Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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#HordeLife: 30 songs, 2hr14min

Genres include: witch house, prog rock, indie folk /rock /pop, trance/prog house, punk/emo, baroque pop

~  ~  ~  First Arc: Year 3  ~  ~  ~

~  ~  ~  Chapter One: Welcome to Your Home Horde  ~  ~  ~

“/ Continue the deceit/ pull them by their teeth / the excess is contained / Extracted from the maimed /”

Concrete - Crystal Castles Lyrics

Adora adopted Catra from a random box

Fanart: @_amlli

Catra and Adora approximate age: 3 years old

Catra has just a few weeks left until she can leave the orphan ward within the Infirmary and join the other young Recruits, but today she risks another sneaky walk out into the maze of corridors beyond. She knows her one friend, Adora, lives out here somewhere, but she’s not allowed in the Infirmary to visit, so Catra’s been trying to sniff out a mental map.

For reasons she doesn’t yet know, these corridors are avoided, but Catra only ever spies scared-looking soldiers and young cadets escorted through the Infirmary doors by the medical attendants. There is one other double doorway in the infirmary besides the one connecting to the orphan ward, near enough that Catra can hear the wheels of a medical cot rolling through it at night.

Catra is not that many years old, but she knows that those who find themselves wheeled in sometimes don’t come back out.

Too much of this deep knowledge swirling in Catra’s mind leaves a rather stale atmosphere around her, especially at night, which spurs her to restlessness and sudden bursts of speed.

Now, she slinks along the corridors, freezes in the shadowed corners, and hones her tiny ears to the rumble of boots echoing in many far-off directions. Curiosity surges in her little chest, and she picks up her pace.

She starts skipping, and with a trill, rockets into a fast run down the walkway.  Tiny claws scrape into the concrete when she does a cool slide across the ground - and she goes “ow-ow-ow-ow - ” as the burning sensation creeps up her feet, but then wobbles back into a sprint and shoots around the corner.

Partly thrilled that there’s no one around to scold her yet, and partly bummed that there’s no one around to see how fast she’s going, Catra huffs and puffs herself into a frenzy.

I’ll run around the whole Fright Zone before anyone can catch me!

She makes the next sharp turn with a clawed hand to the ground as an assist, her other flinging dramatically back behind her, and with all her might, she leaps forward out of her power slide -

- and slams head first into something soft but heavy, and it knocks her back.

“Ooof!”  “Oouch-hhissh!” Catra hisses at the back of her throat, trying to make the wind that got knocked out of her sound scary. She squashes her hair to the top of her head, and tries to squint up through the mess, but she can already smell who it is.

“Oh! Hi Catra!” Adora is smiling with her tiny and gapped teeth and holding her hand out for Catra. “Wow, you came outta that turn so fast! Where ya goin’?”

“Just…” looking for you doesn’t sound cool in her head, so as Catra accepts Adora’s hand and stands up, she finishes, “…around. Explorin’. They don’t like it when I run in the ward, so I’m sneaking out.”

“Sneaking out? Do you do that a lot?” Adora’s eyes go a little wider.

Catra sticks a thumb out behind her, “Uh, yeah, it’s dumb in there, and I hate doing the worksheets. But it’s not long before I can move into the barracks and start doing real war stuff instead.”

“I think we’ll still have to do the worksheets, Catra,”  Adora giggles. “Besides, without the paper, I wouldn’t be able to draw you any notes. Have you been getting them?”

“She doesn’t seem very happy to be dropping them off, but yea. They’re all crunched up, but I can flatten them out on the edge of my cot.”

Adora giggles nervously, “Heh, yea, I keep trying to tell Shadow Weaver that if she doesn’t wanna deliver them, she could just let me visit you, but -  she says she doesn’t have time for that.”

“Well…what if I came to visit you?”

Adora’s blue eyes shine, “That’d be cool!”

~  ~  ~

Catra’s tail skitters left to right near the ground as she waits in front of a tall door in an empty corridor. She’s found it, finally, the place where Adora’s scent is strongest (and because yesterday, Adora pointed it out from down the hall). A mechanism hisses, and the door opens.

“Can Adora play?” Catra rushes out, but her mouth shuts immediately after, her tail now straight and fuzzed out at the sight of the masked figure who is taller than the door.

Shadow Weaver ducks under the frame and leans down to inspect Catra.

“Catra. You will soon begin your training as a soldier of The Horde, and as such, you should know well enough to always address your Second-in-Command appropriately. Insubordination - “

“Hi Catra!” Adora pops through the doorway and quickly turns to the masked Sorceress. “Sorry, Shadow Weaver, she’s still learning - “

“No matter; the answer to your question, little tenderfoot, is no. There is no time for play in the Fright Zone. Adora has accelerated studies to finish. Leave us.“

“Wait - !” Adora jumps and catches Catra’s wrist before she can start sprinting away. “She came all the way over here, what if she stayed and we did the worksheets together?”

“Worksheets?” Catra squeaks, her dichromatic eyes going wide.

“Uhm, we can go over The Horde Hierarchy,  I - I could teach her, so she’d know how to address you next time.”

“She will be a distraction, Adora,” Shadow Weaver’s hands form a loose diamond in front of her scarlet robes. “You’ll be moving into the Cadet Barracks soon, where you’ll need to stick to very strict routines. You won’t have me to remind you about your timetable, or help you tie your boots.”

“I don’t wear boots,” Catra wiggles her claws on the concrete floor. Shadow Weaver’s response is just a narrowing of the whites eyes of her mask. Adora leans a little more in front of Catra.

“It’s a test then; I’ll teach Catra everything you’ve taught me, that way you’ll know I’ve learned it all! Please Shadow Weaver, she’s my best friend! I know I can help Catra be a good Cadet if we stick together.”

Catra frowns not only to hide her fear of Shadow Weaver, but in protest to Adora thinking she’s better than her. They haven’t even started basic training, and Shadow Weaver has no idea how fast Catra can be.

Shadow Weaver is leaning down again, and Catra flattens her ears and curls her shoulders down. She focuses intensely on Shadow Weaver’s hand-diamond.

“You have two hours of instruction left before the dinner bell. Every minute will be spent productively, and you will not interrupt my work. Is this understood, Cadet Catra?”

“Y-yes. Understood, Shadow Weaver,” Catra plays along, but only because she’d rather have Adora’s hand keep squeezing hers than turn her back to Shadow Weaver and try running away. She copies Adora and gives Shadow Weaver a stiff salute.

Swept inside, Catra remains silent next to Adora on a green standard-issue floor mat, where Adora plops a large pile of worksheets between them. “Shadow Weaver’s been giving me extra lessons, so when we start training, we can be farther along than any of the other Cadets.”

Catra curls her tail under her crossed legs, as Adora’s fist clenches in front of her chest and her blue eyes shimmer. “We’ll be the number one Cadets of the whole Horde!”

“Cool,” Catra grins, and tries to keep it up as Adora hands her the first worksheet.

~  ~  ~

With Shadow Weaver’s unenthusiastic blessing, Adora is waiting outside the Infirmary entrance to escort Catra to breakfast. Catra meets her wearing a blanket bunched up around her neck and shoulders, making her hair look even more fluffed. Catra lets Adora spike up some of the bunches before she bumps Adora’s hand away with her forehead. Adora might have thought Catra would be more excited to finally eat in the Mess Hall with the other Cadets, but her pace is slow. Adora takes hold of her hand as she walks them down the corridors.

In the Cadet Mess Hall, they find an empty spot on one of the long tables and sit close together on the cool metal bench. Adora eats quickly, chewing hard and watching the other Cadets in the hall, some wearing training fatigues, some older ones already outfitted with armored uniforms. Adora spends a moment wondering what it feels like to wear the helmet.

Catra is eating slowly, separating her ration bar into smaller, mushed up chunks with her claws. Soon enough, Adora finishes the last of her brown ration bar and reaches to wash it down with her cup of water, clutching it between her hands and tilting her head back.

She gasps in a big breath after swallowing, and asks Catra, “Are you not hungry?”

“I am…” Catra pierces a small crumbly chunk of her brown bar, “…this stuff is sticky, sometimes it makes me cough.” She pops off the chunk from her claw into her mouth.

“Where’s your drink?” Adora notices now that she didn’t get one at the end of the food line. Catra swallows slowly before answering.

“I can’t… I don’t drink with that,” she points to Adora’s cup.

“You can’t drink like this?” and Adora tilts the big cup up again, dribbles a little electrolyte-dense water out the corners of her lips and down to her shirt, and gulps loudly with one eye blinking at Catra. “Ahhh!” she finishes.

Catra looks around and frowns at the other big kids. “No, I can’t.” 

Adora doesn’t quite get it but she catches Catra’s eyes go a little bigger when they roam around the tables and Cadets surrounding them, and notices how Catra pulls up her blanket a little higher to make a slight hood.

“How do you drink then?” Adora calls Catra’s attention back.

Catra rubs her hands on her shorts and cups them together. She nods to Adora’s cup. Confused, Adora tries to put it in Catra’s hands, but she pulls away. “No, just the water,” Catra clarifies, shaking her hands together.

Adora tries to slowly pour water into Catra’s hands, but over-fills it easily.  “Oops…”

Catra bends her head low, closes her eyes, and dips her tongue into the water slowly draining between her fingers, lapping quickly at it. She opens her eyes and looks up at Adora, who’s mouth is open in a little ‘oh’ shape that condenses into a big smile.

Adora cups her hands together too, and bumps Catra’s hands. Catra smiles as she lets the remaining water escape through her palms into Adora’s, and adds the last sips of Adora’s cup to it. Adora tries licking it up like Catra did, but she gets more flicked over the sides of her hands and dribbled down her chin.

They giggle together, Adora’s stumpy little legs swinging back and forth from the bench, and Catra’s tail flicking out behind her in small movements.

It’s not long, however, before Catra starts trying to use the cup at meal times. She struggles with spills but Adora thinks her tip about tilting her whole head back helped her.

Adora only saw it happen once, but Catra really didn’t like it when some of the other Cadets started miming at licking from their empty hands at her.

~  ~  ~

It’s moving day, and Catra’s the first one in the barracks, with her single box of all her personal belongings. They include a small tattered blanket, an extra set of ratty gray fatigues, a random assortment of scratch-covered metal bits and some bite-ridden rubberized tubing, and all of Adora’s hand drawn notes on pieces of old worksheets.

Upon the room filling up with the rest of their new bunk mates, Shadow Weaver floats through the doors and gravitates immediately to Catra’s box. She spares its contents a quick unimpressed glance, before sweeping a hand before them all.

“Welcome to your home barracks, Cadets. This is where you will stay for all the hours not dedicated to physical training or technical instruction. You will each choose a bunk and be responsible for the order and maintenance of your space. The Horde does not accept wastefulness nor indolence.”

There’s some movement behind Catra, from some Cadets turning to scope out their desired bunk beds. Shadow Weaver opens a palm and very subtly lifts her fingertips - Catra’s box floats up in a cloud of black energy, and all eyes are brought back to the Sorceress.

“As newly inducted Cadets, you all have individual storage units in the adjoining locker rooms. The space is limited, so I suggest you keep only the essential items.”

She dumps out Catra’s box on the floor, “Such items should include your Protocol and Fidelity workbooks, your physical training mods, your uniforms and off-duty attire, and a minimal number of personal effects.”

Catra’s eyes are darting across the faces of the other new recruits, uncertainty filling up her chest. Adora stands at attention next to her, but her eyes, like everyone else, wander over Catra’s spilled belongings, and the notes that flutter to the ground, as the Sorceress continues, “Contraband is strictly prohibited, and a filthy locker is punishable with latrine duty. Keep your trash to a minimum.”

In an instant, the snap of Shadow Weaver’s fingers brings forth black energy currents to pierce and burn through Adora’s notes, then course through the rest of the scattered belongings. Catra’s claws pop out, she narrows her eyes at the Cadets next to her that giggle and ʻooohʻ under their breath, but the pain that pierces her deepest comes from Adora, standing still with her eyebrows furrowed. The drawing of her and Catra sharing the top of a mountain peak with cartoonish victory glares, curls at its edges and turns to ash. Catra flicks her tail, waiting for Adora to say something, to stop it, but the damage is done and even Catra’s empty box is now a pile of ash left in the middle of the barracks.

“You’ll find your new set of training fatigues waiting for you in the locker rooms. Disperse, get changed, and regroup for your first training scenario as a Barracks Unit. Welcome to your life as Cadets; your training will push you further everyday. Lord Hordak expects nothing less than excellence from you all.”

Boots stomp and salutes are fired off, then the barracks members rush to their new locker rooms. Adora strays behind, but Shadow Weaver shoos the back of her hand at her, and she turns to follow the mob. Shadow Weaver carries her voice over them,  “And do try to learn each other’s names while you’re in there - the Simulation Grid is no place for socializing.”

Catra stares at her pile of ash, curious at the very meager amount of dirt her life’s belongings left behind. The fur along her spine senses a crackle of invisible energy in the space near Shadow Weaver, and Catra, by now, can guess what she wants to happen.

Catra bends down and scoots the ash together into a pile in her hands. From her crouch, she looks back up to Shadow Weaver, and the Sorceress lowers a bit to give her a single pat atop her head, adding, “There are brooms in the supply closet of the locker rooms.”

Catra nods and turns on balanced toes before standing up and moving towards the lockers. However, she slows and stops before the doorway, the voices of her fellow Cadets and Adora’s twittering laughter bouncing off the walls.

The ash on the edge of her palms itches the sensitive fur there. Feeling empty and brazen at once, the question comes up urgently into Catra’s mouth.

“Shadow Weaver - “

The sorceress turns back, having nearly left the barracks herself. “Questions?”

“Are you Adora’s mom?”

Shadow Weaver’s float seems to falter, but she diamonds her fingers together and studies Catra. “What’s brought up this sudden need to know Adora’s heritage?”

“It’s just - you treat her differently. And you do stuff for her, and she - uhh, lived with you.” Catra has turned around fully to face Shadow Weaver, her hands still cupped with ash in front of her like an offering.

“Adora is my prodigy.”

“Wha - is that like - what, you’re her dad, then?”

“No - wh - “ but Shadow Weaver halts herself and brings a hand to push her mask closer on her forehead.  “It means she’s destined for great things, if she heeds my instructions well. ”

“And…” Catra’s tail tip swishes near the floor, “What about me? What am I?”

The response comes quickly and irritated, “You are a fuzzy pet who for your own sake needs to start acting like just another Cadet and follow orders. Go get that broom and clean up your mess.”

A week later, Catra’s excitement about her new life as a Cadet has been replaced by other overwhelming feelings. The lectures are boring and she gets scolded for her restlessness all the time; the physical training gets tiresome and repetitive quickly.

She’s still pretty fast, but she gets knocked around a lot, either by the simulation bots or the other Recruits.

Catra’s not used to being around so many other people that aren’t Adora, and no one else seems to like her as much as Adora does.

Catra just keeps trying to remember what Adora said to her in the barracks after a particularly rough day; she tries to hold on to those safe feelings she had when Adora’s blanket was wrapped over her shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter what they do to us. I look out for you, and you look out for me.”

~  ~  ~ End ch 1 ~  ~  ~ 

Chapter Text

~~~ First Arc: Year 4 ~~~

~~~Chapter Two: The Weeping Princess ~~~

 “/ Would you come out and die? And die? For me?/ If your living is all inside a dream?/ “

Come Out And Die - Mikky Ekko Lyrics

King Micah </3

Fanart: @feyreene

Catra and Adora approximate age: 4 years

Shadow Weaver glides cautiously over the theater of war that is Hordak’s laboratory and Sanctum. Littered all over the floor are discarded files, reports and administrative requests, various charts and graphs - the necessary minutia of operating a facility and ever-expanding organization such as The Horde. In her hands Shadow Weaver holds a similar looking folder to those strewn on the ground; all are colored green and some are marked with rather important seeming labels like “Northern Reach Logistics” and “Field Energy-Capture Systems” and “Prisoner Intake Log"; all spilling their innards like so much bureaucratic offal.

“Lord, Hordak, I have a report from the field - “ 

“Another!” Hordak snaps without turning away from his work table, similarly covered in folders. He sweeps an arm out, “Just add it to the rest of these never-ending interruptions!“

“You are vexed, my lord?”

“Vexed and raving! How much administrative blather must I be forced to supervise before I may continue in my work?”

“My Lord, your campaigns across Etheria have resulted in a swell of our personnel ranks, as well as the need to optimize our supply chains to outposts and controlled territories. It’s a mark of your success to have these kinds of issues.“

Hordak growls again but he keeps his back to her, barely acknowledging his Second-in-Command. She spies that he is tinkering with a length of optic cable, a hex-driver in his fingers shaking at the small open port of the clustered cables. Tiny problems which make for big outbursts. She must tread lightly.

“Will you hear my report from the field, my Lord?”

“Yes, go on. Which front?” His voice quiets but the gravely irritation remains in tone.

“The North-East, my Lord. Our labor camps there have upped their minerals extraction by 30 percent. Keeping a presence within the villages has maintained local cooperation, and we may soon be able to expand our operations to the mountain range bordering Dryl. Additionally, we have acquired more inductees for the war effort, and they are ready for indoctrination into the ranks.”

“These come from the villages of the labor camps?”

“Correct.”

“And you can adapt their training to account for their previous rebellious affiliations?”

“Of course, Lord Hordak. Memory modification remains an integral process in their re-education.  So long as my supply of mystic herbs flows from the Whispering Woods…,” Shadow Weaver pauses and lets her next words float out with a little more honey, “…as it happens, I have such a request for re-supply here that requires your approval.”

He grumbles, but faces her and holds his hand out for the folder. He continues to frown as he looks it over, then glares back at the Sorceress, before turning back to his work table to search fruitlessly for an approval stamp. He uncaringly knocks another folder to the floor, before giving up his search and instead impatiently heating the end of his hex driver. It stamps a scorch mark into the re-supply request while Shadow Weaver hears him grumble some more about “inefficiency” and “primitive paper.”

He hands her back the folder and seems to finally take in the state of his work area. Hordak flutters his cape open to cross his arms across his chest and leans back against his work table.

“While I am not surprised at the great expanse of my growing empire, I admit I am left hindered by the amount of oversight pulling focus away from my projects…”

Shadow Weaver waves two fingers in a tight sigil, and the approved request is swallowed up in dark energy. This leaves her hands free to form a diamond resting at her waist. 

“Lord Hordak, I imagine your work must take a great deal of your concentration. I could perhaps act as liaison over much of the daily operations within the Fright Zone, if you were to authorize such clearance. I would keep the necessary reports minimally invasive.”

The weight of his empire seems to hang heavy from his crown, Shadow Weaver notes. Several years already have transpired since his arrival, yet his war for dominance still rages. The alien transplant takes only a moment before he lows, “Approved. Take care of all this - immediately, “ he sweeps a hand at the strewn folders and then brings it to cover his closed eyes.

Shadow Weaver waves her fingers and the whole mess is lifted into the air. The Sorceress’s hands fly together to touch tips, as do the papers and folders, before they are enveloped in darkness and transported elsewhere. She will delegate the sorting to some subordinate.

“There is something else pressing, Lord Hordak.”

His eyes still hidden under his hand, Hordak’s mouth forms a wry smirk. “Ah, of course - but not as pressing as getting your magic dust resupplied.”

“Something equally pertinent, I assure you. My shadow spies report rumors that Bright Moon will make a play for the Black Garnet soon. I have already doubled the eyes at our borders, however… if you were to grant me closer access to the Black Garnet - ”

Hordak stands abruptly and points a finger at her, keeping his arm bent and half-hidden under his cape.

“You swarm like a fly to decay! You’ve been eyeing the Runestone since I wrested it from the Royal Scorpion Family. Do not think your lust for power goes unnoticed.”

“My Lord, I am driven to efficiency to aid you in your conquest - as your Second-in-Command, should I not strive at every turn to cripple our enemy and ensure the grand expanse of your empire to sweep across the land?”

Hordak has turned his back to her and grunted in a way that the Sorceress reads as tuning her out. She presses further, however, banking on his irritation working in her favor.

“The stone remains a dormant but powerful resource right here in the Fright Zone. The Scorpion girl has no connection to the Garnet, we’ve assured that. She may yet prove a strong soldier on the battlefield, but without a conduit, the vast power of Etherian mystical energy remains out of the Horde’s grasp. What better weapon to fight against the Princess Rebellion than with their own planet’s magic?”

Finally, her litany cracks him, and he roars in frustration. “FINE! Utilize the stone, keep the borders up, and maintain operations as usual everywhere else. You are now in charge of all the reports and are responsible for keeping the Empire on its trajectory, so that I may focus on my research.” 

Hordak spins back to his table and crushes his palms flat to the surface, “All of this is for naught if my experiments are fruitless.”

“As you wish, my Lord.” Shadow Weaver bows.

Without turning to her, Hordak points to the door. “Leave now, you’ve brought me a terrible head pain.”

~  ~  ~

The older Cadets within Catra and Adoraʻs barracks tend to stick together socially outside of training, but itʻs oneʻs ability over age that determines the pecking order. Squad configurations within the barracks will be assigned over the course of the year, according to how well they all coordinate as teams in the Simulation Grid, with most Squads formed of 5-6 Cadets. Once formed, the group will graduate to the Leaderboard which ranks each Squad and Cadet across all the barracks. They have several more years of basic training and specialized operations instruction ahead, before those with top rankings will receive promotions to Horde Officers, or the more coveted, Force Captains, per Shadow Weaver’s approval.

This culture of winning perpetuates itself amongst The Horde Cadets through regular challenges hoisted upon each other; rituals designed less to celebrate the victors and more to humiliate those who fail. Physical challenges are the most common and easiest to judge, but even with Catra’s growing agility, she is still singled out as the weakest and weirdest of the food chain. 

Lonnie is doing pull-ups on her bed frame. Tonight, a light-hearted strength check has been called. The female cadet with dark brown hair that seems to perpetually cover her eyes, is about two years older than Adora and Catra, and she has been rather obsessed with outranking her peers lately. After throwing her challenge to Lonnie, she takes her victor’s spoils in the form of painfully pinching her buddy with the light green hair, having beaten his record by a full set.

Catra sits next to Adora on her lower bunk, using her toe claws to scratch behind her ear, in a show of apathy to the goings-on. Lonnie, however, is still fully in the game. Lonnie will sometimes boast to the older cadets, showing her confidence in becoming a strong soldier like her parents, who are serving in the Field. 

Rogelio, still small enough to prefer walking on all fours, clambers up Lonnie’s ladder and along the bunk frame, coming down to curl over Lonnie’s shoulders and back. He is half-hidden under the poofed light brown curls that halo her head. No one in their barracks can really understand what Rogelio says when he hisses and lows, but he’s getting better at expressing through his eyes and hand/claw gestures.

He flicks his tongue out cheekily when Lonnie grumbles about his weight, but she still manages a few more good pulls, her record also beating green-haired Maron and stopping respectably close behind the dark-haired girl’s, who prefers the nickname “Striker.” 

Lonnie drops to her cot, sweating and huffing, and Rogelio skitters up to the top bunk. Striker and a couple other Cadets give Lonnie some appreciative claps from across the room. Maron is busy massaging his pinched ribs.

“Beat… that…” Lonnie points a finger at Adora, before swiping back the thick lock that bounces between her eyes. Immediately Adora grabs the edge of Catra’s bunk above her, and swings her knees a little wildly in kip-ing herself up. She finds a rhythm eventually and surprises everyone with her consistent form. Well, everyone except Catra.

Adora’s eyebrows are crumpled in concentration and her counting breaths are coming in faster as she barrels past Striker’s record. Catra pulls on her eyelid at Lonnie who’s letting her jaw hang open extra wide at Adora’s strength and stamina, finishing with a new “barracks-best” of 25 pull-ups.

“But - you’re so tiny!! Where you hidin’ the muscle?!” Lonnie is incredulous.

Adora shrugs and huffs a little, “I like climbing stuff. Catra and I have races sometimes.”

“She’s never won,” Catra smirks.

“Ok, well… you didn’t do it with any extra weight, so, you got the numbers but I got the effort, ok?” Lonnie huffs.

“Ok, sure,” Adora laughs. 

Suddenly, Shadow Weaver enters. The chatter quiets. The playful mood disappears. “Gather, Cadets.”

Adora sits back down on her cot next to Catra, close, as Lonnie, Rogelio and the older cadets crowd around the bunks.

“Before you settle in for the night, I have a tale to share. A warning, rather, which some of you may have already heard and are wise to heed. For the rest, listen closely.”

 Shadow Weaver lets the name hang in the air, “The Weeping Princess…”

A few tiny gasps are heard. Adora looks to Catra, confused, and to Lonnie, who just shrugs minutely. Shadow Weaver brings the lights down low and slows her words with an affectation of drama.

“You’ll hear her cries well before you can set eyes upon her, and a paralyzing chill will settle deep in your bones. Her sorrow lets her phase through solid walls, and gravity does not pin her to this Etherian Plane. Those unlucky enough to encounter her alone, will experience her grief so consumingly that it will strike out the courage in your chest and leave you empty but for fear and an insurmountable desire for death.”

Now the group collectively gasps. She tells them a story of dark corners and unseen danger, of undying revenge and madness. Adora huddles closer to Catra, who shrinks into her pulled-up knees and listens with folded ears. 

“Holdfast, Cadets  - you are young but mighty together. You have an obligation to each other, a high and honorable duty to never falter in your mission. Adhere to your training and instruction, and you will all be molded into very capable soldiers.“

Shadow Weaver allows the group a moment to share strong glances and smirks with each other. Lonnie holds her fist out to Adora, who bumps it. Adora holds her fist up to Catra in the same way, but after a moment of Catra’s inaction, Adora picks up her hand by the wrist and bumps their knuckles together with a quiet giggle.

Without further preamble, Shadow Weaver gives the order for lights out, and the dim barracks fills with the shuffling of cadets climbing into their bunks. Before she floats through the barracks door, Shadow Weaver leaves them with this, “One last discernible warning to you all. Stay inside your barracks at night. Those who make a habit of wandering the Fright Zone at night will quickly know the sorrow of lost purpose.“

It’s impossible to tell with that mask she always wears, but it seems very true that the Sorceress’s eyes pin themselves to Adora and Catra’s bunk.

Later that night, Catra inevitably slips down to Adora’s bunk. Adora can’t sleep either. Which works out really, when a short time later the rest of the Cadets are shaken awake by the echoing booms coming from somewhere within the Fright Zone. No one suggests they go outside to see what’s going on.

~  ~  ~

What’s going on is this:  

The Rebellion’s attack has come earlier and bolder than expected. On the outskirts of the Fright Zone, The Queen of Bright Moon is mounting a surge at the border. Shadow Weaver finds it peculiar that the Queenʻs forces have already made several successful breaches, but are slow to invade across the barren landscape to engage with the Fright Zoneʻs battlements.

It isn’t until the shape of King Micah suddenly appears in a trans-location sigil that Shadow Weaver mentally chastises herself for her blindside. 

The attack at the border is a mere distraction.

“Found you,” Micah calls as his form solidifies, following it up quickly with a slash of his staff that sends a bright energy blade straight at Shadow Weaver, who easily counters with a dark energy blast of her own. She must get to the Black Garnet, now.

“Foolish of you to come here, Micah - and all alone?” Shadow Weaver tsks very disapprovingly.  “You should have brought more backup,” her words bite through her corporeal Shadow Spies as they attack. Micah circles in a dodge with a deft spin of his sorcerer’s staff that disperses their toothy maws.

“I don’t need backup to put you and your illusions down, Light Spinner.”

They trade blows from afar, Shadow Weaver keeping a sizable distance between them. She makes for the quickest route to the Black Garnet chamber, while simultaneously showering energy blasts and wrenching apart metal siding to slow down Micah’s advance. He has grown remarkably more skilled in the years since they last were together. But Shadow Weaver isn’t surprised by that.

For all of his confident and boisterous entrance, Micah stays cautiously observant in his engagement with his former mentor. The part of him that is still apprehensive towards Shadow Weaver isnʻt as easily dismissed now as it was in the Bright Moon War Room…

~  ~  ~

“You cannot face The Horde on your own, Micah!”

“I’m not facing down the whole army, my love, but I can make this targeted attack against their key general, and if I do some structural damage along the way, even better.”

“You have no escape plan, this is ludicrous -“

“Escape is secondary to the mission,” the King is resolute. “I know I can challenge her, and I’m the only one who can infiltrate the Fright Zone in one move.” 

“But you’ll need to first be within spell-casting distance to the Fright Zone, leaving plenty of time for The Horde to be made aware of our presence.”

“All eyes on the battlefield will be focused on the frontlines, they won’t see us up in that pollution-clouded sky. Just, hold on to me tightly, and I’ll perform the translocation from the air.”

The Queen purses her lips. “I could carry you and a General, at least bring one - “

“She’ll just cut down anyone else that tries to defy her. But she might trip up with me.”

“She is no longer the mentor you remember, Micah - “

“I know!” Micah snaps, but with a shake of his head, he steps into Angella’s space, and pulls her forehead down to his, holding them there for a quiet moment. “I know, Angella. But that doesn’t make this any less my fight. We need this precision attack, our one last gambit. Our people need hope.”

He kisses her forehead, her cheek, and her lips. Angella’s hold is tight and her wings curl to enfold them both. Eventually, Micah pulls away, eyes shining.

“We can do this. I’ll call for you with the signal, just be ready.”

~  ~  ~

Klaxons are sounding, red alarms are flashing, and there is a din of panic echoing through the corridors of the Fright Zone. Suddenly, an empty entrance way is filled with a blast of pink light as Micah disperses Shadow Weaver’s attack with a shield sigil. He is pushed back, but chases after her once he regains his footing. As she flees, dark energy bursts the red ceiling lights, casting darkness, and at the end of the hallway, she turns to stand her ground.

Spreading her fingers wide and with a hefty pull from unseen depths, Shadow Weaver attempts another obstacle in the form of a black wall of shadow, but Micah is already swirling his staff around him in large vertical arcs, slicing light through the illusion with little hesitancy.

“Ha! Seems your shadow tricks are a bit rusty!! I’m not that same naive third year you manipulated!” 

Shadow Weaver’s taunt floats down the hallway, “To my recollection you didn’t need much convincing to join me in clandestine spellwork.”

Reaching the intersection to another corridor, he catches sight of the swish of scarlet robes into a room further down. “Stand and face my magic, Shadow Weaver!”

The chamber door is resistant to Micah’s intricate blast sigil, but by quickly tracing a tiny sigil at his eye line, Micah discovers the adjoining wall near a staircase is not so similarly protected. Another blast sigil and a forceful push of his open hand, and the metal and concrete tear away, revealing the enormous and glowing Black Garnet Runestone. Shadow Weaver’s hand is tightly gripping the Garnet, she and it are pulsing with sizzling currents of red Etherian magical energy, casting an alarming hue over everything.

Micah stalls in his entrance. “You…you’ve forged a connection to the Garnet?”

“Why yes - it’s a rather recent relationship but I’m confident it’s a profound one. Perhaps a demonstration - ! “

Micah dodges into the chamber, rolling with his arm and staff out to immediately take up the assault, frantically musing on ways to maneuver himself between Shadow Weaver and the Runestone. She is siphoning energy and exploding it through her hand, but it gets erratic the closer he draws.

Around the room he rolls, spins, and dodges her arcs of energy, but the tendrils are growing fatter and larger with every second. Finally, Micah makes a running dash at Shadow Weaver and the Garnet, slides to the ground and ducks under a fresh wave of energy, while concentrating on tracing his protective shield into existence. Crouched behind her now, Micah holds fast against her barrage, wondering if he can hold out long enough for her tire out, and leave him an opening to fire off the signal flare for Angella to join him. 

The alarming din and thunderous crashes around him are muted into a low drone, as Micah’s thoughts turn to his three year old.

~  ~  ~

Entering Glimmer’s pastel and sparkling playroom, Micah pushes down the redemptive hunger to best his former manipulator and the churning shame that sits in his gut. Angella saw right through him, of course she would, but he would prove himself to her and make her proud. As any selfless King would, he will take on this very risky mission to try and destroy the Garnet. If he also had to strike down the source of his deep unconscious nightmares, then so be it. He would do it for his family, and for his people.

 He swoops down to gather his baby girl in his arms, kisses her sweetly and silly, and asks her not for a goodbye, but good luck. She gives him two big thumbs up, and a cheery “good luck!” and Micah hides his fears in her short crop of pink hair, nuzzling her once more before placing her gingerly back down to her playthings.

With luck, his signal will reach Angella, and with luck, her approach will be quick, and the power of the Moon Stone behind Micah’s sorcery will be enough to destroy or at least disable the Black Garnet.

~ ~ ~

By now, Horde soldiers have congregated in the corridors around the Black Garnet chamber. They hold stun batons aloft, and are hurling angry shouts and stomping their heavy boots. Shadow Weaver keeps their meddling at bay however, while she relishes this dramatic reunion with her first attempt at a prodigy. Shadow Weaver has been itching for an opportunity to explore the reaches of her newfound power, and the utter defeat of the King of Bright Moon is too tantalizing to be cut short by protocol.

Shadow Weaver conjures images in her sorcerer’s bowl, using a reflective sigil to show them in enlarged detail to Micah, who is panting heavily behind his pink shield. Swirling into and out of focus are scenes of the various widespread Horde frontlines; agricultural fields scorched, towns subdued or crumbling in debris, lines of captured prisoner transports.

“Your Rebellion is drowning, Little King. Your territories are falling faster and further everyday, and your ranks, fueled by righteous anger, are quick to burn out in the face of The Horde’s relentless assault.”

Micah refuses her negativity, “We will never surrender, the Rebellion will resist you and The Evil Horde until our dying breath!”

“Ah, a pity then, that your Queen is the only immortal one. Not much of a Rebellion with just one member, is it?”

Ruthlessly, Shadow Weaver unleashes a barrage of Black Garnet energy into her sorcerer's bowl, and through the image, her red and black energy currents fry through the frontlines of the Rebellion, along with many numbers of Horde Bots. Micah seizes the chance and sends up his bright purple and pink sparklers to hover hundreds of meters in the air. 

Micah rolls around Shadow Weaver again, volleying another round of pot shots to try and disrupt Shadow Weaver’s attack. But there’s no stopping it, and in fact, Shadow Weaver is making sounds of effort and discomposure that Micah’s only heard once before. Her control is slipping but the Black Garnet’s red currents are only swelling and bottlenecking into the sorcerer’s bowl.

It overwhelms the confines of the bowl, shooting back out into the chamber, erupting across the walls and ceilings. Straining to release the hold the Black Garnet has on her, she manages to draw a protective shield sigil that envelopes the Runestone and herself, and unintentionally strengthens Micah’s shield, before one whole side of the chamber is evaporated in the final blast, along with a good chunk of the adjoining corridors.

~  ~  ~

Over the crumbled ruins and desertification of the Scorpion Kingdom wrought by the crash landing of Hordak’s space vessel, and The Horde’s subsequent resource gluttony, Angella surveys the Princess Alliance's attack. The line of defense surrounding the Fright Zone complex remains unbroken, but the far borders of the landscape fell quickly. From the bottlenecks of the various breaches, her forces, modest in comparison to the robotic numbers of The Horde, are advancing steadily closer, but Angella will not give the command to overtake. That’s not why they’re here.

Angella’s only hope rockets up into her eye line, yanking her heart up to her throat with its comforting vibrant colors  - but a moment later, her worst fear suddenly materializes in a rip in the sky. The angry red illumination of the Black Garnetʻs energy is tumbling across the flatlands, straight for her people. Angella sounds the retreat but races forward into the Fright Zone.

Netossa conjures a massive net over as much of the frontlines as she can, while Spineralla directs a strong cyclone to pick up the lot of them and hurl it far back away from the electrified red currents lacerating through the sky. But there are still a number of the Alliance who succumb to the blasts, and The Horde’s own bots and foot-soldiers are fried along with Angella’s forces by the indiscriminate devastation of the Black Garnet. Angellaʻs wings spread wide to propel her through a sky thick with smoke and orange-tinted contamination. She must hurry to Micah - 

A booming explosion near the heart of the Fright Zone, an utter eruption of red and black Etheiran magic, consumes a chunk of the structures surrounding it, and dissipates slowly to reveal nothing but smoking ash and the faint echoes of klaxon warnings. Angella’s wings falter, and she plummets several feet through the air, her stinging eyes not blinking away the tears, unable to risk missing the moment when Micah might emerge from the wreckage. 

But the seconds tick on. Cacophonies of fear and pain roar below her, the wind carries with it the scent of scorched metal and electrified ozone; the Fright Zone is dark and wounded but unbeaten, and the Black Garnet is surely a mass of rubble that is crushing her husband.

The Kingdom of Snows monarch and the King of Salineas are together building an ice chute for their retreating forces. The medic volunteers from Plumeria are overwhelmed by injuries and critical conditions. Angella must turn away from the Fright Zone, she must lead the retreat back home, she must comfort the loss her kingdom has endured. She simply cannot do anything else other than be a leader for Bright Moon, for she is the only one they have left.

The last ditch attempt by the Princess Alliance has failed. Angella’s hope is replaced with stony guilt and anxious fear.

That night, Angella must hold her little princess Glimmer tight to her chest, allowing her to weep as much as needs. Soon after, Angella must wipe away her own tears, and set about the task of restructuring their defenses in the expectation of a retaliatory strike. The Queen weeps in the quiet, and stares at their mural while the moons rise and chase each other across the horizon. 

For all her immortal power, she cannot bring back the dead.

The Queen of Bright Moon will never learn of her husband’s survival, of his loyalty throughout torture and interrogation, of his quiet acceptance of Hordak’s kill order, nor the curious mercy of Shadow Weaver’s exile of him to Beast Island.

~ ~ ~ End ch 2 ~ ~ ~

Chapter Text

~  ~  ~ First Arcs: Year 5  ~  ~  ~

~  ~  ~  Chapter Three: An Evensong, A Litany, A Battlecry, A Symphony~  ~  ~

“/ You stand between me and all my enemies / You stand between me and all my enemies / You stand between me and all my enemies /”

Stand - Son Lux - ( Fic Playlist Version )

Skillz challenge : @artofkace

Catra and Adora approx. age: 5 years

i. An Evensong

Vicious laughter echoes down the corridors leading to the Mess Hall. Dinnertime for the Cadets brings out the amusement that exhaustion and strict rules most often subdue. But even playfulness in the Fright Zone is usually accompanied by some sort of discomfort.

Adora is swinging her arms at her sides and traversing occasionally on tiptoes to spy down the hallway for any clue as to the ritual challenge for tonight. Catra’s ears are folded back from the jeers bouncing off the walls and the most recent loser ahead. There is a hold-up at the entrance way, and while waiting, Rogelio and Lonnie arrive.

“Rrurgh-rah?” Rogelio asks, climbing up Lonnie’s calves and back to post up atop her bouncy hair, peering at the doorway. 

“It’s not taking long, whatever it is. I hope it’s another ration bar speed-eating contest, I’ve never felt so full in my whole life!” Adora holds her tummy in reminiscence.

Lonnie sucks her teeth and pushes away the hair that Rogelio squashed down across her eyes, “There’s no way they wouldn’t get caught trying that a second time. I heard the oldest kid last time got stuck up in ISO for a few days - probably with no rations.”

“Riighs,” Rogelio lows.

“Yea, yikes,” Adora empathizes.

Drawing closer, the taunts from the older Cadets carry towards them:

“Haha, can you do it?”

“Do you have what it takes, recruit?”

A moment passes. Then laughter again, “Ohoho, sorry, not good enough!” and a heavy “oofh!” accompanies.

The line moves forward. Whispers from the front inform that some older Cadets from a different barracks are making all the younger ones touch their noses with their tongues, and those who can’t, get a punch to the gut. 

Striker and Maron are up next, and because Maron knows his birth month, he just barely makes the cut to enter freely. Striker isn’t as lucky; she can’t prove her age satisfactorily, being just another orphan kid brought up from the Ward. She’s reaching furiously with her tongue, her brow crushed into her eyes in effort, but it’s not enough.

“Ah, close! But, not close enough. Here,” another Cadet grabs Striker’s arms and holds them down behind her, and a sucker punch is delivered to her middle, “That should help!”

Catra feels a little braver after that, and to her very great pleasure, she easily passes, but not without some teasing and a fakeout thrown at her tummy. She waits off to the side, and returns Rogelio’s high-five he offers after he makes it past as well.

But Adora is panicking now, and two Cadets crowd her closely. “Wait, waIT!” she cries, holding her arms out wide. The older Cadets don’t move, so she takes a big breath and really reaches for it, tilting her head back, her arms straining at her sides, hands fisted.  “Ah-haah - “ the punchers start, but Adora puts her hand up, “No just, wait, I got it - !”

She tries again, this time rising to her tiptoes, leaning so far back her chin is nearly pointed at the ceiling, and Catra has to watch as she tumbles over herself and lands on her butt, her tongue blep-ed out listlessly between her lips in defeat. Two Cadets pull her up by the arms, and the Puncher takes aim. “Nice effort, you can try again next time!” Adora doubles up like every other failed Cadet but she gets some hearty pats on the back that push her out into the Mess Hall. 

Catra’s concerned but Adora gives her a thumbs up while clutching her tummy. “What doesn’t kill us - makes us stronger!”  

Lonnie comes up behind her, also holding her tummy. “Yea, keep telling yourself that, “ she grunts.

~  ~  ~

ii. A Litany 

The Cadet barracks have a competitive marching chant circuit, demanding their loudest cries and heaviest stomps as they pass the other barracks in the mornings. The in-sync pounding of boots outside the doors requires an equal cacophony of answering thunder-boots from anyone within, leaving a bit of a rumble in everybody’s chest as they tend to their morning routines and preparations.

The patrol runs are meant to teach Cadets the layout of the Fright Zone, and by now Catra’s very familiar with her mental map, and is always expanding her scope of more hideaways and curious attractions. What she’s less excited about is the required call and response chanting; everyone’s huffing and grunting and stomping bleeds into a loud drone that keeps her ears down the whole while.

The various chants hold very little in the way of lyrical depth. The words “rebellion” and “enemy” and “victory” are the most featured, but occasionally a change in pace and topic gets thrown in there, to keep the energy up, and the distracted, like Catra, on their toes.

During these miles trudged all around the Fright Zone, enduring the mind-numbing litany, Catra soothes herself with fantasies of nighttime exploration and sneaking. It’s been a year since the failed Rebellion invasion, and all traces of the battle have been sealed or painted over. Only the rumors of Shadow Weaver’s infamous and deadly battle remain, reinforcing the Sorceressʻs mystery.

Shadow Weaver has demanded that Catra run near the head of the group, and it’s the only time Catra isn’t proud of her inherent agility. Adora’s legs are still stumpy, and even when they start off next to each other, she eventually dips back to around the middle. 

Sometimes though, Catra can feign exhaustion, and slowly let herself slip backwards to fall in step with Adora, and those moments are kinda nice. They shoot glances at each other, share smirks and give each other invisible energy to keep going. But it doesn’t last - other Cadets will push Catra in the back if she hangs out too long, afraid that Shadow Weaver will loop in the rest of them for whatever negative attention she heaps on Catra.

No matter how much Catra tries to stick with the Cadet schedule, she can’t train her body to adopt military time-keeping. In the mornings, these runs are burdened by her desire for breakfast and the darkness under her blanket. In the evenings, her heart and mind race, and she itches to stretch her limbs wide and condense her muscles into a powerful coil, but there’s little room and no sympathy for her inside the barracks.

She has snuck out a few times, after discovering it’s not that hard to reset the locks on the barracks by messing with the clock settings on the monitor screen beside the doors. Despite Adora’s initial fears about weepy princess attacks, Catra eventually enticed her to join by reasoning, “Wouldn’t it be smarter to figure out escape routes for any nighttime raids? Instead of just sitting like target bots like last time?”

Over the months as they get braver about rule-breaking, Catra and Adora play various night missions like Spy Race and Infiltrate. Adora prefers Search & Rescue, because she likes to hoist Catra over her shoulders and run as fast as she can between the dark corners, dodging the floor monitor bots and ceiling lights. Catra will always prefer a race, mostly because she struggles more to carry Adora and has to piggyback her to the rescue point, which is less cool.

There is no music in the Fright Zone; the collective sounds are the percussive pounding of war at the borders and soldier boots running, the sharp clanging of weapons and shields, and the heavy sighs of tired bodies in the evenings. But shrouded in late nights, huddled in small dark spaces, the laughter of two young children reverberates melodically against the cold metal and hard concrete.

~  ~  ~

iii. A Battlecry 

Some of Adora’s studious nature has rubbed off on Catra; less so from a desire to be prepared and more so as a survival technique. Catra knows she has to work twice as hard just to keep level with Adora, at least in Shadow Weaver’s eyes.

Ever since the day Adora invited her in to study, Catra has tried to soak up as much information as she could, hoping to be seen as someone worthy of the Horde Cadet uniform, instead of just a lonesome stowaway found in a pile of garbage, as Shadow Weaver likes to remind her of often.

Reading and writing, she picked up quickly, helped along by the thousands of little notes she and Adora share and hide for each other, written on the back of used workbook pages. She does all right with numbers too, but she gets bored quickly with lectures and sedentary study.

Restlessly, her tail waivers by her ankle where she sits next to Adora at a table in the Lecture Room. Adora’s tongue is fiddling between the gap in her front teeth, a show of her concentration on the workbook problem in front of her. Lonnie sits across from them, Rogelio a little farther away.

“Hey, hey,” Adora leans over to Catra, “How do you spell ’compulsory’?”

“It’s c-o-m-p-l-u-s-o-r-y,” Catra rattles off quickly.

Lonnie objects, “No, it’s c-o-m-p-U-L-s-o-r-y”

Catra snaps to her with furrowed brows. “Noo, it’s - “ she mouths the sound of the syllables but comes up unsure, “- it’s p-l-u-s, com-plus-ory.”

“You’re saying it wrong, it’s com-pUL-sory.”

“Well, it’s in the Fidelity handbook, why don’t you look it up?” Catra says with fake helpfulness.

Adora goes, “Oh yea,” and flips open her copy. Lonnie rubs Catra’s face in it by stabbing the word with her finger. “Ha. All performance checks are compulsory, to be marshalled by Horde Captains. Cadets are required to submit to review annually, including compulsory fidelity scoring.” Lonnie smirks back at Catra, “There for you twice.”

A little while later, Adora again voices a question, ”...hey, how much is the charge on a stun baton with a full battery?”

Lonnie and Catra give the memorized answer at the same, and share mirrored looks of challenge. They argue a little bit about whether the charge is enough to melt your toes together if it’s dropped in standing water.

There is an escalating intensity at their shared work table for the next hour, plenty enough to raise the hackles at Catra’s neck, hidden by her mass of hair. Lonnie acts like she doesn’t care that she’s pushing Catra out. She’s near holding something that is Catra’s only thing, and it’s unfair.  Worse, Catra feels offended when Adora asks her next question directly to Lonnie. Lonnie then has the gaul to ask to compare notes, and she and Adora lean over the table, and their heads almost touch.

Catra stands up quickly and grabs her workbook, giving it to their overly-relaxed instructor at the front of the room. Making her way back to the table, her ears pick up the hiss of the doorway opening, but her eyes stay fixed on Lonnie and Adora. They’re laughing together at something now, and Catra can’t help how all of her claws stretch out a little more. Sitting back down, she swipes a clawed foot at Lonnie’s shin, and gets her desired response of a yelp of pain.

“You scratched me!” Lonnie accuses.

“What? Catra!”

Glancing quickly around for a good excuse, she whisper-hisses, “It’s what you get for letting your guard down! Look who just showed up, anyway,” and points to Cadet Captain Octavia who just entered the Lecture room. “You don’t wanna call her attention over here, do you?”

That shuts them both up, and they all turn their heads down back to their work. Adora keeps shooting upset looks at Catra, who is trying to ignore them, but the tension doesn’t go away. Lonnie slides down the bench to share her workbook with Rogelio, who’s been growling down at his own. 

Octavia, who has finished talking with their instructor, walks by the table with the Cadets, and lets her stack of folders slam onto the table, pressed there by her massive arm. “Extra work for you two, courtesy of Shadow Weaver. She’ll want these presented to her personally, so no mistakes,” and with slower emphasis on the last word, her pelagic yellow eyes narrow at Catra, before she snipes a wink at Adora and moves on toward the exit.

Adora waits until she’s gone before letting out a disgruntled, “hmmmn.” Catra’s claws stitch into the bench just underneath her thighs. Lonnie slides back over with Rogelio, “Huh, that sucks.”

“It’s probably more review so that we’re ready for our checks, she said that’s happening soon,” Adora muses while flipping open the first folder.

Their extra work isn’t quite finished by the time their group of Cadets gets called back to the Training Hall for the rest of the day. Normally Catra prefers days where they finish with physical activity, but there've been a lot of irritating things that happened today, and she’s got more sheets of irritating things waiting for her after dinner. Not even the promise of working closely with Adora, huddled together on her cot, can shake Catra’s mood, which just gets a tick worse whenever she sees Adora and Lonnie working together in the exercises.

Adora is now cheering as Lonnie successfully bumps the small target bot away with her forearm shield, passing it to Rogelio, who miscalculates his direction, and sends the bot at Catra’s feet. She yelps and skirts backwards, the bot clanging noisily on the ground. Rogelio is grunting sheepishly, but Lonnie is not hiding her laughter well behind her translucent green shield. “Get it back in the air, Cadet,” comes the order from their instructor.

But instead, Catra straight lobs the bot with a well-aimed shield spike, and it soars and slams into Lonnie’s forehead, and she falls down in hurt and surprise.

There’s too many eyes on her, and Catra can feel the embarrassment and anger burning at the corners of her eyes, and before Adora can coax her into looking at her, Catra drops to all fours and careens out of the Training Arena.

~ ~ ~

 “Well, if you’re missing dinner, then I am too.“ 

“Just go! Eat with your new best friend Lonnie!”  

“Is that why you hit her?” 

“I know you like her better than me! You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I am your friend Catra! I’m always gonna be your friend…

...you should say sorry to Lonnie, then we can all be friends.”  

Catra topples her to the ground with a harsh and definitive, “No!”, and for good measure, steps on Adora’s tummy as she runs away.   

“I’ll never say sorry to anybody, ever!”

~  ~  ~

iv. A Symphony

Perfuma is 11 when she happens upon a fellow citizen of Plumeria, pummeling a tree in a grove to the north. The boy is probably not much older than she is, and although his build is stocky, he appears small next to the deep magenta of the wide tree trunk, a bruising red developing where he was moments before unleashing a deep rage.

“Oh, Princess Perfuma! I’m - I’m so sorry, I just - lost control.” He struggles to look her in the eyes, and swipes his wavy blonde hair with his forearm, sneakily swiping his wet eyes at the same time.

“It’s all right, Dorian. I can see you’re upset, would it help to take a few breaths with me?” She comes up to his shoulder and places a calming hand there. She taps a familiar rhythm of counting into his muscle, and can feel his chest lift and expand with the slow inhales, ease and settle with the exhales.

1, 2, 3, 4, in.

1, 2, 3, 4, out.

Calmer, he apologizes again to Perfuma, and to the tree. “I got angry… my older brother would have been 25 today. He didn’t come back from battle for the Black Garnet.”

Perfuma’s heart expands past herself and she shudders. “I remember him. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Yea…” A soft wind blows through, carrying silken blossoms and sweet fragrances across the grove. Hopeful, Perfuma steps to the injury and places her hands upon it. But her connection to the Heart Blossom is still just rudimentary, she can only send sympathetic vibrations into the bark and soil; the wound remains open and ugly.

Hiding a grimace, Perfuma smoothes down her dress and turns back to Dorian.

“Would you like to come with me? We can have some tea, and talk, if you want.”

She brings him back to her abode, where her grandmother sits quiet in the corner, not doing well. Their simple home is lined with books, art pieces and living plant sculptures and adornments. 

Perfuma, trying to exaggerate the pleasantries of having a guest over, puts on a record. Powered by the consistent light of Etheria’s many moons, the small gramophone gift from the Kingdom of Bright Moon sends out static-y notes that fill the home with warmth. For Grammy’s part, she lifts the corners of her mouth, and her ankle jiggles a little in time with the song. But that’s all the interaction she gives.

Perfuma is a kind and gentle listener. She comforts Dorian the best she can. He leaves with a floral crown and a garland in his brother’s favorite colors.

Following the failure of the Princess Alliance, Perfuma’s grandmother fell very ill.  Plumeria suffered fewer losses than some of the larger kingdoms to the East and North, but her community endured acutely a sense of despair and fear for the future. They turned to cultivating their lands, tending their gardens and blossoms, and huddling together for solidarity and comfort. They stopped sending emissaries to Bright Moon.

Perfuma did her best to comfort her grandmother, but her sadness overwhelmed and stole her smile. Perfuma’s cheer, her words and singing were unceasingly supportive and positive. Perfuma would only let her own smile falter when she was alone, but with her increasing duties as Princess, that wasn’t often.

It takes a full year for her grandmother to pass, from a broken heart and disconnection.

Perfuma is 12 when, with a great sadness, she carries out the Ritual to forge her connection to the Heart Blossom. It was her grandmother’s dying wish for her to protect their people of Plumeria, to stay hidden and self-sufficient, away from the violence of the war. Perfuma vows to greet the day with smiles, to maintain a canopy of joy and simple life over her kingdom.

~ ~ ~ End ch 3. ~ ~ ~

BONUS!:

A song for the war-ravaged hearts (Perfuma’s grandmother):

The Caretaker -  F6 - An empty bliss beyond this World

Full Album:  Everywhere At The End Of Time - A 6-hour long musical exploration of aging, memory recall, and dementia. It’s intense, but cool, and very impressive. 

Chapter Text

~  ~  ~  First Arcs: Year 6  ~  ~  ~

~  ~  ~  Chapter 4: Casting the Molds  ~  ~  ~

“ / Instruct with dishonesty / In nature there’s no tragedy / Bandage them in tapestry / Trade comfort for identity / Drown me in kerosene / “

Kerosene - Crystal Castles LYRICS

~  ~  ~

Additional Music:   We Are Unloved - Unloved

art! by @C.Rangea.T (tumblr): Cuties

Approximate age: 6 years

~  ~  ~

Catra windmills her arms for Adora’s amusement, showcasing her amazing range in mobility, now that she’s sliced off the shoulder sleeves of her new uniform. The entire Squad got outfitted for new sets of fatigues, finally, after most of their pants had become calf-high or long shorts. Good timing, as Rogelio walks mostly on two legs now like the rest of them, and is able to wear the uniform for the full day without ripping it to shreds.

Banter bounces around the room; Adora likes her red short sleeves, says they make her muscles look bigger, and Catra vibrantly agrees when Adora flexes her arm and a little mound tightens between her shoulder and elbow.

The excitement of new clothes has brought a more relaxed and happy mood to the Barracks. Lonnie’s hair today is a bushy ponytail, more like a pony-poof, that pops out first of the neckline when she pulls on her shirt, and in her new threads, she wobbles her poof back and forth satisfyingly. Even the new kid, Kyle, has come out of his shell a little more today, swinging his feet in his un-scuffed combat trainers above Rogelio, who is in his underwear still trying to tear a hole in his new pants for his thick tail to poke through.

Catra, who is pleased with her work cutting her own sleeves, leans against Rogelio’s cot and raises a single, sharp claw like a question mark. Rogelio gives her a blank look and lows softly, and Catra points the claw at Rogelio’s slightly tattered tail-hole. Rogelio grunts an affirmative, and she moves in, slicing off the straggly bits of fabric, before glancing at Rogelio’s backside, and making the opening a little wider on the sides.

“There ya go, try that,” Catra smiles wide, pleased with herself and the way Adora is smiling at her.

It fits snuggly, and Catra swishes her tail next to Rogelio’s, who swishes too, and he opens his clawed scaly hand for a high five.

“Haha, you’re tail buddies now!” Adora claps in approval. 

Does that make it two whole friends now?

They’ve talked about this before, but Catra doesn’t remember anything from before she knew just her box, and Adora. For all of Catra’s searching throughout The Horde, there’s not been anything as nice as finding Adora brightly smiling at her.

There are no other Cadets or Officers that look like her, a fur-covered body and fuzzy ears that give away too much. The uniforms are restrictive on her limbs, and everyone else seems to be able to sleep at night and stay awake during the day.

Kyle is a little younger than all of them and arrived in the Fright Zone as another orphan acquired from some newly grabbed territory out East. He says he doesn’t remember much before waking up in the Infirmary, to Shadow Weaver welcoming him as a new Cadet. Once his headache let up the next day, he was introduced to the rest of the barracks and took the empty cot above Rogelio’s.

Now it’s Kyle who’s at the bottom of the Barracks food chain, but Catra can’t summon much pity for him - Adora says he’s nice, but from what Catra’s seen in the Training Hall, he’s got a lot of catching up to do. Catra fears his being assigned to their Squad will undoubtedly lower their overall scores.

The new large screen displayed in the Mess Hall posts the rankings of the collective Squads, and Catra wants nothing more than to be at the top of the food chain.

~  ~  ~

It’s been a busy week within the Fright Zone. There’s been a routine personnel exchange among the different Frontlines, and some have returned for their Rest and Relaxation. Some Soldiers are parents, and some well-behaved Cadets are given privileges to bunk with their relatives during RnR.

Lonnie is one such lucky Cadet. Adora doesn’t know exactly where within the Fright Zone Lonnie’s mom and dad live, but she imagines it’s a place that’s not so close to the loud machine sounds of the War Factories, and away from the heat of the Energy Sector. Maybe a nice Barracks with a medium temperature, and a nice view. Adora assumes all this from the contented look on Lonnie whenever she returns from spending time with them.

Lonnie enters the barracks with that look now, and her hair is different. It’s smaller, and twisted into tiny rows across her head, revealing a paler shade of scalp between rows of light brown hair.

“Wow, Lonnie, you look cool!” Adora admires immediately.

Lonnie’s smirk sits deep in her cheeks, “My dad did it, after mom put some rare oils in it. They traded for it at one of the East Frontʻs port towns; the nut it comes from is as big as my head!”

Catra sniffs loudly from atop her bunk, “Is that what that smell is?”

“It smells good!” Lonnie crosses her arms but refuses to pout.

“Oh, mmh, it does!” Adora approves, standing as close to Lonnie as she dares, given her tough kid attitude. Lonnie lets her guard down a little and shows Adora a skinny chain around her neck, “My mom found this for me at the same place where the oil nut grows,” and dangling from the chain is a small, cylindrical white and pink calcified shell, whole but with a small fracture along its curved ridge. “For protection,” she adds softly as Adora delicately admires the trinket.

Above them, Catra has flipped over to her other side, ignoring them. They sit down together on Lonnie’s cot, and Adora squeaks when Lonnie gives her permission to closer inspect her hair. “Don’t mess with dad’s hard work,” Lonnie warns, but in a warmer tone than usual.

Adora spends many moments inspecting and learning the intricate rows, admiring how tightly and uniformly her hair is twirled, resting in perfectly distanced lines. 

Later, when the Barracks lights are dimmed, Adora returns to her bunk. She falls asleep thinking about how she could ever try to get Catra’s hair into tiny braids like that.

~  ~  ~

A few days later, and Catra is begrudgingly letting Adora try to collect her hair into some kind of braid.

Catra sits with her legs bent behind her, her small fists curled against the ground between her knees. She’s supporting Adora’s weight too, who kneels behind her and rests heavily against her shoulders. Her hands are nesting in Catra’s hair at the top of her head, and when Catra lets her know she’s pulled too hard, she soothes the spot with some quick scritches and a whispered apology.

Around the Locker Room the rest of the Squad is pulling on their training gear, while the older Cadets in their Barracks, a separate Squad, is pulling theirʻs off, retelling their results in the obstacle course. Adora’s attention seems split between the recounted thrills and Catra’s thick locks that are escaping her twists. It’s impossible to finger-comb the bunches into a flexible strand, and Adora’s left just distractedly running her fingertips along Catra’s scalp, constantly rooting out knots. Catra’s purrs rumble out from her spine into Adora’s belly, but she keeps her face disinterested.

Eventually, as Adora gets visibly more stressed, an older Cadet takes pity and demonstrates how she wraps her own hair in a three-part braid that rests behind her shoulder blades. Sectioning Catra’s hair in this way is much easier, Adora agrees.

Catra reaches a hand back when Adora sighs happily, “Finished!” The big weight at the back of her neck is a fuzzy but compacted mass of her hair. It’s not as long as it usually feels, and when she turns her head quickly, there’s a slight feeling of imbalance. She looks in the mirror above the sink at her tufts of gray fur that stick out more in front of her ears, and she frowns, feeling ill-fitted.

But, there’s no time to perfect it, as the Locker Room lights flash the signal that calls their Squad up to the Training Hall. In the rush from the Locker Rooms and down the corridor, Catra runs and leaps to try and get used to the weird weight. The excitement builds as they are briefed outside the Simulation Grid doors. 

They are informed of their course objective by a tall and narrow-eyed Force Captain; failure is punishable by rations restrictions. A certain standard of achievement is expected for everyone in the group. Sneaking a side glance at Kyle, Catra sees he’s shivering slightly, even when standing at attention. 

For weeks, they’ve practiced regimented drills; rolling behind rectangular obstacle barriers, vaulting over boxes and ducking under cover, dodging simulated Bot laser-fire. Pull-ups graduated into climb-ups, and the topmost platform rose higher with every session.

The Gauntlet consists of all these skill and strength challenges, plus the added task of retrieving the Objective (a small energy core that powers the Bots), and a team rendezvous at the highest part of the course, within the set time limit.

Excitement and anxiety pound in their ears and throats as the Simulation Grid is revealed with the hissing of the opening doors, shades of green and red spread across a battlefield of obstacles and Bots.

Catra is nimble as usual, preferring to gain the higher ground quicker, while Adora and Lonnie stick to diving under cover and dash-sliding across obstacles. Kyle inevitably draws the Bots’ fire but allows the others to move ahead. The green status guard on his chest is already flickering with red from a few shots, but he manages to meet up with Rogelio, who waited for him behind a slanted solid platform. The Squad trade shouts of encouragement and nervous laughter from close-calls, making good time through the course.

Rogelio raises his arm bracer and reflects a laser before making a big push towards the taller platforms. Kyle falls behind again but manages to time his scrambles between laser assaults. Lonnie hits the vertical wall, her well-placed foot propelling her just high enough to grasp the edge and start push-pulling her way up top. Adora comes up fast behind her, and rocketed by competition, she pops her foot high and propels over the ledge. Catraʻs been at the top for a few seconds, and she slaps a low-five into Adoraʻs palm, before yanking her closer.

Rogelio’s snagged the Objective from the distracted (by Kyle) Bot Guardians, and he throws it to Lonnie, who’s on her belly reaching down for the catch.  Catra ignored the energy core completely and raced to the top platforms, and is now poised to carry the goal across the high line. Gripped between her two hands, Lonnie throws over and behind her head to Adora, who tosses it to Catra. She snatches it out of the air and tucks it under her arm, racing nimbly in a tri-pedal scurry across the high line. Below, Rogelio gives Kyle a leg-up to the top platform, and Adora and Lonnie engage with the high line.

Catra makes it to the destination easily, but her smirk falls when she looks back at her Squad.

Adora’s balance is laughable, and when she slips, she reacts quickly with a yelp and a snag of the line behind her knee, swaying upside down -  the drop to the grid floor is sizable for their small bodies. In a sloth-hang, Adora crosses the rest of the line, with Lonnie sounding winded but still moving behind her. Kyle’s taking too long to lower himself into a hang, and Rogelio, the only other fast climber, is stuck behind him.

Catra’s impatient, she doesn’t understand how it’s so hard for everyone to keep their balance. It’s clumsy, slow. The round orb is gripped under her claws, but until everyone else makes it to the platform, it’s a Fail.

“Hurry Up!”

“WE’RE TRYING!” Adora yells but she manages to shoot a little quicker down the line.

A terribly stupid thing happens just then. Midway across, between Lonnie and Rogelio, Kyle squawks and his sweaty hand slips. He grabs Lonnie shirt and while Rogelioʻs tail tries to wrap around Kyleʻs waist. Between Lonnieʻs annoying grunts and Rogelioʻs panicking roars and Kyleʻs very high-pitched screams, the Guardian Bots have re-aligned their sights and are rumbling across the course to them.

Adora crawls on top the platform and looks back with a worried gasp. Fed up, Catra shoves the Objective into Adoraʻs tired arms and leaps over her to crawl along the line. "Go!" she yells at Lonnie while running over her hands, and reaches down to grab Kyle by his fatigues, and with Rogelioʻs help, lift him back up the line. Together, Catra with one claw bunched around Kyle, they shuffle down the line behind Lonnie, towards Adoraʻs excited whoops.

Lonnieʻs just reached the platform, and as soon as sheʻs turned back around to face them, Catra power yells, and thrusts Kyleʻs small frame out of Rogelioʻs grasp and towards the platform edge. Screaming, Kyle is luckily caught but Adora and Lonnie, and huffing,  all three turn towards the countdown clock. 

Catra canʻt see it, her one big hair braid has flown in front of her eyes. But quickly whipping her head tosses it out of her way and throws her off-balance, and with a yelp, she slips - 

Her tail stretches out and like a coil, so inverts into a tuck and flips in a way that bounces her off the final platformʻs supporting beam and back to a shorter adjacent platform. The final five seconds clang around edges of the Simulation Grid, as Catra coils again and leaps back up, using her claws in the supporting beams to clamber over the top ledge. When Lonnie and Adora lean pull Rogelio up top, the platform flashes bright yellow, and the countdown stops, right on the One.

“Nice work,” Adora claps her hand on Catra’s back, and the Squad starts to laugh with relief and a little bit of hysteria.

~  ~  ~ 

Shadow Weaver glides ahead down the hall, Catra following with quiet footsteps. The trepidation rolling off Catra in silent waves does something to settle the great irritation that set into Shadow Weaver’s shoulders upon hearing in the Infirmary Octavia’s account of the incident. 

The Force Captain’s request for leave was denied; she’s still got the other eye, and the expanded installation of the internal signals network and data instrument transition will still require her now deficient supervision. Transforming The Horde from inefficient paper methods to a more comprehensive digital platform has been the priority within the Fright Zone for months now, but there are still too few competently trained Technical Officers to install the new screens and data pads.

Shadow Weaver left the disciplinary action up to Octavia, but the bungling Force Captain seems to have failed a second time in asserting her authority, and worse, allowed Adora to be implicated in Catra’s foolishness. Irritatingly, Shadow Weaver assented that consequences must be dealt by her own hand, if the lessons are to stick.

Tail curled around her ankle, Catra hesitates at the entrance to the Black Garnet chamber. Shadow Weaver demands in a cold voice, “Come inside.” 

The Garnet is only dimly illuminated, but there is a grindstone whirring near a work table in the corner. Shadow Weaver notes Catra’s wary confusion; in earlier years the young one was sometimes summoned to help prepare Shadow Weaverʻs stores of various magic plants and powders. But since spending the majority of her time now exploring the deep reaches of the Black Garnet, there has been little need for the limited powers of her old Sorceress cookbook.

“You are here to learn a lesson about authority, Catra.” Shadow Weaver holds out a palm for Catra’s hand, which shakes when it comes to lay there. Slowly, the Sorceress closes her long fingers and traps Catra to her side. There are no herbs to be powdered on the table. The shaking from Catra’s hand extends through her entire body.

“The Horde is a chain that is only as strong as its weakest link. Lord Hordak wills his Empire to expand to the farthest reaches, and so we must weave strong our tapestry over Etheria. We do this through the Chain of Command; order must be observed.”

Catra’s sharp nails are expressed with Shadow Weaver’s insistent pressure at the center of her palm. “No, please,” comes Catra’s soft plea, tears already wetting her eyes.

“Strong Horde Soldiers are forged under fire, they endure their trials with honor, and silence.”

To her credit, Catra says nothing in response, seemingly having accepted her role. Shadow Weaver gets little pleasure from the harsh screech of 4 clawed nails against the whirring grindstone at a time, but she does nod in approval when Catra’s jaw stays wired shut when her thumb is cut a little close to the quick.

She releases Catra forcefully, and the small thing crumbles to the concrete floor, curling in on herself, wiping tears away with her forearms. Without further fuss, the door to the chamber hisses open, and Shadow Weaver moves away from Catra to stand near her usual spot at her Sorcerer’s Bowl. 

Catra collects herself and pads softly to the exit.

Dismissed, Shadow Weaver casts out one more warning to her. 

“Best to keep up a hygienic schedule for those claws - otherwise it will be done for you.”

~  ~  ~

“Thereʻs nothing to talk about; I got in trouble, and now Iʻm out of it. Theyʻre fine, really,”

Catra curls her fists away and juts her head against Adoraʻs hands instead. Together they lay as small curves of the same circle on Adoraʻs bunk. Catra had wrapped her cut thumb in a white bandage from the Locker Room, and Adora zeroed in on it almost immediately when Catra slipped in under the blanket.

Adora relents, weaving and swirling her fingertips around Catraʻs neck and ears. “Ok, but if they start bleeding again let me know; Iʻll bandage you up great, Iʻve been practicing.”

 “OK sure,” Catra agrees with exhaustion slipping into her voice.

Adora continues massaging Catraʻs head, a soothing practice that always seems to heal whatever offenses the day sets for them.

“Octavia’d be more likeable if she learned to lighten up a bit…” Adora muses.

“She’s my sworn enemy now,” Catraʻs body tenses in seriousness.

 “Catra, she’s one of us, even with her dumb face. Sheʻs a dumb face that makes the rules, we gotta follow ʻem.”

Catra wriggles further into Adoraʻs tummy, “At least she can’t wink at you anymore.”

Adora giggles as her hands move to rub small patterns in Catraʻs back, “Yea, it’s just blinking for her now.”

Itʻs quiet between them as Catraʻs purring ebbs and flows. In a voice that cracks at the edges, sleepy and introspective, Catra says, “Shadow Weaver’s right - sometimes I lose control… with them…” Her palms stretch, then flinch, and curl themselves again, tucking against Adoraʻs thighs. “I’ll do better,” Catra whispers.  “Don’t worry about it.”

~  ~  ~  End Ch. 4  ~  ~  ~

Chapter Text

~  ~  ~ First Arc: Year 7  ~  ~  ~

~  ~  ~  Ch. 5 Cleansing ~  ~  ~

“/ Christen them with paraffin / Sterilize samaritans / Contravene loyal ties / Migrate them through the pesticide / They’ll strip you of your heritage / Heritage /“

Wrath of God - Crystal Castles - LYRICS

art!:  Scorpia’s Affirmations  @bleilaniarts

 #Hordelife: Playlist for the whole fic (so spoilers, kinda maybe?)

~  ~  ~  

Scorpia was around two years old when her mothers were replaced by a tall woman made of red and black and eyes as white as the little tuft of hair on Scorpiaʻs head. One day, the new woman swaddled and ferried her into a room with a big, beautiful, shiny stone. Whatever the woman and the angry rough voice from the shadows wanted to happen that day, it wasn’t for Scorpia to cry loudly when her pincers were pressed hard against the cool stone, her tiny elbows bent uncomfortably. 

What happened next is not fully known in Scorpia’s memories, because they were influenced by Shadow Weaver’s experimental magic afterward. She doesn’t remember her grandfather, but it was his outburst, shackled under Hordakʻs bonds, that first ignited the Black Garnet. In the ensuing chaos, Hordak did not notice how Scorpiaʻs frantic feelings exacerbated the glowing energy into an explosive crescendo that resulted in an overload of the Fright Zone’s energy grid, which was dark for two days after. Hordakʻs fury was satisfied enough with the end of the Scorpion King, but Shadow Weaver remained curious about his granddaughter’s potential.

Focusing much of her energy during the next few years on the restructuring and overhaul of the systems within The Horde, Shadow Weaver prepared a path for Scorpia to rise as a highly efficient and powerful tool.

~  ~  ~

Scorpia was 10 when Shadow Weaver gave her high praise following her record-setting dominance in the Training Arena. There were still few Cadets who could charge through an obstacle course as determinedly as she, and even fewer who could withstand the hellish Swim Week challenges (her hollow pincers and strong tail made swimming an easier task for her than most). Her mentor predicted a fast track to Force Captain with scores like hers, which really pleased Scorpia to hear… but she confided to Shadow Weaver that she still felt somewhat separate from the other Cadets. Something about her background prevented them from trusting her, even though sheʻd always put her best boot forward and tried to make friends.

Shadow Weaver tutted at her. “Youʻll be giving orders to these underlings soon enough, you donʻt need to concern yourself with their adoration. The differences between you and the others will sort themselves out in the Arena.” 

A few months later Scorpia noticed that Shadow Weaver had stopped observing most of her training scenarios. It was easy enough to reason that Shadow Weaver must have been so impressed with her previous performances, she wouldn't have need to continue showing up.

But even when Scorpia specifically sought her out, to ʻcheck in', Shadow Weaver seemed preoccupied and distant. Scorpia by this age had heard more than a few taunts about going back to “Horror Hall,” and so she tried to ask Shadow Weaver again about her adoption to The Horde. But the Sorceress had no time for her, and sent her off with permission to “investigate away.”

Left alone, Scorpia spent many of her free hours examining the weathered decay of the former royal hall, finding pictures of her family for the first time adorning the walls, tattered emblems and flags fallen loosely over cracked stone and dusty marble. The remnants of the Scorpion Kingdom felt little attached to Scorpia, and through the cracked foundations occasional dust storms would blow in that covered the place and the memory with an impenetrable barrier.

In her investigations, she did find a recipe for tea from a torn and disintegrating cookbook found in one of the corner rooms off from the Hall. The Soothing Tea is a blend of dried reed and clay from the desert lands surrounding the Fright Zone. Luckily for Scorpia, near the cookbook she also found several unbroken jars of the tea mix in a protective box. Softly cooing and cooling off her brew in a small chipped stoneware mug, Scorpia could watch the spindly nettle reeds sway in the insistent winds of the growing desert that slowly reclaimed the fallen ruins.

Scorpia discovered her love of singing among the ruins, where it felt less empty with her voice bouncing back at her from the cracked walls and fallen pillars. Some days were harder than others, but she always felt better after hiding away for some time in the Hall, or venturing out to the older ruins. She could really belt it out over here, and she’d make up lyrics about being tough and lifting up The Horde with her strong claws, which she snapped in time to the cadence borrowed from Cadet marching chants.

~  ~  ~

Scorpia was 12 when one day she learned that Shadow Weaver had somehow acquired a toddler.

She was just finishing her shift in the Assemblies Sector, smelting alloys into multi-layered sheet metal. She wiped away the heat from her forehead as steam escaped with her through the hissing doorway, and made her way excitedly to the Mess Hall. Turning the corner, she caught a glimpse of Shadow Weaverʻs red robes passing the opposite corridor.

Scorpia used a burst of speed to catch up, breathlessly curious to check-in, to see how Shadow Weaver was doing, where she was going, whoʻs baby sheʻs got, and whatʻs the deal with that orange-gray fluff thing at her heel?

Shadow Weaver quickly shut down her attempts to befriend the tiny toddler in her arms, explaining only that Adora was a special case that required the Sorceressʻ full attention. Worse, Scorpia was told officially that ʻcheck in's were no longer required. Then the orange-gray fluff thing started attacking the floating tendrils of Shadow Weaverʻs robes, and Scorpia yelled out instinctually, “Oh, a Kitty!”

Scorpia had seen a kitty playing with a yarn ball in the margins of her Horror Hall cookbook, learning the name from a half-destroyed poem about that kitty.

Shadow Weaver grumpily yanked her robes away and dismissed Scorpia, “We must be moving on, now.”

Ignoring the fear of a negative answer and inflating her chest with a sense of possibility, Scorpia saluted quickly and asked, “Will you visit the Assemblies Sector soon? I’m helping to build the new armored tanks!”

“We shall see, Cadet.” Not an affirmative, but not a negative either.

“Sooo, it’s not a big deal or anything,” Scorpia said later that night to her teacup, blowing steam off the top before taking a slow sip. “Shadow Weaverʻs just really busy, she must be doing all sorts of special top secret stuff for Lord Hordak and the Empire. And someday, Iʻll get to help in a big way!”

Scorpia could admit that she had grown accustomed to seeing Shadow Weaverʻs very small nod of approval, but she was also getting better at remembering her own value.

She gives great hugs, because her arms can fully encircle a person, and they can’t escape until she lets them. She’s loyal, and even though she can be clumsy with weaponry and tiny devices, she has fast reactions and will bodily protect her fellow squad mates. She’s nearly indestructible in training scenarios. She is a good soldier. And she has her Soothing Tea to get her through the hard days.

~  ~  ~

At 14, Scorpia was made the shining example of a fast-tracked Force Captain; Shadow Weaver had conducted her Orientation and Certificate Issuing just a week before the Black Garnet exploded. The Princess Alliance attack was bold and unsuccessful, but it ruptured a gaping hole in the Fright Zone around the Runestone chamber, and they suffered power supply issues and rolling black outs for weeks afterward. 

Scorpiaʻs first official order as a Force Captain was to carry the unconscious prisoner to the Beast Island Waste Disposal Transport. She didn't envy this guy; it was pretty silly to try for an ambush against a fortress like the Fright Zone, magic powers or no. She did take some care to place him on a heap of rotting insulation fibers, and threw a ripped and stained tarp over his body. She was supposed to toss his staff into the incinerator, but she wouldn’t want to be caught in the land of Chibbits and Razorfins without a weapon of some kind, so instead she tucked it securely under his arm.

Scorpiaʻs next mission was overseeing the reconstruction of the Black Garnet Chamber, the inner sanctum of which was consistently covered from view by Shadow Weaverʻs black shadow illusion. Scorpia helped lift and place the new reinforced metal siding between the support beams of the chamber, but she never got a glimpse of the Runestone. She shouted orders at anybody in ear shot to “lift with your legs!”, and “stand back!” when the lighting and door mechanisms were tested with power again.

The rumors that circled the halls after the attack were pretty out-there, and they seemed to get more crazy over the ensuing weeks. Scorpia tried her best to quell the questioning of Fright Zone security and the fear that the Rebellion has gained access to teleporting dragon-monsters - but feeling a little out of the loop with Shadow Weaver sapped any persuasion out of her voice. Eventually, she relented to the rumor mill, convinced that exchanging gossip was probably a stress reliever for some people.

~  ~  ~

Scorpia is 17 and works in the War Machines sector, moving heavy stuff and learning the intricacies of the tanks, ships, and skiffs schematics. Itʻs always loud, and hot, but Scorpia likes the heat; she prefers it to the colder halls of the Cadet Training Sector. Her station and Force Captainʻs Quarters are further away from Horror Hall now, though, so she rarely visits the place anymore.

Today however, she is not in the War Machines Sector, but is actually in the back room of the Infirmary, feeling a little cramped in the Horde Issue helmet and plasti-sheet green haz-mat suit (ripped where her pincers emerge, but theyʻre pretty resistant to most hazardous materials anyway.) She is at the front of a long line of Horde Cadets, holding between her pincers a bucket of astringent formula that is being brushed through the hair of every Cadet by a Lizardfolk Force Captain. According to corridor rumors, The Horde has never seen an infestation of head lice this bad before.

The Cadets all wince and whimper as the thick chemical foam is rubbed deep into their scalps, and some cough irregularly from the heavy fumes. Scorpia feels a little bad for their pain, but sheʻs told itʻs the only way to cleanse the disease.

~  ~  ~

Adora is only 7 but Shadow Weaver seems to think thatʻs a fine age to throw her into the Training Arena with a bunch of tween-aged Cadets. She is repeatedly swept off her feet and onto her bum, but she always gets back up, and adjusts her defensive stance to keep her opponents' staves at bay. Her wrists echo with vibrations after each blocked strike.

Itʻs a tough day of stave training, but she also manages to perfect a new move in her wrestling arsenal, a combination dive roll and leg snag that topples her opponent, leaving her to scramble to pull their arms behind their backs and grapple them annoyingly until they tire.  

Sheʻs pleased with her performance but her elbows and forearms are aching now, seated on the bench in the locker rooms. Sheʻs busy massaging life back into them, and doesnʻt notice how often the older girl from the other Squad is scratching at the base of her ponytail.

Kyleʻs got the bugs too, possibly from a prank gone too far by the older Cadets. That night, Catra spied a little dot moving at the base of Kyleʻs neck and screamed, “Get away from me!” before rocketing up to her bunk and diving under her blanket.

“Yes, what a disaster it would be if you contracted them…” Shadow Weaver says warningly, spooking the Cadets with her sudden appearance in the Barracks doorway. Catra just hunkers down further under her blanket.

“Report to the Infirmary for delousing, Cadet,” and she shifts her gaze to Adora, who reflexively scratches her neck.

“Adora?” 

Subconscious, Adora blushes, “Oh, sorry,  just nerves! I hope Kyle will be ok…”  

Shadow Weaverʻs eyes narrow. “Adora, come here.”

She barely lifts Adoraʻs ponytail before letting a hiss out, and then grabbing her shoulder and turning her towards the door. “Come, you are being quarantined in my chambers until further notice.”

Catraʻs wide, dark pupils peek out from under the blanket, and they watch Adoraʻs blue, scared eyes plead. 

In Shadow Weaverʻs quarters, a friendly Force Captain holds the large vat of foamy kerosene shampoo between their claws and helps Shadow Weaver administer the treatment.

“I've been on delouse duty the whole day, 18 hours! But itʻs fine, the helmet keeps out the smell as well as protecting my proudly coiffed hair! Although it's probably a little smushed up there. But oh man, this outbreak sure is sweeping through the Fright Zone! Been a long day, hasnʻt it?” the tall Force Captain says, muffled a little by their helmet.

“Huh-uh,” Adora is distracted by the searing pain on her scalp. The smell is intensely chemical.

Shadow Weaver looks unusually less-menacing in elbow-length blue medical gloves, with her magically swaying hair bunch up together in a floating ponytail behind her head. The final check is gentler, but still unpleasant and Adora feels uncomfortably scrutinized. Afterwards, with a flick of her finger, a small slit of shadow energy opens up and a whirling wind sucks the air in the room clear.

A combination of this precision eradication and strict quarantine conquers the infestation in just over a week. Catra essentially goes missing during this time, but re-emerges later, mercifully spared. It takes her a little while to get comfortable again with sharing Adoraʻs bed, though.

~  ~  ~ End Ch 5. ~  ~  ~