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“Are you sure about this?”
“Definitely. He might need a little extra convincing, but I’m sure we can get him interested.”
“No, I mean to say are you sure you want him? ”
“And no one else.”
Insomnia: the city that never sleeps.
She's a perilous beauty, all her sharp edges and hard planes, fast and waiting for no one, and she shines like the world's diamond, shimmering in the sun and glittering with her perpetual skylights, attracting both thieves and tourists and those looking to make a new life; her arms wide open for any and all. For some, the crown city is a beacon of new beginnings with her offers of fame and fortune to those with enough luck and mettle. For others, perhaps simply an escape from the humdrum of a redundant life or the vast green but boring countryside.
Whatever the case, many look up to Clarus Amicitia as the man of integrity, who rightly earned his seat at the minister's desk. A term like never seen before, crime at an all-time low and reforms pushed left and right ever since he came into office. Many wonder the what and the how, analysts left awed at the timing and circumstances of the pieces falling into place, citizens just thankful to be blessed with such a leader.
And if Clarus Amicitia has any say in it — and he does, definitely does — then it’ll stay as a mysterious series of fortunate events and tactical precision.
Regis Caelum will make sure it will.
While Clarus holds the seat of prime minister with the sun shining through his grand windows and overlooking a sparkling city, it is Regis who lords over the world hidden beneath the glitz and glam; a king in his own underworld kingdom beneath a curtain of deception.
Because in truth, crime and murder is at an all-time high. Only, they operate within a different set of rules and scenery, the stage always set just precisely so no one can suspect a thing. To the blissfully ignorant, the merry sheep, Insomnia is a city of bright promises. But to those without the wool covering their eyes, they will see wolves stalking and hunting among fat pickings. Their gilded city is built upon a foundation of stolen lives, hot bullets, and overflowing drugs, with more than enough gold and silver to blanket it all twice over.
The two men have not worked this spiderweb of blood and iron to let their kingdoms fall apart just yet. For years they’ve pulled their strings. Clarus winning over the public with his promises and platform, his down-to-earth speeches striking true to the hearts of the citizens yet delivering lines with such charisma to put all his opponents as babbling toddlers. Regis making sure those promises are fulfilled by any means necessary and eliminating enemies and witnesses, all while intricately erasing any signs of suspicion that may rise.
Regis Caelum may have deserved his notoriety and fame as the strongest crime lord in Insomnia — arguably in all of Lucis — but that does not dishearten the hyenas looking to steal his throne. They try every trick in the book, from careful networks of spies to explosive shootouts and drive-bys, all in order to kill a man in his own kingdom and to fight among themselves for the shattered remains of a bloody crown. Yet every time, he makes away with his life intact and mind sound, alive to rule his underworld for another day. And with no signs of slowing down.
So perhaps, it is why his enemies have come up with a new target: Regis’ son. No one has yet to identify who the boy is or how old he may be, but there is certainly a son waiting to take his father’s mantle. It is not known how much love the crime lord holds for his only blood, but judging by the precautions he has taken as of late, there is at least an interest of protection. Only a matter of time before the entire underworld finds out who the boy is and wraps its bloody hands around his neck or heart, ready to quarter him and sell his organs to whatever market pays the highest.
Ignis Scientia isn’t interested in territory wars and lording over an entire city, but like every other headhunter and contractor, he came to Insomnia for her secret reputation; no matter who or what, there's always someone who needed to disappear or something (and someone) that needed hustling. He had made his own fame in Altissia, but such a reputation he had amassed that there were one too many bounties on his head, to the point where he had grown tired of constantly scrubbing the bloodstains out of his suits. Not unexpectedly, bullet shells shadowed his footsteps all the way to Insomnia and then some.
The Crown City may welcome all, but it is no haven to his kind; while her arms are spread to those who seek her, her fangs are bared to just as many. Yet at the very least he managed to carve out a new identity for himself, replacing his old alias — the Butcher — with a new name.
Ifrit.
It hits too close to home, but Ignis always liked to play things hot, determined to go out in a blaze of either silent glory or thundering gunfire. Probably the latter. And true to both his names, he's burned through contracts and jobs like paper kindling at a breakneck speed, enough to land him offers from the more notorious crime bosses of Insomnia. However, he's learned his lesson in Altissia, and he'd like to walk home in somewhat peace rather than duck through the shadows of canals and bridges, keeping his hands on his gun and knife like a lifeline. In Insomnia, he makes sure to leave no calling card, no trail for them to pick up his habits or find his hunting grounds. Should they have an offer for him, they do not look for him. They cannot.
He is the one who finds them, on his own time and on his own terms.
Which is why he sits absolutely perplexed in a local coffee shop and does not touch his drink, staring right back at a man who looks so young and bright yet exudes the same deadly aura of a predator. Ignis quietly watches, studies the blonde's hands as he reaches for his caramel frappuccino and not say, a gun or a blade, and keeps one eye open to the streets outside. His hand twitches for his knife hidden beneath his blazer everytime a black car speeds by, half expecting a shootout or a mob of finely-dressed men to drag him away.
But this is Insomnia, and neither Regis Caelum nor Clarus Amicitia would let such trifles break their illusion of peace and prosperity.
"So, I have a little present for you. From a secret admirer," Argent — a false name, for sure — says after taking a long gurgling drag of his near empty drink.
Ignis knows the words as codes. The present is a job, the secret admirer someone who would like to remain anonymous and using this Argent as the messenger. He cares less for the job and more for his so-called admirer, wondering how they managed to track him down and see through his civilian persona. Whoever it is, their network must run deep and wide with money and power and more influence than either of the two.
A lesser man might be intimidated, but Ignis is impressed. He's curious about this potential employer, and if his hit is interesting enough, he may actually take up the contract. He eyes the small briefcase Argent hefts up from the foot of his seat and quietly slides across the table. Ignis doesn't make a single move to reach for it until he gets his assurance though.
"You put creamer in your coffee? You look like a half-and-half sort of guy," Argent says, noticing the delay.
Half up front and half after the deed, he means. Ignis can agree to that. "Depends upon my mood; but today, I’m partial to a bit of cream."
"Ooh, a man of great taste. It's still gotta be a little bitter though, right? A couple extra spoons of sugar can't hurt every once in a while."
So his employer is willing to offer more in hopes of securing Ignis' services. He wonders just how dangerous this offer is, but he knows the danger is all just a part of the thrill.
"True. If the brew isn't to my tastes, I find myself in want of a bit of sweetness."
"Dunno how you people drink yours black. I gotta have the sweet stuff, nice and cold." Argent picks up his empty drink and gives it a shake, and offers a smile that is all sharp white.
Ignis won't deny the pay is good, his offshore accounts enough for him to retire and live comfortably for the duration of his life. Plenty aim for the high-reward offers, whether they come in money or fame or some other gain, others content with petty crimes to keep themselves afloat above the line. And just as many gun for the infamy and the money, out of desperation or in hopes of leaving a mark upon the world.
Ignis, though, is a gambler.
He tests his luck and skills against the weight of death, always coming up the victor so far and that much better for it. There is the thrill of life among the carnage and the utter satisfaction that comes from crawling up that cliffside of death, where a half misstep or a millisecond of off-timing will end up with a bullet in between his eyes or a knife in his chest.
It is not about money or glory. Merely a game where life is the playing chip — and he's gotten his worth so far.
Ignis still doesn't touch his drink even after Argent leaves, not until the faint scent of gunpowder and iron shavings leave the air where he once sat. He only picks up his now cold coffee to toss it into the garbage on his way out, carrying the small briefcase with him and the silver gilding catching the sunlight like the barrel of a revolver.
Ignis leaves the briefcase in the small corner of his living room, stashed between the wall and his ceiling-high bookcase. It's been three days since the offer was made, a little over seventy-two hours after his coffee shop surprise. He never takes urgent offers or jobs that need to be taken within the half-minute they're presented. He isn't an adrenaline junkie looking for a shitty hit or an addict desperate for that short-lived high. Some consider it a sport. To Ignis, it is an art.
He's patient, almost painstakingly so, and has no qualms with making long-term investments. It is a matter of personal principles and a skewed doctrine, perhaps shared with a handful of few fellow headhunters in his line of business, for his reward is not in the results but in all the details before that final bullet.
All the world's a stage, and he is both the director deciding the curtain call and the performer acting out the scene. He devours the tawdry script that is his contract, molds it and makes it his own, sets the pieces and scenarios into a thrilling composition. It becomes so intimate until it is no longer a simple job but an endeavor of his own passion. He cultivates against the odds, may even find the worst vantage and timing only to test his luck against death's scythe. Whether or not he survives for his next performance, he only finds his satisfaction in orchestrating a killer show.
While he isn't sure of this contract's details, he knows it is promising. A sixth sense or maybe it's the nose of a hunter, but he can almost guarantee the little treasure trove that is inside it. A dusty stained bottle filled with a hundred years' old wine — dark liquid gold the color of spilled blood.
He wonders whose blood it is, what kind of heart they want him to gouge out. He wonders if this may actually be the end of the road where karma overtakes him, and it will finally be his heart that is pierced instead.
“Bullshit!”
Noctis nearly flings his controller across the room as his fighter is punted off the map and disappears into a glowing cloud of gold and red sparkles, confetti spewing from the bottom corners of the screen and heralding Ignis as the victor. “How the hell did you grab me through my block?”
“A valiant effort, but your guard wore off just a second too soon.” Ignis settles his controller on the coffee table and makes for the kitchen to refill their drinks, a caffeinated energy drink for Noctis and a cold can of ebony for himself.
“Bullshit.”
“Perhaps you’d like to watch the replay then.” Ignis suggests and sees Noctis do just that, hovering the cursor over the instant replay option and confirming his choice.
When Ignis made his move into Insomnia, he had already constructed a plan and a persona to cover his tracks far before he commissioned his new documents and fake passports. A student freshly graduated from one of Altissia's many culinary schools, looking to make a break out of her ocean cuisine and take his passions inland, but turned private chef who makes house calls and does small bake sales for charities. His neighbors know only what they see, a single bachelor who keeps a small garden in the back and makes a modest living to keep himself afloat. Reserved but not opposed to some friendly idle chit-chat across the decently-kept hedge that separates his property from the next lots over.
Friendly enough to have garnered the attention of the boy next door, to the point where he’ll bring video games to play in the comfort of Ignis’ home. Entirely unaware he sits inside the belly of a beast.
Noctis, from what Ignis has learned and analyzed, is not much younger but a somewhat lonely thing despite his youth, having no one but a dog named Umbra to keep him company. He lives alone, never gets visits aside from the occasional pizza delivery, and rarely goes out. His habits and patterns suggest no interest in parties and clubs, or any interest in anything for that matter. He keeps to himself, occasionally nods to his neighbors when he goes out to walk his dog, and never joins in on the neighborhood barbecues or social gatherings.
Ignis couldn't ask for a better neighbor. Noctis makes for the perfect complement to Ignis' civilian life, an alibi and unaware cover-up should suspicions arise. The young man doesn't pry or ask questions, takes what scant half-truths Ignis feeds him, and can be a potential witness to Ignis' "domestic" life should enemies start rising and pointing fingers at him. Even better, should Noctis ever discover the double life Ignis leads — the probability being slim to none, but just in case — no one would miss someone who's hardly known to begin with.
It would be a shame, honestly, if Noctis had to disappear due to some accidental discovery, because he really is such a good neighbor undeserving of that cruelty; and Ignis finds him a refreshing breath of air from that cloying scent of blood and drugs and grease.
"Okay, but that's still bullshit," Noctis grumbles, already mashing his button through the results screen and starting a new round, "I want a rematch."
"Another? After the fourth loss, one would think to bow out gracefully."
"It's not like you have anything better to do."
"Bold of you to assume I don't have plans for the night."
"Like what? Prepping for an interview to work in an office cubicle or something? Sorry, but you really don't look the type."
"What?" Ignis pulls back his hand, snatching the energy drink just out of reach when Noctis makes to grab it. He raises an eyebrow in question, ignoring the flash of annoyance the young man gives him.
Noctis twists around in his seat, draping an arm over the back of the couch, and points his controller to the corner of the room.
Ignis reigns in a twitch as his gaze follows, landing at the briefcase hidden between the shelf and the wall.
‘Keen little thing,’ he thinks and hands over Noctis’ drink. He places a light hand on Noctis’ shoulder, gently turning him back round to face the television and the character menu. He picks out a quick lie that comes naturally to him, that comes out as easily as a truth. “I found the old thing in my closet while cleaning. I must have forgotten and left it there.”
“I was gonna say. You usually don’t leave your things out like that.”
Ignis pops open the tab of his canned coffee and takes a slow deliberate sip. He faces the screen as Noctis mulls over which character to pick, but he watches from the corner of his eye and looks for any stray interest lingering on the briefcase. He didn’t expect Noctis to be so perceptive or that he’d take notice of how tidy Ignis’ home is. Ignis makes sure to keep everything clean and in their proper places not out of obsession but of caution. He knows where each book and pencil is, where he last left the remote or what shelf he has yet to dust, so in the event that something is amiss, he knows an uninvited guest has made an appearance.
And that there must be extra “cleaning” to do.
When Noctis makes no more mention of the briefcase and locks in his choice, Ignis puts down his drink to pick up his controller and K.O him for the fifth time.
Perhaps it's about time to look at the job.
This has to be a hoax.
Ignis laces his fingers together, elbows propped atop his desk, and stares down at the scattered documents and photos. He's taken everything but the money out of the briefcase, though maybe he should dig through that for a 'haha gotcha!' card. At first glance, he even raised an eyebrow at the down payment, all crisp clean bills stacked side-by-side and far more than what was expected; if he goes through with it, he'd end up with just as much as the entirety of one of his offshore accounts.
For one job.
Whoever this is, they must be either desperate or Clarus Amicitia himself, and it is definitely not the latter since he would never risk getting his hands dirty. That would fall to Regis Caelum.
Ignis almost suspected it was the great crime lord himself until he saw just who his hit was.
Noctis.
Noctis Caelum .
A few billion currently alive on Eos, thousands of names shared across continents, surely this Noctis wasn't the same one with a gaming hobby and a dog. But there were pictures, some grayscale and others colored, he had poured out of the manila folder and onto his desk, all candid snapshots of his next door neighbor. Sitting on his front porch, bringing his dog in, hauling his oversized garbage can out, a few shots of him walking the daylit streets of Insomnia with an eerily familiar blonde boy.
It isn't a mistake, he knows. Whoever this is, with that amount of power and money, wouldn't waste their time and breath on ordering a hit on a mistake.
But not only that, if he was surprised by who he's supposed to take out, then he's just as surprised as to what exactly he's been tasked to do.
Ignis is no simple handyman for hire or a courier for drugs or bodies, whether they're dead or alive or in pieces or whole. He specializes in one thing and one thing only: assassination. Everyone who's heard his calling name knows it. Everyone who's whispered it knows it. If his mother lived in Insomnia, she'd know it.
And whoever has given him this job, knows it. But.
Ignis taps his finger on a photo, right in between Noctis' eyes and where he'd normally put a bullet in. Normally being the keyword, because in addition to this rare turn of events, his target won't be eating any iron or steel this time.
No death here, despite how he revels in it.
The details are scant, only two objectives he can clearly define, but he still can't help but remain dubious about the whole thing.
Despite how he's known for the trail of bodies he leaves behind, they want to make Noctis Caelum disappear — without killing him. Ignis is to take him far beyond the walls of Insomnia, keep him safe and alive until he's well out of the underworld's reach.
Ignis thinks they just want to keep the boy alive for ransom or blackmail, but surely sending a few bits and pieces of him to his father would make for more convincing matters. A finger every so often, an ounce of flesh or pint of blood, teeth.
But no, the job specifically calls for the health of Noctis Caelum.
Ignis has never played bodyguard before. Killer? His life’s job. Kidnapper? Only if he ends up killing them. But as protection? Not at all.
He ends up spending another week deliberating, tucking the briefcase and classified information in his safe this time, hidden underneath the floorboards and not in the living room where his target can see. It is not the risk that fazes him but the nature of it; security detail is not his forte. And what exactly is he to do once he takes Noctis out of Insomnia? There was nothing beyond that; and if the substantial “down payment” he received is anything to go by, he may very well end up ferrying the boy across several nations and continents.
Ignis did not come to Lucis just to leave it. He came to feel the thrill of balancing his life on the hinge of a coffin, to tip toe along hubris and the dark of alleyways, to gamble with the very death that both leads and follows him.
But it is when he catches Noctis outside with Umbra in tow, and the sun slipping into dusk makes Ignis think him a terribly easy target, that he recognizes just what an opportunity this all could be.
Noctis Caelum is a goldmine ready to be excavated; only thing Ignis has to do is lay down the tracks and before long they will all find a monster waiting in the depths to snap its maw at them. It is inevitable for the world to find out who Regis’ son is and send their master assassins after the young man. So instead of going through the trouble of finding worthy enough prey, Ignis merely has to stay by Noctis and wait for them to come to him.
How did he not think of this before? A fool, he is. Ignis doesn’t realize how deep in thought he was until an innocent question brings him out of his head.
“Hey, want to go fishing sometime?” Noctis suddenly asks, as they idle around the sidewalk for Umbra to sniff at a particular bush.
“If you’ll have me," Ignis replies, not missing a beat.
“Can you make lunch?”
Already Ignis makes plans. A bottle and a rag large enough to cover the mouth, if the drugs laced into the food don’t reach the systems first. Somewhere secluded, forested and shady.
“Of course.”
But it is Noctis who beats him to it— and it’s a dirty suckerpunch aimed at his blindspot. Worse still, it’s so comical and cartoonish, straight out of those Saturday morning kid shows or the old black-and-white films of mobsters and godfathers, that Ignis would love to spare a laugh if not for how vulnerable he'd be.
“You sure know how to take your sweet time, Specs.”
Because here, Noctis sits in the only armchair of his living room, with Umbra’s head in the boy’s lap and enjoying some slow scratches to his ear, and the only light is the little lamp that illuminates half of Noctis’ face.
“Or should I say Ifrit? Butcher, maybe?”
He expected his past to catch up to him eventually, like a damned bloodstain no amount of elbow grease can rub out, but not from the mouth of this once unassuming neighbor. And certainly not like this, with the same neighbor picking his way through Ignis' locks and security just to pull off that cliche 'villain-stroking-his-cat-in-dramatic-lighting' pose.
Ignis pulls his finger just a hair tighter on the trigger, though his aim remains steady on the space between Noctis’ eyes. Neither flinch, neither move. Until Noctis makes the first move with a slow spread of a smile on his lips, and Ignis can’t help but see a scheming devil sitting in his seat.
Ignis knew something was up the moment he realized his door was unlocked. He never leaves it unlocked; not during the day, and most certainly not at night when the neighborhood is barely lit by the flickering streetlights. Petty thugs and criminals aside, it is less for his safety than it is for theirs. Mercy and grace on the soul who discovers Ignis for who he really is.
Mercy and grace on Noctis who looks as one without a care in the world, only bored as he stares down the silencer equipped to Ignis' gun. Umbra hasn't even twitched his tail.
"It's gonna rain on our fishing-picnic trip," Noctis says, giving a gentle pat to the dog's head. He stands, Umbra easily sliding off his lap to sit vigilantly at his side, and ignores the gun still trained on him. "And I know you had something planned for that. I basically set it up for you too! What a waste, can't ever trust the weather."
"Noctis Caelum."
"That's me: the one and only."
Ignis switches the safety off.
"Hey now. I'm pretty sure the offer only stands if I'm alive and not with uh, bullets in me?" The only look of concern is disconcerting, Noctis merely raising a brow at the subtle click.
"You know about the bounty." It comes off more as a question than a statement, but Ignis already knows the answer.
"I mean, if you can even call it that, yeah." Noctis shrugs and slowly turns away, ambling about the living room and pointedly ignoring the gun Ignis still aims at him. He stops to pick up a tiny potted succulent, tugging on one of the leaves to find it fake. "Well, technically, there's a bunch of bounties out there for me, they just don't know who 'me' is."
"And yet you stay. To test your skills and luck against mine? Rather arrogant of you, even if you are Regis' son." Ignis keeps his voice as steady as his gun, his ears pricked for any other noise in the chance of an ambush.
Noctis laughs, tosses his head back in what seems like genuine amusement, and even wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. "I'm not an idiot, Ignis. I might be my dad's kid, but that doesn't mean I can go toe-to-toe with master assassins."
"Then you hope to find out who's hired me? Unfortunately, they're a secret admirer." Even if Ignis knew, he's not privy to disclosing it. Something, something code of conduct and all that.
"Oh c'mon. If you had to guess, who would know who Regis Caelum's son is? Enemy or not, doesn't matter."
"Aside from the father himself, perhaps Clarus Amicitia but —"
"Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner."
"What?" Ignis narrows his eyes.
"Dad gave you the offer."
"What?"
Ignis falters at that, a fatal mistake that would cost him his life in any other situation, because his fingers loosen just enough, his arm going slack for that scant millisecond, and Noctis fucking Caelum overtakes him by closing the distance between them in a blur and a breath. His wrist is taken in a grip he'd never expect from an unassuming neighbor, forcing him to aim his gun away and toward the floor as Noctis gets up close and personal, face mere inches away from his own.
Ignis learns another thing. Noctis Caelum is a liar. With that speed and dexterity? He could definitely be a worthy opponent capable of handling his own against Ignis, never mind that Noctis nearly disarmed him.
"Get me out of here," Noctis orders, voice bordering on a snarl as his earlier nonchalance switches on its head. "I'm not interested in politics and power, and dad doesn't want me getting gunned down over his shit either. I've been hiding away for this long, but it's only a matter of time before someone finds out who I am. And trust me, I'm not gonna stick around for that."
"And if I refuse?" Ignis says it like he actually considers it, but one look from Noctis and they both know the truth.
"You won't."
"Confident, aren't we?"
"I know what you want. You don't go around doing what you do for fun. Or for money. You need validation, proof."
"Of what?"
Noctis draws closer, only a scant few inches and Ignis can feel the warmth off him. "To feel alive, you need to feel death breathing down your neck."
There's little fight to be had.
Ignis goes to packing the essentials — burner phones, cash, forged documents — while Noctis… Well, Noctis sits at the table and taps away on his phone, and judging by the sound effects, to play a mobile game.
“Noctis,” Ignis huffs out, an edge of impatience in his voice, as he drops a sizeable bag on the table.
“Mm?”
Ignis feels his brow twitch. “Forgetting something, perhaps?”
Noctis finally looks up from his phone, albeit slowly, and merely smiles back. “Not at all, actually,” he says, leaning into his chair, tipping it oh so precariously far back. “I’ve already planned our road trip.”
“You’ve planned our road trip.” Ignis poses it as a parroted statement, but the question hangs in the air.
“There’s a guy — Dino, talks like a total slimeball but our families have been in cohoots for the longest time — who’s already got our passports and two tickets for the S.S. Bismarck. I was thinkin’ a little road trip around the country shouldn’t be too bad; maybe go visit that crater near Lestallum, check out that petting zoo in Duscae, fish around Vesperpool. You know. Sightseeing.”
Ignis opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it just as quickly before taking off his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “You… Making yourself a vulnerable target will only make things all the more difficult, you realize.”
“Mhmm.”
Ignis gestures with his hands to beg the question.
“So you don’t get too bored of me too quickly, keep you on your toes. Don’t worry, I’ll make this as fun for you as it will be for me.”
“Are you sure about this?” Regis asks, watching his son from across his desk. There's a pile of pictures and papers scattered about, tablets playing short clips on repeat, and a burning cigar sitting on the edge of a tray.
But in the center, Noctis pushes forward a single photograph, a blurry gray image of a man dressed in a leopard print shirt stepping out of Galdin Quay's port.
“Definitely. He might need a little extra convincing, but I’m sure we can get him interested.” Noctis leans back in his seat, folding his hands on his lap and staring right back at his father.
“No, I mean to say are you sure you want him? ”
Noctis understands the caution and skepticism. Regis, despite his infamy, loves his son and would trade all his power and assets to keep him safe. It’s why they're even doing this. To get Noctis out of this death trap of a city and free him of what may come should Regis finally bite the bullet — however soon or far that'll be, long live the king and all that.
But he hasn't been doing his research for the past year for nothing. Weskham has been feeding them information for years, sending Altissia's own underworld news over their way. Sending them Ignis, forging him identification cards and passports specifically for Insomnia under the guise of a well-earned favor.
And Noctis likes what he sees, in both skills and appearance.
“And no one else.”