a Royal Parade ground to give the people very near access to the Royals during holidays and such. At 8am on a weekday the place is still packed with cars but waiting for the traffic to peter out is not the main reason Noct chose this route. He chose it for its significant lack of intersections and the directness of its course towards the Citadel.

            The few intersections he does come to are far enough between for him to recover his magical energies enough to warp through them without waiting for a break in traffic.

            He almost throws himself into stasis anyway, but he needs to get back to the citadel before the report that he’s been marked absent from school makes it to people able to scramble an armed response to it. If they’re already on high alert when he reaches the gates, he’ll never make it all the way to wherever Ignis is before he’s caught and dragged before his Dad to explain what the hell he was thinking.

            When the Citadel comes into sight—with no notable signals of heightened security yet visible— Noct spurs himself harder to reach it. He warps over the main gate, causing a stir among the Crownsguard but there’s no Glaive near enough to act—or maybe Nyx got to whoever was in charge of posting Glaive here this morning and ensured that they’d be onboard with acting just oblivious enough to let him through without significant challenge.

            Noct doesn’t linger on the puzzling thought.

            Instead he dives into the tunnels that will take him to the Citadel’s core and whips his cell phone out of the Armiger—calling up the program he devised for his plan while he’d been restless last night. It’s a program that was originally designed to help Ignis manage his duties as Noct’s Advisor—a program to locate Noct’s phone to within a foot of three dimensional space.

            It was supposed to be for emergencies, because though Noct very rarely misplaced his phone, if he ever did, the loss was an actual National Security crisis… But since Noct was a responsible phone owner the app mostly let Ignis locate Noctis himself whenever he chose to sneak off and hide to avoid training with Gladio.

            But as Noct had discovered in his scheming last night, the app worked both ways.

            And because Ignis liked to make his very difficult job as easy on him as it could possibly be, he’d left the app’s location functions on even though he’d dismissed the app from active use.

            It meant that Noct now knows exactly where he’s going when he hits the elevators in West Tower. The app registers that the phone is pretty high up, but with his warp-training allowing him to calculate how many feet makes up each of the Citadel’s varied ceiling heights, he’s able to figure out that Ignis is on the 48^th floor—a level primarily devoted to offices and small private studies.

            Noct uses the elevator ride to catch his breath, and to pinpoint the direction he will have to run in once the doors open. It looks like he’ll have to make a few turns to make it there, the office/study where Ignis is currently located seems to be an interior one—well away from any windows or main traffic passages.

            While it makes running there a slower feat, it does mean that there are fewer guards between him and his target. He’ll probably only have to warp twice. Once as soon as the elevator opens and once passed the lookouts posted at the end of the hall along which the door to the room where Ignis is should be centered.

            Mentally, he prepares for whatever it takes to get where he’s going.

            The Glaive will recognize his Royal colors and know well enough not to attack with immediately lethal force until they can ascertain the true threat level. And Noct doesn’t need to beat the guards, he just needs to get passed them.

            Once he’s in the room with whatever secret his friends and family and their own subjects have been keeping from him, he’ll be able to make things settle down enough to sort things out by royal command. But if they stop him before he’s actually in the room with the Nif, he can rant and rail all he wants without being able to make them admit the Nif even exists.

            The elevator dings upon its arrival at the proper floor.

            Noct tenses his muscles to warp and counts down the excruciating wait until the doors roll open on the hallway. As expected, there’s two guards posted just a few yards beyond, at the edge of the elevator landing—guards meant to ensure that anyone stepping out onto this level is someone with the proper permissions to be here.

            They’ve grown complacent with the quiet corner they’ve been charged with guarding and Noct manages to warp straight passed them before they even realize they should probably get off their asses and attempt to stop him.

            They’re still shouting when he disappears around the first corner, and their shouts are muffled almost entirely by the time he makes it around the second one.

            The final corner proves him right a second time, with a lookout posted to prevent anyone from snooping too close, but Noct blazes passed him in an explosion of crystalline blue.

            A moment later, he lands directly before the door of his destination and slams it open with a triumphant push inside.

            Everyone freezes, both inside the room and out.

            It allows Noct to take a panting breath and step more securely inside—gaze locked directly on the mop of blonde hair covering the back of the Nif’s head.

            The Nif is sitting with his side exposed to Noctis, but he’s looking away from him—across the table he’s sitting at to stare at Cor Leonis.

            The Immortal is glowering at Noct—from across a table set with what looks like an afternoon tea of all things—but his glare is not harsh with nearly fury enough to ruffle Noct’s feathers while he’s already so fired up about this.

            Cor does not stand, and neither does the Nif, but Ignis—always a stickler for showing proper decorum—does. He gives a sarcastically respectful tip of his head as he greets, “Highness, you’re supposed to be in class.”

            His tone is scathing.

            But Noct’s got a long list of people who will be lecturing him over this ridiculous stunt and Ignis was already on it, so Noct doesn’t even bat an eye.

            “Yeah. I skipped that,” Noct replies with a pointedly nonplussed shrug.

            His statement makes the Nif turn around to face him and Noct’s eyes narrow as his gaze rakes over his first good look at the kid—and it is a kid, Noct notes to confirm what he’d thought he’d seen when the Glaive from yesterday had carried the Nif out of the training rooms.

            Noct is tensed with a degree of fight-readiness, just in case the Nif decides to try to pull something in the confusion of Noct’s unexpected arrival. He’s keeping up a thin veneer of easy non-concern, but he knows that Cor and Ignis can see right through it.

            They’re both tense as well, Ignis far more so than Cor.

            But the Nif… the Nif is a limp noodle, gooier than the microwave ramen Gladio sneaks into the training halls on weekends when Noct’s actually put in a reasonable effort with training.

            Noct is so caught up in trying to evaluate that strangeness that he nearly misses it when Ignis asks tersely, “How did you get here?”

            With a smug huff that he just knows will rankle Ignis’s last nerve, Noct replies, “Walked, actually. Only warped twice. And that was mostly to save time. Some guards seem to actually respect the Royal order here.”

            It’s technically true, after all—at least, in terms of once he’d gotten inside the Citadel.

            And Nyx had helped him manage the feat, so … even his snub is kind of based in truth.

            (Though how much Nyx Ulric actually respects Royalty is honestly a bit debatable…)

            Noct is not so caught up in his own smugness that he misses the way a muscles rolls in Ignis’s jaw like he’s trying very hard not to shout at his Prince in front of the Marshall.

            All the observation does is bolster Noct’s insufferable grin.

            After taking a beat to collect himself, Ignis asks, “How did you find us?”

            He sounds genuinely concerned by the question, by one of the near-infinite implications of the potential possibilities that his genius-brain has come up with while the rest of him has been floundering with shock at Noct’s arrival.

            More than mildly proud of himself for having managed to get one over on Ignis, Noct carefully lays his out explanation: “You know that phone app you use every few months when I lose my cell? Yeah, well, you never turned it off, and that locator beacon works both ways.”

            Ignis blinks.

            Noct’s long history with him means that he sees more than just surprise in the reaction, he sees that Ignis is impressed.

            And despite his obvious annoyance, anxiety, and anger, he’s also a bit proud.

            Though, he’s probably wishing desperately that Noct would ever otherwise deign to show such effective resourcefulness… and he’s probably irked that none of this cleverness ever makes it into any of Noct’s school assignments.

            But whatever.

            School is annoying.

            And it’s just so much more rewarding to ignore his classwork and then be able to surprise his retainer like this. Doing well in school is just too expected of him to matter…

            There’s a tense moment of quiet at Ignis has an internal debate—and must, again, restrain the urge to shout the slew of admonishments clearly on the tip of his tongue.

            But then Ignis sighs.

            And admits defeat by asking, “And why are you here, exactly?”

            The question gets Noct refocused.

            It dulls a little of the shine from his victory, and a scowl settles over his expression as he turns his attention back to the Nif.

            “I wanna talk to him.”

            The Nif is looking at him now, unblinking.

            He pulls back his posture as Noct stares him down—absurdly, it almost seems like he wants to look to Cor for confirmation that any of this is allowed.

            Noct wants to eye Cor for an entirely different reason, but he keeps his gaze glued to the citizen / soldier / whatever of the enemy Empire.

            He’s clearly just a kid, probably no older than Noct himself, but he’s still an agent of the Enemy… he’s still a threat, still a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong in Noct’s short life.

            While Noct is staring the Nif down, he hears Cor shift in his seat.

            The Marshall eventually sighs and says, “Well, I suppose it can’t cause any more harm than having you here already has.”

            Ignis, appalled, cuts himself off from undercutting the Marshall aloud, but he still winds up huffing Cor’s title under his breath with clear disagreement and concern.

            Cor addresses those concerns instead of rebuking Ignis, though Noct can feel the Marshall’s gaze is still set squarely on this middle of his forehead. “Knowing you and your father, you won’t be able to let this go until you know his story, anyway, and if you manage getting it out of the kid directly, then this might honestly help us in the long run.”

            The sentiment is perplexing, but Noct isn’t really concerned with why that might be so long as he’s getting his way with being permitted to launch his own interrogation.

            A guard scurries off after Cor’s consent is secured, presumably to fetch Noctis a chair so he can join the little tea party at the table.

            But Noct has no interest in sitting down… no inkling of a desire to share food with the image incarnate of the shadows directly responsible for his worst nightmares.

            He stalks over to the table and stands before the Nif, glare boring into the kid’s wide and ridiculously over-innocent eyes. Sufficiently intimidating as he looms over the still-seated Nif, Nocti demands, “Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my city?”

            “Noctis,” Ignis chastises, mostly for his explicit cursing.

            But Noctis isn’t listening.

            He’s watching the Nif.

            The Nif who flinched when Noctis stormed closer, but who didn’t bat an eye at the aggression in his question. If anything, the kid blanked out like some sort of zombie.

            His face remains blank as he keeps eerily unfocused eyes on Noct’s face and answers with a robotically monotone voice, “I am an NH-01987 model Magitek Trooper, MT Unit 05953234, Batch 0006-0204, classification sniper.”

            Noct’s brain gets caught on the words ‘Magitek Trooper’ and he sways with a dizzy disbelief—some heady mix of fury, fear, and frustrated confusion. He’s barely heard the rest of what the Nif spewed in that first sentence, but as the Nif takes a breath to answer Noct’s second question, the Prince manages to refocus slightly.

            “And I am here on the orders of my new Commander: Cor, Mashall Leonis.”

            With that, Noct rocks backwards a step.

            Suddenly, the chair that arrives for him just then doesn’t seem like such a ridiculous thing to accept. The guard sets it near him at the table and Noct halfway falls into it, still staring straight at the Nif with an incredulous question swirling through his heady rush of overwhelming thoughts.

            An MT?

            This kid is supposed to be an MT?

            Noct can barely process the assertion.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 11: Re-Calculate

            Noctis is reeling.

            An MT?

            This KID is supposed to be an MT?

            A tiny twerp like this is supposed to be the Empire’s nefarious super-weapon?

            “You’re an MT?” Noct huffs, anger and frustration all deflating into incredulous confusion. Undercut with a frenetic current of… something else.

            The kid looks utterly fear stricken as he processes Noct’s statement.

            It’s a thing that resonates deep within Noct, makes him recognize that the other thing he’s feeling, the swirl underneath the confusion, might also be fear.

            “But you’re a kid,” Noct manages eventually. “You’re not a machine, you don’t have armor, and your eyes don’t glow… how are you an MT?”

            “I—I’m a Level Two,” the kid replies. Then he launches into explaining, “MTs don’t get their final armor until they reach Level Four. And my mechanical enhancements were removed when Commander Cor, Marshall Leonis brought me to Insomnia. Glowing eyes do not manifest in MTs until the final daemon blood infusion upon reaching Level Five and receiving an active commission. I was hatched with the genetic potential to be built into a full MT, but I am only a Level Two and therefore do not appear to be an MT within the expected parameters.”

            Noct reels as he attempts to process any of that… as he fights the sudden queasiness in his gut at the way the kid said it all… so straightforward and with no hint of deception. Noct’s spent too much time around all the lying courtiers of Lucis and beyond to miss how utterly open this kid is being. Not only is he not lying, he’s exposing the core of his being in a way Noct doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

            The Prince doesn’t get much time to mull that revelation over.

            His thoughts are interrupted by a cough from Cor—who looks half as stunned as Noct himself feels at the moment.

            “Eye contact,” Cor mutters. “Eye contact and full sentences… And hardly a stutter. I—Highness… We haven’t gotten him to answer a question like that… well, ever really.”

            Noct glares at him, a curl of righteous anger flaring up to make him snap, “Maybe it’s because you’re talking about him like he’s not even here.”

            Snapping his eyes back to the kid, the not MT kid, Noct asks, “What’s you name kid?”

            The kid frowns, big blue eyes fearful and desperate.

            “Come on, they gotta call you something’, right? Not that stupid number.”

            “I, uh—, I’m Prompto,” he manages.

            “Prompto,” Noct repeats, feeling out how the word rolls across his tongue.

            Surprisingly, it feels strangely palatable… Not at all the kind of gruff and awkward that Noct would’ve thought a Nif name would be. And it seems to suit the kid well enough, too.

            Bright and abrupt in some ways, but also weirdly soft and squishy…

            Noct snorts, and snipes, “Don’t ya wanna know my name?”

            “MTs are not allowed to ask questions,” the kid replies, looking more than a little panicked—some flutter of unreadable emotion skittering through his expression.

            “Really?” Noct challenges fiercely. “You sure it’s not because you already know who I am and are just trying to play dumb until you get a chance to kill me?”

            Tears build visibly in the kid’s eyes and Noct feels a sudden pang of guilt at how he’s treating the poor guy, a sensation that worsens significantly as the kid obviously fights the urge to look away as he squeaks out, “I am under orders from Commander Cor, Marshall Leonis that prohibit me from harming any human inside the Citadel. I obey my commander.”

            “Seriously? You have no idea who I am?”

            The tears begin to spill over and it’s like getting a punch from Gladio right to the gut.

            “The Level Two Scientist referred to you as ‘highness’, Sir,” the kid squeaks. He looks like he’s desperate to apologize, of all things, but keeps his mouth closed and instead sets about gnawing through his lower lip—his already well abused lower lip.

            “Scien-who?” Noct manages.

            Ignis speaks up saying, “I believe he is referring to me, Highness, as I regrettably did slip up when you entered the room.”

            Noct blinks. Process.

            “So, do you like just not know what a Prince is called?”

            Noct hears Ignis’s harsh intake of breath, but he also hears Cor murmur for the Advisor not to interrupt. He pushes both of them from his focus and fixates solely on the MT kid.

            “I am Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prince and Heir to the Kingdom of Lucis,” Noct announces forcefully, attuned to spot any hint of a reaction in the kid.

            There’s a slight widening of his eyes in surprise, but otherwise… nothing changes.

            The surprise shows that he really didn’t know, it’s a visceral thing that’s ridiculously easy to see in this kid—deception is truly not a skillset he was either born with or trained into.

            But he doesn’t leap to try to kill Noct, he doesn’t start to bow and grovel, he doesn’t cower before the threat of what power Noct might wield over his future…

            It’s… remarkable.

            It’s strange and refreshing and exhilarating in a way that Noct doesn’t understand.

            It’s something he… something he wants to investigate further.

            But this kid is the Enemy.

            But he’s just a kid… a kid who can say things like ‘hatched’ and ‘mechanical enhancements’ and ‘daemon blood infusion’ with such a nonplussed acceptance of it… like all of that horrific nonsense isn’t just true, but is entirely expected in his world…

            Like he somehow thinks it might be justified.

            It doesn’t quite compute for Noct.

            And worse, Noct doesn’t really think he wants it to… because… because if it does, he has to start asking the bigger questions. The ones that matter, that might make this whole war they’ve been waging feel like some sort of sick joke being played by the Infernian or something.

            Before he can psych himself out of it, Noct blurts, “So. MT Prompto, huh? All the other MT super weapon freaks start out like you?”

            Prompto gives a firm nod, looking almost confident for the first time Noct’s seen, and says, “All MTs are hatched under laboratory conditions to maintain the expected uniformity of such military machinery. Quality control checks ensure that any aberrations or deviance from the base origin DNA are destroyed immediately. Only MTs that meet the standards of their classifications are permitted to develop further to prevent the waste of resources.”

            “You’re a clone?” Noct blurts.

            “Of course.”

            “A clone of who?”

            “The base origin DNA,” Prompto says, like that explains it.

            Noct just shakes his head and tries to move on to the next big ugly question fighting its way out of his mouth, “And ‘aberrations are destroyed’? Does that mean any one of you who doesn’t look right or act right or think right is just killed off?”

            “Yes.”

            Noct has never felt so close to puking from horror.

            He’d read about it as a possible stress response, and he’d heard the Glaive talking in low voices about it, but he’d never really understood what it would feel like.

            This is a queasiness that’s very different from the nausea of disorientation that he suffered from while first learning how to warp. That’s a confusion, and a body feeling betrayed by gravity… a lot more like the icky feeling of being sick with a stomach bug, with his gut trying to keep food down, but just too lost in the swirl to manage it.

            This… this is a wholly distinct hell.

            This is his gut deciding that food is the enemy, that death is apparently imminent, and that the only hope for survival is a complete purge of ever cell in his body. It’s a cold sweat and noxious heave and a shudder in every single one of his muscles.

            Somehow, he chokes it down—fights the reaction back enough to ask, “But Cor got you out of there, right? He rescued you.”

            The kid looks almost as sick as Noct feels.

            And they’re both so focused on each other that they give a slight start as Cor’s low voice injects as delicately as he can manage, “He wasn’t aware when I took him. He was in a transport box, asleep. When he woke him up, he didn’t realize he’d been rescued. He believes he’s been given an active commission, with me as the commander.”

            “Seriously? You still think you belong to Niflheim?”

            “MTs are built to serve the Empire.”

            “But you don’t have to do that anymore,” Noct insists, much of his nausea transitioning into a heated fury. “You can just be you, now. You’re Prompto. You’re a human being and you’re a Crown Citizen, and you never have to go back to the Empire again. You’re free.”

            Prompto flinches at the sound of anger in his voice, but his expression maintains that translucent blankness. Underneath it, Noct sees confusion and fear rolling over him in waves.

            Worn too thin already by the implications of what true horrors the Empire has reaped, on its own people, even, Noct doesn’t feel the gut punch of shock he’s expecting to at the realization of what he’s seeing play out.

            “You don’t know what ‘freedom’ is, do you?” he deadpans.

            Prompto’s fearful little gaze wavers—trembling with a telling hesitation.

            Then he lowers his eyes and shakes his heads slowly—expression pinching up like he’s bracing to be hit or something.

            Noct is at the point where he immediately assumes the kid’s thoughts have jumped to something far worse than being hit, but the Prince is self-aware enough to cut that line of thinking off before any of the horrific possibilities can solidify out of nebulous, vague ideas.

            “Right. Sure. Whatever,” Noct bushes aside. “I guess we’ll work on that or something… Maybe after we teach you how to play Kings Knight, since I doubt they have that back in the frickin’ evil Empire.”

            “Noctis,” Ignis chastises, tipping his head in warning censure.

            The Prince knows exactly what his adviser means to tell him, but he plays dense to give himself a few seconds to pull together a counterargument.

            “You shouldn’t make such plans without consulting your father,” Ignis lays out. “It will likely be determined that it is rather unwise for your entanglement with young Prompto to be permitted leeway to deepen.”

            Noct opens his mouth to retort, but Ignis silences him with a sharp look and goes on coolly, “Besides, it is considered rude to imply a promise of future engagements to a companion when you cannot be entirely certain of your ability to ever uphold such personal obligations.”

            Oh.

            Noctis didn’t actually think of that part.

            Mostly because he’s determined to make sure the first part isn’t true. He’ll make his dad see reason, here, he knows he can do it.

            But… but if it takes longer than he wants it to… Prompto might feel like Noct promised him another meet-up and then just chose to ignore it because Royalty can just like do that or something… And if someone tries to explain it to him… he might think it’s his fault that Noct isn’t allowed to come hang out with him…

            Prompto seems the type for self-blame.

            And whatever Niflheim did to him can’t possibly have made that any better.

            Noct has to shake himself at the realization that somehow in the last fifteen minutes he’s gone from wanting to stab this kid through the throat for just being from Niflheim, to very specifically wanting to spend more time with him.

            To wanting to help him.

            To maybe even, strange as the vague consideration seems, befriending him.

            Because Prompto doesn’t see him as a Prince.

            And that is something Noct finds… well, in bluntly selfish terms, it’s something he finds radically appealing to simply bask in. Prompto doesn’t quite get the possible implications of Noct’s royal blood and therefore doesn’t even have the framework needed to treat Noct like anyone else he’s ever had to suffer through meeting.

            But beyond that… there’s just something… something more…

            Something about the kid that resonates in Noctis, that makes him want to help.

            Something that… that actually makes him think he might be able to help.

            That makes him know without doubt that he should at least try.

            It might just be that Noct sees a helluva lot of himself in Prompto, sees himself right after the Marilith attack—when he was lost and scared and hopeless.

            But where Noctis had gotten sullen and angry and almost hateful when his injuries failed to heal themselves properly, Prompto is still… sweet. He’s clearly somehow still soft enough to think that maybe he can make things better if he just tries a little harder.

            And Noct thinks that maybe having that sort of softness around might help him remember how to feel that way on days when his injury acts up, or days when the weight of being royal threatens to crush him into dust before he even bears the crown.

            So, he thinks that having Prompto around might help him, and he thinks that having him around might help Prompto—certainly he can’t be any worse an influence than grumpy old geezer, Cor Leonis. And honestly, Noct knows exactly what it’s like to have not a single aspect of his destiny left in his own hands to control. His fate might not be quite as cruel as the one designed for Prompto by Niflheim, but it’s close enough to the same principle to make the slide of mutual understanding form a distinct kinship between them.

            Which means Noct can promise Prompto a place in his tomorrows.

            He’ll fight anyone who says he shouldn’t, if necessary. He’ll make it possible.

            Noct surfaces from his fog of swirling thoughts to find that Cor is looking at him with keen evaluation in his eyes.

            “Would you want to meet with Prompto regularly? If the King found it safe enough to be permissible and all?” The unspoken question is clear, asking if Noct is genuinely okay with the implications of befriending an enemy—and of rehabilitating a refugee when there are apparently thousands more out there that he can do nothing to save…

            “I don’t think Prompto is evil,” Noctis asserts, drawing himself up with a straight spine in his seat. “I think he’s a kid who needs help, and a kid who needs someone to talk to him like he’s actually a real person for once.”

            Cor gives a nod, acknowledging the point, but he keeps up a quiet sense of expectation for Noctis to go on with an answer for the second half of his question.

            Taking a deep breath to steady himself as he solidifies the belief deep inside his heart of hearts, Noct says eventually, “I can’t help the rest of them. I don’t even have enough power to help my people here at home… But I can help Prompto. I can. Helping one Crown Citizen isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing, and if I am ever going to be worthy of the Crown, I need to do whatever I can to help whoever needs it.”

            Cor gives a short nod, like the issue has already been decided for him.

            Ignis, on the other hand, gives a soft sigh and compliments, “Well said, Highness.”

            There’s clear doubt in his reaction that Noct will be able to follow through on his grand pronouncement, regardless of how princely it made him sound.

            Noct hazards a glance over at Prompto, flashes him a confident grin.

            Prompto is frozen for a moment, eyes shining with that painful mix of fear and confusion—but now with a bright streak of hope flickering in there, as well. After a moment too long to be comfortable in any other silent circumstance, it seems that Prompto manages to understand that he should smile back at Noct. His attempt is shaky, and looks a little painful, but it’s a smile and Noct’ll take it.

            Before he gets to test out anything else, the door to the study opens and two Glaives enter the already less that spacious room.

            They spot Noctis and snap a shallow bow, greeting, “Your Highness.”

            Noctis nods back, as expected of him, and they turn their attention to Cor. “Major Leonis, sir, the King wishes to speak with you.”

            Cor sighs and he pushes up from his seat with beleaguered effort. “Whlep, time to face the music, I guess. Libertus, Pelna, please escort our quest back to his room.”

            Noct leaps to protest, but Cor cuts him off with a look. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I can’t leave you unsupervised with an agent of an Enemy Crown; no, he hasn’t been officially cleared, yet. Play nice now, and I should be able to get the Council to accept the King’s decree if it falls in your favor. Fight, and he goes into lock-up like an actual prisoner.”

            It makes sense.

            Noct knew it wouldn’t be that easy, knew that it couldn’t be that easy.

            He looks at Prompto—standing, now that everyone else in the room is standing, and looking like a bunny rabbit might beat him in a boxing match—and forces a tight smile.

            “Tomorrow, then,” he states for the record. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Cor huffs, and Ignis sighs, but Prompto ducks a slight nod—his face lighting up with the kind of smile that could make a box of kittens cry.

            “Tomorrow,” he replies.

            With that, Cor sweeps out of the room.

            He’s followed by Prompto and the two Glaives.

            And Ignis just sighs again in the sudden quiet of the study.

            “I would have told you eventually,” Ignis promises.

            Noct grinds down on his teeth. “No, you wouldn’t. Not until I forced the issue.”

            “Perhaps,” Ignis admits.

            A moment passes, and then the advisor says, “I apologize for excluding you. It was my belief that doing do would spare you needless worry.”

            “You mean about all the other kids the Six damned Empire is infecting with daemon blood to make into mechanical soldiers? Or about the one kid that we’ve actually got here, but all you people are still treating like he’s some kind of lab rat?”

            “Both, honestly,” Ignis confesses, “I’ve never doubted your capacity to do right by those you encounter, and that faith made me fear for your ability to weather the blows that may come of being unable to render such aid.”

            Noctis squints at his advisor, sees right through all the posturing and diplomatic bullshit that Ignis has learned how to pull over on everyone else.

            He does regret not informing Noctis of what was happening here. It’s clear he was overwhelmed enough with it himself to have serious reservations about telling his prince about the horrors he’d uncovered. And Noct can’t really fault him for worrying.

            It’s his job to worry, for one.

            But also… Noct’s actually a fair bit surprised himself at how easily he’s just taken all of this nonsense in stride…

            He thinks it probably has something to do with the fact that it’s Prompto.

            He’s never felt such an instant, binding kinship with anyone before. Not even Luna.

            Luna has always believed in him, but Noct didn’t start trusting in her until a few weeks into their relationship. She’d never been bothered by it. She’d just said that Noct was a very special soul, highly selective of those he could trust to befriend. But she’d hoped that he would eventually be able to feel what she’d felt in meeting him for the first time: she’d wished that eventually, Noct would be able to meet someone and feel nothing but hope—for a brighter, better, truly wonderful future… that he’d be able to feel the promise in a meeting.

            Noct thinks this might be what she’d meant.

            After a long moment of staring at Ignis, of taking in the penitent expression long enough to see the pride and hope beneath it, Noct shrugs.

            “Whatever,” he accepts, allowing Ignis to breathe easy in the wake on his not-apology and non-acknowledgement of Ignis’s apology. “But I’m not doing any more math homework until Wednesday, at the earliest.”

            His sigh turning back to his mother-henning usual, Ignis chastises, “You have a test on Thursday, Highness. Ignoring your homework until the night before simply will not do.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Noct counters, strolling out the door to make his way back to his own suite of chambers inside the Citadel.

            Ignis follows, still complaining about his negligence, but he never once mentions the idea of going back to finish out the school day he’s in the midst of skipping.

            And when Noct settles down for a few hours of gaming in his living room, Ignis grabs a book and takes a seat on the couch beside him without comment.

_________

Chapter Text

Step 12: Integrate

            It’s been two weeks.

            Two weeks since Prompto—and he can use that name without hesitation now, even as a self-referent inside his own head—two weeks since Prompto met Noctis.

            They’ve spent a minimum of three hours together every day in those two weeks.

            It’s been… odd, Prompto’s decided. Very odd.

            But he thinks it might be a good odd. The kind of strange that is just unfamiliar to him rather than unsettling for any deeper or darker reason.

            Noctis isn’t like any other human that Prompto has ever encountered. And by the way he keeps drawing sighs out of the other humans around them, Prompto thinks that Noctis might be the strangest human they’ve ever encountered, too.

            He’s just so… non-linear. And yet everything he says somehow makes enough sense to Prompto that he can find a way to respond to it.

            It’s been a good two weeks.

            Cor’s even smiled a few times, so Prompto knows that he’s not just delusional when he thinks that he’s been able to perform closer up to par ever since he started ‘hanging out’ with Noctis in the afternoons.

            So, it has been good, definitely.

            Two weeks of good.

            So, Prompto is not entirely surprised when something changes.

            He’s not resentful, either. Two good weeks is more than Prompto ever expected to get, and more than he ever could have deserved with the lack luster performance he’d been able to show during his first six weeks within Insomnia.

            He’s been summoned by the King.

            Nyx Ulric— Glaive Nyx Ulric, as Prmpto now knows that the guards with the extra shiny bits on their uniforms are members of the elite unit called the ‘Kingsglaive’—tells him in the morning when he brings Prompto breakfast.

            He’s smiling like he thinks it’s a good thing, but Nyx smiles a lot at things Prompto doesn’t understand, so he’s not sure if he can trust the notion.

            Cor’s not smiling when he comes to fetch Prompto a few hours later.

            So, that means Prompto’s probably right to be nervous.

            He follows Cor in silence for the entire walk through the Citadel to their apparent destination. It’s another small room with exactly one table and walls lined with books or windows—like the study where Prompto first met Noctis.

            It’s not the same study, he doesn’t think, but a lot of these rooms look extremely similar and everything that’s happened within all of them has been rather overwhelming to Prompto in the last few months… which has been detrimental in regards to his observational skills.

            Cor tells him that he can sit or read or look out the window while he waits. Prompto nods. He’d assumed that he would have to spend a while waiting for the King to arrive.

            The King is too important to have a meeting with some useless nobody like Prompto be considered a priority. He’s prepared to wait for several hours, though he’s a little surprised that he’s being left here without any guards.

            Even when he’s with Noctis—and Ignis and Gladio as he’s learned that the other ‘young people’ he’s been allowed to associate with are called—there’s always at least one Guard, usually an elite and duly watchful Glaive.

            Maybe they’re outside the doors.

            That idea is given credence a few moments later when a knock sounds and the door swings open to admit two older humans.

            They’re both armed, though by their bearing, Prompto doesn’t think they actually need the swords sheathed at their sides to do damage.

            It makes sense.

            They must be the very highest ranked of the guards in the whole of Lucis, if only two of them are considered enough to protect the King. Both men are dressed simply, in the black that Prompto knows is a Royal color, but he can’t tell how much armor they’re wearing underneath it, though he suspects it must be substantial.

            He recognizes one of them.

            From the first day of his break in routine… from the day he met Gladio for the first time.

            Prompto knows that Cor and Noctis call him ‘Clarus’. And Gladio calls him ‘dad’. He thinks the others in the Citadel refer to him as ‘Lord Shield’ or ‘Lord Amicitia’, but he’s not entirely certain because of how infrequently other humans talk to him.

            The other man is entirely unfamiliar.

            Though there is something about him… that Prompto can’t quite place.

            “Hello, Prompto,” the unfamiliar one says, his voice warm and deep in a way that seems to wholly envelope Prompto in such a sense of comfort that Prompto loses all ability to respond.

            He manages to open his mouth, but no sound makes it out.

            “You can call me ‘Reggie’,” the man says, going on, “Clarus has told me a lot about you, you know. It seems his son, Gladio, has taken quite a shine to you. And he’s not the only one. I know Noctis and Ignis are both enamored as well. And the Glaives can’t wait to take you out on the town, they’re all eager to be the one chosen to show you Insomia’s most delightful corners.”

            Prompto blinks, mildly overwhelmed by the idea that so many people have found his presence something other than a disappointment.

            “I—I…” It’s a syllable more than he managed before, but still nothing close to a coherent response and the anxiety of failing to make himself perform properly rears up in a way he hasn’t felt since his very first day of meeting with Noctis.

            He can’t fail now. Not today.

            He’s supposed to meet the King today.

            No one has explicitly said it, but Prompto can tell that meeting the King is a bigger deal for him than just meeting the King—though that on its own IS a big deal, clearly.

            If Prompto fails this test… he won’t be able to see Noctis again. He probably won’t even be able to stay in the Citadel anymore.

            Prompto has come to accept the hope that the Lucians will not decommission him like the Scientists of Nifilheim would have, but he still can recognize that he will be punished somehow for failing to live up to the standards of his current caretakers.

            “Oh, dear. I seem to have upset you,” the one called ‘Reggie’ says, interrupting the spiral of Prompto’s thoughts with that almost magical wave of soothing calm.

            It makes Prompto take a deep breath.

            Which allows him to settle enough to realize that Reggie has taken a seat at the table.

            He gestures to the seat across from him and Prompto mechanically follows the suggestion as if it were an order.

            “Now, can you tell me what triggered your moment of dismay?”

            It’s a yes or no question and Prompto can answer it, though verbal responses are still a touch beyond his capabilities. He nods.

            “Please identify the trigger for me, in your own time,” Reggie nudges gently.

            Prompto nods.

            Takes a deep, centering breath, like Gladio taught him.

            Thinks over the thing that poked at his lungs from behind while Reggie spoke, and like Ignis has taught him, he puts the big thoughts into small, specific words and lays them out slowly. He doesn’t have to rush. Ignis has told him that being clear in what he wants to say is more important that being timely—even if Noct’s impatience seems to indicate the opposite.

            “I have performed adequately,” Prompto states. He’s finally confident in that, but he’s still aware that adequate is not enough…

            Reggie looks on expectantly, but without adding pressure to Prompto’s urge to respond.

            “An adequate performance is not enough to warrant the response of praise and implied affection you have detailed,” Prompto lays out. “And my inability to immediately articulate that is indicative of an inadequate performance—a retraction of progress. I had been deemed effectively progressed enough to meet the King today. If the King does not approve of my progress and my progression rate… I will not be permitted to see Noctis again.”

            Reggie give Prompto a moment, allowing him to continue if he wished before accepting that Prompto has wholly finished his explanation.

            Then he says, “What makes you so certain that if the King disapproves, you won’t be permitted to see Noctis again?”

            Prompto blinks.

            “The King is the King. He is in charge. Noctis is the Prince. It’s the King’s job to protect him, for the future of the Kingdom. And if he disapproves of the progress I am making towards being a ‘well-adjusted Crown Citizen’, I will be considered a threat to the Prince. And removed.”

            “Oh, I don’t think so,” Reggie counters lightly. “I think you may have more guards placed around during your interactions with Noctis, but I doubt the King will be so callus as to cut you off from each other completely.”

            “If I am a threat to Noctis, I should be removed.”

            “Is that truly what you think is best?”

            “I do not want to harm Noctis. I do not want to be a threat to Noctis.”

            “Is that so?”

            Prompto nods. He knows this answer, he’s been asked this question before and he’s found his most truthful answer. As soon as he’d stumped over his words enough to find it, he’s stuck to it and never wavered. Because the Truth matters. And this is Prompto’s Truth.

            “Noctis is important,” he says, elaborating. “Noctis is important to Insomnia, to the future of Lucis, and to the safety of the world. But he is also important to me. Noctis is my friend. If I am a threat to him, I would protect him by removing myself even if remaining close is deemed permissible.”

            Reggie smiles, a soft thing that warms Prompto to his core.

            “Noctis thinks of you as his friend as well,” Reggie assures Prompto. “And I believe that it would cause him and you both undue stress to be forcibly separated.”

            Prompto frowns.

            He hadn’t considered that side of possibilities.

            Prompto doesn’t quite know where to start with assessing how Noctis would feel about being separated from him. If Prompto is a threat he should be removed.

            But ‘undue stress’ sounds bad.

            And he’s heard the phrase before, from the full grown guards who have been attempting to rehabilitate him over the last few months. Before meeting Noctis, ‘undue stress’ was muttered as the reasoning for aborting several examinations and tests... He does not associate ‘undue stress’ with anything close to comfortable.

            Prompto does not wish to subject Noctis to ‘undue stress’.

            But he still does want to protect him.

            He’s not sure which is more important, which might be more damaging.

            Prompto still doesn’t quite understand the way in which ‘mental trauma’ is damaging… the doctors who have been trying to help rehabilitate him have said that he’s suffered through a lot of it, but he’s still trying to sort through why they consider pieces of his history not normal.

            Being human is a lot more complicated than being an MT.

            But he is almost entirely confident in the idea that he is human.

            That he’s always been human and that the MT program was one to transform his human-ness into an MT. That only Level Five MTs, the ones with no organic material left inside their armor shells, were really just MTs. Everyone else is human.

            “Have you considered—” Reggie says as he folds his hands together on top of the table in a supplicating motion. “—that if you are dangerous to Noctis, you may also be dangerous to anyone who would wish harm to Noctis? Instead of worrying that you may be a risk around him, perhaps it’s worth considering that you could proactive protect him.”

            Prompto blinks again.

            “I… I could protect Noctis?”

            “Possibly. You seem willing enough to do what it takes to keep him safe, even if it comes at cost to you,” Reggie mentions. “Protecting Noctis from yourself and protecting Noctis from external threats are still similar in principle. And I believe that you wish to protect Noctis sincerely enough to have faith in the notion that you will chose to do so in any circumstances.”

            Prompto nods, more a self-assurance than a direct agreement.

            He wants to believe it as well. He’s just not sure if he can, if he should.

            “Ignis is dangerous. He’s capable of taking down twelve of my best Crowns Guard on his own in under two minutes,” Reggie explains carefully. “And Gladio is well enough trained to take on five of my best Kingsglaive, Cor and Clarus are both extremely proud. I know it’s hard to believe of those stiffs, but they wouldn’t shut up about it when he first managed to make Nyx Ulric’s back hit the floor.”

            Prompto nods, accepting the assessment.

            “They are both quite dangerous individuals,” Reggie goes on, “But neither present any threat to Noctis. They are only dangerous to those who might do Noctis harm. And neither of them believe that you fall into that category.”

            “They don’t?”

            “No, my dear boy, they consider you to be a friend,” Reggie promises.

            That makes a smile flutter over Prompto’s face.

            “Friends,” he mumbles, pleased with the way it feels on his tongue.

            “Yes, Prompto, dear friends,” Reggie insists.

            “I’m glad,” Prompto tells him, feeling the shiver of triumph that still hits at his declaration of possessing a distinct opinion.

            “Would you like to protect him?”

            “Yes,” Prompto states. “I would like that very much.”

            “Good,” Reggie says with a firm nod.

            The moment settles into a soft quiet that makes Prompto feel whole and secure in the idea that he may be able to maintain that feeling.

            “Then, I think I have everything I need,” Reggie says eventually, pushing up from his seat in a way that doesn’t seem at all abrupt. “Clarus, do you have anything to add?”

            “No, Your Majesty,” Clarus replies.

            A slight grin cracks his stoicism and after a beat, he adds, “But I think Cor owes me a behemoth steak dinner, and I refuse to be the one to inform him of your plan’s next phase.”

            “It would be childish of me to avoid it myself by foisting it onto you,” Reggie says brightly as Prompto begins to frown.

            “Tell me you did not simply send him a memo,” Clarus sighs, sounding resigned.

            “Then I won’t tell you,” Reggie chimes. “I sent Nyx Ulric with the news. He has the best odds of walking away unscathed, after all.”

            Clarus simply pinches the bridge of his nose as Reggie turns back to Prompto. “I believe that Noctis is waiting outside for you, Prompto,” he says, gesturing to the door in an obvious indication that Prompto head out with him and Clarus.

            Prompto balks. “I’m not… I’m supposed to wait for the King.”

            “You have done so, my dear boy. And it was a pleasure to meet you,” Reggie says with a slight bow. “I can see exactly why my son and his friends enjoy your company so much.”

            Quirking his head, Prompto attempts to understand.

            “Your Majesty, we have a briefing with the Press Secretary and the Ambassador from Accordo in ten minutes,” Clarus insists.

            “Yes, yes, I know,” Reggie waves off. He looks back at Prompto with a smile and nods farewell before striding confidently out of the room.

            Prompto drifts after him.

            ‘Your Majesty’

            He’s heard that before.

            And he’s heard a different one. ‘Your Highness’ for Noctis, the Prince. ‘Your Grace’ for Ignis and Gladio, both considered to be a rank called ‘duke’… And ‘Your Majesty’… for… for the… ‘Your Majesty’ is reserved for the King…

            ‘Reggie’…

            Regis Lucis Caelum.

            King of Insomnia.

            Prompto just blathered on like that… at the King of Insomnia himself.

            And the hypothesis that ‘Reggie’ is the King that Prompto’s formed is given more and more credence as Prompto makes it to the hall in time to see Reggie embrace Noctis. When they separate, Noctis looks huffy and sheepish, but Prompto had seen how tightly Noctis clung to him. And he can hear the ‘bye, dad’ Noct tacks onto his farewell before turning to Prompto.

            The Prince brightens up when he spots Prompto, a pleased grin flitting over his face before dissolving into a smug smirk.

            “Told ya that meeting Dad wasn’t anything worth worrying about,” Noct huffs.

            “He was—That was… Dude, I just met the KING,” Prompto blurts eventually.

            “Yeah. And he likes you,” Noct assures him. “He said you’re allowed to train with me now, too. If you want to. And you can have tutors and stuff over the summer to catch you up with school stuff. And like you’ll be cleared to start going out in public next week. So, like, if you wanted to… you could maybe come to school with me in the Fall or something.”

            “Is that… really?”

            “Yeah.”

            Noct suddenly looks disinterested, his gaze drifting away before he adds, “But like, only if you want to, obviously.”

            “I would,” Prompto accepts quickly. “I would really like that.”

            He’s almost delirious with the stomach flipping sensation he’s learned is called ‘happiness’ and he’s not sure what to do about it… He’s not sure he even wants to do anything about it, though it IS making him feel a bit dizzy with something like disbelief.

            Down the hall, he hears the sound of boots marching at the fastest possible speed considered ‘not-running’ and he recognizes the gait. It’s Cor, storming up to find Claus and the King. His shouts can be heard from well around the corner, railing about how ‘this ridiculous school thing is a terrible idea’.

            “You get to go home with him tonight, instead of staying in the Citadel holding cells,” Noctis mentions. “And if that goes well, Dad says you can come back for a sleepover with me Gladio and Ignis next weekend so we can marathon the next Assassin’s release. He’s got the pre-release scheduled to be couriered here in three days, direct from the manufacturer.”

            “That is gonna be sick,” Prompto replies, pleased with the prospect and doubly excited for how easily the bit of slang slid off his tongue.

            Prompto relaxes into the feeling as Noctis swivels on his heel and heads back towards his own quarters here at the heart of Insomnia.

            He takes a beat to process everything, to allow himself to accept that this is his new normal and that he’s allowed to feel happy about that fact… It’s strange, but it’s a good strange.

            “C’mon loser,” Noctis huffs, still walking forward like he doesn’t care but peaking over his shoulder in a tell that he’s actually quite anxious about Prompto not following. “We’ve got a prequel to beat tonight or we’re not gonna be able to start the new one until it actually comes out for the rest of world to access.”

            Prompto grins at him.

            Then he charges forward at a sprint, smacks his hand against Noct’s shoulder, and then keeps charging forward. “Last one there has to refill all the snack bowls whenever they run low!”

            “You’re on!” Noct shouts back.

            He materializes a dagger from the ether and flings it forward—warping to it in a move that eats up almost all of Prompto’s head start.

            It’s neck and neck until they stumble into Noct’s living room together in a tangle of limbs and laughter. They stay attached at the hip as they get the game rolling and wile away the hours in the blissful peace of being happy and being certain that they can keep it.

            This is Prompto’s new normal.

            It’s a weird normal.

            But Prompto likes it.

            He likes it a lot.

            And more importantly, he understands what it means to like things, to like this.

            It’s perfect.

            Prompto has never been more certain of himself or his place in the world, and nothing about his past or his future will ever douse the joy he feels at moments like this.

_________