Chapter Text
Catra peers through smoke sputtering from the shattered skeleton of a nameless village. Nameless to her, anyway.
She wipes her claws on her pants and sighs. The battle was straightforward – there’s a cleanliness, a godliness in a battle that goes according to plan, even when the plan is to leave no survivors. The Horde fights to free Etheria’s commoners from the despotic Princesses, yes, but she’s long since learned that the Horde is willing to accept a lot of collateral damage.
Not like it’s on her head.
Catra turns over the mauve crystal in her hand, her fingertips tracing the delicate lithography decorating its surface. Ancient technology, yes, but priceless to the war effort, she’s told. That is why this village had to be sacked – no use in any survivors telling the Princesses what the Horde was after in the nearby First Ones ruin.
Catra paces the battlefield, hunting for any signs of life. The Princesses hadn’t been aware of this mission, right? The enemy “army” had been nothing more than an ill-equipped militia. Yet Catra senses something out of place – or rather, something in a place it shouldn’t be. Her tank divisions had razed the village, but bodies were suspiciously absent from the buildings. En route, the woods had put up just enough resistance that the operation was delayed by nearly an hour.
And there’s a familiar scent in the air, of ozone and superoxide and radical oxygen. Magic.
The Princess Alliance’s agents rarely meet Catra on the field of battle – Catra scarcely participates in pitched skirmishes anymore, anyway. Too many uncontrolled variables to risk the Horde’s second-in-command. There is one Princess, however, that does not fear her. Catra knows her like the back of her own hand. Or used to, at least.
If she was here, Catra’s victory is an illusion. Her enemy has never been conniving, but she knows how to get the job done. Catra needs proof, so she dives back into the ruined temple, searching for evidence that the Horde snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
Her eyebrow arches as she returns to her extraction point. On the ground, she finds a First Ones bracelet. It shouldn’t be here – Catra is far too experienced and far too observant to have missed it the first time. Here there should be a loose coil of rope or a set of claw marks in the ground. Not a First Ones data reader.
The air is heavy with magic and smoke. It burns her lungs. She inhales deeply, heart pounding. She’s here.
Or is she? Catra’s ears perk up – stealth had never been her opponent’s strong suit and as far as she can tell, Catra is alone in the ruin. She hears the skittering of insects, the wind rustling overgrown vines, but her enemy is conspicuously absent. She glances again at the data reader and the crystal clenched in her fist.
This is a trap, of course.
The smart play here would be to leave. To report to Hordak that the data crystal had been destroyed or was never there in the first place. But she is curious – if she brought this damnably fake data crystal to Hordak, what would it say? Is it a message meant for him? Or for her?
She must know. She is addicted to knowing.
Catra’s mouth curls into a grim smile as she fastens the data reader around her wrist. She presses the crystal into the bracelet’s inlay and watches a hologram splatter the shadow-mottled grey metal walls with jeweled light. The hologram flickers and First Ones writing rearranges into a script she recognizes.
Catra reads the letter once, twice, and then the data crystal dissolves to dust.
When I caught wind of a Horde excursion to a forgotten village in a dusty backwater of the Whispering Woods, I hoped you’d be leading it. What you’re looking for, it’s First Ones desalination tech, isn’t it? Be rest assured that Alliance gunboat patrols will be making good use of these blueprints.
You know who I am. You know just as well as I do that we have unfinished business.
I confess that I’ve been following your career with great interest. Your meteoric ascent after Shadow Weaver’s deposition (Breaking her mask was you, right? What’s next, kicking old Hordak’s cane out from under him?) has reenergized me. I was getting bored with the war, to be frank – magic cuts through Horde war machines like a knife through butter (like claws through tempered steel, maybe? I don’t remember Horde kitchens having much butter, but I digress).
But then you took over. We kept winning battles, but all of a sudden we were fighting in the wrong places, missing a flank here or a covert operation in a First Ones ruin there. You gave the Horde some staying power, a method to their madness, and I find myself stretched to my limit again.
I admit that I’ve come to miss you on the battlefield, so it gives me great pleasure to know that this knockoff data crystal will self-destruct before returning to Hordak. These words will be a memory and to recall them, you’ll have no choice but to admit me into your mind’s eye. There’s no shame in it – I’ve been there before, haven’t I? No need for embarrassment, you’ve been in mine, as well.
My superiors do not know that I’ve left you this message. Will you report this “fraternization” to yours? Either way, I admit I am looking forward to your reply.
I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but today is my win, wouldn’t you say? However, I truly respect your tactics – your mind makes this war seem less like drudgery. For example, your tank approach this morning was truly superb. It’s a shame that the Princess of Plumeria has already begun training the Woods to grow tread-piercing burrs. I should thank you for teaching us how to defeat the Horde, really.
Regardless, this letter is getting long in the tooth. It was fun distracting you, though.
Your enemy-cum-epistoler,
She-Ra
The dusty screen of a primeval shield battery flickers apologetically at Adora.
Adora has never been much for lingering after an engagement. She moves at a mile a minute, engaging the Horde with finesse or ferocity depending on the situation, and only takes time to relish her success like tea – between the biggest meals.
Her curiosity makes her linger, however, because she doesn’t want to make a habit out of losing.
She found the battery deep underneath a First Ones outpost nestled under the diamond-glass sands of the Crimson Waste, south of the Valley of the Lost. Adora observed that the outpost seemed untouched – though it’s not like anyone out here cared about the First Ones, anyway.
The shield battery appeared operational. Adora’s magic would breathe it back to life and it would find gainful employment protecting a runestone or a village or a general somewhere. The opportunity never existed however, because now that she’s exhausted herself by pouring negentropy into the device, all she sees is a blinking “Troubleshoot?” icon.
So Adora waves her sword into a writing tablet and presses the icon. She reads the message and her eyes widen, but she tosses her head back into a full-throated laugh that echoes down the halls of the outpost and dies on crimson dunes. She feels a familiar sort of feeling, a hair-raising tickle that gnaws at her even as it fills her with excitement.
The sword is in her hand again, message unrecorded, and she slices the shield battery to ribbons.
Dearest She-Ra,
Pardon me if I seem unpracticed at keeping correspondence – soldiers have little time for socialization, and when we do, we converse on the training ground through strikes and blows. You wouldn’t remember any of that, though, would you?
There is a Princess here, however, who has explained to me the basics. I can imagine your enormous forehead wrinkling at the thought, so allow me to clarify – I convinced her that I was writing to my family. In a way, I am, aren’t I?
To our shared business, then. I apologize that you wasted your magic powering up a useless shield battery. I wonder what this device might have thwarted. An attack on Dryll? An assassination attempt in the Kingdom of Snows? Not that we’re planning anything, of course. My methods for disrupting a piece of First Ones tech? The Horde has a very savvy engineering team, but of course you know that already. Technology puts power in the hands of the people, after all. This is why the Horde will win.
I’m surprised, honestly, that you risked exhausting yourself without any backup. Solo ops were never really your thing, were they? Always had to be leading a team, if I remember right. I suppose that Officer Octavia would be glad to hear that her training sessions didn’t go to waste. Still, I have you right where I want you. Rather, my team has you right where I want you.
Just kidding. By the time you read this, I will be back in the Fright Zone and my engineers will be developing personal shielding for the Horde infantry.
I imagine you laughing at my joke. When was the last time I saw you laugh? The Battle of Bright Moon? I remember you and your friends laughing – at me, I think – after your Princess magic drowned my battalion and washed an entire army away. You were unbowed and fierce, even when I had your back to the wall.
Imagine me laughing at you, this time. You think you’re in control of this, that you can send me a letter hoping to find and exploit a vulnerability in the Horde. Now I’ve returned the favor. Who is exploiting whom, I wonder? Is it the Horde that’s composed with a note of discord at its core, or is it the Rebellion? Let’s find out. I know you can’t resist having the last word.
Send my regards to the primus inter pares, would you?
Fondly,
The Force Captain
Catra navigates a warren of Mystacorian mores.
A real maze would be easier, she thinks. She’s never been good at remembering rules. Even when she does, it is a hassle to follow them. Mystacor traditions are almost alien to the rest of Etheria – a ruler voted on by the people, magic is commonplace instead of concentrated in the hands of a powerful few, and perhaps strangest of all – they maintain neutrality in the war.
Catra suspects that they wouldn’t remain neutral for long, however, if Catra were to be caught exploring Arxia. She extracts herself from a conversation with a young sorceress, hoping she didn’t promise anyone her hand in marriage, and follows the pre-planned route into Mystacor’s vast catacombs. Each faction maintains a different story about why Arxia was abandoned; the sorcerers claim that it was voluntary, while the Princesses argue that the First Ones technology keeping it airborne was failing until the sorcerers poured their own magic into the island. The Horde ordinarily would have little interest in floating islands, yet…
She has her mission. She’s investigating rumors of a First Ones crystal thought to be a failsafe for a hidden superweapon. Her intelligence teams haven’t yet identified where – or even what – the superweapon is, but she doesn’t really care. So long as she stays on script, the rebels will never be able to use it.
She wonders if She-Ra – if Adora – ever read her letter. She enjoyed writing it – she had nearly forgotten how taunting Adora gave victory a delicious piquancy. Every operation she’s run since then, she’s watched her back, waiting for She-Ra’s reprisal or for Hordak to discover her breach of discipline. Neither has come. Perhaps Adora doesn’t care, after all.
Catra steps lightly between trapped marble tiles and catches a familiar scent. Oil-soaked particulate and free radical exhaust. She follows the scent-trail and finds an unassuming room in a niche far from the main halls of Arxia. A hot breeze gusts past her as she opens the door – the heady breath of raw magic, she assumes. She circles the crystal spire in the center of the room, tapping it occasionally with a single claw. The crystal sings and the chime curves along the room’s rounded walls.
Catra bares her teeth at this crystal. She doesn’t feel roiling, hair-rising magic coming off of the spire. Her eyes dart around and settle on the ceiling. She sees the password, and as her eyes widen, she understands how she’s been thwarted.
“Friend of Adora,” she murmurs resentfully, and the spire opens. She reads, she memorizes, and she leaves. The trip back to the Fright Zone is long. She’ll need the time to think of a good explanation for this disaster of an op, she muses.
Dear Feli-force Captain,
I did indeed laugh at your joke. I’m flattered that you remember me in such sharp detail – Bright Moon was years ago, and you still remember my posture, of all things? Such a flattering note deserves one in return, I think.
But first, let me apologize – the Rebellion has been aware of the Failsafe for a number of months now. We weren’t sure of its purpose, but we relocated it to Bright Moon posthaste. This crystal spire was a personal project of mine – I admit that I didn’t realize it would come in handy, but fortune favors the well-prepared, doesn’t it? Don’t worry – we don’t have a superweapon trained on the Fright Zone. I understand why you might be hesitant to trust me, but you’ll just have to have a little faith.
Oh, and letter-writing is a new skill to me, too. The pen is a mighty weapon in a Princess’s arsenal, so I’m told. Does that make our correspondence a form of sparring?
Now, a confession – my memory isn’t quite as good as yours. I watched your infiltration to refresh my mental image of you. Maybe I’m still watching as you’re reading this? Probably not. Nonetheless, I like that thing you’ve done with your hair. You never let me comb it when we were kids, so I suppose this is the next best thing.
I didn’t forget the sound of your laughter, though, so I was happy to imagine it. I look forward to your next last word,
She-Ra
Adora strives to be a calamity in disguise.
She strides through the halls of a factory clad in an ill-fitting Horde uniform – she’s a little taller than the poor soldier she knocked out on her way in. Her sword is hidden for now, sheathing her forearm in silver, gold, and cobalt bright. A Horde captain looking too closely might cite her for breaking uniform regulations, but the low-ranking infantry avoid her eyes.
She walks like she owns the place, after all.
The factory has been oozing toxic sludge into the nearby river for weeks. Out of necessity? Or is it a strategy to slowly poison the Whispering Woods from the comfort of the Fright Zone? Whatever it may be, Adora will put a stop to it.
She finds dead heart of this place – a lonely terminal, screen lit up ephemerally as it refreshes with the latest pump rotor speeds and temperatures. Her fingers dance over the keys, entering an override code bought off of an innkeeper who overheard an infantryman whose squadmate’s boyfriend had been reassigned to sanitation duty. B to E to C and back again. The lock screen yields, and she’s in.
She steps back, startled, and lifts her helmet’s visor. The password wasn't an override code at all. She’s grinning widely, and her eyes gleam electric blue, eclipsing the cold light of the screen.
Dear Princess of the Powerful Fivehead,
I nearly ran out of time composing this letter! I never expected you to strike into the Fright Zone, but the few hours you spent lingering on the border were ample time to put together a sufficient response to your last missive. I doubt I would ever be brave enough to do the opposite – someone like me would stick out in Bright Moon, after all. I am sore and red – I’d clash with all the princess pinks and purples. Hell, for all I know, bad fashion sense might even be a crime in Princess territory. Though, they do let you wear that tiara…
I will give credit where it is due – you are much subtler than one might expect an 8-foot tall Valkyrie to be. I won’t elaborate specifically how I detected your approach, but let’s just say that you smell. A lot. You never were talented at stealth when we were young, so you must have shaped up a bit in the Rebellion. Color me surprised that you’re still training rather than hosting tea parties or whatever. How does being a Princess work, anyway? Does the tiara have to stay on all the time, or is it a matter of (bad) taste?
The reason I ask is because I could have cornered you. My engineers have been working on an anti-magic emitter. Could She-Ra have weathered the blast? You could have lost your powers – for a while, at least. Long enough for the Horde to part you from that damnable sword. I know, I know – you think you would have managed to get away, somehow. I chose not to notify the engineers of your little incursion, though, and flew solo this time.
I know you think you would be doing the Woods a big favor by disabling this processing plant, but this machinery sanitizes half the wastewater in the Fright Zone. If you’d managed to succeed, not only would we have litterbox issues, the Horde would have to annex Salineas, or the Kingdom of Snows, and all of that would be on your head. And on my back. So really, I saved us both a whole lot of trouble.
Besides, I wanted to get you back for that business with the failsafe. It’s a shame I’m not around to catch a glimpse of you, though – I know that while I aged like fine wine, I’m sure you aged like grapes on the vine. Better luck next time, Hero of Etheria.
XOXO,
Catra
Catra studies a grain of sand, but cannot deduce the world.
She picks the rounded silica out from between her toes. For a moment, she rues the decision to not wear shoes in the Waste, but her real contrition is for the chain of decisions that led her here in the first place. Legends claim that the Crimson Waste contains fewer grains of sand than stars in the sky. Catra wishes desperately that were true, but here she is, surrounded by sand. So it goes.
Late in autumn, the twelve moons rise low in the sky and mark the start of the Great Hunt. The young and able-bodied warriors of the Valley of the Lost set out to stock their larders for the winter. A wholly unnecessary ritual – swear their allegiance to the Horde and Catra would have twenty ration bar synthesizers in the Valley by the end of the week, but she admires their self-reliance.
The Horde needs recruits, however, so engendering self-reliance is not her goal tonight.
Catra finds the Valley’s scullery and scurries inside. The refrigeration units are only barely functional – she notes, with grim relief, that her sabotage won’t arouse suspicion of foul play. Her claws snip at wires here and there, separating the heat pump’s warp from its weft. Steam hisses, a whirring ceases, and she knows her duty done.
Something, like a niggling in the back of her mind or a familiar tingle beneath her skin, bids her to stay and watch as the air melts into the evening heat. The thermometer ticks above six degrees Celsius and magic fills the room, cold and bright. Great blocks of ice fill the room and, carved into one’s surface is a message.
Catra traces the lettering, ridge by ridge, and carves the meaning into memory.
My curious Catra,
You catch more flies with honey, you know. Did you seriously not think of just offering these people help? This scheme seems a little convoluted – be careful, didn’t someone say that complexity killed the cat?
The thought of you capturing me overwhelmed me with nostalgia. You surprised me, though – I remember when we were young, we would always overcommit just a little for one another, show our hands before the turn. It pains me to think you’ve grown boring in your old age, my sweet vintage (you are more astringent than sweet, but I mean it in a fond way, I swear).
I’m surprised that you’re so interested in the day-to-day politicking of being a princess. Last I remember, you hated them! Or is it that you hated me with them? Is this just your newest ploy to turn me back to the Horde? By making me realize how boring it is to be a Princess?
Enough beating around the bush, though. I can read between the lines. You could have captured me, a powerful magical asset to the Rebellion, but you didn’t. You acted outside of your role as Force Captain and probably disobeyed the orders of Hordak himself. You’ve done this before, many years ago, and I admit I didn’t understand then why you let me go. You told me that it wasn’t because you liked me. If not, then why?
As an aside, my friends and I do have tea every afternoon. Have you ever had tea with biscuits? Or anything aside from a ration bar? I imagine you’d like real food. Anyway, tea parties aren’t really to my taste, to be honest, but I have to play the part of She-Ra, princess parties included. Still, tea and biscuits are much better than ration bars, grey or brown. I still don’t get why you preferred the brown ones.
I won’t make you read between the lines this time. I have questions: What are you trying to get out of this game we’re playing? Is it a game at all?
Do you miss me?
Please, as a favor to our past friendship, be candid with me. If you cannot, please do not respond at all.
Best,
Adora