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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The view from the treetops was quite nice, Buttercuphop mused from his place on the branch of a beech tree, hidden between the leaves and peering over the edge, towards the ground below. Being the only Trapper Summerclan currently had, he'd been working twice as hard as usual — even though nobody had told him too, the recent visit from Nightclan had left him on edge, and he had been designing and setting up as many traps as possible. Alone. He couldn't complain, though, he was great company, and if he was only talking to himself, there would never be any disagreements. It was just him, his thoughts, and his own handiwork. Sometimes, he was able to drag his brother, Daisyspots, along, and other times he was resigned loneliness — well, perhaps not loneliness, because that was too strong a word for something so trivial. Buttercuphop wasn't lonely, he was just alone. That was something that hardly bothered him at all.
He wasn't actually sure what he was waiting for. An animal, perhaps, to test the trap for him, a bird or a rabbit, though if someone more cat-like happened to stumble across it, he wouldn't complain. The tripwire he had set was low and thin, twisting and stretching until it ended curled around the very tip of a drawn branch.
Waiting for so long, crouched still and stiff, made his muscles hurt and ache, and just when he was finally about to give up and stretch them out, head home and decide to reset it tomorrow, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, the flash of a multicoloured pelt. He didn't have time to register who it was who had crossed the tripwire moments later.
THWACK.
The branch, thick and strong and drawn like a bow, was released upon impact — for the shorter sort, it would have hit their face; for the taller sort, it would have hit their neck; for either, it would have disorientated them enough to be dealt with (mostly) peacefully. Buttercuphop let out a cheer, already shimmying down the trunk of the beech and skidding to a halt in front of his victim — well, he wouldn't call them a victim, test subject, was more accurate. He was sure they'd understand. Catching sight of them, his smile fell, he faltered, and a look of horror crossed his features.
"Doefreckle —" his voice came out a high-pitched, strained sound, caught by surprise, "I am. . . so sorry. That wasn't meant for you — that wasn't meant for anyone, actually! Just a test, see," he shuffled closer, blinking curiously, "did it work, by the way? I mean, never mind — are you alright?"
Doe was too stunned to respond. It was the kind of split-second, unexpected pain that took you a few seconds to actually register — because there had been nothing, just a peaceful day out in the meadow, and then suddenly he was attacked by a branch? He blinked, frozen in place, his broken forepaw still raised — and then the pain began to sink in. His face was stinging from the impact. As Buttercuphop came rushing over with his questions, he took a shaky seat. “O-oow?” Doe said laughingly, and it sounded like a question — a please, give me the reason for this, tell me why this was necessary before I rip your ears off and put them on my daughter’s doll question, a question tinged with disconcerting not-humour. And then he began to cry, quite against his will — because, OH, SO-RRY, what was he meant to do when his face had just been brutalised? Not blubbering, not real crying — the kind of crying where your eyes streamed and you were really more caught off guard and startled than anything. And his nose was bleeding.
“Owwwwww,” he laughed again, voice shaky and thick as he touched a paw to his nose and saw the blood on the white splotches. “Buttercuphop,” he groaned his name like a scolding admonishment. “You of all cats should know how precious my face is to me.” He said it half as a joke, half because he really was about to strangle him and if he hadn’t had a broken paw, maybe he should have started running — no, really. The kind of laughter that was uncomfortable because it was that bit too jokey serious. “Your mother didn’t fall in love with me just for my sparkling personality.” That was a joke, one Beetuft would have shoved him for. There had never been love like that between them. But his quiet grief over her death had faded into Doe’s usual coping mechanism — a rather harsh, irreverent sense of humour in which the dead and gone became punchlines. It was gentle, though; even as he sat there with his paw pressed to his bleeding nose and his head tipped back and his face stinging and red in lashed streaks, the way he spoke to his old friend’s son was with a certain protective, sheltering forgiveness, like he could do no wrong no matter how much chaos he wreaked, like he’d made a promise long ago, even if he’d hardly spoken to the tom, to watch over him from a distance and make sure he was safe. It was the least of what he owed his mother.
As Buttercup shuffled closer, Doe watched him over the bridge of his nose, head still tipped back. “Mm-hmm,” he hummed sceptically, sounding more annoyed now, more ya think? But he wasn’t; he just knew Buttercuphop didn’t feel at all bad about this and so his annoyance was that of someone already catching onto that. An indulgent family friend, or an uncle. “Yes, it certainly worked.” His voice was slightly nasally and muffled; blood slipped past his paw and dripped onto his white chest fur. He let out a mournful groan; he loved his snowy white chest. “I’m fine, I’ll just—“ He felt around behind him with his good paw, using it to ease himself down onto his back. The sky was blue and warm, spotted with clouds; they swirled slightly and he realised he was dizzy. Really dizzy actually — would have to be checked for a concussion by Sunveins or Cypresspaw dizzy. “Lie here for a sec. Let my BLEEDING NOSE,” he jerked his head up slightly to aim the words pointedly at Buttercuphop, and then settled back down, “stop siphoning my brains out. What the hell were you even doing?”
He hovered around Doefreckle like an apprehensive bumblebee, torn between abject horror at what he'd done and a self-fulfilled glee that it had worked in the first place. His paws shuffled from where he leaned towards the tom, eyeing him, too unsure if he should move to help or not, and so he remained a hovering presence instead. Buttercuphop. He gave a smile, one tense around the edges, and stepped back, "again, my bad," his words were near flippant, nonchalant, as if Doefreckle's wrath wasn't something to truly fear — it was, most cats knew that, knew of the venom he held just beneath his sweet, soft exterior, but it was still only the surface stuff, the judgment he so easily passed on, the vain attitude, not the things beneath that.
Your mother didn’t fall in love with me just for my sparkling personality. Buttercuphop laughed, "oh, I'm well aware." He knew Doefreckle wasn't serious; he could recall all the times she had mentioned him, how he was a good friend, kind and fun, how he worried about his future kits, Buttercuphop's new little siblings (he'd been overjoyed, but after her death he struggled to be around them, choked by grief at the sight before he pushed it down, set on telling them fun stories of his own life with her, even though he felt guilt at having it as compared to them). Neither of them loved each other like that, it was clear, but they had a friendship that was dear. He hadn't gotten to know Doe before his passing, but he felt his mother's grief over it, even though she covered it the same way Doe did now, the same was Buttercuphop did, too. Humour, good memories, overlooking it.
Yes, it certainly worked. He gave a joyful look before he had the sense to wipe it off his face. When Doe lifted himself, Buttercuphop stepped back with him, deciding to take the time to take a seat in front of him as if it were just another pleasant conversation. "Oh, you know," he giggled, somewhat awkward, "the usual. Really, I was just testing things, is all. It wasn't supposed to hit. . . you." He averted his eyes towards the trees behind Doefreckle, paws tapping against the earth as he blatantly admitted to his less than ideal intentions — but, he reasoned, how were you supposed to know it worked on other cats, intruders, if you didn't test it on any cat at all? Nobody would know. "It'll stop in a moment, probably, and if you need anything I can probably get it for you. At least it wasn't for nothing — you know how many unsuspecting trespassers this'll stop?" So many." He lifted a paw to his head, vaguely mimicking an explosion out of the side of his head with a wave of his paw.
