The situation is not familiar to Aventurine, but the people present are - he's someone with indigo skin, looking across at three others: a eyepatched man with wolf ears, a young woman blonde woman wearing a laurel crown, and a ponytailed man in a lab coat.

Scien is typing on a digital device while the four of them stand by a strange machine. Scien says, "It's still unstable. We need to do more work on it."

And Muelsyse, taking notes, responds, "This would be way easier if we could just steal more tech, but if we tried to bring in any more parts they'd probably notice..."

Nehan, sweet Nehan, takes some readings from the machine. "...It's almost been a week since they made a move," he reminds them. "We might not have much time."

Aventurine knows it's true and feels a churn in his stomach. There are sacrifices here now, and there isn't a lot of time left to do the things they need to do: to find a way to open some kind of pocket of safe space for the innocents which have been pulled in. If they fail, the people here die for the sake of whatever wish the four of them desperately need.

Not looking up from the book of magical research in his hands, Aventurine feels himself say, "We will have to work with what we have for now."

Scien instructs Aventurine to help them input magical parameters into the machine, hopefully balancing the marriage of magic and technology. They truly have no Viktor Arcane when they really needed it. Aventurine is worried about the instability, the forced mesh between these two almost incongruent practices. Scien is stubborn, naturally, and Muelsyse and Nehan are caught between the two of them.

The machine doesn't look very great. It is built as sturdy as it can be, but the gauges on it are yelling the impending dangers of overclocking.

Helpfully, Nehan posts up at the machine to help punch in data. Aventurine turns away to go retrieve another book, but Scien and Muelsyse have already started drawing the sigil on the floor beneath the machine. The reason it is finished so quickly is because it is done so poorly. By the time Aventurine turns around, they have stepped back to look over their work. Aventurine's eyes jump from shoddy corner to shoddy corner of the star. My gods. It's the worst induction sigil he has ever seen in his entire life. His stomach drops.

"Don't--"

Why didn't he draw it? Why didn't they let him draw it, Aventurine wonders, hearing tinny static and a deep ringing in his ears. His eyes flutter open, and he isn't sure when he had closed them. His lungs fill suddenly with smoke and dust as he inhales, and he chokes. His eyes focus on the rumble left behind; it feels like a dream. He struggles to sit up, counts two bodies off to his left. Muelsyse and Scien, dirty, stunned, but beginning to move. Quickly, he searches everywhere else. Two, two. The third. Where is the third?

Half of a body is sticking out of smoldering debris, the familiar cut out in grey clothes, exposing scarred skin beneath.

Aventurine jolts upright through the streak of pain and the burn of his throat. He tries to scream, "Nehan!" but the only thing that comes out is a broken, croaky half of a name.