Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Knock it off.”

Nudge. Hard nudge. The rope between her hands slips from her fingers, the whole knot loosening itself. It falls to the dirt below, flimsy and lifeless. If not tied, useless.

“Hey! Stop it, please!”

Whining. The horse is uncaring. He hits Adora with his big pale head, big baby blue eyes bearing down on her. The donkey between them both becomes anxious with his impatience, only making everything harder. Of course.

“Swift Wind, I’m taking you too. Can you please just let me finish this?”

Nudge. The animal’s nose alone is enough to pop her entire shoulder out of place, though such a thing would be the least of her problems.

Determined, dead set on ruining Adora’s trip into town, Swift Wind stares her down with eyes almost human. Adora finds herself staring back, challenging him, then she returns to the donkey, forcefully tying down the cargo the animal will be hauling. Today she thinks to buy something extra. Buy something sweet.

Then it happens.

Rope falls. Cargo tips dangerously to one side of the donkey and the animal nearly topples over. Horse neighs. Hooves stomp. The air itself shifts, bad omens stinking up her nostrils.

A posse is riding onto the land. Lawmen; their badges sparkle underneath the late morning sun, stars shining like they might be real. Like they might belong above, the natural show Adora has spent much of her life staring at in fascination. What makes the lights so great? Why must they be so far away? Why can’t she be among them?

No, not lawmen. Bounty hunters. Adora’s heart jumps out her throat, beneath Swift Wind’s stomping hooves, to be crushed forever. Finally, after all these years of dread and stiffness from looking over her own shoulders, she will be free from this life.

Unfortunately, it won’t happen that way. She could never take the easy way out. Instead, her brain begins to assess options as they present themselves: run or fight. Shoot one or two of them and ride off. Her horse could cross the country in a blink. Run now: they’d never be able to catch up.

No, neither will bring her good fortunes. Nothing will ever free her from this life, nothing so easy as running. Running and fighting—that’s her entire book so far. She’ll simply stand here, a fool, a statue, a walking corpse, and the universe will finally deliver to her what she’s destined for years now. At least she’ll finally get to see those stars up close.

Boots. These people are well dressed. Moving in a calculating way, a coordinated way. Long guns sit on the same side of each horse, and each horse and each gun appears to be identical. All carbon copies of one another. Clean boots—not a speck of dust on any of them. Badges shining—

Those aren’t badges.

It’s the Horde. The group the old man used to—

Adora isn’t smart enough to examine the man in charge here, and she curses herself for it. She’s been on the run as long as she’s been alive. Why wasn’t it first instinct? No, instead all she can think about, selfishly, dumbly, is how tired she is right now.

The man standing in front of her is one she can never forget. He did not raise her, not the way his father tried to. He was never sat around and told stories. He was the shut-in, the one hissing and baring his fangs. He stands now, after years and years he’s supposed to have spent in the grave, his intense eyes grappling themselves into the deepest crevices of Adora’s existence.

“Adora Grayskull.” This isn’t the villain monologue. He doesn’t grin down on her, showing his twisted, pointed, bunched up teeth. He barely makes the effort to look down on her, to look at something other than the anxiety boiling in Adora’s eyes.

Adora looks up at him, a bead of sweat crawling down her face, just barely missing the bottom of her eye. She’s forgotten how to breathe. “Hordak.”

Well dressed, the way she remembers him. A long black suit jacket hangs from his bone-skinny frame, the tail of the coat beginning at the ends of his hips, trailing long past his knees and creating some sort of skirt. After all these years, he still looks skinny enough to fall over to his death. Adora catches the gold chain hanging from between the two ends of the jacket, holding them together. Overall, it looks too big for him. A bright undershirt with matching pants that have never seen dirt in their life. One item perfectly recalls Hordak to Adora: the green and white cane keeping the man upright. He steps forward one, his arm shaking with the effort. The chain shifts around. The jacket sways. His boots, remaining perfectly clean above the dirt and dust around them.

Dark eyes weighing down on Adora, almost strong enough to force her head into the dirt next to those perfect city shoes. Hordak speaks again: “Your country is in need of your services.”

Anxiety washes away as Adora straightens herself out, becoming a proper human. This is different from any other time. No guns are loaded yet, making this the strangest encounter by far with bounty hunter or law. Or the Horde, the largest religious cult the small country of Etheria has ever seen. The scariest one. It's time to be scared for real now, yet all Adora can feel is energy. She’s tall, energized, conscious of her rifle slung over her shoulder, ready to bring her big, eye-opening, life-saving argument. “I already did my time, sir.”

Pushing her luck now. Playing the tough guy. Adora is kept awake at night, wondering when such luck will expire. There’s something in this reunion ready to force the rest of it out of her, and she can’t stop herself. This is Hordak. Hordak, the man she grew up with. He’s no better than her and here he is, riding with the biggest names he could find. His father might finally be proud of him.

The man’s horse is huge, a massive beast one might find in their nightmares. Swift Wind isn’t small by any means, but he looks like a puppy in comparison. It’s an obvious tell: this is the man in charge. Hordak is the biggest person in a group of the biggest people. The fact he isn’t remotely smug about it is, in all honesty, rather impressive.

He’s readied for the windy weather, a wide brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes and a green bandana over his mouth. He removes it, a clean shaven chin and trimmed mutton chops decorating his face. He's trying too hard to keep an authority about him, but Adora was always a bad kid. He used to say so, and his father used to say so. Authority was never on her radar. It’s the very thing keeping the law’s greedy, nosy eyes on her. The very thing keeping her awake at night. She’s a bad kid, a criminal, a selfish bandit whose only companion is a horse and a donkey. She’ll never be the hero in any of those silly old books she used to read.

This is Hordak. Cold, unamused, uncaring Hordak. With his new friends, he’s an ice pick now, ready to stab and stab and tear into Adora until there’s nothing left. With everything, she can’t possibly blame him. None of this is his fault. He has his demands, and he’s never been interested in speeches. “It’s time to bring that old bitch to the grave.”

“I ain’t seen her in ten years.” Her tongue feels fat. Her throat is heavy, bruised the way her heart is racing. Hordak was a threatening force before. Now he has friends who have guns. It’s becoming rather difficult to remain the tough guy. “I wasn’t sure she was even still around.”

“All of them—” Hordak continues on, apparently unaware of Adora’s mouth speaking words— “that gang you ran with. All of them will see the light. It’s time for them to become civil.”

Some degree of amusement runs through Adora. “You ran with them, too.”

“They will pay their dues.” Again, like she’s not even here. Maybe she could try running off. Would he even notice? “There is an old fort. North of Thaymor. Has not been used since the war. I know you know it. No one has set foot in that old place.” He pauses, as dramatic as the old Hordak would be. “Until recently.”

“I’ve done my time, sir.” It’s a plea, with everything she has, but this man won’t let up. Quickly, Adora makes the extra effort to add, “Respectfully.” Hordak doesn’t care.

“You’ve served, yes. But let us not pretend there aren’t other, unproven incidents . I can erase those cases. Make my colleagues forget the other trouble you’ve caused. You can do me this favor, Ms. Grayskull, or I can visit you again in a cell. Better yet, an ‘accident’ can happen by that fort.”

Adora’s eyes leave the beast-horse's giant hooves for this man’s face. Wide brimmed hat. Soulless eyes. “What do you want from me? Come on, Hordak—”

“Do not—” He stops. What happens next is strange. Hordak becomes vulnerable, beyond what can be shown with that cane. He’s never enjoyed the cane. He’s never enjoyed appearing weak. But this man, unable to catch his own breath or hold his own balance as he coughs himself nearly to death, can’t help but appear weak. Adora almost feels the need to run over and help him. She notes none of his colleagues are doing so. The horse behind Hordak accepts him as he uses the animal for balance. It doesn’t phase a soul.

This happens often. If it’s so normal, Hordak isn’t right.

He can feel Adora’s eyes bearing down on him now. Adora is the strong one now, and it fills Hordak up with that classic Hordak rage; teeth snarling, twisted, pointed, deadly. A small chest breathes hard underneath a shirt and a fancy jacket, a gold chain bouncing up and down. The green bandana returns over his mouth, and here Adora notices blood is beginning to seep out from between his teeth.

“Your gang has excellent marksmen. My bosses prefer them turned in alive. The state has suffered enough; they want to see bodies swing.”

Adora isn’t sure how that’s better than blowing the entire fort to pieces.

“I need to see the old hag. And the Mexican. You know which one I’m talking about.”

“She has a name.” Adora catches herself, clenching her jaw to hide away her frustration. Yeah, sure! Pick a fight with the religious government agent! “I would prefer to do without the race labels. You know that. She’s a person.”

It sounds so stupid. She's supposed to be a saint? After what she’s done in her time? Even the dying man with the collapsing lungs laughs about it.

“Befriend them, if you must,” he continues. “Tell her you’re coming back to the family. You’re a silly, stupid, lost child. I know you remember how to lie and swindle. Lead them out of the fort. We will be at the ready. Do this, and your other, pending debts will be forgotten. Don’t do this, and you won’t have any freedom to care about debts.”

Adora takes a moment to appreciate the concept of a “pending debt”. Then the man she’s known and forgotten and now can’t recognize is handing her a single card and a stuffed envelope.

“Prepaid postage. Keep me updated.” Hordak turns, climbing up the monster horse like the young man he used to be. Grasping the reins, Hordak keeps eye contact with Adora. He’s not done yet. “If you try to run, Adora, remember this: we are a civilized country now. We will not forget you. Nor will we forgive you. Good day.”

All riding off, going about their business, like nothing has happened. Like no one was threatened. Certainly no one Adora cares for, right? The card in Adora’s hand reveals Hordak’s new life. His new address. His new title under the cult his father was so obsessed with. The man would ramble on and on, old and senile, and here his son is now, their leader. Their dying, ill leader spending his numbered days bent on revenge. Adora wasn’t even there when it happened, and she’s left to clean the mess up. She opens up her red jacket, the fringe decorated on the front swaying all about. The postage and the card disappears into one of the inner pockets. Right above her gun.

Swift Wind nudges her shoulder again, keeping his giant head where she can pet him. Even the horse knows the situation is bullshit. She scratches Swift Wind’s face and neck, feeling herself begin to calm. Her mind beginning to wander.

“Mexican,” she repeats. She sighs, the tightness in her chest threatening to choke her. “So you are alive, Catra.”

-

Young. She began this life young, an apprentice learning to be the best they can. Learning to devote their lives to something unique, useful, profitable, something to keep their family and their interests supported. Something to keep a roof over several heads and warmth in the fireplace. Unique. It’s the perfect word, the only word Adora can use to describe the strange, awful life she’s had the pleasure of experiencing.

Swift Wind trots along, aimlessly, without haste. There is no goal here. They’re simply wandering around, waiting for something to happen. She’s been given the privilege of lounging around on a peaceful walk, with absolutely nobody staring at her, peering over her shoulders, waiting for the moment she makes the mistake of letting her guard down.

The thought makes Adora laugh.

She makes no haste because she is frightened. What’s to come terrifies her, the same way it always has. The wide and open plains stare back at her, soulless, free, a gentle hand caressing them, smoothing them as loving fingers might on a cat. They stare at her, and she desperately wants to scream back. Look at something else! Mind yourselves! You have never known terror, and you might remain lucky to be so uninformed!

It was Catra’s least favorite thing about Adora. So much, they’d argue hours into the night about it. Adora remembers the others, too. She could never forget them. The way Rogelio would stare at them the next morning, devoid of any and all sleep, hating them both dearly. Kyle would drag his feet beside the large man—from large boy to large man; Rogelio was always a giant—with nothing in his eyes but the sheer misery of listening to two girls fight one another all night. Lonnie, the third of the trio, looking not tired, but ready to murder them both.

Jobs with the trio were never uneventful. Something going wrong almost every time. Catra and Lonnie suddenly becoming competitive for no reason. Catra and Rogelio making fun of people in Spanish, loud enough to make the dumber of their victims lash out in confused rage. Kyle was a klutz, in such a way he wasn’t to wield a gun until he was well into his teenage years, and would always manage to get them caught. They were all young, stupid, trying to prove something. They all wanted to be something, and it was the most dangerous trait any of them could carry. Even the one soul of them who seemed to understand this kept her long nailed bared and long incisors ready to kill. Every single one of them was a bumbling mess, and it used to drive Adora’s brother crazy with sizzling authority.

When they would age, early into their collective teen years, new members would fall into the gang. For the most part people came and people went—usually into the grave. Double Trouble, as they were called, being the favorite of the group. Never failed a job. Never saw a bounty under their name, because they were in and out like nothing. They were a ghost on every job, and it used to drive the younger crowd crazy. Catra used to refer to them as a lizard; their tall, skinny frame and their ability to blend in. Adam used to tell the old group it was nothing to be threatened by; they were all a team, all a family, and Double Trouble was picking up the slack.

The moment Adam mentioned slack, everything became competitive. Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio, heading off on their own jobs they managed to mess up in their own ways. Adam and Adora, together on cattle rustling. Adora and Catra, sneaking off onto their own things. The gang’s secret member . . .

Adora needs to focus. She can see the road ahead, clear in the light of day. A light wind graces the side of her cheek, some dirt kicking up beneath her steed’s hooves. Swift Wind’s always liked days like these. What a shame they can’t both sit out here forever and enjoy it. Still, Adora might take some time to stall, pulling them both over on the side of the road. Hopping off, checking her inventory before she storms back into her childhood all over again. Here, foolishly, she actually believed she was free from all this.

“I can’t believe he found Shadow Weaver.” Adora strokes the side of her horse’s head, watching his eyes blink in bliss. Swift Wind finds it relaxing, Adora finds it therapeutic. She holds onto it with everything she can. “He’s probably been looking for her for years. Years.”

Adora can’t say she blames him. Not like she hasn’t been doing the same.

The old man was his father. The old man used to call everyone his brothers. Shadow Weaver, Octavia, Double Trouble, every short-term member of the gang. His brothers. They were all equals under the light of understanding, and all sorts of nonsense like that. He was obsessed with the First Ones—those who settled this land long before today’s time. He hated them. Said they never bothered with unity, structure, togetherness. Brotherhood. He used to run away to a cult called the Horde. Spending days with them before returning. Hordak hated it. Now Hordak’s using them to destroy everything that destroyed him. It’s poetic. It’s the exact thing forcing Adora’s hands to shake in fear.

“I need to focus.”

Hordak and his new group. Their visions for a perfect future. Adora can’t trust a group who would never leave the Fright Zone. Between the region’s obsession with fair skin and how lined one’s wallet is—she hopes this place is never the future. She hopes this place is destroyed, a horrible memory, a horrible lesson on what not to do. Then Adora grins. That is exactly what Catra would say.

From Swift Wind’s loaded saddlebags, carrying what little Adora has managed to her name, a notebook greets the afternoon sun. The red shade perfectly blends with her jacket and all its fringe dangling and wiggling about, the leather soft in her palms. Brand new. She’s left the others behind, beginning a new one for her new, unexpected journey. She regrets not taking that donkey into town and keeping the profits. Not like she’ll need the community service anymore. What she really needs now is food. And some sort of invisible spray, one which gives her the ability to blow off Hordak forever.

First entry in the journal: a doodle of Hordak. She makes it as childish as possible: elongated teeth, an extra pointy brow, a large frown. The picture waves his hands in the air, steam popping out from his ears. Then she becomes serious. Notates her bounty is somehow still active. Probably Hordak’s fault. He mentioned other, pending debts. It could mean a million different things. Hordak could’ve penciled Adora in for some other lucky fool who got away. Or, somehow, much more frightening, he knows what she did. But that’s impossible. No one knows about it. Not even Catra.

It’s more likely Hordak would lie. He doesn’t have much time left. Adora can hardly believe he’s gotten himself sick with such a miserable disease, but something about it suits Hordak. Maybe it’s the way the man has never looked as if he belongs among the living to begin with. He doesn’t look good. Days are numbered. It’s not a big surprise he’d dedicate his final breaths to getting revenge on Shadow Weaver. She tried to kill him, and Hordak doesn’t let things go easily. It’s what makes him her perfect opposite.

Adora can’t afford the same risks as Hordak. But she’s no different from him: she’s spent years and years looking for the same person, and she cannot rest until they once again sit in the same room. Her fingers write the last day she and Catra were together, and her eyes can’t believe it. Has to be fake. She has to be mistaken. Would Catra even remember her after a decade? Will she even care? What meaning is Adora to her now, a ghost roaming the plains lifelessly for ten years now?

Things will go wrong at the fort. Doesn’t matter how close they all were. Double Trouble is no killer, but they’re no fool. Octavia, one of the older members, she’s always liked Adora. But Adora is an outsider now. Lonnie, Kyle Rogelio—they aren’t best friends anymore. Aren’t teammates. Family, as Shadow Weaver called them. Adora used to be Shadow Weaver’s favorite. There’s a million different ways the woman could react.

-

Under that mask, Shadow Weaver has never been easy to read. Adora can’t forget her. An older African woman with long silky raven hair. No one can pronounce her real name, other than the fact it sounds like “Shadow” and “Weaver”. Coworker to Hordak’s father, before their jobs fell apart. Tall. Shadow Weaver was always large; tall; massive. A towering figure. Bright red dresses. Sometimes the memory of those outfits hits Adora, and she wants to rip off her own jacket and do away with it forever. Most of all, Adora will never forget that mask. Something happened to her back in the day, either on the job or within her new lifestyle. Never takes it off. It rests on the bottom half of her face, thin strands of hair keeping the rest of her features warm and hidden.

When those eyes meet Adora again, for the first time in a decade, Adora feels the need to drop to her knees. Start groveling. She’s done wrong, so wrong, and she needs to make up for it. This should be the part where Shadow Weaver reminds Adora how much she’s provided. Adora was nothing. Her and Adam—orphans to nameless parents. She took them in, and Adora’s response to that was to lash out. To run away.

But she stands here. Staring into Adora. There is nothing in those eyes. They drill into the depths of her heart, traveling about her organs, searching for something hidden inside. Worth. Shadow Weaver is always looking for the worth of her target. It’s the reason she’s such a good businesswoman. It’s the only reason she’s still alive.

“Adora.”

She’s a teenager again. She’s standing outside some well-protected fortress in the middle of nowhere, dozens of nothings strapped to her horse behind her. Adora has nothing, and she will never have anything so long as she stands against Shadow Weaver.

So the woman invites her inside. And Adora follows.

Dozens of eyes stare at her. Thirteen, fourteen. This is the largest the group’s ever been. Yet, none of them look confident. None of them look the part of a bandit, successful, feared, bathing in gold every night. They all look terrified. Cornered rats waiting around for their last breaths to leave them. Adora passes Octavia, the older woman who used to say nice things about her. Used to say Adora was a good kid. Would go far. Had the “stuff”, whatever that meant. Rogelio, standing not too far from her. He looks confused to see Adora. Octavia looks like she’s watching Adora take her last breaths, terrified and anxious.

Well, the good news is Adora is terrified and anxious!

Before Adora can think to hide her shaking hands, Shadow Weaver stops her in a small room. Windows look outside the fort, not inside. No one can watch them, and the eyes trailing Adora slowly begin to branch off, finding something else to do. They’ve looked at the corpse. No one cares much for a corpse once it's dead. Adora is dead, and she didn’t even see Catra.

Her hands shake harder.

“Your poker face, Adora.”

The sound of the woman’s voice forces Adora to sit up. She expects one of her wrists to be lashed, but Shadow Weaver shows no interest. After all, Adora is all grown up now. They’re both adults, sitting together in an abandoned war room, bounty hunters hiding in the perimeter, here to chat peacefully. Adora is sweating so hard she has to force the beads away with her jacket sleeve. Fringe on the arm and even her chest bounce around in a way that somehow worsens her nerves.

In this war room, too small to possibly be used for any great war, Shadow Weaver sits in front of Adora. Alone. The woman never carries her own weapon. Adora has one of her brother’s revolvers on her hip. Rifle on her horse, though this will do her no service now.

Together, alone for the first time in years, Shadow Weaver speaks again. “It’s a miracle you didn’t swing.”

“It was a Fright Zone county. We both know why, ma’am.” Catra used to say Adora owed this woman no respect. Maybe she was right. Maybe this woman frightens Adora, since forever, and she can’t help it.

“Hmm.” The silence to follow isn’t thoughtful. It’s demanding. Adora isn’t here for no reason. Isn’t here to reunite, or party. If she cared, surely she would’ve tried harder. Surely she would’ve been here many, many years previous.

Creaking. The chair Adora sits on is old, groaning miserably with each ounce of her weight she shifts. She sits with impossibly perfect posture, while the woman across from her sits sideways in the chair, leaning dangerously against the weak chairback. “Hordak.” Adora decides to come right out and say it. She owes this woman everything. Unfortunately. “Shadow Weaver, he’s with that church now. The one the old man used to talk about. They’re powerful people—they get things done. He wants—”

“I’m aware.” Expressionless eyes examine a broken nail. Filed. She’s aware the nail is broken, too, and she’ll be patient in its recovery.

Patient. Neutral. There are dozens of people outside, and their leader has no sense of urgency for the pack of bounty hunters waiting outside for all their heads. The same old red dress. The same old mask. Different woman.

“Shadow Weaver, he’ll kill you.”

“What meaning would that have to you?”

Adora can’t answer. She’s not sure, other than cruel irony, what is keeping her fighting for Shadow Weaver so hard. Shadow Weaver knows this. She’s no fool.

“You’ve always been soft,” she tells her old student. “It has held you back in ways you cannot comprehend.”

Adora thinks to tell the woman what she did thirteen years ago, but she holds her tongue. It’s another one of her flaws Shadow Weaver would be happy to point out: her need for competition. Catra always said this trait was directly implanted by Shadow Weaver.

Suddenly the woman leans forward, sitting correctly now. She’s halfway over the table, bent over as if she’s crumpling over herself with imbalance. Adora doesn’t move. Shadow Weaver’s eyes finally find expression, searing into Adora’s retinas with violent intent.

“You will march out there. You will meet your new colleague, a walking corpse posing as a man, and you will tell him any of the following: I was never here; wrong gang; you saw nothing; you are both incompetent fools and you should both be on your fruitless paths, separately. You, Adora, will make up a story. You will remember what I have given you, and you will repay me for it. I’m too close now for such miserable distractions.”

Adora is the one sitting forward now. “You’ve found that family’s old treasure?”

Silent. The woman holds her gaze, gripping the sides of the stone table in a way that makes veins pop out of her loose skin.

“Don’t you know it’s wrong to dream, ma’am?”

Shadow Weaver has no care for Adora’s game. “If that is true, why are you here?”

She falls backward, a defeated kid before the Fright Zone’s greatest and most notorious criminal. The country hates her. Everyone in Etheria knows Shadow Weaver and her gang, and they hate every single one of them. They tear through the countryside, spreading terror. Opening their pouches and placing money which never belonged to them inside, riding off without a care. They could buy anything. A boat. A ticket out of here. Buy off their bounties, and restart the climb back into criminal infamy from a clean slate. They could buy off the entire police force, every single one across the lands, and still have enough coin to bathe in.

Those are the stories, anyway.

Adora, childish before a celebrity, doesn’t know what to do. Shadow Weaver doesn’t care about Hordak hunting her down, and somehow Adora should’ve known this would be the reaction to the news. She probably knows Hordak is sick, too. If not, Adora wonders how long Shadow Weaver’s lungs might laugh for. Maybe she’ll take the news so well she’ll invite Adora back into the family, to be loved and longed and part of something again. At least she’ll have someone to hate this awful life with.

One family member enters the war room, breaking the privacy of the meeting. The intimacy of mother and best daughter is gone forever, and Adora can’t help the relief washing over her in overwhelming waves. It’s Lonnie who would save her, out of breath, sweaty, anything but anxious the way Adora is in this moment. She pays Adora no attention. Everything for the leader, the top dog out of all of them: “Ma’am, those bounty hunters are back. They’re not hiding this time.”

Then her eyes catch Adora, allowing the information to hit Shadow Weaver’s steel walls and bounce right off bluntly. When Shadow Weaver is set in her goals, there’s no hope for anyone else. There’s a reason they never struck it as rich as those city folk tell each other they have. Bathing in gold and blood.

Lonnie’s hazel eyes look Adora up and down, examining her roughly. Lonnie looks as healthy as ever. Strong. She keeps her thick hair tied back, but it manages to bounce around as she double takes from Shadow Weaver back to Adora, confused. Not a part of the welcoming crowd from earlier.

“She knows that, you dumbass!”

Adora’s heart stops.

There she is. Ten years away. Ten years of desperately scrounging around for enough to buy newspapers. Reading every single word in the hopes of the slightest mention of her. Ten years of notebook doodles. Of dreams, of longing, of yearning, of heartache so intense Adora sometimes forgot how to breathe. She’s never forgotten Catra. She never could, even under the will of drug or the wrath of god. After ten years, the one thing on Adora’s mind walks in so casually, so annoyed by her everyday life, her job, her purpose. Lonnie forces Catra to roll her eyes. One blue, blue as the ocean, blue as the morning sky Adora has spent hours killing under. One yellow, as the sun she’s spent hours sweating under, hours of reading, hours of blind and desperate obsession.

Catra is healthy. Not as skinny as she used to be. Definitely the same level as annoyed with her peers. She’s always been smarter than the rest of them. Better than the rest of them, and she knows it. Catra always said knowledge and education struck harder than any weapon could ever hope to. Here she is, the smartest among them all, the least likely to slip away into nothingness.

“Damn it Lonnie, why can’t you—”

Adora doesn’t know what to do when Catra’s eyes fall on her. She’s never thought ahead this far. She’s never given herself the pleasure of imagining this moment, this final rush through the checkered flag, to land victorious until the end of time. Adora’s never imagined how she’d feel in this moment. Logically, she might feel like crying. Realistically, she feels like passing out.

Then her blood goes cold. Catra is staring at her strangely. She’s not annoyed, because Adora isn’t Lonnie. Adora has her own looks reserved, just for her, and in this moment Adora can recognize the unique expression Catra has tucked away: trouble. There’s trouble. Neither of them are safe, and neither of them will be safe. Adora shouldn’t be here. She should run away, run somewhere far away where they’ll both be safe and alone and finally free to be themselves without the weight of the world around them crushing their bones.

Catra looks at Adora with great pain, and it only makes her want to fall unconscious all the more. This isn’t the time, or the place, and it kills everything Adora has left inside.

Things get moving again when Shadow Weaver stands quickly, apparently caring for the danger they’re all in now. Lonnie doesn’t pick sides; she’ll damn well tell everyone if Shadow Weaver proceeds not to give a damn. She won’t preserve the woman’s image the way Adora would. There’s a reason she was never the favorite.

“What will it be, Adora?” Shadow Weaver crosses the table, placing herself between Lonnie and Catra. Lonnie, where she nervously glances out the window. Catra, where she stares at Adora like this really is the last time. “Would you turn in your own family, or would you help them?”

There is little thought put into Adora’s response, and it’s the most fatal decision she’s ever made. “You’re in danger, Shadow Weaver. And you’re running out of road. You can’t—”

“I see.”

Fatal mistake. Immediately, Adora’s gut twists with a regret that makes her sick. She really might pass out now. Right in front of Catra, she’s ignored Catra’s greatest lines of advice: never tell the boss no. Tell her yes, then proceed to do whatever the fuck you want. Adora doubts she’ll remember, when she awakens in the next life.

Shadow Weaver dismisses Lonnie. Tells Adora their meeting is done. In this moment, Catra springs to life with a promise, eagerness overtaking her usual calm and cool. Her usual poker face Shadow Weaver tries so hard to induce onto Adora.

“I’ll make sure she’s out.” She tosses the woman a glance before roughly grabbing for Adora’s wrist, dragging her out the door so quickly the chair beneath her legs falls backwards. They’re not too far to hear Shadow Weaver’s following,

“Of course you will.”

Passing through the courtyard. Swift Wind was not invited inside, simply waiting outside the gates for his rider. Eyes quickly pass over the pair as they make their way, and Adora knows it’s because Catra’s spent years of her life perfecting her scowl. The rather large hat she keeps on her head helps focus the look, she used to say. Her hand is soft around Adora’s wrist. Nails are still much longer than what can be regarded as safe. Items clink around where they’re mounted across her waist, a thin belt managing to hold up dozens of knives. On one side of Catra’s thin waist is the other revolver previously owned by Adora’s brother. It’s mostly hidden by the black jacket around Catra’s shoulders, showing just enough to remind those around her what she’s carrying.

Catra doesn’t say anything, and Adora can’t help but swim in the dread of what this moment was supposed to be. Something from a romance novel. Something beautiful and shiny and bright, a field of flowers and a marching band and sunshine. Instead she’s walked into her old gang’s hideout, told their leader to stand down against the bounty hunters she’s now revealed herself to be with, and is rightfully being escorted out. It’s a reuniting that can be written about, though it’s not what Adora wanted in the books.

Once they’ve finally hit a safe distance from the rest of the gang, their prying eyes and their bored ears, Catra takes the first possible opportunity to tell Adora she’s the dumbest person on the planet. Adora wants to kiss her, right here.

“I mean really, you are a fucking moron, you know that?” Catra stops them, just before the gates. In front of everyone, though not within their range of hearing or clear sight. Catra takes the red hat off her head, smacking Adora on the shoulder with it. Her frizzy hair, slicked back with sweat and the constant weight of accessory, jumps to life when released to the free world again, only to be smushed back down one second later.

“Come with me.” It’s all Adora can say. It’s all Adora wants to say, and it kills her even harder when Catra doesn’t immediately rush out of this place, onto the horse, and with her into the sunset.

“Idiot,” Catra says instead.

“The law is coming for you, too! Come on—”

“Ten years I haven’t heard from you, and the first thing you do is remind me of what’s out there. Good job! Can I ask you what color the sky is next?”

“Green, obviously.” Catra doesn’t laugh, but it was worth a shot. Wasn’t it? “Catra, please. This is it. It’s Hordak out there, don’t you know that? Hordak. He hated all of us, and he is not holding back—”

“Since when are you law? I always knew you were a goody two-shoes, but come on.”

“They had my ranch swarmed.”

“Oh great! You have a ranch! Got a wife, too?”

Catra starts for the gate, forcing it open with ease despite her smaller frame. The best way to describe Catra: she’s far from what she looks. “I would never,” Adora defends. It gets her to stop, all for a moment before she’s pushing the gates again.

“Look,” Catra tells her, “I’m finally doing well here. I’m finally off her shit list, and I finally stand a chance. I’ve got plenty planned, and we both know I’m smarter than any of those idiots out there. Churchgoers think they’re bounty hunters now.” She rolls her eyes, before grabbing Adora’s arm and motioning her outside. “You’re the one in trouble here, Adora. You need to get moving, before Hordak goes after you. Get yourself somewhere safe. Forget all of this. Wait it out.”

She could never forget any of this. Adora’s never been a fan of waiting, either. Not with all the million things she carries on her back, every single day, waiting for the moment her vertebrae collapse in on one another, rendering her a pile of misery on the ground. Adora marches back out to her horse, hurt and confusion weighing her down the most. She doesn’t turn for Catra, unsure if she can.

Then hurt takes over and she forgets the rest.

“He’s not playing this time,” she tells Catra. Not turning. She’s not sure she can. She’s not even sure she can get on the horse, no matter how exposed she’s leaving her old gang to Hordak. “ When he gets you, it won’t be pretty. You’ll swing, Catra. This is it. This is nothing like before. He knows you. Knows us. It’s all different. This is your last—”

Of all the dumb things she’s managed to do today alone, Adora is most thankful for her ability to stand, her back physically turned on what she once cared about the most.

Because when what she once cared about the most shoots her with actual, live ammo, she’s most grateful of her inability to see any of it. When she collapses against the pavement, her shoulder slamming first, then her head, then her side screaming for bloodied mercy, she’s grateful she didn’t see Catra’s face. Adora always thought she’d want most of all to take Catra’s face to her grave, the last, beautiful sight she’d ever see. Now she’s happiest of all to see pale hooves, stomping up and down, before she falls unconscious.

-

“Can you wake up, please?”

“I’m not sleeping.”

A long nail reached over, faster than Adora could sense in that moment, and poked her right on the bridge of her nose. A funny feeling, a tickle, slid down her spine. Adora remembers opening her eyes, finding her partner in crime—in the most literal sense of the word—examining her. Catra tried to be annoyed. But no matter what Adora did, Catra could never truly be annoyed with her.

“You’re bored,” Catra said. She tried to force some sort of playful smile, but Adora caught the edges of her lips. How they wanted to curl into a frown. Offended. Adora sat up, the borrowed hat she’d stuck over her eyes falling forward as she straightened up against the tree trunk behind her.

“No, I’m not! Honest.” She’d examined Catra’s features from this point, desperate to reverse any possibility of that frown forming fully. Adora always hated to see Catra upset.

Catra stole back the red leather hat from Adora’s lap. Smooth, a little rough in some places. The leather is old, and the hat is older. It’s the only thing strong enough to tame Catra’s massive mane of hair, but she set it aside for now. The book in her lap remained opened, tilting dangerously as she inched closer to Adora. When her head met the edge of Adora’s shoulder, Adora quickly slouched again. Both of them, relaxed. Comfortable. Such a rare feeling.

Book is forgotten. Untouched. It rested in Catra’s lap, loyally opened to where she’d left off, patiently awaiting to have another page turned in a few moments. Catra’s hand left the edges, unsupporting the thin pages to battle alone against the soft wind. The top left corner of the page on the left threatened to turn, flapping up and down with indecision. Eventually it finally sat down, weak and tired. It’s so bright out today, even underneath the large tree in the old camp, Adora could easily make out every word on the page. They all jumped out with desperate anticipation, adventure and imagination impatient to infect its reader.

Each and every book in Catra’s massive collection was expensive. That’s just how books were. They could truly only be enjoyed just the one time, yet each and every copy cost enough for three nights’ worth of dinner. But Catra collected them. They barely brought in money. Most of it went back into repairs. Old wagons. Medicines, when jobs went horribly wrong. Clothes for rapidly growing children. The old man needed tons and tons of paper, for hours’ worth of psychotic scribbling. Most costly: weapons and ammunition. Catra barely had anything to wear, sometimes to eat, and still she’d rush to the nearest town, find their book store, and return with one or two new tales. She’d spend hours reading. She’d make Adora spend hours reading, and Adora was annoyed with violent impatience with every word they read together.

Little did younger Adora know, her future self would become obsessed with the act.

“What’s it about?” The best Adora can do for today is try. Try to invest herself in this expensive thing Catra is obsessed with. If Catra liked it, Adora would try as hard as she could. Anything to erase any possibility of that frown.

“Fiction; a sailor stumbles across a lost treasure in Salineas. He tells a bunch of villagers about it, in the town nearby, and they all try to trick him out of it.” In the moment Catra started laughing, so hard Adora couldn’t help but smile to herself. “It’s fucking hilarious. What an idiot!”

Adora turned to her, accidentally causing Catra to lift her head off Adora’s shoulder. “What would you do if you found a buried treasure? Don’t say buy books.”

“Well obviously I would buy books. Come on, you dummy.” Catra leaned forward, grabbing a handful of grass. Her long nails scratched into the backs of each of her fingers, lightly pressing down as she pulled a whole wad of green from the earth. She rubbed each of the blades between her fingertips, using her palm as a table. Then, at the end of her thinking, she dropped the green back into the whole heap beneath them. Leaning against the tree once more. “Do you remember that house we robbed in Plumeria a few weeks ago?”

Adora raised a brow, tilting her head humorously. “We robbed a lot of houses in Plumeria.”

“I know you know which one. They just built it—you can tell from the paint, the fact the wood was barely chipping off, how clean the kitchen counters were—and they just had to leave it alone for the night. Remember, you said it was a house warming present we were giving them?”

“That big white one? Crooked fence?” Adora was no rancher, not much of a handywoman. But damn it, that fence was offensively bad. Catra nods excitedly in response, her frizzy hair bouncing all over the place. “Yeah, I remember that one.”

Catra makes a gesture with her hands, as if presenting the house right now.

“You would buy that big old place? That’s a lot of land.”

“One day, Adora, we will be ranchers. We will be the assholes getting attacked by rustlers. And hanging their bloodied skulls on the porch when they realize how badly they fucked up, messing with us.”

“Ranchers.” Adora leaned against the tree once again, feeling herself relax again. She could imagine the blissfully boring life, waking up every morning to argue with a bunch of sheep and pigs. Hauling a wagon into town, always returning with money. Money and no bounty. It’s the easiest life Catra could imagine, and Adora longs for it until her chest begins to ache. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Catra collapses against the tree next, bending her legs in front of her. The book falls aside, forgotten, knocking against her hat and her discarded boots. Catra’s other weird trait: her natural hatred for shoes. Boots, slippers—everything. She’d go about bare foot if they didn’t all spend their lives constantly on the run. Her head plopped against Adora’s shoulder again, still and quiet. Adora didn’t feel herself drifting off to sleep until Catra spoke again.

Black jacket draped across her legs. Some time has passed, or Catra reached for the garment and Adora didn’t notice. The tale about the unfortunate Salineas traveler formally sat on the ground, closed carefully. “Are you sleeping again?”

“No.” Adora forces her left hand into her eyelid, rubbing at it until her vision turns to spots. “You’re sleeping.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

Other hand rubs the other eye now. “Yes. But I like your voice, so you should—”

“Very smooth.” Catra sat up, away from the trunk and away from Adora’s shoulder, looking into her eyes now. One blue, one yellow, staring into Adora. She was going to ask something serious, and the mere prospect of it made Adora’s nerves begin to buzz. “There’s only one real way to get a place like that. Not the bank—don’t say it, smart ass—not the rich guy down the road. There’s only one real place with money around here. Shadow Weaver’s stash. We both know she has more than she’s letting on.”

Adora’s head twisted upward, a confused dog left out in the rain. “What? Rob Shadow Weaver’s stash?” She wanted to laugh, but she wanted to hurt Catra’s feelings less. Instead she settled for, “Good luck.”

“You want to get out, too.” Catra leaned forward, sitting closer to Adora. Lining their faces together. “What’s stopping you? What’s stopping us from getting the life we deserve?”

Starting with the fact stealing from Shadow Weaver was an impossible feat . . . “We both know Adam and I can’t live a free life. We need structure. All that open land—we’ll go mad by sunset.”

A finger jabbed harshly into Adora’s chest as Catra leaned back, sitting on her haunches. “Not funny. We both hate this life. What’s the point of sticking around?”

It wasn’t the first time they had the conversation. It was almost a bit between the two, a rehearsed show that never ended well. No matter how many times the scenario came up, no matter how many, many chances Adora had to practice her answer, she could never come up with one. It used to drive Catra insane.

Then, one day, the universe chose for the both of them.

-

Getting shot wasn’t the hardest part. It was easy, falling over into the pavement, lifeless, ready to see the great beyond and start the next life. No, the hardest part is getting up the next morning—or the morning after that morning, Adora isn’t sure when or where or if she even is—and pretending she’s alive, a functioning human being who totally didn’t have a large piece of lead shred through her skin. It isn’t the first time she’s been shot, but nothing about the amount of times she’s been shot means she’s about to become immune to it. As nice as it would be.

Someone has taken care of her. Someone ventured to the fort, someone stupid who should’ve stayed on their own path, and brought her in. Took care of her. Without her fingers, she knows the bullet went through her side. Didn’t hit anything important. Warning shot. Then again, with her fingers, she can tell the bullet wasn’t too big. Nothing insane.

Nothing bigger than a revolver bullet sitting on her ex-partner in crime’s hip.

Adora forces herself up. She’s going to pretend really hard to be a human today, mostly because she’s unsure how long she’s been a zombie for. At least one day has passed; it was near nighttime when she was shot and now the morning sun is threatening to burn her eyes out of their sockets. The inspection comes second, after her body is rudely disturbed from its wishes and dreams of eternal slumber, regretfully forced to remember how to function again.

Small hut. It should be a storage room at a large ranch. Somewhere to store chicken feed. Extra shovels for extra large horse shit. It could pass as a small merchant’s stand, if the merchant were incredibly poor and incredibly low on self respect. No, this place is decorated. Staged as a small home. A trunk is at the end of the small bed she’s been dead for how many days or hours in, filled with something she can’t guess. A pre-filled death certificate, just in case.

Adobe, just like the fort. A small wood table is in the corner, a set of lumber and a tiny cooking spit next to it. Small dishes are left behind, perfectly portioned for one person. Small bed. This is a one person home; a guest house. Rugs bring the atmosphere to life, some colorful and some tame to keep the energy neutral. The blanket trapping Adora to the bed is made entirely of fur, soft beneath her hands when she reaches over to stroke it. She turns to the other side, her wound cursing her, and finds a deer head mounted on the ceiling.

If this place has been decorated, she’s not in a camp. The chances of Hordak waiting for her outside are lesser than she initially anticipates. Good. Last thing she needs is a lecture from Hordak on why she couldn’t grab her buddy Shadow Weaver for coffee and a good old fashioned hanging.

After several moments, Adora decides to make the biggest mistake of her life: stand up. All her stuff waits for her on the other side of the room. Jacket, boots, even her gray jeans are staring back at her. One half of Adam’s revolvers. Rifle. Notebook. Catra’s hat.

Catra’s hat. She would never, ever leave that thing behind. Can’t be anybody else’s—Adora has yet to meet anyone else walking around with a bright red hat.

Instant regret. Instantly begging to lay back down, the earth collecting her mortal body forever and taking it somewhere she can’t possibly get shot ever again. Take her to the heavens, bless her with the chance to ever do anything but watch ever again!

The moment Adora’s socks take the floor, her feet for balance, her ankles for support, her knees and hips ready to carry the rest of her, she feels her stomach preparing itself to show her just how dumb she is for choosing to get up and live. Sweat breaks out across her head. She won’t sit back down. That hat is calling her, teasing her, and she wants to go over there and ask it why and how it got away from its owner.

It’s embarrassing, frankly, how long it takes Adora to get over to the table. This home isn’t particularly large. A normal person might make the journey in three or four steps. Easy. It’s right there. Everything in here is right there, yet so far away. Everything is miles and miles away, and everything is slowly inching away from her the closer she gets, the harder she tries. Adora hugs the wall, bumping past the boarded-up window. Some sunlight manages to seep in through the wood, a mechanism waiting for her to turn the place into a tanning zone. No way. She might puke her guts out for real.

In the next lifetime, when Adora finally completes her journey to the lone table in this lonely hut, she finds it. The red hat. Her red jacket. Her red boots. Her red notebook. Her red blood, she imagines, when she coughs her lungs out of her chest in a perfect Hordak impression. She doesn’t sit. She’s afraid of what happens when she does, afraid of getting stuck without any chance of getting out. Much like the encounter at the fort. The fort, where she was shot!

The red hat stares back at her, and Adora swears it’s winking at her notebook. They’re both red leather. Friends? Family? Old partners in crime?

A note falls out from the binding, where it’s been crumpled between the second and third pages. Crazy handwriting. Only a madwoman could create such a horrendous sight, such an awful calligraphy best left behind on the side of the road. Only one person in the world has handwriting this bad, and she’s left behind not only the note, but her prized hat.

The law left you behind.

Adora immediately copies the words into her notebook. She can’t forget them. Can’t lose them. The law left her behind—Hordak thinks she’s dead. She’s free. Free to go wherever she wants, free to ride off and forget any of this even happened. She can return to that old farm and take the donkey into town, saving her extra earnings for something new. Something that isn’t this life, the old life, or a new life of perpetual investigation.

No way. Catra left her hat behind. Adora needs to get back into that fort.

Eventually. In time she’ll get there, preferably when it doesn’t take her hours and hours of effort to put on the same pair of jeans she’s had for years, the boots she’s had for decades, and the jacket she’s sure she’s had all her life. Adora won’t even try to bother with her hair for now. She slaps on Catra’s hat, the safest place for it being right on her person, because hey, she never does anything stupid! Revolver on her hip. She’ll leave the rifle for now. Definitely leaving the saddle for now. Adora slips the slim journal into one of her inside pockets, weighing one side of the jacket slightly. The note is forever preserved inside. The notice of her freedom, forever preserved in writing.

Catra shot her. There’s no way it was anyone else. No one was close enough. If Catra did shoot her, why is she trying to help now?

Bullet went to a non-lethal location. Adora woke up with the note, a trusted source of information. The hat, a sign of trust. Catra is on her side. Then why does it feel like she isn’t?

When the burning, blistering morning sun bursts into her view, immediately searing her corneas and invading her skin with the vitamin D she knows she’s missed for however long, it’s hard to debate anything regarding Catra. Something about going blind in the natural light forces Adora to grasp for her side, and in turn grasp for the wall behind her. It’s all too much. Her ear rings the way her heart decides to pound, screaming and shouting about how stupid she is for one, getting up in the first place and two, bothering to go outside. Lay down and die, damn it!

On reflex, she bends her head. Catra’s hat protects her eyes from any further brightness, and somewhere along the way her hand leaves her side and starts rubbing at her eyes. Her head feels ready to burst. She’ll see her brains out on the floor, and unlike what Shadow Weaver used to say, it won’t be from some silly gun.

A third hand grabs Adora’s shoulders. She should swat them. Normally she would. How dare they put their hands on her! Don’t they know how wanted and hated she is? Post-zombie Adora can’t help it. She’s going to fall over any minute now and she knows it, and somehow it’s bunches less embarrassing to accept the help than it is to stubbornly slam against the dirt. A fourth hand, on her other shoulder. She feels herself moving, her feet dragging along as the sunlight disappears. The sun is miraculously turned off for the day, and she’s eternally grateful for the wizard responsible.

“They’ll be with you in a second, okay? They’ve both been waiting for you.”

No effort is put into whoever her mystery saviors are. If “they” even are her mystery saviors. Adora spends the next few moments trying to re-center herself in the universe, and more importantly keep the contents of her gut within her gut and not all over the nice floor. Back in the hut. She will never, ever touch those windows. Adora sits alone at the small table, her left boot resting against her horse’s saddle, her left hand continuing to rub at her eyes. Weirdly, it’s relaxing her. She feels her head slouch sideways, against one of the walls.

Knocking at the door. Adora remains slouched miserably against the wall, half alive, half walking regret, barely able to process what it is she’s staring at. They are here. Two individuals. One sheepishly places a cup of water on the table in front of her, taking her hand from its incessant rubbing and placing it around the drink. Another, smaller hand rubs at her shoulder before backing off. Sympathy for the walking dead. Hand feels smaller. One of these people is a woman. Look at that, she’s managed to make a useful observation!

“We didn’t think you’d be up yet.” It’s a man. A woman and a man are in the room with her. His voice is deep, refined, mature. He’s seen some things. Adora wonders if they’ve seen the same amount of things. “You’re really tough!”

“Or really stubborn.” The woman. Her voice is riddled with sarcasm, yet she also manages to seem concerned. It’s exactly what Catra used to do. Trying to keep things playful instead of dreadfully awkward. Though Adora isn’t so sure what’s so awkward about finding a corpse on the side of the road, bringing it home, and watching it walk again.

Something about the sentiment, or perhaps the word stubborn in itself, brings Adora back to life. It’s her last hoorah before everything goes black again. She can’t quite sit up, as lovely as it would be to have that type of strength, but she can lean her head upwards. She’s sweaty, she notices.

Both of these people look nice enough. They have to be, she guesses. That, or they need something out of this corpse. Adora gets a better look at them. One of the tricks she’s learned over the years: always look the person over before you talk. She recalls the one time she and Catra were at a bar and Catra slung insults at the guy next to them, not looking, not realizing how giant and murderous he looked. Neither of them returned to that town for months.

First thing Adora notices is they’re both people of color. Definitely good people. Brave people, in these parts. Wherever she is. The second thing she sees is the fact the couple is sharing the same pair of earrings; the woman with a diamond hanging from her right, the man with a diamond out of his left. Standing close together. They’re familiar with one another, intimately. The man looks like he’s supposed to be holding this woman’s hand, but things are too anxious right now to do so. He’s the caretaker; she’s the one who gets things done. A gentle man and a tough woman—Adora thinks she might stay here forever.

Thirdly, and probably Adora’s favorite part: the woman has bright pink hair. All of it. It’s short in length, cutting her maintenance time way down, but every single strand of it is bright pink. Every single one.

“Stubborn sounds like me,” Adora finally says. Gets some amusement out of the woman. She nudges the man, though he looks paralyzed with fear. He also looks almost as sweaty as Adora. It runs down the stubble on his soft baby face, shimmering down on his stomach where his shirt is cut, exposing his navel to the world.

“We don’t really have a doctor here, so I did my best on you,” the man says. Adora has no idea how to thank him.

“Military experience,” the woman explains. Adora notices her boots are bright pink, as well. She reaches a gloved hand outward, before deciding there’s no way Adora can shake it just now. instead she puts it upward, half waving. “I’m Glimmer. This is my husband, Bow. We found you.”

If Adora didn’t still feel like spilling her guts everywhere, she would stand up, have some manners. Shake their hands. Thank them vigorously before explaining how much she hates imposing, leaving out the door and out of their hair forever. For now all she can do is use her only asset and nod at the both of them. “Sir. Missus. I’m Adora. Adora Grayskull.” She blinks twice, considering drinking that water. Ultimately she turns it down. Looks at Bow again. “It’s a lovely land you’ve got here, sir. I managed a whole blink of it before I died all over again.”

“Thanks,” Bow says. It’s quick, deflective. One hand moves through his short, thick hair, cropped on top with nothing on the sides. Big hand. When his arm flexes with the movement, Adora notes how muscular he is. Then he corrects, “Uh, but Glimmer sort of runs things around here. Her family’s land.”

“Recently my land.” Glimmer’s voice is far away, before she brings herself back. Waking up. “My parents passed and left it all to me. I’m still figuring it all out. Ranching isn’t as easy as it looks, you know?”

Ranch. This place should, indeed, be a store room, but it’s a room for guests. How large is this place? Adora wonders what type of shape it’s all in. How much Glimmer has managed to figure out on her own.

With renewed energy, Adora finds she can sit herself up slightly better. Lift her head off the wall. Her left hand can grip the cup a little tighter, and once again she contemplates taking a drink. Maybe in a second. She eyes the both of them, before focusing her attention to Glimmer. The one who runs things around here. “We’re on a ranch, missus?”

“Huge ranch.” Glimmer eyes her curiously, unsure of Adora’s intent. The fact she can’t guess it, the fact she hasn’t brought it up already, tells Adora everything she needs to know about this gentle man and this tough woman trying to pave her way: these are kind people.

“Let me help you out. It’s the least I can—”

“Hey, you don’t have to repay us.” Bow places one of his hands outward, stopping Adora. “Really, you don’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to pick me up on the side of the road. I want to help.” Adora thinks to prove her point by standing tall and giving a huge speech on usefulness, but the mere thought of standing up makes her head spin all over again. “I’m not much of a rancher, but I know some things. I’m strong. My horse is huge—he can help too. Please, it’s the least I can do.”

“Maybe when you feel better,” Bow says, accepting her offer. Glimmer smiles about something, stepping slightly closer to Adora.

“Your horse is a hit. Everyone loves him. He’s okay, by the way. Nothing happened to him.”

Good. Swift Wind is the largest portion of what little she has. Him, and a hat left with her body on the side of the road. She tells them, “I really appreciate you both. Thank you. I’ll get to work when I can.”

Bow is halfway out the door, his diamond earring sparkling under the morning sun in a blinding light, when Glimmer stops walking. She turns around, looking back on Adora once more. Her arms are crossed. She’s a big woman, in a way Adora doesn’t often see. Usually the size comes with paranoia and special cheats to get thin, but Glimmer doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t seem like the type of person to care. Again, Adora kind of wants to stay here forever. As long as she can before these people figure out what kind of person she is and kick her out in terror, disgust, and loud cussing. Shoving soap in their mouths to erase the feeling of sharing a simple conversation with her.

Glimmer asks, with an innocent curiosity, “What were you doing up by that fort, Adora? Everyone here knows that place is a death trap.”

“Honestly, ma’am,” Adora finally takes a sip of that water, feeling the warmth all the way down her throat, “I have no friggin’ idea.”

-

“Adora! Good morning!” Bright and early in the morning, as any day, Bow stands as happy as ever in his perpetual good mood, waving at Adora. His hands are full with some crates, which appear to be in rough shape, but he stops to greet her. Every day. He’s the nicest man on the planet and Adora wonders how it’s possible for one person to curate so much happiness. Though she supposes if she were as happily married as he, she’d wake up every morning ready to shake the world’s hand.

Couple of days have passed now, almost enough to see the end of the week. Adora has yet to fall over and die formally, meaning she’s healing. She’s going to heal, and she’s going to get better, which means she needs to start doing something before she falls apart inside and explodes of pure boredom. She owes these people a lot. They should be regarding her a mooch for laying around all day, drawing silly doodles, but no one has said a thing. Not to her face, anyway.

Lately she’s been feeling tremendously better. Almost like it never happened. Today might be the best she’s felt all week, so today she’ll be the most pushy she’s been about getting up and doing something. She tails Bow, following him until he places the busted up crate near what this little place regards as a marketplace. Some merchant passed by years ago, almost nothing to her name, and Glimmer’s parents took her in. Let her stick around and sell any extra supplies for the convenience of not riding hours into town. Adora waves at the woman, who if she recalls correctly is called Juliet around here.

Then Adora eyes Bow, the sweaty outcome of hauling multiple boxes back and forth all morning making itself present across his forehead. He pants slightly, a perfectly healthy man who does these sorts of things every day with a bright smile on his face. He’s shaved recently. “Walked all the way over here without vomiting!”

A breathless laugh escapes Bow, hunching him over slightly. Then he takes a handkerchief from his back pocket, cleaning up his face a little. “I knew you’d live. I never gave you the tour.”

Adora gestures with the hand on her not-shot side, waving it in the general direction of sheep. A cattle dog sits with them in the pen, sunning himself and watching his stock wander about. “Let’s go, then.”

Sand crawls against Adora’s scuffed red boots as they go about. Bow starts them at one end of the ranch, close to the open road leading back to the nearest town and the next ranch over. Adora spots a stagecoach driver laying around, taking a rather hard nap as he snores into the afternoon air. Her revolver digs into her side as she walks, rudely reminding her it’s here. Of course it is—she’d never willingly part with it.

Horses. The pen is huge, horses being the biggest draw and the biggest payout on the land. Glimmer’s parents, right before they passed, finalized a deal with a huge stagecoach company. They raise the horses, the company pays a fortune for their drivers to sit around and nap all day. A separate stable is closer to the head family’s mansion further down the road. Bow says Swift Wind has been staying there, when he’s not running around the pen impatiently.

Crossing down the road. A slight wind is kicking some of the dirt up now, threatening to seep over the top of Adora’s loose boots. Harder to tie them these days. Though dragging her feet doesn’t help much. Bow shows her more of the houses on the land, belonging to some ranch hands and their families. An older man is standing outside, taking down wet clothes that have dried rather easily in today’s heat. A white dog grazes his legs, and he stops fighting with the fabric to pet their head before continuing onward. Bow regards the ranch as a small town—complete with a merchant. Everyone knows everyone around here, who to turn to for help, what makes their neighbor tick. The second Adora was brought in, she became an instant celebrity born of pure curiosity. Even now she finds eyes staring her down. A little kid waves at her, saying something about the dead stranger walking around. Seems accurate.

They pass by the small house Adora has been staying in. Bow tells her he and Glimmer want to be more open to those who pass them by. Get more guest houses like the one Adora occupies currently. Glimmer’s parents always managed to attract strangers to the property, and in turn connections and coin. Her father had a way of getting along with everyone, Bow tells her. Adora thinks to tell Bow he seems to be the same way.

“What we really need is a physician who’s willing to stay around here. Someone who can do stitching much better than I can.”

“Who cares if the stitching is a little crooked?” Adora regards Bow where they’ve stopped in front of her temporary home, sheep making noise behind them. “You did a good job. You saved a corpse!”

“Right,” he responds, shaking his head. “Dr. Bow. Anyway, these are the sheep I’m sure you’ve probably heard all morning and all night. If they ever get too loud, just speak to Kowl.”

Furrowing her brows, Adora asks, “Kowl?”

Then Bow starts laughing to himself, pointing across the way. The dog. The Australian cattle dog sitting in the corner, tanning, yawning when Bow’s finger meets his direction. “He’s in charge. He makes the big bucks, you know. The biggest steaks we have.”

“Hopefully not stray sheep,” Adora jokes.

“He’s a good boy.” The dog’s red coat glows in the sun, the color pronounced and highlighted in the lighting.

“Good enough to not bite me when I steal his steak?” Adora isn’t sure if she’s kidding. Depending on the steak, of course. Bow gives her a curious look, wondering who on Etheria would steal from a poor dog.

“I am not stitching that one up,” he tells her. “But if you want to ask the cows nicely, you can find them in the fields outside our little town.” They both keep walking at a moderate pace, passing by where the chickens and the pigs dwell. Adora can smell the pigs from a mile away. “We’re mostly livestock here—I’m glad to hear you’re more of a steak girl. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some later. Other crops we get from some of the other farmers around here. Specifically a farmer out in Plumeria—her crops are amazing . She’s magic with it!”

Other farms out in the area. Bow says they’re all buddies, trading with one another often. Sometimes doing personal favors, like the one time Glimmer forgot about Bow’s birthday and needed to throw together something fast. Bow says he’s not much of a birthday party guy, but Adora knows for a fact he’s the type of man to go all out for Glimmer’s day.

Then he says something that really catches Adora’s attention: “It’s good for everyone to stick together in this part of the plains.”

Guest house. So casual about finding Adora on the side of the road. She wonders if she’s the first corpse they’ve brought back to life on the ranch. She’s never been anywhere near Bright Moon ranch before. The place is too small and the towns are too far. Not worth any profit. Shadow Weaver had a lot of mouths to feed, mouths that got hungry quickly.

Reading her mind, Bow mentions something about not needing extra food for Adora. There’s plenty to go around. He says she doesn’t eat much and she’s unsure how to respond. She’s always been thin, much smaller than her brother, though never smaller than Catra. Maybe she’ll pick the habit up while she’s bumming around this poor ranch.

They stop at the end of the road, where the giant horse pen finally ends and Glimmer’s giant house sits higher on the hill, watching everything. Adora sees Glimmer herself, quite easy to spot with the bright pink hair, working around the stables. Talking to someone about a new hay supplier’s lower prices. She’s unsure to make the switch. She values loyalty and would hate to suddenly put their guy out of business.

The moment Glimmer notices Bow and Adora walking over, she perks up with the prospect of ignoring the difficult conversation, even if only for a moment. She takes her time smooching Bow, asking Adora how she’s feeling. Then Glimmer thinks of something else, running off, leaving this conversation and the pale man she speaks with to tan in the sun no different than Kowl.

“I bid you and your wife good day for now,” he tells Bow. His small-lens spectacles sit low on his nose, looking ready to completely fall off his face. He’s not worried about it. He closes the large book in his hand, the binding sounding miserable and used. He walks off, his perfectly polished black shoes scraping against the dirt. Bow says he’s the man who does the numbers for the town. They’ve been in a really rough patch since Glimmer’s parents passed. Adora can imagine how dead inside the poor accountant must be.

It’s all the thought she can give to the man before Glimmer returns, holding the reins to Swift Wind in her hand. The horse excitedly shifts, bobbing his head at the sight of Adora. She can’t help but run over, relief washing over her in the knowledge they both managed to survive her supremely stupid plan.

“ Everybody is in love with him, Adora,” Glimmer says. She stands nearby, petting Swift Wind with her own gloved hand. Bow reaches over and gives Swift Wind his love, too. “He’s a really funny guy. Very expressive. It’s like he’s a human in a horse costume.”

The horse makes a happy sound, practically hopping on his front hooves next. “As long as you’re making friends, buddy,” Adora tells him. “Maybe you’ll charm some poor girl into getting you a steak.”

“He’s a beautiful horse,” Glimmer says again. “But don’t worry, I won’t steal him.” She grins, mischievously. “I’ll just wait until you get shot again.”

Great, he’ll belong to Glimmer by next week. Adora turns away from the horse, facing the owners of the property. The two who would take her in without question and without debt. “Look, we gotta get to talking about that. I’m feeling better. I’m ready to work. Let me say thank you.”

“You really are stubborn,” Glimmer sighs, and Adora shrugs. One gloved hand runs through pink hair, messy with the sweat of the day’s work. Bow hands her the handkerchief.

“There’s something here needs doing, I’m sure of it.” Adora is quick to talk before her hosts can cut her off and baby her any further. “If not me, Swift Wind. He’s big, and he’s strong. He can haul.”

“Hey,” Glimmer says, pointing her finger at Adora’s face, “he’s famous around here. He’s too cool to work!”

“How about—” Bow steps forward, and though he appears amused by Adora’s psychotic need to harass them to let her help, she knows he’s just trying to get her to shut up about wanting to help out— “in the morning you help with the chickens. Just feed them. Right now you need to rest up. You were shot, remember?”

Honestly, she doesn’t remember much other than smacking against the pavement. “Fine. But I’ve never been much good at resting.” She points at them both one last time, her own way of threatening them with whatever organs can actually maintain a threat right now, before returning to her home.

Sundown creeps up on Adora as she spends the next few hours in her journal, drawing nothing. She recreates the horse pen, and then the sheep. Kowl, napping in the morning sun. She has to peek outside to remind herself exactly where the dog’s fur is spotted on his body. Adora draws her own horse, hosting some kind of social event in which he stars in. He speaks, like he’s human, perhaps a little too much. 

Most of all, she wonders. Wonders what she and Catra would do in a place like this. Would they run the merchant stand? Be terrible stagecoach drivers together? Tan under the afternoon sun like an accomplished cattle dog? She imagines spending the entire day tending to the animals together, falling to bed exhausted, both their bones tired, their muscles quaking in physical achievement. She imagines Catra in the mud, refusing as usual to throw on some boots, saying something Adora can’t possibly agree with about living in mother nature’s embrace. Catra’s eyes in the afternoon sun, the sweat on her brow pronounced and bold. Living in a small house. Living in the big house at the end of the road, their names the most important on the land. They would be in charge, they would be responsible for the happenings of the day. They would be married without the threat of the law coming down on them, chasing them until the end of time itself.

In the morning they would both wake up, ready to start another day of ranch work together.

-

One minute she’s feeding the chickens, the next she’s running out of the coop to the sounds of screaming. All in all, the chickens were kind to her. Didn’t care that Adora was nervous at all. Adora, who used to run around and rob banks, afraid of chickens. Chickens don’t care who feeds them, only that they’re fed. She takes note of all of them. Most of them are pretty large, others with some ways to go. She’s about to tack on another task for herself, ready to ask the other ranch hand in here if they need help collecting eggs for the morning, when the sound of screaming erupts from elsewhere.

Suddenly Adora is aware of two things more than anything else in the world: the gun on her hip, and the way the gun on her hip digs into her right side. It’s her brother’s way of telling her she’s not well enough to run a few paces down the road, so how can she possibly help someone with eggs? How can she possibly hope to get into manual labor like everyone else around her? She stops running, only because people are fleeing from a storehouse. Not because Adam won this round, no way. Glimmer and Bow arrive on the scene and they all make eye contact with one another.

Bow asks someone how it’s possible. They were so careful. They tell Bow they’re not a liar and Glimmer sends them away to lie down before they start something. They grumble about rats in the food stores as they walk away, steam erupting from their ears.

“My dad hasn’t seen rats on the ranch since he and Mom bought the land,” Glimmer says. She shakes her head, disappointed in herself. “What would he say now?”

“We can get rid of them, Glimmer.” Classic positive Bow. Not even rats and the loss of food can get him down, and Adora wonders how she can possibly learn this from him. “I can set some traps and—”

“Bow! They’re eating our food! There’s no time for traps!”

Gun leaves Adora’s hip. There are some extra rounds inside her jacket pocket, right next to the journal. This will be an interesting entry. Glimmer sees the weapon first, and Adora worries she’ll take it as a threat. Yell for her to put the weapon away before someone else gets shot. Not Glimmer. She sees the older weapon, jaw opening and grin widening the moment her eyes fall on the revolver. Bow is the opposite. He looks terrified not for himself or those around him, but for the unfortunate rats who would wander onto the land.

“Please don’t murder the rats,” he says, sympathetic for the parasites doing away with his hard-earned food. Glimmer is the opposite. She chants Murder them! Murder them! until Adora steps closer to the doors, then she’s full on cheering.

Adora pauses at the door, pushing the red hat on her head upwards slightly. She looks directly at Bow, her gun in hand, one finger pulling the safety off. “You might wanna look away, sir.”

He makes some sort of sad sound, meanwhile his wife urges Adora Onward! To the slaughter!!

Even in the shade of the wooden structure, Adam’s revolver manages to shimmer, a gold bar in a clear river, washed over and over again for the person who would manage to wield it. It was the only impressive, expensive thing he ever let himself buy. Not steal. Adam bought both these revolvers, with honest money from working a ranch not unlike this place. Two golden revolvers with long nose barrels, six inches in length. The handle has no wood finish, not like most of the other guns Adora has seen and used, but pearl. Ultimately it looks like the kind of thing that should be boxed up in a fancy display frame in a fancy man’s mansion, waiting to be stolen by a person like Adora. It’s almost too beautiful to shoot, Adam used to say, before following up with how much he paid for it and shooting off several rounds.

When the gun shoots, Adora feels nothing. The weapon barely jumps, graceful and polite as it splatters rat guts all over the walls. Some of the others scurry away. Adora catches one on the ceiling, watching it fall back against the sand floor. Another scurries past Glimmer outside, who stops cheering joyously for a second to scream in horror, and Adora tags it when it passes in front of her boots. She inspects the crates and the large sacks of potatoes, finding and downing one more. Seems to be all, for now.

“On the bright side, we can make rat stew later.” Adora meets the couple outside, where they’ve yet to move, tucking the weapon away. Bow looks heartbroken over the dead creatures, but he certainly can’t hide the feeling of relief that washes over his face.

He seems to slowly accept the deaths of these animals, slowly straightening his posture out. Relief becomes more prominent in his features. “You’re not a bad shot, Adora Grayskull.”

He should’ve seen the rightful owner to this gun, in his prime. Adam could shoot a man upside-down, blindfolded, and drunk, all while spinning around in a circle. Curiosity takes Adora over, “How was your shooting? In the military?”

At first, all Bow offers is a shrug. “I was okay, I guess,” he says. The answer isn’t confident. He’s too nice to brag, Adora guesses.

“That is such nonsense.” Glimmer confirms it for Adora: too nice to brag. She nudges Bow on his shoulder, looking at him like she’s ready to scold him for lying. Bow doesn’t change his answer, so Glimmer delivers it for him. “If someone could be a certified genius in shooting, it would be Bow. He’s amazing. It’s an art when he does it.”

“We need to check up on the food.”

Strange. Bow walks away, uninterested in finishing this conversation. He becomes someone else, someone more silent and abrasive, almost shoving his way into the storeroom. Adora watches him as he makes himself busy with the potato sack. Not too nice to brag. Too upset.

-

Lifting becomes easier as the days pass. First Adora starts with a basket of eggs, taking over this job for the time being, carrying them all around the property. She tries quietly and privately in her room to lift Swift Wind’s saddle, until she feels like she’s going to tear her entire abdomen open and has no choice but to loudly drop it back onto the floor, dust kicking up against the wood. She has to lie down for about twenty minutes afterwards the way her side starts cursing her foolish existence. Someone ought to. Later she tries lifting one of the chairs across from her bed, having the same amount of luck.

One day she helps a young woman when she loses grip on a crate. Either the crate was exceptionally light or Adora really has been getting better. She helps the girl out, young, in her teens. They walk halfway across the entire ranch making the delivery together. Then the girl asks Adora if they can go shoot something and she has to flee before this girl’s mom kicks her ass. But she knows for a fact Catra would help this kid indulge in some destruction.

Glimmer assigns her to help with the recent hay shipment, sensing her boredom. Never changed suppliers, from what Adora can tell. Glimmer doesn’t seem the type to change for money, anyway. Adora doesn’t take the lead, rather lets someone else direct her. All that sitting and laying around, waiting to get better—she needed some mindless manual labor. No more doodles about dead rats and violent teenagers.

It’s all so delightfully boring. Go to the carriage. Grab some hay. Take hay to the stables. Say hi to Swift Wind. Turn around. Go to the carriage. Grab some hay. . . . Adora’s so stuck in it, she turns her brain off for a second. Ignores the occasional angry input from her side. Right now all she wants to do is focus on this hay and stacking it high, then starting another stack that will grow just as high. Right now she has the blessed option.

Then she notices the men. Waiting at the carriage, her partner in this job staring off. He turns back to Adora, dropping the hay in his hands and becoming nervous. He even jumps off the carriage and starts staring them down. His eyes go to his house. Then the men. Then house again. His hands shake with indecision, his eyes darting all around. He can’t make the choice, and instead stands here, frozen as these mystery men walk rather fast onto the land. No horses.

Adora circles the carriage, wanting a better picture. The men aren’t law. If they’re bounty hunters, it’s strange they don’t have any horses. Some people around here, those who don’t freeze up or curse their lungs out, begin to retreat to their homes. Inside of barns. Some ask where they left their rifle. Adora sees Bow and Glimmer rush onto the scene, walking right up to the three men. Bow steps in front of Glimmer, protective, and Glimmer pushes him aside. Not good. She’s going to lose her temper. The man Adora works with tells her the hay can wait, before finally making his decision and running off. Adora agrees. It can wait. She starts walking. Pulls the red hat on her head over her eyes a little.

“We’ve already done this with you,” she hears Glimmer say. Adora makes herself scarce, hiding behind the chicken coop. The chickens couldn’t care less about anything going on right now. “We’ve got our own mouths to feed.”

“Please get off our land,” Bow tries next. The men like his kindness even less, one of them spitting to the side about it. “We don’t want any trouble, and neither do you.”

Footsteps. Slow footsteps. Adora puts her hand on her revolver.

“But then what will keep me from slitting your throats in your sleep, Mister?” one of the men asks. Adora shakes her head. Just had to go there, huh?

She turns the corner, and in an instant changes the conversation with a simple removal of someone’s hat. She’s far away, but she manages to shoot the accessory off the lead man’s head with perfect precision. It’s enough to get him to shut up, to back off, and it’s everything Adora was hoping for. He goes red in his skinny little face, growing more and more cherry as Adora makes her way over. She’s the one walking slowly now, and her weapon isn’t even raised. The men have knives mounted on their hips. One has a rifle slung over his shoulder. She decides she’s not bothered by him.

This would be another perk of Catra living in a place like this with her: there isn’t a soul on this earth who isn’t afraid of Catra. Even Hordak wants to spend his last breaths getting rid of her. She would walk up to these three, stare at them until they start running away. Adora can’t. The best she can do is channel her inner Catra. What’s the worst that could happen, she gets shot again?

Tucking her gun away. It’s her way of showing them she’s not afraid of them. She’s not convinced she is, in all honesty. She tells them, not smiling or frowning, “I don’t sleep too lightly. You can take me on, if you’d like.” Then, as Catra would, she grins right in their faces.

No one says anything, other than Glimmer clearly fighting back laughter. Either for the last breaths Adora is about to take or the fact the now hatless man is growing impossibly redder. Bow is eyeing Adora, the same way he longed for the safety of those dead rats.

Rifle leaves shoulder. The man in the back left corner of the trio’s perfect triangle. He tries to be fast, tries to be the hero for his buddies, but for a brief second he fumbles with the long gun. In that brief second, Adam’s revolver is returning to Adora’s hand, rising in the air. In the next second, as the rifle begins to rise to the same height, Adora has to make a decision: begin another slaughter, or scare them.

Her bullet goes right through the man’s hand, forcing the rifle from his grasp as he desperately holds his new injury with his uninjured hand, screaming to the heavens. The sun is trying to set peacefully, and Adora finds the blood pouring out of the man’s hand and onto the floor. Not far from the discarded hat. She can hear Catra laughing in the back of her mind. Catra. She’ll try to psyche them out next.

Tucking the gun away again. This time she really truly has their attention. Man in the right corner looks like he might start sweating. “I grew up a certain way,” she tells them all. “We worked. We didn’t sit around, except when gathered for dinner. We helped people who needed helping. When we had a problem, we took care of it in a way that wouldn’t hurt everyday folk. You know what we needed to do all that? Every single one of us? Two, capable hands.”

Adora lets the words sink in, staring specifically at the guy she shot for a minute, and then eyes back on the leader.

It’s all words—they had plenty of unconventional members with disabilities who were miles scarier than these losers. Most gangs turned them away. Told them they were weird. Shadow Weaver told them they were welcome. 

“We were hungry, too. So hungry. I get it. But one thing we never did, was wander onto some poor family’s property and take what little they had.” In truth it was the bigger families, but Adora won’t share that information yet. Maybe later, once they’re all friends and having tea around the campfire. “Do you understand the problem here?”

One of them nods, probably hoping to win some points with her. Maybe he does.

“I can be meaner than any old empty stomach.” She takes the gun out again, though she doesn’t raise it just yet. “And I can kill twice as fast. Understand?”

Catra was never a fool. Never bit off more than she could chew—certainly would never wander into a protected fort and end up shot and dead in the dirt—and never started a fight she couldn’t win. If she couldn’t win head-on, she would find another way. It was always Adora’s instinct to run in. Figure out the rest later. Adora could never sit for more than ten minutes without getting up and running to do the next thing; she’s impatient. Now she stands here, waiting, words leaving her mouth instead of gunpowder leaving her hands. Waiting. She waits and watches as the three men sulk off, not even bothering to collect their gun or their destroyed hat. They walk off, and they don’t turn to look back even once.

Adora puts the gun away, before taking off the hat and rubbing the edges with her thumbs.

It isn’t until the men are gone, completely out of sight from the property, Bow and Glimmer exhale and begin to celebrate. Adora doesn’t stop staring down the road. Doesn’t stop rubbing at the brim of the hat. It should feel good to watch them walk away. She should feel good about not slaughtering each of them and walking away. Moving on to the next town would have her. She doesn’t. All Adora feels is a crazy amount of anxiety. She actually cares about this town, she considers.

“Adora, that was—”

“They’ll be back. Soon.” She finally turns to the pair, returning her intact hat onto her head. “I embarrassed them and I doubt they’ll take it lightly. I’ll stay up a little later and keep watch.”

“It’s been happening more and more. Especially since my parents died. They know I have no idea what I’m doing.” Glimmer frowns now, looking back off, down the road.

“I tried, but I’m not enough.” Adora remembers the expression on Bow’s face. Ex-military shooting superstar can’t even protect his own home—that was the reason. “We have people patrolling the property, but sometimes things like this still happen. Last time those three were here, they started shooting at our horses until we gave them something.”

That’s when Adora smiles, awful timing considering the detail Bow just dropped, feeling her spine straighten out. She points her finger at the both of them, walking a little closer. “I told you I’d find a job needs doing. I can take care of this for you. I’ll get your people trained—some self-defense never hurt to know—and I’ll start writing up emergency protocols for when something happens. I’ll figure out good patrol routes for the numbers we do have.”

The pair look at one another, before looking back on Adora. Bow nods his head in satisfaction. Glimmer is full on grinning when she tells her, “I like you very much.”

Then Adora is off with a nod, walking rather quickly to her home. Can’t help it. She’ll finally do something worthwhile around here while her side repairs itself. She’ll keep these people safe, far from the state she’s currently in.

Afterwards, when she finally returns to a clean bill of health, she’ll find a way back into that fort.