So I have yet to find anything concrete on how Prompto got from Niflheim to Lucis or on how MTs are raised and trained from childhood on. This is 99.999% artistic liberty. There may come a time when all things Prompto are explained, and when that day comes I know that my fic and cannon will in no way resemble each other. For now though, this is the best I can do with what I scrounged up from the vague bullshit ramblings of that purple-haired dickweasel Ardyn.
He asked a lot of questions. What does the ocean smell like? Why can't I wear red today instead of boring gray all the time. What's it like to ride a chocobo?
He was creative, curious, idealistic, and thoughtful.
Not desirable qualities in a Magitek youngling.
He was afraid.
It was time for the semi annual culling, a time where younglings were tested and evaluated to ensure they were being programmed properly to grow up to be the strong forces of Niflheim; daemon/human hybrids who questioned nothing and believed their soul purpose in life to be killing in the name of the empire. Those who passed evaluation went on for further programming. Those who failed were labeled as misprogrammed. None of the younglings (at least in the younger-aged brackets) knew for sure what happened to them, only that they were flown away never to bee seen again. The creative youngling with light blond hair who was smaller than most others in his bracket of four-to-six-year-olds, tried to deny it, but he knew deep down that he had already failed.
... ... ... ... ... ...three days earlier... ... ... ... ... ...
The boy sat in a black metal chair in the center of a dimly lit square room with metal paneled walls. An evaluator, a tall bald heavily muscled man dressed in a gray suit, holding a remote control, stood a few feet in front of the boy. Behind him was a large television screen. "I will show you an image on the screen. You will tell me if the image depicts ally, enemy, or neutral."
The boy nodded nervously. The evaluator stepped aside and the test began.
The first image depicted a typical Magitek soldier.
"Ally."
The evaluator kept his eyes trained on the boy as the image of an enormous daemon with black skin and glowing red eyes appeared on the screen.
The boys sky blue eyes widened in fear. "E...enemy?" he stuttered.
The evaluaor's brow furrowed.
I think I got that wrong, the boy thought. Don't they use those things to make us?
Next was a newspaper article headed with a photograph of King Regis Lucis Caelum of the neighboring kingdom of Lucis.
The boy hesitated. The Lucian king looked so stunningly regal with his neatly trimmed beard on his kind face and wearing elegant obsidian robes adorned with silver and gold. By his side, only half visible in the frame, was a boy about his own age wearing a school uniform.
He can't be an enemy, can he? He looks so nice! But...he's not Imperial...
"Neau...tral?"
"D-88135K, you are dismissed."
The boy stood slowly from his seat and exited the room to rejoin bracket B7 in the waiting room. He stood in his place in line with his head hung low and his shoulders slumped forward, a stark contrast to the other younglings' proper posture. Some of them fidgeted a bit, but that was to be expected of the younger-aged brackets. Still, they maintained their strictly militant order. Out of the corner of his right eye, he could see the youngling next to him, a taller boy with auburn hair and green eyes, glaring down at him. The blond boy looked up.
The auburn haired boy mouthed the one word every youngling of every bracket dreaded ever hearing.
"Misprogrammed."
The blond returned his fellow younglings glare. He would never dare say it aloud, but all he could think was...
Enemy.
... ... ... ... ... ...
A level B bracket contained younglings ages 4-6. There were ten of these brackets, each containing thirty to forty younglings. So it was upwards of three hundred children lined up inside the hanger bay like the platoons of soldiers they would become. Each one hoped their ID would not be called. If their ID was called, they had been labeled misprogrammed. If they were labeled misprogrammed, they would be dead within a day.
The blue-eyed blond creative boy trembled where he stood. Twenty five IDs had already been called; twenty five younglings had been loaded into a waiting airship.
Then it happened.
"D-88135K."
The boy began to cry and he staggered out of line. An MT came up behind him and roughly grabbed his shoulders, pushing him forward.
This is it, the boy thought. I'll die. I'll never smell the ocean. I'll never wear red. I'll never ride a chocobo.
The MT shoved the boy up the ramp and into the airship to join the others. He continued to cry as he joined the huddle of terrified boys against the back wall. Three more IDs were called before the MTs raised the ramp and the airship doors closed like the jaws of a giant lion swallowing twenty nine children into total darkness.