Chapter Text
So one of the first things her teacher told her was: “Catra, if you ever became a writer, you’d probably get thrown in the gutter.”
Mr. Harris didn’t think what his words would do to a stubborn fourteen-year-old girl with a black eye and a busted lip, sitting at the back of the class behind a sea of fresh young faces. Impressionable spoiled pre-teens her age who had rich parents at their beck and call, laughed at her behind their textbooks so their teacher wouldn’t see. At that moment, Catra realized spite was her best motivation.
She was a terror at that age. Snuck out of boarding school and ran the streets with older kids who taught her how to smoke pot and drink alcohol. Got into fights, smoked cigarettes in the bathroom stalls, kissed a girl one time -- that was nice. Didn’t matter if she was one of the smartest kids in class, she was a bad influence who had no future ahead of her.
Thomas said he wanted to become a businessman when he grew up.
Hanna said she wanted to be an engineer.
Kyle -- fucking Kyle -- said he wanted to be a photographer.
The men and women of tomorrow, her teacher said. Except for that one messed-up girl who said she wanted to become a writer someday. What a dick. Now, twelve years later, Catra wondered how she ended up in the same situation: sitting crumpled up in a metal chair, black eye and busted lip, tied on a chair with her hands behind her back, and being talked down to by a man who was several layers dumber than her. There was also a gun on the coffee table next to the television, which was a nice surprise.
Catra had to laugh. Funny her high school teacher didn’t say she might end up in a morgue if she became a journalist, but here she was, tempting fate once again.
“Yeah, the chief of police is on our side, paid off in full by the mayor himself," Lashor said, cracking his bloodied knuckles for show. “The cops? They’ll ignore a couple of network news jockeys disappearing by the end of the week. We get paid, and I’ll be rich enough to retire to Mystacor Island."
Catra chuckled, tasting blood between her teeth. “Are you seriously monologuing right now?” She wheezed out a squeaking laugh. “So intimidating, Mr. Big-Shot. Get hired from the streets by a crooked politician and now you think you’re the shit, huh? You’re still an idiot, Tung.”
Lashor growled, closing the distance between them with a few strides. He grabbed her by the lapels of her leather jacket and pulled her up like a ragdoll. “You’re in no position to talk shit, de Leon.”
Catra made a point to test her rope bindings, then smirked. “I guess not. Silly me.” Lashor growled as he watched her mocking expression barely twitch. “Sorry for distracting you, though. Tell me more about the mayor again. I am so interested in what you have to say about him.”
The gang leader scoffed and threw her back into the metal chair.
“Khan’s controlling who wins the election, kitty cat, that’s all you need to know.”
Catra spat blood on the floor and coughed, having swallowed enough of it for the past hour. She was starting to feel sick, but she knew better than to show weakness in front of Lashor. “I’m not a huge fan of District Attorney Moon myself, but you gotta admit, Mayor Khan is doing a lot to keep the position of State D.A. from her.” She tilted her head lazily, short-cropped bangs falling over her eyes. “Don’t wanna watch your boy lose to a staunch goody-two-shoes, huh? Heard she was hard to rattle.”
“Not when we’re gonna do our job to make sure he keeps his ass out of prison. If that means blowing up a building or two, then so be it.” Lashor said, pacing in front of her with barely restrained anger. He pointed a finger at her. “You ain’t gonna interfere with us this time, understand?”
“Little ol’ me? Sell this juicy piece of information to the highest bidder? Nah.”
“I know you, de Leon.”
“Do you, now?” Catra’s eyes narrowed, sharp like glass, seemingly glowing in the dark room. “We’ve known each other for a long time, Tung, and you don’t know shit about me. While I know a lot about you.” She purred. “Your drug ring. Rigged cargo shipments. Even what you ate for breakfast.”
Another backhand threw her head to the side, giving her one hell of a whiplash. The hit rang sharply around the empty room. A dark bruise began to blossom on her left cheekbone, making her freckles look stark against the discoloration. Catra licked the corner of her lip, wincing at the slight sting where her incisor cut flesh. “You’re not very good at this interrogation thing, are you?”
“For the last time,” Lashor gripped the armrests of her chair and dragged her closer. “Where did you get your intel?”
“And for the last time, I wouldn’t worry your little head over that tiny detail.” Catra said, “I got my answers. That’s all I needed.” She smirked. “Now are you gonna untie me, or are we gonna have a problem?”
Lashor gaped, and for a moment Catra thought she finally got under his skin -- until he threw his head back and laughed in her face. “You think you know everything.” He said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Think you’re so smart.”
Catra pouted, feigning offense. “Am I not?”
“You’re not,” Lashor stood up and grabbed the gun from the table, “I guess, since I’m about to end your life, wouldn't hurt to give what you were looking for.” His smile was twisted and ugly on his lizard-like face. “Consider it your death-day present, kitty-cat.”
Yes.
This was it.
Catra leaned forward as Lashor unclipped the magazine to count how many bullets he still had.
“Who is Mayor Khan working for, Tung?” Catra asked, trying -- and failing -- to keep her voice from shaking with anticipation. Behind her, she tugged the rope around her wrists and let it fall, now frayed thanks to the blade hidden in her jacket sleeve. She formed her hands into tight fists, her karambit’s curved hilt slanted securely in her left hand. The seat under her creaked as she crept closer. She knew he would cave in. Knew he would flatter himself by boasting about working with the top brass, and all she needed was a name. Something. Anything.
He aimed the gun between her eyes.
“Isn’t it obvious, kitty cat?” Lashor smiled so wide, his grin almost showed all his crooked teeth. “He’s -- ”
A brief quake rocked the building and interrupted him mid-sentence. The lamp above them swayed.
"The hell was that?" Lashor grumbled.
There was a silence that seemed to permeate the air.
From afar, a car alarm began to shriek.
Lashor and Catra shared a befuddled look.
She opened her mouth and was about to demand an answer -- until the window exploded inward. Concrete and glass rained all over the room, covering them in debris. Catra immediately bolted out of the metal chair on time, holding an arm over her face.
Once everything settled, she shakily exhaled and took a few steps away from the site of destruction, trying to surmise what just happened.
In a moment of strange solidarity, Catra and Lashor shared a look at each other over the unmoving lump of rubble, and then at the destroyed partition which seemed -- more or less -- human-sized in width and height. The wind whistled through it, sending a chill down Catra’s bones.
She jumped when a fist punched through the mountain of brick and concrete on the floor. The thing -- this person -- coughed and sat up from it as if it was no hindrance. Through the dust cloud, Catra saw they were wearing a red hoodie and scuffed-up jeans, now covered in a shock of white dust. But despite the odd getup, they seemed nonplussed. Irritated even, their movements sharp as they stood up and began to pat the dirt from their jacket.
“Damn robot.”
Lashor pressed himself against the door in a stupor, too stunned to move, but managed to spit out: “Flying girl?”
The person looked at them both, their face half-hidden behind a set of aviator goggles; first at Catra, lingering on her bruises, then at Lashor. Despite the shoddy attempt to cover their identity, Catra still noticed the terrifying expression on their face when they saw the gun in Lashor’s hand.
Lashor slowly hid the weapon behind his back, chuckling nervously. “We were just playing?”
With a blink, they seemed to teleport in front of Lashor, grabbing his gun, and crushing it with their bare hand.
Catra balked, realizing what was happening before her eyes. “Wait a second,” She darted towards them, her feet stumbling from a wooden beam. “Who is he, Tung? What’s his name?“
It was too late. The person grabbed a screaming Lashor by his collar and rushed out of the hole, leaping up and away. Out into the night.
No.
Catra watched the figures grow smaller as the flying girl leaped from building to building. Lashor, in her arms, visibly flailing.
She seethed, her face scarlet with rage as she stomped towards the edge of the broken wall.
“That’s my source, you fucking oaf!”
***
“That dumb, glowy, goddamn, sonofa -- “
“All right, just, uh, just let it all out, chief.”
“ -- giant asshole.” Catra shot up from her office chair and began to pace behind her desk, Scorpia following her with a small frown as she held up a cotton ball drenched with alcohol. “I was close. I was so. Close. But that moron ruined everything.”
“Lashor held a dang gun to your head, chief. Maybe flying girl saved you at the nick of time, as they say?” She chuckled at the glare Catra sent her way.
But instead of delivering an earful, Catra scoffed and fell back into her chair with a huff. “I had a plan. I was ready. I could’ve disarmed him in my sleep. I’ve done it before.”
Silence persisted between the two friends as Scorpia tended to her bruises, but Catra could feel the ballooning tension around them on the verge of popping. Scorpia’s face gave it away. Looking constipated with worry despite concentration lines wrinkling her forehead. Catra’s eye twitched.
“Whatever’s on your mind, Scorpia, out with it.”
“Out with what? I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Scorpia.”
“Okay, fine,”
Scorpia bit her lips and squeaked.
“Scorpia.”
“I don’t mean this in a bad way, Wildcat,” Scorpia inhaled and steeled herself. “But, I do not like this.”
“Don’t like what?”
“This.” She motioned at Catra’s face. Her bruised, fucked-up face, which would definitely take weeks to heal. She looked like someone had a field day with her mug, resembling a blotted finger painting from a feckless child who favored purples and browns. Scorpia had seen her boss in this state before, but Lashor did a terrible number on Catra this time. “I know you like being on the field, chief, but if that means you’ll be facing thugs... Thugs with guns...? I think you should use the net for all our information gathering from now on. Entrapta has those fired walls (“Firewalls, Scorp.”) to protect us.”
“Look, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I didn’t get shot or anything.”
“This time! What if that gun went off and didn’t miss?”
Catra sighed, “There’s a difference between keyboard smashing and going out there on the field, Scorp. That’s where the story is. Hell, I found out we were dealing with a ‘he’.” She said, tapping her finger on the arm of her chair, agitated. “Remember Squall? From that computer company who refused to unionize their abused employees and did a lot of illegal shit? He caved in and told us everything because of me, Scorp. Me. I’m the one with the people skills in this team.”
“You threatened him with a smashed bottle, chief.”
“See? People skills.”
“If you say so.”
“Besides,” Catra crossed her arms over her chest, relaxing in her chair, “You know I can take care of myself.”
“Uhuh. I’m so sure of that. Indubitably. But,” Scorpia stuttered. “I mean, how far are you gonna go to get the story? If you keep taking huge risks like this, we’re obviously gonna get worried.”
Catra growled. “I can’t stay at home and write articles from third-party sources. What am I, a recluse?”
“Well, you are kind of a recluse…”
“How am I a recluse? I go out every day.”
“To do jobs.”
"I have lunch outside and shit."
"Before doing a job."
“Whatever! I am not a recluse.”
“Who’s not a recluse?”
They both looked up at Mermista who was holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand as she entered the office space. She looked hungover, her hair a complete mess, and her red eyes hidden under a pair of oversized sunglasses. She headed over to her desk and threw her purse next to the computer monitor. “Whoah, boss, you look like you had a better night than me.”
“It’s the chief,” Scorpia said, throwing the bloodied cotton ball in the bin, before clearing away the med kit she spread over Catra’s desk. “The chief’s a recluse.”
“Oho, totes a recluse.” Mermista sat down in her chair and propped her legs up on the table, doing a perfect imitation of Catra: “‘The only things I trust in this world are Melog and my motorcycle.’”
Catra groaned, turning her attention back to her laptop, flipping the lid open and turning it on. “I am not listening to either of you.”
***
Finding a place to hunker down was the first thing they worried about when The City Eye was still a spark in Catra’s brain.
With Scorpia, fresh from community college, and Entrapta, a disgraced robotics major from a prestigious university -- and maybe Mermista (though nobody knew what it was she really did) -- Catra knew they could pull off anything. An independent online journalism gig seemed like the best response to the injustices they kept seeing in their city, and with Catra spearheading the project, their simple experiment turned into a job. A real job. It shot them to success in a matter of months, The City Eye eventually rivaling Daily Etheria and Bright Moon News when it came to delivering the honest to god truth.
At the end of the day, though, they had an edge: the Eye was free for the public. Easy to access but hard to compromise. The last free voice in a world where top news companies were tainted by politics and money. They were, as one would say, incorruptible.
And they said Catra’s problem with authority was gonna be a bad thing.
For five years, The City Eye leaked government files, supported whistleblowers with aided protection, and captured powerful men and women at their worst. Their work needed to be discreet, anonymous, and what better way to set it up than on top of a falafel restaurant, in a cheap studio apartment, located at the heart of Fright Zone City.
(the falafel sandwiches, by the way, were amazing)
They worked from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon, six days a week. Catra always pulling an hour extra every once in a while. The only thing keeping her from staying in the office full time was her cat.
In the next two weeks after 'The Incident', Catra managed to fill her pinboard with articles about flying girl. Nobody questioned her thoughts on the subject yet, but everybody knew it was only a matter of time until Catra’s natural curiosity and resentment translated into a scathing exposé. “Flying Girl, Hero or Menace?”. It was a work in progress.
***
Her fingers were a blur on the keyboard, eyes glued to her laptop screen.
“Hey,” Catra perked up, fingers still flying over the keys. “How many R’s in ‘incarceration’?”
“One,” Mermista said.
“And how many S’s in ‘massacre’ again?”
“You know there’s, like, a spell-checker, right?”
“You know I can, like, dock your pay, right?”
“Just you try, boss, you can’t run this place without moi.”
“We don’t even know what you do.”
“Public Relations,” Mermista said, blowing on her drying toenails.
Catra rolled her eyes. She didn’t bother to tell her they never hired a public relations specialist.
By the time five o’clock rolled in, Catra was nearly finishing her third article; five empty cups of coffee littered her desk, alongside what remained of her lunch (a tuna sandwich with extra pickles). She nodded at Scorpia, who was the last one out, leaving her alone in the office pondering if she should pull another hour of work before turning in. The painful strain in her eyesight decided for her.
Catra sighed, closing the lid of her laptop with a click. She rubbed a hand over her face and pinched the bridge of her nose.
After throwing her trash away with a brash sweep of an arm over her desk, she grabbed her leather jacket and stared at the pinboard behind her desk. A couple of articles and photos were haphazardly pinned across the board. A quarter of them were Kyle’s pictures of Mayor Khan and Lashor’s dealings in an abandoned warehouse. Most of them were pictures and headline articles about flying girl, ever since their appearance five months ago. All from the Daily Etheria, News FZC, and BMN.
The City Eye didn’t bother to write anything about flying girl yet. Catra still ruminating on what to think about this strange mystery person who could lift buses with a finger and fire lasers from their eyes. They weren’t a news company that liked to focus on sensationalism, instead, Catra wanted to know how this person leveled the city’s playing field.
The world didn’t call Fright Zone City the blackened hole in Etheria’s 21st century for nothing. It was home to the hardest, toughest people who could ever think to survive a cutthroat environment, second only to the Crimson Waste where Catra lived four years of her young adult life. Some people died here; some people lived to die here. Some people just wanted to live. Some people, like her and her crew, learned to thrive. And there was a certain natural order to it. Thugs, gangs, black market dealers, dirty cops, corrupt politicians. Add in another player and it all goes down like a domino effect.
One of the few online images she found showed a clearer view of flying girl, one of her arms outstretched as she soared through the sky. Her bright yellow hair long and loose under a dumbass aviator hat, and her face an expression of confidence. An obvious ruse.
Catra had taken down more than a dozen powerful people during her time in the Eye. She wondered if she could take down a wannabe superhero, too.
“You don’t even fly, ‘flying’ girl.” Catra scoffed, sliding her leather jacket on.
The weather this season was frigid and stiff -- Fright Zone City’s common climate near December, aside from the occasional heavy rain and fog.
Once she reached the backdoor exit, Catra tugged her jacket closed, pulled the zipper up, and tied her red scarf around her neck. It didn’t do much to prevent her from freezing her ass off, but at least she looked the part of the regular Fright Zone City resident: pissed off and unapproachable.
Walking around the building, she reached her parked motorcycle and ran her hand over its curved, silver handlebars. The vehicle was old, but Catra poured her heart and soul into restoring it to its former glory. A genuine Tiger 110, sleek and perfectly maintained. On its cherry-red gas tank, in cursive silver letters, spelled the name ‘Lyra’. She always did the clean-up and maintenance herself every week.
“C’mon girl, let’s gear up.”
***
It was when she reached the intersection near Forge Street when Catra noticed something was amiss.
The traffic was worse than usual. She weaved through the labyrinth of cars, not minding the agitated drivers honking their horns as she passed by.
Lifting herself slightly from the seat of her bike, Catra’s eyes narrowed at the line of vehicles that went on forever until the next avenue.
Catra slowly stopped her bike next to a blue car with its windows down, tilting her head to hear pieces of a radio news alert mentioning a blockage in Skyline bridge…
“... and the flying girl was seen with another metal monster. This time -- “
Catra set her jaw and revved her engine, speeding up and heading straight for the Skyline.
Upon reaching her destination, Catra finally saw what conveniently caused the traffic: there were cars, destroyed beyond recognition, left behind by their owners on the middle of the road. Some tipped upside-down and sideways, while two odd figures battled in the center of all the madness. People were running away from the scene, screaming and scrambling amidst the noise of destruction from the fight.
There was wreckage everywhere. Parts of the bridge were destroyed beyond recognition, laid aside in crumpled heaps of warped metal like twisted pieces of paper bent by hands stronger than hers. It was a miracle the damn thing was still upright, not collapsing under the pressure of the two combatants eagerly slamming each other into the asphalt.
Catra stopped her bike at a safer distance and took her helmet off. She watched flying girl lift an entire car over their head and ram it into what seemed to be a giant, humanoid machine. Carefully, she scanned the area, wondering if she should risk it and take a closer look.
This could be the flying girl story she was looking for.
Finally deciding her next move, Catra pulled the bike’s kickstand out with her foot and dismounted from her ride, placing her helmet on its leather seat without taking her eyes off the fight.
“Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
Grabbing her phone from inside her jacket, she flicked to video recording and began to take in the fight from a safe distance.
One of the cables holding the bridge snapped at that moment, falling on the road and crushing a few vehicles in the way. Flying girl looked around in a panic, probably realizing the bridge might not hold on for much longer if they kept this up. They bent their knees, getting ready to leap -- until a metal fist punched them straight in the sternum. The force of it threw flying girl into a truck, their weight wrecking its tanker in half.
Flying girl pulled themself out of the bent metal, then lunged at the creature with inhuman speed. They used their momentum to slam into its midsection, the sound of metal clanging against stone-like flesh palpable. The creature crashed back into the asphalt, leaving a giant crack in its wake, tiny fractures splintering the road.
Catra was, as loathe as she was to admit it, enthralled. She’s only ever seen flying girl’s feats on television, or what little clips people’s phones have managed to capture mid-action. This close and Catra could truly see how... alien they truly were.
She moved her phone to capture the metal creature as it grabbed flying girl by the scruff of their neck, until Catra spied something else. Someone else. A spot of pink in the sea of calamity.
There was a little girl crying, holding a dirty stuffed rabbit in her arms, as she stood petrified at the edge of the crossfire.
Catra briefly glanced at flying girl, realizing they didn’t even notice the kid who was in car-throwing range.
“Shit.”
I have to…
“Goddammit.”
Catra shoved her phone aside and went after the kid.
She sprinted, jumping over a rolling tire and the twisted remains of a car fender, smelling vaporous gas and burning rubber. Catra nearly slipped when she reached the child, avoiding a piece of falling debris the size of her head.
“Gotcha.” Catra gasped, scooping the girl up in her arms. “Now let’s get you outta here, kid.”
She looked up just in time to see a flying car carelessly hurled in their direction. Catra closed her eyes and ducked, protecting the girl with her body. She swiftly dashed away when it passed, stumbling, then dragging her knees as she struggled to stand. She ran as fast as she could towards a clearer path to the side of the bridge, with less rubble on the jagged sidewalk.
Catra felt the kid’s hands clutch at her jacket as she hurried to her bike, barely registering flying girl getting tossed overhead, landing just a few feet in front of her.
She looked around, lost until her eyes caught a frantic woman running towards them, screaming for her child. There. Catra gritted her teeth and pushed herself to run faster. Once she reached the woman, she shoved the girl in her mother’s arms.
“Go, go!”
Catra turned, off to head back to her ride, when she saw flying girl stand up and grab something.
No. Not just something.
They lifted a cherry-red motorcycle in the air…
No. Not just any red motorcycle.
Catra’s motorcycle.
She could only watch as flying girl bashed it in the metal creature’s orb-like head.
Catra gaped, eyes wide. Her heart sinking at the terrible sight.
Pieces of her beloved bike flew everywhere as flying girl winded their arms back and bashed their opponent for the second time. Uncaring. Not even considering, not for a second…
“Stop.” Catra dragged her feet towards the danger zone, arm outstretched. “Stop!”
Flying girl didn’t hear her. Or they did but didn’t care. They threw Catra’s bike to the side and tackled the metal creature, finally driving it away from the road, under the bridge, and into the brackish water underneath. Just in time as another cable twisted and snapped, falling next to Catra, who barely even flinched.
A few feet away, her Tiger 110 lay in a crumpled heap.
Catra’s outstretched hand curled into a tight, shaking fist.
Oh.
It is on.
***
Catra wheeled the whiteboard in front of the office and faced the City Eye staff.
Lonnie, Rogelio, and Kyle were in the team meeting this time. Catra insisted they had to be there, being the only three people who were usually on the field taking pictures and shaking sources up. Scorpia watched Catra from her seat with a frown, while Mermista sat with her arms crossed, only half paying attention. Entrapta was nowhere to be seen.
On the whiteboard were large, circled words in red marker: “FLYING GIRL”.
“First off.” Catra crossed ‘FLYING GIRL’ with the same red pen, the marker squeaking as she drew the last line, “Bitch doesn’t even fucking fly.”
“So we’re finally writing a report about this infamous flying girl?” Lonnie asked, smirking.
“No, no, Lonnie. I said bitch doesn’t fly, they leap. They jump. Why does nobody else see that?”
Scorpia raised her hand. “Uh, chief?”
Catra sighed and rested a hand on her hip. “Yes, Scorpia?”
“If this is about your motorcycle,” Scorpia started carefully, holding out her hands in front of her in a placating manner when Catra reared her head in rage, “Now, I’m sorry I mentioned it, but I feel this has to be said: there are other ways to deal with your anger. Healthier ways -- ”
“Not now Scorp.” Catra snapped. She tapped the whiteboard with the butt of the marker pen with a hard jab. “We need a new name. Go.”
“Muscles.”
“Jumpy girl?”
“This is lame.”
“Butt with legs.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll shelve the name for now... god help me.” Catra said, rubbing her forehead as she felt the beginnings of a headache throb. “I can hear you asking, what’s gonna be The Eye’s angle on this super-powered freak? Okay, let me tell you. Let me reveal the grand fucking plan.” She began to pace in front of the whiteboard.
“Uh, boss, are... you okay?” Asked Mermista, trading a glance with all her colleagues who looked equally worried.
“It’s all in the news.” Catra said, her words coming out in rapid succession, looking crazed as she continued: “Frontpage headlines! Special news magazines sensationalising this super meta human! There’s no escaping it. Even the Planetarium’s raving about them saving the day every week. The Planetarium. I thought they just wrote shit about space? Bright Moon News regularly calls them a hero. Daily Etheria? They talk about their ‘amazing’ powers as if they’re a walking god. News FZC said they’re an honorary law enforcer. Puh-lease --”
“They did manage to catch the red district gang during a shoot-out,” Lonnie said, Rogelio, nodding next to her with a grunt.
Catra scoffed. “That’s the thing, these papers focus too much on all the good shit, they’re turning a blind eye on reality.” She growled, holding out a finger for each point addressed: “Destruction of public and private property. Endangering civilians. Blatant disregard for the consequences of their actions. They help police officers. Besides, where do their powers come from? What’s their plan? Are they trying to take over the world? Who knows!”
“I don’t think they’re the type of person who would do that sort of thing. They seem to want to do good.” Scorpia said, rubbing the back of her neck nervously, “Right?”
“How do you know? Are they even human?” Catra asked. She grabbed the printed image of ‘flying’ girl from her pinboard and showed it to everyone. “They don’t even stop to talk about who they are. I expected an interview to be published by now, but there’s been nothing. And haven't you guys noticed the bots started coming more when they appeared? Tell me I'm not making shit up." She took a breath, placing her palms flat on the table in front of her. “Everything that’s been written about them has been pure speculation, but we’re better than that. We publish the truth. Right now all we know is they’re a powerful person. A person with superpowers. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, ladies. We all know this shit. We eat it for breakfast.”
"Can't be too much trouble." Lonnie shrugged, "Everyone has dirt on em'."
"So we go in and expose everything about her?" Scorpia said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “That's great and all -- but we don’t even know her secret identity,”
“Oh, Scorpia.” Catra sneered, crushing the picture of ‘flying’ girl in her hand, “That’s exactly what we’re going to find out.”