MORE THAN A CATBIRD HATES A CAT / whiplash

[+ JAMIE]

Cindersmoke slowed. Ahead: the marshes, in springtime glory. Bursts of foliage, white flowers. Smell less putrid than usual. Green carpets of grass and algae. Bright yellow marsh marigolds. Dragonflies on cattails. Redwing blackbirds clinging to tall reeds. A plop: a frog, sunning itself, gone at their approach. Left behind: a turtle, unbothered. The kind of tranquil scene no other Clans saw. Explanation for why RiverClan were happy to claim marshland as territory. For one season anyway.

Unfortunately for tranquility: Cindersmoke not so.

One unpleasant side-effect of not being sick. Intimate patrols with the other not-sick warriors. Nothing to complain about normally. Until there was.

Of all warriors, he had to get paired with Whiplash?

Their rivalry just that. Where did it come from? Mutual differences in perspective. Cider saw the world one way. Whiplash saw the world another way. The two ways did not coexist. Where did it go? Disgruntled patrols and impatience. Once Cindersmoke had not had any particular opinion about Whiplash. Then the warrior rescued him from the river. A promising start. If only Whiplash hadn't opened his big fat mouth and ruined it. A living breathing example: Shame about the personality.

Damn conservative argumentative turtle-headed pot-stirrer.

"Let's split up." Cindersmoke said to Whiplash. Easier to separate. Carry out their duties. Reconvene. No space for spats or disagreements. The work done. Everyone happy. Otherwise: a long day already. Would only be made longer. And Cindersmoke hadn't been sleeping well. "We have a lot to do. We can get it done faster if we separate." Hunting for the Clan. Re-mapping of the marshes for the Clan. Quick check along the border for the Clan. Nine warrior's worth of work, done by two. If they finished today it would be a miracle. Cider was not usually superstitious, but he put aside his qualms. Things were not promising though. First: Whiplash. Second: Late start. Mid-morning already.

Time slipping by.


DELAWARE

[DELAWARE]

There had to be better ways to spend his time, Whiplash reflected to himself as he trotted behind Cindersmoke, three fox-lengths back and pace deliberately slow, than going on patrol with a cat who hated him. Though Whiplash did not really think he had done anything to warrant such fervent dislike (it was hard to see your own faults when they were simply another part of you), especially considering he had even saved Cindersmoke's life at one point, he wasn't about to split hairs over the nuances and details of Cindersmoke's loathing. The other warrior didn't like him: that was that. Whiplash wouldn't contest it or try to change his mind, and he wouldn't try to tiptoe carefully around Cindersmoke's feelings, either, as if tiptoeing was even in his vocabulary at all. As far as strategies went, it had so far worked perfectly. Except for the occasional debriefing meeting and patrol after Cindersmoke returned from sun-drown place - no, the "ocean" - Whiplash had rarely overlapped with Cindersmoke's. Had not the sickness appeared, he would have probably gone on not-overlapping indefinitely. But it had, and over half of the RiverClan warriors were sick, and all the regular duties of springtime still had to be completed, and so... here they were. The two of them. In the marshes. Being cartographers.

The thing was, Whiplash admired Cindersmoke. Maybe not a lot, and sure, it had taken a while to develop, and yeah, maybe especially not a lot after the breakdown over the unfortunate mistake in the past, but that was the past - it had been a tragic accident that had cost the Clan two warriors, but Whiplash knew that couldn't have been changed. What he found truly offensive was that, in truth, the incident had cost the Clan three warriors, not just two. Cindersmoke's aptitude and ingenuity were not anything to be taken lightly; Whiplash, observant as he was of the things that had potential to make RiverClan better, had noticed it from the start. (Well, on those rare occasions where he pulled his head out of his ass, anyways.) That Cindersmoke refused to apply himself now, out of - what? Fear? Trauma? Guilt? All three? - Whiplash could not forgive him for. What Cindersmoke possessed was the potential to elevate RiverClan, to help it, something that was more important than ever considering the political climate the forest was in. That he wouldn't put it to good use was, for Whiplash, an ultimate act of selfishness. And Whiplash abhorred selfishness like he abhorred empty promises. Their encounter by the river, so long ago, had also not raised Whiplash's estimation that much; he still hadn't forgotten Cindersmoke's flippant advice that he should "relax." It fit into the laziness about Cindersmoke that Whiplash disapproved of. Relaxing never got things done. Then there was all that business about Cindersmoke rescuing him. Whiplash snorted at the mere memory of it. As if.

Up ahead, Cindersmoke had slowed; they had arrived at the marshes, the soft-loam, wet-bogged ground surprisingly beautiful in the full bloom of spring. A cabbage moth flitted past Whiplash's ear, the low hum of insects providing background music for the slow-moving water. The warrior drew up next to Cindersmoke and stopped, and for a second, only the sounds of the marsh and their own barely audible breathing filled the forest. Then Cindersmoke opened his mouth. Whiplash couldn't help himself as Cindersmoke began talking; he snorted, as much at the warrior's suggestion as at the clipped, brisk tones, clearly meant to limit conversational exchange between them as much as possible. Whatever - Cindersmoke could be as childish as he liked. Whiplash was here because there was a job to do, and regardless of personal feelings, he was going to be professional about it. "Splitting up is impossible for this task," he said, allowing a little irritation to enter his voice. It wouldn't hurt for Cindersmoke to get the message that Whiplash was onto him, and was just as uninterested in drawing out the experience as he was. "We have to provide the most accurate map of the marsh as possible, and we need at least two cats to corroborate, since a single memory might be faulty. But I am absolutely certain you know this." He fixed Cindersmoke with a frown of disapproval. "I didn't think I'd have to remind you of basic protocol, Cindersmoke." Or give not-so-subtle reminders to stop behaving like a damn fool.


[ ooc omfg THIS THREAD!!!! im so ready!!!! + JAMIE ]

[+ JAMIE]

Whiplash was right. Of course.

Curse him.

“No: no, I know.” Went for breezy. Unbothered. At least Whiplash sounded irritated. Small pleasure in getting under the warrior’s skin. But not as much as you would think: Whiplash got irritated so easily. Took the gratification out of it. A real mood-killer. “Guess I was just hoping to mitigate the amount of time I spent in your company.” Out before he thought it through. Well: Looked like honesty was going to be the theme today. Cider was surprised. Usually he just bulls**t.

Guess it showed how stressed he was. On the plus side: Whiplash deserved it. Could take it. Not like Stumblepaw. Cider was careful with Stumblepaw. No snapping there.

“Whatever. Let’s do this. What does basic protocol say about where we should start?” Sarcasm: Heavy. On every syllable. If words had expressions his would be rolling its eyes.

Honestly: In another world they might have been friends. Cindersmoke had a talent at getting along with others. The prickliest gave in to his friendliness. Charm. Charisma. Clear expectation that they would only be acquaintances: not even friends. (Cider found that usually helped. Lots of cats afraid of commitment. And Cider didn’t care for it.) Shallow relationships but the payoff was tolerable decency with everyone. Even ones grumpier than Whiplash.

But: Wasn’t grumpiness Cider objected to. Was the arrogance. The holier-than-thou attitude. The superiority. The way Whiplash walked around like he was the only one doing things right. What things? Didn’t matter. Everything! It was infuriating. Grated Cider’s patience to nothing. Like: Basic protocol? Seriously? Cindersmoke had gotten the exact same orders. Had been doing this just as long. And yet: Here was Whiplash. Inflexible and insufferable.

Cider couldn't stop himself pointing. A patch of boggy ground. Clearly unstable. Clearly ready to suck someone down. Maybe Whiplash would fall into it! Was he provoking? Yes. Probably a bad idea but when presented with inflexibility Cindersmoke had two reactions: Run away or push. And he couldn't run away. Said, sarcastically: "Wow, that looks like it could be a good place to start!"


DELAWARE

[DELAWARE]

The straightforward antagonism took Whiplash off-guard, despite himself; he knew Cindersmoke was tetchy, but he hadn't expected the warrior to be quite so forward in his displeasure. At the very least, Whiplash has thought that professionalism would out, if only for the sake of tolerance. Running a patrol with someone you were arguing with was a form of pure torture, and most mature warriors he knew put their differences aside when they had to work in such close quarters. Anything else was intolerable. Clearly, however, Cindersmoke had not gotten the memo. "If you want to make this worse for both of us, fine. Be impossible," he meowed irritatedly. "It's not going to make our job easier and it's not going to make the clock move faster. I'd ask you to do us both a favor and stop being an asshole, but that's your prerogative, and I don't care as long as we get the job done." He glanced at the boggy patch that Cindersmoke had indicated and sneered a little. "You investigate it, then." He knew he was devolving, rising to the provocation when the better move would be to take the high road, but Cindersmoke had always known how to get under his skin. It didn't help that he was stressed out himself, and more susceptible to needling. Professionalism was never fool-proof even under the best of circumstances, and if Cindersmoke continued to run his mouth, it'd be like suffering through a full performance and encore put on by a troop of jesters.

Rise above, Whiplash. Rise above. "It looks like that part of the marsh extends farther than it used to," he observed, changing tack and attempting to bring them back to the task at hand. He gestured at the scum of green duckweed that coated the ground, a sure sign of water beneath. Padding forward gingerly, he carefully tested each paw before he put his weight down. Every RiverClan cat had gotten stuck in a hole at some point, and the mere memory - though Whiplash's personal experience had been long ago, when he was an apprentice - left them all stricken with a case of extreme caution. In many cases it wasn't even the act of falling and getting stuck that did it; it was the sheer amount of time, and baths, it took afterwards to get clean again. You stunk like mud and rotten vegatation for ages. "This way's clear," he said, moving deeper into the marsh. The earth underneath him was spongy but solid - not quite as firm as Whiplash might have hoped, but a decent path nevertheless. "Let's mark it and keep going." Mapping out the entirety of the marshes was, at the end of the day, a near impossible task. What they could (and would) do was mark the paths they found, showing to any who followed the safest routes through the area and checking on old paths for durability. The marsh was a fantastic resource for supplies and prey alike, and was never quite utilized as much as it could be; in this sense, Whiplash knew, ShadowClan was far superior than RiverClan. What he and Cindersmoke were doing now, Whiplash hoped, would help narrow that gap.


[ ooc + JAMIE tbh I don't really have a clear goal abt their goals... maybe just map as many paths as they can? or head into the 'deep marsh' areas since most of rc is pretty good at navigating the edges/etc.? any ideas are welcome!! ]

[+ JAMIE]

“No need to put that stick farther up your ass. I’ll behave.” He followed behind Whiplash. Marked the path. Held it together for a few more feet. Then: “Sounds like I struck some nerves. Who knew you even had them.” OK. The rest was just messing around. No ill-intent. But this? This was goading. Shameless admittance. No attempt to hide it. Or stop it. Even though every word made their patrol more intolerable. Childishly: it was Whiplash’s fault. Could have just gone separate ways. But no. Protocol.

Cider was about to dunk all over his protocol.

“I won’t make our job easier. But I’ll be entertained." Phrased like it was all that mattered. Maybe it was. "Tell me. Were you born inflexible and work-obsessed? Or did it develop later?” If Cider cared to introspect: this was out of the ordinary. Stress. Frustration. Insomnia. Annoyance. Lots of easy excuses. Some we’ve already gone over. But beneath it: something else. Nothing to do with Whiplash. Everything to do with the way things were changing. The trip to Oceanside. Dissatisfaction Cider hadn’t figured out. Moral questions he couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t it be nice if everything was sunshine and rainbows? Hakuna matata? Ha. Not that he didn’t try. Pretending everything was fine? His middle name. But that was part of the problem. Pretending was harder than it looked.

The strain was wearing him down.

Solid ground to the left. Cider deviated. Followed it. Not as cautious as Whiplash: he walked quickly. Recklessly. Barely testing his weight. Jumped onto a log. Jumped off as it dipped into swamp. Strode forward another few steps. Shouted and leaped back: the ground had given way underneath him. Chest deep in muck before he got out. Cider swore loudly. Glared at the spot. Tried to bring his breathing under control. Angered by his own carelessness. The fact Whiplash would probably comment. Well. Could head one thing off. Curt tones. Snapped. "Don't say it."


DELAWARE Is W. seeing Arizona now? Would he be disappearing from camp?

[DELAWARE]

Whiplash breathed deeply through his nose, exhaled out his mouth, and counted to ten. He knew exactly what Cindersmoke was doing - many apprentices and warriors alike had tried their hand at goading Whiplash, with varying results - but this time, at least, he wasn't going to fall for the obvious bait. RiverClan might've been Whiplash's home, but he was no fish. Still, he wasn't above watching Cindersmoke fall into the swamp with more enjoyment than was strictly necessary. Smirking as the warrior rose out of the mud, fur slicked down with weeds and bog, he took a few deliberate steps, making a great show of testing the ground before he put his weight down. "What, that I told you so?" he retorted, not bothering to hide the smirk in his voice. "Looks like I'll be the one entertained, not you." Though annoying, the jibes about being inflexible and work-obsessed had ultimately bounced off. How much self-awareness was in Whiplash's wheelhouse was entirely questionable, but he didn't mind acknowledging his work ethic and adherence towards routine; both things, he felt, made him a better warrior, which in turn benefited the Clan. Certainly other cats had issues with his productivity, but seeing as very few of them were actually pulling their own weight (and Cindersmoke was one of the worst offenders in that regard), Whiplash felt that they didn't have much of a leg to stand on. Or any, really.

Not waiting to see how, or if, Cindersmoke was faring, Whiplash marked the point where the path deviated and then set off again. This time, he picked a route that closely followed a tangle of undergrowth extending deep into the marsh; though it wasn't a guarantee, the presence of such a thicket usually indicated solid ground that those bushes were growing on. Frogs hopped grumpily out of his way as he walked, their protuberant eyes staring at him balefully as they waited until last second to relinquish their spots on thin branches, but their presence - and the splashes of those he couldn't see - increased his confidence. Insects landed wherever they liked, but based on his experience with frogs and their amphibious ilk, they preferred to gather near patches of land, the option for a terrestrial or water-based getaway always available. Picking up his pace a little, Whiplash advanced further into the swamp, pausing every so often to scent-mark. Really, if he'd known it was going to be like this, he would have just volunteered to go alone. He didn't mind the work or the solitude, and Cindersmoke was a less than helpful companion, especially now that he was weighed down by drying mud and who knows what else. In fact, Whiplash was tempted to suggest that Cindersmoke head back on his own to go get cleaned up; if it weren't for the reality that marsh-mapping could be dangerous work to do solo, he probably would have.

Case in point - under his next step, the ground gave way, his paw sinking down with alarming rapidity. Peering at the ground below him, Whiplash could barely make out the slightest difference in color and texture of the algae that marked the sudden drop-off. If he hadn't been careful and paying attention... Withdrawing a fox-length, Whiplash marked the area repeatedly to indicate the end of solid ground. There was lump of earth a few feet away, which could have been an island, but this early into the journey Whiplash didn't want to take the risk. It would be easier to backtrack. That is, if Cindersmoke was willing to cooperate. Whiplash eyed the other warrior, who was now not only in the lead, but also blocking Whiplash from continuing. "The route ends here. We need to go back and find a new path," he said perfunctorily, though not - and Whiplash thought he deserved points for this, considering - entirely rudely. "Is this going to be easy or difficult?" Okay - well, it did leave a lot to be desired, but at least Whiplash hadn't accused Cindersmoke of purposeful obstruction directly. That would come later, depending on how the other tom answered (and to be honest, Whiplash's expectations were not all that high).


[ ooc yes he is! + JAMIE i think i see where you're going with this... whip's gonna be so mad omg ]

[+ JAMIE]

MATURE: LANGUAGE

Did Whiplash ever get vertigo from that moral high ground?

"Looks like I'll be the one entertained, not you."

Cindersmoke glowered. Said nothing. Plodded behind Whiplash, unenthusiastic. Whiplash taking point: expected. StarClan forbid anyone else was capable of leading. It was a constant confusion for Cider. Everything about Whiplash screamed anal. Ambitious. Deputy material. And yet the warrior seemed uninterested. Wasn’t power hungry. Might be louder than anyone else in a gathering, but lock stepped with authority when it mattered. Cider’s personal hypothesis: this is why Whiplash was tolerated. Respected. Liked even. He was an asshole. Undeniable. But he wasn’t a power-hungry asshole. There was honesty to his assholery.

It almost made Cindersmoke like him.

Whiplash stopped. Cider nearly ran into him. Backed up just in time. Sussed out the situation in a second. Was already turning towards a new path when Whiplash spoke. Paused.

”Is this going to be easy or difficult?”

The operative word: almost.

“Let’s find out.” Cindersmoke grinned cheekily. Made an exaggerated show of testing the ground for a new path, moving an inch at a time. Step, put out a paw, test. Step, put out a paw, test. Agonizingly slow. Agonizingly infuriating. Cider didn’t have to look at Whiplash to imagine the frustration. And he enjoyed every minute of it.

A new path found disappointingly fast. Cider started down it. Slowly. Testing every inch of ground. Well: Whiplash was the one to make the fuss about thoroughness. Was Cider being lackadaisical or careful? He smirked. “So Whiplash.” Tone wicked. Teasing. “Noticed you’ve been leaving the camp a lot lately. Pretty odd for someone like you to pull a vanishing act. What’re you hiding? A pretty lady love?”

He smirked at the ground beneath his paws. As if Whiplash would have a secret lover! He had a stick too far up his ass for that. Was too uncool. Too by-the-book. But he had been leaving lately. Cider wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been pointed out. Whiplash deviating from routine was remarkable. Sudden absences when he didn’t have duties? Remarked upon. The romantics gossiped forbidden love. The pragmatic hypothesized extra training. The fantasists speculated secret missions. Cindersmoke? Cindersmoke was praying for embarrassing digestive issues.

And God said: let there be hemorrhoids!

--

DELAWARE Took some liberties with W.’s disappearances. Can edit if needed.

[DELAWARE]

Difficult it was, then. Whiplash clenched his jaw in not-so-infinite patience as Cindersmoke made his way agonizingly, infuriatingly slowly back the way they had come, somehow finding the need to test every single paw step with exaggerated care. Knowing that he was doing it on purpose did not make it easier to sit through, though Whiplash, albeit with his temper beginning to fray around the edges, managed to say nothing. Someone had to take the high ground here, before this partnership - and patrol - became any more toxic than it already was. That being said, Whiplash's personality did not really lend itself to prolonged, level-headed tolerance when he was being so actively provoked. Cindersmoke was blatantly impeding their work. Whiplash could overlook almost everything except that. Everyone knew how seriously Whiplash took his duties, his identity more work than life at times, his pride in his competence unspoken but obvious (and, to be fair, warranted). Whether or not others shared his sentiment - or toxic mindset, depending on who you were talking to - was less of his concern, as long as they stayed in their lane and out of his way, but at this point it was no secret that if you were working with Whiplash, you buckled up and pulled it together and did your absolute, hard-working best. For these brief moments of collaboration, Whiplash expected the same from others as he did from himself. And Cindersmoke - well, let's just say that if Whiplash's expectations were a high jump, Cindersmoke had taken a shovel and started tunneling.

The relief Whiplash felt when Cindersmoke quickly found the new path vaporized in an instant, along with the last little bit of his patience, as the other warrior started down it at the same impossibly slow pace before Whiplash could take the lead. Irritated, verging on fully angry, Whiplash contemplated what would be the most effective way to get past Cindersmoke. Box him in the rear, perhaps? Push him into the marsh? Whiplash eyed the ground that they were inching past; on either side of the path, it fell off into a spread of lurid, virulent-looking green algae. No can do, then. Who knows how many feet of water and mud lurked under there, and all things considered, Whiplash had not yet been pushed to a limit where attempted murder was a reasonable solution. Perhaps he could jump over Cindersmoke; he normally wouldn't take the risk, but even he could see that the path was stable ahead of them, even opening up into a small, fern-fringed clearing up ahead. Backing up a little, Whiplash tensed his muscles, took a few quick steps, and leaped into the air - just as Cindersmoke's words, gleeful and unsuspecting and infamous, rang out around them.

Whiplash botched his landing. He missed Cindersmoke's head by a centimeter, throwing all his weight forward and falling, half on his chest, to avoid braining the warrior. As it was, Cindersmoke wasn't left entirely unscathed; Whiplash felt his tail smack hard against the tom's muzzle, but it registered only distantly, the way a raindrop falling between his ears might. Cindersmoke had noticed he'd been leaving camp, he knew about Arizona - and Whiplash whirled around, furious and shocked and utterly exposed, raising one paw - to silence, to strike, to what, he wasn't sure. His paler eyes locked on Cindersmoke's apple green ones, the latter still bright with mirth. Whiplash's paw froze in mid-air, rationality catching up with reflex, and the full enormity of Cindersmoke's words leached into him. A guess - it had been a fucking guess, a joke, an observation and a hypothesis that Cindersmoke had offered because it was the cliche one, the least likely one, the least Whiplash-esque one, one meant to get under his skin and undermine him and nothing else, and instead of realizing that, instead of taking a single moment to think it through and play it cool, Whiplash had not only validated it as a possibility - he had confirmed it as true.

Cursing softly, at himself or Cindersmoke - it was hard to tell - Whiplash lowered his paw. He glared daggers at Cindersmoke, but there was another emotion hiding behind it, too, not quite as hidden as he might have liked. "The clearing," Whiplash said venomously, and jerked around. Not bothering to be careful with where he stepped - the current situation driving all thoughts of their duty out of his mind - Whiplash strode towards the tiny space in the marsh that he had spotted earlier, mind buzzing with an odd mix of blankness and frantic planning. He'd certainly considered that he and Arizona would be discovered, even counted on it as an inevitable eventuality, but he'd only imagined it happening once he'd retired to be an elder and a relationship with a rogue posed no threat to his role as a warrior. Having it revealed now - when he was only 53, in his prime, the forest unstable around them, RiverClan in need of strength more than ever - would be a strike to his status that might prove fatal, and he couldn't run the risk. He loved Arizona, but he also loved RiverClan, and he was lucky that she understood - that she felt the same about her responsibilities to her House. It was quite romantic, in its own way, though if you'd told a younger Whiplash that he would have scoffed (no codependent self-sacrifice? No melodrama? Then how could it possibly be love!). But there was nothing romantic about this. He felt like he'd been stung by some great scorpion of dread, of anger, of fear. Depending on what Cindersmoke said, Whiplash's time as a RiverClan warrior might be counting down minutes, not years.

He went to the far side of the clearing and took a seat, waiting for Cindersmoke to appear, hoping that the other warrior would recognize the distance Whiplash wanted to put between them and respect it. Whiplash couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't follow through on the aborted strike from earlier, particularly if Cindersmoke kept up the attitude of earlier - and in that regard, Whiplash had no faith in the other warrior whatsoever. Cindersmoke had offered the apple and Whiplash had bitten; it was in effect the same as giving the provoking tom his life, his secrets, and his future, gift-wrapped. Everything Whiplash had worked for - he cut off the thought, almost trembling from the emotion of it, and tried to refocus on the present moment. What would Cindersmoke do? What would - could - Whiplash say? He waited, and as soon as Cider pushed past the bushes and into the clearing, he was rising to his paws, agitation manifesting as flat, controlled fury. "Who else knows?" he demanded, the words, built up, exploding out of him, and if his eyes were a little wild, well then - who could blame him.


[ ooc + JAMIE !!!!!!! omg omg omg [:ripples:] for az mention! this is for the oct prompt poison; not only is it reflected in the environment around them (which could literally kill them if they mis-step), it's also in cider/whip's current relationship and the patrol that they're carrying out (whiplash even considering pushing him into the marsh). then, of course, it's also reflected in the fact that the revelation about az could end whiplash's career as a warrior, depending on what cindersmoke does. in fact you could probably just read this as one long metaphor about whiplash getting poisoned tbh, with - so far - no antidote in sight. but i feel it's appropriate, because if this news gets out it will be life and identity-ending for not just whiplash, but also all the riverclanners who think they know him (traditional, by the book, etc.) ]

[+ JAMIE]

MATURE: Profanity.


Fuck Cindersmoke sideways.

He was right.

He’s been joking. Boring straight-laced Whiplash and a non-Clan lover. Ha ha. The jokes write themselves. In fact: Cider had one lined up. Indecent. About a stick. Ready to be fired off. Mindless. Graceless. Shameless. Very nearly was: truthfully Cindersmoke was intending on ignoring anything Whiplash said.

But instead Whiplash had stumbled. Turned on him. Nearly hit him. Froze.

That expression.

It said it all.

The revelation was dazzling. Dazing. Unmooring. Everything he thought he knew: twisting. Arranging themselves a foot to the left. Disorienting. What happened? What was happening? Paws trailing in Whiplash’s wake. Like walking in a dream. Stench of the marsh fading. Sounds of the frogs and birds and insects, white noise. Slush of cold mud beneath his toes: not registering.

Whiplash was breaking the warrior code? Whiplash was breaking the warrior code. Wait: maybe his lover was RiverClan. A secret lover could still be RiverClan. (As if.) (No! He had to consider it.) (LOL.) Fine: no way the lover was RiverClan. Unless it was a tom? No. Painfully heterosexual: Whiplash the poster child. Call it Cider’s instinct. And open-mindedness. And once a passing interest. Milder than chamomile. But there.

OK: forbidden love. Whiplash! Initial shock turning into impish delight. Smug sense of power. Whiplash! What a massive hypocrite! Was there a medal for this? Exposed Whiplash as a fraud. He’d tack it over his nest. Full display in the warrior’s den. Sweet vindication. Sweet glory. Admiration too: who knew Whiplash had it in him? As one fraud to another: Cider had to respect his bare-faced charlatanry. He’d fooled everyone in the Clan. Curiosity: who was this she-cat, to make Whiplash break the rules? Cider wanted to meet her. Had a feeling they’d get along.

God. The faces of the Clan. If they knew!

The clearing reached. The bubble bursting: audible. Popped by the force of Whiplash’s fury. Cindersmoke on the defensive immediately. Anger reactive. Responsive. A little scared: Whiplash on the verge of unhinging. A new sight. One Cider would have reveled in. If he wasn’t so rattled by it. “Nobody!” Too defensive. Too quick. Too suspicious. Tried to calm down, stay cool. “Nobody. I swear it. I was just messing with you. I doubt anyone has even noticed your absence.” Pacification. 100%. Cider had no idea. “Look. I’m not going to tell anyone.” If he had hands they would be up. As it was: Cindersmoke tried to look submissive. Calming. Earnest. Trustworthy.

Not a threat.

Previous interactions aside: he suddenly had no desire to fight Whiplash.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

That is: ‘me’ being the poster child for reckless endangerment. Because:

“Though I can’t say I won’t enjoy having something to hold over you.” Smirk. A joke full of truth. What did Cindersmoke dislike most about Whiplash? Third post from the top: the arrogance. The superiority. The holier-than-thou attitude. But this opposed all that. Took the sting out. Made Whiplash normal. Endearing. Reassuring. Not always right. Not better than Cindersmoke.

At least that was how it was meant. I’m glad you’re mortal after all.

But Cider knew what it sounded like as soon as he said it.

A mistake.

A threat.


DELAWARE

[DELAWARE]

He hit Cindersmoke like a train. He didn't bother to use a technique, to feint around, to fall into fighting stances or think about strategies. Whiplash simply attacked, the threat of blackmail sending something close to panic rocketing through his veins. The force of his body weight sent them both tumbling, Whiplash's velocity carrying him head-over-heels past the downed Cindersmoke and dangerously close to the clearing's edge, but he dug his claws into the soft earth and slid to a halt before he could tumble into the marsh beyond. He was up and whirling in a moment, teeth bared, mud streaked across his fur, and then he was on Cindersmoke again, unleashing a barrage of blows that - though instinctual - were still honed by years of training. It was the latter, too, that kept his claws sheathed; not even fear could override Whiplash's iron-like adherence to the simple tenant: thou shalt not maim your fellow Clan members.

But that tenant did not extend to good old-fashioned bludgeoning. Whiplash could feel the bruises forming as Cindersmoke fought back, could hear, distantly, his own sharp pants of exertion as he did his best to wrestle the other warrior down. Whiplash was stronger, probably in better shape and a better fighter besides, but he was not at an advantage; the ground was too yielding for him to find true support, the buzzing in his mind too loud to allow for the calm clarity and control he usually had when fighting. That Cindersmoke had told nobody, that Whiplash's secret was safe with him - if Whiplash had not been so angry, he would have laughed at the absurdity. As if this flippant, selfish warrior, who already loathed him, would be able to risk the temptation of Whiplash's soul served up on a platter to be picked over by crows! Whiplash might have admired Cindersmoke's potential, respected his ability to improve the Clan; but it was only potential. Time and time again, Cindersmoke had never shown himself able to rise to the challenge, to escape the prison of low standards he had built around himself. Why now, the reasoning part of Whiplash's mind whispered, should it be any different?

He reared back suddenly, just enough to make some space between them, but it was a build-up, not a reprieve. Dropping down, head low, Whiplash bulldozed forward, aiming to catch Cindersmoke with all the brunt force of his shoulders, his body tense in the anticipation of a powerful twist that would send the other warrior slamming directly into the ground.


[ ooc + JAMIE lol sorry whiplash has never really had to confront "losing" riverclan aka his whole life before and uhhhhhhhhh he's not taking it well ]