"'Always guard your flank, Adora'." Catra simpers mockingly as she looks down at her handiwork, eyes glittering with mischief. Adora is best when she's on the floor like this, sulking and glaring, and Catra reaches out a hand to give an unfallen crate the little push it needs to drop onto Adora's lap, her tail a satisfied curl. It gives a derisive flick when she turns around, strolling smugly for the last flight of stairs.

She pauses on the first step, turning her head to look over her shoulder at Adora with a smirk, that warm bubbly feeling that Adora often incites in her fluttering in her chest and curling in her stomach. Beating Adora always feels different to beating anyone else, and Catra doesn't know why. It just is. And she has beaten her; it's obvious, given how close the roof is to them. "Hurry up, I've seen trashed bots move faster than you."