Chapter Text
For a moment, Adora’s eyes failed to adjust to the gloom of the forbidden forest, and then, just like that in that cursed place, the petals on a nearby tree opened up, bathing the entire area in light.
“Woah,” Catra said from behind her.
“Is it supposed to do that?” Adora asked, still dazed from her fall. The skiff’s engine buzzed, the exhaust tainting the relative purity of the clearing’s air.
"Supposed to do what?" Catra asked, coy. "Maybe if you didn't wreck it, Adora, it'd be working."
Adora looked up, shooting her a slight glare. Their hover was still wrecked, which was definitely /not/ her fault. “We need to hurry up with this,” She said, feeling slightly silly. What on Eternia had she been thinking about a pretty sword? It was probably just-
“How’d you know about the sword?” Catra asked, pointing. The world shifted three steps to the left.
Adora followed her finger and claw to the distance. Her legs moved without her thinking, carrying her the rest of the way.
Her fingers curled around the hilt, and she lifted it up. No resistance to her touch. “See?” Adora said, turning to face her. “Sword. I told you so.”
Catra squinted at it, leaning back against their shuttle. “That’s not just a sword, Adora. Look at that! That’s definitely something from the First Ones.”
Adora adjusted her grip on it curiously. It felt… natural in her hands. Like it’d been made for her. “You think? I don’t really know what the First Ones are, anyway.”
“We’re supposed to be on the lookout for anything of theirs,” Catra said. “You know I don’t always miss out on lessons.” Adora winced. She should know this, but sometimes, the information just went in one ear and out the other without her retaining any of it. Especially when she’d already had training that day.
Adora laughed. “Do you think Shadow Weaver will let me keep it?”
“I don’t see why not,” Catra said. “Maybe after a bit of research into it. She likes you, anyway.”
Adora looked up, bright eyes flashing in surprise, and Catra laughed, shaking her head. “Come on! Let’s get back! We found something out here after all!”
And so they returned to the Horde.
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Something in the heart of Eternia stirred, and found itself obscenely disappointed. Then it flickered back to sleep.
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Catra
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Adora got the honors. Catra got ignored, which was a plus when dealing with Shadow Weaver most of the time, even if she could feel the disappointment (and anger like storm clouds) rumbling from her regardless.
Adora got to leave, and Catra moved to join her. Shadow Weaver reached out and touched her shoulder.
She wasn’t used to Shadow-Weaver touching her without a spark of her electrical magics. She puffed up, feeling her fur stand on end despite the lack of static, and she looked away, flushing with shame. “Stay,” she commanded.
Catra stopped moving. Adora shot her a look, and Catra waved her off without looking. “I’ll catch up with you.
The doors slid shut like a blade in a sheath.
“You have been curious about why you were not also made a Force-Captain,” Shadow Weaver said. Catra could see the words like a knife, or an arrow, and she was the target.
Regardless, they struck into the comfortable numbness that Catra pretended was perfectly normal. Maybe it even was, and Adora kept her numbness across her features so tightly that her smiles looked natural.
No. That wasn’t true. It was just Catra who was the fuck up.
“You allowed Adora to leave,” her mother- commanding officer said. Catra perked up, sliding up to her toes to- to do what?
It was just the two of them. “You know Adora as well as I do,” Catra said. “When she gets it in her head to do something, she does it. So I went along to make sure-”
She was lying. They’d gone into the forest on account of a stupid fight, but Catra was also good at lying, very good at it. She lied to herself all the time.
“Out of the kindness of your heart?” Shadow-Weaver asked. Catra ran a hand back through her hair, and shifted back onto the balls of her feet. “I’m almost impressed at how quick you were able to lie to me that time.”
She swallowed.
“Still. That’s quite the impressive weapon you two brought back to me,” the sorceress said. “Is it true that you were the one to spot it?”
“Yes Shadow-Weaver,” Catra said.
“Good, good,” She cooed. Catra felt a shiver run down her spine. It was uncomfortable. She straightened up. She was used to being uncomfortable, it shouldn’t bother her. “I think you deserve a reward for that, don’t you?”
Catra nodded. There was a peculiar tension in the air. Shadow-Weaver /wasn’t/ berating her. It was almost like…
She’d done well. Against her will, her heart thumped in her chest. She hated it. She hated it. “A reward?”
Her voice broke. Why on Eternia did simple words make her heart do that? She’d kill for that, she thought. But she didn’t have to. This time.
“Run an errand for me in the woods,” Shadow-Weaver said. “And I’ll discuss with Lord Hordak about promoting you to Captaincy as well.”
Catra’s heart missed a beat. She clutched an arm against it, looking away.
“Catra,” Shadow-Weaver hissed. “Do you accept?”
“Of course,” Catra said. Her voice disgusted her with the amount of hope it held. But being a force captain meant she wasn’t falling behind Adora. It meant she was being recognized
“Then leave at once,” Shadow-Weaver said, turning away from her. “Take a hover into the Whispering Woods. You’re looking for a woman that our scouts witnessed among their ranks, collecting mushrooms. Figure out why she’s able to live there without being slaughtered by their defenses, and you will get exactly what you deserve. She should be in the same area that the sword was in.”
Catra’s hand automatically moved towards a salute. This was it! This was her big moment. Finally!
“Should I bring anyone?” she asked.
“No,” the other replied. “Think of this as a test. If I’m right, you can do so much more when Adora’s not around… can’t you?”
Catra bit down her reply and hesitated. Was that what this was about? She didn’t think she quite liked that, and besides, it didn’t sound correct.
And yet; she’d choked down worse things to get where she was.
“Of course, Shadow-Weaver,” she replied.
Then she left.
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Halfway to the spot on her map, arrogant, confident, letting the autopilot take over so she could lay back, there came a crackle. She straightened, throwing a frantic gaze to the machine, and then came the detonation. Great arcs of crimson flames and purple lances, and Catra had just a hint, just a single hint that maybe there’d been magic involved.
She hit the ground in a lump, her skin burning, and smelt herself cooking. She crawled, every moment of pain. She was screaming, her voice hoarse, and the birds were streaming out of the trees.
Then she didn’t know anything else at all.
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Shadow-Weaver
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“Oh, Adora,” Shadow-Weaver said, sweeping in. Adora looked up from where she’d been handling the sword. It still felt familiar in her hands, like a dream she’d had once, and that made her more uncomfortable than anything else in the entire Fright Zone. “Have you heard the news yet? Has it made the rounds?”
The blonde looked up, dusting herself off. “Shadow-Weaver!” She flashed her a salute, resting the sword on the ground of the holoroom. The tip split into it, too sharp to be stopped, and Adora flinched, pulling it out.
Shadow-Weaver’s looked down at the nick, then at Adora, clicking her tongue.
“What news?” Adora said, flashing her a brave grin. “Am I being deployed?”
“No,” Shadow-Weaver said, and with ease practiced in front of a mirror, her voice took on a mourning tone. “I am afraid something terrible has happened.”
Adora’s expression dropped. “What sort of terrible?” She asked, totally drawn in. “Are we to be attacked?”
“Catra,” Shadow-Weaver said, putting more mourning into her voice. “Is dead.”
Adora froze. It wasn’t all at once. Shadow-Weaver could watch the exact movement that it took, crawling up and down her skin like ice on a pond. It started at her face, crawling down her neck, then down her arms until the sword fell numbly from her fingers, carving out another chunk from the floor.
She stayed there, with only the beating of her heart to show that she was still alive, her pupils dilating. Then slowly, movement poured back into her, turning her from sculpture to soldier in a heartbeat. “How?”
“I sent her into the forest to do additional scouting of the area where you found your sword,” Shadow-Weaver said. “She was intercepted. Attacked. Beaten. Killed. Burned. Princesses.”
Adora’s fingers balled into fists. Shadow-Weaver watched as she struggled to remember how to breath. A flicker of something like concern rolled through what had once been her heart before she’d ripped it out for more power.
It’d make Adora stronger and more devoted. It was necessary. Adora had very nearly been intercepted, this close to the end of her training. When Shadow-Weaver looked at her, she thought she could still see a trace of goodness, locked in the obliviousness of her idyllic childhood.
Yes, Shadow-Weaver had regrets. She’d let her child cling to pretty and kind things for too long. It was time to end that.
And Adora started screaming and kept screaming until her voice went hoarse.
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Adora
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Catra’s funeral was like most of the funerals in the Fright Zone. Efficient, quick, with her squad mates being allowed an extra fifteen minutes of grieving before the start of each shift for the next week. It was a time of reflection of what could be done better, for improvement’s sake.
There would be a grave out in the field. No body; the standard was cremation, but there were still records of the fallen.
Adora had never had to personally take one before. It wasn’t expected for her squad. They hadn’t even been blooded properly yet. Lonnie and Rogelio sat, staring at the walls.
Adora felt as blank as they felt. Catra had been- she didn’t quite know how to feel. Kyle stumbled in, face bright, and three sets of eyes glared at him. He sat down, expression turning sad.
The minutes trickled by, and he started crying. Adora wished she could cry, but all there was inside of her was a curious hollowness that she was unaccustomed to. Where had her emotions all gone?
There was…
She dug deep into herself. The Horde practiced as few emotions as possible, to help their soldiers deal with the stress and traumas of war. To feel was to invite more feeling. Adora had never had trouble with that before, not really.
Her eyes drifted to the wall, where childish scratches still remained. She ran her fingers over them, half numb, the rough metal cutting into the pad of her index finger.
Catra was gone.
She’d gone to investigate the area where Adora had found the blade.
If they hadn’t gotten into a fight, she’d still be there. They wouldn’t’ve found the sword, and Catra wouldn’t’ve been sent out.
The numbness twisted inside of her. It moved from something she recognized into something she hardly could; grief? Shame? Guilt? All of them, mixed together inside of her until her stomach hurt. And as the final moments of their grieving period came to pass, tears rolled down her face. Lonnie joined her shortly after, and Rogelio turned away.
Adora broke the silence. “We’re going to get them for this,” She said, voice flat. “Right?”
“Get who?” Lonnie asked.
“All of them,” Adora said. If she hadn’t gotten into a fight with Catra; if she hadn’t felt the sword, Catra would still be alive. This was her fault. So it was up to her to make it right.
Her fingers curled into fists. Her emotions felt as thick as syrup, and in the cold of the metal lockers, she went tense, fingers biting into the wood of the bench. She felt something give inside of her. The wood cracked, splintering off against her skin, and she stood up as the alarm went off. Time was up.
“Adora, are you…?” Lonnie asked, standing up. Adora turned and glared at her.
Lonnie shook her head, pointing at her hands. “At least get those out, alright?” She looked down. A few splinters stood out against her skin. She tilted her head to the side, feeling rather distant.
“I don’t feel it."
"Adora," Lonnie glared. "Give me your hand."
Adora looked at the other two in the room and gave Lonnie her hand.
Very gently, minding the blonde's reaction, Lonnie took her fingers and started to pull the splinters free. Then, knowing they were back on the clock, the four of them moved out to the training rooms. At the end of that, surrounded by broken machines and with her fingers stinging with new and exciting wounds, Adora considered, for perhaps the first time, just how easy it was to break things when she was angry. Perhaps that was a good thing.
She wanted to break things.