Chapter Text
Almost nineteen years ago, the sky burst above a raging battlefield and a baby fell out. Red-faced and wailing, just a normal fucking baby, and two sides of a war decided they wanted that baby at all costs. Of course, the rebellion won out, and the rest is history. Of course, Shadow Weaver lost, and has spent the years since then taking it out on Catra.
Now, Catra isn’t bitter. She may have grown up well aware that she is a poor replacement for the precious Adora, She-Ra, Princess of Power, and that Shadow Weaver would kill her in a heartbeat if it meant she could instead raise the girl from another world, but Catra would never be petty about that. Of course, she hates the Princess, but that’s just because she’s her enemy. It’s only natural that she’s tailored her training around footage of She-Ra’s fighting style. Practical.
The matter of the portrait is perhaps more difficult to explain, but as she’s told Scorpia repeatedly, it’s really only something you can understand when you’ve had a true nemesis. (The portrait, of course, refers to the enormous official state portrait of Princess Adora that Catra happened upon during a raid on Salineas, which currently stands against the wall in Catra’s private room, and it helps with maintaining her focus on the task at hand, thankyouverymuch).
So. Catra is far too busy being force captain to be overly preoccupied with Princess Adora. As long as she trains hard and maintains her focus, it’ll make no difference that the Horde didn’t lay hands on the mystical Princess all those years ago, and nobody’ll remember that it was Catra who failed to obtain the sword from the Whispering Woods before the Alliance got their hands on it.
The sword. Catra’s seen it turn into a whip once and—
“Interrogation time?” Lonnie pulls Catra abruptly from her thoughts, nodding at the cell block clearance pass around her neck. “Want company?”
Lonnie’s hot. She’s got that cocksure smile, rippling muscles, husky voice, she’s hot hot. So no. Catra will interrogate the princess alone. She shakes her head and keeps on walking.
“Aw, man,” she hears Lonnie complain as she walks past. “Don’t be selfish.”
Catra’s ears twitch at that, her tail curling not to lash in anger. She briefly considers a retort, but thinks better of it and continues on her way. Besides, she is being selfish. Of course she is. Princess Adora is her enemy. They’ve been at each other’s throats since they both first entered active duty. Catra hates the Princess, almost as much as she hates herself for not being her.
She and the Princess have fought countless battles against each other at this point. They know each other’s names. Catra’s made sure of that. They’ve crossed swords, tumbled down slopes, limbs intertwined, they’ve clawed and bitten and pulled each other’s hair - Princess Adora is Catra’s enemy. She knows every scar on the Princess’ body by heart. She put most of them there herself.
They kissed once. Or rather, Catra kissed the Princess, who’s too dumb to understand the very normal and simple concept of a distraction. Catra and her squad had been in the Kingdom of Snows on some intelligence mission or other, and the Princess and her little friends (Sparkles, right? And what’s-his-face) had interrupted. The altercation had turned bad, and soon Catra had only her knife against the Princess’ throat as a bargaining chip while she and her squad were being pushed towards the perilous edge of a tall balustrade. Catra had the Princess in an iron grip, her rage unfurling like a feral beast at the genuine worry in her little rebel friends’ eyes. The dull whirring of a Skiff below told her that a retreat was possible, but the vehicle would already be pushing its carry limit even without a prisoner on board and—
“Captain!” Lonnie had shot Catra a meaningful glance. Yes, she knew she had to let the Princess go, had to release her iron grip around her chest where she felt a frantic heartbeat, had to lower her knife from the small trickle of blood it had produced, had to distance herself from the sound of the Princess’ ragged yet measured breathing (her hair smelled like vanilla, what the fuck)—
With a wave of not-regret, Catra took a steady grip of the Princess’ perfect soft vanilla-scented hair and yanked her around.
Catra had fully intended to simply throw the Princess off balance. But they’d come face to face, and she was too close with those too-perfect pink lips of hers. Really, what good were those lips for, if they weren’t pressed against Catra’s? So she’d done the reasonable thing and kissed the Princess hard, tasting blood, hands full of soft sweet-smelling hair. When she finally pulled away, the Princess had stared, blue eyes wide and glossy, lips swollen, and Catra had faintly felt a shiver ripple through her core.
“See you around, Princess.” She’d said, with a voice that almost didn’t waver, before she jumped down onto the skiff below.
So clearly, that had been a fuck-off-kiss.
The Princess is kept in one of the lower cells, away from the main cell block for “security reasons”. Really, Catra just doesn’t want Kyle hanging over her shoulder during interrogations. She went through more than enough trouble capturing the Princess to have earned some one-on-one time with her. Even though she’ll admit the trouble mostly consisted of keeping her squad on track and making sure no one messed up. Turns out it’s actually really easy to capture someone with a hero complex. Simply make her believe that there are innocents to be rescued in the middle of an ongoing operation and any carefully laid plan is gone from her head. Catra chuckles to herself as she exits the lift at the lowest prison level. The green light is sickly here, and dim enough that anyone without Catra’s dark vision is exhausted simply by trying to focus their eyes. She moves down the corridor, to the cell furthest down.
She’s close enough to see her now, cat-eyes peering through the dark. The Princess looks... dejected, almost crumpled on the floor with her back against the wall. It’s such a novelty, seeing the goody-two-shoes Adora of Bright Moon without that air of moral superiority around her, without her sword in hand and the wind in her golden hair, sunlight over swelling muscle... Catra shakes her head. Focus.
Princess Adora of Bright Moon is not crying now, but Catra can see the pale streaks down her still battle-dusty cheeks. Her clothes are dirty, too, even singed in places. What kind of an idiot only wears white, anyway? The Princess’ once-pristine tunic has a splatter of what might be blood across one shoulder, and the front is ripped straight across the chest in four lines that may or may not be claw marks. Catra is almost ashamed of those, if only because they occurred once the Princess was already captured, and only because an especially petty streak in Catra had a sudden desire to see her Princess less dressed.
Catra catches herself. The Princess. Her enemy. Collecting herself, she makes her presence known to the prisoner.
“Hey, Princess.” Catra won’t say her name. It’s too fucking stupid.
“Force Captain.” Her voice is grave, and formal, and Catra hates it.
“I must say, you don’t look too good.”
The Princess does nothing but stare at that. If her hands weren’t tied behind her back still (Catra takes no chances with princesses and their magic) she might have attempted to cover her chest. As it is, Catra can see her soft, cream-coloured breasts push against what remains of the tunic, threatening to spill out with every slow breath.
After a long moment of silence, the Princess speaks:
“Where’s my sword?”
“What does it matter? We won’t give it to you anyway.”
Truth be told, they don’t have the sword. It got lost somewhere in the confusion when someone (fuck you, Kyle) lost sight of it during the capture. Catra almost wishes the Princess still had it with her. She imagines having She-Ra tied up beneath her, imagines those magically enhanced muscles straining against shackles as Catra removes that ridiculous armour, piece by shining piece...
Catra looks around the cell. She certainly never intended to come inside, and yet. She drops the bundle she’s been carrying onto the floor.
“What’s that?” The Princess casts a weary glance at the bundle.
“Your rations,” Catra answers. Among other things.
“My—“ the Princess blinks, dumbly. Silence.
As the silence drags on, Catra walks slowly around the cell, watching the Princess closely. She is clearly straining her eyes, squinting and blinking, making her look even dumber than usual.
”So…” Catra drawls, sinking down onto her haunches in front of the prisoner. ”The shipment from Crypto Castle. Where is it?”
Perfect eyebrows furrow in confusion. ”What? Is— Is that what you—”
”I don’t have all day, Princess.” (This is a lie, obviously.) ”Simply tell me where it is, and we can both be on our merry way.” Catra tucks a tangled lock of golden hair behind the Princess’ ear, almost subconsciously, and feels a shiver in response. Good.
”You’ll… You’ll let me go?”
God, she’s so dumb it’s almost not even funny to mess with her.
”Let me rephrase that.” Catra tilts her head. ”I’ll go on my merry way, and you’ll still be here, but you will have food.” Sweeping her eyes over the Princess’ physique, deliberately avoiding the… chest situation she’d caused earlier, she idly wonders what those thighs would feel like around— Not the point, Catra. She swallows. The point is, the Princess must be starving. Just how many ration bars must she eat in a day to maintain all of… that?
“Or... I could always give you to Shadow Weaver...”
The Princess looks up, eyes wide in fear. Catra almost feels sorry for her.
By now, everyone on Etheria knows that the old sorceress has plans for She-Ra. Plans that involve corruption, and mind control, and an overcharge of magic. Extensive research has gone into this little project (resulting in a lengthy thesis, Etherian corruption and the ego-death of She-Ra, Princess of Power, available at any successfully bribed local book peddler) though unfortunately Hordak has forbidden its fruition at present, judging it far too risky. A pity. The Princess doesn’t need to know that, of course.
“Why haven’t you already?” The Princess in question has the gall to ask, eyes narrowing. “Her methods are clearly more efficient than yours.”
Because her methods interfere with my plans for you, you beautiful stupid perfect dumbass, Catra thinks. “Because we haven’t even gotten started yet, Princess,” she purrs, voice dripping with acid promise.
“Oh,” says the Princess, her flimsy veneer of courage failing as she swallows hard.
Catra feels her own traitor tail curl around the Princess’ leg, but when she sees the Princess’ nervous glance down at it, decides she can probably pass it off as an in intimidation tactic. Probably. The Princess’ breathing is slow, but she can hear it hitch. Catra wonders if she was taught the same methods as she was to withstand torture. Perhaps, she ponders, had the princess fallen just a few metres to the side in favour of the Horde all those years ago, perhaps… She allows herself to imagine a different world, only briefly, where the Princess is just Adora, and not brainwashed by the Alliance, and they’d both have fewer scars, and …
Catra takes a deep breath, and looks up, and the Princess is a Princess, and probably hates her back. That’s right. That’s what enemies do.
Something wells inside her chest. She doesn't like it. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and she doesn’t know what to name it or how to make it go away, so instead she extends her claws.
The Princess may have trouble seeing, but she clearly recognizes the sound. A tremble in her lower lip, the tiniest shuffle backwards. Had they lived in that other world, perhaps this would have deterred Catra from what she is about to do.
Unfortunately for both of them in more ways than Catra could imagine, she is not deterred. Her first swipe catches the Princess’ smooth cheek. She feels the skin break and rip like paper under her razor sharp claws. The Princess tries to say something, but Catra doesn't care to listen. Another swipe and the once-white tunic’s left sleeve darkens with pooling blood.
Another—
A deafening roar fills her ears as the alarm goes off. Without so much a looking at the princess, Catra retracts her claws and hurries out of the cell and up towards the ground level.
”Catra!”
As soon as she is above ground, Scorpia finds her.
”I thought you were interrogating the prisoner?”
”I was,” she replies testily. ”Are you going to explain what’s going on?”
”Ohhh,” Scorpia seems to shrink into herself, which is an impressive feat for someone of her size. ”That. Terribly sorry.”
”What?” Catra’s tail is lashing freely now, not caring to hide her emotions as the alarm finally goes mercifully silent around them.
”I— Honestly? I don’t know what happened. Maybe I pushed a button? Gosh, I—”
Force Captain Scorpia is many things, but she’s not one to make those sorts of mistakes. She gestures wildly with her claws, as if to display her clumsiness, but something falls into place in Catra’s mind as she sees every commanding officer gathered in response to the alarm.
”The Princess.” Catra turns, and runs.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid… There she’d been, thinking of a different world and trembling lips and… and that bitch was just waiting for her brave little rebel friends to come take her away. Of course she was, comes a lone reasonable thought, you were going to torture her. But reason hasn’t gotten Catra where she is in life, and so the thought is dismissed.
She hurries down the lower prison corridor until she reaches the far end, and…
Catra stops dead in her tracks. The cell is empty.
Something cold unfurls in her chest as she surveys the cell. The handcuffs are gone, perhaps they didn’t have time to unlock them. The bundle Catra brought is trampled on the ground, three ration bars crushed and then there’s the shirt. She fished it out of the clean laundry pile this morning, just a regular training shirt, but it’s whole. And white. Stupid.
Catra picks up the shirt, and brushes off the crumbs mechanically. She is just about to rip it to pieces when she hears footsteps down the corridor. She doesn’t even turn around.
“Kyle.” Catra’s voice is cold. “Where. Is. The Princess.”
“She’s. Um.” He swallows loudly. “She’s been moved. Shadow Weaver took her.”
“Shadow Weaver?!”
If there is a response, Catra doesn’t hear it. She’s taken off down the corridor, thoughts rushing through her head. Did Shadow Weaver set off the alarm? Was this all a ruse to steal the prisoner away for herself? Or…
She notices that the corridors are empty, closer to Shadow Weaver’s sanctum. For the first time, Catra is glad that they don’t have the sword. The sword is key. The sorceress wants She-Ra. Adora is useless to her. Shadow Weaver isn’t exactly known for improvising, especially not when she has such carefully laid plans already.
Catra can feel the crystal even here, Scorpia says that’s impossible, but she does. Shadow Weaver always called her ridiculous, weak, useless for crying when she had to go into the crystal chamber as a child. Skin prickling, neck hairs raised, Catra keeps running.
It would, perhaps, be beneficial to formulate some sort of plan, or goal, even. For all her focusing her energy and training with purpose, Catra’s legs want to run, and she doesn’t have it in her to stop them.
She’s closer now, hurrying as the static of the Black Garnet grows stronger and stronger until she has to fold her ears back to stop that awful popping. Suddenly, the ground beneath her shakes with an explosion. It barely makes a sound, but Catra’s ears are ringing. The Black Garnet. Taking a second to steady her feet, she rounds the final corner.
Something’s wrong. Metal shrapnel has lodged itself in and around the doors to Shadow Weaver’s chamber. A red glow emanates from within, and right now, Catra is just stupid enough to enter anyway.
At first, she truly believes that the Princess is dead. She is slumped against the humming crystal, her clothes in an even worse state than they were before, head rolled forward. At the other end of the room, Shadow Weaver lies in a similar fashion.
To her shame, Catra’s first instinct is to go check on the sorceress. She stole your prisoner, she reminds herself. She doesn’t care about you. She doesn't care about anything other than power. Then, the Princess makes a noise.
”Princess?”
”Hrmmph?”
Catra drops the shirt she’s still clutching on the floor and hurries over to take stock of the damage. Crouching in front of the Princess, she can see that she’s still bleeding from her cheek and shoulder, and - Catra swallows - her tunic is so fucking close to giving up its tenuous hold on her chest. Otherwise, no apparent injury. Catra even feels the back of her head, and nothing.
”Oh, it’s you,” says the Princess conversationally.
”What.”
The Princess looks up at Catra with unfocused eyes, and reaches out clumsily - her hands must have come loose in the blast - to touch her ear. Instinctively, Catra catches her arm, but it feels… strange. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, as though in pain, and Catra realizes what’s wrong.
There is something strapped to the Princess’ lower arm, something sharp and red. Catra tries to pry it loose, cutting her hand open in the process.
”Ouch,” the Princess complains, and Catra realizes that the something is dug into the Princess’ arm, deep, blood seeping out in a slow stream.
”What the—” Catra throws a glance over at Shadow Weaver. Completely drained. She’ll be out for a while. Pulling out her knife, Catra carefully cuts away the straps around the Princess’ arm and extracts the item, perhaps not as carefully as she should have. The Princess winces in pain, but otherwise does not complain. Interesting.
She turns the item over in her hand. It’s a three-edged disc, inscribed with First One’s writing. Oh. Catra looks from the disc, to the Princess’ injured arm where blackened veins show beneath the skin, to her glossed-over eyes and dull smile. Fuck. I guess this is what improvising looks like. Well. She can’t let her prisoner die, either way. Far too valuable.
Catra hurries out into the corridor to locate the nearest first-aid station, and brings what she needs back into the chamber, picking the shirt up on the way.
”You came back.” The Princess waves happily, as though this is a good thing.
”Shut up. Hold still.”
The Princess does neither. She squirms and whines and without thinking, Catra clasps her injured hand over her mouth.
”I said hold still, and shut up.” She removes her hand, leaving a red smear of blood across the Princess’ perfect pink lips. Catra wishes that it would make them less appealing to her.
”Your hand—”
”Shut UP!”
Catra doesn’t know why, but something about the Princess’ distant tone and empty eyes infuriate her. Taking deep, shaking breaths, she dresses the wound as best she can, carefully avoiding those big blue eyes looking up at her as though they trust her. One careless glance at the face of her enemy carrying that open expression and Catra is months, years ahead, falling asleep in strong arms in a stupid, made-up, impossible world.
”There,” she spits, ”now it’s time for you to get decent.”
”Am decent,” the Princess claims in a voice far too petulant for someone her age.
There is nothing decent about you, Catra thinks as she hands the Princess the training shirt, eyes stubbornly on the floor. Just what is wrong with the Princess? She considers the blackened veins, the explosion, Shadow Weaver drained - there is no way any of it is good. Salvageable, perhaps. Looking at the princess, and the way she’s currently failing to comprehend the shirt, she’s not so sure.
”Princess. Put the shirt on.”
Blue eyes narrow. ”I don’t think so, Force Catra. Captain. Maybe it’s poison.”
Catra takes a deep breath. Or ten. Either way, it doesn’t help.
“Adora!” The Princess snaps to attention at that, as Catra holds her face inches from her own. “Adora, listen to me you stupid attractive mess, I’m helping you.”
She seems to consider this for a moment. ”…No,” she decides.
”Yes,” Catra says helplessly.
”No.”
”Yes, because if you stay here, Shadow Weaver’s gonna wake up, and she’ll destroy you, and I don’t…” I don't want that.
”Ah,” she says, as though she has understood a single word Catra just said, ”Politics.”
”You can say that. Now, please put the shirt on.”
Finally, Adora has managed to put the shirt on backwards, over her shredded tunic. It’s fine. Catra, who would rather pull her claws out one by one than spend another minute with this dependent creature and the conflicting emotions she provokes, extends a hand.
”Now, Pr— Adora, let’s take a little walk together. Get up.”
It’s a struggle, to say the least, but finally, Adora is on her feet.
”Okay?” Catra asks.
”Okay,” she says, this mythical Princess, and immediately falls over. Then, weakly: ”Help.”
This is when the second explosion happens.
It’s different, this time, sharper, non-magical. And close.
Catra listens. Isn’t it far too quiet around here? With a renewed sense of urgency, she kneels by the collapsed Princess to get her back up on her feet.
”Adora.” Catra grips her head to force her attention, cruel by necessity. ”We have to get you back. Now.”
”Here,” Adora says as gravely as she possibly can while her mouth is being squeezed by clawed hands, as she picks up the leftover wound dressing from the floor and holding it out to Catra.
A pang of something that may or may not be guilt hits Catra, but she waves it away all the same. ”Yes, fine, the cheek? I’ll see to it when you’re back in your cell.”
”No,” she insist, ”your hand.”
Catra doesn’t have an answer to that. She’ll curse herself for this later: her naïveté, her foolish, foolish heart and the delay it causes as she stares numbly at the tiny yet monumental kindness being offered.
”Let her go, Horde scum!”
…Ah. Isn’t this just perfect.
”Sparkles. Arrow Boy. Welcome to the Fright Zone.”
Catra’s attempt at a calm and collected greeting is immediately thwarted by Adora grabbing her by the collar excitedly, whisper-shouting: ”It’s my friends!”
”What have you done to her?” Arrow Boy is all horrified concern, aiming a strange-looking arrow at Catra. Well. This is not my best day ever.
”I haven’t done anything,” Catra insist by pure habit, gesturing at Adora, who, unfortunately, has four very obvious claw marks down one cheek.
”Do you really expect us to believe that?”
How can Sparkle Princess be so tiny and so fucking annoying?
”Honestly, with the day I'm having I couldn’t care less what you believe.”
”Guys, guys, we’re all doing our best here, okay?” Adora slurs, unhelpfully.
”Stay right where you are!” shouts Arrow Boy, having noticed Catra’s attempt to edge backwards towards the alarm button on the wall.
Yeah, no. With all her strength, Catra shoves the Princess towards her friends, and dives backwards to sound the alarm. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell whether or not she is successful as she is hit with something vile, something that causes her entire body to cramp and hurt for about three excruciating seconds before her world goes dark.
…
”Catra? Catra?! Wildcat I am so, so sorry this is all my fault, I can’t—”
Please shut up, Scorpia, is what Catra attempts to say, but it comes out as ”Schllp.”
”Did you guys hear that? She’s awake!”
”Unfortunately,” Catra slurs, with marginally more success.
As her senses slowly return to her, Catra can tell three things: First of all, Shadow Weaver has been moved. Second, the Princess is gone. Third, Catra’s hand feels very strange.
Blinking against the light, she holds it up in front of her.
”Scorpia, you’re really shit at dressing wounds, you know that, right?”
”How— How’d you know that? I haven’t done it since cadet training, really… Wait, did— Did Octavia tell you that? Did she—”
Tuning out Scorpia’s rambling comes easy to Catra, and she is left with a single thought:
Oh.