that sweet sweet s4 dumpster fire

[morethanadistraction]

Operating out of the Whispering Woods like this was such a stroke of genius, Catra congratulates herself as she watches the supplies roll in. The ambush she'd planned was a success, Adora and her friends easily distracted by the empty transporter for long enough to move her new weapons, and all it had cost her was one vehicle and a single soldier: not a bad deal in the scheme of things. With satisfaction, she drags her finger along the glowing green screen of her device; marking the mission as completed. Things are finally starting to come together for her, now that Hordak is under her thumb. Things are finally starting to go right. She has a spy reporting from the very core of the Rebellion, she's claimed Hordak's armies, and she's about to lead dear, dumb Adora and her equally stupid friends into her second trap of the day. Things are good. Her sleep hasn't been great for a long time now, but tonight? Catra might actually be able to get some.

But one petty victory doesn't mean her work is over. There'll be time to eat the ration bar abandoned atop the crate next to her later, time to rest once all of this is done. The Rebels are predictable, almost comically so; but that doesn't mean she can relax. Too many things happen with them in places she can't see, they have conversations she can't hear. Sometimes, one of them manages to come up with something that's stupid enough to actually surprise her, and those have been the occasions when they've gotten the upper hand.

Lucky for her, she has someone on the inside now. Someone who can update her on every mood change, every crack in the relationships between Adora's band of merry idiots. It makes things so much easier to plan around, and she's expecting another report soon.

...Which may be arriving presently. Catra hasn't let down her guard once, hyper-tuned to the noises and activity despite the headache it causes, for pretty much this exact reason. She's sick of people trying to sneak up on her.

"Clear out," she orders sharply. The soldiers around her salute, presumably; Catra doesn't look up from her screen to see if they do, just listens as they hurry to set down boxes and then scurry away, leaving just one other person with her.

"I told you not to come in here like that," she bites out, eyes narrowing at her screen before she tears them away to glare across the mess of crates. Double Trouble's really perfected Adora's gait, from the sounds of it. And her smell. Obviously taking advantage of their time in Bright Moon with her to do some in-depth character study.

They're poorly hidden, as far as sneaking attempts go. They're only a few quick strides away, and Catra takes them swiftly; stretching a clawed hand around into a shadowed corner to grab a fistful of familiar fabric and yank her spy out, glaring at them all the while. Her tail twitches in restrained anger, ears flat lines of disapproval, and she can't look at their imitation of Adora's face for longer than it takes her eyes to glance over it before she scoffs in disgust, releasing her grip on their jacket and turning away.

"Your intel had better be good." She's back to her device immediately, jamming a finger against the icon that pulls up a collation of her soldiers' field reports, scanning over it quickly. "What's the situation with the rebels? Are they following the tracks we set?"

Comments

[swordjock]

Catra jerks and shudders and clings, and all Adora can do is hold her through it, instinctively sheltering her from the world around them both. She lifts her gaze when Catra finally stills; just barely catching glimpses of her face alongside the heaving, sobbing chest in front of her eyes, the one Adora nuzzles into as best she can between the ragged breaths coming from above her.

Adora's sure Catra will remember who she is (isn't) soon enough, and lash out and hurt her again. Hurt them both, because Catra's anger has always been a way of expressing her own pain, even if Adora never understood that side of her, barely understands it now, unable to see beneath the surface of things. She can at least hear the torment in her cries, but it's not enough for forgiveness, when Catra refuses to apologize or make amends or try. All of them have suffered and lost things; it's no excuse for perpetuating the cycle.

But she can't just let her go--she's not heartless, no matter what Catra thinks or expects from her. She hasn't seen Catra like this since they were kids, and Adora gives herself a few more seconds for her head to unfog, for her vision to clear. It would be so easy to destroy Catra now, but Adora cradles her in strong, bloody arms; waiting for the trembling to stop completely, for Catra to be her enemy again, instead of a scared girl huddling under a blanket in their bunk. Chances are, Catra wouldn't pay her the same courtesy, but she tries not to think of the what-ifs.

She's not stupid enough to ask what that (any of that) was, good or bad, all the curious questions she might have if it was really the two of them instead of an awful mockery. None of it matters now. Catra got what she wanted, and Adora's done here. She tries to take stock of herself as best she can with Catra wrapped around her--the wound on her shoulder still oozing, but everything else starting to clot. Good. As for Catra... she's fine physically, and that's all Adora can be the judge of.

Deliberately, Adora schools her expression back into the bitter one from before, driving out the softness from her eyes before Catra sees them again; puts on her best She-Ra voice, the one she practices in her head for her confrontations with Catra, to the point where it almost comes naturally.

"Just so you know? This isn't what winning looks like."

It's a pyrrhic victory at best, though she knows Catra is more than happy to take those most of the time; that it isn't about her winning, but Adora losing. That's what makes her so dangerous, when Adora isn't prepared to sacrifice anyone but herself; just like she's doing, letting Catra hate her because she knows, knows, that's how she really feels, and at least then she won't sound so tortured and broken about a decision she already made years ago. Adora's always wanted her stopped, but never once wanted her hurt. Not even now.

[morethanadistraction]

Catra doesn't want to be held. It makes it harder to scrabble to pull herself back together, the safety of Adora's arms around her too familiar and too comforting. How many times has she curled into Adora and cried? How many times has Adora run her hands over her fur, across her shoulders, through her hair; soothing her with warmth and sweet care?

It's been years since Catra's felt so kind a touch, and it's shameful, despicable how difficult it is to protect herself from it now. It's not the same as Scorpia's strong hugs, which are physically impossible to escape. This attacks her mentally, emotionally. Hits every weak point she's worked so hard to bury like they're bright and obvious targets on display. She thought she'd gotten rid of this part of herself, killed it off like a friend sent to die alone on a dangerous island; starved it out, like a prisoner awaiting interrogation.

But she hasn't. She misses Adora. And Catra feels it more keenly now than she has in a long time. Here, cradled in the arms of an imposter. Here, with her teeth gritted so hard they might shatter under the strength of her jaw; the pads of her fingers digging into their clothes; her eyes clenched shut, her every shallow breath filled with that perfect reproduction of Adora's scent.

She hates herself for how much she still yearns for her, and Catra seizes upon that tendril of loathing like a lifeline. Coils it quick around her heart, uses it to smother the aching embers of regret. She needs to be angry, and it's the first step. She only wants Adora because that's what Adora taught her she needed. Adora made her think she was weak enough to need to be given safety, instead of being strong enough to stand on her own. Adora made her believe she wanted to be cared for, looked after - tricked Catra into thinking she could do the same for her, watching out for each-other the way best friends are supposed to do.

It's what helps Catra get herself back under control, but the fatigue in her limbs lingers even as she rekindles the despicably low-burning fire of disgust and hatred in her heart.

Lucky for her, they're willing to provide the final bit of fuel she needs.

"What would you know," she hisses into their hair. It's easier, then, to unwind her arms from around them; to put her hands, upside-down and palms flat, against the crate instead; to lift her knee hard and fast into their crotch, shoving her weight against the crate to force them backwards and kicking off of them with her foot to turn herself, up and over in a nimble flip, to crouch atop the cold metal.

"I want them at the ambush point in an hour." Catra's eyes are cold and hard and reddened as she glares down at them. They're ruined, Adora's clothes hanging in tatters, their cheek scratched and their hair mussed and frazzled. The top of her own uniform hangs loose in front of her, and Catra snatches the torn seams together with a deep and warning growl. The fur of her back presses up uncomfortably against the rigid pull of her uniform, the dampness of her underwear is an unwelcome and stomach-turning distraction, and her fingers and glove are covered in their blood. Every inhale she takes stinks of Adora, pressed into her fur and her skin and her clothes, and Catra can feel bile burning at the bottom of her throat. She feels like an animal up here, and it's their - Adora's - fault. She's going to destroy her. "I don't care what it takes. Get them there."

[swordjock]

What would she know? More than Catra thinks. She almost bites back, points out that winning doesn't leave people broken and sobbing and alone--but then, apparently, she's wrong about that last part. Catra's found someone else who will bleed for her, and even if it's for a paycheque instead of love, maybe that's the sort of loyalty she's interested in now. The kind she can demand, instead of ask for; that she doesn't have to bother returning.

Catra pushes off her, and Adora straightens up, immediately a soldier again. She flinches at the final, insulting knee to her crotch, but her disdainful expression holds firm, as rigid as her pose. "Fine. Then I'm taking a skiff."

Swift Wind would be far, far too obvious a sight flying overhead. She needs distance, and she needs it fast, but subtle. Pressing a hand against her gashes to stem the bleeding, Adora steps backwards on legs unsteady with arousal more than pain, spouting some trite challenge that would be more at place on the battlefield than here, with Catra clutching her uniform together, Adora's shirt and jacket still hanging off her shoulders in ruins.

"This isn't over, Catra. You won't be so lucky next time."

Telling Catra outright not to bring this up again will only raise suspicion, so she has to rely on Catra's own obsessive paranoia and hatred to hold her tongue, and just hope that she can look her in the eye again after this mutual deception without giving herself away. Without thinking of Catra curled around her and crying, making Adora want to carry her home--a real home, the way the Fright Zone never was, the way Bright Moon became for her, only missing that one, all-important person; an open door waiting that slowly closed over the years. Etheria is more important than Catra, than Adora, than the two of them together. She made her choice, and she knows it was the right one.

[morethanadistraction]

She wants to snap at them and deny the requisition - because that's in her power to do, and Adora doesn't deserve to have an easy time of things. But they press their hand to their dirtied and bleeding wounds, and Catra almost flinches with the reminder. This isn't actually Adora. Double Trouble isn't going to magic away the injuries she's inflicted, and---oh.

Regret coils sharp and tangy in her gut. How stupid is she, carving into her own spy like that? They knew what they were in for, they goaded her into it, but that...

...that's so obvious a reaction from her. Not only has she compromised them - there's no way Adora won't recognize the claw marks if she sees them - but she's given so much of herself away. They got in deep under her skin, now they know without any uncertainty what makes her tick.

She is dizzy, and exhausted, and her heart is pounding loudly in her ears and Catra's stomach churns. She tugs hard at her uniform, using the press of pain from their bites to jolt through the haze. She needs them to leave, or she's going to be sick.

"There won't be a next time." The hateful chill in her voice hardly wavers despite the world starting to close in, and she doubles down on it, clenching her claws into the lid of the crate. They know they've gotten to her, she cried on them. They could take her apart any minute now, and that anxiety sticks bitter like ash in her mouth. Which still tastes like Adora. She can hardly hear herself over her breathing, sounding inordinately loud despite how careful and measured it is. "Your act is fine. Don't waste my time testing it again."

Catra releases a shallow breath, trying to push the edges of panic down. They'll hold this over her. A few scratches and a probable infection in their shoulder is a small price to pay for what they've learned. The material they have on her now is just - invaluable. There's no point in pretending they don't have everything they need to get whatever they want out of her.

"I don't care how many skiffs you have to take," she hears herself saying. She'll be lucky if this is the only thing they demand of her right now, when she's struggling so much to hold herself together. "Put them down in my name, sell them for scrap, I don't care. Do you understand me?"

She tries to meet their eyes. Tries to pretend the glare and hatred in them aren't the same as she sees whenever she dreams, the backdrop of a vengeful portal behind them.

"Take whatever you want," she says, slowly. Clearly. So that she doesn't have to repeat it. They've won, they can have anything she can give. As long as they just take it and don't torment her with the reminder of why she's giving it, Catra might just be able to live with it long enough to figure something out. "And don't come back here again."

Of course, later - when they do come back, when they free her from the burning wreckage - she'll be more grateful than ever that they ignored her. That they came back to check on her after this. She'll be relieved, even, that they've accepted the hint to ignore it; that even though they both know they have the upper hand over her now, they're content to let it lie as long as she gives them whatever it is they ask for.

But right now, she really just needs them gone. Before she gives them anything else to work with.