Work Text:
When Albedo uncovers a body buried in a snowdrift amongst the frozen pines of Dragonspine, he does not waste his time checking for vital signs.
As the sun sinks below the mountain and the temperature sinks with it, the wind whistles through the empty gaps between Durin's ribs, echoing in mournful song. Ominous clouds gather like smoke around the peak, threatening a later storm. With an elegant gesture of Albedo's gloved hand, a Geo construct coalesces from dust into the blue-white-gold petals of a flower, and lifts the lifeless stranger like a gurney.
The Solar Isotoma floats after Albedo on his trek back to camp, shedding snow in their silent wake. The cadaver is cold and stiff. A body is, however unfortunate, not an uncommon discovery at this altitude. No human can survive prolonged exposure to these frigid conditions. If the unlucky hiker wore the verdant greens of the Adventurer's Guild, Albedo would be diligent in reporting his finding to Iris so that they could identify the missing person. Anyone else, he would task Sucrose with reporting to the Knights of Favonius.
However: the metal insignia stitched into the stranger's heavy black overcoat designates a Fatui member. High ranking, if the fabric quality is any indicator. Albedo supposes Mondstadt is still politically allied with the Fatui, however mistrustful of an alliance it may be.
But: Albedo is conveniently not required to file a report with Acting Grand Master Jean whenever they turn up.
(Black. Putrefaction. Nigredo is the first step in alchemy, drawing from primordial forms and the shadows within.)
Nightfall on the mountain is as dark as pitch, with clouds obscuring the stars. Albedo's camp is lit by torchlight, but the flickering fire does little in the way of warmth. Albedo prefers to store all of his equipment in the cold, where the growth of bacteria is halted. He pulls the sheet cover from his examination table, and lines up a selection of sterile, gleaming tools. His Geo construct lowers its precious cargo to the table, and then crumbles back into the dust from which it was born.
Notebook. Forceps. Scissors. Scalpel. Chisel. Saw. Albedo looks forward to discovering what secrets of life this small body will yield to him.
He skims through his notes to refresh his memory. Just as he has taken apart a variety of monsters to see how they work, Albedo has dissected the remains of Fatui skirmishers before. (The machinery encasing them is most interesting, a clever combination of armor and a circulatory system for concentrated elemental power that allows the wearer to generate shields or projectiles without need of Vision or Delusion.)
Albedo has also kept careful notes on the aberrations he theorizes the organic bodies have undergone due to the stress of using such a device. This Fatuus has dark hair and no outward signs of modifications. They appear young and whole, free of obvious signs of exhaustion or malnutrition. That doesn't discount the possibility of experimentation, though. They could be a Delusion user.
(Invariably, the human skirmisher's hair turns an ashy white, drained of all pigment. Some Delusion users have been reported to experience a comparable phenomenon. Vitiligo can be ruled out, as the skin does not appear to have undergone similar depigmentation; perhaps an acute episode of alopecia areata, triggered by psychological duress? Perhaps an accelerated aging process of the cells? Further research required.)
Albedo places his notebook open on the table to a blank page, and returns to the task at hand. With surgical scissors, he deftly cuts the clothes away from the body. When Albedo removes his subject's overcoat and the Inazuman clothes beneath, he is met with a most intriguing surprise.
At the shoulders, elbows, hips, and knees, the androgynous figure appears to be ball jointed like a doll. The hairless skin over the torso is uniformly smooth, suggesting a synthetic origin not unlike his own. It more closely resembles a mannequin than a human, given the lack of secondary sex characteristics – but on the scalp, hair emerges from follicles in the porous skin, which suggests growth and by necessity, blood vessels.
(A partially organic construct, perhaps designed to assimilate into human culture? Is there a brain, or merely a consciousness attached to an object? There are no signs of frostbite at the extremities. Could that mean there is no blood flow below the neck? To be determined.)
Albedo's pulse quickens with excitement. This is unknown to him. This is new.
He slides the scalpel in one efficient line from sternum to where the navel should be, slicing the abdominal cavity open. The bloodless skin is peeled back and clamped out of the way.
(White. Purification. Albedo is the step in which light and clarity are introduced, and change begins.)
Below Albedo's gloves spreads a colorful landscape of clockwork and viscera. Strings of fibrous material wind around metal bones, a chaotic array of mechanical parts and synthesized offal sloshing with fluid to keep it from drying out. The odor is dissimilar to the decaying organic matter of humans, hilichurls, and others he's examined on this table. He would characterize the scent as more chemical and 'clean', something like chlorine, or even ozone – the scent of electrolysis.
Albedo pauses, uncertain as to where he should even begin. He trades his scalpel for his charcoal, and starts sketching.
If Albedo were to compare the attention to detail in the framework of the delicate machinery, and then the haphazard addition of biological material growing like overzealous plants sprawling over a trellis, he would surmise that at least two different hands worked on this vessel. There is natural wear on the teeth of the gears suggesting a long timeframe of continuous use. Not just years – centuries. The mystery deepens.
(An original build, and then later modifications? The Fatui are known for such work. See: Fatui skirmisher notes.)
Albedo then notices something nestled in the chest where the heart should be. It is difficult to make out, but it resembles... a chess piece.
Setting aside his sketch for the moment, Albedo uses the forceps to ease some of the tissue back, exposing the edges of the small object. It pulses, a faint glow lighting the wet innards in a neon, flickering purple. The fine hair on Albedo's arms rises from static in the air. Electro energy.
Albedo goes still. There is movement.
On the table before him, the stranger's eyes suddenly snap open. It stares at the ceiling in hues of lurid, electric purple, pupils unfocused, eyes glassy. Then its body jerks, fingers twitching wildly in some involuntary response like so many spider legs.
Albedo watches in fascination as it appears to reboot, the blank doll expression abruptly rearranging itself into a mask of fury.
“I told you never to touch me again, Doctor,” the subject seethes. It – they? – speaks in a tone that suggests 'doctor' is more name than title, but Albedo lacks context.
He takes a step back, holding his palms in the air to indicate that he will not touch further.
“I am not a doctor, although I am a researcher. I am Chief Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius, Albedo.”
(Fascinating. The subject does not appear to have been built with a nervous system, or alternately, has a peripheral neuropathy that does not register pain in its brain. In case studies of congenital analgesia in Fontaine and Sumeru, the lack of pain sensation also meant insensitivity to temperature. Does the subject also not feel the cold?)
Albedo settles on his first line of inquiry. “Do you use a name? What gender do you identify with, if any? I should like to address you to your own comfort.”
“Alchemist... Refer to me as the Balladeer, if you must,” they snap. It is clear they are disoriented by the uncoordinated movements of their arms and legs, but gradually they manage to turn their head and glare at Albedo. “And I am male.”
“Very well, Balladeer,” Albedo amends politely. Whether this is truly life or merely a facsimile of it, the Balladeer has confirmed that he himself believes in his personhood. “Your moniker suggests you are a singer of ballads, or a performer of sorts? Am I to assume entertainment is your primary function?”
“How stupid are you? I don't have time for fools,” the Balladeer sneers. With difficulty, he rises to a sitting position, one arm cradling his open gut so that nothing spills. “I have no intention of sharing information with a Knight of Favonius. Put me back together and I will be on my way.”
Albedo moves to his tools, selecting a needle and monofilament suture material. His back is turned to his subject in a deliberate display of trust. “I apologize for having made the erroneous assumption that you were no longer alive,” he states as he threads the needle on the first try. “However, I would very much like to continue studying you. Would you consent to further experimentation?”
The Balladeer's peals of manic laughter echo against the stone walls. Faster than he can react, Albedo is caught by a hand around his throat.
He glances down in time to see fingers punch through the cage of his ribs, an Electro-infused hand cracking bone like twigs, bursting through his sternum from his back. Red spatters over his clean tools, his table, his coat and boots. Red bubbles from his nostrils and parted lips as the oxygen escapes his punctured lungs in a rush. Albedo's knees buckle, and he sags against the Balladeer behind him.
The Balladeer is still laughing as he yanks his arm free again, leaving the gory hole gaping in Albedo's chest. Albedo drops to the ground. Whiten the red, redden the white.
(Red. Manifestation. Moment of birth. Rubedo in alchemy refers to the refining of the self.)
Albedo closes his eyes. His heart ceases to beat.
His blood vessels constrict at once, sealing off the hemorrhage. His lungs slowly balloon back to their proper size, spilled pleural fluid pooling around the lobes as the lining knits itself whole again. His diaphragm sheds bone splinters in one great spasm. The fragments of his ribs slide back into place amid a slurry of marrow and cartilage, unwinding spools of blood vessels and nerves that dart back within the reforming bones like embroidery floss pulling them together.
When his skin closes, and even the seam vanishes, Albedo's heart resumes beating. He arranges himself into a seated position, and folds his hands calmly on his lap as though nothing had happened.
The Balladeer is no longer laughing.
“What are you,” he hisses, violet eyes narrow and glittering with mistrust.
“Homunculus,” Albedo says mildly. Unlike the Balladeer, his construct closely resembles that of a true human, save for the pontil mark on his throat. And, well. A few other key differences. “Perhaps as fellow artificial humans, we can trade information. Quid pro quo. I am keenly interested in the techniques used to create you.”
In answer, the Balladeer snatches up the scalpel and plunges it deep into Albedo's carotid artery.
Albedo raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. He removes the bloodied instrument from his neck and drops it to the ground. The wound is sealed and vanished in an instant.
“You're nothing like me. You're worthless. You don't have the right to ask me anything.” Standing over him with one hand pinching the edges of his abdominal incision shut, the Balladeer aims a barrage of vicious kicks at Albedo's head. “Start talking. What is the purpose of your experimentation? What were you hoping to find in me?”
“The truth.” Albedo closes his eyes, heedless of the blows that batter him. His theory begins to crystallize as he speaks at length. “I hypothesized that the organic material in your body is malfunctioning due to the extreme temperatures of the climate. Temperatures that you do not register as harmful through your skin's lack of sensation. You must have collapsed in the snow when the conflicting signals of organ failure overloaded your system. It will continue to occur if antifreeze measures are not introduced on a cellular level. So – why has your doctor not modified you for this deployment? There are Fatui stationed here on Dragonspine. Are you not in contact with them? Based on these facts, as well as your initial outburst, I am led to conclude that for some reason yet undisclosed, you are not currently on good terms with your organization. You may even be hiding from them in this remote location.”
“Fuck you,” the Balladeer snaps, more or less confirming everything Albedo gleaned. He jerks his chin commandingly, glowering down at Albedo at his feet. “Tell me the truth about Wyrmrest Valley. The Fatui stationed there are researching the energy from the red core that resides within the dragon's bones. What is it really, and how can it be used?”
“That would be my brother,” Albedo replies in a neutral tone. He gazes impassively at the Balladeer, studying his facial cues, watching for reactions. “Durin was a dragon built by my creator's hand. His power lingers on in the place where he died. His remains have been forged into powerful weaponry before, though not without... side effects. Now tell me of your creator, Balladeer. Are you an only child? Or are there more of your kind?”
Electricity arcs in an instant, the flash lighting the camp in blinding white. Lightning lances from the Balladeer's fingertips to instantly stop Albedo's heart.
He crumples face-first, cheek to the ground. Keraunographic burns fractal outward on his blistering skin from the point of the strike, like the branches and roots of an Irminsul tree connecting his blood vessels like ley lines. His mind is utterly blank. Then Albedo's electrocuted heart judders back into rhythm, and he sucks in a deep, gasping breath.
His blurry vision refocuses on the Balladeer's feet in front of his nose. The naked Balladeer drops into a squat, face looming into view. He catches Albedo under the chin with cruel fingers and tilts his face up, smirking at his stunned prey.
“Consider that a warning strike. Never speak of that again,” the Balladeer whispers, voice dropping dangerously low.
Albedo meets him with a gentle smile. He parts his cracked lips and croaks, “I am... the successful culmination of my creator's work. I am, in her eyes... a perfect being. Are you, Balladeer?”
(Yellow. Citrinitas. Gold. Gold. Gold.)
There is a sudden, violent storm of emotion in the Balladeer's wild eyes. He is a mirror of the primordial one in Albedo's image, prideful and envious, imperfect and discarded. Just like that failed subject, he must prove his worth in every action, every word out of his mouth, betraying his own inferiority in his attempts to conceal it.
Just like the spare that rotted in Durin's belly, he is easy to bait.
Lightning strikes again, and again. Albedo swims through a blurry sea of awareness, only just beginning to regain his mental faculties before the next bolt of electricity shuts him down again. He supposes he could use his Vision as a way to ground himself and mitigate the damage done, but decides it would likely be interpreted as a challenge, which would make the punishment last longer.
A shivering sort of pleasure ebbs through his limp extremities, the euphoric sensation of being flooded with the quintessence of life every time his stopped heart shudders back into motion. A fascinating discovery. He still has much to learn about himself.
Albedo lays at the Balladeer's mercy, and allows the thunderstorm of fervor to burn itself out.
Sunrise creeps in at the edges slowly, casting streaks of red and gold to lighten the black sky. When at last Albedo's vision focuses and the ringing in his ears subsides, he is greeted with the sight of the Balladeer on the ground himself, panting from exhaustion. The Balladeer's eyes still smolder and spark with barely suppressed rage, but it seems his compulsion to harm has been sated for the time being.
“Ah,” Albedo sighs softly. “I did not dislike that.”
“So you do feel pain,” the Balladeer concludes breathlessly, lip curled in disgust. “You just enjoy it. Freak.”
“Mm. You cannot kill me in a way that matters,” Albedo points out.
A being like Albedo would have to be unmade by the same method he was created. He has researched and tested a wide variety of methods to neutralize his own power, to no avail. The Balladeer will have to try harder. He still cannot move his leaden limbs, so Albedo remains facedown on the ground, clothing scorched to ash that clings to the regenerating skin beneath.
“Now that you have accepted this truth," Albedo continues, unnervingly calm, "I can give you the repairs you require. As long as your target is not in any way related to Mondstadt, I have no conflict of interest, and our partnership can therefore remain confidential. You need not fear interference from the Knights of Favonius.”
“Mondstadt has already given the Fatui what they want. I don't care about them.” The Balladeer barks a short, frustrated laugh, and rakes his fingers through his cropped hair. It may be a tell of nervousness, the lack of control over the situation affecting his mental stability. Further observation required. “What the fuck do you want? What do you get out of offering me allegiance?”
With difficulty, Albedo raises his head. He gazes longingly at the Balladeer – not his eyes or his face, but rather, the gaping hole still carved into his torso. The open abdominal cavity glistens with untold treasures: synthesized organs and complex machinery and a god's heart.
Albedo's curiosity is a lit flame consuming him from the inside. He must know the unknowable. He can focus on nothing else.
“I already told you. I would like your consent for further experimentation. Please.”
The Balladeer stares at him, long and hard. Finally he tosses his head back and sneers. “You're no better than him. But I guess you'll have to do.”