Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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Ratsneer padded away from NightClan's camp, tail sweeping low to the ground as he lifted his mouth to scent the air. It seemed a quiet night tonight, aside from the faint sounds of wildlife and wind blowing through the trees. No trial, no battles, no unexpected guests, no chance to prove his loyalty or indulge in his sick fantasies. It left an echoing chasm in his mind that allowed all the avoided thoughts to sing.
He scoffed at himself and stomped on, ears slowly swiveling down as his normal scowl took over, right on time.
It sounded like Kier's voice — but off. And then it was giggling — not like Kier giggled, but loud, delighted giggling. Brat, now an apprentice and no longer one of NightClan's only princesses with the arrival of her half-siblings that outranked her, bounced around a bank of ferns and chased after the Executioner. She had never been afraid of frightening, violent cats — they were just the monsters that had been around her as she grew up, villainous henchmen to her father and little more than unwilling babysitters for her. "I'm getting better, aren't I?" she greeted as she fell in beside him, beaming up at him. "My dad's still way better but then, he would be, wouldn't he? But I can kind of do his voice, and I've even started working on yours. I won't show you — it'll be a surprise for your next birthday — but it's getting really good. My baby siblings love it. Well, as much as kits can love it when they're blind and deaf and stupid." She gave a laugh that was slightly strained, like she wasn't as happy about her replacements that had stolen all her dad's attention and affection as she pretended to be. They got a proper mother who loved them, and she just got another pseudo-stepmother that was barely older than she was. "So, what's up, Ratsneer?" She was still smiling up at him, padding along at his side; she was getting taller, but she was still half his size. She likely wouldn't grow much more, what with her parents' short genes. "Anything cool happen lately?"
He had to admit, at first, he thought it was Kier calling him. A rush of excitement and fear coursed through him in a matter of seconds before he realized it wasn't him at all. A reflexive growl bubbled in his throat as he tried to lengthen his stride and leave her behind, but he soon realized she was much like a bothersome fly that just wouldn't go away. The tom had to admit to himself though, she had secretly piqued his interest about her mimicking his voice - not that he would ever admit it to her. "I'm hunting." He hissed in response, glancing at her pointedly as if to say her loud mouth had probably already scared away anything in the vicinity. He briefly considered her next question before realizing nothing cool had happened lately. The young warrior had to admit he enjoyed senseless violence far more than the boring cycle of waking up, hunting, patrolling, and sleeping.
"No. I've sharpened my claws to a point to kill nothing but mice. It's disappointing. Maybe you could get Kier to start a war with another clan or something." It was his sorry attempt at humor, though there was certainly truth to it. He was dying to terrorize someone.
I’m hunting. “Oh! I could help with that — I can, like, keep score. Mice, ten, Ratsneer, zero.” She laughed massively at her own joke, delighted. She was still padding alongside him, taking three steps for every one of his. Then she looked up at him, like he was being stupid. “Why don’t you go to the prisons, then? Eris is always going down there to whale on my aunt — my dad might get, like, weird about you joining in, but you could totally go after someone else. That’s what they’re there for, right? If you can’t execute someone, you can totally terrorise the prisoners.” It might have been disconcerting to hear a young apprentice talking about torture with such cheery casualness, but that was just how Brat had been raised. Take her out of NightClan and show her the usual life of a kit, she might realise she’d been raised in a terror cult and grieve for her lost childhood; as it was, bloodying up prisoners was as normal and happy a daily routine as breakfast. Morality was a strange thing when being kind in NightClan still amounted to villainy anywhere else; the scales were all off.
“Anyway, I’m sure there’ll be a war at some point. We have that Nemesis’ kits — who are all way uglier than Druzyprince, by the way. Like, how are they his sisters?” She waved a hurried paw in the air and squeezed her eyes shut, like she was saying doesn’t matter. “They’ll totally come to get them back soon, and then my dad will retaliate, and then they’ll retaliate,” she tossed her head heavily from side to side as she said it, like she was bored by the predictability of their egos, “and eventually it’ll all mush up into all-out war.” She looked up at him again with a wide smile. “Then you’ll get to kill all the people you want!” She was like a kit advisor-slash-therapist to a Clan full of psychopaths, and her schedule was booked.
The tom wanted to tell her that keeping score would be nothing but obnoxious but quickly decided against it - it would only promote more word vomit from the chatty cat. He cursed his bad luck, it seemed he always drew attention no matter how off putting he tried to be. He was quickly drawn in by her words, however, when she began talking about terrorizing prisoners. Being somewhat short-witted, the executioner had never had that thought occur to him, and a sickly smile tugged at his lips. "That's a good idea actually. Sounds a lot more fun than hunting. Hey, you could commentate while I brutalize them. It would make it funnier."
Ratsneer began to realize what value Brat could really hold for him, information wise. She knew all sorts of things, for all sorts of reasons, and buddying up with her might be a smart thing to do. The cobwebs began to fall away from the cogs in his head as they slowly creaked forward. "I guess you're right. Maybe I should just be patient. All this just gets boring." His voice fell into a grumpy growl, and he realized he'd stopped in his tracks long ago, no longer motivated to waste his time on food.
Hey, you could commentate while I brutalize them. Brat gave a kind of one-sided, sneering smile that was pure unenthusiasm and disgust, brow all pinched — not because it was immoral, but because she didn’t want to spend her night like that. “Yeah,” she agreed half-heartedly, giving a laugh that was like something you’d give a serial killer to stop them killing you. “Sounds great.” But, she gathered herself. She was a fantastic sports commentator — she’d spent half her kithood amusing her siblings in their lonely den by announcing races between bugs they found on the floor. She had a great, booming voice she’d honed for it; she could find herself a spot up high in the prisons and lounge about and throw herself back and forth enthusiastically and talk about everything Ratsneer did in real-time — and what she’d learned from her kithood was that if she faked joy enough, soon it became real. “Let’s do it, my psychopathic buddy.”
I guess you’re right. She shrugged, pulling the corners of her mouth down in a mob boss-ish expression of acceptance, eyes closing and head tilting to the side. “I’m always right.” As he went on, her eyes opened and she trotted along beside him until he stopped. “Listen, Ratsneer, I hate to say this, mostly ‘cuz we’re out alone in the woods and you could kill me — but this,” she gestured around to NightClan, “isn’t boring. You’re boring.” She let the statement drop. “You’re always so grumpy. You gotta live a little! Lighten up! I grew up in a tiny, secluded cave — a cave inside a cave. You think I complained? No!” Now she sounded like a life coach. “You’re not havin’ fun? Make fun, man! You wanna torture prisoners? You torture those prisoners!” She gave him an encouraging slap on the shoulder; he was so solid and she so lithe that she almost threw herself backwards with the force of the impact, while he didn’t budge a muscle. She shook her aching paw. “The night sky’s the limit, Ratsneer! Now.” She leaned in closer, reaching up to press her cheek to his and straining her eyes to the side to look at him, a grin spreading across her face. If this were a cartoon, she would have slowly appeared from off-screen. “You wanna go torture the prisoners?” She sounded like a mother asking a child condescendingly if he wanted to go play on the monkey bars — or just like a trickster signing a deal with an idiot.
To big, dumb Ratsneer, the simple agreement from Brat meant to him that she was all game for some sadistic torture livestreams. He had a hard time imagining that someone else wouldn't find torturing prisoners and then joking about it fun. Therefore he perked up considerably at her agreement and felt a little smirk form, though it wavered quite a bit when she called him buddy. The poor angry bastard had a hard time with "friends" and the awkwardness he felt about it did nothing more than bring a small flame of anger into his belly. He pushed it down and simply said, "Great." With a forced smile that looked scarier than any threatening words he could ever muster.
It would be an understatement to say this was one of the longest conversations he'd had in a long time, and consequently he didn't quite know how to react to Brat's supposed to be uplifting speech. He was being bombarded with so many words at once the fact that she'd called him boring slipped right by. The overall kindness he was receiving felt alien to him and it almost made him physically recoil. As she tattered on he racked his brain with responses, but mostly ended up with "erms" and "uh...yeah"s. At the end of her speech, though, he was feeling energetic and even more ready to torture prisoners than he ever had. "Uh..... yeah! Let's do it!" Ratsneer grinned a genuine grin, face swiveling to look at her. "You're pretty good at that. I think you'd be a good general." It all kind of fell out before he had the chance to decide to absolutely not say that, but instead of retreating into himself as usual, he decided to let it go. It was a great night, after all.
"Awwww." Brat gave his shoulder a little nudge with her forepaw, touching her cheek to her own shoulder and giving him a mousy little grin. "Shucks, Ratsneer. You old softie." Truthfully, she could think of few things worse than being a general; she'd seen how her father had moulded her sister into a militaristic, marching soldier and felt every day like she'd narrowly escaped a similar fate. Being the family disappointment was a kinder fate than being the favourite with the responsibility of the world heaped on them, joined eventually by Kier's resentment; things on pedestals never lived up to the idea of them. But, really, since the birth of her half-siblings, she almost wished she had that path laid out for her in life. Then at least people would pay attention to her.
Turning back towards the way they had come, she hopped along, expecting the warrior to follow without looking back at him. That was always the funny thing about Ratsneer: he seemed so dominant, so brutish and frightening — and then a waif could come along with some semblance of confident authority and he'd fall in line like a big, stupid dog. That predicability made Brat like him more than she liked many of her father's other cronies — she could handle Ratsneer. He might follow through on an order to kill her, but that 1% doubt was reassuring — he might be conflicted enough to falter. She liked that. She liked the odd hint of heart through all the idiotic muscle and teeth. Then again, he might just kill her; but she didn't hold that against him — anyone in NightClan would kill her! That certainty was like a comforting bedtime story. Any of her babysitters could turn around and murder her. What a thrilling sense of normality. As she skipped back through the dripping ferns towards camp and the prisons, she again turned her interview back to Ratsneer. "Ratsneer," she began, voice cheery, "have you ever thought about kits? What sort of father do you think you would be, Ratsneer?" There was something she found so funny about saying his name over and over, mostly because he was too stupid to realise she was mocking him. "Ratsneer. Would you hope one of your kits would end up like me?" She turned her head to smile up at him, bright and beaming.
At the entrance to camp, she waltzed straight past the guards and down the slope. And at the entrance to the prisons, it was the same thing — she walked straight in, the guards having learned that Brat held just enough status that it was advisable to just let her through. "Sneakysnap, Speedyraptor," she greeted the guards sitting on either side of the entrance. "How'd you two get stuck on guard duty?" She stopped to wrinkle her nose up at them, looking between the warrior and the Royal Guard. They both looked as miserable to be there as she suggested; Sneakysnap curled her lips back into a silent growl, glaring down at her, and Speedyraptor just sighed like a dog put out in the rain. Finally, Brat shrugged. "Ah, well. Have fun!" She passed them by. Sneakysnap watched Ratsneer pass, gaze lingering and snarl fading, but said nothing. "Hello, prisoners!" Brat called. The prisons were gloomy and low-roofed; a long earthen corridor ran ahead, with small, dark caves dotted along the sides at uneven intervals. Some prisoners were held together; others, mainly the important ones like Kate, were held alone in isolation. It was cold and damp. She looked up at Ratsneer with a happy, companionable smile. She was far more aware of the ways of the world than many cats her age; trauma tended to do that. "What a great educational experience for my young mind, huh, Ratsneer?"
You old softie. It seemed in an instant the carefree air that had seeped from his sour cracks had retreated with the words. He had to admit to himself that being so grumpy and uptight all the time was exhausting, but it seemed that was just a part of who he was. Ratsneer made sure to let some space between them and kept his distance as they began to head to the prisoners; not like Brat was growing on him or anything. Her cheery attitude seemed to be infectious.
It was quite odd. The twisted, solitary grump was so in tune with following orders that he began following Brat without a thought. If there were any more substance in that big head of his, he wouldn't follow so blindly and, honestly, embarrassingly. Brains just weren't in his makeup. When she began to ask him questions, his usual rumbling growl was present, though it was only half real. In honesty he was a bit interested in hearing the mile-a-minute craziness that seemed to erupt from the small she-cat like a volcano, and he shortened the space between them a bit. Once he heard what she was asking his interest was completely lost. "Kits?" He hissed, ears folded back as he responded, "I don't want anything to do with kits. Obnoxious needy things." The very word left a sour taste in his mouth. He decided to disregard her other questions.
It was a big surprise to see Sneakysnap guarding the entrance, and he avoided eye contact with her for a brief moment, realizing he probably looked ridiculous following Brat into the prisons, trailing behind her like a lost dog. In an instant he drew himself up, chin high as he looked at her, perhaps the smallest hint of a smirk pulling at his mouth. He wanted to invite her to the fun, knowing she would enjoy taking part in the sadism, but held himself back. Instead he looked away and proceeded into the prison. As they entered, he looked around at the sorry excuses for life before him, and a full-bodied smirk finally graced his sour mug. It seemed all Ratsneer needed was a brief torture session to reset his bases, and he was already beginning to feel better. "It really is," The Executioner responded half heartedly, far too distracted by the opportunities before him. "Well, where should we start?"
