#donnatroy

betty troy or donna boop

Donna: Damian texted you, didn't he?

Donna Troy: Heroic Heir ANIMATION

The Temple of Souls Breathes Back

The Temple of Souls was not built so much as remembered into stone. It rose from the ravine like a thought too old to forget, its columns carved with the curves of warriors’ names worn smooth by centuries of whispered confession. Moonlight struck its marble and slid away, refusing to linger, as if even the light feared being known by the place.

Donna Troy paused at the threshold, one sandal planted on cracked steps, the other hovering above a shadow that seemed to pulse. She felt the familiar ache behind her eyes—the warning hum of a destiny that had learned to whisper instead of shout. Her reflection in the bronze doors was fractured, a thousand Donnas stitched together by old oaths and newer doubts. She exhaled slowly, the breath fogging the air, and the fog did not drift away. It folded inward, becoming a woman’s face.

“Welcome home,” the face said, smiling with lips that had been dead for centuries.

Donna tightened her grip on her lasso. “You don’t get to say that,” she replied softly. “Home doesn’t try to eat you.”

The face laughed, a sound like dry leaves rubbed together. “You’ve always been so literal.”

The doors opened on their own.

Inside, the Temple of Souls was cathedral and catacomb both. The floor mosaics depicted Amazons in victory and in grief, their eyes inlaid with obsidian that caught Donna’s gaze and held it. Incense burned without fire, its scent rich and unsettling—myrrh and iron and something sweet enough to suggest a promise. Shadows gathered in the corners, thickening, as if the dark itself had mass and intent.

Donna stepped forward. Her footsteps echoed once too many times.

“Donna,” a voice called, warm and honeyed, carrying from the inner sanctum. “You came.”

She knew that voice. Of course she did. She had been raised on it, disciplined by it, comforted by it. Antiope’s voice had once taught her how to stand, how to strike, how to forgive herself when she failed.

Donna’s heart betrayed her with a stumble. “Antiope,” she said. “That’s a cheap trick.”

“No trick,” the voice replied. “Just memory wearing a better dress.”

From between the pillars emerged an Amazon—tall, broad-shouldered, radiant even in spectral form. Antiope’s armor glowed faintly, etched with runes that writhed like restrained serpents. Her eyes, once fierce and kind, now shimmered with an alien depth, a darkness moving behind the irises like a tide.

“You’re possessed,” Donna said, though part of her wanted to pretend otherwise.

Antiope smiled, and the smile was devastating. “We are… shared.”

The plural echoed. From the shadows, others stepped forward—Amazons Donna recognized from statues and stories, from dreams she hadn’t known were borrowed. Penthesilea. Alcippe. Even faces older than names. They moved with a synchronized grace, beautiful and terrible, their forms translucent and solid at once, as if reality had made an exception for them.

“We were guardians,” Antiope said. “We were forgotten. The Temple remembers us. It keeps us warm.”

Donna’s lasso glowed faintly at her side, responding to the lie buried beneath the truth. “Warm isn’t the word I’d use,” she said. “You’re being used.”

“Used?” Penthesilea laughed, circling Donna like a dancer. “By what? Faith? Fear? We are more ourselves than we have ever been.”

As Penthesilea passed, Donna felt a brush of cold along her arm, intimate as a lover’s touch. A shiver ran through her—not entirely fear. The Temple hummed, the walls breathing in and out, as if listening.

“Stop,” Donna said. “This place is feeding on you. On your regrets.”

Antiope stepped closer. “And on yours,” she murmured. “You wear them beautifully.”

The words slid under Donna’s defenses, soft as silk. For a moment, she was sixteen again, desperate for approval, aching to belong. Antiope lifted a hand, fingers hovering near Donna’s cheek without touching. The air between them crackled with something dangerous and alluring.

“You were always so eager to be chosen,” Antiope whispered. “We could choose you now. Stay. Be whole.”

Donna swallowed. “Wholeness that requires surrender isn’t wholeness,” she said. “It’s a cage with velvet bars.”

The Temple shuddered, displeased. Dust rained from the ceiling. A low moan vibrated through the stone.

⭐Wonder-bat Duo⭐

My program crashed on me, right as I was about to finish this. I nearly cried. Thankfully it autosaved.