Serve and Protect

Chapter 32

[Author's note: The comics in this chapter were made long before the fic was started, so please disregard any discrepancies between the two! Content warnings: images of physical assault (one character holding another by the throat), scars, and mentions of abuse.]

In a corner of the main workroom in Horde HQ was space the gang used as a sort of kitchen slash break room. There was a sink (perpetually full of dirty dishes), a microwave (splattered with crusted residue), a cheap electric kettle, and an over-stuffed mini fridge, all crammed together. Catra stood at the sliver of available counter space and spread butter over a slice of bread with a trembling hand. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

It had been a long day.

At Hordak's command, Catra spent hours trying to get Police Chief Angella Brightmoon to talk. She'd tried everything short of outright torture. At first, she'd tried appealing to Angella's better, kinder nature. When that didn't work, she threatened her and her daughter. At one point, frustrated and desperate, she even landed a punch squarely at Angella's delicately pointed chin.

She actually felt guilty about that one, and that's when she decided to take a break. After tasking Scorpia with keeping watch over their prisoner, Catra locked herself in the bathroom where she stared at her reflection for a long time in tense silence. She felt strangely detached from the girl staring back at her in the mirror. Logically, she knew she was the same person she'd always been, but she didn't feel like it. The girl staring back at her may as well have been a complete stranger.

Eventually, someone slammed on the door and bellowed for her to hurry the fuck up because he had to take a piss. Catra barked back at him to give her a minute, for fuck sake, before splashing cold water on her unfamiliar face. She flipped the guy off as she left the bathroom, then trained her attention on coming up with a new strategy.

The only thing she'd learned so far was what had become of Shadow Weaver. Angella readily offered up that Shadow Weaver had turned herself in, trading information in exchange for a lesser sentence. What Angella wouldn't say was what kind of information Shadow Weaver had given up so far.

It was this revelation that led to Catra's fist connecting with Angella's jaw. In some ways, it was more of an involuntary reaction on her part than it was an interrogation tactic. Even though she shouldn't have been surprised that Shadow Weaver had taken the lowest road possible in order to save herself, Catra still couldn't believe that she'd turned on the gang that way. All her life, Catra had been told that her allegiance to the Horde was a lifetime commitment — that there was no greater sin than to turn on their family. Catra always felt it was a little dramatic, but at least her conscripted loyalty gave her something to believe in — something to fight for. It was one thing—one bad and heartbreaking thing—for Adora to turn on their way of life, but Shadow Weaver? She had been the one to drill this sense of loyalty into them in the first place. She had given everything to the gang, and she knew what was at stake.

Catra had expected Shadow Weaver to take her newfound freedom and run. To salvage what was left of her wasted life and find somewhere safe to live out the rest of her days. But no. Shadow Weaver had decided that it was worth spending time in prison in order to get back at the Horde for casting her aside.

If someone like Shadow Weaver could turn on the gang, what the hell was Catra fighting for?

It was there, standing on the precipice of an existential crisis, that Catra made up her mind. Shadow Weaver and Adora were weak. They were traitors, and they were cowards. But Catra was none of those things, and this was her chance to prove it.

That's how she wound up in the kitchen slash break room, making a sandwich out of stale bread and processed cheese slices. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. The sound of boiling water infiltrated Catra's thoughts. She turned to the kettle just as it clicked off and poured its contents into a mug with a waiting teabag. Did the chief of police take cream and sugar with her tea? Catra had no clue. But then again, someone in Angella's position couldn't really afford to be picky, could she?