Chapter Text
The IPC had a concept called the Humanoid Index; an incredibly controversial measurement to gauge how far removed a given intelligent species was from the standard Qlipothian human that constituted 90% of the IPC-owned cosmos. These humans were the baseline, ranked at 0, while everything else fell anywhere between 1 and 20 depending on how far they abstracted from this arbitrary ‘template’.
Xianzhou natives ranked anywhere between 1.5 and 3 depending on how closely related they were to the original bloodlines blessed by Yaoshi. Foxians, Halovians, and other ‘hybrid’ species floated between 6 and 8 depending on the specific species. Vidyadhara, which were only human in outward appearance, ranked as high as 15.
Aventurine, as the only recorded Avgin, was ranked at 13.
This number, for the few that knew it, was the source of many sordid rumors. After all, Aventurine was outwardly identical to a Qlipothian human, aside from his Sigonian eyes. What could possibly be going on internally to give him such a high rating? Were the tales of Sigonians having mind control powers actually true?
Obviously not, but that did nothing to stop the rumor mill.
The truth was that the Avgins, like many Sigonian clans, were supposed to be insectoid in appearance. Moths, butterflies, wasps, ants, beetles – across the small-yet-diverse population of the remote desert planet, the people bore traits resembling those of the chitinous variety. At the end of each winter (a season marked by being drier , not colder ) the average Sigonian would moult, shedding their wings, tails, and whatever other traits had sprouted from their skin, just in time for them to grow back fresh and new in the spring.
… Except for Aventurine. Whatever he had been through since leaving his home planet must have done something to break his body, because ever since he shed his chitin for the last time as a young teen, he hadn’t grown any of it back since.
It was a good thing, really. It helped him fit in among the hostile wider universe, enabling him to blend in simply by obscuring his eyes. Hiding a set of glittering wings or a long segmented tail would do him no good, and the last thing he needed were a pair of sensitive antennae that could be grabbed or torn during an altercation.
That didn’t stop him from longing. He still remembered the days of his youth, flashing glittery wings and weaving shed fragments of chitin into strings of jewelry alongside his clan. His features had been a shimmery, jewel-toned teal, iridescent in shades of vibrant cyan down to a forest green so dark it had seemed jet-black. A common shade among the Avgin, yet no less beautiful.
Aventurine had long since decided there was no use dwelling in the past. It wasn’t like he could fix whatever had gone wrong in his body to stop him from moulting every year, nor was he welcome among the other Sigonian tribes. All he could do was look forward and move on; he was a very busy man.
Especially right now, as he had plenty of work to do.
–
This particular mission wasn’t anything new, really. He was being sent to a distant desert planet – but not his distant desert planet, of course – to discuss the potential of turning it into an export hub for various luxury goods. It was a fairly low-stress job, necessitating a Stoneheart’s presence only because of the local culture’s obsession with status and hierarchy.
Oh, and Ratio would be there, too!
The good doctor was set to arrive a few weeks into the project, which would work wonders to break up the monotony of being stuck in boring business meetings. Aventurine truly was fond of the man – perhaps a bit more than he had any right to be – and it was quite the lucky break that they were partnered up so frequently.
Sabulo was a dead ringer for Sigonia in many ways, Aventurine realized. Same scorching days, same chilly nights; it even had a local population with ”creepy-crawly” features, though the Sabulean tended more on the reptilian side than the insectoid. He had to wonder if the tall spires and twisting roads of their hub city were anything like the bustling Sigonian capital his people were long exiled from. He wouldn’t know – he had refused to even look up photos of it out of sheer petty spite.
The Sabuleans were far more welcoming, at least. Even if that friendliness was mostly due to them having his IPC ranking explained to them before he arrived. They were a people who took their hierarchies very seriously. They had a strict caste system based on a combination of tradition, wealth, and physical prowess. Each one had mosaics of tattoo art painted into their snakelike skin, with individual scales dyed in order to create works of intricate pointillism. These markings displayed the life story of the individual, with colors and designs defined by their place in the pecking order.
To them, his high ranking and opulent style of dress must have been just as telling as their tattoos… though he had been warned to keep his old brand covered as much as possible. Sabulo was no stranger to slavery, and the elites may not take kindly to the idea of a ‘low-born’ individual climbing up the social ladder.
One of the first exports he wished to sample was a wine known as Klifwyn, which was produced in the rural farming villages in the mesas beyond the city. They were crops grown vertically with vines growing down the sheer orange sandstone and blooming into diminutive gray-purple flowers. Not only did these flowers eventually fatten up into chubby little berries known as Oadea, but the nectar from the immature blooms had a uniquely spicy taste that belied the sweetness of the eventual fruit. When fermented and filtered, these berries produced an aromatic wine often mulled with honey and herbs and served piping hot in chilly evenings.
(The traditional recipe was also mixed with the brewer’s own venom to give an added kick that only the Sabuleans had the taste receptors necessary to enjoy. For obvious reasons, the variety they chose to export did not have this feature.)
A few days into his trip, he finally got to try this wine for himself. He had been invited to a cultural museum by a smooth-talking diplomat who had shown him all sorts of sculptures, paintings, tapestries, and other relics of the desert planet’s history. Then, once Aventurine had his fill, they went up to a VIP lounge on the highest levels of the building, where the ceiling was shaped into a brilliant glass dome that made for wonderful viewing of the indigo twilight sky.
“I certainly hope I didn’t bore you with our history, Sir Stoneheart.” The diplomat poured him a glass of reddish-violet Klifwyn as he spoke, his distinct accent hissing over every ‘s’ sound as his long tongue flicked through his fangs. “Perhaps I got carried away. Was it still enjoyable for you?”
“Very much so,” Aventurine replied easily, offering a smile as he swirled the wine in his glass. This variety was served room-temperature, not mulled like the others, but it still gave off a unique fragrance. “Besides, how can I fault anyone for having pride in their planet’s culture? Especially when it’s all so rich with art and stories.”
Right answer. The diplomat smiled, his dark eyes squinting contentedly. “I knew such a high-class individual like yourself would appreciate it.”
Aventurine managed not to laugh at the irony, instead opting to deepen his smirk in an inconspicuous way. “It’s plain to see that Sabulo has much to offer the universe at large. Fine exotic goods are always in demand, and the elites have a voracious appetite for anything novel.” He took a careful sip of his wine, pleased at the warm, dry taste that spread across his tongue. “I’m sure plenty of interstellar merchants will be interested in these exports, and the IPC will be more than happy to offer our infrastructure.”
The conversation continued with platitudes and agreeable offers being exchanged readily and without hesitation. It was a simple form of business, one that Aventurine could pull off in his sleep.
However, just as he was discussing the logistics of Oadea farming with the diplomat, he felt something odd. Along his back, just beneath his shoulder blades, the skin started to sting. It was nothing that could even come close to breaking his poker face, not after all the practice he’s gotten in holding it steady, but it was enough to make him wish this otherwise pleasant conversation would come to a close as soon as possible.
Only after finishing his second serving of Kliffwyn did he finally spot an opening. “Ah, the time has gotten away from me,” he said as he set down his empty glass. “I have to take an important call soon, so I really must be going.”
The diplomat, thankfully, did not seem offended or disappointed at all. Instead, he just nodded and smiled, standing from his seat and holding out a hand for Aventurine to take. “It was a pleasure getting to meet you, Sir Stoneheart.”
“Please, the pleasure is all mine.” He accepted the handshake ( firmly – he was informed the Sabuleans were quite picky about their handshake etiquette) with a friendly smile. “I’ll be sure to remember your hospitality today, my friend.”
Once they finished exchanging their final pleasantries, Aventurine set off to try and not look like he was fleeing the scene. He tempered his pace carefully until he was out of sight, only allowing himself to hurry once he was certain his new connection was no longer watching. The stinging in his back had grown into an uncomfortably itchy heat, and he was desperate to strip off his shirt so he could figure out just what had happened to his skin.
When he could finally hide in the privacy of his bathroom, he managed to get a look at his condition. The irritated skin was visibly swollen and reddened, pulling uncomfortably at his back and shoulders as it strained. Was there something suspicious in the wine? To anyone else, it may have seemed like an allergic reaction, but…
Aventurine couldn’t help but be reminded of the metamorphoses he’d been through yearly as a child. The new wings coming in would push against the skin painfully, just like this.
That had to be a coincidence. What could some alien wine do to change a body that had clearly given up on its moulting cycle? There was no way the two could be connected, even if the similarities were hard to ignore.
If only Ratio were here. He would at least have some kind of theory, if not an immediate answer. If nothing else, Ratio would be another brain to bounce theories off of, or another set of eyes to observe if anything had been slipped into the drink. Hell, Ratio could’ve been another body to see if these same symptoms popped up!
Alas, Ratio would not be here for quite some time, and Aventurine was hesitant to bother him when he knew he would be met with a lecture on interrupting his busy life.
Another jolt of pain shot through the reddened skin, this time reflecting an ache much deeper than before, and Aventurine had to give up observing and theorizing for now. Though it was far too early – even by the jet-lagged standards of a man who was still adjusting to this planet’s time system – he could feel exhaustion pulling at him through the pain.
He tried to fight it. Panic kept him alert for a brief time as he thought about all of the things that could have possibly been slipped into his drink, or maybe even other opportunities in which he could’ve been poisoned. Was there a gas in the museum that was harmless to Sabuleans yet slowly fatal to all other species? Perhaps a skin-absorbing toxin transferred when he shook hands with that diplomat? The possibilities were endless and nerve-wracking.
It wasn’t enough to stave off sleep indefinitely though. Especially not when his accommodations were so comfortable and luxurious. His bed was a round mattress in a lowered part of the floor, lined with pillows and blankets in the nest-like fashion that was traditional on this planet, and it was every bit as comfortable as it looked. The blankets had even been perfumed, doused in the lightest spritzing of spiced fruit-scent that simply radiated coziness. How was he supposed to resist sleep when such temptation existed in front of him?
He sank into the bed, his limbs unbearably heavy. He didn’t even have the strength to bother changing into pajamas, instead he stripped himself down to the lowest possible layers and decided that was enough. Breathing almost felt like too much effort, and he felt his own breaths become slower and shallower as he sank into dizzying blackness.
–
His sleep was fitful and restless. Nightmares were a common occurrence for him, as was expected given his background, but these were different. The flashing images were especially intense and were backed with a striking heat, bathing every horrific scene in an oppressive backlight as if framed in front of a great furnace.
The reason for that became apparent as soon as he awoke. Sweat beaded on his forehead and each breath burned against his lips, reflecting a fever that was setting in fast and strong.
Through the haze of his thoughts, he finally realized: ah, it wasn’t poison, it was an illness!
Aventurine didn't worry about getting sick on his missions. That was one of the perks of having a high index number — fewer diseases were even compatible with his body! Still, germs were persistent little bastards, and even with luck usually on his side, he hadn’t been able to escape it entirely.
With a groan, he dragged himself out of his nest-bed, fumbling to find where he had left his phone. He was a damn good actor, sure, but not even he could manage to put on a straight face when he felt like this. After canceling all of his plans for the day, he all but collapsed right back into bed, falling into a dizzying spiral of sleep that pulled him down and down.
His dreams were fuzzy and fitful; ambiguous images mixed in with a feeling of stress and fear. Faces and limbs whirled around him incomprehensibly, accompanied by the strangest sense of tearing that stung against his back.
He slept on and off for the next few hours before he finally managed to pry his eyes open and keep them so. The persistent, foggy heat of his fever had gone, but something felt hot and uncomfortably wet against his shoulder blades.
Pain shot through his spine as he dragged himself into a sitting position, the skin burning as it shifted and pulled. That, combined with his exhaustion, made it hard to even think clearly, and part of him was tempted to just give into his grogginess and go back to sleep.
… At least, until he noticed how every inch of his bed was splattered with a thin layer of blood.
“Shit,” he hissed, jolting upright. The back of his shirt was warm and sticky, and rubbed against his skin with an odd, unpleasant sensation. He clambered out of his bed, pausing only as his lightheadedness threatened to throw him back into it.
Once he was able to get to his feet, he stumbled forward, leaning against furniture as he limped his way to the bathroom. His stomach had dropped into a pit of dread, especially since it felt like he was dragging pieces of his skin behind him. When faced with a mirror, he almost didn’t have the stomach to look at what horrid thing had happened to his back.
But he had to. He swallowed hard and yanked his shirt over his head, biting back a wince as he felt it tug on the strips of loose skin that hung behind his shoulders and on his lower back.
Once his shirt was off, it took a monumental effort to open his eyes, prying the lids apart one at a time just to manage it at all. With his body angled to survey the damage, he saw —
Iridescent blue and green. The colors were dulled by the thin sheen of blood, but the vibrancy still managed to poke through. He could see every vein that broke up the semi-translucent surface into a mosaic, creating a work of art Aventurine hadn’t seen on his own body since he was small.
Wings. His wings, accompanied by a long, thin tail with a barb on the end. For the first time since he was a child, Aventurine had gone through metamorphosis.
How?
He felt dizzy, and not only from the blood loss and blooming pain. How, his mind asked helplessly once again, how did this happen? What had the Sabuleans been feeding him to suddenly stir his yearly cycle back to life? Why did looking at the shimmering surface of his own chitin make his heart ache?
He clutched at his head, groaning. These were not questions he was about to answer any time soon, not with his body feeling the way it was.
Logically, he knew he had to go to the hospital, but reminders of his position stayed his hand. Even if he was a welcomed guest by the governing body of Sabulo, that did not stop third parties from potentially objecting to the isolated planet’s introduction to the IPC… nor did it stop his hosts from revealing their ulterior motives in a moment of his vulnerability. It wouldn’t do him any good to reveal his fragile state to the Sabuleans, at least not if he could help it.
But… who else could he call? Jade could be a safe bet, but with how overprotective she had become over her apprentices post-Penacony, he wouldn’t be surprised if she went on the offensive at the mere possibility that the Sabuleans had tainted his food with something that disrupted his body’s stasis. He should only call her if the situation goes sour enough to warrant a nuclear response.
There was Topaz, though she would give him hell for involving her in his troubles… and of course, the good doctor himself — but Ratio was a busy man, and he was already setting aside time to come to Sabulo before long. Why bother calling him now?
He sighed, sliding down onto the floor of the bathroom (nearly squishing his tail in the process), pulling out his phone.
He wasn’t on this mission alone. A few normal IPC grunts had accompanied him, all those who worked directly under him, and they had scattered across the city to complete their own diplomatic tasks. He knew them enough to know they would bend over backwards to appease him, a sort of desperation that did manage to make them trustworthy, but…
He still couldn’t let them in on what was happening to him. The idea of showing such vulnerability to his subordinates made his skin crawl.
“Mr. Aventurine?” One of his assistants answered, her voice steady over the muffled sound of chatter behind her – was she at a bar? Whoops. Aventurine almost felt bad for interrupting her fun. “Is there something you need?”
A stiff drink and a lot of drugs, is what Aventurine wished he could say. Instead, he took the responsible option; “I need some things brought up to my hotel room,” he rasped. “Discreetly, of course.”
His words seemed to capture her attention fully, as he could hear her briskly moving out of whatever public venue she was in. “Certainly. I can get anything you need.” Oh, how Aventurine appreciated employees who didn’t ask any questions.
After giving her a list of items and instructions, he hung up the call, slumping over. The bathroom tile wall was pleasantly cool against his sore, burning skin.
When the delivery arrived, he shrouded himself in one of the only clean pieces of bedding he had left, covering the extent of both his metamorphosis and injuries. Surely, the employees that arrived would still be rather alarmed by his ashy complexion and the heaps of bloodied bedsheets he thrusted into their arms, but they knew better than to question a Stoneheart.
(If this were the beginning of a rumor about how he murdered someone in his hotel room on Sabulo, so be it.)
With the most discretion possible, they provided everything he needed to recover; electrolyte drinks, iron-rich supplements, nutrient-dense meal replacers… and of course, a fresh set of bedding and supplies for wound care.
The only hiccup was when the gaggle of grunts were departing from his room, and one of the newer hires stopped and turned to face him. “Are you sure you’re okay, sir?” she asked, hesitant and concerned.
He held up a hand. “Completely fine,” he said with a smile, despite the audible soreness of his voice. “You just worry about getting your work done, okay?”
She opened her mouth to question him further, but luckily, one of the others stepped in to nudge her. Whatever she planned to say was discarded, replaced by a quiet “Alright, take care,” mumbled softly as she dipped her head.
Once he was alone, Aventurine could finally let his guard down, if only a little bit. He cracked open one of his electrolyte drinks, put on a random movie, and sank into his bed with a deep, shaky sigh. Even just coordinating his own care was far too much effort for him to expend right now.
He had already called off all his scheduled meetings for the next few days, citing a conveniently vague excuse of having caught some sort of bug (ha), and received many polite well-wishes from the Sabulean representatives. That bought him a few days to try and hasten his recovery, then from there he could try and find an excuse to brush off the fact that he had suddenly sprouted wings and a tail.
He ran his fingers through his hair with a low exhale, flinching and nearly biting his tongue as his fingers touched against what felt like an exposed nerve.
… Great. He hadn’t even realized he had sprouted antennae too. Maybe he should have asked his employees for alcohol after all.