Chapter Text
Realistically, Catra’s world should have come to an end when she pulled the lever. That was when everything fell apart, when she was split and corrupted between herself and the unknown that had seemed familiar. When she turned into the nothing of another reality. Catra remembers that, that life in the back of her head like a recent dream. But that dream was not what happened. Adora got involved, everyone became themselves again, and Catra’s livelihood sputtered out and died on a much more anticlimactic note.
Instead of through the duration of the literal apocalypse, Catra lost everything in the short moments after. It was when everyone came to, reanimated in the bodies that felt like they’d been last used lifetimes ago. And when Catra turned away from the broken portal, she past everyone else. Her focus was immediately brought to where Adora had once stood-here was She-Ra, her eyes glaring through Catra’s skull. The look was enough to get the message across. She didn’t see anything worth fighting for anymore. Not with Catra.
That, on top of Shadow Weaver clinging to the princesses like a lifeline and the searing ghost pains that struck through her bones where her corrupted body boiled like a glitch, was enough to kill her right then and there. It might have even been the case, if Catra had been the type to curl into a ball and die. But no,it wasn’t that easy. Somewhere sadistic in the back of her suicidal meltdown brain said she had to survive, if only to spite every single person on Etheria who wanted her dead(which is everyone ). Getting as far as she did alive was somewhat her specialty.
So, just like after the Battle of Bright Moon, Catra retreated with the dignity she had left.
This time though it was much less likely she had any dignity to spare. She just ran. Ran in the direction she knew she was supposed to run in, but she didn’t stop once she was back in ‘safety’. She didn’t stop running after they were far away from Hordak’s lab, and not after the princesses were gone. Not after Hordak had stopped running, not after he barked at her to know where on earth she was going(not that she was filtering anything he had said.) Not even after she ran past the Fright-Zone, into the waste that lay beyond it.
And really, it wasn’t about stopping in the first place or really arriving at any destination. It was about going until she couldn’t go any longer. Until nothing could chase her and drag her down screaming. In a way the goal was to run until any and all thoughts could be thrown to the wayside. No more thoughts of Shadow Weaver or Adora or Hordak to take residence in her head if she focused on the wearing down of her body and her senses. In that manner, it was easy. She had enough physical and emotional pain to focus on forever, if the never-ending throbbing of her head indicated much.
Catra ran for as long as her burning legs could take her, which was considerably longer than average(even with the hurt that weighed her down like chains)given the inherit agility and speed of her species. Not that Catra could even be grateful for that, because it only got her so far until she sprained her ankle. One of her feet caught under a thick vine and she toppled over before she even knew what was happening. The ground greeted her about as kindly as a punch to her face, and Catra was done for.
And that’s how she ended up, ironically, in the middle of the Whispering Woods. If she had been paying attention to her surroundings she would have easily caught her own mistake, but it was hard to see past the fog that built up in her head and in her eyes. But no, that’s exactly where she was, Catra realized, as her body practically collapsed. When she had hit the ground she hit it hard enough to knock the wind out of her, but her nerves were already so frayed that the feeling was nothing but a background sensation. The vine that had tripped her led into smattering of foliage. Rolling over onto the patch of shrubbery she had fallen into, her attempts to push herself off the ground were...unsuccessful. Too weak. Somehow that realization was more chilling than the fact of where she was.
Like this, Catra had no energy left in her to even sit up. The air in her lungs was thin, and those of Catra’s regularly heightened senses fizzled out quickly. Corruption had gotten to her much more than she realized. What the fuck was that, anyway? Sure, she'd died in a sense. But it should have ended with the portal-a completely separate world to keep her from what she had done.
But following this line of thought was getting her nowhere. She’s worried about her mundane ass headache, when she’s in the accursed Whispering Woods that could possibly swallow her whole. Who cares if she died in the portal, she would die out here if she didn't get hold of herself and her shit together.
But, at the same time.... it should have been much scarier. Stories about these woods and all of the undead and beings of misfortune (that lurked specifically to capture Horde soldiers) spread around the Fright Zone quick, and Catra was usually in her right mind enough as a kid to believe them. But it didn’t matter, at least not now. Something about these woods, like the very first time Catra had stepped foot in them, felt dull. Like there was a key component that was missing and so nothing was lively as it should have been. It had been made even less intimidating by all of the visible continuous damage the Horde had done to it. The ghosts from Adora's and Shadow Weaver's stories seemed too big for what was literally just...woods.
If there were any undead, then Catra didn’t have any reason to care at the moment. All she was able to do was lay exhausted on the ground and look beyond the clouds in the sky. It would serve the undead good to kill her. Everything that had mattered had gone anyways, and it was all her own fault.
Hers. She feels herself grimace-even though literally no one was there to bear witness to it. It’s the truth. And for the most part, Catra didn’t think she had it in her to start blaming everyone else again. She was the one who pulled the switch and officially set . She knows that. Knowing doesn’t make it easier to accept. Accepting things isn’t really her department.
If she had accepted things, everything would have been just fucking peachy. Maybe she would have stayed in the Crimson Waste with Scorpia and led her own life, even get Entrapta away from Hordak. Maybe she would’ve been able to stay Hordak’s favorite and keep her position as a Force Captain and never have to even think of thinking of Shadow Weaver. Hell, maybe she would have gone with Adora to the rebellion, joining the perky little clique of uptight princesses who were selfish enough to take her only friend. Maybe Catra wouldn’t be lying in the middle of enemy territory, nearly unconscious with her head trying to split itself in half.
God. Her head throbbed . It felt like everything around her was working to agitate her searing brain with over-stimulation. Catra shimmied a little further under the dense leaves and vines in an attempt to hide from the blaring light of the sky, but it didn’t matter. The ache of the corruption seemed to coarse through Catra on it’s own terms, and it wasn’t going to be ignored. She doubted she could even walk like this if she tried again. That might have been for the better. Right now, she was decently undercover. Far enough away from the palace of Bright Moon for no one to find her, at least-and no one from the Horde was going to go out of there way to look for her. Maybe wildlife might be an issue, but again, she was at least partially covered. She couldn’t really worry about any of that in detail, though. Not now. It would only drive her into a further panicked state than she already dug herself in, and she didn’t need that. Really, it was a problem for future Catra.
Present Catra was already fucked as it was. Her eyes kept threatening to flutter closed, and that would put her in a vulnerable spot. But, she was safe here. And the threat of sleep seemed more and more inviting the more the thought on it. If she just gave herself over to it, or over to sleep , her head could stop. Perhaps the pain would even clear up a little once she got some actual rest.
Yeah. That was a good idea. Forcing her thoughts to stop latching onto recent events, she willed her mind to go static with thinly veiled calm. Even though sleep wasn’t going to come easy (it never did), the promise of a bearable migraine outweighed any restlessness or anxiety she could conjure.
She just hoped she wouldn’t dream.
Her subconscious was never kind to her when the REM stage of sleep came along, and she doubted that after the portal, it ever would be. But it didn’t matter, she just needed rest. So if her head wanted to guilt-trip her through the images it flashed to her when she had no choice but to watch, she could pretend to not remember them when she woke up. If she woke up, Catra thought dryly. That was the last concrete trail of thought Catra had before her exhaustion finally weighed in on her, and the tension coiled in her throat and shoulders began to seep out in response.
By the time she was finally drifting into the realm of deep sleep, her ears were no longer perceptive to pick up on the soft patter of footsteps that progressively got closer and closer and quicker and quicker, until they stopped right in front of her.
.....
Lance was never the model to turn to when practicing patience. Really, he wasn’t. Most days he couldn’t even wait to wake up and start the day, and he would shoot up out of bed at nearly four in the morning. Not that he’d admit it, but he’d purposely run around the house hoping to make just enough noise to gently wake the kids and husband(much to the latter’s annoyance.)
That’s why George was normally the one who went out to find, pick, and prepare mushrooms for their date-night picnics, but tonight Lance’s husband was busy in his study. George was intent on figuring out what had induced that mass hallucination from yesterday. It had been so vivid, but Lance remembered it well enough to know something about it wasn’t right. It was exactly the kind of thing George was never able to ignore and he was sure that it had something to do with She-Ra. And of course, if it put Bow or his friends in danger, researching the issue was George’s top priority which left him all cooped up in his study.
That left Lance to do most of the busy-work. He didn’t mind. He also could have done research into it, but it was more of a daunting task for Lance than it was for George(who had a particular interest in dreams and memories.) He respected George’s curiosity and brilliant mind so he had expected this(and he expected that date night in question might be delayed a day if George was really concerned) and was glad to have some time to himself. But it didn’t make the task of mushroom-picking any less boring. Going from grove to grove of vines and leaves wasn’t the most exciting task for the brain, and Lance was the sort of type to seek stimulation at every turn.
Making another round about the house, Lance wasn’t that successful with his mushroom-finding. He’d only found a little grouping growing at the base of a tree right next to a poison ivy bush, and if that wasn’t promising enough there also happened to be mold growing along the tops. Instead of giving up though he decided to go a little further around the outskirts of the area to see if there was anything ripe for the taking.
And there he found exactly what he was looking for. The grass he tread on followed a path right next to a smattering of ferns, trees, and bushes. The foliage here was dense enough to hide behind, and he thought this would have been a perfect spot to take his sons hide and seek when they were smaller and more appreciative of versatile and simple games. in between these were the fungi he was looking for! Humming to himself in satisfaction, Lance got to work. The groupings of mushrooms seemed to line up neatly along the path, and it reminded Lance of the fairy circles he read about. He made sure to pick only as much as he needed, and the bigger ones with less dirt on them so that they'd be easier to wash when he got home.
His basket was nearly full, and Lance was just considering only taking one more handful before his eyes fell to the next bit of path in front of him. Where there were mushrooms, a barely visible hand laid sprawled out from behind a bush, claws turned upwards and hauntingly still. Gods.
Lance’s mushroom basket was forgotten on the ground beside him as he nearly fell over his own feet trying to scamper up to the scene. It didn’t take long to peel back the foliage around the arm to find the person it was attached to underneath. It was a girl, eyes scrunched closed and still unmoving. On instinct, he began pulling her out from underneath the flora as soon as possible, and his heart nearly broke at how limp she felt in his hands.
Once she was out in the open and lying on the ground, Lance hesitated. Of course he wanted to help, but in the back of his mind he recalled the lesson George relayed to their children about asking before touching. Obviously it was a silly line of thought, since if she needed physical aid and care the consent aspect was assumed to be all green-light and go, but it still slowed Lance down. Shoveling his nerves into his throat, he watched her chest to see how labored her breathing was-but she was still breathing.
Turning her over to check her over for damage, Lance’s breath hitched. She looked so tired. Given even how much he had moved her so far, she barely stirred. She had eye-bags running deep and grime smudged over various places on her face and suit. And, looking at the headpiece that adorned her forehead, Lance realized something. It was cracked, just a little down the middle. From what Lance could assume she must have broken it on whatever fall she had taken. Gently putting it aside, he filed the object away in the back of his mind so as to remember to give it back to her when she woke up. He made to check her pulse, and although it was weak it was there . His hands searched over her body carefully, placed only to see if she faced any more damage. She had a fever, but that was a quick fix when it came to George and his healing chicken noodle soup. There wasn’t any more damage, or at least, outwardly, it didn’t look like it. The only concern Lance found was her forehead.
Where he had removed her headpiece, a small line of red seeped down from behind the girl’s bangs-almost but not quite dried brown. This became the immediate concern, given how she could have gotten concussed or any other serious brain damage.
Taking one of the spare, multi-color hair ties that always adorned his wrist, Lance used them to push her bangs back to inspect the problem at hand.
He hadn’t meant to gasp, but it escaped him nonetheless.
It wasn’t the area that had been cut when the headpiece was broken, no. That wasn’t what made Lance cringe. A simple band aid after alcohol wipes would be enough, no scar left behind once it properly healed. But this? This was nearly hidden, tucked away by the girl’s temple where Lance had nearly missed it, and never would have seen it had he not looked. This was a bright, angry mix of brown and red. A marking that looked like branding. Describing it as branding was somewhat an injustice, because this wasn’t a burn. Instead it looked like fingers had been dug into the side of her head, claws intent on making the message it set out to make. The torn flesh there wasn’t the dull color a healed scar held, it clearly had gotten infected and had been reopened several times too much for that to be the case.
And, there was the shape. The shape was unmistakable. Two near identical figures placed symmetrically and with painful precision. Wings. Lance recognized the symbol.
She was ex-horde.
This realization didn’t phase him as much as Lance thought it would. He already experienced his son becoming a soldier and realizing one of said son’s best friends was the She-Ra he had been studying for years. So in a backwards way it made sense, but this didn’t. Those kids were his family and his allies and this stranger in front of him ...wasn't. She came from another side, from the Horde that he’d seen do damage to his surroundings, his family, his husband. But, she wasn’t in the Horde, she was here. And in pain. Did the Horde chase her out, threaten or banish her? Is that how she ended up here, on the ground so clearly exhausted? Running from the only home she probably had. Just like Adora, perhaps.
Poor thing, she was just a kid. The dear didn’t even look a day older than Bow.
Well, she was going to have a home now. Immediately and without hesitation, she would have a home. Lance wasn’t going to let another child fall through the cruel hands of Hordak and the Horde, not like before.
Rising to his feet and dusting his pants off, it was decided. Putting the girl’s headpiece into the mushroom basket, he slung it around his arm. Reaching down, he lifted her up into his arms, and began heading home.
George had probably taken a break to make dinner by now. Maybe he can convince him to make his chicken-noodle-soup.