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You could slice the tension with a finger.
That’s how Adora feels sitting at the meeting table, though it could more accurately be described—and between her and Glimmer, often has been described—as the Angry Staring Table. Because if you keep your eye at head level, that’s about all you’ll see: the lead Hunters, dressed in tidy brown tweed suits, trying to match the ominous glower of the vampires across from them, in crisp black and white; often failing. There’s not much competition in matching the grim leering of Hordak, the quintessence of vampirism: pale skin; shadowy robes; devilish red eyes. The vampires aren’t happy subsisting on beastblood and blood bank donations; the hunters aren’t happy that the vampires are bitching about it.
And Adora has to sit through all of it, The Sword resting heavily on her lap, next to Hope—head of the hunters.
She might as well be sitting next to a rock.
Well, as far as the Vatican is concerned she’s sitting in an empty room—monsters dead, hunters disbanded, job done. In fact, they did such a good job that all the vampires that are still around simply don’t exist, and if they did exist, well, maybe your hunters actually have a history of heresy and you guys had better pick up the slack to prove your faith, but we’re not going to help you because we’ve already met our piety quota for the century.
Of course, they’ll suddenly materialise an army if anything reaches the mundane world, but it won’t just be the vampires they’re after. So neither side really wants them to get involved—trouble is, they’re so evenly matched in killing each other that there’s not much of either side left, and rather than finish the job they’ve rather reluctantly arrived at a truce. More accurately, a very fragile stop-gap.
It’s another ten minutes that feels like twenty, insults carefully aimed and spoken in mild diplomatese, before the room is disbanded, having accomplished nothing except making everyone in it rather grumpy. The browns and blacks of the crowd quickly separate, oil and water pouring into a dining hall whose tables of dainty foods, once neatly arranged at the center, have since found themselves on dramatically opposite sides of the room with their respective colours crowding around each.
But Adora doesn’t miss the single, wrongly coloured suit on the hunters’ side, casually plucking a full bottle of wine off the table as though it were a miniature sausage.
‘Catra,’ she calls warningly, strutting speedily over before the vampire can cross the threshold in the middle of the room.
‘So sweet of you to remember my name,’ Catra says, turning heel to face her, mischief twinkling in blue and yellow eyes.
‘It’s not a compliment.’
‘I’m sure you’ll come up with one eventually.’
Ignoring the retort, Adora continues, ‘What are you doing with our wine?’
‘Drinking it, hopefully.’ Adora gives her a stern glare. ‘Hey, there’s no rules saying I can’t do this. Isn’t this our time for “Union and Bonding”?’
‘Unifying,’ Adora corrects. ‘And I think we both know we’re all past that.’
‘Yet you’re still talking to me instead of taking this bottle back.’
Catra gives a toodle-oo wave of her fingers, and by the time Adora is about to reach for the bottle she looks past Catra and realises, seeing some dozen fanged heads turned towards her, she’s just been led one step into the wrong side of the room.
She steps back, and Catra sticks out her tongue. Adora very nearly makes an undiplomatic gesture with her hand before walking back to her side—no, she’s better than that.
Better than those monsters. Oh, they look civil, all dressed up under the roof of a cathedral, but she’s seen the truth in plenty of pale moonlight. At a distance they’re dark bullets dancing in the sky, everywhere in one moment and nowhere in the next. They appear coordinated, graceful. Then they’re up close, and the truth is reflected in their eyes:
They are feral. Biting, scratching, shrieking—the blood they drink is all that they are. For all the runestones’ power to suppress their interactions with the non-magical world, they can’t suppress the hunger.
Somehow, Catra manages to be the worst of them not by virtue of viciousness or blinding speed—though she possesses both in ample amounts—but just by being really fucking annoying when she’s trying to kill you. Quip quip quip, girl, didn’t your mother ever tell you don’t speak while you eat? And there’s no avoiding her on the hunts, either. Glimmer and Bow had the bright idea of creating hunting bingo—for all the less gruesome parts of the job—and center square is “Hey, Adora.” What’s worse than the presence of the square itself is that it’s always crossed off after they get back, without exception.
Two of the hunters meet her at the edge of the crowd, and before either of them can say anything Adora holds up a hand to one of them and says, ‘Bow, don’t console me.’
‘I was— definitely not about to do that, why would I do that, that’s crazy.’ Bow says.
Glimmer looks up at him accusingly, and the movement reveals that she has decided to secretly bedazzle the inside of her suit jacket with the same glitter she uses in her hair. ‘You were doing the thing with your arms and the deep breath you always do before giving one of your uplifting speeches.’
‘Was not.’
‘You were,’ Adora says.
‘I don’t do either of those things ever.’
There’s a pause, and Bow becomes statue-still.
‘You don’t have to stop breathing to prove your point.’
‘Well, I don’t need your permission to stop or start breathing.’
‘Please pick any hill to die on other than that one,’ Glimmer says.
‘I should hope,’ says a monotone voice that approaches the group like a slowly moving boulder, ‘that none of our hunters are planning on dying on any hills.’ Light Hope emerges from the crowd and towers over the group.
‘It’s a figure of speech, ma’am,’ Bow clarifies with the exhaustion of a man who’s had to repeat himself far too many times.
‘And it should remain as such. Adora—’
‘I know, I know, I “shouldn’t waste my time parlaying with vampires outside of the meeting room”, right?’ Adora cuts in, barely exercising the restraint to temper the mockery in her voice—come on, parlaying is such a stupid word. Hope lifts an eyebrow with the slowness of eroding marble. ‘You’re not saying that I should let them just disrespect us like that in our own cathedral?’
‘But you failed to retrieve what was stolen. I do not believe you have sent the intended message.’
Adora does not let her face move.
‘Sure, because you were trying so hard to send the right one,’ Glimmer says, crossing her arms.
‘One bottle of alcohol is hardly a real concern. Our Swordbearer should be proudly displaying our storied heritage with dignity, not indulging in petty squabbles with animals.’
So I’m just a display piece, Adora thinks. Her hand rests on the hilt of The Sword, feeling the dull thrum of magic where, after years of honing, she should instead feel a whirling tempest.
Maybe that isn’t so far from the truth.
‘Hey, lay off Adora,’ Bow says.
Hope shakes her head. ‘The vampires must fear our Swordbearer, or they will be the ones you are asking to “lay off”, and I assure you they will not listen. This Catra does not fear you—how long will it be until the rest of them follow suit?’
‘Fine, I’ll go around looking mean and brooding,’ Adora says.
‘Show them your contempt. Show them your power .’
But I’m not powerful, Adora thinks.
I’m just a girl with a sword.
~~~
Part of the Hunters’ policy is to allow its members, during the day and waxing phases of the moon when the vampires are most docile, some time in the mundane world. This avoids any questions about people disappearing off the face of the earth, but the primary stated intention is to ‘Boost the Hunters’ morale by showing them what a beautiful world it is they protect.’
This policy has come under heavy scrutiny ever since the advent of Twitter.
It’s a rare quiet day at Starlabucks, and Adora has only had marginally more time to take a step away from the supernatural with the ‘treaty’ in place, but she’s learned to savour the extra seconds, the smell of ground coffee and the afternoon sun shining through the windows.
Unfortunately, she has also learned to count down from ten at two PM every Saturday. Of all the people to be punctual, why does it have to be her?
Adora takes out her phone and starts scrolling through some random article on her browser’s homepage, attempting unbothered and indifferent when the doors open and a familiar clacking of boots starts toward the counter. She knows Catra has the same faux-innocence half-smile on her face that she always does, the one she makes as she sways her hips and beckons the eyes with a flick of her tail.
Annoyingly, Adora almost wants to look up.
‘What’s this?’ Catra says curiously. ‘Adora slacking on the job? I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘I can take your order without looking at your face.’
‘What if I wanted to order an icy look from those pretty blue eyes of yours?’
‘We only serve coffee.’
‘You know I don’t get my fill of bitter from the coffee.’
‘Well, I am going to need you to order one if you want to keep your place in the queue.’
‘The queue of one.’
‘It'll be the queue of none if you’re not ordering.’’
‘Well, if you insist ,’ Catra says in that obnoxious tone she has specially reserved for when she’s about to make Adora’s life a living hell. ‘I’ll have a venti sugar-free caramel macchiato with skim milk, an extra shot of espresso and extra whip.’ Catra leans over the counter in her periphery, resting her chin in her hand. ‘And I’ll take it like my barista: extra hot,’ she adds with a wink.
Fuck this woman. ‘Coming right up.’
Catra hasn’t beaten her in combat; she will not beat her with a goddamn coffee order. She feels her ponytail lash behind her as she turns on her heel a little too fast but swiftly composes herself and takes measured steps between the equipment, making sure each trip is just slightly longer than the last.
Adora places the finished drink on the counter, only to pull it back to say, ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to write your name on your order,’ and write ‘Katra’ on the cup with an especially large ‘K’.
She delights in the flickering crinkle of disgust Catra’s freckle-dotted nose makes when she sees the misspelt name. ‘You’ll figure it out eventually,’ Catra says, picking up the drink.
‘I promise I won’t.’
To Adora’s shock, Catra actually takes a sip of the coffee, and honestly the whole process of making this stupid drink was worth it to see the sour look she makes with her lips covered in too much whipped cream and licks of caramel. ‘Wow, this is even more disgusting than I thought it would be.’ She puts down a pile of change that Adora already knows is split into far too many types of pennies.
‘I’m starting to think vampires aren’t the biggest fans of coffee,’ Adora says, beginning to sort the change—fucking hell, 31 one pence coins?
‘Maybe that’s a reflection of the barista and not the coffee.’
‘Like you’d be able to tell.’
‘Who knows,’ Catra says with a shrug, ‘I might have to try coffee from other places. Don’t get jealous.’
‘Good riddance.’ Adora shuts the cash register and slides the change over the counter, which Catra scrutinises for longer than usual. ‘67 pence change—is there a problem?’
Catra flicks her tail, then pockets the cash and gives Adora the disappointed look of someone who was hoping to berate the service worker for a minor fuck up. Adora only gives her widest, politest retail smile. ‘No,’ Catra finally says, and oh does the sweet jolt of victory that surges through Adora feel so, so good.
‘Have a great day,’ floats out of her in delightfully thorny bubbles as Catra turns to leave without any of her usual sass.
Catra pauses at the door, and Adora looks up to catch her throwing a fanged, half-lidded smirk back over her shoulder, and it’s only as Adora processes that she’s looked up that she realises where her eyes have been trained this whole time.
‘Sweet dreams,’ Catra sings, and leaves Adora with only the tinny sound of the door’s bell and downright heretical thoughts.
Shit, victory was short-lived.