Chapter Text
The airship was either too well guarded or wasn’t protected worth shit, depending on whether Cor believed his contact about the contents of this ship’s “disposal run”. While the Marshal had to admit there were a lot of men on board for a trash run from the Magitek facilities nearby, he couldn’t help his suspicions about how important its cargo must truly be. Especially given the larger-than-life promise of an anonymous source.
“Within four days, the first Magitek facility will do its monthly disposal run,” the woman had said, in a sweet voice with a thick Niflheimr accent. “The contents of this run can give Lucis more information regarding their weapons than we’ve had in the last twenty years combined .
Cor didn’t trust her, but he knew they couldn’t risk just ignoring it so freshly into the ceasefire. And with the Magitek Trooper units causing unprecedented damages to property, people, and morale alike, the idea was tempting. He’d decided (along with Regis and Clarus) to take a small unit into Niflheim to see what they could intercept. Even if it was nothing so groundbreaking as the tipster implied anything would help. He supposed they’d find damaged MT parts that they could analyze, maybe even the power source they could analyze and find a way to disrupt.
Oh, what a fool he’d been.
Taking out the guards and the pilot was simple really - the ship was not nearly well guarded enough to imply they’d find anything too important, but they pressed on. The hardest part was making sense of what was being carried. Everything was in large crates, some filled with metal scraps and broken beakers, used lab coats and messy scrubs.
“We really crossed the ocean to dig through the Nifs’ trash, huh?” Cor heard from behind him. It was the voice of Private Tollen, a younger recruit chosen to give the kid some field experience in stealth missions. Currently, the man was digging through a box of scrap metal.
“Better than nothing,” Cor shot back, getting his crowbar situated against the top of yet another crate. “If we take that metal back, we know what those things’re made of, we can make weapons against them. Keep an eye out for anything that may look like a batter-”
The crate flung open. Cor had been expecting to find another pile of MT parts, more filthy coats and shattered glass. This was not, in fact, what he’d found.
Inside the crate was a child. The boy couldn’t be any older than the prince back home, maybe even younger, the kid was small. The kid had pale skin, a fuzz of shaved blond hair and freckles that dotted his face and traveled down his shoulders. He was in what looked like scrubs, a sickly gray color that somehow made him look paler, sicker. He’d think that he was dead if it weren’t for the steady, shallow rise and fall of his thin chest.
“Hey you two,” Cor shouted, not even worrying about waking the child until he started worrying that he hadn’t. “We’ve got something.”
Now three pairs of eyes turned to the kid in the crate, a moment of silent shock shared between them all. The kid didn’t even stir, chest in the same steady pattern. That was odd, maybe he’d been sedated?
“Guess I owe Ulric 500 crowns,” Tollen sighed, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Bet him we wouldn’t find anything.”
“Not that we wouldn’t find any one ,” Rodgers shot back, her voice tight. “He’s a kid, not a thing.”
Silence once again overtook the group, filled with questions. What was the kid doing here? Who was he? This seemed like a trash run and he clearly wasn’t dead. The implications were grim.
“So… what’re we gonna do with him?” Tollen asked. “He’s alive, you can’t exactly shove him into the bags.”
Cor nodded, this would mess up their plans They’d have to carry him back the way they came. They didn’t really seem to have a choice there.
“We can’t just leave him!” Rodgers cried out.
“Of course not!” Cor shot back. “If he was anywhere in that facility, he’s probably an orphan,” - and even if he wasn’t, Cor wasn’t sure if he was given up willingly, or if it was safe to leave him anywhere in Niflheim - “we’re probably going to take him back to Lucis. Where else?”
The other two soldiers nodded, eyes still glued to the sleeping child. Everything seemingly just got more complex. If the Empire had kids in these facilities, the war had just become a whole new ballgame. And they can only hope to help one right now, unless -older than
“Open all the other crates,” Cor commanded, leaning into the box to reach under the little boy. “He may not be the only one.”
The boy was light, alarmingly so. While the other two Crownsguards were breaking open the crates with new vigor, sorting through the previously opened ones with new desperation, Cor looked at the little one they’d found. His lighter coloring and sharp features declared him of Niflheimr descent, he was slim and lanky with sharp corners - Cor wasn’t sure whether that was proof of mistreatment or just a growth spurt, since he looked so young. On his visible skin, there was some bruising, perhaps from when he was sedated, maybe from earlier. And weirdest of all, his wrist was marked. On the back of his right arm, just below his hand, was the staple MagiTek serial codes - a barcode on a little boy. He felt like he was going to be sick.
In case he was sedated, the Marshal gave the boy a remedy. Apparently, he was correct though, as within a couple of minutes the kid’s eyes flew open - bright blue with an almost purple undertone - and he spoke.
“Fertig und funktionell,” his voice was high, expected for a little boy, but robotic, speaking Niflheimr to nobody's surprise. Despite having been out cold moments ago, he didn’t sound sleepy, as though he had somehow rehearsed waking up. He glanced around the ship with a balance to his expression past his years. The military man did not know if even he would have had such clarity in his eyes since waking up.
“Hey there, Kiddo,” Cor tried to keep his voice even and bright, hoping against hope that the kid could understand him. “I’m Marshal Cor Leonis,” - this was supposed to be a stealth mission, but they were taking him, he’d already decided - “Private James Tollen and Private Amela Rodgers are behind me. Can you tell me your name?”
The boy looked confused, wide eyes flashing at the other two, still engrossed in their search. It was almost comforting to see real expression on that small face, something that wasn’t blank.
“Name?” That word alone was absolutely heartbreaking, but Cor pressed on. A confusion that couldn't be due to language because the Niflheimr word for name was name
“Yeah,” the man smiled, hoping it was encouraging. “What you’re called. What’re you called?”
“I am Unit 05953234,” the next most heartbreaking thing from the kid’s mouth. In a thick accent it could be hard to understand, but the man was just thankful he spoke Lucian. The confidence in his voice hurt, like he was proud of his answer.
“It’s nice to meet you,” the Marshal struggled to keep his tone. “Do you have any other names? For example; they call me Marshal, but sometimes I’m just Cor.”
He hoped the boy had a real name, that he knew something else, but it was seeming farther away. The boy’s face scrunched up like he wasn’t sure if he could say. Eventually, though, he seemed to gauge it as okay.
“Sometimes the trainers call me two thirty-four or vierunddreißig, but that may not be allowed,” trainers? Was this kid a soldier? “The Scientists yell at them for it. Say it can mess with our reaction time.”
“And why’s that?” He didn’t know if he wanted the answer, but he wanted to keep him talking. Keep the boy’s attention away from the Crownsguard ransacking the place.
“I’m not the only 234, just the only one in my batch,” his voice was matter-of-fact. “If I joined a unit under my Commander, it could cause conf- confusion.”
“I see,” Cor nodded, looking the boy over. Batch? Commander? Definitely military, but he looked frail, as though he had only been fed enough to be kept alive and able to move. “Well, there are no other 234s with me. We can call you that ‘til we think of something else, okay?”
“Are you my Commander?” The Boy, 234’s eyes were wide.
“Not quite, but you’re coming with me, okay?”
“Yes, Sir,” he looked relieved. Considering where he was, that was likely the case. “I was told I wouldn’t get a Commander until I get my armor. I tho - I was briefed for decommissioning. But this - it - it’s good that I was dispatched.”
The way he strayed from the words “I thought” wasn’t unnoticed, nor was the way his voice trembled - poorly hidden - at the word “decommissioning”. Before Cor could even think of a response, Rodgers came up behind the man, shoulders straight and eyes haunted. She’d obviously overheard what they’d been saying.
We have found no others, Marshal,” she reported. “Just the unknown alloy and paperwork for this boy. No other documents either.”
Cor straightened up from the crouching position he didn’t remember taking, helping 234 to his feet and moving the found supplies into their duffle bag.
“Good work, Privates. Let’s head out,” he turned to 234. “Can you walk?”
“I am fully operational,” 234 saluted, slightly different than Cor was used to - the Niflheim salute. “Ready for action, Sir.”
“If you’re having trouble, just say the word,” Tollen assured. “It can’t have been an easy journey.”
“Noted,” his face went blank again. “Yes, Sir.”
They were close enough to the car that they could get the boy in quickly. Rodgers was teaching him how to buckle his seatbelt while Cor and Tollen went back to the ship to torch it, hoping to make it look like a crash.
It was a quick enough drive to their vessel, the team loading up the car and getting everyone situated before Rodgers took the controls. They were a day or so from Galdin, plenty of time to set up a plan. The first course of action was a phone call. The king picked up after only two rings.
“Reggie, we have a problem,” Cor spoke before the other man could try to greet him.
“Was it a setup?” Regis asked. “Are you three alright?”
“No, the tip was legitimate,” Cor looked over to the kid. Tollen was talking to him, trying to teach him one of those hand games from the schoolyard. “There’s four of us now, picked up an extra.”
“A Nif soldier?” This voice was Clarus. “I hate the paperwork for POWs.”
“A kid,” Cor corrected. The other side of the line fell silent. “Talks of his Commander and his old ‘batch’. Looks like the tipster was right.”
“More information indeed,” the Shield’s voice got darker, no doubt thinking of his young Gladiolus and little Iris. “How old?”
“We have his documents, but they’re going to need translating,” the Marshal responded. “But he can’t be much older than Noctis. Maybe 12 at most.”
Clarus huffed in fury, and Regis’ breathing paused.
“A refugee then?” The king’s voice was more calm than Clarus’, but just barely. “We can always find a family to adopt - “
“Unlikely,” Cor cut his king off without a thought. “He obviously has some military training, he would need rehabilitation for that. Not to mention the barcode -”
“The what?” Both men on the other line shouted.
“I will report all my findings later,” he shut them down.
“He can stay at the Citadel for a time,” Regis decided. Not thinking.
“Maybe in a holding cell for a bit,” Cor suggested, despite how much he hated the idea. “Just until we know this isn’t a trap.”
“He’s a child,” Regis protested.
“He’s a soldier,” Clarus thankfully stepped in, having some sense.
“Just until we’re sure,” Cor assured. “And only when he is unsupervised.”
Eventually, Regis relented, but he did want at least Clarus to meet the boy. At the very least the king had enough sense not to think about seeing the child himself.
“What’s his name?” Regis asked with excitement in his voice that died when Cor worked up the nerve to respond.
“He offered the name 234, short for some serial number.”
For how chatty he was when spoken to, 234 could blend in easily when he wanted to, silent and still in a way no kid should be. Even the gloomy little prince could hardly sit still without shifting, but the boy in front of him stood like a soldier in the corner of any room on the boat.
When asked, he supplied answers but notably avoided opinions; “Training was daily, long but adequate.” “I am proficient in firearms, I was told I would be designated sniper.”
“I was told” or “I was given the impression”, never “I think”. If he started to slip up, the kid would react like he was electrocuted.
Luckily enough, the trip went by smoothly. The group reached Galdin quickly enough. The three adults presented their military IDs to the patrol check at the border, but the agent at the gate gave 234 a weary look.
“And him?” The guy asked, looking bored. He had a Ghaladian accent, likely an immigrant being given a job that the usual residents didn’t want, the ceasefire had caused a bit of tension with the ability to travel to and from most countries. It was hitting the newcomers worst. But that was a can of worms for another day.
“Oh, my boy?” Cor tried to play it casual, not wanting anything about this mission out. He patted his empty pockets for show. “Must’ve left his passport at his mom’s. Since the ceasefire, she gets him every other month now.”
The agent nodded boredly, either believing his story or not being paid enough to care that he didn’t.
“I’ll need his picture and name then, Sir,” the guy seemed used to this. Not a lot of kids, especially refugee kids, actually had passports. “Just don’t forget to get him one before you go back.”
Cor nodded, instructing the boy to hold still for the picture, likely the first ever taken of him.
“Full name?” Cor struggled to think of a good one. He was only 26, he hadn’t thought of having kids, let alone naming them. He thought back to the labels and vials he’d seen on the ship.
“Prompto Argentum-Leonis,” his voice couldn’t be described as sputtering, but his mind could. The agent gave a blank look, unamused.
“You named your son Quicksilver?”
“Was his mom’s idea,” Cor shrugged. “Her world, I just lived there. You know how it is.”
The kid seemed to take it, just nodding and typing it out. He handed him a slip with the information and photo printed boldly.
“For his new passport,” he shrugged. “Have a fantastic new day.”
It took another 45 minutes to get the car unloaded from the ship and on the road. The drive back to Insomnia was silent, until the kid fell asleep. They were an hour out when Rodgers spoke up.
“So,” she laughed. “Your son, Quicksilver?”
“Shut up.”