The trouble started the next morning. Cor woke to one of the Crownsguard texting his phone, requesting his presence at the cells as soon as possible. He tried not to pay attention to the time on his bedside alarm as he stumbled into somewhat clean clothes from three days ago. He blinked at his hair in the mirror, spat mouthwash in a desperate attempt to kill the ghosts of spinach wraps past, and lurched for the door. He was half awake by the time he made it to the lower levels, and walked past a harried-looking guard outside the door of the cell.
Another guard was just inside, hands up, approaching the boy as though he were a savage animal. The boy had rolled from the bed to the ground, and was trying to stand on legs that trembled violently. When Cor entered, the boy turned to him, his pupils black lines against a sea of red.
“What did you do to me?” he moaned. He strained to lift himself up by the arms. He nearly managed it, but Cor leaned in and pulled him up all the way, depositing him on the bed. He didn’t protest the firm handling, but kept his accusatory glare fixed on the Marshal at all times.
“You were shot,” Cor said, too tired to mince words. “The doctors removed the shrapnel, but they had a mage put a stasis spell on you so you don’t try to overdo it. It’ll take a few days.”
“You’re going to decommission me,” Prompto whispered. His breath came out in a static buzz, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
“No. No, kid, we aren’t gonna…” Cor stopped. This wasn’t his problem, not really. There were counselors who could do this job better, were probably already being briefed to do this job better. Cor’s task was to oversee, not to hold the kid’s hand. He thought of the paperwork that sat in untidy piles on his desk. There were soldiers who needed swearing in, meetings he had to attend, endless tasks that came with the burden of command. Then he looked at the boy, who was staring at his legs with the horror of a man on the edge, and sighed.
“Prompto,” he said. “No one will decommission you.”
“Everything’s wrong here,” Prompto said, in a small voice.
“Is that bad?”
The boy looked at him searchingly, pressing his lips in a tight line. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a start,” said Cor. “Come on. I’ll show you how to get in the wheelchair, and we’ll eat breakfast.”
Breakfast was a disaster. The boy couldn’t keep anything down. Half a slice of toast was as much as his stomach could handle, and even then, he ended up lying on the floor with his cheek pressed to the carpet, breathing hard to control the nausea that gripped him.
“What do you even eat in Niflheim?” Cor asked.
The boy gave a one-sided shrug. “Pills. Tubes. Nothing like this.”
Cor grimaced. This was the danger of small talk with the kid. It led to deep pockets of unfathomable rage, fury at the injustice of an Empire that Cor had little power to break. Cor counted his breath instead, and unconsciously brushed back the boy’s damp hair.
“I’m so tired,” Prompto said. “I should be in training.”
“That’s one thing that’s definitely not happening.” Cor helped him sit up and lifted him to the bed. He left the boy squinting down at a collection of nature photography from the bookshelf, and started the long, weary trek to Clarus’ offices.
The blood results from the day before had led to chaos in the ranks among the Citadel’s scientists and doctors. One scientist insisted that the blood was corrupted with the Scourge. The others outweighed her hypothesis, claiming that the boy’s blood was thick with a drug that they hadn’t even heard of before, and that the boy’s immune system was constantly at odds with it, trying to force out the foreign substance. They warned Clarus and Cor that it was only a matter of time before withdrawals took hold, and that until they could find a way to replicate the drug, there would be no regulating the force of the boy’s reaction to it.
“You need to be prepared for the likelihood that it will kill him,” the lead researcher said carefully. “His temperature is already unnaturally high. A fever could do permanent damage.”
Clarus looked at Cor briefly before dismissing the scientist. “At least we know,” he said. “I’m giving Gladiolus leave to take him outside for a spell, tomorrow. It may do him good to see someone his own age, and it can offer him some comfort at the least.”
“Don’t say it like that, Clarus,” Cor said, impulsively, and knew how pathetic he sounded even before the words were out. Soldiers died all the time: From infection, from illness, at the hands of other soldiers. Cor had made a mistake to attach himself to this one, but he could tell that it was too late to step away—He thought of that pale, red-eyed boy trailing his fingers over the glossy pages of the book as he left, and felt something unnamed and painful stirring in his chest. He barely even noticed that Clarus had moved to stand next to him, a large hand settling at the joining of his shoulder and neck.
“We can hope for the best,” he said, in a low voice. “I am sorry, Cor.”
Cor ground his teeth and looked away, cursing himself for a fool.
“You must be Prompto.”
Gladiolus Amicitia crouched down on his ankles at the side of the prisoner’s bed, making sure to keep his expression light. His father had warned him ahead of time, but it hadn’t been enough to prepare him for how very red the boy’s eyes were, or the way his breath came out in a rasp that sounded like a grate being dragged across the sand. He hadn’t prepared him for how skinny the boy was, either. Almost as scrawny as Noct, Gladio thought, taking note of the stiff way Prompto stretched his legs.
The young man looked up at Gladio with apprehension. He held the book on his lap tight, as though worried it would be taken from him, and his pupils were contracting with fear.
“I’m Gladio. My dad’s Clarus,” Gladio said. “You’ve seen him before. The big guy, bald on the top, looks like this.” He pulled a face, and Prompto’s expression twisted, like he was trying not to smile. “Yeah, you know him, then.”
“He seemed angry,” Prompto said, warily. Gladio had to strain to make out the words through the growling buzz in the young man's voice.
“Not at you,” said Gladio. “Come on. Do you want to go outside? I have permission.”
Prompto looked down at the book in his hands, then over at Gladio, then back to the book. “You can bring it with, if you want.”
He was rewarded with what almost looked like a smile, weak and shaking and a little too broad. “Yes,” Prompto said. “Yes, I’d like to.”
So Gladio watched as Prompto eased himself into the wheelchair, and snuck a glance at the book before Prompto slipped it into a side pocket. Photography, huh? Well, even MTs had to have a hobby. He almost started wheeling the kid out before he remembered something his father had ordered, and pulled out a pair of dark glasses.
“For you,” he said, handing them to Prompto. “So no one freaks out about your eyes.” He waited until the glasses were secure, and then cheerily wheeled them both out of the cell.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Gladio stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and let out a low, toneless whistle. Noctis Lucis Caelum staggered out of a doorway, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed by the hair, followed by his advisor, Ignis, who looked like he was the one who did most of the dragging. The boy in the chair stiffened at the sight of them, but Noct just waved and smirked.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Noct. This is Ignis. We’re gonna be your honor guard.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Prompto said, and Ignis and Gladio both drew themselves to attention. Noct raised his eyebrows.
“Really? Don’t know why. They said your name’s Prompto?”
“I… guess.” The boy looked bewildered, and held up his right hand. “I’m supposed to go by my serial code, but no one wants to use that—“
“Too many numbers,” Gladio said, peering at the tattoo on his wrist. “Prompto’s easier.”
Noct leaned down so that his eyes were level with the MT’s. “Wanna see something really boring? You’ll love it, it was Iggy’s idea.”
Ignis let out a wordless sound of protest, and the three of them fell into step around Prompto.
Halfway down the next hall, Noct and Ignis showed Prompto—to varying degrees of success—how to move the wheelchair himself. Two corridors later, Prompto was engaging Noct in a haphazard race, Gladio just at their heels, while Ignis cried that they Please, let us not all get court-martialed. Gladio was allowed a look at the book of photography, and after a moment of intense inner conflict, Ignis showed Prompto how to use the camera on his phone. Ignis’ camera roll was soon filled with up-close pictures of Prompto’s thumb, shots of Noct trying to look like he wasn’t posing, faded pictures of Gladio’s bicep and the back of Ignis’ head, and one very confused selfie.
“We’re gonna have to get you a real camera,” Noct said at last, just before they reached their destination. He pressed a hand on a wide, grey door, and stopped at a faint choking sound from behind him.
Prompto looked up from Ignis’ phone, and his face was streaked with tears. Gladio and Ignis exchanged a hurried glance, and Gladio pulled up his father's number on his phone, just in case. Noct sank down into a crouch in front of the blonde, and cautiously lifted up his glasses.
“Damn,” said the prince, in a hissing voice. He pulled his hand away. “That burns.”
Prompto tried to take a deep breath and let out a hitching sob, then set the phone down in trembling hands.
“I think I’m malfunctioning,” he gasped, and fell forward into a dead faint.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
FILL: Engine Heart 3/? Re: Any/Prompto; MT Prompto is taken as a POW
Date: 2017-02-05 07:34 pm (UTC)Another guard was just inside, hands up, approaching the boy as though he were a savage animal. The boy had rolled from the bed to the ground, and was trying to stand on legs that trembled violently. When Cor entered, the boy turned to him, his pupils black lines against a sea of red.
“What did you do to me?” he moaned. He strained to lift himself up by the arms. He nearly managed it, but Cor leaned in and pulled him up all the way, depositing him on the bed. He didn’t protest the firm handling, but kept his accusatory glare fixed on the Marshal at all times.
“You were shot,” Cor said, too tired to mince words. “The doctors removed the shrapnel, but they had a mage put a stasis spell on you so you don’t try to overdo it. It’ll take a few days.”
“You’re going to decommission me,” Prompto whispered. His breath came out in a static buzz, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
“No. No, kid, we aren’t gonna…” Cor stopped. This wasn’t his problem, not really. There were counselors who could do this job better, were probably already being briefed to do this job better. Cor’s task was to oversee, not to hold the kid’s hand. He thought of the paperwork that sat in untidy piles on his desk. There were soldiers who needed swearing in, meetings he had to attend, endless tasks that came with the burden of command. Then he looked at the boy, who was staring at his legs with the horror of a man on the edge, and sighed.
“Prompto,” he said. “No one will decommission you.”
“Everything’s wrong here,” Prompto said, in a small voice.
“Is that bad?”
The boy looked at him searchingly, pressing his lips in a tight line. “I don’t know.”
“It’s a start,” said Cor. “Come on. I’ll show you how to get in the wheelchair, and we’ll eat breakfast.”
Breakfast was a disaster. The boy couldn’t keep anything down. Half a slice of toast was as much as his stomach could handle, and even then, he ended up lying on the floor with his cheek pressed to the carpet, breathing hard to control the nausea that gripped him.
“What do you even eat in Niflheim?” Cor asked.
The boy gave a one-sided shrug. “Pills. Tubes. Nothing like this.”
Cor grimaced. This was the danger of small talk with the kid. It led to deep pockets of unfathomable rage, fury at the injustice of an Empire that Cor had little power to break. Cor counted his breath instead, and unconsciously brushed back the boy’s damp hair.
“I’m so tired,” Prompto said. “I should be in training.”
“That’s one thing that’s definitely not happening.” Cor helped him sit up and lifted him to the bed. He left the boy squinting down at a collection of nature photography from the bookshelf, and started the long, weary trek to Clarus’ offices.
The blood results from the day before had led to chaos in the ranks among the Citadel’s scientists and doctors. One scientist insisted that the blood was corrupted with the Scourge. The others outweighed her hypothesis, claiming that the boy’s blood was thick with a drug that they hadn’t even heard of before, and that the boy’s immune system was constantly at odds with it, trying to force out the foreign substance. They warned Clarus and Cor that it was only a matter of time before withdrawals took hold, and that until they could find a way to replicate the drug, there would be no regulating the force of the boy’s reaction to it.
“You need to be prepared for the likelihood that it will kill him,” the lead researcher said carefully. “His temperature is already unnaturally high. A fever could do permanent damage.”
Clarus looked at Cor briefly before dismissing the scientist. “At least we know,” he said. “I’m giving Gladiolus leave to take him outside for a spell, tomorrow. It may do him good to see someone his own age, and it can offer him some comfort at the least.”
“Don’t say it like that, Clarus,” Cor said, impulsively, and knew how pathetic he sounded even before the words were out. Soldiers died all the time: From infection, from illness, at the hands of other soldiers. Cor had made a mistake to attach himself to this one, but he could tell that it was too late to step away—He thought of that pale, red-eyed boy trailing his fingers over the glossy pages of the book as he left, and felt something unnamed and painful stirring in his chest. He barely even noticed that Clarus had moved to stand next to him, a large hand settling at the joining of his shoulder and neck.
“We can hope for the best,” he said, in a low voice. “I am sorry, Cor.”
Cor ground his teeth and looked away, cursing himself for a fool.
“You must be Prompto.”
Gladiolus Amicitia crouched down on his ankles at the side of the prisoner’s bed, making sure to keep his expression light. His father had warned him ahead of time, but it hadn’t been enough to prepare him for how very red the boy’s eyes were, or the way his breath came out in a rasp that sounded like a grate being dragged across the sand. He hadn’t prepared him for how skinny the boy was, either. Almost as scrawny as Noct, Gladio thought, taking note of the stiff way Prompto stretched his legs.
The young man looked up at Gladio with apprehension. He held the book on his lap tight, as though worried it would be taken from him, and his pupils were contracting with fear.
“I’m Gladio. My dad’s Clarus,” Gladio said. “You’ve seen him before. The big guy, bald on the top, looks like this.” He pulled a face, and Prompto’s expression twisted, like he was trying not to smile. “Yeah, you know him, then.”
“He seemed angry,” Prompto said, warily. Gladio had to strain to make out the words through the growling buzz in the young man's voice.
“Not at you,” said Gladio. “Come on. Do you want to go outside? I have permission.”
Prompto looked down at the book in his hands, then over at Gladio, then back to the book. “You can bring it with, if you want.”
He was rewarded with what almost looked like a smile, weak and shaking and a little too broad. “Yes,” Prompto said. “Yes, I’d like to.”
So Gladio watched as Prompto eased himself into the wheelchair, and snuck a glance at the book before Prompto slipped it into a side pocket. Photography, huh? Well, even MTs had to have a hobby. He almost started wheeling the kid out before he remembered something his father had ordered, and pulled out a pair of dark glasses.
“For you,” he said, handing them to Prompto. “So no one freaks out about your eyes.” He waited until the glasses were secure, and then cheerily wheeled them both out of the cell.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, and then Gladio stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and let out a low, toneless whistle. Noctis Lucis Caelum staggered out of a doorway, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed by the hair, followed by his advisor, Ignis, who looked like he was the one who did most of the dragging. The boy in the chair stiffened at the sight of them, but Noct just waved and smirked.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Noct. This is Ignis. We’re gonna be your honor guard.”
“I’ve seen you before,” Prompto said, and Ignis and Gladio both drew themselves to attention. Noct raised his eyebrows.
“Really? Don’t know why. They said your name’s Prompto?”
“I… guess.” The boy looked bewildered, and held up his right hand. “I’m supposed to go by my serial code, but no one wants to use that—“
“Too many numbers,” Gladio said, peering at the tattoo on his wrist. “Prompto’s easier.”
Noct leaned down so that his eyes were level with the MT’s. “Wanna see something really boring? You’ll love it, it was Iggy’s idea.”
Ignis let out a wordless sound of protest, and the three of them fell into step around Prompto.
Halfway down the next hall, Noct and Ignis showed Prompto—to varying degrees of success—how to move the wheelchair himself. Two corridors later, Prompto was engaging Noct in a haphazard race, Gladio just at their heels, while Ignis cried that they Please, let us not all get court-martialed. Gladio was allowed a look at the book of photography, and after a moment of intense inner conflict, Ignis showed Prompto how to use the camera on his phone. Ignis’ camera roll was soon filled with up-close pictures of Prompto’s thumb, shots of Noct trying to look like he wasn’t posing, faded pictures of Gladio’s bicep and the back of Ignis’ head, and one very confused selfie.
“We’re gonna have to get you a real camera,” Noct said at last, just before they reached their destination. He pressed a hand on a wide, grey door, and stopped at a faint choking sound from behind him.
Prompto looked up from Ignis’ phone, and his face was streaked with tears. Gladio and Ignis exchanged a hurried glance, and Gladio pulled up his father's number on his phone, just in case. Noct sank down into a crouch in front of the blonde, and cautiously lifted up his glasses.
“Damn,” said the prince, in a hissing voice. He pulled his hand away. “That burns.”
Prompto tried to take a deep breath and let out a hitching sob, then set the phone down in trembling hands.
“I think I’m malfunctioning,” he gasped, and fell forward into a dead faint.