Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Colonel!"

Who's calling? He can't see straight. His body feels heavy.

Miles realizes he's choking, but he can also smell... everything. The forest. The plants, big leaves and small leaves. Yesterday's rain, filling the air with the perfume of fruits and fungus. Gunpowder.

It all burns the same in his nose and throat.

Why can't he breathe? He lifts his hand to his face: no exopack. Then the side of his head — wet with blood and skin, sharp with broken pieces of glass and metal.

A pair of hands comes in to hold his face.

"I got you, sir. Just breathe."

The smudged visor of a mask veils his vision just before the world goes dark.

So much for a good first day on Pandora.

Miles hasn't checked his watch since before eclipse. Does it matter what time it is? He doesn't want to know how long he... How long he was...

Fuck.

In the washracks, he hurls his watch at the wall. It cracks against the tile and lands on floor with a wet plop. Tail risen, fangs bared at no-one, the Recombinant catches his reflection on a metal divider. It's distorted. But he can still see everything he doesn't want to see. He's not as big as he used to be. Recovery had lost him a little muscle. His mind takes inventory against his will.

Chest: scratched. Cheek bone: slightly puffy, dark. Lower lip: cracked with dried blood. Eyes: bloodshot.

He turns slightly and catches a glimpse of the fresh red bite-mark on his shoulder.

Quaritch wretches over a drain, his hand slipping on the dewy wall of the shower. Not much comes out, but his body wants so badly to purge something, anything, that it goes on for several distressing minutes.

He's drenched in sweat by the time it passes. His legs already felt wobbly, but now they're trembling.

As foul as it is, even Na'vi bile doesn't erase the taste of tobacco from his mouth.

The next few days are foggy, like he's stuck in a neglected fish tank.

Sometimes he finds himself on guard duty, unsure of when he clocked in. The other Recoms are armed, but he's still on probation, so he stands around mainly as an intimidating prop. Sometimes he's back in his bunk, awakened by shivering dreams of the ocean or the sound of his teammates frotting.

Despite keeping his head down, keeping to his duties, he hasn't gotten any of the soldiers to stop sneering at him. One day, right before inspection, there's a dead stingbat under his pillow. He doesn't confront anyone over it. Fuck, he misses having his own quarters.

The major has been attending meetings or off on escort assignments with a few of the others, in a different sector of Bridgehead, or off-site entirely. Miles has seen him briefly around the Recombinant barracks, when they're all in a big group awaiting the week's or day's tasks. Only flashes of his eyes, his uncaring blinks, his relaxed mouth remain accessible to Quaritch's memory after the moment passes. Often he can hardly remember who he gets scheduled with and has to check his datalogs repeatedly.

Somehow, life has just gone on, even with his scratches and bruises still visible. Like nothing had happened. Some part of him keeps wondering if he imagined it. It feels so far away, yet he's still sore. Still feels hot breath on his ear.

The vomiting has let up, but only a little. Even filtered water for swallowing antibiotics doesn't always want to stay down and he's fallen behind.

He comes back to his body sitting at a table one morning, hardly recalling getting his food. He knows he got up, did his early tasks, and came here but it's all... watery. Smudged. Auto-pilot.

What's wrong with him? He's always had a sharp mind. It's how he got to where he is in life.

Where he is...

He looks around. The mess hall almost looks like the one his unit spent time in. Not as clean and fancy out at this corner of Bridgehead, but practical just the same. What hasn't changed is that the Recombinants have their own seating to accommodate their size. Or maybe to keep them separate from the human soldiers. Like a fucking feeding area.

When Spider had first tagged along, he sat with them, to many squints and stares. Kid was used to being around Na'vi-sized furniture and tools, but once they were out in the wilderness, he'd snorted at the sight of Quaritch trying to eat roasted teylu with a giant metal fork. An early Na'vi cultural lesson: "You have fingers, idiot. You don't have to stab everything."

Miles sits alone, tired, sore, and uninterested in his rations despite feeling like his gut has a black hole in it. In his tray sits pale nutrient packets, bone-dry bread, fake berry juice, and a sealed bag of medication for his lungs. He thinks of the yovo fruits he'd stashed in Cupcake's gear several months ago. He coughs and gags a little. Even the memory of a pleasant flavor doesn't relax his throat.

He's so lost in thought he doesn't notice anyone has approached until he's surrounded on three sides at the table. A Recom bumps his shoulder, far too close, as she makes a show of peering at Quaritch's untouched tray.

"No bueno, someone doesn't like his Meow Mix."

"I'll take that," another says, reaching over to snag his juice. A third steals his bread. The first treats herself to the squishy bag of protein, tearing at it with fangs.

"Don't look like happy pills," one of them says when they hold up the medicine.

Miles stays quiet, taking shallow breaths. Reminding himself he's being watched. His fingers curl around the edges of the now empty tray.

The one with the bread takes a messy bite, his eyebrow tattoo distorting as he chews with his whole face. "Fucker kept me up all night hacking up hairballs. You hear that shit?"

"Yeah, fuckin' nasty," one replies. "Didn't know the RDA was running a shelter for sick pussies."

"Right? Bullshit."

Quaritch inhales slowly through his nose, chewing his cheek. The woman gnoshing protein crushes the plastic loudly, sharpening the intensity of his tension.

"Got too used to eating dung beetles out there, man?"

"Nah." The one on his right reaches down, grabbing the end of Quaritch's twitching tail like it's a toy. "I know morning sickness when I see it."

Miles feels the tiny hairs on the back of his neck prick up and he can't stop what happens next.

As tired as he is, it takes only a swift movement to bash the other clone in the face with the tray. The one with the undercut stands, cursing, and launches himself over the table to tackle Quaritch to the ground. Then the woman pounces and the rest of the table erupts.

The commotion can be heard down the corridor. Humans come running to see—a tangle of snarling and hissing, swinging fists and flailing tails.

"Fucking cats," someone says, still eating while they watch.

Before security has to resort to stun sticks, a piercing whistle rings out in the mess hall.

A few of the Recoms scramble to their feet, revealing three more at the bottom of the pile. Miles has someone in a headlock while himself caught in the same position. He's dropped as soon as his opponents realize what's going on.

He holds his rebreather to his face and looks up dizzily to see the searing stare of Major Dietrich.

The stethoscope is cold against his chest. He coughs but doesn't flinch, feeling it only briefly before thoughts melt his body away.

Does he even remember... after? Sensations float to the surface in jagged pieces, like the debris of a shipwreck. Hard to grasp long enough to examine, but sharp enough to hurt.

The stethoscope is on his back now.

Lips kissing his shaking shoulders.

His heartrate picks up. Large gloved hands feel along his collar.

His tail being gingerly slipped back through the hole in his pants.

His tail taps against the wall. Neck gently palpated. His ears pin back.

The cuffs on his wrists replaced by hands, rubbing over the marks left behind.

His stomach knots up. Someone's talking.

Simon whispering something as he helped him stand. What had he said?

"Knock it off."

Miles blinks and realizes the low sound he hears is his own growl. He stops, coughing mostly out of embarrassment (but he'll never admit it), catching the annoyed expression of the Recom in front of him.

His RDA-mandated Recombinant handler. Conservator Tyler Pierce, they'd called him. Conservator, like Quaritch is an asset to be maintained. He supposes he is. The question that bounced around his head at first was: Why is this handler a Recom too? The others are human. The size and strength would make his job easier if things got out of hand, that's for certain. Maybe it's a psychological play. Easier to get compliance when both parties are striped. Quaritch can't psych him out with wide cat eyes and a fanged smile like he can the tiny humans.

But just who the fuck is this guy? Quaritch hadn't known him as a human. Not that he knew all of the others, or the major, for that matter. The conservator is clearly recognizable as military by posture alone... But something is off about him.

Conservator... He and Lyle had learned a little about his role while they waited in orbit.

“So like a shrink? In case we freak out about our weird junk or what?” Wainfleet had asked, gauze up his nose from the reunion punch. Miles hadn't yet apologized properly, still reeling from being blue, but he'd at least insisted on helping him clean up (as soon as they'd gotten him pants). Lyle just seemed happy to see him, that smile going up to his eyes just as it always did.

“Guessin' they're more than that,” Quaritch had responded, skipping down a couple of pages and rewinding the orientation video.

He watches as the Recom opens a pack full of supplies. He has emergency sedatives on hand, no doubt. But Miles isn't about to test that hypothesis. So he lets himself be poked and prodded, touching his cracked watch to distract himself. The conservator resumes the check-up by shining light in his eyes and ears, inspecting his teeth and gums, and examining the state of his neural queue, much to Quaritch's discomfort. Pierce lowers his hands, peeling off the large latex gloves and tossing them in the bin next to him.

Miles watches him type on a datapad while he sips from his rebreather. In and out...

They wouldn't need handlers like this, he'd thought. He'd trusted his team. They were ready to get the job done. Luckily things had gone smoothly enough at Bridgehead, in the beginning. The labcoats taught them about their bodies, put them through the necessary exertion tests and checkups to make sure they were good to roll out. They adjusted surprisingly well to their new lives before the time came to begin their hunt.

But they were still fresh out of the tube. Being dead for fifteen years isn't something you reconcile overnight.

Breathe, Miles. Four-counts.

Still, he'd had a mission. It felt good to be called on again. It also felt good to fantasize about sinking his teeth into violent revenge against Jake Sully. Maybe that's what made it so easy to push everything else aside.

And when the kid came along, he had something new to focus on entirely.

He's brought out of his breathing exercise by the crackle of the conservator's comms. "Copy that," he says after pressing it, then turns his attention back to Quaritch. “You've lost weight since our last appointment."

No response.

"Taking your medication twice a day?" He swipes his datapad to a Recombinant medical chart with too many notations. Miles looks away, answering with a non-answer. Pierce sighs warily, pointing at the tablet. "Your chest still needs time. But it won't get better if you skip doses. Unless you're trying to get back to the infirmary, stay on top of it."

The infirmary almost sounds better than the barracks. Quaritch glances at the camera in the corner of the room.

“If you're done with the chart, dismiss me,” he says, voice low.

The conservator crosses his arms, ignoring his demand. “This has to go on record. The fight.“ He motions vaguely at nothing, then pointedly to Miles' still-bruised cheek, very obviously older than today's brawl. “I'll do you a favor and not ask about that one.”

Quaritch frowns into the rebreather, glaring at the wall. “Fine. Dismiss me."

"That's not how this works. You know that."

Miles gives him a dirty look now, the same kind of face he makes every time they get to this part. The fucking talking. "There's nothin' to say. It was just a fight." His frown is so forced it wrinkles his nose. "Pent-up energy. You know how soldiers get."

The handler is unconvinced, pushing his hair back in frustration. "Do you know how much paperwork I have to fill out every time a Recom gets stitches? You left holes in someone's arm."

Quaritch rolls his eyes. "You want me to say it won't happen again? 'Cause I can't make that promise."

"I want you to tell me what happened, Miles."

The former colonel stares. And then realizes he's staring. He shifts on sore sit bones while looking at the datapad in the conservator's hand. Having any incidents on file within his first few weeks back isn't a good look. Ardmore could throw him back in a cell at any moment. Hell, she's more likely to take him out back and shoot him for all the billions he's cost the RDA.

He can't... say anything else. He can't add anything more to the growing list of reasons he's a fuck-up.

"I know..." Another sigh, this time sounding almost like the conservator cares. "... integrating into a new team can be difficult. It is for anyone."

New team...

Quaritch thinks of hunting hexapedes with Z-Dog. How Mansk had listened eagerly, knife in hand, while Spider taught them which parts were edible, and which to return to Eywa. They'd humored him mostly so he wouldn't "accidentally" tell them the wrong berries were safe.

That's his team. Was his team.

He'd lost countless soldiers in his career. Every one of them had hurt in their own way. But something else hurts now, something he can't figure out. Something eating at him, something wrong.

"We done?" he asks, down-curved mouth barely moving.

The conservator exhales out of his nose, tapping a few times on the chart and giving up for now.

"Get some steam in the showers, it'll do your lungs some good," he advises, left ear flicking in displeasure. He gives a final stern look to his asset. "Don't be late again or I'm going to start marking it."

He'd long gotten used to Pandora's day and night cycles, only now he has the right biology.

Quaritch adjusts the rebreather pack on his belt, making his way to where he's stationed for the afternoon. He's on guard duty, then he has a thankfully long, long break before his next shift. He's on night patrol with... shit. The Recom he bit. Fuck everything.

The conservator's a hack if he expects Miles to just take it every time those vermin fuck with him. He may not be human or a colonel anymore, but he's Miles Quaritch. He's going to earn back respect around here. He'll show Ardmore that it was just a blip. Bad luck. If he can't complete his task, what is he here for?

His body reacts to the scent of tobacco before he realizes it, chest tightening in an instant. His CO is walking next to him, stride strong.

"With me," Simon says, too friendly for an order that doesn't bode well for Quaritch.

They pass workers preparing a payload. Miles tries to say something; he has a shift starting soon, he can't. He wants to go the other way, anywhere else. His throat is locked, pulse rushing against his ears. Before he knows it, he's rounding a corner behind the major. He watches him swipe entry on a door but stays frozen in place outside of it.

Simon turns his body in the dim doorway, kuru swinging lazily behind him like a chain. Miles can't explain it, but there's a threat in that soft smile so clear that his commanding officer doesn't even need to speak it.

He enters, standing numbly while he hears Simon press a few keys to shut the door. The noise of the corridor outside is instantly muffled. A light strip flickers somewhere. Where are they? He looks up at the rows of shelves. Before he can react to his realization, there's a hand compressing the base of his queue. He growls in pain, feet barely keeping up as he's forcefully backed up into a corner, right under the strobing light.

"Trying to make my team look bad?" Major Dietrich asks, voice smooth and controlled.

"Tell your mangy strays to get off my back," Miles responds through teeth, face scrunched, holding onto the arm scruffing him.

Simon's eyebrows relax adoringly. "A bitch like you could use a good hazing. Maybe I'll give them a few tips."

Miles snarls loudly and the other Recom promptly smacks a hand over his brazen mouth. The ring on Dietrich's pinky finger stings coldly against the pink underside of Quaritch's nose.

"I'll march your ass straight to Ardmore." His tail sweeps high, daring Miles to try him.

The former colonel forces himself to quiet into a low, dying growl. The buzzing of the flickering light makes his ear twitch and he looks down, yielding shamefully to his superior.

Satisfied, the major removes his hand from Quaritch's mouth, but keeps contact. He just barely touches that cheek, where the bruise is fading. Then his hand slides down, ghosting over neck and clavicle. Quaritch watches him in silence, feeling for a moment like he's in a holovid. Like each glowing dot on the major's face is pixelated. He pulls the strap of Miles' tank top aside to peer curiously at the bite mark visible just over the top of his blue shoulder. A thumb brushes over the still-healing skin, tracing where his fangs had punctured enough to draw blood.

The shadows cast by Simon's handsome eyelashes flicker under the busted light strip. He cuts his gaze back to Miles, yellow eyes flashing with the sudden contraction of pupils.

No—

Quaritch's breathing hitches as he tries to move away from the shelf behind him, away from the man in front of him, away from the contact. He looks toward the door with wide eyes.

"No," he says out loud, voice thick. Neurons sluggish, limbs going cold. "Sir." He tries to correct, but he's barely able to speak.

Like a switch being flipped, his body takes over. Quaritch fights for as long as he can. Simon lets him spin his wheels until he's completely out of gas, left panting in his grasp. Items knocked off of shelves is all he accomplishes in the end.

Simon is behind him now, holding their bodies together with an ease that makes Miles feel—small. One hand on his neck, the other on his thigh. Both give a hungry squeeze. Simon's cheek is right up against his face, nudging him far too tenderly while Miles struggles to catch his breath.

"Can't get you off my mind, kitten," Simon says, almost a whisper, not reacting to the way his prey tries to jerk away.

The hand on his neck releases pressure, but the one on his thigh leaves to slide up under his tank top. The major spreads his fingers over Quaritch's abdomen, caressing upward briefly, reuniting with his skin, his muscles, as if he just can't go another day without a hit. Simon doesn't linger though, moving on to loosening those pants just enough to slip his hand inside.

"Wait—" Miles rasps.

This isn't happening. It can't be happening again.

Simon sighs into Miles' neck the moment his fingertips find that impossibly soft little vulva. Delicate, warm under his hand, a precious secret only he knows about. For a moment he's silent, wordless, like he's lost in a fond memory. He pets pussy with such sweet affection that Miles' tail coils like a drowning worm between their bodies.

"Knew you were gonna be a problem," Simon rumbles against the shoulder he'd left his mark on. The CO kisses him under an ear, teasing the swelling thimble of Quaritch's member between his fingers. The former colonel's pelvis jumps back from the touch, just as sensitive as before.

"Stop," he hears himself say through labored breath. His body aches, starved of fuel and rest. Miles pushes with one hand, pulls with the other, but Dietrich is solid as a mountain.

"You need a reminder of how this works?"

Oh, hell.

The major rubs him in fast, hard circles. Twisting his legs doesn't stop it, but it's not as if Miles can just stand still either. Simon's hand is persistent, steady, and good. So good Quaritch is biting his lip to muffle the deep groans that arise from him like demons trying to claw their way out. It feels so good he's sure he's close to pissing himself when Simon's fingers slow to a stop and slide lower to sweep along his twitching entrance. Miles isn't even fully unsheathed yet but he's slick enough to coat the major's fingers.

"Doesn't take long," the bastard comments, unphased by his soldier's humiliated growl.

Quaritch hisses pathetically when the first finger pushes in, earning a warning neck squeeze that makes him see spots. The second finger has his ears drop down so tiny they almost vanish against his head.

"I should talk to Ardmore anyway," Simon says into his ear, moving fingers in and out slowly, delighting in each little quiver of muscle that follows. "Thank her in person for letting me have you all to myself."

Quaritch's enraged snarl is cut off by the major's hot mouth over his. Dietrich kisses like he's trying to suffocate him, snuff him out, take from him until there's nothing left. Miles controls himself enough not to bite, but he huffs and gasps for air every time he surfaces, growing lightheaded—All while squirming on the fingers driving into him faster and deeper by the minute. He's caught in a storm, knocked about between cruel waves of breathlessness and building pressure.

Suddenly, both sets of ears flick toward the door. Passing machinery and voices rise. For a hushed moment, the only sound is the wetness of cunt being worked hard from the inside.

Coast clear, Simon tilts Miles' head back, keeping his lips on his jaw. He growls something Miles can't quite hear and suddenly stops pumping with a harsh upward jerk of his hand. The recoil hits like a thunderclap, making Quaritch squeeze desperately, pleasurably around Dietrich's fingers. He tries to swallow the foul swear that comes out of him, but only chokes on it pitifully and crumbles into stunned groaning.

"Mmhm," Simon hums, tasting a tear-stained cheek before resuming fucking his prey on his hand. The major is focused, stroking vigorously, stalking after his prize like a beast in the forest. "Come on..."

Miles wishes he were dead. Really dead.

Every time Simon's voice vibrates against him, every time he feels himself clench around those firm fingers wringing heaven from so deep inside.

He can feel something happening, like a fault line beginning to wobble underneath him.

At some point he stops trying to pull that arm away and instead holds onto Simon for dear life when his legs lose themselves to shaking. The harder his pelvis squeezes, the more Simon nuzzles him, murmurs to him in a way that tickles his ear, flushing his face anew, wetting the tip of his stiff dick inside his pants.

He must have also begun to make more noise because Simon's other hand is over his mouth again, dulling the volume of his cries. The tipping point feels like it happens in slow-motion, with Miles instinctively pushing back against Simon's sturdy body for support.

And just like that, the fault line slips. Somewhere inside, he's fallen into the chasm.

Miles comes crashing down on his commander's strong hand, again and again. His vision is blurred, he can see only the annoying stutter of the light above them as he's wrung out by strong internal pulsations.

"Good..." Simon praises, lazily kissing him on the neck, savoring the frantically throbbing pulse under his soft lips. "That's it, kitten..."

The major doesn't let up just yet, milking such a sweet climax even after Miles is unable to do much more than gasp for air and shake like a leaf. He eventually tires out, and like a plug's been pulled, he sinks down onto Simon's hand as his exhausted knees buckle under him. But he doesn't fall, held up against the stable body behind him.

"I've got you," he thinks he hears Simon say when the hand leaves his mouth, swapped for his rebreather. The room spins. He feels warm wetness being wiped against his abdomen. "Breathe."

Miles blinks away the remaining build-up in his eyes, suddenly remembering the smell of the hospital at Hell's Gate. The sting of bandages being reapplied with fresh ointment. The looks of all above and below him when he first debuted his new scars. Scars he no longer has.

He finds himself being sat down on a crate, his attacker tending to the straps of his mask. Miles stares. And stares. Then his eyes snap wide. He bursts in rage, making a lunge for the major's throat, but finds both his wrists snatched in a fraction of a second. He's too weak, too dazed to rip them back.

"Really?" Simon questions, indignant but—excited. "Fuck. They said you were concussed but looks like Sully really did knock some shit loose in there."

"You can't—do this—!“ Quaritch hisses riskily inside his rebreather, twisting away from Simon when he's yanked close again.

But the sound of static stops the major before he can punish Miles. He pins him in place with only a sharp, daring glare as he lets go of one wrist to press his comms.

"On my way," he says to the other end, and lets his toy jerk his remaining hand free. He points a finger authoritatively. "Get to your post."

Quaritch coughs in the mask. "Fuck—you!”

But Simon just tilts his head thoughtfully. "You're off night watch," he states, standing upright and adjusting his black bracelet, then his earpiece.

"What—?" Miles is winded, wet, still hard, pissed off, violated, humiliated again.

"You need some work." Simon doesn't even look at him, fixing his own clothes, smoothing out any trace of exertion. "You're spending the night with me."

"Like hell I am!" Quaritch's tail whacks against the shelf behind him, raised sharply.

Simon doesn't hiss, growl, or even whip his tail back. He's calm, still making himself presentable. Miles can't stop looking at his eyelashes. He realizes only then that he's shivering on the crate.

"If you're not outside my door by nightfall, I'll come for you."

Miles is dreaming, surely. All of this has to be a dream.

"And I'll fuck you wherever I find you."

But the major's lips feel so real.

"Don't keep me waiting."

Chapter Text

He doesn’t fucking have time for this. Whatever the fuck this is.

With furious shame burning in his eyes and his face buried in his arm, Quaritch works hurriedly to relieve himself in a bathroom. He's throbbing, sticky, overly sensitive after only minutes earlier having come hard enough on his superior's fingers to see stars. The raging boner he was left with feels like a very unfunny joke, another bola thrown at his ankles to knock him down.

He tries to block it all out, to not think about what just happened, about who it was, about how good it'd felt, how good this feels. Go numb, think of nothing, it's just a little problem he's dealing with. He’s still so wet, so messy, but it makes it easier to finish and soon he's stifling gasps as he rocks into his palm.

Miles can't even look while he cleans it up, blindly wiping and stuffing himself back into his pants. He realizes he doesn’t remember this part, the first time. Heaving over a drain, yeah, but not the actual shower. He washes his hands once, twice, gritting his teeth in anger at himself.

In the corridor, he presses his rebreather to his face and speeds past anyone who might glance his way or need him for something.

Who the hell's he kidding? No one needs him anymore. He's a barracks boy again.

Reyes is pissed that he's late, cussing him out for three sentences straight as he swaps out with her. Something that'd surely not be happening if he were still Papa Dragon. Something she'd get double or triple fatigues for. Or maybe something the old him would've taken her to bed for. A grimace rises from the thought, which gets pushed away and replaced with a mean glare.

“You want a bite outta that arm to match your boyfriend's? Keep bitchin',” Quaritch threatens, not bothering to regard her as he settles into his post. Not great to have another late clock-in under his name, but he's got bigger concerns.

“You better watch it, puta.” She flips him the bird and leaves him to an uneventful, gnawingly boring guard shift.

There's really nothing to do but nod at passerby and tap his boot on the floor. Guess they can't say the Recombinants aren't effective guards because no one tries shit around here, and they're smart not to. The workers work, the science pukes science, the suits jerk each other off. The way it was at Hell's Gate, until his man on the inside turned on him. Until he'd failed.

His multi-billion dollar unit had been decanted with a mission straight away. Meanwhile other units are kept on standby, off the field for the time being, being used as guards. Probably as a punishment in his case, but sending them all out now against the insurgency while the RDA scrambles to get its shit together would be a bad move.

But something tells Miles that maybe it's more about keeping assets busy. A schedule means less chance to cause trouble. He knows that's a lie, still sore from the earlier fight. But there's less chance you notice the tugging inside too.

He felt it when they first landed, didn't know what it was. Thought maybe it was his body still adjusting to waking up. When they ditched their boots out in the wild, it changed, like a buzzing inside. A bell gently humming from its rim, before shifting. Like something clicked into place. Something about his bare feet in the dirt and grass, feeling each rock, each tuft of moss, every dry and wet spot—He'd felt magnetized in a way he never had on Earth.

Being in boots and surrounded by metal and machinery again, the tugging is back stronger than ever, only now it feels more like tearing.

A group of human soldiers escorting a hovering payload passes by and he thinks of all of the security Scoresby had needed to transport Amrita back to Bridgehead City. Quaritch had decimated an ancestral home all those years ago for something that's more of an afterthought now, mostly fuel for their operations. Unobtanium was supposed to solve the Earth's energy problem. But powering cities isn't as enticing as eternal youth. If home's dying anyway, the people who can afford it at least want to stay pretty. So they'll pay for their elixir, pay for the RDA and all its programs, pay for this whole damn war.

He knows the people of Earth don't have a fucking clue what's really been happening on this moon. They learn about it in kindergarten, like it's some kind of fantasy world. Because to them, it is. Scientists stand on a stage to gush about the floating mountains, and when unauthorized Superluminals got sent out, the RDA had a lot of damage control on their hands. But misinformation campaigns are easy when journalists can't just sneak onto Pandora. 

There's a memory in there that he became aware of only recently: Parker pacing in his office after the incident at the school. Only two or three years ago in his mind, but in actuality inching closer to eighteen.

“I'm done for,” the man despaired. “How do I explain shooting up a school?”

Quaritch remembers what his response was. His relaxed shoulders, his cool smile. “You worry too much, Parker. Just let me deal with the reports. You get back to golfin'.”

“Yeah, deal with it—You're dealing with it because it was your men who did it.”

“They hit us first.” An unconcerned shrug, a little pout of the lip for good measure. “That's all anyone's gonna care about.”

“Jesus. You're Sec-Ops, not the goddamn Terminator. You don't send your goons after—”

Miles pushed himself from the wall, arms squaring his sides, eyes intense, lip curled.

Parker's face instantly drained of color. “Just... get it smoothed out,” he'd stammered. “I don't wanna hear about it anymore.”

If people back home knew so little back then, they probably know even less now that the RDA's sprouted five new heads where Sully had struck down one. He'd been brought back to a more powerful and deadly RDA, one he would have loved as a human. 

What are they planning now that their payback blew up in their face? Billions down the drain, only a sunken ship and a recovering ex-colonel to show for it.

Recovering... The word is acidic in his mind, burning down layer after layer until it reaches a volatile core that flares and spits upon contact. He swallows, saliva thick from dehydration, from days of vomiting and far too many humiliating tears shed.

The hours pass and his surroundings seem to blur away like he's in the center of a very dirty bubble. He spends most of the time lost imagining the different ways he'd tie Sully up and hurt him. When the next Recom arrives to take over, Miles hasn't even noticed the time. Thankfully Harper's not much for drama, greeting him casually and knocking back an energy drink that looks tiny in his big blue hand. As soon as Miles can get to a vending machine, he's demolishing RDA brand protein bars and chugging stale-tasting water like he's moments away from perishing, because that's what it feels like. A few gags almost have it all coming back up, but he manages to swallow against the churning anxiety as he rushes to the barracks.

He finds his bunk is trashed and wet with something he'd rather not identify. Those motherfuckers. In the old days, he would've challenged their ringleader to a good rumble. Stamp out this kind of shit immediately.

No... Because in the old days, no one would've fucked with him. Anyone who did was either thick or they wanted the army to pay for new teeth.

He tears the grey sheets and covers off, balling it all up to deal with later. He wouldn't have been able to sleep here anyway, knowing someone's probably waiting for an opportunity to tar and feather him.

But he does need to level the fuck out. His body needs a minute to digest, to settle. He needs a minute.

He looks to the sky lights. Eclipse is coming. After that, he still has a long while before nightfall. When the clock strikes, he's going to have even more problems on his hands. He's not entirely confident he even has the physical strength to deal with any of them right now and the thought makes the walls appear to be shrinking in on him.

Miles books it toward the first exit he sees, unaware of how fast his tail is moving behind him as he gets closer and closer. He's fighting upstream against a river of humans coming inside for their eclipse break, ignoring their grunts and protests. He manages to clear the airlock without throwing someone against a wall and keeps walking without a destination in mind. Down onto the road, down past some smokestacks. Step by step until it's empty enough for him to be alone but still noisy enough to muffle anything the wind might try to carry.

He doesn't consciously think of doing it, but it happens anyway, like a pressure release valve popping. Miles rips his boots off and throws them down around himself. He stumbles and barely recovers enough not to fall, but the moment his feet touch the dirt, he feels it: the buzz and click. It's so small within these walls, not like it is out in the forest or on the beaches.

But it's there.

He digs his heels in until he finds moisture, until the mud seeps in between his toes. Wet, cold, and grainy. A sudden sigh shakes him, shallow and quick. Tired yellow eyes close, swallowing back whatever's trying to overflow from his straining seams. Like everything stuck in his cells from the past few months is causing his systems to redline, to scream for release.

A drowning wave of dread has his eyes open again, blinking rapidly up to the sky, changing with the impending eclipse, like it might have answers for him if only he knew what to ask. Like it might wake him from this torment, reset things, give him another chance.

It doesn't. Here Quaritch stands in the mud, unable to understand what has become of him. In a matter of days, he's somehow lost his footing for the first time, in this life or his past.

Exhaustion catches back up to his body and he lowers to sit, grunting at the soreness still soaking his muscles. Both feet sink deeper into the muck, until the hems of his pants are dark with it.

Each breath is wavering, wobbly. But for the first time in several days, he stops feeling like he's in a free fall straight to Hell. The sensations come in all at once, like he'd been unconsciously blocking most of it out. Not just the obvious aches, but each little piece of him that'd taken abuse the past few days. The pain cranks itself high in his body's alarm but he keeps breathing just like the conservator taught him. Into the belly, out the mouth. One good thing he's gotten out of the quack.

Eventually, he exhales long and slow, like he's preparing to jump into a deep, dark well.

Alright. Rewind a little bit, Miles. What the hell happened?

The trial had finally ended and he was reassigned. Believe that he'd wanted to put up a good bitch about it, but he knew better. He took the punishment as an opportunity to prove himself. Told himself he'd work hard and bounce back. The first few days on the new team weren't pleasant but he put his feelings about it in a box in the back of his mind. He ignored the tension, the taunts, and focused only on being a good soldier. Despite his efforts, he still had a mending body working against him and found it hard to stay on top of his new schedule.

When the major called him into his quarters, he'd been prepared to get chewed out over recent tardiness. It would be fine, he'd thought. He can handle a scolding. He can handle laundry fatigues or shit duty as punishment.

But that wasn't how things went.

He presses his palm into his eye, willing the memory to stay within reach just enough for analysis but not enough to take a bite out of him.

He still doesn't understand it. It was just this thing that had happened, that he hadn't had any control over. He'd been stunned, physically first, then mentally. There are gaps there he can't fill. Then he was threatened and bound. It feels wrong to use those words, like it can't really have happened that way. Not to him.

And then the major... did what he did and booted him right back out into the hallway like nothing. Miles barely remembers actually leaving, or even thinking about the showers, but he knows he'd ended up there eventually.

And then just when he thought he could bury it and move on, pretend it really was nothing—It happened again. He doesn't want to think about how it was different that time, under the flickering light. With a rough hand over his mouth, an encouraging voice in his ear, and the major's growing hard-on pressing against him from behind.

Quaritch growls, shifting as his tail stretches behind him, trying to gather thoughts that inflate and strike like a swarm of pissed off hornets.

Miles doesn't know what the fuck is going on anymore.

All he knows is that he—can't.

It can't happen again.

It can't or it'll fucking kill him. Really kill him. Rend Miles Quaritch apart in such a way even the RDA won't be able to put him back together. It'll make drowning look like a catnap.

This is what actually kills a man.

Terror rises from his insides again and he takes sips from the rebreather to try calming his nerves, but his mind is already running off somewhere like it's on fire. He has to get out of here. For good. He'll let Pandora eat him alive before he lets himself get—used like a toy again. He needs to flee.

Miles Quaritch, fleeing? Pussy move coming from someone who used to be able to settle power struggles with just a glare.

He needs to be smart. He has to think. Miles swears to himself and moves forward onto his knees, not caring that his pants are getting dirtier. He can't think of what else to do, so he drags his index finger through the damp ground, drawing out three lines up and down.

The first line is the strongest. Run, it says. To hell with the RDA, Project Phoenix, and your duties. Get out. Find a way to get to the gate, get beyond the Kill Zone, and fuck off.

But Quaritch knows there's no scenario where trying to escape actually gets him out. Not like this. He knows he looks like hammered dog shit and he feels about a thousand times worse. He hasn't slept or eaten much in days. His body and head aren't right. A wet cough reminds him he's missed another dose of medication. In this state, he'd need extra CO2 for his Atmos even out in the fresh air of Pandora.

If he tries anything right now, they won't even need a stun gun to subdue him. He's too weak. He's too fucking weak to fight or run away.

The realization chokes his throat up. He sneers at the mud, at the stinging in his eyes. How can you possibly have any more tears to shed, Miles? You didn't cry this much as a pup. Get. Your shit. In line.

He still doesn't know where Cupcake's being held. They'd shoot her down quick even if he could get to her and get in the air. All that would accomplish would be broken bones and a dead banshee. Dead but free, he thinks, and feels something in his chest hurting that isn't his damaged lungs.

Either way, he'd get locked up again. Probably sedated, questioned, roughed up just for fun—Maybe Ardmore's already got the Neurolab updated and is eager to scramble his brain up with some hot sauce. He'd still be dead in a way. Or on his way to being taken out.

But the major would never have him again.

He shakes his head and crosses out the line.

The second one is to call Dietrich's bluff. Just don't show up. It'll piss him off, but what's he gonna do, actually do—it—again wherever he finds him? Or drag him by his tail back to his quarters in front of everyone clocking out? Bastard's smarter than that. Disobeying will make things much worse for Quaritch later, whenever he does manage to corner him again. His gut goes cold at the thought.

He huffs and crosses that line out too.

The third one gets a long, long stare before his brain catches up. And the reaction his stomach has is so strong he needs to swallow spit before he can even inhale fully.

Just... comply?

Go to Dietrich?

He gazes at the line until he sees double, his mouth opening before he fixes his jaw shut tight—and his eyes go wide and wild in rage. He must be losing his mind more than he thought. What the hell is he thinking? All of this is about avoiding that. So just what is he supposed to do? Kill himself, just to bypass all three shitty choices? Game over? Miles gets that weird feeling again, like he's vibrating just outside of his own body. Like he's losing his hold on time and space. Not now, not fucking now. His tail curls around his ankle like it's trying to hold him to this realm.

There's no way around it...

Miles is trapped.

If he can't get out and he can't risk more attention on him... The only thing he can do is...

But is choosing the least certain "death" really much of a choice?

If he really bites it, goes stiff and cold, then he'll never finish the job. He'll never get to feel the fading heat of Sully's spilled blood, the quiver of his chest as he takes his last breaths, the light finally dimming in his fucking traitor eyes.

He'll also never repair his reputation. His name'll be mud for the rest of history. Does he care? What does he actually care about anymore?

A hissing face strikes his mind's eye, followed by a flash of long blond hair.

If he dies, he'll never see Spider again. Though he's not sure what his chances are alive either. But the kid's hard work hauling his ass up onto land despite everything he'd done, despite who he is, will be for nothing.

What's left for him? Of him? Is any of it worth saving?

Quaritch gets tighter and tighter, until he bursts from his core. With a hoarse roar, he slashes his hand across all three drawn lines in the dirt. Again he strikes, scores them into nothing, rakes and digs until he finds more thick mud, until he's covered past his wrists.

Why'd he survive, if this is it?

He almost wishes Spider wasn't such a good kid. That he was more like his father. That he'd left him. At least then he'd be rotting on the seafloor instead of slowly burning alive like he is now.

He slams muck back into the ground with something that might've been a sob, but he tells himself it's a cough. Chest aching either way, he goes for his rebreather again only to be met with a few short grating beeps from the pack. Canister is low. Just his luck.

He sits back heavily, weighed down again by the bitter and unfamiliar smog of helplessness.

This is what he deserves.

Sins are something you pay for when you're dead. He's got plenty to answer for in his short blue life. But the man he was made from is the one who racked up the rest of the debt under his name. His legacy. That man also survived a lot on Earth, before he even came to Pandora. He was a leader, a fighter, a force that all respected.

And he was also just as Sully's woman had called him: a demon.

But this isn't Earth, nor is it Hell. This isn't the territory of God or Satan.

Miles Quaritch is not a man of faith. Never has been. There's no greater plan, no big purpose he's alive for other than the job he signed up to carry out: do his part to ensure the survival of the human race. The clock is ticking even faster now. But Sully wasn't Chosen to bring him down, he was just a ballsy punk with a knack for getting lucky.

And Quaritch is going to kill him with his bare hands even if it means he has to survive whatever purgatory he's in right now.

As the eclipse's dusky sky surrounds him, he concludes that the one they call Eywa must have a really sick sense of justice. But if She means to unmake him, the bitch is going to have to try a lot fucking harder.

He pushes to stand again, fists clenched and ears pointed back.

“This ain't over,” Miles rumbles, unsure of who he's speaking to. He may be weakened, he may be losing his goddamned grip... But what he is sure of is that he's alive and he intends to keep it that way.

Even if he has to play along for now.

“Was anyone else hurt?”

Bandaged and gunked up with dried blood and ointments, it's the first thing he asks when he has a visitor in Hell's Gate's medbay.

“Just me,” Wainfleet answers, and Quaritch's eyes dart all over him, looking for any sign of injury. But then he sees the man theatrically holding his hands over his chest. “Gave me a fucking heart attack, boss.”

Quaritch swats at his elbow, not quite reaching with the IV tethering him. He'd refused pain medication, but the medics insisted on antibiotics. “I mean it. Everyone okay?”

Lyle laughs huskily, probably masking the fact that he really had been scared shitless when it happened. “Yeah,” he finally says, smile fading a little. “We're all good.”

Quaritch nods slowly, looking down at the needle taped to his wrist. “And the viperwolves?”

“Took out the one that got you.”

That's his Lyle. He flashes him a small smile of gratitude, and silence fills the room while Quaritch tries to replay the sequence of events that led him here. In the end, it doesn't distract from the embarrassment he feels. Getting mauled on his first trip out is rookie stuff. He's got a lot to prove out here if he wants the spot at the top of the hill.

Soon a medic comes in with a tray of goodies and he knows exactly what's about to happen.

“You ready?” Wainfleet asks him, moving out of the medic's way but staying nearby; his subtle way of offering support. He's got a tablet in hand, already set to reflect.

Quaritch bites his lip, ego sore and head hurting. He'd been too comfortable, too sure of himself, and now he's marked for life. First fuck-up scored into him until the day he's laid to rest. Everyone who knows knows and everyone who doesn't is gonna ask stupid questions for the rest of his life.

They'd offered him reconstructive surgery... It'd be like it never happened. Almost.

No. This little moon's not about to send him with his tail between his legs over a couple of scars.

He sits up straight, turning so his legs fall over the edge of the bed.

“M'ready,” he confirms, and Lyle holds the tablet up as the medic begins removing his bandages.

One, two, three.

Pandoran mud is a bitch to clean up. He could just dump it all for whoever's on laundry fatigues this week, but he'd rather not have anyone else after him since apparently the universe has decided to superglue a kick-me sign to his back. So he takes the time to wash the mud out by hand himself. Once he's clean and with a fresh pair of pants, he buckles his Atmos securely into place, noting that he still needs to pick up a refill. Something stops him from putting his boots back on, so he carries them as he hurries out past the barracks. If anyone notices, he's likely to get a verbal warning for breaking dress code, but he finds he doesn't care much right now.

He passes the mess hall emptying out; soldiers and employees full of synthetic supper. His stomach grumbles in protest at skipping mealtime but he knows it can't handle more than the bars he'd forced down earlier. At least he can do water with minimal gagging now, so he finds a spot in the halls to rehydrate in peace while he tries to figure out what the hell his next move is.

Or so he'd thought. His ears angle behind him, picking up on a group of heavy footsteps moving far too purposefully to be someone just passing through. He turns around just in time to back up and keep Garland out of his personal space while he swallows water.

“There's our man. Where you been, huh?” the Recom asks, sporting gauze around his bicep where Miles had gotten a good bite in that morning. He's got some nice bruises from the fight too, Quaritch notes proudly. Reyes flanks Garland with a mean stare and another male catches up on the opposite side.

“Workin',” Quaritch answers, voice gravelly, wiping his mouth on his wrist. He quickly glances at his cracked watch. Almost nightfall. “Seems like you should be on your way to do the same. Ain't that right, Garland?”

Garland steps forward, intentionally trying to crowd him. Miles' grip on the water bottle tightens as he makes a mental map of the situation. The way he wants to go is behind him. They were stupid not to block off both routes.

“Maybe. I think Harper can cover for me if I'm a little late, though.”

A distorted chime sounds throughout the corridor, announcing the arrival of night and the call for most of Bridgehead's colony to retire.

Miles is out of time.

Before anyone can make a move, he pitches one of his boots hard at Reyes and hits her right in the forehead. It surprises and distracts Garland just long enough for Miles to whip around, dumping a trail of water behind him as he makes a run for it. They try to follow, but two slip on the wet floor almost comically, tails waving in the air like confused monkeys. Garland has his wits about him enough to jump over the spill and go after Quaritch with a shove into the wall.

He doesn't. Have. Fucking. Time for this shit.

“You want more stitches, tough guy?” Quaritch growls his frustration loudly, turning and battering Garland with the other bulky boot. It doesn't quite get him more space, but he's caught the other clone off guard enough to flip their positions so he's not cornered anymore.

Bad move, as Reyes catches up with a slur or two flying off that sharp tongue of hers, launching herself onto Quaritch's back.

With a fiendish snarl, Miles makes the decision expose himself again by ramming his back against the wall to trap her there momentarily, though Garland is approaching again, and Miles' boot can only do so much harm. He throws it at him with a warning yell, then promptly snatches Reyes' wrists to stop her grabbing his face, and uses all he has to throw her over his shoulders and straight into the Recom coming at him. The two fall over each other on the floor, sputtering like the idiots Quaritch knows they are. The third, fucker-whose-name-escapes-him, gets kneed in the gut and quickly joins his friends on the floor.

It leaves just enough of a window for him to scamper past them. He rounds corner after corner, bootless but faster and quieter this way. Every so often he stops, body pressed to a wall, ears swiveling to listen for their approaching footsteps over his thundering heart. Miles has evaded them so far, but he's breathless, tired, and doesn't have any more fight in him for when they catch up. He's too far from the barracks, too far from any storage or science departments to lose them in.

He curses to himself, working his way down another corridor, and suddenly freezes in the middle of it. The doors are spread apart, numbered and lettered, with heavier duty lock set-ups. Officer units.

Is he only pretending he didn't know which way he was going when he ran?

The rushed squeaking of boots echoes from down the hall he just came from. They're catching up.

Time to pick a line to follow, Miles.

“Fuck, ” he whispers, word strangled in his throat. “Fuck...”

Out of breath, out of time.

A wash of numbness spreads over his body, and he moves like he's being pulled by invisible strings. And like a nightmare sucking him in, the door shunks open just as he reaches it.

Chapter Text

Humans dart around like frantic ants. Groups of them cluster anxiously, their sharp curses cutting into his sensitive ears. He can smell them, too. Really smell them, not just their tacky colognes. Humans have a certain scent to them. There's so much more to process now, so much constantly flooding his senses.

"Major."

He turns, a hefty stack of datapads in hand. General Ardmore's smile is tight, contained, not reflecting in her eyes at all, which in contrast burn with a quiet fury. But what's most startling is how small she looks to him now. He's still not used to it.

"Nice hustle. You put out a lot of fires."

He takes a few hard drives handed to him by a human on a platform. "We're not out of the woods yet, General."

Ardmore's smile shifts like she's remembering something. Or someone.

"It's good to have you back, Simon. Without you, this place would be a lot worse off after yesterday."

He's briefly distracted by his tail moving behind him on its own. A slow sweep and curl, like it's following a trail in his mind. He nods to Ardmore with a less guarded sigh and a tiny twitch of a smile. A small way of returning the familiarity.

"Just doing my job, Frances."

She gives him a knowing look. "I'm being sincere." Simon knows it. Ardmore doesn't do empty flattery, and she always calls out unnecessary modesty. The general steps forward and turns around to observe the chaos with him. "Humanity is fortunate you're here to help."

A Recom he recognizes by voice and mannerisms passes them. It reminds him he's in a human space, so he takes a sip from his pack. The taste of canned Pandoran air still just as unfamiliar as its natural air. But he can already tell the difference. There's so much his body seems to know that he doesn't.

A few more datapads are handed to him. Back to work.

One by one, light strips flicker to life until the borders of the room glow orange. A body stirs from the stimulation of artificial light, the only sound a waking sigh and the slide of long limbs stretching under sheets.

For a moment, he forgets, like he always does. Where he is. Who he is. Who he was. Until he reaches out under the covers and finds himself alone in his bed. Until his tail gets caught in the blankets and he becomes aware of a heavy braid tickling his back. His ears twitching, his tongue catching on a fang.

As always, the realization hits him like ice in the chest: it wasn't a dream. He really is on Pandora, in a new body. Living an entirely new life.

A life he's not sure he asked for.

But something is different this morning. He'd actually slept, and well. His body feels heavy but relaxed. Replenished. His head is clear and his senses are sharper. Like the stress of the week had been washed away by a healing tide.

The major sits up slowly, reaching for the tap-light on the wall next to his bed. One blue foot, then the other on the cool floor. Another stretch and a deep breath that expands his ribs. He crosses the dimly lit room in nothing but RDA boxers, swiping a hand across his face and pushing his hair back. He slows to a stop at the welded metal table.

Its spotless surface reflects orange, like the rest of the suite. He'd done a thorough job cleaning up the night before. Not a fingerprint nor a stain to be found. Not a droplet of blood nor a stray tear made it past his sharp eye.

He left nothing. Not a trace of how he'd vandalized company property.

Just because he could.

But the cuffs remain, cut open and sharp, no longer functional but left in place like a cruel decoration. A pretty centerpiece memorializing a destruction too perfect to be known or appreciated by anyone but himself.

He runs his hand across the metal surface of the table, almost hoping that somehow a little bit of body heat could've stayed behind for him to feel, to remember the night by. It hasn't; it's just cold, empty, like no one was ever there. Like the excruciating pleasure that had captivated him had also been a dream, just like this life of his feels like every morning.

But when he licks his fangs, the lingering taste of blood lights his memory and warms his loins.

He has a long week ahead of him. Major Dietrich dresses and throws a bag over his shoulder.

The Recom gym has likely saved more human lives than anyone realizes. A space free of their bullshit, where no one gets smacked by tails, tripped over, or used as a weight. A place to decompress without the temptation to use them as squeeze toys. The only humans that have clearance are trainers and physical therapists, but his team has never worked with them. Recombinants come out of the tank toned and in perfect physical condition for a reason; to get right to work. Most of them already have familiar routines they like. By now they've got their own spotting buddies and friendly little spars to stay entertained (and out of trouble, mostly). He encourages it, likes them to push each other to keep their bodies strong, but doesn't join in on their games no matter how many times they try reverse psychology on him.

Maybe one day. When his inbox isn't bursting at the seams.

Even if he weren't an early-riser, he'd be in the gym before anyone else, just for the extra space and the quiet. He hits the lights, glancing at himself in the long mirrors that line the walls. His choice of athletic wear is exactly what he used to wear as a human; leisurely but still fitted enough to comfortably work out. The RDA really had given even the Recoms options when it came to clothes. The only catch is everything is stamped like it's from some exclusive shop found downtown in every major city. RDA brand, Project Phoenix line. What horseshit. At least he looks good in it.

The commanding officer walks to his preferred spot under a vent. No music. Just the hum of Pandoran air being pumped in. Duffle bag down, he gets right to it.

He starts with jumping jacks, like he always has. Everything's a little different now with his tail, but the advantage it offers is undeniable. Thirty seconds, then the CO shifts to the floor for push-ups. Sweat already tingles on his temple and under his braid. Thirty more seconds, then he rolls over for crunches with the kind of precision that comes only from years of the same routine. Embers burn in his abs and his Na'vi nose flares as he breathes in time with each movement.

Up. No breaks. Caterpillar walk-outs. His heart hammers inside his chest but he focuses on his breath, his balance, the stretch. From there, it's straight to mountain-climbers. His core is kept tight, knees a blur underneath him. This body is hardier than his human one had ever been. But then again, he's only had the chance to test it out in here. Not much pushing to do running datapads around Bridgehead or escorting supplies (what his team playfully calls "field trips").

The routine is repeated, his body familiar enough with it that he can let muscle memory take over. There's no resisting it anymore; mind begins to rewind again.

His "new guard" had been late to a shift. Not his first slip-up, technically, but it would be his first write-up. But like Simon said to him, he doesn't do three strikes. The way he sees it, he'd already have blown past that line before he came limping out of the ICU anyway. The major could count hundreds of strikes from the growing damage report alone.

It didn't need to be a private conversation. He could've chewed him out in front of the team just to embarrass him, put an even bigger target on his back. Everyone knows this isn't just any grunt transferred for punishment. It's Miles Quaritch.

Not really, though. Just a modified copy of the man the military still celebrates on paper as a protector of Earth's future who died a noble death in battle.

During the arraignment, Simon had watched him from across the grey 3D-printed courtroom. Can it really be called "makeshift" when it was assembled in less than a day? At least it hadn't slowed his work down. They spent millions relaying (meticulously curated) reports, and when more information came to light they had to spend millions more on updated logs. Survivors recounted what they could. How the battle began, how the ship went down. And Quaritch was questioned for so long it's a wonder he hadn't dropped dead right there, with how fucked up he looked.

The colonel's face was blemished with fading bruises and healing lacerations. He'd coughed behind a rebreather, clearly uncomfortable but compliant. But Simon saw something, again and again. Under the serious, knitted brows of an old man, the colonel's big, round eyes held a troubled delicacy inside. So youthful even under weeks of stress and exhaustion, showing his body's biological age but—something more. Like a kitten in a box, abandoned on the side of the road. Defensive, but confused and lost.

Eyes tracing every stitch in his blue skin, all Simon had been able to think about was ripping his mask off and watching him suffocate. That urge grew stronger when he learned the fuck-up was being demoted and kicked onto his team. 

"You handle your soldiers well. And you'll have access to the conservator's services. He's top-of-the-line, so use him." Simon didn't dare argue with Ardmore, as much as he'd wanted to protest inheriting a disgraced and convalescent ex-leader who wasn't even cleared to handle weapons again yet. 

Another reminder that he's not out there on the field. No-one is yet, except for the recovery teams lucky enough to dive close to the battle site without getting speared by Metkayina. They can only get so much intel by sending drones before they're shot down. Bodies and vehicle parts are still washing up on shores, both near and far-off. The reports are constantly changing, accounting for re-calculations of their losses. It's not going to end for a long time. Delicate tech they can't reprint at Bridgehead City will take six years to arrive from Earth. The numbers are enough to make anyone's head spin.

When Quaritch showed up at the barracks, saluting despite his pathetic fatigue and dishonor, there hadn't been time for formal pleasantries, much less suffocation. As his new commanding officer, Dietrich had given him shit at first, like everyone else. But he didn't say how he really felt. What he really thought. Seeing that sad face during round-ups and meals made his wrath grow out of control in his heart, a twist of vines and thorns, scales and venom and bile.

There's something else. Something tangled in the mess that he couldn't—can't ignore, too distinct and raw to deny.

Maybe calling him in was just a way to get the former colonel alone.

Simon sits on a grey floor mat, tilting a pale electrolyte drink into his mouth. He thinks of wet skin and wet eyes. His stripes shine with sweat, much like they had the night before as he panted into those shuddering shoulders. But a work out isn't the same. He doesn't feel the satisfaction of a fresh hunt in his jaws. A deep hunger, deeper than marrow, deeper than his cells.

He looks to one of the windows, a thin rectangle high enough to glimpse the sky. A SeaWasp takes off toward the Marina, just loud enough to hear through the walls. Bridgehead City is waking up.

The major's back in his unit before anyone can bother him. It's cold and stale compared to home, but he's thankful that officers get a shower in each unit. The rush of water helps his mind pick up right where it left off.

When he called Quaritch to his quarters, the itch in his fangs had intensified. The Recom's professionalism and respect had somehow made the bile even more acidic. He was so willing to make up for tardiness even if it meant taking on dirty jobs beneath someone with a legacy like his.

And his spots had glowed so delicately in the dim lighting. Everyone has spots that twinkle, but something about him —everything about him — had Simon burning up. Has him burning up.

The rage, no, the hunger had taken over. Like a hunter erupting from within, it attacked, wounded, trapped, and took . Every frame of the man's face and body as Simon hurt him, every sound bit of his cries as a precious piece of him was stolen, used, broken...

All is burned into Major Dietrich's heart.

Confusion.

Resistance.

Pain.

Disbelief.

Realization.

Pain.

Shock.

Surrender.

PAIN.

The way the Recom had almost gone blank, looking up at Dietrich from his knees, like he wasn't sure if he was dreaming. How he'd gone back-and-forth between fighting and freezing, even restrained on the table.

The CO leans his head against the cool tile, erection hard and thick in his hand. He'd almost unsheathed as soon as he got to his quarters. There isn't much time, but...

The first stroke has him biting back a hiss as he thinks about how perfectly soft and warm his prey felt. The way the restrained Recom squeezed so strongly around his length, how he gasped in humiliated surprise at his own body's intense and involuntary responses.

Hot water massages his shoulder while he pumps himself, fast and precise.

Quaritch's choked sobs mixed with Simon's own gratified, equally surprised—and astonished —groaning.

The major's moans echo off the walls as he works himself to a rushed release. Even caught in white-out bliss, he realizes: this is it.

There's no going back.

Bridgehead may still be picking up the pieces, but there are plenty of tasks to handle in between his days spent chained to a desk. Major Dietrich is thankful Ardmore trusts him with escorts assignments. It's a chance to stretch his legs and get some fresh air. The familiarity of getting geared up lifts his spirits, even if only for a time. Venturing beyond the gates of the city to deliver payloads to outposts is more exciting than standing guard, so his soldiers are eager to have their names called. They stand tall with perky and attentive ears, tails barely containing their ambition. Simon calls four names to accompany him and the rest groan as they get their guard schedules.

Everyone has something to say, something to bitch or gloat about, except for one. One that seems to stir from a daydream when everyone moves out. Simon catches the kitten's eyes briefly, a gaze so far-away he wonders if he really sees him. After a moment, the CO blinks away, releasing his hold, and directs his escort squad to get their gear.

Harper is helpful as always, making sure his teammates don't forget to fill their hydration packs. It's Garland who lags behind, but only because Reyes isn't happy about being put on morning guard. An impatient tail-swish from their commander splits them up. Once everyone's set, they move out.

Their first stop won't take quite as long with a vehicle, but the second outpost is deeper in the forest. More of a risk escorting a delicate payload on foot, with valuable supplies and humans to protect. So they pack like they expect there to be nasty weather, need for a detour, or an ambush. Nothing like that has happened during any escort so far. Nothing like Sully's elaborate raids he'd seen on the records. Most likely, they'll be back late without a scratch. Just lazy, hungry, and sweaty.

Sitting in the back of a large truck, Simon finds it far too easy to tune out his soldiers' silly banter and lose himself to the captivating memory of tearful yellow eyes.

The week passes much the same, with work to be reviewed, data to offload, and long meetings to endure. For the first time, the major finds himself unable to care enough to pay attention. Even on his way to the mess hall, he's thinking less about satisfying his stomach and more about getting back to his quarters for some alone time. He's hardly listening to the human communications expert yammering about Superluminals as she rushes to keep up with his long stride.

Everything still feels alien.

But somehow the sound of Recombinants squabbling doesn't. It's coded into his awareness, with responses popping up in his mind, linking back, back, back somewhere in his DNA that he has no connection to. He can almost hear words embedded in the feral sounds, though if asked he wouldn't be able to explain exactly how he can tell hisses and the meanings of their pitches apart. It's something so intimately woven into his instincts that his skin pricks and tail raises as he crosses the mess hall to break up the fight like the pack leader he is.

His sharp, clear whistle is another instinct baked in, but from his human side. From years serving and managing rowdy soldiers. Somehow the fangs make it even more piercing. Do the Na'vi whistle the same way? He's not sure he cares to know. All he knows is that it works. His Recoms are already accustomed to his tones and know that this is not the cheerful kind.

They split up and he takes note of everyone involved. But the CO knows who's at the bottom of the pile before it even clears.

It's the longest Miles has held eye contact in the days since... and it makes something inside of Simon light up into flames.

The conservator's ears twitch, detecting someone behind him. He doesn't look up from his console, focused on typing out a paragraph faster than most humans can think. All that money for a shrink that has to duck to enter a room.

"No walk-ins; make an appointment through your datapad," he says in a bored monotone. He's the type to know an entire week's schedule by heart. Bitchy, too. The day's only just started and he's already in a mood. Simon knows exactly why. He'd know even if he wasn't already filling with desire from the familiar scent in the room.

The conservator finally turns to glare at whoever dares to bother him—and blinks. He tries to appear less obviously annoyed, but he's shit at it, especially with the ears. They're on the larger side, hard to miss even small twitches.

"Major, come in." He saves and closes the file he was working on.

Simon doesn't move from the doorway, leaning on it just enough to chafe the other Recom. "I'm not here to chat, Pierce. Just picking up."

"Of course." The doctor doesn't even try to hide an eye-roll as he unlocks a drawer. Simon watches him shuffle through perfectly organized slots with drives all lettered and numbered. The CO unhooks something from his belt and opens it before placing a small flash drive in the conservator's hand. Pierce makes the connection and begins a transfer.

"You could, you know."

An eyebrow ticks, prompting Pierce to clarify.

"Chat," he says, looking him in the eye to get his meaning across. Not very subtle, but it's his job. "I'm not just here for special cases." Problem Recoms, Simon knows he means.

The drive beeps softly as it receives data. The progress bar fills to 100%.

"I'm good," the major passes on the offer, and Pierce disconnects the stick with a small sigh.

He thanks the conservator and doesn't waste any more time. It takes mere minutes to track down his target. He knows the route to take, where the Recom is scheduled for guarding, but it's as if his sense of smell guides him the entire way.

It's almost too easy. Quaritch can snarl all he wants, but he's already so worn out. Simon is able to restrain him without breaking a sweat and get a taste of what's been haunting him since that night. Finger-fucking his prey to a womb-shivering finish in a neglected storage room gives him so much... He can taste, see, hear, smell, feel everything so vividly, even without the time use the kitten's body. His plasma is alight, alive, bright in his veins.

But as he leaves him alone under the stuttering light, he knows it's still not enough to alleviate the hunger eating him up from his core.

Another Mako recovered. The pilot and gunner are dead, bodies hardly intact or even human anymore after nearly two months at sea. Only half a jaw to compare to dental records on one, the other's just a pale green torso with chew marks in it. They'll have to wait on the coroner for ID, but he's not here for the humans.

The major confirms the model of the vehicle, minding the recovery team as he walks around its crushed shell. They're still missing several. Simon knows from experience that some assets and employees will never be recovered. That's just how shit goes. The best he can do is make an educated guess and hope that the RDA has enough insurance to get them back on track.

"How many other teams went out?" Dietrich asks one of the divers, taking a breath from his Atmos.

"Two, sir, but the site's still hard to breach. A few Crabs got totaled on the way back."

"Call it for today," Simon tells him. "Drop your report as soon as they're back." There'd still be plenty of time in the afternoon, but if the Metkayina are still on edge, he'd rather not give himself a reason to do overtime tonight. Or give the morgue any more corpses to wait on.

Besides, it's time for a break.

The darkness of eclipse calls Simon outside like the scent of quantum honey on a breeze. He can always feel it somewhere in his brain stem, without even checking the time or the sky. Not like a tingle or an itch, but some deep craving, something his new body is trying to tell him.

Maybe it's because they woke him during one. Even still in orbit, he'd felt that same strange pull.

Who knows. He just likes the quiet.

Bridgehead is noisy. Someone always needs something. Someone's always pinging him, dropping files to his datapad, prepping him for the next meeting, the next war room dick-measuring contest.

There's still noise out here at this time, even past the industrial zones, but it's different. He can hear machinery at work, structures being built by bots. That hour of darkness gives humans a chance to break while the swarm assemblers keep going.

But every once in a while, things quiet down just long enough. And then he'll hear it: a small whoop or a chirp. Some displaced creature calling out for its kind. Something beyond the mud and metal walls of the city. Surviving in the Kill Zone, just small enough to swoop by in the dark sky.

Simon tastes paper between his lips and activates the lighter. Tobacco. Real tobacco. Not the synth-shit they melt down for vape pens. One of the only real things they have out here. Everyone knows the the RDA has deals back home with various drug industries. Earth is on its last leg and they still need people to be addicted to something if it makes money.

Every drag goes deep into his nerves, spreading like warm sand under his toes. It's different somehow, in this body. He feels it tingle pleasantly down his queue and shifts to bring the braid over his shoulder. As he blows smoke upward, his ear flicks toward a distant chirp. Simon looks but doesn't see anything except a few bugs buzzing by the light posts.

The CO plays with his black bracelet while he smokes, eyes lost in the dark sky, slipping some place outside of time. He could stay out like this the entire hour. But as soon as his comms crackle for him, he's back on his feet, taking one last, long pull of the only thing that really tastes like home.

"General, we have a banshee approaching the southern Land Gate," a scout calls from a console.

Ardmore glares at the display, leaning back after getting a good look.

"Looks like our star stray made it home."

Simon watches on the live feed as the dark winged beast flaps haphazardly, Recom clinging to her back like a newborn. He doesn't look away when both creatures are immobilized and lugged away like cargo.

The day doesn't drag on more than usual, but he's still counting the minutes. He says "thank you" for probably the hundredth time that day to the humans on inventory in every department. Not a nice job to be working right now, but he really couldn't do it without them. Just a few more people to see, a few more drives and datapads to offload, and he can pack it up.

Most of the colony will be readying for a restful weekend or throwing back Viperwolf Ale until they black out. He'd been invited to the bar, but politely declined.

Tonight Major Dietrich has a special guest.

His unit isn't in the housing district with other RDA employees. As an officer, he's closer to base, tucked away in the winding corridors. And as a Recombinant, his unit is on the outer edge, the same as the barracks and gym, allowing for the moon's atmosphere to flow freely. When he enters, he allows the unit door to do its hissing, and then he's free to take the rebreather from his neck. It goes on a plain metal shelf sticking out from the wall, with his throat comm and earpiece.

The sound of the faucet running tickles his ears, but the warm water over his hands feels good. Simon is almost tempted to shower just for the relief, just to smell the body wash and melt the day away.

He'll have plenty of time for indulging over the weekend.

He uses a little bit of water to fix his hair. Almost time for a touch-up. After quickly tapping an appointment in on his datapad, he almost walks away, but remembers the memory stick. It goes in his datapad's case for now and he leaves the tablet on its charging dock. With that done, he sits in a large cushioned chair against the wall. One of the small luxuries in this bland cage of his.

There's no cleaning to do, nothing to tidy, nothing to straighten. All there is to do is wait.

So he waits.

Nightfall. That's what he'd told Quaritch. He'd be here, or the CO would go find him. And he'd punish him the second he got his hands on him.

Had he meant it? What will he do when he has the kitten within reach again? Assuming he doesn't just collapse into a black hole and shred him. That's what everything feels like right now. For a flash, he imagines conservator Pierce sitting in his cramped little office, scolding the other Recoms like a snappy guidance counselor.

As the minutes pass, as the chime rings in the halls, that toxic bile begins to foam, twisting from deep inside. If he's being stood up, there'll be hell to pay. He won't tolerate lateness either. No matter what, it's going to be a long night for both of them.

Ten minutes. Twenty minutes.

Someone's going to be in a lot of trouble.

Simon rises from his seat with a low growl. Fuck the Atmos, he'll take someone's spare when he needs it. He hits the doorpad harder than necessary, waiting for it to hiss and unlock. Something inside of him wants to rip it off and flood the halls and its humans with toxic air. Let everyone drop while he hunts until he's sated.

The hunt is all he can feel in every pump of his heart.

When the door finally slides open, he exits so quickly that he almost crashes—right into Miles Quaritch.

Chapter Text

Both Recombinants halt just in time to avoid smacking into each other, their tails whipping in surprise.

Major Dietrich’s stays straight up in the air, authoritative and flicking in annoyance.

But Miles’ tail falls like a wilting flower.

The moment he notices it, the appendage is forced back up into a rigid exclamation point. He schools his expression, glaring as he closes the gap between them.

A hand meets his heaving chest, flat and firm, denying access.

“You're late,” Simon says, edging on a growl. He’s pissed and somehow that makes him glow even brighter. The faint smell of smoke is still detectable on him. Quaritch wonders if he can smell the mud on him.

He ignores the obvious statement and glances to the hallway. His fan club can’t be far behind. They wouldn’t dare continue the fight in front of their leader. Or would they? Would he encourage it, this far away, without any humans to see them acting like the lab-grown monsters they are?

There are two paths available to Miles at this moment: a shark tank or a snake’s suffocating embrace.

If he’s squeezed slowly, at least there’s still a chance some of him will survive.

He pushes forward again but his commander meets him face-to-face with an audible growl, clear in its warning for him not to move a muscle.

Suddenly there are hands on Miles, but not in the way he expects. The major pats roughly under his arms and behind his shoulders. His hands then slide swiftly down his back and sweep around his waistline. A good old pat-down in all the right places. But there are no holsters, no hidden knives or guns or even a stolen stapler. Quaritch realizes that he hadn’t even thought of sneaking a weapon. He’s still on probation; stealing one would surely get him thrown back in a cell. Harming Major Dietrich wouldn’t just land him in something far worse than hot water.

The last time he had a gun in his hands was when he’d run out of ammo trying to get Sully’s wife. He’d been out on the field for months, geared up with full pockets and everything he needed to get the job done strapped to his tall body. Flares, cuffs, weapons, ammo.

Even dehydrated nutrient packs that he’d tried giving Spider on long flights. The boy refused, happy to wait until they were back on the ground to hunt and forage.

Now he’s just in standard RDA fatigues. It feels like being naked already. Exposed in the one place that’s supposed to be a safe haven from the horrors of Pandora. Hell’s Gate had been a colonel’s heaven to him, but Bridgehead’s more like the underworld now.

The search gets more aggressive below the waist. The CO practically claws up the inseam of his pants in his search and then reaches down, but stops short at his hems. Miles shifts his feet, blue and bare. His boots are several hallways away, likely to be picked up by an underpaid custodian later in the night. Another violation among many to be added to his report.

There’s a distant echo of rubber squeaks; boots on someone else’s feet. Shit. His ears angle out, listening, trying to gauge how far away the sound is. He doesn’t have time to stand here getting patted for contraband he doesn’t even have. He especially doesn’t have time for the others to see this. Whatever this is.

He wonders again what would happen. Would they know what this is? Would Dietrich invite them all in to have a go at him one or two at a time?

“Y’gonna write me up about it?” Miles challenges his superior, trying to sound tough even though he’s still winded from running. He wants to tell him off, call him every expletive in the dictionary. Hatred rises in competition with fear, in competition with the aching emptiness in his cells, making his body feel light.

His challenge works to get the commanding officer in his face again. One more long, quiet, close growl. Just for him. It rumbles out and ends with a stare, a cold blink, and a shift to the side. Seemingly satisfied that he isn't concealing anything, Simon yanks him harshly through the door. It beeps as it locks behind them, the rush of displaced air deafening for a few moments.

Quaritch stands in the major’s quarters as still as a statue.

The suite is lit brighter than last time, but not by much. Seems the major likes things easy on the eyes. Just dim enough to make their skin twinkle.

Miles can see furniture and surfaces he’s not sure he remembers. All he remembers for certain is the table and how cold it was against his bare torso, against his cheek and then his temple. So cold it burned. He can see it to the right, past the major, by the counters.

A bland little kitchenette, with a built-in mini fridge, a coffee maker, and a microwave without a single smudge on its window. There’s a Na’vi-sized armchair at the wall with an ashtray on the small table at its side. Just the basics, but more than the other soldiers have.

At Hell’s Gate, he had his own office and separate unit too. Even here at Bridgehead, he’d gotten such luxuries with his old position. But there had only been a few days to actually enjoy having his own space before the team headed out. And when he came back with a wild teenager over his shoulder, there had been even less down time. Spider hadn’t much appreciated the tour anyway, clamming up until they finally got to the mess hall. They came back to get the banshees fitted with 3D-printed gear, stock up on supplies, and they were back out on the hunt once more.

He’d lost it all. No office, no unit, no private shower.

No gear, no team, no mission, no power.

No son.

Just guard duty and a lung infection.

And a commanding officer nursing more than one craving. 

That anxious tail darts back and forth, half-way in the air behind him, but he still hasn't looked at Dietrich. He's staring a hole into the floor instead, teeth gritted, jaw tight.

What the hell is he doing?

What has he done?

Simon begins unfastening the rebreather from his neck, only for Quaritch to quickly snatch his arm. The major doesn't tolerate it, doesn’t even blink, just tugs him further into the suite by his kuru. The pain crackles down his spine.

“Give me a minute,” Miles snaps, nearly tripping over his bare feet to keep up.

He’s so tired, so worn out, so damn hungry. He can’t tell if the spots in his vision are from his neural whip being manhandled again or if he’s starting to redline. He feels strange again, like he’s forgetting how he got there, like he’s just woken up somehow.

Breathe.

He inhales, pale pink nostrils flaring, feeling every dreadful thought in the rise and fall of his ears until he forces them to flatten down against his head.

Dietrich lets go of his queue but stays in his space. “You're late. You don't get a fucking minute.”

Simon rips the rebreather away, then the pack. All thrown to the floor with a clatter. Then the throat comm and the earpiece are torn off, and he pushes Quaritch toward the other corner of the suite, away from the table and counters. The Recom almost stumbles, but turns to face his commander again. He tries to speak up but his throat is solid. He feels the ice spreading up his limbs to his heart.

For all the psyching up he’d done to get through this, he doesn’t know what’s happening to him now.

The CO stalks after him slowly, glare severe, taking in the mess of a man before him. Miles is hanging on by a thread and it’s no longer within his capacity to hide it.

Was it ever?

Hands are on him again, tugging on his clothes. Miles feels like he’s weakening rapidly but resists. He grabs both of Dietrich’s wrists with a bold growl of his own. Simon's hands snatch his waist, pulling, pushing where he wants him. Closer to the plain bed that Quaritch is only now noticing.

His heart jumps to his throat.

“Wait,” he grunts, fighting his superior’s unyielding hands for his belt. “Goddamn it, just let me—WAIT!”

His shout stops Simon. But there’s no surprise in his features. No change in his posture, his ears, or eyes. Just a silent, scrutinizing stare. A mild inhale and exhale. And then he lets go of Quaritch and turns away. His tail waves calmly behind him as he walks to a small metal drawer against the wall.

Miles watches, trying to steady his breath, as the CO retrieves something small and white, and slips it between his lips. A few sharp clicks later and it’s lit.

The warmth lights up the underside of his nose. It reflects as embers in his irises, only a small sample of the fire burning inside. Major Dietrich’s eyes go to slits as he takes a long, warm drag.

“Undress,” he orders his subordinate. “Or I'll rip it all off this time.”

Miles gapes at him for a long moment, expression almost comically scandalized.

He replays the last time he left this room, walking back to the showers and barracks without a shirt. He imagines what would happen if he roamed the halls completely naked, decorated in bruises and bites, with no pants to collect the shameful mess leaking from inside of him.

The knowing that that is what is going to happen in this room makes his body feel like it’s being drained. He gives one final glance back at the door that seems so far away now. The walls here are thick; he can’t hear if the other Recoms even caught up. If they even made it this way. If he would’ve had any other choice but to show up and give himself up like this.

Why is this better than getting his ass kicked?

“I don't know why I'm here,” Miles confesses suddenly, drawl sounding distant through his tight throat.

Dietrich is a dotted demon in the dark, golden eyes watching every breath. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.” Miles straightens, back to glowering at his superior, a thousand curses hanging behind his fangs, waiting for the fire to be lit so they can explode. “I don't know what the fuck I'm doing here. Why am I here?”

“Undress,” Simon commands again, ignoring his question as he taps the cigarette out.

“No. You're gonna tell me what this is about. Now.” Miles looks about to burst, fists clenched at his sides, tail lashing the air. “Been with your squad for a few weeks now. Pulling my weight, not bitchin’ even though your sorry excuses for soldiers have been nothin’ but trouble. So what the fuck is this about? This how you keep your boys in line? ‘Cause it ain’t workin’ for shit and you know it.”

The major doesn’t react to the rant beyond an annoyed twitch of the ear. Either he doesn’t like that his team is being insulted, that he hasn’t once been addressed as sir this entire time, or that his orders are being brushed off. Or maybe he’s keeping a tally of every infraction that deserves a choking.

He opens a drawer and pulls out something bright enough to see in the dim light. Orange. Quick-cuffs. He holds them casually, like they’re just a tool he needs for paperwork.

“Keep stalling and I'll fuck you on the table again.”

He's waiting and it isn't a show of patience or kindness. Miles eyeballs him right back, a fang peeking out from the curl of his lip. But when Dietrich suddenly stalks closer, Miles puts his hands out.

Okay, the hands say. Okay. I’m doing it. I’m complying.

Simon stops, watching. Miles starts rather pitifully with his cracked watch, struggling to get it loose with his shaking hand. It falls with a heavy clunk to the floor. It’s stronger than his old one ever was. Won't really break, no matter how shattered it looks. Still ticking away underneath every fracture.

He’s doing this to survive. Sometimes survival means letting a part of you die. If he shatters, will he still keep running? If he cuts off limb after limb, what will be left of him?

He slips his shirt off over his head, bypassing the soreness of escaping two catfights in one day. And one assault he didn’t escape.

And yet another he’s unable to do anything about now.

Simon’s eyes land on the glint of the ex-colonel’s dogtag before staring pointedly at his pants.

“Let’s just—talk first. Man to man,” Quaritch tries. It’s another risky attempt at stalling. But he also desperately needs information. He needs to make sense of this. He needs something or he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

Simon advances on him again, wielding the cuffs.

“Fine! Fine.” Miles indignantly unbuckles the belt with a string of frustrated curses. He kicks himself out of them with a struggle, his tail catching, and finally returns his superior's cold glare, arms out, as if saying there, are you fucking happy?

His ballsy stance lasts only a second before he awkwardly covers his crotch with his large blue hands. Modesty he definitely never had as a human. He would’ve worked out nude in the gym like the Romans if he’d been allowed.

Would’ve made things more straight-forward with Paz, that’s for sure. The thought of her strikes something hurtful in him that’s promptly swallowed down with the anxious lump in his throat.

Dietrich's eyes rest on his naked form, with one slow blink to drink him in. His gaze is razor-sharp as he circles, carving him up like he’s the hunt of the season.

Miles thinks of the animatronic sharks at the theme parks on Earth, meant to give people a chance at seeing extinct animals in person, even if only simulated. Eternally magnetized to a track, with a hunger that can never be sated. Won’t be long before they’re obsolete now that cloning is the next big thing.

Miles realizes, just as he has again and again since waking, that he’s one of those “next big things.” The RDA is likely flaunting the tech in sugar-coated documentaries for Earth’s citizens as he stands here naked after a failed mission.

He’d outlived his family by the time he made it to Pandora, but what about his other soldiers and their families? What did they know about their deaths and subsequent resurrection? Did they know that they’d already died again?

A hand curls around the dogtag hanging over Miles’ bare chest. Dietrich exhales smoke almost boredly as he holds it in his hand, feeling its weight. Without missing a step on his track, he lets it go. It stings coldly as it falls back against Quaritch’s chest.

The back of knuckles and the edge of the cuffs brush against Miles’ hip, forcing him to swallow a shiver down, but it doesn’t stop there. He presses his hand into warm skin, tracing stripes with his fingers, ghosting over the fading bruises he’d left earlier in the week. An inspection done with care, but it’s so different from the way the medics and the conservator do it. Every touch sends heat blooming under Quaritch’s belly.

Simon slows to a stop at his back. Miles stiffens when he feels his queue being lifted. He can just barely see that the CO is squinting. At what? Oh. There’s a small amount of dried mud still caking the tied end. Miles hadn’t been as thorough in the showers as he’d thought, focused mainly on the mess he’d made of his hands and feet.

After a thoughtful moment and a puff, Simon drops the dirty braid.

“You wanna know why you’re here?” he asks, voice calm and smooth.

He leaves him, marching straight to a panel on the wall that Miles hadn’t noticed until now. A swipe of Dietrich’s hand over it causes a section of the wall to flash and assemble itself—into active reflection.

A mirror.

Miles’ breath hitches so hard that his hands jerk away from covering himself. His tongue turns to stone against his teeth and his stomach drops into hell. The sight of his form, uncovered, sends him into a gripping terror. He doesn’t think—he whips around and dashes away, or tries to.

The major rushes him, at his back in an instant. He grabs an arm and Miles yells, turning and swinging his other. He misses by a mile, earning a concrete fist in his gut. Wheezes fold him over into Dietrich’s arms as a fit of coughs shakes him.

With spotted vision, he pushes away and tries to scramble to the door once more. Why, he doesn’t know. What he thinks he’s going to do, he doesn’t know. But he thrashes and barks furious protests as Simon wrestles him down. Tactile memories play over the present, of the CO trapping him against the table. Miles’ face scrunches into a crackly hiss as he fights capture.

With mortifying ease, Simon wrenches his arms behind his back. He does it without losing the cigarette or so much as a stray sprinkle of ash.

Miles feels and hears the snap of the cuffs around his wrists. The pain in his arms and shoulders is piercing.

A frantic snarl. “You can’t fucking do this!”

I’ll kill you! the ghost sharing his body shrieks. I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?!

As a human, he would’ve murdered his attacker before letting something like this happen. He would’ve left a bloody corpse before there was even a chance for him to end up bound and used.

The alien in his DNA spits and hisses, bucking and tail wild, losing himself to desperation and rage. 

His superior watches silently, holding him in place, until the former colonel tires himself out. Until he’s reduced to weakened coughing. Too tired, too sleep-deprived, too starved for food and air and anything normal. 

“Up,” Simon directs, still so coolly, as if he’s talking to an insecure dog at obedience training.

Miles does not move except for the feral, pissed off whacking of his tail on the hard floor.

So he’s pulled painfully by the cuffs onto his feet and dragged back to stand in front of the mirror. Despite running on fumes, he still tries to resist. He turns to the left and rushes, turns to the right and stumbles—and he’s pulled back into place every single time.

The fist around his queue lights the base of his skull into white static and his throat into a strangled growl. Simon forcefully turns his body to face the mirror straight-on. But Miles keeps his face turned away, gaze far, far from it.

“Look at yourself.” An order.

Silence. No movement except for uneven breaths. Simon’s hand grips under his jaw, nails digging in, turning his head. A warning that is kind in comparison to what he’s done before.

“I know what I look like,” Miles grumbles through teeth, voice breaking. He’s glaring into an empty space in the room, face burning up in frustration and humiliation.

The hand tightens around kuru, roughness communicating displeasure with his continued defiance. Finally, Miles obeys, if only to help lessen the hurt. His eyes jump, slide, and land with a crash on his reflection.

His body looks even longer without sized-up human clothes on to block him into parts. Every stripe is visible, curving and flaring like the flames of hell eating him up. Every white spot still sparkles even with such limited energy in his cells. Or maybe that’s why they sparkle, like a warning flare.

He looks worse than shit now. Not that he needs to be nude to notice. But it seems like he’s lost more muscle mass in the past week than he had in recovery. Hasn’t once stepped into the Recom gym or even gone for a jog outside. His tattoo still looks fresh, but something about it is wrong too. Discoloration from cuts and bruises remain, blemishing his pretty cyan skin.

But his face. Stress is smeared across his face as obvious as war paint.

It's only been a handful of days, hasn't it? And only several hours since their last encounter. Somehow it doesn't feel like it for either of them. It’s been the longest week of both their short, billion-dollar lives.

Major Dietrich is behind him now, strong arms keeping him in place. His free hand slides over Quaritch’s collarbone and down his chest. Feeling the difference in texture where scratches still heal. As if to apologize, he palms over a pec and nipple. Miles inhales sharply, resisting the urge to scream to offset the pleasant tingle he feels. He can feel the skinny black bracelet the major seems to wear everywhere.

The hand continues downward, over the belly that hasn’t had much to eat in days. Miles’ abs jump from the faint contact, but he’s kept in place, unable to jerk away. A grumble erupts from his gut with an empty, punching sort of ache. Another strange, apologetic sort of rubbing, as if spelling out some promise to remedy the hunger.

When Simon’s hand goes below the waist, he takes a long, deep inhale. Taking in his prey’s scent, like it’s just as addictive as the cigarette burning away in his fingers.

There's nothing hiding it now. Miles tries to look away again but Simon grips his face hard enough to hurt, forcing him to keep looking, tracking his eyes to be sure. He's made to watch as his superior's hand dips between his legs, holding that cigarette dangerously close.

“This is why you're here.”

His middle finger glides down and back up the little slit. Miles hears himself gasp, feels himself begin to tremble. He stares at the mirror, helplessly exposed, a hexapede caught in the headlights of a bulldozer.

All of this for something so small and delicate.

And then Simon spreads him.

Blue fades into delicate pink where soft lips conceal something even softer, a secret heat inside. A heat only Major Dietrich has known. Miles is still sheathed but the visible glans is also pink, already fat and shining from the shame circulating throughout his body.

As Simon pets him gently, tracing a velvet lip, a numbness washes over Miles in icy waves. It takes several tries, but he wills himself to speak.

“I wasn’t brought back for this,” he asserts, voice still mortifyingly uneven. His tail moves jerkily between them, anxious and agitated. “I have a mission. I’m here to get shit done, not to be a—a—” His throat locks in a humiliating spasm.

Not to be a plaything.

Simon doesn’t miss a beat. “You think they spent all that money so you could get revenge for a dead old man?”

Quaritch grimaces defiantly, showing fangs. “Sully betrayed me.”

Me? Is the face in the mirror me?

“Betrayed his own kind.”

His own kind… Miles’ stomach flips anew at the sight of his body. So unfamiliar, a body that can’t really be his. He burns from within as the major’s hand fondly massages his vulva.

“Your only mission is to follow orders,” Simon corrects, still holding his eyes in the mirror like they’re precious stones, more valuable than anything the RDA has ever stolen from this fucked up moon. But not as valuable as what’s in his hand.

“And now your orders come from me.”

Quaritch’s ears pin back sharply, barely hiding a shiver. “No,” he protests. “Not this. This—This ain’t right and you know it.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice.

“You were pretty tight-lipped with the conservator.” His CO pauses touching him only to transfer his cigarette back to his mouth and leave it there for a lazy drag.

How the hell would he know what happened at his appointment? But as soon as he asks himself, he realizes. Of course he’d have access to his full file. Of fuckin’ course. He’s company property. So’s Simon and every single test-tube blue meanie in this damn place.

Son of a bitch, he’d outranked him before. He was colonel. Dietrich wouldn’t have had clearance to look at his medical files if he was still in charge.

He jolts at the sensation of his stiff glans being thumbed, then loses himself to an anxious bout of coughs. He’s held through it, with no choice but to yield to the unwanted contact.

“Why are you doing this?” he pleads, voice very, very quiet.

It takes every ounce of willpower to keep the dam inside from exploding under the force of his distress. Only the tiniest half-swallowed sound pops in his chest and even that is too shameful for Miles to bear, his grimace crumpling.

“Shh,” Dietrich soothes, nuzzling him. He takes the cigarette from his mouth.
                               
Miles blinks away moisture and finds the small roll of paper in front of his face. An immediate attempt to turn away only earns him a warning rumble. He looks into the mirror, into the reflection of those sharp eyes hooking into him.

He remembers looking to the sky. His promise that this isn’t over. That he’s not going to quit just because things are fucked up. In another dimension, maybe he’s in the hallways getting kicked into a pulp by his teammates. Or maybe he’s dead at the banshee fence, shot trying to climb over to get to Cupcake. Or maybe he swam under a boat and got sucked up into the propellers, mashed into the most expensive fish food in the galaxy.

Or maybe Spider never pulled him out of the sea and none of this is real.

Simon opens his mouth against bare shoulder and the moment Miles feels the threat of teeth grazing against skin, he closes his lips around the cigarette and sucks.

Warm tobacco fills his chest as his cheeks hollow out. But he doesn’t last long, irritated lungs expelling it all out almost immediately. His prize is a kiss on the shoulder instead of a bite, and an order to try again. Quaritch obeys and this time his neurons are wrapped up tightly by the buzz of nicotine.

It’s been a long time since he felt the effects of a good quality roll in his system. He’d smoked in his youth, mostly socially or after taking a lady to his dorm. But when the air back home got worse and he advanced in his career, it was something that got left behind. Isn't cheap to get real tobacco leaves anymore and whatever his CO had just made him smoke was in fact the real deal. He’d never forget the taste or the way it tickled his nervous system. Even this new body of his has a response to it.

He would feel relaxed right now, if circumstances were different. If he wasn’t bound and nude in the living quarters of his commanding officer. If he didn’t also feel something deep inside of him breaking apart like sugar glass under a combat boot.

“Good boy,” Dietrich praises, kissing skin once more before pulling back. “But not good enough.”

The room rushes around Miles without warning. There’s barely time to yelp in surprise before he lands with an ungracious bounce on the mattress, dogtag jingling. Simon sits and tugs him roughly so that he’s laid over his lap, ass up. Quaritch resists through his coughs, wriggling, kicking his tired, numbing legs. Simon yanks on both his kuru and the base of his tail until Miles arches with a gravelly, pained yelp.

“What the fuck—are you doing—?!”

Simon keeps a tight pull on that queue but his other hand releases to slide up his shoulder blades and pat firmly, like he’s comforting a colicky little one. Once the coughing calms, he moves his hand back down to settle over a round, blue ass-cheek. He gives a hard squeeze, digging his fingers in as deep as they’ll go into the meat.

After a breath, he raises his hand high.

“What the fuck do you want—” Miles snarls and is abruptly reduced to a wordless shout by a punishing, hard spank. It’s severe and loud enough to snap his ears back. His mind is a minefield of obscenities waiting to detonate, but he’s so stunned he can’t even speak.

“I waited for you, kitten,” Dietrich murmurs around the cigarette in his mouth. He tugs on that queue to get a good look at Quaritch’s outraged expression. “Thought I was going to have to go find you.”

He strikes him again. This time his hand stays there, trapping the bursting heat to his skin. Miles puffs, swallowing dryly, utterly stupefied. And then that hand-rolled shit is pressed to his lips again. He turns his face away and earns another sharp tug until he gives in and takes a drag into his aching chest.

Is he trying to kill him? Simon pets his back through the next coughing fit with a light hum.

“I told you I don’t do three strikes.”

Another spank. Miles can only huff from the force.

“Every time you make me wait, this is how we’ll start.”

Spank. Miles grits his teeth.

“One for every minute you were late.”

Fwak.

“You going to be late again?”

Miles explodes, clawing into whatever shreds of dignity remain clinging to the body that should be dead but isn’t. “I’m not playing your fucking game!”

The next spank is meaner than all the previous ones. He arches, yowling his fury and futile resistance. The commanding officer takes his leisurely time smoking, letting the sting fade before he slaps his thick cheek again.

“You came here on your own. You could’ve run, but here you are, kitten.”

Miles scoffs, something like an exhausted laugh mixed in with a cough.

“Y’didn’t give me much of a choice and you know it.”

He watches the tip of the cigarette brighten out of the corner of his eye. The bastard’s unhurried, casual poise makes him see red.

“You think you’re different?” Simon asks when he exhales a cloud. “None of us have a choice.”

Before Quaritch can ask what the fuck he’s talking about, the punishment resumes. No words are spoken between either of them for some time. Simon’s hand comes down again and again, tearing cries from the former colonel that increase in volume the harder he hits him. If Simon really does count them, he doesn’t know. He’s lost track. Quaritch’s ass flinches painfully until there isn’t enough time to relax between each strike. He stays tense, body tight as crystal.

By the time it’s over, Miles has gone limp on his lap, ass cheeks blooming purple.

Everything feels sluggish. He’s panting, blinking slowly, body alight with chemical reactions while gentle fingertips trace over inflamed skin.

“Just…” he heaves, slurring. “Just tell me why.”

If he’s to survive this, he needs to know why. Not just why this is happening, but—

Why him?

Dietrich is quiet for a moment, nursing his cigarette. “You still don’t get it.”

A hand tucks itself under Miles to pet his vulva, already puffy from the rush of blood. He writhes as a few fingers slide over his wetness. Why is he wet? Why the fuck does he get wet so fast?

The CO pushes two firm digits inside. Miles hides his face in the bed, filled beyond capacity with mortification so acidic he’s sure his organs are melting together.

“Squeeze,” he’s ordered.

Miles doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

The next kind of discomfort he feels is so unexpected that he screams—an honest to God scream. A small point at the base of his tail stings brightly, the pain unmistakable: the burning end of Simon’s cigarette. It hurts intensely, his skin singed, but it gets him to involuntarily contract around the major’s fingers.

Simon flexes his digits against the squeeze, watching curiously how the Recom on his lap flounders and chokes from the stimulation.

“You came hard earlier,” Simon comments. “Just from this.”

“Fuck you,” Miles spits, because it’s all he has. The only power he has now is his words. Even then, it’s not really power. Maybe a desperate sort of clawing for—what?

Simon exhales boredly, not reacting otherwise. Quaritch stares into the bed sheet pressing against his face, only moving because the major shifts to lean toward his bedside table. His eyes cut up in time to see that Dietrich’s putting the cigarette out. The whole place smells of tobacco—and something else. Something he’s smelled before but can’t identify. Like an invisible aura around them both.

Once again the room spins as he’s tugged off his CO’s lap and flopped onto the mattress, on his back with his bound wrists trapped behind and underneath him. His arms are already smarting and this position makes it worse. Dietrich stands, facing away, as he removes his shoes and pants as nonchalantly as if he’s changing in the locker room. He then climbs onto the bed, upright on his knees, as he pulls his shirt off over his head in one swift move.

The clink and shine of the major’s dogtag catches Miles’ attention first. Metal clinging to a collarbone, then falling between smooth blue pecs as the chain is adjusted. His eyes cut lower, to his captor’s left rib and the dark ink decorating him there. Not exactly a pleasant place to get a tattoo of that size. Miles is momentarily captivated by what he sees.

Large, sensual roses, open like sultry lips hungry for kisses. There’s something coiling around from behind them. Miles blinks and realizes it’s a snake, with fangs out in a threat and loose petals falling beneath it. Delicate beauty guarded by a deadly creature.

Below his navel, down the cut of his iliac crest, the CO’s own dewy sheath has mostly given way. It takes only a few deep breaths before it releases, presenting a large, pressurized erection. Pink just like Miles’ is. Pink like their noses and the thin inside of their ears.

Miles knows he saw it last time, before it was forced into his mouth. Before he was slapped and trapped against the table, unable to see anything except the dark walls while he felt utterly skewered by its size. Only four days ago and it feels so far away it may as well have been a dream, despite the markings still left behind.

Simon shrugs his queue back over his shoulder and closes in. Miles feels small like this, looking up at him from the bed. He clamps his legs together, earning a smirk from his superior that sends a chill down his spine. His knees are so easily pried apart that he could just wither away in shame.

His cunt shines but his own cock is still only just peeking out, as if frozen inside him in apprehension. He braces for the discomfort of impatient fingers digging inside of him, but they don’t come. Instead, his superior’s hand settles over his mons, while his other thumbs gently at his labia. He samples the slick and rubs it upward, circling his sensitive little glans. Miles stiffens, holds his breath, and keeps his eyes closed through the repeated waves of heat spreading from his pelvis.

The bastard takes his time touching and inspecting, like he’s found himself a rare diamond. Miles almost wishes for the pain instead of this. Anything other than having his—stuff—played with so adoringly.

Apparently done pondering his prize, Simon shifts forward and lowers down between his legs, right on top of him. The extra weight lights the soreness of his ass up, with no way to relieve it. Miles inhales shakily, keeping his head to the side and his eyes shut as Simon’s affectionate mouth presses against his neck. A hand strokes across his chest, over a nipple, sending tingles once more to his fingers and toes.

His heart races like that of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. He knows Simon can feel his quick pulse against his tongue as he tastes his throat. He probably still smells of mud, of sweat and stress. But Simon savors him anyway, beginning to slowly slide his cock against his wet slit.

Miles feels as though he’s about to die even though he’s survived this before. He’s survived war, for fuck’s sake.

And… once, he didn’t. That’s why he even exists now.

But it’s like he’s fading again. Burning up while at the same time sucked into an ice cold vortex. Back at the bottom of the sea once more, with no one to drag him to the surface. No pitying son to haul his half-drowned ass to shore.

What if he can’t come back from it this time?

All he needs to do is endure. Soon he’ll be back in the barracks.

Does he even want to go back there?

All that matters is right now. He takes a long, steadying breath into his nose and opens his eyes. Finds some place to stare at. The lighting in his corner of the suite is fuzzy. There’s a holo-light on the bedside table. Why is he only now noticing it? Maybe if he shrinks himself into its glowing shapes, this’ll be over before he knows it.

Suddenly there’s less weight on his body. Dietrich is upright, his heated length resting against Quaritch’s silky labia.

“Look at me, kitten,” the major says, voice husky with desire.

Miles doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, shuts his eyes once again with a dry gulp. 

“That’s an order.” A cruel hand closes around Quaritch’s jaw, forcing him to face his commander and applying uncomfortable pressure until his eyes open.

But they’re still pointed away, defiant above his grimace. He knows why the bastard wants his eyes. He didn’t see his face last time. Didn’t see him go through the fucking five stages of grief. The alternating pain and pleasure. The black hole of death and rebirth.

This is all Miles has left… God fucking damn it. Nails dig into his jaw and he finally snaps his eyes to meet his commanding officer’s. His frown is severe enough to strain his face and pull his neck muscles taut.

Major Dietrich’s lips twitch into a small, fond smile. The smallest deviation of his gaze earns a hardening of the grip, reminding him that he’s not to look away from his superior’s eyes.

Miles trembles with terror. The major can see and feel it. He strokes the face in his hold so soothingly that it’s confusing.

“Stay with me,” Simon says.

He lets go slowly and repositions his hand at his kitten’s little waist, while the other holds himself in position. The tapered head of his cock swipes up and down Miles’ slit, spreading his slickness.

Is this it? The real end?

Dietrich pushes in.

If he’s already tight, it’s an even tighter fit now with his shaft still tucked inside. A tense, traumatized strain trying to keep any invasion out.

A more forceful push—and the head slips in.

They gasp together.

And to Quaritch’s horror, his tender hole twitches longingly around the tip of the weapon breaching him.

Simon takes a grounding breath, pulls back to release the pressure, and then stuffs the tip right back in. He looks down between them with a lock of dark hair falling over a pretty eye, completely mesmerized by what he sees and feels.

The wet, sticky sound of such slow, shallow penetration makes Miles feel sick. Air is forced in and out through his gritted teeth, but he can’t control his body no matter how hard he tries. He can’t stop how he flutters, because even just this small amount tickles him just right.

The major takes Miles’ eyes once more, giving him a long, thoughtful look.

And he sinks the rest of the way in.

Everything goes quiet. Inch by inch, he’s taken. Strangled underwater again, unable to draw breath. His eyes open wider and wider. Even though he obeys by not looking away, his vision blurs the more his commander’s cock slides against his own while stretching him from within.

He holds his steel grimace for as long as he can. But when the pressure reaches the deepest part of him, he loses his grip. An urgent huff is expelled from his chest, followed by a gulping gasp, like he’s reached the surface of the water. Legs shaking, his ears angle back with a dainty shiver. There’s nothing he can do about the way his restless walls reflexively throb around the hot cock splitting him apart.

The major moans on top of him, deep in his chest, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to feel such a thing again. Like there isn’t anything that can match this. A portal to somewhere no human or Na’vi will ever know but him.

Miles stares, paralyzed, as the Recom’s eyes close in dreamy bliss. The hard, cold face that’s been terrorizing his mind’s eye for days is suddenly—soft. Elegant. He almost looks like a different person. Not a soldier or an officer or even an asset. Dumped out and filled with something else.

Raptured, just from cunt.

His cunt.

Miles is sure that when this is over, his own heart will just stop. How could he possibly keep living?

Simon’s eyelids flutter open in a daze, as if back from a profound trance. His pupils are blown like he’s taken a hit of something good enough for jail time on Earth. He stares at Miles, no, into him somehow—and it hurts.

Miles has never felt anything like this before. The kind of discomfort of someone seeing something they’re not supposed to see. No one is supposed to see this part of Miles Quaritch because it isn’t supposed to exist.

“What?” he hisses, if only to soothe his own dying pride.

Simon doesn’t offer an answer, only keeps locked into Miles’ eyes as he pulls his hips back and pushes right back in. Nice and steady. Quaritch grunts through his teeth, face forced back into a stiff, defiant scowl. It’s already too much. His pelvic muscles and his dick both being massaged by something so hard and hot is too much. He tries to keep his breaths quiet but eventually they begin to rasp out of him.

He doesn’t hear what Simon says as he adjusts and shifts back enough so that he can get another good look at the hole he’s stretching. One hand rests on Miles’ pubic bone so his thumb can swipe over the glans that still only shyly peeks out. His pelvis nearly jumps off the mattress from the contact, but his CO holds him down with little effort.

“Kitten, you’re so sensitive.”

“Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” Miles snaps before he can stop himself, fangs showing.

In retaliation, Simon thrusts as deeply as he can, holding there just to see him struggle to keep his angry expression up. Miles fights the way his body tenses, how he tingles down his queue from it. Abruptly he’s made aware that he also missed his hair appointment this week, because Simon has enough in his grip to hurt him.

“You just love getting in trouble, don’t you, baby?” Dietrich teases, a warning in his words. Miles could spit venom from the new pet name. But it’s not just that. It’s the adoration he can hear in the major’s voice. How he’s so hard, so brutish, but also so soft with him.

After a biting, claiming kiss, he lets go of his hair. Miles slams his head back against the mattress with a swallowed whimper as he endures another barrage of slow but firm thrusts and rubbing where he’s so, so delicate. One particular touch makes the plump tip of his cock spurt a single glob of fluid. It’s enough to make his pelvis lock up in an intense squeeze and he has to bite down a mortifying sound that he desperately pretends wasn’t anything at all like a squeal.

“Shit—” Simon huffs, buffeted by his toy’s spasm. Had he been this breathless the first time? Miles can’t remember.

Why the fuck can’t he remember everything that happened? It’s like something broke, an hourglass scattered across his memory with only jagged fragments and grainy handfuls of sand to piece everything together.

When Dietrich starts moving again, the build of pressure has Miles gurgling a pitiful growl in the back of his throat. When he can no longer keep it up, he bursts into uneven breaths, desperate to reclaim some kind of control. It’s no use; another gooey pre-orgasmic wave rocks his throat loose into a long groan.

It’s apparently good enough to knock Simon off his rhythm, grunting in his own bid for willpower as his hips stutter and slow.

“God damn…” Their dogtags clink together while he catches his breath. “You gonna come already?”

Miles' face is so scalding hot it’s a wonder he doesn’t combust right then and there. Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ nice? Burst into flames, take Dietrich and Bridgehead down with him. Scorch Sully and his bitch mate. Engulf the whole moon and its so-called goddess while he’s at it. Nothing would be able to escape the fiery manifestation of what consumes him.

Simon recovers, his right hand returning to Miles’ face. He doesn’t grab or force this time. He only holds him, cupping gently, petting his cheek with a thumb.

“Come on,” he encourages. Miles tries to jerk away from the touch, but it’s useless. Simon keeps his face, babies him, stares into him while he strokes him from the inside. “Let me see.”

Every close call, every rough night during his tours in Nigeria or on this infested rock pales in comparison to what’s happening to him right now. The skillful, controlled roll of Simon’s hips is carving out of him everything he thinks he is.

Miles tries so hard to stop it. Tries to focus on the pain in his arms and ass instead. He holds his breath until he can’t help the way his gasps become fast and erratic. The only time he violates the rule and breaks eye contact from the major is the moment he begins to get dragged to the edge. He shakes his head tightly, silently begging, unbelieving, still not understanding what the fuck he’s doing here, what this means, what any of this is.

And then his mouth opens, his pupils contract, and he seizes up. Overtaken by the warm and inescapable crashing waves of climax, all he can do is squirm and grunt through his pussy’s precious agony.

The major is attentive, caressing his cheek to ground him through every strained contraction. Smooth lips and light kisses to his face come with praise, moaned and whispered like a prayer meant only for him to hear. Miles’ eyelids go slack until they’re closed and Simon permits it as a reward. 

The commander is held securely, each squeeze wringing his cock so perfectly that he’d stopped thrusting long ago. He rides it out with his prey, groaning in that lovely baritone of his. But even Dietrich has his limits.

All at once he lets go and pulls out with a hissed inhale, slapping his glossy length onto Quaritch’s belly. Suddenly free of pressure, Miles winces as his own engorged cock simultaneously ejects out from inside of him, shooting a few pitifully messy loads as it bumps up into the base of his captor’s equally soaked shaft.

Simon’s cock pulses intensely against him, coming down from a near-blow that has the man seeing stars. He rubs lazily against the smaller dick, still regaining his breath. And evidently brain cells too; he looks utterly punch-drunk on pussy. Those cheeks and ears are flushed, white spots twinkling on his skin, eyes still melted by a chemical cocktail.

The pleasant mixture of nicotine and the afterglow is something Miles hasn’t felt for a very, very long time. He can try to push it from his senses all he wants, but it’s like being wrapped up in a heated comforter. They both breathe wordlessly for a minute or two. He could almost pray to someone, anyone, that it would stay that way.

“Saw your late clock-in,” Simon says between pants. Far too casually, while beaming down at the mess of slick and come his kitten made on him. “What did you do after I left?”

Miles scowls and turns his face away. A mistake.

Slap.

Grab.

Stare.

“What did you do?” Simon asks again, still just as mellow despite his physical aggression.

“The fuck d’ya think?” Miles' voice is embarrassingly wobbly.

Simon pats his face before letting go again. “I think getting fingered wasn’t enough. Think you made Reyes do overtime so you could go for another round on your own.”

Miles growls, denial and bile bubbling in his chest.

“Know what else I think?” Simon purrs.

To his revulsion, Miles feels the soft tip of his captor’s swollen cock kissing his sore entrance again.

No. He can’t. Not so soon, not again.

He’ll break. He’ll die.

How many times can he die?

“Wait,” he croaks, drowning in dread, trying to twist his body away.

“I think just once isn’t enough for you.”

That thick length slams home with no resistance, ripping a pitchy cry out of Miles. It’s not as excruciatingly tight with his own erection now out of the way, but he’s so raw from having just come. So tender that every ounce of pressure, every bump and ridge and pulsing vein against his silken folds makes his insides and his mind scrabble for purchase. A knife stabbed deep into a bundle of nerves with no way to ease the shock.

“Ff—” Miles’ face distorts, a fang caught over his lip in the exertion it takes to keep quiet.

Simon takes his time to adjust, once again caught in the riptide of something so unmatched that he seems high from it. He holds that tiny waist with both hands, nearly able to wrap them all the way around. Miles is still squirming in resistance, so Simon hoists his hips up into the air, leaving his prey to flail his legs pitifully.

“God, you’re burning up…” Dietrich sighs.

He starts at a quick pace this time, his tail flitting enthusiastically in the air behind him. Miles’ gaze gets stuck watching the way the major’s ears wiggle happily with each thrust, brows drawn together in pleasure.

And then he sees his mouth. How he exhales through rounded lips, like he’s doing intense reps at the gym rather than…

Rather than…

Miles can’t even think it. What’s really happening here. He doesn’t even realize he’s zoned out until the sound of flesh smacking loudly snaps him back into his body. He clenches each time, just from the force of it. Like there’s a hot stress ball inside of him and every time the major hits it, he... he’s—

God—

Quaritch shudders hard on his superior’s cock with a shout that surprises them both.

“Fuck!” Simon swears, curling into him, shaking, enduring. And then he abruptly pulls out with another curse. He grasps his cock, pre-come pulsing out with each floundering twitch. An even closer call than the last.

“Shit…” he heaves, sweat shining on his temples. “You’re something else...”

He hurriedly rams back in. Miles can’t take any more. All the energy he’d been putting into staying quiet implodes in on himself.

“Ahh, ha—ahh—!”

It’s too much. He practically vibrates on the inside, the hot ball feels like it’s going to pop, he’s losing, he’s losing, he’s losing.

Control, the fight, his mind, himself.

“Aghh, s-stop, fuck!”

The major doesn’t stop. Kitten feels so good, it’s so good—He’s churning up inside, burning fast. Just like when he was cuffed to the table. Just like when he’d been so lost to it that he’d practically sung. Just like when he’d slipped away from himself and found release on his attacker’s hand in the storage room.

Every time this happens, he loses more and more of himself while something so deep inside is relieved, an itch he’d never known was there before.

“Ahh… nngh… nnnmmm…!”

He bites, tries to swallow the vile, whorish noises coming out of him. He tastes tobacco and blood. All he can do is continue to keen hoarsely while he’s drilled with his hips held up.

“Shit, you gonna come again? Yeah?”

No!

“Let me hear how good it is.”

“No…” It comes out as a whimper. “Ohh, fu—unnghh…!”

Miles loses his grasp on words as something is wrenched from deep inside of him that he didn’t even know he had. His head rolls and he moans and moans until—his world suddenly tilts.

Fangs bared, eyes wide, ears flared out, the disgraced former colonel roars his violent pleasure like thunder. Pussy gripping so hard it hurts, it takes everything he’s got to wrap his legs tightly around his captor, squeezing him close as every quake pummels them both.

Dietrich has lost his words too, unable to do more than growl brokenly as he survives the passionate hydraulic press that is Quaritch’s pelvic floor. His hair is coming apart, more locks spilling over his intense face, fangs exposed just the same as his prey.

When the convulsions finally release him, Simon carefully pulls out and heaves for air as if he’d come up from a dangerous dive. He shakily lowers Miles back down onto the mattress.

On top of him again, he’s kissing and biting at his neck, murmuring sweet threats and cruel promises. Miles doesn’t protest. Doesn’t pull away, doesn’t fight. His blurred gaze is glued to the ceiling, to the faint blue blush cast by the holo-light behind them. Distantly, he’s aware of Simon’s hand massaging his chest, then gently petting between his legs. He’s whispering to him again, but Miles can’t understand anything. It’s all just noise, input he’s too scrambled to decipher.

He’s not sure how long they rest like that before the other Recom is back inside of him. As his torture resumes, his weakened, tingling legs fall open, fully receiving his commanding officer’s impassioned assault. Major Dietrich pounds him into the bed so hard he wonders if even the carbon fiber reinforcing his pelvic bones will fracture with the rest of his being.

As the minutes pass, each an eternity, he’s lost to snarls of overstimulation, hot pain—and the irrepressible pleasure chaining him to a paradise of punishment. When his snarls break into anguished cries, his destruction only gets rougher, meaner. No taunts, no teasing, no pet names. Just getting fucked, used, claimed.    

There’s a familiar resistance, something making Simon’s breath hitch as he ruts up against it. Miles remembers in a cold dread how they’d been stuck together at the table. How much it had hurt. How disgusting it had felt to be pumped full like an animal in captivity.

Simon gives a final long moan and that swell pops into him with a sharp stab. Like a crack in the hull of his being, it feels as if the ghost has finally relinquished his corpse. Outside of himself, he’s witness to the major’s heavenly throes as each pulse of heat fills him beyond capacity. The other Recom’s stunned shouts are muffled against Miles’ neck, teeth hot as a cattle brand on his skin.

He can only choke when the force of Simon’s throbbing bliss is enough to drag his sore cunt into a final, haphazard orgasm. Against his will, he lovingly milks his major’s cock for all he’s got. A long, grating growl shakes out of the Recom on top of him, until all that’s left is crackling, throaty keening and shallow, exhausted rocking.

Miles becomes still and quiet underneath him, save for the thundering in his chest and the quick breaths that shake him like jelly. The edges of his vision burn black, spots blinking in and out.

But he can’t hear; it’s all just ringing. Piercing through his head, into his queue, into every nerve.

The major doesn’t move for so long that Miles wonders if maybe he’d dropped dead right there on top of him. His wish is denied when the Recom turns his head to nuzzle him with a disorienting tenderness. Something is vibrating from Dietrich’s chest—growling? No. A kind of pitched rumble. But every part of him is so raw it just feels like sandpaper against his nerves.

Even through his spotty vision he can see the shine of sweat. The captivation in his stare, the sync of the fireflies on his face.

When that soft nicotine-laced mouth presses into his, possessive and deep, he stays dead and lets himself be breathed into until time slips through his fingers like sand.

At some point, the only sound in the officer’s quarters is the mild frequency coming from the light next to the bed. It bathes the room in a soothing blue mist. But it’s still only a fraction, a cheap imitation, of the beauty of Pandora at night.

Major Dietrich lies sprawled on his back, smoking with a kind of easy tranquility that would astound even the most disciplined of spiritual teachers.

His captive faces away on his side, curled into himself like a lifeless prawn. Excess fluid trails down his thighs, pooling underneath his tail. His bound arms are numb. Everything is numb.

Simon exhales his delicious smoke to the ceiling, peering curiously at the form beside him.

“Kitten,” he calls.

No response. Not even a flick of tail or ear to show he’d been heard.

Cigarette held in his mouth, the commander pushes himself up. He hovers over the naked, well-used asset sharing his bed. Miles doesn’t react, eyes blankly staring at a dim blue wall.

The holo-light is enough to see with, but as always, Dietrich wants more. With a hand on Quaritch’s shoulder, he turns the limp Recom to get a better look.

There’s that precious face. And under it, a damp circle in the sheets, echoing the lewd wet spot they’d left in the center of the bed. His face is streaked with silent tears, spilled sideways by gravity. Not a single sob had escaped him this entire night, but the deluge of tears had forced its way out anyway. 

Simon strokes a sodden cheek with the backs of his fingers, earning a belated blink that pushes more moisture from those red-rimmed eyes. He cups him like before, but there’s still no response. Simon takes the cigarette from his mouth with his free hand and blows right into that sad face. Miles trembles with a repressed cough, taking the nonverbal command and turning his hollow eyes to meet his commander’s.

“Do you get it now?” Simon asks softly, voice as gentle as a warm breeze.

But Miles is made of ice.

“Nothing is yours here. Not your revenge. Not your time. Nothing.”

Miles is shaking. Will he ever stop shaking?

“Not even this…” Simon’s hand moves downward until he finds where Miles is so beaten up he’s slightly swollen. No longer pink and tender, but red and aching.

“This is mine,” Dietrich claims, holding him in his palm.

Miles inhales sharply from the painful sensitivity, eyes shining with another build-up of moisture threatening to spill over.

“You might be theirs on paper, but you belong to me. You do as I say. You come when I say so.”

The cigarette is being held to his lips again. He looks to his commander with big, round eyes and wet eyelashes.

“Do you read me?”

He stares, brain struggling to stay afloat, to stay present.

“Do you read me?” The hand fondling him grips unkindly, threatening to do worse.

Miles is sure that his ghost lies at the bottom of the sea and that whatever inhabits his body now cannot possibly be him. Whoever speaks next is not Miles Quaritch.

“Yes, sir,” he complies, and drags from the cigarette.

It strains his lungs the whole way in. Before he can exhale, Simon closes his mouth around Miles’. They share the smoke in a long, suffocating kiss, until the major is sure his kitten understands.

When he moves back to his side of the bed, a hand stays on Quaritch’s back. He tenses at the touch, waiting for it to leave, but it doesn’t. Dietrich runs his fingers up and down his spine, smoothing his palm against skin in slow, sedating strokes.

Miles’ tail coils as he resists the unwanted affection, but it’s useless. It’s been days since he slept. The touch is too soft, too comforting to his frayed nerves. Too much like being consoled after a nightmare when he was a child.

Soon his heart slows. His limbs and eyes become heavy. The tension in his face releases.

Before he knows it, he’s drifted off into a baby-like sleep with the major’s warm hand resting on his back.

Chapter Text

Ice cold water stings like glass exploding against his skin. The crashing of waves is so violent he can hardly hear his own voice.

“Hold on!” he calls over the crackling spray. “Just hold on, son!”

The sea’s rage batters the boy, Quaritch’s strong arm tight around his much smaller body. Probably too tight. But he won’t lose him. Not like this. Not to this goddamn moon or her ocean. She can take his recombinant cells back into her core, but she’ll never have Spider.

Flash.

How had they fallen overboard? Where did this storm come from?

Crash.

Where’s Cupcake? Where the hell is everyone?

Something cuts through the air overhead; flapping, thumping against the heavy downpour. Wainfleet’s banshee circles them, frantic and bleating under the hot flashes lighting up the bloodwine sky.

“Boss!” Miles hears in the earpiece, before a malicious wave slaps him across the face, ripping it out to hang at his neck. He spits out a mouthful of foul-tasting seawater and lifts Spider by the arm. That head of blond locs whips to look at the colonel in confusion, glassy eyes only visible for quick blinks when the storm’s strikes flicker off his mask.

“Take him!” Quaritch shouts, lifting the human as high as he can, kicking his bootless feet to bump them up on a wave. He takes another hard splash in the face, eyes and nose burning, leaking.

The moment the banshee’s claws close around Spider’s shoulders, Quaritch lets go.

The boy’s nails scratch blue skin trying to grab his arm, his hand, the tip of a finger. A wave curls around Miles like a vengeful fist, tearing him away faster than he can yell. Everything is noise, bubbles, a thousand washing machines beating his little ears down. He recovers, turns himself around the right way. Stroking forward, dipping under a wave and popping back up on the other side of it. The distance between them is getting larger by the second, by the breath.

Lyle’s voice bursts in the hanging earpiece. Spider is shouting. The ikran screeches Eywa’s unholy klaxon.

The rain, the ocean, the thunder, it’s all too loud, too sharp.

He turns just in time to look up at the dark, swirling shadow of a wave collapsing in slow motion down on top of him. It sucks him into a screeching void. He’s knocked about for several seconds that stretch and distort like minutes before he claws at the cold glass surface again with a heaving, wet gasp.

This body was engineered to be perfect. But even fit young men lose against nature’s unceasing callousness. It’s like a weight is pushing his head under again and again, a chain wrapped around his arms and legs, all tied to two tons of bricks heavy with sin.

He can still hear voices yelling, calling out for him.

Boss, Colonel, Miles.

Dad?

Dad…!

He clings to that word like a life raft. He kicks and kicks and kicks.

Until he can’t keep his head above water anymore and hears nothing but the sea’s scalding, churning fury. The last thing he sees above the surface is the silhouette of a retreating banshee, lit up from behind by a colorful lightning strike.

Frozen fingertips touch the air once, twice.

The last drop of his strength bleeds out.

He sinks.

And suddenly—it’s quiet.

No. Not completely. Is it the ocean in his ear or is his pulse pounding in sync with Pandora’s boiling core?

He gurgles, chokes, a swollen bubble escaping his throat and wobbling to the surface like an ancient watercolor animation. His large hands grasp uselessly, up, up, like a toddler wanting to be held close to the heart of the only creature it can rely on.

But he’s been dropped. Forsaken. No mother to call his own.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

He can’t leave his team. He can’t leave Spider. Not like this, in the hands of the RDA. What will happen if he’s not there to—? What will Ardmore—?

Quaritch surges up with a garbled, bubbly roar that only Eywa’s midnight monsters can hear.

He can do this. He can make it back up. Hard, thrusting kicks. Even his tail thrashes sluggishly behind him in an attempt to propel him upward.

That’s it. He’s getting closer. He can see more shapes circling the water. They’re looking for him, they’ll see him, someone will dive in, they’ll send the subs, someone, anyone.

He’s close enough, he’s within reach.

Almost—

Like a whip crack, something clamps around his ankle. Electric pain erupts from his legs and the shock of it makes him suck in a mouthful of water.

Quaritch dares to look down.

It’s dark, but he can just barely make something out: the closed jaws of a beast. Another bubbly roar of anger, protest, pain. Black blood rises in a watery cloud as he’s yanked downward.

Deeper.

Darker.

The cold presses in on him like an invading steel aura. He can barely see the flashes of the storm above anymore. Tugging is useless. Muscles and tendons are torn. Bone grinds, naked against the seawater bleaching his nerves raw.

His diaphragm begins to spasm.

He’s swallowing more water.

Miles is drowning.

Stillness seduces him like a comforting blanket, the only disturbance being the occasional bodily jerks. Shaking him, jolting him—

Shaking him—

He opens wet eyes to a blue face above his own and large golden eyes boring into him like everything humans are supposed to be afraid of.

Someone is still shaking him. Or is he the one shaking? He’s not in a bright room that smells of gel, but in a dark one heavily perfumed with cigarette smoke and the musk of coitus. You never forget the scent of a long night of fucking.

His body is drenched, cold, but he’s not in the ocean. He’s on a soft surface. The small space between his legs beaten, hurting, reminding him of where he is. Of what was broken and taken from him.

It’s not Lyle over him, gently touching him awake.

It’s—

He thrashes, hacking, pain crunching his arms, wrists still restrained behind his back. He can’t breathe. The sound of his suffocation is excruciating, like a dying animal. Because that’s what he is. Just a creature agonizing fifteen years after his first death but he’s virgin to it, he never died, it wasn’t him.

Major Dietrich grabs him, pulls him up into a sitting position, but he fights it, trying to throw himself back into the dream, into the ocean to drown.

Anywhere but here. Anywhere. Please. Anywhere.

Dizziness has him flopping back down as soon as he’s let go, wheezes weakening by the second, whistling, breaths too fast.

Suddenly, Simon is gone. Miles hears the hiss of sheets under skin, bare feet on the floor. Rustling, a few jingles, the sound of plastic.

The edges of his vision close in like burning paper. Each incomplete breath a whining rasp. Heavy eyes close like windows being slammed shut from air pressure. His mind tumbles back down a black hole. Dark, where he wants to be, where he can’t feel anything.

Until something presses over his mouth and nose and he lurches, snapping alert again, wrenched back into his body against his will. 

The major is speaking gently but he can’t understand a word of it. Can’t make anything out other than the sounds coming out as his lungs try to kill him. He still can’t breathe. The rebreather tastes of nothing. Something is beeping and the terrible sound hacks at his nerves like a hatchet, bursting his head wide open.

Quaritch remembers, distantly, somewhere out in the mud, that he’d completely forgotten to pick up CO2 canister refills. Right. Because he’d been busy getting fucking jumped again by his favorite members of the Second Recom Unit.

Tap-tap-tapping, shaking, rattling the device. It all hurts his ears and he hears a long, pitiful moan without realizing it’s coming from him until it’s over. Dietrich disappears again with a swear and the twirl of his braid. Fast footsteps around the suite. Drawers opening and closing. Cardboard tearing.

Miles is circling the drain. Explosive firecrackers pop at the base of his kuru. He can see the flashes of the storm again.

The CO returns. He’s calm, hooking his prisoner by the chin and looking into his drowning eyes. Almost like he’s deciding whether or not to watch him die right then and there. Maybe light up another smoke, choke him, make it quicker, show him something like mercy. Penetrate him and feel the death spasms from within, shoot another load into a dead womb.

Quaritch stares back, pupils pinpricks, even as his captor turns into a shimmering, melting painting against the blue-lit ceiling.

Drowning in the ocean of his mind or suffocating in the bed of his unmaker. Maybe it’s all the same.

Maybe it’s time to just let go. Just fucking take me, he thinks. Just let me—

Click.

CO2 floods the mask in a high concentration, a punch to the fucking face, stinging his flaring nostrils. Like a distorted file playing, he hears gunfire. A whimpering death. A familiar voice. The rush of air, pain lighting up his head in sparkling waves. The warm numbness of narcotics in his veins. Floral perfume and a glare across the medbay.

He chokes as he’s yet again forced to sit up, pulled from the patchwork memory into the present he’s currently chained to no matter how much he wants to slip somewhere else.

“Up,” he hears, a hand smacking between his shoulder blades like he’s a fussy toddler being burped. The hand isn’t Lyle’s.

He can’t. He’s still drowning. Everything is getting darker, blinking out. Silence blares like a siren in his ears. Blackness inks out his vision so that all he sees are his own glowing freckles. Dots light up his arms and legs, his chest and belly like the emergency floor path of an airplane in peril.

Brace for impact.

But it never comes.

For a time he cannot grasp, which is pleasantly empty enough to have felt like a millennia, he becomes the emptiness eating away inside.

But a gentle touch on his chest spills him back into his body like sawdust-caked blood and guts. He coughs harder, but now the way is clear. He wheezes, doubled over painfully on the bed, the other hand at his back no longer aggressive but soothing. Patting, rubbing, calming. He hates the way his nervous system immediately washes him with tingles at the touch.

“Shh… Breathe.” Simon’s voice is like warm velvet cream. 

Quaritch is too dizzy to move away from his touch. Too confused to question when he feels the way the major moves closer, pressing his ear between his shoulder blades. He can feel its heat against his skin, twitching, listening. After a moment, Dietrich sits back up to regard him thoughtfully before sliding off of the bed once more.

Muscles shaking, Quaritch is reminded of just how worn out he is. He gives in, lowering back down, shutting his eyes when his vision swims. A few seconds later, his captor returns, barely disturbing the mattress. Miles wants to keep his eyes closed, blot everything out, but some light shines through and curiosity gets the better of him.

Dietrich swipes through his datapad, page after page, looking for something. The dim light illuminates his face from below, catching in his eyes like the surviving embers of a fireplace.

When Miles sees his own name somewhere on the screen, his chest spasms like it’s been struck. Alight with coughs anew, he tries to curl into himself, but Simon is already tugging him upright once more, datapad set aside.

Fuck off, he wants to say as his rebreather whistles with each hack. Stop fucking touching me, he wants to scream as his CO grounds him through the discomfort.

Eventually, he settles again. Limp in Simon’s arms, a dead creature.

He only moves because the major is leaning, reaching for something. Pat, pat on a pillow, then another. Some direction coming from his mouth but Quaritch’s ears are ringing.

“I’ve got you.” Dietrich moves him, holds him gently as he sets him back down. This time, there are two pillows stacked there. So soft but supportive underneath him, different from the lumpy sacks of potatoes they’re provided in the barracks.

Mucus in the throat has him swallowing noisily. Simon hears it, tilts his head, and puts the back of his hand against Miles’ damp forehead. How many doses of antibiotics has he missed now? Maybe if he misses another he’ll suffocate in his sleep. Maybe this moon can grant him a more peaceful exit this time.

Dietrich settles next to him, a hand on his abdomen, thumb stroking his sternum. Watching and feeling the rise and fall.

Eventually, their breaths sync up. And they’re asleep again.

Violets have long been extinct on Earth. But their memory lives on in the perfume left behind on his pillows on mornings like this. He reaches, rough hands on a soft waist, pulling her in. Gets a good whiff of that floral scent in her hair before she suddenly scrambles like she’s been hit with a cattle prod.

“Shit! Fuck!” Paz curses, throwing the comforter off and launching out of bed the same way she takes off in her Scorpion. Fast, with fury on her tail and a mission locked in.

Quaritch opens one bleary eye just in time to see her bare ass as she disappears into the bathroom with a slam of the door. Uh-oh. He drags a hand down his face and blinks at his watch until he can make out the time.

They’d slept in. But something tells him that’s not why she’s cursing up a storm.

Especially not when he hears the clatter of things being thrown off his bathroom counter.

Orange. Miles stares at the ceiling and its artificial sunrise glow. When did the color change?

Movement under the covers, an arm wrapping around his middle. He’s pulled off of his pillows, bare bodies brought flush against each other. Nothing he can do, nowhere to go, he’s held, nuzzled, warmed up. Dietrich’s soft nose and soft breaths tickle his skin. Quiet, like he’s not quite awake yet.

Minutes pass this way, he thinks. Until the major’s tail starts flittering under the blankets with more and more awareness, irritation, urgency.

Then all at once, that close hold and its warmth disappears. Dietrich leaves the bed so fast the bound Recom barely has time to blink before he hears water from the faucet. A few small splashes. The click of a door. He doesn’t know how many seconds later, but the toilet hisses its flush and the door clicks again. More water running.

He doesn’t try to turn his body to look as his CO crosses the suite, opening and closing drawers. Fabric rustles, slides in whispers.

The door unlocks, air shifting. One more tiny jingle, then the door shunks closed and beeps its locked status.

And Miles is alone in a room of orange, on a bed of nails. Minutes swell and swirl away with the soft whistle of his rebreather.

He could walk right out that door. Bound and naked, but out of this bed, out of this suite, out of the major’s claws.

Then what?

Get up.

He can’t move.

Get the fuck out of here.

He can’t think.

Run!

His ears ring. His muscles scream.

Miles trembles on the sweat-dampened sheets until he dissolves into white hot static.

It’s easy to hold her wrists together with one hand to keep her from clawing at him. Slap the other over her mouth to quiet her bitching. All part of their game. But he’s quick to pull it back when she tries to bite him.

“Settle down, now, girlie,” Quaritch drawls. But the pet name makes her growl and tug.

“Asshole.”

“I mean it.” Tries to keep her from moving so much. “Ain’t good for…” He pouts, lifts his brows as he glances down pointedly.

“Oh, shut up,” Paz spits, only able to wrench herself free from him because he loosens his grip. She turns around, glaring at the wall, arms crossed.

Quaritch sighs, keeping his distance. “Wanna talk about it?”

She scoffs. “Since when do you talk?”

“I’m tryin’, ain’t I?”

Now she sighs. Long, airy, tired.

“Sorry. Just.” She waves her hand, runs it through her pretty brown hair. “Hormones, I guess. Giving me fuckin’ mood swings from Hell.”

Miles sits as she turns around. There’s a flush to her cheeks. The kind he never misses. “That all?”

Paz stands between his knees, still glaring, still pissed. Still something else.

“My tits hurt.”

Another comical eyebrow raise. “Need a hand?”

She smacks his muscled arm playfully. “Just get me off before I go loca.”

Quaritch takes her onto his lap, nose into her neck, head full of perfume.

“I can do that.”

When the door opens again, there isn’t much time to react. Dietrich stands over him, a looming shadow, moisture glistening on his brow, neck, arms. Even through the mask, Miles catches the scent of sweat and rubber; the gym.

The other Recom stares for one long, silent moment, fire burning in his eyes. And it’s as if the atmosphere pops and suddenly his hands are on his toy. He grabs him, drags him to the edge of the bed, flips him on his stomach. Presses a hand into his back to still the disoriented flailing.

Frozen in fear and compliance, the only part of Quaritch that moves are his ears and tail as he listens to the sound of sweatpants rustling. A hand pets his ass-cheek gently, giving a squeeze. He can feel its tenderness without even knowing the extent of the bruising. He’s not sure he wants to know.

The major’s slick, heated cock slides along his crack. Miles is still aching deep inside from being pounded within an inch of his life. He isn’t aroused, even against his will. Everything is pulled in tight in apprehension. Simon rubs himself against that slit now, wetting him, readying him.

This is going to hurt.

He closes his eyes, preparing for that cock to stab back into him like a hot knife. For another shuddering death to take him from the inside out.

But it doesn’t happen.

Instead, the CO grips his thighs, pushing them together, lifting them slightly. A raspy moan escapes his throat as he pulls back and thrusts forward into the crevice. No pet names, no teasing, no pussy-drunk whispers this time. The major is quiet except for his voiced pleasure, focused on fucking between thighs like it’s the only thing that matters.

Each quick thrust is wet, noisy, rubbing against delicate vulva and glans, building up the heat. Quaritch pants against the mask, the blankets, surrendered to the friction making his tail curl.

That familiar feeling is coiling in his belly again. He’d somehow survived five intense finishes the day before, something his older human body wouldn’t have had the juice pull off. Of course, he didn’t have a cunt then.

(He’d still been able to keep up with Paz, though, only once letting her see that she’d worn him out good. She’d been smug about it for weeks.)

And now here comes another one, just from getting rubbed by a hard dick. Used for a pussy-job.

He knows by now there’s no fighting it. Especially not the way his CO fucks.

He’s close… He’s…

Dietrich chokes on a swear, slapping their bodies together in one final, hard thrust. Come oozes from him, coating that little slit in a thick, hot glaze.

And orgasm dies on Quaritch’s pussy like a rabbit getting its neck snapped just before the finish line.

He blinks, limp like a lifeless animal, as his CO takes his time collecting himself. Pulling away, leaving Miles bent over the bed like a used carcass.

Still saying nothing. No comments, remarks, no “kitten.”

Before Quaritch knows it, he’s alone again. He doesn’t know when Dietrich walked away but he can hear the shower now.

Legs giving out, he lets himself slide down the side of the bed, nearly toppling over without the use of his arms to balance or hold onto anything. He’s sticky between his legs from last night and just now. The sensation makes him gag and cough in his mask. If he vomits, he’ll likely aspirate. Give his lungs even more trouble.

Exhausted, he flops on his side with a heavy thunk. Staring up into the orange light strips, he loses himself in the slow change to yellow, then white.

There’s a music box in his head, but it’s broken. Something a kid threw against the wall too many times, leaving dents that permanently changed it. Each note halts against his bones, his teeth, his ribs. Was he that kid, once upon a time? How much trouble had he gotten in when he broke grandma’s music box?

Suddenly he’s pulled up by the cuffs at his back. The pain jerks a tired grunt out of him, but nothing more. No cursing, no protests. Dietrich has a thin grey robe on. His hair is still slightly wet, shining, but braided fresh and pretty.

He doesn’t hear the shower anymore. Has it been five minutes, ten, twenty? Miles doesn’t know.

Simon stares at him before removing his Atmos, throwing it to the bed, and yanking him to his feet. He can hardly land any solid steps as he’s marched to the other side of the suite. His ass smacks down on something solid and cold. He blinks down between his legs.

The toilet? Head lifting, wary eyes meet his CO’s. Simon says nothing, but his crossed arms communicate the command clearly enough.

No. Hell no. He’s not going to piss while being watched like a fucking toddler getting potty-trained. Closing legs, bringing them together, trying to bypass his body’s cry for relief, he stares back with a scowl.

To which his commander raises an eyebrow.

A good old stare-down.

Quaritch’s tail waves anxiously, whacking the back of the toilet and the wall.

After a moment, the major turns to the sink. Briefly, he’s distracted by a stray hair, brushing it back with his hand. That hand then activates the faucet with a small lever. When the gentle flow starts, Simon turns back to the former colonel, crossing his arms once more.

Dirty fucking trick. Miles shifts on the toilet, scowl twisting his face up even tighter.

Drip, drip, drip.

He holds and holds and holds it in… but…

His pelvic floor trembles. Despite his best effort, something collapses.

Piss trickles from his slit. The major turns the lever more. Water rushes.

And Miles pisses so hard he gasps. So much it’s a wonder how he’d been holding it all night to begin with. A shiver shakes him, head lowered in humiliation, as he finds that relief so, so fucking sweet. Even after the faucet is shut off, there’s still more dripping out of him.

Simon leaves him there like that for over a minute, or at least Quaritch thinks so. When he returns, he’s already got toilet paper in his hand.

Still without the will to speak, Quaritch can only growl pitifully as he’s wiped clean and dry. Front to back. More toilet paper is used to mop up dried come and slick. The entire time, the major is quiet, focused, like he’s done this hundreds of times.

The bound Recom is pulled up again, off the toilet. It’s automated, closing itself and flushing with a flash of blue—disinfecting UV light.

Dietrich takes his time washing his hands before he’s once again dragging his pet. This time, into the separated shower room. His CO plays with the controls for far too long, pausing every so often to test the temperature with his hand.

The steam that rises makes Miles want to run. Is he going to scald him to death? But as he’s corralled inside like a dirty stray cat and forced to sit on the wet tile, he finds that it’s not lethally hot, but very warm. Comfortable.

Simon’s doing that thing again. The fucking staring.

And then he just leaves and closes the door behind him.

The steam builds up, thick billows wrapping him up like a duvet. He wriggles away from the deafening spray, into the corner. Searing forehead against smooth tile. Each inhale brings warm air into his aching chest. Expanding, filling him. He could melt like this. Just melt away and wash down the drain like sludge.

Sludge… The word seems to last a year in his mind.

He coughs. It’s wet and thick in his lungs. He tries clearing his throat, swallowing, but something’s kicking up. The coughing erupts from him loudly enough to echo off the walls.

The door opens. Major Dietrich kneels on the tile beside him, naked, no robe, getting wet again from the spray. He pulls him, ignoring garbled, growling protests, and begins smacking Miles between the shoulder blades. Just like before. Firm, hard.

But this time, in this steamed-up little cell, it actually knocks something loose. He coughs so hard he sees stars and Simon grounds him through it, turning him toward the drain in the center.

A thick, vile-tasting glob of mucus comes out. Miles gags on it, spitting and hacking the rest as his back is rubbed in soothing circles. It liquifies down the drain in disgusting chunks. The cycle is repeated several times. Smack, cough, gag, spit, rub, over and over, until he’s dizzy from it. Until tacky saliva spills over his lips.

Dietrich sprays the steaming hot water at the drain before adjusting the temperature. He lifts Miles from under the arm, reassuring him as his legs wobble.

“I’ve got you.” Just as he’s said before, this time helping him get under the comforting and warm rush of water. It stings at first, the cuts and scratches on his skin still healing, but then the heat seeps into his muscles.

Simon’s hands are on his head now, working shampoo into his overgrown crop. Mint, something refreshing and familiar. Quaritch is too tired to snarl or even whine about it. Finger press into his scalp and God damn … It makes him sigh. Why does it feel so good? He closes his eyes through it, unable to hold back a grunt when his captor massages behind his ears.

He could doze off like this. But he stiffens suddenly as his braid is undone, queue exposed. The CO moves on to washing down the length that still has mud on it. Each rinse sends a tingle down the sensitive and naked appendage. Something about this has Quaritch’s stomach churning again and it only gets worse.

When it’s time to wash his body, he can’t stop the way his tail waves around. It’s bad enough when the major’s gentle hands clean his chest and back, but when he gets below the waist, Miles starts to bare his teeth.

Simon only needs to give him a warning look as he oh, so tenderly cleans him with two careful fingers and warm water. Every bit of mess he’d filled him with removed until he’s nearly as pristine as the day he came out of the tank. It’s still so sore. His pelvis still carries the memory of the violence it endured. He catches a glimpse of pinkish-white on Dietrich’s fingers and wants to die all over again, bile rising.

The water stops and the silence is jarring. Dripping, the slap of their feet on the slowly draining floor. Simon guides him out, a towel ready to wrap him up, another thrown straight onto his wet head for drying. It doesn’t take long to squeeze the moisture from his hair, and soon he finds he’s sitting in a chair in front of the mirror and sink. Like a child getting prettied up by his mother for picture day.

Hair tie in his teeth, brush in his hand, his CO fulfills that role. Long strokes down neglected length of hair, even time spent checking the condition of his scalp. He rakes his fingernails through the overgrown hair, soft and fuzzy like a kiwi, his tail twitching in the air in adoration.

Quaritch can only stare through the mirror as his kuru is braided with a mesmerizing sort of efficiency. Most other Recoms seem to struggle with it. Hell, he’d needed Spider’s help a few times when they were roughing it out there. Kid had made fun of him every chance he got, and Quaritch’s explanations about never having had long hair or even a little sister to help out fell on eye-roll after eye-roll.

Braiding done, Dietrich plays with it like he’s reviewing his work for any flaws. But it’s perfectly neat and tight, something Miles is sure will make the science pukes cream themselves. He’s left with that infuriating thought, not noticing that Simon has left. When he returns, the major is dressed. Not his usual weekday clothes, but something more casual, simple. But always with that little black bracelet around his wrist. Watch and throat-comm nice and snug.

Miles is still naked and bound, once more pulled wherever he’s wanted. But when he sees where they’re going, he begins to dig his heels in.

The table. That damned cold metal square, welded to the floor, where this all began. The major doesn’t tolerate the delay and tugs him forward, sits his ass down on one of two folding chairs. There hadn’t been two before.

Heart racing, he keeps his eyes on the other Recom; he’s at the kitchenette, preparing something. Soft rolling sounds, liquid filling mugs. Before long he’s back, sitting not across the table from him but adjacent. Mug of coffee, cup of water. Small metal bowl, several small yovo fruits freshly washed and cut in half, their black seeds exposed.

He watches as the CO props the datapad on its stand. He lights his little hand-roll and takes a lazy puff, before tapping a few times on the tablet. Eyes cast down at it, reading, eyelashes casting shadows. Small sip of his brew. The aroma makes Quaritch’s stomach grumble embarrassingly loud, enough that the CO stops reading to look at his kitten with a fond smile.

He eats a piece of fruit. Then, holding the cigarette with his mouth, Dietrich picks up another piece. Miles stares as it’s held in front of his lips. His salivary glands sting, trying to produce, but he’s all out of hydration.

The fruit glistens, juicy and perfectly ripe. He swallows dryly but keeps his mouth shut tight. Dietrich’s soft smile fades around his cigarette as he pushes the fruit’s flesh against Quaritch’s lips. The former colonel turns his head away with a grimace.

Used, abused, wiped and bathed like a baby girl —He draws the line at being fed by hand.

But Simon reaches for the base of his queue, still so sore from being grabbed again and again. He holds his head steady as he forces the fruit past lips, mashing against tight teeth. Nails dig into the flesh of his kuru and Miles makes the mistake of vocalizing his pain. It’s just enough space for the fruit to slip into his mouth.

The wave of nausea is instant, overwhelming. He spits the yovo out with a pitiful gag. Simon sighs, taking his cigarette out to puff at the ceiling. Still holding it in his fingers, he uses the same hand to pick the discarded morsel back up.

Eyes sharp as daggers, he dares him. Spit again, see what happens. 

Quaritch’s stomach curls in on itself painfully.

With a trembling jaw, he opens, tongue dry but twitching nervously. Dietrich happily returns the piece to his mouth and promptly slaps his hand over it. The rising smoke burns Miles’ eyes. His face contorts as he fights the reflex to gag. His jaw moves slowly, like he’s eating a tiny bomb that’ll blow his head apart if he makes a wrong move. Molars crush the fruit between them and—the juice is heaven. There’s no denying that. Better than the first fresh one he had in the forest, picked from a cluster and shared with Wainfleet. They’d both cursed it was so good. Even Spider snickered at their enthusiasm as they reached for another handful.

He’d rather get his head fucked up by another viperwolf than swallow this goddamned piece of fruit. But after several careful tries, it goes down. Stuck, slow, but past the back of his tongue. Dietrich’s hand comes away from his mouth, quiet praise leaving his lips.

Good (boy), good (kitten), good (soldier).

Dietrich releases his grip on kuru but keeps his hand there as a reminder. He lifts the metal cup of water to his captive’s lips and helps him take a few awkward sips. Like nursing a sickly foster kitten. Miles’ tail is frantic, his eyes tearing up. He wants to drink more but Simon puts the cup down.

Satisfied that he’ll keep behaving, the major goes back to reading while idly sipping coffee, feeding himself and Miles small bites every now and then.

But the nausea is too strong. It has his gut winding up to expel everything he’d just been given. Quaritch finds himself staring at that cigarette. Its path to Simon’s soft lips, its sprinkle as it gets tapped out in the metal ashtray. Metal everywhere, smelling and tasting of blood, and the acrid but calming burn of tobacco.

He’s going to hurl. It’s already starting to bubble up. And he knows exactly what’ll settle him enough to keep it down. It won’t be good for his chest, but at least he won’t taste bile for a while.

Fucking hell. He’d quit smoking as a human, except for special occasions. A fat cigar after a successful mission never hurt anybody. And he’d been proud of kicking the habit. Here he is reborn going back to it like a pussy trying to make up for never being breastfed.

Simon’s eyes cut to him, almost indifferently, but there’s a small flash of curiosity there when he realizes what his captive is staring at.

“What is it, kitten?”

Fuck this asshole. But he’s desperate. And he doesn’t want to find out what happens if he vomits on the table after being babied in the bathroom. Miles clears his throat and speaks for the first time since the night.

“Let me—” Thick, halting, still a bit gunked up. “—have a hit.”

Dietrich’s eyebrows lift but he looks away as he takes a deep, sultry pull. He blows smoke upward, turning the small white stick in his fingers like he’s thinking about it. Just long enough to piss Quaritch off. To make him realize what he’s waiting for, what’s missing.

“Sir,” Miles grinds out through burning fangs. “Please.”

With that terrible smile, Simon brings the tip to his kitten’s lips. Miles sucks, making the end blaze brightly with his exertion. As he holds it in, eyes shut tight, the major pulls the damn thing away with a lingering touch.

No graceful exhale, no pretty smoke. Quaritch erupts into irritated coughs, red eyes watering, his CO’s hand at his back to soothe him just like before. He helps him drink water again.

It feels like shit, but it works. The nausea subsides as a nicotine tingle washes over him. He can practically see sparkles behind his eyes. The hunger is still there, but not as much of a punch. He takes every bite offered to him without complaint and finishes his water. And when Dietrich’s coffee mug is empty and his cigarette depleted, the table is cleaned up as if this has been their routine for years.

Miles is lifted from the chair and guided back to the bathroom. He stands there, stomach practically boiling over as it gets to work on breaking down his very small breakfast. Simon opens and closes a cabinet. There’s a toothbrush drying in a metal holder, having been used earlier. He rinses his mouth, swishes with a solution labeled NOT FOR HUMAN PERSONNEL, and spits.

The cabinet is opened once more to grab something noisy. A crinkly plastic wrapper that hurts the ears. A fresh toothbrush that Simon wets, tops with similarly labeled toothpaste.

And so on top of being potty-trained, bathed, and fed, his teeth are brushed. Dietrich is gentle, not missing a single tooth or neglecting to massage an inch of bile-sore gums. When it seems like the gag reflex is about to be triggered, he stops, pulls back, rubs his back. Lets Miles recover before resuming his task.

“Spit,” he orders, pressing the ex-colonel to bend over the sink. He obeys, face sour from the continued humiliation of being so helpless. Simon wipes his mouth and takes time to double-check that his queue hadn’t gotten messed up.

Then the commanding officer takes him back to the bed, and Quaritch smells it before he can see it; it’s freshly made. New sheets and blankets, scented with detergent and UV-cleaning.

When had Dietrich done all of this? How long had Miles been left curled in the corner of the steamy shower like a sick dog?

Simon sits him on the bed and loops the Atmos back around Quaritch’s neck, then secures it on his face. The major silently checks the state of his captive’s wrists. The cuffs are irritating the skin there and he still can’t feel his arms most of the time. The CO turns away only to grab something. Some kind of cable, coiled around and through, securing Quaritch to the bed frame by the cuffs.

The rebreather whistles as Miles’ thoughts kick up dust.

“Y’said I was stayin’ the night. ” His rasp has turned into a weak growl.

“Shh,” Simon hushes softly as he finishes tying the knots. He pulls back the sheets and grabs Quaritch, slides him under the covers and back on his stacked pillows. Hand on chest when the kitten tries to sit back up.

“Let me go.” Miles doesn’t have the energy to keep fighting. He’s crashing again, body burning up, the fatigue making him ache, heavy with the urge to power down. To rest, digest, heal.

They both hear the hum of activity outside. It’s the weekend, but many operations are still running, perpetual. There are still things to do around Bridgehead for many of them, Recoms especially.

Motherfucker’s really going to leave him tied up in bed like this while he makes his Saturday rounds.

Shit.

Shit.

Dietrich tucks him in like he’s done it a million times. Efficient but gentle. Not that it makes up for the alternating pain and numbness in Quaritch’s arms. Or his cunt.

The major’s hand raises and Miles flinches. But Simon’s brow comes together above a small, apologetic smile. It wasn’t a slap he was going for; he puts the back of his hand against that warm forehead. The only reaction is the curious tilt of his head, the wordless twitch of ears. He wipes a little at the sweat already forming on his kitten’s hairline.

The holo-light is set to the same soft blue they fell asleep to.

A small, oddly chaste kiss is planted on Miles’ forehead.

And Dietrich leaves the suite once more.

All Quaritch can hear is the hissing of the mask and his own thumping heart. He tries to get up, but he’s tethered to the bed frame. Every tug makes a hollow metal sound, a groan of cable, restrained prey in a trap.

Thump, thump, thump. Before long, he’s shivering, skin wet under the covers, burning hot but frozen on the outside too.

The past week whips by his mind’s eye like a snuff film on an endless loop. It started at the metal table. Days he couldn’t remember much of. The mess hall fight. Conservator’s scolding. Getting his hole worked in the storage room until he mewed. Eclipse, mud, another fight.

Running and running until he ended up exactly where he didn’t want to go.

The only place he could go.

Violets. Why does he smell violets?

He looks up and there she is in the bathroom doorway. Wrapped in a purple towel, hair wild the way it always was after a good roll in the hay.

“You motherfucker,” Paz Socorro spits. “I told you this would happen.”

Quaritch blinks and blinks. His head spins.

“What?” he croaks at her. “What happened?”

The towel falls.

Her body is just like he remembers. Attractive hip dips and cute belly button.

Belly slightly swollen.

She opens her mouth to the sound of glass shattering and an arrow skewering her through the womb. Her scream is that of a banshee in battle, and the room disintegrates into acid around Quaritch.

There’s a monochromatic kaleidoscope to be seen through his eyelashes. Blue light, blue like the Earth sky he never knew. Blue like his eyes used to be. Blue like his skin is now. Blue like the bodies he burned, blue like his body that burns.

Blue like the wristband they made him wear in the maternity ward. Like the blanket little Spider had been wrapped in.

Miles hears a baby crying, bawling, desperate.

But there’s nothing he can do. He can’t reach out. Can’t hold it. Can’t soothe it, can’t sing it to sleep.

“Mi cielito,” he hears Paz say. “It’s okay, baby. Get some rest.”

She’s in uniform now, but it’s black with blood.

The baby still hiccups with sobs.

Miles slips down another hole, then another, until he’s somewhere too far away to see the blue anymore.

Until the only thing he can hear is his own purring, vibrating him from inside like a hornet’s nest. Sting after sting, until he’s so numb he doesn’t exist.

Chapter Text

Shunk. Click.

His quarters are locked. His prize is safe, sound, and bound inside.

Sigh. Finally, it’s the weekend. Which means he’s off work.

Technically.

Corporal Garland oversees the squad’s duties on weekends, but Major Dietrich always has a to-do list of his own.

He sips from his Atmos and nods in greeting to the employees transporting supplies to the medical wing. No doubt the recombinant conservator has been up since dawn as well, preparing for a long day of running inventory for another week of appointments.

The suns are already bright enough this early that he needs his shades when he steps outside. It’s a long walk down to the docks, with swarm assemblers whirring like mechanical roosters to announce the start of the day. The sub crew is filthy, doing a deep clean of each Mako and Crab. Simon hops down the wet steps, dog tag jingling. He makes a show of peering down over his sunglasses at the mess of foul slime and grime coating the workers.

“Get swallowed by a whale?” he teases, turning over some kind of large, squelching barnacle over with the toe of his boot.

“Whoa, is that a smile? Should I call the conservator?” one of the workers ribs him back from behind a smudged exopack, earning some snickering from the team.

Guess it’s only fair. They’re not used to seeing him in a good mood.

Still, the commanding officer appreciates the familiarity. Rare to find in the colony. Most treat the “blues” like the dangerous oddities they are and he doesn’t blame them. But the sub teams seem less phased by it all. Maybe they’ve seen enough fucked up shit in Pandora’s oceans that cloned alien soldiers aren’t that strange. Scoresby certainly hadn’t even bothered with a hand-shake when they met.

That may have had something to do with him still being sour about his new arm, though.

The major steps over a pile of discarded parts, mostly mangled and broken, set aside to be melted down.

“Need a hand with any of this?”

“All you, big guy.”

It’s an even longer walk back up north to the industrial zone with the bulky bag clinking and clanking a little song over his shoulder the entire way. If he were human he’d need a hover-cart to carry so much metal junk, but this body can handle it with ease.

Not the first time he’s taken on these kinds of chores on the weekend and it won’t be the last. What he doesn’t share is that he won’t be melting down every part. After careful sorting, he sets aside a few useful pieces and tosses the rest into the bin. The automaton running the recycler beeps its safety warning before hot steam shoots from all sides of the machine.

Simon squats in the dirt with his tail arching up behind him for balance as he rinses the parts, the bag, and his hands under a hose. Some of the black oil won’t come out from under his nails no matter how many times he rinses.

Stray thoughts carry him adrift into the sea of his mind.

He thinks of synthetic green grass that was supposed to smell like the real thing (not that he would know.) Getting his hands dirty installing a new fence. Tiny hand-prints messing up the paint. Muddy cleats.

His tail whips, breaking apart his thoughts.

Dietrich shakes his hands dry and packs the bag again.

The greenhouse is more brown than green these days. There’s a section for Pandoran fruits and vegetables, divided into what humans can eat and what’s strictly for the recombinant assets. And another closed-off section entirely for cultivating Earth’s crops, with its own little man-made atmosphere. Even then, Simon’s not sure he’s actually seen humans eat anything fresh. No spinach salad or even a baked potato. What’s grown is usually processed into ration packets like everything else. It meets their survival needs and nothing more. Not even a patch of flowers for a bit of color or something fresh to smoke that doesn’t taste like gasoline.

But Simon knows a guy.

He has to duck to enter, sipping from his Atmos once he’s through. Down the rows and rows of struggling crops, Simon finds one individual hard at work to keep them alive.

“Major,” the old man nods, gloves covered in soil. “Happy Saturday.”

He nods back, kneeling and presenting his bag. “Got something for you.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change behind his white beard and brows, but he peers inside while removing his dirty gloves. He seems to have an idea of what he’s looking for and inspects a few specific parts closely.

“Nice haul,” he remarks. “You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

The major shakes his head gently. “Just another write-off.”

It’s true. They’ve been hemorrhaging shit from vehicles since the battle, and it’s only gotten worse. Like suddenly everything wants to fall apart out of shame. At least some of it can be recycled while they wait on brand new parts to be printed. He’d rather put things like this into harmless trading. One of the many perks of overseeing the logistics of their missions; numbers can be fudged here and there. 

He’s never questioned what the parts are for. Maybe he’s asking for trouble, or maybe he’s okay with cheating Bridgehead to make up for his existence.

“I appreciate it,” the old man grunts, taking the bag and stuffing it into the bottom of his cart of fertilizer and tools. “C’mon. Lemme show ya what I got.”

Far in the back of the greenhouse are bolted metal shacks, dark and locked away with passcodes. He crouches as he follows inside, but he already knows the way. Even if he didn’t, his nose certainly would.

Cured tobacco leaves in various shades hang from above, low enough that he has to bend his knees to keep them out of his face. Until, that is, he’s permitted to indulge.

“Take a sniff,” the man offers him. “The nose knows.”

He’s not wrong. Simon had been allowed to pick his own leaves last time by scent alone and they’d been heavenly. Hell, that’s how he even ended up in the greenhouse in the first place. Sniffed his way over like a cartoon cat jonesing for something better than the tarry vape pens the RDA sells at their sad little commissaries.

Maybe it’s just his new biology, but something’s different about the tobacco they grow out here. Or maybe this guy was Earth’s best gardener before he signed his life away.

Simon picks a few cherry-red dried leaves and hands them over to be safely rolled up in cloth. But he smells something else in here. Something that hooks into a memory in the front of his brain and tugs at him. Something that hurts in the sweetest way.

He inhales again, and yes, there it is. Hidden behind the rich, warm perfume of tobacco is a delicate but pronounced scent he’d know anywhere.

“You’ve been growing roses.”

The old man pauses, swallows, and ties the end of the cloth. Without saying a word, he sets it aside and unlocks a metal ladder. The CO watches him go up, up, up, near the ceiling. When he comes back down, he holds a dented box that looks like it’d survived more than a few battles.

Major Dietrich crouches at the human’s level, waiting patiently but eagerly. The lock is oldschool. No buttons, but still a code to enter by turning a dial back and forth. When he pulls the top off, the aroma is so strong that Simon’s ears flare out with his nostrils.

Deep red roses, fresh, stacked. Half a dozen. Had to have been cut within a few hours. How the hell had he grown them out here?

Simon’s tail flits in the air curiously.

“What do you want for these?”

Now the old man’s face changes, sly little wrinkles forming as he smiles with his eyes.

“Those are more costly than scraps, Major.” Simon is all ears so the man continues, “I’m willing to trade a secret for a secret.”

A secret? He squints, his tail curling up into a question mark behind him before he forces it down into neutrality. What kind of secrets does a recombinant soldier have? No hot Bridgehead gossip, he’s too busy for that shit. Nothing personal that’s of any value, unless the greenskeeper cares about the interpersonal drama of clones.

Simon Dietrich has no secrets. Not really. He tries to think but comes up with nothing. Just a barren field that goes on and on in his mind with only a crying kitten caged in the middle. Off limits.

“Sorry. Don’t think I have anything.”

The man closes the box.

“You let me know if that changes. Have a good weekend, sir.”

Bridgehead’s salon is busiest on Saturdays, but lucky for him, they have a special corner just for the Recoms. The human stylist adjusts the height of their platform, readying their clippers and scissors. Thankfully, they’re not one for small-talk.

He feels his braid being undone as the noise of the salon fades. The major lets his eyes close.

“Whoa.”

Dietrich looks up as he finishes tying the end of his hair off.

Harper sits across from him, shining from lifting weights. Only so much you can do while floating in orbit. They’ve been on the ISV for a few days now, waiting, waiting, waiting… Maybe it’s to make sure no one’s feral before they get let loose on-world.

“How’dja do that?” the soldier asks, gesturing at the major’s immaculately braided kuru.

“Do what?”

“Braid fast like that.”

Dietrich exhales, now tying his boots.

“Practice.”

The major rises from the bench, remembering the texture of nylon ribbons between his fingers.

When his touch-up is done, he insists on re-braiding his hair himself. The stylist shrugs and starts to clean up, and Dietrich’s on his way out.

What else is there to do today? He needs to swing by his office to grab something. Anything else can be done from his datapad at home.

The thought slows him as he enters his passcode.

Home?

Eight weeks ago, to his memory, home was Earth. Where the air is so bad most people wear filters out in the open. Here, in this body, he can breathe outside. Here, beyond the Kill Zone, there’s green like he’s never seen before.

Home.

The door beeps and he enters. The lights activate on their own, as if happily presenting his desk to him. The office is still so bare. Just a terminal with multiple screens, and extra datapads, dongles, drives safely locked away.  The human officers have photos of family, medals on the walls, silly trinkets from Earth on their desks. Even the conservator has a print of an ancient poppy field painting in his office. 

But Major Dietrich’s desk has nothing, not even signs of late nights.

He unlocks a drawer, grabs what he needs, but pauses with a glance at his computer terminal. Maybe just a quick check. He slides the Recom-sized chair out and boots up the system.

🇸.🇩🇮🇪🇹🇷🇮🇨🇭

********************

Enter.

[𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃]

His tail flicks. He’s never once mistyped his password. He tries again, slowly this time.

Enter.

The wheel spins as his profile loads.

𝟾𝟾 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜.

Maybe he should’ve grabbed another coffee.

The major responds to every message that needs his immediate attention, bitterly wondering what this place would do without him.

When he’s done, leaves the room as if he’d never been there.

Eclipse already. Time for a smoke. But where’s his lighter? He realizes he hasn’t felt it in his pocket since… Oh. Why had he taken it there? Distracted, most likely.

So the major takes a detour to the gym. He greets Harper with a nod as he enters the locker room. The Recom is toweling off, already with an energy drink opened and fizzing for his next guard shift. Someone is singing a sad old Tejano song in the showers. Liu dries their choppy hair, the sniper moving to the tune with a gentle sway.

Past the archway, the gym is quiet. He would have thought it was empty if not for the figure sitting alone in front of the mirror.

The conservator looks unnatural out of his work clothes. He’s built enough that he could easily be part of the squad, but instead he spends his days listening to Recom heartbeats and writing up charts (and being nosy).

Of course he spends each eclipse meditating instead of working out. His eyes are closed, tail and ears still and calm. Not even a twitch as Dietrich pads across the gym, checking benches and corners for his missing lighter.

There. Atop a rack. He has no memory of taking it out or leaving it. He must’ve been eager to get back to his quarters.

To his new toy.

Pierce still hasn’t moved or opened his eyes. Simon gives him one more squint, and he’s off for his own bit of nicotine meditation. Under the watchful eye of Polyphemus, he takes drag after drag until his queue is full of pleasant tingles.

The turrets fire at something in the distance. Probably a stray beast, young, knowing no better.

When was the last time he stepped outside these walls for more than an outpost supply escort? He'd gotten the tour, security set up for his office and quarters. A few more medical check-ups to clear, a brief orientation on his recombinant body... Then a night to settle in before all hell broke loose.

One of their hunting ships had gone down. A high-casualty battle. Major Dietrich had a logistics nightmare dumped onto his lap before he'd even learned how he died.

It’s been two months and his work is still piling up with no sign of stopping.

They’re nowhere near recovered enough to risk another loss like that. The RDA doesn’t want their hunting ships or supersoldiers going to waste this time. No battles, no perilous missions. Just guard duty, supply escorts, and paperwork.

Sometimes he feels like turning off his comms on escort missions, letting his squad run around in the wilderness. Get it out of their systems so they’ll stop fighting when they get cooped up doing fatigues. All those billions just so they can stand around looking scary. What a fucking joke.

With no one to radio him, the commanding officer enjoys the full hour of eclipse, smoking himself to bliss.

The rest of his day is spent checking on the inventory teams, assisting when needed, until finally, finally, the suns begin to set.

Bridgehead’s bars are lively, the norm for artificial weekends on Pandora. Major Dietrich ducks in, then sips from his mask as he makes his way to what the Recoms playfully call the kitty corner . Bigger chairs for the blue soldiers because everyone needs a drink, even the freaks.

Corporal Garland is waiting with two Viperwolf Ales ready for them.

“Was starting to think I was getting stood up,” the Recom jokes, reaching to tap their tiny human-sized cans of beer together in toast.

“Just had to take care of something.” It’s his usual excuse. It’s mostly true, except for last night. Or maybe not.

“You ever gonna take a weekend off?”

“Maybe when I’m dead.”

“You are dead.”

“Got me there.” Dietrich takes a swig, motioning at Garland’s bandaged arm, where their new addition had gotten him good in the mess hall. “Learn your lesson?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The corporal sneers. “Fucked up my tat too. Consa got his panties in a twist over it even more though. Grilled me for twenty minutes, wouldn’t let me go without a talk.”

“Sounds about right.”

“I’m over this therapy bullshit, man. Didn’t sign up to babysit and talk about my fuckin’ feelings. When do we get to fuck up those bastards?”

“Just keep that shit out of sight,” the CO scolds with a quick glance to the table of humans on their left. “Pierce might be blue, but he’s not one of us. Don’t give him any reason to pull you or anyone else out. Copy?”

Garland puts a hand up. “Don’t worry about us. Just gotta let off some steam, y’know? Going stir crazy in here.”

He does know. Everyone knows. Harper’s the only one who seems well-adjusted and he’s constantly chugging stimulants, just like when he was human.

None of them have changed. Not really. Everyone’s got their fix, their cravings, even in brand new bodies.

But luckily for the major, he’s got something new and exciting to look forward to. It’s only been hours and he’s already itching for it. He shifts when the warmth between his legs grows and orders another beer.

His suite is quiet when he returns, as it always has been. The only difference now is the rhythmic hiss of a rebreather. Simon pays the sound no mind and takes his time removing his shoes and comms. The wrapped tobacco leaves go in a drawer before he shuts himself up in the bathroom. Only when he’s refreshed and his hands are free of the day’s dirt does he bother to check the corner of his suite.

There lies the former colonel, still nude and tied to the bed, unmoving except for the stiff rise and fall of breath. Seemingly somewhere in between being asleep and awake, staring ahead with bloodshot eyes. Dietrich sits on the bed and watches him for a moment.

No reaction. Is anybody home?

He takes a moment to feel his temperature again. Still warm. A small line of sweat on the hairline. Then he feels his shoulder, the fading muscle of his arm. Smaller than his own, than any of his soldiers. He runs his hand over the tattoo, the inked eagle tying him to his identity, to a legacy that isn’t his, that he’s pissed all over.

No one on Earth has any idea that the poster boy for Project Phoenix is wasting away, sick and wounded, kicked around like the disgraced piece of shit he is.

Dietrich grabs his face. A squeeze gets the Recom’s eyes to move, coughing slightly behind the mask, knowing the wordless command by now to look at me. The major admires those sad kitten eyes, so worn out from tears.

And then a growl erupts, but not from Quaritch’s throat.

Sounds like someone’s hungry.

But first, a little cleaning up. He unties the cable tethering his prey to the bed.

“Up.”

Just like in the morning, Miles is hoisted up and dragged to the bathroom. This time, he doesn’t fight it. No glare, no obvious straining to hold his bladder. And it’s a lot this time. Lucky he didn’t piss the bed. Dietrich waits patiently to wipe him, then sits him in front of the counter again.

First he removes the rebreather, on so long it’s left marks. They’ll fade with time. For now he uses a warm, wet washcloth to wipe away sweat, tear tracks, any hardened crust that’d formed during the day. A dirty animal soothed by the heat of the cloth, the cruel kindness of captivity. His commander presses it into his brow, where he knows it’ll feel especially nice, and his tail curls up at the way his prey sighs. Miles doesn’t say a word the entire time, looking almost like he’s about to doze off again.

He only seems to react once he’s sat at the metal table. Ears and tail up like flags of alarm despite the still apparent exhaustion. Eyes darting from the table to his captor and back again. The sight is like candy to the major.

Dietrich pets that head as he scoots his chair in for him before he steps away to the kitchenette. A ration packet will do. He tears it and dumps its powdery contents into a tray. A bit of water, a stir, and into the microwave it goes. Not as delicious as the fruit they shared for breakfast, but it’s dinner. At least he has some bread from the mess hall.

The major sets the unappetizing tray of mush down and sits, stirring the steaming food once more. One metal spork-full for the major, the next presented to his hungry captive creature.

But Miles’ mouth becomes a thin, defiant line.

This again? Even with his body begging for fuel, even after being used up the night before, he seemingly still has the will to act like a brat. So that’s exactly how he’ll be treated.

Simon uses the same tactic he had for breakfast. He grabs him by the queue and digs his nails in until that mouth splits open to bare fangs. He gets that sporkful of gruel in—only for his captive to immediately spit it out onto the table’s clean surface with a growl. And it’s not because he’s gagging too hard to tolerate it. This time, it’s clearly on purpose.

“Bad,” the major scolds calmly, setting the utensil down on the tray and standing. Miles watches him, still scruffed by the kuru, still baring his teeth. “Very bad.”

Make a mess? Clean it up.

The major shoves that face onto the table’s surface, inches from the mess of slop he’d spit out.

“Eat.”

Miles snarls, tail wild and twisting. But Simon doesn’t let up, forcing his face closer, until the mush smears against his cheek.

“Now.”

When he still refuses to obey, the CO reaches down, and without giving him any warning, yanks on the base of his tail.

The Recom screeches like an animal and flails hard enough to knock the chair under him over. They fight this way, with Simon pressing him into the table, both their dog tags jingling noisily, until Miles tires out.

But he’s still got enough in him for sass.

“If y’think I’ve never been a prisoner before, you’re dumber than a deer.”

“Clean it up,” Dietrich commands, already bored of the tantrum.

Fwak-fwak-fwak. Angry tail, angry kitten. Miles growls so hard he makes himself cough. But still doesn’t obey. So Simon grinds into his bare ass, communicating his threat clearly.

“I’ve got all weekend. We don’t have to go to bed. We can just stay right here.”

Between gags and coughs, Miles Quaritch licks the now-cold slop from the table’s sterile metal surface.

“Good baby. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The major lets go of his tail and his queue to get the chair back into place and sit him back down. He gives him a break to focus on feeding himself while he scrolls his datapad. Only a few new messages since eclipse. He scoops some of the gruel up with flakey bread, tapping and flicking through his tablet.

Back to feeding. Simon makes sure not even a drop or crumb is left behind. Miles accepts every bite with a searing side-eye, food still smeared on his face. Dietrich is sure to clean it up as soon as their meal is finished. He takes the tray to the kitchenette, but soon after starting the water, his sharp ears pick up a shuddering gag.

Still nauseous. He remembers the note in his medical chart about lost weight. Even if he hadn’t read it, it’s obvious. Too much more and Pierce won’t be happy about it.

He’s quick to light a cigarette, placing a grounding hand on Quaritch’s back as he helps him take a drag. Almost instant relief, except for the small fit of coughing it triggers. Miles’ eyes are watering and he looks anywhere but at the major as he sucks from the cigarette like it’s a lifeline.

Nausea traded for coughing. Hunger traded for less of an appetite, but less chance of vomiting. It’ll have to do for now.

“Get in bed,” he tells his sick kitten.

Miles stiffens even as he blows smoke, his tail curling and snapping like a wordless fuck you.

Simon holds his chin with one hand, taking his own drag from the stick. He blows smoke in that poor face with a slow but pointed blink that carries an unspoken warning. In the end, Miles is still naughty. Still feisty. So the major practically throws him onto the bed. Satisfied that he’ll stay put, he puts the cigarette out for later and returns to cleaning up.

Soap on his hands, scrubbing the trays clean…

He remembers plastic, the smell of expensive lab-grown apples that went bad when forgotten in lunchboxes day after day. How the real apples, the near-illegal kind, were only for special occasions. Apple pie and ice cream.

Dietrich shakes water from his hands and memories from his mind.

The kitten is shivering by the time he gets to the bed. Forehead still warm. Simon slides them both under the covers and pulls the body close. Both silent as he holds him, rubs his leg, plays with his dog tag. Soothes that clenching abdomen with a comforting hand.

But after a few minutes, Quaritch’s tail starts twisting. Jerking. Pissed off.

“If you’re gonna fuck me, then fuck me.”

The CO is amused by his boldness. Even so powerless, he’s still acting out. The CO buries his face into his prey’s neck and tastes his skin. Runs his lips over the healing bite marks from their first time.

“You want me to fuck you again?”

Miles stiffens so hard he nearly squeaks.

“Ain’t what I said,” he grinds out as his commanding officer nibbles on him. “Just want it done with so I can go back to sleep. Since you’re keepin’ me here.”

So the attitude hadn’t been completely fucked out of him. The major doesn’t mind. Not really. Not right now. A hand slips up from his belly to his chest. Massaging over pecs, palm grazing nipples.

“You didn’t come this morning,” Simon murmurs, kissing that tense jaw. It only gets tighter when he starts playing with one of those nipples. “Want me to get you off?”

Miles shifts with a restrained growl, like he’s holding back from saying or doing anything that’ll get him in any more trouble or lead to more pain. But Dietrich doesn’t do anything harsh. Just the simplest pressure, hand and fingers massaging his velvet vulva in steady strokes. He takes his time this way, until the warmth spreads and that hard little clit makes itself known. When Simon rubs it in small circles, Miles bites down on his own lip to muffle a gasp. It doesn’t take long for slick to build up and the major gladly uses it.

His prey closes his eyes tightly but the major grabs his chin with a scolding uh-uh.

“Look at me.”

A miserable, whining growl comes out of the ex-colonel before he relents and opens his eyes once more. The scowl on his face doesn’t match the small sounds he’s unable to keep down. His breathing becomes more labored, cheeks visibly flushed even in the dim lighting. Simon kisses that precious suffering face all over.

The commander whispers praise against Miles’ warm lips, pausing his attention on that swelling clit to trace his fingers up and down the slit that’s starting to part, making way for the rest of the growing member hiding inside.

Not long now. He rubs him harder, enough that the kitten nearly jumps from the sensation. But all Simon needs to do is use his body to pin him down by the hip. That wet pussy is clenching around nothing, powerless to hold back when such a simple thing feels so good. He’s baring teeth, resisting what is irresistible.

Until… until…

Climax dissolves Miles Quaritch.

He shakes with each wave, choked gasps and grunts like a soft vintage music box to Major Dietrich’s ears.

“That’s it…” The major keeps his fingers rooted, holding pressure as that wet glans pulsates. He doesn’t even need to see it to know how hard it jerks between his fingers. He wonders how it’d feel throbbing in his lips.

Very tempting. But not now.

Just a small, affectionate kiss and he holds him under the covers again, listening to his heart beating and his lungs working. Still congested, but no more coughing for now.

He stays like that for a time, enjoying the silence and the warmth, until his own sheath is too damp to keep ignoring. The covers are removed, exposing Miles and his still-restrained, still-helpless body beneath the major.

A little bit of repositioning gets them sheath-to-sheath. Even the gentlest of rocking gets Miles’ breath hitching all over again, so sensitive after orgasm. Simon moans, husky, arousal growing. They’re both wet, both growing harder by the second. His prey’s smaller cock is first to reveal itself, pink and throbbing each time his captor grinds his hips. His commander’s soon joins his, rock-hard and ready.

That’s when he sees the wide-eyed look on his kitten’s face. The anxious flickering of glowing freckles. No doubt replaying the rough, punishing pounding he’d endured the night before. The fear makes him harder. He cups that cheek with one hand and smooths it back to caress a tiny, pinned ear.

Poor fucking thing.

He turns Miles onto his side and aligns their bodies. He can feel the heat already. The heat that makes him crazy. He penetrates that tight cunt slowly, savoring each velvety inch wrapping him up. So hot, with that fever still burning his toy up from the inside.

“Fuck…” Simon pauses to breathe, steadying himself.

If he’s not careful, he’ll burst within just a few strokes. So each movement is leisurely but measured. He’s in no rush. It’s the weekend, after all. Doesn’t he deserve to enjoy himself?

But he’s not the only one. It doesn’t escape his notice that Miles’ ears twitch with each tender thrust. Then he hears the small sighs. So he keeps going. Each plunge slow and deep. He can tell the pressure is building when his prey starts to squeeze, when his breathing becomes uneven. The major pushes in as far as he can go and stays there a moment, groaning. Quaritch is defiantly silent, choking down his pleasure despite how he flutters around his CO’s length.

When Simon’s hips move even a bit faster, Miles promptly turns his face into the mattress to muffle his gasps. The CO lets him for now, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back as he continues pampering his pussy that way. Long drags, holding, and pulling back. Massaging that sweet spot just right. Miles is inflating and deflating with each breath, his tail squirming, his thighs flexing. Eventually he can hear the moans rising from the former colonel’s chest. Even muffled, they’re deep, rumbling, giving voice to what his body feels.

“That’s it,” the major praises, moving with more force. “Come for me, kitten.”

His fucktoy instantly tenses. Twists his head and tail back and forth, strangling his own moans. But they both know there’s no fighting it. Tighter and tighter, and—Miles shudders, gripping his commander’s hard cock as he comes. Simon moans with him, slowing down to enjoy himself and to keep from tripping into orgasm along with him.

These fucking contractions… God damn, pussy has never felt so good. Does the RDA have any idea what they’ve done?

When it’s over, he reaches to grip Miles by his short crop, pulling just enough to expose his flushed, sweaty face. Those gooey eyes immediately snap into a pathetic forced glare.

“Was that good?” Dietrich teases, petting his hair.

In between pitiful coughs, “Fuck—you.”

Still so bad.

Simon pulls out and wastes no time giving him a hard slap on the ass. Miles growls in rage. Another smack, harder. An even louder growl. Again and again until the growls turn to choked hisses. Until that already bruised ass is lit up.

“Anything else?”

The soldier trembles, quiet as a mouse, little ears tense against his head. The CO touches his face until he gets those scared eyes back.

“Mmhm,” the major hums. That’s what he thought.

He flips him onto his back. No more tenderness. The monster curled under his heart is hungry. It wants to sink its teeth into prey and tear into flesh. Dietrich fucks him fast and hard, his cock like a knife carving Miles Quaritch empty and raw. The kitten’s eyes are glazed and gone. Blank, dark, a computer in sleep mode.

Simon puts a hand on his throat while he uses him, watching him go slack and open like a freshly euthanized corpse, taking every violent thrust. But those little stars keep flickering like a low charge warning. Blink, blink, blink.

How far can he push it? Where’s the line that’ll break him beyond repair and mark him for slaughter?

The major finds release again in that tight little cunt, wrapping perfectly around him even when his toy is no longer responsive.

He gently releases his throat as he rides the pulsating waves. Miles would look dead if not for the way he shakes.

Out of curiosity, he pats that empty face.

Here, kitty, kitty.

Hm.

He pats harder. Not quite a slap, but enough to sting. A small hitch, a trickle of moisture from one eye, but nothing else.

Simon relishes the afterglow and smokes himself to blissful static, almost forgetting about the battered body in bed next to him.

It’s too loud. Hundreds of hands clapping, voices cheering.

Rose after rose under the spotlight. One after another, until the pile is so big it looks like a pool of blood under pointed toes. The perfume is acidic, filling him to the brim. His eyes burn, water rising, blurring.

The curtain closes, but the applause doesn’t stop. Louder and louder until his ears crackle.

Crackling, snapping, popping…

Until, suddenly—Quiet.

Not complete silence. There are soft voices. What are they saying? Still a little crackly.

A light. It’s bright. He can hardly see. It hurts. Blurry, watery, moving blobs.

The light leaves and the crackling settles—only to be replaced by fingers snapping sharply by his ears. He grabs the offending hand, still blinking away stinging tears.

This hand… It’s so small. His heart skips a beat.

A child?

No. He turns it over, feeling the material of the glove, smelling disinfectant and something else.

“You’re alright. Everything’s fine.”

Fine?

He looks up. A face behind an exopack. Another on the left.

Blinking, blinking… He can’t clear his eyes.

He releases the hand and touches his own face — a little wet. No exopack? He can breathe, but the air tastes strange. Wires, things stuck, sticking, pulling at his skin. His jaw twitches with the urge to chomp.

He wants to bite. He wants to tear. He wants to kill.

Simon sits up despite the way his head swims and the protests he hears. Little by little, his vision starts to clarify and his ears adjust. Looking down, he realizes he’s wearing a hospital gown.

What happened? He wipes once more at the moisture still seeping from the corners of his eyes—too bright in here — and halts when he sees his hand.

Blue. Striped. Dotted with lines of light. His hand flies to his face again, moving up his head. More things stuck on him, his temple, by his… ears. Oh.

He hears a scoff and looks up. Across the way sits an equally blue woman with a wildly waving tail. Gown torn to shreds, chest exposed, ink under her breasts of hands bound together in prayer. Her upper chest is covered in electrodes attached to monitors by the wall.

But she’s no Na’vi. Even without the tattoo, he’d know that pixie cut and pissed off pout anywhere. His stomach twists as he watches her snap at a scientist. Her fangs glint in the lighting and for a moment she looks like a demon.

Isn’t that what they call us?

Demons.

Reyes finally looks at him and gives a sarcastic salute.

“Welcome to the afterlife, boss.”

Fuck. Major Dietrich already needs a smoke.

Sunrise has him pulling that lifeless form into his arms again. Warm bodies, warm skin, messy hair, not a care.

But even though it’s another “day off,” Major Dietrich needs to get to his routine.

Does he want to?

He looks to where his datapad is charging.

… Maybe just five more minutes.

Before he knows it, he’s dozed off again with his face buried between the body’s shoulder blades.

He makes it to the gym later than usual, but thankfully it’s still empty. The perks of being part of a minority for once, he guesses. This time he’s careful not to leave anything behind, checking his duffle bag and every pocket when he leaves.

Once back in his quarters, the animal desire returns with an almost frantic ferocity. He doesn’t shower first this time, but heads straight to where he left his toy. He pulls Miles from the bed without waiting for him to wake up—those knees hit the floor hard. Simon rips the rebreather off of him roughly.

He holds that face in one hand. The bruise he’d left nearly a week before on that cheek is still fading. Tiny scabs remain on lips where he’d bitten and tasted blood that first time. He rubs his thumb over them, back and forth, and it’s as if he’s set alight from the inside.

“Open,” he commands with a hand holding the base of Quaritch’s queue. He only needs to use light pressure when his captive is slow to respond.

He rubs his cock between those lips, then parts them with ease. The kitten’s eyes close as the tip intrudes his mouth, but Dietrich wants them.

He always wants them.

So he squeezes the queue in his hold again, harder this time, until those eyes snap open. Already shining and pathetic, looking up at him like he wants to beg to be allowed to keep sleeping.

But just like before, Miles doesn’t seem to know what to do. An open mouth is nice, but the major wants him to put the work in now.

“You’ve never sucked cock before?” he asks him, pulling out, still playing with those soft but sore lips.

Quaritch’s tail flicks, maybe in offense, maybe in humiliation. Either way, he’s not answering, or talking back. So Simon teases where he knows it’ll hurt.

“Not even when you were alive?”

This gets more of a response; Miles shuts his mouth and glares.

The CO tilts his head, waiting for the answer.

For the indignation.

For the fury.

He pulls the pin.

“Not even Sully’s?”

The snarl that comes out is pitiful, crackling, hoarse, and immediately triggers a fit of coughing. Dietrich holds him in place cruelly, watching him fight to breathe. So predictable.

When he settles down, the major looks into those watering eyes.

“I don’t need you to cooperate. I can just fuck your throat again if you don’t want to do your job,” he offers.

Miles is swallowing desperately, and there’s the tiniest quiver of his chin. Grasping for the tiniest shred of dignity. It makes Simon burn. Then that mouth opens. A baby kitten lick on the underside. Clearly holding back a gag of revulsion. Finally, Quaritch’s mouth closes around the head of his boss’s cock with a trembling jaw.

“Be good,” the major warns. He doesn’t even need to spell out the rest of the threat. He’s sure his little slut gets it by now.

Each suck is careful, fearful. Inexperienced. He really hadn’t done this before.

“Just like that,” Simon encourages, pushing forward.

It’s apparently too deep and Miles chokes, trying to pull away. But his CO holds him. That mouth is so warm, so perfect. He can’t help but start to fuck it, slowly and deliciously.

There’s no reason to rush this morning… But that doesn’t mean he can’t be a little mean.

He forces his cock into the back of that convulsing throat and keeps his toy as still as possible through the agony. He tortures him this way until he’s had his fill. Tears trail down Quaritch’s cheeks and when he’s freed, he can’t even try to disguise sobs as coughs anymore.

Dietrich tilts that head back with one hand and strokes with the other. An order to keep that mouth open, tongue out.

He holds him there while he strokes himself to a gratifying finish on Quaritch’s face.

Marking what’s his.

The CO throws him down to the floor and leaves him while he takes off to have his morning shower. So perked up he can’t help but sing the same song he’d heard in the locker room while he lathers up.

The rest of the morning is much the same as Saturday’s. He eventually drags Miles back to the bathroom for his turn. This time his captive finally has more than just piss to get out. It isn’t much, but it’s proof at least that his digestive system is working. No fighting, just silence and stillness while he’s wiped.

The major hums while he re-braids Quaritch’s queue and again while he cuts up more fruit. After breakfast, he brushes their teeth, and back to bed the kitten goes. Tied up just like before, with his Atmos secured. Still burning up, too.

Weren’t these bodies supposed to be more resilient? How long could it possibly take to recover?

Thankfully, the major doesn’t have a long list today, which leaves him with more time to tend to things in his suite. With a small basket of supplies, he gets to work. He wipes down counters, shelves, and his few small appliances. Organizes drawers, cupboards. Not that there’s much to sort through.

Technically they have custodians, but he doesn’t think they do a good enough job. He always turns them away.

Soon enough, his suite is tidy enough for him to think. And if he can think, he can check his datapad.

He props it up at the table and pours a second cup of coffee. To his surprise, there isn’t much to catch up on. Looks like no one did overtime the night before trying to update the counts for him.

Lucky major.

Might as well get an early start on his Sunday rounds, then.

He checks one more time to be sure the tied-up soldier in his bed is breathing before he leaves his suite.

Sundays are a little hectic in the barracks. Garland is supposed to be leading, but Dietrich can hear the squabble before he even rounds the corner.

Reyes is bitching his blue ear off, words coming out like shots from a pistol.

“Baby, listen, I know, but— shit. ” Garland turns. “Morning, major.”

Dietrich nods to him but his eyebrows are up as he stops beside the couple, looking pointedly at the woman.

“There a problem, private?”

Reyes crosses her arms, glaring holes into the floor. “No, sir.”

A swish of his tail dismisses her. She picks up a basket of dirty linens and leaves without a word. Dietrich gives Garland a look, to which he promptly nods and follows after her.

He watches him run to catch up. Christ, those two. He can’t decide if it’s lucky or unlucky that they died together.

The commanding officer checks on the rest of his squad. Those not on morning guard shifts are helping each other out with chores, chit-chatting but otherwise focused and in good spirits. As much as they can be, anyway.

Harper’s off on stable duty cleaning up banshee shit. The few they have are broken, useless as mounts. Belonged to a few from Blue One. Apparently banshees can’t be re-used for other riders. The connection doesn’t take at all, they lose it and become violent. Or in the case of the one that belonged to Private Lopez, they just don’t react at all. One of his soldiers said it was like connecting to a dead TV.

If it were up to Dietrich, he’d have written them off weeks ago to save the cost of keeping them alive. But the scientists want to use them for experiments. What kind, he hasn’t heard yet. Not his department anyway.

There is one banshee no one will touch, though. He’s heard she’s aggressive to anyone who comes near the stables. Harper’s been able to get close enough to do a decent job, but there isn’t much since she barely accepts the morsels given to her.

Just like her rider.

The major leaves the barracks. Before he can swing by his office, the communications expert runs her little human feet up to him with a datapad held high.

There goes his alone time.

Home again.

Dietrich can’t even think about anything else.

He unties the cable and lies Miles face-down on the edge of the bed. For the third night in a row, he uses the broken Recom like the asset he is. Every thrust, every squeeze has him caught in the oblivion of pleasure.

When he’s relieved himself, he opens his drawer only to find he’d already smoked his last cigarette. Lucky that he’s got plenty of freshly cured tobacco now. Time to get to it.

The leaves are even prettier than when he picked them up. Their aroma immediately fills the room. The process is simple enough. A leaf is folded down into a square and on his impeccably clean table, he uses his knife to slice it into paper-thin strips. Before long, one leaf is nothing but perfect little shavings. He uses the knife to slide it all into a repurposed RDA-brand cough drop tin.

Next leaf, down. Fold, fold, turn, fold, fold.

While he cuts this one, the major thinks back to the greenhouse. Those roses, somehow nurtured so beautifully even all the way out here in Hell.

A secret for a secret.

He still doesn’t know.

By the time he’s rolled just a few cigarettes, he doesn’t want to do shit. So he lies on the bed next to the still body and smokes to the silence. The buzz is rebounding to the end of his queue and back up to his brain-stem, over and over again in a pleasant loop.

He rolls over to have a good look at Quaritch. Mostly still, not acknowledging the commander’s hovering gaze.

“Have any secrets for me, kitten?” he asks, blowing smoke upward.

Miles tenses only when he’s touched again. Cries out when he’s penetrated at just the right angle again.

This secret is too precious. This voice, this cunt, this grip.

Simon loses himself in such a sinful secret until the night is gone once more.

The weekend is over, which means it’s only been a week since he first tasted forbidden fruit.

Somehow, it feels like much longer. Time hasn’t felt real since he awoke above Pandora, but the past several days, it’s lost all certainty. Like his quarters have become a little pocket outside of time when he has his wounded toy to play with.

Dietrich kisses the back of Quaritch’s head when he’s done fixing his hair. And seemingly to the kitten’s surprise, he cuts his cuffs. Helps him stretch out his arms, even spends a minute rubbing them and making sure they still work.

“Up.” Pants on first, then his shirt, his comms, and Atmos. Everything just as it was when he arrived.

Simon looks him over just to be sure, adjusting his belt to account for even more lost weight.

Then he opens the door, waiting on the hiss of air. One quick peek to be sure the coast is clear, and he gently guides Miles out into the hallway.

“See you at roll call,” the major says, and he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Miles Quaritch puts his body back together piece by piece, like a puzzle he’s long forgotten. Or maybe one he never knew to begin with. Each bone, each joint comes back to him as he walks slowly, concealing the limp that reminds him of the price he paid. The cold floor stings his bare feet, but he’ll take it over the major’s warm room.

This is the very same hallway he limped through exactly a week ago.

Which means it’s Monday. Fucking Monday.

An artificial calendar, copied and pasted for the convenience of life on another world, just like him. It was a Monday when he finally came out of the ICU. Monday when they put him on trial to figure out what the hell happened and to decide what to do about him. Monday when Dietrich first… No, stop fucking thinking about it.

(It was also a Monday when Spider was born. It surprises him that he even remembers that detail.)

Quaritch enters the showers without realizing he’d been going that way. But it’s still early, so he’d better take his chance. He ignores the harsh voice that reminds him he’d already been thoroughly cleansed by his captor, inside and out. Swallows the bile as he starts the water and forces himself under the stream, desperate to forget the sensation of fingers inside of him. He tries to think of anything else, but what pops up instead is the feeling of those same fingers softly combing through his hair and rebraiding his queue with care. Each sensation branded into his neurons.

Hot water. Hotter. Until it hurts. And then until his skin is numb. He wants to claw it off until there’s nothing left of him but bone.

The coughs start up again, but this time, he’s not full of gunk. That bastard really had smacked a lot out of him. He dries and dresses haphazardly, getting tangled in his pants as fever begins to rise in his body once more.

He feels his shoulder. His wrists. All the places there are still little marks, proof of what happened. He digs in his locker for something and finds it: a long-sleeved top, slate grey much like the rest of Bridgehead City. He stares at the RDA logo over the heart before huffing and putting the shirt on.

Quaritch was never one for modesty in his past life, most days sporting tank tops and vests. He worked hard for his muscles. Paz called him a tart once before running off to cackle behind a wall. Maybe he’d been showing off a little too much, but back then it didn’t make him a target. Now he just feels like a wounded lamb in a den of wolves.

He boots up his datapad while he puts his comms back into place, unable to remember his schedule. He doesn’t like who he sees on the next shift. Can’t do anything about it. The former colonel walks the halls again, waiting around corners to make sure he doesn’t run into anyone important. Hard to be sneaky when you’re this tall.

A sharp whiff of rubbing alcohol as he passes the medbay jerks him into memory. The first time he remembers waking up in there, he was surrounded by tiny human medics doing their best to flush the infection out of him. He’d tried to get up, but he was already strapped down like a criminal.

Or an animal. Which is worse? To the RDA, it’s probably the same.

He remembers cursing and shaking the bed, only for the hand of the conservator to press into his chest and still him. That same hand gently adjusted his mask and then flooded his line with more sedative. Everything after that is in small, broken pieces, until he began needing less and less help breathing.

Until they forced him back on his feet just to cuff him and put him on trial. How many weeks ago was that? Does time even matter anymore when you’re dead?

Quaritch peers around the corner to the barracks. He can hear laughter, followed by the commotion of rough-housing. Nope. His bed’s probably been pissed on again anyway. The laundry room’s empty so he quickly steals two blankets and books it before anyone notices him. Once again he finds his body choosing his next destination and he doesn’t fight it.

He doesn’t know why it’s the first place it thinks to take him, but he waits until the coast is clear before he taps his dogtag against the panel. To his surprise, it actually opens. They didn’t revoke general storage access; too many chores for that. Or maybe someone made a mistake.

He didn’t get brought back to be a fucking barracks boy. He needs to take his meds. He needs to get his strength back.

The light flickers above, just as it did when Dietrich worked him to the finish line against his will. Quaritch gives one last uncertain glance toward the door before he begins moving crates around. There. A small corner, but big enough for him to curl up. One blanket is folded and set aside, the other is draped around his shoulders as the chills begin again.

He just needs a minute alone. No humans, no clones, no AMP suits, no noise. If only he could block out every thought too. Another cigarette would help. Fuck. Pills in hand, he twists a bottle of water open and immediately spills some on his shirt—Why can’t he stop shaking?

It’s over, he tells himself. It’s over. Again. So get your shit together.

He puts the medication in his mouth and instantly gags. He can still taste it. Taste him. He spits the pills into his hand, breathes, growls, and tries again. It takes several tries, the bitter coating leaking onto his tongue, but he eventually gets two down and crushes the plastic water bottle to throw to the side. The major hadn’t force-fed him breakfast this time, so he rips open two protein bars. There’s no way in hell he’s going to the mess hall in this state. Miles chews and chews, huffing and swallowing in big unpleasant chunks. The fruits he’d been fed were gourmet compared to these chalk bars, but at least they’re his. He opens another water bottle, avoiding making a mess this time.

Something about the cool liquid washing the crunchy bits of his meal away breaks his trembling into wetness that shrouds his vision in the already dim room. He wipes every tear away as soon as they appear, scowling until he can’t hold back any more.

Damn it. God damn it. He buries his face in the blanket.

“Not an easy thing,” Lyle had said as they exited the medbay together.

“What?” The colonel had to consciously remind himself not to touch his own head. The scars were still very new, very red. Everyone will be looking.

“Y’know. Admitting ya got got.”

Lyle had been right.

Quaritch had gotten got by the damn viperwolves because he was too cocky. So he turned it into a lesson, a warning to new recruits acting like hot shit. Papa Dragon isn’t invincible and neither are you, so keep your head on a swivel. By his second year, he’d already lost a few of them to Pandora’s ruthless forests. Most of the time, they weren’t able to recover the remains. Hell’s Gate didn’t have much room for a cemetery anyway. They built cairns in Augustine’s orchard, because that’s all they could do.

Then he, no—his predecessor—had gotten got by Sully’s bitch because he wouldn’t fucking let it go and retreat. He wasn’t there, he doesn’t really know, but he saw the footage. The burn is real. What a fucking embarrassment. There wasn’t any honor in dying in the forest with the rest of his team. He should’ve gotten them all the hell out of there. They’d have been sent packing back to Earth, but he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Now he’s been got by his commanding officer multiple times for no special reason other than he has something of use in his pants and he’s too damn weak to fight him off. Used and cleaned, used and put away, used and let loose. How many times has Quaritch submitted to him in just a few days, because he’s had no other choice? Because it was the path of least resistance?

He’s tense. His adrenals are shot, he feels like shit, nothing is right.

Nothing.

And he’s wet again. Why is he wet?

He doesn’t know why his hand tugs at his belt. Why it goes straight down there. He swallows more tears, his fingers hovering, feeling the heat.

One finger lifts, then gently touches. Miles lets out a sigh that rattles into a choked growl of disgust. He yanks his hand out like he’s touched a hot stove. What the fuck is wrong with him? He just got out of that situation, he doesn’t need to do it again to himself.

But now he can’t stop thinking about how wet he’d been on the ship, trying to kill Jake Sully. Every leap, every swing, every scream. How much he’d throbbed even when he was losing, tasting his own blood, being choked out under water.

Fuck… fuck… FUCK!

His hand dives back into his pants. Rub back and forth, back and forth. It’s not like he’s never done this to a woman before. Paz loved it. But… it’s not enough. He pulls his pants down past his ass, tail curling in shame. Even in the low light he can see that hard little thing, that not-quite-a-dick that can grow and change so much. It almost shrinks into itself in the cold air. He knows by now just what to do to get it out all the way.

But he finds he just doesn’t have the patience.

Using his thumb, he gently strokes the crown of the sensitive glans and holds his breath as it pulses.

Such a tiny thing floods his brain.

It’s nothing.

Each touch is simple, each twitch like the slow swell of the tide.

It’s nothing.

Stroke, sigh, swell. Over and over.

He thinks of his hands on Sully’s throat. Those bloodshot eyes fading. Die for me, kid. Die, fucking die, this is what you get for fucking with me.

Stroking turns to rubbing again, faster now. He’s so slick that it makes noise. He can smell his own musk. The harder he rubs, the more he squeezes on the inside, but he doesn’t dare try to insert even a fingertip.

Nothing.

“Breathe,” he suddenly hears inside. The major’s voice is intrusive but—so soft.

He tries to push it away, to think of Jake’s dead face.

“I’ve got you,” echoes in his mind, filling him like an overflowing well.

Over and over.

“Come for me, kitten.”

Over and—

His clit melts, leaving him gasping into the blanket even though he has no one to hide his sordid, vile pleasure from. Each contraction awakens the memory of tobacco on his tongue, everything swirling inside like it’s being sucked into a vortex. A high so different from the neural fireworks of jerking himself off.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, hand pressed to his tender pussy, panting and heart hammering in his ears. Eventually his brain comes back, the same way his body had come back, piece by piece. He wipes his fingers on the inseam and slowly zips and buckles himself back up, still overheated.

For all the rest he got in that perfectly cushioned bed, he’s exhausted. Maybe just a short nap. He puts his mask on and rests his head on the folded blanket. The other is pulled over himself, using his arms to block out the flickering light.

Sleep comes in short, sweaty fits. He dreams it all over again. Blood and semen. Then he dreams of Sully. Knives and chains. Then gloved hands all over his body, the taste of saline pushing through his IV.

Very briefly, he dreams of flying, and then nothing more.

“Listen up,” Major Dietrich calls out, his voice carrying over the murmur of the common room. Every soldier quickly quiets down out of respect.

“Got a busy week ahead of us. Escorts the next three days in a row. One’s gonna be an overnight stay so some of you need to be running doubles or covering fatigue duty while we’re out. Check your datapad for updates and be on time to your check-ins.”

Dietrich’s gaze flicks up from his tablet. Most faces are accounted for, but he doesn’t see the kitten’s big eyes amongst the others. Skipping out? Bad.

“And no more fighting. Don’t want Pierce getting any ideas about starting group therapy.” A collective groan ripples through the team, because absolutely no one wants to do that shit.

“Garland, Liu, Monty, Day, with me on escorts.” They nod their understanding. “Harper, the stables still need a lot of work. You want an extra hand?”

“Nah, boss, I got it,” Harper answers, never one to complain about doing work outside.

The major swipes up, sending Tuesday through next Monday’s tentative schedules out to everyone in a wave of pings. 

“Work it out with each other if you want to swap shifts.”

And with that, the 2nd unit is dismissed and ready for whatever slop the mess hall has in store. Simon stays behind, tapping a few things into his datapad, when someone approaches with purposeful footsteps. He glances up.

“Morning,” he greets Reyes.

She peeks over her shoulder once before turning back to him, tail waving sharply.

“What’s up with you?” It’s not friendly conversation, but accusatory.

Uh-oh. His eyes are back down on his datapad. “What?”

“My schedule sucks. Haven’t been on escorts in weeks. The fuck did I do? Am I on probation or something?”

Dietrich locks his datapad. “You’re not in trouble. It’s just how things are right now.”

“That’s bullshit, Simon.” She’s closer now, voice hushed but still biting. “I’m just as good as everyone else. So why am I stuck here with that sad motherfucker and cleaning up after everyone like a maid?”

The major doesn’t flinch.

“Mari,” he warns quietly, even though everyone else has shuffled out. He takes his earpiece out and gives her his full attention. “We’re still picking up the pieces. We need you here in the meantime.”

She’s glaring to the side, face tight. Dietrich reaches out, a blue hand resting on her tattooed shoulder. More to get her to listen than anything.

“I need you here.”

Now she looks at him, eyes still frustrated but eventually sighing.

“I know it’s boring. Trust me. Maybe I can get you on data entry with me someday.”

“Jesus, never mind,” she mutters, pulling away. “I’d rather clean.”

“Suit yourself. Anything else I can do to help?” he offers.

Her ears flatten in annoyance and thought. She shrugs. “A smoke would be nice.”

With a knowing little smirk, he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a fresh hand-roll. Reyes moves to take it, but he holds it away momentarily. What’s that? He sees something. With the back of his knuckles, he brushes away some of her hair. Above her dark eyebrows is a bruise. Fading, but still dark enough to see through her blue skin and stripes.

Reyes quickly steps back with an embarrassed huff, putting her hair back into place with her fingers.

“Shithead threw a boot at me.”

“Mmhm,” the major hums. That’s his kitten. “Was it worth it?”

Reyes rolls her eyes, refusing to answer. Simon finally presents her with the cigarette, on one condition: “Be good.”

“Sure thing,” she responds sarcastically, taking it from him.

“Go get breakfast. I don’t need Pierce marking anyone else as malnourished.”

“Yeah, yeah. What about you?”

“It’s Monday,” Dietrich reminds her as he puts his earpiece back in.

“Right. See ya, Major.”

Another Monday. Time for their usual conference. No one’s favorite, but it’ll set them up for success the rest of the week. If everyone can get it together, that is.

The major’s itching to get to his own duties, but someone is lagging, throwing them off schedule. Conservator Pierce has checked his watch too many times to count. Stringer taps his foot in the corner. Ardmore skims something on her holo-monitor as she silently works on her coffee. But she must also want to get to work, because she decides to get started despite their missing person.

“Major. How’s your new corporal doing?”

Dietrich’s answer is quick and simple despite the flash of nirvanic memories that warm his body.

“Tardy. Sick.” He adjusts his bracelet boredly. “And fixated.”

“On?”

Simon’s look says it all.

“He’s still worked up about Sully? Christ.” The general downs the rest of her mug and turns to address the conservator. “What’s your take on that?”

Pierce breathes in a polite sip from his Atmos before speaking. “Reintegration will take time. This is only his third week after reassignment. And there have been…” A shift of weight. “...some bumps in the road.”

Ardmore doesn’t look pleased. Not that she ever does. “I didn’t need to read your reports to learn about the fight. Also couldn’t help but notice that he won’t take part in his mandated counseling.”

Funny, because the kitten had just begged Dietrich to talk. How endearing his desperation had been.

Before Pierce can comment, a grating voice cuts through.

“I say throw ‘im in the scrambler!” comes a slurring shout. All eyes look to the entryway as Scoresby comes waggling in, his metal arm dirty and smudged with muck. “Why bother with chit-chat, eh?”

The dense aura of booze around him immediately coils Simon’s tail. He takes the opportunity to breathe from his mask.

But Ardmore is all tight smiles. “Nice of you to join us. And good point.” She turns to Pierce once again, who hardly hides a wrinkled nose as Scoresby passes him to the coffee machine.

The conservator shakes his head. “The Neurolab is still being recalibrated, General. Simulation is one thing, but we need more testing to be sure.”

“What the hell’s the holdup?” Scoresby butts in, already spilling on the counter, clearly not yet used to his new arm. “Hurry up and test it on him. Two birds, one scrambled egg.” He laughs at his own joke.

The conservator’s tail is straight and stiff but his voice remains calm as a winter pond. “I cannot authorize its use on our most valuable asset, especially in his current condition.”

Most valuable asset? Dietrich knows it’s true, but it still makes him bristle internally. None of them have any idea what actually makes the former colonel so valuable, he thinks to himself.

“Thought ya recombies were fast healers,” Scoresby remarks, shaking an avalanche of sugary powder into his mug. “M’sure the big guy can handle it. Heard his kid did just fine.”

“It could kill him,” Pierce informs.

“Good.” A bitter snort. “Waste of resources.”

Now Pierce’s ears can’t help but fold back. He’s quick to fix them, but Dietrich doesn’t miss the small slip.

“Respectfully, Captain, my job is to evaluate each asset for exactly that. You are a fisherman. Please save your commentary for when our meeting shifts focus to your department’s recent failed quotas.”

Ardmore puts a hand up before Scoresby can bark back in response. Simon eats up the tension in silence. What he would pay to see the conservator lose his cool. Finally snap and bite Scoresby’s head off in one chomp.

“Who else can we test it on?” Stringer asks, arms crossed tight, asshole probably even tighter. 

Pierce and Dietrich look to each other. The conservator yields first, cutting his eyes away, but Simon is the one to answer.

“None of mine.” His men aren’t a bunch of lab rats for them to throw at the wall. “We already went over the logistics.”

“Correct,” Pierce confirms. “We can’t afford to lose any more soldiers right now, even if only temporarily.”

Stringer’s practically screaming with his mouth closed. Both recoms in the room know he could pull rank and throw anyone blue in that machine if he got desperate enough. If he didn’t want to piss off investors, he’d probably be forcing Pierce in there right now just out of frustration.

“What about the native we ran it on last year? Can’t we get him in there?”

Ardmore is quick to remind him, “Suicide.”

Before Simon’s time, but he’s read the files.

“Right. Well.” He rubs his jaw. “We have what the Avatar Program left behind, so how are we short on data?”

The conservator pulls a tablet from his coat pocket. “The neurology of an avatar and recombinant might seem identical, but Soul Drive installation has a very different effect on the brain than a temporary psionic link. It hasn’t been sufficiently studied.”

He swipes on the tablet to transfer an image of a long dead driver and their avatar to the holo on Ardmore’s wall. Then he pushes another one up: a pre-decanting scan of a recom, labeled presently as KIA. Each brain is modeled for comparison, with limited data points on the recom.

“One wrong calculation could potentially render even a healthy recombinant neurologically inert. It would then require indefinite use of an amnio tank in order to preserve the asset for future harvesting. And that’s only if the body survives. Either way, a skilled team member is lost.”

He swipes again to show the numbers. Billions and billions of dollars potentially lost on each function, material, and energy cost. The substitute amniotic fluid and controlled temperature to simulate a womb. The installation of a synthetic umbilical cord. The careful work of taking organs in case one of Dietrich’s soldiers takes an arrow to the kidney. Even “recycling” is costly.

“That,” Pierce finishes, pointedly staring at Scoresby. “would be a waste of resources.”

But Stringer’s still anxious. “Look. I’m being pressed for a solution. Something. Anything that can show Project Phoenix isn’t a total waste.” He avoids the eyes of both clones when saying this. “They’re fine with keeping the team mostly grounded until we get back on our feet but I can’t tell them our former head of security is too sick to use on the field anymore.”

Simon steps forward, easing the tension with a calm wave of his tail.

“I’ve been assigning him fatigues and guard detail. Light work while he recovers, per Pierce’s guidance. I’d take him on escorts for some fresh air away from the city, but he’s not cleared for that either. Not that he’s much use without a weapon.”

Pierce sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times already. “I cannot authorize deployment. Not in his current mental and physical state.”

“Then get him some fucking—steroids and enrichment or something. I don’t care what it takes,” Stringer snaps.

Ardmore reassures him, “Pierce is top of the line, Charles. And Major Dietrich is good with his soldiers. They’ll get him back in the game.”

Stringer waves his hand dismissively. “Fine. Great. But the next quarterly report is weeks away and we’ve been behind on every single quota for two months straight. They don’t want to hear that we’re too short-staffed to get back to hunting. We need to get to work—real work—before they pull funding.”

Stringer switches the holo to display a different set of numbers. More updates on their losses and what’s been recovered from the sea. What’s being printed and what’s coming in six years on the next ISV. Requested supplies from outposts and what they can afford to transport. A wave of red and yellow numbers with too little green.

But Ardmore offers optimism. “The natives only rear their heads when we get too close. And Sully hasn’t been spotted in some time. Otherwise, they haven’t made a peep since the battle. No ambushes. Every escort has gone smoothly. We’re just making sure we have what we need first.”

“But the tulkun ain’t comin’ ‘round their usual spots,” Scoresby speaks up, glowering into his mug. “They got wise.”

“Give it time. As soon as we can get escorts in the air and water, we’ll get back on track.” Ardmore zooms in on a specific set of numbers, top of the list. “Let’s get through the rest of this, gentlemen. I’d like to get back to my schedule as much as you do.”

Pierce’s face is back to its usual blank mask, but Simon knows that brain of his is already spinning through endless probabilities. Stringer looks like he’s mentally drafting up the next Superluminal to send, finding the perfect wording to buy them more time. Even Scoresby has officially shut up, idly picking at a seam on his metal arm.

Simon waits for his turn to speak clarity to the graphs before them, all the while pampering his own mind with pleasant memories of the euphoric weekend he’d just had.

Seems like everyone here wants something from Miles Quaritch.

Too bad the major doesn’t like to share.

Hell’s Gate is dark with a vengeful downpour. It’s late, too late to get anything done. But not for them. Not tonight. They’ve been running from shit lately, and this is the best way they know how to tackle it.

Paz’s breath hitches as she pulls Quaritch into the cramped cockpit, her grip strong, almost like she’s afraid he’ll lose him to the storm.

“Think anyone saw us?” Miles asks with a glint to his grin.

“Don’t care,” Paz answers, already clawing at his tank top, wanting it off, off, off.

Thunder rumbles through the gunship, through their bodies, syncing with their frantic pace like a vortex pulling them together. Sweat, skin, perfume, cologne, rain — their favorite cocktail. Paz lets Pandora hear it all as she rides him with a desperate urgency. In all the months they’ve been messing around, Quaritch has never seen her like this.

Shielded by passion that fogs the windows, they howl with Eywa’s storm.

Oblivious to Her lightning binary of life, Her will, Her gifts.

Oblivious of the miracle they forge together.

Miles awakes with a start, instinctively shuffling away from the body behind him—when he realizes no one’s there. And he’s not bound, his wrists free. He’s still sore, but not naked, not exposed. Just alone on the cold floor under a single blanket, damp with sweat. Over the sound of his Atmos, he hears a familiar buzz.

His body turns, slow and stiff. And there it is: the busted light strip. Not slowly changing to orange like the one in the major’s quarters, but quivering, almost in terror at what it remembers. He doesn’t know why he can’t move. Why he’s paralyzed staring at the jittery oscillation on the ceiling. Each breath comes in short, fast twitches of his chest.

Move. Do something.

It takes so much just to lift his arm.

What time is it? His eyes are bleary, making it even harder to see through the cracked surface of his watch. Shit. His shift started several minutes ago. His arm falls back down heavily. The tremor of his limbs makes him feel like he’s full of worms, eating away at him like he’s already dead.

Move your ass. Get. Up.

Quaritch pushes from the floor like he weighs ten tons. The mask hurts his face, even when he removes it. Time to go, let’s go . He shoves the blankets under a pallet and forces himself up onto his feet. The ringing in his ear gets louder and louder. When the hallway is clear, he exits the storage room and hurries into the lavatory adjacent to the barracks.

Water. As cold as he can stand it, cupped into his hands like he’s finally found a river after being lost in the wilderness. Each splash on his face hurts, but dampens every other sensation filling his body. He catches one accidental glance at himself in the mirror and he’s back out into the hall before he can make sense of his own blue face.

Quaritch checks his watch again: thirteen minutes late, just as he reaches his destination. The common room is quiet and empty, typical of Monday morning. Except for—

SLAM.

He turns to see Private Reyes glaring at him, broom in hand. And pointedly glancing down at his bare feet.

“I—”

“Save it. Not in the mood for your shit,” she cuts him off, handing over the broom. “Just do your side. And don’t look at me with those loco eyes.”

Miles blinks and looks away, awkwardly sipping some CO2 with his free hand. Well, shit. He had a whole speech prepared and everything. Sorry I hit you with my boot, but you and your boyfriend were asking for it. But if Reyes isn’t interested, he won’t push it.

Time to work.

The common room is a battlefield of dirt, dust, pebbles, and crumbs. Plenty to sweep. Bored soldiers equals mess. It hadn’t even had time to get too dirty from his team. They’d only had a couple of nights to settle before their first ship-out. Then when they came back with their high-value hostage, a couple more to get ready for an even longer manhunt. The few times they came back for supplies or getting their banshees fitted with gear meant short breaks.

Short breaks to be human again.

No.

To be people.

Without meaning to, he loses time to that strange place again. The fuzzy separation that he rarely notices until he comes out of it. Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping the swirls in his head, gripping the broom’s handle tighter and tighter like it’ll keep him from losing his footing.

Scratch. The bristles catch on something. The small noise is enough to grab his attention and dissipate the fog. He bends down to find…

Huh. A playing card. Eight of Spades.

He uses his thumb to brush dust off the corner. He remembers the hoots and hollers of games with his team before lights out. The way Spider had refused to sit on the furniture’s cushions, instead choosing to perch atop it in a crouch. He’d stared solemnly out the window, ignoring them.

“Hey, kid,” Quaritch had called out, shuffling with ease even though the cards felt so tiny in his big new hands. “Want me to teach ya?”

“I know how to play Rummy,” Spider said without hesitation, not even blinking.

“They taught you that out there?”

Only then did Spider turn to look at him, his eyes caustic as acid.

“Jake did.”

“You done over there?” Reyes calls, her voice slicing through the memory like a blade. She stands impatiently on the other side of the large couch, ready with more inconveniently small cleaning supplies.

Miles blinks with a grimace and pockets the card. He dumps the small dustpan out and they move on. They tackle surfaces. Tables, counters, the windows. Even though his body aches, somehow this kind of fatigue duty is enough to keep him away from any more memory sinkholes.

Before long, a chime sounds through the speakers. Eclipse already? If he’s fast, he can get in and out of line before the others. It’s a risk but he can’t keep living off of scraps and protein bars. He puts up the supplies and leaves faster than Reyes can even clock out.

The mess hall is packed and loud with clattering and chatter. RDA’s finest are already done with Monday and desperate for a break. Miles doesn’t bother with a tray, holding each part of his meal against his chest as he makes his exit. Where to eat? That storage room is too far. And he needs air.

At the back end of the common room is a sliding door that leads to a recreational deck designed just for the blue units. For convenience, it’s right next to their “training grounds.” Not as thoughtful as what the Avatar Program had back in the day, no space for a big obstacle course, but just enough for them to run and climb. Another thing his team barely had time to use before things went to shit.

In the darkness of eclipse, Quaritch spots a tiny light at the end of the deck. It burns bright before softening into a warm glow. For a split-second he thinks it’s an alien firefly taking its last breaths. That’s when his eyes adjust and he makes out the rest of the form.

It’s Reyes, sitting on the concrete steps, smoking. Her tail is curled around herself, ears tense. 

Miles stops completely in his tracks, taken over by the pinpoint burn on his ass, where he’d been marked. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at the roll between her fingers. So precise, so tight. Made by someone with practiced hands, rough and cruel and then soft and gentle–

“What did I say?” Reyes snaps at him suddenly.

Quaritch cuts his gaze away and takes an awkward seat at one of the benches, biting into his wrap. The processed Pandoran meat is hot, making his shrunken stomach clench, desperate for more.

He can’t help glancing over at her again, the scent of tobacco pulling him. Wondering.

Reyes sighs, blowing smoke upward. “What?” She flicks ash off the tip. “I don’t have any more, so don’t ask.”

Quaritch takes an overlarge bite from his wrap and talks around it. “Wasn’t gonna.”

He definitely wasn’t going to, but his mind is swirling with thousands of other questions he doesn’t dare ask aloud. The world around him fades away and before he knows it, he’s finished his meal, sitting like a masterless doll on the bench.

Tap, tap, tap. He looks at his arm. Rain? A few fat drops hit his head, one landing right in one of his small ears. Somehow the sky gets even darker, like a courteous warning, the lights turning the deck a sickly yellow. They both look up just in time for the shower to reach them.

“Shit,” Reyes curses, putting out her cigarette on the already wet deck. “Grab them, hurry.”

They fetch the chairs and benches, then work together to lift tables and bring them under the awning. Reyes slides open the door for them both and they slip inside.

He tries to take a step further but Reyes yells.

“Don’t move, stupid!”

“What—why?”

“You’re gonna mess up the floor!”

“The hell are you talking about? They just got a power-washin’ out there!” He gestures at his wet feet. “Your boots are no better.”

She mutters something under her breath before putting a hand out at him like he’s a misbehaving dog. “Just—don’t move.”

Reyes slips out of her own wet boots and steps softly over to the storage cabinets lining the wall. Quaritch doesn’t have time to ask what she’s doing before a towel is thrown at him. He catches it with a scowl, but Reyes isn’t even looking anymore. She’s busy using her own towel to dry her short hair first, then she kneels down to clean up her boots. He follows suit, making sure his feet aren’t bringing in any stray grime.

“Throw it in the hamper,” she instructs. He’s got half a mind to tell her off because she’s definitely not above him enough to give orders. But thankfully she continues before he can say anything stupid. “I’ll do another load after break.”

“I’ve got it,” he says, holding out his hand for her towel. She gives him a questioning look before handing it over. He drops both towels in the hamper and lifts it up by the handles.

Reyes groans. “Don’t even bother, man, I’m on fatigues all day today.”

Come to think of it, Miles has never seen her getting geared up with the others. She’s been stuck either guarding or cleaning, just like him.

No fun being cooped up like this.

He stops in the doorway, ear flicking in thought before he makes up his mind.

“Y’want my guard shift after this? You can have it. I don’t mind stayin’ back here.”

She squints at him even more suspiciously now. Miles wonders if she’s going to turn him down. But she just shrugs and finishes tying her boot, standing up.

“Just don’t expect me to return the favor.”

He doesn’t. Once she gets the shift switched on her datapad, she’s quick to leave without another word.

Break’s not over yet. But he doesn’t want to just sit around. Might as well get a head start.

Quaritch dumps the hamper into one of the machines and thinks to himself how different the detergent smells from what they had at Hell’s Gate. Or is it just his new nose? He starts the wash cycle and moves to open a dryer.

As he gets to work on more towels—fold, flip, stack—the hum of the machines reminds him of being inside an airship with no destination.

No target. No orders. Just fabric between his fingertips.

It’s not exactly peace. But it’s quiet. 

Simon can hear the rain, even over the droning of humans in his next meeting. He doesn’t recall seeing showers on the forecast, but maybe it’ll do everyone some good. Clean the air for the day or two it’ll take for their machinery to gunk it all up again. He doesn’t get an eclipse break today. They’re working through it, like they do most Mondays.

The rain on Earth was too acidic to enjoy. Simon remembers the frustration of trying to fasten tiny buttons on a tiny raincoat.

“Don’t look up. Keep your gloves on until you get to class. And listen to teacher. Got it?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“ —Major?”

He blinks at the assistant handing him a stack of drives. The rest of the conference isn’t any easier to pay attention to. Eventually, they’re able to pack it up.

Passing through the halls he notices Harper waiting outside of the conservator’s little clinic for his turn. Good. At least not all of his soldiers are trouble-makers.

The major makes it back to his office, but he can’t hear the rain as well in there. Not with everyone coming back from break, noisy as ever. If only he had a small window to crack open. As his computer starts up, he checks his datapad. There’s a notification on the scheduling application. One shift change. Looks like Reyes traded with…

Oh. So he’s showing up at least. But he was still late in the morning.

Too bad there’s all this paperwork to do or he’d go check on his kitten. Maybe sample a quick taste before anyone can walk in on them.

Oh well.

He logs in to his system and gets to work.

Folding done, Quaritch steps back into the common room to see what else needs work. But he really should’ve checked who was on afternoon fatigues with him. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so eager to switch shifts.

It’s Garland. Because of course it is.

His boots are dirty. Because of course they are.

He tracks over the floor they’d just cleaned. Because of course he does.

“Hey, look who’s still alive,” Garland greets with casual disdain, one hand buried in a small bag of chips. And he’s not alone. The recom they call Monty—scruffy and dumb as rocks—is right behind him, balling up a wrapper.

“Aw, shit, thought maybe they fed you to the banshees,” Monty says through a grin.

“Sorry to let ya down,” Quaritch answers with an automatic sneer. If they’re jonesing for another fight, he’s fucked. Not that he wouldn’t use every last bit of his strength to fuck them up right back.

Garland moves closer. One step, then two. Testing. But Quaritch doesn’t budge. Doesn’t flinch. The only things that move are his ears and tail, a warning. It takes everything he has to suppress a cough, swallowing it like poison. He speaks through a tight jaw and sharp teeth.

“Plenty for you to do on the checklist.”

“Nah. I’m good.” Garland then turns his bag of chips upside-down and gives a theatrical shake, letting every last little crumb fall and then dropping the bag completely without even pretending he was aiming for the trash bin. Monty follows suit by tossing the wrapper on the floor right beside it. 

“Better get back to work, Cinderella.” Garland gives a fanged grin before he and Monty sit on one of the couches like they own the damn place. The wall television powers on, volume up far too high.

In his mind, Miles is already moving. Pouncing over the couch like a thanator. Fist to jaw, teeth to throat. Tearing them apart so bad they’ll never fuck with him again.

But in reality, he says nothing and gets the broom again. The rain and eclipse end together like they’ve made a funny little joke, the return of natural light into the common room a harsh spotlight.

As he cleans up their mess, Miles knows without a doubt that Eywa hates his fucking guts.

Like much of their colony, the makeshift maternity ward has a perfect view of the runway. There was no hiding the commotion from Paz.

“What the hell’s going on out there?”

“Don’t you worry. Just rest.”

“Miles,” Paz hisses. The baby on her breast stirs and she holds him closer, his tiny hand curling against her collarbone. “I’m your best pilot. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“Oh, I know that,” Quaritch says with a little smirk. He puts his hand on hers, next to the baby’s little head. “I do need you. But so does he.”

He knows he can’t stop her.

Later, when he sees her gunship pull up into the air beside his Dragon, he thinks maybe he should have sabotaged her propellers. Yanked out a fuse. Slashed a line. Drained her fuel tank.

He should’ve done something.

Anything.

Despite the extra workload, Miles eventually gets enough chores checked off to call it a day. What a bunch of messy children. His squad wouldn’t have gotten away with this shit. He would’ve been making them do a hundred burpees the second they put their shoes up on the coffee table.

The dinner chime rings. Trained like dogs, the RDA’s employees shuffle out. Quaritch’s stomach screams anew for a hot meal. Luckily for him, Reyes and Garland are too busy arguing to pay any attention to him. Their voices are smudged at the edges, but he catches just a little.

“—don’t be stupid out there.”

“Chill out. It’s just a milk run.” The scrape of utensils. “No one’s gonna jump us for rations and fuel.”

“They’ll still kill you if they get the chance, Leo. They took out his whole team.”

“Aww, baby. You’re cute when you worry.”

“Yeah? You’re cute when you shut the fuck up.”

Miles shovels the powdery mush into his mouth, trying desperately to push away every memory that comes up.

Walker’s limp body. She’d gone so quickly, the arrow hadn’t even had time to poison her. Everyone who died in the forest had to be left behind. Pandora chow.

Zdinarsk’s remains in the morgue, trauma to her eye, skin slipping from being in Pandora’s ocean just long enough to start rotting her.

Prager’s body had a huge stab wound straight through him. Lopez, another arrow. Alexander—blunt force trauma. Crushed by that beast of the sea. He’d been there for that one, seen the blood coming out of his nose and ears for a flash before they had to get moving.

And Mansk? Drowned. That’s all. His wounds wouldn’t have been enough to kill him, they said. If he was conscious when the ship went under, he might have had a chance to escape. Or maybe he was awake, but got stuck under there just like they did, but there was no one to drag him to the surface. Stupidest thing.

And Lyle. Still no Lyle.

Each spoonful is hard to swallow, its warmth is barely enough to heat his core. It tastes like nothing, slop null, but it’s food. It brings with it a fog that makes his queue feel like a heavy chain. He takes one last mouthful and dumps his tray.

Move. Now. Before anyone can see you shaking.

He’s slipping away again, the static in his nerves chewing him from the inside. He knows what he needs, even if he can’t exactly understand why. The mud is even more plentiful than usual thanks to the surprise rain earlier. Outside, Miles marches through it, pants rolled up, like he’s going to battle. He walks and walks until some silent instinct stops him and his feet sink into the cold, wet grime.

And just like that, he can think again.

No lines to draw this time. He’d already made his choice. Already took the punishment. Traded his body for—what exactly?

But his heart still beats.

Somehow.

He was sure letting Dietrich have him again would kill him. It felt like he died a thousand times in the major’s bed, each thrust like the stab of a knife.

Over and over…

Here he stands, feet in the mud once more.

The shaking starts in his chest, a bubbling feeling, almost like a hiccup trying to burst out from him. Before he realizes what’s coming, it breaks from him as a laugh, wild, almost choking, but— free.

He laughs at his situation, at his sore body, at himself.

And maybe at Eywa.

Laughing turns into coughing, bending him over for a moment, but he’s smiling.

“Didn’t get me,” he tells Her, glaring at Pandora’s mud, pressing his rebreather to his face. After a breath, he stands back up and spreads his arms out like he means to invite another rainpour, or lightning, or maybe a fucking meteor.

“I’m still here! You want a piece? Huh? One of me wasn’t enough?”

He may have lost some precious part of himself he’ll never get back.

Dirty, used, wounded.

But this Miles Quaritch still breathes. 

Not whole, not clean.

But alive.

Major Dietrich exhales slowly, the keyboard clicking softly under his fingers as he sends one last email. Another Monday done. He finds he’s looking forward to escorts more than usual. Something about overnight stays at the outposts is exciting. More than just a field trip, more like camping. Shaking up his usual routine.

Even if it means no time for his little secret. What will his kitten be up to while he’s gone?

Office locked up, he takes his time walking to the barracks. It’s there, the faintest scent, a trace of what he’s already yearning for. But still, no ex-colonel in sight. But there’s Reyes, arms crossed, scowling while Garland and the others pre-pack for a two-day trip. Still sour about it all despite their talk. He can’t blame her.

“You know the drill,” he addresses his team. “Bright and early, rain or shine. Don’t make us late to our first checkpoint.”

“Yessir,” Garland responds, catching a pair of RDA-stamped socks and stuffing them into his bag.

Satisfied that they’ll be ready in the morning, the major nods his wordless goodnight and leaves. The noise of Bridgehead fades the further he walks the corridors. But when he enters his suite, the silence seems to slam around him like an invisible cage.

No hiss of a rebreather. No shivering body waiting for him in his bed.

No warm cunt to lose himself in.

Just a quiet room and a lone cigarette. His fingers spread wide under the covers, feeling where there’s still a slight indentation in the shape of a body. He could stay like this all night, burying his nose in the sheets and touching himself.

He’d better get to packing.

Miles is more thorough with hosing off his feet this time; no mud trails to get him in trouble. The locker room is uncomfortable as usual, but this time, everyone seems to ignore him. Maybe he really is a ghost. It takes too many tries to enter his passcode, his fingers clumsy with whatever’s disrupting his cells. He just needs to check his tablet one more time… More escorts. The major will be away on his excursions for a few days.

Relief washes over Quaritch, but there’s something else there he can’t put a name to. Something shapeless but sharp, deep in his ribs.

No energy to wonder. But as he brushes his teeth, he can’t help but remember the pressure of a hand holding his face. How gentle his captor had been getting each tooth. He spits into the sink, but it doesn’t get rid of the tingle in his body. A heat so different from his fevers. Before he can snap at anyone for getting too close, he’s out and on his way to his own private little space.

The storage room is stuffy. Still uncomfortable. Someone might see on the security cameras, but he’ll deal with that problem when it arises.

For now, it’s his.

Another dose of antibiotics down. Not any easier to keep from gagging. He takes off his comms and sets his things to the side—Oh. His pocket. The playing card is a little bent. He tries to fix it, but the line stays. Miles stares at it in the dark before putting it away again.

Something tugs inside again, different from the pull that makes him crave mud on his feet. He looks to the flickering light above like it might provide what his body’s missing. Like each buzz might distract him. The pull becomes an ache, a throbbing, a desperate urge.

In the end, he gives in, because he knows it won’t go away on its own. His hand moves like it belongs to someone else. Down his pants, down where it’s warm. Fangs tear into his blanket to smother any noises that want to come out. That damned voice in his head crashing like waves.

But even release doesn’t free him.

It’s still there, lodged deep like a splinter, a thorny secret no one else can reach.