It’s D’reg, Sweetheart, not Drag! - 1. Chapter 1

Rome. 219 AD. The city was beige. Not just the buildings. The everything.

Beige tunics. Beige thoughts. Beige bread. The occasional splash of red was usually blood, and even that looked dusty.

Diva Glamoranza hovered above the Forum Romanum, lounging mid-air on a chaise made entirely of metaphysical glitter and poor impulse control. She was a D'reg: a divine being of glamour originating from the Transdimension, composed of glamergy, sass, and more drama and fabulousness than any mortal could ever endure without sequins.

She sipped from a goblet of wine — sadly, her preferred drink, whisky, had not been invented yet — and rolled her eyes. Being stuck in this dimension was exhausting, especially with its obsession with "physics" and linear time. Who had come up with such nonsense? She sighed dramatically and watched humanity continue its very beige descent into mediocrity.

“Ugh. It’s like someone tried to paint with oatmeal,” she muttered. “Where is the sparkle? Where’s the sequined rebellion? But yes, again, sequins haven’t even been invented yet. Barbaric.”

She paused, then sighed again, heavier this time, remembering the most recent events.

“Cleopatra got it. That girl could blend eyeshadow like a sacred rite. And Caesar… well, the golden toga was a choice. Brutus clearly didn’t appreciate haute couture. Honestly, no one saw that coming. A complete… beige person.”

It had been decades, centuries, since that little Roman incident, and Diva had hung around ever since, hoping to find another soul bright enough to set ablaze with glamour. But so far? Beige. Beige. Slightly bloodied beige.

Until today.

She saw him.

A boy. Barely a man. Slender, intense, with eyes that sparked like improperly bottled glamergy. A teenager draped in ceremonial robes, trailing behind a goat sacrifice with clear disinterest.

But oh, that sparkle. Not visible to the average Roman citizen, of course. But to Diva? He was glowing like a disco ball at a funeral. Yes, disco balls hadn’t been invented yet either. Truly, these were dark times — both literally and fabulousness-wise.

“There you are,” she purred.

His name, she would learn, was Varius Avitus Bassianus — though later generations would know him as Elagabalus. Giving people entirely new names seemed to be a particularly human trait: obsessed with physics and the laws of nature, yet strangely generous when it came to renaming one another.

He was perfect.

***

Diva never just appeared. Please. She entered. Lights dimmed. Stars aligned. A shimmering curtain of glitter peeled back the veil between worlds as a ripple of glamergy manifested — not in a body, but in presence. Diva was pure energy, after all — a radiant force from the Transdimension, shimmering with intent, sass, and impeccable narrative timing.

On very rare occasions, she could manifest physically — but not here. Not in this dusty, beige-saturated place. So for now, her dramatic entrance was limited to being a glittery voice in the mind of one particularly receptive human.

“Sweetheart, you are fabulous! But this beige? It does not suit you.”

Varius blinked up from an incense bowl, startled. “Who… who is there? Are you… a goddess?”

“Actually, I’m better than that. Once you really get to know them, you’ll see — they have no taste for fashion and absolutely zero sense of real drama,” Diva said, her voice warm and impossibly resonant, like a choir that had taken advanced courses in sarcasm. A breeze — scented faintly of passionfruit and rebellion — curled through the chamber. “I am Diva Glamoranza. I come from the Transdimension. I am a D’reg.”

He squinted. “Drag?”

“No, Sweetheart. D-apostrophe-R-E-G. Divine entity of glamour, radiance, and dramatic emotional development.” Then she paused. “Though… granted, your alphabet doesn’t have apostrophes yet, so this might be confusing.”

“Apostrophe?” Varius blinked. “So… Dapostrophereg? That’s a very strange name.”

“No… how to say this…” Diva sighed. “It’s D’reg.” Patience was not her strongest virtue.

“Drag?”

Diva groaned. She had corrected Caesar. She had begged Cleopatra to stop calling her Dregonza. This time?

Not. Worth. The fight.

With an over-the-top, award-worthy sigh, she surrendered. “Sure. Drag. Let’s go with that.”

Then it began.

Diva hadn’t spoken to anyone in decades. After the unfortunate “Incident,” Madame Fabula had gently suggested she take some time off — something about “emotional over-involvement” and “accidentally bending three timelines with a gown reveal.”

And Cyril Le Coq? He hadn’t shown up yet. He had made it quite clear that he would not set foot in this dimension until Paris had its proper name, wigs became fashionable, and someone invented a decent perfume. Diva respected that. Some standards are eternal.

So yes — Diva was thrilled to finally have someone to talk to.

And Varius? Surprisingly patient. Possibly because of the typical human reaction to encountering a D’reg — that unique cocktail of confusion, awe, mild fear, and the creeping suspicion that they were either about to be enlightened or lose their minds entirely. After all, waking up with a disembodied voice in your head — no matter how glamorous — was not considered standard Roman behavior.

Diva, naturally, launched into storytelling mode.

She regaled him with tales of ancient Egypt — how she had once guided Cleopatra through her entire sequin phase. Yes, Cleopatra had sequins. And yes, it nearly caused a spacetime collapse. Fortunately, the locals chalked it up to "tears of the gods" and carried on worshiping accordingly. But honestly? Cleopatra deserved sequins. And rhinestones. And at least three costume changes per public appearance.

Diva even projected a glamographic image directly into Varius’s mind: Cleo’s legendary pearl earring, shimmering with impossible grace. (To this day, no one knows it was glued on with magically enhanced sap — a little trick Diva liked to call “Stickum Deluxe.”)

Something shifted in Varius.

“I want to be her,” he whispered. “Powerful. Beautiful. Adored.”

Diva raised a metaphorical eyebrow.

“Sweetheart, everyone wants that. But from what I gather, your world insists there's a difference — she was a woman, and you’re a man. I believe it has something to do with physics.”
She sniffed. Diva hated physics. Nearly as much as she hated explaining technology — but that was another story.

Varius straightened his spine with imperial flair.

“I am the emperor. So show me.”

***

The next morning, Rome was scandalized.

Varius emerged in robes of violet silk, embroidered with golden suns. He applied rouge to his cheeks and kohl to his eyes — yes, using the very same ingredients once favored by Cleopatra, which, rumor had it, could only be sourced from deep within the Sphinx’s nose — and declared that temple rituals would now include dramatic interpretive dance and a fashion showcase. He called it the “Drag Way.”And to emphasize his new role, he crowned himself Drag Queen — in honor of Cleopatra, naturally.

The people were confused. Mildly alarmed. But then again… this was Rome. They’d seen worse. And he was the emperor, after all. One does not question the man feeding a sacred goat in glittery heels.

Above it all, Diva observed — half horrified, half delighted.

“Humans are… strange,” she mused. “Next time, I really need to be more careful what I say. They’re so easy to inspire — and then they run with it. Right off the runway. Still… he does have taste. Honestly, Fabula could take notes.”

Varius was radiant.

And the more he embraced his newfound identity, the more the world began to shift.

It happened one evening, during a particularly daring temple performance involving two peacocks, twenty slaves with enormous fans, and a full chorus of cymbals.

Varius stepped onto the altar and declared, “Let there be fabulousness.”

And then — he performed. Not just a little ceremonial gesture. Not a subtle nod to the gods. No, he committed. He shrugged off his violet robe with theatrical flair, revealing a gown beneath so radiant, so otherworldly, it could only have been stitched together from the raw threads of pure creativity, stolen moonlight, and several bad decisions made gloriously right.

The crowd gasped. The temple guards forgot to guard. One priest fainted. Possibly from joy.

Varius raised his arms and commanded the cymbals: “More energy!”

And they obeyed. Oh, how they obeyed. The rhythm pulsed like a heartbeat, echoing across the marble. Varius moved with it — spinning, swaying, strutting — in ways no Roman had moved before. His dance wasn’t bound by gravity or tradition. It was the physical embodiment of rebellion wrapped in silk and sass.

And then the final miracle revealed itself.

On his feet? Not sandals. Heels.

No one knew how. No one knew when. But there they were — tall, shimmering, impossibly impractical, and utterly perfect. The crowd gasped again.

“How… how did he do that?” someone whispered.

And somewhere, far above, Diva clutched her metaphysical pearls. “Sweetheart, I said unleash your spirit, not invent the runway.”

But she smiled. Because somehow, he had.

And the veil ripped.

Just a little.

A crack in the cosmic curtain. A glimmer of glamergy spilled through — invisible to most, but instantly felt. One centurion burst into tears and confessed his secret love for dramatic monologues. A marble statue sprouted rhinestones. A vestal virgin began voguing.

But most of all, something stirred within the people.

They felt freer. More creative. And most importantly… less beige.

Diva gasped. “Well. That is… unexpected.”

She hadn’t anticipated this. The D’reg had tried so many times to help this world, to guide it toward beauty, creativity, shimmer. But nothing had worked.

Until now. Through sheer force of performance — raw, wild, unapologetic — Varius had done the impossible.

He had birthed the first Drag Conduit on Earth.

It was fabulous. It was chaotic. It was the beginning of a whole new era.

***

Later, Diva lounged above the city, the night sky swirling lazily around her like a sequined toga tossed over a celestial chaise. Below, Rome pulsed with confusion, color, and something dangerously close to creativity.

Varius kept pushing boundaries. Some adored him. Others spat curses into the sand. History, as it always does, would file him away under madness, missing the point entirely.

But Diva? Diva knew better. “You beautiful, misunderstood sparkle bomb,” she whispered fondly. “You got it wrong. But also... you got it so fabulously right.”

She held up her goblet of wine — which was trying very hard to be whisky — and toasted the stars.

“So… it’s Drag now, is it?” she sighed with a smirk. “Fine. Let them call it that. Humans do love their labels.”

The wind picked up, carrying the distant echo of cymbals and laughter — and somewhere, the scent of eyeliner.

***

And So It Began... Drag was not the intention. Drag was not the plan.

But somewhere between the cosmic misunderstanding, the kohl-lined eyes, and a temple-turned-runway, something new had taken root. A tradition. A movement. A shimmering rebellion against beige conformity.

Glamour had found a channel.

And through that glitter-cracked veil, something extraordinary began to stir in the world of mortals.

Diva stretched luxuriously, basking in the glamergy still vibrating through the night sky, her smile as soft as stardust and as sharp as stilettos.

“And that, Sweetheart,” she purred, as the constellations seemed to wink in approval, “is how Drag came to Earth. By accident. As all great things do.”