Chapter One
Catra was tired.
There, she said it. And this wasn't the regular, messy ‘I didn’t get any sleep last night’ type of tired, this wasn’t the type of tired where she would need a few extra hours of sleep, or go back home after a hard day of dealing with assholes at work or stupid cases about old ladies losing their plastic maids, and just cuddling up with Melog until she passed out.
No, this was a different sort of tired. The type that engraved itself into Catra's bones over time; always and everbearing; never leaving her no matter how hard she tried. She remembers trying when she was younger and naive to get rid of this horrible weight that she seemed to carry around with her 24/7. But as she got older and busier and started to lose the ability to care, everything seemed to mix in together, in a sea of regret and exhaustion. She could never find the motivation to try anymore.
That wasn’t going to say that Catra was utterly empty inside--she had things to care about, or at least used to. Her detective work, Melog, trying to make quesadillas like her mom used to, the little things. Eventually, those little things started to fade away. Except for her love for Melog, of course. Detective work barely caught her interest any more, and the stuffing in the quesadillas never felt quite the same as before. Everything seemed to become a chore for Catra.
Replacing those were late midnights at Mermista's bar and an endless line of gin and whisky heading her way. Catra can't say that she didn't revel in it. She loved the way the alcohol would drip down her throat and pool into her veins; she loved the way it made her feel and how everything just around her seemed to waver in the most fantastic way possible.
It wasn't like Catra was unaware that she didn't have a problem; she wasn't stupid. She had read the statistics, she knew the effects that it'd have on her health and life span, and Catra knew that every sip of alcohol that she took would eventually lead to her quick demise.
Catra should care.
But she simply doesn't.
-
The Lieutenant found herself at Salineas Tides more often than she was proud of admitting. She had cultivated somewhat of a reputation for herself there as the 'angry, drunk cop' at the bar. She only heard the nickname once; a barely legal college kid snarking up to her like she had nothing else to do.
A firm knock to the skull and a deep-cutting scar on his forehead was a testament to the bar locals. Don't mess with the scary lady at the bar.
Salineas Tides was very much familiar to her; so that the owner, Mermista, always had a tab open for her, even if she wasn't there herself. Sometimes, she'd have her usual order ready: whiskey on the rocks, then a few shots of tequila, without the salt and lime to tone down the strong aftertaste.
"You're...like a monster," Mermista had said in that dragged out, afflicted way of hers, one of those nights that all seemed to blur together into many drunken hazes. Catra grinned slyly at the girl, waving her off as she put down the shots of straight tequila in front of her.
Catra shrugged Mermista off most of the time, trying not to think about how much the words struck true inside her head. The tequila helped with that.
By the time she got to the tequila, she was too buzzed to feel the stinging of the drinks as it went down her throat. As she let the vodka drip down into her throat and disorganised her bottom lip, in the messy, disorganised way that she usually drank it-- a single stream of the colourless liquid escapes her lips, trailing down to her chin and eventually reaching her collarbone before she finally wiped it off.
Feeling the cold and almost odd bit of vodka tracing the path of her body or at least a part of it was invigorating. It was just another way for Catra to remind herself that she was real, that she was something tangible and human. Sometimes the reminder stung her; punishing her in a wholly awful way, but most of the time, it was helpful. Warming. Familiar.
Going to the bar started off as a bad habit that quickly grew into an all-consuming addiction. She didn't remember when the switch happened-- when she went from a somewhat respectful detective, who appeared put together to a raging alcoholic; something that was common knowledge But at this point, Catra'd find herself sitting in the bar, perched upon the slightly-broken barstool she hogged each night; again and again. And sometimes in the mornings as well.
She didn't remember most of the latter ends of the nights she spent there. Sometimes she woke up on some benevolent stranger's couch or in an old lover's bed if one of them would have found her at the bar. More often than not, though, she'd wake up in her own house, slumped over the kitchen table with yet another drink in her hand.
Catra didn't enjoy being hungover the next morning, but it reminded her that she was alive and, still very human, and at least she had that going for her.
It felt more like a curse than a blessing these days.
Her blue and gold gaze fell harshly upon two men bickering a distance away. The taller man had an annoying grin, all jovial and uncomfortably charming, sporting a blue striped shirt that gave him the classic identity of a capitalist slicker-- someone who enjoyed his high-paying job while the rest of the world suffered. The other man wore a pink button-down, he had an angry expression on his face, and all of his features seemed entirely too large for the rest of his face. It irritated Catra to no end.
The gentle glow of the bar's lights hung over the scene. The two men were clearly having a not-so-friendly game of cards. The taller man was standing, a furious expression on his face; so angry that Catra could practically see steam coming out of his ears. The other man who had a neutral, inebriated expression on his face was staring at him, a challenge on his face. Cards were splayed over the wooden table, some scattered over the floor, some on the booth's seats.
"Pay up asshole, you lost, I won," The clearly taller man spat angrily, leaning forward to point his finger in the other man's face, shaking his fist menacingly.
The man going by "asshole" rolled his eyes slowly, the alcohol he took in a natural relaxant. He laughed off the comment for a moment before drunkenly slurring a response. "I did… NOT shake on it, dude." His voice changed drastically for a moment, going higher in pitch, making the word "dude" very unpleasant to the ears.
The Lieutenant turned back to the bartender, a smirk on her lips. Her mind willed her to put an end to the fighting. The thing is, who doesn't love a good bar fight, eh? Catra brought her glass to her lips, taking a long pull of the glistening liquid, letting it wash over her.
A low rippling and unpleasant groan rumbled out from the angry man's mouth. "I know damn well that I didn't spend thirty-five minutes playing this game of cards to not get anything out of it." His hand reached up to the other man's shirt to close a fist in the seated man's shirt. The man in the blue shirt tugged hard on the shorter man's shirt, lifting him up a foot off the ground. Usually, this wouldn't trigger a sober Catra-- she would break it up, flicking her rusty badge at them and be on her way.
But, something about this moment was different.
The Lieutenant shifted on her barstool, twisting her head around with her body. She gestured to the bartender with two fingers in the air. Before she knew it, two shots slid across her way. She downed them with a sudden urgency that she couldn't quite place. A light buzzed feeling filled her head as she swivelled around to face the men.
To no one's surprise, the pair were now at each other's throats. The taller man threw a wild and hooked punch into the guys' jaw. He had quickly recovered even though his drunken state was throwing him off. The other man, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, landed a hard jab on the taller guy's neck, knocking him onto to the floor. Catra snorted, thoroughly amused by seeing that city slicker taken off guard and collapsed on the ground. Almost immediately, he was on his feet, swinging hard back toward the side of his head.
A few missed punches ended with the guy in the pink shirt, the one who was too cheap to pay up, skidding across the floor and hit hard into Catra's stool. Her eyes widen as she sees the sequence of events happen, her vision going white with her pupils flickering dangerously.
The Lieutenant's stool flipped. Her feet were above her head, eyes trained on the ceiling. A lump fit inside her throat, and she could practically feel her skin burning up.
She hit the ground with a heavy thud; she was pretty sure that the back of her head was bleeding, and the glass she had been holding shattered against the wooden flooring. A pounding sensation rolled through her head, the beginnings of a painful headache crawling into her skull.
The idiot was on his feet already, the floor creaking under his shoes as he moved off to the side, cupping his jaw. Catra rolled onto her abdomen in a swift movement before lazily climbing into a standing position. Glass shards dug into her hands and crimson blood coloured her neck.
Her teeth were clenched as her gaze filtered through the crowd. She picked out that guy; the furious, idiotic, city slicker that she would hate even under normal circumstances, in a moment, searing her bright, heterochromatic eyes into his skin.
Bar fights never worked in her favour, but she had spilt her glass of whisky, something that was her one reprise from the hell of the day that she'd been through. That is where she drew her anger.
That was a perfect glass, an excellent one. Chilled to perfection.
"That glass was perfect." She murmured more to herself than the man, switching on her feet. Her weight centred, and through her glazed drunken state, she charged at the man. She slammed him mercilessly down against the card littered table, letting her long black nails pierce into his shoulder. Catra drew back a fist; her knuckles white and her face coloured with crimson red, blood rushing to her face; pounding it into the temporal bone of the man's head.
She wasn't thinking. Catra could barely find it in herself to think these days; everything was ruled by something irrational and by emotion, mainly anger. She was angry over too many things. Mad about her past, about her grief and enraged that she had just split her perfectly refreshing drink.
But all that was lost the moment she landed her first punch.
Her fists balled into the guy's blue shirt. The Lieutenant heard the sound of the material ripping fiercely, and she smirks. Good. She lifted him for a moment only to slam him back down against the table. The guy, this city slicker had no idea who he was messing with, had decided to swing back up at the Lieutenant. It was a weak hit, but it was enough to send Catra reeling on her heels.
Catra's drunk brain decided she would blame the wind for that one.
She regained her focus in time to extend her forearm, quickly blocking an incoming fist. Her arm swung out to push the man's arm away. Catra brought her other fist into his side. He staggered behind slightly coming in once again for another punch, but she stopped him with a drunk smile. "You should really update your repertoire," she slurred before punching him squarely in the stomach and swiftly kicking his shins with her knee, pushing further away.
He grabbed onto his side with a loud groan. "Fucking bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are?" He yelled as blood dripped from his mouth, staining his shirt. He was staggering away-- a chair behind him was the only thing stopping him from leaving the bar.
She wasn't thinking, and she loved it, the repercussions of what had just happened far away from her mind. Catra needed to stay in that moment, blood dripping down from her temple to her neck. By the time her intoxicated mind was able to register the situation, one of Mermista's men had her arms pulled behind her back.
"Hey, what the hell? 'Thought you wanted a fucking show." Catra snorted before she started yelling and thrashing her arms wildly in an attempt to free herself. Her scuffed boots kicked at the air to no avail.
The man, whom Catra fuzzily recognized as Falcon, didn't say a word.
Through her drunken haze, the Lieutenant registered many fearful and confused faces of bystanders, an embarrassing sort of realization evident on her face. Catra wasn't the type to feel subconsciously about herself, but the eyes of around ten patrons stayed locked on her. The anger and adrenaline that she had from the fight still ran through her veins; she wasn't just going to let all these strangers judge her. Catra held her head up high, as though she wasn't the one who made a fool of herself.
"I want a refund on that las-" Cold air whipped around the Lieutenant as a door to the back porch swung wide open. The man gave her a hard shove. Her knees hit the ground only seconds after her hands. The sweat beading above her brows mixed with a gentle drop of rain which was now staining her cheeks.
A somewhat apologetic look came over his face, though it was clouded into disgust and reproach "Sorry, Anderson. I'm just doing my job. Come back when you're sober." And with that, the door was slammed shut.
Catra stayed there for a moment; her mind a vortex of complicated emotions that never seemed to calm. She could barely understand what just happened to her. Everything had changed from the fast-paced and chaotic environment of the bar to the loneliness that was now clothing Catra's bone. The blood on her fist and the ache of her head was the only proof left of her bar brawl; it had been a while since it got that intense. It took her a moment to register the hard padder of rain against her back. Drops of rain rolled freely off the black leather.
She slowly got to her feet, spitting out a wad of metallic tasting blood. The shaking, somewhat trembling feeling that her legs had made her reach out for a nearby pillar. Pain riddled her body, and a soreness settled into her bones. Her eyes ached, her cheekbone roared with anger, and her head was pounding. The cold feel of water trickling down her face was the only thing keeping her upright.
"I need a cigarette." She said softly to herself, dragging her hand all over her face and then down to her skin. Catra patted down her pants and situated her jacket more fittingly over her shoulders.
-
The Lieutenant couldn’t be too far from her current location, Adora registered as she stepped out of yet another bar-- her attempts at tracking her new partner had been a failure thus far. There was only one more bar within a 1-mile radius of the precinct. Unfortunately, if her partner wasn’t in this bar, Adora would simply have to report back to the precinct and resume this task tomorrow.
She decided that she would not step foot in any more bars if she did not have to. She did not understand humans very well, but she could scan their faces and recognize the look of disgust every human had given her in the past few bars she’d checked due to her high-tech empathy system that had been inputted into her by CyberLife.
Bars had always been android-free zones, so to find one blatantly ignoring the very rules they were built to uphold and follow would logically be somewhat confusing to humans. Some orders, however, like the order to find Lieutenant Anderson and take her to the crime scene overrode these rules for the sake of a functioning automated society.
Rain slid down her suit jacket as she exited the bar, just as she’d predicted that morning. It slid off of her hands and feet, but it wet her hair and clothes. It didn’t bother her; not much did, except for inefficiency and incomplete assignments. Apathy was supposed to be androids’ redeeming quality. Androids were designed to have these mere external features not bother them, which made them most useful. Flipping her coin between her skilled hands for focus, she walked down the block in search of the last bar.
Adora stopped in front of her last bar for the night “Salineas Tides". The large neon sign above the doorway marked her destination definitely if by some rare occurrence her navigational system broke down. A few people stood on the porch, sheltering from the rain under the roof, smoking cigarettes and laughing with one other. She scanned all their faces, but none of them appeared to be the Lieutenant. They, like the patrons of the last few bars she'd visited, did not seem to be a fan of hers.
One person remained to be examined, however, someone sitting on the steps that jutted out from beneath the roof, all the rain pouring onto them. She couldn’t scan their face, but she looked at everything else about them—big leather coat, long wet hair, all slicked back. Scuffed up black boots, one of them untied. Nothing that really identifies them.
“What are you looking at?” the person hissed, voice raspy, and they tilted their head up, just enough for Adora to see their eyes: one blue, one gold. There was only one registered person in all of Detroit with heterochromia like that. And she didn’t need to see the rest of their face to know that this was none other than her new partner, Lieutenant Anderson.
Surprisingly enough, there was very little information about the Lieutenant in the CyberLife and Etherian database. It was like her record was wiped clean. The only information in there was the Lieteunant's name, her age and the fact that she was the youngest Lieutenant in the history of Etheria. Adora could objectively say that was quite impressive; not many officers reached that position.
“Hello, Lieutenant. My name is Adora. I’m the android sent by CyberLife. I looked for you at the station, but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby.” Adora recited in that dutiful, accomodating voice of hers.
“What the fuck do you want?” the Lieutenant growled, her eyes narrowed. Adora could clearly tell the woman was not a mood. Alas, her orders were to make Lieutenant Anderson comply with her, and that's what she was going to do. That's what her task started with, and she always completed her mission.
“You were assigned a case early this evening,” Adora explained in an explanatory fashion, “A homicide, involving a CyberLife android. Following the CyberLife procedure, they have sent a specialized model to assist investigators.”
She made a noise of discomfort highlighted in annoyance. “Like I need any assistance,” The Lieutenant scoffed, her words slurring slightly. “Especially from the likes of you, you oversized tin-can.”
Catra pulled out a cigarette and lit it, shrugging her jacket to fit her shoulders momentarily. She grumbled as she squeezed some water out of her hair, then pushed it back down. The Lieutenant, unfortunately, seemed very preoccupied with issues of her own. Although Adora never understood the topic, her software had equipped her with information about human lives.
Adora stood there for a moment, staring straight ahead, her cognitive functions whirring. This was a less than ideal situation. This mission needed to be accomplished, and the Lieutenant appeared displeased and not willing to cooperate.
[CONVINCE, LT. ANDERSON.]
“You appear displeased, Lieutenant,” Adora said, as Catra mumbled something that was undoubtedly profane under her breath. The police android ignored it, trying to think up reasons as to why the Lieutenant was so distressed. “Is it the rain? We can go inside where you may dry off. I'm sure that would-”
Catra suddenly stood up and glared at her, flicking the still-lit cigarette that she was holding in her hand towards the android, causing Adora to move away slightly, her expression still blank. A nasty, hateful grimace spreads across the Lieutenant's face as she reached out and grabbed Adora by the collar of her jacket.
“Read the room, plastic freak!” she shouted in her face. “Use your stupid programming to figure out that I just got kicked out of the fuckin’ bar.” She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out directly in Adora’s face. To humans, this was supposedly a rude gesture. For Adora, this simply clogged up her biosensors.
[#WARNING: MINOR SENSOR DISRUPTION. 91% OPERATABLE]
With a simple huff, she purged her olfactory sensors and turned her focus back to the drenched drunken Lieutenant, who was now leaning against the dingy looking wall.
Adora knew humans are fickle creatures, but this was nothing she’d had to deal with before, though her function had only recently come into effect. She closed her eyes and thought of all the possible paths she can take to complete the trivial task at hand.
[THREATEN]
[WAIT AT THE STATION]
However, maybe a different approach would be sufficient. Like many of the other bar-goers, it was clear what the Lieutenant thought about androids and their mechanical nature. Perhaps if Adora acted less android, Catra would not find her interference as insulting.
“I apologize for not being more observant,” Adora finally said, dipping her head. “It will not happen again.” She tried to make her voice as sincere as possible-- this was an odd process, most humans just let her get on with her job with crude comments at the most.
Lieutenant Anderson scoffed drily, taking another puff of her cigarette, blowing it out into a cloud above herself. “Well, would you look at that? Tin-can has a flimsy apology programme.” She chuckled, but the humour was dry, just like her attitude.
The police android lets her lips spread in what she hopes is a kind gesture, “Lieutenant, I must insist on taking you to the crime scene,” Adora said, looking at the officer. Lieutenant Anderson no longer seemed as off-put by Adora now, even smirking at the android, though probably sarcastic. Adora turned up the corners of her mouth and smiled for Catra, it comes a little more naturally this time.
“Maybe I could buy you a drink afterwards, at a different bar. Maybe more welcoming?”
Catra gave her a half-hearted narrow-lipped smile. “Did no one ever teach you any manners? I'm more of a dinner date girl,” Catra teased, before shaking her head and realizing who exactly she was talking to. Adora frowned, this wasn't covered in her programming, but she eventually classified it under 'odd remarks' and decided that the best thing to do was ignore it.
Catra heaved a weighty sigh. “Did you say homicide?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Catra dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her boot, grinding it into the dirt as the flame sizzled away. She waved towards a beat-up blue sedan on the street. “Lead the way, tin can.”