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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."

She knows she's in for it when she misses that one blow during training -- a single misstep, half a second's delay, yielding a critical error that nearly costs her the whole match. She ends up third on the scoreboard, beneath Adora (always beneath Adora), and now bested by Lonnie, too.

The way Shadow Weaver looks at her, stare sharp behind her mask as darkness whips in agitated coils around her, Catra knows they'll be having words.

"Catra," she calls out to her as the cadets are about to disperse for the evening, "you stay back. We'll be having words about your performance."

Like clockwork. It's so predictable that she can only roll her eyes. But Shadow Weaver doesn't take well to that, either. "Do you understand, cadet?"

Catra squares her shoulders and lowers her head, dredging the charred bits of her remaining obedience from deep within her gut. "I understand, Shadow Weaver."

Her fellow trainees exchange looks in awkward silence, where she thinks they'd be sniggering, were they not too scared to. Then they're gone, out the door and down the hall.

Adora is last to leave. Catra catches her gaze on her way out, the usual blend of pity and guilt swirling in those pale blue eyes. Something about it always drives Catra a little crazy inside. She can tell Adora's thinking, oh, this is my fault, I could've helped prevent this.

As if.

By the time Catra's let go, the halls are deserted. Dinnertime's already over. Her cheek and shoulder are sore. She heads into the showers alone, gets ready for bed alone. The lights in the sleeping hall are out, and it's quiet, save for the occasional rustling of blankets and Kyle mumbling stupidly in his sleep.

Catra pads over to Adora's bed, the same as she does every night. But rather than settle at her usual spot in the corner, she lifts the blanket to climb in, crawling up the mattress until she can curl against Adora's back. Forehead pressed into her nape, seeking her warmth in the dark.

It's something she does, sometimes, on nights like this. Nothing big. They never really mention it.

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