tornadoland [solo]

tl;dr: fly thinks about gender and decides they don't want one just in time for the activity check thank goodness

StarClan deserved better than to have their name spat in the dirt over some stupid, slimy frog. Flypaw knew this, and so he didn’t curse as the fifth prey-he-should-have-caught leapt neatly through his forepaws to safety—but it was a near thing. Today was supposed to be good. A midday hunting patrol, just him and a placid ginger tom who’d picked up on his reluctance to talk without having to be asked, far from both camp and the dogs. RiverClan needed food, Flypaw needed space, and hunting numbed his brain like nothing else.

It used to, anyway. This late in his training, the posture and motions he’d once spent extra seconds recalling came as instinct, leaving his thoughts plenty of room to spiral out of control. He didn’t remember being like this before. He didn’t want to be like this.

With a strangled, furious huff, Flypaw threw himself down beside one of the Broken Pools’ many murky pits. He refused to admit defeat (as much for his own sake as RiverClan’s), but a break couldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would help the frustration subside. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he searched the plains until he found his patrolmate. The ginger tom didn’t seem to be faring any better; his mouth was empty every time he popped out of the grass. And every time, he shook out his fluffy coat and ducked down again as if he hadn’t failed at all.

Then again, he was a warrior. Warriors didn’t give up or get distracted, didn’t snap at cats who’d done nothing wrong. Warriors had everything figured out. But Ivystar didn’t hand out names like mossballs. They were things to be earned, sacred and ceremonial, and Flypaw, though not quite of age, had so, so much to prove before he could call himself deserving. That he was brave. That he was handling things. That he could always eat less than he caught and ensure the fresh-kill pile didn’t run dry until all of RiverClan’s kits and elders were fed. Flypaw’s stomach curled with equal parts shame and hunger. His gaze dropped to the mud.

As much as he looked forward to his ceremony, hoping it would fix him, mold him into what every other RiverClan warrior seemed to be, part of him dreaded it. He’d tried to find ways to explain why, but there was only one: Though Ivystar used pretty much the same ceremonial words for everyone, Flypaw didn’t want to be named a warrior before all of RiverClan as a tom.

The first time that particular thought had flitted through his mind, he’d ignored it as well as one could ignore anything in one’s own head. Each time it’d happened since then, he treated it the same. Between the Gathering and Heronpaw, he’d had almost a moon of silence…and now it was back, clearer than ever. Clearer than most other things he’d spent the last few days thinking about. That realization alone kept him from shoving it away like he had every other time.

He’d always been Kitefire's son, a promising young tom (or a letdown of the same). Really, he preferred to just be Flypaw. Or Flypelt, Flystorm, whatever Ivystar saw fit to call him; the name was wholly his, though the other words weren’t. It wasn’t against the code. When the time came, it wouldn’t make him any less of a warrior.

Wouldn’t…wouldn’t make them any less of a warrior.

Lightning cut down Flypaw’s spine. He shot upright, sleek fur bristling all around. Fortunately, it didn’t burn like the real thing, just tapered into a gentle warmth like embers as he wavered. He’d only thought it, but it felt like…something. Maybe it felt right. Maybe it just felt different—how in the world was he supposed to know?

Asking his mother was out of the question; he hadn’t looked Kitefire in the eye since the battle with SkyClan, and she was the only parent he had. Turtlefur, Flypaw’s mind offered next. He lingered on that idea long enough that, had Turtlefur been there, he would’ve had to speak up—but ultimately, he pushed it aside with a flash of guilt. He wasn’t going to bother his mentor with this. Not if it might still be nothing.

Heronpaw would have listened. Something twinged in his chest, closer to a sprain than a full break, for once. She’d always listened back when they’d been kits, even when he was trying to grab at stars. She could be listening right now, for all he knew, but it wouldn’t do any good when whatever advice she had was beyond his ears.

Flypaw let it go, waited for the next name to rise. Nothing did. He’d already exhausted the list of cats he knew. It wasn’t as if he went out of his way to confide in anyone else, of course he was alone in this, too—

Except he wasn’t. The dark-furred apprentice lifted his head, scanned the plains once more. If he didn’t have any friends to ask, the next best thing was… “Hey—" In his nervousness, his voice shot a little too high, and he shoved his paws into the mud for the sake of having a distraction. “This is gonna sound weird, but could you do something for me?”

After a moment, dried grass began to shift behind him. At the edge of his vision, the ginger warrior spat out a lump of brownish fur; apparently his luck had changed for the better. The mouse landed with a faint thud. “What’s up?”

“I need you to, uh. Say something.” Flypaw took a very small breath. “‘I commend them to you as a warrior in their turn.’” Exactly two seconds of silence passed before he added, “Please.”

“Practicing already?” Out of habit, Flypaw whipped around to glower, and regretted it before he’d turned all the way. Before he could string together an apology, though, the warrior was waving him off with a feathery paw, as undaunted by this as he’d been by the hunt. “Hey, I’m not judging, you only get one ceremony. I commend them to you as a warrior in their turn. How was that?”

But Flypaw did not answer. It sounded the same in another voice as it had in his head. In their head. The newness of it was already fading with repetition; the warmth did not, and they marveled at it. For the first time since coming face-to-face with SkyClan, something felt right. Something made sense. Maybe they would tell Turtlefur. They’d tell him first.

A voice tugged them back. “I can do the rest if you want. Probably remember it off the top of my head, mostly.” The warrior was staring, shifting his weight from one side to the other, and at once the rest of the world switched on—Flypaw’s growling stomach, the muck cooling to a crust around their pawpads, the single mouse resting in the grass. Right. They had a Clan to feed. A name to earn. Their head felt…not clear, but less like a storm and more like a river, a spark of determination glowing at its mouth.

“Oh, uh—no, that was it.” Flypaw turned, stopped, dipped their head to the warrior. “Thanks, though.” Then they strode into the tall grass, their muzzle low, following the scents of mud and frog.