Little Cato collapses to his knees, still clutching Dean's sleeve. In the memory he's being marched along by uniformed guards, his arms in heavy metal cuffs. He is very young, younger than he is now. 11-years-old, but smaller than a human 11-year-old. The cuffs look huge on him but are tightened enough his tiny paws can't slip out.
They're marching him through a place that is all rust and bolted metal.
He'd trying to hide that he's afraid. He half expects them to line him up against a wall and shoot him.
They finally reach a cell with forcefield walls. There's next to nothing inside: an uncomfortable bed in the middle of the room that looks hard as a rock, a bathroom setup that has no walls for privacy. For all intents and purposes he's being treated like an adult criminal.
They open a hole in the forcefield and uncuff the cuffs. He immediately lets out a loud yowl and springs at the nearest guard, trying to claw his eyes out with his claws. When the guard tries to pull him off, he bites his exposed hand hard enough to draw blood.
"Get him off! Get the little leech off!" the guard cries out.
One of the other guards manages to pull him off the other guard and strikes him hard enough it knocks him right off his feet. He falls inside the forcefield and the guard says, "Serves you right."
The guard hits some buttons and the hole in the forcefield disappears.
Little Cato pushes himself off the floor and goes to pound on the forcefield.
"My father is -"
"Your father is a traitor that should've chosen our glorious leader over a pathetic whelp like you."
"He's going to kill you," Little Cato says, blood dripping down his chin from both biting the guard and a split lip from being hit. "He's going to come save me and he'll kill anyone that gets in his way."
"He'll never find you," says the guard. "So get used to your swanky new accommodations."
He and the other guards laugh cruelly as they leave and Little Cato retreats to where the bed overhangs its base and shadows the floor. Tucked away under it, he wipes away the blood on his face with the back of his paw, draws up his legs, tail curling around them, and wraps his arms around his knees.
And then there is more. There is more of what he's tried to leave behind. There is a montage of similar moments, with him getting older throughout them. Making it obvious that they imprisoned him for years.
A few reiterations of sentiments like "My father is going to kill you -" or spirited attempts at attacking his jailors.
And then, always, blows no child should ever have to take, whether it's him getting thrown into a wall and nursing a hurt arm afterward, him getting backhanded, or having his tray of food smashed over his head, leaving him on the floor in a mess of broken glass and ceramic and nearly-inedible purple goop.
In the real world, he struggles to get back to his feet, and mutters to the monsters or whoever is doing this, "That's old news. You'll have to do better than that to keep me down."
It isn't like it didn't hurt at the time, but there was such a clear delineation between right and wrong, such clear evil on the part of the people that hurt him, that he's at least never come close to internalizing blame. They were evil. He was innocent. There is no ambiguity. And there is already a steadfast belief in his own strength, in the fact he's a survivor.
Because it's true. He is.
So the hurt isn't as strong as the hate. He still hates the Lord Commander with every fiber of his being.
cw: physical and verbal child abuse
They're marching him through a place that is all rust and bolted metal.
He'd trying to hide that he's afraid. He half expects them to line him up against a wall and shoot him.
They finally reach a cell with forcefield walls. There's next to nothing inside: an uncomfortable bed in the middle of the room that looks hard as a rock, a bathroom setup that has no walls for privacy. For all intents and purposes he's being treated like an adult criminal.
They open a hole in the forcefield and uncuff the cuffs. He immediately lets out a loud yowl and springs at the nearest guard, trying to claw his eyes out with his claws. When the guard tries to pull him off, he bites his exposed hand hard enough to draw blood.
"Get him off! Get the little leech off!" the guard cries out.
One of the other guards manages to pull him off the other guard and strikes him hard enough it knocks him right off his feet. He falls inside the forcefield and the guard says, "Serves you right."
The guard hits some buttons and the hole in the forcefield disappears.
Little Cato pushes himself off the floor and goes to pound on the forcefield.
"My father is -"
"Your father is a traitor that should've chosen our glorious leader over a pathetic whelp like you."
"He's going to kill you," Little Cato says, blood dripping down his chin from both biting the guard and a split lip from being hit. "He's going to come save me and he'll kill anyone that gets in his way."
"He'll never find you," says the guard. "So get used to your swanky new accommodations."
He and the other guards laugh cruelly as they leave and Little Cato retreats to where the bed overhangs its base and shadows the floor. Tucked away under it, he wipes away the blood on his face with the back of his paw, draws up his legs, tail curling around them, and wraps his arms around his knees.
And then there is more. There is more of what he's tried to leave behind. There is a montage of similar moments, with him getting older throughout them. Making it obvious that they imprisoned him for years.
A few reiterations of sentiments like "My father is going to kill you -" or spirited attempts at attacking his jailors.
And then, always, blows no child should ever have to take, whether it's him getting thrown into a wall and nursing a hurt arm afterward, him getting backhanded, or having his tray of food smashed over his head, leaving him on the floor in a mess of broken glass and ceramic and nearly-inedible purple goop.
In the real world, he struggles to get back to his feet, and mutters to the monsters or whoever is doing this, "That's old news. You'll have to do better than that to keep me down."
It isn't like it didn't hurt at the time, but there was such a clear delineation between right and wrong, such clear evil on the part of the people that hurt him, that he's at least never come close to internalizing blame. They were evil. He was innocent. There is no ambiguity. And there is already a steadfast belief in his own strength, in the fact he's a survivor.
Because it's true. He is.
So the hurt isn't as strong as the hate. He still hates the Lord Commander with every fiber of his being.