Chapter Text
The summons comes unexpectedly, taking today from shitty to exponentially shittier.
Not that anything in particular happened –it’s just what days are like, lately. Part of it’s the way the others freeze up whenever she shows up, now that she’s Force Captain. It should be satisfying, but instead it just feels kinda hollow. Probably because she always thought that there’d be two of them being Force Captains, instead of just being stuck on her own –but that’s not something she lets herself dwell on too much.
She’s in the middle of a training session when the guard appears, voice metallic and flat through his helmet as he tells her Shadow Weaver is expecting her in the Black Garnet chamber, immediately. Like he’s telling her about the weather, or something, instead of the complete ruination of her already pretty goddamn terrible day.
For a moment, she stands there, and considers not going. Thinks about Shadow Weaver’s face as she waits for Catra to show up; whatever boring, grandiloquent speech she’s prepared –or maybe she just improvs them, who knows– forever stopped before it can begin. The thought is pretty satisfying.
And then she sighs and heads to the locker room to change.
She’s learnt to know what to expect, in the Chamber. The most likely is probably some kind of long, dramatic diatribe about her own incompetence. Maybe worse, if Shadow Weaver’s plan to get her prized Force Captain back failed especially spectacularly.
What’s she’s not expecting, however, is to find herself staring at said Force Captain in person.
Adora’s passed out, on a low table that could pass as a cot if you were blind and also didn’t know what a cot was. There’s a nasty looking bruise on her temple, her uniform’s ragged and torn in places, and her hair is a mess, but it’s unmistakably, definitely her.
A lot of emotions rush through Catra at once. She barely has the time to make sure any trace of relief is stamped out before Shadow Weaver melts out of the shadows, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Ah, Catra. How kind of you to join us.”
For once, she’s too gobsmacked to come up with a smart-ass reply.
Then again, it’s not like Shadow Weaver needs much prompting. She drifts over to Adora’s side, head tilted as she looks down, one hand smoothing over the flyaways that have escaped the girl’s ponytail. “You’ll notice we have a returning element.”
Catra finds her voice, but she’s still too taken aback to school her tone, be it into snark or respect. “How did you–“
A dismissive handwave interrupts her. “Well, as always, I have found the old adage to be true: if you want something done properly, then you ought to do it yourself. My shadow spies proved remarkably more efficient than your attempts.” Even with the smooth, impassible metal of the mask, the disdain in her expression is perceivable. “Then again, that was to be expected.”
Catra clenches her fists but doesn’t take the bait.
Shadow Weaver’s tone softens, losing the hard edge as she strokes a light, gloved finger against the bruise at Adora’s temple. “They caught up to her in Mystacor, just as planned. Unfortunately, some… complications arose, making it so her removal from the situation ended up necessitating a bit of unpleasantness.” The finger lingers on the bruise for a moment, before lifting. “But it’s for the best, in the end.”
So she sent her spies to trail Adora, knocked her out, and dragged her back the Fright Zone. Talk about unoriginal. Catra’d have succeeded too, if she’d had magical shadow spies that could go anywhere.
She crosses her arms, trying to regain a bit of composure. “Congrats,” she says, a corner of her mouth lifting sardonically. “I’m sure Adora’s going to be so touched. Oh, wow, you sent your creepy shadow spies after me and clubbed me over the head? Well, of course now I’m going to leave the rebellion and come back to the Horde.” Catra shakes her head. “She’ll be gone as soon as she wakes up if you don’t lock her up, and I’m guessing that’s not very Force Captain duties compatible.”
She’s expecting some kind of telling-off –Shadow Weaver rarely appreciated being reminded of the flaws in her plans, after all. To her surprise –and uneasiness–, the woman only laughs, the sound grating.
“Oh, that won’t be a problem.” She turns back to Catra, and she hates how she feels herself stand up straighter in response. “Which is why you’re here.”
She still manages an eyebrow raise. “Thought we’d established I really wasn’t the right motivation to keep Adora around.” The words are full of sarcasm, but the truth beneath them stings.
“Do you really think I’d rely on you for anything, much less something important as this?” She lets out a dismissive breath that could almost have been a laugh. “No, I’ve taken care of the issue myself. Adora won’t be going back to the Rebellion. She won’t even try.”
“And why’s that? Sudden change of heart? Another morality crisis?”
“Because she won’t remember them.”
The quick, snarky retorts die in Catra’s throat, along with her bravado. “What?”
Shadow Weaver shakes her head, almost indulgently. “You always did underestimate the extent of my abilities, Catra. I don’t know why –it’s hardly as though I gave you reason to.” She sighs, turning to look at Adora over her shoulder. “I removed all memory of her interactions with the Rebellion. Anything that happened over the past couple of weeks, since the day before she left.”
Catra’s throat is drier than sandpaper, and there’s a weight crushing her chest, and she can’t breathe– “You can’t do that.”
She can hear the smile under the mask, the mix of pity and genuine amusement. “Oh, Catra. Do you really think there’s anything I cannot do?”
There’s always been rumors, of course. Shadow Weaver can be in several places at once. Shadow Weaver can see through walls. Shadow Weaver melts like old plastic in direct sunlight and that’s why she always wears a mask –okay, that one she’d made up to make Adora laugh.
But of all of them, all those stupid rumors, Shadow Weaver can get into your head and do what she wants had always been the worst, to Catra. The woman was everywhere already, seeping into every corner, every minute of her existence, with a sharp word or a glacial reminder of all the ways in which Catra was a disappointment. The idea that she could get into her head not just metaphorically, but physically? That there was really nothing that would be safe from her grasp? It had struck home, creating a twist of fear at the pit of her stomach that she’d never quite managed to shake off. She’d grown up, relegated the idea to stupid childhood belief, but never really managed to completely ignore the cold, awful feeling of what if.
The confirmation that it is real is about as welcome as a baton hit to the face. Cuts off her breathing like one, too.
“With the memories gone, Adora will have no reason to go back to the Whispering Woods,” Shadow Weaver continues. She flicks her hand, and the shadows at her feet grow tangible, twisting up into the air, finally parting to reveal that stupid sword. In the dark red light, it looks washed out, fragile. “And even if she were to go back, there’d be nothing for her to find.”
Another flick of the wrist, and the sword is gone. She turns back to Adora, head tilting.
“It’s a shame. She was gone so long; there was a lot to take away. The aftereffects might be much worse than what they’d have been if you’d brought her back when I asked you to.” A despondent shake of the head. “Just one more of the many ways in which you’ve made her life worse.”
“It won’t work.” In her panic, she’s forgotten to paper her words over with cool indifference or disrespectful mockery. Her tone is far too close to desperate for comfort, but she can’t help it. “Okay, yeah, you take her memories. You take her magic sword, whatever. But she’s a Force Captain now. You’re going to have to send her into the field eventually, and then she’ll see. She didn’t leave because of the Rebellion or the stupid sword. She left because she saw what the Horde was doing. She saw–“ People being hurt, the same way Catra had been getting hurt, all her life.
It’d never been enough, when it had just been Catra, though.
“She’ll leave again,” Catra finishes, voice firmer to silence the thought.
But Shadow Weaver isn’t angry –she keeps that same, pity-filled calm that is setting every nerve Catra has on edge. “Everything has been taken care of,” she simply says, with her usual level of annoyingly cryptic.
Before Catra can ask –not like she would give the woman the satisfaction anyway–, Shadow Weaver continues, her usual authority seeping back into her voice: “When Adora wakes up, she’ll remember having been attacked by rebels during your little… outing.” The word carries all the weight of the punishments Catra’s had to endure for it. “As far she’ll be concerned, she’ll have spent the following two weeks at their mercy, until the Horde led a successful operation to retrieve her. I’ve given her mind suggestions of what could have happened, but her recollections will be blurry at the most, gaps filled in by her own mind. You are not to contradict any part of that story.”
The threat isn’t even veiled, but Catra’s still reeling, trying to see how Shadow Weaver can think any of this could ever work, and battling with the very strange feelings that come with the idea that it might. “But the others–“
“All rumors to the contrary, any word of Adora having defected, have been taken care of.” With the new knowledge of Shadow Weaver’s abilities, the words carry more meaning than they ever have. “I hope you realize that I would not be pleased to hear any more of that nonsense whispered amongst the cadets.”
Threat, again. “If you’re worried I’m going to blab, why aren’t you taking my memories too?” The very idea makes her blood run cold, second only to the thought that, for all she knows, Shadow Weaver’s done it before –how would she know any different?
She’s almost expecting her to reveal that it’s what comes next, that it’s the real reason Catra was summoned here.
But no. She’s much crueler than that.
She scoffs. “Why would I?” Slowly, she lifts a hand, and Catra feels her muscles lock into place as the first tendrils of magic wrap around her ankles, drifting up. “No, I want you to remember. I want you to remember how kind I was to you.”
The black shadows are ice cold as they wrap around her ribcage, but it’s not why she freezes up when Shadow Weaver takes a step forward and delicately brushes her gloved fingers against her cheek. “After all, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Adora, back with the Horde. Everything as it should be. You should be thanking me.”
The shadows tighten suddenly, turning into ice cold iron around her, and Shadow Weaver’s fingers close into a hard, tight grip around her jaw. “However. I am not prone to giving second chances. Should I find myself in the position of having to reprogram Adora again, I might find myself being a lot more thorough.”
She lets go, but black shadows take up residence around Catra’s throat instead, unyielding. Shadow Weaver tilts her head. “Adora’s attachment to you has always held her back. I’m sure she could achieve so much more if it were to be… removed.”
She can’t do that– there’s no way she could do that. They grew up together; removing Catra would mean removing Adora’s entire childhood, and Catra knows, she’s sure that even Shadow Weaver couldn’t do that–
“And then,” Shadow Weaver continues, as Catra struggles to breathe through the unbreakable hold –or maybe just through the words–, “who knows what’ll happen to you? Stars know you’re only here because Adora cares to keep you around. You’re nothing if not for her, not to anyone here. So I strongly suggest you keep my instructions in mind, for both your sakes.”
But what if she can?
Satisfied with Catra’s silence –even if she wasn’t struggling to breathe enough to stay conscious, she doubts she’d find anything to say–, Shadow Weaver taps a gloved finger to her Force Captain insignia. “As for this, with Adora’s return, there’s no need of your keeping it. The Horde has quite enough Force Captains to–“
A small, pitiful groan echoes from the cot.
Instantly, the tendrils fall away, dissolving into nothing. Catra gasps for air, hands falling to her knees for support, as Shadow Weaver turns around. “Adora.” Her tone has lost all the sharpness, instead turning so syrupy sweet it almost makes Catra gag.
Adora blinks a few times, expression hazy and confused. She attempts to sit up, one hand immediately flying to her temple with another groan of pain. “What– Where am– What happened?”
“You’ll be confused for a little while, it’s perfectly natural,” Shadow Weaver continues, fake concern lacing the edges of the words like barbs along a wire.
But Adora’s shaking her head now, heel of her palm digging into her eye as she mumbles. “No, this isn’t– I’m not… Why am I…”
For one glorious moment, Catra thinks she’s about to witness Shadow Weaver fail.
And then, Adora glows. Not the blinding, headache inducing way she does when she uses her sword –no, this is the dim, dark red glow that suffuses every one of Shadow Weaver’s tricks. Feeling vaguely ill, Catra watches as the light recedes and Adora’s expression relaxes, her hand dropping. “Shadow Weaver,” she says, like this is normal, “ma’am, I’m so–“
But the woman interrupts the budding apology with a wave of the hand. “We’ll discuss this later. We’re only happy to have you back with us, Force Captain.”
Adora nods, wincing a little as she brushes a finger against the bruise. “The rebels–“
“–were taken care of,” Shadow Weaver completes, and when Adora nods again, it’s more resolute.
“Good. I–“ She looks up, and her sentence trails off when her gaze falls on Catra.
For one irrational second, she thinks Adora’s about to pounce.
Instead, the girl breaks into a wide, happy, fucking dazzling smile. “Catra!” she exclaims, like she’s so happy to see her –and, well, she probably is.
It’s almost worse than if she’d attacked.
Shadow Weaver’s eyeroll is almost audible. “Catra,” and she says it like you’d talk about a slug you accidentally stepped on, “will take you back to your quarters to rest–“
But Adora’s not listening, instead struggling to right herself, eyes wide and happy. “You’re okay! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for you to be in danger like this, I should have been more careful in the first place–“
The barrage of apologies is very Adora-like, but its contents don’t make any sense. “What,” Catra says, a bit blankly, because, well, what?
Adora pauses, cocking her head to the side like duh. “Well, the operation, obviously! I can’t believe your first Force Captain job was to retrieve me, ugh, I’m such an idiot.” She winces for a bit, but it softens back into a proud, happy smile. “Congrats on a job well done, though.”
It takes a while to click in Catra’s head –and, from her baffled silence, in Shadow Weaver’s too.
Adora thinks Catra’s the one who rescued her from the clutches of the Rebellion.
Catra briefly considers knocking Shadow Weaver’s mask off, just so she can see her face. Adora’s brain would fill in the gaps, in-fucking-deed. If she wasn’t so on edge, she’d probably have started cackling. Shadow Weaver’s orders are simple –no contradicting whatever story Adora comes up with. That means that, as far as everyone is now concerned, Catra is the Force Captain who’s managed to bring Adora back to the Horde.
Shadow Weaver, who, after all, had been in the midst of trying to demote Catra, takes a second to respond. When she does, it’s with a deliberate slowness that implies that every single word is causing her physical pain. “Force Captain Catra,” she grits out, “take Force Captain Adora back to her quarters to rest. Immediately.”
Unable –and not wanting– to suppress the smirk pulling at her lips, Catra flips a lazy salute and heads for the cot. Reflexively, Adora reaches for her and stumbles to her feet. For a moment, Catra wants to freeze at the contact, expects Adora to recoil. But the girl only leans against her, just enough to be able to stand up straight without her knees giving in, as they start towards the door. The same way she’s always done.
So why does it feel so wrong?
Once they’re out of the Chamber, and out of Shadow Weaver’s sight, Adora lets herself rest on Catra a bit more, slouching forward with a groan.
The mess of emotions inside Catra’s chest is much too tangled to begin to unravel. Instead, she tightens her grip around the other girl’s shoulder, and tosses a quick: “You okay?”
Adora only nods, which Catra knows means she probably really isn’t. She leads them to a stack of crates, a bit out of the way of the main hall, and Adora all but collapses on it, forehead coming to rest on her knees. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, a bit miserably, and doesn’t it pull something in Catra’s chest to hear her say those words so easily, when they’re all she’s wanted to hear for two weeks.
She stamps out the feeling, crossing her arms as casually as she can. “You got kidnapped by rebels and knocked over the head. You get a pass for a little while.”
Adora lifts her head just enough to toss her a quick look from between her arms. “How long?”
“Like, a day.”
She does that little snort-giggle thing Adora always does, and why is it so surreal? She was only gone for two weeks –this is normal. It shouldn’t feel as weird as it does.
“Thank you.”
Catra jumps. “What?”
“For coming to get me.” Her eyes are wide and so earnest, and something twists in her stomach. “And I am sorry I put you in danger. All of you. So, you know. Thank you.”
The twist pulls tighter. She shrugs, looking away. “Well, you know. If you’re not around, I’m the one that’s going to have to do your job. Can’t have that.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see a bit of that earnestness melt back into amusement. “Riiight,” Adora says. “You sure it’s not because you like me?”
“It’s not because I like you.”
Adora hums like yeah, sure, before breaking into laughter. It’s tired, a bit weak, but it’s Adora, laughing with her. Like it’s happened millions of times. Like Catra’s been wishing it would happen again, ever since that stupid day in the woods. Part of her relaxes at the familiarity.
Another part of her says this is what you wanted, in a cold, metallic voice, and all hint of warmth flees her immediately. She straightens up, swallowing hard. “Come on, let’s get you back to the barracks. You need to sleep.”
Adora nods, apparently missing the shift in tone, and she lets Catra pull her to her feet with no resistance. They start again on their slow, laborious march to the barracks, Adora’s head gradually lowering to Catra’s shoulder as they cross empty corridors. Catra thinks she might have fallen asleep, or near enough, but she speaks again, words slow and the tiniest bit slurred. “I’m glad they didn’t get you, too.”
Catra almost trips, regaining her balance just in time to avoid sending the both of them crashing to the floor. “What?”
“The rebels. I’m glad you got away.”
“Oh.” Right. As far as Adora’s concerned, they were both attacked, and Catra managed to escape, letting Adora get captured. How very Shadow Weaver.
Honestly, she’s almost offended that this isn’t enough to get Adora to see that the whole memory is fake. As if Catra ever would –she’s not the one who leaves people behind.
Before it can make her bitter enough to do something really stupid, that train of thought gets completely derailed by Adora’s next few words: “I did miss you, though.”
Now that doesn’t sound like Shadow Weaver. “Do you even remember any of it?” she asks, managing to land on casual even though her stomach’s flipping all over itself.
Adora lets out a breath of a laugh –Catra feels it against the side of her neck more than she hears it, and she reflexively bites her own cheek, hard. “Maybe not all of it,” she admits. “It’s kinda… blurry. But I remember that.”
Catra doesn’t respond, because what the fuck is she supposed to say to that, but Adora isn’t done, apparently. She taps a finger against the insignia Shadow Weaver tried to take back barely a few minutes ago. “Congrats on the promotion by the way. I’m glad at least some good came out of this mess.” Her hand drops, and Catra feels her lean against her a bit more. “Shadow Weaver can’t deny how good you are now that she’s seen you in action.”
“She definitely can, and she definitely will.”
Adora scrunches her face a little –Catra sees it out of the corner of her eye, even though she’s trying to focus on literally anything else. “Okay, yeah, she might. But everyone else’ll know at least. And we’re both Force Captains now; just like we always wanted.”
You should be thanking me.
Catra’s saved from having to come up with an answer by their arriving at the door of the sleeping quarters. They stumble through, and Adora crashes face first onto her bed, face smushing into her pillow with a low groan.
Déjà vu floods Catra, endless occasions where they’d taken each other back to the barracks after a training incident flashing through her mind. She clears her throat. “You should, uh, sleep. I’ll– get you something to eat, or whatever.”
She’s already backing up, but before she can get out, Adora’s hand shoots out, grasping her wrist. “Wait,” she says, head lifting, revealing wide, panicked blue eyes. She blinks a few times, looking lost. “Can you… Can you stay?”
The irony almost kills her on the spot.
Why should I? You didn’t.
“Please?” Adora adds, voice softening into a barely audible whisper.
She swallows against a dry, scratchy throat, and, reflexively, starts to take a step forward.
I’m not coming back, Catra.
She jumps back, breaking Adora’s hold. The girl’s reaction is immediate, expression falling, and Catra swallows down the guilt. “I– I can’t right now. I’ll come back round later.”
“Oh.” It’s like everything about her has just deflated –she’s hunched over, eyes looking down in an –unsuccessful– effort to hide the hurt shining in them. “Yeah. Okay.”
Catra bolts. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t even breathe until she’s out of that room, the door safely shut behind her. Only then does she let herself fall back against the wall, breathing ragged.
This is what she wanted. Everything is back to normal.
So why does it feel like anything but?