[Now that he's here, the urgency feels a bit...inexplicable, but being here is also better than not being here, and he's relieved to see that Prompto at least looks reasonably all right.
He has to resist the urge to reach out and take him by the shoulders, but he manages, somehow.]
I thought — that it might be better if we spoke in person. Not on the forum.
[Prompto nods and looks down, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back, hands making their way behind his back to twist at each other.]
I didn't... want to make it a big deal. [Shiva's breath mints, he sounds so lame. Of course it's a big deal. He tries, and fails, not to cringe.] It doesn't really change anything.
[That's what they told him before, anyway. That it didn't matter where he came from. He's one of them. Theirs.]
[He'd already had the time, on the way over, to think about the ramifications of what this new complication means. Of course he'd considered them, every angle of them, because that sort of consideration is his job and always has been. He's the one who's supposed to look at all the possibilities, see the whole board, and appraise them all so that his liege can make the best possible decision from them.
But he already knows what Noct would say to this. And Noct would speak from pure emotion, but it's not as though there isn't plenty of logical fact to support it. They'd thoroughly and discreetly vetted Prompto back when he'd first started becoming a part of Noct's life; there are no connections to Niflheim to be found, because if there were, Ignis would've found them. Prompto is Lucian, through and through, in every way that matters — save, perhaps, one.
That last one is, of course, his nature. Created to be an MT, created to be a weapon. Maybe some of that explains his natural expertise with firearms, when such weaponry is rare around Lucis but prevalent among the Niflheim armies. Maybe some of that explains the blond hair in a country where genetics run toward darker hair and eyes. Maybe there's more to be explained by that, qualities that even Ignis couldn't guess at or know.
But nature is only half the equation, and in some cases even less than that. That Prompto was meant to be an MT is hardly any different than that Noctis was meant to be the prophesied Chosen King, and Astrals know how Ignis feels about that.
(And quite literally, if the Astrals don't yet know, they will soon enough.)
So it's easy to say what he says. It's even easier to believe it. People choose their titles and qualifications and designations for themselves, and their identity arises out of them.
Prompto Argentum is many things, some of which are admittedly occasionally baffling to Ignis. But "enemy" isn't one of them.]
The —
[To his own surprise, his voice falters very slightly — a hint of a fracture that betrays just the barest hint of the emotion he's keeping carefully controlled beneath his surface.]
The car, though. Absolutely...absolutely unforgivable, that.
[It's a weak attempt at levity, but gods, is he ever trying.]
[His eyes flicker back up, linger on Ignis's face, and then scrunch, warmly and glossily, into a grateful smile. Ignis, Noct, Gladio--they're the best friends he's ever known. But more than that, they're the best. The best friends to ever have.]
The cat still lives pretty close to Noct's apartment with her kittens. I call one of them Ignip. He has markings like this.
[He makes circles with his index fingers and thumbs and holds them in front of his eyes for a pair of glasses, then lets them fall along with his smile.]
The Empire's been turning its citizens into daemons for years. They... harvest them, and use the stuff the daemons give off to power Magitek cores. And MTs...
[When Prompto looks down, he finds his hands already laced together. He curls them in more tightly, his own version of Ignis's contained calm. While his knuckles are white, his voice remains quietly steady.]
They were babies. Babies they injected with Starscourge before they developed an ego. They cloned millions of babies just to do that to them, that's why they never seem to run out.
[Head still bowed, he holds the joined heels of his hands against his stomach. It's easier, maybe, to say it this third time, but it's easier the way climbing the Rock of Ravatogh the third time is easier. He still feels queasy and light-headed thinking about it, like he's too high off the ground and the air's thinner.]
I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys earlier. You've just been dealing with so much already, I couldn't find a good time to bring it up.
And somehow you were...spirited away, I presume, from the processing facility, and that's how you were destined to be an MT yet so clearly...not.
[Injecting babies with the Starscourge to create daemons, just to process those daemons into fuel for their soldiers. It's an atrocity for which Niflheim deserves to burn, even above and beyond what they did to Insomnia and its inhabitants.]
Just since we got separated. The facility Aranea and I destroyed--that's where I found out.
[If he'd known, he'd never have approached Noct. Not in elementary school, not in high school, not ever. There are some miracles even the Oracle can't command.]
I always knew something was wrong, but I never could've guessed how messed up the actual truth was. It was... pretty horrible in there. Like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
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daemons are made out of people.
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where are you
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Conspicuously, he's running, not walking.]
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Surprised, Prompto rises from his seat below one of Dave's time-accelerated trees, looking suddenly unsure of himself. Why are we running???]
Iggy?
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[Now that he's here, the urgency feels a bit...inexplicable, but being here is also better than not being here, and he's relieved to see that Prompto at least looks reasonably all right.
He has to resist the urge to reach out and take him by the shoulders, but he manages, somehow.]
I thought — that it might be better if we spoke in person. Not on the forum.
[Not for something as important as this.]
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[Prompto nods and looks down, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and back, hands making their way behind his back to twist at each other.]
I didn't... want to make it a big deal. [Shiva's breath mints, he sounds so lame. Of course it's a big deal. He tries, and fails, not to cringe.] It doesn't really change anything.
[That's what they told him before, anyway. That it didn't matter where he came from. He's one of them. Theirs.]
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[He'd already had the time, on the way over, to think about the ramifications of what this new complication means. Of course he'd considered them, every angle of them, because that sort of consideration is his job and always has been. He's the one who's supposed to look at all the possibilities, see the whole board, and appraise them all so that his liege can make the best possible decision from them.
But he already knows what Noct would say to this. And Noct would speak from pure emotion, but it's not as though there isn't plenty of logical fact to support it. They'd thoroughly and discreetly vetted Prompto back when he'd first started becoming a part of Noct's life; there are no connections to Niflheim to be found, because if there were, Ignis would've found them. Prompto is Lucian, through and through, in every way that matters — save, perhaps, one.
That last one is, of course, his nature. Created to be an MT, created to be a weapon. Maybe some of that explains his natural expertise with firearms, when such weaponry is rare around Lucis but prevalent among the Niflheim armies. Maybe some of that explains the blond hair in a country where genetics run toward darker hair and eyes. Maybe there's more to be explained by that, qualities that even Ignis couldn't guess at or know.
But nature is only half the equation, and in some cases even less than that. That Prompto was meant to be an MT is hardly any different than that Noctis was meant to be the prophesied Chosen King, and Astrals know how Ignis feels about that.
(And quite literally, if the Astrals don't yet know, they will soon enough.)
So it's easy to say what he says. It's even easier to believe it. People choose their titles and qualifications and designations for themselves, and their identity arises out of them.
Prompto Argentum is many things, some of which are admittedly occasionally baffling to Ignis. But "enemy" isn't one of them.]
The —
[To his own surprise, his voice falters very slightly — a hint of a fracture that betrays just the barest hint of the emotion he's keeping carefully controlled beneath his surface.]
The car, though. Absolutely...absolutely unforgivable, that.
[It's a weak attempt at levity, but gods, is he ever trying.]
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The cat still lives pretty close to Noct's apartment with her kittens. I call one of them Ignip. He has markings like this.
[He makes circles with his index fingers and thumbs and holds them in front of his eyes for a pair of glasses, then lets them fall along with his smile.]
The Empire's been turning its citizens into daemons for years. They... harvest them, and use the stuff the daemons give off to power Magitek cores. And MTs...
[When Prompto looks down, he finds his hands already laced together. He curls them in more tightly, his own version of Ignis's contained calm. While his knuckles are white, his voice remains quietly steady.]
They were babies. Babies they injected with Starscourge before they developed an ego. They cloned millions of babies just to do that to them, that's why they never seem to run out.
[Head still bowed, he holds the joined heels of his hands against his stomach. It's easier, maybe, to say it this third time, but it's easier the way climbing the Rock of Ravatogh the third time is easier. He still feels queasy and light-headed thinking about it, like he's too high off the ground and the air's thinner.]
I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys earlier. You've just been dealing with so much already, I couldn't find a good time to bring it up.
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[Injecting babies with the Starscourge to create daemons, just to process those daemons into fuel for their soldiers. It's an atrocity for which Niflheim deserves to burn, even above and beyond what they did to Insomnia and its inhabitants.]
...How long have you known?
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Just since we got separated. The facility Aranea and I destroyed--that's where I found out.
[If he'd known, he'd never have approached Noct. Not in elementary school, not in high school, not ever. There are some miracles even the Oracle can't command.]
I always knew something was wrong, but I never could've guessed how messed up the actual truth was. It was... pretty horrible in there. Like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.