Catra thought that it would feel different. Winning, that is.

See, she's just gotten everything she's wanted from the beginning. The position, the praise, the respect.

But somehow she's still missing something. And she doesn't know what.

Catra resolutely ignores the whispering voice in the back of her mind that calls her a liar.

Instead, she saunters her way down the corridors of the Horde's main base, and revels in the down-turned gazes, the flinching from those who pass her. Her smirk seems to have stuck permanently onto her face, and she's so, so grateful for it, because she didn't want to know what her face looks like without it.

Everything that had happened . . . it all burned fresh in her mind, blistering and festering. Like always, Catra curses everything that she did wrong, with Shadow Weaver, with Adora. With everyone she came into contact with, really.

Most of all, she curses her garden of heart.

She hates that her face reflects one person, but her heart-garden is the one thing that will always betray her lies.

Catra has this distant memory, from before the Horde got to her, from before things started to fall apart. It's foggy, but Catra still clings to it with gentle hands, hoping to keep just a little bit of starlight in her darkness.

It's of a woman. Catra has long since forgotten what the woman looked like, but she remembers that the woman had a soft voice, and kind hands. For a kid on the streets, she was like an angel. Catra remembers spending time with the woman nearly every day, the many treats and meals the woman offered her readily made the decision easy for Catra. At first, Catra wouldn't say anything to the woman, now that she remembered.

Somewhere along the way, Catra's young mind must've cracked, because she remembered asking the woman what the pretty plants in her heart were. Little Catra had been so curious. So enamored with the woman's stories.

She had laughed in surprise and delight, Catra remembered. Then, the woman spoke, "That's your garden of heart, little one. Inside every being's heart are great meadows and gardens of the most beautiful plants you could imagine!"

Little Catra had giggled and exclaimed, "I bet my garden is gonna be the prettiest one anyone has ever seen!"

The woman had smiled so lovingly that Catra ached to remember it now. "Oh, but my darling," she had said, her soft hand caressing Little Catra's cheek in such a way that made her purr, "it already is."

Back then, her flowers were unknowns in her mind, the names escaping her. Little Catra was proud of her heart-garden, of the flowers that symbolize pure innocence and playful mischief.

And then, what seemed like moments later, screaming ripped through the air and Little Catra watched as Horde soldiers shoved the lovely, wonderful woman who tried to love Catra as her own, down to her knees and shot her through the heart because she dared to try and protect Catra.

It was a bittersweet memory, tainted by the horrors the Horde committed, but Catra couldn't make herself forget the woman. She couldn't bring herself to forget the woman, so instead she honored her memory and sacrifice.

Now, she laughed mockingly at the gullibility of her younger self.

No more flowers of innocence now, huh?

Catra had always been set up for failure.

Just as soon as she finally believed that she could win, that her time finally had come, it was ripped away from her. Catra sought validation from the most vile, disgusting people in Eternia, and yet somehow it still hurt when Shadow Weaver toyed with her, when the cadets she had grown up with began to look at her with contempt, when Hordak granted her that validation she had wanted so much, only to treat her worse than the scum between his toes.

And Catra hated herself for letting herself go back to them every. Single. Time. Hated herself for the hope that still managed to burrow into her bones, sinking into every crevice and crack.

Her hatred fueled her at this point. She didn't have anything left to give, nothing left to put on the table to bribe anyone into staying. She was useless. It was only what people had been telling her her whole life.

She didn't let those people know that their words cut like knives, that they sent waves of agony down her spine. She let them all think that she was some cocky, sadistic persona. Her mask was carefully crafted, so careful, in fact, that sometimes Catra couldn't tell the difference between herselves.

In those moments, Catra had to wonder.

Who was she really?

The struggling, wilted flower garden of corrupted roots and death flowers and mourning trees, watered with betrayal? Gray skies hanging suspended over her heart-garden?

Or the cocky cadet who walked down the corridors of Horde bases with a dangerous smirk upon her lips and blades at her tongue?

Catra didn't know anymore.

She'd just wanted one person to stay. Just the one.

(Little Catra's heart-garden: Daisies, Yellow Iris, Clematis flower; Present Catra's heart-garden: Black Dahlias, Cypress trees, Chrysanthemums, Love lies Bleeding)