Heroes of Chroma

Tracy smiled wide, absolutely beaming despite corroded scars still dusting her face. “Been a minute, huh? What’s it, about a week now?”

“And you’re already up and about?” Cygnus chided gently. “It’s been a little over a week since you got your ARM RIPPED OFF!”

“Eh, new one’s cooler anyway. Better scar to tell stories about at parties,” Tracy counters casually, though her tone betrays a hint of pain still budding beneath the surface. “I’ll get the bitch back soon enough. But they’re keepin’ me on desks for a while… Make sure this thing doesn’t go haywire on me, connection’s 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. “You just bitched long enough they got tired of you, huh?”

Tracy offers a smug smile back. “I am a bitch of many talents~”

The pilot scoffs before turning for the elevators. “Yeah, sure. You got my number if you need help.”

“Oh, before yah run! Get back here!” 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. “Big wigs want your face for a meeting. ASAP… Sounded pretty big.”

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 Chroma’s big C logo, didn’t come for just anyone for just anything. “The hell did I do to deserve this?” they muttered, scratching the back of their head.

Tracy shrugged, offering a sympathetic look.

“No one else?” Cygnus asked, unable to take their eyes of the paper.

Tracy shook her head.

Cygnus sighed, dawning their helmet. “Thanks, Tracy. See you ‘round.”

“Course, Overheat~” 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 Tracy’s 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 minotaur’s 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.

“Come in.” That voice was never a good sign. The baritone smooth notes of the Eastern States branch’s chief commander, Lucas Jonstone, pulled a shiver right up through Rampart’s 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. “At ease, soldier. You’re not in trouble. Yet, at least,” 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 he’s sat at, with four other individuals, Sentinella included. The audience didn’t let the tone do much to ease Rampart’s nerves.

 Once Rampart has taken their spot, Jonstone clears his throat and flips through some pages. “You are not unfamiliar with our… guest upstairs, correct?”

“I… can only assume you’re referring to Orius, sir?” Rampart asks.

Jonstone nods. “Indeed I am. How much have you interacted with him thusfar?”

“I’m trying to be friendly. We went to dinner the other week alongside the rest of the team I’ve been working with.” Rampart folds their hands on the table, leaning a bit farther forward. “Can I ask why you’re concerned?”

“Who said we were concerned?” Jonstone asked incredulously.

“Forgive the assumption, sir. Your voice doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy’ when you speak about him,” the soldier responds curtly and quickly.

“I can’t say I’m ecstatic he’s around for various reasons, but that’s not my issue,” Jonstone explains while running his fingers over his mustache. Thinking for a moment before shaking his head. “Regardless of my thoughts about him, I’d like to assign him as your charge since you’re already getting familiar with him.”

Rampart’s brow furrowed beneath their helmet. “I’m already one charge deep. Why give me a second?”

“Simply put, the rest of your team isn’t set up for it,” Sentinella responded bluntly. “They’re teenagers, one of whom shouldn’t 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 in…” 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. “Alright... But that does bring me to another issue. Where’s he meant to be staying?”

“He won’t be evicted from the roof, if that’s your meaning,” Jonstone clarified. “I understand your living arrangements are already cramped, what with the… Who’s’it Paula?”

“Celestia Kierson, sir,” chimed a purple shortcoat that Rampart didn’t 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 ‘sir’ wasn’t out of hierarchy.

“Right, Celestia. Point being, I’m not about to make you shove a literal extra terrestrial into that mix. Just make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble. And that no trouble gets to him.”

Rampart nodded. “Alright. I can make that work, sir. However, I… Suppose it’s now or never that I bring up another concern-... Or, more accurately, another thought I’ve had for a while now in relation. Sirs.”

Jonstone’s brow quirks as he leans forward, folding his fingers and resting his beard into the cradle. “And what might that be?”

“I’d like to transfer into the Heroes division properly.”

Jonstone’s eyes narrowed at the declaration. He shared a look with the others at the table. Most notably, one of the chief mechanics that Rampart didn’t 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. “You 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 you’d need to source a new suit if you’re to operate as a pilot? Let alone the paperwork to use it?”

Rampart sighed, pulling their helmet off, meeting the Commander eye to eye. “I am aware of the risks to myself, my bank, and my continued tenure here. I am also aware I’ve already been working almost exclusively with Formorian’s 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, I’d like to join that team officially, as opposed to being a fill-in soldier.”

Sentinella’s brow quirked, smirking at the fire in Rampart’s voice.

Jonstone, meanwhile, didn’t let his stern expression waver. Just watching the scene unfold.

“On top of this,” Rampart continued. “It will allow me the ability to keep closer tabs on Orius. As is the seeming want of the parties involved here.”

“And you know that any knowledge you have of your armor is to be kept at the most need to know basis?” the engineer chimed, his own mustache twitching almost irritably.

“Of course, sir. I just wish I knew which armor you referred to,” Rampart responded with practiced poise. An answer that seemed to satisfy the orange-coated chief.

Jonstone couldn’t help the chuff that escaped him, like a tiger pleased with its meal. “I see you’ve put thought behind this impulse, then.” He stretched back into his chair, flipping some papers and making a note. “Like I said, and I will not repeat any of it a third time, the armor you’ve been issued will not be accessible to you through the Heroes Division. It’s experimental and technically confidential. One of a kind. How you source a new one is up to you.” He set the pen down and looked Rampart in the eye again. “That said… Paperwork takes time to file. I can guarantee a week for you to continue using the Mark 14 Bastion. After that, you’re on your own.”

“Make it two, and I’ll be right as rain,” Rampart assured.

“You have a plan, then?” Sentinella interrogated.

Rampart smirked. “I try to.”

Jonstone smiled. “Have I ever mentioned how glad I am at how often you fail to disappoint me?”

“Once or twice, sir,” Rampart joked back.

“Good. I’ll need your signature here, Orius will be marked as your loose responsibility, and I’ll get that paperwork to you about transfer… Eventually,” Jonstone explained. “Remember. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Rampart parroted, standing. “Is there anything else you needed, sir?”

“Dismissed, Hero,” Jonstone said, his tone dry. “Don’t disappoint.”

“I’ll get with you later, Rampart,” Sentinella said. “We’ll go over this plan of yours.”

“I’ll be breaking the news to my favorite engis,” Rampart said, tucking their helmet under their arm before giving a short salute and marching out of the room.

--==++==--

In a small librarium in Chroma’s mystic wing surrounded by limestone brick instead of drywall and steel, Celestia did her best, focusing in on herself, brow tense in concentration. Urimon’s 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 couldn’t 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.

“Master Urimon?” Lecroux whispered. She didn’t hear a reply, nor dare to look up at the entity. But she felt their attention wrap around her. “Do you think she can do it?”

The thing did not speak for a moment longer, thinking on the subject. “I am curious to see the results,” they whispered back.

“But… It seems like such a blasphemous concept. Sediment and water is one thing, but light and dark… Chaos and order…”

Urimon heard Lecroux’s trailed-off concern, and simply parroted themselves. “I am curious to see the results.”

Celestia’s 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 didn’t 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, “Perhaps, Acolyte… You have trained much in your application, but not necessarily projection. Perhaps we work more on that first?”

Celestia grit her teeth. “I can’t let myself fall behind!” she demanded of herself.

“Steps taken too quickly tend to break bone,” Urimon encouraged, though did not move to assist either side.

Celestia turned towards the entity, flowing in place. “But…” she started, mind churning over the cryptic words before finding some of her own. “Steps avoided may… Lead astray from your path.”

A sound escaped the yawning void that mimicked a hum of understanding.

“Celestia,” Lecroux implored, stepping closer. “If you must insist… Let me at least help. Straining yourself this hard for a simple mote… It is unhealthy.”

“Might we suggest reversing the process?” Urimon finally offered more directly.

“No!” 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. “No, we… Don’t 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 ‘round. Yes.”

Urimon’s top tilted. “You are not trying to inform me.” It wasn’t a question or a probe.

Lecroux didn’t respond, just focused on her student. “Here,” 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. “There,” Lecroux says, wafting the mote towards her student. “Can you see it? Piggyback off of that.”

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.

<Damnit…>

[Hold fast, foxthing.]

<Then hold it fuckin’ still!>

[You’ve been projecting from our host far longer, keep patience.]

<Not that much->

Both of you! Celestia snapped in her mind, face scrunching tight in what’s feeling like a more and more futile attempt. It’s been an hour of nonstop bickering since we started this!

<An hour of nothing!>

[How do we know this will even work?]

<We’ll never know if you don’t->

[You are the one wasting our time, look at how your own shadows flail!]

<I’m doing just fine, you’re not giving me anything to work with here, and when I DO, you keep moving it->

“Shut UP!” 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.

“Sustenance is a worthy endeavor for continued progress,” Urimon suggests.

“Celestia,” Lecroux almost pleads, leaning forward again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Celestia doesn’t 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.

“Come,” 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 acolyte’s shoes thumping heavier than usual footfalls into the purple carpet. The march is silent for a long moment before Urimon breaks it. “You are troubled.” When Celestia doesn’t respond, Urimon doesn’t press. Just continues being a grounding presence.

It isn’t 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. “Why can’t we do it?”

Urimon doesn’t answer immediately. Choosing their words very, very carefully. “Dark devours. Light purges. Light heals. Dark cloaks. Twilight… Twilight warms and cools. Pushes and pulls. Ebbs and flows, shrouds and illuminates, rests and wakes…” They pause, allowing the machine to ding before ushering Celestia inside. They wait for a long moment before continuing. “Perhaps twilight understands the moon and sun.”

<That thing’s always so damn full of themselves…>

[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, what’s your point?>

[Your lack of respect is astounding…]

Celestia grimaces at the argument once more brewing inside her. Feeling a quiver she can’t place, like the shadow is laughing. Which only grinds the other side’s machinations further.

<I swear, we’re never gonna get this shit right…>

[We will.]

<You sound so damn sure of it.>

[I… Will get it right.]

There’s a long silence flooding Celestia’s mind as she’s pulled into one of the many cafeterias of Chroma’s Headquarters. She’s 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 we’ve 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 she’d collected, barely registering the chicken salad. Poking at it with the plastic fork. Not even acknowledging Urimon’s 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 aren’t ‘born’ or ‘created’ like normal. We’re… Well, I guess ‘built’ isn’t 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, what’s the rush?>

[What’s gotten into you?]

Celestia pauses, swallowing down a massive bite uncomfortably, adjusting her blindfold. The traps. If we can’t do it with what we don’t fully have a grasp on with each other-

[Then we mix what we know…]

<That sounds way too stupidly easy to work.>

Maybe with our first try it won’t. But it should be much easier, right? We’ve already cast them all together, Celestia insists, shortly abandoning what’s left of her meal. She barely has the manners to remember and turn back to quickly clean up, much in part to Urimon’s 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 ‘training officer’ into the wall with a sickening crack, not even acknowledging the hole she just bit out of his neck, staining the orange jumpsuit’s chest. It’s 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. “Chemical systems pumping nominally… Concentration may be too thick in this batch,” chimes one of their fellows. They do not take their eyes away. Their fist clenches a bit.

“Let her work it out before replacing the canister with the normal dosage,” the scientist orders.

“Oh, but where’s the fun in THAT, doctor?” chimes the ever-grating voice of one project lead. “My pretty’s been doing so well!”

“She is unstable.” The statement is so matter of fact, it nearly stumbles Hallock entirely.

“Nonsense! Observe, we’ve got Subject-”

“Rashtyl,” the scientist corrects from behind that emotionless helmet.

“Bah… Rashtyl is COMPLETELY under control. As I was saying… Observe~” 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. “Begin a new log. Let this be recorded,” 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 can’t just lock Hallock inside…

“H-05! It’s good to see you this evening, how has training been-” Hallock exclaimed.

The scientist heard a “HURK-” come through the speakers, but didn’t even look up. They knew what was happening by now. Rashtyl had her claws in Hallock’s 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. 

Hallock choked, smiling despite the strong hand gripping his neck and holding him a solid foot off the floor. “Impressive-... Speed-... Dear 0-... 0-5-”

“Drop the Doctor, now!” 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 that’s been such a thorn in WASP’s side since the escape of the rest of the Hades subjects? It couldn’t be anyone else… What is she doing in the armory, specifically? There’s little that Chroma does not know of WASP’s armaments by now…

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 Rashtyl’s head. “Put this thing down, the Queen’s not going to-”

“DON’T… You… Dare…” Hallock’s 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. “This… Is exactly the progress I was hoping for.”

That ought to have been enough. A few taps on the data pad and the satellite hive was notified, the loop hole shut. They’ll 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. “Of course he had to survive…” they lament. They reached forward to the microphone button, pressing it in and leaning towards it. “Collect them both. Send Rashtyl home and… Clean the doctor up.”

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.

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. I’d long since given up on nursing it from the unhealth that’d 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 he’d felt the first time he’d 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 he’d not heard or felt his patron in the slightest since he’d 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 serpent’s 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. 

When the truck pulled into a parking space, Fomorian looked up to see Rampart dropping from the driver seat. “We’re here. You ready?” 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. “No. But I’m not getting any better.”

Rampart couldn’t help but snort. “At least you’re realistic,” they sigh grimly, tucking their helmet under their arm. “Let me do the talking. At least at first.”

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 girl’s 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. “Can I help you?” she asked, keeping herself hidden.

Rampart held up their ID on their phone. “Ma’am, my name is Cygnus Tyrran. I’m with Chroma.”

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. There’s a pistol in the woman’s hand. “What do you want? Where’s Ty?”

Rampart hesitated, almost flinching at the gun.

“I’m sorry.” The words escaped before Fomorian could stop them. The implication alone was clear.

“The hell you mean you’re sorry?!” the woman exclaimed immediately, her eyes widening in panic.

“Ma’am, the gun-” Rampart tried to remind her before finding the barrel pointed at their face.

“Don’t you dare lie to me!”

Fomorian held up his hand, ushering Rampart behind him. “Ma’am, may we speak without your daughter hearing?” he asked calmly, quietly. Running entirely on pure instinct, his heart racing in his hearing more than he’d 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 mother’s brow furrowed and she huffed. “She’ll hear it regardless,” she muttered, but lowered the gun. A moment of silence passed before she spoke again. “What happened?”

Fomorian felt Rampart’s hand grab his arm, but he didn’t budge. “We failed… A WASP-aligned infiltrator managed to get into Chroma headquarters and assassinated him.”

Fomorian could hear the plastic grip of the pistol groan quietly under the mother’s tightening hand. Rampart tugged his arm. “Don’t,” they tried in hushed whispers.

After another moment, Fomorian added, “The assassin did not get away.”

Rampart finally steps in properly. “We aren’t, unfortunately, at the ability to reveal more for your own safety.”

“Yeah, yeah…” the woman huffed back, wiping at her eyes, trying hard. “Maybe he oughta have just stayed with WASP at this fuckin’ rate…”

“No,” Fomorian responds curtly and quietly.

“Fomorian,” Rampart chides, glaring up at him.

The woman glares up through teary eyes at Fomorian. “And why not? He’d be alive-”

“No he wouldn’t. I can say that no matter what, your husband did everything he could to come back to you,” Fomorian says matter of factly. Finding that he’s responded to with a gun towards his face this time.

“And why the fuck would you know that?” the woman asks, voice low and violent.

Fomorian’s response is measured and simple, just as he’d been talking since. “Because I likely would have been the one to kill him if he didn’t surrender when he did.”

A long moment of silence passes, Rampart stunned by the audacity, the woman’s grip creaking the handle of the pistol in Fomorian’s face. And Fomorian staring down the barrel. Letting it happen. Not flinching. Even if she pulled the trigger, it’d almost certainly ricochet, he’s not worried about himself. But he also trusts she’s reasonable, even like this.

And his gamble pays off, the gun dropping back to the widow’s side. “Fuck..” she chokes out, covering her mouth.

“I promise, ma’am. 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 happen…” Fomorian paused, realizing he never got a proper answer from Sentinella. But he couldn’t let that get in the way right now. “I’ll personally make sure that it doesn’t go to waste.”

Rampart, in an attempt to salvage something, anything, adds on, “Your husband died a hero, fighting for you two to the very end.”

Starting to break down, the woman waved her hand at the pair. “Just-... Just go. Please…” 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 Fomorian’s arm and turn for the truck again. Once the pair arrive, they grab the bug by his arm. “So you wanna explain what the hell that was?”

“I’m not lying to a grieving mother, Cygnus,” Travis responds… Almost defeatedly. Not turning to face them. Tone sounding like he’d be crying himself if he had the tear ducts to do so. “She deserved to hear it straight. We did this, we didn’t follow up, we-”

“You nearly got yourself shot! You sent her spiraling!” Cygnus responds, shoving their helmet at his arm but ending up pushing themselves back a bit in the process. “I told you to let me handle it, and look what-”

“We. Failed. Cygnus,” Travis retorts, finally turning his head to look at them. “We told Tyrone he’d be safe, we told his wife she’d see him again, I made a whole public broadcast saying this wouldn’t 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.”

Cygnus stares back, almost dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing like a choking fish as they search for a response that never comes. Fomorian’s 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. “She deserved to know…” he mutters once he’s settled in, crossing his arms over his chest. Tucking his legs close to himself. Squeezing his eyes shut like it’ll do anything.

Cygnus watches him for a long moment before releasing a sigh they didn’t realize they were keeping in. “Fuckin’ hell…” they mutter back, shaking their own head as they climb into the driver’s seat, tossing their helmet into the passenger side. Wavering before they start the engine, Cygnus peeks their head back. “What’re you thinking back there?”

There’s no response from Travis for a long moment. “We’re not done,” he finally determines. “If you are… I don’t blame you. But I’m not.”

Cygnus scoffs, responding immediately with, “As if you could get rid of me that easy, yah little tick.” Without another word on the subject, the truck starts and they’re on their way back. They fiddle with the comms radio for a moment before hearing the right channel chime and pick up the mic. “Control, this is Rampart. Pull the stakes at Cable Way, immediately.”

“Understood, Rampart. Sending in the crew.”

===

Celestia sat in her room, reading a novel she’d 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 dragon’s son, she thinks?

<This is complete bullshit…>

{It is necessary.}

<Necessary bullshit is still bullshit. Couldn’t 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. “Come in?” she calls, seeing Jessibelle almost bounce in on the balls of her feet.

“I found it!” Jessibelle almost squeals happily, landing on the edge of the bed enough to make it creak under her rather scrawny weight.

Celestia’s brow furrows in confusion under the blindfold, her head cocking one way. “You found… it?”

“Finally! I found it, I found it, I found it!” Jessibelle parrots, barely managing to contain her excitement as Celestia hears a laptop boot up. “Oh, I should explain- Remember when you first got here those months ago?”

“Almost a year now, I think, yes?” Celestia responds, marking her book and shuffling a bit closer to Jessibelle, noticing Ribs has found his way to trotting into the room. “What about it?”

Jessibelle snorts. “Clearly not all too well, since you mentioned your situation then. With the Nim and Nyx and all. And I’d said I’d look into it! And I finally found it!” she explains, her voice raising an octave, fingers typing furiously at the keyboard. “It’s far from one-to-one with your situation, but there’s a whole lot of parallels, too! I think it’ll be really enlightening!” She pauses, glancing up. “Oh- Can you read screens now?”

Celestia blushes a bit, rubbing her arm as she finally finds a spot to settle beside Jessibelle. “It’s… Difficult,” she admits, feeling Ribs hop up to the bed. He’s been… warming slowly up to her. She reaches over to try and pet the cat, but notices he immediately retreats. But he’s not hissing this time!

Jessibelle nods at the response. “Okay, here-” she says, shifting positions so she can see the screen better and not have to share. “I 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 I’m going to explain a bit like you’re in middle school here, but he was an ancient Egyptian, very, ‘before the Pyramids’ ancient. He was a Temple Sorcerer, by record, and was said to command the sands, seas, and swords. Odd combination, but it gets better.

“Now, while Djoser of Sobek himself didn’t have anything to say that he was possessed, mentions throughout any record of anything he did kept mentioning his medallion,” Jessibelle gestures to the screen, mostly for herself at this point. “Small 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.

“In any case, there’s 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.

“See, magic as a practice is quite specific. You can have an ‘earth’ attunement and handle just about anything stone, but it’s very specific that Djoser himself said his domain was over sands, and never once did it mention that he’d controlled stones. But, the story in reference was about a time in which a farm had nearly been flooded to extinction by the Nile’s sometimes cantankerous nature, but Djoser happened to be available and around. Using his medallion, he’d managed to raise the banks of the Nile locally, saving the farm!”

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. “What?”

“I… Am unsure of what my take away is supposed to be?” Celestia asks, cocking her head, pulling her loose hair over one shoulder to toy at it.

“Mud!”

Celestia’s brow furrows beneath her blindfold. “M-Mud? What… Am I supposed to-”

<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. “S-Sorry… The Nyx is being loud…” Celestia admits, earning a soft look from Jessibelle.

“Take your time with them, I’m not going anywhere,” Jessibelle assures.

{You’re likely right. But do elaborate.}

<This Joe freak->

{Djoser of Sobek.}

<That one, yeah, lady said he was “Master” of Sand, Sea, and Swords. But controlled the mud of the riverbank somehow.>

{Somehow being…}

<Sand and water, dumbass.>

Justice remains indignantly silent, but Celestia seems to have a moment of instant realization. “O-Oh…” she mutters to herself. Shifting her sight’s focus to Jessibelle properly and making out the biggest, brightest, dorkiest grin imaginable. “I… Are we certain?”

“There was not a single text that I could find that even suggested he could move stone. But he moved MUD!” 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 metaphorical…}

<So little trust when this kid’s figured out more magic in a few short months of genuine practice than my last host did in nearly two years.>

{Do not test me, cur.}