When did this become a dad fic idk idk the chocobros will show up eventually, I promise
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When the squad made it back to the Citadel, they were met by a team of physicians’ aides and a rolling gurney onto which the young MT soldier was placed. As soon as it was made clear that he was to be taken to a doctor, the boy had to be sedated for his own safety. Even then, he fought the drug, glaring at Cor with the red-eyed hatred of true betrayal, and was summarily strapped down to prevent him from trying to roll away. Cor watched him go for a moment before leading his troops straight into the Citadel for debriefing.
Regis and Clarus took the news as well as could be expected. Both were parents to young men close in age to the boy, and while Regis’ eyes only darkened at the description Cor made of the boy’s physical status and apparent personality, Clarus was positively livid.
“We were close to that age when we went to war, Clarus,” the King reminded his shield.
“This isn’t the same,” Clarus growled. Cor had to agree. There was a difference between young men signing up for horrors and being raised to it. In the end, it was agreed that the boy would stay in one of the few cells in the Citadel set aside for prisoners of war. It had been largely unused in recent years, as until now, they had all assumed that there were no people to be taken prisoner.
Cor requested to be placed in charge of the boy’s case file. Clarus approved his request, so long as he reported all his observations to him and the king alone.
As soon as their briefing was done, Cor made his way straight to the physicians. The slightly rattled nurse at the front desk told him that the boy was still in the operating room, and Cor settled down to wait in one of the stiff-backed chairs.
Clarus found him an hour later. He thrust a paper bag in Cor’s unresisting hands and sat heavily next to him, making the chair creak alarmingly.
“Saw it happen with Regis,” he said. “Back when the prince went under. Don’t forget to eat, Marshall.”
Cor opened the bag and found what looked like a spinach wrap. “This from your own lunch, sir?”
“Just don’t tell Regis. He’s a bear for vegetables.” Clarus eased into a slouch, as though prepared for a long wait, and Cor resigned himself to the Shield’s unwanted leftovers.
“I should point out, though,” he said, through a mouthful of spinach and sprouts, “that I’m no one’s grieving parent. I’m here because I have to be.”
“Sure,” said Clarus, in a voice that was far too light. “I got you.”
The both of them had nearly fallen asleep by the time the doctors came in. Cor felt like something had died in his mouth, and he could feel the grit in his skin, but he ignored the doctors’ sideways looks and followed them into a small office.
“He’ll keep the use of his legs,” one of the physicians said, handing him a thick file. “We did a retinal scan to try and figure out what was wrong with his eyes, and… uh.” She made an embarrassed grimace. “We don’t know. It isn’t anything we’ve seen before. We have blood tests going, but it’ll be a while before we make any progress.”
“There was a tracker in his neck,” said another physician. “And a serial code. We removed the tracker—it’s being sent up to the scientists in 3B for examination—and we have the serial code scanned on the fourth page of the file, right there.”
Cor sighed. “This is going to be a mess,” he said, in a quiet voice. Clarus placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Can we see him?”
“Sure thing, Marshall. He’s going to be a bit out of it. I don’t think he’s had anesthetic before. It hit him hard.”
Cor thought of the wires that had been lodged in the boy’s skin and scowled, making the doctors shift back in alarm. He handed the file back to them, thanked them for their service and discretion, and left them to Clarus’ tender mercies.
The boy, when he was wheeled out, really was out of it.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What is this?” He tried to run his hands over the sides of the wheelchair, but missed. “Why can’t I feel anything?”
“You’ll feel enough when you’ve had time to sleep,” Cor said. He took the handles of the chair from the nurse and met a number of Crownsguard waiting in the hall outside. “You men with Clarus?” They nodded.
“All these real people,” the boy said. The buzzing in his voice was so thick, it was hard to hear him properly. “I’m not authorized. Not authorized to guard real people yet.”
“They’re here to guard you,” Cor said, trying to hide a smile. The boy squinted up at him dubiously.
“But I’m an MT,” he said, reasonably. “Not a person.”
“I’m not equipped for this,” Cor murmured. He motioned for the men to lead them out, and pushed the highly bewildered young man out of the waiting room and into the halls of the Citadel.
The boy kept up a running commentary as they made their way to the cells. He was very impressed with the doctors, it turned out.
“It didn’t even hurt,” he said, for the fifth time. “It always hurts. Always, always.”
“Is that right,” Cor said. One of the guards looked at him sidelong and shrugged.
“Always. You’re very strange,” the boy said, abruptly. “You’re a soldier, but you’re not. How can you be a soldier and not?”
“I’ll tell you later, kid.”
“I don’t know that word.”
Cor bit down on the inside of his lip and held back a curse. He was going to kill the Emperor himself. With his bare hands, if need be.
The boy was even more unsettled by the room he was supposed to stay in. The wall on one side was heavily reinforced glass with a metal frame that could be drawn across it, and the furnishings were sparse: A serviceable bed, a small bookcase with a few old books lying every which way, and an open shower, sink, and toilet. Everything was set up very carefully so that there was no chance that the prisoners within could use anything to hurt themselves, and as such it looked rather sad and forbidding.
“I shouldn’t be here,” the boy said, at once, when he was wheeled in. “I’m not qualified for a dorm.”
“This isn’t a dorm,” Cor said, trying to keep patient. “It’s a… it’s where you’re going to live for a while.”
The boy protested, insisting that he wasn’t advanced enough as an MT to use a bed, yet. He kept this up even as Cor gently lifted him from the wheelchair and onto the mattress, even when his voice lowered to an uneven buzzing mumble. At last, he lay back on the raised lump that served as a pillow with a look of such deep suspicion that Cor laughed. The young man jumped a little, and stared at him intently.
“Prompto,” he slurred, after a while. Cor raised an eyebrow. “Before they moved me to Phase Two. There was a man who called me Prompto.”
“Well, then. I’m Cor,” he said, and gave the boy an uneasy smile. “Nice to meet you, Prompto.”
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Engine Heart 2/? Re: Any/Prompto; MT Prompto is taken as a POW
Date: 2017-02-05 12:02 am (UTC)----------------------
When the squad made it back to the Citadel, they were met by a team of physicians’ aides and a rolling gurney onto which the young MT soldier was placed. As soon as it was made clear that he was to be taken to a doctor, the boy had to be sedated for his own safety. Even then, he fought the drug, glaring at Cor with the red-eyed hatred of true betrayal, and was summarily strapped down to prevent him from trying to roll away. Cor watched him go for a moment before leading his troops straight into the Citadel for debriefing.
Regis and Clarus took the news as well as could be expected. Both were parents to young men close in age to the boy, and while Regis’ eyes only darkened at the description Cor made of the boy’s physical status and apparent personality, Clarus was positively livid.
“We were close to that age when we went to war, Clarus,” the King reminded his shield.
“This isn’t the same,” Clarus growled. Cor had to agree. There was a difference between young men signing up for horrors and being raised to it. In the end, it was agreed that the boy would stay in one of the few cells in the Citadel set aside for prisoners of war. It had been largely unused in recent years, as until now, they had all assumed that there were no people to be taken prisoner.
Cor requested to be placed in charge of the boy’s case file. Clarus approved his request, so long as he reported all his observations to him and the king alone.
As soon as their briefing was done, Cor made his way straight to the physicians. The slightly rattled nurse at the front desk told him that the boy was still in the operating room, and Cor settled down to wait in one of the stiff-backed chairs.
Clarus found him an hour later. He thrust a paper bag in Cor’s unresisting hands and sat heavily next to him, making the chair creak alarmingly.
“Saw it happen with Regis,” he said. “Back when the prince went under. Don’t forget to eat, Marshall.”
Cor opened the bag and found what looked like a spinach wrap. “This from your own lunch, sir?”
“Just don’t tell Regis. He’s a bear for vegetables.” Clarus eased into a slouch, as though prepared for a long wait, and Cor resigned himself to the Shield’s unwanted leftovers.
“I should point out, though,” he said, through a mouthful of spinach and sprouts, “that I’m no one’s grieving parent. I’m here because I have to be.”
“Sure,” said Clarus, in a voice that was far too light. “I got you.”
The both of them had nearly fallen asleep by the time the doctors came in. Cor felt like something had died in his mouth, and he could feel the grit in his skin, but he ignored the doctors’ sideways looks and followed them into a small office.
“He’ll keep the use of his legs,” one of the physicians said, handing him a thick file. “We did a retinal scan to try and figure out what was wrong with his eyes, and… uh.” She made an embarrassed grimace. “We don’t know. It isn’t anything we’ve seen before. We have blood tests going, but it’ll be a while before we make any progress.”
“There was a tracker in his neck,” said another physician. “And a serial code. We removed the tracker—it’s being sent up to the scientists in 3B for examination—and we have the serial code scanned on the fourth page of the file, right there.”
Cor sighed. “This is going to be a mess,” he said, in a quiet voice. Clarus placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Can we see him?”
“Sure thing, Marshall. He’s going to be a bit out of it. I don’t think he’s had anesthetic before. It hit him hard.”
Cor thought of the wires that had been lodged in the boy’s skin and scowled, making the doctors shift back in alarm. He handed the file back to them, thanked them for their service and discretion, and left them to Clarus’ tender mercies.
The boy, when he was wheeled out, really was out of it.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What is this?” He tried to run his hands over the sides of the wheelchair, but missed. “Why can’t I feel anything?”
“You’ll feel enough when you’ve had time to sleep,” Cor said. He took the handles of the chair from the nurse and met a number of Crownsguard waiting in the hall outside. “You men with Clarus?” They nodded.
“All these real people,” the boy said. The buzzing in his voice was so thick, it was hard to hear him properly. “I’m not authorized. Not authorized to guard real people yet.”
“They’re here to guard you,” Cor said, trying to hide a smile. The boy squinted up at him dubiously.
“But I’m an MT,” he said, reasonably. “Not a person.”
“I’m not equipped for this,” Cor murmured. He motioned for the men to lead them out, and pushed the highly bewildered young man out of the waiting room and into the halls of the Citadel.
The boy kept up a running commentary as they made their way to the cells. He was very impressed with the doctors, it turned out.
“It didn’t even hurt,” he said, for the fifth time. “It always hurts. Always, always.”
“Is that right,” Cor said. One of the guards looked at him sidelong and shrugged.
“Always. You’re very strange,” the boy said, abruptly. “You’re a soldier, but you’re not. How can you be a soldier and not?”
“I’ll tell you later, kid.”
“I don’t know that word.”
Cor bit down on the inside of his lip and held back a curse. He was going to kill the Emperor himself. With his bare hands, if need be.
The boy was even more unsettled by the room he was supposed to stay in. The wall on one side was heavily reinforced glass with a metal frame that could be drawn across it, and the furnishings were sparse: A serviceable bed, a small bookcase with a few old books lying every which way, and an open shower, sink, and toilet. Everything was set up very carefully so that there was no chance that the prisoners within could use anything to hurt themselves, and as such it looked rather sad and forbidding.
“I shouldn’t be here,” the boy said, at once, when he was wheeled in. “I’m not qualified for a dorm.”
“This isn’t a dorm,” Cor said, trying to keep patient. “It’s a… it’s where you’re going to live for a while.”
The boy protested, insisting that he wasn’t advanced enough as an MT to use a bed, yet. He kept this up even as Cor gently lifted him from the wheelchair and onto the mattress, even when his voice lowered to an uneven buzzing mumble. At last, he lay back on the raised lump that served as a pillow with a look of such deep suspicion that Cor laughed. The young man jumped a little, and stared at him intently.
“Prompto,” he slurred, after a while. Cor raised an eyebrow. “Before they moved me to Phase Two. There was a man who called me Prompto.”
“Well, then. I’m Cor,” he said, and gave the boy an uneasy smile. “Nice to meet you, Prompto.”