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robininthelabyrinth · 7 years ago

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FFXV: Eschaton - 3/4

Fic: Eschaton (ao3 link) - chapter 3/4

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairing: None (gen)

Summary: Sure, it’s the end of the world, but that just means someone’s got to fix it.

And then the world found its somebodies.

(aka, with Noctis gone into the Crystal and no one sure when he’ll be back, Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto end up saving the world one piece at a time)

——————————————————————————————

ONE YEAR

"I was starting to think you'd lost your touch, big brother," Iris taunts, laughing as her sword slices through another Snaga.

Gladio parries the Red Giant's next strike with his shield and slices at the daemon's leg. "Sure," he says. "That why you're going after Snagas instead?"

"I'm keeping them off your back!"

The Red Giant abruptly makes a creaking sound, its head detaching from its body as it tumbles forward with a loud crash. Cor lands, as light-footed as ever, on the other side. "You both need to focus on fighting," he tells them. "Not clowning around."

Gladio shrugs and toes the corpse in front of him. "Remember when they used to disappear when you killed them?" he says wistfully. Sure, they've come up with plenty of different approaches since then, and at any rate the daemon corpses are handy for the MTs, but he can't help but sigh at the realization that the battle might be over but there's still lots of work to be done.

"That was then," Cor says. "This is now."

"Oh, lighten up, sourpuss," Iris says, already cleaning her sword. "You're as happy as I am to have Gladdy back in the field and not, like, growing more tomatoes."

"And yet I manage to keep my joy restrained to moments when we're not in direct combat," Cor replies dryly. "Look at that."

“Also, those tomatoes kept the whole city fed,” Gladio points out, because he thinks that’s worth mentioning. It wasn’t his fault that his innovation had resulted in Ignis recruiting virtually every able-bodied person available to go lay out as many harvests as humanly possible.

Or that the first round was mostly tomatoes.

And yes, they were all sick of tomatoes right now…but not as much as they were sick of mushrooms.

Iris snorts. "Yeah, yeah," she says. "You just want to gossip about your precious schools. Go ahead and scout the next rise; I'll drain and burn the bodies."

"Keep a flare on you in case –"

"— of trouble, and we're linked up on the MT network in case I need you," Iris completes the sentence, rolling her eyes. "I've led the hunters of Hammerhead all but solo for six months, Cor, and I've fought as a hunter since the Long Night started a year ago. I know how to do this!"

Cor and Gladio exchange long-suffering looks.

"I saw that!"

"Let's go scout ahead," Gladio says hastily. He doesn't want to incur Iris' actual wrath; that way lie pranks and suffering.

Cor – who fears nothing, and who Iris is way too respectful of to ever properly prank – snorts, but nods and follows Gladio forward.

"What do you think Aranea wants us for?" Gladio asks, determined to hold off at least ten minutes before bringing up his school. Just to show Iris.

He hopes Aranea has a good reason, if only because last week marked the extremely disappointing turn of the first year in which Noct still did not return.

"She was unclear," Cor says. "As ever. She may just want us to clear the grounds."

Cor does not particularly like Aranea, and the feeling is decidedly mutual. Ignis says that it comes from the fact that Aranea – who runs the transportation between Niflheim, Accordo, and Lucis – tends to act like she's the one in charge, no matter the situation, and Cor is far too accustomed to ignoring the person nominally in charge in favor of taking actual charge himself, so on their first joint mission, he suborned half of her lieutenants and took care of the mission in his own way without her permission. She blew up about it, which led him to not-so-subtly question her competence, which in turn led to her trying to ban him from her parts of the world – impossible, of course, but enough to sincerely irritate Cor.

Not that her little ban lasted long. Cor the Immortal is still their greatest morale booster, and – much to Aranea's displeasure – he lives up to his reputation, which means they have to deal with each other sometimes.

Gladio personally suspects that it might have more to do with the fact that Aranea is a very attractive woman, wearing very little, and as a result she is accustomed to having slightly more sway than normal over men, and therefore overreacted when Cor treated her in the same indifferent way he treated any new commander, and by the time she calmed down, Cor had already developed a dislike for her and she couldn't back down without admitting she was mistaken.

Ignis says that theory is ridiculous.

Prompto agrees with Gladio, and points out that as a mercenary of Niflheim, she wouldn't have been aware of Cor's rather infamous disinterest in any form of romance or sexual attraction, whether male or female.

(Gladio still remembers the arguments about it when he was a kid – his mom was certain that she just needed to set Cor up with the right someone, and his dad let it continue as a joke on Cor; it went right up until Cor convinced a whole bunch of would-be suitors to wait for him, naked, in Gladio's dad's office, at which point even Gladio's mom officially gave up. The king then yelled at them them both – Gladio's parents, that is, not Cor – about the exact meaning of the term 'aromantic' and 'asexual' for about an hour, which Gladio suspects helped. Admittedly, Cor has never actually adopted the terms, preferring to say that he’s in an exclusive polyamorous relationships with his many swords, but that’s because his sense of humor is warped.)

Either way, Gladio plans to advise Aranea to just apologize already, because while Cor would never jeopardize a mission, any mission, simply because he disliked a commander, he also doesn't really believe in the concept of 'forgive and forget'.

Certainly not after Drautos.

"She wanted us to come to a lab," Gladio points out. "That's not really her specialty. So it's gotta be something impressive."

Cor snorts, but doesn't disagree.

"I'm more interested in why she didn't come meet us," Gladio says. "You'd think the Minister of Transportation would be a bit better at – transporting."

Cor just gives Gladio a look that clearly says that he's aware that Gladio’s aware of his dislike of Aranea and he's not so young that he can be cheered up by someone playing on it.

"Oh, fine," Gladio says. "We'll see when we get there. I just wish we'd regained cell service this far out."

"We've gotten most of the northern part of Lucis back to stability," Cor says, and this time he does sound pleased – rightly so, since it was the first set of Crownsguard graduates that took on the project of restoring the cell towers after the daemons had demolished them back when the Long Night had first started. The first class had been primarily composed of hunters, of course, and people who already had fighting experience, but Cor took them from individuals who were pretty good and turned them into a frankly impressive fighting unit. And then he’d divided the class between those who joined Prompto’s armies and those who stayed in the new Crownsguard that defended Lestallum and its outposts.

Gladio can’t wait until Cor’s second set of graduates is ready to go out – maybe Prompto will stop asking about them in every letter.

"We've got access as far down as the Quay," Gladio reminds him. “If you recall.”

"That's still spotty; it doesn’t count," Cor replies dismissively, but he can't help the slight curve of his mouth. "You just want to know when your radio broadcasts can start going out more frequently."

"I still can't believe that's as popular as it is," Gladio complains. He really, really can’t.

"People literally have nothing better to do than to listen to you," Cor points out.

"Ouch."

"And Cindy's been giving away mini-radios tuned to your station for free."

"Double ouch. And what do you mean 'my station'? I'm the only station out there."

"Exactly," Cor says dryly.

"Keep insulting me, and I'm signing you up to speak at my school again."

"Running the Crownsguard now," Cor says laconically. "Way too busy."

"I'm sure I can get Ignis to give you an afternoon off," Gladio says sweetly. “Especially if I brought a few of the kids and had them sound all soft and vulnerable about how much they’d really love it if their childhood hero could just spare them a few hours.”

Cor considers his chances and wisely decides not to say anything more.

He really hates giving those speeches.

Or maybe it was all those children staring at him that bothered him...

Speaking of children -

"The Corlings are doing well," Gladio offers, keeping his tone neutral. He knows it's something of a sensitive subject for Cor, sometimes.

Gladio can't blame him. If he ever found out that one unfortunate battle, years before, resulted in the enemy obtaining some of his blood, with plans to use it to obtain his genetic material in order to create horrific cyborg-daemon hybrids specifically designed to kill him...

The Empire even named them "Immortal Killers".

If Gladio's happy about anything in this Long Night, it's the fact that the twisted minds behind those projects are dead as doornails.

Luckily for Cor, there are only three of them – genetic material degrades quickly through the cloning process, apparently, and the Empire only managed to obtain a small amount in the first place. Horrifyingly, they were planning on pitting them against each other, leaving only one Immortal Killer to go after Cor once they reached their accelerated adulthood.

Now, divorced from their purpose and from the growth hormone injections that forced them into too-rapid aging, they are just – children.

Children with Cor's eyes, and face, and –

Well, they don't all have his hair, not since Immie decided she wanted to be a girl when she grew up and grew it long, anyway.

Tal and Kille thought she was nuts at first for providing such a handhold, but she proved quite vicious about it, and Cor took her side, so they're all over it now.

Cor took them in, of course; Gladio suspects that's the real reason he agreed to take on the role of Marshal and trainer of the Crownsguard again. Misplaced guilt about his inability to prevent the inevitable destruction of Insomnia was nothing against the longing stares of a set of seven year olds who desperately needed a father.

Cor loves them to distraction, even if he’s uncomfortable discussing them with people who know their origins.

Indeed, even now, heading into Niflheim with all its memories, Cor looks pleased at Gladio's comment on the Corlings.

(Technically they all have the last name Leonis, but somehow everyone called them the Corlings instead.)

"That's good to hear," Cor says. "They said something about mathematics...?"

"Kille submitted a proof for a prize," Gladio confirms, taking care to pronounce it the way Prompto suggested – Ki-ye – all those months ago when the MTs explained the Corlings' origin. "He was waiting to see if he won before telling you, so act surprised when we get back."

"He won?"

"Highest score in his class."

Cor actually smiles at that. "I was never good at math," he confesses. He's always most pleased – they all are – when the MTs do something that showcases how profoundly different and unique they are despite their cloned origins.

Gladio smiles back, happy on Cor's behalf – and on his own, since he's been demoted (in his own school!) to teaching math to the younger kids. Kille is just old enough to be in Gladio's group, so Gladio is totally taking some of the credit.

"Immie's taken up art," Cor adds, smile widening and eyes going distant for a moment. "And I'm pretty sure Tal is too young to be stalking Cindy for any of the obvious reasons, so I'm hoping he's taking an interest in mechanics."

Gladio's about to make a joke about Corlings being precocious when, right in the middle of that pleasant moment of nostalgia, Aranea shows up.

"What're you two talking about?" she asks.

Cor's smile is gone as if it never was. His face looks like it's been carved out of stone. "Captain Aranea."

Aranea scowls at him. "I was a Commander in Niflheim's army, Marshal; I'm sure I've mentioned that to you."

"Have you?" Cor inquires politely, not giving an inch.

Yeah, this is going about as well as Gladio expected.

"Hey, Aranea –" Gladio starts, hoping to head any trouble off at the pass.

He's too late.

"At times I think that the cost of allying with you lot isn't worth the benefit," Aranea sneers at Cor. "Given that you constantly disrespect us and focus on your own needs –"

"You called, we came," Cor says. "You're welcome to ask the daemons to help instead."

He looks like he's seriously considering turning to go.

"Cor –" Gladio starts.

"Since when are you a peacemaker, big guy?" Aranea taunts.

Cor bristles in Gladio's defense, which is totally unnecessary. "If you don't want us here, then –" he starts.

"Hi, Aranea!" Iris chirps, coming out of the shadows. "Wow, you look tired – what happened?"

Gladio looks at Aranea a little closer. She does look tired, either like she hasn't slept or because something has been seriously bothering her – or both.

Aranea opens her mouth to snap something defensive, but ends up exhaling in a long drawn out breath.

"Did something go wrong?" Cor asks, hostility fading rapidly to be replaced with professional concern. "Are your people safe?"

"We had a pretty bad attack," Aranea concedes. "A week or two back, though; nothing to do about it now."

"And your people?" Cor presses.

"Mostly fine," she says, and runs a hand over her face – a very uncharacteristic act of vulnerability for her. "Biggs took a bad hit."

"Your right hand man," Gladio says. He was one of the two that drove the train that took the three of them and Noct to Gralea, and who brought the three of them and the Crystal – useless hunk of rock that it is – back. Gladio can't say he has fond memories of the man, the pain of losing Noct was still too raw and overshadowing all else, but he knows how important he is to Aranea. "I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing that could be helped by elixirs or potions?" He hesitates. "A phoenix down?"

Phoenix downs have become increasingly rare, even more so than before; Ignis hoards them like a miser and keeps them among their most precious of medicines, behind shielded doors and a vigilant guard.

Gladio knows all too well that he doesn't have the authority to give one out, but he'd be willing to argue the case for one – if one could even help after a few weeks. They really are more useful within a few hours, or a day at most.

Aranea shoots him a half-smile of thanks. "No, but thanks for the offer," she says, reining in her emotions. "But we haven't given up on him yet. That's actually why I wanted you to come."

"Us?" Iris asks. "What can we do? We're hunters, not doctors."

"Doctors wouldn't help," Aranea says. "What I need are soldiers, to give a soldier's opinion. I don't trust myself."

Cor is frowning. "You have an ethical dilemma?"

"Something like that," she says. "It's easier if I show you. Follow me."

They follow her. She came to the rendezvous point in a drop ship, which was an almost unheard-of luxury, for all of Cindy and Cid's promises about developing an updated generator that could be distributed without having to take away from their current lighting supply – she must really want their opinion.

The trip to the lab is much faster after that. Iris tries a few times to start a conversation, but Aranea isn't interested and her solemn mood is infectious.

They mostly sit in silence.

The lab is a pretty typical example of the Niflheim style, which is to say, bland, dark, and incredibly creepy, designed as if mere efficiency was not enough and they needed to be soul-draining, too.

It was an MT lab.

Gladio makes a face at the signs of the sleeping pods, the mechanical devices called 'threshers' that are used to extract daemon blood, and all the other signs that declare the place's vile purpose.

Former purpose.

Except when Aranea leads them down, deep inside, it hasn't been gutted like most of the others in Lucis and Accordo have been. It's still clean and pristine and the computer banks that line the wall still hum with life.

"What's going on?" Gladio asks, officially uncomfortable. They're only a month or so into the first MT rehabilitation efforts – weaning them off the daemon blood, reaccustoming them to light (what light they have), detaching the armor and masks that had been welded onto their flesh. It's going pretty well, by which Gladio means that it's absolutely horrific – invasive surgeries and devastating withdrawal symptoms, screams as light burns tender flesh and vomiting as they breathe unfiltered air for the first time in years – but that the first few who had volunteered for the process are starting to settle into something that resembles human bodies.

They all still need a lot of physical therapy, not to mention continued access to the mental health services which have been made available to all MTs. Moreover, the rehabilitated MTs' skin is largely still a pasty chalk white that only vaguely resembles human, with the barest echoes of what color it was before the process took hold; their eyes are still a spectrum of shades of red, from pale pink to deep burgundy, rather than any normal shade; and the tallest of them, the axe-men and -women, still tower over even tall men like Gladio.

But they are clearly human, with uncovered faces and uncovered hands, with hair they can grow or color or style, and they are overwhelmed with relief.

Not all the MTs thought the process was a good idea, of course, with some of them preferring their hardy armor and photophobic skin with the ability to supplement their diets with the nighttime photosynthesis the daemons used. Gladio's pretty sure someone's coined a more appropriate scientific word, but he doesn't know it – he just knows that he's moderated a lot of debates on the subject, and people on all sides have very strong feelings.

Gladio is personally in favor of each MT getting a fair choice, just like the MT kids (theoretically) have the options to choose to graduate to MT once they're fully grown, though thankfully none have yet grown old enough to make that choice.

The fact that the MTs have that option available to them, though –

Perhaps that's why the lab is still functional.

Gladio hopes that's why the lab is still functional.

"It's a conversion center," Cor says before Aranea can answer, his mind clearly having gone down a similar path as Gladio's. "For the final MT process. Why are we here?"

"Because I need your opinion," Aranea says, her voice solemn, and then she leads them into the operating chamber.

Biggs is lying on the table. His injuries are bad – Aranea wasn't exaggerating. Just based on what Gladio can see, he already knows there's no way Biggs is walking off of that table again, and Biggs' skin shines with that characteristic glisten that speaks of too many potions and elixirs, and the fact that none of them have made a dent.

Or worse, that they have, and that this is all they've managed to accomplish.

Biggs is also connected to several devices that Gladio doesn't recognize, large boxes with no symbols on them, but which blink with lights signifying their activity.

There are several people in labcoats, and several MTs, one of which has the pale naked features of the rehabilitated.

"I'm sorry about Biggs," Gladio tells Aranea again. She nods.

"So you've brought us all this way. Now tell us, what's the question?" Iris asks. Her hand is resting casually in her belt, but that's only a few inches away from her sword.

"Istherius," Aranea says. "Explain to them what you told me."

One of the men in labcoats nods. "Biggs is in a coma," he says crisply. "Given the scope of his injuries, he is clearly unlikely to recover. As a result, it will not be possible to request his consent as to an experimental medical procedure that may preserve his life."

"What procedure?" Cor asks.

"As you are well aware, MTs can survive significantly more severe injuries than humans," Istherius says delicately.

"You're suggesting converting him to an MT," Iris says flatly.

"Not a complete conversion," Istherius says. "Nor are we even discussing a permanent one, necessarily. Our research has demonstrated that the MT conversion by necessity includes a moment in which consciousness is terminated –"

"Death," Gladio translates. "They all die when they become MTs?"

"Only for the briefest moment, then they're immediately resuscitated with the MT activation process," Istherius says. "Essentially, the interface on the helmets, which as you know is wired into brain activity, acts as a sort of back-up device to help kick-start the brain – and, we hope, the mind. It mimics the functionality of a phoenix down, but in a drastically different manner that does not rely on the efficiency of magic and the whims of the Six. This technology is 100% manmade."

"Interesting," Cor says. "The Empire couldn't get phoenix down to work, since that relies on a minor summoning of the power of the Six to revive people and the Empire was – shall we say – not favored by the Six, so they came up with their own workaround."

"Precisely," Istherius says.

"An interesting way to avoid prophecy," Cor says dryly. "If you don't like the will of the Astrals, you can just bypass it and impose your own instead. Classic Empire thinking. Why wasn't this more widespread?"

"At the time of the Empire's destruction, it was still classified as experimental despite having been in regular practice as part of the MT conversion process," Istherius says. "They couldn't figure out how to adapt it to non-MTs – individuals who hadn't been raised with a slow onset of daemon blood injections designed to enhance their natural antibodies resistant to the scourge – without infecting the subject with the scourge and thus converting them not into MTs, but into daemons."

Gladio assumes they found this out by trying it out on people. Six, he's happy the Empire's gone.

"So why are we here?" Iris asks.

"Isn't it obvious?" Cor asks. "They think they've figured out a way to get around that problem, but Commander Highwind won't authorize the procedure until we assure her that if this is successful, Biggs won't hate her forever for robbing him of an honorable death."

Aranea doesn't even comment about him using her actual title. That means Cor is right.

"Shit," Gladio says, heartfelt. "How sure are you about the procedure?"

Istherius winces. "It works reliably on mice, and the principles are transferable."

"But you haven't tried it on humans at all."

"Biggs would be the first one," Istherius confirms. "We were unwilling to experiment on anyone without consent, and Commander Aranea refused to risk any of her soldiers. It's only the extremity of the situation that led her to consider it – Biggs is the first person we've recovered that is still alive even after such a drastic injury."

Cor, Gladio and Iris exchange solemn looks.

"What about the larger consequences of this?" Iris asks. "Even assuming we do think Biggs would accept it – let's say it works. What then?"

"What do you mean?" Aranea asks.

"MTs are part machine, and machine parts last longer than human parts," Iris says. "Do they live longer? Are we going to have a sudden influx of people demanding to be converted to MTs in order to try to live forever?"

Istherius looks surprised by the question, and also lost for words.

The rehabilitated MT – a former sniper, judging by the patch on his jacket, and his features are typical of dark-skinned islanders like Wesker, though his skin retains the artificial albinism of the MTs – steps forward, then.

"Very few MTs have been able to live out a typical lifespan," he says, his voice soft and still raspy from years of deterioration to his vocal cords from the preventative voice box blocker placed on most MTs. "However, there was once a test group devoted to testing that idea, using artificial growth hormones to mimic the aging process. The end result showed that the average lifespan of an MT is not noticeably longer than a regular human – the averages were about the same in the control group – but that MTs retained functionality to a later age. But once they reached a certain age, they died of what is called natural causes – heart failure, stroke, or simply inexplicable cessation of life. While certain more elderly individuals – or those with significantly deteriorated standards of living, such as quadriplegics – might view the process as worthwhile, it is unlikely to be beneficial in most instances given the disadvantages of being an MT and the discomfort of the process."

By 'discomfort', he meas 'horrifying pain beyond your wildest dreams'.

"So no ethical question of overuse. That means we're back to square one," Iris says. "Whether Biggs would want it."

"Aranea, you knew him best," Cor says. "Why ask us? Iris and I never even met him."

"I don't know if he'd want it," Aranea says, her voice tight. "I don't know if it's just me, wanting him back, wanting not to have to tell Wedge his partner's gone. I'm too close. I can't make the call. That's why I wanted you three. You're good, loyal soldiers, like him; you're the closest I can get to asking him."

"If your procedure doesn't work, he becomes infected with the scourge, right?" Gladio asks Istherius.

"Yes," Istherius says. "We have several monitors that will let us know if he begins to transform; we will of course begin euthanization procedures if that occurs."

"Most hunters would rather die than risk becoming a daemon," Iris says. "What procedure are you using that you think will keep him safe?"

"We will be performing a transfusion of Xtoh's blood at the same time," Istherius says, nodding at the rehabilitated MT. "We've done tests and we believe that the resistance to the scourge that still remains in his blood will be enough to keep the scourge at bay for the limited period we need to attach the mask."

"And he'll be metallic after this?" Gladio asks.

"He will have an MT mask," Istherius confirms. "And several armor pieces. However, we believe that we will be able to remove it a few weeks via the typical rehabilitation process. It would be attempted after the original conversion process is complete, to allow for recovery."

"You believe, but you're not certain,” Iris says, frowning. “He could be stuck like that forever."

"Nothing is certain with this procedure," Istherius says. "But I personally believe it's worth the risk."

"Do it," Cor says.

They all look at him.

"The utility of a process like this can't be understated," Cor says. "Even if it does require temporary or even permanent conversion into an MT. A manmade process could allow us to rescue individuals that the Six have abandoned, including those already severely infected by the scourge. Right now, all we can do for them is let them say goodbye to their families and then put them out of their misery. This is another option, one that could help us eliminate the spread of the scourge."

"What does that have to do with whether Biggs would want it?" Aranea demands.

"You asked for a loyal soldier's opinion," Cor says. "Believe me when I tell you that to a loyal soldier, there is no greater honor than to risk your life in the service of humanity. If he's the soldier you say he is, he would be the first to volunteer himself to shoulder the burden."

"Biggs took us into Gralea," Gladio says, very quietly. "He drove the train through the Glacian's curse and a scouring of daemons. He and his partner fought back to back for hours to keep the train free so that we would have a way back home when we were done. And he did it all without even the slightest hint of complaint or hesitation. Cor's right, Aranea. If this works, we can save lives. He'd think the risk – even the risk of becoming a daemon – is worth it."

Aranea looks at Iris, who licks her lips.

"I can't tell you what a soldier would do," Iris says. "I'm not one. For all of my childhood training, I never fought in war, and I was never meant to. I'm a hunter, and hunters hate daemons more than anyone. But – Gladdy and Cor are right. The Long Night has shown us all that there's bigger things at stake than in war, where it's side against side for the ambitions of the powerful. What's at stake now is humanity. Us against the daemons. That's why we're so cautious in the field – if you die fighting, all you're doing is robbing humanity of another shield. You have to live to fight. If someone told me that I could live to fight another day, then whatever the risk, I would take it. It would be my duty to take it. I wouldn’t think twice."

Aranea exhales, long and hard. "Okay," she says. "Istherius. You may proceed."

He nods.

"There's a waiting room outside," Aranea says. "You don't have to –"

"We're staying," Cor says.

The wait takes hours – all night, by the clocks, though that phrase has lost its meaning with the disappearance of the Sun.

And then –

"You can come in now," Istherius says.

Aranea stands slowly. "Is he..?"

"See for yourself, Commander."

Inside the room, lying on the bed, is a man haphazardly dressed in MT armor over all the places that were previously gaping wounds, his face the familiar fixed green smile of the MT masks.

He's sitting up.

"Oi, Commander," Biggs says from under the helmet. Gladio's almost expecting the customary MT crackle of static, or at least the raspy tones of the rehabilitated, but Biggs' vocal cords were never damaged – he sounds just as he always did. "One of these days you'll have to give me my orders before I jump in, yeah?"

"Biggs," Aranea says. Her voice is shaky.

"Now, now," he says. "No emotion, now; it makes me queasy."

Aranea laughs, still shaky, but far more genuine. "It always did. Awful presumptuous of you, Biggs, thinking this has anything to do with you."

"Now that's the Commander I'm used to," Biggs says approvingly. "Don't you go fretting about me. I'm fine."

"You realize that the conversion process could be permanent, right?" Iris asks. "You might be an MT forever."

"Some of my best friends nowadays are MTs," Biggs says, waving a dismissive hand. "Wot with this brand new world we're living in. Some of 'em even prefer it. And if they can see the benefits, well, I don't see why can't I."

"We need to tell Ignis about this right away," Cor tells Aranea.

"Of course," she says. "I'll order you a drop ship. And – thanks."

Cor looks at her steadily for a long second. "It's nothing," he says firmly, and turns to go. Then, over his shoulder, he adds, "Be seeing you, Captain Highwind."

Aranea's jaw drops as Cor walks out of the room. "Oh, that man –" she starts.

Gladio lets out an involuntary bark of laughter, and then flees the room before Aranea kills him.

Those two are never going to get along.

——————————————————————————————

THIRD YEAR

"Home sweet home," Prompto says.

"And here I thought only MTs lived in pods," Tifor says.

Prompto snorts. "It's not that bad!"

Tifor doesn't say anything.

"It's a bit small, yes –"

"General, if I'd known that you were satisfied by such small living quarters, I wouldn't have bothered offering you a tent," Tifor says. "A spare backpack, perhaps."

"You're getting snarkier by the day, Tif," Prompto informs her.

"I'm glad you've noticed," she replies dryly. She opted for rehabilitation a year back; her face – pretty, like the rest of her, if your type was six foot six tall women who could bench press you and had the muscular build to prove it, which, honestly, whose wasn't? – is visible, now, and that means Prompto can see her smirk fade to puzzlement. "Was this actually where you used to live?"

"Yeah," Prompto says. "Honestly, I think the only reason it's still intact is how far away from city center it was. I used to have to ride the bus for nearly an hour to get to school, much less go visit –" Noct, I miss you!, the voice in his head still wails. But it's been three years, and while Prompto's pretty sure the wound of his absence will never heal, even once Noct comes back – because he will come back – he can't let his feelings get in the way of his actions. He's a General now. "— go visit Noctis."

"The King in Exile," Tifor agrees. "Is he the fourth young man in your photos?"

"Photos? How did you get a look at my photos?" Prompto asks, puzzled. He hid away all his old albums.

Tifor nods inside Prompto's old apartment, and Prompto sees them, near a collapsed wall.

Photos of him and Noct, back from their schooldays and after. Pictures of the four of them, just like he used to take. Pictures of just Noct, fast asleep on Prompto's shitty couch, because that man could sleep anywhere.

Prompto bets that Noct is napping inside that Crystal. That's why it's taking so long for him to come back out, all those naps.

"Yeah," he says, and smiles. "Yeah. That's him. Have someone collect those for me, will you?"

Tifor nods, tapping the wristband that functions as her helmet transmittor – via his own, Prompto can hear her silently passing the message to Jiten, who is back at camp. Unlike Tifor, Jiten never opted to go for rehabilitation, preferring what he calls the efficency of his cybertronic form. Prompto respects his decision. It does mean that he would be staying back more during this particular mission.

Crown City is as shadowed as the rest of the world, but the mighty generators of the Citael still cause the streetlights to shine bright.

Sure, MT armor is designed to resist it, but Prompto isn't willing to risk Jiten enduring a break.

After all, someone needs to run the mail department, and no one is as good as Jiten.

(Prompto's gone from having a secretary to having a department of secretaries. He's starting to see why Regis and Clarus always spoke of power as a burden and a pest instead of a good thing.)

He shakes his head and heads back out to the streets, where his MT squads are very slowly canvassing. After nearly three years, they know what they're looking for and how to look out for themselves, but Prompto can't help the burst of anxiety that comes from knowing that they're in Insomnia proper.

There's a reason they put off coming here, again and again and again until Ignis made the final call to go in, saying that if they left it too long it would develop an aura of terror that they couldn't permit.

Personally, Prompto thinks it's a bit late for that, and that feeling has everything to do with the person who's taken up residence in the Citadel.

Ardyn Izunia.

Bastard in chief, and architect of the Long Night.

Honestly, if he wasn't such an immortal asshole, killer of Lunafreya, trapper of Noct, overall dick, Prompto would be kinda pleased that he exists, if only for the benefit it's been to the MTs.

The MTs have been incredibly useful, both in Prompto’s armies and in helping with the farming and the harvesting that was now a part of everyone’s lives, but they haven't necessarily had the easiest time integrating. The people of Lucis have learned to hate the Empire and their endless MT armies, and that hate is both entirely understandable and totally irrational in the depths of the Long Night.

Prompto heard someone the other day call it the World of Ruin, which seems a bit much. Sure, the world has gone the same way as the Inferian after his wars, but they're building what they can out of the ruins. And part of what they're building is a society in which humans and MTs walk freely with each other, MTs relearning what it means to be human again by socializing with others of their kind, undoing the Empire's greatest cruelty.

It's been a hard slog. In the beginning, there wasn't enough food, and people suffered, and suffering led to a near riot – a near pogrom, if Prompto wants to be accurate about it, with large sections of the refugee camp blaming the Empire for the Long Night and the MTs for serving the Empire. It was only forestalled because Gladio, Iris and Cor came out, swords drawn, and announced that they'd attack the first person still holding a weapon after a count to fifteen. No one wanted to test them.

Gladio's school did most of the groundwork, introducing the kid MTs to everyone and making clear that the adult versions were just grown up versions of the kids, and that helped people see some distance past the unchanging masks.

Ignis took the next step, telling the story of Ardyn Izunia, and creating an adequate target for the hatred of the community – one that they all could hate, when Aranea turned up with documentary evidence that Ardyn helped the Empire develop the MT program in the first place, decades back.

Prompto’s even moderately sure they weren’t forged, not that he would put it past either Aranea or Ignis.

It was Prompto's job to finish the work, and he did his best: his MT forces are integrating with Cor's Crownsguard, now, encouraging people to rely on each other as fellow-soldiers, but in what media they have, it's still his MTs who bring back treats from the cities and powder to make elixirs from the mines, his MTs that do heroic deeds on scales that hunters couldn't imagine, his MTs establishing the settlements at the Quay and elsewhere – the ones who build the homes people live in, and guard the routes of travel.

Prompto makes sure all MTs have plenty of vacation time, and gives them instructions to mingle and be friendly, and little by little, people are getting used to seeing them.

It isn't quite so weird anymore, regular humans and MTs standing together.

Prompto's proud of that, if nothing else.

Well, he's also proud of his chocobos.

He'd been sure – sick-to-his-stomach sure – that they were all gone, devoured by daemons and murdered by starving raiders (a new and most unwelcome development), but then one of the MT squads came back with reports of "unusually large ground-based birds in a multitude of colors" and Prompto just knew.

Sure, they'd all gone wild again, but it wasn't that hard to retrain them with offers of feed, treats (Ignis had nearly strangled Prompto at first for requisitioning some lamps and farmland and manpower to be used to grow chocobo treats) and memories of comfortable beds.

Prompto helps run a chocobo farm now. This is all of his childhood dreams come true.

The MTs tend to be split between the ones who are devoted to them, like Prompto, and the ones who think they're gigantic pests.

Still, there are enough of the first category for them to have mounted cavalry units now.

Man, sometimes Prompto loves being a general, and being able to order a chocobo cavalry charge? Definitely one of the times.

Their cavalry is currently patrolling the outskirts of the city to make sure they aren't going to be attacked from behind – even the fiercest daemon thinks twice when there's a screamingly mad chocobo charging headlong at it, a fully armored MT on its back carrying a rifile, sword, or axe – but they aren't really that maneuverable in the city.

"Stop pining for your birds," Tifor advises him.

"How do you always know?" Prompto asks. Yes, he's whining. No, he doesn't care.

He has to be professional sometimes, sure, but when the local government consists of your best friends (but one) and your armies consist of people who think of you as the ideal human (literally) no matter what you do, he doesn't need to try all that hard.

"You make the same face. Every time. Are you satisfied with this district?"

"I'm not seeing anything anyone's missing," Prompto agrees. "But I'm still feeling like something's off."

Tifor frowns at him, clearly not getting the same sense, but nods and starts issuing silent orders to double up on patrols and to be extra thorough.

Prompto really appreciates how efficiently Tifor picked up the apparently universal tendency of sergeants to think their superiors are crazy idiots but to fulfil their orders in the best way anyway.

"It's not that they're missing something," he tells her. "It's, like, this growing sense of menace. Something evil this way lurks, y'know?"

"Certainly, General," Tifor says. Her tone is less respectful than her words.

"Seriously, Tif; there's practically a crescendo of spooky ominous music going on –"

"I will find the MT responsible and have them shot."

"Tif!"

"Disciplined?"

"It's not an MT, by the Six," Prompto says, rolling his eyes at her. "I know the difference between a helmet-transmitted earworm and actual music already – and also? The music was a metaphor."

"I see. Shall we proceed toward the interior and see if your – music – gets louder?"

"More ominous," Prompto corrects. "It'll get more ominous. Have I ever told you about the time with the Marlboro? And its babies?"

"Never," Tifor says. "Certainly not in excruciating detail, with play-by-play recreations using salt shakers over a dinner table instead of actually eating using them."

"...right, I've done it a few times, then?"

"Yes, General."

"Gotcha."

Lightly bickering, but keeping their ears peeled for trouble, they head further into the city.

There are a lot of daemons in Insomnia – Prompto's had to do some serious daemon-slaying personally, and the MTs that comprise his bodyguard (always lurking in the background so as not to disturb him, but there) usually prefer to kill the daemons before they get anywhere close.

The bodyguards are fairly new. Ever since the raiders started getting more organized and started with the traps and assassination attempts, anyway; Prompto insisted on bodyguards for Ignis after he was nearly taken out by a sniper hiding in the crowd during one of his bimonthly in-person Q&A sessions, and Gladio after the idiot literally threw himself, unarmed, on a daemon that popped out of a box near the school.

Like, Prompto doesn't blame him. He would've done the same if there’d been a daemon anywhere near all those kids.

But things like that showed that the two of them definitely need bodyguards. Prompto totally concedes that they can take care of themselves, they're awesome and badass and all of those adjectives – and they can totally kick Prompto's ass – but they have duties that keep them distracted, and some asshole just needs one good moment to get them.

Of course, Ignis and Gladio then turned that same logic back on Prompto, and now they all have bodyguards and no one is happy about it – except everyone else in the camp, which greeted Ignis' begrudging announcement with cheers and "it's about time!"s.

Everyone’s equally miserable. Ignis says that’s the sign of a perfect compromise, really.

"I think I do know the music you refer to," Tifor says abruptly. "But it is at the Citadel, not here."

Prompto definitely agrees about the Citadel being full on haunted, but – "I still think there's something here. Daemon, maybe – underground? There are subway tunnels – or maybe something else. Something watching."

Tifor is oddly quiet.

"What, no mockery?" Prompto asks.

"No, sir," Tifor says. "Your feeling was correct. Please activate your chatter."

Prompto links in with the local MTs.

The scouts have located a dark figure, barely visible, watching them from a shadow. It has teeth, and a hat .

Apparently, between Ignis' announcements, Prompto's reinactments, and Gladio's narratives, the MTs have managed to get a startlingly accurate idea of what Ardyn looks like, or at least his hat, and have identified him accordingly.

They're currently pretending like they can't see him.

Keep up the good work, Prompto says, doing his best not to move his lips when he works the link. He's no natural at silent speech through the chatter, not like the MTs raised to it are, or even Ignis, and he's currently regretting not having put in more practice.

Based on his movements, we believe he wishes to speak to you, General, one of the scouts reports.

Prompto doesn't even need to calculate the odds – absurdly powerful possibly-daemonic immortal asshole who might also be a Lucis Caelum, with all the magic that entails versus a very competent but sadly mortal MT army – to reach the necessary conclusion.

Let him. Split and regroup, but make it seem orderly. We don't know if he knows about my role. Stay on silent.

They haven't seen hide nor hair of Ardyn since Gralea, other than the obvious signs of his presence in the Citadel. It isn't clear how much he knows, if anything.

Tifor disapproving but following close behind, Prompto makes his way to a fountain and sits down right in the middle of the square.

Sure enough, it's only a few minutes before he feels that ominous music feeling of being watched, followed only a minute later by, "Decided to accept your true heritage, I see?"

"I was born to be an MT," Prompto says steadily. "I've accepted that. You accept being born to lose?"

Ardyn snorts and materializes out of the darkness. "I did always like you best out of dear Noct's retainers," he drawls. "You still had spirit."

Prompto tries to think about a world in which Gladio and Ignis could be characterized as not having spirit and comes up totally blank.

He decides not to engage on that subject.

Prompto crosses his arms. "What do you want?" he demands instead. "Are you here to finish the job you started on the train?"

Ardyn laughs. "Don't be absurd!" he says, his lilting tone mocking and condescending as always. "You have to survive until our dear Noct's return – it wouldn't be nearly so satisfying to destroy him if he didn't have that little glimmer of hope first. And don’t forget - I did tell him I would keep an eye on you for him."

"Funny," Prompto says. "Haven't seen much of you."

"You've hardly been in any real danger," Ardyn points out in return. "But come now, we're being rude. Why don't you introduce me to the fine specimen you have accompanying you? I must say, I haven't seen such unique features before."

Ardyn doesn't seem to know about the rehabilitation process; that's something.

"I am from the east," Tifor says. "And am afflicted with albinism."

"Hardly afflicted, my dear lady! You are a positive jewel," Ardyn exclaims. Prompto would think that he means his compliments - Tifor is extremely striking – but his tone remains bland and condesencding and somehow offensive despite the nice words. "You should keep better company. One never knows about the quality."

"You intend to kill me to teach a lesson to Prompto while honoring your promise to the King," Tifor says. She sounds bored. "It's just as you predicted, Prompto."

Ardyn's eyes narrow just enough that Prompto sees that Tifor's shot in the dark hit true.

Prompto heaves a sigh. "Do you think he'll use a knife?" he asks her, sounding equally bored. "To remind us of Lunafreya?"

"You described him as 'excessively melodramatic', so that seems appropriate," Tifor agrees.

"Do you intend to keep us waiting long?" Prompto asks Ardyn. "I have better things to do, so get on with it if you insist on making whatever point you think you're making."

"You've grown quite cold, my dear Prompto," Ardyn says, insincere smile spreading over his face. "And quite cruel, to think I mean you ill! I will do no harm to your lady here. Though I must say, I had thought your affections were elsewhere - in Hammerhead, perhaps?"

"Been there, done that," Prompto sneers, mostly because this seems to be actually working, what the fuck. He hopes Cindy never finds out about this. "Do you have anything new, or are you bothering me for no reason?"

"I found myself curious as to your presence in Insomnia," Ardyn says. "Reasonable enough – especially with all the MTs about."

"I've 'embraced my true heritage'," Prompto says. "What business do you have here?"

"A spider need not explain itself to the fly," Ardyn says. "But it seems to me, perhaps, that you have started to weave a few webs yourself." A pause. "I would not have expected it of you."

Oh, thank the Six. Prompto actually recognizes what this is. He's been stuck sitting next to Ignis often enough to know it when he sees it.

This is a negotiation.

"I've learned a lot since the last time we spoke," Prompto says. "Including the necessity of being – circumspect."

Ardyn looks pleased, in that existentially bored snakeoil salesman way that he has . "That is indeed a virtue," he drawls. "One I feared your little group would never learn."

"We're loosely affiliated," Prompto says. "Or have you seen me anywhere near Lestallum these last few months?"

It's a bluff, and a weak one at that, but Ardyn seems to accept it as a polite fiction. Or possibly a clever feint.

Prompto's going to go with 'clever feint' and not 'desperately trying to remember how this part goes'.

"So you've outgrown your fellows," Ardyn says. "And gathered yourself a little group of MTs and mercenaries – how splendid. You move so slowly through the capital, one might think you were looking for something."

"One might," Prompto agrees. "Of course, if I was looking for something, I wouldn't be so stupid as to tell you about it – I've seen the price of your help."

He waits until Ardyn has appropriately rearranged his face into an expression of hurt – it takes a few minutes, like the darkness has brought out the least human aspects of Ardyn to simmer beneath the surface, and he’s unable to pretend to be normal as well as he used to – and then Prompto adds, "Though I might be inclined to consider your word – with appropriate reassurances."

He has no idea what that means, but Ignis uses the phase often to great effect.

Ardyn looks delighted. "Oh, well done, my dear," he says. "Webs indeed; we have a budding spider. But come now, I'm sure you have other ways to spend the evening –" He smirks at Tifor. "- and I will cut to the chase. Is what you seek in the Citadel?"

Prompto considers him, but Ardyn seems in earnest, or as much as he can be.

"No," he says. "It's not. Or at least – it wouldn't be so difficult to forget to search that building, or to do it so shoddily that we would be gone before an hour's out."

"A touch of forgetfulness is often a balm between friends, and aids much in recovery," Ardyn replies. "Wouldn't you say?"

He really could've just said 'I prefer the first one', but no, he has to go with the most pretentious possible way.

"I say that I'm tired of speaking in riddles," Prompto says, and stands. "I have mercenaries to return to, and to which I am accountable. I will order no search of the Citadel, but you will refrain from interfering with my soldiers."

"Of course," Ardyn says. "It's only right between old friends such as us. Mind you, if we're joined by any other old friends –"

"Obviously if Noct comes back, all bets are off," Prompto agrees. "Deal?"

"Deal," Ardyn says. "Don't go away too soon, Prompto; you've grown wiser than I thought. I might even learn to enjoy your company."

“Sorry that it’s not mutual,” Prompto says. “But I’m sure you understand.”

With that, Prompto stands, Tifor echoing his movement, and walks away. He leaves his back open.

Ardyn does nothing but fade into the darkness.

I kicked his ass, Prompto says gleefully. I totally won that negotiation!

Yes, General, Tifor says, smile in her mental voice. You did indeed. But a better question is – why does he care about the Citadel?

It's the final boss battle, Prompto says.

What?

In video games – which, to be fair, you guys aren't familiar with because we haven't moved the hydroelectric plant into full operation yet and therefore we can't use electricity for such 'spontaneous' purposes. But basically, when the hero and the villain meet at the end, they have a battle – a larger battle than all the rest.

Why would Ardyn care?

Because that's the whole point of all of this, Prompto says, covering his mouth with his hand so he can send with greater ease, his lips forming the words under his palm. He was helping us the whole way because fighting Noct before Noct obtained the power of the Crystal wouldn't be satisfying to him. So he's setting up for that.

You mean that he's tilting the battlefield to be advantageous to him?

Not any real advantage, I don’t think. He just wants to use the grounds as a psychological advantage. Our job will be not to let him.

How?

Prompto sighs. That part is going to be mostly Noct, he says. The Citadel used to be his home, after all – and I suspect the old king, his father, may not have been finally buried –

He will do well, an unfamiliar voice says, hissing with static characteristic to regular-born MTs. He's the King, after all.

There are murmurs of agreement.

Prompto can't help but grin.

Looks like the MTs have finally picked up on patriotism.

There’s also some murmurs about ‘mercenaries’ that aren’t particularly friendly – probably the hunters, but Prompto’s sure that the annoyance is going to spread into the rest of the ranks soon enough. That’ll get them even more pumped up to fight against Ardyn, should it ever come to that.

In the meantime, though –

Tifor, Jiten, Lieutenants, I want the squads to keep their eyes peeled – and I do mean peeled, I want eyes on everything – for the next few days. If it looks like Ardyn's retreat to the Citadel is correct, I want to rotate the squads in and out to make it look like there are fewer squads – no need to let Ardyn know the size of our army – and I want to strip as much of this place as I can.

Understood, his subordinate links all chorus.

"There's only one question I have," Tifor says aloud.

"What's that?"

Tifor looks at Prompto, very seriously. "General, when you were negotiating with him – how did the background music sound?"

"Tif!"

"Orchestral, maybe? Wailing strings? Mournful off-beat tuba sounds?"

"Oh, shut up."

"Maybe a large choir all singing in falsetto..."

"Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, I was right this time!"

"And what about all the other times?"

"Shut up !"

——————————————————————————————

SIXTH YEAR

"Commander Ignis," Curvo says. "Your schedule –"

"I told you, I'll get to it," Ignis says, running his fingers over the latest farmland report at the same time as he listens to Monica detail all the latest complaints from the Laborers' Guild. Best idea he's ever had, putting Dustin in charge of a single entity through which all the different working groups – farm workers, service workers, department workers, construction workers, and so forth – communicated their thoughts because it means that all of these complaints have to go through a rigorous process before they ever reach Ignis' ears.

On the other hand, it means he has to actually listen whenever said complaints do reach his level.

"But Commander!" Curvo says again, which is somewhat unusual. A good-natured boy, very good with detailed tasks and very bad with people and eye-contact, Curvo is the newest employee in The Office, as people call Ignis' administrative center; he's been working as Ignis' primary scheduler for the last three months and it's been going very well. Admittedly, anything would be an improvement over the last few schedulers Ignis was assigned – they didn't really enjoy the fast pace Ignis set for things, or the way his manner could become brusque when he was in the middle of something, which was often.

Curvo enjoys puzzles and doesn't even notice the occasional snapping, but he rarely interrupts, and never twice.

"Yes, Curvo?" Ignis asks, holding up a hand to forestall Monica's recitation. "What is it?"

"We have only three days before Sixth Year," Curvo says. "You said to remind you, above all else. I can't fit in anything to your schedule because it's already blocked out."

"Ah," Ignis says. "Yes."

He very nearly forgot. At the beginning, the nexus points were near to each other – one day, one week, one month, six months, a year. But when the year mark passed without any sign of Noctis, they had to move on, and then it was two years until the third anniversary – two extremely busy years – and when even that didn’t result in anything…

It’s been three more years.

Where did the time go?

"Keep my schedule free," Ignis instructs. "Everything can wait until afterwards, or be delegated if it's urgent."

Curvo nods and turns back to his work. He never much bothers with social niceties, which Ignis appreciates.

"I'll come back later," Monica says, which isn't necessary, but Ignis still finds himself watching her go, bemused.

Six years, he thinks. Marvels. How can it be six years already?

They were so disappointed the first few times, waiting, and after Ardyn attempted to steal the Crystal a few months after his division of Insomnia with Prompto – Prompto had figured out the madman's game quite well, and had warned Ignis in time – they ended up moving it far away. And then moving it again, and again, and again, as Ardyn rallied the daemons to search for the now-inert rock.

Eventually, Cor suggested somewhere so obscure even the daemons hadn't gone there.

Angelgard.

"You want to risk Noct returning in a prison?" Ignis asked, aghast.

"Better than at Ardyn's side," Cor replied, and that was the end of that.

They left Umbra there, with plenty to eat and a note suggesting that Noct meet them in Hammerhead. Umbra seemed pleased by the arrangement, as much as a not-entirely-corporeal dog-messenger of the Astrals, or at least of the Oracle, could be.

Prompto asked why not Lestallum, when Ignis first wrote the note.

Hammerhead was familiar, Ignis reasoned, and Noct would need familiar.

Lestallum no longer looks familiar.

It's grown, for one thing – as the refugees had stream in, they imported more and more building materials from the laboratories and factories of Niflheim, and as their city grew, they attracted more refugees in a seemingly never-ending cycle. And, of course, more refugees meant they needed more food, and more food meant more lamps and farmland, and more farmland meant more manpower needed to grow and harvest.

They started building the second power plant as soon as they'd thought about it, the hydroelectric dam by the Plunge, and by now it had been completed, giving them a massive new source of power. Lestallum now stretches all the way down there, a giant urban center the size of old Insomnia, all the roads in the narrow areas peppered throughout with regular check-in stops manned by the new Crownsguard – now enlisting both regular and MT volunteers, anyone who doesn't want to sign up for the Hunter Division or the Army of Night.

Ignis is still mildly annoyed at Gladio every time he has to hear about the "Army of Night", which had originally been the much more formal "Army of King Noctis" until Gladio explained to a small child on one of his broadcasted talks that Noctis meant night, and, in fact, that Caelum meant sky and Lucis, of course, meant light.

Said small child asked if the legions of the army of the night were like the stars in the night sky, and now the army is officially called the Army of Night and each squad is named after a different constellation, and there is a whole theme going on that Prompto and Gladio are ridiculously into.

The old army was the Army of Lucis, or Light, and honestly Ignis still thinks that's more appropriate because "Army of Night" sounds like some sort of bad book supervillain's forces, right beside the armies of darkness and whanot. But no, everyone went in with almost a macabre sort of glee at the idea of being the Army of Night.

The Long Night has inspired a lot of dark humor.

Ignis honestly cracks himself up sometimes.

Prompto likes the new name, of course, but he likes anything that seems to honor Noctis in particular, rather than simply the royal family or the empty title of King in Exile.

Ignis wonders what Noct would make of all of this.

But no, he can't let himself think of that; he's learned over the years that dwelling too much on what Noctis might approve or disapprove or question is not only useless but ultimately destructive and paralyzing.

Ignis lets his head fall into his hands.

Would Noct approve of the way the food distribution has remained collective, despite the standardization of the agricultural division into day and night shifts? The communal dinners with their shifting schedule are extremely popular, yes, and Ignis firmly believes that they are in large part to thank for the continued peace between the regulars, MTs, and rehabilitateds, but the diminuation in the rights of private property that had once been enshrined in Lucis’ constitution – he doesn't know.

Or the hospitals – basic first-aid competence is now mandatory for all citizens, with regular training courses alongside the mandatory weapons lessons, but the hospitals are located near the outskirts of the city for the simple, if ruthless reason that dead bodies are immediately taken for burial. They can't afford to risk infection by permitting traditional funerals. They now conduct funerals seperately from burials, mostly ceremonies held in memorium; they hold them, when possible, in the town center.

Jobs are assigned primarily where people have skills – Cindy runs engineering at Hammerhead, where they send all of their engineers for on-the-job training before they're qualified to help with repairs outside the city; service workers and farmers and anyone who's ever so much as successfully raised a plant manage the food; they have people for sewage work, hospital work, defense. Academics help out with Gladio's school, while office workers or anyone with government experience works in one of the numerous government branches. There's even an informal barter system for service work – trading extra food for chores to be done, child care for pretty but useless toys, things like that. Ignis is hoping for formalize it soon, possibly with a centralized link platform through the now ubiquitous MT helmet-links. Luckily those no longer need a full helmet to be effective once people had adjusted to the original helmet-link, or else Lestallum would look even more different than it already did.

But how would Noctis view it?

Ignis doesn't know.

He wishes he did.

Ignis sighs. No. It's time to stop thinking about it, because –

"Heeeeeey, Iggy!" Prompto chirps, rapping at the door. "It's time to go to Angelsgard!"

"We've already packed your bags!" Gladio bellows. "Aranea's here with a drop ship and we've forced your staff to tell us that they'd alerted you!"

Yes, that.

The two of them seem convinced that Ignis works too hard, which is of course absurd. Everyone works hard. It isn’t just him.

Ignis sighs again and goes to the door.

"I have to finish up a few loose ends –" he starts.

"Nope! They can handle it!" they chorus, and hustle him to the drop ship so they can go to Angelgard.

By the time they arrive at Angelgard, Ignis has been reduced to making faces at Prompto and Gladio. Don't they understand that he has duties, some even more expansive than their own?

Don't they understand that if Noctis is coming back tomorrow, Ignis needs to be ready to explain everything he's done?

"I don't think it'll be this time, anyway," Gladio says gloomily.

"That's just because you're a dope that bet on it being ten years," Prompto says dismissively. "Iggy, your staff can handle running things for a week, and Noct will think everything you've done is awesome. Stop worrying!"

"He says as we travel to Angelgard, the most depressing place on Eos."

"I'm pretty sure some of the garula that currently live in Wix's old outpost instead of Chocobos disagree with you," Prompto points out.

"You own a successful Chocobo farm," Gladio says. "How are you still this bitter?"

"That place is – was – Chocobo heaven!"

"You. Run. A. Farm. Don't they get massaged on a daily basis?"

"It helps their constitutions."

"Constitutions my ass. It'd help my constitution to get daily massages, and I do a lot more than they do; why don't I get some?"

"Grow some feathers first, dumbass."

“Chocobo butt.”

“Why you little –”

Ignis rolls his eyes and unsuccessfully tries to hide a smile as they bicker cheerfully onwards.

It certainly does relieve the tedium of the journey.

Travel to Angelgard is about a day’s travel no matter which way you go, by boat and road or by air; by drop ship (more of a jump ship, really – a small pod seating no more than six, typically used to travel to and from drop ships, since they didn’t want to spare a larger ship when it was just the three of them), it is at least not unpleasant.

Angelgard is, however, an absolutely desolate place.

In the days of Kings Mors and Regis, it was a prison, located on an island on a rock in the middle of the sea; few guards were needed, because even if the prisoners got out, it was impossible to make it back to shore without a boat.

There is a boat there now, in case Noctis comes back unexpectedly, but that's fine – there hasn’t been an actual prisoner in that stone jail for years now. Regis disapproved of it on moral grounds, and at any rate Insomnia didn’t want to spare the soldiers for such a distant locale.

But no humans meant no daemons, and Angelgard was an invention of King Mors’ father; as a result, it's likely unknown to Ardyn, and thus a safe place for the Crystal.

If nothing else.

Stone ruins on a rocky offshoot surrounded by ice-cold water, with dead grass still lying shriveled everywhere - not even mushrooms found this a worthwhile place to grow, and mushrooms are very nearly everywhere nowadays.

Ignis has grown very creative with incorporating mushrooms into dishes.

"I'll set up camp," Ignis says, stepping into the remaining structure of the prison – the Crystal is hidden in a chamber below, but this will do perfectly well as a shelter – and feeling around with his cane to make sure nothing else is on the floor that will trip him up. His glasses are helpful in identifying heat signatures and magical emissions, but he prefers to keep in practice of not using them. Technology, he has learned to his great regret, has a tendency to fail when it's needed most.

The Daemon Invasion of Year Four, for instance, when the main power plant went down for needed renovations and the backup generators failed right in the midst of a massive daemon attack. The daemons were ultimately repelled, of course, and Lestallum’s perimeter maintained, but it was a much closer call than Ignis would have liked.

"I'll take the Eastern patrol," Gladio says, reaching down and scratching Umbra under the chin. The dog came to visit them every time they came by, and (according to Gladio) looks as hale and hearty and not a single gray whisker older than he looked all those years ago. "Prompto – the West? And get us some seafood?"

"Sounds good," Prompto agrees. They don't work together often, the three of them; their duties rarely permit them the time. But they enjoy it immensely whenever they do, and they have developed a set approach: when they're near water, Gladio takes the longer patrol and Prompto the shorter, with Prompto casting nets for some dinner; when they're inland, Prompto takes the longer patrol and Gladio the shorter one with diversions to track down some meat for them. Ignis invariably prepares the camp and the first night's dinner, which is typically made from existing provisions with any catch being prepared for the next night's meal.

Ignis doesn't object to this arrangement – he's done enough hunting on his own to be quite steady in his self-esteem, being more accustomed to the dark than either of the other two, and he has the satisfaction of knowing that Gladio and Prompto are not acting out of pity.

Honestly, if Ignis wasn't blind, they would have seized on another reason to avoid being the one responsible for setting up camp, the lazy bastards.

He tracks their departure on his infrared, noting the small shape that represents Umbra following the two of them out of the prison.

Angelgard isn't large, but it is rocky and treacherous to scout, so Ignis can expect a few hours of blissful solitude.

If only Gladio hadn't hidden his paperwork..!

Ignis has set up a fire and a circle of warding marks their scholars have recorded from the Havens – the latter less certain in their efficacy, but hunters are a superstitious lot, willing to try anything, and Ignis might be an administrator but he's also a hunter.

Unfortunately, Ignis is far too accustomed to setting up camp efficiently. It's only been a half-hour in and Ignis has already reached the point of boredom – he's set everything up, checked it twice, and put the stew to simmer (he's dragged out the chopping and butchering process as long as possible, using the fanciest and most elaborate recipe he knows, but eventually human interaction must bow out in favor of the flame), and, worst of all, he still can't find his paperwork.

Blissful solitude is all well and good, but he's found in recent years that he's developed less and less of a tolerance for it.

He's just starting to wish he'd brought a book to read – Curvo had several of the typists working on transcribing fiction into blind-lettering, which was widely appreciated by all those in camp with difficulty seeing or a desire to reduce their late night light usage – when there's a noise at the entrance-way to the prison.

Ignis expands his infrared and sees a cluster of figures – definitely more than two, and that means it’s not Prompto and Gladio back early.

Ignis lets one hand fall to his belt where he keeps his daggers, and the other brace itself casually on his blind man's cane, which looks innocuous but contains three tiny vials of spell-casts in the handle.

If these are raiders, they will not find him the easy target they might expect.

"Prudens, you old fart, what do you know?" one of them, a middle-aged man by the sound of it, is saying.

"More than you, Militus," another one, sounding older, shoots back.

"Pah, I'll wager Angelgard didn't even exist back in the eldest days, old man –"

"It didn't," a third one, younger and with a strange curl to his voice, says. "It was formed by a movement of the lands which caused an eruption of rock from the seas; it was a cataclysm of some note."

"You always have to know everything, Peregrinus," a female voice teases, warm and pleasant. "My curious friend."

"My attention is fleeting," the third one – Peregrinus – replies. "Much like yours, my dear Furs."

Furs laughs.

"At least Furs and Peregrinus don't pretend to wisdom, eh, Prudens?" Militus says. "Say, Callidus, what do you think?"

"That I'm too smart to enter into an argument this foolish," another man's voice, with an accent not unlike Ignis', says dryly.

"The precise formation of Angelgard aside," Prudens says, "it is still possible to compare it to other isles of the same sort, and thus conclude that –"

"Oh, come off it," a new voice says. "It's hardly worth arguing about; the place is here, and that is enough."

"Shut up, Pius," the others chorus.

Pius snorts, clearly not offended.

"You ought to listen to Pius," another man says.

"Magus, you always take his side," another one complains. This one sounds like a big man, his voice deep and carrying. "You, Pius, and Aspicio, always together, always nattering on about the will of the Six –"

"Longus, that is uncalled for," another female voice says, this one as cool and unemotional as the first one was warm. "Be fair –"

"I'll leave fairness to you, Aequitas, my dear," Longus says. "I'll be gross and biased, just like Ferus."

"Don't get me involved in this," a new voice, another man, raspy like a veteran with a smoke-damaged throat, says, but the tone is amused. "Supero, what do you think?"

"I think we have been beaten here by company," a man with clipped tones says. "And that we are being most rude by continuing to natter on like gnats without greeting him."

"You're right," the second voice, Prudens, says. "Friend and fellow-traveler, well-met and easy journeys. May we approach your fire?"

Ignis hasn't heard that greeting before, but he has his manners. "You are welcome," he says politely. "Provided, of course, that you come in peace."

Several of the company burst into gales of laughter. Ignis has counted twelve names so far, though he has detected thirteen heat-signatures: Prudens, Supero, Callidus, Peregrinus, Magus, Aspicio, Furs, Longus, Aequitas, Ferus, Pius, Militus, and one who has yet to speak his name.

"Certainly we come in peace," the one called Magus says. "We will not disturb you for long – we have a ways yet to go, to-night."

"Besides, it would be contrary to the rules of hospitality," Pius says.

"Hospitality is all well and good," Militus says. "And rather useless when someone is inclined to break them. Let the boy be cautious! I think it wise of him."

"When one is travelling, it is often wise to be cautious," Peregrinus agrees.

"You never know what lingers in the shadows," Furs adds. "Particularly in this darkness."

"I think our new friend's darkness is more complete than ours," a new voice says. This must be either Aspicio or the nameless ones, neither of whom had yet spoken. It's a curiously neutral voice, neither male nor female. "You are blind, are you not?"

"I am," Ignis says honestly.

"I am Aspicio," the new voice says. "And we are thirteen in number – Supero has seated himself by your fire without invitation, as is his wont; Callidus has joined beside him. Prudens stands to my left, Peregrinus to my right, and the mountain standing behind me is Longus –"

"Hey," Longus protests mildly.

"Militus, Feus, and Aequitas now stand beyond your fire," Aspicio continues, "Furs is – where did she go?"

"I'm right here," Furs chuckles. Ignis stiffens; she's standing right behind him.

"Stop playing games," Aspicio says. "Magus and Pius stand further beyond, accompanied by the latest member of our company, Atavus; he has yet to speak."

"Nor will he, I suspect," Prudens says. "He suffers still from an old and grievous blow, which has yet to cease bleeding."

"He's injured?" Ignis asks, already conducting inventory of what palliatives and potions they brought with them. "We have medicines..."

"Only in his heart," Pius says. "But you are a good host to think to offer."

"My name is Ignis," Ignis says, realizing he has failed to introduce himself. "And since you come in peace, you are welcome; would you like something to eat?"

"We won't take what little you've made for you and your friends," Supero says.

"We still have a ways to go," Pereginus says.

"Where are you going, that you stop at Angelgard?" Ignis asks, unable to keep his curiosity at bay. "It's not exactly a main route."

It occurs to him a second later that these might be pirates, which would explain the strange accents and the travel to an remote island. But they have not demonstrated any inclination to attack him, and Ignis will be a good host until they do. Pirates or not, there is room around his fire for people who come in peace, which is of utmost importance in the Long Night.

"We travel a strange road," Magus says. "But it is a long one, and a harsh one, and we are glad to warm ourselves by a fire."

They clearly aren't planning on sharing more than that, which Ignis can understand: he wouldn't trust a stranger with all the information at once, either, for all that they vastly outnumber him.

"What were you discussing?" he asks instead. "About Angelgard?"

"The qualities of the ore that might be found around here," Furs says. She's on the other side of the fire, now; Ignis didn't hear her move, and he has very good hearing. She must be remarkably light-footed. "There is the question of whether an island raised by the sea would have any star-metal, which can be found from above or below."

"Star-metal?" Ignis asks.

"From falling stars," Magus says.

"From meteorites," Ferus corrects. "Six, but you're a pretentious lot; that's all it means, star-metal. Meteorites have it, and the inside of the earth, too – volcanoes and deep caves and such like that. Since Angelgard was formed during an eruption from the earth –"

"Out of an earthquake," Peregrinus says. "Not a volcano. Eruption might not be the word I'd use."

"Since Angelgard was formed in some way or another from the mantle, you pedantic ass, the question arose as to whether it would have a store of that ore."

"Are you searching for star-metal, then?" Ignis asks.

"Hardly," Supero says dryly. "We have more than enough of it; the question is entirely theoretical."

"Not quite theoretical," Prudens objects. "If there is more, that speaks well of the future."

"Regardless of whether or not there is more ore, all will be as the Six wish it to be," Pius says.

"Not all," Aspicio says, and says no more.

"The theoretical aspect of this conversation," Callidus says, clearly directing his voice to Ignis, "arises as a matter of superstition. You see, the royal arms of Lucis are each forged from star-metal."

"I hadn't known that," Ignis says, surprised; he'd known they were of some mystical material, light yet exceedingly strong, and of course capable of being wielded by the Kings of Lucis in their Armiger. "How did you learn that?"

"We've traveled very far," Peregrinus says.

"We read a lot of books, he means," Militus says. "In countries far beyond the borders of Lucis, where such information is not so secret."

"Regardless, the main issue of discussion isn't really about the ore," Aequitas says. "It is about the future. The Chosen King fights the darkness, bearing with him the royal arms, but the Accursed bears such arms as well and will match him on the field of battle."

Ignis nods. That is a matter to which he has given some serious concern – he would be surprised by their knowledge of such matters, but they are clearly well-traveled, and it is no secret in Lestallum that Noctis, the Chosen King, the King in Exile, will return to fight the Accused Ardyn. Nor is Ardyn's own history secret – Ignis considered it, but Gladio refused, making clear that he wouldn't risk even a single person falling for Ardyn's tricks and treachery because they didn't know who or what he was.

"What does the ore have to do with that?" Ignis asks.

"There are those of us who think that the Chosen King is notable enough to bear his own arm," Aspicio says. "And if there is ore, then why not?"

"His own – a royal arm for Noctis?" Ignis asks, entirely taken aback. "You mean, make a new royal arm?"

"Why not?" Militus says. "Every royal arm was once just a weapon."

"What makes them royal is being wielded by royalty," Ferus says. "The Chosen King is as royal as those who came before him."

"That might help balance the scales indeed," Ignis says, his mind already abuzz. An arm, made just for Noctis – Ignis knows Noct's preferences, of course; long after it was far from the strongest weapon he bore, he favored a short sword he had taken from Insomnia to protect them on their travels. If that sword were remade in star-metal, with proper designs drawn from the scholars' reports, then perhaps it could become a royal arm in truth, and tip the balance against Ardyn in the final battle. "We can hardly turn down any advantage – I thank you for the idea."

"Send us thanks once you've found the star-metal," Prudens says dryly. "It's rarer than mythril."

"Without the idea, we wouldn't have even looked," Ignis points out.

"The storm rises," Longus says, his voice a little distant. "We must be on our way."

"Thank you for your fire, friend," Magus says.

"You have kept us good company indeed," Furs says.

"I'm pleased," Ignis says, somewhat bewildered by such a short visit. "Fare well, and good luck on your journey."

"And you with yours," they say, and file out of the prison. Their steps are heavy, all but Furs'; they are clad in heavy armor.

Ignis' glasses tells him that they are all gone, all but one – the silent one, Atavus, who is still bleeding from the heart, and has not moved from where he sits by the door.

Ignis clears his throat. "Atavus," he says to that last remaining heat signature. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Atavus rises – a tall man, from the sound of him, listing to the left; he has a weak knee that causes him to stoop and limp, his feet heavy and dragging.

And then he speaks.

"Do not help me," he says, and his voice is like a crack of lightning lighting up a dark night, a sharp, sudden shock of recognition. "Help my son, as you have always done, and I will be satisfied."

And then he is gone.

King Regis, dead and unburied in his Citadel these six years and longer, is gone.

Gladio and Prompto come running into the prison a minute later. "Ignis!" Prompto cries. "We couldn't get in – we tried, but the way was blocked; it was glowing –"

"You're okay!" Gladio exclaims, sounding equally relieved. "We were afraid something had happened – what did happen?"

Thirteen, Ignis thinks, his mind fuzzy with shock; there were thirteen of them.

"I think," he says, very slowly, suddenly aware of the inhuman chill of the air around him – drained of life by his spectral guests, though his own warmth remained untouched, "that I just met the Thirteen."

"The Thirteen?"

"The Great Kings and Queens of Lucis," Ignis says. "The Thirteen. Those who bore the royal arms of Lucis, the ones whose tombs we visited by Noctis’ side."

"Holy crap, Ignis" Prompto says. "You mean you saw ghosts?!"

"Heard," Ignis corrects. He suspects that his blindness was a great aid to him here – he doubts they were entirely corporeal, his guests.

"Heard, saw, whatever!" Prompto says. "Ghosts!"

"When we came up to the door, we saw a bunch of blue lights flying out," Gladio says, confirming Ignis’s suspicions that his guests were likely corporeal only as avatars of blue flame. "Like will-o-wisps, but not evil. That must have been them – what were they like?"

"They bickered a lot?" Ignis says helplessly, still rather in shock.

He should have guessed, he thinks – Prudens, meaning Wise; Supero, meaning Conqueror; Callidus the Clever; Peregrinus the Wanderer; Magus, meaning magic, the Mystic; Aspicio, the far-sighted Oracle; Furs, the thief or, more correctly, the Rogue; Longus the Tall; Aequitas the Just; Ferus the Fierce; Pius the Pious, Militus the Warrior...

Atavus, meaning ancestor.

King Regis, who bore the Sword of the Father.

"They must have been here for a reason," Gladio says. "What did they say?"

"Did they say Noct was coming back tomorrow?" Prompto asks eagerly.

"They were arguing," Ignis says, "about an ore – Gladio, Prompto; I don't think Noct is coming back tomorrow, but I know what we need to do."

"You do?" Prompto asks.

"We need to make a sword," Ignis says. "For Noctis. But to do that, we're going to need to find a substance called star-metal."

"I think you'd better explain," Gladio says.

"Of course," Ignis says, already trying to calculate how long a break he can take from his work as Commander before Lestallum needs him desperately again. He wants to be involved in the hunt for this ore – and aren't Gladio and Prompto always on his back that he ought to take a vacation?

They can go and find the ore together, the three of them, just like they used to.

For Noctis, they can do anything.

——————————————————————————————

TENTH YEAR

The entire Council of Lestallum gets the emergency alert, directed only to them and used only in the direst need; a signal sent via the MT link network directly to the minds of the Council members, it can travel faster than the quickest message, whether by phone or otherwise.

It has no words at first, merely a sense of unbearable excitement.

It’s Talcott.

Newly of age, finally able to join the truckers he loved to follow on his radio – why is he signaling?

And then the message comes.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Slowly, a growing belief, a hope, a feeling, excitement, joy, hope –

Ignis’ phone rings, and he answers, his lower lip already bitten in suspense.

“You’ll never guess who I have here, sir,” Talcott says, the joy in his voice spilling over. “It’s King Noctis. I’m bringing him to Hammerhead.”

“What does he have to say for himself?” Ignis asks, already rebroadcasting the conversation to Prompto and Gladio.

“He says he’ll tell you in person.”

At last.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia #ignis scientia #magitek soldiers #my fic

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