catra (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fangsbared) wrote2020-05-07 01:36 am
fangsbared) wrote2020-05-07 01:36 am
(no subject)
This, right here? It should be everything Catra's ever dreamed. More than that, even-- because if she could go back in time and tell herself at age ten, twelve, or even just half a year younger, that this is how things would turn out... she'd laugh her freakin' head off.
Guess what, Catra? Your hard work paid off. You've taken over Shadow Weaver's place as Hordak's right hand woman, while Weaver herself is curled up in a prison cell, counting down the days until she's shipped off to Beast Island. She'll be gone, gone, never to return, and the monsters there will feast on her flesh and grind her bones. How about it, Catra? Doesn't it feel good to know you've won?
It doesn't, though, is the thing. That's what pisses her off.
Victory should taste sweet, not heavy bitter acid on her tongue. She should be barely-suppressing the urge to dance along the rows of cells as she goes to bring Shadow Weaver dinner. Yet for all the years she's spent wishing the woman would just disappear, now that it's a hair's breadth away from reality, the thought stuffs Catra's chest full of dread.
So fucking stupid, right?
"Hey. Get up. Dinner."
The cell door closes behind her, and Catra drops the tray to the floor with a deliberate clatter, gray slop spilling over the edges. It's impossible to tell if Shadow Weaver's asleep or awake, lately-- she's spent the last couple days hunkered in the corner, masked face hidden further behind her arms, darkness swirling in pallid tendrils around her.
She looks so small. So feeble. Such a deliciously pathetic sight, and yet...
Catra can't believe she's feeling pity.
"Come on!" She kicks the tray when no response comes, sending it skidding closer. "Eat."
Guess what, Catra? Your hard work paid off. You've taken over Shadow Weaver's place as Hordak's right hand woman, while Weaver herself is curled up in a prison cell, counting down the days until she's shipped off to Beast Island. She'll be gone, gone, never to return, and the monsters there will feast on her flesh and grind her bones. How about it, Catra? Doesn't it feel good to know you've won?
It doesn't, though, is the thing. That's what pisses her off.
Victory should taste sweet, not heavy bitter acid on her tongue. She should be barely-suppressing the urge to dance along the rows of cells as she goes to bring Shadow Weaver dinner. Yet for all the years she's spent wishing the woman would just disappear, now that it's a hair's breadth away from reality, the thought stuffs Catra's chest full of dread.
So fucking stupid, right?
"Hey. Get up. Dinner."
The cell door closes behind her, and Catra drops the tray to the floor with a deliberate clatter, gray slop spilling over the edges. It's impossible to tell if Shadow Weaver's asleep or awake, lately-- she's spent the last couple days hunkered in the corner, masked face hidden further behind her arms, darkness swirling in pallid tendrils around her.
She looks so small. So feeble. Such a deliciously pathetic sight, and yet...
Catra can't believe she's feeling pity.
"Come on!" She kicks the tray when no response comes, sending it skidding closer. "Eat."
shows up two days late
She knows that Catra doesn’t actually want to send her away to Beast Island. It’s obvious — just as everything else Catra has ever wanted has been extremely obvious. In knowing this, Shadow Weaver is not particularly worried that she won’t be able to get out of this cell with Catra in charge of her captivity. After all, it was not Hordak making these visits to her. Catra was far easier to control.
When the cell door opens and the tray clangs to the ground, spilling food she’s meant to eat like an animal to the floor, Shadow Weaver doesn’t budge from her place in the corner, body limp.
It’s not until Catra kicks the tray that Shadow Weaver spares her any attention. Shadow Weaver’s chin lifts just slightly.
“It’s quite hard to maintain an appetite in a cell like this, you know,” Shadow Weaver says, a lilt in her dark voice. “Do not bother.”
The silence resumes, even as Catra still lingers above.
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She can't even bring herself to sound smug about it. Just-- angry.
"If you hate it so much, do something about it. Make yourself useful again, and maybe Hordak will give you another chance."
Behind the gruffness to Catra's voice, there's a note of urging-- pleading, almost. Work with me. There's still time.
She hates that she even cares.
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“Why do you insist on this, Catra?” Shadow Weaver asks. “Bringing me my meals, insisting that I ‘prove my worth’ to Hordak. Shouldn’t you be happy?”
Shadow Weaver's gaze remains on Catra's face.
no subject
She'd like to be happy-- everything would be so much simpler-- but then, she doesn't like playing into Shadow Weaver's expectations, either. So maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it can be her strength. Maybe she should take pride in anything that sets the two of them apart, even this.
(And even if Catra can't fully make herself believe that, she'll damn well make sure Shadow Weaver can't tell.)
She takes a step closer, bare feet thudding against the concrete--
"You have no idea who I am, Shadow Weaver. You never saw me."