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Stewart grunted as the blows hit their mark. She felt the anger and power in each hit. It was something she couldn’t match. Hopper irritated her, yes, but not with the same rage. Slivering and dodging, Stewart started to breathe heavily.

So she hid behind words. A trick she had used since her childhood. She could never match the physical strength of the ranchhands. “Does this please you Hopper? Are you satisfied with causing fleeting physical pain? For what? A boy who means nothing to you? Who cares nothing for you? Think clearly.”

She paused for barely a second. “Actually, yea. I’m having a lot of fun.” Now was her turn to smirk. Stewart was a monster, sure. But she was weak. Spent all her time having others do her dirty work. But Anthea knew how to fight, how to survive.

A boy who means nothing to you? Oh no way in hell was this bitch talking her way out of this. All it did was feed Anthea’s rage. Her fist shot out again– Stewart tried to counter, clawing at her arm again. Red fingernails dug deep into her wrists. But Anthea pushed past it, knuckles crunching solidly against Stewart’s cheek, her eye socket. 

The pain shot up her arm– dumb move, hitting Stewart in the face. She knew that, from training with Phoenic, from fights as a kid. She was older now. Couldn’t risk fucking up her hand like that. But it was so satisfying, seeing the other woman gently run her fingers on her cheek, inspecting the damage. The small grunt of pain, the blood welling up under the skin, her eye turning pink. Oh, it was a beautiful moment. Anthea would savor this long after they tossed her back in her cell.

“Stop talking, geeze, you chatty little cunt. Come on, fight back!” Anthea was such a mixture of emotions right now– anger, rage. Giddiness. Violence. An outlet for her stress. A dumb idea that would obviously get her punished. But for now, she was having so much fun. It was so, so satisfying, seeing her enemy reduced to basically cowering in a corner and trying to beg.

She was shouting now, less snark and more enraged. “Hit me, damnit! You fucked up my son, and you can’t even take a few hits yourself?” Goddamn coward, that’s what she was. A disgrace to everything that she had previously represented– a monster, a torturer, a manipulator, an abuser.

She wasn’t so fearsome anymore. She was human. She bled. She was afraid. She bled. She grunted in pain. She bruised. She bled.

Even if Anthea lost this fight, it still proved the Stewart was mortal. 

Even if Anthea lost this fight, she would leave with plenty of hope.

The woman wasn’t too unlike a horse. She moved at random, mixing her end goal with her strategy. To inflict pain without a purpose. Stewart hummed to herself, a tune she once used to comfort the child recruits before the light left their eyes. Yes, her son had heard the melody on several occasions. A fitting requiem for the meddlesome mother as well. Though the faces and shapes changed, one thing always remained the same.

Everything could be broken.

Then the stars hit. She blinked as a wildfire of pain burned over the left half of her face. How very much like a horse. Brazen and spooked. Stewart grit her teeth as her vision returned to her. Hopper was growing into a greater nuisance than the mere fly she had taken her for. The pain dwindled, though she knew it would only return later with greater force. The punishment for this little interaction would be great indeed. Perhaps another viewing of the boy’s instruction--no, participation. They both needed to learn. Hopper bucked and taunted as Stewart waited for her opportunity. She never had been in a fight before and she couldn’t understand either of her prisoner’s fascination with the activity. Vulgar and unrefined. She would play, the swelling under her eye left her no choice, but by her rules. 

“Are you familiar with the term longeing, dear?” She sniffed as blood dripped from her nose. The corner of her mouth twitched before returning to its upturned smile. Her knee jabbed at the soft of her opponent’s stomach. Both hands pushed to twist her away as Stewart ducked out of the corner. Securing a handful on matted pink hair, Stewart sent the woman’s face into the wall. Just as quickly though, she folded her hands, removing herself from offensive combat. “Longeing refers to, of course, working a horse in an arena to show leadership and dominance.” 

I don't care how wrong it is I've got your intentions And I just can't hide it anymore I made my decision