WHAT: Catra gets a belated 'Ghost of Christmas Past' scenario in a dream, and tells her to get fucked WHERE: A Fright Zone Dreamscape WHEN: Early this morning WARNINGS: Gaslighting parent figure (what everyone loves during the holidays) with mentions of child abuse STATUS: Complete
Catra isn’t sure how she’s here or why she’s here–just that she’s here, in the Fright Zone. It’s not the one that exists in Vallo. That one has been improved by She-Ra’s magic, and it’s got flowers and foliage that are blooming through all the cracks and broken gaps of the structure. It smells cleaner, and a lot of rubble has been cleared, and it rightfully belongs to Scorpia.
This isn’t it. She knows this smell. It’s oil. It’s ozone. It’s electrical wiring. It’s the faint scent of the chemicals the bots (before that it was a living night crew, but she had that stupid chore eliminated and put the staff to better use) used to clean the halls at night. This is the Fright Zone that existed before everything changed. This is the Fright Zone that was hers to run, equipped to the brim with weapons and ready for war.
It’s also all a dream. A dream, or some kind of stupid Vallo fuckery she’s being subjected to–or both. Both are possible. Everything feels real and not real at once. She’s also still pregnant, obviously, her hand curled over the curve of her stomach as if she could shield it from the fact that this place exists. It’s a protective, cautious hold. While it seemsthat Catra’s alone, she doesn’t feel alone. She knows she’s not.
But it’s quiet, mostly. Aside from the energy thrumming through the cables in the walls, a constant whirring of power that kept the cogs of this hell machine going, and going, and going. It’s a sound she grew up with, and she remembers what parts of the walls she had to touch to feel the vibrations under her palms. At times when she was small and still had a sliver of innocence left, she would find a spot to press her face against and think, this place can purr too, just like me!
Nostalgia aside, this shit’s pointless.
Catra roams. Her claws are out, and they’re scraping all the walls and making an ear-shattering sound as she scars the metal. She doesn’t know how much time passes. She’s irate. She wants Adora. She wants her body and mind to wake up in her own bed. She wants morning sex, and butterscotch pudding, and–
There’s an office that’s open. She finds that weird, considering the fact that she knows this office. Not many people have the passcode to enter it. She’s reset it herself so the numerical sequence could alphabetically match letters that spelled out a distinct insult. Was it a mature move? Pfft, no. Had it given her five total seconds of smug satisfaction? It had. Worth it. So why are you–
“Catra,” says a voice that makes all the hot blood in her veins freeze, and her name’s spoken in a way that’s relief (ah, yes, someone I know) and hints of disappointment (but why does it have to be you?). They come into each other’s view. Catra sees her on what used to be her desk, and there’s this bottle of dark wine uncorked and the sight makes her forget how to get oxygen to her lungs.
Tattered red robes. Black hair, like it’s composed of only shadows. The mask. Shadow Weaver looks alive. She looks like a living, breathing person, as if her entire existence never shattered on Etheria.
Shadow Weaver picks the bottle up by the neck and swishes the contents.
“You’re–” Catra swallows. This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a nightmare. “You died.”
“And you didn’t, I take it.” When she doesn’t get a response, she pushes forward. “How long has it been?”
“Two,” she answers numbly and incompletely, processing. Catra’s trying to piece together every shard of confidence that broke apart the moment their eyes met. It’s a messy work in progress. “Two years.”
Shadow Weaver nods and slips off her mask. It’s a sight Catra’s seen before but never for a long period of time–it seems like she intends to keep it off, exposing gray and marred skin, and takes a sip straight from the bottle.
Catra can smell the wine from where she stands. It’s strong. Her nose twists because she hates it. She doesn’t want to be here. She’s got nothing to say to her. This is fucking stupid, and of course this is what she gets; Adora gets her family, and Catra gets this woman and she thinks that she deserves this, that she and Shadow Weaver deserve each other (and it’s not a competition, this is just the way things are, she’s accepted it). But she’s dead, and Vallo’s clearly screwing with her and she needs to get out–except Shadow Weaver’s just staring at her, assessing her from the tips of her ears, to her face, and her eyes drop down to where her hand rests.
Hers do too.
She’s not wearing anything loose to conceal it. It’s a standard tank top and leggings, and the fabric hugs every inch of her. Shadow Weaver notices, though, with how her hand cradles the slight swell of her abdomen; like it's the most important, precious thing in all the world. When her eyes snap back to look at her, she sees all of it on her face. Confusion. Contemplation. Realization.
A wave of protectiveness hits her. Catra’s face hardens and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Who’s is it–”
“Whose do you think?” she snaps back. “Not like it’s any of your business to begin with.”
“So she’s alive. Adora–” Gods, the way Shadow Weaver says her name. She’s always hated it. It’s with this drawl, this awe, this expectation. There’s a part of Catra that wants to close her fingers around her throat to keep her from uttering her wife’s name ever again. “Adora survived.”
Catra lets out a short laugh. It’s this mirthless, bitter sound. “She did, actually. She’s great. No thanks to you.”
“Mmm,” she sounds out, like she’s thinking it over. Shadow Weaver continues to scrutinize her. She isn’t a Catra she recognizes. Her hair isn’t short, and she’s not all sharp edges and bones from withheld nutrition. This Catra is well-rested, healthy, and happy. It’s not a look she’s seen on her before. And when she finally speaks, she speaks like she’s been searching for the right words to say–which means it’s always the wrong ones. Catra knows this game more than anyone. “Isn’t it thanks to me?”
You’re welcome, after all. Her last words.
Catra’s mouth twitches. It becomes this smile, and this smile opens so she can laugh again. She digs her palms into her eyes–wake up, wake up–as she continues to laugh. It’s better than crying. Better than letting the knot of ache inside of her come undone. “Gods, you’re just so–just so predictable, it’s sad. Is that what you’ve been hoping for? Gratitude? Get fucked, Shadow Weaver.”
She turns towards the hallway. “Adora!” Maybe if she shouts her name enough, loud enough, her body will too. Maybe it wakes Adora, and her wife will recognize the sounds of distress and pull her out of this. Maybe–
“It’s two years later and you still call her for her to save you.” That is spat with venom. That is personal. Catra stills, back turned to her, and Shadow Weaver continues. “I wonder–do you still have her clean up your messes? Do you hold her back, because you’re unable to let her go?”
Catra recognizes this tone. Anger and hurt, two feelings she knows intimately well. But for once she isn’t the source and it surprises her as much as it satisfies her–because it’s from her. Shadow Weaver is hurt. She’s angry. She’s trying to needle Catra’s insecurities by resorting to a classic tactic; pitting her against Adora.
It doesn’t work anymore.
“And here,” she starts, slowly turning around to face her, “I thought you were so proud of me. Isn’t that what you said? I remember the way you looked at me, when you took your mask off. The way you smiled before you died. You looked proud. But I’m not stupid. You weren’t proud of me. You were proud of yourself, weren’t you?”
Shadow Weaver scoffs. She begins to say something, but she’s cut off.
“You thought dying was going to–what, undo everything you did to us?” Catra prods as she steps back into the office. She’s not scared. Shadow Weaver has haunted her dreams as a child; she’s paralyzed her, electrocuted her, thrown her, deprived her of rations, but the last thing she feels is fear. “That you’d be remembered for your sacrifice? That we’d miss you?”
She sees in her eyes what she’s heard in her voice; the hurt. Catra’s taken Shadow Weaver down in a fight but she’s never hurt her, not like this, and the reality of it continues to astound her. Wow. She’s always had some nerve but this takes the cake.
Shadow Weaver is who laughs this time. “Ungrateful,” she says, broken. “Always ungrateful. Is my sacrifice not why you have what you have? Why you have Adora, why you have–”
“I almost lost Adora! Because of you!” Catra’s loud, so loud she’s almost shrieking. Her words crack. “You died, and Adora almost followed in your footsteps! She thought that was the whole purpose of her life! To complete the mission, to die for the mission–to not be allowed anything or anyone! Don’t be proud of yourself for anything, and don’t think you’re allowed to even be proud of raising her. You raised her to kill herself.”
Catra doesn’t get a response back. That’s fine. She doesn’t need one.
“Do you know why she survived? Why we won?” she asks, breath ragged from her outburst. Shadow Weaver is clutching the bottle so tightly she thinks it might give under pressure. “I told her I love her, and she told me she loves me too, and that’s what brought her from the brink. That’s how we won. It’s so cheesy, isn’t it? But it worked. All we had to do was ignore everything you taught us about each other. So don’t act like you’ve got the right to be hurt about not being missed, and don’t act like you deserve us saying thank you, or feeling like we owe you everything we now have. Dying is the least you could have done for us after everything.”
After all the times she had used the Black Garnet on her.
After all the times she slithered her way into Adora’s memories–and wiped them.
After every threat, every deceptive caress to the cheek, every time rations were denied to her for punishment. There’s a list. It’s a cruel one, an endless one. It’s everything she remembers as she watches Shadow Weaver wipe tears from her face. If she had gotten this opportunity two years ago, Catra doesn’t think she could have brazen her words or felt so assured with how she felt. This woman was never her mother. That term was scarce in the Fright Zone. Commanding Officer had been her title, but back then she had been desperate–an orphan, craving the love of a parent.
“I loved you,” Catra confesses, ignoring the way she feels her mouth wobble. “But you knew that, didn’t you, that’s why you used it against me and left me to die. Your one sacrificial stunt doesn’t make up for all the times you were a threat to us. That’s too easy. You have to actually put the work in if you want to make up for what you’ve done, and it’s too late for you.”
After taking what’s an impressive swig of the bottle (did she just polish off half of that?), Shadow Weaver breaks out into a chuckle. Her tears fall without a sob. It’s the most human Catra’s seen her, yet she still refuses to be sympathetic. “I suppose it is,” she says. “Is that what you did, then? ‘Put in the work’? Has that made them forgive you?”
“It’s a start,” Catra grumbles.
Shadow Weaver hums, looking down at her wine as she slowly turns the bottle in her hands. She’s sad. She’s dead. “Will you sit with me?”
That… okay. That’s not a question she expects to hear. There’s extra chairs here. She could, in theory, sit with her until all this is over. She’s not sure when that will be. Shadow Weaver’s here, alone, and it’s unclear if this is her forever limbo or if she’ll get sucked into some void.
Part of her wants to say yes; that she’ll sit, and stay until the last moments. They can talk more, maybe in a way that doesn’t leave a terrible taste in her mouth. Shadow Weaver can ask about their lives, ask her if they’re safe–if they’re happy. But that’s what a mother might do, and she isn’t that.
“You know what the sad part about all this is?” she asks her, achingly soft. Her mouth tilts into a morose smile. “You’ve never apologized. For anything.”
“I suspect that won’t make a difference.”
“I suspect you’re just working on a way to justify all the things you’ve done to us, like you were doing what had to be done,” Catra counters. “Don’t forget–I learned everything from you.”
“Then we deserve each other,” she tells her, as if it’s something ironic to bond over, as if it’s almost funny. “Sit with me, please.”
Catra blinks. The same thought crossed her mind, how they deserve each other (vaguely, she recalls Adora as She-Ra, face contorted in rage, calling her the new Shadow Weaver when they were on opposing sides). Finn also crosses her mind. When they first met them, they weren’t much older than she had been when she came into the Fright Zone. They were small like her, looked like her, and Catra still doesn’t understand how any person can look at any child and…
Hurt them.
“No,” she blinks more and repeats herself, firm. “No. I won’t sit.” Catra’s brows furrow. She’s done. She’s not a pawn. She’s not a child. She’s done this song and dance; this woman doesn’t deserve her pity. “I deserved better than you. My self-esteem has been shit for the longest time because of you, and–no, I know now. I deserve better.” Those are words she had never thought she’d say about herself, and for once, she was giving herself the grace to believe them. “We’re happy without you, and we’ve got people who love us in a way you never could. And if there is something to thank you for, it’s just one thing.”
Hands tightening over her stomach, she takes a few steps back beyond the threshold of the room. Shadow Weaver watches her. For a split-second, she looks genuinely heartbroken and all Catra thinks is finally, you know what that feels like.
Catra exhales a heavy breath and brings one hand up to the entry pad. Her finger hovers over the close button. “Thank you,” she begins, and she hopes this is it–that this is the last time they see one another, “for showing Adora and I exactly what we won’t be for our own child.”
The door slides shut. Shadow Weaver is out of her sight, and she hopes this is the last time.