The Universe for the novel series of the same name
Centered on a Superhero organization vowing to be better
And more importantly, the stories of the heroes within
Hey there! Looking for new reading material? Well, look no further!
Heroes of Chroma is a superhero novel and short story series, following the exploits of super-powered individuals from the universe. Ranging from small town adventures to globe spanning, world shattering events, all the way up to interplanar apocolypses!
For a list of novels;
-WASP's Fall-
WASP's Mistake -|- WASP's Ultimatum
-Single Stories-
The Misadventures of Ironbride and Firebrand! (Paused)
Reefback
The Grave Masquerade
For Short Stories and Prompts;
First Awakening (WASP's Fall)
Ironbride and Firebrand
Spawn of Red Death
Retirement of Red Veil
Gold Maned King
Child of the Threshold
Gravetender
No Mistakes for Death
Birth of Urimon
Painted Rivers
She found a new room...
For Lore Drops;
Magic of Chroma -|- The Faewylds -|- Power Classification -|-Let's do some History -|- Chroma's Organization of Threats -|- Chroma's Structure
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alright tumblr, i need to know:
who gets to celebrate disability pride month? like, everyone, obviously, as allies. But like, do people with glasses get to celebrate? What about autism/adhd? what about mental health things? auditory processing disorder? I don't really like being exclusionary, but I'm curious, and want to be a good ally
Rampart trudged into work the next day, running fingers through their messy hair. They needed a cut, it was getting down to their shoulders. Theyâd just been working so much latelyâŚ
âHey, look whoâs back!â chimed the friendly, familiar voice of-
âAlley Cat?!â Cygnus exclaimed as their eyes met the familiar face of the corporal waving a flashy new mechanical at them.
Tracy smiled wide, absolutely beaming despite corroded scars still dusting her face. âBeen a minute, huh? Whatâs it, about a week now?â
âAnd youâre already up and about?â Cygnus chided gently. âItâs been a little over a week since you got your ARM RIPPED OFF!â
âEh, new oneâs cooler anyway. Better scar to tell stories about at parties,â Tracy counters casually, though her tone betrays a hint of pain still budding beneath the surface. âIâll get the bitch back soon enough. But theyâre keepinâ me on desks for a while⌠Make sure this thing doesnât go haywire on me, connectionâs all good, et cetera." Tracy gives her new, sleek arm a rattle, making the fastenings jostle just a bit in their housings. The cool plates of black metal punctuated by wire muscles beneath, intricately woven like biologics. One of the few benefits from the old invasion that allowed Centurion City to be built to begin with.
Cygnus sighs, shaking their head. âYou just bitched long enough they got tired of you, huh?â
Tracy offers a smug smile back. âI am a bitch of many talents~â
The pilot scoffs before turning for the elevators. âYeah, sure. You got my number if you need help.â
âOh, before yah run! Get back here!â Tracy calls, shuffling and leafing through papers around the reception desk. Cygnus raises an eyebrow before coming back to Tracy, around the back of the desk this time, only to find a half-page flipped up into their face. âBig wigs want your face for a meeting. ASAP⌠Sounded pretty big.â
Cygnus blinked as they took the page, looking over the summons. Simple, to the point. Gave a conference room number and everything⌠A summons like this, stamped with Chromaâs big C logo, didnât come for just anyone for just anything. âThe hell did I do to deserve this?â they muttered, scratching the back of their head.
Tracy shrugged, offering a sympathetic look.
âNo one else?â Cygnus asked, unable to take their eyes of the paper.
Tracy shook her head.
Cygnus sighed, dawning their helmet. âThanks, Tracy. See you âround.â
âCourse, Overheat~â Tracy called after Rampart as they marched off, trying to sound chipper about the situation.
Rampart sighed, rubbing the back of their neck. Unable to take comfort in Tracyâs teasing, feeling a pit open in their gut. But ignoring it would be a fate worse than whatever they already had in mind⌠whatever it was. So with no other option, they headed for the conference room as instructed. Not even one of the more public ones on the ground floor, they had to ride the elevator up a couple levels, trekking the corporate halls like a labyrinth leading into the minotaurâs den. Not helped by the fact that when they arrived, Rampart saw the blinds drawn. Never a good sign.
They took a deep breath before finally working up the courage to put on their best stoic soldier facade and knock.
âCome in.â That voice was never a good sign. The baritone smooth notes of the Eastern States branchâs chief commander, Lucas Jonstone, pulled a shiver right up through Rampartâs spine.
The voice made them comply without question, moving in lockstep as they opened the door, marched right inside, and shut it behind themselves, feet firmly together as their hand snapped to the crown of their helmet.
Jonstone sighs to himself, waving a dismissive hand. âAt ease, soldier. Youâre not in trouble. Yet, at least,â he says sternly, the beard on his face thick and reaching his chest. It was a compliment to his dark complexion and the dark red duster usually hung off his shoulders, this time over the back of his chair. He gestures to the chair at the other side of the conference table heâs sat at, with four other individuals, Sentinella included. The audience didnât let the tone do much to ease Rampartâs nerves.
 Once Rampart has taken their spot, Jonstone clears his throat and flips through some pages. âYou are not unfamiliar with our⌠guest upstairs, correct?â
âI⌠can only assume youâre referring to Orius, sir?â Rampart asks.
Jonstone nods. âIndeed I am. How much have you interacted with him thusfar?â
âIâm trying to be friendly. We went to dinner the other week alongside the rest of the team Iâve been working with.â Rampart folds their hands on the table, leaning a bit farther forward. âCan I ask why youâre concerned?â
âWho said we were concerned?â Jonstone asked incredulously.
âForgive the assumption, sir. Your voice doesnât exactly scream âhappyâ when you speak about him,â the soldier responds curtly and quickly.
âI canât say Iâm ecstatic heâs around for various reasons, but thatâs not my issue,â Jonstone explains while running his fingers over his mustache. Thinking for a moment before shaking his head. âRegardless of my thoughts about him, Iâd like to assign him as your charge since youâre already getting familiar with him.â
Rampartâs brow furrowed beneath their helmet. âIâm already one charge deep. Why give me a second?â
âSimply put, the rest of your team isnât set up for it,â Sentinella responded bluntly. âTheyâre teenagers, one of whom shouldnât ever be in the field and DEFINITELY not anywhere near the front lines. I was already pushing it with bringing her out for the last big outing against that hive the other week. So, being the only adult on the team who found him and has seemingly taken him inâŚâ she waves a vague hand through the air as if the conclusion ought to be obvious now.
All it does, however, is make Rampart run a hand over their neck. Silent for a long moment. âAlright... But that does bring me to another issue. Whereâs he meant to be staying?â
âHe wonât be evicted from the roof, if thatâs your meaning,â Jonstone clarified. âI understand your living arrangements are already cramped, what with the⌠Whoâsâit Paula?â
âCelestia Kierson, sir,â chimed a purple shortcoat that Rampart didnât recognize, only knowing they were mystic. Her face was framed by pastel pink hair and marked by a pair of thin, black tear-streak tattoos. But otherwise, she seemed unremarkable, despite the tone suggesting that âsirâ wasnât out of hierarchy.
âRight, Celestia. Point being, Iâm not about to make you shove a literal extra terrestrial into that mix. Just make sure he doesnât get into any trouble. And that no trouble gets to him.â
Rampart nodded. âAlright. I can make that work, sir. However, I⌠Suppose itâs now or never that I bring up another concern-... Or, more accurately, another thought Iâve had for a while now in relation. Sirs.â
Jonstoneâs brow quirks as he leans forward, folding his fingers and resting his beard into the cradle. âAnd what might that be?â
âIâd like to transfer into the Heroes division properly.â
Jonstoneâs eyes narrowed at the declaration. He shared a look with the others at the table. Most notably, one of the chief mechanics that Rampart didnât recognize by face. When his eyes met their visor again, his voice was even and calm as ever, but there was a new weight behind it. âYou are aware that your armor is Chroma property. And by joining the Heroes division, you would become as much an outside counteract as any other. And youâd need to source a new suit if youâre to operate as a pilot? Let alone the paperwork to use it?â
Rampart sighed, pulling their helmet off, meeting the Commander eye to eye. âI am aware of the risks to myself, my bank, and my continued tenure here. I am also aware Iâve already been working almost exclusively with Formorianâs team since he arrived. Frankly put, sir, I see no reason why that should come to an end for any reason, whatsoever. So before those reasons come up, Iâd like to join that team officially, as opposed to being a fill-in soldier.â
Sentinellaâs brow quirked, smirking at the fire in Rampartâs voice.
Jonstone, meanwhile, didnât let his stern expression waver. Just watching the scene unfold.
âOn top of this,â Rampart continued. âIt will allow me the ability to keep closer tabs on Orius. As is the seeming want of the parties involved here.â
âAnd you know that any knowledge you have of your armor is to be kept at the most need to know basis?â the engineer chimed, his own mustache twitching almost irritably.
âOf course, sir. I just wish I knew which armor you referred to,â Rampart responded with practiced poise. An answer that seemed to satisfy the orange-coated chief.
Jonstone couldnât help the chuff that escaped him, like a tiger pleased with its meal. âI see youâve put thought behind this impulse, then.â He stretched back into his chair, flipping some papers and making a note. âLike I said, and I will not repeat any of it a third time, the armor youâve been issued will not be accessible to you through the Heroes Division. Itâs experimental and technically confidential. One of a kind. How you source a new one is up to you.â He set the pen down and looked Rampart in the eye again. âThat said⌠Paperwork takes time to file. I can guarantee a week for you to continue using the Mark 14 Bastion. After that, youâre on your own.â
âMake it two, and Iâll be right as rain,â Rampart assured.
âYou have a plan, then?â Sentinella interrogated.
Rampart smirked. âI try to.â
Jonstone smiled. âHave I ever mentioned how glad I am at how often you fail to disappoint me?â
âOnce or twice, sir,â Rampart joked back.
âGood. Iâll need your signature here, Orius will be marked as your loose responsibility, and Iâll get that paperwork to you about transfer⌠Eventually,â Jonstone explained. âRemember. Two weeks.â
âTwo weeks,â Rampart parroted, standing. âIs there anything else you needed, sir?â
âDismissed, Hero,â Jonstone said, his tone dry. âDonât disappoint.â
âIâll get with you later, Rampart,â Sentinella said. âWeâll go over this plan of yours.â
âIâll be breaking the news to my favorite engis,â Rampart said, tucking their helmet under their arm before giving a short salute and marching out of the room.
--==++==--
In a small librarium in Chromaâs mystic wing surrounded by limestone brick instead of drywall and steel, Celestia did her best, focusing in on herself, brow tense in concentration. Urimonâs eyes unblinked nearby, and Lecroux clasped her hands in her lap, watching as her student strained slightly, trying to pour as much of her energy into this as possible. What should have been a peaceful meditation exercise seemed to be clawing at the young aspirant in ways Lecroux couldnât seem to fathom. The shelves around the circular room, stacked with strange baubles and minor relics of both Nthotian and Nthatic origin, loomed over the scene.
âMaster Urimon?â Lecroux whispered. She didnât hear a reply, nor dare to look up at the entity. But she felt their attention wrap around her. âDo you think she can do it?â
The thing did not speak for a moment longer, thinking on the subject. âI am curious to see the results,â they whispered back.
âBut⌠It seems like such a blasphemous concept. Sediment and water is one thing, but light and dark⌠Chaos and orderâŚâ
Urimon heard Lecrouxâs trailed-off concern, and simply parroted themselves. âI am curious to see the results.â
Celestiaâs brow furrowed further, concentrating. A tiny flicker of light formed in front of her, right above her lap. Her robe flapped gently. Tendrils snuck around her in a perfect circle, creeping towards the mote of light. Inching ever closer, reaching for forbidden knowledge.
Until her lungs gasped, giving out the breath she didnât even realize she was holding until she was gulping down air. And it all dissipated at once.
Lecroux started to move, her hand extending towards her student, face contorted in worry. Just seeing that inky black moving⌠It was unnerving for someone like her. Resisting every urge of striking the stuff back, but being so closely tied to the other side of the coin. Alone, it made her hesitate. When she could finally speak, she finally announced, âPerhaps, Acolyte⌠You have trained much in your application, but not necessarily projection. Perhaps we work more on that first?â
Celestia grit her teeth. âI canât let myself fall behind!â she demanded of herself.
âSteps taken too quickly tend to break bone,â Urimon encouraged, though did not move to assist either side.
Celestia turned towards the entity, flowing in place. âButâŚâ she started, mind churning over the cryptic words before finding some of her own. âSteps avoided may⌠Lead astray from your path.â
A sound escaped the yawning void that mimicked a hum of understanding.
âCelestia,â Lecroux implored, stepping closer. âIf you must insist⌠Let me at least help. Straining yourself this hard for a simple mote⌠It is unhealthy.â
âMight we suggest reversing the process?â Urimon finally offered more directly.
âNo!â Lecroux insisted, shooting an almost violently defiant glare at the elder, which she quickly corrected, clearing her throat and turning back towards her student as she knelt in front of Celestia. âNo, we⌠Donât know how that could affect things. If we can keep the light strong, if things go sideways, it will burn the darkness rather than the other way âround. Yes.â
Urimonâs top tilted. âYou are not trying to inform me.â It wasnât a question or a probe.
Lecroux didnât respond, just focused on her student. âHere,â she muttered, settling into a meditative posture and summoning a small mote of light. It was effortless for her, one of the first spells a normal magi of light learns. But Celestia had her training⌠Expedited. âThere,â Lecroux says, wafting the mote towards her student. âCan you see it? Piggyback off of that.â
Celestia nodded, hands repositioning and focus coming back. Keeping her mind on that tiny blinking light she can feel. The tendrils return, and she can feel the light quiver. She does her best, keeping it still. The magic is all she can see, a single outside sight would be enough to send the tendrils reeling again. So she focuses everything on the shadow and the mote.
<DamnitâŚ>
[Hold fast, foxthing.]
<Then hold it fuckinâ still!>
[Youâve been projecting from our host far longer, keep patience.]
<Not that much->
Both of you! Celestia snapped in her mind, face scrunching tight in whatâs feeling like a more and more futile attempt. Itâs been an hour of nonstop bickering since we started this!
<An hour of nothing!>
[How do we know this will even work?]
<Weâll never know if you donât->
[You are the one wasting our time, look at how your own shadows flail!]
<Iâm doing just fine, youâre not giving me anything to work with here, and when I DO, you keep moving it->
âShut UP!â Celestia finally screams out, lashing her arms out and making the mote popping midair and the inky black hissing in almost a sound of pain.
Lecroux yelped and scuffled back a bit from her kneeling position. Urimon finally moved, approaching the young one calmly and draping a ribbon across her shoulders. Celestia, for her part, looked utterly embarrassed by her outburst, pressing her balled up hands against her kneeling thighs.
âSustenance is a worthy endeavor for continued progress,â Urimon suggests.
âCelestia,â Lecroux almost pleads, leaning forward again. âAre you sure youâre alright?â
Celestia doesnât responds, just sitting there, clenching every muscle in ways that looked, and felt, painfully wrong. The shadow and light are both distinctly silent now. One squirming while the other dimmed.
âCome,â Urimon almost ordered, the ribbon around her shoulders feeling incredibly persuasive as it guided Celestia to her feet and she was walked away. Lecroux had to scramble a bit to catch up. Urimon, however, glanced back, their drape turning. The scholar knew immediately, sighing, defeated, as they knelt again to meditate.
Urimon floats beside Celestia into the halls, the acolyteâs shoes thumping heavier than usual footfalls into the purple carpet. The march is silent for a long moment before Urimon breaks it. âYou are troubled.â When Celestia doesnât respond, Urimon doesnât press. Just continues being a grounding presence.
It isnât until Urimon pulls Celestia through the stone halls and into one of the few modern amenities of this wing, being the elevator, that the latter speaks. âWhy canât we do it?â
Urimon doesnât answer immediately. Choosing their words very, very carefully. âDark devours. Light purges. Light heals. Dark cloaks. Twilight⌠Twilight warms and cools. Pushes and pulls. Ebbs and flows, shrouds and illuminates, rests and wakesâŚâ They pause, allowing the machine to ding before ushering Celestia inside. They wait for a long moment before continuing. âPerhaps twilight understands the moon and sun.â
<That thingâs always so damn full of themselvesâŚ>
[That is the Urimon, one of few who were second to the Arch himself.]
<And they talk like a Sphynox who managed to get drunk, whatâs your point?>
[Your lack of respect is astoundingâŚ]
Celestia grimaces at the argument once more brewing inside her. Feeling a quiver she canât place, like the shadow is laughing. Which only grinds the other sideâs machinations further.
<I swear, weâre never gonna get this shit rightâŚ>
[We will.]
<You sound so damn sure of it.>
[I⌠Will get it right.]
Thereâs a long silence flooding Celestiaâs mind as sheâs pulled into one of the many cafeterias of Chromaâs Headquarters. Sheâs on autopilot, deep in her own thoughts, interrupted by the pair.
[Foxthing.]
<Pigeon.>
[Do not-... What exactly is your typical power?]
Another quiet.
<What?>
[Healing, admittedly, is not within my typical repertoire. I am a⌠What in the common tongue weâve been given, is referred to as a Jury. A lesser Judgement. A guardian against your kind. My light burns as much as it mends.]
<Where are you going with this?>
[Consider⌠The sun is trying to understand the moon.]
Another silence took over. Celestia sat down, staring into the food sheâd collected, barely registering the chicken salad. Poking at it with the plastic fork. Not even acknowledging Urimonâs presence anymore.
<I⌠Trap. My form is built to be a trapper.>
Built?... The first contribution to this back and forth Celestia has been letting evolve in her mind.
<Nthatic arenât âbornâ or âcreatedâ like normal. Weâre⌠Well, I guess âbuiltâ isnât the right word either. Grown, I guess, is more accurate.>
[Like trees, as my understanding.]
<More like topiaries or flowers, but⌠In the most basic way of saying it, yeah. Like plants.>
Celestia sat in thought, crunching down on a crouton. Then an idea hits her all at once, and she begins scarfing everything down.
Both presences seem to turn their attention away from each other towards their host.
<Talk to me girlie, whatâs the rush?>
[Whatâs gotten into you?]
Celestia pauses, swallowing down a massive bite uncomfortably, adjusting her blindfold. The traps. If we canât do it with what we donât fully have a grasp on with each other-
[Then we mix what we knowâŚ]
<That sounds way too stupidly easy to work.>
Maybe with our first try it wonât. But it should be much easier, right? Weâve already cast them all together, Celestia insists, shortly abandoning whatâs left of her meal. She barely has the manners to remember and turn back to quickly clean up, much in part to Urimonâs calling out of her title.
We can do this.
--==++==--
Her breathing was heavy and red.
Claws dripped.
Eyes burned.
Stomach protested.
With a roar, she threw the âtraining officerâ into the wall with a sickening crack, not even acknowledging the hole she just bit out of his neck, staining the orange jumpsuitâs chest. Itâs only been a week with this stupid harness they hooked up to her chest. Her claws raked at it, gouging lines into the sturdy metal. Stainless steel, to keep those acid-drenched teeth from doing more than gnawing at the collar she could barely reach.
The scientist watched it all unfold from behind the thick glass, two whole stories above the room Rashtyl was in. âChemical systems pumping nominally⌠Concentration may be too thick in this batch,â chimes one of their fellows. They do not take their eyes away. Their fist clenches a bit.
âLet her work it out before replacing the canister with the normal dosage,â the scientist orders.
âOh, but whereâs the fun in THAT, doctor?â chimes the ever-grating voice of one project lead. âMy prettyâs been doing so well!â
âShe is unstable.â The statement is so matter of fact, it nearly stumbles Hallock entirely.
âNonsense! Observe, weâve got Subject-â
âRashtyl,â the scientist corrects from behind that emotionless helmet.
âBah⌠Rashtyl is COMPLETELY under control. As I was saying⌠Observe~â Hallock announces cockily, opening the bulkhead into the training chamber himself, promptly flourishing the controls to shut it, all before anyone could stop him⌠Not that anyone was in much of a rush to do so.
The scientist sighed. âBegin a new log. Let this be recorded,â the scientist ordered, pulling up their data pad, flipping through some of their personal projects in complete disinterest as to what was happening as Hallock entered the training room.
Hallock spread his arms wide, soldiers looking between each other from the still-open bulkhead unsure of what to do. They canât just lock Hallock insideâŚ
âH-05! Itâs good to see you this evening, how has training been-â Hallock exclaimed.
The scientist heard a âHURK-â come through the speakers, but didnât even look up. They knew what was happening by now. Rashtyl had her claws in Hallockâs throat by now⌠On their data pad, however, an anomaly danced across the glass. Their eyebrows shot up behind their helmet. It was for one of the nearby satellite hives, one housing a part of their armory division.Â
Hallock choked, smiling despite the strong hand gripping his neck and holding him a solid foot off the floor. âImpressive-... Speed-... Dear 0-... 0-5-â
âDrop the Doctor, now!â screamed soldiers.
Her eyes throbbed.
Lungs burned.
Neck and bicep twitched.
The scientist could fix this anomaly with a single flick of their wrist. But they wonder what it is. Could it be that little gremlin thatâs been such a thorn in WASPâs side since the escape of the rest of the Hades subjects? It couldnât be anyone else⌠What is she doing in the armory, specifically? Thereâs little that Chroma does not know of WASPâs armaments by nowâŚ
A shrill scream escaped the speakers.
Her ears rang.
Head pounded.
Knees shook.
The canister was empty by now.
Heart clenched.
Muscles gave out.
Hallock hit the floor, hard. The soldiers were advancing, particle rifles trained on Rashtylâs head. âPut this thing down, the Queenâs not going to-â
âDONâT⌠You⌠DareâŚâ Hallockâs strained voice echoed out, fighting the pain from his missing leg. Rolling onto his side, his knuckles slammed into the concrete, doing their best to hold him up. âThis⌠Is exactly the progress I was hoping for.â
That ought to have been enough. A few taps on the data pad and the satellite hive was notified, the loop hole shut. Theyâll just have to see what that little gremlin had found. It will no doubt be entertaining.
Finally looking up from the pad, the scientist scoffed scornfully. âOf course he had to surviveâŚâ they lament. They reached forward to the microphone button, pressing it in and leaning towards it. âCollect them both. Send Rashtyl home and⌠Clean the doctor up.â
It's been a minute since I've done one of these, so let's do something that's kinda been hinted about, but hasn't quite been fully explained in-writing; How Chroma, as an organization, structures itself.
Well, put simply, there's various divisions. There's the ones you'd think of, you know, mysticism, science and research, administration, etc... As far as a list goes, we've got;
Command and Administration
Mysticism
Technology and Engineering
Science and Research
Ground Troops
Naval Troops
Offices
Heroes
Medical
Sanitation
Now, there's of course a lot of overlap. And while most are self explanatory, it's worth noting that 'Science' in this context covers basically ALL other new developments in any other division.
Now, as far as chain of command goes, we've also got (in order from top-brass to lowest "priority");
The Citizen
The Council
Command
Lower Administration
Coats and Lead Heroes
Average Heroes
Jacket Troops
Any Other Medical Personnel
Green Troops and Heroes
Vest Units
Office Staff
Interns (Paid, of course)
Now, again, most of these will sound self explanatory. But while I can't divulge too much on some of them, I can say how the 'Coat' system works.
In the chaos of a fight, troops will tend to look for 2 things that they've been trained to. The unique silhouettes of the heroes on their side, of course, but also the Color and Outerwear of their fellow troops. Chroma, much to their namesake, color-codes their troops, which for the most part just signifies their division. Purple for Mysticism, White for Medical, Red, Blue, and Green for general versions of ground troops with Red being the highest priority and Green being the lowest, Cyan for Science, etc. This system is, however, almost exclusively for Troops, aka the ones rushing out into the field and doing the fighting.
So what about the Coat part? That's where it's dead simple. If they're wearing a Coat that you recognize? Flowing tails and all armored up? You follow their commands. That's your commanding officer. Coats are the in-field top-brass. Jackets are your standard issue soldier. And Vests are your trainees, or in urban cases, they're your run-of-the-mill street cop. In the trainee case, you'll see them more thoroughly armored, but typically Chroma police does not need to equip more than their standard issue woven Vest.
And any other questions... Well, that's where we'll have to see where the stories go.
pet peeve that happens more often than you would both think and want
[image description: a four panel comic of a blank grey person, a blank blue person, and the artist's sona, doc, an axolotl with glasses. in panel 1, doc and the grey person are looking at the blue person, who is saying "hi i am male character with a complex about my identity. i am miserable and forcing myself to be something i'm not. transgender imagery keeps being associated with me especially in scenes where i'm most sad and/or angry about my identity, which is male. even if i hate it. even if it's painful." in panel 2, doc is thinking of an egg over a trans flag while the grey person says "omg transmasc king". in panel 3, doc's thought bubble pops as he quickly looks over at the grey person with a baffled expression. in panel 4, doc, still baffled, looks back over to the blue person, who is saying "i cannot stress enough that i am so unhappy with who i currently am and who i currently am is male". end id]
[image description: three drawings of doc wearing an oversized shirt. in the first, he is showing the front of the shirt, which says "i did not nor have i ever said that you specifically are not allowed to ever headcanon any male character as transmasc and the fact that so many of you assumed that says more about you than it does me". in the second, he is showing the back of the shirt, which says "lots of you could benefit from taking a second to assess why you feel so threatened by the idea of a character that you enjoy being transfem and also consider how one's biases can bleed into all aspects of one's life including how they enjoy and engage with media". in the third, he is lifting up the shirt to show off short shorts that say "some of you are just misogynists though". end id]
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Cold boots had clicked softly against the wornhewn stones, echoing softly against catacomb walls. The first moment I could hear him. At the time, Iâd thought him another feckless wanderer, soon to be gone. Like many others before. Thus, I did not even approach. In fact, I hid. Shuffled to some far off corner and waited for him to pass.
Red traipsed his way through, attempting a modicum of respect of what he clearly did not understand. Staring up at decrepit archways and crumbling stone walls, short corridors that were pockmark lined with beds and mortuary rests, coated in once-were-bodies dust. Marveling into the afterlife surrounding yet denied to him. Unsure if this was what was waiting or not.
For an hour, this wretch marched slow through the halls before coming to a room, massive and round, marked by a cistern in the center. A dying tree grew from the center. Iâd long since given up on nursing it from the unhealth thatâd befallen it. Lichen and moss coated the trunk and sparse soil surrounded by the jagged edge of a hole in the flagstone path hanging around it. Roots hung across the gallow stones beneath it into the stagnant filth below. What once was fertilizer now barren poison. Hardened shells of bubbling sap bled from the dried bark. Even from my hiding, I could feel the sorrow behind the red face of the intruder.
For a long moment, he lingered in that room. Taking in the sheer breadth and weight. But even he knew he must move on. For now. Finding his way across the room, noting himself around the edge, flat gaze musing across the simple, crumbling brickwork. Eventually shuffling down another hall. Long mildewed wooden supports dressed the catacombs in a now-feeble attempt at maintenance.
And through it all, silence persisted.
The only sound interrupting the story being the slow, waning footfalls of the red masked intruder.
He told me at a later point how heâd felt the first time heâd come to these dusted edifices. How oppressive it felt just to exist within, among spirits he could not see, but felt the malice and sorrow and passions of each and every single one. How he needed nothing more in that moment than to run, but oh how his body betrayed him. Knowing better than his mind. And as much as I wanted him out of the closest thing we know as a home, I cannot help but feel a tad grateful for the slow, methodical footsteps his body forced into his frame, with the hindsight of how desperate his mind tried to override his basest instincts.
Another point of interest that I was given in the aftermath of our introductions, which I had not been privy to at the moment⌠By now, Red had noticed as he approached that door that heâd not heard or felt his patron in the slightest since heâd entered. Finding the feeling hollow rather than peaceful.
I knew every hall by the stone, even then. I knew where he was going, even in this ever-twisting labyrinth of serpentâs burrows. These halls that seem, against all better odds and effects, to know where waywards who wander in need to be. Even if they do not themselves.
Finally, after hours that felt akin to days, the Red found himself before a door in that derelict catacomb. Another slab of carefully manicured planks, too much in their nicety to be anything but leading in, or out, of this quiet horror.Â
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Honestly, what's the point
there is no joy to find
in constant, repeat failure
it's taxing on the mind
from repercussions of progress
to the simple big mistake
when surrounded by failure
there is no joy to take
however, you keep trying
because you cannot fail forever
just as there is no success unhindered
eternity is never
Fomorian sat in the truck bed as Rampart drove through the city. It was more comfortable than riding in the cab, and not just from actually having head room. Even if the truck wasnât Rampartâs personal, but a much more official Chroma-logo-laiden machine. Fomorian needed the time to himself. To think. To feel what just happened not even an hour ago.
When the truck pulled into a parking space, Fomorian looked up to see Rampart dropping from the driver seat. âWeâre here. You ready?â they announce quietly, pulling their helmet off. Their face sat dour, scowled, tight.
Fomorian stood and stepped over the bed and dropping to the pavement beneath, looking around at the half-suburban surroundings. While a far cry from the apartments and offices of the city center, their shadows looming close and even still able to more than easily see the Chroma Towers from here, the neighborhood was⌠Quaint. With small lawns, even, right by the river, the smell of fresh much hitting him almost instantly.
After a deep breath, Fomorian shook his head. âNo. But Iâm not getting any better.â
Rampart couldnât help but snort. âAt least youâre realistic,â they sigh grimly, tucking their helmet under their arm. âLet me do the talking. At least at first.â
Fomorian nodded, following them silently up to the porch of the small duplex. Rampart took a moment to make sure they were in front of the right door before reaching up and knocking gently.
After a long moment, a young girlâs voice could be heard calling for her mom. Probably mid to late teens, Fomorian thought. He heard the thump of footfalls before finally a wideset woman with dark, tanned skin and curly hair cracked the door. A chain lock snapped before it opened properly. âCan I help you?â she asked, keeping herself hidden.
Rampart held up their ID on their phone. âMaâam, my name is Cygnus Tyrran. Iâm with Chroma.â
The woman hesitates, watching the ID before shutting the door. The sound of the chain lock can be heard before the door swings open, revealing her loungewear gown. Thereâs a pistol in the womanâs hand. âWhat do you want? Whereâs Ty?â
Rampart hesitated, almost flinching at the gun.
âIâm sorry.â The words escaped before Fomorian could stop them. The implication alone was clear.
âThe hell you mean youâre sorry?!â the woman exclaimed immediately, her eyes widening in panic.
âMaâam, the gun-â Rampart tried to remind her before finding the barrel pointed at their face.
âDonât you dare lie to me!â
Fomorian held up his hand, ushering Rampart behind him. âMaâam, may we speak without your daughter hearing?â he asked calmly, quietly. Running entirely on pure instinct, his heart racing in his hearing more than heâd like to admit.
The simple question took the woman off guard a bit, making her look back. The young girl, with her thick curls pulled back in what can only be assumed to be a ponytail, is peeking out from behind a corner deeper inside. The motherâs brow furrowed and she huffed. âSheâll hear it regardless,â she muttered, but lowered the gun. A moment of silence passed before she spoke again. âWhat happened?â
Fomorian felt Rampartâs hand grab his arm, but he didnât budge. âWe failed⌠A WASP-aligned infiltrator managed to get into Chroma headquarters and assassinated him.â
Fomorian could hear the plastic grip of the pistol groan quietly under the motherâs tightening hand. Rampart tugged his arm. âDonât,â they tried in hushed whispers.
After another moment, Fomorian added, âThe assassin did not get away.â
Rampart finally steps in properly. âWe arenât, unfortunately, at the ability to reveal more for your own safety.â
âYeah, yeahâŚâ the woman huffed back, wiping at her eyes, trying hard. âMaybe he oughta have just stayed with WASP at this fuckinâ rateâŚâ
âNo,â Fomorian responds curtly and quietly.
âFomorian,â Rampart chides, glaring up at him.
The woman glares up through teary eyes at Fomorian. âAnd why not? Heâd be alive-â
âNo he wouldnât. I can say that no matter what, your husband did everything he could to come back to you,â Fomorian says matter of factly. Finding that heâs responded to with a gun towards his face this time.
âAnd why the fuck would you know that?â the woman asks, voice low and violent.
Fomorianâs response is measured and simple, just as heâd been talking since. âBecause I likely would have been the one to kill him if he didnât surrender when he did.â
A long moment of silence passes, Rampart stunned by the audacity, the womanâs grip creaking the handle of the pistol in Fomorianâs face. And Fomorian staring down the barrel. Letting it happen. Not flinching. Even if she pulled the trigger, itâd almost certainly ricochet, heâs not worried about himself. But he also trusts sheâs reasonable, even like this.
And his gamble pays off, the gun dropping back to the widowâs side. âFuck..â she chokes out, covering her mouth.
âI promise, maâam. I did not know Tyrone well. But I could tell every thought he had was how he could come home. And what he did for us to make that happenâŚâ Fomorian paused, realizing he never got a proper answer from Sentinella. But he couldnât let that get in the way right now. âIâll personally make sure that it doesnât go to waste.â
Rampart, in an attempt to salvage something, anything, adds on, âYour husband died a hero, fighting for you two to the very end.â
Starting to break down, the woman waved her hand at the pair. âJust-... Just go. PleaseâŚâ Without waiting, the door nearly slammed shut. Fomorian heard smaller footfalls rush an knees hit the floorboards.
Rampart flinched at the hand, like it physically hit them. All they could figure to do was grab Fomorianâs arm and turn for the truck again. Once the pair arrive, they grab the bug by his arm. âSo you wanna explain what the hell that was?â
âIâm not lying to a grieving mother, Cygnus,â Travis responds⌠Almost defeatedly. Not turning to face them. Tone sounding like heâd be crying himself if he had the tear ducts to do so. âShe deserved to hear it straight. We did this, we didnât follow up, we-â
âYou nearly got yourself shot! You sent her spiraling!â Cygnus responds, shoving their helmet at his arm but ending up pushing themselves back a bit in the process. âI told you to let me handle it, and look what-â
âWe. Failed. Cygnus,â Travis retorts, finally turning his head to look at them. âWe told Tyrone heâd be safe, we told his wife sheâd see him again, I made a whole public broadcast saying this wouldnât happen! And yet I stood aside. I trusted Chroma with every step, and they locked Tyrone up in a cell and we let him die there.â
Cygnus stares back, almost dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a choking fish as they search for a response that never comes. Fomorianâs tone is broken, his eyes filled with righteous fury mixing thick and drowning in deep regret.
Travis finally shakes his head, hesitating before climbing back into the truck bed. âShe deserved to knowâŚâ he mutters once heâs settled in, crossing his arms over his chest. Tucking his legs close to himself. Squeezing his eyes shut like itâll do anything.
Cygnus watches him for a long moment before releasing a sigh they didnât realize they were keeping in. âFuckinâ hellâŚâ they mutter back, shaking their own head as they climb into the driverâs seat, tossing their helmet into the passenger side. Wavering before they start the engine, Cygnus peeks their head back. âWhatâre you thinking back there?â
Thereâs no response from Travis for a long moment. âWeâre not done,â he finally determines. âIf you are⌠I donât blame you. But Iâm not.â
Cygnus scoffs, responding immediately with, âAs if you could get rid of me that easy, yah little tick.â Without another word on the subject, the truck starts and theyâre on their way back. They fiddle with the comms radio for a moment before hearing the right channel chime and pick up the mic. âControl, this is Rampart. Pull the stakes at Cable Way, immediately.â
âUnderstood, Rampart. Sending in the crew.â
===
Celestia sat in her room, reading a novel sheâd been given, trying to learn the braille letters. The story she could glean was⌠A little immature, but it was fun at least. Some princess in a tower nonsense. At least the knight was the dragonâs son, she thinks?
<This is complete bullshitâŚ>
{It is necessary.}
<Necessary bullshit is still bullshit. Couldnât they have picked something fun?>
Oh come on, this is fun. I⌠think? Celestia thinks back.
{It is⌠Necessary.}
The reiteration makes Celestia snort to herself before hearing a knock on the door. âCome in?â she calls, seeing Jessibelle almost bounce in on the balls of her feet.
âI found it!â Jessibelle almost squeals happily, landing on the edge of the bed enough to make it creak under her rather scrawny weight.
Celestiaâs brow furrows in confusion under the blindfold, her head cocking one way. âYou found⌠it?â
âFinally! I found it, I found it, I found it!â Jessibelle parrots, barely managing to contain her excitement as Celestia hears a laptop boot up. âOh, I should explain- Remember when you first got here those months ago?â
âAlmost a year now, I think, yes?â Celestia responds, marking her book and shuffling a bit closer to Jessibelle, noticing Ribs has found his way to trotting into the room. âWhat about it?â
Jessibelle snorts. âClearly not all too well, since you mentioned your situation then. With the Nim and Nyx and all. And Iâd said Iâd look into it! And I finally found it!â she explains, her voice raising an octave, fingers typing furiously at the keyboard. âItâs far from one-to-one with your situation, but thereâs a whole lot of parallels, too! I think itâll be really enlightening!â She pauses, glancing up. âOh- Can you read screens now?â
Celestia blushes a bit, rubbing her arm as she finally finds a spot to settle beside Jessibelle. âItâs⌠Difficult,â she admits, feeling Ribs hop up to the bed. Heâs been⌠warming slowly up to her. She reaches over to try and pet the cat, but notices he immediately retreats. But heâs not hissing this time!
Jessibelle nods at the response. âOkay, here-â she says, shifting positions so she can see the screen better and not have to share. âI found a record through the university library, that lead me to an encyclopedia, that gave me a name to work with; Djoser of Sobek. Apologies if I sound mean, but Iâm going to explain a bit like youâre in middle school here, but he was an ancient Egyptian, very, âbefore the Pyramidsâ ancient. He was a Temple Sorcerer, by record, and was said to command the sands, seas, and swords. Odd combination, but it gets better.
âNow, while Djoser of Sobek himself didnât have anything to say that he was possessed, mentions throughout any record of anything he did kept mentioning his medallion,â Jessibelle gestures to the screen, mostly for herself at this point. âSmall footnote, but it also mentions he would run through the temple screaming obscenities often, cursing at anyone who looked at him in the process. And this is why it felt somewhat related, despite being an object possession instead of a personal possession.
âIn any case, thereâs not a huge ton of stories about Djoser of Sobek in great detail, most seemingly lost in the burning of the Library of Alexandria, but the few that do still remain all mention great feats, mixing magicks. One in particular caught my attention.
âSee, magic as a practice is quite specific. You can have an âearthâ attunement and handle just about anything stone, but itâs very specific that Djoser himself said his domain was over sands, and never once did it mention that heâd controlled stones. But, the story in reference was about a time in which a farm had nearly been flooded to extinction by the Nileâs sometimes cantankerous nature, but Djoser happened to be available and around. Using his medallion, heâd managed to raise the banks of the Nile locally, saving the farm!â
Jessibelle finally pauses her tirade of information, Celestia sat there facing her, somehow with the single most stupified look Jessibelle has ever seen, making the researcher laugh. âWhat?â
âI⌠Am unsure of what my take away is supposed to be?â Celestia asks, cocking her head, pulling her loose hair over one shoulder to toy at it.
âMud!â
Celestiaâs brow furrows beneath her blindfold. âM-Mud? What⌠Am I supposed to-â
<Is she suggesting what I think she is?!>
The host flinches at the voice in her head, left hand coming towards her ear as if about to clutch it. âS-Sorry⌠The Nyx is being loudâŚâ Celestia admits, earning a soft look from Jessibelle.
âTake your time with them, Iâm not going anywhere,â Jessibelle assures.
{Youâre likely right. But do elaborate.}
<This Joe freak->
{Djoser of Sobek.}
<That one, yeah, lady said he was âMasterâ of Sand, Sea, and Swords. But controlled the mud of the riverbank somehow.>
{Somehow beingâŚ}
<Sand and water, dumbass.>
Justice remains indignantly silent, but Celestia seems to have a moment of instant realization. âO-OhâŚâ she mutters to herself. Shifting her sightâs focus to Jessibelle properly and making out the biggest, brightest, dorkiest grin imaginable. âI⌠Are we certain?â
âThere was not a single text that I could find that even suggested he could move stone. But he moved MUD!â Jessibelle repeats.
Celestia turns her head down in thought, forefinger and thumb pinching her chin in thought. If Djoser could do that⌠What would we do if we tried to move mud?
{Please tell me you are being metaphoricalâŚ}
<So little trust when this kidâs figured out more magic in a few short months of genuine practice than my last host did in nearly two years.>
Seemingly setback after setback. Stuck between a mad doctor and a cunning, faceless queen, the latest heroes to join Chroma have no choice left. Take the fight straight to the heart.
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