Imperial soldiers aren't a regular thing on the streets of Insomnia, but these days, they're all over the news.
There they are escorting the High Commander to an official event. There they are standing guard on the edge of the screen during the preliminary negotiations that some are saying might lead to a truce. There they are in the background of every strip of film about the war.
MTs.
Prompto knows what people say about them. He's heard it all: creepy, and empty, and fake. Little metal puppets that march to the emperor's drumbeat. Bloodthirsty robots that don't know how to feel. Weapons, no more aware than a gun.
Conventional wisdom claims that words can't hurt, but Prompto knows that's bullshit.
He feels the barcode beneath his wristband like a brand, every time someone mentions a magitek trooper in passing – has to fight down the impulse to pull at the leather encircling his wrist whenever the television flashes a glimpse of them.
Prompto doesn't know the details of his own history, not really. His adoptive parents have always been tight-lipped about it, when they're actually around.
But he knows enough.
He knows someone snatched him out of Niflheim when he was just a baby. He knows the ink etched permanently into his skin is an identification code. He knows that if you were to peel up all that metal casing, every MT the people of Insomnia call creepy would have a barcode just like his.
Prompto's parents are probably the bravest people he's ever known, to let a failed Imperial war experiment into their house.
He dwells on it more and more. With the Empire in the news all the time, he thinks about it nonstop.
It's no great shock when Prompto starts dreaming about it, too. His nights fill up with soulless red eyes – with the stink of battlefields. He dreams of marching off to war, every step he takes under the command of someone else.
But worse than those are the dreams that flood in jumbled and grey, vague but frighteningly specific. A metal table. Searing pain. A white light, directly in his eyes. Metal all around him, closing him in, while Prompto screams and screams and no one comes.
Sometimes, when he wakes up at 2 am, heart hammering in his chest and eyes wet with unshed tears, he thinks that those dreams might be memories.
He starts staying up late – making himself cups of coffee when he wakes at odd hours of the morning. He drinks them sitting, groggy, at the kitchen table in an empty house.
He can see the dark circles under his own eyes in the mirror. He nods off in public, twice in one week. And Noctis, who's way more perceptive than he pretends to be, says, "Everything okay?"
Prompto's in the middle of shoving a cheeseburger in his face in the back booth at the Crow's Nest. He pauses mid-bite, blinks owlish and startled. "Why wouldn't everything be okay?" he asks, mouth full.
Noct snorts. "Chew before you choke to death," he says. And then: "You look tired."
Prompto swallows down his mouthful, with effort. Little actual chewing is involved. "Been having weird dreams, is all."
He doesn't see Noct again for another week – princely duties and Prompto's work schedule don't always mesh. But when they get together again, they hit the arcade and spend an inordinate amount of time at the zombie-shooting game that Prompto loves because he tops all the high score charts.
It's not until they're ready to go their separate ways that Noct catches at Prompto's wrist. "Hey," he says. "Wait. I almost forgot."
And he presses a little charm into Prompto's hand – sleek and cool to the touch, small enough to nestle neatly in his palm. Prompto's shocked to see that he recognizes it, ridiculously large ears and all. It's the cat-fox that comes to him in all his most pleasant dreams.
"What's this?" Prompto asks, turning it over.
"Carbuncle," says Noct. He flushes a little – scratches at the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "My dad gave him to me when I was little. Said he'd help with bad dreams. If you want to borrow him for a little while…"
Propto stares down at the figure in his hand. He looks up at his best friend, awkward and pretending indifference. And he grins huge and delighted. "Aww, Iggy's gonna be so proud. You finally learned to share your toys!"
Noct ducks away from the arm Prompto slings over his shoulder – pokes him in the side, in the ticklish spot that always makes Prompto yelp with laughter. "I take it back," Noct says. "I don't share with jerks."
But he doesn't take it back, and Prompto places the Carbuncle charm beneath his pillow that night.
For the first time in a long time, he doesn't dream of MTs.
Re: Fill: 3/? Prompto meets Carbuncle - Prompto/Noctis or Gen
There they are escorting the High Commander to an official event. There they are standing guard on the edge of the screen during the preliminary negotiations that some are saying might lead to a truce. There they are in the background of every strip of film about the war.
MTs.
Prompto knows what people say about them. He's heard it all: creepy, and empty, and fake. Little metal puppets that march to the emperor's drumbeat. Bloodthirsty robots that don't know how to feel. Weapons, no more aware than a gun.
Conventional wisdom claims that words can't hurt, but Prompto knows that's bullshit.
He feels the barcode beneath his wristband like a brand, every time someone mentions a magitek trooper in passing – has to fight down the impulse to pull at the leather encircling his wrist whenever the television flashes a glimpse of them.
Prompto doesn't know the details of his own history, not really. His adoptive parents have always been tight-lipped about it, when they're actually around.
But he knows enough.
He knows someone snatched him out of Niflheim when he was just a baby. He knows the ink etched permanently into his skin is an identification code. He knows that if you were to peel up all that metal casing, every MT the people of Insomnia call creepy would have a barcode just like his.
Prompto's parents are probably the bravest people he's ever known, to let a failed Imperial war experiment into their house.
He dwells on it more and more. With the Empire in the news all the time, he thinks about it nonstop.
It's no great shock when Prompto starts dreaming about it, too. His nights fill up with soulless red eyes – with the stink of battlefields. He dreams of marching off to war, every step he takes under the command of someone else.
But worse than those are the dreams that flood in jumbled and grey, vague but frighteningly specific. A metal table. Searing pain. A white light, directly in his eyes. Metal all around him, closing him in, while Prompto screams and screams and no one comes.
Sometimes, when he wakes up at 2 am, heart hammering in his chest and eyes wet with unshed tears, he thinks that those dreams might be memories.
He starts staying up late – making himself cups of coffee when he wakes at odd hours of the morning. He drinks them sitting, groggy, at the kitchen table in an empty house.
He can see the dark circles under his own eyes in the mirror. He nods off in public, twice in one week. And Noctis, who's way more perceptive than he pretends to be, says, "Everything okay?"
Prompto's in the middle of shoving a cheeseburger in his face in the back booth at the Crow's Nest. He pauses mid-bite, blinks owlish and startled. "Why wouldn't everything be okay?" he asks, mouth full.
Noct snorts. "Chew before you choke to death," he says. And then: "You look tired."
Prompto swallows down his mouthful, with effort. Little actual chewing is involved. "Been having weird dreams, is all."
He doesn't see Noct again for another week – princely duties and Prompto's work schedule don't always mesh. But when they get together again, they hit the arcade and spend an inordinate amount of time at the zombie-shooting game that Prompto loves because he tops all the high score charts.
It's not until they're ready to go their separate ways that Noct catches at Prompto's wrist. "Hey," he says. "Wait. I almost forgot."
And he presses a little charm into Prompto's hand – sleek and cool to the touch, small enough to nestle neatly in his palm.
Prompto's shocked to see that he recognizes it, ridiculously large ears and all. It's the cat-fox that comes to him in all his most pleasant dreams.
"What's this?" Prompto asks, turning it over.
"Carbuncle," says Noct. He flushes a little – scratches at the back of his neck, as though embarrassed. "My dad gave him to me when I was little. Said he'd help with bad dreams. If you want to borrow him for a little while…"
Propto stares down at the figure in his hand. He looks up at his best friend, awkward and pretending indifference. And he grins huge and delighted. "Aww, Iggy's gonna be so proud. You finally learned to share your toys!"
Noct ducks away from the arm Prompto slings over his shoulder – pokes him in the side, in the ticklish spot that always makes Prompto yelp with laughter. "I take it back," Noct says. "I don't share with jerks."
But he doesn't take it back, and Prompto places the Carbuncle charm beneath his pillow that night.
For the first time in a long time, he doesn't dream of MTs.