A/N: Hey, everyone! Sorry for the slight delay, this is a highly stylized chapter with delicate subject matter and it was something I wanted to make sure I got absolutely right before posting. malachi-walker betaed it and gave her seal of approval, so I'm confident it's good now. Go check out her work if you're new to the fandom or have been living under a rock.
First things first. In case you didn't notice the new cover art, the lovely and talented jem-jarrett did a gorgeous illustration for this fic a while ago, a picture of that iconic hug from chapter 1. You can find a larger version (and a picture only version) under the 'hail mary' tag on my tumblr (url: johannas-motivational-insults). If you're enjoying the story, do me a favor and go reblog that art and/or the fic promo post I recently put up.
CONTENT WARNING:
What you're about to read is basically Demons lite. It's a chapter about the experience of being an abuse victim, the psychology and coping mechanisms that come along with it and why people in those situations sometimes act in ways that cause them harm and/or don't leave the situation even if they 'can.' It's written in a style that is meant to immerse the reader in that experience and I won't lie, it's unpleasant. It's also extremely cathartic, if you've been there.
I should clarify, there is no actual violence in this chapter. The emotionally and physically abusive situation the squad lives in is discussed without censorship, but the chapter cuts off before anything violent happens. So while the content could certainly be triggering, it is not explicit.
That being said, I know some people are here for the cute yearning jocks and not the abuse commentary, and if this content makes you uncomfortable you can actually skip this chapter without missing too much. It provides some useful context for Catra's headspace in the next chapter (which is Adora POV) and does a lot of environmental storytelling, but is pretty light on plot. I'll leave a plot summary of the chapter in the end notes for anyone who wants to skip it. Anyone who does read it, maybe have some cute Halloween fluff lined up as a palette cleanser for afterwards. Cool? Cool.
Tick, tick, tick…
Catra's eyes twitch in time with the obnoxiously loud clock mounted on the wall of the changeroom, jaw clenching tight. She'd have a mind to rip the batteries out of the damn thing if it wasn't behind a metal cage. She didn't even notice it until after Weaver and Adora left and she'd gotten changed, leaving her no distractions from her environment. Or her thoughts.
Tick, tick, tick, tick…
She could just leave. She's pretty sure she's allowed to return to the field as a spectator, technically speaking. But that would require moving, and she seems to have lost all motivation to do so. A heavy feeling of dread has settled over Catra since Weaver and Adora left, sucking the joy from her bones and filling them with lead. She's been lying on the bench for a while now, staring numbly at the ceiling.
Tick, tick…
At least it's constant, predictable. Predictable things, annoying as they may be, are easier to tune out. To tolerate.
Catra's restlessness finally overpowers her paralysis, her hand slipping into the pocket of her varsity jacket. Pulling out her phone, she taps out a quick message to Adora.
Catra (9:07 PM): how're you feeling?
Adora (9:07 PM): Shitty. Almost at ucc in toen
Adora (9:08 PM): *town. Tectung w one handnsucks omg
Adora (9:08 PM): FUCK
Catra snorts. She can just imagine the frustrated pout on Adora's lips, the adorable way her brow crinkles when she's annoyed. Adora takes her sweet time typing out the next message perfectly.
Adora (9:09 PM): Want me to call w updates?
It's tempting, the offer of something to distract Catra from the other shoe dangling above her head. But adding to Adora's mental list of things to do when she's already stressed and in a great deal of pain is the last thing Catra wants. She briefly considers telling Adora to call if she needs it, but that would no doubt get interpreted as a request rather than an offer.
Catra (9:10 PM): dw about it. i'll see you at home
Catra (9:10 PM): feel better, enjoy the drugs
Closing the messaging app with a sigh, she surrenders to the endless cycle of flipping through her various social media feeds in search of a meager hit of dopamine.
It's only a minute or two later that a distant yet thunderous roar fills Catra's eardrums, making her head tilt with interest. Possibly Thaymor managed to get a touchdown, but it's getting pretty late. More likely the raucous ovation is a salute to the seniors at the end of their final game.
The thought makes Catra squirm and fidget. There's more lectures coming, she knows it, and she's barely recovered from the last one. The rush of telling Weaver off has long since passed, leaving a sense of impending doom in its place. Talking back the way she did was incredibly stupid, but can she really say she regrets it when she'd do the exact same thing all over again? There's no other way to handle Ms. Weaver, not without giving up pieces of herself. That's what Weaver wants: for Catra to submit, to take herself apart for her, hand over her mangled remains just to avoid her wrath. Catra refuses to give her the satisfaction, no matter the cost.
Suddenly energized, Catra gets up and paces around the room, stretching her legs. Her hands wind in the hem of her shirt, grip the cuffs of her jacket before scratching at her salty skin with a scowl. She's sorely tempted to bolt and avoid the impending humiliation, but they all came here on the team bus, so it's not like she has a getaway vehicle. Besides, if she runs now that'll only postpone the lecture until practice on Monday, and it'll probably be worse. Either way, Catra prefers to just get it over with. Tom Petty was right, the waiting is the hardest part. It's the absolute fucking worst.
It's almost a relief when Grizzlor storms into the room, fiery eyes scouring the recent influx of bodies like a heat-seeking missile. They lock onto Catra and she gulps, schooling her features into a blank slate.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Diaz?" he shouts, silencing the post-game chatter amongst the team. "You tryin' to blow your chances for a scholarship? No team will wanna sign a loose cannon who's gonna cost them yardage."
That smarts a little, but Catra manages to keep her expression neutral as he continues his rant. Grizzlor is usually a man of few words, but not right now. Just her luck. Finally, he points a finger her way and concludes, "If you get suspended, we're gonna be in trouble in the playoffs."
That is what finally breaks her facade, a twinge of guilt afflicting her stomach and showing in her face, she knows it. Either that's all Grizzlor wanted to see or he finally ran out of words, because he shoots her a final glare before disengaging.
It's bad, but it's a storm Catra can weather. She was expecting that. She fumes quietly from her spot on the bench, doing her best to listen as Cobalt debriefs the team on a job well done. Turns out the final score was 51-3, not their biggest win of the season but close. It could have been a lot worse if Fright Zone hadn't lost two of their offensive stars with a quarter to go.
After praising their solid play, Cobalt concludes, "One more thing. I know things got a little testy out there, and I'd like to thank you guys for keeping your cool. You behaved admirably out there." Levelling a pointed glare at Catra, he adds, "Most of you."
Catra barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. It's not like she didn't see that coming. She stares back impassively instead, only blinking when Cobalt takes an unexpected step towards her. She can't help bristling as he encroaches on her space, fighting the urge to hiss or dart away. Only the thought that there's no way Cobalt would get away with assault keeps her seated. Well, that and a wave of paralyzing terror.
Stopping a few feet away, Cobalt raises an eyebrow and says, "I know you wondered why we didn't pick you as a captain, Catra."
That makes her blink, hard. She never told anyone that, not even Adora. Especially not Adora.
"Maybe you thought it's because Adora's the quarterback," Cobalt presumes, before shaking his head. "No. This irresponsible, undisciplined bullshit is exactly why. A reckless shit stain like you isn't fit to lead. You're a liability out there, plain and simple."
The words swim in Catra's head and cut deep in her chest, tearing at old scars and threatening to make them bleed anew. She can't breathe.
Irresponsible. Undisciplined. Reckless. Liability.
Liability.
The fact that he called her by her first name makes it exponentially worse.
Swallowing the glass shards in her throat somehow, Catra reacts the only way she knows how. Flashing a grin, she jokes, "And here I thought it was my sunny personality."
Cobalt stiffens, anger flaring in his eyes. "Do not talk back to me, Diaz. You are on thin ice, you hear?"
Eyes falling, Catra sets her jaw and tries to calm the hurricane in her chest. Getting a reaction out of Cobalt isn't nearly as satisfying as getting one out of Weaver, and it's definitely not worth the extra humiliation she just heaped on herself, humiliation she can't deflect or escape. She has a lot more to lose here than with Weaver. It's not just her skin on the line, it's her whole fucking future.
Gritting her teeth, Catra settles her breath and forces herself to meet his eyes. "Yes, sir."
Narrowed eyes still locked on her, Cobalt says, "Dismissed, everyone. Be on the bus in fifteen." Then he turns and leaves.
The boys follow, awkwardly filing out and into their changeroom across the hall while the girls awkwardly stand around pretending they didn't just witness that. Eventually the postgame chatter starts up again, in hushed whispers this time.
Catra doesn't say anything more, staring blankly at her hands as the ambient sounds swirl around her. If she doesn't open her mouth, she can't cry.
Her burning eyes and heaving chest beg to differ.
It's at least five minutes before anyone tries talking to her. When she sees Scorpia approaching in the periphery of her blurry vision she curses herself for making amends. The last thing she needs right now is useless platitudes and a crushing hug.
"Uh… hey, Catra," mutters Scorpia. "Um, look, I grabbed this for you from the bench." A blurry brown blob enters her field of view, Scorpia gently setting the object down in her lap. "Figured you'd want to keep it."
A swell of gratitude surges in Catra's chest, but suddenly she's even closer to crying and she doesn't dare acknowledge the gesture in any way. Scorpia seems to understand, giving her shoulder a soft pat before leaving her alone.
The bus ride home is easier. People aren't really paying attention to her anymore, and the mood on the bus is appropriately jovial after such a decisive victory. It leaves Catra to stew in peace, glaring out the window as she clutches the ball tight to her chest. It can't be more than three hours since she ran that historic return. How did she go from that to this?
When they arrive back at the school, Lonnie and the boys start to follow Scorpia to her car. Suddenly Catra's entertaining the urge to offer them a ride home in Swift Wind, just to spite Weaver and prove to Adora that she can in fact drive safely. But she thinks better of it quickly. Catra doesn't want to leave Melog at the school overnight, especially not when there's a good chance Weaver won't let her out of the house tomorrow. Weaver might confiscate her keys, but it's better than leaving her baby to get jacked by some crackhead.
At that thought Catra frowns, eyes dropping to the ball in her arm. Even if she hadn't gotten thrown out of the game and talked back at her, Catra would fear Weaver confiscating or destroying the souvenir. Ever since she quit gymnastics, Weaver's had an unofficial rule that Catra isn't allowed to revel in her own accomplishments. There's a reason she's hidden the framed article Adora gave her in the back of the closet, though even that is probably not safe enough. Who knows when Weaver will do another one of her surprise sweeps for contraband? A football may be innocuous enough in a house full of football players, but Catra's not willing to take any chances, especially not with Weaver on the warpath.
Finally, she speaks.
"Hey, Scorp!" she calls, jogging after the hulking lineman. "Wait up!"
Scorpia shares a quick but loaded look with Lonnie before turning back, putting a little distance between herself and Catra's housemates. She and Catra meet halfway, converging under a dim and buzzing lamp post.
"Catra, hey," says Scorpia, the flickering light casting shadows on her nervous smile. The concern and pity are coming off her in waves. Catra hates it. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Catra says quickly, dismissing this with a shake of her head. "I need a favor."
Scorpia visibly brightens. "Of course, Wildcat! Anything for you."
Catra nods once, extending the ball to Scorpia. "Hold on to this for me, will ya? It's…" Catra's eyes drop, her voice following suit. "It's not safe at home."
The light flickers once, twice, but still nothing happens. Despite Scorpia's tenacious loyalty, Catra almost starts to worry she'll refuse. When she finally feels the ball being plucked from her hand, she sighs in relief and dares to look up.
Now it's Scorpia with her eyes down, studying the ball with a pensive frown. Fingers tracing the textured leather, she swallows as she meets Catra's eye again. "You know, if you need anything-"
"I do," Catra interjects firmly. "For you to take care of that ball. Got it?"
Scorpia nods sadly, eyes big and wet and full of words unspoken. "Yeah, Catra. I got it."
***o***
The sight of the empty driveway affords Catra a sigh of relief as she pulls up to the house. Scorpia drives like Adora, so of course she beat her, but if Weaver and Adora were back already it would have been problematic. As much as Catra wants to get this impending confrontation over and done with as soon as possible, she could use the extra time to prepare.
Not knowing how long she'll have alone in the house, she does a rapid check of her various stashes: Clif bars taped to the underside of the dresser top, alcohol pads and band-aids slipped into the lining of a thick winter coat, painkillers wrapped individually in toilet paper and stuffed inside the shell of an old pen. She's gotten creative over the years.
While the quick inventory is partly to soothe her own anxiety, assure herself she's prepared for whatever may be coming her way, there's a healthy dose of paranoia involved. Aside from the very real danger of Weaver confiscating supplies secretly to lull her into a false sense of security, there's always the chance one of the other kids got into her stuff out of desperation and hasn't paid her back yet. Catra doesn't think any of them know the current locations of her stashes, but then again she pretends not to know that Lonnie hides her weed behind a rotting box of snail bait in the garden shed. Safer not to assume.
The nice thing about having a job is being able to restock her own supplies, hidden as they may be. Unfortunately, she doesn't have anything stronger than Advil right now. For a while she had some oxy saved up, bought at a steep price from a classmate recovering from an appendectomy. Adora might come home with something stronger tonight, but if she does it's just getting locked up with the rest of the drugs anyway. Adora can't help, as much as she'd no doubt love to.
Case in point, after the shopping cart incident Weaver was giving the pain meds prescribed for Catra's wrist to Adora for her concussion symptoms. Apparently Adora's brain really was damaged, because she made the noble and stupid mistake of trying to hide one of the pills under her tongue in hopes of returning it to its rightful owner. Weaver caught her, of course, and she ended up with a second impact injury and lost her painkiller privileges for two days of excruciating headaches. That whole saga was worse than normal too, because it was the summer and Weaver could effectively keep them locked in the house with no one questioning their condition. Adora has never tried anything like that again, and Catra doesn't expect it now. She'd rip her a new one if she even tried.
Sighing at the meager stash, Catra pops a couple pills preemptively. They take time to kick in anyway, might as well get ahead of the pain.
As she tosses the pen back into the wire holder on top of the bookshelf, testing for a telltale rattle, it occurs to her that she can leave, avoid the pain altogether. She's never had the option to escape a beating before, not without knowing she'd eventually be dragged back here and get it even worse. Weaver can't do that anymore, not if Catra decides she's leaving for good.
The thought is tempting, but fleeting. She can leave, but she has nowhere to go. Maybe last year Scorpia's moms would have taken her in, but they no doubt hate her now after how she treated their daughter. Even if they don't, there's no guarantee that situation would be any less shitty. And to be honest, Catra would rather live under Weaver's iron fist than be someone's charity case. Her pride is literally all she has.
Besides, if Catra left she'd bet her ass Weaver would do everything in her power to keep her and Adora apart, exert as much influence over Adora as possible in the time she had left. Even if Adora felt brave enough to flee the nest once she signed a full ride and turned eighteen, that would give Weaver nearly three months to fuck with Adora in any way she wants, and that is not happening, not on Catra's watch. They made a promise to protect each other years ago. Catra hasn't had as many opportunities to make good on it as Adora has, and she's not going to squander the ones she has.
Now all that's left is to kill time, again, and Catra decides to take advantage of the empty shower while she can. She takes care to finish with a cold rinse, though; warm and flushed skin is easier to break. If she stops to think about it she hates that she knows that, that it's something she even has to consider, so she does her best not to think. This is her life, and she knows how to deal with it. That's all that matters. Wishing for better things is for people with fucking options.
When Catra returns to the room she finds Lonnie sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone. The casual posing does nothing to mask the tension in her shoulders, nor the worry in her eyes as she casts Catra a fleeting glance. "You okay?"
"Peachy," mutters Catra, not bothering to disguise the edge in her voice. Even a shower couldn't calm her down after all those lectures, not knowing another was on the way. Lonnie knows that, why even fucking ask?
Lonnie gets the message and doesn't push for more, silently taking Catra's place in the bathroom before one of the boys can jump in. Alone in the room again, Catra decides to distract herself with homework. She doesn't want to leave the safety of the room to go use the kitchen table, but she can get some reading done at least.
In theory, that is. It becomes readily apparent that Catra can't focus on anything with this noose chafing her neck. After several frustrating minutes she gives up, abandoning the book and her bunk.
Hopping over the railing, she lands in a nearly silent crouch and crawls onto Adora's bed. She scoots back against the wall, into the safety of the shadows, and wraps herself around Adora's pillow. It's pathetic, but at least she's graduated from cowering in the closet. Nuzzling the pillow, she inhales and exhales slowly, deeply, fighting to steady her breaths.
In, out. In, out.
She wishes Weaver would just get home already.
Lonnie makes absolutely no comments about Catra's location and activities when she returns, because she doesn't want to fucking die. Catra feels eyes on her a couple of times and bristles, growling in warning. Nothing Lonnie could say or do could make her feel better right now, not even things Scorpia would object to. As much as she needs comfort, Catra's only option is to self-soothe. She wouldn't even be able to stand Adora touching her right now, let alone anyone else.
Besides, even if she did somehow manage to relax, it would be a mistake. Catra needs to enter Weaver's sanctum with her armor intact. Breakdowns are for after.
She and Lonnie hold that stalemate of awkward understanding for another ten minutes before the sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes Catra's heart jump. Her hyperalert ears strain and pick up the engine cutting out, doors opening and closing, and finally a pair of familiar voices. Catra's stomach burbles, threatening to empty itself as a cold sweat breaks out on her brow. Consciously tuning out the voices, she squeezes the pillow tighter and wills her limbs not to shake as she resumes the deep breathing.
In, out. In, out.
There's some more talking and banging around downstairs before the stairs start to squeak with Adora's familiar footsteps, slower and much heavier than usual. The door clicks open, revealing a haggard looking Adora with her left arm in a sling. No cast, though. Good.
"Hey tough girl," teases Lonnie, "what's the verdict?"
"Second-degree sprain," mutters Adora, a tired hand running through her loose hair. "They said I can practice with a brace but need clearance to take contact. Probably will miss next week's game."
"Shit."
"Yeah, tell me about it." Adora's weight shifts as her eyes flit up to Catra's bunk. She frowns and turns back to Lonnie. "Where's-"
Lonnie cuts her off by silently pointing at her bed, and Adora's eyes flick over to meet Catra's. The sheer intensity and earnestness in them forces Catra's to shut with a sigh. She does not need to get emotional right now.
In, out.
Adora's footsteps close in on her, then pause. Catra opens her eyes just in time to see her dip her head down to peek under the edge of Catra's bunk. "Uh, Catra?" she says cautiously, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sling. "Weaver wants to see you."
Her obvious apprehension is contagious, but also soothing in a way. It actually helps Catra settle her nerves, regain a bit of her bravado. It's easier to be strong for someone else than for herself.
"Obviously," snorts Catra. Tossing the pillow aside, she rolls off the bed and starts for the door. She doesn't make it two steps before Adora is latching onto her shirt, pulling her back and into a one-armed hug. Catra bristles at the contact, a startled hiss squeaking through her teeth, but Adora doesn't take the hint.
"I'm fine, Adora," she says, forcing her voice to stay even. Adora only squeezes tighter, and Catra scowls. Doesn't she understand that this is upsetting her at a moment she absolutely cannot afford it? Trying to shrug out of Adora's grip, she insists, "Seriously, this is pretty routine for me." Catra glances over to Lonnie for assistance, but she's pointedly looking away.
"I'm sorry," sniffles Adora, pulling back just enough to make eye contact.
Catra blinks, hard. Searching Adora's teary eyes, she asks, "What for?"
Adora opens and closes her mouth several times, making a few odd stuttering sounds and eventually words. "I… it's… this is-"
"Catra." Weaver's voice booms up the stairs, deep and demanding yet deceptively calm. Catra and Adora flinch in tandem, their eyes locking in a moment of panic. "Come."
A shudder rolls through Catra's body, her stomach bucking and churning as her legs wobble beneath her. Her eyes blur, the blood literally draining from her head. Oh god, she's gonna puke. Or faint.
A warm, steady hand grips her arm, holding her upright. Catra breathes in through her nose, fixating on the grounding pressure as her vision slowly comes back into focus. Adora smiles down at her weakly, thumb rubbing her bicep. "I'll be right here, okay?"
That's far from comforting, actually. Catra hates there being any witnesses to her humiliation and defeat, but it's part of the package deal. At least they don't hear her scream or cry anymore. She stopped giving Weaver the satisfaction years ago.
Hand sliding down Catra's arm, Adora gives her hand a parting squeeze. They both know there's little time to waste before Weaver calls her again. You don't make Weaver call twice, not if you value your life. Then again, there's a lot of things Catra shouldn't do if she values her life. Her pride is greater than her instinct for self-preservation, one of the many follies Weaver has failed to beat out of her over the years.
Not trusting her voice, Catra twitches her mouth in thanks and lets Adora's hand slip from her grasp. Her head goes numb and floaty at the loss of contact, some automatic process taking over as she turns for the door.
It's a long, familiar walk to the gallows. The stairs creak beneath Catra's feet, piercing the almost deathly quiet of the house as she descends into the shadows of the main floor. Faint light from the street filters in through the living room window, illuminating the way to the back of the house. The refrigerator hums to Catra's right as her feet robotically carry her past the kitchen, rough carpet tickling her naked toes.
Weaver's door is shut, just an ominous strip of light peeking out from under it.
In, out. In, out.
Rigid fingers clenching into a fist, she raps her knuckles against the rough wooden surface.
"Come in."
Straightening her shoulders with one final breath in, Catra turns the handle and steps inside. A surreal rush washes over her as she steps into the light, sinking back into her body. She's here now. It's time.
Thank god.
Ms. Weaver stands in the middle of the room, a look of vague amusement in her eyes. "My my, what an eventful evening you had," she remarks. "We have much to discuss."
Oh, great, she's in one of those moods. Sometimes Weaver just can't resist playing with her food before tearing it to pieces.
Ignoring all the alarms sounding in her brain and body, Catra shuts the door behind her. "I know, I know," she sighs. "You're disappointed in my reckless, disgraceful behavior."
Locking horns with Weaver might not be the smartest approach in terms of minimizing (physical) damage, but backing down hurts far more. The wounds it leaves are invisible, but deep. They mutilate a soul beyond recognition. Besides, Weaver's the one who threw down the gauntlet. If she wants to play, Catra will give her a game.
Weaver wants to see her cower. She will do no such thing.
"No," Weaver counters flatly. "To be disappointed I'd have to expect better."
Catra winces at the sting of those words, she can't help it. Weaver seems to notice but takes only a second to revel in that small victory before pressing onward. "Your incorrigible penchant for mischief spilling over into violent conduct is hardly surprising, nor is it new. The only surprise is that you would be stupid enough to pull something like this on the field."
"It makes me look like a liability to prospective colleges, I know," grumbles Catra, rolling her eyes as she tries to recover. "What do you care, anyway? It's not like you want me to succeed."
Weaver's eyebrows arch. "Must I spell it out for you? Your behavior doesn't just reflect badly on you, Catra, it's a disgrace to the entire household. It hurts everyone here, Adora included." That makes Catra's eyes drop, gut rolling with guilt. "Do you think it's easy to secure funding to provide for needy orphans when the ones under my care behave like total hooligans?"
"Well what did you want me to do?" Catra shoots back. "You made it very clear that the only thing I'm good for is helping Adora. I'd think you'd be happy. Does it not bother you that that fucking goon threw her on her head?"
"Of course it bothers me," Weaver retorts icily. "But you didn't see me throwing a tantrum and committing assault in front of hundreds of people, did you?"
Catra scoffs. "No, you prefer to do that in private."
Weaver stiffens, a sharp breath sucking in through her teeth. "Insolent child!"
Oh shit, she's done it now. The familiar twin rushes of triumph and terror course through Catra's veins as Weaver storms toward her, cheeks blazing with rage.
"I have provided for you all these years despite your many shortcomings and constant insubordination, you ungrateful little brat," spits Weaver, forcing Catra to look up at her as she backs her against the wall. "Need I remind you, I could have thrown you out on the streets the moment you turned eighteen."
"How could I forget?" mutters Catra, eyes sliding away.
"It's not too late," Weaver assures her. A finger pressing hard against Catra's sternum draws her gaze back up. "I still can, and will, if you refuse to submit to my authority and judgment."
The use of the A word makes a growl rise in Catra's throat, but she swallows it down. She got her little victory of getting to Weaver before she got to her, but the stakes are too high now to risk pushing her further. Besides, the longer they fight, the longer she has to live with the suffocating dread still curdling her insides.
"I'm here, aren't I?" she retorts, leaning away from the touch and crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "Just get it over with, already."
"Over?" Weaver laughs mirthlessly. Shaking her head as she backs away, she says, "Oh no, child. You don't get to tell me when this is over."
Turning to her dresser, Weaver opens the second drawer. The drawer that makes Catra's stomach flip, even when she knows it's coming. Her breath stutters as a shudder runs through her body, thankfully at a moment Weaver's not looking at her.
"But if you insist," says Weaver, holding Catra's gaze as she reaches inside, "we can begin."
A/N: Well if that's not ominous enough for you, here's next chapter's TV-style trailer with out of context quotes…
Next time, on Hail Mary:
"I mean, you are kind of disrespectful."
"It's none of your fucking business."
"Just behave yourself for a fucking change."
"Of course I'm mad!"
"GET OUT!"
*o*o*
Plot summary:
-Catra is filled with anxiety after being left alone in the changeroom. She reflects on the idiocy of talking back to Weaver but admits she would do it again anyway. She expects lectures from the coaching staff as well, and she gets them.
-Scorpia gives Catra her ball from the historic return in chapter 9, but Catra ends up giving it back because she's concerned Ms. Weaver will confiscate or destroy it.
-Catra prepares for her upcoming 'conversation' with Weaver by checking her hidden supply caches of food, medical supplies, and painkillers. She then waits for Weaver to return, rebuffing Lonnie's attempts at comfort so she can keep her metaphorical armor intact.
-Adora and Weaver return and Adora reveals she has a second-degree sprain and can practice without contact but might have to miss next week's game. She also attempts to comfort Catra prior to her meeting with Weaver, which causes Catra distress because she can't afford to get emotional.
-Catra goes to see Weaver, who guilts her by saying her behavior could impact funding for the group home. Weaver says Catra threw a tantrum and committed assault in public and Catra shoots back that Weaver prefers to do that in private. Weaver loses her temper, invades Catra's space and threatens to throw her out of the house if she doesn't comply with her punishment. Catra has decided staying in the house is her only viable option right now, so she acquiesces and tells Weaver to just get it over with.